#and I like how it concluded not only passing the mantle onto someone else but it also teeters on the dawn of a new era

[subternia]

I know trials and tribulations is supposed to be the canonical "end" of ace attorney but that title will always go to apollo justice for obvious reasons

[yourdeepestfathoms]

Fractal Scarring

[Broadway Kids]

FINALLY THIS IS FINISHED. two days to write 12,000 words? that’s so shameful :/ 

also i hate writing in present tense

Word count: 12,029

Prompt: “And just WHERE do you think you’re putting your hands?” “Don’t you hurt a single hair on her head.” “Shh, you’re safe. I won’t let you go.”

Tw: Abuse, waterboarding

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

The sound of the doorbell ringing rudely interrupts the heated kiss between Lynn and her girlfriend, Estelle. Lynn pulls back with a growl of frustration, waiting a moment before leaning into Estelle again.

  “You’re not going to get that?” Estelle asks.

  “No need,” Lynn says dismissively. “It’s probably just the Amazon guy.”

  “What did you order this time? More sneakers? Special energy drinks?” Estelle says teasingly.

  “Oh, hush,” Lynn bats at her. “Just because I’m a coach doesn’t mean everything revolves around sports. You, for example.” And then she leans in again, locking her lips with Estelle’s and falling back into the warm, buzzing trance of kissing.

And then the doorbell rings again.

And again.

And again, until it was going off every second in a rapid fire cacophony of chiming.

  “Persistent Amazon guy,” Estelle observes.

  “Oh my god!!” Lynn yells. She rips off the blankets, nearly exposing her girlfriend’s own naked body in the process, snatches her robe from the bathroom door (although she had considered flashing the solicitors to scare them off), and marches to the front door. There was a glass window at the very top, but was too high to see who it was, so she had no idea who was ruining her time with her girlfriend until she yanks open the door with force.

  “Sue?!”

Her student blinks at her from the stoop, trying very hard to not look at the white robe she was swathed in and put the pieces together. The way she clears her throat and then proceeds to say absolutely nothing didn’t help the situation be any less awkward, either. A halo of raindrops from the drizzle falling from the grey-blue sky twinkles on the crown of her head like dozens of silver spider eyes that seemed to stare straight through Lynn’s fluffy covering.

  “What-” Lynn finds her voice, although it came out tight and strangled from embarrassment for a moment. “What are you DOING here?! How do you know where I LIVE?!”

Shrugging nonchalantly, as if this was the most normal thing in the world, Sue says, “Chris knows a guy.”

THAT Lynn didn’t doubt. She wonders if this “guy” was Billy Nolan or her father tracking her or someone else entirely. Feeling like there were several more eyes on her, Lynn shifts uncomfortably and pulls the laces around her stomach even tighter.

  “Why are you here?” She demands with her Coach Voice. It made Sue jump, but then she realized that it wasn’t in fear like she was hoping, but some sort of jolt of remembrance.

  “Oh! Right!” Sue looks over her shoulder. Dismayed, Lynn saw that Tommy was there, too, but he was halfway hunched in his Jeep, fumbling with something. “Miss Gardener, you are the most trusted adult we know. Something happened- something really bad, and we need you.”

Usually, Lynn would instantly mount the problem that one of her students was facing and bring it down, but right now, she really rather be mounting something else and be brought down on a bed, so this was not her top priority at the moment. If none of her loved ones were dead, then she really didn’t want to hear it.

  “What about your PARENTS?” Lynn says, shooing Sue backwards. “Go to them!”

  “No, Miss Gardener, you don’t understand!” Sue cries. “It’s Carrie!”

Lynn froze.

And, at that moment, Tommy pulled out a bloody, beaten Carrie out of the backseat of the Jeep and into sight.

  “Bring her inside.” Lynn says without a shred of resistance. “Sue. Tell me everything.”

------

  “How do I look?” Tommy asked. “Good? Good enough? Christian-like?”

Sue giggled. “You look great, you dork. There’s no need to worry. It’s not that big of a deal.”

  “It absolutely IS a big deal!” Tommy squawked.

It really was, Sue had to admit. It was the first time Carrie White was EVER having people over at her house.

She said she had begged her mother for hours, swearing up and down that she would be the best daughter and never ever complain ever again if she could have her friends over, and her mother had finally relented. So, now Tommy and Sue were parked outside a cottage as old as time itself. It’s swathed by tendrils of ivy climbing their way towards the roof that was missing several shingles and splotched with patches of emerald green moss. The weathered wood is a chalk color, paint peeling and flaking off, and black peppering along its breast. The windows are tinted a deep brown and covered up by drapes, many of them cracked. The yard was a sea of weeds and the walkway leading up to the house was lined with deceased trees; their ebony branches bore no leaves. The very age of the cottage is shown in its deterioration.

This was no place for any child to be raised.

Withered brown leaves rustled in the ghostly wind. The street was almost silent, if not for the wailing gust, the crackle of fronds, and the gentle rumble of the Jeep’s engine. Black tires trampled over the dead blades scattered on the edge of the poorly-kept street, the crunching of their filaments like bones beneath a hammer. A flurry of brown leaves swept across the windshield. 

The couple slid out of Tommy’s car after Tommy checked his neatly-combed hair for the tenth time. He was acting like he did the day he met Sue’s parents for the first time in junior year, which was actually quite polite of him to do so. He was taking this very seriously. 

Above, the sky was awash with low churning clouds. Towering trees with ebony branches reached down far, almost blocking the way. Their naked twigs grabbed like fingers, clawing at their faces as they trekked up the driveway. The brittle limbs snapped and fell as kindling onto the ground when brushed away. They too cracked beneath footfalls as Sue and Tommy made their way up to the stoop, across the cracked sidewalk and through reaching snarls of weeds sprouting from the overgrown yard. The porch creaked beneath their weight, and for a split second they feared it might cave in, but the old wood held together firmly despite its age. Tommy knocked on the door; there were cracks inside the frame and the hinges were green. It looked like it would fall over if the curved door knob was yanked too hard.

There was a shuffling sound from inside and the tumblers of a locking mechanism fell away with a grinding crack. When the front door was pulled open, the hinges protested with a deafening creak, sounding as though the rotten wood was splintering even as the heavy door scraped along the floor. Carrie peered out at them like a lime green macaw in a tunnel of darkness in the overalls she was wearing, beaming.

  “Hello!” She greeted eagerly. “Come in!”

They stepped inside and entered a world that reeked of religion.

Wall-to-wall there were crosses ranging in various sizes and made of many different materials. There were wooden crosses, metal crosses, crosses made of twigs twisted together and crosses created from woven tangles of barbed wire. Among them were pictures of Bible scenes, like The Last Supper and Noah’s Ark and Jesus doing something with a staff and water- or was that Moses? Sue wasn’t very up to speed on Christianity, so she didn’t know exactly what was going on, but the bearded dude was definitely doing /something/ with water.

Aside from the paintings and crosses and some candles, there didn’t appear to be any other decorations. No photos of Carrie as a little girl, no potted plants, no big wooden letters spelling out “WHITE” on the wall- there were only religious adornments.

Carrie led Tommy and Sue through the cramped front room, passing a closet door and a small circular table with a single red candle on it, and into the living room. The smell of baking bread wafted strongly in this room, flowing from the nearby kitchen. A large crucifix was poised menacingly over the ancient fireplace mantle, Jesus’s face frozen in a permanent expression of agony. Each rivulet of blood, every cut opened up on his skull from the Crown of Thorns held so much detail that it almost looked like a real person nailed to the giant wooden cross instead of just precisely carved plastic.

There’s no TV, not that either Sue or Tommy were surprised, so the scuffed, fraying leather sofa taking up a large space in the room was just sitting in front of the fireplace with only a grotesque crucifix to watch. The coffee table in front of it held a Bible that looked like it would crumble into dust if picked up and a well kept nativity set of baby Jesus’s birth. It was probably the nicest thing in the living room, maybe even the entire house, with all the animals shined to perfection and the humans not bearing a single scratch upon their porcelain flesh. There was also a washed out velvet lounge chair with intricate golden designs across the fabric, where a woman sat sewing an article of clothing and watching the new arrivals intently.

Mrs. White was as mangy as her daughter, but not quite as filled out as Carrie was. She was thin and bony, with sunken facial features and spindly fingers like the hands of a skeleton. Tangles of chocolate brown hair were tied up in a messy ponytail, revealing her pale, narrow neck to the light of the several lit candles around the house, and Sue and Tommy both concluded that Carrie must have gotten most of her features from her father because she looked nothing like this banshee of a woman dressed in a grey-blue gown sitting before them. The only noticeable thing they had in common were their brown eyes, which were so dark they were nearly black. Mrs. White’s were piercing, yet tired and haunted, and she was looking at Tommy and Sue like she already hated them.

This woman had done terrible things that tormented her, Sue could tell.

------

  “That definitely sounds like Margaret.”

Sue and Tommy’s head whip around, but Lynn’s whips faster. She stares at her girlfriend, fully dressed, standing in the hallway spitting out into the rest of the house from the master bedroom. Her blonde hair is combed neatly, leaving no evidence of...things...having been going on. Her grey eyes are troubled.

  “You know Margaret White?” Sue asks.

  “Who are you?” Tommy says at the same time.

  “Estelle Horan,” Estelle answers the nosy teenagers. “And, yes, I knew her.”

She strides across the floor and into the living room. Carrie is lying on one of the couches, expression pinched even in unconsciousness. Sweat is beaded on her forehead and she breathes raggedly.

  “How do you know her?” Sue prods further.

Estelle looks at her, then says, “I was their neighbor.”

A beat of silence passes. A pin dropping would be the loudest sound in the room. And then-

  “WHAT?” Lynn yelps.

Estelle gives her an amused look. “Did I never tell you?”

  “No!”

  “Oh.” Estelle shrugs. “There wasn’t ever a good time to bring it up. And I’ve tried to put it out of my mind…” She trails off, a haunted expression flickering in her eyes, like something had shaken her. She looks at Carrie’s frail, bruised body and frowns. “I--never thought she would live this long.”

Lynn gets a terrified look on her face. She didn’t exactly like showing so much fear and weakness around her students, but she couldn’t help it. There’s no way Carrie’s life was as bad as everyone was making it out to be. There’s no way she had suffered so much for so long and she hadn’t done anything to help her.

  “What-- what do you mean?” Tommy asks softly. His expression is a mix of horror and rage and his fists are clenched tightly at his sides.

Estelle reaches out and gently touches Carrie’s head. “Everyone in the neighborhood knew of Carrie’s treatment. But nobody did anything. And then, one day when I was seventeen, Carrie came up to me while I was tanning. She was five? Maybe six? Anyway, she-” She laughs, “-she pointed to my breasts and asked me what they were. I told her and she said she wished she had some and then said how good girls wouldn’t. She said that her mother was ‘bad when she made her.’ Margaret called them ‘dirty pillows’ or something stupid.”

Tommy snorts. Sue elbows him lightly. Estelle shoots him a quick, agreeing smile, then continues.

  “Then her mother came out and snapped at her to come back inside. Margaret called me a whore, I called her a cow- I was a very mature and polite seventeen year old.” Estelle chuckles. Her expression soon darkens, however. “I could hear--her screams--from inside the house. After Margaret dragged her back in. Carrie started screaming and crying so loud that I could hear them from outside. Everyone started coming out, but--” She sighs, looking ashamed. “--we didn’t help. Not after the meteor shower. We all ran.”

  “Wait-” Sue says. “Did you say ‘meteor shower’?”

  “Yeah,” Estelle says. “These rocks just started falling from the sky, but they only hit the White’s house for some reason. It was so weird.”

Tommy and Sue exchange looks. 

  “Carrie mentioned something about stones…” Tommy says.

Estelle furrows her eyebrows. Lynn kneels down next to her and takes one of her hands, not caring about secrecy around her students anymore.

  “Sue,” She says to the girl, “continue the story. What happened next?”

------

  “Mama,” Carrie said, and the sound of her voice startled both Sue and Tommy. They don’t know why they had assumed Carrie would sign at home; her mother didn’t exactly seem like the type to put up with sign language. “These are my friends! Tommy and Sue!” She beamed at them both, radiating with pride. Her voice was so sweet and youthful.

  “Hmm,” Mrs. White merely said. Her hands are still working a needle and thread through the pale purple fabric, and Sue can see muscles rippling beneath the skin.

Tommy stepped forward first, gathering his shoulders up into a straightened position and marching smoothly across the room. Carrie skittered after him and stood beside one side of the chair, and then Sue followed.

  “Tommy Ross,” Tommy extended a hand and flashed a dazzling smile. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”

Mrs. White looked at Tommy’s hand with visible disgust, but she shook it firmly when Carrie nudged her arm. She did the same with Sue, but with less reluctance. Sue guessed that she probably had something against men, which was something she never had a problem with, there were MANY reasons to hate men, but this woman looked like she wanted to chop off the penis of every male in existence and violently choke them with it. 

Or, perhaps, do something even worse.

  “It’s nice to meet you both, too,” Mrs. White finally said in a voice that could crack an iceberg in two. She sized Tommy and Sue up silently, sneering at Sue’s skirt, which barely reached her knees, but didn’t comment about it. “It’s so...wonderful...to see my precious angel with people she can trust.” She lifted a hand and Carrie eagerly ducked her head beneath it. It was quite cute to see her blissfully get affection, but Sue got a feeling of uneasiness in her stomach when she noticed that the action made Carrie look like a trained dog. And Mrs. White was her owner.

  “Carrie is a lot of fun to have around,” Tommy said, and Carrie grinned brightly at him. “Your daughter is amazing!”

  “Hmm,” Mrs. White said again. She looked at Carrie and a smile tugged on her lips. “She is, isn’t she?” She patted Carrie’s cheek. “Run along, my darling. Go play.”

Carrie nodded and her face scrunched up adorably with giddiness when she got a kiss on the forehead. She jumped up a moment later, darting past Tommy and Sue and to the staircase. She waved to them to follow her eagerly, grinning her head off and doing a little dance on the first step.

  “We’re coming, we’re coming!” Sue laughed as she and Tommy walked over. “Calm down!”

They ascended the stairs, and Sue could feel Margaret’s burning gaze scorch holes into her back with every step she took.

The first thing Sue and Tommy noticed upon entering the bedroom were the bars over the window.

Carrie’s room was plain. Plain cream walls, plain scuffed hardwood floor, plain white bed sheets and blankets (no pillow, as she had once mentioned before). There was a nightstand next to her bed with a lamp and a small Bible on it and a splintering bookshelf with very few books set up neatly. A chest at the end of the bed had ribbons of colorful fabric overflowing from the closed lid and a desk had a current sewing project spread out over its surface. A small table in the corner held a few old stuffed animals stacked neatly in a fuzzy pyramid. 

  “Welcome,” Carrie signed with a grand gesture with outstretched arms. She spun around once, looking around her room, then centered to Tommy and Sue again with a sheepish expression. “I--don’t know what to do now.”

Sue tilted her head, not understanding her hand movements, and Tommy translated. It made her pause in thought- what WAS there to do at Carrie’s house? There was no TV to watch movies on or teach her how to play video games like Tommy usually did. The place was actually quite...boring. Sue couldn’t bear to live in such a bare place.

  “Sorry…” Carrie lowered her head in shame.

  “Hey, no, it’s okay!” Tommy said quickly. “No worries!”

