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fasa-umich · 11 months ago

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The Origin Story of Tendra || Kendra Le, FASA's 2023-2024 Co-Performance Chair

Hi! My name is Kendra but some of you may have met Tendra… Just FYI, those two are not the same. So, I would like to walk you through my journey being in FASA.

Chapter 1: Twin 1

I want to start by saying, I am not Filipino. I am Vietnamese. Going to UofM I didn’t really know what to expect or what to get involved in. It all started when freshman year I bumped into Ashley, who told me I should join FASA when I had brought up that I was from the Chicago area and did battle during high school. She mentioned that FASA went to Battle the previous year and was planning on taking a trip to UIUC for FACT, which I found really intriguing because many of my friends go there. She really gave me the rundown of how FASA worked and told me to sign up to be in a FAM/LIN and not even knowing what that might’ve meant for me, I trusted her and did it anyway.

So… My first FASA “event” was actually an afterset at Ashley’s house where a handful of the other freshmen and I showed up for “anything but a cup” and of course… on time. Board was scrambling to set up still and I still remember that night very clearly and Amanda and Celeste showing up as animals hehe.

At some point, people started mistaking me for Ashley and vice versa for some reason, and either you see the resemblance or you don’t. Regardless, she is still my twin. But I want her to know how much I appreciate her for all that she has done for me.

Sorry Ashley for the rug!

Chapter 2: Twin 2

I pulled up to Halo Halloween with a group of friends dressed as Sanrio characters but little did I know my lineage was also Sanrio characters!

Fast forward, now, here I am going to FACT with a group of people that I’ve never met before. I hop into the university van and the first thing Emily Paras says is “ I think you’re in my Lin”. Then Nate Tran says, “ I think you’re in my fam!”. Not knowing what any of that means I’m like “Oh, cool,”. This is where I’m sitting in the back seat with Jess and Adrian and they’re CODING. Anyway, we got there and Emily introduced me to Kris. She says “ This is your ate,” and that my lin twin, Sofia, wasn't able to make it because she was sick. Of course I had to stalk her but her following ratio was scary. I took this opportunity to find out more about performances and then joined PCN dances, which was one of the best decisions I’ve made. But also can we take a moment to acknowledge the fact that I won PUSO Merch through their giveaway?!

That night, we had a senior x freshman bonding session and during hot seat, I got asked which senior I was looking forward to getting to know and I said Kris because she’s my ate.

So real quick shout out to Kris: Thank you Ate Kris for letting me, Sofia, and Jenny spend countless nights and hours at 815 talking about everything and anything. As your double ding, I have looked up to you in so many different ways and you have really made me feel comfortable in sharing whatever it is that I am going through. I can’t express how much of an inspiration you have been and I really hope that we will continue staying in touch.

Shoutout to all the freshmen that I met here 🥹

Especially Eli who blew up the air mattress and woke up next to a cockroach!

Fast forward again, Kikilan was having their first lin hang at Slurping Turtle! This is where I met Sofia, so I guess we can call her Twin 2! I am going to skip over the lore but who would’ve thought that we would be bonding over being twins! I must say I love all my Kikilan girl bosses.

Chapter 3: Twin 3

Well now, I’m like “hmm, what if I became an intern?”

I didn’t even apply l o l.

But this gave me the opportunity to get to know the other freshmen better. We had freshmen pre-games at Markley and more specifically Taryn’s dorm, and boy were they unforgettable memories that we created.

Look at this one!

Anyway who knew this Cali Boy would be the reason for the revival of Tendra…

Chapter 4: Throwback Tendra

So how did I end up in this position when I’m not even Filipino???

For some context, I am from Skokie, IL, the LARGEST village in the US. (Don’t ask me what that means). Going into high school, we had a huge Filipino student body and most of my friends since elementary school are Filipino. My sister and I both had good friends that were Filipino. Originally, I wasn’t too involved in my Filipino Club, Kapit Bayan because I was more focused on my other dance club. Until it was my sophomore year and all my friends had competed in Battle of the Bamboo and won third place, I was dragged to join and unfortunately during my year we did not win… But I must say it was a thrilling experience! From actually slicing my friend’s scalp to rolling off the 5 foot stage. (You can ask me about it after ) We were also one of, if not the biggest student organization. Right after, COVID hit. Then at the beginning of Junior year, I was asked by the current coordinators if I would be interested in helping coordinate battle with them. I was hesitant at first but then accepted anyway. I spent hours researching and story boarding and it was extremely hard during covid. However when senior year came along unfortunately I dropped out of being a coordinator. Still, I was very familiar with Filipino culture and always felt a sense of community.

Chapter 5: As(h)endra Arc

Back to the question of how did I even end up in this position? I received a message from Ash asking if I would be interested in running as his co because of my experience with Battle. Of course I was hesitant because I wasn’t sure if this was my place to step up in a leadership position especially since many times when I tell people I am in FASA, they always ask why I’m in it because I am not even Filipino. Many times this did make me feel weird about being so involved, but FASA itself has never made me feel like an outsider. I ended up running because I felt that Ash’s ambition to bring FASA back into Battle as a competitor was something that I could help bring to life.

With both of us living being from Chicago or whatever, when summer hit, we spent hours and hours either just hanging out or working on FASA stuff. I must say, many of those hours were spent grinding Valorant… so @ FASA Hater we are coming for you this Rice Bowl. Even being in Chicago, we made the road trip back for Kalayaan and then Blondra became a thing!

Then when we got back to school, we were already sucked into the PCN grind. I just want to say that I am so proud of everyone who joined a performance even if it was their first time. Everyone truly grew so much and I hope everyone was able to get what they wanted to out of it. Everyone looked amazing on stage! Starting as a general member being on the outside of the circle to being the one saying the chant and starting the hype circle was such an amazing experience.

Then of course, Battle. We went through many battles with this. 17 hours of FASA for 5 weeks. How is that even real?! There were many times where Ash and I were really discouraged and worried about how our vision was gonna turn out. Many times where we were troubleshooting our story board, worrying about cultural accuracy, if we had the funds (*shoutout Andrew!!), and having enough people perform. It felt like a constant struggle with there being so many uncertainties going on and many times where neither of us wanted to do anything but we still pulled through. But even then, I felt confident that we would win.

Again I would like to sincerely thank everyone who performed and helped us bring our vision to life. Thank you for your patience, and trusting us to lead you into Battle even when we were doing this for the first time, too. I really hope that you guys are proud of your accomplishments as much as I am proud of you all.

But more importantly.

To Ash:

Hi. I know that we’ve gone through many ups and downs, but I’m glad that I was able to experience this with you. I would have to say that there were many times that I felt like we weren’t doing enough and it really stressed me out. I know that I focused a lot on appreciating the general members, but I want to say that I acknowledge all the hard work that you have put into performance. Looking back at our year, we let our ambition drive us and it was a really fulfilling and full circle moment especially bringing home our well deserved trophy. I am really proud of us for being able to create FASA Pamana and bringing FASA back to Battle as a competitor. I am really happy with our results and thank you for bearing with me. I also had a lot of fun practicing for FASApalooza and I think our creativity really brought FASA performance to another level. I don’t know if I would’ve been able to grow this much if it were anyone else. So once again, thank you for everything. It has been a pleasure working with you.

Chapter 6: Back to Tendra

So, Tendra.. Tendra really started when Eli’s mom was guessing Taryn’s name before Kalayaan. Then for some reason, Philip Churchley says “It starts with a K and ends with Tendra,”. Now, Tendra has been revived! But also, for those of you who don’t know… people would mix me up with Taryn. This makes her Twin 4. In conclusion, I found my own little happy family within FASA. Papa Eli and his quadruplets: Tendra, Karyn, Pip, and Fifi.

But lastly, my message to board as Kendra:

Dear Board,

Thank you for supporting me and Ash through our vision. I’m glad that I was able to start the Taho train. I appreciate all of you for all the hard work and dedication that you’ve put into making FASA a wonderful and welcoming community for me. I will forever cherish our memories together and wish you all the best in your future endeavors. And if you ever encountered Tendra, no you didn’t.

Tendra signing off.

#2023 2024 #fasaperformance

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yurtletheturtlehenderson · 2 years ago

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COSMIC - S2:E5; Chapter Five, Dig Dug - [Pt. 4 - FINAL]

A Will Byers x Male!Reader Series

𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘳𝘶𝘯-𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴. “𝘣𝘰𝘣 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯” 𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮.

Warnings: canon racism, long chapter, small mentions of reader's birth mother/parent and is described to look like reader (for the sake of El recognizing her/them)

||𝟑𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐕||

The Byers house had come alive once more. Since Bob's discovery, every able body in the house had gotten their hands on a tape measure and had gotten to solving the next aspect of the puzzle Will had unknowingly left; a map of Hawkins wherein lay an 'x' in dire need of finding.

"Alright," Bob calls out. "I got 2.5 inches. What'd you got?"

"I'm not sure" Mike calls from Joyce's room. "Mrs. Byers?"

"Hold on!" She calls, stretching the measuring tape around the corner.

Unfortunately, they had yet to find the spot where Hopper was. Bob was at the kitchen table, mapping out coordinates while Mike and Joyce measured the distances between marked areas.

"Twenty-one feet, four inches."

"What about Tippecanoe to Danford Creek?" Bob asked.

Joyce's face scrunched up as she thought of where she last saw it.

"Da-Danford, Danford?"

"Dining room!" Will answered excitedly.

Joyce joined him with the measuring tape. She turned to face Bob who was in the other room.

"Sixteen feet, ten inches."

"What about Danford to Jordan?"

Joyce sighed, hurrying across the room to Bob's side.

"That's gotta be enough?"

Bob began sputtering, shaking his head sadly.

"It's not. It's really not."

"Can't you f-figure it out?"

By now, everyone was regrouped around the table. Everyone was watching Bob hopefully. He shrugged.

"Well, it's hard. The ratio isn't exactly one to one. I-I mean, if you're twisting my arm, and you're twisting my arm, I would say the x is" he drew a few lines on the map with his ruler, double-checking his math. "maybe, a half-mile southeast of Danford?"

A beaming smile found its way onto Joyce and she exclaimed happily.

"Thank you!"

She leaned down and planted a big kiss on Bob's cheek, bringing a smile of his own to his lips.

Grabbing the map, she took out of the room, Mike, Will, and a confused Bob behind her.

"What? Are we really going?"

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Dustin pulls his bike into the Wheeler driveway. Hopefully, Mike was home. And hopefully, he'd have a pretty damn good explanation as to why he wasn't answering his coms! He stood at the front door, repeatedly ringing the doorbell, and waited impatiently. He could have sworn he heard a muffled voice call out.

"Ted, can you get that please?"

When Mr. Wheeler opened the door, Dustin tried to remain as cool and collected as possible though it was difficult. He looked Mr. Wheeler in the eye and spoke carefully.

"Your line has been busy for over two hours, do you realize that?"

With the same unimpressed look painted across the man's face, as it always was, he nodded simply. "I do realize."

"Is Mike home?"

"No."

"No?" Dustin repeated, his composure cracking. "Well, where the hell is he?"

Mr. Wheeler's usual plain and tepid voice raised suddenly as he looked behind him into the house.

"Karen, where's our son?"

"Will's!" Came Mrs. Wheeler's voice from inside.

Mr. Wheeler calmly and disinterestedly looked back at Dustin.

"Will's," he said simply.

Dustin sighed heavily. "No one's picking up there. Nancy, what about Nancy?" He tried.

"Karen, where's Nancy?"

"Ally's!" She answered shortly.

"Ally's," Mr. Wheeler said and he shrugged. "As you can see, our children don't live here anymore. You didn't know that?"

Dustin felt all his hope evaporate as he looked at the dull man.

"Now, are we done here?" He asked pointedly.

Dustin sighed heavily, all efforts to be polite were long gone.

"Son of a bitch, you're really no help at all, you know that?" He said over his shoulder, as he walked away.

Ted called out lazily after the boy, his heart not entirely in the fight.

"Hey, language!"

Dustin had returned to his bike. He picked it up hotly, now feeling completely on edge. His ears perked when he saw a car pull up near the sidewalk. He watched in curiosity until he saw someone unexpected climb out: Steve Harrington. He was lazily carrying a bouquet of roses that hung at his side and he was nervously muttering to himself as he made his way across the lawn.

"Listen, I've been thinking, love you, I'm sorry. 'Sorry', what the hell am I sorry for?"

"Steve!"

Steve was equally surprised to see the Henderson kid eagerly making his way towards himself. He stopped as the kid approached him, and he gestured to the flowers in his hands.

"Are those for Mr. or Mrs. Wheeler?" Dustin asked.

Steve gave the boy an odd look and shook his head. "No, they're for--"

"--Great," Dustin ripped the bouquet from his unsuspecting hands and headed for Steve's car.

"Hey, what the hell? Hey!"

"Nancy isn't home," Dustin answered simply.

"Well, where is she?"

"Doesn't matter. We have bigger problems than your love life. You still have that bat?"

Steve watched as Dustin opened the passenger side door and looked at him expectantly.

"Bat? What bat?"

"The one with the nails." He replied, obviously.

"Why?"

"I'll explain it on the way."

Dustin climbed into the passenger seat and only then did Steve snap into action. Breaking into a jog, he couldn't help but ask.

"Wh-? Now?"

"Now!"

With that, Dustin closed the car door and watched impatiently as the boy made his way to the front seat.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Hopper groans as he swipes yet another handful of dirt behind him. He stops for another break though he knows he shouldn't. If it hadn't been for his watch, he surely would have lost all sense of time. And all he had managed to show for it was a hole in the wall two feet long that barely fit his torso. An overwhelming sense of defeat blankets the man and he feels himself slide down the wall of dirt and onto the floor.

He could feel the tickle in his lungs grow stronger and he coughed weakly. Despite the tightness in his chest, he does what always brings him false feelings of comfort. He pulls out his pack of cigarettes. In his weakened hazy state, Hopper fails to notice the small but thick tendrils of vines snaking their way towards his legs.

Before he can do anything to stop them, he sees the thick ropes curl around his ankle and he jolts at the sudden contact. He scrambles to his feet in a panic, momentarily losing his balance.

"Son of a bitch!"

He bends down and begins to claw frantically at the vines. Stopping himself before he can waste more time, he searches his pockets until his fingers land on the cool metal of his knife. Quickly, he pulls out the tool, unsheathing the blade, and brings it to the vines that are now up to both his knees. Unfortunately, he is so focused on the vines at his feet, that he fails to notice the one making its way up to his back and around his neck.

Hopper grunts as his back hits the ground, knocking the air out of him. Hardly any time passes for him to be completely ensnared in the sentient undergrowth and his cries for help are quickly smothered and snuffed out, buried underground with him.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

"And that was the last we ever saw her. After that, she was just, gone. I can't believe it's been that long, it feels like yesterday." Lucas finishes.

Max nods, a concentrated frown on her face.

"Yeah, I mean, I bet," she says, lifting Lucas's hopes. "Wow,"

Lucas nods, a sense of relief washing over him at how the skeptic was taking it. She had, for the most part, remained silent during his story. She didn't show any effort to hide her confusion but seemed to go along with it.

"It's crazy, I know."

"It's crazy, but," she shrugged. "I really liked it."

It was Lucas's turn to be confused. "You like it?"

"Yeah," she frowned slightly, a tight smile on her face. "Well, I mean, I had a few issues?"

"Issues?"

"I just felt it was a little derivative at some parts."

Lucas was flabbergasted, and his high hopes came crashing down to the ground.

"What are you talking about."

She shrugged simply, tucking her palms in her lap as she looked at him with irritation.

"I just wish it had a little more originality, is all."

Lucas could feel anger bubbling up in his chest. He leaned forward, a frown etched into his brows.

"You don't believe me?"

Max chortled and gave the boy a pathetic glance. Her voice began to rise steadily, her own anger taking over her false intrigue.

"Lucas, come on, seriously? How gullible do you think I am?"

"Why would I make this up?" Lucas shot back.

"I don't know! To impress me, or something? Or, you're just like, insane."

"I tell you all of this," Lucas declares hotly, rising to his feet. "I mean, top-secret stuff, risking my life, and this is how you react?"

Max scoffed, still not allowing herself the possibility of believing what he had told her to hide the small seedling of fear that had burrowed itself inside her. She did as she had learned to survive. Brush it off.

Instead, Max looked at him with an amused expression painted on her face."'Risking your life?'"

The frustration festered inside of Lucas at the girl's unwavering amusement at the traumatic experience. "Oh, so this is funny to you?"

"Yeah, I mean, kinda funny?"

Lucas only glared at her, and a smug smile finds its way onto her face as she rises to her feet.

"Stupid, but funny."

Shrugging him and the properly burrowed feeling of fear off her shoulders, she waltzed towards the door, her board in hand.

"Where are you going?"

She stopped and gave him a passing look. "Story time's over, isn't it?"

Lucas feels the harsh sting of her words and decides he wants to put in a few of his own. As she strides out of the arcade, he stays on her heels.

"What is wrong with you? I gave you what you wanted."

"I wanted to be a part of the group, not a part of some joke."

Her mask of anger had begun to crack, and shining through was genuine hurt. Lucas did his best to convey his seriousness, though at this point he didn't know how much good it would do.

"It's not a joke," he said again slowly.

"You did a good job, okay?" She said, nodding though Lucas could still detect a hint of sadness. "And you can go tell the others that I believed your lies and get your little experience points, or whatever."

Quickly, she turned on her heels, her red hair whipping over her shoulder and he quickly followed, grabbing her arm gently. She turned to look at him shocked, but he quickly released her and spoke softly once more.

"We have a lot of rules in our party, okay? But the most important thing is, friends don't lie. Never, ever, no matter what."

"Is that right?" She said confidence dripping from her words knowing she had caught him. "Then how do you explain this?"

This time, she gestured for him to follow her. They turned the corner and into the isle of games. She swiftly ripped the piece of paper from the screen that read, OUT OF ORDER, and stuck it on Lucas's chest with the remaining bits of tape that resided on the back.

Lucas sighed, ripping the piece of paper off his shoulder and sent her a pleading look.

"I had to do that, to protect you."

Max snapped once more, her anger and her own frustrations getting the best of her.

"Protect me from who, exactly?" Max's voice began to rise in volume. "The big government baddies at Hawkins Lab?" She rested her board against the machine, and she angrily stuffed her hands into her pockets for coins before inserting them into Dig Dug as she yelled at the boy.

As calmly and discreetly as possible, he spoke to her as his eyes darted around the arcade.

"Keep your voice down."

Her demeanor shifted too quickly to that of exaggerated understanding. "Or maybe to protect me from the Demogorgon from another dimension."

"Max, I'm serious, shut up!"

Ignoring him, and his voice still rising, she turned to him, this time speaking with exaggerated excitement.

"No, no, no. I know, it was Y/n and his other superpowered friend, what was it? Eleven-"

Max's eyes widened when Lucas suddenly threw his hands over her mouth. His eyes were pleading and he whispered under his breath, begging her.

"Stop. Talking." He glanced over her shoulder worriedly. "You are going to get us killed. Do you understand?"

Only then did it click for Max when she saw the desperation, the fear, in Lucas's eyes. It was enough to chill her to the bone. She pulled his arm away from her face and looked at him seriously for the first time since he tricked her. Desperately, she searched his eyes. For anything, any sign of humor, any hint that he was putting up an act to convince her. But to her horror, she saw only fear.

"You're serious?"

He stepped back, his voice still low. "I really wish I wasn't."

She quickly recovered, and while she had begun to believe, her skepticism was quickly trying to convince her otherwise. "Prove it."

A defeated look washed over Lucas. He shrugged lightly. "I can't."

"So what? I'm just supposed to trust you?"

He nodded solemnly. "Yes."

She shifted on her feet lightly and something clicked.

"Can't Y/n show me his little trick or whatever, just--"

A car engine roared to life outside, cutting her off. She sped to the window and much to her chagrin, it was exactly who she had suspected.

"Shit, I gotta go."

Pulling yet another surprise from her sleeve, she faced Lucas and grabbed his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. She looked deeply, but briefly, into his eyes, giving him a pleading look of her own. A look begging him to trust her.

"Don't follow me out. Okay?" She whispered gently.

She released his hand and opens the door, heading out. Lucas couldn't stop the words that left his mouth in desperation.

"Do you believe me?"

She never answered, and he watched solemnly as she scurried to the blue Camaro and scrambled inside. Someone pushed past his shoulders trying to get by, the door still cracked open unknowingly giving away his presence to Billy Hargrove.

Max scrambled inside the car, tucking in her feet and her board just before closing the door. Billy, who had his head resting on the headrest and looking out of the window, was seething.

"The hell I tell you?" He growled.

Max gave him an odd look. "I'm not late."

"You know what I'm talking about."

Swallowing her fear, she quickly recovered and masked her face with confusion. "Oh, Lucas?"

Billy scoffed in disgust, his brows furrowed under his sunglasses as his anger rose. "So he has a name now, huh?"

She cursed herself for stammering, knowing he would pick up on it but prayed he didn't.

"It's a small town, okay? We weren't hanging out." She assures him.

Billy shrugs lightly, and his voice lowered. "Hmm. Well, you know what happens when you lie."

Max shook her head.

"I'm not lying."

For the first time in their exchange, Billy looks at Max. His head lazily rolled over to his other shoulder and he searches her face quickly. Thankfully, he seems to buy it and returns his gaze to the road, his left arm still hanging out of the window and the car speeds off. After the car is gone, Lucas deems it safe to exit and he scurries to the parking lot, watching the car disappear.

Worriedly, she looks out the window behind her before quickly looking forward in fear of being caught.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

El and Y/n watch patiently in the kitchen as Becky cuts an old towel in two. She holds it up to them, the cloth now the perfect size and shape for a makeshift blindfold. "Like this?"

El nodded, her chin still resting gently on her palm. "Yes."

The three returned to the living room, and Y/n, per El's request, had turned the volume up on the television set so the static echoed throughout the room.

El sat on the carpet, legs folded beneath her as she folded the cloth into a proper blindfold. Becky sat to the left of Y/n, who sat criss-cross just a foot or two away from El, giving her space.

"It's okay if I sit here, right?" Becky asked.

"Yes," El said, securing the blindfold around her eyes.

"And I won't mess it up or anything?"

"No," El answered, growing short.

"Okay." Becky licked her lips nervously, looking longingly toward her sister.

"If you talk to Terry, will you tell her that I love her very much? And that I'm sorry that I didn't believe--"

"Stop talking," El said crossly.

"Okay, sorry," Becky mumbled.

Y/n caught her eye, and he mouthed a 'sorry'. Becky's lips pressed into a firm line, shrugging, implying she didn't take it too seriously. Her attention was mostly concentrated on her sister, and Y/n had begun to feel the same as Becky did. In the aspect that he felt out of place while El communicated with her mother.

"Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow." Terry mumbled, her fingers twitching and lips twitching. "Run. Breathe. Sunflower."

El awoke in the familiar dark landscape, her toes curling slightly in the imaginary water.

Her mother sat before her, just as she looked moments ago in the living room.

"Run. Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow."

El timidly made the journey forward, growing closer to her mother which each step. She only hoped this would work.

"Three to the right, four to the left. Four fifty. Run."

"Mama?"

"Sunflower. Rainbow."

"Mama, it's me..."

"-four to left. Four fifty."

"...Jane."

Her heart was hammering in her chest, but she did her best to remain calm. Her mother was only feet away, she was upset with herself for being nervous, she had wanted this her whole life. Yet, the closer she got the more nervous she became.

"Breathe. Rainbow."

"I'm here now,"

"Four fifty."

El took the final step, now only inches away from her mother. After the words left her tongue, everything happened quickly. "I'm home."

The women's head snapped in her direction, her eyes boring into El's, desperation clouding them.

"No."

Terry reached for her daughter, her hand snatching El's, startling her. El was jerked forward and before she knew it, she felt her eyes open on the black landscape. Instantly she had been transported further into her mother's mind, but she had yet to figure that out. To her, it felt as if everything was rebooted, like she had only just now woken up in the void and the last few moments hadn't happened.

But she was alone.

"Mama!"

Her wails were interrupted by uneven footsteps scurrying behind her. El whirled around to see a woman in a long orange dress running to the right. Eagerly, she followed and she watched in horror as the woman she now recognized as a younger version of her mother, had begun to slow. She was grasping her very pregnant belly and panting heavily, seemingly trying to catch her breath and continue on. Before she could reach out to her mother -- to try to talk to her -- El found herself watching curiously as her mother looked worriedly over her shoulder.

Her eyes were filled with sorrow and she whimpered, her lip quivering as she tried not to cry. Curiously, El turned to see what her mother was looking at and her eyes widened at the sight. El noticed she was wearing a hospital gown similar to the one she wore back in Hawkins lab. Her [m/b/t] (mother's body type) figure wobbled tiredly across the landscape, heading straight for them. She was panting heavily like she had been running a great distance, and her speed was rapidly decreasing. Behind her, a swarm of angry men in uniform -- bad men, El realized -- hot on her heels.

"Terry!" She cried. "Go! Now! You can still make it! You know where to go-!"

The woman was tackled to the ground, and she wailed in pain. El jumped back in fear even though she wasn't too close. El got a better look at her, and she watched in sorrow and guilt as the woman was grabbed roughly and yanked to her feet. She was dragged away, screaming and kicking, fighting for her life.

"Terry, what are you waiting for?! RUN!"

El watched aghast as the h/c-haired woman was pulled farther and farther away, her screams never ceasing. Unlike anything she had ever seen in the void, she could make out the bad men turning a corner before disappearing around an invisible corner. Before El could make out what happened, a loud bang was heard and the screams stopped. El stumbled back in fear, tears streaming from her eyes. Her ankle caught something and she fell backward into the thin pool of water. She hid her face in her hands, the panic rising in her chest and she realized she was hyperventilating. The sound of her mother's wailing brought her out of her panic, or at least it redirected it.

Her mother had similar tear streaks running down her cheeks and El knew her mother was in the same boat. But her eyes fell to her mother's large stomach and she finally noticed the emerging bloodstains running down her dress. Throughout the whole ordeal, El wondered why her mother didn't take the woman's advice, why did she stop? And where was she telling her mother to go? Millions of questions like these had bounced around her brain as everything unfolded, too caught up in the horror of what just unfolded to try and answer them. But now El knew.

She knew why her mother stopped. She was in pain and she was bleeding a great deal. She scrambled to her feet to help her mother but she did not know what to do.

"Mama? Mama!"

Just as soon, her mother groaned in pain and stumbled to the ground, grasping her stomach. El immediately and tearfully knelt beside her sobbing mother, laying a shaky hand on her mother's arm.

"Mama! Mama!"

The woman wailed, clutching her stomach, completely unfazed by El's presence.

"Oh, my baby!" She cried worriedly.

"What do I do?" El asked frantically. "Mama, what do I do? Help me!"

A familiar voice echoes out, calling out fearfully.

"Terry? Terry!"

"Mama, what do I do? How do I help you?"

"Terry, where were you? Oh, my God!"

El looks up in the direction of the voice, only for everything to blur. El is transported outside, nothing she can identify but she sees the face of the familiar voice. It's Becky, she's younger and she is looking right at El.

"Oh, my God," she sniffles, looking around worriedly. "Okay, breathe. Just breathe, alright? Breathe."

She sees her mother lying on the grass yards away from a house, and now she knows she is not seeing through her own eyes. She is reliving her mother's past.

"They're on their way, okay?"

El sees her mother's hand reach for her bleeding stomach and looks back at Becky.

"They got her. [Y/m/n], they got [Y/m/n]. I have to go, I have to leave! I have to get her out, I h-have to get her out--" Terry wails in agony, clutching her stomach. "She did it. She got... him out... I need to go- AAHH"

Becky shakes her head, reaching out for her as she takes Terry's hand in comfort.

"Terry, no! Just breathe, alright? You need to breathe, I've told you, no one is coming for her, alright?"

"They wanted him, and they're gonna want Jane! Don't make me do this," she wailed, shaking her head.

She lets out another wail of agony and everything begins to fade.

"Terry!"

Everything goes black and the next thing El knows she is being wheeled through a hallway, two nurses looking at her.

"Stay with us, darling. Stay with us."

El sees her mother writhing in pain on the moving bed, clutching her stomach.

Big lights swarm her vision, and she looks around as several people in green clothing and latex gloves stand and move around her. El sees her mother groaning on the table in pain, and slowly a gloved hand brings a mask of some sort to her face.

A set of eyes, all too familiar to El, come into view. The man's face is mostly covered by his mask, but El knows all too well it's the man that tortured her for years. Confirming her suspicions, the man pinches the white mask and pulls it down to his chin revealing Papa's sinister scowl.

Everything goes black once more. It is quiet, and for a moment El thinks the vision is over. But a bright light reveals itself, and the first thing El can identify is a vase of sunflowers.

Her vision plans over to see a tearful Becky. She gives the weakest of smiles and speaks, El can hear the lump in her throat as she is holding back her tears.

"Hey, there."

Her mother stirs awake on the hospital bed. She groans and looks around worriedly.

"Jane? Where's Jane?"

Becky shakes her bowed head, tears clouding her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She croaks, reaching forward and taking her hand. "Honey, she didn't make it. I'm so sorry, Ter, I'm so sorry."

Terry shakes her head, anger and panic rising in her.

"No, I saw her!" She said simply.

Becky shook her head.

"No, no, she wasn't breathing."

"She was crying!"

"No."

"Oh, God." She breathed, the memories swarming back to her. "Becky, it happened. I saw her, an-and he was there! He was there! He had her and-!"

"No," was all Becky could muster, sniffling.

Becky took a deep breath, still shaking her head, unable to meet her sister's eye right away.

"Terry, no, I'm sorry, I wish that were true--"

"--It is! Becky, I'm telling you, I saw it! We have to get her! He took her!"

"Who was there, Terry?" Becky asked, trying to calm her through her own tears.

"He took her!" She said, growing more frantic.

"Terry--" Becky warned.

