#the worry usually never ideates the disaster quite right

[apparitionism]

Appreciation 3

Considering the prompt “Culture/Holidays/Anniversaries/Special Occasions,” I first thought of how anniversaries are a keeping count, with the hope/expectation that the count will continue. That went nowhere, so I wondered: what makes a given day holy? How do we—why do we—sanctify? Still no luck. Then: what is a “special occasion”? Do we know it when we see it? Do we know it for what it is when we see it? Or do we perhaps resent it? That seemed a bit more productive.

The “story” for this day’s work (which follows day 1’s “Architecture” and day 2’s “Bridge,” in sequence at the very least) goes a little like this...

Worry

Adam Phillips, “Worrying and Its Discontents.” On Kissing, Tickling, and Being Bored: Psychoanalytic Essays on the Unexamined Life. Cambridge, Mass.: Harvard UP, 1993.

  [W]hat worries are used for—what kind of medium of exchange or currency they become in one’s relationship with other people and oneself—may be as revealing as what prompts them. (The question may not be “What are you worried about?” but “Whom is this worry for?”).... It is, of course, easy to forget that worries are imaginative creations, small epics of personal failure and anticipated catastrophe. They are, that is to say, made up.

  [....]Worrying implies a future, a way of looking forward to things. It is a conscious conviction that a future exists, one in which something terrible might happen, which is of course ultimately true. So worrying is an ironic form of hope.

****

“I have to go home,” Myka says, and Helena hears worry. Just a quaver.

“Has something happened?” she asks, but obviously something has, or Myka would never have said “have to.”

“Sort of,” Myka says.

Helena braces herself.

“My dad’s getting an award.”

Well. Not what Helena would have predicted, certainly, given Myka’s tone, but then again Myka does from time to time imply, and even perceive, catastrophes where none exist. A bit ironic, that, given how often she suggests that Helena tends to escalate unnecessarily.

She waits for Myka to continue, but no additional words are forthcoming. To bridge the silence, she says, “That’s... good news?”

“I never had any idea he was doing what they’re giving it to him for.”

That doesn’t seem fully responsive to Helena’s question—or is it? Keeping her voice neutral, Helena asks another: “Which is?”

“Giving books to kids. Books. To kids. Not kids kids, but older kids, and not just any books—textbooks, things they say they want to study—sciences, literature, public health, architecture, stats, archaeology, everything. I can’t believe it. Can you believe it?”

Helena knows her own belief is in no way the issue. She stays silent, and Myka continues, “So now I have to go and say ‘sorry I never knew you were doing this amazing thing.’”

Silence again, now from Myka. Helena waits, waits... then waits more, but because silence should not last forever, as she is sensing this might, she breaks it with, “How did you learn about this award?”

A break it was, for it looses a flood: “My mom called and told me. Then I went and read the press release. Because there was a press release! And then I did a whole search, and I found all these articles in the paper about this—about him doing this—for years, and it was just local to start, but then he was able to scale it up statewide, so I guess I have to say those ‘sorry I never knew’ words, not to mention, ‘sorry I assumed you weren’t capable of this kind of thing.’”

Myka doesn’t tend to pace, but she has paced throughout this overflow, walking the length of the bedroom, door to night table and back again. Helena, who has been sitting on the bed, is loath to interrupt the physicality of her thought.

As Myka reaches the door for what may be the fifth time (Helena hasn’t kept count, so unnerved was she by the pacing in the first place), she seems taken aback to find herself there, or to be faced with its implacable physicality. “No, that’s wrong, about the sorry,” she tells it. “It’s ‘sorry I never even thought about you as someone who would do this kind of thing.’” She lays her hands on the surface, perhaps in thanks for the insight, then comes to the bed and sits next to Helena. She breathes out—Helena knows that exhale for irritability—and says, “I just figured out how not to resent him so much. But now I have to appreciate him.”

“You don’t have to do anything,” Helena says. That may not be what Myka needs to hear, but Helena expects—well, hopes—that Myka’s response to her having said it will make something clear.

“What about your father?” Myka demands.

So much for clarity. “What about him?” Helena asks. This truly can have nothing to do with her own father; she is sure of that. One then-now dissimilarity Helena has been completely unable to impress upon Myka is the difference between children’s understandings—expectations—of their parents. She won’t try again now, however. “I can say he never provided books to the academically ambitious. As far as I know.”

“Ha! See? All we know for sure is that Colorado Springs never gave him the Spirit of the Springs Award.”

“I doubt Bromley has—rather, had—such an award.”

“Are you sure, though? Because you might have to do this weirdo reassessment too.” She’s trying to equate, or at least to identify cognates... but where none exist. “You might have to do it now. Let me google your dad, and we’ll see what he—”

“Myka.” Helena has googled her father. All her family members. “If I might reorient you.”

“To what?” She actually has her telephone in her hand.

“Appreciating one aspect doesn’t mean appreciating everything. I myself am evidence of that. Haven’t I done some things worthy of appreciation?”

“Of course you have.”

That’s Myka’s “reassuring” tone, and while Helena would like to sink into its warmth, here she raises a hand to move it away, saying, “But by no means everything, correct?”

