#and now if i get complaints that i skipped all questions ill know its not anonymous

[blirpus]

recently ive been thinking that maybe the survey they make us take every now and then at work isnt actually done anonymously. ive been complaining about so much shit in these surveys 😀 last time i just skipped it completely but this time my boss kept asking if ive done it so i did it but i just skipped every question and sent that lol

[shigayokagayama]

maybe a weird question, but do you have any recommendations for non-mob psycho media? I’ve been in search of something that hits similarly/is as well made and I trust your judgement o wise one. I’m not super picky, so recs of any kind would be appreciated :)

im like the worst person to take media recommendations from because you have to tie me down to watch something new and then i get obsessed with it forever, in terms of things ive seen recently that hit the same tumblr is NOT lying dungeon meshi is really good and if you start watching now you're gonna be watching at the part where it starts getting crazy

other stuff ive been into (gets progressively less mob psycho and generally more depressing like the further down we go bc i tend to get into really, really sad shit):

-i <3 deltarune but everyone has already played that. deltarune good. if you havent played deltarune play deltarune. genuinely like it more than undertale. also if the last chapter of deltarune is just the confession arc i called it and deserve a million dollars

-same w spiderverse. listen usually i dont care about superhero stuff but god these movies are good and i really hope they stick the landing.

-everything everywhere all at once continues to be one of my favorite movies ever

-rainworld (video game, very difficult but skurry's playthroughs do a good job summarizing the plot and general vibe of each route if you wanna watch those. i watched my friend play survivor ages ago and ive been playing through survivor with a friend on multiplayer and decided to watch some playthroughs to get a feel for the map and GOD DAMN the story of this game. rivulet route almost made me cry.) fair warning this is animal death the video game.

-severance (live action tv show, general plot is some sort of dystopian future where they invent a surgery where you can seperate your work self from your normal self so you clock into work and then black out until your shift is over. except your work self is just stuck at work forever. only 9 episodes but very, VERY good)

-i actually really enjoyed the scott pilgrim comics and the anime i wish anyone ever could be normal about them. id definitely suggest comics (if you can handle the 2000s humor) then anime. also basically everyone knows this but fair warning that starting out the main character is in his early 20s dating a 17 year old, it is explicitly treated as a shitty thing by the narrative and theres nothing explicit and its made very clear that he has 0 feelings for her whatsoever and is just using her as an ego boost but if youre sensitive to that stuff i might skip this one

-lots of webcomics about animals. i read so many webcomics about animals its like. my main media intake. this is part of the reason that i dont understand complaints about the art style my favorite webcomic looks like this

its called doe of deadwood and ill think about it until the day i die. others im currently reading (since this one wrapped a while ago) are "what lurks beneath" (cat cult on an island) "waves always crash" (cat cult on the beach) "i didnt know" (cat cult in a barn), toufati sawa (hyena trying to avenge her clan) and africa (leopard trying to survive the harshening world with her cubs) warning for animal death with all of these and general abuse warning for all those cat cult ones bc. cults.

-i like warrior cats. do not read warrior cats. its not very good and youll get stuck here forever.

-pathologic but the actual game and not just people describing the game please watch someone play the actual game summaries skip so much of the meat of the story and the characters. or play the game if you can bear learning to strategically quicksave. fair warning there is a lot of racism depicted against indigenous people in these games and while the framing of it generally aires on the side of "racism bad" there are a lot of kinda shitty tropes that come with it.

-listen bojack horseman is one of my shows it is the polar opposite of mob psycho in like every way and i would never in a million years recommend it if you want something that hits like mob psycho but if we're asking for just things i enjoy this is one of them. heavy cw for drug usage and abuse with this one. might want to give "does the dog die" a look for this one bc people are not joking about how heavy this show is

-same with hospice. hospice is a concept album about a hospice worker and a patient and has had more of an influence on me than any other piece of media ever bc i found it at the exact perfect time in my life for it to be relevant to my circumstances and now its like part of my identity. heavy cw for abuse also

-speaking of concept albums hey have you listened to tyler the creator he has several. WOLF especially i really like because the plot is actually like. kinda intricate. he also says the f slur a lot in WOLF but hes bisexual so diversity win?

-succession good. tw for like. everything though. probably "does the dog die" this one.

-hey have you ever watched david lynch's 1972 film "eraserhead"

[lorenfangor]

I heard that #40 was super homophobic :/ so I skipped it. But now your fic is making me want to give it a try. How problematic is it? Are the characters worth it?

Okay.

Okay.

Let’s talk about #40.

The plot of The Other (a Marco POV) is that Marco sees an Andalite on a video tape sent in to some Unsolved Mysteries-esque TV show, and he assumes it’s Ax and hauls ass to save him from being captured. Ax, being Ax, has videotaped the show, and they pull it up and Tobias uses his hawk eyes to figure out that it’s not Ax, it’s another Andalite - one without a tailblade. Ax is appalled at the presence of this vecol (an Andalite word for a disabled person) and we find out that he and others of his species have deep ingrained prejudices against at least some kinds of disabled people.

Despite this, Marco and Ax go looking for the Andalite in question because he’s been spotted by national TV, and they meet a second one, named Gafinilan-Estrif-Valad. The vecol is Mertil-Iscar-Elmand, a former fighter pilot with a reputation and Gafinilan’s coded-gay life partner. The two of them have been on Earth since book 1; they crashed their fighters on the planet and have been trapped there thanks to the GalaxyTree going down. Gafinilan has adopted a human cover, a physics professor, and they’ve been living in secret ever since.

Thanks to that tape, Mertil has been captured by Visser Three, and he’s not morph-capable so he can’t escape. Gafinilan wants to trade the leader of the “Andalite Bandits” to the Yeerks to get his boyfriend back; he can’t fight to free Mertil because he’s terminally ill with a genetic disorder that will eventually kill him, and (it’s implied that) the Yeerks aren’t interested in disabled hosts, even disabled Andalite ones. Despite Ax’s ableism, the Animorphs agree to work with Gafinilan and free Mertil, and they’re successful. Marco ends the book talking about how there are all kinds of prejudices you’ll have to face and boxes that people will put you in, and you can’t necessarily escape them even if they’re reductive and inaccurate, but you can still live your life with pride.

So now that I’ve explained the plot, I’m gonna come out the gate saying that I love this book. I love it wholeheartedly, I love Marco’s narration, I love Ax having to deal with Andalite society’s ableism, I love these characters, and as a disabled lesbian I don’t find these disabled gays to be inherently Bad Rep.

that’s of course just my opinion and it doesn’t overshadow other issues that people might have? but at the same time, I don’t like the seemingly-common narrative that this book is all bad all the time, and I want to offer up a different read.To that end, I’m going to go point by point through some of the criticisms and common complaints that I’ve seen across the fandom over the years.

“Mertil and Gafinilan were put on a bus after one appearance because they were gay!”

this is one I’m going to have to disagree with hardcore. I talked about this yesterday, but in Animorphs there are a lot of characters or ideas that only get introduced once or twice and then get written off or dropped - in order off the top of my head, #11 (the Amazon trip), #16 (Fenestre and his cannibalism), #17 (the oatmeal), #18 (the hint of Yeerks doing genetic experiments in the hospital basement), #24/#39/#42 (the Helmacrons’ ability to detect morphing tech), #25 (the Venber), #28 (experiments with limiting brain function through drugs), #34 (the Hork-Bajir homeworld being retaken, the Ixcila procedure), #36 (the Nartec), #41 (Jake’s Bad Future Dream), and #44 (the Aboriginal people Cassie meets in Australia) all feature things that either seem to exist just for the sake of having a particular trope explored Animorphs-style or to feature an idea for One Single Book.

This is a series that’s episodic and has a very limited overall story arc because of how children’s literature in the 90s was structured - these books are closer to The Saddle Club, Sweet Valley High, Animal Ark, or The Baby-Sitters’ Club than they are to Harry Potter or A Series of Unfortunate Events. Mertil and Gafinilan don’t get to be in more than one book because they’re not established in the main cast or the supporting cast, I don’t think that it’s solely got anything to do with their being gay.

“Gafinilan has AIDS, this is a book about AIDS, and that’s homophobic!”

Okay, this is… hard. First, yes, Gafinilan does have a terminal illness. Yes, Gafinilan is gay. No, Soola’s Disease is not AIDS.

I have two responses to this, and I’ll attack them in order of their occurrence in my thought. First, there’s coded AIDS diseases all over genre fiction, especially genre fiction from that era, because the AIDS epidemic made a massive impact on public life and fundamentally changed both how the public perceived illness and queerness and how queer people themselves experienced it. I was too young to live through it, but my dad’s college roommate was out, and my dad himself has a lot of friends who he just ceases to talk about if the conversation gets past 1986 or so - this was devastating and it got examined in art for more reasons than “gay people all have AIDS”, and I dislike the implication that the only reason it could ever appear was as a tired stereotype or a message that Being Queer Means Death. Gafinilan is kind, fond of flowers, and fond of children - he’s multifaceted, and he’s got a terminal illness. Those kinds of people really exist, and they aren’t Bad Rep.

Second off, Soola’s Disease? Really isn’t AIDS. It’s a congenital genetic illness that develops over time, cannot be transmitted, and does not carry a serious stigma the way AIDS did. Gafinilan also has access to a cure - he could become a nothlit and no longer be afflicted by it, even if it’s considered somewhat dishonorable to go nothlit to escape that way. That’s not AIDS, and in fact at no point in my read and rereads did I assume that his having a terminal illness was supposed to be a commentary on homosexuality until I found out that other people were assuming it.

“Mertil losing his tail means he’s lost his masculinity, and that’s bad because he’s gay! That’s homophobic!”

so this is another one I’ve gotta hardcore disagree with, because while Mertil is one of two Very Obviously Queer Characters, he’s not the only character who loses something fundamental about himself, or even loses access to sexual and/or romantic capability in ways he was familiar with.

Tobias and Arbron both get ripped out of their ordinary normal lives by going nothlit in bad situations, and while they both wind up finding fulfillment and freedom despite that, it’s still traumatic, even more for Arbron I’d say than for Tobias. And on a psychological level, none of the main cast is left unmarked or free of trauma or free of deep change thanks to the bad things that have happened to them - they’re no less fundamentally altered than Mertil, even if it’s mental rather than physical. And yes, tail loss is equated with castration or emasculation, but that doesn’t automatically mean Mertil suffering it is tied to his homosexuality and therefore the takeaway we’re intended to have is “Being gay is tragic and makes you less of a man”. This is a series where bad shit happens to everyone, and enduring losses that take away things central to one’s self-conception or identity or body is just part of the story.

Also, frankly? Plenty of IRL disabled people have to grapple with a loss of sexual function, and again, they’re not Bad Rep just because they’re messy.

“Andalite society is confusingly written in this book, and the disability aspects are clearly just a coverup for the gay stuff!”

Andalite society is canonically sexist, a bit exceptionalist and prejudiced in their own favor, and pretty contradictory and often challenged internally on its own norms. In essence, it’s a pretty ordinary society, and they’re really realistic as sci-fi races go. It makes sense from that perspective that Andalites would tolerate scarring or a lost stalk eye or a lost skull eye, but not tolerate serious injuries that significantly impact your perceived quality of life. Ableism is like that - it’s not one-size-fits-all. I look at Ax’s reactions and I see a lot of my own family and friends’ behaviors - this vibes with my understanding of prejudice, you know?

“Mertil and Gafinilan have a tragic ending, which means the story is saying that being gay dooms you to tragedy!”

Mertil and Gafinilan have the best possible ending that they could ask for? They are victims of the war, they are suffering because of the war, they get the same cocktail of trauma and damage that every other soldier gets. But unlike Jake and Tobias and Marco, unlike Elfangor, unlike Aximili? Their ending comes in peace, in their own home. Gafinilan isn’t dying alone, he’s got the love of his life with him. Mertil isn’t going to be as isolated anymore, he’s got Marco for a friend. Animorphs is a tragedy, it’s not a happy story, it’s not something that guarantees a beautiful sunshine-and-roses ending for everyone, and I love tragedy, and so I will fight for this story. Yes, it hurts. Yes, it deserved better. But it’s not less meaningful just because it’s sad. Nobody is entitled to anything in this book, and it’s just as true for these two as it is for anyone else.

“It’s not cool that the only canonically gay characters in this series don’t get to be happy and trauma-free and unblemished Good Rep!”

This is one I can kind of understand, and I’ll give some ground to it, because it is sucky. The only thing I’ll say is that I stand by my argument that nothing that happens to Mertil and Gafinilan is unusual compared to what happens to the rest of the cast, and that their ending is way happier than Rachel and Tobias’s, or Jake and Cassie’s. But it’s a legitimate point of frustration, and the one argument I’ll say I agree has validity.

(Though, I also want to point out that I think there are plenty of equally queercoded characters in the story who aren’t Mertil and Gafinilan - Tobias, Rachel, Cassie, and Marco all get at least one or two moments that signal to me that they’re potentially LGBT+, not to mention Mr. Tidwell and Illim in #29 and their long-term domestic partnership. There’s no reason to assume that the only queer people here are those two aliens when Marco’s descriptions of Jake exist.)

“Marco uses slurs and reduces Gafinilan’s whole identity to his illness!”

Technically, yes, this is true, except putting it that way strips the whole passage of its context. Marco is discussing the boxes society puts you into, the ones you don’t have a choice about facing or escaping. He’s talking about negative stereotypes and reductive generalizations, he’s referring to them as bad things that you get inflicted upon you by an outside world or by friends who don’t know the whole story or the real you. The slurs he uses are real slurs that get thrown at people still, and they’re not okay, and the point is that they’re not okay but assholes are going to call you by them anyway. He ends by saying “you just have to learn to live with it”, and since this is coming from a fifteen-year-old Latino kid who we know is picked on by bullies for all sorts of reasons and who faces racism and homophobia? He knows what he’s talking about. He’s bitter about what’s been said and done, he’s not stating it like it’s a good thing.

