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yellowocaballero · 4 years

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Continuation of Human Relations (Oh My God, They Were Roommates)

This is a 16k story that’s a bit too short for AO3 but a bit too long for Tumblr that acts as a continuation of my Archivist!Sasha and Immortal!Jon fic Human Relations. I recommend that you read that before this. This story takes place between S2 and S3, and is about Sasha and Georgie’s roommate adventures. I’m uncertain if I’ll continue this and post it on AO3, post it on AO3 as it is, or what, but for the time being I’ll at least post it here.

Serious content warnings for discussion of abusive friendships, gaslighting, discussion of 19th century racism, implied transphobia, and discussion of police brutality. Nothing more serious than what we saw in Human Relations, but it does have a much more explicit investigation of Jon and Elias’ relationship. Rest under the cut. Happy Birthday, @magickko.

EDIT: HAHA READMORE DIDN’T WORK, YIKES.

Sasha dreams, every night.

Nightmares, mostly. Statements given and Statements stolen run endlessly through her head in a scrolling loop, crying out for mercy, as its figures cry and scream. Sasha looks at them through a camera, pushing the button and clicking the shutter again and again and again, searching for that perfect shot frozen in time.

A woman, trapped under a thousand pounds of dirt and crumpling metal. Snap. A woman, chewing keycaps, eyes riveted on a flickering screen. Snap. A woman, lost in her fiance’s grave, pleading for someone to find her. Snap.

A man, eating canned peaches, alone. Snap. A man, swinging an axe with a frantic strength born of terror. Snap. A man, and the look in his eyes, betrayed. Snap. A man, gunshot wound leaking blood out of his chest, eyes rolling in the fluorescent lights. Snap.

When Sasha wakes up she is always surprised to find herself in a guest room, always out of place and out of time as she stares up at an unfamiliar ceiling. Maybe the worst part is those two seconds after waking, where she doesn’t know where she is, adrift in time and space. Then she remembers, and she’s faced with the situation all over again.

Namely, the fact that she was couch surfing in the Grim Reaper’s guest bedroom.

Sasha dreams, every night.

Namely, the fact that she was couch surfing in the Grim Reaper’s guest bedroom.

Georgie Barker wasn’t a mystery, and she’d be the first to tell you.

Of course you’re welcome to stay as long as you need, honey! I always love having Jonah owe me a favor. Don’t worry about the cops and the law, nobody will ever find you here. Seriously, the entire department’s in my pocket. It’s no hassle having you here, it’s a big flat! It’s been years since I’ve had a roommate, this’ll be fun!

The one thing she hadn’t understood was Sasha begging her not to let Jon in to see her. He knows exactly where you are, Georgie pointed out. He knows you’re not actually a murderer, Georgie said. He might be able to help explain some of what’s going on, Georgie hinted. Jon would respect my wishes, but if Jonah really wants him to talk to you, he’ll definitely do it...

“Please,” Sasha had croaked, the uncomfortable morning after she had stumbled into Georgie’s flat. The Admiral wove around her legs, purring up a storm, and Georgie was munching on avocado toast and sipping pomegranate juice. “I just - I just need some space.”

“Why?” Georgie asked obliviously. That was something that Sasha was rapidly learning about Georgie - she didn’t hold back with impolite questions, or her opinion. She seemed to be regarding Sasha’s life as her own personal Youtuber Drama, which Sasha really didn’t know how she felt about. Her life wasn’t a spectacle, but she guessed even the warfare and tragedy of ants were of obscure and strange interest to humanity. “He’s feeling, like, totally bad about framing you for murder. I can tell he super wants to apologize to you about everything.”

Martin’s words echoed through her mind, from what felt like a decade ago: Jon had ruined Martin’s life, but to him it was as simple as a momentary inconvenience. “I don’t want his apology,” Sasha croaked. “I want not to be on the run from the police. I want to go back to my flat. Unless he’s going to make me human again I don’t want any stupid apologies. They’re useless.”

“Hm. Well, you’re free to stay here as long as you need to, of course.” Georgie sipped at her tea. They were sitting around the breakfast table, Sasha desolately shoving eggs into her mouth as Georgie drank her tea that Sasha was reasonably sure was spiked with brandy. Rich people were literally never sober. “It’ll be so much fun, like a sleepover. We can do each other’s nails and talk about boys!”

“My boyfriend thought I was a monster for the past month and now thinks I’m a murderer,” Sasha said flatly.

“Oh, I see.” Georgie tapped her lips thoughtfully. “We have to get you laid, huh?”

“I am literally on the run from the cops.”

“That’s very sexy to some people,” Georgie assured her.

After that, Georgie waved goodbye and swanned out of the house, either going to her studio to work on her podcast or doing some work for her real estate empire or writing a best-selling book or schmoozing with celebrities or attending parties at exclusive nightclubs or working part-time as a bartender just for gossip or devouring souls. Just from Sasha’s one day at Georgie’s flat, she knew that she did all of these things and then some. It was a stunning contrast to Jon’s laziness, or Elias (Jonah’s) single-mindedness.

Maybe you lost the energy to be so productive after your two hundredth year. Sasha didn’t fucking know. Hopefully she would never know. Or maybe Jon just appeared to be lazy, and every moment that he was complaining about being bored he was secretly manipulating world leaders. Maybe Jonah’s dedication to spreadsheets and dress code was a front, and he was secretly pulling the puppet strings of her entire life…

In the empty spaces of Georgie’s spacious flat, it was easy to be paranoid. Sasha lay on her luxurious couch, hands folded across her chest like a corpse, trying not to think of anything, thinking of everything. Thinking of Tim: of his smile, of his scowl, of his cold looks given to someone he had thought was a stranger. Thinking of Martin: his warm smile, his sharp looks.

She struggled to think of other friends, other family members who gave her comfort, but drew up a blank. Her parent’s faces were blurred after ten years of no contact, not so much forgotten as repressed, and her baby siblings were likely unrecognizable to her now. Almost as unrecognizable as she was to them, probably. Tim, her boyfriend who hated her, and Martin, her subordinate who she had almost never had a conversation with that wasn’t about work or Jon...that was it. All the friends she had in the world. She was sleeping in the guest room of a podcast host/Grim Reaper whom she had met once, and that was all she had.

Loneliness was Sasha’s constant companion. In a crowd, in her family, in the world - no matter how many people she had been surrounded by, she had always been alone. She had never had anybody in the world to rely on besides herself, and for the first time in a long time she was achingly aware of it. Nobody who loved her was going to help her. She was alone now.

After an hour of lying on the couch and crying, Sasha desolately watched Netflix cooking shows on Georgie’s gigantic flat-screen TV, trying very hard to think of absolutely nothing at all. She only moved to pet Georgie’s silky long-haired cat whose name she had already forgotten, and even he left quickly once she lost the energy to give him attention.

That was how Georgie found Sasha when she came home: lying on the couch, still dressed in borrowed silk pyjamas, watching idiots on television fuck up cakes. Georgie’s arms were laden with shopping bags, with names of exclusive London boutiques sprawled along the side, her deep black pits of eyes hidden by designer sunglasses. She burst through the door happily, her cat running up to her and winding through her laps as he purred, and easily kicked off her red pumps. She stopped in the doorway of the living room, looking strangely excited.

“Sorry I’m back to late! Utterly bogged up at work, there was a plane crash and I was processing corpses for hours. I had to do some serious retail therapy just to deal with the tedium - darling, have you moved?”

Sasha grunted.

“You look like Mikey Crew threw you off the Shard,” Georgie said sympathetically. “Utterly disastrous. Don’t worry, Aunt Georgie’s here to make you feel better.” She lifted her bag triumphantly. “I bought you new outfits!”

Sasha eyed her warily.

“You get no say in this,” Georgie said kindly. “Chop chop, we’re doing face masks too.”

That’s how, somehow, Sasha found herself playing an unwilling dress-up doll for the Grim Reaper. Georgie had taken Sasha’s casual mention that she had no clothing besides her work pantsuit to heart, and had hit up her favorite boutiques for ‘cute outfits that accentuated her figure and made her eyes pop!’. Or something. Sasha wasn’t much one for fashion.

As it turned out, Georgie Barker had a walk-in closet. Because of course she did.

The looks ranged from Sasha’s usual, as Georgie put it, ‘sexy librarian’ look, to ballgowns, to tennis outfits, to moddish, to vintage, to wintery. It was February, the seasons lingering in British chill, and according to Georgie the perfect solution to this was a mink coat that was probably worth a month’s rent on her flat.

Strangely, all of the outfits fit perfectly - and Sasha knew that her measurements were difficult to find. Georgie took it in stride, clapping enthusiastically each time and suggesting accessories and how to mix and match the outfits.

She would have thought that she was too dead inside to actually enjoy it, but so far as distractions went it actually worked pretty well. Georgie chatted about everything but their actual problems, and Sasha had absolutely no input or choice in what Georgie decided to dress her in, and by the time they had transitioned from nail painting to watching Legally Blonde and eating ice cream from the carton Sasha was actually feeling a little relaxed.

“The musical’s better,” Georgie informed Sasha imperiously as Sasha dug around in her carton for chunks of cookie dough. Georgie was clutching a glass of wine in one hand, while Sasha was contenting herself with ice cream. Best not to drink when she was this sad. “Reese is such a doll, though. Allergic to shellfish, poor dear, but I told her not to let Leo pick the restaurant.”

“What I’m wondering,” Sasha said carefully, teeth cracking into the frozen chunk of cookie dough, “is that half the time when I see you, you’re dressed like a 2008 goth in jeans and t-shirts.”

“Oh, honey,” Georgie said pityingly, patting her hand. “I used to spend two hours getting dressed each morning. I’m never doing that to myself again. You, however, clearly have never had nice clothing in your life. It’s written all over your face. People’ll walk all over you if you always look like you’re straight from a charity shop. We gotta buy you some self-confidence.”

“Thanks. I think.” On screen, Elle flourished and achieved her dreams. Sasha tried not to feel jealous. “It’s not really as if I had a lot of girly sleepovers as a kid…”

“Word,” Georgie said sympathetically. She patted Sasha’s hand again. “Jon was the same way, you know. I can’t count the number of times I’ve had to renovate that boy’s wardrobe. He has no idea how to dress to impress.”

“Do we have to talk about Jon right now,” Sasha groused. “He’s the last person I want to think about.”

“He means well,” Georgie soothed, as Elle Woods proudly proclaimed on television how she, yes, she, was a strong independent woman - who didn’t need a man! “It’s not his fault he’s stupid. He’s just so helpless on his own, you know, he needs girls like you and me to make sure he’s not wasting a decade fixating on obscure Bolivian religious practices or whatever.”

“Helpless? He’s a two hundred year old man.” Sasha spitefully grabbed the bottle of wine from the coffee table, pouring it into a spare glass and drinking it quickly. It probably cost thousands of pounds, but it just tasted like wine to her. “It’s not my job to make sure his little feelings aren’t hurt.”

“Of course not,” Georgie said, but Sasha had the sense she was being calmed instead of listened to. “But Jon’s...you know.”

“I don’t, actually.”

Georgie made an interpretive hand gesture. Sasha stared at her blankly.

“...I still don’t.”

Georgie sighed. “He’s delicate. Jonah babies him, honestly.” She patted Sasha’s hand for the third time, making her skin crawl. “Don’t worry, I won’t let him see you until you’re ready to forgive him. Every woman has the right to some time to herself after a guy fucks her over. You two’ll patch things up, right as rain.”

There was nothing Sasha wanted to say to that, nothing she wanted to think about, and she kept drinking her wine and watching the movie, out of lack of any other options.

That night, she drunkenly tipped into bed, so blasted that she slid immediately into sleep and did not dream. It was the first relief she’d had in what felt like a very long time.

It wasn’t Sasha’s job to fix Jonathan Sims.

It really, really wasn’t. It wasn’t her job to make him feel better, or forgive him, or save him from himself. If Martin wanted to waste his time and energy doing that, then god fucking speed, but Sasha had other priorities. She had been profoundly fucked over and had her trust abused by three different men lately, and she wasn’t going to be the one to patch things up.

Two of them she had no desire to patch things up with at all. Two of them she’d be perfectly happy if she never saw again. The last one...Sasha didn’t know what she felt. But that was nothing new.

That being said, as Sasha chewed her way through hangover medication and an acai bowl the next morning, Georgie’s inane chattering about tricking some celebrity or another into taking her to Hungary for authentic Hungarian food didn’t register nearly as loudly in Sasha’s mind as her words about Jonah and Jon.

Jonah babies Jon. That was what she had said. It...it was accurate, right? It had to be. Georgie had known Jonah and Jon for a hundred years, and Sasha had barely heard one authentic conversation between them. She’d known them for a year, and known Jonah’s true nature for maybe a few days. There was no way Sasha understood their relationship better than Georgie did. It just didn’t make sense.

Finally, she put her spoon down, cutting Georgie off in the middle of her ramble about the majesty of Hungarian food made by genuine Hungarian grandma hands. “What did you mean, ‘Jonah babies Jon’?”

Georgie blinked at her, clearly barely remembering the conversation, before recognition dawned. Then she shrugged, sipping her protein smoothie. Which may or may not be spiked. It seemed as if her solution to hangovers was to just not stop being drunk. “Oh, you know how those two are. Jon swans around the world doing whatever he wants, Jonah holds the fort down at home. That’s why Jon’s fun, you know.” She sighed nostalgically. “Romantic cruises to the Bahamas for two months, we tear up the Bahaman government and start a minor military coup, then we take a tour of the beaches. You haven’t lived until you’ve dug your toes into Bahaman sand.”

That was something Georgie said frequently: you haven’t lived until you’ve done X, Y, or Z. It seemed as if Georgie was very intent on living, and very intent on defining it in discretionary ways. To Sasha, living was simply the act of not being dead, but Georgie was almost fanatical about experiencing life.

“If he’s so much fun, then why did you break up?” Sasha asked, before she realized what she said. “I mean, it’s really none of my business, feel free not to answer that -”

But Georgie just laughed lightly. “That’s just how Jon and I work. We spend a few weeks together in bliss, and then we go our separate ways for six months or a year or whatever. Work’s always taking us different places, and seeing each other all day would make us hate each other. Some people work best when they’re not in each other’s pocket.” She took a long drag of the smoothie before speaking again. “Besides, he’ll always be second in my life to having fun. And I’ll always be second in his life to Jonah. It’s just how we work. It works for us!”

It seemed to. Last Sasha checked, Georgie and Jon seemed to be very amicable despite being exes. Lackadaisical, on-and-off, passionate yet going years without seeing each other - it was a relationship uniquely in the providence of workaholic immortals.

It wasn’t until Georgie had already waved goodbye, making Sasha promise not to spend all day on the couch again, that she realized that Georgie hadn’t quite answered her question.

An image flashed through Sasha’s mind - Jon’s face, as he dared to disagree with Jonah, and was utterly ground into the dust for it.

There was something more to this. Something that wasn’t obvious on the surface, something that was so well hidden maybe nobody even knew it was going on. Or maybe it was deeper than that, more insidious: maybe whatever was going on was so well-known and pervasive that it simply wasn’t spoken about. Not polite, not the kind of thing you say about your friends, not normal. Not in polite company. Not vocalized. Utterly taken for granted.

Sasha walked into the guest room, pulling out her phone from her bag and staring at its blank screen. Holding her breath, she hesitantly turned it on, staring at it blankly as it slowly booted up.

She shouldn’t be turning it on. She was perfectly aware of how, given a warrant, the police could track cell phone location, texts sent and received, everything. She could do it herself. The crushing weight of surveillance, the fear of being found and seen and rooted out, settled over her shoulders like an old, familiar friend. A comforting blanket to wrap herself up in at night: where, even if the fear was terrible and awful, at least it was familiar.

You could get used to anything, Sasha thought. Any behavior, any fears, any horrors or tragedies - anything could become normal, given enough time. A year. A hundred years. After two hundred years, maybe you wouldn’t even recognize it as happening at all.

Like a flood, the text messages poured in. Notifications chimed in a cacophony, as text after text after text popped up on her phone. Missed calls. Emails popped up, notifications from the doorbell camera, reminders from her fucking Duolingo...

Dizzily, Sasha scrolled through the texts. Lots from Tim, as expected, and a few from Martin, as expected. Some texts from her mother, which - which wasn’t expected. At all. Sasha hadn’t even known that she knew her number.

Sasha’s brain stuttered over the Spanish, having been years since she spoke it. Her brain also stuttered over the gratuitous misgendering, which was also blissfully novel yet just as uncomfortable and upsetting as ever. Translated, it was a slightly accusatory question about why the police had been calling them about her whereabouts. What had she done? Had she gotten in trouble?

No matter what you did, the text read, God will forgive you. Just call them back.

Sasha stared at the texts, brain buzzing. She felt sick. Forgive her? They’d forgive her? They thought she’d done it? They thought she was capable of -

Horribly, awfully, tears pricked at her eyes. Maybe she was wrong. Maybe you never really grew accustomed to pain, even if it was felt a thousand times. Maybe some pain you never acclimated to, never scarred over or calloused. Maybe sometimes the more you were hurt, the worse it hurt. The pain her parents gave her - how they cut off contact, the misgendering, the coldness - hurt just as badly at thirty six as it had at twenty six, at twenty, at fifteen, at nine. It had always hurt.

So stupid. Sasha deleted the text messages. She didn’t have time for this. She wasn’t a child. She was thirty six goddamn years old, that was way too old to still care about your parents. To still need them.

She clicked on Martin’s texts next. The first one had a timestamp before the murder, the rest afterwards.

Martin: where are you?? I found Tim (he tried to kill me w/an axe but we’re ok now) and were trying to get out of here. I explained everything to him. We’ll meet you in the archives.

Martin: Police are looking for you. I know you didn’t do it so call me back. Tim’s worried. Jon doesn’t seem that worried...

Martin: Shouldn’t text you anymore. Please be safe & careful.

Jesus. Jesus, she had been terrible to Martin. She was a rotten friend. Sasha hiccuped, rubbing at her eyes. She needed to get him a gift basket. Five. He was a freak, but he was her freak. Maybe.

Finally, almost holding her breath, she pressed on Tim’s messages. There were a lot of them - more than was safe, Sasha distantly registered. The first five were from the same time Martin had sent the second text. She guessed it was right after the police finished talking to them. He had called her slightly before - likely when they found the body - but there were also two texts from two am last night.

Tim: pick up your phone

Tim: pick up your phone are you okay im so sorry

Tim: baby please please pick up

Tim: we need to talk & im sorry & i hope ur safe

Tim: dont text me back

Then two texts from two am:

Tim: to warn you im drunk but im sorry (AND DRUNK) but in my defense im a shitty boyfriend. If you want to break up its fine but id like to make it work but i get if you cant because cops i guess. Bitch tonner wont stop bothering me make her stoppp

Tim: I love you and I wish that was enough.

Sasha rubbed at her eyes, exhausted. She wished it was enough too. She knew it wasn’t. Strongly, like burning, Sasha wished so desperately that she had never met Jonathan Sims. Maybe, in that world, things were okay. She and Tim were happy.

She scrolled through the rest of the notifications. Strangely, she even had two texts from Melanie.

Melanie: Hey, I heard what’s going on. I know you couldn’t have done it. A LOT of cops are bothering me - Hussein and Tonner have called like five times. I think you know them? For legal purposes I’ll say that you should turn yourself in or whatever.

Melanie: oh and Martin said to tell you that Mr. Bouchard’s been asking me a lot of questions about what im doing and my job situation - dunno y tho

That….probably wasn’t good.

No texts from Jon. She wouldn’t know what to do if he had. She doubted he knew her number, or how to work a phone. The last thing she could deal with emotionally right now was an apology. She didn’t know what to do about Tonner or Hussein or Melanie. Those were all problems she couldn’t fix right now.

Really, there was only one problem she could fix right now. She walked over to the door to the balcony, carefully stepping out onto the 20th story balcony. She carefully ejected her SIM card, snapped it in half, looked underneath her to make sure there were no passerby in the exclusive London neighborhood, and forced her fingers to release from the phone so she could watch it fall twenty stories onto the concrete.

She imagined a smash, a crack, but it didn’t make any sound at all. Sasha forced herself to step back inside, leaving the past behind her.

There was a lot Sasha had to force herself to do that day. Georgie owned a few laptops, but she hadn’t given Sasha permission to use any of them yet, and she didn’t want to intrude. Despite Sasha’s own...reservations about her personality, she really was being incredibly kind by letting her stay and trying to cheer her up. She did, however, have a great deal of antique books, and Sasha eagerly cracked open the first edition copies of fiction novels from the 19th century. Was that a first edition Pride & Prejudice? Oh, score!

She wasn’t hungry, but she forced herself to eat. Food tasted like ash in her mouth, but that always happened whenever she was upset. She forced herself to take a shower, impossibly intimidated by Georgie’s small army of hair care and hygiene products, and even cautiously let herself take a bubble bath with a bath bomb. It was...weirdly luxurious, but maybe not surprisingly. Georgie’s bathroom was like the Queen’s, and you could practically swim in the bathtub. It was intimidating and weird and uncomfortable, but Sasha forced herself to appreciate it. How many people got to take a shower in a stall with five different showerheads?

Halfway through the day the housekeeper came in, terrifying Sasha deeply, and she retreated to her guest bedroom to let the woman work. She inspected her newly painted toenails glumly, halfway through Pride & Prejudice, forcing herself not to think about how Jon could have been a background character in the novel. Wasn’t he in his twenties in this time period? Wasn’t that when he and Jonah Magnus had -

Sasha drank more wine, and put on another cooking program. She hadn’t watched telly all day, so technically she could tell Georgie that. Besides, it wasn’t as if there was anything productive to do. No work, which sucked when she was a workaholic. No computer to waste time on. No friends she could talk to without the police investigating her. She couldn’t go outside, again due to the aforementioned cop situation. Her life was her work, and her bosses had just framed her for murder.

Somewhat buzzed, Sasha stole several pieces of intricate stationary and wrote down everything Leitner had told her before he was murdered. It wasn’t nearly as much as she wanted, yet far more than she knew what to do with. Halfway through her notes deteriorated into a bizarre sort of mind map, lists of cases connected together and obscure monsters and figures pointing to each other. Salasea and his endless array of dangerous trinkets, mysterious yet lonely ship captains, Michael and his gently twisting deceit, Gerry Keay and his bizarre heroism, Leitner and his ruinous imprints, Agnes and her desolate fate, and the oft-mentioned yet barely understood man, whose name was whispered by shadowy figures entrenched in the supernatural world, Jonathan Sims…

Did he know? How often his shadow stained her statements? Did he care? Did he know how thoroughly he had ruined her life?

She scoured her memory for hints, writing down everything she could remember of his cameos in random statements. Of Leitner’s testimony, the immortal figure who so easily attained what Leitner and Mary Keay had spent their entire lives grasping for. Was there a hint to his true nature, his true allegiance?

In the corners of the cute stationary, Sasha doodled a small eye. She stared at it, and couldn’t help but fight the notion that it was staring back.

She scratched it out, feeling paranoid, not feeling paranoid enough.

A few hours later, Georgie came home, and Sasha fought the pathetically hopeful trepidation. When she heard the front door rattle she left her room, intending on welcoming Georgie back and proving that she hadn’t been watching telly all day, but she stopped short in the hallway when she heard the loud sound of voices. Specifically, the loud sound of Georgie’s still slightly unfamiliar voice, and the quieter tones of a voice that was far too familiar to her.

“ - if you’ll just let me talk to her, she’ll understand.”

“And she said that she’s not seeing you,” Georgie said firmly. Sasha held her breath, pressing herself up against the hallway wall. Next to her was a doorway that led to the living room, that led to a foyer. If she craned her head she could just barely see Georgie standing in the foyer, arguing with a figure holding a leather briefcase that made Sasha’s heart leap into her throat. “You really did screw her over, you know.”

“I know,” Jonathan Sims whined. “I want to apologize. It’s not my fault. Jonah got pushy again, you know how he is.”

“Ugh, tell me about it.” Georgie scoffed. “Did something happen between you two? Sasha was asking all sorts of weird questions.”

“Just Jonah being his usual insufferable self,” Jon said, so carelessly and casually that if Sasha hadn’t known better she would have believed him. “It probably alarmed her, seeing how that man really is. I’m sure she’s feeling very overwhelmed right now.”

“She really is, the poor dear,” Georgie said sympathetically. Sasha’s hands clenched into fists. “But you aren’t getting past this foyer, honey. I’m sure she’ll want to be friends again once Jonah gets the cops off her case.”

“Martin’s giving me a hard time,” Jon sulked. “Says this is all my fault that the dreadful little wolf girl is sniffing around. It’s not my fault. If my Archivist just let me explain, she’d see that it’s not my fault.”

“That Blackwood boy’s always giving you a hard time,” Georgie sniffed. “I don’t know why you’re so obsessed with him. He’s overly moralistic and doesn’t know how to have fun. You spend too much time with him.”

“Don’t tell me you’re jealous, Georgina Barker,” Jon teased. He stepped forward a little closer, and although Sasah couldn’t see his face she had the feeling he was smiling. “It’s a bad look on you.”

“Idiot,” Georgie said fondly, “everything’s a good look on me.” She stretched up on her tip-toes to kiss him on the cheek. “Ditch him and come party with me, darling, I’ll show you a wonderful time. Maybe after all of this nonsense blows over.”

“Judging from what I can make out of Jonah’s monologuing, we ought to get our parties in while we still can,” Jon said glumly. He opened his briefcase, passing a manila folder to Georgie. “Give her these. She’ll be getting hungry. Tell her that the top one is from work, and the second is from me.” He hesitated for a second. “You really think she’ll forgive me?”

“If it’s not your fault, then why do you need to be forgiven?”

Jon was silent for a long minute. Finally, he said, “I’ll talk to you later, Georgie. Love you.”