“But extenuating circumstances,” Myka says, yet with a sickly cast; she’s of course discerned where this argument is going.

Helena nods. “I’d like to imagine so,” she says, and follows it with what she knows Myka doesn’t want to hear. “Your father might claim the same.”

That earns her a peevish, “Why are you defending him?”

“I’m defending myself. If you take your critical stance to its logical end, I suffer as well.”

Myka sighs overdramatically. “Don’t make me do this.”

While Helena doesn’t want to be didactic (well, some of the time), she feels she has to say, “I’m not making you do anything. What I’m making is a selfish argument about the ethics of praise and blame.”

“Okay, supergenius,” Myka says, and her use of one of Pete’s preferred sobriquets makes her continued agitation extremely clear. “You did make the argument. You made it so well that you have to come with me. Don’t argue. It’s a rule.”

Helena had expected Myka to follow that with a softening smile, but none seems to be forthcoming, so she tries to inject some lightness into the scenario. “This seems a rule of quite recent invention. And limited applicability.”

“Do you want to fight me on this?” Myka asks, with no lightness at all.

Helena tells the truth: “Not at all. I want to observe how you deal with this.”

“Sociology,” Myka groans. “Great.”

It is sociology, and it has to do with a difference Helena has difficulty grasping fully: Myka is always anxious of going home (or “home,” for that word stands in for “my parents’ house in Colorado Springs,” a linguistic shorthand that Helena initially and mistakenly found offensive) because, as she had put it when Helena pushed her for an explanation, “I don’t like who I am there.” Helena can’t deny her interest in this strange, modern slippage (strange because modern? or strange and modern?) between child-self and adult-self... or perhaps it’s world-self and home-self. In any case, yes: sociology.

Myka says, “I know you like to watch me lose it.” It’s not quite an accusation, more an acknowledgement, a this-is-what-I-let-myself-in-for acquiescence.

“Not true,” Helena says, but she has to concede, “however, I’m fascinated by the circumstances under which you do.”

“I really need to keep it under control for this. Can I?”

Because Myka does in fact sometimes “lose it,” Helena says, in the interest of accuracy, “I have no idea. “

“Come on, don’t be like that... have an idea! Be that supergenius! Help me do it!”

Helena takes her seriously. She tries, “You might recognize that children received help. And the effect on them is most likely objectively good, regardless of the effect on you.”

It doesn’t rise to a level supportive of “supergenius,” Helena is reasonably certain... but it does give Myka pause.

After thinking, Myka says, “I was the kind of kid he would’ve given those books to.”

“As I understand it, he did give you books. Perhaps little else you found to be of value, but books, he did give you.”

“Are you defending him again?”

“I’m stating what I understand to be a fact. I believe this entire situation will be enhanced by attention to facts.”

“And not feelings?” They have had numerous facts-versus-feelings debates. Some have occurred out loud, in explicit terms... but some have been subterranean, glints off the vast waters of uncertainty that lurk between and below them.

They have yet to address so much... but for now, Helena says, “Feelings? Not if you intend to go home and take me with you. Feelings won’t help with that.”

Myka shakes her head. “That doesn’t make any sense, because I’m pretty sure feelings help me intend to take you with me. Because if not for feelings I wouldn’t intend to take you with me. I’d just go and do this thing, which I know I have to do, without you.” That sounds like everyday, resolute Myka. Then she softens. “But I’m glad—and grateful—that I don’t have to do it without you.”

She kisses Helena, as if a seal on the confession.

Not that Helena wouldn’t have known both her gladness and her gratitude to be true—but that Myka has spoken it aloud is new. And she’s done so seemingly without any of the resistance that, Helena has inferred, has adhered to Myka’s earlier, implicit acknowledgements that rigorous self-sufficiency might perhaps have its drawbacks, and consolation its... consolations.

Her inferences may be right; they may be wrong. But she is glad—and grateful--to be the person, now, whom Myka admits, via spoken invitation, to her concerns. To her catastrophes.

END

Note:

In these seven days of appreciation, I’m playing, extremely loosely, on sestina construction. I’m not writing a sestina stanza to go along with each part of the prose, but pieces of possibility are floating around in my head, so here’s what might be today’s stanza of that dream-poem (though any bit of poetry—or “poetry”—I purport to write is never anything more than a pastiche of an admired other):

“I have to go home,” she says, speaking worry and fear of the here-to-there bridge, as imagined catastrophes gnash at her voice. The family gathers as weighty architecture, each wing freighting mass on the scale, time-grown heaviness stressing the house.

[rocket-remmy]

Spare Me (Part 1)|| Alain and Remmy

Remmy and Alain go for a nice walk and talk.

Content warning: Suicidal ideation, assisted suicide discussion

The apartment was quiet. Remmy didn’t like the silence that had been following them since the ringing in their ears had stopped. Since the screaming had made their throat feel raw. Remmy wasn’t used to this quiet kind of sadness. Sadness was supposed to be loud and terrible and tears. Not a quiet pain in their chest, their unbeating heart slowly sinking. Yet, here they were. They needed to find an answer, and they knew where they needed to go to find one. They slipped the bracelet off their wrist and set it gently on the nightstand.

