#AU “Everything I think I Know it's just static on the radio ”

[taddymason]

Guys, only 5 days until DR part 2. Only 5 days to see Cole's kids and find out what the fuck happened to Jay.

Meanwhile here is a drawing of the bastards

They shouldn't be allowed to use guns.

[mr-cha-n]

Chapter One: How to Not Get Stabbed

Pairing: Lee Chan x reader

Genres: action, smut, angst, fluff, superhero AU

Warnings: violence (heavy), sexual content, penetration, mentions of death, profanities, drinking

Word Count: 22.2k

Summary: The peace of quiet of your garage is only broken by the hum of machines and clanking tools, and you like it that way - until a superhero crashes his car straight into your door.

The garage hums with the familiar sounds of clanking tools and low rock music playing from your dad’s old radio, its worn dials barely holding the station through the static. The air stinks of oil and metal, a mix of grease and gasoline lingering in the corners of the shop that reminds you of home. Rusted car parts and half-disassembled engines are scattered across workbenches in an organised chaos that only someone who spends hours here could understand.

Most of the time you spend in the shop is alone – you haven’t expanded enough to need to hire a second mechanic, although you’d been considering getting someone to do your telephone and books after you dropped the phone behind an engine block, trying to juggle too many things at once.

But, that’s how you like it. Being surrounded by machines and metal brings you far more contentment than interacting with your customers – a necessity, although often a frustrating one. The beautiful complexity of the mechanisms feels like creation in your hands, the ability to mend and perfect a power usually reserved for God alone.

Something about the surety of everything having its place, and knowing what that is, brings you a solace well needed in your grungy corner of life.

Your garage sits on the edge of the city, tucked in a dodgy part of town where most people would think twice about wandering after dark. It’s not unusual to see someone rush by with their hood up, or hear the occasional screech of tyres speeding away from something best left alone. Keeping to yourself is the chosen lifestyle here, and you are no stranger to the consequences of choosing to get involved.

Over the years, you’ve managed to build yourself a reputation – not just for your skill with a wrench, but for being a place where no one asks too many questions. You’ve seen all sorts roll past: street races, ex-cons, people looking for a little discretion. You don’t judge. As long as they respect the rules and pay their bill, you don’t pry into their business. It’s a system that keeps you afloat amongst an unforgiving landscape. Every time you flip the newspaper over to see another store shot up or looted, you feel even less obliged to know anything about your customers.

But, peace and quiet is never-lasting.

You’re stuck at the bottom of a lifted car, trying to wrestle a stubborn bolt loose from the undercarriage as the high-pitched squeal of your doorbell rings out through the shop. Your hands, slick with oil, slip on the wrench and you mutter a curse under your breath.

Heavy bootsteps lumber into the shop, stopping a few feet away next to your squat wooden desk.

Finally, with a grunt of effort, the bolt loosens. It comes free with a satisfying click, and you slide out from under the car, swiping your forehead with the back of your hand. You wipe your hands on a rag, and take a quick glance out toward the street, taking in the dark, rusty tone of the early evening sky.

“How’s she lookin’?” A familiar, gravelly tone calls out towards you.

A lopsided smile crackles over your lips as you tilt your head with a small shrug, your gaze finally locking with the customer. “She’s looked better – but I think you already knew that.” The car is an old classic, its parts worn and rusted like they haven’t seen a proper tune-up in years.

Mr Corallo lets out a huff of laughter. His arms cross together over his broad chest, revealing a snake tattoo on his lower left forearm – a reminder to everyone of who he is loyal to, and who protects him. “Yeah, alright. And you’ve got a cure, doc?”

“Give me a few days and she’ll be as good as new.” You tap the hood of the car lightly with your fingertips, wiping off a speck of oil that had dripped from your shirt.

Mr Corallo nods, pulling an envelope from his jeans’ back pocket. “Half now, half later, right?”

You give a small hum of agreement, walking around to wash your hands of the oil.

"Mr Scott thanks you for your business," Mr Corallo says, throwing the envelope down. The corners of his mouth curl up, revealing just a hint of teeth, and his eyes gleam with a dangerous glint, revelling in the uncomfortable shift in the air at the namedrop of Mr Scott.

“Always a pleasure.” You reply with a tight-lipped smile. The invocation of Mr Scott bothered you less than it would others, but he wasn’t a person you wanted to be associated too greatly with your garage. The ‘lawyer’ has a reputation for criminal activity more well-known than any of his actual court cases, and you’ve seen the evidence of his anger splattered across the Lower South Rim back alleys. But, like many of your seedier customers, his business kept your shop out of harm’s way, and so you could get over his more displeasing mannerisms.

“Oh, hey-” Just as you think he’s gone, Mr Corallo turns around one more time, his gait falling to a stop with one hand on the doorknob. “-you haven’t happened to see or hear anything about that incident at Brewer’s Quarter, have ya? Mr Scott’s been interested in finding out more about what went down.”

You pause, drying your hands on the towel, careful to keep your expression neutral. The incident at Brewer’s Quarter had been all over the news – a warehouse fire, but not of the accidental variety. Word on the street was that it had been a targeted hit, a gang skirmish that went too far. Brewer's Quarter is just a few blocks over, close enough to your shop that you’d heard the sirens blaring late into the night.

You hadn’t seen anything, not directly at least. Of course, there was that incident with the car, but you aren’t sure that had anything to do with the fire…

It was the early hours of the morning, police had scattered, the fire had been put out, and anyone involved was long clear of the area. You were walking back from the shop, having had a late night trying to sort out your accounts for the last month – a job that required at least two glasses of whiskey to get through it.

You didn’t tend to stay late at the garage often, and the prospect of walking around these streets late wasn’t one that sat well with anyone who knew them. But there was a shortcut to your apartment through the old dump on 64th that cut down your journey to a five-minute run, if needed.

The night air had been cool, the kind of eerie silence that clung to the aftermath of violence. You had been walking quickly, your hands shoved deep into your pockets, eyes darting around out of habit. The whiskey buzz had made the shadows seem a little more sinister than usual, but you were steady enough on your feet.

You’d first noticed something odd when you’d reached the outer chain-link fence cornering off the dump – a faint, metallic glint, barely visible in the low light. At first, you’d assumed it was just junk, another rusted-out shell of a car left to rot. But, as you got closer, you could see the car was too new for this area, and wrecked – badly wrecked.

Instinct told you to keep moving; this kind of thing usually spelt trouble. But something about the car had caught your eye, something familiar. The lines of it were sleek, too well-crafted to be an average street racer.

You had crouched down, running your hand over the dented hood, feeling the grooves where it had clearly taken some kind of brutal impact. The whole front end was smashed in, the windshield cracked and splintered like a spider web. There were scorch marks, too, as if the car had been through a fire.

Either this car’s owner was involved in some dodgy business, or he was a terrible driver.

And then you had seen it – the unmistakable emblem, barely visible through the soot and grime. The flaming star, the symbol of the Red Comet. For the past two years, you’d seen headline after headline regaling how the Red Comet had saved the city once again, always seemingly one step ahead of the people who threatened to tear it apart. You know hardly anything about the superhero, although apparently nobody does. Even his name is a phantasm of the media, given in the aftermath of his first appearance which happened to be on the day that a red comet streaked through the sky. And this was his car.

Your heart had skipped a beat. What the hell was it doing here, and in this state?

You knew you should have walked away. But something in you just couldn’t. Maybe it was curiosity, or maybe it was the whiskey making you bolder than you usually were, but you couldn’t just let the car sit there. Maybe, it was your way of giving something back to the hero who’d saved the city time and time again.

After making sure that no one was watching, you’d decided to tow it back to the garage. You’d covered it up, keeping it out of sight, hoping that no one would come looking for it. For the next few nights, you’d worked on it in secret. The damage was extensive, but you’d seen worse. Underneath the mangled metal and burned parts, the car was a marvel of engineering. You’d never worked on anything like it before – high-tech gadgets, reinforced steel, the king of stuff you only saw in movies. Every time you popped the hood, it felt like uncovering another layer of mystery.

Some of the damage seemed aeons old – definitely not the product of its latest encounter. The craftsmanship suggested that its owner knew his way around the car, but the lasting injuries let you know that he wasn’t a trained mechanic.

You only left one trace of your involvement – a small note, scribbled on a scrap of paper and tucked neatly in the wheel well. It simply read: ‘Fixed her up. No charge. -M.’

You figured if the Red Comet ever came back for the car, they’d know someone had taken care of it. You hoped that the note would calm their suspicions of foul play...

“Nope,” you reply to Mr Corallo, your tone light and steady. “I heard about it, like everyone else, but I was two drinks deep by the time I heard the sirens, and I wouldn’t have been able to get down the stairs even if I’d wanted to.”

Mr Corallo watches you closely for a moment, trying to gauge whether you’re telling the truth. You’re good at this game, though; slipping in half-truths to conceal the true extent of your knowledge.

“Smart,” he says after a beat, the tension in his stance easing just a bit as he releases the door handle. “Wouldn’t want you getting in the middle of anything … unpleasant.”

He flashes a grin, but there’s a hint of warning behind it. You match his smile, though it doesn’t quite reach your eyes. With that, he finally turns and makes his way toward the door, his boots scuffing the concrete floor. You let out a slow breath, the tension in your shoulders easing ever so slightly as he steps outside. But just before he leaves, he calls back over his shoulder one last time.

"And if you do hear anything… well, you know where to find us."

The door closes with a soft click, and the garage is silent again, save for the low hum of the radio.

Every bone in Lee Chan’s body aches, and he’s surprised his skin hasn’t turned green and blue all over. Any little move hurts – and that’s with days of much-needed recuperation. Groaning as he pulls himself up out of bed, he looks down to inspect the damage. A few cuts, scrapes, and bruises, and a particularly nasty swipe along his left thigh that has begun to scab over.

Chan winces as he gingerly presses his hand against the cut, the sting reminding him of just how close things had gotten. It had been a mess – a confrontation with Tempest as the Brewery Quarter. The whole thing had escalated far faster than he’d anticipated. What should have been a routine patrol had turned into a disaster as Tempest decided to unleash a barrage of electrical blasts, wrecking half the district in the process.

The fight is a blur now, fragments of shattered glass and the acrid scent of smoke lingering in his memory. He’d been so focused on taking Tempest down that he hadn’t fully realized how much damage he had taken in the process.

In the end, it was brute force and desperation that won out. He had managed to hold up the building just long enough to knock Tempest off balance, forcing the villain into retreat. But victory had been fleeting. Tempest had disappeared in the chaos, vanishing before Chan could deliver a final blow. By the time the authorities arrived, Tempest was gone, leaving behind only destruction and debris, and Chan had barely made it out himself, collapsing in a nearby alley as sirens blared in the distance. He’d limped home under cover of darkness, his mask barely shielding him from prying eyes.

A low groan escapes him as he stretches. He limps over to the bathroom, catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He looks like hell—his skin is pale, dark circles linger under his eyes, and the bruises that cover his torso are turning an ugly shade of purple. He splashes some cold water on his face, trying to wash away the fatigue, but it doesn’t do much. His body is spent.

God, he needs a hobby.

A small laugh ripples through him at the thought, getting stuck painfully in his scratchy throat. Seungkwan had told him just as much last week when they finally had time to hang out. 

"You're not talking to enough people," He'd said, and he'd been right - Chan has hardly talked to anyone as himself in days. Making quippy remarks and telling people to get out of the way isn't quite the same as having a proper conversation with a friend.

Chan towels his face and stumbles into the kitchen, brewing a pot of coffee while his mind drifts. Maybe a hobby wouldn’t even help. Maybe what he really needs is to let go of the whole hero thing, at least a little. Being the Red Comet 24/7 is exhausting, and lately, it feels like it is swallowing him whole, leaving nothing for himself.

The coffee smells good, but Chan's stomach twists at the idea of caffeine. He sits at the kitchen table, cradling the warm mug in his hands but not drinking, staring blankly out the window. He can’t help but wonder if next time he’ll be able to handle it. Tempest is growing stronger, more reckless, and each encounter is becoming more dangerous. He doesn’t know how long he can keep doing this, how many more nights his body can take the punishment.

I have to get ahead of this, he thinks, rubbing the back of his neck. Figure out where Tempest is hiding before he strikes again.

The thought of rest is tempting, but he knows there is no time for that. Not with Tempest still out there, licking his wounds and plotting his next move. Chan glances at the clock. Morning is just creeping in, but his mind is already racing through the next steps - tracking Tempest, preparing his gear, and finding his car.

The nagging feeling of unfinished business crawls under his skin. Chan hadn't had time to think about it amidst the chaos of fighting Tempest. His ride had been totalled - again - and left behind in the fray.

He stumbles over to his laptop, ignoring the stabbing pain in his thigh, and pulls up the city's traffic cams. His fingers clumsily tap at the keys as he rewinds footage from last night, scanning for any sign of the car. He remembers the last place he'd seen it—by the Brewery Quarter, just before Tempest had thrown him through a storefront.

The footage shows chaos: explosions, debris flying, panicked civilians running. For a moment, it’s overwhelming—too much movement, too much destruction—but then he spots it. His car, smashed and smoking, left abandoned next to the dump.

His stomach twists as the camera catches something else: a tow truck pulling up beside it. But not a city truck. The logo is fuzzy, and there’s something strange about the way the driver moves—hurried, almost too careful for a standard recovery job. The truck hooks up his wrecked car and drives off, disappearing into the shadows of the industrial district.

"Who the hell…?" Chan mutters to himself.

His heart races as he shuts the laptop. If he’s lucky, whoever has the car just wants to strip it for parts. If he’s not, well… there are people out there who would pay a fortune for the tech inside that car. And some who’d use it for much worse.

He forces himself up, grabs his jacket, and heads out the door, ignoring the protest from his still-aching body. He knows the industrial district well enough to navigate it, even in his current state. If the car was taken there, it shouldn’t be too hard to track down.

The sun is starting to set by the time he reaches the dingy outskirts of the industrial district. This part of the city is a graveyard of old factories and warehouses, the kind of place where no one asks questions. Chan walks down the narrow streets, scanning every alley and garage for a sign of his car.

Turning the corner to the large, decrepit dump, the first thing that hits him is the overwhelming stench of rust and decay. The place is a sprawling mess of discarded metal, twisted scrap, and a mountain of broken-down machinery.

But, there it is. Chan immediately spots his car nestled between two towering heaps of rusted junk. The sleek frame, now only slightly dented, stands out against the twisted metal and debris.

As he gets closer, he notices that the car’s exterior, though damaged, has been worked on. The front end, which had been complete wreck, is now at least partially repaired. Fresh metal panels have been welded on and the wiring had had once been exposed in neatly tucked away. Someone’s been fixing it.

Chan’s mind races. Who would do this? And why?

As he begins inspecting the car, he notices a small white flap peaking out from the front-left wheel well. He's been in one too many fights to trust that pulling it out won't immediately blow him and the car up, but curiosity gets the better of him. Pulling a glove out of his backpack and creating a small blast shield from a nearby sheet of scrap metal, Chan takes a deep breath, positioning himself cautiously as he reaches out. 

Carefully, he pulls the note free. Nothing explodes, nothing clicks ominously. The paper is crumpled and worn, as if it’s been shoved in the wheel well in a hurry. Chan straightens, exhaling the breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding, and unfolds it with cautious fingers.

''Fixed her up. No charge. -M.'

Chan stares at the note, his mind racing. It still feels like a trap to him, but nothing about this situation makes sense. The repairs, the hidden note—it’s too deliberate to be a coincidence, yet not malicious enough to feel like a typical setup. Whoever M is, they didn’t just stumble upon his car. They knew exactly who it belonged to, and for some reason, they’d chosen to help. The fact that the repairs are real, tangible, and expertly done is a gesture of… what? Trust? A warning? He can’t decide.

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. The car is functional—enough to get him back on the road, at least. 

Sliding into the driver’s seat, Chan checks the dashboard. The wiring looks as pristine as ever, the engine hums quietly when he turns the key, and though the car still bears the scars of its encounter with Tempest, it’s ready to move.

Pulling out of the dump, he glances into the rearview mirror, half-expecting someone to step out from the shadows and reveal themselves. But the place stays still, abandoned, as the setting sun casts long shadows over the heaps of twisted metal.

Between the note, the footage, and the repairs, he's got enough to work out who this mysterious mechanic is, and what they want.

It’s about 11 pm, two weeks after you finished fixing up Mr Scott’s car, that you hear the crash.

The sound is unmistakable – the sharp screech of something heavy colliding with metal, followed by the distinct echo of glass shattering. The garage rattles slightly from the impact, and you pause mid-wrench, heart immediately kicking into overdrive.

What the hell was that?

You set down the wrench gently, wiping your hands as you strain to listen for any other signs of disturbance. The city is loud, but the crash came from too close – maybe just outside the garage. You mind runs through a quick list of possibilities: a car accident? A break-in? Something more sinister?

Instinct kicks in, and you head toward the door cautiously, flipping off the lights in the main work area to stay hidden in the shadows.

As you edge closer to the garage door, you hear another sound—a low, metallic groan followed by the clank of something heavy being dragged. There’s movement outside, slow and deliberate. You risk a glance through the small window in the side door and immediately spot the source.

There, just outside the window, the sleek black car that you fixed up all those days ago sits awkwardly on the side of the road, the front end crumpled around a streetlamp. The driver’s side door is hanging off its hinges. Standing next to the wreckage is a figure – tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a long coat, their silhouette barely visible in the dim streetlight. They seem to be inspecting the damage, unfazed by the mess.

But there’s something off about the way they move, something too calm for someone who’s just been in a crash.

As the figure leans around the edge of the unhinged door, peering inside of the car, you realise that that’s because they are not the one who was in the crash.

Grabbing a heavier tool from the nearby workbench, you edge towards your door, heart pounding.

The figure straightens and, as if sensing your presence, slowly turns toward the garage. Even in the dim light, you can see their eyes – cold, calculating. The figure doesn’t move for a moment, just staring, and you can’t tell if they’re sizing you up or deciding whether you’re a threat.

Finally, the figure steps forward, their footsteps slow and deliberate as they close the distance to the garage door. You brace yourself, unsure if you’re about to get a question or a fight.

Then, you see something rustle from the corner of your eye. A blur, barely visible in the darkness, moves faster than you can register. One second, the mysterious figure is advancing towards the garage door, and the next, they're violently thrown back into the wreckage of the car. The sound of impact echoes through the night - metal crunching, glass shattering anew.

You blink, your heart pounding in your chest as you try to make sense of what just happened. From the shadows, another figure emerges, slightly hunched, moving with a combination of grace and exhaustion. The way they move—the fluidity of it—immediately gives them away. It’s him. The Red Comet.

He stumbles slightly, but regains his balance, turning toward the crumpled figure near the car. You can see the strain in his posture, the way his breathing is laboured. He’s injured.

The man in the long coat struggles to his feet, groaning as he wipes a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth. “You think you’re so clever, don’t you?” the figure sneers, pulling something from the inside of his coat. A gleam of silver flashes in the dim light.

Before you can react, the man lunges, moving with startling speed, the blade aimed straight for the superhero. You want to shout, to warn him, but it all happens too fast. The Red Comet dodges, just barely, the blade slicing through the fabric of his suit as he twists to the side. But even though he avoids a fatal blow, the movement causes him to stagger, his injuries slowing him down.

The mysterious figure presses the attack, slashing again and again with precision and fury. The Red Comet blocks and counters, but it’s clear he’s at a disadvantage. You grip the wrench tighter, your knuckles white, debating whether to rush in or stay hidden.

Before you can make your decision, the Red Comet manages to disarm the man with a swift kick, sending the blade clattering to the ground. The figure growls in frustration, throwing a wild punch, but the Red Comet catches his arm and twists, throwing him hard into the side of the car. There’s a sickening crunch as the man’s body slams into the metal, and he falls to the ground, unconscious.

For a moment there’s silence. The only sound is the superhero’s ragged breathing as he stands over the fallen figure. His shoulders heave, and you can tell that every movement is causing him pain.

Then, without warning, his knees buckle, and he collapses to the ground.

“Shit,” you mutter, your body moving before your mind has fully caught up. You drop the wrench and rush toward him, your pulse racing. He’s still conscious, but barely. Up close, you can see the gash across his side, blood seeping through the torn fabric of his suit.

“Hey, hey—stay with me,” you say, kneeling beside him, your voice low but urgent.

The Red Comet’s masked face tilts towards you, his breathing shallow as he tries to sit up. “I’m … fine,” he manages to rasp, though the wince that follows tells you otherwise.

“Yeah, sure. You look like you’re just peachy,” you mutter, glancing at the wreckage around you. “Come on, let’s get you inside before someone else shows up.”

He nods, clearly too exhausted to argue. With some effort, you manage to help him to his feet, guiding him toward the garage. He leans heavily on you, his weight almost too much to bear, but you grit your teeth and push forward. You’re not sure how much time you have before the figure wakes up—or if they’ll wake up at all—but right now, your focus is getting the superhero somewhere safe and outside of foreign eyes.

You heave him onto your makeshift cot, the one you use when you decide to stay in the garage overnight. He groans as he lies back, and you can see the toll the fight has taken on him now under the garage lights – bruises, cuts, and that deep slash across his side that’s still bleeding.

"I'm going to grab a first aid kit," you say, your tone more commanding now that the adrenaline is kicking in. "Don't move."

He doesn't seem to be in any state to do so anyway.

You grab the kit and hurry back, your hands surprisingly steady as you kneel beside him. "Alright, I'm going to have to cut the side of your shirt away." You say, looking up at the masked face for confirmation. But, nothing comes. Moving forward, you realise that he's completely out cold, his breathing shallower than it should be. You know you need to patch up the wound before he loses too much blood.

Taking care to avoid causing more harm, you gently cut away the fabric of his suit. The fabric peels back to reveal the deep gash along his side—angry and red, still oozing blood. Your heart pounds, but your hands remain steady. You’ve dealt with injuries before - though, usually your own.

Working quickly, you clean the wound, wincing as you realise how deep it really is. This isn’t good. The gash will need stitches, but there’s no time for that now. You press a gauze pad against the wound to stem the bleeding, your mind racing.

"Stay with me," you mutter under your breath, wrapping a bandage tightly around his torso to hold the gauze in place. "I’m not letting you die on my cot."

Once the wound is secure, you check his pulse—faint, but there. The man’s been through hell, and whatever fight he was in tonight clearly pushed him to the brink. You can’t help but wonder how often this happens. How many times has he barely made it out alive?

You glance up at his masked face, wondering who exactly is lying before you. There’s the urge to check, the man completely vulnerable to you, but you think better of it. What would be the point of knowing anyway? It would just bring you more trouble.

You sit back on your heels, a shaky sigh of disbelief exiting your body. For now, he seems stable, but you know he’ll need more help than you can provide tonight. In the morning, you’ll redress the wounds and take him over to a hospital, if he wants.

You grab two blankets from underneath your desk, draping one over the suited man. Dropping a spare pillow down on the floor beside him, you make sure that you’re close enough that you’ll wake up if his condition gets dramatically worse. The floor is cold and hard, but the exhaustion hits you as the adrenaline drains from your body, and you fall into a dreamless sleep, your mind still half-occupied with thoughts of the masked hero bleeding out in your garage.

It takes Chan a whole minute after waking up to work out where he is. All of his instincts tell him to run, to get out quickly and quietly before anyone finds him, but the pain in his torso when he squeaks even an inch is enough to keep him bedbound.

Touching his hand to the wound, he feels the soaked-through gauze. That’s going to need replacing.

His hands trail up, confused at the suffocating stuffiness that labours his face. He quickly notes the cause – his mask is still on. You didn’t take it off last night, and he’s suddenly very grateful for the stuffiness.

Twisting his head to the side, careful not to strain himself any more than necessary, he spots you.

You’re slumbering next to him, your back crooked at an awkward angle from sleeping on the floor. Oil and grease still stain your skin and shirt, the liquids mixing with a darker substance – his blood – on your hands and wrists.

Chan can barely recollect what happened last night. He remembers being chased down, and not knowing where to go. He remembers typing something in the navigation pad and your shop being the first thing to come up. He remembers getting stabbed, you helping him in here, and nothing more.

Letting out a small sigh, he can’t believe that he actually came here. It was a reckless move that not only relied on an unknown person’s charity, but also put you in danger. It had been stupid and, more than that, selfish.

Yet, he’d made the right call. Anyone else could have left him to bleed out on the sidewalk, shut up their doors and windows and ignored him entirely. But you’d helped him, patched him up, and given up your bed to allow him to rest.

Chan isn’t sure the last time someone else had done so much for him.

A low groan escapes his lips as he tries to adjust himself slightly, wincing from the sharp pain that shoots through his torso. He catches his breath, forcing himself to stay still, even though every fibre of his being wants to push through the pain and figure out what to do next.

"Alright, Chan, just move carefully," he mutters under his breath, trying to psych himself up. Gritting his teeth, he gently pulls himself into a sitting position, groaning as the movement aggravates his injury. Every breath feels like fire in his ribs.

Before he can do much else, you stir slightly, blinking groggily as you wake. You stretch your arms and rub your eyes, clearly disoriented. It takes you a second to remember where you are, and then your gaze locks onto Chan.

"You're awake," you mumble, pushing yourself off the floor with a grunt. "And sitting up? That’s ambitious."

Chan gives a half-hearted chuckle, though it turns into more of a pained exhale. "Yeah, well, I thought I’d try not to bleed all over your place anymore."

You shake your head, already reaching for the first aid kit on the nearby table. "You should’ve woken me up. That wound needs fresh bandages."

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” he replies, feeling overwhelmed by your instinct to help. “You’ve done enough already.”

You pause, glancing at him as you grab the supplies. The look in your eyes makes him feel like a child again, shivering at the intensity of your gaze. “You must be my worst patient – the cars never try to leave in the middle of being fixed.”

Chan watches you work as you kneel beside him, carefully unwrapping the soaked gauze. Your movements are precise, steady, but there’s a certain gentleness there too. It strikes him how unphased you are by all of this. He shivers as your hands ghost over his obliques, careful not to irritate the damaged tissues. 

As the gauze comes off, you let out a little hum of confusion, tilting your head. Chan looks down, and understands your surprise. The cut, which had been deep and angry last night, is now scarred and blistering, not fully healed but significantly better than it should be.

You pull back slightly, your brows furrowing in confusion. “I’m no doctor, but that’s not normal,” you murmur, eyes flicking between him and the nearly healed wound.

Chan shifts uncomfortably under your gaze, trying to come up with a reasonable explanation. He’s always kept his abilities under wraps, never letting anyone else get close enough to notice the odd things that happen to his body – especially when he’s injured. But here you are, kneeling beside him, piecing things together faster than he’s ready for.

“Yeah … it’s … complicated,” he stutters. “I heal quickly. Doesn’t help much with the pain, though.”

You blink at him, clearly processing what you’re seeing. “So this is … normal for you?”

Chan shrugs, wincing as the motion pulls at his side. “Sort of. Part of the whole... superhero thing.”

Your eyes narrow a bit, but you don’t press him. Instead, you shake your head and return to reapplying fresh gauze. “Well, whatever’s going on, it’s saving me a lot of work,” you joke, though your voice is tinged with curiosity.

He lets out a low chuckle, though there’s still tension in his voice. “I guess so.”

When you’re done, you sit back on your heels and meet his gaze. “You really should rest more,” you say softly, the concern in your voice genuine. “Even if you heal fast, pushing yourself like this is ... well, it's a bad idea.”

Chan nods, knowing you’re right but unwilling to admit just how much he’s been pushing himself. “I’ll try,” he says, offering a half-smile.

“Good,” you reply, standing up and brushing the dust off your knees. “And when you’re ready, maybe you can tell me more about what’s going on."

He looks at you, the weight of the situation bearing down on him. The last thing he needs is to bring someone else into his mess, but after crashing (literally) on your doorstep and bleeding all over your floor, he supposes that he probably owes you some explanation.

"Yeah," he murmurs, "I can do that."

You seem satisfied, and start to walk back over to your desk, pulling out a rusty, old kettle and a bottle of long-life milk. After a moment, you notice him looking at you, and quirk an eyebrow. "Still awake?"

A small laugh reverberates through his chest as he feels himself being pulled back into the darkness of slumber. 

By the time that the superhero reawakens, you’ve achieved a number of things. After making yourself a cup of very strong coffee, tidying up your sleeping nest, and checking that he’s still alive, you descended into a deep panic, and then you solved it.

The events of last night had been freaky, although it isn’t unusual for crashes or violence to populate your area. But something about the way that man had moved, the look in his eye, had put you on edge. And now, you have a banged-up superhero sleeping in your garage, who can apparently heal himself at an extraordinary rate. The whole situation feels like being dragged into something you don’t understand or have the ability to deal with.

The one thing you are certain of, however, is that you feel better for helping him.

The weariness in his voice, the untrusting flinch of his body – it all spoke to a man who knew loneliness as well as you did. And even if he could have survived without your help, there is a level of satisfaction in knowing that you’ve done something for someone else; someone who isn’t a crime boss or gang leader.

After deciding that you’d actually dragged yourself into this mess, and that you had to stick with your decision, you felt a level of calm.

You’d spent the morning repairing the Red Comet’s car for the second time, wincing every time you saw your previous alterations damaged by the impact of last night. The collision with the lamppost had been particularly harmful to the car, and you realise that you’re going to need access to the superhero’s technology to be able to have a chance at fixing the complex mechanisms fitted under the hood.

By midday, the Red Comet stirs again. For a moment, as he reorientates himself, you sit in comfortable silence, the noise of the city outside barely filtering in. It feels a little odd to have someone else here. Usually, the garage is your sanctuary – your place to escape everything and everyone. Yet, having him here, even in his battered state, doesn’t feel like an intrusion.

Eventually, he breaks the silence. “I, uh … I guess I owe you an explanation.” His voice is rough, although less than it had been this morning, and it has a softer quality to it that you aren’t expecting.

You nod but keep quiet, letting him decide when to speak.

“I don’t normally ask for help,” he admits. “But I didn’t really have a choice last night.”

You watch him carefully. There’s something raw about him, something that feels more human than the stories you’ve heard. Right now, he’s not really a superhero – he’s a man, wounded, worn out, and trying to hold it all together.

“Well, you found the right place,” you reply, keeping your tone light. “I guess you found my note?”

His head snaps up, and although you can’t see his expression well through the mask, you think that he looks a little shocked. His gaze darts over to the car, now suspended in the garage, and back over to you.

“I did,” he nods, holding back from telling you too much.

When he doesn’t say any more, you sigh, wringing out your frustrations on a damp cloth. “Look, I know you probably just want to leave. I also know that I’m basically a stranger to you. So, I’m not going to force you to tell me more than you want to. But, some guarantee that this isn’t going to come down on my head would be appreciated.”

