#when someone has a disorder that disorder is really not about you. ironic huh

[mars-ipan]

god the next time i hear someone talking abt narcissists like they’re some vague evil entity i think i will lose my mind

[superawesome40]

Wayne Children Timeline Update

Okay, so I’ve hit a standstill on the timeline. I’ve got (most) significant not-hero-related details worked out (I think???) and I’m working on education/jobs right now, but there is SO MUCH from canon that I could pick from, and I’m honestly a bit overwhelmed. Anyone want to help me out?

Enjoy me spiraling into madness as I attempt to introduce the events that I’m probably going to include:

Dick

The Slade/Deathstroke story line, probably heavily warped to fit the storyline.

Talon/The Court of Owls. I love those funky dudes, but I admit I only really know them ‘cause of the rhyme.

Spyral? Maybe? Honestly I have NO IDEA what Spyral is at all, and I’ll need to investigate more.

I’m on the fence about including the whole Catalina Flores storyline. I’ve heard about it in passing, but I haven’t actually done any research into it yet. It’s a VERY sensitive topic, and I don’t want to mishandle anything, especially if I ever get around to writing stories set within this universe.

I think Dick being a cop at some point is really, really funny, so I might have him join the Bludhaven (Blüdhaven?) PD for a bit? So he can take them down from the inside or something. He quits after like. Two years.

Jason

The Catherine Todd/Sheila Haywood/Willis Todd… situation.

Whacking the scary man with a tire iron (was that one ever even a question? Of course I’m including it)

League bodyguard for baby Damian (I’m pretty sure this one is fanon, but it’s my AU, I do what I want!!!)

Heads in a duffle bag

Titans Tower attack.

I’ve heard something about magic fire swords maybe, but I’m not sure.

This is making me realize I know… very little about what Jason got up to after his revival.

Cass

Huh. I don’t really have anything to put here? I know next to nothing about Cass outside of her involvement in the Batfam. Send help.

No like actually. What does she do? I love her character, but this post is making me realize that I don’t actually KNOW them.

Tim

Stalker baby stalker baby stalker baby stalker baby

Joker Jr.! I dunno, I really like the idea of JJ being like a completely different entity who lies dormant in Tim’s head and pops up from time to time? It inspired a story where Tim has several versions of himself living up in his head. I invented an entire disorder for it: Fragmented Personality Disorder. Probably won’t be a thing in this AU, but either way. JJ is DEFINITELY happening.

Young Justice is morally gray at best and they try very hard to pretend like they aren’t. (Young Justice is actually the only comics I’ve read, and I’ve only read up to like. Issue # 6 so far. I love my little dudes so much.)

Off topic, but will someone explain coffee Tim vs. energy drink Tim? Can’t he just combine the two with an ass load of sugar and call it a day?

Spleen.

Highest kill count. Don’t care if it’s canon. He has the highest kill count, he’s not sorry, and he WILL do it again.

I don’t know why the idea of Conner, Cassie, Tim, and Bart running around space completely unsupervised is so funny to me, but it is. Is it canon? Don’t ask me, I have no idea. Is it in this AU? Absolutely.

Again. What does he get up to? Robin era, Red Robin era, anywhere? Anything significant happen? At all???

Duke

Uhhhhhhhh.

I know about his parents. That’s definitely happening.

We Are Robin? What is We Are Robin? Is it pre-Batfam? Post-Batfam?

Wait was he Signal before or after he was a Bat?

Is he a Bat?

I COULD do my research. Or I could do the lazy thing and make you all do it for me :)

Damian

This is the little bastard that dragged me kicking and screaming into the DCU. This is all his fault.

Fun fact! I hated anything and everything to do with DC purely because I was introduced to Marvel first. I thought it was dumb, and poorly written, and a cheap knock off of Marvel. This was back when I only knew about like, Batman, Superman, and Wonder Woman. I didn’t even know that the Flash was DC at this point. Then I found out about Damian and… well, it all spiraled from there.

So anyways, let’s see.

Killed by the Heretic? Yup.

Metal spine? Absolutely.

Dick Grayson’s Robin? Without a doubt.

Hmmm what else…

What happened in Super Sons?

Uh

What did he get up to with the Titans (?) That was a thing, right?

Wasn’t there a murder island story arc? Maybe? And he died for like, a minute but then he came back?

Also Damian and Tim attempt to murder each other as a ✨bonding activity✨

Bruce

Don’t even get me started on freaking Bruce. I dread the day I finally get up the courage to start looking into Bruce.

So yeah. Send help? Suggest your favorite fight/monster/comic for me to research? Please, I’m begging you. Doesn’t matter the universe, or the era, or whether it’s pre-Crisis or Earth 1 or whatever other million ways there are to break them down (I still have to look into those, too.), anything you think should be on the timeline, let me know and I’ll look into it.

[valhallakonbi]

i meant new ask: character headcanons?

oh okay i wasn't sure my bad!

i'll start off with some small ones and gradually get to the bigger ones:

i can't tell if you were the one to come up with it or if it was established in the novels but i really like thinking of ougi as a neat freak... since koyomi is one, it ties in nicely

vegetarian koyomi & sodachi are also very good (i think veggie koyomi is yours and sodachi is annabelle's)

kanbaru and hitagi actually kissed in middle school. several times maybe.

yotsugi has a crush on nadeko but she doesn't understand that it is one. nadeko has noticed something's up but isn't sure yotsugi knows either

uni senjougahara can drive a motorcycle (please picture koyomi in the backseat as well)

hanekawa knows way too much about cars and all the men she meets at diners and gas stations overseas are really impressed with her, whether they like it or not (she drives manual btw.)

kanbaru wanted to become a sports doctor after meeting with numachi again, so i think she would mostly work with teenagers. i'd like to think that she frequently visits naoetsu and that ougi and kanbaru are still friends and reading buddies even when kanbaru grows into an adult.

my biggest headcanons are not fun ones and they are senjougahara related. reader discretion avised (mentions of eating disorders, cancer)

it's pretty on the nose, and it's edgy, and it's not revolutionary or anything, but hitagi crab as an analogy for eating disorders works extremely well in my eyes.

as someone who has dealt with eating disorders it makes for a very true-to-life tale of a girl whose response to multiple trauma has been control of other's perception of her by violent means (mindful of what people are saying about her, can't let anyone know about her secret, threatens and bullies anyone who tries to get closer to her). this is coherent with anorexia as a way to regain some form of pride and "autonomy" when you feel like everything's been taken away from you. the "weight" aspect is a major factor in how people come up with this interpretation, it's a pun on "omoi" (heavy ; feelings / ties / memories) and how cutting these off completely is easier than dealing with them... and eating disorders oftentimes serve as a way to shift the focus on something other than the actual traumatic event. i remember it functioning the same as addiction on a neurological level.

anyway, what i like about this reading is how the analogy makes it non voyeuristic. the lack of voyeurism (ironic, huh) when it comes to traumatic events is something i really appreciate in monogatari. even as she's talking about the ways she was emotionally and sexually abused, we're not directly shown, we listen to senjougahara talk. a lot of stories about eating disorders are very graphic with the subject matter. seems people can't talk about this stuff without putting extra stress on the "disgusting" aspects of it (critically underweight bodies, laxatives, vomit and other forms of purging). this kind of stuff does nothing except add shock value and try to warn readers or watchers about self-image issues and how starving and purging is bad and gross!! like they don't already know. with hitagi crab as an analogy for anorexia, the self-image/societal perception aspect is neatly implied and the root of the problem (relationship with her mother) is addressed directly.

the other on-the-nose, edgy thing, is senjougahara had a critical operation which saved her life when she was little. it's never been said outright what her disease was, but cancer is prevalent enough among kids and it fits her motif.

[levisgirll]

could i pls request one where the reader is having trouble eating consistently throughout the day and doesn't rlly eat much and this is where levi starts to notice and helps and comforts her? it's been hard for me to eat these last several weeks, also if you're not comfortable writing ab this you don't have to do this!

𝐢𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐨𝐤𝐚𝐲 (𝐋𝐞𝐯𝐢 𝐀𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐫𝐦𝐚𝐧 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫)

→ Text: Hello there Anon! Thank you for sending a request to me and of course I will be glad to write this for you! And, sorry this took a while but I really do hope you see this as I tried my best with it! Also, I am sorry to hear that you are having trouble eating. Since it has been awhile I hope you are doing better now?🥺 ♡♡♡  It must be difficult but don’t forget that you are strong enough to make it this far and I am proud of you! Hang in there, things will get better soon, trust in yourself <3 

Synopsis: Levi was quick to notice the person he loves most which is Y/N for a while that they were struggling with something. So, Levi observed them for a while and then noticed how Y/N was actually having trouble not eating much. And, it was just an instinct that Levi went out to comfort and help Y/N in his own way. Which made you realize his love for you, and you only, and how soft/sweet Levi Ackerman is towards Y/N. Find out what are the things he does and says!

Trigger Warning, some mentions of eating disorder (but focusing more on levi comforting them), angst, cute fluff, modern au, headcanons imagine♡ —

It was hard, extremely hard, and you tried your best to eat consistently throughout the day, whenever you went out hanging out with Levi, and whenever you were alone. You really did. But, all alone and not letting anyone know about it because you were quite worried and concerned to even mention it, especially to Levi, you found it hard to manage this by yourself.

Whenever Levi came over to your place, or has taken you out for lunch/dinner he noticed you won’t eat much and even skipping it, and he started to wonder if it was because you hated the choices he picked and took you or you had enough of outside food with him. But, he later observed you and had noticed you were actually struggling to eat nowadays and he wanted to talk to you, to be of use and support you. After all, you are someone to him he cared and loved.

So, he decided to come over to your place and have a chat with you, because Levi was slowly starting to be worried for you.

“Hey, Y/N. I want to talk to you about something. Come sit with me?” Levi said as he sat down on your couch, leaning forward while he rested his elbows on his thighs. He looked towards you, at your eyes which had a surprised look.

“S-Sure.” Y/N said nervously and sat from the opposite side, not sure if Levi was mad at something.

“I...have been noticing that you aren’t enjoying our lunch and dinner hangouts recently, and I also noticed you usually reject my hangouts whenever we go out to eat. Did I...do something?” He sounded quite sad and also concerned. He wanted to make sure the relationship you both had was still going good, because he loved hanging out with you and spending every minute with you. To Levi, you were his everything and he wanted to progress with this relationship and bond but to do that, he had to also make sure you were comfortable and he wanted to really help you out and be there for you!

You were taken aback from his comment, surely he misunderstood the situation, Levi started talking about how he was feeling worried  if he might have done something wrong and he had also personally observed the way you were behaving different nowadays towards him.

“No Levi...You never did anything. It’s just that...” You looked away from him and looked down towards your hands that you rested on your lap, you wanted to tell him, but you were not sure how.

But then, you felt his both hands on top of yours and he held it tightly when he bent forward, and looked at you filled with love and concern. “Just what?” He was paying close attention to what you were saying, and Levi sat there patiently and calmly, waiting whenever you wanted to respond or not.

You let out a sigh and with his touch, him caressing your hands, you held his hand back and relaxed. You decided to say instead what was on your mind to Levi. “Just, I am kind of struggling to eat nowadays Levi. It’s been hard for me to eat the past few weeks and...I am trying to but it’s kind of hard.” You said, with such a sad tone it broke Levi’s heart to hear that from someone he loved. 

But, he was glad. Levi was glad and relieved to hear that you were finally telling him what was on your mind, and how you were feeling because that was important to him. And, the fact that how Levi started the conversation in a gently and safe environment and both talked about how Y/N and Levi were feeling made it much easier for Y/N to see that Levi just actually cared for them and decided to let him know. 

Ever since you had let him know about this, Levi takes account to this and starts to help you in his own way which is filled with love with every act he does.

Levi kind of understood you as he himself, is insomniac, and he struggled to sleep but ever since with your presence and whenever you both had sleepovers, it has helped him had some extra hours of sleep and he was glad he told you and shared that with you ever since you both got close. Him letting you know about it made it less harder for him and easier for him to accept it as he didn't feel all alone anymore. Levi felt really lucky to have you. And now, he wants to give that back to you but x2, he wanted the same thing for you. “Let’s do this together.” Levi would say and he held on your hand, meaning every word he is saying.

Once you have told him you don’t really eat much, Levi gave you space to talk about how they’re feeling and what was going on for them. Levi would be very patient and would honestly listen to every word you say and keep a note of it. He would never and not even think of being annoyed about their eating habit’s as he knew it was something difficult for you and honestly, he was proud of you to have made it everyday all by yourself. He found you even stronger than him.

“Hey, I’m not good with words but, I want you to know I care about you brat. And...I am always there to help, so don’t you dare hesitate with me.” He said and ruffled your hair with a slight blush on his cheeks.

After you were slowly trying to recover, once Levi surprised you and decided to break the routine and made you light homemade food instead to encourage you a bit to eat something if you wanted to. He came over for a movie night and made food for the both of you. And, if you tried or tasted his food even just a little bit, he would smile at you and lean in to give you a soft kiss on your cheek. “I’m proud of you sweetheart.” 

‘s-sweetheart?!’ you thought as your cheeks felt hot and you looked away feeling really shy. Y/N was surprised to how Levi was being too soft and sweet, and you actually found it so cute that you both ended up cuddling each other on the couch. “Tch, you really are clingy huh?” Levi said with a smirk and joked. He made you give out a small laugh as it was ironic coming from him, and that, really really, warmed his heart. Tonight was just special for the both of you and he made you feel so special that evening. You really loved him.

Although, Levi would constantly tell you that if you ever needed his help in anyway, or to even hear you out, he was so ready for that. It was his most effective way of showing you his full support, just for you. And, it all came from his heart. 

Levi would also research and read more about how to help ‘a loved one who struggles to eat’ and ask for tips from Hanji and Armin, because he really wanted all the best for you. Your happiness is his happiness too.

Whenever Levi goes out to see his old friends, he would still ask if you would like to join. He knows that even if they do not join him, he would still ask you, making Y/N feel valued as a person and always Levi trying to include them in things. Once, Y/N went out to see Mikasa, Historia and Armin to a dessert place and Levi tagged along with Y/N. He would order for himself black tea and Y/N hot chocolate while the others would get themselves some ice cream, waffles and cakes. 

While everyone is eating and chatting, Levi would put his hand on top of your lap and caress it. Making sure you are feeling alright and he is there for you no matter what. While you saw the desserts being sweet, you thought Levi’s act was even sweeter to you and it warmed your heart. He then would lean in and whisper to your ear as the others were chatting, “I know this can be hard, and there seem to be lots of food around, but you don’t have to eat it all alright?” Levi said calmly and held your hand, he understood you so well and he knew you were still in recovery so it was a great reminder for Y/N to help them feel in control again. He really helped you out and you felt so happy sharing this with him now.

One night, you got so fed up and felt really overwhelmed. So, you decided to call Levi to come over to your place while sobbing. He came so fast, you have no idea. Hearing you tear up during the phone call, broke his heart and he wanted to hold you right now. As he entered your flat, you quickly got up, eyes swollen from your tears, “I-I..” but you suddenly got pulled towards him and Levi hugged you so tightly. That simple hug, you felt all his love towards you, and it really calmed you down and warmed your heart instead of your body. “Shhh, It’s okay. I got you.”

Levi would definitely build up your self-esteem, after all you were such a great and strong person, not everyone can handle this and it was hard. So, the fact you were for several weeks, along dealing with it, Levi would let Y/N know how strong they are, and he would tell them what a great person they are and how much Levi appreciated having Y/N in his life.  “Y/N. I know this is difficult, but I am proud of you.”

The fact that Levi was constantly trying to find out more about eating disorders and how to support them, with that act itself shows that Levi actually really cared and it helped him understand how they might be feeling. So, he would always during nights you both slept together during the weekends, he would whisper soft and gentle things to you, making you feel so much good. “Y/N...You are doing really well.” He would say as he softly caressed your cheeks with his thumb as you both laid on the bed, while you hugged around his waist. “Thanks, Levi. That means a lot.” You said and softly teared up, finally feeling so much better after a long time. “Don't thank me, I want to be here for you if you ever need me.”  Those simple words, made you tear up even more, it was just the way he said it, and how he focused on your eyes, his love is real for you. That evening, you shared a lot of love together <3 It made the both of you feel amazing!

And, when you started to eat something little by little and you told him about it or he has seen it, he would give you a smile which was quite rare to see sometimes but he has become softer with you, showing you a side only you see and no one else. “See? I believe in you. You look really happy.” and he meant it. Levi has always been honest to you and that is a strong factor of his as he does not say that easily. With all of his small comments and encouragements he has given you, it made you feel so amazing whenever you ate something even small and he made sure to make you feel good about it.

If you perhaps eat something and it made you feel down about it, Levi would be sure to cheer you up about it and try to joke around to make you laugh. Doing that to make you forget your negative thoughts and he would shower you with love too, by kissing your forehead and saying “It’s going to be okay Y/N, really.”

You won’t miss a day of Levi not sending you a text, you are after all always in his mind because he is in love with you. So he would text or call you and say “How are you doing?” He wants to know if you are doing well and what you were up to so he can see you later on the day <3

Levi one day surprised you and you got a delivery from him, it was a bouquet of roses with a box of chocolate and he left you a handwritten note saying “You look amazing. -Levi.” and that simple note, made you not stop smiling throughout the whole day and squealing about it to Hanji.

After a while, Levi finally took his chance and with time he finally confessed his love to you and how much he deeply cared and cherished you. “I love you, and I don’t think of you any differently.” Levi would say to you under the beautiful nightsky. Levi then reassure them that they are worthy and loved, and nothing they say or do will change that to him.

Ahh anon I really hope you liked this and if anyone read this I hope you did too! This came out so soft and fluff to be honest, and I really see Levi being really understandable and all because he also struggles with something else, such as not getting enough of sleep, and he would shower you with comfort, making you also feel so amazing and good? Like imagine Levi saying what I mentioned above, to you! Anyways, if you did like this please then leave a like, a reblog or leaving me message about it! Thank you all <3

[airi-p4]

Ice Dreams - Chapter 2

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | …

Header art is traditional art drawn by me about one year ago - Full pic HERE.

Summary

Despite being very talented and loving to skate, Marinette is determined to quit Figure Skating after the lack of decent results and the great amount of stress and pressure on her shoulders.

On the other hand, Juleka and Luka are average skaters in pairs category who, after years of hard work, have finally started showing some good results. But suddenly, Juleka is forced to retire, leaving Luka at the verge of retirement because of his need for a partner.

Can Juleka convince Luka and Marinette to give figure skating a second chance? Can they form a bond strong enough to reach the top and accomplish their dreams? Could something more than partnership spark between them?

AO3

________________________________

CHAPTER 2: Luka

“C’mon, Juleka,” Luka said, finishing his warm up on the ice rink. “Today we’ll nail it! Are you read-”

*PLOF*

A sudden sound startled him: it was Juleka, his sister, who fell flat on the ice floor.

“Juleka! Hey! Can you hear me?” Luka panicked, rushing to check on her. She wasn’t moving. “Someone! Call an ambulance, NOW!”

___________________________

‘I can’t believe I didn’t notice,’ he thought, sinking between his shoulders. ‘I knew how she was getting more and more thin everyday, I noticed how her weight was lighter. I thought it was because I got stronger. I thought it was her make-up or her clothes. How come I couldn’t notice how light she weighs? Why couldn’t I help her earlier? Why did she have to end up in the hospital? Why am I such a failure as a brother? As a partner… After everything she’s given to me...’

‘Now’s my time to be there for her. This needs to stop’

“Juleka! You’re up!” Luka called, back from his thoughts when the sheets of her hospital bed moved and she slowly opened her eyes.

“What happened? Where…? What happened with practice…? Did I fail a jump...?” The girl asked, still numb. Luka moved his hand to press check on her and call for the nurse.

“No Juleka, you didn’t fall. You fainted” he explained, as the nurse entered the room to check on her.

“Fainted!? Why?” Juleka yelled, and was shushed by the nurse.

“Look. I’m sorry I didn’t notice earlier… It’s my fault”

Luka sighed regretfully and Juleka blinked at him. “Notice what…?”

“Juleka, listen: you’ve been diagnosed with an eating disorder” he said, and she gasped. “I know you’ve always been a picky eater but this… THIS is too much. Your BMI is too low... Look at you. You’ve lost so much weight! You need to stop dieting and eat properly” The nurse nodded and Luka nodded back as she left the room. Juleka’s mouth was still open in surprise.

“I… But I need to look thin… like the other girls… like all those great skaters…”

“No, Juleka, you don’t need to look thin, you need to be healthy. And you shouldn’t be a skater anymore if you can’t do that. From now on, I want you to focus on getting your weight back, on getting healthy again. You looked prettier before, Juleka. Don’t let stupid social standards decide how you should be or look like. Just be yourself. You know mom and I will always love you no matter how you look”

“But I do it for myself, not for others! I like myself more when I’m thinner… look at me, at all this fat. How can anyone say they like it? How could the judges like it? I’m hating it myself!” she cried.

“Well, I like it.” His words were honest and straight. “And I think most boys and girls or people in general would prefer that too.”

“You don’t understand!” she insisted. “I have to-”

“I do understand” He cut her. “You are ill. Your judgement is biased. You can’t see the reality. Do you want to be only bones? Do you want to die? Because I don’t want you to. That’s why I need you to promise me you’ll stay in the hospital until you’re healthy again.”

Juleka’s body jolted in shock. “What!? But, Luka! Our competitions! The skating! We finally made it to internationals this year...! I need to do it, for you too!”

“No. No more competitions or skating for you, Juleka. It’s your time to retire. Mom has already submitted your resignation to the Ice Skating Federation. You can’t skate anymore. You need to rest and get better, and to find a way to recover from your eating disorder”

“But Luka, what about you? You've worked so hard! We finally got a high enough score to get into international competitions. I can’t leave you alone now! What about your dream?” she insisted.

“That’s not as important as you are for me, Jules. I want you to be yourself again” he caressed his sister’s hair softly. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice earlier… I wish I could have helped you… I know you wanted to help me with lifts and my poor endurance and I was too focused on scoring that I couldn’t notice how these feelings were killing you from the inside. I don’t deserve to be called your partner”

“No, Luka. It was me who kept dragging you down! I can’t land my jumps because I weigh too much. I can’t jump high because of it either. It’s a miracle we made it to so far”

“You did amazing, Juleka. You really did and I’m grateful. But now: no more competition for you or for me either. It’s over. Time to find another goal. Both of us” he affirmed.

“No! Luka, even if I don’t compete, you should continue! Find another partner! Many girls would love to work with you! You definitely can accomplish your dream. You just need a more suited partner than me” The purple haired girl stubbornly continued.

“That’s impossible, you know that” Luka remained calm, closed his eyes and let an ironic snicker out. “I don’t get along with other people, I can’t bond with them. Girls? Boys? No matter what you do they always badmouth you about everything. Pure hearted people like you don’t exist, Juleka. I can’t team up with anyone else”

“Luka… But-!”

“This conversation is over” he cut her again, standing up and checking his phone. “I’m going to talk to the doctor and get you something to eat. Mom will be here by midday”

"Wait-"

*Knock knock*

________________________

“Juleka?” Luka checked the room. “Oh your friend already left? How are you? Did you eat everything?”

“Yes…” Her brother could see through her lie.

“Really? What’s this, then?” he pointed at the apple under her pillow

“Ah-”

“You need to eat this apple too, you won’t get healthy otherwise...” Luka said, holding the fruit to peel and cut it for her.

“I know but…” she mumbled.

“This is not a game. It’s serious, Jules” He insisted, offering a piece of apple close to her mouth. “Please…?“

Juleka turned her face away, disgusted. “No. Keep skating”

“We’ve already discussed this. No more skating. You need to get well. Eat” Luka frowned his eyebrows.

“I wasn’t talking about me. I was talking about YOU. I don’t want you to give up your dream...”

“You know I can’t skate with anyone else, Jules. Girls hate me. And I hate them. The best is to quit and focus on taking care of you” Luka insisted with the apple and his sister turned her face away again, using her hand to set his hand and the apple aside.

“But Luka! I found someone willing to be your partner, “ she informed. “You just need to give her a chance. To give pairs skating a second chance. Please…? For me…?”

“You know I can’t do that. It’s settled. I’m resigning tomorrow. The papers are ready and-” his hand moved closer again.

“But you don’t want to quit! I know you don’t! Just like Marinette doesn’t really want to quit either!” she yelled, and Luka blinked at her friend’s name.

“Marinette?”

“Yes, Marinette! We used to compete together when I skated in singles. We’ve been friends since then, even though she always won and I was good for nothing… She’s kind and talented. She has a pure heart, Luka. Just like yours.”

“I remember her,” he recalled. “Not much, but I remember how beautiful her skate was. She is far too talented to be interested in switching to pairs”

“She’s going to quit otherwise” Juleka affirmed.

“No way”

“I’m not joking” If it wasn’t for her conviction, he wouldn’t have believed her. “I think she really doesn’t want to quit, but she is determined to. Just like you don’t want to quit either. You just need to find balance in yourselves and you could be an incredible team. You just need to give her a chance…”

There was a moment when Luka seemed to consider the offer, but he cut his thoughts off. “... No. I can’t, Juleka. We came this far together. I can’t keep all the credit alone. C’mon, eat this for me”

“No” she refused again. “I’m not going to eat unless you give it another chance.”

“Juleka, stop being childish. You’re 15”

“I’m not asking much, Luka. Just one try. I beg you!” she slammed her hands on the bed. And stared at Luka with teary eyes, desperate to the boy’s surprise. “I want you to skate for me too…”

Luka found himself staring into Juleka’s eyes and how serious she was. It was more than rare for her to act this selfishly, so he ended up giving in to her request.

“Ok, one chance.” he sighed. “But you’re eating this apple right now”

“Ugh… Ok… For you… and for Marinette…” she let her mouth open for Luka to feed her the apple at last.

“Good girl” Luka smiled, relieved, despite his sister’s disgusted eating face.

‘One more chance, huh...?’

[longitudinalwaveme]

Arkham Files: Weather Wizard

Hugo Strange: From the patient files of Dr. Hugo Strange, director of Arkham Asylum. Patient: Marco “Mark” Mardon, also known as the Weather Wizard. Patient displays symptoms that suggest Borderline Personality Disorder, but I have not had the time to give him a full psychological evaluation. Session One. How are you feeling, Mr. Mardon? 

Weather Wizard: Fine. I guess. Not sure what I’m doing in an insane asylum, though. 

Hugo Strange: I am afraid that the blame for that can be laid at the feet of endless bureaucratic red tape, Mr. Mardon. No one could decide where to house you and the other ‘Rogues’ while Iron Heights Penitentiary is being rebuilt, and so someone, in their endless wisdom, decided to simply send you all to Arkham Asylum, most likely because we are perceived as the logical dumping ground for all costumed criminals. 

Weather Wizard: Oh, okay. Good. I was getting worried that I’d lost my mind without realizing it or something. 

Hugo Strange: So, Mr. Mardon, you call yourself the Weather Wizard. 

Weather Wizard: That’s right. Why? 

Hugo Strange: And you use a device called the Weather Wand in order to manipulate the weather? 

Weather Wizard: That’s also right. Why? 

Hugo Strange: It’s quite an astonishing piece of technology you wield, Mr. Mardon. Did you make it yourself?

Weather Wizard: Me? Make the Weather Wand? (Laughs) I’m not smart enough to do that.

Hugo Strange: So who did invent it, Mr. Mardon?

Weather Wizard: My older brother, Clyde. He was better at science than me. (Pause) Actually, he was better at everything than me. 

Hugo Strange: Clyde Mardon? I remember reading about him in the papers many years ago. From all appearances, he was a very promising young scientist. 

Weather Wizard: Yes, he was. My folks were really proud of him. 

Hugo Strange: What about you, Mr. Mardon? Were you not proud of him? 

Weather Wizard: Of course I was proud of him! Clyde was a genius! (Pause) And I...wasn’t. 

Hugo Strange: Your records indicate that you spent your entire childhood in your brother’s shadow, Mr. Mardon. You could never learn as quickly or jump as high or run as fast as he could, and your parents viewed you as an afterthought at best. He was their golden child, and you? You couldn’t measure up, so you became the scapegoat. Whenever things went wrong, you were the one who got the blame. It would be only natural for you to resent your older brother. 

Weather Wizard: Resent him? (Pause) Yeah, I guess I did. Sometimes I hated him so much that I wished he was dead...but at the same time, I loved him. Clyde...he was the only good thing in my life, you know? He wasn’t like Mamá and Papá. He knew what a screwup I was, but he stuck by me anyway- me, worthless, stupid, pathetic Mark Mardon. It used to make Mamá furious. Clyde was important; he was going places. He couldn’t have his worthless little brother dragging him down for the rest of his life; better just to get rid of me. But he never listened to her. Even after I became a thief, he still didn’t cut ties with me. He said he wanted to help me; that I wasn’t just the worthless waste of space that Mamá and Papá said I was. I didn’t really believe him, but it was...it was nice to know that at least one member of my family didn’t wish that I had never been born. 

Hugo Strange: Your parents told you that they wished you had never been born? 

Weather Wizard: Uh-huh. I don’t remember what exactly led up to it-I think I’d failed an important exam or something like that-but I remember their reaction to whatever it was clear as day. Mamá and I got into a shouting match over whatever it was that I’d screwed up that time, and about a minute in, Mamá looked me dead in the eyes and said “No sé qué te salió mal, pero eres un fracaso, una vergüenza para la familia. ¡Ojalá nunca hubieras nacido!” And then she burst into tears, and Papá grounded me for making her cry. 

Hugo Strange: That is terribly unfortunate, Mr. Mardon. No child should ever have to hear that from their parents. 

Weather Wizard: (Trying to play it cool) It wasn’t that bad, really. I was pretty much used to being insulted by that point. Besides, I still had Clyde. I knew he loved me. Even if he was better than me at everything. 

Hugot Strange: So your relationship with your older brother was more complicated than one might have expected. Fascinating. (Pause) You know, Mr. Mardon, there are rumors that say you killed your brother in order to get the Weather Wand. 

Weather Wizard: Killed him? 

Hugo Strange: Certainly you understand where the rumors come from, Mr. Mardon. An escaped convict, who has lived his entire life in his brother’s shadow up until this point, stumbles into his brother’s isolated lab, only to find that said brother has conveniently dropped dead, having just finished a device that will grant the convict unimaginable power? I have to say that it does sound rather suspicious. 

Weather Wizard: Are you saying that I murdered my brother to get the Weather Wand? 

Hugo Strange: Well, did you, Mr. Mardon? 

Weather Wizard: No! Clyde died of congenital heart failure. The coroner even said so. 

Hugo Strange: And your first instinct upon finding your older brother dead was to steal the Wand he had worked so hard to build? 

Weather Wizard: Well, he wasn’t going to be using it. He was dead; it couldn’t help him anymore. But it could help me. I was so tired of being stupid, lazy, worthlesss Mark Mardon-and being the Weather Wizard meant that I didn’t have to be him anymore. With the Weather Wand, I could finally be someone important! 

Hugo Strange: In other words, you stole the Wand so that you could finally be special, like your older brother had been. 

Weather Wizard: Exactly! Clyde invented the Wand...but I was the one who would use it to master the weather. Oh, Dr. Strange...you have no idea how wonderful it felt to finally be important; to wield the kind of power and know that no one...no one...would ever ignore me again. 

Hugo Strange: And you used this great power to...rob banks and jewelry stores? 

Weather Wizard: What else would I have used it for? 

Hugo Strange: Humanitarian aid comes to mind. Or, if you’re insistent on using the Wand for evil, world domination. You can control the weather, Mr. Mardon! There is virtually no limit to the things you could accomplish! 

