paigelyness

[enderspawn]

it’s abt the fact when you build up someone so much and look up to them, after all this time no matter how much you miss them it’s scary.

bc seeing them means having to take them off that pedestal that you’ve been building up for years in their absence, based off the memories of a kid from a decade past. having to accept that they’re just another flawed person.

it’s having to accept how you’ve changed, that you aren’t that same kid they knew and if they even want the you now. it’s dreading the possibility that after all this time… you’ve just let them down. you didn’t become the person they wanted you to be, expected you to be. you’ve chnaged and you’ve become worse and suddenly this person that you’ve clung to for so long… doesn’t want you.

if you don’t know the answers then it means you can’t get a bad answer, either. for all that the unknown and waiting is painful, at least its safe

[marmolady]

Homecoming: Part One

Read PART TWO here!

Main Pairings: Estela x (f)MC, Graleister

Summary: Endless Ending. Estela and Taylor spend one last night in San Trobida before returning to La Huerta and facing their future. This was going to be a two-parter, but I got all long-winded, so four-parter is more like it.

Word Count: 3342

Chronology: After 'The New Taylor' and 'A Ride to Remember', sort of midway through 'Inheritance'.

Tagging: @saivilo, @edgydepressedchoicesthot, @sceptilemasterr, @greengroove @mauvecatfic​

Thanks for reading!

Parrying the blows of her brother’s sword with the easy grace of a well-honed professional-- she had been doing this since her early teens-- Estela seemed to dance across the basement floor, totally in her element. Then Aleister lurched forward, and she jumped back, effortlessly dodging his attack. But in the landing, she found herself, finally, unstuck. Under the sudden weight of her whole body, her wounded leg gave way, and she stumbled. In a split second, Aleister’s cautious approach fell away and he pushed his advantage before Estela could recover. With a final flick of his blade, she was disarmed.

Estela laughed at the look of plain shock on Aleister’s face at his own victory. “Not half bad,” she commented, impressed that he hadn’t fumbled around taking advantage of her weakness. Her healing leg injury had been a source of great frustration-- despite regular massages of the Vaanti-made ointment concocted using the leaves from The Celestial’s roof, improvement had plateaued. The last thing she wanted was to be babied. “You’re still wasting too much energy with flamboyant gestures. This isn’t ballet-- it doesn’t have to look pretty.”

“Well, it certainly doesn’t appear that ‘pretty’ has hindered my performance,” Aleister panted, recovering just enough to be rather pleased with himself.

Offering a hand to take Aleister’s sword, Estela grinned. “Like I said, not half bad. Come on, hermano. We’d better give Tio a hand in the kitchen; it sounded like he had a big spread planned.”

Brother. That was still new. Only in the lead-up to his hand-fasting to Grace a few months prior had Estela gone so far as to utter that word in relation to Aleister. He reacted as he always did, a double-take, then his cheeks going immediately pink. It had been so long he’d craved that acceptance… now that it was there, it seemed it would take him some getting used to.

All attempts at helping Nicolas out with the farewell dinner were met with strong resistance. Some butting of heads later, Estela realised it really wasn’t a hill worth dying on; if her tio wanted to do something special for them all, she’d just have to step back and let him. After all, it could well be some time before he’d have this opportunity again. Come the next day, she, Taylor, and their friends, would all be on their way, and Nicolas would once more be left to an empty house.

As much as she tried to join in the energetic conversations over dinner, Estela found herself distracted. With her return to La Huerta, she’d be taking steps to move on with her life; to come to terms with the grief she’d suffered and get some closure. And then… she was faced with working out what the hell kind of life she’d forge for herself; something that had been made all the more complicated since Aleister had seen fit to bestow upon her half of everything he’d been left after Rourke’s demise. She’d made good progress on coming to peace with that connection, but she was not fool enough to be under any illusions… she still had a long way to go.

The subject of conversation turned to the case against Lundgren-- and the subsequent clearing of Jake’s name-- and Estela shook herself back to the present.

“The evidence is fairly damning,” Aleister was saying as he loaded his fork with beef, egg and plantain. “Certainly, the prosecutors were pleased. That we have access to every file my father ever touched, and a wealth of video and audio recordings, it would be difficult indeed to look at what’s presented and not come back with a guilty verdict.”

Jake smiled wryly, the grin failing to make his eyes. “I’ll give ya one thing, Malfoy, your old lady ain’t a dame I’d want to get on the wrong side of. I guess… we’ll see. Worst case, settlin’ down out here wouldn’t be half bad.”

“We won’t rest until you’re home,” Grace declared resolutely, her dark eyes shining. “That awful man isn’t going to be remembered as anything other than a power-hungry conniving brute. I’ll stand up and make a witness statement in court myself!”

She had, Jake knew, her own haunting personal experiences of seeing that exact brutality at close quarters. It made him sick. “Hey-- I won’t have you dredging up all that. Not for me--”

Grace spoke across him, calmly but firmly. “It’s my stand to take. I had quite enough of being helpless as Rourke’s prisoner; I need to take my power back.”

