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Chat log Name : I am no good nor evil, Simply I am

Chat log description : Carmine Falcone is a father who has a child going to Nationals for Gotham Academy’s soccer team. He expects to see you and your team step out of the gates but you don’t.

ONLINE USERS : Carmine Falcone, Alberto Falcone, Yellowjackets! Reader

CHAT LOG STATUS : YELLOWJACKETS AU

‼️ CONTENT WARNING : Third POV, Second POV, OOC! Carmine Falcone, OOC! Alberto Falcone, Inaccurate airport layout, Implied medications.

A/N : originally I was going to put the batfamily for this

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Your eyes stared at the luggage while stuffing the luggage with personalized items and extra clothes that you needed to make it to the trip to Nationals. You opened your nightstand to grab other items while your favorite music played on the portable stereo, your door creaked open to see your brother, Alberto.

“Finished yet?” He asked. “Pops’ waiting for us.”

“Almost, ‘berto.” You turned back around to put the other things in the suitcase, squishing it shut. “I need some help closin’ it.”

“Do you really need all this?” He pulled on the cover and zipped it shut. “It’s only going to be for one day?”

“It’s not!” You playfully shoved him.

He rubbed his arm while he had his smile and Pops’ oversized ring on his finger.

“You have—“ You looked at his finger. “How?”

“He gave it to me,” he replied.

You gave him the look of sure, he did while your brows furrowed and pulled on the handle of your suitcase. Your shoes and Alberto’s click-clacked on the tile flooring while the florals in the vases seemed to stretch and bend; revealing thorns that whispered your name in a familiar voice of your deceased mother.

“Pops actually rented a plane for you?” Alberto inquired.

“Yup.” You smiled. “I needed some time away from you and him. It’s obvious, he loves me more.”

Alberto rolled his eyes while he extended his hand as you huffed in response while you pulled out the CD of his favorite band that you had taken from his room to listen to in your spare time on the plane but you swore that you forgot that you had it—despite him asking you.

“Are you going to forget this?” He handed you, your jersey that you had draped on your chair in the lounge. “The main reason—“

The knock echoed through the lavish lounge, decorated with trinkets and other personalized items that made it more warm. His footsteps stepped towards you and Alberto—it’s your father, Carmine Falcone who always wore those red lens glasses.

“Now, [Name] have you seen my ring?” He smiled. “I could have sworn…”

Alberto shifted nervously and he handed the ring to him. Carmine kept his smile, slipping the ring on his finger and planted his hand on Alberto’s shoulder.

“Thank you, Alberto,” he said. “It’s not time for you to wear this ring. Now, I need to speak to your sibling.”

You watched Alberto leaving the lounge and feeling the familiar rough yet oddly soft palm of Carmine holding your face like he always did.

“I’m so proud of you, Piccolino/Piccolina,” he said. “I wish your mother was here to see you going to nationals. Do you have everything?”

“I have every—“ you replied.

“Your necessities?” He handed you, the familiar orange pill bottle. “You almost forgot this.”

You stuffed it into your pocket, your eyes looked up at him. His arms embraced you tightly, always cradling the back of your head.

“You are going to do great things, Piccolino/Piccolina. Unlike—” he said.

“Pa, don’t say anything bad about ‘Berto,” you chimed.

“We are already late—“ He sighed.

You looked down at your watch in a frantic state before noticing that you would arrive early to the airport; a strange fascination of arriving early to certain places.

You stood on the steps of the house, watching the luggages being pulled into the trunk of the car. You looked at Carmine as if to say what’s going on, Pa.

“I couldn’t have you going alone,” he explained. “We are going too—“

“What?” You inquired. “Pa, you…”

“Don’t worry, Piccolino/Piccolina.” He looked towards the car. “We are going on a separate plane.”

The ride to the airport was long awaited while your stomach turned into knots and larger knots. You had started to eat some of the snacks that were in the makeshift candy bar that was built for you and Alberto.

“Nervous?” Alberto inquired. “I’ll be with you.”

“Sure, ‘Berto.” You rolled your eyes. “You’re going to be on a different plane.”

You gripped your suitcase as lounging around the check-in lobby was the rest of your soccer teammates with a parent or both; some had none so they were happily talking to other members in the team.

Your eyes watched the gate for your flight to open and the gnawing continued despite you trying to keep it together unlike last time.

“Ah, Piccolino/Piccolina.” He hugged you tightly. “Remember I’m proud of you.”

You swallowed the gnawing feeling as this feeling always happened when you got going on flights—always when Pa took you and Alberto to Italy for the summer to reconnect with the family and spend time. You pulled away, slightly rushing to the gate and looked back to them with their luggage and waving to them.

