#transferring this from ao3 to tumblr was a bitch

[bellaxgiornata]

Falling For the Devil [Part eight: "The First Date"]

Pairing: Matt Murdock x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and Matt finally have a first date.

Or

Matt has you thinking about his ass. A lot.

[Series of one-shots about Reader meeting, falling for, and dating Matt Murdock.]

Warnings: 18+ for this series; contains humor, fluff, romance, angst, smut (like...a lot of it later in the series), language, some violence

Word Count: 4.7k

a/n: Just now realizing all of you on tumblr will not get to witness the novels in my end notes that a lot of y'all love to tease me about over on AO3...maybe that's for the best! Enjoy the cute fluffy first date between Reader and Matt! And you can find the list of installments that are currently posted on tumblr for this series here! Enjoy because there's literally so many more of these I have yet to transfer over...

You were focused on sautéing the pan of vegetables while simultaneously keeping an eye on the pot of water you were waiting to reach a boil. 

It was Wednesday night, a few days after you’d returned from Foggy and Marci’s wedding. The pair of them were off at some island resort right now for the next two weeks for their honeymoon. After returning home the other night, you hadn’t heard much from Matt; him and Karen had been swamped at the office without Foggy and you had begun to think the date he’d talked about for this weekend wasn’t going to happen at this point. 

You’d also been busy today at The Bulletin and were currently still a bit frazzled from all of the run around. Some last minute political drama had occurred and Ellison had called for an all-hands-on-deck approach, which had meant you’d gotten off work late. Though Katy hadn’t missed her opportunity to grill you again about the weekend, and then she’d grilled you quite in depth about just how great of a kisser Matt really was. 

The pot on the stove decided it had reached a boil at almost the exact same time your phone started to ring on the counter behind you. With a huff you turned and quickly snatched the phone off of the counter, not bothering to check the screen to see who was calling before accepting the call. You assumed it was once again Katy with with more news on the political drama front and another excuse to grill you about Matt. You immediately wedged the phone between your ear and shoulder as you grabbed the box of soba noodles from beside the stove.

“So help me if you ask me about his ass one more time, Katy,” you said, tearing open the box of noodles, "I'm going to steal your yogurt. And I know how protective you are over your yogurt."

“Who’s ass?” Matt’s curious voice came through the line. “Mine? Or do I need to be concerned about competition?”

You nearly yelped when you heard his voice, dropping the noodles a bit too abruptly into the boiling water so that some of the water splashed onto your arm.

“Son of a bitch,” you cursed under your breath, pulling your arm back and rubbing where the water had burned you.

“Sweetheart?” Matt asked over the line.

“Sorry, I–I thought you were Katy,” you muttered, embarrassed. “And I just felt the vengeful wrath of some boiling water.”

“You okay?” he asked in concern.

“Yeah, fine,” you answered, stirring the pot of noodles.

He cleared his throat, the tone of his voice becoming a mixture of cocky and amused when he spoke again. “So you’re discussing my ass I take it?” he asked.

You paled, turning your back to rest against the counter as you awkwardly bit your thumbnail. “Katy was asking about my weekend at the wedding, and I told her that we…kissed.”

“Ahh,” he responded. “But what does that have to do with my ass?”

You rolled your eyes feeling your cheeks burn with embarrassment. “Nothing, she just didn’t believe nothing more happened with us sharing a bed. So she’s been asking me a million questions.”

“About my ass?” he pressed.

“Oh my God,” you breathed out, a hand rubbing at your forehead nervously as you cringed. “You have a really nice ass, Matt, okay? Is that what you wanted to hear me say?” 

“Do I?” he teased in a smug tone. “I wouldn’t know, I can’t see it.”

“You’re doing this on purpose, aren’t you?” you asked him flatly.

“A little,” he admitted. “But you sound distracted, what’s wrong?”

“You heard the news today, right?” you asked him, chewing your nail again.

“That scandal? With the senator?” he clarified.

“Mhmm, yeah. It’s been a crazy day at the office because of it. I just got home a bit ago,” you told him.

“I’m sorry, is this a bad time to call?” he asked.

“No, no you’re fine,” you assured him. “I’m just a little all over the place." You continued to anxiously gnaw on your nail, brows creasing together as you eyed the outdated tile of your kitchen floor. "What’d you call for? Not that I don't, you know, enjoy you calling,” you quickly added, "I just assumed there was a reason since I know you've been swamped, too."

“I wanted to see if you were still interested in going out this weekend,” he told you. “Saturday night? For dinner?”

“Oh,” you said, pleasantly surprised and thrilled that the date was indeed still happening. You opened your mouth to answer, but the sound of water loudly boiling over and the flames of the burner hissing under the pot drew your attention back to the noodles you’d been cooking. “Shit, no,” you groaned, racing over to the stove and lowering the flame before grabbing a spoon.

“No?” Matt asked hesitantly.

“What?” you asked distractedly, stirring the noodles.

"No you don't want to go out Saturday night with me?" he questioned carefully.

You shook your head quickly, setting the spoon back down. "No, no I meant yes," you told him.

"I am thoroughly confused now," he said with a faint chuckle.

You inhaled deep before blowing out the breath, trying to focus your mind on the conversation. "Yes, Matt, I would really like to go out with you Saturday night. Sorry, I got distracted with a pot of noodles."

"More or less distracted than you are by my ass?" he teased.

" Matt ," you nearly hissed, embarrassed. 

He laughed lightly over the line and you couldn't fight the smile on your face at the sound despite your embarrassment. 

"Sorry, I couldn't resist," he said, his laughter dying down. "How does that Thai restaurant by my place sound? I know you like it."

You smiled, nerves flooding your stomach at the thought of a date with him this weekend. "It sounds great," you answered softly. 

"I can meet you at your place," he offered. "At seven? We can walk there and I can walk you home?"

"That honestly sounds perfect," you replied. 

"Good, because I'm looking forward to it," he admitted, a smile in his voice.

"I am too, Matt. I really– motherfucker ," you cursed under your breath when the pot began to boil over again. "These damn noodles tonight!"

Matt barked out a laugh over the phone as you stirred the pot again, momentarily lowering the flame. 

"I'm going to stop distracting you," he said. "I'll see you Saturday at seven?"

"As long as I haven't burned my apartment down with these damn noodles," you answered. "I'll see you Saturday."

You chewed the bite of pad thai, thoughtfully thinking over the question Matt had posed. After a moment you swallowed, finally having an answer.

"Waitress," you said.

Matt snickered, dark brows rising above his glasses. "Wow, you were aiming high," he teased. 

"I was nine!" you shot back. "And the question was the weirdest thing you wanted to be when you grew up. They seemed nice, how was I supposed to know it wasn't a viable career choice?" You gestured your chopsticks at Matt as you asked, "What about you?"

"Dog groomer," he answered. 

"Wow, pretty quick with that one," you joked. "Just because you liked dogs?"

"Yeah," he answered, his chopsticks picking up some noodles from his plate. "Before the heightened senses, too. Probably would be torture to endure that now." He pulled a face. "Wet dog is not a pleasant smell, I can assure you."

You lightly tapped your chopsticks to your lips, eyes narrowed as you tried to think of another ridiculous question for the strange game you'd found yourselves in. "If you could have a lifetime supply of anything, what would it be?" you finally asked.

His head tilted to the side as he chewed, brows furrowing behind the red lenses. You picked up more noodles and tossed them into your mouth.

"Coffee," he answered. "I pretty much live on that now."

"Mmm, don't we all," you mumbled.

"Your turn to answer," he pointed out, shooting you a grin from across the table.

"Coffee was a good answer but…” you trailed off for a moment in thought. “I don't know, the only things I can think of would be terrible unless they were magically healthy," you decided.

"Like what?" he asked curiously.

"Mint ice cream, but a lifetime supply sounds like a terrible dietary decision," you replied.

Matt snorted into his water cup as he took a drink. "Why mint ice cream?" he asked as he set the glass back down. "Mint is like the toothpaste of the dessert world."

Your jaw dropped, your chopsticks full of noodles hovering just before your mouth. " Excuse me ?" you asked in mock offense. "Mint is literally the best combination with chocolate."

Matt chuckled, shaking his head. "I think you mean to say peanut butter is," he corrected. 

You shot him a flat look, lowering the chopsticks. "I said what I said, Matt."

"Alright, alright," he appeased, holding a hand up. "I suppose it means you'll at least taste like toothpaste when I kiss you afterwards."

Your cheeks reddened as your eyes dropped down to your plate, your chopsticks nervously pushing a few noodles around a piece of tofu.

"Kissing me still makes you nervous?" he asked curiously, his own chopsticks lowering as he focused on you across the table, his head tilted to the side.

Your left hand tucked a few loose strands of hair behind your ear, your gaze still on the plate before you. "I mean, sort of. But also, I'm now paranoid about the fact that I'm eating this and you’re probably going to think I have terrible breath afterwards," you admitted. 

Matt snorted a laugh, shaking his head. “No, really, I won’t. If anything you’re just going to taste exactly like the pad thai you’re eating,” he told you. “And lucky for you, I quite enjoy pad thai.” He shot you a coy smirk across the table, one that had the heat rising up from your neck to your cheeks. “I quite enjoy it a lot, actually.”

You swallowed hard, your eyes dropping back down to your plate. “I get a feeling you’re not talking about pad thai here,” you muttered nervously.

“No, I’m not,” he agreed.

Your eyes flew up from under your lashes, gazing at him nervously across the table. He stared at you behind the red lenses of his glasses for a long moment, neither of you eating. You could feel your breath coming in short under his stare. Half of you wanted to climb into his side of the booth and finish what you'd almost started Sunday morning in the hotel room, the other half of you wanted to go hide in the women's restroom for ten minutes trying to calm your racing heart and nerves.

Thankfully Matt cleared his throat, readjusting his glasses on his face and going back to his food. You felt the tension in your shoulders lessen now that his gaze had been diverted, as if he’d done that on purpose. Which, considering he was probably reading your body like a confusing book, he probably did.

“What’s your go-to excuse for getting out of plans?” he asked, scooping up more noodles and continuing the strange game of questions.

You tapped your chopsticks nervously on your plate for a moment, trying to recover from whatever that had just been. “You trying to keep it in mind in case I use it on you?” you asked him with a nervous laugh.

He grinned as he chewed, shrugging a single shoulder. “Maybe,” he answered.

“Depends,” you began to sheepishly admit, “I usually say I have a dentist appointment I forgot about.”

“But that wouldn’t work on a Sunday,” he pointed out.

“Well I guess people don’t think of calling me on Sundays with things I want to get out of,” you joked back.

Matt shot you a playful look across the table as he leaned forward and asked, “Do you want to go skydiving with me this coming Sunday?”

“Hmm,” you said, exaggeratedly tapping your chin with a finger. “I’m pretty sure I’ve got a dentist appointment on Sunday. You know, my dentist works twenty-four seven so I’m definitely not available.”

“Sounds like a busy man,” Matt teased with a suggestive smile.

Your eyes widened and you ducked your head, snorting out a laugh. Quickly you threw up a hand to cover your mouth.

“You don’t need to hide your laugh,” he told you, raising a hand and gesturing towards you. “I notice you often cover your face when you do. I think the little snorts are cute.”

“And just like that I feel like a farm animal,” you half-joked under your breath, face burning up.

He shook his head, his attention returning to his food. “You don’t need to be so self-conscious. I’ve heard that laugh a lot over this past year and I love it every time I do.”

You raised a hand to your burning cheeks, your ears definitely picking up on the way he’d said he loved it and not liked it. Nervously licking your lips, you asked him, “So what’s your usual go-to excuse?”

“Usually just that I lost track of time,” he admitted. “Which is easy to do when you can’t see the time plastered everywhere like everyone else can.”

Your cheeks were still burning as you tried to think of another question, and then your brain came up with something ridiculous and you blurted, “Would you rather fight a single horse-sized duck, or one-hundred duck sized horses?” 

Matt sat up abruptly in the booth, his head momentarily turning to the side as he eyed you. “That is a…very interesting question.”

“In the year that you’ve known me,” you asked him, “would you honestly expect anything else?”

He chuckled and shook his head. “No, and I’d be disappointed with anything less. I’d go with the horse-sized duck. Even though that’s terrifying to think of a duck that large attacking me.”

Your eyes narrowed as you took a sip of water, swallowing the liquid quickly before you set the glass back down. “You’ve told me you fought ninjas," you pointed out, "but a horse-sized duck is what terrifies you?”

“The one-hundred duck-sized horses attacking me would actually be more terrifying,” he admitted.

“Agreed,” you said. “I’d have much more luck running from a single giant angry duck.”

Matt’s hand reached across the small table, searching for a moment along the surface for the hand you had resting near your plate. Hesitantly you slid it closer to him, allowing him to grab it. His large, warm hand fully covered yours, a strange feeling stirring in your chest at the contact. As you stared at your connected hands, your heart began to beat a bit faster. Slowly your eyes slid up to Matt’s face where he was clearly fighting back a laugh. The sight only further stirred that strange feeling in your chest.

“I’ll protect you from the giant ducks, sweetheart,” he promised you, looking like he was fighting a losing battle with his laughter.

“Much appreciated,” you said with a grin.

Dinner continued on with the two of you finishing your game of questions before discussing how work had been this week. You'd told him more about the scandal that you were still hovering over your phone for news on, and Matt had told you about some of the things he was juggling while Foggy was on his honeymoon. Over this past year you'd already gotten to know most of the normal first date questions about each other's careers, families, and hobbies–which for Matt really just consisted of dressing up as Daredevil and beating criminals. You knew he'd intentionally tried to keep things light because you'd admitted to being nervous when he'd picked you up. Though, you were sure he was already aware of that before you even told him.

You were leading him out of the restaurant with his hand holding the crook of your arm now, a large smile on both of your faces. You’d enjoyed dinner and the jokes back and forth, and judging from how much laughing Matt had been doing, you’d assumed he’d enjoyed dinner, too.

"Hang on, let me get the door," you said, moving towards it once you’d reached the exit.

Matt gently tugged your arm back, shooting you a charming smile that had your stomach flipping as he released his hold on you and stepped forward, pressing his hand into the door and opening it for you.

"Maybe I want to get it for you this time," he pointed out as you stepped through. 

"Thank you," you said softly, stepping outside.

The night was warm as you awkwardly crossed your arms over your chest. Matt released the door and joined you on the sidewalk, holding out one of his hands towards you while the other held tight to his cane.

"I've walked you home or to your office countless times before," Matt said, "and I've always wanted to just hold your hand instead of your arm. Would that be okay?"

Your eyes fell to his awaiting hand. Without even having to think about it, you easily slipped your hand into his, enjoying the way the smile stretched further across Matt’s mouth when you did. He pulled you closer towards him, your shoulders brushing as he began to lead you both back towards your apartment. You were too busy gnawing on your lip, overly aware of each of his fingers interlocked between yours and wondering if you’d get an opportunity to kiss him again before the night ended–even if you were still worrying about having pad thai breath–to think of something to talk about.

“I enjoyed your company this evening,” Matt said, breaking the silence after a few minutes had passed.

“I enjoyed your company, too,” you admitted.

Matt’s hand gently squeezed yours and you smiled, your attention turning on him. His cane was lightly tapping along the sidewalk in front of him and there was a large smile spread across his own face underneath his glasses. He looked happy and that made your heart flutter in your chest. His gaze abruptly turned on you as he walked, the full weight of that bright smile nearly knocking you off your feet. 

“I like you,” Matt admitted. “Quite a lot, actually.”

“I like you, too, Matt,” you whispered.

His hand squeezed yours again and your stomach practically somersaulted in response. Briefly you wondered if he could hear some version of what he was doing to you.

“Enough to get me a second date?” he asked hopefully, his brows rising behind his glasses.

You laughed lightly, your eyes landing on the sidewalk in front of you as you walked. “Yes, definitely enough to get you a second date,” you agreed.

“Too early to ask for a third date?” he asked.

You laughed a little harder, your apartment building unfortunately coming into view as you did. “You might want to see if you still want that after a second date,” you told him.

“I’m already trying to plan a fourth date, actually,” Matt teased you.

Your cheeks flushed yet again this evening. How was it possible this wonderful man liked you so much? And how the hell had it taken you so long to realize it?

“This is me,” you mumbled, coming to a stop in front of your building. 

The two of you paused on the sidewalk, you turning and reluctantly releasing his hand as you faced him. You glanced up at him, your heart racing as you chewed the inside of your cheek. Should you invite him up? Were you even ready for what that actually entailed? Was he? You’d been wanting to sleep with Matt for so long, but now that the possibility of it was glaring you in the face, you were nervous. When was the last time you’d shaved? Was there a way to brush your teeth first so he didn’t just taste pad thai when he kissed you? Could he tell you hadn’t had a chance to do the dishes yet if he came up? Were your non-silk sheets going to be too scratchy for him to want to have sex on? Would he–

“Sweetheart, I can practically feel your body working itself up with a thousand thoughts at once,” he said lightly, his voice cutting through all the noise in your head.

You smiled sheepishly back at him, your arms nervously crossing over your chest again. “How can you possibly tell that?”

“Your heart rate increased the moment you let go of my hand,” he told you, a finger pointing at your chest. “Your blood pressure is elevated as well your body temperature. You’re rigid and you’ve been chewing the side of your mouth for a minute now nonstop. I can smell the adrenaline coming off you in waves.”

“Sorry,” you murmured.

He shook his head, stepping towards you and placing a hand on your shoulder. “Don’t apologize, just take a deep breath. You don’t need to be so nervous,” he assured you.

“Easier said than done,” you muttered.

“What’s got you so worked up?” he asked.

That question had you even more nervous. You couldn’t exactly lie because Matt would know–not that you wanted to lie to him. But telling him you were standing here wondering if you should ask him to come up to your apartment, which you were sure would translate to having sex, had made you wonder if your legs were recently shaved enough or if he’d find them prickly with his extra senses. Or that–

“Sweetheart,” Matt said, an amused smile on his face. “You’re doing it again.”

“Right, yeah, sorry,” you mumbled. Opting for the truth you said, “I was just contemplating inviting you up.”

“Were you?” he asked slowly, still smiling in amusement. “And apparently that has your body going into fight or flight?”

“Apparently,” you muttered under your breath, nervously tucking hair behind your ear.

Matt opened his mouth, about to speak, but the sound of your ringtone swiftly cut him off. You watched his mouth close, his head tilting to the side. You cringed, internally cursing whoever was calling you right now though you assumed it was probably work. You reached into your purse and pulled out your phone. Sure enough it was Katy calling you.

“It’s work,” you said with a sigh. “That scandal has really been a pain in my ass this week.”

“I can wait if you need to answer it,” he told you.

“I probably should with what’s been going on,” you told him reluctantly. “Normally I’d ignore it, though. This just feels rude.”

He waved a dismissive hand, shooting you a smile. “I can wait a few minutes, really,” he assured you.

“I’ll just be a moment,” you said. You stepped a half step back, turning to face the street as Matt stood nearby. “What’s going on, Katy?” you asked into the phone. “The office better be on fire or something right now.”

“No, but this story is,” Katy said over the line. “So the senator’s mistress has finally been named and there’s a prostitution rumor going around that’s about to be corroborated. Ellison needs everyone back in for a quick re-work before the paper hits the printers tonight. I tried my best to cover for you because I know you had that hot date,” she said, and you instantly heard Matt chuckle beside you, no doubt hearing everything she was saying, “but I couldn’t cover for you much longer. You’re needed. Ellison will probably murder you himself if you’re not here soon.”

Your eyes snapped shut, your shoulders slumping. Well that ruined your plans of potentially sleeping with Matt. 

“I’ll be there in fifteen,” you told her.

“Great, I’ll let bossman know,” Katy answered. “And hey, are you still with Hell’s Kitchen’s sexiest attorney-at-law?”

Your cheeks reddened as you heard Matt chuckle beside you again. “Yes, Katy, I need to hang up so I can say goodbye,” you told her impatiently.

“Right, well, can you do me a favor and ask him how much for a baker’s dozen?” she asked.

Your eyes narrowed as you stared at the ground before you. “What?” you asked her. “I’m not following.”

She scoffed on the line and you imagined her rolling her eyes at you. “Come on, that man has a whole ass bakery back there, girl.”

Your eyes closed as you heard Matt bark out a laugh beside you. Katy quickly cursed over the phone before laughing herself.

“Shit, did you accidentally have me on speakerphone?” she asked, still laughing.

“No, but I might as well have,” you muttered under your breath. “I’m going to hang up and see you in fifteen. Can you please refrain from discussing my date’s ass the rest of the evening?”

“Probably not,” she answered instantly. “See you soon. Grab a handful of cake for me on your way over.”

“Fucking hell,” you cursed, hanging up the phone and stuffing it into your purse.

Matt was still laughing as you awkwardly turned towards him, embarrassed even though you technically hadn’t done anything.

“I like her, she’s amusing,” Matt said. “Though I don’t know why she’s so into my ass.”

“Because you have a nice ass,” you mumbled, noticing his smile widen. “But I unfortunately have to get back to the office, as you heard.”

“Well then I guess this is where I say goodnight, unless you’d like me to walk you?” he offered.

You shook your head quickly. “No, really, it’s two blocks and I’ll probably grab a taxi back after. I’ll be fine.”

“Well, can you text me when you get there and back home later?” he asked. “I don’t care what time it is. I’ll worry otherwise.”

“I suppose I don’t need you throwing on your suit and hunting me down,” you joked lightly. “Yeah, I can text you.”

Matt closed the distance between the two of you, a warm smile on his face. “I had a good night and I look forward to doing it again with you,” he said softly.

“Me too,” you admitted.

“Do I need to give you a warning before I kiss you so you don’t run away on me?” he joked. “Or am I at a point where I can just kiss you when I want to?”

“You can just–just kiss me,” you breathed out, your eyes instantly darting to his mouth.

“Good to know,” he whispered.

One of his hands reached out and lightly drew your face towards his. Your eyes fluttered closed just before his mouth was on yours. You could feel your stomach excitedly somersaulting inside of you, your hands hesitantly reaching up and landing on Matt’s dress shirt, steadying yourself against him. His mouth was somehow making you lightheaded with the way he was kissing you so sweetly, his lips moving carefully along yours. 

You felt his other hand at your lower back, drawing you in closer towards him until your hands snaked their way around his neck, your chests lightly pressed together. You were certain he could not only hear your heart hammering away in your chest now, but that he could probably feel it slamming into his own through the front of your shirt. 

Eventually he broke away, resting his forehead to yours. You saw the smile on his face and couldn't resist your own in return. 

"Tonight was perfect," he whispered. "I'll call you soon to find another time to go out?"

Your bottom lip rolled into your teeth as you nodded your head. Matt pulled his forehead from yours, soon replacing it with a warm, lingering kiss from his lips.

"Text me so I know you're safe?" he reminded me.

"I will, Matty," you promised. 

He pulled away, your own arms falling back to your sides as he did. There was a cheeky smile that gradually spread over his face as he gazed down at you behind the dark glasses. 

"What?" you asked him after a moment, brows creasing together. 

"You need a slice of cake before you go?" he teased. 

Your face flamed as your jaw dropped, embarrassed to the point of speechlessness. Matt barked out a laugh as you tried to recover. Your hands flew to your face as you turned a fraction away from him, too embarrassed to even look at him.

"I'll be the one making front page of The Bulletin tomorrow," you said, voice muffled behind your hands. "For killing Katy."

[add1ctedt0you]

ChengQing for the ask game?

Ship It

What made you ship it?

Your posts lol. No, but seriously! I watched the donghua, then I read a ton of fics ( mostly Xicheng fics lol, being jiang cheng most popular ship on ao3) and then I read the novel, so I never even thought about them as a thing. Then, jc brainrot made me install Tumblr and I saw one of your gifset! I didn't quite ship them back then, but the more I thought about it, the more I could see the appeal! So, now, is one my top three ship! Also, this art lives rent free in my head. Idk why, I just like it!

What are your favorite things about the ship?

The families feud plus the noncon of it all lol. I like how both of them are complicit in each other's loved ones deaths! Wen Qing looked the other way while the jiang were massacred, jiang cheng did the same (if not worse, if you think that he actively participated in the wen remnants killing!)

I like thinking about them struggling so much to connect, because it's my favorite kind of relationship and because I think it works quite well with them?? Out of the other characters, imo, they could understand each other as no one else!

Both are pragmatic leaders, put in dire situations from almost the first time we encounter them. Both can read a room and understand where the wind is blowing... So, I think, they will look at each other, pondering the other's choices and think... 'yeah, I'll have done that too' (thanks cql for validating me!). So, their mutual understanding, plus their compassion (wen qing) and ability to get over something for loved ones sake (jiang cheng), create an interesting dynamic!

Also. She rearranged his guts. He's her greatest creation! People thought wen qing was a crazy bitch for theorizing a golden core's transfer (while clutching in fear their stomach so hard). And she managed it! She proved them wrong!!! Wen Qing should wake up every day looking at the face of the man she reinvented. I don't make the rules.

Is there an unpopular opinion you have on your ship?

Mmm, I think my unpopular (???) opinion is about how they work together. Wen Qing is kinda momming her ill softhearted brother (cql!wq more, but the novel hints at it too imo), she works for years under her megalomaniac uncle and then, girl has to take care of her family (plus an alcoholic wei wuxian). Let her rest! Let someone take care of her!!!

And tbh, jiang cheng's problem isn't that he has too much responsibility (like, yeah, it's a problem lol. But imo, taking care of his sect it's jiang cheng's way to show love), his problem is that no one (wei wuxian) really let him take care of them! Let him have someone to pamper with his embarrassing devotion!

[steddiebang]

the freaks who could never love anyone (October 10) author:  dima (ao3/bsky/tumblr/twitter) / artist:  robin (tumblr / twitter) Hawkins High School’s show choir group, the Treble Tigers, is in desperate need of new members. Eddie Munson, the group’s de facto student leader, is well aware that they need to do anything they can to be in contention for Nationals.

But Eddie immediately finds himself at odds with one of their latest members, Steve Harrington. A prototypical pompous jock that has no place in a group that’s meant for misfits. But when Steve starts opening up about the many secrets he’s carrying, Eddie realizes that he might need the Treble Tigers to go to Nationals as much as Eddie does.

Tell Me Then Would You Lend A Hand (October 13) Author: funeralbeldam / Artist: rrrrraatt An exploration of Steve’s trauma. How it affects his everyday life, opens him up to Vecna, and sends him on a path of self discovery as the world is ending. His relationships with his friends - most notably one Eddie Munson - and how he views his own self worth. How one man will tear down Steve’s curtain to reveal the truth inside, through the power of music. Who says metalheads and jocks -turning-punks can’t get along?

scheming on a thing (October 14) Author: greatunionic (ao3 / tumblr) / Artist: daysarestranger / singinginmay It’s 1994, and Eddie’s been a guest of Uncle Sam at Pelican Bay since it opened in ‘89, when his public defender stopped defending and he resigned himself to the sixth to life bag the Spring Break of ‘86 had left him holding. Sure, the series of frantic transfers that made Wayne and the party lose track of him (and cost him his unlikely prison penpal, Steve Harrington) truly were a bummer, but life’s actually not too bad, in the long run: he’d got three hots and a cot, ya know, and sometimes a few of the other inmates actually believe him when he tells them he’s innocent. Still — the new lawyer and paralegal shaped suspiciously like one Erica Sinclair is starting to give him pause, and make him wonder if the story’s not quite over yet…

Or: a story about seven letters, the worst love song ever written, and a heist.

Of Space and Time (October 15) Author: @appledagger / Artist: @Ahhrenata / Additional Art: @appledagger, @betwixtandbetweenn In 2073, the world is still moving forward despite arid climates and the quick relay race between man and machine. Within the walls of the hospital center at Vecna Labs, Steve Harrington has just woken up after an accident inside the depths of the classified sections of the lab. Stricken with amnesia, he is brought to Edward Munson’s home to recover and to be observed during his recovery after experimental treatments had brought him back from the brink of death. In Edward’s home, Steve finds question after question. Why does Eddie seem to hate him so much? What do all the observations have to do with his accident? What exactly is going on with his malfunctioning mind, and what does this all have to do with Creel and Vecna’s tech monopoly? All the while, Steve struggles with the feeling that there was something more to his relationship with Eddie that he can’t quite understand.

Road to Nowhere (October 14) Author: @sharpbutsoft / Artist: @patternscolorsflowers Eddie Munson isn’t dead, and he’s trying not to make it everyone’s problem. After the horrorshow that was Spring Break, he’s been keeping to himself, attending his “legally you cannot call this a bribe but, yes, obviously it’s a bribe” physical therapy sessions, and trying to recover from his brief but violent death. Enter Steve Harrington, and his compulsive need to be useful, who’s volunteered to taxi him to and from these sessions (with minimal bitching.) This newfound friendship isn’t without its challenges though. Steve, not the best with his words, struggles to define his feelings for Eddie, who has it in his head that the only reason they’re not together yet, is because he’s not better yet. When an argument threatens to snuff out the sparks flying between them, Eddie has to learn that better is a journey, not a destination, and one he doesn’t have to take alone…

The Ones Who Know (October 15) Author: @tacticat / @hereforthesteddie / Artist: @miloboiwonder / @milotheboywonder / Artist: @donttellunclesam “Robs, Eddie’s mad at me. I did something wrong, I think. I don’t really know.“ 

"Can you tell me what happened?" 

"We were watching movies last night and we-” his throat closes up on him and he struggles to take in a deep breath. “We kissed." 

"What!?” The unlucky customers waiting on them can probably hear her, she reacts so loudly.

“I know! I wasn’t expecting it." 

 A look of confusion crosses her face.

"Wait but Steve, you’re-”

“Straight? I know!”

Does he, though? She gives him a curious look that seems to ask the same question. 

Steve didn’t used to like being someone who knows, when that meant keeping secrets about horrifying and heartbreaking things. But now that he’s learning beautiful and precious secrets about the people who are important to him, he’s starting to learn that being one of the ones who know doesn’t have to be so bad.

change your mind (October 16) Author: helix_stomper / Artist: horsegirleddiemunson  After his breakup with Nancy, Steve Harrington keeps it a secret that he hasn’t made an effort to meet his soulmate. When he accidentally wakes up next to them a few days after his 18th birthday, he’s surprised to find that it’s not only another guy, but somebody else in Hawkins. Between losing all his old friends, learning how not to be an asshole, and balancing his newfound sexuality in a closed-minded town, Steve has his work cut out for him. Eddie Munson doesn’t believe in soulmates, but that doesn’t stop him from waiting in the dreamscape every night for his. Balancing life as an openly queer, drug-dealing super senior in Hawkins, Indiana is no cakewalk, especially with Billy Hargrove on his ass. But maybe, just maybe, there’s something to that whole soulmate thing after all.

Drowning In Your Love (October 20) Author: @steveshairychest / steveshairychest /Artist: parasite_z (twitter) / @parasite-z

There’s something so enticing about forbidden love, about yearning for someone that you know you can’t have. Eddie knows he’s breaking every oath he took on the day of his knighting, but he can’t help but be drawn to the golden prince that beckons him with a sharp tooth smile. It’s forbidden to speak with the merfolk that occupy the ocean around the city but Eddie has never been very good at following the rules, especially when he’s got his hands tangled in a beautiful merman’s soft hair. Each day, he finds himself with his toes in the sand and with his heart in the hands of Steve Harrington, the heir to the merkingdom. They meet in secret at the rockpools, and the more Eddie learns about the prince, the harder it becomes to keep away. His knights oath to never take a lover gnaws at the back of his mind the first time he presses a kiss to Steve’s lips. Things become difficult when the Queen of the merkingdom starts to pressure Steve to take the necessary steps required of him to become King, the first being to choose a bride. But Steve doesn’t want any of the maidens that his mother forces him to meet. He wants the knight in clunky armor that brings him treasures from the human world, the knight that he shared his first kiss with under the light of the moon. Forbidden love is never easy. It hurts and bares its teeth just when you thought things were going well. Will Steve and Eddie be able to make it through unscathed?

Nobody’s Baby (October 22) Author: ArtaxLivs / Artist: LexPlexDraws It’s Dirty Dancing but Steddie Style. Steve is a privileged young college graduate who is supposed to spend one last summer with the family at an upscale resort but stumbles in unexpected friendships with some of the resort’s employees. Eddie is the dance instructor with a chip on his shoulder. An impossible situation makes them unwilling dance partners but maybe the possibility of trust will make them more than that.

it’s a lonely world when everyone knows your name (October 23) Author: @whataboutthefish / Artist: @hawkinsleather and on Twitter Steve Harrington had a nemesis, Eddie ‘The Face’ Munson. The only thing was, Eddie didn’t know. Eddie Munson was the face of the decade and fashion’s darling, but his hard partying ways and lack of professionalism- in Steve’s opinion- had him seething. When Steve was paired with Eddie for a photo shoot he was already anticipating hating the whole ordeal. What he didn’t expect was Eddie being more than just his persona.

Or

Hottest Alpha Model Steve ‘The Hair’ Harrington just might be wrong about Omega Supermodel Eddie ‘The Face’ Munson.

My Dad, Your Papa, Our Father (October 25) Author: @strangerthingssteddiebrainrot / Artist: @waldos-art Steve thought a memorial for the fallen if Hawkins lab was pretentious and insincere. He wasn’t the only one. But if he hadn’t come, he probably wouldn’t have found out about, this. So really, it could be argued, understood even, that he was completely taken off guard when a picture of one of the deceased scientists was placed on the memorial table and he couldn’t control what came out of his mouth, loud enough that there was no way everybody didn’t hear it. “Dad!?”

A Haunted House With A Picket Fence (October 25) author: Quinn (ao3/tumblr/twitter) / artist: AtlasMoth666 (twitter) Eddie Munson is no stranger to bad choices. It’s how he ended up a single father selling drugs to keep him and his kid clothed and fed. Dumb choices have him fleeing Chicago in the middle of the night and renting a place in his shitty hometown in Indiana while he plans his next move.

It’s also how he ends up asking his stupidly hot neighbor to babysit his daughter while he goes on a last-minute job interview, and much to his surprise, stupid-hot neighbor agrees. And it turns out he’s not just handsome, but funny, a great cook, he loves Eddie’s weirdo kid, and may just be the love of Eddie’s life.

If only starting over and escaping his past was that easy.

after all this time (i’m still into you) (October 26) Author: oriscribes  / Artist: unspcfiedfigure / Artist: @hellfireloserclub Steve just wanted to keep working on his TV show, but due to some clauses buried in his contract he’d been coerced into a fake dating scheme. Which was especially stupid because Munson didn’t even like him. Steve should know, Munson had already rejected him years ago. Eddie just wanted to keep his head down until his contract ran out so he could get back to writing with Corroded Coffin instead of doing this idol shit. He wasn’t counting on getting outed and having to do damage control… by pretending to date someone who he maybe sorta had (has?) a huge crush on. OR: Steve pretends that if he keeps calling Eddie by his last name then he won’t develop any feelings to go with that crush he’d been trying to forget about. Meanwhile, Eddie is trying to figure out what went wrong years ago and if this time could be different. 

how greedy my heart (October 27) Author: @matchingbatbites / Artist: @amethyst-crowns After his first encounter with the Upside Down, Steve needs something to help him relax. He gets more than he expects from drug dealer Eddie Munson, who pulls him into a world of gentle care, good feelings, and calm that he’s never experienced before.

All Eyes on Me in the Center of the Ring (October 28) Author: a_lil_a_lot  - twitter / tiktok / bsky / tumblr / Artist:  bienmoreau - twitter Ex-Olympic gymnast, Steve Harrington, is politely asked to not return to college after the summer - upon his return to his hometown, he’s not expecting a trip to the circus with his best friend to have such an impact on him. Just when he thinks he’s run out of options, he takes a chance in following the Munson Family Circus and finds not only something he enjoys, but a place where he belongs.

(he’s) a runaway foal that doesn’t know where to go (October 31) Author: @patti_cake08 (twitter)/ @moltenchocolatelavacake  Steve Harrington has always loved too much, he knows this. And yet he’s never been enough for anybody. It’s why relationships never work out for him. But he tried again because of course he did. Always too stupid for his own good, his feelings were bullshit. A week after having his heart broken by a man he believed he’d meant more to than flirty phone calls and occasional fucks, Steve ends up at Forest Hills Trailer Park. He’d gone looking for a reprieve, a comfort, a way out of his grief. Instead he finds a pair of pale arms and a yearning heart eager to help him heal and, maybe, show him his love is enough.

[peggyao3]

Just read “Here Comes the Sun” on AO3! Is it on tumblr, too?

Other than that omg I loved it! The aggressive jealousy from both of them. I want to see more Feyd with favorite concubine. I bet all the other concubines love her and hate her. Love her because she deals with Feyd, but hate her since she’s doesn’t interact with them. Reader being the fave definitely comes with a lot of perks…mainly being Feyds #1 girl. Feyd just upgrade her to a wife.

Awwwwww, my dear, thank you so much for checking it out over on ao3!! ❤️ Sadly, it's not on tumblr yet. I've only created this account not long ago and I'm trying to slowly transfer everything over here without dropping everything at once. I've got it prepared as a draft, so it'll pop on here eventually 🥹

Thank you so much for your kind words!!! That means a lot to me! I'm so glad the FMC didn't come across too unpleasantly as "I'm not like the other girls" 😂. Even though, in a way, she's of course supposed to be. Being into Feyd's character traits that the others are afraid of or disgusted by.

Omg she just received the wife upgrade indeed. Laughing at all the other bitches from the altar now, waving with her ringed hand 😭😂

Once again, thank you so much for reading and letting me know your thoughts!! You're so kiiinddd 💕

[zirawrites]

I’M BACK!!!!

A Fallout 4 reactions blog??? In 2022??? 

After THREE YEARS of trying to get back into this account I have finally gotten Tumblr Support to help me. Firstly, I am shocked to see thousands of you still follow me. I love you all (except the fake bitches who will probably unfollow me when they realize they’re still getting updates from a Fallout 4 reacts blog in the year our Lord 2022).

I have not played Fallout 4 since 2018, but I am about to start a fresh game just to get a feel for the characters again. I can’t remember major plot points of the game and definitely don’t remember every companion quest. However, I’ll slowly get through the reactions I’ve accumulated while I re-learn the game. 

Please check me out on AO3 where I will transfer some of my more popular reactions. My current masterlist will be abandoned, but I’ll find a place for it somewhere on my blog. I am very interested in doing full fics on AO3, including some Fallout 3 content since I am doing my first playthrough now.

Reactions are open. Cannot believe I’m saying that. No idea where to even start, but I am so excited to re-join this awesome community. I have also recently played Dragon Age and Mass Effect, so if you like that content definitely stay tuned on my AO3.

I will be clunky with formatting and a theme overhaul. I haven’t been on Tumblr in ages. But I’m happy to be back. Feel free to slide in my DMs. I’ve missed you all.

[jinmukangwrites]

Chapter 10

Apologies for the second upload, something went wrong with my AO3 post, which transferred over to Tumblr on my copy/paste. Mobiles a bitch to edit things on, so i took the easier option and just remade the post.

Warnings: mentions of vomit, fantasy racism, descriptions of injury, abuse of authority (agab (all guards are bastards)).

~•°•~

Essek's well aware of how pale he is when he gets to Bula's home. Reliably, she doesn't question it. Her eyes just glance over the line of sweat on his brow with a single eyebrow raised, but she keeps her thoughts to herself as she opens the door wider and wordlessly invites him inside.

He shows her the spell the moment they enter her private office, a small room near the front of her home where she has a small shrine to the Changbringer, and some components needed for cleric spells just in case she gets a home call.

The pain from his soulmate's panic attack still lingers, yet his own anxiety because of it hasn't softened all that much either.

He can't stop thinking about what if his soulmate wasn't with people who protected them? What if they were back on their own, and they had one of these fits in the middle of a battle on their own? Essek knows it's happened before, them pausing when they shouldn't, coming back to their senses when something tears their skin. They're both lucky they haven't been killed yet because of it.

He glances at the residuum in his hand as Bula looks over the spell, and his books.

This is what that's for. This is to make sure that even if they do enter a panic attack and get hurt, Essek can heal them. Essek can ensure that they'll never suffer the feeling of dying again, or torture, or infection. He's a master scholar of this craft, and if anyone can figure this out, it's him.

~•°•~

After Bula gives a reluctant "it might work," Essek begins the process of learning a new spell. She did express her concern of the dangers of this spell, and that if it does connect the physical wounds and healing with his soulmate, then if his soulmate takes more damage, Essek and whoever he tethered his essence to will take that physical damage; potentially killing all three of them in a worst case scenario.

"Besides, this isn't exactly what you're searching for," she had continued, "is it?"

No, it's not. He's not looking to tie his fate with his soulmate's regularly. He wishes to find a way to heal through the bond without endangering himself. Without endangering anyone.

"But it's a step," Essek had replied. "If this works, then it's proof that healing through soulbonds as a concept is achievable."

Now, while he works on studying and mastering Tether Essence, he has other things to worry about.

The Cerberus Assembly, for one, and the second beacon he has just successfully gotten to them.

This time, the Dynasty does not manage to keep the news within tight inner circles. Panic is the only way to describe the city in the following days. People mourn like they've lost loved ones. Many who have been consecuted to those beacons are behaving like they're already dead. No one has died for this, and because this furthers science, Essek feels no sympathy for those who do not think one life is enough.

"I see," the Martinet says, distracted by papers piled on his desk. Essek carefully holds his own stack closer to his chest. The first copies of notes made from the Assembly's research on the Beacons, finally within Essek's hands. "And they do not suspect you?"

"Of course they don't," Essek says. "They're busy fighting amongst themselves, too proud to see past their own noses to suspect someone of my lower rank. As far as they know, I've never even been in the same room as the Beacons. They have no reason to suspect me."

"And if they do suspect you?" The Martinet glances up from his notes. Essek has known the pretentious Elf long enough to know he, too, has a difficult time seeing past his nose. "Do you recall the conditions?"

Essek sneers, not keen on being debriefed like a child. "I'm well aware of what I've agreed to."

"I never said you weren't." He pauses, then returns to looking through the papers on his desk. "It's important that blame does not fall on the Cerberus Assembly if our involvement is discovered. I expect you to steer blame from us, whether it's your scapegoat, or even the Dwendalian Empire itself, I don't care. If all else fails, you are expected to take the blame yourself. I trust you're prepared for that."

"It won't come to that," Essek growls.

"I should hope so. I've heard rumors of what your people do to traitors."

Essek can feel the hairs at the back of his neck rise in anger. He says your people like it's bitter to the tongue. He reels himself in, however. He can't afford to let himself show any kind of vulnerabilities or hostility around a man such as the Martinet.

"Now, if this is all, I should ask you to be on your way," The Martinet continues on, ignoring the previously rising tension. "School begins soon, and there's much I'm needed for."

"Actually," Essek forces himself to speak up in a voice that could almost be considered polite. "I have one favor to ask, before we part." The Martinet looks up at him, then nods for him to continue. "The Dynasty is on high alert, and if I were to teleport back using the city's circle, I would be questioned. I do not have the ability to cast a second high level spell such as teleportation; so I will be requiring a place to stay while I regain my energy."

The Martinet looks thoughtful for a moment, before bringing a hand to his naked chin. "I have no such places within the school where you could comfortably hide, especially if you wish to drop the illusion of Dezran Thain. However... The ground-keeper is away this week, you should be unbothered within the tool-shed outside the gardens."

"That will do just fine."

His eyes grow stern. "Do not allow anyone to see Essek Thelyss. Otherwise, you are welcome to stay as long as you need."

~•°•~

The tool-shed is small and quiet, but a perfectly comfortable distance from where most students will be at this time of day. The second he closes the door behind him, he lets the allusion of Dezran Thain fall,, along with his sun-hat and tinted glasses. With a hand reaching towards his nose to fight the slight scent mildew and dust, he studies his surroundings.

There's only one window, but it's curtained up and buried behind racks of shovels and other gardening tools, it's only use being for the small threads of webbing and the lucky spider that found the spot. There's a desk at the opposite wall of the window, a small lantern placed precariously between the edge of the desk and a stack of papers. Essek slowly walks to the edge of the wooden table and uses his free hand to push the top papers aside. The words are in Zemnian, a language he does not speak.

A small, excited voice at the back of his head suggests he use magic to translate it, and figure out whatever mundane information the garden-keeper finds so important to keep physical proof of, but then he remembers the papers in his own hands, and the idea is immediately shut down by the larger, louder, and more ambitious voice at the front of his head.

He has other things to study; things he's risking war and the title of traitor for.

He magically lights the lantern and allows himself to relax. If he wishes to regain the energy to cast another teleportation spell, he'd need to trance soon, but at the second he didn't think he could even if he tried.

So he busies himself with the second hand research, until eventually his eyes feel heavy enough to drop shut completely.

He had almost hoped that the papers would keep him more occupied, yet it's nothing he doesn't already know. Breakthroughs take time, he knows, but he can't help but feel he's waited long enough.

Four hours. That's all he needs. He only needs half of what most other creatures need to have a full, rejuvenating rest. He doesn't even need to fully lose consciousness; shutting his eyes and breathing deeply is enough. Trancing is not dissimilar to simple meditation.

He could dream, if he wanted to.

He plays with the thought for a moment, yet it's the second idea in so few hours that he shuts down rather quickly. He's in a hostile country, and despite him being sheltered within a relatively safe area, he still doesn't find the idea of losing total awareness of his surroundings that appealing. He'd have to fight off any dreams that come; if they try.

He's fully aware of how much time passes before his trance is violently interrupted anyway.

The thing with trances is that while they're quicker and don't require unconsciousness, it's still no easier to quit it early than it is for a human to wake up earlier than they want to. His limbs are heavy, his mind slow to react, he can barely form the thought I was supposed to be undisturbed before the first guard barges into the shed.

There's four of them, each wearing armor that left no questions on their occupation; however the fabrics and trims match the colors of the school, suggesting they're less-so guards for the Empire, but more for the school itself.

Essek just manages to scramble to his feet before the largest guard grabs him by the collar and slams him against the wall.

"Crick," he spits.

"What the fuck is a Crick doing here?!" another guard gawks.

"And where's that Elf? There's no one else in here..." says the third.

"You are-" Essek chokes out, bringing his hands to the one wrapped around his garments and attempting to pull at the fingers. Why is everyone always so much stronger than him? "-making a mistake."

"Oh yeah, Crick?" The large man sneers, his fingers unmoving, like stone.

"It's "Kryn","Essek snarls, "I'm here to assist the Assembly, if you don't believe me then you can ask the Martinet himself."

"Oh, I'll ask the Martinet alright, Crick." The man's breath reeks of ale as he slams Essek against the wall once again.

Essek's breath leaves his body at the abuse. The man turns his neck to address one of the others.

"Go tell the Martinet we found an enemy of the empire. You might want to mention he'll be needing medical attention, because he resisted detainment."

Essek's stomach drops. He doesn't wish to fight these brutes, not when his deal with the Mertinet was already so fragile. The thought that he had failed to remain undiscovered after the Martinet had just not-kindly reminded him to remain undiscovered already tore at his nerves with wicked claws. He'd at least prefer to be out of the Dwendalian Empire before the Martinet—or worse, Trent—discovered this failure.

"Hey man," one of the guards mumbled, blessedly appearing a bit pale at the hinted implications of him needing medical attention . He's mostly human, but there's some orcish features to the structure of his face; Essek wouldn't be surprised if this man, too, has faced needless judgment because of it. "He's not fighting back."

"Does it matter?" The man sneers, "I hear these freaks are allergic to the sun, like bloody vampires. Don't you want to test that out? No one will care if a Crick gets a little roughed up."

Essek's stomach drops as the protesting guard's lips thin; not arguing further. Neither do the other guards try to protest.

As the orcish one who was commanded to find the Martinet silently slips out of the shack, looking grateful for the invitation to leave, Essek decides enough is enough.

The words are quick and simple to speak, and the movements of his hands are easy while the dumb guard focuses on wrapping his hands in the fabric of his collar.

Only one of the guards proves herself more perceptive than the other, getting out a single scream of "Spellcaster!" before a pulsing wave of gravity erupts from Essek's position, coming outwards and knocking everything, and everything, away from him and slamming into the walls with a massive crash.

·—•—·

"Caleb, are you even listening to a word I say?"

Caleb blinks up from the book he had been "looking" at but not really paying attention to. Beauregard stands an arms distance away from him, several books piled in her own arms, making the shopkeeper excitingly glance at her every few seconds from across the store. Behind her, Nott wanders innocently, perhaps looking for something to swipe, while Yasha looks half-hearted-ly at academic books, her attention really at the more adult fetish-fantasies at the other end of the store; her eyebrows furrowed as she must be mapping out how to get back there without being seen by her companions.

He hasn't been listening to Beauregard. He didn't even realize she had been talking to him.

His spine hurts. Or more accurately, his soulmate's spine hurts. As does the back of their head. They're... being hurt. Being slammed against something repeatedly, but not hard enough to damage or concuss... yet.

"I am sorry, Beauregard," he forces himself to say after a large swallow. "I was lost in thought."

"You do that a lot, you know," she says, the corners of her lips sinking down as her eyes narrow in suspicion. She does that a lot. As does Fjord. Caleb knows none of these people trust him, exactly, but that's okay because he doesn't trust them back. "Is this like when you killed that priest?"

"No," Caleb says. "It's nothing for you to be concerned about."

"You always find the most polite ways to tell me to fuck off."

"If you keep pestering me, I will find a ruder way."

"I wanna hear it. Tell me to fuck off." She's grinning, which relieves Caleb just a little. She's not too determined to dig into every single one of his thoughts and feelings quite yet. "I'm serious. Say Beauregard, fuck off ahhhh I'm Zemnian and I have fire magic and I'm a crazy cat lady ahhhhhggg and my past is so mysterious ooooooohhh and I smell like sewage and piss~"

Her Zemnian accent is horrible.

If not a little endearing.

~•°•~

The shed's interior is a mess of splinters with two out of three guards buried in the wreckage. How unlucky for Essek that none of the rakes or saws impaled any of them in the carnage. The third guard, the woman who noticed his spell casting, has a bloodied nose and a wild look in her eyes.

Essek can barely blink before she's charging at him.

The force of which she crashes into him steals his breath for the second time. She's shorter than him, but certainly more muscled, and that shows by how easily she tackles him off from his feet and onto the floor with a tangle of limbs.

He snarls at her, barring his canines in a way that feels unfamiliar and that isn't as frightening as if Verin we're doing it. He's always looked more a warrior than Essek. And as of right now, Essek's regretting his career choice because of it.

She pins one of his arms and smashes the palm of her hand against his mouth with a practiced ease that's almost laughable. Of course she'd know exactly how to take down a spellcaster. Get them before they can fight back. Crowd them. Go for their movement and their speech. Her knee stabs into his side, right above the hip.

He squirms and bucks, and in a rare and miraculous burst of strength he manages to get her off from him.

Yet, it's nothing to celebrate. Killing a single bee in a swarm doesn't save you.

Two more bodies, shouting and swearing, crowd him and roughly grab his limbs, kicking him in the gut onto his stomach and yanking his arms behind his back.

Panic makes him want to gag, or perhaps it's just his now abused stomach protesting. His shoulders tear at the rough treatment of manacles being locked on—spiked, because of course they are; this is a magic school. A hand squeezes firmly on his mouth, stopping his grunts and any attempt at a spell.

In a matter of moments, Essek—a well researched wizard, a prodigy, terrifying in his skill—finds himself expertly restrained and roughly man-handled to his feet by three human guards. His hands find themselves pinned between his own back, and the gut of the bigger man from before, as it's his foul tasting hand that's gagging him. His other hand is curled around his wind-pipe, almost choking.

The spikes press painfully, and he has to choke off any whimpers.

He will not show that kind of weakness.

"I'm gonna make you regret that," he snarls, the pressure of his grip is bruising. "Take his fucking shirt off. I want to see what the sun does to him."

Any hesitance or mercy in the other two guards is gone now as the woman steps forward and brings a dagger to the fabric of his collar. He struggles, snarling through the gagging hand, but his body forces him to go still as the hand around his neck tightens enough for him to no longer be able to draw in breath.

Thankfully, when he stills, the hand lets him breathe again.

The dagger tears through his robe and undershirt, destroying the fabric beyond repair besides probably magic if he asks Bula kindly enough.

The sleeves of his robes are yanked down, as are the detachable sleeves covering his arms, jostling his wrists violently and drawing blood.

"What the hell are with his arms?" The woman pauses. "They're all scarred..."

"Who gives a shit, tear off a strip so we can gag him. I'm not about to get bitten by this fucker."

She does as she's told, and before Essek knows it, he's being dragged kicking and yowling towards the door of the shack, shirtless, humiliated, restrained, and gagged.

The door is yanked open, and he's pushed out into the unobstructed daylight of the Dwendalian Empire.

·—•—·

Something bad is happening. That much is made clear quickly. Caleb knows what a brutal beating feels like. He knows what spiked shackles feel like. He knows what suffocating feels like.

His soulmate's stomach aches from several blows to it, and something was definitely pulled wrong as their arms were forced into restraints. Caleb worries, and continues to worry as the abuse continues, but he doesn't let it show on his face. Not in the middle of a bookstore with Nott, Beauregard, and Yasha.

He almost managed to go the rest of the short trip without letting even Nott notice what's going on, but then...

Heat.

He gasps verbally, interrupting the storekeeper from telling Beauregard the price of her soon to be owned books. His skin... his skin is burning. Seething, like someone's holding an orange-hot metal bar right above his skin, not close enough to cook, nor immediately boil and blister, but close enough to hurt.

"Caleb?" Nott asks.

~•°•~

Essek remembers being a child, so, so long ago.

Children did stupid things sometimes. For many different reasons of course, Verin would do things to prove he's brave, and Essek would do things just to know the answers.

Sometimes, on days his mother left Rosanna and took them with her for whatever trip or reason, Essek and Verin would sneak out of their rooms and dare each other to step outside, just to know.

They knew the sun burned their skin more intensely, and quickly, than every other humanoid race out there, but it wouldn't kill them.

Essek remembers the first scalding burn from the sun he's ever felt. It didn't sting immediately. At first, it was just bright. Clouds had dotted the sky that day, so Essek and his brother got confident. They left the safety of the city and ran into the nearby forest, welding sticks like swords and wands respectively.

And then the clouds parted, and the confidence shattered.

By the time they ran back to their mother, sobbing and full of regret, they had burns that already began to blister all along their necks and faces. Even their hands hadn't been spared from intense sunburns.

Their mother, a lover of harsh lessons, had the clerics' only heal the worst of the blisters to prevent scarring, but for the rest of the month Essek and Verin suffered the consequences of their actions, the results of a mere hour in direct sunlight.

It's a bright day today, not a cloud in the sky. The sun shines hot and persistent, no mercy for his uncovered skin.

The sting is immediate, and budding. The sunburn doesn't form immediately, Drow aren't that weak to sunlight, but he can already feel the sun raking it's claws; almost like licking your lips and feeling the rawness of forming chapped lips; the tickle at the back of your throat on a cold morning; the spit that pools before you lose the contents of your stomach.

It's like sandpaper, thin and almost as smooth as glass, but he knows sandpaper like that can sharpen swords—tear skin if rubbed long enough.

Really, it's the brightness that affects him the quickest. He has tinted glasses for outings into the sun, in fact he often wears them on trips here to the Cerberus Assembly if he ever needed to leave the lantern lit halls of the main building in his Elven disguise. Yet, without them, his vision immediately whites out and tears unwillingly pool.

He's on his stomach, his wrists jerking in the cuffs in agony as the sun begins the patient work of rubbing his skin raw.

"Nothing's happening," the big one snarls angrily, kicking Essek in the gut when he attempts to get to his knees.

Essek gasps, his stomach spasming at the constant abuse. The thought of the nearing possibility of vomiting sends panic into his joints, if he threw up with a gag in his mouth-

"No look at him," the woman says, amusement tinting her tone. "He's uncomfortable. It's not immediate, the sun tortured him with it."

Another kick, this time to his shoulder, slamming him onto his back. Essek squeezes his eyes shut, trying to squirm into a position where he could at least hide his eyes, but another leg from another person slams into him.

"I don't have time for this," the big one sneers. "I want to see him scream now."

Kick.

Kick.

Kick.

[rmoonstoner]

💙 ☁️ Lovely Little Sky ☁️ 💙

Chapter 6

Lead and Follow

***

Marc Spector x Reader, Steven Grant x Reader, Jake Lockley x Reader

Sorry, no smut this chapter.

You get up and find you're running late to meet up with your best friend, Safiya. Marc offers you a ride, you accept, and you introduce him and Steven to your bestie. 

Warnings: lots of 'gurl', 'bitch' and trash talk that best friends say or do. Safiya is brutally honest and blunt. Marc hates malls, but Steven loves them. No sexy times in this chapter.

Also, please note the reason I leave a bunch of space between paragraphs, is because Google docs somehow puts two extra spaces in when I copy and transfer it over to Tumblr only, and not to my ao3. I'm a tired mom, and that's so much extra work to go through and delete like 200 spaces. If these spaces bother you, check out my ao3, where it this weird glitch doesn't happen.

***

You woke up from a damned good sleep, but you weren't in your own bed. You glanced around the dark room, squinting to see where you were. A loud snore caught you off guard, and you turned to see a lump of a man sleeping, face down. The only thing covering him was a thin, khaki-coloured sheet that molded perfectly to his well-shaped ass.

You smiled, and figured you were in Marc's room. You went to get up and your legs protested the movement so badly that your foot became entangled in the sheet, tripping you to the floor. You groaned, looking behind you to see if you had woken your bed partner. Luck was on your side, as the man merely snorted in his sleep, turned over, and hugged the pillow you left to his face.

You squirmed out of the sheet and made your way to the bathroom to have a quick shower. Once finished, you came back to see the man was sitting upright and looking around with a worried looking frown on his face.

"Good morning." You chirped at him, and his head snapped up to look at you. All the worry left his face, and a wide smile crept onto his features.

"Good morning." He replied softly as he took in your lack of attire. He sounded like Marc. His face quickly melted back to that worried-looking frown when he saw all the bruises and marks littering your skin.

"Shit, did I do that to you?"

"It's okay, Marc. Both you and Steven did this to me." You said as your hand came up to touch your neck. You could feel the three bite marks each one of them had left. Surprisingly, the one Steven had left was the worst.

"You sure? You're covered like a canvas. It looks like I beat the fuck out of you…" He replied while rubbing the back of his neck.

"You guys beat the fuck out of my pussy, and I had a great time while doing it." You snickered back with a wink. He sighed in relief, then reached out for you. You happily went to him and allowed him to bring you to sit on his lap.

"Fuck that's hot. Layla would have beat me up if I left a mark. Fuck, look at you…" He kissed you, smiling wider as you reached up to ruffle his hair. You wanted to say that he had been marked up badly, but you didn't say a word. You both acted like you didn't mark his body up in the same way, since he had healed every mark that you gave him.

"How are you feeling today?" You asked. Marc bit his lower lip, barely thinking about it.

"Pretty good, actually. No hangover. I suppose that's good." He said, but he didn't exactly sound happy about it. You could tell he was baffled that he wasn't in any pain from drinking so much last night. You even watched him stare at his back in the mirror while he glanced at you a few times. Again, you said nothing about it.

"How about you?"

"I'm alright. A little sore, but alright." You said, then slowly got up and off of him. He looked entirely disappointed that you were retreating away from him.

"Where are you going?"

"I have to go see my best friend today. She's been chomping at the bit to see me. I've been a bit of a hermit since I moved in here, and started cleaning for you." You told him your plan as you found your phone to check the time. You hissed, seeing that you were going to be late.

"Fuck… And it looks like I am going to be fucking late. I'll never hear the end of it." You quickly grabbed the set of clothes that Marc had loaned you. They were folded neatly on his dresser, and not just left where Jake had made you change the night before.

"So, I take it you're not going to stay in bed with me, then?" Marc asked with a touch of disappointment in his voice. He already knew the answer. You shook your head as you hopped into his shorts and tugged the tee over your head.

"Well, would you like a lift, then?" Marc offered. You paused as you considered it. A bus would make you an hour late, but if he drove you, it would make you about fifteen minutes early.

But then your best friend would flip her ever loving shit, demanding to know if Marc was the guy you slept with or not.

"Come on. Let me give you a ride. I can fuck off right after if you don't want your friend to meet me…" Marc chuckled.

"I know people don't like me much, but I can disappear, before they see me." You frowned when he mentioned the last bit. Did he really think you were embarrassed by him? It felt like it.

"Yeah. Sure. I'll take you up on that offer." You replied sweetly, and then turned away to leave.

"I'm going to get changed." You called behind you as you left. You didn't see the big, dopey grin he had on his face, or the excitement in his eyes at being told he could accompany you.

***

When you came back from your room, you were dressed in a brightly colored sundress, black tights, and a long cream colored cardigan. You held your purse and the gold shoes Jake had given you last night.

"You look amazing. Those shoes are sexy."

"Thanks. A… Uh… A really good friend gave me these shoes. They are very comfortable, despite not looking it." You replied as you saw what he was wearing. Marc was in a tight-fitting pair of jeans, a loose black shirt, and a brown canvas shirt with a collar. He was just throwing on a grey hooded sweatshirt when you cleared your throat.

"You don't have to fuck off after you give me the ride. If you want, you can hang out with us if you like." The second you mentioned he could hang out with you and your best friend, he grinned and looked very excited.

"Yeah? Awesome." He grabbed a set of keys from the bowl on his dresser, ones that didn't look like Jake's.

"I hope you don't mind if I take my car. I'm not very good at backing that limo up. The last time I drove it, I hit another car, and left a tiny scuff mark. Steven bitched about it for days after."

"Really?" You asked. Steven didn't seem like the type to lose his temper. 

"Well yeah. Dunno how he found out, either. He purposely gave me the day so I could deal with my divorce, and he swears up and down that he didn't peek into my business at all, yet the next day… He glared at me, and didn't speak the entire day. Not a single word. Anytime I glanced in the mirror, he would sneer at me and mutter things I didn't understand under his breath." Marc said sadly. You could tell he didn't like it when Steven was mad at him. Like an older brother that just wanted his little brother to be proud of him.

"He what?" You asked as you thought about the way Marc was describing Steven's behavior while he was mad. It didn't sound right, like he was describing Jake instead.

"Yeah. When he gets mad at me, which is very rarely, he starts spitting out insults in other languages." He explained, causing you to squint at him.

"Do you know which languages he's yelling at you in?" You casually asked as you put your shoes on. He shrugged.

"Fuck, Spanish, I think? Maybe it was Italian. I don't know." Marc replied as he went to go find his shoes. He took you outside as your brain whirled about. How could Marc mistake Jake for Steven, like ever? Steven was a cute little cupcake, and Jake was… Well he was not cute. He was sexy, like liquid dark chocolate, spiced with hot peppers.

"Weird…" Was all you could manage to say. You didn't want to even entertain any ideas that could lead to you accidently telling him he had a third personality in there.

"Well, that's the thing. Steven knows a boat load of different languages. Him and Conrad would have whole ass conversations in Arabic, just so I wouldn't understand them, and they knew it pissed me off. I can speak a little bit of it, but not much." Marc said as he opened the garage door and walked past the limo to the door at the side.

"Oh neat. Steven's pretty smart. Isn't he a doctor or something?" You asked while trying to sound innocent about it. Truthfully, it amused you that Marc was jealous of Steven's intellect. 

"Yeah… He said he is a doctor of Egypt." The second he said it, he violently twitched. His face morphed into an angry grimace, and he whirled to stare at the limo's mirror.

"I did not!" Steven shouted at the mirror. You looked at the mirror, seeing Marc's smug grin. You glanced to the side, seeing Steven's face was set in a hard frown, his brows furrowed, and his lips pursed tightly in annoyance. This was the closest you had ever seen him to being mad or upset. You glanced back at the mirror, and Marc's playful grin was still there. You decided to move into a spot where you could clearly see Steven's face, and his reflection.

They were both different, at the same time.

That was impossible. Unheard of, even. You shouldn't have been able to see his alter in the mirror. That was part of Dissociative Identity Disorder. Only they should be able to see each other that way.

Apparently you had been staring too hard, because Marc's face turned to you, and a look of intrigue passed over his features. It was as if he was trying to decide if you were looking at Steven's reflection, or really at him. You gave him a weak looking wave, and he slowly raised his hand to wiggle his fingers at you. Steven turned his head to look at why Marc was waving at you, and his mouth fell open in shock.

"Can you see him?" Steven asked as he stared at Marc, who by now was sticking his tongue out, with you mirroring him.

"If by him, you mean your reflection that's moving by itself, then yes. Is it safe to assume that's Marc?" You asked. Steven was still speechless, hand on his chin as he kept looking between you and Marc.

"That's not good. You're not supposed to be able to see us like that." Steven mused.

'She's really not.' Marc agreed as he crossed his arms. You watched, fascinated by the mirror, by seeing what Steven saw. Your eyes looked around to anything else that had a reflection, wondering if that was the only instance where Marc was visible. It would make sense, but you needed to check it out. They both watched you as your eyes darted to the windows of the limo, to the back up mirror that hung in the ceiling of the garage, to the slight reflections on the spare tire rims on the shelf.

They all showed Steven's reflection, every single one of them. Only the mirror in front of him displayed Marc. You let out a small breath of air as your eyes rested on your black phone screen.

There, in the shiny glass of your phone, you could see another reflection of Steven, but this one was smirking. This one had a dark jacket, with the creamy collar flipped up to show off the symbols embroidered to the fabric. This one was wearing a flat cap, with a gloved hand holding onto the front of it. He tugged his hat down just a bit, and he gave you a wink.

Good fucking God…

It was Jake.

You gasped and shoved your phone against your chest so Steven couldn't see it. Steven raised a brow at you, obviously wondering if you were alright or not.

"You okay?"

"Uh, yeah. Yeah. I am totally fine. You know… As fine as a girl can be when they find out they can see their boss's reflections the way he does. It's fine." You quickly explained.

"Are you sure? Because you looked at your phone, gasped, then hid it. Did Marc do something lewd? Is it some sort of inside joke I don't know about?" Steven questioned you with a concerned look on his face. You watched Marc's face morph into an annoyed one, his eyes rolling hard.