But Terry had already begun to sit up despite her sister's efforts to keep her in bed.

"No, no, no! Don't take it out! Terry!"

She had ripped the IV out of her arm, and seconds later a nurse came in, holding her down.

"No, no! I need to get her! Becky, I told you!"

"Terry!"

"--I told you this would happen! I need to get her!"

Terry was soon restrained, several members of the hospital staff were pinning her down and El watched as a syringe was plunged into her skin. The scene quickly changed, she could see several papers and file folders strewn all over the floor. She could hear her mother's voice nearby.

"Three to the right. Four to the left." She mumbled.

She sees the dial of the safe click to zero, and her mother opens the safe. Inside, sitting atop several papers and envelopes is a gun. Shakily, her mother picks up the gun, she sighs as she stuffs several bullets inside.

Her mother is now in a car. She takes a deep breath, collecting herself before exiting, purse clutched tightly in her hand. She closes the car door and El sees her mother cross the parking lot to the very building she escaped from. Trailing behind a few similarly dressed women, she blends in effortlessly with them. That is until she was stopped by a security guard.

"Ma'am, can I see your badge?"

Terry stops, taking a deep breath. She turns around, pulling the gun from her bag. She aims it at the man and anybody that tried to approach.

"Stay back. Stay back!"

She sees the guard reach for his gun and she panics, pulling the trigger. The last thing she sees is the guard falling back before everything goes black once more. She can hear alarms blaring, and Terry is now rushing down a hallway, several people in lab coats jumping aside. She hops from door to door, peering inside and asking for her daughter.

"Jane? Jane?"

She looks over her shoulder and that's when she spots it. The rainbow room. A door across the hall with a small rainbow painted on the inside of the doorframe.

Eagerly, she opens the door. Inside, she finds two young girls playing, one of them she knows to be her daughter. She steps forward cautiously, but happily. Each of them give her an off look and she smiles, leaning down to her daughter.

"Jane... No!"

She is pulled away from Jane before she can grab her. She fights and kicks to the best of her ability but the men's hold on her is too powerful. The girls watch curiously as she is dragged away and Terry only fights harder.

"No! No! She's my child! No! She's my child!"

The sight of the tiny rainbow painted on the walls is the last thing in focus as she is dragged far away.

The next thing she sees comes in flashes. Hands struggling and hair whipping around as Terry struggles in the grip of several bad men.

"No! No."

El watches helplessly as her mother is roughly pinned down again once more, several straps fighting around her form. As she struggles, her head falls to the side, and there before her is Papa. Standing still, watching as she is restrained.

Her cries of protest are muffled when they place a rubber mouth guard between her teeth. A pair of gloved hands bring two metal rods to her forehead, Terry becomes increasingly frightened, like she can guess what comes next but El does not.

"Four fifty," Papa says.

One of the men nods, reaching over and setting the dial on a silver and black box. A low hum grows louder as he sets the dial, she can hear it in the rods and she knows what's coming. Terry's muffled screams cry out in protest, but it does not stop the man from flipping the switch. Her mother begins to convulse, her muscles go stiff and she writhes and shakes in pain. Her hands lose grip on the metal poles of handles at her side and she goes limp, tears in her eyes and she pants heavily.

Everything starts over in quick flashes as she stares at the ceiling. All of it, happing in short spurts.

"Terry, what are you waiting for?! RUN!"

BANG.

"Oh, my God! Okay, breathe. They're on their way."

She's wheeled through the hallway.

"Stay with us, darling."

Jane crying.

Her eyes open and El can hear her mother's voice.

"Sunflower"

"He was there!"

Nurses restrain her.

"Three to the right. Four to the left."

She unlocks the safe and shoots the gun.

She sees the room.

"Sunflower."

The dial turns.

"Four fifty."

"RUN!" A gun goes off.

"Breathe." Jane cries.

Flowers at her bedside. "Sunflower."

Gunshot, she approaches the door. "Rainbow."

The dial turns. "Four fifty."

She convulses.

"RUN!"

"Breathe,"

"Three to the right. Four to the left."

"Breathe"

"Sunflower."

"Rainbow"

"Three to the right."

"RUN!"

"Four fifty."

"RUN!"

"Rainbow."

"Three to the right."

"RUN!"

El rips the blindfold off her eyes in panic, her breathing heavy and uneven. As she is brought back to reality she looks up at her mother in her rocking chair. There are tears in her eyes and she is sadly uttering the same words.

"Run. Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow. Three to the right. Four to the left."

El feels a pair of arms wrap gently around her and she can feel her own shaking, her shoulders rising and falling rapidly. She feels a hand grab hers and she knows it's Y/n. She squeezes his hand for comfort and Y/n gently runs his thumb over the back of her hand, showing his support.

No one says anything for a while, and apart from her mother's mumbling, she sits in silence embracing the support given to her as she tries to calm her racing heart.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

"There's nothing. There's nothing here." Mike says worriedly.

Mike, Will, Joyce, and Bob were all packed inside Joyce's Ford Pinto in search of where they believed Hopper's location to be.

Worriedly, Joyce spares a quick glance at Bob who holds the map in his lap. "Are... Are we close?"

"We're in the vicinity," Bob replies.

"What's that mean, the vicinity?" She asked worriedly.

"It means we're close. I don't know. It's not precise." Bob sputters, feeling the guilt and pressure weighing on his chest.

"But we did all that work!" Joyce exclaims, exasperated.

"I told you, the scale ratio is not exactly one-to-one. We needed to take--"

"Turn right!" Will shouts suddenly.

Unbeknownst to the group, Will had closed his eyes. Taking Mike's advice to heart, he took advantage of the information, his now memories, stored in his brain. Quietly, he had sat, his eyes darting back and forth sporadically under his eyelids as he searched the tunnels in his mind.

"What?"

Everyone looked to Will, even Joyce, but she made sure to return her attention to the road.

"I saw him!" Will answered.

"Where?"

Joyce began looking around, squinting around the vicinity and Will felt the panic boiling in his chest. He leans forward urgently, his words turning to a quick panicked shout as he tries to convey his words without missing the turn.

"Not here. In my now-memories"

A knowing gasp falls over Mike and Joyce, while Bob whirls around to look at Will, flabbergasted. "In your what?" Bob asks.

"Turn right!" Will yells again.

Everyone is thrown to the side of the car, Will bumping into Mike, and Bob nearly falling on Joyce as the car violently jerked to the side. A horrible screech filled everyone's ears as the tires flew across the pavement. Everything happened in a matter of seconds as the car took down a sign attached to the wooden fencing, as well as several clumps of hay that temporarily covered the windshield. Before they knew it, they were thrown forward when Joyce slammed on the breaks, stopping only inches away from the back of Hopper's car.

Joyce whirled around to look at Will, then Mike.

"Are you okay?"

Will nodded and she faced the front once more. Everyone was panting heavily still, collecting their breath.

"Superspy," Mike confirmed between breaths.

"What's Jim doing here?" Bob asked, recognizing the car in front of them. "Joyce?"

Ignoring his questions, Joyce returned her attention to the back seat and looked between Will and Mike.

"Boys, I need you to stay here."

Will shook his head frantically as she climbed out of the car.

"No. Mom, Mom, Mom, it's not safe." He called desperately, leaning over to look at her.

"That's why I need you to stay here! Stay here!" She ordered.

Slamming the car door, the boys sat in silence as they felt the car shake slightly. Bob and Joyce trudged across the field, careful not to step on the many rotten pumpkins.

"Hopper!" Joyce's worried and shrill cries echoed across the field and into the night.

Easily spotting the small crater in the dirt, Joyce descended the hole Hopper had dug and Bob followed cautiously. His arms were outstretched after Joyce who held her arms out for balance as her feet slipped across the unstable dirt.

"Hey, be careful." He shook his head, nervously spewing commentary in disbelief. "Just going down the hole."

At the bottom of the pit, a large circle roughly the size of her dining room table had caught her eye. Bridging the gaps over what normally would have been a hole in the ground, was what looked like several worms the size of large snakes. But they weren't, they were a dark purple-pink and they did twist and move, constantly interlacing themselves, seeing themselves together in a big lump, it soon became clear to Joyce what these were. Hopper's last few words to her echoed in her mind.

"Vines." She gasped.

Hesitant to break her gaze away for too long, she gestured to the shovel that stood near Bob's feet.

"Give me that."

"The shovel?"

"Yes, give me the shovel!"

Compliantly, he handed the shovel to Joyce who eagerly grabbed it tight in her hands. With all the strength she could summon, she brought the metal spade down into the vines. They shrieked and hissed. Her contact had hurt several of them. Unfortunately, this came with a splash of dark smelly goo sprayed from the vines and painting Joyce and Bob's clothes.

Cringing, but quickly recovering, Joyce began to repeatedly stab at the small colony. They hissed and squealed once more but one by one they hastily recoiled back into the dirt. Deciding enough room had been made and enough vines were gone, she threw the shovel to the side and whirled around to face Bob, a determined look in her eye.

"I need you to help me get down there." She ordered.

Growing frantic and increasingly worried, Bob hunched over slightly and waved his arms.

"Joyce, what are you talking about?"

"Bob! Now!" She roared, extending her arm.

Joyce gasped in horror when her feet hit the ground, her eyes had adjusted to the dark almost at once, and she was panting heavily at the sight around her. Not allowing herself any more time to waste, she stepped further into the tunnels.

"Hopper!" She called. "Hopper! Hopper!"

Frantically, she looked between the two directions the tunnel stretched in. She didn't know how much time she had, but she knew it wasn't much and she certainly couldn't risk checking each path. She heard a thud behind her, and she turned knowing Bob had descended. Sure enough, she wobbled slightly, catching his balance from the long drop and he collected himself.

"Joyce, what is going on? Where are we?"

Stammering, she reached out to Bob and looked him up and down, making sure he had safely made the drop. "Bob, are you okay?"

Bob's attention was pulled to his surroundings once his eyes had adjusted.

He looked around in amazement and shock.

"Tunnels. Is this Will's map?" He asked.

She had reached into his jacket pocket, knowing he always kept a small flashlight for emergencies.

"Hopper!" She called, scanning the tunnels for any sign of the chief.

"Are we in Will's map?" Bob asked once more.

Biting the bullet and picking a direction, she began navigating the tunnels, calling out for the missing man.

"Hopper! Hopper!"

"We're in Will's map!" Bob mumbled excitedly, following Joyce close behind.

"Hopper!"

"We're actually inside Will's map!"

"Hopper!"

"How did he know all this?"

They both quieted when they reached a fork in the path. Glad Bob had kept his flashlight on him, and glad she had used it, she stepped forward when the light caught a broken cigarette on the ground in front of the left tunnel.

"Bob! Over here!"

She knelt down by the cigarette, she picked it up and showed it to her boyfriend.

"It's his! He's gotta be this way! Come on."

Before he could respond, she took off down the left tunnel, mindful of her steps and the large ridges protruding from the ground. Giving one last uneasy look from where they came, trying his best to memorize the details of the path, he quickly fell back in line after Joyce.

Just outside above the entrance, Mike and Will had exited the car and slowly approached the edge of the crater.

"Do you see anything?" Mike asked. "I mean, in your now-memories?"

Will shook his head, watching the ground uneasily. The sound of several engines captured the boys' attention and they turned around to see several vehicles flood onto the field from where they had come. To his horror, Mike recognized the white vans labeled HAWKINS POWER AND LIGHTING as the very same ones that had chased him and his friends the previous year. It was a fleet from Hawkins Lab. He was suddenly grateful Y/n had left, wherever he was, he would be safe from them. At least, he hoped.

The tunnels below their feet were filled with the echoes of Joyce's cries for Hopper. The pair had reached a cavity in the tunnels, the walls had pooled out into a wide space that Bob silently identified as the x from Will's map. Joyce was much too preoccupied with the task at hand, the beam of the flashlight scouring the ground and she felt her heart leap into her throat when she caught sight of a large arm poking out from underneath a pile of vines. The pile of vines, she realized, had almost completely covered the man.

"Oh! It's his arm!"

She scrambled forward, Bob close on her heels and they collapsed to the ground beside him. Handing the flashlight to Bob, she began clawing at the vines around him, several of them breaking and snapping. Bob pointed the flashlight to Hopper's neck, the man lay fighting consciousness and Bob began tugging with his free hand at the thick stem surrounding his neck.

"It's choking him!"

Joyce redirected her efforts to the vine that struggled to tighten itself around Hopper's neck. Much to their surprise, Hopper spoke in a strained voice. "Knife!"

Joyce looked around desperately for the tool, but Bob was quick to answer. The beam fell across Hopper and next to Joyce. "It's over there!"

Sure enough, just inches away from Hopper's grasp, was the man's pocket knife.

Quickly, she got to work and it wasn't long until the vine around his neck snapped, Hopper gasped for air, and looked to his hands.

"Hands!"

Joyce cut his arms free next and he was able to fight back. He took the knife from Joyce's hands, cutting himself loose from the tendrils surrounding his chest while Bob and Joyce continued clawing at the remaining restraints. Finally, Hopper broke free with a maddened cry.

"Bastard!"

He sat up, swiping the blade across the restraints on his ankles, once more the goo erupted from the screeching vines, by now he was covered in it but he didn't give two shits. Bob and Joyce helped the man to his feet and Joyce hurriedly checked him for injuries, and she took his face between her trembling hands.

"Oh, my God. Hopper, are you okay?" She panted.

"Joyce."

"Are you okay? Are you okay?"

Hopper nodded, patting her on the arms gently and she released him. He swung his arm behind him and patted the man beside him.

"Hey, Bob."

"Hey, Jim."

The trio huddled together, backing away from the advancing vines. Joyce turned and jumped in fear when she saw a figure next to Bob, dressed in a hazmat suit.

"Oh, my God!"

"Go! Go! Go! Clear the area!" The figure ordered.

The trio did not hesitate to evacuate, heading back through the tunnel each of them had ventured. When the three were out of range, the figure, who had been properly equipped, aimed his device and a violent spurt of fire erupted from the end. The vines writhed and shrieked violently as they shriveled up.

At that exact moment, Will -- who had been waiting worriedly outside as the army of men surrounded and descended after his mother and Bob -- collapsed to the ground. Mike dropped to the ground quickly after him, grasping his friend trying to get him to calm. But it was no use. Will was now lying on the grass, his entire body felt like it was on fire. His vision was as white as the white-hot searing pain running through his veins.

"Will, what's wrong?" Mike wailed, feeling helpless.

Will convulsed uncontrollably, his limbs on fire, spreading as rapidly as the flames in the hub below. As the vines screamed in agony, Will screamed too. He was now on his back, screaming violently into the night. Mike jumped back startled, watching helplessly in horror as his best friend writhed in the grass, his mouth wide open and his eyes rolled back into his head as shrieked in agony.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

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motherjoel · 4 years ago

Text

hot cocoa (spencer reid x reader)

summary: spencer accidentally spills some of penelopes famous hot cocoa onto a beautiful stranger in the airport (who just so happens to be sitting next to him on the plane)

a/n: this one takes place during the holidays but its not all about xmas! also i tried to make this gender neutral and i think it is but if i missed something let me know

wc: 2.2k

warnings/includes: reader curses a lot & has flight anxiety, spencer is awkward and sweet

Spencer was rarely late- even when he had food poisoning from some bad chinese food, he made it into work with time to spare. Sure, he might have turned green at the sight of the evidence board, but he even made it to the trash can in time. His punctuality had come into question today, however, as he booked it to the boarding area. I shouldn’t have let Garcia distract me, he thought back to the holiday party at the office. Well, surprise party- they had all returned from a case sore and exhausted, but of course Penelope had baked an entire array of cookies and decorated the office to the brim. He stayed for one cup of hot cocoa, which turned into three, and before he knew it, his flight was an hour away. With his travel mug filled with cocoa in hand, he awkwardly ran through the airport to catch his flight home to Vegas.

Spencer never considered himself a coordinated person- sure, he had to have a certain level of finesse to be an FBI agent, but if he wasn’t a genius he never would have passed the physical. So when he found himself tripping over his own feet in the middle of an airport, he wasn’t as much surprised as he was perturbed. That annoyance soon shifted into pure embarrassment when he looked up to see you- the ethereal being he had just spilled Penelope’s famous hot cocoa onto. The beautiful person whose “I <3 DC” sweatshirt was now stained an unattractive shade of brown. His mind went completely blank in that moment, the apology he had wished to conjure up lying dead on his tongue. As he began to stammer in shock he stopped in his tracks- you were laughing. A noise Spencer swears could find world peace and end world hunger. A voice that finally encouraged Spencer to find his own.

“I am so sorry,” he apologized, hands frantically flying to his personal pack of tissues he kept in his bag. You continued to laugh, doubled over as you accepted the wad of tissues.

“Oh, it's okay,” you said, taking a deep breath. “God, I definitely seem insane. Sorry, I’ve just been having one hell of a shitty day,” you began to explain, confusing Spencer even more. “So my boyfriend breaks up with me the morning of my flight across the country, which I’m running a bit late for,” you continued, glancing at your watch. “But I have to go home for the holidays of course so I pack my shit and head out anyway, but I forget a sweatshirt! I’m freezing cold so I buy this overpriced ugly thing,” you gestured to your now-stained sweatshirt. “Only for you to spill your…” you sniffed the mess, “hot cocoa?” you questioned, Spencer nodded frantically, “all over it. I guess that's one way of warming up,” you huffed.

“Wow, I- um, I don’t really know what to say. I’m really sorry about your day being bad. And for spilling my drink on you, of course, um,” he reached into his suitcase and pulled out his backup cardigan. “Here, take this,” he said, almost shoving the knitwear into your hands. “Please, it’s the least I can do,” he said, unintentionally flashing what Prentiss called his “puppy dog eyes.” He exhaled in relief as you grabbed the sweater from him, sliding off your stained hoodie and replacing it with his soft and coffee-scented cardigan.

“Thanks. And I’m sorry for dumping my days' trauma on you, but I really do have a flight to catch, so,” you gestured towards the boarding area (which just so happened to be his designated boarding area). You rushed off to board the plane after giving him a tight-lipped smile and a soft wave, leaving him in a dazed state. Breaking out of his trance, he grabbed his suitcase and continued his beeline towards the plane.

There was something about you that stuck with Spencer- although it may not have been your proudest moment, he was incredibly intrigued by you and the way you reacted to disaster. Spencer had seen his fair share of terrible coping mechanisms, but the way you laughed in the face of tragedy was something he admired- envied, almost. Envy wasn’t the right word for it, there were no negative connotations he associated with the way he felt about you. Perhaps it was too soon to tell.

He breathed a sigh of relief as he stepped onto the plane, the anxiety of missing his flight finally lifted. Said anxiety was soon replaced by a new feeling that was ruled by a flutter in his chest, one that he had only experienced a few times in his life. This fluttery feeling was the result of seeing you planted in the seat directly next to the one written on his plane ticket. His breath caught in his throat as you looked up from the book in your hand, giving him a small wave. His eyes widened as he looked around, wondering if you were actually waving at him. You laughed and looked back down at your book, a soft smile rested on your lips. As Spencer got closer to his seat he could feel his heart rate picking up. You looked up from your book as he struggled slightly to lift his carryon into the overhead compartment. His cheeks heated up in embarrassment over the struggle, but he eventually managed to secure his carryon, taking a seat in 32 B.

“So we meet again,” you smiled at the disheveled man next to you.

“So we do,” Spencer smiled and grabbed his copy of Les Miserables from his backpack- he lost track of how many times he had read it, but it was an easy plane read for him.

“I’m Y/N, by the way. Sorry, I probably should’ve introduced myself earlier after telling you my life story. I just didn’t expect to be sitting next to you,” you said with amusement.

“I’m Spencer, and no problem. Hows, um, the sweater?” he asked, trying to continue the conversation. Normally he’d be a quarter through his book by now, but you were a rare something that was more interesting to him than Victor Hugo.

“It’s great! Cozier than my ‘I heart DC’ hoodie for sure,” you laughed and Spencer swore he heard angels singing.

“I’m glad, I felt really bad. Hot chocolate is actually a really difficult stain to remove because it has fat, sugar, tannins, and protein. It would take a lot of work to remove that stain, especially with the chocolate to milk ratio Penelope uses,” Spencer rambled, the embarrassment setting in the second he closed his mouth.

“Penelope?” you asked, genuinely curious.

“Oh, she's my coworker. She’s known for her hot chocolate and her cookies. Oh!” Spencer remembered the plastic bag of cookies Garcia had sent him home with. “Want one? They’re chocolate chip,” he said, grabbing the bag of cookies and holding it out to you.

“Sure,” you laughed, taking a bite of the surprisingly delicious cookie. “Oh. My. God. That is incredible! This Penelope person has a gift,” you laughed, finishing the cookie surprisingly fast.

“I’ll be sure to let her know,” Spencer smiled, taking a cookie for himself. A comfortable silence ensued as the two of you munched on your cookies, the plane almost done boarding.

“So, what brings you to Vegas?” you asked. Spencer was a little confused as to why you wanted to talk to him, but he decided not to question the anomaly.

“Oh, I’m visiting my mother for the holidays. I work at Quantico in Virginia so I don’t get to see her too often,” he shared, surprised at his willingness to be open.

“That’s nice! I’m kinda doing the same, except I am not returning to DC,” you sighed. Spencer felt his heart drop as he internally begged for you to elaborate, and as if reading his mind, you continued. “That boyfriend I mentioned earlier was kinda my only reason for moving here, and now that he's a cheating jackass- sorry, oversharing again, um, now that we broke up, I’ll probably just stay in Vegas,” you explained, opening the book in front of you and mindlessly flipping through the pages. He focused on the chipped nail polish painted on your bitten nails as you turned the pages, eyes moving to the title of the book.

“Le Petit Prince?” he asked, pointing at your book.

“Oh, yeah. I’m trying to teach myself some french so I’m reading this to get a little better,” you smiled before your eyes drifted down to the thick book in his lap. “You’re reading Les Mis?” you asked, slightly shocked at the french writing on the cover.

“Yeah, well it's my.... fourth, I think, time reading it. Well, in the original french,” he said, oblivious to his accidental brag.

“Damn, are you a genius or something?” you laughed, noticing the blank stare on Spencer’s face. “Wait. You are,” you pointed at him, your shock turning into joy.

“Well, technically, I am I guess,” he smiled awkwardly, trying not to flaunt his intelligence.

“That’s so cool! God, maybe if I was a genius I could get past the first chapter of this book,” you huffed, looking defeatedly at your book once again.

“May I ask, why are you learning French? It’s the fourth most important language behind Mandarin Chinese, Spanish and German. That’s just my opinion, of course,” he said, slightly flustered by the look on your face.

“Yeah, I guess it's not the most practical. But there's something so romantic about France, you know?” you asked and he nodded, blushing lightly. “I’ve always wanted to visit Paris, hell, maybe even live there. It’s stupid,” you laughed, brushing a piece of hair behind your ear.

“No, it’s not. It’s called the city of love for a reason,” he said with a tight-lipped smile. You were both silent for a moment before the flight attendants began their safety announcements and prepared for takeoff. Spencer noticed you stiffen as the engine started to rumble and the plane got faster. “Are you okay?” he asked as you shut your eyes tightly together.

“Yeah, yes, um. I just have really bad flight anxiety,” you confessed, eyes remaining closed. The plane lifted off the ground and you sucked in a deep breath, instinctively reaching over to grab Spencer's hand. All thoughts of germs and disease had completely left his mind at your touch- facts and logic meant nothing at this point if it meant you wouldn’t let go. “Could you just um, distract me?” you asked, peeking at him from the corner of your eye, hand still clutching his.

“Oh, yeah of course,” he said, thinking quickly for a distraction before grabbing the book from your lap and opening it to the first page. In perfect french, he began to read. “Lorsque j’avais six ans j’ai vu, une fois, une magnifique image…” he read for almost an hour before he felt your head relax on his shoulder, eyes closed. He continued to read for a bit longer before the lull of sleep pulled him under as well, your touch comforting him and providing safety.

Spencer woke a few hours later with a start to the seatbelt light beeping on. Gathering his bearings he looked to his left to see you already awake, looking at him with a smile.

“You’re cute when you sleep. Snore a bit, though,” you laughed and yawned, looking out the window. Spencer's heart rate picked up at your mussed hair and dazed expression. “Thank you for reading to me. I’m completely chill now,” you reassured him.

“Oh, no problem. Also, I’m not the only one who snores,” he quipped, a soft smirk on his lips.

“Hey, gimme a break! That was the most I’ve slept in days,” you defended.

“Believe it or not, me too,” Spencer realized, surprised that he slept more on an airplane than in his own bed. Maybe that difference was you.

“Looks like we’re almost landing,” you noticed, causing a pang in Spencer’s chest.

“Oh. Yeah, I guess so,” he acknowledged with a slight tone of disappointment.

“Hey. So this might sound crazy, but what if I gave you my number? And while you’re still in Vegas, maybe we can hang out? Sorry if this is too forward,” you cringed in embarrassment.

“No!” he started, eyes wide.

“Oh, okay. I shouldn’t have asked,” you immediately took back your statement.

“No! I mean, it's not too forward. I, uh would love to… hang out with you,” Spencer said, the words seeming unfamiliar on his tongue. The smile you gave him seemed to stop the earth for a few seconds (although Spencer knew this was scientifically impossible, something about you defied laws of science).

The plane soon landed and numbers were exchanged, and one unexpected (but lovely) goodbye hug was given, and Spencer was floating. He couldn’t wait to tell his mom.

shoot me an ask or message to be on my taglist! :)

taglist: @rigatonireid, @goldenxreid, @aworldoffandoms, @moonshinerbynight, @averyhotchner

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lastbluetardis · 3 years ago

Note

I agree with everything you’re saying re engagement, as you know — it can be incredibly hard to keep pushing forwards as a writer and to be in constant battle with yourself. I know what’s ‘good’ in terms of hits and comments for me, so when I post something new, I know when it’s doing well and when it isn’t for one of my own pieces. I can’t look for the first day or two because I’d be so obsessive with comparisons when we all know that certain days of the week will attract more attention than others 😂

I will say though, one thing that becomes tricky with tracking engagement is how we, as authors, engage with our commenters. I don’t always have time to engage with the comments I receive, even if I read them. And how awful is that! I’m reading people’s comments and not thanking them for them! It’ll take me a while before I’m able to get back to everybody, and I may have even already posted another story/chapter before I engage with the last, and that’s the way I see it with readers — they just don’t always have the time to engage. It’s a wonder they still come back! Anyway, it doesn’t mean they don’t appreciate the story, just as I always appreciate the comments I don’t always engage with right away, if that makes sense?

Basically, your stats brain is magnificent (!!), but it can drive you mad — statistics are hard facts but they’re not the whole story. Be kind to yourself Ashley! And merry Christmas! X

Oh yeah, I try my best to avoid looking at stats for a few days post-update 😂 My brain is pretty good with numbers and simple stats, so I can glance at the hits count and know how many folks read my latest update, and I can convert a ratio of that to how many comments. Like you said, I’m really good by now about recognizing what is “average” for my stories/chapters, which makes it glaringly obvious when a chapter or fic does poorly.

I do my best to engage with each commenter after each update, though this past month has been incredible hectic that I’m perpetually a chapter behind with comment replies 😅 And I totally understand that life gets busy for readers, and there are some weeks when they just won’t get around to reading until the next update is posted so they’ll just read them both in one shot. I get this, it happens to everyone. I recognize all of my usuals, and I love seeing their names in my inbox 😍

My main gripe is with the 95% who never say anything 😂 Like, are y’all robots?? So I need to somehow program a Captcha “I am not a robot” verification??? 😂 (I’m mostly joking… but then again, am I? 👀 🧐)

Anyways, it would just be nice if the silent 95% engaged with what they read. Like, if the average is 5% engagement, could you imaging what simply doubling would do to an author’s confidence and self esteem??? 🥰

I appreciate your kind words Loup 💜 I hope you have a very Merry Christmas darling 💜💜

#loupettes #ash answers

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tazzytypes · 4 years ago

Text

Apocalypse: Sanctuary - Chapter 17

Authors note: Hey guys! Sorry, had to delete and repost this chapter because Tumblr is, once again, giving me difficulties. Just want to thank y'all so much for being patient with me as I finished up with classes. Hoping these next few months will give me more time to work on this fic. As always, your comments and likes always make my day and help me get through the worst of writer's block and I cannot thank you enough for that!

READ MORE on AO3 or see the Master post!

When the witches got back to the academy, the sun had barely risen above the horizon. Emily hadn’t realized how accustomed she had become to the usual hustle and bustle; the silence was nearly as stinging as the constant noise.

They were all dead on their feet. After hell, sleep had eluded Emily. The fact Madison had forced her to sleep on the ground didn’t help… neither did the darkness. It was suffocating, that place. Sometimes she was afraid the underground fortress would become her tomb. They had all tried to catch up on sleep during the plane ride home, but Misty snored so much it made the feat nearly impossible.

So, barely able to put one foot in front of the other, the witches made their way through the door. Zoe grumbled about canceling classes, Cordelia muttering an agreement.

“A break? Already?” Coco said. She stood next to Mallory by the stairs, looking more like butlers than students. The pair must have been the only ones awake, looking to one other and smiling at a silent inside joke. “I like this school.”

“I trust there were no disturbances while we were away?” Myrtle asked, handing off her bags to Kyle who proceeded to take them up the stairs.

If Mallory were a bird, Emily would have said she was preening, “No more than usual.”

Kyle paused by Emily for a moment, hand extended, but she waved him forward. Kyle smiled and nodded, proceeding past them and towards the stairs.

“Oh, lover-boy,” Madison sang as he began to take the first step, pulling Emily’s attention away from Mallory and their headmistress, “my bags?

The blond man hesitated, then doubled back. He rearranged the bags on his arm and picked up the ex-movie star’s numerous suitcases, all either Chanel or some other overpriced name brand.