Weather Wizard: World domination? Don’t be ridiculous. I’m not smart enough to run the world...and besides, it sounds like way too much work. No, I’m happy to stick to the small-time. Less work that way...and less chance for me to screw things up. 

Hugo Strange: For a man who can bend the weather to his whims, Mr. Mardon, you are disturbingly lacking in both self-confidence and ambition. 

Weather Wizard: You should see me when I’m fighting the Flash. I don’t lack self-confidence then. 

Hugo Strange: Ah, yes, your city’s costumed vigilante. I was wanting to talk about him, actually. What sort of relationship do you have with the Flash, Mr. Mardon? 

Weather Wizard: Adversarial, I guess? He’s always getting in the way of my robberies, and that’s pretty annoying, but I’m not obsessed with him or anything. I’m not, like, gonna go out of my way to get his attention. I happen to like being able to successfully escape with my loot. 

Hugo Strange: And he had no influence on your decision to put on a green leotard and start calling yourself the Weather Wizard? 

Weather Wizard: I don’t think so. I mean, I guess it’s possible that he had some influence on my costume design or something without me realizing it, but I didn’t put on a costume because he wears one. 

Hugo Strange: So you wouldn’t stop being the Weather Wizard if the Flash were no longer around? 

Weather Wizard: Of course not! If I’m not the Weather Wizard, I’m a nobody: stupid, pathetic, worthless, useless Mark Mardon. I’m never going back to that life. Never. (Pause) That being said, I do have to admit that there’s a part of me that hopes that the Flash won’t go away. Crime wouldn’t be half so much fun without him around. 

Hugo Strange: First you say that you would prefer to avoid the Flash if you could; then you say that crimes wouldn’t be half so much fun without him. Which is it, Mr. Mardon? Is he a nuisance, or an enjoyable challenge?  

Weather Wizard: (Long pause) I...I don’t know. 

Hugo Strange: Then allow me to offer my theory, Mr. Mardon. I think you have Borderline Personality Disorder. 

Weather Wizard: I have what? 

Hugo Strange: Borderline Personality Disorder. It’s a mental illness characterized by mood swings, impulsive behavior, feelings of boredom or emptiness, an unstable, distorted self-image, and, perhaps most relevantly to this conversation, unstable interpersonal relationships. Your relationship with your brother was like this-you claim that he was the best thing in your life and that you wished that he was dead-and so, I think, is your relationship with the Flash. When you are in a relatively good mood, he is a fun challenge; when you are more stressed, he is an inconvenience you would prefer to avoid. Either way, he exacerbates your condition. 

Weather Wizard: (Muttering) So my parents were right. I really am a lunatic. Great. 

Hugo Strange: You are not a lunatic, Mr. Mardon. You are a man who needs to learn how to properly manage life with a difficult disease. But don’t worry. I am here to help you. 

[fallout-lou-begas]

Elevated Extras: Ranger Ghost Companion

You a Courier? If so, this might be your lucky day...if you don't mind walking a bit and your eyes are good. 

(Original sketch by @tarberrymentats / based on the OC Companion Meme by @falloutfandomeventhub / if you borrow this concept please tag it as #fallout elevated extras)

General

Name: Ranger Ghost

Location: Mojave Outpost

How to obtain: Complete the sidequest “Keep Your Eyes on the Prize,” then begin the sidequest “Giving Up the Ghost” to get her reassigned from the Mojave Outpost. Once freed of her assignment, she can travel with the Courier to monitor Legion activity throughout the Mojave.

Companion Quest: “Giving Up the Ghost.”

Ranger Ghost, like everyone else, is sick and tired of being stuck at the Mojave Outpost. Unfortunately, orders are orders. With the courier’s help, though, she just might be able to come down from that rooftop, but dealing with NCR bureaucracy might be a worse ordeal than Legion crucifixion.

Companion Wheel

I think we should travel together. You probably can’t tell, but that’d make me very happy. Let’s get the hell out of here.

Let’s talk about your tactics. Sure. Lecture the ranger on tactics. Go ahead. / What’re you thinking?

I want you to change your combat style. (humoring) Alright. / If you insist.

Use a melee weapon. Close combat, then. / Sure. We can hold their hands and tuck them in while we’re at it. / (Wild Wasteland Enabled) Try to remember the basics of CQC.

Use a ranged weapon. (stating the obvious) It’s what I do. / You going to spot for me? / (deeply sarcastic) Aww. Finally remembered I’m a ranger?

Be passive. Sure, give peace a chance. / Don’t go pacifist on me, now.

Be aggressive: Locked and loaded. / (mocking the company line) Right, and with “extreme prejudice.”

Enough about tactics. Agreed. Anything else? / Are we good, then?

Let’s talk about how close you’re following me. Is there a problem? / What are you...implying, exactly?

Wait here. Right. Things to do, places to be? / Holding down here. / I’ll keep watch here.

Follow me. Let’s roll out. / Finally. Don’t like waiting. / Right. Skip to my fucking lou.

Stay close to me. (sternly cautious) Define “close.” / Got it, on you. / Just don’t bump my gun.

Keep your distance. Positioning, got it. / Yeah, covering you. / (facetious concern) Don’t get lost, now.

Let’s trade equipment. Don’t get fucking handsy, now. / Just don’t hog the ammo.

(Overburdened). I’m not your fucking pack brahmin. / (exasperated) I’ve only got so many pockets.

(Sneaking). Staying low. / (wryly imperative) Quiet, now.

(In Courier’s iron sights). What the fuck is wrong with you? / (slowly, emphasizing) Watch your trigger discipline. / Don’t make me take that away.

(Courier lays mine). I’ve got my eyes on that. / You’d better have a plan for that.

It’s time for us to part ways. It’s because i’m a bitch, isn’t it. / Such sweet fucking sorrow, I bet.

I’d like you to go to the Lucky 38. Hm. Sending the Ghost to the haunted house. See you there. I’ll try not to spook the Securitrons.

We can meet again at the Mojave Outpost. (sucks teeth) Guess I’ll report what I’ve got back to headquarters. Hopefully by now they’ve got someone else watching the brahmins shit full-time.

Injured: (seething) SSShhit. / Didn’t want it like this. / (with conviction) I didn’t get off that roof just to fucking bite it.

Damaged Limb: (shout of pain) Fucker clipped me! / Sure could use a fucking medic.

Regaining Consciousness: What...what the hell happened? / (trailing off) Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck...

Death: (death rattle) / (weakly) Ghosts...can die, huh...ha...

Attributes

Aggression: Aggressive.

Confidence: Brave.

Assistance: Helps friends and allies.

Karma: Neutral.

Perks

Ghost of a Chance: When Ranger Ghost is by your side, so are the odds. In addition to gaining an extra 3% chance to critically hit, any single attack that would kill you may instead leave you just barely alive and invulnerable for a brief moment..

Drops, if killed

Ranger Vest Outfit

Ranger Grey Hat

Authority Glasses

Cowboy Repeater

Combat Knife

Iguana Bits

Grognak the Barbarian

Dialogue, Quest Details, and Ending Slides:

Dialogue

Why do they call you Ghost? What, don’t I scare you? Boo? Nothing? (beat) Well, if you gotta know, it stuck pretty quick back in basic. Not like there were many other albinos in boot camp. The all-white spooky bitch who shoots better at night? Yeah, that’s a ghost, alright. Pissed me off at first, but I came around when it started giving privates the heebie-jeebies. Just a little kick, is all.

What’s an albino? Albinism is a pigment disorder. You know, the color of your skin and hair? As in I don’t have color. Pale as a sheet.

[Medicine 35] A sharpshooter with albinism? Isn’t your vision affected? Done your homework, huh? Well, these big, bad sunglasses aren’t just for intimidation, doc. They only come off when I sleep. Sucks enough being photosensitive in the goddamn desert, but like I said. I’m a lot better at night.

What’s your real name? (the thousandth time she’s answered this exact question) If I told you that, I’d have to kill you.

Aw, come on. Curiosity killed the courier. Don’t push it.

[Speech 40] I’m just trying to understand my partner better. Then “understand” that I don’t owe you shit except loyalty. Just call me Ghost, and you’ll get that.

[Cherchez La Femme] Surely you’ve got a name to match that lovely personality. (flustered) Are you d-...I-...Yeah, I do.But you can just keep calling me Ghost. (quietly) For...for now.

What’s the deal with Ranger Jackson? Man hasn’t got a thought in his fucking head...which is why he’s such a good C.O., from the top down. He’s a nice enough guy on a good day. He’s...principled, for sure. But the man wouldn’t budge on an order from brass if it’d save his life. Stranded caravaneers get so bored and restless because of the impasse he’s overseeing that he’s started (excessive emphasis) “hiring” the rowdier ones for odd jobs off the grounds, which is why we’ve been “losing” supplies for a while. Gets shit done, I guess, but wish he’d show half that drive when bitching to HQ, but no. They tell him to sit tight, he says yes sir, and then he takes it out on us when we get frustrated at the frustrating bullshit.

Do you know Major Knight? (standoffish) Yeah. Good guy. Known him a while. Hell, he’s been at M.O. longer than I have.

What does he do? Repairs, mostly. With all the caravans backed up, we sort of have a monopoly on maintenance and upkeep. And believe me, he does damn fine work.

[Confirmed Bachelor] Is he...you know…? Is he...oh. Between you and me? Yeah. He and I are...alike. I mean, I’m the bitch everybody hates, so I don’t really give a shit, but beneath that…(thinking how best to describe him, ribbing him a bit)...accountant exterior of his, he’s really the soft, sensitive type. Needs someone to talk to sometimes. I’m that someone, sometimes, but if you get the chance...it’d do him good just to know he’s not that alone out here.

How can I best use your skills? Hard to find a way that’d be worse than all the wasted time at M.O., but I’ll make it easy for you: give me a target and let me shoot it. If it’s too close to shoot, I’m trained in hand-to-hand, and if it’s too far to shoot, it’ll never see me coming. Standard repertoire for a ranger.

What’s your opinion on the NCR? High enough to keep me enlisted, low enough to where I’ve got plenty to mock. We’re a good country, a damn good country. We’re the only real country actually left in the West. We’d be the best thing to ever crawl out of the bombed-out ruins of this war if it weren’t for all the bureaucratic bullshit, and the brass getting duller the higher you go. It’s all just song and dance and sloganeering to them out here. Whatever looks good on paper. They don’t give a shit what really happens to people out here, and if Caesar doesn’t kill us, that might. At least on the inside.

What’s it like being a ranger? Ranger training is the best, most brutal gauntlet this side of the Colorado. Hours and hours of days and days spent shooting, drilling, fighting, bringing the body to its breaking points, pouring blood and sweat just to get an inch past the wide-eye hopefuls who were always going to just wash out...and all of it just to stand on a fucking rooftop staring at ants and malnourished raiders on the interstate. I swear, if you gave headquarters a golden egg, they’d fucking cook it.

Were you at the battle of Hoover Dam? Was going to be, but believe it or not, I sat out sick. Got the fucking flu right before and was stuck at McCarran the whole time, half-lucid. Let me tell you, the whole tent of coughs and sneezes crowding around that radio, listening to the reports...when Hanlon ordered that retreat out of Boulder City, we were grabbing our rifles and getting ready to march out on foot, even if we could barely stand. We thought that was it. Of course, it wasn’t, and we cheered so loud when they radioed about the explosion that I hope Caesar damn well heard it.

Do you wish that you had been there? Of course I do. If I miss the next one because I’m stuck at the Outpost or some shit, I’m deserting with a dozen fed-up caravaneers to flank his fucking fort myself, if only for some goddamn excitement.

How do you feel about the Legion? Love ‘em. Joined the NCR because I just wanted to meet them that bad. Their new Legate’s such a heartthrob, I hear.

You’re not serious. (sucks teeth, deep sigh) Look. You saw Nipton. It was just a taste of what they do. I’ve seen good men die on crosses, and that’s a mercy compared to the good women. I hear when women sign up now, they get about five extra “are you sures?” from recruiters. Not officially, of course. Brass would never let people back home know how bad it is. But it’s just another thing that makes me glad I’m a sniper, sometimes. Engage at range. Out of reach.

What about Legion society? Do you know anything about life across the river? There’s nothing across that river. Nothing. (beat, pondering) Do you remember the Enclave War? Bitter, bloody, big explosion at Navarro? And the Brotherhood campaign out here? Even worse of a shitshow, but still, we won that out, too. But the Enclave and the Brotherhood at least stood for something. They were societies, or at least promises of one, and if things had shaken out the other way for the NCR at least something would still be standing here. The Legion isn’t like that. They aren’t “something.” They’re one big razor across Arizona, shaving everything down. And if we don’t stop them here, we never will.

What about their Legate? (with contempt) Lanius, “The Monster of the East.” Caesar must’ve plucked him out of hell or something after his first legate blew it at Hoover Dam. Word from recon is that the only reason we’re all still twiddling our thumbs there is that he’s out making friends for Caesar someplace, and he’ll be bringing them all back for a whole ��nother goddamn jamboree soon. (tension broken by a funny thought; spoken dryly) Or should I say a Damboree. Since it’d be at the Dam.

Do you know anything about Mr. House? No. Closest I’ve ever been to the Strip has been McCarran, where I was too proud to get wasted on expensive booze in the casinos. As punishment, I got stuck with nothing to do but get shitfaced on cheap booze at the outpost. All I know is Mr. House runs the whole Strip himself, and there’s one casino, the Lucky 36 or something, that’s supposed to be all his. No one’s allowed in, no one’s ever come out. Frankly? Just strikes me as fucking weird.

Companion Quest: Giving Up the Ghost

After completing the sidequest “Eyes On the Prize” (in which the Courier checks Nipton for survivors), Ghost will remark that the Mojave’s going to hell, and all she can do is sit and watch. The Courier will reply that she ought to stop watching and travel with them, to which she’ll respond that her orders are absolute—but if the courier can change her orders somehow, she’d be indebted. The quest then begins.

= = = Stage 1: Deal with Jackson = = =

First, the Courier must speak to Ranger Jackson and convince him to consider Ghost’s reassignment. They can do this through the following dialogue options:

[Speech 80] This outpost is just waiting to be overrun by Legion. You’ll be the next Nipton unless you’re proactive.

[Speech 55; completed “Can’t You Find It In Your Heart” beforehand] Maybe I could tell your superiors about where I “found” these “lost” supplies, then.

[Barter 80] Ghost is an exceptional asset to the rangers. Stationing her here is a waste of valuable NCR resources.

[NCR Fame] There’s work to be done for the NCR out there, and Ghost is who I trust to do it with me.

[Black Widow] I’ve ways of making men come around...especially handsome men in uniform. (The Courier must then sleep with Ranger Jackson)

Note that the Courier can not simply complete the quest “Can’t You Find It In Your Heart?” as a favor to Jackson for Ghost’s reassignment. While he’ll let a caravaneer go, it’ll take more than clearing some ants from the road to get him to compromise his standing force and let go of a ranger. 

Alternatively, Jackson’s death will advance the quest.

Kill Jackson. Similar to Cass’ companion quest, Jackson can simply be killed. However, Ghost is far less sympathetic to this course of action and will confront the Courier over the murder. If Jackson is simply killed, the Courier will either need a convincing alibi [Speech 90] to argue that they weren’t responsible or admit to the murder. If the Courier fails the Speech check or admits to the murder, Ghost will turn hostile (“Maybe you didn’t fucking think this through, but do you know what we call someone who kills an NCR ranger? An enemy of the NCR rangers. Now, eat shit.”). Alternatively, the Courier can intimidate Ghost into silence with a [Terrifying Presence] option, after which a shaken but seething Ghost will simply ask the Courier to leave the outpost and never come back. Passing the Speech check is the way to not fail the quest from this option.

Kill Jackson and frame Cass. If the Courier kills Jackson themself, attempting to loot Jackson’s body will trigger a message suggesting that they could frame Cass for the murder by splashing whiskey on the body (so long as Cass is not currently the player’s companion and is currently at the Mojave Outpost, not the Lucky 38). By adding a whiskey bottle to Jackson’s body without themself or the body being discovered in the meantime, they can successfully implicate Cass for the murder, and explain as much to Ghost. She’ll buy it, since Cass was one of the most frustrated residents of the outpost and was drunk almost all the time. Cass will then disappear from the game, and if Lacey, Major Knight, or Ghost (if the Courier left the outpost before speaking to her again) are asked, they will explain that Cass was arrested by the NCR.

Have someone else kill Jackson. A desperate, fed-up caravaneer named Paul by the brahmin pens is willing to kill Jackson for 5,500 caps. This price can be negotiated down to 4,000 with a [Barter 60] check, and 3,500 with [Barter 75]. At midnight that night, Paul will attempt to sneakily kill Jackson. Alternatively, Paul can be incensed into attacking Jackson immediately and for free with a [Hot Blooded] trait check. In either case, though, there is no guarantee that Paul will succeed, and if Paul is killed then the Courier must advance the quest another way (though they can loot their spent caps from Paul’s body). When spoken to afterwards, Ghost will remark that she saw the Courier speaking to Paul and ask if they had anything to do with it. By passing a [Speech 50] check, the Courier can convincingly lie that they were trying to talk him out of it. With either the [Black Widow] or [Cherchez la Femme] perks, the Courier can lie and say that Paul very foolishly did it to try to impress them. With [Low Intelligence] the Courier can earnestly say that they thought “taking care” of Jackson meant doing something nice for him.

Somehow allow Jackson to die. If Jackson just somehow dies in an unaccounted way, such as from a spawned-in deathclaw eviscerating him in his own office, Ghost will remark on the strangeness of the situation but won’t blame the Courier. This is a failsafe option to prevent quest breakage.

= = = Stage 2: Find a Replacement = = =

If Jackson is alive, he’ll agree with the Courier that he ought to let Ghost go, but he’s still under orders to maintain a standing force at Mojave—a standing force which includes a highly trained sniper. If Jackson has been killed, Ghost will mention that Major Knight is next in command and would be glad to give her clearance, but that he won’t be able to do so without a replacement sniper, either. Either way, the Courier is tasked with finding a suitable replacement. The Courier can ask her for advice:

Who should I look for to be your replacement? They have to be NCR, obviously. Ex-NCR might work, too, so long as they’re in good standing. Any Dick or Jane off the road is a no-go, since brass put the kibosh on officially contracting mercenaries. Oh, and anyone you get would have to be well-trained. Not necessarily a ranger, but good enough to replace one, even for a sit-on-the-shitter job like this. Only the best and brightest get to stare at this fucking road all day, apparently.

Where should I look for your replacement? If you checked out some of the ranger stations around the Mojave, they might be able to move some people around. Hell, take it all the way to McCarran if you want, or with Hanlon. If you’re going to give them shit on my behalf, by all means, go nuts. A lot of higher-ups can be greased with enough favors, anyway. Whoever you get just needs the right credentials. Legion attacks get dragged asses and twiddled thumbs, sure, but bad paperwork would set a goddamn fire at headquarters.

The following characters can be recruited as the Mojave Outpost’s new watch:

A generic ranger. By speaking to the commanding officers of at least three of the NCR ranger camps across the Mojave with sufficient [NCR Fame], the Courier can speak to Chief Hanlon to arrange for Ghost’s replacement with a generic ranger. This option is impossible if “Return to Sender” has already been completed.

Craig Boone. If the Courier has completed “I Forgot to Remember to Forget” in a way that makes Boone repentant over his past, he can be persuaded to take over Ghost’s position as a good way to put his skills to use. Otherwise, he will refuse, either preferring to stay in Novac where he lived with Carla or not wanting to be stuck as a watchman again when he could be out killing Legionnaires. If selected, Boone’s home marker will change from Novac to the Mojave Outpost.

Manny Vargas. Novac’s other sniper can be convinced to take up Ghost’s post, but only if the Courier has completed “One For My Baby,” “Come Fly With Me,” and eradicated the Legion presence from Nelson. Once convinced that Novac seems safe, for now, he’ll be willing to reenlist if paid a generous salary. The Courier can either pay Manny 5,000 caps to reenlist now, pass a [Barter 65] check to explain that it’s a provisional reenlistment and reduce their bribe to 3,000, or if the Courier has already passed the [Confirmed Bachelor] check in dialogue with Knight, they can tell Manny about the cute little major sitting behind the desk all day there by his lonesome. Once convinced, Manny will relocate to the Mojave Outpost and take Ghost’s place.

Bryce Anders. This keen-eyed ranger can be recruited to Ghost’s position if he is rescued from the Vault 3 Fiends by the Courier. Once spoken with in Camp McCarran, the Courier can explain that the Mojave Outpost needs a new ranger stationed there. He will defer to Colonel Hsu’s authority on reassignments, and with a successful [Speech 60], [Medicine 40], or [NCR Fame] check, Hsu will agree to the reassignment on the grounds that it’s a useful position still sedentary enough to not complicate the ranger’s recovery.

Little Buster. The listless bounty hunter at Camp McCarran is looking for another career path and would be willing to take over Ghost’s do-nothing position. However, the only way to recruit him is to fabricate both credentials and enlistment records by either stealing personnel files from either Colonel Hsu’s office at Camp McCarran or from the filing cabinets at Camp Golf, or speaking to Daniel Contreras, who “knows a guy” who’ll take care of it if the Courier has already acquired access to Contreras' expanded inventory by siding with him in the unmarked quest “Dealing with Contreras.”

Private Halford. The sole survivor of Camp Guardian mentions that he wants to head back home through Mojave Outpost after being rescued from the mirelurk caves, at which point the Courier can mention no one is allowed to leave through there, and ask if he’d like to take Ghost’s position there instead. At first he’ll refuse, but with a [Speech 45] or [NCR Fame] check he can be convinced that a quiet, do-nothing watch assignment would be a lot better than anything else after what happened at Camp Guardian, to which he’ll agree. He will also relocate to the Mojave Outpost after being freed anyway, getting stuck like everyone else so that the speech check can be re-attempted. However, Halford isn’t considered well-trained enough for a ranger’s job. The Courier must speak to Jackson (or Knight, if Jackson is dead) and pass a [Speech 80] or [NCR Fame] check to make a strong endorsement, or a [Survival 55] check to explain how impressive it is that he survived an attack from so many mirelurks. Alternatively, the Courier can fabricate impressive enough credentials through the options required to assign Little Buster.

Once Ghost’s replacement has been assigned to the Mojave Outpost, the Courier only needs to speak to Ghost again. She will explain that she’s been “reassigned” to open patrol across the Mojave, ostensibly to track Legion activity, so long as she does so with the Courier. She also gains an additional dialogue option dependent on your choice of replacement:

What do you think of your replacement?

(Generic ranger) For this job? Any ranger’s as wasted as any other. I almost feel bad, I doubt she’ll like that fucking roof any more than I did...almost feel bad. Doesn’t quite cancel out the relief.

(Boone) First recon is one hell of a pull. Took right to it, too, like he was already used to it. Strikes me as the...quiet, contemplative type. Likes to think. Not much else to do up there, anyway. I bet those brahmin pins have never felt safer.

(Manny) First recon is one hell of a pull. Took right to it, too, like he was already used to it. Seems like a nice enough guy, and seems to be getting along with Major Knight. Hell, you love to see it.

(Bryce) A good man. Heard about what the Fiends did to him, and after all that, he certainly deserves a break. Didn’t think of this shit job as much of a vacation before, but seems like it’ll do him good.

(Buster) Not sure where the hell you found this guy, but if (Jackson / Knight) gave the okay, then...okay. I would’ve put a goddamn brahmin in a beret up there if it could have gotten me another assignment.

(Halford) The mirelurk guy? Yeah, he seems alright. I’ve never actually seen a mirelurk, but after hearing his story, I don’t think I want to. I didn’t even know we had a camp that far up there.

Speaking to Ghost after her replacement takes her position completes the quest, and from then on, she can now be recruited as a companion. However, similar to Boone, she will only remain the Courier’s companion if they maintain good reputation with the NCR, and as an active-duty ranger, her intolerance for anti-NCR actions is even more strict.

Ending Slides

If "Giving Up the Ghost” is started, but never completed:

NCR Victory. Ranger Ghost remained at Mojave Outpost, dutifully, thanklessly, and restlessly. When the rangers there received word that the Legion had made their move on the dam, the entire outpost went silent. Waiting. From her rooftop perch, at least she was the first to see the bearer of good news come up the road. In the moment, at least, it was worth everything to be there.

Legion, House, or Independent Victory. Ranger Ghost remained at Mojave Outpost, dutifully, thanklessly, and restlessly. When the rangers there received word that the Legion had made their move on the dam, the entire outpost went silent. Waiting. From her rooftop perch, she was the first to see the NCR’s retreat, as civilians and troopers alike began fleeing through the Long 15. She was right: this whole time, all she could do was watch.

Ghost is dead. Ghost, bitterly, died as she lived...(deep sigh) at the Mojave fucking Outpost.

If “Giving Up the Ghost” is completed:

NCR Victory: When legionnaires by the score descended upon Hoover Dam, Ghost was proud to have been one of the many rangers in the battle that kicked their shit in back across the Colorado. She celebrated with the rest of them, even a smile creeping onto her face every now and then. Still, Ghost returned to business before long, as part of a squad out East tracking down the straggling remnants of Caesar’s retreating Legion.

Legion Victory: Ghost was among the many rangers who fought at Hoover Dam, but when the army of legionnaires led by the Courier, to whom she owed her very presence there, proved unstoppable, she was ultimately among its many casualties. Their advance was too sudden, too overwhelming, for a clean evacuation, and a grisly duel with a centurion trapped her near the front. Still, the Legion never took Ghost alive. She made sure of it.

House or Independent Victory: The arrival of the Securitrons at Hoover Dam was a surprise to every NCR trooper stationed there, including Ghost. Their sudden turn against the NCR, and their allegiance to the Courier, even more so. The triumph of vanquishing the Legion was short-lived, then, as Ghost joined the forced retreat, one pale face in a sea of many. 

Ghost is dead: Despite her name, there was no supernatural flourish when Ghost died. She simply died like a ranger, fighting to the end. That’s all that mattered.

(Bonus) Cass’s Ending Slide if the Courier frames her for the murder of Jackson:

Rose of Sharon Cassidy spent all of her time at the Mojave Outpost in a drunken stupor, which is why when Major Knight oversaw her arrest for the murder of Ranger Jackson, it took so long to get exonerated. By the time the alibi was pieced together and the evidence was admitted as circumstantial, the battle of Hoover Dam shifted NCR’s attention elsewhere, and the crime was never solved. For a few months in the clink, though, at least Cass got what she wanted: home, and finally away from the outpost.

[waitimcomingtoo]

Choking Hazard

Pairing: Peter Parker x Reader 

Synopsis: Peter’s PTSD makes him do the unthinkable 

Warnings: angst, violence

Masterlist

Requests are CLOSED

"He's gonna get you."

"He's coming at you, Peter."

"He has a gun." 

All of Peter’s thoughts poured in at once, like seawater in a sinking boat.

"I'm defenseless. I'll die." Peter whispered.

"You're not defenseless. Use your hands." A voice in his head answered.

"He's behind you."

"Elbow him in the gut."

Peter complied and sank his elbow into the gut of his opponent, Quentin Beck. Peter still had dreams about the man, never really believing if he was dead or not. Peter May have defeated Beck, but he’d spent the last few years looking over his shoulder on the off chance he hadn’t. 

Beck doubled back in pain but never dropped his gun. Peter felt a searing pain in his thigh.

"My leg. I've been shot." Peter cried out.

"Keep fighting. Don't let him win. He’s dangerous, Peter. He’ll kill you, Ned, Y/n, May, and anyone else in his way.”

Peter grabbed Becks wrist and twisted it. Beck dropped his gun in shock. Peter threw him to the ground and got on top of him. Beck hit Peter as hard as he could but couldn't push him off his chest. To finish the job, Peter wrapped his hands around Becks neck and began to squeeze.

"You think killing people is fun? Huh? You think it's okay? You tricked me! I trusted you and you tricked me! I’m just a kid, Beck. This is what you get. This is what you deserve." Peter yelled. He squeezed harder until Beck turned purple.

"Peter, stop!” Another voice cried, but Peter ignored it. He needed to put an end to Becks reign of terror.

"Peter, you have to let go. You're killing him." The voice pleaded. Peter recognized the voice as Tony’s, and tears began to fall from his eyes. Peter knew he had to let go but he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"Peter, please." Tony bartered. “This isn't you.” 

Peter had lost control. He couldn't stop of he wanted too. 

And he didn't want too.

"Peter!” Cried the voice, but Peter tuned him out.

"Peter! Peter! Please! You're hurting me, Peter!” The voice begged again. But this time, it wasn't Tony begging him to stop.

 It was you.

"Peter! Please." You croaked. You were hitting him on the arms in an attempt to ease his grip on your throat. Nothing could loosen his iron grip on your neck.

"Peter!" You gave one last cry. Peter blinked and woke up. He wasn't in London. He wasn’t on the bridge. He wasn't with Beck at all. 

He was in his own bedroom, sitting on your chest, choking you to death.

 Peter realized what he was doing and let go as quickly as he could. You rolled out of the bed and stood up. Peter looked at you with wide eyes, not yet fully grasping what he had done. You were sobbing and had your hands around your throat. Your neck was red and would surely bruise. Peter swallowed thickly and got out of the bed on the other side to take in what he had done.

"Y/n.” Peters voice was barely above a whisper, but you flinched just the same.

"Y/n, that wasn't me. I was having a nightmare. I thought you were someone else. I'm so sorry." Peter tried to explain as his voice cracked. All his words came out at once and he stumbled over them while you stood there, silently crying. You looked at Peter terrified and confused.

"I'm so sorry baby. Don't be scared." He said again. Peter took a step forward, causing you to take a step back.

"Don't be scared." He repeated, pleading with you this time. "I won't hurt you."

"You tried to kill me." You spat. Your voice was broken like porcelain. Peters heart broke at your words.

"No baby. I was dreaming. I would never hurt you, you know that." Peter said slowly. He didn't want to scare you anymore than you already were so he kept his voice calm. You didn’t respond. You just shut your eyes and held your arms tightly around your body as you backed away. Peter took a careful step towards you. He needed to hold you, to let you know everything was all right. He took another step forward. You stared at him in fear as he slowly came closer. The moment he picked up his pace, you screamed and ran towards the bathroom. Peter ran after you.

You got into the bathroom and slammed the door, locking it immediately. Peter pressed himself against the door and jiggled the handle.

"Y/n, please. You know I'd never hurt you. I’m so sorry, baby. Please open up." Peter begged with his forehead pressed against the door. He heard you crying on the other side of the door.

"Don't come near me." You yelled. He could hear you moving things around and zipping something up.

"Please baby. I'm so, so sorry. Open up so we can talk." He pleaded. Inside the bathroom, you slid down the door and put your hand over your mouth. On the other side, Peter slid down the wall as well and pressed a firm hand against the door. He could break it down if he wanted, but something inside him told him that’d only make it worse. You sobbed until your lungs hurt and ignored all of Peters protests on the other side of the door. Finally, you composed yourself and unlocked the door. Peter immediately stood up and faced you.

"I'm going to MJ’s house. I'm spending the night there." You stated, using you best efforts to keep your voice steady. Peter knew your mind was made up and nothing he said would convince you to stay. You even had a little bag of toiletries in your hands.

"I'm so sorry, Y/n. I still have PTSD from the fight with Beck. I was having one of my nightmares and I took it out of you. I didn't know what I was doing. Please forgive me." Peter whispered as his eyes shone with tears. You looked down at your fingers and shook your head.

"PTSS." You muttered.

"What?" Peter asked.