His head falls slightly at your words, a tired sigh echoing through the room. “I – I can’t guarantee that. I shouldn’t have gotten you involved at all, but now you are, and I can’t promise that nothing will happen.”

You feel your heart drop a little as your concerns are confirmed. You know that what he’s saying is correct, and that you’d expected it, but it still strikes fear through you to hear it put so plainly.

Before you can say anything further, the Red Comet pushes himself up from the bed, wobbling onto his feet. This pushes you a little too far.

“Nope. Stop. You’re not going anywhere. You don’t have to tell me what’s going on, but I’m not going to let you limp out of here and collapse two blocks down.” You grimace, your voice forceful and commanding.

He looks surprised that you’re stopping him. A moment passes between you, tension thick in the air, as you wonder if he’s going to push past you anyway. You know that he’s far stronger than you, even in his weakened state, and that he could leave any time he wants to. But he sits back down, a breath of relief releasing as he takes the weight off of his feet.

Another moment passes and he looks back over to the car. “It’s pretty bad, right?”

You nod. “About the same as you, I’d say.”

The superhero huffs a laugh, but the sound is strained and weak.

“Look, there’s a sink over there with some towels, and I can leave some water and food out for you to eat. I’m just going to go over to the shop to grab some extra supplies for my first aid kit, but no one will see if you want to take off the mask and get some air.” You explain, pulling a bottle of water out of the mini fridge next to your sink.

He seems apprehensive, until you pull up a chair. “You can sit on this – don’t strain that cut any more than you need.”

With that, you march out of the garage, grateful for the fresh air yourself. You’re not sure if he’ll take up your offer, or if, by the time you get back, he’ll be gone again. Either way, it’ll be his choice.

 Two days later, your garage is still shut.

You’ve had to make far too many phone calls to concerned customers asking why the doors weren’t open when they’d driven by, and when you’d next be open. News of the crash had spread quickly around this part of town, and that has given you an easy cover for your current closure. The repairs needed after your shop front was damaged mixed with the emotional toll of the crash happening so close to you becomes the perfect excuse.

In reality, you and the Red Comet had been working on his car. After doing the basic repairs, the superhero had returned to his place and brought back the technology he used to supe up the vehicle, and you’d spiralled into mechanical heaven. The gadgets were like nothing you’d ever seen before, and your mind was spinning with ideas of other ways you could use them in your shop.

Every now and then, the Red Comet would slip some more details into the conversation, slowly letting you in on the knowledge of what is happening in the city, and the threats he’s currently trying to tide. But it is a slow process, and you are still more in the dark than in the light.

Nevertheless, you have to admit that you’ve enjoyed the company. Contrary to his first impression, the superhero is chatty, having opinions on everything from the condition of the city’s transportation infrastructure to the performance of the Southville Stormriders in the upcoming championship. As his body heals, his spirit follows in suit, becoming more lively with every conversation. He has the aura of a kid forced to grow up too quickly, but you can tell that whatever passion and zest for life got him into the superhero gig still exists within him.

And he’s funny, which shocked you at first. He makes you laugh in a way that you haven’t experienced since your father passed, and the joviality is much appreciated in contrast to the looming fear that someone’s out for you.

You still haven’t seen under the mask, although he came back in normal clothes – a white tank under a black jacket, dark jeans, and heavy boots. Today, his face has been hidden behind a balaclava and chunky vizor glasses.

You’re working on the undercarriage of his car, lying side by side beneath it. You hand him a wrench, the sound of metal scraping against metal filling the small space between you. The work is a little tedious, but satisfying, especially with the challenge of integrating his advanced tech back into the framework. It’s the kind of hands-on talk you’ve always loved.

“Pass me the torque wrench?” His voice is muffled by the balaclava, but you can hear the concentration in his tone.

You hand it over, your fingers brushing lightly against his gloved hand. It’s the closest you’ve been to him since this whole thing started, and there’s an odd comfort in the proximity. You’ve spent more time together in the last few days than you have with anyone in the past year, and the easy companionship is something you didn’t realise you were missing.

"It’s getting warm under here," he mutters after a while, loosening the final bolt on the undercarriage.

You glance at him and nod. The garage has become a furnace with the afternoon sun bearing down on the metal roof. Sweat is starting to bead on your forehead, and you can only imagine how hot it must be for him with the extra layers.

He shifts beneath the car and pulls off his jacket, tossing it aside. Beneath, the white tank top clings to his toned arms and chest, the fabric stained with grease. His arms are littered with scars – some fresh, some old. You try to focus on the work, but it’s hard to ignore the way his muscles flex as he reaches for the next tool.

"So, how exactly does this tech work?" you ask, trying to distract yourself and also genuinely curious. "It’s like nothing I’ve seen before."

He chuckles, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "It’s… complicated. But I can walk you through it if you want. It’s mostly about energy efficiency—getting more out of less, that kind of thing."

You raise an eyebrow. "Sounds useful. Ever thought about putting this stuff on the market? You could make a fortune."

His smile falters for a second, and he glances away. "Not really. There’s too much risk. The wrong people get their hands on this tech, and it could be dangerous."

You nod, understanding the weight of what he’s saying. "Fair enough," you say, going back to the bolts. "I guess we’ll just have to make sure it stays in the right hands, then."

His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer before he nods. "Yeah. We will."

For a while, the two of you work in comfortable silence, the steady rhythm of the tools and the soft hum of the city outside the garage filling the space. Every now and then, you share a joke or a story, the conversation easy and unhurried. You realize that, despite everything, this feels … normal.

The sun begins to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the garage. The temperature drops slightly, but the warmth of the day's work lingers in the air. You sit up, stretching your arms above your head, feeling the satisfying ache of a job well done.

"That should do it," you say, wiping your hands on a rag. "She’s ready to go."

You can see the balaclava shift as a grin appears on the superhero’s face. “Thanks. I couldn’t have done it without you.” There’s a sincerity to his voice that makes you feel like his words are about more than just the car.

“You probably could have,” you admit, with a teasing smile. You offer him a hand. “But I’m glad you didn’t.”

He takes your hand, his grip firm but not overpowering, and pulls himself to his feet. For a moment, as your hands connect through the gloves, you wonder what his life is like outside of this – what he does when he’s not saving the world or fighting villains. You wonder who it is behind that mask, and if he’s ever wanted a normal life, away from all of this.

But you don’t ask. You’re not sure you’re ready for those answers, if he would even be willing to give them. There’s something nice about the mystery – something comforting in not knowing everything.

"Drinks on me?" you offer, grabbing a couple of beers from the mini-fridge in the corner of the garage.

He hesitates for a second before nodding. "Yeah. That sounds good."

The two of you sit down, you on your makeshift bed and him on the hood of the car, facing opposite directions to allow him to drink comfortably. You take a sip of your beer, the cool liquid a welcome relief after the heat of the day. For a moment, everything feels still—quiet. Almost peaceful.

"Thanks for letting me lay low here," he says after a while, his voice sincere.

You have to stop yourself from glancing around at him, surprised at the weight in his tone. “Anytime. If you ever want to give up the superhero gig, I’d pay to have another set of hands around here.”

He chuckles softly, the low sound reverberating through you. “You wouldn’t want the business I’d bring.”

You shrug, a smile breaking across your face. “Eh, I’m not interested in what baggage you have. I’m really only about the money.”

A full, hearty laugh escapes him, and you feel warmed by the noise.  

“You know,” you say, leaning back onto your hands, “I’ve always wondered what it’s like. Being out there, doing what you do.”

He doesn’t answer right away, and for a moment, you think you’ve overstepped. But then he sighs, the sound heavy with the weight of a thousand unspoken thoughts.

“It’s complicated,” he finally says. “People think it’s all glory and heroics. A sort of celebrity lifestyle – free things, all the attention you could want, as friends or more. But most of the time it’s just … messy. You make decisions in the heat of the moment, and you hope you’re doing the right thing, but there’s always a cost, and sometimes, you don’t know if it was worth it until it’s too late.”

You feel your heartstrings tug at his answer. The idea of being a superhero always seems so black and white – good versus evil, right versus wrong. But you can see how every choice would have a consequence, and one that everyone else would have an opinion on. Given that, you admire that he’s stuck with it for so long.

“And I guess with your identity hidden you don’t get to reap those benefits very much.”

“Well…” He starts, and you can hear the grin in his voice. You let out a bark of laughter at the implication. “But actually, no, not really. Friends are a bit of a luxury when everyone you know is put in danger just by knowing you. The free doughnuts from Jupiter’s are pretty sweet though.”

“Ahh, a man with good taste,” you hum, nodding your head in agreement.

“I almost considered doing a sponsorship with them,” he chuckles.

“Do you ever wish you could just ... walk away from it all?” You ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it.

“Sometimes,” he answers, not seeming bothered. “But it’s not that simple. Once you’re in, you’re in. There’s always something more, someone else who needs saving. And if I’m not there to stop it … who will be?”

You nod to yourself, understanding the weight of that responsibility even if you’ve never carried it yourself. “That’s a hell of a burden for one person to bear.”

A beat passes before he responds. “It’s the life I chose. Or maybe it chose me. Either way, it’s mine.”

You’re about to respond when a sharp pinging sound cuts through the quiet. You spin round, confused at the origin of the noise, and see the Red Comet pull out a burner phone from his pocket, glancing down at the screen. The balaclava scrunches up as something in his face ticks.

“I’ve gotta go,” he says, standing up and moving towards the car door with one quick motion.

You feel the weight of your aloneness before he’s even left, but you just say: “Okay, be safe.”

The superhero stalls for a second, and you can feel his gaze lingering on you through the mask. Then, he nods a quick goodbye, dashing into the car and slipping into the night.

Your words have been echoing in Chan’s head all week.

Well, that whole conversation has. You’d asked him if he’d walk away from it all, and he had almost said yes. You’d asked him what it was like to be him, and he’d almost asked you if you wanted to find out. And you’d offered him something – a job, an escape, companionship.

Those are the words he’s thought the most about: ‘I’m not interested in what baggage you have’.

You’d said it so casually, like it was just part of the joke, but he’d felt it in his soul. The uninhibited acceptance of everything he is and has, the knowledge that a life around him could never be one of safety – it didn’t seem to matter to you.

It is that simplicity that tugs at him the most. You didn’t want anything from him, didn’t expect him to be more than what he is. And for someone who has lived his life under the pressure of constant expectations, that is a gift he hadn’t realised he’s been longing for.

When he’d woken up after that fight at the chemical factory, the night that he left you, the first thing he’d done was reach for his phone. For once, it wasn’t to check on the city’s news feed or get updates from the fiend. He hadn’t texted his informants or checked in with any of the underground sources he kept tabs on. Instead, he’d messaged Seungkwan.

He’d texted him out of the blue—no preamble, no explanation—just a simple: Hey, you free to hang out this week? It had been too long since he’d allowed himself to do something normal, something that didn’t involve running across rooftops or dodging bullets.

Seungkwan had responded almost immediately, and they’d planned to meet up at a quiet café on the edge of town.

Now, here, with his friend, Chan finally lets himself relax. As Seungkwan launches into another exaggerated story about his latest antics, Chan doesn’t once think about putting on the mask.

Seungkwan is mid-sentence, hands flying animatedly through the air as he recounts yet another ridiculous moment from his week.

"...and then I swear, the cat somehow managed to lock me out of my own apartment. I'm standing there, in the hallway, keys in hand, and all I can think is, 'Is this really my life now?'"

Chan can’t help but laugh – the kind of laughter that feels good, deep, and unburdened. He hadn’t realised how much he’d missed this, the simple joy of sitting across from a friend, talking about nothing and everything all at once.

Seungkwan grins, leaning back in his chair. “See, this is why you need me in your life, Chan. To remind you that no matter how crazy things get, at least you’re not getting outsmarted by a house cat."

Chan shakes his head, still chuckling. “Maybe if you let it outside once in a while, it wouldn’t hate you so much.”

His friend gasps, an overexaggerated, sprawling exclamation. “If you want him to get hit by a car and die, just say so.” Seungkwan crosses his arms in front of his chest, pouting out his lips.

“At least then you’ll be able to get inside your house,” Chan replies, unable to keep the smile off of his face at the horrified look that crosses his friend’s features.

“You’re incorrigible,” Seungkwan sulks.

There is a moment of comfortable silence between them, the kind that only comes from years of friendship. Seungkwan’s face softens into something more serious, a tender look in his eye.

“You’ve been busy,” he says. “I haven’t seen you in, what? A month? Two?”

“Something like that,” Chan admits, leaning back in his chair. “Things have been hectic.”

Seungkwan raises an eyebrow. “Hectic? I’m guessing that’s code for ‘I’ve been running myself into the ground again’?”

Chan grimaces. Seungkwan has always been able to read him like a book, even when he himself wasn’t sure how to explain things.

“You could say that,” He finally replies, his voice quieter now.

Seungkwan leans forward, his expression softening. "You know, you don’t always have to be ‘on,’ right? It’s okay to take a break every now and then. Hell, you deserve it more than anyone I know."

Chan sighs, running a hand through his hair. "It’s not that simple. There’s always something. And if I’m not there…"

"If you’re not there, the world won’t end," Seungkwan cuts in, his tone firm but kind. "You’re not a machine, Chan. You can’t keep going like this forever. At some point, you have to take care of yourself too."

Chan looks down at his hands, the weight of his friend’s words settling over him. It isn’t that he doesn’t know Seungkwan’s right—it’s that he doesn’t know how to stop. Being the Red Comet has become so much a part of who he is that the thought of walking away, even for a little while, feels impossible.

But then he thinks about you—about the quiet moments in your garage, the way you’d offered him something without asking for anything in return. And for the first time in a long time, he wonders if maybe, just maybe, there’s a way to find some balance.

“I met someone,” Chan blurts before he can stop himself.

Seungkwan’s eyebrows shoot up. "Oh? Now this is interesting."

“It’s not like that,” Chan says quickly, though he isn’t entirely sure what it is like. “It’s just … they’ve been helping me out. And they said something that’s been sticking with me.”

Seungkwan tilts his head, waiting for him to continue.

“They said they weren’t interested in my baggage,” Chan murmurs, almost bashful to say it too loudly. “Like it didn’t matter. Like I could just … be there without all the weight of everything else.”

Seungkwan leans back, crossing his arms. “Sounds like someone who just likes you for you.”

“Yeah,” Chan whispers, surprised by how much that realisation has hit him.

“And that scares the hell out of you, doesn’t it?” Seungkwan adds with a knowing smirk.

Chan can’t help but laugh softly, shaking his head. “I can’t drag anyone else into this – I feel bad enough that you know.”

Seungkwan’s smile softens. “Look, Chan, whoever this person is, they sound good for you. Don’t let that slip away because you’re too scared to let them in.”

He wants to push back, argue that you deserve better, it wouldn’t be safe, but the truth is that you’re already involved. That the shadow of the Red Comet had already eclipsed you and you’d embraced it. And that scares him more than anything else.

The garage is dim, the overhead lights casting long shadows across the tools and scattered car parts. The air smells of oil and metal, and Chan can hear the soft hum of the city outside – far enough away to feel distant but close enough that the noise never truly stops. He understands why you like this place so much.

Tonight, he’d come without the excuse of his car. He feels a little bit embarrassed that the thought of visiting you without a clear reason is making him so nervous, but if you suspected his real reason for being here, you didn’t let on.

Instead, he’s helping you with a different car, and you’re teaching him more basic repairs that he can do to his own vehicle when it inevitably gets scuffed up again. The implication is that then he’ll need to use your services less, but Chan’s far less interested in that.

You’re standing behind him, your hands resting over his, guiding him as he grips the wrench, showing him how to loosen a particularly stubborn bolt. “Here, let me show you. It’s all in the wrist.”

“Am I bad at this?” He asks, puzzled as the bolt doesn’t move despite the extra force he puts through it.

You chuckle, taking the wrench from him. “Bad? No. Just hopeless, I think.”

He laughs, watching you remove the rusted bolt, his gaze shifting between the tools in your hands and the subtle way your brow furrows when you’re focused.

“You’re awfully quiet tonight,” you say, pulling him out of his thoughts. “Usually I can’t get you to shut up about how I’m using the wrong size socket.”

Chan huffs a soft laugh at the absurd suggestion that he knows more about mechanics than you. You seem to have a way with the tools, the cars, the entire garage, that makes it all look effortless. There’s a confidence in the way you move, a fluidity to how you handle even the most rusted, stubborn parts, and Chan finds himself mesmerized by it. “I’m not always lecturing you.”

“Oh, please. I’ve had more mechanical critiques from you than my old boss did.”

He grins, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “Well, I’m just trying to make sure you don’t blow anything up.”

You tilt your head, narrowing your eyes playfully. “That sounds like a challenge.”

The low hum of the radio fills the quiet of the garage as you work. Suddenly, a voice crackles through the local news, catching your attention:

‘Another power outage struck the East Side last week, with authorities pointing to the recent attacks on the city’s power grid. Though no group has claimed responsibility, speculation points to the villain known as Tempest.’

Chan feels himself tightening a bolt with a little more force than necessary as the report continues:

‘Sources close to the investigation say the damage could take weeks to repair, and citizens are growing increasingly concerned about the city’s ability to handle these incidents. Vigilante Red Comet was spotted at the scene of the attack, but the damage seems to have eclipsed even his abilities.’

There’s a beat of silence as he grabs a wrench off of the bench, before setting it down with a sigh. “We should talk about it.”

You sit up, brushing your hands on your coveralls. “Tempest?” you reply, more softly now. He sits up too, his back against the car’s wheel, gaze distant.

“Yeah,” Chan replies, his voice dropping. “It’s getting worse. He’s not just causing chaos anymore. He’s targeting the city’s infrastructure. Power plans, grids, anything that’ll knock out a large portion of the city. The hit on the east side—it was a disaster. People are starting to panic.”

“Jesus. Why? What does he want?”

Chan runs a hand through his hair, frustration etched into every line of his face. “He’s … unstable. I think he just thrives on destruction. There’s no rhyme of reason with him. He’s got power, and he wants to show it. Or, at least, that’s how it’s always been with him. Recently, he’s felt more calculated, like there’s something new at play.”

You nod, your face thoughtful. “You think he’s working with someone else?”

“Maybe,” He shrugs. “I can think of a few people who would profit from issues with the city grid.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, and you look like you’ve just had a realisation. Chan’s fingers tap the metal beside him, his adrenaline shooting up at the suggestion of new information. “So can I.” You say, slowly getting up from your seat on the floor.

“I have a few regulars that come by the store, less than clean people, if I’m being honest. They don’t tend to bother me much, but recently Mr Scott’s people have been coming around more than usual, and they were asking about you.”

Chan's eyes narrow at the mention of Mr Scott. The tension in his jaw is unmistakable, and his fingers curl into a fist by his side. "Scott’s people have been around here? Asking about me?" His voice is low, dangerous. He doesn’t like that you’re in the middle of this, that you’re even saying the name of a man he’s been trying to avoid for as long as he can remember.

You nod, your expression cautious. “Yeah, it was subtle at first. Just questions about who comes in, what work I’ve been doing lately, but the last time they came, they dropped your name. They didn’t ask directly, but it was clear they were fishing for information.”

Chan’s breath hitches. He pushes himself up from the ground, pacing slightly, his mind racing. “That’s not good. Scott’s been trying to get a foothold in the city’s underbelly for years, but if he’s working with Tempest…” He trails off, the weight of the implication hanging in the air.

“And you? Where do you fit into all this? Why are they after you?”

His head hangs back, staring at the ceiling for a long moment. “I’m the only one standing between them and control. Tempest sees me as the only real threat to his chaos, and Scott... well, Scott doesn’t like people he can’t control. He’s offered deals, threatened me, tried to recruit me. But I’m too unpredictable for him.”

There’s a heaviness to his words that makes you pause. “So that’s it? They want you gone because you’re the last line of defence.”

He nods, eyes closed. “If I slip up, if I lose... the city falls apart.”

You let out a low whistle, trying to break the tension. “No pressure, then.”

Chan smiles faintly, but the weight of it is crushing him. “Yeah, no pressure.”

“You know,” you say, nudging his knee with your foot, “for a guy who spends his nights punching villains and saving the city, you’re pretty bad at explaining the whole ‘hero’ thing. No flashy speeches, no dramatic pauses. I’m almost disappointed.”

He snorts, feeling the pressure draining from his body, just slightly. “Yeah, well, I didn’t get the ‘how to be a superhero’ handbook.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Clearly. Maybe I should write it for you. Chapter one: How to Not Get Stabbed.”

Chan chuckles, the sound rough but genuine, and the tension eases. Your teasing banter cuts through the weight of everything, pulling him back to the present, away from the looming threats of Tempest and Scott. He looks at you, really looks at you, and there’s something about the way you’re sitting there, so calm and grounded despite everything he’s just told you, that makes his heart skip a beat.

He’s always admired your strength, the way you handle yourself in situations that would break most people. But now, sitting here with you, there’s something more—something deeper that he’s been trying to ignore for too long. The way your eyes light up when you tease him, the subtle curve of your smile as you try to lighten the mood, even though you know how dangerous things have become.

His chest tightens, a sense of longing creeping in before he can stop it. God, how did I let it get this far? He’s been trying so hard to keep you at arm’s length, to convince himself that this was just a friendship, that you were just a part of his life he could protect from a distance. But sitting here with you now, he can’t deny it anymore. He feels something—something strong, something that terrifies him.

“You know,” you continue, leaning back and giving him a grin that makes his heart race, “I’m thinking of starting a new side hustle – PR for superheroes. I can make you look all mysterious and broody, like the city’s very own shadowy protector.”

He shakes his head, trying to ignore the flutter in his chest. This is dangerous. Not the banter, not the situation with Scott or Tempest, but this—this closeness, this pull he feels toward you. He wants to reach out, to close the gap between you, to tell you what’s been gnawing at him for weeks. But the thought of dragging you deeper into his world stops him cold.

You have no idea how much danger you’re already in just by being near him. If Scott or Tempest found out how much you meant to him … the thought sends a wave of fear crashing over him. He can’t let that happen.

He feels you watching him, your smile fading slightly as you sense his inner turmoil. “Hey,” you say, your voice softer now, more serious. “You okay?”

Chan nods, forcing a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

But you don’t buy it. “You know, you can talk to me, right? You don’t always have to be the tough guy. I mean, I know you’ve got the whole hero complex thing going on, but I’m not going anywhere.”

He swallows hard, your words hitting him like a punch to the gut. I’m not going anywhere. That’s what scares him. Because the more you stay, the more you get involved, the harder it’ll be to keep you safe.

You are halfway through reorganising your toolbox when you hear it – a heavy, deliberate knock on the garage door. There’s something about it, the measured calm, that instantly raises your hackles. You look around, and realise that the noise of your work and the bright lights above your head are dead giveaways that you’re still in the garage.

It’s not long before the knock comes again, and you get the sense that the third time won’t be so polite.

Swearing under your breath, you straighten up, trying to look as menacing as possible. You walk towards your door, not bothering to temper the sound of your footsteps. Your boots make a deliberate, echoing thud with each step as the tension in the room increases.

You yank the door open, not wanting to give whoever’s on the other side the satisfaction of forcing their way in. Two hulking figures fill the frame, their shadows stretching ominously into the garage. Their suits strain at the shoulders, muscles rippling beneath as they size you up. The one in front leans in slightly, his eyes cold and calculating.

“(Y/n),” he drawls, his voice a low rumble. “We need to have a word.”

The sound of your name rolling off his tongue makes your stomach twist, but you keep your expression hard, unflinching. Crossing your arms, keeping your stance wide and shoulders square, you look up and down at the man. “Funny. I’m not in the business of chit-chat. What do you want?”

The response doesn’t seem to satisfy them, and the next thing you know, you’re being hoisted up, your arms and legs swinging around furiously as the two men move you inside the garage, placing you down your desk chair.

The edge of your chair digs into your back as they force you into the center of the room. For a moment, panic surges, your heart hammering in your chest. Your breaths come quick and shallow, but then you see him.

The man from the crash steps into the light, his coat swaying slightly with each step as his eyes bore into yours, and the sight of him makes your blood run cold. His smile is familiar, twisted with cruelty, and it sends a wave of nausea through you. The two goons stand like statues beside you, blocking any potential escape route. You force yourself to stay calm, but the icy grip of fear claws at your chest.

“It’s nice to see you again, (Y/n).” He says smoothly, his voice laced with mockery. “Didn’t think I’d be back so soon, but it seems you’ve gotten yourself mixed up in something … unfortunate, and Mr Scott doesn’t like his pets to disobey his orders.” He stops just in front of you, towering over where you sit, pinned by his presence.

You grit your teeth, struggling to keep your emotions in check. Rage simmers beneath the surface, but your heart is still racing. “If you’ve come for more trouble, you’re going to regret it,” you spit out, your voice sharp despite the tremor you feel inside. You flick your gaze toward the two muscle-bound men, wondering how quickly you can move if this gets ugly.

The man in the coat laughs, a sound that chills you to the bone. “Oh, I think it’s you who’s going to regret it, sweetheart.” He leans in closer, his breath brushing against your cheek. “You’ve made some... interesting friends lately. Friends like the Red Comet. And that’s got Mr. Scott very curious. He doesn’t like being curious.”

Your stomach drops.

“I fix cars,” you say flatly, keeping your eyes trained in front of you. “Whoever walks through that door looking for a tune-up isn’t my business. Now unless you’ve got something that needs fixing, get out of my shop.”

The man straightens up, his smile fading as he gestures to the two goons. “Search the place.” They don’t hesitate, immediately scattering toward your workbench and tool racks, tearing through the space without any regard for your belongings.

You try to keep your breathing steady, but your mind races. If they find anything – any trace of the tech that linked you to the Red Comet – it could be the end for you.

“Stop!” you shout, jerking forward, but the goon behind you grabs your arm, yanking you back into the chair. Pain lances through your shoulder, and you twist against his grip, muscles straining, but he’s too strong.

“You’ve made this harder than it had to be,” the man in the coat says, stepping forward, his voice a mockery of sympathy. “But all we need are answers. Tell us what we want, and we’ll leave you in one piece.”

Your pulse races as you glance around, weighing your options. The tools are scattered across the floor, too far to reach easily. You know how to fight, but outnumbered three to one, it’s going to be a challenge. The man in the coat watches you closely, as if waiting for you to make a move.

The sound of metal clattering to the floor grabs everyone’s attention. One of the goons has knocked over a pile of parts, and in the chaos, you see your opening. With every ounce of strength left in you, you twist, wrenching yourself free. The adrenaline surges, your muscles burning as you lunge toward the nearest workbench, your fingers closing around the heavy wrench.

The sickening crack of metal meeting bone echoes through the garage as you swing the wrench at the goon’s head. He stumbles back, cursing in pain, but there’s no time to hesitate. Your breath is ragged, each gasp like fire in your lungs, and you scramble to your feet, racing toward the door.

But before you can make it, the second goon blocks your path. His fist swings toward you, and you barely duck in time, the force of the hit grazing your shoulder. The pain is sharp, but you ignore it, bringing the wrench up again and slamming it into his midsection. He doubles over with a grunt.

Before you can make it to the door, though, the man in the coat grabs you by the wrist, twisting your arm painfully behind your back.

“You should’ve stayed out of this,” he snarls, his voice dripping with venom. His grip tightens, and you bite back a cry as the pressure mounts, your muscles screaming in protest.

Just as you think he’s about to slam you into the ground, the door bursts open with a crash. In a blur of motion, the Red Comet sprints into the room, his fists a flurry of movement as he takes down the first goon in seconds.

His eyes lock onto yours, fury blazing behind his mask, and in a split second, he’s on the man in the coat. With a swift, brutal motion, he grabs him by the collar, slamming him against the wall. The impact reverberates through the garage, shaking the shelves as tools rattle.

“If you ever touch them again,” the Red Comet growls, his voice low and dangerous, “you won’t be walking out of here.”

The man’s smug expression falters, but before he can respond, the Red Comet knocks him out with a single blow, the thud of his body hitting the ground echoing in the now silent room.

You collapse against the nearest wall, your breath ragged, your muscles trembling from the exertion. The garage is still, the only sound the pounding of your heartbeat in your ears. The Red Comet turns to you, concern replacing the fury that had been there just moments before.

“Are you okay?” His voice is filled with worry as he steps closer, his hands hovering over your shoulders like he’s afraid to touch you, afraid you might break.

You nod, still catching your breath, the weight of everything crashing down on you. “I’m fine,” you manage, though your voice is shaky.

He shakes his head. “This is my fault. I should have never come here.”

You reach out, resting your hand on his arm. The fabric is terse and warm, and you can feel that his muscles are still tense beneath it. “I’m not some damsel in distress. I can handle myself.”

His jaw tightens for a moment, but he nods. “Still,” he says softly, “I’m sorry.”

You stare at him, your chest tightening as the weight of the situation settles between you.

The strained cough of one of the men is a quick reminder that the situation is yet to be over. You glance around, feeling panic building as you try to figure out what to do before they wake back up. “Do you have, like, protocol for this kind of thing?”

The Red Comet nods, his posture straightening as he seems to shift back into superhero mode. “Leave them with me.”

You hesitate, your eyes scanning the room again. The unconscious bodies of Mr. Scott’s men lay sprawled across the floor, and despite the superhero’s calm demeanour, the tension in the air still feels thick and suffocating. You want to argue, to insist that you stay and help clean up the mess. After all, this is your garage—they came here because of you.

But then you look over at him. His shoulders are tense, his jaw clenched, but he seems more confident and sure of himself.

“I’ll be back,” you say, your voice softer than you intended. “Fifteen minutes.”

He nods, his gaze never leaving yours. You can see the gratitude there, mixed with something deeper—something unspoken. And as you turn to leave, your heart feels heavy with the weight of everything unsaid between you.

You step outside, closing the garage door behind you and leaning against it, trying to steady your breathing. Your mind is spinning, replaying the events of the last few minutes over and over.

Fifteen minutes pass like a blur, and when you finally open the door again, the men are gone. The garage looks almost untouched, only the scatter of a few tools out of place letting you know that the confrontation ever happened. And the Red Comet is standing there, his back to you, head bowed slightly as if weighed down by something.

“All okay?” You call softly, stepping inside. Your voice feels too loud against the stillness.

He doesn’t respond at first. The silence that follows feels thick, uncomfortable, as though it's hiding words he’s not ready to speak. Your heart pounds harder in the quiet. You move forward, feeling unsure, and reach out to him, grabbing his arm and guiding him to sit with you at the workbench. His surprise flickers for a moment, but he doesn’t resist your touch.

