#well future wip

[way2gosuperrstarr]

wip pf the guys ..... was suppsoed to match the little clip one but its turning out a bit more neat than that 💀 might redraw clip's too to make a more matching 'set' since i also used like .. a completely different brush on that one and it would drive me actually insane having a 'set' of images drawn in completely different brushes

[cnth-rb]

Drawing some siblings.

[the-ace-with-spades]

Bradley is eleven, will turn twelve in five months, his mom has been dead for over a year, and his dad for over nine.

His homeroom teacher gives him a permission slip for a school trip to some dumb museum Bradley’s probably already been to and says, “Your dad needs to sign it before next Monday.”

It’s Mav picking him up from school today — it’s Ice, usually, but he is supervising night-time flight maneuvers tonight — so Bradley gets in the car and they go over the normal, how was school today, any new grades, any homework to do, do you need to bring anything for class tomorrow.

They’ve stopped at a light and Bradley takes out the permission slip and says, “Mrs. Sanchez said my dad needs to sign it before Monday or I won’t go.”

Mav—Mav freezes. His hand grips the shift gear and he clenches his jaw, not looking at Bradley. The car behind them has to honk for him to snap out of it.

“I’m—I’m not your dad, Bradley,” he finally says.

“It’s just what Mrs. Sanchez said,” he points out. He doesn’t think it’s such a big deal — Mav’s been doing everything a dad would for years now, for Bradley, and Ice has been helping him the last couple of years. It’s a conclusion that many come to and it seems logical. Bradley is sure half of his teachers thought that even back when his mom was alive, Mav had certainly been to enough PTA meetings with her that it’d be an easy mistake.

“You can correct her, buddy, no one is going to be mad if you correct her, okay?”

They arrive at the house and Mav still hasn’t added anything. Bradley shrugs it off — Mav has these moments, sometimes, when he gets all quiet and unresponsive. Ice usually tells him to leave him alone or wait a couple of hours and try to cuddle with him. Bradley is kind of too big for that now, but it seems to help sometimes.

So Bradley asks if Mav needs help with dinner and after hearing no, goes back to his room.

Out of all that mess, he forgets about the permission slip.

He sits down and fills out all the empty lines so Mav just has to sign it — in capital letters, his handwriting isn’t that readable yet — and leaves just that last line with the date and signature empty.

He thinks, once again, about what Mrs. Sanchez said.

He doesn’t feel the need to correct her, still. He barely remembers his dad — he knows he loved them and he’ll never forget all the stories he heard from everyone but they’re, well, just stories. Mav is the one who taught him how to ride a bike and helped him make stupid macaroni projects for art classes, taught him how to count to a hundred, and how to tie his shoelaces and who would notice when Bradley was outgrowing his clothes or needed a new shoe size. Mav is there, every memory he has. Mav loves him like his mom and dad did.

Mav is his dad.

If Bradley’d really think about it, Ice is getting really close to being his dad, too. He’s making Bradley’s school lunches and helping him with his English homework from time to time, and he comes to Bradley’s matches and, even if Mav will never admit it, he’s the one who choses Bradley’s Christmas and birthday presents. He makes him hot chocolate when he has nightmares and stays with him for hours in the living room, reading plane manuals out loud, in the same tone his mom used to use to read his bedtime stories.

Bradley calling Mav his dad is as logical as people assuming he is his dad. And maybe it can be the same with Ice, in the near future, or maybe even now, if he agrees.

Bradley wants to call Mav dad.

So he grabs the permission slip and goes to the kitchen to tell him that.

“I don’t know, Ice, I just don’t know.”

He doesn’t notice Bradley there, standing with the piece of paper in his hand in the doorway. The phone’s cord is stretched across the kitchen, almost completely straight, as he talks with the handle between his ear and shoulder, slicing an onion at the same time.

“I’ve always wanted to have kids, as unrealistic as it seemed, but not like this,” he continues. “It wasn’t supposed to be like this, I’m not his dad, he’s not my son, it’s just wrong to think that, I’m not—He can’t think that.”

Bradley blinks. Once, twice, a third time. Takes a quiet step back behind the doorframe, flattens his back on the cold wall. Holds his breath.

“I mean, you’ve always said you don’t want kids,” Mav says, the knife clanking on the cutting board as he changes the hand holding the phone. “We made do with the situation, obviously, but we’re not his parents—”

Bradley doesn’t want to hear more.

*

Bradley was right — he’s already been to the Castle Air Museum. More than once, with his mom, with Mav and Ice, and with Uncle Slider and Aunt Sarah.

His dad didn’t sign the permission slip but Mav did.

It’s sunny so they’re left to wander around the outside display. The tour was boring — their tour guide couldn’t even answer the questions about engines and wingspans and takeoff capacity and it was so disappointing to know more than the adult that was supposed to teach them, again.

The rest of his class went with the tour guide, to see the open cockpit of the Mentor but Bradley just turned around to the F-4 that was on the edge of the display, old and partially reconstructed with cheap metal and plastic. He sits down on the grass in front of it and lets the sun shine at the modern paint that should not belong on the fuselage of a Phantom.

Mrs. Sanchez comes over, standing above him, looking at the Phantom with an appreciation that is clearly less understanding and more awe at the sight. She hums before asking Bradley, “You don’t want to see the cockpit with everyone? Maybe they’ll let you sit in the pilot seat, today. Our group is small.”

The open cockpit belongs to T-34, a piston-driven one they stopped using in the fifties. “I flew one of those, but it was a T-34C, powered by a turboprop.”

Mrs. Sanchez looks at him, tilting her head a bit, not really understanding what Bradley said, like most people don’t when he talks about planes. ”I suppose it’s not that impressive of a place when your dad is a naval aviator, is it?”

Mav told him to correct her so he does, “He’s not my dad.”

He brings his knees closer, wishing she’d go away. Instead, she sits down next to him, her white pants smudged green by the grass in seconds.

“Is something wrong at home, Bradley? Is your—Is everything okay with Pete?”

“Yeah,” he says because he doesn't want to be whiney. He’s already been enough trouble. “His dad flew one of those.”

Mrs. Sanchez looks at the plague in front of them to remind herself of the plane’s name. “A Phantom?”

“Yeah, during Vietnam War.”

“He must be really proud of Pete then.”

Bradley supposes he’d be. “He didn’t come back.”

Mav lost his dad, too, and then his mom. He met Bradley’s mom in the foster system and she became like a sister to him. Bradley probably wouldn’t even know Mav if Duke Mitchell was alive.

Bradley was in the foster system for three weeks when his mom died, before Mav and his case worker had filed all the appropriate paperwork. He was placed in a foster family in the neighboring town — the wife, Sandie, didn’t work and would take him to school every morning, and the husband, Robert, was a corporate lawyer, bent from six to five. They would take Bradley to church every Sunday with the rest of the kids even though Sundays were the only days Mav had enough time to drive out of Fresno and visit him while the paperwork was still in progress,

They were nice, he supposes, and some of the kids called them mom and dad, so they couldn’t be too bad.

“Is there a way I could go back to the foster system?” 

Mrs. Sanchez looks away from the plane, clears her throat, and asks gently, “Why would you go back there?”

“I dunno, just—Is there a way to put me back there?”

“I don’t think so, no, Bradley, not unless—” she breaks off, taking a deep breath, and says softly, “I’m sure Pete wouldn’t like that.”

Maybe he wouldn’t like that but it’d make everything easier for everyone.