“Love you too,” Georgie said easily, casually, as if she had said it a thousand times, a million times. “Take care of yourself.”

She stood in the foyer after he left, arms folded, one delicately manicured finger tapping against her arm. She eventually turned around, poking her head into the living room.

“You can come out, darling, I don’t bite.”

Sasha guiltily stepped into the living room, crossing her arms defensively. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop.”

But Georgie just rolled her eyes. “Please. My best friends are Jonathan Sims and Jonah Magnus.” She looked thoughtful for a second. “Well. My oldest friends. Anyway, if you’re in the same house as one of those Beholding types you aren’t getting a private conversation. I’m super used to it.” She held out the manila folder, and Sasha cautiously stepped forward and took it from her.

“Beholding types?”

“Oh, you know, you and your lot,” Georgie said dismissively. “Can’t do anything about that annoying little megalomania the Eye gives you. Have fun with lunch, I have to freshen up. It takes ages to get the scent of Jon’s musty old books off me.”

But Sasha was already tuning her out, because in the manilla envelope there were two Statements. They thrummed under her fingers, charged with energy and power and fear, and Sasha could feel herself gripping them. The first one was a classic Magnus Institute Statement, just like she would have read at work, but the second was what looked like a photocopy of a piece of paper. Judging from the ornate script, it was old, and when Sasha’s eyes wandered to the date her eyes widened. July 21st, 1823.

She looked up, already frantically searching for a tape recorder, and immediately saw one sitting on the coffee table. She didn’t think twice about it, already sitting on the plush white couch and setting the papers out. Which one first - oh man, they were both so exciting - her fingers drifted to the one Jon gave her, and she picked it up. That one, then.

Sasha James pressed play on the tape deck, feeling a familiar thrill go through her at the gentle whirring. She cleared her throat.

“Statement of Sasha James, Head Archivist of the Magnus Institute, regarding a letter sent by Barnabas Bennet to Jonah Magnus. Statement begins.”

And, as Sasha’s blood ran cold, she began to read.

My dearest Jonah,

I hope you are well. It was an absolute pleasure to vacation at your estate this summer. I’ve never had such interesting conversations with a like-minded individual, and since returning to my own estate I have been sorely missing your company. You have introduced a great deal of brightness and acute interest to my life, and without you the luminescence of Heaven does not thrill me. How I wish you were around to thrill me again!

Do not concern yourself - I have maintained my studies. The library you loaned me is of great interest, and I have been spending many a quiet night bent over one of your occult tomes. I have never felt so enlightened. A world is opening up before us, Jonah, one of richness and wonder, and for the first time in many years I find myself excited to rise each morning. I thank our Heavenly Father each day that I was so fortunate as to cross your path. You must remind me to discuss with you the report by Smirke in detail - fascinating! Theoretical, of course, all theoretical - but the concept of classifying the devils that so bewitch man into fourteen unique taxonomies fascinates me. We must discuss it.

Jonah, I trust that this letter reaches you in private, and that you shall not betray my confidence by discussing it with anyone. I have a private grievance I wish to address with you. It is regarding your boy, the one kept so close in your confidence and trust.

I would never hasten to question any of your decisions, for I trust they are made with great deliberation and forethought. But I must question why you keep that boy so close to you. His air is strange and fey. While summering at your estate, I would frequently see him awake at late hours, pouring over some tome or report or another (I would swear that he reads better than I!). I know he’s somewhat of a project of yours, bringing him into Christianity and your charity, which will surely be rewarded etc etc, but I cannot shake my strange trepidation.

If I were to be quite honest, my fear of him.

He always asks questions. Disturbing and distressing questions. And when I deign to answer them, he acts as if he truly understands. Moreover, that he understands more than me - that he possesses some secret knowledge that only he has obtained. I catch him listening at doorways and around corners frequently, and no matter how many times I box him about the ears for it he will not cease. You encourage it, allowing this behavior. Even after I reported to you the pagan rituals which I am confident he is performing, you brush me off. You two are strangely close. I’m simply concerned for you, Jonah. Please heed my advice: that boy is trouble. I fear that he will bring you into trouble also. Do not allow this paganism to steer you away from the light of our heavenly Father. I understand that the occult is of great interest to all of us, discovering the secrets of the world and its many mysteries, but it is only an academic interest. I would never go so far as to partake of these devilish rituals myself, and you ought to dissuade yourself of such a notion also. Do not allow that John to lead you astray.

I wish you most well. I am encountering some trouble of my own - debts and such - but do not concern yourself with them. The situation is well-handled. I hope to write to you again soon.

Yours, faithfully,

Barnabas

...supplemental.

Jon. Why did you show me this?

Is this your definition of vulnerability? Of honesty? What, are you trying to justify your decisions to me? I get it, it’s disgusting. These people were disgusting to you. I can’t know how you feel, but I think I - my parents -

What I mean is, I can’t understand. I can’t imagine how hard this must have been. I understand how Jonah was the only one to… ‘get’ you or whatever. How he was the only person to see how brilliant you are, how much you have to give.

But, Jon - I don’t think Jonah thought any better of you than Barnabas did. He was just better at hiding it. I don’t know, I didn’t know him and I still don’t know him - but you get that the way he talked to you back then wasn’t right, right? You get that it was fucked up, right?

I don’t know. I don’t think you get that. I don’t think anybody does. Georgie’s too close to it, too used to you and Jonah’s ‘quirks’ or whatever. I...don’t know anything Martin thinks, but I feel as if you’d be pretty invested in keeping this from him. But I’m close enough to you to see it, and I’m far enough away from this that I understand. Something’s really fucked up about this situation. I’m worried I’m the only person who sees it. I hate being that person, the person who Sees it all, who knows it all, but is powerless to do anything about it. You understand, right? You understand how much this is hurting me?

I’m not sure you do. If you’re showing me this, trying to show me how hard you had it, how misunderstood you were, just so I forgive you...I don’t. And it’s manipulative, so cut it out. I’m not sure if you’re consciously doing that, I really don’t think you’re emotionally intelligent enough.

But you aren’t dumb, Jon. I know it’s a defence mechanism or whatever to pretend that you are, to act childish, but you aren’t.

Ugh, listen to me. I sound like Martin. Disgusting. I don’t give a shit about this, I’m not your therapist. But you keep on making your problems my problems, and I’m not tolerating that. We’ll talk when I’m not fucking wanted for murder for something you were complicit in.

Get your act together. I don’t forgive you. Statement fucking ends.

As if Sasha’s life wasn’t hard enough, Georgie wanted to go dancing.

“I am literally wanted by the police.”

“The nightclub’s so dark, nobody’ll even see your face,” Georgie promised.

“Shouldn’t I be spending my time working on my conspiracy theory board?”

“Honey, no offence, that thing is so tacky.”

“I hate clubbing.”

“You’ll like the way I do it!”

“I really don’t want to -”

“Tough nuts.”

So, of course, that’s how Sasha ended up shoved into a tight dress, heels, and makeup, pushed into a taxi, and quickly deposited in front of a warehouse looking building. There was a long line out the door, of women with straightened hair dressed somehow identically, yet way worse, than Sasha, all looking very cold. Georgie looped her arm through Sasha’s, white teeth flashing as she grinned widely, and escorted them both straight through the doors and past security.

She, it seemed, was a known quantity. Sasha, who had spent the last year working in a mill to feed evil psychic vampires and the ten years before that locked in academia, which was basically the same thing, was not a known quantity to any nightclub. She had not been clubbing since uni, which was approximately five lifetimes ago.

“I’m still not sure this is a good idea,” Sasha said into Georgie’s ear as they transitioned from the furiously cold February air into the swelteringly hot club. It was dim and smoky, the noise overwhelmingly grating at her ears. After so long in a quiet office, in a silent flat, she could barely handle it.

Georgie said something to her.

“What?” Sasha yelled. “Georgie, I don’t want to be here!”

Georgie frowned at her, and unlinked their arms so she could reach up on her tiptoes and clasp Sasha on the shoulders. “You have been accused of murder! You just split with your boyfriend because of clown trauma! You haven’t had fun in years! You deserve this, queen!”

You know...maybe she did.

Georgie pressed a drink into her hands, mysteriously procured from somewhere, and without thinking too hard about it Sasha downed it in one gulp. Georgie whooped, clapping her on the back, and directed her towards the bar. She flashed her platinum credit card at the bartender, and suddenly Sasha was MVP of the night.

You know, Sasha thought dizzily as she was given a toxic blue drink and pushed onto the dance floor, maybe she did deserve this. Didn’t she deserve to have fun? After the way things ended with Tim, couldn’t she just act like a normal girl and go clubbing with her friends to dance away the pain? She was almost forty, way too old for this, but maybe she could forget for a little bit. She had never had the opportunity as a teenager, not even as a young adult. Couldn’t she do this, before she died?

Maybe women closer to forty than thirty dealt with this with - with book clubs, with sisterhood, whatever. Maybe women closer to forty than thirty were married, had kids of their own. But Sasha was just Sasha, stuck in a literal dead-end job, going nowhere good, and this was all she would ever have.

Maybe Georgie was right. Why not live, before she died? Everybody on earth died - everybody, that is, except for a small group of people who were willing to sell their soul for the privilege. At least maybe this way she could have whatever joy she could fit into her life before all opportunity was lost, and she was lost.

A man sidled up to her, asking for a dance, and she evaded him. But then there was another one, and another one, and Sasha found herself fleeing back to the bar and ordering another drink. Too soon. Way too soon. She found herself digging in her borrowed purse, searching for her phone, wanting to call Tim or talk to him or ask him if they really were broken up so she could have rebound sex with random dudes in bars, but the purse was empty of both a phone and a wallet. That’s right - she had destroyed it. Because the cops were after her.

Next to her, out of the corner of her eye, a man sat down at a barstool. He said something to the bartender and leaned towards her, mouth spilling something obscured by the crush and heat and sound of the club. He seemed to be asking if he could buy her a drink. Sasha shook her head dizzily, confused and lost. Then he leaned in closer, and Sasha could smell the alcohol on his breath.

“Are you sure? I’d like to dance with you!”

Sasha shook her head no again, frantically.

“Aw, come on -”

Then, as if by magic, Georgie was at her elbow. Unintimidating, not more than one hundred and seventy centimeters, with teased hair and sharp black lipstick and eyeliner, she raised an eyebrow at the guy. But there must have been something in her eyes, or a lack of something, because the guy rapidly slipped off the barstool and melted into the crowd, leaving the drink the bartender slid onto the counter behind.

As if she had planned it, Georgie easily stole the drink and knocked it back. She tugged Sasha down, yelling into her ear. “Come with me, darling, let’s check out where the real party is.”

Without taking no for an answer, Georgie grabbed Sasha’s hand and tugged her through the outskirts of the crowd, ducking and weaving between small clusters of people and women dancing the night away. Sasha’s vision swam, details and faces lost in the endless ripple of flashing lights and sound, until all she felt was Georgie’s cool hand in hers, and it wasn’t until they emerged from the choppy sea of people into a small hallway off the main room that she felt like she could breathe. Sasha’s head swam with movement and smoke, and she was barely cognizant that they were in a hallway for a bathroom or something.

But Georgie walked confidently past the bathrooms, into what appeared to be a storage closet. She confidently opened it, halting at the door frame to glance backwards at Sasha. A smile quirked at her bow lips.

“You coming?”

Sasha, slightly intoxicated though she was, couldn’t fight the skepticism. “This is where the real party is? A supply closet?”

“Oh, my dear Archivist,” Georgie said, smirking slightly. “The world is full of far more delights than you could understand. Follow me, and stay close.”

Then Georgie stepped forward, disappearing into the closet, and as little as Sasha wanted to step inside more dubiously supernatural hallways she wanted to be left alone in this club even less, and she ducked after Georgie into the unknown.

The unknown, as it turned out, was another club.

Or, more accurately, a pub. It was a nice pub too, all smoky yellow lights and burnished wood booths. The booths were upholstered in soft and cushy looking brown leather, and the sound where nowhere above a quiet murmur. It didn’t seem to be abandoned, the shadows at some booths deeper than others, but for the life of her Sasha couldn’t puzzle out the faces or figures of anybody at these shadowy corners. There was a single bartender, wiping a grimy glass over and over. He nodded at Georgie when he walked in, and Sasha was forced to wonder how many dubiously physical supernatural bars and hang-outs existed in random back rooms of mundane stores. Were these things just everywhere? Or were there only a few, and so long as you had the right key any door could be an entrance? It was just Sasha’s intuition, but she felt as if it was the latter.

What would, could Georgie open up for her? What power, what majesty? What world of power and control could Jon give her, that Jon was trying to hard to give her that she kept refusing? Nobody was telling her the cost. Nobody was letting her make a decision. She was being swept up in the wake of giants, and Sasha was just trying to keep her head above water.

Georgie was still walking confidently down the aisles, and Sasha stumbled trying to keep up. Finally, she came to a stop in a back corner, utterly secluded with a booth that stretched the entire corner, large enough for seven or more people. Georgie turned to Sasha, smiling broadly, and Sasha tried not to feel intimidated.

“Honey, these are my friends. Girls, this is my new roommate, Sasha James!”

With a flourish, she made a little tah-dah motion, and the smoky yellow lamp above the table flickered on.

The table was crowded with women, or women appearing people. Absolutely none of them were familiar. No - in the corner, there was one person who was familiar. Michael, blonde hair hurting her eyes in curly ringlets, hands in his coat pockets. He smiled crookedly at her, jarring her adrift.

“Uh,” Sasha said, confused. Who were these people? “Hello?”

A short East Asian woman in a white tank top and black jeans scowled from where she was slouching in her seat. “One of those Beholding patsies? Please, Georgie, they’re so insufferable.”

“I like this one,” Georgie said cheerfully. She slid into an empty seat, and Sasha cautiously sat next to her. “Play nice, everyone.”

“You’re such a grouch, Jude,” a woman said, leaning forward and looking interestedly at Sasha. Her eyes were dark and big, her head cocked, giving her an almost insectoid air. “It’s a pleasure to meet you in person finally, Archivist. I’ve heard so much about you. You’re really making waves in our little community.”

“Patsy Archivist,” a tall and burly white woman with cascading brown hair said shortly, taking long gulps of a pint. “What’s impressive about that?”

“I’m impressed with anyone who puts up with Sims and Magnus long enough,” the insectish woman said. “No offence, Georgie.”

“Oh, they’re insufferable,” Georgie said cheerfully. “Have you heard how those two like to socialize? They go to galas. With those awful little Fairchilds and Lukases and whatever. It’s just tragic.”

“Word,” the insect woman said, raising her glass. The rim seemed to be coated in cobwebs, making Sasha feel vaguely ill. “Much rather have a pint at a nice little pub with friends. But we haven’t introduced ourselves, have we? My name’s Annabelle Cane. I’m sure you’ve heard of me in all those little stories you like.”

Anabelle Cane. Sasha swallowed. “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

“A proxy Archivist she may be,” Michael said serenely, “but perhaps our most successful yet. She’s already coming along so much further than Gertrude ever did.” He winked bizarrely at Sasha. “Michael, but you already know that. They and them, if you please.”

Oh. Sasha blinked at them. “Thanks for...saving my life back there. And Tim’s and Martin’s.”

“My pleasure,” Michael said affably. “You’re the most fun I’ve had in awhile. Always nice to have the Eye owe me a favor.”

“They’re just mad they didn’t get to kill Gertrude,” the brunette said evenly. “Julia Montauk. You should know me too, I think. Is it true you killed someone?”

“I definitely didn’t,” Sasha said heatedly. “It was a set-up.”

“Relax, we’re all killers here,” the woman in a tank top said. She scowled at Sasha. “Jude Perry. What the fuck do those old money ponces think they’re doing, installing another patsy Archivist this late in the game? I would have thought that they learned their lesson after that bitch Gertrude.”

“Archivists are quite slow learners,” a woman piped up. She sat in the corner, strangely oddly. Her skin was shiny and strange in the dim light, almost plasticish, and her dark eyes hadn’t moved from Sasha’s face since she walked in. “Nikola. A pleasure, Archivist.”

“Are you guys all…” Sasha trailed off uncomfortably. “You know?”

“Serial killers?” Julia Mauntauk asked flatly.

“Inhuman monstrosities of plastic and flesh?” Nikola inquired.

“Daughters of fear entities that control our every action?” Annabelle said.

“Embodiments of unknown concepts made sentient, forced into a shape that cannot suit them, locked in flesh and fractal prisons, always screaming in endless turmoil, unable to understand the horrors of the concepts of ourselves, always searching for the sweet release of death that can never quite be obtained, because that which does not live can never die?” Michael said serenely.

“Assholes?” Jude Perry said flatly.

“The sexiest Avatars around?” Georgie asked.

How did Sasha’s life devolve to this point.

“...yeah,” Sasha said. “Hey, where can I get more drinks?”

Unsurprisingly enough, the drinks came very fast. Service was excellent when you hung out with eldritch women, Sasha supposed.

The conversion flew thick and fast after that. In Sasha’s experience, joining a new group of established friends meant being ignored for favor of pre-existing dynamics. It was always uncomfortable, and no small part of why she just didn’t join new groups. Tim had never had that problem - he had a loud and persistent personality, the kind that made you pay attention to him. He dominated any room he entered, by force if necessary. It always seemed exhausting to Sasha, but Tim didn’t really seem to have anymore real friends than she did lately. His personality was like an ocean, overwhelming and everywhere, but when his mood turned sour it was just as intense. Gulfs of pleasure, intense pain - it seemed exhausting, to feel so deeply. God knows Sasha didn’t.

But today, in this group, she seemed to be novel. Maybe new fear avatars were a rare enough thing, or at least ones with Georgie’s seal of approval. They aimed a barrage of questions at her, and Sasha did her best to keep up with each one.

How did Sasha know Georgie? Mostly through a mutual enemy. Oh, fuckin’ Sims, right - you guys friends? No, I hate him. You guys fucking? Ew. Right, right, Sims is a giant prude - actually I heard that he doesn’t really - no, Jon decided a while back he doesn’t do that, and we all respect his decision - ew, though, nobody wants to imagine that. So why are you two friends? We’re roommates, mostly, I’m kinda on the run from the cops. Who’d you kill? Nobody. Who’d that old fucker Bouchard kill? Jurgen Leitner, mostly.

“Cheers to that!” Julia said abruptly, raising her glass. “Hate that fucker.”

“Good riddance to bad rubbish,” Annabelle said, downing her own drink and what seemed like an improbable quantity of spiders. She leaned over the table to where Sasha had hastily been stuffed in, beetle-black eyes gleaming. “But really. What are you doing here?”

“As I said,” Sasha said uncomfortably, “I got framed for murder -”

But Annabelle just waved her hand. “No, no, we know that. I’m asking what are you doing here? With people like us, in a place like us? You’re just a sexy librarian. Your highest goal in life was owning your own cottage house one day. How’d you get wrapped up in the tangled web of our world?”

Sasha’s mouth ran dry, her head spinning in a way that didn’t really seem to have anything to do with the alcohol. How had she ended up like this? Who was to blame?”

“Jonathan Sims,” Sasha said dizzily. “He -”

“Didn’t know you Beholding types were in the process of lying to yourselves,” Annabelle said, casually yet brutally. “No, really.”

Sasha opened her mouth, then closed it. Finally, she said, “I guess I just asked all the wrong questions.”

It was a pretty way of dressing up the real answer: that Sasha didn’t know.

Maybe her thoughts were obvious, because Georgie cooed sympathetically and slung an arm around her shoulders. “Cheer up, honey, it’s not so bad. Not everything happens for a reason. Sometimes it’s just your own rotten luck.”

“Speak for yourself,” Jude called, lifting her glass. “I love my fucking life. It’s hookers, coke, and blow from here to Scotland. The life of a woman with power’s a thousand times better than the life of a woman without, James.”

“What is with you people and hedonism,” Sasha muttered.

“Why not?” Nikola asked, tilting her head strangely. “Life’s so short when it’s this long. It’s just bread and circuses, Archivist. We all need...entertainment.”

“Humans are always trying to make sense of it all,” Michael said arily. They were digging their fingers into the table, scoring long grooves in it. “When you know there’s no meaning, no purpose, then everything else just...falls away.”

Sasha didn’t know if she believed that, but she bit her tongue. Instead, she said, “What about those Avatars like Magnus or Raynor? They seem really...driven.”

Georgie giggled, light and airy, and leaned in. “That’s because they don’t know.”

She shouldn’t even ask. She shouldn’t - “Know what?”

Georgie smiled, sharp and wicked. “That there’s no point.”

And that was all she would say on that for the night: conversation after that devolved into parties, restaurants, drugs, and conquests. Maybe the women were right, in their own clearly demented way: that without death there was no meaning, when when there was no meaning only pleasure held any significance. If there was no afterlife, no reward or punishment - which Sasha didn’t believe, but they seemed to - then there was no reason not to do what you wanted. To have fun. To take revenge.

If all Georgie wanted was to have fun, and if all Jon wanted was revenge, then what did Jonah Magnus want? Sasha didn’t know. She had the feeling that if she didn’t figure it out, she wasn’t going to live much longer.

Why had Jonah Magnus done this to her? What was the point of framing her for murder? She couldn’t do her job like this. What’s the point?

Half-drunk, head spinning, she found herself vocalizing this. Somehow, Annabelle Cane had ended up sitting next to her, letting spiders run along her slightly too long and too jointed fingers. Annabelle Cane just smiled at her, jaw slightly slacking open to expose teeth.

“Maybe it’s just to fuck with you,” Annabelle posited. “Why not? Do you think he has another reason?”

“I don’t know,” Sasha groaned. “I don’t know anything. Everything’s confusing and terrible. I could never understand those psychopaths.”

“You won’t make it very far in this line of work if you never ask why,” Annabelle scolded. She paused a second, spider running thoughtfully across her eyeball. “But too many questions damns you just as effectively, I suppose. Hm. Jonah’s quite good, isn’t he.”

“Why me,” Sasha groaned. “Everyone’s trying to keep shit from me, it fuckin’ - it fuckin’ sucks, man. It sucks. Nobody would tell me what’s going on, but I don’t think anybody knows what’s going on. Not even Jonah, or Jon, or - or anyone. Nobody but me.”

Annabelle blinked at her, somewhat curiously, before leaning in. Her perfume lingered in the air, a heavy rosy scent. “Do you know something that Jonah doesn’t?”

“Yeah,” Sasha slurred, world fading in and out. “Jonah doesn’t know that Jon -”

Then the world faded into black, and Sasha fell asleep.

If she had felt too old for this at the nightclub, she definitely felt too old for this hangover. Sasha spent twenty minutes crouched over a toilet bowl, reluctantly shoved the Eggs Benedict in her mouth that Georgie insisted was a hangover cure, somehow, and refused the Bloody Mary that Georgie also insisted was a hangover cure that her Mum used to feed her. The thought of Georgie’s Mum filled Sasha with a deep fear, incapable of imagining somebody who was both likely born in the 1800s and who had raised a hellion like Georgie.

When Sasha mumbled this to Georgie, she didn’t look offended. She just smiled, strangely fond. “Oh, none of this is my Mum’s fault. She was a darling, her and my Da. My childhood was positively idyllic. All things considered, you know.”

Yes, Sasha thought, struggling to imagine 1910s London in her mind, idyllic. She took another look at Georgie, squinting slightly as her head throbbed. She definitely seemed younger physically than Jon, but Jon had a particular way of carrying age about him that had nothing to do with his appearance. “When did you stop aging?”

“I forget, honestly,” Georgie said airly, sipping her own bloody mary. For some reason, Sasha didn’t believe her. “It always takes a while to notice, you know. I suppose, logically, it would be about when I died the first time.”

That, more than anything, alarmed Sasha. “I thought you couldn’t die.”

“Not permanently,” Georgie said, as if this was somehow obvious. “Eat your eggs, they’ll get cold.” Sasha frantically shoved eggs in her mouth, desperate for the story. But Georgie just sighed and propped her chin on her hand, eyes distant. “You know how it is. Small town girl, grew up in North Birmingham, Alabama - back when it was just a tiny little thing, you know. I wanted to be a star. I always did. Scared of dyin’ in the dirt. If I was gonna die young, I wanted to do it where everybody knew my name. So long as they remember you, it’s no kind of death at all, really.” She sighed, lost in memory. “I could sing so good...so I went to Harlem, ‘cause all my friends and I always had dreams of going to Harlem and making it big singing in the jazz clubs. They didn’t get so far, staying at home with their babies, but I did. Wasn’t really made for babies and such, I think.” Something strange emerged in her words, the last vestiges of a Southern accent. “I was pretty, and I could sing, and I took to the spotlight like a duck to water. It was tough, but man - if it ain’t tough, it ain’t worth it. I worked so hard. Like I was working myself to death, almost.”

She trailed off, birds softly trilling outside, and Sasha was silent.

Quietly, Georgie began speaking again. “Got into some trouble. You know how it is. I spent dozens of years wondering if it was my fault, if there was something I coulda done differently, zig instead of zag...but now, I don’t think so. Just my own rotten luck, you know. Put my trust in the wrong people. Had the wrong sentence whispered into my ear.” She shrugged listlessly. “Couldn’t handle the truth. Just another girl who couldn’t handle the limelight, that was what they said. But I was set up to fail. All those jazz clubs were ganger run, you couldn’t avoid it. Every girl in that golden age fell prey to those men, same as I did. I just wanted to feel again. Tried everything once, just to feel something.” She sighed, taking another drink. “Got shot. Got back up. I remember it, clear as day. Must have been 1923. I scrubbed the blood out of my show dress and went back on stage that night, cuz you can’t get a rep as a flake. They said, that day...that day was my best performance.”