"I can’t keep doing this,” he finally breaks the silence, his voice sounding so broken that it hurts to hear. “I can’t keep pretending this doesn’t affect you. That being around me doesn’t put you in danger.”

Your breath catches. For a split second, doubt clouds your mind – am I making a mistake being involved in this?

But before the uncertainty can take hold, you push it away. You take his covered hand in yours. “I know what I’m getting into. I knew the risks when I fixed your car, and I know them now. And I’m still here, aren’t I?”

He exhales, shaking his head. “It’s different now. They know about you, and they almost hurt you.”

The words hang in the air between you, an admittance of the truth that feels too heavy. A cold chill runs through you, the fear creeping in despite your resolve. But hearing the despair in his voice—the way it trembles with guilt—makes you push past your own fear. Is it dangerous? Yes. But leaving him, letting him deal with this burden alone, feels worse.

Reaching out, you gently lift his chin so that he’s forced to look at you. A small, determined smile forms on your lips. “Hey, you may have saved the day, but I had it covered. Don’t underestimate my skill with a wrench.”

A choked, sob-like laugh leaves him, and his shoulders crumple slightly, releasing the bundle of stress he’d been holding.

“Look,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “You’re just going to have to accept that I’m involved now; there’s nothing stopping that. And I don’t want it to. You’re not getting rid of me even if you try.”

A beat passes, and you wonder if you’ve pushed too far. His posture is so still that you feel like you cannot move an inch either.

His hands are the first to move, slowly and a little shakily. When they reach the bottom of his mask, you realise what he’s trying to do.

In a flash, you pull your own hands back to cover your eyes, the instinct to respect his privacy taking over. “I’m sorry,” you blurt out, feeling awkward in the silence. “I didn’t mean for-”

“Don’t apologise,” His voice is softer now, more vulnerable. There’s a rawness you haven’t heard before, unfettered by material. You keep your hands over your eyes, and jolt slightly as you feel his own covering yours. His fingers wrap around delicately, and gently pull the cover away from you. “I want you to see me.”

Slowly, hesitantly, you open your eyes, your heart thudding in your chest.

When you look up, he’s there—entirely unmasked, fully exposed. Your lips part, and you instinctively reach out, your fingertips ghosting over his jawline. He lets you, his skin warm beneath your touch.

He’s beautiful, each feature perfectly balanced in its own way. But there’s something deeper in his eyes, a mix of concern, fear, and vulnerability that pulls at you. You can’t look away, and yet, you feel your attention drawn towards his soft, full lips.

For a moment, you just stare, processing the weight of what he’s just done. He’s standing in front of you, fully exposed, fully himself, no longer hidden behind the persona of the Red Comet.

And then you smile, a euphoric beam that lights up your face. The corners of his mouth perks up in response, slowly exposing his teeth and gums, and you realise that you’ve uncovered his most beautiful feature.

“I don’t deserve you,” he says quietly, as if he’s afraid of what you might think now that you’ve seen him. “You’re too good for this, for all the danger that comes with me.”

You shake your head, your grip on his hand tightening as you refuse to look away from him. “That’s not for you to decide. I choose to be here, with you. And we’re going to figure it out. Together.”

His eyes search yours, and for the first time, your see something break in him – something deep and guarded that’s been locked away from far too long.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he admits softly, his voice trembling. “I don’t think I could handle it.”

Your heart aches at the vulnerability in his words, and without thinking, you pull him into a hug. At first, he stiffens, like he’s not sure how to respond, but then, slowly, he wraps his arms around you, holding on tightly as if you’re the lifeline he didn’t know he needed.

“You won’t lose me,” you whisper into his shoulder, your voice steady despite the storm of emotions swirling inside you. “I’m right here.”

For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The garage is quiet, the world outside seeming to fade away as the two of you sit there, holding onto each other in the dim light.

When he finally pulls back, there’s a softness in his eyes. “My name’s Chan. Lee Chan. I’d like you to know that, too.”

Your heart swells, and your head tilts forward. “Thank you for trusting me.” You say, hoping your sincerity is clear to him. “Chan.”

Hearing his name from your lips seems to soften his worry, bringing him a sense of calm. You both stay still, sitting close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating from his body. The air between you feels charged with something unspoken. Your hand is still resting lightly on his cheek, your thumb brushing softly against his skin, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world.

His eyes flicker down to your lips, then back up to meet your gaze. His breathing hitches slightly. There’s a question in his eyes, a silent invitation.

Slowly, hesitantly, you close the distance between you. His breath mingles with yours, and just as your lips are about to meet, he pauses, as if giving you one last chance to pull away. But you don’t. You’re here, with him, and you want this.

When his lips finally press against yours, it’s soft at first, almost tentative, like he’s afraid of moving too fast. But then the kiss deepens, and all the tension, the fear, the vulnerability between you melts away. It’s as if everything you’ve both been holding back—the uncertainty, the emotions you couldn’t quite voice—comes rushing out in this one moment.

His hand moves to cup your face, pulling you closer as the kiss grows more urgent, more certain. You feel the warmth of his skin, the way his body moves against yours, and it’s like nothing else matters.

As you start to peel the suit from his body, careful to avoid touching the side he’d been stabbed, you reveal more and more of him. Your head swirls with thoughts of him – not just of the muscled body that now presses against yours, but of the vulnerability of the moment; the superhero allowing you to see all of him after so much hiding.

It makes you feel euphoric, being allowed a peak under the mask, knowing that he trusts you enough to let you.

As your own clothes are removed, you don’t feel any shyness. The tenderness of his reveal is enough to put you at ease, to want to give yourself to him.

He’s beautiful under your eyes, chest heaving as you wrap your legs over his, gently positioning yourself on top of him. The way your name falls from his lips, in the voice you know best of all, only makes you feel more eager to please him.

The movement of your bodies against each other is slow, subtle. It’s quiet, other than the breathy moans that escape you and him. It’s not the type of intimacy you’re used to – quick flings with rough strangers to satiate a need are completely different to the unhurried, deliberate push and pull between you.

It hits you part way through, as Chan’s hands flutter over your hips, that he must be holding back to not hurt you. A man with super strength, his grip the gentleness you’ve ever known. You wonder what it would be like to have him at full strength, pounding into you, another time. But, now, you’re addicted to the slow movements, the hesitant touches, and almost teasing way he’s dragging you both towards completion.

You fall flat onto him, your body twitching slightly with exhaustion as you finally reach the peak, unable to tear your eyes away from his face, scared that if you look away you’ll never see it again.

He’s panting beneath you, head thrown back in bliss, but he’s cradling your body, holding you up as you’re unable to do it yourself.

Here, curled up into his grasp, you feel the safest you’ve ever felt. You want to tell him as much, let him know how much you appreciate him, but you can’t say anymore, too fulfilled to do anything but let your eyes flicker shut.

The hum of the city has changed.

What once was the usual rhythm of car horns, distant chatter, and the thrum of daily life has been replaced by something more unsettling – a tension hanging in the air that you can feel in your bones. The streets seem quieter, but not in a peaceful way. It is the kind of quiet that came just before a storm. A charged silence.

You stand in the doorway of your garage, leaning against the frame, arms crossed as you take in the atmosphere of the Lower South Rim. Even in your rough corner of the city, people are moving differently. Heads down, quick steps, and nervous glances thrown over their shoulders. There are more empty storefronts than usual, their "closed" signs flipped down in the middle of the day.

The power cuts have been getting more frequent. A few seconds here and there at first, and then they started lasting longer—whole city blocks going dark for hours. You think back on what Chan said about Tempest, about his attacks on the power plants and grid, and wonder what the next step is.

You can hear the buzz of a TV playing from the diner across the street, the static of an emergency news broadcast cutting through the afternoon haze. The voice of the newscaster drifts through the open window, tired and strained.

‘...no official statement from the Mayor’s office yet, but sources say that tonight’s blackout could affect up to 40 percent of the city’s power grid...’

You can’t help but let out a slow breath, your eyes narrowing as you scan the horizon, the towering skyscrapers of downtown standing like sentinels in the distance. Even from here, you can feel the anxiety that’s creeping its way into the heart of the city. People are scared. And for good reason.

A flicker of movement catches your attention, and you glance down the street. Two men in heavy coats are standing outside the old hardware store, their eyes shifting nervously as they talk in low voices. Normally, you wouldn’t think twice about it, but something about their hurried conversation and the way they keep looking around sets off alarm bells in your head.

You strain to catch snippets of their conversation as they move closer to your side of the street.

"...another one tonight... Tempest, they say..."

"...power plant’s next... you hear about Brewer’s Quarter? That’s not just a coincidence..."

Your heart clenches at the mention of Tempest, and the knot in your stomach tightens.

The men glance your way, cutting their conversation short as they catch sight of you standing there. You raise your chin slightly, meeting their gaze, and they turn and disappear down an alley without another word.

For a second, you consider following them, but then you catch the low growl of an engine coming up the street. It’s a familiar sound—Chan’s car. The sleek, black frame pulls up in front of the garage, its polished exterior gleaming in the dull afternoon light.

His eyes meet yours as he gets out of he car, and you can see the tension in his shoulders, the faint lines of worry etched into his face.

“Another blackout,” you say, nodding toward the TV screen in the diner. “And it sounds like Tempest is involved.”

Chan’s gaze flickers toward the diner as he listens to the broadcast for a moment. Then he looks back at you, his voice low. “It’s worse than that. I think I’ve figured out what Tempest and Scott are planning.”

You frown, stepping aside so that he can follow you into the garage. The heavy steel door shuts behind him with a dull clang, sealing the two of you away from the restless streets outside. The familiar smell of oil wraps around you like a protective barrier, but even in here the tension of the city’s looming crisis feels suffocating.

“What’d you find out?” You ask, your voice low with concern as you monitor the stormy look on his face. Your hand stretches out, instinctively wanting to make him feel better, and you settle it on his shoulder, drawing small circles on the tense skin.

He rolls his neck, letting out a long sigh. “Tempest is targeting the main power plant. If he pulls this off, it’s not just going to be a few blackouts. The whole city will go dark. Emergency services, hospitals, everything will be offline.”

Your stomach drops. “He wants to take out the whole grid?”

Chan nods, his eyes hard. “And Scott’s working with him. He’s planning to seize control of the city once Tempest throws everything into disorder. They’ve been building towards this for weeks. Those smaller blackouts were just tests. Tonight’s the real deal.”

A chill runs down your spine as the weight of the situation sinks in. The whole city could be plunged into darkness – people trapped in hospitals, traffic systems down, everything coming to a halt. And in the chaos, Scott would swoop in, consolidating power and taking control while everyone else is scrambling to survive.

“How do we stop them?” You ask, your voice steadier than you feel.

Chan straightens up, his gaze snapping round to you. “Nuh-uh, there’s no ‘we’. I’m not letting you put yourself in danger.”

You feel a slight prickle of irritation that he doesn’t trust you enough to let you help, but its tempered as you realise that he just cares about you. But, he’s wrong, and you think he knows it. There’s no way that he’s going to be able to stop Tempest and Scott at the same time, and your engineering expertise is too useful in this situation for him to stick you at home.

“Chan,” you say, softly, watching him shiver as you say his name. “There’s no way that you can do this alone. Please, let me help.”

The air between you feels charged, as if the storm Tempest is brewing outside has somehow seeped into the garage, thickening the tension. Chan’s eyes flash with conflict, his body tensing further at your words. For a long moment, he doesn’t respond, his jaw tightening as he looks away, his gaze fixating on the far wall as if searching for the right words there.

“No,” he says, but his voice is softer than before, lacking the firm conviction you were expecting. “I can’t risk it.”

Your hand remains on his shoulder, your fingers still tracing soothing circles, but you can feel the tension rippling beneath his skin. He’s at war with himself, caught between wanting to protect you and knowing deep down that you’re right.

“Chan,” you say again, more firmly this time. His name feels like a thread that connects the two of you, tugging at something vulnerable and raw beneath his guarded exterior. And when his eyes finally meet yours, there’s a flicker of fear, not for the situation, but fear for you.

“You’re not a liability,” you continue, your voice gentle but steady. “You know I’m not. I can help with this. You need me.”

He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair in frustration, his fingers tangling briefly in the strands. “It’s not that I don’t think you can help. I know you can. That’s what scares me.” His voice is strained, the words heavy with the weight of something unspoken. “If anything happens to you…”

He doesn’t finish the sentence, but the implication hangs in the air, thick and suffocating. You can see the battle playing out in his mind—the need to keep you safe warring with the reality of what’s at stake. He’s terrified of losing you, of dragging you into a world of danger that he’s never wanted for you.

And you have to decide for yourself too. The city’s fate hangs in the balance, and you can viscerally feel the weight of it pressing down on your shoulders. This isn’t something you’ve done before, you’re not superhuman like he is, and even if you have a good swing, you’re not a trained fighter.

But, as the fear about what will happen to you ripples between you, you feel your own fear for him fighting back, equally as strong. “If you go out there alone, you might not come back. And then what? What do you think that’ll do to me?” You step closer, your hand sliding down from his shoulder to his chest. His heart is pounding beneath your touch.

He freezes at your words, his breath catching. You watch as his defences start to crack, realising that everything he’s feeling about you, you’re mirroring straight back to him.

“I’m not asking you to put me in harm’s way,” you continue, your voice soft but insistent. “But we’re a team. We’ve been through enough together that you know I can handle myself. And you know I won’t sit by while the city falls apart.”

His eyes close briefly, as if he’s trying to block out the truth in your words.

When he opens his eyes again, they’re filled with a mix of longing and fear, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that sends a shiver down your spine.

“You mean too much to me,” he says quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, as if admitting it aloud makes it too real. “I can’t lose you. Not like this.”

Your breath hitches at the vulnerability in his voice, at the raw emotion that’s finally breaking through. The tension between you tightens, like a taut wire about to snap. The air feels electric, charged not just with the danger outside, but with the undeniable pull between the two of you.

You step even closer, your body now inches from his. “Then don’t push me away,” you murmur, your hand still resting over his heart. “Let me stand by your side, Chan. We’re stronger together.”

For a split second, you think he’s going to close the distance, to give in to the longing that’s been simmering beneath the surface. His gaze flickers down to your lips, his breath coming quicker as he leans in just a fraction.

But then, just as quickly, he pulls back, taking a step away from you. The sudden distance feels like a physical blow, and you can see the pain in his eyes as he forces himself to pull away.

“Alright,” he says quietly, his voice filled with resignation. “But we do this my way.”

Relief washes over you, but it’s tempered by the new distance between you.

Chan straightens up, his face set with grim determination. You watch him morph into superhero-mode, no longer the man you know. “We go to the plant. Tempest won’t go down easy, but he’s not the brains behind this. Scott’s pulling the strings. Tempest just wants to destroy—Scott wants control. If we can cut off their communication and disable whatever tech Scott’s got rigged at the plant, we might have a shot at stopping them both.”

You let out a slow breath. “And what do you want me to do?”

“I’ll need you to guide me through the plant while I handle Tempest.” Chan continues, his voice frighteningly calm.

You watch as he begins emptying out his backpack – things you don’t recognise but know are meant for the kind of fight that’s coming. His suit comes out next, and you realise that you shouldn’t go in there unprotected either.

As if having the same thought, he pulls out a set of spare clothes. They’re his, and they sit slightly too large on you, but they give you some protection and hide your identity.

He moves to the garage door, pushing it open to reveal the darkening city streets beyond. The sun is already starting to dip below the horizon, casting long shadows across the buildings.

"We’ve got maybe an hour before they hit the plant," Chan says, his voice low and urgent. "We need to get there before Scott’s men lock it down."

You follow him to the car, your heart pounding in your chest as you climb into the passenger seat. The engine roars to life, and within seconds, you’re speeding through the streets of the Lower South Rim. The city rushes by in a blur of neon lights and dark alleys, but all you can think about is what’s waiting for you at the power plant.

The power plant looms ahead, a dark silhouette against the evening sky. The hum of machinery grows louder as Chan and you approach, its rhythmic thrum pulsing through the ground beneath your feet. The towering smoke and tangled networks of high-voltage lines have Chan biting his lip in anticipation of what sort of damage Tempest could do in this place.

He stops the car just outside the perimeter fence, far enough away to avoid being spotted by the guards patrolling the gates. He cuts the engine, and for a moment, the only sound is the distant buzz of electricity and the faint whistle of the wind through the nearby trees.

“We go in quiet.” Chan says, turning towards you. He feels almost unable to meet your eyes, and is suddenly grateful that the mask means that you cannot see his. His voice sounds urgent, pleading, and all he wants to do is tell you to stay here. But, instead, he has to be content with urging you to stay safe. “Tempest will be inside by now, and Scott’s men will be guarding every entrance.”

You follow his lead, slipping out of the car and crouching low as you both move toward the fence. The power plant’s lights flicker sporadically, casting eerie shadows across the yard.

“Here,” he whispers, pointing to a section of the fence he’d scouted out earlier that day. “There’s a gap in the security feed by the northeast corner. We can slip through there without setting off the alarms.”

You nod, your eyes scanning the perimeter for any sign of movement.

Chan pulls out a small cutting tool from his belt and makes quick work of the chain-link, creating a narrow opening just wide enough for the two of you to slip through.

"Stay close," Chan whispers, pulling you to your feet as the two of you creep through the shadows toward one of the smaller side entrances.

The place is heavily guarded – more than he expected. Groups of armed men patrol the exterior, their faces hidden behind black masks, each carrying enough firepower to take out half the neighbourhood. He can count at least three groups circling the building, their movement precise and practiced.

"They’re serious," you murmur under your breath, ducking behind a stack of shipping crates as one of the patrols passes dangerously close.

"Scott doesn’t leave anything to chance," Chan replies, his eyes narrowed as he watches the guards move. "But we’ve got an advantage. They don’t know we’re coming."

He feels like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince you.

“Can we take them?” You ask, glancing over. He has to stifle a small laugh, taken off guard by your instinct to run right into the fray of it.

Pulling a small device from his pocket, he shows it to you. “We don’t have to. This will scramble their comms for a few minutes – just long enough for us to get inside without raising the alarm.”

He activates the device and tosses it towards the guard post. Within seconds, the guards’ radios crackle with static, and they begin frantically tapping at their earpieces, trying to regain contact with their base.

"Now," Chan whispers, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the door.

You move quickly together, your footsteps silent against the concrete as you weave through the shadows. The guards are distracted, their attention focused on their malfunctioning radios, and you slip past them without a sound. It feels almost too easy, like he’s holding his breath, waiting for something to go wrong.

As you reach the door, Chan presses his hand against the electronic keypad, and the door clicks open with a soft hiss. You slip inside, the dimly lit hallway stretching out before you. The air inside the power plant is thick with the smell of metal and oil, the low hum of the generators reverberating through the walls. He wonders if it smells is at least a little comforting to you.

"This way," Chan says, nodding toward the far end of the corridor. "We need to reach the control room. If Scott’s got his tech set up, that’s where it’ll be." His eyes dart around the darkened hallway. The place feels like a maze—industrial pipes and steel beams crisscrossing overhead, the walls lined with electrical panels and junction boxes. Every corner feels like a potential ambush, every shadow a threat.

"How far to the control room?" you ask, your voice barely more than a whisper.

"Two floors up," Chan replies, glancing over his shoulder at you. "There’s a service elevator near the back. We can use it to bypass the main floors."

Just as you reach the service elevator, a crackling voice echoes through the plant’s PA system, sending a chill down Chan’s spine.

‘All units, be advised: intruders detected. Sweep the lower floors. Shoot on sight.’

Chan curses under his breath, his fingers hovering over the elevator button. "We don’t have time for subtle anymore," he mutters, pressing the button as the sound of footsteps and barking orders echo through the corridors behind you.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft ding, and you and Chan slip inside, the doors closing just as the first group of guards rounds the corner. He catches a glimpse of their rifles as they move past, their boots thudding against the concrete. He takes the moment to glance over at you, and although he knows you’ve seen the guards as well, you appear steady and calm.

The doors slide open with a soft hiss, and you step out into a narrow hallway, the control room just ahead. But before you can move, Chan grabs your arm, his eyes wide with urgency.

"Listen to me," he says, his voice low and serious. "Once we’re inside, things are going to get messy. I need you to stay close, and if things go south, you get out. No arguments. Just run."

You blink, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice. "What are you talking about? I’m not leaving you in there alone."

Chan’s grip tightens slightly, his gaze locking with yours. "If something happens to me, you need to get out. Promise me."

You open your mouth to argue, but the look in his eyes stops you cold. He’s not asking. He’s telling you.

Swallowing hard, you nod. "Okay. I promise."

Chan lets out a breath, his shoulders relaxing just slightly. "Good."

He releases your arm, and the two of you move toward the control room. The door is just ahead, the hum of machinery louder than ever as you approach.

With one final glance at Chan, you push the door open.

The massive door creaks open, revealing the control room – sprawling, cold, and sterile. Row upon row of screens flicker with data, tracking every part of the city’s power grid. You can see the central control panel at the far end, its flashing lights indicating the system's full capacity. If Tempest gets his way, the entire city will be plunged into chaos.

But there’s no time to appreciate the magnitude of it all.

Standing next to the control panel, you see Tempest for the first time. His eyes glow with a crackling blue energy that dances along his fingertips. His face is twisted in a cold, sinister smile as he watches the screens.

At the far end of the room, perched in front of one of the larger monitors, is Mr Scott. He’s leaning back in his chair, completely at ease, his sharp suit unwrinkled, as if this whole operation is just another day at the office. His eyes flicker toward you and Chan as you enter, a slow, calculated smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

"Well, well," Scott drawls, his voice oozing with smug confidence. "The city’s little hero, right on schedule. And you brought company. How quaint."

Tempest’s gaze snaps toward you, the crackling energy in his hands intensifying. His grin widens, and you can feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand on end as the air around him grows charged with electricity.

"Red Comet," Tempest growls, his voice a low rumble of thunder. "I’ve been waiting for this."

Chan tenses beside you, his muscles coiling like a spring ready to explode. You can see the weight of the situation bearing down on him, the knowledge that every second counts. One wrong move, and Tempest will fry the entire plant.

But it’s Scott’s next words that make your blood run cold.

"I’m impressed, Red Comet," Scott continues, his voice smooth as silk. "Not many people would be brave—or foolish—enough to bring someone they care about into a situation like this."

His eyes flick toward you, and suddenly, you realize what’s happening. Scott knows. He’s figured out who you are, and worse, he’s figured out how much you mean to Chan.

For a moment, everything seems to freeze. You can feel the weight of Chan’s gaze on you, the unspoken fear that he’s been trying to keep hidden now laid bare.

"Don’t listen to him," Chan whispers, his voice tight with barely contained fury. "He’s just trying to get in your head."

But Scott’s smile only widens, his eyes gleaming with malicious glee. "Oh, I don’t need to get in your head. I’ve already won. Tempest, if you’d be so kind…"

Tempest raises his hand, and in an instant, the air around you crackles with electricity. You can feel the charge building, the hair on your arms standing on end as the temperature in the room seems to spike. The power plant’s machinery groans in protest, the lights flickering as Tempest channels his energy into the room.

Chan reacts in a flash, grabbing your arm and pulling you behind one of the large control consoles just as a bolt of lightning crashes into the floor where you were standing. The air is filled with the smell of burning metal, and the ground shakes beneath you as Tempest unleashes another wave of energy, sending sparks flying.

"You okay?" Chan asks, his voice tight with worry as he crouches beside you, his back pressed against the console.

You nod, your heart pounding in your chest, the adrenaline coursing through your veins. "Yeah. I’m fine."

But there’s no time to catch your breath. The room is a war zone now—Tempest’s lightning bolts crackle through the air, shattering monitors and sending showers of sparks raining down around you. Scott’s men scramble for cover, their rifles raised, but they’re clearly outmatched by Tempest’s raw power.

Chan’s eyes scan the room, searching for an opening. " “We need to split them up,” he mutters, his eyes scanning the room. “I’ll keep Tempest busy. You get to the control panel and shut down the grid. That’ll cut his power supply.”

His body softens for a second, as if he’s realised something. “Please, be safe. I lo-”

A spike of panic riles your body, and you put your finger on his lips, shaking your head. “Not now. Afterwards.” You know what he’s doing, giving you one last goodbye in case something goes wrong, but you’re not going to let that happen.

With one last look, Chan stands, his body moving with a grace and fluidity that belies the tension in the air. "Tempest!" he shouts, drawing the villain’s attention away from the rest of the room.

Tempest’s head snaps toward him, his eyes narrowing as a cruel smile spreads across his face. "Running away already, hero?"

Chan doesn’t respond. Instead, he leaps into action, moving with lightning speed as he closes the distance between himself and Tempest. The two of them clash in a violent burst of energy, Chan’s fists moving in a blur as he dodges and weaves around Tempest’s attacks.

You watch in awe for a moment, until the pair crash out of the control room, leaving you alone with your task. And Mr Scott.

Ducking low, you sprint across the room, weaving between the shattered remains of monitors and control panels until you reach the central console. Your heart pounds as you reach the panel, your fingers trembling as you start scanning for the emergency shutoff switch.

The control panel is a mess—wires sparking, glass shattered—but you spot the emergency switch buried beneath a layer of debris. Just as your hand reaches for it, a shadow falls over you.

“Now, now,” a smooth, chilling voice says. “Where do you think you’re going?”

You freeze, your breath catching in your throat as you turn to see Mr. Scott standing just a few feet away. His expression is cool and collected, but there’s a dangerous gleam in his eyes.

“Did you really think I’d let you shut down my operation so easily?” Scott steps closer, his presence suffocating as he corners you against the control panel. “You’ve been very helpful, of course, playing your little part. But I’m afraid your time’s up.”

“You’re wrong,” you say, your voice trembling slightly but defiant. “You can’t win this.”

Scott chuckles, a low, mocking sound. “Oh, I already have. Tempest is keeping your little hero occupied. You really think Chan can save the city and you?” He steps even closer, his eyes narrowing. “He’s going to have to choose. And I know what heroes always choose—they save the city, and they let the people they care about burn.”

Fear claws at your chest. Scott’s words are like poison, seeping into your mind. You know Chan, you trust him, but in this moment, Scott’s chilling logic feels too real. You glance at the control panel, your fingers brushing against the switch. If you could just reach it…

But Scott is faster. He lunges, grabbing your wrist in a crushing grip, and slams your hand down on the panel, pinning you in place. “You’re not going anywhere,” he sneers.

Panic surges through you. You try to struggle, but Scott’s hold is like iron, unyielding. Your mind races, heart pounding as you glance desperately toward the outside, but Chan is nowhere to be seen.

Scott’s grip tightens on your wrist, and he leans in close, his voice a cold whisper in your ear. “See? He can’t save you. He’s too busy fighting for his precious city. And you… well, you’re just collateral damage.”

You grit your teeth, anger rising in you as Scott’s taunts cut deep. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you spot something – a heavy metal pipe, half-buried under a pile of debris.

Without hesitation, you spit in Mr Scott’s face.

He staggers back slightly, a furious yell retching out of his mouth. It’s all you need. You lunge forward, loosening his grip on your wrist, and close your free hand around the cold metal. With all the strength you can muster, you swing the pipe up and slam it into Scott’s arm.

He curses, and you yank your hand free. You fall backwards, breathless and shaking, but you don’t hesitate. You dive for the emergency shutoff switch, slamming your hand down on it. The room plunges into darkness as the power grid shuts off, the hum of electricity fading into silence.

Chan barely has time to move before Tempest is on him, unleashing a bolt of lightning that crackles through the air with a deafening roar. The strike slams into Chan’s side, sending him flying across the room. He crashes into a metal column, the impact knowing the wind out of him.

Tempest strides forward, his eyes glowing an eerie blue as arcs of electricity pulse around him. His grin is wide, feral, and filled with malice.

Chan groans, pushing himself up on shaky arms, his muscles screaming in protest. The force of the lightning has left a sharp, burning pain radiating through his body, his skin tingling and raw from the electric blast. He staggers to his feet, trying to catch his breath, but there’s no time. Tempest’s next attack is already coming—a barrage of lightning bolts raining down from above.

Chan dives to the side, rolling behind the column as the floor where he stood moments ago explodes in a shower of sparks and shattered concrete. The heat from the lightning is intense, the air thick with the smell of ozone and scorched metal.

He grits his teeth, struggling to keep his focus. Tempest is stronger than ever, feeding off the power grid, the electricity in the room swirling around him like a living thing. Every movement is effortless, every attack precise and brutal. Chan’s every muscle aches, and he can feel the burn of his injuries starting to slow him down.

He knows he’s outmatched while Tempest is drawing power from the grid, but there’s no backing down now. The city’s fate—and yours—rests on him holding Tempest off long enough for you to shut down the power.

He darts out from cover, launching himself toward Tempest in a blur of movement. His fists connect with Tempest’s chest in a rapid series of strikes, each punch landing with a dull thud against the villain’s armour. But Tempest barely flinches, his body crackling with electricity, his smirk widening as he grabs Chan by the arm, sending a surge of lightning coursing through him.

Chan screams, his body convulsing in pain as the electricity sears through his nerves. His vision blurs, his muscles locking up as he struggles to break free. Tempest's grip tightens, his laughter booming like thunder as he watches Chan writhe in agony.

"Pathetic," Tempest sneers, throwing Chan across the room like a ragdoll. Chan crashes into a bank of machinery, the sharp edges biting into his back as he collapses to the ground. His chest heaves, his body shaking uncontrollably from the aftershocks of the lightning. Every nerve feels raw, every movement like fire.

For a moment, he can barely move. He hears Tempest’s footsteps approaching, the crackling energy growing louder with each step. Chan’s vision swims as he tries to push himself up, his limbs sluggish, the weight of the fight pressing down on him. Tempest looms over him, the villain’s eyes glowing brighter as he raises his hand, ready to deliver the final blow.

“You’re done, Comet,” Tempest growls. “Your city is done.”

Chan’s breath comes in ragged gasps, his mind racing. He’s out of options, out of strength. But then, through the haze of pain, he thinks of you. You’re trying to shut down the grid—buying him time, risking your life to stop Tempest. He can’t let you down. He can’t let you face this alone.

With a pained groan, Chan forces himself to his feet, swaying slightly as he stands. His body protests every movement, but he grits his teeth, pushing through the pain. He raises his fists, squaring his shoulders as he locks eyes with Tempest. “I’m not done yet,” he growls, his voice filled with defiance.

Tempest’s smile falters for a moment, irritation flashing across his face. “You should’ve stayed down,” he spits, raising both hands, lightning coiling around his arms in a deadly swirl.