*

It’s a few weeks later. Mrs. Sanchez hasn’t mentioned anything to Bradley even if she keeps on looking out for him during recess so he doesn’t think she’ll drill the topic.

Mav and Ice have both gone to the PTA meeting which Bradley finds odd. They’ve always been very careful about their relationship — his mom had given him a talk about how he couldn’t call Ice Mav’s boyfriend when he was six, well, Bradley had called him his husband because he didn’t really know the difference back then, and he had been instructed to keep it a secret.

He’s never mentioned it to anyone, since then, especially not to Mrs. Sanchez. He used to think it was stupid because they were both his parents and they should both be allowed to come to his plays and career days and charity fairs, but now he supposes it was convenient since Ice didn’t want a kid and probably didn’t want to be included in all those parental stuff anyway.

They pick him up from Uncle Slider and Aunt Sarah’s place but they don’t say anything. Usually, they at least mention that Bradley has good grades.

Maybe he’s doing something wrong, again. He got into one fight a couple of weeks ago but Mav said it was alright as long as it didn’t happen again.

“Can you come up to the living room once you unpack?”

Bradley takes his time. He unpacks his English homework, the only one he couldn’t do but also one Uncle Slider couldn’t really help him with — Aunt Sarah probably could but she’s been sleeping the whole time because apparently being six months pregnant is making her super sleepy. Contemplates asking Ice for help with it but decides it’s probably better he doesn’t.

He needs to start doing these things alone. He can’t bother them forever.

In six years, he’s going to be in college, and he holds onto that thought.

“So, your grades are perfect and we’re really proud of how well you’re doing in school, but—But Mrs. Sanchez mentioned a couple of things about your behavior,” Mav says.

Bradley doesn’t sit down with them on the couch even though they left space for him in the middle. He also doesn’t reply anything.

They both look at Bradley for a long moment and he fidgets under their gazes.

“Mrs. Sanchez said you asked her whether we—whether we can give you back for adoption,” Mav begins. “We’re just worried about where that question came from, Bradley, we aren’t going to—”

He said we like Ice actually wants anything to do with Bradley’s guardianship.

“We love you, Bradley, we promised your mom we’d take care of you and—”

He isn’t their son. He’s a promise they’re keeping and nothing else.

“Can I go back to my room?”

“Buddy—” Mav begins again.

Bradley doesn’t want to hear whatever he has to say. He already knows everything he needs to know.

“I know you love me, I know you won’t give me back. It was just a stupid question, is all,” he says because that was the truth — they promised his mom they would love him and here they were, trying very hard to do that.

They don’t need to pretend it’s anything else.

“Okay,” Ice says, carefully. “I’ll make you some hot chocolate and we can talk some more—”

“I just want to go to sleep.”

There’s a moment of silence and they give each other a meaningful look before turning back to Bradley.

Ice notes, “It’s not even seven.”

“We painted the whole nursery with Uncle Slider, I’m just tired. Can I go?”

“You’re not in trouble,” Mav says.

“I know,” Bradley tells him even if he isn’t so sure about it. “Can I go? I still have some homework to do.”

part two/Slider POV now here

[cokowiii]

Ding-Dong!

Damn come in i guess

Part 1 / Part 2 / Part 3 / Part 4 / Part 5

[chiquilines]

op you are the only person on this entire website feeding me Miryumi. Bless, and keeep making more jbsjhbcsbcjkdzb its so fucking gpood and ima soa hungry

My one job is keeping the miryumi community well fed and by god am i committed

[cheriboms]

doctober day 19: memory

aka "the first time lone pine doc recognizes the weird little kid hanging around his garage as the future boy who changed his life 30 years ago" :)

[bisexualcherdegre]

D:BH Rarepairsweek 7 | @dbhrarepairs

Day 3: Hank/Markus After the revolution, Markus and Hank are both trying to deal with the new situation they've been handed. Their paths cross.

[corinnetheanime]

How to sum up the entire cartoon in three sentences.

[upsidedownsmore]

still life oil painting assignment

[koszmarnybudyn]

I don't have tine to wirk on these rn but here are some tma au wips cause im excited about them >:]

[carnivalcarriondiscarded]

hold on ok i belted out a brief laughingstock Scene for possible future use that i Had to write down bc if i didn't, i'd never remember it. and why not share?

~

“Barnaby? Barnaby, old chap, are you with me?” 

Barnaby blinks, registering the green fingers snapping in front of his nose. He huffs a laugh and pushes Howdy’s hand away. “Yeah, yeah, I’m listenin’. You were saying?”

Howdy gives him an exasperated look, a fond look. “Thinking about running off to a farm again, were you?”

“Nah, just the clouds. They’re a lot less work.”

“Well I’d rather you didn’t. Who would I talk to during the long hours if you went and floated off?” Howdy winks before turning to his shelves, already yammering away about something or other.

Something or other that Barnaby is once again not listening to, because what was that? Barnaby quickly presses his cool paw-pads to his burning cheeks, feeling the bristling fur there. 

Has Howdy ever winked at him? Now that he’s noticed it, Barnaby can’t recall. If it’s new, then why? Why a wink of all things? What did that mean? And that look Howdy gave him… 

Barnaby adjusts his abruptly too-tight tie. It’s unusually warm in the store, isn’t it? Howdy must have forgotten to turn on the AC. 

Gosh, what is Howdy even saying? He’s still talking, but Barnaby hasn’t absorbed a word. He can’t even tell if Howdy is still speaking english. It’s all garbled.

There’s something wrong with Barnaby. He must be coming down with something… or he’s just overthinking it. Overworking the ol’ noggin. A good long nap should set him right. 

“Listen,” Barnaby interrupts, patting the counter, “I uh, I don’t know where my head’s at. I better go find it - I’ll see you later, okay?”

“Oh… alright, then,” Howdy says, a tinge of disappointment in his voice. 

Or maybe that’s just wishful thinking. Barnaby slaps that thought out of the park. He doesn’t want Howdy to be disappointed, that’s absurd. That’s something a bad friend would think. Barnaby may be many things, but a bad friend isn’t one of them.

“I’ll whip up a joke that’ll knock your socks off next time I see ya,” Barnaby promises. He smiles around the discomfort and the entirely new feeling squirming around each other in his chest. 

“Now you’ve gone and brought up my expectations,” Howdy says. He leans on the counter and grins. “Are you sure you can back up such a claim, Mr. Beagle?”

Another hot flush races under Barnaby’s fur, and to his growing mortification, his tail starts wagging at breakneck speed. He lets out an uncharacteristically nervous laugh and backs away from the counter. To both of their horror, his back hits a shelf, making it rattle and tip.

“Oh, sh-” Barnaby lunges to right it before it can topple. He whips around and laughs again. Howdy’s wide-eyed stare burns. “Sorry ‘bout that! Talk about a bulldog in a bugshop, geez.”

“When you find your head, make sure to screw it on nice and tight,” Howdy says, a strange look on his face to match his tone. “And check your temperature while you’re at it - it’s not like you to be off-balance.”

“I wouldn’t say I’m off-balance,” Barnaby says. He inches towards the door, willing his stupid tail to calm down. “I just have ears instead of rearview mirrors.”

“Uh-huh…” Howdy slides to the side, trying to peer around him. 

Barnaby fumbles for the door. The scrape and bang of his search for the handle echoes in the quiet store. One of Howdy’s eyebrows creeps higher the longer Barnaby stands there, making a complete fool of himself. 