She trailed off, Sasha finally alert. She wanted more details, almost desperately, but she kept her mouth shut. She didn’t want to risk putting the whammy on her host, even if she wasn’t sure that she could. If Georgie was being purposefully vague...well, Sasha wasn’t entitled to her pain.

Instead, she said, “I bet you were good.”

Georgie smiled at her wanly, eyes far away. “I was the best.”

They sat in silence for a little while, eating their food, Sasha’s head ringing and mind buzzing. What about this picture was she not understanding? What was so important that she was missing?

Finally, Sasha carefully floated, “I bet you must have met Jon soon after.”

Georgie looked up from her bloody mary, surprised. “Oh, yes. Just a few months after. He must have caught the word on the wind, you know, of that singing girl who got back up after getting shot in the lungs.” She sighed, propping her chin on her hand again. “Saw him in the front row of my club. He was so handsome, and so finely dressed. But there had been something strange in his eyes, you know? Like little marbles, reflecting the lamps. He caught up to me afterwards, and I figured he was just another fan to squeeze dry, but he told me in his funny little accent I’d never heard before that he could help me.” She swallowed, looking away. “That he could help me understand what was happening to me. Why I was having those strange dreams, seeing those strange tendrils. I guess he was right. After I met him, I understood it all. Things moved fast after that.” She smiled weakly at Sasha. “I suppose you know the rest.”

She really didn’t, but Sasha understood the dismissal for what it was. “Yeah. Thanks for telling me all of that.”

“It’s no secret,” Georgie said dismissively. She smiled cunningly. “A hundred years later almost exactly, and what I did to those gangsters was still my finest work. They say that if you pass by an old building on St. Nicholas Avenue, you can still hear the screams. Anyway, I have a meeting with my land development company in an hour, must run, ta!”

On that distressing note Georgie swanned out the door, and Sasha was left alone with nothing but a stack of conspiracy theories, an opulent flat, and bad memories.

Time seemed to move quickly, yet sluggishly, after that. After another day of writing down literally every Statement she could remember off the top of her head and trying to fit them into the weird and seemingly kind of arbitrary categories that Leitner had given her, she had hit a roadblock. She couldn’t remember any more Statements, she didn’t have access to them, and the ones she did remember she either already sorted or couldn’t dredge up enough memory of them to sort them in a satisfactory way. Either that, or the Statement itself was just incomprehensible - Sasha still didn’t know what the fuck was going on with Tessa’s problem. She tended to have a better memory of the ones that seemingly mentioned the Avatars in the background, just because it had been so startling to actually meet them - and a few even mentioned Jon, usually in context of Salasea or any Eye Statement.

When Georgie came home that night, they watched another movie and they both studiously avoided mentioning anything supernatural. Best not to take work home with you, even if Sasha had never quite been good at that.

The next day Sasha did what she should have done in the first place, and hacked into the Magnus Institute server.

It was seriously, comically easy. Sasha had installed a backdoor connection to the desktop of her work computer from her laptop ages ago, and all she had to do was borrow one of Georgie’s laptops and redownload the program. With an easy virtual desktop she was already in. It was somehow satisfying to see all of her work programs pop up on the borrowed laptop, and it was almost a relief to access the Archive drive that connected all of their computers. More importantly, where they all put their research follow-ups and the spreadsheet that documented the debunked, uncertain, and verified statements. It had gotten to the point where if the statement refused to record on the computer they automatically put it on verified, but what Sasha really wanted from that spreadsheet was the one sentence description they had all put for each Statement.

From there, it was much easier. Sasha, sick of the disorganized conspiracy theorist aesthetic, made her own spreadsheet and began categorizing the verified Statements that way. Much more reliable than working from memory.

If only she could actually access the Statements...Sasha’s life would be so much easier if everything could be digitized. The debunked ones were typed up, filed, and recorded, but the verified ones only existed on paper. Couldn’t be typed up, couldn’t be recorded. It was so stupid.

Sasha checked the clock. Eleven am on a Wednesday. They were definitely all still working. Maybe…

It was an invasion of privacy. Did she actually care about that? No. Was she worried about apparently being locked into an employment contract with an...entity of some sort that preyed on invasions of privacy? No, although she felt like she should. Was she concerned that Jon and Jonah were trying to turn into her a conduit of this entity’s power into the world, probably gradually turning her, if not evil, at least into a giant dick? Somewhat.

Words echoed through her mind, and Sasha’s fingers halted over the keyboard. Her powers manifesting differently than Jon’s...her unique skill with hacking…

Well, that was just kind of offensive. Sasha had worked hard for her skills. They weren’t given to her by Jon’s weird god. Also - seriously, a god? It was just a malevolent eldritch entity living in a separate dimension that encroached tendrils into Sasha’s life. There was nothing divine about it. That was just offensive. Sasha was a good feminist, transgender Catholic on the run from the law and didn’t worship false idols.

It was only then that Sasha noticed a folder on the drive that she hadn’t created. It was labelled ‘For the Archivist’. Despite herself, she clicked on it.

It held a few pdfs. Sasha clicked on one curiously, and saw that they were photocopies of statements. No - of Statements. She was already recognizing this one as one of those spider ones. She quickly printed them all out, conscientious of how easily supernatural files corrupted, and quickly exited the drive and the virtual desktop.

It wasn’t until Sasha was already in the kitchen and pulling down a bottle of Jack that she realized what she was doing. She sighed, replaced it, and fetched herself some sparkling water instead. She drank it slowly as she returned to her laptop and logged remotely into the police database, which she already had a backdoor into.

It occurred to Sasha, perhaps belatedly, that if the police found her laptop and the incredible variety of highly illegal programs meant explicitly for accessing secure servers she was probably triple going to jail. This time, for something she had actually did.

All of the hacking had never felt illegal. It had just felt...well, fun and necessary. It had never been about whether or not she should, it had been about if she could.

Was that how it had started for Jon? Collecting household secrets because he had to, so secure the money and influence he desperately needed, because he could, because it was fun?

Whatever. Sasha shook herself. She could have her moral crisis after she was no longer on the run from the cops for murder. This wasn’t the time to be squeamish about something that wasn’t hurting anybody. She knew, as Jon probably did, that just because something was illegal didn’t make it wrong.

It was easy to log onto the police database and check out her own open case. She frequently checked out open homicide cases for fun, but it somehow hit a little different when it was her they were talking about. Incident, Senior Citizen, Offence: First Degree Murder, Location of Arrest: N/A, yeah, yeah, yeah…

One victim, a John Doe. Foul play was suspected...yes that’d be the gunshot wound. No witnesses. Reporting officer’s narrative...Elias Bouchard and Jonathan Sims the Fifth had walked into Head Archivist Sasha James’ office to discuss work with her when they found the body. Both were shocked and called the police...gun found at the scene had her fingerprints and the ballistics matched...suspect still at large. Friends and family had been contacted, everyone denied knowledge of where she was. Suspect had a noted history of mental illness...great…

The officers dispatched had been Alice Tonner and Basira Hussein. Sasha found that strange: Basira had history with one of the witnesses and the suspect, wouldn’t it be unprofessional to send her out?

There couldn’t be that many sectioned officers, Sasha reasoned. Even if the incident hadn’t officially been sectioned, because the police report still existed, as a general rule if something happened at the Magnus Institute it was sectioned until proven otherwise. Even if the murder itself was seemingly mundane.

Out of curiosity, she searched up Detective Tonner’s records. Been on the force for a long time, worked her way up the ranks. Very, very few cases and incident reports for a detective who had been on the force as long as she had. Sectioned, obviously, but even Basira had more official cases than she did. When Sasha clicked on the incident reports, they were extremely spotty and strange. Obvious details were omitted or censored.

Something cold began to creep down Sasha’s spine. She found the arrest records of the latest four people with official records of Detective Tonner arresting them.

Almost all of them had entered custody with bruises, cuts, and in one case a broken limb. They all had records down as ‘resisting arrest’. Sasha felt sick.

There was one case that stopped strangely short. A clear perp, a rapist but one with little evidence, who Tonner had quickly caught. That was where the case ended: the report that Tonner had found his hiding spot, but no arrest, no trial, no prison sentence. When Sasha investigated the perp, she found that he had unceremoniously vanished shortly after Tonner had reported that she had found his hiding spot. A month later, a death certificate had been filed.

Sasha stared at the death certificate, nauseated. This was who she was dealing with. A vigilante, some batshit pig who had obviously decided that the law was best taken into her own hands. Couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy, but...if anybody looked at Sasha’s case on paper, they’d say the same thing.

And that was just the cases on record. It was the only obvious instance Sasha could see of Tonner having offed someone just because she felt like it, but cops were good at covering shit like that up. How many other arrest records had fallen in the cracks? How many other dead perps that nobody gave a shit about? How many sectioned cases?

God, Sasha was fucked.

She begged off hanging out with Georgie that night, instead staying in bed with the covers pulled tight over her head as if that could ever protect her. Why was Jonah doing this to her? What did he have to gain? If he wanted her to die a mysterious death in the bottom of a ditch, why wasn’t he man enough to do it himself?

Tonner was going to murder her, Sasha thought hysterically, and she was going to pat herself on the back for keeping another monster off the streets.

And Jon knew. The fucking hypocrite. He wasn’t going to help her. Nobody was. But, god, she was so alone…

The next morning, as if she knew, Georgie slipped Sasha a burner phone over the breakfast table as they both robotically ate quiches.

“It should be untraceable, but just know that anybody you call you’re putting at serious risk,” Georgie warned, before her expression softened. “This’ll all be over soon, honey. I promise.”

“Did Jonah tell you that?” Sasha asked bitterly.

“Nah. I just know those two.” Georgie delicately ate a forkful of quiche. “They get bored of terrorizing humans pretty quickly. Now, Michael’s a different story. They’ll terrorize someone for decades. I’ve seen them do it!”

“Great,” Sasha said.

It seemed to be at this point that Georgie realized she was actually making Sasha feel much worse, because a slightly panicked expression crossed her face and she quickly reached out to pat Sasha on the hand. “But I’m sure they won’t do that to you,” Georgie said quickly. “They love you! Jon especially. Jonah’s just on another of his little power trips right now, he’ll get over it. And Jon, like, feels really bad about this whole thing. He’s been super annoying about it, actually -”

“See,” Sasha said, standing up to clear away her dishes, “I would rather handle an enemy who obviously wants to kill me than a friend whose good side I always have to be careful to stay on, who I can’t afford to ever make mad. I guess that’s the only difference left between me and you people.”

She angrily put her dishes in the sink, where the housekeeper would do them, and stalked to what was rapidly becoming her room, slamming the door.

Flopping down on the bed, she stared at the burner phone. Tim wouldn’t be at work yet. They could talk. They could -

Do what? Get back together? Split up? Could he explain, beg for her forgiveness? Did she have to apologize too? Sasha didn’t understand.

That was rare for her. She understood a lot of things, or at least she thought she did. Maybe she had been lying to herself, about everything: that her and Tim were a good idea, that Martin was sketchy, that Jon was evil, that Jon was kind, that Georgie just wanted to help her, that there was nothing that Jonah Magnus would do to her, that she was safe and human and a good person.

God, her capacity for self-delusion was ridiculous. But maybe people needed a little bit of self-delusion to survive. Nobody could live in complete honesty, in full sight of their flaws and shortcomings. You could burn away, living like that.

No. No time or space for fear. Sasha wasn’t afraid of anything. If she kept telling herself that, maybe it would be true. She desperately punched in a number that she didn’t remember memorizing, holding the phone desperately to her ear, her one connection to humanity.

It rung, and rung, and one, and Sasha’s heart thumped in her chest.

Finally, the ringing stopped, and a slightly sleepy voice punctuated the dead air. “Hello?”

“Tim, it’s me,” Sasha burst out, everything she wanted to say to him rushing through her throat and choking her, and she burst into tears.

Distantly, through the sound of her crying, she could hear Tim on the other side losing his shit, and eventually wrangling himself to calmness.

It was almost funny, how they could work each other up like that. Eventually, by the time Sasha had managed to wrangle her own crying, Tim had calmed himself down enough that he was able to clumsily try to cheer her up.

“We’re all fine. Everyone’s perfectly safe. Martin’s gotten, uh, even more annoying since you left, and we’ve technically hired Melanie, which is - not good but it’s funny? Are you still crying? Please don’t still be crying.”

“I’m fine,” Sasha hiccuped. She rubbed at her red eyes. God, she’d missed him. “Tim, what happened?”

The line was silent for a while. Finally, he said, “Is this line secure?”

“Uh - probably? I mean -” Sasha quickly checked herself. She didn’t want to mention Georgie. The less he knew the better. “ - it’s a burner, if that’s what you’re asking, and I’m not the one who bought it.”

“Where are you living?” Tim asked harshly. “Are you homeless? You have to come stay with me, I can -”

“You mean the first place Tonner will look?” Sasha shot back. “No. I’m safe, I’m dry, things are fine. That’s all you need to know.” She softened her voice. “I promise, if it was safe I’d tell you more. I want to see you again. Tim, I - I’m really sorry.”

Tim laughed hoarsely, without humor. “Shouldn’t it be me saying that? I’m the one who thought you were a monster.”

“...yeah, that one’s on you.” Sasha sighed miserably, lying down on her bed, wishing Tim was next to her. “I am, though. A monster, I mean. Tim, I - I’m definitely not entirely human anymore.”

“God, Sash, that’s the least of our problems right now,” Tim said, laughing slightly again. “Can you just tell me what happened? I know you didn’t fucking do it. That dick Bouchard keeps playing dumb and his shitlead lackey keeps on avoiding the Archives. I bet Sims killed that old man, right? He totally did. Martin keeps on saying that his precious Jon wouldn’t let you take the fall for something he did, but I’m not so sure.”

“I...it’s more complicated than that.”

Sasha explained in short order. For once, Tim was totally silent the entire time, letting Sasha dispassionately recite the entire sad story. She finished it at Michael helping her escape, not detailing where she had been dropped off.

Finally, after a long silence, Tim said, “So this is my fault.”

“No, it’s not,” Sasha said harshly. “You were manipulated, same as I was.”

“I’m the idiot who -”

“Yes, you were being an idiot. You should have talked to me, talked to anyone. You should have done anything other than your homicidal partner in crime. You definitely shouldn’t have been buying a fucking black market gun when I know for a fact you have no idea how to shoot. But you tried playing hero and you played straight into Magnus’ hands. You fucked up. Okay? Now let’s try to do better.”

More silence, until Tim sighed. “Can’t believe the Douche’s Jonah Magnus. Explains why Sims is always playing lackey for him. Can’t wait to spill to Martin how his boyfriend framed his boss for murder.”

Sasha chewed her lip, uncertain. She hadn’t shared the details of Jonah and Jon’s conversation too closely - it had seemed private. “See, I’m not sure this is...entirely Jon’s fault.”

Tim groaned. “Not you too! Why is everyone but me and Melanie a fucking Sims apologist?”

“Jon and Jonah are...they’re weird, okay?” Sasha moved to chewing her hair, uncertain of how to describe it. If it should even be described. It seemed so private, so unsuitable to name...but maybe everybody thinking that was how these things stayed perpetuated for so long. “I think Jonah’s kind of, you know, abusive?”

The line went silent again.

“Wow,” Tim said finally, “Martin’s going to be so disappointed his boyfriend’s taken.”

“They’re just friends! I think. I’m like, ninety percent sure. But you didn’t hear them, Tim. They’re really...it’s messed up. Trust me.”

“Jesus, Sash, why are you defending someone who fucked all of us over like this? Sims is a big boy, he’s responsible for his own shitty decisions and the shitty company he keeps.” Tim snorted. “I’ve heard them talk, anyway. If anything, Magnus is the one always giving into Sims and his little tantrums. Jesus, I just want to throttle the both of them.”

“Maybe you need to get over your anger issues and focus on actually solving the problem for once,” Sasha snapped. “Nobody has time for your revenge fantasy, Tim! We need to fix all of this.”

“Which one is it, Sash?” Tim asked coldly. “Was I manipulated, or was it my anger issues and hero complex? Are you going to decide if this is my fault or not?”

Sasha’s heart stuttered in her chest. She didn’t know how to explain to him what she knew - that it was everything, that it was all of the above, that he was manipulated through his anger issues and hero complex, that Tim had been pushed in a direction but he had taken the steps all by himself. But she couldn’t blame him entirely, because Sasha had been manipulated the same way, and so had Jon and Martin and Georgie, and if she started thinking like that then she would have to start hating the whole damn world.

“Tim, are we going to stay together?” Sasha whispered, broken-hearted. “Can we even still be together? I love you. I want you here with me. But there’s so much ugliness that’s growing between us. I don’t know if this can be fixed.”

A long silence again. Sasha wanted to be there with him, to read his face, to see what he was thinking. She had always understood him so well, or at least she thought that he did.

“I love you too,” Tim said finally. “I want to fix this too. I - I don’t know, Sasha. I love you. The thought of you alone, in danger, and not even knowing where you are, is fucking me up. It’s like Danny all over again, Sasha, I can’t handle this. Can we have this conversation again when I know you’re safe?”

“Okay,” Sasha said, and she knew that this was probably the best both of them could do right now. “Are we staying together?”

“...I don’t know.”

“...are we breaking up?”

“...still don’t know.”

“Okay,” Sasha repeated again, and sighed. “I won’t call you from this phone twice. I’m doing the best I can here. I’m safe, I think. Things will be okay, Tim.”

“Sash,” Tim said, “I don’t remember the last time things were okay.”

And neither did she, and they both knew it, and she hung up on him without saying anything further. She lay on the bed, listening faintly to the sound of the housekeeper vacuuming, staring up at the fan as it beat in a steady rhythm on the ceiling.

Was Tim right? Was she reading too much into Jon and Jonah? It wasn’t her job to fix Jon, to puzzle out his weird psychology. Maybe he was just an asshole without a spine,and there wasn’t anything more to that.

No. Sasha didn’t believe that. This was a puzzle that she hadn’t solved yet, and she had the feeling that at the heart of this puzzle was the key to finally keeping herself and Tim safe. She couldn’t abide a mystery, couldn’t trick herself into thinking that the truth wasn’t important. The truth was all Sasha had. She couldn’t close her eyes to it, that awful and ugly reality.

Tim...he had been such a bad idea. But he had always been her favorite one: the way he could always cheer her up, his bright and bold smile, his courage and heart and sensitivity and vulnerability. He had loved her, truly and wholly, for who she was. He knew the ugly corners of her and loved them as much as he loved her best attributes.

Was that still true? Was Sasha turning into a person that Tim just couldn’t love? Was Tim turning into someone that Sasha couldn’t love?

People changed. Sometimes they changed apart. And for some strange reason, Sasha just couldn’t bear the thought of that.

Lying on the bed of a grim reaper, crying like a broken-hearted teenager, Sasha didn’t notice that the housekeeper’s vacuum had stopped running. She didn’t notice the knock on the door, or the creak of the door opening, or the gentle rise and fall of voices. She only heard it when there was a soft knock at her own door, and she was forced to roll off the bed to open her bedroom door.

Standing in front of her, looking nervous, was the housekeeper. Standing behind her was Jonathan Sims.

He looked pretty bad, Sasha noted clinically. Eye bags, even more pronounced than usual, stood starkly under his eyes, and his hair wasn’t as cropped short and styled as it usually was. It had grown out a little, making Jon look more like a tired modern guy walking the streets of London than a centuries old immortal psychic vampire. He was still dressed in a suit, as he always was, but the suit jacket was off and his dress shirt was rolled up to the elbow.

He stared at Sasha, probably registering every minute change in her appearance as she did his, before glancing down at the housekeeper. “You’re excused for the day. Thank you for your time.”

He passed her something - probably neatly folded bills - and nodded at her as she shakily nodded back and escaped the flat as quickly as possible. Jon stepped backwards in the hallway, gesturing for her to come out, and walked back into the living room. Because Sasha was just slightly too prideful to barricade herself in the bedroom, and partly because she wasn’t sure that Jon wouldn’t break into a woman’s bedroom, she stepped out into the grandiose yet cluttered living room with him. He stood in the center, hands in his pockets, looking over the flat with a clinical eye.

“Georgie’s sense of interior decoration is as immaculate as ever,” Jon noted clinically. “She used to spend months getting every house we ever lived in just right. Said it was her job as lady of the household. She had never been a lady of any household, of course, not in the way that Jonah and I had once known - but her fun’s important to her, and it doesn’t hurt anybody important.” He sniffed slightly. “You coming to stay here was for the best after all. She’s been lonely, I think.”

“I’m staying here because I’m homeless,” Sasha said flatly. For the first time, she noticed a small manila envelope under his arm, tucked slightly into his back pocket. “Because of you.”

“I’ve kept your flat for you,” Jon said eagerly, stepping forward, and letting his cold mask fall. In him now was something eager, something almost pleading. Sasha forced herself not to step away. “All of your possessions are intact, and I can get your bank accounts unfrozen easily enough. Once all of this blows over, your life can be right back to normal.”

“Wow,” Sasha drawled, crossing her arms, “how kind. Were you so busy being this nice to me that you forgot that Georgie barred you from this flat because I don’t want to fucking look at you?”

“She’ll get over it,” Jon said dismissively. “She’s been wanting us to make up, anyhow.” He stepped closer again, fluorescent green eyes fixed on her large and warm brown ones, and Sasha fought the tingle crawling up her spine. “Sasha, I really am sorry. Jonah was out of line in what he did. But - but you know, he really does know best. Even if it doesn’t seem so. What we’re doing now, it’s for the best for your development. I promise this will all blow over soon, and things will be better. For all of us.”

“For a subject of a truth god,” Sasha said, voice dripping sarcasm, “you have a unique ability to lie to yourself.”

Jon puffed up, scowling down at her. “That’s ridiculous. I -”

“Does Jonah Magnus respect you?” Sasha pressed.

Jon...hesitated, and they both saw it. Jon frantically tried to cover, quickly saying, “Of course he does. I’m his partner, and we’ve been partners for two hundred years. There’s nobody on earth he respects more than me. There’s nobody he respects but me.”

“Then why does he talk to you like you’re an idiot?”

“He talks to everyone like that.”

“Because he doesn’t respect anyone but you. You just said that. But if he respects you, then wouldn’t he talk to you differently?”

There it is - Jon’s shoulders hunched slightly, unconsciously on the defensive. “Does he give you equal input on decisions?”

“I always give my -”

“Does he listen to them?”

Jon was silent. Finally, slowly, he said, “Jonah was right. He said you’d get like this.”

Fuck. Sasha’s heart sank, even as her jaw dropped in incredulity. She had lost him. “You must be kidding.”

“He said you’d get jealous.” Jon crossed his arms, turning slightly away from her, but what he clearly meant to be a closed-off stance just seemed defensive. “He said that you’d get upset that I’m more loyal to him than to you. What we’re doing now is for your own good, Miss James. You’ll see one day that this - this unpleasantness is helping you grow.”

Unpleasantness? Unpleasantness?! Putting her life at risk was an inconvenience? “I’ll see, huh?” Sasha said bitterly. “Just like you saw? Just like how you changed your mind from this being cruel and traumatic to it being a momentary unpleasantness?” She barked a short laugh, not very humorous at all. “I was there. He called you stupid, he said that you couldn’t trust anybody but him, and he called you an idiot. Are those the words of someone who respects you? Of someone who even likes you?”

Jon stiffened, mouth tightening, and he broke eye contact and looked away. “Don’t concern yourself with the private business between Jonah and I.”

“When you’re having the conversation over a cooling corpse that you framed me for then you’re making it my business, you absolute shitheel!” Sasha yelled, finally losing her temper. “Your bullshit is ruining my life! Your complete inability to stand up to that sack of shit is ruining my life!”

“Shut up!” Jon yelled, seemingly having taken her losing her temper as permission to lose his. Distantly, Sasha was aware of his stupid this must have looked: two fully grown adults, yelling in a living room like children. “You’re a spoiled child who doesn’t know anything! All I’ve ever done is try to help you, and you spit in my face! You’re no better than Martin!”

Abruptly, strangely, Jon stopped short. He seemed almost embarrassed, almost in pain.

And just like that, Sasha knew. “He’s not letting you see Martin, is he.”

For just a split second, Jon’s expression crumpled, but he forced it back into his haughty mask. “I decided that it was best I didn’t waste my time with manipulative traitors.”

“Was that your idea?” Sasha asked flatly, abruptly extremely tired. “Or was it Jonah’s?”

Jon was silent. They both knew the answer.

“If you walked up to Jonah now and told him that you wanted to start dating Martin, do you think that you’d leave that conversation still wanting to do it? Or would you somehow decide, all by yourself, that you’ll end up doing what Jonah wants anyway?”

Jon didn’t say anything.

A strange mix of emotions swirled in Sasha’s stomach. Anger and disgust mixed with pity and sadness. What had Jon been like, before he met Jonah Magnus? Had he been a good person?

But maybe that wasn’t so important. Maybe the question that had to be asked was - what kind of person would Jonathan Sims be without Jonah Magnus in his life?

All at once, the fight seemed to go out of Jon. His shoulders sagged, and he abruptly deflated. He looked down at the ground, ashamed and aware of it. He had always been aware of it. He had just been lying to himself. Maybe it was impossible to live without it.

“I don’t know what to do without him,” Jon said quietly. “I’ve never - I need him.”

“You don’t,” Sasha said, abruptly exhausted. “You want to help me, Jon? You want to protect me and Martin? You can’t do that while staying friends with Jonah Magnus. You have to choose. So long as you stay close to him, you are going to stay within his complete control. That’s what he does. He controls everybody and everything. And you’re letting him. You’re justifying it. You’re doing his work for him. Everybody around him is - even Georgie. There are two people in your life who are trying to get you away from him, and he’s trying to convince you to cut them out of your life. You think that’s a coincidence?”

Jon opened his mouth, then closed it. Weakly, he said, “You’re wrong.”

