aqueerwritesthings

[aqueerwritesthings]

what I do not know 

I do not know 

lies outside of my reach 

dawn breaks

warmth on my upturned face

the way is clear

I look around and see

I'm not alone

others search and together we find

[aqueerwritesthings]

deep breaths 

relax your jaw

lean against the backrest

let the chair take your weight

open up your body

let yourself take up space 

make yourself take up space 

chin up. no one is coming for your neck

hands open 

close your eyes

allow yourself to feel 

feel the rightness in your bones

feel your place in the order of all things

you need only be

[aqueerwritesthings]

a thought travels along the road

lantern light muffled by oppressive gloom

he does not know where he is going

what evil lurks beyond the gentle glow? 

he glimpses flashing eyes

he shakes his head and hurries

will he reach his destination? 

he knows that many have not

he dashes through the door 

as claws brush his cloak 

group chat message sent 

"does godzilla pass the harkness test"

[aqueerwritesthings]

the collar itches

don't do that in public

you're embarrassing me

would you please just cooperate

the collar itches

your grandmother bought this for you

don't be ungrateful 

tell her thank you

the collar itches

your aunt marv loves you so much

just give her a hug

don't make that face

...

in the morning I put on a shirt

I do not notice the ache 

in thighs, hips, feet, arms, head

I do not notice the sting

of a waistband that grows to tight

I do not notice the itch

of a collar on sensitive flesh

I don't mean to be 

embarrassing 

ungrateful 

selfish

but why do I feel so bad?

[aqueerwritesthings]

if (what) { 

    // something goes here

    what = that; 

    that = theQuestion; 

} else { 

    // should something 

    // be done differently?

    what = that;

    that = theQuestion; 

}

[aqueerwritesthings]

they say the eyes follow you

gilt framed 

lining the hall

haunted shadows fill dark corners

floorboards creak under uncertain feet

what memories lie 

a grand ballroom twinkes 

laughter spills in calculated splendor

jewels drip like the blood that flows thicker than water

the family tree grafts back in 

they say the eyes follow you

[aqueerwritesthings]

memories are shards of glass

incomplete and sharp enough to cut

I keep them in the black box 

that survived the wreckage of myself 

only pulling them out when

when I want to torture myself 

or make sense of what happened 

or both 

a few I've sanded down the sharp edges 

so I can pull them out and show them off 

knowing they'll never fit with the rest now

knowing they never did

this one is oblong, a deep jewled tone

it scatters light with the peel of a child's laughter

I'm four at my grandparents house

Mallory, a doll, is loaded onto a towel 

chubby arms spread wide to hold frayed terrycloth 

with a yank, an old man and young child

launch the doll to the ceiling 

the two generations yell "splat!" 

and the child falls to the ground

consumed in giggles

another is very nearly round and clear

by number the of times it's been taken out and examined

a fragment of a fragment really 

it holds the rudimentary conviction 

that the child was biologically incorrect

and a clear eyed determination 

that no one would find out

still more held up as pretty baubles

a few childhood bedrooms

a school day ending with a nose in a book

an endless string of report cards with nearly perfect marks

oh, don't— how did that get out here?

mind the edges

they're sharp

a child telling a joke

cut off by father saying 

"if my kid ever smarted off to me

I'd [inflict violence]" 

and every other adult in the room laughing

here let me take that

I think— I think that's enough for now

no, no, I don't need— 

I've gotten good at patching myself up

only, would you mind holding the bandages?

oh, no, no of course not don't trouble yourself 

of course, yes, I understand

it's completely normal to be squeamish around blood

I'm sorry for bothering you 

you needn't worry

I'll only be a moment

[aqueerwritesthings]

round and round and round he goes 

when he'll stop nobody knows

they say that life's a journey 

and I reckon that is true 

dont matter where you end up 

you can't take that shit with you

but it feels like I've been circlin' 

'round that great ole mountain top 

sometimes upwards sometimes downwards

don't know when I'll ever stop

he'll be comin round the mountain when he comes 

(when he comes) 

he'll be comin round the mountain when he comes

(when he comes) 

he'll be comin round the mountain 

he'll be comin round the mountain 

he'll be comin round the mountain when he comes

(when he comes)

yeah our world tells us to find

the shortest path from A to B 

but that ain't how you climb mountains 

nor with most of life it seems 

so I'll keep going in circles 

cause I know life's on the way

and I'll hope to see this sight 

up at the pinnacle some day

[aqueerwritesthings]

as I walked on the road of life

there was a stone upon my way

and thereupon my foot did strike

so stumbled I and facedown lay

did not begrude the stone its place

nor curse the path that brought me there

but caught within the dirt's embrace

strongly wished I to be elsewhere

you were my rock, that is, my stone

and when I fell I did it hard

I stayed and tried to build a home 

but found that you were caught off guard

I see it now my path did lead

not straight to you but just straight past

but still I'm grateful to have seen 

some flowers bloom along the path

[aqueerwritesthings]

do you know how to tell if someone lies?