The air hums with electric tension, and for a heartbeat, time seems to freeze. Chan braces himself for the incoming strike, every instinct screaming at him to dodge, to move, but his body is slow to respond, his muscles stiff from the earlier shocks. He knows he’s not fast enough. Not this time.

But just as Tempest unleashes the full force of his power, the room suddenly plunges into darkness. The lights flicker once, then die. The hum of electricity disappears, leaving only silence in its wake.

Tempest freezes, his hands still crackling with fading energy, but his powers falter—flickering like a dying flame. His eyes widen in shock as the realization hits him.

The power grid is down.

Chan feels the shift immediately. The oppressive weight of Tempest’s electric aura vanishes, the air stilling as the last crackle of lightning fizzles out. Tempest stumbles, his control over the electric currents slipping through his fingers.

Chan takes the opportunity. With Tempest momentarily weakened, he surges forward, his body moving on pure adrenaline. His fist connects with Tempest’s jaw in a brutal uppercut, sending the villain staggering back. Before Tempest can recover, Chan grabs him by the collar, pulling him close.

“This ends now,” Chan growls through gritted teeth.

Tempest’s eyes widen in fury, but without the power grid to fuel him, his strength is faltering. Chan slams him into the ground, pinning him with a knee to the chest. Tempest struggles, his hands sparking weakly with residual electricity, but it’s no use. The fight has been drained out of him.

From across the room, he hears your voice crackle through the earpiece. “I did it—the power’s down, but—Scott’s here! I need—”

Your voice cuts off suddenly, and Chan’s heart drops.

“Hold on,” he mutters, his grip tightening on Tempest’s collar. He delivers one final punch to the villain, knocking him out cold, before rising to his feet, every part of him screaming in pain. But there’s no time to rest. You’re in danger, and Scott is still out there.

Without hesitation, Chan takes off, sprinting through the now-darkened room, desperate to reach you before it’s too late.

Chan races through the maze of darkened corridors, his heart pounding in his chest, every step driving him closer to you. His breath is ragged, and every muscle in his body aches, but the thought of you alone, facing Scott, fuels him. He can’t let anything happen to you. Not after everything.

He rounds a corner and skids to a halt as he hears voices ahead—yours and Scott’s. The sound sends a chill down his spine, the urgency in your voice mixing with the low, taunting rumble of Scott’s.

“I told you,” Scott says, his tone dripping with mockery. “Your little boyfriend can’t save you. He’s too busy with Tempest to even know you’re in danger.”

Chan’s heart clenches at Scott’s words, and he presses himself against the wall, moving silently toward the source of the sound. He peers around the corner and his blood runs cold.

There you are, backed into a corner near the control panel, Scott towering over you with a cruel smile on his face. His fingers trace a small, menacing blade in his hand, the tip glinting in the dim emergency lights. You’re holding your own, standing tall despite the fear that’s clear in your eyes, but Chan can see the tension in your shoulders.

Chan's breath catches in his throat as he watches the scene unfold. His first instinct is to charge in, but something makes him hesitate, his heart pounding even harder. It's you—there’s something in the way you’re standing, the way your movements subtly inch you towards the metal pipe lying next to the control centre. You’re not just holding your own—you’re planning something.

“I’ve been in worse situations,” you say, your voice tight but steady, the words slipping through gritted teeth. “And you’re not nearly as intimidating as you think.”

Scott laughs, a low, cruel sound. He steps closer, the tip of the blade catching the dim light, and Chan tenses.

“I’m not looking to intimidate,” Scott sneers, “I’m just making a point. Once Tempest brings the city to its knees, people like you won’t have a place anymore. There won’t be anyone to run to. No heroes. No Red Comet to save you.”

You shift slightly, your gaze flickering to the corner of the room. Chan follows, and his heart skips a beat as he spots it – a small metal canister tucked away near the base of one of the computer systems.

“Shut up,” you snap, your voice filled with a fiery determination Chan has always admired in you. “You talk too much.”

Scott’s smirk falters for a second, and in that moment, you move. In one swift motion your hand snatches up the heavy pipe from the floor and, with all the strength you can muster, hurl it towards the canister of compressed air.

The wrench strikes the canister with a sharp clang, and for a heartbeat, nothing happens. Scott’s eyes widen, his smirk faltering as he processes what you’ve just done. Then, with a deafening whoosh, the canister bursts open, releasing a blast of compressed air with explosive force. The sudden eruption knocks over machinery, sending a wave of sparks into the air, and ignites a small fire as it hits an exposed electrical panel.

Chan darts in, fear spiking as the room plunges into chaos.

Scott stumbles back, his arrogant composure shattering as the explosion disorients him. He throws his arms up to shield his face from the heat and debris, his confident swagger replaced with pure instinctual panic.

"WHAT—" Scott shouts, but his words are drowned out by the roar of the flames licking at the side of the control panel, smoke curling into the air. The ground trembles beneath your feet as the machinery in the room jolts, sparking uncontrollably from the burst.

You dive forward, using the confusion to close the distance between you and Scott. He’s still reeling, eyes darting around the room in shock, trying to regain his bearings, but you’re faster. You slam your shoulder into him, knocking him off balance. His knife clatters to the floor as he stumbles, barely catching himself on the edge of a console.

“No more talking,” you grit out, grabbing a broken-off piece of equipment from the floor. You swing it with precision, striking Scott’s leg just below the knee. He cries out, collapsing to the floor in a heap, pain and fury etched across his face.

You step back, panting heavily, and spot Chan. He’s standing in the doorway, his chest heaving with exertion, eyes wide with a mixture of shock and relief. For a moment, the noise and confusion around you both seem to fade, leaving only the two of you. His gaze flickers from you to Scott lying on the floor, and then back to you. He can’t help but be overwhelmed with pride for you.

He rushes forward, dodging a sparking cable that snaps to the ground beside him. “Are you hurt?” he asks, his voice filled with barely contained urgency. His hands hover near your shoulders, wanting to touch, to check for injuries.

“I’m fine,” you breathe out, though your hands tremble. “I had it under control.”

Chan shakes his head, disbelief mingling with a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Yeah, I saw that.”

Before he can finish, a groan from the floor snaps both of your attention back to Scott, who is struggling to push himself up, his face contorted in pain. His eyes, wild with anger, lock onto you and Chan, but there’s a flicker of something else there—fear.

“You think this is over?” Scott spits, his voice hoarse and filled with venom. “Tempest is already—”

“-is already beaten.” Chan cuts in, his voice low and dangerous. He steps forward, his body tensed like a spring coiled up, waiting for a release. Scott’s arrogant demeanour falters. His eyes flicker between you and Chan, weighing his options, and for the first time, it’s clear—he knows he’s lost control.

Scott's face twists in frustration as he struggles to comprehend his downfall. His once smooth and confident façade now appears cracked, broken by the realization that his carefully orchestrated plan has failed.

"You’re finished," Chan growls, stepping closer, his presence looming over Scott like a shadow. "Tempest is down, and your men are scattered. It’s over."

Scott’s jaw clenches, his hands balling into fists as he scrambles to pull himself together, grasping for the last shred of control. "You don’t understand," he spits. "You might’ve stopped me here, but this city... it’s already rotting. You can’t save everyone, and when it crumbles, you’ll fall with it."

Chan’s eyes narrow, but he doesn’t flinch. "Maybe. But not today."

With a final blow, Chan knocks him unconscious. The room falls silent except for the distant crackle of the damaged electronics and the faint hum of the emergency lights flickering on.

As Chan turns to face you, his features softened in the dim light, a sense of relief washes over both of you.

He steps closer, searching your eyes for any lingering fear or doubt. But instead, he only finds exhaustion and a shared understanding of what you’ve both just survived. His hand reaches out, cupping your cheek gently as his thumb brushes against your skin, wiping away the smudge of ash from the battle.

His breath hitches, the emotion of it all threatening to overwhelm him as you stare at each other. He takes a deep breath, pulling you into his arms, holding you tightly, afraid to let go. You cling to him, feeling the steady beat of his heart against yours, a grounding rhythm to remind you that you’re both still here.

“I’m not letting you go,” Chan says softly, his voice thick with emotion. “Not now, not ever.”

You smile, your heart swelling as you look into his eyes. “Good,” you whisper back. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”

And in that moment, with the city still buzzing in the background, the chaos subsiding, and the weight of the battle falling away, Chan closes the gap between you, pulling his mask out of the way, and kisses you. It’s slow and deliberate, filled with the kind of tenderness that only comes from knowing that you’ve both found each other on the other side of something dark and dangerous.

And as you pull back, resting your forehead against his, he knows that whatever the future holds, you’ll face it together.

You look up at him, your eyes sparkling under the glowing light of the plant. A small, soft smile curves your lips, your face contorting as if you’ve remembered something important. “I love you.”

Chan’s entire body stutters at your words. His breath catches, and for a moment, he’s complete still, feeling like the world has stopped spinning around him.

“I love you,” you repeat, your voice quieter now, more certain. The words hang in the air between you, vulnerable and raw, yet filled with a warmth that settles into every corner of the moment.

Chan exhales slowly, his grip on you tightening just a little, as if anchoring himself to the reality of what you’ve just said. His hand slides up to cup your face, his thumb brushing tenderly across your cheek. He opens his mouth, his voice hoarse with emotion. “I love you too. And I don’t know how to do that without pulling you into this fight, but I know that I can’t keep pretending that I don’t feel this.”

The world outside might be chaotic, and the battles ahead uncertain, but right here, in this moment, everything feels clear.

Chan pulls back slightly, looking down at you with a smile that’s equal parts relief and joy. “Whatever happens next, we’ve got this,” he says softly, his voice steady with conviction.

And you know, without a doubt, that he’s right.

[foursaints]

helllo! u sometimes talk about ur mutuals circle and i was just wondering would u like to namedrop them? cos i think i already follow some of them but i feel like they probably all have very correct opinions and good taste and would like to follow them

oh i would love nothing more than to namedrop. in fact i will make you an index of what i admire about them (readmore for length)

@fernhelm <- leading scholar on the black sisters, arthuriana, and the overlap between marauders & ancient greek classicism. we are neighbors and childhood friends irl but that's unrelated

@jewishregulus <- THE regulus black understander & originator of the carrow twins. half of everything i say is paraphrased from the essay length saintsivy dms

@carniferous <- THE james potter understander & creator of nuanced tenderness and melancholy & one of my favorite fic authors before we became friends.... read their theatre-based fic NOWW

@sixlane <- i passed the Premiere Bartylily Understander hat to lane long ago.... we all definitely already know lane of "get him back (read on ao3)" fame but it bears repeating. one of the few fic authors who i stalk for updates. but i also stalk for anon responses because they are always uniquely thought-out and hilarious

@itsjaywalkers <- LAURIEE is one of the best people on here & i scroll their blog like the morning news. the vibe on there is always so fresh and fun and kind and playful (and occasionally searingly tragic or erotic). THE james potter enjoyer on this website. this is the other fic author who i stalk for updates.....

@quillkiller <- jen was my first mutual on here 🥺 (hi jen). our most beautiful resource for Bellatrix Black enjoyment and nuanced discussion of feminist theory. i consider them half of the powerduo of Rarepair Creation on this site (hi kara) that has given us bangers like effiebarty and regtunia and the most searing wlw fic

@static-radio-ao3 <- im embarrassed to talk to mil because their jegulus fic is just genuinely that good. its crazy how every single one reads like a fully fleshed-out romcom novel i would read in one sitting at barnes & noble. another barty understander i daresay

@sugarsnappeases <- THE OTHER HALF OF THE RAREPAIR BUREAU. kara's microfics hit me like 9/11 every single time (that searing bella sirius-death character study? the BARTYLILY DRESS FIC?) and they are another lesbionic understander of women. when people say they want more marauders girls content they should just go to kara lmfaooo

@rottin6 <- can't talk about layla without offering my hand in marriage sorry. princess of the bartylilysphere i rather think... hottest most erotic microfics i've ever read in my life, thank god for the people who understand barty's Trashboy Dick on a cerebral level

@veryinnovative <- we all definitely already know ino but that's okay. probably divinely gifted to come up with the most unexpected & niche AUs that still manage to make perfect sense and hit every single time.

@moon-seas <- KAYY. my favorite artist on here hands-down. a true dirtbag barty understander & they produce the most stunning digital collage-work. a privilege to see

@sommerregenjuniluft <- now where would i be without lune's barty understanding... yes their jegulus microfic porn is masterful but WHAT ABOUT their ability to put barty in the strangest situations ever (he's an electrician?? a circus clown, now???) and have it integrate perfectly with his character. that's good writing babe!!!!

also you should follow @dracure @royalthorned @morsmortish and @katakosmos for more good rosekiller content. we don't talk but I admire from afar ......

[nunalastor]

Guy / Serial Roommates

Anonymous asked:

Goes anyone else get mixed-vibes about Guy? I don't know what he's meant to look like but I always imagine dark hair, dark grey eyes, and tan skin. Like he might be white-passing but there is some Asian in there somewhere.

Anonymous asked:

Vox finds out about Guy and what he hears makes him think that Guy is Alastor's lover. There's no way Alastor suffered through all that for just a friend, right? And that would explain in Vox's head why Alastor rejected him if his heart belonged to someone else.

Guy and Alastor find out about that false impression and do the crazy cross-eyed laugh together.

Anonymous asked:

Serial Roommates Plot Twist: Guy is miserable in heaven (he and Al are friends for a reason) but convinced himself if Alastor is there, everything will be okay and they can fix all the problems together. Part of him knows he is more alive in hell and so is Alastor, but preconceived notions of what heaven and hell are meant to be makes him think helping people leave hell is best. Either way he acts as a therapist to give others the kindness and grace about mental health he couldn’t find in heaven.

Anonymous asked:

At this point, every demon with a brain knows it would be suicide to kidnap or hurt Guy. It reminds me of this episode of Superman of a plane being hijacked and Lois Lane is on it. When she tells them her name they’re like, the one Superman always saves?!

Imagine that with Guy? He just let his would be murderers know his name and they instantly know, they fucked up. By then it’s too late and they hear the screeching of an elk and radio static.

Anonymous asked:

The combination of Guy dying from cancer or some other sickness and Alastor still dying first is so painful! He would need the support of a friend, but one day Alastor never came home from his hunt and Guy was left to suffer and die alone. Any comfort he could have in reuniting with him after death also destroyed when he finds out he went to heaven and Alastor went to hell.

Anonymous asked:

Oh! Guy has a death now! It makes sense for disease to do him in, nobody in the cast we know of died of illness and after looking up images of the Bakers Estate that looks like somewhere someone would get all the diseases, mold cure or not.

Buckshot Anon, your time has come!

Anonymous asked:

What characters do y'all think Guy and Llewella would play in the DnD AU? I imagine the two of them being guest party members who only occasionally join the main group.

Also, Cherri Bomb takes over playing Sir Pentious's character after he dies.

Anonymous asked:

Currently obsessed with the song Albi by Sevdaliza and it gave me of the idea of genderbend Alastor and Guy.

Guy would still work for the police but possibly a matron or secretary. (Who knows maybe still an officer cause I just googled and apparently the first female cop was in the 1908) So her focus would be focused on women. So when she learns her roommate is killing the abusers, rapists and other killers; of course she’s going to support her.

Can you remember when the last time was

You felt safe in the dark?

This world was never meant for a woman's heart

But still, you rise through it all

When I'm out of breath, she's my vitals

When I need to rev, she's my ride-or-die

When I'm out of faith, she's my idol

I just killed a man, she's my alibi

Anonymous asked:

Can we all agree that if Guy were to fall for whatever reason, his demon form would be legitimately horrifying? His base form would probably look mostly human like Alastor (didn’t we say he had some dog traits, like he is to dogs what Alastor is to deer?) but going into his full demon form would tap into the mold he was infected with for months in the Baker Estate and become something grotesque. Shit like his burned away angel wings regenerating comprised entirely of the mold. That, and if he died of cancer related to his exposure to the mold, what is a more fucked up demon form to have than that of the thing that caused your torture, possession, and later slow death? 

Anonymous asked:

Alastor's suitors: *kidnap Guy for yandere reasons*

Guy: ROOKIE NUMBERS

[sinner-sunflower]

A HH Lucifer-centric AU 7/?

PART 1 , PART 2, PART 3, PART 4, PART 5, PART 6, PART 8, PART 9, PART 10, PART 11, PART 12, PART 13, PART 14, PART 15, PART 16, PART 17, PART 18, PART 19, PART 20, PART 21, PART 22

TW: Su!cidal ideation

Finally some RadioApple aljsdlajls 

VERY SHORT but

RADIOAPPLE!!!!

I hope you guys like this.

IF THERE ARE ANY GRAMMAR ERRORS, FORGIVE ME.

------------------------------------------

It's about to rain.

Rain wasn't uncommon in Hell, but it wasn't that common either. It's mostly acid rain that comes down- another punishment from The Almighty. As if Falling wasn't enough. As if watching over his biggest failure wasn't enough.

It's beautiful to look at, though. Lucifer likes to think that the rain in hell is his Father's and siblings' tears. Sure helped him feel less lonely to delude himself that he is missed.

The Sin of Pride. He still doesn't get why he is that.

What other sin have I done other than love, Father?

Lucifer nurses a glass of apple Beelzejuice by his mouth. He's sitting on the counter of his personal mini-bar as he looks past the open balcony. A voice cuts through his thoughts.

Alastor: Looks like we might have some acid rain this afternoon~

The king of hell didn't even bother to turn his head at the sudden appearance of the radio demon. Alastor didn't seem to take offense to being ignored, only moving around the bar to make his own drink.

Lucifer doesn't really drink but he likes to mix up stuff every now and then. The process makes him feel like he's back in Eden making-

He shakes his head. Nope, not gonna go there.

Alastor finishes making his drink- a whiskey on the rocks- and joins Lucifer in overlooking the skies.

Lucifer: I'm really tired, Alastor. I think I have been for a long time.

Lucifer downs the drink and brings up his infected hand. Alastor stays quiet beside him, emitting a low static.

Lucifer: You know, I didn't actually know if it wouldn't kill me. I just saw that dead demon pig and moved without thinking. Just one touch and maybe I would... 

A cold feeling upon his fingertips snaps him back. Alastor hands him a drink which makes him raise an eyebrow but he takes the drink nonetheless.

Lucifer: Cider?

Alastor: Apple~

Lucifer: What? You think these are drunken words?

Alastor: I think.. that you've had enough for tonight, my dear.

Lucifer: I had one glass.

Alastor: Of the Prince of Gluttony's strongest. 

Lucifer scoffs.

Lucifer: Touche. But I can't get drunk.

He says, earning a hum from Alastor.

Alastor: Drunk in your own demons. Ha!

Lucifer: Ugh. That was such a shit pun.

Alastor: Made you smile, have I not, my Majesty?

Huh. Will you look at that? Lucifer did have a small smile but Alastor was sporting that irritating grin of his so he didn't dignify him with an answer.

Quiet again.

Normally, Lucifer would awkwardly rant about this and that just to fill the suffocating silence. The first few hours after the fall - before the Sins and everything else- it was just silence. The only sound that could be heard in the vast darkness was his and Lilith's pained breathing.

After his Lily leaves, he punishes himself by isolation. Just him, alone. Like how it should have been. He damned humanity. He damned Lilith. Now, he damned his most precious daughter.

He thought he would never find peace in silence again.

That is, until a certain radio demon.

Lucifer would never admit it, but that first time they met- the banter, the singing, the one-upping- it was the most alive he felt in more than 10,000 years.

Sure, Alastor was a raging asshole that was using his daughter to piss him off and he wanted nothing more than to permanently kill the guy.

Oh, who was he kidding, the bastard still does that.

But... somehow, along the way, they became (dare he say) good friends. Recently, he feels like they transitioned into something more. The constant touches, the domestic moments in the kitchen, that kiss.

When he's with Alastor, he forgets why he even hated the silence.

He sees that Alastor didn't make another drink.

Lucifer: Drunk already?

Alastor smiles- one of his rare genuine smiles that Lucifer only sees when they are alone- and walks in front of him. The demon stands in between Lucifer's legs that were slightly swinging.

Alastor puts his hands on the counter, caging the king of hell on either side.

Their faces move on their own. Coming closer until their lips were barely touching.

Alastor: With your company? Always.

Then finally, their lips touch one another's. Lucifer never thought he's experience this kind of intimacy again after Lilith.

The kiss was slow, but deep- they could feel each other's passion. One of Lucifer's hands finds its way to Alastor's hair to pull him closer.

The moment couldn't be longer. Alastor pulls away first but places a hand on his king's waist.

Alastor: Don't stay away for too long in your venture, little apple.

He places a small kiss on Lucifer's hand. The smaller gives the other a teasing smile.

Lucifer: What? You'll miss me?

The overlord only smirks.

Alastor: Dearly.. my Lucifer~

With that Alastor left, leaving Lucifer with himself again. He stares at the Morningstar portrait, focusing on his daughter's smiling face.

He'll make this right.

Lucifer: For Charlie.

----------------------------------------------

What to look forward for in Part 8:

Charlie and Lucifer will finally talk before he leaves.

[heygerald]

Falling Without a Harness - Chapter 11

AU where Tom Ryder is still an asshole, just not a psychotic one. Tom Ryder is rich. Everyone knows that. When Tom decides to do something out of character, Parker has to decide what is just the habits of someone careless with their fortune, and what can be considered acts of service from someone that cares about her.

Read the story here: prev / ...

The studio set after hours was a strange place to find oneself. It was beautiful in that glamorous way that everything mundane in Hollywood was; twinkling lights strung between ugly studio buildings, extras dressed in 1800s regalia tapping on their phones as they awaited whatever scene they were in, the black blanket of the endless LA sky an empty backdrop to the megaphones and spotlights being lugged around.

It was exciting, and it was also not; there was a lot of movement but not a whole lot of doing that translated to a mute static hanging in the air.

"Is it always like this?" Parker asked from her spot in the back end of Dan's pick-up truck. It had been packed with all sorts of bits and bobs that she had never seen before, and as Jody exchanged the batteries in a flashlight, Parker prodded curiously at a baseball sized dent in one of the various helmets stacked behind her. "Not stunt work, I mean. The set in general. I figure Dan probably goes through three helmets a week."

Jody hummed, flicking the flashlight on then off before setting it aside as a warbled voice crackled across the radio on her belt. She tilted her head to listen for a brief moment before turning back to Parker.

"Studio sets are always busy. Haven't you been here before?"

"Sure, but... during normal hours," Parker noted with a glance towards the sky. "But it's almost midnight, and the parking lot was pretty full when I got here at ten."

Jody hummed flippantly, shrugging as she switched her radio to a different channel. More warbled conversation flowed for a few minutes before she decided that there was nothing important enough to require her attention.

Snapping it back onto her belt, the camerawoman kicked her feet back and forth with a delicate smile curving her lips. "Well, I suppose there's always something to be filmed. It's not just us filming on the lot, you know. We share space with a dozen other directors at any given moment. Sometimes, you're filming night scenes. Sometimes you just want to get work in when less people are around. It's just how it is."

Parker supposed that made sense. Afterall, she preferred to go grocery shopping late at night for the very purpose of having less people to avoid in the aisles.

Still.

It was odd to see a set full of life in the middle of the night. Odder still when a pair of actors drifted by on a golf cart; the pair were dressed in ragged clothes, with fake bruises painted along their cheeks, and red cuts oozing fake blood down their forearms. No one but Parker even seemed to register their presence before they disappeared down a nearby alley.

"I think this is way more fun than coming during the day," she decided a moment later. "And I'm not just saying that because I didn't have to argue with the security guards to get in."

Jody snickered. "They're actually very nice."

"To everyone but me, apparently."

"You never have a good reason to be on set, though, do you?" the Brit teased with a wiggle of her eyebrows. Parker faked offense, and Jody's hair came loose from behind her ears as she laughed. "Kidding. I'm very glad to have someone keep me company tonight while Colt's training. Although I am surprised you had time to come by at all. Colt says you've been busy lately."

"Busy-er than before. But ten times zero is still zero, you know?"

"Oh, please," Jody rolled her eyes, flashlight toggle flickering mindlessly in her hands as she tried to stave off boredom. Honestly, Parker didn't know how she managed not to fall asleep with so little to do this late at night. She was yawning and she hadn't been here since the early morning like Jody had. "Your store is splendid. You've always had clients. Now, apparently, you just have more. Busy is still busy."

"Splendid?" Parker echoed, teasing the word in a mock British accent. She quite liked it; both the sound and the funky way she had to work her tongue. "No one has ever called my store splendid before, but you're right. It is a splendid store. Andy R from Angie's List can suck it."

"He left a bad review?"

Parker waved a hand at Jody. "He comes in once a month to ask if I have any new Tolstoy books in, and when I remind him that Tolstoy died a couple hundred years back, he thinks I'm being emotional and sassy. Asshole."

"Prick," Jody said in her very real British accent.

Parker liked that too. "Andy R is a total prick. Maybe that's the tagline that I'll put on my t-shirts. Or, a few, anyways. I'd bet Melissa would be happy to wear one with me. She does not like that dude."

"You're finally getting shirts?"

"Finally."

"See?" Jody gestured to her. "You are busy."

Parker rolled her eyes with a smile. It was endearing how much Jody cared about the success of her store—always inquiring about how sales are going, and dropping by when she has some time to pick up a new book—but they were surface level compliments at best. Her store wasn't going to beat out Barnes & Nobles for awards anytime soon.

She'd be lucky to finally have her shop registering on Google Maps as a business and not as just a big question mark like it currently was.

"Not for customers to buy, anyway. I just think it's about time I got my store name on a t-shirt. Everybody has t-shirts. I mean, literally everybody. Have you ever been to a thrift store? I have found some weird stuff in the dollar bin."

Jody tipped her head back in laughter. "I have seen some odd shirts. Mostly, though, they're shirts that you are wearing."

She shrugged. "What can I say? I love a good thrift store bargain. And a gimmick. And—well, anything to do with my store. All the more reason to start printing my own shirts. I can finally rep the place, you know? Plus, I am busier now. I might even be able to print a dozen tees without going bankrupt by the end of the calendar year."

Jody peered at Parker sideways, soda bottle in hand as she swished the lash few sips around in circles. "So, things are going well, then."

Parker tilted her head left and right. Things certainly were going better, but that didn't mean she wasn't still drowning in bills and ridiculous requests from customers that were absolutely not 'always right'. Even with the increase in revenue and constant presence of teenage girls from the local high school, she was stuck spending most of her day putting out fires. She could feel herself stretching thin lately with all the extra hours her and Melissa were putting in, and at some point over the last year she had gone completely nose blind to the musty smell of her store. Not to mention the fact that she was also fairly sure that the Bath and Body Works' plug-ins spread around her store were going to give her cancer one day (if the crusty moms were to be believed). But it wasn't the time nor the place to drop all of those fears onto Jody's lap; not to mention way too late to use the braincells needed to verbalize those thoughts.

So, Parker elected to ignore all of that. Instead, she waggled her brows with a grin. "Does that mean you'll buy a shirt?"

Jody shook her head, snorting. "You really are Colt's sister."

"Well, I'd hope so," she sniffed. "The orphan-in-a-box story always seemed a little too stupid to be true. As if someone would ever give this up," she tacked on, gesturing to herself with an impish smile.

The look was betrayed by her over-sized sweatshirt and messy braids. Not to mention the tattered jeans and filthy sneakers on her feet. But if Jody was laughing at her, she didn't say, and so the two women giggled at their inside joke whilst the set continued to spur to life around them.

An actress dressed in a delicate silk dress and high heels strutted past as they laughed; her hair was done up in perfect Hollywood glamor, sparkly highlighter on her cheekbones and a delicate pink eyeshadow painting her lids. With the fur slung over her shoulders, she looked like she had just hopped out of a Marilyn Monroe biopic, and when she tossed her hair, it looked like—well—a movie. It took Parker a moment to calm down from her laughter to recognize the actress from a popular CW tv show, and as she strolled past, she couldn't help but crack her neck to get a better look.

When she turned back to Jody, the camerawoman hadn't even seemed to notice.

"This is crazy," she said, tucking her legs up underneath her as she fiddled with the straps on Dan's busted helmet. The actress was gone now, and Parker tried to shake the bizarre feeling of being stuck in The Twilight Zone from her mind. "I know you work in the film industry, but, honestly... It must be so much fun doing this sort of thing all the time."

Jody snorted. "Sure," she echoed. "Fun."

"Isn't it?"

"I mean... alright, yes, of course it is fun. It's amazing to be behind the scenes, to see how movies are made, to know how much work goes into a three minute scene without any dialogue. I mean—I'm always learning new things, so it's certainly not boring," she said. But Parker felt like there was going to be more to her answer, and so she tilted her head in interest, prompting Jody to continue. "But... a typical nine to five certainly wouldn't hurt sometimes. Times like these, when we're stuck here until god knows when just so the director can perfect a shadow in one of the scenes or something else as miniscule... well, it can certainly test your patience."

Parker glanced in the director's direction, taking note of the two assistants that trailed after him with thick binders full of colorful notes, pens tucked haphazardly about their persons. "It's not always like this though. Right?"

Jody shook her head. "No, no. Of course not. Usually our shifts are much more normal. Even if the hours vary, they usually schedule morning scenes together, evening scenes together—you know. So it's not so tedious. And we're almost never here this late just for blocking. Sadowitz is on a tighter schedule for a few things since the New York scenes have to be shot by the first of the month. He's just getting in as many last minute rehearsals as possible so when they go to New York everything is set to go right away. Understandable, of course... I just wish he wasn't such a perfectionist sometimes."

Jacob Sadowitz was the up-and-coming director leading this sci-fi film, and though he wasn't that much older than Parker, he had already earned himself a fair share of accolades for his daring action films. Particularly, the box office had been impressed with his intricate fight scenes and stunt work in his latest movies. Just last year some veteran journalist had printed an in-depth essay commending Sadowitz' dedication to the craft, touching on how much research he put into his work to make sure everything was as accurate as possible. Based on his credentials alone it was no surprise that he would be working his stunt crew till the middle of the night until they were well-oiled machines.

Still, Parker wrinkled her nose tiredly. "Isn't there a quote about that? Perfectionism being the downfall of yada, yada, yada. Want me to tell him that? Threaten to call the union if you don't get to go home soon?"

The truck shook as Jody kicked her leg at Parker with a reprimanding tut. But, she was smiling as she did it, giggling under her breath in that way of hers. "He's not that bad. This is not that bad. I mean, sometimes, the schedule is so mind-bendingly awful that it's a wonder anything gets done... but it's hardly the worst I've dealt with. At least he treats everyone well. Well, he doesn't scream at anyone, I mean."