"It's not called PTSD anymore. It's PTSS. Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. They changed it because it's not a disorder. There’s nothing wrong with you.” You informed him, never making eye contact. Even in moments like this, you couldn't help correcting him. Peter swallowed and nodded.

"Right. PTSS. Thanks." He said. He tried to push your hair behind your ear, but you moved away from his touch as if he burned you.

"Look, I know you didn't mean it.” You looked away and your voice wavered. “I know you'd never hurt me intentionally. But tonight was an accident that can't happen again. What if you hadn't woken up? What if you killed me?” Your voice cracked and you could hear Peter begging to sob. “It's not your fault you have PTSS. I know that. I just need to clear my head for a while. I'm going to MJ’s and you can't stop me." You said. You went to the front door and put on your coat as quickly as you could to get away from Peter as soon as possible. Peter followed you out of the room but kept his distance.

"When will you be back?" He asked desperately. You sighed as your fingertips ghosted over your neck. In the mirror by the door, you could see dark purple bruises beginning to form.

"I don't know. I'll see you when I see you." Was all you could say.

And with that, you left. Peter watched your car pull out of the driveway and roll away. He shut the door and slid down it, finally beginning to really cry himself. The house was empty and silent, except for the haunting sounds of Peter’s sobs.

@maybemona @sunrise-shawn @meghan-8520xx @writing-for-hours-on-end @lavender-writer @captainmandeestudent17 @whatareyouhidingpeter @takenbyheartstrings @ultrunning @imyourliquor-youremypoison @theolwebshooter @autumnlyholland @andreasworlsboring101 @guksmyfav @waiting-to-be-myself​ @letsloveimagines​

[mcsmmafia]

MC:SM Mafia - Round VI 🧠

THE 6TH ROUND OF MAFIA

On a chilling, but not yet snowy december day, a bus drived through the thickness of the swamp to transport eight patients to a asylum to which they have been relocated.

It was a confusing swamp… trees and vines everywhere, no proper roads… but the occupants felt confident that this was no problem for the driver. He was experienced… probably. I mean, he was responsible for the safe arrival of mentally ill patients, of course they wouldn't assign an intern with such an important task, right?

Anyway, the trip lasted the whole night, but just as the sun was rising, you finally arrived at the new asylum! … Which turned out to be a surprisingly old and bedraggled looking mansion? Geesh, talking about healthcare inequality.

Anyway, even though it was not snowing, the trees had frost on their leafs and the wind blew really cold, so you made your way inside without thinking about it too much. And thank goodness, it was actually warm inside! Ah, and there stood the receptionist, a girl with long red hair and a grey, comfortable looking beanie. You went on to line up - but suddenly, the girl turned around and activated a lever on the wall behind her. Huh? What was that all abou-

AND THEN IT WAS DARK AND YOU COULDN'T SEE AND OH MY GOSH I THINK I'M SEEING PUMPKIN FACES AND THERE WERE VOICES TOO, WE'RE ALL HEARING VOICES-

Oh, wait, that might actually be just your own voice… ahh, wait, you got a pumpkin stuck on your head! Well, how did that happen?? You sure didn't know!

… wait WHY ARE WE ALL WEARING PUMPKINS, WHAT IS GOING ON, WE CAN'T GET RID OF THEM, AHHHHH!!!!!

Meanwhile, it seemed like the red haired girl was trying desperately to announce something, but nobody would listen to her. She gave us a very annoyed glance and, in the next second, she put herself in a pumpkin too. And it didn't took a second for everyone to forget where the stranger was.

Dear patients, it is time.

To freak out.

AND-

GET REALITY AND HALLUCINATIONS MIXED UP AND BE EXTRA PARANOID AND PANIC!!!! A LOT!!!!

Oh, and also maybe you should watch out for stranger-danger.

☀ Results of Day 1:

After the patients were done freaking out, they played a nice little introducing game of saying hello to each other, but became bored quickly afterwards, so they split up to explore their new home on their own - I mean, they don't remember which one of them was the receptionist, so there was no other option really.

(Just for fun, I thought about why the MC:SM characters were in psychatric treatment in the first place for a bit: Stella has overwhelming seperation fear, Warden is not really mentally ill but a stalker, Nell has chronic fatigue syndrome, Harper has schizophrenia, Radar is not a patient but the bus driver XD, Ellegaard has bipolar affective disorder, Cassie is still a murderer, and Lukas has depression. (Sorry, Lukas, I couldn't think of any other interesting disorders 😂)

🌑 Results of Night 1:

Lluna wanted to stay in the entrance hall to monitor the front door. When Ellegaard and Lukas joined, Lluna noticed only an iron weapon in the room, so Stella knew she could trust her roommates and told them that she has the Flint & Steel. When she learned that Ellegaard has the iron sword, she asked for protection and stayed in the entrance hall to groom Lluna all night.

Warden ran after Winslow to pet him, and ended up in the attic, where he finally could give that good lil' boy Winslow a pet and happily fall asleep soon after professionally dabbing to his roommates.

Nell didn't have the energy to explore more than the surroundings of the living room, but when she spotted Radar entering, she decided the attic was probably a better place and used all her remaining energy to climb up there and hit the hay.

Harper desperately tried to outrun the creepy pumpkin faces she saw in all windows, and ended up in the attic, where there were no windows. Finally feeling safe, she was able to sink into a deep slumber.

After quickly peeking into every room to make sure nobody else was living in this mansion, Radar went back to the living room to sit down on the comfortable couch and spent the whole night trying to figure this blasted roadmap out…

Ellegaard did her best to protect Stella from stranger-danger.

CASSIE grinned when everybody decided to split up, so she wanted to make the best out of it and followed Warden and ordered Winslow to follow PAMA - but they all ended up in the attic together. Well, crud. With the night wasted, CASSIE decided to just grab her kitty and go to sleep.

Lukas didn't say anything to Stella's revelation, but didn't flee either; he just sat in a corner, silent all night.

☀ Results of Day 2:

The patients argued all day about who should cook breakfast. Before they knew, the sun was already setting, so everyone just grabbed whatever they saw first in the kitchen and scattered to find a good place to sleep. Very productively spent day.

Lukas has been suspended from the round due to inactivity.

🌒 Results of Night 2:

After Lluna reassured herself last night that the front door was indeed very safe and effective against the night monsters outside, she pushed Stella to go to an extra safe place to catch up on some sleep tonight, so she followed her to the attic. She was surprised to only see Radar there, but took the chance to ask for his identity. However, he did not respond… Stella eventually gave up asking and snuggled up to Lluna to visit the land of dreams.

Warden went to grab a snack like the others, but was disappointed by the insufficient selection… a few potatoes, some mushrooms… blergh! Where's the good stuff?? THEY DEMAND THEIR BREAKFAST CAKE! EVEN IF IT MEANS SEARCHING ALL NIGHT FOR IT!! 🍰 …However, they eventually got bored and fled to the gallery in hopes for more danger. (Little did they know that danger was coming right their way, had they only stayed!)

Oh great, Nell was already always tired, and now she's also gonna be hungry because nobody volunteered to cook the stupid breakfast! So, to conserve brain energy, she just went back to where she was last night and enjoyed her sleep in sweet solitude.

Harper couldn't shake the feeling of being closely watched by someone or something… she tried her best to hide her worries, but when night came, she skedaddled to the most isolated room she could find! …And, of course, that ended up being the gallery, because nobody cares for art, sigh. …But the feeling of being stalked remained - but now at last she realized where it was coming from: This weird calico cat in the corner over there with it's evil green eyes was watching her! What a creeper! 😼 She placed PAMA directly in front of Winslow to try and cover his glance, but this darned cat just walked around it. Welp, there was no way she would sleep with him around!

Oh gosh, everything is chaos… it's Radar's fault the patients are not safe in an asylum, and don't have regular meals, and now they can't stop arguing!! This is the absolute worst… and he was still really exhausted… maybe he should just go to sleep for a night. Perhaps, in the morning, things are gonna be better. So he chose a safe place to sleep, which of course only really can be the attic, and rested for a bit, after doing their best to ignore Stella's questions.

Oh my, Ellegaard was in full flow today! Was it the lack of sleep, or is she on her way to go hyper? Wherever this energy is coming from, it sure made her heat up the argument about breakfast today. Well, at least she snatched the only mushroom stew she found premade in the kitchen. Success! After being so harsh to everyone, however, she realized that she probably should try to calm down somewhere alone, so she went to the bed chamber. A big, nice pillow helps for meditation, you know? In fact, the pillows were so comfortable, ellegaard fell asleep almost immeditaly. That's how meditation works, right? 💤

CASSIE really had to contain herself to not burst out in laughter under her pumpkin mask when hearing the argument today. They're all distracting themselves, and CASSIE didn't even really have to do anything! Anyway, while the discussion was nicely heated, she had things to do. She needed to make sure that the next night would not be wasted! So she kept an eye on Warden to see where he would go this time. …And, as it turns out, he didn't go anywhere. He just stayed right here in the kitchen, searching for better food, CASSIE figured. So she ordered Winslow to patrol the hallway between gallery and bed-chamber and snuck up on Warden to cat-nap him… and was surprised when her hands could only grasp air! With the night wasted - again - she could only sleep her frustration away.

☀ Results of Day 3:

A new day dawned, and before anyone had the chance to address any hard feelings left over from yesterday, Harper spoke up to tell the patients that Winslow was following her everywhere she went. She also mentioned who else was in the room with her the past nights, skipping PAMA.

Stella then stated that she wanted to be locked up, and asked Harper to vote for herself too. Warden was quick to offer guarding them. Nobody else voted.

Warden also warned the group that he dabbed threateningly, and then tried to catch Winslow to throw him into the closet too, but he was fast to jump onto some high-laying shelf where Warden couldn't get him. 😼

🌓 Results of Night 3:

Stella had a hard time to going apart, but Lluna accomponied her all the way to the closet, and assured her with a bleat that she will reliably return in the morning to pick her up again. And she kept her word, to Stella’s great relief.

Warden regretted it a little to have volunteered as a guard, since he would rather do some detective word, but in the end he did not retreat from his duty and made sure to poke the prisoners the whole night through, even though he didn't really suspect them to be Cassie.

Nell just went to the living room again and slept like normal. She is really not afraid of traps.  

Harper was just glad to be safe from Winslow for one night, at least.

Radar took the chance and went to the entrance hall to see if there were any pets around. He could spot Lluna and PAMA, but also CASSIE - so he waited for a bit to see wheter CASSIE would leave and if one pet would go with her. As it turns out - Lluna and PAMA must belong to someone in the closet!

Ellegaard went back to the bed chamber, but when she saw that Winslow seemed to now be targeting her, she toyed with the idea of trying to figure out if she could activate a trap on Winslow - but of course, that grown kitty would be too smart to fall for his owner's traps. 😼 So Ellegaard dropped that plan and just climbed up to the attic instead.

CASSIE followed Radar - but of course he wouldn't go anywhere. CASSIE sighed in her streak of bad luck and sneaked away to the bed chamber to sleep.

☀ Results of Day 4:

Stella started the day by immediately confronting Warden about the sleeplessness-ordinance which he put her and Harper through, to which Warden apologized, stating that he didn't really suspected them to be Cassie.

Stella then went on to state that she suspects either Nell or CASSIE to be Cassie, since they are the only ones who haven't been checked by her best friend and pillow Lluna. Ellegaard vouched for this claim, only stating that she knew a thing.

Nell was about to vote Stella for the closet, but promptly retreated. Warden then voted to throw Nell out, stating that he is about 65% sure that Nell is Cassie, and 35% that it's CASSIE, which he subsequently voted into the closet.

Nell tried desperately to convince the others of her innocence, but had nobody who could vouch for her.

Stella voted for Nell to get thrown out too, but then retreated, saying that she wanted to lock her up first. CASSIE, Ellegaard and Harper agreed that there was not enough evidence yet. Harper then voted for the same thing.

(Oh my gosh, no offence to the person playing CASSIE, but I could hardly stop laughing about how they kept referring to Cassie and how nervous they were about her - and everybody just talked over that! I was so sure their cover would blow 😂😂😂)

🌔 Results of Night 4:

Stella realized that she has TWO arms, with which she was able to poke both Nell AND CASSIE at the same time! So she did that because IF STELLA COULDN'T SLEEP, THEY CAN'T EITHER! Also, it helped to distract her mind from Lluna and how she's doing.

Warden thought about sneaking to the closet and spawn-killing Nell… but realizing he had no weapon to do this anyway, he just went up to the attic and let the dream be a real dream.

Nell was really mad about being locked into a closet, and sang a song in order to try and annoy the guard so much that she would let her free - but was exhausted quickly and ended up just enduring the acupuncture. Stella really was NOT a great masseur.

Harper was paranoid when going to the gallery, but couldn't find a kitty anywhere - has he actually stopped following her? Harper was still a bit nervous, so she inspected some dusty, pixelated art about seven people with white pumpkins on their head before realizing how boring the pictures really were… but they freaked her out anyway, so she started counting all the pixels until she fell asleep.

Radar could barely follow the discussion that was going on… he was just too tired. He longed for the sun to set, and when it finally did, he concentrated all his strength to climb up to the attic before basically fainting on the floor face down.

Ellegaard was a little freaked out by seeing Winslow with her in the library, of all places. But she went to sleep anyway.

CASSIE very imperceptibly wishpered Winslow to patrol the hallway between dining room and library before she discontentedly followed Stella into the closet and endured being poked all night.

☀ Results of Day 5:

CASSIE started the day by complaining about being poked the whole night, which Stella interrupted saying that she didn't have Lluna with her in the closet, which was a problem. She also stated that Nell was singing "something about tissues", and that that was a crime because they were a Duck.

Note: The person playing Stella has a username referring to ducks.

After that, they realized that they (and it was totally not my fault) had overlooked a list that revealed that Warden and Radar were having a slumber party in the attic last night!

But that was quickly forgotten again when Warden decided to yell out loud that he wanted to throw Nell out. But when a voice from above told them to vote then, they retreated.

Stella went on to vote CASSIE into the closet, instead - but immediately rectified themself to Nell. Freudian slip? Warden voted for the same and asked Radar to guard, but Harper volunteered right after. They agreed to let Radar do it (even though Radar didn't use @Game Master ARRRGH but let's overlook that… this time.)

The patients then talked about cat-crazy people and the fact that PAMA was with them, but nobody claimed to own it, although Stella and CASSIE claimed to know who Harper is.

However, Radar revealed to have written the note last night. And then continued to ask if he could pet Lluna, because passing out is very exhausting. And thus, Lluna was promoted to stress therapy pet!

Warden also tried to vote to lock up the voice in his head. It wasn't very successful - Oh… nevermind. They put Alexa into the closet.

Radar also tried to order McMurder Fries. (Oh god, now he's losing his mind too…)

Nell brought them back on topic by loudly concluding that Cassie must be one of the people who have been locked up in the toilet, and that she's suspecting CASSIE.

Radar and Stella overheard everything but toilet and were so inspired that they wrote a survival guideline on how to survive murder and get rich. 🚽💰

Nell ignored them and voted to throw CASSIE out, to which Stella heavily disagreed.

Most patients were confused by Nell's use of the word "toilet" for the closet, but Warden approved the use of "toilet" for "closet" by saying how cruel society was for not letting him do his business in closets.

Stella brought up how she wanted to feed the zombies the flint & steel, and how a smooch would cure them… she was in her own world, for sure. She wondered if she could eat the zombies, and CASSIE too pondered how'd they taste.

Finally, the voice from above had enough and sent them all to bed. SERIOUSLY. This was long, but I had so much fun - doing this round in an asylum was the best idea ever. 😂

The Last Night 🌕

All Cassie ever wanted was to live a happy life with her 372,026,931 calico cats… but nooo, society had to declare that that was not "normal" and a sign of "mental illness" and that she should be put in an asylum for therapy. It was really their fault, not hers - the other patients constantly got on her nerves, and the staff wasn't much better as they treated everyone the same, no matter if they were sane, like her, or really crazy. So Cassie might have put up a few traps that killed a patient or two and maybe also the whole population of the house. It happens! She could impossibly have stood another second in this madhouse! Why does nobody ever seem to understand…?

Anyway, so she went outside - only to realize that she was stuck in this whole swamp dimension that was just created so that patients could never escape on their own. But the staff had to be able to get out somehow, right? She went back to the asylum, but it seemed like all their drops had disappeared already. Crud, she should've rushed to get them as soon as these people were dead!

She certainly wouldn't ever make that mistake again - but for now, she had no way to return to her home… luckily, however, her most beloved cat Winslow came to help. He risked being stuck in this mad-dimension with her for eternity! He was such a good cat. And he brought friends! 😼 😼😼😼😼😼😼😼😼

Although that really cheered Cassie up, she still didn't want to accept her fate of living here forever. Maybe some day new patients would be admitted, then someone would have to bring them there and get out again afterwards…

And, look at that, they indeed came. Five more patients and one quite young looking bus driver.

Cassie spent days thinking and plotting how she could effectively eliminate them without being noticed… because even though this is an asylum we're talking about, the patients were not yet crazy enough to just let her do her thing. So she tried to cat-nap them, but it didn't quite ever work out.

As the days passed, the patients managed to narrow down who could be responsible for not cooking them breakfast and dinner - and they almost unanimously agreed that it's either Nell or CASSIE. And in night 5, Lluna followed CASSIE to the living room - she knew that was practically her death sentence, since everyone so far seemed to unquestionedly believe Stella everything she said.

So Cassie took her chance, and finally went to the secret passage ways to activate a trap on Stella, Warden and Ellegaard - all or nothing!

And, look at that… when Cassie went to collect their drops, she found the FLINT & STEEL where Stella was. That was… easy.

Well. Cassie wasn't complaining.

Finally. Finally she can get out of this dimension and back to her other 372,026,922 cats who surely are still patiently waiting for her to return home! (And feed them.) 😼😼😼😼😼😼😼😼😼

Oh, and also, she may or may not have lit the mansion on her way out just for celebration. What, now that's making her a pyromaniac? OH SHUT UP, SOCIETY! SHE JUST WANTS TO MAKE SURE THE PATIENTS ARE WARM INSIDE!!! 🔥🔥🔥

Cassie has won the game! 🧠

[thecolorpomegranate]

someday (i’ll make it out of here) [book i, part i]

A/N: This is a fic I have posted on AO3 about Peter Parker. It’s a whumpy fic about Peter getting kidnapped and Tony having to build a weapon to save him while trapped in his lab. 

Warnings: violence, angst, torture, kidnapping, captivity, drugging

Tony Stark is a survivor of horrors. Countless horrors. He’s survived a cold childhood, the simultaneous loss of both of his parents, kidnapping by terrorists, torture, open heart surgery without anesthetic, betrayal by his most trusted business partner, chemical poisoning, post-traumatic stress disorder, Pepper’s kidnapping, the alien attack on New York, his AI’s sadistic rebellion, the near-destruction of the nation of Sokovia, the betrayal of Steve Rogers, a battle with the Winter Soldier, the subsequent collapse of the Avengers… He’s suffered much more than the average person.

 Before now, Tony thought he had intimate knowledge of the dark intricacies of horror.

 But on April 7th, 2018, nearly a year after the Avengers broke up, Tony found out how painfully wrong he was.

  APRIL 6 — 2:11 PM

 “We can’t have ice cream now, honey,” Maggie Paxton reminds her daughter, just as seven-year-old Cassie pouts, sprawling her arms out on the table in protest. “You’ll spoil your dinner for later! We’re eating early tonight.” Ice cream at any time of day is always Scott’s way of lighting up Cassie’s life, but Maggie is firm this time. Cassie will see Scott next weekend; she can eat ice cream nonstop then.

 Jim Paxton taps his stepdaughter’s nose. “C’mon, Cassie, we’re having ramen tonight! You know how much you love ramen!”

 Cassie giggles and tries to catch his hand before it leaves her face. “I love ramen!” she squeals, throwing her hands into the air. “Ramen, ramen, ramen…” She lapses into a sing-song rendition of the word “ramen,” over and over again, spinning around on her stool. “Ramen, ramen, ramen!”

 Jim and Maggie share an amused glance. “I know, honey,” laughs Maggie, “we had it last week, too.”

 “You know what we can do, though?” suggests Jim. He took Friday off to spend with his family, and it has honestly been the best decision he’s made in a while. Spending time with Cassie makes his heart swell; he knows she’s Scott Lang’s daughter, not his, and he knows he’ll never be her true father, but Cassie sees him as this glowing person in her life, and at least he has that. To him, Cassie is every bit his daughter. “Take a trip to the zoo!”

 Cassie spins around again to look at Jim, her eyes wide with anticipation. “Really?”

 “Really, really,” replies Maggie, grinning. “You wanna go?”

 Cassie beams. Both Maggie and Jim know that Cassie loves the zoo more than anything. Seeing the animals always sends her screaming around the place.

 At the sound of the doorbell ringing, Jim gets up from the table to answer the door, and Cassie clambers into Maggie’s lap, throwing her arms around her mother’s neck. “Thank you, thank you!” Maggie can hear Jim speaking to someone at the door; vaguely, she wonders who it is. The mailman, probably. “You think we can see the belugas this time? I wanna see the belugas!”

 Maggie kisses her daughter’s forehead. “Of course we can, honey. What kind of mother would I be if I didn’t let you see the belugas?” She wasn’t sure what belugas were, to be honest; some kind of dolphin? As a thirty-seven year old woman, she should probably know this by know. “Those are like dolphins, right?”

 Cassie looks scandalized. “Mommy, they’re whales!” she exclaims. “They’re white, with big heads, and they can dive up to two thousand feet below the water, that’s what Miss Smith told me!” She continues with all the facts she has about belugas, her new favorite animal.

 At the door, Jim’s voice is loud now, echoing down the hall to the kitchen. “—telling you, we didn’t order a package. You’ve got the wrong—” His voice comes to a strange halt, followed by a massive thump, so startling that even Cassie looks up from her rant about beluga whales.

 “Jim?” Maggie calls out, concerned now; Cassie hops down from her lap. “Are you okay? Do you—”

 As she turns the corner, she sees them: Jim on the floor, red dripping down the side of his face, and two men and a woman crowded around him, each wearing a UPS uniform and wielding a gun.

 Like a rough slap across the face, Maggie’s terror strikes her hard and fast. She shoves Cassie behind her—

 “—there’s the kid! Grab her, quick—”

 —and screams for her to run; her mind screeches, get Cassie out, get her out of here, and she grabs the first thing she sees: Cassie’s tennis racket, and blazing pain tears up her arm, and the handle slips from her fingers. Shot. She’s been shot. She grabs the next item, an expensive, ceramic bowl, from the shelf beside her; as a hand wraps around her wrist, she spins and smashes it against her attacker’s head with an animalistic scream. She scrambles to her feet again, something hot spilling down her forearm, and leaps into the kitchen, heart pounding, searching for her next weapon, anything, leaping for the rack of kitchen knives—

 “Hey!” A heavy blow to her side, and she is on the ground again, coughing and wheezing and praying that Cassie escaped. An arm around her neck, locking her in a stronghold, and then there’s metal against her temple. “Get the fuck up, get up!” Maggie struggles against the person behind her, grabbing a handful of red hair and yanking hard, scraping at skin with her fingernails. “Ow! You fucking bitch!” Hard metal slams against her temple, and Maggie’s brain slips away.

 Blood roars in her ears. Cassie, Cassie, not my little girl! Muffled screaming: “Get the fuck out here, Cassie, or I’ll kill your precious mommy! You want that? You want your mom dead on the floor? I’ll kill this bitch! I’ll kill her, I will! Cassie! Cassie!”

 Maggie clings to the one bit of lucidity she has and cries out, “No, Cassie, don’t—”

 And pain crashes over the side of her head, a torment of black waves, and then nothing.

    APRIL 6 — 4:33 PM

 Another fist slams into Scott’s mouth, and pain blossoms across his jaw. He spits on the ground, a splatter of red, and glares at the man in front of him. “Fuck you,” he says, and he’s surprised by his own profanity. He gave up swearing once he found one-year-old Cassie shouting “Shit!” every time she wanted one of her stuffed toys. But now, after four hours of this angry motherfucker and his brass knuckles, he’s about to snap. He’s trying to stay positive, but the fact that no one even knows he’s gone is really grating on his mind right now. He doesn’t even have a plan to escape; currently, his only plan is to annoy this guy until he breaks.

 The man snarls and launches another fist at him, furious. “You think this is helping anyone, Lang?” he growls. “You wanna be ripped to pieces?”

 Scott can’t remember what this guy’s name is. Max? Mark? “Well, it wasn’t on my schedule, Martin, but I mean, if you’ve got nothing else to do—”

 Another fist, this time to his knee, and Scott gasps with the sudden pain of it. That was more than a punch. He heard something snap. “You and your fucking jokes,” says Probably-Martin. “I’m sick of them. How about I take out your fucking tongue this time, huh? How’d you like that?”

 Scott shrugs, as nonchalantly as one could while tied to a chair and aching from hours of torture. “It’s the twenty-first century, buddy; I’d just get myself one of those Stephen Hawking things, maybe learn some sign langua—ah!”

 Pain surges through his foot, so horrible that he can barely breathe, and Scott screams, his cocky smile dropping from his face. When he finally gathers himself, taking shaky gasps of air, the man smirks, victorious. “Next time I hear another one of your jokes,” snaps Probably-Martin, “I’ll smash your hand instead.”

 Scott bites the inside of his cheek, just to keep himself from crying out again. He doesn’t want to look down at the damage that has been just done to his right foot, but he has to. He takes one glance...and immediately regrets it. The pain of his new injury seems to grow the longer he stares; Probably-Martin stepped on his foot so hard that it looks broken and smashed and wrong; Scott’s hands tighten around the arms of the chair. Stay strong, he reminds himself. Someone will come save you. Hank or Hope or the police or even the Avengers. And then you’ll be okay.

 There’s another man in the room now, one with a brown beard and wild eyes. Bearded-Psycho, Scott dubs him, proud of himself. He smiles weakly, lifting his head to watch Bearded-Psycho and Probably-Martin argue. “I told you not to touch his hands, Mason!” Ah, thinks Scott. Mason. That was the man’s name. “It’s not like we can do this for him! We need those fucking hands!”

 “I didn’t touch his hands!” Mason protests.

 As they argue, Scott lets out a shaky breath. He liked to think of himself as one of those happy-go-lucky, jokester superheroes, like Iron Man or even that Spiderguy from Queens, but right now all he doesn’t feel like a superhero. He doesn’t want to admit it, but he is terrified. He shoves the fear to the back of his head with every ounce of composure he has—if he loses his sense of humor, he’ll lose his mind. Somehow, cracking jokes at his abuser makes it seem less grave in his mind, like he can break free of his bonds at any moment. Humor keeps his hope alive and burning in his chest.

 “And his head!” Bearded-Psycho snarls, and Scott flinches in his bonds. “We need his head!” Shit, he thinks, embarrassed at his involuntary display of fear. The only way to fight back against these guys is to laugh in the face of fear, but here he is, jumping like a little kid watching a horror movie. “Why the fuck would you think it’s a good idea to smash his head around? He’s practically bleeding out of his ears!”

 “Charlie,” Mason attempts, “I didn’t—”

 Bearded-Psycho (or Charlie or whatever his name is) is huge compared to Mason, so when he suddenly grabs the other man and slams his head against the wall—“Shit! Charlie, wait!”—until there’s blood running down his face, he makes it look easy, like beating up a kid.

 Scott doesn’t feel the victory of watching his torturer bleed against the wall; all he feels is the electrifying anticipation of pain spiking through his body. This man, this Bearded-Psycho… He could crush Scott if he wanted to. Scott tries to make himself as small as possible. Any movement he makes will surely turn Charlie’s violent rage onto him. But even as Scott wills his body to stone, Charlie still turns around, wipes his hands on his jeans, and trains his eyes on Scott.

 Fuck. Ready for another blow, probably ten times more painful than Mason’s, Scott winces, tensing his whole body and squeezing his eyes shut. Where will he hit him: his stomach, his legs, his feet?

 A low chuckle greets him instead. “Look, Lang,” says Charlie calmly, as Scott opens his eyes with caution, “we’ve given you chance after chance to agree to our terms.”

 Scott coughs. Yeah, he remembers the terms. It was the first thing that Mason said to him. “Sorry,” says Scott, laughing nervously. “Felonies aren’t on my to-do list, Chuck. No thanks.”

 Charlie’s smile is nerve-wrecking, like Scott’s submission is inevitable, and Scott squirms, uncomfortable. Pain swirls in his foot, and he grits his teeth. Sweat trickles down his back. “If you say so, Lang.” His voice is calm. Too calm. Standing up abruptly, he shouts at Mason, who’s currently on the floor, moaning about his head. “Keep going, Mason. Don’t stop until I come back. And for fuck’s sake, leave his hands and his head.”

 Mason pushes himself into a sitting position and groans a reluctant “fine.” He’s angrier now, fueled by pain as well as frustration, and Scott swallows hard. When Charlie finally leaves the room, Mason growls, “Fuck you, Lang. You see what you did to me?”

 Dread drenching his thoughts, Scott grits his teeth. “I’m pretty sure American Psycho’s the one who busted your head open, ‘cause he’s not the one tied to a chai—”

 Another debilitating punch smashes into his body, this time cracking a rib and splattering across his chest. As Mason rubs his knuckles, Scott struggles for air and prays that someone will save him soon. He doesn’t know how long he can stand this.

  APRIL 6 — 5:01 PM

 As the ringing stops and goes to voicemail, Julia Keene sighs and puts her phone down on the table. It’s the third time that night she’s tried to call Charlie, and still nothing. Although she’s a police officer and he went off the rails years ago, she still loves him more than anything. He always spared time for her, at least for a text or a phone call, every couple of days.

 But Julia hasn’t spoken to Charlie in a month. It’s been too long since she’d talked to him, and she’s worried. Sure, Julia is a thirty-three, twice-married, working mother of two living in Queens, and Charlie is a twenty-eight year old drug addict living on the streets with a couple of prison notches on his belt, but Julia needs to know he is safe. He is her brother. Her baby brother. It was always Julia and Charlie against the world, and even though they split off years ago… She rubs her temples and tries not to think about it too much.

 “You called him again?” says someone behind her. It’s her husband of ten years, Cristian. His dark hair falls over his eyes as he slides into the chair beside her, sliding his hand over her back and rubbing gently.

 Julia falls into his touch, taking his other hand in hers. The kids are at school; Leila, the fourteen-year-old, is at musical rehearsal while Jaime, their eight-year-old, is at baseball practice. Leila is her daughter from her first marriage: she married her high school sweetheart, Damien, straight out of high school and had Leila a year later before discovering that he was a deadbeat drunk with a long history of violence. She met Cristian a couple years after divorcing Damien, and had Jaime two years after that. Now that she has the apple pie, picture-perfect life she’s always wanted (loving husband, healthy children, excellent career), it’s more than painful to lose Charlie.

 Cristian keeps rubbing her back in slow circles. “It’s been weeks,” she sighs. “Weeks, Cristian. And I… I know something bad happened to him. He’s never gone this long without talking to me.”

 Cristian shifts in his chair. “Look at me, mi vida,” he says, voice gentle. “I don’t know too much about your brother, but I do know that he’s a mess. He lives his life from one fix to another.” He squeezes her hand. “I know he loves you, but he’s a slave to his life of drugs and...crime. And it’s not your job to check in on him all the time. He’s an adult, Julia, and he can make his own decisions. And he’s always fine. He’ll be fine.”

 Julia nods into Cristian’s shoulder. “I know, I know, he’ll be fine.”

 Cristian smiles and gives her a quick kiss on the lips. “You okay?”

