#I do feel sympathy for his past and trauma and he definitely deserves to heal and get better

[zetsubo-bani]

Another poll (yayy) for my own curiosity

The fandom is kind of split about him. There are spaces where he is absolutely loved and there are spaces where he's absolutely hated so I'm wondering which one is bigger

[ruby-whistler]

Why c!Dream should (and probably will be) redeemed

Hi! I’m bad with intros. You’ve read the title, so, let’s start with the definitions.

In this essay, we are considering the popularized definition of “redemption” instead of the classical one, which is, as per the Oxford Dictionary, “the act of saving or state of being saved from the power of evil; the act of redeeming.” That’s not however the way the word is used in fandom and media.

/dsmp /rp

The definition of redemption I’ll be working with in this essay is not forgiveness by the people who c!Dream has hurt, nor is it removing himself entirely from his past actions, but moreso the decision to change for the better and abandon destructive mindsets for himself and others.

A “redemption” in a narrative sense would be circumstances and a character arc that would allow that kind of healing and betterment.

I’d like to start this off by the fact that being “irredeemable”, in this sense, also doesn’t exist; redemption is a thing of conditions and choice, not of being allowed by someone else. You can’t gatekeep healing from people who seek it, just to be clear, and that even goes for people who have done terrible things.

Since I understand there is a lot of concern for c!Dream’s past actions, here is a post from people who are much more fit than me to speak on the matter, about the way in which they see a possible c!Dream redemption arc.

Another disclaimer, I am not going to be considering c!Dream only from the perspective of c!Tommy in this essay. c!Dream appears in other people’s perspectives and he himself has his own, unseen perspective. As a character, he is an individual person in his own right rather than just the antagonist of c!Tommy’s story, and so I do not have much concern for their narratives intertwining too much should this writing choice occur.

I’d also like to note that redemption is, in this sense, always a positive thing for everyone involved - someone who’s been prone to doing bad things in the past deciding not to do them anymore and try to change, or just simply heal enough to consider it, isn’t going to have a long-term negative effect in any of the characters, but rather the other way around. Healing is an unlimited resource, and the victims do not have to heal first for the person who hurt them to consider being better.

Here’s a well-written thread on Twitter that elaborates a bit to finish off this point, and let’s move on to actually talking about redemption in the context of the Dream SMP, and c!Dream specifically.

Why a c!Dream redemption arc is not only a good writing choice, but in this case the only good writing choice;

c!Dream, as we all know, has been subject to mental and physical abuse to the point of straight up torture by both c!Sam and c!Quackity (to different extents). He has been in indescribable amounts of suffering for the past 74 days at the time this essay will be published. That is six and something times the duration of the entire exile arc in canon.

Whatever the interpretation of his words in prison is, what is undeniable is first of all the fact his mental stability is absolutely crushed at this point, second that no human being could possibly ever deserve to undergo this, and third, his stay in the prison is showing off his humanity and making him out to be sympathetic.

Now, consider this; how would it feel if c!Tommy died at the end of the exile arc? Empty, there would be no catharsis to such an end, especially because of all of the hurt he’d gone through. Objectively, a bad writing choice.

Let’s compare, narratively of course, this situation to the prison arc. Even though I would never say one of them is “better” or “worse” than the other, since both are terrible and undeserved, c!Dream’s current state checks off all of the boxes that would make his death unsatisfying in the storyline; even if people want him gone, there would still be the dissatisfaction at the current build-up and why they even did it in the first place (it really wasn’t necessary to anyone else’s story to make him out as a victim, and yet they did) if they were planning to kill him off anyways. And since the prison arc is naturally meant to induce sympathy, even from an angst perspective it would simply not make sense within the themes and writing of the plot.

So, c!Dream can’t die, and he also can’t stay in the prison forever - the build-up must lead to something, which is logically a breakout. Great… what now?

Well, the Dream SMP prides itself in accurate representation of trauma and mental instability, specifically cc!Tommy and cc!Dream who have pulled it off incredibly during the exile arc.

Now, undoubtedly, after the prison, c!Dream is going to be just terribly traumatized- considering the writers’ past creative decisions, would it make sense for him to play the role of a dangerous, heartless villain in other people’s stories, while completely ignoring the logical fallout of what he’s been through?

In my mind, no. The most possible result is that cc!Dream is going to rightfully portray someone who’s been hurt so much he is broken, scared and tortured into submissions over months of agony and slowly stripping away of his agency, his dignity, his humanity. And that is… not going to be pretty, nor is he going to be in any way the same as before.

After everything, I’d be surprised if he can properly look at shears without shaking. That’s not villain behaviour, that’s the behaviour of someone who needs help.

Which leads me to another point, which is relatability. Believe me or not, there are people out there who heavily relate to c!Dream because they have been through things that allow them to see themselves in the character - abandonment, mental illness, etc. - or who have had destructive mindsets they have struggled to let go of in the past.

To them, as well as to the viewer, redeeming c!Dream could actually be a very good example, showcasing that anyone who has done bad things or has been hurt in the past can learn that it is possible to be better, to move on, to not be stuck in a loop but to actively seek help and then use that support to find the path to healing.

Making c!Dream a better person, who in a way, wins over his past, over his trauma, over the hurt he’s caused, and manages to actually get better… is inspiring, in a sense. It shows that you can abandon unhealthy mindsets, you can find a support group of people who care about you, you can make your life better simply by deciding to be better and then sticking to that, no matter how difficult the process.

This is why I believe that redeeming c!Dream would not be bad writing, but quite the opposite, and that the prison arc is an obvious set-up. Alright, but how does that work with the character? How could someone so widely hated mentally improve in such a seemingly violent and terrible environment? Would it even make sense within the context of c!Dream’s character so far? Well,

Why c!Dream has the capacity for healing and the Dream SMP the ability to provide it;

First of all, let’s remind ourselves that through c!Dream’s entire spiral he wasn’t ever directly given a chance to change. He was regarded as someone to defeat in order to accomplish a happy ending, or as someone who needed to be removed in order to achieve power on the SMP. Ever since the 16th, which is when the corruption of the character is the most obvious, there have been no attempts to reach out or to help him. I do not blame the characters for this - I am simply pointing out that since it has never happened before, we do not know how he would respond, and that, after everything he’s been through, any bit of kindness or compassion towards him will be a new concept he will have to learn to deal with somehow.

This point is especially driven home by the fact that both c!Quackity and c!Sam would often tell him he is a monster who deserves nothing but to suffer, and that what he’s going through is never going to amount to all the hurt he’s caused - basically removing any possibility for ever getting better (because by this logic, he doesn’t deserve support, and he doesn’t deserve to get better) from his line of sight.

He also hasn’t had a support system since shortly after the 16th, when his friends left him over c!George’s dethronement and made no effort to mend their relationship afterwards. c!Dream isn’t used to having allies and people on his side, but to being hated; again, wouldn’t that mean positive reinforcement could very well be all he needs to make the choice?

His bad mindsets - attachments are weakness, ends always justify the means, people will consider you a bad person no matter what you do - have been continuously proven right by his environment, even in prison. Any kind of subversion, plus an explanation as to why they are wrong, could be of great help to c!Dream.

Just another disclaimer; I do not believe c!Dream would change thanks to the treatment in prison, but rather despite it. His mental stability is non-existent at that point, and in order to get better he needs genuine emotional support from the people around him as well as to heal before he can redeem himself.

Alright, but… c!Dream has hurt a lot of people. Who would be fit to help him?

Let’s start off with the worst option and why it’s impossible the writers would even attempt this; c!Tommy.

c!Tommy has no responsibility to help or ever forgive c!Dream - not to say he could. The two, as it is, would drag each other down instead of helping in any capacity, and only make matters worse. The two of them shouldn’t even interact in the best case scenario - the best thing for both of them would be if they got enough healing and support individually that they could live around each other and not get their trauma or toxic habits triggered when interacting for whatever purpose of the plot.

So, if not c!Tommy (and c!Tubbo neither by extension), who could redeem c!Dream?

Well, he can’t do it on his own for sure. Being in nature with animals is nice, but further isolation from other people would merely help with the prison trauma, not with the state of his tendencies when interacting with others. He, once again, needs positive reinforcement from other people for him to heal properly.

There are two main options for this in my mind, and then there’s a few individuals he could also find comfort in, including people from both groups or those unaligned.

1) Kinoko Kingdom

From the people of this new country, c!Dream has never negatively interacted with c!Karl before, he has never hurt c!George and he hasn’t directly harmed c!Sapnap. Although the relationship with his old friend group could be difficult to rekindle, none of them have grudges against him that are too personal, and they have been canonically close friends since the beginning of the SMP, so it would be very much possible to rebuild burnt bridges. They’d be familiar, and with the addition of c!Karl they could be a good source of comfort for c!Dream after he either breaks out or is released from prison - just gotta convince c!Sapnap not to kill him first.

2) The Syndicate

From the Syndicate, c!Dream has never directly interacted with c!Nikki, and from what I know of her character she never seemed to be very affected by his actions - even doing his work for him when he was planning to burn down the L’Mantree. c!Techno is an ally who doesn’t have anything against him, and as for c!Ranboo, here is why I believe c!Dream being in the Syndicate could be positively influential on his character arc as well;

c!Ranboo and c!Philza have had a conversation about change, during which c!Ranboo made it clear he thinks everyone can change except for c!Dream; who, in his mind, is “too deep down the rabbit hole”. c!Philza replied that he thinks anyone can change if given enough time.

… you see what I’m getting at?

c!Dream has been implied to be an ally to c!Ranboo’s enderwalk state (or the state when he has access to his full memory), and hence would most likely not behave negatively towards him at all. While it might make it more difficult for c!Ranboo to deal with his own issues, it might also give him more motivation to get to the bottom of it as well, especially since he now has access to the person who, presumably, started this all. While this is going on, c!Dream would show himself in a much different light than c!Ranboo sees himin, which could lead to confusion, realization of the flaws in his own logic, and hence, positive character development.

Here’s a great post about why c!Techno as a character could be a great asset in c!Dream’s healing process & redemption, and why there is not much need to worry about him not knowing or finding out about c!Dream’s actions.

Of Kinoko Kingdom and the Syndicate, as far as I know, neither c!Tommy nor c!Tubbo have ever been directly involved with these groups, nor are they planning to.

Another important point to make is that, while c!Tommy needs to be kept away from c!Dream in order to heal properly, the same goes for c!Quackity and c!Sam in c!Dream’s case. While c!Quackity has high chances to interact with either Kinoko Kingdom or the Syndicate in the future, there’s an even higher chance, in that situation, that c!Dream would be offered protection, which is also important; there is no healing from trauma without the knowledge of safety, to some degree.

So, this was an essay as to why I think c!Dream’s recovery and redemption (one needs to come before the other, naturally) is not only extremely possible but also could be pulled off well and have a positive impact on both the characters, and the audience.

[onecanonlife]

careful son (you got dreamer's plans)

Wilbur gasps back to life with mud between his fingers and rain in his eyes.

Wilbur was dead. Now, he is not. He can't say that he's particularly happy about it.

Unfortunately, the server is still as tumultuous as ever, even with Dream locked away, so it seems that his involvement in things isn't a matter of if, but when.

(Alternatively: the prodigal son returns, and a broken family finally begins to heal. If, that is, the egg doesn't get them all killed first.)

Chapter Word Count: 4,369

Chapter Warnings: swearing, references to past child abuse (regarding c!Tommy)

Chapter Summary: In which Schlatt is his own brand of irritating, Wilbur and Tommy talk a bit but not about everything, and they make their way to Dream’s prison cell.

(masterlist w/ ao3 links)

(first chapter) (previous chapter) (next chapter)

Chapter Five: hide your soul out of his reach (i)

“You’re stalling.”

“I’m what?”

His response is automatic, comes spilling out before he truly registers that someone has spoken to him, much less who it is. So when he looks up and locks gazes with Schlatt, the annoyance bubbles up quickly. He’d been sitting quietly, in a relatively secluded area near Tommy’s house, thinking about nothing in particular and everything all at once, and he’d felt settled. Peaceful. His mind quiet.

So much for that.

“I thought you’d fucked off somewhere,” he says.

“And deprive you of my company?” Schlatt shoots back. “You wound me.”

“I wish I could,” he mutters. He glances away, staring off into middle space, hoping that maybe, Schlatt will go away if he pretends very hard that he doesn’t see him. No such luck, and he sighs. “What am I stalling about?”

“Dream,” Schlatt supplies. He strides closer, then kicks off into the air, drifting aimlessly in a seated position. The sweater still looks odd. Too soft, when the man in front of him is anything but. “You said you were gonna go see him.”

“And I am. Just not yet.”

Schlatt snorts. “What’s keeping you?”

He frowns. Meets Schlatt’s eyes again, and finds no sympathy there. A bit of hard amusement, at best. Not that he was expecting anything else.