“I need your help, Jon,” Sasha whispered, and to her shame found her voice cracking. “I need someone on my side. I can do it alone, but - but I’m scared. And I don’t want to. I need help. I’m scared.”

But she knew, even as she said it, that Jon was scared too. He couldn’t reach out a hand to her - not now, not here. Jon had carried around his fear for hundreds of years, pushing it down and pretending it wasn’t there, and it informed everything he’d ever done. Scrambling for power, exerting that power, desperately dominating even as he was dominated - it stemmed from that fear, all of it. And Jonah Magnus kept those flames fanned, because a Jon who was afraid was a Jon who could be controlled.

A Sasha who was afraid, who was isolated, who was trapped, was one who could be controlled.

The realization was dizzying. Somehow, the thought that kept running through her mind was - who’d do that? Who was such a terrible person that they’d go through all that trouble, all of that plotting, just to make someone suffer? Not because they disliked them, not in revenge, not because of any human emotion - but just because it was convenient? Useful?

Because you could?

So this was what power did to a person, Sasha realized. So this was what power and immortality and money and supernatural gifts did to you. It made you someone who Sasha could never hope to understand, whose depths of depravity she could never truly rationalize. To Sasha, who prided herself on knowing people and being able to understand them and their motives - it was almost a relief, almost a blessing, that she couldn’t possibly understand the motives of Jonah Magnus at all.

Jon stared at her, fluorescent green eyes wide, and for just a minute she could see the fear that she knew was there written all over his face. For just a minute, Sasha and Jon were scared together, both trapped in tumultuous waters that they couldn’t control. For the first time Sasha empathized with Jon.

Jonah Magnus was somebody that Sasha could never understand. But Jon was, and for the first time Sasha knew what Martin meant when he said that he felt as if Jon had been a good person, a long time ago.

You can’t understand someone and hate them. Not really. You could be angry, upset, betrayed...but if you really understood someone, backwards and forwards, true hate was difficult to find.

“I have to go,” Jon said, almost dizzily. He shoved the manila folder at her, both of them having forgotten that it was even there in the first place. He glanced at it, frightened and guilty. “Be - be careful when meeting Jude Perry. Don’t take her at her word. I have to go.”

He fled, as if the hounds of hell themselves were snapping at his heels, and Sasha was left standing in an opulent hallway, clutching a manila folder as if it was a time bomb, completely certain that it was meant to hurt her and cause her pain and damage her, completely certain that she was going to read it anyway.

Like Jon - what choice did she have?

But as she stumbled back to her room, as she sat down on the comfortable chair and thumbed on the tape recorder that sat at the desk, the words of Jonathan Sims ran through her mind. His warning. A clumsy attempt at protection. At the very least, a signifier of desire.

Sasha knew, as she sometimes knew things, that Jon had started out somebody who deeply desired to protect others like him. To take revenge, to grab power, yes, but also to spread that precious knowledge and resources around. He had never stopped thinking of himself as one of those vulnerable people, people who society had stepped on and ground into the dirt. Deep down he had just wanted things to be fair, wanted some justice in the world. Jon, at one point, had only wanted to help.

Maybe she wasn’t so alone after all.

“Statement of Sasha James, Head Archivist…”

#my writing #YES I KNOW THIS IS TOO LONG FOR A TUMBLR POST BUT CONSIDER: ITS NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR AO3 AND MY STANDARDS ARE INSANE #jonathan sims #georgie barker #sasha james #archivist!sasha #human relations #tma #the magnus archives #tma fanfic #jonmartin #jason's tims age

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tmntgirlie · 4 years

Text

Saviors in a Half Shell 2

It was always the same routine. Find somebody (or somebodies) causing trouble, get there as soon as possible, and kick ass. He knew his role- he knew he could rely on his brothers to know what to do as well. They worked almost seamlessly as a team every night. As soon as the shadows began to fall, they were there to protect the city.

This was nowhere near as easy.

“You alright there, miss?”

“I’m pretty sure this is pretty illegal. Leonardo.”

Very few humans had ventured down to the turtles’ lair. It wasn’t the most inviting place. All sewer lines and tunnels leading to the lair stunk like nobody’s business. It was no surprise nobody ever accidentally made their way down.

It didn’t take long for Y/N to begin her complaints about the smell. Longer than he expected, but still. Even when she asked where they were going, why the smell was so strong, nobody gave her a straight answer. It was a good thing she had a blindfold.

Leonardo wasn’t sure why she didn’t seem disgusted at the sight of them. The few humans that had witnessed them had varied reactions- even April was in a state of shock the first time they met face to face. What could she be thinking about them now?

She didn’t even ask what they were. She had seen them.

“Ah, home sweet lair!” Mikey sighed with glee as he hopped down from the rather large ‘pipe’ like entryway. “Welcome to our crib, Y/N!”

The woman took in a deep breath as Raph set her down on the ground. She was thankful he didn’t put her on her feet, she wasn’t sure she’d be able to stand right. “Was the blindfold really necessary?”

The orange-masked turtle snickered. “Of course it was.”

“I guess the smell isn’t so bad now- wait, did we just go through the sewers? Why is it so cold down here?”

“Guys, I think she figured it out.”

“Can it, Mikey.”

Y/N could hear a quick ‘thud’ before someone untied her blindfold. She blinked a few times as her eyes began to adjust to her surroundings.

Oh, this would take more than a few seconds to adjust to.

She got to her feet finally, brushing off the thighs of her pants. She did a slow spin, looking the room up and down. She pursed her lips together before she finally turned to the four that had kidnapped her.

Leonardo stood first, his arms placed tightly around his back. She noticed he wasn’t the tallest of them all, but he definitely wasn’t short. This one stood at least a foot above her, and was a wall of green muscle.

Green muscle?

She assumed the next was Raph, he had been referred to a few times on the way there. He’s the one that carried her. He was definitely the biggest, both height and muscle wise. She made a mental note to make nice with that one. Though, she thought, if they had meant to hurt her, they would have done it by now. They wouldn’t have taken her.

She wasn’t going to use the term ‘rescued’ just yet.

The third one was adorned with a purple mask and- were those tortoise-shell glasses?

About that last one.

“Well, whaddya think?” The green thing with an orange mask asked. He was practically jumping up and down. “You’re here!”

Y/N frowned, not saying a word. This was definitely a lot to take in. Were those shells on their backs?

“My bad, my bad! Allow me to introduce ourselves!” the orange-masked green one said quickly as he waved his arms in the air, as if to erase everything up till now. “I’m Michelangelo, the best one of the group. That’s Donatello, the brains. Raphael, the muscle, and Leonardo.”

She slowly turned towards Leonardo. “Huh, you don’t get a description. What’s that about?” It was unclear if it was sarcasm or pure curiosity dripping from her voice.

The blue-masked turtle smirked at her. “Don’t need one, miss.”

She waved a hand mindlessly through the air. “Y/N is fine. I guess. You guys live in the sewers?”

“How’d you guess?” Raphael had never given a better deadpan look in his life.

“I mean, it makes sense. Not sure how you could afford an apartment like this in the Big Apple in this economy,” she shot back, though it was clear this was no longer sarcasm. It wasn’t anger, irritation- what was it. “Now. Do you guys regularly kidnap women on rooftops or was this a one-time thing? I’m sure there are more out there.”

Leonardo shook his head. “Not that we’ve seen.”

“I guess I’ll have to cross ‘mutant turtle ninjas’ off of my list of things I don’t think are real,” she said slowly, thoughtfully, looking towards the ceiling. “That’s really high up.”

Not as high up as I had been earlier, she noted.

“What made you try to do it?”

She turned back to them, not sure which one had spoken. “What?”

“Stand on the edge. What made you do it?”

“It’s… It’s complicated, I guess,” she said quietly. “Probably not something you’d be interested in hearing about.”

The blue-masked turtle (Leonardo?) took a small step forward. “We swore to ourselves and our allies to protect this city at all costs. That includes you.”

“I’m not sure my life story up until now is something you can mentally prepare for.” Y/N forced a laugh, shaking her head again. She had convinced herself time and time again that it was just another sob story, one more tally that might not even be worthy of being drawn. “I’m gonna be frank here. So, are you guys turtles? Not regular turtles, obviously.”

“Mutant turtles, miss,” Raphael said through a grin. “Unlike any other.”

She tapped on her chin. “Mutant turtles that are about twice my height, made of muscle, that… Fight in favor of the most populated city in the country.”

Michelangelo tipped an imaginary hat to her. “Saving damsels in distress in the shadows.”

“I’m definitely distressed,” she snorted. “I must be dreaming.”

It surprised Leonardo how easy it had been to get this woman to talk to them. She didn’t seem afraid, and she didn’t say why. He wasn’t about to ask.

Sure, she didn’t divulge into her life story with them, but she did agree to play a multiplayer video game with them. Even April didn’t indulge at their requests.

He settled on the belief that she thought she was dreaming. It was an easier reality to swallow than a human simply accepting that she was napped by mutant ninja turtles. He couldn’t stop from questioning what made him notice her in the first place.

It was a quiet night. The brothers were jumping from the rooftops both for exercise and pleasure. It definitely wasn’t to see who could do it the fastest. And Michelangelo definitely was not the fastest.

He never bragged, of course.

“How did you get all of this stuff down here? Did you really carry things one by one through the sewers?”

It was amusing how easily she spoke now versus just an hour ago. And while dominating at Super Smash Bros, nonetheless.

“We’ve been living here for as long as we can remember, we’ve had years to collect,” Raphael answered before Leonardo could even open his mouth.

“Collect much more and you’d be considered ‘hoarders’,” she said, grunting as she was taken out by none other than Michelangelo.

She set the controller down in front of her, leaning back against the couch. She felt even smaller sitting against the couch on the floor, but it was her fault. She had declined a space on the actual couch.

“Finally! Thought you’d never die!”

As the words left Michelangelo’s mouth, everybody in the room fell silent.

“Oh. Was that too soon?”

That was putting it lightly. You could slice through the tension in that room with a knife. Or a katana.

“Is there anything to drink in here?” Y/N said finally, looking up to the first turtle she could see without straining her neck. She made no comment about what Mikey said.

“What were you thinking you’d want? We have sodas, juices… Not much juice. We have soda that tastes like juice, though,” Leonardo said. He stood up. “Come on, I’ll show you where it is.”

Y/N grabbed a chip from the bowl positioned between Michelangelo and Rafael as she followed the oldest brother. He had to be the oldest. Donatello was a close second, but he didn’t seem nearly as confident.

She was certain that all eldest siblings were just dripping with that oldest-sibling, leader, person-in-charge kind of confidence.

It wasn’t nearly as long a walk as she expected to a room that faintly resembled a kitchen. There looked to be a stove of sorts in the corner, something that resembled a deep freezer next to it, and an assortment of tables between those and a refrigerator.

“You guys kind of have it made down here,” she noted as she followed him towards the fridge. It had to be an older model, but there were wires sticking out the back that made her feel like it had been ‘upgraded’ somehow. “Solitary, no neighbors to disturb you, all the fixings to have a good time.”

“We make it work for us,” the large mutant turtle told her. “It’s our safe haven. Up top, we’re heroes, but only if we’re not seen. Here, we can be ourselves.”

“I always have to be ‘on’, a facade of myself,” Y/N said. “But no matter what I do, it feels like it’s never enough.”

The two stood in silence before Leonardo slowly, oh ever so slowly, opened the fridge. He gestured for her to look inside.

This kind of stock would put any caffeine-addicted young adult to shame.

“Sodas, all flavors, we have cherry, vanilla, orange- I probably wouldn’t touch the orange without Mikey’s permission, he might cry.”

“Wouldn’t want that,” she bobbed her head. “Is there anything… Not carbonated? But also not water.”

“Before you ask, we don’t have any coffee or alcohol. Or milks, not our thing.”

She tilted her head to one side. “Any tea?”

He perked up. “You want some tea? I could brew some. Any requests?”

“Anything but green tea is fine with me,” she shrugged. “I don’t like leaf water that looks like.. Green leaf water.”

Leonardo quickly ushered her out of the ‘kitchen’ and back to his brothers, crossing his fingers that they would stray away from the ‘death’ comments. Mikey was going to pay for that later.

He took his time looking through their rather large selection of teas. It was curious that she asked for tea specifically- his brothers barely touched it unless they were sick. They stuck to the bubbly, syrup-filled beverages that he swore would make their teeth rot within the next few years.

White teas, black teas, caffeinated and decaf varieties covered the table. He had decided to lay them all out to really choose. It took a few minutes of pondering before he settled on his favorite. He hoped she liked chamomile.

As the water was brewing, he could feel a new presence in the room. He turned to see his adopted father, and quickly gave him a slight bow. “Sensei.”

Why was he surprised? He was more surprised it took this long of them being home for him to come see them.

“You brought a civilian home,” Splinter said carefully.

He felt his heart drop. “I had to, dad. She was standing on the edge of the roof- I thought she was going to jump.”

Splinter let out a slow breath. “I see. It was a good decision to bring her.”

“I couldn’t just leave her, even if I talked her off, what if she actually did it?” He didn’t want to imagine that. He barely knew her, but the idea of anybody willingly taking their own life wasn’t something he wanted to picture. She didn’t seem like a bad person. She seemed good. She didn’t deserve it.

“Now that she is here, what will you do?” his master questioned, flipping the switch off of the kettle as the water began to almost boil over. “I see she has already made herself welcome with your brothers.”

“If Mikey can keep his comments to himself,” he gritted his teeth. A deep breath in, a deep breath out. He poured the hot water into a cup, though now that he thought of it, he wasn’t sure she’d be able to hold that quite comfortably. They weren’t exactly for small human hands.

“Leonardo, what will you do now?”

“Dad, I don’t know what to do. I swore to help the people of this city, but against the bad guys and robbers and thieves- I don’t know what to do. What should I do?” He felt smaller with every word.

He was supposed to be the leader, the turtle with a plan. It was his idea to help her, his idea to bring her to their home. He hated to even think the words ‘suicide watch’, but that was it, in a nutshell.

“Dad, do you think we can help her?”

“If she came this far without a fight, I have no doubt she is able to be helped. Mental illness is a complicated matter. I implore you to help this woman see the light. At this point, she might need someone to show her that life is worth the journey to get here.”

Leonardo, as he always was, was both enlightened and baffled by his father’s words. But if he said that he needed to show this human that life was worth the journey, that show her he shall.

Starting with that chamomile tea. He just hoped he didn’t burn the tea leaves.

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt 2k14 #tmnt 2k16 #tmnt leo #tmnt raph #tmnt donnie #tmnt mikey #tmnt splinter #tmnt x reader #tmnt imagine #tmnt imagines

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miraclesnail · 4 years

Text

1000 Ways and I Can Name You One

A thousand ways to tell the Stoll brothers apart and I can name you one. Travis and Connor centric oneshots featuring characters from PJO/HOO.

Chapter 32: Michael - Food

Plus the whole 9.7k fic under the read more but with funky formatting

Michael — Food

Michael (14) — Travis (13) — Connor (13)

Early June 2007

Pre Sea of Monsters

[8:07 AM]

The whole drive to Camp, Lee has been saying the weirdest things.

‘This camp is special.’

‘This camp is for children of Greek gods and goddesses.’

‘This camp helps the said children harness the godly gifts inherited from said gods and goddesses.’

‘This camp is top secret and no matter what, you cannot tell your mother about Camp Half Blood. Not a word. Not a complaint. Not even a compliment. Michael? Are you listening? Ar—are you laughing?! Michael, I’m not joking around. This is not a joke.’

Did Michael take Lee seriously? Not at all. Not even to humor him. What does Lee take him for? An idiot? Like, he doesn’t really have many friends at school (none actually) but even he knows when someone is trying to pull a prank on him. Lee typically goes for jump scares, but it’s good to see him broaden his horizon and try new things.

Yeah.

Michael wholeheartedly believes Lee is 100% kidding around.

It’s kind of a shock when he walks through the camp and sees flowers being grown in someone’s palms, men with hooves and horns trotting around, a goddamn girl rising from the lake like some kind of b-grade horror movie but minus the sunken eyes and gray skin and tattered white dress.

It’s a big shock. Kinda earth-shattering actually. Very disorientating. It’s taking all his mental capability to process the fact that the Greek gods are real , that the Greek myths are real , that his atheist beliefs are all wrong and holy fuck?? God is real .

It’s probably why when that SOB Shermie or Sherlock or whatever his name is picked a fight, he welcomed the easy distraction and picked one right back.

In hindsight, he should have maybe exhibited more self-control.

“He shoved me.”

The utter stare of incredulity has Michael quickly rephrasing his initial statement, fiddling with a loose string on his t-shirt.

“He shoved me first. ”

“And so you decided to turn it into a slugfest?” Lee says, arms crossing as they stand on Cabin 11’s porch.

“To be fair, to be fair,” Michael says, scrambling for excuses as his eyes dart from cabin to cabin, “to be really fair, that Sherm-guy started it.”

Lee didn’t buy it, not that Michael expected him too.

“You promised me, Michael,” Lee says, disappointed, and Michael looks away with guilt.

He did promise Lee. Right before they left the apartment complex, Lee explicitly said, “Promise me, Michael, that you’ll be on your best behavior?” And he said he will.

“Mike, I don’t want any phone calls from the head honcho again, okay?” his mom said, exasperated. He said there wouldn’t be any.

“Mikey, please tell us all the fights you’ll get into!” his four little siblings — Leo, Raphie, Carly, and Sam — screamed together with cheeky, smug, knowing grins as he got into the car with Lee. He said ‘in your dreams.’

Not even one full hour and he failed two out of three. Possibly all three if Travis and Connor decide to hand his ass to the director.

“I’m really sorry, Lee,” Michael says, head lowering, “I promise for real this time. I won’t get into any more fights. I swear.”

Like clockwork, the frown and crossed arms drop for a bright smile and a hair ruffling, like he actually believed Michael can do it. Lee’s weird like that. He believes in people and their lies despite what their actions are saying, believes in him even with the 14 years of experience that Michael cannot follow through on that promise.

It’s that same idealistic, stupid belief that has Lee clinging to the hope his birth mom will one day want to actually be a mom.

Michael slinks back into the cabin as quietly as he can. Miranda catches his eye and waves him over, patting the empty spot next to her. Michael hesitates (still remembers the way she tosses a boy a whole head taller than her like nothing) but thought better of it.

The promise, he thinks. Remember your promise.

He sees Sherman sitting on Miranda’s other side. As he slides down to sit cross-legged, he’s mentally preparing himself for a jeer. But Sherman is just staring at Miranda, wide-eyed and star-struck and totally ignoring him which is perfectly fine with Michael.

Miranda angles her body towards him, a slight smile on her face as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. “I just want to warn you that you’re in Connor’s bad book right now.”

“Should I be worried?” Michael says, glancing at the brothers talking on one of the upper bunk beds.

To which Miranda smiles sweetly. “You should keep your head down. I heard he gets a bit prank-crazy with people he doesn’t like.”

A sharp whistle brings his attention upfront.

“Okay, so hey, everybody! Exciting first day, I know. Welcome to Camp Half Blood,” one of the pair says with a big grin, standing on top of the upper bunk bed. The other sits at the edge, feet swinging over. “We’re already late for breakfast so I’ll make this super-duper quick. My name is Travis Stoll. I am one of your head counselors. This is Connor, my little brother.”

Connor waves, his smile matching Travis’s.

“I’m also your counselor. Any problems you guys have whether it be life problems, camp problems, prank problems, you can come to us. Lucky for you guys, you have two of us. Most cabins just have one,” Connor says.

“Where’s Luke?” someone in the back yells.

“Luke is gone now. If you see him, either in person or in a dream, tell us right away. Please come talk to me after this meeting if you want more details,” Connor answers, still cheerful but Michael kinda feels like his words are too curt. There’s definitely bad blood between this Luke person and them.

“Moving on,” Travis follows after, “the beds are all taken. Any more fighting over them will result in the instigator getting a timeout. For everybody else, sleeping bags are available and we will make room. Your stuff can be placed in the closet or tucked in your sleeping bag. I know this cabin’s patron is the god of thievery, but please show respect and decency towards your fellow cabinmates and don’t steal from each other. Steal from other cabins instead. Apollo’s kids are the easiest to steal from. So are Aphrodite’s if you want to practice before moving onto the big leagues. Athena’s and Hephaestus’s cabins are where the real challenge is.”

“What about the claiming rate? Someone said the gods would claim us more now,” a girl asks, standing from her sitting position with a bounce, hope in her eyes.

“Uh, um...” Travis falters, looking down at Connor for guidance. It’s hard to notice but Connor bites his cheeks and just barely shakes his head.

“Claiming, yeah. I’m not too sure about that. I’ll talk with Chi — Tantalus about that. Tantalus is the activity director now in case you all don’t know,” Travis answers.

There’s a chorus of groans.

Someone grumbles, “It’s been years.”

“What happened to Chiron?” another asks.

“Temporarily relieved of duty due to, uh, an investigation of his effectiveness on the job. Which, if you ask me, Chiron has been doing a fantastic job of and we should all write a very strongly worded letter to Zeus to get him back on his job.”

A boy in front of Michael shoots his hand up.

“I heard Luke went all ‘Anakin Skywalker’ on us and joined Kr—”

Connor blows an air horn and interrupts the boy before he could finish. Travis’s smile is strained as he says, “Okay, first rule on Camp Half Blood for the foreseeable future! No mentioning any of the bad guys by name. Names have power. Instead we will refer to him by initials. The evil titan guy will be called K.T. K for his first letter and T because he controls time.”

“Can we change it to K.K. Slider?” the same boy says.

Beside him, a girl socks the boy in the arm. “No! How dare you sully K.K.’s name like this?”

But Travis is already jumping down his bed, landing with grace. “K.K. Slider it is. That’s all for the morning announcements. Now everybody gets in a straight line. We’re going to the pavilion for breakfast and it is the best thing ever. You can literally get whatever you want. All you need is the power of imagination. Well, imagination and common sense. Don't imagine something you won’t eat. It’s not a contest to create the grossest food.”

Connor follows down after his brother with a grin and shrugs. “But if it was, I would win.”

Growing up, Michael is what everybody called a ‘problem child.’ Absolutely zero friends not helped by him picking and starting fights for the ‘smallest’ reasons. No remarkable talent except for his athleticism. Mediocre to poor grades due to inability to focus (and it doesn’t help that he’s dyslexic and that his teachers all hate him and that he has a homing device for all the school’s bullies).

The teachers blamed his mother for his attitude and academic abilities. But they don’t know shit. His mother helps him with his homework after coming back from work. His mother searches for ways to help him manage his ADHD and dyslexia. His mother is raising five kids all by herself with zero help from his deadbeat dad. Going to their extracurricular activities, funding their education, making time to have game and movie nights. His mother is literally Superman for finding time to do all that across five children. No. Make that six. Mom always attends Lee’s band performances and includes him with all their activities and outings and supports him the way Lee’s own mom should be doing.

Michael’s pretty sure his mom isn't the problem.

Besides his four younger siblings are literal angels. Clearly, the problem is him. Not his mother.

That’s why going into high school he had every intention of becoming a better son, a better brother, and a better student. Set a better reputation for his family, you know?

Unfortunately, this whole mess with him being half-god kinda put a pause on his plans.

And put every weird thing Lee ever did into perspective.

That one time Lee slapped his brand new Nokia cellphone out of his hands and ended his cell’s short life by stomping the hell out of it? Those dozens of times Lee lectured him about not using technology with his stupid excuse of ‘it rots your brain, Michael. Don’t touch it,’ despite Lee himself using a phone and a laptop on a daily basis?? Those hundreds of times Lee excused himself from dinner, movies, and the middle of game nights to ‘use the bathroom’ and coming back with a thin layer of gold dust??? Those weird dreams he gets of standing on top of a broken, tethering bridge and falling thousands of meters to his death in a ravine and Lee saying, ‘it’s just a dream. Don’t worry about it’ with a high-pitched, forced laugh that says he should be worrying????

Now he sees what it was all about. Obviously a metaphor for the earth-shattering revelation of his heritage.

He’s half- god . A demigod. Some part of him came from an immortal being.

It makes him see his dad in a whole new light.

Like, Michael always knows his dad is an asshole, leaving his mom and whatnot.

But now? Knowing his dad is a literal god in the Greek myths he read back in 6th grade? Those freaky assholes with their crazy sex adventures and ego-driven tantrums?

At least the fantasy asshole dad he had in mind didn’t commit mass genocide or is an egotistical, narcissistic jerk or had sex with their siblings, parents, animals, and who knows what else freaky shit the gods like to stick their dick in to.

And the most bizarre thing is that he’s expected to honor them by throwing the best parts of his meal into the fire.

Well, he’s not gonna.

“Throw your food into the fire, Mike,” one of his counselors says beside him as he tosses a bag of M&M into the flames.

“Why should I?”

“So the gods don’t get angry,” says the other counselor, throwing half of his strawberries — Michael stares at the plate. It’s just strawberries. Nothing else. That’s not healthy — into the fire before turning to help the others.

“They’re gonna threaten us if we don’t worship them? Sounds like a pretty unhealthy parent-child relationship,” Michael says.

The one that tossed the M&Ms shrugs. “Just toss something in. It can be anything. Even something you ha— don’t care about. That’s what I do. I don’t think Hermes minds.”

But what Michael hears is that this Hermes fella doesn’t give a shit.

A small boy with round glasses wedges in between them, frowning, and tosses in a sausage link. “Don’t listen to Connor. You’re never going to be claimed if you listen to him.”

Connor shrugs again. “Hermes hasn’t disowned me yet.”

“That’s because Hermes is busy with other things. The other gods don’t have a child plotting to usurp—” the kid starts to say but at Connor’s harsh nudging and loud cough and not so subtle nod towards the others in the pavilion and (kind of scary) glare, he shuts up. A second passes before the boy says to him, “Everybody likes to feel appreciated, Michael. Even gods. It’s good to remind them we’re here for them. Now more than ever.”