'Excuse me, I did not say shit, and it's no joke, Steven.' Marc huffed as he tapped his foot. He wasn't very keen on having this happen right now, when he was supposed to be getting his car and driving you somewhere.

"Oh, um… My friend sent me a text. It made me realize I only have thirty minutes to get to her in time. I mean, she'll wait for me, but then she can tease me about my tardiness the entire time." You explained, hoping the little lie wasn't caught by either of them. Steven nodded, seemingly accepting the answer. Marc just grumbled.

But when you looked over at the tire rims, you saw Jake's face again, and now he was grinning ear to ear.

"Well, alright then. I suppose we can talk about this later. But, if you can see Marc, or myself when we aren't in control, that does bother me a bit. Like, don't get me wrong, it's handy if you can, but you really shouldn't be able to. That's my mental illness, not yours." Steven said as he raked his hand through his hair. A moment later his posture changed, and he switched places with Marc, his reflection now clearly sporting Steven's soft smile, while Marc held a tight-lipped frown.

"That's enough, buddy. I'm stopping you before you continue to rant on and on, after saying we'll talk about it later. Sorry about that, sweetheart." Marc said as he jabbed his thumb towards the door. You still could hear Steven just rambling away quietly in the background as he followed close behind in all the reflections of the side of the limo. You nodded and came closer, your eyes still glued to Jake's reflection in the rims.

Without speaking, Marc turned to the door and opened it. He waited for you to go through, then locked it behind him. He took you around to the side of the garage. There, sat a very old Dodge Charger. It was all white and pristine, not a dent or a mark on it anywhere.

"This is your car?" You asked as he unlocked the door and opened it for you.

"Yeah. It was given to me by my attorney." Marc casually said as he waited for you to belt yourself in.

"Your lawyer gave you a car?" You asked while raising one brow in question. Marc rolled your window down and then closed the door.

"Yeah. Matt's good shit. He is a good buddy of mine. Knows all about my D.I.D. Said he had to get rid of this car, because people thought it was weird he owned one." Marc hopped into his side of the vehicle and started the engine. It purred to life, the engine rumbling as quietly as it could for being a muscle car.

"Wait, Matt? Matt Murdock?" You said in surprise. You knew about that lawyer. He was well renowned for winning most of his cases, but he lived in New York.

"That's the one!" Marc happily replied as he turned in his seat to back the car out of the driveway.

"Isn't he blind?"

"Yeah, that's why he gave me the car. His girlfriend doesn't like it, and he can't drive it, so I got it." Marc said. He sounded a bit dishonest, but you didn't want to push it by asking. Besides, you were being dishonest to him and Steven, and you had a feeling they both knew. 

Marc drove you to your destination in record time, and he didn't even speed or blow through any stop lights. He barely spoke to you, his eyes focused on the road. Steven on the other hand, well, he was happy to chat with you in the vanity mirror. You didn't know why you could see and hear them like this, and you sure hoped you weren't going crazy.

Steven was nice enough to ask about your best friend, and if there was anything they shouldn't talk about. He asked if it was okay if they switched in use of the body, and you told him it would be fine, much to their surprise. You informed them your friend was sassy, and would call you a bitch, but in an endearing pet name sort of way. Steven was amused by that, and Marc just hummed a soft 'okay' in reply.

Marc was kind of happy you could see and hear them this way. That meant they didn't have to switch as often to talk to you, but he was worried you might forget about it, and accidently start talking up a storm to a mirror or something reflective in public. He didn't want others to look at you the way they looked at him.

But…

He was also growing more and more concerned the more time he spent with you. First, all the minor little injuries he would normally have acquired from sex, just weren't there anymore, while you were covered nearly head to toe in them. He knew for a fact that you had marked him up with your nails, and you had seen it. You had bitten him and Steven more than once. Then he woke up shirtless, and with clear skin, knowing you saw it.

But why didn't you say anything about it? Were you assuming they were a guy with a natural healing factor? Maybe you thought they were a mutant, or a super, and were just kind enough not to care about that kind of thing?

But then there was that shadowy figure he and Steven had seen last night. They needed glasses to read, but they could see exceptionally well in the dark at great distances, even now, now that they were no longer serving Khonshu. Speaking of the moon God, Marc swore up and down that he saw Khonshu, and Steven's reaction confirmed it.

Why was that nasty old bird here again? Was he stalking them? Was he waiting until Marc, or heavens forbid, Steven hurt themselves? He sure the fuck hoped not. Not now! He just met you. You understood their disorder, and you didn't give two shits about it, yet you still liked them enough to let both of them fuck you, and spend time with you. Him and Steven. Aaand you were still hanging around them, enjoying their company.

He really didn't need more shit to hit the fan now. Definitely not now… Not when his and Steven's lives were getting better. Marc huffed as he glanced at the radio to check the time. He was doing well, the cafe just at the other end of this busy street. When he got there, he parked the car, and gave you a hopeful look.

"You sure that you don't mind me tagging along? I don't have to. I know how weird it is when I switch, especially if others don't know about my disorder." He softly murmured as he looked at his hands. You reached out and took them in yours, rubbing his palms as you sighed 

"Yes. I am sure that I don't mind. Just be yourself around her, alright? She will totally understand, and not judge you for your disorder."

"Really?"

"Yes, really. She has a family member with a similar disorder. Oh, but I must give you a heads up, my best friend is trans. Which means-"

"I know what that means. It's cool. I'm not prejudiced." Marc quickly replied. He smiled as you squeezed his hands.

"Okay. Right. Let's get going, then." You said, and got out of the car, with Marc happily following you. You walked up to a cafe and before you could open the door, Marc smiled like Steven, and his posture changed as he opened the door for you. As you passed them, you giggled.

"Thank you, both of you."

You looked around as the door shut behind you, the bells attached to it jingled as you glanced around the cafe for your best friend. Marc leaned over you as you checked your phone. You decided to send her a message, hoping to hear her notification sound somewhere nearby. Your friend always had her ringer on at maximum volume, and she never changed her ringtone. You sent her the message.

Hey gurl! I'm here!

A second later, you heard the ridiculous tone she had.

'Get riggity, riggity wrecked, son!'

The silly noise came from the back corner, and when your eyes came to rest there, you saw your friend's face light up as she furiously typed back a response. Your phone was on silent, so it didn't make an audible noise when you got her message, which was fine for you. You didn't want your boss to hear the one you had, which somewhat matched your friend's. It was from the same show as hers, but yours sounded like a robot, asking where their balls had gone off to.

Bitch! You're on time? Hath hell frozen over?

Nope. My boss gave me a ride over. He'll be hanging out with us today, if you don't mind. He doesn't have a lot of friends.

Oh, ho, ho! That's cool with me, chickie. I see you by the door. Come on over after you grab your drinks.

She looked up and waved at you, sporting a happy grin through her pink, cat-eye lenses. You waved and went to the counter to order your drink. You got yourself an overly complicated, blended ice beverage, making sure to get the heavy cream and real whip on top to treat yourself. Marc chuckled at your order, and he ordered a simple soy latte with vanilla in it. 

When you went to pay, your hand was swatted to the side as Steven took over and stepped up to the cash register. He took out his wallet and paused, just staring at it for a long hard moment. The cashier cleared her throat and he withdrew some cash. You knew it was Steven, because he was overly polite to the batista, and he even held both cups as you went over to your friend.

"Hey, bitch!" She greeted you as she leapt from her seat with outstretched arms. When she drew back, her eyes darkened as she noticed the dark bruises on your collarbone, chest, and neck. Her brows furrowed, and she immediately looked at the man standing behind you. Steven's eyes went a bit wide, and he looked away with a slight blush on his cheeks.

You hugged her and then sat down across from her, with Steven sitting beside you. He passed you the cold concoction and he sat back into the chair with one leg crossed over the other. He was pointedly looking at the reflection in the napkin holder, looking at Marc.

"Hey Safiya. How's it going?" You asked, and Safiya chuckled as she wiggled her brows.

"Going great! This your boss? What's his name?" She asked as she looked right at Steven. Steven bit his lower lip and looked at you.

"Yes. This is my boss. His name is… Well…"

"Right now, I'm Steven. Dr. Steven Grant." Steven said as he sat up straighter and reached across the table to shake Safiya's hand. She raised a brow and shook it.

"Right now?" She asked, and you nudged her foot under the table.

"Oh, right. Right. Sorry. I forgot she told me you have Dissociative Identity Disorder. My bad." She grimaced with embarrassment, but Steven laughed to ease the tension.

"Naw, it's alright, mate. Sometimes I'm Steven, other times, I'm Marc. Would you like to meet him?" Steven waved his hand dismissively. Safiya seemed interested, and she nodded.

"Sure would, Dr. Grant."

"Please, miss, you don't have to call me that. Steven will do." He chuckled as he gave you a wink. You smiled at him, happy he was doing so well with your friend.

"Okay. Steven. I would like to meet Marc." She said as she watched Steven's posture go rigid for a moment, then his hand came up to smooth his hair back. The tell tale heavy furrow of his brows came back, but now he was sporting a small grin.

"Heya. I'm Marc Spector. Not a doctor, just a regular, ex-military guy."

"Oh, is Steven really a doctor?" She asked. You grinned as she got right to the point. You knew she was blunt, and eager to ask any question that popped into her head. That, and her family member would make shit up all the time that wasn't true. Questions you were dying to ask, but were too afraid to, and she knew it too.

'Tell her yes. It's true. I've got proof.' Steven piped up from the napkin holder. You held back a snort, and he stared at you with a smile.

"Yes he is. Has his doctorate, a certificate, and everything. It's hanging up in his office on his floor of our house." Marc replied as he took a long sip of his latte. He sighed happily and licked his lips.

"So he's a doctor, and you're not?"

"Yeap. He did the work. He did the schooling, not me. I don't know jack shit compared to him. I used to be in the military, but I was discharged when they found out about my D.I.D."

"Okay. I'm sorry that happened to you. What kind of doctor is he?" She asked with an amused grin as she gave you a lewd wink. You huffed and sipped your drink.

"Uh, how about he just tells you. I'm bad with big words." Marc replied with a nervous chuckle. In a second he was relaxing into his chair and fixing his hair back to his side part.

"Oh yes. I'm an Egyptologist. Hoping to bump it up to also being an Anthropologist soon."

"That's handy. Egyptian shit is kind of our thing. Did you know that she has just gushed about it since the whole mega battle between those two Gods not too long ago?" Safiya revealed, and you blushed as you looked down at the phone.

Steven seemed intrigued by Safiya's words. He turned to you, a large grin plastered to his face.

"That's nifty. My house is filled with Egyptian stuff. Well, my floor is. Marc's not too keen on it. He's… Biased and doesn't really like the culture too much. Had a bad run in Cairo a little while ago. Swears we are never going back, despite my loud protests." Steven said with a small frown. You could see the disappointment in his eyes at the fact Marc didn't want to ever go back there.

"Well, just so you know, she wants to go visit the place badly. You're going to have to give her some time off to go." Safiya chirped back bluntly. Steven tilted his head to look at you, and that's when you remembered the tickets Jake had given you.

"Oh, yeah… Haha… Looks like I'll be going to Cairo sooner than expected." You remarked as you dug into your purse to find your wallet. You pulled out the two tickets, and placed them down onto the table. Steven's eyes lit up when he saw them, and Safiya's eyes bugged out of her skull. She calmed down, noticing how excited Steven looked.

"I won two round trip tickets to Cairo. First class air fare, five star hotel with a spa, and then a whole ass round of shit to do while there." You happily said as you showed Safiya the tickets. You saw how the gears turned in her head, and you suddenly felt bad. You sure hoped she didn't expect you were taking her. The plan was for Steven and Marc to go, not her.

"That's really badass. So, who are you taking?" She asked as she looked the dates over on the tickets. You opened your mouth to speak, when she abruptly cut you off.

"And don't expect me to go with ya. These dates on these tickets show I'll be busy at work during that time." She finished as she shoved the tickets back into your hands. Relief washed over you, but then you stared at her. The dates on the tickets were the same dates she had already made a point of booking off from work to spend with you.

You knew right there what she was doing.

"Oh, well… I don't have anyone else to go with me. I don't want to go alone, that's for sure…" As you spoke, Steven had sat up in his chair, and he was now leaning on the table with his elbows, giving you large puppy dog eyes.

"No one? No one at all?" You could tell he was trying to suggest that you ask him to go, but the reflection in the napkin holder held Marc's scowl in it. He did not look happy one bit.

"Well, I'd ask you, but Marc would turn me down…" You started to say, and Steven slapped the table, shaking it bad enough that the latte almost fell over. He glanced at the napkin holder and gave Marc a pleading look.

'You can't be fucking serious…' Marc said, his voice tickling your ears, like he was speaking in an empty hallway. It was weird to be able to hear him, when Steven should have been the only one.

"Please, mate?" Steven whispered. Marc grumbled and crossed his arms as he pinched the bridge of his nose.

'I don't want to go back there. He's there.' Marc replied, seething when he mentioned the last part. Steven took a deep breath.

"Oh come on, he's probably busy with some poor bastard, doing his bidding. It'll be fun. Come on, please say yes? You know how fucking much I love Egypt." Steven pleaded with him some more. The entire time he was talking to himself, Safiya sat there politely and quietly, although both of her brows were sitting high on her head.

From her angle, she couldn't see Marc the way Steven or you could. All she saw as the same face talking to himself, and going quiet while Marc spoke.

She discreetly picked up her phone, turned her ringer off, and sent you a text.

Does he do this all the time?

Yes. Please don't judge him.

I am not judging him, fam. I just want to make sure he isn't a crazy murder hobo or something.

He's not a crazy murder hobo. He's perfectly sane.

A man with D.I.D. is not perfectly sane, but I get you.

Please be nice. He pays me well, he is always nice to me, and he's hot. Please don't fuck this up for me.

Bitch! I ain't gonna fuck this up for you. He is hot, though. Not my cup of tea, because you know…

Yeah, I know. You're hella gay.

And you're not. Speaking of which, did he cause those bruises on you? Cause gurl, if he laid a hand to you, I'll fucking kill him.

You stared at the last message, then at her. She glared at you, egging you on to answer her text.

I'd rather not discuss this right now.

He did cause them! You've got about ten seconds to let me know why, or I'll flog the guy with my heels, right here in the cafe.

Okay, okay. Yes. But he didn't hit me, or hurt me. We spent all night drinking and fucking.

"Aha! Fucking finally!" Your best friend shouted as she slapped the table a few times in excitement. She had her tongue stuck between her teeth as she grinned wildly, looking back and forth from you to Steven.

Steven had turned to look at her after her outburst, his face showing concern and confusion. He genuinely looked a little frightened.

"You fucked your boss!" Safiya said as she snickered like a happy little goblin. Steven's face fell, and he looked at you. You were hot with embarrassment, and you didn't know what to say. You didn't plan on her shouting about it after sending her that text.

"I, uh… Yeah." You replied softly, and refused to look at either of them. You were scared Steven or Marc might get mad at you for this.

"Damn, gurl! Is he, I mean, are they, good in bed?" She asked, her eyes wild with excitement.

Steven leaned a bit closer, now very interested in your answer. He was now no longer embarrassed. Even Marc was waiting patiently to hear your answer.

"They are right here, Safi. You don't have to talk like they aren't." You mumbled quietly. You sipped your drink, hoping to cool down a bit. Marc's reflection giggled at you, and you scowled at him.

"I don't give a shit. Tell me. I'm sure they'd like to know as well." She sassed you as she kept staring at you, her dark brown eyes telling you she wasn't about to drop the subject any time soon.

"Fine. They are amazing in bed, alright?" You answered her question, but she wasn't satisfied yet.

"How big is the stick shift?"

"Safiya!" You snapped at her as you turned to apologize to Steven, but his face was calm with an amused-looking smile.

"It's alright go on. Tell her. I don't mind, love."

"You guys! Fuck!" You put your hands on your cheeks as you blushed. You felt so hot, and you couldn't believe how much Safiya was teasing you.

"Come on. Ya gotta squeal, now that Steven just gave the go ahead." Safiya pressed as she rubbed her hands together.

"Ugh! Fine! They've got a monster cock. It's very big, thick, and they know how to properly use it. Ya happy?" You said, looking to Steven and Marc to see their reactions. Marc was thoroughly pleased, and Steven was grinning sheepishly.

"Now I am. Circumcised, trimmed, or..?"

"Damntt, Safi!"

"Sorry. So, if you're fucking him, are you going to take him with you to Cairo?" She asked as she wiggled her brows at Steven.

By now, Steven was smiling as he tapped your shoulder to get your attention.

"Marc said he'll go, if you still want us to." Steven happily said, while Marc looked quite defeated.

"Oh? That's great. Yes. I'd love for you guys to come with me." You declared, and hugged them. Steven was quick to wrap his arms around you, and he was beaming with joy.

"Awesome, love. Thank you. I promise you won't regret it."

Then Steven fell silent as you and Safiya talked about things. She embarrassed you before about Steven, so now it was your turn.

"So, how's life been treating you? Found a girlfriend, yet?" You asked, and Safiya scrunched up her nose.

"Not exactly. Remember how I told you that I met this gorgeous girl at the bar last week?"

"Yeah. The one you keep telling me looks like some sort of Goddess? With the big curly hair? The one you're too chicken shit to talk to?"

"Yeah. That one. Well, I happened to find out she's going to be at the bar tonight. I need you to come with me. Be my wing woman!" Safiya gleefully gushed as she requested you to come with her to the bar later. You happily agreed, forgetting about the prior commitment you had to Jake. Yours eyes glanced at your phone, and you clearly saw Jake's face staring back at you, instead of Steven's. He was glaring at you, which reminded you of your plans with him.

You sighed.

"Yes, but I might have to ditch early. I'm supposed to go out later tonight with a friend of mine." You quickly said while trying to recover from agreeing to Safiya's offer too soon.

Apparently saying you were going out with a friend later struck a nerve in both Safiya, and Marc. Steven went rigid, then he leaned back in his seat to sip his latte. You turned to look at him, realizing he was now Marc. And he didn't look happy. Safiya glanced at him, then at you.

"Who ya going out with, gurl?" She asked, and you fucking panicked. You didn't know what to say. Would telling Marc or Steven that you had plans with the groundskeeper upset them? You did spend the night being fucked silly by all three of them…

"Well, uh…" You started to say. You gave your phone a quick glance, seeing Jake staring at you with an amused grin.

Was that smug bastard entertained?

"I was invited to a midnight auction. It's a private function. A fundraiser for charity of sorts, I think. I am not sure, as I wasn't exactly given much info. All I was told is that there's free booze, free food, and I don't have to talk to anyone." You said carefully. Jake nodded, and mouthed the words 'good girl'. You shivered as you bit your lower lip and looked away to the napkin holder again. Steven gave you an odd look, then glanced towards your phone. You quickly grabbed it and stuck it into your pocket.

"Alright, bitch, but I asked who you were going with, not where or what you're doing." Safiya scoffed as she pushed her glasses back up her face.

"She doesn't have to say, you know." Steven's voice erupted from Marc's body. Marc coughed and rubbed his face.

"Steven, she doesn't have to, but I would really like to know." Marc quickly replied. Safiya raised a brow at the way they talked, switching accents like it was nothing.

"Yeah, what he said. You don't have many friends."

"Oh, fuck you. I do have friends." You raised both hands up with the middle fingers proudly displayed at Safiya. She snorted and laughed.

"Okay, okay. Who is this friend, then?" She pressed, and Marc started to drum his fingers on the table.

You took another deep breath in through your nose, then sighed as you rubbed your temples.

"His name is Jake. He's a little rough around the edges, but he's nice."

"My groundskeeper is your friend? I haven't even met the guy yet." Marc said with a touch of disappointment, and dare you say that you saw jealousy in his eyes.

"Wait, you're fucking your boss, and you're gonna go out with his groundskeeper on a date?" Safiya drawled as she tugged her glasses down to the edge of her nose while she peered at you with a questioning look.

"It's not a date. He just didn't want to go to the auction alone, alright? Besides, he assured me I didn't have to do anything. I just get to sit there and drink bad champagne, listen to snobby rich people talk about boring shit, and hopefully, eat all the hors d'oeuvres that pass by us." You explained as you gave a good glance to the napkin holder. Steven was nodding at you, eating every word up that fell from your lips like it was gospel. 

Marc seemed to accept the answer. He didn't really want to discourage you from making friends with the only other employee they had. It would be silly to tell someone he hadn't met before to stay away from you…

But had this nagging feeling you were holding back some very important information about Jake. He knew the man spoke Spanish, drank tequila and weird Spanish beer, and he smoked cigarettes and weed. He knew Jake had his own phone in the limo that Steven and he owned.

The limo that Steven apparently allowed Jake to drive whenever he wanted.

"Okay. Right. Sorry that I embarrassed ya, gurl." She said as she took pity on you. She reached out and patted your hand.

"That's alright. If you don't give me a hard time, we don't laugh as hard later. Ha…"

"Well then… If you're fucking your boss, and taking him with you to Cairo, are you two dating, then?" She asked, now looking directly at Marc.

Marc looked confused for a moment, then he turned to look at Steven. Steven was rapidly nodding, holding his hands up in a silent prayer, but he wasn't saying anything, no doubt because you were able to hear him now.

"Well, I dunno. I haven't been in a good relationship in a very long time. He just got divorced as well, and I don't want to pressure him into doing anything he doesn't want…" You said softly as you looked away and at your drink. You could see a faint reflection in the cup's dome lid, and it was Jake again. He was giving you an odd look, one you couldn't quite read.

A large and warm hand came to rest on your thigh, making you turn to look at Marc. He was smiling, his eyes twinkling in the low light of the room.

"Well, it's true I'm divorced, and even though the divorce happened recently, I can assure you that I left my wife long before that. Both emotionally and physically. I still love her, but not the way I used to. She's more like a best friend now. Besides, she recently came out as a lesbian, so I definitely won't be going back to her any time soon." He said as he squeezed your thigh and rubbed it with his thumb. You smiled at the confession, and placed your hand over his.

"And Steven never got to really be with her. He got right mad when I told him about her, but the anger subsided quickly after."

"Why was he mad at you for it?" Safiya asked.

"Well, he-" Marc started to say, but then his eye twitched and his hand came up to run through his hair.

"I'd like to explain that myself, thank you very much, Marc. Anyways, I was mad, because she was beautiful, and a man like myself has absolutely no chance in hell with a girl like her. He ditched her, covered up the fact he was ever married, got a new flat, then just let me have the reins for a long while. I got over it quickly, because it wasn't ever my rodeo, and she didn't enjoy the fact that there was a whole other person inside her husband she never knew was there. Plus, I think she was salty as fuck that Marc's not very… How do you say… Gentlemanly or romantic enough?" He said with a bright smile, like he truly didn't care about his lost chance with Marc's ex wife. He leaned a little closer to you, pointing his thumb at your general direction. 

"Sides, look at this one. She's much prettier. She's nicer, and she cooks amazing food. She doesn't care there's two of us in this body." Steven mused as he explained himself a bit better. You couldn't help the heat rising up in your cheeks at his words.

"Well that's nice and all, but that didn't answer my question. You two gonna date, or y'all just gonna be friends with benefits?" Safiya slowly clacked her long nails against the table as she leaned back, her glasses still at the end of her nose. Steven chuckled and he brought his hand up to your face, cupping your chin in his large hand.

"I would absolutely wish to date you, love." He said softly, and  his eyes flashed, then his brows furrowed.

"Yeah. I agree with Steven. Considering he got to you, first, and he openly allowed me to experience you. That's a lot more than I gave him. Makes me feel like an asshole."

"Well, you can be a bit of a dick, mate." Steven's voice bubbled from Marc's throat, but his face remained the same.

"Don't rub it in, buddy. That's not classy." Marc muttered back.

By now Safiya was trying very hard not to laugh. She was amazed at how flawlessly Marc and Steven switched, and how he wasn't causing a scene. She had expected him to be some guy that flew off the handle and spouted crazy and absurd things, but he didn't. Instead, she got to see a perfectly sane person being calm and well-behaved.

Correction, two perfectly sane individuals in one body.

"Okay. Cool. But…"

"How about we just see how things go. We don't want to scare her away, especially not after last night. Fuck, last night was amazing." Marc said as his eyes darkened a bit, and he licked his lips.

"I would like that, Marc, Steven."

***

The cafe was fun, and Safiya begged you to go shopping with her. She needed a new outfit for tonight, in the hopes she could seduce the girl she had her eye on. She even offered Marc and Steven to come with, but you suspected she merely did that to get a ride and a locked car to hold her purchases in.

Marc didn't seem to care, and he happily agreed to come along to the mall with you and Safiya. Once at the mall, Safiya dragged you into nearly every store in it, acquiring at least one or two bags of purchases for each stop. Marc made the mistake of offering to hold the bags at the second store, and now he had ten bags in each hand as he sat on a bench waiting for you and your friend to get out of some makeup store.

"Fuuuck. Why did I ask to tag along?" Marc sighed as he leaned back, his head hanging off the back of the bench, with both legs outstretched before him. Steven appeared in the reflection of the stainless steel planter box beside him.

'Well, you wanted to spend the day with her, then you offered her a ride… Oh then you said yes to driving them to the mall-'

"Shut up, Steven." Marc hissed, which startled an old woman who was on the other bench behind him.

'Shhh. Watch it. There's a woman behind us.' Steven muttered back. Marc huffed and turned to look at the planter, glaring at Steven. He was about to say something, when you came hustling over with a single small bag. It was the only thing you had bought so far that didn't fit in your purse. All the bags Marc was holding, were Safiya's. 

"Hey, sorry. Sorry. I told her we need to ditch the bags in the car, or straight up leave. I said I should ask you to make sure you're still okay being out with us, or if you wanna go."

"Well, I would have no complaints about hanging out longer, if I didn't have to hold this hoard of shit your friend bought." Marc grumbled. Steven heard the rude tone in his voice, and he quickly took over.

"Sorry about him. Tells me he hated shopping with Layla. I, on the other hand, love shopping. How about I front for a bit, give him a rest, yeah? Maybe take these bags to the car, and meet up with your friend after?" Steven suggested as he lifted his arms. The bags weren't really that heavy for him and Marc, but Marc was just done with being in a mall with no free hands to do anything with, like fiddle on his phone.

"Sure. I'll text her and tell her we're doing that. She's just having her eyebrows done."

"Her what?" Steven asked, sounding a bit confused.

"Her eyebrows. She's getting them plucked, and then refilled."

"But… Why? Why remove the hair, just to refill them? I don't understand." Steven asked, and you giggled at his lack of knowledge. You pulled up a few photos of what they had done to Safiya, and then explained how they filled the colour in with an eyebrow pencil.

"Ah, okay. I get it now. Dunno why she did that. Her brows were just lovely before." Steven said with a raised brow. You laughed at his response.

"Girls are finicky." You replied as you leaned down to take a few bags from him, but he refused to allow it. Steven got up and adjusted the load, while you shot Safiya a text to explain where you went.

The walk back to the car was short, and Steven went about putting all the bags into Marc's trunk carefully. When he was done, he shut the car and went oddly still. He was staring at his reflection in the shiny bumper of the car, staring right at a pair of eyes like his own, but slightly darker and full of a threatening aura.

"Steven? You alright?" You asked as you placed a hand to his shoulder. He straightened up right away, and he turned to look at you, coming back to his senses with a warm smile.

"Yeap. Yeah. Of course, love. Just hungry is all. Are you hungry?" He asked as he wrapped an arm around your waist and started walking with you back to the mall entrance.

"Yeah, actually. I am. I'll text Safi, and tell her we will be at the food court." You replied with a smile. Steven gave one last glance at Marc's car, his eyes searching for that one reflection that was different from his own, or from Marc's, but only his own distorted image was there.

***

Another!

Thank you to @mics59 for the Spanish translations

Thank you to @ruhro7 for proofreading

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@snippychicke @eclecticpatrolroadlawyer @queenotaku23 @clairewinchester14 @promiscuoussatan @mona-has-friends @lazyotakujen @timeless-crow @crazylittlereader2474

[mylifeisactuallyamess]

Vantalaður Ást

Ivar Lothbrok x F!Reader

Chapter 4 - Chapter 5 - Chapter 6

A/N: It’s Monday! I wanted to post this sooner but I wasn’t sure about it. Anyway, here is this chapter. Can you spot a Ragnar line? I had to get it in I love it so much. I’ll soon be transferring this all to AO3 as well because tumblr and apple are dumpster fires.

Warnings: Sigurd is a prick, food and LOTR watching, fingering (f receiving), Ivar angst, NSFW 18+

Word Count: 4754

Tagging: @ivarisms @majesticwren @acrossthesestars @a-bang-for-your-bucky @youbloodymadgenius @kaybee87 @punkrocknpearls @istorkyou @smears-and-spots @bulmabhadie

Divider by @firefly-graphics

The pair of you left his bedroom, you skipped down the stairs with probably a little bit too much bounce and Ivar followed at a slower pace. Your hand gripped the bannister harshly until the skin over your knuckles pulled tight from the pressure. Sigurd dumped his coat on the bench, sweeping his blonde hair over his shoulder, a hateful, knowing smile crossing his face and he tilted his face up to watch Ivar come down the stairs.

“Well, what do we have here? Looking a little bright eyed,” he pointed to his eye while addressing you. Not knowing what else to do you blocked the bottom of the stairs so Ivar couldn’t pass you without knocking you over.

“Look at you Sigurd. You look like a bitch,” you didn’t even need to look at Ivar to know the exact face he was making. The twist of his mouth, the flash of his teeth, the patronising way his eyes raked up and down Sigurd spewing as much hate as he could with just a glance.

“Fuck you Ivar,” Sigurd replied dismissively. “Where are the others?”

“They’re in town,” you told him hesitantly, disliking the mischievous light that grew in his eyes.

“Thought you’d have a little play time while you had the house to yourselves,” he called gleefully as he headed to the kitchen. Immediately you put a hand in the middle of Ivar’s chest stopping him from charging past you. The door opened again and you felt relief flood you as the other four came in. Ubbe instantly clocked you both on the stairs asking you a silent question with his face but you just shook your head once. “I knew you wanted to fuck one of us, I love being proved right!” Sigurd’s voice floated through and everyone stopped what they were doing, all heads turning to the figure that appeared in the hallway. “I told you, didn't I?” Sigurd pointed at you both as he now spoke to his brothers. “I’m surprised it’s taken this long…”

“You shut your damn mouth!” Roared Ivar from behind you, his chest leaning heavily on your back as you still restrained him.

“What’s going on?” Asked Hvitserk, moving to stand on the bottom step in case he needed to intervene.

“Sigurd just got home and assumed me and Ivar were together upstairs.” You didn’t deny it, but you didn’t confirm it either not knowing how the others would react.

“Sigurd,” Björn groaned his brother's name as though fed up with this constant drama. “Just drop it.”

“Aren’t you bothered by this?” Sigurd asked, gesturing to you both.

“Only you seem to be, brother,” replied Ubbe. There was more rustling as everyone finished taking their coats and boots off. You exhaled softly feeling a pressure lift off your shoulders that you had no idea was there. “Who’s hungry?” Called Ubbe as he clapped Sigurd on the shoulder. You all filed past the penultimate brother only for him to block Ivar from following you.

“Sigurd, I wouldn’t,” you said quietly while they stared daggers at each other. Ivar smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes as he glared at Sigurd.

“Enough. I’m bored,” exclaimed Björn and he slammed his hand onto Sigurd‘s elbow causing the arm to buckle and allow Ivar past. “Let’s eat,” he rumbled. Without thinking you sat next to Ivar at the kitchen island, he sat so his body was facing you, one arm resting on the counter, his cane between his braced legs and you sat facing the group leaning on the counter.

“What did you buy?” You asked Kat seeing she was holding a bag for the first time.

“We got a loaf of sourdough so we can have lamb sandwiches also! We got this,” she said, producing a heavy looking cake.

“Oh sjónvarpskaka!” She nodded with a small smile on her face.

“Yeah, what you said. Björn said it’s coconut or something?”

“You’re going to love it,” you told her. “It’s my favourite.” Ubbe was already slicing up the leftover lamb from last night, him and Björn talking to Sigurd in hushed voices, clearly trying not to let him create another fight in the group. Hvitserk came up behind you, placing a hand on your back that made you stiffen slightly, highly aware of the way Ivar was suddenly looking at you.

“You ok?” Hvitserk breathed into your ear and you nodded.

“Yeah yeah all good.”

“Sure?” His hazel eyes flickered to Ivar over your shoulder and the corner of his mouth twitched, making a show of removing his hand from you and putting it on the counter. “Ok then,” he whispered, smirking fully now.

The sandwiches were passed around and eaten in almost record time. You helped Kat cut the cake but Ivar was already out of his seat with Hvitserk hot on his heels. You passed some cake to Ubbe who was smiling craftily. Rolling your eyes you couldn't help but smile slightly back.

“What??” You asked him but all he did was shake his head and nudge your shoulder with his own. The cake was eaten and Björn announced it was time for the yearly Lord of the Rings marathon. Kat leaned against the counter as you washed up the plates passing them for her to dry.

“Is that a thing?” You nodded, lifting your eyebrows in surprise.

“It’s always been a thing, I’m surprised Björn hasn’t subjected you to them before, the boys love these films.” She shrugged slightly.

“I still feel like I don’t really know him,” she sighed, making you pause.

“Is that what a relationship is all about though? You know each other but still discover each other? You can’t find it all out in the first year, that would be boring.”

“Is there anything you can tell me?” She asked slyly and you sniggered.

“You already know more about him than I do!”

You scoffed and she frowned before your meaning dawned on her.

“Oh! Er, yeah I guess,” she mumbled.

“Come on, let’s go watch these films and get this particular tradition over with.”

The pair of you entered the living room, the fire was roaring warming up the entire room, Ubbe was flicking through the tv while holding the remote out of Hvitserk’s reach, Sigurd was sour faced and huddled on the end of the sofa with Björn who slid over to make room for Kat. Ivar had his legs up on the other sofa which you were used to, so you grabbed a large cushion and dumped it on the floor just accepting it landed next to Ivar. Quickly pulling one over for Hvitserk.

“Guys come on, let's get the film playing!” You said in exasperation snatching the remote from Ubbe. He wrapped his arms around you making you shriek and kick out until Hvitserk grabbed your legs and you were stuck, suspended between the two brothers.

“Where shall we put her Ubbe?” Hvitserk asked as you tried to wriggle free.

“Put me the fuck down!” You wheezed through your laughter.

“Nah, I’ve got a better idea.” No! If they were going to throw you at Ivar you were going to kill them both. You let loose a half scream because it seemed like they were going to heave you at Ivar but the last moment you were tossed onto the other sofa, landing in a tangle of limbs with Björn and Kat. You ended up in a heap on the floor after Björn had shoved you off, your sides splitting from laughing so much. This is what you loved above all else, this is what you had missed the past few months after being tied up in a busy period of work.

“Are we watching or are you all just going to act like children for the rest of the day?” Ivar’s voice cut through the mirth and you crawled over to your cushion, still laughing quietly when Hvitserk threw himself down next to you. Finally Ubbe settled on the floor, leaning on the coffee table and the film started.

Hvitserk got up at some point and made popcorn, which was thrown at the tv whenever Boromir was on screen. You leaned against the sofa joining in with the booing and munching your way through your shared bowl when you felt something at the back of your neck. At first you froze but then you leaned into his touch as Ivar massaged the very base of your neck, his fingers hidden by your hair. You relaxed your shoulders desperately wanting to put your head down and let him dig his fingertips into your skin. He found a particular spot you didn’t even know you needed to be touched and had to bite back a groan as he worked it with just the right amount of pressure.

You tried to concentrate on Aragorn facing down an entire army of Uruk-hai but your vision blurred as you solely focussed on the sensations that travelled down your back from Ivar’s touch alone. You sighed with disappointment when the film finished and he withdrew as everyone stretched and shifted position ready for the next film.

“So who do we throw popcorn at in this film?” Kat asked with a raised eyebrow.

“That would be Faramir, the brother of the last guy,” you answered her, holding back a yawn as you stretched your arms up and arched your back.

“Is he also a bad but secretly good guy?”

“Don’t ruin it for her sæta,” said Björn as he jumped over the back of the sofa back into his seat, ignoring the glare that Sigurd shot at him.

“I wasn’t going to!”

“Everyone ready?” Asked Ubbe and you settled back against the sofa almost begging Ivar to touch you again. Darkness was falling, only the light of the tv lit up everyone’s faces, even the fire was dying down and you shivered slightly. The next thing you knew a blanket was tossed around you, at first you thought it was Hvitserk but it was Ivar’s hand that trailed across your shoulders, making sure the blanket was up high enough and you pulled it in around you. Moving slightly you rested your head against him, closing your eyes briefly when his hand rested lightly on the exposed side of your neck.

You stayed like that for the rest of the movie, wishing there was an extra hour tagged on the end so you didn’t have to move. But it finished and you sat up, hating the way Ivar’s touch just melted away. Sigurd put the light on and you groaned in annoyance.

“What the fuck Sigurd?” You grumbled, squinting in the harsh light.

“Can’t fucking see a thing can I?” He snapped at you.

“Go to hell,” you replied before you could even engage your brain. At first you felt bad but then Ivar started laughing and it was such a good sound you found yourself grinning.

“Yeah Sigurd, go to hell and turn the light off on your way out,” Ivar sneered, casting a gleeful look at his brother as he leaned back over the sofa arm.

“Come on, let’s get some drinks and more popcorn before we start the last one,” suggested Ubbe. Diffusing yet another potential blow up between brothers as he swung an arm over Sigurd’s shoulders and dragged him into the kitchen.

“I need to piss.”

“Wow thanks for that little nugget of information Hvitserk,” you muttered.

“Only the best for my litla systir,” he said, planting a kiss on the side of your face before getting up. You glanced up to see Björn whispering something in Kat’s ear, his hand stroking her upper arm and you felt a shot of jealousy that you couldn’t have that right now. Tugging on the blanket and rearranging your cushion you moved it back a bit so you were more level with Ivar. You risked glancing up only to see he was watching every move you made, his eyes darting over your face as you stared at him. His face was so easy to read and you were sure it reflected how you were feeling. The need to touch him, to show him that you wanted him and you didn’t care who knew it, not anymore. He shifted forward, his hand coming up to touch your face, his lips parting slightly and immediately your heart leapt in excitement only for Ubbe to reappear and shove Ivar’s head back into the side of the sofa. Ivar’s face changed instantly, the blue of his eyes flashing with held back rage, his lips pulling in a slight snarl so he didn’t say what he really wanted to. Everyone settled back down for the last film, Hvitserk was the last to come in so he turned the light off plunging you all back into darkness.

Out of the trilogy this one was your favourite and you wanted to enjoy it but for once you just wished it would end. You needed to talk to Ivar after never having the chance to use actual words today, before his internal voice ran away with him like it did earlier. You noticed the absence of his touch this time, even when you lay your head on him he didn’t move. Sighing slightly you sat up only for Hvitserk to lean into you.

“Tired?” He asked and you nodded, laying your head on his shoulder. “Go to sleep kær,” he whispered, moving his arm around you in an embrace. The next thing you knew Ivar was shifting, pulling his legs round and thumping his cane down with unnecessary force.

“Where are you going?” Demanded Björn.

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Ivar grumbled.

“Stay, the best bit is coming up,” Hvitserk told him, pointing to the screen but Ivar didn’t even turn around.

“I don’t want to.” You listened to him make his way up the wooden stairs, your entire body felt like it was on high alert all of a sudden. You began to think about making your own excuses when Kat yawned loudly and made a show of stretching beside Björn.

“Are you tired? What is happening?” He asked, looking around at the rest of the group.

“Björn it is about 1am,” you pointed out.

“No I do not accept this,” he said grumpily, folding his arms. “Go to bed if you want but I am staying up to finish this.”

“Fine, I’m going. Kat?” She shot Björn a guilty look before stepping carefully over Ubbe who was clearly already asleep, slumped against the coffee table.

“Well if they’re going I’m going,” muttered Sigurd.

“Hvitserk? Ubbe?” Björn kicked his brother, dragging a snort from him as he woke up with a start.

“What the fuck?” Ubbe sleep slurred.

“Come on,” you linked arms with Kat, letting Sigurd go first, hating that his room was right next to yours as he was sharing Hvitserk this year.

“Thanks,” she whispered. “I wasn’t sure how much longer I could keep my eyes open.”

“No problem, I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Yeah, night,” she replied, stifling another yawn and carrying on up the next flight of stairs. Stepping into your room you couldn’t help the glance over at Ivar’s closed door. Clashing your teeth together slightly you decided you weren’t staying in here tonight, no matter what Ivar said. You changed into pyjamas and quickly brushed your teeth before sneaking to your doorway and peering out. The tv was still going downstairs and Sigurd’s was firmly shut so you dared to move, padding silently across the softly lit landing and successfully avoiding any creaking boards. Turning the handle to Ivar’s room you darted inside but you weren’t prepared for how dark it was.

“Ivar?” You whispered. That single second before he replied seemed to stretch out like an elastic band, snapping back once you heard him speak.

“I’m here. What are you doing elskan mín?” You made a shushing motion with your hand then realised he couldn’t see you.

“You know I don’t know what that means right?” Your voice barely a breath when you spoke, concentrating on making your way to his bed without knocking over his…you winced at the loud bang and the irritated sigh that came from the direction you were heading.

“Thought you’d come in here let everyone know you’re not in your own room?”

“Oh shut up. We need to talk and you know it.” Finally your fingers found the cover, sliding over the material as you worked your way up the bed. You heard him shift, pulling himself upright so he was leaning against the headboard. Your eyes were slowly adjusting to the darkness, catching sight of him bare chested next to you, his hair was down feathering round his face and you realised he must have washed it quickly before coming to bed. “So…” you settled under the cover, stretching your legs carefully out alongside his. “Today was…something else.” He didn’t respond, staring straight ahead into the darkness as his fingers picked at the material that covered him. “Am I having this conversation by myself?” You whispered harshly.

“What do you want me to say?” You felt the shrug from him, his shoulder nudging you slightly.

“I don’t know. Anything.” Looking up at the ceiling you could see the dim natural light that came from outside but it didn’t help your eyes much as Ivar was still shrouded in darkness hiding his facial features from you. Your mind was blank, waiting for him to say something all the while your little bubble of hope was diminishing inside you.

“I want to do it again,” he finally responded. You turned to look at him, wishing it was lighter in here so you could look into those blue eyes.

“Do what?” You managed to strangle out the words through the obstruction in your throat making your voice almost squeak.

“Kiss you.” Ok, ok. Breathe. You didn’t know what to say, of course you wanted him to do it again but the words wouldn’t fall from your lips and he huffed loudly letting his head fall back against the board. “Why are you even here? You said you wanted to talk and you’re not…” his words stopped when your lips found his. Your hands firmly gripping his cheeks, feeling the stubble under your fingertips as you raked them softly down his face. You pulled away, your eyes fluttering open only to see his eyes were still closed, his lips chasing yours as he leaned into you.

“Like that?” You whispered, feeling him nod in your hands.

“And like this,” a light groan bubbled up from your chest, his arms snaked under yours so he could caress your cheek with one hand and wrap the other round the back of your neck dragging you to him in an urgent, teeth clashing kiss. His lips worked furiously against yours and you shifted closer, bringing your chest to brush against his. His hand splayed across your cheek, the other coming round to trail lines of fire down your neck, applying a little bit of pressure that had you moaning into his mouth. Heat blossomed in your body, the intensity of it almost took you by surprise and you gasped when he tilted your head back. His lips deftly kissing the little hollows of your neck you barely knew existed and your fingernails dug slightly into the hardness of his chest. His hand left your neck, moving down your body to curl around you pulling you closer so his face was buried in your neck. His hair was damp still, the scent of it had you inhaling deeply, pressing your cheek against his forehead as you tried to process what was happening and not get swept up in the sensation of it all. But that’s what you wanted, to get lost in his embrace and not come up for air until you were drowning in him. Your arms encircled his broad shoulders, feeling the way he flexed against you as he released a hot sigh against your skin.

“Ivar…” his name spilled from you in a moan making his arms tense around you. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. You can’t.” His hands worked their way down, grabbing the pliable flesh of your thigh he guided your leg over him until you had straddled his lap. Your hips spread, settling firmly down on him and your eyes fluttered as the material of your sleep shorts seemed to hit you just in the right place. His hands hooked over your shoulders, pressing you down onto him even more letting you know that he wasn’t uncomfortable. Biting your bottom lip you let out a muffled moan when his lips found the column of your throat. Leaning forward into you, his hands now splayed over your back as he peppered kissed across your clavicle. The gentle graze of his teeth had your head falling back in pure bliss, your own teeth almost ruining your lips so you didn’t make any loud noises. Carefully he lifted up the hem of your top exposing your left breast to him which he instantly took inside his hot mouth. Your jaw dropped going slack as you wound your fingers into his hair, the coolness of it making goosebumps erupt up your arms even though you were burning with a fever. He shoved your top up more, switching to the other side before grabbing your neck and pulling you in for a deep kiss. He tasted amazing, better than you’d ever imagined and you found yourself wanting more. Pressing yourself into him, feeling his steaming skin against your own as you both became more frenzied. Your mouth opened against his, your hips rocking shamelessly on his lap and he mumbled something unintelligible while dragging his thumb over your cheek.

“Ég vil þig elskan mín,” he groaned.

“Then take me,” your lips brushed his as you spoke. He paused, pulling away a little and now you could see his eyes. Even in the darkness you could see how blue they were as they traced the contours of your face, flicking from your lips and back to search your gaze. “Please Ivar.” You exhaled as he crushed you to him, deftly rolling you both over in one movement so he was on top, pressing firmly between your legs. His arms caged you to the mattress and his soft lips found yours once again. You sighed at the feel of him, the way his tongue danced with yours made you feel things that you’d never felt before. Rolling your hips against him made him rut into you drawing a shocked gasp from you as a ripple of pleasure shivered up your spine. Leaning on just one arm his other moved between your bodies, dipping below the hem of your shorts until his fingers found your clit causing your back to arch up.

“You’re so wet elskan,” he murmured in your ear, his tongue slowly drawing your ear lobe into his mouth, pulling his teeth over the softness of it had you groaning. “Sshhh,” he hushed you but you were beyond caring. His hair tickled your face and you tried to bury yourself in it as his fingers wound the coil in your lower belly with each careful but firm circle of your clit. You pushed your hips into his hand, desperate for more and he rewarded you with two fingers at once. Your walls fluttered greedily around him, pulling him into you until his hand had bottomed out and he growled slightly at the velvety feel of you. His head dipped and rested on your chest, watching his arm flex as he pumped in and out of you. Your fingers gripped whatever they could find, one hand dug into his shoulder the other wound in the soft strands of his hair and you heard the strained grunt he gave as you pulled, but he didn’t tell you to let go. His thumb brushed over your clit and a new heat raced beneath your skin. Erupting from your core and blooming through your body until your toes were curling. Your back arched, your hands using his strength to heave yourself against him when finally the coil inside you unravelled.

Immediately you felt his hand cover your open mouth, pressing down hard but you barely noticed as wave after wave of pleasure raked through your body. Muffled noises of ecstacy spilled from beneath his fingers, your breathing ragged through your nose as you tried to get oxygen into your lungs. Only when you relaxed completely under him did he remove his hand from your mouth, capturing your lips in a quick rough kiss.

He rolled off you and sat back against the headboard again but all you could do was stare at the ceiling, your body still laden with bliss as you lay next to him. Finally you managed to force your body to sit up, he was watching you out of the corner of his eye almost as if he was nervous.

“What’s wrong?” You asked huskily, dipping down to kiss his tattoo only to look up and see his eyes were closed, an expression of restraint marked his face. “Ivar?”

“I can’t give you what you want.” Your brain shattered at the tiny plea to his tone.

“You’re joking right? I’m sorry, were you not just here…?” You gestured randomly to your lower half. “Did you leave the room and I did that myself?”

“You’re making fun of me,” he snapped, swinging his legs round so his feet rested on the floor.

“No Ivar I’m not. I just don’t understand, how have we gone from that to this?” He ran his hands through his hair, tucking it behind his ears clearly working through something you weren’t privy to right now. His back was curved before you, just asking for you to slide over it and hug him but you knew if you did right this second he wouldn’t react the way you would hope. “Please talk to me,” you begged. “I need you to speak! You’re eloquent at throwing insults or making someone feel the size of a mouse but you never speak to me, Ivar and I am struggling as to why!” You pulled yourself to sit next to him, dropping your legs over the side to match him. “Oh Ivar, what’s wrong?” He sighed, rolling his shoulders and clearly trying to collect himself.

“I told you, I can’t give you what you want.”

“And you are just presuming to know what I want?” You felt your temper flaring, chasing away all the good feelings you had just finally allowed yourself to experience with the one person you wanted on this whole planet. Now he was getting wound up, his inability to be able to express himself was clearly frustrating him. His lips were pulled against his teeth and he sighed heavily. “Ok. Fine. I’m going to head back to my room before we ruin this anymore. I’ll see you in the morning.” You stood only for him to grab your hand. His fingers entwined with yours and you felt yourself softening to him already.

“Don’t…” he whispered, bringing the back of your hand up to his face and pressing it against his cheek. “Stay, elskan mín.”

“You’re going to have to tell me what that means,” you murmured.

“One day. I promise.” Tugging your hand out of his grip you saw his head fall into his hands and you were going to walk away but you didn’t want to. Bending down you moved his hair out of the way, brushing it behind an ear and planting a lingering kiss on his cheek. His face turned, your lips meeting, his hands reaching to rest lightly on your cheek.

“I don’t want to sleep alone tonight,” you breathed. His eyes shifted to the side like he couldn’t look at you but he nodded anyway. Your heart skipping a beat as you crawled back onto the bed, lifting the covers for him and draping them over him. He lay on his back, one arm extended behind you while he rested the other behind his head. Scooting close but being mindful of his legs you rested your head on his warm chest. His arm curled around you, dragging the side of his thumb up your bare arm. “Mmm that’s nice,” you mumbled, already drifting off into sleep enjoying the warmth and feel of him all around you.

[amalthea9]

for the character ask game: Styles (if it's already been asked then Horatio) :-)

Eeee thank you for asking for Styles dear @aragarna !!😍 you know me, I always wanna talk about my sailor husband.🤣🤣🤣

One aspect I love about them:

His desire to encourage those he cares about. And help when he can, even to the point of self sacrifice. Example: offering to take over for Horatio in laying out the gunpowder so Horatio could make a run for it. Knowing full well that Wolf would probably catch Styles and gun him down. 🥲

One aspect I wish more people understood about him:

So I have been SO blessed by the Hornblower crew here on Tumblr. On AO3 it's different and I still don't know why....

But you all have understood Styles and how he is not a burden or a nuisance to Horatio and the others. You beautiful lads see his worth and his value and so I'm just gonna take this question as a moment to say once again THANK YOU from the bottom of my heart for seeing Styles as I see him.💖💖💖💖

One or more headcannons I have about this character:

Styles has self-esteem issues due to his childhood. The only father he had beat him constantly and told him he was nothing. While his mother tried to counter this with telling him otherwise when she could, it still imprinted on his heart. He also struggles with feeling replaceable or left behind which is why he says he can do things he really can't just so he isn't left behind by those he lives and admires.

Styles loves dogs🤭(I feel like he would be really good with dogs idk)

I've discussed this hc with @twice-told-tales before I think:

Styles had a little brother; I never gave him a name. But that little brother died somehow when Styles was around 11 or 12 years old. Perhaps by plague or some common child illness or worse. But Styles blamed himself for not saving his little brother somehow.

One character I love seeing them interact with:

William Bush. Hands down. 👌

The energy of "I love you as a friend and I will NEVER tell you. I'm gonna be a bitch to you always" is so good.🤣🤣🤣

One character I wish they would interact more with:

Archie...I just...guh. so there's that first interaction of "Belay that, Styles!" Which I love endlessly. But then every interaction after that one was 'warmer' if that makes any sense. I just wanted more of Archie saying "Yes, Styles, that's right." In the kindest tone I heard from Archie when it came to the men under him. It was born of friendship I think. Something happened that we didn't see where Styles helped Archie somehow or vice versa. I don't know. I just wish they had had more interaction and time together.

One or more headcannons I have that involve them and one other character:

Styles sees Oldroyd as a little brother to try and ease his guilt over losing his own little brother. It's why he teases Oldroyd so much, and also encourages him in The Frogs and the Lobsters when Oldroyd is struggling.💖💞

Also, nothing bad happened to Oldroyd, my hc is that he was transferred to a new ship. And that Styles, Matthews, and him are reunited on shore leave at some point.💞💖

@professorlehnsherr-almashy @twice-told-tales

(Forgot to tag people in the Hornblower fandom but most of you already saw my answers🤣)

[ambitionsource]

AMBITION Season 4 ♫ “Growing Pains” [ 4.02 ]

CREATED BY Esther (waterstribe) & Maggie (quincywillows) || Official Page || AO3

TO THE LIMIT — The crew faces challenges as they adjust to their new set-ups, while happy homecomings shake things up. Bold branching out leaves some stranded, and one relationship doesn’t meet expectations. Zay’s past choices come back to haunt him; Lucas is haunted by the present. Those who can’t adapt might hit a dead end—or maybe just drop dead.

102 Minutes (65K words) || No content warnings apply.

[ ← New Start (Part 2) ] [ S4 Synopsis ] [ Organic Chemistry → ]

CREATOR’S NOTE: Please don’t blitz at the minute count there! Although not reflected in the title, this is split into two parts within the episode, marked clearly by an “END OF PART 1.” We’ve also brought back the popular “breaks” feature peppered in during the episode to provide convenient pausing points during reading. While the episode is posted in full here on Tumblr, it’s broken into 2 separate chapters on AO3, so read whichever way is best for you. We’re still trying to figure out the best way to navigate the ever-growing story, and appreciate your flexibility from the start on this admittedly quirky format and series. Whether it takes you a month or a day to read, enjoy, and thanks for being an AAA warrior!

( Follow along with the music on Spotify here! )

RECAP

Over a shot of the New York crew performing “My Shot” in Chubbies:

Zay, voiceover: Previously, on AMBITION…

Our season kicked off, with characters scattered around the globe and one major takeaway.

Bridgette: Summer’s over.

Indeed it is. Our main ensemble jumped into their new worlds, whether that was colleges in New York and Los Angeles, industry and day jobs through the states, or hitting the ground running on finding their big break. This included new people (with all sorts of quirks, like junior producers, pretentious film boys, and a large variety of professors), new settings (the scenic campuses of NYU and USC, the trendy offices of Anya Kelly and Global Beat) and plenty of new challenges. Also, Farkle got hit by a bicycle.

Farkle: God! It’s brutal out here.

College proved quickly to be a different ball game than the familiar antics of Adams, especially for Zay, who jumped into the cutthroat Turner transfer program. He’s working hard to stay at the front of the pack against ambitious adversaries (like the disconcertingly charming Gia and his formerly established rival, Vanessa from Quincy).

Zay: Let dance do the talking. I’m not afraid of a little competition. So if that’s what you really are, then bring it -- and when the best bitch comes out on top, then we’ll know.

Challenge accepted, Zay -- and with a ponytail flip to the face at that. Still, Zay seems well-suited to take his drive and talent straight to the end… provided the mistakes of his past don’t come back to haunt him (such as a torn tendon that screwed everything up the first time).

Nearby at NYU, the Tisch trio began their own college careers. Riley and Nigel share a class as well as enthusiasm for their curriculum, but the similarities to their starts seem to end there. Nigel is struggling to adjust to the unfamiliarity of the new social scene, his shyness more pronounced without the strong personalities of his two best friends to bolster him and in contrast to the high octane worlds of NYU and Jade’s new world of fashion.

Nigel: It’s… a lot.

Jade is more equipped to handle the rush after four years of grind at Adams, but even she isn’t prepared for the new mind games at play. She thought she was off to a strong start, even going above and beyond on an inventory project… until Anya Kelly’s executive assistant undercuts her and throws her good standing into jeopardy in an instant. And the designer herself remains elusive, hidden away behind the frosted glass doors at the top of the open studio.

The music industry is less opaque, thanks to our inside look through Josh Matthews, the mysterious youngest Matthews brother and Riley’s fabled cool uncle with connections -- although how cool is up for debate as we watched him spill coffee all over himself. He’s got his foot in the door, but still facing stagnation of his own as his most promising client dropped him to go work with a bigger name label. So he’s back to square one, on the hunt for promising new talent… and isn’t he lucky, as three of Adams’ brightest (Maya; Yindra; Farkle) are out there in L.A. searching for their way in.

Well, maybe not all of them. Farkle’s got a lead of his own -- an email response back from Jonathan Turner, the agent who discovered him at the end of the Season 2 and offered him his business card for if he ever returned.

Maya: Everything we want, Farkle. That’s what we’re getting.

Farkle: Everything we want.

While ignoring how well Maya and Farkle seem to be coping without them, Isa had their own adjustment period to NYU film school -- prompting a pretty big self-discovery journey as they questioned their gender identity and how they want to define themselves for the next four years. College is a chance to reset, and they take full advantage of that (officially checking the non-binary box on their student information form). They’re looking towards the future, even if their past continues to linger… like ignored messages from a best friend they miss but don’t know how to talk to (for many reasons), unanswered letters sent into the ether towards a man who may or may not be a lead in their ongoing family mystery, and doubt about whether this new self-reflection is authentic or just another attempt to mask in self-defense.

Lucas: Can I still call you Dora?

Isa: Yeah. I mean, I guess. I don’t care.

Lucas: Cool. Then what do I care about the rest of it?

Isa wasn’t the only one experimenting with presentation, although Charlie’s was admittedly a bit more glamorous as he galavanted around Europe. As fun as playing with a romanticized, mysterious version of yourself with no family name can be, it’s all too easy to slip so far into it that you lose sight of everything (and everyone) else -- something that the reemergence of said family can remind you of, as Bridgette did when she went to visit him. Once she gave him a reality check, Charlie was all set to start looking westward towards home… even if he’s still figuring out what exactly that means or who he’ll be when he gets there.

But you don’t have to be abroad to be lost. Lucas proved that perfectly without leaving the city -- in fact, he’s so stuck in it, he may as well be part of the scenery. That and the increased presence of his father, now battling cancer, makes for an unideal situation, and was causing Lucas to ghost more often than not… something Riley and others did not appreciate. And Lucas didn’t want to do that, to cause that stress, but it’s also hard to explain.

Lucas: Everyone else is… they’re over there, past all this, and I’m just stuck. Doing the same shit. And I don’t know how to tell people that, you know, that I’m trying but sometimes it just gets… too…

But he was only one piece of Riley’s new college anxiety puzzle. As everyone went their separate ways, she feared they were falling apart, and stretched herself too thin trying to keep it together. It took a bolstering conversation with Uncle-Counselor-now-Principal Eric to get her head on straight, and remind her that while this new journey has a lot of hard change to face, it’s full of opportunity, too. It’s Riley’s future just as much as it is anyone else’s, and it’s up to each of them whether they make the most of it.

Farkle: “I know it’s weird but I’m trying to work out how to handle this. Who to… be.”

Riley: I’m focusing on right now, bringing the best that I’ve got and enjoying what I’ve got while I have it. At any moment it could change, but… maybe for the better. And no matter what… I think it’s going to make for an adventure I don’t want to miss.

No doubt about that, Riles. And even if we weathered the first storms, Bridgette was right when she said summer’s over. The semester is in full swing now. Now that we’re all caught up on the past, it’s time to face what’s next…

End of recap.

EXT. NYU CAMPUS - DAY

We start on the beautiful skyline of New York, slowly easing down and narrowing in on our usual neighborhoods. This time, we’re starting in NYU’s turf, catching up with ISA DE LA CRUZ and NIGEL CHEY. They’re on their way to their morning classes, Nigel sporting a purple NYU sweatshirt now that the weather is cooling into fall.

An upbeat instrumental underscores their stroll, but it’s not quite yet the focus of the scene. At present, they’re discussing what’s on their plates for the morning. Nigel notes the fact that Riley isn’t with them, which seems distinctly out of character -- Isa points out that there’s one thing that trumps them.

Isa: Lucas stayed over last night, so she’s spending the morning with him. [ with a disturbed face ] Doing what, I do not want to know or care to discuss, but that’s where she is.

Nigel: Oh. That’s… nice?

Isa: She was gonna check in with him this morning regardless. It’s kind of a big day.

Nigel: How come? [ nervous ] It’s not like, someone’s birthday or something, is it? No one gave me the Riley Inner Circle event calendar.

Isa: Nah, not a birthday. It’s a homecoming.

Very detailed and helpful, Isa… Nigel scrunches his face and tries to find the answer in his head. He really needs that Riley calendar download! Honestly, everyone would likely benefit from it…

Nigel: Charlie? No, can’t be. I thought he was still traveling.

Isa: No, we wouldn’t care that much. [ a beat ] I mean, they would. Riley would. That’s not what I meant.

Nigel: Right…

Isa: But he’s not the same as this. This return, it’s mythic. Basically everyone I know is falling over themselves about it. I’ve heard about nothing but this for days.

Nigel: Okay, but who -- ?

Isa’s socializing skills with those who don’t know them could really use some work, but that’s beside the point. They’re right, a big day is upon us, and there’s no time to waste! The music intro has built up now, taking over the soundscape as Nigel jogs after Isa still waiting for an answer.

As for us, we’re gonna get it a different way.

INT. ANGELA’S APARTMENT - DAY

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “What’d I Miss?” as performed by Hamilton Original Broadway Cast || Performed by Jack Hunter (feat. Ensemble)

SHAWN HUNTER tells us first, tossing on his leather jacket as he barges out the door.

Jack Hunter is coming home!

INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - DAY

ERIC MATTHEWS echoes the sentiment in his room, straightening his tie in the mirror. He’s teeming with excitement, going for extra professional in his attire today to show exactly what a great job he’s doing stepping into his shoes.

Jack Hunter is coming home!

He fixes his hair quickly with one more flourish, and then he’s on his way --

INT. NYU APARTMENT - DAY

And RILEY MATTHEWS and LUCAS JAMES FRIAR bring us home, in the small kitchen together. Lucas spins towards the counter and leans against it, sharing the last echo of the declaration with equal excitement and just a hint of exasperation.

Jack Hunter is coming home! Lord, he’s been off in Paris for so long…

Riley comes up behind Lucas as they finish out the lines, wrapping her arms around him and propping her chin on his upper arm. Lucas tilts his head back, closing his eyes.

As we lean into the oohs…

EXT. WASHINGTON D.C. SKIES - DAY

A large airliner is making its descent, making for a smooth landing at Dulles International Airport.

INT. DULLES AIRPORT - WALKWAY - DAY

A familiar baritone takes over the lyrics as the flight from France deplanes, our gaze following a sleek but worn pair of dress boots. They’re strutting smooth, confident strides, as the camera pans up to reveal…

JACK HUNTER. Yes, baby, he’s back! He looks relaxed and well-rested, an easy smile on his face and a healthy glow to his skin from all that European sun. Charlie wasn’t the only one getting a much-needed tan, it seems!

But now he’s back, and the work at home begins. As he launches into the more jaunty portion of the song about 90 seconds in, there’s a spring in his step as he makes his way through the airport. He blows a kiss out the window towards the DMV.

Virginia, my home sweet home, I wanna give you a kiss! Muah!

But there’s no time to hang around and visit -- he’s got a train to catch.

INT. JACK’S APARTMENT - DAY

Jack throws open his door, cheerfully reentering his quiet apartment and filling it with life again. He’s got a pile of mail on the floor that he leans over to grab when he drops his bag, commenting that he’s already got information about the upcoming school board elections, reminders about his current employment status, etc.

Lots to catch up on, and he knows exactly where to start. He quickly deposits the rest of his things and breezes back out the door.

EXT. NEW YORK STREETS - DAY

Jack walks briskly through the streets in the beautiful mid-morning sunshine, spinning and marveling at the city it’s so good to be back in.

I can’t believe that we are free Ready to face whatever’s awaiting me in NYC!

EXT. AAA - DAY

He makes it to his destination, smiling automatically when he looks up at the grand structure of Adams Academy of the Arts.

He bounces his way up the steps.

INT. AAA - DAY

If he was expecting a warm reception, though, he doesn’t get that. Shawn is waiting in the atrium for him, face set in a frown.

Who’s waiting for me when I step in the place My bro Shawn Hunter beet red in the face

Jack gives him a wave as he enters, but Shawn doesn’t return it, marching over without comment and grabbing his arm. Jack scowls in protest, but lets Shawn drag him into the front office --

INT. AAA - PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE - DAY

And into Eric’s office, where he and HARPER BURGESS are waiting. They’re already in deep discussion, Eric in his chair behind the desk, but they halt when Shawn yanks Jack in and brings him to the front of the room.

Jack: What’s going on?!

Harper begins to explain, but Jack doesn’t fully listen at first -- he’s busy taking Eric in, a fond smile effortlessly sliding onto his face. He nods a hello, Eric holding back a grin as he returns it. They’re about as subtle as a bullhorn, how excited they are to see each other again.

But right now, we’ve got bigger things to focus on.

Harper: Jack, we’re engaged in a battle for Triple A’s very soul. Can you get us out of the mess we’re in?

That’s news. Jack looks between them, bewildered, but Shawn wins his attention. He slams his hand emphatically on the desk, revved up.

Shawn: Graham and Yancy’s financial hold is nothing less than government control!

Harper: We’ve been fighting for our school alone.

Shawn: Where have you been?!

Jack shoots Shawn a glare. What, like this is his fault? He holds out his arms. They know he was on vacation. And he doesn’t work here anymore.

Jack: Um, France?

Still, valid as Jack’s defense is, they’re grateful he’s back. The conservative half of the school board isn’t letting up, and Eric isn’t sure he can face it alone. He meets Jack’s eyes, undercutting the brotherly bickering with a genuine plea.

Eric: We have to win.

Well, when you put it that way! Jack whips around and launches into the next chorus, Harper, Eric, and other office employees echoing him on the chorus.

INT. AAA - MAIN OFFICE - DAY

They jaunt their way back through the office, Jack singing about how he’s going to have to help them figure this out -- and what the hell he’s going to say next time he sits down with someone from the school board. He’ll meet with Evelyn any day now, he’s sure.

I’m already on my way to get to the bottom of this!