 She nods again, this time meeting his eyes. She’s still unsure, but at least she feels better about the whole situation. She loves Charlie, but Cristian’s right. He can make his own decisions.

  APRIL 6 — 6:37 PM

 Peter Parker has spent most of the past month in Tony’s lab , working on what they like to call “Project Kevlar,” after the substance that made bulletproof vests. Peter himself came up with the project, recognizing that many of the lower-income families of New York who experienced danger on a daily basis felt helpless to the violence they experienced and couldn’t call the police for help. Police officers often left the most vulnerable of the city’s community—poor, gang-ridden, and homeless citizens—exposed to harm.

 “It’s like what they use on college campuses,” Peter had explained, pride lighting up across his face. “The blue light system, you know?”

 Tony had chuckled lightly. “What do you know about college, kid? You’re only—”

 “I’m sixteen now, Mr. Stark,” Peter had reminded him, “and I’ve been on, like, three college visits! I know what it’s like!”

 The mayor of New York gave Stark Industries explicit permission to implement the system in the city; it was simple but brilliant, really. They would place tiny alert buttons all over the city in public areas, each fitted to survive any weather conditions, and people could press the alert buttons to call for help.

 Currently, they’re working together on a vital part of the system: the GSS, or the gunfire sensory system that could would automatically alarm them if a gun was used within the immediate vicinity of the alarm button. Tony is sprawled out on the couch, typing furiously on his laptop, as Peter bends over the worktable, a soldering iron in one hand and a circuit board in the other. To the left of Peter, a record player screeches ‘Killer Queen’ as the dark-haired boy nods his head to the beat.

 Glancing away from his screen, Tony frowns, temporarily halting his humming. “Peter!”

 The dark-haired boy’s hands jerks at the sudden noise. “Geez, Mr. Stark, a little warning next time!” A huff of frustration escapes him. “Now, I gotta solder that all over again.”

 Tony throws a pair of goggles at him in response.

 “Hey!” Peter protests, catching them only inches from his face.

 “You know what I said, kiddo,” Tony announces. “Rule Number One: No Soldering Without Goggles.”

 “I thought Rule Number One was No One Touches My Records,” Peter shoots back, chucking a pen at the older man. “And, by the way, if I hear another Queen song come on, I’m literally gonna throw that thing out the window.”

 Tony sits up straight, mouth open in mock surprise. “How dare you! Queen is the best! Queen is… It’s the greatest band to ever walk the planet!”

 Peter rolls his eyes. “You know, Mr. Stark, sometimes I forget how old you are! Listen to some AJR or something, come on!” But nonetheless, Peter slides the goggles on his face.

 Before he can grab the soldering iron again, however, Pepper pokes her head into the lab, knocking gently on the glass. “Tony? We’ve gotta get going soon, we—” Her eyes land on the teenager perched at her fiancé’s worktable. “Oh, Peter! I didn’t know you were here.”

 “Yeah, sorry,” Peter stammers. “Didn’t mean to interrupt your night, Ms. Potts.”

 Pepper laughs, sitting down on the couch next to Tony. “That’s totally fine, Peter. You know you’re welcome here anytime.” Closing Tony’s laptop with one manicured hand (he protests with an irritated “hey!”), she turns back to the teenager. “You do know it’s a Friday night, don’t you? Shouldn’t you be out with your friends?”

 Peter scratches the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “Yeah… It’s just I had this new idea for Project Kevlar, and I asked Mr. Stark, and he said it was okay, and…” He glances nervously at Tony. “Sorry. I’ll be gone in a few minutes, Ms. Potts.”

 Pepper smiles gently at him. “You know you can call me Pepper; I’m not that old.”

 Peter shrugs awkwardly. “The only adult I call by their first name is May! She’d kill me if I ever called Mr. Stark” —he cringed— “Tony.”

 Tony chuckles, throwing his arm across the back of the couch. “Well, we’ll work on that one, kiddo.”

 Pepper clicks her tongue. “As much as I’d love to watch you waste your childhood in Tony’s lab,” she tells Peter, giving him a playful look, “Tony and I have somewhere we need to be.”

 “Where?” chorus Peter and Tony.

 Pepper gives Tony the stern I-told-you-this-months-ago look that she always uses. “The charity gala? It’s for the Yemeni Women’s Union.”

 “Ah, right… the charity thing.” He pouts. “Do we have to go?”

 “Yes!”

 Pepper tosses his tie in his lap as Peter scrambles to stuff his supplies back into his backpack. “Sorry again, Ms. Potts! Have fun at the gala, Mr. Stark!”

 “It’s Tony, kid!” he declares, just as the spider-kid jumps to the door.

 Peter gives him a mischievous smile, slinging his backpack over one shoulder. “Bye, Mr. Stark.”

 Pepper’s still laughing to herself when the door closes behind the kid.

  APRIL 6 — 7:09 PM

 Sometimes, Charlie’s guilt aches like an old gunshot wound, sending painful spikes of regret spilling down his throat. Sometimes, his plan feels like shame, not pride, so he has to force himself to continue, one foot in front of the other. It’s in those moments when he needs his fix the most: angel dust, most days, sometimes with a spike of something else.

 He pops a couple pills in his mouth and swallows hard. His sister once told him that taking drugs like this means he loses control over his body, that he relinquishes his throne to the drug instead of his brain, but what the hell does she know? Charlie is more in control than he’d ever been.

 Charlie feels a warm buzz crackle through his bones, a familiar sensation, as the pill he’d just taken finally starts to work. Charlie lets out a relieved sigh, laughing a little. Everything seems to come back into focus: the plan, the future, the people… He knows. He knows.

 Renee, his wife, will be back in a few minutes with the one thing they need to force that asshole Scott Lang to do what they wanted. And once they have Scott under their control, everything will fall into place, like dominoes.

 From the other side of their base, he hears the door creak open, followed by the sound of a child crying and a woman yelling. “Charlie? Charlie!”

 When he stands up, he staggers a little, but he quickly recovers, moving to meet Renee and the rest of them at the entrance to the base.

 Renee has the girl by her waist as she squirms, crying through her gag and wiggling her bound wrists. “Sorry I’m late,” she says. “Traffic was terrible.”

 Charlie grins. Finally. “You got her!”

 “Yep,” she says. “Those motherfucking parents were a pain in my ass, but I still got her. Any luck with Lang?”

 He shakes his head as the little girl lets out a pained wail. “He just cracks jokes and refuses to help us.”

 Renee smirks and shoves the girl to her feet. “Walk, kid. Walk.”

 Now that Charlie has a good look at the kid, she looks a lot like Lang. Scott Lang’s Asian features are prevalent in the kid’s hair and face, and that defiant look in her eyes had to come from him. Her dark hair hangs scraggly around her head, and her face is red and swollen with tears. It hits Charlie, all at once, how young she is: probably six or seven years old. Her face is so full, her eyes so big, her body so tiny… He shakes his head. It doesn’t matter how young she is. They need to get Scott Lang on board, and Cassie Paxton, or Lang or whatever the hell her name is, is their ticket.

 He leads Renee to what they’re starting to call the Room, the place where the whole show’s gonna happen. It’s a small space: ten feet wide and ten feet long, with a metal chair bolted into the center. On one side is a sink and a toilet, and the other has a folding table of various weapons and other materials.

 Currently, Scott Lang is strapped to the chair in the center, his head hung low, murmuring to himself. Mason is taking another swing for Scott’s knee when Renee yells, “Hey, we’ve got her!”

 The back of the chair is facing them, so when Scott lifts his head to the sound of voices, he can’t see Charlie, Renee, or Cassie. But Mason can. His shoulders slump in relief as Renee shoves the kid into the Room. “Finally!”

 Lang’s looking terrible: his bruised face has swollen and darkened, his legs are damaged beyond repair, and it looks like at one point he pissed himself. Yet still he manages to conjure a shaky, Tony Stark-worthy grin and croak, “What’s next, fellas? The Iron Maiden?” in Charlie’s general direction.

 “No,” snaps Renee, and yanks the kid before Lang’s eyes. “She’s next.”

 It’s mesmerizing how quickly Lang’s grin melts; he goes pale, glancing from Cassie’s terrified face to Charlie’s victorious one. “No,” he manages, “no, no, no, no…”

 “Take her,” Charlie says, nodding to Renee and Mason. Lang’s still gasping “no,” over and over again, like a broken record, as though the fact that his seven-year-old daughter is actually in front of him has just struck him. Just as Cassie leaps for her dad, Mason grabs her by the back of her hoodie, pulling her back before she can touch him. “I’ll stay with Lang.”

 Scott Lang’s shaking his head now, frantic, his arms fighting maniacally against his bonds. “No, no! Please, no, she’s just a kid, leave her alone, please—please, you can’t, please, you wouldn’t—”

 Charlie hits him across the face so hard that his hand stings after the blow; a buzzing feeling goes through him, something like electric triumph, upon seeing Lang like this. Scott Lang is broken now, begging for mercy, after hours of torture, and all it took was one scared scream from the kid.

 “—p-please, I’m begging you, I’ll do anything, just don’t hurt her—”

 “Shut up!” Charlie picks up Mason’s hammer as a warning. “One more word out of you, and this is going straight through your skull, understand?” Now, he understands why Mason is so frustrated. Lang talks too much.

 Lang trembles and tries not to make another sound. An odd, sickly silence follows, in which Lang shifts in his chair. Soaked in blood and urine, his pants squelch against the wood as he cranes his neck to try to see Cassie. His breathing transforms from pained groans to fearful, shallow panting, his fingers white-knuckled against the arms of the chair.

 Then it comes: a little girl’s blood-curdling scream, wet and painful and horrible, so Lang goes berserk, thrashing in his chair like a madman, words spilling from his mouth: “No, no—I’ll do whatever you want me to, please, oh, God, please, leave her be—Cassie! Cassie! Oh, fucking God, fuck, please, no, leave her, take me instead, I’ll do it, I'll do anything, anything, just leave her alone—Cassie, Cassie, Cassie!”

 Charlie watches it continue for ten seconds, thirty seconds, a minute, until finally, the screaming dies down and Lang, reduced to a sobbing mess, cries, “I’ll do it. I p-promise you, I’ll d-do it!”

 Charlie’s shoulders relax a little. “Good,” he says calmly. “Now, that wasn’t so hard, was it?”

  APRIL 6 — 7:42 PM

 “On the way back,” May Parker announces, “you’re driving, you little liar!” She’s driving with one hand on the wheel, the other dabbing on lipstick. At a sudden bump in the road, the tube misses her mouth, smearing pink on her chin, and she swears loudly.

 “I didn’t lie!” Peter whines back, stretching his legs out. “I am tired!”

 May wipes at her chin with the back of her hand, trying to make the pink go away. “You haven’t gone on patrol today, Peter!” Realizing she missed their turn, she makes a screeching U-turn before facing her nephew again. “How are you tired?”

 Okay, so maybe he’s squeezing the truth a little. Sure, he only hung out at Tony’s after school instead of patrolling like he said, but he hates driving. It sets his teeth on edge. When he drives a car, everything is a possible danger, and whenever he’s nervous like that, his Spidey Sense (or, as May likes to call it, his Peter tingle) goes insane. “School,” he claims, picking at his cuticles. “I had a calc test today; it sucked the life right out of my body!”

 May rolls her eyes as she pulls up to a stoplight. “Sure it did, kiddo. But you’re still driving on the way back. I’m gonna have some wine tonight, and no scaredy-cat teenage boy’s gonna tell me that I have to drive him home. You’re the designated driver tonight, Petey.”

 He slaps her arm. “May! Don’t call me that.”

 “What? You let Tony call you that—hey! Don’t change the music! That was a good song!”

 “It was Bruce Springsteen!”

 “Exactly!”

 Peter groans in protest. “No, please, don’t make me go back! I can’t survive another Springsteen song!”

 May gives him a devilish grin and changes the radio station back to its original song.

 “No! You skipped Say Something!”

 “My car, my rules, Peter—what’d I say? Don’t touch the radio—”

 “But it’s Justin Timberlake’s best song!”

 “I don’t care! Driver picks the music—”

 Fire races up Peter’s neck, flooding his system: danger. He jerks his head to the left, blinding white headlights— “May, look out!”

 He throws his arm out to protect her, because there’s no fucking way she can react fast enough to move the car out of the way, and then everything is—

 —chaos and spinning and jolting, pain splitting up his left arm, jerking around, his skull smashing against cold glass, screeching and whining, until finally—

 —tentative stillness, the car’s unbalanced rocking, and warmth trickling down (up?) his arm; his head whirs, dotted with pain, and it takes him a moment to realize that the unnatural heaviness of his head and the pull on his joints means he is upside down. The car is flipped upside down.

 Peter opens his eyes and fumbles for his seatbelt, his heart pattering in his chest. He turns—Aunt May. She hangs in her seatbelt like a broken arm in a sling: there is red everywhere. He chokes on his shock (one, two, three, get up, get out, you have to do something) and then calls her name: “May? May! May!”

 A click on his right side; the door swings open, and he nearly sobs in relief. “Help her,” he gasps. “Get her, she’s bleeding, help, ple—”

 Someone yanks him roughly from the car, and as he hits the ground he realizes: something is wrong. His Spidey-senses are a whirlwind of panic, and he glances up at the figure above him to realize that this is not a rescue attempt. Just as the man’s arm swings down, something thin clenched in his fist, he recognizes—this is an attack, and rolls hard to the right, away from the car. But he’s not fast enough—his head still rings from the impact and his left arm hangs limply at his side, so Peter’s not at his prime right now. So the object plunges into his arm instead of his chest, which he automatically thinks is a win...until he knocks it away and realizes it wasn’t a knife. It was a syringe. What the fuck? His body feels a little heavy, like he’s covered in wet cloth, but he still manages to shake off the strange feeling and keep going.

 Get up, Spiderman! he thinks, and then he’s on his feet again, dodging and punching and twisting and hitting until finally there’s four masked figures on the ground, unconscious or wishing they were. He doesn’t have time to quip or crack a smile; he barely has time to check himself for injuries as he rushes to Aunt May’s side of the car, flinging the door open. She’s still unconscious, upside down, her hair lolling back and forth with the rocking of the car. As he reaches for her, checking her pulse, his mind spins as the strangeness in his limbs worsens; his fingers press against May’s neck, and the faint flutter of a heartbeat he feels there sends hope scattering through his chest. Who are these people? They’re dressed like fucking villains: matching black, armored suits and facemasks. Matching weapons, even—massive guns and black-handled knives that they tried to use on Peter. Not including the syringe, and God knows why—

 Something pricks in his back, and Peter whirls back around to see another masked man holding an empty syringe. Numbness creeps up his feet, oddly cold, and Peter trips over himself as he swings his fists at the man; his body feels wrong, heavy, yet still he keeps fighting. This isn’t just a mugging in an alley—this is Aunt May’s life in his hands. Minute pain tickles his arm, and then ice creeps over his arms, spreading over his skin. Where the hell did that come from? There must be another one—he counted only five of them. Fuck. He knows the feeling by now—sickly sweet, numbing sensations ripple through his muscles. Peter turns around—his head is cotton candy, yanked apart piece by piece, and he tries to punch his new attacker, but he keeps missing. How? Spiderman doesn’t miss, he thinks vaguely, as the icy cold reaches into his brain and squeezes. Spiderman doesn’t…

 He’s on the ground now, his face pressed against grass, and his limbs flop uselessly at his sides. “Why the fuck did it take so many doses?” snaps an angry voice, just as the paralysis climbs up Peter’s jaw.

 “I… I don’t know,” admits the second. “Let’s just get this over with, okay?”

 “We gotta take care of her first, Dave.” Peter’s breath halts, slanting in his throat. Her could only mean one person: May. “We can’t afford to get caught.”

 A beat. “Take care...of her? I’m no killer, you ass. I may be helping you, but I’m not killing her. She didn’t do anything.”

 An irritated groan. “She wasn’t supposed to be here. It was just supposed to be the Spider guy—”

 “Just leave her, Jack. She’s gonna die before anyone finds her, anyway. Just look at her.”

 A horrible silence, as Peter awaits their decision. To them, it’s a matter of getting caught, but to Peter, they’re threatening his entire world. May is all he has left—frantic desperation rips up his spine, and he uses all the will he has left to try to move again, but nothing happens. Come on, Spiderman! Come on! Peter couldn’t save Uncle Ben, but he has to save May, he has to— “Fuck, fuck, fucking fine, let’s go. Grab him.”

 There’s a moment of strained relief followed by shuffling as Peter tries to move his arms, jerking his heavy arms in the voices’ direction. “Fuck! He’s still awake!”

 A sharp pain in his neck, a bloody fist, and then blissful darkness.

  APRIL 6 — 8:02 PM

 Maggie’s eyes are sticky, like she’s been asleep for a dozen years. Cold, stiff sheets. Aching pain. A voice calling her name.

 She squints up at a green-clothed man in front of her; he’s the one saying her name. “Blink if you can hear me, Mrs. Paxton.”

 She blinks, confused. “What… What happened?”

 He frowns. “You sustained several severe blows to the head. What’s the last thing you remember?”

 “I…” She takes a moment. She remembers going out to breakfast with Jim in the morning, picking up Cassie from kindergarten—

 Cassie. She scrabbles at the blankets; her right arm is useless, bound in thick bandages, so she pushes herself up with her other hand. “Cassie!” It all rushes back to her: Jim unconscious on the floor, the attack, the gunshot, the wild realization that they wanted Cassie— “Oh, God—where is she?”

 The nurse gulps and clasps his hands together tightly. “I’m not authorized to—”

 She’s never felt terror like this before—it’s horrible and electrifying, whipping up a frenzy of needles inside of her chest. She swings her good arm forward and grabs him by the collar; he winces. “Tell where my daughter is, asshole!” Pain ripples over her torso.

 He looks like an ant beneath a microscope, squirming beneath the intense heat of her eyes. “They took her, ma’am,” he confesses, and her grip on his scrubs loosens. “The police went after them, but it’d been too long. They were already gone by the time the neighbors called 911.”

 They took her. They took her. They took her. Maggie’s brain won’t function. “But how—” She chokes on her words. “No, no, no…” She grabs at her hair, and pained dread pangs in her neck, leaking down into her heart. “No, God, no…” Nightmarish thoughts peel at her head and spear behind her eyes, and anguished nausea swirls in her stomach. She wraps her arms around her belly, clawing at the bandages there.

 “Mrs. Paxton, the police are doing everything they can. They’ve already sent out an Amber Alert, and they’ve alerted all the nearby hospitals to any children matching your daughter’s description.” He looks uncomfortable, even guilty, and he backs away from her hospital bed. “I’m terribly sorry, Mrs. Paxton. So, so sorry.”

 Maggie can barely hear him leave; her daughter, her baby, her Cassie… Horror wracks her mind, darkness pries at her mind—her seven-year-old, her baby girl, scared and hurt and crying for her—and she presses a shaking hand to her distressed mouth, trying to keep all her horrified thoughts pinned inside of her.

 There’s nothing worse than this, the absence of Cassie at her side, knowing that gruesome, unspeakable things could be happening to her at any moment; Maggie cries into her hands, sobbing. Cassie…

 The doctor comes about an hour later to trade places with the nurse; she’s antsy, constantly shifting from foot to foot as she speaks, like the elephant in the room of Cassie’s kidnapping can just be ignored. After several choked-out apologies, she explains most of the medical implications of the attack in an apologetic stammer, telling her has several broken ribs, a gunshot wound to the forearm—“Just a graze, ma’am, you got lucky,” she says—and a minor concussion. “We stitched up that cut in your forehead,” the doctor says carefully. “But you have take it easy for now.” Maggie wraps her arms around herself. “We’ll keep you overnight for observation, but after that we’ll give you medicine to take home…”

 Everything after that is blurry, shadowed by the knowledge that Cassie has been kidnapped. She visits Jim’s hospital room; he wakes up a couple hours after her, but he doesn’t remember anything before the night prior. “What’s wrong?” Jim asks. He’s still got that hopeful look in his eyes. “Why do you look so…”

 Maggie knows the word he is trying not to say. Devastated. Like her entire world has been ripped away from her fingertips. “She’s gone,” she croaks. “They took Cassie.”

  APRIL 6 — 8:29 PM

 The doorbell rings for a second time, and finally Julia, sprawled across the couch next to Cristian, lets out annoyed groan.

 “Not it,” her husband chirps.

 “Honey, you can’t do ‘not it’ with two people! It doesn’t work!”

 He shrugs and snuggles deeper into the couch. “Nose goes,” he says, tapping his nose.

 “Same rules, Cristian!”

 He only laughs, so finally Julia relents. “Lazy ass,” she complains, swatting his thigh as she gets up. “You’re getting up next time.”

 She heads to the door; the occasional ringing has now evolved into frantic banging. “I’m coming, I’m coming!” she calls out, mildly irritated. It’s probably one of their neighbors asking about a lost pet. That kid next door can never keep track of his toy poodle. She peers through the peephole first.

 Instead of a mailman or a neighbor, she finds a tall, black teen, probably eighteen or nineteen. She knows him well—as a police officer, she has frequent run-ins with this one: Ty. He isn’t dangerous, just a drug addict like her brother. He looks odd—not sober, just odd—like he’s about to vomit all over her front porch. She cracks the door open. “If you’re gonna puke,” she warns him, “do it in the grass.”

 He shakes his head. “No—I gotta—I’m not sick—I gotta tell you somethin’, miss, somethin’ important—real important, miss—” He rubs his already messy dreads into a chaotic pile. “Can I—can I come in?”

 Briefly, Julia thinks of her children. Ty isn’t dangerous, she reminds herself, and she’ll be with him the whole time. After they instruct the kids to stay in the basement while they talk, they sit Ty down at the kitchen table—Cristian and Julia on one side, Ty on the other. He’s nervous, but assures then repeatedly that he’s unarmed. “I don’t wanna hurt nobody,” he says, “promise, miss.”

 She wants to say something to him, something like “I know” or “It’s okay” to calm his anxious nerves, but she can’t do it. He is too young, too unstable, too terrified, and it puts her on edge, like someone’s father will come sprawling in at any moment drenched in drunken rage.

 “They’re gone,” he says finally, after a century of painful silence. “Charlie, RJ, everybody.”

 Julia and Cristian share a concerned glance. “What?”

 He explains what happened in shaky sentences; Charlie, Julia’s brother, had been Ty’s dealer for the past few months. “None of the hard shit,” he promises her. Charlie and Ty met once or twice a week, and Ty often hung around Charlie’s crew—a group of drug addicts who were so far gone that Ty’d never once met them lucid, let alone sober. They were always on something, whether it was coke, dope, speed, or dust. “An’ I know they didn’ always do good, but they was good, promise. They kept talkin’ about how they was gonna change the world, make it a better place…” He trails off. He tells Julia that a couple of weeks ago, Charlie had missed their weekly meetup without any warning. Originally, he dismissed it as Charlie being too high to deal that day, but when he tried to get into contact with some of Charlie’s guys to see if they would deal to him, they were gone, too. He checked with everyone in Charlie’s tight circle of drug addicts; they’d all vanished. “Last time I saw them, their place was some abandoned, creepy-ass dungeon or some shit, fuckin’ snakes on the walls…” But when he tried to find them, he explains, the place was empty. They were gone.

 Finally, Ty sighs. “I didn’ know where to go, miss. I can’t trust none of those cops but you. Anybody else woulda put me in jail, and I can’t go back there. I’m just scared ‘cause these are my people, you know? And they ain’t done nothing wrong, but I think somethin’ happened to ‘em.” He stares emptily at Julia. “Somethin’ bad.”

  APRIL 6 — 9:05 PM

 Cassie is cold. So, so cold. She’s never been hurt like this before. Not when she tripped in soccer and sprained her ankle, not when Jim accidentally hit her in the face with a softball, and not even when her grandma died a year ago. At least then, she had Daddy or Mommy or Jim with her.

 Now, it’s just Cassie. Cassie, the toilet, and the weird scratches in the walls. It’s a tiny room with gray walls, gray floor, and a gray ceiling. There’s a toilet and a sink in the corner, but nothing else. No bed, no chair, no table. The door is gray, too, reinforced with metal bolts, and only a slit, almost a rectangular hole, in the center of the door signifies that there’s any outside at all. She’s all alone, in this tiny room, and there’s blood all over her arm and she’s scared. She doesn’t want to remember that the Red-Hair Lady grabbed Mommy and smashed her head against the wall. She doesn’t want to remember that Red-Hair Lady took her knife and cut her arms open. She doesn’t want to remember any of this.

 But when it’s just Cassie, all alone, all she has is her thoughts, and she can’t help but remember how much it hurt.

 She whimpers and draws her knees to her chest, pulling at the sticky, bloodstained sleeves of her hoodie. She doesn’t like this. She wants Mommy and Daddy and Jim… She wants Jim to hug her and cook her some ramen. She wants Mommy to rock her and read her a bedtime story. She wants Daddy to sing her favorite song…

 Daddy. She remembers seeing his face before Red-Hair Lady took her away, before the hurt— She squeezes her eyes shut. She remembers that he was tied to a chair, that he was scared and he looked like he was hurting a lot. And when he saw Cassie, it was like his whole world had fallen apart. She’s never seen him like that before, and now she’s more scared than ever before. She starts to cry, sobbing into her knees; she wants Daddy, she wants Daddy, she wants Daddy!

 Red-Hair Lady and Big-Man locked her in here. When she cried and begged for them to let her go, Red-Hair Lady grabbed her by the throat and threatened to cut her tongue out unless she shut up. Cassie reaches into her mouth and touches her tongue, just to reassure herself that it’s still there. She can still remember Red-Hair Lady and the terrifying fury of her words.

 She knows Daddy will come for her. He has to. He always promised that he’d keep her safe, no matter what happened. She believes in him. Maybe he can turn into Ant-Man and slip free! Then he can come save her. She nods to herself. Yes, Daddy will come save her. He is brave and strong, and whenever she’s in trouble, he is there—

 A loud beep and then the locked door before her clicks open. Cassie perks up, her sob caught in her throat. “Daddy?”

 A snort of laughter is her reply. “Don’t you wish, cutie.”

 Cassie shakes in her fear. It’s the Red-Hair Lady and Big-Man, and they look mad. “No, n-n-no! I d-do-don’t wanna go, p-please!” She is crying again, so hard that she can’t control it. “I wanna go home!”

 Red-Hair Lady leans down to meet her face-to-face. “You’re not going home for a long time, cutie. So get used to it.”

 Cassie cries harder—“I wanna go ho-home!”—and Red-Hair Lady slaps her.

 She’s never been slapped before, and it’s startling, a violation of everything she’s ever known. She can still feel Red-Hair Lady’s hand on her cheek, a ghost of the blow. “Shut up,” snaps the woman. “Don’t be a fucking baby.” As Big-Man grabs her by the waist and slings her under his arm, kicking and wailing, Red-Hair Lady storms out of the room. “Charlie!” she shouts. “Lang’s taking too fucking long!”

 Cassie can hear broken protests from the far end of the hallway. Once, she thinks she can hear her name among the desperate words.

 The tall, bearded man is now talking feverishly to Red-Hair Lady. “He says he’s going as fast as he can, Renee. Mason, put the kid down.”

 Big-Man shifts nervously, glancing at Red-Hair Lady. “As fast as he can?” Red-Hair Lady scowls. “Bullshit! At this rate, it’ll be days before he’s done. We need this, and we need it now. Lang just needs a little motivation, that’s all. Something to get those fucking fingers moving.”

 The other man hesitates. “Fine,” he says. “As long as Lang does his job.”

 Renee smirks. “I’ll make sure he does.”

 Cassie’s not stupid; she knows that they’re talking about Daddy. “I want Daddy!” she wails. She knows he’s here, somewhere, and the combination of the cuts on her arms, the swelling in her face, and the Red-Hair Lady’s presence has made her frantic and desperate. “Please, please, I’ll be—”

 When Red-Hair Lady whirls around this time, Cassie stops abruptly, squeezing her eyes shut and trying to squirm away from the oncoming blow. But she’s still not prepared enough. Red-Hair Lady’s palm hits her in the face, and pain sparks behind her eyes. “What’d I tell you?” She yanks Cassie from Big-Man’s arms, sending her sprawling on the ground. “Hey! Look at me!”

 Cassie doesn’t want to look at her, she doesn’t want to look, she doesn’t want to—

 Another slap, this time on the other side of her face. “Look at me!”

 Cassie pries her terrified eyes open, every bone in her body vibrating in alarm.

 “You don’t talk unless I say so, got it?” Her red hair swishes as she talks. “Got it?” Her voice is dangerous now, like quicksand, and Cassie nods furiously. “Good.”

 She drags Cassie to the bad room, the bad room—not the bad room, no, no—and straps her to the table—the bad table, the bad table, not the bad table, she doesn’t want to hurt again—

 There’s fingers at her arm, yanking up her sleeve, wiping the crease of her inner arm with something cold. Cassie is cold, so cold, and she shuts her eyes, crying silently and hiccuping. “Don’t move,” instructs Red-Hair Lady, and then there’s a prick in her arm.

 “Ow!” Suddenly, there’s what feels like fire spreading over her skin, lighting her up and tearing her apart.

 Cassie can hear something, something high-pitched and horrible and bad—she wants the bad to stop, it hurts so much, but it’s all she can feel and it’s swallowing her up—

 Her throat is raw—she’s screaming, screaming, screaming for anyone, anything to help her.

 But no one comes.

  APRIL 6 — 10:11 PM

 “Holy shit, Chlo, pull over!”

 Chloe Tanner jerks his head to the right, where her boyfriend, John, is pointing. “What?” Then she sees it: a car upside down, a mess of crumpled metal and red-spattered earth. “Oh, shit!” She yanks her car to the right, parking abruptly a few hundred feet away from the crash. There’s no police cars near it, or any people standing beside the car. What the hell happened here? Someone has to do something. What if there’s someone in there? John and Chloe rush out of the car. Shattered glass crunches beneath Chloe’s sneakers as she and John approach the vehicle. “Hello?” John announces, and Chloe runs to the front door.

 There’s a dark-haired woman inside, blood spreading across the front of her lavender blouse, hung upside down by her seatbelt. Her face is startlingly flushed, probably from all the blood settling in her head, and her head dangles limply as Chloe opens the car door. “Shit, shit! John, call 911!”

 John slams his fingers into his phone, almost frantic. “Um—he-hello? There’s a car crash here—a lady’s i-in the front…” He steps over the scattered glass to stare at the woman.

 As he talks to the 911 operator, Chloe presses her fingers to the woman’s neck. A faint, fluttering pulse meets her fingers, but that’s all she needs. “She’s still alive!” she shouts. “What do we do?”

 John puts the phone on speaker and describes the physical state of the woman, stuttering out that she is upside down and he doesn’t know if they should move her. “Don’t move her,” instructs the operator. “Find the source of the bleeding, if you can, and put pressure on it until we can get to you. It should only be a few minutes. Keep checking her breathing and her heart rate, okay? If it stops, I’ll need you to perform CPR on her. Do you know how?”

 Already pressing her scarf to the woman’s slashed thigh, Chloe stammers, “Ye-yeah, I know how.”

 Those few minutes seem like hours as Chloe keeps pressure on the gashes and John checks her heartbeat. Finally, the ambulance arrives and four paramedics in matching uniform pour out, walking firmly towards them with a stretcher and medical supplies. “We’ll take it from here,” says one, just as they reach the woman.

 Chloe reaches for John’s hand and grips it tightly, backing away from her. They ride with her to the hospital, where the police interrogate them about what happened, but neither of them know enough to further the investigation. “We didn’t see anything,” Chloe assures the first officer, a woman with a blonde ponytail named Officer Bone. “Just found her, that’s all. I think it’d already been here a while by the time we got here.”