Michael frowns at the exchange. Child? Usurp? Usurp who? The gods? Yeah. Like that is even possible.

“What were you trying to say—”

“So I see you got over your embarrassing loss,” Connor interrupts with this infuriating smug grin. “Man, I would have hidden my face for like a year after the way I kicked your ass.”

And just like that, Michael forgets everything but that day back in March when he met the brothers. It’s an obvious bait and Michael just lunges for it like the dumb fish he is.

“No, I kicked your ass. Kicked it all the way down the stairs,” Michael huffs at Connor’s heel as they walk to the table. Connor slides into the first open spot he sees and Michael sits down across from him, elbow to elbow to his cabinmates. They need a bigger picnic table.

“Ass?” Besides Connor, Miranda’s head swivels to face them, her smile innocent but Michael knows better now. Behind that sweet smile is a demon. “Who kicked whose ass? ”

“We met Michael back in March when we hopped in Lee’s car and we’re not using that language, Mikey,” Travis says, sitting down beside Connor slurping a mouthful of cereal.

“So? Who won?” Miranda asks, leaning over to slide scrambled eggs onto Travis’s plate and picking off 75% of Travis’s many, many strawberries from his plate.

Travis stares at the egg with disdain. “Connor won, of course. And I don’t want that. Take it back.”

“Will said you need something more than just strawberries in the morning. Doctor’s orders. Disobey and you’ll feel his wrath,” Miranda says.

For half-a-second, Michael thinks Travis is going to fight but he turns back in his seat and just grabs his fork.

“There’s nothing wrong with just strawberries for breakfast,” Travis grumbles, stabbing his fork into the scrambled eggs. “Right? Nothing wrong with strawberries.”

“I think that depends on the quantity but don’t worry, Travis. I totally got you,” Connor says, pulling out a basket of strawberries and ducking from Miranda’s sudden lunge for it. With ease, Connor holds Miranda back while Travis indulges in his unhealthy obsession with a satisfied, blissed smile.

Michael thinks of the half Travis threw into the fire and before he knows it, he’s saying, “You really love strawberries, don’t you?”

Travis nods, mouth full. “Favorite food in the world.”

“Then you must like your—”

But Travis’s eyes shoot to a girl entering the pavilion, heading straight towards the table with the plant-speaking kid, and Michael knows his words are falling on deaf ears. Travis nudges Connor and whispers into his ear, a shit-eating grin sprouting on Connor’s face as he looks over his shoulder.

Miranda catches their grins and stands, yelling, “Katie, wait!”

But Katie sits down and Michael hears what is probably the world’s loudest, strongest whoopee cushion rip through the pavilion. Travis and Connor laugh as Katie stands back up, cushion in hand and face flushed tomato red.

“Welcome back, Miss Tattletale!” Travis yells.

“That was months ago, you pieces of — of — fertilizers! Give me a break!” Katie roars. The ground rumbles as a tree sprouts beside the table, hooking Travis and Connor up by the back of their shirts. They’re way too calm as they’re dangling several feet in the air. In unison, both brothers pull out squirt guns and aim them at Katie.

And it is definitely not water judging by the smell.

[9 AM, Sword Fighting]

Lee said he was a demigod. That monsters are real. And that they sometimes must fight off the monsters that come to eat them.

Michael never really thought about what it entailed. What they’re supposed to fight the monsters with.

Dimly, he’s aware of his counselors talking. Something about introduction to swordsmanship and the bare basics plus safety today, then tomorrow they will be training with Ares? Apollo? ‘Some god with the letter A’ cabin and learning a few techniques. He isn’t really paying attention to them as he stares at the blade in his hands.

It’s real. It’s a real, metal blade. And by the looks of it, everyone has one. Even the little 9-year-old. What the fuck? That’s how old the twins, Sam and Carly, are and holy shit. The thought of them with a real sword? The thought of them having to use it to battle some mythical monster? It's enough to make him vomit.

“Michael? Michael, hey.” Someone is snapping their fingers in front of his eyes and he knocks the hand away, glaring at … at … well, it’s either Travis or Connor, staring at him blankly, but he can’t tell who’s who yet. They should have worn nametags.

“What?”

“Have you ever used a sword before?”

Michael kinda felt it should have been obvious, but he shakes his head.

“Okay, well imagine you’re holding a kitchen knife and you’re cutting some veggies for a veggie soup but instead of a broccoli, it’s a monster and instead of small dainty cuts, you’re making big, wide, full power slashes. So nothing like what I told you to imagine. Forget I said that. You want to grip it like this with both hands—” Connor (or Travis?) demonstrates and Michael mimics the action, “—for the most control. You can try one-handed but the strikes tend to be flimsy at best unless you’re gifted like Clarisse or Percy. You want to kill the monsters as fast and in one go as you can while still being safe. Here’s—” he is walked over to a hand-made, hand-stuffed dummy with straws sticking out its seams. A happy face on a yellow sticky note stuck to where it’s head is. “—a practice dummy for you. Give it a few swings and get a feel for the weapon. I’ll be right back with more pointers after helping everyone. You good to be by yourself a bit?”

Then Travis (Connor?) is leaving after Michael hesitates to say ‘no, I’m not good’, taking off with a thumbs up and a crooked grin.

Michael almost called him back, but they’re a big cabin. Only a quarter of them have been gotten too, the other three-fourths goofing around while waiting their turn. Michael has never been to a summer camp before, nevermind one as strange as this, but he guesses they’re on a tight schedule.

So he looks down, readjusts his grip, and swings, missing spectacularly, losing his balance, and nearly taking his eye out.

[10:00 AM, Archery]

Michael didn’t need much help here.

The bow feels right in his hands. His body knows what to do, his arms pull back the bow like it has done this a million times and his first shot lands dead center in the bullseye.

The next five shots are the same.

“Woah,” his counselor mutters, face scrunched in thought before it lightens up, blue eyes shining with a gleam. “You’re a natural. Hey, you wanna be the archery tutor? I’ve never seen anyone aim so well and had such perfect form. Not even Annabeth.”

Michael lowers the bow and tries to figure out how he did what he just did despite never once using a bow before in his life.

[11:00 AM, Greek Mythology]

Michael knew Lee was a decent teacher, tutoring him in both English and Math, so it’s no surprise he’s decent at teaching Greek mythology too. All the campers are in the amphitheater with hand made wooden desks courtesy of the girl from breakfast. Lee is in the center with an overhead projector just having the time of his life explaining what each of the 12 Olympians plus Hades represents with a mind map.

He tries to pay attention. He really did. He gets through listening to Zeus, Poseidon, Hades, and part of Demeter’s history before his attention is pulled away by Travis and Connor. They’re far away from the group, beside the cabins, hunched over a … birdbath? It looks like they’re arguing to the birdbath, but Michael squints and with his perfect vision sees that there is a person. On the surface of the birdbath. A girl with blonde hair. There’s a girl in the water of the birdbath.

There’s a girl. In the water. Of a birdbath.

Maybe he shouldn’t be so surprised. Food pops into existence with a thought. A girl can grow fullass trees without blinking an eye. Miranda can toss a boy almost twice her weight over her shoulder.

So what if the camp has a Moaning Myrtle?

Before he knows it, Lee is done, Michael misses the other 8 Olympian’s tales, and everybody is packing up their notes to head back to their respective cabins.

They’re ending early to have enough time for a tour of the camp. Which is kind of telling where their priorities are when they hold training first over the tour.

It’s kind of even more telling what the camp’s view of safety is when there’s a climbing wall that spews lava and when asked about why there’s lava, Travis and Connor say cheerfully in unison, ‘it’s more exciting that way.’

“Hey, Travis,” a kid starts, tugging on one of the brother’s sleeves.

“I’m Connor, but yeah?” Connor corrects, turning to face the camper.

“Um, I heard from someone in the Ares Cabin that because of us, we’re in war with Kro—K.K. Is that true?”

Connor smiles and shakes his head. “No. We didn’t do anything.”

He didn’t refute the war part though.

And as if Connor hears his thoughts, he addresses the cabin, “You don’t have to fight if you don’t want to. But monsters are still a thing so you still have to go to the morning training. No way out of those. Sorry.”

[12:30, Lunch]

Michael is starting to think Travis is some kind of strawberry fanatic and that’s putting it lightly.

There’s another concerning amount of strawberries on his plate coupled with a grilled cheese sandwich and a salad, yes, but that’s way too many strawberries for one day.

“No such thing,” Travis says, scraping half of his ungodly amount into the fire.

“I think there is a limit though.” Connor shrugs, tossing a bag of M&M right after.

Michael follows them to the table, even more cramped now. Five new campers, unclaimed, arrived late because of road traffic. He tucks himself into the first opening he sees, shoulder to shoulder and elbow to elbow. Many inches too close in his opinion.

“Travis,” Michael starts, thinking back to breakfast, “You’re claimed, right? You know who your godly parent is?”

“Yup, Hermes. God of Pranksters,” Travis says, stabbing his fork into a lettuce and turning to wave it at Lee’s table which is much more roomier. Lee catches the action and nudges a boy beside him with an elbow, snickering. The boy turns and rolls his eyes at Travis.

“You like your dad, right?” Michael asks.

A quarter of the cabin immediately stops talking and not really subtly turns to them. He’s pretty sure he’s breaking some sort of taboo. Not that it bothers Michael all that much.

“Yeah, of course I do. He’s pretty cool,” Travis responds, rolling a cherry tomato around with a fork and not looking him in the eye.

“Why?” It feels like everyone in the cabin is staring at them now, but even then Michael can’t stop.

“‘Why?’” Travis repeats, twirling the fork. Michael can’t help but notice Connor gripping his fork tighter and he has a vivid image of the boy stabbing it into him. Connor seems like the type. “He’s my dad. I think I’m supposed to like him.”

“But he never talked with you though, right? He has never been there for you. How could you possibly like him?”

Travis shrugs. “He’s a god. He’s probably busy.”

Michael frowns. His mom is busy too. Granted, busy with normal things like a job but she still finds the time to tuck his siblings to bed. Still finds the time to cook breakfast and dinner for them. Still finds the time to make movie nights. Still tell them every day, without fail, that she loves them. Is still there for him and his siblings.

“So it doesn’t bother you? The way your relationship is with him right now?” Michael pushes.

Travis fidgets with his strawberries, muttering something under his breath that sounds suspiciously like French.

“What was—” Michael starts to say, but Connor glares, hard. Michael thinks he can see the promise of pain and suffering Connor will inflict upon him. Guess he’d just written his name in Connor’s bad book in Sharpie.

“Look, Michael, it’s the social norm around here to not talk about our godly parents. Especially in ways that demean them.”

Social norm? Like he cares about something as trivial as that.

“I just want—”

“Drop it, Michael. Travis’s relationship with our dad is none of your business,” Connor snaps.

Travis is quiet, a hand resting on a cheek as he stabs into a strawberry, red juices spattering over lettuce and grilled cheese.

“I want his approval. He’s my dad. What kid doesn’t want their parent’s approval?”

Lee pulls him aside as lunch wraps up, leading them a bit away from the others.

“Michael, can you chill with the public grilling for a bit?”

“I just don’t get the worship around here for them though,” he argues.

Lee falters, thinking about his words. “Michael, for some of us, our godly parent is the only one that cares.”

“Wait, are you saying your dad talks to you here?” Michael says. He doesn’t really know what the whole deal is going on with Lee and his mom, but he knows enough to know that Ms. Fletcher deserves the worst mom of the century award.

Lee frowns a bit and shakes his head. “We talked once when I was claimed but other than that, no. Not really. And none of my half-siblings said anything to me about him either. But he’s already doing so much more than the other gods.”

“Really? Like what?”

And Lee answers without hesitating, “He claims us as his.”

Michael recalls the talk before breakfast and the questions. About claiming. About waiting. About giving up. The bitterness in their voices. The longing. The yearning. And a sinking feeling grows in the pit of his stomach.

“How long did it take for you to be claimed?” he asks.

“I was claimed the second I stepped onto Camp. Apollo tends to be rather fast when it comes to claiming his children. The longest he ever went without claiming is one week. Demeter claims fast during the fall and winter months when Persephone is away. Hephaestus takes on average a month or so to claim.”

“And the slowest god at claiming?”

Lee’s eyes narrow in thought. “Let’s see… Ares, Athena, Aphrodite, and Hermes seem to be the slowest.”

“How slow?”

“Slow as in… months, years.”

“Why?”

Lee looks away in discomfort. “Who knows? We shouldn’t speculate though. That’s just asking for a curse.”

He catches up to his cabin gathering for the next event and when he asks around about the claiming rate, he gets a mixture of answers.

“Because we’re not their favorites,” Miranda says cheerfully, while arm-wrestling (and clearly winning) with a flushed Sherman.

“Because we have to prove ourselves first,” the kid with the glasses states, eyes fixed on his shoes.

“Because they forgot we existed,” others say.

“Because they want something from us.”

“Because they don’t want the responsibilities of a parent.”

“Because they don’t care.”

“Because they don’t think we’re worth it.”

“It’s because they suck ass,” one of the older campers says with dead serious eyes as Travis chokes on his strawberry, tossing the rest of the fruits into the fire, plate and all.

“Shh! Celise, you’re gonna get cursed! Everybody, no bad-mouthing the gods or you’ll be turned into a snail and as cute as snails are, I like you all as humans.”

The camper shrugs and whispers, it’s true .

Trust me, they whisper next as they’re pulled aside by Travis’s frantic tugging.

They don’t care.

All of this is truly making him appreciate the gods more.

Connor whistles for everybody’s attention, standing on top of a rock with a piece of paper.

“It’s free choice from now until 3:30. Each counselor is hosting a different event. Travis and I are doing canoeing. Silena will be hosting horseback — that needs to be changed to pegasi — riding. Malcolm, you will take over for Annabeth since she isn’t here yet for the intro to Origami. Katie will be watching over the wall climbing. Lee, intro to guitar and lyres. Beckendorf, intro to welding. Pollux will be taking over Clarisse’s place at the arena for additional sword and archery lessons. And Castor will be teaching DIY soda. Here’s a map for each of you where everything is. Any questions? Yes, you, in the back. Hao, right?”

Michael takes the map, finds Lee’s name, finds the corresponding location, and then crumples the flimsy paper in his hands.

But before he can walk away, Miranda is there in front of him and tugging him by the arm with a beaming smile.

“Follow me for a sec? I want to show you something. It will be quick, I promise.”

[1:30 PM, Free Choice]

“Everybody gets a celestial weapon,” Miranda explains as they walk to the armory, “It KOs the monster and turns them into gold dust if it nicks them in the flesh just enough.”

Gold dust… like the gold dust Lee comes back sometimes covered in?

She leads him to an unassuming building beside one of the cabins, opening the door and revealing shelves stocked full of weapons. Miranda strides to the back without a double-take. Like it’s normal for a summer camp with children to have a stockpile meant for war.

“Do you have a preference?”

“I… uh…”

“Want some help? Based on what I saw in training, I think you’re better suited with something long-range. You looked uncomfortable with a sword. Aha! What about this?“

Then Miranda pulls out a rifle from one of the boxes.

Michael stares at it for a full second, wondering if he’s imagining it, wondering if Miranda is kidding, wondering if this whole day is just one big funny dream. But, no, Miranda remains standing there with a big ol’ grin and rifle in hand and waiting for them to say something.

“No.”

“What? Why not?”

“First of all, it’s a gun. Second of all, I share a room with two of my siblings who get into my shit all the time. Third, my mom would literally kill me if she sees me holding a rifle. And fourth, it’s a fucking gun .”

”It’s okay. This is a magic rifle. If you engage the safety and remove the magazine clip, it turns into a telescope.” Miranda demonstrates it for him and would you look at that. It actually became a telescope. “See? No problem. Mom won’t find out and plus! It actually works as a telescope! You can go stargazing with this thing and also kick any monster-butt.”

“What happens if it goes off and a bullet hits someone?”

“That’s okay too. The bullets are made of celestial metal. It can’t harm mortals.”

“But it’s a gun. And I don’t have a license.”

Miranda shrugs. “You can’t kill a mortal though. I don’t think you need a license if you seriously can’t hurt anyone. But if you don’t want a gun, then we can get you a bow. Apollo’s cabin is full of them. Come on.”

And as Michael follows Miranda out, he mutters under his breath, “Why are you all like this?”

Miranda laughs, spinning around her heels to face him.

“And you’re like a completely normal kid. If you didn’t pass the barrier, I would have thought Lee brought someone fully human.”

[2:20 PM, Free Choice]

“What is that?”

Lee does only a cursory glance at where Michael is pointing before going back to tuning his guitar engraved with his name and last initial on the Big House’s porch. “It’s Thalia’s Pine. Someone poisoned it unfortunately. A couple years ago a girl sacrificed herself to save her friends. Her father turned her dying body into a magic tree that protects all of camp. We’re trying to fix it, but it’s kinda slow-going right now.”

“That’s cool. That’s cool, but I’m talking about that .”

And Lee really looks at where Michael is pointing at. A … well, he doesn’t want to say robotic because there’s no way a robot can move that fluidly, but fine. A metallic bull the size of an elephant is charging towards them, running full speed but going nowhere. It’s like an invisible wall is holding it back. Just a bit aways are five people in a line in full bronze armor and a variety of weapons with two more people running towards them. A girl with a gruff voice is ordering to get into position.

“Is this some sort of play?” Michael asks, waiting for Lee’s answers but when there’s none, he turns to face him. “Lee?”

Lee is pale. His guitar falls out of his hands as he stands.

Michael tenses, alarmed. “Lee?”

“Shit,” Lee curses for the first time ever. “Fuck.”

Now Michael is really worried. “What’s wrong? What’s going on?”

Lee whirs to face him and Michael doesn’t like the fear, the panic he sees in Lee’s usually calm eyes.

“Michael, Beckendorf is in the forge. Get him first. Tell him there is a Colchis Bull at Half Blood Hill. Then go get Travis and Connor next — Hey? Michael, are you there?”

A second bull crashes into the invisible wall and they break through. They’re breathing fire. People are being set on fire. People are having their armor melted off. People are being burned. People are being trampled on. People are—

“Michael!” Lee shakes him hard by the shoulder. “Don’t look at it. Just go run and get Beckendorf.”

Then he’s forcibly turned around and pushed away to the sound of terrified screams and dying cries.

[3:00 PM, Free Choice]

So that’s a monster.

And he’s expected to fight one of them?

The guy who took out the first bull —Percy he thinks is the name — Percy did it with a little help with a flame-resistant man and Percy is about the same age as him. And Clarisse took out the second bull all by herself. So it’s definitely possible. With training and maybe a bow instead of a sword, Michael can do it.

He can do it.

…

Just because it’s possible, doesn’t mean it’s right. Doesn‘t mean it’s normal and fuck.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

How can anyone not see how messed up this whole thing is? Monsters exist and they eat twerps like him? They’ll hunt him for as long as he lives? He’s always going to have to watch his back? He’s always going to have a weapon on him? This is what his day will be like every day? This is normal? This is what being a demigod means?

From the porch of the Big House, Michael watches Travis and Connor, amongst a few others with just as many beads on their necklaces, triaging the injured. Passing around nectar bottles and ambrosia brownies, helping them stand, checking their wounds all with an air of professionalism.

They were trained for this. They prepared for this.

Michael doesn’t like that little fact.

And speaking of little facts he doesn’t like, one just sits down next to him. When he’s not standing around like a dumbass, he goes to get more nectar bottles from the infirmary where a team of two people is running around tending to the patients. One is Lee. The other, and the clear leader, is the boy in blue scrubs and yellow flip flops. The kid barked orders left and right, telling people where to go, where to place the patients, how to treat the minor wounds until he can get there, basically keeping everything orderly and efficient, all with this air of confidence and calmness. It would have been very reassuring if the kid himself wasn’t this little, baby-faced 11-year-old.

And said 11-year-old is now sitting down beside him, downing a bottle of water then downing half a bottle of red Gatorade.

Michael is starting to see why Lee doesn’t want his mom to know where Camp Half Blood is. If she ever visited and saw how the camp is being run primarily by pre-teens and teens… well… she’ll probably lose it.

“Hey,” the kid says.

“Hey,” Michael replies, cautiously.

Then, silence.

The most awkward silence he has ever experienced as they just sit side by side.

The kid takes another sip from the Gatorade.

“You’re Michael, right? You’re Lee’s upstairs friend?”

Michael bristles at the words. “How did you—“

“When the cabins burned down, we stayed at Lee’s apartment for a couple days,” the kid explains, staring at Travis and Connor milling about the battlegrounds. He fidgets with a bandaid on the back of his hand. “This is going to sound really weird, but I thought I heard his voice and your last names match so it might not be my imagination. But do you have a younger brother named Raphael?”

“Yeah, I do. How do you know that?” Michael says, trying and failing to tone back the defensiveness in his voice. God please don’t let Raphie be a demigod like him.

The kid breaks into a big smile and it really makes him look like the child he is. “We used to be in a class together with Mrs. Rem. How is he by the way? Is he still watching Ninja Turtles? What did he think of the newest episode?”

Distantly, from a dinner chat a long time ago, Raphael mentioned a ‘Will’ who left class because of a stomach ache and was never seen again. He remembered Raphael being really worried. He remembered Raphael even saying that ‘Will doesn’t ever get sick’ and he remembered dismissively saying, “Don’t worry. The kid’s probably fine.”

There’s no way the kid next to him is that Will. It has to be a coincidence. It got to be. Forget how this kid knows Raphael is a fan of Ninja Turtles. It’s a popular show right now. Somewhere, in this 6.6 billion populated planet, there’s got to be a Will and a Raphael who both go to the same school with a 5th-grade teacher named Mrs. Rem and both watch Ninja Turtles and both love Raphael the sai-welding turtle.

“You went to Hodgkins Elementary School?”

“Yeah.”

There’s still a chance this is all a coincidence.

“Your favorite turtle is Raph?”

“Well, it’s Leo now but I used to like Raph.”

Still a coincidence.

“And your name’s Will?”

“It is.”

Just one big coincidence.

“And you left the classroom—” Michael wracks his brain — when, when did Raphael talked about the kid? — “Because of a stomach ache back in October?”

For a minute, Will is silent. A minute filled with nothing but the whistle of the wind and commanding yells of campers. Will chuckles, low, as the plastic bottle crinkles in his hands. But when Will speaks, his voice is carefully blank, devoid of emotion. “Not exactly, no. I saw something strange at school that nobody could see and I called my mom, er, my aunt. But she raised me so I considered her my mom. She said to get out, even if I have to lie. So I did. A stomach ache was the easiest to fake. She picked me up from school. I think she was going to take me to camp. But on the drive here… a cyclops showed up and totaled the car. We ran. She told me to go ahead and get help. And I did. Without looking back. I found Lee and he took care of the cyclops but mom… ”

The kid’s voice is still blank. Emotionless.

“She died because of me.”

A bitter smile.

“Because I was too weak. Because I was too scared.”

The bottle bursts in his hand, the red dripping off his hand and staining his scrubs.

“No one is ever going to die because of me. Not again. Not ever.”

The kid leaves, running back inside when someone screams bloody murder and another voice yells, “Solace!”

(“Will’s last name was on our vocab lists,” Raphael had said a long time ago. “Solace. It means comfort. That’s so cool. No way can I forget that.”)

Michael continues to sit there, watching the battlefield empty out one camper at a time until everyone injured has been attended to.

(“She died. Because of me. Weak. Scared.”)

Weak. He understands. Too scared. He understands that too. He experienced all that today with the bulls.

If it had been at home with his family, at school with his classmates, even at the park with random strangers, what would have happened? He would have fought, right? Adrenaline would have kicked in and he would do something. Or would he have frozen? Just like he did today? Just stood there, watching his family be stomped and kicked and lit on fire until someone kicked him into gear? (“Run, Michael. Don’t look back.”)

No.

No. Fuck no. Three months. He has three months of this summer camp / orphanage / ‘let’s-all-become-child-soldiers-together!’ hellhole. He has three months to kick this stupid deer in the headlights reaction.

(“She died because of me.”)

He’s not going to let anyone die.

[5:00 PM, Free Time]

He finds them in the cabin, one slumped on the bed with an arm over his eyes and the other sitting at the foot with a sketch of the cabin in one hand and a pencil in the other.

They’re talking about something secret because as soon as Michael slams the cabin door open, their conversation stops. He catches the last sentence though. Are the nightmares getting worse? And god, if these two are okay with everything that just happened today, just handled it all with a face that says this is nothing, then Michael doesn’t want to know what kind of nightmares are troubling them.

“What’s up?” Connor or Travis, the one on his back, asks, trying and failing to get upright. The arm moves and tired eyes peek at him from underneath.

“Is it Lee? Does he need us again?” the other asks, tossing the drawing under the bed.

“You said, whatever problems we have, we can come to you two,” Michael starts.

They nod together in sync.

“Then I want you guys to train me until I drop dead. Now until the end of summer.”

[6:00 PM, Dinner]

He barely has his food on the plate when a bright light shines over his head. Flashy. Illuminating. Almost eye-blinding. Michael looks up, squints, and sees the sun with 21 arrows surrounding it, representing the sun’s rays.

Distantly, he’s aware of a bored voice proclaiming him as a child of Apollo. But all he’s really focused on is his cabin’s, ex-cabin now he guesses, reactions. He can see all their faces down the line. Most are happy. They smile and cheer for him, patting on him on the back and congratulating him. But he can see it, beneath their grins, beneath the genuine elation, is frustration, jealousy, longing.

(“It's been years.”)

Travis, with his pile of strawberries, bumps him in the shoulder with his own. “Hey, congratulations. Apollo cabin is a lot roomier than ours so you get to actually sleep on a bed.”