Sue looked around, trying to find something that would hopefully ease Carrie’s tension. She spotted the piece of fabric on the desk, which was a plum color with frills along the breast. She nodded at it.

  “That’s pretty.” She said.

  “Oh!” Carrie skittered over to it. “Thank you. It’s not finished yet, but it’s going to be a dress!”

Tommy translated her signs and Sue smiled. “Do you make all your clothes?”

  “Most of them,” Carrie nodded. 

  “That’s so cool!” Sue said. 

Carrie blushed. “Thank you.” She lightly brushed her project. “I can--teach you how to. If you want.”

------

  “And then we started sewing,” Sue says. She stares into the cup of water Lynn had gotten for her with a deeply troubled look. 

  “I made a scarf.” Tommy states in an attempt to lighten the mood.

  “It was supposed to be a sweater.” Sue manages a giggle, although it was tight and slightly strangled.

Lynn wants to smile, she really does, but as she is pressing a wet rag to a welt on her young student’s stomach, watching blood seep into the white fabric, such an action feels impossible. 

If Carrie had looked worrisome when Lynn first saw her, then the removal of most of her clothes has only increased that concern tenfold. The few injuries that had been visible when she first got there were bad enough, but the skin on her torso and back were splattered with impossibly dark colors that were split open in the center of each mark, like she had been beaten with a thin object. Cuts and scrapes marred her tanned skin, which was now horribly pale.

Carrie is stripped down to the black shorts and white tank top she had been wearing underneath her green overalls, which were stained in her blood (not that it was much of a loss- those things were hideous). Her face is tight with pain and all her muscles were tense as if she wanted to run, but couldn’t. Each breath she took came out shallow and ragged.

There’s too many wounds. There’s too many injuries on her little body. She isn’t going to live. Carrie will die.

A touch on her shoulder brought Lynn out of her morbid thoughts. She looks up to see Estelle, still kneeling next to her, a worried, but “I’m here for you” look on her face. She leans against her and a sick feeling settles into the pit of her stomach. Her mind is a jumbled mess, a tornado of disconnected thoughts and overwhelming stress.

Sue takes a deep breath and all eyes turn to her again. She pries her gaze away from her cup, rests her head against Tommy’s shoulder for support, and begins the story again.

------

  “WHAT is THAT?” Carrie signed.

  “IT is a SCARF!” Tommy declared defensively, holding the long piece of red wool fabric as if it were a live snake. “And it’s very stylish!” He flicked it around his neck and lifted his nose in a very haughty, pompous manner. Carrie flopped backwards, giggling and kicking her legs in the air. Tommy looked delighted at her reaction.

  “I thought we were making sweaters…” Sue said, blinking down at the misshapen purple blob in her hands. Carrie giggled louder. 

She giggled and giggled, such a pleasant, relieving sound.

And then the bedroom door opened.

And a thunderous voice that could shatter a glacier spoke up.

  “What is going on in here?”

Tommy, Sue, and Carrie all jumped and twisted around to see Mrs. White slithering inside, growing bigger and more menacing with every step she took. Tommy and Sue both straightened up, trying to look like model guests, while Carrie scrambled up off of her back and to her feet. She was still beaming, however.

  “Hello, Mama,” She greeted sweetly. “I was just teaching Tommy and Sue how to sew! They’re not very good.”

  “I made a scarf,” Tommy said, holding up the droopy ends of his silly creation for Mrs. White to see. She looked at it as if it were the serpent that had bewitched Eve. “Also, oi! Rude!” He poked Carrie in the leg, then glanced up at Mrs. White again, like he was saying, Look at how good I am with your daughter! Look at how nice I am to her! Please like me!

  “Hmm.” Mrs. White merely said. She looked very suspicious of all three of them, even her own daughter. She looked around the room like she was searching for a shred of impurity that would give her a reason to throw Tommy and Sue out. This process, however, was halted when Carrie hopped forward and latched onto her arm.

  “Mama, I finished the dress,” She said. She bumped her head against her mother’s shoulder and smiled up at her.

She really does love her mom. Sue thought. But does Mrs. White love her back?

  “Did you?” Mrs. White said, half distracted. She was trying to not take her eyes off of the guests, Tommy the most in particular.

  “Mhm!” Carrie ran and grabbed the dress she had finished while she was giving the sewing lessons. She presented it to Mrs. White proudly. “See?”

Mrs. White delicately ran her bony fingers along the stitching and frills. Then, she looked up and smiled at Carrie. “Very good, darling.”

That smile flickered away, however, when she looked back to her daughter’s friends. She frowned at Sue, who was rigid next to Tommy. She wasn’t trying to suck up to her like he was.

  “You.” She said. “What are you making?”

  “Oh, uh--” Sue looked down at the malformed, barely-sewn sweater flopped pathetically in her hands. “A-a sweater.” She wanted to kick herself for stammering. Why was she so nervous around this lady? “I think?”

  “My scarf is better.” Tommy muttered, then flashed a smile at Mrs. White. She blinked at him slowly. Even she was curious about his adamant attempt to get on her good side.

Mrs. White sniffed. The edges of her eyes crinkled in distaste. “Maybe you should try lengthening that skirt. You’ll be burning in hell in no time looking like that.”

Sue stiffened. She suddenly felt like her clothes were paper thin--or maybe not even there at all. Mrs. White was staring at her like she had just finished having sex with every man in the entire world and was currently dripping semen all over her floor. Sue struggled not to squirm as silence descended upon the room.

At her side, Tommy’s mouth was half open in shock that an adult would talk to a kid, especially a guest in their house, like that. He kept looking from Sue, to Mrs. White, and then back to Sue, conflicted on whether he should defend his girlfriend and risk Mrs. White hating him even more or not say anything and have Sue possibly hate him (but she wouldn’t hate him. if it were him essentially being called a man slut, she would probably be too scared to say anything, too).

Mrs. White was stood up straight and she looked like she was trying very hard not to smirk. She may be thin and ragged, but she was alight with disgust, like a flame that would never go out. Beside her, Carrie was rigid, but didn’t seem very surprised by her mother’s comment. Her head was lowered, dark eyes flitting towards Sue with an apologetic look. And then, she moved, slotting herself between Sue and Mrs. White.

  “Mama, Sue is the nicest girl I know.” She said, and Sue felt a flutter of guilt inside her stomach. At one point, she had participated in all the teasing Carrie got. She had been in on schemes to humiliate her and had looked at her like she was the most awful creature to ever walk the earth, and Carrie knew this, she had known it, and yet she still defended her. “If she doesn’t go to heaven, then heaven is wrong.”

Crack, went something in Mrs. White’s head.

Carrie noticed it first, the way her mother’s twisted expression twitched and rippled on her face like a melting wax mask, the way a diseased light flickered behind her eyes, the way her nostrils flared with a silent breath, and then Sue and Tommy followed. They could see it now, too, how Mrs. White still had the same look on her face as she had when she insulted Sue, but just slightly lopsided. It was like a wrinkled photograph cut from a magazine or a blurry movie still. There was something awful swimming behind those beetle-black eyes, and Carrie had accidentally awakened it. 

Sue wondered for a fleeting second if she were infected with the same parasite as her mother.

Carrie was very tense, so much so that Sue could see the muscles in her neck bunching up and popping out painfully. Her knees were shaking and a bead of sweat ran down the side of her face slowly. Sue and Tommy had both seen her scared before, but this was nothing like the fear that came from bullying at school or being called on in class or getting humiliated somehow.

Carrie looked terrified. Genuinely terrified. Like she thought she was going to die.

  “Carrie.” Mrs. White said calmly, but they all still shivered. The weight of the fury in that one simple word--Sue hoped she would never have to hear anyone say her name like that. She might as well have called her daughter ‘Disappointment.’ “Dear. Come here.”

But Carrie didn’t move. Her breathing starts to become more ragged.

  “No, mama,” She whispered, and Sue had never heard so much fear in her voice before.

Twitch, went something on Mrs. White’s expression.

  “M-my friends--” Carrie went on shakily, trying to give a good reason for her to talk back. “Th-they’re here. C-can’t we wait…” But her words trailed off into meaninglessness when she met her mother’s sharp gaze and she fell into helpless silence.

Mrs. White stretched her neck to the left and there was a series of pops that reverberated around the room. She seemed to be swelling up like a venomous snake.

  “Hey--” Tommy leapt to his feet, the tail of his sweater-scarf wagging lazily in front of him. “It’s not Carrie’s fault. She was just being a good friend.”

Mrs. White snapped her smoldering gaze over to Tommy, and that was enough to send him slamming right back to the floor in a rigid sitting position. Sue had never seen him obey so much like a trained dog before. It was horrifying how much this single woman could strike so much terror into all of them.

  “Carietta Nancy White.” Mrs. White hissed, her voice dripping with icicles. “I will not tell you again.”

She knows she could just grab Carrie. Sue realized with a twist in her stomach. She wants the satisfaction of Carrie obeying her.

Carrie moved slowly, dragging her feet as if they were weighed down by chains, head bowed in a submissive way. The moment she was in reach, Mrs. White snatched her by the forearm and dug her nails in so deep tiny jewels of blood bubbled up around her fingers. Tommy twitched at Sue’s side, like he wanted to jump up and tackle Mrs. White, but his nerves were holding him back.

  “I’m sorry…” Carrie whispered, although Sue doesn’t know if it’s directed to her and Tommy or to her mother. She’s briskly guided out of the room a moment later, so fast that she actually clipped her forehead on the doorframe, but Mrs. White doesn’t stop to let her recover. Their footsteps shuffle and stomp down the hallway, down the steps, and then disappear downstairs.

Silence.

Sue and Tommy waited for yelling, crashing, banging, fighting to break out, but there was nothing. They could only hear the distant sound of Mrs. White’s voice, but neither of them dared to move to listen closer. They just sat there in Carrie’s room, surrounded by scraps of colorful fabric and sewing needles, not speaking a word.

Mrs. White came to get them five minutes later. Her eyes were filled with disgust and hatred and her mouth was twisted in a sneer.

  “Get out.” Was all she said in a voice filled with malice.

Sue and Tommy leapt to their feet and scampered out of the house with metaphorical tails tucked between their legs as fast they could. Mrs. White followed close behind them, like the devil on their heels, until they were out on the stoop. She slammed the door so hard Sue was surprised the entire house didn’t come crumbling down and they heard the sound of a lock clicking into place.

Silence.

  “That...was eventful.” Sue said.

Tommy doesn’t answer. He just began to pace up and down the front walkway, crunching gravel and pebbles underneath his shoes. 

  “Tommy?”

  “We have to do something.” Tommy blurted.

Surprised, Sue said, “What?”

  “We can’t just leave her in there!” Tommy said, then quickly quieted his voice. He looked around. “We have to save her.”

Sue knew they had to, even if the thought scared her. She wouldn’t be able to sleep that night knowing Carrie was probably thrashed for the skirt her friend had been wearing.

The two of them wait a moment, then sneak around the side of the house, romping through overgrown weeds and grass and knowing full well that they’ll get hell rained upon them if they’re caught. Tommy peeked in through a back window with a crack in it and saw the fleeting figure of Margaret ascending the staircase, giving him and Sue a chance to slip in through the back door and re-enter the house.

Being inside that place felt wrong, like they were intruding on sacred grounds. But the house was anything but sacred, especially with the muffled sniffles echoing from somewhere they couldn’t see.

Sue and Tommy ducked into a small closet that was cluttered with moth-eaten blankets and boxes. They were at the end of the main downstairs hallway and it was dark enough for them to crack open the door and peek out without being seen. There, they waited, peering out of the barely-open door. Sue’s back was just starting to hurt from hunching over when footsteps stomped down the staircase. She and Tommy watched as Mrs. White unlocked what they thought had just been a coat closet, reached in, and pulled Carrie out.

  “I’m sorry, Mama!” Carrie blurted instantly, as submissive as always.

Mrs. White answered in a low rumbling noise. She dragged Carrie into the den and out of sight.

  “Mama, please talk to me.” Sue and Tommy heard Carrie beg. “Please, I’m sorry! I just-- they’re my friends and I don’t like when people are mean to them. I’m sorry, Mama. I shouldn’t have talked back to you.”

Mrs. White snorted. “Friends.” She repeated the word as if it were a curse. “They aren’t your friends.”

  “They are!” Carrie said. “They are, Mama! And they’re really nice, too, you’ll see!”

Mrs. White huffed out a breath and Sue thought she may be shaking her head. “Nobody is friends with you, Carrie. You don’t have friends. You know why.”

Sue winced. That felt like it was needlessly cruel to the poor girl.

  “No, Mama,” Carrie said, this time much softer.

  “If I told them what you are--what you can do, they’ll run for the hills. Or worse: they’d lock you up and use your gifts. But me? I’ve always accepted and loved you the way you are, my sweet girl.” Mrs. White crooned. “You’re different, Carrie. And you know people love to destroy what is not like them.”

  “I don’t have to be,” Carrie said. “Tommy says I can be whoever I want!”

  “Oh. That BOY.” Mrs. White said with great disgust. “You know how boys are, Carrie. Do I need to remind you of your father?”

  “No, Mama.” Carrie replied with a shudder in her voice.

Sue and Tommy exchanged looks. They had both wondered on their own about Carrie’s father, but neither ever brought it up to her. By the sound of it, whatever happened to him wasn’t very good.

  “They’re good, Mama,” Carrie was saying when focus was brought back to the conversation. “I promise! I’m sorry for talking back, but Tommy and Sue are good people!”

  “They’ve entranced you,” Mrs. White said, not even listening to her daughters. “They are imps sent from the devil!”

  “No, Mama!” There’s a rustle of fabric and the scuffing of feet against the floor- Carrie must have been standing up. “They aren’t! Don’t you dare say that about them! They’re not imps, YOU are!”

The sound of a hand smashing against flesh filled the house; Carrie’s body fell backwards into sight on her stomach. She’s frozen in shock for a moment before pushing herself up on her hands. A second later, one of her legs was grappled and she was dragged backwards into the den, screaming and clawing helplessly at the floor.

It was like a scene ripped straight out of a horror movie.

  “Mama, stop! Stop it, Mama! I’m sorry!”

  “You’re going to repent, you vile little beast--”

Another slap reverberated through the house, followed by a sharp yelp reminiscent of a puppy getting its foot stepped on. 

  “Mama! Mama, no! Please, no! I’m sorry!”

  “You must be washed clean of the filth they put on you.”

There’s the sound of fabric scraping against the floor that traveled into the kitchen. A clatter of a body being thrown into a chair echoed from that room, followed by a stern, “Stay.”

  “Mama, please,” Carrie pleaded. “I don’t want to, Mama, I don’t want to be cleaned--”

Sue heard the sink running in the kitchen. What was going on?

--

A hand yanked her head backwards by the hair. Water hit the over her face cloth- small drips and then a heavy torrent. It flooded into her nose. She instinctively opened her mouth to gasp for a breath, and the water poured in. Her heart was racing, and her whole body was frozen. She could feel the freezing water trickling down her throat. She tried to toss her head to escape the torrent, but she couldn't even twitch. The only part of her that was moving was her chest as her body fought frantically to cough, to escape, to breathe, to survive.