“Tommy’s going to want to come with me, when I go,” he says. “But I don’t want him near Dream.”

Schlatt makes a sound that’s more mocking than understanding. “Right, Tommy,” he says. “Where is the kid? I’m surprised he left you alone in the first place.”

“Tubbo went back to his town. Snowchester, I think they said it was called.” There is an undefinable melancholy that fills him at the thought. Even now, after everything, they are still trying to make a home. Still trying to carve some corner out of the world and make it theirs. Or Tubbo is, at least. He’s no longer quite sure what Tommy wants. “Tommy went with him.”

“But you didn’t.”

He shakes his head. Tubbo said that there were other people who lived in Snowchester, when he asked. Jack Manifold, for one. Maybe a couple of others. Captain Puffy, maybe? Either way, to go with them would have been to invite the possibility of meeting people, and every cell in his body cringes away from that idea. He’s not ready for that just yet. If ever.

(you’ll have to face them eventually, will have to stand your ground against the hatred in their eyes, burning and so well-deserved, shattered fractals of a people you used to belong to and did your best to destroy)

(you’ll have to face them eventually, and yet you hide)

“Tommy said he’d be back later,” he says. “He doesn’t live there. In Snowchester.”

“So here you are, waiting for him.”

“I suppose.” He frowns, shifting in place where he’s sitting on the ground. He brushes his fingers against the grass, absently pulling up a flower or two. “It’s not as if there’s not time. We can wait until Tommy’s not quite so—” He trails off here, not quite sure how to finish the sentence. Not quite so what? Not quite so traumatized? Trauma doesn’t work like that, doesn’t go away within the span of a few days or weeks. He knows as much, though he used to be content enough to ignore it

(when he was the one causing it)

back in the old days, when there was no choice otherwise, when there was no chance of rest.

“Well, aren’t you considerate,” Schlatt says, and Wilbur looks at him sharply, because that was definitely snide. Schlatt stares right back, brows lifted, smirking. “Waiting for your little brother to be a little less broken. How kind of you.”

He bristles. “Don’t talk about him like that.”

“I’ll talk about him however I want,” Schlatt says. “What are you gonna do, shout at me? Play some shitty music? Please. But all I’m saying is that a few days isn’t gonna make a difference, and you know it. You’re stalling to make yourself feel better, to try and convince yourself that you’re better now, that you’re not gonna hurt him anymore.”

His mouth goes dry. “I’m not—” He shakes his head again, as if trying to dislodge the idea. “It doesn’t matter right now, anyway,” he says. “He’s in Snowchester. He’s not here. There’s nothing to do until he gets back.”

“Oh my god, just comm him,” Schlatt says. “Tell him you’re going over to the prison. Do it now, and you can leave before he decides to go with. Win win.”

“I don’t—” He furrows his brow. He doesn’t have his comm. He’s not sure where his comm is. Except—

For the first time, he thinks to check the pockets of his coat. The first couple turn up nothing, but then, in the third, his fingers wrap around a sheet of thin, hard plastic. He freezes for a moment, and then draws the communicator out, holding it loosely in his hand. A tap on the screen, and it lights up, just the way he’s used to.

It doesn’t make sense for him to have this.

Schlatt leans over his shoulder and whistles.

“Daddy’s worried about you,” he says, and Wilbur blinks, pulling up his unread messages. There shouldn’t be any, shouldn’t be any at all, because he can count the number of people who knows that he’s back on one hand. And yet, there is one, and perhaps he shouldn’t be surprised at the identity of the sender, but he is.

Philza whispers to you: don’t mean to be pushy but could you let me know you made it to smp lands safe?

He has to read the message several times before its meaning sinks in, and once it does, he’s not sure how to feel about it. It doesn’t particularly read like Phil wrote it; it’s too hesitant, too apologetic. But Wilbur remembers what Phil looked like, standing in that kitchen, wingless and so very cautious, flinching away from his words as if they were physical blows. And in the end, letting him go, even though it was plain as day that he would have liked nothing more than to keep him there.

He’s angry with Phil. For a lot of reasons. But then, he’s angry at the world, too. Angry at himself, most of all.

(and there is so much of him that just wants someone else to swoop in and fix things, just wants his dad to make everything better in a way that he hasn’t since he was a kid and the first fracture formed, splitting their family apart, and as much as he is angry there is a large part of him that just wants to go back to that house and sink into his father’s arms and learn how to call a place home again)

“You gonna answer?” Schlatt asks.

He ignores him, checking the timestamp. It was sent a few hours after he left the tundra. So, a couple of days ago, now, and there have been no messages since. Perhaps it’s no longer relevant.

He hesitates, eyes tracing over don’t mean to be pushy.

It feels so strange, for Phil to qualify a sentence like that. Like he’s unsure of his welcome. And perhaps he’s right to be.

You whisper to Philza: I’m safe.

“Touching,” Schlatt says dryly. He scowls, trying to bat him on the arm or push him away or do something, but his hand goes through, and Schlatt just smirks some more for his efforts. “Now do Tommy.”

He puts the comm down on his lap, turning to face Schlatt fully. “Why are you being so fucking insistent?” he demands. “You’re a ghost, you can go by yourself. Through the walls and shit, since apparently you get actual ghost powers.” Ghostbur didn’t get ghost powers. He recalls that very clearly, because Ghostbur was immensely disappointed by this. For once, he agrees with the shade.

“And do what, look at him? Like it’s a fucking zoo? Watch him twiddle his thumbs and chuckle evilly to himself? Not exactly my idea of a good time,” Schlatt says. “I don’t know if you forgot, but nobody can see me. Hell, for all you know, I’m not even real. You could be making me up.”

He tries to brush the comment off. It hits just a bit too close to home

(whispers in shadows and enemies around every corner, people watching and staring and plotting against him, and no one else can see, Tommy can’t see, but that’s alright, he sees enough for both of them, and he will have his victory, and if he cannot have that, then nobody can and there is laughter, laughter, laughter)

for his comfort.

“If I were making you up,” he says, “I would simply stop.”

“Cute,” Schlatt says. “Do you wanna know what your problem is? Your problem is that you’re scared of people seeing you for what you really are.”

His hands clench.

“You say you don’t want to hurt Tommy? Fine. I even believe you,” Schlatt continues. “But don’t act like you’ve come back to life and suddenly you’re some saint. You’re fooling yourself, Wilbur. People like us don’t change. You can put on as much of a shine on the outside as you want, but scratch that paint off, and you’re still the power-hungry asshole who blew up a city as a hissy fit.”

His mouth works for a second, wordless.

“Fuck you,” he snarls, and scoops up his comm again.

You whisper to TommyInnit: I’d like to visit the prison today

“Was that so hard?” Schlatt asks.

“Fuck you,” he says again. “And fuck off. Or I swear to god I’ll figure out a way to exorcise you.”

“Please do,” Schlatt says. “I’d thank you for it. But sure, have it your way.” He shrugs, looking completely unconcerned. “I’m never too far.” Then, he disappears, and there is a shimmer of blue in the air, and even that fades away, and Wilbur is left alone and feeling no better for it.

“It wasn’t a fucking hissy fit,” he says to the empty space. There’s no one left to hear him, no one left to justify himself to, but

(it wasn’t a hissy fit it was desperation and fear and wild abandon and a surging, terrible victory and a fire in his chest driving him onward and he relished in it, relished in the freedom and the power and the control and he was the villain, he was the villain and he was good at it, he was the villain and he loved it, he was the villain and everyone else paid the price and he didn’t pay at all so what happens now, what happens to the villain back from the grave what happens)

he’s not wrong. Not about this.

TommyInnit whispers to you: ok

TommyInnit whispers to you: i’ll be back soon

TommyInnit whispers to you: dont leave without me or your a bitch

He doesn’t leave without him.

He should. Should venture on to the prison by himself, to spare his brother the effort. But in the end, he can’t bring himself to do it. Can’t bring himself to go it alone. Perhaps it really is pathetic, but he wants to have someone by his side when he starts revealing himself to the rest of the server.

It’s certainly selfish. But he’s never claimed not to be.

They don’t meet anyone on the way. Wilbur doesn’t understand why, not when the sun is shining brightly and they’re walking the established path, matching each other stride for stride,

(there was a time when he would have walked behind you, would have trailed on your coattails, would have looked to you for direction and guidance and look at him now, look at who he has been made into, a child who should not have to be as grown as he is but there is no changing it now and he really is someone to be proud of, isn’t he?)

but they run into nobody, and those vines are fucking everywhere.

“Why hasn’t anyone cleared these?” he asks, more to himself than anyone else. “They’re a fucking eyesore.”

Tommy snorts. “You don’t need to tell me,” he says. “They’re ugly as hell. But there’s this Egg thing, see, that BadBoyHalo and a couple of others are all constantly going on about, and those vines come from it, I think. I don’t see what all the fuss is about, personally. I mean, it’s just an Egg. Can’t be all that great. But BadBoyHalo swears by it.” He pauses. “Well, he doesn’t swear. He says muffin by it, I suppose. Still can’t get him to swear.”

“An egg,” he says, and then frowns. “An Egg,” he repeats, and there’s a difference in the way he’s saying it, in the strange emphasis that implies the capital letter. “That’s—vines don’t come out of eggs. They’re not—vines don’t hatch, and eggs aren’t fucking plants.” And then, he remembers— “Techno told me about an egg. Said he thought it was some kind of cult. He didn’t know much else.”

Too late, he realizes what he’s said, and catches the way that Tommy stiffens.

“You’ve been to see Technoblade, then,” he says, and his voice is far too casual to actually be casual. He winces.

“When I—woke up,” he says, “I was really near the tundra. And I remembered where he lived, from when Ghostbur would visit. And I thought that maybe—”

“I mean, you don’t need to explain it,” Tommy interrupts, but his tone of voice tells Wilbur that actually, he really does need to explain it, because there is undoubtedly a note of hurt there, and that won’t do.

“No, no, I do,” he says. “I know you’re not exactly good with each other right now. I’m not really good with him either. But I woke up and it was raining and I didn’t know what the fuck was going on, and I made a list, see? And number one on that list was to get to you. But I was cold and wet and I had no idea what was happening in the SMP because Ghostbur’s memories are patchy as hell, so I thought that Techno could tell me some things so I wouldn’t go in blind and walk into—I don’t know, a nuclear war or something.”

Tommy makes an odd sound at that, like a cross between a cat having a hairball and someone choking on water gone down the wrong pipe. “Nuclear war,” he repeats, in a voice that’s a bit strangled, and his words seem to trip over each other in his rush to get them out. “Right. Yeah, no, none of that here. Nope. No way that could ever happen. Uh, yeah, no, that makes perfect sense.” He stops, and Wilbur is about to ask what the actual hell that was about, when he speaks up again. “Is he—I mean, how is he? Still a fucking crazy arsehole?”

Wilbur looks at him. Tommy does not look back. In fact, he seems to be making a point of looking straight ahead, avoiding eye contact.

“Yeah,” he says softly. “Still an arsehole. Same old Techno, you know him. Phil, too.”

He doesn’t think he imagines the way Tommy’s shoulders relax at that, just fractionally.

“Right, yeah,” he says. “Good to hear.”

“Tommy—” he starts, and is saved from having to figure out what he’s going to say, because suddenly, he sees it. The prison. There’s no way that it could be anything else. And he has to stop and stare for a long moment, because he’s never seen a build like that before. Not on any server he’s ever lived on. He’s seen some impressive buildings in his life, and he’d like to think that he’s made a few himself,

(walls to keep them safe to protect them and hold them dear and he hasn’t seen Fundy yet, has he?)

but nothing compares to this.

“Who built this?” he breathes. He feels claustrophobic just looking at it, dark walls towering over them, looming, intimidating.

“Sam did,” Tommy says. “He’s the warden, too. But Dream commissioned him, which is what makes it so fucking funny.”

He feels a grin spread across his face.

“Wait,” he says, “Dream’s locked in his own fucking prison?”

“Dream’s locked in his own fucking prison!” Tommy whoops, and just like that, he’s laughing, and they both are, and maybe he can do this after all. He follows Tommy’s footsteps as he leads him to the doorway, to an empty room with a portal frame, and he’s sizing it up, trying to figure out how they’re supposed to get through, when Tommy steps forward.

“Sam?” he calls out. “You here?” And then, to Wilbur: “Sam’s kind of a dick when he’s got the whole warden thing going on, but he’s pretty nice when he’s not working. He’s been a good friend, you’ll like him. Later, I mean. When he’s not being a dick.” And then again: “Sam? Sam, we want to visit Dream!”