Moose was sitting by the door, just waiting. He knew Remmy was getting ready to head out, but he was still under the impression he was going with. Like he always did. Like he was trained to do. He even had his leash sitting next to him. But he couldn’t go this time. He didn’t need to see this.

They gave him a pat on the head and another jerky chew, leading him away from the door, before slipping out and locking it. If Alain was right, then this was for the better. Blanche would be back soon to take care of Moose and it would all be okay.

The bus ride there wasn’t long, even if it felt as if it were. Remmy stepped off, double checked the address, and turned to head towards Alain’s. Maybe it would be nice. Maybe he would tell them they weren’t dangerous and it was a mistake and they could accept Lydia’s words at face value-- that they weren’t a monster, that they couldn’t hurt anyone like this, that they didn’t have to blame themselves for everyone dying. Remmy reached the front door and stopped. It was a nice house. Maybe one day they could live in a nice house, too. They knocked, and waited. And when Alain answered, they already knew the answer, just by his face. They looked up at him with weary eyes, unwavering.

“Can, um...can we walk the dogs first?” 

Alain had been working in his garden the whole morning. Hyacinths, begonias and even a black locust. Keeping himself busy, he did not have time to think about things that troubled him, and in fact, he even found himself daydreaming about pleasant things. He had a nice time at Dell’s with Erin and Cassie last night, and was glad to call the two women his friend, and now that he could drive and drink again, he would finally be able to keep his promise to Evelyn and visit her at the Artesian. That one was making him a bit anxious. He did not remember the last time he was surrounded by the kind of people you found there. Or maybe he remembered exactly when that last time was.

It was when he saw the sun up high in the sky that he noticed how much time he had spent there. Still he was rather proud of his work and he stood in the middle of his garden for a moment, enjoying the sunshine that warmed up his skin. Life wasn’t so bad. Heading back inside, that’s when the hunter first saw Remmy, walking on the lane that led to his place. He had never seen them, but he still knew. Not because of his radar, not that he would ever have the heart to tell Blanche or Remmy that he did not even detect zombies, but because they had told him that they would come, and that you could tell from the way they carried themselves, that they were worn out. 

He got rid of his gardening apron and gloves and headed to the front door. He looked down at them, a frown on his face and with a cold look in his eyes, one people never usually saw during the day. “Okay,” he left the front door open and disappeared for a moment to get his coat, hunting knife and some shoes that were just a bit better than the rubber boots he was wearing right now. The hunter whistled and there they went, Remmy, him and the dogs, for a walk in the White Crest countryside. The weather was ideal, and it did not change much of what he had planned. 

It was such a nice day out, for winter. Maine winters sure were different from the frigid winds that plagued most of the Wyoming cities. Remmy waited patiently for Alain to return with the dogs, before turning to head down the lane with him. It was nice. They talked about the dogs, and cars, and Remmy told him about how their dad had worked at a mechanic’s garage and how they’d always liked the idea of it, but weren’t sure they wanted to follow so closely in his footsteps. By the time they made it back to the lane that led up to the house, the sun was dipping down below the treeline, but not quite the horizon, a spackling of orange in the sky. Remmy took one last look at it before heading into the house behind Alain. He wasn’t a bad guy at all. In fact, Remmy quite liked him, and the weight of what they were about to ask him to do hung hard on their chest. Even if Lydia had said that they weren’t a monster, that they were still a person, it only took one person to think they were dangerous for them to believe it themself, too. Especially if it was someone like Alain. He didn’t deserve this burden, but Remmy didn’t know where else to turn. The books didn’t have answers, Lydia didn’t have the answer, not even Cassie or Blanche or Morgan or Skylar had the answer. Only Remmy, and Alain.

“Am I dangerous?” they finally asked, breaking the sad silence that had drifted over them the past few days like a cloud. “Am I going to-- hurt someone? Even if I...stay fed?”

Alain could easily see why Blanche had gotten attached with Remmy. If he had remained mostly silent most of the time they had been talking out here, Alain could still notice the kindness transmitted by them. That did not change a thing in his book. Was it more difficult? Yes. He did not usually waste his time having conversations with his preys. As they entered the house, Alain quietly took off his coat, kicked off his shoes and left in the kitchen to go feed his boys. "Et voilà," he squatted down to pet them for a few seconds. It had been minutes since Remmy asked the fatal questions, still he remained quiet. He already knew what he would tell her so this was not him gathering his thoughts. What bothered him was Blanche. This would destroy her. And still he would not change his mind because he knew deep down that he was right, that his morals were right even if most people were horrified by those. 

"Qualify dangerous." He liked a riddle, but he wasn't going to be cruel and let her answer that question for him. "You, Remmy, are like a loaded gun. Maybe you'll never fire a bullet, but it only takes one of these to kill someone. You of all people must know that," the analogy wasn't picked randomly, of course. "Are you really willing to spend a life time eating brain?" He personally liked eating that, but eating it every day, or even every week would made him sick of it. 