INT. AAA - ATRIUM - DAY

As Jack is exiting the office, still engaged in intense conversation with Eric, Shawn, and Harper, he’s stopped in his tracks when he finds another familiar face.

Lucas is heading towards him, matching Shawn for energy this morning. Only Lucas isn’t irritated. Jack automatically breaks into a smile, starting to ask what the hell he’s doing there -- but he’s cut short when Lucas barrels him with a hug. Now that he did not expect, but Jack happily returns it, patting his back.

No, Lucas isn’t upset at all. He’s downright relieved.

Lucas: Mister Hunter, welcome home.

Jack is about to question why Lucas is calling him “Mister Hunter” -- a weird amount of formality for them -- but he gets his answer pretty quick. As it turns out, Lucas has a shadow: TIMMY, the freshman techie, is tailing him, acting aloof but not really playing it off too well considering he’s literally following Lucas around like a duckling. Guess it shows how much Lucas respects Jack that he wants them to think of Jack as important, when he was perfectly fine calling Shawn by his first name.

Anyway, Timmy takes the annoying Hamilton line of introducing himself just to be included, which Jack humors with his usual politeness. He shakes his hand and gives him a nod, but then eagerly turns his attention back to Lucas, smile brightening once again. He playfully -- and fondly, some might say -- pats his cheek while everyone continues to sing their welcomes.

The camera spins around them all as they reiterate how long it seems like Jack has been gone, surrounding him with things he doesn’t know. Why is Lucas at Adams? What the hell is going on with the school board? Clearly, there’s a lot to catch up on.

As we stop on Jack once again, he holds out his arms, delivering the final redundant question.

Jack: So what did I miss?

Cue title sequence.

We hear our return from titles before we see it. Stomping, rhythmic steps being executed in perfect unison, with only the occasional squeak of a shoe interrupting the beat.

INT. TURNER ACADEMY - DANCE STUDIO - DAY

The hopeful Turner transfers are in the midst of another intense class, running through a hip-hop style step routine. It’s fast, precise, and definitely not beginner, all scrutinized under the watchful eye of ROSARIO GAO as she paces the front of the studio.

Naturally, ZAY BABINEAUX is leading the pack in terms of performance. He may be drenched in sweat and not quite at his usual peak charm, given his expression of concentration, but stage presence isn’t a requirement for class. The only ones truly matching him for energy and precision are VANESSA JOHNSON and GIA VALDEZ, both a person or so down on either side. Vanessa is a bit stiff with determination of her own; Gia is slightly less precise but makes up for it with a personal flair.

Once the music comes to a stop, Rosario gives them a few moments to catch their breath. Then she comments that if they feel tired after that, they better work on building their stamina -- doing a Broadway show seven days a week or spending hours on tour is going to ask much more of them.

That’s what their assignment these next couple weeks is going to be about: endurance. The routine they just finished learning today is the first part, and for the next week or so, they’ll be building choreography on top of it. This process will flex a few important muscles -- muscle memory, retaining blocks of choreography over a stretch of time, and of course, being able to stay high-energy and precise through such a long routine.

Rosario: So if you’re feeling weary after this class… well, all I can say is, it might be time to start taking this seriously if you’re not already. [ a beat ] Class dismissed.

All of them hold in place until Rosario steps past them and exits the studio, class only feeling over once they’re free of her critical stare. The dancers immediately launch into chatter as they grab their water bottles and take off their dance shoes, some visibly jittery about the new challenge laid down.

But not Zay. For Zay, this is what he’s been waiting for. The grind is in his bones. If this is about testing their endurance, he knows he can show up and stand strong.

Vanessa seems to feel the same way. She doesn’t exude as much easy confidence -- or arrogance, as she might characterize Zay’s vibe -- but it’s clear she’s no stranger to the grind either. The two of them exchange eye contact as they gather their things, accurately continuing to size one another up as their greatest competition.

Vanessa takes a pointed sip of her water and then turns away from him, heading out of the room. Zay watches her go, then swipes the sweat from his lip, reaching for his own water bottle.

INT. AAA - PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE - DAY

Now that the fanfare has concluded, Jack has a second to breathe. He heads straight back for Eric’s office once he finishes greeting and catching up with the receptionists. Eric smiles as soon as he appears in the doorway, coming from around his desk to meet him properly.

Jack mirrors his smile, happily accepting a tight hug. They just hold each other for a few moments, and then when they pull back, Jack’s beam brightens. He pats Eric’s arms.

Jack: It’s good to see you. It’s so good to see you.

Eric: Think former you would believe that sentiment?

Jack shakes his head fondly, then gives him a kiss. Now that he no longer works here, they’re free to act as couple-like as they please, and it is a wonderful feeling. Jack makes sure to note how professional he looks. He’s even wearing a suit jacket!

Eric: I must admit, it does offer a certain amount of confidence. Mental armor.

Jack: It suits you. No pun intended. [ off his eye roll ] You fit right in. Feels like this place has been yours for ages. Not that I ever had a doubt.

Eric bashfully accepts the compliment, heading back to his desk chair. Since he has his own doubts about how things are going, with the board breathing down his neck, Jack will never know how much his praise really means. Jack also takes care to compliment his eclectic little paperweight as he examines the space, and other changes he’s made in his absence.

Speaking of things that suit them, though, the post-vacation glow definitely suits Jack. Eric comments that he seems well-rested and energized -- was it a good trip? Jack grins, humming appreciatively.

Jack: It was spectacular. I had forgotten how long it was since I took an actual vacation, you know, went somewhere else for a bit that wasn’t related to school. I didn’t even realize how much I needed it.

Eric: Well, good thing the rest of us insisted then, hm? [ matching his side-eye ] How was France, then? And your friends?

Jack: All well and good. Rachel says hello, by the way.

Eric: Oh? That’s nice. [ a beat ] Have I met her?

Jack: No, but that’s Rachel for you. And well, technically? Maybe? She visited me a few years ago and came by the school -- if I recall correctly, you may have had your monthly tantrum about test scores ruining education that day.

Eric: Oh. Perfect.

Jack: Not to worry, she wouldn’t mind. And all my complaining about you over the years would’ve prepared her for that regardless.

Ha ha… well, anyway, as nice as it is that Jack got to have a break, it’s really nice that he’s back. All of them think so -- I mean, he saw his reception this morning. Jack nods along, but his expression grows contemplative.

Jack: Yes. That was lovely. [ tentatively touching the back of the chair opposite the desk ] So… Lucas is working here now? When did that decision come to be?

Based on his tone, Eric can tell Jack isn’t sure about it. He sighs, shrugging.

Eric: You know, before you say anything, he’s actually doing a pretty good job.

Jack: I wasn’t going to say anything. I believe you. Lucas is industrious when he wants to be.

Eric: It was just… something I could do. Something to offer. I wanted to help, and Shawn pointed out that there were opportunities we could build for him here. And I thought, you know, for once, Shawn is right. If I could do something, what’s my excuse for not doing it?

Jack nods, understanding. He totally gets the intention, and it’s not to say that he wouldn’t have done the same… it was just a surprise, that’s all.

It seems like there might be more to his reservations, but their conversation is interrupted by the needs of the workday. NORTON pokes his head in and asks if Eric has a moment to discuss a student concern, then brightens in surprise when he finds Jack there as well. He greets him cheerfully, offering a bracing handshake that Jack happily returns.

Norton: Jack, what a wonderful surprise! I didn’t realize you were back in town already.

Jack: Just got back, in fact. But you know, it’s hard to break an addiction -- had to come get my fix and see how this place was doing for myself.

Norton: Rest assured, it’s going great. Eric is doing a terrific job.

Eric smiles. Norton says he can pop back in later if he’s disrupting, but Jack waves him off. He needs to let them get back to the important work. Norton steps out for a moment to allow them to say goodbye.

Jack claims he’s going to let Eric get back to outshining his legacy, but the two of them will have dinner very soon, and he will want to hear all about how things are going. Perhaps in more… intimate detail. Eric clears his throat, then agrees.

Eric: Can’t wait.

Jack grins, then leans over the desk to exchange a quick kiss goodbye.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

All things considered, Lucas is faring okay at this job he never wanted to have. Aside from picking up Timmy as a shadow, he’s building decent rapport with the freshman techies, including the ones we got to know in the premiere -- JAKE, BEAN, and GRETA. Today, he’s got them assembled on the stage, and behind him is an empty rolling flat base.

Lucas: This week, you’re going to be building your first set piece.

Jake: Yessss, I’ve been waiting for this! When do we get to use the power saw?

Lucas: Never.

Bean: May I please be excused from having to use the staple gun? I still think it’s trying to kill me.

Timmy: I wouldn’t be worried about the staple gun, but who’s wielding it.

Jake: Chekov’s staple gun.

Anyway… Lucas clears his throat, pointedly getting them back on track. Considering they all shut up, he’s already training them well. He goes on to explain that they’ll be working through it during the week, the ways they’ll be doing certain elements as a team and then individually, and that they’ll be following the plan he laid out.

He hands out an instruction sheet -- a lesson plan, of some sort, if you can call a scrap of paper with crude diagrams and doodles on it a lesson plan -- and then asks if they have any questions to start. Greta immediately shoots her hand up, nose wrinkled at his… casual notes.

Lucas: Yeah, you. I mean, Neda.

Greta, flatly: Greta.

Lucas: Yeah, that.

Greta: Why?

Lucas: … why what?

Greta: Why are we doing it this way? [ waving his notes ] What makes this the right way to do it? I didn’t see it written this way in the textbook.

Jake: We have textbooks?!

Lucas: You know in real life, you don’t get a textbook. You just gotta figure shit out on your own.

Greta: But that didn’t answer my question. Why are we doing it this way?

Lucas: Because I said so, Greta. That’s why. Now get up, we’re going to the wood racks.

Okay so… maybe Lucas doesn’t have the best personality for teaching. Greta is understandably miffed, but the others don’t care -- Bean and Jake seem unreasonably excited about getting to see the wood stacks. The latter starts singing a song about it and skipping as they follow Lucas to the prop loft, Timmy making sure to stay at the front right behind him. Not that he cares.

INT. NYU - THEATER CLASS - DAY

Riley and Nigel are getting their first scene work assignment in their musical theater class, PROFESSOR HILL explaining that before they get into marrying the music and acting, she wants to take them piece by piece. So to start, they’ll be working on scenes from straight plays -- a fact that clearly excites Nigel. Riley smiles fondly at him and gives him a playful elbow nudge.

Another exciting element? This assignment will be a duet. Not only is connecting with your fellow performers crucial to theater in any capacity, but getting to know their classmates more on an individual level will help build trust as they move through the school year. With that, she encourages them to get up, move around, and find a potential scene partner to collaborate with.

This, Nigel is less enthusiastic about. He glances around the classroom as his more extroverted peers get up and start chatting away, not making any moves himself. He likes working as an ensemble, no problem there, but the whole working-with-people-you-don’t-know thing he’s still struggling to push through.

Lucky for him, he has a life preserver right there in class -- and it should still be fun, anyway, since he and Riley hardly got to perform much together at Adams. Perfect plan.

Only when he turns to say so, he discovers his plan has already been thwarted. EVAN SCOTT has found his way back in their orbit, having slid into the chair next to Riley. He’s got an easy, wonderfully charming smile directed right at her.

Evan: So what do you think? Should we put this Haverford-Adams partnership to the test?

Riley is beaming right back.

Riley: Challenge accepted. Time to burst the rivalrous bubble for good.

Evan nods, endeared by her bravado. And while it’s a real noble cause they’re pursuing, or whatever, it definitely leaves Nigel a bit high and dry.

That gets highlighted real quick when Hill steps back up to the front, asking whether everyone has found a partner. Nigel frantically looks around again, finding to his horror that it seems like everyone has in fact paired up. He’s been left the odd one out. Riley turns her smile to him and it dims immediately when she clocks his concern, realizing what must’ve happened.

Hill: All good, then? I’ll start taking down the duos --

Riley: Um, no, ma’am, I think --

Nigel, abruptly: I’m not -- I still don’t have a --

He can’t even finish the sentence. It feels too humiliating to say out loud. God, what kind of actor is he if he can’t even speak up in class?

Professor Hill doesn’t make a big deal of it, commenting she must’ve miscounted in her lesson plans. She quickly brainstorms a solution by having Nigel jump in with two of the girls to his right, including IMOGEN LEE, making their duo a trio. There, all solved!

Perfect plan… Nigel manages a weak smile as the professor goes back to taking down names for the duets, Evan chiming in to offer his and Riley’s together. Riley casts another sympathetic glance in Nigel’s direction.

INT. USC - THEATER CLASSROOM - DAY

The pressure is on for FARKLE MINKUS as well, now well into his first month of classes. As the professor explains, soon the directing sophomores will actually begin to work with the freshmen actors on various assignments, and so for the next week while they’re going through scene work presentations, the directing students will be sitting in on all their sessions (rather than the one or two a week they usually do). By the start of next week, they will all group off for their first acting-directing assignments, each directing student selecting their choice actor after deliberation amongst themselves.

So more scrutiny then… well, welcome to the business. Farkle glances over his shoulder to the back rows where the sophomores are, watching them all with interest and maybe just the tiniest bit of arrogance. It’s like you survive one year of art school and it really goes to your head…

As class ends and the freshmen begin to file out, Farkle eyes the gaggle of his classmates who he almost went to the comedy performance with the second week. They’re all joking around with each other, discussing the news, but to him they feel a million miles away. Like he missed the boat back when he got booted from the bar, and there’s no way to find his way onboard the S.S. social scene.

So he shoulders his messenger bag and heads out of the auditorium alone.

INT. L.A. APARTMENT - MAYA’S BEDROOM - DAY

MAYA HART is in a similarly flat mood, features crinkled in frustration as she types away on her laptop while seated on her bed. Based on the fact that she’s still in her pajamas and her signature hair is just up in a haphazard ponytail, the hype motivation train seems to have stalled a bit recently.

Mainly because she is stuck on what exactly to do next. She’s kept auditioning, as her open calendar clearly shows, but nothing is breaking. Any meetings she has managed to get, she seems to be hedging on, because they’re not the right kind of meetings she wants. And for those she’s actually interested in, she seems to have hit snags -- her message thread with Josh Matthews is open, but hasn’t had much traction in the last week or so. Following his response to her initial message, she tried to schedule a defined time to meet up. He has yet to respond.

Maya does not handle delays well. She searches for a more positive task to focus on, switching windows to jump to social media. This, it appears, is still going well all things considered -- she’s continuing to build a small following on Instagram, TikTok, and Youtube, and a couple of her recent posts on the latter two have garnered quite a few views.

It’s like she’s just a stone’s throw away from hitting viral… she just has to figure out how to break the glass. At least, in the meantime, she has comments to tide her over. There’s no shortage of effusive ones, followers complimenting her vocal range or her impeccable style and, as to be expected, the fact that she is absolutely gorgeous. In fact, watching her scroll through them, it seems like at least a third of them are focused on her looks, with plenty of fire, hot and sweaty face, and heart eye emojis to go around.

A compliment is a compliment, so Maya will take it. A smile returns to her face as she takes it all in, using the reassurance to bolster her energy again.

While the wannabe dulcet, painfully awkward stylings of Floyd float in… it’s a great day, a great day, yeah…

INT. GLOBAL BEAT - RECORDING STUDIO - DAY

The chorus of “Very Best Day” keeps turning over on itself as JOSH MATTHEWS painstakingly goes back over the mix again and again, making tiny tweaks as he tries desperately to squeeze something good out of a song that is just simply destined to be bad. Like, camp is one thing, but Floyd isn’t trying to make camp and Josh isn’t trying to sell it that way, so right now, he’s fucked.

Still, he’s giving it the best he’s got -- because now, with Iris having dumped him, it feels like all he’s got. And even if he’s got Maya Hart impatiently waiting in his messages, based on the determination Josh has as he battles with the very best example of a very mediocre track, he really doesn’t want to be stuck resorting to picking off his niece’s friends.

He’s only saved from the self-inflicted torture when ROWAN PHELPS comes looking for him, swinging their gangly frame around the doorway. They scrunch up their face when they get a good listen to “Very Best Day” so up close and personal, shaking their head emphatically.

Phelps: Oi, Josh, we can hear that dying animal all the way down in the Box. Just put it out of its misery, won’t you?

Josh: Don’t talk about my client’s work that way. It’s more like sickly, not yet dying.

Phelps: It was dead on arrival. [ with a sigh of relief when Josh clicks off the track ] How long have you been in here listening to it?

Josh: Long enough to have cluster headaches.

Phelps: That’s not cluster headaches, that’s sustained brain trauma. Thankfully, you’re spared -- producers meeting in five.

Josh nods, thanking Phelps for the reminder and gathering his things. While they wait, Phelps debates reaching out and hitting play on the track again, with unwise curiosity, but ultimately manages to stop themselves.

Phelps: Honestly, man, why don’t you just drop the guy? Have mercy on us all.

Josh cringes at the mere suggestion, waving them off. But they insist, so he sighs, leading the way out of the studio.

Josh: I like Floyd. He’s a nice kid.

INT. GLOBAL BEAT - HALLWAY - DAY

Josh and Phelps walk the halls back towards the offices and their desks, walking at typical Hollywood pace… just slightly slower, because Phelps is too laid back to be bothered with moving like they’ve got somewhere to be.

Phelps: Never said he wasn’t nice. But can he sing?

Josh: That’s beside the point.

Phelps: We’re music producers. It’s the whole point.

Josh: Not all musicians have to be brilliant singers. And he’s so invested, you know? I mean, his name is literally Ernest. He’s the most hard-working and dedicated client I have, and that’s not nothing.

Phelps: Considering he’s one client out of two, that’s not exactly the shining stamp of praise you make it sound like it is.

Leave Floyd alone, Phelps! But then, they did kind of hit the nail on the head there… with so little clientele on his roster now, it would not only feel cruel but also foolish for Josh to drop another one. And Cricket isn’t exactly saving his portfolio. It’s starting to wig him out, because if he doesn’t start building up his prospects soon the higher-ups might start questioning why he’s a junior producer and not just a glorified assistant with only (barely) two clients.

Phelps says rather than squeezing the non-existent lifeblood out of his existing clients, he should go focus on finding some new ones. Preferably, ones that can actually carry a tune.

Phelps: We live in L.A. The amount of wannabe star wafting off the millions of hopefuls that live here is the reason we have smog. Surely you can go find one of a million.

Josh: Maybe, but not one in a million. And that’s what I need.

Phelps: Yeah, sorry, love. Hannah Montana’s already passed on.

Josh: If you’re so smart, how do you do it, then? Pick up clients.

Phelps, deadpan: Hm. Bridal style is my preferred method, but I can be persuaded into a piggy-back now and again.

Josh: You’re an asshole.

Phelps: Sorry, man, I don’t know what to tell you. I just go out there and I do it.

Josh: Really illuminating. Seriously, you’re changing my life here.

Phelps: And I won’t even charge you for it. Because we’re such good friends.

Josh shoots them a glare which they match with a wry smile. In a huff, Josh rolls his eyes and leads the way into the conference room for the producers meeting.

INT. NYU - HALLWAY - DAY

Once class lets out, Riley quickly catches up to Nigel. She apologizes for not thinking about partnering with him, everything just happened so fast, but Nigel waves off her groveling. He claims it’s all good, that she shouldn’t have to worry about his feelings over something like that. It would have been fun to work together, but it’s totally not a big deal.

Riley is relieved, but it’s clear she’s not totally convinced it’s okay. She rationalizes the decision as they continue to walk, trying to make both of them feel better about it.

Riley: I mean, it’ll be good for both of us, won’t it? Getting to know our peers.

Nigel: Yeah. For sure.

Riley, playfully: We see plenty of each other anyway, you’d get sick of me before too long. This way we can branch out a bit, and hey, we get to be the most avid supporter in the audience when the other person gets up to go. You know you’ll be getting at least one standing ovation.

Nigel: [ with a laugh ] Well, don’t promise it to me before I’ve earned it…

Riley bumps him lightly, emphasizing again that she thinks this will be good for both of them. But she’s really glad he’s being so cool about it and that everything is okay. Nigel lets her take the lead as they head out of the building, nodding as if he’s trying to convince himself.

Nigel: Peachy keen.

INT. NYU - FILM CLASSROOM - DAY

On the film school side of things, Isa is just wrapping up another class with DAVID BENNET. He’s at the front of the room, sitting on the edge of his desk and flipping the projector remote in his fingers as he finishes lecturing on the use of camera perspective to affect narrative.

Normally Isa would be riveted by the cinematic drudgery of something like this, but they’re a bit tuned out. Mostly because Bennet’s less-than-rosy first impression hasn’t waned, and Isa doesn’t feel keen to learn much of anything from him. Still, they have to get through this course to move on, so gotta power through.

They do perk up when the lecture ends and the conversation turns to something more exciting -- grades. Bennet has finished reviewing their first short film assignment.

Bennet: The grades you received are a composite score based on how well you followed the prompt, your technical strengths and weaknesses, the average peer feedback from when we screened last class, and of course, the overall strength of your story and your effectiveness in conveying it.

All things Isa is an ace at. As Bennet gathers the write-ups from his desk and prepares to hand them out, MOLLY SINGH leans over and elbows Isa playfully. She looks nervous, but excited as well. Their first big film school review! Isa returns the smile, trying to share some of their easy self-assuredness.

Bennet claims that once they receive their grade, they’re dismissed. Isa waits impatiently as he makes his way slowly through the desks, tapping their fingers and trying not to listen to the relieved exhales and dismayed groans of their peers. Two desks away… then one…

Finally, Bennet arrives at Isa’s desk. He places the write-up face-down on their desktop without comment, only exchanging a beat of eye contact before moving on to Molly. Isa tries to mine some signal from that look, but he’s not giving anything. They aren’t sure whether to be intimidated by that or not… but after a glance in both directions, Isa picks up the slip and flips it over.

The write-up seems thorough. A checklist on the left-hand side marks each of the elements of the assignment Isa did or didn’t hit, and a huge portion of the rest of the slip is littered with notes from Professor Bennet. But Isa doesn’t take in any of that -- their eye is drawn to the large, block letter grade in the upper righthand corner.

And based on the defensive frown that takes over their features, it wasn’t what they expected.

C+?!

Isa is speechless, glancing up to see if there must be some obvious mistake. What they find instead is that most of the class has left already, so they hustle to gather their things.

INT. NYU - FILM CORRIDOR - DAY

Isa looks livid enough that they want to march right home -- or back in there to complain -- but they’re startled back into passivity when Molly greets them excitedly from where she was waiting by the door.

Molly: That was so nerve-wracking. I can’t believe he goes and hands out these slips one-by-one like that. Couldn’t he have mercy and send us an email?

Isa: Right.

Molly: Was kind of invigorating, too, though. Guess that’s the whole weird conundrum of being an artist. That strange relationship we have with viewer feedback. There’s something frustrating yet absolutely mesmerizing about it, the way people respond to your work. Isn’t there?

Isa: For sure. I completely agree. And you know, art’s subjective, and all that. So just because someone responds one way, positive or negative, doesn’t actually mean anything. It’s just their perception of the film.

Molly: One-hundred percent. 

Isa: Grades especially. Like, is my grade on an assignment in freshman year of film school even going to matter in five years when we’re out there actually creating? Hardly. [ a beat ] It won’t, right?

Molly: No, totally. Like, it sure feels like it matters now, but you’re right. We shouldn’t get all up in our heads about it. That’s such a good mindset to have.

Damn right! But um… just out of curiosity, how did Molly do? Isa casually asks and Molly is happy to show them her write-up, a blocky “B” written in the upper right.

Molly: Definitely a bit of a hit from how it felt to be the film kid back in high school, but I’ll take it! I’m glad he appreciated my use of lenses.

Isa nods along, but seeing their peer already getting a better grade only amps up their internal alarm system. Molly starts to ask about their grade -- she’s sure it must be great, since she so enjoyed their film when they screened in class -- but Isa searches for an excuse to escape the conversation.

Isa: Shit, you know, I just remembered. I left my -- I left it in the classroom.

No clarification on what “it” is, as Isa is already backing away. Molly doesn’t question them.

Molly: Okay. Do you want me to wait up, or --

Isa: Oh, no, that’s fine. You go on. Don’t wait for me. I’ll just be -- okay, bye.

Isa turns around and starts to walk back towards the classroom. Molly waves goodbye and starts off to her next class. Isa glances over their shoulder and makes sure Molly is heading in the opposite direction… then breaks into a jog and rushes past the classroom and around the other corner. Smooth.

INT. TURNER ACADEMY - DANCE STUDIO - DAY

Before one of their additional dance classes, the Turner transfer cohort is assembled doing warm-up stretches. Now that they’re about a month into the semester, none of them would necessarily call the other friends, but there is definitely more casual chatter as they work through stretches.

Vanessa doesn’t contribute much. She’s somewhat isolated herself, sitting a bit away from everyone else as she reaches easily to touch her toes. Gia laughs loudly with a couple of their classmates, far more bubbly, to which Vanessa subtly rolls her eyes towards the floor.

Zay comments on the general chatter occasionally, but he too is quieter while he puts his focus on the stretches. He knows how badly he can fuck things up when he doesn’t take them seriously, so he’s really giving it due diligence now that he’s working his muscles that much harder every other day.

Some of their peers don’t seem as concerned. Half of them aren’t really stretching much at all, using the warm-up time more as social relaxation and vibing than a crucial part of the curriculum. Based on their conversations, too, they have a much more mild approach to the transfer situation -- that is to say, a more reasonable, common teenage perspective instead of the hyper-dedicated ambition of our A class divas.

And this is something that clearly doesn’t impress Zay. As friendly as he can come off, expert socializer he is, if you know him you can catch the subtle judgment in his expression while he listens to them talk about blowing off certain rehearsals or how they only ran through x routine once or twice. When someone outright admits they only practiced the summer routine once and the rest of the cohort burst into laughter, Zay doesn’t join in. He shakes his head to himself…

And happens to catch Vanessa doing the exact same thing from her corner of the room. Clearly, neither of them find the ambivalence humorous -- not when they care so much. There’s a weird moment of camaraderie to that, the moment of accidental eye contact after they both were caught being lowkey bitchy. Zay almost smiles.

Almost. Vanessa drops her gaze to the floor before the moment can crystallize, keeping the wall of war firmly up between them. Zay resists the urge to roll his eyes -- barely -- and tunes back into stretching his arms.

INT. NYU - CLASSROOM - DAY

In playwriting class, Nigel thinks his day just might turn around when they’re given their next assignment. For the next couple of weeks, they’ll be working on their first concrete draft of a play, and to start they’re going to be practicing emulation. If they learn from and take a little time mimicking what works for the greats, they’ll be sure to retain those senses moving into building their own plays. So for this assignment, they’re to choose their favorite playwright and build a draft of a play that stylistically follows that model.

Nigel beams, maybe nerdy excited about this. It’s no question who he’s going to choose to imitate, and all of his studying of Shakespeare is sure to come in handy now in trying to reproduce the same effect. Who knew school exercises could be so fun…

Well, he feels that way up until he turns to chat with Imogen and ABBY about it. They’re markedly less enthused, laughing about the assignment and commenting on how lame it is.

Abby: Total waste of time. Feels like they don’t even trust us to build basic play structure.

Imogen: Literally. If I wanted to pretend to be Arthur Miller or whatever, I’d go write a fanfic.

Oh… yeah. Ha ha. Peachy keen. Nigel manages to laugh along, tempering his own enthusiasm as he keeps his mouth shut.

INT. L.A. APARTMENT - FARKLE’S BEDROOM - DAY

Some things are about to get peachier and keener, though, it’s true. Farkle isn’t alone for much longer that afternoon, immediately halting his pacing and monologue rehearsing when there’s a knock at the front door. He brightens considerably.

INT. L.A. APARTMENT - DAY

And we don’t have to wait to see why. Farkle darts to the door and when he pulls it open, CHARLIE GARDNER is on the other side, fresh from the airport and back in the States. Farkle greets him cheerfully, the two of them exchanging grins and then a quick hug once they get Charlie and his things securely into the apartment.

Maya emerges from her room to watch the grand entrance, then waits for a choice moment to swoop in -- particularly, when there’s no longer a need to move anything. She approaches Charlie with her usual condescending smile and head tilt, the one she seems to reserve specially for him.

Maya, sweetly: Charlie Gardner.

Then, she extends a hand -- not to shake, but as a signal of expected respect. Charlie blinks at it, then glances at Farkle, not exactly sure what the heck he’s supposed to do… so he takes a wild guess, awkwardly taking Maya’s hand and giving it a brisk kiss. Like this is the 18th century or something, and he’s a guest in her court.

Suppose part of that is true, and Maya seems pleased with the gesture. She delicately retracts her hand and welcomes him more officially, now that he’s passed her bizarre test.

Maya: I hope you’ll appreciate our thoughtfulness in allowing you to stay at our humble abode while your travels necessitate you stop here. Not that you surely could’ve taken another flight back to New York. But in the meantime, per Farkle’s discretion, our couch is yours to borrow.

Charlie: … uh, thank you?

Confusing as interacting with Maya is, Charlie’s gratitude is genuine. He makes a point of saying so as they invite him to settle in, Farkle helping move his duffle while they ask all about his adventures so far. Where did he go? What did he see? What exactly is he planning to do next?

That much, Charlie can answer -- sort of. While he’s not done with his exploration quite yet, hence why he didn’t take that direct flight back to New York, now that he’s back in the U.S. he is starting to shift his focus more inward and start narrowing down what he might want to do when the gap year is up. Since that is likely going to be school, he needs to start preparing applications again…

Charlie: But like I said, there’s still stuff I want to see even while I’m making that transition and nailing down what I want to do. Some stuff along this coast, National Parks, things like that -- which is why I’m very grateful for the opportunity to have a place to recharge in between.

Farkle reiterates that they’re happy to have him, and he’s welcome to pop in and out whenever. Maya echoes this, though with perhaps a bit more sarcasm…

Maya: So much Charlie Gardner. How exciting.

It’s her overly pleasant delivery that kills the believability. But Charlie isn’t fazed. He remains in good spirits as Maya walks away and floats back to her room. Farkle settles on the arm of the couch as Charlie drags his things towards him and starts unpacking, now an expert at temporary set-ups.

Farkle: So when’s the first west coast adventure?

Charlie: Not sure yet. I figured it would be good to have a bit of time to reorient back in the country -- jet lag, for one thing. The time difference between Tokyo and Los Angeles is no joke.

Farkle: Seriously. I guess you’re like a time traveler now.

Charlie: [ with a laugh ] With all the different time zones, time definitely feels faker than it did before. But yeah, I’ll probably be way off today and just need to rest, so I built in some time for that readjustment. But then after that… [ with a shrug ] don’t really know. World’s kind of my Los Angeles oyster for now.

Farkle: Well, you’re more than welcome to visit campus with me. Give you something to do, at least.

And make Farkle feel like less of a friendless loser. Maybe if people see that he actually did have friends, once upon a time, it’ll make him seem like a more viable candidate now. Charlie contemplates the idea.

Farkle: I’d have to ask my professors, of course, but I’m sure they’d be fine with it with a day’s notice -- which shouldn’t be a problem, if you’re sleeping off the travel. And since you think you are planning to go to school again… I don’t know, could be useful, you know? Getting a taste of collegiate life before you decide what you want to do with yours.

It’s honestly a great idea, and much less intimidating a concept when the offer is from a friend. Charlie nods.

Charlie: Yeah, that’d be great, actually. Thanks.

Farkle: No problem. I mean, I know USC is no Yale or anything…

At that, Charlie rolls his eyes. Given people are literally going to jail for bribing their way into USC, Farkle, its own snooty prestige is nothing to scoff at!

Farkle gets back to his feet to give Charlie space to unpack, quickly running through any other relevant bulletins he might need to know off the bat -- where to find things, full access to the fridge, etc. They’ve got blankets and stuff there for him by the couch, but if he needs anything else, he can just let them know. And what else, what else… oh yes…

Farkle: Also just a heads up, so it doesn’t catch you off-guard. Maya can be… a bit of an interesting roommate.

Charlie: Whoa, you don’t say. I’m shocked.

Farkle: Not for the reasons you’d assume. I mean, for those reasons too, but… she can be… she has this habit… well, she sleepwalks.

Charlie: Oh?

Farkle: Yes. Well, actually, more like sleep performs.

Charlie: Oh…

Farkle: I usually don’t have to deal with it since, you know, got my own room and everything, but since you’re on the couch… well, if you wake up and she’s got some middle-of-the-night choreo going on, you can probably assume that’s why. But you should be fine. She won’t bother you. I mean, there’s a slight chance you might get a kick-ball-change to the head, but -- no, yeah, I wouldn’t worry about it. [ with a smile ] Welcome back, Chuck. Glad to have you with us.

Yeah… that’s promising. Charlie manages a smile, but his expression has clear shades of what the hell have I gotten myself into?

Welcome home indeed, Charlie. Oh, don’t you just miss the insanity of your cohort…

Isa, pre-lap: It’s unhinged. It’s unjustifiable. It’s worthy of formal reparation.

INT. NYU APARTMENT - DAY

Isa is on a roll, pacing furiously as they rant over the feedback they got on the assignment from Professor Bennet. Now that the immediate shock has passed, Isa is stuck with indignation, having had the time to read through Bennet’s notes and find irredeemable fault with every single one. Riley is seated on the couch, patiently listening and nodding along while also subtly attempting to get a bit of work done on her laptop.

Isa: I mean, listen to this. Listen to this bullshit.

Riley: I’m listening.

Isa: “Lacks a compelling thematic throughline.” Like, what the fuck does that even mean? Is this man really telling me that I don’t know how to write a theme into my narrative?

Riley: Well --

Isa: Fuck, my fucking life is a clusterfuck of themes. I’m a living thematic tragedy! And yet my work is [ pausing to scan the write-up ] “strong in aesthetic, but lacks emotional follow through?”

Riley, thoughtfully: Well, actually --

Isa: I know I suck at emoting on a regular basis, the way people like you do, but that’s not true of my work. I know how to incorporate fucking narrative.

Riley doesn’t argue that. She’s seen Isa’s work for years, she knows they can deliver really meaningful and often subtly deep themes.

Isa: I mean, you watched this one. Did it seem so far removed from my usual output? Did it seem C+ worthy?

Riley: Of course I thought it was great. You’re one of my favorite filmmakers. But I’m not a film professor, so I’m not sure I can say. As your friend, though, A+ from me.

Isa: Helpful. Thank you…

Riley beams. Then she elaborates, pointing out that if Isa is that confused about the professor’s grade, they should go to office hours and ask about them. That’s one of the great opportunities of college, having the chance to discuss and learn from the feedback you receive. Isa can have the moment to raise their concerns, hear where Bennet is coming from more in-depth, and it might make a good impression to show that they’re interested in digging deeper into the criticism to grow from it.

Isa grumbles. It’s not clear that they are interested in that… but it’s not bad advice.

With perfect timing, Lucas enters the apartment just as Isa seems to burn out, so he’s spared the brunt of the tirade. Both Riley and Isa greet him, the former admittedly far more chipper than the latter. Riley jumps up with excitement when his presence reminds her of something, scampering off to her room while Isa collapses and deflates into the armchair.

Lucas: You look absolutely radiant this afternoon.

Isa: Bite me.

Lucas: Another beautiful, glorious day of college-ing at the beautiful, glorious institution of higher learning that is New York University?

Isa: Ugh.

Lucas: Riveting. They should really hire you for their recruitment materials.

Isa is clearly not in the mood for cheekiness. Teasing requirement satisfied, Lucas asks whether the grumping is over something he should actually be concerned about.

Isa: It’s not Wyatt-level calamity worthy of your concern or intervention, no. [ a beat ] Though if you want to hear about it --

Lucas: Are you in any harm, imminent or eventual?

Isa: No.

Lucas: Is anyone fucking with your emotional or mental well-being --

Isa: Well --

Lucas: On a personal, targeted level?

Isa: … no.

Lucas: Is Riley involved?

Isa: No.

Lucas: Then I’m good, thanks.

Isa rolls their eyes, slouching further in the armchair. Still, it’s nice to know Lucas cares if a serious situation actually arises.

Riley returns from her room lugging the time capsule trunk in her arms, smile infectiously bright. Lucas jogs over to help her with it and takes it off her hands, carrying it much more easily with his techie strength.

Riley: Farkle’s stuff finally arrived last night, so I finished putting it all together this morning. The items have been stowed and the lock has been fitted with the secret combination --

Isa: That seems risky. What if something happens to you? Then what are we gonna do?

Riley: Mourn me, ideally. [ off their groan ] But rest assured, Dylan knows the combo too. We picked it together. So now, all there is left to do…

Is bury it. Or at least stash it away, wherever that might be. This seems to be Lucas’s job, as he dutifully assures Riley that he knows what his task is. He’s going to take care of it that evening, around his shift at Chubbies.

Riley beams, thanking him and rewarding him with a quick kiss.

INT. JACK’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Barely settled and unpacked, Jack is back to work, sifting through all the mail -- electronic or otherwise -- that he’s fallen behind with while he was abroad. He’s got remarkably fewer emails now that Eric is saddled with that burden as principal, but still plenty to sort through…

Including more than one about the upcoming race for the open school board seat now that Morris is retiring. Evelyn forwarded him the initial public announcement about it, given their prior conversations, but other people have sent it his way as well with words or encouragement or curiosity as to whether he’s planning a bid. Former colleagues, people in his network and outside it, folks from all over the district.

Apparently, Evelyn is not the only one who sees potential in him beyond the administrator’s desk… and it leaves Jack with much to consider.

EXT. LOS ANGELES - RESTAURANT - DAY

He isn’t the only one with big choices to contemplate. Farkle is finally having his reunion meeting with JONATHAN TURNER, the agent who discovered him by chance and gave him his card at the end of Season 2. Now, almost a year and a half later, they’re coming back together as discussed to explore a potential partnership -- that is, if both parties are still interested. Time moves fast in this city, and that much of a gap can be a death sentence.

Lucky for Farkle, that doesn’t seem to be the case here. Turner is quiet but attentive as he reviews the actor’s resume Farkle put together during the first couple weeks of classes, one of his more professional headshots stapled to the back facing the table. They’re seated on the patio of a trendy, likely expensive bistro, so good thing Farkle isn’t strapped for cash.

Once he’s seen what he needs to see, Turner places the resume down and reclines more comfortably in his chair. He asks Farkle how he’s liking Los Angeles so far, how USC is treating him. Although that hardly seems like relevant information, Farkle answers with his usual candor.

Farkle: Los Angeles is cool, though not quite as eclectic in nature as New York. So given I’m overly eclectic by default, I’ve been adjusting to that lifestyle change.

Turner: Certainly a bit more laid-back here, or so they say.

Farkle: I don’t do laid-back all that well. I’m very action-oriented, try as I might to not be insane. Though I’m sure this is the part where I’m supposed to elaborate on how that insanity makes me really productive and ambitious and thus a lucrative investment.

Turner: Most probably would, yes. Though I think your resume to this point speaks to that well enough.

Farkle: As for USC, it’s legitimate. The classes seem rigorous, in a good way. I’m honored to have been accepted, though it’s not without its faults -- but I think that’s just college, no matter which one you’re stuck at.

All in all, though, he’s enjoying it. Mostly. Best not to get into the whole having-no-friends thing. Turner smiles lightly, evidently still won over by Farkle’s unique personality. They’re briefly interrupted while a waiter refills their water, and then Turner gets down to business.

Turner: I’m pleased that you decided to come give Los Angeles a try, Farkle. And you’re right, it’s no small feat that you were admitted to an arts major at USC. They must see potential, as I did when you first came out here. Potential I still see now, that I am still interested in fostering with respect to your career.

Wow. That was easy? Farkle sits up straighter, not sure how to handle a potential management offer so soon.

Turner: That being said…

Oh. Never mind. Farkle recedes a bit, even more uncertain than before. Where is Turner going with this -- why is Hollywood so confusing?

Turner: I’m not quite ready to shake on it. Not for any negative reason, mind you. If I had reservations about you as a potential client, I wouldn’t be as forthright as I am right now. I’m not trying to pull any punches or string you along, and I hope you feel you can trust me on at least that much.

Farkle pauses, then nods. For as dodgy as Hollywood seems to be as a whole, reputation wise at least, as far as Farkle can tell Turner has done nothing to demonstrate he deserves doubt.

Turner: The reason for my apprehension is more, I hope, to benefit us both. I’m more interested in seeing how you spend the rest of this year, what opportunities you forge while in your first year. I know you’re just a student, but that doesn’t mean you’re without options for showing your capability or improving your marketability. Essentially, I want to give you the chance to enjoy your freshman year and make the absolute most of it -- while I get to assess what making the most of it means to you.

How Farkle deems to spend his time might be a more revealing display of his character and tenacity than any dinner interview could be. Plus, it would give Farkle the chance to just be a college student for a bit, before the transition into sharing it with a potential career begins.

Turner: Of course, I acknowledge that that means more waiting, and you may not want to do so. If you’re gunning to go, please understand that this isn’t an exclusive agreement -- if another agent snatches you up or you decide to go in a different direction, I understand that. No harm, no foul. But if we both come to the end of the year, and we’re both still interested and available to try a partnership, then we can reassess when the time comes. Does that sound fair to you?

To be frank, in Hollywood, that’s a generous offer. It’s not a closed door or an immediate jump-start, it’s simply… an open window. A pathway with potential for the future, if by the time they arrive at it both parties have determined it’s the right one to take.

After a moment, Farkle nods, then extends his hand to seal the deal. Turner smiles again and clasps his hand, shaking on it.

Nigel, pre-lap: I don’t know. Maybe I’m overthinking it.

INT. BEAMON HOME - JADE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Nigel is hanging out with JADE BEAMON, having had dinner with her family and now chatting with her in her room. The evenings are really the only time she’s easy to catch, with the exception of lunch, but even that feels less guaranteed depending on his class schedule and what falls into her lap at work that day.

Though they’re on her bed together, they’re not up to anything nefarious -- the door is half-open as to not give anyone any ideas. And who has time for kissing, or anything else for that matter, when it feels like you barely get time to talk during the week? Nigel only gets so much time with her these days, so he’s going to take whatever conversation he can get. Right now, they’re discussing his classwork while he gently massages her shoulders, dutifully doing his boyfriend responsibility of trying to help her destress after work.

Jade: Probably. I mean, I think you’re right when you said that Riley likely just wasn’t thinking about you when she agreed to work with Evan. That’s not a reflection on you, he just got there first.

Nigel: Yeah. Yeah, totally.

Jade: You know Riley likes you, she’s your friend. She’s Riley, she’s everybody’s friend. There’s no reason to think she’d be actively plotting to avoid working with you. [ a beat ] Though I have to admit, I feel like the real story is how fast Evan jumped on that train. Is there something going on there?

Nigel: I mean, I’m not the person to ask. It took me years to figure out my own vibes.

Jade: True…

Nigel, sheepishly: Well, better than late never, right?

Jade looks over her shoulder to give him side-eye… but then she smiles, giving him a quick kiss of affirmation. Better late than never indeed.

Nigel: But yeah, I don’t know. It definitely seems like something might be there, at least for him, but… Riley’s got Lucas. He’s got to know that, it’s not like Riley keeps that fact a secret.

Jade: Definitely not. I’m not worried about it, or anything, I was just curious. [ a beat ] It’s not like I have worry to spare when I’m convinced I’m gonna get the axe any day now.

Nigel frowns, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her to him. He gives her a kiss on the cheek and she smiles, relaxing back against him and sighing before elaborating.

Jade: I honestly don’t know what they’re waiting for. It’s like, psychological torture, sitting there waiting for the other shoe to drop. I know Anya has to have looked at the inventory by now -- there’s no way Melanie would withhold it that long.

Nigel: Well, maybe it turned out okay. Maybe Anya just didn’t care.

Jade: Then why can’t I know that? Why can’t someone tell me it’s fine and it’s over so that I can like, go back to breathing normally? I swear, I’m so stressed about doomsday coming it’s like I can’t focus at all. If I’m not careful, that’s going to get me fired before the inventory can.

Nigel: … and do you think it’s worth it?

Jade’s turn to frown. She sits up and turns her body to face him, asking him what he means. Nigel hesitates, not trying to fray any nerves, but he just wonders whether all this stress for the apprenticeship is worth it. Sure, industry jobs aren’t walks in the park, but if it’s taking that much of a toll on her…

Jade: I don’t know what you mean. I’m fine. I mean, I’m stressed, but I’m fine. It’s not like I wasn’t stressed at Adams every day.

Nigel: No, yeah, totally. I didn’t mean to say -- I know you can handle it. I think you can handle anything, you know that.

Jade nods, taking that to heart and letting the awkward moment pass. Right now, she doesn’t need doubts -- she’s got plenty of that on her own in her head. She returns the compliment as she settles back against him again, assuring him that she knows he’ll do fine with his assignments, too. He’s always been great at scene work. He doesn’t need Riley to hold his hand through that.

True enough, true enough. Nigel brings up his other assignment as well, finally able to appropriately geek out about how excited he is to write a story in the Shakespearian frame. Jade asks him to go on, tracing her fingers along his hands and smiling fondly as she listens to him launch into the ideas he’s already been workshopping. It’s nice to see that enthusiasm teeming in his voice be encouraged, not sarcastically doused with too-cool-for-school freshman attitude.

And more than that, it’s abundantly clear how much getting to share it all with Jade means to Nigel, scarce as that time may feel sometimes these days.

INT. LUCAS’S APARTMENT - LUCAS’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Lucas is seated on his bed, slouched against the wall with a dense reference book in his lap. By the looks of it, he’s attempting not to fall behind on what would be his studies at Davis… the biology textbook he’s using is banged up but still decent enough, and he’s flipping through a syllabus Isa managed to help him download from a previous year.

Right now, though, his focus is mainly on his phone. He’s scrolling through the transfer requirements for Davis, specifically looking for details about deferment. If he isn’t going to fully give up on this dream thing, or whatever, he should probably make sure he has everything in order.

And while acceptance wise, it shouldn’t be much of an issue since they granted his deferment, it’s the scholarship that will be tricky. He’s going to have to reapply for it, and given his flakiness this go around, there’s no guarantee they’ll be as keen to give him money again. With everything that’s happened, he’ll need it more than ever -- who knows what his personal financial status will be in a year…

The reason for which is painfully glaring at the moment. Even though he’s in his room and the door is closed, he can hear his dad on the other side. Talking to Grace, having dinner, dishes clinking and his low baritone just an indistinct drone. Not doing anything objectionable, at least for now.

But it hardly matters. Even just hearing his voice feels invasive, bringing tension to Lucas’s muscles. He’s read the same sentence over and over, but nothing is sinking in -- he can’t concentrate when that voice is so close.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when there’s a gentle knock at the door. It takes him a second to find his own voice. He clears his throat.

Lucas: Yeah?

After a beat, the door creaks open, GRACE FRIAR poking her head in. She looks preemptively apologetic.

Grace: Sorry, are you studying?

Lucas: Not really.

Grace: Oh. I was wondering if you’d be able to run to the Walgreens? We’re out of --

Kenneth, off-screen: You don’t have to ask him, just tell him to go. He’s not paying rent, is he? Not like he’s got anything else going on, since he’s refusing to eat with us. For Christ’s sake…

Mm. That’s pleasant. Neither Lucas nor Grace let it show in their expressions, but the commentary hangs heavy between them for a long moment. It almost makes Lucas say no, out of indignant spite…

But Grace is asking. Helping her out with all this is the whole reason he even bothers to be here at all. So he swallows his pride.

Lucas: Just write me a list.

Grace gives him a soft smile, mouthing a thanks before backing off and shutting the door again. Lucas glances down at his college stuff, how little progress he made, then sighs and sets it to the side as he climbs off his bed.

INT. GLOBAL BEAT - OFFICES - DAY

Josh is yet again one of the last in the office, still at his desk as the clock nears 7PM. He’s scouring his inbox and messages, looking for any potential client routes he might have overlooked when he was banking on Iris. Sending out potential feelers, on the off-chance some of these might lead somewhere still -- ideally, somewhere with potential.

One of those options is Yindra, per Riley’s earlier recommendation. He dashes off an email to her, though it clearly pains him to do so considering he wanted them to come to him. But desperate times…

INT. PERFORMING DINER - NIGHT

YINDRA AMINO is working the evening shift at the diner, pausing from clearing a table when her phone buzzes with the email. She pulls it open and skims through it, excited at first…

But then she sees who it’s from. Josh Mattthews. As in Riley Matthews, who probably told him to send the email in the first place. While the idea of using him as a connection a couple years ago seemed so easy, a surprising amount of reluctance bubbles up in Yindra now. Whether he’s genuinely interested in her or not, she can’t stand the feeling that she’s just being handed something. That she’s going to get somewhere because of a favor, not because of her hard work and talent.

And right now, her defensiveness is at higher rates than usual. So rather than responding, she archives the email and pockets her phone again, going back to cleaning the vacated table.

Zay, pre-lap: If I’m going to get this, then I’m going to earn it. It’s not like anyone is just going to hand it to me.

EXT. TURNER ACADEMY - DAY

Zay is walking through campus bright and early the next morning, there far earlier than most people. That’s made clear by the pretty vacant campus and HENRIK VON FELDT trailing behind him, barely trying to keep up with Zay’s determined march as they head towards the Turner buildings for an early morning warm-up.

Henrik: Sure. For sure. But can we at least let my 5-hour Energy kick in first?

Zay: Gao said this is all about endurance. Well, mark my words, I’ve got endurance. I’ve got what it takes. Better than the rest of them.

Henrik: Dude, I believe you. Hell, I think you’ve got it better than me. Or like, anyone else in the program right now. Damn sure no one else is as zealous…

EXT. NEW YORK STREETS - DAY

Ah, but that is where you’re wrong, Henrik. There is one other person on the same insanity pitch as Zay -- Vanessa is out running at the same early hour, getting in a fitness warm-up with her friend from Quincy, SUMMER LIONS.

While Summer seems more awake than Henrik, she’s equally as perplexed with Vanessa’s relentless motivation. When the two of them stop to catch their breath and grab some water, Summer questions what exactly she’s getting out of this.

Vanessa: Think that should be obvious? Stay in shape, stay on top, get into Turner. Domino effect to our choices, Summer.

Summer: No, yeah, I know. But like, are you aware you’re already in banging shape? You’re already the best dancer I know. Surely you can’t be falling behind.

Vanessa: I’m not. But that’s the point. By doing this, staying on top of the game, I stay at the front of the pack. I’m not slipping up and messing that up.

Summer: Girl, I’m pretty sure you are the only person thinking about it that hard.

Vanessa: [ with a snort ] You have not met my classmates.

Summer: And I’m not saying you should slack -- God knows it wouldn’t work anyway. Never worked at Quincy, don’t see why it would now.

Vanessa: Glad you recognize that.

Summer: And if doing your hardass thing makes you feel alive, and stuff, then that’s great. Good for you, stay grinding. But I’m just worried about like, the rest of your life? Is there a rest of your life? [ a beat ] Like, how’s the social scene? Any good parties? Hot girls? Hot guys? Like V, I’m telling you, I think you just need one good honest --

Vanessa: Not this again…

Summer: Okay, fine, that aside, have you made any friends?

Vanessa pauses a second too long, with no answer to give, and that’s what gives her away. She clears her throat and starts into a jog again, nodding towards campus.

Vanessa: Gotta get going. Clock’s ticking, and I’m not running late. Let’s go, one more mile.

Summer sighs, letting Vanessa take off and avoid the question.

Summer: It’s always one more mile…

She shakes her head, starting to jog after her.

INT. ANYA KELLY DESIGN STUDIO - MAIN FLOOR - DAY

Jade is keeping her head down, working unassumingly at her desk. At the adjacent desks, SKYLAR ALBRIGHT and JAMAL ALLEN are working less quietly, holding a somewhat silly conversation about fabric softener and its usefulness (or lack thereof). So far, just another day…

Until it isn’t. All of them jump when the phone on Jade’s desk rings. She stares at it, uncertain, then looks to the other two -- who look equally surprised. The apprentice lines hardly ever ring.

Jamal: Mine has rung once in the entire two years I’ve been here, and it was because Melanie wanted me to go on a coffee run.

Skylar: That’s not our job. That’s the assistants’ job -- that’s her job.

Jamal: Try telling her that.

In any case, Jade should pick up. And she does, once she gets her brain to connect to her hand again. She lifts the receiver to her ear.

Jade, uncertainly: Anya Kelly Design Studio?

Melanie: This is an internal line, Beamon. I know who I’m calling.

Jade: Oh. That’s good. [ a beat ] So, why are you calling me?

Melanie: Anya would like to see you in her office.

Jade goes pale, freezing in place. Jamal and Skylar mirror her concern, just based on the way her expression dropped and eyes widened.

Melanie: And be quick about it, please. She doesn’t like to be kept waiting.

The line clicks off, Melanie hanging up. Jade sits frozen for a moment longer before slowly hanging up herself. Jamal and Skylar ask her what’s up; she looks like she’s seen death.

Jade, blankly: Anya wants to see me.

Oh, so maybe she is seeing death. Skylar and Jamal’s jaws drop. This is unprecedented… sure, a glimpse here and there isn’t unheard of, but being beckoned to Anya’s office within your first couple months? Simply isn’t done.

Skylar: I literally didn’t see her until a month before you started.

Jade: What does it mean?

Neither of them speak, exchanging a wary look. Suppose there’s a chance it could be for good reason, but more likely than not… Jade reads their sympathetic signals without them having to say a word.

The other shoe is ready to drop.

INT. ANYA KELLY DESIGN STUDIO - UPPER FLOOR - DAY

Jade cautiously ascends the spiral staircase and approaches the frosted glass doors, MELANIE MURPHY typing away at the desk stationed just outside the office. She hardly casts a glance in Jade’s direction, looking back at her computer screen.

Melanie: You can go in. She’s expecting you.

Jade: [ with wide eyes ] … go in? To Anya’s office.

Melanie raises her eyes again, expression flat. Like, could Jade be any more stupid…

Melanie: Yes. That would be where Anya is. Unless you want to wait out here for her to come beckon you…

Jade: No, no. That’s… um, okay. Right.

Jade swallows, stepping up to the glass doors. She uncertainly knocks once, timidly, then pulls the door open… and casts one last glance over her shoulder towards the main floor below. Where Skylar and Jamal are chatting at their desks, where the seamstresses are hard at work -- the world she’s barely gotten to know that might just be ripped away from her.

Then she takes a deep breath, stepping inside.

INT. ANYA KELLY DESIGN STUDIO - ANYA’S OFFICE - DAY

The private office of our head executive is even more alluring than the main floor, designed with a keen eye for style and color. It looks like a mix between an upscale therapist’s office and an art gallery, interesting, eye-catching paintings on the wall alongside blown-up photographs of the most impressive AK designs and miniature sculptures and pottery occupying the shelves and corners of the room. A fountain installation takes up the left wall, while the opposite is floor-to-ceiling windows with an enviable view of Manhattan. From here, you can actually see the top of the Minkus’s building in the financial district where Farkle no longer dwells. It’s beyond glamorous without being gauche -- Asher would be in awe.

And seated behind the central set piece, a large, modern desk with plenty of room to spread designs, a figure is concealed behind a magazine they’ve got propped open to read in front of their face. On the cover, one of Anya’s designs is front and center, worn by the hottest celebrity of the month.

Jade hovers uncertainly by the door, not sure whether or not to interrupt. Suppose Melanie could be messing with her…

Jade: Um… Miss Kelly?

With a sharp movement, the figure drops the magazine from her face, and we finally see ANYA KELLY (30s). She’s attractive and bright, with thin features and piercing blue eyes. Her whole look screams trendsetter, from her choppy brown bob kissed with highlights to the bold color of her professional blazer. She could easily pass for one of the models she dresses.

But there’s an intensity to her gaze, too, a hint of the same expertise and high expectations that colors Rosario Gao or even Farkle Minkus. There’s an aura that just tells you she’s fucking amazing at what she does -- and she knows it.

Right now, that scrutinizing stare is directed right at Jade. She raises an eyebrow.

Anya: You’re Jade?

Jade nods. She’s clasping her hands together to keep them from shaking, using every ounce of her self-discipline not to immediately break down into tears. If she withstood four years of Maya Hart, she can handle this… she hopes.

Anya assesses her for a long moment, expression betraying nothing, then gestures for her to come closer.

Anya: Sit.

Jade does as she’s told, coming to perch in the velvet chair placed opposite her desk. Once she’s settled, and Anya’s gotten a good, long look at her, she continues.

Anya: So you’re the one who fucked with the inventories.

Oh God. So it is about that. Jade tries not to panic, quickly debating her next move. She could lie. She could blame someone else. She could say Melanie mislead her; she could claim she simply misunderstood the instructions.

Or she could tell the truth, and face the consequences. Jade manages another nod, casting her eyes to the floor.

Jade: Yes.

Anya: You went in and scrubbed the databases to update them, despite no one telling you to do so or giving you any instruction whatsoever.

Jade: Yes.

Anya: And you did this without guidance, without assistance, with no regard for the hours it took or the extra work you may have created for yourself or others. You thought it was a good idea, so you just did it.

Jade: … yes.

If Jade could melt into the floor and disappear, she would. The silence hangs heavy over her head for a long moment while Anya takes that in, like the sword just waiting to be cut loose and strike her down…

Anya, blithely: Well, thank fucking God for that!

Jade lifts her head, surprised. Um, what? That definitely didn’t sound like a scolding…

Jade: I’m sorry?

Anya: Those inventories have been absolute shit for years. Completely useless aside from the latest entries. And I’ve had apprentices try to fix it in the past, even pawned it off on Melanie a couple of times -- rumor has it that’s why the assistant before Mel decided to quit. And those kind of errors, they just pile up and pile up, until it’s a gigantic clusterfuck that no one wants to or seems capable of handling. [ eyeing her ] But not you.

Jade: … so I’m not in trouble?

Anya: In trouble? Jade, you’re a blessing!

No one in the last few years ever showed nearly the same amount of self-motivation, or interest in improving the systems for the good of the company. Let alone of their own volition, without being asked or required. And now that it’s been updated, thanks to her hard work, all of them have been spared multitudes of headaches down the road.

Anya: See, the thing is, everyone wants the chance to come work at the studio. Everyone wants to step foot in here, take a look around, build their resume with a strong name in the company slot. But it feels like no one actually wants to work; no one wants to fucking learn. But you, you took initiative. You seem to actually give a damn.

Jade: I do. I mean, I am seriously passionate about costuming. And I love your designs -- I studied them all the time in high school. I care about this a lot, I didn’t want to mess it up. And when I saw the inventory, yeah, I suppose I just, have this instinct to make things right…

Anya: And that’s brilliant. That’s [ chef’s kiss ] unparalleled, Jade. That is what we need in this industry -- that’s what I’ve been waiting for.

Well, this is a lot better than getting the boot! Jade isn’t sure what to do with the praise, awkwardly mirroring Anya’s effervescent smile. Anya goes on to say that she’s intrigued now, and she wants to see what else Jade is capable of. She’s going to begin giving her small additional tasks, just between the two of them, to see how she responds. She shouldn’t think of them as tests or anything, just practice exercises and tasks for Anya to get a better assessment of Jade’s strengths, weaknesses, and current ability. So she should keep an eye out for that in the coming days.

With that, they’re done chatting for now. Jade thanks Anya, shaky with relief, getting to her feet. Before she leaves, Anya calls for her to pause, meeting her eyes and getting one more good look at her. Sizing her up… then she smiles, eccentric and electric creative genius embodied.

Anya: Excellent start, Jade Beamon. I see a lot of potential in you. [ a beat ] Don’t prove me wrong.

Jade is going to darn well try her best. She returns the smile, nodding and stepping out of the office. Anya watches her go, then goes back to her magazine, crooked smile still intact.

INT. ANYA KELLY DESIGN STUDIO - MAIN FLOOR - DAY

Jade returns to her desk, practically floating. Jamal and Skylar share her enthusiasm when they see she’s returned without being in tears, rejoicing when she confirms she wasn’t fired.

Skylar: Hallelujah.

Jamal: Seriously. I’m not gonna lie, when you got that call I thought that was the end.

If she wasn’t getting kicked, though, that does beg the question. What did Anya want with her? Jade opens her mouth to tell them all about it, but suddenly she finds she has no words. Looking at the two of them, she realizes the strange situation she’s found herself in. Neither of them have ever had such a meeting with their highest-up boss -- despite being here much longer than her. They’ve both been doing the same job as her, for much longer, with little to no acknowledgement from Anya at all. Telling them about what she said, how she’s been waiting for someone like her, seems like a shitty thing to tell them.

So she fudges the truth, claiming nonchalantly that Anya just wanted to go over the inventories. Considering her effort to rework them, Jamal and Skylar buy this answer without further curiosity. They obviously wanted a slightly juicier answer, but hey, as long as Jade isn’t boxing up her stuff in exile, it’s all good.

Jade gives them a smile, grateful for their support… and determined not to lose it. If she’s going to keep it, she’s better off not bragging about her praise for the whole office to hear.

Farkle, pre-lap: Welcome to the big leagues, Chuck.

EXT. USC - CAMPUS - DAY

Farkle is leading the way through the main thoroughfare of campus, Charlie keeping up but moving at a more leisurely pace as he takes everything in. Farkle plays half-baked tour guide as he points out the main pieces of interest -- Bovard auditorium, the old and revered Doheny library, the arts and humanities building they’re renaming since the original namesake was a eugenics supporter.

At the same time, Farkle runs through the classes he’ll be tagging along to this week: film theory, music theory and composition, a Gen-Ed or two including a freshman philosophy seminar. Charlie’s expressions brightens at that.

Charlie: That sounds great. Do you know what branch or school of thought? Or is it more of a general overview of more prominent theories? A couple of the books I read this summer really got me thinking about --

Farkle: You’re practically foaming at the mouth to guest attend a freshman philosophy class, and yet you’re not completely sure if you want to go to college?

Touché, Farkle, truly. Charlie smiles bashfully, laughing at himself. Like yeah, he doesn’t have the details figured out, but let’s be honest. He was built for academia.

Still, the question of what to explore in academia is a valid question. And there are definitely many paths to choose from, another consideration Farkle highlights as he changes the subject.

Farkle: Anyway, if you’re keen for my basic Gen-Ed, then you’ll love the other class you’re invited to this week. I have to take this “movement” course for my major, which is basically, for all intents and purposes, Dance for Dummies. Which, to be honest, I’m offended I have to be in -- as if I didn’t dance for years before this or have a junior district medal for tap dancing.

Well, okay, don’t humble brag too hard, Farkle… but yes, that does sound fun. Although Charlie has some reservations, admitting that he might need the refresher more than Farkle. It’s been a while since he danced, or at least it feels like it’s been ages -- beyond the type you’d find on the club dance floor, that is. He might’ve forgotten how to do it all.

Farkle: Please, Chuck. You were the best dancer in our class --

Charlie: Well, Zay --

Farkle: Okay, okay, second best if that makes you feel less controversial. Point is, you were great, and that doesn’t just evaporate because you flitted off to Europe for four months. It’s like riding a bike, isn’t it? You never forget.

Charlie: I don’t think that’s true at all, but…

Anyway, Farkle disrupts Charlie’s self-doubt by frankly bulldozing past it. He notes that the only class Charlie can’t attend with him is his acting class, because apparently his professor is pretentious and takes everything way too seriously. So no outsiders allowed, but hopefully Charlie can find something else to do in the meantime this week.

Given how Charlie is still totally enthralled just looking around at campus as they walk, yeah, surely he’ll manage. Plenty to explore. For now, they’ve got film theory to enjoy -- Farkle marches onwards to the film school, Charlie taking in one more sweeping view of the campus before jogging to catch up to him.

INT. AAA - PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE - DAY

Eric is sorting through emails -- a task that seems to take a lot more of his time and concentration than it should. He frowns to himself as his computer beeps indignantly at his action, shaking his head. How does he seem to always have new emails?

Eric: Is this inbox bottomless or what?

He’s relieved from the technological burden when Isa arrives, capturing his attention. They’re there for lunch, but mentally they’re still in Bennet’s classroom, having slept off none of their indignation overnight. They start to launch into another tirade about the grade, and wondering if they should bring it up with Bennet or not, but Eric raises a hand to halt them.

Eric: First off, you know I will always advocate for communication. If this professor is a good teacher, he should be open to a conversation, provided you approach it the right way.

Isa: I never approach anything the right way.

Eric: We’ll discuss how. Before that, though, this came to my apartment yesterday.

Eric retrieves a letter from a pile on his desk, cautiously handing it over to Isa. They take it, confused as to why anyone would be writing them -- until recognition hits upon reading the return address.

Zachary MacNamara. Their potential maybe father got their letter. He read their letter.

He actually wrote back.

Isa: Shit. [ glancing at Eric ] Sorry. Shoot.

Eric: I’ll allow a shit. It’s a big deal.

Isa: Yeah. Should I open it?

Eric: I think that’s up to you.

Isa: True. I did write to him, so… [ suddenly shy ] What if it’s bad, though? What if he’s cussing me out and he never wants to hear from me again?

Eric: I highly doubt someone would put in the effort to mail a letter just to cuss someone out…

Isa: Matthews are different breeds.

Eric: But I understand your fear. Putting yourself out there like this is scary. Either way, you sent that first letter, and I already think that’s brave as hell. If you don’t want to move any further, even reading this, I would support that. [ a beat ] But you won’t know unless you open it.

Isa holds his gaze, uncertain… then takes a deep breath, nodding. They put the feeler out there, now it’s time to see what came of it.

They hesitate a second longer, then starts to tear open the envelope.

Break 1.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

Given his apartment was such a bust, Lucas has changed tactics. He’s now attempting to do a bit of studying while at Adams, the biology textbook open on the stage manager’s podium. But it’s equally hard to focus here, between the sounds of construction and HARPER BURGESS loudly lecturing to the freshmen performers and a bunch of them rehearsing vocals -- slightly off-pitch, given they’re freshmen.

That, and he really shouldn’t be diverting his attention while he’s on the clock. Not because it’s bad employee etiquette, but because leaving the freshmen techies alone for even a second is a recipe for disaster. This is evidenced by Jake and Greta racing to get to him first, the former lit up with joy while the latter looks downright vexed.

Jake: Mister Lucas -- !