His eyes looked down at his watch while an eager Alberto held a homemade sign to welcome you to Seattle for Nationals. For once he was wearing something comfortable even if it was just a dark buttoned cardigan with a dress-shirt underneath.

While other parents of the Gotham Gladiator soccer team stood and were scattered around the gates. Airplanes flew in, dropping off their passengers but his airplane that he rented for the team didn’t arrive. Carmine watched as Alberto was now sitting on the plastic chairs and the sign he held was rolled up to Carmine’s dismay.

His eyes stared at the rows on the FIDS that Flight 4057 was delayed—something inside of his guts gnawed because your plane was the earliest one before his. Yet, his plane was the one who arrived first with Alberto alongside the other parents.

He stood up as one of the airplane staff guided the families to a small conference room in the airport. The words that escaped the lips of the staff had the wind had punched from his lungs.

“What?” He uttered. “Do…It crashed?”

The world crumbled before his eyes while it seemed that Alberto tried to soothe his agony by hugging him but it was short lived. His eyes widened for once in surprise, feeling the hands of a father gripping tightly on his collar, pressing him against the wall. Carmine saw the veins from the father’s forehead—seeing the emotion drink of fear, pain and anger etched onto the man’s features.

“Where is my kid!” He barked. “You…I know what you do. What did you do to our children?”

Carmine couldn’t give a response. Why couldn’t they see that he was a parent—he looked over to see Alberto, his son. The one that he hadn’t lost yet.

——————————————————————

You coughed while the soot stained your clothes. You stumbled out of the amalgamation of the airplane that was reduced to ruins—it reeked of oil and burnt flesh. Your trembling hands pulled off the yellow oxygen mask, looking around to see destruction.

Your teammates were disheveled, soot and dried blood stained their clothes. You stood underneath the shade with another one of your teammates; goalie, Sammi.

“How are you after this?” You gestured to the ruined airplane. “What happened?”

“Both jet engines exploded,” Sammi said. “I saw it. Held together with duct tape.”

“No.” You playfully shoved them. “That isn’t—“

You looked around to see a symbol carved into the trunk of the tree, walking over to that tree and running your fingers over it. A loud hissing noise escaped the ruins of the airplane—Lucy had somehow pried open some of the luggage compartments that weren’t ripped open due to the crash. The noises of the fallen leaves started to thrash onto the floor since she started to kick out some of the suitcases onto the greenery due to some of the suitcases being difficult to pull out.

You grabbed your luggage that was somehow untouched by the destruction.

“Where…” Lucy asked, “shouldn’t we write like SOS on the plane?”

“With what—“ Sammi inquired.

You rolled your eyes and mentally counted everyone that was still alive which was a little bit but it could have been worse. Nationals could’ve been in the middle of winter.

The walk towards unknown led by Lucy, ground underneath your shoes had gotten soaked with water—you looked up, seeing a lake and hearing the excitement from your teammates while you smacked away the insects that were crawling onto your skin; insect noses trying to dig into your skin to drink your blood that was still filled with adrenaline.

You sat down on the gravel while some of them were cleaning themselves with the water, looking up at the blue sky; oddly peaceful despite the current scenario of the crash. Your friend sat next to you, somehow cheerfully saying,”Don’t worry. We are going to get rescued anytime soon. Besides, they can’t start Nationals without us.” You smiled at their remark, giving them a side hug and laughing with them.

“You’re right,” you replied.

Carmine stared outside the window, his eyes watched the snow pile up on the sides of the house. It was already winter, his stomach was already in knots despite the holiday cheer that decorated his house—it felt anything but cheerful.

The thoughts that he tried to push away continued to circle through his head—were you even alive? If you were alive, were you trying to gain any sort of contact with the public or anyone or were you injured? The living room with a Christmas tree and the occasional colorful ornaments that you had once persuaded him to get.

“Pops, the other parents are doing a vigil for them,” Alberto said.

“I am not going, Alberto,” he stated. “I will not be blamed for the loss of the plane again.”

Alberto’s face etched with stress from the tension between them that had been boiling up since the disappearance of Flight 4057. His eyes looked to the bottom of the tree—seeing the mixture of gifts that were yours, his, and Carmine’s.

“Do you think that they’re alive?” He looked at him. “They would have been found by now. You did something, did—“

“Alberto,” Carmine replied, exasperated. “I would never do something to them. Why would you think I would do something? Tell me, Alberto.”

“Pops, come on!” Alberto looked at him with something unfamiliar. “They—The whole team is dead. Everyone else doesn’t want to admit it.”

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