#a theory to answer a question nobody was asking but me

[thatwolficorn]

More stupid theory stuff:

Remember how Tessa and the other humans at the gala were just shadows? Maybe that was because those events were shown through memories, through the eyes of a drone. Tessa now, in the present, has colour and a more defined form. The humans from the pilot in the exposition sequence are also not shadows. Eldritch J's human hand wasn't a shadow. The skeletons aren't shadows. We see all of that as is, without it being a POV or anything like that.

Maybe the drones see humans differently?

[nomairuins]

we had fun tho the whole family hung out and we did some sporclee and chronophoto and then globle me n lamp nd father did globle bc mein mamma went to sleep. yay :]

[theyzilla]

.

[artemismoorea03]

DPxDC Prompt: Damian's Friend

I feel like this has been done before so if it has please let me know!

-----

Damian is still learning to make friends. Sure, he has Superboy but according to his brothers and teachers he needed more friends. But why should he bother with new friends when one was already such a pain to keep up with? Social cues were hard to understand, jokes didn't make sense, and most civilians were far too squishy. He could end up hurting them accidentally and that would endanger his secret identity.

Though he quickly learned that meeting people as Robin made it considerably easier. That's how he ended up meeting Phantom, a 15-Year-Old boy who seemed rather lost. His only explanation for why he was in Gotham had been, "Listen, my mentor told me to come here and to stick with the birds and the bats. I don't know what that is or why I'm here but considering I don't seem to be able to go home yet I can only assume that I haven't found what I was looking for yet."

Phantom was strange, even for a meta. He didn't know what Gotham was, who Superman or Batman were, he had never heard of the Justice League, or even heard of 'metas' until Robin explained it to him. The kid seemed honest and he was staying out of the way of patrols and stuff which was more than most meta's did.

The only time he interfered with any fight was when Robin was cornered in a fight. In theory Robin would have been able to handle it but in the moment he had - admittedly - been a little in over his head. Phantom showed up and not only got Robin to safety but had managed to take down all of the enemies without killing anybody.

From that moment on Robin considered Phantom a friend and had given Phantom the number to one of the burner phones he kept on him during patrols. Phantom never called but would answer any time Robin checked in.

Which came in handy one day when the entirety of the team got trapped when a building came down, including one very frightened Superboy. The team was arguing loudly among themselves as they tried to figure out how to get out while Batman sat to one side with a headwound.

None of them were in good shape.

They were running out of air.

And the team were fighting and wasting even more air.

"We need more help." Nightwing said, "But I don't think Superman could hear us from here and nobody else in the city will be able to reach us before we run out of air."

"I could call my friend." Robin suggested, leaning against the wall.

"Uh..." Everybody looked at Superboy then each other.

"Your what?" Red Hood questioned.

"Is he saying friends?" Whispered Signal.

"Did you hit your head?" Spoiler asked, walking over as Robin stepped away from her.

"No, this is delirium. The air is too thin in here for him." Red Robin said.

"Robin, all your friends are right here." Superboy said.

Robin scoffed. "I have other friends. You guys told me I needed more friends, so I made friends. It was a task which I completed." He said, pulling out his phone as he silently muttered a 'please work' under his breath.

"Aw! I'm so proud of you!" Nightwing doted as Robin rolled his eyes and hit the call button.

"Yo, Robin, you see the collapse?" Phantom's voice said, sounding weirdly echoed on the line, not that it was unusual for Phantom's voice to do such a thing on calls.

"Bigger problems. I was inside the building during the collapse. Batman is down. Nightwing, Red Hood, Red Robin, Orphan, Signal, Spoiler, and Superboy are all in here with me. We need exfil."

"Oh shit, on my way. I can get all of you out at once but you guys will have to forget what personal space is for a minute." Phantom said as Robin ignored the looks from the others.

"Whatever it takes, but hurry we're running out of air."

"What floor are you on?"

"Basement."

"Got it, I'll be there in just a second." The call turned to static for a moment before Phantom phased through the ceiling and looked at them. "Wow, a party." Phantom said, ending the call and slipping the phone into a bag on his back.

"No time, get us out of here." Robin pushed.

Phantom nodded, "You and you put Batman between you." He ordered Nightwing and Red Hood who after a moment did as they were told, supporting Batman between them. "Now use your free hands and hug me. The rest of you guys hug them and no matter what do not let go of each other or me. If you do you'll die."

"Great, trust the weird glowing kid not to drop us and kill us or die here. This will only go well." Red Hood growled but didn't question it further as they all held onto Phantom.

Robin could feel the ground vanish from under them as they flew upwards through the building and then out into open air. Phantom then took then a safe distance from the building near where the police were and made sure they were all on the ground before he stopped flying.

"There you go. Thanks for riding Phantom-Air." Phantom said, sounding exhausted as he leaned against Robin who frowned up at the taller teen.

"You okay?"

"All good. Been a minute. You guys get checked out. See you around Robin." Phantom said, then flew away as Superboy grabbed Robin's arm.

"Are we going to talk about the fact that your new friend doesn't have a heartbeat?" He said anxiously.

"He... doesn't?" Robin tilted his head.

"No!" Superboy squeaked, "Where did you even meet that kid?!"

"He saved me from being shot. It's no big deal."

"Does B know he exists?" Red Robin asked.

"No."

"Then it's a big deal." The others sighed.

Nightwing shrugged. "Next time introduce us to him properly though, when we're not suffocating in a hole."

"I suppose I will consider it."

Orphan was quiet for a moment, "New brother?"

"NO!" They all said together as she chuckled.

[dee-morris]

Crackish Theory

but not really but maybe? Let me work through my thoughts and then you help me decide how serious I am.

I had a Shower Thought today about this ask.

"Never quite as good as he likes to maintain." Neil has also said that Crowley is an unreliable narrator when it comes to his Fall, and we know from the show that his story keeps changing. He sauntered vaguely downwards, he did a million light year freestyle, he only asked questions but he also rode into battle during the War. Hm.

My initial thought was that his memory had been fucked with, and he genuinely doesn't know. And this could still be true, probably is true, but I was scrubbing conditioner of of my eyes this afternoon and just started to wonder if Crowley actually did something Bad to get the boot?

I don't think I've ever seen anyone suggest this before, which is INTERESTING. We've collectively agreed that he's just a sad wet cat who would never hurt anyone, but my niblings in Christ, he turned a bunch of paintball guns into real rifles bc he thought it was funny. (I'm convinced that the only reason he made sure nobody died was the Look Aziraphale gave him.) Muh point izzz, what if he committed an act of sabotage in the course of investigating or poking around or building a suggestion box or whatever he did to get answers that pissed off the Metatron?

Or maybe he was a spy. Remember his Bond fixation? Maybe he worked undercover for Lucifer bc he was promised answers that the Almighty wasn't giving up. Once you let go of the idea that he's just a wee soft boi who only asked questions with big sad Puss in Boots eyes, the possibilities are endless.

As are the fic ideas. I think I've got enough material here to keep me entertained until filming starts, at least.

[txttletale]

h… how is any of that racist

assuming that you mean my posts about the 5e monster manual entry for orcs and how insanely racist it is--by happy coincidence i have a bunch of sources about this strewn haphazardly across my browser so i'm happy to answer this.

so we will start with this. the words 'tribe' and 'chief' are deeply, deeply racialised. they have been used throughout colonial (and well into modern and present-day!) history to describe groups of indigenous peoples across the world—with implications of 'primitive' people and societies within the Western myth of linear societal progress. europeans have nations and kings--africans and native americans have tribes and chiefs. the 'tribe' is not a neutral concept--it is a concept that was constructed by europeans in positions of global military domination over a century to justify a narrative about the linear progress of civilization to justify domination [1][2]. of course, it's not just the use of the words 'tribe' or 'chief' but their deployment here in the context of what is obviously supposed to be a 'primitive' method of of government--the 'orcish tribe' is inherently violence, a 'savage' society entirely built on "bloodlust" and "fear"

regis stella puts it much better than i could in this account of an early 20th-century travel memoir in Imagining the Other: The Representation of the Papua New Guinean Subject

while we're on this point i figure i'll add all the other language around 'savagery', 'inherent bloodlust' and so on in the monster manual here to further illustrate my point: it's all quite rote and repeats itself a lot.

now, wait, waiiiit, wait a second. wait a moment. hold up what was that last thing

oh thats not good. having to explain why this is racist feels a little like having to explain why its bad to hit people with hammers but i'll do it anyway: the comparison of real-life 'tribes' of people to insects, vermin, and pestilences is a very real element of genocidal rhetoric--from the holocaust [3] to the rwandan genocide [4]. what is the implied correct societal responose to a tribe that is 'like a plague?'

finally, this is the part that made me say "holy fucking shit this is in the 5th edition monster manual?" because it is pure undiluted gygaxian eugenics shit. first of all, the narrative of the ever-swelling horde, the indigenous or Asian people as an undiffernetiated mass of amorphous Other, is an old one and one that's been used to devalue the lives of people of colour and justify violence against 'the horde'. but the part that's absolutely jaw-dropping is the use of the tropes of reproductive racism--the narrative of Black and indigenous hyperfecundity is also an established racist trope, one which was instrumental in the forced sterilisation of Black and Native women in the USA [5] and now manifests itself in the "great replacement" demographic anxieties of modern racism [6] -- think of White Genocide conspiracy theories and the 14 Words. and of course that is to say nothing of the fact that is made very clear and reiterated (and mechanicised in the form of the Half-Orc player race!) that WotC wants to be very clear about how much orcs "readily crossbreed with other races". this is miscegenation anxiety, plain and simple--somethign else stella talks about.

so yeah! hopefully nobody will ever ask me this fucking question again! (this is just across two fucking pages of the monster manual by the way don’t get me started on the shit that’s in the other books! god forbid i even think about campaign modules!!)

[codacheetah]

Tell me your opinions on the stuff. Any stuff.

Grins. Smiles, even

I'm using you as an excuse to infodump my theory about the Island because I've had no in to do that, and my theory is pure opinion. Anyways:

THE ISLAND IS STUCK IN THE FUCKING FUTURE

(SCARE CHORD)

Hi so you might ask me. What the fuck do you mean by that. Well. Let's start with what we know about the Island, the King, and Wish Craft. (long ass post under cut. sorry)

The Island was redacted from the perception of outside world, via Wish Craft.

Wish Craft has the power to enable Time Craft. We see this primarily through Siffrin's timeloops, but also through the King's powers.

One of the King's powers is to show the saviors a "vision of the future."