   “Don’t like that, do you?” Mama’s voice was crowing as she lifted the cloth. She smirked at the way her daughter gasped for air, taking in quick, rapid breaths to soothe her lungs. “No, you don’t.” She felt her shake her hand beneath her hand. “Admit it, my darling. Admit that that boy and girl are sent from the devil and dirtied you. Admit it and it will end.”

Desperate to retain at least a shred of her dignity, Carrie said, “No.”

The cloth drops back down over her face with a wet plop.

She felt the moment the water hit her lungs this time around- there was a lot more poured over her. There was a sickening chill, so at odds with the burning pain. And then her arms and legs were tugging against the ropes as sheer panic enveloped her. She wasn't thinking of twisting her wrists to try to free them; her arms moved of their own accord, tearing the skin. She wasn't thinking of kicking out with all her strength; her legs jerked and tugged against the restraints, wrenching their own muscles. She wasn't thinking of trying to get away from whatever was pinning her down; her body writhed and shifted as panic and fear pulsed through it.

When Mama lifted the cloth again, water was spit up from Carrie’s lips. She lowered it, not giving her much room to breathe. She whined sharply, pathetically when she just inhaled a wet rag.

   “Please, please, Mama...” Carrie begged through breathless sobs.

   “Tell me the truth. Admit it. You know you want to. You want to damn their souls to hell for cursing you.”

    “No, Mama, I don’t--”

Carrie cut herself off with a horrid gag and water rushed down her throat, choking her.

Dying. Dying. Dying. She could feel it. Her very bones were vibrating with the knowledge that she couldn't survive. That oxygen, held away from her by nothing more than a piece of fabric, was still too far away for her to reach. That every frantic heave of her chest was drawing the water further and further down, pulling in more and more liquid.

Every fiber of her being wanted to fight, was trying to fight, but it wasn't a fight she could win. There was nothing she could do.

Unless…

   “I--”

Carrie’s squeal ended in an intense dry heave that twisted her stomach so badly she began to feel nauseous. Her head spun and the crying was adding to the extreme pain that infected her chest and abdomen.

   “Mama--”

A whimper, a whine, a keen of helplessness as Carrie’s limbs began to go limp.

   “I do!”

The bowl clattered to the ground. Mama removed the rag from her face, stared deep into her teary eyes.

   “What was that?”

   “I--” A weak sob shook Carrie, “I do. I do want to send them to hell. They made me dirty.”

She thought she’s having to lie to get out alive, but her mind is too fuzzy to know for sure... Maybe she does want them to burn for all eternity in hell.

   “You do?”

   “Yes, Mama. Yes, Mama.” Carrie bobbed her head rapidly. “I’m sorry, Mama. I’m so sorry. I should have listened.”

Mama knelt down beside her and began wiping her face off with a dry cloth. When fresh tears streamed from her eyes, she gently dabbed them away. Carrie couldn’t help but press into his touch.

   “Is this the truth, Carietta? Are you really sorry?”

   “Yes, Mama,” Carrie said with a sob. “Yes, yes, I am. I’m so sorry. I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”

   “Good girl,” Mama crooned, continuing to dry off her face.

   “I’m sorry.”

   “Yes, I’m glad you know to tell the truth, but that doesn’t change what you did.”

Ice cold fear shot through Carrie’s veins.

   “I took your gun.” She was desperate now.

   “You still have to be punished, little jade.”

She lets out a whimper.

   “You know what you did.”

The dry cloth is put over her face.

Water sloshed above her.

She wanted to say she was sorry. She was sorry. She was so sorry. She wanted to be a good, obedient daughter. She wanted to make Mama happy. She wanted her to be proud.

Drip-drip-drip

The cloth soaked up the water, slowly this time, to drag out her punishment. Carrie took a shuddering breath of air, fills her lungs as far as they can go, fills them so full she feels like they’re going to burst.

Mama’s voice echoed.

You need to be punished

The water soaked the cloth. The cloth clung to Carrie’s nose as she inhaled, clung when she exhaled, and the panic exploded in her chest. Water slid down her throat, over her neck and into her hair, over her shoulders. So cold it burns.

She’s drowning. She’s dying. She’s suffocating.

Screaming.

Her throat hurts. There’s no air in her mouth, in her lungs. She can feel the water trickling into her nose. Can’t breathe. No air. No air. No air.

The ropes on her arms loosen and then are gone. She wanted to die. She can’t breathe past the panic in her chest. She was shaking. She was dying. She wanted it to end.

Oh god, please keep pouring. Please. Please. Please. You can kill me right now.

But then the faces of Tommy and Sue and Miss Gardener flash in her head and she thought, Do I really want to die?

--

Sue and Tommy didn’t think anything could get worse than Mrs. White waterboarding her own child, but then she raised a wicked-looking switch when Carrie lurched out of the chair she had been punished in. She coughed violently and slipped in the water coating the kitchen floor, falling to her hands and knees, but jolted forward as the switch swung down at her. It just barely missed her left leg.

  “I’ll thrash the devil out of you!!” Mrs. White screeched.

Carrie catapulted herself over the dining room table to get away from her and her switch. Sue and Tommy watched as she clambered over the top, scattering porcelain plates and cups, before tipping over in a very ungraceful landing. After hitting the ground, she scrambled up again to flee, but her mother was already upon her.

   “Ma--!!”

Before she could get the word completely out, the switch connected with her back with a horrible CRACK.

Carrie doesn’t scream, but she does whine sharply at the burning sensation that had to be blazing through her shoulder blades, even with her shirt on. She scampered around like a mouse below Mrs. White, as she had easily been sent to her knees by the blow. She’s fidgeting and fumbling, trying to speak up without sounding pained, as that would make her seem even weaker.

   “Mama, please, I--”

Another lash streaked across her lower back and Carrie gritted her teeth through the pain. Her fingernails claw and catch into the floorboards, but she would have much preferred splinters uprooting her nails than this beating.

   “Worthless girl! When will you learn to obey me?!” Mrs. White roared overhead before cracking the switch against her daughter’s waist.

Carrie’s arms gave in and she toppled over onto her side. She squirmed helplessly, pushing her heels against the ground in an attempt to get away, mouth agape as she watched Mrs. White raised her arm yet again.

   “Mama--”

This time, Carrie does scream.

She does scream because the switch lashed right across her belly. Her head threw itself backwards, knocking her skull against the floorboards, but it’s not enough to lessen the searing sensation burning itself through her midsection. For a moment, she can only choke and cry out, but then the incomprehensible wail turns into words.

  “MOMMY, STOP IT!! PLEASE, MOMMY, STOP!!!”

But Mrs. White doesn’t stop. She just kept on lashing her daughter until blood is soaking through green overalls and Carrie is a shuddering, whimpering ball at her feet. Even then, she does not stop.

Not until a voice cried out.

  “THAT’S ENOUGH!!” Tommy barreled out into the den, absolutely fuming and seeing red. It surprised Sue, who had been recording the abuse on her phone in shocked silence. She followed after him quickly.

  “Don’t you hurt a single hair on her head.” Tommy warned. His fingers were clenched and shaking, teeth bared, eyes alight with rage.

  “Tommy,” Carrie coughed out weakly.

Tommy looked down at Carrie and his eyes softened instantly. He looked anguished about how he wasn’t able to go to her, not with Mrs. White poising the switch over her back. 

  “I’m here, Caz,” He murmured. “I’m here.”

Carrie made a feeble whimpering sound. She tried to look up at him, blinking through tears and water and sweat and blood, but she was exhausted from the beating and her head flopped uselessly to the ground. She panted heavily, trying to curl away from her mother.

  “I thought I threw you both out.” Mrs. White said.

  “We would never leave Carrie.” Tommy said. “Not so devilish now, huh?”

Mrs. White snorted. “You think this proves anything? I know what you people are like.”

  “I got what you did on video,” Sue said, holding up her phone. “Just so you know.”

Mrs. White laughed an awful laugh. “Oh, you empty-headed whore,” She cackled. “You think evidence is going to change anything? Everyone in the neighborhood, new and old, have heard Carrie’s cries for years and they have never done anything. Not even when police are called. Nothing is ever done, and you want to know why?” She smirked wickedly. “It’s because nobody cares.”

Sue felt a sinking feeling of dread. Would really nothing be done to save Carrie even with video evidence?

  “I care.” Tommy said. “Sue cares. So does Miss Gardener.”

------

  “I do,” Lynn murmurs, gently touching one of Carrie’s hands. Tommy and Sue both give her tight smiles, then Sue continues telling the story.

------

Mrs. White rolled her eyes. “No you don’t! You’re lying!” She nudged Carrie with her foot and Carrie moaned weakly in response. Her daughter rolled over slightly, blood squelching beneath her, and gave her her full attention, even after being beaten to a bloody pulp. “I’m the only one who cares about you. No one will ever love you except me. You’ll always be a monster to everyone else.”

Sue shivered. It sounded like some kind of chant or curse, like something Mrs. White had repeated this to Carrie several times before.

Carrie whimpered. She craned her neck slowly, wincing in pain, and looked at Sue and Tommy desperately. Mrs. White nudged her again, prodding her foot against one of the cuts along her lower back and making her look back at her.

  “She’s not a monster.” Sue spoke up, glaring at Mrs. White.

Mrs. White barked a laugh. She looked down at Carrie quivering beneath her. “Is that what you’ve made them think? That you’re just some shy, innocent little mouse?” She laughed again and turned her blistering gaze back to Tommy and Sue. “You have no idea what you’ve gotten yourselves into, children.”

What did she do? Sue thought. What has Carrie done to make her own mother call her a monster? 

And will she do the same thing to us?

  “Don’t you DARE talk about Carrie like that!” Tommy growled. “You have no right!”

  “I have every right,” Mrs. White said airily. “I am her mother.” She spread her arms in a grand gesture. Droplets of sparkling red blood twinkle on the edges of the switch she was still holding. “And I am just trying to cleanse the little devil he put inside of me.”

A tense silence descended upon the den, only broken by Carrie’s soft gasps and sniffles.

  “Who?” Sue asked quietly, reluctantly.

Mrs. White began to pace around the room, swinging the switch at her side and sending blood flying through the air in glittering crimson arcs. “I didn’t want him to put it in me. I tried to fight him.” She said.

  “Mama, please don’t,” Carrie begged weakly. She covered her ears and curled up tighter.

  “But he didn’t listen.” Mrs. White hissed, ignoring her daughter’s pleas. “He made me enjoy it. Satan gave him sin and, in return, he put a devil child inside of me.”

Oh. Sue realized with a jolt. She was raped.

Mrs. White shook her head. “I don’t hate Carrie. Far from it. If I did, she would be long dead.” She looked down at her daughter with a strange look in her eyes. “I just...have to cleanse her. Remove all her sin.” She tilted her head like Carrie was a new plastic body to decorate the crucifixes with. “And then--she will be--perfect.”

There was something very, very wrong with Margaret White. And Sue didn’t feel safe being around her any longer.

How could Carrie live with such a mother?

Mrs. White looked up at Tommy and Sue, scrutinizing them. “Does that make sense?”

Sue nodded a tiny bit and Mrs. White gave her an appraising look. Tommy, however, only fumed even more.

  “What the fuck?” He seethed. “No! Not only no, but HELL NO!” He glared at Mrs. White. “You are fucking psychotic! You can’t treat people like that! Why did I want you to like me? You’re insane!”

Mrs. White glared right back at him. “I should have known you wouldn’t understand. Men.” She nudged Carrie, who tentatively removed her hands from her ears. “Why don’t I show you why purification is necessary? Carrie, my darling little creature, show them.”

Carrie doesn’t move. Mrs. White exasperatedly rolled her eyes and grabbed her by the top of the head, throwing her to Sue and Tommy’s feet. Carrie landed with a heavy thud and a soft grunt. She looked up at the pair with guilty black-brown eyes so eerily like her mother’s. Sue shivered, finding it difficult to look at her anymore.

  “Go on.” Mrs. White waved a hand.

  “No, Mama,” Carrie whispered. She tried to make herself as small as possible.

  “Why not?” Mrs. White smirked. “Is it because you know they’ll hate you for it?”

Carrie whimpered. Fresh tears stream down her cheeks. She began to rock herself back and forth on her knees.

  “Look at that,” Mrs. White mused. “She doesn’t trust either of you at all. How sad. Some great friends you are if she can’t tell secrets to you.”

Sue felt a smudge of betrayal streak through her. What was so important that Carrie couldn’t tell her and Tommy about? Did the best friend's oath she once made them take mean nothing? She looked to Tommy to see his reaction, but there wasn’t a hint of hurt on his face. He squared his shoulders and narrowed his eyes at Mrs. White.

  “It’s her business,” He said. “She can tell us when she’s ready. I wouldn’t admit anything while being pressured, either.”

I should have reacted like that, Sue thought with a twist of guilt. Not immediately assume Carrie is a bad person. She looked at Mrs. White. She’s...so cunning. And convincing. It’s scary.

  “Tommy,” Carrie gasped from below. She gripped tightly to one of his pant legs. “Tommy, it hurts.”

Tommy dropped to his knees in front of Carrie and bundled her protectively in his arms. Blood smeared against his clothes, but he doesn’t seem to care much. Mrs. White watched with a murderous look in her eyes.

  “Shh, you’re safe. I won’t let you go.” Tommy whispered to her soothingly.

  “And just WHERE do you think you’re putting your hands?” She spat.

Tommy glared right back up at her. “I’m protecting her from you.” He said.

  “Foolish boy,” Mrs. White shook her head. “You don’t know what she could do to you.”

  “Carrie would never hurt me.” Tommy said.

Mrs. White laughed. “That’s what you think! But she could! She easily could!”

  “Mama,” Carrie wheedled. 

  “Release my daughter.” Mrs. White said. “This instant.”

Tommy narrowed his eyes at her and said, “No.”

Mrs. White’s face twisted in fury. She gripped the switch in her hands tightly and, for a moment, Sue worried she was going to strike Tommy with it.

But she didn’t.

She didn’t move.

  “Mama, please stop.” Carrie begged. She had her head twisted around to stare at her mother. Most of her wounds have stopped bleeding by now; dried blood clashed horribly with her green overalls.

  “You devil,” Mrs. White hissed lowly. 

  “I don’t want to hurt you, Mama.” Carrie whispered. Her body had gone worryingly cold in Tommy’s arms. Her voice was the sound of dead leaves rustling against pavement. “Please don’t make me hurt you…”

Mrs. White was stiff in her spot, arm half raised. The muscles were contracted tightly beneath her skin. Why wasn’t she moving? Was she scared of Carrie? And if so...why? Carrie was anything but threatening.

The next words Carrie spoke made her mother go deathly pale.

  “I’ll bring the stones again.”

Mrs. White staggered backwards, eyes wide. “You wouldn’t.” She whispered.

Thunder rumbled deeply, then cracked across the darkening sky outside like a warning. Lightning flickered in through the tightly-drawn drapes, illuminating Carrie’s eyes like ebony flames, and Sue realized they weren’t as black as she thought. There were hues of amber and red-brown, and they glowed intensely in her skull. Her gaze was hard and cold.

  “I will, Mama.” Carrie said. Her voice was drained and dry; she sounded so tired. “If you touch them-- If you dare--” She was shaking like a newborn baby goat in Tommy’s arms. She looked up at her mother with the same diseased light that had been in her mother’s eyes. “I will bring the fire down on you.”