Yes, absolutely, this speech is a product of its time, but it’s a product of its time that speaks of defiance and says “We aren’t what we’re said to be,” and in the year this was published? That’s a good message.

tl;dr The Other is good, actually, and Mertil and Gafinilan are incredible characters who deserve all the love they could possibly get.

[heartbreakgrill]

Flirting in Walmart

a/n: definitely going to be writing some fetus 5sos, BUT, this video makes me feel some type of way 😌

description: being the opening act for 5sos is fun, but not when they wake you up at 12:30 to go into walmart. [PT 2]

“Pst, [Y/N].”

Someone rocked your shoulder, your body- a snoring lump- being knocked around in effect. You groaned at the movement, toes curling because your legs stretched.

“[Y/N], wake up,” the voice whispered again, warm, minty breath fanning across your face.

“What,” it came as a statement, the question mark lazily slung off from your short tone.

“Do you wanna come into Walmart with us?” Calum’s hand stayed on your shoulder, fingers pressing into your skin, exposed by the crooked t-shirt.

You shivered, brushing him off of you, “Why?”

Your eyes slowly opened, noticing the flicked on lights of the tour bus, the blackout curtain to your bunk hanging over Calum. His face was so close to yours, your heart skipped a beat.

“Ash and I want better blankets, Michael wants dog treats, and I know you said earlier that you wanted a heated blanket and lipgloss,” his eyes dipped back into his head when he listed your list from that day.

You were flattered he remembered your complaints from earlier in the day. And, even though your head was whining, your feet aching, and your joints moaning from each movement, you went to sit up.

Calum guarded your head with his left hand, afraid your sleepy state would hit it off the top bunk. “We’ll be outside. Take your time.”

You lazily pulled on the fuzzy sucks abandoned at the bottom of your bunk, feet colliding with your moccasins once you shuffled to the front area of the bus. Though your skin was covered in goosebumps, you stepped down from the bus in just your sweatpants and a t-shirt, no bra protecting you from the chill.

“Ready?” Michael cheerily remarked, Moose on a lease in front of him.

You nodded, falling in step with Ash and Calum towering on either side of you. “Can you take ‘em inside?”

Michael shrugged, “Its 12 AM; I dont think it matters.”

You managed a sleepy laugh, taking in a deep breath. As the chilly air filled your lungs, your teeth chattered haphazardly in your mouth.

“Why didn’t you grab a coat?” Ash laughed.

You shrugged, the lights of the store making your eyes squint as you came closer to the entrance. “Don’t know, I’m half asleep.”

Ash chuckled again before catching up with Michael, who called the older man up to him to look over the clearance just inside the entrance. Your arms collided with fuzzy material, the chill going slightly away.

“Oh, thank you,” you slipped your hands through Calum’s hoodie, allowing for your cold to go completely away.

“Welcome.” He stopped at an intersection of aisles, causing you to stop, too. “Wanna come with me?”

“Cosmetics is right here, lets go there first.”

You lead the way down the aisle, noticing Andy filming Michael and Ash at the entrance. Calum followed you down the makeup aisles, confused but intrigued by the products.

You squatted to look at the NYX lipgloss’ and Calum busied himself with an eyeshadow pallet.

“This would look really pretty on you,” he spoke, placing the pallet down in front of you.

You plucked a shimmery pink from the display rack and stood back to his level. “You, too.”

“You think?” He blushed: Your face didn’t have the energy to rush blood to your face, luckily.

“Yeah, Ive always thought you would look really hot on stage with eyeshadow,” you shrugged, eyes dancing over the pallet.

Calum’s eyebrows perked up, “Oh? Hot?”

“C’mon, you know I think youre hot.” You deadpanned directly into his eyes. “Blankets,” you walked away, Calum following like a lost puppy because of the compliment.

You stopped at the blanket aisle, feeling Calum pause just behind your shoulder, his chest nearly pressed up against you. You skimmed down the aisle, unsure of which heated blanket to buy until you saw the brand you had discusssed with your mom.

“You get one?” You turned to the older man, noticing he had strayed away as you were looking.

“Uh, yes, this fuzzy one would suit me.”

It was stitched with a giant Anna, Elsa, Olaf, Kristoff, and Sven.

You snorted, stuffing your empty hand into his pocket. “Still hot.”

Calum grinned down at you, backing out of the aisle as you walked towards him. “Did you wanna look at books, too?”

“Yeah, I did,” you gaped up at him, unaware he actually listened to you that much.

You finished the last book you brought on tour yesterday, discussed it with Sierra, and exchanged recommendations in the dressing room. He simply overheard you, hadn’t even been involved in the conversation.

It was your turn to look lost, following with wide eyes. Calum stepped into the aisle, beginning to gaze at different books. He plucked through a coloring book while you were reading the backs of some novels. You had two picked out when he got bored and leaned against the shelf in front of you. His arm was slung up on the top shelf, face nuzzled into his elbow, watching you with adoring eyes.

“May I help you?” You quipped, still looking at a book.

You met his eyes and he grinned, “Just admiring the view.”

You were more awake now and your body allowed the pink tint to criss cross to the tips of your ears. “Hm.”

After picking up three more books, you walked alongside one another to the next aisle. It was simply rolls of fabric, but Calum didn’t care. Or, apparently, didn’t notice.

“Well, these blankets are cheaper,” he mumbled to himself, but you still heard him.

“Cal, no-“

“I’m getting one of these instead.” He grabbed the roll of black fabric and walked away. He knocked down a roll of one designed with plaid, but didn’t seem to, again, notice.

You sighed, picking it up and putting it back. You turned to follow him again, facing both Calum and Andy, with a camera. You grinned, waving at the device.

“Wanna say something, [Y/N]?” He moved closer to you, focusing the lens on your face.

“Hi, mom!” You giggled, waving again. Your eyes flickered from the camera to Calum, who was staring at you again. He smiled shyly, but grinned when he noticed you were meeting his eyes.

You took a deep breath, clenched your jaw. The next few minutes were a blur as Ashton pointed out to Calum that the blankets were rolls of fabric. Then, checking out, trudging back to the bus, sitting yourself down on the couch. You took everything from the bags, removed the packaging and tossed the trash into the bag Ashton held out to you. You hooked up the heating blanket, and excitedly walked/ran/skipped/danced to your bunk.

You bent at the waist, leaning the top half of your body into the bunk in order to plug it in. You stood back up, clapping your hands together at the new addition to your life. You bent down again to put your books into the drawer beneath your bunk.

When you, again, stood up, you turned and your eyes collided with Calum, who was on the couch, halfway through unraveling his pack of socks, but paused because he was distracted. His eyes were focused on the middle of your body, the air where your ass had just been. You cleared your throat, hip popped out.

You crossed your arms, shuffling into the living area. Ashton muttered a goodnight to both of you, shutting the door separating the bunking area from where you were. The lights were dimmed, the only one on being a lamp on the table next to Calum.

He didn’t meet your eyes, busying himself with his socks as he rolled each pair into each other. You sat down across from him, on the other couch.

“What’re we doing?” You sighed, fingers fumbling with the loose sleeves of his hoodie.

“Hm?” No eye contact.

“Cal,” you sternly replied. He still wasn’t giving you his beautiful brown eyes, “Calum.”

There. He frowned, face red and eyebrows raised. “What?”

“What’re we doing?” You ran your hands down your thighs, clamminess seeping through your pores. “What?”

“i dont know,” he shrugged, scared of the consequences by saying he could fall in love with you.

“Dancing around each other. That’s what. But why? Youre so confusing. I compliment you, flirt with you. But, you just flirt back and walk away. Are you playing with me? You dont want to play with me. I’m a Taylor Swift, bitch, ill write a song about you- nah, actually, you could call me love, stare at my ass again, and I’ll write a motherfucking album, Calum. I genuinely, honestly, like you. I want to, like, be with you, Cal. If you want to, ya know? Like cuddle and shit and like, dance with you at the clubs like Sierra and Luke do. I dont know, I’m tired and hot and flustered because you were staring at my ass. I dont know what to do,” you let it all fall out, unaware of what you were saying until it out in the open. But, you couldn’t care less anymore. You needed to know his intentions before you fell in too deep.

Calum grinned into his lap, setting down his final pair of socks. He stood up, abandoning the clothing. He settled on his feet in front of you, out stretching his hand to you.

You glanced at the body part, eyes moving up his arm to his brown ones. “What?”

“There’s a club event tomorrow or some shit. I would dance with you right now, but my eyes are falling shut just standing here.” He shrugged, fingers wiggling in the air as he rose his brows again. “Let’s go.”

Your lips began to quirk up into a smile, legs pulling you from the couch. “Wh-“

“Cuddle,” he tugged you into him when you grabbed his hand. Calum lifted you in his arms, moving his hold to your waist. You squealed as he twisted you around, bridal style, while your fingers grabbed at his shoulders.

“Okay, but my bunk, my heating blankets all warm and ready.”

With a chuckle and a shake of his head- a kiss to your forehead- he shut the door with his foot.

[whenisitenoughtrees]

thousands to prophecy failure

Janus blinks. “You’re sick,” he says. “Someone needs to make sure you don’t die in here.”

Well, yes, Roman has gathered that much. But that doesn’t answer his real question: why is Janus the one doing it?

When Thomas experiences creative burn-out, he struggles with a few days of unproductivity. When Roman experiences creative burn-out, he gets sick. And it's fine, really; he'll suffer through it if it means that he can come up with ideas for Thomas. That's all that matters, right?

Luckily, there are others who disagree with him.

Content Warnings: vomiting, depictions of illness

Word Count: 4,427

(a repost, since the first attempt wouldn’t show up in the tags; see that one for the ao3 link)

It doesn’t come on suddenly. So really, Roman has no excuse.

It starts with chills running up and down his spine, shooting into his limbs and setting his fingers to trembling. He glares at his hand and decides to press on, decides to keep going, because he has come up with so many ideas but none of them seem quite good enough, quite able to hold up under the inevitable criticism of the others. He keeps going, keeps creating, and ignores the way his body begins to ache.

None of it is good enough, and he hates it all, because with every failed idea, he’s failing Thomas, is disappointing Thomas.

Magnifying, Logan’s voice whispers in his head, and he should probably pay attention, but Logan’s voice is also whispering things like, Illogical and unrealistic, and, Really, Roman, you couldn’t come up with anything that makes more sense than this? And it’s joining other imagined slights, joining the image of Patton’s face turning away from him and Virgil’s dark glower, Janus’ smooth, mocking laugh and Remus’ smile looming out of the darkness.

He needs to come up with something good. But the words are slipping away from him, slipping away even as his body trembles harder and his forehead beads with sweat, and he can’t think of anything at all. He starts and stops in fits, and he scribbles out half-baked ideas only to crumple them up and throw them in the wastepaper basket moments later. He began this morning so well, so upbeat and optimistic, ready to tackle the day and let the creativity flow like it has for the past week, so why is this happening now?

He keeps trying. But one moment, he’s trying, and the next, his pencil is slipping from his grasp.

He stares at it. It lies there, innocuous, on top of a blank piece of paper. He reaches for it, but his vision swims, and he is hit with a wave of dizziness even as his entire body shudders.

He should have stopped before it came to this point.

But he needed to come up with something good. Still needs. Needs to push through, so he reaches for the pencil again, manages to pick it up, but he’s barely set the tip to paper before his stomach rebels against him. He lurches to his feet and stumbles into the bathroom and vomits into the sink, gripping the counter in order to stay upright. He turns on the tap to wash it all down; he skipped breakfast this morning, so eager to get to work was he, and so it’s more bile than anything else. He wipes his mouth and looks up at his reflection in the mirror.

He looks terrible, his skin shining and flushed, his eyes bright and glazed. He ignored the warning signs, and now the fever has set in, and he can’t possibly work like this, can barely even string a coherent thought together, but he has to, doesn’t he? Doesn’t he need to keep working, to come up with something good, something that he can share with the others without shame, something that they will like, so that they will tell him he did a good job, Roman, we’re proud of you, except they don’t usually tell him that even when he does do a good job, so what exactly is the point?

No, wait, the point is--

The point is Thomas, isn’t it? He needs something good for Thomas, and it doesn’t matter if the others don’t praise him so long as it helps Thomas follow his dreams, succeed in life, be who he wants to be--

Does Thomas even like him, though? He’s not sure. His brain is hazy, muddled, dark. He can’t remember.

He needs to keep working. He knows that much. Needs to keep working, even though he feels lightheaded, unsteady, even though his empty stomach is performing flips and twirls and the very thought of moving makes nausea rise again.

He trudges out of his bathroom, intent on making it to his desk, but then, the floor rises up in front of him. He barely feels the impact, though the breath is knocked out of his lungs in a wheezing gasp, and it’s harder than it should be to draw it back in. He takes a moment to realize where he is-- the floor, cold and hard and hardly the place for a prince to be-- before heaving himself up, but that doesn’t quite work, because all the strength seems to have been drained from his limbs, so he collapses back and lies there for a little while. Breathing.

The world swims. He pushes himself onto his back, eventually, and the ceiling wheels above him, all his fairy lights spinning and twirling. He raises up a shaking hand, but they bob just out of his grasp. And it’s sad, because he just wants to touch them, just wants someone to touch him, and his skin is too hot and too cold by turns and he’s so uncomfortable so he just lies here and he thinks he might be crying but he can’t stop and he can’t get up.

He needs to keep working. The longer he lies here, the more of a failure he is.

But he can’t get up.

Time passes, he thinks. Nausea crashes over him in waves, though he doesn’t throw up again. He might sleep at some point, but his dreams are troubled, full of darkness and laughter and eyes, all looking at him, all pointing at him, and he tries to run but he can’t escape them because no matter how fast he goes, the ground slips out from underneath his feet and he falls, falls, falls.

Someone knocks at the door. He turns his head to look. Someone asks after him. His throat is too dry to do anything but croak, and the door is too far to reach. So whoever it is leaves, and he is left with the spinning fairy lights and the bad dreams that bleed into waking, and he is hit with the sudden surety that there is someone in the corner of the room, staring at him.