they say the truth is simple and easy

no nuance only look within the eyes

and all of those possessing sight will see

do they look up or maybe to the side? 

it means that they are trying to recall 

but if downward or if they can't decide

it means that they should prob'ly take the fall

it is spread far and wide within our world

from shows, to courts, to love and back again

all are convinced that's where the soul is furled

the eyes must show all that lays underpinned

to me it seems modern phrenology

my dear it's bad epistemology

[aqueerwritesthings]

everything happens at once 

hate, disaster, cruelty, pain

it's all at your fingertips

every passing second the marketplace of ideas

puts another soul on the auction block

how can you bear it?

do you watch? 

do you fill your head with every tragedy

until they even infect your dreams?

do you look away? 

keep a smile plastered on your face

as your mask melts in the flames' heat?

at the bottom of the box is hope

you speak up

you tell those suffering that you are here

so they need not do this alone

you hold on

you reach trembling fingers into the void

clasping tight and drawing closer

everything happens at once

joy, resistance, love, salvation

it's all at your fingertips

every precious triumph in the human story

overflows the stream's bank

how can you bear it?

[aqueerwritesthings]

being trans is like moving to oregon

decide what's important

it can't all come with you

look at your bank account

prepare your documents 

count the cost

there's no going back

— except that there is

— except that there isn't

so you

prepare as best you can

pour over stories of those 

who did it before

say goodbye to your mother

say goodbye to this you

try to explain 

"no no I'm not dying, I just— things will be different now" 

they don't hear 

"they have to be different. they must be. please" 

they don't try to convince you to stay

"I'm just worried

"I'm just worried that this will be too hard for you

"are you sure you can handle this?" 

"no," you think

"yes," you say

maybe some day that, too, will change

[aqueerwritesthings]

For a moment everything stops. Even the discordant clanging of my various trinkets and tools ceases, holding their breath in anticipation.

My best customer is handsome. Anyone would think so. Even road-weary and recovering from a few minor gashes, his hair gleams in the midday sun and the hint of scruff sprouting on his jawline only serves to highlight the heroic angle. His eyes, as dark as a moonless night, glint with a tendril of suspicion.

He might, in fact, be my best customer because I can never remember my normal prices when my gaze is lassoed to his large fingers delicately parting the folds of my tent to enter...

He repeats his question more tersely, taking a step closer to me in what might be an attempt at intimidation.

I startle and the moment is broken, the rest of the tent content to continue their chaotic chorus. The abrupt movement causes a twinge between my legs and I wince as heat rises to my cheeks. He's rather close to me, towering over me, the laces of his tunic askew and giving a tantalizing view of his chest hair.

I force myself to focus. But no words are forthcoming. "Ah," I say, if only to fill the tense air. I hop up from my stool and busy myself with the hopeless task of straightening my wares. I think I do a sufficient job of hiding my limp, but I must not because when he speaks next, his tone has changed.

"You're injured."

He's behind me in an instant, gently revealing a slowly healing bruise by pulling aside the collar of my tunic. His fingers, large, warm, calloused, rest lightly over the mark.

"They hurt you?" he breathes.

I shiver, the feeling of his touch on bare skin combining with the memory of that bruise, joyous in the making. I swallow reflexively and pray my voice comes out steady. "Not... as such." Face still burning, I turn to him and raise my chin defiantly. "The creatures of the forest and I have... an understanding."

His eyes get impossibly darker, suspicion replaced with a simmering heat. "I see," he says, pressing in closer to me. His hand still rests, broad and warm, on my bare shoulder.

I arch an eyebrow. "Do you?" I press forward into him, my loose trousers doing nothing to hide the arousal growing there.

Another of his rough fingers trace the curve of my ear as his eyes track the movements. I shudder under his touch. "Yes," he says slowly. "I think..." his eyes find mine in the dim light of my tent. "We can come to understand each other very well."

You are a merchant in a fantasy world peddling your wares when your best customer comes along and asks you how you’ve been able to get to a location ahead of them, though monster-infested terrain while also bringing your massive amount of supplies and equitment everywhere you go.

[aqueerwritesthings]

I know now why people hate their exes

hurt, betrayal, resentment—yes

but also

it's easier

I don't hate you

I can't

and so all that is left is this:

you smile at me and

love like a muscle memory

slides between my ribs

to pierce my heart

[aqueerwritesthings]

There's no such thing as a free horse, dad always used to say.

I almost didn't plant it. I'd just wanted some mint for tea. Nothing fancy, and fairly hard to kill. But the excitable kid at the counter had studied me for a moment, then handed over little more than a twig stuck in a small cylinder of dirt, and hadn't taken no for an answer. So I'd brought it home, stuck it in a corner, and forgot about it.

Or, well, I tried to.

It looked so pitiful that every time I walked into the living room my eyes flew straight to it. Dad's words echoed in my head, but he'd never been much of a role model anyway.