Alain was being very quiet, and Remmy wasn’t sure they liked that. They didn’t know the answer to his question, but luckily, it wasn’t a question. The bullet metaphor wasn’t lost on them. Their face dropped in shame, eyes darting to their feet. Hands balled in fists, ticking off one by one. A nervous habit. Counting always calmed them down. “That’s not the part I’m worried about,” they said honestly, “I just want to know...what I am. What I’m capable of. Th-the good and the bad. Because Lydia said I’m not-- I’m not a mon-- I’m no more dangerous than you or anyone else. B-But none of the books would tell me anything useful, and every thinks Zombies are like-like from World War Z or The Walking Dead, but they’re not. We’re not. And I just need to know,” the said, exasperated now, “if there’s any chance I could lose control or snap a-and hurt someone. Anyone. But especially….” Blanche. “I couldn’t live with myself if I ever…” But no more words came out. They stood silently, waiting for an answer they already knew.

"You are what we call a zombie, or a draugr." Alain paused. He liked the second term as the first was associated with too many cultural items and made people think that zombies were actually harmless since they were not roaming around with no goal other than eating people. That was false. "World War Z does not have zombies anyway," he corrected them. The movie was awful and even got the zombie part wrong as far as movie zombies were concerned, but that was off the point.

"You have lost control once. I don't know by what miracle Blanche made it out alive," the hunter reached for a notebook in his shelves. He took notes of each and every encounter he had with the undead. And while zombies were not really his most hunted, every single time he killed one, it was because he caught them eating someone. "We could wait for you to hurt someone to do something," he handed over the notebook to her and sat against his dinner table. "Or we are realistic and don't wait for a disaster that will eventually come," this would hurt. Not Remmy, because we're they really able to feel anything (and so where they really not a monster ?) ? But Blanche, and he would be indirectly a casualty too. She would never forgive him. He had made his peace with that fact the day he called her a disappointment. Although apparently his harsh comments had not been enough to drive her away from him. She was delusional. This was the only reason why she still spoke to him, he told himself. 

“I know,” Remmy answered quietly. But they took the book from him and stared at the pages. Detailed accounts of each zombie he’d killed. And vampires. Remmy didn’t know what to do with the book once they looked up, so they just set it, still open to the page he’d handed it to them on, on the table. “It was Moose,” they answered quietly, “he’s the reason she’s alive.” They didn’t sit, just stood at the other end of the table, watching him. It pained them to know what the result of this was going to be. That he would get hurt in this crossfire, too. “I’m sorry,” they said quietly, head lowering, their gaze sticking to the floor, “you shouldn’t have to deal with this. I-I’m sorry this is your responsibility now.” They didn’t know how to say the words. But they knew Alain was right. Remmy would snap again, and then who would they go after? Who would they hurt? They couldn’t let that happen. “I don’t want to wait until I hurt anyone,” was their answer.

Alain had carefully ignored her comment about them being no more dangerous than he was. After all, if he was the dangerous one, why would she be the one that had to die. By his hand especially. He did not reply when they confessed that Blanche owed her life to a dog. He was not surprised, not really. No zombie could control themselves, could they? They saw blood, and bam. "Don't apologize," he stood up from his chair and sighed, "it's my duty to protect the people from elements like yourself, or vampires. People who died and came back more dangerous, with a thirst, a hunger that is neither normal nor controllable." If they had lost their arm, then they probably wondered what things had to be done to get rid of them. And that part was not pretty. Beheading, he usually cut them in three parts with an axe after that, and then threw it all in a big fire. That part he had to get started. "I'll go make a fire in the garden," he simply said, and opening the glass door at the back, he headed toward a shed to get logs and smaller twigs to get it burning quickly.

Remmy lifted their eyes enough to watch him go. People like them. Undead. People who should have never come back. Did they deserve this second chance that everyone told them they had? Nora, Lydia...words sticking in their head. But all they could think about was Dario. And Andrews. And Lancer. None of them deserved to die, either. How come they weren’t given the second chance? Why was it Remmy still standing? Could chance really be so cruel? When Alain started up the fire, Remmy snapped back to reality. Their vision was blurry with tears, and they wandered slowly over to the door, watching the fire build. “Is it...gonna hurt?” they asked, stepping outside. Took their phone and wallet out and set them on the table out there, as well as the key Blanche had given them. They hoped she’d forgive them someday.

“Did it hurt when you lost an arm?” Alain already knew the answer to that question.Of course it did not. How could you feel pain when you were a walking corpse. Remmy had to realise that whatever she had been told by their so called friends, were lies. Lies, spoken to make these people feel better. They deserved the truth and he was happy to provide that. It was not as pretty and sugar coated but it was still worth a lot more than a big pile of bullshit. “It’s only natural, people die and they cannot come back.” This was in the order of things. “Blanche is in denial, Nell is in denial,” lying to yourself was never a good idea. It was not healthy. It would in the end hurt them. “It won’t take long, I promise,” he left them in his backyard, walked across the house to get his sword, and came back holding it in his right hand. His grip was not too bad, all things considered. And anyway, he had always been taught never to fight with his left hand.