“You have two arms,” Zoe snapped at the woman, her own bag in hand. Emily’s gaze flickered to the floor, green eyes darting between it, Cordelia, and the scene unfurling before her.

“It’s fine,” Kyle said quietly, giving a pointed look at Zoe, “It’s my job.”

The look seemed to soothe Zoe, her shoulders tense but her back no longer arched like she was about to swing at Madison. Madison opened her mouth, unable to resist not having the last word.

A body barreling into her side kept Emily from hearing exactly what was spoken. By the look on Zoe’s face, it was nothing good.

“Oh, I missed you!” Coco exclaimed, squeezing the girl in a hug. Emily did her best not to tense, but the reaction was second nature to the brunette. “How was California?”

“Dry,” Emily said, earning a chuckle from Coco.

“Obviously you didn’t go to the beach,” Coco said, “How did it go?”

The brunette’s eyes darted to the figure moving towards them, continuing to speak as Mallory approached. For some reason, Emily had expected her and Cordelia’s talk to last longer. She settled in to place beside Coco, listening with an attentive grin.

“We’re all in one piece,” Emily said, looking back to Coco, “so I’d say rather well.”

Mallory reached out and squeezed Emily’s arm, her ever-present grin widening ever slightly. “See? I knew you’d do great!”

“Who’s this, Firefly?”

Misty had always got possessive a little too quickly. It was her vice, clinging to things too tightly. Her mother used to call her a “little python…” the snake in the garden of Eden.

Emily faltered ever slightly. As someone who kept to herself, she was more used to being the one introduced, not the one introducing.

“Coco, Mallory,” She spoke, glancing between the two girls and her new acquaintance, “Misty Day.”

Mallory rushed forward to shake the woman’s hand as if she were meeting Stevie Nicks instead of a girl from the swamplands of Mississippi.

“I’ve heard so much about you from Miss Cordelia. You’re a legend here!”

Misty pulled her shawl in tighter and glanced between Mallory and Emily. Being the center of attention was an anxious position for her. The last time she was the center of attention, she went to hell. The first time had her burned at the stake. Her steps back from Mallory and into Emily’s side were more a flight instinct than an anxious tic.

“Aw, shucks,” the swamp witch said with a flickering smile and a chuckle, “Didn’t think I was here long enough to make an impression.”

“Resurgence is a remarkable power,” Mallory insisted, “If not for you, I would have thought myself a freak.”

“Well, ain’t that sweet.”

Myrtle was quick to rescue the woman from the over-exuberance of the younger witch, placing a steadying hand on Misty’s shoulder. Cordelia was not far behind. Emily could feel her brown eyes on her back like a botanist studying a new plant species.

“While I love pleasantries,” Myrtle said, “I am absolutely famished. Airplane foods always fall flat.”

“It’s because of our sense of smell,” Emily said, trying to ignore the weird looks she was getting, “The altitude affects our nasal passages, making it harder to smell and thus harder to taste. The two are inseparable.”

“So, it’s like how parents plug their kid's nose to get them to take their medicine,” Mallory said. Emily sent her a brief, but thankful smile for making the moment feel less awkward than it was.

“Exactly.”

“Either way,” Myrtle said with a wave of her hand, “I am craving a crème brûlée with a glass of chardonnay.”

Emily smirked a bit before she spoke, “Chardonnay sounds good.”

“Not yet, you,” Cordelia admonished through a chuckle, ruffling Emily’s hair a bit, “We may be lenient with a lot of things, but underage drinking will not be one of them.”

The brunette wanted to note she had done plenty of underage drinking the night before but refrained. Part of being able to bend the rules is pretending you didn’t break them.

“Oh, come on,” Madison said, standing at the back of their little group with her arms crossed in front of her chest, “Little miss indigestion just went to hell. Let her live a little.”

“Maybe a glass,” Cordelia relented, earning a few chuckles from the group. “One.”

Emily echoed the expressions of her fellow witches, but Cordelia’s humor did not amuse her. The headmistresses statement assured her of one thing, however. The brunette had secured a place in the inner circle of Robichaux. It was a feat she would have been proud of before, but now…

Now, the real world seemed so dull. Sensations failed to feel real-- like the world was covered in a fog. Her hands would hover, expecting something to come to her palm and playing off hesitation when it didn’t. Emily had always fancied her dreams to the waking world. The real world now felt more dull than usual. The young witch found herself missing hell, debating whether or not to chase that high.

“Full already?” Cordelia asked at the table they all gathered around. Emily had been picking at her food for the past ten minutes, gaze flickering to the many conversations around the table.

Emily was quick to brush it off, putting down her fork and taking a sip of her sweet tea, “I’ve always eaten like a bird.”

“Birds eat ten times their weight,” Myrtle noted with an amused smile. Cordelia had been so tense since Hawthorne. For once, Myrtle had to be the optimistic one… if only for the sake of maintaining an air of control.

“Good thing I wasn’t talking in ratios.”

Myrtle chuckled and went back to her food, but Cordelia continued to watch Emily carefully as she turned and offered Misty her desert.

“You alright, Firefly?”

“Just tired.”

“Bad dreams?”

“Something like that.”

Cordelia’s glance flickered to her mentor. The slight quirking of the redhead’s brow gave away her own concerns. The headmistress gaze returned to Emily, her posture straightening ever slightly.

“About your personal hell?” she asked.

Emily faltered slightly at her headmistress’s voice. While they were surrounded by people, most had the decency not to eavesdrop on the more intimate conversations — feigning ignorance even if they heard every word. It was one of those unspoken rules of society.

“No. I didn’t have a personal hell.”

Shit.

Her exhaustion and weird mindset had made her careless. Then again, Cordelia was supposed to help with things such as these, right? The whole point of being here was to learn. How could she learn if she never asked questions? Why did her gut churn like she had been caught with her hands painted red?

Green eyes slowly turned to the brown ones that had burned holes in her skin since she had arrived in Mississippi. Cordelia’s brows furrowed, lips twisting in the way they always did when she didn’t have the answers.

“Then where were you?”

“… I don’t know.”

The table was consumed with silence, no one able to pretend they weren’t listening in to the conversation at hand. Coco glanced around at the table, noting the unwavering stares. Glancing to Emily, she saw her eyes flick between them all, her plate, Cordelia, and back again.

“Probably the jet lag,” the heiress said, “shit makes you forget what your own name is.”

Emily smiled with the rest of them, sending a thankful glance to the woman who squeezed her hand and smiled. The table fell back into idle chatter.

“Hell of a spotlight,” Coco whispered into her glass, eyes flickering around to her fellow witches.

Emily mimicked her movements, “you’re telling me.”

The pair shared a glance and promptly fell into laughter.

“Next time you need to swing by L.A. Beaches are crowded, but the experience is worth it.”

“There’s a tattoo parlor there I wanted to check out,” Emily noted, “Purple Panther. One of my favorite artists works there.”

“We should go and get matching tattoos.”

“What did I miss?” Mallory asked, returning from a trip to the bathroom.

“We’re all going to get matching tattoos.” Coco declared.

“Of what?”

Emily smiled and leaned in, “we should get the triquetra from Charmed.”

“Oooh, yes!” Coco exclaimed, “I loved that show as a kid.”

Mallory’s face twisted in confusion, “Haven’t seen it.”

“We’re binge-watching it,” Coco declared, “tonight.”

“My room?” Emily asked, “I have a TV.”

“No offense, your room is a broom closet.”

“Feels like home,” Emily jested, a genuine smile curling on her lips, “certainly been in it for long enough.”

Coco snorted out a laugh, infecting Mallory and Emily into a fit of giggles. The brunette could feel Cordelia’s eyes on her, a hand going to smooth down the hairs on the back of her neck. She didn’t like it, the feeling of being watched.

“Oh!” Mallory said, “I have a tattoo idea — swords.”

“Swords?”

“For the Three Musketeers!”

Emily gasped as an idea hit her, pulling out her sketchbook and scrawling out an idea.

“What if…”

She finished the crude drawing — a sword with a triquetra behind it. Some of the lines of the triquetra looped around the blade where it was positioned at the end of its point. “… we did both?”

“Both?” Mallory asked.

“Both,” Emily repeated.

“Both is good,” Coco finished, the three falling into giggles once again.

Emily was unsurprised when Cordelia cornered her later in the day. Classes had been canceled for the day, older girls put in charge of amusing the younger ones. The brunette had dozed until 12 o’clock when the cheerful laughing and screeching from the lawn kept her from falling back asleep.

Book in hand, Emily had nearly made it to the greenhouse when Cordelia intercepted her. The blonde woman had been leaning against the door of the rotting shack. Emily wondered how long the headmistress had waited for her out in the sun.

“Walk with me,” was all she said as the brunette got within earshot, her tone filled with bad news. They strolled in silence for a good while. When the playful yelling and screaming was muffled by distance and the trees around the property, Cordelia finally spoke.

“I’ve been to hell myself. It changes a person… for better or worse.”

Emily’s eyes were trained on the ground, navigating over twisting roots and rocks that jutted from the dirt. She spared Cordelia a brief glance. “Which was it? Better or worse?”

“That’s the thing,” Cordelia said, head high and eyes steady on the path ahead of them, “you can never tell which. It’s something only others can see.”

“Is this an intervention or something?”

A smile tugged at the blonde’s lips, “Or something.”

Silence consumed them once more. It became clear that Emily could either talk or they would walk until she did.

“Hell was like a dream,” the brunette relented after a minute or so, “Dreams always feel so real until you wake up. Then, you mourn the reality you lost.”

“Even with nightmares?”

“All I ever have is nightmares.”

Cordelia spared the woman a look. Emily’s eyes were trained on the ground as she took a step over a fallen trunk. Dark circles ringed around her eyes, the purple somehow making the green even brighter. Cordelia realized she had never seen Emily without them. Were her dreams something more? Something that paraded around as sleep when it was really anything but?

Emily’s words were hardly louder than a whisper, “It isn’t the situation I mourn, but the power I have.”

The book in Emily’s hands suddenly felt like it weighed a hundred pounds. It was one of her many journals, each page dedicated to the carefully worded and detailed recollections of the visions her mind procured in sleep. The voice said her dreams were something more. Emily feared the implications. She was a stickler for a little thing called proof, however. Spirits can lie and trick just as well as humans could.

Cordelia regarded the girl beside her, “Powers such as what?”

“In hell, I could pull a weapon to me as if I reached out and grabbed it with my own hand. I could conjure flames and move them to my will.”

Her words were like a snarl on her lip, a frustration that plagued her every hour. Then, the snarl faltered and the grief set in. “Everything was so much clearer… simpler.”

The headmistress stopped and placed a hand upon the girl’s shoulder, squeezing it for good measure. Emily wished she hadn’t. It was easy to hold back tears and emotions when you didn’t have to look someone in the eye.

“You went to hell and brought back my dearest friend,” she pressed, hand trailing down Emily’s arm and taking her hand, cupping it in her own, “just because you cannot perform grand acts of magic does not mean you cannot fight.”

Emily looked at Cordelia, searching for something in those brown eyes. Everyone’s eyes were covered in a fog of optimism. It made real-life feel more like a dream than her dreams did. Their gazes never failed to make her shudder. Coco was the only one who did not succumb. Thus, the only one she somewhat trusted. Carefully, Emily pulled her hand away.

“Michael brought back Misty, not me.”

It was something she had said a thousand times since her return. The people here either didn’t listen or didn’t care. Which was worse?

“With your aid.”

For a moment, Emily contemplated telling Cordelia everything. She was so desperate for answers — so desperate to cut through the fog. She was reminded of The Odyssey, Odysseus’s travel to an island where everything seemed perfect. It was so tempting to give in, to be alright with not knowing.

What was Michael?

Why did the voices speak to him?

Why did she understand their words while Misty did not?

“I had a weird dream last night,” she found herself speaking, her silence lasting a little too long, “I know it means something, but I can’t quite place it.”

Cordelia seemed content in her words, a small smile telling Emily that she had chosen the right words… even if they were not the words she had intended to speak. There was trust to be built before Emily could talk to Cordelia about hell.

“Tell me about it,” her Supreme commanded, gently ushering Emily back the way they came.

“I was in a field,” Emily started, an air of distance taking over her voice. When Cordelia looked to her, she was miles away — eyes filled with fog. “You were there just… waiting. For me, I think, but I could be wrong.”

“What happened?” Cordelia asked, “in the dream?”

“You were standing next to a girl. She saw me first… said her name was Nan.”

Cordelia’s gasp was quiet, but still loud enough to draw Emily from the fog. A manicured hand came to her mouth before going to her stomach as if the woman had been punched. Emily was afraid Cordelia might pass out again.

“Nan,” Cordelia said, speaking around a frog in her throat.

The younger witch felt a surge of anxiety. She should have said nothing, kept her mouth shut. Why couldn’t she keep her mouth shut? It had been an easy feat until she came to Robichaux.

“She was sweet,” Emily found herself saying, “told me not to worry.”

Cordelia leaned on a nearby tree. Emily wrung her hands, biting her lip and waiting for the woman to say something. Her heart leaped into her chest when she heard the woman sniffle back a tear.

“Did I say something wrong?” Emily asked, heart hammering. Cordelia didn’t answer. Should she get closer? Should she squeeze her arm as Cordelia had done to her many a times? Emily had never been good at consoling. “I’m sorry.”

The woman finally shook her head, the heels of her palm swiping away the few tears that had trailed down her cheeks. “No… no, you’ve brought me a great deal of peace.”

Curiosity always got the best of her.

“Nan…” Emily said, “You recognize her?”

“She used to be a student here… before her untimely death.”

“I’m sorry.”

Cordelia sighed and straightened her shirt, quickly taking back the decorum Emily had managed to peel back. At that moment, Emily realized something darkened in her Supreme. The fog left the brown eyes and hardened into something more tangible, her jaw clenched ever slightly, and the mother-like tone left her voice.

“I’d advise you not to approach her in your dreams again.”

Emily faltered for a moment, too caught up in the change to process the woman’s words.

“Why?”

“For your safety.”

“She hardly seemed dangerous.”

“It is not her I worry about.”

Her lips opened to ask more questions, but Cordelia quickly overtook the conversation. “Tell me about the rest of this dream.”

It was probably best if she didn’t argue. Emily went on describing, glancing at the woman now and again. Cordelia’s eyes lost their dark edge as the tale continued — flying, levitation, conjuring of fire and wind — until they once again held the optimistic fog Emily had become accustomed to.

“And when I wake up,” Emily concluded, “I felt like I was not myself. That my real self lies within these dreams.”

Cordelia simply nodded.

“Dreams are more powerful than we can imagine,” she said, “it is, in short, an insight into our true nature — witch or no witch.”

“Then what is my true nature?” Emily asked, jumping back as a boisterous toddler ran past her, two more hot on her heels. They had made it back to the garden.

Cordelia smiled at her, giving her shoulder one more squeeze before she trailed after the children.

“That is something only you can answer.”

Cordelia paced her room, thoughts writhing like a snake that had worked its way into a knot. Unable to move forward or back, she wondered how long she had until death. Do nothing and she would starve — giving into the circumstances like a beast baring its belly to the knife. Tug too harshly, however, and she would sever her own spine.

“I do hope you have good reason for waking me in the middle of the night,” Myrtle sighed as she entered the room. She carefully closed the door, the only sign of her entrance the dulled click of the lock behind her.

The Supreme ceased her pacing, taking to wringing her hands instead as she came to a stop before the redhead.

“I can’t shake the feeling that something is wrong.”

“You just put a petulant boy in power,” Myrtle scoffed, “What can be more wrong than that?”

“I did it for the best of the coven.”

Myrtle let out a sigh, unable to keep up her irritation. Tense shoulders and crossed arms relaxed and rested at her sides. “My dear, what good are you if you keep working yourself into a fit of hysterics?”

Cordelia either didn’t hear her or didn’t care to address the topic. Hurrying over to her desk, she pushed papers this way and that until she found what she was looking for.

“Were you able to look into the matter we discussed?”

It took all Myrtle’s power not to roll her eyes.

“Evocation rituals of that nature aren’t exactly common if they exist at all.”

“But they do exist?”

“None that I could find.”

“What if we modified a resurgence spell… combined it with dreams. That’s where her skill shows the most, after all. If we could get into that otherness—”

Cordelia had thrown the idea around with the woman multiple times before they visited Hawthorne. Seeing the aftermath of the Seven Wonders, particularly in the trial of Descensum, had made the Supreme all the more convinced of her path. If Cordelia shared any traits with Fiona, it was her stubbornness.

“I still don’t see how her power, any power, could be trapped inside her,” Myrtle insisted once more, “That family of hers didn’t have a lick of magic in her bones. Her mother has no magical talent whatsoever and don’t get me started on that father of hers.”

“Then why is she here at our school?”

Myrtle spared her a pointed look. Cordelia huffed and leaned on her desk, keeping her eyes locked with her mentor’s.

“Emily’s powers have to originate from somewhere,” she said, shaking her head and averting her gaze for but a moment, “Her grandmother died. Maybe she used the last of her power to protect Emily. Delphi had yet to be disbanded when she passed.”

“If that were the case, she wouldn’t be able to go to hell, dear. Maybe it’s as you said; her magic is tied to the other — dreams, visions, prophecy, the whole shebang.”

Cordelia shook her head, “That doesn’t feel right.”

Myrtle was now the one to pace. The carpet was sure to be filled with holes if the issue loomed over their heads any longer. If Cordelia could not let go of this vision, the coven would be doomed. How many more dead ends did Delia need to hit before she recognized the futility of—

“Why are you so adamant about this?” Myrtle found herself asking, more out of desperation than curiosity.

Cordelia gave her a pointed look and the woman scoffed. “Mallory—”

“Mallory didn’t go to hell.”

“And our dear Emily can’t make a butterfly out of petals. Don’t put all your eggs in one basket. One false step and they all shatter.”

“Then help me eliminate this option,” Cordelia said, voice pleading, “Let's perform a ritual and get our answers before too much time has passed.”

“Alright,” Myrtle relented, “let's pull out the books… and the booze.”

Emily sat on one of the tables in the greenhouse like she was waiting at a doctor’s appointment, picking absentmindedly at the thin layer of paint atop the table. The inner circle of Robichaux stood around her watching Cordelia and Myrtle as they gathered material and passed it out.

Misty sat at Emily’s side, holding her hand and offering reassuring smiles whenever the brunette turned to look at her. Part of e was afraid they were going to kill her… or something worse. Death certainly wasn’t the worst thing the lot of them had experienced.

“We believe there is something blocking out our dear Emily’s powers,” Myrtle explained, placing jars of… something around the table.

“Or she just doesn’t have any,” Madison sighed, obviously wanting to be anywhere else as she studied her nails — she just got a manicure. The others stared at her in annoyance. “What? We’re all thinking it.”

“She saw Nan,” Cordelia spoke. She had been silent the entire time and didn’t even greet Emily when she was escorted into the greenhouse by Myrtle. If her silence was out of concentration or concern, no one could tell.

Queenie’s eyes nearly bugged out of her head. Her arms fell to her sides and all she could do was look between Emily and her Supreme. “She what?”

“I didn’t know who she was,” Emily said, glancing to Misty who held a similar expression to Queenie, “Not until I talked to Cordelia.”

“Is she alright?” Zoe asked. She stood opposite to Misty, carefully watching Cordelia and Myrtle as they prepared. “Did she say anything?”

“Nothing of note.”

“But she did say something,” Queenie said, a silent command in her voice.

“Only that I shouldn’t worry.”

Zoe’s brow furrowed, “worry about what?”

“… I don’t know.”

“If we are able to unlock your powers,” Myrtle said, ignoring the scathing look Cordelia sent her. The redhead still held her doubts. “Perhaps we can find out.”

Her words seemed to motivate the other girls. One by one they fell into place around the table, taking a string as Cordelia handed it to them. Misty and Madison stood at Emily’s left, Queenie and Zoe at her right. Myrtle stood in front of her, a large tomb of a book in her hands as she watched Cordelia work.

“Lay down, my dear,” she told Emily, who hesitantly did as she was told, “We will be delving deep into your subconscious and I’d rather you didn’t wake with a concussion.”

Cordelia came to a stop at Emily’s head. The brunette looked up through her lashes and watched as the woman lit a stick of incense, quickly blowing it out and placing it in a cup of sand. Emily really hoped they wouldn’t have a fire accident. If her hair were to be cut even shorter, she’d look like an egg wearing a toupee.

“Concentrate on the power you had in hell,” She whispered, so low that only Emily could hear her, “Visualize it and keep the sensation in the forefront of your mind.”

Emily felt if she were in some weird baptism, one you’d see on a TLC show about those weird Mormon cults. Shaking her head, she reminded herself to focus. She thought of hell, of that classroom — the fire, the words, the void. Emily felt her eyes become heavy before they closed. She saw Michael, blue eyes only showing a brief moment of alarm as fire raged around him.

Cordelia looked to Myrtle. The redhead began to chant. One by one, the other girls echoed her words. Emily was only slightly aware of their actions, their voices sounding miles away. Finally, Cordelia echoed the words. Her hands cupped over Emily’s face, covering her eyes and centering the spell between her brows, the third eye.

Once again, Emily fell into a slumber. Cordelia prayed that, when she awoke, her questions would be answered.

#michael langdon x reader #michael langdon x oc #michael langdon

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stayndays · 4 years ago

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𝐊𝐈𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐑 𝐊𝐈𝐍𝐆

𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐏𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝟗: It Isn’t That Easy

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆! This chapter includes:

A Corpse

Possible Errors

𝐒𝐄𝐑𝐈𝐄𝐒 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 : “You came here to assist your boss at a party he’s invited to, not to solve a murder with a group of strangers you’ve just met. Yet here you are, staring at the dead mansion owner who hosted the party in the first place, surrounded by nine men with high statuses in society: and one of them is a murderer. The question is who? And can you solve the mystery without being killed yourself?”

Visit the masterlist first before proceeding. It has all the info you need to read this series.

“Let’s explore down here first, so we don’t risk the chances of running into the other four upstairs then,” you answer Jeongin’s question, to which he and Hyunjin nod in agreement.

When the three of you leave the guest bedroom you were occupying, there was a strange silence to the mansion. No sounds of arguing or the other members’ voices, quiet enough to hear your footsteps and Jeongin’s uneven breathing. Your eyes drift to the corpse spread out in the living room, now pushed to the side thanks to the rug underneath it. The living room is quite simple for a mansion; an unlit fireplace, sleek, leather couches and chairs, and a now dim chandelier hanging from the ceiling. You remember gazing at the chandelier when you walked into the mansion, it’s golden rays from the candles enchanting you. It’s a shame that its light was blown away once the mansion owner died and the guests fled, leaving you in a room where the only light source was the full moon outside.

“This is quite random but,” Hyunjin’s sudden urge to speak catches you off guard. “Do you think there’s something under the mansion owner?”

“If there is, I’m not touching that corpse,” you refuse immediately, Hyunjin holding in a snicker at your comment.

“No, seriously. I’m kind of tempted to look…” Hyunjin scratches his head.

“Then do it, we aren’t going to stop you,” Jeongin shrugs, nodding for Hyunjin to proceed. Hyunjin exhales before bending down right next to the corpse.

“God, it’s a lot creepier up close. You think that working at a hospital would help you in situations like these, huh?” Hyunjin chuckles, hesitating to touch the body.

“Say,” you remember something. “Have you and Minho ever met? Since you two both work in the medical field?”

Hyunjin hums in thought before responding. “I’ve never seen him before until this party. Even if he does work at the hospital I work at, I’ve never heard his name or have seen him around.” Your question seems to calm Hyunjin’s nerves slightly, as he pushes the mansion owner’s body onto the side. He inspects the area, looking rather disappointed. “Hmm… I don’t see anything-”

Hyunjin’s eyes light up and he pulls out a shiny, metal object from the mansion owner’s back pocket.

A small, golden key.

“It- No, it can’t be that easy,” Jeongin says with disbelief. You knit your eyebrows together in confusion instead of excitement.

“At least we found something?” Hyunjin attempts to stay positive, despite the unclear expression on his face.

“Well,” you make your way over to the front door. “We could always try the key on the front door.” Hyunjin catches onto what you’re implying, and attempts to unlock the front door. The key jingles way too loudly, and Hyunjin freezes up, not wanting anybody else to hear.

“This might be too risky for now,” Hyunjin concludes.

“Then, let’s just keep on looking,” Jeongin ends the search in the living room, and makes his way to the dining room. You and Hyunjin exchange looks before following after the blond.

The search in the dining room is unsuccessful, however. While you rummage through each table and chair, Jeongin skims through the bags and purses from earlier, tipping each of them over for good measure. Hyunjin inspects the walls and floors, you don’t know why, but you assume that Hyunjin somehow knows what he’s doing.

“Jeongin, can you try checking the belongings a little bit quieter? The others might hear us and wonder what we’re doing,” Hyunjin tells Jeongin with a firm voice, and Jeongin timidly nods at Hyunjin’s request, rummaging through the bags almost silently. You frown slightly at Hyunjin’s stern commands, but quickly get back on track.

“I don’t think there’s anything significant in this room,” you let out a sigh, gazing at Hyunjin toying with the key he found earlier. The two men nod in agreement, and they follow you to the next room: the kitchen.

The kitchen is likely double the size of your own, possibly even triple. With checkered tiles for the floor and extra counter space, you could only dream of a kitchen like this for yourself.

“Where exactly do we look in the kitchen?” Jeongin leans against a counter, obviously unamused and is on the urge of giving up on this exploration.

Meanwhile, you and Hyunjin are thoroughly searching every foot of the kitchen, even looking at the stocked fridge for a split second before going back to the drawers and cabinets. It isn’t until you step on a particular tile on the floor that you stop your motions.

It’s a black, loose tile, probably a millimeter smaller than the other tiles on the floor. Not only that, but it’s a smidge bit lighter than the other black tiles scattered across the room, you figure out once you compare it to another tile. Curiosity gets to you, and you attempt to lift up the tile with your fingertips with your spare hand. By now, the two boys have focused their attention on you. The tile lifts up to reveal a trapdoor, and you widen your eyes in surprise. Ushering the others to come take a look, you realize that there’s a lock on the trapdoor, meaning that what’s behind it will be kept a secret until you find the key to unlock it.

“A secret tunnel?” Jeongin’s voice is filled with hope.

Hyunjin is swift to burst his bubble, though. “Maybe…? However, it might just be an extra room underground.”

“Should we try the key on here?” You suggest, and Hyunjin complies eagerly. Kneeling down to your level, he tries to open the trapdoor, but has no luck.

“I swear, is there even a purpose for this key?” Hyunjin grips the key tightly, acting as though he wants to break it with his bare hands.

Jeongin lets out a gasp, directing your attention to him. “Maybe somebody who’s been in the mansion before, like Minho, knows what this key is beneficial for, then.”

“Or Seungmin! However, both Minho and Seungmin are with somebody right now,” you mention Seungmin’s name.

You can picture Hyunjin’s wheels spinning in his mind. “We can either pull one of them aside separately, or we can bring in whoever they’re which right now as well.”

“Minho might be more helpful since he lived here for a portion of his life, but how can we talk to him without the other three with him becoming suspicious of us?” Jeongin brings up, your brain almost exploding at all the information you’re trying to take in.

“Not to mention, Seungmin’s with Felix right now. We trust Felix more than Seungmin, especially Y/N and I. Would Felix be more helpful for us?” Hyunjin suggests with a shrug.

Minho and Seungmin are our best bet… We’re close with Felix… What about the other three...

WHAT’S YOUR NEXT MOVE?

[ VOTE HERE. ]

CHOICE CHOSEN: Downstairs

VOTING RATIO: 10-3

ROUTE CHOSEN: Escape the Mansion

OFFICIAL ALLIES: Jeongin and Hyunjin

BEST NAME IN THE VOTING BOX: “Hyunjinsfeet”

QUESTIONS (Comments are not answered)

Response 2: your tag might not work because you chose to hide your blog! go to settings, and then to visibility, and make sure both of those options are turned off. if i’m still not able to tag you, i could always message you privately when a new chapter is out. | I’m sure this chapter cleared your question up. And yes, Minho.

Response 4: Yes.

Response 6: If you successfully escape, you will not know what happen to the other members. The killer(s) may or may not be revealed, it depends on what the author decides.

Response 8: doubt it?

Response 11: Check the voting box.

THEORIES (Will be answered with either Yes, No, or Cannot Say)

Response 2: No. No. Cannot say. No. No. Cannot say. Yes. Cannot say. No.

Response 11: Cannot say. Yes and no.

taglist: @desertofdessert @crscendoforsung @cotccotc @poeticallyspaghetti @skzctnightnight @dreamy-dreamies @nizhonimoon @hanniiesuckle17 @binniesbabybear @tsuki-moons @lbxgsunshine @csbverse @mangoisawesome @yunhoesss @worldtriiiip @golden--rain @bubblyjisunq @kimpchi @loey-letters @pokyloky @wherevermyway @avrea-tt @bossuns @sunoo-luvs @katherineee19 @ph0ebevix @qt-k1mb @444scb @grandmasterslickfox

From what I see, only 15-20 or so people are actively participating in this series. Although this breaks both mine and the author’s heart, I thank you all for being so invested in this series. The author has worked tremendously hard on Killer Kings, and despite the low player count, she’s grateful for all of the participation and dedication being put into this series by all of you. Thank you once again.

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avatoh · 4 years ago

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I Like You a Latte: Chapter 2

Psych Shassie Coffee Shop AU!

Chapter 2:

(Whole Story On AO3)

“O’Hara, no. Now drop it,” Lassiter said, straightening his tie and sitting down at his desk. “Not going to happen, not in a million years.”

Juliet smiled in the way that Lassiter hated, the way that said she thought she knew something he didn’t. “All I’m saying is, you made a bet and now you have to pay up. You gave your word. It’s actually pretty unlike you, not following through on something.”

Lassiter looked away, down at his desk, anywhere to keep her from seeing that blush that was rising on his cheeks at the thought of going back and facing that snarky little barista with the devilish little smile and the perfect hair, and- no. There was no way he was going back there to make good on a promise that he didn’t even really mean. It was a joke, after all.