Greta: TA FRIAR!

Lucas raises his hands in surrender, irritable and still a bit on edge from the evening prior.

Lucas: What? What?

Greta: You’re never going to believe --

Jake: It’s amazing!

Lucas, impatient: What?

Jake, in unison: [ with delight ] We painted Bean to the set piece!!!

Greta, in unison: [ with grievance ] They painted Bean to the set piece!

Jake: Come see, you’ve gotta come see!

Oh, Neptune… Lucas sighs, pointedly shutting the textbook.

INT. GLOBAL BEAT - RECORDING STUDIO - DAY

Speaking of well-meaning collaborators who just can’t seem to do anything right… Josh is having a session with CRICKET, desperately attempting to get her to produce… something. Anything. She’s in the recording booth with her guitar, and he’s brought her a pre-mixed track to work off of. A good one at that -- it’s a base Josh is pretty proud of, one he was planning to save for when Iris got the deal for the EP and they could build out the project -- and it’s more than clear Josh really does have an ear for music. He’s got the potential to be something special in the world of producing…

But he’s got nothing to mold. Or at least, nothing promising -- as Cricket sings through some vocal riffs and tries to find a place to land on the track, it’s evident she has a lovely voice. There’s a sound there, something Josh obviously heard when he first sought her out. If he could just get her to spread her wings and actually soar…

But nope. No such luck today. After a few half-hearted lines and a declarative strum, Cricket gives up, shaking her head.

Cricket: I’m sorry, Josh, man, this just isn’t working for me.

Josh does his best not to snap, taking a deep breath. They’ve only been at this for like half an hour… and God, does he really need something to move right now…

Josh: It doesn’t have to be brilliant, Cricket. We’re just trying things out. Experimenting, throwing stuff at the wall and seeing what sticks.

Cricket: I know, but this just isn’t my vibe. The track is sick, don’t get me wrong, but it’s sparking nothing in my soul. This just isn’t how I create.

It takes everything in him not to point out that she creates nothing… but he manages to hold his tongue. He patiently gets her to agree to fifteen more minutes of noodling around, so they can take advantage of the studio time, but he’s resigned to the fact that he won’t magically be getting anything out of her this afternoon.

INT. AAA - PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE - DAY

Isa has had the chance to read through the letter -- twice, in fact -- and now it’s in Eric’s hands. As he finishes reading, Isa paces and watches impatiently, obviously processing what it says and waiting for Eric to provide much needed insight. Once he’s done, he lifts his eyes to meet theirs, inviting commentary.

Isa: So he responded.

Eric: He did.

Isa: He seems open to… talking. More. In whatever way. That’s good, right?

Eric: I’d say so, on both counts.

Isa: But he wants to do a DNA test. What do you think that’s about? And how the hell would we even do that -- doesn’t it take like, weeks? Or months?

Eric: I’m sure with the right amount of money, you can expedite the process. Technology is a marvel these days.

Isa: But like… why? Does he already not trust me?

Eric: I wouldn’t jump that far.

Isa: Why else would someone ask for something like that? It feels like he thinks I’m some kind of scheming scammer or something.

Eric: I get why you might feel that way. With something as… sensitive as this, matters of family, you’re going to be prone to strong reactions. I completely get that. But I think if you were outside the situation, and it was someone else going through it with you as the observer, your more logical side might hold a different opinion. How would you view it in that context?

Isa sighs pointedly, clearly too antsy to be in the mood for counselor mind exercises… but they relent and think through it anyway.

Isa: I think that if I were in his situation, already with another wife and career and everything figured out, I would be hesitant to let a potential long-lost child into the picture. Even if I’m open to it, I’d want to be one-hundred percent sure I’m only potentially inviting upheaval into my life if I’m positive it’s the real deal.

Eric: Good start. And given the information he’s shared with you here, there’s a public image angle as well. He tells you that Zachary is his real name, but he’s much more well-known under a stage name -- it’s possible he gets accusations and claims like this all the time. You know the kind of shenanigans Valerie had to deal with day-to-day being as famous as she was. He could very well be in the same boat.

Isa, flatly: Why was I so blessed with famous parents…

That, Eric can’t answer for them. But Zachary does seem open to communication, just with this simple caveat prior to going any further. To Eric, it seems reasonable -- it just matters if Isa feels it’s worthwhile. If so, then he’ll help them go through all the steps to make it happen.

As uncertain as the request makes them feel on the surface, the buzz of a potential lead on their actual family is a far more alluring prospect. Isa honestly never expected this Zachary person would reply -- now that he has, it seems like a fool’s move to refuse on something as prideful as a bit of self-protective doubt. If they’re being honest, they know they would probably do the same. Maybe that’s a signal as much as any other that they share blood…

After a moment, Isa nods.

EXT. USC - CAMPUS - DAY

After film lecture, Farkle and Charlie head across campus to grab a snack before they split up for the afternoon. It’s here that they happen to run into some of Farkle’s peers from his major, the ones who were going to go to the comedy show with him. We learn through quick introductions as they greet Farkle and notice his new companion that their names are MASON (18), NATALIA (19), and the cheeky one for whatever reason goes by the nickname BUZZ (18).

Natalia, in fact, is very keen to introduce herself to Farkle’s new friend. She makes an effort to make sure Charlie knows her name, shaking his hand and batting her eyelashes. Charlie remains polite as ever, but it’s clear from the twinkle in his eyes that he’s trying very hard not to laugh.

Natalia: Are you a new student? Are we going to be seeing you in class?

Charlie: Oh, unfortunately, no. Just visiting.

Natalia: Oh, no.

Mason: From where?

Charlie: New York, technically, but I flew in from Tokyo. I’m taking a gap year.

Natalia: [ still going for it ] So there’s a chance we might see you here again?

Buzz: [ ignoring her thirst ] Yo, that’s dope! Wish I had taken a gap year instead of like, coming to learn or whatever.

Mason: I’m more impressed that you’re walking Trousdale with the Farkle Minkus. Lone ranger over here, I figured he was solitary by design. You must be an elite!

It’s clear from his tone that Mason is joking, and it seems like the comment is more intended as a hint that they’d like to get to know Farkle better. But Farkle can’t interface like a normal person, so to him, he just assumes it’s another strike against him in the social scene of USC.

Farkle, dryly: Yeah, it’s very hard work, maintaining this fashionable isolation.

The three of them laugh, assuming he’s just being sarcastic. Classic Farkle! They think! As they head off, they claim they’ll catch him in class -- but not Charlie, much to Natalia’s disappointment -- and then go their separate ways.

Farkle is obviously embarrassed by the chance interaction, pale cheeks slightly flushed. If there was any quicker way to show his Adams friend what a loser he is here… but Charlie doesn’t see it that way. As far as Charlie could tell, smiling as he watches Farkle’s peers go, they seem pretty cool with him.

Have to wonder how much of Farkle’s isolation is real, and how much of it is a self-defeating product of his own imagination.

INT. NYU - CLASSROOM - DAY

Riley arrives at one of the theater classrooms not in use for her first assignment rehearsal and finds Evan already waiting for her. He gives her a friendly wave from where he’s perched on one of the desks, laptop open to search for scene options. There’s a couple of other duos scattered throughout the room, but there’s enough space to make it feel as though they have plenty of room.

Riley returns his smile and comes to join him, depositing her bag on one of the adjacent desks. She asks if he’s already started brainstorming ideas, playfully peering over his laptop screen to take a look.

Evan: I’ve been browsing, but no definitive ideas yet, no. I mean, there’s great options for sure, but I didn’t want to choose without you. Figure if we’re partners on this, we should make executive calls together.

Honestly, in a program supposedly as competitive and ego-based as Tisch, Riley is pleasantly surprised by this approach. She smiles brighter, nodding.

Riley: I concur. If we’re both aiming to get the most out of this, then by being partners I’d assume we should be operating in our best dual interest. Making creative choices to benefit the both of us.

Evan: Agreed. I’ll trust your instincts if you trust mine.

Riley contemplates that… then nods again, offering a hand to shake on it. Evan smirks, perpetually slightly amused by her natural charm, and happily takes her hand.

Riley: Okay. So down to business. Obviously, this assignment is about collaboration, so I think we should definitely try to find a piece that holds the characters in equal importance. Give both of us the opportunity to actually demonstrate some skill or stretch our performing muscles.

Evan: For sure. And ideally, play off one another as well -- that’s not necessarily a natural skill. Knowing how to share the stage with someone, having chemistry.

Riley: Absolutely. Of course that doesn’t necessarily mean romantic counterparts, though it’s more than likely there’ll be many, many options for a male-female duet in that genre.

Evan: And would you be cool with that? If we decided to do one of those?

It’s sweet that Evan is even bothering to ask. Riley only hesitates for a second, feeling somewhat silly, then shrugs.

Riley: I don’t see why I shouldn’t be. It’s only acting. You saw Beauty and the Beast -- I’m more than capable of pulling off romantic chemistry with my friends.

Evan: Yeah, Farkle Minkus was certainly an interesting leading male to fall in theatrical love with. But y’all were great.

Riley: Thanks. Anyway, in this case, whether romantic or otherwise, I’d really like to stretch my genre if possible. I’ve done ingenue and heroine competently enough at this point, so I want to try something totally unexpected. College just seems like the time to push the envelope, you know? Experiment, explore.

Evan: So I hear, in many realms.

Riley: It’s like, people look at my big ol’ brown doe eyes and they see one thing. The plucky, sweet ingenue. You know? I want to play against that. You know, something darker, a challenge. Like tragedy… maybe a mystery? Honestly, I should’ve asked Nigel for recommendations -- he loves tragedies.

Evan: I’m sure we’ll be able to find something. Helpful parameters to start us off. [ typing on his laptop ] Gotta tell you, though, Riley, I really can’t think of a genre or role I don’t think you could pull off.

He tosses the compliment off casually, but Riley is surprised by it anyway. She smiles bashfully, then brushes past the moment to come stand by him and look over his shoulder as he starts pulling up potential scenes.

INT. NYU APARTMENT - ISA’S BEDROOM - DAY

Isa is on a video call with CHAI FRESCO, catching her up on all the latest drama of the day. Even though Chai seems much more interested in the potential father update -- who is it? How long did it take for him to respond? Is Isa going to talk more or, more than that, actually connect with him? -- but both out of nerves on that subject and a natural tendency to one-track-mind, Isa is still stuck on the film class grade.

Chai: I gotta tell you, and I say this with nothing but affection, it is insane to me that that is the event of the week that you’re hyperfixated on.

Isa: Look, I’ve had a fucked up family saga going on my entire life. That’s not new. Yes, this is… there’s a lot there, but in the grand scheme of my day-to-day, it’s like white noise. It’s like the fire drill that happens once a month where, oh, there’s some family bullshit development I have to deal with again. Life-changing, great, awesome. See you again next month.

Chai: You really would make a great telenovela or something. Your life is full of drama.

Isa: I said thematic narrative, but thank you! You’re telling me. But this thing with the short film, that’s a wrench. That’s throwing everything out of whack. Being a filmmaker is like… I mean, it’s like my whole identity. It’s who I am. And now all of a sudden, some old white man is telling me actually, you’re shit. That is much more pressing a concern to me than whether my daddy issues ever get resolved.

Bit odd priority, yeah… but what can you do? Chai ultimately shares the same advice as Riley, noting that if Isa disagrees with the notes then they should feel more than empowered to discuss it with Professor Bennet. If he’s willing to dish the crit, then he should be able to defend it. Or maybe, as Isa clearly wishes, he’ll realize he was harsher than he intended, or misguided, and having that conversation could change that grade.

Now phrasing it like that perks Isa’s interest a bit. If there’s a chance he might just be plain wrong, then they’re more than happy to challenge his perspective and courteously raise it to his attention.

Chai: I’m not saying it’ll guarantee a grade change, but if you’re that upset about it, you have every right to dispute it. Just make sure to approach it the right way, and not like… you know, like Maya Hart style.

Isa: Eric gave me some pointers.

Chai: That’ll do the trick. Just go in there and be your confident, creative badass girlboss self, and I’m sure you’ll be able to find common ground.

As nice as that advice is, part of the phrasing bumps Isa. It takes them a moment to realize what felt wrong about it, and then it hits them -- girlboss.

Isa: Oh, yeah, that reminds me. Actually. There was something I’ve been meaning to tell you.

Chai: Oh? What’s up?

Isa: Yeah, so… um. [ a beat ] So I decided that I want to go by Isa now. That’s what I’m having people call me at school, and here and stuff. I didn’t think to mention it, just because we rarely like, actively use each other’s names, I guess.

Chai: Oh, cool. I like that, it sounds very snappy. A great film industry kind of name. Not that Isadora didn’t have its charms.

Isa: Right… well, and the other reason was that, uh, I’ve been thinking about my gender identity.

This seems to catch Chai more by surprise. Not in a bad way, but she clearly wasn’t expecting it.

Isa: So, yeah. I’m going by they/them pronouns now. Trying it out.

Chai: Oh. Okay.

Isa: Well, I guess I’ve been trying it out.

Chai: Been? How long have you been?

Isa: … since the start of the semester? About.

Chai: Wow.

Chai doesn’t seem upset, but she’s definitely caught off guard. She remarks that it feels weird Isa didn’t think to mention it sooner -- she might have misgendered them multiple times in the last few weeks and not realized it. Isa assures her it’s not a big deal, and they did think about it a couple of times. The moment just… never seemed to arise.

Isa: That doesn’t… this doesn’t like, change anything between us, right?

Chai: What? No. No way. And sorry if I’m coming off like… that’s really great Iz, seriously. I’m happy for you. It’s great that you’re trying to do more self-discovery, finding what feels true to you. I’m all for that. I’m just... a little surprised.

Isa: I really get that. You don’t have to like, be all on board right away or anything --

Chai: No, no, I am. Like, fully support. And I don’t see why it would change anything -- at least, I don’t want it to. I just… I was not expecting it. Right this second. That’s all.

But otherwise, all good. Neither of them see how or why that should change anything between them. Gender and sexuality are all tied up and together in weird and confusing ways… but no, they’re fine. They’ll be good. They’ve lasted this long.

Chai thanks Isa again for telling her, delayed as it was.

EXT. USC - CAMPUS - DAY

Now that Farkle is tucked away in his oh-so-exclusive theater class, Charlie is wandering campus on his own. He proceeds a bit uncertainly, still not immune to the self-doubt perpetually in his mind, but admittedly it’s not hard for him to blend in. He sticks out even less here than he did in Italy -- here, he’s just another nondescript young adult in a sea of tens of thousands, minding his own business and looking slightly confused and overwhelmed. Welcome to college!

He treads with dancer’s grace, though, able to nimbly avoid collision from bikers, skateboards, and large hordes of students walking together. He steps around an incoming DPS officer on a Segway and ends up in Ronald Tutor Campus Center, the central lunch spot. It’s as populated as ever with students, graduate and undergraduate alike, seated at the tables and along the steps and chatting with friends or working on their laptops as they eat.

To be honest, Charlie could probably spend a whole afternoon sitting there just people watching, if his excited smile is any indication. Especially more interesting considering most of these people are actually speaking a language he understands.

But for now, he’s got more to explore. He heads towards the left-hand steps and makes his way into one of the buildings surrounding the campus center.

INT. USC - CAREER CENTER - DAY

Through his meandering, Charlie finds himself at the campus career center. The office is quiet but active, employees having soft conversations with students and others focused on their own work. He unobtrusively enters and takes a look around, curiously perusing the pamphlets and guides on display near the front. There’s plenty of opportunity here it seems -- listings for campus jobs, networking info sheets for different schools and majors, services like career counseling and the classic aptitude test.

Charlie jumps slightly when he’s addressed, having gotten too used to being invisible since he’s not technically supposed to be at the school. One of the women working the front desk kindly asks if there’s anything they can help him with. At first, he politely brushes them off, claiming he’s just stopping in. Then he pauses, looking back at the services offered. It’s not like he has anything else going on…

Charlie: Actually, how long does the test take?

INT. CHUBBIES - DAY

All other options having failed, Lucas has resorted to multitasking at the diner. He’s “working” the counter, as usual, but he’s not exactly signaling he’s open for business when he’s got his biology textbook open on the counter and he’s jotting down notes for transfer things into a notebook rather than… you know, working the register. Or taking orders. Or doing anything remotely diner-related.

Unfortunately, this isn’t really a solution (regardless of the fact that the moment Joe shows up, he has to hastily pretend like he’s working). Even though it doesn’t hold the harsh edge that being at his apartment does, the diner is no less distracting. The cooks chatting and frying food in the kitchen, patrons chattering, dishes clinking… sure, it might not be accompanied by a deep sense of dread, but Chubbies is not the best place to do some serious studying.

MAISIE and EFFIE emphasize this perfectly, at their same usual booth enjoying an early evening dine-and-write session. Maisie tells Effie to pause and turns to Lucas at the counter, gently calling for him to get his attention.

Maisie: So sorry, dear, but could I bother you for another side of the queso ranch?

Lucas: Yeah. One second.

Effie: [ nudging Maisie ] Shame on you, Maise, can’t you see he’s working?

Maisie: Well, yes, and I believe part of that is getting the side of ranch.

Effie: You know what I mean. He’s over there working hard. For someone who purportedly “stands” him --

Maisie: Stands? I’d say we like him more than stand him --

Effie: No, no, “stands.” It’s what the kids are saying these days, you know? Like when you like a lad on a television programme, you say, oh, I stand him.

Maisie: I don’t know where you learn this stuff. I will never understand the social media.

Effie: Anyway, for someone who says they support Lucas, you shouldn’t be interrupting his personal studies.

Maisie: Well, I agree, but I’m not sure who else I’m supposed to ask for my queso ranch. You want to get up and get it for me?

Effie: Eh. That’s not my job.

Maisie: You don’t say…

Effie: I think you should just live without your cheese for a change. What you need to do is be lactose intolerant like me. Boom, problem solved.

Lucas returns with the side, Maisie taking it gratefully and apologizing for interrupting his very important work. He shrugs.

Lucas, plainly: It’s my job. Or whatever.

Maisie: See.

As Maisie and Effie continue their amicable banter, Riley pushes into the diner. She’s still got her bag, so she must’ve come straight from NYU. She perks up when she meets Lucas as he’s walking away from their table, taking his hand and exchanging a quick kiss in greeting.

The two of them head back to the counter, Riley hopping onto her typical stool across from him.

Riley: Sorry I’m running a bit late. Rehearsal ran over.

Lucas: Already?

Riley: Well, I guess it’s not really running over if it’s my timekeeping. My scene partner and I just got really into trying to pick the best scene and then starting to block it out.

Lucas: Oh? Nice. Should’ve asked me for help, I’m an expert at blocking things out.

Riley laughs, shaking her head. Different kinds of blocking… anyway, Riley zeroes in on his makeshift study set-up. She questions whether that’s a very effective way to focus, which Lucas admits it’s not, but he isn’t really stacked with better options. Riley reminds him he is always welcome to use their apartment, and that might be less risky than getting fired for doing double duty. Lucas shrugs off the concern.

Lucas: Joe has definitely seen me doing this and so far he hasn’t said anything. Which I guess isn’t all that surprising. Given I’m such a pathetic sob story at this point I’m sure he doesn’t want to yell at me any more than necessary. Merciful of him, really.

He says it so pithily, as if he’s resigned to the way things are, and Riley doesn’t seem pleased with it. She’s always been trying to wean him off the self-deprecation, and these days that’s a harder task than ever. She decides to change topics, ideally something more positive. She asks if he’s gotten to see much of Jack yet since he got back -- he was so looking forward to his return. Lucas admits it’s nice he’s back, but otherwise…

Lucas: I don’t want to bother him. He’s got to like unpack and stuff, get situated again. I don’t need to like get in the way of all that.

Riley: You wouldn’t be bothering him. Surely he’s looking forward to catching up. You said he was happy to see you at Adams.

Lucas: Yeah, I know. I just… you know, when he’s ready we’ll figure shit out. I don’t wanna like, eat up his time.

Riley frowns slightly, not convinced.

INT. L.A. APARTMENT - HALLWAY - DAY

Farkle and Charlie return from campus, heading towards their door at the end of the hall. As they walk, Charlie tells Farkle all about his solo adventures, pulling the aptitude test results from his pocket and unfolding it to share with him.

Charlie: So here’s the top ones it gave me. Are you ready for this?

Farkle: I’m shaking in my chucks, Chuck.

Charlie: Okay. Here we go. [ clears throat ] Number one, social worker.

Farkle hums, nodding along. He can see that.

Charlie: Number two, nurse. Three, teacher. And four -- you’ll never believe this one -- [ a beat ] preacher.

Farkle: [ with a gasp ] Whoa. How could they ever have arrived at such a conclusion… it’s like they know you’re religious…

Charlie grins. Obviously, this isn’t some clear-cut answer to his future, but it’s a start. Farkle points out there isn’t a lot of art-based careers on that shortlist. Charlie acknowledges that, though he isn’t sure how he feels about that fact quite yet.

INT. L.A. APARTMENT - DAY

When they step back into the apartment, their conversation is immediately derailed by Maya. She greets them cheerfully.

Maya: Finally, you’re back!

Aw, well, that eager reception would be sweet -- if it wasn’t so coupled with expectation. Maya is glad they’re here because she needs to put them to work. She’s completely rearranged a corner of their living area to get the perfect angle and backdrop for a photo, and she’s dressed up even more stylishly -- and suggestively, if we’re being honest -- than she normally would for loafing around their place, even in Maya terms. She’s dressed like she’s about to go out on the town than stay holed up in her room strategizing.

That’s the name of the game in influencer land. If Maya isn’t going to get producers to jump at her beck and call, she can at least keep building her cult following in the meantime. Numbers, numbers, numbers, that’s what matters these days.

Maya: I’ve framed the perfect shot for my latest post -- teasing some concepts, you know, lots on the way but have to keep the masses satiated --

Charlie: [ to Farkle ] She’s going to church now?

Farkle: Less holy masses.

Maya: But I cannot get the right angle for myself. So Farkle, please, bring your creative eye to my rescue.

Farkle shrugs, sauntering over to join her. Charlie trails behind, still trying to wrap his head around what Maya is even doing. Getting one social media post out of him these days is asking a lot, even when he’s doing something as photo-worthy as globe-trotting -- willingly staging huge swaths of your life for consumption sounds like his nightmare.

Maya: And Charlie Gardner, you’re my light.

Charlie: Aw. Well, that’s unexpected, but nice --

Maya hands him her phone, flashlight on. Light, literal. Charlie nods in understanding.

Charlie: Right. Okay then…

They get the set up just right and then Maya leans into her poses, expertly conveying effortless glamor and easy charm. Suppose it’s all another facet of performance, and the shots seem like they’ll look great on Instagram, but it’s a bit ridiculous watching it from the outside where it’s just Maya and a couple of dudes standing in their living room.

Once he’s taken a handful, Maya takes the phone from Farkle and takes a look. She seems pleased with the results, patting his cheek in thanks. The boys ask what else Maya has going on this week, aside from… whatever all this is. She loses a bit of her spark when she responds, plainly stating she has some meetings lined up but not seeming all that keen for them.

A meeting is a meeting, but not every door in this industry is actually one you want to open and walk through. Still, best to check out the prospects and see what she can get.

INT. NYU - FILM CORRIDOR - DAY

Speaking of reluctant meetings, Isa hangs around before office hours to take Riley and Chai’s advice to consult with Professor Bennet directly. But another student beat them to it, so while they wait, they end up scrolling through social media as one does…

And somehow, even when they’ve blocked her out, Maya Hart manages to sneak into their feed again. Since her posts have been gaining traction, her more public-facing account comes up on Isa’s homepage as “based on posts others have liked.” The one recommended is one of her looking fabulous and gorgeous in the L.A. sunshine, another well-manufactured snapshot likely very staged but that comes off effortlessly cool. Like she’s got it all figured out, not a care in the world.

Basically the exact opposite to how Isa is feeling this week. But like a gateway hit, Isa suddenly finds themself going to look for more, not going directly to Maya’s page where they might accidentally click but maneuvering to Farkle’s instead as an intermediary.

His page is far less active, the last post being from a couple of weeks ago -- no sign of Charlie, no indication of his own struggle to acclimate to college. In his latest post, he and Maya have just completed a successful hike, the latter looking more like her authentic self but still serving in a bright pink exercise fit. The caption: “Maya made us walk this mountain and almost killed me again.”

It really is so easy for them to carry on as if Isa isn’t even there, huh… Isa is spared from having to process that feeling when the door to the classroom opens, the other student heading out. It’s now or never.

INT. NYU - FILM CLASSROOM - DAY

Hesitantly, Isa pokes their head around the doorframe. Bennet is at his desk, looking the same as always -- that is, unimpressed, busy, and slightly grumpy. He doesn’t look up or beckon for Isa to come in, so if they want to have this conversation, they’ll have to assert themself and initiate it.

This meeting is on their terms. They used to be this assertive all the time. Squaring their shoulders, Isa saunters into the room and declares that they’re there to use Bennet’s office hours.

Bennet: De La Cruz. Nice to see you too.

Isa: I want to discuss the grades from our first short film assignment. Or, actually, the feedback. I want to talk about your notes.

Bennet: Sure. Which one?

Is there a non-demanding way to say all of them? Isa pauses, then pulls out the slip and reviews it.

Isa: The stuff in the right column. I was hoping you could explain it.

Bennet: How so?

Isa: … what do you mean how so?

Bennet: I already explained it when I wrote them down on that sheet. I don’t write vague notes. If I gave you a note, then the reason for it should be clear in the write-up.

Isa: Well, I don’t think it is.

Bennet: How so?

Isa, frustrated: Because I don’t agree!

Bennet quirks an eyebrow, but his expression remains unreadable. And while he claims he’s open to having further discussion on the assignment, he questions what exactly Isa is hoping to get out of such a conversation. If they’re looking for clarity on what could be improved, then he suggests they should review the write-up again.

Isa: I did read it. I’ve read it numerous times, and it never makes more sense.

Bennet: Dare I repeat myself, but I’ll ask again. Did you actually read it? If you don’t have a specific question on a note, then I’m not gonna have a specific answer. So how about you go and take a step back, read the notes, and if you still have questions, we can try this again.

Bennet isn’t being harsh, but his delivery is just so… blunt and male, it’s grating on Isa’s last nerve. And more than that -- though they’d never admit it -- the fact that he’s holding the line is what is really driving them crazy. In some part of themself, Isa maybe hoped Chai would be right, and Bennet would just confess to being overly critical and all the wrongs would be righted.

But nope. Just another person out to get them, and not concerned with trying to understand them at all. Isa grits their teeth but holds it together until they can leave the room, brusquely thanking Bennet for his time without a hint of sincerity. Bennet isn’t fazed, nodding a dismissal as he goes back to his laptop.

INT. NYU - FILM CORRIDOR - DAY

As Isa bursts out of the classroom, the raucous guitar line kicks up.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “So What” as performed by P!nk || Performed by Isa De La Cruz

It’s Isa’s turn to march through campus in an angsty punk rock tirade, and boy, do they have the turbulent emotions to pull it off! No one does grungy empowerment like old-school P!nk. Who exactly is Isa metaphorically flipping the bird towards -- Bennet? The clusterfuck family structure that left them to sink or swim and the now reappearing father who may or may not even want to fuck with them based on DNA? Maya and her constant gloating of Farkle’s company? It’s a crowded field for Isa’s ire these days, and any or all of the above are fair guesses.

I wanna start a fight!

EXT. NYU - CAMPUS - DAY

Though in Isa’s case, it may be a bit hollow -- while the song parades through confidence and dismissal towards those who have wronged you, their performance of it feels way more loaded and maybe more compensating than liberating.

That being said, it’s still a banger! Isa has always had a flair for punk, and it’s a great opportunity to get a more scenic, cinematic glimpse of the NYU campus.

On the bridge, the tone changes a bit, some of that vulnerability leaking through. Isa looks at some mural art painted along the side of a building, originally having nothing to do with them… until when they look again, the faces on the mural have taken the visage of those subjects populating their constant narrative themes. There’s Val, big and bright upfront (“you weren’t there / you never were”); Farkle (“I gave my all”); and of course, Maya painted equally as starry as Val at the opposite end (“you weren’t there / you let me fall”) …

But that’s getting a little too close to confronting some of these complex emotions, so Isa pushes away from them instead as they launch back into the closing choruses. They kick up their energy and take us through to the end, gathering a crowd of fellow NYU students to head-bang and jump around with them to the final lines.

When they end up back in front of the film building, they look back at the camera and blow an unenthusiastic raspberry, bringing it to an end. Instantly, the campus returns to normal, the other students going about their day as if they were never involved in their musical fantasy.

INT. CHEY APARTMENT - DAY

Nigel is seated on the couch with his composition notebook, sketching out an outline for his playwriting assignment. In the armchair adjacent, REYNA CHEY watches daytime soaps, occasionally making commentary to Nigel in a mix of Tagalog and English.

Reyna: This stuff, I tell you, it makes no sense. All a bunch of nonsense. Promise me when you’re a famous actor, Nigel, you won’t be in this nonsense.

Nigel: On my honor, lola, I’ll try my hardest.

Reyna gives him a smile, full of grandmotherly fondness. She playfully taps at his notebook and claims he’s going to write all the good future things too, with how he’s scribbling away over there. He nods along, jokingly claiming maybe… but it’s nice that she takes an interest in his artistic pursuits. That she believes in him, even if she doesn’t really get what all his admiration and hype is for.

And for someone to just show a consistent interest in him in general. Reyna ends up somewhat hitting on that very thing, asking whether his friends have gotten to hear about his play idea yet. Surely, Zay will be making fun of it, no? Nigel laughs at that, because most likely, but he hasn’t gotten the chance to tell him much about it. Honestly, with everyone so busy with their own projects, he’s mainly been keeping to himself.

Except for Jade, who of course already knows. Reyna hums, asking when Jade will be coming around the apartment again. It feels like it’s been a century since the old woman has seen her. Nigel brushes off the comment, reminding her that she’s just busy with her new job… but soon. Hopefully, soon.

Reyna goes back to the silly soap, placated for now, but now Nigel’s thinking about Jade. It would be nice to have her around more, or to just be able to tell her updates without potentially infringing upon her carefully regimented work day… especially when it’s not like he’s got much else eating up his free time.

But there’s nothing objectionable about a text. Nigel pulls up their thread.

INT. ANYA KELLY DESIGN STUDIO - MAIN FLOOR - DAY

Jade is in fact deep in work, but now she actually has tasks to fill her hours beyond mind-numbing apprentice stuff. She’s currently working on a practice task Anya assigned her, titled “Obsidian,” based on the title of the formal wear line. She’s scanning through an online portfolio of each item and reading through descriptions of the pieces, making tweaks to the language and clarifying design details while also proofreading. It’s Anya’s way of testing her familiarity with terminology as well as seeing how familiar she is with describing fashion, and seeing what her eye is drawn to and deems worthy of remark.

It’s fun, even if a bit tedious, and it’s way more adjacent to fashion and the things Jade actually cares about than anything else she’s done yet. So she’s taking it quite seriously… but it’s not totally engrossing enough to make her miss an incoming text from her boyfriend. She pauses with a few entries to go and takes a mini break, reading the messages he sent.

Jade smiles at his enthusiastic blurb of text about this one concept for the play he’s excited about, and then chuckles to herself at the couple of Shakespeare-esque pick-up lines he’s sent her that he claims are part of his first draft but are one-hundred percent just his way of nerdy-cute flirting. She props her elbow on the desk as she debates what to text back -- whether to play coy or outright admit she thinks his playwriting geek mode is adorably silly and honestly a little bit hot in Nigel’s uniquely nerdy-hot brand -- only to accidentally hit the wireless mouse and knock it against the keyboard.

Which causes the mouse to incidentally click, hitting the submit button on her unfinished portfolio notes.

Jade curses, dropping her phone down and frantically going back to her computer. She tries to click around the site for an undo, for a way to take back the submit and finish, but no such luck. She got distracted, and she made an avoidable mistake -- and flippantly left one of her coveted Anya test projects half-finished.

Panic stations. Jade abandons her phone as she fruitlessly tries to fix the mistake, leaving Nigel’s messages unanswered.

INT. YINDRA’S APARTMENT - DAY

Yindra is up bright and early, breakfast in front of her but distracted from eating it. She’s scrolling through social media, naturally coming across Maya’s most recent post. Where she looks like she’s living the life, gorgeous and polished and up to many glamorous things. It looks as exciting and envy-inducing as she planned, not a hint of how robotically and awkwardly it was put together behind the scenes.

And though she tries not to care, Yindra can’t help but get stuck on it. She clicks into her own account, with significantly less followers than Maya, but that she also hasn’t updated in a while. Should she be doing the same thing? Is that the only path? It feels weird to her, like selling out, prompting aversion in her gut just like taking a handout from Josh.

But if she isn’t willing to stoop to Maya-level antics, and she isn’t keen to take charity, what are her options?

DARIUS AMINO enters, already dressed for work. As one of the new curators at a smaller Los Angeles museum, he’s got no morning to waste. The two of them exchange quick chatter about what they’ll be facing today -- noisy customers, improperly filled out artifact metadata -- and wish one another luck with the worst of it.

Darius: Chin up, baby. No one ever said living art was without work.

True that, sir. Yindra’s heard his mottos plenty of times before, but she offers a small smile anyway as she nods in agreement. At least she has a parent who gets her creative dreams -- who believes in her enough to cross the country to let her pursue it.

And maybe even do a bit more than that. Darius doubles back after grabbing his briefcase and informs Yindra that there’s been some movement on the studio front thanks to a couple of his buddies who are connected to some of the smaller recording spots in town. Obviously, there’s no set guarantee or date yet, but he really does think she’ll be able to jump into the studio soon. She’ll get her chance to record a demo, he truly believes that.

Yindra perks up a bit at that -- it’s part of what she’s saving up for, and part of what she knows will be her first step towards legitimacy. But first, she’s gotta go back to the grind to keep earning that food service coin… and if she’s gonna be able to record a demo, she’s going to need a song first.

Lots to think about on another day to push through. Darius gives her a kiss on the head and then heads out, Yindra closing her phone to escape the Instagram trap and finish her breakfast.

INT. L.A. APARTMENT - DAY

Charlie is in the kitchen on his own when Maya emerges from her bedroom, traipsing in to have her breakfast. She’s also got a busy day beyond the metaphorical walls of her social media operation, so she’ll need to actually glam up for action today and needs the energy. She pulls a low-fat high-protein yogurt from the fridge while Charlie brews some decaf tea to start the day, greeting her politely.

Beyond that, though, neither of them really know what to say to one another. They don’t… well, it’s not like… are they friends? By association, maybe, but surely not on their own merits. Maya grasps for straws to fill the silence with the best topic she knows -- herself -- pulling up the photo he helped with yesterday to show him how much interaction it’s already gotten.

Charlie, uncertainly: Congrats. Pretty cool… stats.

Maya: Ugh, Charlie Gardner. You don’t have to feign your gentle enthusiasm for me.

Charlie: My what?

Maya: I get it, you think all this stuff is weird or pointless or sinful or whatever. That’s fine, to each their own. But don’t feel like you have to placate your disdain on my account -- I’d rather you be blatantly disinterested with a solid opinion than just shallowly invested with your sweet little Charlie Gardnerism.

Well that’s… an interesting way to put it, but honestly not a bad tip? Underneath the Maya delivery? Charlie raises a hand in surrender, admitting she’s right and he doesn’t get the social media angle at all. Truth be told, he doesn’t get the appeal of much of how Hollywood operates, but then he’s not the one trying to be in it. Teaching or social work or literally anything that doesn’t require public scrutiny is way more up his alley.

At the social work bit, Maya brightens, having found the perfect conversational button. Since he’s apparently so naturally gifted at philosophy and social etiquette and compassion, or whatever, then he must be fundamentally suited to offer perspective on a social dilemma she has been contemplating lately.

Charlie: I would not call myself a social savant by any stretch of the imagination, but -- 

Maya: [ ignoring his self-effacement ] So here’s the situation. Say you’ve got two people. Two very driven, very talented individuals with their own ambitions, convictions, goals, etc. And they understand this about one another, in fact, it’s one of the things they admire most about the other person. Certainly, it’s something they get in a way most people don’t.

Charlie: Okay.

Maya: So then, when a major opportunity rolls along, the very pretty and talented and clever of the two knows she can’t let it go to waste, and so she makes a big jump to chase after it and perhaps, potentially, leaves the other badass bitch behind. And so now, this other badass bitch is being super ridiculous about the whole thing and is completely dumping the beautiful clever one as if it was personal.

Charlie: You mean Isa.

Maya: [ ignoring that too ] Don’t you think, given the other badass bitch is also a driven badass bitch, that they should understand where the hot one is coming from? That making it into some personal, interpersonal sleight when it had absolutely nothing to do with that is kind of stupid and now it’s spiraled into something it never was in the first place? I never meant to make Isa -- I mean, this other theoretical person -- feel bad, but it wasn’t about them. Aren’t they being the selfish one by making it about them when it’s literally just about the dream?

Okay, lots to unpack in a short amount of time. Charlie does his best, absorbing her side of the story -- well, as much as she gave him -- and trying to make something out of it. He concedes that an action done without ill intent is better than with, but thoughtlessness can start just as many wars. In fact, the consequences of our actions rarely align perfectly with our intentions.

Charlie: It’s fine that this... “badass bitch” didn’t mean to hurt anyone, but every choice we make has a ripple effect. And sometimes, people get hit by that ripple, even if that wasn’t our intention. Believe me, I know that better than anybody. Even actions you make with the most noble of intentions can have pretty tragic consequences.

Maya: … uh-huh…

Charlie: So I’m not saying that either person in this theoretical situation is in the wrong. I see both sides. I think that you have to let the other person feel the emotion they feel about it -- you can’t control how someone else reacts, you can only control yourself. And if you’re not planning to make amends, or are going to double-down on your initial reasoning, you can’t expect them not to do the same. It’s just asking for a stalemate. There’s a reason pride is the deadliest sin; it often causes the most carnage.

Maya scrutinizes him, contemplating… then she groans, rolling her eyes.

Maya: Charlie Gardner.

Didn’t quite win her over. He may have had more luck just blindly agreeing with her. Charlie starts to offer more concrete advice, like ways Maya can try to build a bridge with Isa -- or the theoretical nobody -- but Maya brushes him off, claiming she’s had enough for one morning. As she flutters off, Charlie shrugs, taking a sip of his tea.

Charlie: Strike one for social worker…

EXT. NYU - LUNCH SPOT - DAY

Isa looks about as grumpy as they have lunch with Riley and Nigel, maintaining their once a week tradition. They stab at their food, politely listening to Riley talk avidly about her scene work with Evan and using all their willpower not to unload about Professor Bennet for the hundredth time.

Riley: We’re doing this excerpt from this niche Roman play where I’m Evan’s daughter and after years of oppressive, repressive control I finally cave to madness and with the godly rage of Bellona turn on him and take back control of the family name for myself. There’s this super juicy back-and-forth we’ve been working out that I’m really excited to dig into -- Nigel, it’s so Shakespearean, you’ll love it. It took us hours to find this scene, though, so I hope it plays off well.

Either way, it’s clear Riley is very keen about the assignment, and getting her chance to play against type as promised. When she asks Nigel how his assignment is going, he has less glowing commentary -- since he was somewhat tacked on to this trio, he’s ended up with the more bit part in their scene they chose. Guess that’s what he gets for hesitating on picking a partner…

On the other hand, he’s more focused on his playwriting class at the moment anyway. He starts to detail how he’s already laid out the outline for the Shakespearian tragedy homage he wants to pen. He’s going to start writing it this afternoon between classes, but he honestly can’t wait until he’s got a working draft and can share it with them. Riley nods enthusiastically; Isa’s response is less rosy.

Isa: Happy for you, Nigel. Truly. I remember that feeling, that joy of being excited to share your passion with the world. Remember it like it was yesterday. Just be careful, lest some know-it-all, smug, has-been old white man takes your dreams and your creativity and crushes it like a bug in his crusty patriarchal grip.

Okay… Nigel and Riley exchange a look.

Riley: Still bothered about the short film assignment, Iz?

With permission to vent, Isa takes off, dropping the loose hold on their frustration and running through the same complaints. The indignation only seems to metastasize as the week goes on, and their ranting is growing impressively more specific and slightly comical. When Isa reiterates their biggest defense -- that no one else seemed to have vocalized these criticisms that Bennet seems so confident in dishing out -- they turn their focus back to their friends.

Isa: I mean, you both watched it and you didn’t say anything about this. You still feel that way, right?

Riley: Of course!

Nigel: Oh, yeah, for sure.

Riley: It was great, Isa, seriously. You know I love your work.

Nigel: Yeah, I thought it was super great. We know you’re a talented filmmaker.

Riley: Support you 100%. I really did love it.

Nigel: Same. Super great. Absolutely.

Isa nods a thanks, pleased and somewhat placated by their praise. See? Bennet must be the one who has no idea what he’s on about. Riley reminds Isa that one bad review doesn’t mean failure. And the semester is still revving up. Who knows what the day -- and future -- might hold!

Riley’s positivity is plucky as always, but Isa and Nigel may not be the best receptacles for it at the moment. They both nod along, but perhaps aren’t totally convinced.

INT. USC - MUSIC CLASSROOM - DAY

Meanwhile, Farkle arrives a bit early to his advanced music course with Charlie in tow. PROFESSOR WEBER greets them cheerfully as they enter, Farkle taking care to introduce Charlie as the friend he said was visiting and would join him for class. Charlie shakes the hand Weber offers.

Weber: Yes, yes, welcome! Are you considering coming to USC, then?

Charlie: Oh, um, I don’t think so. It’s a fantastic school, and the campus is beautiful. But I’m not sure I’m built for Los Angeles.

Farkle: Chuck here’s an authentic academic. He’s passing fair enough with his European-baked tan, but don’t let it fool you -- he’s one breath away from serious stuffy Northeastern culture withdrawal.

Charlie shoots Farkle a side-eye, which does nothing to deter his sarcasm.

Weber: Well, if you’re any bit as intelligent as young Minkus, here, then USC will be sorry to have lost your enrollment.

Weber goes on to sing Farkle’s praises, commending his aptitude for music theory and impeccable ear. It’s evident Farkle doesn’t know what to do with the unabashed compliments, awkwardly smiling and looking like he might want to evaporate. But it’s nice, honestly, to hear someone give Farkle credit -- he’s not getting much reassurance otherwise these days.

Weber: In any case, it is no mystery how he got into your arts school or through the admission gates of USC. [ to Charlie ] And how about you, are you also into composition?

Charlie: Oh, no, not really. I mean, I like music, and I play here and there, but dance was way more my thing at our school. [ patting his shoulder ] No, we let Farkle handle the musical prodigy.

Farkle’s turn to give Charlie a bit of side-eye. No need to exaggerate, Chuck… anyway, Weber instructs them to go ahead and settle in now that the rest of the class has found their way along. They’re in for a good lecture today!

As Charlie and Farkle settle into a couple of the seats and class kicks off, Weber begins a brief lecture on what they’ll be studying over the next couple of weeks -- musical motif. Those melodies, rhythms, and flourishes in a production that recur and carry as little or as much meaning as the composer intended, often elevating a piece beyond its mere beauty or lyrical message. To do so, they’ll be starting off digging into the master himself, Stephen Sondheim. The motifs in Into the Woods alone could consume a whole semester.

In the meantime, though, Weber wants them to start thinking about their own favorite motifs or composers, because that will be a part of this unit -- they’re going to select their favorite musical, and then write an essay illuminating some of the motifs present in the score. This will allow them to start connecting music to story, theme to motif, and get that practice going in their heads for when they approach their own compositions someday. So they all should start ruminating on what musical they want to spend a handful of weeks with.

INT. NYU - LECTURE HALL - DAY

As if Isa wasn’t already bristling enough, another curveball throws everything even more out of whack. As they’re settling into the seats for theory lecture, JASPER CHASE gets their attention from where they’re sitting with a couple of peers from Bennet’s class and waiting for Molly to show up.

Jasper: Yo, Isadora. I’ve got a question for you.

Isa: I don’t go by Isadora. Call me Isa, or don’t talk to me -- actually, spare me and just do the latter.

Jasper: Damn, somebody’s huffy this week. I just wanted to ask a simple question… or was that too much for the girl who can’t even comprehend Fight Club?

If Jasper thinks he’s pulling off witty banter, he’s gonna get a real shock when Isa fights him… but they maintain their cool, ignoring the misgender and stupid teasing to get the conversation over with and answer his dumb question. It’s a relief when Molly appears at the end of the aisle, smiling as she starts to make her way towards them just as he blurts out his big question.

Jasper: So is it true that Valerie De La Cruz was your mom? Like, on God?

Oh, shit. Somehow Isa had managed to avoid the whole Valerie thing on a public scale this long, and now Jasper has casually and gleefully blown that wide open. It seems he was the only person who cared enough about Isa to dig into their background -- as, let’s be candid, many freshmen are wont to do when meeting or beefing with new classmates in those early weeks -- and now he’s helpfully informed everyone else within ear shot. Even though Valerie’s been dead for over a year, the shine of her Hollywood stardom has barely dimmed.

So naturally, Isa is suddenly the center of attention with this question. At first, they freeze, not sure how to respond -- bringing Valerie into this space brings a whole mix of complicated emotions back, infusing them into a place where she was never going to exist. Adams was riddled with the memory of her; NYU was supposed to be different.

And yet, Isa finds their voice again. They don’t live in Valerie’s shadow, in life or in death, and now that they’re starting to figure things out for themself, her dominance over their life is even less iron-clad. Yes, Isa is Valerie’s child -- but that’s only a piece of the puzzle. Like hell are they going to let some pretentious film boy decide that for them.

Isa: Yes. She is. And you can keep her name out of your mouth, thanks.

The clapback, Jasper didn’t see coming -- but his stunned reaction doesn’t matter anyway. He’s an afterthought as Isa is swarmed by fellow students, all suddenly wanting to chat with them and hear more about having a famous mom and some even questioning if Val is the main reason Isa got into the school. Molly seems taken aback by the revelation, but she’s washed aside as well, not able to cut through the thick of the crowd that has formed around Isa -- much to Isa’s concern and chagrin.

Even so, there are some who react in the opposite way. The moment they learn about Isa’s famous heritage, it’s like they lose all respect, tuning out and starting to gossip on their own. From that moment, Isa’s branded “nepotism baby” in their minds, and that’s all there is to it.

Isa is saved from the deluge of attention when PROFESSOR WRIGHT enters and begins lecture, instructing them to disperse. He seems displeased that the focus isn’t rapt on him, benevolent and wise professor that he is gifting his time to them all… and it appears Isa and their newfound celebrity are the cause and culprit. As he starts his monologue for the day, he makes sure to make his stance crystal clear.

Wright: Be sure that the rise or fall of any great creator is due to their talent, their work ethic, and their use of all the techniques we study to master in this course… and that shall be the rule of law in this lecture hall as well. Despite what some might say or do out there beyond these hallowed halls, I judge the work in this class solely on its merits. The names you may or may not have attached to you certainly do no good with me.

Thank you, Wright. Real subtle. And questionable, considering how you certainly seem to naturally favor some members of the class… Jasper smirks at the commentary, glancing over his shoulder to snicker in Isa’s direction. Isa glares back at him, a look any A Class denizen would recognize as the warning bell for imminent murder.

This week just keeps getting better. As the whimsical, electronic tones of Glass Animals float in…

EXT. LOS ANGELES STREETS - DAY

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Life Itself” as performed by Glass Animals || Performed by Maya Hart & Josh Matthews

The instrumental opens guides us over a series of shots of Los Angeles, getting us down in the weeds of Hollywood -- long stretches of Hollywood Boulevard, the comings and goings of studios like Paramount, Warner Brothers, and Disney, the millions of residents who have little to nothing to do with the gilded glamor of the industry.

In the middle of this, we zoom in on Maya, walking amidst the daily hubbub on Hollywood Boulevard but naturally standing out. She’s a bright pink, vibrant spot against the slightly desaturated dry Los Angeles heat, but her expression is harder than usual. She’s pounding the pavement, marching from one meeting to the next.

When I grew up, was gonna be a superstar

She moves through her relentless march on the different pockets of industry -- Hollywood, Burbank, La Brea, etc. -- while she bluntly sings through the first verse. As it arcs towards the chorus, she arrives at one of the buildings on Hollywood Blvd, stepping inside…

INT/EXT. MEETING MONTAGE - DAY

And then we’re off, watching in quick succession to the music as Maya goes on a series of meetings with potential management / producers. She’s scraping the bottom of the barrel at this point, taking any lead she can get, and that’s clear in the glimpses we see -- conversations with disinterested producers who barely give her the time of day; sit-downs with sleazy managers who give her too much interest; high-out-of-their mind weedheads and plucky overzealous “managers” who aren’t even older than her.

It’s a draining, demoralizing process. With each meeting that we flow through, all seemingly fading in and out of each other indifferently to the hypnotic flow of the chorus, Maya’s expression grows dimmer and more disgruntled throughout. By the time we dwindle back into the verse, the screen flips --

INT. CONVENIENCE STORE - DAY

And now it’s Josh facing the camera with exhausted discontent, flatly singing the second verse as he makes his way through the store to stock up on energy drinks. He’s looking particularly scruffy this morning, about as deflated as he feels. But he can’t give up, which means he’s in for a slate of meetings of his own.

He pays at the register and pops open an energy drink, downing a big gulp before stepping out through the sliding doors…

INT/EXT. MEETING MONTAGE - DAY

And into his own series of less-than-promising meetings. Now, we’re seeing it from the other side, that it’s not just hopeful stars getting stuck with untrustworthy management and exploitative skeeves. For Josh, it’s unpolished and unprepared wannabes; overly polished child talent and their aggressive momagers; TikTok influencers who need autotune; an equal amount of weedheads and “idea” artists with only a vague idea of what they actually want to do.

That, and plenty, plenty of people with no talent at all. Just absolutely, pathetically talentless, and not even in a charming way like Floyd. Josh cringes his way through all of them, doing his best to hold it together but crumbling bit by bit just like Maya’s starry resolve.

INT. L.A. APARTMENT - MAYA’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

During the instrumental bridge, Maya retreats to her room, diving back into research about who might be looking for clients. It feels like the entire world is, and yet in reality, no one actually wants fresh talent to show up on their doorstep. It’s a tricky mind game in Hollywood, you need your invitation in -- and Maya can’t seem to find it.

It doesn’t help that it seems like everyone else has their golden ticket. Every site she checks, social media thread she crawls through, has dozens of hopefuls happily sharing their success story and how great it is to be repped / to nail the audition / to finally be discovered. It seems so easy. It should be so easy!

Maya looks almost sickly in the glow of her laptop screen, obsessively scrolling through it all in pursuit of her next in.

INT. JOSH’S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT

And Josh continues to mirror her, up late in the glow of his computer screen as he scours industry threads and social media accounts for potential new talent that hasn’t been found yet. Someone he can really help grow and soar, that magical it-factor client he and every other manager purports to be looking for. Someone he finds all on his own, his client to mold and foster with his own merit.

If he can’t find them, well, it’s his reputation and career progress on the line.

And when it’s the dream, the stakes feel higher than ever. Enough to drown in. Josh reaches out to set up a few more meetings, downing another gulp of coffee.

INT/EXT. MEETING MONTAGE - DAY

When we launch back into the final chorus through to the end, we’re back on the meeting grind, a whole other slate of wrong matches breezing past us in a well-edited and seamless montage. This time, though, Josh and Maya’s journeys are happening concurrently -- but they never cross paths. For each smooth, slightly psychedelic transition the camera makes between meetings, Josh and Maya never overlap, always separate and apart even as they’re theoretically marching towards one another. Both searching for what the other person has...

EXT. LOS ANGELES STREETS - DAY

That is, except for one moment, when Josh is heading back to Global Beat in a tired funk just as Maya is leaving a nearby cafe from another awful meeting. She screws her eyes shut and huffs in frustration, then marches down the sidewalk -- right past Josh as he makes his way towards the revolving doors of his building.

They pass right by each other, taking no notice of the other.

INT. L.A. APARTMENT - MAYA’S BEDROOM - DAY

When Maya makes it back to her place, wiped and frustrated, she flops onto her bed and releases a theatrical sigh. She grabs her pillow and holds it over her face, letting out a perfectly-on-pitch screech and then tossing the pillow to the side.

Enough of this. She’s done being patient. She pulls up her phone and goes to her messages with Josh. She risks potentially screwing the opportunity up by sending another text to nudge on a response -- at this point, she’ll come off like a bitch if it means getting an answer.

EXT. USC - CAMPUS - DAY

Farkle and Charlie are having lunch, seated in the shade of a big tree in the middle of the music school portion of campus. It’s a nook Farkle has grown fond of, a good place to take refuge and eat alone before class since the film, theater, and music departments are close by. Charlie appreciates it due to the architecture of the music school (which is fun to look at, with some interesting statues) and the taste of nature that manages to thrive on a desert campus with the grass they’re sitting on and the tree or two.

Since they’re nearby, Charlie comments on Weber’s music class. It was fun to sit in on, it seems like something Farkle will really excel at. He nods along, admitting he’s really excited about it so far, but he’s kind of an odd duck there. None of his acting peers are in the class since it’s advanced level, and most of them aren’t into music the way he is. Somehow, even in a major dedicated to his passions, he sticks out compared to everyone else.

But he doesn’t want to dwell on that right now. He’s got a friend with him at the moment, so he’s going to take advantage of it. Farkle asks Charlie what he thinks about the assignment Weber gave -- what musical would he choose to analyze?

Charlie: Gosh, I have no idea. I’m not really good about choosing stuff.

Farkle: Oh, yeah. Sorry, forgot you’re chronically indecisive.

Charlie: Thanks…

Farkle: But honestly, I feel the same way. I have a lot of favorite musicals, and I don’t want to pick the wrong one.

Charlie: Is there a wrong answer? I think it’s just supposed to be whatever you want to spend weeks studying, so it should be one you like. Plus, I think Professor Weber is just curious to see what you pick. See what it says about you, what your preferences are.

Farkle: But that’s exactly my point. That’s exactly the problem.

Charlie tilts his head, confused. Farkle being indecisive isn’t really in character, far as he remembers. Farkle rolls his eyes, sighing, obviously not keen to have to explain it.

Farkle: Everything you do at college is like, a statement. It says something about you. The monologue I pick is telling people what I think is good literature, and what I think I’m good enough to pull off. The musical I choose to analyze tells my professor and my peers whether I’m inquisitive and unconventional and intellectual, or if I just pick Wicked because I’m an absolutely basic bitch of a theater kid and of course I have a spiritual connection to Elphaba. Like, naturally. Could I be anymore of a cliché?

Charlie: … so you’re thinking about Wicked?

Farkle: I want to pick something that tells people who I am, but I don’t know that I can do that. At least, not in a way I’ll be sure they understand what I want them to understand. Like, I can pick whatever I damn well please, but I can’t make everyone else get why I picked it. I can’t control the narrative and make them see my full complexity no matter what I do, and I don’t even know if I want them to see that. [ chomping his sandwich ] Everything is such an ordeal.

Charlie: Yeah, I get that. [ making a face ] Unfortunately for us both, I think.

More notably, Charlie is surprised that Farkle feels that way. He never seemed to care much about what other people thought when they were at Adams, not when it came to performing. That was one of his strengths, honestly, at least when it wasn’t causing him to go on the fritz and cause mass mayhem. Farkle shrugs, admitting he doesn’t know where it came from either. Guess that’s the struggle of leaving the nest and going to college.

Farkle: Either that or it’s the medication. Perhaps mental instability was my superpower all along.

Charlie shakes his head, but he’s smiling. But yeah, Charlie wouldn’t know where to start with the assignment either, and not just because he’s indecisive. Right now, it’s more like he couldn’t even figure out where to start. Farkle has too many to choose from, but Charlie feels like he doesn’t have any.

Farkle: Oh, Chuck. Come on. Not even Jesus Christ Superstar?

Charlie: First of all, you joke, but that’s a culturally significant show. It’s a classic.

Farkle: Bit too punk rock for your congregation, no?

Charlie: Yes, my mom banned it from our house. That’s not the point. [ off Farkle’s smirk ] Anyway, it’s like yeah, I still like those shows. I still love music, I just feel like… it would take me a while to find it. When I was gone, I didn’t listen to a lot of… or do a lot of… I don’t know. I’ve been disconnected from it.

It’s the same way with dance, what he was talking about before. Traveling was good, and he learned a lot -- about the world and hopefully, about himself, once all the dust settles -- but he left things behind when he left. It was different. He wasn’t fully himself while he was away either, and there’s still a lot of pieces he’s trying to rediscover and work into his world now. It’s a weird sort of dissociation, this delayed process of having to figure out how the old and new pieces fit together and make him… well, whatever he is.

Charlie: It’s part of why I kind of felt weird about coming back, and why I wanted to stretch it out more. Like, there’s more stuff I want to see, obviously, but I also think I just… need more time. When I get back to New York, and see everyone again, I want to feel like I have things figured out. Like I’ve got me figured out, so that whatever I’m giving them is as authentic as it can get. I owe them that. Proof that all that time I was away was worth something. [ a beat ] Or just enough that it won’t crumble to pieces the second I step back inside my house on the Upper East Side.

Kind of heavy, but Charlie is serious about it. He really is trying, doing the hard work to come back better than when he left -- and sometimes, that process takes time. Farkle nods, commending him for the effort when he can’t even seem to pick a monologue these days without a mental breakdown. And if it means Charlie gets to hang around with them for a while longer, then all the better.

INT. LUCAS’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Lucas and Grace are quietly working in the kitchen, not chatting but seemingly not opposed to the mutual quiet. White noise is provided by the sizzling of dinner Grace is cooking on the stove and the mindless chatter of the television from the living area.

Lucas is still trying his best to study, hunched over his deferment materials at the cramped table. He’s making slightly more progress than he was at Adams or Chubbies, but still, there remains the unavoidably daunting distraction that looms just a few feet away…

Kenneth, off-screen: Grace? Is my thermos in there with you? I think I may have left it on the counter by the sink.

Lucas lifts his gaze to the sink, spotting said thermos at the same moment that Grace casts a glance towards it. She’s pretty preoccupied with cooking, though, and it doesn’t seem like she can spare a second (or potentially, the emotional bandwidth) to run another errand.

She doesn’t have to ask. Grace locks eyes with Lucas, briefly, and the request passes between them without a word. And although it looks like Lucas would rather do anything else, like he’d rather eat his Davis papers or climb out the small window and throw himself to the mercy of the seven-story drop below, he gets up with a sigh and goes to grab the thermos.

Lucas, pithily: [ under his breath ] And he can’t just come get it himself…

Grace gives him a look -- not worth it -- but there’s a twinkle in her eyes and the slightest curve to her lips that indicates she might just agree with her son on that comment.

Kenneth, off-screen: Grace?

Grace: Just a second, Ken.

Grace mouths a thank-you. Lucas nods, bracing himself with another deep breath and heading out towards the living area.

Seated on the couch, KENNETH FRIAR is waiting. He doesn’t seem too worn down just yet, still diligently working on what looks like grading essays from health class, but he’s noticeably gaunter than when we saw him at the beginning of senior year. Lost some of his athletic muscle, the Quincy coach’s polo looser on his still large frame.

Even so, he doesn’t seem content to let his illness hold him back. In fact, he seems to just be ignoring it to the best of his ability, focused on his papers. Perhaps it’s not just Grace who passed on an uncanny knack for choosing to act as though nothing is wrong… and truth be told, it’s striking how similar Kenneth looks to Lucas when he was concentrated and hunched over his work just moments ago…

Kenneth raises his head when Lucas arrives by the couch, quirking an eyebrow. Yes? After a moment, Lucas remembers why he’s being forced to face him, stiffly handing over the half-full thermos.

Kenneth: Great. How kind of you. [ a beat ] You volunteer to be generous this evening, or did Grace have to bargain for it?

Suddenly, it’s clear where Lucas gets his dry snark from, too.

Lucas: … she’s busy. Cooking dinner.

Kenneth: Ah. Smells good, that’s for sure.

Well… that’s that, then. Lucas starts to walk away, but Kenneth clears his throat -- a sound that’s remarkably more pathetic-sounding than he looks, a constant reminder of the cancer crawling its way through his lungs despite efforts to combat it -- and pipes up.

Kenneth: Hey, where you going so fast? I know you’re not cooking dinner.

Lucas: I’m studying.

Kenneth: Studying what? You ain’t in school. [ please, rub it in ] What, you don’t have a few minutes to spare to chat with your Pops?

As inherently snarky as their dynamic seems tainted to be, underneath the bite there’s a genuine invitation in Kenneth’s tone. Like maybe he’s just bored, but for whatever reason, his interest in chatting more seems authentic.

And while Lucas clearly wants nothing to do with that, he isn’t sure how to react to that slight hint of vulnerability. It’s new, and unexpected, and honestly a bit unnerving coming from his father. So perhaps against his better judgment, he relents, sauntering back to the couch and tentatively perching on the arm.

Not that conversation is just going to be natural and easy. For a few moments, they don’t say anything, Kenneth admittedly a bit surprised that Lucas actually stayed. He goes back to grading his papers, CNN coverage on the TV covering for their lack of initiative.

Kenneth: What are you studying, then?

Lucas: Deferment stuff. [ a beat, realizing that’s not very informative ] Paperwork. And bio things. I don’t want to fall too far behind.

Kenneth: Sure. Sure. [ searching for what else to say ] You’re not doing all that during work, are you? You better not be so disrespectful, people are gonna think we raised you not to know better.

Funny that he claims he raised him at all… Lucas grits his teeth, keeping his eyes on the TV.

Lucas: Work is fine.

Kenneth: Good. That’s good. Hope that goes for the Adams gig too. It’s great they were able to set you up with that -- we can’t afford for you to screw up and lose either of those things. You know how money is right now.

Oh, surely, Lucas knows “how money is right now” better than anyone. He keeps his mouth shut, not biting back the way he so obviously wants to -- and could, easily, with so many different points -- but the tension is visible in his body again. He curls his hand into a fist against his knee, squeezing tight enough that his knuckles turn white.

Grace, off-screen: Lucas? Can you come help --

Grace doesn’t even need to finish. Lucas takes the valid escape without hesitation, launching back to his feet and heading back towards the kitchen. The further away he gets, he loosens up just enough to unclench his hands.

INT. ERIC’S NEW APARTMENT - KITCHEN - NIGHT

Jack and Eric are sharing dinner, finally having found time to actually sit down and catch up. They’re pretty casual about it, though, sitting on Eric’s couch and opting for take-out. What’s more important is the conversation, anyway -- and seated like this, they’re able to sit closer and oh so casually touch while they converse.

Once they’ve covered Jack’s travels, the subject comes around to what he wants to do now that he’s back. With Adams in good (theoretically) hands, there’s a whole wide world out there for him to explore. Jack sighs, slouching back against the couch cushions and admitting he isn’t sure. Like, he has a few ideas, but…

Eric: Please tell me one of those is school board.

Jack: It might be…

Eric: I don’t know who Yancy and Graham are planning to set up to run, but I’m sure he’ll be the same brand as the two of them. Morris was a neutral moderate, so they’ll want to tip the scales if they can. And to be honest, I’m not sure Adams can handle another one of them.

Jack: So they are still breathing down your neck. How bad are we talking?

Shawn and Harper seemed pretty concerned when he got back… Eric pauses, not sure what to say. He doesn’t want to dump a whole bunch of stress on Jack his first week back, and honestly, he doesn’t want to come off like he can’t handle it on his own. Suddenly, he has a better understanding of why Jack withheld some of the things he did when he was in this role.

For now, he shifts topics, simply saying that it’s less about him and more about Jack. He would be perfect for the board, and it would give him the chance to address many of the issues he wanted to during his administrator era but didn’t have the means to. It seems like the next logical step, and he’s far more qualified than any puppet Graham could conjure up.

Jack claims that’s all part of his hesitation. Him running might look good on paper, but it would be so easy for them to spin things against him since their feud is already well-known, thanks to the publicity Riley’s student protest garnered when all this started. If he runs, then that might just be scuttling any shot of a more progressive member joining the board. It’s hard to figure out how much of a risk -- or liability -- he would be. And he doesn’t want to make Eric more of a target either…

Eric: Well, don’t let that be your deciding factor. I’m already under the bus, so you’re welcome to come join me there.

Jack: Oh, please.

Eric: And anyway, that’s old news. It’s like we said, we’re in this together. Partners. Whether you decide to run or not, I’ll be there to back you up. At this point, we’re tied together by some sort of red string -- if we rise or fall, for better or worse, I think it’s going to be in tandem.

Jack smiles at that. The good news is, he has time to figure it out… which means for now, it’s just the two of them and a whole lot of time to kill…

Eric: Speak for yourself. I’m the sorry sack who picked up your job, and now I have no life.

Jack cracks up at that, and for all his protests, Eric is smiling too. He also knows damn well what Jack was getting at, not shying away when Jack lifts a hand and caresses his cheek. He slowly pulls him towards him, into a gentle kiss… then they start another one…

Just in time for Isa to unlock the door and storm in, declaring that they have the worst professors in the history of collegiate torture. Jack and Eric immediately separate, basically rolling to opposite ends of the couch and trying to act casual. Talk about a mood killer!

Well, that’s what happens when you have kids… even college age ones you never planned to have. Isa seems to realize Jack is there only after they’ve ranted in short about Bennet, and Wright, and the suffocating relentless iron grip of the white patriarchy on the art industrial complex.

Isa: Oh, hey Principal Jack.

Jack: [ a bit dazed -- gotta get used to this again ] Hello, Isa. Nice to see you.

Eric: He’s no longer your principal. You’re going to have to find a new way to address him.

Isa, uncomfortable: But… he’s Principal Jack.

Fair enough. Eric asks Isa to start over, giving them the concise rundown of what exactly has them riled up enough to march here and complain about it. Isa takes a deep breath, blowing through the annoying men in their cinema classes, including head annoying man Professor Wright, and how the ghost of their mother is going to follow them until they’re dead, and maybe even after that. And on top of that, they have to deal with pretentious, jerkass men who think they know everything giving them unwarranted harsh criticism just because they can. It’s a power trip, that’s all it is!