One cloudy afternoon, with the sky threatening rain, I cursed, got out my trowel, and brought it to the backyard.

"I don't know why I'm doing this," I muttered. "You'll be dead in a few weeks and then I'll have to dig you up again."

The sapling, being made of wood, did not answer.

I glanced up at the sky and frowned. It felt like rain any second now, but it hung waiting in anticipation.

My pants weren't made for gardening, but I wasn't a gardener so none of them were. Bright purple denim was immediately stained with the rich brown and green of the earth as I dug a hole bigger than my little sapling's root ball. I was lucky it wasn't any bigger or I'd need a shovel.

I took it out of its tight packaging and laid it down. I ran fingers over the roots, fraying them from their tight knot and giving them a chance to learn about the soil beyond its bounds. I took a moment to be grateful for video auto play, that I had seen something on transplanting trees by accident a few years ago.

"Don't know why I'm doing this," I muttered as I peered into the hole and at the roots.

Mama always used to say that I couldn't help but throw my whole heart into everything. She'd said it with a sort of mournful fondness that had grated at the time, but now only made me smile ruefully.

I tucked the roots into the hole, and scraped the removed soil in around it, tiring. As I started contemplating finding my hose to water it, the sky opened up.

I was soaked through by the time I got to my feet.

"I hope you're grateful," I snarled at it somewhat hysterically.

The tree stood dark against the grey the world had become and continued not to answer.

The next morning did not feel like the beginning of anything. After coming inside I'd stripped water-heavy clothes, dripping and shivering in my dining room, cursing myself for all kinds of fool for not throwing the damn thing in the trash.

Then I'd showered and gone to bed.

I dreamed of hearty feasts and a hand held out in offer.

I stared out my back window at the sapling. It was still where I'd put it. I reckoned I might've been a little hasty the day before in my pessimism, as it looked much more tree-like than I'd remembered, thicker around the middle, with more branches spreading out towards the sky.

I shook my head and figured it was at least something to talk about with my therapist, and went on about my day.

After that, I really did forget, for a while. Work, eat, sleep, visit friends, try (and fail) to keep up with housework. By the time I thought to look out on my backyard again, several weeks had passed.

There was a tree.

Its branches reached up, out of sight, towards the heavens. Its trunk was thick and sturdy, nearly as wide as a person. Its shade held a variety of plants, certainly more numerous than the grass and occasional weed that had been there before.

I blinked. I rubbed my eyes. I wondered briefly whether I was dreaming. But, no. No matter what I did, there was a tree.

I took a brief moment to be grateful that I had opted to live somewhere without an HOA.

I had a tree, now, I guessed.

A knock came at the door. I glanced down at myself, a tee and laundry-day sweats, and considered not answering.

Another knock. I sighed and headed towards the door. An ancient looking woman stood, leaning heavily on a cane.

Her voice was strong when she spoke. "Peter Dennings?"

"Ah, yes?"

She pointed a gnarled finger to the barely visible tree. "Did you plant that tree?"

"I did. Is it invasive? I got it at the nursery."

She smiled and her form seemed to relax. "No. Quite the opposite, in fact. Only a true druid can grow wildwood." There was a glint in her eye as she said, "How would you like to learn magic?"

A garden shop sometimes gifts mysterious tree sapplings to customers, but they always wither away. You receive one and plant it…and it ends up flourishing.

[aqueerwritesthings]

poetic reflections at the end of a relationship

I still have some of your old clothes in my closet. I'd always thought they were ugly, and they were a size too small even then. but you said I looked better in them than you ever had, and I felt like a valiant knight holding tight to his lady's token. it only occurs to me now that might not have precisely been a compliment. they're 3 sizes too small now. you say, "sure separate them out and I'll look through them"

a red basil plant, weird and alive, sits at the corner of the window in our kitchen. it is the only one of my plants I managed to remember to water through everything. I bought it because you said you liked basil, once, but a few months ago when I asked if you wanted to cook anything in it, you got that look that I've grown well accustomed to over the years that says you think I'm being ridiculous but are trying to be nice about it. you asked why I'd buy a plant that I didn't have any recipes for. it was an improvement over your reaction to the plant who sat in that place beforehand. A hydrangea I bought at the same nursery. I potted it carefully and set it in the light, awash with hope that we could care for it together for years to come, something healthy and thriving and beautiful. you were angry at the debris it dropped on the counter. I, accepting my error, set it outside. It died within a week. you filled the house with fake flowers.

our cat howls forlornly at your door which you do not open. I started looking for a cat because of you, because you'd never had one and were always delighted by them and I wanted you to have that joy consistently. he was part of my pitch for our relationship (to others and myself) "we have a house and a cat," I'd say. A slice of quaint domesticity. you give him food and water and clean his litter box but after two years still do not understand him. when I ask if you want him, you say you don't want to deal with the responsibility. I think I can squeeze me and him and the dog into a townhome if I get very lucky. my heart breaks when I think about never cuddling with him in the morning again

our living room has two couches. I bought both. the first is long and has plenty of room to spread out. the second is small and low to the ground and ideal for cuddling. I bought both in the hopes we could curl up and watch TV together on cozy nights in. the second has never seen our bodies touch, and the first only on a handful of occasions, sitting at opposite ends. you'd reach over to poke my cheek and make me laugh. after several months when I asked about this discrepancy, you told me you were very busy and needed your personal space. I want to try to bring the first one with me. I'll donate the second.