 Officer Bone nods, scribbling something down. “Well, we’re really grateful you found her. If you hadn’t, she could just as easily be dead.”

 Chloe gulps. If she hadn’t pulled over the car… If they hadn’t done anything… If John had been asleep… This horrible realization washes over her: this woman could have died. “Is she… Is she gonna be okay?”

 Bone glances wearily behind her. “Her head looked pretty banged up, so I can’t tell you for sure…” She removes her hat. “But I have your contact information. I’ll keep you updated on her condition.” She sighs. “Are you sure you couldn’t find anything about her identity?”

 Both John and Chloe answer with a simple “no.” The paramedics gave all the woman’s belongings to the police, and they didn’t find a wallet or a phone on her; there were no frantic police calls on missing middle-aged women, either.

 Bone clears her throat. “Well, until we find something, she’s a Jane Doe until she wakes up or someone comes for her.”

 As Officer Bone leaves to talk to the other policemen, Chloe slumps into one of the waiting room chairs. She hopes that this woman, whoever she is, will be okay.

  APRIL 6 — 11:21 PM

 They spent the past few hours chatting with semi-drunk socialites and businessmen; Tony dazzled them with half-hearted tales of Iron Man’s adventures while Pepper approached the hosts with financial propositions.

 Pepper looks sleek tonight, her strawberry-blonde hair pulled back into an elegant bun, and her cocktail dress is a rich, deep purple that matches the color of Tony’s suit. Tony, to say the least, matches his elegant partner, a silk tie loose around his neck. Pepper has always been the more formal one, rarely able to tell a story about herself to someone she didn’t know well. From where he currently stands, Tony can hear her laugh as she chats about Tony and his bad habit of showing up late to everything. “I’ve started marking everything in his calendar an hour before they actually start, just so he’ll be on time!”

 Tony grazes his hand along her waist, alerting her to his presence just as he appears beside her. He can hear the exhaustion in her voice. “Sorry, ladies,” he says, nodding to the other three women, “but I’ll just be borrowing Ms. Potts for a moment.”

 As soon as they are out of hearing range of the other guests, Pepper sighs. “Thank God,” she says. “I don’t think I could’ve done that for much longer.” She kisses his cheek.

 “What, are they boring you?”

 She wrinkles her nose. “No, I’m just tired of socializing, at least for today.” That, at the very least, Tony can understand. Pepper had spent almost the entire day in meetings and making calls to various companies. Her eyes light up with something mischievous. “Come on, let’s get out of here!”

 Tony stares at her in mock shock, taking on the richest accent he can muster. “Leave the gala? Oh, the scandal, my dear!”

 Pepper stifles a giggle. “God, Tony, your British accent is the worst.”

 He pouts as she hooks her arm around his and leads them towards the exit. “I thought it was awesome!”

 “Awesomely terrible,” she reminds him. “Any British person within a ten-mile radius would be offended, I’m sure. And stop saying 'awesome.' You've been spending way too much time with Peter.”

 Tony grins. “Pepper, my love, you wound me.”

 She rolls her eyes, opening the door for him. “Come on, Shakespeare, let’s go find some pizza.”

 This time, it’s Tony’s turn to break into a smile. “Pizza!”

  APRIL 6 — 11:33 PM

 When Ty finally leaves, Julia goes upstairs with Cristian. The kids are already fast asleep, but they kiss each of them good night before heading back to their room. After Julia changes into some pajamas and gets into bed, Cristian climbs in beside her. “Piensas que nos dijo la verdad?” he asked softly. Do you think he told us the truth?

 Julia nods. She’s lying on her side, facing him. “Ty may be an addict,” she replies, “but he’s not a bad kid. He wouldn’t lie about something like this, and, I mean, just look at him. He could barely talk, he was so…” She doesn’t know how to explain it, but she knows that look in his eyes well. Terrified. Distressed. Helpless. “...scared. You can’t fake that.”

 Cristian pulls her closer to him, and he presses his face into her hair. “What are you gonna do, Julia?”

 “It’s gonna be hard,” she confesses, “but I’ve gotta report it. I’ll leave him out of it—I don’t want him going back to prison—but there’s no way I can’t report this.” The people Ty cares for so much are drug addicts and ex-cons; the New York Police Department cares little for them. She’ll have to use her strong reputation as a high-ranking officer to advocate for Ty and his missing friends. And her missing brother. Charlie, she thinks immediately, and now she feels desperation clench around her heart. “I have to—I have to find my brother.” She tries not to think of all the horrible things that could have happened to him, but her mind barrels forward. “He’s my baby brother, I can’t—” Her voice cracks.

 Cristian slides his arm around her waist and shushes her. “I know, I know. You’ll find him, I know you will.”

 Julia prays to God that she will, too.

  APRIL 6 — 11:46 PM

 Happy drives them to Pepper’s favorite pizza place, one that sells Chicago-style deep dish. It’s hard to forget that Pepper was a Chicagoan (honestly, she still is), for Chicago always seems to seep into her daily life, whether it be her odd taste in pizza, her obsession with the Chicago Cubs, or her uncanny ability to survive any cold weather without blinking.

 And because Pepper craves deep dish pizza on a weekly basis, they’ve become intimately familiar with one pizza place in particular, one called Lou Malnati’s, but they are not familiar with the teenage girl at the register, who gapes unashamedly at them as they enter the building.

 “Hey, order for pickup?” announces Pepper, smiling expectantly, “For Potts?”

 The girl doesn’t move, simply staring, starstruck, at them. “Uh…”

 Tony sighs. He doesn’t need another fangirl right now, not at eleven at night when all he wants is a dumb pizza. “Look, kid, can we just get the pizza?”

 The employee next to her, one who has seen them countless times before and has grown used to their presence, announces, “Of course, Mr. Stark, right away, sir!” The employee slips into the back as the other girl stands with her mouth open.

 But as he watches the girl’s face break into a blushing smile, he realizes she isn’t even looking at him. She's looking at Pepper. “M-Ms. Potts,” she stammers, her voice so high it’s almost a squeal, “I-I’m a huge fan of yours; I’ve loved you since I was little when I read that article about how you…” The girl is full-on rambling, spilling every fact she knows about Pepper, and Tony watches his fiancée’s smile grow wider with every word. Iron Man fans are like pebbles, commonplace, but Pepper Potts fans are something else entirely. “...and as the only female CEO in—and, I mean, of the most powerful company in New York? You’re amazing! An inspiration! I can’t believe you’re standing here, wow—” The girl adjusts her hijab anxiously, tugging at the edges. Her nametag reads AYOMI. “It's such a pleasure to—um—to see you—um, um—could I—do you think I could—um, maybe—”

 Pepper, being the wonderfully empathetic woman that she is, reaches across the counter and places a calming hand on Ayomi’s starstruck shoulder. “A picture? Of course!”

 Tony thinks the girl is going to faint, right then and there. Instead, however, Ayomi’s eyes brighten and she nearly trips over herself getting to the other side of the counter, just as the other employee returns with their pizza. “Thank you, thank you!” she gasps.

 Tony almost bursts out laughing at the expression on Pepper’s face. Pepper Potts can stare down a roomful of angry reporters, counter death threats, and command all of Stark Industries, but in the end, she is just as nervous as the fan herself. The negative attention she receives as CEO of Stark Industries is miles away from this glowing praise she is receiving from the young woman standing in front of her.

 Ayomi clears her throat. “Um, Mr. Stark, do you think you could…” She holds her phone out to him, already in the camera app.

 Tony is, in a word, bewildered. He hasn’t been asked to take someone else’s picture since...well, ever. But nonetheless, he takes the phone and snaps a dozen photos of Pepper and Ayomi. He knows Pepper is beyond ecstatic to have this kind of attention, and that over-the-moon feeling is washing over him, now, too.

 God, he loves this woman.

 After finally getting the pizza and giving about four goodbye hugs to Ayomi, they head back to Stark Tower. By that time, they are starving, so they devour the pizza in the car.

 “Watch the seats, watch the seats!” complains Happy. “I just got those cleaned.”

 Pepper and Tony share a knowing look with each other, glancing down guiltily at the pizza sauce smeared on the seat between them. “Oh, yeah, definitely!” Pepper declares, as Tony tries to clean up the mess they’d made. “Seats are fine, Happy; you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

 Happy gives a Scroogelike grunt, muttering under his breath. “Yeah, yeah.”

 By the time they are back inside, kicking their shoes off, it’s midnight, and they slump in the bed together, Pepper literally groaning with delight. “I wanna go to sleep,” she mumbles into the pillow, “and never wake up again.”

 Tony laughs. “Come here, baby, I’ll take your hair down. You don’t want to go to sleep like that.”

 He gets a muffled moan in response.

 Tony scoots up the bed on his knees. “Come on, Sleepy, turn over.” She flops onto her back, groaning in protest. He lifts her head into his lap so he can remove the bobby pins, one by one. “Wanna watch a movie?”

 “Yeah,” she mumbles. “Something without people.”

 “What, a nature documentary?” He plucks another pin out and tosses it on the nightstand.

 Her eyes are still closed. “No… A cartoon. Something with little animals…”

 Tony smirks. “A Disney movie? I’ve got just the thing.”

 Before long, Finding Nemo is playing on the screen, and they’ve stripped out of their restricting gala outfits and into T-shirts, curled beneath the covers.

 The best thing about their relationship is that it’s entirely beyond the physical, nothing like Tony’s previous relationships. Before Pepper, his dating pool had been entirely based on physical beauty and social status, even attainability, but not mutual compatibility. Obviously he’s attracted to Pepper, but it goes so far beyond that. With Pepper, he’s more himself then he’s ever been. He can watch dumb Disney movies with her, he can eat pizza at midnight with her, he can cry in front of her… He doesn’t need to impress her, and she doesn’t need to impress him. They know each other too well.

 “He’s kinda like you,” Pepper mutters, yawning.

 Tony snaps back to the present. “What? Who?”

 Pepper looks so beautiful now, the ends of her mouth twitching into an amused smile. “The dad fish… What’s his name again? Merlin? Marlin?” She yawns again. “He loves his damn kid so much…”

 Tony combs his fingers through her hair. “Pep, we don’t have a kid. That doesn’t—”

 “Peter,” she interrupts, “is Nemo. Does something dumb, the world implodes on him, and eventually you’re there to save him.”

 “Well, I don’t think—”

 “Last month,” she continues, her eyes still closed, “you took him to see Hamilton with us.”

 Tony snorts. “He’d been listening to the soundtrack nonstop! What was I supposed to do?”

 “In March,” she says, ignoring him, “when he got shot in that robbery, you made him stay in the Medbay for the whole day, and you didn’t let him patrol for a week, even though it’d fully healed by the second day.”

 “His body was still recovering!” Tony protests. “And—”

 “Once a month, you take him to your favorite sandwich place.” She is sitting up now, blinking groggily at him.

 “What’s so bad about that?”

 Pepper rubs her eyes. “You only ever take me there, dumbass. Or Rhodey. You’ve never even mentioned it to Happy or anyone else.”

 Tony’s face flushes pink. “Well, I mean, it’s personal, knowing that, and, uh—”

 And still Pepper rattles on. “You let him pick the music in the car, you brought his lunch to school when he forgot it, you left an important meeting so you could go to his decathlon meet, you went out for ice cream with him when he had a fight with his friend, you always ask how he is, you’re always checking with his AI to make sure he’s okay, you—”

 “Okay, okay!” Tony huffs. “You’re right, fine. It’s just like… If I had a kid, I’d want him to be like Pete, you know?” He sinks his face with the nearest pillow, groaning.

 Pepper laughs beside him; what a privilege, he thinks suddenly, it is to hear Pepper Potts laugh. “Baby, Peter’s already your kid. You’re just too thick headed to see it. He’s here at least twice a week, Tony.”

 Tony mumbles a fragmented response into the pillow. Pepper snakes an arm around his side, “C’mere,” she says, pulling him closer. “I’m cold.”

 Tony welcomes her presence at his side; she snuggles into him, pressing her cold toes against his bare calf— “God, fuck, Pepper, your feet are like ice! Keep those things to yourself, Elsa!”

 Drowsy, she giggles a little, clasping onto him tighter. He follows her freckled arm around his torso to hold her hand, and he turns onto his side so that her chest is pressed against his back. This is how they usually cuddle: Tony, the little spoon, and Pepper, the big spoon.

 Pepper falls asleep first, snoring lightly against his chest. Their legs are intertwined, and Tony’s sure he’ll wake up with his feet asleep if he stays like this, so he gently shifts, untangling their limbs. In the background, Finding Nemo plays, and he mutes it with a quiet order to FRIDAY. As he watches, Marlin tries to convince the leader of a school of moonfish to tell him how to get to his son.

 If I lost Peter, Tony thinks, I’d be a lot better at finding him than this dumb fish. Satisfied, he turns the television off and burrows beneath the covers, watching Pepper’s chest rise and fall in a deep sleep. What did he do to deserve a woman as amazing as her? He smiles to himself, closing his eyes. What did he do to deserve a kid as great as Peter?

 Before long, he is snoring, too, slipping into the peaceful realm of sleep with his fiancée at his side.

    APRIL 7 — 2:09 AM

 Scott’s wrists spike with pain, and he pauses to rub them, the action made awkward by the handcuffs locked around them. He’s not in the Chair anymore—he’s in a hard chair before a metal table, set with a laptop and other computer supplies. He’s got more freedom now, at least; his arms and legs are cuffed, but they aren’t attached to the chair so that he has enough freedom to work. It’s odd to him that the crushing pain of his mutilated legs has faded with the mission before him, fueled by his mind, the computer, and his throbbing hands. Well, they gave him a little painkiller a few hours ago, too, solely because he was too delirious with pain to work, so that helps. And they added some adrenaline to the mix, so Scott is wide awake. Charlie or American Psycho or whoever was right: the only thing Scott needs is his head and his hands.

 Three times since he first arrived here, he has heard his little girl scream. It’s not anything like the false screeches in horror movies or Cassie’s usual happy squeals. It’s the sound of pain, horrific agony coursing through the air, and it’s so violent and terrible and sickening that when Scott hears it he can barely breathe.

 The worst part about it is that he can’t see her, but he knows that’s her voice. He knows better than almost anyone on the planet what Cassie sounds like, even if it’s just a whimper or a sob. That’s his daughter. He can’t touch her, can’t hold her, can’t tell her a joke, can’t sing her a lullaby… It’s agonizing. Forget his legs—it’s like an entire chunk of his heart has been torn from his chest.

 Scott knows there’s only one way to get Cassie out of here: doing what he’s told. Even if it means breaking dozens of laws and putting others in danger, he’ll do anything if it means that they’ll stop hurting Cassie. He never used to understand the blind, ultra-sacrificial love that parents held for their children when he was younger, but after he learned that Maggie was pregnant, he knew. He knew that he would do anything to protect his child.

 Just knowing that Cassie is in pain now is putting his heart through a meat grinder; he types faster, clicking and hacking and typing until his fingers are a blur at the keyboard.

 At the sound of the door at the end of the hallway, Scott jumps; he can’t help it. Last time that door opened, that sick fuck, Renee, came through with his little girl. This time, he listens hard, typing faster than ever. If he shows any sign of slacking, they’ll make Cassie scream again. And he’ll do anything in the world to not hear that sound ever again.

 It’s not Renee, Charlie, or Mason—his three main captors are busy getting high on the other side of the place—warehouse? Base? Building? Lair? He realizes quite suddenly that he has no idea where he is. He could be in a cave, for all he knows. There’s no windows, not that he can see, and the cold air seeping through the vents does nothing but tell him that they’ve got air conditioning.

 There’s an almost eerie silence following the opening of the door, and then a thump, the all-too-familiar sound of a body hitting the ground, and fear prickles down Scott’s back. What if they caught another one of his loved ones: Maggie, Hope, Hank, or even Jim? The fear that overcomes him in that moment drains him of his energy. He’s barely clinging on to his composure as it is, but this… Then, vaguely, he remembers the first thing he was asked to do: hack into Tony Stark’s computer system and locate what Stark designated as “SKM7.” Scott discovered several hours ago that SKM7 was a moving target, which he found to be strange, but he figured it was a vehicle or Stark-created piece of technology. There’d been nothing in the files he’d hacked about SKM7 stating that it could be a person.

 As the door to the room swings open and two of Charlie’s black-clothed guys drag a limp form between them, Scott understands with violent precision: SKM7 is a person. By the look of him, a young person. “No, no, no,” Scott croaks, panic splitting him. “No, no…”

 Then there’s Charlie, leaning on the doorframe like he’s just won the Olympics, and high as a fucking kite. He grins at Scott, and poorly masked aggression pours over his body. “Put him in the chair,” Charlie announced, his words a little slurred. “Now.”

 As they lock him into the Chair, the one he was in only hours earlier, Scott’s horror augments. SKM7 is a pale teen with brown hair; his head is completely slack, as the men strap him in, and his eyes are closed. One of the men pushes his head back and checks his eyes for any sign of consciousness. Nothing. It’s unnerving how limp he is, like a rag doll. He’s a wiry kid, a little muscle on bones, and he’s got a wide face peppered with bruises. He’s wearing a Star Wars hoodie, a bright blue one with “Trust me, I’m a Jedi” printed across the front, but the sleeves, as well as his hands, are spattered with blood. Probably fourteen or fifteen, this kid… His youth is obvious in everything about him: his neon green shoes, his sweatshirt, his oddly colored jeans, his hair… He’s even got a math formula scribbled across the back of his hand. And the fact that he’s unconscious, bloodied, and locked to the Chair by his wrists, ankles, and torso makes everything worse. “He’s…” Scott gasps, and Charlie’s smile only widens. “He’s just a kid. You made me track down a… a… teenager? So you could kidnap him, too?”

 Charlie shrugs. As he stalks towards Scott, every step threatening, Scott feels every hair on his body stand on end; his body screams, Danger! Danger! Get out! “Thanks, Lang,” Charlie says, ignoring the fact that there’s an unconscious fifteen-year-old behind them. “You did great.” He raises his hand—no, no, fuck, no, he can’t take any more, he’ll break—and claps Scott heartily on the shoulder. “I should give you a raise.” He chuckles to himself.

 Scott’s blood boils, and he tries to swallow the fury rising in his throat, but he can’t— “So kidnapping a seven-year-old wasn’t good enough for you? You had to get a fifteen-year-old, too? What the hell?”

 “He’s sixteen,” Charlie snaps; his expression before was tight, like he trapped all his anger inside of his mouth, but now it’s exploded all over his face. “And this was all necessary, you dumb fuck. I don’t go around kidnapping kids for fun.”

 “Could’ve fooled me,” Scott growls, and Charlie hits him so hard that he sees stars.

 “Don’t forget” —Charlie’s face glistens with sweat, and his eyes narrow— “that’s your pretty little seven-year-old I’ve got here. Next time you talk to me like that, I’ll take off one of her fingers, how’d you like that?”

 Scott’s eyes widen, and his mouth bubbles up with blood and frantic pleas; Charlie backs away from him, muttering in disgust. “P-please, d-d-don’t—”

 “You’ve got a new job, Lang,” interrupts Charlie, moving to stand beside Renee. He curls an arm around her shoulders, and she smirks. “If you do it right, your brat will be just fine.” Charlie smiles with his teeth this time, and Scott can see the drugged high leak into his too-wide grin. “With your help, we’re gonna change the world.”

  APRIL 7 — 2:46 AM

 The door opens with a bang that seems to shake the room, and Tony jumps to his feet. Instinctually, he grabs his watch, slamming his fingers to the activation button that transforms it from a wristwatch to an Iron Man Gauntlet, raising his arm to—

 “Peter?” says Pepper. She’s standing, too, but her hands are held out in comfort instead of aggression, her eyes trained on the figure who has now entered the room.

 It’s Peter, there’s no denying. He’s drenched from head to toe; his brown hair is plastered against his forehead and his red hoodie is now a wet shade of scarlet. His jeans cling to his skinny legs. There’s a blend of blood and water on his forehead, and he’s shaking, trembling like a wet leaf, his chest heaving.

 Immediately, Tony transforms his gauntlet back into a watch and approaches the kid carefully. He’s never seen Peter like this before—terrified, panicking, anxious—and it chills him to the bone. He’s shivering now, breathing hard, but the air whistles through his throat in a dry whine. “Kid?” he calls out, taking a careful step forward. Peter’s hands are on his head now, fisting tightly in his dark hair as though he’s about to tear it from the roots. His eyes are blown with panic, darting around, and he won’t focus on Tony. “Kid, look at me.” Tony locks eyes with Pepper; her expression betrays the concern and fear that he feels. “Peter.” Nothing. He tries again. “Pete, kiddo, it’s me. What happened?”

 Pepper moves forward, reaching out towards the kid, and alarm bells crash through Tony’s head. “Don’t,” Tony snaps, startling even himself with his bluntness, and Pepper immediately stops. Tony knows better than anyone what being mentally absent means for someone with superpowers; he doesn’t need another Bucky Barnes on his hands.

 After Peter’s arms finally drop, and his gaze lifts to Tony’s, the whole world seems to stop. “M-Mr. Stark?”

 Tony’s shoulders slump in relief, and he takes another step towards Peter, still cautious. “Yeah, it’s me. You okay, kiddo?”

 Peter presses his palm against his forehead, looking a little shocked when it comes back bloody. “Yeah, I just…”

 Tony has never felt this worried before; anxiety cuts through him, hot and sharp. What happened to his kid? “Are you okay?” A million questions collide in his mind. Who did this to you? What could scare you like this?

 But he chokes them all down as Peter stammers, staring at the newfound blood stemming from his head. “I’m bleeding…”

 Fuck, this can’t be good. Something is wrong, gut-wrenchingly so, and Tony knows it. Peter can barely recognize the pain he is in, let alone the fact that he is bleeding, soaking wet, and standing in the middle of Tony’s kitchen. “Let’s sit down, okay, kiddo?” By the time Peter blinks in confused recognition, Tony has moved all the way to the kid, scanning him for further injury and guiding him to the kitchen table by placing a hand on his back—

 Peter jerks away from him so violently that even Pepper startles, and the kid transforms from mentally absent to a terrified mess, his body vibrating in fear. But instead of attacking with his webshooters or hyper-reflexes like Tony expected, he curls in on himself, squeezing his eyes shut. What the hell? This is not the result of combat trauma or too much time in the field. This… This is something deeper, darker, sourced in something more sinister than Tony originally thought. “Okay, okay,” says Tony, thinking fuck, fuck, what the hell is happening— “You’re okay, Pete, you’re just fine; no touching, okay? I got it, I won’t touch you, you’re safe...”

 He continues talking, coaxing Peter into at least a sliver of safety, until finally Peter opens his eyes again, gasping, “So-sorry, Mr. Stark, I’m sorry…” He looks pale, too pale, and it’s now that Tony realizes his lips are blue. Fucking blue.

 Tony’s heart twists violently. “You’re okay, kid, there’s nothing for you to be sorry for.” Tony’s left arm is throbbing now, that dull ache that always resounds when his anxiety spikes, and he tries to control the flutter of panic in his chest. “J-just come over here, okay? We’ll sit by the fire, you can warm up a little—you’re looking a little cold, Pete.”

 Peter wraps his arm around himself as if suddenly noticing the fact that his teeth are chattering; glancing nervously at Tony, he nods slowly, following the man to the fireplace at the other end of the room. “FRIDAY,” says Tony, trying to stay calm for the sake of the kid, “turn up the heat, please.”

 Thankfully, FRIDAY remains silent in her obedience, avoiding possibly startling the kid. Tony turns around to share a worried look with Pepper, then faces the kid again. Peter’s relaxing a little in the warmth of the fire, and before he knows it, Pepper’s beside him, holding out a blanket and a fresh change of clothes: Tony’s sweatshirt and a pair of sweatpants Peter had left with them weeks ago. “Peter, honey?” she says, her voice gentle. “I brought you some dry clothes, do you want to—”

 “No,” Peter croaks, suddenly tense again. “No.”

 Peter’s clothes are dripping wet, and Tony knows how hypothermia works. He has to get him out of those wet clothes. “Kid?” he says, worry lacing his features. “You wanna take off your hoodie, at least, change into somethi—”

 “No!” This time, Peter’s response is frantic, almost wild, and Tony immediately regrets his suggestion. “No, p-please—”

 Horror flashes through Tony’s head; everything comes to a screeching halt. Please. It’s just one word, but it’s enough for Tony to know that something bad happened to his kid, something that brought Peter to such a point of suffering that he begged for it to stop. Tony wants to help him, to hug him, to hold him and tell him everything’s gonna be okay, but he can’t. Peter won’t let him touch him, and Tony’s not planning on violating his kid’s personal space when he’s scared. Tony’s not Howard; he won’t do that to Peter. Only one question flashes through his mind, burning hot: who hurt Peter? This whole situation is fucking terrifying Tony, and dark thoughts needle at the back of his mind, poking sharply—don’t be stupid, Tony, you know the symptoms, you know what happened to him, why else would he be so scared of taking off his clothes—and Tony’s hands clench into horrified, tense fists. No. Not Peter. No. He refuses to believe that. It’s too horrible to think about.

 The kid shivers, his teeth clacking like typewriter keys.

 Tony doesn’t want to force the kid to do anything, not in this fragile state, but he’s becoming seriously anxious about Peter’s physical health. He has to focus on something he can fix, and right now, Tony can help Peter stay healthy. “FRIDAY,” he orders, as Peter takes the blanket and wraps it around himself with trembling hands, “Peter’s vitals, please.”

 “Peter is currently experiencing a body temperature of 96 degrees, sir,” she responds carefully, “and rising. His heart rate is elevated. Otherwise, vitals are normal. He is in no immediate danger, but his brain waves signal significant distress.”

 Peter doesn’t even look up at the sound of the familiar AI. He just stands by the fire, shivering. Tony feels like there are two spools of thread tightening around his lungs, one tugging him towards Peter to comfort him, the other yanking him away, reminding him of the expression of absolute fear on Peter’s face when Tony touched him earlier. Tony gulps and presses the palm of his hand against his quickening heart. He has to help him. Although FRIDAY told him that Peter’s life isn’t in danger, he can’t keep himself from panicking. Significant distress, he echoes. Significant fucking distress. He’s never been in a situation like this before; Tony knows how to handle aliens, terrorists, and Stark Industries, but not the distraught, trembling, terrified mess of a kid in front of him. His kid, no less.

 At the sound of a muffled whimper, Tony’s head snaps up to find Peter Parker sobbing, snot and tears and all, into his hands, his shoulders quaking. Peter Parker, this fucking invincible kid that he loves so much, crumples like a tin can without warning, collapsing to his knees.

 And Tony can’t do anything about it. He can’t even touch Peter. Instead, he kneels beside the kid, whispering comforting phrases to him, things he would want to hear if he was having a breakdown. “Hey, kiddo, you’re okay, you’ll be okay… You’re safe with me, just breathe, Pete, you’re gonna be fine...”

 If this was a Lifetime movie, Peter would be hugging Tony now, embracing him like a son would do to a father, and he would tell him everything. Then he and Peter would ride off into the sunset, vowing to chase down the bad guy and lock him up for life.

 But this isn’t a movie. This is reality. So instead, Tony watches in anxious helplessness as his kid sobs, curling himself into a tight, lonely ball of shame before him. There is no sarcastic bravado or odd humor left in the boy: only Peter, his soul laid vulnerable before Tony’s eyes—

 —and Tony is gasping, straining for breath, and there’s a hand on his back, rubbing soothingly. “Bad dream, baby?”

 Tony is still grappling with the fact that his heart is racing at a million miles an hour, and it takes him a moment to realize that Pepper is sitting up with him, trying to comfort him.

 And the thing is, it wasn’t a nightmare. That moment had been all too real. Peter had arrived without any warning on a cold, rainy day in March, dangerously quiet and unable to be touched without a violent reaction. Tony’s anxiety had never taken such a drastic turn. In the end, Pepper and Tony discovered, through broken sentences and lost whispers, that a man who Peter had known as a child, was back on the streets of Queens. His name is Skip, Peter had said, his voice deadly quiet, and I never… I didn’t think I’d ever have to see him again. They weren’t able to get anything else out of him, and after that he’d come back the next week like nothing had happened, laughing like he hadn’t been sobbing on the floor of Tony’s kitchen only seven days prior.

 That was, by far, the worst moment of Tony’s parenthood, if he could call it that. Watching his kid suffer like that… Being completely unable to help him was like being set on fire.

 Tony is calmer now, and Pepper’s hand is over his chest, making sure that his heartbeat slows down to normal. “You okay?” she asks, watching his expression carefully.

 Tony’s left arm aches, and he grabs it subconsciously, rubbing his throbbing wrist. He doesn’t bother lying to Pepper; she knows him too well. “I dreamed about Peter,” he explains. If he wasn’t still reeling from the vivid dream, he would have cracked a joke about Finding Nemo and Pepper’s persistent fatherhood quips, but he’s too drained at the moment to do any of that.

 “About what happened in March?” she suggests, giving him a knowing look.

 Tony nods, dabbing at the sweat on his forehead.

 “Do you want to… Do you want to talk about it?”

 “No…” He swung his legs over the side of the bed. “I’m just gonna go to the lab, get my mind off of things.” He picks up the clock: 2:57 AM. “Oh, shit, Pepper, I’m sorry for waking you up, I know you have to go at like five, I didn’t mean—”

 “Hey,” she says with a smile, tapping a finger against his chin, “you know what I always say. You can’t be sorry for things you can’t control, Tony. And you can’t control having a bad dream, right?”

 That tightness in his chest loosens at her words, and he takes her hand, bringing it to his lips. He mumbles a “right” against her knuckles.

 After Pepper crawls back into bed, Tony pulls on a sweatshirt, some plaid pants, and a pair of flip-flops before heading downstairs. Since his mansion was destroyed in 2012, he moved into Stark Tower; it became the height of his technological prowess and intellectual ability, but after it was compromised several times (and after returning them only reminded him of the broken pieces of the former Avengers team), he sold the Tower and moved into the new Avengers facility. They’ve constructed it and reconstructed it dozens of times, but finally Tony can call it his home, not just his company property. It’s located in upstate New York, in a stretch of lush land surrounded by trees and water, and there are separate spaces for every use, all connected by winding brick walkways. There’s a massive warehouse for storing equipment (connected to a lab for him to work in), a main building where he and Pepper can do official business, an apartment complex for the Avengers (if, for some reason, they ever got back together), a separate house for him and Pepper, and several other facilities. They’d decided long ago that it was healthier for them to divide Tony’s home life and his work life. He used to spend days in his lab, surviving off of coffee and protein bars to finish projects, but now he almost always sleeps in bed with Pepper unless one of them is gone on a work trip. It’s new, specifically for Tony, to have a home that doesn’t belong to Stark Industries, and it’s life-changing. He spends time with his family now, just watching movies with Rhodey and cooking with Pepper and playing dumb video games that Peter shows him, just because he can.

 Now, he walks from his house to his lab; the grass is damp, tickling the sides of his feet. The moist air is refreshing, and his head is almost cleared in the five-minute walk to the workshop.

 Inside is his refuge: tables upon tables of machine parts, chemical compounds, and computers. He can stay in here for hours at a time, simply tinkering. Tony settles down at one of the worktables, immediately picking up one of his in-progress works: the gunfire sensory system that he and Peter had been creating the night before. He fiddles around with it for a while; giving himself something technological to do usually helps him out of a funk. But even editing the code on Project Kevlar can’t distract him. Not when he’s thinking about Peter.

 He contemplates calling Peter, just to make sure he’s okay, but it’s still three in the morning. Besides, Peter barely sleeps as it is without early morning phone calls from his mentor.

 So instead, he pops an earpiece into his left ear and orders FRIDAY to call Rhodey.