Finally, the door clicks, and Barnaby nearly tumbles over backwards in his haste to get out. He stumbles down the steps and briskly walks away, adjusting his hat and tie. As soon as he’s out of sight, he slaps his paws to his face and sags against the bodega.

“Idiot,” he hisses to himself. He presses his back flat against the wall and slams the side of his fist against it. Normally, Barnaby would use a situation like this to his advantage. But Howdy wasn’t laughing, and Barnaby wasn’t being funny. “Bulldog in a - gah, idiot!”

Great. Now Howdy thinks he’s not only a clumsy oaf, but that he’s losing his touch too.

Barnaby growls in frustration, pushing off the wall and stomping away from the plaza on all fours. What does he care what Howdy thinks of him? Others’ opinions of Barnaby have never been anywhere near his list of top priorities - barring Wally’s, of course. If they were, he'd never tell another joke again.

Yes, Howdy is a good friend of Barnaby’s. A close friend, even. But since when has he had such a - such an effect? Barnaby shakes his head, growling again. 

There was no effect. Barnaby is just going insane. Or he’s getting sick, like Howdy implied. That would explain the sudden hot flash, the loss of typically impeccable coordination, and, oh yeah! Barnaby’s brain leaking out of his ears.  

[miraclesnail]

kronus AU, title still pending

chapter 12, 13, 14, 15

First chapter, previous chapter

@oopsies-i-did-a-thing

12

Google, what do you do when your childhood friend is set on beheading you in some crazy, apparently well-known and well-loved contest to be the absolute best at killing him? 

Travis’s limbs shake with exertion and fear. He’s not scared. This isn’t scary. Just stay focused, stay one step ahead, don’t engage, don’t get close, run run run, and he’ll be fine. He’s going to be fine.

Annabeth glares at him and tries to stab him in the neck again with her knitting needles. Travis ducks and scrambles to the other side of the room. Annabeth lunges again and he dodges again, scrambling to the other end. 

She’s getting really frustrated, glaring even more now. A pissed off Annabeth is not someone he wants around. He should really just make a break for it, but Annabeth isn’t giving any wiggle room. A second of distraction is death. A second of turned back is a needle through the skull. A hesitation and he’s dead. But it's okay. He's not scared.  Not scared in the slightest. 

Annabeth attacks. He runs. Annabeth taunts. He remains tongue tied. Annabeth tries to end him. He's barely keeping himself alive. 

Travis doesn’t know how long the cycle went for. A few minutes. Hours maybe. Maybe just a couple seconds. But it’s interrupted by a knock on a door and Bianca’s voice, suspicious and wary. “Travis? You alright in there? I’m coming in, okay?”

Annabeth and him share a look. The hinges squeak. 

“W—Wait! Anna—”

He talks first. 

But Annabeth moves first, lunging for the door. And still he can’t do anything except watch as the door opens. The needle goes straight for Bianca. Travis is sure if he was in Bianca’s position, he would be dead. But the daughter of Hades steps back just in time, barely evading the needle with wide eyes and panic in her face. 

Without missing a beat, Annabeth grabs Bianca by the back of the head and slams her head against the door frame hard. Bianca slumps over*** unconscious, blood pooling beneath her head. 

Annabeth stands over Bianca’s down body with a blank expression. A finger curls and uncurls. An eye twitches. Her mouth fell open. But then it all snaps into cruel disdain and Annabeth rears her foot back for a kick.  

His body moves then. 

He tackles Annabeth and they both tumble over ungracefully. Annabeth picks herself up first and immediately tries to stomp his face in. Travis wishes he could say it was his well-developed and honed instincts from a decade of fighting that saved him but it was Silena ramming a pitchfork through Annabeth’s chest that did it. 

“Run!” Silena yells at him, digging and twisting the metal deeper into Annabeth’s sternum. She turns her head back to face him and Travis can see that Silena is terrified. She’s petrified. Eyes blown wide and pupils dilated. Her hands holding onto the pitchfork are shaking way too much. Voice high and quavering. Fake bravado if he has never seen it before. Even with all that, Silena orders, “Take Bianca and let’s get out of here!” 

He nods but his eyes are drawn back to Annabeth, unflinching and unbothered with the prongs sticking through her. Annabeth still has her knitting needles in her hand and it didn’t even register in his mind that she could fling it. It flies at him, right for his eye, and —

Dodge, his mind screams. You have to dodge. But Bianca is behind him. If he dodges, it’ll hit her. Block it then. He has to block it. Move. Go. Don’t die. Fight. Win. Survive. You have to survive. 

But Silena takes the hit for him, shifting enough so it stabs her in the thigh. The force of it unbalances her and Annabeth grabs the pitchfork by its handle and rips it away from Silena. 

Travis watches Annabeth yanks the tool out of her, punctures sealing shut in seconds. Like with what happened to Lou Ellen’s eye. Not a single injury save for the bruise on the neck. Then Annabeth twirls the rusty pitchfork smoothly with a single hand before tossing it aside, rolls her neck again, and charges. ****

It’s personal experience that’s telling him Silena won’t, can’t react in time. A racing mind. An adrenaline riddled body. The knowledge of knowing what to do. The technique to do so. None of it matters when someone is chained down by doubts and hesitancy. But Silena is still standing in front of him, unbudging. If anything, bracing herself even more. Stupidly brave and selfless like when she impersonated Clarisse to lead her cabin into Manhattan, when she attacked the drakon knowing she’s no match for it. 

Annabeth comes at her needle raised and aimed at the neck. Silena hesitates and moves a second too late, realizing it too.

Travis sprints forward. Grabs Annabeth by the wrist, halting the blade just inches from Silena. His hand shakes with the effort. His body trembles with not at all concealed fear. He’s sure his face gives it all away, mouth twitching into an involuntary smile. His voice is a wavering mess, but he says it still and he says it loud.

“Don’t hurt her.” 

He hears his phone vibrating somewhere in the midst of the neverending room decorating and shadow travel. 

Someone is calling him. 

The rule is to text first. Calls are only for emergencies. 

As soon as Nico takes him to Annabeth, he kicks Perseus in the chest and creates a barrier to separate Perseus from them. There’s twins yells of concern but he ignores both Annabeth and Nico in favor of hitting the green accept call on the vibrating phone in Annabeth’s hands. 

Silena’s screams for help come clear through. And his own voice, chattering about … apples? Something absurdly mundane. He can hear the sound of struggle. The screen shakes wildly. He can’t make anything out. Then Annabeth’s voice, the Annabeth he knows, the Annabeth he’s familiar with (dangerous, cruel eyes, persistent), and ah. This is bad. This is dangerous. And he’s not there to protect them. He’s useless over here. Powerless. Useless. Helpless. A failure. A loser. 

[Fullscreen]

“Full screen, Silena,” he orders. A wave of dizziness overcomes him but he clings to consciousness stubbornly. He hopes he doesn’t mind. He grabs the phone from Annabeth’s lax fingers and places it flat on the ground. It’s unfortunate he has an audience. He would have preferred minimal distractions. But if he had to have anybody, then at least it’s just these two. They’re smart enough to not try anything. At least, he hopes.

The phone flashes black before it blinks back into focus, the screen white. The light extends outwards and pixel by pixel, Silena’s environment comes into view as holographic images. *****

They’re in their sleeping room. Bianca is down — dead, she’s dead. She’s gone. She’s gone. Dead. Gone. No no no [She’s alive. I can see her breathing.] 