[aqueerwritesthings]

"You don't have to keep doing this," you say, dodging out of the way as a car is hurled at you remorselessly. 

Protection stands in the middle of the street, various and sundry urban fixtures hovering menacingly over his head, though there's a bead of sweat glinting on his forehead. You'll have to end this quickly, then. "Yes," he states with a hard stare, "I do."

The manhole below you gives only a slight rattle of warning before it's shooting into the air with lethal speed. You dive backwards as sewage spews up to cover the street.

If you were smart, you'd leave now. It's the perfect cover, as human waste obscures you from his vision. You look down at your transporter, a gift from Freedom. You never asked for payment, of course, but more than a few supers had gifted you things anyway, as thanks for your help. This transporter had been especially helpful, getting you out of any number of tough situations, much to the chagrin of the Mayor and his lackeys, Protection in particular. 

Daniela had always been the smart one.

"You really don't," you try. "This super hero thing, it's not all it's cracked up to be. You could join me, and we could actually make the world better." 

The shower of waste dies abruptly and he stands panting in the middle of the street. "I will never join you." His voice, that look in his eye, is so much like Daniela, it makes your heart clench. That righteous indignation. That conviction. 

You can still see it, after all these years.

~*~

Daniela had been a reporter before the Emboldening. And, though she'd gained x-ray vision and the ability to fly, she never lost that striving towards truth. She'd been captivating, drawing your eye with a sensuous smile and a nice— Well, you know. You'd been fearless, then. Nothing to lose. You'd sauntered over to her, all arrogance and muscles, dropped a ridiculous kiss on her knuckles, and asked her on a date. Her raised eyebrow and skeptical tone had startled a laugh out of you, and that'd been that. You knew she was the one from that moment, and the day she agreed to marry you was the happiest day of your life. You married her on a picture-perfect day, the birds trilling merrily as you kissed your bride. Jackson had come along not long afterwards, and, though you worried about punches and pregnancy and dangerous missions, Daniela had been an excellent mother from the first, and you'd wiped away tears as your beloved son had been placed gingerly in your arms. 

Things were good, for a long time. Years passed, fighting side by side. You said you'd've been okay if Jackson hadn't ever developed powers, but the relief that flowed through your veins when your nanny cam had caught him telepathically retrieving a cookie from the top cabinet had called you a liar. You enrolled him in the Little Heroes' Academy the next day, your heart beaming with pride. You installed a white picket fence (fully equipped with standard anti-villain protections, of course) around your house, and you and Daniela had even been talking about trying for another 1.5 kids. It was perfect. Too perfect to last. Too perfect to even be real. 

One night you discovered Daniela taking a secretive phone call. You trusted her, of course. But you didn't keep secrets. When you asked her about it, she bit her lip and said she didn't know yet. You trusted your wife, so you'd agreed to be patient, and offered your help. 

By the time she came to you, you'd nearly forgotten about the whole thing. Months had passed. She laid out extensive evidence. Those rehabilitation centers you'd been studiously sending villains to all these years were torture chambers. You didn't want to believe, couldn't, that it was true. They were villains, after all. Lying was not beyond the pale for them. Finally, she spilled her last secret: that trip last week hadn't been to her parents, but an unofficial mission to the center. She'd witnessed the horrors first hand. Her hand shook as she recalled the cruelty she'd seen. You took it in yours and gingerly kissed her knuckles, like you had all those years ago. You promised her you'd fix this. Her frame relaxed as you shouldered her burden. You were a good husband, after all. 

You explained that you'd take this to Mayor Thorogood yourself. There's no way he could know about this. He'd commissioned the hero's alliance, after all. He'd set it to rights. The look of slowly dawning horror in her eyes still haunts your dreams. 

It was one of your only fights in so many years. She begged you not to. Yelled and screamed. Tried explaining that this went all the way to the top. Was a deliberate decision. You insisted, with self-righteous confidence, that someone must be hiding this from the Mayor, and so it was your responsibility to bring it to his attention, at once. The fight had left her, then, and she'd stepped aside with a very quiet, "Okay."

Standing in his office, Mayor Thorogood clapped you on the shoulder, told you you'd done the right thing, and that he'd handle it. It only confirmed your suspicions, and you put it out of your mind. For the next week, though, you caught Daniela watching you with a wary look in her eye. You couldn't understand why. You'd told her what he'd said as soon as you got home. You thought she worried too much.

And then. That night. The worst night of your life. You'd been invited to the Mayor's reelection party, wearing your favorite suit. She'd smiled and kissed you on your way out, telling you that you looked handsome, and you'd breathed a sigh of relief that things were finally returning back to normal.