“You don’t need to yell, Tommy. I’m right here,” someone says, and there is another person in the room, and every muscle in Wilbur’s body tense because he didn’t see him come in. “I wasn’t expecting—” And then the man stops, staring right at Wilbur, and Wilbur is left to size him up and rack his brain as to whether or not he’s formally met Awesamdude before. He’s been on the server for a while, he knows. Was around for L’Manberg, was a part of the Badlands, was neutral. He’s met him before. He’s almost certain he’s met him before. But there’s no spark of recognition in him, looking at this man, with his full netherite armor and the mask covering the lower half of his face and the green patches that dot his skin.

“Wilbur Soot,” Sam eventually says. “I would assume? Not Ghostbur?”

He regains himself. Inclines his head. “You’d be right,” he says, and then he steps forward, taking his place at Tommy’s side, and he extends a hand. “Sorry, I’m not sure that we ever really got the chance to meet.”

Sam takes his hand, showing only a bit of hesitance. His grip is firm.

“I’d say it’s a pleasure,” Sam says. “I’m not sure if it is or not.”

“You know what?” Wilbur says. “That’s fair.”

“Hm,” Sam says, and it’s hardly approval. But Wilbur is very aware of the fact that they’re standing in the entrance of a prison, a prison that is supposedly inescapable, and that he has definitely, by the standards of the server, committed at least one crime. And what’s more than that, he doesn’t particularly regret it. Not the act itself. The effects it had, maybe. The pain it brought. But in his heart of hearts, he is glad that L’Manberg is gone.

So really, the fact that he isn’t being arrested is a win.

(he thinks, he wonders, what would he do if he was, if he was locked away in the dark and the walls loomed all around him and the sun was a distant memory and ah, he thinks, no, I would rather die, and then the imagined prison becomes Pogtopia, shadowy and dank and every sound echoing off the stone, melancholy and abandoned, and he wonders what it looks like now, now that there is no life in it at all, and he wonders if it is haunted with the ghost of who he used to be, if he left some important part of him behind to shrivel into dust)

“So, I assume this is a recent development?” Sam asks. He’s being very calm about this, which Wilbur appreciates. But then, they were never close. Were never connected personally. The real tests still lie ahead.

“Couple of days,” Tommy says cheerily. “We’re taking it slow.”

“I didn’t know you knew how to do that,” Sam says, and Wilbur blinks, because it’s a joke. Someone feels familiar enough with Tommy to make the comment, and likes him well enough to make it playful.

That’s—good? He thinks it’s good? Probably? Yes. Good. Tommy has friends. Good.

(he doesn’t need you. not really. he wants you, for some godforsaken reason. but he doesn’t need you)

“Oi, I can be slow,” Tommy says. “I can be the very slowest. I am excellent at being slow, I’ll have you know.”

“Well, that explains a lot,” Wilbur says, and Tommy gapes at him, looking back and forth between them with a dawning expression of betrayal.

“Oh no you don’t,” he says, stabbing a finger at both of them. “I didn’t introduce you so that you could go ganging up on me. That’s just not right. I changed my mind, Wilbur, you’re not allowed to like Sam. None of this bullshit.”

Wilbur laughs, and for a moment, it’s like nothing has changed at all. He’s ribbing his little brother, and there’s even someone else here for support, and it’s not Techno, but that doesn’t seem to matter so much. The motions are familiar, the words an old pattern.

“You’re here to see Dream, right?” Sam says, and just like that, the illusion shatters. And the smile is gone from Tommy’s face.

“Yeah,” he says. “Yeah, we are.” He hesitates. “We can both go in together, right? Because I’ll tell you right now, nothing else is going to work. We’re a package deal, me and Wil are.”

Sam tilts his head. “No one’s ever tried to visit with someone else,” he says. “I don’t see an issue with it, as long as you both pass security.”

This is relieving. But Wilbur’s a bit more concerned with the way that Tommy’s hands have begun to shake. Just slightly, barely enough to see.

“Good,” Tommy says. “Wilbur, there’s so much security, it’s honestly ridiculous. There’s a bunch of checkpoints and lava and you have to put all your stuff in a locker and get splashed with potions, and oh! There’s wavers, too, you’re going to have to sign a bunch of shit.”

“Great,” he says. It’s not great. It sounds nerve-wracking, in fact. But if Tommy can do it, so can he; he’s just a bit worried that Tommy can’t do it. Or rather, not that he can’t do it, since he’s done it before, apparently. Just that maybe, he really, really doesn’t want to do it. That maybe, it will not be very good for him to do it. That maybe, he’s putting himself through this for Wilbur’s sake, and hasn’t Wilbur just established that he doesn’t want to hurt Tommy anymore?

(but the past echoes forward into the future and there’s no way around it now)

But they’re here, and he’s not going to be able to get Tommy to turn back, and he’s not sure that he would even if he could, because his nerves are all shot and he doesn’t want to be in this dark prison without an ally. So Sam guides them through the checkpoints, and there are indeed a lot of wavers, and a lot of splash potions, and Tommy has to put all of his things in a locker. Wilbur pulls up his inventory, certain that he doesn’t have anything on him, still, but he’s not entirely right about that; he must have kept the flowers he was pulling up earlier, because he’s got about five cornflowers in one of the slots.

He puts them in a chest, and ignores the startled look that Tommy shoots him when he sees. He’s not sure what that’s about. They’re just flowers.

The walls are too close. The shadows too dark. The crackle of lava too near. Tommy is putting on a front, chatting at Sam more than he is with him, and to his credit, Sam puts up with it with easy acceptance. But Wilbur knows that a front is all it is, because his smiles don’t reach his eyes, and he knows how Tommy sounds when he’s talking for the sake of hearing his own voice.

This may, perhaps, be a mistake.

(you can’t let him near Tommy don’t let him near Tommy not after what he did to Tommy don’t you know can’t you remember how can you be letting this happen after what he did Tommy shouldn’t be anywhere near here but now he is and you brought him and what kind of a brother are you)

But he has questions he needs to ask. And he hasn’t forgotten his list. His goals.

If there is anything he can do on this server to make it better, after everything he’s done, let it be this.

“Alright,” Sam says, “call for me when you want to leave. Make sure to walk with the bridge.”

And then the curtain of lava falls, and there is a moving platform, and Tommy is deathly still by his side, and there is the cell, and there, in the cell—

Dream.

He’s wearing an orange jumpsuit. A prisoner’s outfit. But he’s kept his mask, stark-white and smiling and laced with spiderweb-thin cracks. His mouth is visible, canting upward into a slight smile, one that mimics the black paint. He stands at their approach, and then they’re stepping into the cell, and Wilbur lets his hand land on Tommy’s shoulder, to steady him and to steady himself.

“Oh, fuck,” someone says, and it’s not him, and it’s not Tommy, and it’s not Dream, and it sounds faint and far away. The living aren’t the only ones in this cell, then. He hopes that Schlatt has the good sense not to be too distracting.

Dream takes a step forward. Under his hand, Tommy stiffens.

“Hi, Tommy,” Dream says. “It’s good to see you.” It’s directed at Tommy and Tommy alone, like Wilbur’s not even there at all, Dream’s mask tilted toward toward him, toward the kid that he manipulated and abused, and Tommy is trembling and Dream has no fucking right to address him like that, so soft and friendly, and Wilbur—

—sees red.

[artificiallyimplantedmemories]

@videniye​ sent this meme: Send 🛡️ for your muse to take a bullet meant for mine. [x]

    Both of them have aggressively left behind a life of pain. Natalia doesn’t talk about her past, but the Red Room’s training sometimes still lurks in her mind. She covers it up with laughter and sass, and in Bucky and Steve, she’s found genuine friends. They care about her, make her feel like she has a place to belong, and the flirting (and eye candy, let’s be honest) is a definitely perk. As for Bucky, Nat has found out about his wartime experiences in bits and pieces, but still doesn’t have a holistic picture of everything that happened out there. Bucky is extremely reticent on this front (as people usually are with trauma), and Nat knows better than to push. It’s not like she’s any better, right?

    Still, as the months have gone on, they help heal each other. Sometimes, that comes under the guise of a new tattoo, sometimes it’s simply crashing on the floor together under a massive blanket to watch shitty movies. Steve is in the middle most of the time (because he gets cold most easily, and both Nat and Bucky know that he needs the most protecting), but the two of them also steal moments for themselves too.

    Steve pouts at them, but he knows he gets his own time with each of them too, so it’s fine. They deserve to be happy together.

    Nat has done a phenomenal job of covering her tracks. She and Ivan have purposely kept their operation local, off the radar from anyone who might be looking for them. They’re popular but niche, and don’t have so much as a website up in order to reduce their clientele. She respects Ivan immensely for that — after all, he neither had to take her in nor go on the run with her when things got bad. Besides all of that, his talents are enough to seriously make a name for himself if he wants, but he still settles for very nearly struggling by for the sake of his adopted daughter. It’s more than Natalia could have asked from anyone.

    Unfortunately, even the best laid plans are waylaid

    The Red Room comes back to claim their lost protégé, and Natasha is not prepared. It’s not that she can’t fight them off, as she does keep her training up secretly, but it’s the fact that she now has people to worry about, attachments that they can take advantage of.

    Sentiment is not worthwhile for an assassin, they tell her.           She should have left her heart on ice, and maybe she would not have failed.

    She refuses to believe that it’s true. She has felt more alive in the last few years than she has in the rest of her life combined. She’s been able to experience joys and sorrows the way that all people should. She’s had leaps of hope, brushes of gentleness, and even managed to destroy the fear that she had no soul left to spare. She has been whole here, and she would not trade it for the world.

    No. That is a lie.           She would trade it in a heartbeat for the safety of the people she loves.

    The first attack comes when she is alone. The Black Widow is easier to tackle without Ivan at her side. He is ex-military after all, and can put up a hell of a fight, has been proven to do so for the sake of his girl. If they can get in and kidnap or kill her first without him knowing, they’ll be better off. 

     It doesn’t go as they expect. She may have settled into a routine that doesn’t involve death on the daily, but she knows what signs to look for. Hyper-vigilance is an old friend, one she has yet to shake off. They not only fail to take her by surprise but also get three of their agents hurt in the process. That is a surprise to them. Natalia has aimed to maim and not to kill. Things have changed. Perhaps it’s complacency? Perhaps it’s a conscience? 

     Nat heads back using the most roundabout method she can, climbing up facades of buildings, ducking into abandoned homes, biding time in seedy bars and stealing a change of clothes. A beanie hides her bright hair, grime covers her face, and she looks like a homeless wanderer instead of the neat, clean, precise Natasha that people know here. She’s fired off a text to Ivan, letting him know that he needs to get away before people come to hunt him down too, but she doesn’t really have enough faith in his self-preservation where she’s involved. 

     He’ll probably be waiting for me with two shotguns and a hot-wired car, the madman, she thinks fondly. The KGB wouldn’t launch their attack on me without knowing my routine though. If they did, it would be highly unprofessional. So they’ll probably stay away from him as long as he keeps his head down and doesn’t do anything too terribly suspicious. 

     This is her hope as she ducks into the alley behind the shop. It’s closed today, and she goes through the hatch in it that leads up to the supply room, rather than having to use the front door. Quickly, she gathers long-disused supplies, a couple firearms, blades, a hat and coat with extra pockets. She’s glad that she stashed these here instead of at the apartment. Suddenly, there’s a lurch in her heart as she realizes that being on the run again means that she won’t get to say goodbye. Hell, fuck, and damn it all. At least Bucky and Steve deserve an explanation... 

     Survival comes first though, and she takes a moment to scrawl a note for them to leave in the shop. Inevitably, they’ll come around on Monday when she doesn’t show up for their lunch meeting, and they’ll find out at least a little about who she is, why she’s running. It’s an apology. An attempt at an explanation. An inadequate farewell. Natasha forces her hands not to shake as she rushes through the words, and it’s so very tempting to sign off with the three that she’s been wanting to say for the better part of a year. It’s not right though, to let them invest themselves when she’s only going to disappear, so she folds it and lays it on her desk with a sigh. Enough time has been wasted, she needs to go. 

     Scarf pulled up around her face, she rushes back to the apartment. There are raised voices inside, and her hackles go up so fast that they could have given her whiplash. One is the angry, low voice of Ivan, spitting his Russian in the way he does when he’s been backed into the corner about something. The other is a voice that sends chills down her back. She’d know that gravelly voice anywhere. The Headmistress herself has come to find her. 

     If she goes in, she may be dragged back to Russia and forced to resume a life of blood and bitterness. If she doesn’t go in, it’s entirely likely that Ivan will end up dead for arguing. She may still be able to ensure his safety, and so she takes a deep breath and opens the door. 

     The old woman sitting on Ivan’s chair (there’s a moment of colossally illogical rage at that) beckons Natalia in. They all know what her entering the apartment means. Almost immediately, Ivan sags in defeat. Once the redhead has made up her mind, there’s very little he can do to dissuade her. Still, his eyes plead for her to reconsider. She, in turn, carefully doesn’t meet his gaze. 