Jack: Did you ask the professor about the feedback? Perhaps they could clarify it, if you’re concerned it’s unfair.

Isa: What’s the point? I tried, and clearly, he’s decided how seriously to take me already. And now I know that thinking I’m a fucking celeb handout probably contributed. [ with a huff ] Besides, if he’s the only person giving me this feedback, when multiple other people said the opposite, why should I listen to a word he says? If you’re just looking for something to criticize, you’ll find it -- that doesn’t mean I should give him what he wants.

Eric: Sure, but you know, different perspectives can be helpful --

Isa: I mean, you watched it, and you said it was great! So did everyone else I showed it to. I know you have artistic merit. What makes your opinion less important than his?

Jack: Oh, Eric watched it, did he?

Eric glances at him, then tells Isa that if they’re planning to stay the night -- which it seems like they are, since they’re here at like 8PM with an overnight bag -- how about they go unload their stuff and then they can continue this conversation. Give them a second to calm down, so they can talk rationally. Isa sighs but obliges, marching past them and down the hall to their bedroom.

Once they’re gone, Jack turns back to Eric and raises his eyebrows.

Jack: How honest were you with your feedback, Eric?

Eric: I don’t know what you’re implying. I watch all of Isa’s work. It was wonderful as always. I would never lie to them.

Jack: There’s a difference between lying and omitting criticism to focus on the positive. I know you know that -- you’re a damn high school guidance counselor.

Eric: Um, actually, now I’m a principal.

Jack: Eric.

Eric: Look, I didn’t want to psych them out. And I didn’t have anything bad to say! I don’t think I need to look for problems when my kid shows me their work. It’s my job to support them. They were nervous about it, too.

Jack: Okay, I hear you. But if they’re looking for how to improve it, maybe it would be better to hear it from you than from their critical professor later. I get that you want to protect them, but do you really think it’s helping to shield them from different perspectives? Isa’s tough -- surely they can handle a critique or two.

Based on how they’re handling it this week, questionable… but point made. Eric considers that, reluctantly… principaling may be a new challenge, but parenting is a learning curve like no other.

INT. CHEY APARTMENT - NIGEL’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Nigel is nearly finished with a draft of his assignment, well ahead of schedule since he was so excited about it. But he’s paused before the climax to take a mental break, wasting it on scrolling through social media. A bad call -- he scrolls past photo after photo of his former peers having a great time in their new social scenes. Yogi is out with some new journalism friends at Northwestern; Yindra is now keeping up appearances with an aesthetic, cool shot of her doing a pick-up gig in a local eatery. Dylan’s always got something going on; Maya’s glamorous staged shots are on everyone’s feed.

Even Riley is posting new variety, her latest story showing her going out to dinner with Evan and a couple of other folks from their department who must’ve hung back late to rehearse. All people Nigel also sees every day in class, and yet, here he is holed up in his bedroom alone.

It obviously doesn’t make him feel too good. Not sure what to do with the feeling, he closes the apps and goes to speed dial, calling the one person he knows will make him feel better. It’s the evening, so he shouldn’t be interrupting…

INT. ANYA KELLY DESIGN STUDIO - MAIN FLOOR - NIGHT

At least, under normal circumstances. But not so this evening -- Jade is still at the studio, one of the last ones there as she painstakingly attempts to finish the project she was given by Anya and desperately searching for a way to fix her submission error. She’s got plenty of Google windows open, looking for hacks or workarounds to undo it, but searching all day for such solutions is what caused her to fall behind in the first place.

So when Nigel lights up her phone, she makes a small, stressed noise in the back of her throat -- not now -- and then picks up.

Jade: Hi.

Nigel: Hey. You got a second? I just finished up this scene for my play, and --

Jade: Nigel, I’m so sorry, but I actually can’t talk right now. I’m still at the studio --

Nigel: Still?

Jade: I messed up on this project earlier today and now I’m really trying to fix it before tomorrow, because Anya trusted me with it and I don’t want to let her down. But I made a stupid mistake --

Nigel: Whoa, whoa. You met Anya Kelly? Like, in the flesh?

Jade: Yes. Did I not tell you that? Shoot, sorry, I’ll have to -- anyway, I really need to finish this up so I have to focus. I’m sorry. I promise we’ll talk soon. I’ll call you. Okay?

Nigel: Yeah. Yeah… for sure, of course. Whatever works.

Jade: Thank you. Thank you, you’re the best. Love you, I’ll call later.

Nigel: Okay. Love you too --

INT. CHEY APARTMENT - NIGEL’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

He barely gets the sentiment through before Jade hangs up, leaving him alone in the silence of his room once again. He swallows the isolation, focusing back on the play. Might as well finish, if he’s got nothing else to do.

He stretches to put his phone as far away from him as possible so he’s not tempted to look at how silent it is as he gets back to work.

INT. TURNER ACADEMY - DANCE STUDIO - NIGHT

A different pair of hands splays out on the hardwood flooring of the studio, Zay stretching his fingers out as he finishes leaning into a straddle forward bend. He releases a long sigh as he rolls back upright, then jumps back to his feet. Endurance week is well on its way, and so far, he’s proving up to the challenge.

And one more run-through is going to keep that locked in place. Zay swings his arms and rolls his neck as he goes to start up the music from the routine again. He bounces on the balls of his feet as he waits for the right beat, nodding along, then he bursts into the choreography.

Watching him dance, as prescriptive as this routine might be, it’s evident as ever that Zay more than deserves to be there. He’s taking it seriously, he has the talent, and even with something as rote as an endurance test he demonstrates clear passion. He was meant to dance. No one can argue otherwise. All things being ideal, there’s absolutely no conceivable reason he won’t be able to transfer in by the end of the year.

But as the universe so often likes to remind us, life isn’t fair, and things are rarely ideal. In a second, Zay gets a sharp reminder of this fact he already knows -- with a sharp pain suddenly shooting through his leg.

Zay: Ow, shit --

He stumbles through the step he was in the middle of, then winces… and then the dread takes over. He glances down at his left leg, shaking his head.

Zay: No. No no no no, no, no…

He winces again and limps slightly as he lowers himself down to the floor, gingerly stretching out his left leg in front of him. He cautiously rotates his ankle and stretches the limb, grimacing as he does -- it’s not nearly as brutal as when he tore the tendon last year, but the new pain is coming from the same place.

Zay: Shit. Shit! Come on, don’t do this…

He cusses again, then slowly reaches over to grab his phone from the top of his duffle. He pauses the music and sends the studio into oppressive quiet, dialing a number instead and continuing to nervously prod at his tender leg. His voice is shaky when he speaks again.

Zay: Mom? I’m at Turner -- something’s wrong.

END OF PART 1.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

Bright and early the next morning, Shawn is one of the first into the school that morning (an impressive feat). He whistles to himself as he heads into the house, only stopping and letting his tune dwindle away when he hears movement from somewhere else in the auditorium. Unsettling, considering he’s supposedly the only one there.

After a bit more rustling and thumping, it’s clear the sound is coming from the booth. Shawn looks up the stairs towards the door, cautious… he knows that shit the techies pulled three years ago about a ghost was just a prank… just a scheme…

INT. AAA - TECHNICIAN’S BOOTH - DAY

The door to the booth slowly creaks open, Shawn entering now with a wet floor sign from the wings in tow. He’s brandishing it like a weapon, creeping his way up the stairs… though a wet floor sign probably won’t help much against a ghost…

The real culprit is no ghost, although considering he’s old news, he may as well be the equivalent. Lucas jumps and lets out a yell when he suddenly sees Shawn emerging on the stairs and packing metaphorical heat, Shawn mirroring his scream and stumbling down a couple of steps.

Lucas: What the fuck?!

Shawn: Jesus fucking shit -- Friar, what the hell are you doing in here?

Lucas: What the hell are you doing with that sign?

Shawn glances down at the sign, awkwardly dropping it. Wasn’t gonna use it on a former student or anything, obviously…

But Lucas didn’t answer his question. What is he doing there so early in the morning? As it turns out, all it takes to figure it out is a quick look around… Lucas’s study materials spread over the sound board, his overnight bag tucked against the electrical cabinet.

Lucas gives Shawn a sheepish look, the latter raising his eyebrows. Busted.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

Shawn and Lucas are seated on a couple of steps leading up to the booth, the auditorium still quiet around them. Shawn is munching on a quick but filling breakfast he packed, sharing some of it with Lucas.

Shawn: Eat, would ya? You know these critters take every ounce of energy we can give.

Lucas: I’m not hungry. [ poking at the food ] Haven’t been feeling well.

Shawn: Well, I figure squatting in that musty tech crypt would cause some mild illness, yeah. Or perhaps that’s just the guilt talking.

Lucas rolls his eyes. Thankfully, though, Shawn isn’t going to turn Lucas in. Rather, he just wants to understand why the hell Lucas is reverting back to old habits -- old habits, they both know, aren’t permissible. Especially now that Lucas isn’t even a student here anymore.

Lucas: What, aren’t there faculty perks like that? You fell asleep in the teacher’s lounge enough.

Shawn: Oh, ha ha ha, you’re so funny. You’re damn lucky I’m not a snitch on principle.

Once the banter runs dry, Lucas admits that he didn’t actually come here initially to stay the night. He came to study. It’s one of the only consistently quiet places he knows of -- that is, before school hours, when it’s not crawling with techie ducklings or obnoxious performers. He just wants to be able to focus on his college stuff for a few solid hours, but increasingly, that feels like apparently too much to ask.

Shawn: And this is your last resort? There must be better options. You can’t go study at Riley and Isa’s?

Lucas considers that, thinking on it --

INT. NYU APARTMENT - FLASHBACK - DAY

And quickly demonstrating in a cheerful flashback exactly why that’s not a great set-up for study. Lucas is seated on the couch, presumably to get some serious, thoughtful work done… when Riley appears, leaning over the back of the couch to give him a kiss on the cheek and see what he’s working on.

Lucas turns to look at her, and she smiles at him… and with that it’s all over. It takes almost nothing for Lucas to abandon his work ethic, Riley coming around enthusiastically to join him on the couch and pulling him into a playful, longer kiss…

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

Back on Lucas’s contemplative expression, now tinted with both fondness and embarrassment. Suffice to say, Riley’s apartment is not the most focus-friendly establishment for his brain.

Lucas: Um… no. That’s not an option.

Shawn doesn’t pry, but he does reiterate the fact that Lucas sneaking in here isn’t the solution. In fact, it’s likely just going to make matters worse if he gets caught by someone who isn’t him -- particularly with how Graham and Yancy continue to keep Adams under a microscope.

So he’s trapped, basically. Shawn tries to keep brainstorming, offering help in whatever minimal way he can, but Lucas declines. He’s emotionally shutting down, thanking Shawn for looking out for him but claiming he’s overthinking it. He doesn’t need help. He’s survived on his own in scrappy situations this long. He’s fine.

Shawn doesn’t get the chance to argue. He wraps up the breakfast he didn’t eat and tells Shawn he’ll see him when class starts, heading down the steps on his own. Shawn watches him go, disappointed and frustrated he doesn’t know what else he can do.

When he passes the trash can, Lucas tosses the uneaten food away.

INT. DOCTOR’S OFFICE - DAY

Speaking of people who hate asking for help, Zay is back at the doctor. He’s seated up on the examination table, impatiently tapping his fingers, but at least this time he’s not in excruciating pain. Still, he can’t help but fixate on his gently aching leg, slowly moving it in different directions to subconsciously test that it’s not about to split on him again.

He straightens up when the DOCTOR arrives, greeting him with the same no-nonsense demeanor as their first go-around.

Doctor: Based on the x-rays, your tendon looks fine. I don’t see any reason to believe it’s in immediate danger of tearing again.

Zay exhales a huge sigh of relief. But perhaps it was premature -- the doctor cautions him that just because it doesn’t tear now doesn’t mean it won’t again. While it’s not serious yet, the pain Zay is feeling is real, and there is evident strain based on the examination.

Doctor: When you recovered the first time, I advised you to take the health of your body seriously. Stretching, awareness of boundaries --

Zay: I did. I am, I do more stretching than a damn taffy-puller.

Doctor: And above all, listen to your body. The pain you felt yesterday, the ache you feel now, that’s your body trying to tell you something. It’s giving you a warning. You must be working hard, and I’m not going to tell you that you shouldn’t.

Yeah, that’s kind of the core tenet of endurance week. Zay frowns, managing not to compulsively argue.

Doctor: But it sounds like you may just be pushing yourself to the brink again, and your muscles are trying to give you the chance to avoid the same mistake. If you back off, give it a rest, continue your stretches? You’ll be better by the weekend.

Zay: … and if I don’t?

Doctor: Well, it certainly fares well for my pocketbook. Less so for the longevity of your dancing career.

So he’s got two options. Pull back and rest and live to see another dancing day, or power through and stay on top but risk losing everything.

His choice. Lucky Zay. He sighs in defeat and shakes his head, pressing his palms to his eyes.

INT. NYU - CORRIDOR - DAY

Isa makes their way to class on their own, trying to ignore and avoid the whispers and occasional point they get from fellow underclassmen. The acknowledgement of their famous bloodline has spread fast through the film school, and Tisch as a whole… if they somehow add the actor father to this shitshow, how much more ridiculous is their life going to get?

They face one test almost immediately, spotting Molly exiting her discussion section at the end of the hall. It’s the first they’ve seen each other since Wright’s class when the Valerie reveal was made, since Isa basically booked it out of there like lightning afterwards. They look at each other uncertainly as Isa approaches, not sure what to say… if Molly is like the crop who suddenly wants nothing to do with them, Isa isn’t sure whether that would be better or worse than if she was all starstruck…

Refreshingly, Molly seems to be neither.

Molly: Is it okay that I totally have no idea what to say?

Isa: No, that’s cool. I don’t either. [ attempting a joke ] Haven’t for eighteen years.

Molly: Actually, well, I guess I do have one thing. [ sincerely ] I’m sorry for your loss.

Unexpectedly, that touches Isa. It’s one of the most human reactions she’s gotten to the Val connection in all the time she’s been a part of their legacy… they nod a thanks.

Molly: Sorry I didn’t reach out before. Like I said, I just didn’t really know what to say. It’s not every day that one of your new friends turns out to have a superstar mom.

Isa: Story of my life. Literally.

Molly: But I promise, I’m not going to be weird about it. Or, I’ll try my best. And you don’t have to tell me anything about her, but if you want to talk, I’m down for that too. I wasn’t like a superfan of Valerie or anything, but I did like a lot of her songs. She was a talent, no denying that. But I’m sure it must be so annoying having everyone automatically compare you to that.

Molly doesn’t know the half of it. But Isa is relieved -- they were grateful for their friendship in this hellscape so far, and they really didn’t want to lose it because of Val. They’ve been way too good at losing friendships.

That doesn’t seem to be the case here. Molly continues to treat them as before, and only comments further on the fact that Jasper truly is the most obnoxious asshat of a film boy she’s ever met. That, Isa can get behind, eagerly jumping on the dragging bandwagon to vent out their frustration in giggly solidarity.

INT. NYU - THEATER CLASSROOM - DAY

Meanwhile, in musical theater class, rehearsals are well under way. Everyone is broken out into their duos, finding their own space to run through their scenes. Evan and Riley are engrossed in the middle of their scene, holding intense eye contact as they argue tragic Roman lines back and forth as promised. That is, until a line flub makes Evan crack a smile and then they’re both laughing, Riley bursting into giggles and waving him off. She encourages him not to make her laugh more -- they need to maintain the momentum!

From where Nigel’s sitting, they sure seem to be having more fun than him. He’s in the middle of his scene as well, but they’ve stalled, Imogen and their other peer working through a couple of blocking kinks in a part of the scene Nigel isn’t even involved in. Imogen notices his lack of interest and follows his gaze, watching Riley and Evan fall back into their very serious scene work. Admittedly, Riley isn’t the best at dark tragedy -- she’s not Farkle -- but she’s giving it her all. You gotta hand it to her for commitment.

Well, maybe you don’t. Imogen snorts, shaking her head.

Imogen: I have no idea why they’re doing like grimdark ancient Greece. This is like the most basic assignment there is. They do not have to go that hard.

Girl: Guess they get points for taking the assignment very seriously. It’s like the athletes in high school gym class of theater kids.

Nigel: Riley is pretty excited about the project. She doesn’t usually get to do edgier stuff, so she was keen to pick her own scene. She’s usually typecast more ingenue.

Imogen, sarcastically: I could never imagine why. [ after another second of watching them ] I mean, for real, what could Matthews possibly have to use to channel dark and edgy? She’s little miss walking on sunshine over there.

The other girl laughs. Nigel manages a weak scoff, more out of discomfort than humor. Not sure what to say and not wanting to drag Riley down further, he clears his throat and turns back towards their corner.

Nigel: We should do another run through with the new blocking, yeah?

INT. USC - THEATER CLASSROOM - DAY

Gossip abounds in theater classrooms across the nation. As their lecture is wrapping up for the day, and they’re released for a small break before part two when the directing students roll up, Farkle overhears a group of his peers discussing the impending director-student partnership. He eavesdrops to see if he can pick up any good intel, the freshman debating things they’ve heard about each of the sophomores and who is or isn’t worth working with.

Natalia: All I know is I don’t want a dude. Like, offense intended, but I could really go without some nineteen-year-old theater major telling me how I should compose myself. I run that uninvited risk every day of my life so long as pretentious white boys roam the Earth.

Mason: I’ve heard you don’t want Connor. His dad is rich so he’s got access to the best technology and stuff -- he’s also a cinematographer -- but he has an ego the size of Cali.

Peer: Angelica is supposed to be nice? She told me she liked my sweater the other day, so I wonder if she’ll pick me.

Farkle: Angelica Hewitt is a hack.

Oh. Whoops. Well that just slipped out, didn’t it? All eyes turn to Farkle, who they obviously didn’t realize was listening. And now that he’s chimed in, he’s got to explain himself, so he adjusts his bag and clears his throat.

Farkle: The Hewitts are one of the richest families in Los Angeles. My father’s done business with them multiple times. I’m not saying Angelica isn’t nice, I don’t know, but I’m fairly sure I wouldn’t want to work with her. Her family has been giving hefty donations to USC for the last couple of years, so I wouldn’t inherently assume she’s got any directorial vision.

For a beat, there’s just quiet as everyone takes that in… and then his classmates nod, grateful for the intel. Buzz grins, once again thoroughly amused by Farkle’s mere existence.

Buzz: Farkle Sparkle, coming in with the insider trading tips! Loves it.

Natalia: Do you have any pref for which directing student you want to pair up with, Farkle?

At this rate, he just wants to not be picked last like another awful theater kid version of gym class. He shrugs.

Farkle: As long as it’s someone who appreciates my ability and actually has something to contribute, I can handle whatever.

Mason: I don’t know. I don’t want someone who acts like they know it all. Like that dude Jordan, the one who always looks like he’s all deep in thought scrutinizing your every move? No thank you.

Buzz: So true, bro. I heard he’s like, hella intense. You’d really wanna put up with that all semester, Sparkle?

Farkle: My last director -- well, director friend, but basically director since she basically lived her whole life in director mode -- was like that. Intense, but purposeful. She had vision and she knew what she wanted, so you had to respect it. Didn’t always get the message across the best way, and she sure loved to boss people around, but I’d rather have a strong production than a bunch of niceties that go nowhere.

Buzz: Whoa. Hardcore. Respect.

Mason: And that didn’t drive you crazy?

Farkle: Oh, yes, but also on the contrary. She was my best friend.

Natalia: Was?

Oh. Hm. Farkle didn’t even realize the slip, but when he opens his mouth to correct himself, he finds he doesn’t have anything to say. Considering Isa hasn’t kept him up to date since school started, is he really wrong?

Can you call someone who won’t answer your texts your best friend?

EXT. USC - DOHENY LIBRARY - DAY

One of the most famous locations on campus, the historic Doheny Library stands right at the center of University Park. Charlie stares up at it, admiring the architecture, before he passes by a few other students leaving and jogs up the steps and passes through the heavy double doors.

INT. USC - DOHENY LIBRARY - DAY

Now, Charlie is really back in his domain. He leisurely explores the building and makes his way through the shelves, blending in effortlessly as just another studious member of the student body. It smells like cleaning supplies and old books, the undisturbed quiet more than welcome. His muscles relax as he examines the spines of some of the older tomes, running his fingers along them and brushing some of the dust away.

He’ll easily be able to kill a couple of hours here. To be honest, he knows he could spend the rest of his life hidden away in shelves like these. It may not be the passion exercise that dance is, but reading and learning has always felt like sanctuary.

Farkle might be right about one thing. Even if he isn’t sure what he wants to do with it yet, and despite the needed detour, academia is the obvious next step towards wherever he’s meant to be. And without the pressure of doing it for someone else, of getting to decide where and when and why for himself, Charlie has the feeling he’s really going to enjoy it.

The nerdy peace is interrupted when his phone vibrates in his pocket, bringing him back to the real world. Charlie retrieves it and backs away from the shelves, meandering further down the aisle while he skims the incoming text -- and then he stops in his tracks, growing more serious.

Whatever it is, academia can clearly wait. He immediately shifts his focus and settles down into the nearest chair at a table to read more carefully, then starts typing back a prompt response.

EXT. NEW YORK COLLEGE OF THE ARTS - DAY

Zay is seated on some steps on NYCA campus, hanging around so he has plenty of time to get from place to place but a safe distance away from where his peers might be more likely to run into him. His lower leg is bandaged again, hopefully aiding in the nurturing and recovery process for his strained muscles regardless of how begrudging he seems about it. He’s frustratedly adjusting his sneaker around it, retying the laces.

He reaches for his phone next to him and finds new texts waiting for him -- a response from “catholic demon” to the text he sent a few minutes ago. A couple of them are links to articles for stretch routines and muscle care regimens, to which Charlie has followed up with specific suggestions for exactly what Zay should do and urging him to take it easy.

“No grade or assignment is worth risking it all. Even if the point is to keep up, better to fall behind and keep your own pace then stay at the front but collapse before you make it to the finish line. You know you’re going to make it to the finish line. Don’t kill yourself on the way there. That’s what I would tell you if I were there... except I’d be more annoying about the stretches in person.”

His texts are a bit nagging, but only out of concern. Zay knows he means well, and honestly, that’s part of why he texted him. A little goody-two-shoes advice not consumed by insatiable ambition is the exact clarity of thought he needs at the moment.

Riley: It’s not torn again, is it?!

Zay lifts his head as Riley rushes towards him, fresh out of class. She drops down on the steps next to him, dropping her bag and reaching forward -- with a glance to gain permission -- to touch his calf and inspect the damage. He assures her that no, it’s not danger zone like it was last year, but he’s pushing it. Unless he lays off for a bit and lets it have a break, he could be heading in that direction again.

Riley: That’s good. That’s great. So it sounds like there’s an obvious solution.

Well… Zay avoids her eyes, suddenly very interested in picking at his bandage again. Riley gives him a look, tilting her head.

Riley: Zay.

Zay: Listen --

Riley: Zay!

Zay: Look, I don’t think it’s that straight-forward, all right! Like sure, it sounds easy -- it’s real easy to just do nothing.

Riley: Yes, exactly. So do nothing!

Zay: But that’s not me. And that’s really not the position I’m in right now. The whole point of this week -- hell, the whole point of this year -- is to prove I can handle it. If I just roll up and say hey, actually, I gotta sit this one out, that doesn’t prove I’ve got the endurance, does it?

Riley: So what’s the alternative? Snap another tendon? I don’t think that’s the point you want to make.

You got him there, Riles. Zay knows she’s right -- just like Charlie, just like his doctor -- but it feels far from an easy decision to make. It’s the same forces that are always battling inside him, the pride and determination versus patience and humility, and with the stakes being what they are it’s harder than ever to find the balance.

That, and to be honest, he’s embarrassed. He’s humiliated that he’s still struggling with this, and he doesn’t know if he can face having to tell Professor Gao when he made such a scene out of getting to come here. He’s convinced she doesn’t care much for him -- wimping out in the week she’s testing them on exactly this sort of thing seems foolish.

Riley: She’s your teacher. Surely she would want you to take care of yourself.

Zay: Self-care isn’t exactly the guiding principle of the industry. She’s preparing us for our careers, not a cake walk. [ a beat ] She already thinks I’m arrogant, showing up to my audition and not bothering to dance. I think showing up to class and not bothering to work would have the same effect.

Riley: Those situations are not at all the same, and if that was her impression, then she’s wrong. But I stand by my original point. She’s a teacher. If she cares about what’s best for her students and wants the best for them, I don’t see how she wouldn’t support your decision to take a time out this one week for the sake of your health. And honestly, if she doesn’t, then you don’t want her respect anyway.

Say that, Riley. Zay sighs, absorbing that point. Decisions, decisions…

INT. ANYA KELLY DESIGN STUDIO - UPPER FLOOR - DAY

Jade is grappling with a similar dilemma, torn over whether or not to tell Anya about her mistake. She’s nervously pacing outside her frosted glass office doors, willing herself to have the courage to go in and then chickening out two seconds later. Back and forth, back and forth… she knows she should be upfront, come clean and face the consequences sooner rather than later, but she doesn’t want to squander this so fast. Just like Zay, she knows this is her shot, and the possibility of fucking it up before it’s really gotten started is paralyzing enough to keep her immobile.

Thankfully, she has Melanie to nudge some action out of her. She returns from her lunch break and finds Jade pacing the hallway by her desk. She wrinkles her nose.

Melanie: Beamon. What are you doing up here?

Jade: Oh, hi. Uh, sorry.

Melanie: I don’t remember requesting for you to come up here. Anya’s office is high-clearance only. 

Jade: Right, absolutely. Sure. Just, um -- well, Anya gave me some projects.

That genuinely seems to catch Melanie by surprise. Her sneer drops away, leaving only shock in its place.

Melanie: She did?

Jade: Yes. So, um, because of that, she said that if I needed to come ask about, you know, those things, her door was open. Metaphorically speaking.

Melanie: Oh. Well then.

Melanie’s tone is short, but underneath the chill, there’s a hint of... sadness? Hurt? But maybe it was just a trick of the light -- she’s back to snippy seconds later, stating that whether she’s going in or not, she better decide, because she doesn’t want her breathing down her neck while she does her very important assistant work.

Jade: For sure. Sorry. Of course… right. Okay.

Melanie rolls her eyes, sliding into her chair just as Jade finds her courage and takes a deep breath. She pulls open the door, stepping in.

INT. ANYA KELLY DESIGN STUDIO - ANYA’S OFFICE - DAY

When Jade enters, Anya is already occupied, pacing the floor while on the phone. From the pointed click of her designer heels on the floor and frown on her face, it’s clearly an important call. Watching her stride back and forth, fashionably bringing back the power suit, the reason Anya is a force in the industry right now even so relatively young is more than evident.

And whoever is on the other end of the line, they clearly fucked up.

Anya: No, no, no. No, you listen to me. We went over this multiple times when the contract was laid out. The citrus palette was a key element of the design, and your team went ahead and royally fucked that up. These are details, important details, and details matter. So here’s what you’re going to do -- first, you’re going to apologize to my assistant for your absolutely abysmal etiquette in arranging this conversation. Then, you’re going to remedy this situation, and get the right orange, and how you get it I don’t care, but that’s a problem you’re going to have to figure out if you want to get paid as per the terms of our contract. And if all goes well, this doesn’t ruin you. And last, but certainly not least, I want you to find whoever on your team thought substituting citrus orange with navy would be an acceptable work around, and you fire their ass before they ever work on another project with my team again.

Wow. Okay. Compelling, but God, never mess with Anya Kelly! Jade stares, trying to hide her terror considering she’s got some fudged up details of her own to confess.

Anya: That’s what I like to hear. We’ll see. Thanks, buh-bye. [ noticing Jade for the first time ] J. Bee, didn’t see you there. So sorry you had to hear all of that.

Oh, wow, chic nickname with the boss already… that would be neat and exciting if Jade wasn’t sure she was about to bring it all crashing down. She hesitantly steps further in as Anya heads back behind her desk, sorting through some paperwork.

Jade: Oh, it’s no problem. Sorry to interrupt.

Anya: [ waving off her apology ] I hate when I have to get like that. You know, like, bitchy -- as if we women aren’t scrutinized enough for simply holding our ground. But that’s what happens when you have an international brand to run. I’m holding out for excellence, and unfortunately, I can’t take the fall every time some dumbass intern at another company decides they’re going to mess with something that ultimately has my name on it. I swear, this entire industry has become so engrossed with fast fashion it’s like we’ve forgotten that the details matter.

Jade: Right. I completely agree.

Anya: I know you appreciate the details, so. Anyway, what can I do for you?

Oh, right… Jade swallows, clearing her throat. She apologizes again for bothering her, but Anya interrupts, shaking her head.

Anya: Oh, no. No, no. Don’t do that.

Jade: … do what?

Anya: Apologize. Apologize for nothing. Men love it when we do that, like we need their approval to exist. Like our mere existence is an affront worth condolences. We’ll work on that, you’re going to stop doing that. Anyway, go on.

Jade resists the urge to apologize again, then takes a deep breath, slowly explaining that she made a mistake on the Obsidian assignment. She was in the zone and had it all going well, but then she totally spaced, and she submitted a whole chunk of it incomplete and couldn’t figure out a way to undo it. She knows it was careless, and she’ll accept any consequence it might warrant. She’s sorry if she let her down when she took the time to trust her with more preliminary projects.

For how much time Jade spent stressing over this, the moment is over in an instant. Anya doesn’t seem remotely bothered, shrugging.

Anya: Oh, that’s fine, don’t worry about it. I’ll just have Melanie review the submission and she can finish up the sections you missed.

So that’s it… Jade blinks, almost in disbelief.

Jade: Oh. Um, great, thank you. [ a beat ] Are you sure?

Anya: Jade, please. Don’t fret. Things happen. I’ll read over whatever you wrote, but I’m sure it’s fine. Thanks for letting me know, though. Keep me posted about when you’re done with reviewing the Spring portfolio, and we’ll discuss. I’m quite interested to see what you have to say about that. Oh, and I left a small set of instructions on your desk -- there’s a composition task I want you to try your hand at so I can see what we’re working with there. You can use the machines when the seamstresses head out.

So that’s really it then. No demise for her careless mistake, and entrusted with even more testing tasks at that! Jade thanks Anya enthusiastically, ready to dive back in and not screw up what feels like a miracle second chance.

INT. NYU - CLASSROOM - DAY

As a screening is wrapping up in class with PROFESSOR CHELSEA SCHWARTZ, she dismisses them all cheerfully and reminds them to respond to discussion questions on the student portal for their homework. Isa hangs back until the rest of their peers have filed out, then approaches Chelsea’s desk. Once they’ve exchanged pleasant greetings, Isa tentatively asks if she’s had the chance to look over the short film they sent her.

Isa: I understand if you’ve been too busy, I’m sure there’s a lot going on and this is pretty low priority --

Chelsea: Oh, I’ve been meaning to shoot you back an email with my thoughts. But I absolutely loved it.

Isa: Really?

Chelsea: Yes! I thought it was a great start, particularly for your first short at NYU. Very clear vision, clean technical expertise -- you’ve clearly been studying the craft for a while. And I loved what you did with color to convey the mood.

Isa, relieved: Yes, thank you! That’s exactly what I was going for.

In complete contrast to Bennet, Chelsea’s got nothing but good things to say. She’s very excited to see what else Isa De La Cruz has in store, and they should feel welcome to send her material any time. That’s one of her favorite parts of being a mentor and professor, after all!

This totally changes Isa’s mood. Bolstered by this alternative perspective, it only cements their suspicions further -- Bennet’s notes must just be because he’s a bitter old white man. He can’t possibly see Isa’s perspective, and if he’s just looking to knock a young filmmaker down a peg or two, that’s his problem…

And yet, even with the glowing praise they were so desperately searching for, in the back of their mind something still doesn’t feel quite right.

INT. USC - THEATER SCHOOL - DAY

Charlie is seated in one of the armchairs outside the theater classrooms, quietly journaling while he waits for Farkle to finish class. He glances up as the class starts to let out, freshmen and sophomores alike breezing through the halls and chatting with one another as they exit.

Farkle isn’t in conversation as he leaves, as usual -- that is, until someone calls for him to wait up. JORDAN NELSON jogs out of the classroom after him.

Farkle: What? [ a beat; that’s not very approachable ] I mean, yes? Did I forget something?

Jordan: No. No, I just wanted to talk to you. If you’ve got a second.

Farkle looks confused as to why the hell he would want to do that, but nods for him to go on. Charlie watches the exchange with interest, an invisible passive -- but observant -- bystander.

Farkle: Sure?

Jordan: I just wanted to comment on your scene work today. I thought your rapport with Natalia was good, and you’ve got excellent diction. You project even when you go softer, which is great -- too many people drop so low, it’s like you can’t hear anymore. Far too easy to fall into the film fallacy and forget that this is live theater, and they won’t be bumping up your audio in post. You didn’t fall for that trap.

Farkle: Well, thanks --

Jordan: But your monologue needs work. You deliver it well, in terms of conviction, but your rhythms tend to get repetitive. You have to find a way to make your strengths not also become your weakness. If you lean compelling the whole scene, as you should, that just means you have to be even more creative to find a way to make that monologue moment stand apart. And you have a tick -- you flex your fingers. Did you know that? When you’re in the moment, you move your fingers like this [ demonstrating ] and it can be quite distracting. You want to be fully in your body during a scene, it’s not just about being there mentally. Does that make sense?

Farkle: … okay?

I mean, no one asked, Jordan… but he sure seems happy to give Farkle critical feedback. He says it all with nonchalant pleasantry, though, like they’re just pals exchanging notes, so it’s not shared with malicious intent.

Jordan: Since we’re supposed to be observing this week, I simply thought I’d let you know my thoughts. [ examining him ] Does that bother you?

Farkle, frankly: If unsolicited critique bothered me, I wouldn’t be trying to be an actor.

Somehow, it seems like Jordan likes that answer. He smiles lightly, nodding.

Jordan: Well, you can do with that whatever you will. Just my two cents. [ with another light lingering smile ] See you around, Farkle.

Farkle: Yeah. Sure. Bye, then.

Jordan casually heads off, passing Charlie without notice. But Charlie is noticing, having watched that whole bizarre exchange unfold. He smiles to himself… many intriguing perceptions to draw… Farkle approaches him, waiting for him to stash his journal and get to his feet.

Farkle: What are you smiling about?

Charlie: Who, me? Nothing. [ as they start to walk ] Is that one of the directing students?

Farkle: Yeah. Jordan. Supposedly one of the hard-asses of the directing major, but hey, takes one to know one.

Charlie: Sure. Seemed like he had a lot to say to you.

Farkle: No clue why. He’s never spoken to me before. And all he did was give me a bunch of notes from class today, like completely out of pocket -- which, whatever, some of it was useful. I’m kind of a magnet for torment, I don’t know if you noticed. But if he really needed to take it out on someone, that’s fine. I guess some people just really can’t help themselves.

Charlie: Yeah. Someone else used to be like that not too long ago…

Farkle: Like I said, takes one.

Charlie isn’t sure him wanting to talk was just about an insatiable need to direct-splain, and it didn’t seem antagonistic from his point of view… but anyway, as long as Farkle wasn’t bothered. He didn’t seem all that put off by the sudden, unexpected criticism. Farkle shrugs.

Farkle: I know I’m like, on a constant neurotic rollercoaster about caring what people think, but performing isn’t really like that. Like, from a professional lens. I care about whether my peers are going to think I’m a freak due to my undeniable, compulsive freakishness, but the work is just the work.

Charlie: That’s impressive. It seriously doesn’t bother you at all?

Farkle: Chuck, I spent four years in class with Isadora De La Cruz. If she doesn’t set you up for imperviously thick skin, I don’t know what will.

Charlie: They.

Farkle: What?

Charlie: They. I’m pretty sure they’re using they/them pronouns now. And I think they’re going by Isa.

Farkle: Oh. Really?

Charlie: I’m like ninety percent sure. I can check my messages again, but that’s what Zay told me. I think Riley mentioned the name thing. [ a beat ] Isa didn’t tell you about that? I would’ve thought you’d be one of the first to know.

You’d think, Charlie, wouldn’t you… Farkle manages a shrug. He clears his throat, claiming they probably just forgot. With time zones and everything, it’s easier to let a message or two slip by.

But based on the shift in his expression he’s working quite hard to conceal, the neglect is an actual reason in his book to feel bothered.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

On the stage, the techie ducklings are in the midst of putting together the inaugural set piece. But it’s kind of a mess at this point, halfway built and full of errors, so now they’re in heated debate about how to fix it. Jake wants to go bigger and fix it through pizazz; Timmy, frustrated and over it, just wants to destroy it. Greta is trying to take over and boss everyone around, totally ignoring the fact that Bean has yet again stapled himself to the set piece and is nervously trying to free his sleeve from the wood.

It might help if they had some more professional guidance, but their teaching assistant isn’t really tuned in. Lucas is at the front of the stage and he’s got the schematic they’re supposed to be following in his hands, but he feels a million miles away this afternoon. He’s finding it hard to stay present, and he’s got an increasingly bad headache. It still feels like he’s carrying all the tension in his muscles and it won’t ebb… he only snaps back to reality when Greta yells for him.

Greta: TA Friar!

Lucas: What?

Greta: Would you please tell Timmy that we can’t just knock the whole thing down and start from scratch? We’re on a deadline, we have to make the most of what we have. That’s like the whole mindset of technical arts.

Timmy: Yeah, well, don’t see the point when what we have is some bullshit!

Greta: You are a pest, did you know that? A full-on, unapologetic nuisance.

Timmy: I know you are, but what am I?

For some reason, the bickering is really grating on Lucas’s nerves today. He rubs his temples, trying to keep his cool, but the whole world is starting to feel oppressive and a little fuzzy.

Bean: Can someone please help me? I don’t want this to be the way I go.

Timmy: Just wait until we tear it all down. You won’t lose your arm or anything -- probably.

Greta: We’re not tearing it down!

Jake: Dude, you’d look sick with a missing limb. That’s like the coolest way to lose it.

Bean, nervous: I’m not sure I agree!

Greta: Ugh, TA FRIAR --

Lucas snaps, telling them all to cool it. Greta’s right, they’re going to have to make do with what they have, but right now, they’re all being so unbearable that he needs a break.

Timmy: Are you serious? How are we supposed to make do with this shit?

Lucas: Welcome to the real world. I’ll be back in five. [ off-handedly ] Jake, you’re in charge.

That’s apparently the best news of Jake’s young life. He pumps his fist in the air as Lucas stalks towards the wings.

Jake: YES! Okay, get your hammers, we’re amping this biz up to eleven!

Safely in the more muted shadows of the wings, Lucas exhales a breath, rolling his shoulders and trying to shake off the headache. He presses his palms to his eyes, hiding in the darkness of his eyelids, only pulling away from it when his phone buzzes in his pocket. It’s from Grace, which if she’s texting him during the school day, already signals it’s probably not good news.

“Bad day today.”

She doesn’t have to elaborate. He’s lived through enough “bad days.”

And there’s nothing he can do about it. Lucas frowns, shaking his head and pocketing his phone again. Suddenly, that headache throbs even worse than before.

INT. TURNER ACADEMY - FACULTY HALL - DAY

Zay makes his way through the hallway of Turner Academy faculty offices, scanning the doors for Rosario’s name plate. As it turns out though, he should have been listening instead -- he hears her before he sees her, slowly approaching the last door on the right.

Rosario: It’s despicable. Absolutely unacceptable behavior, from the both of you.

Yikes. That doesn’t sound good. Zay slows his roll, cautiously coming to the wall by the door but keeping himself out of view.

INT. TURNER ACADEMY - ROSARIO’S OFFICE - DAY

Rosario is standing behind her desk, still dressed for class in her ballet garb with dark hair tied back in a tight bun. But she may as well be wearing a power suit with how effectively and unequivocally she commands the room -- the two Turner upperclassmen she has standing at attention on the opposite side of her desk look about ready to melt into puddles of shame.

Rosario: I don’t know what made you think it was a good idea, and I am not going to waste my own time enumerating why it was not. I’m sure you’re both clever enough to figure that out on your own. But I will remind you, emphatically, that this is a competitive program with appropriately competitive standards and expectations. It is your privilege to be here, not a God-given right that you can use and abuse as you see fit. And if you don’t feel that you’re up for it, that you can’t meet those standards we expect of Turner Academy students, then you’re well aware of where the exits are to this school.

INT. TURNER ACADEMY - FACULTY HALL - DAY

Zay has no clue what those students were getting berated for. He has zero context, and it’s very unlikely it was a situation remotely close to his current predicament. But Rosario’s words feel scarily applicable to him, too, and he doesn’t want to incur her wrath. He’s already started off on the wrong foot.

So no way is he going in there and asking for some slack. No way. He turns on his heel and makes a beeline out of there, just as Rosario dismisses the other students.

INT. USC - DANCE STUDIO - DAY

As it turns out, Turner isn’t the only school with some intense dance instructors. For an introductory seminar, Farkle’s DANCE PROFESSOR is taking their movement class very seriously. She’s run through the routine they’ve been building on step-by-step, dissatisfied with the rate at which they’re picking it up. Farkle seems to be faring okay, but to be honest, the fact that it’s not too difficult might be hurting him more than helping.

Charlie, meanwhile, is pretty very polite and unobtrusive as he observes from a chair at the opposite end of the room. He’s been watching the slow run-through, listening to the class discussion, slightly amused at how frustrated this professor seems to be with her beginning-intermediate level students.

Or he thinks he’s being unobtrusive. When the professor asks a glaringly simple question of the group about the routine and nobody bites -- not because they don’t know, but because they’re freshmen, and no one wants to raise their hand when the professor asks a question -- Charlie can’t help but smile to himself.

Professor: Something funny over there?

Oop. Charlie realizes he’s being addressed, smile dropping from his face and cheeks growing rosy. He straightens up.

Charlie: Sorry?

Professor: You seem to be having a grand old time back there, smiling up a storm. I know it can’t be because you’re impressed -- nothing about this routine is smile-worthy. You find it funny?

Charlie: Oh, no. No, I wasn’t --

Professor: You think you know the answer?

Farkle crosses his arms, smirking. Given Charlie has been in particularly peak form so far, it’s a bit satisfying to watch him fumble a bit.

Farkle: Bet he does. Charlie was the best dancer at my high school.

Professor: That so?

Charlie: No, really, I wouldn’t say…

Farkle goes further, claiming Charlie is probably real amused over there because they’re all stumbling through this and he could likely do it in his sleep. Now he’s just getting built up, and the other classmates are starting to jump in on it, challenging him to prove it. Oh, yeah, this rando from the east coast is so good? He thinks he’s hot shit? Like to see him try.

Natalia: I’d sure like to see it.

Well, if he’s so good and the routine should be so easy -- and from the professor’s perspective, it really should be -- then why doesn’t he come prove it? They’ll give him a run to see the routine, and if he’s so good, he should be able to dish it back to them, right? Charlie fields comments, uncertain, all his usual flight instincts flaring with all this sudden attention…

But then he considers it. He’s done braver things. And dance is supposedly his thing -- if there’s any time he should feel willing to step out of his comfort zone, it’s now. If he actually managed to bring any of his confidence back with him from abroad, this might be the time to show it.

So after a moment, he smiles, nodding.

Charlie: Okay. Challenge accepted.

The class reacts in turn, both intrigued at the low-stakes drama and also just grateful for the time-killer that means they don’t have to run the routine another time. They scatter to the sidelines as a couple of the more skilled students stay front and center to demonstrate, allowing Charlie to come join them and observe. He only gets one chance to pick it up, so best pay close attention…

The professor tees up the music, kicking them off.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Crazy” as performed by Gnarls Barkley || Instrumental

A classic dance routine track if there ever was one from the 2000s thanks to its strong and hypnotic beat, the funky alt-pop track sets the stage for the class routine. For the first verse and chorus, the two USC students run through the actual steps, Charlie mainly observing. He bobs his head along and his foot naturally taps along to the beat, and occasionally he’ll half-perform one of the steps as he’s starting to mentally put them together in his head.

The other students are enjoying having a break. Farkle watches in amusement, while behind him, Buzz and Mason place a bet on whether Charlie is actually going to be able to pick up the routine after like two run throughs.

When the first chorus wraps, that’s it! Time to step up. The two USC students step back and leave Charlie standing front and center on his own. All eyes on him… he waits for the right downbeat to find an entrance (“come on now, who do you think you are?”), and then he’s off.

They really shouldn’t have doubted him. Charlie was the best dancer in the A class -- or one of, at least, if you want to get pedantic -- and a big part of that is because of how quickly he picks things up. Dance is in his blood, and he’s a fast learner. Not to mention these steps are amateur-level, way below his skill, so he can piece them together like letter blocks. It’s not perfect, but by the time he hits the chorus, it’s clear he’s as good as Farkle claimed, confident enough in the simple steps to actually breathe life into them.

Farkle’s grinning now, pleased to be associated with the cool dancer from back home. Behind him, Mason rolls his eyes and hands Buzz a $10. Natalia shushes them, trying to enjoy the view.

Just for good measure, Charlie shows off a little bit by improv-ing for a few seconds after the chorus and into the bridge, then he sets his sights back on the class. He spins and locks eyes with Farkle, sliding over and gesturing for him to come back out on the floor and join him. It’s their routine, he’s just borrowing it! The two of them move through a few of the steps as mirrors (“ever since I was little, ever since I was little it looked like fun”), then Charlie moves into pulling more of the actual students into it. It takes nothing for Natalia to rush out to join, and then the rest of them are going, all taking places along the dance floor.

So for the final chorus, the whole class is participating, running through the routine with much more vigor than before. It’s like Charlie’s groove is infectious, his enthusiasm for dance bleeding through to the rest of them and giving the simple, lifeless routine an actual punch. Charlie leads the pack, Farkle right behind him, and for a second it almost feels like being back at Adams.

When the song ends and the class wraps, they’re much more energized than before, laughing and clapping. Farkle and Charlie exchange a high-five. Good vibes all around… until the professor comes back to the front, scrutinizing the group of them and all of them falling silent again. Charlie is the one truly under her critical stare, sizing up his performance…

Professor: Charlie, is it?

Charlie: Yes, ma’am.

Farkle: Chuck works too.

Professor: Well, Charlie… [ a beat ] You can stay here in the front while we run this again. Maybe if they watch you at least one of them will pick it up faster.

All right! A kind of weird win, but we’ll take it! The mood is higher in any case, which is always ideal when you’re dealing with dance. The professor tells them to take it from the top. Five, six, seven, eight --

INT. GLOBAL BEAT - OFFICE BOX - DAY

The clapping becomes the click of Josh’s mouse, rhythmically tapping as he stares blankly at the screen. He’s taken to the mindless, tedious task of cleaning out his inbox, since he literally has nothing better to do with no clients on his agenda for the day. He’s basically sleepworking.

Justin: Hey-o, Josh!

The call of JUSTIN MILLER snaps him out of it, making him sit up straighter. His producer boss is standing in the doorway to his office, dressed effortlessly cool as always and looking right at Josh in his fugue state. He taps the top of the doorway, then gestures for Josh to follow him.

Justin: Come on, my office. Scoot, scoot.

Wonder what that’s about… Josh uncertainly gets to his feet. Phelps eyes him curiously from their desk.

Phelps: Should I be praying for you not to get fired?

Josh: No. Shut up. [ now he’s worried ] Shut up.

Phelps: Just as well. I’m an atheist, so my prayers wouldn’t be worth shit anyway.

Figures. Josh takes a deep breath, making his way into Justin and Melissa’s office.

INT. GLOBAL BEAT - JUSTIN’S OFFICE - DAY

Josh awkwardly hovers in the doorway, Justin seeing him and waving him in. He points to the funky orange armchair opposite the desk set-up and invites Josh to take a seat. He does, uncertain, waiting for Justin to tell him what he’s doing there.

Justin reclines back in his desk chair and kicks his feet up on the desk, rolling one of Melissa’s squishy stress balls between his palms.

Justin: So what’s going on, man?

Josh: Going on? Nothing. Nope. No… no, nothing’s going on. All good. Nothing to report here.

Justin: Wow. You really have me convinced, Joshie. You ever think about becoming an actor?

Josh: I don’t… [ lofty ] I don’t know what you’re insinuating.

Justin: Bud, you’ve got like, mad gloomies. You’re sitting out there slumped like your cat just died and it is radiating. It feels like the whole office is settled under a sad, grey Josh rain cloud. [ a beat ] You don’t have a cat, do you?

Josh: No.

Justin: Oh, good. I mean -- you didn’t have a cat? It’s not dead now and that’s why you said no?

Josh: Never had a cat.

Justin: Okay. Great. Really didn’t want to be unintentionally spot on there. So, what then?

Josh pauses, trying to see if there’s a way out of this conversation… but there isn’t, and his boss is looking at him expectantly as he tosses his stress ball in the air. So Josh sighs, briefly going into his trouble finding clients and the blow of losing his most promising one to a competitor.

Justin: Oof, yeah. I heard about Iris. That’s a low blow, sorry about that.

Josh: Like, I’m happy for her. I’m happy it seems like things are going to work out for her. I just wish she didn’t have to leave me in the gutter to do it. And now I feel like… it feels like I’ve got no way forward.

Justin: Oh, come on. You’ve got other clients. [ a beat ] Don’t you?

Josh: A couple, but they’ve got their own eccentricities. Cricket has promise, but getting something out of her is like pulling teeth. And then Floyd --

Justin: Ohhhh, yeah. Floyd. I remember you telling me about him. He’s… interesting.

Sure is. Case in point, Josh feels stuck, and he feels like he can’t seem to find anyone new. Has every potential star just evaporated out of Hollywood in the last few months? And even for the ones who are out there hitting the pavement, he can’t seem to find them. He doesn’t know what he’s doing wrong.

Josh: How am I supposed to rope in clients when there’s a million other dudes just like me who can offer them the same things, if not more?

Justin: There’s your first mistake. That’s where you’re wrong. [ pointing at him ] There isn’t another dude just like you, Josh. That’s where you’ve gotta start. You gotta bring to the table all the awesomeness that you are, make it so potent that people smell it off you when you’re walking by.

Josh: I think that’s just the stained coffee…

Justin: Take me for example. I, just like you, am just some guy. A farm boy from Indiana with nothing to his name but a family-owned grocery store I was set to inherit and a dream to get as far away from it as possible. But I’ve got clients. Me and Melissa, in fact, we’re signing a new one this week.

Josh’s jaw drops. Another one? How? Justin holds out his arms.

Justin: Because I believe I’m more than that, and so they believe it too. You come into a meeting with confidence, folks will feel that. I’ve seen it in you, Josh, there’s a reason why Mel and I hired you to be our junior in the first place.

And as for the clients, it takes persistence and a very open mind. Josh used to have that, when he was first starting out -- that’s how he found Iris, after all. He needs to hold onto that ingenuity, not let the minutia of Hollywood jade him. That’s something he and Melissa remind each other of all the time, that the next best thing could be just around the corner. They don’t want to be walking around with their eyes shut because they think they’ve got it all figured out.

Justin: Fact of the matter is, the biggest key to this industry is taking every opportunity. You don’t let any potential moment slip by. You’ve gotta always keep your ears open. And don’t be afraid to look in unconventional places. No name is too small if there’s a glimmer of talent there -- because if all goes well, you’ll be the one blowing it up big time. We’re musical miners, Josh. To find the diamonds, you gotta hit every rock along the way.

Josh absorbs that. Then he jumps when Justin unexpectedly throws the stress ball at him, catching it just in time.

Justin: So go out there and do some digging! You know we believe in ya, kid, make mama and papa Beat proud.

Bit ironic to call someone 6 years younger than you kid, but… whatever. He is the higher-up. Josh places the stress ball back on the desk and thanks Justin for the pep talk. He gives him a thumbs up and hang loose gesture, already back to scrolling through items on his desktop.

INT. GLOBAL BEAT - OFFICE BOX - DAY

Josh steps back into the office box, slowly making his way back to his desk and settling back down. Phelps leans back in their chair and raises their eyebrows. So?

Josh: For now, still employed.

Phelps sighs in theatrical relief. They reach out and pat Josh’s shoulder, placing their other hand on their heart.

Phelps: Bless.

Then it’s back to work. Phelps puts their headphones back on from around their neck, leaving Josh back in silence. But he’s got Justin’s advice rattling around in his head now. Every rock along the way…

Finally, Josh pulls up his message thread with Maya and responds, offering a few potential dates and times to meet up. Then he goes to investigate further, popping his own headphones on as he opens up her social media and takes a look.

She certainly looks the part of diva starlet. But can she sing… based on his subtle expression change when he plays one of her sample videos, that’s an easy question to answer. We know the answer all too well. He settles in to listen and queues up a couple more videos, grabbing his notepad to jot down thoughts.

Maybe there’s hope after all.

INT. USC - DANCE STUDIO - DAY

Movement class is wrapping up for the afternoon, students heading out. A couple girls -- including Natalia -- have hung back to get last-minute tips from Charlie, who is generously walking through the last few steps of the routine with them and giving them feedback. He’s encouraging and patient, though it’s a wonder whether any of the girls actually needed help…

Regardless, his tutelage is worthwhile. They eagerly thank Charlie as they head out, the professor also commending him for his good work as she follows the students out. Based on the smile on his face, Charlie definitely feels back in his element.

Last ones to leave, Farkle saunters over to join Charlie. He gives him a look, deadpan.

Farkle: How is it you’ve been here for like three days and you already have more friends than me?

Charlie beams.

INT. CHUBBIES - DAY

Unlike sunny Los Angeles, it’s pouring in New York, the rain splattering the windows of the diner. Lucas watches it idly from his spot behind the counter, well-matched to his general mood as of late. He looks exhausted, dark circles starting to form under his eyes. Studying when dad is home is hard enough -- sleep feels out of the question.

Of course, that doesn’t go unnoticed. He stops aimlessly watching the rain when his phone buzzes, Riley continuing an ongoing conversation. She insists that he at least stay the night tonight so he can get some decent sleep. They’re not in high school anymore; “school nights” aren’t really important signifiers.

The stormy weather also matches Zay’s mood, though he’s not enjoying the rain. He’s huffy as he strides into the diner, pushing his hood off his head and marching over to the counter. Lucas doesn’t bother to greet him, given it’s Zay.

Zay: Hello. I’m a patron. Aren’t you going to say hello?

Lucas, robotically: Hi, Zay. How are you?

Zay: Shit. And that greeting? Shit. And this weather? Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!

Zay crashes onto one of the stools, shaking the stray droplets off his jacket. Lucas slides a napkin dispenser in his direction, which is about as helpful as he’s going to get. Zay tosses him a scowl.

Zay: Please tell me Riley is here and you’re just hiding her somewhere because you hate me and want me to suffer?

Lucas: No. To all of the above -- I don’t think about you enough to hate you. [ off his eye roll ] But I’m pretty sure she’s still at school. Rehearsing her scene, or whatever.

Zay: Perfect. That’s just great. The one time I really need to -- ugh, whatever. I’ll just deal. I’ll talk to her later.

Lucas: Okay.

Zay: I guess I’ll just go then.

Lucas: Okay.

Zay gets up, about to march right back out… but then he doesn’t. Because Riley’s busy, and Yindra barely answers him, and he already walked all the way here in the rain. He just wants someone to listen -- at this point, it hardly matters who.

Zay: You know what? Fuck it. I’m staying.

Lucas: … okay.

Zay: Yeah. I’m staying here. Because I have just been having the worst fucking week, and I need to vent about it. So I’m gonna sit here and make you listen to it, because I know that’s like your worst nightmare.

Lucas: … o… kay.

Zay: Misery loves company. So get comfortable.

Zay launches into an impassioned lament, not holding back as he complains about his stupid recurring injury that seems bound to haunt him for life; his ridiculous classmates and overly competitive coursework; his soulless instructor who he doesn’t have a do-over card to play with because he royally fucked up his standing before he ever even started at NYCA. And he knows he can hack it, he knows he’s good enough to be in the program, but it’s like he’s going to be his own downfall because of a stupid mistake he made a year ago and can’t take back. He already repented for not taking care of his body and nearly lost his chance because of it -- now he’s supposed to just do that all over again?

Lucas obviously doesn’t get any of what he’s talking about, but he doesn’t interrupt him, so suppose that’s about as nice. Once Zay has burnt himself out, he releases a monumental sigh… then glances at Lucas again, not sure what to say but not sure he earned a thanks.

Zay: So… what’s going on with you?

It’s about as half-hearted as Lucas’s forced greeting, but they’ve made it this far, so Lucas provides an answer. He doesn’t get as deep as he might with Riley, or Jack, or any of his actual friends, but he does skim the surface of his frustrations with not having time to study. The rest sort of goes without saying -- as much as he acts like it’s not happening, the situation with Kenneth is basically the A class’s worst kept secret. No one knows, but everybody knows, so it fills in the blanks on its own.

And that’s genuinely unfortunate, Zay knows, but he has no idea how to empathize with Lucas when their entire dynamic since they met has been irritation, disdain, and majority disinterest. So he awkwardly nods, offering something between a sympathetic frown and a grimace.

Zay: That’s tough.

Lucas: Yep...

Yeah… although neither of them truly get what the other is going through, the moment is bordering on authentic enough emotional sincerity that it’s starting to weird them out. So Zay searches for a way out, back to the comfort of the old ways and maybe a distraction from the heaviness that seems to have overtaken their lives. Sure is fun, being God’s punching bags or whatever…

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Schadenfreude” as performed by Avenue Q Original Broadway Cast || Performed by Zay Babineaux & Lucas James Friar

[ Lyrics specific to characters -- follow along here! ]

Zay kicks off with melancholy flair, seemingly about to take us down a different tonal road… until he abruptly u-turns, throwing us into the comedic, satirical zone that Avenue Q is known for.

Zay: And when I see how sad you are, it sort of makes me… [ smirking at the camera ] Happy.

Lucas: Happy?!

Sorry, Lucas, human nature! Zay jumps up from his stool and finishes out the rest of the line as the tempo picks up, launching us into the rest of the number. Lucas takes the Nicky bits, which works well considering he more talks than sings and does not need to sound good, especially in comparison to Zay.

The miracle to the song is that it actually seems to do the impossible -- allow Zay and Lucas to bond. That is, the snarky lyrics bridge their differences via their uniting traits: being petty, grumpy, and sarcastically cynical.

It takes a bit for Lucas to warm up to it, Zay taking the first verse to point out to him that yes, he also is guilty of schadenfreude too. When they get to the line “don’t you feel all warm and cozy, watching people out in the rain,” they both look out the windows towards the sad New Yorkers marching through the downpour, Zay offering them a dainty little wave from where they’re sitting all pretty and dry. By that point, Lucas has been won over, hopping onto the counter and swinging his legs over the side so he’s sitting next to Zay.

Lucas: “Schadenfreude.” What’s that, some kind of Nazi word?

Zay: Yup. It’s German for “happiness at the misfortune of others.”

Lucas: Happiness at the misfortune of others… that is German!

Then Lucas hops off the counter, taking the lead on the next round of suggestions. The two of them try to one-up each other with ideas, cracking each other up and fully enjoying leaning into their lesser instincts. They haphazardly toss around sugar packets, climb onto tables, growing louder and looser the more they rile each other up and forget about the actual things making their lives so miserable.

As they land on the softer bridge about two minutes in, the two of them crash in unison onto opposite sides of a booth. Lucas reaches for a sugar packet and tears it open, pouring it onto his tongue while Zay philosophizes about their ongoing torment.

Zay: The world needs people like you and me who’ve been knocked around by fate. ‘Cause when people see us, they don’t wanna be us -- and that makes them feel great!

Lucas: [ with a laugh ] Sure! We provide a vital service to society.

Zay/Lucas: You and me --

Then they roll through the final chorus to the end, arriving back where they started with Zay on the stool and Lucas on the counter. They both descend into mischievous laughter, remarkably having enjoyed more than two minutes of conversation with one another -- not that anyone will ever hear about this.

And even if his intention was to annoy him, Zay may have actually helped more than he realizes -- by not treating Lucas any differently than he normally would.

INT. NYU APARTMENT - NIGHT

Lucas does head to Riley and Isa’s that night, rolling in after he finishes his shift. The strange not-bonding moment with Zay does seem to have improved his mood somewhat. He didn’t fare much better in the rain, though, woefully unprepared in just his denim jacket. He shakes his head like a dog when he steps into the apartment, Isa sitting up eagerly at his arrival.

Isa: Great, you’re here. [ less pleased ] You’re dripping all over my floor.

Lucas: Sorry. I’ll turn on my sponge mode.

Isa: You know, your sarcasm wasn’t cute when we were fourteen, and it’s not cute now.

Lucas: You know, it was never my life goal to make you find me cute.

Wah wah wah… Isa makes a face, moving past it. They could go back and forth like that all night otherwise.

Isa: Anyway, I’m glad you’re here. Just in time to watch my --

Lucas: No.

Isa: You don’t even know what I was going to say!

Lucas: You want me to watch your short film, the one I already said I would not watch, because you’re pissed about the feedback you got and want second opinions to prove your professor wrong.

… okay, so maybe he did know what they were going to say. Isa huffs, searching for a way to convince him.

Isa: You’ll like it. Just watch the first minute.

Lucas: No.

Isa: Riley liked it!

Lucas: Riley likes everything. And I say that with no disrespect, before you try to threaten me with telling her I said that.

Isa: [ tartar sauce ] Lucas, come on. You know I’m a good filmmaker.

Lucas: Sure. You know that too. Why do you need me to tell you so?

Isa: I need backing from my loved ones and long-time supporters. And you’re the most ruthlessly honest person I know. Just watch it and give your unbiased opinion, all critiques are welcome.

Lucas: You know that literally means nothing to me. I have no credentials, I’ve seen like four films, so my feedback is worthless. No.

Isa: … [ after a stare off ] Ugh, fine.

Thank God. Lucas passes them to head into Riley’s room and get settled, Isa slouching back in grumpy defeat against the couch.

INT. JOHNSON HOME - KITCHEN - NIGHT

Vanessa is having dinner with her parents, RAY JOHNSON (50s) and ALEXIS JOHNSON (late 40s). She’s quiet for most of the meal, focused on her food while her parents discuss work at their analytical desk jobs, family finances, and neighborhood gossip of Brooklyn. Eventually, Alexis finds a way to bring conversation around to her, asking how classes are going. Ray turns his inquisitive gaze on her, waiting expectantly for her response.

Given how cautiously Vanessa chooses her words, it’s clear her classwork may not be the most agreeable subject in their house. She finds a delicate balance of describing how important the course assignments are to her without making it sound like just a bunch of dancing around, but even with her most prestigious word choice, Ray doesn’t seem all that impressed.

Vanessa: This week is all about endurance. We’re working on this intensive routine, building on it, and I have to prove I can keep up. So I’ve been keeping up.

Alexis: I’m sure. How hard you work, surely it should be a breeze.

Ray: I should damn hope so. All those dance classes we paid for and medals you’ve got cluttering your shelves, you’d think it would have paid off for something.

Alexis: Ray…

Vanessa: I know, dad. I’m aware.

Ray: If this week is about keeping up, then I hope you’re showing them that. You remember what we agreed on. We’re not paying for another dance school.

Alexis, gently: We’ll discuss it.

Ray: No, no, we already did discuss it. We’ve discussed it, Lex. If Ness wanted to use that brilliant brain of hers, and go to NYU or Columbia to study medicine, or law, we could invest in that. But if she really wants to do this dancing around thing…

Vanessa tunes out, going back to her food -- better to step back than get heated over the same old argument. This is always how conversations about Turner go, and she knows the expectations well enough.

If she can prove she’s good enough to get into this elite program, then okay, she can give it a real shot. If not, that’s that -- if she wants to go to school with their help, it won’t be for something that will never give her stability or pay her bills. She’s not just proving this admission to herself; she’s proving it to them too.

INT. L.A. APARTMENT - FARKLE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Farkle has his Broadway playlist going, softly underscoring his pacing around his room, but it’s not helping. He can’t seem to make a decision -- and Charlie is right, when did this become so hard for him to do? Why is he suddenly so strapped for creative confidence?

He knows he’s overthinking. He’s just getting caught up in his head, and he needs to knock it off and find his vision again. He needs a good metaphorical kick in the teeth. A real talk from someone who actually knows how to knock him off balance, in the way that makes things reset to stable ground rather than sends him crumbling.

Farkle knows exactly where to find that. He knows what he needs.

Releasing a sigh, he settles into his desk chair and pulls up his phone, going to the right message thread. Things may have gone dead, and he might be causing more harm than good by rocking the boat… but he doesn’t know what else to do. Friends are supposed to be able to reach out when they need some guidance -- and when it comes to the two of them, this is supposed to be someone who promised they’d be on standby for when he needed a well-meaning drag.

He caves and hits dial, bringing the phone to his ear. It’s not a surprise when it goes to voicemail, but he powers through and decides to leave one anyway.

Farkle: Um, hey. It’s Farkle. Hope things are going good. I… I was really hoping to talk…

INT. CHEY APARTMENT - NIGEL’S ROOM - NIGHT

Nigel is also on the phone, with Yindra, only being able to catch her late at night when she’s off the evening shift in L.A. -- and occasionally, the odd bar or club gig she’s picking up here and there. The scene is intercut between their rooms as they chat.

Nigel: Is that fun? Do you think it’s going to lead anywhere?

Yindra: Like a big break? Hardly. But I get to sing what I want to sing, and it’s paid, even if it’s pennies. I can at least try material on an audience paying like a fraction of attention.

Silver linings? Yindra turns the question back to him, since we get the impression the reason he wanted to call was to vent. He hedges a bit at first, since making a fuss is inherently opposite of his nature, but Yindra manages to get it out of him. He’s just frustrated about his musical theater class, that’s all -- he feels like he can’t seem to get it right. He totally blew it on the first day making a good impression, and now he’s faded to the background in this scene assignment.

Nigel: I thought it would be different, I don’t know. Right now it’s looking like it’s just going to be Adams 2.0.

Yindra: You could do worse. And like, isn’t that just college? Obviously I can’t speak from experience, but I thought feeling like a fraud and not knowing what to do and not being able to socialize was kind of like the freshman starter pack. Everyone’s going through that.

Nigel: Not everyone.