People die, and they cannot come back. Remmy’s eyes filled with tears again and they dried them away quickly with the sleeve of their sweater. They didn’t say anything else to Alain as he went back into the house to grab something else. Instead, they went over to the fire and sat in front of it. How had they gotten here? They’d struggled for so long with accepting their survival. They remembered laying around for days at a time staring at the ceiling, wondering why it was them. They’d never wanted to die, but there had been times when death had seemed like the better option. At least then they wouldn’t be alone. At least then they wouldn’t be in pain. And now they were going to have to put other people through this pain. It stung, it burned. It almost made them want to get up and leave before Alain got back, but they couldn’t do that. He was right. People die, and they shouldn’t come back. By the time Alain got back, Remmy had pulled their sweater off and set it next to their stuff on the table and gone back to sitting in front of the fire. They looked up at him. “Tell Blanche to...take good care of Moose.”

[inalandofmythandtimeofmagic]

Daymares

@i-am-me-i-am-sam you asked for more so here you go..

The rest of Red and White 

Prince lets his Imagination get away from him and accidently manifests the shadow versions of themselves. 

Warnings: Some violence, charecter death, ummm......some vauge suicide ideation. let me know if I missed something 

@the-prince-and-the-emo @prinxietys @prinxietyhell This is my first REAL stab at angst so tell me how i did?

http://archiveofourown.org/works/10551892/chapters/23306360

Something had happened. He didn’t know what, but something. He was doubled over in pain, his lungs burned and he couldn’t catch a breath. His heart was beating hard against rib cage, but it felt slowed. In fact it felt like the whole world had slowed down, like in one of those cheesy disaster movies. He didn’t understand, he’d been fine two seconds ago. Now he was certain he was dying. He pressed a hand to his stomach, where the most pain was coming from. It came away bloody. In a panic he raised his hoody and t-shirt up, staring in horror at the perfectly clean skin. In fact he couldn’t find where the blood was coming from, it was just there. He felt completely crippled by fear and pain, but when he heard the wail, the one so full of heartbreak and pain and panic that was undoubtedly Morality, he somehow managed to get his feet moving under him. He crashed through his door, half running half falling down the stairs. Logan was behind him, clutching to his sweatshirt for support and they rounded the corner together.

At first all he could see was Morality’s back as he knelt on the floor, wracked with heaving sobs. Anxiety felt as though he was running through mud trying to get to him. Logan reached the kneeling man first, reaching out to grab his shoulder but freezing in horror before he could. The fear of the last few moments had nothing on what he felt now as he took the last step. He knew what he would see, there was only one of them unaccounted for. He fell to his knees, tears burning down his face. The love of his life lay on the floor, face sheet white and lips stained red with blood. He eyes tracked down Prince’s body to his stomach where a sword was protruding. It’s hilt was green and twisting, patterned with an exquisite scale design. Morality had wrapped the sweater that normally hung from his shoulders around the base, it was already soaked through with blood. Anxiety could feel the pain of it, felt the weakness from the loss of blood. Worst of all, worst of all he could feel his heartbeat. No longer pounding it was weak and terrifyingly slow.

“What do we do?” Morality was asking over and over again, and each time Logan told him he didn’t know.

“Roman?” Anxiety asked grasping his pale hand and gently cradling his head in the other. Prince’s head turned towards him but it takes his eyes a moment to focus on him. Once he knew who he was his face lifted into a ghost of his usual grin.

“Hey love,”

“What happened?”

“Oh you know. My daydream got away from me a little bit.” then he laughed which dissolved into a cough as more blood speckled his mouth. “I thought” again he was interrupted by a cough.

“It's okay I don't think you should talk.”

“No I have to tell you. I wanted to vanquish my biggest villain so I conjured up my shadow self.” Prince’s voice was weak barely a whisper now, but he kept talking despite Anxiety’s attempts to shush him. “actually all of ours, I honestly thought I could defeat them. The dark versions, our shadows, really our opposites.” he looked around at the others as he said this, but then his gaze quickly returned to Anxiety and he even tried to sit up a little. “It's okay Anx you just have,” his coughing fit was much worse this time. Blood seeped from his lips and across his white shirt.

“Roman?” but Prince’s eyes were lifeless, his body still and no longer his. An inhuman cry was torn from his throat as he collapsed on his chest, fisting handfuls of of the dead boys clothing. The physical pain he had been feeling before was gone but this, this was so much worse.

The next thing he felt was Thomas pulling on him, summing him into the real world.

“No”

“Anxiety I don't know what's happening, I'm so scar..” Thomas cut himself off as he looked at his side. Anxiety knew what he was seeing, the blood, the tears, the pain. “What happened?” Thomas asked on a breathless whisper.

Anxiety's mouthed opened and closed, there were no words.

Morality had collapsed onto Logic’s chest. His sobs were a stark contrast to Logan’s blank, shocked stare. Neither of them heard the man walk up, they never even realized he was there until he pulled the sword from their friends body.

He was dressed in black, with a brilliant green sash and silver brocade. A crown crafted of black metal sat lopsided on his head. He sent them a smirk before casually sauntering out of the room.

The room was silent, painfully so. Thomas had gathered his three remaining sides in an attempt to figure out what to do, but he couldn’t think. Not a single idea came to mind, which made sense. His creativity was dead, his dreams and fantasies felt out of reach like he couldn’t quite remember what they were. Anxiety knew because he could feel it, they all could. Thomas’ desperation was sharpening their own grief. Even now tears were still falling silently from Morality’s eyes, and the only way you’ld be able to get Logic’s attention would be to throw a brick at him.