He wants to get away. Wants them to stop looking. He struggles to sit up, wide-eyed and scared and shaking as they keep watching him, unblinking, and he doesn’t know their face, but those eyes are his brother’s, he’s sure,bright and gleaming with malice, so either Remus is here or something else has stolen his eyes and he doesn’t know which is worse.

He struggles to sit up, but he fails, collapsing backward and coughing, coughing until he thinks he’s about to literally cough up his lungs. The fit passes, and he curls into himself on the floor, and he thinks he cries a little bit more. Reality drops in and out of focus, hazy images dancing before his eyes, and he can’t even begin to make sense of any of it, and his head pounds.

He sleeps, and then wakes again, and sleeps, and wakes, and then, there are hands on him, lifting him, and he gasps, striking out, because what if the thing is back, the thing with Remus’ eyes, taking him away? He struggles, but to no avail, and only seconds pass before he is dumped on something soft. He cracks his eyes open and sees-- his bed? He’s on his bed. There is a figure moving in the room, too blurry to make out, and he opens his mouth to ask who’s there, but all that escapes his mouth is a weak groan.

The figure stops, turning toward him, and then approaches, reaching for him. He flinches back, but the figure is relentless, placing a hand on his forehead. The hand doesn’t feel like a hand, though. It feels like cloth, like soft cotton, and that doesn’t make any sense at all.

“Easy now,” the figure says, and their voice is smooth and familiar, and he thinks he should recognize it, but its identity slips from his mind, like trying to hold on to smoke. “You’ve done quite a number on yourself, this time.”

He can’t figure out what they mean. But then, it strikes him, a bolt out of the blue: he needs to work. He has work to finish, or else Thomas will be disappointed in him, and the dread of that happening is enough to give him the strength to move, to start to get out of bed.

But the figure holds him down. And he fights, he tries, but he is too weak, and he has to lie back against the bed again, gasping and humiliated. He needs to work; doesn’t this person know that?

“The only thing you need to do right now is rest,” the figure says, pushing him against the pillows. He wants to keep fighting, really, he does, but the pillows are so soft, and then the figure covers him with a blanket, and he has no chance at all against that.

His dreams are uneasy, still, full of lights and sounds and colors he doesn’t understand. His brother is there again, though whether he is friend or foe, he cannot tell. He has never been able to tell. He wakes panting, and there is someone sitting on his bed, hovering over him, their face just beyond recognition.

“Here,” they say, and hold something in front of his face. A water glass, he realizes, and with that comes the realization that he is so, so thirsty. The person helps him tilt his head upright and holds the glass to his lips, and he gulps the water down, almost choking in his eagerness. They take the water away too soon, and he whimpers a complaint, but they hold fast in their denial.

“Too much at once will make you sick,” they say, and pause. “Well. Sicker, I suppose.”

The words don’t quite make sense, don’t quite resolve into meaning in his head. But he decides that he likes the sound of their voice. It is cool and comforting, a balm to the heat that rages through his mind.

They laugh. “Thank you,” they say. “Get some more rest, Roman.”

That sounds like a good idea. Only, not, because isn’t there something he’s supposed to be doing?

“Yes,” they say. “Resting.”

No, that’s not it, he’s sure of it. In fact, he’s fairly certain that he’s supposed to be working on something. Something for Thomas? He needs to have an idea for Thomas. That’s it.

“You’ve already had plenty of ideas for Thomas,” they tell him. “That’s why you’re sick. You push yourself too hard.”

Alright, he is absolutely certain that at least part of that is a lie.

“Oh, I so want to argue this with you right now. You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

Besides, even if that’s right and he has had plenty of ideas already, none of them were any good. That was the point. It doesn’t matter how many ideas he has if none of them are good enough, and he distinctly remembers an overflowing wastepaper basket, spilling over with all of his failures, all of his broken attempts at creating something that will pass muster.

They sigh, then, and he wonders if he’s done something wrong. He feels so very tired.

“You haven’t,” they say. “And that is the whole truth.”

He is fading back into sleep, and it feels like he’s falling. He’s not sure if he imagines the kiss to his forehead, or the fingers that lightly stroke his hair. He hopes not. It’s all soft and cool and sweet, and he would very much like to be touched like that again.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps. It feels like no time at all before he opens his eyes, his head pounding, and sees Janus sitting by his bedside, flipping through the pages of a book. It’s an utterly incongruous sight; he doesn’t think Janus has ever been in his room before, or at least, not that he can remember. He might be forgetting something; his head feels fuzzy, his thoughts disordered and confused and feverish, and he feels as though he is burning up.

That would be the fever, probably.

“J’nus?” he rasps, and Janus jerks, snapping his book shut. He glances over, and Roman’s vision is a bit blurry, but he can see the way his eyes widen.

“Roman,” he says, scooting his chair closer to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“‘M hot,” he says. He pauses, considering. “Head h’rts. Back aches. Why’re you h’re?”

Janus blinks. “You’re sick,” he says. “Someone needs to make sure you don’t die in here.”

Well, yes, Roman has gathered that much. But that doesn’t answer his real question: why is Janus the one doing it? He knows that illness makes Virgil anxious, and he can’t imagine that Logan would jump at the chance to play nurse, but why not Patton? Unless it has been Patton, and Janus is standing in while he takes a break.

His head hurts so much.

He must be making a face, because Janus frowns. “If you’d rather someone else,” he says, voice unreadable, “I’d be happy to get Patton.”

For some reason, that thought is just about unbearable. He doesn’t want Janus to leave. In fact, he rather wants Janus to be closer to him than he is right now.

“No,” he says, and works his arm free from the covers. It’s harder than it should be; the limb feels unaccountably heavy. But he manages it, and makes a grabby hand in Janus’ direction. Janus stares at it, and then sits on the edge of the bed, hesitant. It’s odd. Should Janus be hesitant? He’s pretty sure that’s weird. But that’s fine; Janus can be weird as long as he stays.

He stares at his face, at the frown twisting his lips, at the furrow between his brows. His hat is missing, and that’s definitely part of what’s weird, because it’s left his hair messy and sticking out in all kinds of directions, almost like he’s been running his hand through it, though Roman has no idea why he’d be doing that when he usually takes so much pride in being put together. He looks tired too, like he’s been awake for a while; his eyes are bloodshot, and there are deep bags beneath them. Roman finds himself staring at the left one, yellow and slit, and from there, his gaze travels across the left side of his face. His scales are lovely, green-gold, and they appear as though they’re moving, rippling on his face, though Roman’s pretty sure now that they’re not, that the fever is cooking his brain and making him see things.

“Hey,” he slurs, “c’mere.”

Janus frowns deeper, and that’s a bit funny, but he scoots closer, leaning in, like he thinks Roman needs to tell him something. He doesn’t. He just wants to touch.

He brings his hand up and starts trailing his fingers across his cheek. His scales are so, so smooth, so nice and cold under his fingertips, and he loves them so much.

“They’re very nice,” he says, enunciating as much as he can to make sure his point gets across. “Very pretty. You’re very pretty.”

Janus inhales, but doesn’t say anything. His eyes are wide, and Roman notices that his slit pupil has blown wider, rounder. There’s a word for that, but he can’t remember it. Also, his face is red. The right half, the human half, which also looks nice, but not as nice and pretty as the scaled half.

If his scales are cold, is the rest of him cold? Roman is very hot, hot like he’s full of lava instead of blood, like he’s burning from the inside out, and his thoughts are fuzzy, but this seems to make sense. He nods to himself, and then grabs at Janus’ arm, yanking him closer. Janus doesn’t move much, so he tries again.

“What are you doing?” Janus asks, sounding a bit strangled.

“Cuddling,” Roman informs him. “‘M hot, an’ you’re not. C’mon.” He tugs again, and this time, Janus moves closer. Slowly, though, as if he’s waiting for Roman to tell him to stop, which is ridiculous. He swings his legs into the bed and settles against the headboard, placing just a bit of distance between the two of them, but Roman is quick to fix that, snuggling against his side.

Janus makes a noise. Like a little squeak. It’s cute.

“You’re cute,” he mumbles, just to make sure he’s aware, and falls asleep again.

His dreams are restless, and he wakes up several more times to sip at water, and once to throw it all up over the side of the bed. He imagines castles falling and doors that won’t open and a dragon that glares down at him with golden eyes and tells him to sleep, that he’s safe. He fights dragons, usually, but he believes this one. It speaks with a voice that he knows he should not trust, but does all the same.

He wakes, and he is alone.

It takes his sluggish mind a moment to parse out why this is strange. His last clear memory is throwing up in the bathroom sink; the journey from there to here is foggy. He fell on the floor, and… made it to the bed, somehow. He is alone now, but someone was here, beside him. Someone comforting, someone safe, someone who should still be here. The memories dissipate when he tries to reach for them.

He levers himself into a sitting position, wincing at the weakness of his limbs. There is a dip in the mattress next to him, as well as a half-full glass of water on his nightstand, but his room is otherwise undisturbed. His gaze travels to his desk, messy and disordered, wastepaper basket overflowing, and he winces again.

So much for getting any work done. The whole mindscape has probably heard of his weakness by now. He sighs, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, pressing his hand to his head as a wave of dizziness hits him. He has no idea how long it’s been, whether hours have passed or days. Most likely the latter; he feels as though an entire castle has collapsed on top of him.

Did he dream about that? He’s pretty sure he dreamed about that.

The door opens, then, and he looks up, startled. It is Janus who enters, a steaming bowl balanced in one hand as he closes the door behind him. It takes a moment for him to notice Roman looking at him, and Roman takes full advantage of that time to panic, because why is Janus here? He could imagine anyone else being his caretaker, but not him. Sure, they’ve apologized to each other, fixed what was most obviously broken, but that does not mean that there is no tension between them, a hesitance to their interactions, a caution in the way they look at each other when they think the other won’t notice.

Roman has wanted to bridge that gap for some time now. But he has never known how.

Janus meets his eyes and visibly startles. His hand jerks, sloshing a bit of what Roman assumes to be soup onto the floor, and in the split second before his expression reverts to cool, blank professionalism, he makes a face of what Roman can only assume to be unadulterated relief, and Roman’s breath catches.

When was the last time someone looked at him like that?

“You’re awake, then,” Janus says, walking over and placing the soup on the nightstand. There is a chair next to the bed, and he sits in it, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his pants.

“Um, yeah,” Roman says. He licks his lips; his mouth is dry and his lips unbearably chapped. He must look a disaster. “How long--?”

“Three days,” Janus replies, and Roman blanches, because that long, really? He could be lying, of course, but there’s no reason to lie about this. So he’s likely telling the truth, which means he’s let Thomas down even worse than he thought. That realization makes him want to shrivel up and die, just a little bit.

“Well,” he says, trying for his characteristic bravado and not quite finding it. His voice trembles, and as annoying as it is, he can’t smooth it over. “I suppose you got drafted into playing nursemaid. I apologize for that. I’m sure you--”

“I didn’t get drafted into anything,” Janus says, his voice sharp, but infuriatingly sincere. “I’m the one who came in and found you.”

He pauses. “Ah,” he says eventually, because how else is he supposed to respond to that? He vaguely remembers being unable to make it to the bed, spending what must have been hours on the floor before… well. He doesn’t remember being transferred to the bed, but it must have happened, and it must have been Janus who did it. Must have been Janus who picked him up, held him against his chest and carried him to his soft mattress, and he should probably derail this train of though because it’s definitely making him blush, and he really hopes he can blame it on any lingering fever--

“We’ve had this discussion before, Roman,” Janus says, his voice just as sharp. There is something else there, too, something that sounds almost like worry. But it can’t be worry; why would Janus be worried about him? “You know very well how creative burn-out affects you. You need to be taking better care of yourself.”

Roman looks away, looks past him and to his desk, cluttered with papers and yet not a single good idea among them. Of course, he should head off burn-out before it happens, because it leaves both him and Thomas in a worse position than they started in. But he thought he could push through it, thought that just another few minutes would bring the inspiration he sought.

“Right,” he says quietly. “I’ll do better next time.”

To his surprise, Janus groans, and he looks over to see that he’s covering his face with one hand. One gloved hand, and another memory floats back to him, of a hand touching his forehead, carding through his hair.

“It’s not about doing better,” Janus says. “It’s about you needing to not make yourself sick, and not because it means you’ll miss work. You deserve to take care of yourself. It seems that you’re the only one in the mindscape that doesn’t understand that.”

He blinks. “I just don’t want to disappoint--” he tries, but Janus doesn’t let him finish.

“Oh, yes, because everyone is so disappointed in you,” he says. “Because no one is worried out of their minds that you pushed yourself into days of illness. Because absolutely no one cares about you for you and not the ideas you provide, which, I might add, are certainly just as bad as you think they are and not worthy of being used at all.” He takes his hand from his face and glares. “Really, Roman. How many times will it take for you to get it through your thick skull that just maybe, we all love you and want you to be well?”

There is so much to unpack there. But for some reason, Roman’s mind is stalling on one phrase.

“You… love me?” he asks weakly, because if he’s not mistaken, Janus said, we all, which would imply that he’s including himself in that, but that simply doesn’t make any sense at all.

How, after everything he’s said and done, could Janus care for him?

Janus stares at him, and then scoots his chair closer, so that their knees knock against each other. Roman is expecting denial, or a lengthy explanation of some sort, but instead, Janus gathers up both of his hands in his.

“Yes,” he says simply, and leans in to kiss him on the forehead. All of the breath escapes Roman’s lungs, but Janus doesn’t stop there. He plants one on Roman’s cheek next, and then the other, and Roman thinks his heart might beat right our of his chest. Perhaps he’s still feverish, still dreaming, still hallucinating, and perhaps he’ll wake up to find an empty room and a cold bed, or will wake up to find that he is still on the floor and none of this was real at all.