Mrs. White dropped to her knees, falling like a bird with broken wings. She clasped her hands together and began to pray loudly, although her words were wavering and slurring together. She rocked back and forth, shaking her head like she was trying to ward off sinful thoughts from worming their way into her brain.

Carrie sucked in a sharp breath, her body shuddering in an awful, bone-shattering way. Her head flopped limply onto one of Tommy’s shoulders, panting heavily. Sweat was soaking her brow and a feverish expression contorted her face.

  “Tommy,” She gasped weakly.

  “Grab her.” Sue ordered. “Grab her, Tommy! Let’s go!”

Tommy scooped Carrie up into his arms and ran for the door, Sue tailing right behind him.

Mrs. White did not stop them.

------

  “And then we got in the car and drove here.” Sue concludes with a frown.

An uncomfortable silence descends upon the house, only broken by the pattering of rain on the window and low rumbles of thunder. Tommy shifts closer to the couch, casting Carrie yet another worried glance. His gaze practically screamed, Wake up. Please wake up.

  “That can’t--that can’t be true,” Lynn whispers. Her breath is caught in her throat in horror. There was just no way. No parent could possibly be that cruel to their own child. She didn’t want to believe it.

  “It is.” Sue says sadly. She slips her phone out of her pocket and hands it to Lynn. Estelle leans over her shoulder to see. A video is displayed on the screen. With a quaking finger, Lynn presses the play button.

And it all fell away.

Hope that the story wasn’t true, hope that Margaret wasn’t as bad as Sue and Tommy made her out to be, hope that Carrie wasn’t getting brutally abused this whole time, right under her nose, and she never did anything to help her.

Because on the screen, clear as day, is Margaret White lashing her young daughter with a whip-thin switch, splattering blood everywhere. And the agonized yowls of Carrie will echo in her ears, haunt her nightmares, for years to come, always reminding her that it was very, very real.

Lynn’s vision blurs and she realizes she is tearing up. She blinks and claws away the tears hopefully before anyone would notice, trying her best to be strong, trying to not let her facade fall and reveal that she was actually horrified. Horrified and sickened and shocked and livid. She would not let her mask fall, and not just because she was supposed to be a tough-as-nails gym coach that would make numerous students vomit during Suicides and never flinch when bones broke savagely during games. But because she has to be strong for Carrie’s sake.

And then she looks up and sees blank onyx eyes peering at her blankly and tears cloud her vision all over again.

  “Carrie!”

Tommy is the first one to react, lunging to his friend’s side in an instant, nearly falling face-first into the rug in the process. He clasps one of her hands with both of his.

  “Carrie,” He says again, this time quieter. “How are you feeling?”

  “Everything hurts,” Carrie replies in a soft, hoarse voice. She sighs. “But what else is new?”

She...doesn’t sound very surprised, Lynn realizes with an awful twist in her stomach. Like this has happened before.

Like she’s gotten used to it. Waking up in pain.

Carrie lifts her head slightly, wincing, and looks around the room. “Where am I? Why is Miss Gardener here?”

  “Hi, sweetheart,” Lynn smiles at her warmly.

  “We brought you here.” Sue says.

  “Oh.” Carrie’s dark eyes dart around again, searching, and then fall on Estelle. Her brow pinches together. “I know you.” She whispers.

Estelle moves closer. “Hello, Carrie. It’s been a long time.”

  “You were my neighbor,” Carrie says. “I asked you what breasts were. Estelle.”

Despite the situation, light laughter ripples through the room. It almost, almost eases the weight pressing on Lynn’s heart.

  “Yes, that’s me,” Estelle chuckles. “It’s good to see you again, Carrie.”

  “You called Mama a cow,” Carrie muses, slightly dazed. Sue gets up to grab the painkillers Lynn left on the kitchen counter.

Lynn gives Estelle a look that says, “You what?” Estelle returns with a crooked smile.

  “Where is she?” Carrie asks. She’s looking around more fervently now and trying to get up. “Where’s my Mama?”

Lynn feels that awful twist in her heart again. Even after what Margaret did to her, Carrie is still so attached to her mother. But after living with such a treatment all her life, she must have gotten used to it. Maybe she even learns to overlook it.

  “She’s at your house, Caz.” Tommy says, brushing back a loose fringe of hair from Carrie’s face.

  “Is she alive?” Carrie asks. Then, more softly, “Did I hurt her?”

The beat of silence and exchange of worried glances is just a bit too long; Carrie begins to whimper and cry. Tommy soothes her quickly, brushing her tears away with gentle hands.

  “She’s okay, Caz. She’s alive, I promise.” He assures her. “Shh… It’s okay.”

Carrie looks up at him and calms slightly. Lynn is impressed- out of everyone in the room, she would have thought Tommy would be the least comforting, but here he was, treating Carrie so tenderly. Perhaps the most awkward one with comfort, at least with Carrie, would be Sue, who was standing listlessly with the bottle of Ibuprofen gripped tightly in her hands. Lynn takes it from her and she and Tommy are able to convince Carrie to swallow two of the pills.

  “They’ll make you feel better,” Tommy tells her, stroking her hair.

  “Do you ever take medicine?” Sue asks curiously.

Carrie shrugs. “Sometimes. Not always. Mama didn’t--believe--in that kind of stuff.” 

With weak arms, she pushes herself up into a sitting position, despite the several arguments for her to stay laying down. She sucks in a sharp breath, the cuts along her belly straining and stinging in the open air, and she stubbornly tugs her shirt back down to shield the expanse of scarred flesh. Lynn makes a clucking noise of disapproval.

  “You shouldn’t have your clothes covering them,” She says. “They could get infected.”

Carrie gives her a wry smile, “I haven’t got any awful infections yet, have I?”

Lynn’s heart wrenched once again, like a claw was dug inside her chest and turning it to mush. Carrie looks so used to this, so used to getting up and shaking off wounds from abuse, and she hates it. She wants to take her away from that kind of lifestyle so badly.

For a long few minutes, the house is silent. Carrie is looking down, her eyes clouded and haunted; Sue is over near the window, hands gripping the sill firmly, peering out at the storm with a deeply troubled expression, like she was considering leaping out into the tempest so the rain could wash away the chill rattling through her body; Tommy has climbed up onto the couch beside Carrie and kept squeezing her hand like he was trying to remind himself that she was still there with him and still alive; Estelle’s arms are crossed over her chest and she’s considering Carrie in thoughtful silence, most likely straining her memories back to the days when she was the White’s neighbor; Lynn is currently getting her heart turned into pulp, emotions tumbling over themselves in the whirlwind that was her mind- anger, guilt, shock, fear, maternal instincts, anger again, then guilt...it was all mixing together. 

Everyone was lost in their individual thoughts, listlessly wandering the winding corridors of their own minds.

The one who speaks first is Sue.

  “Carrie,” She says slowly, turning away from the window, “why do you love your mother?”

  “Sue!” Tommy hisses, then whips his head around to see Carrie’s reaction.

For just a moment, there is a flash of anger, and Lynn so badly wants to see it come out. She wants to see Carrie get mad at her mother for the treatment she got. But it is chased off by deep sadness and confusion, like Carrie herself didn’t know why she was so attached to such a wicked woman.

  “How much do you know about her?” Carrie asks instead of answering. She looks around, including everyone in the question. “Aside from her being an extremist, how much do you know?” 

Looks were exchanged as minds were dug through for any information on Margaret White that weren’t rumors. Carrie waits patiently, a tiny, sad smile ghosting her lips. 

  “You once said,” Estelle starts slowly, “that she was ‘bad when she made you.’”

Carrie nods, her smile twitching up a little more. “My Mama,” She says, “is a delusional, accursed witch.”

Stunned silence. Carrie tilts her head at them, as if to say, “What? I thought you were waiting for me to say something mean about her?” She shakes herself out, like she was getting rid of evil spirits clinging to her, then went on, “She hates everything about the world. Men, most girls, people who follow different religions, even churches. She doesn’t trust them, so we hold our own ceremonies at the house. She’s the preacher, I’m the congregation…” She splays open her hands and looks at them as if they had nails lanced through the palms. “She hates my father the most, I think. Even though I believe she does love him still, despite what happened. And that makes her hate him even more.” She closes her fists and looks up with dark eyes. “She hates me, too. She says she doesn’t but I know. I’ve seen the way she looks at me. I remind her of him.”

  “Have you seen him before?” Sue asks softly. “Your dad?”

  “Only once,” Carrie answers. “In a picture. I look like him.”

There’s a beat of silence. Carrie runs a hand thoughtfully over her bottom jaw, looking horrifyingly calm while speaking of her home life. But there was fear in her eyes. Lynn could see it flickering in her hugely dilated red-brown-black pupils, very much there, but being stamped down. It was honestly quite startling to see her young student, who would flinch when someone simply raised their hand to ask a question, who always tried to make herself seem smaller when teams were picked for games, who had to use sign language to speak to people because she was too anxious to even verbally talk, be so reserved and nonchalant.

That was another thing- Carrie speaking so many words. Lynn doesn’t think she’s ever heard her talk so much before. She’s wanted to hear her talk, yes, but not like this.

  “If a prayer was said just a little wrong,” Carrie begins again, “if a cross was bumped and became crooked, it all fell apart for her.” She leans back, staring out the window. What is that look in her eyes? Disdain, fear, anxiety, relief about finally telling about this? “And she took it out on me over...”

  “…and over…”

  “…and over…”

  “…and over…”

Carrie’s eyes became vacant, darkening until they looked completely black, lost in the abuse that gripped her so tightly. The calm demeanor only then breaks and is replaced by intense terror and anxiety. At her side, Tommy is too stunned to react, so Lynn lunges forward, grabbing the girl by the shoulders. As soon as contact is made, Carrie begins to thrash and cries out, “…AND OVER!” 

Lynn’s grip on Carrie’s shoulders does not break, even when the girl swats fearfully at her arms in a panic. She could only stare as she seized out of control. It was like watching an exorcism happen right in front of her.

  “Carrie, stop!” Tommy pleads.

With a start, Carrie stops breathing and tightens every muscle in her body. Prolonged contact with someone who wouldn’t hurt her is starting to have an effect. Her eyes close and her spasms slow. Silence fell around the group.

Then, Carrie expels her breath and sucks in another. She grasps Lynn’s hands and gently pries them away from her shoulders; her touch is like ice.

Sue beseeches her, “What happened to you?”

And on the inside, Lynn thinks, “Is this the girl I want to take in?”

Carrie didn’t look at anyone. Shame carves deep grooves in her face. 

  “Mama says I’m different,” Carrie smolders. “That I was born from my father’s sin and that’s why--I’m the way I am. And she believes that she has to purify me and remove the devil from inside of me.” 

After a second, Carrie turns her head back ever so slightly and peers at the group around her out of the corner of her vision. There was pain in that bloody ebony eye. 

Her next three words were tight with humiliation.

  “She broke me.”

The pit in Lynn’s stomach dropped until it was a chasm. She can’t speak. Nobody could speak. Carrie looks away again, hiding her disgrace from sight.

  “My Mama damaged me in a way that cannot ever be repaired. No matter how many decades pass, I will always be just as broken as I am now. I can’t become whole again.” Her voice cracked as she mourned. “She passed her sickness onto me.”

Tommy reaches over, slowly bridging the gap between him and his dear little sister figure, but Carrie shrinks away from the hand, shaking her head and whimpering, “It’s like a curse that spreads from people to people.”

Tommy swiftly retracts his hand, and the speed at which he does so causes guilt to bloom all over his face. Carrie looks up at him with an understanding frown.

  “I will never let anyone share in my sickness. I can’t.” She shakes her head miserably. “I have to--stay away--from people. To protect them. That’s what Mama says.” She clenches her fingers into claws and anger, pain, longing, shame all flash in her eyes. 

  “But Carrie, how could you pass that sickness onto other people? Onto us?” Tommy asks. “You wouldn’t hurt us!”

Suddenly, a guilt-ridden sob tears out of Carrie’s throat and she doubles over, face buried in her hands.

Quivering, Tommy whispers, “You wouldn’t hurt me, right?”

Carrie wails. 

Everything is falling to pieces, to ashes. Lynn is frozen, unable to think straight. At her side, Estelle is frowning--like she’s seen this before.

  “You don’t want to hurt us.” Estelle says. “You don’t want to hurt anyone at all.”

Carrie sniffles and looks up from her hands. She looks absolutely miserable.

  “Would it matter if I did?” She shakes her head and looks at her hands with so much hatred. “I’m a monster. Just like Mama always says.” She covers her face again and sobs.

Lynn can see it now: Carrie wasn’t just shy and anxious and socially awkward, she was fragile, too--too fragile for the awful things she’s been through.

  “Oh, Carrie,” Tommy murmurs. Despite what had been said, he pulls Carrie securely into his arms and she lets him, curling into his warmth. “Carrie. Carrie, I love you anyway. I don’t care.”

And Carrie cries.

She cries and cries and cries for a long time. She cries until she’s reduced to weak sniffles and hiccups and can barely lift her head from Tommy’s chest. She looks absolutely exhausted by the end of it, completely drained. She is feeling the full effect of her wounds, now, and whimpers softly.

  “I have a spare bedroom,” Lynn says. “She can sleep there. She’s tired.” She frowns at Carrie’s pale face.

Tommy nods silently and carefully picks Carrie up. Lynn leads him to the guest bedroom and he sets Carrie down beneath the blankets. Her eyelids are fluttering as sleep--or maybe unconsciousness--begins to take hold of her. Tommy kisses her forehead.

  “Sleep well, Caz,” He murmurs.

Silence descends upon the house once again. Lynn, Estelle, Tommy, and Sue all sit at the dining room table with mugs of peppermint tea Estelle had made. They didn’t look at each other for a long time.

  “What are we gonna do?”

Everyone looks up. Like before, it was Sue who spoke first.

  “About Carrie.” Sue states, but it wasn’t really necessary. They all knew who she was referring to.

  “She can’t go back home,” Tommy says. 

  “But she also needs help.” Sue says. “I’m not-- I don’t know if it’s the best idea, but there’s a mental hospital in--”

  “No.” Tommy growled. “Hell no.”

  “Tommy, she needs help!” Sue says.

  “She wouldn’t last a day in a place like that!” Tommy reprimands. “You know that. And mental hospitals aren’t exactly well known for actually helping people. Locking Carrie up with batshit insane people isn’t going to fix her, it’s just going to make her worse.”

  “He’s right,” Estelle nods. “I have a cousin who was in a mental hospital for a few days. He said that both suicidal people and homicidal people were put together. So there would be someone who tries to kill themselves with any object they could get their hands on and then someone who loudly talks about wanting to kill everyone in the place in the same room. Not exactly very comforting.” She shakes her head. “What Carrie needs is a stable place to live with sane people who can take care of her. Does she have any relatives?”

  “Doubt it.” Tommy sighs.

  “She can stay here.”

All eyes turn to Lynn. Her jaw is set and she looks confident in what she said.

  “Really?” Tommy’s eyes lit up slightly in hope.

  “Yes, really,” Lynn says. “As Estelle said, she needs someone who will take care of her. I can. I /will/. And I want to.”

  “That’s a really sweet thing for you to do, Lynnie,” Estelle coos.

  “Ooooo, Lynnie?” Sue and Tommy tease simultaneously. For the first time in hours, they had real, wide smiles on their faces. 

Lynn rolls her eyes. “Watch it, Snell. I’m still your coach. I can make you run until your legs give out.”