Yindra raises her eyebrows, noting the edge in his tone. When she prods further, Nigel reluctantly admits he can’t help but notice how well Riley has jumped right into NYU life. It just feels like she’s got it all figured out. And Jade is totally thriving at work -- now that she’s not getting fired -- so he can’t really talk to her about it. Not that he even wants to, even just vocalizing this minor envy feels problematic.

Yindra: Honey, this is the entertainment industry. You gotta get used to envy.

It’s a natural human emotion. As long as he’s not acting on it, or letting it make him behave differently, then he’s just gotta feel it and then let it go. And as for the Riley of it all…

Yindra: Look, you know Riley is a diamond of a human being. She was inevitably going to shine. It’s just like being friends with Zay -- some people are just blessed with natural winsomeness, that’s how it is. And I think any of us could’ve predicted that Riley, who fixed our entire class and led us to showdown victory, was going to be one of the people who triple-flipped into excellence upon jumping to college.

Nigel: Yeah… yeah, you’re right. I know.

Yindra: And you’re lucky that she’s in your corner. You just can’t compare yourself to her, or anyone for that matter. It’s gonna kill us, the comparison.

Nigel nods, closing his eyes and taking a deep breath. Yindra continues.

Yindra: So Riley’s got it all figured out and is living her perfect, winsome Riley life. Good for her. Focus on yourself, and let it go.

INT. NYU APARTMENT - RILEY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

And for that matter, Riley’s life is far from perfect. She gets reminded of that pretty swiftly, blinking awake in the middle of the night. She’s still groggy, wondering what startled her awake -- until she hears it again.

Lucas is whimpering. Riley rolls over.

Riley: [ in a whisper ] Lucas?

He’s not awake, but his sleep definitely doesn’t seem restful. Riley frowns, reaching to touch him but then thinking better of it. She isn’t sure what you’re supposed to do when someone is having a nightmare -- isn’t it worse to try and wake them up? Or is that just sleepwalking?

In this case, she doesn’t have to do anything. Lucas suddenly jolts awake, letting out a yelp and causing Riley to jump. His breathing is hard as he scrambles to orient himself, close to hyperventilation. Whatever he was dreaming about, it must’ve been terrifying… and given how things are going these days, it only takes one guess.

Riley: Hey. Hey, hey, it’s okay --

Riley tries to touch him, to offer some comfort, but he instinctively flinches away from her. In fact, it’s like he just realized she’s there, and he seems utterly confused as to where he is or what’s going on. Still half-asleep, caught in the muddy waters between what’s real and what isn’t. Riley stares at him, wanting to help but having no idea what to do.

One thing that’s undeniably real? Bile. A wave of nausea suddenly seizes Lucas, causing him to launch from the bed and scramble through the dark.

Riley: Lucas? Lucas!

INT. NYU APARTMENT - NIGHT

Lucas disappears into the bathroom and slams the door, Riley emerging after him moments later. She slides up to the bathroom, worriedly asking through the door if he’s okay. He doesn’t answer, but the sound of retching kind of answers her question for her.

Across the apartment, Isa’s bedroom door slowly creaks open. They poke their head out, eyes crinkled with sleep, but awake enough to realize that something is wrong. Riley looks at them apologetically over her shoulder, barely lit by the light leaking through the crack under the bathroom door.

Neither of them say anything. Isa glances towards the door, listening to Lucas’s faint gagging, then back to Riley. They seem to have an entire tacit conversation in no words at all, their expressions saying everything.

This sucks. I’m sorry. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.

Riley offers a weak smile, nodding. Isa returns it, stepping back into their room and giving them privacy.

There’s not much for Riley to do at this point either, but she doesn’t want to just leave him alone. And she knows she’s not going to be able to fall back asleep, not when he’s like this. So she lowers herself down to sit in front of the door, leaning against the wall and pulling her knees up to her chest. On the other side, the heaving seems to have halted for now, but it’s been replaced by muffled sniffles.

Riley frowns, clearly wishing there was more she could do. She gently touches the door.

Riley: I’m here. It’s okay. I’m with you.

She can’t know if that makes a difference -- she doesn’t even know if he heard her. But for now, it’s all she can give. She lets her hand drop back to her lap and tilts her head back against the wall, settling in for a long night. As the piano opening floats in…

INT. NYU - PRACTICE ROOM - DAY

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Better - Piano Version” as performed by Regina Spektor || Performed by Riley Matthews

Perhaps the most simple performance of the episode, yet also one of the most impactful. Riley works through her emotion as Adams kids do best, infusing the Regina Spektor tune with her usual level of feeling. It speaks to the things she can’t put into words -- the way her heart aches for Lucas, her frustration at the situation they’ve found themselves in, that no matter what she does she can’t just Riley fixer their way out of it. Pushing back against the notion that it should be easy for her to just forget about it and focus on herself when their lives are so intertwined; wishing that love could be enough to make it right.

INT. CHUBBIES/NYU APARTMENT - DAY

At the same time, the performance is intercut with Riley singing from the familiar locations where she and Lucas share space. She watches him from a table at the diner while he works, or from behind the kitchen counter while he struggles to focus on his textbook on their apartment couch. Able to see the ways the situation is taking a toll on him -- his exhaustion, his restlessness -- even if they’re more subtle than waking up from a nightmare to stress vomit.

You're getting sadder, getting sadder, getting sadder, getting sadder I don't understand, and I don't understand

INT. NYU APARTMENT - NIGHT

As the song winds down into its final repetition of the chorus, growing softer and softer, Riley struggles to keep her eyes open as she leans against the wall. Not having moved from her place by the bathroom, only blinking the sleep away when the door creaks open and light floods the room, causing her to squint.

Lucas quietly steps out, looking equally as tired as her. He flips off the bathroom light and sends them back into darkness, only the moonlight and city lights from the window illuminating them in dull grey-blue.

Without a word, he lowers himself down to sit next to her. She looks at him, full of sympathy, gently placing her hand on his knee. After a moment, he scoots closer and leans into her, Riley adjusting to wrap an arm around him and letting him rest his head against her shoulder.

Will you feel anything at all? Anything at all…

They stay like that in the dark, not saying a word, as the song slowly peters out into silence.

INT. NYU APARTMENT - DAY

Riley is up first the next morning, having a quick breakfast before she has to head off to class. She’s catching up on texts, but she immediately puts down her phone when Lucas steps out of her room. He’s already dressed and late for work at Adams, but he takes the time to address her properly.

Lucas: Sorry about last night.

Riley: Don’t apologize. Don’t.

She shakes her head, smiling. It’s not his fault. And she doesn’t care.

Lucas: I don’t want to keep you up. And you’ve got stuff to -- I mean, I know you’ve got that test today, too --

Riley, firmly: Lucas, I don’t care. I don’t. [ softer ] I just care that you’re okay.

Be that as it may, Lucas still doesn’t seem pleased about it. But it happened, so yeah, all that matters now is whether he’s okay. And he doesn’t really have an answer to that either… but he figures he has one way to make both of them feel a bit better. He steps closer and closes the distance between them, letting Riley pull him into a hug.

For a long moment, they just hold in the embrace, savoring the quiet and temporary safety. Lucas gives her a soft kiss on the top of the head, then they pull apart, Riley broaching the topic more directly. She points out that regardless of the details of last night, something about what he’s got going on right now isn’t working. It’s affecting him, and he shouldn’t have to live like that. Lucas frowns.

Lucas: What am I supposed to do, exactly? The problem is -- other than do the leaving thing, which I don’t want to do.

Riley: I know. I know you can’t… there’s parts you can’t control. But I was thinking… I mean, maybe if you talked to someone --

Lucas: I’m talking to you.

Riley: I mean someone who can actually… who actually knows what they’re talking about. Or can at least help us figure out what we might be able to do to fix things you do have control over.

Lucas seems highly uncomfortable with the suggestion. Yeah, things are bad right now, but when have they ever been good? This is just how shit is. He’s done fine this long, and he’s not fleeing, which is progress. Isn’t that what they wanted?

Riley: I mean, even just Eric might be able to provide some insight. If you just --

Lucas: No. I mean, I -- I’m fine. I’m making it work.

Riley: I don’t think throwing up in the middle of the night is fine.

Lucas: That’s not… I haven’t been feeling well. It’s nothing. Probably just a bug. I’ll be fine.

Riley: If being there with him is making you physically ill, then that’s --

Lucas: [ with a slight edge ] Riley, please. Just drop it. It’s nothing.

Well… Riley really doesn’t agree. But she doesn’t want to push him when he’s already worn down. Lucas sighs, telling her not to worry about it. She should just focus on her acting stuff, and her test, doing what she’s supposed to be doing. Not dealing with his shit. He wants her to have a good day.

If that’ll make him happy… Riley nods, offering a light smile. Lucas manages to return it, leaning forward to give her a kiss. He promises her he’ll see her after school. She agrees, letting him go.

INT. CHUBBIES - DAY

Isa pushes their way into the diner, scanning for Lucas in one last-ditch effort to get him to watch their film and prove once and for all that Bennet is a hack. For some reason, all the kind words they’ve received so far still just don’t seem to be doing the trick…

But in this case, they luck out, because the universe will do them one better -- Lucas is nowhere to be seen, but Jade is here, seated at a table and working through some tasks while she wolves down a quick early lunch.

Isa makes a beeline in her direction, greeting her eagerly and settling down in the chair across from her. They ask how the job is going -- it feels like they never see her. At least, it’s been a while since Riley’s back to school thing.

Jade: Tell me about it. And you’re not the only one who’s said so. Having a job? Not the most time-friendly concept.

Isa: Encouraging. But I’m so glad you’re here.

Now that they’ve caught her in a rare moment, they can’t pass up the opportunity. They ask if she’ll watch her short film.

Jade: Oh, is this the one you’ve been railing about all week? Nigel mentioned some professor really pissed you off.

Isa: … I wouldn’t say railing. I’d say a normal amount of righteous complaining.

Jade: How does a normal amount of Isa compare to a normal amount of anyone else?

Anyway, Jade has seen plenty of Isa projects over the years, so surely she would be able to chime in. Isa pulls up their laptop and starts to pull it up, Jade reluctantly trying to escape by claiming she really doesn't have that much time. She just came here because she happened to be in the neighborhood running an errand for the office, and she needed to eat, and she really should get back soon…

But Isa insists, promising it’ll only take a few minutes. And Jade has such good taste and always gives really insightful perspective. It would mean a lot to them to get her feedback. Please? Jade hesitates… then she sighs, agreeing and gesturing for Isa to hand over the earbuds.

Isa smiles, passing them off and letting Jade take control of the laptop.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

The techie ducklings have made progress on their set piece, and it’s… well. It’s something. It’s not bad, and that’s what matters, since this is their first go at the project.

But some folks are having more trouble accepting that than others. Greta and Jake are in a fierce debate about it, Greta insisting that it’s become a total disaster and they’re all going to fail while Jake takes offense at the criticism. It was his vision at the end of the day, so why does Greta get to determine whether it’s good or not. Art is subjective!

Greta: Well, this art needs to be able to actually support actors that step on it, or we’re going to end up with twenty Beans!

She points to the edge of the stage, where Bean is holding a paper towel to his bleeding knee. He seems to have fallen through part of the set when testing its foundations, so now he’s skinned his knees and will probably have a couple bruises to show for it.

Bean: I’m okay. Thanks.

Jake: Well, I personally would love twenty Beans.

Bean: That’s nice. Thanks.

Greta: Ugh, that’s not what I meant, and you know it! Where’s -- TA Friar! TA FRIAR!

Admittedly, TA Friar is not listening. Lucas is back by the prop loft, trying to go through paperwork for the next assignments that Harper and Shawn passed off to him. But he can’t concentrate, and he keeps accidentally dropping pieces of paper which just makes him more frustrated.

Maybe that’s because of how his hands are shaking. They’ve been like this since last night, and he can’t seem to get them to stop. And his nausea hasn’t passed -- if anything, it’s getting worse, which is part of the reason he’s purposefully avoiding the ducklings at the moment. For a second, the words on the page he’s reading start to blur, disorienting him and causing him to shut his eyes.

It’s nothing. He’s fine. It’ll pass. It’ll pass.

Timmy: Mister Lucas, will you please get Greta and Jake to shut up?

Timmy has managed to find him in the shadows, complaining that their arguing is extremely annoying and at this rate, he just wants to tear the whole thing down.

Lucas: Don’t do that.

Timmy: Well, I wasn’t gonna actually do it. Maybe.

Lucas: Just -- just figure it out. I can’t deal with this right now.

Timmy: Isn’t your job… [ looking at him ] Are you okay?

No, Timmy. No he’s not. Lucas brushes him off, but the dismissal is oddly breathless. His voice quavers, and as he starts to walk away from him, his steps are a little uneven. Timmy follows him, uncertain.

Timmy: You seem kinda fucked up.

Lucas: I’m fine. Go back to the set.

Greta has found them now, stomping over, both she and Timmy following Lucas even as he continues to try and get them to leave him alone.

Greta: You need to step in. Jake is being a tyrant --

Timmy: Bug off, Greta. He can’t deal with you right now.

Lucas: Stop fighting. Jesus --

Greta: What the hell does that mean? He’s our teacher.

Timmy: Is that so? I thought he was the teaching assistant.

Greta: Well -- ugh! TA Friar --

Lucas opens his mouth to tell them to both knock it off -- but he winces instead. His whole body has been tense the last week or so, but right now, all the sudden, it hurts. His whole chest feels tight, sharp.

Moments later, his legs buckle, and he stumbles a few steps before he loses his balance and collapses against the stage manager’s podium. Timmy and Greta immediately stop their bickering and react in terror, rushing over to him.

Greta: TA Friar?!

Timmy: Yo, man, what the fuck?

Greta: Oh my God, is he dying?

Lucas: I’m -- don’t -- it’s not --

His protests aren’t very compelling, because they’re barely comprehensible -- his breathing is so shallow, he can barely get the words out between trying to catch his breath. All the color has drained from his face.

Greta: Jake! Jake! Go get Mister Hunter!

Greta pulls out her phone, starting to call 9-1-1. Lucas would protest if he could, but honestly, everything is starting to feel like a blur -- the room feels like it’s spinning, and fading, Timmy’s scared expression coming in and out of focus as he crouches down in front of him.

Jake returns with Shawn and HARLEY KEINER, the latter corralling the freshmen and getting them to give him some space, though Timmy seems especially reluctant to leave him there. Shawn drops down in front of Lucas, grabbing his shoulders and helping him sit up.

Shawn: Easy there. Stay with it, Lucas. We’re getting help.

Lucas, panicked: [ shaking his head ] No. I can’t --

Shawn: Hey, do us both a favor? Shut up. Save your energy ‘cause I’m not hearing it.

Hard to argue with that. And Lucas barely can anyway, since he’s definitely teetering the line of consciousness. Shawn calls over his shoulder for the freshmen to get back to work, and that he’ll be fine, but all of them still watch with uneasy fear.

How else can you react to your teacher -- or teaching assistant -- seemingly having a heart attack right in front of you?

Break 3.

INT. JACK’S APARTMENT - DAY

Jack might already be growing a bit bored, restlessly pacing his apartment as he reads through mail and the paper -- he can’t seem to make his mind up about which to focus on. But his attention is grabbed by a headline that comes up on the local news he’s got on mute on the TV. He reaches for the remote and unmutes it, listening carefully as JEFFERSON DAVIS GRAHAM introduces their preferred pick for the upcoming school board race, RYAN CONNELLY (50s). 

Graham: Ryan has a long history working with schools in the district as an independent fundraiser, and he has strong ties in the community across many different groups. We are certain that he will bring his standards of excellence to the board and help us guide our schools in the right direction towards prosperity, achievement, and focus on the right issues and topics for the minds of our children.

So with another shrewd, polished-looking white guy from the corporate sector, their nominee for the spot is basically exactly what you’d expect. Jack isn’t surprised, but he has to admit he’s more bothered than he thought he might be. Like, they’re really not even going to try and hide their conservative agenda…

Jack is already frowning when his phone rings, so it doesn’t take much for that worry to deepen when he picks up and hears Shawn on the other end.

Jack: He’s where?

INT. NYU - THEATER CLASSROOM - DAY

Riley’s phone buzzes from where it’s laying facedown on her backpack. But she doesn’t hear it -- she’s halfway across the room, immersed in scene work with Evan. They’re taking somewhat of a mini-break, though, each sprawled comfortably across a handful of chairs and memorizing their lines. Well, they’re supposed to be doing that, but mainly they’re just chatting while Evan works his way through a bag of Cheez-Its. He offers some to Riley, which she happily accepts, collecting a pool in her hand.

Evan: What’s the one food you couldn’t live without?

Riley: Oh, God. That’s an impossible question.

Evan: No it’s not. It’s easy.

Riley: It’s easy? Okay then, hot shot, you tell me your answer.

Evan: With pleasure. Chicken nuggets.

Riley bursts out laughing. Evan continues, undeterred, but his smile brightens at having made her laugh.

Evan: Specifically, the chicken nuggets from Clucks, the food spot three streets down from my house. Best restaurant in Brooklyn -- no, best in New York. Straight up.

Riley: Very specific. I admire your attention to detail.

Evan: I’ve had that chicken my entire life, it’s basically built into my cognitive function. And come on, you can’t act like chicken nuggets aren’t a good answer. We can act like we outgrow them all we want, but that’s a lie. They’re classic. They never go out of style.

Touché. Riley concedes, nodding. So Evan puts it back to her again -- the food she can’t live without? She tilts her head back, humming as she thinks about it.

Riley: Okay. There’s this bakery in lower Manhattan that makes the best breakfast pastries. Particularly their blueberry scones -- and I’m not really much of a scone girl, but oh my God, these are Heaven. My mom took me there for the first time when I was like, four, and we were having this girls day. I have been obsessed ever since. 

Evan: See? Childhood imprints, they never lose.

Riley: And I guess it’s kind of a special treat, too, since it’s not a super convenient place from where I grew up in Greenwich. Like, it’s a trip to go get it. But yeah… it would be sad to never get another one of those scones. I guess, for now, that’s my answer. Although now I am very curious about this almighty chicken nugget.

Evan: Oh, and you should be. I’m a one-man marketing team. [ off her chuckle ] You’ll have to try it sometime. [ a beat ] You know what, why don’t we make it a plan? After we perform this showstopping scene, we’ll roll up to Clucks and you can determine its excellence for yourself. My treat.

That does sound fun… but Riley hesitates. She claims she would have to check her schedule, just to make sure she doesn’t have anything else going on… but on the other hand, isn’t this what college is supposed to be about? Fun, random outings, trying new things? Lucas told her he wants to focus on what’s going on here; Eric told her she should be embracing the new. Why shouldn’t she make plans without having to check with everyone else on Earth first?

Riley: Actually, I should be good. Let’s do it.

Evan: You sure?

Riley: Yeah. I mean, I still want to check my schedule, but I’m mentally penciling it in. [ off his beam ] Is it cool if I invite Nigel? He’ll be coming with us from class, so it would be fun to have him come along.

Evan: Absolutely. Nigel seems chill. And I’m more than happy to spread the Clucks gospel to all who will listen. Invite all of Adams if you please.

Riley giggles, shaking her head and popping a Cheez-It in her mouth. Honestly, it feels good to be making plans, making friends… to feel, for the first time in a while, like she’s just another typical college kid.

Her phone buzzes again as she and Evan shift back into scene work, remaining unanswered.

INT. CHEY APARTMENT - NIGEL’S BEDROOM - DAY

Having nearly finished a draft of his play -- way early -- Nigel is left with little to do, so he’s taking refuge in the safest place he knows: Shakespeare. He’s flipping through one of his limited edition copies of Richard III, annotating in the margins.

LEONA CHEY passes by his room as she’s heading out… then doubles back, poking her head in and taking a look at the sorry scene. She scoffs, asking if his plan is literally to sit there and read his stupid plays for the hundredth time.

Leona: I know it’s not a fair fight since I’m indisputably cooler, but I don’t think your younger sister is supposed to be busier than you. Seriously, do you even have a social life?

Nigel: You know, I don’t remember when I asked for your opinion… oh, that’s right. I didn’t.

Leona: I’m just saying, I go out more times in a day than you go out in a month. And I’m the one who still has a curfew. Don’t you have friends? Did Jade already break up with you?

Nigel: If you’ve got somewhere to be, then go be there.

Leona rolls her eyes, claiming he’s going to make her a nerd by association. Nigel remains aloof until she’s gone, but once he’s alone again, insecurity trickles into his expression. Leona doesn't have to verbalize his inner thoughts so loud like that.

He checks his phone -- no new notifications. Everyone is either working, or rehearsing, or thriving. Effortlessly socializing and making new connections in a way he just cannot seem to figure out.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Location” as performed by Khalid || Performed by Nigel Chey

Nigel starts the song from where he’s listlessly laying on his bed, tossing his phone away and falling back against the mattress. He sings blankly towards the ceiling, Richard III resting on his stomach, the camera easing in closer to his empty expression…

INT. NYU - THEATER CLASSROOM - DAY

And then out from it again, only he’s laying in a new location now. He’s stretched across three assembled chairs in the middle of his theater classroom, his two scene partners carrying on their scene without paying him any attention. He’s the third wheel, so it’s not like they really need to anyway -- other peers (including Riley and Evan) work through their assignments as well, everyone in strong, active motion. All except him, stuck in passive mode while the world moves on around him.

INT. SOAP OPERA SET - DAY

The other concept in this performance takes on the imaginary format of one of those ridiculous soap operas his grandmother was criticizing, the ones Nigel has had way too much exposure to thanks to being around in the middle of the day. It’s in black-and-white to set it apart, Nigel and Jade both dressed like 90s daytime soap stars in a plain living room set.

Through Khalid lyrics, soap Nigel attempts to appeal to Jade, working to get her attention while she seemingly is too preoccupied with other things to give him the time of day. Although it’s stylistically over the top and over-acted, as daytime soaps are, the subtle desperation in Nigel’s delivery bleeds through.

Let's focus on communicating 'Cause I just need the time and place to come through

INT. NYU - THEATER CLASSROOM - DAY

Back in theater class, Nigel has sat up, but the arrangement has changed -- now, his two scene partners who aren’t including him are Riley and Jade. He tries to break into the scene, interject into the action, but it’s like he’s been blocked out. The two of them carry on happily without him, as if he’s not even there.

INT. SOAP OPERA SET - DAY

As the performance builds to the end, the scenery of the imaginary soap changes too. A party is ongoing at the fictional Jade and Nigel apartment, all of the usual players present -- Riley, Jade, Yindra, Zay, Isa. Even though he’s supposedly a part of this shindig, they continue to laugh, chatter, and engage as if Nigel isn’t even there.

So he grows more overwrought to compensate, leaning more dramatically into the lyrics even with the rather even cadence of Khalid’s music. As the performance comes to an end, we cut back and forth between the soap and the classroom…

Until Nigel takes it too far. As the song devolves more into riffing and instrumental, his partygoers turn on him, growing tired of his whining. Isa is the first to dip, then Yindra. Zay follows, Riley not far behind, all of them leaving without so much as a goodbye. Nigel falls to his knees, silently imploring for them not to go. Jade comes around to face him and tilts his chin up, giving him a sympathetic look. For a moment, it seems as though she’s going to kiss him…

But she leaves him hanging. Instead, she lightly nudges him away, enough to, in his weak state, send him falling onto his backside. Then she follows the others out the door, blowing him a kiss and closing the soap set door behind her.

Nigel stares at where she left, now alone in this greyed-out fictional nightmare. He collapses onto his back and stares listlessly up at the ceiling, mirroring how he started the performance in the real world.

INT. NYCA - LIBRARY - DAY

The quiet carries into the next scene, less oppressive in the setting of a library. Since he can’t obsessively rehearse, Zay decides he may as well focus on the other stuff he’s supposed to be doing in school. But academia is his least favorite thing, and so hard to stay committed to, so he’s succumbed to scrolling through social media instead -- something he usually doesn’t have time for when he can lose himself in choreography.

And right now, it’s not helping. He’s only a few scrolls into his TikTok FYP when he stumbles upon a post from Gia’s account -- which must be boosted thanks to algorithms, because he’s definitely not following her -- where she’s showing off in an oh-so-casual workout video. Girl knows how to build a platform, but that’s not what Zay is focused on. He’s much more concerned with how good she looks at the routine, the one he’s supposed to be rehearsing non-stop this week too. She’s confident, precise, playful in her movements.

And she can move, period. There’s no slumbering injury holding her back, seemingly not one knot in her toned dancer body.

He’s going to fall behind. There’s only two transfer slots open to him; he can’t afford to slack off and let them slip out of his grasp. Sure, it’s a risk, but if the alternative is losing his shot…

His phone buzzes with an incoming text, the banner appearing over Gia’s looping video. Zay clicks it, taking it back to his messages with Charlie. He’s sent another link to a muscle care routine, this one specifically for calves and tendons.

“Not nagging, I promise!! Just remembered this other article I thought might be helpful. I very much recommend #4, it’s really effective on muscle strain.”

For once, Charlie might have perfect timing. He’s successfully distracted Zay from the pressure spiral, giving him the second to actually think. Rushing to the studio is not the right idea. He just needs to keep his head on straight.

His phone buzzes again.

“At the very least, don’t risk it all before I come back and get the chance to see Zay Babineaux dance one last time. Selfish, but grant me that pity. Please.”

“If you want to talk about anything, just call.”

The frown has melted from Zay’s features, replaced with a delicate smile. He considers how to answer, and even considers taking him up on that offer and hitting the call button…

But he’s distracted. He looks up when an increasingly familiar voice quietly speaks to the masters student stacking the shelves, asking about where to find a specific reference book for a course. Vanessa thanks them and starts to head in that direction, turning and locking eyes with Zay.

It’s weird, seeing each other out in the wild like this. In the studio, on their turf, they know what they’re doing. They know what they’re all about. Here, in the library like supposedly normal students going about their business, it feels strangely different.

Still, the competitive edge doesn’t take a day off. Zay adjusts subtly to make sure his bandaged leg is concealed under the table so she can’t see.

Neither of them speak as she approaches, the shelf she intends to search naturally is the one just a few steps away from where he’s seated. They acknowledge one another with the held eye contact, but don’t do much more than that, Vanessa pushing her hair behind her ear and turning away to the shelf. While she’s not looking, Zay takes the opportunity to really examine her, less guarded than when they’re facing off in the Turner studios.

Vanessa: Didn’t see you this morning.

Zay: Huh?

Vanessa: In the studio. You weren’t there taking up the entire space with your big head. [ a beat ] Giving up already?

Oh, so you noticed that, did you Vanessa? Just casually… Zay rolls his eyes.

Zay: Likely. If anything, if you’re as wise as you think you are, my absence should keep you on your toes. Don’t need to put in the extra practice every morning if I’ve already got things on lock.

Nice save, Zayby. Vanessa’s turn to roll her eyes, but to be honest, the usual fire that charges their interactions when they’re on the dance floor has lost some of its heat in the quiet of the library.

Vanessa: Sorry, my bad. I suppose I just assumed you’d never miss the chance to show everyone else how much harder than them you’re working.

Zay: Don’t need to. It goes without saying. And unlike some people, I don’t need to broadcast it all over social media to make the point.

At this, Vanessa actually looks at him. She glances over her shoulder at him, cautiously, taking the bait.

Vanessa: … you see Gia’s TikTok?

Zay: How could I not? She must’ve paid to promote it specifically to the Turner transfer community with how fast it showed up. Psychological warfare or some shit.

Miraculously, Vanessa laughs. Then she realizes she did and grows bashful, for like a split second, but it’s enough of a glimmer of humanity to earn a tentative smile from Zay. Vanessa looks away again and clears her throat.

Vanessa: It’s cheap is what it is. If she wants to be like, Addison Rae or whatever, that’s fine, but she can do that anywhere. I’m trying to do this for real, so it’d be great if she’d get out of my way and not waste my time.

Zay: I’d say I agree, but would be easier to write her off if she didn’t look competent while gloating all over social media.

Vanessa: Posing pretty for the internet doesn’t mean shit. Anyone can take a thousand photos or record a dozen takes until they find the perfect one. What matters is how you show up in the moment. I’m not slipping; I don’t need it on video to prove it.

Okay, now Zay has agreed with her more than once, which feels unsettling and not right. And yet… kind of validating, too. It’s nice to hear someone else echo his perspective rather than just replay it over and over in his own head.

Would be nicer if that someone else wasn’t his most direct competition, a fact Vanessa suddenly seems to remember after she steals her turn to look him over in the neutral zone of the library. She bundles the book she came for in her arms and turns up her nose, defenses back up.

Vanessa: Don’t slack, Babineaux. Your laurels aren’t going to hold you up forever.

Zay: That’s some advice. Shouldn’t you be telling me the opposite? You want actual competition to get out your way.

Vanessa: I want fake bitches to stop wasting my time. You, I need. When I make it into the program, I don’t want it to have been a cake walk. That’s not a victory. I’m earning it, and I play to win -- so I need someone to actually beat. Don’t chicken out.

Zay: Wow. How sweet.

Vanessa: What can I say? You play the role of loser so well.

It’s honestly quite unclear what the tone of their conversation -- and dynamic -- is at this point. Vanessa clearly intends to crush him, there’s no doubt about that, but… it kind of sounds like she means it when she says she needs him there? Perhaps wants would be a more fitting word…

Regardless, the game is still on. Vanessa makes her exit, Zay watching her go and knowing damn well her threats to beat him are not just a tease. The competition is real, online and in-person, and here he is debating whether or not to sit a week out. He groans, hiding his head in his hands.

What the hell is he going to do?

INT. CHUBBIES - DAY

Jade is intently watching Isa’s project, earbuds in, while Isa impatiently sits across from her and watches her watch. Finally, the short film concludes, and Jade removes the headphones. For a long moment, she says nothing, nodding lightly and processing what she just watched.

Somehow, the non-reaction is worse than an outright dismissal. Isa stares, practically crushing an unopened sugar packet in their fingers.

Isa: Well? What did you think?

Jade: It was good. Well-made, interesting. I thought it was fine.

Isa: … that’s it? That’s all you have to say?

Jade shrugs -- what do they want from her? Isa prods further, insisting there must be more to say. Jade is one of the most thoughtful people they know, and they know she has opinions. They saw that little crinkle between her eyebrows that she gets when she’s thinking hard while she was watching.

Jade: I have a what?

Isa: Come on, Jade, seriously. We went to school together for four years and gave each other notes all the time. I just want your honest feedback. What did you think?

Based on their tone, they really mean it. Jade sighs, nodding and holding up a hand so she can have another few seconds to gather her thoughts. Isa holds their breath.

Jade: I mean, it was good. Like, objectively, this is a good short. You’re in film school at NYU, so that’s not really surprising.

Isa: Right. Thank you.

Jade: But… I don’t know. It wasn’t your best.

Uh-oh. Isa frowns, asking what makes Jade say that. This is one of the best shorts they’ve ever shot technically, especially with the new camera equipment they bought before the semester started. Jade nods, acknowledging that, but she comments that beneath the shiny cinematography, it didn’t really feel like it was like… about anything. She wasn’t sure what Isa was trying to say -- not that every piece of film needs to have a capital-P point, but even narratively the story felt lost.

Essentially, without even knowing it, Jade goes on to list out basically every single note that Bennet gave in his initial grading. Worded differently, but the same gist. Isa’s expression grows grimmer the more Jade goes on, until finally they frown and drop their head onto their palms.

Isa: Oh, fuck…

Jade: I’m sorry if that was harsh. You wanted to know what I thought.

Isa: No, no. No, it’s not you. Seriously, I appreciate you telling me the truth. I just… [ with a groan ] I’ve gotten myself into a pretty pickle.

Jade: Nice Dylan-ism. You miss him?

Isa: More and more every day, unfortunately. Caring about people is so tiring. Exhausting. Draining.

Jade: Thesaurus bonus.

Isa: Thank you so much. [ blowing air out through their lips ] Okay, I guess like, can you explain in a nutshell what you thought was wrong with it? I mean, you said a bunch of stuff, but if you had to hone in on one thing. I’m not sure where to even begin to fix it -- everyone else said nothing but good stuff about it.

Jade: Who did you ask?

Isa: Most of the usual people. You know, Eric, Riley, Dylan. Lucas refused to watch it, because he’s a dick. Nigel --

Jade: Oh, babe. You should never ask Nigel for feedback.

Isa: Why not? He’s intelligent and has good taste.

Jade: I completely agree, but he’s also a horrible critic. He hates confrontation. I once listened to him complain about a local production of Hamlet we saw because his friend from Shakespeare camp was in it, I mean really tear into it, just for him to wholeheartedly assure said friend it was like the best show he’d ever seen when we met them afterwards in the lobby. It’s not his fault, it’s like a compulsion. But yeah, you should never take his notes at face value.

Well damn, that would’ve been helpful to know a week ago!

Jade: I don’t see why this is hitting you so hard now. You were never weird about taking criticism at Adams.

Isa: Yeah… yeah, I don’t know either. I guess that’s kind of part of the problem.

Jade: Super weird. I mean, you chose to be friends with Farkle and Maya, who have to critique everything or they’ll explode. It’s amazing you were a super trio if this amount of criticism now makes you all twitchy.

Oh… oh. Something about that hits Isa right in the chest. Of course this experience isn’t going to be like the others -- they always ask their friends for notes, but their friends have shifted since the last time they were looking for feedback. Now, their biggest sources of friendly fire are gone… and they’ve been replaced by yes-folks who rang praises in their ear instead.

It’s like no matter what they do, remnants of the friendships they lost resurface at the strangest of times.

Anyway, Jade answers their actual question, arriving at the conclusion that the reason the film felt off was because it didn’t really feel like Isa. Usually, the films and projects they make, Jade can tell in an instant that their fingerprints are all over it. It’s not always the most polished piece or most impressively made, but their storytelling and approach and themes are interesting. They’re unique, and fresh, and make them the creator they are. This didn’t have any of that. Sure, it looked pretty, “aesthetically strong” one might say, but it just felt like any film student could’ve made it.

Conforming does nothing when it makes you lose your creative spark. The best thing Isa could do, in Jade’s opinion, is continue to tell the stories that mean something to them.

EXT. NYU - CAMPUS - DAY

Riley emerges from the theater building, energized with a smile on her face as she heads out of rehearsal. She’s feeling good about it, and that good mood is visible on her face as she heads towards her next class of the day.

That is, until she checks her phone. The smile is wiped from her face when she catches up on her texts, finding more than one missed call and many bulletins from Eric and Shawn about Lucas’s episode in the auditorium. When she reads that he was sent to the hospital, she freaks, dialing Eric’s number.

When he answers, she immediately launches into frantic questions -- is he okay? Is he going to be okay? Why did he have to go to the hospital? Is he still there? Eric tries to talk her down, admitting he doesn’t have all the answers but as far as he knows, Lucas will be fine. Sending him to urgent care was more of a precaution than anything else, based on his symptoms.

Eric: Any time someone in the building is showing signs similar to heart failure, it’s our responsibility to --

Riley: Heart failure?!

She tunes out for a day, and look what happens. Eric backtracks, rushing to remind her that he said precaution. Lucas is an objectively healthy barely-20 young man, the odds of him having a heart attack are practically nil. And more importantly, he is getting care, which is what matters. Eric didn’t mean to frighten her, he just wanted to keep her in the loop.

Riley takes a deep breath, nodding and closing her eyes. Trying to let her uncle’s soothing skills calm her, to stop the racing of her own heart. At least to clear her head enough to problem-solve what she’s supposed to do next.

Riley: Okay, well, um -- I mean, should I go meet him? I have a test in my next class, but I can email in sick --

Eric: No, Riley, I wouldn’t suggest you do that. Lucas is fine, and I don’t think he would want you to set aside your stuff to rush to him either. I know you know that, too.

She does. But what, is she supposed to focus on her stupid Gen-Ed exam when all she’s going to be worrying about is him?

Apparently, yes. That’s exactly what she should do. Eric promises her if there’s any emergency developments, he will call her even during her test, but she shouldn’t worry. They were able to get him help, and he’s not going to be alone. Someone else is headed to the hospital to pick him up as they speak.

INT. HOSPITAL - URGENT CARE ROOM - DAY

Lucas is pacing the confined room, unable to sit still on the cot. He seems to be in better shape than he was at school, slowly sipping his way through a styrofoam cup of water, but he’s still noticeably paler than usual. His exhaustion looks starker now under the bright lighting of the hospital.

He straightens up when the NURSE returns, letting him know he’s cleared for discharge. She reiterates what they apparently discussed earlier -- that while his EKG was normal and his heart is in good shape, what he was experiencing were acute physical manifestations of anxiety, compounding into a full-blown panic attack that yes, often mimics the sensations of heart failure. She emphasizes that his blood pressure was elevated as well, and that it is her strong recommendation that he seek additional mental health services. Whatever stressors may be causing his heightened levels of anxiety, he should work immediately to mitigate those factors for his overall health.

Yeah, that basically goes in one ear and out the other. Lucas is focused on a more immediate concern, nervously insisting that he shouldn’t be there and he didn’t ask for the consult.

Lucas: I appreciate it, or whatever, but I didn’t want it. I don’t think I should be charged for it.

Nurse: That’s not exactly how it works.

Lucas: I don’t care how it works. I’m saying -- I didn’t want this. I can’t afford to pay it.

Nurse: You don’t have to worry about that. Your bill was paid upfront.

Lucas, confused: What? That’s not -- by who?

Nurse: Your father? He settled it when he arrived to pick you up.

Shit. Any subtle color Lucas was getting back is gone again. The nurse states he’s good to go, and that she’ll let his dad know he’s okay to come back and meet him.

Lucas tries to stop her, to tell her otherwise, to let him escape before Kenneth can get back here -- but the protests die in his throat and she’s gone. He crunches the styrofoam in his hand, only realizing he’s done it when water begins to leak out. He curses and drops the cup into the trash can, wiping his shaking hands on his jeans. He might just pass out again.

Nurse, off-screen: He’s just in that room there. Yep, you’re good to go.

Here it comes. Lucas takes a deep breath, facing the doorway and bracing himself.

Only there’s no Kenneth. 

Instead, it’s Jack who appears in the doorway, giving Lucas a knowing look and leaning against the doorframe. He raises his eyebrows.

It’s an unbelievable relief. Lucas exhales, sheepishly meeting his eyes.

INT. PERFORMING DINER - DAY

Yindra is in the middle of another shift, just finishing up with a table of elderly patrons. She takes their check and cash tip and heads back towards the hall to the break room, counting out the tip to herself.

Not terrible -- but not a jackpot either. It’s always hit or miss with older folks. She sighs, pocketing most of the tip and dropping a bill in the jar for the cooks.

What she needs is some richer patrons… and just her luck, a couple are heading in right now. She glances around the corner towards the front entrance as the bell jingles to signal a new customer, eyes widening in surprise when she sees who has arrived.

Farkle and Charlie. Out of all the eateries to try in Los Angeles, out of all the places they could’ve possibly gone in the window of time that Yindra’s in uniform, of course they end up here. They’re holding easy conversation while they hover in the entrance, the hostess podium empty considering Yindra is hiding back in the hall.

And hiding is the key word. For someone who is seeing a couple of her former peers for the first time in months, Yindra looks like she’s facing certain death.

Yindra: Oh, shit --

She ducks out of view and sneaks her way into the kitchen, weaving around the cooks who ask her what the hell she’s doing back there. She apologizes in a whisper and keeps bopping her head above the commotion to see if they’re still there.

Yindra: Leave. Leave. Oh my God, leave --

YOLANDA spots Yindra’s shenanigans from where she’s restocking napkin dispensers at the counter, raising her eyebrows.

Yolanda: Girl, what in God’s name are you doing?

Manager, off-screen: Yindra!

Yindra jumps, wheeling around to face their burly and very unimpressed manager, ANDRÉS. He’s kind of a Los Angeles equivalent of Joe, a jolly Latino with a dedicated work ethic and good rapport with his employees but with a short fuse for nonsense.

Andrés: What are you doing? We’ve got customers waiting, and someone’s gotta greet ‘em.

Yindra, innocently: I’d rather not.

Cute as her smile is, it’s not gonna work. The manager cocks his head, giving her a look. Really?

Andrés: And I’d rather not have employees who talk back on the clock. Hell, I’d rather be running a restaurant in the luxurious streets of Spain or Italy than this grease-stained corner of Burbank, but I guess we’re both outta luck, huh?

Point taken. Yindra scurries out of the kitchen, hovering out of view for just a few more seconds while she pulls herself together. She just has to seat them. She can get Yolanda to wait on them and just hide out in the bathroom any time a music cue comes on. She can get through five minutes.

Hiding in humiliation from Farkle Minkus and Charlie Gardner of all people -- man, how the mighty have fallen. Yindra takes a deep breath and steels herself for the inevitable, coming out of the shadows and heading towards the hostess podium.

As expected, it takes almost no time for them to recognize her. Both Farkle and Charlie brighten when they realize it’s her walking towards them, the latter’s jaw dropping open. What a great surprise! Yindra manages a smile as she greets them, and accepts a warm embrace from Charlie. Maybe that’s not so bad…

Charlie: What are the odds? I had no idea you worked here.

Yindra: [ only half-joking ] Mm, well-kept government secret.

Farkle: So crazy. They say this town is small, but I feel like I haven’t seen you since you moved. Suppose it was only a matter of time.

Yes, that was intentional, Farkle. Anyway, they’ve found her now, so moving on. As she grabs menus and goes to seat them, Yindra asks Charlie what he’s doing in town and how long he’s here -- she didn’t realize he was coming through the west coast. He gives her the short version that he gave Farkle and Maya, how he’s going to be in and out for the next few weeks, but he’s really glad they stumbled in here on a whim.

Charlie: Seriously, we were debating like three or four places to go. But I’d had this one on my shortlist for a bit when I was researching, so I thought why not?

Farkle: East Side upbringing doesn’t make you immune to gimmick, clearly.

Charlie: Life is meant to be enjoyed with a healthy amount of gimmick. And you can never, ever go wrong with diner food.

Farkle: Says the dancer with the perfect body. I hate you, Charlie Gardner.

Yindra is so disarmed by their friendly banter -- and the familiarity of it, like being back in the black box -- she forgets for a second that she’s supposed to be booking it. She only remembers when Charlie brings the conversation back around to her.

Charlie: But like I said, best part of the place is something we didn’t even know was here. [ eagerly ] How is everything going with you? You’ve already been out here for a whole season, right, I mean, how is that going? I want to hear all about it.

Farkle: Yeah, I’d be interested as well. We can compare notes.

Yindra: Oh, well, I’d love to, but I’ve really got to get back to the kitchen --

Her excuse is cut-short by a ringing on the opposite wall by the counter; a sound that sends dread through Yindra’s expression. All of them look towards the bell.

In an instant, the mode of the diner works shifts. The fry cook leans through the pass-through to the kitchen and loudly plays the triangle hanging there, calling the wait staff to attention. They all know what that means!

Yindra: God, please no…

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Candyman” as performed by Glee Cast || Performed by Yindra Amino (& the Performing Diner Wait Staff)

This is a performing diner, isn’t it?! That bell means there’s been a performance request, and the time has come to deliver one for this hour. And of course, the one that comes on over the sound system is one of their cheesiest selections -- an exaggerated, 50’s doo-wop version of Christina Aguliera’s “Candyman.” The Glee version does a good job of approximating what that might sound like.

It’s one of the ten or so routines each of them know by rote, but when this rendition kicks off, Yindra is frozen in place at first. The other waiters, waitresses, and hosts jump right into it, starting to sing along and doing the choreography from where they are, but she can’t bring herself to move when she’s standing right in front of her former classmates -- keen as the two of them might look. It takes Andrés making a lap and basically nudging Yindra into steps that snaps her out of it, Charlie and Farkle nodding and clapping her along.

Well, too late now. Yindra relents and joins fully into the performance as she’s getting paid to do, joining the other waitresses on select table tops and positions around the diner as they run through the cheeky lyrics and bubbly choreography.

And considering this staff is populated by wannabe stars, it is a good performance. Yolanda is impressively strong on vocals, doing most of the major vocal runs, but Yindra harmonizes with her well. It’s a lot of fun, and if you lean into the shtick and don’t take it too seriously, it’s a damn good time -- a bit less so if you look as subtly embarrassed as Yindra does through her practiced show smile.

The diner patrons don’t notice, though, and groove along as they always do -- especially Farkle and Charlie. Aside from a couple of shots that show them reacting in amusement to some of the truly silly suggestive lyrics (like okay, yeah, it’s a little cringey), they’re genuinely enjoying the performance and wholeheartedly supportive of Yindra. In fact, if he’s not careful, Charlie might very well jump up and join her. What can he say, Farkle’s right, he’s a dancer in his bones! You just don’t get unapologetically campy art like this the way they do it in the States!

The wait staff brings it home with their usual practiced flourish, finishing in the back around and on the counter in formation and throwing their arms up. The diner bursts into whistles and applause, Charlie and Farkle going as far as to teasingly give Yindra a standing ovation.

Lovely… she keeps her smile plastered on, but she may just want to evaporate a little.

INT. RESTAURANT - DAY

Lucas is seated at a table in the back of a cozy local restaurant, still not looking too great but at least no longer pale and shaky. He’s got a plate of food in front of him, but it doesn’t look like it’s been touched. Honestly, he looks like he’d rather be sleeping.

He jumps slightly when a kid shrieks behind him -- but it’s out of joy, not fear. The little boy, who can’t be older than three, happily toddles past his table like he’s in a race, his father chasing after him and scooping him up moments later. Another woman, presumably the mother, laughs and calls after them as she follows behind, playfully shushing them as they make their exit.

Lucas is only pulled out of his fugue watching the family depart when Jack returns to their table, sliding into the chair opposite him. Given he had to rush out of his apartment, he wasn’t exactly prepared for an afternoon out. He starts to take stock of what’s on his plate and then eyes Lucas’s untouched one, giving him a look.

Jack: Eat.

Lucas: I’m not hungry.

Jack: Yes you are.

Lucas: I’m not. I feel like I’m going to throw up.

Jack: I’m sure you do. And you know why? It’s called “low blood sugar.” [ insistent ] Eat. It will make you feel better.

Lucas: And if you’re wrong?

Jack: You have permission to vomit all over me. And I’ll throw in fifty bucks for some spice.

Pretty confident offer, then… Lucas hesitantly picks up his fork, taking a bite. And lo and behold, when he starts, he suddenly realizes how hungry he actually is. Jack lets him eat for a bit by carrying on the conversation, lightly describing his travels on his vacation. From the sound of it, he really did have a good time. Lord knows he deserved the time to recharge.

Lucas: And now you’ve got this to deal with. Welcome back.

Jack: I don’t mind. It’s good to be home. And I’m glad we’re finally sitting down to chat, though I must admit, I wish it was under better circumstances. I figured you would’ve reached out already.

Lucas averts his eyes, sheepishly poking at what’s left on his plate. Jack gently treads conversational ground, asking Lucas how things have been going since he left. New job at Adams, everyone else starting school. Must be a lot going on. Lucas shrugs.

Lucas: It’s chill. I’m whatever. Joe said he might promote me to assistant manager, but I think he mainly just said that so I’d stop complaining about working the counter. But clearly I’ve got a bright career as a diner administrator in my future so. Life couldn’t be better.

His sarcasm would be sharper if he wasn’t also trying to genuinely pass off like everything is peachy. Jack leans back in his chair, raising an eyebrow. Not buying it. He heard his voicemail. Does he want to try again? Lucas holds his glare until it becomes too difficult, huffing and looking down at the table.

Jack waits patiently, knowing he just needs to give him time. All those conversations across the principal’s desk weren’t for nothing…

Lucas: I don’t know what’s wrong with me. It’s not like anything’s changed. Things were mediocre before, and they’re mediocre now. It’s just like all of a sudden, my body has decided it’s had enough and is rebelling from the inside. Which like, sure, okay, I guess I get it. If I were stuck in this shitshow with no choice, I’d want to end it all too.

Jack: If I weren’t already, I’d flag that comment as concern-worthy.

Lucas: [ shifting uncomfortably ] I’m not saying like -- I didn’t mean it like that. I’m not -- this isn’t Farkle Minkus. Or whatever. [ a beat ] I just mean like… [ with a scoff ] how else am I supposed to react to my body literally breaking down for no reason?

Jack: I think starting by acknowledging that it isn’t for no reason. I know the doctor told you about anxiety, about your body’s response to stress. You’re experiencing panic responses, which is a totally normal human --

Lucas: But that’s what I’m saying. I don’t get it. I don’t get -- it’s not like I haven’t been dealing with this shit my entire life. Why is it that now, out of the blue, it’s a problem worth going to the fucking hospital?

Jack: Lucas. You can’t seriously believe that nothing is different. You really can’t think of even one reason why this situation might be tougher now than it was before?

Lucas shrugs, defensive. He tries not to think about his life, period, so. Jack cautiously addresses the elephant in the room.

Jack: Illness… it changes the order of things. He’s not out as often as he used to be. You’re around more because Grace needs help. Remarkably, the three of you managed a good long while maintaining this status quo where all of you knew the score, and took routes to avoid it as much as possible, but that’s not an option anymore. Your worlds are colliding again, and you don’t have as much room to run. You used to be really good at finding escape -- you’re past that now, but your circumstances weren’t the reason for that shift. In fact, they’ve only become more prevalent in the meantime. Suddenly having to adjust to that, to being around… that’s stressful, Lucas. That’s going to take a toll on you, whether you realize it or not.

And his greatest escape plan yet, getting to go three-thousand miles away, was ripped away from him by the very thing he’s trying to avoid. That leaves an impact. Lucas doesn’t comment, but he doesn’t argue either -- mostly because his eyes are glassy, and he’s not sure what might come out if he opens his mouth. Jack softens his tone.

Jack: When you called me, you said that you felt stuck. Like the rest of the world was moving on, and you were stuck in the same place. Feeling trapped is about the most panic-inducing response known to any living creature -- figure you should know that, as a wannabe vet. And even if most of your peers didn’t go anywhere, physically, things have still changed. They have new priorities now, different social spheres, and the balance of your circle has shifted. That’s a contributing factor, certainly, including me.

Lucas: Don’t -- no. You’re not -- [ struggling to find the words ] I don’t want you to feel bad because you took a well-earned vacation and my body just decided to explode in the meantime.

Jack: I don’t feel that way, so you can relax. I think not conflating people caring for you as you impeding upon their well-being is one good place to start. I’m sure if Riley were here, she would likely strongly agree.

Yeah… well. Lucas clears his throat, not able to argue that.

Jack: You’ve been knocked down, and now you’re lost. It’s okay to feel that way. What isn’t doing anyone any good is acting like you feel nothing -- that’s how you end up with overblown panic responses. You can’t create solutions if you won’t even acknowledge the problems exist.

Lucas processes that… then finally nods in agreement. With that, Jack smiles.

Jack: So. What we need to do now, then, is build a new game plan. Tackle the things we can, learn how to cope with the things we can’t. I obviously can’t lay everything out for you -- only you can make most of these decisions -- but I’m happy to help where I can.

The first thing, he insists, is getting Lucas out of Adams. As nice as Eric and Shawn’s offer of employment was, it’s not helping Lucas in any tangible way. It’s not helping him learn something new or building on anything he cares about, and it certainly can’t be helping with the feeling of being stuck. He doesn’t have to disappear fully if he does enjoy the work, but it shouldn’t be his main reprieve away from home. There are better, more interesting options for employment to have during a gap year, and Jack has a few ideas up his sleeve already.

Jack: You’re not trapped, Lucas. We just need to restrategize. Your path doesn’t have to be the dead end you think it is.

It’s hard to tell what is really comforting Lucas: the promise that maybe everything isn’t destined to stay frozen, or the fact that Jack is back and sitting there across the table to reassure him of it. He manages a weak smile, nodding and trying to believe it.

INT. PERFORMING DINER - DAY

Yindra emerges from the employee break room, officially done with her shift for the day but still in uniform. She makes her way around the tables and finds Charlie and Farkle at the same table, winding down their meal but still conversing and meandering time away. Charlie waves her over as she’s passing by.

Yindra: Sorry, if you need something, I’m no longer on the clock.

Charlie: Oh, no. No, I just wanted to say bye, if you were leaving.

Yindra: Oh.

Charlie: Actually, I was thinking if you were off, you could sit down and join us. You know, only if you want to.

Yindra: Oh…

Farkle: They might boot us out of here if we hang around too much longer and don’t order anything else. We’ve been camped at this table for a while, and this isn’t Chubbies. You may have to fork over some more cash to avoid diner eviction.

Charlie: That’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. [ casually glancing at the menu ] I was kind of eyeing that dessert section…

Farkle: Fucking menace with your dancer’s metabolism. Hate you.

Charlie gives him a grin. Yindra admits that their skillet brownie really can’t be beat… but they should in no way feel obligated to buy something just to hang around and talk to her.

Yindra: I mean, really, not a whole lot worth hearing…

Charlie: No, no, it’s no bother at all. Seriously, I want to catch up.

Farkle: And he wants the brownie.

Charlie: I just don’t want to impose on you. Like, I want to hear what’s going on with you, but I know you just worked a whole shift. I don’t want you to feel like you have to hang around and humor us if you’d rather just head home and relax.

Farkle: Humor him, more specifically. [ gathering his things ] I’ve got assignments, so I’ve got to get going either way. But it was great to see you, Yindra. We shouldn’t be such strangers when we’re only a stone’s throw away.

Yindra: Right. Totally…

Farkle, dryly: A class forever, am I right?

Honestly, this fresh out of Adams, it’s hard to know whether that’s true or not. Farkle gives them one more goodbye and tells Yindra to pass on his regards to the rest of the staff, then heads out. As the doorbell jingles, Yindra looks back to Charlie, who gives her a light smile.

It’s been so long since she talked to anyone from home, mainly by choice. What can she possibly say when she’s accomplished nothing? But Charlie alone is a lot less intimidating than with one of the divas. He’s there, if she wants to hang around…

Yindra contemplates, unsure.

EXT. TRENDY CAFE - DAY

Josh is seated at the eclectic garden furniture of one of the trendy local cafes buried in downtown Los Angeles, nursing a coffee and impatiently waiting. He appears aloof on the outside, eyes casually scanning the sidewalks at passersby, but underneath the table, his leg is bouncing a mile a minute.

He checks his watch, then his phone. A handful of minutes past the hour, no new messages.

Perfect. That’s exactly what he wants. Sticking his neck out to meet with Riley’s fresh out of high school friends, getting handed leads by his niece, only for them to stand him up. As if he didn’t already feel pathetic enough these days.

He grits his teeth and starts to type out a new message, ready to rail on about professionalism and timeliness like a middle-aged executive…

Maya: Josh Matthews?

Being addressed startles him out of his angry typing -- and almost makes him spill his coffee again. He lifts his gaze and there’s Maya, strutting down the street in his direction and looking her usual level of glamorous. As unrepped and stuck in the trenches as she might be, no one can deny that Maya is very good at looking like she’s someone to know.

In fact, her delivery is so confident and compelling as she approaches that Josh finds himself getting to his feet to greet her. He only realizes he’s done so when he’s already up, towering like a foot over her, and that seems to put everything back in perspective somewhat. He’s the one with credentials here -- why is he tripping over himself for a nobody?

Still, he’s already up, so may as well follow through. He offers a hand to shake, which Maya takes with a starlet smile.

Josh: That’s me. And you’re Maya.

Maya: The one and only.

Josh: Great. So, shall we -- ?

Maya: Actually, would you mind waiting just one second? I’ve got a tea in there waiting for pick-up. Give me just one moment. Thanks, darling.

Maya moves past him without waiting for a response, confidently cruising into the cafe. Josh stands there for a moment, blinking off the dismissal. As if she wasn’t already late… and she’s really walking with the bravado of someone like Valerie De La Cruz for someone who has exactly zero equal output to support it.

Stay cool. Keep calm. This is just a general meeting. So she’s a little immature -- that’s to be expected. She’s fresh out of school. She’s got talent, and that’s what Josh cares about. If he can mold that into something workable, they can work on the professionalism too.

So he takes a deep breath and settles back into his chair, once again impatiently waiting. Maya returns a few moments later, giving him another big grin as she slides into the chair opposite him with her tea. She pulls off her sunglasses as Josh looks for a way to start the conversation, asking how she’s liking the city so far. It’s not quite like New York.

Maya: Oh, it’s excellent. Such great energy, you know? I mean, don’t get me wrong, I love New York, that’ll always be home. But to me, any city with opportunity is a place I want to be. I follow the stars. But yeah, since I’m coming from New York, it’s not all that different pace wise -- I’m sure it’s much more of an experience for you, coming from small-town Pennsylvania and all.

Josh: … well, actually, I’m from Philly --

Maya: Totally. Sure. And I can totally get that vibe from you, that sort of earthy authentic thing. Some of the meetings I’ve been on already, I’ll tell you, it’s like you can spot a native-L.A. hawk from a mile away. You know, they’re all look at my connections, look at my accolades, look at my sheen of L.A. sweat from being born and raised here. Such a fake vibe.

You mean… kind of like you’re coming off right now, Maya? Josh looks for a way to break in, not sure where to interrupt her influencer-trained monologuing.

Maya: I don’t get that vibe from you at all, though. Seriously, so refreshing. At this point, I’m like looking for someone who has little to no shiny credit to their name.

Josh, shortly: And how many of those meetings were you on time for?

Oop. That halts Maya’s steam train a bit. She pauses, searching for the most strategic way to respond.

Maya: Yes, right. So sorry about that. I’m still getting used to accounting for the traffic around here -- can’t just walk it all like you do in Manhattan. And I would’ve left sooner, but I was super wrapped up in a project. You know like, when you get that creative spark, and you’ve just got to get it all down in the moment? So easy to lose track of time.

It’s hard to tell if she’s telling the truth or not… but Josh decides to give her the benefit of the doubt. He does know that feeling, and if it means she at least is creating output, that’s more than he has to work with right now.

Josh: Sure. I can respect that. I just think, you know, if we decide to work together, you’ll want to be more cognizant of stuff like that. Hollywood is a business as much as it’s a producer. We want to make sure we demonstrate professionalism, reliability.

Maya: Of course. Absolutely. If we work together.

Okay… well… Josh doesn’t seem very pleased by her last statement. He’s supposed to be the one hedging and acting like he has the power here. The more they talk, really, the less sure Josh feels about anything.

But talent. He knows she has talent. He saw it for himself on her socials. If they can start there, then maybe they’ll be able to find a better path forward.

Josh: So I checked out your platform. Pretty good presentation for where you’re at.

Maya: Thank you. Oh, did you see the follower count? Just broke another ten-thousand on Instagram -- the numbers tend to hit a bit heavier there than Youtube, but I’m working to balance them out. TikTok is climbing, too, that’s where I show off most of my dancing. Triple threat, naturally.

Josh: For sure. And that’s great. If you want to see those numbers grow, though, you’re going to need more tangible output. Songs to stream, content to follow beyond a good photo and occasional snippet here and there. That’s where I come in.

Maya: Completely. That’s what I like to hear.

Josh: Great. [ pulling out a piece of paper ] So I listened to some of the samples you’ve got on all the platforms, and they’re good. I think there’s plenty to work with. These are some of the thoughts I had, if you want to take a look --

Maya raises her eyebrows, surprised by this. She takes the paper, narrowing her eyes as she skims through his feedback. Josh stammers to fill the silence.

Josh: Like I said, your numbers are good -- great for a fresh break into the industry -- and it’s clear you’ve got ability. People are into your stuff, your whole… thing, and I think we can work with that. There’s just some places I think we should start if we go into partnership, refining your sound and clarifying your objectives. And overall, with the right equipment, really polishing up the quality --

Maya: Who said I needed this?

Josh pauses, surprised she’s pushing back. Maya is frowning at the paper, obviously not thrilled by it. It’s the first serious look she’s gotten from any producer so far, and all he’s got is a bunch of critiques?

Maya: If I wanted a complete overhaul, I would’ve asked for it.

Josh: That’s not -- that’s not what that is. Those are just some initial thoughts, based on what you’ve presented --

Maya: [ reading from the sheet ] “Weak lyrical transition. Basic chord progression.” [ a beat ] “Child-like lyric composition could be beefed up.” I thought you indicated you thought I had talent?

Josh: I do. If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have taken the time to analyze your product and draw up suggestions. They’re just off-the-cuff reactions, me jotting down my --

Maya: I didn’t ask for suggestions. I’m looking for someone to take me on and foster my stardom, not tear it down before it even takes flight.

Okay, that escalated quickly. Guess that’s what happens when you’ve got a couple of strong personalities with equally strong passions… Josh shakes his head, thrown by her response.

Josh: I’m sorry, what did you think this was going to be? What do you think a producer or manager does?

Maya: It was my understanding that you’re supposed to help me break in and make it big with what I’ve got. I bring the goods, you broadcast it to the world.

Josh: Okay, sure, but that’s after we build something together. What, did you think I was just going to sing your praises and tell you how pretty you are and then bam, suddenly we’ve made it?

Maya: Well, tens of thousands of people already like what I’m putting out, and that was before your page-long criticisms. Why should I change the formula when it already seems to be working enough for me? I don’t see ten thousand followers giving your musical opinion any more weight I should change my whole approach for.

Josh: Jesus, and how much weight would I need to outweigh the size of your ego?

This is spinning out spectacularly. Maya put her foot in her mouth from the moment she decided to show up late, and they’ve been increasingly dancing in the wrong direction since. At this point, Josh is completely turned off, and Maya is really over puffing in compensation. Enough rejections has put her on offense -- and she might just drive away her actual foot in the door.

Maya: For your information, this “ego” has gotten plenty of places on her own just fine. I’ve done this much, and I don’t need some pretentious 20-something in a beanie telling me how to make my music sell. I’m Maya Hart -- I win on that alone.

Josh: [ with an incredulous laugh ] Oh my fucking God. And how’s that going for you so far? Clearly you’re just dripping with representation.

Maya: And maybe that’s for the better. How many of your clients with your super generous feedback have you sent to the top of the charts, Josh? They rolling in thousands of followers yet?

Ouch. Josh scoffs, lost for words for a moment, before he reaches forward to take his notes back. But Maya pulls them out of his reach, instinctively with admittedly child-like reactivity.

Josh: This is ridiculous. I don’t need to be wasting my time with this.

Maya: You know what, neither do I. [ getting up ] If you can’t see what I have to offer --

Josh: Again, that’s not what I said --

Maya: Then I don’t have to grovel to show you. You can keep your suggestions.

She says, and yet she still doesn’t return the paper. It’s crumbled in her fist as she slings her bag over her shoulder, but she hasn’t let it go. Josh shakes his head again, fully bewildered by the entity that is Maya Penelope Hart.

Josh: I’m amazed Riley thought you were worth sending my way, but then, she always sees the best in people. Maybe more than they deserve.

Maya: The feeling is mutual. I thought she was sending me to someone with actual credit -- now I stand corrected.

Josh: You’re such a brat. And what are you gonna do, Blondie, huh? What exactly do you think is going to happen if you’re pushing through with no support and waiting for someone to give you everything you want without compromise? How far do you think you’re going to get if you won’t even listen to another perspective?

Maya stalls at that, processing the question before she storms off. Yes, what is she going to do -- if she’s not hitting it out of the park on her own, through the usual channels, and isn’t getting the praise she thinks she deserves from everyone else? If she really thinks she deserves blind support, like that’s the way to progress forward, and no one is delivering?

That’s never stopped her before. Maya squares her shoulders, flipping her hair over her shoulder as she turns back to look at him. Her icy blue eyes are fierce with determination.

Maya: Prove them wrong.

With that, she spins on her high heel and makes a grand exit, marching down the street and away from Josh. He stares after her, utterly dumbstruck by her arrogance. Hollywood is sure going to knock her down real hard. He has to believe that it will -- and no talent is worth that attitude.

If only it didn’t mean he was still sitting there alone.

INT. AAA - ATRIUM - DAY

Isa makes their way into Adams long after classes have ended for the day, just Harley mopping up the atrium floor as they enter. The two exchange friendly nods, and Isa heads towards the main office… but then they get distracted, making a detour and walking towards the trophy case instead.

Our focus is drawn not to the Showdown trophy -- though that does look mighty nice, still gleaming and proud in the display -- but the photograph framed above it. A group photo of the A class in their Showdown outfits, taken right after their win in their Jade-designed dazzling costumes and with the trophy in hand. In fact, senior year Isa is nearly front and center, just to the right of Farkle who stands in the middle holding the prize. Maya and Isa huddle close on either side, a matched set to accompany him, with one hand on the trophy while the rest of the A class reaches for it as well with grins on their faces.

Feels like just yesterday… and a lifetime ago. Not so long ago, they were kings and queens.

And now, they’re all starting from the bottom again. Takes a bit to get used to that. Isa sighs, lingering a bit longer on the sight of being so close to their former best friends.

INT. AAA - PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE - DAY

Eric is just wrapping up for the day and shutting his laptop when Isa saunters in. He raises his eyebrows.

Eric: How often should I expect for you to roll up here unannounced? We might have to get you a recurring visitor’s pass.

Isa: It’s after school hours. And also, everyone should know who I am. I ran this place.

Eric: Sure. So what brings you here? Seeking some guidance?

Isa: No… not quite. Just need some dad I think. [ a beat ] Real dad.

Eric smiles at that, touched, as Isa slouches into the chair opposite the desk. He invites them to elaborate on where they should start. Isa pauses, thinking about it, and then slowly tries to unpack the highs and lows of the week. The criticism, the Valerie legacy haunting them, realizing how when friends go in separate directions they lose more than just the physical person.

Isa: I think… it’s weird, to no longer be the film kid. Even coming here, it was cutthroat as hell, but that was mainly about performing. Film was still my thing. I was the best at it. Now I’m in this program and I’m just another one of fifty other folks who were the best, too. I guess I cared about that more than I realized.

Eric: Specialization is a gift and a curse. I’m sure some of your friends are feeling the same things.

Isa: Yeah. And I think that like put me on defense, if that makes sense, so then when my professor gave me even minimal criticism it just felt like, oh, yep. There it is. They’re gonna figure out I’m a fraud, that I’m the odd one out, that of course I’m going to bomb this and fall to the bottom of the pack. [ hesitant ] And I was looking for confirmation that that wasn’t the case, for someone to give it to me straight, but I don’t think I was looking in the right places. I have nice friends, who are willing to say really nice things, but it took me a long time to actually find the truth. I don’t have the same failsafes in my circle anymore to keep me honest. I miss…

Mm… no. Isa shakes their head, unable to finish the sentiment. Still feels too raw. Eric doesn’t push them, although he seems to know the conversation must have to rise eventually.