...And this same attack is deflected back at the King by Mirabelle in ACT 5, in which the King is able to see the Island before being frozen in time.

...So. The King's "vision of the future." We're never told explicitly what this vision is. All we know is that it's apparently powerful enough to wipe the party in one hit, hearing it from a distance hurts your head, and that whatever Siffrin (and Loop) saw, they don't seem to actually be able to describe it. Even the King himself doesn't know what his vision entails.

We don't know whether the party all sees the same thing when struck by the vision, and Adrienne's answer to the question about it in the Reddit AMA is. vague? It's not a "no," and the specific wording makes me think the answer might be yes. But that's me reading into it.

Now. What do we know about the Island's redaction? The Island was affected by the wish recently, as in "like a decade ago" recently. We know that nobody in Vaugarde or the rest of the world is capable of thinking about the Island, anything closely tied to the Island's culture, or people on the Island for very long. When they do recall these things, they slip right out of reach. Particularly, the consequence for trying to think about the Island (or, more specifically, break the wish that forces the Island out of perception) is significant pain, localized in the head.

And that said pain is enough to become lethal, if pressed hard enough.

From here forward I'm running with the assumption that the King's "vision of the future" is not personalized to any individual, and is unchanging throughout the course of the whole story. Now. Remember the end of ACT 5, where the King gets hit with the deflected "vision of the future", and instead of dying, he recalls the Island and gets frozen in time? Very odd, yeah? Why wouldn't the King just die like everyone else does? He even does take 9999 damage when trying to say its name, like Siffrin does, and like the party does when they're hit by the attack.

Well. We know that he has a "true wish" that the ability to freeze Vaugarde in time grants. I don't think it's at all a stretch to guess that the King's "true wish" is to be able to remember the Island. My personal guess is that the King (and Siffrin) brought this "true wish" into effect via the "SAY ITS NAME" sequence- he even tries three times, a significant number in wishing.

The King (and Siffrin's) wish breaks, because it can't be fulfilled in this moment without breaking the wish to prevent the Island from being thought about. However. Consider the conditions at the end of ACT 5- the King sees the vision of the future reflected back to him, and what he sees is the Island. He remembers the Island, fulfilling his own wish, and is frozen in time. I consider this a compromise between his wish and the one binding the Island- the King gets to remember the Island, but nobody alive is able to think about it, because he's frozen in time; it's like the Universe is correcting itself (I WILL GET BACK TO THIS). The wish of all of Vaugarde to defeat the King is fulfilled, since he is no longer a threat, and Siffrin's wish wraps itself up soon after.

MY POINT BEING. The King's attack is a vision of the future. This "future" is of the Island, in some uncorrupted state. The saviors see it when he attacks them, and he sees it when it is deflected back to him.

The logical next question is "okay, so the Island exists in the future, but how do you know time shenanigans are even related to the Island?"

Recall a very odd series of interactions throughout the game, in which you try to interact with a piece of equipment that you already own.

The game rewinds slightly, before the item disappears, as the Universe corrects itself.

This is awfully similar to two particular events: looping back without seeing the death screen, and talking to the Daydreaming One about her sister. The latter is more interesting to me for the purposes of this theory.

In both instances, something is misaligned within the Universe (an item existing in two places, someone remembering something they're not supposed to) and it is corrected through some sort of rewind. Also compare the dialogue above to when you try to give Mirabelle the Stylish Bow when you already own it.

The world glitches, but Siffrin defuses the situation before the Universe has to intervene. Omitted from the screenshot is the fact that Mirabelle's portraits switch to happy from "catastrophically anxious" with no transition after Siffrin shows her where the bow is. Important to note is that when Mirabelle tries to recall receiving the bow, her head hurts, much like how trying to break the Island wish causes a headache.

The Universe leads you away from perception, and you can only follow.

My theory that I keep circling around is that through Wish Craft, the Island has been displaced temporally. The denizens of the Island, as well as the Island itself, still exist, but they are in the future. The Island is still loaded into the world, like how equipment is before you try to interact with it, and the Island cannot leave this quantum state, because it never actually went anywhere. The magnitude of the redaction event is so severe with the Island, because it is so much larger as an entity than a sword or a bow. There are of course things I don't really have pieced together, like why somebody would wish the Island into the future, how far into the future it is, or why equipment behaves this way. But it's the only Island theory I've seen that I have some level of confidence in, so I might as well lay out my cards for it.

[inbabylontheywept]

So I found one of your (nonfiction) stories and read the one about the refrigerators, and it made the librarian part of me very curious (and a bit horrified) and I have so many questions!! (Feel free to entirely ignore this, and I really don’t intend to ask anything classified) Are there still refrigerators being used for document storage? Did the refrigerators keep reasonably consistent temperature/humidity? (Because those are both things you want in anything resembling archival storage) How long were documents stored in refrigerators? Do you have any actual document storage/retention guidelines?!

Thank you so much for sharing all your stories, they are hilarious!!!

Naw, it's surprisingly difficult to even ask questions about classified material. We're encouraged but not technically required to be vague about the tests and their purposes, but the fridges are fair game.

Anyway, from the top:

Are there fridges still being used for document storage? At the time that I wrote the fridge piece, we were down to four (4) file storage fridges. At present, we are down to a single (1) file storage fridge, and parts to repair it are on backlog. Then we're going to have to build another filing cabinet. Not looking forward to that.

Did the refigerators keep things reasonant consistent for temperature/humidity? Yes. The temperature in the building does not fluctuate very much (they have relic computer systems that are absolutely, terrifyingly irreplacable) and keeping them happy is a major concern. The fact that it preserves paper is just a convenient side benefit. Humidity is likewise kept low in the basement (like, single digit percent low), for the benefit of some machines that dislike it strongly. We do occasionally raise the humidity in certain location while handling ESD sensitive materials, but those tend to be far from the fridges.

How long were the documents stored in refigerators? We have some facility documents that date back to 1972. We do occasionally have to reference those documents to answer such thrilling questions as "Why does overloading the machine hydraulics downstairs sometimes cause the microwave clock to reset upstairs?" (The answer is that, for reasons no one can explain, they ran 125 feet of wire off the test cell's breaker specifically upstairs, to the one outlet that powers the microwave.) (Seriously.) (And then they recorded this, as if their confession could expunge this kind of sin.) (Engineering does not follow Catholic God's rules- we do not have to forgive someone just because they fessed up.)

Do we have any actual document storage/retention guidelines? Sorta. The guidelines for disposal of documents refers to both positions and specific people that have been gone for years. In theory, someone could take it upon themselves to champion a new disposal process, but that would be boring bureaucratic work whose reward would be doing more boring bureaucratic work, and the machines that we work on here are the coolest shit in the world. Everybody loves working on the machines. Nobody likes sorting through papers. So we just kind of keep punting that one down the road. We'll probably do that until we get someone in who actually prefers doing paperwork to badass science (basically impossible), we get someone from outside the group who arrives to assure document compliance (theoretically possible, ridiculously arare) or until we run out of space (actually impossible, we add space more quickly than we can fill it with papers). We do have guidelines on storage safety. I do not know a lot about what they are. I'd be surprised if the fridges weren't kosher though. The official cabinets have some parts flimsy enough to put through with a can opener. Those fridges could be dropped from an airplane and not get a dent. They're beautiful devices.

[scientia-rex]

Long ask. I didn't see that you had answered anything similar.

How do I do activism? Yes, I could Google it, but I would rather learn from a stranger with claimed yet unverifiable experience on Tumblr than from a stranger with claimed yet unverifiable experience anywhere else, and I'm here and so are you and we can talk and have a [para]social interaction. I won't bore you with a condensed autobiography, but I have a lot of experience fixing mistakes, not unlike being a physician, but far less noble, what David Graber would call a "duct-taper". It's partly what led me to socialism. I fixed mistakes but could not fix the root causes and, when I investigated those causes, I ran into structure. I couldn't explain the human behavior I witnessed as human nature, because it wasn't my nature and, as far as I know, I'm human, so the only explanation I could come up with was that the structure of the company I worked for created the problems I was trying to solve, and I had no power to change that structure, and no desire to join the psychopaths failing up the corporate ladder. I expanded my thinking outward and saw the problem inherent in capitalism and all the associated -isms and -archies, all the while trying to figure out what I could do that could possibly change any of it. I dove into progressive politics, read theory, consumed all the lefty content I could find, and thought, and keep running into the same problems. But even if the root causes cannot be addressed, the effects still need to be, because the effects are people, hence activism.

How do I talk to congresspeople? I email them about issues, but am frankly afraid to call them. Shall I get voice mail, or does a person pick up? If the latter, I'm assuming it will be a secretary. I don't want to be mean to a person answering phones. I've been one of those people getting yelled at or threatened because of events I did not cause and could not possibly prevent or change and, maybe I'm oversensitive or have PTSD or just a hyperactive amygdala, but I cannot overstate the damage those negative experiences cause. Sure, in the grand scheme of things, the lives that can be saved or improved outweigh a few people's hurt feelings or possible psychological trauma, but I would prefer not to turn this into a trolley problem if at all possible. Maybe it's a stupid question. Maybe I'm overthinking it. I can be charming and I have no lack of empathy; I can politely disagree. Shall I have to argue with anyone? Or is it a thank-you-for-your-participation-I-will-tell-the-congressperson-have-a-nice-day situation?

How do I get a job doing good things for people? This is somewhat pressing as I quit my corporate job five years ago, to have what turned out to be a midlife crisis, and have been living off savings (that are running out) ever since. I want to help and don't want to be ashamed of what I do for a living. I've always been able to do anything I've ever tried to do, but I'm 45 with little formal education or qualifications, and am thinking it's maybe too late to go back to school. Most of the non-profits I see seem like little more than scams. And perhaps the most serious complication: I'm a loner, more out of habit than inclination. I'll spare you the background, but I have no connections and no idea how to make them, and I don't believe I have any particular skills so valuable that should confer an immediate advantage or demand for my labor, but then again I don't know what is in demand.

It's OK if you can't answer some of these things. I simply have no one to talk to about them who can give any actual advice and figured you might. Thanks.