  “But you’re not mine.” Tommy says, puffing out his chest.

  “You doubt my ability to make kids run Suicides.” Lynn smirked at him.

For just a moment, things felt good again. And maybe they would continue to be good, because if Lynn had her way, Margaret White was never going to see her daughter ever again.

[ckret2]

Nom De Guerre

Prompt: In exchange for some art at TFCon, I promised @xraybeeb some DinoTrap! They’re still at the awkward pretending-they-don’t-like-each-other stage because, it turns out, I just wanted to write banter. Continuity: Beast Wars, some vague point post-transmetal and pre-Code of Hero. Pairing: Rattrap/Dinobot, but only faintly Wordcount: 2000 Summary: Dinobot wants to know what Rattrap’s name was back on Cybertron. Somehow that segues into Rattrap learning about Dinobot’s surprise Autobot idols.

Rattrap was almost back to base, at the end of his patrol, when he saw someone standing on top of the Axalon, silhouetted against the night sky. "Hey! What—?!" He skidded to a stop, transforming and looking up at the mysterious bot. "Who—? Oh. HEY, CHOPPERFACE!"

Dinobot's gaze lowered from the stars to Rattrap.

"Stop melodramatically stargazin'! It's so dark out, I thought you were a Predacon!" He paused. "... A different Predacon!"

Faintly, Dinobot yelled back, "Come and make me stop!"

"I'm n—"

"Unless you're a coward!"

Rattrap let out a long sigh that he hoped was loud enough for Dinobot to hear from the top of the ship. And then commed Optimus. "Hey, boss bot—I'm back from patrol, buuut I'm not comin' in just yet. Dinobot's on top of the ship and I've gotta go wittily banter him to death. If I start screamin', send backup."

It took a couple of minutes for Rattrap to find a route to scale the Axalon and reach Dinobot's position. Dinobot wasn't even waiting for him—he was sitting cross-legged on the far side of the ship, facing away. "Okay, reptile. Challenge accepted and defeated. Now get off the stupid—"

"What did you go by," Dinobot said, "back on Cybertron?"

Rattrap stopped, staring at Dinobot's back. "... Did you call me all the way up here just t'ask me my real name?!"

"No. I started wondering while waiting for you to laboriously scale the ship."

"Ooh, you condescendin'..." Rattrap muttered invectives as he stomped up behind Dinobot. "I oughta kick you off the side."

"I would be delighted to see you try."

Of course, he didn't. Instead, he stopped beside Dinobot, surveying the view. Eh. It wasn't bad, he supposed.

"Rattletrap."

Dinobot looked at him, clearly waiting for him to elaborate; but Rattrap didn't know what elaboration he wanted, so he said what anyone would say after introducing their name: "Nice t'meet you."

Dinobot snorted, shoulders jerking.

Rattrap sat down beside Dinobot, legs stretched out in front of him. "I know, it's just one syllable off from what I got now." Rattrap had no idea what Dinobot's basis of comparison was—he didn't know what any of the Darksyde’s crew had gone by, aside from the fact that their illustrious and big-headed leader had been alias "Megatron" for decades—but out of the original Axalon crew, Rattrap had stayed closer to his original name than any of the other Maximals. "But, eh—I'm attached to my name, y'know? Rattletrap suits me. It's..." He trailed off. He'd never had to describe his name before; it was like trying to describe his own transformation sequence.

"Unreliable? Rickety? In poor health?"

"Unassumin'," Rattrap snapped. "You can get a whole lot done while people are busy underestimatin' you because you've got a name that makes you sound like a jalopy."

"Your very name is an act of subterfuge." Dinobot sniffed disdainfully and looked away from Rattrap at last, surveying the quiet night. "Dishonorable. But, I suppose, effective. For someone like you."

"Tch, you flatterer." Rattrap leaned back, settling himself on his elbows. Oh yeah, this was gonna be a long banter. He could feel it. "How 'bout you? Who were you on Cybertron?"

"Dinobot."

Rattrap gave him a surprised look. "No kiddin'? Before you were a 'raptor?"

"Yes. My organic beast mode was fortuitous. In fact I named myself Dinobot long ago."

Named himself. Huh. "I figure you're named after...?"

"The Dinobots who fought at the end of the Great War, yes. I consider them my role models."

"Really!" Rattrap scooted over so he could roll onto one side, giving Dinobot his full attention. "You don't say! Oh, I want to hear all about how the Dinobots are role models."

"You mock me."

"Nooo. Me? Never," Rattrap said mockingly.

Dinobot snarled at him. "The Dinobots are consummate warriors! They are aggressive, direct, indefatigable—"

"Probably don't know what 'indefatigable' means."

Dinobot swiped threateningly at Rattrap. "Honest. Fearless. Loyal to their own, and they make no pretenses of loyalty to those they don't consider their own. And they carried those ideals with them everywhere—no matter in whose company they found themselves, and no matter how little others understood their ideals."

And something about the way Dinobot said that made Rattrap uncomfortably aware of how much he was one of those people who didn't get Dinobot's ideals. Not, he reminded himself, that he wanted to get them—they were, after all, Predacon ideals—but, still... Still. Still.

Had to be lonely, Rattrap supposed.

"They embody a nobility of character which I can only aspire to match," Dinobot concluded.

Rattrap nodded slowly, taking in that analysis. "... They're also dumber than a bag of rocks."

He expected another swipe for that. Instead, Dinobot said, wryly, "You'll notice that, in listing their virtues, I did not include intelligence."

Rattrap laughed. "Okay! Okay, fair," he said. "You uh—you do know that your heroes were also Autobots, right?"

Dinobot gave Rattrap an exasperated look. And then sat up straighter. "What are you—? Stop posing like that! You look ridiculous!"

"Wha—?" At some point, as Rattrap listened to Dinobot wax poetic about Dinobots, he had ended up laying on his side with one hand propping up his cheek and the other arm draped across his waist. He did look ridiculous. Flustered, he sat straight up again. "I— W— Don't change the topic! What kinda role models are a pack of Autobots for a big bad Pred, huh?"

"You insult them by calling them Autobots." Dinobot was back to staring at the horizon, refusing to look at Rattrap. "Perhaps they wore the Autobot badge—but they were never given Autobot coding. In behavior—in spirit—although they fought for the Autobots, in their sparks they were Decepticon."

"They tell you that themselves, or are you just projectin'?"

"Have you nothing else to contribute but critical snark?!"

"Well I can't contribute saucy poses anymore, can I?" But all right, maybe he should tone it down. This was... actually an intriguing side to Dinobot. The Predacon that venerates Autobots.

Dinobot gave him a dark look. "They were detested by their teammates. Loathed. That's not projecting."

Rattrap swallowed a half dozen snappy replies. "Yeah? I heard they were hard to get on with, but..."

"It's the truth. The Autobots who fought alongside them distrusted them. They saw them as burdens—mere berserkers to be unleashed on the enemy, and then tolerated and contained until the next battle. They were utilized for their innate combat capabilities without being respected for them. In many ways... the Autobots' treatment of the Dinobots was a model for the Maximals' later treatment of Predacons."

Once again, Rattrap felt far more conscious than he wanted to be of how little he knew about what went on in Dinobot's head—in Dinobot's life—or any other Predacon's, for that matter. True, he still didn't want to know the first thing about what regularly passed through, say, Megatron's mind, or Waspinator's, or—eesh—Tarantulas's—but... times like this, when Rattrap was being honest with himself, he kinda felt like he was missing out on something, not being able to guess what Dinobot was thinking.

... He didn't want to linger on that for too long. "So. Who's your fave?"

"Grimlock!" Dinobot said it instantly, as though he'd been just waiting to be asked. "The greatest fighter! Before I permanently adopted the nom de guerre 'Dinobot,' for years I went by 'Grim' in his honor."

"It suits ya." Maybe it didn't suit him right then, though—he was gushing like a newbuild talking about their favorite pop star.

"He should h—thank you." Dinobot actually sounded like he meant it. (He probably hadn’t heard that before, had he? What kind of nerve did he have to have to be a Predacon among Predacons going by an Autobot’s name? Rattrap was beginning to suspect that Dinobot had been lonely long before he’d surrounded himself by Maximals.) "He should have assumed the mantle of Autobot leadership. There was an opportunity, when Optimus Prime fell in combat to Megatron. The Autobots should have recognized that, with the Decepticons in full control of Cybertron and the Autobots only holding back a few off-world garrisons, they were in desperate need of a new style of leadership. The Matrix of Leadership should have been offered to Grimlock—he would have ruled the Autobots as a warrior-king!"

"And... this woulda been a good thing or a bad thing for your Decepticon ancestors?"

"Ah—well..." Dinobot shrugged, an uncharacteristically casual gesture, and quickly moved on. "Whoever won, he would at least have shown the Decepticons more respect than the likes of Rodimus Prime. Which is the same reason he wasn't selected. The Autobots could no more appreciate Grimlock's virtues than they could a Decepticon—for they, unlike he, were not born warriors. For all their combat training, they were mere..." he let out a lizardy snarl of derision, "cccivil ssservants."

"Aaand..." Oh, Rattrap was having too much fun with this. "Assumin' he did get the Matrix, what was his name gonna be?"

Without hesitation, Dinobot replied, "Tyrannimus Prime." He raised his voice over Rattrap's peals of laughter. "Stop that! I didn't come up with it!"

"Wh-who did?!" Rattrap was flat on his back laughing. "Oh—oh, man—don't tell me you Preds have worked out all the details of a whole alternate history where Grimlock lead the Autobots!"

Dinobot was silent for an embarrassingly long time. And then mumbled, "It's not just Predacons—"

Rattrap cracked up again.

The stars in his peripheral vision were blocked; Dinobot was walking away. Rattrap immediately stopped laughing. "H-hey!" He rolled over, got to his feet, and trotted after Dinobot. "Hey, come back, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have laughed. It's—it's just surprising to me—and I mean, maybe I don't get it, but—hey, everyone's got hobbies."

Dinobot didn't stop.

Rattrap sighed. Oh, boy, he'd messed that up. How was he gonna fix this? "... I learned to fight from Arcee."

Dinobot stopped walking.

"Dunno how much you know 'bout Maximals, but we still get mandatory military training. In case..." Even though Dinobot wasn't looking, Rattrap gestured vaguely in the direction of the Darksyde. "In case. I was under... pfft, I don't remember his name now. One of the Protectobots. But I wanted to learn from Arcee. I fought tooth 'n' claw to get that transfer."

"Arcee," Dinobot said slowly, "is one of the finest warriors the Autobots ever produced."

"And unassumin'," Rattrap said. "The kinda person you underestimate until it's too late."

Finally, Dinobot turned back to Rattrap. "I have heard tales of her kindness, gentleness, and civility—right up until she eliminates her enemy. Are they true?"

"All true," Rattrap nodded. "She was the sweetest 'bot you'd ever meet—'til she wasn't."

"Hmmm." Dinobot surveyed Rattrap critically. "She taught you so little."

"'Ey!" He elbowed Dinobot. Good, they were back to normal. "Siddown and look at the stars again, reptile breath, I'm already sick of lookin' up at you."

Dinobot bent over and snorted in Rattrap's face—Rattrap made exaggerated gagging sounds—but he did march back to his original spot and sit again. "I don't relish the idea of you looking down at me, either. Sit."

Rattrap flopped back down. "As you command, Tyrannimus."

Dinobot shoved him over as Rattrap laughed. But it was, for Dinobot, a gentle shove. Rattrap should call him Tyrannimus more often. Maybe not around the others; that'd take a little too much explaining. "Either be quiet or tell me more about Arcee."

"Fine, fine! Whaddaya wanna know?"

"Is it true that she paints herself with energon?"

"You know—I was always a little too scared to ask."

"Well, what did she smell like?"

"Excuse me?"

"You can tell if paint is energon-based from how it smells when it's warm, and Cybertronian bodies are almost always warm enough to activate the—"

"Why do you know this?"

It was another half hour before they were interrupted by Silverbolt, who had, apparently, been sent outside to ensure that Dinobot and Rattrap hadn't been kidnapped by Predacons and/or quietly murdered each other. By the time they were back inside, Dinobot was already radiating a surly "don't touch me, speak to me, or acknowledge that I possess a corporeal form on this mortal plane" aura; nobody spoke until he'd disappeared down the hall to his quarters.

Once he was well out of audial shot, Optimus asked Rattrap what in the world had kept them outside so long.

Rattrap shrugged. What had they talked about, really? Dinobots and alternate history and basic training? "He wanted to know my real name."

If you want to leave a tip or like the fic on AO3, the links are in my description! Comments/reblogs are welcome!

[mycatshuman]

Dark Hood: Chapter 6

Warnings: Deciet, let me know if I missed any.

Virgil and Patton stood outside the door that stood between them and Logan and Roman. Patton's freckled face held a hesitant smile. Virgil looked at him. "Hey," Patton looked over at his purple haired friend. "They'll make the right decision," Virgil offered. Patton's smile wavered slightly.

"I know you only said that for me. I know you don't believe that." Virgil opened his mouth to deny but Patton cut him off. "It's okay. You don't have to do that for me." Virgil dropped the optimistic act.

"Okay," he grumbled, his voice low. Virgil put his thumb to his lips and began chewing at the nail. "We can't out rule the possibility that they won't do the right thing though. Out of the three choices they have, only one of them is completely bad," Virgil added. Patton nodded absently, his smile small.

"Well we won't know until we ask them," Patton exclaimed as he pushed a bright smile onto his face. Virgil nodded and twisted the knob. As the door opened, Logan and Roman's heads shot up in their direction. Virgil and Patton shuffled in, Virgil shutting the door once they were inside. Patton beamed at the two men as he bounced to his chair and sat. "We're back!" He announced brightly. Virgil slowly took his seat next to him and looked at the two through his bangs. Maybe he could figure out what they choose before they actually said it. Better to be prepared than caught off guard.

"I take it you're here to ask what we have decided?" Logan asked, folding his hands neatly on the table.

"Yup! That we are Logan!" Patton exclaimed excitedly. Only Virgil could see the unease and concern in his green eyes. Logan cleared his throat as Roman scouted in closer.

"Very well. We have decided that if would be best,"

"And honourable," Roman cut in. Logan sent a glare his way and Roman rolled his brown eyes.

"For us to join you in your," Logan paused, hoping either Patton or Virgil would provide him with the correct word for what they did. He looked as the two shared a glance. Then Virgil turned back to him and Logan saw...something in his violet eyes but, he couldn't quite put his finger on it. Was it joy? Disbelief?

"We're kinda like hunters of sorts. Vampire slayers, vampire hunters, pretty much the same thing except we aren't really black and white about it," Virgil explained as he waved his hand around, fingers bearly poking out of the sleeve of his black patched hoodie.

"Unlike some of the others," Patton muttered under his breath, a disapproving look on his face.

"What?" Roman asked, confusion plastered on his face. Patton startled at having been heard and slapped a bright smile on his face.

"What?" He asked innocently. Logan's eyes widened at the cute way he said the word. When Roman elbowed him, he realized he had been staring and tried desperately to compose himself. He straightened his tie with slender fingers as Virgil let out a low growl.