For now, though, the absence remains unspoken. Instead, Isa powers through.

Isa: But I don’t want to be that way. I want to be resilient, to be able to earn standing with my new ranks, and I know I’m gonna need to be able to take some hard takes -- warranted or not -- on the way there. I want to be able to take it. From my schooling, but from my friends, too. I don’t want my circle to feel like they have to puff me up. [ eyeing Eric ] Including you.

Eric sighs, nodding in acquiescence. He agrees and apologizes for enabling that, for not being more honest with them upfront about his impression of the film. Not that any of the nice things he said were a lie, but he knows he wasn’t being as forthright and objective as he could have been. After talking things through with another important friend and source of feedback, he realizes he didn’t make the right call.

Isa: Jack?

Eric: Oh, wow. No Principal Jack?

Isa: … I guess I can get used to just Jack. Or at least, I can try. Figure I have to get used to it, if you all are going to be… whatever you are. For real. And clearly that’s for the better, since he was bold enough to tell you a hard truth.

Eric: Gently, but yes. Believe it or not, doing this whole “parenting” thing is not as cut and dry as you’d wish.

Isa: Maybe just better with help. You should listen to Jack more often -- seems like the two of you make a pretty decent team.

Yeah… yeah, they do, don’t they. Eric beams.

They’re both still doing some growing, figuring things out in their new situations. But Eric commends Isa for arriving at this place, wanting to be better -- that demonstrates how much they’ve already grown. And because of that, Eric doesn’t need to shield them. He understands that now. If Isa will keep working on bettering themself and trying to embrace the change, then Eric will do his best to treat them that way. More honesty and candor for both of them, in their own lives and together.

Isa can get behind that. They nod, and then sit forward to accept the playful fist bump that Eric offers across the desk to seal the deal.

INT. PERFORMING DINER - DAY

Back in L.A., “a bit” ends up being “a while,” as Yindra finds herself enjoying conversing with Charlie much more than she expected. They demolished the brownie dessert together and have been chatting for at least an hour, the edge gone from Yindra’s mood.

They’ve gone from chatting about their current situations to reminiscing about high school, ruminating on how different things are and how something that was only a few months ago can already feel like eons ago. Yindra comments that talking like this is nice, with someone who gets how things used to be -- she admittedly hasn’t been great about keeping up with people, though she leaves out the part about how that’s an intentional choice.

Charlie: You’re not the only one. I get it.

Yindra: Honestly, it’s my fault. It’s not like people haven’t been reaching out. I’m just… [ with a shrug ] But God, Zay is going to be such a diva about it when I finally get back to him.

Charlie: Ah, I wouldn’t worry about that. You’re one of his best friends, he’ll forgive you. And you know what the key is to making amends with him.

Yindra: Mm?

Charlie: You already said it. Diva Zay. Throw a compliment in there and his not-so-secret ego that he totally doesn’t have because he’s not a diva will take care of the rest.

Yindra cracks up. Much as they both love him, there’s no denying that Zay isn’t exactly the most humble person.

Yindra: You’re so right. He so would. [ shaking her head ] He is such a Leo.

Charlie grins, nodding in fond agreement. The two of them continue to chuckle for a few moments more, then a thoughtful, reminiscent quiet settles between them. Yindra examines him.

Yindra: Was it worth it?

Charlie: Hm?

Yindra: Leaving. Doing the gap year thing.

Charlie: Well, the year is still going.

Yindra: Right. For sure. I just meant like… the whole going away thing. Saying fuck it and going so far away to figure out what you needed. Do you think it was worth it?

Charlie: To be fair, most of where I was isn’t that much further than being here in L.A. Just in the opposite direction.

Touché… and perhaps a bit illuminating as to why Yindra’s even asking. Charlie contemplates it, seriously thinking about it for the first time now that he’s not actively immersed in it.

Charlie: I think it was good. For me. To try something like that, to have to stick it out on my own. It definitely… I’ve figured out things, yeah. I guess the independence and the distance helped me like... see more clearly than I was able to when I was stuck in the same place. [ a beat ] But it was hard, sometimes. Harder than I thought.

Yindra: You miss it? The city.

Charlie: Yeah. Yeah, I do. And I knew that when I made the choice, you know, that there were things I was going to be missing. Sisters’ birthdays, people’s send offs -- there’s this big summer event my church does every year. That was hard. Just being away from you know, family. Friends… [ searching for the right word ] loved ones.

Yindra does know. For how hard she’s been trying to pretend, she knows that all too well.

Charlie: But I don’t know. I’d just try to think… I’m really fortunate, at the end of the day.

Yindra: For being alone? You are weird, Charlie.

Charlie: [ with a laugh ] No -- though I do think there’s a benefit to some solitude now and again. No, I mean like… the fact that I felt that way, like there was something I wanted to come back to. The fact that I love something enough to feel it when it’s gone. I don’t think feeling that is such a bad thing. [ a beat ] We’re really lucky, I think, to have something worth missing.

Well, when you put it like that… Yindra manages to mirror his light smile. She hadn’t thought about it like that, hadn’t been able to think about the things she left behind as anything but a weakness. Something she had to hide from until she proved her choice was worth it.

Maybe what she actually needs is to let that feeling, and those things, back in to ever move forward.

INT. L.A. APARTMENT - DAY

Farkle is doing homework as promised, seated cross-legged on the couch with his laptop. He’s got the Wikipedia list of musicals open, a few of their track lists tabbed in his browser. He could go edgy and unexpected with Sweeney Todd (though, in some ways, maybe is that exactly what one would expect?); he could dig down in the bottom of the barrel and do something no one remembers like Curtains to show off his musical buff status. Young Frankenstein is always a classic in his book, if he’s feeling cheeky…

And yet, he keeps coming back to Wicked. Maybe it’s predictable and nerdy, but if he’s got to spend a chunk of the semester with it, shouldn’t he go with something that feels right? Is being different, setting himself apart, really all that important? Or is it better to be who he is -- even if that’s a little bit predictable and especially nerdy?

The apartment door opens and Maya returns, slamming it shut behind her with a flourish. It’s a wonder where she’s been all day -- her meeting with Josh was hours ago -- and when Farkle asks, she brushes him off with a vague response about cleansing her aura. Whatever that means. She still looks as glamorous as she did earlier, but some of the gloss has worn off. When she flops down on the couch next to him and removes her sunglasses, deflated, she just looks tired. Frustrated, indignant, stuck on the same questions as him just in a much bigger contextual pond.

That being said, style slightly disheveled and cheeks flushed with emotion, Maya looks more real sitting there slouched with her best friend than she has in days. The part the Instagram doesn’t see is perhaps the most compelling part of her, when that cool, effortless sheen is replaced with impassioned, genuine emotion.

Farkle: How did it go? Any luck?

Maya: This industry is full of hot air and men who think they know everything. And nobody wants to actually nurture new talent. Also, Josh Matthews is perhaps the least Matthews Matthews I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting.

Farkle: [ with a whistle ] That bad?

Maya: If I wanted his Philbilly take on my process, I would’ve asked him -- after I decided he was worth working with. But a pretentious man just can’t resist. [ fixing her hair subconsciously ] How was your week?

Farkle, plainly: About the same, actually. My only friend on campus, who doesn’t even go here, easily outshined me because he’s hot and approachable and naturally charming, and unrelatedly, a pretentious man who thinks he knows everything told me everything I did wrong in class just for the hell of it. I think he might hate me, and if he’s any indication, I’m going to be last picked on the theatrical football pitch when directors announce their mentees -- you know, just for some flavor.

Maya: Tsk tsk. You are the only man I love. The rest can go. [ a beat ] No solution to the Charlie Gardner of it all, though. Sorry, darling.

Farkle shrugs. That’s his life, nothing new. Maya releases another dramatic sigh, the two of them sitting in silence for a long moment. Farkle leans over and elbows her.

Farkle: I’m sorry Josh didn’t work out. He doesn’t know what he’s missing.

Maya: None of them do, Farkle. None of them do. [ resolutely ] So I have to show them. We’ll have to show them. Just have to keep finding new ways to show the world how brilliant we are.

Farkle offers a small smile. Hope she’s right.

Farkle: Aye, aye. I believe you, at least -- I don’t think you’re capable of being any other way.

Maya tilts her head at him and narrows her eyes, playfully taking him in… then she smiles, taking his chin affectionately.

Maya: Only man I love. And I hope you never change a thing. True Farkle is the only one worth knowing. [ patting his cheek ] Someday, everyone will know it.

For now, they just keep trucking. Maya widens her smile, sitting up to give him an affectionate peck on the cheek. Then she flounces off, on to find the new way. Farkle watches her go, fond and appreciative, before going back to his laptop. Still left with choices about who to be…

And as he hovers back towards Wicked, true Farkle seems to be calling him more than ever.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “I’m Not That Girl” as performed by Wicked Original Broadway Cast || Performed by Farkle Minkus

The gentle instrumental starts off as Farkle dives into his assignment, more confident in his choice than before. And based on the song he chose -- one of the more muted, vulnerable tracks in the entirety of the musical -- he’s really leaning into authenticity rather than hiding behind bold belts or dazzling distraction.

As the soft performance unfolds, taking us through the prism of Farkle’s present perspective…

INT. USC - CAMPUS CENTER - DAY

For the first verse, the focus is on Charlie, smiling and as socially amicable as ever as he keeps up a light conversation with Farkle’s peers when they run into them at campus center. Natalia is in full-on flirt mode (“hands touch, eyes meet,”), but mainly, what’s more on display is how effortlessly Charlie wins people over. Even if he feels like he’s far from a social savant, his well-trained presentation doesn’t show it -- and with the newfound confidence he’s slowly acquired while on his travels, it shines even more pointedly.

It’s a skill set Farkle doesn’t have, one that he clearly wishes he does. Resigned to that fact as he watches Charlie interact with the others, not realizing that his personality does have unique charm of its own.

He could be that boy, but I’m not that girl…

INT. L.A. APARTMENT - DAY

Farkle isn’t the only one grappling with presentation, though. Even if she’s succeeding in some ways, watching Maya contort herself and create the perfect plastic snapshot for the masses is its own kind of indecision. She’s prepping another Insta live from her corner of the living room, fully glammed up and obsessively checking her angles before she goes live.

She may not be obsessing over what a musical choice says about her, but she’s letting a supremely posed image a day do all the work for her. And Maya has always been cognizant about image, there’s no denying that, but lately that feels like the only thing she’s banking on. Farkle watches her self-nitpick from his perch on the couch.

Don’t dream too far, Don’t lose sight of who you are…

But hey, Maya must know what she’s doing. She doesn’t seem to have any hesitation about how she’s marketing herself, and he knows she’s willing to do whatever it takes. He doesn’t want to get in the way of that -- even if he’s not sure who either of them will be when they make it out on the other side.

INT. L.A. APARTMENT - FARKLE’S BEDROOM - DAY

Farkle heads into his room after getting ready for bed, flopping onto his bed and setting his alarm for the next morning. When he reclines back against his pillow, he looks towards his bulletin board -- zeroing in on one photo in particular.

The photo of him and Isa at the London Eye. He thinks on it for a moment, looking wistful, and unlocks his phone to pull up their thread…

Every so often we long to steal to the land of what might have been

But then he remembers he already called them, and they didn’t pick up. They haven’t answered his texts. And they didn’t even bother to tell him that they’re identifying as they now -- something he knows, if he figured something like that out for himself, he’d want to tell them first.

Guess that’s how it is now. He shouldn’t be too surprised. He closes his phone and puts it on the side table, leaning over to turn off the light and sending the room into darkness.

But that doesn’t soften the achy feel when reality sets back in…

INT. USC - THEATER CLASS - DAY

A couple of Farkle’s classmates, Natalia and Buzz, are running through one of their scenes while the directing students watch and take notes. Judgment day to partner up is nearing ever closer… but Farkle isn’t paying attention. He’s slouched in his chair in the back, phone subtly in his lap as he scrolls through social media.

Right now, he’s on Chai’s page. She seems to be thriving in London, full of photos with her new classmates. It doesn’t take too long to find a photo of her with Isa from before she left -- which of course, Farkle can’t help but use to click the tag and jump to Isa’s page.

Definitely less updated, as is typical, but the latest posts are still enough to drive the feeling home. The latest one is them, Nigel, and Riley on campus, and before that some old, cinematography-styled shot from junior year. And then there’s the same one Chai posted, the two of them together before she left for London.

Gold hair with a gentle curl That’s the girl he chose, and Heaven knows…

Maybe all this insecurity, this doubt about who he’s supposed to be, isn’t just about college. Maybe it’s partially because for whatever reason, who he is isn’t good enough to keep one of his best friends -- and if he can’t manage that, if he can’t keep his team, then does the rest even matter?

INT. USC - MUSIC CLASSROOM - DAY

Farkle rounds out the performance actually performing it in class, at the piano and singing through the last verse. Even subdued, his usual amount of emotion shines through, performing one of the only times it’s easy to be vividly authentic. That is a skill set he’s undeniably got. His peers listen politely, Charlie included, both he and Professor Weber smiling lightly.

There’s a girl I know, he loves her so I’m not…

Farkle pauses for a moment on the last line, holding in the silence for a long moment… then he gently takes it home, fingers delicately tapping out the final keys.

INT. ANGELA’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

The lullaby-like quality of “I’m Not That Girl” is the perfect transition to Jack’s next destination. He arrives at Shawn and Angela’s and Shawn lets him in, claiming dinner is apparently almost ready. When Jack asks if that means he cooked it, Shawn hedges, before confessing they just ordered in.

Angela: We’re working on building this skill set, but he didn’t feel confident enough to cook for his big brother quite yet.

Shawn rolls his eyes, disappearing back into the kitchen as ANGELA MOORE comes into the living area cradling NAOMI HUNTER-MOORE. Jack grins as soon as he sees them. Angela lets Jack take Naomi from her arms and then they exchange warm greetings, exchanging kisses on the cheek. Then Jack turns his focus to the baby in his arms, lifting her to eye level and gasping theatrically.

Jack: Look at how big you’ve gotten! You’re so grown up. [ to Angela ] These things grow at lightning speed, huh?

Angela: They do, though I’m sure it seems more so when you don’t see them for months at a time.

Shawn, off-screen: Rather than staying up all hours of the night, every night, changing them and feeding them…

Jack and Angela laugh. Jack continues to lightly bounce Naomi in his arms as he takes a look around their living area -- it’s been revamped during the summer, starting to feel more like an adult’s space. Like they actually could build a family there. Jack compliments it as such, lowering onto the couch and holding the baby in his lap.

Angela admits it hasn’t been easy, but she’s excited about how things are coming together. She was honestly more than a little nervous about this big transition in their lives, but now that they’re in it, it doesn’t feel nearly as scary. Things are starting to feel more settled.

Angela: It’s nice, you know, to have the people I love here together. To feel like I’m building something more permanent. [ with a smile ] We’re building a home.

Jack mirrors her smile, though there’s a hint of melancholy in his expression. A bit of wistfulness, perhaps… Shawn reemerges from the kitchen to answer the door as soon as there’s a knock, waiting a couple of seconds and then stepping out to pick up the delivery left on their doorstep. He offers a wave to the departing delivery person.

Shawn: By the way, thanks for helping with Lucas today. That shit was crazy.

Angela: Oh my God, yeah, Shawn told me about what happened. Is he going to be okay?

Jack: Immediately? Yes, he’s fine. His physical deterioration was more psychosomatic than anything else. Long term… that’ll depend on how much he’s willing to do about it.

Shawn: Of course…

Angela: Still, thank God you were there. That both of you were there, and able to help. I’m sure he’s grateful for it.

Shawn: Hope so, considering it took nearly dying today for him to accept it.

Jack: I’d do it any time. I think he knows that. Besides, at this point, it’s not like I have much else going on for him to interrupt.

That is true. What is Jack planning to do now that he’s back? Naturally, the school board topic comes up, Jack mentioning that he saw the candidate Graham is putting forward for the spot Morris is vacating. Shawn groans, indicating he’s seen it too. Angela says what all of them are thinking.

Angela: Jack, you’re perfect for it. 

Shawn: I mean, anyone would be better than Connelly.

Angela: You’ve dedicated years to this school district -- as an actual force in the schools, not just some fundraising elite.

Shawn: You actually give a damn about the students.

Angela: And isn’t much of what frustrated you about being principal stuff you could explore and tackle at that level? You were always complaining about larger, systemic issues that felt above your paygrade.

Shawn: All the stuff with Lucas…

All excellent points -- ones Jack has already thought long and hard about. It’s clear there’s a wide open field for a candidacy like his. He just has to decide if that’s what he wants, and if the fight to get there would be worth the effort.

INT. BABINEAUX HOME - ZAY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Zay is on his laptop on his bed, frowning as he attempts to type out an email to Professor Gao. He tries to succinctly explain his recurring injury, the reason he needs to take it easy the next couple of classes, his insistence that he isn’t going to fall behind even though his slipping on the week where endurance matters indicates otherwise… but it’s all wrong. Nothing sounds right, and trying to write it anyway feels like the coward’s move.

Not to mention, in his heart, he doesn’t want to fucking do it. He doesn’t want to take it easy, even when his muscles seem to be screaming at him to listen. He groans in frustration, pushing his laptop away and hiding his head in his hands.

He grabs his phone, knowing he needs another perspective to shake him out of this. But he isn’t sure who to call -- Riley and Charlie have both already told him what they think. Nigel will just tell him what he wants to hear, because that’s the kind of friend he is. And although that’s nice sometimes, Zay knows that’s not what he needs to hear right now.

In fact, he knows exactly who he wants to talk to. The question is simply whether she’ll give him the time of day. Zay scrolls to their messages and hits call, stretching out his legs restlessly while it rings.

INT. YINDRA’S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - NIGHT

Yindra has changed into her comfy clothes for the evening, still worn down but seeming in better spirits after catching up with Charlie. She returns to her bed and finds her phone ringing, a diva-esque photo of her and Zay from last year lighting up the screen. After a moment of hesitation, she takes a deep breath and swipes to answer it.

Yindra: Hello?

INT. BABINEAUX HOME - ZAY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Zay is surprised she actually answered. The scene goes back and forth between their rooms as they talk.

Zay: Hey. Sorry for the sudden call. You have a second to talk? I know you’ve been like, hella busy.

Yindra: Yeah… yeah, um --

Yindra fights back her nerves, reminding herself to breathe. This isn’t a test; Zay isn’t trying to get her to prove anything. And honestly, after being primed by a couple of familiar faces, it’s extra nice to hear her best friend’s voice again.

Yindra: Yeah. I just got off work a bit ago, so I’m free. What’s up?

Yindra settles onto her bed as Zay launches into the predicament. He has to give her the full low-down, since it’s been a while since they actually talked -- about how intense the program is, his bitchy and calculating classmates, the high expectations of the program. And how none of that would be a problem, he could hack it, if it weren’t for his own poor judgment of the past coming back to bite him.

Zay: The thing is, I know what the right answer is. I know I should take it easy. And everyone keeps telling me that, like duh, so no one gets why it’s so hard for me to pick that and be done with it. Like, most of my friends aren’t as… I don’t know --

Yindra: Relentlessly driven and prone to diva?

Zay: I was going to say ambitious, but sure, that works too. And the only reason I’m not taking offense to that is because I know you say it because you get it.

They always have been birds of a feather… Yindra nods. She confesses she’s no stranger to making the less reasonable choice because of pride or the sense that it’ll ruin all her progress if she doesn’t.

So yeah, now he needs to decide whether he’s going to risk it tomorrow when he shows up to class or humiliate himself by telling his already reproachful professor he has to step back. Yindra tilts her head back, seriously thinking about it.

Yindra: Okay, well, at this rate, I think you’ve got to lay it out analytical. You’ve got to take a Nigel approach, because our usual hot girl instincts aren’t cutting it. So choice A, you take it easy and tell Prof Hardass you need to sit it out. What’s the worst that could happen?

Zay: I immediately get blackballed from the program and she kicks my ass out for unacceptable laziness? She already thinks I’m arrogant and entitled.

Yindra: Well, you don’t know that for sure, but real talk. How likely is that possibility? Do you really think she’s going to kick you out for taking one class off? There has to be something in the syllabus about that if they’re gonna be that strict. Y’all got syllabuses, right? Syllabi? Syllabees?

Zay: … okay, yeah, maybe not that likely.

Yindra: Cool. So what else?

Zay: I’ll fall behind. Maybe not a lot, but during a pretty crucial week.

Yindra: Be honest. Isn’t every week going to be crucial? Every single week, you’re going to find a reason why that week is the most important week to not slip up. But everybody’s gonna slip up at least once.

He already did, in fact, if tumbling in his collision with Vanessa during Week 1 counts. Zay acknowledges that, nodding in defeat.

Zay: True. But if I sit this one out, it’s gonna make a statement. Everyone else is going to notice, and they’re going to think I’m weak.

Yindra: So what? Since when have you ever cared what everyone else thinks?

Zay: … I don’t know.

Yindra: And besides, even if they do, then you get to do your second favorite thing after dance -- make them eat their words. If they wanna underestimate you, that’s on them, and won’t it feel so much sweeter when you take the crown from them anyway?

Zay smiles to himself. It really is so good to talk to someone who gets it -- who gets how he thinks.

Zay: You got me there.

Yindra: I know I do. So then plan B -- you push through and ignore your doctor. What’s the worst that could happen?

Zay: I severely damage my tendon again, with less likelihood it’ll heal fully the second time around.

Yindra: And if you do that, then it’s all shot. No more Turner, ‘cause you won’t be dancing for a long while after that, if ever again. No more dance, period. At least in plan A, if this really does end up being the early shot that kills your Turner dreams, you still have other routes. I know this school is important to you, but I never believed it was your only path.

Zay: Maybe…

Yindra: Zay, you are the most dedicated, clever, annoyingly go-getting person I know. And I’m including myself in that list. You got Kossal, you elbowed your way into an Off-Broadway role in high school, and you ballsed your way into the transfer program despite completely blowing your original audition. You don’t give it all up when one door closes -- you always find a window and keep climbing. You will find a way to get what you want eventually. If you stop thinking of Turner as this end-all-be-all objective where one move makes or breaks your entire future, then I think yeah, you know what the right move here is.

He does. He did -- he just needed the right person to find the exact right way to drill it through his stubbornly thick skull. He smiles wider, thanking Yindra for the advice.

Zay: I miss you, bitch. I hope you know that.

The sentiment hits Yindra harder than she expected. She smiles, eyes a bit glossy.

Yindra: I miss you too. Now don’t be an idiot.

Zay laughs, promising he’ll do his best. He lets her go, but only with the reassurance that they’ll find time this weekend to actually properly catch up. Yindra agrees.

Once they hang up, Yindra leans back against her pillows, definitely emotional. Only this time, it feels different -- this time, it feels useful. Suddenly, she feels inspired.

How lucky she is, to have things worth missing.

She sits up and reaches for her songwriting notebook.

INT. NYU APARTMENT - RILEY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Riley is practicing her memorization, sitting with her scene on her lap. She murmurs the words under her breath, looking up at the ceiling, then skims to check her recitation. She pauses when she hears the apartment door open, though, expectantly glancing towards her doorway.

Lucas appears moments later, offering her a small smile. He definitely looks better than he did earlier in the day, so for now, it seems he’s recovered. Riley gets up and comes to meet him, sharing a tight embrace.

Lucas: Hey.

Riley: Hi. I’m so glad you’re okay. [ pulling back ] Are you feeling okay?

Lucas: Yeah. For real, this time. Jack picked me up. Did you know that actually eating stable meals makes you feel way better?

Riley gives him a look, torn between amused and exasperated. No duh, Lucas… but at least he knows now.

And that wasn’t the only problem… the two of them settle on her bed, Riley asking if the hospital gave him any advice so this doesn’t happen again. Lucas shrugs vaguely, but does reference what he and Jack talked about regarding working to figure out what he can control and what he can’t.

Lucas: I’m sorry I got weird with you this morning. Clearly, you were right to be concerned. And I don’t want this to become a pattern, the like… friction. I know it’s not good. Just the way things are right now… [ shrugging aimlessly ] something isn’t right. Something’s not working.

Riley: I know. I’ve been thinking about that. When it comes to things you can control… I know you want to be there for Grace. And I think it’s good, really good, that you’re being present rather than disappearing. But I don’t know if the way things are now is the solution either. Having to be there with him, all the time… it can’t be good for you. It would be better if you were able to separate from it, if you had a designated safe place. [ off his nod ] That’s why I think you should live here.

Lucas raises his eyebrows, surprised. Is she serious? Riley holds steady, insisting that she thinks he should move in with her. It will give him a place to be, somewhere not infested with unfriendly stressors or unknowns. The people in this apartment know him; they love him. He spends plenty of time here anyway, so what would be so different? And he’s said it himself that he sleeps best here -- maybe if he had more stability, if he could rely on a soft place to land and a good night’s rest, some of the health issues would improve.

Riley: And it goes without saying, but I certainly would not be opposed to having you here with me.

She takes his hand, running her thumb along his fingers. Lucas considers it, obviously interested in the idea, but he has his reservations.

Lucas: I don’t want to impose on you guys.

Riley: You’re not. You wouldn’t.

Lucas: And what if it doesn’t get better? What if I just get worse? And then you have to deal with that even more --

Riley: Then we cross that bridge when we come to it. I’d much rather try and see what happens then never give it a chance.

Lucas: … and what about Dora? It’s their space too. I don’t wanna like, invade --

Isa, off-screen: Dora is cool with it.

Lucas looks over his shoulder, finding Isa hovering in the doorway. They lean against the doorframe and give him a light smile, crossing their arms. It’s evident that Riley and Isa had this conversation long before he got back.

Riley: We want you to have a home, Lucas. You’ve got one here… if you want it.

Lucas turns his gaze back to Riley, meeting her eyes.

INT. ANYA KELLY DESIGN STUDIO - MAIN FLOOR - DAY

Jade is back to doing her grunt work, having finished the tasks Anya gave her. Back to the humdrummery, it seems. She smiles at some banter Jamal and Skylar are sharing, but gets distracted when an email comes through on her computer.

Even more when she sees who it’s from. Anya Kelly. Subject: This Week. She sits up and clicks open the email.

“Jade,

Excellent work. Everything you turned in this week is exactly what I was hoping for and more. I see a lot of potential in you.

I think we’re going to have a lot of fun.

AK”

Jade’s heart is pounding. She must be dreaming. Her boss, the Anya Kelly, sees potential in her. She put her through the test, and apparently, she passed it with flying colors.

She glances up over her shoulder towards those mysterious frosted glass doors -- where Anya is standing at the balcony overlooking the main floor. Surveying her queendom… then she locks eyes with Jade, giving her a subtle knowing smile.

Then she turns, heading back to her office. Jade tries to hide her excitement, but it bleeds through anyway, smile blossoming on her face.

INT. CHEY APARTMENT - DAY

Nigel is back on the couch with his grandmother, those silly soap operas on the TV again. She’s more focused on her embroidery, though, while Nigel is focused on his laptop. With a flourish, he finishes up the final draft of his first take at his playwriting assignment, smiling to himself. He hits export to PDF and then reaches for his phone, about to eagerly text Jade that it’s done and send a copy her way.

Only he hesitates. He knows she’s busy, and he’s already bothered her enough this week. She never did call him back, and if she really cared to hear about it, she would’ve.

So he puts his phone down, choosing to say nothing, and pulls up an email to send it to Yindra instead.

INT. YINDRA’S APARTMENT - BEDROOM - DAY

It comes through on Yindra’s phone, but she won’t get to it until later. That’s because right now, she’s deep in the creative process, up early in the morning to play out some chords on her electric keyboard in her songwriting corner of the room. She’s totally immersed, more energized than she’s been in weeks. She may have stayed up all night penning the lyrics.

From the notebook open on the edge of her keyboard, we can see her messy scribbles. From the glimpse we get, it seems like her conversation with Charlie is the foundation of the song. Questioning what’s worth the leave, what gets left behind.

Home.

INT. TURNER ACADEMY - DANCE STUDIO - DAY

Rosario’s class is just about to start, all of the transfer hopefuls completing their warm-up stretches or lingering to chat. Rosario herself is at the front of the room, adjusting the sound system to make sure their routine music is ready to go for another day of endurance. Vanessa finishes a leg stretch and sits up straighter, scanning the room. She can’t help but notice a certain someone is missing…

But he shows up. Zay enters the classroom later than usual but still arrives on time, dressed as if it’s any other day. For a moment, it seems like he’s really going to power on through like nothing is wrong… but he passes the rest of the students and approaches Rosario at the front of the room. When he requests her attention, she turns to face him, quirking an eyebrow.

With only mild reluctance, Zay concisely explains the situation with his tendon and that in order to let it heal, he will need to sit out the next couple of classes. He still showed up, and he intends to sit there by the mirrors and not miss a second, but he can’t get up there and give it his all right now. Rosario listens without interruption, expression inscrutable as always.

Rosario: You recognize it’s endurance week.

Zay: Yes.

Rosario: You understand it will be up to you to make up the rehearsal you miss, and that there will be no leniency given if you fall behind.

Zay: Yes.

Rosario: And you’re absolutely sure this is what you want to do?

Although her line of questioning is blunt, it’s unclear how Rosario actually feels about his choice. She doesn’t seem to be convincing him to do or not do it -- she just wants to see whether he actually means it, perhaps as coldly as the industry will ask it of him someday. It’s his choice, but he needs to be prepared for the consequences, whatever they might be.

But even though he’s intimidated, Zay holds his ground.

Zay: Yes. I understand, but this is what I need to do.

Rosario doesn’t comment or argue further. She gives him a curt nod, and Zay makes his walk of shame to the mirrors, settling down in front of them and stretching out his strained leg. His classmates watch in quiet shock -- most of them had no idea he was injured, in the past or now. Gia doesn’t bother to hide a little smirk.

Vanessa stares longest of all. Unlike Gia, though, she doesn’t seem smug about it -- dumbstruck, more than anything else, that Zay Babineaux of all people would willingly back down.

Rosario: Class has started, I don’t see any reason why you all aren’t in formation. Let’s go.

That’s enough to disrupt the stunned mood, the rest of them scrambling to get in place and jostle for top spot now that the toughest competition is, at least for now, out of commission. Zay grits his teeth but stays committed to his choice, rolling his ankle while the rest of his classmates launch into choreography without him.

INT. NYU - FILM CLASSROOM - DAY

Meanwhile, as another class is letting out, Isa makes their way to the front of the classroom and slaps something down on Professor Bennet’s desk.

A thumb drive. He glances at it, then lifts his eyes to look at them, subtle intrigue in his expression prompting what the hell exactly he’s supposed to do with that.

Isa: I thought about it, and I decided that maybe, your feedback may have had some merit. I don’t agree with everything you said, but I can admit it wasn’t my best. So I took your notes and recut the film.

Bennet: That wasn’t part of the assignment.

Isa: I know that. I did it for me. You get a copy just so you know I’m the real deal. I’m not here on borrowed credit and I’m not blowing it off.

Bennet: Okay.

Isa: And I’m going to deliver better. I’m going to prove I deserve to be here.

Bennet: Okay.

Isa: [ irritated with his deadpan reaction ] So I look forward to your next assignment. I intend not to disappoint. Don’t write me off just yet.

With that, Isa huffs and storms out, glad to have made it right but still not a fan of their professor. Bennet watches them exit, still pretty hard to read… but then he picks up the thumb drive, turning it over in his fingers. A light, almost invisible smile ghosts over his features.

INT. GLOBAL BEAT - OFFICE BOX - DAY

Josh is back to square one, with no more clients than before and even less leads. It really feels like he’s hit a dead end, and he has no bright ideas to turn it around or where he might search next. His prospects feel grimmer than ever, and it shows on his face.

But at least he dodged a diva bullet. He spitefully deletes his text messages from Maya, cleansing himself of the memory.

Laughter erupts from the left-hand office, Justin and MELISSA SUZUKI stepping out with one of their new clients -- talented, hip, and beautiful as always. While Justin starts to walk the singer down the hall, Melissa locks their office, then doubles back to address Josh.

Melissa: Yo, Josh, we’re going to have lunch with Delilah and then we’re planning on taking off for the day. Feel free to head out too, take a couple hours off.

Justin, off-screen: It’s Friday, Joshie! Gotta get down on Friday -- get out of here and go live a little!

Melissa beams, echoing the sentiment and then waving goodbye to all the junior producers and assistants in the box. Once they’re gone, Josh settles back into his chair. Leave early? He’s never left early a day in his life. How could he, when there’s so much to do, so much creative labor to be done…

Only, no. There isn’t. Because his career has stalled, and he can’t seem to figure out how to get it out of the ditch. Full disclosure, there really isn’t any reason for him to hang around. He doesn’t need to be there. He’s got nothing to do.

Reluctantly, Josh gathers his things and heads out early in defeat.

INT. L.A. APARTMENT - MAYA’S BEDROOM - DAY

Yindra isn’t the only one hard at work. Left to her own devices and full of indignant spite, Maya is deep in the process of crafting something of her own. On her laptop sitting on her bed, she has multiple windows open of her social media pages. She has her headphones on and has her guitar in her lap, leaning over it to scribble furiously on a pad of paper.

She’s got something up her sleeve… and on the edge of her bed, her notes from Josh are half-slipping off the blankets -- tossed aside yet not discarded.

INT. USC - BING THEATRE - DAY

Farkle’s acting class has assembled in the theatre, in the process of getting selected by the directing students to be mentees for the rest of the semester. The directing students are up on the stage, the freshmen out in the seats. They’re well on their way -- the aforementioned Angelica Hewitt apparently picks Buzz as her mentee, who grimaces based on Farkle’s intel from earlier. Mason laughs under his breath and elbows him tauntingly.

The professor calls forward Jordan. He steps up to center stage, taking a moment, scanning the seats and seemingly scrutinizing all of the freshmen under his intense, contemplative gaze.

Then, his eyes settle on his pick, a light smirk gracing his lips.

Jordan: Farkle Minkus.

Oop! Farkle’s eyes widen. He must’ve misheard. But no, Jordan is staring right at him, and the professor confirms it a moment later when she repeats the pairing as she jots it down.

Jordan Nelson and Farkle Minkus.

Great. Perfect. Wonderful. The way things are going, what else did he expect? Farkle forces himself not to shrink, channeling some of his old-world stubbornness as he matches Jordan’s stare.

If he thinks he’s going to run him into the ground or that he might be fun to mess around with, then just like Maya said, he’s going to prove him wrong.

INT. AAA - PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE - DAY

Eric is just finishing up work for the day when Jack swings by, surprising him with flowers and an unusual amount of energy. Eric smiles and greets him, coming around the desk and accepting the flowers and a kiss.

Eric: Honestly, I should be the one giving you something. You were right about Isa. Thank you for the advice.

Jack: We can settle the score later. Right now, two things. One, I want to run for school board. I think I can make a difference, and we’re going to stick it to those rigid assholes once and for all.

Eric can get behind that. But Jack isn’t done. He delicately takes the flowers from Eric and places them on the desk so he can take his arms instead, crazy smile still on his face.

Eric: What French post-high are you on right now --

Jack: I want to move in together.

Now he’s really got Eric’s attention. His jaw drops open slightly.

Eric: What?

Jack: I want us to live together. I want us to find a place, and move in, and start our new life. [ sincere ] I want us to build a home, Eric. Together.

Eric blinks, trying to figure out if this is real. But both of them are grinning. Jack shakes him lightly, impatient and buzzing with excitement.

Jack: Cool?

Eric: I… yes. Okay, cool, yes, let’s move in together.

Hell yes, partner! Jack squeezes his arms and then pulls him into a hug, Eric returning it happily.

INT. NYU APARTMENT - ISA’S BEDROOM - DAY

Isa returns back from class and drops their bag on the floor of their bedroom with a flourish, releasing a sigh. It’s been a long week, but overall, they’re feeling better about things than at the start. Suppose in college, that’s all you can really ask.

They pull out their phone, having been so hyperfixated on this assignment drama this week that they feel like they’ve gone off the grid. They scroll through a couple of missed messages from Chai, updates from Eric during Lucas’s episode yesterday -- and then they notice the little red badge next to their phone app.

A voicemail. Isa frowns, no clue who would be calling them, or at least not adamantly enough to leave a message. They lift the phone to their ear to listen.

Farkle: [ through the phone ] Um, hey. It’s Farkle. Hope things are going good. I… I was really hoping to talk…

Isa’s expression drops, eyes widening. They slowly lower themselves into their desk chair to listen, way more rapt than moments earlier.

Farkle: [ through the phone ] I know you’re super busy with classes and all that. I mean, so am I. Obviously. And other college life type things. But, uh… well, this week I’m working on this assignment, and for whatever reason I’m having a really hard time deciding some stuff about it. And I just keep thinking about you, and how you’d be able to help me narrow this down with like, no effort at all, so… like I said, I know you’ve been busy, but I… I don’t know. I guess I just wanted to see if you had a second. And just wanted to say that… um, I miss you. A lot. [ with a sheepish laugh ] That sounded so stilted. God. But I mean it. So… yeah. Uh, that’s it. Give me a call if you get the chance… bye.

The voicemail ends, but Isa doesn’t move. It’s got them frozen, for all the exact reasons they’d been avoiding him -- because they have no idea how to respond, because it stirs up all these complicated feelings about so many things that it’s easier not to think about. Because hearing his voice again sent ice through their veins, made their heart race, and felt like the most natural melody to fall back into.

All of that for Farkle Minkus. Isa screws their eyes shut, pressing their hands to their face and letting out a pained groan.

Isa: Fuck.

Indeed. The time for running, for denial, for stubborn inaction is past.

Your move, De La Cruz.

END OF EPISODE.

[tazzytypes]

Apocalypse: Sanctuary - Chapter 16

Hey guys! So sorry for the delay -- if you follow me on Tumblr, you know that it has been a battle trying to get time to work on this next chapter. Between school and work, the burnout is strong this semester and the senioritis definitely doesn't help. Is it just me or are teachers putting a lot more on our plate than they did last semester? Anyways, here's chapter 17 -- This chapter is shorter than usual, but I hope you enjoy it!

Read more on AO3 or find more chapters on the Masterpost!

Stevie’s voice echoed throughout the salon, the woman standing on the same part the brunette witch had once laid. Emily had yet to decide which was more improbable, Stevie Nicks serenading them or the fact that she had gone to hell and back. She stood on her own in the corner of the room in an attempt to ease her nerves. Having something at her back was reassuring, similar to huddling under your sheets as a child. She wasn’t sure, however, which boogeyman she was hiding from.

They all seemed so unfazed. Hell was but a mid-week grocery run. Stevie singing more akin to listening to your sibling practice for an upcoming recital.

Myrtle, Zoe, and Queenie sat poised in the corner of the room, so still that she might have mistaken them for an oil painting. Cordelia and Madison were similarly stationed on the other side of the room, Madison standing by the staircase and Cordelia standing by the door. Misty sat on her own, directly in front of Stevie with tears brimming in her eyes. It wasn’t hard to see that the woman was obsessed. In fact, it quite surprised Emily that Misty had yet to faint.

Stevie Nicks — The White Witch — sang Gypsy. Emily had heard it a thousand times before in her car, in her room, in supermarkets over the intercom, and she was listening to it yet again. Emily was a witch, she had been to hell, she had fought a demon, found out that her dreams were never really just dreams, and now she was watching Stevie Nicks sing. The fever dream continued and the young witch was just along for the ride.

So still was everything that it was hard not to doubt her own mind. Even the warlocks were perched with bated breath, Behold on the stairs and the others above them. Pennypacker was the only one in motion accompanying the siren that was Stevie fucking Nicks. It was impossible not to stare at her. Still, Emily’s eyes couldn’t help but flicker up to the new Supreme. Blue eyes met hers before flicking away. Michael’s expression was firm and stoic. Her friends back home would have called it “resting bitch face,” but she felt there was more to that expression. However, Emily didn’t know him enough to quite define what.

He had been quiet since Cordelia awoke — not that he was particularly chatty to start with. Michael and Ariel were perched above them on the balcony. The Chancellor’s gloating had yet to clear from his face, his eyes flickering to Cordelia again and again. The former Supreme did not indulge him, keeping her eyes firmly set on Misty as if she might disappear. They must have been close, Emily concluded, for her to look like that.

“I knew you for such a short time, but I have missed you forever,” Cordelia had said. It almost made Emily feel bad for doubting the headmistress — almost.

Emily looked around the salon and grabbed a glass of wine. She doubted anyone would comment on her underage drinking. It was the least she deserved after the day’s events.

The distorted voice of a thousand tongues still rang in her ears and her desire for answers burned her with every breath. Grabbing a second glass, she gave into the fire. Her feet were light as she made her way towards the stairs. No one noticed her leave… all except one.

Michael’s gaze was nothing short of sharp, but there was something else to them. She had seen it in hell, reflected a thousand times over in the mirrors that lined the halls of purgatory. It only flashed across his face for but a moment, but she had seen it clear as day.

Michael Langdon was afraid.

Even now, his back to her as she came to the top of the stairs, she could feel that fear. It was anxious and tense, always on alert. The kind that kept you from everyone and everything. It was a fear Emily was all too accustomed to.

“It’s hardly fair,” She spoke, Michael turning only slightly towards her in acknowledgment of her presence. Holding out one of the glasses, Emily came to rest beside him. Stevie continued to sing and the others continued to watch, unaware of their conversation or pretending it wasn’t happening. “This should be for you. Celebrating your success. They usurped your victory with a victory of their own.”

Michael accepted the glass of wine, nursing it in his hand as he leaned on the railing. “I have a feeling this won’t be the last celebration we’ll have. No offense to you witches, but I’d much prefer something with my fellow warlocks.”

He watched her carefully. What had his father meant? A gift? He was supposed to wipe out the witches, not join hands and sing kumbaya. Her eyes focused on him but quickly flitted away back towards the revelry.

Emily shrugged. It was a fair point. She assumed celebrating with strangers wasn’t anyone’s idea of a good time.

“Still,” she said, doing her best to pretend she couldn’t feel his eyes on her, “Enraging, isn’t it… or, at the very least, frustrating.”

“How did Cordelia find you again?” he asked.

Emily pretended not to notice his once-over. Ignoring the question told the young witch all she needed to know. She chuckled and shook her head. “Someone left an anonymous tip. Apparently, there’s a hotline or something… 1-800-is-this-a-witch.”

Michael smiled, a lopsided expression more to signify that he heard her than out of actual enjoyment. Emily’s hazel eyes once again flickered away from his and to the floor before gazing out at Stevie once more. Michael followed her gaze and they rested in a brief, comfortable silence.

“You should be more careful about who you stare at,” She said, so low that the boy-wonder barely heard her speak. Her eyes flickered back to him, the light of the fire accenting a ring of gold around her pupil. “and who sees you doing it. Especially in a crowded cafeteria.”

Zoe had told her about the tip, naturally. It had been one of the many things that ran through the brunette’s brain since she arrived at the academy. A normal person wouldn’t have a good enough sense of witchcraft. Hell, Emily hadn’t even heard about Robichaux before her sudden transfer. Thus, the only logical conclusion was that the anonymous tip was also a witch… or a warlock.

Emily would be lying if she said that the look on Michael’s face didn’t amuse her. She hadn’t been sure at first, but now there was no doubt. Names were something she had always been bad with, but faces? Faces she always remembered. Especially when they were pointed out by a friend as, “that boy who keeps looking at you.”

Michael’s lips twisted and his brows furrowed, his eyes immediately going to survey the witches below. They remained unmoving; eyes fixated on the performance. No one's gaze flickered upward. There were no poorly concealed whispering.

“Do they know?” He noted.

“No.”

Michael finally turned to look at her fully. Either she had something up her sleeve or had yet to learn of the safety that came with dishonesty.

“Why?”

Emily thought for a moment. It was a good question. The coven had been nothing but kind, but something in her gut twisted whenever she thought about baring all her thoughts out to them. She wanted to call it intuition, but it wasn’t as if she could ask Cordelia or even Zoe to confirm that particular assumption.

“They’re very opinionated,” She finally decided,” Everyone is. I need to come to my own conclusion.”

“And what is the question you are trying to answer?”

“What game you’re playing,” she said, surprised when the thoughts spilled past her lips. It was the wine, she imagined. “It’s akin to chess, but I can’t quite place the name of it.”

Michael simply smiled, a detached and unemotional expression. “Maybe one day.”

“Maybe, but for now… congratulations.”

Once again, her words made him pause. She was the first to congratulate him… even among his fellow warlocks. He quickly spoke to hide his surprise.

“To surviving hell,” he said, holding his glass out for a toast. Emily cautiously clinked her glass against his own, the action just as hesitant as when she had taken his hand.

“Did you know,” She spoke again after taking a sip and trying to hide the grimace the bitter drink provoked, “historians speculate that toasts were once used to check for poison?”

“Last I checked you brought the wine, not me.” Michael said, “unless this is a confession to attempted murder.”

Emily looked at him for a moment as her mind comprehended what had just happened, mouth opening and closing like a gaping fish. Michael felt almost proud of the result.

“No, that’s not—” She let out a sigh and pinched her brow, “I ramble when I’m nervous.”

“You’re nervous?”

“I just got back from literal hell. My nickname in high-school was Satan, but that was just a joke.”

Michael laughed. A genuine laugh, not just the ones you did to fill the awkward silence. He tried to hide the expression, but his lips couldn’t help but twist into a small smile.

“Think of it this way,” he said, leaning a bit towards her as they continued to talk, “you’re prepared for the day your time comes.”

“That’s hardly reassuring.”

She took another drink, not bothering to hide her expression of distaste. Emily leaned back on the railing so that she was facing the stairs as if she were expecting someone to sneak upon them. Looking over her shoulder, she stared at her new Supreme and waited for his rebuttal.

“They all have the power to escape their hell,” he said, looking back at the festivities below, “they just choose not to.”

Emily’s brow furrowed, “How do you know that?”

“Call it a gut instinct.”

A silence lapsed between them, both observing the people around them. On this balcony, everything felt so detached. They were but spectators in their own lives, barely retaining control.

“Hell’s personalized, yeah?” Emily finally noted. Michael didn’t look at her, but she could feel his eyes boring into her. He was probably annoyed with her, but for once she couldn’t bring herself to care. “What do think your hell would be?”

“What would yours?”

“I have a few ideas.” The brunette’s lips twisted a bit, a purple hue now forming on them from the wine. “The never-ending hall was close.”

“What was that about, anyway?” Michael found himself asking before he could think. “You said it was purgatory.”

She could only sigh, her eyes bugging a bit as she tried to think. How crazy was crazy? She didn’t even have a basis for comparison anymore. Better yet, how did she even begin to answer?

“I had a dream once. There was a never-ending hall filled with beings that hadn’t been human for so long that they now looked more like shadows. I had to walk down that hall with a basket of… something.” Emily explained. The glassy fog seemed to appear for a moment in her eyes, but she quickly shook it away. “I’d rather dissect a frog for eternity.”

“You have a surprising lack of sympathy for a witch.”

“I don’t know whether I should take that as an insult or a compliment.”

Michael laughed and shook his head. Emily mirrored his expression for a moment, but it quickly fell as her eyes settled on the stairwell. She must have only been in that hellish void for a moment, but it felt like she had been writhing in it for eternity — screaming bloody murder for someone to save her. The shadows of this place taunted her, a predator that could consume her at any moment. Sleep was not going to come easy that night.

“Pain is relative and so seems is hell,” She said, voice detached and distant once more. The change made Michael perk up, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end. “She was in pain… I will be in pain. I am simply jealous of the outlet in which that pain comes in.”

“Envy is surprising as well.”

Emily smiled, wry and humorless. “What can I say? We can’t all be perfect.”

Michael didn’t respond to that, his eyes narrowing onto movement below them. He couldn’t see Cordelia from this position, but he could see Madison. The witch looked back with a confused expression as if someone had thrown something at her back. Her eyes flickered back to Stevie for a moment before she took a few steps back and disappeared out of his view.

Emily followed his gaze, seeing the tail end of Madison disappearing below them. “What do you think they’re plotting?”

“You don’t trust your own kind,” Michael said. A statement. Not a question. Emily simply shrugged.

“I’ve known this world for two months,” She said, “I don’t trust anyone.”

“Yet.”

“Yet,” She agreed with a crooked grin, “Though I suppose not leaving me there in hell earned you a few points in the right direction.”

“Witches zero, warlocks one.”

Emily made a face, lips curling and head cocking in contemplation.

“You’re about an even tie at this point.” She said.

Once again, the silence consumed them. They had gotten used to it, she presumed. Emily wondered how time worked in hell - things had certainly felt like an eternity. It was enough time to make her feel different, somehow. Her eyes flickered to Michael as he stared into the distance. That was a better question for Cordelia, she presumed.

With a sigh she turned back towards Stevie, allowing herself to be serenaded once more. The song came to an end and they watched as Misty shot up and began clapping. Stevie smiled at her and held out a hand which the woman gratefully took, practically skipping towards the singer.

“You think she’d let me take a photo with her?” Emily asked. Michael gave her a befuddled look, brows knitted and nose scrunching. She didn’t notice the look at first, too focused on the scene below them. When she turned, her face immediately mirrored the boy-wonder’s.

“It’s Stevie fucking Nicks,” she said, tone defensive, “My mom was a huge fan of hers.”

Michael simply rolled her eyes and Emily scoff at his ignorance. Bringing her glass to her lips, she tilted her head back and downed the rest of it. She grimaced and shook her head before placing the glass on a nearby table.

“Come on,” she said, nudging his arm a bit and making her way towards the stairs, “you should get one, too. Hang it in your office when you become Supreme.”

Michael turned around to look at her. “You really have no idea of how things work, do you?”

“A month ago, magic was a distant dream of childhood,” Emily spoke, giving him a pointed look and gesturing to the room around her, “I’m in the midst of a train wreck which is my reality.”

That was enough to make Michael chuckle.

“You’re quite the poet.”

Emily could only laugh at that, rolling her eyes for good measure, “Whatever you say, Mr. Supreme.”

The girl’s change of personality was enough to give one whiplash. She had been so timid before they performed Descensum, barely able to meet his eye and cautious as a mouse. Then again, the drinking probably had something to do with it. Michael wondered what she saw in those few moments she had been alone in hell.

Emily waited expectantly. With a sigh, Michael gave in to her demands. Behold looked to them as they descended the stairs. He had seen the brunette pass him on the way up. The suspicion he had before was still evident in the way he looked at her, but now it was accompanied by a hint of surprise. Witches and Warlocks were natural enemies, after all.

Misty’s back was to them as they approached, the only thing visible of the woman being her curly hair and flowery shawl. She and Stevie seemed to be in a serious conversation. Everyone seemed to be in serious conversation, talking to one another in hushed whispers.

Michael followed after Emily, hands behind his back. He regarded the room, eyes scanning over the occupants as their eyes flickered towards him. It would be harder to sneak around now given his new position. He’d have to adapt. Sparing a look back towards the balcony, he found Cordelia settled into her corner of the room once more. Madison was nowhere to be seen. Whatever conversation they had concluded. His expression soured ever slightly. Emily must have been a diversion.

“Excuse me,” the brunette witch spoke. Stevie Nick’s presence seemed to have sobered her somewhat, timid nature returning. Michael turned his gaze back towards her, feeling the eyes upon them. “I don’t mean to be rude, but could we get a picture with you? My mother is a huge fan — practically grew up with your songs as lullabies.”

Misty was beaming, whatever conversation she had with the White Witch obviously going well. She bit her lip as Emily came to stop beside her as if it was the only way to keep herself from spilling every last detail.

“Anything for a fellow witch,” Stevie said happily. Emily reached into her pocket and pulled out her phone. Misty happily took it from her as Michel awkwardly stood to the side. With a sigh, he shoved his hands into his pockets and glanced to his shoes then back up to the balcony. Ariel smiled at him and rose his glass. Michael offered a strained smile in turn.

His attention was pulled away by movement out of the corner of his eye. When he turned, he found Misty waving him over.

“Your turn, Mr. Supreme!”

Michael could only sigh at the nickname but still walked towards Stevie with a strained smile. He was stiff next to the woman, something that seemed to amuse Emily.

“Congratulations on the promotion,” Stevie said as Misty directed them into place, her eyes focused on the camera, “Descensum is a dangerous spell. The last time I visited this coven, it didn’t end well.”

Misty turned to Emily as she took the photo, showing the results to the brunette who smiled and thanked the woman. Michael pulled away from Stevie, the forced smile quickly leaving his face and into something more amicable. Misty showed him his pictures and he just offered a smile and nod before the woman handed the phone back to Emily.

“Where are my manners,” Misty said with an awkward chuckle, motioning to Stevie as she realized the awkward silence building up, “This is Stevie, of course. And Stevie this is—”

Misty paused for a second as she looked to Emily, “Well I don’t think I caught your name.”

“Emily,” The brunette introduced, holding out a hand to Stevie, “I’m new.”

The musician smiled and took Emily’s hand.

“You have a musician’s fingers,” Stevie noted.

“Oh, I’m not—”

“Can’t lie to me, child. Not only am I familiar with these things, I’m a witch as well. What do you play?”

“Only a few things,” Emily admitted, pulling her hands away and allowing them to settle at her side.

“What was your first?”

“Violin,” she said, “tried piano, but couldn’t quite catch on.”

“You’ve certainly fiddled with the devil today,” Stevie noted, turning to smile briefly at her biggest fan, “You were one of the ones who saved our Misty, weren’t you?”

Emily glanced towards the boy-wonder before returning to the woman, “Actually, I was just an unintended side-effect. Michael did all of the work.”

The brunette stood back towards the man as if to guide Stevie’s eyes, biting her lips and looking to him in apology. His eyes flickered from Emily to the other two women, noting their hesitation.

“In that case,” Stevie said, ignoring the way Misty looked between herself and the new Supreme, “Thank you very much. You have done a great deed for this coven. Misty is one of the most powerful witches I know.”

Her tone was cool and icy. Emily couldn’t help watch the two as the tension was drawn between them. It was as if the witches knew something she didn’t. It was infuriating.

“The pleasure is mine,” Michael said, articulate and direct as if he were giving a speech instead of a conversation. The whole interaction felt like a bravado, an act. “Such is the job of the Supreme.”

Emily was pulled away from the conversation as Misty linked their arms together. “So, you’re a fan of Stevie?”

The brunette allowed herself to be distracted, “Not as avid as you — or so I’ve been told.”

“Oh she’s—” Misty said. Her eyes darted once more to Stevie, then Michael, then back to Emily. She squeezed the brunette’s arm for emphasis. “you know how some songs just make you feel like dancin’? That’s Stevie for me.”

Another glance was given towards Michael, Misty’s ever-present smile faltering for just a moment.

“How are you feeling?” Emily asked.

“I’ll be better once I see the sun,” Misty said, pulling her shawl tighter around her, “Anything’s better than this damn candlelight.”

“If I stay down here any longer, I may just go blind,” Emily agreed, doing her best to be reassuring. She tapped the rim of her glasses with her free hand. “Not that my sight was great to begin with.”

Misty smiled at her and squeezed her arm once more.

“So where did Miss Cordelia find you?”

“Georgia.”

“You’re used to the humidity, then.”

Emily nodded, “Too familiar. You from Louisiana?”

“Born and raised,” Misty sang, “Spent most of my life living off the grid in the swamp.”

“Is it more peaceful?”

Misty smiled awkwardly and gave a nod towards Michael and Stevie. The pair were still talking, Stevie leaning back ever slightly and Michael standing with his hands behind his back.

“Certainly has less politics,” The swamp-witch said, earning a small smile from Emily. The two lapsed into silence. Emily was quickly overwhelmed by the sounds around her, head turning a bit to break free of the crackling fire and roar of whispers in every corner of the room.

“If you don’t mind me asking,” Misty spoke, pulling Emily from the chaos, “What was your hell like? I’m assumin’ it's different from everyone. I mean, there was a boy in my chemistry class that seemed to enjoy… well, you know.”

“Do they have dissections in chemistry?”

“He was an avid learner.” Misty said, “or, at least, that’s what his parents called it.”

If the horror of childbirth wasn’t enough to dissuade Emily from having kids, Misty’s comment was enough for her to swear them off entirely.

“It’s all a blur, honestly,” she said, returning to Misty’s question, “All I remember is a door by the River Styx then—”

“Styx?” Misty asked, nose crinkling and brows knitting. Emily opened her mouth to respond but was cut off by a boisterous voice from above.

“I believe this would be a good time to make a toast,” Ariel spoke from above them, clearly enjoying the control he had over the room, “In celebration of old friends and new…”

Emily found her mind wandering as the man spoke. Misty hadn’t known what she spoke of. Was it because of descensum? No, it couldn’t be. From the bits and pieces she had been able to collect from her fellow witches, Misty had lost her life performing the same task they did.

Hazel eyes flickered back to Michael only to find him staring at her in turn. Emily didn’t know how to feel about that look in her eyes. She had seen fear, but that was the most dangerous expression a person could wear. It meant they would do anything to get themselves out of a corner. Michael was a snake sizing her up. Was she a threat or his next meal?

.

.

.

Madison awoke in the night to muttering. In all honesty, she hadn’t had the chance to fall asleep in the first place. While she wore the title of “cold bitch” with pride, the fact that Cordelia looked to her for such a monumental task was suspicious at best. Well, she was a powerful witch — powerful enough for Fiona to think she was supreme.

Her hand went to her neck instinctively. The swamp-bitch’s shit was enough to remove all signs of trauma, but some days Madison swore the gaping wound was still there. Being strangled to death the second time probably didn’t help the fact. Neck-related trauma seemed to be her shit.

With a sigh, Madison tossed and turned, throwing her sleep mask off the side of the bed. This place was darker than fucking night, anyways.

She had just settled back to sleep when the muttering came again.

“Can you can it, Persephone?” Madison snapped, “Some of us want some fucking beauty sleep.”

“Finis venit,” she heard again, somewhat slurred and groggy, “Ante infinitium.”

“Look, Satan,” Madison snipped once more, pulling her phone off the bedside table and turning on the flashlight, “Go the fuck to sleep before I shove my foot up your—”

Madison wasn’t scared by much. She had been to hell where she worked in customer service and given a hand-job to Harvey Weinstein. However, when the light landed upon her temporary roommate, she was, at the very least, startled.

Emily was almost going full exorcist. Sitting straight up from the blankets in which she had made her bed, her eyes stared lifelessly ahead.

“Fenis venit,” she said again, a drunken-like slurring to her voice, “Ante infinitium.”

Then she fell back and resumed snoring.

“Fucking freak,” Madison scoffed, turning off the light and pulling the covers up.

She should have roomed with Zoe.

.

.

.

“How’d you sleep?” Zoe asked Emily as they all stood outside the academy. Two bodyguards packed their things into the car and Emily could only shift from foot to foot as she watched them.

The younger witch’s eyes flickered between the bodyguards and her mentor. Why did they need bodyguards, anyways? “Fine.”

“With Madison?” Queenie said, letting out an incredulous laugh on Emily’s left, “yeah right. She had you sleep on the floor, didn’t she?”

Emily’s eyes flickered to the ground and her lips pursed together.

“… Maybe.”

“Girl, you went to fucking hell, but you’re going to let a blonde bimbo push you around?”

“It kind of worked out,” Emily said, “She snores.”

Madison, only a few feet away from the trio, scoffed loudly and rolled her eyes. Queenie could feel the starlet’s eyes boring into her back.

“How loud?”

Emily’s eyes flickered back to Madison whose nostrils were flaring as she glowered. She expected the look to silence the girl.

“Like a bear.”

Queenie laughed and even Zoe couldn’t help but snort. Madison crossed her arms and huffed, stomping her heel into the ground in protest. She looked like that dog in 101 Dalmatians — the one in the beginning with its snout in the air pompously.

“At least you don’t have to share a room with her,” Zoe said, leaning in close but not bothering to lower her voice, “Did the earplugs help?”

“Very.”

“Whatever,” Madison snapped, “at least I don’t talk in my sleep.”

“And?” Emily said, finally turning to look at the woman, “that’s quiet… and amusing, if you think about it.”

Madison’s eyes narrowed and she took a few steps towards her. Emily sighed as she recognized the signs of a square-up, the woman coming until she was barely a foot away from the brunette.

“You know they have a saying about bears and sticks,” Madison said.

Zoe took a step towards the two, “C’mon Madison. Can’t you just chill for like five seconds?”

“That you should wave one around at a black bear, but not a brown bear?” Emily asked, crossing her arms and ignoring Zoe entirely, “Really important distinction, I’ve heard.”

Madison frowned and narrowed her eyes. The next thing Emily knew, the end of her skirt was on fire.

“What the hell, Madison!” Zoe yelled, quickly moving to perform a counter-spell. However, as soon as she began to cast it, the fire was gone. Emily hadn’t moved an inch, her eyes still firmly set on Madison. She didn’t… she couldn’t… could she?

“Consider it a lesson,” Madison said, crossing her arms and smiling smugly.

“In what,” Zoe exclaimed, “bitch-craft?”

Myrtle’s voice silenced any further retorts, coming to stand with the group with Cordelia at her side. “Can we wait to start the petty squabbles once we get out of this damnable place?”

“Whatever,” Madison said, clipping Emily’s shoulder as she pushed her way towards the car, “I call shotgun.”

Cordelia spared a glance at the other three witches and they followed Madison’s lead obediently. Zoe squeezed Emily’s shoulder as she passed, offering a reassuring smile.

“How are you feeling?” Cordelia asked once the women were out of earshot.

Emily didn’t have a snappy response for that one.

“Different,” she finally decided after a few moments of consideration.

Cordelia patted her cheek. Her eyes were sad as if she knew what the girl had gone through. Emily didn’t like when people presumed things like that.

“The pain will fade.”

“It’s not the pain I worry about.”

“Then what is?” Cordelia asked, brows furrowing.

“The fact that everything made sense there.”

Cordelia opened her mouth to speak but was interrupted by a shout from the car.

“Come on, Delia,” Myrtle called, “The plane takes off in two hours.”

Smiling and nodding, Cordelia squeezed Emily’s shoulder. “We’ll talk more later.”

The brunette had barely a moment to think before she felt a weight over her shoulder. Jumping a bit, she turned to find that Misty had swung an arm around her. The girl was all grins, constantly looking up to the sky and spinning around as if she were dancing from the second they stepped outside.

“Don’t worry too much about Madison,” She said as the two sauntered towards the car, “She’s always mean.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“Wonder what her hell was.”

“Retail,” Emily said, “or so she said. Kind of generic, don’t you think? Then again, generic would probably be an insult to her. Irony, I guess.”

Misty laughed, “I like you. You’re funny.”

The ride to the airport was eventful. While all the girls were tired and ready to go home, a playfulness emerged from their delirium. Cordelia sat near the front of the car, talking in hushed whispers to Myrtle as the rest of them held an avid debate in the backseats. She would glance back at her girls now and again via the rear-view mirror.

“You should really get that checked out,” Emily said, turning back to the starlet, “Snoring is usually a sign of breathing problems.”

Stationed at the center of the car, the newest addition to her family seemed to be blooming. Cordelia had never heard the girl speak so much. She had worried, naturally, the effects hell would have on the girl's psyche. However, her instincts had been right. Giving the girl something to conquer had done Emily some good and revealed more of the magic in her bones.

Madison huffed. “I don’t snore.”

“Like sleep apnea or something?” Zoe asked, clearly reveling in any conversation that pissed off her former roommate.

“Kind of,” Emily said, “when you snore it's because air can’t get through your air passages properly and causes the surrounding tissue to vibrate… or floppy airways.”

“Hey, Madison,” Queenie shouted between chuckles, looking back to the tiny back seat the starlet had been shoved into, “You got floppy airways!”

“At least I don’t have floppy skin.” Madison snapped before grumbling, “Will probably live longer, too.”

“The fuck did you just say?”

“Actually, the belief that weight is correlated with health is inaccurate,” Emily said, “Correlation does not equal causation. Also, haven’t you died three times already?”

“Here’s a question for you,” Madison said, “Do you know how to mind your business?”

“Depends — Do you know how to not be a bitch?”

Queenie let out a barking laugh. Misty giggled a bit as well, leaning into Emily with a smile.

“Almost always,” She whispered to the brunette.

“What did you say, swamp rat?” Madison demanded, taking off her sunglasses just to glower at the pair. She much preferred it when Emily was nearly mute.

“Girls,” Cordelia finally sang, feeling a headache coming on, “can we please save the bickering for when we get back to the academy?”

“Sorry, Miss Cordelia,” Misty quickly apologized, shrinking in her seat.

Madison was anything but apologetic. “Emily started it!”

“Like hell I did!”

“Girls!” Cordelia exclaimed, the whole car falling into a tense silence. If not for the gentle rumble of the engine, one could hear a pin drop. The silence was quickly interrupted by a nearby car slamming into their horn.

“Still quieter than Madison’s snoring,” Emily muttered quietly, a chuckle leaving Cordelia despite herself. Looking in the rear-view mirror, Cordelia watched as Misty leaned into the brunette and whispered something in her ear. Emily smiled and whispered something back, Madison loudly scoffing in response.

She made the right choice, letting Emily into the academy. Still, something the girl had said was stuck on repeat in her head, “…everything made sense there.” Misty had said the girl had used powers in hell. Emily had told the headmistress of her dreams, but Cordelia had also been to hell. It was no dream, not in the slightest. It was real as anything.

Cordelia’s eyes flickered to the back seat, watching her girls. She couldn’t help but wonder if Michael was the one truly rising or if fate had a different future in mind.