Silena, clutching the phone in shaky hands close to her chest. She’s yelling, teary-eyed, watch out Travis behind you duck oh my god Travis Travis Travis — 

And him. Himself. In the orange shirt. Barely holding Annabeth at bay with quick dodges and ducks and evading that’s only millimeters away from certain death. Except he’s doing nothing but just avoiding attacks and Annabeth is fiercely aggressive, fiercely calculative in her strikes. A single step back, a single sweep of the leg, and Travis falls back on his butt and Annabeth is above him with her needle raised.

Immediately he dives in between them and holds his arms out, power itching in his fingertips but he holds it back for now. It stops Annabeth right away, her sharp eyes darting between him and the one behind him now scrambling to get back on his feet. Then to Annabeth, silent and unreadable, further behind him. To Nico. Then back to him. He can see her gears ticking and whirling. 

“There’s two — two of you. And another me. I’m…fine. A parallel world? Time travel? Doppelganger? A long lost brother?” His Annabeth clutches a hand over her wrist. Her eye twitches once. She’s fighting. She’s fighting for them. Now’s their chance. 

He lowers his arms and puts it behind his back but doesn’t budge from his spot. A glance at Silena and she understands right away, slowly inching her way behind him to his other self. 

“Yeah.” He nods. He has to buy time, as much as he can. “That’s right. It’s weird, isn’t it? It’s impossible, right? You would like to know more, don’t you? You’re dying to know more, right?”

xxxxxx

Travis is so so so lost. After saving Silena, he figured that both of them can fight Annabeth off together. But  Silena more or less tells him to hold Annabeth off while she calls someone. Which… well, not to be a downer, but that sounds like a shit plan. He can’t even beat Annabeth on her off days. On a good day? He has no chance. But he does as Silena asks while she fiddles with her phone. 

Then the room fizzles with a bright white light for a second. And now there’s another Annabeth but this one is in a familiar orange shirt. Also this Annabeth is a lot nicer, not trying to stab his eyes out really helps with that. There’s Nico too and that knife-wielding, motorcycle-helmet Connor from earlier is here too. No. The guy said he’s not Connor. His look-alike then. His look-alike is throwing him signals with his hand behind his back in some secret code. 

Sign language, his brain tells him after a few more signs. 

Get Bianca and leave. 

Get Bianca and leave. 

Over and over. 

Silena is inching her way to him, slowly, foot sliding and then the other foot sliding, shaking like a leaf and eyes locked onto other-him and other-Annabeth. Silena glances at him for a moment, signaling for him to stand. 

He does with wobbly knees. His shoe squeaks against the tile on his way up and Annabeth, the crazy one, the deranged one, the dead one, immediately goes to attack him. 

He doesn’t panic. He didn’t even cry or squeal. He just freezes up and stares as Annabeth sidesteps other-him with her needle raise and a killer look in her eyes. 

“No!” other-him yells, darting to be back right in front of him again. “You can’t! This guy isn’t me. We’re not the same. Do you really want to win the contest this way? Against a guy who doesn’t even know what’s going on? Will you really be satisfied with a win like that? No, right? Besides, he’s not me so is that really a win?”

xxxxxx

Not good. Not good. Not good. Not good. 

“Annabeth,” he tries again, “Winning like this will just make you angry.”

“So what?” Annabeth says, her eyes twitch again. She scowls, sneers, grimaces, winces, flinches, eyes glazing over before coming back into focus. Her free hand clutches her wrist again and forces her weapon down. “Am I supposed to let you guys go? I won’t hear the end of it if — Ah. H—Hurry up. Get the fuck out —I do that.”

“Wait for me to come back,” he says to her, signing behind his back. Run. Run. Run. Run. Run. “I’ll be back soon and then we can fight together all we want.” 

Annabeth squeezes her eyes shut. She whispers something. An apology. A plea. Then like a switch of a light, Annabeth straightens herself. Cracks her neck. Her gray eyes are devoid of any and all emotions except for fierce fire and unyielding focus. ****

Crap.

“Go now!” he yells, heart in his throat, helpless as he can only watch Annabeth charge past him, phasing through his holographic body. 

Silena, stupid brave selfless idiotic Silena, intercepts Annabeth, standing in front of other-him. Silena yells, maybe as a way to psyche herself up, but it doesn’t help her look less terrified at all. *** And he hates that. 

Don’t look so petrified. Don’t do it if you don’t want to. Don’t be a hero. You should have just ran. Why did you run? Why are you doing this?

“Annabeth! Stop!” he yells, but it doesn’t deter his dead friend in the slightest. Annabeth charges and he can only watch as Silena blocks the first swipe of the needle. Silena blocks the following roundhouse kick with her forearm but it leaves her reeling and unbalanced. She’s wide open for the third attack. Silena isn’t as fast as him. She’s not as battle experienced as he is. Silena isn’t going to block the third attack. Silena is going to be cut open. Silena is going to die. 

The power in his hand releases, but it does nothing but batters the wall weakly with gentle gusts 

“Silena! You have to get it together!” 

But Silena can’t. Not in time, at least. And he’s stuck in an entirely different plane. Can only watch just like back then. Do something. He has to do something. 

[There has to be something]***

Something. 

Anything. 

Don’t just stand there.

Do something. 

Please. 

Please… 

Don’t take another person from him. 

xxxxx

He’s tired of fighting. He’s tired of people dying. He’s tired of losing friends. Michael and Silena. Beckendorf and Castor. He has enough of it.

It’s adrenaline pushing him forward, to tackle Annabeth by the waist and bring her down. They tumble and roll over each other. Travis learned from his mistake. He hooks his leg around Annabeth and angles it to prevent her from getting up. He has a hand on her wrist with the weapon. Other hand on the other wrist. They twist and roll and scramble all over, bumping into walls and shoving each other into the ground. 

Annabeth fights to get free and he fights harder to stay in place. 

Beyond that? He doesn’t have a plan. Maybe that’s why he’s losing this tumble. 

Annabeth flips him over onto his back and presses him down with a knee on his stomach.

She’s raising the needle. 

Silena screams. Nico, Annabeth, Connor — no other-him — somebody, everybody is telling him to get up.

Then Annabeth rams the needle down.***

Blood splatters against his face. 

Travis grits his teeth against the pain, bites his tears back with his cheeks, and thanks the gods for his incredible speed. A few seconds slower and he would probably be eyeless or something. Blood trails from his impaled forearm and drips onto his cheeks steadily. People are still screaming at him, but there’s blood roaring in his ears. All he can focus on right now is Annabeth tightening her hold on her needle, her other hand gripping his hurt arm. 

She’s going to yank it out, his mind calmly informs him. 

It hurts. It hurts so much to do so, but he holds her hands away with his good hand and wrenches his hurt arm away. He tries to roll Annabeth off him. But she holds fast and wraps her hands around his neck instead. Then she squeezes. Hard. 

Travis wheezes and claws and beats at the hands on his neck but Annabeth clutches tighter, digs her fingers into his trachea. 

She’s scowling. Annabeth’s scowling, pained and tormented, like she’s doing something unpleasant but the pressure increases. His vision goes hazy. Other-him is screaming at him, at Annabeth. And he sees Silena trying to shove Annabeth off him. But strength is leaving his body with every passing second. Is this how he’s going to die? Is this how it’ll end? After all he has been though? No… no… He doesn’t want to die. He wants to live. Desperately. With Connor and Chris. Katie and Miranda. Annabeth and Percy. Will and Nico. Cecil. Alice. Julia. Holly. Laurel. Lou Ellen. Clovis. This can’t be how it ends. He can’t die like this. *****

His vision narrows down to Annabeth and her scowl, the peripheral nothing more than a blurry shadow. 