"There are a few other people out there who hunt vampires. Most of them have a personal vendetta on them. These 'hunters'," Virgil scoffed as if that wasn't what he would call them. "Are more of the mercenary type. They will let people hire them and destroy their target with no remorse. Then there are those who tend to see things as black and white. 'Vampires are monsters and they all must die'. They don't care if a vampire has never hurt a soul. They don't care if a vampire just wants to find a way to become human again. All they see is a vampire and they destroy it. They believe all vampires are bad. No shades of grey for them."

"But that's...that's outrageous!" Roman cried as he threw his hands in the air. Patton nodded sadly.

"Unfortunately, that's the way it is." Roman shook his head angrily.

"How many of them are there?" Logan asked, his face twisted into a thoughtful one. Virgil shrugged as he sat back.

"I've only heard of about two or three but I'm sure there are more." Logan frowned.

"That is highly unlikely. Vampires are, from my experience, inhumanly strong and fast. The amount of survivors are slim to none. If these 'nasty vamps', as you have stated, are really as merciless as you say then most of their victims never see the light of day after they are intially captured. As good as you guys probably are, you can not possibly hear of every victim and save everyone," Logan theorized. Virgil shrugged. Logan took a small moment to study him. He hadn't had much time to theorize over what had caused his trauma torwards the question he had asked earlier. Logan noticed dark eyeshadow under his eyes. Logan hypothesized it was covering bags that probably resided there.

"How about we get back to the choice you guys made?" Patton asked, his eyes shining bright behind his glasses as he fiddled with the sleeve of the grey cat hoodie wrapped around his shoulders. Virgil nodded. "Why did you make that decision?" Patton asked politely. Logan adjusted his glasses and Patton felt something tug at his heart and a lurch in his gut. He shifted slightly in an attempt to hide it.

"Well, we most certainly could not return to Deciet," Logan paused for a confirmation of the name. Virgil nodded, bangs shifting slightly, and he continued. "Considering he is not the most trustworthy person it wouldn't be far fetched that he would turn around and stab us in the back if we gave you over to him." Logan didn't miss the shudder that ran through Virgil's hunched frame. "And seeing that Roman would bother me constantly about how 'we have forsaken our duty as good people if we turn our backs and forget that there are real monsters in this world that few know about' and I'd really rather spare myself the headache." Virgil shrugged and turned to Patton.

Logan watched as an understanding passed between the two through their eyes. When they turned back to them, Logan saw a bright light in Patton's eyes. Logan fought himself from staring. Patton's face seemed to light up the room as he beamed at them. Virgil gave a shrug, his face a mask of indifference but, Logan thought he saw a glimmer in his eye.

"Cool. We will of course have to give you a sort of tour and whatnot. Also a place to stay." Virgil paused as he looked up, face contorted as he tried to remember something. "I think the newest cabin won't be up for a few weeks so we will have to see about someone who can share for a bit." Patton's eyes lit up again as he squealed, hands flying to his mouth in excitement.

"Oh! Virgil they should stay with us!" He exclaimed. Virgil's eyes widened as he began to shake his head.

"Patton, no. We technically just met them! We can't trust them yet, no offense," Virgil added as he looked to the other two. Logan nodded his head as Roman waved a hand.

"None taken." Patton pulled out the puppy dog eyes.

"Please Virgil! They need a place to stay and we have room," Patton pouted softly as he hit Virgil with everything he had in his arsenal. He whimpered. "Pretty please, with Hot Topic on top."

Virgil tried. He really did. He made sure to look everywhere but Patton. Then Patton let out a whimper and Virgil looked. Those eyes were so wide and all they wanted was to make Logan and Roman feel welcome. Virgil wouldn't put it past Patton to adopt them if he could. Virgil had already found notebooks full of ways Patton planned on adopting him and everyone else in their little group. Virgil felt the cold exterior he had put up begin to melt and he tried very hard to stay strong. Then Patton launched at him and wrapped his arm tightly around Virgil's waist. "Please," he heard Patton whined into his jacket. Virgil caved. He let out a small puff of air, blowing his bangs off of his face slightly.

"I guess...if Logan and Roman are okay with it," Virgil stated as he looked over at the two. As much as Virgil didn't want them to stay with them, he also didn't want to be the only one subjected to Patton's puppy dog eyes. Patton turned to them as Logan's eyes widened and Roman smirked. Logan's heart beat harder in his black clothed chest. Patton opened his mouth to speak.

"I suppose if it is okay with Virgil and Roman," Logan concluded. He wouldn't be able to resist Patton's adorable face for long. Just his voice almost made Logan melt. Roman smirked.

"Fine by me." Patton jumped up happily.

"YAY!" He exclaimed happily. He bounded over to Roman and gave him a hug before coming over to Logan. Roman snickered behind his hand as Patton pulled Logan into a tight hug. Logan sputtered as he tried to figure out something to say. Soon Patton pulled away and smiled up at him. "Let's go!" He bounded over to the door and pulled it open as Virgil rolled his eyes, walking out. Roman followed and Patton waited for Logan. Logan walked forward slowly as Patton beamed at him.

Once out in the hall, Patton grabbed Logan's hand and dragged him outside where Virgil and Roman waited. Roman laughed at the startled expression on his friend's face as Virgil smiled slightly at Patton's behavior. Together the four set off on a tour of the area.

⚡⚡

"And here is our cabin!" Patton exclaimed brightly as he pulled them all inside. Logan adjusted his glasses as he glanced around. It was a cozy home. There was a small fireplace in the living room where a coffee table sat in the middle and a tv hung over the mantle. There were two small shelves on either side of the fireplace filled with worn books. Logan stared at them in awe.

Off to the side sat a small entertainment center full of movies. Roman's eyes lit up at the abundent amount of Disney movies. The living room lead into a kitchen, separated by a fluffy couch. The kitchen was huge. A marble topped island sat in the middle surrounded by stools. Numerous pots and pans hung from a rack above. There was a small stove and oven underneath a microwave and dark stained wooden cabinets. Underneath a window leading out back, a deep sink sat so that one might look outside and enjoy the view as they washed dishes. Tucked away beside a door were a freezer and fridge. Both the same size standing side by side. It truly was a magnificant kitchen. Perfect for baking and cooking large meals.

"Bedrooms are upstairs. Bathroom is next to the back door," Virgil told them as he shoved his hands in his pockets. "You guys can look around or we can go get the tour over with. Whichever one you wanna do." Virgil shifted from one foot to the other uncomfortably. He still didn't trust these men. But he knew they wouldn't be able to do much damage. Judging by the way Logan looked at Patton and the way Roman smirked at Logan every time he caught him doing it.

"I think I would like to have the tour first so as to get it out of the way. Then we can explore here at the end of the day," Logan suggested as he adjusted his tie. Virgil let out a sigh of relief.

"Let's go then."

⚡⚡

"And this is where we train. It's mostly for sparing and stuff like that but you can do whatever." Virgil shrugged. Logan and Roman stared at the training field. It was big and could fit everyone in the small camp and then a whole stadium of people and still have room left. Logan frowned.

"How come when flying above the forest you only see trees? This clearing never came up on the radar," Logan asked. Virgil shrugged. He seemed to do that a lot.

"We had someone enchant the camp and training field to hide it from any prying eyes," Virgil answered. Suddenly, there was a big commotion back at the camp. The four turned and what they saw made them all freeze. Any color on Virgil and Patton's face was gone, replaced with a mask of pure horror and disbelief.

Virgil shook himself out of it and snatched a bow and quiver full of arrows from the armory as he ran forward and stopped a couple of feet away from the cause of the commotion. "Virgil!" Patton yelled as he followed, grabbing a staff and dagger on his way. He stopped beside Virgil who had hatred and fear in his eyes as his chest heaved angrily. Roman and Logan shared a terrified glance. Then Roman rushed forward and seized a sword, joining Patton and Virgil. Logan shook his head.

"What am I about to get myself into?" He asked himself as he too grabbed a weapon and joined the rest of the camp as they formed a sort of defense line a few feet from the invaders. Out of the small group infront of them, Logan was sure not a single one of them were human. Suddenly, a dark chuckle reached his ears. Logan's eyes shot back to the middle where the group separated and a man in a bowler hat strutted forward with a self assured smirk on his face. He wore a black capelet and a brown jacket with accented yellow. How hands were covered with yellow gloves that looked remarkably similar to dishwashing gloves. He would have almost completely resembled the media's interpretation of Jack The Ripper if it weren't for the left half if his face. It was covered in scales and his eye was yellow and slit like a snake.

Logan would have thought it stage makeup if he hadn't been told the truth. That this man was part snake. "I am so angry to have found you," the man spoke with delight. If it weren't for Patton whispering to him earlier, Logan would've been confused. It must be weird to decipher the man's lies. Virgil growled low in his throat. The man simply chuckled.

"What do you want?" Virgil sneered. The man laughed.

"Why to make sure you live," he replied. Patton growled loud and low as Logan quickly deciphered the lie. Roman took a step back horror flashing across his face. Logan took in a breath. He was here to make sure Virgil died.

"You will not hurt him," Patton growled. Logan watched as Virgil's eyes shifted wildly. He was scared, and he had every right to be. After all, this vampire wanted him dead.

⚡⚡

Virgil pushed down his own fear in order to keep himself from panicking. He took a deep breath. He couldn't die. He had to stay alive. He had to. For Patton and for everyone else here. He couldn't fail them. Even though his mind told him he would fail, he had to push through. Virgil glared across at the man. This vampire-snake hybrid was not going to win. Not if Virgil had anything to say about it.

⚡⚡

Patton was enraged. How dare this man threaten Virgil! A friend who he also considered his son. How dare he threaten his family! This was NOT okay. Patton was going to protect his family no matter what. Patton was not going to let this man destroy what he had. He was not going to let this man win. Not if Patton had anything to say about it.

⚡⚡

Roman frowned. This man was evil. This was the type of man who stole candy from children and locked damsels in towers. The type of man who played games with his victims before he killed them. Roman couldn't believe he had ever thought about helping the man. The man had played with his love of being the hero. He had manipulated him. And this would not stand. Roman would not have it. Roman would not let this man turn him into a villain. Not if Roman had anything to say about it.

⚡⚡

Logan looked at the man across from them. This was ridiculous! This was crazy! However, crazier things have happened. Logan groaned. He was not well suited at fighting. He would rather have just stood on the side lines. Anything but running into a battle against vampires of all things! But one look at Patton and Logan knew he couldn't let the man down. He would do almost anything for him. Even if it was hard for him to admit. Logan looked back at the man in the cheap suit and frowned. No one was going to hurt his new family. As strange as that seemed, Logan already found himself imagining the four of them as a family. It was highly unusual for him to imagine things but maybe there was something about Patton that brought out that side if him. No one was going to hurt them. Not if Logan had anything to say about it.

⚡⚡

The man grinned wickedly at them all. He had finally cornered Virgil after all this time. He could still remember when he met him. It would have been nice to have finished him off right then and there, but that pathetic human lover had to come in and ruin everything. He had to admit though, it was fun chasing the frightened little cat. He wasn't going to kill Virgil yet. Oh, no. He was going to take him and torture him in front of that stupid vampire who saved him all those years ago. That would teach him. Then he would kill him.

Remy would regret saving Virgil from the jaws of Deciet once this was all over.

----

(Wow! What a chapter! Actually it wasn't really good but whatever. And wow! They've met before! Oh my! Ha! And trust me. This is not the end. I'm still only in the first story. And I think it might be a okay series. Remember any feed back is appreciated! Maybe you can even let me know if the idea of making this part of a series is a good one. I hope you "guys, gals, and non-binary pals" like it. I wish you all a fantastic night/day! Hopefully I can get chapter 7 up tomorrow.) 💜💜💜💜

Tag list: @bunny222

[thisisamadhouse]

I met you too late

A/N: This prompt came to me and wouldn’t leave me alone so it had to be written: “I’m the ghost who haunts the house you just bought, and for some reason you’re the only one who can see me.” Also this one from @onhowtobecrazy ‘s Hamilton inspired prompts seemed fitting: #12 “Dying is easy. Living is harder.” Also big thanks to Manon for her feedback and encouragements. Some dialogue are borrowed from Season 4. AO3 link

The captain goes down with the ship, that’s what Commander William Adama has always believed. From the moment he joined the Colonial Fleet almost forty years ago during the Cylon War, he never thought he would live long enough to be retired. Yet there he is, in the suburb of Caprica City, putting down the last of his boxes in the living room of the four bedrooms, three baths, furnished house he has just bought for a ridiculously cheap price only a couple of weeks after the decommissioning ceremony of the old bucket of a battlestar he has started and finished his career on.

Despite having studied the house from roof to basement, to look for any defect that would explain the unexpected bargain, and after the silent, intense glare he treated his realtor with, to no avail, he just shrugged and signed his name on the check and the paperwork.

It could seem a bit big for a single man, but he has two sons and a daughter-in-law whom he hopes will visit, and a best friend with a wife who both tend to overdo it when they have a full bottle of alcohol in front of them, and he would rather not see them drive if he can help it.

He looks around the room with its warm walls and dark cherry furniture. Even if the house has been empty for over a year, it is almost in pristine condition, only a few scraps here and there that speak of a full life spent in a place built especially for, and looked after by, the family that occupied it for as long as he has first boarded a spaceship to go and fight the Cylons, at least that’s what his realtor told him. Most of the personal items are gone, but there is one picture left behind on the mantle of the fireplace, and Bill heads towards it, curious to know more about the people who stood there before him.

He is about to grasp it when he hears someone speak out behind him.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a feminine, low, soft lilt of a voice says, and Bill swirls around, his eyes rapidly sweeping the room, looking for the intruder who managed to sneak up on him unnoticed.

A giggle then, apparently coming from the couch... the very empty, devoid of any human presence couch. Bill frowns, wondering what kind of game this is. He approaches it carefully, searching for a camera, a speaker, anything that could explain it. “Don’t bother,” the voice utters, amused, and now he is certain that he has the right location.

He starts pulling apart the cushions, throwing them on the ground, pating the structure, until the voice protests. “Hey, that’s rude, I’m right there you know,” and this time Bill thinks he can feel a breeze of cold air onto his face. He straightens up and takes a step back, frowning. If he had had the chance to fill up his drinking cabinet yet, he would be worried that he had had one too many, and this seems a bit too sudden for an early onset case of dementia. There is another possible explanation though, and he isn’t sure he likes it anymore than the others.

“What the fr…” he starts to say when the phone rings. He hesitates, looking between the couch and the phone, before shaking his head and crossing the room to pick it up.

“Don’t,” the voice says, all playfulness gone, the tone all at once urgent and anxious, and Bill’s forearm becomes ice cold, frost forming on his skin in a pattern, fingers, a whole hand actually. The ringing stops and the answering machine takes over.

“Hello, you’ve reached the Roslin’s, if you’re looking for Edward,” the recorded message starts with a man speaking, “Judith,” a woman follows, “Laura, Sandra, or Cheryl,” three younger sounding voices speak in rapid succession, and one in particular holds Bill’s interest as he listens to the rest of the recording, “please leave a message and we will call you back,” the family of five talk together in a perfectly synchronized way, the message ending with a collective laugh before the beep resounds.

“Huh, I hope I’ve got the right number. I guess you haven’t had time to personalize your voicemail yet, but you really should cause that was a bit creepy. Hi, Dad, it’s Zak, by the way, but you probably already figured that out. I just wanted to check up on you, see how the moving in is going. Kara and I have some leave coming up, and we thought we might come by, have dinner, visit for a couple of days even. I talked to Lee the other day, and he is almost done with his exams so he may be able to join us. Anyway, call me back when you can. Take care.”