     “How kind of you to join us, little Spider,” the woman croaks, and the only sign of Nat’s displeasure is the hard set of her jaw. Her sidearm is within reach, but she’s not sure how many other assailants are currently hidden in nearby apartments, ready to blow them apart for making even the slightest wrong move. Ivan only got away with arguing for so long because it bought them time for her to arrive. “Your services are needed. I’m sure you understand.” 

     She does. The Black Widow was their top student, their little killing machine. If they want her back, it’s because there’s a high level assassination that needs to take place, and someone else has failed. 

     Her expression is one that cannot be classified. Perhaps there’s a hint of satisfaction, that she’s been able to outwit them for so long, perhaps resignation, pride and pain. There have been so many others after her, she knows, and none of them have lived up to her legacy. How they must be punished for that. She wishes she could save them. She wishes she wasn’t broken enough that she can’t scrounge up the appropriate amount of sympathy.

     “I take it that the Recluse has been punished?” 

     It’s an ultimatum given. You show me that you will torture your own daughter to gain my loyalty or I won’t go. It’s no less cruel to herself though. Anya was her friend once, so many years ago. 

     “I’ll let you personally oversee it,” comes the reply. How utterly horrible. 

     “Then you know what I will ask for in turn. Ivan and the others here go untouched, or I burn your entire operation to the ground, your own withered husk included.” 

     The Headmistress scoffs, but nods. She has expected as much. Natalia’s current life reeks of domesticity, but her senses are sharp. She has already proven that she is more valuable alive than dead, and her skills will be useful to the agency. They are the Dark Room now, even more deadly, with more experiments underway to create Natalia’s successor. So far, though, none have been quite so perfect. They need her back, even if they have to dispose of her later. 

     The redhead nods as well. “Leave. I have packing to do.” The Headmistress, accustomed to the Widow’s rudeness, rises. Just as the old woman gets to her feet, though, there is a knock at the door. Everyone freezes. 

     “Natasha, you in?” 

     Nat fights not to let her expression crumble. It’s Bucky, darling, sweet, wonderful Bucky who has seen too much and been through too much and does not need to know that his tattoo artist fling is about to vanish off the face of the planet in order to kill people. Her heart breaks a little, and if she hadn’t been in the presence of her most hated enemy, she would be shaking. 

     “Let him in,” the Headmistress whispers, and the redhead tenses further. 

     This can’t be happening. No, no, Bucky, run! Run away from here! She yells it in her mind, as if she can get him to listen, but there’s nothing doing. She hears him call her name again and has no choice. The Headmistress will kill him even if he walks away if Natalia does not prove that she’s willing to take orders. Slowly, she moves to the door, unlocks it, and opens it a fraction. 

     “Hey,” she murmurs, soft and sad and wishing she could do anything but this. “Sorry, this isn’t the best time.” 

     “What’s wrong? Are you okay?” 

     And gods, doesn’t that just make her eyes want to swim with tears. She closes them for a second, regaining control. There are others watching, even if the Headmistress is towards her back. She cannot afford to show weakness. “I’m fine, Bucky. It’s okay. Can I catch you back at your place in a little bit?” 

     “You may not,” the Headmistress interrupts, pulling the door wide. Her gnarled face sneers down at Bucky, then grabs Nat’s arm and drags her back in. “Why don’t you tell him why you’re leaving, hmm?” 

     “You’re leaving?” He sounds devastated, and the redhead wishes she could show any emotion at all here, that she could pretend that she didn’t have to be a weapon right now. Instead, she doesn’t even look at him anymore. 

     “You promised you wouldn’t touch them,” she says to the old woman instead. “He walks out of here and goes about his life without your interference. That’s part of the deal.” 

     “Oh he will, but I think he should know who you are first. I won’t hurt him, precious little Spider.” Her hands trail down Natalia’s jaw and she fights not to jerk away. The Headmistress’s touch has always been associated with painful stitches, whip marks, reminders of failure and that hasn’t faded even after all these years. When the woman pulls her hand back at last, it’s to motion to the weapons littering the apartment. “See these, Mr. Barnes?” (Oh god, she’s done her research she knows who they are, they’re not just casual acquaintances, I’m so screwed, Nat thinks.) “These are the tools of the trade for your precious friend here. Not a tattoo gun, but real ones. She’s made her life on taking the lives of others. Possibly even your own comrades — you were in the military too, weren’t you?” 

     Nat can see Bucky starting to shake a little. If she could just reach out her hand to take his, to reassure him that she got out as soon as she could, that she doesn’t hurt people anymore...! But she can’t because she’s just promised to go back into it, hasn’t she? For his good, even, but she is willing to kill again. She hates herself. The Headmistress keeps talking, and the buzz around her ears builds. She can practically feel the anxiety attack that he’s having manifesting within herself, and suddenly her self-control snaps. 

     “Enough.” She places herself in front of the old woman, glaring. “You would not say such things to someone you meant to have survive. Get out before I kill you myself.” 

     “Oh, Natalia,” comes the reply, hoarse and amused, “you would not survive killing me.” 

     She does leave though, at long last, and when it’s just the three of them in the room, the air whooshes out from Natasha’s throat, harsh and wet with emotion. “I’m sorry,” she whispers to Bucky, “I didn’t think she’d ever come back. I was naive, I’m sorry.” Bucky, for his part, remains silent, eyes glazed as he fights off the war in his head. Slowly, gently, Nat works her fingers into his tense ones, drags him close enough that he can feel her body heat, presses her forehead against his. “Please, Bucky, James, look at me darling. Breathe with me.” 

     It takes a long moment before his gaze shifts to hers almost mechanically, but her audible breaths seem to help. Ivan, blessed be, tucks all of the weapons out of sight. They’ll be bundled up into bags soon anyway, and gone with Natalia into the stark blankness of Russian winter. Nat tries to calculate how long she has like this, how she can maximize the good she can do for him before she has to disappear, and it just... doesn’t work. At any moment, KGB agents might break down her door and drag her out of here. Violence on their part will only cause Bucky more trauma. It’s time for her to ease him out of here. 

     “I’m sorry,” she says again. “I need you to go find Steve. He can help you, alright? But I can’t do that if you’re not somewhere safe. I need you safe, do you understand?” 

     This is not what she usually says. Normally, when his world is falling apart, she is the one telling him that he’s safe, that she’s there with him and not going anywhere, that everything will be fine as long as she’s there to protect him. It seems foolish to him that he has to take refuge in that, but he’s always believed it somehow, that she was capable of protecting him. He’d never questioned why. Now, with the image of guns laid out on her table and a knife strapped to her arm, he feels like it’s viscerally true. 

            It also feels like he’s letting her go to her death. He’s terrified. 

     “You have to come back,” he says at long last, and Natasha’s face twists in agony. Of course she wants to come back, she doesn’t even want to leave in the first place! She adores him, wants to keep him from harm, and here she is doing what she does best apparently — hurting the people around her. “Please promise me.” His voice is nearly a whisper. 

     Natalia cannot give false platitudes. She squeezes her eyes shut, shakes her head, presses kisses to his face. “Go, Bucky. Be well. Take care of Stevie for me and he’ll take care of you.” She pulls him into a bone-crushing hug and then shoves him away. “Go. The Headmistress is not patient. She can still come back and kill you. Run, please!”

     Ivan grabs her shoulder and hands her the duffel bag. They, too, are running out of time. He will come with her, against her wishes, because someone has to stay by her side. Better him, he supposes, who knows the workings of that world inside and out, than someone who will shake apart at the seams, no matter how much the young man may love Natalia. She needs someone who will not blink in the face of destruction, who will kill ruthlessly and precisely, just like she does. Bucky remains standing in the doorway as they leave, and Natalia can only hope he’ll get home safely. 

     Downstairs, a car waits. The Headmistress glares at Ivan, and shoos him away. He will get his own vehicle, only Natalia is allowed to ride with her. “I’ll go with him,” the redhead says, “to make sure you honor your word.” Without her in his company, she’s fairly sure that a bunch of the goons will immediately try to kill him. She’s not chancing it.

     When she turns back for a last look at the building though, the vision of Bucky in the doorway chills her. She can see at least three people moving towards him, and all she knows is that he is not safe not safe not safe those words were meaningless he’s not — 

     “Bucky!” 

     She throws caution into the wind, races back to his side and it’s just barely in the nick of time because gunfire starts raining down on them. She grabs him and drags him into a neighboring building, knowing that this one has a hidden cellar where she can stash him until the firefight dies down, but he’s dragging her through it, into the back and out into the alley, his hold on her is too tight and if she weren’t in top shape she’d be dragged along and she wants to yell that Ivan is still back there but... 

     But Ivan is better at taking care of himself, and right now Bucky needs to be as far away from the action as possible. She throws a flashbang behind her to stun her pursuers (the best she can manage while fighting not to trip over her own feet), and pulls a knife loose from its strap across her chest. She’ll throw it when she gets the chance. 

     The world is a blur around her for a moment (because holy fuck Bucky is fast), and finally they gasp as they lean against the wall just inside the back door of a local restaurant. Bucky is shaking with the adrenaline, but seems present enough to talk to, and Natasha hugs him tight. “They’ll come after me again, but this was a good distraction for them. You keep running, I’ll pull them off the other way. I know you don’t want to use this again, but...” She presses one of her guns into his hands. If it’s kill or be killed, she’d rather he did the killing. 

     His breath hitches as his hand closes around the weapon. She’s really just — 

     His thoughts are cut off by a kiss, slow and gentle and oh so familiar. “I wish this could happen any other way. I don’t want you to get hurt,” she says, and he finds himself nodding, unfathomably sad. She’s had this on her shoulders for so many years, unable to say a word. If he has to deal with his own PTSD for the sake of her survival, he’ll do it. He’ll suffer afterwards in silence, but he’ll do what he must for now. 

     Natalia presses another chaste kiss to his cheek, and then disappears out the back again. There are the sounds of gunshots in the distance, fading, and he heads outside. He should go home, he knows, he should find Steve, keep them safe however he can, make sure none of the agents that were after Nat come after them. He does none of those things. Instead, he discreetly follows the sounds of fighting. Long-buried instincts come to the forefront even as he fights the bile down, and the first man falls by his hand. A second is not far behind. Natalia is up on the rooftop, fighting someone hand to hand, Ivan is shooting at a retreating car, and he climbs the brick with shaking hands, hoping that everyone that matters is still safe. Carefully, he levers himself up onto the roof, injured arm practically vibrating in pain. Natasha appears to have some bruises and scrapes, but little else. 

     The relief does not last long. The man that Nat had been sparring dives off the roof, and instinctively Natasha goes to follow, setting her up precisely in line of a waiting sniper. Bucky spots the assassin half a moment before Nat does, and yells. 

     The moment seems to happen in slow motion. There’s not enough time for her to get out of the way, given her momentum, so he jumps, slamming himself into her instead. They take a rough tumble on the gravel, and Bucky hits his head. When his eyes reopen, bleary, he can see Natasha’s face set in fury like he’s never seen before. She shoots wildly until a bullet finally hits its mark and takes the sniper down, and then returns to his side, hurriedly propping him on his side and pressing down on his stomach. Her other hand fiddles with her phone, calling 911 and relaying the details before hanging up.

     Slowly, he looks down at her hand and... oh, that’s a lot of blood. 

     “You fool,” she whispers lovingly. “You absolute fool, why did you come back?”

     “Because you were here.” 

     She cries, ugly and beautiful and absolutely devastated. The bullet has gone deep. She can’t tell if he’ll survive, and she can’t bear the thought of him dying for her. She’d been willing to leave it all behind, to go on living without him as long as he was safe, but this... this is not something she can cope with. She can’t lose him, not like this. 

     “So help me god, if you don’t survive this, I will bring you back to life for the express purpose of murdering you myself. And you know Steve will do the same. Please... you’ve got to survive for me, okay? Please.” She hangs her head, hoping against hope, and there’s nothing she can do to fix this. There’s nothing she can say except... “I love you.”

[turbofhag]

I’m going to gripe a bit at length about the ending of Harley Quinn S2, since it aired on Friday. These were all originally tweets that I’ve copied and pasted over. I’m putting this under a cut since there’s spoilers. 

So, the pivotal part of my complaint: Harlivy is canon now. And that's awesome! I've been hoping that's where the show was going to go since S1E1. For most of S1, it felt like that was the direction it was heading, and I loved it. But were any gay people actually writing this? I ask because, you know what gay people DON'T want to see? Relationships that start out as weird tension, become a drunken mistake, and then get hastily slapped together - at the expense of someone else's happiness, that we're guided to feel sympathy for.

The ENTIRE TIME, the show was working on the idea that Kite Man = goofy & weird, pretty immature, but ultimately well-meaning (in context), enthusiastic, kinda traumatized (by his parents), and deserving of something better. Some of this was played for humor - but not completely. The joke AT FIRST was that Ivy was out of his league. But over time, they actually form a meaningful connection, that was tied in with Ivy processing her own trauma and trust issues - and for a comedy show, HQ actually did a decent job of connecting & showing these things.