Jake’s mouth snapped shut. He wasn’t about to argue with that. “The poor defense won’t know what hit it.” The words rang hollow as exchanged a subtle dark look with Estela. The optimism was nice and all, but experience had told the both of them that the world was a corrupt place and ‘fair’ barely counted for squat.

“I know you think I’m naive,” Grace said, “and maybe I am, but the fact remains that we’re not giving in.”

Taylor grinned, confident because she had to be. “I didn’t offer my life force to some crystal alien only for you to not get back to your family. This is a matter of ‘how’ and ‘when’, not ‘if’.”

Beside her, Estela nodded. “Look, we’d be crazy if we just go in assuming this is gonna be a cakewalk. But Pollyanna here is right; we’ll make it happen. We’re not the kind of people who just roll over to injustice, and anyone who thinks they can force us is in for a painful lesson.”

“Dang, Princess… I think you broke Eeyore. She’ll be a motivational speaker at this rate….”

“It’s Katniss, cabron. Y vete a la mierda.”

Jake sniggered into his beer. So, motivational speaker was a little stretch.

With dinner over, the group started disperse. As Estela made to make a start on clean-up, Taylor gently turned her around.

“I’m pretty sure me and Al can handle this. Make the most of tonight.”

Estela looked out through the window to the front porch, where Nicolas had settled with his flask of rum. She took a deep breath. Taylor was right; she couldn’t just let this time pass her by.

Cold beer in hand, she pushed open the front door and stepped out. “It seems like Aleister and Grace’s first bandeja paisa was a hit.”

Nicolas beamed at the sight of her, and clinked her bottle as she sat down in the other chair. “Of course. Either that or they are exceptional actors.”

“No chance,” Estela laughed. “You’ve seen the looks he gives poor Taylor’s cooking. Her confidence has been shot since they’ve been here. At least Grace is polite about it.”

“You must be excited. I’ve said for so long that your potential was being wasted, and now… the world is your oyster. I never thought I’d see the day.”

Estela shifted in her chair and took a long drink.

“What’s that look for, mija?”

“Well, yeah, I’m excited. Terrified, but…. If I finish this degree, I really should think of what I want to do with it. And, well, all that money Aleister’s pushing on me.”

“That gilipollas. You poor thing.”

“Actually, I’m almost getting used to the idea. As much as it freaks me out, Mom would have been so happy to know I’ve got a leg up.” A small smile crept to Estela’s face. “I keep seeing so many things I could help with. Like the schools and universities-- how much could recovery be accelerated if people had better opportunities to learn? Or physically rebuilding so much that had been destroyed, or actually protecting the wilderness of this beautiful place?” She blushed as she caught herself getting passionate. “Rourke International has the capacity to do so much; we could actually have tourists coming here. That hasn’t happened in my lifetime!”

Nicolas chuckled, looking at his niece with clear affection. But he saw the cloud of doubt across her face.

“I…,” she continued, “I just don’t know that I have the right. We just got rid of one dictator, and Mom was collateral damage to a would-be dictator.” A would-be dictator who’s inescapably part of who I am. “Money comes with a lot of power. Even if I’m using it for what I think is good… I could cause a lot of harm.” By the time she finished, her voice was but a murmur.

“True. Alternatively, you could be one of those misers who sit upon their millions while the people around them starve and suffer, buildings crumble, and forests burn.”

“So, you’re saying I can’t win?” Estela demanded.

“I’m saying, the enemy here is ignorance. Ignorance of what greater impacts of your generosity might be, and ignorance of what suffering might go on if that generosity is withheld. The fact that you are even having these doubts tells me that you are not ignorant to the consequences of your actions.”

Estela huffed thoughtfully. “I don’t suppose,” she grumbled after a little while, “that you’d let me be, even for a second.”

“Of course not! I might be getting on a bit, but I am by no means past letting you know when you ought to unstick your head from your own backside.”

Again, Estela fell quiet. She was not going to be existing in an echo chamber. She’d surrounded herself with people that she trusted, with strong opinions and varied perspectives; people who would not balk from challenging her when necessary. If she tried, she couldn’t become a tyrant, regardless of what blood coursed her veins. At any rate, she’d simply be-- for the most part, at least-- channeling funds to others better placed to make the change she wanted to see in her world. She could be as anonymous as she wanted. Perhaps… perhaps it would not hurt to put some faith in herself.

“I take it from your silence,” Nicolas said, “that you’ve realised that once again I’m right. Now, go back to happily daydreaming about all the good you will do.”

Estela sighed dramatically, but smiled at her uncle. “I’m really gonna miss you….”

“I can’t pretend I’ve been looking forward to waking to an empty house again. But the missing you will be temporary; that’s more than I could have dared to hope for not so long ago.”

The same was true for her. And there was no way in hell she’d let goodbye be forever, not now. “Yeah. You’ve got a good point.”

“Again?”

She snorted. “Shut up, Tio.”