Besides, the fact that he got the culprit right was a complete fluke, a guess, and it had nothing to do with whatever that idiot was calling a ‘psychic’ ability.

“I didn’t give my word,” he grumbled. “Anyway, I doubt he even remembers. That guy looked like he was on speed. I should have him drug tested, actually.”

“Oh, Carlton…” She rolled her eyes. “You should really be nicer to people. You’re too...”

“Suspicious? Paranoid? Tell me something I haven’t heard, O’Hara. I’m a detective. Maybe you shouldn’t be so trusting of everyone you meet.” It wasn’t as easy as it sounded, anyway, Lassiter sure found that out the hard way. He pulled a file off the stack on his desk and slammed it down in front of him. He had work to do.

. . .

Back at the Blueberry Beanery, Shawn was just finishing his shift for the day.

“Were you nice to the customers today, Shawn?” asked Gus, his best friend and the owner of the place.

“Exceptionally. I even made a new friend.”

“When you say friend I hope you don’t mean…” Gus trailed off.

Shawn just grinned.

“Please tell me you didn’t charm another customer into a date, Shawn. It’s bad for business.”

“Come on, son. You know I only do that when I know they’ll say yes.”

“Yeah, but then they go on the date with you or you guys hook up and then I lose customers in the aftermath because for some reason I’ve never known you to go past a 1st date with someone.”

“There was that one person in Alaska when I was traveling.”

“Or so you say. And that was only because you were living at his house rent free.”

“Well not rent free, I worked hard for the room and board.”

Gus rolled his eyes. “Can you please cut it out? I’ve already lost two regulars since you started working here.”

“But I’ve gotten you way more regulars than that. I can whip out the charm when I need to.”

“True,” Gus pondered. “Anyway, no more dating customers, Shawn; even if you did make a new friend today. No more.”

“Gotcha,” he said with almost zero conviction. If that detective cop guy came back, he’d certainly see if he could work his patented Shawn magic with him.

. . .

Lassiter stood at the door to the Blueberry Beanery with a new case file in hand and a belly full of dread.

So what if he was craving one of those delicious sugar filled abominations? He wasn’t made of steel. Or without taste buds, for that matter.

Though the prospect of facing that mouthy Barista again wasn’t helping his decision too much. Sure, he’d promised to come back. And sure, no matter how much he could bullshit to O’Hara (who saw right through him) he was a man of his word. So yes, he was going to go inside.

But he wished he wasn’t.

It only took two seconds after walking in the door before someone was screaming his name.

“LASSSIE!” Great, Shawn. “There he is! I knew you’d be back!”

Lassiter scanned the café quickly to find more than a few stares pointed in his direction. He felt his skin crawl.

“Only because I said I would be,” Lassiter replied. He walked up to the counter with his files tucked under his arm, and Shawn's smile grew bigger with each step, finally settling into a full-on teeth-everywhere grin.

“You don’t have to make up excuses, Lassie. I knew you missed me.” He winked. “What’ll you have today? Wait- don’t tell me. How about a surprise, huh? Something special to celebrate you closing your case.”

“How did you,” Lassiter said. “Wait. Don’t. I don’t want to hear it.”

“P-s-y-c-h-i-c,” Shawn mouthed in a drawn out fashion as he twirled a pen around in his fingers and looked Lassiter dead in the eye. Lassiter fumed.

“Just make the coffee,” he grumbled.

“You got it, grumpy pants.”

Lassiter sat down as far away as he possibly could from Shawn but unfortunately it was a rather small café. He pulled out the case file and began to read through it. There weren’t really many pressing unsolved cases since the double murder. In fact, he was pretty sure he knew who committed this crime, but it was so fresh he still had to wait for the autopsy. It was an open and shut case.

Within a few minutes of looking, Shawn called out “Lassie!” at the top of his lungs, similar to the last time. Lassiter got up with a resolved sigh and grabbed the drink which tasted slightly different but even better.

“I adjusted the ratios a bit. Usually I’m spot on, but the fact that you wouldn’t admit to liking it means I was a bit off on the preparation so let me know if you like this one better, okay?”

Lassiter grunted as he sat back down to look over the case. Yup. It looked like this one was open and shut, so he sipped at his coffee while he began checking his phone for the day.

The shop actually was a pleasant place to be. The only slightly annoying thing about it was the barista who was pretty chatty with everyone who came in. At least he knew how to keep his voice down with the other guests because Lassiter couldn’t quite make out what Shawn was saying.

Having checked his email, his messages, and solved the case, Lassiter sat in silence as his drink dwindled down. He was enjoying the uninterrupted silence, but perhaps too much. You know why they say about silence— it lulls you just enough not to notice the predator that’s about to pounce.

“So, do you think it was the gardener?”

Lassiter jumped in his skin, ripped from his thoughts, as Shawn leaned over the back of the booth, face far too close to his own. Far, far too close because he could faintly smell the fruity scent of his conditioner and the sweet coffee on his breath.

“Back up, would you?” Lassiter said. “And stop looking at my files.” He swept the papers and photos together into a neater pile to ward off Shawn’s prying eyes. “This is official SPBD information. I could hold you in contempt of the law for willfully reading classified documents.”

Shawn snorted, then leaned closer. “Or how about I hold you in contempt for failure to handle classified information? I don’t know about anyone else in here, but I sure got an eye full of those bad boys before you so meanly put them away. If you ask me, that seems pretty mishandled.”

Lassiter frowned. He’d had enough of Shawn’s snippy comments and half-baked knowledge of the law. “How about you shut your mouth and get me another one of these instead of concerning yourself with how I handle my work?” He rudely slid the empty mug to the end of the table and turned to the side where Shawn is still leaned over, way too close, and raised an eyebrow.

Shawn didn’t seem affected. He never did. “Maybe I should be more concerned with how you could handle me,” he whispered.

This time, it was even worse than the shouting because it was so low and breathy that it sent a shiver down his spine. The hairs on the back of his neck rose up, too. Sweet Lady Justice.

“I—” he stuttered. He hated the way it came out of his mouth, so unlike his usually confident demeanor.

Shawn smirked and stood back up, practically bounced over to the end of the table, and picked up his mug before running off. “ANOTHER LASSIE SPECIAL!”

Shawn immediately started making the drink himself as he was the only one working. Lassiter had only been in the little café twice and all he had seen so far was Shawn there; he was beginning to wonder if there were any other employees who worked and when he might come in so he could meet them.

Shawn headed over to Lassiter and gave him his drink. “That’ll be $4.50.”

“On second thought, I think I want my fifty cents back,” Lassiter said plainly from across the shop as Shawn slid the change into the tip jar. It seemed like Shawn’s yelling from across the building was rubbing off on him.

Lassiter handed over a $5 bill and told the annoyingly gorgeous man to keep the change.

“Wowee. Fifty whole cents for solving the case of the year and possibly a second one. Thank you, kind Sir.”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Shawn quickly backpedaled.

“I’m giving you business and keeping my word, isn’t that enough. Besides, I didn't ask you to ‘help’ with the second one.”

“Trueee.”

“What’s the deal with this place anyway,” Lassiter asked.

“What do you mean?”

“How did you get stuck working here and how do you get off talking to paying customers like this? I bet you get complaints.”

“Well, I don’t talk to everyone like this, and I’d like you to know it’s been one whole month since I’ve gotten a complaint. You should feel honored, Lassie.”

“Stop calling me that.”

“Why? You’ll complain about me. Remember when I solved that case for you? I’d say I'm going above and beyond the call of duty for this job here. I ought to be promoted.”

“More like fired,” he muttered under his breath. “Make this to go, actually.”

“You got it, Lass-” he stopped, then grinned. “-ieeeeee.”

“I don’t know how anyone stands you.” Lassiter grabbed the paper cup and his belongings then headed straight for his crown vic.

. . .

Lassiter entered the bullpen amongst the chatter of offices and ringing phones, before settling down at his desk and tossing the file into the completed bin. At most, he would have a day or two of petty crimes before another high profile case made its way to his desk, but he didn’t want to wait that long.

Ever eager for a new mystery to solve, he knocked on Chief Vic’s office ready to shake her down for something big.

“Enough, Lassiter,” she said, looking exasperated. “Just take it easy for a day or two, you of all people have earned it.”

“With all due respect, Chief, I didn’t become Santa Barbara’s youngest head detective by ‘taking it easy’. Are there any homicides? High profile robberies? Gang related violence? Come on, Chief.”

“Lassiter,” she said, her voice severe. “Do not come into my office asking me this again. I want you on the Farbaros case and that is the end of that.”

“Chief—”

“Out, detective.”

. . .

Lassiter tried not to slam the door on his way out, but he was never good at controlling his anger. Jules even saw it rolling off of him, judging by the way she scooted away and refused to look at him the moment he got to his desk.

“What have you got on the Farbaros case, O’Hara?” he asked. In reality, it was more of an order than a question. “Bring me up to speed, now.”

“Well... “ she began. “Easy case, really. We’ve already interviewed all the witnesses and the evidence is already pointing in one direction.” She looked up with a sorry look on her face. She of all people knew how antsy he got without something to do. “We have one of the officers already on route to bring him in for questioning. Sorry, partner.”

Lassiter signed. Great. He took a sip of his coffee and pressed his fingers to his temple. He didn’t need a few days off.

There was always paperwork to do at least, so he worked on that for the rest of the day. If there was still no big case to work on the next day, he could always look through some of the older cold cases, which always were fun to do.

The downtime between cases was only fun for a few hours. After completing and filing the necessary paperwork as well as making a few phone calls to get the paperwork and what he needed processed more quickly, Lassiter decided to reward himself with his lunch hour, which he usually took in the comfort of his own desk. Today, just because things were so slow, he decided to leave his sandwich in the fridge for the next day and go somewhere fun for lunch. There was a nice Mexican place that usually took a while to get the food out that would be the perfect distraction for today. He went ahead and called in his order and then began driving over.

After paying for his food, he took it to a nearby park across the street and sat down on one of the public benches. He had gotten himself some freshly made and hot chicken tacos, a treat for himself. The notion of a “treat” was absolutely ridiculous, he realized as he unbagged the food. Perhaps he had been splurging more than usual with all the fancy coffees and now his favorite Mexican place that was a little out of the way. Did he even deserve these so-called treats, as he called them in his mind? He hadn’t even been the one to solve the big case, after all.

What was up with Shawn? Not only had he solved one, but two cases for him in the span of a week, like it was too easy. It wasn’t easy. Lassiter had spent hours upon hours reading and looking over a bunch of information only to have a barista tell him within a short little visit who the perp was. It was ridiculous really.

As if to rub it in his face while he was contemplating the fact that it wasn’t even him who solved the big case, his phone rang: a call from Henry Spencer, his former mentor.

“Hey, Henry, It’s been awhile.”

“It’s nice to hear your voice, rookie,” Henry said jovially through the speakers. “I’m just calling because I wanted to congratulate you on solving the Todd case.”

“Thanks,” Lassiter said. “How are you doing Henry? How’s the retirement treating you this month?”

“Fine, fine. We haven’t been fishing together in awhile. You should never feel shy to reach out. Anyway, besides the congratulations on solving that big case, I was wondering if you’d be free next Friday?”

“Why?”

“I’m thinking of having a barbeque. Just a few guys from the station, nothing too big. You should come by, show the old guys how well I taught ya, huh?”

Lassiter nearly groaned at the prospect of a social gathering, but seeing as though it would all be guys from the station, he figured he would be able to talk shop for most of it. Besides, Henry Spencer was one of the SBPD’s best, the human lie detector, as they called him, and he was proud that he was mentored by him.

“Next Friday...?” he trailed off, knowing full well he had no plans. “Yeah, I could go for a burger. I’ll be there.”

“Great, see you then.”

ch 1 a03

#shassie #ao3 #fanfic #psych #psych fanfic #my fic

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overdrivels · 4 years ago

Text

Deleted TWtaH Scenes

[Original opening sequence for chapter 1]

The kitchen once held no less than twenty cooks at a time back in its hay-day at peak hours, and at least four during downtimes.

Now, there was no need for that many cooks, however. There were less agents this time, less funds which meant less provisions, and a dejected look inside the nearest fridge yielded even less ingredients that can contribute to a coherent dish.

The only fitting solution was the age-old family-friendly Overwatch (and Blackwatch, of course) version of Russian roulette: the "Surprise Menu".

The small pot of translucent slop bubbled gently by its lonesome atop a gleaming stove meant for the meals of thirty agents of varying tastes.

A ‘ping’ notified you that an order was placed. A quick glance at the name (Agent McCree) already had your hands grabbing for cabinet doors and bowls.

McCree always ordered from the regular menu, even when it contained things that he would leave untouched (like the octopus salad four days ago) or when it would have nothing he liked to eat (he leaves everything half eaten those days, except the bread—he usually asks for seconds regardless of the type).

The previous Commander Gabriel Reyes had forced him to choke down anything that was being served on the "Surprise Menu" that day for being a little shit. Jesse McCree can now eat anything, but the grimace on his face made it clear he would rather not.

Soldier 76’s ratio of “Surprise Menu” to “regular menu” was fairly even. He would take the tray and disappear for several short minutes before returning the tray, completely devoid of any traces of food. You were never sure if he ate all of it or if he has just eaten a little and chucked the rest, though a check of the base's garbage disposals just made you then wonder if he actually flushed the food down a toilet somewhere.

"Thanks, it was good," he would say when returning his tray. Only ever compliments. "Better than sewer rats," he had once said. Though, he did once admit the chicken was too spicy in one of your dishes.

D.Va bristled at the suggestion and demanded for more spice immediately after.

You endeavored to warn 76 of spicy dishes on the Surprise Menu and to find ways of adding more flavor to those of D.Va's.

The plastic tray echoed a finality against the window counter that bounced off the far away kitchen walls and rung in your ears.

You flip through the worn list hanging by the refrigerator nearest you.

Foods must be similar in portion.

Foods must be similar in consistency.

Foods of different color cannot be next to each other.

Foods of different temperatures cannot be next to each other—

You didn't even hear the doors to the cafeteria swing open.

Favorites (at least one for every meal):

Curry with soft beans (ABSOLUTELY no hard solids, no half-cooked beans. Chili is not acceptable substitute!!) Potatoes (plain) Extra short grain rice (extra water) Basmati rice (normal water)

**When cooking rice, wash four times (taste is noticeable otherwise)

A ‘ding’ of the overhead monitor alerted you that someone had placed an order.

Zenyatta did not eat, and Genji's limit was a cup of tea half the size of his fist and a sweet, but they enjoyed sitting near the kitchen window to speak with flashes of your hands and the clinking dishes set in front of them, but never for them.

[Deleted scene of Chef fighting back against Talon]

The video plays.

A team of six sweeps through the cafeteria, and immediately, he sees the issue which has the team swarming the kitchen door and the service window.

The lights were on.

Even though he knows of your fate, he couldn’t help but feel a tinge of fear grasping at his chest. They split up into two teams. One checks the window–they signal to the other team around the corner, and they signal back, guns at the ready.

He can see them count down with each wave of their hand.

One.

Two.

Three–

Hanzo expected that when it happened, you’d walk out daintily, the same way you put down a tray noiselessly, the same way your fingers touch the marble service window, the same way you touch your fingertips together when in thought, the same way you gesture–all soft flourishes and curling fingers.

But no.

You stride out through the double doors like a storm, head ducked down to avoid any deviant bullets, armed with only a large soup ladle made to handle a meal fit for five and a deep furrow in your brow with a scowl to match.

And then you begin to swing. Not wildly, but small, precise sweeps of little circles and sharp flicks of the wrist that cleanly disarm the shocked Talon operatives before slamming the underside of their chins. Even he has to give a sympathetic wince when their teeth clack together, or even worse, when they don’t.

Up close, he can see you still wear your chef’s uniform, all white and emblazoned with the Overwatch logo right on the sleeves of your upper arms.

You only had three of them; the other three take their shots through the window.

He sees you reach back with your free hand inside the doors, and immediately, a metal door comes slamming down behind the window. The Talon operatives jerk back, lest they get their arms caught.

He’d never admit it, but he swears that his hair has just become a bit greyer after watching the surveillance video.

[Deleted scene of McCree’s interview with Head Chef Richard v1]

The meal is delectable, but he doesn't taste it. Countless experiences with chasing spirits and tobacco did not come without a price.

Even so, he makes a show picking at his food with enthusiasm. Just enough to show interest but not overly flatter and be taken for a fool.

[Filler]

“Cœur d’Artichaut.” The man flips the card elegantly between his long, thick fingers. “A leaf for everyone. A bit of love for everyone. Sounds good, no? Everyone deserves a bit of love."

He then holds the card still and places a gentle kiss on it, letting it cover his lips as he murmurs, "But what that means is to give and give and give until you’ve nothing left.”

The man takes a moment to pull out a pack of cigarettes and lights himself one, silently offering one to the disguised McCree. Not one to turn down such an offer, McCree takes one for himself, leaning into the flame when the chef holds the lighter to him, his dark hand cupping around the flame and McCree’s face. It’s an oddly intimate gesture that he can't be sure isn't because he's being polite. McCree just hopes the heat doesn’t affect the hardlight contours of his disguise.

A plume of smoke gushes from the chef’s mouth. The grey wisps caress his sharp cheekbones and winds itself around his head, allowing only his lighter eyes to shine through. It reminds McCree of a mythical creature.

"It iz a chef’s responsibility to take care of their customers. Cook ze best food for them. Love them with all our being. We chefs exist for them.” A bitter quirk of his lips accompanies the change in his tone. “We die for them. Their bodies are built on the meals we make, and so we must give as much as we can to help our customers face another day. This, of course, includes love."

"I see ‘love’ is a running theme with this restaurant. Could you tell me what you mean by ‘love’?" McCree raises his tablet and pen.

Just when he’s about to interrupt the silence with another inquiry, Richard takes another drag of his cigarette and stares out into the distance.

"Love,” he begins. “No greater form of love than to nourish another's body and soul. It can be as simple as a prayer or as complicated as picking out ingredients and cooking them in a way that is appropriate for that customer and that one customer only. There are many ways to love and show love. But to give and give and give love but not receive, even the greatest of lakes will run out. Love is an ingredient. Love,” he stresses with a wave of his hand, “iz not infinite."

"But love isn't an ingredient you can put on food, is it, sir?"

The chef's eyes slide over, fixing itself onto McCree's face for a moment, so piercing that he's sure he can see through the disguise. It sends shivers up and down his spine. He’s being measured, judged, like a fish on the chopping block.Mercifully, Richard looks away, letting the smoke rise out from between his teeth. Something like a laugh makes the smoke stutter.

"It is the food. It is the effort. The thought.”

“And so you plan on carrying on the ideals of the previous CEO?”

Richard barks a laugh.

“Of course not. That foolish, naiive child."

“Could you explain?”

“Mm. A naive, desperate people-pleaser. That sort of love means little. People like that ought to have more self-respect.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a chef doing their best, is there?”

Richard waves his hand dismissively. “Of course there isn’t. But doing one’s best to satisfy their customer’s paletes is different from being a doormat.”

[Filler]

"That child does not understand that love can flow in many directions."

[Filler]

"I am here to restore the balance and clean up ze mess my...protégé...has made."

"Hm. So long as my protégé remains a child, then this toy will remain in my possession."

[Filler]

"Even chefs must eat."

[Filler]

"Do parents not give their lives for their children? It iz an obvious conclusion."

Protests and bitter memories that illustrate the contrary almost make it out of McCree's mouth. Instead he swallows them down and replaces them with a, "Of course. There's no parent who wouldn't."

No other lie has ever burned his tongue so.

[Filler]

“I hope this interview has been…enlightening…" There's something about the way that word is said that puts his nerves on edge.

"Oh, it has. Thanks very much for your time."

Richard scoffs, snuffing out the last of his cigarette against the heel of his hand. Tough son of a bitch. No wonder he and Reyes got along so well. The butt makes its way into a pocket instead of on the ground and Chef Richard opens the back door.

Over his shoulder, he calls, "Please do come again in the future. I look forward to reading your article. As thanks, we will have...surprise meatloaf waiting.”

McCree’s shoulders draw back tight and he fights every instinct to not stiffen and turn around. Instead, he keeps walking, a wry and defeated smile on his face.

“Oh, and tell that child that one should not preach about love if without having experienced it in full."

The smugness could not be any less evident, and the door slams shut, allowing the threat to linger in McCree's ears.

Sonnavabitch.

[Deleted scene of McCree’s interview with Head Chef Richard v2]

He’ll have to evaluate their true value, but decades-old wine definitely has buyers and he thinks he may know one or two. It’s not gentlemanly to let a favor like this go unpaid, and he’s already got a few ideas on how to do it.

And that’s how he finds himself here, sitting in the very back of Cœur d’Artichaut, bathed in the afternoon sun with his laptop, pouring a tiny pitcher of espresso into his coffee. He never understood fancy places and their need for so much extra silverware and fine china when the food he’s eating is the size of a well-used soap bar.

At least it tastes better than one.

Glazing across the restaurant, he sees the person he’s supposed to thank, still talking to the General Manager, Argus.

With half the cup in his stomach, he puts his hands to keys and types.

‘Chef Richard Sauveterre, a chef of renown fame whose name is given reverence, not in written word, but through the mouths of those he has fed,’ the first few lines of his draft reads.

‘The very definition of tall, dark, and handsome, made more distinguished by thick cornrows that trace the sides of his skull like a crown, the remainder cascading down in a neat waterfall down his neck. He is King Midas in a chamber of heat, steel, and raw ingredients that he spins into award winning meals capable of turning the stoniest of hearts into gold.

‘Now the CEO of acclaimed charity restaurant, Cœur d’Artichaut. The heart of an artichoke, a leaf for everyone, is their motto.’

McCree pauses for a moment, licking at the scab on his lip, searching for the next words and filling himself with another deep sip of coffee when he can’t find them.

“Pardon the wait, monsieur Morricone.”

“Not at all, Chef.” McCree gets up from his chair and extends his hand. “I’m just glad you made time in your busy schedule for me.”

“Likewise.”

McCree was bracing for it, but the weight behind the chef’s handshake still catches him off-guard. It’s just one strong up-down motion with a firmness that softens as they let go, but it’s that immediate contact, that sheer presence that puts him off-kilter and reminds him that this man is not only a cook but also a world champion fencer who could give some of the lower and mid-tier members of Blackwatch a run for their money in terms of reflexes and sharp wit. It is not only his hands, but Chef Richard makes sure to lock eyes with him, pinning him down. While Gabe would look for weaknesses to be exploited, Chef Richard is looking for gaps to be filled.

At least Richard doesn’t greet him the way he greets Reyes: with more kisses on each cheek than should be necessary. Though he may have to attribute that distance to his current disguise.

McCree begins his usual spiel: who he supposedly is (Joel Morricone, freelance writer, likes long walks on the beach and freshly roasted coffee), why he’s writing this (following up on a previous article he wrote about the restaurant ousting their CEO), and a few general compliments to loosen up his interviewee.

In the midst of all that, Argus brings over Richard’s coffee and replaces McCree’s. Her movements are quiet and unobtrusive, befitting of a high class restaurant like this. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think she’s forgiven him for having written an article about them firing their CEO, but he knows better. She definitely debated turning him away at the door when he tried to come in ten minutes ago.

In return, Richard gives a brief summary of who he is and his accomplishments, factually and without embellishments as though he were talking about someone else. The names of awards and institutions he gives are fancy and long and would probably be more impressive if McCree actually knew them, but all he can do is nod and ask probing questions that makes him sound like he actually knows more than he does.

If McCree didn’t know his history any better, he would have missed that the man glossed over the fact he led Overwatch’s kitchens for a good portion of its existence.

Past the initial niceties, McCree begins digging into the real reason for his interview.

“Prior to this position, do you mind telling me what you were doing and why did you come here instead?”

“I came because I saw some article about a former employee of mine leaving behind unfinished business.”

“And where did you come from?”

“My mother’s womb, where else?” he says dryly, and McCree damn near types that down.

“I’m guessing you don’t want to talk about it.”

Richard smiles. “No.”

“O--kay. Let me remind you that this interview is confidential and you will be the first to review the contents before public—”

“I am aware.” Then he pauses as if reconsidering, his smile growing wider with a glint in his eye that makes McCree want to squirm in his chair. “If you must know, I was anchored.”

“Anchored?”

He doesn’t elaborate any further and McCree’s brain is working overtime trying to decipher his words and not let it show on his face.

Anchored. Tied down somewhere. Somewhere that you nor anyone else have been able to reach. McCree goes through all the iterations of what that could mean and he lands on either ‘prison’ or ‘out so far in the boonies that technology couldn’t reach him’. Either one is possible with this man.

“Right, next question.” He clears his throat. “Now that you’re here as the new CEO of Cœur d’Artichaut, what is going to be your strategy for the restaurant going forward and your current impressions of things so far?”

Richard’s eyes flit once between McCree’s disguised face and his own cup of coffee. There is a semblance of bitter fondness that lingers in the corner of his lips that is quickly covered by the rim of his cup. For the first time since this interview started, his demeanor shifts. McCree can’t explain it, but it feels like he’s no longer talking to Richard, a professional chef, but Richard, a person.

“Avoir un cœur d’artichaut.”

“Pardon?”

“‘I have the heart of an artichoke’. I love everyone who eats my meals, for everyone who has eaten my meals has a piece of my heart.” He sips at his coffee for a moment too long, . “This restaurant’s motto, ‘cœur d'artichaut, une feuille pour tout le monde’, iz something I had said a lot in the past.”

“So the restaurant’s namesake is from you?”

“The saying is not mine alone, but that seems to be so.” There’s a bitter twist to his lips like he wished it weren’t. “As for the direction of the restaurant, a lot of effort has been put already and I will not change what does not need changing.”

“Have you had a chance to speak with the previous CEO during the transition?”

“No.”

“And is there anything you’d like to say, any message you’d like to convey?”

“Yes. ‘Do it your own way.’”

“That’s it?”

“Did you expect a heartwarming speech?”

“Well, I was expecting something a little more personal?”

“Personal things should be told to the person in question, yes? And not to a...” Richard looks him up and down, real slow and deliberate. A shiver runs through McCree’s spine--the look would make a lesser person shrink in their seats and the way he says his next word would evaporate them from existence. “...mere reporter?”

McCree manages a grin. He’s seen scarier. “You’re right, you’re right. So if you don’t plan on changing the restaurant or giving any words, any menu changes?”

“I’d take away those awful pancakes,” he exclaims with a toothy grin and a flap of his hand, and McCree can’t tell if that’s supposed to be a joke. He doesn’t have to guess as Richard continues. “This menu is like a baby imitating their parents. Too many recipes similar to mine, not original enough.”

“Oh?” McCree puts his hands to his keyboard again. Food seems to be the way to get this man to open up. “I’ve seen raving reviews for ‘em—”

“Bah. Shitty taste buds. Zis thick piece o’ dough cannot be called, eh, pancake. Babies will choke and the elderly will die of malnutrition, zis--non, non, non. Zis is something only someone with bad tastes could like. But ze compote! ‘Ave you tried it? That is the only thing that makes it menu-worthy.”

The rambling critique of your menu goes on and on and Richard’s accent only gets thicker as his excitement pours out in unstoppable waves. As disparaging as though remarks are, McCree can’t help but get the sense that Richard right now is like a proud father, and he wonders how he can convey that to you in his article.

“A chef must always think of their customers. This menu is subpar, but I can feel the thoughtfulness in the service and selections.”

“Humans can eat most anything and survive, but it is a miserable existence. Gladden the senses, bring people together. Our dishes are made with love, but that love must come from somewhere. No chef can provide it all without having received any, and I will continue that mission here.”

[Filler]

“Please, stay for lunch. I do not wish to host a guest without showing proper hospitality.”

McCree suspects he’d probably be murdered if he does agree if not by Richard then by your own staff who already hold a grudge against him for having written an article about your forceful resignation without their consent. (A scoop is a scoop, and it made Richard come back to Gibraltar, so all’s well that ends well.)

“Thank you kindly for the offer, but I think you’ve shown me plenty.”

“It will be on the house.”

“Really, I’ll come by another day. Lots left to do.”

McCree pulls out a handle from his bag and presses a button, the rest of the cane materializing as he uses it to get up. Chef Richard is right there beside him with a hand hovering over his elbow.

[Filler]

“The next time you come we will have our specialty for you prepared: Surprise Meatloaf. Oh, and no need to be concerned; insurance will handle both the trucks you and your friends destroyed.”

McCree turns around but the door clicks shut behind him, the heavy wooden door now much more threatening than before.

He grins wildly to himself, dragging a hand through his hair.

That sonnavabitch.

[Deleted Scene of Reaper encountering Chef]

"Hello, dishwasher."

You turn and gasp at the stranger in the kitchen. “What the f—ATHE–!!”

The man explodes into a tidal wave of mist, and your mouth is covered with one large hand, claws digging to your face, the rest of your body held immobile by the darkness. “Now, now. No need for that, dishwasher.”

Dish–!!?

Paralyzing fear courses through you like lightning. You struggle to free yourself from the confines of...whatever it is that is holding you. You need to alert everyone. You need to get free. A threatening squeeze of your body--your spine pops a little and your recently healed injuries protest the rough treatment--and the bone mask in your face makes you pause for a moment.

“Now, be good; don’t call for help. I’m just here for a house visit.”

He removes his hand slowly.

“A house visit?" Your voice is shakier than you'd like it to be, brain buzzing with fright.

The mist detangles itself from your limbs cautiously, ready to strike and immobilize you against if you were to make a stray move. The blood rushes back into your head and brings spots to your eyes, drumming in your ears and making you more nauseated than you would've liked.

While you're busy trying to reorientate your body, the part-mist, part-man glides slowly around the kitchen, looking around. You can see him pause at some of the injuries the kitchen sustained during the Talon attack.