I was never, at any point, really into the idea that Ivy + Kite Man could be a legit thing. Ivy's connection w/Harley always seemed stronger, despite Harley having growing to do (which she did - most of S1 was her processing her breakup. Done pretty well. Felt thorough.) But it seemed like the show wanted to stick to the idea that Ivy+Kite Man was viable. It spent a lot of effort exploring that & showing growth, showing support for each other, really making a case for it.

I chalked it up to the usual comp-het stuff and moved on, somewhat disappointed bc I was, as I mentioned, rooting for Harlivy, but frankly any gay person is used to this. 2 characters have a DEEP bond, but they don't end up together, because we've gotta have a straight romance.

But then - after all that - suddenly the show pivots to push for Harlivy after all. REALLY quickly. ABSURDLY quickly - to the point where it actually feels like it was a last-minute decision. The leadup of this essentially happens over the course of just a few steps:

-Ivy+Harley escape from Bane's pit and kiss in relief. 

-They brush this under the rug & chalk it up to emotions running high.

-They get drunk & fuck a couple times @ Ivy's bachelorette party. Ivy expresses some regret, but somewhat passively ('oh, dammit. not again' esque)

-Harley VERY SUDDENLY realizes she's in love w/Ivy 

-Ivy VERY BRIEFLY admits they COULD have a relationship, but that Harley is too emotionally reckless. 

-Harley goes back and forth on wanting to prove she's trustworthy, or accepting that and moving on.

-Kite Man finds out, is sad. Ivy tries to prove she's dedicated to him. They attempt to get married anyway. 

-Wedding is crashed, Kite Man changes his mind & breaks up w/Ivy. 

-Ivy basically goes "Oh well!" and she and Harley escape together, deciding they're a couple immediately.

It looks a little long when you see it listed in like that, but all of that takes place over essentially just a few episodes - out of 26 total - and EVERYTHING after Kite Man finds out happens in 1 episode, alongside a bunch of other show-typical shenanigans.

It's very jarring in a show that took an entire season and a half to let Harley emotionally process everything that happened with the Joker. They set an emotional pace for themselves (that I thought worked really well!) and then threw it into a blender. To go from that level of pacing and emotional depth to everything that happened with Harley and Ivy in the last half of season 2 makes the entire thing feel incredibly rushed and underdeveloped. It's a huge shame.

I can tell that the show was heading towards them being together from the beginning - there's definitely groundwork - but it feels like all that work was supposed to pay off not by the end of S2, but by the end of S3.

For a show that was incredibly dedicated to exploring a character's inner emotional process, and showing them struggle through multiple stages of emotional healing, it sure feels like they didn't want to spend that time with ANY character for the last part of S2. Ivy goes RIGHT from processing that her trust issues stem from emotional neglect from her father to doing absolutely no inner reflection on what she feels and why. It doesn't match the established pace, and it makes the whole scenario seem REALLY sloppy.

Essentially, it feels like they slapped a series of quick-fixes on a HUGELY important scenario they have been building up to this whole time, with the biggest and messiest being Kite Man deciding halfway through the wedding (& in the middle of an anxiety fit) to call it off. He says "You don't really want this, and I deserve better." Ivy admits that he's right, and then goes to Harley, and tells her she loves her. 

 And that's. It.

There's no inner reflection on Ivy's part about the differences between the lives she and Kite Man each want. There's no delving into how her past trauma plays into how she responded to his love. There's not any spoken reason for why she loves Harley - just that she "gets" her.

At the end of the season, the show's message is: these 2 women are perfect for each other, and the thing in the way of their love is gone. Happy ending! But the 'thing' in the way was a character they spent 2 seasons building up to be sympathetic. The show literally shows that the only way for this relationship to exist is at the expense of another person's happiness, and it's SUPER uncomfortable. It doesn't make sense, and it's frankly painful for a gay person to watch, since this is the only gay relationship in the show.

Kite Man gets cheated on and lied to by a person he's entirely dedicated himself to, someone he shared vulnerability and emotional development with. The show spends a lot of time on that development, but then doesn't develop the relationship away at all. It's not a pendulum swinging the same arc back another way. It's more like a bird being shot out of the sky. 

I feel like in this way, the show is cannibalizing itself - it's smashing its own efforts, in order to get to point B.

I don't want to see gay rep that's show to be at the expense of someone else's happiness. I want gay rep that has meaning and development, the same as the straight rep in the show. This wasn't that. This was slapdash as fuck.

This was INCREDIBLY fucking rambly so here's the tl;dr: 

 Endgame Harlivy wasn't given the same development as the rest of the show, and instead felt rushed, uncared-for, and actually mean-spirited. I'd love to write a 'fix' for it. The setup was good, after all. But, well....we’ll see. 

Anyway. Don’t watch the HQ show for Harlivy. Watch it for Bane. And Killer Croc knitting “GOD’S DEAD” beanies. But mostly Bane.

[mediaeval-muse]

Book Review

Prosper’s Demon by K. J. Parker. Tor Books. 2019.

Rating: 2/5 stars

Genre: fantasy, novella

Part of a Series? No.

Summary: The unnamed and morally questionable narrator is an exorcist with great follow-through and few doubts. His methods aren’t delicate but they’re undeniably effective: he’ll get the demon out—he just doesn’t particularly care what happens to the person. Prosper of Schanz is a man of science, determined to raise the world’s first philosopher-king, reared according to the purest principles. Too bad he’s demonically possessed.

 ***Full review under the cut.***

Trigger Warnings: violence, swearing, blood

Overview: I really thought I would like this novella. I really did. And to some extent, I did enjoy parts of it. The premise was intriguing, and I’m a sucker for human-demon (non-romantic) relationships that are symbiotic yet contentious at the same time. I’m also a sucker for philosophy and art and meaning-making, so this should have been a perfect book for pushing all those buttons. But to be honest, I had a hard time with this novella because I found the narrator insufferable and the main plot about Prosper uninteresting. While I can see and admire the things this book was trying to do, I felt less invested in the main plot than the personal relationship between the narrator and the unnamed demon “Him.” Given that the book wasn’t really about that relationship and the philosophical cruxes were downplayed, I didn’t get as much out of this story as I hoped I would.

Writing: There was a lot of telling in this novella. The narrator told us about his past, and told us that he’s a bad person or that the reader won’t like him, but not a lot of showing through actions (yes, the narrator did some things, but I don’t like being told what I think). To top it off, there were some moments when the narrator would allude to something and then withhold information - things along the lines of “I can’t describe X” or “I’m not going into details about Y.” Often times, X and Y were really interesting, such as the appearance of a demon, how exorcists function as an ecclesiastical order, etc. This book is also marketed as “witty” or as having “dark humor,” and sometimes that was the case, but I didn’t find the wit or humor very distinctive. Usually, I enjoy dark humor and wit when they add to the story’s themes in some way, such as when wit is used to expose society’s hypocrisy (I’m thinking Shakespeare’s Feste) or when dark humor alleviates the overwhelming feeling of despair or pokes fun at death. I think this book tried to do that, insofar as a world inhabited with demons is a dark one and dark humor is required to survive in it, but I ultimately didn’t see a strong focus on that darkness or nihilism to make the humor work properly. In terms of organization, this book feels scattered. The narrator would jump from scene to scene, past to present, sometimes in mid-sentence. While stream-of-consciousness is definitely a literary technique that can be useful and insightful, I didn’t feel like it worked given the novella’s subject and focus. I usually like stream-of-consciousness when the focus of the book is on psychology or sensation, and it could have worked here if the book was about the feeling of demonic possession. But it wasn’t, so it felt more disorganized than literary. Lastly, a nitpicky thing: I did not like that we opened with a scene of the narrator disposing of the body of a woman he murdered while possessed by a demon. The blood wasn’t my main problem; rather, I disliked that with so few women in the book as a whole, we open with a scene where our narrator has killed one and doesn’t even care. The rest of the book doesn’t even address it - our narrator puts the blame on the demon, but there’s no inkling of guilt or responsibility. It’s all too straightforward for our narrator, and the fact that we don’t dwell on how it affects our narrator to have been possessed made the scene feel out of place.

Plot: I don’t exactly know how to describe the plot. The main “action” which is described in the summary doesn’t really kick in until some 50 pages into the novella, so the majority of this book is really the narrator’s thoughts about his past, the demons, etc. Honestly, I would have preferred it if the Prosper plot was taken out - the premise was interesting, in that it was supposed to be about the value of art/genius and the worth of an individual’s impact on a society. It could have been a nice political commentary as well: are the advancements of a solitary figure worth it, even if people are getting hurt? But the philosophy didn’t quite come together for this to work or for me. I much rather preferred the vignettes where the narrator was thinking about his past and relationship with the unnamed demon, “Him.” I loved that they kept meeting over and over again across time, and that the demon seemed to develop as the narrator developed. That kind of recurring encounter is a perfect basis for some nitty-gritty character work, and I’m disappointed that it wasn’t actually the focus of the novella. I also really liked that there was a kind of futility to the whole demonic exorcism trade. Since demons can’t really die and always come back, it was a perfect set up for an exploration of meaning-making. I don’t think the book was interested in that, however, or if it was, the interest didn’t come across strong enough for me to pick up on.

Characters: The characters of this book, aside from the demon “Him,” weren’t very memorable to me. The unnamed narrator is a gruff, badass exorcist who doesn’t care who he hurts as long as he can do his job - and he only does his job if he’s being paid. He’s shunned from most society (or at least politely excluded) because they can’t stand his line of work, and he’s rendered somewhat emotionless because of violence or trauma in his past. It’s an archetype that I’m sick of seeing, honestly. A man who lives without joy and doesn’t care about other people. While I can understand the value of having an unlikable and unreliable narrator, I’m personally sick of the nihilistic badass. Prosper likewise wasn’t very interesting. He’s a “genius” who is interested in philosophical debate and reason, but that’s mostly it. I didn’t really feel invested in his goal to “do the impossible” and “bring hope” to people for generations to come, especially since our view of this goal was filtered through our narrator’s eyes. The demons, however, were very interesting, especially the ones who tried to negotiate with our narrator. Prosper’s demon (”Her”) makes appeals based on the value she has brought to humanity - if most of Prosper’s ideas were her doing, what would society lose by expelling her? The same was true of the demon “Him,” who promised to be good as long as he could stay in his host and heal. It was an interesting mix of who deserves sympathy and whether or not demons were all the same. The only drawback was the narrator’s conversations with Her. I think they were supposed to be some kind of debate or duel of wits, but they honestly didn’t come across that way. They were somewhat mundane.

Other: Worldbuilding: I honestly couldn’t tell if this book was supposed to be set in the (early) modern day or the distant historic past, a fantasy world inspired by German culture or a real-life place. There also wasn’t a lot to support my understanding of how demons and exorcists were part of the world they inhabited - while I don’t mind a light touch when it comes to explaining how demons and possession work, I also want to know how they’re embedded in the culture. Is the setting one where people are moving from superstition to Enlightenment? If so, how does that impact our narrator’s work? How demons operate?

Recommendations: I would recommend this book if you’re interested in demons, exorcists/exorcism, philosophy, and the Age of Enlightenment.

[dogbearinggifts]

I don't think Luther does anything for glory though. I think he does it because he's supposed too. I'm not even convinced WHATNEEDSTOBEDONE(TM) is even connotated towards morals or feelings in his head. He'd hate himself otherwise Diego similarly can't let go of war. (See everything he does ever) As of Allison, compared to most girls she's seen so much, hurt so much. If anyone deserves fame it's her right. And if she has to manipulate people well hasn't she saved them ten times over ?

I agree. Luther doesn’t appear to enjoy any of the “saving the world” business at any point in the series. Watch his face when he’s planning their next move, or looking for his old research from the Moon, or any number of things that go along with trying to prevent the apocalypse. He doesn’t look miserable, per se, but he’s definitely not having fun. It’s the face someone might wear at a job they’re not particularly fond of, but one that pays the bills. Reginald framed the Umbrella Academy as this magnificent thing from which his kids could derive all the glory they ever dreamed of, but Luther sees it more as something that has to be done. 

Lest I give the impression he just doesn’t emote all that much, I want to point out one instance where Luther is grinning to beat the band and having the time of his life: while doing that weird crab-dance-thing to “I Think We’re Alone Now.” He doesn’t like being the hero. He’d rather kick off his shoes and be his fun, goofy, pleasantly weird self. 

Diego was always raised to see himself as second best. He was Number Two, not Number One, and if he’d been a little bit better, a little bit more diligent, a little bit less himself, he could have been Number One. That’s what Reginald told him, anyway, and while Diego acts as if he doesn’t give a shit what his dad said, it’s clear Reginald’s childhood treatment of him wounded him deeply. And in some ways, I think he’s reluctant to let that wound heal. If he lets it heal, he’s afraid he’ll forget that what his dad did and said to him was wrong and he’ll accept reality as second best. So he’s still at war, because he’s afraid peace means surrender. 