Parker blew a raspberry. "I can't even imagine. I think I'd get arrested for my behavior if a director ever screamed at me. No idea how you don't lose your shit on the daily."

"Oh, I've come close a few times," she chuckled.

The comment surprised Parker. Not because Jody Moreno was a woman that could take care of herself—obviously, she didn't put up with bullshit, and she didn't rely on anyone to get things done. Moreso because Jody had to put up with so much that Parker couldn't quite imagine a scenario that would have to be bad enough to cause the camerawoman to lose her cool. And if being yelled at wasn't enough, what was? Leaning closer, she needled. "You're serious?"

"Of course I am."

"What happened?"

"I'm not sure I can even remember why anymore."

"So it's happened more than once?"

"Are you kidding?" Jody scoffed with a shake of her head. "The type of behavior you see on set is not something you'd ever get away with anywhere else. It happens every movie. Directors are just so..."

"Insane?"

"Hollywood," she corrected, gaze darting around to see if anyone was in hearing range of her complaints. No one was, though, and even if they were, Parker had a sneaking suspicion that the other set crew would be more likely to join in on the bitch fest than snitch about it. "I mean you wouldn't believe some of the stuff we have to put up with. The egos some of these directors have is absurd. Bad directors! Ones that shouldn't even be directing that act like they're Tarantino or Nolan. Throwing things and crying and blubbering like babies—"

"Oh, fuck off!" Parker cried, leaning even closer. "You're joking!"

Jody Moreno was not, in fact, joking. She looked scandalized just by having to recall the things she had seen. Something haunted in her eyes, but there was still a smile tugging at her mouth. Obviously, she saw the humor in it; even if it was fucked up. "I wish. I mean—grown men crying because something wasn't going their way or screaming because the sun is too bright." She made air quotes with her hands, showing that she was not joking in the slightest about this before inching towards Parker. Something twinkled in her eyes as she said, "I kid you not during my first gig ever, I had a director break down in tears because the lead actress wasn't pronouncing the word butter how he wanted her to."

"Butter?" Parker echoed incredulously. "Is there even a wrong way to say it?"

"Oh," she said, giggling. "You'd be surprised. Not to say that he was right in his little hissy fit, but her accent was so wrong. Awful, Parker. I'm telling you. The whole film—a disaster."

"Huh. Butter," she said with a giggle.

Jody giggled back. "No, it was more like boo-ter."

"Boo-ter?" she cried. "That's—no way. Butter. Butt-her. How do you even—bu-t-ter?"

The two women keeled forward in laughter at the ridiculous conversation. It was such a stupid thing for someone to cry over, but the longer they tossed the word back in forth in the most ridiculous accents they could imagine, Parker was beginning to forget how it was properly pronounced in the first place.

Was it—?

There was a scuffle of shoes, then a thump as Dan dropped his elbows onto the side of the truck bed with a wary glance towards the two women. He almost looked like he didn't want to get involved in the first place, but when the silent stare-off seemed even funnier than their previous conversation causing them to tip against the other in laughter, his curiosity seemed to outweigh his hesitation.

"Do I even want to know?" he asked.

"That depends," Parker wiped tears out of the corner of her eyes. "How do you say butter?"

Dan blinked at her. Then, slowly, he shook his head at them with a long sigh. "So, no, I don't want to know. I told your brother that leaving you two hens together would only lead to trouble. He doesn't ever listen to me, though, does he?"

"Oi!" Parker smacked him on the arm, scoffing. "Who are you calling hens?"

Dan waved a hand at her, before snatching the helmet off of her lap, and plopping it atop her head to say, "always clucking, you two. Colt's going to end up in trouble and he's not even going to know why. I'd feel sorry for him if he didn't still owe me fifty bucks. You aren't here to pay his debts, are you?"

Parker, helmet now hanging low over her eyes, adjusted it towards the back of her head with a scoff. "It's sins of the father, not sins of the little sister. What's he doing that he's going to get in trouble for, anyway?"

"Oh, no. No, no, no," Dan laughed, wagging a finger at her in as much of a patronizing manner as someone could manage after a twelve hour shift. She would have scowled if it wasn't so endearing; she always liked Dan. Mostly because he had a head on his shoulders when her brother was constantly looking for where he left his, but also because he was just as good at teasing as he was being teased. "I'm not falling for that one, Park. If you don't know, then you're not going to find out from me. Snitches get stiches, you know?"

"Whatever. He's awful at secrets, so if he is doing something stupid, I'll find out. I always do."

Dan mimicked talking with his hand. "What'd I say? Clucking hens."

"I don't cluck, I just point out all the ways he's spectacularly stupid in," she corrected with a waggle of the head. The movement seemed to jostle the oversized helmet too much, however, and it rapped her nose as it slid down her face. Parker adjusted it a second time with a huff, ignoring how Jody was snickering into her hand. "Speaking of doing spectacularly stupid things, Numbnuts doesn't need this helmet for this stunt does he? I think it's broken."

"They have straps for a reason," Dan pointed out.

The comment sounded far too much like a threat for her liking though and Parker just managed to bend out of his grasp before he could cinch the straps under her chin. She bumped into Jody, who only shook her head at the pair's antics, as her radio warbled with nonsensical chatter.

Parker side-eyed Dan. "Isn't there something you should be doing right now? Like—I don't know—working? Tying safety knots or blowing up an inflatable mat or whatever it is you do? I'm sure there's a building you could hurl yourself off of nearby if you'd rather leave the hens alone."

Dan rolled his eyes good-naturedly. "That's your brother's job, though, isn't it?"

And—oh, yeah.

Remembering the reason that she was sitting in this pick-up truck in the first place Parker planted a hand on the helmet so she could tip her head back far enough to see said brother standing about thirty feet up on a platform of sorts. It was the skeleton of a building, open staircases with haphazardly drilled in railings surrounding each new floor. It almost looked like something you would find on a construction site in lieu of a working elevator, but Colt didn't seem to mind the shoddy building from his spot at the tip-top of it where he was in deep conversation with the stunt coordinator. Jody had explained that this was the frame of whatever building he would actually be performing the stunt from; just a temporary set he could work with here before shooting the real thing, but from this point of view it just looked like a whole lot of OSHA violations to Parker.

As expected, he didn't seem to notice.

In fact, Colt seemed to be smiling an awful lot for someone about to be thrown off a building, and even though he was wearing a harness, Parker had to look away before the nervous feeling in her stomach ran off with her dinner.

"I still don't understand why he's doing this at midnight," she mumbled to no one in particular. The darkness seemed to creep in every corner, and Parker wrapped her arms around herself to stave off the chill. "Couldn't the stunt coordinator have booked this death trap during the day?"

"It's cheaper at night," Jody said. "Less people around, less unnecessary crew getting in the way."

"Plus, you know, if he does fall and crack his head open on the pavement it's a whole lot easier for an ambulance to get here without rush-hour traffic," Dan joked.

The truck physically rocked from how quickly the two women jerked their heads in his direction, and as if suddenly aware of how flat his joke had fallen with this particular audience, he threw up his palms before they could say anything.

"Shit. Sorry. I was just kidding, yeah? Stunt humor tends to be... bleak."

"Stunt humor is never funny," Jody said.

"Honestly, Dan," Parker added with the shake of her head. The helmet slid down her forehead once more, and she tossed the entire helmet behind her with a patronizing tut. "Read the room."

He sucked his teeth, grimacing at the ground. "Sorry."

"If he ends up in the hospital now it's all going to be your fault," Parker continued, digging her teeth in. She could have bleak humor too when she wanted, and Dan grimaced a second time as if he was just remembering that. "Don't stuntmen believe in jinx's? We need salt, now. You have any salt? Or, like, a rabbit's foot or—is it one crow's feather or two?"

This time, he rolled his eyes at her, looking a whole lot less apologetic about the situation. "I said sorry."

"Oh, well, I'll make sure Colt knows that when he's on a ventilator and having a machine do all his breathing for him. He'll be so touched, I'm sure."

"I said I was sorry!"

"Sorry! He's sorry! Jody, give me your radio, we need to cancel—"

Parker reached for Jody's radio at the same time that she got tired of their antics, and with a glare, Jody swatted Parker's hand away from her hip. "Honestly, you two," she tsked at them like a teacher scolding schoolchildren. And, like two schoolchildren being scolded, Parker and Dan avoided one another's gaze so they didn't bust out in laughter. "Now you have me worried!"

"Oh, he's going to be fine," Dan assured her.

"Fine," Parker echoed.

"Well," Dan hedged after a moment, and Parker was already snickering before she heard what he had to say. "Physically he'll be okay. It's all safe, he's harnessed in, the mat is made for this sort of thing. But, mentally, you know..." Dan trailed off as he glanced up towards Colt. "He'll be the same he always has been."

"Oh, stop it!" Jody chucked her empty soda bottle at him.

It bounced off his chest with a dull thud, and Parker had just tilted forward in laughter when there was a bullhorn somewhere on the far side of the set. The three tilted their heads back just in time to watch Colt lurched off the platform, arms swinging wildly as if he was falling to his death. And just when Parker's stomach clenched in concern because—what if?—he hit the mat with his own dull thud. Air started hissing out of the inflatable in seconds, and as it pooled around him, Colt's first response was to give everyone on set a thumbs-up.

"Well, there's definitely something wrong with him," Parker said after a long moment of silence, letting out the breath she hadn't realized she was holding. Dan was already walking away from whatever she was about to say, and needing an audience, she turned to Jody knowing the woman would sympathize. With a jerk of her thumb, she sighed. "I mean, why else would he do this for money? Honestly?"

Jody hemmed and hawed for a moment before giving in. "Because... he's an idiot?"

"Because," Parker agreed, finishing her own soda with an eyeroll as her brother traded high-fives with one of the other stuntmen, "he's an idiot."

---

...

...

...

Parker rolled her eyes, watching the little green message bubble filled with "..." blink yet again on the phone screen before her. It had been repeating this message for the last hour of her life; an hour that she was now never going to get back thanks to the idiot on the other end of the messenger app, and as her neck twitched with a painful crick from the angle she had been staring at her phone, something even more painful burned behind her eyes.

She should probably stop staring at it; could definitely do with some dinner, a nice glass of water, and maybe some Ibuprofen. Wine wouldn't hurt either. Nor would a cigarette, a nice warm shower, and a few hours lying vertical in her bed. Somewhere unplugged, where she didn't give into the temptation to glance at her phone; the very phone in her hand, that she could ever so easily tilt her wrist to see if maybe, in her spiral of misery, he had—

...

"Son of a bitch," she muttered, head thumping none-too-gently against the table.

It hurt a lot more than it should have, but it was cool, too. The scratched up wood smooth against her cheeks as she worked on evening out her breathing. Her neck felt better like this; shoulders too. Hell, it just felt good to lay her head down after the week that she had. Felt nice to let her eyes flutter shut, to let all thoughts turn off, to just breathe in, breathe out, and—

Her phone buzzed, and Parker ripped her head up off the table so quickly the room spun before her.

But whatever hope had caught in her chest fizzled out like a popped balloon upon seeing Colt's name on her screen.

The message read, "I thought we were gonna be sombrero buddies :(" with an attached picture of her brother wearing a sombrero and sunglasses, holding a heavily packed taco, a still smoking grill in the background. She recognized it immediately as the one at Dan's, before remembering that she had been invited over with some of the other boys for tacos and margaritas earlier that week. No wonder her brother looked so put out.

"Son of a bitch," she said a second time.

She meant it, too. Parker was pretty sure that tacos and spicy margaritas was the cure for every ailment in life. Or, you know, the spiritual kind anyway. They certainly didn't help when she broke her arm a few years ago; but they did lift her spirits immensely.

"What the hell is going on over there?" Tom's voice echoed from the other end of the room, and suddenly Parker was reminded that she was not alone in her misery.

She glanced up to find him staring at her with furrowed brows, a hand on the hip of his leather NASA flight suit as Betty and Sasha fiddled with the material. It was his final character testing today, along with the creation of the highly coveted look book, and while her brother wasn't needed for this sort of thing, Parker had jumped at the chance to spend some time with Tom specifically so she wouldn't spend all day thinking about work.

Son of a bitch!

She winced, waving her phone at him. "Oh, just Colt. He invited me for dinner tonight over at Dan's and I totally forgot. He's going to be pissed. He's all alone wearing his sombrero."

"Colt is going to be pissed because he doesn't have anyone to wear a sombrero with?" Tom asked in a scathing tone. She would have corrected him if it wasn't... well, accurate. She loved her brother, but sometimes he got upset over the littlest of things. Particularly when he felt like she was doing something without him. "He does know that he's an adult, doesn't he?"

"Oi, be nice. That's my brother you're talking about."

"You shit on him all the time."

"Well—" she waved a hand around flippantly, flabbergasted at even having to defend against such an accusation. "Duh! He's my brother. But you don't have that right, Ryder, so pack it in before I report you to, like, HR or whatever."

Tom rolled his eyes as Sasha tugged on the length of his right pant leg. It all looked good; professionally made, snug in all the right places, and the perfect backdrop for his bright eyes and shiny teeth. In fact, he looked even better than she thought he had looked before, and Parker was just about to ogle him as he was turned left and right by the seamstresses when her phone buzzed a second time.

She plucked it up, disappointed yet again to see that it was from her brother and not from the eBay seller.

"And what on Earth is with that?" Tom's cloying voice echoed a second time.

She pulled her attention away from her phone long enough to notice the cross furrow of his brows and the tightness of his shoulders.

"With what?" she asked, not sure where this was coming from.

He gestured to her phone, sniffing when his hairstylist teased a few strands of hair off his forehead with a comb. "You've had your nose in that thing since you got here. You have a hot date that I don't know about or something?" he snarked.

And—well.

Parker had to physically bite down on her bottom lip to stop from laughing. Not only would that further piss him off, but with the people in the room, it likely wouldn't be great for his image either. But the idea that Tom—Tom Ryder, the same man whose face was plastered all over town—would be upset that he wasn't given her undivided attention was fucking hilarious to Parker.

Honestly, men. They really were just children.

Smothering out her smile, Parker turned her phone face down against the table. "Okay, alright, I'm sorry. There's this guy over in Wrightwood that has a print shop, or inherited one or his Dad just demolished one or—I don't know," she paused to wave a hand around, earning an eyeroll from Tom. "Whatever. I'm trying to convince him to sell me a box of mystery novels from his collection. He's being unnecessarily difficult about it, though."

"Who is this guy?"

"Melissa's dad's second cousin or something. She showed me his eBay profile last week and he's been dragging me over the coals for the past couple of days about whether he'll sell to me or not. He wants an absurd up-front price that, even if I could pay, I would never pay, but he also hasn't sold anything on eBay before so I think he's getting kind of desperate."

Tom, still cross, but now slightly more interested, arched an eyebrow at her. "Why are you buying stuff off eBay?"

"Oh, I'm sorry. Do you think I have a print shop hiding in my apartment? I know you haven't been there yet, but it's not that big. I think it has an occupancy limit of five."

"Five?" he echoed dumbly. To that, she did laugh, but then she glanced back at her phone and realized that she likely wasn't going to get anything good from this idiot even if he did sell to her. As was her lot in life, nothing seemed to work out her way. Knowing this, Parker let her head fall onto the table with a hollow thump, something miserable prickling in the back of her eyes. Maybe that's why he let that particular comment go without any further mocking. There was the shutter of a polaroid camera snapping before he spoke again. "Well, why are you worrying about this now?"

"What do you mean?"

"It's Sunday." She tilted her head sideways on the table to peer over at him. He wasn't mocking her, but given the team of people quite literally fixing his air and clothes for him at the moment, she doubted he understood what she was going through either. "Can't you deal with it later?"

"Like... when I'm busy working at the store?"

"You're always working at the store."

She tutted; half in humor, half about how miserable that statement about her life just was. "Well, duh. That happens when you own a teeny tiny little shop that, for some reason, seems to be actively trying to bankrupt you. I think there's a malevolent spirit the real estate agent didn't tell me about. Or, like, it's built on haunted burial grounds or something. I've broken three lightbulbs this month, and fell off a ladder yesterday just trying to fix the stockroom fan. Which, by the way, I still don't know how it broke, but something is not right with that thing. I don't think they should squeak so much. It sounds like a pig. Or... like a dying cat. It's unsettling."

Tom must have sensed something in her lackluster tone because he almost seemed concerned when he asked, "don't you have employees to do that stuff for you?"

"Uh, employee, singular. And you've met her. And, half the time, I wonder if she isn't the malevolent spirit that's out to make my life miserable," she said. Meant it, too. Just that week Melissa had insulted her style in three different slang terms that Parker had to look up on Urban Dictionary to understand. Honestly, she could handle being "old", what she couldn't handle was having to put work in just to know she was being insulted. That crossed some sort of imaginary line. "Besides, she only works a couple shifts a week, and she's more for cleaning and stocking than real, managerial stuff. Or anything that might require her getting more than two feet off the ground. I'm not paying liability insurance."

He frowned at her oddly. "Don't you have to—?"

"I mean, don't get me wrong, Melissa is great. But she can't do everything, and I can't expect her to do more than she already has as a part-time employee."

"Why don't you hire a manager then?" he asked as if that was a conclusion she hadn't drawn herself.

She might have told him to fuck off for mansplaining right then and there if Tom's question hadn't been spoken in such a earnest manner. Or, as earnest as someone like him could be. Most A-listers like him wouldn't even be giving her the time of day, let alone listening to her problems, and at the very least Parker took some comfort in the thought.

"Good idea, but I think there's about a thousand other things I need to do before I can budget for a manager. Like, I should probably pay off my car at some point. Then get liability insurance. Then get car insurance," she counted off.

Sasha and Betty laughed into their hands, both women just as amused by Parker as the first time, and with another snap of the polaroid camera, the group shifted to making sure the right picture had the right information in the tag book for future reference.

Tom took the reprieve to snag two bottles of water from the mini-fridge before he was sitting down next to her. He wasn't slumping—she didn't think Tom Ryder could slump—but from the weight of his shoulders it was obvious he had been having a long day too.

"You can't afford anyone else?" he asked in spite of that.

Parker uncapped her bottle with a sigh. She didn't even have the energy to be disgruntled by how different their lives were. What he had, he had because he earned it, and Parker made sure to remember that rather than resent that as she took a long dreg of water. "One day I can. Just... not today. I need to have a more steady revenue stream before I can start thinking about anything like that, and to get a more steady revenue stream I have to be willing to work all hours of the day. Even if it's just to haggle with some prick still living in his parent's basement for a box of Hardy Boys books. Turtles on turtles and all that."

"I have no fucking idea what that means," he said, blinking at her, and this time he was so earnest that she couldn't have doubted him even if she tried.

She shook her head with a laugh, already feeling better. "Do you feel like Mexican food after this?"

"Dan's?"

"I have an open invitation," she said. They'll be cool with it if I bring you, she meant. And from the way he pursed his lips, it was obvious that he understood that too. But, he also seemed tired sitting next to her, and Parker could feel that same sort of weariness in her own bones too. "Or... we could get pizza?"

"Pizza is all carbs."

"Mhm, you're right. We should definitely get pizza," she nodded as if he had made a really good point.

"Can you afford that?"

"Are you kidding?" Parker clutched a hand to her chest. "There's always money for pizza. That's like budgeting one-oh-one, Ryder."

He didn't make a comment about how that was probably a stupid way to spend what little money she had, and Parker didn't bring up the fact that she knew he would pay for it later anyway. He always did, even when she made a big deal about wanting to pick up the tab, Tom had yet to let her pay for anything when they were together. She supposed it was easy for him; just muscle memory at this point in his life.

But to her it meant a lot, and she always did her best to make sure he knew that.

Just at the crest of his elbow sat the photographer's polaroid camera, and while the ladies were busy taping everything down and scribbling notes in a variety of pen colors, Parker reached past Tom to grab it.

"I've never had a polaroid camera before."

"Never?"

She picked up the camera, aiming it at Tom, and without hesitating he tilted his head up, eyes down, mouth curving open just a centimeter in that way that looked so effortlessly good that she almost forgot to snap a photo.

"Son of a bitch," she said when it printed, the photo glossy and warm in her hands. "How do you do that? Is that what mewling is?"

"Don't—don't say that," he laughed at her, grabbing the camera from her hands to point it at her. Parker's response was the opposite of his, however, and when the picture printed, it revealed an awkward looking Parker, mouth half open in argument, eyes a little too squinty, hair all sorts of a mess.

"Oh my god!" she shrieked. "Give me that!"

But Tom was faster than she was, and when he tucked the picture into the pocket of his jumpsuit, laughing so heartily that the ladies glanced over at the pair with their own curious smiles, Parker could only catch her face in her hands with a furious blush.

"Tom!" she hissed, smacking him. "It's not funny!"

"You just—it's not—come on, here," he said, shaking his head at her. She was still scowling when Tom grabbed her chair and tugged it by the leg until their thighs were pressed against one another. His body radiated heat as he tossed his free arm over her shoulder, cheek against cheek, and she felt the rumble of his voice more than heard it as he directed her. "Just smile, Park, Jesus. Don't look so stiff."

She tried to shove him off her, only to fail, and as Tom laughed at her, Parker couldn't help but laugh herself.

The photos were crooked, one slightly blurry, and in neither photo were they looking at the camera. And though she still didn't look great, nowhere near as good as him, Tom looked happy in the photos as he laughed.

Parker decided right then that she could live looking like this if he looked like that.

---

Crave Cafe was just as quaint during the off season as it was during the busy summer months, and though it was surprisingly vacant for a Saturday afternoon, the cafe never actually felt empty to Parker. All the tables were dotted with cute decorations, the chairs all stuffed with hand-stitched pillows and dollar-bin cushions that added an eclectic nature to the darkly painted walls, and the jukebox in the corner never failing to fill the lapses of silence with something soothing. For so many reasons this spot had always been one of her favorite places for coffee in LA, and after a long week at work, Parker couldn't help but take a deep whiff of the cinnamon and coffee bean scent that lingered in the air.

"There you are," Harry greeted from behind the counter. He looked a little out of sorts with how empty the place was, the counter spotless and clean from wiping it down too much, and as he grinned at her arrival, Parker was more than happy to be of service to her favorite barista on this side of town. "I was wondering if you'd make it over today."

Parker ambled closer with a tut. "That's almost insulting, Harry, of course I would. It's Saturday, isn't it? What sort of person would I be if I broke tradition with no good reason?"

Harry swung a pink towel over his shoulder, grinning as he started tapping away on his kiosk screen. "The usual, then?"

"Plus, a cookie, please."

"Really living big theses days, huh, Parker?" he teased.

She bent her hip at the counter, watching as she always did as Harry started fiddling with the expensive machines lined behind the counter. She never understood which thing did what, but she did know that anything made by Harry was about to be phenomenal. As steam rushed from one of the metal prongs, she promised herself that one day she would buy a top of the line espresso and latte machine for her kitchen.

Of course, she'd had to learn how to use it, but... well, dreams were dreams for a reason.

"Yeah, well, I always had a weak will when it came to your baked goods. Is this the same recipe as last year, or did you change it up?"

Harry poured her coffee into a to-go cup, twisting the foam at the end to create the image of a leaf, before carefully sliding it towards her. Right before she could grab it, however, Harry pulled the cup back, warning, "I know I say this every time, but it is literally boiling right now, Parker. Don't drink it yet."

She laughed as if that hadn't been exactly what she was about to do. "I know," she said, smiling a little too keenly for his liking. "I won't. Promise."

He didn't seem to trust her, but eventually he gave up and slid the cup towards her side of the counter. The second he moved away she grabbed the cup, finger dipping into the foam—which, of course, was also scalding hot—and to hide the fact that she had just burnt herself, Parker licked some foam off her finger with a bland smile. "I was just... taste testing."

Harry suppressed a sigh to toss her a cold rag, and as Parker cleaned off her finger, he started making Melissa's pumpkin spice latte. "The cookie is a different recipe this time. Marin wanted to try something new, so make sure you tell her what you think. It has nutmeg and hazelnut in it. I think it's a little too much, but Sarah really likes it."

"Nutty," she joked.

"And hopefully good."

Parker waved a hand at him, testing the temperature of the cup once more, before catching Harry's stern look. She tucked her hands before her back with a glittering smile. "I'm sure it'll be amazing. If I get to eat any of it, anyway."

Parker didn't mention the fact that Melissa had a nasty habit of eating any and all pastries she brought into the store without so much as leaving a crumb for her boss to taste. She figured Harry didn't need to know all that information. Besides, on the off chance that Melissa was actually a Gremlin like Colt had theorized, she was still trying to figure out what the rules were for feeding her, and the last thing she wanted was to have Harry cut off their main source of lunch.

As if he understood all that without her having to explain, Harry shook his head at her with a laugh. "Yeah, well, you may as well scarf it down now before you head back over. I know we joke that you're my number one customer, Park, but I would have understood if you didn't have time to stop over today."

Nothing he said had any bearing on the Melissa being a Gremlin vs not debate, and Parker tilted her head at him oddly. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, don't get me wrong, I'm flattered that you would want to stop in here, but I don't know how you found time to with that whole mess going on. I couldn't even park in my own parking lot this morning, you know that? Kudos to you for finally stealing my customers, but... sheesh. I'll never understand how you pulled this one off."

Huh.

Well, that made even less sense than before and she had quite literally been debating whether her employee was a creature from an 80's fantasy horror series. Sensing that she was missing something important, Parker peered out the front window with a frown. She had noticed a lot of people milling around outside, but she had walked from the post office so she didn't have to deal with traffic, no parking involved. "I'm not—what do you mean?"

It was then that Harry seemed to sense her confusion, and suddenly the pair were sharing matching looks of confusion. "Um... didn't you come here from your shop?"

"No," she said, shaking her head. And while it wasn't unusual for Melissa to take morning shift on Saturdays lately, suddenly, there were a thousand possible scenarios flickering through her mind of all the things that could have gone wrong since Melissa opened that morning. Panic welled in her chest, and Parker tried to laugh through it, struggling to explain herself. "I crashed at Colt's place last night without my phone charger. I dropped it off to charge while I ran some errands, but I came right here to get lunch, so I didn't grab it yet. Melissa was working this morning."

Oh god.

Melissa was working this morning.

"Oh my god," Parker slapped a hand onto the counter, suddenly worried that either her shop was on fire or that her only employee had died. "She's alright, isn't she? Oh my god! I haven't checked my messages yet—!"

"Jesus, no, Parker, it's okay!" he interrupted her before she could have a full blown panic attack in his cafe. He lifted his hands to placate her, and while Parker took a deep breath, she noticed how busy the outside street seemed to be. Awkwardly laughing, he rubbed his forehead. "Nothing's wrong. Definitely not wrong."

"Oh," she said, blood slowly rushing from her head. "Good."

He blinked at her, and Parker blinked right back.

"But then why—?"

There was a ding from the far end of the counter, and Harry gestured at her to wait as he grabbed her to-go bag. She could smell their freshly toasted sandwiches across the counter, and when Harry plucked a cookie out of the display, her stomach twisted in nervous knots.

"No phone," he muttered under his breath, shaking his head at her. "Wow. That's... So, you haven't checked social media or anything today? Or talked to Melissa."

Her reply was a hesitant, "...no?"

Harry stared at her for a long moment, before shaking his head with another, surprised laugh. Like it had been startled out of him. Feeling even more confused, Parker frowned at him helplessly from her side of the counter. "Maybe you should just head over, then. Melissa could probably use the help right about now."

"Help?"

"And, uh, listen if you ever want to do some sort of deal with Crave, I'd love to talk to you about it," he added on as she numbly scrabbled for her credit card. The machine beeped as he continued, "you know, a punchcard sort of thing; buy two books gets fifty percent off coffee here, or something like that. Lots of stuff we could do, really. But we can talk about it later."

"Um... okay?" she nodded, so bewildered that she almost forgot to grab her coffees off the counter. Harry waved at her as she went, and Parker nearly smacked into the glass door as she waved back. "See you later, I guess."

The moment she stepped outside she bumped into a throng of girls standing on their phones, snapping photos. They reminded her a lot of Melissa; dressed in cute outfits, hair done up for the occasion, makeup a tad smeared beneath the eyes from grinning too much.

"Um, excuse me," she called, angling past one of the girl before running into two more identical ones. In fact, when Parker actually picked her head up to look around, she realized that the block was crawling with people. Mostly girls. Teen girls.

Mostly teen girls that seemed to be waiting in a line for—

Parker's coffee hit the sidewalk with a splat.

"Hey!" one of said girls cried at her, angrily shaking coffee stains off of her white sneakers. But Parker didn't notice much of anything she hurried down the block, bag smacking into every third person as she tried to weave through the thread of people. "At least say excuse me!"

The crowd of people got more tightly packed as the line curved, and Parker stopped square in the middle of the street to gape at the sight in front of her.

Every square inch of her store was packed with people. Girls, boys, thirty-year old blondes snapping photos of every angle and squealing delightfully when the picture came out right while their boyfriends hung out front with matching looks of boredom. People were even spilling outside from how crowded it was, and she had to physically push through to step inside.

"What in the f—?"

Parker was just about to owe a ten dollar bill to the swear jar when a familiar head of hair snapped up from the other side of the front counter.

Melissa didn't look much like Melissa. Her curls had fallen over the course of the morning, wayward tufts of frizzy hair tucked behind her ears as she worked on bagging an order. There were flecks of mascara smudged along her cheeks, her lips were lacking their normal peach glossy glaze, and as they made eye contact, she looked half dazed.

"Parker!" she hissed, trying not to sound shrill but definitely not sounding calm. "Where have you been?"

Not knowing what to say, Parker lifted her sandwich bag and latte into the air, helplessly fumbling for words. "I—I was getting us lunch. What is going on here?" she cried, angling behind the counter before someone else was the victim of her wayward coffee. "Is everyone on crack or something? What did you do?"

"What did I do?" Melissa echoed with a scandalized glare, a broken manicure jabbing in Parker's direction as the next person in line awkwardly set their books on the counter. "What did you do? Why haven't you been answering your phone? I've been calling you all morning!"

"It's been like this all morning?"

"Uh, duh!" Melissa shrieked. The noise caught the attention of some nearby customers who looked concerned by the high-pitched noise. In unison, Parker and Melissa smiled at the customers, offering one-handed waves until their attention drifted elsewhere. Stiffly, they started on the next customer's order why talking out of the side of their mouths at one another. "You need to check your phone. Like, right now, Park."

"I can't," she hissed back, still speaking through a smile. Her store had never had this many people in it before, and suddenly she was wondering if she should move liability insurance higher on her list of things. "I left it at home."