How to do activism: The first thing you need to know is your axe to grind. It was easy for me. I've been out since I was 13, nobody ever believes a girl is bisexual, it's always "you want attention" or "you're secretly a lesbian." That was in 1997. I went through hell and I'm bitter about it. So when I realized I liked medicine, I realized I could turn my life into an extended revenge arc by moving home and telling everybody it's OK to be gay. Two birds, one stone. I work with a woman who didn't get her axe to grind until about three years ago. She realized she was fed up with people abandoning dogs. She's one of the most active volunteers at the local shelter now. She's saved a lot of dogs' lives. She didn't start out knowing anything about it, but she told the shelter she wanted to volunteer, and they've helped her grow through the rest of it. My husband works with the local food bank, because his mom's neighbor (who is a family friend and sweetheart) wrangled him in to serving on the board, so now in addition to board meetings once a month he goes in sometimes to do things like help his mom's friend unload trucks. Sometimes the cause picks you, sometimes you pick the cause, sometimes you are the cause. And no matter what the cause is, someone else is already working on it. Someone else already cares deeply and if you show up ready to be hands on and help out, with humility because you know that you don't know everything, they will help you learn how to be effective. I started out in medicine by volunteering at the emergency room near where I lived. I pushed a linen cart around and restocked gowns in rooms, and when I couldn't fit any more washcloths into drawers I cleaned doorknobs. One of the nurses once told me she really appreciated that I cleaned all the doorknobs, because it wasn't getting regularly done. I am in medicine now because of many, many people I asked for help and who helped me because they wanted to contribute to justice and equity in medicine, whether for queers or rural people or women. This is, and has always been, a combined effort. Alone we beg, together we bargain.

Calling elected representatives: Oh god I know, me too, calling strangers is the LITERAL WORST. I'm 40 and I'd rather pepper-spray myself than argue with a human on the phone. Wait until after hours and you'll get a voicemail. I like to leave voicemails that start with "My name is Dr. Rex, I'm a constituent of yours, and I VOTE, and I'm calling about ____." That's honestly about all it takes--when I was hanging out with the lobbyist she told me they keep lists with tick-marks for how many calls, emails, etc., they get on a topic. Calls count for more. The more effort you have to put in, the more engaged they know you are. So call, but if people scare you (and the people who pick up are almost always nice, if you do get a person, and they will 99/100 times say "thank you for your call, we will pass your concerns along to so-and-so"), call at night.

Going back to school is probably unnecessary. Spin your past experience aggressively and start applying to nonprofits. (You "took time off from the working world in order to sharpen your focus on what matters most to you," which will be whatever this particular group does.) It's OK if you pick a bad one to start with; most of them are shit-shows, and lots of them still accomplish good things. Nonprofits are a bloodbath when it comes to actually being an employee--they know that part of the compensation is the sense of living ethically and they will use your altruism against you--so keep your resume updated and be prepared to bail if grant funding doesn't come through, but most areas have food banks and pet shelters and human shelters and jails and medical clinics and hospitals (for every doctor who works at the local hospital there are at least 10 support staff by the numbers, and they are utterly critical and always under-staffed). Sometimes if you start by volunteering somewhere, once they realize you're dependable, you can get a job there. I am zero percent kidding about working for a hospital, clinic, or jail, by the way. Those are places I know well, and there are always civilian jobs available. You want to make a patient's day better? Be the front desk, front line staff who use the right pronouns and cheer them up.

I think it's completely reasonable to have procedural questions about how all of this works, and I am grateful to you for giving me a chance to talk about it a bit. Please feel free to ask any follow-up questions. And for reference, when I was just starting out in research at a time when the market for research-trained people frankly sucked, I applied well over 300 times and got well over 300 rejections (I was counting) before I ended up with a job that I loved (even though it was hellishly stressful and I made just barely more than minimum wage for working well over my alleged, salaried "hours") and felt like I was making a positive difference for the world with. And from there, I kept making changes as I realized what I wanted and needed. Just keep doing it. You don't have to feel good about every step, you don't have to know what you're doing, just keep putting one foot in front of the other as you try to figure out what will make you happy. Because nothing else is a good proxy for happiness, and happiness, for a whole lot of humans, means finding something meaningful to do in life. Helping others. Be okay with changing, be okay with sacrificing who you are right now for the sake of who you can become. You've survived four decades on this bizarre and cruel planet, and you have inherent, intrinsic worth as a human being. You deserve your own kindness.

[rollingsins]

all hers, part xxi

part i | part ii | part iii | part iv | part v | part vi | part vii | part viii | part ix | part x | part xi | part xii | part xiii | part xiv | part xv | part xvi | part xvii | part xviii | part xix | part xx | part xxi | part xxii | part xxiii | part xxiv | part xxv | part xxvi | epilogue

summary: Richie's gone. Sam and Tara rush to the police station, and R gets a visit from someone she hoped to never see again.

warnings: (+18), Tara is Ghostface, mention of murder. Mention of sex, violence.

word count: 3.5k

a/n: it's here! GF final reveal. as mentioned previously, I'm going to try keep the blog spoiler free for the next 48 hours, so won't be posting spoilery asks, but please still feel free to send them through! I'll post them a little later :))))) hope you all enjoy, and I hope your theory was correct!

Nobody says anything for a good twenty seconds.

The Sheriff’s face is stony. Serious. 

You feel as if your heart has just dropped down into your stomach. 

Tara’s hand grips tight on your hip. 

Sam blinks, mouth open like a fish out of water. 

And then it’s her who breaks the silence. 

“He’s gone?” 

She blinks once more. Her words turn into a splutter. 

“But he’s dead.” 

The Sheriff swallows. You almost feel bad for her, the way she wrings her hat in her hands like she’s standing in front of a courthouse of jurors. 

“He was admitted to the morgue,” She explains, voice soft, “There was a fifteen minute window where the Coroner was off shift. We think it happened then.” 

“You think what happened?” You ask, heartbeat hammering loudly in your ears, “You think he got up and walked out?” 

“No,” Says the Sheriff, a little impatient, “He was dead. He’s definitely dead-” 

“And you lost him?” Tara asks, her voice rising, “You lost a dead guy?”

The Sheriff looks at Sam. 

“Perhaps we should do this somewhere more private?” 

“Absolutely not,” Sneers Tara, “You don’t exactly have a track record of asking the right questions, Sheriff.” 

Except she does. And you know it. You touch Tara’s arm, try to quiet her. 

Let’s not piss off the person who can haul you right back to jail, the look in your eyes says. 

But Sam crosses her arms. 

“Tara stays. She’s right, Sheriff. First you try to pin six murders on her, then you lose the actual culprit. The dead culprit.”  

The Sheriff purses her lips. 

“I’m not here to argue,” She says, directing a pointed look at your girlfriend, “But I am here to find out what happened. Whoever Richie was working with likely took his body. Why? I don’t know. But I need answers. And fast.” 

Sam furrows her brow. 

“I don’t know who he was working with,” She says, “I didn’t even know what he was doing in his spare time. Hell, I had no idea who he truly was.”

She sounds a little agonized. Like it’s her fault her boyfriend almost had her sister killed. 

“But you knew him.” Says the Sheriff, “You knew his patterns, his friends, his routine. If we can pin down some names, we might be able to find the culprit.” 

She stands a little taller. 

“And I’d like you to come down to the station and help me figure it out. Please.”  

Sam looks at Tara, a little torn.

“I need to be here with my sister.” She says. 

“Your sister will be fine,” Says the Sheriff, “I can arrange for a squad car. Two, if you need it. She’ll be safe, Sam. They won’t let anything happen to her.” 

“Fuck that,” Says Tara, “We’re coming. Down to the station. Sam, I’m not letting you talk to them alone.”

There’s fire in her voice. Fire that usually only sparks when it comes to you. You blink, a little surprised. Sam seems to be surprised by it too, going off the look on her face. 

“That really isn’t necessary.” Cuts in the Sheriff, hurriedly, “Tara, it’s really better if I talk to Sam alone-”

“You’re not talking to Sam without me,” Growls Tara. 

The Sheriff blinks, her shoulders drawn tight like she’s gearing for a fight. And then she slumps them. 

“Alright,” She says, voice even, “What matters is finding Richie and his partner. Tara can be with you.” 

Sam swallows. She nods, only slightly. 

“I’ll get my jacket.” 

-

You’re halfway into climbing into the Sheriff’s squad car when a familiar Ford Focus pulls into the driveway. 

It’s your Mom’s car. You spot her behind the wheel, looking a little forlorn as she hurries to step out. 

And then you see your Dad. Face pinched. Annoyed. Like this is the last place he wants to be. 

“One second,” You tell the Sheriff, and before she can protest, you’re climbing out of the backseat and stepping out onto the drive. 

“YN,” Says your Mom, a little out of breath as she approaches. 

Your Dad hovers by the car, scowl on his face as he surveys Tara in the backseat of the squad car. Your Mom’s eyes widen. 

“She’s not been arrested again?” 

“No, Mom,” You huff, “The Sheriff just needs Sam’s help on something, that’s all.” 

“Oh,” Says your Mom. Then her voice softens, “Darling, please. Come home with us. We all need to talk.” 

“I don’t think so, Mom.” You begin, “Not when Dad’s acting- crazy, like this.” 

You look over at him. He hasn’t taken his eyes off Tara. Glaring, eyes frosted over. Like he hates her more than anyone else in the world. 

“Dad has agreed to listen,” Your Mom begs, “Please, sweetheart. He knows he overreacted about the- sex,” Her voice drops, like she’s just said something scandalous, “But the other things - the arrest. The manslaughter?”

“Self-defense,” You say immediately. 

Your Mom swallows. 

“The self-defense. We need to talk about it. You’re still our daughter. Our only daughter. And we’re worried about you.” 

You shoot a look over to the squad car. 

The Sheriff is watching, her eyes pinched. Sam’s watching your Dad, but Tara is looking at you. 

“Babe?” She says from the car, voice soft, “What is it?” 

It isn’t the worst idea in the world. They’re still your parents, after all. You don’t want this - your Dad angry at you. Angry at Tara. You don’t want to ruin your relationship with them if it can be salvaged. 

Your Mom blinks, desperation in her eyes. You soften, pursing your lips. 

“I’m going to go with my parents,” You tell Tara, “My Mom is right. We should talk.” 

Tara sits up. She pries off her seatbelt immediately. 

“I’ll come.” Tara says, climbing out of the car. 

“No.” Your Dad growls from the car. You ignore him. Rub your hands over Tara’s forearms. 

“Babe, it’s fine. You need to go with Sam,” You remind her. You lower your voice, “You need to be in there, make sure she’s okay. Like you said." 

Tara looks at you, conflicted.

“But, babe-” 

“I’ll be fine,” You assure, “I’ll be with my parents. You and Sam can come and pick me up from the house when you’re done.”