 It takes five calls to reach him. “Tony, it’s three fifteen.” His voice is a low, tired growl.

 Tony relaxes in his chair. “I do have a clock,” he quips, but his voice is shaky. “Just couldn’t sleep, Rhodey.”

 A series of shuffles. “Are you okay?”

 His head throbs. “Just peachy, Mom. Tell me a joke.” Pepper would’ve made him talk about it, to his therapist or to her, but Rhodey always tries to cheer him up instead. It’s the best thing about him; Rhodey knows that Tony’s a fucked up guy, but when they’re together, Tony feels normal.

 Rhodey, detecting that familiar, anxious quiver in his voice, doesn’t question Tony’s request. He starts telling a funny story about a cadet and a dog, and Tony loses himself in it, wanting to think of anything else. Rhodey talks until Tony’s mind is numb, disconnected from his nightmare. “...don’t you think, Tony?”

 Tony laughs weakly. “You know, your jokes really don’t get better with age.”

 “Think so? Bet you couldn’t tell one better.”

 “Rhodey, at least when I tell a story, people don’t start snoring after the first—”

 A wild screech shakes his eardrums, so violent and fucking loud that his whole body goes taut like a bowstring, going painfully rigid in a failed attempt to escape the sound—

 —pain hammers his head, but it’s only a vague afterthought compared to the horrible fucking sound quaking his brain like a speaker on steroids, like an MMA fighter shaking a rag doll—

 —colors flashing above him, pale blue and strawberry blonde; his brain is melting, exploding in sound, he can’t breathe, he can’t think, he can’t—

 —it dies to a dull roar, and Tony’s whole body uncoils as he comes back to his senses. His cheek against cold floor, thin fingers prying his hands away from his ears, two overlapping voices calling his name—

 He can still feel the sound there, like his head’s been filled with a thousand rubber hammers, and somehow he manages to uncoil himself and focus on the woman in front of him. Pepper. “Tony! Tony, look at me!” He blinks; a high-pitched whine oscillates in his eardrums, and he sways with the noise as he tries to right himself.

 There’s a sound in his left ear, another voice. “Tony? What’s going on? Can you hear me? Tony!”

 He swallows, for the first time since the noise began, and the action itself feels painful. He blinks (once, twice, three times), and finally he can see Pepper in front of him, trying to meet his wandering gaze. “Fuck” is the first thing he says, through gritted teeth. “My head…” He shifts, trying to sit up.

 “Don’t get up, Tony,” she warns, pushing him back down. “Just take a second.”

 He reaches up and touches his left ear, where the earpiece is still lodged. “Tony?” Rhodey prompts.

 “Yeah…” Tony winces. He can barely hear his own voice. “I’m fine, I’ll call you back.” He clicks the end button on the earpiece and pulls it out, still stunned.

 As he comes back to his senses, Pepper starts to explain, saying that FRIDAY had been compromised and set off a blaring alarm once her systems recognized an intruder. “That thing in your ear,” she says, picking it up, “played the sound a little too loud.”

 Tony nearly laughs out loud. Here he thought that he was going crazy, that he was suffering for all those weapons he’d fired, but it had just been FRIDAY’s odd alarm system. He groans, the ringing in his head now a dull whine. “FRIDAY, what happened? Compromised?”

 His lovely AI responds only with unnerving silence. Pepper helps Tony into a sitting position, examining his ear. “Yeah, Tony,” she states, “FRIDAY hasn’t been responding. Not since the alarm went off.”

 “Then how’d you turn it off?” he asks, confused.

 Pepper shrugs. “You’re the artificial intelligence guru; she just turned off, and she hasn’t said anything since.”

 Usually, Tony would be annoyed that FRIDAY had simply shut down like this, but it’s a well-received distraction from the Peter-heavy thoughts buzzing in his head. “Well, I guess I’ve got a job to do, then.”

 Once Pepper ensures that Tony is okay, save a little hearing loss, she heads out for her next meeting, one with a Chinese computer company in Boston. “I should be back by this evening, okay?” She kisses his forehead. “Take care of yourself,” she reminds him. “I know FRIDAY’s a little messed up, but that doesn’t mean you can just forget to eat, okay? I’ll send Happy to check on you around lunch. And get Cho to check out that ear. Don’t do anything stupid.”

 Tony, back in his spinning lab chair, turns to look at her. “Stupid? Me? Baby, I would never.”

 Pepper smirks at him, but it’s playful, and Tony finds himself still picturing her face even once she’s left the workshop. Despite the fact that it’s almost four in the morning, and there’s a little trickle of blood coming from his ear, he still feels a little safer, just because Pepper is here with him.

  APRIL 7 — 4:19 AM

 Peter’s mouth is a bitter handful of acidic soap, leaking down his throat and churning in his stomach. There’s a horrible pain in his lower abdomen, spreading wide inside of him, and every inch of his skin buzzes with paralysis. His limbs are heavy; his bones must be made of steel now—he can’t move them, he can’t move at all.

 He forces his eyes open, but his eyelids are heavy, too heavy, and he only recognizes flashes of bland color before they shut again. There’s a voice bouncing around him, one he recognizes, male and tired and scared.

 Pain dances through his skull—iron dancers with sharpened heels—and a sound escapes him, something low and guttural. He’s so far from reality that he’s floating, but now he’s sinking back down to Earth. He can feel something cold and bad inside him, and he fights it, shifting and stirring and shaking. He tries to talk, to plead for help, to cry out, but his words tumble out of his mouth like loose marbles, and then the background ramblings of the familiar voice stop, overlapped by newer, sharper voices.

 “He’s…”

 Peter’s hair tugged to pull his head back. Hands on his face.

 “Watch…”

 Exhaustion washing over him. Cold fingers prying at his eyes, open, open, open.

 “…but already…would…dangerous…”

 Someone fumbling at his sleeve, ripping. A foreign voice in his ear.

 “Doesn’t matter…give…more…”

 A pinch inside of his elbow. The world tilting before his half-closed eyes. A rush of cold, and then everything is blurry.

 “…going…”

 Peter’s eyes roll into the back of his head, and jagged darkness swallows him.

[starker-stories]

An Accord (WIS), Chapter 3

I’ll be re-creating my individual chapter posts for An Accord over here on the blog that replaces starkerstories. Until I hit the current chapter, I’ll be posting daily. They’ll have links to both tumblr and AO3 chapter links. I’m sorry if that bothers people who’ve seen this all before in the tag. I’m content to leave all my other fic as AO3 only, but this is my current favorite child, so I’m spoiling it rotten.

Just because I suck and I can... @starker-stories the writer formerly known as ;) starkerstories. Here I am. 

This fic is on a weekly update schedule. Hopefully every Friday. More chapters may appear sooner if the writing is going well. Because I have 0 self-control.

Tumblr Chapter Links: ch1, ch2, ch3, ch4, ch5, ch6, ch7, ch8, ch9, ch10, ch11, ch12, ch13 AO3 Chapter Links: ch1, ch2, ch3, ch4, ch5, ch6, ch7, ch8, ch9, ch10, ch11, ch12, ch13

Tags: Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Post-Spider-Man: Homecoming, Anal Sex, Oral Sex, Polyamory Negotiations, Polyamory, Cheating, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Domestic Nightmare Tony Stark, Reconciliation, Nightmares, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, WinterIronSpider, Happy Ending, Clothed Sex, Domesticity, Peter Parker is legal age in the state of New York, College Student Peter Parker, Takes place about 2 years after Civil War. Closeted Character

Summary: “Russian naming convention. Natalia Romanova. Natasha Romanoff. Or Ms. Widow, to you kid.” Bucky grinned. “She’ll die when I tell her that.” ——————————————————————————————

Chapter 3:  Colonel Flappy-coat

“You shouldn’t let me make you miss so much class,” Tony said, rolling over and nuzzling the spot behind Peter’s ear.

“You’re lucky I don’t take advantage of the fact that while we’re still not completely out about our relationship, every one of my professors knows that I’m Iron Man’s boyfriend. Because Tony fucking Stark told them as he signed the checks to fund their departments.”

Tony laughed. “What’s the point of being a billionaire if you can’t embarrass your boyfriend with it? As soon as you’re legal…”

“I’m legal now, Tony.”

“…in all fifty states, I will be more than happy to sing it from the roof of my tower that you are my beautiful boyfriend who puts up with far more from me than he should ever have to.”

“Do you think Bucky’s okay up at HQ?” Peter asked.

Tony brought out his phone and checked. “Company helicopter picked him up here, he flew himself there, he’s been in with Fury for almost three hours. So, no, he’s not okay. He’s been in a room with Nick Fury for three hours.”

“We should pick him up.”

“The helicopter’s there with him. We could take mine, though. Leave the other to self-pilot home.”

“I thought yours was the only one that could…” Peter rolled his eyes when he saw the way Tony was looking at him. “Can you not tinker with anything that comes within a thousand yards of you?” he asked rhetorically, giggling.

“Nope. Impossible. Didn’t you hear the story about how I upgraded a reporter’s phone just by glaring at it one day?”

“That was awesome. There’s evidence!”

“Of course there is. Who do you think ’shopped the evidence?”

“FRIDAY,” Peter said confidently. “You are the laziest computer genius in the world.”

“FRIDAY does things she can do; I do things she can’t. A more effective use of my time. Which leaves me more time to do this…”

“Not if we’re going to pick Bucky up from HQ,” Peter said, putting his hand up between them.

“Why am I doing that instead of fucking my beautiful boyfriend?”

“Because we’re rescuing him from Nick Fury.”

Tony sighed. “You had to go invoke that name and kill the mood. All right.”

~~~~~

“Do I have your attention, Sergeant Barnes?” Nick Fury asked, noticing Bucky staring out the window.

“No.”

“No?”

“No. The helicopter I flew here in just lifted off. Without a pilot.”

“You get used to that sort of thing when Stark’s around.”

“He’s not around though.”

“If his helicopter just took off, he will be. Now, about Korea… Would you mind not gawping at every technological wonder Stark pulls out of his ass? His ego doesn’t need the polish,” Fury said.

Bucky gawped at the larger helicopter landing, also pilotless. That time he saw Peter and Tony get out of the passenger area though. He smiled.

“I can see that we’re done for the day.”

“Sorry sir.”

“Go on,” Fury said disgusted at Bucky’s distraction.

“They think they’re fooling people,” he muttered under his breath as he stood, watching Tony and Peter head toward the main door.

“No,” Bucky said, smiling. “They just don’t give a fuck.”

~~~~~

“I’ll be back in a minute, baby,” Tony said, putting a kiss on Peter’s head when they met Bucky in the entrance.

“You look like you needed rescuing,” Peter said smiling. He took Bucky’s hand and held it briefly. “How are you holding up?”

“It’s fine. What I expected. More pleasant, actually.”

“With Nick Fury?” Peter said disbelieving.

“He’s professional. Calm. There’s an obvious agenda, but it’s obvious. He has a less obvious agenda naturally, but it’s obvious as well. I see why Tony insisted he handle my debrief.”

“Tony says Fury scares the shit out of him.”

Bucky chuckled. “You believe him?”

“Of course not,” Peter said. “But I let him think I do.” He paused. “I know the things that scare him.”

“I’m one of those things,” Bucky said.

Peter nodded. “He doesn’t want you to be though. I believe him on that.”

“Everyone here knows you’re together,” Bucky said, changing the subject.

“We’re not exactly subtle,” Peter giggled.

“I thought you were trying to keep your relationship quiet.”

“From the press. I’m still not legal age in a lot of states. If it got out of the small circle of people — Avengers, Tony’s personal staff, our friends and family — it… wouldn’t be great,” Peter said understating it. “When I turn eighteen, we’ll come completely out then. People will still talk and everyone will know that we started before. But there’ll be nothing that can be done about it.” He looked at Bucky sideways. “It doesn’t bother you? It bothers everyone. Even people who are our friends.”

“Peter, with my past… Is he hurting you? No. All right. Then he’s already a million miles above things that I have done to people younger than you.”

“Not you.”

Bucky sighed. “Maybe not, but my body did them.”

“Do you want to talk to someone about it?” Peter asked gently.

“Like a head shrinker?” Bucky scoffed. “What shrink is going to understand me?”

“Yeah. I get it. Hi. I can lift seventy tons and not break a sweat. I can literally feel my broken bones knitting back together. And I have trouble sleeping.”

Bucky laughed. “We’re not exactly couch material, any of us in this building, I don’t think.”

“This is true. There are some in the medical department here that try, but… even if they’re in on the whole secret identity thing, they just don’t know. And that’s just dealing with the superhero part. Not the whole… I was a secret assassin whose brain got regularly put into a blender for seventy years. Oh! I probably shouldn’t have said that.”

“No,” Bucky said, trying to keep from laughing so hard. “You should’ve. You definitely should’ve. You have no idea what it’s like when everyone around you is tiptoeing around…” He caught Peter grinning. “Of course you know. All three of us know.”

He paused for a long time. “You know, Tony’s right. You do got some wisdom about you, kid.”

“What this time?” Peter said smiling softly. It was something he and Tony knew, but no one else understood. Age didn’t have anything to do with it. They understood each other. There were things Tony understood and Peter didn’t. There were things Peter understood and Tony didn’t. And there were things they both understood. Age was experiences and maturity. Age had nothing to do with understanding.

“What you told me last night. Comparing… pain. The number of pains doesn’t matter, really. Because when you’re in the middle of one… it’s just as bad as the other guy’s is. No matter what the count. Counting just makes you hate yourself. Either you don’t think you have the right to feel that way because others have it worse…” Peter sighed and nodded. “…Or the weight of it is…” Bucky closed his eyes. When he opened them, he looked at the ceiling before looking at Peter again. “…It’s incomprehensible. When you start comparing, the spiral of hating yourself never ends.”

Peter reached across on the bench they were sharing and touched his fingertips to Bucky’s metal ones. Bucky started to pull away. Peter put his whole hand over the back of Bucky’s.

“People don’t touch me there,” he said quietly.

“Why?”

“It frightens them.”

“Huh. Really?”

“I suppose.”

“Can you feel it?”

Bucky tilted his head to the side and looked at Peter.

“Can you?” Peter asked again.

“No one’s ever asked. Not even Steve.”

“Really?” Peter’s eyes went wide. “Well, can you?”

Bucky nodded. “It’s not the same though.”

“I wouldn’t think so. The neural net would have to be totally different. Even this one that you got in Wakanda, it can’t interface with what isn’t there. It has to interface through the nerves of your shoulder… It does interface there, right?” Peter asked.

Bucky nodded. “Through my shoulder.”

“Tony’s latest suit that he's working on will interface directly to his mind. He'll think ‘do something’ and it will. Nerves don’t have to be there.”

Bucky paused. “How do you know how my arm works?”

“Data mining. Tony backdoored into Fury’s system, like, ages ago. JARVIS ran the program.”

“JARVIS is Vision now.”

“Uh… yeah mostly. Anyway, Tony got everything. What he didn’t was in the files Ms. Widow released…”

Bucky laughed quietly. “Ms. Widow? Does Romanova know you call her that?”

“No. I haven’t seen her since Berlin. It just didn’t seem right for me to call her…” Peter smiled. “She’s amazing and so… Wait. Romanova? I thought it was Romanoff.”

“Russian naming convention. Natalia Romanova. Natasha Romanoff. Or Ms. Widow, to you kid.” Bucky grinned. “She’ll die when I tell her that.”

“You know her? I mean… Yeah, of course… It just sounded…”

“I was her weapons trainer in Russia,” Bucky explained. “We went on missions together. Another me, another her.”

“Anyway,” Peter changed the subject, “whatever Fury knows, Tony knows, which means FRIDAY knows, which means Tony thinks I don’t know, except I think he really does know that I know…”

“Planning on coming round to your point anytime soon, Pete?”

“Fuck. How long has he been there?” Peter asked Bucky.

“Long enough to know that FRIDAY and I need to have a talk about you,” Tony said.

“Yeah, but what are you going to do about JARVIS’ air-gapped source matrix who tells me how to break into FRIDAY?”

“Will you shut the hell up, kid?” Tony said in a warning whisper. “Did you not just see Mr. Flappy-coat walk by here a few moments ago?”

“Wouldn’t that be Colonel Flappy-coat?” Bucky asked.

“Hush. Say his name three times and he appears,” Peter warned.

“That would be Beetlejuice, Parker,” Fury said. “Barnes? Ten a.m. tomorrow morning. I have business elsewhere, Hill will handle your next debrief.”

“Yes sir,” Bucky said, standing.

“Jesus fucking Christ, pretty, if you salute him…”

Fury raised his eyebrow at Tony’s nickname for Barnes.

“You don’t salute a retired officer in civilian clothes, Tony.”