“You guys called a meeting without me?” The voice was dry and bored, it didn’t match the terror it inspired in the room. Morality let out a small sound of fright, but he stepped between Prince’s opposite and Thomas, also putting himself closest to the green and black clad man. Anxiety could see Dad tremble slightly, but his chin was lifted. Anxiety was surprised how much it comforted him and when Logic took a small step forward he followed suit. “Oh calm down, I’m no threat to you.”

“You killed our friend!” Logic shouted in outrage.

“Only so I could take his spot, I have no need or desire to kill you.”

“Take his spot?” Thomas asked but it was rough, barely a whisper, “Who are you?”

“Why I’m Conformity. You know, social norm, I’m here to help you by making sure you do exactly what society expects of you. Don't worry kid, with me you’ll have an office job, a wife, and 2.5 kids in no time. No more pushing boundaries, believe me kid, sacrificing your individuality for a place in society is noble.”

Anxiety bristled at the word that had for so long been reserved for Prince, even more so when he saw the acceptance wash over Thomas’ face. No. It couldn’t happen, they couldn’t let this, this thing, become a part of Thomas’ personality. Roman’s last words echoed through his head, It's okay Anx you just have, to what? Have to what?

Thomas dismissed them, it hurt to see him this way. Anxiety was drowning in guilt and grief when he remembered all the times he had wished Thomas was more “Normal”, he wished he could take back all the times he had shot down Prince’s ideas. He would do anything to take it back.

He was now curled tightly against Morality’s side as they sat on his bed and watched Logan pace.

“We could kill him.” Anxiety had had the thought before, but he was very surprised to hear it coming from Morality’s mouth. Logic nodded, considering this for a moment.

“We could, we know it’s possible now. What we don’t know is what would happen to Thomas, could he function with just the three of us? Would it leave a vacuum to be filled by something else? Something worse?”

The what if game. It’s what Anxiety did, pretty much his whole job. Before the grief had drowned everything else out, but Logic’s words sparked a maelstrom of what ifs.

“There’s something else you have to consider,” They jumped at the sound of the unfamiliar voice. Standing in the doorway was someone who looked unsettlingly like Dad. Were Morality wore a light blue polo this man wore an orange one with the collar popped. A purple version of Dad’s sweater was tied round his waist and in place of Dad’s glasses were a pair of retro shades. “Conformity wasn’t the only one your precious Prince brought to life.”

“Indeed not.” Another stepped up behind him and it was obvious this was supposed to be Logic’s opposite. The sleeves of his white shirt rolled to his elbows and his deep orange tie pulled loose. “I’m Instinct, this is Chaos.” He said pointing back to Morality’s dopple. Speaking of Morality, Anx could no longer feel him pressed against his side.

Chaos let out a maniacal laugh as he spotted Morality before Anx did. Dad was standing tall with a bow drawn and pointed right at his opposite. Instinct put a hand on Chaos’ shoulder and they both disappeared as Morality’s arrow sunk into the doorway where they had been standing.

Anxiety gave him a shocked look and he simply shrugged. “Left over from my summer camp days. Now boys, if you have any sort of weapons I suggest you get them now.”

“I don’t have any weapons.” Logan said, appalled.

“But you know how to make poison right?”

“Um,” Logan swallowed as if he didn’t quite like where this was headed, “Yes.”

“Perfect, I’ve got a dart gun I saved from Thomas’ childhood, you can lace the darts and use that to protect yourself.” Logic looked horrified, but who knew Dad would be so good in a crisis. It almost made Anx smirk. Almost. “What about you Anxiety?”

“Me, I don’t “ Morality gave him a hard look, “I have a revolver.”

“What! Why?” Logan asked, with each new revelation the logical trait had gone paler and paler, to the point that Anx was very much worried about him. He could feel the panic floating around his own edges, he began counting things trying to stay calm enough to function. Anxiety didn’t answer the question, instead he hurried to his room to fetch the gun he had hidden there.

The week had been miserable. The three sides were inseparable, glued together by grief, fear and paranoia. They had buried Roman, Thomas had thrown away his film equipment and had several job interviews lined up. They had only run into Conformity a few times, who didn’t seem to care for them one way or the other, with the exception of Morality, who had tried to shoot him several times. Logan was still skeptical of the idea, but Anx didn’t think Logan would agree to killing anything. It still surprised him, but maybe it made sense. Logan was the one who binged nature documentaries and spent hours pondering on the mysteries of life and creation, he could see why destroying one of those mysteries would be distressing to him. More often than not the blow gun hung limply from Logan’s fingers, unlikely to ever be used. As for his own revolver, well he’d never had the courage to pull the trigger before so why should he now. Anxiety had tried to lighten the mood by reminding Dad that Thomas was a lover not a fighter. Morality had not appreciated the stab at humor and solemnly replied that Thomas was a survivor.

They had not seen Instinct but they had heard Chaos. His laugh echoed through the house always just beyond reach. They had spotted him as he flung arrows at them with a twisting purple copy of Dad’s bow. It made Anxiety nervous, if Conformity had a sword like Roman’s and Chaos had a bow like Morality, then did Instinct have a set of Incredibly lethal darts? Almost more importantly, why hadn’t they seen his own opposite?