"Oh my—" Melissa grunted under her breath, still smiling, and when she finished ringing up her customer, she quickly snatched her phone from her back pocket. The next customer in line seemed annoyed that her attention was taken away, however, and as she fiddled with it, Parker worked through the girl's pile of books. "Honestly. Of all the days that you don't have your phone on you... I mean, it's the twenty-first century, Park! Always have your phone on you!"

"Okay, maybe save the lecture for later," she chirped back as she finished ringing up the order. The girl paid with a credit card, and on she went, receipt waving in hand just as someone else took her place. "Just catch me up with what the hell is going on right now, please."

Melissa's response was an exasperated sigh before she was shoving her phone into Parker's hand, and retaking her spot at the register.

At first, Parker had no idea what she was looking at.

It was a picture on Instagram. A picture of her storefront, taken from across the street, framed to look aesthetically pleasing, and with some sort of boho filter on it that actually made the place look prettier than it really was. A nice picture, definitely, but not a good explanation as to what the hell was going on.

"Why are you showing me a picture of my store? I know what it looks like. I bought it."

Another customer went out the door as two more potential customers stepped inside, and Melissa sighed so heavily Parker was pretty sure they could feel the gust of wind on the other side of her double paned front windows.

"It's not the picture that matter, dummy!" she chirped, still smiling, before she was nudging Parker with her elbow. "Just—look at it!"

Parker was about to give a very childish retort about how she was looking at it, when she actually looked at it. It had received hundreds of thousands of likes since it had been posted last night, and while she clicked on the caption, a flood of new comments were being added by the second.

"Biggest question anyone asks if how do I prepare for an audition," the caption started. "Sometimes, it's easy. Sometimes you got to get your hands dirty and do some reading to get in the mindset of the character. In honor of filming starting this week, here's a s/o to my favorite hole in the wall bookstore in LA."

There was a flurry of hashtags—all ridiculous and stupid and so innately self-centered—that before she even checked the profile, Parker had a very strong feeling about who the original poster was.

Who else had this kind of social media following? Who else could do this?

The profile pic was just as pretty as he was: tomryder

Parker scanned the post a second time. Then a third. Then a fourth. Then, when she still felt like she wasn't processing it right, she glanced up at Melissa.

"Is this...?"

"Yup," the girl said.

"It's—this is his account?"

"Uh-huh," she said again.

Parker slumped against the counter, gaze raking over the horde of customers prodding around her store like it was a damn Barnes & Nobles. No, better. Because this was officially the bookstore that inspired the Tom Ryder for his latest role. NO Barnes & Nobles had ever done that. "This is all because he—"

"It had three hundred thousands likes this morning," Melissa added, not even waiting for Parker to get around to asking about that. And while the teenager seemed like it was no big deal, when she glanced up at her boss, her eyes were sparkling and her mouth was curled at the side. Obviously, her fascination for Tom Ryder had not disappeared. "Yeah. I know."

"This means..."

"That you're officially cool now?" Melissa chirped; somehow scathing and ecstatic at the same time. "Trust me, I know. Our lives just got a whole lot better, Park. I mean—look at this! We're so the coolest people here. I can't wait until school on Monday."

Parker nodded, feeling like her entire body was buzzing, and not quite hearing anything else that Melissa was saying. She just kept seeing the post over and over in her head. She had tried so hard not to need things from Tom, and he had proven time and time again that he was more than happy to give them.

For a long while, she had suspected that doing things for others—throwing parties, picking up the tab, paying for the alcohol—was just natural to him in his life now, a way that he had adapted to Hollywood stardom.

Yeah, you're welcome. I usually get paid twenty grand for doing something like this.

But that didn't quite fit the narrative anymore, did it?

"Excuse me?" a voice called out, interrupting her thinking. Parker blinked to find a twenty-something year old girl staring at her, hands timidly picking at one another. "Um, sorry. Do you have any Frank Herbert books? I looked, but didn't see any."

"Uh... yeah," she hedged, shaking any thoughts she had away. Right now, she would work. Later, she could deal with the rest of it. "Yeah. Right this way and I can show you what we have, and if you don't see any you like, I try to get sci-fi as much as possible so I can try to have new stuff this week. I might even have some extras in the back..."

The din of noise threatened to drown Parker out as she worked with her customer, but no matter how frazzled her tired she was, every time the bell tinkled with someone new coming inside, Parker found herself smiling a little bit brighter.

[ruddyhotelau]

How would Vox vs Alastor work in this AU? TV was cool then radio was back then TV tries to take it back?

Well I guess in this AU, Alastor and Vox did know each other from before. Being business partners and we think Vox even developed a massive crush for Alastor? Then something happened that ruined their partnership and they went separate ways. Later on Vox met Val but still carried that hidden crush for the Radio Demon, I think this is one of the reasons why Vox and Val couldn't really be anything more than partners with benefits in this AU.

So timeskip to when Val met Vel and they became close friends. This was the moment Val suggested that the three of them should work together. At that time, Vox was actually considering it until he found hints about how he was going to be Alastor's next Overlord victim. Vox couldn't let Alastor destroy everything he got, his status, his power so he decided he needed to consume more power before that fateful day happened. A deal between Val and Vel came to his mind immediately and at that moment, he decided that he would use that deal to obtain their souls and use it to defeat Alastor once and for all.

But things didn't go as he planned. Vox lost the fight, being beaten miserablely and disappeared for Satan knows where for a very long time.

7 years later, on one hellish morning, people from all over Pride Ring suddenly witness a surprise duet between the powerful Radio Demon and the missing Overlord - Static Demon. During the song, the crowd can already guess who's gaining the upper hand and will be singing the outro but let's just say, Vox surprised them all...

[rainofthetwilight]

for everything's sake if only I had enough mental resources to explore other people's ocs (jenna......... ethan......... kaida........ ) instead of constantly throwing things about my own girl

(just saw the post about ninjago ocs crawling into others' heads and that destroyed me so bad I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT THEM BUT I WOULD HIVE ALL MY PROPERTY TO THEM)

also hi levi have a good day :D

AAAA HII LMAO I HOPE U HAVE A GOOD DAY TOO TOO!!!

RAHHH I'M SO GLAD YOU LOVE THE THREE KEEDS!!! I WOULD DO THE SAME FOR THEM TOO

me, taddy and finn combined both taddy's dad jay au and my early family au together and boom we're the Dad Jay Group™ 😎

ofc kaida is @taddymason's oc and if you have the time and wanna know more about kaida, you should go read taddy's fic Everything I think I know is just static on the radio! IT'S SO GOOOD AND SO WELL WRITTEN AND THE FRICKEN ART THROWN IN THERE??? AND THERES SUCH GOOD ANGST AND FAMILY BONDING AND-

I. I think u get it. there's also her ongoing fic for kaida and jay Lightning pin which is (technically) a continuation of the first fic!! read both. I beg of you. you will never love an oc so much

jenna and ethan are both still in the works too!! my fic of them on ao3 is currently being rewritten (long story short: it was my first fic, and the writing wasn't the best and there were alot of things I missed) and I don't know when the heck I'll finish, but I'll get there!! I have alot of ideas for my children and fics I could do for them in the future but I need to atleast get past the reunion part of the story before I make anything bc my ideas mostly have nya and jenna bonding in 'em, but with how slow I am I might get impatient and just write whatever idea I have lmao

I do draw them alot tho!! these are my most recent ones! (ignore that jay design since I kinda changed it now)

andd here's some art taddy made of jenna too!!

look at kaida and jenna, hellspawn siblings <333

AND I'M STILL NOT OVER THE SECOND ONE IT'S SO GOOOOD RAHHHHH

anyway sorry for my rambling I'm just really happy you like them!! :DD

[taddymason]

I headcanon that arin and Lloyd find jay in the administration.

It would be an interesting "take your kid to work" day.

I drew them driving Zane's car because I'm too lazy to draw a mech.

[miss-writes-a-lot]

Shiny Leaves and Apple Cider

Dabihawks au//Single Dad Hawks//Cw: fire, being burned alive, depression, chronic pain, mentioned death

Thursday night. A living room full of tall, cream-colored candles on every free surface they have. Two half-empty mason jars full of spiked apple cider precariously sitting toward the edge of the coffee table, long forgotten in favor of slow dancing to a beaten-up record Keigo found at the thrift store one day after work.

Touya's hands wrapped firmly around Keigo's waist, chin resting atop his head. Keigo's ear pressed closely to the center of his broad chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart.

They sway slowly together, gently swinging back and forth, back and forth, soaking each other in. Keigo keeps a firm grip on Touya's shirt as they waltz around the living room. Keigo sighs dreamily and nuzzles his face further into Touya's chest. Touya chuckles.

"What's that for, Birdie?" He asks, running a hand up Keigo's back.

Keigo shrugs, "Nothing. Just love you is all."

"Oh, really now?"

"Yup," Keigo replies, popping the p. He turns his head up to meet his shiny, turquoise eyes, "you love me?"

Touya smirks, his eyes going up to the ceiling, "I dunno. I'll have to think about that."

Keigo pinches his side, "Touya!"

Touya snickers, "Kidding! Kidding!"

He turns his head down and pecks a kiss on Keigo's forehead. "I love you, Baby Bird."

Keigo closes his eyes and hums, "Damn right you do."

"Damn right, I do," Touya parrots.

Keigo chuckles, focusing back on Touya's heartbeat. It's the first thing he wakes up to and the last thing he hears when he falls asleep. It's the only way he can fall asleep. He can't remember the last time he slept without feeling the drum of his heart against his face, or without Touya in general. He can’t think of a time when he didn’t have Touya right beside him, right in his arms and molded together.

But something's… off

It’s hot.

No, it’s not just hot. It’s boiling. Scalding. It burns.

Everything about Touya burns Keigo’s skin. He has difficulty prying himself away from his chest because it feels like he’s melted into him.

“Touya, you’re hot–”

“I know,” Touya replies, voice warbling like radio static.

Keigo shakes his head. He finally manages to rip his face away from

Touya’s scalding chest and stumbles back. “No, Touya. You’re actually hot, what–?”

The question dies in his throat as he watches Touya’s entire body erupt into blue flames. They rip away his flesh and bone until he disappears into ash without a second thought.

“Touya!” Keigo screams.

The flames crawl across the floor and up Keigo’s legs. It isn’t long before the entire house is saturated in blue flames. Keigo rips off his denim jacket and smacks it at the fire but it refuses to go out. It runs further up his body, scorching his midsection, and ripping apart his chest until it finally crawls up his throat, and suffocates him.

*•.🍁.•*

Keigo’s drenched in sweat, which isn’t surprising once he realizes that he’s fallen asleep on his heating pad – which is currently at the highest setting. His heart thunders in his ears, but once the blurriness fades and his brain stops swimming, he manages to take a breath. He sighs, peeling himself from the bed. The clock on the opposite wall reads 3:30 in the afternoon – shit – and the room is already starting to develop an orange tint.

“Fuck,” he hisses through gritted teeth.

He peels back the heavy blankets. He swings his legs over the side of the bed and he…sits there for a few seconds. He scans the room. It’s cleaner than it usually is this time of day, so he’s at least done something today. He closes his eyes, draws a slow breath through his nose to asses how much pain he’s in today, and once he’s decided that he could give less of a fuck, he stands.

He switches off the heating pad and starts out the room to the hallway.

Suzume’s probably in her room, most likely surviving off either leftovers in the fridge or snacks she can reach on the bottom shelf – if she’s remembered to eat at all that is, an unfortunate trait she inherited from him.

He’ll just make instant ramen or pasta or something easy and if she hasn’t eaten herself sick on sweets, they’ll have the Neapolitan ice cream they’ve had stuck in the freezer for the past two months.

He comes up to her door and knocks, “Su! I’m up. You hungry?”

No response. Keigo raises a brow.

‘Maybe she’s asleep?’ He thinks, then knocks again.

“Suzume! You okay in there?”

Still no response.

He goes to open it. “Suzume?”

The 7-year-old’s room is completely empty. He looks around the door to see if she’s hiding behind it. He walks inside and looks under her bed and in her closet.

Still no Suzume.

Keigo’s heart rate kicks back up. He starts out of her room and down the hallway, opening every door on the second floor while urgently calling her name.

“Suzume? Suzume! Where are you?”

He opens every cabinet, checks every nook and cranny that Suzume can possibly fit in, but he comes up empty. He starts running when he heads downstairs. From there, he starts yelling.

“Suzume!” he shouts as he turns over the cushions on the couch and races into the laundry room and kitchen, “Suzume!”

He throws open the backdoor. He spots a head of blonde hair past the treeline of their backyard. He races across the grass, blood gushing in his ears. He finds her crouched under a massive tree, rooting through the pile of fallen leaves with dirt-covered hands.

He’s finally able to breathe, “Suzume!”

She whips her head around and greets him with an unassuming grin, “Hi papa!”

He falls to his knees and scoops her into a hug, “Thank god you’re safe! What are you doing out here by yourself?”

“I was getting pretty leaves for Daddy!” she exclaims, holding the pile up to him.

Keigo frowns, “Suzume, I told you not to go outside by yourself – especially when I’m asleep and when it’s past the trees. It’s not safe.”

Suzume’s smile falls along with her eyes, “ ‘m sorry…”

Keigo sighs through his nose, “Just…let’s go inside and get you cleaned up, okay?”

She nods, bottom lip trembling.

He picks her up, watching as her hands start letting go of the pile in her palms. He cups her hands and brings them back toward her. “Keep ‘em. We’ll wash those too.”

She doesn’t reply to that. He walks them back inside, immediately setting Suzume down by the sink. He grabs a salad bowl from the top shelf and motions for Suzume to dump the leaves inside. She does. He sets the bowl aside, gently takes her hands in his, and moves them toward the sink.

She keeps her eyes down and stays quiet as he washes her hands. He works his hand under her fingernails. His eyes occasionally flicker from her hands to her face, her eyes darting away each time he does. He finishes up, shuts off the water, and cups her face in his hands.

“Hey, can you look at me for a sec?”

Her eyes flicker up at him.

“I’m not angry, okay? I was just scared because I couldn’t find you. I thought something bad happened to you.”

“I’m sorry,” she mumbles.

“I know, Chickadee. Just please don’t do it again. If you wanna go outside, just wait or wake me up and ask me, yeah?”

She nods.

He smiles, pecking a kiss to the top of her head. “We’re okay, Su. We’re okay.”

“We’re okay,” Suzume parrots in a much happier tone of voice.

Keigo nods, “So, you wanna tell me about the leaves?”

Her beaming grin is back, “Ochaco and Tsu-chan said they can make a pretty flower bow… bow–”

“Bouquet?”

“Yeah, that thing! They said they could make one of those with pretty leaves so I wanted to find some that Daddy would like so I could make one with them!”

He tips the bowl toward him, looking at the collection. Leaves in different shades and gradients ranging from spring green to honey orange fill up the bottom alongside a collection of twigs and dirt, like the stuff Keigo and Touya used to play with when they made forts at school.

He smiles warmly, “Your dad’ll love these. He always liked fall.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. But that’s only because fall meant we were closer to winter break.”

Suzume giggles. Keigo’s eyes travel back down to the bowl, settling on a bright red leaf peaking through some of the brown ones.

“Hey, Su. Have you ever tried apple cider?”

Suzume searches the ceiling for an answer, shaking her head when she can’t find it, “I don’t think so.”

“You want me to teach you how to make it?”

Suzume’s smile shines as she hops down from the kitchen counter.

“I’ll take that as a yes. Grab me a pot, yeah? The biggest one you can find!”

She nods, running to the opposite side of the kitchen to grab one of the pots in the lower cabinets while he grabs the ingredients that are surprisingly unspoiled (and there. He really needs to go shopping).

Suzume drags the pot and her step stool toward the stove, “Got it!”

“Good,” he reaches down and sets it down on the stove, “I’ll take care of this. Can you wash those apples for me?”

“Okay!”

Suzume happily takes her task while he boils the water. He lets her dump in all the spices and carefully teaches her how to cut up the apples with her dull, plastic knives and dump them in as well. She does it all with a shining smile.

With his shining smile.

When it’s done, he grabs the mason jars from the top shelf and fills them with cider. He doesn’t give Suzume too much since he isn’t too sure she’ll like it despite her excitement about making it. He gives her his glass while he drinks from Touya’s.

“Careful,” he says as he carefully hands it to her.

She looks down at the dark liquid with wide eyes, “Ooh.”

“Cheers,” he says, clinking their glasses together. He holds it up to his lips, watching as Suzume grabs the jar with both of her little hands and drinks from it, “Careful.”

She starts to take a sip, brows raising in surprise before she chugs it down in one go.

Keigo laughs, “You like it, huh?”

She nods happily.

“You want a little more?”

“I want a lot more!”

“Okay, okay. But I’m not gonna give you too much. Don’t want you spoiling your…?”

“Dinner!”

“Dinner. Right,” So she did eat. Good, “What do you want for dinner?”

“Chicken!”

Keigo smiles, “That’s my girl.”

He reaches across the table and grabs her jar. He goes back to the pot, starts to fill her glass with cider while humming.

“Papa?”

“Yeah, Suzu?”

“Did Daddy like cider too?”

“Yeah. He loved the stuff.”

“Should we bring him some the next time we go to see him?”

Keigo stops, a small but fond smile playing across his lips. He pours the glass and turns back to her, “Sure, baby. We can see him after you make your little flower bouquet. This stuff lasts a while.”

*•.🍁.•*

“Hey, Dabi – woah, are you cooking?”

Dabi rolls his eyes as he slowly stirs the pot of apples and allspice. “No, I’m fucking fishing. Haven’t caught a bite all day.”

Toga skips over to him, looking over his shoulder as he continues to stir, “Is that…cider?”

“Is this ask me stupid questions day or somethin’?”

“Geez, don’t get so hotheaded,” she replies with a grin, “I just didn’t peg you as the kind of guy who’d be into this kind of stuff. Always pictured you more as a hard liquor only guy.”

Dabi stops for a second, staring down at his scarred reflection in the amber liquid. He clicks his tongue and continues on. “Yeah, well –’tis the season, I guess. You gonna want some of this?”

Toga pouts, “Dang. I wanna but the Boss wants me on a job right now.”

“That’s fine. You can have some when you get back,” he pauses, catching another glimpse of himself in the cider, “This stuff lasts awhile anyways.”

[huffle-dork]

Swap Across the CrystalVerse Chapter 20: The Rift

Read Swapboys | Crystal’s AUs| The Rift ARG

Read SITCV | SATCV Masterpost | AO3 Link

 "Did that guy just hang up?!" Jackie gasps, staring at his other-world counterpart with the phone in his hand. "What?!" 

"He's probably rushing out to look for Alt without waiting for us," Chase says. 

"I... want to blame him, but I guess I can't," Jackie says. "I'd do the same thing." 

"Goddamnit, Chase!" Jackieboy yells, holding his phone tight. "He always does this! Running in head first without thinking about anything!" He sighs and pockets his phone. " I guess we need to hurry then... before Chase gets into trouble too."

Jackie nods. "You guys stay here. I'll go look around--" 

And then a phone starts to ring in his pocket. "Oh, hang on." He takes it out. "It's Stacy." He picks it up. 

"That fucking guy!" Henrik's voice says. 

"Chase? Chase?" Stacy asks. "Was that guy really another version of you?" 

"Yeah, apparently," Chase says. 

"And he's looking for someone who came with him?" 

"Yep." 

"Okay, I guess we can help, then. You guys are at the flats? Henrik and I are coming in the car. Phoebe can watch the kids while they're in bed." 

"Yeah, I can do that," Phoebe agrees.

"His name is Alt! He looks just like Chase but- shorter. He has tons of freckles and wears a bandana with a smiley face around his neck." Jackie comments, "H-Hopefully he should be easy to spot... he can glitch. It's pretty noticable if you know what to look for." 

"Glitch?" Stacy repeats. "Like a computer program?" 

"I can picture that sort of thing exactly," Henrik says. 

"Alright, I'm giving the phone to you, Chase," Jackie says, handing it to him. "Just in case Stacy needs to call you. I can find you guys easily enough." He nods. "Bye. See you later." And he races out of the hotel, doors swinging. He's gone in seconds.

"... I know I shouldn't be... but I'm so fucking jealous." Jackieboy grumbles as he flops into a chair and crosses his arms.

"Oh god, yeah, I still am sometimes," Chase says. "Even after I know what he went through to get those powers. And all the rest of these guys, too." 

Jackieboy sighs and looks to the side, "...my friends apparently went through something awful to get their powers too... I just... thought they were born lucky..."

Xio gives a little wave. "Hey, why don't I come with you? I'll be able to help. Does Alt's glitching make sound?"

He looks back to Xio "Mmm yeah- it's like- a zip and crackle- kinda like static but also not. ... weirdly enough you can kinda smell it? The air smells metallic when he does it- and it has a vague green light." Jackie says with a shrug.

"The sound is all I need," Xio says. "Sound is my thing." 

Chase nods. "Xio can manipulate it, a-and you can sense where it's coming from, right?" 

"Mm-hmm." Xio nods back. "I used to be like, a radio hub for people in the cells, cause I could hear everything in the block even with the soundproofing and could replicate noises somewhere else." 

“Oh- huh. That’s why you were so freaked out that you didn’t hear me come in, huh?” Jackieboy smiles. “Cool. Yeah it just- sounds like… exactly like a video game glitch. You’ll know it when you hear it.” 

"Well... guess we just gotta wait for Stacy and Hen to get here, then," Chase says.

Jackieboy sighs and leans on his thighs, glancing at the doors. “Yeah.. guess so.”

"Don't worry, there's not a lot of traffic in the city, so they'll be here soon," Chase says. "Any moment." He looks towards the doors hopefully. 

---------- 

Bro is flying through the city at night, just over the rooftops. Come on, Alt, where are you?! Where could you be?! He's passing over a row of townhouses when he feels a sudden tug, like an invisible force is pulling him close to the ground.

Bro shouts out in surprise as he’s tugged and falls a good bit from the sky before he starts to try to fight the pull. “T-The fuck?!”

He’s able to stay airborne for a second, but then falls, landing on his stomach on the ground in front of a man.A man wearing a mask and cape. 

“Since when can you fly?!” He shouts. “What are you, actually Twilight Sparkle?!” Then the man pauses. “No, wait, your hair is different. You’re not—but are you—? Who are you?”

Bro oofs and looks back up at the masked man and glares. “The fuck, man?! Why is twilight sparkle the first example you think of??”

“Well purple hair—except you don’t have purple hair—so who are you?” The man asks. 

“I have never had purple hair in my life-“ Bro starts to argue-

Then the man suddenly gasps. “Wait… don’t tell me you’re from another universe?”

Bro pauses and pushes himself up. “Yeah I am. Guessing you know a Chase Brody?”

The man nods. “Vaguely. He’s the one with purple hair. Look, some guys appeared in my house. Someone who looked like a computer glitch, and some freak with a mask. Friends of yours? Or—is one of them a friend of yours? They didn’t… get along…”

Bro jolts at this and goes to grab the man's arm, "You saw Alt?! Please- he's my brother and im looking for him! He could be in Serious danger!"

The man jerks away from Bro’s touch. “Yeah I saw him. And… I’m afraid you’re right. He is.” The man pauses. “I told them to get out of my house. They did, and almost immediately after the weirdo with the mask attacked the other. I think he… somehow started controlling him. Th-they went north, I-I was trying to find people to talk to about this.”

Bro's eyes widen, "What?!" He growls and goes to punch the nearest thing he can, blue overpowering his eyes. "That fucking mangy cat-!" He looks back at the man and glares at him, but slowly softens. "...who were you trying to find? I.. I was worried about the psy-maniacs grabbing Alt first not- fucking Magnificent getting him! What the fuck!!"

The man flinches when Bro suddenly punches the wall, but quickly composes himself before Bro turns to look at him, seeming calm and collected. “‘Psy-maniacs’? So someone already told you about Psyode, then,” he says. “I was going to find the other Chase Brody, actually. Or maybe his Quicksilver of a twin, or that Einstein he hangs out with. Ah… that probably means nothing to you, does it? I mean—Jackie Brody and Henrik von Schneeplestein. I was going to warn them about the maniac from another universe. And tell them that ours is apparently under quarantine, and maybe enlist them to get that Alt guy back.”

Bro frowns and furrows his brow. "... quarantine...? huh... I wonder what that means." He then sighs and ruffles the back of his hair, looking embarrassed. "...I just... was with Henrik. And talking with your guys... I think this world's Jackie is starting to look too so- maybe I'll run into him but... they know. I think they're all trying to get together too I just... jumped the gun. Because... i... Alt just went through something awful I... I didn't want those Psyode guys getting to him too..." 

"Nobody deserves what they do," the man mutters. He shakes his head slightly. "Look, if it's any consolation, I've mana--this world's Jackie has managed to stay away from Psyode for months, and I hear others who escaped have managed to avoid them for years. They're tough, but it's not impossible to slip beneath their notice. And if you want, I saw the direction that masked freak took Alt. We can start heading there. Maybe we'll find them."

"That... that'd be great, yeah. I don't want to get my dumbass lost trying to find him." Bro sighs. He looks at the man and tilts his head. "I'm so sorry I don't think i got your name? You know mine but honestly you can just call me Bro- or you know Chase but that can get comfusing."

"Bro?" the man laughs a little. "How overly familiar of you. But fine. They call me the Magician here." He waves his fingers a little. "I should apologize for pulling you out of the sky. I don't see people flying often. Or ever."

"That's fair. ..really though, the Magician?" Bro raises an eyebrow. 

"Hey, I didn't choose it, the news did. Though I did dress like this... but they could've been more creative." Magician shrugs. 

Bro shrugs back with a laugh, "Who am I to judge? I call myself Bro Fantastic- that's why I say to call me Bro, ha." He smirks then jerks his head towards the street. "Wanna get a move on, then?"

"Yes, let's go. Hopefully we'll meet Scarlet--Jackie--on the way there." He turns and hurries down the street.

Bro chuckles and then rushes to follow after him. 

 ----------- 

Even with Jameson carrying Alt in cat form, it was slow going to get all the way across the city. Anti looks calm, but there's a constant static noise coming from everyone's phones that indicates he's more frustrated than his image appears.

Magnificent is trying his best to stay calm but- having the TRVLR stolen from them does him on edge. He used to be able to rely on Alt to have it... at least the troublesome cub wouldn't wander now. He glances over at Anti, wondering if he can read his expression.

Jameson glances over at Magnificent. He shakes his head. 

No use, he signs awkwardly. 

Anti disappears and reappears next to him. “What’s no use?” 

Alt jolts a bit and blinks up at Anti and then hisses slightly at him.

Jameson gasps, but takes care not to make Alt cat too uncomfortable. Your face, he says. 

“Hmm. What about it?” 

Not you. 

“Heh.” Anti smiles. “That’s true.” He turns to Magnificent. “The image you’re looking at isn’t actually me. I don’t have a body. This illusion just makes it easier for people.”

"Oh- how curious." Magnificent hums. "Then, what exactly are you then, Anti?"

Anti shrugs. “I’m Anti. There’s nothing like me out there. I’m loose thoughts, like a string of lights in a distant city. All energy, no matter.”

"Oh-! Fascinating... only energy and yet you can do things like this." Magnificent replies. "Is that why you want to come to the next universe with us? To see if you can find... something more?"

“Exactly,” Anti says. “I know there’s more out there for me. More I can do. It won’t get in the way of whatever you want—I wouldn’t do that to you after you went far enough to take me with you. But—” 

Magnificent grins, "I mean... I'm quite curious to see what we can accomplish together-"

Suddenly, with a whoosh of wind, something red runs right past them, ruffling Mag’s cape and Alt’s fur. It skids to a halt down the street and turns around to look at them. A man wearing a red jumpsuit with blue highlights. It looks homemade, but neat and well-done. The man is wearing a blue eye mask on the top half of his face and a black face mask on the bottom half. 

“Anti!” he gasps. “You—you’re—”

Mag holds an elbow over his face as the wind rushes past him and then he whips around to look at the man. "Oh! Well... if it isn't a superhero wannabe hm? Anti- do you know who this boy is?" 

Alt narrows his eyes at the man and his hackles raise, purple pulsing in his eyes.

“The people call him the Scarlet Blur, but I know his real name. Jackie Brody.” Anti smiles. Static eats away at his face, spreading from his eyes and mouth in a creepy display until his head is just a cloud of static. “A nobody who just got lucky.” 

“Lucky? Lucky?!” Jackie shouts. “Shut the fuck up!” He looks at Jameson. “You’re JJ. Jameson, right?! G-get away from them! I don’t know who that other guy is but he looks like bad news!” 

The street lamps flare brighter, and the one nearest to Jackie bursts. He runs to the side, and even with his speed he barely dodged the bolt of electricity from the bulb that hits where he was just standing. 

“Feel free to kill him,” Anti’s voice says. “Or whatever it is you do, Magnificent.”

Hatred flares in Magnificent's eyes at hearing this is a Jackie. He grins wide, power pulsing in his eyes. "Oh... with pleasure." He snaps, "Alt? Shift and attack the hero." 

“Shift?” Jackie repeats, confused.

Alt stiffens and sits up in Jameson's arms, purple bright in his eyes again. And then, in a flicker of static the cat leaps out of his arms and shifts into a black brown wolf and lunges to try to bite Jackie.

And then the wolf attacks and Jackie yelps. He starts to turn and run backwards but he’s so shocked that he just forgets about his speed. The wolf’s teeth clamp around his arm and he screams, turning and punching the wolf in the face. 

Alt manages to hang on and doesn't flinch as he's punch, digging his teeth in more with a growl.

"No no no no no!" Jackie screams, jabbing his foot into the wolf's neck.

Alt gets kicked off and skips onto the ground before shaking his head and growling at Jackie, pushing himself back up. Electricity flickers around him as his eyes glow a bit more green. Then, he glitches and tries to attack him again.

Jackie breathes heavily, checking the damage on his arm. He only glances down for a moment but it's enough of a distraction to give Alt an advantage. Jackie gets up and tries to run but this time the wolf's teeth latch onto his leg. He screams again. "Let go let go let go!" he shouts, punching and kicking wildly.

Alt tries to shake his head to latch on better and doesn't flinch at the first hit but by the others he gets knocked off and staggers back. He shakes out his head and weakly growls at Jackie, colors flickering in his eyes as he pants. 

As soon as Alt lets go Jackie gets up and tries to run but cries out as he takes his first step on his injured leg. Still, he tries, but it's too much and he collapses. 

Magnificent growls as he looks at Jackie and realizes he doesn't have power he can steal. He barks out at Alt, "Keep going, Alt! Kill him!" 

Alt's eyes glow more and then in another flicker of glitches he shifts into a big snake and tries to lash out to wrap around Jackie.

The snake slinks around his legs and arms. "Jesus fucking shit shit!" Jackie gasps, struggling, trying to break free.