But his eyes are drawn to Bianca popping up from behind Annabeth in a flash, a shovel raised and poised, half her face covered in blood. Bianca swings, hits the edge against Annabeth’s nape. The pressure is immediately gone as Annabeth crumbles on top of him. And Travis scoots himself away and sucks in air, coughing and rubbing his sore neck. 

“Tha-thanks,” he says, voice raspy. 

But Bianca just raises the shovel again, metal pointed down, and slams it against Annabeth again. And again. And again. The metal reverberates against tissue and bone horrifyingly loud, echoing off the walls. Skin and flesh slice open. Bones crunch and shatter. But Annabeth doesn’t bleed. Zombies don’t bleed, he guesses. But pieces of flesh and gore fly with every hit.

Travis doesn’t like the anguished look on the daughter of Hades' desperate face. 

“Bi…anca?” 

Oh hey. Nico’s here too, right. He forgot about him. Travis really doesn't like the look on either of their faces right now. 

“H—He—” He coughs and tries to intervene, “That’s enough.” 

But Bianca raises the shovel again and brings it down with an enraged scream. The swings grow wild and uncoordinated. 

Silena kneels beside him with a bottle of water, tears in her eyes, trembling body pressed to his, eyes darting around like they’re in danger, and stammers, “Bi-Bianca, enough. Annabeth’s down. You don’t have to—”

Another swing, a disgustingly loud crack. And a piece of what he’s sure is bone hits his cheek. 

“Bianca.” 

One word from other-him, voice’s heavy and a hint of regret, and Bianca pauses mid-swing. She’s heaving, wheezing almost. Muscles straining with yellowing bruised arms. Travis almost thinks Bianca is going to cry but she just whips around to them, almost losing her balance, with a wobbly smile and a shaky laugh. 

“Travis, I can’t believe I had to save you like that. Hahaha… that’s a first. Lots of firsts today actually.” 

Bianca stares at him for a moment, then her eyes move to Other-Him. Then to Nico, then to the nice, non-killing Annabeth and then back to him. 

“Oh.” Bianca giggles and slumps against the wall, sliding to the floor, her feet kicking against not-so-nice Annabeth’s mangled body that’s already reforming. 

They should probably get out of here. Soon. Like now. Right now. They should leave right now. 

“I’m dreaming. Of course. That’s what's going on,” Bianca mumbles.

“You guys need to get out of there,” Other-him says, a tinge of desperation in his otherwise calm if a bit anxious voice. “Reyna and him and the others — they’re never far behind from Annabeth. Bianca, can you walk?”

Bianca shakes her head and chuckles to herself, mumbling under her breath about how this dream sucks, how she wished she dreamt about camp instead. 

“I’m going with no,” Travis says to the other-him, who pinches his eyes and rubs his neck for a moment. When they reopen, they’re tinged with the beginning of panic and familiar, chaotic energy. 

“Okay. Okay. That’s okay. Can you carry her?” Then he spots the needle still stuck in his forearm and revises it to, “Or help support her weight? Or were you hit in the head too?”

“I’m fine! A-okay.” But he guesses he’s not as convincing as he thought he was because other-him still turns to Silena instead. He’s about to ask her the same until his eyes land on her thigh wound. 

“I can do it,” Silena says, flinching as she pulls the needle from her thigh. It bleeds profusely, a dark patch growing fast underneath her navy blue yoga pants. Silena pulls a rope from her belt, slaps a piece of rag over the wound, and ties over it. But it looks like it did nothing. 

“It’s just a flesh wound,” Silena reassures them, tucking the needle into a holster on her utility belt. She picks up two dirty travel backpacks off the ground and hands it to him. 

“I can carry her and you just hold the bags,” Travis offers in her stead. 

“No, no, you’re hurt. I can get—”

“Bianca?” Nico says, taking a hesitant step towards his dead sister, voice cracking in a way Travis never heard before, eyes desperate in a way Travis never seen before. “Are you… are you really Bian—”

“Later,” Other-him states, just as desperate. Like he knows what’s going on, like he understands. “You can ask later. But right now. Right now. Everybody needs to get moving.”

“But—”

“Later.”

“Neeks,” Bianca groans, attempting to pick her head up but it lolls to the side, and the whimper Nico made is something Travis could have lived without, “Travis said to do it. So let’s just do it. He knows best after all.” 

“…okay.” 

A whisper of a word. Barely audible. Nico steps back into the shadows without another peep. It leaves a bad taste in his mouth but now’s not the time to reconcile the siblings. 

As Travis hefts Bianca onto his back with Silena’s help, blood dripping and staining his already ruined Camp shirt, he tries hard not to laugh at what Bianca said. Him? He knows best? Really? No way they’re the same person then. He’s a complete mess without Connor. 

13 NICO **** flesh this out later

Bianca. Bianca. He’s sure that’s Bianca complete with the fond exasperated nickname. But she looks older. And her hair is shorter than he remembered. And she’s thinner now. A bit taller. More bones than muscles. And she doesn’t have any of that baby fat she had when she was still 12. 

But that’s definitely his sister. His sister with her warm and soft smile. 

Why? 

How? 

And Silena… Annabeth, the Annabeth that was trying to kill Travis. Two Annabeth … Two Travis… 

Nico watches the weird Travis, the stabby and violent one. He talks fast, directs the trio around, pointing at empty shadows and telling them there’s a zombie there and here. He speaks clearly, confidently, encouragingly as he guides them to hop over a six foot gap to go from one room to another. (His Travis pauses and double-taked and panics and complains before relenting. Silena makes the long jump no problem. His Travis takes a running leap, jumps, barely clears the gap, and slips onto his back.) And again, down a ten foot caved-in floor (Travis complains even louder for that one before he gives in.) ****** flesh out or delete

Bianca had called this weirdo Travis too, but Nico disagreed. The guy is far too capable and competent to be the same person. 

They made it to a room, their designated ‘safe’ zone though to Nico’s eyes it looks just like everything else. Dirty. Broken down. Ramshackled. A wall is even knocked out. Rain is pouring in. Half the room is unusable. 

But Silena rushes them in and shuts the door, collapsing against it with a sigh of relief as the tension melts from her body. 

“We survived,” Silena says, half a laugh, half a cry as Travis lowers Bianca to the floor. “We—we survived!” 

Travis beams. “Yeah, we did! High five!” 

“Shh. Not so loud. Starting treating the injuries,” Weird-Travis commands, bending to be eye level with Bianca with a grimace. “I think you need stitches this time, Bianca. Silena, if you don’t mind, could you do it?”

It’s not hard to understand when watching Weird-Travis flits across the room, hunching over Silena’s and Bianca’s wounds and offering advice. The way he’s brimming with worry. The way his hands fidget with each other. The way he talks and looks at them with this certain softness that he only ever seen him use for Connor. 

He cares. He cares a lot for Silena and Bianca. 

And as Nico watches the parallel version turn his attention to their own Travis, he could see the same worry in his eyes, could hear it in his voice, could see it in his movements. 

Travis isn’t dangerous, Silena had told them. And Nico believes her now. If anything Travis just looks lost and scared.  