Connor nods, tossing an M&M bag into the flames. “Too bad you’re gonna miss the experience of being crammed like sardines on the floor. It’s actually pretty cozy.”

Michael frowns as he conjures up a PB and J sandwich exactly how Mom would make it, cuts it into halves, and toss it in . “Are you guys still going—”

“We’ll still help you,” Travis interrupts, but his smile is impish, borderline devilish. “But—”

“It comes with a price now.” Connor follows with a just as sordid grin. “Two conditions. One, you have to help us with archery. We’re not bad but we’re not good either and could use a bit more work. Annabeth and I have this sparring contest every week to see who is more proficient in what weapon. She beats me every single time when it comes to archery, but that’s ending this year. And two, you have to be our inside man.”

“Inside man?” Michael asks, already kind of knowing what that means.

“Let us into your cabin. Help us set up pranks in your cabin. Tell us everything we want to know about your cabin. You know. That sort of thing,” Travis says flippantly.

And before Michael can reject, accept, do literally anything, Travis turns around and walks to the table with this unbearably cheerful hum. “Will is going to regret ever messing with my diet.”

Connor falls in step with a fond smile. “But seriously, Will has a point. You need to balance your meals a bit more.”

For such nice people , Michael thinks as he’s corralled towards the Apollo table by an ecstatic Lee , they can be such dicks.

[7:00 PM, Volleyball]

“Hey, Lee, when did the monsters start coming for me?” Michael asks as he twirls the volleyball in his hands once, twice and tosses it to Lee. In the background, Michael can hear the yells and cheers of the far more serious, far more competitive match going on. Apparently, there’s a tournament between the cabins and the winner gets bragging rights and no cabin inspection next month.

Lee isn’t participating. “Our cabin is always clean and orderly,” he had said with pride, though that didn’t stop his half-siblings ( my half-siblings) from making a team and participating.

“Eh? The monsters? Uh, l-last year,” Lee says, fumbling the ball just like he’s fumbling the lie.

So it’s been more than a year.

Michael bites his cheeks as he bends his knees and extends his arms to bounce the ball back.

“And you’ve been taking care of them all this time?”

“Well, not all of them,” Lee admits, catching the ball with both hands. “A lot of them went away on their own.”

Liar , sings his guts. He’s lying .

Because Lee is way too nice. Way too selfless. Way too noble to tell the truth that would most definitely hurt.

“Why? Why didn’t you take me to camp earlier? When the monster started coming? Why now?” he bites out, just barely holding back the snarl. You could have saved yourself years of pain, years of trouble.

“Because…” Lee looks over to the courts, to where Travis and Connor are arguing with Annabeth (the moaning myrtle girl, Michael realizes). Something about which team Percy should be on.

(“Your dad is the god of Athletes. Your cabin already have an advantage.”)

(“Okay, but consider this, only Travis and I are claimed. Everyone else on the team could be anyone’s child. And your team is completely made up of god-tier and gifted strategists.”)

(“Your #4 is literally speaking ten languages. He’s got to be a son of Hermes.”)

(“That is a stereotype. Abraham could just be remarkably smart.”)

Lee’s eyes go back to him. “Because I wanted you to have a normal life, to know that there’s more to life than just this. Besides, I’ve been watching you for years. You learn how to do something like it’s nothing after a few minutes. It’s kind of ridiculous and I am lowkey jealous. But if you feel like you’re not ready, I can always—”

“Shut up, idiot. You’re not dropping out of school for me,” Michael grumbles, Lee’s stupid chuckle not at all comforting.

“I heard you guys are in a war,” Michael says, “Are you fighting in it?”

Lee serves the ball over, high and easy to hit. “Yeah. It feels wrong not to.”

And Michael spikes it back as hard as he can. “But you’re going to college in a few months.”

Lee shrugs, easily leaning forward and kicking it back high into the air for another easy hit. “Julliard is close enough to camp.”

Michael catches it, tucking it under an arm. “That’s not what I meant. What’s the point of going to college if you might lose an arm or leg fighting in this stupid war? You should just focus on school.”

Lee laughs of all things. “That’s nothing. Will fixed worse.”

Michael bristles at Lee's casualness. “Well, if you’re gonna fight, then I am going too.”

Lee laughs again, tenser this time. “You think your mom is gonna let you?”

“She lets you!”

“Because she doesn’t know what I’m doing. And I’m not the one living with her. Besides, do you even know what we are fighting for?”

“Of course, I do! The enemy is K—” Crap. He never got the full name or title of the bad guy. And somehow he feels like saying Cabin 11’s made up name isn’t going to make Lee take him any more seriously. “I’ll learn more about it. Besides, you’re a great guy. I’m sure you’re fighting for the good guys.”

“Michael, your faith in me is nice but getting involved without knowing the full story is dumb. You’re not fighting.”

“Yes, I am.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes, I —”

Lee’s face hardened the way it does when he’s mad or worried or dead serious. Like that one time Leo microwaved a spoon. Like when Raphael tried to jump down a flight of stairs for a dare. Like when Carly and Sam ran onto the streets without looking. And crap. Michael is 14, practically an adult. He shouldn’t be cowing under Lee’s hard stare anymore. But he is and he’s (slightly, only just slightly) scared.

“No, you’re not,” Lee says, “Because I don’t want you to fight when you have so little experience. Because your mom will literally kill me if something, anything happens to you. Because something bad will happen to you if you do join this fight. So no. You’re not going to fight. You’re not going to participate. You’re only here to train and enjoy camp life.”

“Fine. Fine. I won’t,” Michael grumbles, ducking his head. “Sheesh, you make it sound like if I join, the camp is done for.”

The hard stare melts back into that familiar, soft, (almost) carefree aura with a shrug and small smile. “I just have a feeling. It’s good to trust your instincts.”

And my instincts are telling me right now that you need to quit. But Michael is pretty sure Lee won’t appreciate it and moves the conversation to the climbing wall and why it’s on fire.

[9:00 PM, Campfire Song]

“Mom,” Michael says, the phone pressed against his ears. He looks out the window, watching the vibrant flame of the bonfire climb high into the starry skies and the circles of cheerful campers surrounding it.

“Michael, I was wondering when you would call. How’s camp? Do you like it?”

“Camp is…Camp is great. Lots of activity. Really unique. I—” I like it dies on his tongue. He doesn’t like it. He might have if there was a bit less training. Luckily his mother didn’t catch that pause.

“That’s great! Made any new — Carly Yew, are those markers I see in your hands? You better not draw on the walls. Get some paper, baby, okay? Made any new friends?”

“A few.”

“You should invite them over! We can have a nice little movie night together.”

Michael frowns as he recalls someone, somewhere, saying not to gather in more than threes outside the barrier. It attracts the monsters apparently and Michael isn’t about to test that. “They can't. They’re busy. They’re like—um—they’re head counselors, you see, and have a lot of duties.” Like practically running the camp but he doesn’t think Mom would appreciate knowing that.

“Well, it’s nice to see you make friends even if they’re a bit older.”

Are Travis and Connor older than him? Possibly. They exude confidence that no normal teen has. Or maybe they have just been here for a long time. And that is all kinds of sad.

His mom asks him about his day, what he did, if he has something he really likes, and for the next hour, Michael goes into a heavily censored, G-rated, parent-safe tale of his first day at Camp Half Blood. It could have been worse. On his way to the Big House to use the phone, he overheard an older boy telling a couple newbies how a kid fought a Minotaur on his first day here and a girl having to sacrifice herself for her friends.

Wow, it would suck to be them.

[11:00 PM]

He meets dad in his dreams.

Michael doesn’t know why, but he thought Apollo to be a refined god. A serious god. A graceful god.

Instead he sees a teenager sporting pilot shades and leaning on a flaming red sports car in the dingy parking lot of Camp Half Blood with the early morning sun just breaking the horizon.

“Dad?” Michael says, (who else could it be?) but still not really sure. “Uh, Apollo?”

And the teen waves, flashing a smile that nearly blinds him. “Michael! It’s so good to finally meet you.”

Before Michael could react, the teen — Apollo — dad — pulls him into a crushing hug that knocks all the air out of his lungs.

Apollo is strangely… warm. But not overbearingly warm. Warm like first snuggling into bed under the covers. Plus he smells like laurel leaves, sweet and bright. And Michael has a vivid flashback of his mom — younger, much much younger — in the hospital bed smiling at a man in his mid-twenties with a bundle of sheets in his arm.

Michael blinks as Apollo pulls away, holding him at arm's length and looking him up and down with a musing stare.

“You resemble your mom more than me,” Apollo says with a nod, “Most of my children tend to take after my looks, but you’re different, Mike. I have to say, I like it! I can’t stay long. Godly matters I have to attend to, you know? Here, I got you a gift for making it so far in life. Tell Audrey I miss her and think sweetly about the time we spent together.”

Apollo is pressing a guitar into his hands with his name engraved in the body and stepping back to get into his car. It’s exactly the same as the guitar Lee has except for the engraving. So not unique by any means. But it is a gift. And mom would kill him for rejecting a gift. It’s rude she says, but Michael doesn’t care about Apollo enough yet to give a fuck. Besides if Lee’s experience is anything to go by, this is probably the last time he’ll ever talk to his dad. He needs to make this moment count for something.

“Wait.”

Apollo pauses just as the engine roars to life, purring sweetly and the window rolled down.

“I want to ask for something else.”

Apollo blinks and Michael can see the inkling of annoyance in the young face, but Apollo nods and says without a lick of irritation in his voice, “Sure, shoot.”

“I want you to spend more time with Lee.” Then Michael has a realization. “You know who Lee is, right? The oldest one in the cabin? About to go to Julliard? Want to become a teacher?”

Now Apollo is definitely irked, a telltale wrinkle in his brow. Michael can now add ‘gods’ to the list of people he can make pissed off. “Of course I know Lee, my little music enthusiast child. How could I not? But I’m a God, Michael. There’s only so much free time I have.”

“Then just a few minutes a week, or even a month. So he knows you care.”

Again a slight scowl, but it lingers for a few seconds more.

“I do care but okay. Okay, I will.” Apollo shifts the car into drive still a little annoyed. Michael thought that was it. Any minute now he’s going to wake up and start the day, but Apollo sighs, leans back in the leather seat, and hangs an elbow out the window. “Michael, you’re so much like your mother. Caring. Gutsy. Compassionate. It’s crazy how much you resemble her. You’re going to do great things. You’re—” The annoyance drops and for a brief second, Apollo looks grief-stricken. And once again, Michael dreams of falling, of a bridge, of a boat wafting through a chasm of fire. But Apollo smiles that blinding smile, fond, and shakes his head.

“Don’t worry so much about your family. They’re going to be fine. You’re going to be fine.”

Michael wakes up just as the car drives off, his gut itching.

Apollo is lying to you.

#fanfiction #ao3 #archive of our own #my writing #travis stoll #connor stoll #michael yew #lee fletcher #will solace #miranda gardiner #pjo #percy jackson

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ziracona · 5 years

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😮 Oh man, with the insight on Frank, it has me so curious. What's going on in the heads of everyone in the Legion lately? I'm especially curious about Joey, after the quality time spent with the survivors (well, in the back seat with Susie driving) during "She's Like the Wind". Or, if you're tired of the Legion, what about Michael in "The Tower"?

I’m totally happy to do the Legion (and I actually wrote up a bunch of stuff on them before deciding p best to wait), but there’s a lot of Legion stuff in the chapter I’m posting in the next couple days with some sort of big status-quo changes, so I feel like I should wait until after that to give Legion updates, or it could be kind of a waste, so I’ll do Michael.

Oh boy Mikey. Let me see. Buckle up, because this is a long one. So, let me start by saying in this fic, the way I write him is based on the canon portrayal in the first film (and some influence from the others—especially 2 and H20), but with my honest best attempt at an accurate psychological take on his situation. Horror’s a great genre, but it does a really shitty job about using mental illness as some kind of blanket excuse for being evil. John Carpenter literally came up with Michael after seeing some 12 year old schizophrenic kid in a mental institution when he was on a field trip that he thought had really dead, evil looking eyes, like he didn’t have a soul. Which is a pretty fucked up way to treat mental illness. And, since there’s no reason I should accept ‘He’s got psychosis and the devil’s eyes and has nothing in him but evil” as an accurate take on an actual human being, I’m not. I’m taking what is canon, and interpreting it (to the best of my ability) like a normal psychologist or person who isn’t Dr. Sam Loomis would. Usually I wouldn’t give as much on a character psych take (because I really, really like seeing how people interpret things), but it’s kind of specifically important for Michael and me doing my best to write him responsibly that while he’s a lot of things, and a lot of them bad, he’s not a mindless wall of walking evil.

Canonically, Michael’s had psychosis since he was at least five, and heard voices that told him to do bad things, like hurt people. He told his parents, in an attempt to get help, and was ignored. When he was six, he did what the voices told him to in an attempt to get them to stop, and killed his sister (without looking at what he was doing while he did it as much as he could [canon]), and then went downstairs to wait for his parents to get home (probably in the hopes that they could fix it, because he was six years old, and when you’re six, your parents can fix everything). Instead of anything getting better, he got sent to court, sentenced (to be tried for murder as an adult in fifteen years when he turned 21, which is absolute bullshit because by no stretch of human logic can a 6 year old child have committed a crime as an adult), and then left in an asylum for the next fifteen years of his life. His psychosis worsened, and he gained other symptoms, such as mutism and catatonia. His mom only visited a few times, with his little sister, and then she vanished off the face of the planet from his point of view. Completely abandoned by his family and everyone he knew, the only human contact he had from ages 6-21 was Doctor Sam Loomis, his psychiatrist, who had decided within a couple of months, that Michael was the human personification of evil, faking his mental illness like the evil genius six year old he was, and a demon in human form hellbent on murder. Now, the human brain doesn’t stop developing until the mid 20s, and it sure as hell isn’t done when you’re six. Kids that age don’t even really have a fully developed understanding of mortality and only a basic grasp on ethics. Emotional empathy doesn’t start really forming well until age seven, and abstract reasoning isn’t until preteen years. When you’re six, you’re not old enough to be evil. You just aren’t. But, if you grow up from age 6-21 with only one constant in your life, isolated in a tiny white room, hearing over and over from said only constant, an adult and the source of authority in your life, that you are evil, and soulless, and you are a killer waiting to kill again, you are dying to get out and commit murder, and they’re onto you, how exactly can you expect a human being to turn out?Especially when they’re already dealing with violent psychosis. You’ve basically convinced a mentally ill child that they are the bad voices in their head, not the person, and their goal in life is to commit lots of murder.

Michael’s personal goal, as much as he has one left, has pretty much solidly always been to do what the voices want so they’ll stop and he can be at peace. What they want is for him to kill his family, meaning his sister, Laurie. Kill Laurie, be at peace. That being the case, ending up in the Entity’s realm is about as shitty for him as it is for her, because no matter how many goddamn times he kills her, he can never, ever kill her for real, so he will never be able to stop the voices. He’s about as tired of being here as she is, which is saying a lot. But it’s been forty years of shit for him too.

I think Michael forgot he was a person a long time ago, because nobody’s treated him like one since he was baby. Since he was six. If you treat someone like a monster their whole life, that’s what they’re almost certainly going to become. In the Entity’s realm, it hasn’t really been any different. I don’t think he thinks about things very complexly, because he’s sort of too tired to, and he doesn’t have a real reason. He never learned a lot of normal human behaviors, including any attempt at even the most basic social contact. It’s like that really depressing scene in Lilo & Stitch when Jumba’s commenting on what it must be like to have nothing, even memories, to visit at night. He has memories, but they’re basically all the same—white room, fifteen years of Dr. Loomis. None of that’s a real human experience. Dr. Loomis didn’t even think he was a human—called him “It” instead of “Him.”

With Laurie suddenly acknowledging he’s her brother, it’s weird to him. Canonically, every time someone in a film reminds Michael he’s related to them, it’s like he gets smacked in the face (it’s actually kind of hilarious. He even takes his mask off for his niece in 5 when she calls him “Uncle”). A family member doing this always metaphorically suckerpunches him with the reminder that he has a name and an existence outside of killing people and there are human beings who know who he is and are related to him and have a lasting concept of him as a person. It’s not like he ever forgot they were siblings, but he didn’t remember to think about it. He spends all his time being the Shape, because Michael hasn’t really existed since he was six years old (not in a Dissociative Identity Disorder way, just, it’s an aspect of who he is that no one has been willing to acknowledge since he was a baby. He puts on the mask and kills because that’s what he’s supposed to be. It doesn’t really matter if he wants to, or if he likes it, or even if he still doesn’t have a completely developed concept of mortality, because he’s known for years now that it’s just what he does. It’s what he is). I don’t think he really knows how to think or feel (which he’s not used to doing period) about his sister or about that and being spoken to. He was definitely relieved at the prospect of having a way out of this, and since then it’s been kind of agonizing that she reneged on him and won’t commit joint suicide, but she’s also just been…weird. Been different. She talks to him like a person, which no one has ever done, and he does remember her from when they were little. I think it’s very confusing. He really doesn’t have the normal human skillset to be able to emotionally understand this. Which doesn’t mean he’s some emotionless zombie, just, he didn’t learn how to properly interpret or respond to things. He doesn’t have a normal human emotional or social skillset, because he never got to develop one. He didn’t get the chance. He hasn’t had a positive physical interaction, a hug, a handhold, a pat on the shoulder, since he was six--he hasn’t had any kind of social contact outside of the hostile psychological hatred and threats from Dr. Loomis period. There’s just not a normal set of human understand-the-world mental structures developed in him at all. Instead he’s got like…just all this shit—this really fucked up way of understanding the world built from fifteen years in isolation with just Dr. Loomis that’s completely separate from a normal human experience or mental scape, and the mental set of tools he would use to try to understand his sister is like, the dusty old normal human set that stopped growing when he was six years old that he kind of forgot about.

Michael’s also never done anything he wasn’t supposed to in the Entity’s realm, and I don’t think this has been explicitly stated in the fic, but he’s been punished now, for trying to break the rules with Laurie these past few trials. I don’t think he knew how to handle that or feel about it or think about it either, because it was a new experience for him. It’s very hard to hurt him at all, and it’s never happened with the Entity before this.

During The Tower, Michael wanted what he’s wanted since it was on the table (a way out by killing her), and when she said she couldn’t do it yet, genuinely misinterpreted that as her meaning she had to help the others finish the trial first. I don’t think he entirely understood why she kept running away from him, but he’s used to that kind of behavior, so it wasn’t that strange. What was extremely weird to him was getting jumped by two kids (when usually survivors wouldn’t touch him with a fifty-foot pole if it was up to them), who proceeded to tell him be was being a really crappy brother and should be nicer. It was. Surreal. I think when Laurie showed up and told him she hadn’t meant ‘in twelve minutes’ when she said later, he didn’t just attack her because he was mad she didn’t want to do suicide yet, I think it also kind of hurt his feelings that she made fun of him when he genuinely was trying to understand and thought she meant something else. Since what he wanted was off the table, he was upset (which was especially volatile becaus he doesn’t often experience hugely strong emotions) and on instinct just did what has been programmed to come naturally instead and went fucking lethal on them all, but got a surprising amount of resistance.

When she came back to fight him alone, I don’t think he completely understood everything she said, but he got a lot of it, and he didn’t like it. He didn’t like losing the chance to get out of the realm for good with her, but I think he also didn’t really like being basically told that he was dead to her from here on out. I don’t think he’d exactly think of it that way, or put it into words—I don’t think he’d had long enough or the emotional growth enough to appreciate her caring about him, or to want it, but at the same time, he’d had someone treat him like a person for the first time in fifty some years, and I think it was probably briefly nice to be called by his own name and talked to like a person—I think it would be hard for that not to mean a little bit, even if you didn’t understand way. And then he had it reaffirmed by her before their fight that what Dr. Loomis had always said was true, and he’d fucked up so bad with her that he wasn’t ‘Michael’ anymore to her either, and even if he wouldn’t really think of it like that, I think subconsciously, that kind of had to hurt.

At the end of their fight, when he was out on the floor, and Laurie didn’t kill him, while he was genuinely unconscious for some of that, he was awake for some of it too—the bulk of it, actually. Michael in film canon routinely not only has genuine resets where he passes out and heals and gets back up, but plays dead as well, to protect himself. So, he did hear a decent chunk of what Laurie said to him. She kind of poured her heart out, and some of it was pretty complicated stuff, and a lot of it was stuff he doesn’t really have the emotional complexity developed to understand right now, but he understood some of it. I don’t think he expected things to end like they did (and not just him getting his ass kicked by her). She basically flipped on him, and said she was wrong, and even like this he was still her brother, and because she remembers how he was when he was six she can’t make herself not love him, even if she knows she shouldn’t, and that she wasn’t going to kill him like that, even if it meant he was going to come after her again and kill her. I don’t think he gets why she would say those things, but it did make him want to know, and I think he’s aware that it should mean something to him, regardless of if it does or not on an emotional level, and it is at least something that interests him. Probably his most intact human emotion is curiosity (and it’s no wonder—he’s basically never seen anything, or been anywhere, or done anything—he’s barely gotten a chance to live, period. Any social interaction where someone isn’t running from him screaming or threatening him and telling him he’s a monster is uncharted territory). What that would mean for him going forward as far as Laurie is concerned is very complicated, though. Laurie interests him and there are things he wants to understand, but he’s just got so little ability to function like a normal human being. So much of him is so awfully mangled and maladapted, and the rest has been stagnating since he was 6 and he’s so very, completely, depressingly isolated. He’s a serial killer, but he’s really also kind of a tragic character. It’s fucked up what happened to him, and most of it isn’t really his fault. It didn’t have to be like that.

#In Living Memory #In Living Memory (fic)#Michael Myers #Ask #Long Post #(Super long I'm so sorry ToT)#dead by daylight #He held his hand out because he was curious and thought she might come back

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turtlestanfirst · 5 years

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Can I have the turtle bois. Comfort a. Gay ( lesbian) human friend who recently came out about it and their parents wouldn’t accept them for who they are? This would really make my day. It kinda personal

hey @rustypotatochip18 , I can absolutely relate to this kind of thing and would just like to say if your parents (or anyone’s parents okay) don’t want to accept you for being you then you can absolutely hop in my IMs and I will personally become your new bi mother okay? I’m here for anyone in this kind of situation and you guys have all my love.

You also definitely have the turtles’ love too!

Raph🔥

As the eldest in his own family, Raph has definitely become a master of reading people, be it his own siblings or a dear friend. Of course he notices something is wrong when their human friend shows up to the lair looking fairly upset.

He doesn’t push them to talk, but immediately offers hugs.

Which is great because this boy gives some of the world’s best hugs.

He kind of just holds his friend until they decide to talk about what’s going on.

He isn’t at all happy to hear how their parents handled the news and offers to go yell at them for it.

He would absolutely do it too if his friend asked. Not the smartest thing to do as a mutant turtle, but he certainly wouldn’t regret his actions.

He’d remind his friend that coming out is an act of true bravery and he admires them for it, and that they’re always accepted here in the lair. “There ain’t nothing wrong with you being you, no matter what anyone else says!”

He’d probably bake their favorite cookie for you to help cheer them up.

And also knit them a super comfy pride sweater!

“Just a little reminder that you should be proud of yourself. And that I’m proud of you too.”

Donnie💜

When he first heard what his friend’s parents did, his first reaction was to launch into a rant about how their reaction was completely uncalled for.

“Sexuality has evolved so much over the past millennium! Are they still stuck in the first ice age???”

His voice is like three octaves higher than usual he’s so mad, it sounds kind of funny.

Funny as it may sound, he realizes it’s probably not the most helpful thing ever and instead gives a small speech about how his friend’s parents’ feelings on the situation are completely irrelevant. His friend is who they are. If they’re gay, then people would just have to live with it.

Our local science nerd isn’t the best with emotional problems like this, but he can offer some wonderful hugs in these trying times. Snuggly hugs. If his friend needs to cry about it, he’ll hug them through the tears.

For days after hearing about it he sends them articles about the evolution of sexuality hoping to help them feel more validated.

Also little nerdy facts like “technically gay means happy so you go out there today and be your gayest self!”

It’s all very dorky.

Does it work? Who knows? But his heart is in the right place.

For a while after his friend comes out he acts more affectionate than usual. Hugs when they come visit, ruffling their hair, nudging their arm, whatever. He offers physical contact however they need it.

Leon🌀

If anyone’s going to cheer his friend up, it’s this guy.

To take their mind off it he offers an impromptu spa day complete with a vine compilation marathon

“Never underestimate the power of vines, my friend. It can clear acne if you watch enough of them.”

Also has a million hugs for his friend. He kind of just latches on to them and refuses to let go ever. It’s guaranteed to help, even if they end up having to shove him off and complain about him turning into a koala temporarily.

Those one-liners increase exponentially. They get funnier too. Anything to make them laugh.

He can’t cook or bake, but he enlists April’s help in getting baking mixes you can make together to help cheer you up. He works especially hard on pride cupcakes. They’re slightly burned, but he did his best.

LGBTQ+ movie marathon? Absolutely.

He is confident this will help boost their spirits.

After all this he gets serious just long enough to remind them that he’s going to support them no matter what, and that they shouldn’t let their parents’ reactions make them feel shame.

“If they want to be closed-minded jerks that’s completely on them. Don’t let that stop you from being yourself, you funky little gay!”

Mikey🔆

Ah yes, the sunshine boy

He won’t leave them alone until he’s confident they’re feeling better.

Mikey definitely is the kind to sneak into their room with pizza and his laptop. He sets up an iconic blanket fort and pulls up movie after movie to cheer them up.

He then holds onto them the whole time they watch movies.

He isn’t the best with words, but he does offer them a shoulder to cry on and a listening ear whenever they need it.

He surprises his friend the next day with a painting of them as a superhero, a pride flag tied around their neck.