Jackie manages to break through and Alt flies back, skidding across the road. He glitches a bit more before his form breaks and he shifts back into his human form, breathing heavily, his eyes rolling in his head dazedly. 

Magnificent growls in anger, "Fucking useless pup! Get back up!" 

Alt groans and weakly tries to push himself back up, dazedly looking back at Jackie but not seeming like he's really able to focus on him.

Jackie scrambles to his feet as quickly as possible. He looks back at Alt and Jameson regretfully, then staggers off, quickly gaining speed. 

One of the street lamps flares and bursts, lightning darting towards Jackie but missing as he speeds out of sight. Anti hisses. "Well, we'll see him again, I'm sure of that. He's the type to keep getting in people's way." 

Magnificent growls and watches Jackie rush off. He snorts and crosses his arms. "Hopefully he'll stay away until we can find that annoyance that stole from us."

Jameson hurries to Alt's side to check on him.

Alt dazedly looks at Jameson and sees him through dizzying vision. "D..Doc..." He breathes and leans up against him, his eyelids fluttering. "...'m tired..."

Jameson blinks, momentarily confused, but it isn't worth thinking about. You'll be okay, he says. Alt nods against his shoulder. Then, Jameson looks over at Anti and Marvin. He needs rest. 

"We don't have time to rest, who knows what the others will do in the time frame we're resting?" Anti growls. 

He still needs rest, Jameson persists. He needs to recover energy. 

Anti tilts his head. "Energy... Hmm." The head swivels over to Magnificent. "Do you think that if Alt gets struck by lightning, he will absorb it? Or is that not how his electricity works?"

Magnificent hums and appears to kneel down by Alt. "Hmm... he has magic left- so... he should be able to absorb some of it. I'm not sure though... he usually absorbs that stuff from outside sources. ... I am curious though." The mad magician chuckles.

"We'll test it out a little first, then," Anti says. "Jameson, back." 

Jameson just stares at him, unwilling to leave Alt's side when he's in this state. 

Anti growls, and suddenly Jameson jerks back, moving against his will. Once he's no longer touching Alt, the air around Alt hums, static rising, until a small bolt of lightning appears from thin air and hits him.

Alt blinks in confusion as Jameson jerks back and tries to catch himself on his hands- then he screams as the electricity hits him. He spasms slightly and crashes to the ground, gritting his teeth as the sparse electricity ripples across his skin. 

Mag tilts his head in thought, hardly phased. ".. huh.. Guess not."

"Huh." Anti frowns. "That's less useful than I thought, then." 

Jameson hurries forward again and grabs Alt, helping him up. He can't do much, but he hopes that the contact will help. 

Alt staggers and clings to Jameson as he's helped, parts of him still jittering. 

He needs rest, Jameson repeats. Especially after that. He shoots Anti a glare. 

"Don't make that face," Anti demands. 

Jameson just narrows his eyes more. 

"Fine!" Anti snaps. "Here, I'll be nice and make up for it." Alt feels a tingling sensation all over his body... and suddenly, the lingering pain is gone.

He blinks as he feels his pain disappear and looks down at himself then back at Anti, "...what did you do...?"

"You people all run on electricity," Anti says. "And pain is a signal sent through your nerves using that electricity. I recently figured out how to manipulate that." 

Jameson blanches. Alt feels him shudder slightly.

Alt also shudders a bit. "Umm... t-thank you... I guess." 

Magnificent snorts and rolls his eyes. "Well- if he's not in pain we should keep moving. Alt- you can find things to recharge yourself with on our walk. I'm sure there's- streetlights or displays or whatever around you can leech off of." 

Alt opens up his mouth to try to argue but then stiffens and his eyes flash again. "...y-yes Magnificent..."

Jameson looks at Alt sympathetically. He wishes there was something he could do to help him, but he knows Anti will stop him. The most he can do is make sure that Alt's taken care of. That's the most he's ever been able to do. He stands up and helps Alt to his feet. 

Alt looks over at Jameson with glazed eyes. But, there's a flicker of gratitude beneath his expression.

"Strange, Jackie didn't have his phone," Anti says. "He must've given it to someone else. Either way, I can still sense its movements. Let's continue on." 

----------- 

The apartment building lobby has emptied out except for Jackieboy, Chase, and Xio. When suddenly, lights shine into the windows. 

Xio gets to her feet and hurries over, staring out. "It's her car!" she shouts. 

"Great!" Chase also stands up. 

Outside, Stacy parks and Henrik gets out of the passenger seat. He hurries to the front entrance and bursts through. "Other Jackie! Hi! Hello! Oh, you look so different! But also the same."

Jackie hurries after the others and then balks at seeing Henrik. He laughs, "I could say the same thing about you! Nice to meet ya in the flesh though-"

"Yes, yes!" Henrik looks at Chase excitedly. "Can you believe this, Chase?! An actual person from another world! Here! A-and not the only one!" 

Chase laughs. "This is like your wildest dreams come true, huh?" 

"Of course!" 

A woman enters the lobby. "Hi Chase, hey Xio. So, you're the other Jackie, then? I'm Stacy. I guess I'm your sister-in-law in this world. Nice to meet you."

Jackieboy laughs then looks at Stacy as she enters. His eyebrows raise up and then he laughs. "I guess so! Funny- my Chase only just started dating our version of you- though.. guess I could see them settling down~" He grins.

"Heh." Stacy glances at Chase, who coughs awkwardly. "We met in college. Had our twins not long after." 

"Oh! Same with me and my wife!" Jackie grins. "We met 1st year of uni and got married and had our daughter not long after!"

"Y-yeah." Chase nods. "Uh... I hope your Chase will be better at finances than me. That really fucked us over for a while." 

"In the past," Stacy says casually. 

Jackie laughs, "I dunno how good he is with money but he's at least keeping him and Alt afloat!" 

Henrik giggles. "The differences between worlds, so interesting, interesting. Your Chase told me your version of me is deaf, and an actor!" 

"Really?" Chase tilts his head. "Bruh, I can't picture you as an actor at all. I can't picture you as anything but some sort of scientist."

"Imagine how we feel! You all are all- topsy turvy to us!" Jackieboy chuckles.

"No yeah, I know exactly how you feel," Chase says. "It's like you're living my life. Very weird. Jackie was never the type to settle down, they're more of a free spirit." 

Jackie grins, "Yeah! It's weird huh? My Chase is more the free-spirit. He's great with kids but- can't see him being a dad." 

"Which is why they went running out there, isn't it?" Stacy jerks her head back out the front doors. "We can talk about all this stuff in the car, y'know. It's kind of important that we find this guy. What was his name?" 

"Alt, I think," Chase says

Jackie blinks and grins sheepishly, "Right right- let's go. God knows what trouble other me and Bro got into..."

Henrik nods. "Yes, we must find him before Psyode or, god forbid, Anti finds him. If he was interested in Jameson Jackson from another time, he will definitely be interested in this Alt Brody from another space."

The group heads outside. "Jackie can usually handle himself," Chase says. "But uh... his brain doesn't move as fast as his body sometimes. So you can surprise him and stuff. Which... isn't ideal." 

"He's great, though," Xio says. "He was the second person to escape Psyode after 25 did. A real inspiration to people still stuck in there." 

“Oh really? 25 was… the magician guy right?” Jackie asks. 

Henrik grumbles. It's mostly in German, but there are small sound bites of "ethics board" "Jason" "fucking Ayer" and "fucking Experiment Department". 

"Yeah, he was really paranoid about people knowing his name," Xio says. "So I just called him 25. Still do. We were across from each other in the cells. Nice guy... though you won't hear this Jackie agree with that." 

"Oh- huh... guess that kinda true with Alt at first too. Though- he kept to calling himself Alt even after we knew." Jackie shrugs, "Oh- does this world's jackie not like him? guess that must be a constant..." 

"Who wants shotgun?" Stacy asks, getting into the driver's seat.

Jackie shrugs to the question, “I’ll take anywhere!”

Xio laughs. "I'll take shotgun, Stacy, more leg room." 

"The back seat for us, then," Chase says, opening it up. "Op. Evan left Pinkie Pie in here, Stacy." 

"Pass her up to me, I'll remember to take her in," Stacy says, holding out her arm. 

Chase puts a small plushie of a pink horse into her hand and she puts it in the spot between the two front seats. 

Jackie gets inside the car and then smiles softly, "Aw pinkie! She's my daughter's favorite~"

Stacy laughs. "Evan says she's fun, but Anna says Applejack would actually be a better friend. Which is debatable." 

"As for Jackie and Magician, I mean... their relationship didn't exactly start the best way," Chase says. "They were like--a hero-villain duo. The only two superheroes and villains out there. A detective and a phantom thief. And he did throw me off a roof one time--" 

"Magician did what?!" Henrik gasps as he gets in the car. 

"But Jackie caught me!" Chase says. "And I don't think Magician thought it through, yknow?" 

"Woahhh- dude that's kinda metal though. That'd make for a fantastic book or tv series-" Jackie laughs.

Chase grins a little. "Yeah, I know, right?" 

As Stacy starts the car and drives off, Henrik says, "I cannot think of Magician as a fully bad person. After all, he helped rescue Phoebe and me, even if he was mainly curious about what happened to Jameson Jackson, his friend."

"What happened to him?" Jackie asks curiously.

"To Jameson Jackson?" Henrik asks. "We are not fully sure." 

"The Jackson family is like, this powerful old-money family," Chase says. "I did research in the library once and found out that Jameson Jackson was one of them who disappeared in the 1920s. But now he's definitely here in the present day. Magician knows him, clearly cares for him a lot, so I'm guessing that Jameson somehow traveled through time and found Magician and the two of them got close." 

"But then Anti found him," Henrik adds. "And he took him. Anti can control people's bodies, you know. He makes Jameson do things for him, and if Jameson will not, he controls him to do it anyway." He shakes his head sadly. "I'm sure Jameson is a good man," he says quietly.

Jackie's eyes widen, "Oh... woah..." He then hums in thought and rubs at his arm. "...'m sure he is. ....Alt got treated like that by our bitch magician, Magnificent. But, despite everything that fucking cat has put him through... he still tries to do good and be kind. ...I bet Jameson is the same."

Henrik nods slowly. "Yes... He certainly seemed that way while I was there..." He trails off. 

Chase leans over to gently shake Henrik. "C'mon, Hen. Stay with us for now. We got other-universe people to find." 

"Yes, yes, yes." Henrik nods. 

"Other Jackie, anything you know that could help us about where your guys would be?" Xio asks, turning back to look at him.

"Ummm-" Jackie makes a face and leans back in his chair. "Other than Alt's glitching? ummm look for green and purple lights- that's Mag's magic. He also just like- teleports everywhere like a big show off. And uh- Mag ususally looks for big sources of power. Something he can steal." 

"A source of power?" Chase repeats. "Uh... The only place I can think of that would have 'power' like how you're implying is that compound Psyode set up." 

"Let's hope you won't have to go back there," Stacy says. 

"Yeah... I hope we find them before having to try there... That sounds like a place I very much want to avoid." Jackie mutters.

"We'll drive around the city for a while and see if we find anything. In retrospect, I wish Jackie kept his phone." Stacy mumbles. 

Chase shrugs. "Can't undo the past... probably. So let's stick with the present."

 ----------- 

Magician and Bro have been walking for some time, crossing between rows and rows of townhouses, when Magician suddenly stops. "Hang on. Do you see that?" 

He barely has time to say that before the thing he saw rushes at the two of them--then past them, banging into a lamp post. A man in a red jumpsuit stumbles back, falling to the ground. "Owwww," he groans. 

Bro blinks and looks and then jumps into the air slightly in surprise as he's run past. He gasps and then touches down to help the man, "Oh my god?? Are you okay???"

“No, I don’t think so.” The man sits up, looking up at Bro. His eyes widen. “Y-you… you’re the other world Chase.” He’s bleeding from his arm and leg. 

Bro hurriedly digs through his backpack and finds something to stop the bleeding- some of his clothes before he borrowed Chase's in the last world. He rips off parts of a shirt and then presses some to the man's arm and grabs his hand and lays it over the spot. "Put pressure there, okay?" He then rips some more and goes to put pressure on his bleeding leg.

“…Scarlet?” Magician says. “What happened?” 

“There was a fucking—no one said a-anything about—about animals turning into other animals!” The man stammers.

Bro freezes slightly as he hears the last part, his face going pale. "...weird question... did that animal... glitch at all? or did you see it... turn human?"

The man—Magician called him Scarlet—does as Bro instructed. “Y-yes… it turned human at the end, turned into a guy.” 

“Hold on a second, are you saying that your Alt friend can turn into animals?!” Magician gasps.

Bro closes his eyes and curses, "Y-Yes he can but he doesn't do it often! And... h-he wouldn't do it to attack someone like... like this!" He then frowns and then has a murderous expression, "...but he would if Mag forced him too. That fucking sneaky bitch...!"

"Mag...?" Scarlet repeats, looking at Magician. "Like... short for Magician?" 

"No, it's short for Magnificent, which is a fucking stupid name," Magician mutters. 

"Okay, but you know, calling him that makes me think--" 

"Shut up, Sonic," Magician snaps. 

"Oh yeah sorry- Magnificent. S'easier just to say Mag... didn't realize it'd be confusing." Bro mutters.

Scarlet laughs--then hisses as he shifts position slightly and makes his injuries hurt more. "A-anyway. Y-yeah, I think that 'Magnificent' guy must have been there. And so was Anti, a-and that man--Jameson Jackson." 

Magician's expression softens slightly behind his mask. "JJ is with them...?" he whispers.

Bro’s eyes darken as Scarlet catches them up. "Of course he found this world's Anti... I bet they're up to no good... and dragged Alt into it... and Jays too. Fuckers...!" He looks down at Scarlet and frowns. "...we can't just leave Scarlet. He's really hurt... we should try to take him to the others... isn't Henrik a doctor?"

"He's not that kind of doctor," Scarlet says. "He's a scientist. Physics and shit. Loves studying other worlds and shit." He pulls down his face mask. "By the way, I-I realize I haven't formally introduced myself. I'm Jackie." 

"Oh right- I guess I should have figured." Bro laughs weakly. "Nice to officially meet ya, Jackie." 

"You're bleeding out, Scarlet, this isn't time for introductions," Magician says. 

"Th-this is the perfect time! Before anything bad happens. Or, worse, I-I guess." Jackie hisses. 

Bro frowns, "Hey don't think like that, we'll get you patched up." 

"Wish I didn't give my phone to Chase... I could've called them to bring a first aid kit." Jackie looks at Bro. "Wait, do you still have your phone?"

Bro then blinks and nods, going to pull out his phone. "Yeah- I think my Jackie might be with your group... oh! And he has a first aid kit!"

"He does?! Oh good." Jackie laughs. "Go on. a-and call them, then." 

Magician stands there awkwardly. "I can... put more pressure on your wounds... if you want." He straightens, and laughs haughtily. "Not that I'd get blood on my hands, that's disgusting. But my powers are very useful for situations like this~" 

Jackie looks up at him. "...sure, Magician," he says, his tone a strange mix of annoyance and gentleness. 

Magician nods. Nothing seems to happen visibly, but Jackie is able to lean back, Bro's clothes continuing to be pressed to the wounds even without him doing it.

"Oh- well... that's helpful... what is it that you do, Magician?" Bro asks curiously, "You don't seem to use magic like Alt or Mag does... but you have something- that's how you pulled me out of the sky and... are doing this I guess." As he says this he starts to dial Jackie's number.

"I have myself something called psychokinesis," Magician chuckles. "Moving and pushing things without physically touching them. It's quite handy, you know. I can even pick locks with the ability." 

"You called me Sonic, alright, Silver," Jackie mutters. 

Bro bursts into laughter, "Heh- I guess that is fitting...!" 

The other end of Bro's call picks up quickly.

The call picks up and Jackieboy hurriedly answers the other line: "Chase??" 

"H-Hey man... sorry for just... hanging up on you..." Bro says putting the call on speaker. 

"Yeah dude that was a dick move-" 

Bro winces, "Sorry sorry but- I found Magician and Jackie- other Jackie and... he's really hurt. And Mag got a hold of Alt and i... I think he used his shapeshifting to attack him." 

"What?!" Chase shouts on the other end. "Jackie, are you okay?!" 

"I'm fine!" Jackie yells. 

"Don't let that fool you, Violet, he's bleeding and it looks like some animal bit him," Magician says. 

"Jackie what the fuck?!" Henrik shouts. 

"I didn't want to get attacked by wolf, dude!" 

"...woah that's a whole bunch to process okay- well... we're in Stacy's car with other you, Henrik and Xio... which I guess you heard.” Jackieboy laughs. “Do you know where you are?" 

"We're somewhere on Daine Street, in the neighborhoods to the north of the city," Magician relays. 

"Fuck," Chase curse. "W-we can get there fast! Stacy, are there any pharmacies nearby?!" 

"I can put it into Maps," Stacy says. "We can pick up anything we need. Jackie, can you move?" 

"Y-yeah... I think so." 

Magician sighs. "Very well, I guess I could help if you need it." 

Jackie gives him a puzzled, thoughtful look.

Bro looks between Magician and Jackie with a confused expression. "...are you guys friends or do you hate each other? Cuz I genuinely cannot tell." 

"Apparently its a villain vs hero thing." Jackie supplies. 

"Ohhhh-" 

"Oh, Scarlet totally hates me," Magician says, grinning. 

"No, I don't," Jackie mutters. 

"Oh by the way, I have my first aid kit but... if he got bit by stuff... we might need something more." Jackieboy mumbles worriedly.

"I'm googling what antibiotics we'd need to prevent infection," Chase says. "We can stop by a pharmacy to get them." 

"Xio, look for stuff close by on my phone," Stacy says. "The password is 6232." 

"Got it, man," Xio says. "Looks like the nearest place to buy medicine is on the corner of Mirylow and Kellie." 

"Can you guys head that way?" Chase asks. 

"I-I think so," Jackie says.

"I can help, dude, don't worry," Bro says with a sincere smile. "We'll meet you all there." 

"Okay, Chase, be careful." Jackieboy says. 

"Will do." Bro hangs out and quickly pockets his phone before kneeling down by Jackie and trying to see if he can help him up. "I know you just ran here but resting sometimes changes things, can you put pressure on your leg?"

"Let's see." Jackie lets Bro pull him up. He hisses a bit. "Hurts, but I think I got it." He glances at Magician. 

"Can you... keep that pressure up? I think it's helping." 

Magician flashes a grin. "Of course. Just remember, you owe me~" 

"Ugh. Fine." Jackie shakes his head. "Let's just go." 

----------- 

Anti guides the others from a residential area to a section of the city with more businesses and shops. 

"If you can hide yourselves with your power, I suggest you do," he says. "If we can take them by surprise, we should."

Magnificent hums and looks around. He sees a dark alley and grins. "No problem. I'll blend into the shadows." He looks back at Alt, who's been trying to find small sources of energy here and there. He stills seems kinda drained and out of it. Regardless though, he snaps his fingers and points at Alt. "Alt, shift. You'll hide with me." 

Alt stiffens quickly and then glitches back into his cat form. Mag is quick to scoop him up and pets him with an evil chuckle. Alt's hackles raise slightly but he slowly relaxes, his eyes looking a bit more slitted as Mag pets him. Mag looks to Anti and then steps back, the two of them fully blending into the shadows as if they disappeared.

"Heh... Impressive." Anti grins. His image disappears, leaving only Jameson visible. 

Jameson sighs, taking out the phone from earlier. 

Anti's voice continues to come from the speakers. "We're gaining on them. Keep going down this street." As they continue, Anti continues to talk. "So, Magnificent. What is your goal in traveling through worlds? Searching out power? Conquering the universes? Something more specific than that?"

There's the vague hints of movements within the shadows as they walk- the hint of static, the flicking of cat tail, the flash of a green eye. But, only while Magnificent moves to keep up. 

"Oh... a little of everything. I want to taste the power and magic other universes provide~ and also... If i can crush any duplicates of me who think they're better or more powerful well... that's another plus~!" He giggles. "And making new puppets has been quite a joy as well! So many unique ways to manipulate the mind and bend it to a stronger beings will... honestly- it inspires me to look for more~"

"Fascinating," Anti's voice says. "So, I suppose it's both curiosity and control. I can understand that. After all, I'm the one seeking knowledge of how to get into other worlds. And I suppose I have some puppets of my own. Though most of them are interchangeable to me. Jameson here is an exception. I feel responsible, since I may be the one who accidentally brought him here." 

Jameson rolls his eyes. He glances over every time there's an occasional flicker of movement indicating Magnificent... and Alt.

Alt's eyes find Jameson's through the shadows when he looks- sometimes more slitted, sometimes something a bit more human.

"Oh? Is that so... is he mayhaps- a person pulled from time?" Magnificent laughs, 

Anti laughs. "That's exactly what he is! From ninety years ago or so.”

"We are more similar than I thought then, Anti~! I did the same to one of my puppets... though- he has stubbornly rejected his strings. Mostly useless to me now but... we have our fun occasionally." 

“I never expected to find someone also able to do something like that. I'm sorry that your puppet pulled away.”

"Ha! Perhaps our puppets should meet~ it's not often I meet another who pulled someone from time." Magnificent giggles. 

“I am curious as to how you make them in the first place. Your magic is unique. I can manipulate people's motor neurons, but it's difficult, and I can only focus on so many people at a time. Something like your power... I wonder if it's easier than my method." Anti says.

Mag hums, petting Alt through the shadows, the cat's eyes turning more slitted and purple as he does- pushing his influence in. "Truly- it depends fully on the mind. I often find with enough surprise and mental manipulation, most humans can fall to my magic for a bit of time. Enough for me to get my way... but it is temporary and hard to maintain. Usually its just enough to cause some chaos or damage... but Alt here~ he is a great example of long term manipulation. His mind is like putty in my hands... and I have so many ways to twist it to do my bidding~! He fights when he can, sure... but that's almost half the fun~!" 

Anti laughs again. "Fascinating. Truly fascinating. Your mind manipulation would have been most helpful when I was trying to get information from someone. With your powers, he no doubt would have told me everything he knew." He sighs. "I wish I could read minds as easily as I manipulate the body, but unfortunately, I haven't quite decoded that yet. Everyone's thoughts are so different that it's hard to decipher the electrical impulses. Hmm... perhaps... no, if you are able to take me out of this world, I suppose I don't need that information anymore."

"Is that the only information you seek? To escape this world?" Magnificent asks.

"That, and any way I can use to gain power," Anti answers. "I know I am not supposed to be here. And I know that my purpose exists beyond this universe."

"Ah... we have similar goals then." Magnificent giggles. "Don't worry, Anti. With Alt this deep under... he won't remember this- and you should be able to sneak into the TRVLR with ease~"

"Yes." Anti laughs. "I can't wait." 

[daekie]

so...... ⚾ Blaseball, huh?

see the thing with putting all my work in a one-last-hurrah message in the fanwork channel is that i don't have enough characters left to talk about almost anything else. so INSTEAD here's a masterpost of my work i guess!

and it's all of the eyes on the way it's going

There was something... there was something they were supposed to say. Something they were meant to carry through the rift. Some information Wyatt Mason wanted to hold close to their chest, because it could change everything, if they just - but there’s nothing there except the same crackling static that would make them jump, if they felt alive enough for that. Wyatt Mason III was pulled through the Rift. Wyatt Mason III Localized into the Georgias' lineup.

2938 words, 1 chapter. Written before I actually had any real feelings or opinions on that wet little guy (said with immense fondness) & the first real piece of writing I did for Blaseball. I think I've gotten a lot better since this, but it's not bad, and I'm still pretty proud of the workskin I made for it.

for you, home is a cemetery

The light shining overhead casts everything in dangerous gold, and the players standing in perfect rank and file are no better and no safer: the Aequitas Representatives, here to take the challenge proposed by the Seattle Garages, here to remind a pesky little team what their place is and how foolish it is to fight a god. 6x200 snapshots of those terrible, brittle years, smothered and kept and preserved under a god's thumb for her purposes and her purposes alone.

1200 words (6x200), 1 chapter. AO3 says it's 1201 but it's lying I think. The Wyatts Mason, in a world where the Coin arranged their Localization and corporate drone teenagers scare the living shit out of me; inspired by @zayphora's original Aequitas AU.

you'll lead all your friends like lemmings to a slaughter

Season 14, Day 86. Wy█tt M██on III Ech█ed █yatt Mas██ ███ — ECHO Wyatt Mason III STATIC ECHO Wyatt Mason VIII STATIC

3387 words, 1 chapter. The aftermath of and it's all of the eyes on the way it's going. Wyatt Mason III Three hasn't even picked an actual name yet besides 'not Wyatt', and they've only been alive for fourteen days, but they know they're not walking off that field at the end of this game. Written after I'd been playing them on Twitter for some time, so it's a lot more consistent with a lot of things!

i'm no ghost, no fool

The first thing David Gray needs you to know is that their name is not David Gray. (is this worth crying for? is stepping up to bat worth dying for?)

2852 words, 1 chapter. Dialogue-only. In a Short Circuits world, Atlantis Georgias shadows player David Gray has some things they need to get off their chest, and a Fan's the only person who can hear them say it (literally). Good thing they can spot a Fan at a hundred paces.

a short list of stars that died this year (or: i’m screaming every requiem i know at the suns)

i’m screaming every requiem i know at the suns & someone is singing a mourning song. Nagomi Nava reflects, after the end of the world.

6967 words, 2 chapters. Written as part of the Sunbeams' 2022 Solstice exchange for orionexperiment#0951. Nagomi Nava experiences the Semi-Centennial, makes an odd friend in Tillman Henderson while she's at it, and makes her way through Season 24 and the end of the universe. This thing fucking rocks honestly, I don't even think it reads too well but I'm incredibly proud of it still.

radio station 19.14

11666 words spread across two fics. Written for the Tokyo Lift Fic Exchange. Jessica Telephone Voicemail and Wyatt Mason (Season 14 birth) Jasmine Mason have a midnight talk about not being that person you took your name and face from, and what it means to be you, and the team that loved a girl they barely even got to know. Fics can be read in any order. Includes:

the only way i know how to say sorry is "better luck next time"

One day, in the static she hears every time she picks up a phone, she hears a voice. The voice doesn’t sound like Jessica Telephone. If it did, she’d put the phone down immediately; deals like the kind Jessica made can’t really be taken back, but that was a determined girl, and she’d make a determined haunt, too. But it doesn’t sound like her voice, or her own, or otherwise. It sounds like a teenage girl. Jessica Telephone isn’t the only girl here who might as well be someone else's ghost.

5533 words, 1 chapter. I tagged this with Minor Parasocial Relationships / alt jess is weird about jessica. its parasocial its antagonistic its envious its Really Something / JESSICA ISNT EVEN HERE GIRL. WHAT ARE YOU HUNG UP ON and I stand by that. This is Jessica Voicemail's side of the conversation!

my theologies strewn out in the dark

At least she herself was able to say that’s not me, that’s my name, that’s not me, I want to be something else. She doesn’t think Jessica has said that, or maybe even thought it to herself; who wouldn’t want to be Jessica Telephone? From the outside, wouldn’t it be a gift, to live a life so rich? (Wouldn’t it be a gift, to be a splinter of a god who saw everything but never saw it coming? It always looks better from the outside.) Jessica Telephone isn’t the only girl here who might as well be someone else’s ghost: or, what that looks like from another camera angle: or, hey, who decides what the real Ship of Theseus is, anyway?

6133 words, 1 chapter. Jasmine's side of the conversation. Eldest daughter syndrome applies even if you're a weird sound ghost and Jas has got it bad. When she can't do anything, why would she ever let herself do anything less than as much as possible?

spinning on this infinite road

a collection of fics written for the game band's blasetober 2022 prompts, all written as 12x100s.

8675ish words, 6 chapters. Covers prompts THE BOOK, CERTIFIED BLASEBALL MOMENT, BIRDS, PEANUTS, A BLESSING, A CURSE, and PARKER.

oh, it's time for another vendetta

This is a body he hasn’t known since before the PODS. This is a body he had no say in leaving behind. This is a body that is his and is not his. York doesn’t know he’s crying until he feels the heat on his face. or: york silk backslides on his mental health recovery, because who ever put 'being eight years old again' in their twelve-step plan?

1628 words, 1 chapter. Set in Sonder's Salmon & Snake AU, where post-S24 the League resets back to S1 but with randomized rosters, and the only players who remember the original timeline are Hall Stars and Legends.

I've also done some ficlets from ask memes -- York Silk's protagonist halo & the vault's heel population, and Trip Mason & Jaybot and accepting the fact things won't get better. And I roleplay(ed) Wyatt Mason III & Siobhan Chark on Twitter!

Non-fanfic stuff I've made includes the following (it's 99% community-billboard stuff):

Everything on this I can back up except putting the Wyatts and Wyatt Prime on separate levels.

(at some point i WILL make a final version of this; this one doesn't include s24 + short circuits i think. but. yknow. it is what it is.)

mock takeovers for fan-entities the Archivist (the first two) & the Catalyst (the third one)

propaganda for early expansion era -- i think this is s13-s14?

late expansion era propaganda. the second one isn't even a good edit but i still think it's funny.

propaganda for short circuits. we could've been the atlantis peanuts.... i wanted it so bad

& some coronation era propaganda. very happy with that first knight ump one.

...and then i also did some playlists (raw meat, static echo)...

and during coronation, i drew my design for mckinney vaughan...

...and i did a moodboard for MaX (Wyatt Mason X)...

oh yeah and I also did text post memes. first set, second set, third set, georgias set.

it's been a good run, yall! onwards to whatever comes next. (& ofc i'll still be blaseballing -- i'll probably be playing around in this setting forever and ever.)

[bangtanloverboys]

come home again // jhs

summary -  for some reason, your boss told you never to pick up riders after midnight. maybe you’ll figure it out when you pick up a man who only asks to take him home

pairing - ghost!hoseok x taxi driver!reader

genre - suspense; ghost au

word count - 1.1k

warnings - referenced/implied death in a fire

author’s note - inspired by stories about ghost passengers

tagged - @jeontier​

the ghost of you masterlist

You didn’t think you'd ever understand why your boss asked you to stop taking fares after a certain point in the night. Especially considering that was one of the prime times for people to look for and grab a taxi, so you’d grab a few extra hours of overtime. Never pushing it more than an hour, saying you were dragged around the city by one particular person, and pocketing the extra cash. Hell, what your boss didn’t know won’t hurt him.

It wasn’t until a few months in did you truly understand why he was so adamant on stopping at 12 am on the dot.