14

“Silena, are you sure you don’t need stitches too? Annabeth may keep her needles clean but they’re not exactly sterile. Wait, Bianca, don’t get up by yourself. Do you need to throw up? No? How are you feeling then? Bianca? Bianca? … Do you think she’s concussed, guys?”

With the danger now gone and his mind could actually catch up and observe, Travis is noticing some really strange things. Like how Silena is holding a bracelet with Kronos’s trademark scythe on it as she carefully stitches Bianca’s wound close with supplies from a really bare medical box. Like how Bianca has a hair piece also with the symbol as she sits there quietly and motionless, staring intensely at Annabeth. How Nico looks extra pale and extra traumatized than usual standing far in the corner. How Annabeth can’t take her eyes off him with that same unnerving, calculating look as the one that just tried to kill him. How other-him isn’t as tall as he is. He’s actually a couple inches shorter than him, like how Connor is. How other-him talks sure and confident and … and… 

Travis cocks his head to the side as he listens. He doesn’t really pay attention to how he talks normally, the words just come spilling out without much thought actually. But … but … the way other-him is talking… 

Travis frowns. For some reason, it doesn’t sound like him. And when other-him turns his eyes to him, the off feeling intensifies. Instincts tell him that’s not him. Experience tells him something is wrong. A hunch tells him to not believe.

“We can’t leave that in there,” other-him says. 

“Huh?”

Other him points and Travis looks down and remembers that mean—Annabeth did jam one of her needles in his arm. And now that he’s aware of it again, the dull pain comes back. 

“Oh. Yeah. That. Uh, can I remove it when I get back home?” He hates how whiny he sounds. “Just pull out another one of those clover things like you did earlier.”

But Other-him shakes his head, grimacing for just a moment before he hides the pain. “I’m out. They disintegrated otherwise I would have hopped back to save you myself. Silena, Bianca, do you guys still have yours?”

Silena jumps at her name, nearly sticking the needle into Bianca. She cuts the thread and lays the needle down on a bloody gauze, fidgeting with the fraying end. “The clover? Oh. Um.” Silena reddens and looks away. “I... was hungry so… I ate it. I’m sorry.”

Bianca snaps her eyes away from Annabeth, brows creasing. “I don’t remember what happened to me. I probably gave it as a prize to Holly and Laurel.”

His heart clenches and he does his best to remain calm. But his voice may have given him away. “Wait, wait, wait, wait, d-does that mean I’m stuck here?!” 

Other-him starts to shake his head again but thought better of it. “No. There’s more. We can get it tomorrow. But one thing at a time. Your arm—”

“Tomorrow? Why not now? I don’t want to make it sound like I hate it here, but I hate it here.”

“The sun is setting. It will get dark really fast. Less visibility. Zombies. Not a good combo. So let’s take care of your—”

Travis is getting desperate. “Ambrosia? Nectar? Some kind of numbing agent or something?”

Other-Travis grimaces. “We’re out. We’re also out of working hospitals too so getting an infection is potentially life-ending.”

Travis stares at him hard for a moment, searching for a fib, but he stares back without a blink, unreadable and unflinching. Annabeth’s no help, shaking her head. Nico isn't any help either, too busy staring at Bianca who’s too busy staring at Annabeth who’s too busy staring at him. Thanks guys. Thanks so much. 

“Alright.” Travis looks away, chewing at his cheek. “Okay. Let’s do this then. I just need a moment to —”

The second Travis gives his permission, Silena leaps forward and yanks the needle out, clamping the gauze down in her ready hand with an iron grip. And holy fuck. It stings and burns and fuck. Tears well up but he refuses to let it spill over. He replaces Silena’s hand with his own, pushing harder, fingers digging into the uninjured part.

Far away, he can feel Silena rubbing his back, Bianca telling him to breathe through the pain, Nico reminding him the pain will fade soon, Annabeth asking if there for sure isn’t any ambrosia and really? None? Nothing at all? You guys have nothing? 

The excruciating pain is in the forefront of his mind, encompassing and overwhelming. But distantly, he can hear another voice. Calmer, steady, familiar, blunt but in a comforting way. Grounding in a way that the others aren’t. 

“Do you remember when you were seven and you just came to camp? You couldn’t sleep because everything was so different. A warm bed rather than a dirty alleyway. Crickets rather than engines. Near darkness, no headlights in sight. It was scary, wasn’t it? It was new and different and scary so you couldn’t sleep even though you trusted Chiron and Luke and Annabeth. C…Connor was asleep, finally sleeping soundly after so many restless nights, so you got up for a walk alone. Stupidly you went into the forest. Do you remember being lost for hours? Wandering around under the moon, underneath the tree’s shadows, even more scared than before because there’s no one there with you, tripping over the branches and then face planting into a tree, breaking your nose. 

You almost cried from the pain, right? But you didn’t. You screamed and stomped your feet and rolled around in agony. But you picked yourself back up and got yourself out of the forest and into the infirmary. You ate an ambrosia square and then slunk back in the cabin just in time before everybody woke up, pretending you never went out. Annabeth kicked your ass during training and got really mad because she thought you threw on purpose. Luke almost had an aneurysm when you fell asleep on the climbing wall and lost your grip. This pain is just like that. It will pass. You can’t scream so just roll around. It will make you feel better.” 

“What! H-How do you know any of that?” Travis squeaks out, face flushing in embarrassment. The pain now a dull ache if he doesn’t think too much about it. “I never told anyone! Did you have Clovis look through my memories? When was this? Clovis would never do this to me. You’re lying. None of that ever happened to me. Nuh-uh. Nah-dah. No.”

“It’s because I’m you,” other-him says, emotionless and straight faced and scarred and serious and. No. Liar. This guy is lying, his guts sing to him. He’s being lied to. “And you’re me.”

He doesn’t want to ask. 

He wants to know. 

He doesn't want to be right. 

He has to confirm. 

It’s fine to pretend things are okay.

Nothing’s okay. 

Not everything needs to be said. 

But this isn’t something he can just ignore. Not with Silena’s varelet. Not with Bianca’s hairpiece. 

He blurts it out without coming to a decision. 

“What makes us different then?”

Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Lie. Make something up. Anything but the truth. 

Other him squeezes his eyes shut and breathes in. “The summer when I turned thirteen, Luke asked me to be his spy.” 

“And you rejected and stayed loyal to the gods and your friends because there is nothing more important than your family — both immediate and extended?” he says, hopeful. 

”No.” he looks away, shame and pain and hurt obvious on his face no matter how much he tries to hide it. “No. I didn’t. When Luke asked, I accepted.”

xxxx

“Oh.” 

Is all Travis says. 

They stare at each other for a few seconds. Travis’s face tells him all he needs to know. [he’s melting down inside] The hurt. The betrayal. The fear.  

And though he knows it’s not Connor, they share the same face and he can never find it in himself to hurt his brother. He says quickly, hurriedly, “It doesn’t matter now since the titan still lost the war and almost all of his power. He can’t do much other than a couple cheap tricks.” His head pangs and he flinches at the sudden pain. [don’t taunt him] 

Bianca and Silena both rise to say something but he shoots them a look. Don’t. Not now, at least. Not in front of them. Silena backs down immediately but Bianca stares with defiance, nose flaring before she looks away too, arms crossing unhappily. At least she stopped staring at Annabeth.