_________________________

The night wore steadily on, and Taylor eventually had to retreat from socialising with Nicolas’ other guests to start making headway on her night-time routine. ‘Self-care’ was something she now had down to an art; she even made a point of noting down the steps taken each night so she could easily track what was most effective. By this point, she had a fairly solid schedule. Yoga was followed by a calming cup of mint or chamomile tea, sometimes accompanied by a hot bath-- though tonight it was too late for the nice long soak she’d prefer--, and then she’d wind down even further with a half-hour’s guided meditation. Jake teased her mercilessly, but she really didn’t give a damn. If she could de-stress just enough to keep the seemingly never-ending stream of horrifying nightmares at bay, he could laugh all he wanted.

Slowly, Taylor wiggled her fingers and toes, bringing herself back to the land of the living with a long exhale. Fifteen nights without being woken up by visions of her loved ones’ deaths was the best run she’d ever had, but if those nightmares were triggered by stress, then the imminent return to La Huerta might just be the trigger that would throw a spanner in the works.

The little dog, Fenix, stretched forward and licked Taylor’s toes.

“Okay, okay, I’m back! Was I ignoring you for too long? Thanks for not interrupting my meditation, I guess,” Taylor chuckled. Having the pet had done wonders for grounding her during her regular existential crises. Fenix had come a long way from the mangy worm-ridden creature they’d taken in; still scruffy even with a full coat of hair, she was now bright as a button, and with a tail that never seemed to stop wagging.

“You’d better enjoy having me to yourself while you still can, Nixie-- this time tomorrow, we’ll probably have Furball sleeping on the end of the bed as well.”

Happily oblivious Fenix rolled and tumbled in her human’s lap. Foxes with ice powers were far beyond her frame of reference, but she could sense that whatever Taylor was talking about made her happy, so naturally there was every reason to be in a good mood.

The door creaked, and a just-showered Estela entered the room, clad only in a towel.

“Hey. I heard you talking to Nix-- figured you’d finished your meditation.”

“Hey,” Taylor cooed, feeling herself practically melt as her wife reached down to stroke her hair. “I just finished; went pretty heavy on the self-care tonight, just to be safe. You ready for bed?” She let herself be helped to her feet, and wrapped an arm around Estela’s waist. “Last cuddle in your little single bed for a while.”

Estela smiled. “Last cuddle in our little single bed.”

Taylor changed into her pyjamas and nestled under the covers, waiting and watching in quiet contentment as Estela slipped into a singlet and a light pair of shorts.

“You are so, so beautiful, you know that?”

“Taylor, you tell me that ten times a day.”

“Just making sure you’re aware, lover.” Taylor pressed herself against the wall, making room on the tiny mattress.

“You ordered a cuddle, yes?” Estela kissed and nibbled along Taylor’s jaw, feeling a tremor of an exhale, then sat back to look into the sapphire gaze of her adoring wife. Beautiful just wasn’t big enough.

“So… how are you feeling about tomorrow?” Taylor ventured.

“A lot of things,” Estela admitted. “Getting on that plane to La Huerta is going to bring back a lot of stuff. And saying goodbye to Tio… well, let’s just say, we’d better have a lot of tissues packed.”

Taylor squeezed her tight. “It’s not forever this time. And I think he knows that-- otherwise you’d be leaving again over his dead body.”

That made Estela give a little snort of laughter, but then she shook her head, sighing. “I know the guilt I’m feeling is irrational. Tio is just so happy to see how much things have changed for me. He wants me to go out and live my best life. But that doesn’t mean I can stop myself feeling it, just like that.”

Taylor didn’t have a lot of life experience, but guilt? That, she knew all about. “We’re just going to have to keep talking to that irrational part of your brain, then. Honey, your tio thought you were dead for so long-- you coming back every now and then, smiling, on your way to healing… that’s just the most amazing gift you could give him. And maybe… it’s going to help him move on too.”

“Yes.” Man, I hope so. Estela knew that her uncle had closed himself off to the world. That he’d seen that he’d done his part in life, and then retreated from it. He joked around, but for so long he’d been broken inside. Now, they could make strides towards something better, together-- even if there was a distance between them. Now, Estela had hope for them both.

Taylor snuggled close, spooning her wife from behind, and leaving  lingering kisses upon her neck and shoulders.

“What about you?” Estela asked softly, turning in the warm embrace so she could meet Taylor’s eye. “I guess this will feel like going home.”

“Yeah, I guess it will be. Something like that. It’s a very… it’s a very weird feeling, you know?”

“I can imagine. It’s going to be strange to be back on La Huerta without everyone. The village is gonna be like a ghost town.”

A small smile tugged at Taylor’s lips; in spite of her own worries. Estela sure was perceptive. “It’s kind of freaking me out.” Of course, Estela already knew that, but it had never hurt to actually put the words out there. It was quite clear that they both had to look forward to a crash course in moving on. But that they were alive, and together, and free to do so… it was everything they’d fought for. “I’m bursting to see Diego again, though. It must have been so much weirder for him these past months.”

There was a grumbling, grunting sound as Fenix settled herself into a nest made out of the clothes Taylor had left on the floor. Both women chortled. Nothing like a funny little dog to keep the mood light.