I think Allison never really processed her childhood trauma. She grew up, and she was left with this awful wound that she didn’t know how to treat. So she distracted herself from the pain with things that made her happy. And since she had the power to get anything she wanted with just a few words—well, why shouldn’t she? She wanted to feel better. She needed to feel better. Reginald never taught her to respect other peoples’ boundaries or autonomy, so she didn’t bother. Like she tells Luther later, “I told myself it wasn’t wrong. I just had an advantage.” 

Another part of Allison’s response to trauma comes, I think, from the worldview Reginald instilled in her. He brought those kids up to see the world as a harsh place filled with people waiting to do evil. If anything, going to Hollywood would only reinforce that view. So Allison probably saw her power as something anybody would use, if given the chance. She probably thought anyone would do what she did, if they were in her shoes.

(Part 2/2) Poor Klaus turned to drugs after both "wartime" and actual wartime. Drugs and alcohol are sadly common with post war soldiers.I am like 90% sure his childhood kept him from being destroyed by vietnom Five is grown. He has to be grown, to be strong. Youth is weakness. He use to think that was a lie but after the apocalypse he would do anything to not be caught scared and unaware again.

War is hell, and Klaus’ childhood was hell. Reginald could have made it a little more bearable, had he approached Klaus’ powers with anything resembling compassion. Maybe he could have built a device that would allow him to spot where the ghosts were, and get Klaus out of there before the situation became too overwhelming. Or maybe he could have held family seance nights, where Klaus practices conjuring while everyone stands around protectively and hurls insults at ghosts who get too demanding. There’s a number of things he could have done, but because Reginald saw Klaus not as a child but as a tool, he decided to try and force him to overcome his fear. And, predictably, that attempt only made his fear worse. (Sadly, this is a technique too often utilized by real-life abusive parents. The results aren’t much better.) 

I see Five as the one in that house who left too young, grew up too fast, and—as you said—saw youth as weakness. He was stranded in a world harsher even than Reginald could have predicted, and he wasn’t prepared. He had to leave childhood behind quickly, or die. So he survived, carved out a life for himself, and left the unprepared, frightened version of himself in the past. The way Five sees it, he survived far worse than Reginald’s abuse. So I think that when he looks at his siblings, and all the ways they’re fucked up by their upbringing, he doesn’t have a lot of sympathy for them. I think many of his interactions with his siblings are fueled by impatience and more than a little condescension. 

(Part 3/I lied) Ben is an obvious one. He's gone, as gone as the men in the trenches, as gone as the British casualties of ww2, as gone as the lost generation itself. Vanya is the civilian. For whatever reason too unskilled, too weak, too useless too ever be of use. So she's told bow her head, be quiet, never complain, don't get in the way. I don't think she hates her siblings for treating her that way. I think deep inside she hates herself for someway deserving it.

Ben is dead, but he’s not gone. He’s stuck on the sidelines, watching his family struggle. It’s probably awful to watch them go through hell and not be able to do anything about it—but we see from his interactions with Klaus that being left behind has made him bitter. He no longer has any of the things his living siblings take for granted, and he hates watching his brothers and sisters squander everything he lost. Klaus is probably his biggest target because 1) he’s the only one in that family Ben can actually talk to, and 2) his entire life, up to the point he meets Dave, revolves around getting high. 

Vanya probably internalized the abuse when she was younger. I think it’s almost guaranteed she did. But in the present, she seems to have realized this. She knows she internalized the abuse, she knows internalization fucked her up, and so she’s rebelling against that earlier attitude by externalizing everything. In the scene where she walks in on Luther’s emergency meeting and reads them the riot act for leaving her out of it, a quick look at the circumstances shows that it was Vanya’s own choices that led to her being excluded from that meeting. She chose to leave the Academy, rather than stay the night. She chose to stay at Leonard’s, rather than at her apartment for which Allison had the number. She chose to make herself unreachable, yet when she sees her siblings have left her out of something yet again, she immediately blames them. And when Allison points out that she is not being fair, Vanya turns it back on Allison rather than ask how she’s being unfair or reassess her own behavior. 

That’s not to say those are the only two options. There is a whole sea of healthy options between “blame self for what other people do” and “blame others for what I do.” In my experience, healing from internalization isn’t found by blaming others for one’s own behavior, but in going through each painful memory and asking, “Okay, is this my fault? Did I do this, like my parents said I did, or was this someone else’s choice that I blamed myself for?” It’s a long process, and a painful one, but ultimately liberating. I hope Vanya will find a happy medium between the internalization of her past and the externalization of her present, but she’s not there yet. 

[trashpandaorigins]

The Body Keeps the Score  Chapter 3: Knowing

“You said it yourself bitch, we’re the Guardians of the Galaxy.” Gamora is finally a part of something. But the past always follows you, eats at you and she must come to grips with her deeds as she tries to build a future. Meanwhile Rocket has never cared much for anyone or anything. Together the two of them discover they are more alike than different and try to heal themselves by befriending the other.

*Content Warnings: Mentions of child/animal abuse, trauma, character death, physical torture/pain*

Title of this fic is taken from the book of the same title “The Body Keeps the Score: Brain, Mind, and Body in the Healing of Trauma,” by Bessel van der Kolk

“She moves with shameless wonder

The perfect creature rarely seen

Since some lie I brought the thunder

When the land was godless and free

Her eyes look sharp and steady

Into the empty parts of me”

Foreigner's God - Hozier

“We’ll follow your lead, Star-Lord,” Gamora smiled happily, leaning against Peter’s chair. She forced a slow breath, feeling the bright Xandarian suns shining on her through the wide window of the ship. The light feeling in her chest rushing through her veins.

“Bit of both,” Peter decided, swinging the ship upward away from the surface of the planet, away from the Nova Corps. The only thing louder than the bumping music was Drax’s laughter. Let yourself have this, she thought sitting down and strapping herself in. You deserve this. The Benatar leapt through the jump point and her hair went flying into her face playfully as the ship evened out. Gamora  looked from Peter to Rocket regarding the latter with sympathy, it hadn’t occurred to her until just now, he’d lost Groot. She tilted her head carefully to look at him and...there was a pot in his lap, and in that pot ...Impossible. No, not totally, she remembered slicing Groot’s arm off not four days ago. The sharp sound of her sword hacking through his bark. The same bark that had wrapped around her, to save her...despite all she’d done to him. Mutilated him and then virtually ignored him. Noxious guilt writhed in her chest. The little twig in its container stared back at her with wide, innocent eyes.

“Is that….?”

“Groot!” Peter gasped, he shifted the Benatar into auto-pilot and jumped out of his seat, looming over the tiny twig.

“Don’t crowd him!” Rocket hissed, waving Peter’s hand away. The little sapling only blinked up at them. Something’s not right, the realization of it dawned on her slowly. She couldn’t put her finger on it, but the way Groot looked at her was, off.

Rocket unclasped his seat belt and slid off the chair, holding Groot’s container in one arm and baring his teeth as Peter reached out a helpful hand.

“Don’t touch him.”

“Easy man I’m just trying to help,” Peter held his arms out and open. Gamora only watched the raccoonoid settle Groot down on the nearby table.

“Groot! My wooden compatriot, I am glad you have regrown! You are smaller than me now, and quite puny. I am fond of you.” Drax gushed with such sincerity Gamora had to laugh. Groot only reached out his arms and flailed in joy.

“Well team, I think this is cause for celebration! I think we should treat ourselves,” Peter placed his hands on his hips triumphantly looking down at Groot. “We deserve some R and R!”

“R and R?” Drax’s face squinted in confusion, “R is a letter in the English Human tongue. How can we have two of  a letter?”

“It means rest and relaxation!” Rocket grumbled. At least he didn’t attach an insult to the remark Gamora observed thankfully.

“What do you guys say? We could go to Ertrbra or Wvonta, I know some great bars on Presscoa but if the bartender at Ikva asks I am definitely not the same guy who stole their top shelf Hrania bourbon.” Gamora shook her head in amusement, ever optimistic Peter. Peter who could brush off his past with humor.  

“Let us go to this planet of libation!” Drax prompted, “and we will toast to Groot for his sacrifice and his return!”

His return, Gamora watched Rocket ignore the conversation and run off to fetch something. He returned moments later with a jar of water and carefully let it pour over the soil at the saplings thin roots. Groot gurgled in a high-pitched squeak as the water soaked in. The vague feeling of uncertainty persisted in her gut. She swallowed it and punched in the coordinates for Presscoa.

                                                        ---

“Ohh, looking fancy,” Peter leaned against the doorway of her room. She turned, the black cloak stirring with her movement. “What’s the occasion?” She fashioned the strings of the garment pulling it tight against her collar and tie it in a knot.

“The occasion is Nebula is still out there, she’s gone back to Thanos no doubt. We are not his only children,” she fixed Peter with a look. “Once she goes to him she will tell him of my betrayal. It is only a matter of time before they come searching.” Peter’s face softened with comprehension.

“We won’t let that happen,” he tried to reassure her. “And if he or his goons try anything we’ll take them on. And we’re protected by the Nova Corps.”

Protected, that’s one way of putting it. She met him in the doorway, looking over that face still so full of hope and wanton foolery.

“Rocket was right,” she recalled. “I have a reputation.” How did he know her before they clashed on Xandar? Where did he hear of her? What else did he know? She’d ponder these questions later no doubt, later that night when everyone else was asleep. Peter’s hand raised slowly, aiming for her cheek but stopped short, dropping to her shoulder.

“Let’s just go out, have fun, we’ll be back on the ship before long and if you want to leave at any point. We leave. Okay?” She looked at him. “If we’re going to work together you might try trusting me.” Trust. She nodded, pulling the hood of the cloak over her head.

                                                             ---

“I like this bar you have selected!” Drax hoisted his drink into the air, sending a good portion of it spilling onto the table. The five of them crowded into a booth in the dimly lit dive. Gamora had already located two exits and another possible exit point on the ceiling if it came to that. The couple at the end of bar across from their table seemed kindly enough. But the woman had looked over her shoulder four times since the Guardians entered.  Gamora took note and switched her gaze to the booth directly in front of them, over Drax’s head. Two oprevien men, neither of whom appeared to be armed.   But the booth behind her, the woman sitting there…

“Right Gamora? Gamora?”  Peter’s voice called her back.

“Um right,” she mumbled.

“See! I knew it! Drink!” Drax muttered something but downed his glass of ale in three single gulps. On the table Groot struggled to reach for the empty shot glass beside his container.

“Let us toast! To Groot! Who gave his life for his friends and is now living again! We are most glad!” A sad smile lifted on Gamora’s face as she clinked her drink against those of the others. The yekkelian mixed drink was bitter and purple, but oddly tasty. Drax hoisted his third drink towards Groot’s pot and let the clear liquid seep into the dirt much to the saplings delight.

“Drax no!” Rocket was on the bottle in a moment, knocking it away from the Groot. “Don’t give him that!” Gamora nodded approvingly. “Give him this!” Her appreciation instantly turned to concern as the raccoonoid swiped the bottle of Hyerlian Liquor he and Peter had split and tipped it into Groot’s pot. “Don’t give him that cheap shit, top shelf only!” Drax and even Peter, five drinks gone at this point erupted in erroneous laughter. The sapling only laughed and hiccuped, swaying happily. Gamora reached for the water beside her own drink and allowed Groot to drink it in. He gazed up at her, those large brown eyes...too innocent. Too loving. Groot would never look at me that way, kind as he was. I only ever tried to hurt him. Her nostrils flared, taking a long breath out as the uncertainty now revealed itself. She looked at Rocket, who drank from a glass the size of his face. He laughed and slid one paw around Groot’s pot, bringing him closer.

That is not Groot.

                                                      ---

“See! We had a great time and we didn’t even have to fake our own deaths or steal a ship!” Peter’s arm weighed heavy across her shoulders as she helped him back to the ship.

He is right, no one made a stir. No one tried to kill us. But they still could have noticed me.  She forced that thought to the back of her mind and concentrated on getting Peter to his room. Behind them, Rocket was sitting a top Drax’s shoulders with Groot hoisted even higher still in the raccoonoid’s arms above his head. A risky move especially as Gamora watched the destroyer stumble forward. Pick and choose your battles. Groot’s safety is…. the little flora giggled, eyes half closed. Let it be. She led Peter into his room and helped him down to sit on his bed. He ran a hand over his face, flushed with the alcohol and smiled.

“Say it,” he prompted, leaning forward. “Say you had a good time.”

“I had a good time,” she responded honestly. His smile widened and he tilted his head forward. Instinctively she drew back. Then waited in the tense silence, whatever it was between them pressed against her at all sides. Suffocating. She tensed, even as his lips missed their target and his head instead rested on her shoulder.