“But Ghostface-”

“Isn’t going to attack me in broad daylight,” You say, “Besides. My Dad’s arsenal is almost as big as Sam’s. Remember?” 

Tara looks at your Dad, a little doubtful. 

“She’ll be fine, Tara, I’ll send in a squad car.” Says The Sheriff, looking over the rim of her sunglasses at you, “But if you want to go, I don’t mind talking to Sam alone-” 

Her tone of voice suggests she very much wants Tara to stay with you. Tara picks it up the same moment you do. Her eyes narrow. Sam's an easy target - Richie's girlfriend, perhaps she could even be sold as his partner in crime.

“You’re not talking to Sam without me,” She says, voice a growl. She shimmies out of the backseat and presses a kiss to your lips, “Keep your phone on,” She says, “Text me every five minutes, okay?” 

You nod. 

“Okay, babe.” You assure, offering her a small smile. 

She kisses you once more. 

“And be careful.” 

-

The drive back to your parents house is in silence. 

You sit in the back seat, twiddling your thumbs. Your Mom drives, your Dad stewing in silence. 

When you arrive at the house, it isn’t much better. 

“I’ll make tea,” Says your Mom, hurrying off to the kitchen as you and your Dad settle down on the sofa. His lip twitches, like he has something he wants to say, but you get in first. 

“You owe Tara an apology,” You say, eyes narrowed, “She has a bruise on her arm the size of Iowa-” 

“She’s lucky that’s all she got,” Says your Dad. 

You stare at him for a moment. Then stand. 

“I’m not talking to you if you’re going to be like this,” You say, voice hot. 

Your Dad hesitates. Then puts his arm out to draw you back down. 

“I’m sorry,” He says, and although it’s through gritted teeth, he does sound like he means it, “I shouldn’t have grabbed her. I’ll apologize to her.” 

You blink. 

“Thank you.” 

Your Mom reemerges, cups of hot tea in hand. 

“Darling,” She says, “Please. Sit down.” 

You settle back into your seat, phone buzzing in your hand. It’s Tara. 

In Sheriff’s office with Sam, waiting for her to come back, it reads. 

Then. It buzzes again. 

You ok baby? 

Fine, you message back, Dad said he’s sorry for grabbing u. 

I’ll believe it when I hear it, Tara sends back. 

Your Mom clears her throat. 

“YN,” She says, “Can you put the phone down please? We need to talk.” 

And talk you do. 

Your Dad stays quiet while your Mom outlines her concerns. The plan, the manslaughter. Tara’s arrest. Her concerns are valid. 

Yes, Tara had been arrested for murder. Murders that she had committed. 

Yes, you’d set up a foolhardy plan with Tara’s friends to capture Ghostface. 

And yes, you’d gone into that school knowing you were about to take someone’s life. And done exactly that. 

You watch as your Mother tries to understand. And know there’s nothing you can say to quell her fears. 

“I think we need to get you into therapy.” Says your Mom, chewing her lip, “We should have done it earlier. I’m sorry we didn’t do it earlier.” 

You blink. 

“I don’t want to talk to a shrink,” You argue. 

You don’t want to talk to anyone about this. Talking led to answers, answers that you very much need to keep buried. For your sake, just as much as Tara’s. 

“Please, honey,” Begs your Mom, “You haven’t been coping, that much is obvious.”

“I’m fine,” You say, leaning forward, “As fine as I can be. I know you’re upset about the plan, but Mom- it was the only way. I mean, look what he was doing to us. Dad carries around a shotgun like it’s his wallet, Tara was going out of her mind, and poor Sam is one more attack away from a nervous breakdown-” 

“Exactly why you should talk to someone,” Says your Dad, quietly, “This isn’t normal, YN. Normal eighteen year olds are worried about which colleges they’re going to get into. Not about if they’re going to be attacked in their homes in the middle of the night.” 

He pauses. 

“And it wouldn’t hurt Tara to go, either.” 

Annoyance flares up in your chest. 

“Can you stop going after Tara?” You say, suddenly on edge, “She’s done nothing to you, Dad. All she’s done is protect me, and you’re acting like she’s been abusing me or something-” 

“There’s something not right about her,” Your Dad says. His brows furrow, like there’s something he just can’t quite work out, “YN, she treats you like you belong to her.” 

“I do belong to her,” You say immediately, and then regret it almost instantly. Your Dad’s face contorts in anger. Hurriedly, you walk it back, “I mean, she belongs to me too. I’m her girlfriend. And she’s mine.” 

“Honey.” Your Mom is looking at your Dad, a serious look in her eye. Like she’s trying to warn him off saying the wrong thing. 

You watch his fists ball. 

“Nobody belongs to anyone,” Your Dad says, “You’re not a piece of property. See, this is exactly what I mean. Any shrink worth his weight will tell you the same.” 

“I’m not talking to a shrink,” You say, voice raising, “You can’t make me.” 

Your Dad stands. His voice is like thunder. 

“You’re my child and you’ll do what I say,” He says, familiar vein popping out of his forehead.  

You sink back into your seat, crossing your arms, “I thought I didn’t belong to anyone?” You say, voice flat. 

Your Dad takes a deep breath. The way he usually does before he’s about to launch into a tirade. 

His hand raises, and he points a finger at you. 

And then his face freezes. 

It’s unmistakable. A loud shattering, like a glass has been dropped. Your Mom’s face falls. You blink, head turning to see where it had come from. 

“What was that?” Your Dad says, turning from you, suddenly on guard. 

It had sounded from the kitchen. Butterflies soar within your stomach, but not the good kind. The kind that feel like you’re being eaten from the inside out. 

The back of your neck prickles. And then your heart almost leaps out of your chest as you feel your phone buzzing in your hands. 

It’s Tara. Her pretty smile flashes across the screen. You gulp, silencing your phone with a click of your button. 

“The gun,” Hisses your Mom, “Get the gun.” 

Your Dad fumbles around behind the sofa. He pulls out his shotgun, posies it against his chest. 

“Who’s there?” He calls out, but his voice shakes, “I’m armed. I have a weapon.”

Silence. 

Your Mom grabs you by the arm, pulls you back against the wall. 

“Stay here,” Your Dad says, cocking the shotgun. 

“Dad, don’t-” You hiss, as you grab your phone. It’s buzzing again, Tara’s name flashing across the screen, “I’m going to call the police.” 

But he doesn’t listen. 

He draws closer to the kitchen, step by step. Your Mom’s eyes are wide, fearful, as she clings onto your arm for dear life. 

You press your phone to your ear, answer Tara’s call. 

“Babe-” She says, voice urgent, “Stay where you are, I know who Ghostface is.” 

But you barely hear her. Your heartbeat is thundering in your ears, fire flooding through your veins. 

“He’s in the house,” You say, breath caught in the back of your throat, “Tara, he’s here-” 

The crunch of your Dad’s boots against the kitchen tile. You watch as he disappears out of sight. Tears spill wet down your cheeks. Your Mom’s grip on your hand is so hard you feel as if she might pull it clean off. 

“Baby, I’m coming,” Tara says. She’s out of breath, like she’s running, “Sam- drive.”

“Call the police, Tara, please,” You whisper, voice a beg, “Call the police right now.” 

“Stay on the line, babe,” Tara says. You hear the click of the car door, and Sam’s voice. Urgent. Desperate, “We’re coming right now. We figured it out - Ghostface is-” 

But you don’t hear what she says. 

Your Dad disappears into the kitchen for less than a second. Another loud crash sounds, then your Dad cries out. 

The shotgun blasts. 

Your Mom screams. 

Your ears ring as you drop your phone to the floor, the screen smashing instantly. 

“Dad?” You call out, hands shaking as you move your Mom behind you, “Dad, say something. Are you okay?” 

But he doesn’t say a thing. 

Blood pounds through your body. Your mother starts to cry. Adrenaline floods through you. 

And suddenly you know exactly what you need to do. 

“Run.” You tell your Mom. 

Your legs feel like jelly as you sprint through the living room, your Mom close behind. You make it to the foyer, looking behind you wildly in an attempt to see if anyone’s behind you. You press your hand against the handle and attempt to draw it open. 

But it stays firm, locked. 

“It’s the alarm system,” Says your Mother, face thick with tears, “The house is on lockdown, Daddy set it up to go through our phones.” 

“So get your phone out.” You hiss. 

She fumbles around in her pockets and draws out her phone. You watch the hallway. It’s quiet. Eerie. No sign of your Dad, and no sign of anyone else. You eye the living room window, thinking. 

“It won’t unlock,” Your mother says, voice frantic. 

You seize the phone from her hands, fiddle around in the app. UNLOCK is near the center, a bright green button. You press it once. Then twice, but nothing happens. 

As if it’s been overridden. 

“Window,” You mumble, “Mom, get to the window. I’ll break it.” 

It happens in a flash. 

One moment you’re dropping her phone to the floor, in an effort to grab her hand and run. 

And the next, you see him. 

Black cloak. Mask pulled over his face. 

Your Dad’s shotgun in his hands. Blood coated over his gloves, gleaming in the daylight. 

“Run!” You scream out. 

Your Mother sprints. Ghostface raises the weapon, lets out a single shot that rings out heavy into the air. It misses, flies off into the wall behind you. 

“Don’t move.” Says Ghostface, voice contorted, “Move and you die.” 

But you don’t listen. The gun isn’t reloaded - you don’t know much about weapons, but you’ve seen your Dad shoot it before. You tear off, ignoring his angry cry out as you follow your Mom into the living room. 

Your Mom grabs a nearby lamp, flings it wildly at the window. It shatters, almost as loudly as the shotgun. Pieces of broken glass litter the carpet, but it's the least of your worries. 

You leap over the couch, take your Mother’s hand and lead her to the window. 

And then, out of the corner of your eye, you see him again. 

He’s loading pellets into the shotgun, and then, with a quiet click, he raises it once more. 

But he doesn’t point it at you. 

“Mom!” You scream. 

Another blast sounds out. You grip either side of your head, ears ringing painfully at the sound. Your mother screams, and then falls to the floor. 

Blood spills thick and fast onto the carpet. 

You drop down, watch in horror as you catch sight of the wound. It’s gory, bloody, half of her leg blasted clean off. She wails, eyes wide in agony, clutching at her leg as if it will fall off if she lets go. 

“Mom.” You sob. You grip her shoulders, in a feeble attempt to drag her to the window. 

You should run. You should leave her and run. 

But you can’t. 

She’s your Mother. 

And it’s just the distraction Ghostface needs. 