The party had been unremarkable. Toasts, champaign, glitter and lights and tinkling laughter. You spent much of the night wondering how soon you could get home, if she'd like it if you gave her one of your massages. And then. Out the window. A battle raged. It wasn't uncommon, exactly, but neither was it mundane. Everyone turned to watch the spectacle out of wide picture windows. Like a movie. You saw her. Beauty and grace, streaking through the sky, handily beating the salamander with careful precision. Until she wasn't. She fell. A gasp went up. You broke through the large window, lurching towards her, but you didn't have super speed. Too big, too bulky, too clumsy. Still, you ran. Hoping that you could catch her. Hoping, when she fell with a sickening crunch, that she'd survived. Hoping that this would be just another dramatic battle story. 

Her eyes were open. It was wrong, you'd thought distantly. Her eyes were supposed to be closed and then flutter open when she heard you approach. But they were open. They stayed open. Looking at you without seeing. Unresponsive to your begging, just as you'd been to hers, not so long ago. Daniela, the light of your life, the other part of your soul, the protector of the unprotected, was gone.

You held her cooling body as you sobbed, undone in your grief. The salamander was dealt with handily, but you didn't notice. Nothing else could ever be okay again. Power had come, then, in a burst of speed, and held you. Your best friend. He wasn't Daniela. But he held you and didn't try to tell you to let go of Daniela's body, let you pour out all of your anguish into the soft knit fabric of his costume. And then, what might've been hours or minutes later, quietly reminded you of Jackson. He needed his dad. You'd have to be strong for him. 

Of course. Your son. You felt the air punch from your lungs. How could you have forgotten?

Anxious-looking orderlies stood nearby, a body bag on a gurney, looking to be filled. You knew she had to go in there, knew you couldn't hold her – her corpse, you forced yourself to think – forever. You had the impulse to climb inside with her, entombed in darkness, together. 

But Jackson. It wouldn't be fair to him, to lose both parents in one fell swoop. You put on a brave face – it still included tears streaming down your face, but lacked body-wracking sobs, the best you could manage at the moment – and surveyed the rather large, hushed crowd surrounding you. A brush fire of anger swept through you. Undirected. Lethally hot. Cleansing. They'd all just stood there and watched? 

A hand clapped on your shoulder. The Mayor. Eyes dark and sincere. Not a hair out of place. Condolences. She was a good woman, who wanted to protect the city from danger. A camera was rolling nearby, capturing every word. As Mayor, he wouldn't stop until every threat to the city was eradicated. 

You nodded distantly and allowed Power to lead you into the waiting car, and home to your son.

You don't remember much, after that. You know you must've eaten. You know you must've comforted Jackson in his grief. You have a vague, fuzzy idea of a funeral, black clothes, a sea of people who loved your wife, loved Integrity, and a smaller, but no less passionate, crowd who'd loved Daniela. You know you likely learned about cooking and cleaning and grappled with just how large the gap that Daniela had left in your life had been. How much you'd never thanked her for. How you'd never get a chance to, now. 

But you don't remember much of that, not anymore. You consider it something of a blessing, really. 

You woke up several months later. Taxes were due, and you wandered into her office without thinking, looking for the folder with the thing, you know the thing– and stopped in your tracks. Her office. You hadn't been in here since she died. Since that night, actually, the one where she'd begged you to keep this between you, help her fix it. A light blinked on her computer, beckoning. 

Without thinking you pressed the glowing button. Her face, tearful but alive, appeared on the screen, and you staggered into the nearby chair. 

"Press play to begin," a jarringly digital voice said. 

You could leave, you'd thought furiously, sensing the world tipping on its axis once again. You felt seasick. You could leave and this would still be here, when you were ready. Someday. 

"Press play to begin," the machine repeated. 

It was the least you could do, though. Listen to her this one last time. 

You forced yourself to breathe and pressed play. 

Her smile was watery but still there, somehow. "Darling," she began, and your heart tried to rend itself from your chest. Her voice. God, how you'd missed it. "Darling, I'm sorry." 

"No," you replied, shaking your head insistently. "You didn't— you're perfect— why would you— " 

The recording, being a recording, continued despite your protests. "If you're seeing this, it means I haven't stopped it. It means I'm dead." 

A sob, harsh and unbeckoned, erupted violently from your chest. You forced your eyes to stay fixed on the screen despite this.

"I knew, or I thought I did, that telling the Mayor about the rehabilitation centers would lead to this. I've never been more sorry to be right. But hear me, Alex, okay? I do not blame you. I can't. You want to believe the best in people. I couldn't bear to see you lose that. Promise me you won't." 

You sat frozen in the cushy office chair, unable to respond. 