“Good! I think this is going to be the start of something great for us.” Us? Which us? You and I or all of us? She knew the answer to that and nodded, harboring a secret hope that he could be right. “Nova let you leave,” he continued happily.

“Not sure why,” she speculated.  Peter waved a dismissive hand.

“Because you’re….” he caught himself. “You’re cool, you're with us, the Guardians!” She smirked.

“Goodnight Peter,” she sat up, his head falling onto the pillows.

“G’night!” His snoring sounded in her ears before she even made it to the hall.

Alone at last. She made her way through the metallic halls of the ship. Listening to the thrum of the engines. The darkness was serene, the darkness was how she moved, she knew how to navigate it. An empty slate to think on. Think. Groot is not himself. Well he is A Groot, but not our Groot. She tip-toed up the steps to the main deck. Not Rocket’s Groot. Whether or not to tell him. The scales tipped in either direction. She tried to measure as she walked, pausing every now and then to admire the stars out the wide windows.  Better to live a horrible truth than a sweet lie. That’s what I am after all. A daughter of Thanos. A lie. She sighed, running her hand along the cool metal piping of the ship. Down passed the common area, through the storage chambers. Toward the engine room.  She summoned her courage, putting on the face. The imperial, unfeeling veneer of unflinching honest without emotion. One of the many skills Thanos had taught her.

“Rocket….”

“I’m glad your back buddy,” she stopped short of the metal door to the engine room. Rocket’s slurred voice echoing against the corridor.  “Don’t ever do that to me again. I thought...thought I lost yah. Okay?” Groot did not reply. “I mean it man. I know I called you an idiot and all...and...I feel really lousy about it.” 

Gamora peeked forward, Rocket sat on his work bench. Groot’s little pot on the table. The sapling was most definitely down for the count. His head flung back, mouth agape. Yet Rocket’s arms wound around the base of the pot. “You gotta hurry up and grow bud. Or at least say something.” He punctuated the sentiment with a belch and hugged the pot close to him, resting his snout in the dirt. “Your the only thing I got man….I’m...I’m sorry I didn’t realize it sooner.” Gamora watched the tears in Rocket’s eyes fall into the soil at Groot’s roots. She backed away, down the hall. Leaving Rocket in sickly sweet inebriated denial.

                                                           ---

The straps dug into her wrist with a biting ache. The table hard beneath her. She shut her eyes against the blinding lights.

“Daughter,” that voice. It held no face but she knew. “You are doing well my child. But there is always room for improvement.” Gamora made to struggle, arching against the straps but her body lay immobile. Thrash! Kick! Find the lock on the straps it’s to the right just under the...Ebony Maw came to her side, beady eyes gleaming.

“Full facial enhancement then?”

“Yes.”

No! Kick damnit! Kick! Bite him! Why aren’t you…? The needle pressed to her skin, at her left temple just against the metal webbing. Something hot and burning entered her flesh. Gamora screamed, trying to move but her body would not obey.

“Ease yourself daughter.”

I...am...n...not...y..your...daught...ter!

More agony, spreading through her insides, burning the metal inside her.

Ahhhhh!!!!

“Gamora!”

“N...not...your...d...daughter!”

“Gamora!”

Peter?!

Her eyes flashed open in a wicked sensation of falling. She gasped for breath, her heart hitching. Sweat slicked against her face.

“P...peter?!”

“What, no!”

Gamora rubbed her eyes, must have fallen asleep in the common area. She realized, gazing up at Peter’s large movie poster for The Goonies. Whatever that is.

“Rocket,” she swallowed. His disgruntled face nodded.

“Will you keep it down? Groot’s trying’ to sleep.” 

His words barely registered, she nodded numbly putting a hand to her chest to steady her pounding heart. He looked at her with irritation and resolve? She could read most aliens in the galaxy very well. It’s what had led to her “success” as a lackey for Thanos. No matter how many eyes or appendages they had. Gamora was skilled at reading intentions but Rocket ….those red pupiless eyes. They glowed in the dark of the ship, the hairs on the back of her neck rising with the unfamiliarity. Rocket folded his arms in a huff and flicked his tail turning towards the hall. Gamora stood, crossing the room to the kitchen area and fumbled for a glass of water, watching him leave.

“Gotta drink more next time,” he whispered.

“What?”

Rocket halted, back to her.

“Drink more next time,” he repeated. “It keeps the nightmares away ...at least that’s what I tell myself.”

Gamora narrowed her eyes, in the dark she could see him open his mouth to speak once more, then shut it, sniffed, and scurried down the hall out of sight.

[builder051]

The best of what’s around, chapter 13

A collab with @anonyony1

This story features my (Laur’s) character Troy and Lux’s Ozzy and Julian.

TRIGGER WARNINGS for mentions of drug/alcohol abuse, withdrawal, past trauma, and mentions of death.

The grand finale!

Part 13 of 13.

_____

Julian nods from the stairs,  “Anytime. Just, uh... next time under better circumstances, yeah?”  He grins as he heads up the stairs to bed, leaving Troy alone in the living room.

“Oh, yeah.  For sure,” Troy agrees.  He tips his head back against the chair’s cushions and tries to get into the rerun.  He recognizes the episode as the one where all the characters pass around the flu, and his heart pangs with new sympathy.  Troy takes another sip of water and works on convincing himself to settle down.

_____

Ozzy comes down the stairs, his hair damp still from the shower.  He’s got a towel draped over his shoulders.  He pads into the kitchen and grabs a bottle of water from the fridge.

“I didn’t realize you’d still be awake. I don’t think I’m quite as tired as Julian, he’s already passed out in bed,” Ozzy laughs.

“I should be tired,” Troy says.  “I think Julian got an hour or two more than I did, but that still wasn’t anywhere near enough.”  He laughs softly.  “I’m gonna turn in soon.  I just can’t quite get my brain to turn off.”

“Ah,” Ozzy nods.  Julian had been snoring when he’d gone into the bedroom, something he never did unless he was exhausted.  Ozzy couldn’t imagine how tired that made Troy. He hummed, taking a sip of his water, “CSI? Do you mind if I join you for a bit?”

“Not at all,” Troy says.  “It’s an old episode, but this show never gets old.”

“No, it’s one of my favorites, too… Julian’s not a big fan so I can never find someone to watch it with,” Ozzy smirks.

“Well, I’m not sure how I got so into it.  My dad’s a cop,” Troy explains, “So it’s too much for him most of the time.  My mom and my sisters are too soft and sweet.  They’d rather be watching The Bachelor.”  He cracks a grin.

Ozzy laughs, “They don’t know what they’re missing out on. A cop, that must be…” he searches for the right word, “intense.”

“Mm, yeah, he kind of is,” Troy says, torn between respect and honesty.  “He’s a...a ‘heritage not hate’ kind of guy.  He’s not bad, not really.  But he’s not good either.  He thinks he is, and that’s his problem.”  He shakes his head absently.  “We don’t get along real well anymore.”

Ozzy hums, “Yeah, I’m sure that’s hard… it’s hard to try and get someone to see where they’re wrong when they, uh, don’t think that they are.”  Ozzy picks at his thumbnail for a moment, “It’s that way with a lot of people.  Most people think they’re good people.”

“Yeah, I can see that,” Troy replies.  He folds his hand around his stump in his lap.  “Except the really good ones.  They think the’re just ordinary.  Or they’re too hard on themselves.  Frances, for one.”  He glances at Ozzy, but looks away before he can establish eye contact.  “And Julian.  He’s helped me out so much these last couple days.  You both have.”

The corner of Ozzy’s lip twitch. “Yeah, he is really good, isn’t he?”  He breathes deep, sitting back, “He doesn’t think that he is at all. I don’t think he even thinks he’s ordinary.  But he is good.  I’m sure Frances is too.” He smiles.

“Fran’s the best sister I could’ve ever asked for.  Probably the only person in my family I’m gonna stay in touch with, at least for now.  But the only things she ever says about herself are all negatives, about being overweight and all.  There’s so much more to her than that, but she just doesn’t see it.  She’d rather think about taking care of me.”  The phone call is still fresh in Troy’s mind.  He looks up at the TV for a moment, then lets the emotions keep flowing.

“Julian and I were talking earlier,” Troy says to Ozzy, “And I know he’s been through a lot.  But, for all of that, I don’t think I’ve ever met a stronger guy.  He says you’re the nice one, but you both are, really.”

Ozzy raises his brows before letting out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.  He has a twinge of jealousy as he realizes Julian’s opened up to Troy much faster than he ever opened up to him. I t disappears as fast as it arrived though, and he’s mostly just happy Julian decided to talk to someone in the first place.  “He is… um, he is really strong,” Ozzy says, “Sometimes I think he’s a little… too strong. He thinks he has to keep it all bottled up, but he doesn’t… not really.”  Then he realizes he’s rambling about a less-significant part of Troy’s statement. “He’s really nice, he just mostly keeps to himself. He took to you, though, and he doesn’t take to many,” Ozzy smirks.

“Well, we kind of have a lot in common, and it’s rare to find that.  It has been for me, anyway.  An accident, an addiction…” He shakes his head.  “Who’d’ve thought I’d run into somebody with the same things in their past?”  He chuckles softly.  “And sometimes I think it’s easier to talk to a stranger.  Someone who can just see where you are now and not all your baggage.  It’s tougher with loved ones, because they see all your baggage and love you anyway, even when you don’t think you deserve it.”  It’s all out of Troy’s mouth before he’s even sure what he’s talking about.  “That’s...my problem with Fran, I think.  It’s hard to let her care about me, maybe more than she cares about herself.”

Ozzy mulls over the words, feeling a weight in his chest. “Julian… he’s… he just doesn’t say anything, ever. I just figure out he’s upset or sad or whatever because some nights he comes home drunk.  Other nights he doesn’t.  It’s really frustrating, because I feel like maybe if he told me how he was feeling I could help,” he laughs dryly, “but I’m not sure anyone can really help… with that.” He swallows, “It’s good that you have someone who loves you so much. It’s good that you’re keeping her in the loop. I’m sure that means a lot to her.”

“Oh, I’m sure it does,” Troy says.  He lets out his breath.  He’s not sure it’s his place to give relationship advice, especially when he’s a guest in their home under such odd circumstances.  He’s grateful for the opportunity he had to really talk things out with Julian, to make strides in reconciling his past with someone who truly understands, but now he feels guilty.  Troy stands by what he said, that sometimes opening up to a stranger is easier.  He’s told Julian more than he’s ever spilled to Fran.  But this seems somehow different.  

“Listen, It might not be for me to say, but I think Julian… just doesn’t know how to get started,” Troy says.  “He feels things, and he doesn’t like it.  He thinks if he says something, you’re not going to like it.  So it’s easier to just push it all down.”

Ozzy leans forward, the weight shifting in his chest.

“I guess... I just wish that I could make him stop feeling those things,” Ozzy says, “But… I think he thinks he deserves to feel that way.” He shakes his head ruefully, “But he doesn’t, and… well, Frances would agree with me when I say, neither do you.”

Troy laughs, but cuts himself off with a yawn that he stifles behind his hand.  “You’re reading her mind!  How’d you get so good?”  He sighs.  “I know i’m being illogical, but sometimes I think I deserve it.  And I know where Julian’s coming from when he thinks he deserves it too, though I don’t think that’s right.  I guess life’s never gonna work out real nicely, just the way you want.  You have to work at it.  I have to work at it.”

Ozzy bites his thumbnail, mulling over Troy’s words for a moment before nodding. “Yeah, you’re right I think. I guess... I probably need to be more patient with him. It’s just hard sometimes,” Ozzy sighs. “But you can’t make someone believe they deserve something.”

“I know, it’s hard,” Troy says, scrubbing his hand up over his eyes.  “Fran and I run in circles about that.  Or at least we did, before I, you know, ignored her for the past little while.  We’re both too hard on ourselves, always saying the other one deserves better.  But the truth is we’re too alike.  We  empathize too much.  If we could both just realize that at the same time…”  He shrugs.  Sleepiness is beginning to catch up with him, but he picks up the water bottle from the coffee table and drains it, taking a last step to ensure he’s done all he can to heal his body before he turns in.

Ozzy smiles tiredly, “In a perfect world, huh?”  He shifts from his seat, standing. “I’m gonna head to bed, I think. I don’t have to go in until noon tomorrow, so you want to stick around for breakfast?”

“Uh,” Troy hesitates.  “Yeah.  That’ll...that’ll be nice.”  He wants to get back on the road as early as possible and placate some of his restlessness about the future, but he needs to take  a breath.  Move slowly.  It’s been less than twelve hours since he was slowly dehydrating in a crumpled heap of shakes and sickness.  It’ll be better if he leaves knowing he has strength.  Troy turns off the TV and gets to his feet too, stretching out his wingspan.  “I definitely need a good night’s sleep.  Thanks again for giving me somewhere to crash.”