Your Mom looks up at you, mouth open in horror as sees him, looming behind you.  

“YN!” She cries out. 

But you don’t turn in time. 

You feel the hard press as the back of the shotgun slams against your head. 

And then everything turns black. 

-

You feel like you’re floating. 

Over the earth, mind dizzy, like you’ve been launched into space without an oxygen mask. 

There are stars behind your eyes. The back of your head aches, unpleasantly. You can feel something wet against the back of your neck, trickling down underneath your shirt. You groan, move your hand to wipe it away. 

And then you realize your hands are bound behind your back. 

Panic surges through you as you remember your last moments of consciousness. 

Your Dad, walking into the kitchen with a shotgun. The bang of the bullet. 

Your Mom, screaming, writhing in pain on the living room floor, shotgun pellet in her leg. 

Ghostface. 

You open your eyes, chest heaving. 

Everything’s fuzzy, blurred. It hurts to look. The room is dark, save for a single ceiling lamp, flickering as if it’s down to its last few minutes of light. You squint, trying to make out your surroundings. 

You’re in a basement, maybe. It’s dirty, dusty. Unused. Somewhere completely unfamiliar. 

A wave of nausea floods through you. 

Your head pounds. The wetness seeping down onto the back of your neck is blood, you realize all at once. 

Your phone is broken, gone. 

And Ghostface stands in front of you, shimmering dagger in his hands. 

You tug at your restraints, hysteria surging through you. 

Ghostface has taken you somewhere. To his house, maybe. To somewhere the police, and Tara won’t be able to find you. There’s no sign of your mother, or your father. 

It’s quiet. 

The only sounds are the desperate fidgeting of your hands and the heavy noise of his breathing. 

But it’s hopeless. 

Your hands are bound too tight. You have no weapon, and you feel light. Dizzy. Like even if you managed to stand you’d pass out instantly. 

It’s the end, you realize all at once. 

He has you. And this is how you’re going to die. 

You swallow, squint a little harder, ignoring the waves of sickness that flood through you. 

And suddenly you only want to know one thing. 

“Who are you?” You mumble, “Please. Tell me what you want.”  

“Who am I?” Ghostface says. He tilts his head, and you can hear the sneer in his voice. He drops his dagger, then curls his fingers around the edge of the mask. 

It pulls off in one clean swipe. 

Gone is the mystery. The unfamiliarity. 

Your heart drops. 

You’ve seen this face before. Not once or twice. 

You’ve seen this face so many times in the last twenty-four hours. You remember never wanting to see it again. 

But she’s here. 

She has you here. 

Blood streaming down your neck, hands bound so tight your fingertips are starting to lose feeling. 

She stands a little taller, drops her robes and tosses the mask to the floor. 

Blonde hair, wide blue eyes. 

The spitting image of him. 

Sheriff’s badge pressed to her chest. 

And suddenly it all falls into place. 

She leans in, until she’s so close you can see the untamed lunacy in her eyes. She looks wild, deranged as she tilts the blade against your cheek. 

There’s nothing in her eyes but pure, unadulterated hatred. 

And then her lips curls as she spits out:  “I’m the mother of the boy you murdered.”

[frickingnerd]

our little secret

pairing: shinjiro aragaki x gn!reader

summary: while shinjiro shows off his new tattoo, he accidentally lets it slip to the others that you've got a tattoo of your own. a very well hidden one, that he shouldn't even know about…

“did it hurt?”

the residents of the iwatodai dormitory were gathered around shinjiro, who begrudgingly let them admire the new tattoo he got. he sat there, keeping his mouth shut and only answering when asked something.

“no, not really…”

shinjiro kept his answers brief, trying to cut the talking short and take the first opportunity presented to him to retreat back to his room. but whether it was fuuka asking one question after another about his tattoo, akihiko and mitsuru scolding him for ruining his body with all that ink or junpei who told him how cool he looked, they all just wouldn't stop talking to him. 

“it looks really dope! next time we should get a tattoo together, shinji!”

junpei playfully bumped shinjiro's arm with his fist, trying to get the boy to agree to take him with him the next time. 

“don't encourage him to get another one, junpei!” you chimed in. “shinji already got enough tattoos! a body covered in tattoos doesn't look good…” 

“ha, says the one with the heart tattoo!”

shinjiro cocked up his eyebrows and glanced over at you, giving you a knowing glance. just because he had a few more tattoos didn't mean you two weren't in the same boat. 

“wait, you've got a tattoo? where?”

shinjiro's comment seemed to have sparked the curiosity of your friends. especially mitsuru and akihiko seemed quite surprised that you had one, since you seemed to share their views on the topic. only one other person in the room knew about that tattoo of yours, since you told her about it once… 

“how do you know about that tattoo, shinjiro? it's pretty well hidden…”

yukari's face was slightly flushed as she asked that question, as she seemingly seemed to know the answer already. she knew exactly where that tattoo was, since you told her about it. and she knew that it was nearly impossible to see it by chance…

the others slowly started to turn their heads, looking at each other and trying to see if anyone else understood what was going on. slowly, the wheels in their head began to turn. and then, one after another, they began to realize what yukari must be thinking right now. 

“wait, don't tell me…”

mitsuru was the first one who said something, but quickly cut herself short, as her cheeks began to burn up as well. a look at shinjiro and you was enough to see that her theory was correct. those flushed cheeks and that awkward smile on your lips gave you two away…

“alright, i won't tell then…”

shinjiro was more than happy not to go into detail about the sort of relationship he had with you. and you didn't need the whole team to know what you two were doing alone at night in his room. or your room. and occasionally even in the lounge, if nobody was around…

[staticstardust]

Project: GARTEN (An AU/Rewrite)

Welp. I'm finally doing it, and just making my own AU/Rewrite for all of my various headcanons, theories, and ideas about this game. Ever wonder what the heck Givanium really is? Why, if these people are experimenting with a substance capable of creating life, they chose to make a KINDERGARTEN of all things with it? Who Adam Uthman even is and what his plans are? Ever wonder what the characters "Hellish" forms are and how they work? How these Givanium creatures work? How Banban seems to have been from the lower levels, yet Bittergiggle didn't seem to know him (not knowing he identifies as Uthman) and somehow Syringeon does? What the Kingdom was like both during and before the failed revolution, how Bouncelia trapped Dadadoo and the Naughty Ones in her pouch, and how the pouch works? Why tons of Syringeons kids speak different languages? Why Bittergiggle snapped went rouge/crazy and HAD to tell that joke, why and HOW he made those clones, and how that ONE Toadstar fatally wounded him when he'd been hit by so many before? Ever wonder Who or What the heck is Z O L P H I U S ? ? ? I too have been thinking about and wondering about all these questions and loose ends that the Euphoric Brothers have left us with, and in this AU/Rewrite I do my best to fill in various plotholes and answer questions with my silly little headcanons and theories I've come up with! And it's also an "Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies AU" as well, so all the characters that have died so far and any characters who may die in future games won't be dying in this AU/Rewrite. This post will be kept pinned onto the top of my profile. All posts I make make in relation to this au will have the tags "project: garten" and "project: garten au", and I'll be adding links here to all posts I make that involve this AU! Thank you for reading this far if you have, and please feel free to send me asks and questions about this AU/Rewrite!!

[danwhobrowses]

So there was a Callowmoore question on 4SD which has got people talking and since nobody will ask me about it I'm gonna get it out of my brain anyway.

For someone on 4SD as frequently as Taliesin, Callowmoore questions are rare and I think that partly comes from us fans not wanting to try and steer him but also because his answers tend to be complicated. He's quite plain with other stuff, but a lot also gets offered into interpretation when it comes to Ashton and Fearne.

And granted, we Callowmoores would love for him to pull a Liam and just up and say Ashton has feelings for her, but I think we all know that's not Tal's way; aside from the nuggets of wisdom, killer one-liners and unique homebrews, we tend to love Tal's characters for their actions and expressions, some of which subtle and rewarding to those paying attention. For this reason I have had to mull over this one minute answer for most of my day and figure out what I think he means by it, like blue curtains in a book.

To note though, 'I think' is the operative term, but I also don't believe that Tal has left Callowmoore better or worse by his response.

One of the interesting things I want to point out is that my interpretations are observing the divide between Taliesin's words and his roleplaying; it is not to say that Tal is being dishonest in his answers, but I also see it as the answers are what Ashton thinks and his roleplay is how they feel.

So no, Ashton isn't 'precious' about Fearne wandering off when sleeping beside each other, if she said no or came back safely it wouldn't have bothered them, and it's fair for Ashton to have preferred Fearne to have woke them up. And yet that doesn't deny the reaction Ashton had waking up to find her gone and fearing that she's in danger, and not there to help her; the panic, the anger, the impatience are all clear and instinctive reactions Ashton is having that imply that her being with them is important. They're not precious about Fearne waking up and leaving the bed before they wake, and yet they'll still smile upon waking and finding that she's still there.

The 'Adventurers with Benefits' is one of two comments I can see being used maliciously against shippers, but it's worth reminding that on the last Callowmoore question Tal was asked, he mentioned that Ashton doesn't believe that someone would love them. Ashton feels unlovable, and yet they still ask for intimacy with Fearne, leaning further into their connection but also not pressuring her into commitment. It's also worth pointing out that this is still a slow burn, even Jester questioned whether her feelings for Fjord were legitimate or a romanticized fantasy at one point, and Ashton is not privy to Fearne's feelings for them. Ashton frames it as Adventurers with Benefits because they don't allow themselves to entertain the idea of Fearne reciprocating feelings for them, and yet their impulse to kiss her before absorbing the shard, to frequently engage in physical contact at a growing rate, to playfully steal and share each other's clothing, the desire to defend her from harm or anyone that might have ulterior motives, and to willingly do anything and everything just for her to smile in their direction again, that paints more of a picture than just benefits.

Which finally gets us to Ashton's theory of love. Tal mentions that Ashton believes that love is 'wanting to trust somebody, but not trusting them'. Immediately: No, haters, I don't think this means Ashton doesn't trust Fearne, nor do I think it means that Ashton trusts Fearne so they don't love her. Ashton trusts all the Hells (well, maybe not Braius since they just met), but Fearne is special to them in a different way, they've already platonically said that they loved her when they first were using their titan forms. In addition, this could be an elaboration of the last time Tal brought up Ashton's opinion of Love on the post-shard Callowmoore question: 'love is ignorance and adorableness'. This is another thing that can develop, elaborate and/or change over time, but at the current moment Ashton's interpretation of love can come from environment; Imogen wants to trust Laudna but can't wholly trust her given Delilah, but even Ashton can see that they love each other. Tal also mentioned that Ashton is not very experienced in relationships - which kinda plays into my belief that Ashton and Fearne, while have had relationships, haven't had deep romantic feelings or proper intimacy before, which makes them discovering it with each other more special - so their understanding of love can only exist on what they assume it's like.