"I've hidden my research, in case this video falls into the wrong hands. It's in our special spot. I need you to protect it for me, Alex. These people, they deserve help. They need protection as much as any citizen. Please be safe. I—" 

She cut off as Jackson, dragging a blanket behind him and blearily rubbing his eyes, opened the door. "Momma?" he said with a stifled yawn. "What're you doing?" He frowned as he caught sight of the tears flowing down her cheeks. "Are you sad?" 

She turned, and gave their son a smile. God, he's grown, you thought absently. She scooped him up from the floor, sleep-rumpled and cuddly in a way he wasn't often anymore, and breathed him in. "No, no, I'm not sad. Just getting emotional. You know I love you, don't you Jackson?" 

He yawned again and nestled in closer, already halfway back asleep, propped up on her hip. "Yes Momma," he answered. "I love you too." 

She clutched him closer and closed her eyes for a moment. "Hopefully," she said quietly, urgently, "hopefully this will just be a cute video to show you some day." She was talking to you, now, her eyes boring into the camera. "But in case it's not, I love you so much, Alex. Loving you, fighting alongside you, raising Jackson with you, has been the joy of my life. I could never regret a single moment." 

She stood with Jackson still in her arms and clicked off the video. It froze there, your son's sleeping face tucked peacefully into her neck, her hair streaming down as she looked at the controls, beautiful and everything your heart yearns for, even in her distress. 

You're not sure how long you sat there. A long time. Seconds. Years. Moments. A lifetime. 

Daniela thought the Mayor had assassinated her. Over the rehabilitation center. Not a careless accident. Purposeful. 

A part of you rebelled at the thought. He wouldn't. He'd been so kind after her passing— But you'd doubted Daniela one too many times already. This time, the least you could do was believe her. 

The last thing she'd asked you to do. Protect them. You were good at that, you thought. Or you had been. Until you weren't. Until that last time. But you would do this for her, if it was the last thing you did. 

It turned out, though, that being Strength, the super hero who'd torn the hearts of the nation asunder in the viral clip of his grief, was not particularly conducive to carrying out clandestine operations. Neither was being a newly single parent, still entombed in mourning. Or being unable to catch a glimpse of the Mayor without being consumed by rage.

You refused to fail her again. So one night, contemplating a vial of the only poison that could kill you, you devised a plan. 

If a fake battle worked for the Mayor, it would work for you, too. You left a video, just like she had, for Jackson, and painstakingly included the clips from hers that wouldn't reveal anything. You told him you loved him, that you were proud of him. You included a few hidden messages for Power, just in case. And left a note under Power's favorite coffee mug, saying only, "Take care of him." 

The plan went off without a hitch. A grand, spectacular battle, drawing the eye of the world. Strength returned, finally, from his understandable leave after the loss of his beloved wife. Saving the day again. Life going back to normal. Except. In the end, it was not good that prevailed. Strength was dead. And in his place, a new villain announced to the world: Virtuosicide. The slayer of the invincible. 

You'd only wanted to be able to continue your work in peace, but a few months after your transformation, you'd gotten a knock at your door. Gabby, Daniela's best friend. She wanted out, she said, by any means necessary, her voice grim. You couldn't tell her, wouldn't, of your real identity. That you'd been friends, once, and that you couldn't bear to kill her, not after so much death already. But neither could you turn her away. So you devised a plan. One, you hoped, that would make Daniela proud. 

You'd send her away, to some quiet place. She wouldn't be a superhero anymore, but she could be happy. Rest. Peace. Out from under the stifling thumb of the Mayor. The hero's alliance had become even more punishing after Strength died. Her eyes changed, then, hope and suspicion swirling in those depths. "Why are you doing this?" she asked.

"A promise I made, once," you answered before you could think better of it. Maybe they needed protection, too. 

You coordinated a time, a place, a battle. She smiled widely, just once, like she had constantly before Daniela died. She hesitated. 

"I have two questions." 

You nodded. "I have up to two answers." 

"Integrity— I mean I know I saw— was that—?" 

Your nails bit into your palms to keep you from grimacing. "No," you said curtly. "It wasn't." 

Her face fell. "Right." 

"Your other question?" 

She hesitated. You thought you knew what it would be, silently apologizing to Daniela as you prepared to lie about Strength's death. 

"Can I tell anyone? Others?" 

You blinked. "If you trust them implicitly, yes. But after this battle, Ingenuity will be dead. You won't be able to see them, or contact them, or visit the city, after. But you cannot tell anyone else." 

She nodded slowly. "I don't think," she said slowly, as though discovering the sentence as she spoke it, "that I'm the only one. Who wants this." 

You sigh and scrub a hand over your face. "Right. Of course. Yes. I'll help." 

She looked at you for a long time after that. "That must've been some promise," she murmured. 

For a fleeting moment you considered telling her. Instead, you responded, "It was." 

After that, they came in waves. All looking for escape. And you grew more powerful, as they gifted you their now-unneeded tools of the trade. The "rehabilitation center" never held anyone for more than an hour before you broke them out. You sent them with the rest. Super powers often caused volatility, and the difference between a villain and a hero, or a former hero, was primarily training on control. You kept an eye on them too. The heroes, while glad to be out from under the Mayor's control, were itching to do some good in the world again. They kept your secret, and the secrets of each other. 