Estela tenderly stroked Taylor’s hair, loving her. “You’ll have a lot to catch up on. It’s gonna mean a lot to him to have you there.” She blushed. “It… means a lot to me to have you here.”

“Good. Because you’re stuck with me.”

“Taylor, we all are. And you’re stuck with us. There’s nothing that can change that.”

As she looked into Estela’s soft gaze, Taylor’s heart swelled. If she knew anything at all, she knew that much. All she had to do was trust in that sweet certainty.

[anthropwashere]

Phic Phight: set the self upon the shelf

Prompt from @five-rivers: Jack and Maddie acquire the pieces of Freakshow's staff.   

@currentlylurking @phicphight

Word count: 3,841

=

In hindsight, Danny should have expected something like this to happen. He'd been on a good streak; a really good streak. No catastrophes, no explosions, no be-all, end-all ultimatums with terrible creatures trying to squeeze the life out of some poor schmuck trying to go about their day. Heck, aside from a few toothy Day-Glo bright beasties waking him up just shy of his alarm and the usual irritation of the Box Ghost haranguing the nearest postal office, things have been easy. There hasn't even been any test to stress out over. So with how his luck usually is, he's overdue for a bad day. 

Today's that day, turns out. It's just not so obvious as bad days usually go for him anymore. It's insidious, creeping, sly. 

Worst of all, his parents are the ones to blame, and they're not even trying to take Phantom apart molecule by molecule this time.

It's a Wednesday, as dull as any other Wednesday can be, when he unlocks the front door of FentonWorks, leaving it open for Sam and Tucker to come in after him. They're all in the middle of another round of friendly bickering, some he-said she-said I-read-this-article goofing with no stakes or real anger in any of their threats to shut the others up. They're just goofing. Danny locks the door once they're in, punches in the pass code on the panel his parents had installed a couple months back so the trigger-happy security system doesn't take umbrage with whatever-the-hell just strolled in through the front door. Tucker's managed to bamboozle the security somehow—Danny can almost follow along with the concept of coding if Tucker's in the mood to skip the jargon, but sit him in front of a command prompt with nary a word of English to be found and his whole brain just fritzes out in self-defense—and point is, the security recognizes Danny's not very human, but it does the software equivalent of a shrug and dumps the notifications into a hidden folder his parents would need to get real creative finding. 

He means to lead them to the stairs to dump their backpacks off in his bedroom before raiding the kitchen. The Box Ghost had decided to ruin lunch today instead of Algebra, like a jerk, and Danny's starving as a consequence of his sandwich ending up on the floor and burning up a ton of energy chasing the idiot around the entire school six times. He's trying not to laugh as Sam keeps up her rant on how unreliable sad nerds on forums are for relaying what cocaine-addled movie producers in LA may or may not have agreed to, when Tucker says, "Danny?"

"Yeah?"

"Where you going?"

Danny blinks. He's halfway down the stairs to his parents' lab. He didn't even notice. "Uh," he says, turning around. Sam and Tucker are still on the top step, raising identical eyebrows at him. "Sorry. Habit."

"BG can wait, dude. I didn't get to eat either."

"Ha. Right."

They go upstairs, Sam picking up her rant again on the second-floor landing. They drop their bags off in his room and tromp downstairs again. Danny flicks the light switch on as he passes through the doorway to the—

"Danny?"

He blinks. Halfway down to the lab again, and he'd been sure he was in the kitchen this time. He swallows, putting on a sheepish grin for his friends as he trots back up to them again. Tucker looks amused so he almost thinks he's gotten away without worrying them, but one look at Sam tells him to dump that hope in the trash and forget about it. Her painted mouth is downturned and distinctly worried. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah," he says. The funny thing is, it's not even a lie. "Why?"

She hesitates, then shakes her head. So he's not worrying her enough that she needs to make a parade of it. That's good. That's great. All he wants to focus on right now is microwaving the entire box of taquitos his Dad snuck into the grocery cart the last time his parents went shopping, and then eating it as fast as half-humanly as possible. 

Jazz comes home while they're all splayed out in the kitchen, poking her head in to say hi and ask if he needs any cover stories drummed up with lunch having been so chaotic. "Nah," he assures her, "I'll just dump the Box Ghost into the Portal after Mom and Dad go to bed. Thanks, though."

"Patrol tonight?"

"Always."

"Let me know when you head out?"

"Sure."

She smiles at him warmly, and not for the first time is Danny glad to have her in on his secret. She's overbearing and controlling and way, way too worried about rule-breaking, but still. It's nice. He trusts her, he loves her, and he gets no small amount of delight at having her in on all the ridiculous excuses he concocts for his parents. He has no idea how he managed so long without her helping him keep his secret. 

"Don't let him do anything stupid," she tells Sam and Tucker. Tucker gives her a mock-salute without looking up from his phone. 

"That's a tall order," Sam says with a roll of her eyes. Danny elbows her. She elbows him right back, and hers are sharp.