Bill smiles as his son’s ramblings end with another beep. Things haven’t always been easy with his boys, his career robbed him of a lot of time with them, he missed a lot, and ever since the divorce he has been trying to make it up to them. It wasn’t easy to see Zak flunk flight school, his own then fiancée now wife deeming him unfit, but his youngest found a new calling as a deckhand and he is thriving. His eldest had more success as a pilot, but in the end Lee decided to go back to school and become a lawyer. Bill can’t say it doesn’t hurt not to have any of his children follow in his footsteps, but then he remembers that he has Kara, and his daughter-in-law is worth a dozen so-called hotshot pilots at least.

He shakes himself, he will have to return Zak’s call later, but right now he has a more pressing issue, because he can barely feel his fingers, and he is pretty sure that they are turning blue from being exposed to the cold for so long.

Just as he is wondering how to solve his predicament, whatever, or as he is becoming increasingly convinced, whoever is holding him lets go.

“Sorry,” a whisper in his ear, and the sound confirms what he thought.

He heard about the Roslin tragedy on the news last year. The wave of emotion generated after the successive passing of a whole family of well-liked teachers had reached even Galactica. A few of the younger Caprican members of his crew were taught by either Edward or Judith Roslin as children, some even had siblings, nieces or nephews who were in the daughters’ classes.

It started first with the death of the mother following a long, hard-fought battle against cancer, then the car crash with a drunk driver which claimed the father and the two youngest sisters’ lives, one of them pregnant with her first child, and finally the oldest daughter who drowned in a public fountain after hearing the news. From the look of things, it appears that one of them made it home after all.

He spent his childhood listening to his grandmother talk about the ghosts she could see and was trying to help. “They are stuck, Billy,” she used to say, the only one who ever called him that. “They are neither here nor there, but they can’t let go, they can’t move on, they try to cling onto their past lives but they can’t grasp anything. Everything is so cold and dark for them, we have to help them find the light and the shore. Treat them with respect, Billy, always.” Though why he would start seeing them himself now is the real question.

“Laura,” Bill says. “You’re Laura Roslin,” he looks down where the voice came from, and it suddenly seems like a veil has been lifted. Flaming, dark red hair, translucent skin, jade eyes that widen as he looks straight into them, a petite, slender but shapely figure with endless legs, the whole picture leaves him feeling rather robbed that he never got the chance to meet her while she was alive, and the thought instantly makes him feel like an oaf.    

She nods hesitantly, and it has him wondering how long it has been since she last heard her name being pronounced. “Yes, I am,” she says more assertively. “And you can see me, that’s new.”

Through her would be a more accurate term, but Bill is not sure he wants to voice that thought. “Believe me, no one is more surprised about that development than I am. I think I would have remembered if the realtor had told me that the house came with a roommate only I could see.”

Laura shrugs. “I have never had to worry about that before. People usually don’t hang around very long.”

Bill’s eyebrows rise. “And you have absolutely nothing to do with it, of course.”

She suppresses a mischievous smile, but he still catches it, and he wonders what kind of stunts she pulled to the poor fellows who ventured here before him. “It’s my family’s house, I have every right to be here. It’s not my problem if they can’t handle it.”

He can’t help but chuckle at the petulant tone from this prim and proper teacher. “Well, you’re going to need to learn to share, because I’m here to stay.”

She purses her lips. “You don’t seem overly surprised or concerned that you’re talking to a ghost.”

“My grandmother had the gift, that’s what she called it anyway. She could see and talk to ghosts, help them find their way,” Bill tells her, and she snorts.

“You’re one of those then,” she says disdainfully. “Thinking you know exactly what’s best for me, where I should go. One of the former buyers was some kind of priest, or exorcist, I’m not sure which, I didn’t care enough to find out. He thought he knew what was best too. He lasted a week before he ran screaming.”

Bill grins, imagining the scene. “As I said, that was my grandmother. As long as you stay out of my way, I’ll stay out of yours,” he concludes, finding nothing else to say, and she seems too stunned to retort. For some reason, it makes him smirk to have rendered her speechless. Something tells him it hasn’t happened often.

He decides to get started on putting together his bookshelves, and he can feel her presence lingering near as he works. She gets closer when he fills the shelves with rows and rows of hardcovers and paperbacks, looking over his shoulders to study the edges. When he turns back towards her inquiringly as he notices her longing look, she only shrugs and disappears from view.

It is a strange living arrangement that they have, but somehow it works for them. He has never minded being alone, and in between his children and Saul’s visits, that is the case more often than not, but after spending most of his life on spaceships full to the brim with soldiers or workers, even as a Commander with his own quarters, it is not something he is used to. Her presence, as silent or as loud as she wishes it to be, fills his existence and gives rhythm to his days.

It doesn’t take him long to notice her intense yearning for reading. The fact that she has already spent hours just looking at his collection was quite a clue.

“One can flicker lights on and off, break fragile objects, generally mess around the house, -and really, Bill, that’s no place to put spoons away, and by the Gods those wine glasses! I swear I will take everything out when you’re asleep and you will have to do it all over again in the morning-, but I can’t hold on to a book without it turning into a solid block of ice within minutes. How unfair is that?” She told him without batting an eye during his second day at the house, and he had to pause, two spoons in a hand, a wine glass in the other, before deciding to call her on her bluff and tidy up as he pleased. He found all the contents of his kitchen drawers and cupboards emptied on every available surface the next morning, Laura standing in the middle of the room with a smug expression, daring him to comment.

He didn’t and he has since learned to just roll with it and not cross her, it’s way too much work anyway. He has taken the habit, in the evenings, to pick out a book and read it aloud. He starts with the standard literary masterpieces, thinking about her education and her former occupation, but, even if she listens from her usual, self-proclaimed seat on the couch, she seems to lose interest rather fast and turns back to the TV that he leaves on during the day to distract her and only mutes as he sits down in his armchair to focus on his chosen volume.

It’s a gamble to extract one of his favourite mysteries from the bookcase, but it pays off. He has barely uttered the title that she swirls towards him, giving him her full attention. He pauses, looking at her over his glasses. “You know it?” He asks, and she shakes her head.

“Edward Prima? I’m embarrassed to say that it’s one of those classics I never got around to reading, despite my weakness for mysteries,” she says, biting her bottom lip, and he really should get a grip on himself, because he is not supposed to find this endearing, especially as he starts imagining the way she would have flushed…

He is doomed.

It’s in the little things, like lighting the fireplace year round even if he can barely stand it, because she can’t keep warm otherwise; like setting out two cups in the morning and brewing her favourite tea that he will never drink just so she can inhale its scent; like picking the sport pages out of the newspaper and neatly unfolding the political ones so she can read them and huff and puff at the stupidity of their leaders.

He asks her once if she would have ever considered a career in politics, and she laughs because she hates it as much as he does. It’s a shame, he thinks, with those legs in a power suit she could have convinced anyone to follow her anywhere, him included.

It’s in the reminders, when she gives him a lead for the crosswords he is stuck on, when she tells him that he has spent too much time home and he will become an hermit before long, “I will have dinner ready when you’re back,” she teases him, as she tries to push him out of the door to join his sons or Saul.

When she respects his silence and simply sits beside him, when she listens to his stories about the good old days, and when she shares some tidbit about her life to which he hangs on like a drowning man with a lifebelt, the boxing matches with her father, her paintings, and he can never get enough of seeing her light up when she talks about her work as a teacher.

It’s in the quiet moments, when she leans over the pots as he is cooking some traditional Tauron dish and confesses that she wished she had tried it when she could; when she watches him work on his model ship amused and intrigued in turns.

He is so used to her presence that he has to reign himself in each time he has a visitor and remember that it wouldn’t do to interact with someone only he can see, though he thinks he has spied Kara’s eyes following Laura’s mouvements once or twice, he can’t be sure and he certainly won’t  ask.

It hits him fully one day, as he is reading Love and Bullets by Nick Taylo, a pile of blankets on his lap and beside him, patches of ice here and there, where Laura rests her face.

“It started as it always did, with a body. This one was in the river, and I could tell that she had once been beautiful. But this, a bullet and fast current had taken away from her. All we are, all that we think we are, all that we are certain about is taken away from us. When you’ve worked the streets and seen what I have seen, you become more and more convinced of it every day.

Caprica City had been my teacher, my mistress. From the moment I open my eyes, she’s in my blood, like cheap wine. Bitter and sweet, tinged with regret. I’ll never be free of her, nor do I want to be. For she is what I am,. All that is. Should always be.”

He pauses, pondering the words. While he can’t associate them with Caprica City, he certainly can relate them to the woman occupying his thoughts, his space, his whole existence. He allows a chuckle to escape as he finally admits to himself that he has fallen in love with a ghost, and there is absolutely nothing he can do about it.

His movements make her stir from her comfortable position, and she blinks up at him, eyebrows rising in question, but he only shakes his head before continuing his narration. What good could it do to her to reveal the extent of his foolishness?

A couple of weeks pass, and his fingers skim the shelves in search of something new. He stops when he reaches Searider Falcon, not exactly new but it had never disappointed him before.

Laura smiles widely as he shows it to her, she hasn’t read it in years, she tells him, and can’t remember how it ends, and though it is his favourite he is not much help, he has never been able to finish it, he never wanted it to be over, like a lot of things in his life.

It is a short but intense story, it doesn’t take him long to reach the seventh chapter.

“I must warn you that I’m getting into the part that I haven’t read yet,” he says, and she grins.

“Oh dear, are you going to be able to continue?”

“The raft was not as seaworthy as I had hoped. The waves repeatedly threatened to swamp it. I wasn’t afraid to die, I was afraid of the emptiness that I felt inside. I couldn’t feel anything, and that’s what scared me. You came into my thoughts, you filled them, it felt good.” He falls silent, the words resounding deep within him.

“I wish there had been someone to fill my thoughts in the end, someone still left to miss, maybe it would have made it harder,” Laura says, still and tensed, turned away from him.

“Easier you mean,” Bill counters, but she shakes her head, turning on her back, looking at the ceiling.

“Dying is easy, living is harder. Finding a reason to continue when there is no one left, when it’s so simple to just drift away. I didn’t mean to die, Bill, but in that moment, in the water, with only my memories, I let go. I could see my parents, my sisters’ faces, and they seemed to be calling me, but once it was over, I realised that they would have never wanted that for me.”

“Is that why you couldn’t move on? Because you thought they would be ashamed if you joined them?” He asks, before holding his breath in anticipation. He has always avoided the question, thinking that it is none of his business, and she would tell him if she damn well pleases, but it’s the first time she has ever talked about her death and he can’t quite help himself.

He is certain he has gone too far when a long moment passes with no reply, but then she nods, her eyes shimmering, and he reaches for her hand, squeezing it, bearing through the cold to let her know that he doesn’t need to hear more.

She was right, he thinks, as he slowly opens his eyes, feeling the warmth of the sun and a breeze over his face that smell of sea air, it is easy to die. It was bound to happen, his ticker could only do so much after all. He has no regrets though, he has lived a good life, it has taken long enough but his relationships with both his sons have been fully mended, he has seen them both happy and fulfilled, and he is so very proud. He would rather leave on a high note.

He can distinguish the golden shore and a milling crowd is assembling there, he wonders who will welcome him.

A hand slips into his, and he doesn’t need to turn to know who it is. Still, he looks at her, and his breath catches in his throat: not only is it the first time he can touch her without fearing frostbite, she also has never looked more stunning, with full colours to her cheeks, the sun shining in her eyes in such a way it makes him realise he has never seen how green they really were, and her smile… If it were possible this smile would make his heart grow three sizes.

He smiles, threading his fingers with hers, leaning down to rest his forehead against hers.

“You didn’t think you could leave without me, Commander?” Laura whispers, and he chuckles.

“The thought never crossed my mind, Ma’am.”

[centaurianthropology]

The Magnus Archives ‘Return to Sender’ (S03E16) Analysis

With what feels like two separate stories slammed together in this episode, it was never going to be my favorite.  And though we have some tasty meta, I was left feeling a bit disappointed, and more than a bit confused on several points.  Come on in to hear what I think about ‘Return to Sender’.

It was inevitable that, after the extreme high water mark that has been the first part of season 3 (the initial bloc of episodes contained some of the strongest material to date from the show, in my opinion), having an episode that really didn’t land for me was inevitable, and would inevitably feel jarring.  That was ‘Return to Sender’, which felt like two good episodes both trimmed way down and slammed together.  It was the same problem I had with ‘Section 31’ last season.  There were several stories in that one, all potentially promising, and all severely undernourished to the point of not being memorable at all.  

‘Return to Sender’ only has two such stories, but they still have that distinct feeling of not being long enough to realize their full potential.  Both feel important.  Both feel like they have a lot to say, both about the plot and about where Sims is as a character right now.  So it’s a real shame that the whole thing feels rushed, and major beats fly by without being given the weight I felt like they deserved.

I’ll talk about the two separately first, and I’ll dig into what meta we can glean.  Then I’ll talk about why the episode, when taken as a whole, didn’t really work for me.  

The first story, which seemed to work better for me, involves Jon going to investigate the previous location of Breekon & Hope.  We find out that Breekon & Hope was the name of the company before the delivery men we know took it off the former owner and took the names for themselves.  We also know that they are all but confirmed to have been the two strong-men from the Circus of the Other.  Given that, their purpose, which had seemed to me to be a bit more freelance, is actually to move important artifacts around in service of the Stranger.  

As Sims himself mentioned in this part, it’s a bit light on meta, but understandably.  I never thought Breekon & Hope were going to be wealths of information, being more ferrymen than players in the game.  Why he felt so hellbent to find their story, I’m not sure, though I figure it’s the Archivist driving him on, making him desperate for any new story.

Indeed, the real intrigue in the first part is Sims’ reaction to standing in this location where someone died, having collected the statement from where Elias left it for him. He himself is bothered by the notion that the death seems inconsequential to him, that his major irritation comes from Elias being a showy prick, rather than the fact that a man struggled and died in that place.  Sims sounds more like Gertrude in this part of the episode than he ever has before, and following on the heels of me dubbing him Head Asshole of the Magnus Institute last week for not even bothering to check in with Martin and the rest of the assistants, this seems properly worrisome.  His humanity seems to be slipping away at an accelerated rate, and he’s not even trying to hold onto it.

So, yes, the story was a bit light on meta, but it was a good story, and well told.  It was nice to hear Jon read a statement again.  It was interesting to see him realizing how quickly the Archivist is eclipsing Jonathan Sims.  Spooled out a bit, maybe with a confrontation with Elias or something, and I think that this would have been a really good episode.

But instead, brace yourself for whiplash, because we transition directly into the second story. These two are nominally tied together with the log book Jon found at Breekon & Hope, which has allowed him to track the shipments of the Stranger’s packages.  This, again, would be a really interesting idea.  Concluding the Breekon & Hope episode with the idea that he’s going to start using that book to trach these packages would have been a good hook.  