A new Mayor was elected, and Thorogood retired to a ranch outside of the city. You still haven't figured out what you want to do with him. You, curious, waited until the new Mayor had surely been briefed about the rehabilitation center's conditions. You brought in a construct, one of the pieces of tech Ingenuity had made to help with your ruse, and watched. The officers, gleeful to finally have a victim, tortured it until nearly dead by the end of the day. Not just Thorogood, then.

You did your own research. You weren't smart, that was Daniela and always would be, but you had the love beating in your breast like a boxer practicing for the prize championship. You found that it didn't begin with Thorogood either. That it'd started at the open, more or less. On one particularly rainy day, invisibility draped around you (a gift from Privacy), you brought a shovel out to an abandoned stretch of road outside town, and lost your breakfast as you found bodies.

It wasn't one person, you found, but the whole thing. Rot built into the very fabric of the hero's alliance itself. 

So this work was protecting them too, in a way. Your body count stacked higher. You wished Daniela had told you how to fix it. You wished, with every aching, bloodstained piece of you, that she was still here with you. 

And then that day. Jackson, graduating from the Little Heroes' Academy. All grown up. You'd watched him on the fuzzy television screen, pride and horror competing in your chest, as he graduated and took his position.

Head of the hero's alliance. Just like you had been. Like father, like son.

He had a title now, too. Protection. Oh, Jackson, you breathed, your arms aching to hold him. Oh, son. 

~*~

You don't dodge this car on time. That stubbornness, you think, as your body is flung backwards and you feel several vertebrae snap, that rage, though, that's all you. You suppress a rueful smile at the thought. 

"You've killed everyone I care about," he growled, and that was yours too. "Ingenuity. Freedom. Power." His gaze darkens even further. "Strength." 

You wince, as the words, missing their target, strike true nonetheless. You need to go. Maybe another time. But the transporter button is pinned out of your reach. You'll have to move the car. And distract him, if only for a moment. You weigh your options as he approaches slowly. He's good, you know that. He'll catch it, you think. 

You look him in the eye and whisper, "I'm sorry," before you heave the car off of you, and jab your finger into the button.

~*~

The hero formerly known as Power doesn't flinch as you open the front door to your apartment. He's sprawled on your recliner, the only place in the room worth sitting. "You should tell him," he says, taking a sip of the last beer you'd had in the fridge.

"I told you, you can't be here," you grumble, but it does hold as much heat as it should. He's putting everyone in danger, including you. But you'd be lying if you said you didn't miss him. And it had been a long day. "No," you say, heading further into the room and grabbing a leftover pizza box from the fridge and perching on the small dining room table. It holds you up in encouragement. "Who am I not telling what?" 

Randy rolls his eyes. "Your son. Everything. That you're alive. That you're Virtuosicide. That you haven't killed anyone." 

That last one isn't true, but you never told him that. About Daniela. No one can know.

"Why are you being so stubborn?" he says, unfazed. "I mean sure, he'll probably be a little upset. But you could be in his life again! And it'd get him out of there." He stares into the fizzing can for a moment before glancing at you imploringly. "It's bad, Al." 

You frown at that, disliking your son being in such a position. "I can't. He hates Virtuosicide, and he never goes anywhere outside the city, where it'd be safe to tell him the rest." 

"You know," he says, his voice gaining a hard edge, "some day you're going to die for real. And all those secrets you're lugging around will go with you, if you're not careful." 

"You talk like I don't have a plan," you grouse around a mouthful of cold and stale pizza. 

His eyebrows shoot up. "Well this is the first I'm hearing of it." 

You roll your neck with a wince. Being hit by a car fuckin sucks. "It would be. You don't become the most prolific and deadly supervillain in Metropolis by having loose lips." 

He looks at you with his head cocked for a long moment. "You're not going to tell me." It's not a question.

You answer anyway. "Correct." You close the pizza box and put it back in the fridge. 

He sighs and picks himself off your chair. "Well, let me know if I can help." 

You scrunch up your nose, at that. 

~*~

You feel the adrenaline race through your body as you hop over deadly projectiles on the roof of the rehabilitation center. You're not exactly happy, of course, doing this, but it's when you feel the most alive. They added another layer of security. Nothing to worry about, really, but adding something of a challenge to today's breakout. 

You slip quietly into a cell with a young boy strapped spread eagle to a table. He starts crying harder when he sees you, but you shush him and undo his restraints with efficient movements. "It's alright," you whisper to him, painfully aware the footage will be thoroughly scrutinized later. "I'm going to get you out of here." 

"P-please don't kill me," he whimpers, shrinking from you.

You don't have time for this. 15 seconds to be precise. "I won't," you say, glancing around. 