"Pity. That baker, Woo, really liked this countertop. She'd have a fit if she saw this."

Stunned, you stare at the wandering mist figure. "You know this kitchen, you know Patisserie Woo?"

He turns his mask toward you, and you’re sure that he’s raising an eyebrow behind it. The response, 'Obviously,' exudes from every fiber of his body. .

"Wait, who are you…?”

“Take a guess.”

You narrow your eyes, curling your fingers around your lips in thought. Someone who knows your past. Someone who knows you since you were a dishwasher. The chefs in this kitchen didn’t exactly have a high turnover, but there were very few people who knew you throughout your journey up the ranks. A man who first knew you as a dishwasher and called you such.

"Omar? Frederick? Johnny?"

“Try again.”

The fear and wariness ebbs away as the threat of death evaporates.

You search your memory. There's nothing familiar about this man except the way he stands, arms crossed and staring down at you. If you squint, you could almost overlap a memory with this figure.

“Come on, now. You picked up everything in this kitchen pretty quick. You can’t even figure this out for yourself?”

It hovers over the edge of your memory, just out of reach. Think, who is this person acting like? You’ve seen this behavior before.

The voice becomes soft, endearing almost as he utters, “Come on, dishwasher. You’re smarter than this.”

The image of a man, leaning against one of the counters during the lull between service, watching you attempt a new recipe with calculating eyes. You almost expect Head Chef Richard to appear behind him and slap him on this shoulder, watch them both get up and give each other a brotherly hug.

Your eyes widen.

"Gabriel.” Your mentor's voice and yours overlap in a breathy whisper. "Comman, commander Gabriel Reyes."

There's a hint of a smile in his voice when he says, “There we go, always knew you were a clever little thing, but I go by 'Reaper', now."

A slight flush goes through your cheeks, forcing out the icy sheen of fear that lingered in your veins. Even now, despite being on opposite teams, it is nice to be praised by the former Commander. However, your thoughts are quickly interrupted when you remember that this is Reaper--the Talon higher-up whom the recalled Overwatch were on the look-out for.

"What are you doing here?"

"House-visit," he repeats. You're not quite sure what that even means. "You're not supposed to be there."

Confused, you ask, "Be...where?"

Commander Reyes--Reaper--sweeps his arms out, gesturing at the kitchen in its entirety. "Here. You weren't supposed to be here that night."

Talon. The attack. You gasp, hand flying to your mouth and other protectively against your middle. Your wounds ache at the mention and quickened pulse.

“They were supposed to lure you out," he continues. "Leave the path open so that Talon can use the passage,” he rumbles.

"But I came back..."

"Right. Now I came to give you some information."

"Why would you do that...?"

He shrugs. "Because I'm feeling generous, maybe?"

A small laugh escapes the fingers covering your mouth. That can't possibly be true, but then again, he is--or was--Gabriel Reyes.

"You don’t trust me?"

It’s hard to trust someone who looks like the Grim Reaper come to life.

"I do," you say distantly. "Because I trust Command Reyes. And…” You hesitate. “And, you know, the Head Chef…he really loved you."

"That man loves everyone,” he scoffs. “Don’t bring him into this. Anyway," --he waves his hand around-- "don't you wonder about the attack that night?"

"Yes. Like how they were able to find the passage. It's only supposed to be known to kitchen personnel--wait." Something clicks in your head. "Were you the one who led everyone here?"

Reaper exhales something between a growl and a huff. "No, but someone in your little organization’s turned traitor."

The world got absorbed into a vortex, and you suddenly feel like you're free-falling or sinking or just dying. You can't breathe, you can't hear, couldn't think, not when reality decides to take an unexpected vacation.

You force out a shuddering laugh that sounds grating even to your own ears. "What do you mean 'turned traitor'? There's, there's no one who knows that would ever..."

You sink down to the ground, reality righting itself and your limbs feel like a ton of bricks or that you've been hit by them. It didn't really matter. You're trying to get your brain to function, to think. But the shock of his words were too much. You trust--trusted--everyone at your restaurant.

But...then...

“Turned traitor on you and your organization."

You clench your fists and bring them to your mouth.

"Reaper on premise! Reaper on premise! Repeat, Reaper is on the premise!"

"Took them long enough,” Reaper says at the exact same time you order, “Athena! Cancel the alert!"

"Command overridden. Reaper on premise!"

You give the man a weary look and he returns it with a shrug.

"Can I offer you a meal before you go?”

He laughs. “I don’t think you can make anything fast enough. Those Overwatch brats will be here soon."

You’re already walking to one of the refrigerators while he speaks and pull out a lunch box that was meant for Agent McCree before his mission, but given the circumstances, you’re sure it wouldn’t matter much. You can just make a new one anyway.

"Here you are."

He takes one look at the name written on it and tosses it right back at you.

"Give it to the brat. I don’t take sloppy seconds.”

You don’t even have a chance to retort before he disappears into a puff of smoke, slipping in beneath the door from which he came.

The kitchen doors burst open, Agent Soldier: 76 at the helm. And not a moment too soon.

“Kitchen personnel only!” you say, reflexively.

“Where’s Reaper?"

The other agents are spread out, alert, but some are looking around the place like it’s a tourist attraction. You cringe.

"I didn’t notice anyone here."

His sweeping gaze falls on you, and you’re suddenly an insect that’s been pinned, unable to escape from the piercing gaze of the ex-Overwatch Commander.

"Talk, Chef.” Nothing in his stance bodes any hint of compromise.

You know he doesn’t believe you. Not when you’re standing there with McCree’s lunch in your hands, wrapped and with no dishes around.

[Original scene of Hanzo’s first break-in into the kitchen]

He drops down from the top of the doors, only to freeze when you round the corner.

The words tumble out of his mouth ungracefully. “You’re a person.”

“Get out.”

The biting intensity in your voice is challenging enough for him to forget exactly who he is speaking to.

“I go where I wish.”

It’s the wrong answer.

He sees your eyes flash. In an instant, you’re trying to man-handle him out. Hands clumsily fisted into his gi, twisting, tugging, hips down and bearing weight against his bulk. However, you’re no match for a trained assassin. His reaction is too immediate. He has you on the ground, straddling your hips, pinning both your arms to your back with a hand, his other hand bracing himself on the floor by your head.

You try to buck him off relentlessly, like an animal.

“GET OUT!”

He grits his teeth, and presses tighter against your hands. Your breath comes out in a wheeze, and in the back of his mind, he’s aware that you will have trouble breathing.

“I do not take orders from a mere chef!” he barks.

You seize in his hold.

For a bone-chilling moment, he thinks he may have gone too far in his technique. His grip slackens just a margin.

You twist violently. He gets unseated just long enough for you to aim a knee up at him. He blocks it, and you are scrambling off the ground, hand reaching for something. Anything.

A ladle—you hold it out in front of you, the rounded end pointed squarely at his chest.

“Get. Out.”

He furrows his brow, aware that he’s all teeth and spitting fire. “Is that all you can say?”

“Agent Hanzo, you are forbidden here, get out.”

“What is the meaning of this?”

It’s Satya who stops the fight from the door, well within the boundaries of the rules set.

“Going into the kitchen is against Overwatch policy,” she recites coldly.

He can see you’re still ready to fight even though you are horrible outmatched. If he really wanted to, you’d be dead in an instant.

But those burning eyes promise him something more than a poorly attempted beatdown should he push the matter.

With a huff, he leaves.

She gives him a disapproving look, which he shakes off, angered.

[Filler]

The next day, he’s only mildly horrified to find two turrets stationed outside the kitchen doors, and is suddenly paranoid that there are many more waiting where they cannot be seen.

Hanzo does not know if it's you who ordered them or if the architect had done it off her own free will. (If he has to guess, you had explicitly requested it.)

The architect is extraordinarily good at her job--able to merely look at a building and understand the structure and blind spots even if she doesn’t fully appreciate the depth of this part of her skillset.

He could swear they’re all looking at him--glaring, even--ready to teach him a lesson for his transgressions.

It prickles at him.

[Alternate shopping scene with Chef and Hanzo]

The air, crisp with the snap of an impending winter, chills your lungs as you breath it in. It feels liberating.

The market is as busy as you remember it. Medication and a lengthy preparation time kept you sleeping past the normal time you'd be up and about, searching for the juiciest, freshest, and tastiest of produce. But at 0830, most of them were already snatched up by other more savvy people and chefs who have likely returned back to their kitchens to celebrate their prizes. Now only the more casual crowd remained, a steadily surging crowd.

Agent Hanzo stands right at your elbow, being one of the few agents who were awake when you were plotting to leave and caught you in the act of trying to disconnect yourself from the supplies that are theoretically keeping you healthy. (You’re fine. You can stand and walk with minimal trouble, so a few hours outside shouldn’t be an issue.)

“It is not safe by yourself. I shall accompany you,” he declared like it was a given.

You just didn't have the energy to fight him. After a few failed attempts to even stand up from your bed, you figured it wouldn't hurt to have him around in case your body decided to betray you. Athena, bless her, was blissfully complacent in letting you both go once you promised you would take it easy and forced Hanzo to take responsibility for protecting you (and that you'd both return by lunchtime; she threatened to send other agents after you both and you shudder to think of the commotion that would cause).

So far, Hanzo’s been attentive and pleasant company with an occasionally sharp comment that is more witty than barbed and a helpful hanp.

“Is there anything you'd like for lunch or dinner today?”

“Are you so unwell that you are now taking requests?” he asks incredulously, glancing at you briefly with a raised eyebrow before sweeping the crowd with his eyes.

“Very funny, Agent Hanzo. I’m serious.” You pick up a radish and look it over. You can make radish curry with this. Agent Symmetra would probably like that--something closer to home--or maybe radish salad, or garlic roasted radish with feta cheese, or maybe even grate it into a yogurt sauce. “Since you decided to accompany me, it's the least I could do.” You didn’t have much else you could give to him or do for him anyway.

He scoffs, a tiny smile at the corner of his mouth shows it’s not as condescending or mean as it sounds. “Anything you can make without dropping.”

“That was once! And you dropped way more things than I did.”

“The magnitude is greater,” Hanzo says flippantly, lifting the heavy bags he held so easily back into view. “Whatever you plan on making with this will be payment enough, I’m sure.”

Somehow, you couldn't help flush a little, unsure if it is meant to be genuine or teasing.

“If you don't decide soon, I'll make pepper soup.”

Hanzo just laughs, a light and actually jovial laugh that makes you flush a little brighter. It's a stupid threat especially against an Overwatch agent, but it’s all you have. But even so, he didn't have to make fun of you.

“I'm really going to do it, Agent Hanzo.”

He looks at you, a challenging gleam in his eyes that you've seen far too many times from other ill-fated agents who think the kitchens are a game. The look makes you burn just beneath your skin.

“Aren’t you supposed to reward me for my services?”

“And I will,” you say with a firm determination. “I promise.”

He has nothing to say to that, but the look on his face speaks for him: we shall see.

For the remainder of your shopping trip, Hanzo remains a quiet but intimidating presence behind you as you continued to pick out your produce. Hanzo still says nothing even after moving through several other booths where you take your time to buy and bargain for large and colorful peppers. He wordlessly takes your bags as you get them, refusing to return them to you even after you kick up a small fuss that quickly exhausts you.

[Filler]

A heavy weight in the middle of your back nearly makes you jump out of your skin and you clench your teeth to hold back the noise of pain that tries to crawl its way out of your throat.

At your ear, Hanzo mutters, “Come.”

“Is someone following us?”

He doesn’t answer, weaving his way in and out of the crowd with you held close to his side. Absentmindedly, you realize he’s quite warm amidst the autumn air. As sharp and callous as Hanzo is, he sure is comfortable. It’s presumptuous, but maybe you could ask him if you could take a nap against him when he has the time. Maybe for half an hour or so. Just once.

You’re startled out of your thoughts with a quick jostle. “Chef, hurry.”

“Okay, okay.”

“Stay beside me.”

“Do you see something?”

Again, he doesn’t answer.

You can see him scanning the area as though seeking a route. The number of people have thinned considerably, leaving you both exposed. Hanzo keeps you by the walls of what buildings are around, but those are quickly becoming sparse, too. There’s a constant flex in his jaw and it’s clear to see he’s a little agitated.

“Oh!”

You reach for one of his hands--it’s also very warm and very large--and begin to pull with what strength you had even as he tries to snatch it back. You both need to stay together and this is the best way to ensure it even though you’re very sure he can keep up against your injured self.

“Wh—”

“This way.”

You know Gibraltar better. You know its secrets and its truths and exactly how to lose people here. Hanzo, perhaps knowing this, follows obediently after you--he has no choice, you have his hand.

The bags are definitely slowing you both down and a small ache begins to settle around your stomach and sides--the pain medication must be reaching its end, but you push forward through small alleyways that barely fit the both of you until you both made it into the Siege Tunnels where you both took turn after turn into the winding dimness.

“We...we should be safe here,” you huff.

He nods and says nothing, both of you listening, backs pressed against the chilly stone walls, listening for anything beside the echoes of the whispering wind or cries of the many macaques that call these tunnels their stomping ground.

The darkness makes it hard to see anything, but it only makes everything else just so much more apparent especially the proximity between yourself and your bodyguard for a day. You notice you still have his hand in a death grip but you refrain from saying anything: there’s no telling if the danger has passed yet and you didn’t want to risk making any more noise (and he hasn’t tried to pull away again after the first time). It’s embarrassing and downright childish, but you had to admit you felt just a little safer just having him beside you as a solid and warm presence.

You’ve worked alone for so long, it was nice to be in such close proximity with someone who is not looking to you for orders or putting the pressure of work on you. How many years has it been since you were free of expectations? When was the last time you stopped vying for the approval of others?

It must have been a long, long time. All of your actions had you wrung out and stressed, looking over your shoulder at every whisper and imagined gaze. Were the UN after you? Was the Head Chef there? Were your staff watching your every move and judging you? You didn’t ever feel certain even as you rose higher and higher in the world--it felt like each step toward what most people would consider to be an ‘accomplishment’, you became one step closer to uncertainty, trapped by silver walls and isolated from everyone else around you.

This impromptu trip was a good idea even if it made your muscles hurt. Agent Hanzo didn’t judge you, didn’t try to give unnecessary praise or respect, or treat you any lesser. He’s good company with a discerning eye and even better jabs. Maybe next time you decide to sneak out, you’ll tell him first.

Somehow, you realize you’ve closed your eyes as you were thinking. The cool stone at your back and the warmth at your side is intoxicatingly comforting, the shoulder beneath your head is a little hard—

“Oh! I’m so sor—” You bite your words back, forgetting momentarily you both were on the run, a chill running up and down your skin because what if--.

“It’s fine. I believe we are clear.”

You breathe a sigh of relief. “Great. We can take this tunnel straight back to the Watchpoint. It’s a bit of a walk, but I think it’ll be faster than going back outside.”

You push yourself off the wall with a grunt of effort. After running around so much and taking a break, your muscles refused to cooperate. Hanzo gives you a strong pull with the hand you have gripped tight.

Again, you flush with the realization. The danger has passed, there’s no reason to keep holding hands.

“Sorry, I didn’t really--I can let go, if you’d like? This must be stopping you from doing your job.”

A contemplative look crosses his face, but it’s difficult to tell in the dark. After a moment’s pause, he gives your hand an experimental squeeze and says, “No. We’ll stay like this. So you cannot get lost in the dark.”

There’s a hint of a wicked smirk in his voice that’s somewhat playful and again, a warmth blooms just underneath your skin; a mix of embarrassment and indignity.

“I can find my way around with my eyes closed!”

“Shall we try? I will not warn you of walls, just so you are aware.” Regardless, he walks with you, close to your side.

“I don’t want Athena to send a team after us, so next time!”

“Next time.” The way he says those words sounds like he’s testing them in his mouth. It’s hard to tell what he’s thinking, but you swear you can hear his smile. “Next time.”

[Deleted interrogation scene between Chef and others]

The facts were laid bare before him once more in the morning when Hanzo speaks to Winston, Soldier, McCree, and a holovideo of yourself and Ana.

It is almost like a trial, the image of your listless face, turned away from the monitor, sits on the central terminal of the meeting room for everyone to see and judge. It's the first time Hanzo had seen you since you were carried out of the Cellar by Soldier--the Cellar which has been opened up by order of Winston and interconnected with Athena's systems, yet the secrecy of it's entire contents remained mysterious by effort of the Junkers and the AI herself. It may be a small comfort to you to know that not everything was defiled, but he doesn't know just how much you knew about the state of your kitchen.

But today's meeting wasn't about that.

You were told to deliver the facts of what you've been doing and your dealings for Overwatch. You did so, slumped in your bed without care for appearances or the usual politeness that came with your service, answers flat and pointed. Normally, this type of disrespect and blatant disregard for manners would earn his ire, but instead, it makes him uneasy.

It is not the look of an injured person on the sliver of your face, but your whole body told the story of someone who has given up after a long, harrowing effort.

You confirmed that you owned a restaurant, the card of which sat on Hanzo's scant dresser. It explained the service, the food, the aesthetic. It seemed so painfully obvious that Hanzo wondered why he never saw the connection before.

When questioned about the previous head chef, you admitted you didn't know where he was. You should have set off for France, but you knew he wouldn't go there. Some personal issues that you never understood and no one wanted to question.

You distantly confessed the amounts you've given Overwatch, the methods for contacting donors, and the sloppy way you went about verifying them. Even sloppier were your attempts to make the transactions seem legitimate and the lengths you went through to protect Overwatch, the donors, and your customers from the potential fallout.

All throughout, you refused to look at them or give excuses, only clinical facts and simple 'yes' and 'no's.

"Anything else?" you ask wearily.

"No, we will let you know if we require further information. You have given us enough for now. Please get a good rest," Winston says.

Nodding at them, you lean back into your pillows, and let out a bone-rattling sigh. Mercifully, the screen turns off

There is a deafening silence that follows.

They have been given a lot of information to digest and Hanzo, long grown out of the habit of writing down thoughts during a meeting, finds himself wishing that he had if only to organize the chaos that you’ve thrusted upon them.

It is an incredible tale, regardless of the number of times he had to hear it. The amount of danger, sacrifice, and sheer naivety involved

"The donors can claim ignorance then."

"It was well planned." Even Ana sounds slightly impressed, toying with the string of her teabag. "If the auditors checked, only Chef would take the blame." A smirk comes over her face. "Ah, doesn't that sound familiar, hm, Jack?"

The man grumbles something unintelligible.

"What's that, Jack? I did not quite hear you."

"The restaurant workers are just as guilty. They are accomplices." Ana rolls her eyes at Soldier's obvious diversion but allows it to proceed by sipping on her drink.

“The way it’s set up, only Chef handles the finances. On paper, as far as the other two go, they can say they didn't know about the operation...”

[Filler]

It's not safe for them to continue sending the money especially not after they had their run-in with the auditors. It wouldn't take long for an investigation to find both the restaurant and Overwatch guilty of money-laundering.

What is the best thing to do?

Hanzo's brows furrows, painfully tight as he rummages through his mind for the correct answer.

He is not well-versed in Gibraltar law and even less so with financial laws involving a charity like yours.

"It's smarter this way."

"Though how they plan on covering the gap is beyond me. The timing is too convenient and matches the auditors' investigation too well."

"Wouldn't it be weirder for them to stop?"

#my writing #twtah #deleted scenes #some of them were rewritten to hell and back #i thought about posting a compilation fic on AO3 with this but they're not long enough for me to feel like they should be up there #happy 2021

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the-odd-job · 4 years ago

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Ashes of Icarus chapter 6 - Deceit and Lies

Rating: Explicit Warnings: Chose Not to Use Category: Other Fandom: Transformers Characters: Sunstreaker, Sideswipe, Ratchet, Prowl, Optimus Relationships: Megatron/Sunstreaker, Sideswipe & Sunstreaker Additional Tags: Dubcon, Unplanned Pregnancy, Mechpreg, Sticky Words: 2272

A thoughtful chapter.

( Previous )

“Why he slag didn’t you call for backup?!”

Sunstreaker snarled. “The fragging comms were jammed! How the pit were we supposed to do that?!”

“Back out of the jammed area, report the disturbance, and see what orders you’re given,” Ratchet snarled right back, clanging him on the helm with the butt of his welder.

And okay, that was one way to handle the situation, with just the one minor complication that they hadn’t wanted to.

Or Sunstreaker hadn’t. Sideswipe didn’t bother himself with too many opinions as long as Sunstreaker remained satisfied with the whole situation.

And oh, he was very satisfied.

But no one else needed to know it was about anything more than a battle well won—and not one gloriously lost.

“We could handle it,” Sunstreaker still argued with a roll of his optics. And according to their lie, they had. So what was the problem?

He didn’t get to hear Ratchet’s opinion on that because the medbay doors opened then to admit Prowl and Optimus, interrupting Ratchet. The medic, along with the twins, glanced at the arrivees, before Ratchet dismissed them with a hmph and set back to work on Sunstreaker.

Ratchet never did like to be interrupted when he was busy yelling at his patients. Especially if those patients were the twins. They deserved all the yelling they could get.

Sunstreaker took it as the short lived reprieve it was, though. “Did Grapple find anything?” Sideswipe asked, doubling down on their lie with his natural curiosity. “Or is that classified?”

“No, Grapple did not find anything to suggest why the Decepticons were interested in that area,” Prowl responded with an irritable flick of his wings, although for once it likely wasn’t aimed at them and instead at just the entire situation. Not having all the variables didn’t suit him. “It could be they were simply scouting for something that wasn’t there after all.”

“No matter their reasons, good work on hindering their efforts,” Optimus said with a nod at the brothers. Sideswipe nodded back, Sunstreaker just huffed.

“Did you expect anything less?” he sneered. Ratchet whacked him again, probably for disrespecting their mighty leader this time.

Sunstreaker’s digits twitched, but he knew better than to whack Ratchet back. That was a surefire way to get welded to the berth.

He had to content himself to just some offended growling that Ratchet paid absolutely no mind to.

Optimus didn’t take the bait, though, only gave Sunstreaker a look that would never ever accomplish a damn thing.

“Regardless, I would like your reports as soon as possible,” said Prowl, and right there was a third mech who didn’t appreciate his attitude with Optimus. Well, tough luck, because the Prime wasn’t exactly demanding better treatment. He’d just have to deal. “Will you be able to compose them during your repairs and return them to my office after Ratchet releases you?”

“Sure,” Sideswipe agreed. Would this mean less abuse from Ratchet? See, they’d need to be able to focus on writing their reports, it wouldn’t do if they were constantly distracted by one irascible medic. Right?

He could hope. “Good,” Prowl nodded, and after get well soon wishes from Optimus, the two headed out of the medbay.

“We will need to run patrols with increased frequency in the area, just to be–“ Sunstreaker could hear Prowl continue to Optimus.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” he said, sitting up straight. Optimus and Prowl paused on their exit and looked back at him, Optimus with some level of surprise, Prowl with exasperation.

No doubt the tactician already had an inkling of what Sunstreaker wanted to complain about. He proceeded to do that without delays. “I am not driving any more patrols on those god forsaken excuses for roads,” he snarled, jabbing a digit at Prowl. “Two more patrols, then we’re done with our punishment duty, right? I’ll go on a fucking strike if we’re scheduled on any more patrols there after that!”

Sideswipe was snickering, but his brother wasn’t in too much of a disagreement with him. Let the likes of Hound take those routes, they had the fragging alt-modes for it!

“Your preference has been noted,” Prowl said dryly, and Sunstreaker didn’t hold out for hope that Prowl wouldn’t schedule them there if he saw it necessary. That was the downside of being some of the best the Autobots had to offer. If their skills were needed somewhere, there weren’t too many who could fill in for them.

And then they’d just end up doing shit they’d rather not have, like driving on dirt roads that all but wrecked their frames.

Now Prowl and Optimus left for real, leaving Sunstreaker to brood and Sideswipe to kick his legs while he waited for his turn to be fixed. They’d need to make their reports convincing, somehow. Choreograph an entire fight that didn’t happen, between mecha that had never been present—make it hold together with the scene left behind and their own injuries.

They had their work cut out for them. At least they wouldn’t have trouble keeping their reports matching up, a small mercy. Twins and all that.

--------------------------------------------------------------

They’d been in a few battles during the course of their lives. That came in handy when fabricating the details of their story. Ratchet left them to it, mostly, fixing them in the relative silence of just the medic’s aggravated grumbling and the occasional order to move this way or that or do this or do that.

On their way from the medbay they delivered their reports—one from each frame’s perspective—to Prowl’s office. The SIC nodded his thanks before sending them back on their way. They fetched their ratios and sat in the rec room while they drank them, where Sideswipe shared some words and laughter with Bumblebee and Windcharger.

Sunstreaker let it all wash over him, struggling to keep his thoughts from traveling down paths that would have damned him if anyone became privy to them.

Thank Primus the Autobots had no telepaths in their ranks. He’d be doomed otherwise.

But he was rarely particularly involved in social situations. It was doubtful anyone noticed he was more distracted than usual.

They didn’t linger in the rec room very long after finishing their cubes. It wasn’t just Sunstreaker that was suffering from the state of his processors—Sideswipe felt the same need to sort their goddamn thoughts out. They slipped through the halls and into the quarters without interruptions, out of sight, hopefully out of mind, too, for long enough that they could work all of this out in peace.

Together they sat down on the bottom bunk of their berth, then… Silence.

They didn’t dare say a thing out loud. This was one secret they did not want getting out, not even—especially not—by accident. There was no one to overhear them, but that didn’t matter.

Say not a thing.

Not like they needed to, anyway. They functioned on the same wavelength, spark bound as they were. His thoughts were Sideswipe’s, Sideswipe’s thoughts were his. The transition was smooth, seamless—silent and untraceable.

Just what they needed.

Sunstreaker was the driving force behind all of this, though. It wasn’t his life, it was their life, but it was a give and take, push and pull. This time, Sideswipe gave, letting Sunstreaker direct the course of their actions according to his… Conclusions.

Whatever those might turn out to be.

‘Think about what I said.’

Which part? Megatron had said more than a few things, from recounting their ill fated fight a long time ago, to making fun of his frame’s reactions that absolutely had nothing to do with Sunstreaker’s genuine desires, absolutely not.

Ugh.

Sideswipe shifted, and offered a thought.

‘I’ve gotten better.’

‘Is it something to get better from?’

...Was that it?

If it was, what the pit did Megatron want him to do with that thought? He had been a berserker—still was, technically. The damage had gone nowhere, but… He hadn’t snapped in a long time.

Wasn’t that the goal? Oh, they had valued the likes of him in the Pits thanks to the unhinged violence they could unleash, but was that anything to actually desire? The Autobots had gone out of their way to give him back control over his own frame and mind, to reduce the instances where he lost it and… Became a danger to anything and everything.

How could something like that be desirable?

What did Megatron think?

Why was he thinking about what Megatron thought? So the mech had beat him in a fight again, wow, and decided to frag him afterwards, wow, but what did that change? They were on the opposite sides of the war for Primus’ sake, that little fact had gone absolutely nowhere. He shouldn’t give a frag about any of Megatron’s thoughts, especially not after the tyrant had decidedly not asked his permission to fuck him. He’d just swooped along, turned him the slag on, and done the deed.

And… Sunstreaker found himself decidedly not opposed to that. He should be! Not only because Megatron had technically forced him, but because he had technically gotten forced by the enemy leader that he should, under all circumstances, want to kill in the name of putting an end to the war in favor of the side he belonged to.

But here he was, post-fuck… Still enjoying the afterglow of some fragging awesome overloads, and… Not opposed to the idea of next time.

As Megatron had threatened.

Promised.

Oh by the Thirteen he was screwed. Literally as well as figuratively. What were his options? Even if he swallowed his pride and reported the r-word—which he was never going to be able to do, he had too much of it—all they’d need was to have a look at his memory files and see how… He couldn’t even say he was conflicted. If he had been, then good, but no.

If he was honest with himself, the part of him that wasn’t anticipating the next time with much eagerness was pathetic. He was a bad, bad Autobot, remember? He didn’t give too many fucks about the fact he was obliterating the Autobot code even more thoroughly than he had so far in his career as a soldier. He didn’t care. Why would he have? He wouldn’t have gained a whole lot by following the damn thing to the letter, even if he’d been so inclined.

So it didn’t particularly matter to him, on a personal, emotional level, that he was getting fragged by the enemy and fucking enjoying it.

And if they had a look into his head… They’d see that.

But if he didn’t care about the whole thing on a personal level, he did care about the consequences he would have faced if his comrades found out about this whole thing. It would end badly for him. Very badly. He didn’t even know how badly, but how the hell were you supposed to interface with Megatron, like it, want for the next time, and not end up too deep in trouble with your own side to ever surface again?

No. No, he couldn’t afford this to ever come to light. Even on the off chance they’d somehow ignore his own excitement over it to focus just on what Megatron had done… No.

How the pit were they supposed to keep it a secret if it was just going to repeat, though? This time had been difficult enough. They’d done their best, given a story as believable as they could, made no mention of Megatron, not even a suggestion that he had been present to do what he had–

But because they’d lied, no matter how good they were at it, you could shoot holes into their story. The environment wouldn’t necessarily entirely agree with what they had said, if someone went to have a real good look at it.

And what of their injuries? Sword marks. Those weren’t that usual here on Earth. They’d added their fair share of gunshot marks—and frankly, that had hurt—but Ratchet wasn’t dumb. He’d fixed those sword marks, the cuts of a sharp blade. He knew where they’d come from.

He hadn’t questioned it, why any of the Constructicons or a Seeker would have had a sword with them and the skill to wield it efficiently enough to be a match to Sunstreaker, but had he wondered about it? Sunstreaker didn’t doubt that very much.

What had he come up with as an explanation for it, in the absence of anything the twins would have directly told him?

Primus, what a mess. But as long as he didn’t ask, they didn’t need to answer. Besides, what were the odds Ratchet would start to suspect that? They’d fixed the area around his cover before anyone else had gotten to the scene, removed the traces of interface from him—the evidence of who he had interfaced with.