“Because it was really brave of you to come out to them. You’re a real hero as far as I’m concerned!”

He texts them a lot checking in on them and making sure they’re feeling okay.

Words may not be his strong suit, but he makes sure he’s there for his friend no matter the time of day!

#rottmnt headcanon #also congrats on being the first to ask me for headcanons!

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spectrumscribe · 6 years

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i got u dude. mikey picking fights when he knows he wont win or mikey feeling like he isn't really contributing to the group (hope you feel better btw)

rottmntverse human au because that makes this even more fun :3c

((trigger warning for a brief homophobic slur, avoidable if you look for the paragraph becoming italics.))

In Mikey’s opinion, it doesn’t make sense. He reasons thatpeople should want to avoid startingfights with the biggest guy in the room, not actively try and do just that.

Raph isn’t the one who ever starts it. Donnie sometimesstarts things, mostly by just being his lovable prickly self, and occasionallyLeo blunders through a conversation badly enough someone has steam coming outof their ears about whatever dumb thing he’s said this time. Raph, though?

Raph doesn’t pick fights. Fights pick him.

It sucks, because Mikey knows that even though Raph is big,and a little awkward, and kind of intimidating if you don’t know him- Mikey’s oldest sibling would rather just get along with everyone. Wants to, even.

It’s probably because none of them fit the mold, the four ofthem. The only other person they hang out with is April. Mikey is fairlycertain half the reason people get pissed off at them is because they just.Don’t need anyone else.

Or maybe they’re just assholes, jostling and elbowing Raph inthe subway station they all have to share. Leo ditched school halfway throughthe day to go see Donnie at hisschool, which is the university halfway across the city. It’s just Mikey andRaph here today, waiting for the train, trying to wait out the snide remarks andcomments and rude as hell insinuations. No one is even noticing Mikey, sinceRaph made himself a barrier between Mikey and everyone else.

Mikey doesn’t even know what it is today. Why this ishappening at all. It’s Friday, theyall definitely have better stuff to do.

He’d had his earbuds in before this started, swaying to his private concert while he waited next to Raph, but he took them out the second he noticed shit starting to happen. Mikey is listening, and growingfrustrated, and hating every new minute they spend standing here. Raph says toignore them, they’ll lose interest eventually. (They never do.) They don’t haveto stoop to their level, says Donnie, like the hypocrite he is. (Donnie would fistfight older students in uni over scientific theory if he could.) They don’t wantto draw any more attention to themselves than they already do, says Leo, whenhe’s sobered from his bravado of keeping an air of lazily not caring. (Leo and his barest hints of mascara and meticulous eyeliner, Raph and his little sewing crafts in his backpack, Mikey and hisglittery binders he couldn’t resist getting and now regret having done so, for the eyes that stare and stare and stare at them all.)

Someone shoves Raph hard enough he stumbles backwards,knocking into Mikey and nearly toppling them both. Their train still isn’there. None of the adults waiting for it look like they’re going to step in. Everything about this sucks.

Mikey has to jump away to avoid Raph’s wrong footed retreat; his brother,though he’s at least a head taller than everyone here, keeping his clenched fistsat his sides as some jerk Mikey doesn’t know tries to physically push Raph intolashing out.

And Raph won’t,because he can’t, it wouldn’t matterthat he’d been goaded into it, everyone would blame him and wouldn’t ever lethim forget that he’d hit back. Onceit’s done, it won’t ever go away, and no one knows that better than Raph himself.

So his fists stay by his sides, and the split second they’reraised it’s to block a punch aimed at his chest. Raph’s expression is tight andangry, trapped like he is as the crowd of boys press closer, taking turnsshoving him, calling out names, laughing at his lack of reaction. You scared? Are you scared? You even got anythingdown there, or did ya get ‘em chopped off like your fag brother-?

The biggest kid, next to Raph, winds up to throw anotherpunch, and Mikey can already tell that it’s going to make contact with hisbrother’s face.

Raph doesn’t pick fights.

Sometimes, when he has to, though… Mikey does.

He’s half the size of everyone else, maybe smaller, but hisknuckles still impact against the asshole’s jaw and sends him reeling. Mikey shriekswordlessly and throws himself at the crowd of bullies, knowing he’s got theedge of surprise and nothing else. For a few seconds, he manages to hold hisown.

Then, someone with a lot more muscle mass than him socks himacross the face, then the stomach, and Mikey chokes on his own spit.

He breathlessly tries to keep going, but he’s thirteen andeveryone here is fifteen and older. Not to mention outnumber him almost a dozento one.

It’s a blur of pain for a minute there, fireworks of lightflashing behind his eyelids every time someone punches him. Fists and feet hittingwhatever they can of his skinny body. Then, something grabs him by the collar,and pulls him out of the fray with strength far greater than anyone else’s.

The guy who started it all swims in Mikey’s vision, rightbefore a big shape obscures it and picks him up with ease.

Mikey coughs on the blood of his swelling nose, and staresalong with everyone else as Raph holds their leader almost a foot off theground.

“Gonna say this once,”Raph growls out. “Piss off, or I throw you on the tracks.”

He drops the other kid, tossing him away a few extra feetfor good measure. The asshole lands poorly and has to be dragged to his feet byhis friends, wide eyes staring at Raph as he folds his arms and glares.

Their train finally arrives, coming up to the platform withthe usual shrill sound of its braking. What few other people that’d beenwitness to the whole fight stow their phones and get into the train cars,sensibly getting away.

Mikey and Raph reach for each other at the same time, andboard the train, too.

Raph’s bullies don’t follow.

“You gotta stop doin’ that, Mike,” Raph scolds anxiously,pressing another band-aid over a cut Mikey hadn’t noticed himself getting in thefight. “You don’t have to get caught up in that shit. I can take it. You’re gonna break yourhand one’a these days and then where’re you gonna be? You can’t do art if youcan’t use your hands.”

“Eh, I’d be fine. It’ll be a good time to try feet art,” Mikey says, sitting on their bathroom counter while Raph half-kneels, not even wincingas his banged up knee is taken care of. He’d almost ended up on the floorduring the fight, which could’ve had the whole thing go way worse for him. He’s lucky he got out of that with just a fewdark bruises and bloody scrapes, even if they’re turning nasty purple and redcolors against his dark skin.

Raph glares at him, mouth in a terse frown. Mikey pretendsnot to notice, and puts a cheerily colored band-aid on his brother’s cheek. It’sgot a fading bruise from a different fight still, now mottled with yellow, and Mikeyfeels a little lonely, being the only one in the room with bright littlepatches all over himself.

Raph doesn’t even try to move away from the band-aid as it’sapplied to his face. He just sighs long-sufferingly, like all of Mikey’s olderbrothers do sometimes, whenever he’s done something like this.

“You can’t keep pickin’ fights you won’t win,” Raph says,staring hard at Mikey’s bruised face. He looks so sad it makes Mikey sad, too. Whichwon’t do at all.

Mikey gently slaps his hands on either side of Raph’s face,and grins. “I only pick ‘em ‘cause I’m with you guys, and if I’m with you guys I’llalways win. Four against whatever, plus one when we got April. Sostop being a sadsack already and feel loved ‘cause I’m willing to punch stupidpeople in the face for you.”

Mikey’s smile is opening the split lip he’s got all overagain, but it’s worth it to see a hint of an echoing smile twitch on Raph’s face.

“Stupid,” Raph mumbles as he ducks away from Mikey’s hands,and Mikey doesn’t comment on the gloss his brother’s eyes have before he rubsat them. Mikey just hums and leans on Raph’s head with his elbows, idlythinking about changing the slivers of red wraps around his brother’s longdreads again. Maybe using a brighter red this time instead of a subdued maroon.

It might be something akin to waving a red flagin front a bull, but Mikey doesn’t mind playing bullfighter if it’s for hisbrothers.

if you’d spare some change to a writer who’s trying to build up finances after not getting paid for nearly three months, spec’s kofi tip jar would appreciate it,,

#rottmnt #michelangelo #raphael #My writing #Request Night #badgertablet #i stan the idea that while mikey is a really mellow kind of character this time around #he'll go 0 to 60 with no stops along the way if he's pushed to it #anyway i love writing injuries and this ended up being more hurtish/comfort than anything else oh well #maybe i'll angst better the next time around

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thisisthestoryofanotherus · 6 years

Text

Disney With Luke Hemmings

So this is the request for that fluffy disney date from like years ago it seems... Also been gone for awhile and hope to post more soon! Thanks guys for all the love i still get <3 Hope you enjoy!!

I found this in my drafts......from MONTHS ago so hope you like it!

What could be better than a family vacation at Disney? I mean even at 19 you loved the place…it did help you had younger siblings though to make it seem not so weird that you were there. You had to admit though, you were a little envious of your younger sister who was all dressed up as her favorite princess: Belle. Oh how you'd love to wear a dress and crown for a day…oh well. Your younger brother was slightly older, 13, so he insisted you do all the rides. So while your parents and younger sister were at the Dumbo ride and such, you and your brother were at California Adventure, just getting in line at California Screamin'. The name was accurate, you could hear the screams even from this far back in line…and wow did you have a long time to wait.

"This ride better be good if we're going to be here for like an hour" Your brother, Jason, said, gesturing to the sign that said "Estimated wait time: 1 hour" in bright letters.

"Ughhhhh….agreed"

Just then the line moved up a bit.

"Well who knows? Maybe the wait won't be so long after all" You winked, and moved closer to the guys talking in front of you. It was then, that even though their backs were towards you, you realized just who was standing in front of you.

You must have froze, mouth open you were sure, staring at the guys in front of you, because suddenly your brother was waving his hands in front of you, pulling you out of your daze.

"Earth to Y/n….hellooooo???"

"What?" You asked, shaking your head.

"I said what time are we supposed to meet mom and dad for lunch?"

"Um…12…"

"We'll be cutting it short then. What's the matter with you anyway you see a ghost?"

Then one of the guys looked back behind him, catching your eye. You immediately looked down, feeling as though he knew you were staring at him. He laughed, and lightly shoved the guy next to him. Then, much to your surprise, turned around to face you.

"Hi!" He smiled. "Nice shirt"

You eyes drifted towards your old 5sos band tee you got when you saw them last summer. You laughed then, and suddenly gained back your confidence.

"Thanks! It's my favorite band. You ever hear of them?"

They both laughed at that.

"No not at all..they any good?" The other guy said.

"Hmmmm….not really" You said giving them both a wink. "So, why is Muke waiting in line? Don't you have the money to get those fast passes?"

"Yeah well we're not as rich as people would think, plus we booked our tickets too late" Luke, the guy who initially saw you said.

"And we'll just let the Muke thing slide" Michael laughed.

"Wait a second! You guys aren't the dudes from that band my sister is obsessed with??!" You brother said, surprised.

"Obsessed?" Luke said, raising an eyebrow at you.

You just rolled your eyes.

"What's up? My name's Michael" Michael said, giving Jason a fist bump.

"Luke" Luke said, nodding.

"Hey…." Jason said

"So you like our music too?" Michael asked your brother.

"Not really….I mean it's fine….but I prefer rap"

"Oh yeah? Who you listen to?" Michael asked him

Next thing you knew, they were both in a serious discussion about music, swapping their favorite artists and such.

"I bet my brother is having a heart attack right now realizing you guys listen to his music, even though you make stuff he hates" You laughed.

"Wow he doesn't like us that much?" Luke asked, a bit of hurt in his voice.

"No it's not that, honestly I think he doesn't mind your music. He just prefers his own. And me listening to you guys and bands like you all the time makes him not like the whole pop punk genre. Or at least claim to…"

"Haha yeah I understand that"

"So how's your guy's break going? Making any progress towards that new album?"

"Haha smooth. No I can't tell you much about the album, only that yes we're working on it. And our break…it's been great. Of course I still miss the stage"

"Yeah I bet it's amazing…"

"Yeah…what about you? How's your summer going?"

"Ugh, college classes just finished, so enjoying my break with a family trip to Cali! Or at least trying to" You laughed.

"Haha that bad?"

"Well you know how family can be…but overall having fun"

"Ugh ya I get it"

You guys talked for a while longer and before you knew it you were in the front of the line. You ended up sitting next to Luke. As the bars closed over you, you could feel the butterflies in your stomach. Luke seemed to notice.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah I'm fine. I love roller coasters don't get me wrong, but the start always gets me a little scared"

"Hey it'll be fine. Been on this ride a million times! It's one of my favorites. Just breathe…"

He then surprised you by placing his hand in yours.

"Thanks Luke" You said, squeezing his hand.

Just then the ride started, you holding his hand the entire time.

When it finally ended, your throat was a little sore from laughing and screaming. Looking over at the guys you could tell they had just as much fun as you did.

"Definitely worth that wait!" Michael yelled.

"You forget how long we were standing there" Your brother laughed. "Oh hey Y/n! We gotta go eat now, I'm starving!!"

"Oh yeah we better go find them before our parents have a heart attack and start calling the national guard to find us" You laughed.

"Yeah we promised to go meet the rest of our friends too" Michael said.

"That's right" Luke said, biting his lip.

"Well hey it was really nice meeting you guys though! This was a lot of fun!"

"Yeah thanks! See you later Mikey, and Luke" Your brother said giving each of them fist bumps.

You then gave Michael a hug, and then turned to give Luke one. He hugged you back, but then grabbed your arms when you turned to go.

"So Y/n, how long you here in Cali for?"

"A week. I'll be here in Disneyland for a few days then LA…why?"

"Well I was just wondering…"

"*cough cough* ask her out already *cough cough*" Your brother coughed under his breath, which made Michael laugh.

"Um..well I was just thinking when you're in LA maybe we can meet up, get some dinner maybe?" He asked, turning slightly red

"I'd love too" You smiled.

"Great" He grinned. He then pulled out his phone, to which you added your number.

"See you soon Luke" You smiled. "And bye Mikey!" You waved as you started to walk away. Unable to believe the incredible day you were having.

"So does this mean you're gonna be famous now since you're gonna start dating that dude? "your brother teased.

You just rolled your eyes.

Thanks for reading!!! -Lydia

#luke hemmings #luke 5sos #luke hemmings imagines #luke hemmings au #5sos #5 seconds of summer #5sos imagine #5sos au #calum hood #michael clifford #ashton irwin

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breg21 · 6 years

Text

The Ties that bind us Ch.1

https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12840945/1/The-Ties-That-Bind-Us

Chapter 1! I'm so excited to get this story started! I now have a skeleton down; so I know what I basically wanna do with this story, I can't wait to write it all down! Anyway, please enjoy. Disclaimer: I do not own Danny Phantom, Nickelodeon does.

HOWEVER, LILITH FENTON IS MINE HEHEHE.

Two years had passed. Spring poured into summer, summer had swirled into fall, and winter was now taking its harsh claim over Amity. As the seasons changed so did Team Phantom, which was now their official name. Now that Team Phantom was a renowned worldwide corporation, it allowed people to make ghost hunting to be their career, and people could start as young as fifteen with parental permission. It was now a more government-funded career, with classes taught by educated people that had to get a degree in the field.

It also gave students that wanted to go into ghost hunting a scholarship into college if they wanted something other than ghost fighting, depending on their rank, how invested they were, and what skills they built up over the years. It worked like a grading system; the better the grades, the more scholarships were offered. While there was a grading system in Ghost 101, it worked more on the physical aspects, like gym, and either you passed or failed.

Ghost 102 worked on more of the science of ghost hunting, and was graded like a normal academic class. They were taught how to outsmart a ghost, how to hide from a ghost, and a better understanding of how a ghost thinks for self preservation. The students had to learn how to get out of tough situations that they may get into if a ghost were to attack them.

Danielle wasn't sure how many high school and colleges offered the ghost hunting classes outside of her town, but in town there were three classes: One taught by her grandpa, one by grandma, and one by Valerie's dad, Damien Grey.

Her dad had changed the most, while he wasn't the bulkiest around he was starting to lose his lean build and was gaining muscle from ghost fighting. He kept his hair about the same, and he now towered over Dash at 6'4''. His crystal blue eyes, despite having seen so much horror and shit in his young eighteen years, had retained an understanding of happiness. He always said it was because of his family that he was so grounded in reality. He now wore a plain black t-shirt with his symbolic logo, and simple blue jeans.

She had also changed a little over the years. Her figure was now more refined at sixteen. However, not wanting too many eyes on her, she kept to her baggy hoodies, sweatpants and leggings, unless she was with Tucker, then she'd dress a little differently. Her eyes that matched those of her dad's stayed the same, and honestly so did everything else. She didn't need much of a change.

Her mom and Valerie stayed the same physically, other than filling out in the chest area a bit and gaining a couple inches in height. Valerie still was curvy, and her mom still had her straight figure, which always seemed to compliment her nicely.

Sam was also growing her hair out now; it was just past her shoulders. Her signature clothing hadn't changed much, except for a different deep purple plaid skirt with black lining instead of the green; she had also traded her purple tights for black ones that stopped just above mid-thigh.

Valerie now typically wore a crimson red sweater and black jeans. She preferred to cover up, trying to protect her skin as much as possible if a ghost were to unexpectedly attack, unlike Sam who didn't give a damn, her own words being "If I get a scratch, I get a scratch, I'm not going to worry about it," to which the huntress could only shrug in acceptance. To each their own.

Tucker had changed along with Danny, getting more bulk in his build. It was not as much as the halfa but it added to him, and - to Danielle's utter disgust - made girls chase after him constantly, to which she'd secretly fire an ecto-blast at the fawning girl's ass over her boyfriend. He stood strongly at 6'2'', which still made her have to stand on her tiptoes to give him a kiss. Switching up his own outfit, he now wore a light baby blue hoodie with the logo embedded on the front, dark blue jeans that matched nicely, and a multi-colored beret of green, red and yellow. He was in his last term as mayor.

As of right now, however, it didn't matter how many years had passed; Danielle was still sure that school was the embodiment of torture for teenagers. She had been out with Tucker last night, past curfew -which got her grounded- and she could feel her eyes start to droop. Drool started to pool in her mouth, threatening to spill over. History 2 was so boring, and Lancer hadn't changed over the years; his voice still put people to sleep.

"Ms. Fenton!" Her textbook slid from her desk, dropping to the floor, resounding with a loud thud. Bolting up, her eyes snapped open, sweeping the room, searching for danger. When she came back to reality, she saw her classmates staring back at her in laughter and amusement. Her only response was to shrink a little in her seat. What scared her most was the look of anger on her parents' face.

"Ms. Fenton, do I need to have a conference with your parents? If the cause is ghost fighting, I'd allow it, but seeing as your dad over here is quite awake, something tells me that isn't the case." The glances she received from both eighteen-year-olds told her she didn't want that.

"No, sorry sir." He turned back to his lesson.

"Now, as I was saying-"

Out of nowhere, the ceiling caved in.

Two ghosts - from what Team Phantom could tell, one being Skulker, and one unknown - were in hand-to-hand combat. Skulker, unfortunately, had the upper hand in the fight as they pushed against each other to gain control against the other. His bigger build seemed to tower over her.

The girl looked no older than sixteen. The weird thing about her though, was she had almost the same costume of Team Phantom, complete with the DP logo, sleek green, black, and white colors and all. She had a round baby face, thin lips pressed firmly together, with a narrow scrunched up nose as she fought off Skulker. Her waist length hair was snow white, much like Danny's in ghost form, and her amethyst eyes narrowed in concentration on her fight.

There was something else she noticed about this new girl. A medallion hung loosely around her neck, with the letters CW imprinted in the middle that stood for Clockwork.

Just great.

Time travel. Can't we have a normal month?

The girl's head turned to the side, piercing daggers at the team. "A little help here you guys?" She hissed through her teeth as she continued to struggle with the hunter.

The four broke into action. Valerie, Sam, and Tucker pulled bazookas from their backpacks, while Danny and Danielle changed forms, and all started striking the hunter with ectoblast after ectoblast. It was moments before he was easily contained in a Thermos.

The girl got up with the help of Danny. Rolling her shoulder, she groaned in anger and pain at discovering that her shoulder was dislocated.

"Thanks, dad." the halfa said.

Everyone but the four gasped in shock at hearing this girl call him dad.

'Wasn't Danielle his only daughter? How many clones did Masters create?' was the only thought from their fellow classmates.

Ignoring their shock, Danny continued as if it was nothing. "What's your name?" He came up to her, grabbing her shoulder, signaling that this was going to hurt, and she nodded in agreement, used to this by now.

"Lilith." she grit out between her teeth. He grabbed her forearm, placing one hand on her shoulder, and snaps it back into place.

"What are you doing here?"

"I'm uncle Clockwork's apprentice. I'm from about twenty or so years into the future. Sometimes he has to send me to different times to test me so that I can learn to do things correctly. I don't exactly know why I'm here yet."

Oh, that made sense. Sorta.

"Wait," Sam cut in, placing her weapon back in her backpack and snapping the Thermos back onto her specter deflector belt. "I don't get it, why would Clockwork need an apprentice? He's the master of time. "

"Even the master of time needs a break too mom. Humans and ghosts are a pain to watch over constantly. And don't even get me started on the Observants." She shuddered at the thought of them.

"Okay." They all turned to the new nasally voice that enters the conversation; Mikey. "There's something I just don't get. Your daughter, from the future, just fell from the sky, and you act as if it's nothing. What made you so jaded that your future daughter coming here doesn't boggle your mind?"

In response, all fingers of the group, including that of her own, pointed to Danielle. "I was kinda the straw that broke the camel's back," She explained, with pride gleaming in her beautiful brilliant blue eyes.

"Shouldn't you be more careful of what you do here, haven't you heard of the butterfly effect?" That earned the nerd an eye roll.

"Why do people have the premise that time is so sensitive? The butterfly effect only happens in extreme cases."

"Do we have any more siblings in the future?" Dani asked.

Lilith turned back to look at her older sibling, "Yeah. He's a little shit too. He's thirteen." Lilith mumbled sorry when she saw the angered look of her parents at the swear word.

Well, they definitely had time to perfect it with Danielle.

That was when all hell broke loose.

Questions were thrown at her from the class, several all at once, one after another which eventually became a mess of words, shouting, and people who wanted their question answered. Poor Mr. Lancer couldn't even quiet the kids.

Danielle then offered Lilith a hand - even twenty years in the past the sisters had a special connection – and Danielle boosted her up onto Lancer's desk. Bringing her fingers to her mouth, Lilith let out a loud piercing whistle.

"Okay. Mr. Lancer has a class to teach, and I still have to figure out why I'm here. I'll answer only three questions, but then my family and I gotta get out of here. Now, one at a time and you better raise your hand. I won't answer if you don't raise your hand."

Paulina was the first to raise her hand, to which Lilith, with much disgust, picked her. "Do I marry the ghost boy?"

Lilith's eyes squinted in confusion at the eighteen-year-old, her mouth agape for a second, truly contemplating whether or not if this chick was for real. She could tell the rest of her family felt the same, and her dad was holding mom against him, trying to calm her with whispers into her ear so that she wouldn't go and attack the girl.

"Are you serious right now? I just referred to Sam as my mom. Wanna know why? 'Cause they've been married for years in my time."

The latina shrugged. "You can't tell me she amounts to much." Lilith, bless her heart, was mid-air, about to pounce on the older - older to her at least - girl when Danielle caught her by the waist, clutching her younger sister to her chest to try calming her baby sister.

"My mom is a world-renowned fashion designer that makes Danny Phantom clothing. Who do you think came up with my dad's logo? My mom." She stressed the name. "She's also a great ghost hunter along with the rest of my family. My parents are rich, I don't have to worry about any college money wise, but I sure as hell don't flaunt it like you do.

"And another thing, you marry Baxter. Have fun with that. At least one of your children doesn't turn out as horrible as you. The other one is terrible, unfortunately. "

"So we have two kids?" The jock asked sheepishly, as to not upset the girl.

While Dash didn't raise his hand like she had asked in the beginning, Lilith let it slide; she was nice like that."Yep. My brother is actually dating your younger one, Ashlen is her name. It's cute, 'cause she's nothing like her mother. From what I can tell, she likes him for him, and not just his ghost half." She smirked at the girl who was now glaring at her. Not that she minded. Paulina didn't scare her, neither did her kid.

"What's the other one's name? Please tell me it's a boy, I want to keep the Baxter name going." That angered her. He never changed. She had to bite back a growl that bubbled in her throat.

"That-"

"Why are we discussing this?" Mikey piped in once again. "She's from the future. This is only going to mess up the timeline."

That only pissed her off even more. "I have had training with the master of time himself. I think I know more than you're aware of. Have you even met Clockwork? No. So shut up and sit down. I have to cut this short anyway. I really have to find out why I'm here."

She turned to her family. "Let's go to Nana's. We'll discuss everything there." They all nodded in agreement, telling Lancer that they'd pick up their homework after school.

"Race ya." She saw the challenge in her big sister's eyes as she transformed.

"Oh, you're so on!" With that, they sped off towards nana's house, Danielle just a tad ahead.

Yee. I personally love the idea that Danielle and Lilith are close, despite the big age difference. Anyway, let me know your thoughts! Until next time. (I know I said it'd be longer until I posted this story, but I just had so much inspiration for this one that I had to write. Lol)

Shoutout to my amazing beta reader silente faery. The rest will be posted on Fanfiction. I hope you guys enjoy!

#danny phantom #dani phantom #sam manson #Tucker Foley #oc #Lilith #fanfic #fanfiction

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caseyj0nes · 7 years

Text

Underturtles

Summary:

They had never been lost in the sewers before, at least not this lost, not in quite a while. And then they were falling into a bed of golden flowers.

TMNT/Undertale crossover.

Pairing: none

Words: 1949

A/N: Idk, I've been sitting on this for like a year. If you like it I might continue it. This on is only to the first save point.