And yet what if you reworded the phrase in the same spirit? 'Love is trusting someone wholeheartedly even with nothing to reassure it', there have been many a time something looked to go south and faith was put in another anyway; the shard may be a bad example because it did go wrong but even though the red flags were there Ashton upon completing the process said 'thank you for trusting me', when Fearne took the shard Ashton was a bag full of panic their experience meant they couldn't trust that the shard wouldn't be just as bad for Fearne, and yet they still wanted to trust that Fearne would succeed. Ashton couldn't trust that whenever Fearne was wild shaped, cornered by Otohan, or taken away by Ira on Ruidus that she'd come back safe, and yet still wanted to trust that she would, Ashton couldn't confirm that Fearne wasn't a Doppelganger in Nanna Mori's trust trial - even when FCG and Imogen suspected it was her - and yet they still wanted to trust that it was her. Ashton's view on love may not be entirely right but it's not entirely wrong either, what is blind faith if not ignorant and adorable? Even with their interpretation, Ashton has put plenty of faith in Fearne even when the risk was high.

In conclusion, Ashton's behaviour towards Fearne do often imply a complexity rather than a discrepancy to Tal's 4SD statements, that maybe Ashton's emotions and subconscious are not in sync with their self-doubt driven thoughts, perhaps it is the way Ashton tempers their feelings to try and not get hurt by them or cause Fearne to get hurt by them again. Ashton's apology to her post-shard made a point of noting how she means a lot to them, and how hurting her was one of the worst things they have done, and as they work towards self-improvement and self-discovery, there will likely be a point where self-realisation comes into play too, and they can understand why what they're thinking differs to how they're feeling.

Again, this is all interpretation, speculation and observation, one that like the core statements doesn't add or subtract but fills in some gaps either way. Ashton's feelings are a complicated matter, which is likely why Tal entices and creates such speculation with a complicated answer. Right now Ashton clearly does care for Fearne and share a special relationship that's regrowing after suffering tension, loss and fear, blooming back into trust, joy and comfort, but save 5 Disney Greek Muses backing him up in a Gospel song they're not just gonna out and say they're in love

And Yet...

[luvsturniolo]

hi!! i rlly love ur writing and i wanted to ask if i could request something where readers reputation is ruined by a false rumor which leads reader to thinking they aren’t loveable but chris doesn’t think that cause he’s in love with her?

basically the trope “one believes they’re hard to love and someone who loves them like it’s breathing”.

ー ★ !! unloveable

pairing : chris sturniolo x fem!reader

synopsis : after some bad rumors are past around social media, you begin to overthink about whether or not you’re even loveable

a/n : ok but why this is request so fucking adorable ???? like the trope u put at the end makes me want to put my blood, sweat, and tears into this. UGHHHHH no matter who it's written, i'm gonna be 100% convinced it's not good enough because i love this prompt so insanely much

wc : 3.7k

you have been friends with the triplets for a few years now, and you all agreed to keep your face off of social media. it started when you jokingly voiced that you were a bit scared to be judged by the entire world. the triplets — mainly chris — took this seriously, though. they know how difficult it can be to have millions of eyes glued to you at all times. due to their awareness, nick suggested that you stayed off of their platforms to avoid any backlash that you're not ready for.

to be honest, at first you were a bit skeptical of his idea. i mean, you'd never had a ton of random people watching you like they always do. it seems easy enough, though. just make sure to keep your privacy hidden and don't do anything bad on camera. despite your questions, you agreed with nick's proposal. plus, the triplets are the experts here ; not you.

it's been three years since you guys came to this agreement. and it's been working out pretty well, frankly. nobody knows that you're friends with the triplets at all. nobody even has had the thought cross their mind. you're a random chick with a few hundred followers and they're famous youtubers with millions. no sane person would make that connection.

a year and a half ago, you and chris started dating. your relationship is the healthiest you've ever been in. he's caring, he listens when you talk, he hugs you a lot, he likes to compliment you, he buys 'just because' flowers.

you have had a past of toxic relationships. you told chris about them and he's been trying his hardest to heal the mental scars your exes have left behind. one of your past boyfriends was manipulative, another one was narcissistic, another was a proud cheater, and the last wasn't even present in your life.

"hey," you whisper into the darkness before you.

you're currently at the triplets' house, staying the night. nick texted you and asked if you wanted to have a sleepover — which you happily agreed to. you'd been watching a movie with nick in his room for the past hour or two, but he fell asleep a few minutes ago. you were on your way to sneak into chris's room when you heard someone rummaging through the kitchen cabinets.

overtaken by curiosity, you tip-toed down the hall to see who it was. you poked your head around the corner to make sure it wasn't an intruder. your nerves instantly calmed down at the sight of your boyfriend, hungrily searching for a midnight snack.

"hey," he answers, turning around to face you as you stand in the doorway, "why are you still up? it's late."

"i could ask you the same thing." you tell him with a light chuckle shaking your chest. you then walk into the kitchen and over to where chris stands in front of the pantry. he smiles down at you, causing your stomach to twist. its pretty crazy to think that you still get butterflies from him. most people say that you won't feel giddy forever, but you seem to have proven that theory to be incorrect. it's been nearly two years and you still get flustered when he smiles at you.

you lift your hands into the air before dramatically flopping down onto his chest. your wrap your arms around his neck and bury your face into his shirt. he smells like home, a comforting scent that always makes you relax as it meets your nostrils. chris grins down at you before wrapping his arms around your torso, holding you by the waist lovingly.

"i'm assuming nick fell asleep?" he asks you.

not in the mood to open your mouth, you simply nod in response. he feels your head shift against his chest and he accepts the answer. normally, he teases you for being lazy. but chris loves it when you're sleepy like this. he loves seeing you all delirious and disoriented. teasing you would be like taunting a lost puppy — it's not right. morally.

"he always falls asleep when you guys watch movies together." chris says as though you didn't know that. "didn't he promise to stay awake this time? i thought you guys were planning to pull and all-nighter."

"that didn't happen." you say. your voice comes out muffled from his shirt presses to your face. "he pinky promised to stay awake, but fell asleep thirty minutes into the film we were watching. i stayed up and finished it, though."

"you finished it before or after you came to find me?" chris asks with a laugh. you just roll your eyes as a smile grazes your lips. he can feel the way your mouth pulls upward against his skin. knowing that you're smiling and he can't see it kinda pisses him off. your smile is his favorite thing in the whole world and he's missing it? that's completely unacceptable.

you yawn, blinking a few times to keep yourself from succumbing to slumber. chris notices your fatigue and asks if you're ready for bed. "yes, please!" you respond eagerly, excited to lay down with him and go to sleep in his arms. chris laughs at your excitement, honestly finding it adorable that you're so impatient to sleep.

the two of you walk back to his room together and you grin at the sight of his bed. you rush ahead of him and flop down onto the mattress. your face is pointed up at the ceiling as chris plops down next to you, looking at the ceiling as well.

"is this your equivalent to star gazing?" he asks you, knowing how obsessed you are with the thought of looking at stars together. it's something you've always begged him to do with you. but chris has refused. not because he doesn't want to, but because he wants to do it right. you're looking forward to doing this so bad that he refuses to settle for anything less than the absolute best.

he thinks the stars aren't bright enough in the city. he wants to bring you out to a field and look at them. but you still complain about it constantly — unaware of his little plan.

"yeah," you say with a groan, "since my boyfriend won't look at stars with me, i have to look at your popcorn ceiling instead. my standards have been lowered for you by a lot, i hope you know!"

chris laughs, leaning over to place a kiss on your forehead. he stays hovering over you before he whispers "soon, baby." against your skin. the feeling of his lips grazing your head tickles, making you giggle a little. chris's grin widens at the sound. he sits up and watches your giggles fade away, enjoying the bliss of seeing you smile like this.

"what?" you ask with a laugh, noticing the way your boyfriend is staring at you shamelessly.

"nothing." he replies with a shrug. "you're just so beautiful, i can't help but stare."

you look at him with nothing but admiration behind your gaze. it's truly surreal how far you've come in such a little amount of time. just a few years ago, you were in a toxic relationship with a guy who cheated on you with a different girl each night. and whenever you would confront him about it, he would turn it into an argument — which he would win every time. but now? now you're with chris. who is the literal epitome of perfection. you genuinely want to spend the rest of your life with him. nothing else matters but you two.

you and chris end the night in each other's arms. he holds your body against his side, your face buried in the crook of his neck.

the both of you find yourselves falling into an easy, dreamless slumber. this is your favorite place in the world — his arms. no matter what's wrong in your life, the feeling of security always patches every issue. regardless of how messy.

after a few hours of bliss, you jump awake at the sound of chris's bedroom door slamming open. the back of the door hits his wall, the sound of impact waking up chris as well. you feel his shift next to you, his arms still wrapped around your waist. you groan, not wanting to open your eyes.

suddenly, you hear chris gasp. then he pulls the blanket over your face, holding you against his chest protectively. of course, your mind jumps to the worst conclusion — someone broke in and you're all gonna die! you find out that this wasn't this case, though, when you hear chris's voice begin to scold his brother.

"nicolas!" chris shouts. the anger in his voice tells you that this is serious and you should stay out of it. "what the actual fuck are you thinking!?"

"i didn't know you guys were cuddling!" nick tries to defend himself. "if i'd known, i wouldn't have come in! you know i respect your decision to keep y/n hidden! why the hell would i ever do this on purpose!?"

"well where else would she be sleeping if she wasn't with you!?" chris argues back.

slowly, you peak your head out from under the blanket before cautiously asking, "what happened?"

"nick thought it'd be clever to start a live stream at eleven in the fucking morning! then, he had the bright idea to come in here and surprise us!" chris explains, still very very pissed off. "and of course he didn't think to knock like a normal person. he instead took it upon himself to walk right on in and record us!"

"i thought it was just chris!" nick says, stuffing his phone in his pocket now that he's ended the live. "i don't even know if anyone saw her. maybe they missed it and we can just say that it was matt?"

"why the fuck would i be snuggling matt?"

you laugh, trying to lighten the mood. "chris, lets be real. you cuddle your brother more than your girlfriend."