“But standing’s a nice touch,” Fury said as he and his flappy-coat left the building.

~~~~~

Bucky started to climb into the cockpit of the helicopter.

“Flies itself,” Tony said. “Unless you’re particularly in the mood,” he added with a shrug.

“Habit,” Bucky said sheepishly and climbed into the passenger compartment with Tony and Peter.

They sat in awkward silence until Bucky finally broke it. “Will you be reviewing everything I say to Fury?”

“Directly? No. FRIDAY will be. I don’t really care if you killed JFK or if that’s a rumor.”

“Not a rumor,” Bucky said, staring out the window.

“So?” Tony said dismissively. “There are things she knows I’m interested in. Anything to do with Stark. Anything to do with the Avengers or enhanced individuals. A bit of financial data here and there.” Peter looked at him sideways. Tony shrugged. “All that,” he said, nodding towards the Avengers compound shrinking in the distance, “doesn’t pay for itself. It’s only insider trading if you get caught. I don’t.”

“About Steve?”

“I could lie, but I don’t. Yes, about Rogers. Past and present. Do I care about his current location? I care more about what happened on the Grassy Knoll. But I will not be blindsided by him again. I stopped giving a damn about him when he left me for dead in Siberia.”

“We left you. You were alive.”

“Only one of you was walking under his own steam. You went where he brought you. Away from me, which was sensible at the time. But this?” Tony tapped his arc reactor. “Not a fuckin’ night light. The shield cracked through the suit’s RT, through the sapphire-glass, and left the coils damaged. FRIDAY was busy trying to decide which was more important, keeping my heart functioning or keeping me from dying of hypothermia.” Tony’s anger and voice rose as he spoke.

“I didn’t know,” Peter gasped. “You were fine when you brought me home from Berlin.”

“I called a new suit with a replacement arc reactor. Which drained the shattered one in me more. But even at Mach 7, it takes over an hour to get from New York to Siberia. Long time to be lying there at sub-zero while your heart is deciding whether or not it wants to keep going for a little while longer. Not that Rogers gave a damn.”

“I didn’t know,” Bucky said, repeating Peter. “Steve said you had it removed.”

“I did. Steve also knew that I had to have it put back when smaller pieces of shrapnel started moving, broken off when Doctor Wu removed the larger ones. He was very aware of what an attack here,” Tony touched the arc again, “would do.”

“I was trying to power down your suit,” Bucky said quietly. “Not kill you.”

“From my perspective, it looked like you were. Rogers could’ve told you. He could’ve told us both a lot of things. He didn’t. So yeah… I’m going to be picking your debrief over for things about him.” Tony took several steadying breaths and tried to hide the fact that his hand dropped to the seat, seeking Peter’s. Which it found.

“I’m not going after him, Bucky. He can stay gone. If he walks through those doors?” He nodded again in the direction of the compound, which had faded from sight. “I’m not sure I can operate under his command. That’s disingenuous. I’m sure I can’t operate under his command. I’ll go back to being a consultant to the Avengers and to being Iron Man. Two very separate things.

“Things are complicated. I don’t want them to be, but they are. I have issues over who you are and… who you’re not. You’ve got issues over me and Rogers about this. It’s not going to resolve in a day or two. I know that. But the fact that you’re sitting here, of all places?” Tony nodded. “It’s a hell of a lot more responsibility for… things… than he’s taken. I can respect that.”

“That you opened the elevator door given everything… I can respect that as well.”

“That’s something to start from,” Tony said.

“And it always ends with what are you going to feed me?” Peter said. “Spider metabolism, remember? We slept in. No breakfast. We flew upstate. No lunch. Are you trying to starve me?”

“I’ll cook. You have an entire grocery store in your cupboards, Tony,” Bucky said, shaking his head in disbelief.

“The Depression was almost a century ago.” Tony rolled his eyes.

“For some people in this helicopter it was about fifteen years ago. I’ll cook.”

“Billionaire, remember? I’ll order in.”

“What do you do with the food in your house?”

“He mostly burns it,” Peter cheerfully offered.

[rickyriddle]

Shutou Suzu analysis

Hello everyone! Been a while since I did a AnR analysis huh, well here I am, back for some analyzing. This time the character I’ll analyze is everyone’s favourite grandma, Shutou Suzu! This analysis will be kinda a challenge for me, since unlike other AnR characters I can’t base my analysis on a mental disorder, and analyzing through a disorder is mainly my specialty. But I’m gonna do my best! I wanted to make a Kouko analyzing at first but I kinda got requested to make a Suzu analysis. Okay, now is time to start the analysis. Get ready for an analysis about I believe one of the most interesting AnR characters.

Let’s start by talking about Suzu’s backstory. Suzu is estimated to be born during the Meiji Restoration era (1868 to 1912), so she is over 100 years old. Let’s say that the series happened the same year the anime aired (2014), Suzu would be between 102 and 146 years old. But since a lot of people think AnR happened in a more futuristic setting, she could be even much older than that. In the past, she used to be close to a man named Takeo, who she described as her precious person. People assumed he was her lover. Their birthday was only one day apart and he was one year younger, so they often joked about the fact they will never have the same age. This became ironic when Suzu developed her illness, the Highlander Syndrome. Since she couldn’t age anymore, Takeo became older than her, and eventually left Suzu for another woman. Suzu eventually learned about her disorder and that with modern medicine, there was no cure. Now, the consequences of her illness are different between the official translation and the fan translation, so I need to talk about both of them.

In the fan translation, it’s said that her illness prevents her body to age and collapse. Which means Suzu is totally immortal, she can’t die of old age. In the official translation, it’s said that her body can’t temporarily age, but that when she’ll reach a critical point she’ll suddenly and quickly aged. Both outcomes are horrible and tragic in their own way, but not the same way. For the fan translation, Suzu’s fate is to always outlive everyone she loves, condemning her to solitude. In the official translation, Suzu’s fate is to temporarily outlive those she loves, before being eventually instantly killed by her illness in a pretty gruesome way (her flesh breaks down immediately). I don’t know for sure which one is the right translation. Personally, I think the fan translation one is the correct one, because in KnR epilogue Kouko said “I’ll definitely outlive you so you won’t be alone anymore” and it makes me feel like Suzu really can’t die, well not naturally, otherwise if she could Kouko’s statement wouldn’t have felt so impossible. But this analysis is not to debate about it, in both cases to outlive people she loves, but in one she also had the stress of suddenly dying of a flesh break down.

Before going further, I want to discuss Suzu’s personality before Class Black. As a regular teenager, she was showed to be pretty normal, a little bit frivolous, more into entertainment then intellectual activities. She didn’t seem particularly smart, nor dumb, her intelligence seemed pretty average. She was also shown to be kind of playful, and even childish. Really different from the Suzu we know during Class Black. Later in her life, she’s showed to become more and more jaded when people tell her happy birthday, since she was still looking young and people kept leaving her behind. When she learned the truth, that she was sick, she looked really desperate and sadden, she even I think cried over it. So she used to be really sensitive, which she isn’t really anymore.

Before continuing with Suzu’s current personality, let’s talk a little bit about the context of her past. Suzu lost one of the most important people for her, not because he died (well, he eventually did, but that’s not the point), but because he abandoned her for another woman. Being abandoned by someone she loved and trust must have been really painful, especially since even though she didn’t know about her illness, Suzu must have known she was different. And more and more people commented at her birthday how young she looks, reminding her how different she was, how abnormal she is, which made her birthday, usually the happiest day of a year, a cruel reminder of her difference and of her past lover’s abandon. And then it became worst when she discovered that she had the Highlander Syndrome, which confirms to her that not only she’ll never be normal, but she's condemned to always outlive people she loves and ending up alone (or having a sudden and gruesome death). This must have put her on so much stress and despair. So she continued her life, knowing her rather tragic fate, with as her only hope to eventually have a cure for her illness.

But there’s not only her personal experience as context. Let’s not forget that Suzu was born into a totally different time, with different values and morals. The Meiji Restoration era was when Japan restored practical imperial rules, when Japan was still an Empire. It was an era with a lot of changes going on, primarily Japan stopped being an isolated feudal society. So it was starting to be less military-minded when Suzu was born and more modern. Then it was the Taishou era, who’s described as the time of the liberal movement known as the "Taishō democracy". But then, it was the showa era. A really military-driven era where Japan moved into political totalitarianism, ultranationalism and fascism. This is also when the 2 World Wars happened. It’s also the era where Japan transform into a democracy with a constitutional monarch. So Suzu lived through those two wars and which Japan participated for the second one as allies for Nazi Germany. And the Second Sino-Japanese War also happened during this era. Suzu when through so many changes, she was exposed to many ideologies, to war, political changes. She probably had to adapt to all those changes, even if she didn’t necessarily condone them. All of this shaped her as the person she became later.

Now that we when through some context, we can talk about Suzu’s current self. In AnR, she showed to be a really knowledgeable person, quite wise, calm, and pretty intelligent, and somewhat cunning. Those are traits that her younger self didn’t have, and a result of her long life. All of that she went through made her this way. She experienced so many political and ideology changes, which made her knowledgable and wise. And this knowledge and wiseness are what contributed to her current intelligence. She wasn’t really smart during her young day, but her current self is. So her intelligence isn’t nature, it’s nurture. She developed it through her incredible life experience. Suzu is also quite calm as a person. She barely never show intense emotions. I believe that after all the stress and despair she went through, Suzu became kind of jaded, or emotionally numb. Like if after everything she went through she was so emotionally exhausted that her emotions became numb. But Suzu still has emotions, they are just less intense now. Two things that cause emotional responses from her are Kouko and her condition. Suzu can be really enthusiastic and even playful when she’s with Kouko. And when Nio made a comment about how being immortal would be cool, Suzu became pretty gloomy (anime only). So I believe Suzu can only be really emotional when it comes to someone she likes or her illness. And I think that Suzu did experience distress about being different and abnormal at some point, but that it eventually faded away since she had matured. Right now, rather than feeling bad about this, she’s more focus in finding a cure so she can finally be normal and die. She also seems to value hard work over luck.

Which brings us to another topic. Suzu during Class Black. Suzu joined Class Black with the wish of finding a cure so she can finally age and die normally. She immediately took an interest in Kouko, her roommate, and she often informed her classmates about certain details, like Sumireko’s family and Otoya being a serial killer. She was enough knowledgable to know that, but in Otoya’s case, it’s not only that. She correctly guessed that Otoya was Jack the Ripper of the 21st Century, which is more than just knowledge. She was able to analyze her behaviour and determined her true nature, and associate her to an infamous serial killer. So we can add analyst to the list of Suzu’s skills. After Kouko’s expulsion, Suzu became the class representative. She had some interesting moment with her classmates, especially Hitsugi.

One was a foreshadowing of how old Suzu actually is, and that despite how old she was, even herself couldn’t perfectly guess what kind of person someone was (tho judging by how she guess Otoya’s true nature I would say she pretty good). It gave her a more serious and a little bit dark vibe.

The other show that Suzu isn’t insensitive to romance. She does find Tokaku and Haru cute together, and talked about how she finds Romeo & Juliet (and by extension Chitaru and Hitsugi) beautiful because it’s first love. I think it’s because it reminded her of her past, of Takeo who maybe was her first love and it did end tragically, at least for her. Suzu is sensitive when it comes to young love, especially first love, since it reminds her of herself and Takeo. It makes her nostalgic and also melancholic, something I discuss in my anr disorders analysis.

Before going there, let’s take time to talk about Suzu’s interest. The series shows that she’s really into bath and like to use bath salt (apparently bath bomb in the official translation, which makes it so funny given the fact she uses bombs). She’s also into stretching. Both could be because her body weakens due to her old age and she needs to ease the pain and strengthen it. So those two hobbies would be a cause of her illness. Suzu is really knowledgable in flowers, especially their meaning, and even in her young days, she liked flower. But her long life gives her more knowledge about this subject. Suzu is also into games, especially shogi (Japanese chess), and maybe cards game. But shogi is special to her. After all, it’s Takeo who taught her shogi. This game reminds her of him, it makes her nostalgic, and even melancholic. She even keeps dreaming about him and her past with him. No matter how long it was, she’ll keep thinking about him, and shogi represents her nostalgia and melancholia, both caused by her immortality. In a way, all her interests are a cause of her illness.

Right, we were talking about Suzu during Class Black. Suzu tried to kill Haru on her birthday by putting a bomb necklace around her neck, a gift she received from Kouko. But instead of instantly killing Haru by making the bomb exploded, she decided to turn her assassination attempt into a somewhat fair game. She set a death trap that could have got Tokaku killed, but even if they lost the last card, Suzu talked about her past, revealing an important clue: Takeo’s birthday. And she reminded them of it after they lost the card. Haru understood this clue and won the game. Despite still having time, Suzu decided to give up.

And that will bring us to a more headcanon part of this analysis. Is Suzu truly an assassin? I already talk about it in one of my analysis, The meaning of assassin in AnR, check it if you haven’t yet. So, Suzu is indeed considered as an assassin during her time at Class Black because she agreed to do an assassination attempt. But what about her before Class Black, in her everyday life? I highly doubt she’s an actual assassin. Nothing in her backstory suggests that she’s one. Then, how did she get into Class Black? My theory is that she’s an acquaintance of Yuri. They met in the past for an unknown reason, and Yuri learned about the Highlander Syndrome. Given Suzu’s skills, she considered that she could be a strong opponent for Haru and decided to invite her to Class Black. It’s somewhat implied in KnR that they could be old acquaintance, even if it was more of a joke. And it wouldn’t be the first time someone managed to get into Class Black because they know Yuri. Remember Sumireko? It’s implied that Yuri was her teacher when she was a child (Sumireko called her Yuri-sensei). And Yuri invited her to Class Black when she was still a kid. I highly doubt that Sumireko was an assassin when she was that age. So it proves that not only you don’t need to be an actual assassin to be invited, but that knowing Yuri can get you into Class Black. So my theory about Suzu knowing Yuri and being invited because of that is a possibility.

Another thing that makes me doubt Suzu is an actual assassin, her behaviour during her assassination attempts. She could have killed Haru so easily, she had so many chances to just make the bomb explode. But she didn’t. And it makes me think that she simply couldn’t. She can’t kill someone out of cold-blood, because she’s not an actual killer. She never killed before. And killing for someone who hasn’t been trained or doesn’t lack empathy is really hard. So she made it a game as a way to distance herself from the act of killing, she gave Haru chances to survive so she wouldn’t feel like she’s actually killing her. If Haru dies, it’s Haru’s fault for losing, not hers. I even wonder if she actually wanted to kill Haru. Suzu does want her wish to be granted, but maybe she does have second thoughts about killing to have it. Maybe she gave this clue about Takeo’s birthday because, in the end, she didn’t want Haru to die. But that’s mainly speculation. But I’m convinced that Suzu’s main reason to make it a game was because she was simply not an actual killer.

Now let’s talk about how I personally view Suzu. To me, she’s the most neutral character in the show. Unlike others, her wish isn’t to help someone, obey to an organization, or simply to harm others. Her wish is 100% for herself. She’s not someone who would help or hurt someone unless it benefits her. Even though I do think that deep down, she’s a good person, I feel like she’s more a morally grey person. She’s over 100 years old, she when through stuff most people would never experience, someone like her as a different outlook on life than others. She still put an innocent girl through a death game and even seemed to enjoy it in a way, and she nearly caused Tokaku’s death. Suzu is capable of cruelty, but only if it serves her goal. But she’s also capable of kindness and genuine sympathy, especially towards Kouko, like after the main series she took care of an injured Kouko. So I would say Suzu is neither good or bad, but neutral. After losing people she loved and being abandoned, it’s possible Suzu lost interest in others and started to only think about herself, valued her desire over those of others, and even consider herself different due to her immortality. But if she remains with Kouko, she might become a better person and re-learned to care for someone else other than herself.

This brings us to another point I would like to discuss about Suzu: her relationship with Kouko. Kouko is the person Suzu was the closest to during Class Black. Even though Suzu was relatively friendly and polite to her classmates, she also felt a little bit distant from them. Suzu knows that everyone she gets close to will outlive her, it happened to her so many times, so she probably doesn’t want to get too close to not go through this pain again. She condemns herself to solitude to not suffer anymore. But she seems to make an exception for Kouko. But why? The first time interaction we saw between them was during their introduction. Kouko declared herself leader of everything and it’s at this exact moment that Suzu showed interest in her. Seems like Suzu has a type: bossy and assertive people. I think that at first, Suzu was intrigued by Kouko. And since they were roommate she felt the need to at least get a little bit closer to her. I think that what makes her want to be with Kouko is how intelligent Kouko is. Suzu being herself pretty smart, she was able to bond intellectually with Kouko. Kouko is really mature for her age so Suzu doesn’t feel like she’s a child, making it easier for her to bond with her. Suzu agreed with Kouko’s wish (to quit her assassin job), and I think that perhaps she doesn’t feel like it’s right for her to be an assassin, and maybe if give her a new form of respect towards Kouko to want to take control over her life and choose for herself. In KnR, Suzu describe Kouko as diligent, but clumsy (which makes her want to protect her) and with a dark past (which makes her want to comfort her), Suzu is able to sympathize with Kouko’s past, because she knows how it feels to lose someone she loved and feel responsible for it. They may have really different past, they can still relate to that. Suzu also describes Kouko as adorable, so her attraction to her is a mix of her personality and physical appearance.

Speaking of KnR, let’s talk about Suzu’s portrayal in this series. In KnR Suzu is shown to be a little bit perverted. She checked Kouko’s panties and pretty much act as a voyeur with her, and given the fact Suzu is over 100 years old and Kouko a teenager, it’s kinda creepy. It felt like she’s a perverted old lady. Like I do think it was only for comedic purpose, but I still view KnR as mainly canon. So I have to take this scene into consideration. I don’t think it’s a big part of Suzu’s overall personality, but I feel like it’s important to acknowledge that Suzu is the type of person who would check young girls’ underwear and spy on them.

I think I’ll stop here. In conclusion, Suzu is a knowledgeable, wise and smart person due to her life experience, she’s mainly a neutral person who works to serve her own goal, but she does have a good side, especially towards Kouko. Her old age and immortality gave her a different outlook on life which makes her morally gray. In my opinion, Suzu is one of the most complex and interesting characters in AnR and I wish there was more content about her, I feel like there’s so much more to explore about her. That’s gonna be all for my analysis, don’t hesitate to tell me your thoughts, and thanks for reading!

[wroughtbetwixtfanfic]

Love, Blood, And Rhetoric, Ch 2.

Fandom: The Society.

Summary: Campbell’s just trying to survive in the new world. He knows he can make it– it’s everyone else he’s worried about.

Rating: Mature.

Tags: Canon Divergence, Mental Health Issues, Family Issues, Substance Abuse, Complicated Relationships, Consent Issues, Antisocial Personality Disorder, Homophobic Language, Hurt/Comfort, Minor Character Death, Mild Sexual Content, assuming Elle and Campbell are both 18 for the sake of things, Underage Drinking, PTSD, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, implied eating disorder, Fix-It, Campbell has mild ASPD, and is actively trying to not be awful

Word Count: 6971

Ch 1 || Ch 3 || Ch 4 || Ch 5 ||  AO3

Emily was buried in the morning.

They chose the church yard for  her final resting place. The grave was too shallow, and there was no casket. Just a bedsheet, white and clean, and some flowers laid across her body. No one spoke any memorable words. Helena said a sermon from the Bible, ironic for the fact that Emily had been Buddhist, and that was it. They buried her, people cried, and then they went home.

Over  the next few days, cards and handwritten letters showed up around Emily's grave. Campbell brought a few flowers from the front yard, and Harry brought one of his sister's teddy bears. It felt right to show some sort of solidarity. Soon, there were candles and other things left  behind, too. Campbell wondered if anyone would leave tokens at his grave, if he died. Not that he'd care, but it was a morbid little thought, nonetheless.

People hid in their houses, for the most part. Emily's death seemed to solidify what was happening. They weren't  home, they weren't going to be magically saved; that was something else  to be grieved. Harry coped by throwing parties. He never invited Campbell. Not anymore. Campbell knew it was because drugs were involved,  but whatever. Elle would come over in the morning for coffee, anyways.  She wouldn't talk much or stay long, but she'd give him a hug before  leaving. For just a little while, it'd soothe the strange pit in  Campbell's chest.

In the ten days that followed, Cassandra stopped by twice. Once to get some of Sam's things, once to take the food rations he'd stolen for Sam. They didn't speak. Cassandra was pissed. Whatever. He was used to people being fed up with him. At least  on day ten, Campbell got a text from Harry, inviting him to the gazebo.  Apparently, Lexie and some friends of hers were trying to channel God or  something.

They're talking to a stack of rocks, Harry said. You gotta see it.

Campbell  couldn't resist. He found Harry, and the two watched the bizarre spectacle unfolding on the green. Sure enough, Lexie and several others  had gathered up rocks, stacked them, and were sitting in a circle around  them while chanting. He almost felt bad for staring, but Cassandra,  Allie, Helena, and Gordie were in the gazebo and staring just as much.

After  twenty minutes or so, Harry gently prodded Campbell in the chest with  his phone. "Hey, there's a game of Fugitive tonight. It's gonna be the  biggest one yet. You in?"

"Yeah, sure," Campbell replied. He'd rather piss on an electric fence. "Whatever."

"Look,  I know I've been kind of a dick these last few days. But I miss my friend, you know. We've always been partners in crime, haven't we?"

Campbell  looked over at Harry. The poor fuck had dark circles under his eyes, and his hair was a mess. He hadn't been taking care of himself at all. It was enough that Campbell wanted to tell Harry to get a shower, and then they'd talk, but... Partners in crime. Campbell had long ago given  up on the idea of Harry ever desiring him, and now Campbell had Elle to  focus on, but when Harry batted those goddamn eyelashes of his and used  that tone? Impossible to resist.

"Yeah, yeah," Campbell murmured. "Forgiven."

Harry  leaned against him, just a little. It was almost enough to distract Campbell from the absurdity that was Lexie attempting to throat sing, but then several people began to shout and point upwards towards the sun. Campbell glanced up, just a bit. Enough to notice that something was happening. He turned the screen of his phone towards the sun. In the  reflection, he could see a dark circle oozing across the face of the  star.

"We asked for a sign!" Lexie yelled.

Her rock-stacking buddy, genius that he was, stared up directly at it. "What does it mean?"

Gordie  saved the day, luckily. "It doesn't mean anything. It's a fucking solar  eclipse. It's not a sign, it's a predictable astronomical event." His  tone turned pointed as he looked at the guy. "Just don't stare at it,  and we'll be fine."

Of course, some people kept staring at it.  Campbell waited until it went completely dark, and the air turned cold;  Harry let out a soft gasp, and Campbell looked up. Totality. It was  beautiful and eerie. The sky was dark, the moon was dark, and around it  was a halo of bright light. It stayed that way for a long, long minute  and a half, before the "diamond" appeared along the side of the moon. It  was ending. Campbell looked away, and soon daylight returned to the  world.

"Shit," Harry whispered.

Campbell nudged Harry.  "C'mon. Like Gordie said, man, it's nothing. Let's go get breakfast and  leave Lexie and the God Squad to freak out."

Harry nodded,  following as Campbell led them to the small coffee shop downtown. It was  easy enough to pick the lock and disable the alarm; Harry had worked  there the last few months, and could make one mean coffee. They found  some of the frozen sandwiches and heated them up, sitting down at the  little table near the window.

"Been a while since we just hung out," Harry said as he sipped his drink. "How have you been?"

"Oh, I've been keeping myself busy."

"I heard you kicked Sam out."

Campbell groaned. "Why does everyone keep bringing that up?"

"Cold move, dude."

"Yeah, well, it's a good thing we don't have to explain shit to each other if we don't feel like it, huh?"

"Whatever you say. I just think it's gotta suck being in that big house by yourself."

"Yeah?"  Campbell picked the sausage off his sandwich and tossed it onto Harry's  plate. He smiled, taking a bite and leaning forward. "Hey, how are  things going with Kelly these days?"

Harry lifted his hands in a  gesture of peace. "Point taken, okay? Damn." He let out a long, slow  sigh. "But if you actually care, I don't know. We haven't talked much. I  keep thinking maybe she's just pissed and will come around when she's  done being pissed."

"Good luck. Chick knows how to hold a grudge."

"Don't be rude. She's sweet."

Campbell  shrugged. He felt the familiar, possessive spark burn to life; he didn't want to talk about Kelly. She was smart, she was gracious. She was polite and elegant and the perfect sort of woman for a politician. Senator Bingham and his lovely wife. They really would have made a pretty picture. But did she know him? Did she see him as he was, and love him anyways? Of course not, but still, he chased after her.

The  bell above the door jingled. Speak of the devil, Campbell thought as Kelly walked in. Her eyes were cold when she noticed him, but she still  strode over. "Could I get a coffee?" she asked, turning her gaze to Harry. "If you're not busy."

Harry's spine immediately evaporated. "Oh, sure. Yeah."

"I  had to get going anyways," Campbell added. He stood and pushed between  them, heading to the door. Campbell paused at the door and flashed Harry  his brightest smile. "Lemme know when you find those balls you were  missing."

There was no point waiting for an answer. Campbell  headed out, wandering the streets and trying to figure out what to do.  He could break into the arcade, steal the quarters, and start a lucrative career in 8-bit gaming. Grizz and his crew were out on the football field. He probably could weasel his way in with them, especially since Grizz seemed almost friendly. Or maybe he could go convert the golf course outside of town into a community garden; Cassandra hadn't taken him up on that whole screw-grass-plant-food idea  yet. He just felt itchy, and he knew that meant trouble if he couldn't  find a productive outlet.

"Campbell?"

He stopped, pulled from his thoughts. Elle was behind him. She was in a nice black and white dress, hair gleaming and just a touch of make-up on. Campbell tilted his head. "Hey, Elle. Going somewhere?"

Elle pursed her lips. "I was thinking about it. Helena's speaking at the church."

"You're Christian?"

"I don't know what I am anymore."

"Would you like me to walk you? I was heading that way."

"Yeah?" That managed to get a small smile from her, anyways. "I'd like that."

Campbell held out his arm, and Elle took it. "Cute necklace. Ballet slippers?"

"Mhm. My mom got it for me when I had my first solo."

"A solo is kind of a big deal in ballet, isn't it?"

"It is."

"How old were you?"

Elle  blushed a little. "Oh, about seven or so. But then I got the part of the Sugarplum Fairy in my old school's production of The Nutcracker."

"That's impressive."

"Well, I'm no Lauren Cuthbertson, but I try."

"Who?"

By  the time they got to the church, Campbell had been well-schooled on London's Royal Ballet. Elle gave him a curious look when he stopped at the church steps. "You're not coming in?"

"Nah, I kinda get hives around the Bible. I'll wait for you here, okay?"

Elle  shook her head as she went inside. Campbell mulled around for a moment,  before noticing Kyle Jasko sitting on the sidewalk nearby. He was in a  wheelchair thanks to a bad accident when he was young, but he never  seemed too down about it before; now, he looked like he hadn't been  getting any sleep, either.

"Hey, Kyle," Campbell called out in greeting. Kyle's head snapped up. He didn't say anything back. "How's it going?"

Kyle eyed him for a moment. "Fine. What do you want?"

"Nothing. Waiting for someone?"

"Yeah. The guys in the Guard help me into the church, but I guess they're late."

Campbell  looked from Kyle to the church steps. That wasn't something he'd thought about before. They were basically in a half-hearted apocalypse situation. What was that like for people like Kyle? He knew for a fact that most of the stores had small doors, narrow aisles. A lot of places  only had stairs. Navigating the world was a pain in the ass as it was.  With wheels, it had to be even harder.

The church doors opened, and one teen wandered out. A few seconds later, Cassandra followed. For a  second, Campbell was surprised to see her; it had been a good five years since Cassandra had gone to anything resembling a sermon. Then again, people were doing all sorts of desperate things these days.

Cassandra  startled a bit when she saw him, but then kept walking, eyes far away.  Distracted. She didn't really look at him, but she slowed her walk so that he could keep up. "Hey. What are you doing here?"

"I walked Elle over." He peered over at her, trying to read her face. She had her  mask up, though, and even he couldn't figure that out. "Message not for  you?"

"Yeah, oddly enough I'm still not into church services. Not  a lot of people are buying what Helena's selling. They're starting to  lose hope."

"I think people are doing pretty well under the circumstances, don't you?"

"For  now, but we both know that won't last. Once reality settles in, I'm worried what they're going to start doing." Cassandra frowned. "People who are scared and alone can do terrible things."

"Well, at least we're not alone. You and I are some of the lucky ones. You've got Allie and I've got Sam."

"You had Sam."

Campbell  stopped, lightly grabbing Cassanda's arm. She looked at him, finally, and it was cutting. So, that was it. She was pissed off. "He told you what happened."

"Of course he did." She yanked her arm out of his grasp. "Campbell, how could you?"

"You  know I'm not going to be able to play by the rules you want everyone else to play by. If I get Sam out of there now, if people think I turned  on him, no one will question why I'm in a home by myself. Besides. I  care about Sam, but I can't take care of him. I can't give him what you  can."

"Fine, but I hope you realize you can't get through this all on your own."

"I've  got Harry. Elle, maybe." Campbell hesitated. Hard to tell where they stood, at this point, but he was willing to hedge his bets. "And I've got you."

Cassandra crossed her arms. She let out a little, irritated breath of air, but the look in her eyes had softened. "You do  have me."

"You're right, anyways. We can't go on like this. We have to figure some things out. Make some rules."

"You almost had me fooled, that night in the church."

"C'mon, as if I'd really hurt you. I did what I had to do. You know who's with you and against you, now."

"True  enough." Another kid left the church. Cassandra led them to the bench nearby; they sat back to back, like then did when they were younger, leaning against each other. "So, you're on board, then?"

"Idle hands are going to be a big problem eventually. The thing is, who's gonna decide the rules, you know? Who has all the power? That'll be interesting."

"You?"

"No," Campbell chuckled. "Fuck that. No, I'm just the idea guy."

"And what ideas do you have?"

"Lawns."

Cassandra's tone turned incredulous. "Lawns."

"We're  gonna need food sources. Lawns are useless wastes of space and water."  It was a rich people luxury that they couldn't afford. Not anymore. "Rip  them up. Get seed packets from the stores and start planting. Also,  Kyle really needs some ramps for his wheelchair. Just saying."

Bringing  out her phone, Cassandra tapped something out. "I'll talk to Grizz and  the others about it. It might be too late to plant anything, but Clark  and Jason were in wood shop. They must be able to use a hammer."

"Cool."  Campbell closed his eyes, soaking up the feeling of the sun on his skin  and breathing in the smell of flowers. Waiting. But she didn't say  anything else. She was waiting, too, and she was never the first to cave. "How is Sam?"

"Mm. He's hurting. He misses you, I think, but he'd never admit to it." Her tone turned dry. "It's something you two have in common, as it turns out."

"So, we both got the stubborn gene. What the hell am I supposed to do about any of this, long-term?"

"Why are you asking me?"

"Because you think it's a bad idea. You have that vibe."

"I do not."

"Do so."

Cassandra  shifted, sitting up and pulling away so she could turn to face him. "Fine. I think there are other ways we could keep you both safe. But if  you really are going to do it like this, just... Don't come around for a  while. I think you both need time to think things through."

Campbell  opened his mouth to argue, but then people started coming out of the church. "Looks like Helena's lecture is over. I better go get Elle."

"Of course. Thanks for the suggestions."

Nodding,  Campbell turned and headed towards the small crowd of people gathering  on the front steps of the church. His eyes found Elle. She was at the edge of the crowd, eyes down and face drawn. She looked lost. Sad. Still, as he approached, she looked up; her hair shone gold in the sunlight, and her blue-green eyes sparkled faintly. Absolutely gorgeous.  Campbell smiled at her and offered his hand. She took it, and they  began to make their way back towards Elle's home.

"Bleak service," Elle muttered. "Maybe the other kids are right. We're gonna die here."

"Maybe,  maybe not. Doesn't do much good to worry about it, though, right? Like  Cassandra said. We need to just focus on preparing for the long haul."

"How do you keep yourself from freaking out?"

"Lots  and lots of distractions. Speaking of which, Harry said there's a game  of Fugitive tonight. Wanna come? Might take your mind off things."

Elle cocked her head. "What's Fugitive?"

"Like  tag, with cars." Campbell grinned as she shot him a worried look. "No,  you don't run people over. Fugitives run on foot towards a safe zone, and cops hunt for them in cars. One cop drives and the other cop is the  runner. The runners chase down and tag fugitives. It's whatever, but it's something to do."

"Maybe. Sounds a little too intense for me."

"I'll text you the location, if you change your mind. We're starting at ten."

"Alright."

Campbell  sent her the information, but his phone buzzed with a new text a split  second after. Sam. He bit his lip at the preview. Can we talk? Maybe Cassandra had said something, but that seemed unlike her where Sam was concerned. Sure, Campbell finally texted back. Where are you?  A few moments later, and Sam sent a picture of himself posing with a pair of deer antlers. So, their dad's office. "Jesus christ."

"What's wrong?"

"Sam wants to see me. I should go."

"I thought you two were fighting?" Elle shrugged as Campbell glanced up at her. "Gossip travels fast."

"Figures. I bet the town is having a field day with it."

"That you're a homophobic dickbag that kicked out your deaf brother? Yep."

"I deserve that, I guess. It's just not the full story."

Elle  curled her arms around herself. She studied his face a moment, then gave a small nod. "Maybe you can tell me about the full story after Fugitive."

It was a chance to explain. Campbell reached out and touched her shoulder; she didn't pull away. "Thanks. You gonna be okay By yourself?"

"Oh, I've managed before. Good luck with Sam."

Hopefully  he wouldn't need much luck. It was a long walk to the office, which meant a lot of time to think about all the possible scenarios and ways things could play out. When he arrived, though, Sam was surrounded by boxes and up to his eyeballs in paper. Campbell flopped down in one of the office chairs. Sam jumped at the sudden movement, nearly dropping a  folder, and for a split second Campbell almost felt bad. Maybe it'd teach the kid to be more aware of his surroundings, anyways.

"You  rang, Sammy?" Campbell asked. Sam stared at him, shoulders hunched a little. He didn't answer. "Seriously. I'm not gonna bite. What are you doing here?"

Sam still didn't answer right away, but then he swallowed hard and let out a long sigh. "I'm trying to figure out why we're here. In this place."

"Any luck?"

"First one is a letter from some guy named Pfeiffer demanding $1.5 million for the smell  removal." Sam picked up two papers and handed them to Campbell. "The  other is a response, refusing to pay, signed by dad and Uncle Rogers.  It's dated the day before we were taken."

Campbell took the  papers and skimmed. It was actually worse than that; they had payed, but  then they'd cancelled the check. They had purposefully screwed the guy  over. "What do you think it means?"

"The smell, us being taken on the buses. It has to mean something. They have to be related some way. Maybe, I don't know."

Interesting,  and definitely suspicious; it reminded Campbell of something, though he  wasn't sure what. It didn't matter. Campbell focused on the inevitable  outcome if those letters were ever discovered. "You have to destroy  those papers."

"What? No."

"Fucking destroy them. Don't you get it? We're going to be blamed for this."

"What does that mean? We just want to know the truth."

"You're  a fucking dipshit if you think it's that simple." Campbell ignored the  way Sam straightened and clenched his fists. He just get the hell over  it. "You and I may hate each other, but we still share our father's last  name."

"So what?"

"You think things aren't gonna get bad around here? You think it's all just gonna be one big happy camping trip?"

"Is that why--"

"Look,"  Campbell interrupted. He knew what Sam was going to say, and there was  no way they were gonna have that conversation yet. "If we're stuck in this place, things are gonna get so bad so fucking fast. And you want to  tell people that our family had something to do with this?"

Sam  looked down at the papers, then handed them over. Campbell took them, ripping them into tiny pieces and tossing them into the metal trashcan by the office window. One little flick of a match, and the scraps were up in flames. There was a chance Sam had copies on his phone, but Campbell chose not to push it. Sam's phone needed his fingerprint to get  in, anyways. Whatever was there was probably safe from prying eyes.

"No one else knows," Sam signed. "Not even Cassandra."

"Good. Keep it that way, for now."

"What are we going to do?"

"Keep our heads down and play along until we can find a way home."

As  much as Campbell loved being away from their parents, away from the pointless day to day social rules, it wasn't sustainable unless they found some sort of civilization besides their own. Campbell met Sam's eyes, and pondered saying something. Even just an apology. But Sam was the protagonist of If You Give A Mouse A Cookie-- if Campbell apologized, Sam would want an explanation, and then he'd want to talk.

But then Sam seemed to give up, shuffling his foot on the hardwood floor. "Is that it?"

He'd take the out. "I need a car. Can I have dad's key?"

Sam  hated their dad's car. He took the key off the ring and handed it over,  a tiny hint of relief on his face. "What do you want the car for?"

"Game of Fugitive in an hour." Campbell fiddled with the key for a moment, thinking. "You wanna go? I could use a rider."

It was no surprise that Sam shook his head. "I need to keep looking."

Well,  whatever. Campbell headed towards the door. He stopped just outside of  it, looking over his shoulder; Sam was still watching him, a mournful expression on his face. It sucked, but it wasn't enough to make Campbell  budge. Campbell signed one last thing. Be careful. It was the best he could, or would, do.

The  faces at the Fugitive start point were a lot less somber. People were bouncing, laughing, chattering among small groups. There was one group hanging out near Harry, comprised of some of the people he'd known back  in their real home. He hung around the edges there while he waited for  Harry to show up; they were always Fugitive partners, and now that Kelly  was out of the picture, that sure wasn't going to change this time  around.

One face Campbell didn't see was the one he wanted to see most. Elle wasn't there, not yet. Maybe she wouldn't show, after all.

But  then Harry was hopping up onto the hood of a car, yelling at the growing crowd. "Okay, okay, we're gonna... Hello!" People settled, listening. Harry grinned. "I got some texts saying more folks are coming. We're gonna wait a few minutes before we divide up sides, see who else shows up, so just hang out."

"You look chipper," Campbell said as Harry jumped off the car and sauntered over. "Extra strong coffee?"

"What? I'm my normal self."

"Your normal self isn't chipper."

Harry  opened his mouth to reply, but Campbell slid his arms around Harry's waist before her could. "Woah, what the hell? Campbell, you can't just--"

Campbell's fingers closed around a small baggy in Harry's back pocket. He pulled it out and sighed. "Really? This stuff again?"

"Don't  be a hypocrite. You slipped me pills plenty of times. And besides, it's  not like there's an endless supply. Just one last little party before  it's gone."

"You know how I feel about you getting into the  harder shit." It was bullshit. The occasional painkiller or little bag  of weed wasn't the same as a cocaine addiction. "This is the last of it,  right?"

"Well... No. I have one more at home."

"Harry."

"Campbell."

Whatever  fight was about to start, it was cut short by the arrival of Allie. She  smiled at Harry, and Harry smiled back. Campbell stared. No. No, no  fucking way. "What's she doing here?"

"I invited the town. Besides, I asked her to come with me tonight."

Campbell  kept his mouth shut. Harry's eyes were locked on him, almost daring him  to say something. What was there to say? Harry hated being alone. Of  course he moved on to another hot body before his own got cold. "Don't  do anything stupid and get her hurt. I don't need to hear about it from  Cassandra."

"Yeah, okay," Harry answered. Campbell was viciously  pleased that the bounce had gone out of Harry's step, just a little. A  hollow victory. "Whatever."