Travis nods unsurely but his eyes go to the caved-in wall to the ruined cityscape. “If the Titans lost, then why is your world so… apocalyptic? What’s with the zombie? Why is everything dirty and broken? What’s with Silena and Bianca being alive again?” [What?] What? “What’s with this world Annabeth and Lou Ellen trying to kill me? And—and—and—” Travis starts wringing his hands and jumbling his words, eyes darting back and forth between the ground and him. “Where … where is this world Connor? Forget the other questions, just answer that one. Where is Connor?”

His throat tightens. Connor. He doesn’t want to talk about Connor. “I don’t want to talk about him,” he says without meaning to. [I can handle this if you want.]

“Why not?” Travis asks innocently. 

He squeezes his neck, ignoring Nico’s disapproval, ignoring Annabeth’s silent, piercing stares, “I just don’t want to.” 

“Why though?” Travis says, not backing down. “Did Connor do something here? Like, was he pissed that you betrayed camp for Luke? Because I would be pissed and I think Connor has every right to be mad at you. Are you guys enemies? Is he with Michael right now?”

“I don’t want to talk about this. It’s not relevant anymore,” he bites out. Images fill his mind. Of the Empire State Building. Of a blood-stained blade. Of screams for help. He digs his nails in the neck and the images disappear. 

“I think that’s a good idea too,” Silena says, eyes flying between him and the others. “There’s probably other things more important right now.” 

“What’s more important than Connor?” Travis says simply, matter of factly, without a hint of joke in his voice, dead serious, with eyes that demands him to match it.

“Nothing is more important,” he finds himself saying. This throat tightens. His vision blurs. Jumping off the building sounds more and more appealing. [no. don’t think that.]

A phantom hand holds his and squeezes and takes over, voice firm and sad all at the same time. “But Connor is dead. He's nothing but a shell of himself, just like Annabeth. He’s gone forever. Nothing you do will ever bring him back.”

“… what?” Travis’s blank face stares at him, not understanding, and he gets it. He couldn’t believe it when Connor died. For the longest time, he thought he dreamt it or hallucinated or it was a Connor look-a-like and the real Connor is somewhere out there, injured but alive, and — [He’s not coming back]. 

**** His chest hurts, like a punch to the heart. “Yeah. I know. But…” 

Because even still… even still… 

His fists clench and he stands with conviction, black dots floating in his peripheral that he ignores. “Nothing is more important than Connor. I get that. But Connor is dead. Has been dead for two years. The only thing that matters now, the only thing, is making sure no one else dies anymore. Silena, Bianca, Nico, Katie, Miranda, Clarisse, Percy, Michael. You. Me. Not a single one of us.”

“The only thing,” he repeats like a scratched record, stuck and never moving on. 

xxxx

He’s not lying. He’s not lying this time. The entire time Other-Travis has been talking, his ‘they’re a big freaking liar’ senses have been blasting around in his gut. But when he said Connor is dead, it all shuts off. 

He’s not lying.

Connor is dead. 

Other-Travis is saying more stuff but it goes in one ear and out the other.

Connor is dead, this guy says. And all he could think about is how. When. Where. What happened? Is he like Annabeth and Lou Ellen in this world? Then where is dead-Connor now? Did someone killed him? Or was it an accident? What was he doing? How could he let it happen? What’s wrong with you? He’s your little brother. Why didn’t you protect him? What were you doing? How can you live with yourself? 

He wanted to say all of that, to shout, to blame but it’s the haunted look in his doppelgänger’s face that makes him bite his tongue. This guy isn’t Connor but their faces are the same and he can’t bear seeing his brother in pain. 

In what could not be a more awkward transition, he asks, “So, uh, New York. Kind of went through a major makeover, huh? I don’t think it looks too great though.” ******

Other-Him sags in relief, face grateful. 

And even though his throat burns with the questions, his heart soothes a bit and the weight crushing Travis ever since he got here lifts just a little. 

xxxx

He knew. He read his face and knew not to ask. Just like he knows all the questions running through other-him’s head because he thinks of it constantly himself. [you shouldn’t. It’s not your fault] 

And even though the wall he made goes falling down and Perseus Jackson hacks his way in with Riptide with Will and Leo and Piper not far behind, even though Bianca finally stops her insistence staring at Annabeth and starts pointing her shovel at Perseus and begins yelling and summoning skeletons, even though Annabeth and Nico tries to cool the situation down, even though Silena begs him to do something, even though he knows he should. He needs to do something. 

He can’t help but stares at Travis, not unhinged and deranged, more human than monster, and imagines his own brother in Travis’s place. That this weird, tiny flicker of warmth and safety he feels isn’t from his lookalike, but from his own brother.

He wonders, if he had died back then, just plunges the knife into his gut, he could have this moment of bliss with Connor instead. 

15 BIANCA

Annabeth is dead. Connor is dead. Dad forsaken her. Nico no longer speaks to her. Clarisse hates her. Katie despises her. Michael can’t look at her. Miranda is terminally ill, clinging barely onto life out of sheer stubbornness that’s running out. Jason’s life is ruined because of her. Percy is basically dead. Lou Ellen is dead. Chris is dead. Will. Kayla. Austin. Dead, dead, dead. All she has left that's still alive is Silena and Travis. 

They’re all she has in his cruel world she created. 

They’re all she has in this empty world she made. 

As soon as Percy bursts through the wall with Riptide in his hand and points it at Travis, fear makes Bianca raise her shovel at Percy. Without much thought from her, nearly a hundred skeletal warriors pop up from the ground. Not in her world surprisingly, but where Percy is. They refrain from sticking their spears and swords at the child of the sea at her discretion. Once he attacks, you guys are free to do so too, she asks of them. 

There’s a pull on her control. Nico, she guesses. Stronger than what she’s used to, a lot stronger actually to her surprise, but still not enough for Nico to take over. Not even a fraction of her attention and she’s in command again.

“Touch him and I’ll tear you to shreds,” Bianca growls, ignoring how her hands shake (from exhaustion, not fear. She’s not scared), how her head pangs and throbs (from Annabeth slamming her hand into the wall, not reluctance. She will attack if she has too), how she hasn’t cleaned her shovel yet. **** 

Bianca expected Percy to just ignore her like he always does. She didn’t expect Percy to glance at her and lower his weapon, his eyes becoming haunted, a look that’s all too familiar. 

“Bianca?” he whispers, like he's seeing a ghost and she wonders what their history is in that world. 

Behind Percy, three more people come tumbling in. Will. Piper. Leo. All alive too and it’s unfair. It’s so unfair. Just the mere sight of Leo and Piper sends Bianca’s vision red and hazy with anger. Why is everyone alive over there? Why can’t they have that? What’s so different? She refuses to believe Travis is the sole reason why things are different. There has to be something else. 

“Percy, wait. Things changed,” Annabeth says, getting in between them. Then Annabeth looks at her, no familiarity in her gray eyes, no warmth either. Only just the barest of recognition. “That means you too. Put away the skeletons.”

“Cap Riptide and I’ll consider it,” is all she says when more are bursting at her tongue. 

Annabeth. Bianca clenches her shovel tighter. Annabeth. Annabeth. Annabeth is alive. And she’s looking at her with this look like she’s a stranger. That hurts. That hurts more than Bianca thinks it should. 

“But Bianca. Bianca is,” Percy stutters, then his eyes drift to Silena and they widen further. “Silena too! Silena is—” his eyes go to Travis, the weird Travis, the normal Travis, the Travis that existed before she fucked his life up, that Travis. 