They were standing in the small kitchen, Logan and Anxiety attempting to quickly make food as Morality stood guard, arrow already notched. Brought by his own hunger, Conformity also tried to enter the kitchen and was blocked by Morality once again trying to murder him. The darker prince easily dodged Morality’s amateur archery, but apparently it was the straw that broke the camel's back and Conformity drew his sword with a snarl. Anxiety felt his stomach drop as Logan took a step back, face ashen with horror. Acting on sheer reflex, Anxiety caught Conformity’s wrist before he could swing his sword down on Dad. Conformity snarled again struggling to push Anxiety off him even as he drew his revolver, pressing the barrel into the other's gut.

Everyone’s attention was fixed. No one saw Instinct slip into the room. No one saw the dart that hit Logic’s neck. No one saw his face turn ash grey as he slowly sunk to the floor. In fact the only reasons they knew anything was wrong was the dizzy and nauseous feeling that swept over them and Logan weakly calling Dad’s name.

Morality spun around, letting loose an arrow the same moment Anxiety made himself squeeze the trigger. He stood in trembling shock, the sound ringing in his ears as Conformity slowly dissolved into a mass of grey smoke.

“Check on Logan!” Morality screamed as he chases after the trait he had only nicked. Slowly he turned to look at Logan who lay completely still, skin looking grey. Shakily Anxiety knelt next to him, Logan’s skin was already cold and it was painfully apparent that the other was already dead. He had felt it happen. Anxiety couldn’t breath, all he could hear was the gunshot over and over, tears obscured his vision. He was so lost in his own pain that he jumped nearly three feet in the air when Logan sat up with a gasp. He stared at the other for one frantic heartbeat before he launched himself at Logic, wrapping his arms tight around his neck and tackling him back to the ground.

“You're alive! How are you alive?” he sobbed into the other's neck.

“I got him,” Morality said breathlessly from the kitchen doorway. He was staring wide eyed at Logan. Almost as if he couldn’t believe it. Anxiety helped Logic to stand and Morality reached out and wrapped him in the gentlest hug, as if afraid the slightest touch would shatter him.

“Wait, If killing Instinct brought you back, then when I killed Conformity…” They all shared one horrified look with each other before they were running, sprinting, to the woods behind Roman’s mind palace.

They raced to the spot where the bridge crossed the small stream and Anxiety slid to his knees under the willow where they had buried Prince. “Where here.” he tried to shout as he began to dig out the still freshly turned soil but his voice was rough, barely a shaky whisper.

“We are here, we’re going to get you out.” Morality said loudly and there was an answering thud.Desperately the three dug as fast as they could, ignoring their bloody fingertips. Prince was diggin from his side, Anxiety found his hand first. He pulled on Prince’s arm as the other two tried to clear the earth around. Soon, though not as soon as Anxiety would have liked, Roman was laying in his arm gasping. Anxiety peppered his dirty face with kisses, refusing to let him go even as the others reached out for their own reassurance that their friend was alive and well.

“Took you long enough.” Prince finally heaved once he had caught his breath. Hysterical laughter bubbled up out of his throat and if it weren’t for Logan being the voice of reason he may not have ever moved again.

Back home they deposited Prince on his bed and Logan collapsed next to him. They exhausted pair were immediately asleep.

“I’m going to patch them up, roman really did a number on his hands when he broke through his coffin. While I’m doing that I need you to check on Thomas.”

His stomach dropped at the thought of being away from Prince even an instant, he shook his head violently.

“Anxiety, I need you to do this right now. I’d really like to stop Prince’s bleeding but I can’t do that if I have to go check on Thomas. Take a few breaths then go.”

Slowly Anxiety worked his way through one of the breathing exercises, materializing in Thomas’ room, looking around in puzzlement. He finally spotted him, he had pressed himself into a corner and drawn his knees up to his chest. Anxiety could hear him muttering and realized he was grounding, trying hard to stave off an attack. Slowly he sat down in front of him, gently placing one hand on his knee and waiting for Thomas to make eye contact with him.

“What’s happening?” He finally asked in a teary whisper.

“All good things, believe it or not.” Anxiety tried for his usual level of of confident sarcasm, Thomas gave him a look that said he definitely did not believe him. “I’m serious we’ve got prince back, I’m sure you felt that. We only lost logic for like a second. Now we know that these daymares can be defeated.” Although Chaos is still running around and we haven’t seen mine. He thought to himself. Well not really to himself as Thomas’ eyes widened and his heartbeat picked back up.

“Um...it’s been a crazy day. And I think sleep is the answer.”

“You always think sleep is the answer.” Thomas snorted, but he stood up and climbed under the covers.

“Well this time I’m right. Were so close to out of this mess.” He said trying hard not give shape to any of the doubts he felt.

“Anxiety?”

“Yes?”

“I threw out all my film equipment.” The poor kid sounded so heartbroken that Anxiety felt kinda bad when he let out a snort.

“Sorry,” He said to Thomas’ wounded look. “ Like we would let you do that, Dad saved that stuff as soon as your back was turned.”

Thomas smiled and settled into is bed.