Jazz laughs so hard she snorts. It's a sure sign she's comfortable around Danny's friends, which is a lovely relief all on its own. For all that they don't talk much about not-ghost stuff, Danny knows she's struggled to make friends for a long time, knows she's lonely, knows she's just as happy to be included in all the Phantom business as he is to have her there beside him. She waves a touch sarcastically at them and goes off to her own room, presumably to be a good straight-A student and do all her homework for the rest of the month somehow. 

Whatever. Danny's got a full-sized mountain of taquitos to plough through and nothing the least bit life-threatening on his radar for the foreseeable future. That's as sure to change in the next five minutes as it always is. He's used to having a tight knot of panic clenched around his heart and/or the funny little cold spot where his ghostly core leaks through to his human side. He's always on edge, always ready for something. It's half the reason he can't remember the last time he got a decent night's sleep, too stressed to do more than toss restlessly in his bed until the wee hours, and the proper ghosts all seemed to have unanimously decided that five a.m. is the best time ever to come charging through the Portal to cause a little pre-dawn havoc.

"Danny?"

He blinks, and he's halfway down the stairs to the lab again.

He licks his lips, swallowing nervousness. He... he doesn't even remember leaving the kitchen. He looks over his shoulder to find Sam and Tucker up on the top step again, equal amounts of concern furrowing their brow. Down in the lab he hears his parents' voices, just low enough that he can't make out individual words over the heady thrum of the Ghost Portal. "Uh," he says.

"Something's wrong," Sam says. it's not a question.

"I'm okay," he says automatically. "Really. Not lying. Just... I dunno. Let's go upstairs."

They go upstairs. Danny plows through his taquitos as originally intended, relaying through rude mouthfuls that he really does feel fine, totally normal (for him, shut up Tucker). He doesn't think he's losing time or anything as worrying as that. He's just... going through the motions so much that he doesn't even notice when he misses his mark.

Sam and Tucker do not like the sound of that, but he convinces them to let it lie. His parents are probably just working on some new gadget. He'll take a look at the lab later tonight. It's not like it feels evil or anything. It doesn't even hurt, which considering the trend of ghost hunting gizmos they've drummed up the last few months is a welcome change of pace. It's fine, really. He's fine, really.

"If you're sure," Tucker says, doubtful.

"I am. Give it a rest, will ya?"

They do, and they reluctantly bunker down to make a decent dent in their homework so they won't have to worry about it in that anxious gray waiting after dinner with their families and before they can sneak out for patrol. Normal kids do their homework after dinner. Not them. They're halfway between valedictorian and delinquent in their habits, toeing the line between abandoning homework entirely and only keeping up with it as best they can to avoid any unnecessary eyes. Danny can't afford the extra attention. 

The afternoon wanes, evening looming like an executioner's axe—Sam and Tucker are all too aware of how long they've gone without a proper catastrophe too—and sooner than they'd prefer it's time to part ways. Sam and Tucker gather up their things and hide away their patrol schedules and the like in the hollow space in Danny's ceiling as per usual. Then the three of them tromp down the stairs again to dump their plates in the sink and pay lip service to a goodnight until tomorrow in case Danny's parents are around. They're not at first glance, or at second glance for that matter, but better safe than sorry. Danny starts to follow them to the door, uneasy of the doorway down the lab yawning like a mouth, and this time he feels it—

(come here)

—but there's nothing for it. Knowing he's being bidden down the basement doesn't stop him from swiveling on his heel to start down the polished stairs. It's only Sam's quick reaction that stops him only two steps down, her hand a firm vice on his bent elbow. 

"Yeah," he says, a little breathless with surprise. "Felt it that time."

"Only that time?" Tucker asks in a tone firmly detailing how little he likes the sound of that. 

Danny looks over his shoulder to nod at them both. "It doesn't hurt," he reminds them. "It's okay. I can handle—whatever it is they're doing down there."

"Tell Jazz," Sam says, which is surprising enough that Tucker gawks at her too. It's not like she and Jazz get along, after all. Danny promises, too surprised to scoff or tease her for worrying over nothing. Maybe that should've been a warning sign too.

He waves them off at the door, locking it and punching in the code again with a habit so well-honed he doesn't even think about it, and before he knows it he's blinking harsh neon green light out of his eyes. Down in the basement, and he only remembers walking down the stairs after the fact.

"Danny-boy!" His dad shouts with his usual boisterous energy from over near one of the examination tables. His mom's off at one of the far counters, bent over a heavily modified microscope. Both of them have their hoods up, and Danny has to swallow a shiver when his dad looms too close. Something about the goggles always reminds him of how a praying mantis' eyes bulge; charmingly goofy right up until it snatches its prey up in its scythe-like forearms. 

"H-hey, Dad."

"Whoa, is it that late already? Baby cakes, it's almost six!"

His mom straightens up with a murmured groan as her back pops audibly. Her red-lipped smile ratchets right up into something uncanny and wrong without her eyes visible to soften the bright flash of teeth. "Is it? Oh, hell, I completely forgot to take the hamburgers out to thaw. Danny—hi, sweetie—do you mind calling in take-out? Your choice." 