“‘Course, you’re welcome any time,” Ozzy smiles, leading the way upstairs. The boys open their respective doors, Troy just down the hallway from Ozzy.

“Hey, Troy, just remember to take care of yourself, okay?” Ozzy says down the hall.

“Oh, I will,” Troy replies.  “Same to you.  And Julian.  He could probably use a little being taken care of after I’ve had him up half the night looking out for me.”  He waits for Ozzy’s smile of acknowledgement, then slips into the bedroom.  He’s dressed in clean clothes, even though they’re jeans, so he heads right for the bed.  Troy stretches out, too tired to think about going back down to rummage in his duffle for his toothbrush.  He pulls the covers up to his shoulders, and he’s almost instantly asleep.

***

Meanwhile, Ozzy slowly opens the bedroom door, peeking in at Julian, who’s still soundly snoring in the bed.  He never sleeps this hard, and Ozzy can’t help but grin when he sees him.  He feels a weight sinking in his chest.  He’s spent so much time being too hard on Julian.  He’s been so caught up in wanting Julian to talk that he hadn’t even heard what he had to say.  He steps across the room slowly, climbing into bed beside the sleeping boy. Julian stirs from his sleep at the movement.

“Oz,” he says, his voice raspy from sleep. He pulls a sleepy grin, shifting to make room.

“I’m so tired,” Julian laughs groggily.

“Hey, Julian,” Ozzy whispers, running a hand through Julian’s hair.  Julian blinks, opening his eyes for only the second time since Ozzy entered the room.

“I’m proud of you, you know that?”  He asks, and Julian at first pulls a confused grin, but he hums.

“Yeah. I know that,” he says, wrapping his arm over Ozzy’s chest and burrowing his face into his neck. In no time at all, he’s asleep again, and Ozzy has to wonder if he’d ever really woken up at all. He smirks, closing his own eyes too.

***

When Troy jars from sleep, he’s sweltering.  He sits up in bed, taking in his surroundings and again remembers where he is and what’s been happening over the last two days.  He wonders if he’s spiking a fever again, but when he brings his hand up to his own forehead, it’s no warmer than the ambient air temperature.  He supposes he was just sleeping hard.  

Troy squints at the alarm clock on the bedside table.  It’s a little after three in the morning.  It had still been early when he’d gone to sleep, so he’s not surprised that he feels alert despite the hour.  He lies back against the pillows and takes a few deep breaths, seeing if sleep will come back to him.  Now that his thoughts are moving, though, they won’t slow down.  He doesn’t remember the exact route back to the highway, but Troy imagines there won’t be traffic at this hour.  He could cruise the interstate until sunup, then grab breakfast at a fast-food joint…

But he’d told Ozzy last night that he’d have breakfast here.  Troy lets out his breath and clasps his hand over his stump on top of the blankets.  He likes spending time with his new friends.  He feels indebted to them, but also connected.  Like family.  But he can’t keep leaning on them.  Every time he says thank you or I’m sorry, he internally cringes, knowing the words have to be grating on Ozzy and Julian after hearing them so many times.  Troy means them honestly.  And he doesn’t know what else to say.

The open road flashes through Troy’s mind again, and he throws his feet over the edge of the bed.  He’s unsteady for a second, but his balance comes back.  He’s still weak and drained from the illness of withdrawal, but he’s happy to feel as good as he does.  Staying here for another couple days or even another couple hours isn’t going to do much in the grand scheme of things.  It’ll only keep him anxious and guilty.  

That’s exactly what Troy feels, though, as he makes the bed neatly and pads down the stairs.  His bag is beside the front door, ready to be taken out to the mustang, which is parked serenely in the driveway.  Troy puts on his shoes and reaches for the duffle’s handles, but he hesitates.  He has to go.  But he can’t with no notice like this.  

He sighs and slips into the kitchen.  The envelope he’d been playing with during breakfast with Julian is still on the edge of the bar, and Troy flips it over to the blank side.  He finds a pencil, and scribbles  Thank you so much for everything.  I’m sorry to go like this, but I have to be on my way.  Please do keep in touch, and you’re welcome to visit anytime as soon as I’m back on my feet.  Troy signs his name and adds his phone number, hoping his scrawl is legible.  He lines the pencil up with the edge of the envelope and leaves them prominently in the center of the countertop.  Then he slings his bag over his shoulder and opens the front door.

***

Ozzy wakes up before Julian, which is a rarity. Julian’s on his back, his hand draped over his chest as it slowly rises and falls. Ozzy grins.

“Hey, hey wake up,” Ozzy whispers, and Julian squeezes his eyes tighter before opening them. He rubs a hand over his eyes.

“Oh… oh gosh, what time is it?” He asks, noticing the sun beaming through the window. Julian is usually awake before seven am. It’s never been quite this toasty when he peels himself from the bed in the mornings.

“Ten am. You must’ve been exhausted,” Ozzy smirks, and Julian grunts, stretching as he yawns.

“Guess so,” he says with a blushing grin. “We should see if Troy’s up… he’s probably starved.”

Ozzy nods, pulling Julian up by his hands. Ozzy pulls a pair of shorts over his boxers and leads the way from the bedroom. There’s an eerie silence in the house, and Julian wonders for a sickening split second if Troy’s passed out in one of the rooms. He knocks on Max’s bedroom door and frowns at the silence that follows.

“Troy?” He asks through the door.

“Hey Julian,” Ozzy calls from downstairs. Julian walks to the guardrail of the stairs and looks down. Ozzy is holding the envelope in his hand. He flips it around to show Julian from afar.

“He says he had to go,” Ozzy paraphrases, “left his number.”

Julian hums, gripping the budding mullet on the back of his neck.

“Looks like pancakes for two, then,” he smiles, heading down the stairs.

“Yeah. He was really nice, I’ll miss him,” Ozzy frowned, sitting down at the bar.

“Well,” Julian says, “Next time we hang out, maybe he’ll be able to enjoy it too.”

Ozzy bites the inside of his cheek, “I hope he’ll stick with it this time.”

Julian shrugs, “I think he’s got a good head on his shoulders.” He opens the nearly-empty carton of orange juice and takes a swig from the carton.

He takes another swig before laughing.

“Well, hey. Next time you try to convince me we should pick up a stranger on the side of the road, I might listen better,” Julian grins.

[theanxiousteenager1121]

Read This

Once, there was a girl. This girl started 8th grade in a small school with six other girls and one boy in the graduating class, and a new teacher, let’s call him Mr. Garfield. The girl had never really fit in with many groups before, having moved away from her friends in 5th grade, but she knew the people in her class fairly well and was friendly with them, so she anticipated 8th grade with good feelings. 

Among the 8th grade girls, there was one that we’ll call Mia. Mia was a nice girl, and very artistic and creative. Everyone liked Mia, but no one knew her that well, as she usually hung out with older kids. 

Throughout the year, it became clear that Mia lived for attention. She had a somewhat difficult home life, and talked about it just often enough to make some people feel uncomfortable. She said she was depressed, and had mental issues, and wanted to commit suicide. She flaunted this almost with pride, and Mr. Garfield soon became devoted to helping young Mia with her problems and being almost like a “father figure” to her. It was a little strange, but it never seemed to bother anyone, despite the fact that Mr. Garfield treated Mia as his obvious favorite. 

The girl was good friends with Mia, but Mia started to treat her like more than that. Mia would try to hold the girl’s hand in class, or get a little too close to her, or sing love songs and watch her in a rather unsettling way. The girl tried to ignore the behavior, even pretend like she was comfortable with it, but deep in her heart, she wasn't. Mia started saying they were “going out” and in response to the girl saying she wasn’t into other girls, Mia said, “Oh, I can make you. You are into me; you just don’t know it.” 

The year went on, and the girl still found no way to stand up to Mia. Every time she stood up to any one of the other girls, they got angry and wouldn’t talk to her for days, maybe weeks. The girl didn’t want to be lonely, so she put up with the harassment and tried to convince herself that she enjoyed it. 

Mr. Garfield became increasingly rude towards the girl. He would shut her down whenever she tried to talk in class, acted like all her ideas were idiotic, and told her that she was being disrespectful, treating her different than all the other kids in the class. The girl thought something might be wrong with her, and cried every night when she got home from school. She wanted to be friends with her teacher, and the other girls, and she wanted Mia to stop treating her like her girlfriend. 

One day, the girl decided to overdose on her allergy medicine - luckily, the overdose wasn’t lethal and she just had to stay home from school that day. But it terrified the girl that she didn’t care whether she lived or died, that she wanted to die. She didn’t want to tell her parents, fearing they would send her to therapy or something - and she didn’t want that. 

Returning to school, the girl had to talk about it. She had to tell them what she had done, get it out of her system. At lunch, they all sat down and she told them. There was a long silence, in which some of the other girls looked sympathetic, but Mia - Mia laughed. She laughed that the girl had tried to kill herself with allergy medicine, said it was wimpy, and the others laughed too. The girl was hurt, hurt that someone thought her attempted death was funny, and was angry at Mia. Angry, but she didn’t show it. She laughed right along with them. 

Things escalated. Mr. Garfield became ruder and ruder to the girl, saying she deserved to be beaten, and even yelled at her mom and talked about the girl behind her back with Mia and other students. Mia tried to be more intimate with the girl, trying to caress her and making gross, suggestive comments frequently. Yet the girl could find no strength to stand up to either of them, still pretending that she enjoyed what Mia was doing, pretending to the point where she was almost believing it. 

Then, one day, when the whole class was having a talk about personal difficulties, the girl decided to share her story. She told about the anxiety she had had since a young age, and crying every night since she had been in 8th grade. She didn't say it was because of Mia and Mr. Garfield, just said what she felt. She even said that she had wanted to die. 

Again, it got quiet, as everyone contemplated what she had just said. No one offered any words of comfort, just quiet. Until finally Mia said, “I tried to commit suicide.” And suddenly the group became a sea of sympathy towards Mia, and Mia only. Mr. Garfield told Mia how she was amazing, and how sad they would all be if she died, and they all hugged her and made her cards. No one paid any mind to the girl, and it was at that moment that her self-esteem, that last bit of her soul, died. 

School ended soon after that. The entire class cried at graduation except for the girl. She didn’t have enough love or affection for any of them to want to cry over them leaving, and it almost made her more sad, more stony, to see that everyone around her had so much love for everyone else, but not, as it seemed, for her. 

About a week after school ended, the entire thing just crash-landed on the girl’s head. She felt like her problems weren’t valid, that no one would ever care, after how the other girls and Mr. Garfield had treated her. After how Mia had harassed her, she was scared to be around other girls, in fear that they would put her in an uncomfortable situation like that, where she couldn’t say to stop but felt awful inside. She was terrified that she would spiral out of control. She had almost no self-esteem left, and lost it even when other people looked at her, ashamed of her body and how she looked. Looking at other girls made her feel nervous, because of what Mia had done and because of how she saw herself. She found triggers for her anxiety everywhere, and depression set in. 

This went on for a full month. At times, it seemed as if it would never get better. At times, it felt like the pain would never stop, as if the panic and anxiety would never cease. But as the next month came around, the girl decided to talk to someone. She’d had enough of crying every day, of having anxiety attacks every time she saw another girl or tried to share her feelings. She met with someone and talked, and for a minute light seemed to shine through the darkness that had been her life. For a minute, it seemed as if things might be okay. 

The sadness and anxiety didn’t stop right away. It would resurface in dreams or maybe if she encountered one of her triggers, and sometimes she just cried for days. But things slowly began to get better. Slowly, but working all the same. The emotional trauma of the past nine months of her life had taken its toll. It had made a wound, and that wound was deep, and would take time to heal. Every once in a while it would twinge with pain, but it healed faster and stronger every time. 

Why would I tell this story, you might ask. Why would I share this particular story with this corner of the world? 

Because that girl is me. I am that girl. I felt as she felt, experienced as she experienced, saw as she saw. And as she is, I am healing, but as I heal, I want to send a message to all the teens that I know are feeling like I did; It will get better. There is a hope waiting for you in the dark. It will take time to heal, but it will heal. You are not alone. I am there for you, and so is everyone else who has gone through this. Keep fighting. Don’t give up. Better things will come for you. 

And also, while we’re on the topic; don’t let other people rule your life. It may not seem like such a big deal at the time, but it definitely becomes a big deal later. Whether it’s harassment, sexual or not, or people making your feelings and problems seem invalid to you, or people being assholes and putting you down just because you can, don’t let it happen. Stop it before it does to you what it did to me. 

But to all of you out there, struggling with whatever you may be struggling with, know that the universe brings balance. 

You will reach the light at the end of that long, dark tunnel. 

You will be found. 

And, most importantly, 

YOU ARE NOT ALONE.