[ukome]

bach <33333

(yes, that was a pun.) 

hi humans of all ages, i am BACK and DEFINETELY NOT better than ever !!!!!!! WOOOOOOOOOOOO

anyways my birthday is nearing............. and i also feel guilty about leaving tumblr for so long.................. and i FINALLY DROPPED PIANO................

yeah.

anyways thank you to those who stuck around, hello newcomers, i have risen from the FUCKING DEAD and i am AS narcistic as ever!! <3333 (that was a joke. yes, i joke to cope)

i still have writers block but my guilty conscience is serving as my motivation to write. i say this but i have yet to write anything.

recently been drawing :D trying to draw something for hu tao’s birthday. first time drawing a body. hated it. sticking with headshots, and no one can change my mind <3

fact of the matter is, summers nearing, i’m going to be busy, and yeah. i’ll try working on part 2 for my albedo thing, as well as revising all of my works. (shit.) 

i’ll be updating my banners again 😉😉 (read: changing my writing format. too lazy to make new banners, sorray) that’s it for now. time to hit the sheets and pass out. toodles!

edit: i think i’ll be slowly transferring to an ao3 writer. i’ll post some drabbles/wips on tumblr, as well as conversing with those who remember this old bitch and would like to have a tea party w/ me n gossip 🤩 my dms & inbox r always open

[pers-books]

I was tagged by @thisbluespirit - thanks, hon!

Name: pers-books on Tumblr / Persiflage on AO3 / persiflage_1 on LJ

Fandoms: These days the Berena corner of Holby City. I am largely mono-fannish. I might write the occasional crossover fic, but those are very much a rarity and a general rule, once I move on to writing in a new fandom, I don’t go back to write for an old one. It’s just the way the Bitch Muse works. 

Fandoms I read, however, are multiple. Although I suppose I should say it’s particular ships within a fandom as I tend not to read much outside of a particular ship EXCEPT for Doctor Who - because I have multiple ships in DW, though I mostly only wrote Martha Jones/The Doctor when I was writing Who fic, I read far more ships and also some non-shippy fics (mostly those written by @thisbluespirit!). Currently I read for ships in Doctor Who, Star Trek: Discovery, The Murderbot Diaries (non shippy in that instance!), Warehouse 13, Silent Witness (when I spot some Jill Raymond fic), and whatever else either takes my fancy or I get asked to beta-read. (Just because I’m not in a fandom, doesn’t mean I can’t beta-read it for you. I can at least do a Spelling, Punctuation & Grammar check, and also check for narrative flow, consistency, and for plot holes!)

Where you post: To AO3 these days. Though the Mashed Up Tropes meme fics have been posted here first.

Most popular one-shot: Action and Reaction (Star Trek: Discovery) - 101 Kudos

Most popular multi-chapter: The Red String of Fate (Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)) - 171 Kudos

Fic you were nervous to post: Actually all of them to a certain extent, but especially the first fic in a new-to-me fandom. Also anything I’ve written for a special occasion/request (eg for a fandom event or someone’s birthday. And also anything I’ve written that’s outside my norm/my comfort zone (eg written in the second person or from an outsider PoV or the Agents of SHIELD one with almost no dialogue (Everyone Gets Attached to Something).

How do you choose your titles? Gods, I don’t know. Whatever seems to fit. For my Berena Secret Santa I went with a quote from Shakespeare that lives in my head in perpetuity (What’s past is prologue) (I have a lot of Shakespeare in my head, by the way!) - but it’s not often I use a quote.

Do you outline? Not as a rule these days. I find if I outline it stops me from writing the fic. I try to just hold the idea in the back of my head until the Bitch Muse compels me to write it!

Complete: On AO3 594. There are a helluva lot of Doctor Who fics on my LJ that I’ve never bothered to transfer over, though. Hundreds of them - which is why I’ve not bothered to transfer them. If I added them then I’d probably have at least 1000 as I was very prolific in the DW fandom back in the day. (It was my first fandom.)

Do you take prompts? Yes. Ish. I’m still open for taking the Mashed Up Trope fic prompts if anyone wants to suggest some via an Ask (and yes, I’m aware I have five or six outstanding ones. I promise I’ve not forgotten.) Otherwise, if you want to send me a prompt, if you’ve got a particular idea you’d like to see me write Berena fic for, then send me an Ask, Anon or otherwise. Or contact me via Tumblr’s messaging service. I cannot absolutely guarantee to write something, mind - it very much depends on the Bitch Muse, as always! But I am open to being Asked.

In progress: *snorts* Dozens of the bloody things, the Bitch Muse’s vagaries being what they are! 

Coming soon: Right now I’m trying to finish up another Stocking Filler for the Berena Secret Santa. I’d like to get it done by Xmas Day, but given The Day I’ve had today, I cannot absolutely guarantee to manage that. I’m about half way done (and it’s over well over 5k words so far!). And, if the library coughs up the books I’ve requested for background reading (and the Bitch Muse doesn’t lose interest in the interim!), Busker!Bernie will be forthcoming some time in 2021. 

Tagging: As always, don’t feel obliged to play if you don’t want to: @slightlyintimidating, @rauzadian, @lapalfruity, @corvidden, @doctorjameswatson. @professorflimflam, @wonkots42, @ktlsyrtis, @ariverandasong

[zertzertzhang]

Stand and Deliver: My Life Turned Upside Down CH.2

A/N: This is my first time writing on Tumblr, so please bear with me! I am usually active on FFNet and AO3, but since this fandom is basically nonexistent except for here, I thought maybe I could post my works for this movie here. The story is a fanfic based on the 1988 movie ‘Stand and Deliver’ starring Edward James Olmos, and taking a deeper look into the lives of the impoverished students in East LA.

Eventual Angel/OC, and warnings of racial slurs with some physical violence.

:

:

First chapter link here > https://zertzertzhang.tumblr.com/post/627185848305270784/stand-and-deliver-my-life-turned-upside-down

Chapter Two: Circus

The second Vianne stepped out of the car, she realized her mistake. The school wasn’t what she expected at all. Garfield High broke the scale...in a bad way. Chipped walls decorated the main hall, flooded with overflowing trash bins and rusty pipelines. It had to have been decades since the last renovation, with the building looking like something she saw from abandoned prefectures. 

Like all other complexes she’d seen around there, the place was standing on its last two feet. This was supposed to be the best building around. 

Her white Giuseppe sneakers stepped on something sticky, and it was a challenge to hold in a disgusted snort. There was dried gum everywhere on the sidewalk, making Vianne wonder why they even bothered with trash cans in the first place. She winced when it was clear that her shoes would be torn to shreds by the end of the day.

Then came the worst part of her arrival; people stared. And it wasn’t some half-assed look you gave to a passersby on the streets. Students were either throwing her a look-over or straight on gaping. It could’ve been the way she was dressed, or the fact that she was probably the only Asian mingling in the midst of Latinos and very few Caucasians. Most likely both.

Ironed blouses and slim denim were not in fashion around here. Among the rest of the population with oversized shirts and baggy mom jeans, Vianne was the runt of the litter. She wanted to jump back into the car, go home, and put on an invisibility coat. The dirty look she saw from some of the girls did nothing to calm the queasy storm in her stomach.

“-That fresh meat?”

“It’s a fuckin’ chink. What’re they doin’ here?”

“Heh, looks like a lost puppy.”

The boys were doing a terrible job at whispering. Vianne wasn’t sure if it was an attempt at passive aggression or just plain stupidity. She glared in their direction, lips pulled into a slight frown as she entered the building. A cold sweat broke through her back, stretching its spindly fingers around her body in a tight cocoon. 

Ignore them and get on with it.

Her mind screamed at her to keep walking, and she obliged. Repeating the mental mantra, Vianne soon found her way into the main office with her slip in hand. A handful of police officers crowded in one tiny space, speaking in rapid Spanish. Order did not exist in this school; the secretary was talking to five people at once, without the time to think about the things she said. Voices filled with agitation hung in the air. 

Vianne was this close to thinking she had entered the wrong room when a small figure spotted her from behind.

“Miss? Can I help you?” A small tap on her shoulders sent her whirling around in alarm. Her little outburst startled the short woman behind her as well. When Vienne finally registered the lack of threat in front of her, her cheeks flushed bright red.

“Sorry! I’m looking for Racquel Ortega. It’s my first day and I was told to come here to get my finalized schedule.” The young woman spoke so fast she swore her lips would fall off. 

The curly-haired woman in the maxi dress looked surprised. “Ah, that would be me. Are you Vianne Yang.”

Vianne nodded. “I was supposed to meet my TA instructor for math. It’s my first period.”

Ortega smiled warmly. “Yes. Welcome to Garfield High. Please follow me.” She held out a hand, and Vianne shook them without hesitation. 

The duo weaved back and forth in the crowds, desperate to dodge the flying paper balls. Ortega would yell once in a while at a group of boys before pointing to the office behind her. The way her docile demeanor went from zero to a hundred freaked the young woman a bit. But Vianne couldn’t blame her. Had she been in her shoes, she would’ve quit before she even started.

As it turned out, her instructor was a retired engineer. Of all places, Vianne didn’t expect that to come from a high school teacher, particularly in this neighborhood. Ortega did an excellent job at filling in the details. It would seem that Jaime Escalante needed a breath of fresh air from the corporate environment. 

Vianne almost felt sorry for him. There was no relaxation here; she’d be surprised if the teachers weren’t dropping dead from exhaustion because of the students. Garfield, from what she’d seen so far, could drive a devout nun to insanity. 

The increasing voices of everyone around spiked her anxiety to new levels. She was doing her utmost best to not break down and cling onto the older woman for dear life. The mass of bodies was like an unforgiving current, threatening to wash her away if she slipped up.

They reached a door with the sign ‘Math 1A’ scribbled on the whiteboard next to it. Someone had decided that a drawing of a dick was appropriate to be placed right under the description. The person even added a smiley face onto the artwork, showcasing their enthusiasm. Real classy. 

“Racquel please come to the front desk. Racquel please come to the front desk.” Ortega’s walkie-talkie crinkled pitifully, before choking out a command. The math advisor sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. She nudged Vianne closer to the door. 

“Here’s the classroom. Mr. Escalante should be there already. Good luck with your school year.” A tight smile appeared on Ortega’s face, and within seconds, she was making a mad dash back to the main hall. All alone, Vianne was left standing there feeling like a complete fool. She blinked at where Ortega was previously, and the sense of dread overwhelmed her. On cue, the bell rang its warning. Everyone groaned in unison like a chorus before the wave of students began flowing into the classrooms. 

Lucky for her, she had no need to run to class. Grabbing the nob with renewed strength, Vianne pulled herself into the room. There was one person at the front desk; a middle-aged man nearing his sixties stood near the chalkboard, hand moving furiously as he wrote down an equation. She prayed that this was going to be the right person.

“Mr. Escalante?” Vianne cringed at her pronunciation of his name. She herself knew what it was like when people screwed up hers in the past. But this man had an entirely different level of difficulty. Ortega’s way of saying it felt so natural compared to hers, which sounded like an insecure toddler butchering their first word.

The man turned his head to face Vianne, eyes widening a fraction. His oversized glasses gave him a sage-like appearance despite the head, or half-head, of dark hair. The bald spot in addition to his very casual attire made her think of a grandpa who was likely to yell at the kids across the lawn. 

At the sight of her dumbstruck state, he quirked his lips. “Yes, how may I help you?”

The slight South American accent trailed after his speech, giving away his ethnicity. Vianne felt her mouth open and close, but the nervousness took the words from her mouth. She stuck out her hand that held the transfer letter. Escalante better have known about this, or she’ll flip a lid.

“I’m Vianne,” she explained. “Your TA. I think Mrs. Ortega already told you about me?”

Escalante’s brows rose to new heights, his amused smile broadening. “Yes! Miss Yang, is it? Welcome to my class!” The elongated hiss in his way of speech, coupled with the wild gesture of his arms painted the picture of a mad scientist in her head. It was nearly endearing.

“I’m afraid there’s not enough chairs for an extra student,” Escalante said. “Please stand here and wait for everyone to arrive so I can take a headcount for the others.”

Vianne obeyed without a word and flattened herself against the wall next to him. In response, the door was barged open, and the group of students flooded the room like a swarm of wasps entering their hive. Restless chatter buzzed her ears as she took note of everyone that rounded the class. It was hard to catch what most of them were saying; Spanish wasn’t the language requirement she took back in Napa.

Knowing French wasn’t the best course to help her in this situation. And even then, she only took it up to level two. The people before her all wore the same dazed expression, jeering in loud volumes and hooting on the sides.

Someone shot a rubber band across the room, hitting one of the boys square in the face. Angry shouts erupted from both sides as the rest of them began to laugh at the brawling duo. More paper balls were thrown, and Vianne could hear some of them yelling ‘bitch’ to one another.

It was a fucking joke. The whole class was a joke––scratch that––the whole school was a joke. And Vianne was the poor audience that bought the overpriced ticket to the hellhole circus. There was not a word that could describe the boiling feeling in her gut. She couldn’t believe it; this was the place she had to deal with for another year. 

There was no way the teachers here could’ve survived each day without going into a catatonic state before school ended. Vianne drummed her fingers against her books without mercy. A panic attack was just inches away from happening if the class refused to settle down. And from the look on Escalante’s face, it would appear that they shared the same sentiment.

A scowl donned his face, creasing the heavy lines on his forehead. If it weren’t for Vianne’s distracted state, she would’ve been frightened by those narrowed eyes. 

“Come now!” Escalante’s voice boomed throughout the small room. “You don’t want no mama’s chancla when you get home, no? I’d love to see you fight with your parents around.”

The overt threat was not lost among the students, with some of them slinking away in defeat. Others ‘booed’ at the command, but made no extra attempts to disrupt the already late start of the lecture. It took about five minutes to get their total attention to the board, and that alone fried Vianne’s brain.

“Orale!” Escalante’s mood quickly brightened at the cooperating mass, his smile twinkling with interest. “Allow me to introduce my new TA. She will be your lovely assistant for the rest of the school year. Any extra questions, she will answer for you.”

His hands gestured to her like a magician preparing his new subject for a spin. But only in this state, nothing was magical. It became clear that Escalante was waiting for her to present herself; the man eyed her expectantly, his grin not budging an inch. 

Vianne felt her cheeks flush so hot that it put the musty LA weather to shame. Clearing her throat, she stepped forward. “Hi, uh, I’m Vianne. It’s a pleasure to meet you all...uh, hope I could be of some help.”

An urge to facepalm was strong. Had her grades been irrelevant to her stay in Math 1A, she would’ve made a beeline for the door. The reception after her introduction was a nightmare, because everyone began jabbering all at once.

“The fuck?!” A young man with a messy afro glared at her. His buddies around him sniggered in agreement.

In the front, a chubby male with curly hair snorted. “Booooring!” His female friends rolled their eyes and swatted him on the shoulders. But their giggles weren’t held in for long.

Vianne wanted to find the nearest cliff and throw herself from it. If she converted to Buddihsm now, maybe she’ll even have a decent shot at getting a nice reincarnation.

“First you, now the chink?! This is messed up man!” A few more hostile tones rose from the back. 

Her eyes flared. Vianne changed her mind; she didn’t want to throw herself off a cliff anymore, she wanted to throw them. Her body trembled with brewing rage under her skin. The nerve of the scoundrels! As if she wanted to be here! If it were up to her, she wouldn’t even spare them the time of day. Like an uncontrollable tick, her temper fired in sparks. A snide retort was about to make its way to the public when Escalante’s hands came up in a flash.

“Silence!” The tone of his command left no room for arguments. “Another remark as such, and all of you will be spending Saturday school for a month!”

The teacher was practically bristling from head to toe. His friendly disposition came and went at a dizzying speed, tugging Vianne onto an emotional roller-coaster. However, she was nonetheless grateful for the save. One thing was for sure, skin color was not up for debate in his classroom. At least she found an ally in desperate times. 

At his outcry, the students grumbled amongst themselves and quieted down. She still received dirty looks from the girls, but they were mostly silent. One youngster in the front row with earrings gave her a lopsided grin and tutted with refined casualness.

“Yo ese! Does that mean if you assign sex homework I can ask her number?”

A few other boys cheered from the back, throwing their thumbs up as if they heard the best joke in record time. The girls cringed and sent disgusted scowls their way, with one of them commenting about how horny the bastards were. Only one person in the audience didn’t react. The girl with short, curly hair looked at Vianne, a pitying stare adorned her guise. 

Humiliation wasn’t something Vianne dealt with on a daily basis. And the sudden onslaught nearly had her burst into a tearful temper tantrum. Glancing over to Escalante, she could see the patience waning from him as well. The class was saved from another wrath from either of them when the bell rang again. 

Without a second thought, everyone except for the girl with short hair bolted for the door. The insult Vianne had prepared was lodged in her throat, unable to make their move. Was this a mistake? She was sure that it wasn’t even halfway through the first period, they still had more than an hour left. Time was a foreign concept to her in this town, and she figured her mind must’ve been playing tricks on her.

“Um, is class over?” It was a rhetorical question. But what answered her caught her off guard.

“Give it a minute,” the girl said. Her pencil tapped with a delicate rhythm against the desk as she wore a tired expression. Vianne stared at her with disbelief before turning her head to the instructor. Like the girl, Escalante showed no interest in leaving, instead opting to go towards the window. 

Curiosity got the best of her, and she soon joined him by the blinds. “What’s going on?”

“They rigged the bell again.” From Escalante’s frown, she reckoned that this was a common occurrence. Following his gaze, her eyes landed on a group of young men congregated before the main school alarm. All of them were donned in dark clothing, wearing baggy jeans and beanies. The distance made it hard to see their faces, but Vianne thought she caught sight of a tall figure moving amongst them. He was laughing obnoxiously, while engaging in a bro-shake with a shorter male. 

None of that was relevant, though, because the bell rang again, this time from the superintendent. His red face deepened to a shade of purple as he and the principal began their rounding of the rioting teens. The mob of students were herded back to their respective classrooms, all groaning and whining at the ‘unfair treatment’ of their lunch break.

“Lunch isn’t for another two periods!” Principal Molina shouted. “Get back to class!” His finger pointed to the doors, and his eyes bulged like an angry bull’s.

“Shut the fuck up!” A few students jeered. More paper balls were thrown, but there wasn’t anything Molina could do about it.

All the while, Vianne and the girl sat dumbstruck as they stared at the whirlwind of people coming back to their seats. Vianne swore that if this was how it was going to be for the rest of the day, then she’ll gladly accept them leaving on their own accord.

After another ten minutes wasted on trying to get her classmates to settle down, Escalante wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The toll of the students had taken its effect on him as well. But the sly grin never left his face, unbreakable like hardtack.

“I told you it was futile to escape,” he taunted softly. “There’s always a bigger fish in the pond.” 

Vianne sent him a disbelieving look. Was the man not afraid of backlash? But the rest of the class only ignored him and glared, defeated. The class TA let out a breath of relief, for a moment she feared that it’ll lead to another brawl, this time at the instructor.

“Turn to page fifteen! And I want all of your homework turned in to Vianne right here. Once you’ve done that, work on problems one through ten on the multiplication of fractions.” The command was calm and precise, not a word stuttered. Escalante corrected the glasses on his nose and squinted at the chalkboard, not giving a fuck about the moaning teens.

It was Vianne’s cue to get to work. She didn’t hesitate, and began roaming around the room collecting wrinkled papers. With time, she learned that the girl who stayed behind was Ana, the frizzy-haired girl behind her was Claudia, and next to Claudia was the redheaded Lupe. Neither of the two gave Vianne much of a glance, preferring to ignore her existence as she took their homework.

Not bothering to tell them about the mutual disdain, Vianne clicked away happily. She soon found out that the man who kept asking for sex was Tito, his lopsided smile broadening when she came to take his paper. 

“How ‘bout we do a trade,” Tito suggested, licking his lips. “My work for your number.”

Vianne wished very much to flip him off and top it with a whack on his head. But she chose to snatch the homework from his hands without a word. A snort escaped her as she turned around.

The boy next to him, Frank ‘Pancho’ Garcia, hooted. “Rejected!” 

Tito scoffed. “Tsk, tsk. Playin’ hard to get I see.” He waved a casual hand and went back to his workbook. “It’s her loss.”

That’s what every virgin says. Vianne rolled her eyes at the added comment. The stack of writings were presented to Escalante, who took it with a gracious ‘thank you’. His lack of reaction to the jeers made her question just how much he was going to take because of his job. The probability of him being numb to the antics was high.

 Just when Vianne thought her task was done for the time being, the door creaked open. She raised a brow; there were three more seats left in the corner, so it made sense that there were more people coming in. Facing the entrance, Vianne tried to get a better look than using the corners of her eyes. 

Her stomach lurched at the sight, and she had to bite her lips to keep from hyperventilating. If her memory served her right, then those were the exact same boys she saw loitering around the alarm. The shortest one with a bandana stalked up to the front, head bobbing with self-assured arrogance. His hollow eyes stared at her with mild interest before they hardened when Escalante came into his view.

“Kimo,” he drawled. “Who’s the freshie?” The languid demeanor gave away his stoned state. Vianne made a subconscious step away from him and his pals, eyeing them warily through her glasses. He smirked, showing off a row of white teeth, seemingly glad at her reaction.

“You’re late, Chuco.” To her side, Escalante came into the conversation. “Vianne’s your new TA and I need you to sit your ass on a seat.”

Chuco gave a slighted look her way before he sauntered past her to the back, followed by his buddies. Vianne didn’t realize how tall the teen she saw through the window was until she was mere inches away from him. Dressed in an oversized bomber jacket and jeans too big for his waist, the towering youth could easily pass as a man in his twenties. A good feet taller than her would be a low estimation. 

What on earth are his parents feeding him?! 

Vianne stared straight on, refusing to give him the satisfaction of knowing her discomfort. Like Chuco, he also paid her no attention as he strolled next to the ‘leader’, plopping down on the desk in a bored manner. 

It made sense that Escalante would want their homework as well, so she made a begrudging advance in their direction. Her feet padded across the room, drilling needles of dread into her legs with each stride.

“I need your homework, please.” Vianne tried to sound as polite as possible. But the grinding of teeth made it hard to sound sweet. 

Chuco leered. “Ain’t got no homework, chica. Do the problems in ma head.”

One didn’t need a degree in astrophysics to know he was messing with her. Vianne grinned a little too forcefully and sighed. “Fine. Please turn to page fifteen and work on problems one through ten.”

She walked over to his tall companion, prepared for another unpleasant conversation. “Homework, please.”

The young man proceeded to pull his beanie lower over his ears. At that, Vianne was millimeters away from flipping her shit. Did the blockhead not comprehend? Or was he messing with her, too? Her father did say that certain people around the area couldn’t speak English, so she tried to push the excuse in a better light. Maybe he really didn’t understand her.

“Give me your tarea, por favor?” She tried to remember the basic Spanish from her previous encounters. But her knowledge decided to ditch her last minute. “Uh, Speak Ingles?”

He looked at her, eyes wide with what she hoped was understanding, and his lips twitched. Then his brows joined in, before he busted out laughing. Chuco howled along with him, slapping him on the shoulders with glee. 

“Sometimes,” the tall youth answered. He smirked, tilting his head in her direction. Vianne balled her hands into fists as she watched on. The tips of her ears burned with a passion.

“Orale Angel!” Chuco high-fived him hard. “Nice one!” The duo continued their chorus of laughter, completely oblivious to the subject of their jest.

Vianne wished that turning invisible was a possible feat. It was adamantly clear that this was going to be a long year. The storm inside her grew, barely holding the thunders at bay.

:

:

A/N: As per usual, shoutout to @classic80sand90smovieloves2 for encouraging and helping me get over writers block and whatnot ;)

[fizzyxcustard]

Fear and Loathing (3)

Chapter 1  Chapter 2

Read on AO3

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Fandom: seaQuest 2032

Summary: (Part 2 of The Right Thing - this will be a chaptered fic) Captain Hudson knows that you and Lucas are more than just friends, and after changing your shift rotations to make sure you’re not on duty together, you take things into your own hands and request a transfer from seaQuest. Before your transfer can be processed, officers and crew begin showing signs of extreme anxiety, anger and paranoia. Some are worse affected than others, you being one of them. Can you fight for not only your relationship with Lucas but your state of mind?

Pairings: Ensign Lucas Wolenczak x FemLieutenant!Reader, Commander Jonathan Ford x Lieutenant Lonnie Henderson (only slight)

Warnings: Language, violence, insecurity, angst, paranoia, anxiety, mental instability, very mild sexual references/smut mention, age difference/gap.

Comments: If you wish to be added to my seaQuest tag list, which will be separate from all my other tags, let me know, and I will only tag you in these if you specifically request to be tagged. This is practically a dead fandom now, but I would still like to share my writings with you. If you would like to ask any questions, then by all means just ask! People are probably wondering why I’m still continuing this fic when it gets so little feedback, but it’s purely because I enjoy writing it. It’d a pleasure to be reminiscing in old times. 

You were released from the Med Bay that following evening and decided to head straight to the mess hall for a late dinner. After your panic attack that morning, you had found your body returning to normal. The doctor was happy that your symptoms had subsided but had still directed you to go back for daily check ups at 09:00 hours each morning. The blood sample he had taken was still with the UEO’s Science and Health Division, awaiting thorough analysis.

The mess hall was deserted by now, but the cook was kind enough to re-heat a meal for you before he finished for the night. Peace and quiet had finally settled in your chest as you ate slowly, savouring the array of flavours. You took a deep breath, smiled to yourself and glanced around the room. All you could hear was the gentle hum of seaQuest’s turbines. It was always enough to calm you.

Tony Piccolo entered a short while later, just as you were finishing your last couple of mouthfuls.

“Hi, Tony,” you said cheerfully around a mouthful of assorted vegetables.

“How are you feeling?”

“Good, thank you. Better,” you replied, watching him sit opposite you. “I’ve got to try and rest for the next couple of days, doctor’s orders.”

You couldn’t help but notice that Tony seemed uncomfortable, fidgeting with something in his lap. His brown eyes seemed to have a hard time focusing on you.

“Tony? What’s the matter?”

“I…know you’ve been sick…and it’s happened around Lucas, but he wanted me to give you this.” Tony slowly offered you an unsealed envelope with your name on the front. You took it from Tony with apprehension.

“I’ll, umm, read it. Thanks, Tony.” You took a deep breath and opened out the folded paper, seeing Lucas’ familiar penned scrawl.

I thought I’d do this the old-fashioned way for once. I miss you so much, but I know that something has got to give. These last two months have been the best of my life. Thank you. But I’m terrified of letting them go. I know I’ve behaved wrong. I just couldn’t bear the thought of losing you. And I have to. It’ll hurt like hell seeing you every day and knowing we can’t be together. Please don’t leave. I need you in my life, even if only as a friend. No matter what happens, I will always have your back, and most importantly, will always love you. – Lucas.

Tears slipped down your cheeks as you held the letter. The truth, bottom line, simply, you couldn’t be without him in your life either. “I miss him,” you whispered and began to sob.

“You need to go to him,” Tony said softly.

“We could lose our careers!” you exclaimed.

“Does your career mean more than being with the guy you love?”

Lucas was sat on his bunk, staring absently out into the water of the adjoining tank wall. He pictured you, beautiful and graceful, swimming with Darwin, holding on to the dolphin’s fin, gliding through the water. His chest compressed and ached at the mere thought of it.

“Hey, Luke,” Tony’s voice came.

Lucas never even bothered to turn and look, his gaze still locked on the water. He then heard a sweet voice say his name, the voice of the one who caused this pain. Was he imagining it? Then the voice came again, paired with that familiar scent. He turned in confusion to see you standing beside Tony’s bunk, looking up at him with a smile.

Tony backed out of the room, feeling like a third wheel, but accomplished.

Lucas said your name and jumped down from the bunk. You both rushed together, stopping for a brief second to smile, your faces reflecting each other. Then you kissed, both of you groaning upon the impact. Lucas’ hand cupped your face and his other arm curled around your waist, bringing you in flush against him. His want of you was rising and he pulled away sharp. “I need to control myself when I’m with you,” he said, his blue eyes ablaze with lust and passion for you.

Both of you had only been physical a handful of times in your two-month long relationship, and this was out of fear of being caught. Lucas had grown to know his limits when with you, learning so much about what pleased both of you.

You fondly remembered one instance when you had made love in the Moon Pool whilst Darwin was out hunting fish. How could you possibly push all of this away? How long could you maintain the coldness of your façade towards him? The mask of a dedicated officer was slipping. True, you were dedicated to your duty, but your heart and yearning for Lucas was fast trumping that.

Lucas stayed with you that night in your quarters. To hell with the consequences, you had thought. And you made love for the first time in two weeks. The pace was slow, deep and passionate. As Lucas came, he groaned against your neck and told you he loved you.

“And I love you,” you whispered, kissing him softly.

You both remained together, basking in the afterglow of your intimacy. You lay facing each other beneath the warm blanket on your bed.

“Would you really give up your career for this if you had to?” you asked.

Lucas merely smiled and looked down. “I thought my answer to that would have been obvious.”

“I never imagined I’d ever be that to someone,” you said. “Least of all, someone like you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“You’ve got so much to lose, so much more than my ex fiancée ever did, but you still fight for me. He never did.”

“You were engaged?” Lucas asked in shock.

“It’s a part of my life that I rarely talk about. I was engaged when I was seventeen, and then we split just before I enlisted. He apparently fell out of love with me, but the truth is, I don’t think either of us were ever in love. It was just a relationship of convenience. I’ve had to rely on myself since, and myself alone. Maybe I want someone to look after me now.”

“I’ve got you,” Lucas told you, taking you in his arms. “I’d give all of this up in a heartbeat, my rank and seaQuest, so I could stay with you.”

As Lucas slept behind you, his arm draped over you, you began to think on the true reasons you’d submitted the transfer request. And there was still one question that needed to be asked. Did you do it to save Lucas’ career, or your own? It struck as both an act of selfish need and a need of selfless compassion. Which drive had been the strongest of the two? Or was it possibly a subconscious act of self-sabotage? A test to see how far Lucas would go for you? One thing was certain, if it was indeed a test intended for Lucas, he had passed with flying colours. None of it would let you rest. The questions, shame and self-hatred manifested more intensely as time went by that night.

You slipped out of bed a while later, your mind still racing. You had to force your hand to your mouth to stop Lucas being woken by your gasps.

You’re selfish. You did this just to save your own career, not Lucas’. You don’t love him. You’re just enjoying the thrill of him running around after you like a lost puppy.

The voice was growing stronger, becoming almost audible, almost real inside your head.

Lucas will find out and despise you. You’re selfish. You only pretend to care, when in actual fact you do everything just for yourself. Lucas deserves a beautiful girl, not an ugly, disgusting bitch like you, paying lip service to everyone just to make yourself look good.

It was after midnight when you stood in the calm atmosphere of the Moon Pool. Tears dripped into the tank as you stroked Darwin’s head. The dolphin knew something was wrong, sensing your turmoil. He bumped your hand, his squeals untranslated while the vocorder remained in its charging dock. His all-knowing eyes watched you in curiosity and suddenly you dropped backwards.

Fuck! Even Darwin knows! I’m a fake.

Panic struck you, the terror hitting you so hard like a hurricane. Thoughts and emotions swirled around you, a tornado of self loathing and hatred. You could feel your skin crawling, the sensation of bugs moving, becoming stronger. Until it all became too much and you lost consciousness, that feeling of dizziness pulling you under.

Lucas woke to see you gone and instantly jumped out of your bed, feeling a churn in his stomach. Something was wrong. He didn’t know how he knew it, but he did. He dashed out into the hallway to see Darwin hovering in the tank, his head moving in the way it always did when he was trying to ask for someone to follow.

Lucas followed Darwin back to the Moon Pool and rushed in, finding your body stretched out across the floor.

“Oh, no,” he whispered, getting down onto the ground next to you.

***

You opened your eyes to find yourself in the Med Bay; everything was empty and silent. There was only the beeping of the machines next to your bed. Wires were connected to you, keeping track of your heartbeat. The room was too silent for your liking, until a shadow began to move towards you. It was formless, only the outline of a person. It was hovering a few inches above the floor and moved towards you. As much as you wanted to scream, nothing came out of your mouth, not even breath. Every part of your body froze rigid and gradually the form began to develop, turning into a horrid creature. It had black eyes, fangs and blood dripping from its mouth. Its claws were outstretched, reaching for you.

The monitor next to you began to beep faster and faster. Until the doctor raced back in and saw you sat bolt upright in bed, your eyes wide and focused upon an area in front of you at the foot of the bed.

“Lieutenant?” he called. “Lieutenant?!”

No answer. Nothing else around you mattered, only the space before you.

The beeping got faster, until you dropped down on the bed and began to have a seizure. Your body contorted and your eyes rolled back in your head.

“What’s happening?” Lucas shouted, racing back in with a cup of coffee. He stood next to you, his hand brushing through your hair whilst he was on the verge of tears. He said your name over and over. “It’s okay. I’m here. I won’t leave you.”

“Please, move away, Ensign,” the doctor ordered, holding a syringe.

Finally, your body stopped convulsing and you went calm. The sedative relaxed your muscles, and you drifted into a dreamless sleep, for a short while. Your breathing and heart rate returned to normal, the beeping of your bedside monitor becoming less and less.

“What happened to her?” Lucas asked, stricken by fear and concern.

“She had a seizure. It seemed to be panic induced. I want to give her a full scan, see if there’s any signs of underlying epilepsy,” the doctor said. He looked almost a panicked as Lucas. “I’ve never seen this before, that’s if all her symptoms are linked and the same thing.”

“What are you going to do for her?” Lucas asked.

“Keep her sedated for a few hours and then gradually let her wake. The panic she was suffering was intense fear. Before you came into the room, she was bolt upright, eyes wide. She was looking at something there.” The doctor pointed to the space where you had been staring earlier.

Captain Hudson soon came to the Med Bay, his eyes darting to Lucas as soon as he entered the room. The scene before Hudson made a lump rise in his throat; his youngest crew member, Ensign Wolenczak, sitting with his head bowed in silence, his hand in yours, resting on the edge of your bed.

“How is she, Ensign?” Hudson asked.

Lucas jolted, startled by the Captain’s entrance. “Umm, the doctor has had to sedate her. She begun having hallucinations and had a seizure.” Lucas’ voice broke and he swallowed hard, staring at your pale face. He could see your eyes moving beneath your eyelids and he prayed that whatever you were dreaming was bringing you peace, not terror.

Hudson pulled a chair across and sat opposite your bed, looking across at Lucas, who quickly brushed tears away from his face with back of his hand. “I’m ….s…sorry, Sir,” he stuttered.

“Lucas?” the Captain asked. “It’s okay. She’ll get through this. She’s a fighter, and whatever is causing this, we’ll find a way to cure it.”

“Umm, can I stay with her, Sir?” Lucas asked. “I know that we’re not…”

Hudson felt a sudden surge in shame for his actions and sighed. “Take as long as you need, Ensign.”

******

A few pointers and references:

UEO - United Earth Oceans Organisation; this is the organisation that owns seaQuest and governs underwater territories. 

Darwin/vocorder/Lucas backstory - Darwin the dolphin has his whistles and squeals translated by a machine called a vocorder which was designed and created by Lucas Wolenczak (pronounced Wo-len-check), who is a genius and graduated from Stamford University at 16 and was put on the seaQuest by his father to work as a computer analyst. 

Dagwood - he is a GELF, commonly called a ‘dagger’ in the series. They were genetically engineered people who were used a lot in serving humankind. 

[darlingsdevil]

The Ballads of Rebirth (Arthur Morgan x Reader)

Chapter 15: Full Circle

Summary: The big day. All rejoice!

Masterlist

Tag list: @rollyjogerjones

I still can’t add a read more tab on mobile.. sorry about that :/

A/N: Sorry for my long hiatus, not been super motivated lately so I made this chapter extra long for you guys! Longer than any thing I’ve written before (!!).I promise I sort have been doing productive things.. I guess. Listening to music (Hozier, Lord Huron, Gregory Alan Isakov and the Oh Hello’s are what got this chapter done), playing fallout 76 (I know), working, schoolwork, planning other fics (I have a big announcement coming up!!!)

IMPORTANT PLEASE READ: I wanted to clear some things up in terms of plot hole. My dumbass mistakenly has said that Reader has been in the gang for 15 years, not true - it’s been around 10, but a little less than John (like 3 ish months after him). I have also previously said that John and Reader joined the gang together, again, not true but I already fixed it. Reader joined the gang after John after Arthur saved her from the gang who kidnapped her. Hope this wasn’t too confusing.

As for the ending... yeah.. next chapter, and then epilogue. Not sure that many of you will stay around for the AU - which will be posted SEPARATE, after you read the actual ending >:3c Anyways, here we go.

This is all supposed to be italicized.. it’s italicized on wattpad and ao3, just tumblr decided to be a bitch and not transfer it that way and I’m too lazy to change each paragraph to italics.. so let’s just pretend it is.

•••

Shady Belle was an interesting place for a wedding, it seemed. You had been ushered away from Arthur in the morning, and carted away to Saint Denis with the rest of the women, claiming Shady Belle would be too chaotic to get ready in, which really meant they didn’t want you to get ready with the men around. They had raided your room when the sun rose, waking Arthur too. You were barely able to kiss him goodbye, they carted you out of the room that fast. You wanted to lie next to him all morning, enveloped in his warmth, but your friends had different plans.

Saint Denis was such a difference compared to Chicago, the city you grew up in. You were an orphan living in the cold streets, just barely getting by. You worked in a textile factory for as long as you could remember. You lived in a cheap, one bedroom apartment, before that you simply slept in alleyways with other orphans, huddling by fires. You were uneducated, poor, and always hungry. A man kidnapped you on your way home from work one late evening, and the next thing you knew you were in a cabin in the desert, surrounded by men with guns and a nasty look on their face. Arthur was your savior, Dutch was your teacher, John was your brother, Abigail was your sister, Hosea was your father and the Van der Linde gang was your family.

But that was a long time now. Your wedding was merely hours away.

Arthur was nervous about the whole thing, he didn’t want to make a big deal out of the wedding but Dutch decided otherwise. Dutch thought a wedding was exactly what the entire gang needed, to boost everyone’s morals he had told you. You were beyond nervous for your big day, but with Arthur by your side, the impossible became possible.

Miss Grimshaw was the head of it all, the mastermind of the party. She set everything on a strict schedule, where everyone needed to be and when. She was a godsend during this time, otherwise the wedding would no doubt end up in a shed with you wearing a white sheet as a wedding dress.

Mary Beth was absolutely bouncing off the walls at the idea of a wedding, she thought it was incredibly romantic — two outlaws falling in love. It was something out of those novels she adores.

Saint Denis was hot, humid, and made you feel sticky with sweat. It didn’t help you would be wearing a heavy dress later that day either, but you didn’t mind. Nothing could or would bring you down today.

The first stop to your magical day was the salon. You got your hair trimmed and styled, as well as some makeup, keeping it simple. A few of the other women got their hair done as well. They all looked beautiful. The women could not hide their excitement for you, even a few patrons of the salon came up and congratulated you. Their talk seemingly echoed off the walls.

Abigail put the hair clip in your styled hair, it was a beautiful piece, elegant and dazzling. It was gold with a large pearl at the top and smaller jewels surrounding it. It matched your locket perfectly. Arthur had bought the hair clip for you a few days before.

When you were ready to leave the salon, it was time for the dress store, where you had left the dress. You didn’t want Arthur to see it, and it would no doubt get soiled at Shady Belle. Some of the other women had bought new dresses for the special occasion as well.

You picked it up from the counter, and walked over to the dressing room. All the women sat down on the benches outside of the dressing room, waiting for the big reveal. A few of them had already seen it, as they had gone with you when you picked it out, but none of them had seen you in your full wedding attire.

When you slipped it on over your undergarments you felt like you were floating on a cloud. You were absolutely beautiful. You felt like you could conquer the world in the dress. It was incredibly pretty, it had a loose layered bodice, with lace woven in, long ruffled sleeves and an a-line skirt. You felt your heart strings pull at the mere sight of it, you wondered what Arthur would think of it.

You slowly pushed the door open, hearing your loud heartbeat in your ears. You heard a wave of audible gasps, and then a few squeals, you eyed your white heels nervously, hesitantly looking up at all their faces.

They were all smiling, a few covering their mouths in joy.

“You look so pretty!” Tilly shouted, the rest of the women agreed. You smiled shyly, doing a small twirl.

“I really like the dress,” You said, feeling the cloth sway with you.

“I’d be surprised if Arthur didn’t drop dead the moment he sees you,” Mary Beth said playfully.

“Do you really think so?” You questioned.

“Of course. The man will have a heart attack right there, on the altar,” Molly responded.

You giggled, “I don’t want that to happen!”

“You look so beautiful,” Mary Beth repeated. You nodded her head at her, a smile on your lips.

“I’m so nervous though,” You confessed, sitting down next to Miss Grimshaw. You gripped the edge of the wooden bench, hoping to calm your nerves.

“It’s normal to be nervous, if you aren’t, there’s something wrong.” Sadie was the only married one in the gang, you trusted her advice.

“What if something goes wrong?”

“Nothing will be going wrong today, everyone is going to make sure nothing bad happens,” Abigail reassured you.

“Are you sure? I mean what if Arthur suddenly gets cold feet? What if O’Driscolls raid our camp?”

“If the O’Driscolls try to mess up your day, they’ll have to get through me,” Sadie said rather determinedly, a strange glint in her eye. You would not want to be an O’Driscoll when Sadie Adler was around, or an O’Driscoll in general for that matter.

“Arthur would never turn his back on you. We all see the way he looks at you,” Mary Beth said, a noise of agreement was heard. Mary Beth was right, Arthur would never turn his back on you, you were sure of it.

“Arthur and you do make a handsome couple. I can tell you’re really in love,” Molly responded.

“Thank you, Molly.” You smiled at her.

“We best be getting going, we wouldn’t want her to miss her big day,” Karen reminded everyone. It was getting late after all, there were still some things to do before the ceremony, such as making sure all the men were getting ready instead of getting drunk off their asses. Luckily, most of the preparations were done the night before, but there were still some finishing touches required.

Everyone fretted for you and Arthur to simply sit back and let everyone get your wedding prepared for you. You were wary of coming off as lazy at first, but the gang assured you it was your turn to sit back and relax, after all weddings were supposed to be happy and stress free. So you let everyone pitch in, even Uncle helped.

“Let’s head back then. The bouquet still needs the ribbons in it, we need to make sure dinner is being prepared-” Miss Grimshaw already began barking orders, Karen and Tilly both groaned. Everyone began to get up, gathering all their belongings.

“And you, Miss Morgan, we need you to head inside immediately once we arrive, we can’t have your dress get dirty,” Miss Grimshaw told you as you walked through the streets to get to the wagons.

“And don’t let Arthur see you, it’s bad luck, you know,” Sadie's voice rang out from behind you.

“I know!”

•••

When the rowdy wagons finally came to a stop in front of Shady Belle, you were immediately taken up to Abigail’s room. She shielded you from the eyes of the men, rushing you up the staircase. Abigail and Sadie were not taking the superstitions lightly it seemed. She kicked John out of the room, but Jack was allowed to stay.

You walked over to the window, Abigail sat down on the rickety bed. You slowly pushed the curtains out of the way, looking down to the ground below. Dutch was giving a speech it seemed, Arthur next to him. Your breath was almost stolen from you the moment you laid eyes on him, he was so incredibly handsome. He wasn’t dressed yet, you were glad you hadn’t spotted him in his suit. He was standing proud next to Dutch, Hosea on the other side of him. You watched them for awhile, before letting the curtains fall back into place.

“Are you ever going to have a wedding with John?” You turned to Abigail as she brushed her hair on the bed.

Abigail gave you a look,“Knowing John, probably not.”

You chuckled lightly, “Well, if you ever do, I want to be there.”

“You’ll be the first invited,” She responded. You took the brush from her hands and slowly began getting rid of all the knots in her hair. You shifted behind her, making sure to not crease your dress.

“I still can’t believe you two are getting married. I remember when I caught you two kissing behind that wagon,” She laughed, remembering the awkward moment.

“He was drunk off his ass and I was too. It wasn’t much of a kiss, more like we were eating eachothers face.”

“Yeah but, it was still a kiss, right?”

“I guess it was our first kiss. But our first sweet kiss was the day after when he officially asked me out,” You sighed sweetly.

“John was horrified. I still remember the look on his face when you both arrived back in camp holding hands,” Abigail laughed.

“Hosea always knew. Dutch knew too. We were ogling each other for so long, it was kinda hard not to know.”

“You told me first though, remember?” Abigail said.

“Yeah, I do. And then the next day you went into town and bought a locket for me so I could put Arthur’s photo in it.”

You continued brushing Abigail’s locks. Abigail was the closest thing to a sister you had ever gotten. You stood up for her when the rest of the men saw her as a whore, you showed them she was more than that. You stayed by her side when John left her with a newborn. You had even helped give birth to Jack.

Arthur was closer to John for obvious reasons, but you were still John’s sister too. You were both furious at John when he left. John had betrayed you and Abigail, things were still rocky. Arthur understood what it was like to have a child, it wasn’t easy, but at least he had stayed for Eliza, you had met her twice, she was kind and respectful. Isaac was a smart boy, and looked a lot like Arthur. Arthur was distant for a while after he found out they both died.

“It took you awhile to find the right photo to put in it.”

“It did. I had to get him to take the photo in the first place. I remember I told him it was for a job!” You laughed.

“I’m sure he already suspected it.”

“Probably. I never was a good liar around Arthur,” You said.

“I’m so glad he ended up with you.. Mary and him were a troubled pair.”

“Trust me, I know.” Mary hated you and you hated her. It was the final straw when Mary began talking about you, trying to pull Arthur away from you, putting ideas into his head, and Arthur stopped putting up with it. At the time, you were no rival to Mary, you were more like his annoying little sister. His volatile little sister. You were a lot wilder in those days, no wonder Mary saw you as a threat.

“But honestly, you two are a wonderful couple. Arthur is lucky to have you,” Abigail said sincerely.

“Thank you,” You responded. You were finally done brushing her hair, you set the hairbrush down and sat down on the edge of the bed.

“I’m so nervous about this wedding,” You confessed to her, setting your hands in your lap.

“You have nothing to worry about,” Abigail looked at you. You looked up at her. Her eyes shimmered with pride.

“I don’t even know why I’m worried, I just am.”

“Well I’ll be with you the entire time, you’re my sister, (Y/N). And sisters stick together.”

“Thank you, Abi.” You leaned forward and gave her a hug, your eyes welling with tears of happiness.

When she let go, she sat up from the bed, walking over to the window. She looked down at the scene below with watchful eyes.

“John looks like he just woke up. That damned fool,” Abigail muttered, she turned to Jack, who had been playing with a few pieces of yarn and wood. You nearly laughed at the pitiful sight, you would have to buy him some real toys when you went back into the city. Arthur and you had briefly discussed having children, you had practically raised Jack, with Abigail. Arthur decided once things settled down and Dutch’s plan to go to Tahiti or wherever he decided at the time finally worked, then would be the time. You prayed it would be soon, Arthur would make a wonderful father. You wanted to get away from this life so desperately, you were tired of running, you were tired of killing. All you wanted was a family with Arthur.

You had lived the life of running, fighting to stay alive, killing without second thought. All you wanted was peace.

Abigail picked up Jack, letting out a quiet groan. Jack was getting big, you remember when you first held him, those big eyes looking up at you.

“Jack, do you want to go get what you made your Aunt?” Abigail asked Jack. Jack looked at you with big doe eyes, smiling widely.

“Yes, Mama,” He said, Abigail set him down, he walked towards the drawer by the window and reached open to pull it open. He barely even reached it. His small arms grabbed a small object from inside the drawer. Abigail put her hands on her hips, smiling at her boy.

“He made it himself,” Abigail said as Jack set a flower crown in your hands. It was pretty with wildflowers he had picked. He watched you examine it, smiling brightly.

“I think Uncle Arthur will like it,” He told you.

“Oh, Jack! Thank you so much. This is beautiful.” You gave him a grin, putting the flower crown on. It really was a thoughtful gift.

“He picked a flower for Arthur too, so you would be matching,” Abigail revealed.

“Arthur likes flowers, did you know that, Jack? He’d never let any of us know, though,” You laughed, grabbing a bobby pin from a small box next to the brush, you secured the crown to your hair. Arthur was always drawing flowers in that journal, and in his old one he had kept pressed flowers. Arthur was a secret softy, there was no hiding that. Perhaps it’s why you fell for him, his secret side was so tender and loving, and when he realized he loved you too, that’s all you ever saw of him. He was nothing but kind - even when he called himself a bad man, you saw straight through that. Arthur was a kind man, kinder than any man you had ever met.

“I know,” Jack said simply, setting down next to you. He kicked his legs out in a back and forth motion.

“How do you know?” You asked him, pretending to be shocked.

“Uncle Arthur told me he likes flowers.”

Abigail held back a laugh, looking at you. You glanced at her, giving her a look.

“Uncle Arthur told you he liked flowers?” You repeated.

“He told me when we were by the water. I found a flower and gave it to him,” Jack responded.

“I see. What flower did you give him?”

“It was a purple flower. Uncle Arthur drew it in his journal.” Jack got up from the bed and went back to his yarn and wood, plopping down on the hardwood floors.

You chatted aimlessly with Abigail for a few moments as she continued getting ready. You were beyond scared to walk down that aisle and face Arthur. The longer you waited, the worse your nerves got.

People came up and down the steps, but suddenly you realized that it was John and Arthur coming upstairs. You held your breath. Even Abigail stopped to listen. Butterflies fluttered in your stomach as you heard them speak and walk further and further up the steps.

“John?” Abigail called out.

“What?” He responded, John was close to the door.

“Arthur’s not allowed in,” Abigail replied, she picked up her makeup brush and began applying blush to her face.

“I know. He’s not, he’s going to his room.” You could hear Arthur’s footsteps in the other room.

“Can I come in?” John asked after a moment of silence.

“Sure,” You said. The door opened and there was John. He still wasn’t dressed.

“You look good. I’m sure Arthur will be happy to see you.” John closed the door behind him, walking over to the dresser.

“Think so?” You asked playfully.

“Of course. Why wouldn’t he be?” He chuckled, John pulled out a pair of black slacks and a white shirt. It looked clean enough.

“She’s nervous,” Abigail told John. John looked at you over his shoulder.

“That so? Arthur is too.”

“Did he say anything about me?” You blurted out, feeling like a schoolgirl with a crush. John walked behind the folding screen in the corner of the room.

“He’s real excited to see you,” John said from behind the screen.

“I’m sure everyone out there is,” Abigail chimed in.

“Arthur wanted me to give you something,” John said as he walked out from behind the screen in his wedding outfit. He walked towards you, outstretching his palm.

It was a chocolate bar. You smiled at it, taking it from John.

“What's up with you two and chocolate?” John asked you as he walked over to the cabinet, he leaned against it, watching Jack play with his yarn.

“It’s a long story, but he’s only supposed to give it to me when I’m injured though.”

“Maybe he just wanted to let you know he’s thinking of you,” Abigail spoke, she glared at John, you wondered what that meant.

“I don’t have anything to give him,” You sighed, staring at the chocolate bar. Arthur was always thinking ahead.

“I’m sure he knows you’re thinking of him,” Abigail replied.

“Hopefully.”

You couldn’t bring yourself to eat it, your nerves were too high. All food sounded incredibly unappetizing. You set the chocolate bar on the bedside table. Jack eyed it, his eyes nearly glowing.

“You want the candy bar?” You asked Jack.

He nodded vigorously. Abigail rolled her eyes humorously.

“You can have it,” You told him. It was a gift from Arthur but Jack would have appreciated it even more than you could, and besides, the kid loves candy.

“Thank you, Auntie (Y/N),” He said, grabbing the chocolate bar with eager hands.

“I best be getting down there now, Dutch wants to talk to Arthur and me, good luck out there by the way,” John said, buttoning the top of his collar. He opened the door and left.

Jack continued eating his chocolate, you smiled at the boy. You wanted your own son or daughter so dearly, one with Arthur’s eyes and your hair. That’s all you wanted. You wanted out. As much as you loved your family - you wanted out. You had lived that way for so long, it was all you had ever known. But now you had a chance at freedom - to create your own family with Arthur.

But Arthur would never leave Dutch. And you knew that.

Deep down you knew.

You were tired of the running — tired of the plans, tired of it all. All you wanted was Arthur, him and nothing else. No gang — no killing. Just Arthur.

You didn’t want to raise a child in the gang, that was a foolish dream. You knew how easily the child could go without a parent, you had seen it happen with Abigail and Jack, although John eventually returned.

You were coming to terms with that though. In the world of an outlaw it was to live forever as an outlaw or die trying.

•••

An hour passed - it was already almost time. A majority of the gang members had already left camp. Your nerves were skyrocketing and when Molly knocked on the door to tell you it was time you almost passed out. Abigail gently ushered you to the door. Your hands were shaking as you slowly opened it up, seeing Molly in her special dress.

The plan was to head to a small church where they held outdoor weddings behind the building, the venue backed up to a river so you would be standing by it saying your vows. It was not very far from Shady Belle. Churches were never quite Arthur’s style, so you opted for an outdoor wedding..

You walked down the staircase slowly to the carriage outside, your hands were shaking wildly. Abigail held you tightly, Jack at her hip. The carriage was waiting outside for you. The camp was deserted behind you, it was strange to see. It was almost eerie, the lack of life, but you knew later tonight it would be bustling with it.

Abigail helped you up into the carriage. Once everyone was in the driver set off. Your heart pounded in your ears, your stomach churning.

“I’m so nervous.” You clasped your gloved hands tightly in your lap, as if it would somehow stop the shaking. Every turn, every jolt, it did not help with your nerves at all.

“I know, dear,” Molly said, putting her hands over yours. Abigail watched you sympathetically, she knew this wasn’t easy.

The carriage moved closer and closer to the venue. Arthur was surely feeling the same way, hopefully not to the same extent.

You were silent for most of the ride, Abigail and Molly talked fruitlessly, but you could not focus on their words. It felt like there were a thousand thoughts in your mind but not a single one was coming to your mind clearly, they were all shrouded in nervousness.

When the carriage suddenly came to a stop your heart jumped. You looked out the window and held your breath. This was it.

You were getting married. Today. Right now.

It was suddenly almost hard to wrap your mind around it. Abigail had to lightly nudge you out of the carriage, otherwise you would have been frozen in that seat.

You stepped out of the carriage, the sun was bright and slowly setting in the sky. By the time you would all get back tonight - it would surely be night.

Charles and John were waiting outside of the church for you. Every step closer to the church felt heavier and heavier, it was beginning to be hard to stand up straight.

“You look nice,” Charles said, holding the door open for you. Sunlight seeped in from the windows of the church, it was dusty inside. Sadie, Miss Grimshaw and Mary Beth sat on one of the pews, waiting for you.

“Thank you, Charles.”

Mary Beth gave you a small wave as you walked closer to them. Molly, Abigail, Jack and John behind you. It was hot and dry inside the church, it did not help that you were wearing a heavy dress either.

You opened your mouth to say something to Sadie, but Miss Grimshaw quickly cut you off. Molly walked out the back door to the ceremony.

“Arthur’s in the room behind the altar, with Dutch and Hosea. The Processional is starting in five minutes,” Miss Grimshaw reminded everyone. You nodded slowly. Five minutes felt like nothing. Abigail clipped the veil into your hair as Miss Grimshaw spoke. The veil was long and trailed to the floor, with lots of lace that was intricately woven.

“The order goes Dutch, Miss Grimshaw, Arthur, Charles, John, me, Mary Beth, Abigail, Jack and then our bride with Hosea,” Sadie read off from a piece of paper she had been holding.

“Then I’ll get out there with them, and you, Abigail, make sure the boy doesn’t drop the rings,” Miss Grimshaw finished, she turned swiftly towards the room behind the altar. Charles and John followed suit.

You sat down on one of the pews, your heeled foot tapping tirelessly against the floors. You tried to think of something calming, but nothing came to mind. It all was scrambled, your brain desperately grasping at a comprehensible thought.

“You’ll be fine,” Sadie told you as she leaned against the pew.

“You will be,” Mary Beth agreed.

“I’m afraid I’ll mess up.”

“You won’t mess up, you’ll be fine,” Abigail beamed. The seconds ticked on, the women sticking to their own conversations after noticing the worry in your eyes.

The music began and you immediately perked up, five minutes seemingly goes fast when your mind is a jumbled mess.

Sadie, Mary Beth and Abigail got up. Jack held onto his mother’s dress tightly. Abigail turned to smile at you sweetly as they walked closer and closer to the back. You gave her a small wave of goodbye. She mouthed “you’ll do great.” as she vanished behind the door.

The church was now completely deserted, it was now you and your thoughts. About a minute passed before Abigail knocked on the door. You hesitantly walked over to the looming door. Your heart beating wildly, like it would jump out of your chest.

You opened it and took a small breath, trying to calm your screaming nerves. In a few moments, you would see Arthur, and he would see you. And you would be his, and he would be yours. Years of yearning, wishing the other would be at their side, who knew it would come to this? He would be yours and you would be his. It was as simple as that.

Hosea was waiting on the other side for you, looking handsome as ever in his suit. He was the closest thing to a father you had ever gotten, it was only fitting he would walk you down the aisle. He smiled at the sight of you, unable to hide his pride.

The small compartment behind the church was small too. The door was open leading to the altar where Arthur was waiting for you, but a path obscured by trees hid it from you.

“You look beautiful,” He whispered, resting a hand on your shoulder. You stared at the door, waiting for your turn. You smiled politely, although you were not facing him.

The summer buzz of cicadas was heard even as the Procession played, a melodic tune. You waited for the music to change into your entrance.

“You’ll do fine out there, Arthur loves you,” Hosea’s words were quiet, but you could hear them loud as day. It was entirely true of course. Hosea was always right.

The music slowly shifted into a much slower song, and you knew. This was it. Hosea slid his arm through yours, your right arm holding the bouquet. You both slowly stepped out into the bright day. You felt like you were floating on a cloud — like nothing could ever bring you down. The dirt crunched underneath your feet as the aisle slowly came into view. Hosea’s arm was steady and soothing, his steps slow and methodical.

Worries drifted away as you slowly came into view, the wedding party rising at your arrival. The music continued to play a slow, beautiful tune, the cicadas humming happily and the rush of the river drumming thunderously.

And then there was Arthur, smiling at you like you were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his entire life. You were closer now to him, every step bringing you nearer and nearer to his heart.

Arthur was handsome. He was gorgeous. And he was yours — all yours. He was sporting a dashing black suit, perfectly tailored. The flower in his chest pocket was the same as the ones in your hair.

It was like there was a beam of light radiating from him, Arthur had always been your beacon even in the darkest of times. He was love itself.

You felt the eyes of your friends and family on you, but you could only focus on Arthur.

When you finally reached the altar, your hearts felt like they were being synced, beating as one rather than two. The officiant stood behind Arthur, underneath two trees with a small arch decorated with flowers, Sadie and Mary Beth waiting for you on the left, John and Charles next to Arthur.

Hosea let go off your arm, smiling the entire time. He took his place next to Dutch in the front row, you handed Abigail your bouquet and stood next to Arthur underneath the arch, he took your hands in his. His hands were rough and strong, but they felt like home.

You looked into those eyes of endless waves, you only felt love and happiness from him. He looked like a prince, like there was supposed to be a crown sitting on top of his head, rather than the flower one you wore.

The officiant began with a welcome as the guests sat down.

“Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the presence of these witnesses, to join Arthur and (Y/N) in matrimony, which is commended to be honorable among all men; and therefore is not by any to be entered into unadvisedly or lightly, but reverently, discreetly, advisedly and solemnly. Into this holy estate these two persons present now come to be joined. If any person can show just cause why they may not be joined together, let them speak now or forever hold their peace." The officiant said. This was really it, you kept reminding yourself. You both looked towards the crowd, for a fleeting moment you wondered if anyone would speak up. Arthur wondered the same, perhaps Micah would think he was funny and say something completely out of line, but he didn’t.

Arthur thought you were a goddess in your beautiful white gown. It looked exactly like something you would wear, the dress accented your body wonderfully, he couldn’t help but admire it.

The officiant spoke some more, weddings, love, union, the beginning of your new life - but you could barely focus on it. Your only focus was Arthur. Your fiancé, your best friend, your husband in a matter of moments.

“And now the bride and the groom are to exchange vows,” The officiant proclaimed. He gave you your paper with the vows.

Tears slowly started forming in your eyes as you shakily held the paper, smiling through it all.

“I remember when you found me alone in that cabin, that day you saved me in more ways than one. You taught me to love, to laugh, to trust. You have been my best friend, my companion, my lover and now you will be my husband. You have stayed by me when I was sick, injured, drunk, crying, you were there for it all. And I shall be there for you, I will choose you every time. I devote myself to you, Arthur Morgan, in sickness and in health. For I am yours, and you are mine.” You squeezed Arthur’s hand tightly, feeling the words come out naturally, like you had been waiting to say them your entire life. His smile widened throughout your entire vow.

The officiant held the paper out to Arthur, he let go of your hand to take it. You remembered him saying writing vows was hard, saying that his words sounded like nonsense. But they weren’t nonsense, Arthur was a gifted writer, whether he knew it or not. The thoughts in his journal (which you rarely ever saw) were something precious.

“My dear (Y/N), the first day I met you I knew I would like you. And I was right, and here we are now years later. It’s been a wild last few years, reckless too, but this is our first step into our new life, and we best not waste it. You are my love, you are my light, and I love you more than anything in this world. Nothing can or will separate us from now till the end of time,” He finished, his eyes brimming with love. Nothing could have prepared you for this moment, looking into his eyes and only feeling happiness. Like it was only you and him in this entire universe.

“Arthur, do you take Y/N L/N to be your lawfully wedded wife, through sickness and health, till death do you part?” The officiant asked. Arthur looked towards the man and nodded.

“I do.”

“And do you, Y/N, take Arthur Morgan to be your lawfully wedded husband, through sickness and health, till death do you part?”

“I do,” You said to Arthur. You smiled uncontrollably, and tried to stop the tears that were threatening to spill out the corner of your eyes.

The officiant leaned down to take the rings from Jack.

“Arthur, take this ring and place it on her finger.” Arthur took the ring from the man, and you presented your left hand to him. He slipped it on effortlessly.

“I give you this ring as a symbol of my love and faithfulness to you.”

“Y/N, take this ring and place it on his finger.” You grabbed the ring, feeling the weight of it in your hand, you slipped it on his strong hand.

“I give you this ring as a symbol of my love and faithfulness to you,” You rang out loud and clear. Speaking only to him. Words that would forever bind you to him.

“And remember, love is an unbreakable bond, it is gratitude, it is faithfulness, it is kindness, it is forgiveness, it is everything good in this world. Lovers will always find a way back to each other,” The officiant said with parting words.

“With the power invested in me, I now declare you husband and wife. You may now kiss your bride.”

You both leaned in, he grabbed your waist, you took his face in your hand. And you kissed him, and you kissed him. His mouth against yours, it was a rushing moment, like you were soaring above the clouds. And you felt the love between, the hearts beating as one. Arthur was secure, he was your lifeline, he was your home. Arthur was yours.

Cheers were heard as you both retreated. You took his hand in his as you made your way back down the aisle. The crowd stood up for you, clapping the whole way. You would have to get used to the new weight on your finger, it was different than the engagement ring.

Once you were back on the path, you finally spoke, unable to hide your excitement.

“Gosh, I was so nervous all day, but when I got up there it wasn’t bad at all!” You exclaimed, walking closer to the church. The forest singing a merry tune for you

“I know, John had mentioned earlier that you was nervous,” Arthur replied. Your heart was beating quickly, but this time not with nerves, with excitement, with joy.

“And thank you, for the chocolate by the way. I ended up giving it to Jack, since he was ogling it the entire time,” You laughed, speaking quickly. Arthur held the door open for you as you entered the church.

“I was wondering if you would eat it or not.”

“Jack liked it. He also said he picked you that flower,” You told Arthur as you walked towards the front of the church, out towards the carriage

“The flower crown looks nice in your hair, I think he made a good choice.” You opened the door to the carriage outside. The rest of the gang would come back to camp after you left. Arthur helped you into the carriage while the driver congratulated you two.

At 19 you expected to live the rest of your life with a gang of merciless strangers who beat and did horrible things to you, but now here you are, 10 years later - married to the man who had saved you. And he had saved you every day since then, reminding that you were worth the love he could give.

And he was yours, and you were his.

•••

The party still roared to life outside. There was a feast fit for a group of outlaws, cake, never ending drinks, a vibrant bonfire, poker, stories, toasts, talks. It was everything you hoped your wedding would be. Hosea and Dutch were like proud fathers the entire night. You even saw what looked like Miss Grimshaw wiping away some tears when Hosea gave his speech.

It was interesting to say the least — when the songs started, you knew a majority of the camp had gotten drunk. Barely anyone had retired for the night — besides Strauss, and Reverend who had already blacked out. They sang songs for you and Arthur, they sang songs about love, about sex (which made you blush and hide your face, while Arthur had a dumb smirk on his face). You had switched out of your dress after the ceremony and opted for a looser small white dress.

When the crowd began saying the ‘Ring Dang Doo’ you groaned, knowing everyone would be looking at you. Arthur laughed as he sang along, watching you the entire time. The hoops and hollers were joyous as you hid your face in Arthur’s shoulder.

When the song was finally over you let out a sigh of relief, but you remained nuzzled into your husband's side. He was warm from drinking, and he had a happy glow to him. There was not another place you would rather be than to be next to him.

Hours passed smoothly, the songs became less rowdy as the party goers quickly dropped, hopefully not too hard. It was hard to believe your wedding day was over. You remained by Arthur’s side for a majority of the night. By the time Javier and John had packed up for the night — as well as an insufferably drunk Sean who’d fallen on his face getting up, it left only you and Arthur.

The fire crackled and sputtered as the remaining embers shuddered, praying to stay lit. The night was slowly coming to end, the final waves of darkness would be over soon, and light would wash over the terrain.

You were tired, you’d been awake for nearly a full day now. Your head rested on Arthur’s shoulder as he stared meaningfully into the fire, both of your eyelids heavy. You slowly blinked, trying to stay awake, to not fall asleep in the middle of camp.

“You know we could get away from this all, Arthur,” You mentioned to him, trying to suppress a yawn that was threatening to be released from your mouth.

Arthur replied with a questioning hum.

You looked up at him, “We could get away from this life, you know, start our own family.”

“You know I want that, sweetheart. Life’s just a mess right now, not sure it’s the right time,” He sighed. You turned back to look at the dwindling fire.

“I know, Arthur, I do. I just — I want a child of our own, a house, a family.”

“We’ll have that one day.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.”

•••