"Uh. Sure, no problem." Funny. Never mind the taquitos he devoured an hour ago, he's always on the cusp of starving. Ghost powers or puberty, or both. He doesn't know and it doesn't really matter so long as nobody notices how much he puts away without gaining an ounce. He casts a wide glance around the lab, feigning bored curiosity, hoping to find some strange new device with his dad's face stickered all over it that will explain this weird urge demanding he be down here—

—and feels his heart and core both stutter at the sight of what's laid beneath his dad's broad hands.

"What," he chokes out. It's all he can manage. His usual anxiety—something's coming, something will come for him, any moment now, any moment, soon soon soon—transmogrifies into a full-blown panic attack so fast he feels the air in his lungs literally, genuinely freeze. He clenches his jaw against the coughing fit threatening to expose him as wrong, pointing at the long black staff laid on the table instead.

"Oh, this? You're never gonna believe it, Dann-o." His dad beams at him, proud of his work and glad his son's taking an interest in it. "We got a call yesterday on the 800 number. Some hiker found this thing absolutely covered in little ghosts down in Little Grand Canyon and figured this thing oughta have a proper once over from us instead of being left to lie where the river'd dumped it."

"It appears to generate a frequency too high for humans to perceive," his mom chimes in, walking over to join them at the table. She shoos a small sparrow-looking ghost away with naked disgust curling her mouth; it goes sailing on stiff wings off to settle on a sturdy crate off in one corner, red eyes leaving streaking after-images as it twists and ducks its little head, taking in all the strangeness of the lab. Danny pretends as hard as he can that he can't hear it asking, where am i? where am i? 

"That's right," his dad confirms, plucking the staff up with a frivolous little twirl that has his mom swatting his shoulder with a laugh. "There must have been thirty birds and snakes and the like swarming all over this thing when we got there this morning. We had to melt the lot of them to get our hands on this thing, and we've got no idea yet what got them so interested in this thing."

"At first glance it's only a simple iron-wrought staff," his mom says, tugging it free from his dad's hands to display the detailed bat at its top and the glittering shards of crimson-colored glass running down its back. "But see this glass? There's a tremendous amount of energy emitting from it—harmless to humans, don't worry. But that bird's the seventh ghost we've seen since we brought this thing down here. Something about the frequency is compelling to ghosts. They have to come see what's going on. Although why they feel such a compunction or what this thing's original purpose was is beyond me...." 

In the back of Danny's mind he hears an echo of an echo of Freakshow's voice urging him on. (take it. bring it back to me. come home. come home to me.)

"Yeah," he manages thinly. "Weird."

They ramble on for a while, too giddy to have him showing an interest in their work to recognize that his interest stems from something adjacent to terror. He musters a rictus grin, nodding like some wall-eyed bobblehead toy when they look to him for input. All the while the beady red eyes of the bat on the staff burn his skin like lit cigarettes, like brands, like red-hot manacles he might not be able to shake this time.

(come here,) the staff bids him, its voice so gentle it could his own mind assuring him that this is the best idea he's ever had. (take me. bring me home. bring me to him. it will all be so much better once we're his again.) 

"Dinner," he chokes out eventually, backing away toward the stairs. "I should—order. Order. Dinner. Pizza?"

"Sounds good to me," his dad says cheerfully. "You know what I like."

"My wallet's in the kitchen," his mom adds.

(stay,) the staff says. (take me. bring me home.)

"Nngh," he says, nodding dutifully. He doesn't know who to. It takes far more effort to climb the stairs this time, his grip white-knuckled on the banister, his gaze reluctantly dragged away from the basement and up to the living room. Once there he blinks, feeling the tug of the staff fade to something slight again. He can ignore it up here, but now that he knows what it is he can't stop hearing-feeling it. 

(come here,) it urges. (downstairs. i'm here. take me back. take me home. come home with me—)

He slaps his hands over his ears (for all the good it does), and stomps over to the kitchen where the landline is. Pizza. He. He's gotta order dinner. His parents will suspect him if he doesn't do this one perfectly normal thing. 

He dials. He orders. He fumbles around his mom's wallet for her debit card. He manages a stammered apology to the person on the line, who laughs indulgently and tells him "No worries!" in a tone that says she knows how young he is just by his voice. Underestimating him. Simple human. Stupid human. He could show her how wrong she is. He should show her. Scare her. Make her scream. Hurt her—

He drops the phone, breathing heavily.

Shit. 

Shit.

"Hello?" The girl's tinny voice asks uncertainly, a hundred miles away at his feet.

He picks the phone up. "S-sorry. Anyway, the number's...."

He finishes the order. The girl on the phone tells him to expect the driver to arrive in about 45 minutes. He makes a few incomprehensible noises that might translate to something like a thank you if the girl happens to feel real generous. He's never calling this pizza place again.