“Guys, where are we? I’ve never seen this part of the sewers before…”

“What? Do you think we know every bit of it, Leo? It’s a freakin’ big city.”

“We should just get home. Splinter’s going to be wondering where we are.”

“Guys, I totally know where we are. We’re right below Fourth, the way to the lair is like, right down this tunnel.”

Raph stopped in his tracks, causing the other four to stop behind him. “Well, I don’t think we’re gonna be getting down this tunnel unless one of you learned how to fly recently.” The other three looked down and saw the large hole at their brother’s feet, stretching right across the tunnel and at least twenty feet down it.

Leo looked over the side, trying to keep a bit of distance. “I don’t even see the bottom of it… Do you think it could be Kraang? They’ve been pretty quiet lately.”

Raph kneeled at the edge, trying to see the bottom. “Maybe they brought one of those worm things back.”

“Didn’t those like, shake the crud out’a the city last time?” Mikey asked, looking over Raph’s shoulders.

“Maybe it’s one of the holes they left then...” Leo tried again.

“Maybe we shouldn’t get too close to it. It might not be structurally secure around the edges.” Donnie finally spoke up. “You guys could fall in, and Merlin knows where it leads or how deep it is.”

“Donnie, stop worrying. I think we should come back with some gear and see how far it-” Raph cut off at the sound of cracking, and only had time to turn and grab Leo’s hand before he was falling.

Leo, not ready for the added weight, fell towards the hole, only being cut short by Mikey grabbing his feet, who in turn slid towards the edge and was grabbed by Donnie.

“I told you so.” Donnie bit out, struggling to keep Mikey from falling in.

“You know, Donnie,” Raph yelled up to him, his voice echoing off the walls of the hole and sewers, “’I told you so’ has a brother. His name is ‘Shut the hell up and start pulling us out!’”

Donnie started to try and pull them back, only to be stopped by more cracking, as the ground started to break away from underneath Mikey.

As Mikey started sliding down, unable to stop himself, Donnie started panicking, struggling to pull them back up.

“No, no, no! I can’t hold all of you up!” He shouted as he started being dragged in by Mikey. He gave one last attempt before Mikey fell off the edge, and he was dragged down after them.

When Leo finally came to, he let out a low groan before opening his eyes and pulling himself into a sitting position.

He blinked a few times before looking up, and seeing the hole in the ceiling very, very far above them. He turned his eyes back down, turning to see all three brothers, all at their own stages of waking up, Mikey rubbing his eyes, Raph still lying on his back and staring up at the ceiling and Donnie sitting on his knees, looking down at the bed of golden flowers they were laying in.

Leo looked down at them himself, reaching down to feel the petals of one. They were soft, and by the lack of pain Leo was in, it was almost like they had cushioned their fall from however high they fell.

“Where are we?” Mikey asked, finally looking around the long, stone room.

“The sewer tunnels?” Leo questioned.

“I don’t think so,” Donnie said, holding a flower in front of his face. “How do they grow?”

“What are you talking about?” Raph asked, now sitting up.

“The flowers.” Donnie clarified, spinning it between two fingers close to his face, then looking up towards the ceiling. “How do they grow? There’s no sunlight, no rainwater, but they’re as healthy as any normal flower, maybe even more so. They’re almost glowing.” He held the flower right in front of his eyes, the golden glow accentuating the red in his usually rust coloured eyes.

“What does it matter?” Raph questioned again.

“Well, usually flowers grow through photosynthesis, which involves a heavy dose of sunlight which it would not get this far underground. Even if it was the kind of flower to bloom only in dark spaces it still wouldn’t be able to get the water or nutrients it needs to thrive. So, with this information, I can only draw up the conclusion that we are definitely not in the sewers of New York.”

“Then… Where are we? We fell down a hole in New York!” Leo exclaimed.

“We fall into all kinds of weird crap, it’s not like this is the first time. Let’s stop sitting around and find a way out of here.” Raph suggested.

“We have no idea where we are, we can’t just rush into things.” Leo told him.

“Well, we can’t just sit here!”

“Why don’t we go through that door?” Mikey suggested, pointing to the end of the room.

The three older siblings looked behind them, seeing the dark doorway, leading into an even darker room.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea…” Leo said again, though he got up with his brothers.

“Well, Raph is right, Leo. We can’t just sit here, and we can’t fly, as pointed out earlier, so our only way is through here,” Donnie had moved towards the doorway, trying to see through the darkness. “Wherever here is…”

“Then let’s go.” Raph decided, walking through.

Mikey turned to Donnie, who followed Raph, then turned to Leo and shrugged, following the others through as well.

Leo let out a loud groan before walking through the doorway as well.

The hall was dark, but after a few moments they came to a larger section, with one patch of light sitting in the middle, and in the middle of that, a large, golden flower.

“Does that flower have a face?” Raph asked blatantly.

“Well, you’re not from around here, are you?” The flower spoke, and all four brother’s jumped, staring at it incredulously.

“Did that flower just talk?” Donnie asked.

“I did talk, actually. Howdy! Names’ FLOWEY. FLOWEY the FLOWER. And like I was saying, you’re not from around here, are you?”

“Where- Where is here, exactly?” Donnie questioned, Mikey leaning down to see the talking flower better.

“You’re definitely new then. This is the UNDERGROUND. Golly, you must be so confused. Someone ought to teach you how things work around here! I guess little old me will have to do. I’m sure it will work. You may look like MONSTERS but your SOULS feel HUMAN enough.”

The four turtles look offended at the word monsters, and Leo could only ask; “What are you talking about?” before the world blinked in and out of darkness, and suddenly everything looked different. They were stood in a small room, looking down at a box with four hearts sitting in it. One blue, one red, one purple and one orange.

Behind them were three walls, but they looked they were non-existence, just eternal darkness, the illusion only crushed by Donnie pressing his hand against the back wall.

Flowey sat across from them, on the other side of the room.

“See those hearts? They are your SOUL, the very culmination of your being. Your SOUL starts off weak but can grow strong if you gain a lot of LV. What’s LV stand for? Why, LOVE, of course. And judging by those weapons you wear, I’m sure you already have lots of LOVE, but I’ll share some with you anyway!”

The boys looked down at their weapons, Donnie turning to give Raph a confused look.

“Down here, LOVE is shared through. . . Little white. . . ‘friendliness pellets.’ Are you ready? Just think to move your hearts around and try to catch as many as you can!”

White pellets appeared around Flowey, ready to shoot towards the boy’s souls.

“I don’t trust this,” Leo said but noticed that he could move the blue heart with just a thought.

“Yeah, he’s too nice.” Raph agreed.

“I don’t understand what’s going on. Where are we?!” Donnie asked, looking around the small box.

“Guys, it’s a talking flower. How can you not dig that? He’s just tryin’ to share the love!” Mikey smiled.

“Don’t touch them.” Leo ordered.

“Ready?” Flowey asked, and the pellets started moving towards their hearts.

Leo and Raph immediately moved their hearts out of the way, while Mikey went towards them, and Donnie, distracted by trying to figure out how the box worked, stayed where he was.

As the pellets hit the hearts, Donnie and Mikey cried out in pain, dropping to their knees.

Leo and Raph jumped to their brother’s sides, trying to hold them up before they hit the ground completely. They all looked back to the Flower, now with a wicked smile on his face.

“You idiots. You should have listened to the others. In this world it’s kill or BE killed. Why would ANYONE pass up an opportunity like this?!”

His smiled turned downright evil as bullets surrounded the box where their hearts were, spinning around them. Raph leant Donnie up against Leo before jumping up to bang at the opening, finding himself stuck inside by an invisible barrier.

“Die.” The flower said as the bullets started moving towards them at a slow pace, laughing madly. They all moved their hearts towards the centre, trying to avoid the bullets for as long as they could.

And then, as quickly as they appeared, they were gone. The flower looked confused before he was shot out of the box, and a new creature appeared. She looked almost like a goat, though she stood as a human, and their thoughts immediately jumped towards mutant.

With her appearance Donnie and Mikey let out deep gasps, breathing deeply now that the pain was gone.

“What a terrible creature, torturing such poor, youth. . .” She said, in a soft, kind voice. She gave a sad smile at their looks of distrust, helping the now healed brothers to their feet. “Ah, do not be afraid, my children. I am TORIEL, caretaker of the RUINS. I pass through this place every day to see if anyone has fallen down. No one has fallen in quite some time, and certainly no one quite like you four. You almost look like you could be from WATERFALL, but your souls are so clearly human.

“Either way, come! I will guide you through the catacombs.”

The world faded again and when their sight came back they found themselves standing back in the room where they had first seen the flower.

The goat women stood in front of them, before gesturing them to follow and made her way to the other side of the room.

The boys exchanged looks before Leo shrugged, and started to follow her, the other three not far behind.

“Are you sure we can trust this one?” Raph asked.

“No, I’m not sure. But there’s something about her. Something that just feels like we should.” Leo replied as they walked through the door and into a lit room. Purple stone walls surrounded them, and at the end of the room was a pile of red flowers and a sparkling light in front of them.

Mikey walked towards it, and just as he got close enough to touch it, a voice loomed in their heads.

(The shadow of the ruins looms above, filling you with determination.)

(HP fully restored.)

{File saved.)

The boys all stood silent for a moment before Donnie spoke.

“File saved? Are we in a video game?!”

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #tmnt 2012 #undertale #donatello #raphael #michelangelo #leonardo #flowey #toriel #my writing #idek guys #bet you guys all forgot i even wrote it's been such a while #lmao #i'm trash #absolute garbo

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olympiansrpg1-blog · 7 years

Photo

BASICS

Name: Sebastien Park Age: 28 Affiliation: Titans Occupation: Hitman Faceclaim: Steven Yeun Status: TAKEN by Josie

THE STORY

They call you Leto. You’ve never not known the smell of cigarettes, watching cartoons every morning with ten other kids and waiting for your turn to use the shower. On nights you couldn’t fall asleep, you’d catch fireflies and keep them in jars underneath your blankets, your own little paradise. You’ve always been a bright child, but it didn’t matter if you tried hard at school or if your painting was your teacher’s favorite. That’s how life unraveled before you - leaving your foster home when you turned eighteen, floating around, getting involved with the types of people those television commercials used to warn you about. But you were a quick learner, moving from place to place and steadily moving up the ladder, ultimately learning how to make people disappear. Atlas didn’t come to you - you found them, and they instantly knew they’d be missing out if they let you go. So here you are, Leto. Another home - though you secretly hope it’ll be the last stop you make.

CONNECTIONS

ORPHEUS - Falling into bed with Orpheus was never a big deal, one of the many ways to blow off steam after a particularly heated job. The problem is that you’ve gotten to know them better and you do see the good in them - what Eurydice saw in them. You never knew Eurydice so there’s really no guilt there; just bitterness that comes from knowing that Orpheus will never look at you the way they did their lost love.

ICARUS - You’d caught Icarus trying to steal your wallet when you were briefly distracted and you’d taken them to an alley and left Icarus with a nasty concussion and a bloody nose. You hadn’t quite realized then that the little street thief was involved with the Olympians, but it doesn’t really matter anyhow. They should be thankful that you left them alive, really.

CHIMERA - When Chimera first became one of the Titans, they barely knew how to fight. Iapetus may have taught Chimera everything they knew, but Iapetus was never a fighter. Lucky for them, you were one of their best, and you trained Chimera, generously teaching them everything you knew. It makes you feel a bit proud, watching them grow, knowing that you helped them get there.

SUGGESTED FACECLAIMS

Devon Aoki, Julia Jones, Hannah Simone, Michael Ealy, Steven Yeun, Chris Pine

PARA SAMPLE

(setting: NYC, approximately two months ago. trigger warning: death, guns, smoking)

The music that played over his headphones had a surprisingly happy feeling to it, considering the gun in the back of his pants, tucked away under a plain t-shirt. His hands were buried deep in his pockets, a hum vibrating in his throat. His face seemed impassive enough, just another person in the crowd, but his eyes continually drifted over a man several feet ahead of him. The man alternated between phone calls, texting, shouting at the people around him when he bumped into them while he wasn’t paying attention, and generally making a nuisance of himself. Sebastien wrinkled his nose a little, but to anyone else who might’ve noticed him they’d chalk it up to the hot dog cart he passed (a rather nasty one, if the flies buzzing around had anything to say about it).

The man had made the mistake of creeping into Tartarus a few nights ago, seeking information for Old Olympus. He wasn’t one of their usuals; and none of his people had recognized him. Good informants lasted, but that meant that regular ones continued to drop like flies. Sebastien had followed him over the course of the past few days, learning his routines, taking pictures of him and anyone he interacted with. He’d even followed him to Club Nyra last night, and Bastien had to laugh at the balls on this man. He was either stupid, or brave. Of course, the two words could easily be exchanged.

Sebastien pulled his phone out, casually scrolling through his music as he stepped into a bodega. The man had stopped here a few days ago, left with a pack of cigarettes and three packs of gum, but Bastien had noticed more cigarettes being smoked than gum being chewed in the past few days, and it was obviously a habit he was failing at kicking.

Shane Smith was such a dumb name that it had to be real, Bastien mused to himself as he threw up two bags of sour skittles onto the counter, and pointed out his own pack of cigarettes. It was easy to melt back into the crowd, this time with a sugar rush and the scent of smoke swirling in his nose. He hated the taste, but the scent was as comforting as the callouses on his fingers (gun or guitar?), as comforting as the purr of a cat. It reminded him of where he’d come from (practically nothing), mornings spent with JaimeandJames, Mikey, all the other siblings that had come through his life at different times.

Though when he’d exited, Shane Smith was nowhere in sight, it was easy to retrace steps the man had made before to find him again. And Shane Smith was definitely stupidly brave, Bastien thought, later, when he trailed the man back to Club Nyra. He wouldn’t go closer than five blocks off, but it was easy to see him walking back inside. Bastien shook his head, finishing off his second bag of skittles and tucking the trash into his pocket. He’d hate himself for it later when there was sour salt all in his jeans, but he needed to get out of sight because New Olympus would have lookouts, and while they weren’t the Titans, they seemed smarter than the old farts for sure. Bastien backtracked, blending in with people exiting a nearby bar until he spotted Shane again.

He hummed, quietly, and placed his earbuds back in.

This isn’t violence, this is just a war in my head / I give it time but it never seems to end

Bastien’s every step fell in beat with the song playing, his eyes tracking through alleys as he followed a path parallel to Shane’s. The man didn’t even think to zig zag, and that was a shame. He could’ve gotten away. And honestly, Bastien could’ve just let him go, with the line he was walking. Shane Smith would be dead in a few days if he wasn’t careful, double-crossing both Old and New Olympus and trying to dig into the Titans as well. Sebastien clicked his tongue, and a grin curled across his lips as he finally drifted behind Shane after following him for about thirty minutes, closer than he had been the entire past three days.

Shane’s body language shifted from the relaxed stance of a white man at night to that of someone who at least had a small care for their existence. Smarter than he looks, then. Bastien popped one earbud out, and whistled the beat of the song that had been playing from Club Nyra’s doors when Shane had walked in. His shoulders were lifting up around his ears, and he looked ready to bolt. Bastien chuckled a little, eyes casual as he scanned the streets around him. Shane was crossing into Titan territory without even thinking about it, as they walked further and further.

Sebastien’s legs stretched further, carrying him closer to Shane. He grinned a little wider when he caught Shane trying to casually glance over his shoulder, but the streetlights only just caught Sebastien here and there as he ducked around them. With no one else on their particular stretch of road, it was easy to herd Shane into a familiar dead end alley, and Bastien’s hands slid comfortably into his own back pockets. His stance was casual where he stood at the front of the alley, watching as Shane realized he had nowhere else to go. The streetlight behind him illuminated black hair but cast a glare over Sebastien’s face, and he grinned as Shane squinted a little.

“You’ve been fucking around lately, haven’t you Shane? Trying to be a rat in Titan territory when you can’t even decide where your loyalties actually lie? Money won’t save you when the people you’ve been double crossing find out. And they will. I imagine they’ve had their own eyes on you recently.” Sebastien grinned a little wider, stepping in closer and ducking his head. His face looked so incredibly friendly in that moment that he saw the indecision on Shane’s face, the moment where this man had to decide if he was a friend or a foe.

“Your only option is running, isn’t it?” Sebastien hummed, tucking his earbuds away in his pocket at last, head cocking to the side. “Oh, but they’d know. They’d know and they’d find you before you could get a hundred miles from here."

"W-Who are you?"

The first words out of Shane’s mouth, and that was what he thought to ask? Stupid. So fucking stupid.

"I’m here to give you some advice.” Bastien rocked back on his heels, his hands returning to his back pockets, thumb tracing along the gun at his back. “Running really is your only option, unless you wanna die.” Bastien clicked his tongue. “You’ll probably die regardless. Your own fault, really. You’re an idiot for thinking you could pull this off. Fingers in pies that are far too hot, y'know?” Bastien shrugged, eyes falling back to Shane’s face. “You need to disappear. Whether you die or not is up to you, I guess. How far you can go, how well you can hide, how fucking smart you are. I guess you can choose how you die too.” Bastien eased the gun out of his waistband, weighing it easily and holding it with the casual grace of someone who had killed numerous times before and accepted it.

“I can kill you here in this alleyway, Shane Smith, with your expensive watch and nice clothes, and everyone will just think it was a mugging gone sideways. You can go home, Shane Smith, and kill yourself, save everyone else the trouble. You can run, Shane Smith, and one of them can kill you if you aren’t careful enough.” His lips curled again, his smile just as friendly as before. Every time he said the man’s name, he could see him flinch, eyes growing more and more wild as his fear response kicked in.

Bastien clicked his tongue, lowering the gun and rolling his shoulders in a shrug. “I’m here to make you disappear. Been following you the past few days. They’ve undoubtedly seen me once or twice if they’ve got their own tails on you, so you’ll be in pretty hot water soon. But I’m the kind of guy that likes to give people a choice with these things, especially when it seems like they don’t have much of a choice at all. People always surprise you when they’re at their most afraid.” Bastien tilted his head, blinking slowly. “So what’s it gonna be?”

Shane Smith blathered on for exactly six minutes and fourteen seconds before he just broken down in tears. Sebastien cocked his head to the side and listened to him as he cried and then Shane begged him to just end it for him, to save everyone else the trouble. “I couldn’t get any info on your people anyway, it’s fine- Just kill me, no one could tie it back to you- They’ll torture me-” Bastien wrinkled his nose at that, blinked and shook his head and sighed.

“Disappointing, really.” He shrugged his shoulders, rocked on his heels again. “Was kind of hoping you’d come up with something better.” And then he grinned. “When you head home tonight, one of them will be waiting for you. Probably one of the old farts; Zeus is territorial after all, and an impatient fuck. They won’t make it pretty. It will hurt. Guess you’d better find a way out of town without going back there.”

Bastien put the gun away in his pants and turned away when he heard Shane’s scrambling steps, and it was back out in within a second, pressed to Shane’s chest as Bastien turned, brows furrowed a little. Shane’s eyes went wide all over again. Bastien wrinkled his nose, shaking his head.

“Fine.”

Two shots, a quick gloved sweep of the man’s body to steal his wallet, his watch, and his cufflinks, and a few heavy sighs later, Bastien had ducked into the shadows and vanished as people came pouring out to try and find the source of the noise. He dropped the stuff in a sewer, and exactly twenty-four minutes after he’d given Shane Smith the choice of his life, Bastien was heading back to his apartment where it was settled directly in Titan territory.

His phone was eased out of his pocket, and he groaned in disgust at the sour salt all over the screen. “Do this every fucking time I buy these,” he muttered, typing in his password before dialing a number he had memorized. He could’ve called the number with his hands tied behind his back, half-drugged, beaten nearly to death (and had, once before). There was a genuine smile on his face as a familiar voice came on, and it transformed him into something remnant to the friendly man who had greeted a stranger in an alley, except this was genuine. “Hey, Rich. Well, I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news and as always the good news is fake because I didn’t actually save you any sour skittles this time but I did finally snatch up that rat that was crawling around my apartment, you know the one. Yeah, he’s not gonna be chewing up anymore important files, I promise. Nasty little thing though."

Bastien paused for a moment, listening, and hummed softly under his breath. "Yeah, I’m sure there’s a corner store I can find you some more skittles at, and I promise I won’t eat them before I see you again. And I will also pass your love on to my cats because as much as you complain about their fur I know you love them. Ah, gotta go, bye!” He ended the call quickly with a warm laugh, as bright as the sun. It was dark out, and the city was alive around him like it hadn’t been miles back. Bastien placed his headphones back in, smiling to himself, and he started to hum again.

We’ve waited so damn long, we’re sick and tired / I won’t leave any doubt or stone unturned / I’ve got a collar full of chemistry from your company / so maybe tonight I’ll be the libertine.

(A letter to Richard Johnson, found tucked away in a small box of Sebastien Park’s most treasured belongings. A few pieces of paper, well-creased, obviously read many times. There are scribbles on them, a few tear marks, even signs that they’ve been crumpled up before)

I watched this show once, where this lady’s therapist suggested she write letters to people and only send them if she felt comfortable with it, but she was supposed to be completely and brutally honest with them about how she was feeling. Expressing her emotions and all that jazz. You know I’m not one to hold shit back; it doesn’t do anything for anybody if I do. I’ve never lied to you, Rich, but there are some things I’ve kind of held back.

Germany was amazing. I never thought I’d get to travel like that; kids like me don’t end up jet setters after all, unless we marry rich or sell drugs which I guess I’ve kind of done for myself.

The day I approached you in New York, I’d been hearing whispers. Harvey Johnson’s son. Cronus’ son, back on American soil. You make an impression (there are a few words just barely discernible as 'for fucking sure’ here, but they’ve been scribbled out). You were mostly incognito, but I knew the right people and maybe I was feeling particularly stupid that day, particularly suicidal. So I found you and I sold myself like a piece of meat on the market because I wanted to make something of myself and the others (this word is underlined twice) always left me with a bad taste in my mouth. I was already doing illegal things; why not join a mobster and his would-be mob, yeah?

I’m sorry things turned out the way they did. I’m sorry we came back as an advancing war force instead of some sort of heroes. That’s one of the things I’ve always held back; I never knew my parents but I know some part of you loved your father. I’m sorry you lost him.

I don’t know if I’ve ever mentioned it to you, but my mom left me in Central Park a day after I was born. People slapped the last name ‘Park’ on me and that was that, y’know? I was a baby no one wanted and when they did want me, they didn’t want to keep me. I got passed to foster homes and my siblings got adopted and I kept getting left behind. You… You never left me behind, Rich. You looked at me and you saw that I was worth something more. You made me believe it, after all the times I’d tried to tell it to myself.

You gave me Germany. You gave me a family, people I’d die for and people that would die for me. Hades, Zeus, neither of those fucks care for their people the way you do, or even at all.

(The next three lines are crossed out so viciously that the pen stabbed through the page. Sebastien knows exactly what he wrote down that day, and he hates himself for putting the words to paper and releasing them into the world.)

So yeah. I guess I’ve said my piece. Don’t know if I’ll ever give you this letter, and honestly I’m considering tearing it into a million pieces now. Better to never let it see the light of day. I just have a few questions, and maybe I’ll ask you them myself someday. Maybe they, like this letter, will stay buried.

Why me? Why Leto?

Signed, Bastien

(setting: Sebastien’s apartment, late night, likely within the last few months)

Sebastien startled awake at the sensation of weight in his bed, blinking down at the bare shoulder next to him. A small smile curled at the corners of his lips, there and gone again as he looked down at Orpheus. He drew in a quick breath, shaking his head before throwing the blankets away from his legs. Orpheus didn’t stir as he slipped from his bedroom, and Bastien sat down on his couch while his hands dragged through his hair. He’d left his glasses here the night before, when he and Orpheus had stumbled in. Bastien left them sitting on the table, hands rubbing across his face.

He didn’t know what he was doing.

Bastien was an idiot, that was well known, at least when it came to things of an emotional nature. His time with Denise and Mikey seemed so far away now, the sensation of being loved almost foreign. But that wasn’t what this was. This was sex, plain and simple. There was nothing wrong with blowing off a little steam. It was like some sort of completely fucked team bonding.

The hitman groaned, sprawling out on his couch. It was getting harder, every time, to want to leave his bed when Orpheus was in it. He didn’t wake up as often anymore, at the sensation of someone else beside him. Orpheus was safe, their scent familiar. They didn’t always leave at first light now; sometimes they stayed and laughed with him in the kitchen as he made breakfast for them both.

A cat landed on his bare chest, and Sebastien hurriedly drew a blanket across his lap; he’d learned that the hard way. Nemo blinked mismatched eyes down at him slowly, and he returned the gesture before he rubbed behind her ears. “What am I doing, huh?” He asked her quietly, startling all over again when an actual voice answered.

“Talking to your cat when you could be in bed, from what I can tell.”

Sebastien sat up quickly, eyes sliding over to where Orpheus stood in the doorway to his bedroom. He hadn’t even heard the door opening, and that was /dangerous/. This was dangerous. They’d slid their pants from the night before back on, and their lips (lips he’d spent the night before kissing until they were swollen, the after effects still showing in the light of the streetlights from outside) sliding up into a smile.

“Should I go? Bad night?”

His first instinct was to say yes. Yes, get out of my house, get out of my life, stop creeping into my head. Then he thought no. No, this is nothing, it’s just sex and they don’t affect me like that.

Bastien smiled, nudging Nemo off of his chest so he could stand and make his way to where they stood. He leaned up, pressing a kiss to their still swollen lips.

Dangerous.

“Why don’t you come back in there with me and help me get back to sleep, huh?” His smile widened into a grin, and Orpheus laughed, tugging him towards the bed.

There was no Eurydice here. For a little while, Sebastien could pretend.

#leto #lsrpg #skeleton rp #mob rp #greek mythology rp #all #titan #taken #tw violence

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