Then, Janus captures his lips, and he forgets to think. It’s soft and slow and sweet, barely more than a graze, barely long enough for him to respond at all. He should say something, he thinks, when Janus pulls back, but his mouth has forgotten how to make sounds, apparently.

“Forgive me if I misinterpreted,” Janus says, sounding a bit hoarse. “But you, uh. Said my scales were pretty.” A blush has risen on his right cheek. Roman doesn’t think he could feel any more mortified.

“Oh, Odin’s beard,” he moans. “I said that out loud?”

Because he really wouldn’t put it past himself, feverish and delusional, to admit something that he’s thought many times before, thought and never intended to reveal. And for a moment, he fears he’s said the wrong thing, that Janus will mistake his meaning, will back off when that is absolutely the last thing he wants, once he gets past his embarrassment. But then, Janus laughs.

“Oh, no, not at all,” he says. “Just like you didn’t call me cute, or tug me in to cuddle with you.”

Oh, that’s… ringing a bell, now that he thinks about it. Great. Wonderful. Very princely behavior.

But then, Janus kisses him again, just like the first, and he forgets to feel upset with himself, if it has led to this.

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Janus murmurs, “but I’d like to make sure you take care of yourself, if you’ll allow me.” He pulls away a bit, just enough to look into Roman’s eyes. “You are so worthy of love. And you’re allowed to take things that you want.”

And Roman feels so very warm inside. He doesn’t think it’s the fever anymore; it’s like a sun, finally rising after a long night, like flowers blooming in the meadow now that spring has come at last.

Perhaps ideas will come later. And perhaps that’s not a bad thing.

“Well, if that’s so,” he says, and leans in to kiss Janus himself.

[ambitionsource]

AMBITION Season 3 ♫ “Can You Dig It?” [ 3.07 ]

CREATED BY Esther (waterstribe) & Maggie (quincywillows) || Official Page || AO3

STAYIN’ ALIVE – After an unfortunate accident, the A class finds themselves working double time to fund their showdown performance. Charlie struggles to balance the past and the present, and Maya makes a desperate move. Farkle receives news that changes his life forever.

70 Minutes (33K words) || No content warnings apply.

[ ← The Comfort Zone ] [ S3 Synopsis ] [ Moment of Truth → ]

( Follow along with the music on Spotify here! )

EXT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

Music plays over the sound system, setting a comfortable and fun scene while most of the A class works together on the auditorium stage. The performers are working through showdown choreography or helping put the finishing touches on set pieces for the production, while the techies are split between those set pieces, the beginning of structures for their upcoming winter musical, and tweaking the lights. JEFF MONROE is up on the catwalk out of sight, NATE MARTINEZ perched on top of a scaffolding and passing him requested tools. DAVE WILLIAMS is balancing on a ladder against the scaffolding, helping hand things to Nate from below.

MAYA HART has taken over as dance captain, shouting commands at her classmates still running through steps. ZAY BABINEAUX watches from on top of the major set piece they’re building at center stage for the musical, unimpressed and maybe a bit envious. His injured left leg is now in a boot, wheelchair gone.

The conversation varies, from the impending showdown finals to college application deadlines. Everything is coming down the pipeline at record speed, right towards them, and they have to juggle it all at once. RILEY MATTHEWS glances around and asks where Jade is, which ISADORA DE LA CRUZ answers.

Isadora: She’s been locked up in the costume loft basically since last week. The deadline for her conservatory and apprenticeship programs is closing in, so she’s been working basically non-stop.

Maya: How does she not have enough samples already? Hasn’t she made everything we’ve ever worn in this school for the last three years?

A fair question, but it doesn’t get addressed. They’re all distracted by a new song coming on shuffle, playing loudly over the speakers.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Boogie Wonderland” as performed by Earth, Wind & Fire || Instrumental

Although the track is an undeniable bop, the assembled A class seniors don’t seem impressed. They all quickly pipe up to complain, calling for someone to skip it.

Darby: Where’s Jeff? Jeff! Hit skip!

Jeff, from above: A little busy right now!

Maya: Well someone better go change it!

Haley: And risk getting killed by Lucas because we dared enter the booth? No thanks.

Maya: Fair point. Riley, go change it.

Riley, in the midst of rolling paint on a set piece, raises her free arm in a shrug. Also a little busy. Zay shakes his head.

Zay: What is wrong with all of you? None of you have taste. Disco is classic. You should respect the excellence that came before you.

Maya: Sorry I’m not still living in the 20th century. It’s 2020, Zayby. Disco is dead.

Zay: You absolutely disgust me. If my foot wasn’t booted --

NIGEL CHEY finally relents amidst all their complaints, claiming he’ll risk his life to go change it if it will get them all to shut up.

For now, though, the boogie wonderland is ongoing. FARKLE MINKUS uses the opportunity to pick on Isadora, loosely disco grooving around her and trying to poke her into joining him. She laughs but tells him to cut it out, and when he gets too close, she playfully shoves him away.

Only she’s stronger than she looks, and he’s a beanpole, so she overshoots and pushes him a bit too hard. Farkle goes stumbling backwards -- right into the ladder that’s holding up Dave. Isadora yanks Farkle back just as the ladder falls out from under Dave, just missing Nigel, clattering to the stage next to them and creating a dent.

Dance! Boogie wonderland!

A bunch of the seniors cry out, scrambling away, now watching in horror as Dave dangles from the side of the scaffolding a dozen or so feet above the ground. He almost loses his grip, seconds from falling, and Maya screams. She backs away frantically and knocks into a paint can, spilling metallic silver paint all over their perfectly crisp black stage and splattering CLARISSA CRUZ, DARBY WINTERS, and SARAH CARLSON.

Ah! Ah! Dance!

Jeff and a couple of performers start shouting directives at Dave, trying to save him from a nasty fall off the scaffolding. Nate tries to pull him up, but it’s no use -- Dave is the giant after all, and Nate’s guns aren’t that swoll. Riley hides behind her hands, peeking through her fingers and unable to look away.

Riley: Oh my God, he’s gonna die.

Isadora takes over directing from below, instructing Dave to change trajectory and aim for the curtains to orient himself. Jeff objects to that, citing the integrity of the curtain pulley system, but he’s shouted down by the performers jumping on Isadora’s suggestion. Suddenly, everyone is yelling at Dave to go for the curtains, so that’s what he does.

Jeff: No, don’t -- !

All… the… love in the world can’t be gone!

Dave manages to latch onto the main curtain -- but it’s all downhill from there. That curtain is about as useless as Nate, and the pulley system holding it upright can only sustain so much weight (curtains are a lot heavier than they look). So the moment Dave latches on, it buckles underneath him, and seconds later the whole thing comes down in a spectacular show of destruction.

The A class scatters to avoid it, ducking down and covering their heads. Clarissa pulls HALEY FISHER down behind a set piece with her for cover; Farkle yanks Isadora out of the way and shields her behind him. Zay screws his eyes shut and hides behind his knee, thankfully a safe distance away. Then the dust settles, stunned silence giving way to the continuing groovy sounds of Earth, Wind, & Fire.

Riley pokes her head out from behind the set piece she was painting first, eyeing the heap of curtains and rods on the dented stage floor. She swallows.

Riley: … Dave?

For a moment, nothing but tense silence… from above, Nate releases a gasp.

Nate: Holy shit, we’ve killed him.

Then Dave emerges, pushing some dense drapery off of him and pushing himself into a sitting position. He seems dazed, but otherwise uninjured.

Jeff: Oh, thank God.

Isadora: Dave… you good buddy?

Dave blinks, then offers a thumbs up. Everyone releases a sigh of relief… just as SHAWN HUNTER and HARPER BURGESS enter into the scene of chaos, having rushed in after hearing the commotion from down the hall. In the opposite wings, LUCAS JAMES FRIAR returns with DYLAN ORLANDO and ASHER GARCIA, all of whom stop dead in their tracks when they set their eyes on the disaster they’ve stumbled into. Asher’s jaw drops open; Dylan drops the toolbox he was carrying.

Whoopsie. Boogie wonderland…

From his perch atop the set piece, Zay breaks the silence, shaking his head.

Zay: Shoulda never dissed disco.

Cue title sequence.

INT. AAA - JACK’S OFFICE - DAY

JACK HUNTER is seated at his desk, working to maintain a neutral composure as HARRISON YANCY paces his office. He’s haughty and on offense, demanding to know what happened with the auditorium and grilling Jack for details. Of all the things he planned to tangle with at Adams, vandalism and destruction of school property was not at the top of the list.

Yancy: But, then, I suppose I should’ve anticipated such a turn of events. Considering you’ve struggled with reining in destruction before, and insisted so vehemently on keeping problematic entities in your student roll -- and now they’re student leadership, in fact!

Jack: He had nothing to do with this. Lucas wasn’t even in the auditorium when it happened --

Yancy: How convenient for him.

Jack: And it was an accident. No ill intent involved. It was an accident, and all of the damage is repairable. The curtains can be fixed and replaced, the dents in the stage can be filled, and the spilled paint can be removed or painted over in turn. I think we should be more concerned with the lucky reality that no one was hurt.

Yancy: [ ignoring that point ] The damage is repairable, yes, but it won’t be free. And I certainly won’t approve its reparation on the school’s dime.

Jack points out that such a decision isn’t his to make -- he’s still the principal of Adams. And that’s true enough, but as Yancy effortlessly counters, he remains under close watch. That’s the reason Yancy is present in the first place. Every decision Jack makes is under scrutiny, and a figurative nod of approval from him matters. Jack must be wise enough to realize that.

Jack, begrudgingly: So what, then?

Yancy: So, it seems to me that the A class will have to proffer the money to pay for the damages on their own.

Jack: That’s ridiculous. They’re students, not entrepreneurs. And they’re already scrambling to raise money for their showdown performance, not to mention ways to bolster their scholarship initiative since you voted to deny them funding at the board level.

Yancy: Then they must be experts at it. What’s one more money-making effort? At least it’s teaching them meaningful life skills -- budgeting, consequences, the value of a dollar. All very sensible lessons to learn… something you used to complain this institution lacked at the same time you were decrying the actions of students you now fruitlessly defend, if I recall correctly.

Well, you got him there, Yancy. Jack deflates, knowing there’s no logical path out of this. Yancy has him cornered, and the more he invites reminders about how he used to be or the ways he’s already fumbled, the graver his prospects grow. Yancy emphasizes this as he makes his exit.

Yancy: We at the board used to hold you in high esteem, Jackson. We saw great things in your future. Now, with all these foolish mistakes... let’s hope that all your promise hasn’t dissolved with the Hunter I used to know.

The threat is buried deep beneath the thinly-veiled condescension, hidden in a simple choice of plural. Mistakes. This battle is just one in a long, growing list Yancy is keeping against him.

Like he could ever forget it. Jack releases a heavy sigh after Yancy leaves his office, slouching in his chair.

Lucas, pre-lap: I shouldn’t be surprised. This might as well happen.

INT. AAA - TECHNICIAN’S BOOTH - DAY

Riley listens attentively as Lucas paces the booth, busying himself with gathering stuff for class for the sake of moving. Although his tone is sarcastic and indifferent, the weight of his words indicates he’s far from it.

Lucas: It’s not like I don’t already have enough to focus on, between the usual bullshit and the fundraising for showdown -- a showdown that we have to win if we want any chance of the scholarship thing actually taking off. That on top of the college applications I wasn’t planning on doing three months ago but now have to make really good, because suddenly I have dreams or whatever, even though I’m basically the most rejectable candidate on the east coast.

Riley: Okay, you know that’s not true.

Lucas: Fine. Most rejectable candidate in the greater Manhattan area.

Riley: You literally won an election.

Lucas: And the world is still wondering how and why.

Riley rolls her eyes, but she is sympathetic. She agrees that the stage accident was definitely an unexpected speed bump on everything they’ve got going on, but they’ll figure out how to handle it. There’s no way it’s going to be entirely on them, anyway, and they don’t even know how much damage was actually done yet.

She takes the opportunity to broach another topic, though, easing into a deeper conversation about college. She asks how his applications are going, which he claims are fine, in spite of the stress surrounding it.

Lucas: The only stuff I’ve got left are recommendations and personal essays. And I know I’m fucked on the recs considering you’re supposed to ask for those months in advance, and I know no one impressive, least of all who would sing my praises.

Riley: You could always ask my dad for a recommendation. I’m sure he’d have glowing things to say. Instant acceptance, I bet.

Lucas, flatly: You are hilarious. It’s no mystery how you managed to reel me in.

Riley: Well, that and my effortless charm and insanely dazzling visage.

Lucas gives her a look, but to be fair, he doesn’t argue her on it. She simply beams in response, sliding closer to him and halting his pacing by taking his hands.

Lucas: Honestly, I’m not really stuck on the recommendations. I think I’m going to ask Joe for one, because he can at least speak to my work ethic or whatever, and the other… I mean, it’s whatever. I’ll figure it out.

Riley: But…?

Lucas: But… I don’t know. With the rest of the app…

It’s clear there’s something else he’s really stuck on. Riley starts to offer him advice, or maybe just encouragement, but they’re interrupted by a knock on the booth door. Jeff appears moments later at the stairs.

Jeff: Class is starting. Judgment day is upon us.

Lucas and Riley share an apprehensive look, then follow the lighting technician out of the booth.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

Harper, Shawn, and ERIC MATTHEWS are on the stage, assessing the damage while the A class gathers in the front and center section. The destroyed curtain has been removed, the pock marks in the stage even more visible in its absence.

ANGELA MOORE emerges from the wings, Janitor HARLEY KEINER in tow. She’s just barely starting to show her pregnancy, but the flowy tops she’s wearing now conceal it fairly well.

Harley: Old curtain’s out back. Trash company will be by this afternoon to take it away.

Angela: I have to say, I picked a great day to stop by and visit. Never a dull moment.

Harper: Girl, tell me about it.

Angela laughs knowingly. Been there, queen. Eric and Shawn turn their attention to the seniors, coming towards the front of the stage.

Eric: Who wants to explain what exactly happened?