Once the phone's back on the receiver he bolts up through the ceiling, straight up to the roof, past the Ops Center, up up up until he feels the final sticky thread of the staff let him go, until he's skirting the scraggly cloud cover and thinking clearly enough to realize he really ought to ditch visibility while he's up here trying to figure out what the fuck he's gonna do next.

Freakshow's in jail.

Freakshow doesn't have the staff.

Freakshow can't control him now. He can't. He can't.

It's the staff. Just the staff down there, and whatever about it that makes it so—intoxicating? Smothering? Comforting?

He's far enough away that it's easy to recoil from that. It's not a comfort. It's not. It's not easy, or gentle, or good. It's piano wire tugging on his joints, turning his mind to so much waterlogged cotton. There's no knowing what the staff would do to him without someone at the metaphorical wheel. Just because what he remembers from when Freakshow controlled him is a warm, soft cocoon doesn't make it right. He put humans—people—in the hospital. He stole thousands of dollars worth of jewelry from eight different stores in six days. He nearly killed Sam. 

These are things he knows because he was told them secondhand. He read articles, watched news reports, listened to Sam shakily try to convince him that she was okay, really, just as he'd done to her a hundred times before. 

But the truth of the matter is this: he has no concrete memories of that week spent under Freakshow's thumb. He remembers warmth, and rightness, and glee. He remembers feeling a good so giddy it might be better than any description of any drug he's ever heard of. He knows the comedown was hard, and disorienting, and cold, and that he couldn't shake the ring of Freakshow's laughter in his ears for weeks. He knows that the majority of him hated every minute of not being himself. He knows that nine-tenths of him still feels a touch unclean in a way he doesn't know how to voice to Sam and Tucker, to know that he did those things without any semblance of self, and that last little part of him reveled in just... letting go. Running wild. In doing things for the fun of it and not caring at all about consequences, because what did consequences matter to a ghost?

There's a very, very tiny part of himself that wishes for the freedom of that feeling. Yoked and manacled in the sticky, impossible-to-resist way of magic, but free from the burdens of Danny Fenton. No expectations, no future, no what-ifs, no curfews, no algebra. Just Phantom. Just free to do whatever he pleases.

Skittishly he looks down at FentonWorks a thousand feet below, unsure if he's put enough distance between himself and the staff, unsure if he can trust his own thoughts yet. He doesn't know. He doesn't think there's any way to know for sure.

What should he do?

What can he do?

Just being within easy reach of the staff puts prickles all down his spine, numbs his hands and feet and tongue. He broke it. That's how he got free of Freakshow. He dropped it to save Sam because she was more important, and it broke, and now he's free. He's free. He is.

Maybe the orb-thing wasn't the source.

Maybe....

He doesn't know.

He can't let his parents keep it. That much he does know. If they figure out how to utilize it, even at a fraction of what Freakshow was capable of, then there'd be no winning. Phantom could barely fight it with Sam begging for her life right in front of him, and that was with a stranger at the reins. If his mom or dad told him to come down to the lab and lay down on an examination table....

He can't.

He can't.

What can he do?

His hip buzzes, so unexpected he drops twenty feet before catching himself with a yelp. His first instinct is that it's an attack, and he switches to Phantom and throws up a shield faster than thought, twisting around in the dark trying to find the source, trying to see who's coming for his throat next—

It's his phone. A text. That's all. No more, no less.

He changes back, not trusting his shaky hands with gloves on. It's from Jazz, asking where he's at. He calls her back, and she answers on the third ring.

"Hey, Danny," she says, relief audible in her voice. "Was there a ghost?"

"Uh-uh," he says. "Worse. Jazz, I—I need a favor."

"What was that? You broke up."

"Oh. Uh. Hang on." He drops hundreds and hundred of feet in free fall, watching the Ops Center racing up to meet him, all its floodlights swiveling round and round on automated patterns. He halts on a dime, far faster than any human could endure, and feels only an irritating tug on his bones as he swivels to find balance again. "Can you hear me now?"

"Yeah, that's better. What's up?"

He takes a deep breath. "I need a favor. A really, really big one."

[clubofinfo]