Clark came zooming up in an actual  cop car, crowing about how the keys were still in the ignition. For some  reason, no one found that weird as fuck; Campbell refused to get near  the damn thing. They were stuck in some parallel world. A cursed car  didn't seem quite that far-fetched anymore. But Clark, of course,  claimed it for himself and picked someone else as his rider anyways.  Good thing about everyone thinking he was evil-- less people roped him  into their terrible ideas.

Harry had stomped off, dividing up the  crowd and explaining the rules. Campbell tuned him out and scanned the  players one last time. He didn't expect to see Elle, but he caught sight  of a small figure along the outskirts of the group, talking to Grizz.  She'd shown up after all. Campbell felt some spark of happiness, even if  it was dimmed by Harry's bullshit.

The starting horn let out a  shriek, and the fugitives took off. Elle froze, looking over at  Campbell; he grinned as one of the guys yelled at her to get moving, and  she bolted down the street with the others. The evening suddenly looked  a lot more fun.

"Nice car," Grizz said as he wandered over. "Need a partner?"

"Would have thought you'd be someone's rider, Mister Football."

"Pulled something playing with the guys. I can still drive just fine, though."

Campbell  considered the offer, then tossed Grizz the key. It'd be a chance to prod at Grizz about Elle. They climbed into the car to wait for the three minute head start to be over; he watched Grizz familiarize himself  with the car, wondering how to approach the situation. The three  minutes ended and they were out on the road when Campbell decided to  just go for the throat. Just a matter of finding the right opening...

"Hey Campbell, how many miles per gallon does this thing--"

"So, interested in anyone?"

Nailed it.

The  car jerked forward a bit as Grizz's foot slipped and hit the gas. Grizz  glanced over at Campbell for a split second, before focusing intently  on the road. "How do you mean that?"

"You know. Romantically. Sexually. Philosophically."

"Uh, that's kind of... Why do you ask?"

"I saw you chatting to Elle in the parking lot, so I just wondered."

Grizz visibly relaxed. "Oh, oh thank god."

"What?"

"What?"

Squinting, Campbell eyed Grizz but decided to let it go. "So, you're not interested in Elle?"

"Nope.  I don't really know much about her, besides the fact that her family's  from Ireland. Hey, I think I spotted someone down that way. Wanna go?"

The  shift in topic was obvious, but Campbell got the information he wanted.  Time to focus on the game. They peeled down the street, and Campbell  jumped out and raced after a fugitive who was trying to go through a  locked fence. Easy. They gave the fugitive a quick ride to the gazebo--  the 'jail' for the night-- and then headed back out. Five more captured  fugitives later, and they took a quick break.

Grizz sipped a water. "You're good at this."

"Eh,  I was super into maps and history when I was younger. I know pretty much every street here like the back of my hand. Useful for this, anyways."

"Yeah? Where'd the best hiding place be?"

"Hm. There's an alley back behind the old video rental store. There's some bushes and a few other buildings that kind of hide it from view. We could check it out."

"Affirmative."

When they pulled up, it looked like an alleyway from a horror movie. It was dark, and utterly  silent. Campbell opened the door and headed in, despite the fact that  Grizz looked like they were in the Upside Down and he was expecting the  Demigorgon to pop out. Sneaking down towards the back of the store,  Campbell paused when he heard a twig snap; he stopped, watching and  waiting.

A shape moved from the shadows and into a single beam  of light from the streets. It was just enough that Campbell could see a  bit of blonde hair, and the glint off a necklace chain. Campbell  couldn't believe his luck. Elle was right there, mere feet away, and she  hadn't seen or heard him yet. He held his breathe, waiting until her  back was to him. Finally, he moved, grabbing her shoulders.

Elle  yelped, jumping and spinning around. When she saw Campbell, she began to  laugh, pressing a hand to her chest. "You scared the shit out of me."

He couldn't help but laugh a little, himself. "I'm sorry. Are you gonna make it?"

"I suppose." Elle smiled and held out her wrists. "Okay, you can take me to jail."

"I can take you someplace better than jail."

Elle's smile faded. She leaned a little closer. "Well, we did plan to talk after the game. Your place or mine?"

"That's entirely up to you."

"Your place, then."

Campbell  brushed a lock of hair from Elle's face, taking her hand and leading her back to the car. They both hopped into the back seat. "Hey, Grizz. Mind playing chauffeur?"

Grizz peered into the rearview mirror. "Not at all. Clark called to say the game's over in ten, anyways. You two going to Harry's party?"

"Nah, just take us to my house."

"Gotcha."

He  began driving, without asking for directions. Any other night, Campbell  would ask Grizz how he knew the way, but it didn't matter. Elle was  still holding his hand. She was looking at him like she wasn't sure yet  if she actually forgave him or not, but she was coming home with him and  her fingers were laced with his. It meant he had a chance to make  things better.

Grizz parked in the driveway, hopping out and  handing the key back over. He smiled, and gave Elle a little wave.  "Thanks for the game. Have a good evening."

"You, too," Campbell replied. "Night."

Feeling  nervous usually wasn't something Campbell had to worry about, but he did feel a small flicker of uncertainty as he let Elle inside and watched her look around the house. She inspected the books, the art, the  furniture and fixtures. Whatever she saw must have passed the muster,  because she was smiling again when she came back.

"I don't suppose a lady could ask for a beer?"

Campbell snorted. "I've got enough stashed away to last a year. A lady most certainly can have a beer."

She  followed him into the kitchen and perched on one of the stools, resting  her elbows on the countertop. "Well, I'll know where to come in a  drought, then." Elle accepted the beer Campbell fished out of the fridge. "You really do have a beautiful home. Awfully big for one person  though, isn't it?"

Popping open their drinks, Campbell let out a rough exhale. "Yeah, I guess I should try and explain that."

"Probably."

"It's  complicated. I know I shouldn't have said what I said, but..." Campbell  ran a hand through his hair. "You don't know Sam. Our parents doted on  him. He always was the center of attention, especially when he got sick.  Our parents just acted like I was a nuisance. I was always a problem to  get rid of."

"What do you mean?"

"Like... Sam got all the  attention. The newest toys, treats, birthday parties. Mom and dad were  too busy for me, because they had work or because of the baby or because  Sam needed them. And they never really got me anything, because they  said I'd just break it. I couldn't have parties because I was rude to  the other kids."

Elle tilted her head. "Yeah? Did you actually do those things?"

"Well.  Yeah. But they never asked why, you know? I broke things because I got  frustrated, and they just didn't care. I got into fights because it was  the only time I felt like I could let the anger out."

"So, what does that have to do with Sam?"

"It  made me hate him. And I know it's their fault, not his, but it fucked things up between us. I felt like I was always fighting over every scrap  of anything with him. And when we got here, I just... I don't know. I  wanted my own space, my own time. And then they start talking about  sharing homes, and I just... I would hurt people. And I didn't want one  of those people being Sam."

Elle rested her chin on her hand. "You could have just explained that to him, you know."

"No,  because then he'd think that we could just work it out somehow. Even if  he left, everyone else would wonder-- why me, and not them? Why do I  get my own place?" Campbell shook his head. "Then anyone could just claim to be crazy and get their way. No, I had to actually do something.  And most people love Sam and hate me, so it was the best way to prove I  was the monster they thought I was already."

"Well, I don't think you're a monster. A little crazy, maybe," she added with a half smile, "but not a monster."

"Yeah, but it's not the cute kind."

"Then what kind is it?"

Campbell  downed the rest of his beer. He wanted to tell her, warn her off or whatever, but he could remember Cassandra telling him not to let anyone  know. Still. When he looked at Elle, something in him made him think he  could trust her. And if she did react badly, who would she tell? They  were both the town social pariahs. No one cared what they had to say.

But...  He couldn't say it. He opened his mouth to try, but it didn't want to  come out. Instead, he just shrugged and tried to smile. "The kind I  don't talk about until the third date."

"Two more dates to go, then."

"Yeah?"  Campbell blinked. Maybe it was the alcohol, but he could swear Elle was  looking at him a bit warmer than before. Who was he to question it? He  stood up and offered his hand. "Wanna go up to my room? It's comfier  than the kitchen. We could watch a movie or something."

Elle finished off her beer and accepted his hand. "Only if you bring that bottle of wine I saw in the fridge."

It  was just some cheap Barefoot Moscato, but he dutifully grabbed it from  the fridge before heading upstairs. Elle followed him into the room; besides his family and Harry, no one else had ever been inside, and he was suddenly thankful that he kept his space clean and tidy. She explored with the same intensity that she had downstairs, not touching anything but studying everything.

"Did you take these?" she asked, pointing to the black and white photographs above his desk.

"Yeah. 7th grade photography class."

"They're very good. Have you considered getting into photography?"

"It was a thought. It'd give me a chance to see other countries."

Elle  looked to his desk and lightly grazed her fingers over a small globe, the stamps he had out to sort through, a small collection of old books on world maps. "I guess I expected you to be more into video games and posters of women in bikinis than nature shots and world travel."

"I mean, I could whip out Super Smash Bros if you're disappointed."

But  then Elle was right there, curling her arms around him and kissing him.  Campbell froze, just for a split second, before kissing her back. Her  lips were soft and tasted faintly of strawberry; when he brushed his  fingers along her cheek, her skin was warm. Campbell had never allowed  himself to get that close to anyone. It had always seemed just out of  reach, but Elle was right there in his arms. His other hand rested on  her hip, and that was when she yanked back. Moment gone.

"I'm going home. This was a mistake."

Campbell lifted his hands. "Woah, woah. Hey. I didn't mean to upset you again. I thought we were having fun."

"I don't want to have fun."

"Elle,  I don't understand what's going on here. I promised I wouldn't do anything you weren't comfortable with, but you kinda seemed into this."

"Yeah, well I'm not just some skank, okay?"

"Okay,  okay. I know I made a mistake at the church, but I didn't mean anything  by it this time. It's just where my hand rested. I don't think you're  easy or anything."

Elle brushed past him and headed towards the  door, but then she stopped and turned back. "Why did you pick me? Why do  you keep picking me? You barely know me."

"Because I like you." Campbell sat on the bed, gesturing at the air between them. "Alright, so I don't know you super well, but we're not strangers. I think that we've got a bit in common."

"I like you, too, but I... Look, I don't like being touched like that."

Campbell  bit back the urge to ask. It wasn't his business. He nodded, raising his right hand. "I swear, I won't touch you without asking. Okay? But I  need you to tell me I'm making you uncomfortable. I'm kind of new to this."

Crossing her arms over her chest, Elle looked up at the ceiling, her eyes blinking rapidly. "Can we watch a movie still?"

"Hey, of course. C'mon. You can pick whatever you want. Our DVD collection has thrilling titles like Lord of the Rings, Top Gun, and Frozen."

"Frozen, seriously?"

"Don't hate on Frozen. It's a beautiful movie about familial love and self-acceptance."

Elle  sniffled and laughed at the same time, coming over and sinking on the bed next to Campbell. They were cuddled up and halfway through Let It Go  when the thunderstorm rolled in; the lights flickered, and Elle pressed  a tiny bit closer, and closer still when the power went out completely.

"Don't worry," Campbell tried to assure. "They'll be back on by the time the movie's over."

"How do you figure? Who's gonna fix it?"

"We've  been here two weeks without anyone at the power plant. Wherever we are,  whatever this is, I have to believe that it'll right itself."

"I wish I was that confident."

Campbell  looked over at Elle, the glow of the DVD player illuminating her taut,  worried expression. "You're safe here with me. I want you to know that. I  won't let anything hurt you."

Her eyes shone as she turned her face to him. "Do you think I need someone to protect me?"

"I don't know. I need someone. I think maybe you do, too."

"Maybe." Elle rested her head on his shoulder. "Can I have some wine?"

They  passed the bottle back and forth for a little while, until Elle shook her head when he offered it back. He set it aside; it wouldn't do any good to get drunker than her. Not again. "Pleasantly warm" was a good place to stop. What wasn't pleasant was that, by the time the movie was  over, the rain was still pouring and the power wasn't back on. He tried  not to think of what that meant in terms of frozen and refrigerated  food, and focused on the fact that Elle had fallen asleep against him.

"Hey." He gently nudged her with his elbow. "It's late. Do you want me to drive you home?"

Elle stirred, but didn't move. "Can I stay here? I don't wanna be alone."

"Yeah, no problem. You can stay here and get comfy. I'll use one of the other beds."

"No. Don't go."

"Are you sure?"

"Mhm."

Campbell  felt torn. Elle was half asleep, and probably a little tipsy. Was she making a choice she'd normally make? But if she really didn't want to be  alone, then he didn't want to make her upset. Waking up to find someone  gone didn't sound like anything he wanted to put someone through. After  a few moments of deliberation, Campbell carefully lowered Elle to the  bed and tucked her in with a quilt. It was warm and a bit muggy from the  storm, so hopefully a light blanket would be good enough.

Stretching  out on his side of the bed, Campbell kept his distance as much as  possible. He was just about asleep himself when a loud crack of  lightning rang out over the house, rattling the windows. Elle mumbled  something, shifting around until she was curled up at Campbell's back,  one arm slung over his waist.

Never pictured being the little  spoon, he thought to himself as he closed his eyes. But for someone like  Elle, he could see himself getting used to it.

[isa-ly]

“I HATE MY LIFE, LMAO”

TW: mental illness, therapy, self-hatred, self-deprecation

Let's start this one off with a text I received a few months ago from a friend, who I hadn't seen or spoken to in a while:

For anyone who isn't fluent in German, it reads as follows: "I'm hip and have a Twitter too now, as you probably noticed. Your own Twitter doesn't sound like you're too doing well. Can I help in any way?"

At first, I was like: "Huh? What does she mean?"

But, well...

Alright, I see her point.

And that's what I'm here to talk about today: Tweeting and joking your sorrows away (and why it's so hard to stop doing it). Before we get into it, however, I want to drop one last screenshot, because it just fits this current situation oh too well, and the irony made me giggle:

Okay, enough social media plugging, let's get back to business.

As you can see, I am quite active when it comes to tweeting about my struggles with mental illness. Which, in this day and age, really isn't a rarity. You just need to take one look at Twitter, Instagram, Reddit, TikTok or any dank meme, to see that joking, down-playing and iRoniCalLy tAkiNg tHe piSs out of personal problems and issues, has become quite the trend for millennials in general. Once again, I'm not the only one guilty of doing that.

Had you asked me a year ago whether or not I thought that constantly ridiculing very serious and traumatic incidents in my life was maybe a bit worrisome, I would have probably gotten very defensive and told you that "it's called coping, okay?” Because hey, making jokes and laughing about the bad things in your life gives them less power over you and helps distract from the pain. And that's good, right? That's what you're supposed to do. Right?

Well.

Dealing with your own issues, whether that's big or small ones, is a very personal process that, quite frankly, no one really gets to have a say in except for you. And yeah, sure, as we all learned by watching Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, ridiculing and laughing about something that really scares you, loosens the hold said fear has on you and makes it easier to deal with. However, there is a very big difference between the boggards of life (if you don’t get that reference, you clearly weren’t around when J.K. Rowling wasn’t problematic and transphobic yet) and medical mental health issues and disorders.

I am no doctor, I am aware of that, but even I know that having an ironic laugh about a shitty day is something very different to basically verbally abusing yourself and trying to make your own depression or anxiety relatable to ... well, to whom, actually? Random people on the internet? That are never going to really care or react to your self-deprecating jokes? That doesn’t seem like it’ll do much now, does it.

And that’s kind of the whole point, if you’re really honest with yourself. Social media has made it oh too easy to simply shout those invasive, painful and scary thoughts and feelings out into a void before they eat you alive. The thing about a void is, though: You're still alone in it. It doesn't answer you back. It's empty. And it will make you feel that exact emptiness inside you, too. It poses no comfort, it doesn't offer advice, it doesn't give you a hug, a shoulder to cry on or anything, really. It may swallow your word vomit whenever it bubbles out of you, but it will still leave you feeling drained and hollow because there's nothing you get from it in return.

Twitter, Instagram and every other easy-to-access-and-rant-on social media platform lets you dump your initial hurt all over it, but it doesn't lessen the pain. And neither do the self-deprecating jokes and dank depression memes.

I’ll say this once again, for the people in the back (me, I’m talking about myself here, I am the people in the back): Being mentally ill isn't a quirky personality trait, and making a lifestyle and constant comedy show out of is never, ever going to solve your problems and make you feel any better. You'll still be miserable if you don't actually work on solving your issues because you're too busy letting them define you.

Depression is not an aesthetic. Anxiety is not a competition. Panic attacks aren't funny memes.

I'm not saying that you can't and shouldn't joke or laugh about your own problems. Humor can be a very cathartic thing, I'm the living example of it. But staying put in your depression, anxiety or whatever issues you're dealing with, and trying to make a comedy skit out of it every time someone asks you how you are, is only going to make you more comfortable and validated in your own misery. And there are way better places to be comfortable in than that. Trust me.

You are not your mental illness. You are not your disorder. Those things will never define who you are. They're a part of you, yes, but they aren't you. You will always be the one that calls the shots and you always, always have choice and hope on your side. Even when it feels like you are alone and being swallowed whole by the darkness, it is never too early or late to get help. It might feel insincere, it might feel terrifying and impossible. But it never is. That's exactly what your disorders and problems want you to think. But they are wrong.

I had to accept that too. I had to accept that, once again, I wasn't as special of a snowflake as my mental illness painted me to be. By doing that, it simply did what any mental illness does best: it isolated me even more. With every joke, every #relatable tweet, every "lol" behind yet another truly worrisome sentence, I sunk back further and further into the cocoon of loneliness. And, plot twist, you can't finger-gun your way out of depression. Sorry, babes.

So, every time you’re about to chuck out another "I wanna die lmao" in a casual conversation with friends or yet another self-deprecating tweet, just take a second to ask yourself: Is this really a way of coping? Is it really making me feel better? Or is it actually a subconscious, desperate attempt of getting someone, anyone, to see that I'm slowly breaking on the inside?

Again, I don't want this to come across as a self-help guide on how to battle your mental illness. Not at all. If anything, the reason I phrase this blog and all my entries the way I do, is because it's what I need to keep telling myself, every time I revert back to old habits. It's a reminder. For me and, in case you want it to be, for you too. I'm not here to lecture anyone. Well, maybe myself, a little. But everyone makes their own choices and I'm no one's guide or saviour, nor do I want to be. However, I made a promise to myself to really commit to this blog thing, so here I am. I'm my own harshest critic, always have been, so if anything, this is a call out post for my own self-deprecating habits.

Receiving that message from my friend made me realize that even though I would have never admitted it to myself at the time, all those tweets and casually dropped “I’m gonna kms haha lol”s were nothing but very badly disguised cries for help. I was just too much of a coward to admit that to myself. Okay, maybe coward is a bit of a harsh word. I don’t want to diminish my fear or vulnerability just because I know the reason for it now. It’s just that looking back at my own denial, and still sometimes catching myself in moments where I slip back into this behaviour, makes me want to grab myself by the shoulders and shake me until I snap out of it.

Which is why I’m just going to do this through my blog now – for past, present and also future me: Get it together. Stop yourself in your own tracks when you’re about to word-vomit up another cryptic tweet or self-deprecating joke. Instead, talk to a friend. Type up a text. Call someone. Schedule a therapy session. It's always gonna help, way better than forcing out a laugh about something that is in no way a laughable matter. Reaching out is not going to fix everything immediately, but in the long run it will. And that's what we're in for, after all.

You can ask any of my friends and they will tell you that whenever they express feelings of insecurity about sharing their worries to me, I will be quick to stop them in the middle of their sentence to tell them that they can, and always should, talk to me. About any- and everything, be that day or night. It is something that I have been preaching for God knows how long, and I genuinely mean it, too. So, I’ve kind of just been a huge hypocrite by never listening to my own advice. And I knew that. Deep down, I always knew that I was ignoring the exact thing I kept telling the people I loved to do too. And what can I say, I hate being a hypocrite.

I’m not saying that any of this is easy. Hell, it can be the hardest God damn thing ever, especially when you’re as emotionally repressed and inept as I am most of the time. And yes, venting and shit-posting about how much you’ve been crying all day or how much you “hate your own life” might work as a quick fix to let off some of that frustration steam. But it’s never going to actually repair the underlying issues that cause you to feel this shitty in the first place. The only thing that’s gonna do that, is actually talking to people. Whether that is family, friends or a therapist, doesn’t matter. Because other than an Instagram story that disappears after 24 hours, or a tweet that has a 280-character limit, real life people who care about you will actually take the time to listen, say something in return, and provide the comfort and open ear no social media platform or meme ever could. You know that. And I know that too. 

So, I want to try and quit lmao-ing my way through life and instead do what I actually, secretly know I am trying to do anyway with all those self-deprecating attempts at morbid comedy: ask for help. No lol’s needed.

[snapsnapmyturtleback-blog]

Group Therapy

ahhh okay so listen 

this is probably really bad and im so sorry but whatever fuck it

@reddiestenbrough

Eddie shuddered against the cold wind that pushed past him and made the fallen leaves swirl around him. He pulled his schoolbooks closer to his chest and continued on, his legs beginning to tremble more and more with each passing step. Eddie still remembered what his mother had told him that morning before school.

“Eddie-Bear, don’t you worry yourself. After school you’re going to go to a therapy group so that you’ll be a normal little boy.”

Eddie sighed, his hair blowing backwards in the wind as he made his way to the random building he had been told the group was being held in.

The brown building stood proudly but tiredly in front of him, the countless windows surrounding the building were glaring down at him.

Eddie took in a couple large breaths and swung open the door. He peered inside, the lobby was completely empty but there was a whiteboard sign with ‘Mrs. Jackson’s Therapy Group in room 301’ in large blue letters. Eddie glanced around frantically, his nerves getting the best of him.

What if they hate him? What if they judge him? What if they’re dirty and covered in germs? His mother would surely not approve and pull him out. Eddie began to hyperventilate, the walls seemly closing in on him.

He didn’t even notice someone enter from behind him or that someone placing their hand on his shoulder. He didn’t notice them until they turned him around to face them.

Eddie couldn’t focus on features. All he could see through his watering eyes was bright red hair and some blue jean overalls over a red shirt.

The person was saying something to him but Eddie couldn’t understand, all he could bring himself to do is shake his head and breathe in and out harshly.

Eddie suddenly found himself plummeting back into reality as he felt a stinging sensation on his left cheek. Whoever had been trying to talk to him had slapped him and was now holding his shoulders with a worried look on their face.

Eddie sputtered out fragments of sentences as he attempted to explain himself.

“Are you alright?” the person- a girl- had asked. Eddie took in a sharp intake of air and nodded slowly.

“Sorry.” Eddie mumbled sheepishly, using his right hand to flatten his hair and his left tightly secured around his books.

“It’s okay. Are you going to the therapy group?” she asked, pointing towards the sign. Oh, that’s right. Eddie nodded, trying to stay as silent as he could so he didn’t end up saying something stupid.

“Cool. I’m going too, we can find it together. I’m Bev, by the way.” the girl said, extending her hand.

Eddie stared at it, “There are about 5,000 germs on your hands at any given time. That’s not even considering those who don’t wash their hands after using the bathroom or after touching something with even more germs.” Eddie said, absentmindedly just spouting off facts his mother had drilled into his head.

The second he said those words, he flinched and laughed awkwardly. Great, he had just made himself look like an idiot in front of this random girl that he was going to therapy with. What if she had anger issues and was going to hurt him? Eddie was smaller than most kids and being sheltered didn’t help his nonexistent knowledge about defense.

Bev laughed, “Calm down, it’s okay.” she said, moving her outstretched hand back and waving it dismissively.

“I’m Eddie.” Eddie said, his head moving down as if he were trying to make himself smaller. “Well then, Eddie, lets go to this bullshit therapy session.” Bev bowed and walked past him into a hallway, Eddie scrambling after her, his backpack bouncing with each step.

The two approached the room labeled ‘301’ and Bev opened the door, stepping aside so Eddie could enter. When Eddie stepped inside, the first thing he noticed was a set of chairs formed in a circle with three people occupying three seats.

The first seat had Eddie’s therapist, Mrs. Jackson, sitting in it. A clipboard sitting in her lap and her legs crossed. She smiled as soon as she saw Eddie, waving a little at him.

Right next to her was a boy with curly hair and perfectly ironed clothes. Nothing seemed out of place with him, his shoelaces were even and his button up shirt didn’t have a single button out of place. Even his curly hair was styled a specific way and it hardly moved as the boy bounced his leg three times, paused for three seconds, and repeated the action.

The last seat was taken by a boy, also with curly hair, not as short as the other boy, with a Hawaiian shirt and a pair of black jeans. He was lazily spread out on the plastic seat across from Mrs. Jackson. He didn’t look like he wanted to be there and the way his shoes were off, thrown behind him, already made Eddie not like him very much.

“Come have a seat, guys. Wherever you want.” Mrs. Jackson spoke, gestured to the seats around her. Eddie dropped his backpack and books on the floor on the other side of Mrs. Jackson. He pulled out a container from his backpack and pulled out some disinfecting wipes, wiping down the seat and carefully folding it, placing it into the trash bin that leaned against the wall.

“Great, we got two clean freaks.” the boy in the Hawaiian shirt said loudly, adding a dramatic sigh after it.

“Richie, don’t forget what we talked about. Be nice.” Mrs. Jackson reprimanded.

Eddie ignored them both and watched as Bev plopped herself into a random chair in between Richie and Eddie.

“This is Stan and that’s Richie.” Mrs. Jackson introduced to Eddie and Bev, then she turned around to face the two boys and said, “This is Eddie and Beverly.”

Eddie waved awkwardly before shooting his hand down and yelling at himself internally.

“Now, we’re only waiting on Bill, Mike, and Ben.” Mrs. Jackson listed off, looking at her clipboard and taking down a little note.

Mike arrived next, he looked seemingly normal, like there was nothing wrong with him. Though Eddie supposed that they all looked normal, it was on the inside that counted.

Bill and Ben arrived together after him, chatting about random topics that Eddie didn’t exactly care for.

Once everyone was sitting and staring at Mrs. Jackson expectedly, they begun the discussion.

At first, it was small things such as “what’s your favorite TV show and why?”, just so they could get used to each other. While everyone was talking, Eddie glanced at the weird Richie boy. Richie was staring off, completely uninterested in the conversation. Mrs. Jackson must have noticed as well because seconds later, she changed the topic.

“Alright. Now that we all know each other a bit better, how about we get down to business. Why don’t you all tell everyone why you’re here and you hope to accomplish while you’re here?”

Bill was the first to speak after a minute or so of uncomfortable silence. He talked, with his stutter of course, about his brother, Georgie, who had gone missing a couple months prior. He talked about his parents ignoring him since his brother’s disappearance. He talked about his depression and how sometimes he’ll hear a clown’s voice and how sometimes he’ll see things that aren’t really there.

Next was Mike. Mike talked about his insomnia and how he has nightmares about the time he killed a sheep, except now he was killing people. He talked about how history was his passion and how much it helped him. He talked about the farm he lives at and how he’s homeschooled so he doesn’t get much social interaction with other kids but he craves it more than anything.

Bev talked about her cigarette addiction and how she does weed every now and then. She talked about her bipolar disorder and her mild depression. She talked about how she skips class a lot and hangs out on the roof, to which she nodded at Richie and Richie returned the gesture.

Ben told them about his self image issues and how he cares more about other people than he does about himself. He talked about how he had a love of poetry and also enjoyed history. He talked about how much he loved reading and how much it helps bring him to reality.

Stan had a small frown on his face as he talked. He talked about his extreme Obsessive Compulsive Disorder and how he had to do things in blocks of three. He had to enter a room three times. He had to move in steps of three before waiting three seconds and continuing to walk. The biggest thing to Stan was how he would have panic attacks if things weren’t set in groups of three. He could handle it most of the time, but it still freaked him out. He talked about how he was Jewish and he talked about how much he enjoyed bird watching.

Finally, it was left to Eddie and Richie. Eddie didn’t particularly like talking about himself so he hoped that Richie would speak up but, at the same time, he didn’t want to be last because then they might spend more time on him. So, Eddie did what Eddie always does and just started talking.

“Um, well, I’m Eddie- though I suppose you all already knew that. I’m a huge germaphobe and I have asthma. I, uh, I have a bit of social anxiety. And, umm, I don’t know. My mom is kinda overprotective and I have to take a lot of different pills to stay healthy. And, uh, well... I’m gay?” Eddie sputtered out, mentally face palming at everything he said.

“That sounded like a question, Eds. Are you or are you not gay?” Richie asked, now hanging upside down while still on his chair.

“Don’t call me that.” Eddie said automatically, “And yes. I am very gay.”

Richie nodded, seemingly satisfied.

“What about you, Richie? What’s wrong with you?” Stan asked, his leg bouncing.

“Nothing. I’m not like you freaks.” Richie responded with a shrug.

“No one here is a freak, Richie, not even you. If this is going to work, you need to actually talk about your problems.” Mrs. Jackson said, writing down some notes.

“Fine. These dickwads said I have borderline personality disorder, anxiety, depression, and I have anger issues. Also, I’m a kleptomaniac, though, I guess that doesn’t count as a mental illness, huh?” Richie said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out Eddie’s inhaler. Eddie gasped, stood up, and instantly grabbed it from the taller boy’s hand.

“How’d you even get this? It was in my backpack! Oh, man, mom’s gonna kill me.” Eddie spoke, not really expecting any answers as he wiped down his inhaler.

“Correction, it was in the side pocket and I snatched it as you walked by. Jesus, it’s like you morons are asking to be pickpocketed.” Richie explained and then, as if an afterthought, added, “Your mother seems like a real charm, she does. I bet she’s just as charming in the bedroom.”

“Beep beep, asshole.” Stan piped in. Eddie guessed they already knew each other from either school or the time they spent in here before Bev and Eddie arrived.

“I’m just joking. Didn’t realize jokes weren’t allowed in front of the clean freaks, my bad.” Richie spat, looking annoyed.

“Ri-Richie, may-may-maybe it isn’t a-a-a good i-i-idea to m-m-make fun of s-s-someone.” Bill stuttered, his voice strong even through every shake.

“S-sorry, did-di-didn’t m-m-mean to offend the s-schi-schizophrenic.” Richie mocked.

“Richie, that’s enough. Go take a walk around the building and come back when you’re capable of playing nice.” Mrs. Jackson ordered.

Richie rolled his eyes, threw his legs off the chair, and walked out of the room. Eddie watched as Richie stomped off, taking a puff of his inhaler, and followed the cute boy.

Eddie found Richie outside, shivering against the harsh winds. He looked angry, which Eddie didn’t understand since Richie was the one who started it.

Eddie sat down on the ground next to Richie and slowly wrapped his arm around him, allowing him time to tell him to leave him alone. Richie said nothing, just glancing at Eddie’s figure and staring back straight ahead.

“Are you... okay?” Eddie asked, tentatively, not wanting to anger the boy further.

“Thought you were the germaphobe.” Richie said, ignoring the question. “I mean, yeah, but, I mean, you’re cold so... I mean, I can move if you want me to-?” Eddie rambled, stopping when he felt Richie lean into his embrace.

“Please, don’t.”  

Eddie nodded and rested his head on top of Richie’s, who had his face in the crook of Eddie’s neck.

They stayed like that for a while, until the others had come looking for them. Even then, they didn’t move. Eddie just shrugged and held onto Richie tighter in response to their questioning stares.

This happened pretty much every session. Richie would say something that was mean or offensive, Mrs. Jackson would send him out, and Eddie would follow and hold him in his arms outside.

So to say it wasn’t surprising to the losers club, as they called themselves, when Richie and Eddie started dating, would be an understatement.

[curiousofi]

Stress.

It’s something that I’d like to talk about today. Mostly because, well, I am feeling stressed. Quite stressed. To the point that I haven’t been able to eat anything for the past few days, which, trust me, is an incredibly rare phenomenon for the girl who is typically hungry every single second of everyday. Before you begin to worry- don’t. I care about being good to my body and am making sure that I do so. Still, it has required effort. 

I’d like to rephrase the first sentence of this entry. 

I do not want to talk about stress. I think that most people would agree that it’s not the easiest or most enjoyable thing to bring up, let alone delve into, as I am about to do… but this is exactly why I am talking about it. I think that not addressing it only feeds it more power. Plus, writing about things is how I filter through my feelings. So, here we go. 

I’ve always prided myself in being a grounded and stable individual. Always the friend that everybody uses as their personal therapist. I am the “reliable” friend. The logical, practical, go-to friend. Dealing with other people’s problems and making those around me laugh or smile has always been something I’m good at and enjoy doing. 

I am a generally happy and emotionally dependable human being. 

I also have an anxiety disorder. 

It’s funny how that works, huh? 

I don’t really like the way “anxiety disorder” sounds, because, well, to be completely honest, I don’t want it to change the way people see or think about me. Yes, I have anxiety. Yes, I deal with it frequently. I also am still the smiley, cheerful, head-in-the-clouds girl you see on the outside. 

Anxiety does not determine who you are. It is something that we deal with. 

I remember one day I was sitting in class during freshman year of high school when a girl that I knew at the time suddenly started fiercely shaking and let out a small sob. She then bolted out of the classroom and, almost instantly, my classmates began to chuckle and roll their eyes. “She just wants attention,” they said. “Oh my god, can you believe she says she has anxiety attacks? Yeah, right. She’s so dramatic.” I remember sitting there quietly without much of an opinion. I didn’t have anxiety at the time. Or, at least, I didn’t think that I did. My anxiety did not become significant until my junior year of high school, which, I will get to later. 

Still, though, I left my chair and ventured to the girl’s bathroom, where I found this poor girl crumpled up in the corner of a shower stall, crying. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t really understand what the heck was happening. I didn’t say anything. Just held her hand and walked her through deep breaths. 

Flash forward to two years later and there I am, sitting in a stuffy office across from a woman with a lion’s mane for hair and a giant box of Trader Joe’s cookies next to her. I don’t know why I added the cookies part. I just remember thinking it was really strange that my therapist had such a big box of cookies lying around during her sessions. Also, they were chocolate chip and I wanted one. 

Anyway. 

“Well, my dear, you definitely have an anxiety disorder,” she told me as she scribbled in her little notepad. I’ve only been to a therapist once. Just that one time. I didn’t like it. 

I didn’t like being diagnosed with something. Still don’t like it. I feel like everyone deals with things differently and it felt odd to be pooled into one category.  For example, that girl I mentioned earlier? I don’t have anxiety like she does. And I’m lucky for that. I’ve never had to run out of a classroom, or been caught off guard by an attack. My body has always warned me when I am feeling especially anxious. That, and I am incredibly good at masking it. My anxiety liked to take the stage in different ways, and while I may have mastered its invisibility on the outside, it hurt oh so bad on the inside. 

On a lighter note, I am beyond happy to say that I can’t remember the last time I had a terrible attack. Still, I remember what it felt like when it was bad and, when it does happen, it is just as painful. My point, though, is that everyone shows their anxiety differently. 

The year I realized I have anxiety was probably the worst year I have experienced so far. I went through a lot. A lot. Like, seriously, a lot. The kind of “a lot” you could probably make a really good movie out of. “Sophie why do you always have the strangest things happen in your life? Seriously, it’s like your life is a movie or something.” My best friend always tells me this. And it’s true. I have seriously weird things happen to me. From a guy confessing to me that he is a time traveller and is from the 17th century (I wish I was kidding), coming from a line of “witches,” finding myself doing a past life drum circle ritual with a shaman in the middle of the forest (yes that happened), losing my memory, meeting Desmond Tutu, to having a high school relationship that might as well have been #1 rom com of the year for making people cry the hardest. Oh my gosh the list could go on. Perhaps this should be a different journal entry. 

Junior year might as well have been one of the dramatic, guilty pleasure YA books that I ramble about on my channel. Living it, however, was nowhere near as enjoyable as reading it may have been. Eventually, I will tell its story. Not today, though. 

Want to know something funny? Well, okay, it’s actually not funny at all. Ironic, would be the word. I was at a party one year when I found myself locked in the bathroom, quietly sitting on the cold tiled floor with my back against the wall. I had glitter on my face and I wore a pretty dress. I was excited for that night. But it didn’t matter how dolled up I was, or that downstairs the walls shook with music and dancing and laughter. Sometimes people are mean. And suddenly I didn’t want any of it at all. 

There was a knock at the door, and I didn’t know what to do. Do I open it? Do I stay quiet? I don’t want to see anyone. I don’t want to leave. 

“Sophie… can I come in?” 

I remember feeling so embarrassed. No, I’m the happy friend. The reliable friend. 

I didn’t bother standing up. Just opened the lock and there she crept in, the door clicking softly behind her.

Guess who it was? The girl from freshman year. This time it was me upset. Two years later. Her looking down at me. Me on her bathroom floor. Her bathroom floor. And she was holding my hand. 

“I…” I opened my mouth to try and explain. I wasn’t crying. My eyes were dry. I didn’t want to be upset. Not in front of anyone. I closed my eyes. “I’m like you,” I whispered. “I…” I have anxiety too, I wanted to say. But that didn’t feel right. Those words never felt right. I understand now. Oh, I understand. 

“I know,” she said. “I know honey, I know.” 

She cupped my face in her hands and what passed between us in that moment did not need to be said aloud. We understood. We both understood. And it meant everything to me. 

So, why am I telling you all of these stories? I don’t know, really. I suppose I’ve never typed it all out before. I wanted to. I suppose I thought that maybe it could help someone. Help someone realize that there’s no shame in being perfectly open about every part of you. Even the darkest parts. Because we all struggle with a balance of good and bad. We all have our light and dark. It’s just a matter of how we show it. 

So, here I am, years later, no longer the nervous girl in her party dress but the young woman who understands and is not ashamed of her mind and body; both its lightest and darkest parts. No, I am not perfect. As I am writing this I still have a heavy weight in my chest that has been there since this morning. Guess what, though? I also got my butt out of bed and went on a run this morning. I took pictures of pretty things and laughed at my cat’s oh-so-comical face. I watched cheesy reality tv with my mom. I gave someone a compliment. 

And now I’m writing. 

There’s a difference between having anxiety and being your anxiety. You are not your anxiety. You are you. Wondrous, spectacular you- beauty, flaws, and all. And I am me and all of the above. I also feel like crap. I’m stressed out and kind of want a hug. And it’s okay to admit that. We should admit that more often. Because for every bad day I know that there’s a bright one awaiting me in the future. And that, for every dark moment, there’s a light soul somewhere out there who is holding your hand through it. 

So, this is a small part of my story. I am the smiley, cheerful, bubbly, head-in-the-clouds, reliable and emotionally dependable friend who, guess what? Is not always cheerful and emotionally dependable towards herself. But she’s come a long way. She’s happy with her life. And she’s proud of the progress that she has made :)