A whole bunch of them immediately launch into retellings, talking over each other and definitely exaggerating elements of the story. The camera jumps around to each of them, catching snippets of their perspective.

Sarah: If Jeff had just changed the song --

Jeff: I was in the catwalk!

Nate: So Jeff’s up in the catwalk, and Dave is handing me shit -- I mean, uh, stuff -- on the scaffolding --

Darby: Isadora pushed Farkle --

Isadora: I lightly nudged Farkle --

Maya: Farkle is like a house of cards and all it takes is a little wind to knock him over, so he goes flying into the ladder --

Clarissa: Paint splatters --

Yindra: The ladder goes crashing down and nearly takes off Nigel’s head --

Jade: Oh my God, what?

Nigel, pointedly: No, it did not. [ softer, to Jade ] No, it didn’t.

Yindra: It did.

Haley: Not like the curtains almost took out Dave!

Yogi: This class is a circus act.

Eric holds up a hand to halt them all, waving them down. He can’t figure out what any of them are saying when they all talk at once, so he asks for a volunteer to give the rundown. A few hands up go up, but Eric wisely selects Zay.

He pulls himself to his feet, gingerly, for the effect. Then he clears his throat, speaking plainly and matter-of-fact.

Zay: Farkle got knocked into the ladder. Ladder falls, dents stage. Dave almost falls, Nate is no help --

Nate: Whoa, okay then. Hater.

Zay: Maya stumbles back and knocks silver paint can over. Performers tell Dave to grab curtain, Jeff objects --

Jeff: Justice. Thank you.

Zay: Dave does anyway, whole thing comes down. Also, no one in this class has taste and for that they evoked the wrath of God. But apparently God can’t kill Dave Williams.

Dylan: So metal.

Eric: Thank you, Zay.

Zay does a pithy salute, lowering back into his seat. Harper goes on to explain the total damages done by the incident as well as relay the total cost of the repairs -- without saying a definitive sum, suffice to say it’s not cheap.

The A class immediately breaks into chatter again, trying to divert blame off themselves. Shawn notices one student doesn’t seem particularly vexed -- in fact, he appears to be laughing to himself behind his hand.

Shawn: I’m sorry, Friar, do you find this funny?

Lucas: What? Oh, no, no. Very serious business. [ clearing his throat ] It’s just… it’s so nice to not be the one responsible for once.

The performers immediately boo him. He simply smiles. CHAI FRESCO is the one who manages to redirect the conversation.

Chai: What exactly is he doing here?

All eyes turn to Janitor Harley, who stands sheepishly next to the faculty. Harper says she’s glad Chai asked, claiming that if anyone deserves an apology for what they did today, it would be him. He puts a lot of effort and care into maintaining their sacred space, this auditorium, and the damage done today walks all over that.

Darby: It really was an accident.

Harley: No hard feelings, Miss Winters. Mighty nice as it was for Harper and Shawn to invite me here, rest assured I know there was no ill intent or disrespect. And I can assure you that with the time and proper resources, we will return this stage to tip-top shape in no time.

Maya: Lovely. Problem solved then, no?

Eric: Not quite. You do still have an assignment to attend to, especially as it’s your last major one before finals.

Harper: Since it is a weird time in the calendar and we don’t want to barrel another assignment next week right before showdown, Shawn and I agreed that this assignment would be a two-week stretch, and ideally lower stakes.

Shawn: Even better now, considering how you all just doubled pressure on your own.

Harper: And since you’ve also in turn given Harley more pressure and work to attend to in this time, we thought it only fair that he decide your focus for the project.

With that, they pass the floor over to Harley again to make his declaration. The performers don’t seem all that unnerved -- it’s Harley Keiner. What’s the worst he could do? Clean-up anthems? He clears his throat, clasping his biker-gloved hands together.

Harley: When I’m in a particularly rough spot, or working through a grueling task, I have always found that a little music can really liven the task.

Yogi: [ under his breath ] Clean up, clean up, everybody everywhere…

Harley: But nothing gets me more fired up, ready to take on a challenge or dance to the beat, than some classic tunes from my early youth. And I’ll tell you kids, no one knew music better than the radio hits of my day.

Slowly, the possibility begins to dawn on the A class what decree awaits them. Dylan is counting backwards on his fingers, trying to calculate just how old Harley actually is, but Asher next to him has beaten him to it.

Asher: Oh no.

Harley: Ladies and gentleboys, we’ll be taking it back to the ‘70s this week for your musical assignments.

Dun dun dun. The A class expresses their obvious disdain. Well, all except Zay, who cracks a smug grin.

Zay: Heh heh… karma.

There’s only more grim news. Considering the stage is going to be undergoing repairs thanks to all this, they’re all essentially ousted from the auditorium for the time being. No sense practicing or rehearsing in a space that’s going to be under construction. JADE BEAMON sits up straighter, shooting her hand in the air.

Jade: We can still access the lofts, right? Like, I can get in the costume loft --

Eric: Yes, all the technical spaces, as well as the dressing rooms, are still fair game. But stay away from the stage.

Harper: And you might not get much work done when they’re doing things like drilling and hammering, so be forewarned.

Haunting… Jade hides in her hands, already stressed. Nigel tentatively pats her on the shoulder.

So yeah, all in all, some unideal circumstances right before some of the most important events of their high school career.

INT. AAA - CAFETERIA - DAY

Maya is in surprisingly good spirits in spite of the financial issues confronting the class, preening and showing off Valerie’s faux fur coat. She wears it effortlessly, entertaining Darby, Sarah, and a crop of underclassmen at a table as she shares the tale of her and Valerie’s instant starlit bond. When Darby reaches out to feel the coat, Maya quickly smacks her hand away.

Maya: You’re welcome and encouraged to look, but no touchie. Golden diva rule.

A couple of tables over, Riley and Isadora watch her showboating with amusement. Riley claims it was really generous of Isadora to give her the coat, but she shrugs it off.

Isadora: Seriously, she’s way more at home in it than I would ever be. Can you ever see me pulling that off?

Riley: I think you can deliver any design you endeavor, you know that. [ off her raised eyebrow ] But yeah, a bit out of your element. Ironically, maybe.

Isadora: Even that’s a stretch. But it really wasn’t a hard decision. As much as it inflates her ego, my mom did see something in her. Maya can use it as a bragging tool all she wants, and people probably won’t believe her because of it, but they probably would be in cahoots if Val were still here. [ a beat ] A lot of things were going to happen if she were here.

Oof. Riley senses the gloom impending, searching for a quick change of subject. She asks if Isadora found anything else cool in the boxes from the estate.

Isadora pauses, mouth parted open. The answer is plenty -- including the mystery hidden way deep down underneath everything else. But for whatever reason, she hesitates explaining what she found.

Thankfully, she doesn’t have to respond anyway. Dylan swoops into their conversation, dropping down into the seat next to Riley and smacking a piece of paper onto the table. It’s a flyer for scheme one of their fundraising efforts: a community dance, now officially ‘70s themed. Isadora turns it around to get a better look at the very bright poster.

Dylan: Hot off the presses, ladies. Another instant classic from the one and only ambassador of public relational fun and enthusiasm, comma right hand advisor, comma prime minister of the techies and secretary of kissing, mainly to the secretary and official marketing and communications director for the Friar administration.

Isadora: Colorful…

Dylan: Shout-out to Harley for basically choosing our theme for us. We’d been sitting on it for ages because Asher and Maya kept fighting over it.

Isadora: Really? What theme ideas could possibly be worth scrapping over?

Dylan: Nothing. Neither of them actually had an idea. I think they just automatically hate anything that comes out of the others’ mouth.

Isadora: Wow, just like a real body politic.

Riley excitedly swipes the flyer, praising Dylan for his enthusiastic design. She snaps a picture of it on her phone and explains she’s texting it to Charlie.

Riley: I’m so pumped for this. Disco isn’t my favorite thing, but it is fun.

Dylan: Bouncy.

Isadora: Jaunty.

Dylan: Ooh, thesaurus bonus.

Dylan and Isadora exchange a quick high five. Riley beams at them, then continues.

Riley: Besides, with how extremely crazy everything is right now between college apps and showdown and now this fundraising debacle, I think it’ll give all of us some much-needed serotonin. A nice evening of… disco dopamine.

Dylan: Oh, you know you just wanna see Lucas in some sick bellbottoms.

Isadora: [ with a gag ] God… please, I’m sitting right here...

Riley shoves Dylan playfully, then reiterates the point. It will be fun. A nice, well-deserved stress reliever after working their asses off these next couple weeks.

INT. AAA - COSTUME LOFT - DAY

And boy howdy, that could not be truer for Jade. She is in full frenzy mode, skipping lunch and hunkered down in the costume loft to work. It seems like she’s been there for days, her space under the loft essentially a nest of costuming supplies, her belongings, and discarded snack containers. Her hair is a mess of tangles falling half out of a ponytail, three different tape measures are draped around her neck like graduation cords, and she’s wearing an old button up paint smock about 3 sizes too large that only exacerbates the crazed hermit energy.

Asher and Jeff listen as she multitasks on cataloguing some of her projects and marks another in progress on the table in front of her, the former visibly disconcerted by Jade’s general state of being while the latter seems mainly tickled. She speaks around a pin caught between her lips as she explains the reason for the chaos -- college applications are due right around the corner, as are apprenticeship applications, and she needs to have all her portfolio pieces in perfect condition before she hits that submit button.

Asher: Again, I know this is hypocritical coming from me, but girl you need to relax.

Jade snaps her head up to glare at him, even scarier with that pin in her mouth. She removes it to stick something down while Jeff asks her what she has left to do. Apparently, she’s just about done after days of relentless work, so she’s on her last application assignment now: pick a decade and create a sampling of as many unique -- but historically accurate -- costumes as possible in her designer’s mind.

Jade: Luckily, Janitor Harley did me the favor of having to pick a decade. If we’re doing ‘70s stuff this week anyway, then we’ll probably need costumes, so I can knock out two birds with one stone.

Jeff: I don’t know if I’d say need…

Asher: Yeah, with the auditorium boarded up for the time being I doubt we’ll be doing any major productions.

Jade: With Maya and Farkle, you can never be too careful.

Case in point, she is way too swamped to even think about the fundraising bullshit. She feels bad, but there’s no way she can split her time. Jeff and Asher assure her it’s no big deal.

Jeff: I think the performers will let you off the hook considering you’ve made… every single costume they’ve ever worn since freshman year.

Asher: Least they could do.

Jeff: Yeah. You deserve a week off!

Jeff’s turn to receive the Jade Beamon death glare. He clears his throat, scratching his ear.

Jeff: Well, you know… not for you, but...

Jade stabs the pin cushion pointedly.

Zay, pre-lap: I guess if my clear eternal damnation is good for anything, it gets me out of fundraising to fix another problem caused by Farkle and the Pips.

INT. AAA - BOYS DRESSING ROOM - DAY

Zay and Nigel are taking their lunch in the boys dressing room, both on their laptops while they eat. They’re working on finalizing college application stuff, Zay sitting on the counter with his injured foot propped up while Nigel is leaning against the mirrors on the floor.

Nigel: Guess it’s worth it then.

Zay: Ha ha, so funny. If I could afford to move, I would kill you for being such a damn comedian.

Nigel: I’m more of a tragedies man myself. [ a beat ] What are you planning to do, exactly? For the applications.

Zay: [ with a sigh ] Just putting the pieces together and hoping for the best. Thank fuck I recorded a couple runs of my routine when I was going through my obsessive drills at the start of the year.

Nigel: Glad Diva Zay was good for something.

Zay: They’re not as polished as I want, but they’ll do. Not like I have any other options. I’m just going to convince myself via self-hypnosis that they’ll see the rough edges as loose, natural charm. Between that and other samples I have from shows and recitals and West Side Story, all I can do is hope that’s enough. And if I get far enough to book an audition… I’ll be better by then.

He says it like a guarantee -- he can’t consider the alternative. Nigel isn’t sure how to respond, but he’s spared from figuring it out as they’re interrupted by YINDRA AMINO entering with a few showdown costumes to replace on the rack. All of them freeze as they glance at one another, Yindra and Zay holding one another’s gaze for a few moments longer. Then Yindra brushes past the awkwardness, shrugging and focusing on the costume rack.

Yindra: No need to go on defense, boys. I’m only here on business.

She keeps her eyes on her task. Nigel picks up the conversational slack, explaining that they were discussing their college applications. He asks how Yindra is doing in plotting her college plans, as last they talked she didn’t have much set in stone.

Yindra, matter-of-fact: I’ll be applying to a couple of schools as a safety net, but my main trajectory remains Los Angeles. The current plan right now is to skip over the bureaucracy of academics I don’t care about and go out there to start striking while the iron is hot. Talent speaks for itself.

Nigel, ever the pragmatist, still seems uneasy about such a plan, but it’s Zay who beats him to the punch. He breaks the silence between him and Yindra with a snort, tone teasing but friendly.

Zay: Straight to Los Angeles with no foundation? Now that’s just asking for trouble, and that’s coming from a diva like me. Haven’t you seen Fame?

Maybe that kind of friendly fire passes when they’re on good terms, but it falls flat now. Yindra stiffens her shoulders, giving Zay a diva glare of her own.

Yindra: [ without looking at him ] Nigel, will you please inform Zay that despite what his superiority complex might think, I’m not an idiot?

Nigel: Oh, um --

Zay: Come on, Yindra. I didn’t mean it like that.

Yindra: And Zay might find it interesting to know that my dad is considering moving to Los Angeles as well, if I plan to be out there, so I don’t see how I’m swinging with no foundation. And I’ll be using the money that we would’ve wasted on tuition for studio time to record a demo, so there is in fact a method behind the madness. Just because I’m not following the same musty, beaten path as everyone else doesn’t mean I’m not on any path at all. [ haughtily ] And even in spite of his broke attitude, I wish him all the best with his less-than-ideal circumstances. Least of all this week -- I’m sure not being able to show off while he discos is simply killing him. Thanks for letting him know, Nigel.