Up until that point, everything had been fine. The day had been pretty normal, grabbing fares here and there. Making small talk with the customers. You were making pretty good pay. It was well past midnight now, but you were still driving around looking for some couple or some college students that would need a ride when suddenly a figure showed up, dead center of the road.

“Woah!” You shouted, slamming on your breaks. “Hey, watch it!” You shouted as you rolled down your window. The person in front of your car only looked at you sadly.

“Take me home,” was all he said. 

Normally, you wouldn’t hesitate about taking a passenger, but one look at the guy and he was giving you the heebie jeebies.

“Sorry man, out of commission,” you said, rolling back up your window. As you were getting ready to take your foot off the break, a knock on the back window startled you. Turning your head back, there was the young man again, staring at you.

“Take me home. Please.” It was strange how clear and crisp you heard his voice, despite him not even opening the door.

Kissing your teeth, you unlocked the back door. “Fine.” You barely even heard the door open, in fact, you don’t even think you heard it at all. For a moment you thought he changed his mind, but looking in the rearview mirror, there he sat, staring at you dead in the eyes.

“I need to go home.”

“Alright, alright, just tell me where home is and I’ll take you,” you told him. He rattled off an address that you plugged into your GPS. Half an hour away. Okay, you thought to yourself, just put up with him for thirty minutes then you’re good. And with that, you started your journey. 

Normally, your GPS took you towards all the faster routes, taking all the main roads to get to the destination. But for some reason, where this guy lived, only back roads were showing up for you to take. Frowning, you looked back at your passenger in the mirror, expecting him to be looking out the window or on his phone, but instead you were once again greeted with his sad eyes, boring into your soul.

“So,” you said, quickly averting your eyes back to the road, “mind if I turn on the radio?” Nothing. “I’ll take the silence as a resounding yes.” You leaned forward, turning on your radio but all you got was static. “Oh come on!” You groaned as you twisted the dial around, but all that came from your speakers was white noise. “Damn.” You hissed as you shut it off. “Guess you don’t get a lot of reception at your place?” Silence. With a huff, you went back to focusing on driving. The sooner this drive was over, the better. 

Turning the corner onto the last street, you frowned. This part of the city had been abandoned years ago, a terrible fire having swept through the neighborhood due to a gas leak or something of the sort. Not wanting to say anything, you kept your eyes forward until you stopped in front of the address your passenger gave you. “Alright, your fare is about $10.” You said as you turned in your seat. 

For once, he wasn’t looking at you. His entire body was turned, pressed up against the car door as he looked through the window. “Hey buddy, fingers off the glass.” You told him, but he didn’t budge. 

“I need to go home.”

“Well, you’re home now. That’s $10 fare,” you huffed, slightly exasperated. But still the passenger didn’t move. “Hello?” You snapped your fingers, trying to gain his attention. 

Finally he turned his head to look at you, his eyes met yours and you were overwhelmed with this feeling of sad, everlasting longing. Suddenly there was just this ache in your chest, urging you to go home. To call your mother, to squeeze your friends tight as possible. You could feel tears begin to well up on your eyes as these feelings ran through you.

“Thank you.” The passenger’s voice broke through the fog in your mind; a small, sad smile on his face. 

Quickly, you were reminded of where you were and started blinking back the tears, not wanting to cry in front of a random stranger. But as soon as your eyes refocused again, the man was gone.

“What the-” Your head whipped around as you tried to look for the man. He still hadn’t paid his fare! You smacked the steering wheel, huffing in annoyance. Guess you’d have to climb out and chase him down, you thought to yourself as you exited the cab. “Dude! You need to pay the fare!” You shouted into the darkness. 

A quiet thump from beside you had you snapping in that direction. You pulled out your phone, scrambling to turn on the flashlight, but when you did, you didn’t see the freeloader, no. It was a memorial. Dozens of dead flowers, dirty stuffed animals, and faded messages of love left piled up against a fence. Your heart squeezed in your chest as you took in the sight. You moved your light to glance over at the photographs that had been left. Many people died that night, most of them families. 

With a sigh, you shook your head. The guy was nowhere to be seen, and it was very late now. Your boss was gonna be pissed at you. But just before you turned to climb back into the car, you paused at one of the photos. Lowering yourself down, you picked up the grimey frame, eyeing the photo closer. Using your thumb to wipe away the dirt from the glass, you were able to get a somewhat clearer look at the person in the picture frame and what you saw had you dropping the photograph.

It was the very same man who had climbed into your cab, asking you to take him home.

[thatmexisaurusrex]

Bucky By Night Snippet

I'm probably going to post this fic tomorrow or the day after, buuuut, I'd like to give y'all a little snippet of my Radio Show AU where Sam calls into Bucky's late-night/early-morning radio show while driving to work:

📻 📻 📻

Sam had found it by accident.

The usual radio stations that Sam listened to always became static whenever he made the drive from Delacroix to Pointe A La Hache Harbor. Ever since he was a child. Ever since he came back from the DC.

Maybe it was because the CD player in his father’s old truck was broken. Maybe Sam just needed something to listen to on the long, open expanse of road. But Sam had fiddled with the dial all around the FM radio stations until he found the start of it one morning.

A preamble.

It was the preamble of a instruments. Some mix of Disco and R&B beat blasted from the car’s radio as the jingle of a radio station began.

“You are now listening to,” started a woman’s voice on the radio before it quickly switched to a man’s, “One-Oh-One-Point-Nine, The Wolf!”

Sam might have faltered when he heard the wolf howling as the beat dropped in that jingle. He found himself staying on that station as he heard that voice on the other side of the radio.

“Hello.”

It wasn’t hypnotic. Sam wouldn’t say that. Nor was it sultry. Not too high-pitched either. It wasn’t anything Sam would necessarily call a radio voice.

It was warm, though.

Like a man talking to a good friend. Like a small fire heating a cold night. It was strangely familiar despite Sam never hearing the man’s voice in his life. Oddly comforting.

So, Sam kept listening.

“Welcome, ghouls and goblins, to Bucky By Night. You’re Year Round Radio Show for Frights and Horrors,” said the man in the middle of July, “I am your ghastly host, Bucky, and I’d like to begin my second story tonight - or I suppose this morning - with a story I got via letter. I know. Haunting, right? Who sends a letter in this day and age? And in cursive, no less. And crimson ink. And what is this? Tea-stained paper? Nice touch. This letter seemed important, so here’s to you, anonymous letter writer. I’ll spin your tale…”

Maybe Sam should be more curious about that. About some man getting a creepy, blood-cursive written letter or something, but all Sam could fixate on was Bucky. This man had all the atmosphere he wanted, yet he went with the name Bucky?

Sam’s mind kept thinking about it, the tale from the mysterious letter going in one ear and out the other until Bucky said, “As it’s nearing the end of this show, it’s time for call-ins. What did you think of the story? Do you have something to tell me? Just want to talk? Call in!”

Before Sam could think, Sam was calling Bucky on speaker. He didn’t even know if he would get through. He’d never called into a radio station before. But someone on the other line picked up and said, “Hi! Thank you for calling into One-Oh-One-Point-Nine, The Wolf. Are you calling in for ‘Bucky By Night’? And if so, what’s your name?” and it felt like a haze as Sam answered the questions, lowered his radio volume as instructed, waited his turn as “Third in line”.

Everything seemed to be in stark focus as Sam heard him. On the other side of the line. This Bucky guy.

“Thank you for calling into Bucky By Night,” said the voice from the radio, as if excited just getting a caller, “What are you calling in for, Sam?”

Sam should be saying something. About the story Bucky told. Maybe just hang up. But Sam couldn’t help himself. He couldn’t stop himself as the words just toppled out of his mouth.

“Bucky By Night?” Sam said, “What are you by day, then?”

[birdybirdnerd]

for the 30 specific aus ask meme,, #30 tsp? :]

hi :)

EDIT: now on ao3!

30. hey bud. I didn't mean to reveal that I can read minds but I gotta know what in the actual hell is going on in your head, do you live like this? always??

The Narrator had long since grown used to filtering out the chatter of humanity that assaulted him daily. For as long as he could remember, he was partial to the thoughts of those around him; their innermost monologues, deepest desires all brought to the surface in his presence and his for perusal.

It was like a radio, constantly fluctuating between stations, only giving him glimpses and snatches of dialogue before it popped and fizzed to another channel. The more people around, the more wildly it flipped stations and the more chaotic it got and the bigger headache it gave him.

He had fine-tuned the art of filtering it out for the most part, into an idle white noise that barely bothered him. Proximity played a role in how strongly he was partial to an individual's thoughts; the closer they were to him physically, the louder their thoughts. It was why he spent his days avoiding others as much as possible, why he drifted through life lonely and distant from humanity.

But even then, it was impossible to completely avoid human contact, living in the busy 21st century world. Cities grew more and more squished, habitats grew crowded, and people were forced into smaller and smaller places just to exist. Bumping into others and being blasted with whatever song was stuck in their head or whose breakup or impending eviction was on their mind was inevitable.

Which was why, when the Narrator was sitting on the train into work one morning, crammed as far back in the corner of the seat as possible and desperately hoping against hope that the people who got on at this stop would take his anti-social glower as the hint that it was and continue onto the next car, he was unsurprised when the unassuming man in the beige button-up quietly sat down next to him to stare out the window for the rest of the transit.

He was surprised, though, when - as the train shuddered and began to move and the sudden jolt sent the stranger swaying back until their shoulders collided - there was nothing.

Nothing.

The white noise background static of thoughts and feelings that constantly assaulted the Narrator faded to silence. Pure, blissful silence.

The man righted himself, shot an apologetic glance to the Narrator, and turned forward again.

The noise returned. I wonder what I should cook for dinner tonight/God, if Brenda asks about the quarterly report again I'm gonna-/Do you think anyone notices how wrinkled this shirt it I should probably do laundry/Oh god oh god I'm gonna be late-

The Narrator reached out without thinking and grabbed the man's shoulder. Everything fell away into silence again.

The man stared at him. Raised an eyebrow.

From out of the silence came a single, soft, questioning thought: I wonder if he's alright?

"I-I," the Narrator stammered, suddenly unsure. He let go of the man's shoulder, self-conscious, and the other passengers' thoughts slammed back into him with a force that took his breath away. He grabbed at the man's shoulder almost desperately, apologetic as he began to blabber out things he never thought he'd admit to anyone.

"It's just, er, I didn't want to say anything as this is highly strange and I apologise for how horribly rude this must come off, but your mind is so blissfully blank that I- oh god, now it sounds like I'm calling you a brainless idiot, when it's clearly not that, it's just- I am constantly assaulted by the thoughts of everyone around me but for some reason your head is just completely empty? And I promise that isn't an insult, in face it's the most wonderful thing I've ever experienced, the quiet inside your mind is so complete it blocks out everything else and I am so sorry-"

The man reached up and clasped the Narrator's hand, where it had started to squeeze his shoulder to an almost-probably-painful degree. He smiled reassuringly.

You said you can hear my thoughts?

The Narrator nodded emphatically. "Yes- yes, I can hear everyone's thoughts, even subconscious thoughts and desires they don't even fully realize themselves, and I can hear your thoughts when you verbalize them like that but when you're not it's just so- so quiet, so nice, and-"

Okay. The man squeezed his hand again. I don't mind being a set of earmuffs for you. It's alright.

The Narrator sagged with relief, then immediately jumped back up when he realized he did so into the other man's shoulder. "I- I'm sorry, this is completely improper of me, I don't- I don't even know your name."

The man smiled. Stanley.

"Stanley..." The name rolled off his tongue like it belonged there, and he returned the hesitant smile. "Lovely to meet you. You can call me the Narrator."

[dienamights]

A Reverberate Lullaby | K.Bakugou

✎ The echoing howls stalk you, a ghost hunched on your shoulders, wailing like a child calling for rescue, who cries with no tears. Chanting for a hero that is willing to pick up the pieces of its soul and being, yet it is only left to wither. For the ghost has lost faith that such others exist and can only be cured by finding them, for you are the ghost of your world and love is the only true exorcist.

✎ Protagonists: Katsuki Bakugou x Fem!Reader.

✎ Word count: 4.1K

✎ Category: hurt/comfort, Implied Mature Content MDNI, Prohero!au, Established relationship!au

✎ Caution(!): Implied Mature Content MDNI, mention of depressive state, toxic family, toxic coping mechanism, mention of reader’s weight gain and thoughts about self worth. Please keep in mind while every person’s reaction to depression is different, don’t belittle anyone’s battle when you don’t understand it.

✎ Author’s notes: Hello! Hope everyone’s taking care! Still on hiatus BUT I’m here to post my contribution to the Mental Health Awareness collab by @doinmybesthere​ ! This has been in the works for a while because I kept scarping ideas for triggering me lmao. This piece is very personal to me and I’m glad I am able to share my experience with you all, I hope that it might help anyone out there in reaching out and asking for help because I know how difficult and scary it might be! Please check out everyone’s contribution that they worked so hard for! kisses kisses take care!

OOH ALSO! Thank you so much for 900 followers aaaaaah! You’re all so amazing and if anyone has suggestions for an event to hold in June lemme know! I’ll also think of some ideas

» Masterlist | Requests | Taglist

The morning sun barely rises and peaks through your blinds, sunshine starting to kiss at your cheeks as you squint at the light, the room welcoming the warmth that is being brought into it after the evening’s chill that made you curl tighter in on yourself, clasping whatever heat you could muster than to turn around and find it in the heating pad of a body that lays next to you. 

An alarm only just rings before quickly being shut off, followed by the creaking of the bed when the person behind you shifts, shifts again, another time, before getting up and stalking to the bathroom, after letting an elongated sigh when they sit at the edge of the bed, not acknowledging your presence accompanying theirs. The door clicking closed before the trickling of water fills the quiet room.

Your clock reads 5 am when you squint at it, and you blink at the time before you go on with your routine, setting up breakfast while your boyfriend gets ready to go to work. 

Oddly enough, you don’t really quite remember when you started working on the food, all that you could see in front of you is nothing but a scene that looks like it’s out of a broken TV - there’s just so much static. The voices are distorted, as if they’re coming from a defective radio.

“Listen, this ain’t about me, this is about you and how you-”

“What about me? Huh? That you see me as nothing but a burden? No, you can say it-”

“You wanna hear me fuckin’ say it then fine! This is about you sitting on yer ass all day obsessing over her while she wouldn’ give you the time of day y/n. When will you fuckin’ realize that?”

The scene blurs and sways, and you feel your mind run at a speed you didn’t know it could muster, and you’re unable to keep up with it. The knife in your hand shakes vigorously and barely misses your fingers when you bring it down to cut the vegetables.

The sound of the bedroom door shutting closed alerts you, straightening your back when you hear the drop of your boyfriend’s gauntlet by his chair at the dining table. Katsuki approaches you with careful steps, his still ungloved hand circles your waist before pressing his lips to your temple, a gruff greeting of a whisper laced in between.

“G’morning.”

The familiar scent of caramel mixed in with his aftershave welcomes you, wraps around you and cradles you, promising everlasting safety and happiness. Yet, your heart wrenching sobs and muffled crash of your laptop against your floor that rings in your ears tell a different story, shrieking at you, roaring about your failures, mocking your entire existence.

“Made gohan, should be ready in a minute.” you mumble back, posture stiff at the close proximity of Katsuki and you feel the curl of his lips in displeasure pressing into your temple from both not reciprocating his greeting and your choice of meal for the morning. “You don’ eat gohan,” 

“s’why I’m making it.” The quick retreat from your figure is like a slap to your face, and you barely stop yourself from reaching out and forcing his arms back around you. Because it's the bite in his voice that halts your movement. 

“You’re still going?” you finally turn to take a look at him, the garnets in his eyes shifting, bleeding from hurt, betrayal, confusion, you really weren’t sure. And by God you had no energy left to try and figure out. “Yes I’m still going Katsuki, they’re my-”

“Yer really listenin’ to the bullshit spillin’ outta ya? This isn’t about em being your family y/n, we’ve been through with it already.” the space between you two feels like endless miles, pieces of the broken bridge you both worked so hard to build the only evidence of it ever being there, the rest crumbling into the valley in between your bodies.

“No, you’ve been through with it, I just wanna make things right, m-maybe I can fix it”

“It ain’t yours to fix y/n, when will you realize that?”

“No!” there you go again, sobbing pathetically. “W-why can’t I have a family, huh? Why- why can’t I, fuck, have a family that just loves and supports me a-and just doesn’t- ” your voice croaks, not failing to notice how Katsuki stepped away from the wreck in front of him. Probably having had enough of you, had enough of how troubling and bothersome you are, probably wondering how he got roped with all your shit and got dragged into your mess of a life.

His hands feel like scolding fire when they’re placed on your shoulders, halting their shaking as you cry into the palm of your hand to muffle the sobs, a habit Katsuki has been working so hard on to help you overcome, saddened to see you try and hide your vulnerability from him.

“Because they never made an effort, so why should you?” The tugging at your heart burns, the swallowed sobs feel like needles prickling at your lungs, making breathing feel like an impossible chore. You can’t help but feel restrained whenever you’re presented with the truth, especially unfiltered and unsugarcoated like right now, you know he’s right, you’ve known he was right a long time ago, but admitting it out loud just felt borderline impossible. 

So you do what you do best, push him away, all the strength you can muster barely budges his figure, the meal forgotten on the counter as you run and lock the bedroom door on yourself.

Your footsteps feel heavy, dreading the topics and scenes you’re bound to relive. The grip on the strap of your shoulder bag tightening as you push the glass door open. A sigh escapes past your lips again as you enter the restaurant, half-heartedly smiling at the hostess before making your way inside to look for them.

It’s always the same scenery, the kind that always makes you want to run away to the other direction instead of being dragged down into whatever hell this is. And you pause to question yourself, again, why you actually agreed to put yourself out there.

There they are, seated in the four person table, with two empty seats, one for yourself and the other for the sibling your mother always hoped to have instead of you.

Your mother’s pursed lip could be seen from where you stand at the entrance, the clicking of her tapping foot sounding as bad as grinding metals in your ear, you hate it, despise it

It’s the same clicking you learned to memorize, to anticipate, to fear, when she passed by your room, the clicking that made you smother your face in your pillows and swallow your sobs, because the sound of you crying brought her more distress and annoyance than concern for her daughter.

With another tug at the hem of the shirt you’re wearing, you approach the table, hugging your father when he stands up and nodding to your mom when she eyes your figure.

“Good morning mother. It’s good to see you.”

“What’s wrong with your hair?”

Here we go, you breathe out before tugging at a strand of hair, spitting out your words “nothing’s wrong with it.”

“Then why does it look awful like that?”

There are times like these where you are left to question your reasoning for accepting whatever invitation you received from your parents to have brunch with them after all those months, a moment of weakness deceiving you into believing it was better than to spend it in your empty apartment, with the silence that ate away at your sanity every second. The only evidence of life in it other than yours was the recently cleaned dishes and the note thanking you for the meal, the promise of cuddles and movies tonight making you gain just a little more patience, barely.

You refrain from answering, your response is to lower your head, drag the dining chair before plopping on it, a dreary sigh escaping your lips as you scoot your chair closer to the table. Your mother never changes, it’s been a while since you were able to move out of her home, and while your father tries to tell you that these brunches are a way to reconnect with them, you yourself know that it’s merely a chance for your mother to nitpick at everything you ever did or are doing since you left.

“How have you been y/n.” your father smiles at you, both of you ignoring the sound of your mother kissing her teeth when her attempted jab at you is ignored. “Uh, I uh I’ve been good, I just wrapped up with my exams and so far things have been-” 

“How is your hero boyfriend?” 

For a second, you contemplate whether to ignore her question and keep conversing with your dad, dreading the questions that are to be pushed your way regarding Katsuki, of which will be used as bragging material for when she meets whatever group of friends she associates herself with, but you know better than to ignore her with the way she gets when she isn’t fed with attention. 

“He’s uh, good.”

“Why isn’t he here today? What, too good to meet us?” your mother nags, and for the love of God, would that fucking clicking ever stop?

“No, he’s doing his job of, you know, being a hero.”

“Is he now? Well, what about you, hm?” She cocks her head as her nails tap the table. ”Did you think your father and I wouldn’t figure out you got fired?”

“How-” the gritting of your teeth is deafening at this point, your jaw clenching so tightly as you and your mother stare each other down. “Your dad pulled some strings, it isn’t that hard. So tell me, you like leeching off of him after you were done with us?”

“This isn’t, I just- I was- I, I had a lot of university work piling up a-and I couldn’t make time for my shifts and I just, it was just so hard for me to get out of bed these days and I.” why are you doing this? Why are you explaining yourself to people that don’t deserve it? Why are you feeding off of their acceptance, knowing damn well you never got it, and that thing was never gonna change. 

“Oh, I don’t wanna hear about you not getting out of bed, you’re here now aren’t you? This is all in your head y/n. You need to stop talking nonsense, what’re people gonna say about you, about me, when they hear you?” 

It feels just like yesterday, your figure standing and facing your full length mirror, your reflection eyeing you with identical vacant eyes. Fingers running through your bed head, a wince escaping you at the movement. Bringing your hand up and catching a glimpse of a slight swollen purple bruise along your wrist and the dried blood on your knuckles, the skin stretching upon rotating your wrist and causing notable pain.

Alas, that pain paled in comparison to when your mom barged into your room, blaming you for the way you were acting and belittling your reasoning. Beckoning your father over to replace your broken vanity and for your house maid to disinfect the space, the place sparkling clean and void of any evidence of what had transpired the day prior. 

The shattered glass was picked up and thrown out, the splatters of blood were wiped clean, and whenever you brought up, what your mom refers to as ‘the temper tantrum’, you’re ignored by both your parents as they continued about their day, fearing the shame it would bring upon their name if the event was to catch others’ attention. 

“Good morning! I’ll be your server for the day. What can I get you?” the foreign voice sounds more comforting than your own mother’s, and you almost laugh at the irony of it, but you only return her smile and take a look at the menu. Lighting up a smidge at the name of one of the dishes, while your parents place their order.

“Can I please get the soufflé pancake?” you look up to catch the horrified look on your mother’s face, followed by her clicking her tongue and shaking her head as if your choice of food was shameful. 

“Certainly-”

“Uh, no she won’t be having that. Get her the Honzen Ryori,” your mother eyed your figure -whatever was visible to her from across the table- before turning to face the server again “maybe cut down on the rice, God knows she doesn’t need the extra calories.” and waves her off, disregarding your protests and tapping her nail against the table top, her annoying method in demanding your silence, which you subconsciously react to, snapping your mouth shut when the sound reaches your ears.

“What was that for? You know I like having sweet breakfasts,” was fuming even close to what you are feeling? Probably not. “Yes I can clearly see that, you’ve let yourself go as well. Do you think that boyfriend of yours will stick around when you start putting on even more weight?”

At a loss for words, you turn to your father, who has been quiet this whole time, for any sense of support when it comes to his wife. But the way he presses his lips together tells you all you need to know, how just because he isn’t bad as her, doesn’t make him that great of a parent. That standing by while you have been bullied your entire childhood and well into your adulthood is just as bad as being the cause of it. 

“God forbid he realizes how much of a train wreck you really are and throws you on the side of the street, because you know damn well we won’t be here to pick you up.”

It began as a whispering in the air. The day had been beautiful -well, as beautiful as it can be with the kind of day you’re having- and the sky was like a dome of plasma-blue. The clouds had looked like airy anvils drifting under the gleaming disc of sun. People quickened their pace as the clouds began to gather in the sky. The postcard-perfect sky started changing. The beautiful cocktail-blue shade merged in with the flaming orange and mesmerizing purple as the sun sunk deep into the horizon, before beginning to darken into gravel-grey. Large pillows of cloud start to form, blocking out the old-gold color of the sun.

The first splatter of rain hits you when you’re halfway across the street, dismissing the need to take shelter under the roof of the buildings like some passersby are doing, hoping to see out the shower. Droplets of moisture begin to drip onto your head, sprinkling onto you like a gardener’s hose. It was well after your meal with your parents, and you had spent the last few hours walking aimlessly through the streets, making sure to avoid those covered by your boyfriend during his patrol. Hoping, praying, that something will clear your head, will help your poor jumbled mess of a mind forget about this entire nightmare of a day.

Should’ve listened to him 

The rainfall intensifies, the drops drumming against the hood of the cars that you pass by, there is so much rain that the sound blurs into one long, whirring noise, reminding you of the blades of the fan that you stuck your finger in, that one time when you were left alone in your house when you were only five years of age. Eventually, they fade into a musical chime as you push your drenched hair away from your face and feel the vibration from your phone as it rings the ninth, maybe tenth time. 

He told me so. 

Tall apartment complex building; you couldn’t see its end from where you stand. You shiver as you approach it, the doorman - bless his heart - running and placing his umbrella to futilely shield you from the rain, and you just laugh and tell him that you’re already drenched and just waiting to go back home.

God forbid he realizes how much of train wreck I am

Not wanting to dampen the people at the elevator and make them uncomfortable, you take the stairs up to your shared apartment, you usually don't mind the exercise but with how heavy you feel after the rain and day spent up on your sore feet, all you think about is locking yourself in your room and discover what kind of new façade could you try and fool Katsuki with when he reaches home.

Just how I trick him into thinking I’m not with him to leech off of him

Eventually and with a struggle, you make it to the door, dreading the sight you might come to face, almost hoping for a black hole to emerge and swallow you whole.

What would people say about me? Do people think I’m crazy?

With a forced exhale out of your lungs, you fetch the key from your bag to unlock the door, but it’s wrenched open before you have a chance to insert your key.

“Where the hell have you been?” 

Your eyes meet the beautiful rubies of Katsuki, and despite his anger that always overcompensates his worry, you smile and throw yourself on him. The shivering ceasing when he wraps his warm arms around you and that loving caramel scent engulfs you, in spite of how your hair is drenching his shirt and how you sniff against his neck.

“You need a shower, you’re shivering.”

“Take one with me?” you look up at him through your lashes, and he blinks at your uncharacterized boldness but agrees nonetheless, helping you out of your clothes and turning on the hot water before stepping in with you.

It is a struggle to help you clean up when all you do is grab at him, whether they’re your hands on his shoulders to lower him to kiss you, wrapping your arms around him and pressing your breasts against him, or palming his hardening cock as the poor man tries to shampoo your hair.

“Would ya knock it off? I’m tryna help you here shitty woman” you frown and squint your eyes when the shampoo gets close to them. “I wanna have sex.” 

“Yea I can fuckin tell, just lemme-” you bring his arms down and press his palms to your boobs, letting go of his wrist when he starts squeezing at them. “Do you not want to?” he gulps, his dick twitching at the feeling of your soft mounds in his hands, your nipples covered up by the suds from the shampoo, as your finger traces the underside of his cock. “Yeah, I uh, fuck, I do, just- you need to wash up so you don’t get sick, alright?”

“Do you not think I’m pretty anymore?” you pout childishly, tears threatening to escape your eyes, and they burn as you close them when he washes the product out of your hair, a deep frown on his lips when you open your eyes back again. “The fuck you on about? That rain really fucked with ya?”

“Are you gonna get rid of me when you realize how much of a mess I am?” you whisper, your voice muffled under the sound of the shower above you, and you keep quiet as he helps you scrub your body, but your boyfriend is observant, he isn’t fucking dense.

“What do you want, right now?” he lowers himself to your level when he’s done, his hands stroking your cheeks as he eyes the way the water droplets cling to your lashes, but still not missing the red rimming around your eyes.

“I just wanna for- I uh, I wanna have sex.” you mumble, a plea hidden underneath your words, a plea to help you forget, to help you bury this day behind you and pretend it never happened.

What you don’t expect is the way that Katsuki pulls your naked wet body out of the bathroom and drops you on the bed, feeling your bodies dampening the bed as he hovers over you, no words are spoken between you as he kisses and nips at your skin. Marking it up and down as he all but worships your body, strands of his hair tangle between your fingers when you run your hands through it, arching your back at the feeling of his tongue tasting your slick.

He doesn’t let up until you cry out, and not in pleasure, your sobs far beyond those he loves to hear when he’s denying you an orgasm. No, they’re sobs that wreck your whole body, kicking away at his shoulders as you curl in on yourself and wail into the sheets. Sitting on his haunches on the floor, Katsuki’s eye soften at your figure, the way your shoulders are shaking and how -yet again- you’re trying to muffle your cries with the sheets this time, pressing your face against the mattress in an attempt to lower your noise, as your mother would call it.

“Hey, look at me” you feel his lips grazing your ear as he kisses it, pressing his lips against your temple, fingers unwrapping your fist against the sheet and digging into your hands and pressing kisses against the nail marks in the palm of your hands. “There she is, there’s my girl.” you hear when you lift your head from the bed, sight blurry from your shed tears but still easy to distinguish Katsuki even between billions of people.

You sniff when he kisses at your lids, groan when he chuckles and calls you ‘snot the naught’ when you wipe your nose with the back of your hand, beaming when he hears you let out one weak chuckle at the way he teases you. Still pressing his lips against any surface of skin he can reach.

“You don’t have to talk about it you know, to me at least” he mumbles to you when you’re both dressed in your sleepwear and are cuddling on the dry side of the bed, opting to change the sheet the next day. “Maybe, maybe we can get someone who can help you, you know.” you press your face deeper between his neck and shoulder, shuddering when his warm palms rub your back from under your shirt. 

“I can make some calls, get in contact with someone.” you lift your head. “But I can’t afford-” he tuts and frowns at you “None of that.” 

“Remember what I said when we agreed to move in?” you do, you just love the sound of his voice when he says it, feels like he’s making all these promises all over again. “Tell me.”

“Told ya I’d be whoever you want me to be, whoever you need me to be. I’ll be yer mom, even better than that bitch, I’ll support and love you unconditionally.” you sniff and tighten your hold against him as he presses his lips against your cheek. 

“I’d be better than yer pussy dad, you can rely on me any time and I’ll live up to all your expectations. And callin me daddy is always a plus” he tangles his legs with your own when you wiggle away from him, laughing and giving you no chance of escape, not that you are even thinking of it. 

“I’d even be yer genius fuckin nanny that taught you to tell yer mom to go fuck herself when you were four,” your suppressed giggles lights him up and he can’t help but chuckle as well. “I’ll be anything and everything you’ll ever need, baby. I’ll be your goddamn hero.”

The sun comes out again, casting slanted beams of light across the buildings. Steam rises slowly from the greenery. It rises up eerily and drifts mist-like towards the molten-gold sun, right before it escapes into the abyss. The image is so vivid that it stays with you for as long as you remember. Because on this exact day, the shrieking that follows you everywhere you go, haunting you and mocking you, suddenly is nowhere to be found. And all you can hear is the comforting sound of Katsuki as he hums you a lullaby to sleep.

aaaah I hope you like it!