“I’m gonna go cuz I know you don’t really sleep when I’m around. “ Thomas tried to protest but the exhausted boy was already mostly asleep. Anxiety smiled at him and slipped back into Thomas’ mind. Once inside he quickly made his way to his room, wanting to change and wash the blood and dirt from his hands, he probably should have done that before he saw Thomas. Oh well.

No in clean clothes he walked out of the bathroom and back into his own and was surprised to find someone sitting cross legged on his floor. He wore the same outfit as Anxiety but in blinding white. He smiled easily up at Anxiety and twirled Anxiety’s revolver between his fingers. He cursed himself for leaving it on the bed with his dirty clothes.

“Sit down.” The other man said, and his voice was so serene that Anx found himself doing as he was asked. Once he was seated, a mirror image of his opposite, the white clad man lay the revolver on the floor between them, as well as a gleaming white copy of it.

“Who are you?” He finally worked up the nerve to ask, “Why haven’t you killed me already?”

“Oh Anxiety, I don’t want to hurt you, I just want to take care of Thomas. You could call me,” He paused for a moment as if looking for the right word. “Hope.”

“Hope?”

“Yes, if you are Thomas’ doubt, his fears, his sense of mortality than i am the opposite. I am pure unadulterated self-confidence, hope and sense of invincibility. Can you imagine Thomas’ life with Morality, Prince Logic and me? Can’t you see how much happier he’d be? I could be a Savior for him”

Anxiety could see it, Thomas facing every situation with hope and self assurance. Taking risks and getting full nights sleep. Prince had said it, he dreamed up their opposites. Not necessarily evil versions of themselves, just opposites. Slowly Hope slid his beautiful white gun towards him. Anxiety picked it up examining it.

“Do this for thomas. He deserves to be happy, doesn’t he.”

Yes he does, Anx thought and raised the gun.

“Stop!” Prince called, letting the door fall open with a thud.

Anxiety jumped so hard he dropped the gun, turning to look at Roman. He looked fierce standing in the doorway. His hair was still a mess, dirt caked to him along with smears of blood. Even with his hands wrapped in white bandages until they were all but useless, he looked ready to fight the world and win.

“Prince this is best for every one, Hope will be a much better trait to have around. “

“Hope? That's not hope, don’t forget I dreamt him up. That’s Invincibility and trust me we do not want him around. Do you really want thomas swaggering around without a survival instinct, becoming some sort of crazed dare-devil adrenaline junkie?”

The thought caused a cold sweat to break out across his body, but Invincibility’s serene voice was still echoing through his head. “He will be happier.” He said in a broken whisper picking up the gun again and pressing it to his head.

“I swear to God, Anxiety, you pull that trigger and I will just kill him and bring you right back.” Anxiety could only stare, trying to figure out what to do. Carefully Roman tried to step closer to him. The movement caused Invincibility to Pick up Anx’s own gun and point at Roman. That was the only push Anxiety needed. While Invincibility’s attention was fixed on Prince he swung the gone around and shot his opposite. His body dissolved into grey smoke and Anxiety dropped the gun and heaved. Roman gathered him in his arms, rubbing soothing circles and whispering to him. It to Anx a minute before he could hear what Prince was saying. He was apologizing, over and over again.

“Why are you sorry?” Anxiety whispered, wiping tears from his face and turning so he could face Roman.

“I’m so sorry. This is all my fault, I know I can never do anything to earn forgiveness for this. I’m just so sorry, I’m so sorry.”

“I forgive you.”

“What?”

“I forgive you, of course I do.” He pressed a kiss to Roman’s forehead, realizing he was shaking just as much as he was.

“Come on we should go back to the others, they sent me to find you because you had been gone so long. “

In the hallway they ran into Morality, he smiled brightly at them despite the fatigue that was written into every line of his face. “Come on you guys, you had me worried. Get inside.”

Inside the room Chaos was waiting for them. He raised a finger to his lips pointing to Logan still asleep on the bed. “Isn’t he sweet.” He cooed, reaching out to sweep Logics bangs off his face. Morality bristled and would have charged forward if it weren’t for Prince’s hand on his elbow.

“Your bow is still down in the kitchen.” Anxiety whispered.

“I don’t care.” Morality growled, as Anxiety expected. Roman, however, had not seen mid-crisis Dad and was very surprised. Quietly Anx passed the gleaming white gun still gripped in his hand to Dad. Morality grinned an awful grin, calmy leveling the gun at Chaos. The wild traits face fell and he quickly lifted his hand off Logan who was now awake and frozen on the bed. One last shot rang out, the grey smoke that was once Chaos quickly dissipated.

Silence was all that filled the room for a moment. Prince propped an elbow on Anx’s shoulder and leaned heavily on him. “You should get some more rest.” Anxiety said giding him back to the bed.

“Yes,” Prince said, “I’m exhausted.” A look of horror passed over his face as he realized what he had done.

“Hi Exhausted,” Three matching groans filled the room. “I’m Dad.” The groans resolved into chuckles.

The four of them crammed together on Prince’s bed, quickly falling asleep. Yes there would be nightmares, yes there was a long road of healing ahead for Them and Thomas, but they were safe and warm and for a moment everything was okay.