Nigel: … you’re welcome...

With that, Yindra spins on her heel and exits. Zay rolls his eyes, but it’s clear that the state of their friendship is really bothering him. Nigel awkwardly attempts to move past it, commenting that the two of them are about as dramatic as a Shakespearean comedy of errors before coming back to Yindra’s closing point.

Nigel: It’s a shame about this assignment though. You’re probably the only one in our class who could truly thrive this week.

Zay smiles half-heartedly, both of them focusing back on their computers. After a moment, his smile dims.

Zay: Didn’t use to be…

INT. HAVERFORD PREP - HALLWAY - DAY

CHARLIE GARDNER is at his locker, reading the texts from Riley. He pulls up the photo of the flyer for the dance fundraiser, boasting the disco theme for the end of the semester in all its groovy glory.

Yes, it is a tragedy that Charlie isn’t there to participate. Another disco gay, barred from the dance floor. It’s clear from his expression that he’s bummed about it.

He’s only pulled out of his fugue when EVAN SCOTT approaches. He pats him on the shoulder as he passes and asks if he’s ready for rehearsal. With senior showdown finals so close around the corner, Brandon is going to be drilling them more than ever. Now it’s game time for real.

Charlie nods, putting his phone away and shutting his locker to follow him. But that melancholy still lingers in his features.

INT. AAA - JACK’S OFFICE - DAY

But he’s not the only one grappling with an unideal situation. Lucas is the king of that, settled in his usual chair across from Jack, only this time he’s not alone. Maya has been called in with him, the two of them waiting uncertainly as Jack prepares to share why he brought them in.

And the reason for his apprehension is obvious once he says it. He finally breaks the news to them that the school board declined to fund their scholarship initiative -- and that’s not even the worst part.

Maya: Nothing? 

Lucas: They’re not going to contribute anything?

Jack: I know, it’s disappointing. To be honest, I was anticipating at least a partial donation, but for whatever reason it was shot down wholesale. It was close, though.

Maya: Well. That’s just lovely. Could the state of the AAA union get any more despicable?

Jack: To put it simply? Yes.

Uh oh. Jack reluctantly informs them of the other bomb blowing up their administration -- that Yancy has insisted they pay for the damages to the auditorium since their class caused it. Both Lucas and Maya erupt in complaints, the latter literally leaping out of her chair and launching into a frantic pace behind it. She fans herself, taking deep breaths.

Maya: Okay. This is fine. No money, no problems. It’s fine. It’s fine!

Jack: … Miss Hart?

Maya stops behind her vacated seat, gripping the back of it. She takes in a deep breath, holds it, and releases it theatrically. Then she opens her eyes, plastering on her winning star smile.

Maya: It’s okay. Yes, everything is fine. The situation is unideal, in a word --

Lucas: More like bullshit.

Maya: Also a word. But money and I have been tussling my whole career. It won’t be getting the best of me now. We’ll come up with another way to fundraise alongside the dance social and then we will win showdown and absolutely everything will work out exactly how I want it to. It always does.

Jack: That so?

Maya: Thanks to the two powers that be, Principal Hunter -- star and will. And I’ve got both in spades. [ another breath ] Okay, damage control. Need new ideas. Gotta pool resources… brainstorm. I need to brainstorm. I’m thinking… I’m scheming...

Maya hums, entering zen diva mode as she gathers her things. She backs out of the office and assures Lucas she’ll update him as soon as she’s figured out their second moneymaker. Once she’s gone, Lucas and Jack wait a moment to let the Maya pheromones dissipate before continuing the conversation.

Jack: Say what you will about her, can’t pretend she doesn’t have moxie. An interesting choice to partner with you.

Lucas: Believe it or not -- and I’ll deny it if you tell anyone -- I think she’s the best second-in-command I could’ve picked. Somehow her brand of insanity is just right for the Minesweeper that is Triple A student government.

Hard to argue with that. Jack apologizes again for the fact that so much seems to be piling on him at once. He really did think they would get more help from the board… but they’ll keep marching on regardless. The initiative is worth fighting for, and besides, their fundraisers could really outsell their expectations. Especially with a theme like disco, their dance will probably be a smashing success. Lucas can’t help but smirk.

Lucas: Yeah, you’d know all about that, huh? Bet you were just a disco king back in your day.

Jack, flatly: How old do you think I am to have been discoing in the ‘70s?

Cheekiness notwithstanding, the prospects seem good. Not all hope is lost. Jack switches gears, checking in with how Lucas is doing on his applications with deadlines fast approaching. Lucas gives the same general response he gave Riley, tiptoeing around the challenge of the essay component and focusing on the fact that he might get it done at all. Now that it’s so close, it feels more and more daunting… not to mention all the other pressure that seems to be landing on top of him right at the same time.

Jack hears that, and dismisses Lucas so he has time to go deal with all those pressures. Before he walks out, Lucas pauses and turns back for one more thing. He struggles to articulate it since asking for any sort of help feels like specialized torture, but he manages to ask if Jack would be willing to write him a letter of recommendation for the applications. The request surprises Jack, which Lucas reads as discomfort.

Lucas: I know it’s like, pretty last minute and stuff. And there probably isn’t a lot to say about me, so it’ll take some work to throw something compelling together. I should’ve asked sooner, or like, bothered someone else. So I totally get it if you don’t have time or have too much to do or just, you know, don’t want to --

Jack is far from opposed, though. In fact, he’s touched by the request, expression softening to a smile.

Jack: Lucas. [ waiting for him to quiet ] I’d be happy to write one for you. It’s no problem at all.

Lucas: … okay. Cool. Um, thanks.

Jack: You’re quite welcome.

Lucas: I’ll send over the links and stuff later. Today. Later today. So it’s not any later.

Jack: Whatever works for you.

Lucas: Okay… okay. Cool.

Any more bashful vulnerability and Lucas just might implode. He mutters one more quick thanks and scampers away, Jack holding back his amusement long enough to spare Lucas further embarrassment. He chuckles to himself as he shifts back to his work, shaking his head.

INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT - ISADORA’S BEDROOM - DAY

Surrounded by various textbooks and scripts and with her laptop propped in front of her, Isadora sits on her bed. A half-finished essay about how the horror genre has developed over the years is open on her screen, but has been entirely abandoned in favor of the mysterious letter Valerie had in her belongings. Isadora holds several handwritten pages, eyebrows furrowed as she reads her mother’s words. She moves the first page to the side, and we catch a glimpse of Val’s loopy handwriting:

Dearest Zachary,

How lovely it is to hear from an old friend! I’m so glad that you’re doing well. Send my well wishes to that darling wife of yours.

To answer your question, I wasn’t entirely sure of who Isadora’s father was when I discovered I was pregnant -- as you well know, I often got rather drunk back then, so couldn’t be entirely sure of all my actions. However, upon reflection, I have come to the same conclusion as you.

Well, damn. Heavy stuff, even if somewhat rose-tinted through Valerie’s flowery language. Isadora bites her lip as she continues reading, clearly conflicted about this sudden revelation. 

Eric, off-screen: Dinner’s ready!

Isadora doesn’t seem to hear Eric’s yell, so after a moment, Eric comes to her room to tell her directly. She still doesn’t look up from the letter, peaking Eric’s interest. 

Eric: What are you reading?

Isadora: Hm? Oh, nothing.

She folds up the papers and shoves them under one of her notebooks nearby, giving Eric a small forced smile. He narrows his eyes at her, jokingly suspicious, which Isadora laughs off. She hops off her bed and asks what’s for dinner, successfully distracting him.

INT. THERAPIST’S OFFICE - DAY

Farkle is meeting with DR. MICHELLE HAN, assembled in their usual positions with her in her arm chair and him sprawled across the couch. He’s relaying the drama of the week and his unfortunate instrumental role in all the destruction, though at least this time it was far from intentional. But it’s clear he feels guilty about it, and he admits that his uncanny knack for making things worse is definitely not helping him combat those low moods that seem to creep up on him out of nowhere.

Dr. Han perks up at this, taking the opportunity to gear the conversation. She gently asks if they could discuss that further for a bit, his experience with the high and low moods. Everybody has off days, of course, but based on their previous discussions, she’s interested to hear more about how Farkle describes these different emotional states and the other factors that come with it.

It’s not hard to get Farkle to talk. He obliges without hesitation, launching into details about how it feels when he’s feeling especially frenzied -- sort of the opposite of what he’s dancing around now, but such a vivid experience when he’s in it that he remembers the sensation and always can vibe when it’s coming on. Dr. Han listens carefully, flipping to a clean page in her notepad to jot down his thoughts.

Farkle doesn’t think anything of it, but it seems like Dr. Han might be onto something more than just the typical one-on-one chat. A pronounced clapping counts us in...

INT. HAVERFORD PREP - AUDITORIUM - DAY

BRANDON RIVAS is clapping along to the downbeat while the Havies run through their showdown routine, the instrumental from How to Succeed playing on the speakers. He’s keeping a watchful eye on his classmates while they run through the choreography, shouting out when someone is off a beat or not sharp enough on the steps.

Charlie is definitely one of those people. He’s a couple of steps behind today, mind elsewhere, and when he accidentally bumps into BILLY ROSS he receives a glare in response. What’s the matter with you, man?

Brandon: Come on, Gardner! This is your choreography!

Fair point, Brandon. Charlie tries to get back on track, but lucky for him he’s far from the only one struggling this week. DWEEZIL HOWARD is out of step too, and his mistakes reverberate way more as he accidentally sends half the boys into a wave of near stumbles. Brandon yells for everyone to stop, shaking his head as Evan jogs to pause the music.

Brandon: This is not the time to get soft, guys. Showdown is right around the corner.

Havie: So what? It’s not like Adams is any competition. Six years of success speak for themselves.

Brandon: And complacency is the first step in breaking that streak. You want to be credited when that takes us down? [ off his head shake ] So, what’s going on? Is there some contagious case of vertigo going around that makes you all unable to balance on your own two feet?

Charlie chews his lip, shying away from the disappointment. He’s not the only recipient, but he knows he doesn’t have a good excuse -- and certainly not one Brandon would want to hear. But Dweezil answers first anyway, much more visibly frazzled than him.

Dweezil: I’m sorry, Brandon. I’m just really stressing about the MIT app.

Others murmur agreement, mentioning their own upcoming dream school deadlines and the pressure of finishing their applications. Charlie nods along as if that’s his problem too.

Brandon considers this for a long moment, scanning over his peers. He may have high expectations, but he’s not without compassion for his boys. He relents and expresses sympathy for everybody’s stress, claiming they can call it quits early today and cut down on afternoon rehearsals for the next few days while everyone is wrapping up applications.

The boys breathe a collective sigh of relief, thanking Brandon and starting to disperse. Brandon shouts after them to send those apps in fast and get ready to come back to work harder than ever -- they’re not going to slip and fall to AAA on his watch. Billy exchanges a handshake with him and suggests he take some time off to focus on himself, too, but Brandon shrugs this off.

Brandon: No, it’s fine. Think I’ll be able to make use of the time… might have to make some adjustments to the numbers anyway. [ quirking an eyebrow ] Make sure we’re the best we can possibly be.

For what it’s worth, the statement seems less than innocuous. It kind of feels like Brandon knows something we don’t, and based on Billy’s smug reaction, he’s in on it too. They exchange another fist bump before Billy heads out.

Charlie is one of the last to leave, pausing in packing up to check his phone. He’s got a surprising amount of texts on his lock screen, all from Daisy. He opens the thread, finding just under a dozen texts of her sharing live updates with him of an argument that apparently broke out between Rosie and Eleanor. Although her observations are characteristically dry and analytical -- a technical play-by-play rather than biased record -- the fact that she’s telling Charlie about it at all is a sign that she’s concerned about it. The final message she sent kind of sums up the looming stakes without saying so:

“Didn’t this happen with Bridgette?”

Either way, not good news. Charlie frowns. Before he figures out how to respond, Brandon startles him.

Brandon: All good, Charles?

Charlie: Uh, yeah. Yeah, just, you know. Lots on my mind. It was cool of you to give everyone a break right now.

Brandon: Well. [ with a shrug ] Nothing too serious going on with you, I hope. We need your talent to up our dance credentials -- I assume you realize by now how valuable you are to the team.

Charlie: Oh, well…

Brandon: Can’t afford to let anything distract us right now if we’re to come out victorious against Adams. [ a beat ] Least of all Adams itself… you know, it’s okay if you’re feeling conflicted…

Conflicted might be a bit strong -- although Charlie lives basically every day of his life conflicted -- but the notion that Brandon is even close to sensing what’s actually going on in his head sets him on edge. He clears his throat, frantically attempting to throw him off the trail.

Charlie: Oh, no. No. It’s um -- just family stuff. Stuff with my sisters.

Brandon: Ah… sibling nonsense. I get that. I’ve got two older brothers, and even though they’re not at home anymore it’s like I’m still carrying their baggage around.

Charlie: Big shoes to fill?

Brandon: Well, one was valedictorian and is starting his first year at Harvard Law, and the other is starting his third year in prison. So kind of high bars in either direction.

Well. No idea how to respond to that little fun fact. Brandon spares Charlie the awkwardness and lets him go, wishing him a good afternoon.

But pleasant as he is, it’s evident he doesn’t fully buy Charlie’s excuse.

INT. CHUBBIES - DAY

Isadora is at the counter at Chubbies, discussing all of the impending stressors with Lucas during his shift. They’re especially mindful of how Lucas’s scholarship plan is now basically hinging solely on a victory at showdown, which is feeling more and more like a long shot. With Zay no longer able to bolster their performance, they’re short star power.

Isadora: And since Haverford has Charlie, who is basically his counterweight, suddenly the scales are tipped heavily in their favor. We’ll be lucky if we can create some Frankenstein performance around the gaping hole Zay leaves behind.

Lucas: Have you thought about stepping up in his place? Not that you’re anywhere near the level of dancer that he is, but you do purportedly have star power.