You freeze as you see eyes, Daniela's eyes, fixed on you. Jackson. He's here. Not Protection. In his civilian attire. Wearing a janitor's uniform, eyes locked on you. You wince and wonder if Randy's prediction might come sooner than either of you thought. But Jackson stays where he is, and after noticing you notice him, pretends to cower from your gaze. 

You focus back on the kid. "I'll keep you safe," you whisper urgently, "but we need to go, now." 

He tearily nods and puts his hand in yours.

Permission given, you quickly wrap as gentle of an arm as you can manage around his midsection, and dart towards your escape.

~*~

On the drive back home, you think about Jackson's presence. Community service? Was he looking for insights about you? Another possibility dawns on you.

You slam on the breaks and curse a blue streak, before remembering where you are as the car behind you honks in indignation.

Weren't you just thinking it a while ago? 

He's Daniela's son.

But that's not what sends a chill down your spine.

He's also yours.

He's bright, much brighter than you ever were. Of course he'd figure out that something was wrong. But he also drank all the koolaid you left behind. And there was a lot to drink. If he discovered what was there and tried to tell someone— 

You force yourself to pull over to the side of the road, then rest your head on the steering wheel with a thump. No. Not again. You can't allow them to take someone else from you just for having a big heart. For genuinely caring about people. 

You have to do something. 

~*~

Randy had gifted Jackson his house in his will. So the plan, once you made it, was fairly simple to execute. A hatch just barely popped open. The one to Randy's basement, that had once held all his supplies. It still did, but less now, as he'd given you anything you'd wanted. Tucked in a corner. A box. Momentos. And at the bottom, a disk. Daniela's handwriting. For Alex and Jackson.

You'd left all of it, this time. He deserved to know, you thought, that it'd been your fault. 

You watch him on the small camera Randy had installed years ago. You watch him pull out his laptop and put in the disk. Hit play. 

You sit there, miles apart, as he watches the video over and over again, tears streaming down his face. He'd recognize some of it, from what you'd left him in yours. 

"I'm sorry buddy," you whisper at the screen. 

As if he heard you, he turns and stares at the camera, then sends a nearby book hurtling towards it.

~*~

For long months you don't hear anything. Protection doesn't track you down to attack you in the middle of traffic, but he doesn't frequent anywhere in the sight of your cameras either. You tell yourself that he's smart, not to worry. True to form, you don't listen. 

One night, you hear the sound of the door to your public lair being thrown open with a screech. You snap and your clothes transform into your regular villain attire. 

Protection stands in the doorway. Something's wrong, your brain whispers.

"Ah," you say, unsure if this is a trap. Keeping up pretenses just in case. "Are you here to finally join me, Protection?" 

A manilla envelope, thick with papers, hangs in one hand. His eyes are dull as he looks at you. "No," he says flatly. 

"Ah, well then—" 

"Cut the shit, Virtuosicide." His voice is ragged. "I want it." 

You stare at him.

"What they all told me. I want it. I want out. No battles, no drama, no innocents getting hurt." He holds out his arms and opens his hands. The folder drops to the floor and papers spill dramatically. He doesn't give them a passing glance. "I want to die." 

A lump catches in your throat. Oh, Jackson.

You press a button to close the door, and it does, closing you in together, the ringing of the large sheet of metal the only sound in the cavernous room for long moments. 

You skulk down the stairs – a skill you've taken years to perfect – towards him. His eyes track your every movement, but he makes no moves to stop you, until you're standing right in front of him. Everything within you clambers to wrap that disparing bravery in your arms.

"Why?" you ask softly.  

"Does it matter?" he bites out. "Just do it. Or is a battle part of it for you? Do I need to—" 

"Of course it matters," you say, your voice low and soothing. Unpracticed, after all these years, but he blinks at you instead of raging on.

"The rehabilitation center. You knew, didn't you? That's why you take them. My mom did too, and they killed her for it." He eyes you suspiciously then backs up a step, raising a nearby loose pipe (no villain's lair is complete without a loose pipe, you always say) defensively. "You don't work for the Mayor, do you?" Layers move behind his eyes as he thinks.

You bark out a laugh at that. "No," you say, "I don't." 

He lowers the pipe, and steps back towards you. "All right. Do it, then. You killed my father. Don't you want to finish the job?" 

Anyone who hadn't seen his childhood sobs probably wouldn't notice the quaver in his bottom lip. 

The dam breaks along with your heart. You wrap him in your arms. 

"Hey what—?" he struggles against you. 

You snap the villain attire off as he launches you across the room and into some barrels (also quite necessary). He marches himself over to you, a bit of that fire returning. "What the hell! You're old enough to be my—" All of him freezes as he catches sight of your face. He just stares at you for long moments before he crumples like a puppet whose strings have been cut. His knees hit the floor with a too-familiar crunch. "Dad?" he whispers brokenly. 

You pull him into your arms again, unable to do anything else. This time he doesn't struggle. You pull back to look at his bewildered face. "Hey, son," you say softly. "We have a lot to talk about." 

You are a villain famous for “killing” heroes. In reality, heroes come to you to fake their deaths.