Expert: Paris, France, April 2017: Macron Unveils Assault on Workers’ Rights. Paris, France, December 2018: A potential worldwide insurgency of the working class starts in France as Yellow Vests occupy the streets. Some 75% of the French back the gilets jaunes. And this support has held up despite the violence.1 The French Yellow Vests Insurgency may or may not grow into a major threat to the established order; nobody knows for sure how it will play out. Nevertheless, the undertone has been obvious for some years. Once the world publicly recognized a division between the 1% and everybody else, the stage was set for flare-ups, like the Yellow Vest Insurgency movement, as tens of thousands of people dressed in bright yellow vests hit the streets. Why would tens of thousands of people wearing bright yellow vests, similar to roadside workers, hit the streets? Answer: They’re pissed off! And, where do tens of thousands of the yellow vests come from? In 2008 France passed a law requiring all motorists to have high-visibility vests in vehicles as a safety measure should the driver need to exit a vehicle on a roadside. Therefore, everybody with a vehicle in France has a yellow vest. It goes without saying that, over the past three decades, neoliberal globalization set the table for dissolution of the middle class as wages around the world collapsed into a SE Asian vortex of slave labor. This is the heart of the matter behind the Yellow Vest movement, albeit sparked by the Macron government’s new fuel taxes. This is also the biggest reason why a worldwide revolution of the working classes may actually happen, inclusive of pretty much everybody below the top 1% plus the upper-upper-middle-class. So far, repercussions have been potent on a worldwide basis. For example, retail stores in Cairo have been ordered by the police not to sell yellow vests. Egypt’s abusive dictator General Abdel Fattah al Sisi is looking over his shoulder at France where Yellow Vests have established a foothold that’s spreading like a house afire. Without doubt, governments are panicked over the prospect of radicalization of the international working class. In France, working class demands include social equality, wage increases, a halt of militarism, reinstituting the wealth tax, and the overthrow of unpopular governments, making Macron look an awful lot like a modern-day clone of Louis XVI (beheaded in 1793). Recently, Macron made some concessions to demands of the Yellow Vests. They’re not impressed! This time, however, is different. The gilets jaunes emerged from nowhere via social media. They are not the product of organized unions or political parties. Their structureless and leaderless nature makes them potent, volatile, and difficult for the police and government to handle. They do not follow the codified rules of protest. Their diverse demands range from an end to the eco-tax to the resignation of Mr. Macron – and even his replacement with a military general. And the government cannot find leaders willing to attend meetings.2 All of which describes the future of revolutionary activity throughout the world. It is seamlessly simple and frighteningly powerful. In Algeria, protestors donned yellow vests in response to a failing system, as family after family cannot afford the basics of life. In Tunisia, a new group called “Red Vests” issued a call for protests of a Tunisian political system that promotes “systematic impoverishment.” In Belgium, police violently cracked down on angry groups of Yellow Vests with similar demands. In Basra, Iraq Yellow Vests criticize widespread contamination of drinking water and poor city services and corruption under a NATO-backed neocolonial regime. Meanwhile, 243 miles away in Baghdad Yellow Vests hit the streets in sympathy. “Yellow Vest” has become a catchall for all of the grievances of working people. Indeed, this is how revolts commence in earnest. And, it is indicative of a world order that is edgy, angry, and ready for conflict with the first spark of ignition. The precursor for the present insurrection was identification of an elite class, or the 1%. Throughout history, revolutions aspire to confrontation once lines of division have been clearly drawn; e.g., the Boston Tea Party, or the fall of the Bastille, or today’s “One Percent,” which clearly divides the world into “haves” and “have-nots.” Certainly, the One Percent is one of the clearest, easiest targets of all time. Not only a clear division, but years of pent up anger magnifies when people know they’ve been screwed. Under Macron, for example, French subsidies for part-time jobs were slashed, housing aid for low-income people cut, and pension checks axed, as he repealed France’s wealth tax, meaning more goodies for the rich at the expense of everybody else. It doesn’t take an accountant to figure out that the working class ends up subsidizing the wealth tax cut. Furthermore, once people voice dissent in the streets, like the fuel tax revolt in France, magnification of many other issues come into sharp focus. For example, in France students have walked out of 200 schools to protest reforms to high-stakes baccalaureate exams and new higher-education admission procedures. And, university students are now protesting recent hikes in tuition. Four words, “Yellow Vests and One-Percent,” have converged in a firestorm of resentfulness of every inequity propagated by the utter failure of elite capitalistic globalism punctuated by its neoliberal tendencies. It’s as if the world has lost its way, directionless meandering that honors wealth creation but nothing else. Similar to the Arab Spring of 2010, minor events reverberate into major events, which may or may not explode into a massive revolution in protest of a capitalistic system that shamefully rewards the rich by preying on workers of the world. But, social media fights back. The discontent is all about austerity efforts; for example, Philip Alston, the UN Special Rapporteur on extreme poverty and human rights described the austerity policies in the UK as “punitive, mean spirited and callous… heading towards an alienated society made of dramatically disconnected groups, those living the high life and the very poor, relying on food banks even if in work.”3 Philip Alston’s study of austerity policies and consequences equally applies to major developed countries throughout the world, as “austerity” has been the order of the day in Turkey, Italy, Greece, France, Portugal, Spain, Ireland in large measure to satisfy the EU and IMF that their loans will be repaid. Oh, please! Still, revolutions take a long time to play out: The American Revolution, 1775-1783; the French Revolution, 1789-1799; the Chinese Communist Revolution, 1945-1950; the Cuban Revolution, 1953-1959; the Spring of Nations Revolutions of 1848-1852 against monarchies in Germany, France, Italy, and Austria. Revolutions start with a loss of decency. Today, the world is full of indecencies for the “working poor.” The Yellow Vest insurgency is only possible because of a failure of global capitalism to uplift the working class. Instead, it puts a boot on their necks. * “La République en Flammes”, The Economist, December 8-14, 2018. * Ibid. * “UN Special Rapporteur Makes damning Criticism of Austerity”, National Survivor User Network, November 2018. http://clubof.info/