Instead, we hard cut to him at the taxidermy shop from ‘Still Life’, apparently working without any sort of fuss or fear with Daisy.  Um, what? I don’t expect this show to hand-hold me or spoon-feed me information.  Far from it.  But a bit of context is always a good thing.  How long is this segment after the former one?  Does Jon have Daisy’s number in his phone?  Did he contact Elias, who sent Daisy to pick him up?  Is this the first time they’ve worked together? Certainly they seem weirdly comfortable in one another’s company all of a sudden, which is quite the change from Daisy wanting to shoot him in the face.  Also there was no mention at all of Basira, like Daisy asking after her and Jon not having an answer because he hasn’t bothered to check on Basira since she was taken hostage?  That would have been an ideal conversation for these two to have.

But, no.  Sudden jump to them confronting Sarah Baldwin, and I feel really bad for that character.  Having her shoehorned into the end of this episode after some great buildup early in the series feels like a disservice.  I’m hoping we get more of her later to let her shine, because this came and went too fast to leave any sort of notion who she is now or what the Anglerfish’s thing might be.  

We’re also missing the bridge between Sims being at least concerned with his slipping humanity in a rather detached way, and the stone cold Sims we get in this latter half.  He’s shaking off any threat Daisy might pose, and the only time he broke his cool was at the mention of Sasha.  He didn’t seem to mind that Sarah Baldwin escaped, nor was he shocked.  He’d got her statement, the story, and that was all that mattered.  The hunger for information was good, but needed room to breathe in the middle of everything else happening.  

And we’re also introduced to the taxidermy skin from ‘Still Life’ again.  Apparently it’s a critical piece of the Unknowing, and to slow that down Gertrude had murdered the former owner of the shop and stolen the skin. And then, in a move that felt more like Jonathan Sims, idiot extraordinaire, than anything else in that latter half of the episode, Sims just out and out admits he has no idea where the skin is.  Sarah bolts, ready to tell the Stranger that the new Archivist is a moron, and that’s that.

Like I said before, each of these halves could have been a really good episode unto itself.  The first would have been a quieter episode, but I could have dug that.  The latter would have been fairly fraught, but Jon actively interrogating a being—not asking for a statement, but a proper interrogation—would have been a really cool thing to explore over 20 minutes.  Jon and Daisy having to uncomfortably work with one another would have been interesting.  Giving Sarah Baldwin more time to draw out the creepiness of the Anglerfish, still one of the most frightening entities from this series, would have been phenomenal.

Instead, everything felt like it was rushed, and all the story threads got the short shrift in order to pack them in.  I think that both parts of this were probably necessary, and maybe the numbering of the episodes just didn’t work for them to be two episodes and still get to the mid-season finale on episode 20 of this season.  But I really wish they had found a way.

I don’t want to make it sound like there was nothing good here.  Though it was rushed, I now imagine that the Stranger’s efforts to retrieve the skin are going to lie at the center of the mid-season finale.  I also think that Jon doesn’t yet realize how dangerous that information is.  If I can figure that out, you bet that Nichola Orsinov can.  And you bet she’ll be sending some visitors to the Archives to retrieve that skin.

And the assistants STILL don’t know anything, what with Jon apparently now partered with fucking Daisy of all people.  Without the key information about the Unknowing and the Stranger, the assistants don’t know not to help some envoy of the Stranger.  They don’t know not to let someone from the circus in.  And Nichola would almost certainly view killing them all as an added fuck-you to the Beholding, so you know she’d do it if she could.  And even if Elias could stop any direct incursions by the Stranger, what if the Stranger were to approach someone like Tim?  What if Nichola were to offer Tim freedom in exchange for a creepy old bit of taxidermy skin?  He’d go for it in a second.

And speaking of Elias, we also have the most interesting line of the episode from Sarah Baldwin: “Is that what he’s calling himself now?”  This, alone, was the one line I’m happy they breezed past.  It was the one beat that didn’t feel rushed, because it should be something that spools out over many episodes.  So as far as pacing goes, that beat did land really well for me.

It seems pretty clear that whoever Elias Bouchard was before, the thing wearing his body is at least no longer him in entirety.  There likely was the original stoner Elias, but he was either replaced by someone else or willingly took on the mantle of something else, making him a hybrid of his own personality and that of something else.  And honestly, I have to wonder if that personality isn’t Jonah Magnus. What if the founder of the Institute found a way to pass from body to body, either completely consuming or living in symbiosis with the current head of the Institute?  It would lend a lot more weight to Elias’ arrogance so far, if he was the beating heart of the Magnus Institute by literally being the beating heart keeping Magnus alive.  And when he dies, he would pass into the next head of the Institute. When he said that killing him would kill everyone there, he wasn’t talking about the body of Elias, perhaps, but the mind of Jonah Magnus.

Or at least that’s the theory I’m running with.  It’s by far the most interesting meta coming out of this episode, as Elias continues to be one of the most intriguing aspects of season 3, even when he isn’t there.

But whoever Elias truly is, I get the feeling that he’s not as in control as he thinks.  He loves playing games, proving how observant he is to Jon.  He wants Jon afraid and impressed.  But Jon’s getting a bit sick of it, and the one thing Elias really can’t seem to control is Jon’s bad decision train.  And that train feels like it’s about to come into station.  Jon’s diminishing humanity is something Elias is clearly pushing, but I don’t think it’s nearly as good a thing as Elias imagines it to be.  It’s endangering his assistants, and rather than using them as touchstones and ways to cling to whatever sympathy and caring he has left in him, he’s running around with Daisy, who isn’t exactly a boost to anyone’s humanity.  And without the emotional connection, he’s clearly missing obvious conclusions.  He’s too focused on the story, and not enough on the people.  

As we come up hard toward the mid-season break (which will follow episode 20 of season 3, for anyone who didn’t know yet), I get the feeling they’re going to leave us with either a cliffhanger or a real shakeup of the current situation.  We know that the first half of this season has been Jon going out and trying to be proactive.  He’s letting the notion that he’s supposed to save the world go to his head. He’s drifting further away from caring about others and falling further and further into the hunger for information. He’s becoming Elias’ sort of Archivist, and I don’t think that’s going to work out well.

Conclusions

Like I said, this felt like about half of two good episodes accidentally put in a tumble dryer together. We get the first half, which explores Breekon & Hope and Jon’s ever-diminishing humanity, and we have the latter half in which Jon is somehow working with Daisy, who is apparently cool with that now.  And Sarah Baldwin is there.  And she gets away to tell the Stranger that the new Archivist has no clue what his predecessor did with the skin that’s critical to the Unknowing.  So a lot happens in a rather disjointed manner, leaving me feeling unsatisfied.  The informational bits we got were good, sure, but lacking in context and grounding. Too much happened too quickly with too little reason to string it all together.  And to waste a character like Sarah Baldwin on what amounted to a cameo feels like a damn shame.

I know these episodes can’t all be to my taste, and that’s fine.  Really, it’s a testament to the high quality of this series that an episode like this, where my problems stem from writing decisions rather than character actions, feels so jarring to me.  I’m guessing this was a one-off thing, made necessary by getting all this information out by the mid-season finale.  I’ve very little doubt that next week we’ll be back on track, and I’ll be loving every minute.

Hopefully Jon, as a character, gets his head out of his ass in time to realize what he’s just done. I want to believe that he’s at least smart enough to realize that the Stranger is going to believe that skin is at the Archives, and will likely either try to infiltrate or attack it directly. It would be nice if Sims remembered that there are people at the Archive that he might remember as being friendly with him at some point.  

And Jon needs those people, because without them his humanity is slipping away fast.  So valuing them and keeping them informed? Sort of a thing he has to start doing if he’s going to be this dumb on the regular.

[littleplebe]

Shieldshock time travel short? :)

Sorry this took me months to respond to, Anna.

Disclaimer: This below-average, clusterfuck of a one-shot is a fine example of me forcing myself to write when I’m in the middle of a terrible, terrible writer’s block. I blame @hollyspacey​ for the encouragement.

A week before he was drafted,Steve Rogers went to sleep in his tiny Brooklyn apartment, thinking about hisfuture and what it had in store for him. He still didn’t know why Dr. Erskinehad thought him worthy of serving. Steve was unlike any soldier they knew, weakand sickly as he was. But he wanted to save people, and if he was chosen, maybethat was his destiny.

It was a big responsibilityand it scared him, but he was equally excited. And excitement does not beget agood night’s sleep.

———

Steve awoke with a start. Thecause of his sudden switch to consciousness was unknown and left him feeling alittle disoriented. His heart pounded and the hair on his arm stood on end ashe slowly took in his surroundings. Not only had his eyesight improved, he couldsee color!

“Wha…?”

He couldn’t immediately tellwhich colors were which but that was the least of his worries. It took him aminute to realize it, what with the beautiful explosion of color before hiseyes, but he was sitting in a dimly lit and completely unfamiliar room. Atfirst he thought it was a dream, a crazy dream where he wasn’t colorblind andwhere he could afford a huge bedroom, new furniture and—there was a low moan—anda bed mate…

Wait, what?

He turned as if in slowmotion, startled gaze raking over what was definitely a feminine form curledbeside him on the bed. The shape of her curves was hard to miss even with silksheets preventing him from seeing anything.

Steve panicked, shooting upand out of bed with a speed that surprised him.

“Holy sh—!”

Discovering he was butt nakedonly increased his stress levels. Snatching the first piece of clothing hefound lying on the floor—a funny looking pair of pants—he stumbled out of theroom, lost and confused. Where was he? Had he sleepwalked into someone else’shouse? In someone else’s bed?

“No. No, this is just adream,” he told himself, rubbing his eyes and pinching himself purposefully.

The pinch felt real enough.And he didn’t wake up.

Blindly, he tottered about theapartment, barely registering the warm colors, the photographs on the mantle,the bra hanging from an old lamp, the devise that looked like something out ofHoward Stark’s fancy workshop, and a handful of envelopes piled on the coffeetable.

Steve stepped forward and siftedthrough the envelopes. Perhaps the mail would clue him in on where he was.

To his astonishment, the mailwas addressed to him!

And someone named Darcy Lewis.

He threw the envelopes back onthe table. “Don’t panic. It’s just a dream. Just some bizarre, unwarranted…oh!”

A glint of something shinycaught his eye. It wasn’t exactly a mirror, rather some kind of decoration onthe wall, but he could make out his broken reflection in it and his eyeswidened.

“Jiminy cricket!”

The man staring back at himwasn’t just tall, he was buffed up! Steve didn’t know if he was happy orworried about the transformation as he examined himself in the mirror indisbelief. An experimental flex of his arm made his bicep pop and his jawdropped. What in the hell…?

“Admiring yourself in themirror. That’s a first.”

Steve jumped and turned tofind an amused woman standing in the doorway. She had dark wavy hair and blue sleep-foggedeyes. Judging by the way she was clutching the silk sheet around her form, he concludedtwo things: A. she was the same woman he had woken up next to, and B. shewasn’t wearing anything underneath.

Heat crept up his cheeks whenhe remembered his own nakedness after waking up, but he didn’t dwell on it,afraid where his thoughts might lead him.

“Can you help me?” he askedcautiously. “I’m lost.”

The woman yawned and threw hima mildly annoyed look. “Seriously, Steve, no! I know I got you hooked onrole-playing, but let’s try it… at a more reasonable hour, okay, hon? Now comeback to bed.”

“Um…” Steve fumbled. If it wasa dream, should he play along?

When the woman realized hehadn’t followed her, she popped back into the doorway. “Steve,” she murmured,rubbing her eyes. Steve realized how spooked he must look because she took acouple of steps in his direction, looking concerned. “What is it? Are you stillrole-playing or…?”

“I don’t,” Steve beganhesitantly, “I don’t know where I am, Ms…”

“Darcy,” the woman finishedwith raised eyebrows.

“Right. That’s your name. Darcy.”Steve coughed and surreptitiously glanced at the envelopes on the table. “DarcyLewis?”

“Role-playing, then,” Darcydecided wryly. She took his hand and tugged. “Come on, you goof.”

“No, wait,” Steve protested,trying to pull his fingers out of her grip. “You don’t understand.”

“Babe.” She stopped and regardedhim with fond exasperation. “I admire your dedication to this game. But give methree hours. Just three more hours of sleep and then we’ll see if we can cureyour amnesia with a round of mind-blowing medicinal sex. Alright?”

Steve gaped at her, utterlyscandalized. Had he imagined it or had she really just said she could cureamnesia with sex? Did she think he had amnesia? What kind of a dream was this?What had Dr. Erskine injected him with if he was having such insane fantasies?

Darcy took his speechlessnessfor consent and tugged on his hand again.

A minute later, Steve foundhimself lying stiff in bed with Darcy draped inappropriately over his body. Heheld his breath for the longest time as he stared determinedly at the ceiling,trying hard to ignore the bare arms circling him and the feel of soft breastspressing against his front. Nervous energy coursed tirelessly through hissystem and the strain he was exerting by not moving a single muscle wasbeginning to wear him out.

A soft snore reverberatingagainst his chest eased him a little and he breathed a quiet sigh of relief. Darcywas asleep.

Steve raised his hands togently roll her away, but the moment his fingers curved around her waist, Bucky’sincredulous voice echoed in his mind, demanding what the hell he was doingpushing away a beautiful dame who was willing and pliant in his arms. Stevehesitated. It struck him how foolish he was being. This was a dream. Hewas allowed to do things in his dreams, things that may be uncharacteristic ofhim in real life but not so much in his fantasies.

Plus, Darcy seemed to like himenough to want to have sex with him. So maybe she wouldn’t mind if he slid ahand up her spine and buried it in her hair, or if he traced the curve of herhips and gave it a light squeeze.

It didn’t occur to him to goany further than that. He was just too upright to take advantage of someone,even in his dreams. But he did continue to stroke her back and play with theends of her hair… until sleep finally claimed him.

———

Decades ago, Captain SteveRogers woke up alone in a creaky bed in his old Brooklyn apartment. He wasstunned for a good minute before new memories came flooding into his brain,bringing with them a dull headache he hadn’t experienced since Project Rebirth.

“Fuck,” he whispered, staringmorbidly at his bony limbs and at the gray walls of the apartment which wereactually beige.

If he was here, there was nodoubt of where little-Steve was.

In the future.

With Darcy.

Fuck!” Steve repeated, louderthis time, and slumped back onto his lumpy old mattress.

Six days. That’s how long itwould take his past self to comprehend—not fully, but to a reasonableextent—what the future had in store for him, what kind of horrors he would haveto face, and what he would ultimately become.

Six days to come to terms withthe fact that he would end up being a savior, a celebrity, and at one point, arefugee.

Only six days and, yet, hewould come to the same conclusion present-Steve had reached when he had traveledto the future decades ago. That no matter what, he would choose the samepath—join the army and take the super serum every time—if it led him tobeing a world saving superhero and Darcy Lewis’ partner in crime.

It was a test, and he had nodoubt of little-Steve passing it, because the Captain had already done it once.His future was set. After six days, both of them would switch back, little-Stevewould lose his memories of time travel, he would go on to become CaptainAmerica, sleep for seventy years, meet the Avengers, and… now here he was, backin his Brooklyn apartment, thinking how utterly bored he was going to be forthe next week without his friends and girlfriend.

Now that the time loop wascomplete, the memories of his first time travel had been restored. Stevesupposed he could spend his days examining those new memories. Somehow thatsounded more fun than sketching silly cartoons for the local newspaper he wasemployed at.

“Can’t go out, can’t changethe past,” became his new mantra.

And, shit, Darcy was going tofreak when she found out the truth.

“Meh,” Steve shrugged. Shedeserved it for forcing him to role-play with her…