But if he grew suspicious… The future times would become even more problematic.

What could they do but worry about that when the time came, though?

Was that his conclusion? It was.

Sideswipe nodded at him before he stretched from having sat in the same position for who knew how long by now.

Then he got one of his brother’s trademark grins, bright and full of mischief. “Want my help touchin’ up your paint before I go see if ‘Hide or Jazz would be down for a tumble?”

Yeah, him and Megatron had been something to look at, hadn’t they? Not too much of a surprise Sideswipe would have some charge to burn.

Sunstreaker gave a wry smile of his own. “You bet.”

( Next )

#transformers #maccadams #sunstreaker #sideswipe #ratchet #optimus prime #prowl #fic #2020 #ashes of icarus #ashes

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today-only-happens-once · 6 years ago

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With Great Power - Chapter 6

Title: With Great Power – Chapter 6

Catch Up/Read on AO3 here!

Word Count: 3382

Fic summary: Thomas Sanders is just a regular social media personality. But when he gets bit by a spider during filming one of his YouTube videos, his whole life is about to turn upside down—whether he (or the aspects of his personality) want it to or not. Platonic LAMP/CALM + Character!Thomas. Spider-Man AU.

Chapter warnings: cursing, moral dilemmas, guns, mention of prayer, violence/fighting, police mention, bank robbery attempt. Please let me know if I forgot anything.

A/N: It’s been forever. I have mixed feelings about this chapter, but I hope you all at least enjoy it. Sorry for the wait! Thanks for the patience. <3

Tags: @captain-loki-xavier, @human-dictionary, @the-peculiar-bi-tch, @mining-pup, @band-be-boss-blog, @asexual-trashbag, @samathekittycat, @why-should-i-tell-youu2, @theobsessor1, @changeling-ash, @logical-princey, @crimsonshadow323, @flickering-raven, @smokeyrutilequartz, @dontbugmeimantisocial, @liz-a-bell, @black-king-white-knight, @soijusthavetoask, @analogical-mess, @marvelfangeek09, @dolphidragon, @thelowlysatsuma, @approximately12lbs-of-ducks, @princelogical

…

Thomas drums his fingers on the steering wheel as he rolls his car to a lazy stop at a red light a couple of days later.

They’d just released the newest Cartoon Therapy after a few days of non-stop editing. The response had been overwhelmingly positive and incredibly sweet, though it had only been released about two hours ago. Thomas had met at the office with the entire team involved—at least those who were still in town—and hosted a watch party. It had been fun. Needed.

He’d also been managing to spend at least a couple of hours in the evening at the warehouse. Logan continued to take notes on a clipboard, making suggestions to test out just how much Thomas was able to do. They’d learned two days ago, for example, that Thomas had a much higher vertical jump than the average human being. Roman made suggestions of his own, many of which either Logan or Virgil refute when he suggested something that was maybe a little too risky. Patton had, as always, been a welcome tension relief with puns and humor whenever one of them started to get frustrated.

And Thomas had definitely been getting frustrated.

The light turns green and Thomas eases onto the gas. He has the windows rolled down, and the cool night air runs through Thomas’s hair as he flicks a turn signal and merges lanes.

Thomas couldn’t seem to get a handle on sticking to surfaces. Either he stuck more than he wanted to, or he couldn’t get purchase on anything and would be sent careening towards the concrete. Patton reminded him nearly every night that, in fact, he was improving. And Logan would support that, reminding Thomas that this ability is far outside his usual realm of capability and therefore it made sense that it would be a challenge for Thomas to gain mastery of it.

“If you look at the evidence,” Logan had told him yesterday, “you are showing steady improvement with regards to your manipulation of this… sticking ability. Your ratio of attempt to failure has dropped nearly 25% since you first began.”

It had been nice to hear. Thomas just wasn’t sure where the uneasy feeling in his stomach was coming from. Neither Virgil nor Roman would look at Logan, and they both sunk out before Thomas could ask them about it. He supposes he could have called them back, but Thomas had really just wanted to take the small victory. A 25% improvement wasn’t nothing, right?

Although, when he really thought about it… he wasn’t even sure what he was training for. Originally, it had been to better understand what he was capable of doing because not knowing his own ability had been stressing Virgil—and by extension, Thomas—out. But Thomas didn’t really feel any better about it. He was faster, stronger, could take more hits than a normal person, and could stick to walls. But he didn’t understand—

“To those of you driving down Whester Street, stay clear of the intersection with Route 4.” Thomas frowns as the radio DJ breaks into his thoughts at the next red light. He’s less than a mile from that location. “Police are currently on their way, but reports indicate some kind of hostage situation at Spears Bank. Suspect is armed and dangerous according to preliminary reports.”

Thomas flexes his hands around the wheel. He nearly jumps when he sees Patton sitting in the passenger seat beside him.

“Thomas. You have to go help.”

Thomas releases a long, slow breath in the hopes that it might calm his suddenly racing heart. It doesn’t surprise him in the slightest when he glances in the rearview mirror and sees Virgil’s wide eyes staring back at him.

“Are you kidding?” Virgil leans forward. “The police are on their way, Thomas. You heard the DJ; the dude is armed. He has a gun or something. We could get hurt.”

The host turns right onto Whester and nudges the gas. “Patton’s right,” Thomas says with a certainty that surprises even himself. “I have the chance to do something to help, Virge. I have to try.” His gaze flickers up to the rearview mirror to lock eyes with his Anxiety for a fleeting moment. “You know I can’t just do nothing here.”

“You don’t know the first thing about something like this. You could get somebody else killed.”

“If Thomas doesn’t intervene when he could have,” Patton says, quiet and measured, “he runs that same risk.”

“Virgil,” Thomas says, his grip around the wheel tightening as he sees the bank come into view. “Look, it’d be different if this was happening three weeks ago. But I have these… abilities now. And I don’t know why, but… I feel like they have to mean something, right? Why would I get them if I wasn’t supposed to use them for something good?”

“Tell Roman to cool it with the ego,” Virgil growls, a hint of double vocalization leaking in to his voice. Thomas feels a flare of frustration before he glances at Virgil through the reflection again. The Anxious Side had pulled his hood up and he was curling into his hoodie. Thomas can’t see his eyes anymore, and it suddenly makes sense.

Virgil’s afraid.

“Kiddo…” Patton turns to look at Virgil in the backseat as Thomas pulls into the parking lot of the building adjacent to the bank. He can hear sirens in the distance. Patton reaches back and places a hand on Virgil’s knee as Thomas puts the car into park. “I know you’re scared. But… this is the right thing to do.”

Thomas shuts the car off, listening closely to Patton’s words in the sudden silence.

“We can’t keep Thomas from doing the right thing.” Patton’s patient, gentle voice soothes Thomas’s racing heart. He glances at Virgil once again through the mirror and sees him scowl a little.

“Fine.”

Thomas smiles a little. Suddenly a pile of cloth lands in his lap. He unfurls it and realizes it’s the same sweatshirt he’d been wearing when he’d helped Mikey. He looks at Virgil over his shoulder in confusion. The Anxious Side lifts a shoulder.

“There’s gonna be cameras and police around. You’ve gotta protect your identity somehow.”

…

A couple of minutes later, Thomas finds himself crouched low with his back against the wall of a hallway that leads directly out to the bank foyer. He’d managed to find an open side door that led into an empty office. From there, he’d mostly followed the sound of shouting until he found himself just around the corner of the lobby.

He hasn’t looked yet, uncertain if he’d be likely to be seen by doing so. So Thomas had stayed put, listening closely to the footsteps and occasional demand to “shut up” or “hurry up” in a gruff but oddly detached voice. It felt like he’d been here for minutes. He’s pretty sure it’s only been a few seconds.

Thomas glances across the way to the window at the opposite end of the lobby. In the glass, Thomas can see a teenage girl with an older woman cowering on the floor. Strands of the girl’s hair is falling in small wisps from her hijab. Her eyes are wide and afraid. The older woman is mouthing something in a kind of rhythm, and Thomas thinks it might be a prayer.

It makes his chest twist. He has to help.

“Just give me the fucking money,” the guy shouts. Thomas has still only heard one voice, and he’s pretty sure it’s only been one set of footsteps.

Thomas bounces a little on the balls of his feet underneath him. He tugs the cloth around his face and his hood both up a little as if to reassure himself that they’re secure. He breathes in. Don’t do anything stupid, Thomas, a voice—unmistakably Virgil—warns in his head. He breathes out.

He peeks around the corner.

There’s an older gentleman laying face down on the floor with his hands up by his head. A couple sit on the floor in the opposite corner, one of whom has a bundle of blankets in her arms. They sit with two bank workers. A third stands behind the counter before the gunman. She looks young. Maybe a few years younger than Thomas.

The gunman, on the other hand, looks like he might be in his forties. He has a blonde, receding hairline and a wide jaw. He’s tall, too—at least 6 foot, by Thomas’s guess, and heavier than the internet personality. His blue eyes look slightly gray. He’s waving a pistol around as if it’s an extension of his hand with a flippant dismissal of its danger.

The baby fusses and the mom urgently shushes it, rocking slightly. Even across the room, Thomas can see how badly she’s shaking. The man—the father, Thomas assumes—shifts slightly as if in an attempt to position himself between the gunman and the baby. His eyes haven’t left the weapon in the man’s hands.

Thomas leans back around the corner and deftly stands up. Think, Thomas, he urges himself. Come on, brain, think of something.

Thomas glances in the reflection of the glass again. If he can get the guy’s attention, it would at least divert it from everyone else. The problem then is that Thomas has sacrificed his element of surprise, and he’s still at a disadvantage because the other man would still have a gun.

No matter how fast your reflexes may have improved, he can hear Logan saying in his head, your reflexes are not faster than a bullet, Thomas. Choose carefully.

Thomas glances around the hallway, then out to the part of the lobby he could see from where he was hiding. His eyes flit up towards the ceiling, then arcs an eyebrow. Well that’s an idea…

Thomas ignores the sudden churning in his stomach as he takes in a deep breath and releases it slowly and quietly. Then he presses his hands against the wall of the hallway, nodding once to himself when they stick. He brings one foot up, then the other. Just like the warehouse, Thomas. Nothing you haven’t done before, he tells himself.

He tries to not think about how many times he hit the concrete when he did this before.

Thomas instead focuses on climbing up the wall. The ceilings are pretty high in this building, but it only takes him a few seconds to reach it. He takes a breath, relieved when his hands pull effortlessly off the walls. His weight wobbles as his feet stay stuck and gravity works against him. Then he presses his hands to the ceiling in front of him.

“If you don’t hurry up, I’m gonna start shooting.”

Thomas climbs along the paneled ceiling around the corner of the hallway into the lobby. It’s disorienting, to see everything upside down. But he scales the ceiling on his hands and the balls of his feet slowly, inching closer to the gunman and the teller on the other side of the desk. If he can get closer, and drop at the right moment, maybe he can knock the gun out of his hands and have a shot—no pun intended—at a fair fight.

Thomas inches closer. He’s maybe a few inches from being directly above him.

The ceiling panel creaks.

Shit.

Time seems to slow for a moment. Thomas sees the gunman’s gaze flicker up towards the ceiling instinctually, followed by the almost comedic double-take he does when he sees Thomas on the ceiling. Thomas meets his bewildered gaze with a wide one of his own. Let go let go let go let go—

“I’m just… dropping in,” Thomas says, right before his feet kick loose and he uses the momentum to his advantage. His hands detach as he swings his feet into the gunman’s face, dropping Thomas from the ceiling. The bulk of Thomas’s weight is driven into the kick and it sends the gunman sprawling.

Thomas lands on top of him and immediately reaches for the gun.

“What the f—” Blood is pouring out of the man’s nose. Thomas rolls off him on instinct, narrowly missing a wide swing from him.

“Get out of here!” Thomas manages to yell to the people surrounding them. Thomas hears shuffling and shouting and the sound of doors opening. There’s movement in his peripheral.

THOMAS. ON YOUR RIGHT. That’s definitely Virgil’s voice.

Thomas throws up an arm and lets it take the brunt of a hard swing. There’s a flash of black in the hand he blocked and Thomas wrenches the arm down, grabbing the gun out of the man’s hand.

It’s heavier than he expected.

He also doesn’t know the first thing about handling it.

He hears the man growl as Thomas tries to scramble out of dodge. It’s an entanglement of limbs and a few sharp jabs to his ribs. Thomas slides the gun across the floor staggers back, sending the weapon clear across the room, scraping against the tile. A quick glance around the lobby tells him that everyone seems to have gotten out okay.

That only left this guy.

“You don’t have to do this,” Thomas tells him right before the guy charges at him.

He could dive out of the way, but then Thomas wouldn’t be between him and the weapon anymore. So Thomas braces for the impact, grunting a little as the man slams into him. Thomas stays standing, gritting his teeth as he braces his arms against the man still pushing into him. He looks up, startled slightly by just how… empty the man’s blue-gray eyes look.

He snarls, his hand grabbing for the sweatshirt tied around Thomas’s face.

“Nope,” Thomas says quickly, panicked. He reaches a hand up and grabs the man’s wrist. “Can’t do that.”

The room is filled suddenly with flashes of red and blue. Thomas drives a knee up into the man’s stomach, shoving him off. He staggers back with a cough. His face contorts in something like a glare, but there’s no edge in his eyes. There’s no anything.

The sudden flood of red and blue also means that the police are here, and that they are likely to break through the front door really any moment. Thomas knows he has to end the fight. Now.

Thomas sees the gun on the floor in his peripheral, but it’s an immediate dismissal. He doesn’t want to kill this man, and he doesn’t even know how to use it in the first place. He has to either knock him unconscious or find some way to tie him up. And Thomas doesn’t really have any way to do the latter.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says apologetically, the man starts to advance again. Thomas turns and kicks sharply, his foot connecting right below the jaw. The man sprawls to the floor. He doesn’t move.

What if you killed him?

The question makes panic clutch at Thomas’s throat. He rushes to the gunman’s side, relieved to see the rise and fall of his chest. He releases a breath. He’s alive. Just unconscious, with maybe a dislocated jaw. Thomas sees movement against the red and blue lights streaming in through the windows. He knows he has to leave before the police get in here.

He’s just about stand up and run when he sees something on the floor slightly underneath the man that makes him stop. A black rectangle of cardstock. Thomas picks it up, his brows creasing together in curiosity. He flips it over. In neat white print, the other side reads one word.

E K K O

Thomas hears shouting from outside and slips the card into his pocket, ducking back into the hallway and breaking out of the emergency exit just as he hears the front doors of the bank open. Thomas doesn’t stop running until he gets to his car.

…

Thomas’s hands are shaking when he jumps back into the driver’s seat. He pulls harshly at the sweatshirt wrapped around his mouth and nose until it’s in a loose heap around his neck. He takes a breath.

“Thomas.” Logan is sitting in the middle of the backseat, leaning forward intently. “You are not injured. Everybody made it out safely. Even the gunman was hurt only enough to render him unconscious. Breathe.”

Thomas nods. “I can’t believe I did that,” he replies, panting for breath.

“I don’t understand.”

“That was crazy!” Thomas doesn’t know at this point of it’s adrenaline or panic that’s coursing through his system but his nerves are buzzing and his heart is racing. Thomas feels more alert and awake than he can ever remember feeling.

Roman’s voice pipes up from the passenger seat beside Thomas. “We just actually faced a guy with a gun, Logan. And Thomas knocked him unconcious.” Even in the dark, Thomas can see something bright and excited shining in Roman’s eyes.

Thomas looks over his shoulder to his Logical Side. Logan shrugs, his lips pursed in thought. “It makes sense. Your increased agility, reflexes, and strength capabilities would improve your precision and power behind your attacks. I cannot say I’m surprised that you were able to do what you did tonight.”

“You were a hero again, Thomas.” Roman sounds exhilarated. “You saved people tonight.”

Thomas hears a familiar whooshing sound. The host glances in the rearview mirror to see Virgil sitting beside Logan, his hands shoved in the pocket of his hoodie. He looks… exhausted. Thomas opens his mouth to ask him if he’s okay, but Virgil cuts him off with an annoyed glare at Roman.

“Sure, but he risked a lot, too.” His gaze flickers over to Thomas, who twists around to look at Virgil directly. “What if you hadn’t been fast enough to stop him when he tried to pull the sweatshirt down and he knew who you were? What if you hadn’t been close enough to tackle him before he saw you?”

The questions are sobering. Thomas can feel the initial adrenaline start to drain out of him and he nods. For a moment, nobody says anything. Thomas glances at Roman, who’s crossed his arms over his chest and is resolutely staring out the window. Thomas can’t see his expression. A quick glance in the rearview mirror tells Thomas that Logan’s brow is furrowed together in thought, as if he was trying to figure out some unseen puzzle.

He hears another whoosh and doesn’t have to look to know it’s Patton.

“Virgil might have a point, kiddo, but… I’m proud of you for what you did tonight.”

Thomas’s mouth quirks faintly. “Thanks, Patton.” He takes a deep breath, willing some of the lingering tension to ease a little. He can feel Virgil’s gaze on him, all too aware that nobody had any real answers to his questions.

Speaking of questions…

Thomas slips his hand into his pocket and pulls out the black cardstock with EKKO written in white. He flips it over a few times in his hands, squinting in the dark. He clicks one of the interior lights of the car on quickly, turning it over again. Nothing. Thomas turns the light off.

“Ekko,” Thomas reads aloud. “Why does that sound familiar?”

“It’s the same name of a video that Joan insisted you don’t watch,” Logan replies without missing a beat. “The unusual spelling does match what your fans had been using in the livestream comments regarding the subject matter as well.”

“That’s…. weird,” Thomas says. Weird sounds like an understatement. The spelling. The timing. Joan’s reaction. That it had seemingly fallen from the man Thomas had fought tonight.

“Indeed,” Logan says. “There are many things regarding the current circumstance that seem… suspicious.”

Thomas sighs again and leans his head against the steering wheel. The longer he sat still, the faster the stale adrenaline was giving way to sleepiness. He needed to drive home before he fell asleep in the parking lot. But he can feel Logan’s curious energy buzzing in the back of his mind, mixing with Virgil’s lingering anxiety over it all into a cocktail that sits uncomfortable in Thomas’s stomach.

“We should look into it,” Thomas agrees. “Tomorrow.”

Logan pauses, then nods and sits back. “Satisfactory.”

#sanders sides #sanders sides fanfiction #spider-man au #sanders sides spider-man au #sanders sides au #with great power #wgp #tw guns #tw bank robbery #tw cursing #tw fighting

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selfcallednowhere · 5 years ago

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February 2, 2018 Houston, TX

When they came out, Flans said that this was "TMBG Country." Then he said that the venue was "surprisingly nice" (it actually was really nice--in spite of the show taking place in my hometown, this was my first time being here--not sure if it opened after I moved away or what). Then he said that they were going to be their own opening act but they were actually well-rehearsed, and that they were "the only They Might Be Giants tribute band that matters," and I was thinking "No, that's Sapphire Bullets!" cos that's what he would always say when they were doing that.

The first two songs were the same as the previous night, "Dinner Bell" and then "Damn Good Times," and I had a momentary flash of being worried that they were going to play a very similar set to the night before. They played some great stuff the night before, don't get me wrong, but one of the things I love about seeing them do multiple shows in a row is seeing them play a lot of different stuff. My fears turned out to be unfounded though--they did play some of the same stuff but also mixed it up enough to make it interesting.

The next song was "Hey, Mr. DJ, I Thought You Said We Had a Deal," which is is really really fun live. Curt still wasn't with them for this early part of the tour, and I had to admit the performance was lacking without him after seeing how much he'd added to it at the shows I went to in Brooklyn about a month before this, but it was still fantastic.

After that John said, "This place is so nice that it feels inappropriate to do a high-energy show. We should be doing a TED Talk. We're being too rambunctious."

Then Flans said that they have a new album, and I didn't hear him but apparently some guy in the crowd yelled that it's great, because then Flans said, "Area man says 'great work.'"

Then Flans said that he had his "favorite cheat sheet" and was hoping it wasn't going to get blown away. John said it isn't really cheating if there are no losers. Then he went back to the TED Talk thing and said we'd be able to see it all explained in his Powerpoint presentation. Flans said that the Venn diagram shows that the crowd's acceptance of new material is directly related to the enthusiasm the band brings to their performance of it. Then John said, "I'm gonna flip some paradigms and blow your mind." Then Flans said that on this song he was going to take his mic off its stand "like a Little Lord Fauntleroy."

The song was "This Microphone." This was the live debut of it, so that was two new song debuts in a row after "Mrs. Bluebeard" the night before. Also like "Mrs. Bluebeard," I wouldn't have expected it to work live as well as it did (this has nothing to do with song quality, I just find some types of songs more suited to live performance than others), and it was cool to see the debut of it.

Afterwards, Flans said that it was the first time they'd played it, which he didn't want to say beforehand cos then he would have felt even more self-conscious. Then he thanked Dan for doing such a good job with the solo. Also Marty was using some kind of percussion that I'm not sure what it was exactly--some stick thing he was shaking. Flans said it's banned, and John said it's endangered. Flans said it's considered cruelty, and John said that's because it's still alive.

Then John said something like "How about John Flansburgh getting all the lyrics to that song?" and we all cheered, and I was thinking that the reason he managed to do that was because of the aforementioned cheat sheet, and that if he'd just done the same thing with "Mrs. Bluebeard" the night before he wouldn't have fucked it up so badly, but of course being able to read a cheat sheet would require the assistance of his glasses, and my motives for him wearing them were of course entirely pure and related solely to his ability to correctly sing his new songs and not at all to do with the fact that I think him wearing them is the sexiest thing in the history of time.

Then John said that they'd been playing long enough that they could remember when Youtube wasn't around to document the bad early performances of their songs, and improvised a song on his keyboard, the lyrics of which consisted of just "Makin' shit up/Cos I can't remember the words." Flans said that later they'd get to the stage where the people in the front row know all the words and they don't, and John said "Fucking you do it."

Then they played "Mrs. Bluebeard." John did much better with it than he did the night before, so he must have rehearsed it quite a bit--he still slipped up a couple of times, but he really mangled it the night before, so I was proud of him for doing so much better this time.

After "New York City," Flans said that it was time for an "on-stage Vibe Report." He started talking about how there's a place that he first described as a spa, and then described as an exercise place, and then described as a cult, and said that if you go enough times they give you some bag and Marty really wants the bag. He asked Marty if he's been enough times to get the bag yet, and Marty said you have to refer other people, and Flans said "Cult!"

Then John said that they actually got to sleep in a hotel room the night before. "There's a water spraying thing on the wall and a thing you dry yourself with. We don't know what to do with that." Then he said he'd done his laundry, and I was like "You mean the like three stripey shirts that you're gonna wear over and over for the whole tour?" Flans said that all he'd done all day was get a burrito (which granted does not sound like much, but I can assure you as a native Texan that when I get the chance to return home getting some quality Tex-Mex is always a high-priority activity for me as well).

Next they played "Letterbox," YES YES YES. I love that song SO MUCH and have only seen it a few times since way back in the day.

After that song, John picked up the contra-alto clarinet. Flans said that there's an entire chapter about this instrument in their autobiography, which is entitled In Praise of Inanimate Objects (I would totally read this, for the record). Then he said that it's "not made for drywall."

They played "All Time What." Afterwards, Flans said that we should "enjoy the restraint of the keyboard on the next song," and that Dan was going to be in his own "musical prison cell."

The next song was "Cloisonne." I liked this song with bass clarinet too, but I like it better with the contra-alto just cos I think it's a cooler-looking instrument so I like seeing John play it more.

Next, they played "Particle Man," which featured some quality JL spazziness. The song he inserted in the bridge this time was "Elusive Butterfly," which I haven't seen him do much at the shows I've been to lately--it's such a dumb song, so it amuses me to see him do it.

Afterwards, John said that the key of C is so conventional and he's sick of it, and Flans said he needs more black keys. Then John said that the next song was in the key of F#, if we were playing along.

The next song was "Doctor Worm," which is always so fun live, definitely one of my favorite accordion songs that they actually play on a regular basis to see. This was followed up by "The Famous Polka," which I feel the same way about.

People were yelling something or other after that, and Flans said that they have a computerized light show so it's confusing when people talk to them.

Flans introduced "Trouble Awful Devil Evil" by saying it's the best song on Phone Power. I've also seen him say that "Answer" is the best song on Glean. I don't agree with him in either case, but I do think it's sweet for him to say that the best songs on both albums are John's.

Afterwards, Flans said that they were happy to see that "the dudes in the back didn't bolt" like they normally do during slow songs. He said he wondered what they always do outside, and John said they were "bear-hug dancing." Flans said he has a feeling it involves menthol cigarettes. John: "We don't judge. Yes we do."

Then there was something really funny. John said that there were initials on the setlist and he had no idea what they meant, and Flans said "It's 'as fuck, John." I happened to be in front of a girl who got the setlist at the t-shirt stand after the show, so I can confirm that it did indeed say "AF" after the previous song. It just really amused me that a) Flans would write that on the setlist and b) he'd think John would be hip enough to know that that was what it meant.

Next they played "Bangs," which isn't one of my absolute favorite Mink Car songs, but it is pretty good and pretty fun live.

Next there was "Your Racist Friend," and then something I was really excited to see: "Nothing's Gonna Change My Clothes." FUCK I love that song, and I've only seen it a few times, so yeh it was a big deal for me. It's superfun live too, so happy and bouncy.

Next was "Cyclops Rock," which is one of my absolute favorite Mink Car songs, and also one of those "Flans rocking your face off" songs that I love seeing live so dearly.

Flans said that they were going to take a 15-minute break. John said, "We'll be back in an hour." Then Flans said that the break was going to be "a strong New York 15," whatever that means.

Then they had the house lights turned up so they could count the beards in the crowd. John said that some people were "wearing their beards on the inside." Then they went off on this funny thing with Flans saying that in Austin the beard-to-person ratio was 2-to-1, and John saying that its nickname was "The Double-Beard City." Flans: "There was an ad campaign, 'Keep Austin Double-Bearded,' but it wasn't as successful as the 'Keep Austin Weird' campaign. I think people just hate sequels."

The last song of the first set was "The Mesopotamians." This song is fun live and all, but god, I've only seen three songs from The Else live and it's one of my favorite albums. I just wish they would mix it up a bit instead of always playing this one.

After the break and the "Last Wave" video projected onto the back wall, it was time for the Quiet Storm portion of things. I was really looking forward to it, more than any other part of the show in fact, cos I was counting on them to not let me down by skipping "A Self Called Nowhere" like they did the previous night.

The first few songs were the same as the night before--"Older" and "I Like Fun," both with John on the contra-alto clarinet. During the parkour part of the latter Flans was holding one arm up and out and everyone was cheering a lot, particularly after the "at the age of 58" part--presumably they thought it's his actual age, but I of course know that it's really John's age, not his.

After that Flans said that Marty was playing electronic drums and it was a "once-in-a-lifetime experience." Then he said that this is the Quiet Storm part of the show, partially because they're "playing storm sound effects, quietly" and partially because it was "stormy emotionally" because they were "testing the outer limits" of what Febreeze can do.

John said that the next song was from 1840.

JL: When we played this song in Pensacola, when we said "1840," people went absolutely ape-shit. And we still don't know why. JF: It's "ape-shit bananas." That's the show-biz term.

So then they played "Tippecanoe and Tyler Too," and I was kicking myself for not listening to it a lot on the bus to memorize the lyrics so I could sing along, and resolved to make sure to get them down by the show the next day.

Then John said that 1840 is the old-timey time, but the next song is from the future--1844. One of them said that in the future there are flying beards, and John said, "Flying beards leaving beardtrails. You know what that means." Then he said "Heavens to Betsy!"--I thought it was very cute for him to be using such an old-fashioned expression that no one uses anymore, but I always think it's cute when he does this. (Well, I always think it's cute when he does literally anything pretty much, I guess.)

So then they of course did "James K. Polk." I really do like this song on accordion--I may be really upset by him playing accordion songs on keyboard, but when he does the reverse I definitely am not gonna complain. I mean, if it were up to me he'd play accordion for the entire show like he did in the duo days. Just before the bridge he told Flans "Let your beard fly," which was silly.

And then, at long last, was the moment I've been waiting for for sixteen and a half years, the moment I thought would never come before this tour started: they played "A Self Called Nowhere." I cannot even put into words how special it was for me to see my favorite song for the first time, the song I've been wanting to see more than any other song for as long as TMBG has been my favorite band. I literally got goosebumps. It was unlike anything I've ever experienced at a show. It was everything I hoped it would be and more, and I don't see how any future concert-going experience could ever top it.

After that, Flans was walking over near Marty's drums, and John said, "Don't get those drums angry."

Then Marty walked off stage and it was just The Johns. They did "Istanbul" that way, the version where they're both being really silly with the long drawn-out part with them doing silly things with their voices and stuff, and I think that version is very amusing, but apparently not everyone thinks so, because some woman by me was yelling insulting remarks at them ("I paid $50 for what?" and worse, including swearing I won't repeat). It really pissed me off, and if she'd been closer to me I would've gotten into it with her.

The rest of the band came back for the end of the song for a crazy jam session. Flans introduced them all afterwards and said that they were "re-introducing long-term hearing loss. Save your complaints for the band tomorrow night, because we'll be gone."

Next they played "We Live in a Dump"--Flans gave it its standard intro, which is that it's "about apartment living." I was thinking about how great John's backing vox are on the "then"s, which I'd never fully appreciated before.

Next came a major show highlight--"Don't Let's Start"!!! I was FLIPPING OUT the moment I heard that classic opening riff. I've seen this song shockingly few times considering how popular it is, probably fewer than five times, and it's very close to the top on my list of favorite songs, so yeh it was a really big deal for me. And godDAMN what a good live song! And there was just so much energy in the room, because of course everyone loves that song.