“Percy! Hey! You would not believe the day I had. It’s totally crazy. Also, never get Annabeth mad to the point of being homicidal because she is terrifying,” weird-Travis beams and Bianca forgot how bright Travis used to be. And how Travis used to be friendly with Percy. It’s… strange to consider when it shouldn’t be. It hurts to think about. Another part of Travis’s life that she ruined. 

“You… there’s… two of you,” Percy says dumbfounded, eyes going between both Travises. 

Connor comes barrelling in, okay and whole, and Bianca can’t remember to breathe.

“Connor!” a delighted voice chirps as one looks away. 

More people file in. Lou Ellen. Miranda. Sherman. More people peeking behind the wall. Clovis. Holly. Laurel. She recognizes each and everyone even without the cut throats and missing eyes and detached arms. The sight alone makes the hand choking her heart squeeze tighter and tighter. It’s cruel how unfair this all is. She wants to scream. She wants to cry. Anything to make this pressure in her chest go away. 

But it’s the stares she gets from Will, from Leo and Piper, from everybody over there, the confused glances between her and Nico. The contemplative looks on their collective faces. Their whispers. The pieces all come together. 

“Dude, that girl looks like Nico.”

“Is… Is she controlling those skeletons?”

“Who is she?”

“She doesn’t look familiar.”

“I don’t know her. Pssst, Percy, do you know her?” 

It all clicks together then. 

She’s dead there. 

She’s dead over there. So nobody knows who she is.

She’s dead over there. Everybody is still alive. 

She’s dead and Connor is alive, Travis is happy. 

She’s dead and there’s no zombies.

She’s dead and there’s no apocalypse. 

She’s dead and the world continues.

Piper was right. If she had died back then. If she just let herself be killed. If she just offed herself sooner. If she wasn’t so scared. If she wasn't so selfish. If she hadn’t believed Jason and Travis and Silena. If she hadn’t wanted to live. Then all of them, all of this would have—

“No.”

The word cuts through her hazy thoughts immediately and she turns to find Travis, no longer lost to his thoughts but staring at her.

“Oh. Hey. Welcome back,” she tries to be cheerful because showing anything but happiness will make Travis worry and she caused enough pain to last 12 lifetimes. It never worked though. Travis will forever worry. Travis just shakes his head and she sees desperation and the hurt that’s always in his eyes. 

“Bianca,” he says, desperation tinged in his voice. 

It's then she sees her warriors, weapons no longer pointed at Percy but at her. More are at her heels, right in front of her, pointed edges inches from her. Silena is shaking her shoulders and pleading with her. She hadn't even noticed. With a wave of her hand, the skeletons leave to go back underground.

“Whoops, my bad,” Bianca mutters, hunching and scratching the back of her head. Not that it soothed anything. Travis and Silena are still worried. As bad as it sounds, Bianca can ignore their reactions. It’s inevitable. Something she just got used to seeing day after day. Just a constant stream of disappointment from her. 

What she’s not used to seeing is Nico. In the corner of the room, far and hidden in the shadows, is her little baby brother Nico. Nico who’s staring at her like she’s not even his sister, like she’s a complete stranger, like she’s just committed a grave crime, like she’s a monster, like she’s inhuman even though they share the same blood. 

Nico stares at her with what could only be disgust and loathing just like that day when she fucked up the world.******edit later.

[downsteepy]

something deeply funny to me that this happened with the span of 10 months

[solidcarbon]

may i leave you with zariman men and slight verge of psychosis

[the-fandom-fuckup]

haven't drawn in a hot sec but I wanted to try my hand at a good future Casey design for my own doodle references

I like the idea that she gets one of her earrings ripped out during a scuffle at some point, n she's forever mad about it lmao

[crispyjenkins]

dha kar'ta "crispy has lost control of their life again" celebration sneak peek

am planning on starting up a wip wednesday sort of thing (maybe next week?), which will definitely be more than star wars related stuff, but i've also just exceeded a thousand hours on skyrim in less than a year and wanted to celebrate(?) (i actually hit a thousand a few days ago, but in true fixation fashion, kept playing instead of posting anything over here lmao) so here's a dha kar'ta wip 'cause jango is fighting me a little bit but new chapter soon!! i promise!!

 “As soon as Satine is unseated, the Mandalore System’s full neutrality nullifies, unless Jango chooses to reinstate it.”

  “And he’d rather die than do that,” Bosoloc pipes up helpfully.

  “Yes, and at that point, Mandalore can choose to pursue rejoining the Republic for the first time since the Kyr’am Turr’e, because New Mandalore never officially seceded to the Senate.”

  “Which Jang’alor would also rather die than do.”

  Obi-Wan acknowledges Ezovac with a nod. “The politics of sovereign states that exist within sectors technically under control of the Republic are a disaster at best, and almost no one in the Senate is willing to deal with it long enough for a planet to get the flimsiwork through.” Melidaan is a Republic planet now, but the Young didn’t always intend it to be, and Nield couldn’t read, so Obi-Wan had done a lot of that research between battles; and being on the run from Death Watch actually afforded a considerable amount of downtime during his year on Mandalore, and, well. A big part of that Obi-Wan had thought it was all information he’d need to know if Satine asked him to stay, and Obi-Wan still hasn’t quite learned how to let someone love him unless he can be useful to them.

  Actually, it’s rather convenient that he had done all this research for Mandalore specifically, if thirteen years too early — perhaps the Force was simply preparing him for this Mandalore, not Satine’s. 

  Across the mess table, Kal groans loudly and slumps his head down. “Fine, I’ll bite, kih’Alor: what’s any of that got to do with Duchess Demagolka?”

  “Theoretically,” Obi-Wan sighs again, pushing a grumbling Dha further into his mind so he can concentrate, “Mandalore does not actually have to declare itself as anything; there are plenty of planets in the outer rim that have sovereignty without officialising it with the Republic.”

  “But...?”

  “But, thanks to Satine, Mandalore is embroiled in Senate politics nine ways to Corellian Hells, and it’ll be even worse if she makes any headway with the beskar mines while we’re off fighting Vizsla. We simply can’t withdraw from those politics, not when Mandalore’s history is so entwined with the Republic’s, not unless we want to go full isolationist from the rest of the galaxy.” He glances at his other table-/councilmates, and is relieved to see they seem to be keeping up, if looking a bit exhausted by it; Obi-Wan shares the sentiment.

  Luckily, the mess is empty now with everyone returning to their increased post-battle duties, or Obi-Wan is sure they’d have had quite a few more complaints about the impromptu government lesson happening in the middle of the tent.

  Kal rubs his eyes, shaking himself before turning back to Obi-Wan, his frown as deep as ever, but at least he still seems willing to listen.

  “So, we can’t just go after the Senate’s pet Mandalorian without burning those bridges, unless we have proof she’s in league with a terrorist?”

  “Precisely. And technically, with Mandalore as a sovereign state, the Senate can’t do anything about the change in power, unless they plan to go to war with every Mandalorian in the galaxy, but proving she made the first move will give us significantly more support for instating Jango instead.”

  “I feel like my brains are coming out my ears,” Bosoloc whispers woodenly, staring down at the remains of the protein gruel on her tray. 

  “You don’t have ears,” Myles reminds her, chin in his hand, and she kicks him under the table. 

  “What I want to know,” Mij speaks for the first time, easily dodging one of Myles’ flailing arms, “is how you even know about the Kyr’am Turr’e, Obi-Wan.”

  Bosoloc turns away from tormenting Myles to add, “Yes, I was going to ask about that, because I have no idea what the Death Days are.”

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