Isadora: Gee, thanks. I’m honestly shocked you’re suggesting this.

Lucas: Believe me, it hurts. But I’ve got stakes riding on this too, and I know you’re talented. Maybe you could help prop things back up so we’ve got at least a shot of winning.

Isadora: I don’t know… I mean, I know I performed the other week, but it was all about that assignment, you know? It was specifically because it was out of my comfort zone. [ a beat ] Though, why, I don’t even really know anymore…

She feels more confused about performing these days than averse, with all the grieving she’s done over Valerie, but confusion still feels dangerous. Probably safer to just stay on the sidelines… probably...

Speaking of dangerous tasks, Isadora shifts to college applications. She submitted her NYU film school application ages ago, and she’s got a couple of other things in the pipeline, but she’s much more interested in how Lucas is dealing with his. When he feeds her the same lines he’s been telling everyone else, she raises her eyebrows. Not buying it.

Leave it to Isadora to see right through him. Lucas sighs, relenting and explaining that the essays are killing him. It’s like, everything else he can scrape together, fake, pull off like he’s scraped through everything else in his life. But the personal statements…

Lucas: I hate writing about myself. Why should all of my potential rest on how well I can sell myself in some 500-word anecdote? As if that paints the complete picture. Not that I want that either -- the full picture isn’t pretty. How am I supposed to convince some strangers to take a chance on me when I don’t even believe it? If I had the choice whether or not to know myself, I wouldn’t.

Isadora: Wonder what that says about those of us who do choose to know you.

Lucas: And what am I going to say? Howdy, I’m a son of a bitch, please let me into your school and give me your money to do so? Great fucking deal.

Isadora rolls her eyes. She points out that although he doesn’t want to hear it, when it comes to  finances he knows she can help. Once the money from her inheritance fully comes through, she’ll have plenty that she doesn’t know what to do with. If she’s going to use it to help others -- especially those she cares about -- then helping him pursue his dreams is a non-issue. But, predictably, Lucas recoils at the suggestion.

Isadora: I swear, you are impossible. And you have such a weird hang-up about money.

Lucas: Yeah, views that you shared until about a month ago.

Isadora: Well, I’ve grown. I can see the nuances in money now and how it goes around. And I’m just saying that if you’ve got all these complexes around who has it and who can give it to you when you’re stuck on the bottom rung, then --

No doubt it’s a complicated series of complexes. As Isadora is settling into her rant, MISSY BRADFORD enters the diner. Lucas glances over Isadora’s shoulder and spots her, immediately clamming up.

Isadora: ...it’s what Reagan sold as trickle-down economics, but the thing is if you don’t give any money to the lowest income households from the get-go, then they never --

Lucas: Yeah, yeah, okay. I’ve got to go to the back.

Lucas retreats from the counter without waiting for permission, causing Isadora to scoff. She wasn’t finished! But he’s already gone, leaving her high and dry. But he also successfully avoided Missy, who steps up the counter for a pick-up order and is helped by another employee instead. She doesn’t acknowledge Isadora, who eyes her judgmentally from her stool.

As Missy collects her order and leaves -- glancing over her shoulder one last time for her usual Chubbies worker -- Dylan and Asher enter with Farkle. They join Isadora at the counter, asking where Lucas is. She shrugs, claiming he disappeared to deal with something.

Farkle: You ready to go? Is Maya here yet?

Isadora: Not yet. Figure she’ll be a bit late after the “atomic bomb” Jack dropped on her and Lucas -- her words, not mine.

Asher: What are you all up to?

Isadora: Since Farkle and I were technically responsible for the destruction in the auditorium --

Farkle: One could make the argument that I should have died last year.

Dylan: That would be a sick personal essay.

Isadora: We thought it was only fair that we put in the time to help Maya craft whatever last-minute fundraising effort we’re going to pull together to cover it.

As for Dylan and Asher, they were just stopping by to catch up with Lucas before going to practice their assignment for the week. Isadora commends Asher for performing again, considering it was so out of his comfort zone.

Farkle: Yeah, that’s not -- you’re not thinking of making that a habit, are you? Not asking for any reason, just curious. Not because you’re also a tenor. I’m just wondering.

Isadora: Smooth.

Asher: No, not planning to change career paths. Rest easy, Farkle. Just getting this out of the way sooner rather than later. [ nodding to Dylan ] It’s not as bad since we’re doing it together. And besides, can’t ignore the pull of the funk.

Dylan, wisely: Disco is for the gays.

Asher: Gotta pay our dues and get down with the boogie.

Far out, fellas! Isadora and Farkle wish them luck and head out together. Isadora asks Farkle how his therapy appointment went, and while his answer is unbothered, he definitely seems to be a little spacy this week. Isadora notices and considers asking him about it, but opts not to press further. They’ve got enough going on right now.

INT. GARDNER HOME - ROSIE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

ROSIE GARDNER is huddled up in her bedroom, begrudgingly working on homework. She’s got Niall Horan playing, and the volume is turned up loud. It takes multiple knocks on her door before Rosie hears, shouting over the noise.

Rosie: Go away! I’m busy.

Charlie, from the hall: It’s me. Can we talk for a minute?

Rosie sighs, but gets up. She opens the door and spins back around to drop back into her seat at her desk, not bothering to greet him. But she let him in, which is more than anyone else has managed this evening.

Charlie blinks as the pop music assaults his ears. He gently closes the door behind him, raising his voice over Niall.

Charlie: Think you could turn Niall down for a second?

Rosie: Huh?

Charlie: Turn your boyfriend down so we can actually hear each other!

Rosie: Ugh. You’re so not funny.

And yet, she relents and lowers the volume. Charlie makes a show of shaking off the ringing in his ears, knocking his ear slightly.

Charlie: Just checking for significant damage. Need industrial strength noise-cancelling headphones to come in here. Like they wear when they guide airplanes onto the runway.

Rosie: You are so annoying. Did you want something, or?

Charlie explains that Daisy texted him that afternoon about a fight she apparently had with mom. She seemed pretty concerned, so he just wanted to check in. Is everything okay? Rosie rolls her eyes.

Rosie: It’s so whatever. Daisy is exaggerating.

Charlie: I don’t think Daisy is capable of exaggeration. We took all the drama genes, there wasn’t any left for her.

Rosie: Well, she is. Yeah, mom and I argued, but it’s like… it’s dumb, whatever. I don’t even care.

Charlie: You’re listening to your sad 1D playlist.

Rosie: I said I don’t care, Charlie. And I can listen to whatever I want whenever I want.

Charlie: Okay, well, can you at least tell me what it was about? Or what’s --

Rosie: Ugh. It was nothing! Can you mind your own business and leave me alone? I’m trying to work.

Yikes. Rosie has always had a little bit of early teen venom in her, but this feels like more than that. Charlie doesn’t want to just let it drop, but it’s more than obvious she will not be having any productive conversations right now.

Charlie: Okay. I’m only -- if you want to talk about anything, you know you can tell me. I’m here to listen. [ a beat ] Okay?

Rosie: [ not bothering to look at him ] Okay. Whatever. Thanks.

She turns Niall back up, effectively ending the talk. Charlie hangs around for a moment longer, words he wants to say on the tip of his tongue, but for now there’s nothing to be done. He reluctantly retreats, the ghost of the past looming over him.

INT. MINKUS HOME - FARKLE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Farkle, Maya and Isadora are spread out around Farkle’s bedroom as they brainstorm ideas for fundraising. Maya paces around, occasionally picking up little trinkets and inspecting them before putting them back down in the wrong place. Isadora, meanwhile, is laying down on Farkle’s bed on her back, her head hanging upside down off the side. Farkle has gathered a blanket around him as he sits at the other end of the bed. 

Maya: You need to add some meat to that stick of a body, Farkle. You can’t keep living like an orphan who’s freezing to death on the streets of Victorian London. 

Farkle: It’s not my fault I have a fast metabolism. You’re just jealous. 

Maya: Yes, I’m very jealous of the boy who looks like he’s dying of scurvy.

Isadora snorts in amusement, for which Farkle shoots a glare at her.

Maya: Go get us some snacks, orphan boy. We’ll fatten you up Hansel and Gretel style.

Farkle: This is offensive to orphans everywhere, I hope you know. 

Isadora: As the only orphan here, I’m not offended. Maya, you may continue your bullying.

Maya grins, but Isadora frowns as she realizes what she said. Technically, she isn’t an orphan, if her father is out there alive... despite rolling his eyes, Farkle does get up to get snacks, blanket still tightly wrapped around him.

Once she and Maya are alone, Isadora sits up straight and turns towards her, lips pursed in thought as she considers what she wants to say. 

Isadora: Do you know who your dad is?

Maya stops wandering around and looks at Isadora in surprise.

Maya: Where’d that come from?

Isadora: I don’t know. Just wondering about the orphan thing, I guess.

Maya: Izzy, that was just a joke. And directed towards Farkle. All jeers are reserved for our darling beanpole -- I’m not stupid enough to drag you.

Isadora: Appreciated. [ a beat ] I know nothing about my dad.

Maya: [ with a shrug ] I know my dad’s name and some basic facts about him, like his job, but nothing else. 

Isadora: Have you ever considered getting in touch with him? What if he’s out there somewhere? Mine or yours.

Maya: When I was younger I thought about it… but he abandoned me, so what’s the point? If he wanted me in his life, I would be. He knows who I am and how to contact me, but he hasn’t. Why waste my precious time and energy dealing with him when I already have my mom? She’s all I need.

Isadora nods, considering this. Her father situation is quite different to Maya’s, so not all that helpful. Regardless, it’s something to think about. Maya is pensive, too, mind now occupied by thoughts of Katy. Isadora notices her shift in mood.

Isadora: You miss her?

Maya: [ with a theatrical sigh ] Always. [ then, a bittersweet smile ] It’s okay, every artist has to have their tragic backstory. It’s good. Gives me personal agony to work through.

Isadora: … well, actually --

Before she can say anything further, Farkle returns with an armful of snacks. He tosses them at Maya and Isadora.

Farkle: Here you go, little piggies. Oink oink.

Maya: You can’t say that to us, we’re women.

Isadora: We could have you cancelled for that.

Maya: Besides, as the only poor one present, I reserve all rights to the word pig. [ eyeing them ] Capitalist swine…

Farkle: Yeah, speaking of lack of funding...

The conversation moves on, back to fundraising, but Maya gets out her phone to send Katy a quick message letting her know that she misses her.

INT. AAA - ATRIUM - DAY

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Boogie Shoes” as performed by Glee Cast || Performed by Asher Garcia & Dylan Orlando

Kicking off the first official performance for the ‘70s theme, Asher launches us into number with an impressive opening note. He starts at the top of the stairs in the atrium, starting down the steps while singing towards Dylan, who’s waiting down below. When he sings “boy, to be with you is my favorite thing,” Dylan playfully points to himself and beams. They’re both dressed in modern-day approximations of disco garb -- colorful dress shirts, glossy vests with matching flare pants, funky patterned ascots.

And they’re setting the standard for what performances will be like without the usual stage of the auditorium. Their chosen location is the atrium, mostly empty as it’s during class hours, the rest of the A class scattered around the space to watch and provide back-up vocals (as well as their usual reactions and applause). Zay is particularly torn, clearly flipping between jealousy that he can’t be dancing and basically vibrating with the infectious groove.

In the case of Dylan and Asher, there is plenty to cheer for. They’re simply undeniably a joy to watch, especially with each other, and Dylan was right when he said disco is for the gays. They’ve got the night fever, full of energy and charm as they dance together. On the “woo!” during the bridge, Dylan lifts Asher in a funky little hop moment. And Asher’s vocal runs throughout are nothing to scoff at either.

It’s a smashing way to start the assignments off right!

INT. AAA - PRACTICE ROOM - DAY

As strong a showing as that little number was, the upbeat mood doesn’t last long. Stress dominates in the meeting between Maya, Yindra, Farkle, Jeff, and Isadora, who are deliberating on the current status of their showdown setlist. They’re attempting to analyze it and rework with the knowledge that Zay will not be able to participate, but it’s easier said than done.

Lack of focus doesn’t help matters. Farkle is noticeably zoned out, lost in his own head, and Maya has to snap at him to get him back at attention. This is not amateur hour! No time for spacing out, Farkle! He apologizes, but Isadora notices he still seems far away somehow.

The fervent discussion is immediately halted when Zay enters the studio, realizing they’ve all convened to work without him. He asks what gives.

Maya: It’s not personal, Zayby. But considering your current situation...

Zay: I’m still choreographer. Even if I’m not performing, I should be included in meetings. Especially if you’re talking about altering the routine.

Jeff: We’re not.

Farkle: At least, not right now.

Isadora, diplomatically: We just know that not being able to participate is difficult for you, so Riley suggested… we figured it would be better not to like… force you to deal with it. Or rub it in your face.

Maya: Exactly. See? We’re doing this for you.

How sweet. But Zay isn’t moved. He grows defensive, nodding along but dripping with sarcasm.

Zay: Great. Thanks. Well I guess if you need to drag me out of the recycling bin to comment on choreography, you all know how to reach me.

He storms out -- a bit unevenly on his boot -- leaving them awkwardly in his absence. Farkle clears his throat. The only who doesn’t seem uncomfortable is Maya, who shifts gears back to the matter at hand effortlessly. It’s just business, after all.

Maya: So star power --

INT. THRIFT SHOP - DAY

Riley is searching the racks for an outfit for the ‘70s dance, Charlie in tow. Every now and then, she’ll find a vintage shirt that’s his size and hold it up against his chest just on instinct, always on the lookout for her friends even if they’re not looking themselves.

Riley: It’s amazing how every color looks good on you. You should really consider branching out beyond neutrals and inoffensive shades of blue.

Tell us something we don’t know, Riles. Charlie brushes off her compliments, keeping his focus on the topic at hand while they shop. He’s seeking advice on how to handle arguing family members, since unfortunately, Riley has plenty of relevant experience with that. He’s had it in his family before with Bridgette, but he can’t remember much of it and honestly, one of the keys to their family dynamic is how most unpleasant things occur behind closed doors. Most of the time, they don’t even know when something is wrong with each other.