After that Flans said, "We have a new album out. It's a complicated album. It's strictly for adults." I'm not sure what he meant about it being complicated, but I'm pretty sure an album that's jam-packed with death and despair at a level that's high even by their standards is "strictly for adults," yeh.

Then they played "I Left My Body." I do really love this song, and it's also a great live song.

After that Flans said that during the next song Marty's hands never leave his arms. Then he asked how everyone was doing, and, after everyone cheered, said that he could see that there had been some beards grown during the intermission.

John introduced the next song with, "This song is in the key of F, for those of you who give a shit." The song was "Number Three," which is a really fun live song. I still don't understand why they'd put it anywhere in a setlist besides being the third song, but I'm pretty sure that's how it's been every time I've seen it.

After that John said that they've been playing with Marty for a long time, "but we still don't know what the drums ever did to him. It's his dark secret." Then, Flans said that there's a profile of Marty in the new issue of Modern Drummer, and that Marty told him when he was being interviewed he said, "Kids, school is for fools" but they didn't print that part (a minute later he said he didn't really say that).

Next they played "The End of the Tour," which is another amaaaaaazing song that I've only seen a few times, so that was exciting.

Next they played "Spy." That song is so much better live than it is on the album just cos the improv conducting part is so fun. Afterwards, Flans said that that song was "a musical question with no right answer" and thanked us for joining them in their "musical aquarium," whatever that means. Then he said he thought he heard someone on a walkie-talkie, and that sometimes in New York you'll be at a diner or something and there will be construction workers talking on their walkie-talkies and it's weird.

Then they played "When the Lights Come On." I'm so glad they're doing this one live--in addition to being my second-favorite song on the album, it just KICKS SO MUCH ASS live cos it's so rockin'. It really is unusual for John to write a song that's this rockin', that's much more Flans's territory than his, so I was glad for him to have a chance to play a song like that, plus it's just generally a fucking fantastic song.

After that they collaborated on a silly improv song:

JL: We've got a brand-new album. It's the reason we're here. JF: Don't forget about the other songs, John. JL: We also have other songs.

It doesn't really sound funny when I just write it out, but having them actually make it into a song was, trust me.

After that Flans introduced the band again, and then introduced the crew too--he mentioned two people named John, and then asked, "Do we only hire people named John?" But then he said that they also have Fresh, who's on two teams: Team Beautiful and Team Drums.

Next they played "Answer," and after it was over I was randomly thinking that I'd love to see them play "When Will You Die," and they actually did play it next! It was so strange. I don't even know why I was thinking of it right then since the two songs have no connection. Anyway, I love that song live--so much fun, and easily one of the most fun songs to sing along with ever. John apparently thinks it's really fun to sing too--he's always smiling a ton when he does, which always amuses me.

That was the end of the main set. The first encore started with "Why Does the Sun Shine?" That's another really fun live song. They're currently doing it with Flans singing and John doing the spoken parts. Things that were a gas on the sun included "magnets--how do they work?", and the heat and light of the sun were caused by "the nuclear reaction between magnets, hydrogen, how do they work, and magnets." So yes folks, John Linnell has discovered ICP, heaven help us.

After that they played "Wicked Little Critta." I can't believe how fun that song is live when I'm not really into it on the album.

They closed the first encore with that song they always have to play--"Birdhouse in Your Soul," of course. I will never ever ever get sick of that song live, no matter how many times I see it. It still manages to be one of the highlights of the show for me, even though I've seen it at every single show I've ever been to.

They opened the second encore with "Spider." Silly and fun, as always.

They closed with something I've seen a lot but don't think I've ever seen them close with: "Twisting." I think it's a great closing song--it really ends the show on a high note. John was hopping some and it was adorable. Also Flans somehow managed to knock his mic onto the stage (I didn't see exactly what happened cos I was staring at John as per usual) and then had to spend a minute down on the stage, trying to pick it up. Poor Flans--I'm sure he was really embarrassed. But the rest of the band just gamely continued playing.

So that was the end of the show. The Apollo 18 stuff the night before was amazing of course, but if I take out that stuff and just think about the rest of the set, I thought the setlist at this show was actually better. They played some of my absolute favorite songs, many of which I either have only seen a few times or saw a bunch when I was first going to shows years and years ago but haven't much since then. Finally seeing my theme song was most definitely the highlight for me!!!

Other notes: John seemed particularly energetic and happy. I don't know if it was being well-rested from sleeping in a real bed at the hotel or what, but he seemed to be smiling and boppin' around more than usual, and it was adorable. Also he continued his "wearing pretty much nothing but stripey shirts" streak he's been on this year, with this red-and-blue stripey one he loves.

#tmbg #show reviews #yes i'm finally getting this shit done

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klovenhooves · 5 years ago

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The Party: Chapter Six

Happy Halloween! Here is a Halloween themed update!

“Can I roll to seduce the orc?” Richie asked, the dice already cradled in his palm. Beside him, Stan rolled his eyes. They were well into hour four of a Dungeons and Dragons campaign, and to say that Richie had asked to seduce every villain the party had crossed paths with would be an understatement. Not only had he attempted (and failed) to seduce a gnome, a black mage, and now the orc, but he had attempted to seduce a barmaid (who threw a tankard of mead in his face), the carriage driver (who had threatened to leave him behind), and, as a joke, Stan’s human paladin character, who had barely managed to dodge the seduction via a counter roll.

“Just tell him no, Bill,” Stan said in exasperation. “We can’t try to pull him out of anymore failed seductions, it’s getting ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Eddie chimed in. “Richie is rapidly approaching his own real-life ratio of romantic success.”

“You wound me,” Richie said to Eddie, his hand over his heart. He ignored Stan’s comment, which earned him a scoff and another eyeroll.

“Roll the dice, Bard,” Bill said, his eyes and brow just barely visible over the trifold that hid his Dungeon Master notes and maps. “Let’s see if fortune finally favors you.”

“Even the Dungeon Master is rude,” Richie said, but there was a laugh in his voice, and he released the die onto the mat below him. It rolled, struggled, and then slipped back to a 16. The rest of the party groaned while Richie erupted in cheers, rising to his feet, pumping his fists over his head. “Prepare to get dicked down, orc hunter!” He glanced over at Eddie and winked, relishing in the way the top of Eddie’s cheeks flushed pink. He grinned and looked away, catching sight of Bev, who raised her eyebrows at him.

Now what did that mean?

Two hours later, after the orc hunter had been, as Richie described, dicked down, and the boss had been defeated, Richie lingered near the door to Bill’s apartment, waiting for Eddie to finish double-and-triple checking that he had his keys, his wallet, his phone, and his inhaler so they could leave. But Eddie was done patting his pockets and his fanny pack and was now talking in hushed tones to Beverly, who tossed a glance back at Richie with something that looked like mischief in her eyes.

Something about that look made him nervous.

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow at eleven,” Bev was saying to Eddie’s retreating form, and Eddie gave her a two-fingered salute that Richie recognized as his own. Something about Eddie doing something Richie often did made him smile.

“You guys going somewhere?” Richie asked as Eddie sidled up to him.

“Bev is taking me to grab a Halloween costume tomorrow,” Eddie answered easily. “Ben got invited to this Halloween party that Greta is throwing, so he got us all invites.”

“Greta?” Richie asked. “Disgusting name.”

“Yeah, she’s pretty gross all the way through,” Eddie said nonchalantly. “She used to bully us in middle school, but Ben’s pretty hot now, so she didn’t recognize him. Introduced herself and everything.”

“What are you going to be for Halloween?” Richie asked. “Lemme guess…an inhaler. No, wait, a nerd. No, wait!”

“I’m going as a doctor,” Eddie interrupted, halting the guessing game before it could annoy him too much. “It’s simple, comfortable, and I don’t have to worry about morons not knowing who I am.”

“I’m going to tell the whole party you’re the guy from Scrubs.”

“Richie, I’m going to fucking kill you –”

***

It had been three weeks since Family Day, and in those three weeks, Beverly and Stan noticed something very interesting about their friends. For Beverly, it was obvious from the moment she saw Richie in his dorm the first time that he had a crush on Eddie, though whether Richie himself knew or not was unclear.

For Stan, it was even more obvious that Richie liked Eddie. The way he gently tried to navigate Eddie’s issues with his mother was a dead giveaway. That didn’t mean he approved of his interest, necessarily. That is, he didn’t approve until he saw something he probably wasn’t supposed to see.

In the middle of The Goonies, Stan had sat up and stretched, planning on ducking out of the room to take a piss. In his exit, he caught sight of Eddie, nestled comfortably in Richie’s arms, his eyes on the television. Above him, Richie was dozing lightly, his mouth slightly open, his glasses sliding down his nose. As he watched, Eddie gently reached up and pulled the glasses from Richie’s face, pausing long enough to brush an errant chunk of hair out of Richie’s eyes.

There was a tenderness there that Stan had never seen in Eddie, and for that reason, and that reason alone (he kept telling himself), he begrudgingly approved.

He and Bev had exchanged a glance when the movie ended, and even though they didn’t say anything, they understood. After that they would spend Tuesday mornings, before class, sipping coffee and discussing how to best force their friends to understand what they clearly saw.

Finally, they thought they had come up with a foolproof plan.

***

At 10:45 a.m., Beverly messaged Eddie that she couldn’t take him to the Spirit store for a last minute Halloween costume, but she was going to swing by for blue hair dye and would grab the costume he needed. Eddie didn’t understand it, but Bev quickly sent another text, this one an apology and an explanation that said she had to do something else during the time she said she’d pick Eddie up, and as an apology, she would grab his costume for him.

He thanked her and slid his phone back into his pocket, not sure why the entire exchange made him uneasy.

As he was contemplating why he suddenly felt nervous, Bev was putting her car in park in front of the Spirit store, Stan in the passenger seat.

“I feel bad,” she said. “I don’t like lying to Eddie.”

“We aren’t lying to Eddie,” Stan rationalized. “You do have to do something else. You have to pick out Eddie’s costume. He’ll thank you later.”

“But first he’ll hate me,” she pointed out.

“That’s true,” Stan replied.

Bev leaned over and ruffled Stan’s hair. “Wait for me,” she said. “I’ll only be a minute.”

Stan sat in the car, watching Beverly choose what they had agreed on, lingering by the hair dye to pick out her own costume piece, and only when she was standing at the register did Stan pull out his own phone and send a text.

“Meet me for lunch,” it said.

***

An hour later, Stan was taking the seat across from Richie at the university cafeteria, a salad in front of him while Richie picked up a slice of greasy pizza, covered in bacon and pineapple. Stan watched him take a bite, then two, in silence, before he spoke. He wanted Richie to have his guard down, to not be expecting what he was going to say. Only then would Stan be able to see what he really wanted before Richie managed to make a joke out of it.

“So…you and Eddie, huh?” he asked finally.

The effect was instantaneous. Richie choked on his mouthful of pizza, his face flushing dark red. He covered his mouth, coughing uncontrollably, and still managed, to Stan’s disgust, to splutter through several aborted statements with his mouth still full.

“Richie, manners,” Stan said sternly.

With wide eyes, Richie swallowed his food, and proceeded to drain his entire cup of chocolate milk (chocolate milk, Stan thought, disgusting).

“I don’t know what you mean,” he said unconvincingly.

“Sure you don’t,” Stan said. “So you expect me to believe that you don’t like Eddie?”

“I – well, of course I like Eddie,” Richie stammered. “I just – you know – like that –”

“Oh, is this the part where you tell me that you don’t like men?” Stan asked, leaning forward. “Richie, hear me very carefully – we don’t care if you like men, women, both, neither, whatever. We don’t mind if you have a label for who you like or not. But you like Eddie. That much is clear.”

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Richie said, his face devoid of emotion. Stan watched him carefully, his plan and lunch forgotten. Perhaps he had miscalculated Richie’s friendship, or his comfort. Either way, he was done forcing the subject.

***

“Are you sure you don’t want me to dye your hair blue, too?” Bev asked as Eddie carefully painted blue dye into her hair. She was sitting on the floor of his dorm, one of Richie’s shirts around her shoulders. Eddie hovered above her, his hands clad in black gloves.

“I think I’ll pass,” he said with a laugh. “You brought my costume, right?”

“It’s in the bag over there,” Bev said, squirming uncomfortably on the floor.

“Cool,” Eddie said companionably. “I think I got all of your hair.”

“It just has to sit for a bit,” Bev said, turning to look up at Eddie. “So, while it does, I thought I’d…talk to you about something.”

“Okay,” Eddie said, carefully peeling off his gloves and tossing them into the trash. “What’s up?”

“It’s about Richie,” she said, watching for Eddie’s reaction. “Do you think…do you think he likes anyone?”

Eddie froze, halfway through the motion of uncapping his Germ-X bottle. “What – what do you mean?”

“I mean, do you think he’s into anyone?” Bev asked. “I can’t really get a bead on it.”

“Why do you want to know?” Eddie asked.

Bev shrugged, and Eddie stared at her, long enough that Bev could feel his glare boring into the side of her face. It felt wrong, leading Eddie to believe that she had a crush on Richie, but wasn’t that how so many people realized they had feelings for someone? Once that person might no longer be available, the feelings become clear.

“I – well – no, I don’t think he likes anyone,” Eddie said quietly, more to himself than to Bev. “You should….you should be fine. Bill and Ben will be upset, though.”

To avoid answering, Bev stood and checked her reflection in the mirror, prodding at one of her now blue curls. “I think this is about ready to be washed out,” she said, tugging the sleeves of Richie’s shirt farther down her arms. “I’m going to go shower,” she added. “See you at the party!”

“Yeah, see you,” Eddie said, his voice small enough that Bev almost told him the truth, almost apologized. But she didn’t.

***

Richie was getting annoyed. The party started half an hour ago, and he still hadn’t left because not only had Eddie not bothered to get dressed yet, but he couldn’t find the shirt he needed for his costume.

“So you’re a…scarecrow?” Eddie asked sullenly from his bed, where he was watching Richie rummage through his dirty clothes hamper for the fifth time. “Why?”

“Why not?” Richie asked with a shrug, trying to avoid looking in Eddie’s direction. Ever since Stan asked him point-blank if he liked Eddie, he was painfully aware of how often he was looking at Eddie, touching Eddie, laughing with Eddie. It was all so…embarrassing now. How obvious was his crush, anyway? He hated himself.

“I’m already lanky as shit as it is, so I might as well go with it,” he said. “But since I can’t find the fucking shirt I need, I’m going to have to go shirtless with overalls, and everyone is going to think I’m just a stupid hillbilly.”

“Put the costume on, let me see,” Eddie insisted, sitting up straighter.

Richie, who was already wearing the overalls, just unhooked, slipped his shirt off and clipped the straps, haphazardly dropping the hat on his head. “See?”

Eddie stared at him, his eyes on something between Richie’s neck and his chest, and cleared his throat. “It – uh – it looks good. I’m sure the ladies will love you in that.”

Richie shrugged. “I know I wasn’t terribly clear about it when I blurted it out at you a while ago, but I’m not really into women. They’re alright, but not for me.” He laughed, awkwardly, and turned away from Eddie again, who was looking curiously after him, a word of surprise on his lips. “Are you going to get dressed or what?”

Eddie’s eyes fell to the bag, the one Bev left behind, which held decidedly not the costume he asked for, but something he probably would not ever have the gall to wear in public, much less in front of his roommate that he might or might not have feelings for.

“You go on ahead to the party,” he said. “I’m going to…get dressed and get there in a bit.”

“Why can’t we just go together?” Richie asked.

“I have to do something, Jesus Christ, dude, fuck off,” Eddie snapped, and Richie laughed.

“Okay, Spaghetti, I’ll see you there,” Richie said easily, grabbing his keys and sliding out the door. Eddie watched him go, his unfocused gaze remaining on the closed door long after Richie’s footsteps faded.

Did he really have feelings for Richie? It seemed like an easy enough thing to deny, but hearing Bev’s cautious question had shifted things into a different kind of focus. Did someone have feelings for Richie? Why did that bother him so much?

It bothered him because Richie was loud, annoying, so incredibly talkative that it was a wonder he could ever breathe. That was why it bothered him, Eddie thought with determination. Not because he himself had feelings for Richie, but because having feelings for Richie made no sense. Yes, that must be it.

But then there was that evening, while they were watching The Goonies, when Richie slid his arm around his shoulders, that his relentless talking wasn’t annoying, it was charming, when his huge glasses were no longer too big for his face, but accentuated his smile, his large, friendly eyes.

Something had shifted, then, when Richie’s eyes fell down to Eddie’s and they stayed that way, momentarily lost, suspended somewhere beyond a room full of their friends. After that, their bickering was no longer heated, it was just playful. Their jokes were just as mean, but there was a lightness in their eyes that they both understood. It was comfortable, it was affectionate, and…Eddie paused in his thoughts. Richie was only like that with him. Not with anyone else. Surely that meant something, right?

As if on cue, his phone, sitting on his desk, started vibrating. He glanced at it for a moment before deciding to pick it up.

“Stan,” he said as a greeting. “How’s the party?”

“I heard you were coming in a bit,” Stan said. “That better not be code for not showing up at all.”

“My costume –”

“I’m coming to pick you up, Eddie,” Stan said, his voice stern enough that Eddie knew there was no point in arguing. “So get dressed. I’ll be there in five.”

***

Stan sat in his car, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel, watching the door to Eddie’s dorm building. He had told Eddie to meet him outside in five, but he wasn’t sure if Eddie would really wear the costume. He had predicted, based on his years of experience with Eddie’s stubbornness, that if he made it seem like he had no choice, Eddie would comply, but who knows. Maybe Richie’s influence was too great, and Eddie was more stubborn than Stan predicted.

Then the door opened and Eddie slipped out, his shoulders hunched, looking embarrassed. Immediately, he caught sight of Stan’s car and hopped in.

“Don’t say a word,” he said, pulling the short shorts farther down, as if that would help. Stan pursed his lips and turned back to the road, putting the car in drive.

“You look good,” he said sincerely.

“Shut up, no I don’t,” Eddie snapped, trying to pull the top half of his costume closed. “I don’t understand why Bev would do this to me. She knew I just wanted to wear scrubs.”

Stan shrugged, choosing not to answer, and before Eddie could ask more questions, the short drive was over. He watched as Eddie struggled to decide if he was going to get out of the car at all, his eyes falling on his exposed skin.

“Come on, Eddie,” Stan said reassuringly. “Yours is far from the most revealing costume in there, I promise.”

“Really?” Eddie asked, his eyes hopeful.

“Promise,” Stan replied.

***

Richie refilled his red Solo cup full of tepid beer as his eyes scanned the crowd for Eddie again. He had already seen Beverly, with freshly dyed blue hair and yellow raincoat. Her Coraline was accompanied by Ben, dressed as Wybie. He had caught a glimpse of Mike and Bill, dressed as Sherlock and Watson, whispering in each other’s ears in one of the dark corners of the room, a cup in each of their hands.

He hadn’t seen Stan yet, but as soon as he thought it, there he was, dressed as Bob Ross, which really looked like most of Stan’s normal clothes more than a costume. And beside him was…

Suddenly Richie’s mouth was very dry.

“I thought Eddie was dressing as a doctor,” he said to Bev, who slid up beside him. “Like…scrubs and stuff.”

But Eddie was wearing tiny white shorts, shiny like latex, and an almost open white top, with a little red cross on the front. Even from across the room, Richie could see that Eddie was uncomfortable, or embarrassed and while he was thoroughly enjoying the view (too much, if Bev’s smug expression was any indicator), he suddenly wished he had his scarecrow shirt so he could take it off and offer it to Eddie.

“You’re welcome,” Bev said coyly, squeezing Richie’s arm and disappearing back into the crowd.

“Hey, Trashmouth!” Eddie’s voice cut through the crowd and almost instantly, Richie felt his stomach drop. He could feel Stan’s eyes on him from his place at Eddie’s side and it felt like his gaze was magnified. Everyone was looking at him, looking at Eddie, so openly asking for Richie’s attention.

Before Eddie could get through the crowd, Richie ducked away, into another room. It was safer to admire Eddie from afar, where no one would get any ideas.

***

Halloween was a bust, Eddie thought ruefully. Here he was, at a party in a costume that apparently several people found very appealing (if the amount of drinks being pushed his way was any indication), but the one person whose attention he wanted was studiously avoiding having any contact with him.

“What’s wrong, Eddie?” Stan asked, leaning against the wall with his own cup of what Eddie knew was water. “Boy troubles?”

“I hate it when you say it like that,” Eddie replied sourly.

“So I’m right,” Stan said smugly.

“Richie hasn’t said a word to me all night,” Eddie said before he could censor himself. Besides, he rationalized, Stan wouldn’t tell. Stan would understand.

“Do you want him to talk to you?” Stan asked leadingly. “Because you know how Richie is. If he sees you having fun, he’ll have to join. He can’t help himself.”

“You’re right,” Eddie said thoughtfully.

“Eddie!” Bill and Mike called from the makeshift dance floor. “Come dance!”

“I think I just found your fun,” Stan said, nudging Eddie toward the dancing. “Go, Richie will follow.”

***

“Why aren’t you talking to Eddie?” Beverly asked, passing Richie another cup of beer. “He was looking for you.”

Richie avoided her gaze, choosing instead to look into the depths of his beer. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Okay, moron, but the crap,” Bev said sharply. “You like him, he likes you, go talk to him about it before you spontaneously combust.”

Richie narrowed his eyes. “Why do I feel like you and Stan are tag-teaming on some weird scheme?”

Beverly shrugged, taking a sip of her own beer. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t like being manipulated,” Richie replied. “And I don’t like being confronted with things I’d rather not talk about.”

“Yeah, no one likes that, Rich,” Bev pointed out. “That’s common sense. We aren’t trying to convince you to be open with everyone, we just want you to be open with Eddie.”

“If I go talk to him, will this conversation cease?” Richie asked.

“Absolutely.”

“I kind of hate you, Bev,” Richie replied, passing her his drink. “And Stan.”

“We know,” she said with a wink.

***

“Richie incoming,” Bill said as Eddie bounced to the music. “Look alive.”

“What does that mean?” Mike asked with a laugh.

“It means be cool,” Bill said, his face flushed from booze. “I know…I know what I meant.” He laughed and slipped sideways, and Eddie had to catch him by winding an arm around his waist.

He turned to survey Bill’s face more completely but before he could, Richie caught his attention, standing just on the edge of the dance floor. His eyes were on Eddie’s hand, around Bill’s waist. There was a tension in his brow that Eddie wasn’t used to, but it made him nervous. He passed Bill over to Mike and made his way to the edge of the dance floor, beside Richie. Even then, when they were standing next to each other, Richie avoided looking at him.

“What’s wrong with you, Trashmouth?” Eddie asked gruffly. Richie jumped and glanced at him before he looked away once more. “You haven’t spoken to me all night, you won’t look at me. What, do you hate this stupid costume that much? It is pretty ridiculous.”

“That’s not it,” Richie said, his voice barely heard over the music. “I just – do you –” he shook the thought free from his mind and started again. “Bill’s costume is pretty cool.”

“Yeah,” Eddie said warmly. “Bill always has cool costumes. But he’s done Sherlock before, so it doesn’t really count.”

“Oh, yeah,” Richie said, as if he wasn’t really listening.

“Okay, I’m going to leave you to this weird mood you’re in, because you’re starting to piss me off,” Eddie retorted, trying to pull his shorts farther down, but even as he did it, he knew it was just a nervous movement. It didn’t help anything. Richie’s eyes followed his movement carefully, his Adam’s apple bobbing nervously.

He started to walk away, and when Richie didn’t stop him, came stomping back. “You aren’t even going to stop me?” he snapped. “God, Richie, what is your problem?”

“Do you like Bill?” Richie asked suddenly, as if Eddie’s previous questions hadn’t been mentioned. Eddie stared at him, momentarily lost for words, and Richie’s face fell. “Okay, good to know,” he said, stepping away from Eddie and toward the crowd.

“No, Rich, wait,” Eddie grabbed him by the arm, but Richie was still moving, weaving between people, as if he didn’t even realize Eddie was clinging to his arm. But still, Eddie hung on. “I don’t like Bill, you idiot, I was just trying to make sure he wasn’t going to fall over and get trampled by other drunk idiots. Richie, you fucking asshole, would you stop for one goddamn second?”

Richie glanced back at him, his gaze unfocused. Eddie watched as Richie eyes found his own, then his mouth, then his bare chest, and back up again.

“Richie, stop, you fucking jackass!”

He screeched to a stop, so quickly that Eddie slammed into his back. He didn’t bother to turn around to see Eddie. “So you don’t like Bill?”

“No, you dipshit. Besides, Bill likes Mike. I like…” the words, so easy when they could be used to shut Richie up, died in his throat as Richie’s eyes found his again. Could he say it out loud? What if Richie thought it was a joke? What if Richie treated it like a joke? He wasn’t sure he could take that.

“You like…?”

Suddenly, Eddie remembered Bev’s words from earlier. “Who do you like?” he asked instead.

“This is so high school,” Richie groaned, running his hands through his hair. “God, I thought when you get to college you just get to sleep with whoever you want as long as they’re also cool with it. I didn’t think there’d be stupid feelings and crushes and all that shit.”

“You thought that once you got your diploma you could just fuck around all you wanted?” Eddie asked incredulously. Richie shrugged. “I – I sometimes wonder if you are really as stupid as the shit you say.”

Richie laughed, and the light returned to his eyes for just a moment. “It does seem kind of stupid when I say it out loud.”

“Should’ve sounded stupid when you said it in your head,” Eddie grumbled.

Eddie was suddenly aware that they were at the back door of the house, halfway outside. The sound from the party was significantly diminished, so Eddie could finally hear himself think. Richie chuckled and nodded.

“So who is it?” he asked.

Eddie swallowed. “Who is what?” he asked, playing dumb.

“Who do you like?” Richie asked.

“I thought you thought this was all high school?” Eddie said nervously. “It…it doesn’t really matter, right?”

Richie surveyed him closely. “If…if you think it doesn’t matter,” he offered.

Eddie scrutinized Richie’s expression, searching for the correct answer. “I – I don’t think we should talk about it right now,” he said, trying for lightness. “It’s a party, we should party.”

Richie blinked once, twice, and then a third time. “You’re right,” he said, offering Eddie his hand. “Care to dance? That costume deserves to be seen in motion.”

Eddie flushed, taking Richie’s hand. “What – what does that mean?” he asked.

Richie looked down at him, something unreadable and tempting in his gaze. “I think you know.”

#reddie #the party #benverly #hanborough

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yurtletheturtlehenderson · 2 years ago

Text

COSMIC - S2:E5; Chapter Five, Dig Dug - [Pt. 4 - FINAL]

A Will Byers x Gender Neutral!Reader Series

𝘢𝘧𝘵𝘦𝘳 𝘢 𝘳𝘶𝘯-𝘪𝘯 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭, 𝘢 𝘵𝘳𝘰𝘶𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘺/𝘯 𝘵𝘦𝘢𝘮𝘴 𝘶𝘱 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯 𝘶𝘯𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘪𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘪𝘳 𝘴𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘴𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘴. “𝘣𝘰𝘣 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘣𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘯” 𝘵𝘢𝘤𝘬𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘢 𝘥𝘪𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘤𝘶𝘭𝘵 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘣𝘭𝘦𝘮.

Warnings: canon racism, long chapter, small mentions of reader's birth mother/parent and is described to look like reader (for the sake of El recognizing her/them)

||𝟑𝐑𝐃 𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍 𝐏𝐎𝐕||

"Alright," Bob calls out. "I got 2.5 inches. What'd you got?"

"I'm not sure" Mike calls from Joyce's room. "Mrs. Byers?"

"Hold on!" She calls, stretching the measuring tape around the corner.

Unfortunately, they had yet to find the spot where Hopper was. Bob was at the kitchen table, mapping out coordinates while Mike and Joyce measured the distances between marked areas.

"Twenty-one feet, four inches."

"What about Tippecanoe to Danford Creek?" Bob asked.

Joyce's face scrunched up as she thought of where she last saw it.

"Da-Danford, Danford?"

"Dining room!" Will answered excitedly.

Joyce joined him with the measuring tape. She turned to face Bob who was in the other room.

"Sixteen feet, ten inches."

"What about Danford to Jordan?"

Joyce sighed, hurrying across the room to Bob's side.

"That's gotta be enough?"

Bob began sputtering, shaking his head sadly.

"It's not. It's really not."

"Can't you f-figure it out?"

By now, everyone was regrouped around the table. Everyone was watching Bob hopefully. He shrugged.

A beaming smile found its way onto Joyce and she exclaimed happily.

"Thank you!"

She leaned down and planted a big kiss on Bob's cheek, bringing a smile of his own to his lips.

Grabbing the map, she took out of the room, Mike, Will, and a confused Bob behind her.

"What? Are we really going?"

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

"Ted, can you get that please?"

When Mr. Wheeler opened the door, Dustin tried to remain as cool and collected as possible though it was difficult. He looked Mr. Wheeler in the eye and spoke carefully.

"Your line has been busy for over two hours, do you realize that?"

With the same unimpressed look painted across the man's face, as it always was, he nodded simply. "I do realize."

"Is Mike home?"

"No."

"No?" Dustin repeated, his composure cracking. "Well, where the hell is he?"

Mr. Wheeler's usual plain and tepid voice raised suddenly as he looked behind him into the house.

"Karen, where's our son?"

"Will's!" Came Mrs. Wheeler's voice from inside.

Mr. Wheeler calmly and disinterestedly looked back at Dustin.

"Will's," he said simply.

Dustin sighed heavily. "No one's picking up there. Nancy, what about Nancy?" He tried.

"Karen, where's Nancy?"

"Ally's!" She answered shortly.

"Ally's," Mr. Wheeler said and he shrugged. "As you can see, our children don't live here anymore. You didn't know that?"

Dustin felt all his hope evaporate as he looked at the dull man.

"Now, are we done here?" He asked pointedly.

Dustin sighed heavily, all efforts to be polite were long gone.