"i love you," chris says softly, "but it's now is not the time for jokes. this could be a huge fucking problem."

"okay, i'm sorry." you're quick to apologize, stretching up to press a kiss to his cheek before gently whispering, "i love you too." against skin.

you notice nick slowly back out of chris's room, not wanting to be around if chris decides to get angry again. you glance up at your boyfriend only to see that he's already staring at nick's departing form. chris is obviously still angry, but he doesn't seem to care enough to argue with his brother again. so he lets nick leave without giving him a hard time.

once nick is completely out of the room, you hear chris sigh. like it's a pained, saddened sigh that makes you want to cry for him. you look up to meet his worried eyes already glancing down at you.

"hey," you whisper, propping yourself up on your elbow to look at him better. "it'll be okay. we'll work it out like we always do." chris smiles at this before leaning down to press a slow, gentle kiss to your lips. you kiss him back before giggling and grimacing away from it. "i have horrid morning breath. let me brush my teeth before you kiss me."

you begin to move around toward the edge of the bed, aiming to leave and brush your teeth so you can start the day. before you can even make it to the side of the mattress, you feel chris's arms wrap around your torso and pull your body backward against his chest.

"i don't care about your breath," he tells you, "i just want you to stay with me a while longer. brush your teeth later."

you chuckle, "that's so nasty."

"pleeeease," he begs, tightening his grip around you, pulling your body firmly against his own. "stay with me, baby."

chris know how you feel about pet names. you hate them. they make you cringe. but when he whispers it against the back of your neck and you feel his breath against the hairs of your skin, you can't help the butterflies that swarm your stomach. you instantly give in and twist around to hug him.

"okay. i'll stay." you inform him, returning to the position you guys were in while sleeping. you shut your eyes before continuing. "but don't ever call me baby again."

"why not?" chris asks, clearly upset. "i could tell you liked it by the way you gave in so quickly. why can't i call you a nickname every once in a while. i think they're cute."

you groan, "i'm sleepy. let's talk about this later."

chris agrees and you both fall back asleep, enjoying the comfort of being in each other's arms. you know that no matter what happens with the media seeing your face, you'll always have chris by your side. nothing else is important as long as he is next to you.

the next time you wake up, it's bright outside.

you're no longer in chris's arms with him spooning you. you're now laying diagonally across the bed with your head in his lap as he scrolls through his phone. you blink a few times to let your eyes focus to the light of the room.

"mornin' baby." he says, quickly shutting off his phone and hiding it under his leg.

the action of him hiding his phone is enough to distract you from the use of the pet name. you raise a brow at his behavior, growing a bit concerned. you trust chris more than anything, but considering your history with cheaters, you can't help the annoyance that resides in your gut.

"what were you looking at, hm?" you ask him, trying not to be rude or anything. you want to stay calm with him because it's probably nothing.

"nothing, babe."

again, you ignore the nickname and focus on his suspicious demeanor. you thin your eyes at him, trying to read his body language. but it's difficult. he doesn't seem like he was texting some random chick, but why else would he hide his phone from you? you guys always share everything because he knows how you can get with this sort of thing.

curiosity overtaking your mind, you reach over and snatch his phone out from under his leg. chris opens his mouth to argue, but doesn't do anything to stop you from opening it and going to his recently opened app.

he was on tiktok, scrolling through the comments of some random fan page. you shoot chris a weird look before reading a few of them, your heart dropping to your ass from a mix of embarrassment and shame.

"did y'all see nick's live this morning?"

"who tf was that girl w chris? lmao she's not even pretty 💀"

"i found the chick's insta and she's apparently been in some rly shitty relationships. i mean lets be real. chris has never seriously dated anyone but this girl has been cheated on, manipulated, and abused? there's a clear denominator here. she's def done smth to cause that (for attention i'm guessing) "

"guys chris won't stay w her for long anyway after he finds out ab her ugly history!"

you read through the comments with an expression of pure disgust. how the fuck are these people going to sit here and talk bad about you when you've never even shown your face on the triplets channel? it's completely unfair.

you look at chris, but he's looking away. you wonder why he hasn't defended you on this. also, he was reading these people's opinions with a straight face. you begin to worry if he believes what they're saying. you glance back down at his screen, reading the third comment over and over.

there's a clear denominator here they had said. i mean, they're not necessarily wrong about that. you've been in bad relationships whereas chris has never dated anyone for a long period of time. in this light, of course you look like the bad guy. you can't technically blame their fans for judging you. you're easy to judge.

tears begin to prick your eye and you hand chris back his phone before wordlessly standing up from the bed and leaving his room. not once did he try to stop you or ask you to stay with him. you walk down the triplets' hallway and enter the bathroom, locking the door behind you and sitting down on the closed toilet seat.

you hold your face in your hands and try your hardest not to start crying over a bunch of teenagers talking shit on your name. but you can't help the intense weight on your chest and the lump in your throat.

to be honest, you don't give a shit about their insults. what you care about is the fact that they're right. you don't deserve someone like chris. he's so sweet and kind and understanding while you're irritable and skeptical of every little thing he does. you've done nothing to earn someone like him. maybe you have only ever been in toxic situations because that's what you deserve.

before you can stop them, tears begin to pour from your eyes. your cheeks become soaked with your pain. your entire body trembles as you sob into your hands, making it harder and harder to breathe correctly.

you love chris. you love him more than anything. you want to share the rest of your life with him. but you don't want to make him settle for less — the less in this case being your relationship. he deserves someone better. someone who won't snatch his phone from him when he's only trying to protect you from pain. someone who will let him call you pentanes because he loves them. someone who will be better. someone who's not you.

suddenly, you hear a knock at the door.

already knowing who it is, you tell chris to go away. your voice comes out shaky and hoarse, making it incredibly easy to know you'd been crying. the tone practically screams at him, saying that you're upset over something he tried to save you from in the first place.

"will you please let me in, baby?" chris asks. his voice is soft and gentle. you're suddenly craving the feeling of being in his arms. the feeling of being loved. the feeling of having him comfort you.

the greedy emotions you feel paired with the nickname makes it impossible to not open the door for him. you shuffle over to the door and let him in. you sit back down on the toilet seat, keeping your head downcast the whole time as to not see his face or show your tears.

you stare at the floor, watching his feet pad across the tiled floor before he stops in front of you. he drops to his knees so his face is in line with yours. you quickly turn away and stare at the shower curtain, letting your hair to cover your puffy eyes.

chris sighs before grabbing your chin and forcing you to look at him. he lifts his other hand to your hair, tucking it behind your ears so he can admire every inch of your beauty with no veil to cover the rawness of it. he lets out a shaky exhale, using his thumb to wipe away your tears. all the while, you keep your eyes pinned to his face. you watch every single movement he makes, knowing that you don't deserve any of the kindness he's offering you.

knowing that this relationship will not last forever, you begin to cry again. you lean forward and rest your forehead against chris's shoulder, allowing tears to pool from your eyes as he rubs a hand up and down your back.

"what's going on in that pretty head of yours?" he asks with his voice in a whisper. "i wanna know what you're thinking so i can tell you how irrational it is."

you laugh at him, but it just causes you to let out a choked sob. his humor is your favorite part about him. the fact that chris can make you laugh in any given situation is what you adore most. hearing him do it while you're thinking of how to break the news that you're leaving him so he can find someone better? this is gut wrenching.

"i love you." you tell him. "so, so fucking much."

"i love you too." he replies easily, not thinking anything of the fact that you're telling him this right now. but when you continue, chris begins to put the pieces together and he starts vigorously shaking his head in refusal.

"these past two years have been the best of my whole life," you tell him with a wavering voice. "but you deserve better. you deserve the world. and i can't offer that to you, chris."

"i don't want the fucking world." he says, grabbing you by the shoulders and pulling you to be in front of him to look you in the eyes. "i want you and only you."

"but-"

"no." he interrupts. "i don't give a single fuck what anyone else thinks. and i'm sorry, but i don't even really care what you think right now. because you're all wrong. i belong with you and i don't want anyone else even if i was paid a million dollars."

you stare at him with wide eyes, your dried tears still adorning your skin. the would could be ending outside, and you would stay in this bathroom and continue to stare at chris. his eyes are so gorgeously blue that you find yourself getting lost in them.

if you guys get married and live the rest of your lives together, your bodies will change. your skin will wrinkle. your hair will grey. your lips will thin. your hands will shake. your back will hunch. nothing about your appearance is permanent. nothing except the eyes. the shade, the hue, and the iris will all stay the same until they close for the last time. and you can't wait to look into chris's eyes for the rest of your life.

"i think you would be crazy to reject a million dollars for me." you tell him with a little giggle, wiping at your cheeks to rid them of the leftover tears.

chris's heart flutters at the sight of your smile, "there she is."

tags : @kasqnxx @lvrsparadise @prettysturniolo @strniolo @urmyslxt @cupidsturniolo @opheliaofficial07 @thetriplets3 @sturn1olo-ffics @uhnanix @deadxrx @kitaysworld @lovelysturniolo @wilmalovegood @ladylokilaufeyson5 @sturniolopepsi @strnilolo @knowingnothingnoel @its-jennarose @lea0518 @slaysturniolo @sturnlover @tcvazq

[disco-elysium-via-polls]

Attempting to get to where we were, I got an incredibly unlikely success on the Rhetoric check. I think this scene is also really good so consider this a little bonus.

RHETORIC [Heroic: Success] - The question you mean to ask is both very complicated and incredibly simple...

"If the whole theory we're meant to believe is completely unfalsifiable..."

"If we can't even agree whether communism is about plasm or psychology or beans..."

"If we can't escape the doom that's coming..."

STEBAN, THE STUDENT COMMUNIST - The young man waits patiently for you to finish.

"... and the rest of world conspires to invade and massacre us when we dare to stand up for our beliefs..."

"... and whenever we *do* try it just devolves into a corrupt farce..."

"... and we waste all our time arguing over who's secretly a liberal or not..."

STEBAN, THE STUDENT COMMUNIST - "Yes?"

VOLITION [Easy: Success] - Say it.

"..what's the point?"

STEBAN, THE STUDENT COMMUNIST - The young man considers your words for a minute.

COMPOSURE [Medium: Success] - You're witnessing his ironic armour melt before you. This is his *true self* you're seeing now.

EMPATHY [Formidable: Failure] - There's something going on in there, but his innermost sanctum is still beyond your reach...

STEBAN, THE STUDENT COMMUNIST - "The theorists Puncher and Wattmann -- not infra-materialists, but theorists nonetheless -- say that communism is a secular version of Perikarnassian theology, that it replaces faith in the divine with faith in humanity's future..."

"I have to say, I've never *entirely* understood what they mean, but I think maybe the answer is in there, somewhere."

"Wait, you're saying communism is some kind of religion?"

"But what if you don't believe there *is* a future?"

"But what if humanity keeps letting us down?"

STEBAN, THE STUDENT COMMUNIST - "Only in this very specific sense. Communism doesn't dangle any promises of eternal bliss or reward. The only promise it offers is that the future can be better than the past, if we're willing to work and fight and die for it."

2. "But what if humanity keeps letting us down?"

STEBAN, THE STUDENT COMMUNIST - "Nobody said fulfilling the proletariat's historic role would be easy." A tight smile. "It demands great faith with no promise of tangible reward. But that doesn't mean we can simply give up."

"Even when they ignore us?"

"Even when they laugh at us?"

"Even when they shoot at us?"

STEBAN, THE STUDENT COMMUNIST - "Especially then."

ECHO MAKER - "And of course, we'll be shooting right back."

VOLITION [Easy: Success] - So young. So *unbearably* young...

HALF LIGHT [Medium: Success] - Why do you see the two of them with their backs against a bullet-pocked wall, all of a sudden?

INLAND EMPIRE [Easy: Success] - Their faces, blurred yet frozen as though in ambrotype. You were never *that young*, were you?

STEBAN, THE STUDENT COMMUNIST - "I guess you could say we believe it *because it's impossible*." He looks at the scattered matchboxes on the ground. "It's our way of saying we refuse to accept that the world has to remain... like this..."

"Broken."

"Unfinished."

Say nothing.

STEBAN, THE STUDENT COMMUNIST - "Yes, that's a good way to think of it, broken, but not irreparable."

"It's a nice thought."

"I don't know if I believe it, though."

STEBAN, THE STUDENT COMMUNIST - "You've got to believe in *something*. Otherwise, what are you doing?"

EMPATHY [Easy: Success] - His words aren't really directed at you. He's wrestling with himself now...

ECHO MAKER - "Steban, it's getting pretty late."

Ok, that's the end of that diatribe. Rejoin me for the canonical version of events shortly.

[piratefishmama]

Forgiven not Forgotten | Part 6

Matchmaking would unfortunately have to wait. As much as the parents wanted to dive right in, meddle a little, be insufferable, it was well overdue after all, there were more pressing concerns. Eddie was awake. He was awake, coherent, sure he’d been initially a little loopy loo on the drugs, but he was able to answer questions, simple questions. Sort of.

“What year is it?”

“I mean, I thought it was 1986 but I seem to be missing a couple of years so, pretty sure it’s 1988 now. So much for graduating.”

“Who’s the president?”

“Man I dunno, how would I know? I just told you I’m missing a couple of years. Reagan? Is it still Reagan?”

“It’s still Reagan, Eds, election isn’t for another few months.”

“Thanks, Stevie.” Eddie turned back to the doctor “Reagan then.”

“Don’t help the patient, Mr Harrington.” Steve mouthed a sorry but didn’t actually look sorry. Eddie just smiled at him. A conspiratorial little grin shared between them, like an inside joke they’d never had the moment to create. It continued on like that for a good half an hour, boring step by step questions to ascertain just how much of Eddie’s memory was simply not there.

It turned out, he remembered nothing from after he took his seemingly last breath, to waking up in that room. Or at least that was what he was sticking to. Until the doctors left and everyone decided to leave Steve on his own in that room with him. The Harringtons gently guiding Dustin out as well, offering to get him something from the vending machines as their sandwiches had been distributed already to those sitting in with Max, Will, and Eleven via Robin.

Stinson had already collected the documents and was likely off to do whatever she had to do to fulfil her promises.

“I do remember some stuff.” Eddie finally broke the silence that seemed to fall over them the second everyone left the room. Steve’s eyes shot to him, wide, fearful? Why was he afraid? He held up a hand quickly, then got up out of his chair. Eddie watched in confused silence as Steve rummaged around the room, checking around things, the flowers people had left, the plant in the corner of the room, the TV that hadn’t been turned on, each of the little machines, he even checked the lights, and only when apparently satisfied, his search coming up empty-handed, did he finally turn back to Eddie.

“What do you remember, Eddie?”

“Nothing out here I guess.” He wasn’t going to ask why Steve ransacked the room, it didn’t really matter. “The real world I mean. It was like… a void. This big, dark space. It felt like I was stuck in limbo, but I could like… make stuff appear if I thought about it hard enough.” Steve’s continued silence only prompted him to talk more “like—like my bedroom back at the trailer? I could make that appear, everything in it, crystal clear, I could use stuff in it like my guitar, or my yo-yo! I could make the picnic table behind the school appear, I could even make Red’s living room appear if I thought about it hard enough… it was like… like I was stuck in my own brain or something, it was only places I’d been too. Time didn’t really… move there, y’know? I thought I’d only been gone a few days.”

Steve was looking down at the floor, brows furrowed, eyes flicking as if searching for answers in his own mind, working through theory after theory in silence. “Was it just you in there?”

“Mhm yeah, I mean… sorta. I think so. I mean, the mirror in my room always freaked me out a little bit but… I dunno, it was me just—”

“Not you.”

“Yeah. How’d you—"

“Don’t talk about this. At all, with anyone else. Okay? Nobody else. Not even the kids. This cannot leave this room, alright?” Eddie’s eyes flicked to the door, before he nodded “you stick to your story, you don’t remember anything. Nothing. You got ate, you woke up here. Nothing in between. Not the void. Nothing. That’s the story you stick to. Got it?”

“…Steve… what happened?” Steve sat back down beside his bed.

“Nothing good, nothing good happened these past two years okay? But as long as you don’t remember, and with what we know, I don’t think there’s anything out there that could jog that memory, you’ll be fine.” Eddie let his eyes drop to his lap, fingers fiddling with the blankets, full of nervous, uncertain energy. He was missing something. He was missing a lot of somethings, but Steve was right. It wasn’t like there was a fog in his mind where memories should have been, he remembered dying, the void, and then waking up. Nothing was missing there. He didn’t even feel like he was missing something. “I’m not going to tell you what happened, Eddie so don’t ask. There are things that you don’t need to know, things that you wouldn’t want to know. Just be grateful that you don’t remember them, and that you’re here, alright?”

“…I still don’t know how I’m here.”

“You don’t need to, just… be glad you are. We all are.”

“…All of you?”

“All of us, Munson.”

They fell into silence again, not uncomfortable, Steve seemed content where he was, a little troubled maybe, there were lines on his face that weren’t there before, stress and worry having etched permanent lines into his skin the past two years, but he was content. “Steve I—”

The door bursting open cut off anything Eddie would have said, he wasn’t even sure what he was going to say, he didn't have a plan but Steve was staying so he had to say something even if it would have been dumb... so he was sort of glad it happened.

He was glad Robin burst in and immediately took to reaching for the TV with a “you have to see this shit.” As her explanation as a news channel, the screen split between two women quickly came into view. one in a news studio, one backed by a horrorscape the people in the room unfortunately recognised.

“—he closest we’ve been allowed to get to Hawkins Indiana in the last two years, after a 7.4 magnitude earthquake rocked this quaint town 80 miles outside of Indianapolis. This town, once struck by tragedy, after tragedy, now lays desolate, a wasteland, and although the government remains tight lipped as to the exact cause of the decay which has steadily overcome this town for the last two years, government operatives who have been slowly picking through the wreckage of this disaster looking for more survivors, have assured us that it is a contained and isolated incident.”

“And this decay… I’m sure towns nearby will be worried, it can’t spread further, right?” The anchor prompted.

“No Judy, we have been assured that, while it remains classified, the cause has been located, and destroyed by a combined herculean effort from both civilian, and government forces.”

“Is there any further information on the murders that took place just before this disaster struck? If you recall some were claiming these disasters were tied to satanism and caused by ritualistic sacrifices at work?”

“Unfortunately the losses sustained in this catastrophe include the majority of the police force investigating this heinous crime, however our sources have revealed the true identity of the perpetrator, to be none other than a Mr Henry Creel, brought to justice by the very man he framed for the murders of Chrissy Cunningham, Patrick McKinney, Fredrick Benson, and the attempted murder of Maxine Mayfield. Eyewitnesses have come forward to reveal Edward Munson was seen alongside several other civilians who will remain nameless, heroically subduing the man in his attempt to flee a second thankfully unsuccessful attempt on miss Mayfields life. His reign of terror over this small town, finally ended by the very people he tormented.”

“I have here that Henry Creel was presumed deceased several years ago, is that correct?”

It was so scripted, everything about it, nothing felt real but… they were at least pinning it on the actual guilty party.

Creel’s human face revealed on screen in between the two video feeds, a blurry ID photo with no discernible origin used as the picture. It disappeared again shortly after, the two feeds growing larger once more to fill the split screen.

“Yes. Perhaps that is what gave him the freedom to enact this terrible crime without suspicion. He was being held in a private psychiatric facility which cares for mentally traumatised youths, pronounced deceased to protect him from association with his father, Victor Creel. He escaped spring of '86 under the name Peter Ballard, and immediately took to live up to his fathers’ terrible legacy.”

“And what can you tell us about the survivors of this catastrophe?”

“Once a population of just under 15,000, survivors have been spread across just four hospitals in Roane County. The death toll…” the reporter appeared to breathe, she looked down for a moment, clearly emotional “unfathomable. This will surely go down in history as one of the worst natural disasters The United States has ever experienced.”

“Thank you, Harriet.” The second feed was cut, the anchor taking up the entirety of the screen once more. “Government officials have stated that the names and current locations of identified survivors will be made available at this free to call automated line.” A number flashed up on the screen. It stayed there for just long enough to write it down “it will be shown over the course of the following weeks until all survivors are claimed by family or friends.”

The camera switched to another anchor, a man. “In lighter news, Washin—” Robin turned off the TV. Screw lighter news.

Steve stared at the now blank screen, mouth hanging open, “Did they just—”

“Pin the blame on the actual guy who did it while giving Eddie the credit for taking his ass down? Haha, yeah. Stinson didn’t fuck around.”

“Holy shit. That was like, an hour. Maximum.”

“Stinson, didn’t fuck around. Also your parents have been calling estate agents in Bloomington.”

“Huh?”

Eddie needed a nap.

Part 8