"Son of a bitch, you're really no help at all, you know that?" He said over his shoulder, as he walked away.

Ted called out lazily after the boy, his heart not entirely in the fight.

"Hey, language!"

"Listen, I've been thinking, love you, I'm sorry. 'Sorry', what the hell am I sorry for?"

"Steve!"

Steve was equally surprised to see the Henderson kid eagerly making his way towards himself. He stopped as the kid approached him, and he gestured to the flowers in his hands.

"Are those for Mr. or Mrs. Wheeler?" Dustin asked.

Steve gave the boy an odd look and shook his head. "No, they're for--"

"--Great," Dustin ripped the bouquet from his unsuspecting hands and headed for Steve's car.

"Hey, what the hell? Hey!"

"Nancy isn't home," Dustin answered simply.

"Well, where is she?"

"Doesn't matter. We have bigger problems than your love life. You still have that bat?"

Steve watched as Dustin opened the passenger side door and looked at him expectantly.

"Bat? What bat?"

"The one with the nails." He replied, obviously.

"Why?"

"I'll explain it on the way."

Dustin climbed into the passenger seat and only then did Steve snap into action. Breaking into a jog, he couldn't help but ask.

"Wh-? Now?"

"Now!"

With that, Dustin closed the car door and watched impatiently as the boy made his way to the front seat.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

Before he can do anything to stop them, he sees the thick ropes curl around his ankle and he jolts at the sudden contact. He scrambles to his feet in a panic, momentarily losing his balance.

"Son of a bitch!"

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

"And that was the last we ever saw her. After that, she was just, gone. I can't believe it's been that long, it feels like yesterday." Lucas finishes.

Max nods, a concentrated frown on her face.

"Yeah, I mean, I bet," she says, lifting Lucas's hopes. "Wow,"

"It's crazy, I know."

"It's crazy, but," she shrugged. "I really liked it."

It was Lucas's turn to be confused. "You like it?"

"Yeah," she frowned slightly, a tight smile on her face. "Well, I mean, I had a few issues?"

"Issues?"

"I just felt it was a little derivative at some parts."

Lucas was flabbergasted, and his high hopes came crashing down to the ground.

"What are you talking about?"

She shrugged simply, tucking her palms in her lap as she looked at him with irritation.

"I just wish it had a little more originality, is all."

Lucas could feel anger bubbling up in his chest. He leaned forward, a frown etched into his brows.

"You don't believe me?"

Max chortled and gave the boy a pathetic glance. Her voice began to rise steadily, her own anger taking over her false intrigue.

"Lucas, come on, seriously? How gullible do you think I am?"

"Why would I make this up?" Lucas shot back.

"I don't know! To impress me, or something? Or, you're just like, insane."

"I tell you all of this," Lucas declares hotly, rising to his feet. "I mean, top-secret stuff, risking my life, and this is how you react?"

Instead, Max looked at him with an amused expression painted on her face."'Risking your life?'"

The frustration festered inside of Lucas at the girl's unwavering amusement at the traumatic experience. "Oh, so this is funny to you?"

"Yeah, I mean, kinda funny?"

Lucas only glared at her, and a smug smile finds its way onto her face as she rises to her feet.

"Stupid, but funny."

Shrugging him and the properly burrowed feeling of fear off her shoulders, she waltzed towards the door, her board in hand.

"Where are you going?"

She stopped and gave him a passing look. "Story time's over, isn't it?"

Lucas feels the harsh sting of her words and decides he wants to put in a few of his own. As she strides out of the arcade, he stays on her heels.

"What is wrong with you? I gave you what you wanted."

"I wanted to be a part of the group, not a part of some joke."

Her mask of anger had begun to crack, and shining through was genuine hurt. Lucas did his best to convey his seriousness, though at this point he didn't know how much good it would do.

"It's not a joke," he said again slowly.

"We have a lot of rules in our party, okay? But the most important thing is, friends don't lie. Never, ever, no matter what."

"Is that right?" She said confidence dripping from her words knowing she had caught him. "Then how do you explain this?"

This time, she gestured for him to follow her. They turned the corner and into the aisle of games. She swiftly ripped the piece of paper from the screen that read, OUT OF ORDER, and stuck it on Lucas's chest with the remaining bits of tape that resided on the back.

Lucas sighed, ripping the piece of paper off his shoulder and sent her a pleading look.

"I had to do that, to protect you."

Max snapped once more, her anger and her own frustrations getting the best of her.

As calmly and discreetly as possible, he spoke to her as his eyes darted around the arcade.

"Keep your voice down."

Her demeanor shifted too quickly to that of exaggerated understanding. "Or maybe to protect me from the Demogorgon from another dimension."

"Max, I'm serious, shut up!"

Ignoring him, and his voice still rising, she turned to him, this time speaking with exaggerated excitement.

"No, no, no. I know, it was Y/n and their other superpowered friend, what was it? Eleven-"

Max's eyes widened when Lucas suddenly threw his hands over her mouth. His eyes were pleading and he whispered under his breath, begging her.

"Stop. Talking." He glanced over her shoulder worriedly. "You are going to get us killed. Do you understand?"

"You're serious?"

He stepped back, his voice still low. "I really wish I wasn't."

She quickly recovered, and while she had begun to believe, her skepticism was quickly trying to convince her otherwise. "Prove it."

A defeated look washed over Lucas. He shrugged lightly. "I can't."

"So what? I'm just supposed to trust you?"

He nodded solemnly. "Yes."

She shifted on her feet lightly and something clicked.

"Can't Y/n show me their little trick or whatever, just--"

A car engine roared to life outside, cutting her off. She sped to the window and much to her chagrin, it was exactly who she had suspected.

"Shit, I gotta go."

"Don't follow me out. Okay?" She whispered gently.

She released his hand and opened the door, heading out. Lucas couldn't stop the words that left his mouth in desperation.

"Do you believe me?"

Max scrambled inside the car, tucking in her feet and her board just before closing the door. Billy, who had his head resting on the headrest and looking out of the window, was seething.

"The hell I tell you?" He growled.

Max gave him an odd look. "I'm not late."

"You know what I'm talking about."

Swallowing her fear, she quickly recovered and masked her face with confusion. "Oh, Lucas?"

Billy scoffed in disgust, his brows furrowed under his sunglasses as his anger rose. "So he has a name now, huh?"

She cursed herself for stammering, knowing he would pick up on it but prayed he didn't.

"It's a small town, okay? We weren't hanging out." She assures him.

Billy shrugs lightly, and his voice lowered. "Hmm. Well, you know what happens when you lie."

Max shook her head.

"I'm not lying."

Worriedly, she looks out the window behind her before quickly looking forward in fear of being caught.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

El and Y/n watch patiently in the kitchen as Becky cuts an old towel in two. She holds it up to them, the cloth now the perfect size and shape for a makeshift blindfold. "Like this?"

El nodded, her chin still resting gently on her palm. "Yes."

The three returned to the living room, and Y/n, per El's request, had turned the volume up on the television set so the static echoed throughout the room.

El sat on the carpet, legs folded beneath her as she folded the cloth into a proper blindfold. Becky sat to the left of Y/n, who sat criss-cross just a foot or two away from El, giving her space.

"It's okay if I sit here, right?" Becky asked.

"Yes," El said, securing the blindfold around her eyes.

"And I won't mess it up or anything?"

"No," El answered, growing short.

"Okay." Becky licked her lips nervously, looking longingly toward her sister.

"If you talk to Terry, will you tell her that I love her very much? And that I'm sorry that I didn't believe--"

"Stop talking," El said crossly.

"Okay, sorry," Becky mumbled.

Y/n caught her eye, and they mouthed a 'sorry'. Becky's lips pressed into a firm line, shrugging, implying she didn't take it too seriously. Her attention was mostly concentrated on her sister, and Y/n had begun to feel the same as Becky did. In the aspect that they felt out of place while El communicated with her mother.

"Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow." Terry mumbled, her fingers twitching and lips twitching. "Run. Breathe. Sunflower."

El awoke in the familiar dark landscape, her toes curling slightly in the imaginary water.

Her mother sat before her, just as she looked moments ago in the living room.

"Run. Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow."

El timidly made the journey forward, growing closer to her mother with each step. She only hoped this would work.

"Three to the right, four to the left. Four fifty. Run."

"Mama?"

"Sunflower. Rainbow."

"Mama, it's me..."

"-four to left. Four fifty."

"...Jane."

"Breathe. Rainbow."

"I'm here now,"

"Four fifty."

El took the final step, now only inches away from her mother. After the words left her tongue, everything happened quickly. "I'm home."

The woman's head snapped in her direction, her eyes boring into El's, desperation clouding them.

"No."

But she was alone.

"Mama!"

"Terry!" She cried. "Go! Now! You can still make it! You know where to go-!"

"Terry, what are you waiting for?! RUN!"

El watched aghast as the h/c-haired woman was pulled farther and farther away, her screams never ceasing. Unlike anything she had ever seen in the void, she could make out the bad men turning a corner and they disappeared around an invisible corner. Before El could make out what happened, a loud bang was heard and the screams stopped. El stumbled back in fear, tears streaming from her eyes. Her ankle caught something and she fell backward into the thin pool of water. She hid her face in her hands, the panic rising in her chest and she realized she was hyperventilating. The sound of her mother's wailing brought her out of her panic, or at least it redirected it.

She knew why her mother stopped. She was in pain and she was bleeding a great deal. She scrambled to her feet to help her mother but she did not know what to do.

"Mama? Mama!"

Just as soon, her mother groaned in pain and stumbled to the ground, grasping her stomach. El immediately and tearfully knelt beside her sobbing mother, laying a shaky hand on her mother's arm.

"Mama! Mama!"

The woman wailed, clutching her stomach, completely unfazed by El's presence.

"Oh, my baby!" She cried worriedly.

"What do I do?" El asked frantically. "Mama, what do I do? Help me!"

A familiar voice echoes out, calling out fearfully.

"Terry? Terry!"

"Mama, what do I do? How do I help you?"

"Terry, where were you? Oh, my God!"

"Oh, my God," she sniffles, looking around worriedly. "Okay, breathe. Just breathe, alright? Breathe."

She sees her mother lying on the grass yards away from a house, and now she knows she is not seeing through her own eyes. She is reliving her mother's past.

"They're on their way, okay?"

El sees her mother's hand reach for her bleeding stomach and looks back at Becky.

"They got her. [y/m/n], they got [y/m/n]. I have to go, I have to leave! I have to get her out, I h-have to get her out-" Terry wails in agony, clutching her stomach. "She did it. She got... them out... I need to go- AAHH"

Becky shakes her head, reaching out for her as she takes Terry's hand in comfort.

"Terry, no! Just breathe, alright? You need to breathe, I've told you, no one is coming for her, alright?"

"They wanted them, and they're gonna want Jane! Don't make me do this," she wailed, shaking her head.

She lets out another wail of agony and everything begins to fade.

"Terry!"

Everything goes black and the next thing El knows she is being wheeled through a hallway, two nurses looking at her.

"Stay with us, darling. Stay with us."

El sees her mother writhing in pain on the moving bed, clutching her stomach.

El sees a small blade glide across her mother's skin, blood dripping from the cut and the next thing she sees is a tiny infant come into view. It cries with its small high voice, visibly animated in movement. El realizes it's her, and her mother is fighting to stay awake. A set of eyes, all too familiar to El, come into view. The man's face is mostly covered by his mask, but El knows all too well it's the face of the man that tortured her for years. Confirming her suspicions, the man pinches the white mask and pulls it down to his chin revealing Papa's sinister scowl.

Everything goes black once more. It is quiet, and for a moment El thinks the vision is over. But a bright light reveals itself, and the first thing El can identify is a vase of sunflowers.

Her vision pans over to see a tearful Becky. She gives the weakest of smiles and speaks, El can hear the lump in her throat as she is holding back her tears.

"Hey, there."

Her mother stirs awake on the hospital bed. She groans and looks around worriedly.

"Jane? Where's Jane?"

Becky shakes her bowed head, tears clouding her eyes.

"I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." She croaks, reaching forward and taking her hand. "Honey, she didn't make it. I'm so sorry, Ter, I'm so sorry."

Terry shakes her head, anger and panic rising in her.

"No, I saw her!" She said simply.

Becky shook her head.

"No, no, she wasn't breathing."

"She was crying!"

"No."

"Oh, God." She breathed, the memories swarming back to her. "Becky, it happened. I saw her, an-and he was there! He was there! He had her and-!"

"No," was all Becky could muster, sniffling.

Becky took a deep breath, still shaking her head, unable to meet her sister's eye right away.

"Terry, no, I'm sorry, I wish that were true--"

"--It is! Becky, I'm telling you, I saw it! We have to get her! He took her!"

"Who was there, Terry?" Becky asked, trying to calm her through her own tears.

"He took her!" She said, growing more frantic.

"Terry--" Becky warned.

But Terry had already begun to sit up despite her sister's efforts to keep her in bed.

"No, no, no! Don't take it out! Terry!"

She had ripped the IV out of her arm, and seconds later a nurse came in, holding her down.

"No, no! I need to get her! Becky, I told you!"

"Terry!"

"--I told you this would happen! I need to get her!"

"Three to the right. Four to the left." She mumbled.

"Ma'am, can I see your badge?"

Terry stops, taking a deep breath. She turns around, pulling the gun from her bag. She aims it at the man and anybody that tried to approach.

"Stay back. Stay back!"

"Jane? Jane?"

She looks over her shoulder and that's when she spots it. The rainbow room. A door across the hall with a small rainbow painted on the inside of the doorframe.

Eagerly, she opens the door. Inside, she finds two young girls playing, one of them she knows to be her daughter. She steps forward cautiously, but happily. Each of them gives her an off look and she smiles, leaning down to her daughter.

"Jane... No!"

"No! No! She's my child! No! She's my child!"

The sight of the tiny rainbow painted on the walls is the last thing in focus as she is dragged far away.

The next thing she sees comes in flashes. Hands struggling and hair whipping around as Terry struggles in the grip of several bad men.

"No! No."

"Four fifty," Papa says.

Everything starts over in quick flashes as she stares at the ceiling. All of it, happening in short spurts.

"Terry, what are you waiting for?! RUN!"

BANG.

"Oh, my God! Okay, breathe. They're on their way."

She's wheeled through the hallway.

"Stay with us, darling."

Jane crying.

Her eyes open and El can hear her mother's voice.

"Sunflower"

"He was there!"

Nurses restrain her.

"Three to the right. Four to the left."

She unlocks the safe and shoots the gun.

She sees the room.

"Sunflower."

The dial turns.

"Four fifty."

"RUN!" A gun goes off.

"Breathe." Jane cries.

Flowers at her bedside. "Sunflower."

Gunshot, she approaches the door. "Rainbow."

The dial turns. "Four fifty."

She convulses.

"RUN!"

"Breathe,"

"Three to the right. Four to the left."

"Breathe"

"Sunflower."

"Rainbow"

"Three to the right."

"RUN!"

"Four fifty."

"RUN!"

"Rainbow."

"Three to the right."

"RUN!"

"Run. Breathe. Sunflower. Rainbow. Three to the right. Four to the left."

El feels a pair of arms wrap gently around her and she can feel her own shaking, her shoulders rising and falling rapidly. She feels a hand grab hers and she knows it's Y/n. She squeezes their hand for comfort and Y/n gently runs their thumb over the back of her hand, showing their support.

No one says anything for a while, and apart from her mother's mumbling, she sits in silence embracing the support given to her as she tries to calm her racing heart.

⊹ ⊹ ⊹

"There's nothing. There's nothing here." Mike says worriedly.

Mike, Will, Joyce, and Bob were all packed inside Joyce's Ford Pinto in search of where they believed Hopper's location to be.

Worriedly, Joyce spares a quick glance at Bob who holds the map in his lap. "Are... Are we close?"

"We're in the vicinity," Bob replies.

"What's that mean, the vicinity?" She asked worriedly.

"It means we're close. I don't know. It's not precise." Bob sputters, feeling the guilt and pressure weighing on his chest.

"But we did all that work!" Joyce exclaims, exasperated.

"I told you, the scale ratio is not exactly one-to-one. We needed to take--"

"Turn right!" Will shouts suddenly.

"What?"

Everyone looked to Will, even Joyce, but she made sure to return her attention to the road.

"I saw him!" Will answered.

"Where?"

"Not here. In my now-memories"

A knowing gasp falls over Mike and Joyce, while Bob whirls around to look at Will, flabbergasted. "In your what?" Bob asks.

"Turn right!" Will yells again.

Everyone is thrown to the side of the car, Will bumping into Mike, and Bob nearly falling on Joyce as the car violently jerked to the side. A horrible screech filled everyone's ears as the tires flew across the pavement. Everything happened in a matter of seconds as the car took down a sign attached to the wooden fencing, as well as several clumps of hay that temporarily covered the windshield. Before they knew it, they were thrown forward when Joyce slammed on the brakes, stopping only inches away from the back of Hopper's car.

Joyce whirled around to look at Will, then Mike.

"Are you okay?"

Will nodded and she faced the front once more. Everyone was panting heavily still, collecting their breath.

"Superspy," Mike confirmed between breaths.

"What's Jim doing here?" Bob asked, recognizing the car in front of them. "Joyce?"

Ignoring his questions, Joyce returned her attention to the back seat and looked between Will and Mike.

"Boys, I need you to stay here."

Will shook his head frantically as she climbed out of the car.

"No. Mom, Mom, Mom, it's not safe." He called desperately, leaning over to look at her.

"That's why I need you to stay here! Stay here!" She ordered.

Slamming the car door, the boys sat in silence as they felt the car shake slightly. Bob and Joyce trudged across the field, careful not to step on the many rotten pumpkins.

"Hopper!" Joyce's worried and shrill cries echoed across the field and into the night.

"Hey, be careful." He shook his head, nervously spewing commentary in disbelief. "Just going down the hole."

"Vines." She gasped.

Hesitant to break her gaze away for too long, she gestured to the shovel that stood near Bob's feet.

"Give me that."

"The shovel?"

"Yes, give me the shovel!"

"I need you to help me get down there." She ordered.

Growing frantic and increasingly worried, Bob hunched over slightly and waved his arms.

"Joyce, what are you talking about?"

"Bob! Now!" She roared, extending her arm.

"Hopper!" She called. "Hopper! Hopper!"

"Joyce, what is going on? Where are we?"

Stammering, she reached out to Bob and looked him up and down, making sure he had safely made the drop. "Bob, are you okay?"

Bob's attention was pulled to his surroundings once his eyes had adjusted.

He looked around in amazement and shock.

"Tunnels. Is this Will's map?" He asked.

She had reached into his jacket pocket, knowing he always kept a small flashlight for emergencies.

"Hopper!" She called, scanning the tunnels for any sign of the chief.

"Are we in Will's map?" Bob asked once more.

Biting the bullet and picking a direction, she began navigating the tunnels, calling out for the missing man.

"Hopper! Hopper!"

"We're in Will's map!" Bob mumbled excitedly, following Joyce close behind.

"Hopper!"

"We're actually inside Will's map!"

"Hopper!"

"How did he know all this?"

"Bob! Over here!"

She knelt down by the cigarette, she picked it up and showed it to her boyfriend.

"It's his! He's gotta be this way! Come on."

Just outside above the entrance, Mike and Will had exited the car and slowly approached the edge of the crater.

"Do you see anything?" Mike asked. "I mean, in your now-memories?"

Will shook his head, watching the ground uneasily. The sound of several engines captured the boys' attention and they turned around to see several vehicles flood onto the field from where they had come. To his horror, Mike recognized the white vans labeled HAWKINS POWER AND LIGHTING as the very same ones that had chased him and his friends the previous year. It was a fleet from Hawkins Lab. He was suddenly grateful Y/n had left, wherever they were, they would be safe from them. At least, he hoped.

"Oh! It's his arm!"

"It's choking him!"

Joyce redirected her efforts to the vine that struggled to tighten itself around Hopper's neck. Much to their surprise, Hopper spoke in a strained voice. "Knife!"

Joyce looked around desperately for the tool, but Bob was quick to answer. The beam fell across Hopper and next to Joyce. "It's over there!"

Sure enough, just inches away from Hopper's grasp, was the man's pocket knife.

Quickly, she got to work and it wasn't long until the vine around his neck snapped, Hopper gasped for air, and looked to his hands.

"Hands!"

"Bastard!"

"Oh, my God. Hopper, are you okay?" She panted.

"Joyce."

"Are you okay? Are you okay?"

Hopper nodded, patting her on the arms gently and she released him. He swung his arm behind him and patted the man beside him.

"Hey, Bob."

"Hey, Jim."

The trio huddled together, backing away from the advancing vines. Joyce turned and jumped in fear when she saw a figure next to Bob, dressed in a hazmat suit.

"Oh, my God!"

"Go! Go! Go! Clear the area!" The figure ordered.

"Will, what's wrong?" Mike wailed, feeling helpless.

· · ─────── ·𖥸· ─────── · ·

Tag List: @yuuki4646 @ddeonubaby

❥ let me know if you would like to be added to or removed from the taglist! ❥

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destinationtoast · 6 years ago

Photo

TOASTYSTATS: HOW BIG IS WATTPAD?

I’ve been wondering for a long time how much fanfic is on Wattpad, how fast it’s growing, and how it compares to other major platforms. Especially after @fffinnagain did some analysis showing that posting rate on AO3 has surpassed posting on Fanfiction.net (FFN), and @fansplaining suggested in a recent episode that they thought maybe Wattpad has been turning away from fanfic, I was curious how Wattpad compared.

Only AO3 reports the exact number of fanworks on its site. To estimate the number of works on FFN and Wattpad, I wrote a script to sample random works from each site. (See details below).

You can see all the images in higher resolution on imgur.

So which site has the most fanfic?

It turns out that it depends how you count. See the first figure above.

As of late October/early November, when I was grabbing these numbers, AO3 has ~4.2M fanworks. AO3 additionally has ~50K works in the Original Work category.

All works on FFN are supposed to be fanfic, so I took the estimated total number of works to be the total amount of fanfic. (A fraction of the works in the Misc category appear to actually be original work, but I think generously that number could be estimated as 20K original works, which doesn’t substantially change my estimate that FFN has ~7.7M fanworks.

Unlike AO3 and FFN, Wattpad is a general self-publishing platform, and “Fanfiction” is only one genre that authors can choose. When you do a search on Wattpad, the site says there are 4.1M fanworks matching the term “Fanfiction.” Based on sampling, I estimate that there are may be more like 5.1M works in the “Fanfiction” genre. And then when I hand categorized 100 of them (based on title, summary, tags, and sometimes the first page of the fic), I realized that there are a whole lot of pieces of fanfic that the authors have placed in other genres (e.g., “Romance” or “Random”). Including works in other categories, I estimate closer to 8.0M fanworks.

Thus, Wattpad has either the lowest amount or highest amount of fanworks of all the platforms. ;P But it seems reasonable to think it probably has the most fanworks, or close to it. This also means that when they say they’ve had “over 400 million story uploads,” they are presumably counting individual chapters.

I’ll also get to this more in future posts, but according to both my sample and the site’s (confusing, opaque) search results, Fanfiction is the biggest genre on Wattpad.

If you’re like, Um, okay, so if it’s so big, why don’t I know anyone who uses Wattpad? well, that’s a reasonable question. I'm hoping to explore a number of differences between Wattpad and the other platforms in future posts. But partial spoiler alert -- Wattpad seems to most often be used for RPF, especially K-pop and other bandom fic. It also looks like the users skew more international than on the other sites (based on the distribution of languages -- e.g., Wattpad has lots of Spanish, Filipino, and other languages from across Asia, Europe, and Latin & South America). It possibly skews younger as well. And listen to/read @fansplaining‘s recent episode on monetization of fanfic for some great discussion of other platform differences.

Keep reading for more about site growth and missing works.

Update:

A clarifying note from @elizabethminkel about @fansplaining‘s comments:

“When we discussed Wattpad turning away from fanfiction, we were specifically talking about the platform, not its users. (I don’t think you made that assumption having listened, but I don’t know if it’s super clear from your description.) Wattpad has said things along the lines of, ‘Fanfiction has only ever been about 20% of our platform”—which it looks like it continues to be! So the interesting question here is how a platform continues to scale with user-generated content when a solid portion of that content has kind of maxed out monetarily. Like, more and more fic will be published on the site, but that doesn’t mean more and more profit for Wattpad or its users—which is a problem within the tech industry’s current models.“

She also has some excellent observations about a bunch of Wattpad content not being very fic-like, which I’ll hopefully dive into more soon -- thanks, Elizabeth! :)

/Update

Which site is growing fastest?

FFN is the oldest site, but growth on the platform slowed and then started decreasing somewhere around 2012 (based on my samples and Finn’s work). I.e., there are still works being posted each year, but at a decreasing rate.

Meanwhile, both AO3 (founded 2007) and the “Fanfiction” genre on Wattpad (founded 2006) are growing fast; posting rates surpassed that of FFN in 2015 and 2014, respectively. Wattpad appears to be growing fastest. As of November:

Wattpad’s “Fanfiction” genre received at estimated 1.6M new works so far in 2018, which means I’d estimate (very) roughly that there could be more like 2.5M new fanworks total, including ones in other genres. But that’s based on my hand labeling a sample of 100 works from various years, and it assumes that the ratio of unlabeled:labeled fanfic on the site has stayed roughly the same over the years. That assumption may not be right.

AO3 has 0.9M new works so far in 2018.

FFN has 0.3M new works so far in 2018.

Based on past patterns, I predict there will be big surges in production rate in AO3 December due to annual holiday breaks and gift exchanges -- it looks like this seasonal surge occurs more dramatically on AO3 than on FFN, though it happens on both. I don’t know about seasonal production patterns on Wattpad.

Which site ends up with the most deleted or unpublished works?

Update: With huge thanks to @zz9pzza for clarifications about AO3 and examples -- I’ve rephrased most of the following from them: As of a system update around 4 years ago, AO3 only assigns 1/3 of possible story IDs to actual stories (to avoid numbering collisions), which means that most of the “missing” story IDs were never actually assigned. For instance, the following sequence of story IDs would be assigned: [16686808, 16686811, 16686814, 16686817, 16686820, 16686823]. Some quick estimates lead to thinking AO3 may have more like a 14% deletion rate -- far lower than what I show in terms of missing story IDs.

Do the other platforms also have similar explanations for their large missing ID rates? Not necessarily -- FFN does not appear to be doing a similar thing currently (Nov 2018); there are recent sequences of several ID numbers in a row corresponding to actual stories (e.g.: 3119884, 3119885, 3119886, 3119887). Wattpad also does not appear to be skipping IDs, as I found some pairs of IDs in a row, and recent sequences of story IDs with very few missing (e.g., 159620101, 159620102, 159620104, 159620108, 159620110). So while these platforms may not have assigned all possible IDs, but I can’t detect any regular pattern to what’s missing, as is the case for AO3.

I updated the slide up at the top, but in case you clicked through from an older reblog, here it is again:

/Update

AO3 and Wattpad both assign a new story ID to each new draft of a work, meaning that all unpublished works have URLs that don’t correspond to stories (edit: but as mentioned in the update above, AO3 doesn’t assign all possible IDs to stories). FFN only assigns a new story ID at the time that a new work is published. All platforms also end up with some published works being deleted, either by the author or the platform (works can be deleted for being spam or violating TOS -- e.g., being explicit on FFN). Thanks to Finn for this info -- see their post for more details.

As expected from the fact that it doesn’t assign story IDs for unpublished works, FFN has the lowest missing work rate fewer missing story IDs than Wattpad -- but it’s all due to deletions of previously published works (some done by FFN, which has done a number of mass deletions due to TOS changes, and some presumably by the works’ authors) Wattpad has the highest missing story ID rate, but it’s unclear what that indicates. Many of these Wattpad works could be drafts that haven’t made it out of draft form yet. And some (maybe a lot) of the IDs may never have been assigned to a story in the first place; that is a side effect of some methods of database construction. It also seems (based on notes in the summaries and titles) that on Wattpad it’s very common for authors to revise works that have already been published, and it’s possible that many authors use Wattpad’s “Unpublish” option to temporarily revert existing works to drafts. I also found a few cases of spam/advertisements in the sample of 100 fanworks I hand classified, so possibly Wattpad has such a high missing works rate in part due to spam takedowns.

Detailed methods

I used AO3 Work Search to determine the exact numbers for AO3.

All sites assign higher story IDs (the numbers found in URLs) to more recent works, so on the remaining two sites, I found the highest newly published work ID I could and used it as a maximum. For Wattpad, the max story ID was about 160M. For FFN, it was about 13M. I sampled 9000 URLs on Wattpad, of which 1176 had stories. I sampled 3500 URLs on Fanfiction.net, of which 2048 had stories. (Feel free to use the data for your own analyses.)

(Aside: more recently, I’ve seen a few MUCH higher story IDs on Wattpad -- closer to 650M. So I did several samples of 1000-2000 URLs using that higher number, and I couldn’t find any stories with IDs over 167M; it seems like there are very few with the much higher numbers. I also double checked my belief that story IDs were assigned in order that drafts were created by graphing date published against story ID and found it to be accurate -- there were a few stories published long after their story IDs were assigned, but generally there was an increase in story ID by date published.)

In both cases, I drew the samples in batches of 500-2000 fanworks at a time, and I averaged the estimates I got from each subsample. For Wattpad, I got a mean estimate of 20.83M fanworks overall (stdev = 1.42M; stderr = 0.50M) and 5.11M works in the “Fanfiction” genre (stdev = 0.60M; stderr = 0.19M). For FFN, I got a mean estimate of 7.65M fanworks (stdev = 0.19M; stderr = 0.08M).

I found a kludgey way to search FFN that I *think* returned most/all of the works on the site. The results contained 7.60M works (close to my estimate of 7.65M), so that also strengthens my confidence in my estimates.

[more toastystats]

#fandom stats #wattpad #ao3 #ffn #fansplaining #fffinnagain #cross platform comparison #my stuff #toastystats #50 #100

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