Riley: Do you have any more details? I feel like context would help.

Charlie: Nope. I only heard about it through Daisy, and when I tried to talk to Rosie, she wouldn’t budge.

Riley contemplates and admits she’s hesitant to try and give advice when the context is so vague and wide open, but ultimately the most important thing she thinks he could do is to continue being there for Rosie. He told her he was, and that’s the best he can do under the circumstances. If he actually witnesses another argument for himself, then that’s a different story.

Riley: But no matter what happens, try not to let yourself get caught in the middle of it. I mean, you should help where you can, but there’s nothing worse than trying to fix problems that aren’t yours and you can’t control. It’s between them, not you, and trying to mend it from the outside is only going to result in failure and frustration. You have to look out for your own well-being first. I wish someone had told me that before my parents fell apart.

Very important advice. Charlie thanks her and expresses sympathy for her messy parental situation again, but she shrugs it off and moves past it. Instead she finds another cute ‘70s material button down in classic sky blue, enthusiastically lifting it up to measure against Charlie.

Riley: Pair a blazer with this, and you’d be all set to boogie. Makes your eyes pop too… ugh, you’re so pretty it’s disgusting.

Charlie: I thought we were shopping for you, not me. I’m not the one who gets to disco.

Riley: Well, that’s not necessarily true. The fundraiser is open to everyone -- that’s the only way we’re going to make any profit, after all. And you know you’d be more than welcome.

Charlie: Yeah, maybe… with showdown so close and everything…

Riley: Charlie. [ holding his gaze ] You’re family. Forget showdown, forget east and west side. As long as I’m around, you fit. And I know for sure I’m not the only one who feels that way. Got it? Can you dig it?

Charlie, grateful: I can dig it.

Riley: Righteous. I’m serious though, what you should dig is this shirt.

As Riley shifts back to searching for her own look, they jump to chatting about college applications. Charlie asks how hers are going after she explains Lucas’s poorly concealed stress about them, and she claims they’re going fine.

Riley: I’m a pretty textbook candidate, all things considered, and my poor tragic backstory of being bullied out of school and divorced parents sure makes for great personal essay fodder.

Charlie: Kind of weird how they teach us to exploit our own trauma…

Riley: I’m definitely applying to Barnard, and I’ve decided I’m going to throw my hat in the ring for Tisch even though it’s basically the longest shot there is. Add in a handful of second choice picks and you get the idea. But honestly, I’m not all that pressed about it right now. I feel like it’s going to be way harder when acceptances and rejections come through and it’s all… real. I can throw any application out there I want and I don’t have to do anything about it. When I actually know what my options are… then it’ll be real. You know? When I actually have to decide what path I want to take. Because right now, I feel like I have no idea what I want that to be.

Charlie nods, agreeing wholeheartedly. He definitely knows the feeling of not having any idea what he wants the future to be… as the low hum of an unfamiliar instrument floats in…

INT. AAA - BLACK BOX THEATER - DAY

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Amazing Grace” as performed by The Military Band of the Royal Scots Dragoon Guards || Performed by Dave Williams

In what is probably the weirdest performance AMBITION has seen to date, Dave stands alone in front of the classroom and goes to town on the bagpipes. Yes, apparently, Dave Williams can play the bagpipes (though whether he plays them well is a whole other story). And he gives it his all on this immensely famous tune, bewildering his peers and rendering them speechless.

That being said, while they can’t find any words, that doesn’t stop the A class from reacting. The expressions range from confused to stunned to struggling to keep it together. Maya stares in disbelief and then scrunches her face, looking around to see if anyone else is seeing this. Zay and Nigel are on the verge of tears from stifling their laughter; Yogi is misty-eyed from sheer emotion at his best friend’s… powerful performance. Nate mouths trying to sing along to the screechy tones with an absolutely delighted grin, while Dylan emulates the patriotic vibe by standing and giving a salute. Asher shakes his head from next to him, also hiding laughter behind his hand.

When Dave finally concludes, releasing a big exhale, the room is filled with silence for a long moment. Yogi starts the applause that the others uncertainly mimic, until Isadora finally, bluntly breaks the silence.

Isadora: Okay, I’m just going to say it -- what the hell, Dave?

Dave: What? Is something wrong?

Sarah: Where the hell did this come from? Are you seriously damaged?

Yindra: Forget that. I’m dying to know when you learned to play the bagpipes. And why have you deprived us of it for so long?

Farkle: The assignment is ‘70s music. How did you end up on “Amazing Grace?”

Dave, baffled: I don’t get what the big deal is. I found the song on a ‘70s playlist on Spotify, I can show you. And I looked it up -- the fig Newton dude wrote the song in 1779.

Clarissa: Fig newton --

Zay: [ at his wits end trying not to laugh ] I can’t. I can’t --

Dave: 1779! So it’s from the ‘70s.

All, in unison: 1970s, Dave!

Dave: … WHAT?!

The class descends into hysterics. Harper attempts to thank Dave for an… interesting performance, if nothing else.

Harley: I found it quite spirited. Very much enjoyed.

Dave huffs, marching back to his desk. He drops his bagpipes on the desktop --

EXT. AAA - REAR PARKING LOT - DAY

Which becomes a soapy sponge landing with a splat on the hood of a car, Haley working to scrub it clean. A few more quick shots help establish the setting -- Jeff and Darby untangling hoses; Riley and Chai filling up buckets of water; Asher ringing out a washcloth as far away from his body as he can stretch it, mildly disgusted.

Yes, Maya’s new fundraising scheme is in full swing -- a car wash! Cars are lining up for the A class to give a shining clean-up. Considering they threw the concept together in just a couple of days, it’s really not a shabby showing. Maya is praising her own quick thinking by the pay table, where they’re also selling baked goods. Zay is manning the cash box, since he can’t do much else.

Maya: I swear, sometimes my own mind amazes me. Never lets me down. And you can’t go wrong with a good old-fashioned classic.

Zay: Yeah, except car washes are usually in the summer. Not the dregs of autumn when we’re all going to get hypothermia.

Maya: It’s actually unseasonably warm today. And that’s the brilliance of it. Who else is doing a car wash in this weather economy? No competition, big bucks.

At least the weather is nice. With them out in their cotton shorts and tees to do all this work, Zay’s right to have reservations. But the sun is out, and the income has been steady thus far. Nate finishes off drying a car with Dylan, who has his hair pushed back with a tie-dye bandana.

Nate: You know, we should all just wet our shirts. That will get the girls and gays to come running.

Maya: [ into her bullhorn ] Don’t accelerate the hypothermia, Martinez. Keep it classy.

Nate: You’re turning down a million-dollar idea!

Maya waves him off, gesturing that he get back to work. And they all put it together real fast when another customer pulls up at the end of the line, EVELYN RAND emerging from her nice SUV and coming over to greet them. She commends them for their efficient set up.

Maya: That’s all thanks to me, Maya Penelope Hart. Vice President and overall go-getter. I’m the one that makes things happen.

Evelyn: And modest as they come, too.

Evelyn happily accepts Maya’s handshake, but she tosses a wink to Zay and Clarissa working the bake sale table. She claims she’s eager to help the cause, and she’s sure they’ll do an excellent job with her car. While she waits, she’s hoping to have a brief chat with Jack, so can she just leave her keys with them? She trusts them to move her vehicle twenty feet when it’s her turn.

Maya: Of course. We here in the A class pride ourselves on our care and attention. Your vehicle is safe with us.

Zay snorts, turning it into a cough. Evelyn hands over her keys pleasantly, waving to the rest of the kids working as she heads into the building. Maya spins the key ring on her finger for a moment, contemplating.

Maya: Can’t afford to screw this up. Gonna need someone extremely anal and annoyingly cautious to handle this one. [ into the bullhorn ] Garcia! Get your persnickety nonexistent ass over here!

Nigel arrives at that moment with a takeout bag in his hands. He tries to weave through the cars and avoid drill sergeant Maya as he heads towards the back entrance to the school, but unfortunately he’s not slick enough.

Maya: Chey! What do you think you’re doing? Cars are over here.

Nigel: Oh. Yes. Well, Jade’s holed up in the costume loft with all the projects she’s finishing…

Maya, unmoved: Uh huh.

Nigel: And I know she isn’t great about eating when she’s under this much stress, so I brought her some food to eat while she works. And I thought I’d go… give it to her… [ quickly ] okay, check you later.

He turns and speeds towards the entrance, making his swift escape. Riley saunters over to join them at the cash table, tilting her head fondly.

Riley: That’s so sweet.

Maya: Meh. A convenient excuse.

Zay: And how are you one to talk, Maya? You realize standing around shouting orders at everyone isn’t work.

Riley: Come on, Madam Vice President. Time to put in a little elbow grease.

Zay raises his eyebrows, accenting Riley’s challenge. Pride in jeopardy, Maya sniffs and relinquishes her bullhorn, placing it on the table. She spins and flips her ponytail over her shoulder, marching over to contribute to the cause. Riley and Zay exchange amused looks, while the boombox blasting the iconic opening hand claps takes over the soundscape...

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Car Wash” as performed by Rose Royce || Performed by Maya Hart (feat. AAA Seniors)

You all knew it was coming. The moment we started scrubbing those fenders, you should’ve seen it coming. Maya leads the A class in a funky rendition of the disco classic, swaying her hips and swinging her ponytail as they put in the hard work (though, somehow, Maya still manages to avoid most of the heavy lifting). She handles most of the verses, though Yindra also takes some of the spotlight with vocal runs. Nate perfects his slutdrop as he cleans tires.

In the midst of the grooving, the business is bumping. Interspersed amongst the performing we see Clarissa and Dylan charming patrons at the bake sale table, money changing hands, and Zay dutifully keeping track of everything as he mans the pay station.

On the last chorus, Maya has made her way onto a roof of one of the cars, Yindra, Haley, and Darby emulating her on the other cars they’re working on. The A class does some rad synced choreography to take the number home, Maya sliding down the front windshield and kicking up her leg before Farkle makes the finishing swipe of a washcloth across the hood.

Car wash! Zay deposits another payment into the cashbox, snapping it closed with a flourish.

Evelyn’s car is now closer to the front of the pack, and more business is still coming. Charlie makes his way over from the parking lot, waving to Riley as he makes his way over to the tables. Clarissa and Dylan greet him cheerfully, Riley and Maya jogging over from the line of cars. Zay doesn’t say anything, but offers a hesitant smile, which is better than nothing. Charlie mirrors it.

Clarissa comes out from behind the table to give him a hug, but warns him not to let Haley see him -- she’s soaked and will probably get him all damp. Charlie claims he didn’t plan to stay long, he just wanted to come by and see how things were going, as well drop off some baked goods they could sell that he and his sisters made. Dylan takes them happily. Maya asks where his car is and what kind of wash he wants, which Charlie awkwardly laughs off.

Charlie: I wouldn’t make you guys do that. But I can make a contribution --

Maya: Please, what do you think this is, a pity party? We don’t accept charity.

Zay: Yes we do.

Clarissa: We’ll take all the charity you’ve got.

Maya: This is a business, and we provide a service. So put your boring little sedan in line and turn your patronization into profit.

Riley: Maya, if he doesn’t want --

Charlie: You know what? Okay. [ raising his hands in surrender ] I’ll take whatever the easiest job is. Meet in the middle.

Fair enough. Maya relents, going back to shouting orders at others. Zay shows Charlie what their pricing options are, and though Charlie is going for the cheapest one, he overpays anyway.

Charlie: What Maya doesn’t know won’t hurt her.

Zay: Yeah, and it’ll probably save us.

They exchange something close to a conspiratorial wink. Riley senses that they’re actually communicating without imminent disaster, so she comes over to join them. Charlie asks how business is going -- it seems to be moving pretty swiftly. Riley is optimistic, claiming that between this and the dance -- which is garnering a lot of buzz on social media -- they may just cover their expenses yet. At mention of the dance, Riley makes a quip about how Charlie should’ve bought that shirt at the thrift shop to wear, which catches Zay’s attention.

Zay: You’re coming?

Charlie: Oh, no. No, I wasn’t, um… I hadn’t really thought about it.

Zay: Oh.

Charlie, shyly: … would it be okay if I did?

Zay meets his eyes, uncharacteristically timid. He doesn’t know what to say, because he honestly doesn’t know how he feels about the possibility. Things aren’t as tense as they were before, and they’ve managed to break some of the ice that’s frozen them in place, but it’s far from thawed. He doesn’t know if he wants it to be or not. It’s all confusing, and being put on the spot proves just how much.

He’s spared from answering when Isadora pipes up from the curb.

Isadora: Oh, fuck no.

Charlie jumps, turning to search for the problem. Zay leans around him to look too. The issue is not hard to identify.

The Haverford boys. A whole bunch of them, rolling up in their classy cars, totally filling up the back end of the car wash line. Billy honks obnoxiously in his, waving to the washers working further down the row.

Brandon hops out of his car, the rest of the boys following suit. He leads the saunter over to the tables, where Maya, Farkle, and Isadora rush to head them off. Charlie stares as they approach, obviously mortified that they’re here; Zay frowns, glancing at him suspiciously.

Maya: What the hell do you think you’re doing? You’re blocking the line.

Dweezil: Blocking? Is that any way to speak to a customer?

Isadora: One we’re about to kick the hell out, yeah.

The congregation bristles, but Brandon holds up his hands -- both out of innocence and to signal his crew to halt. He remains smooth and unbothered as ever, calmly stating that they’re simply here to support the cause.

Brandon: It’s the least we could do, showing up for the less fortunate. We want showdown to be a fair fight, don’t we?

Maya: Oh, if that’s what you’re looking for, we can give you a fight.

[ Brandon raises his eyebrows, clearly amused by Maya’s sharp spunk. ]

Farkle: How did you all even hear about this?

Brandon: Why, I would think that’s obvious. Charles told us.

[ Many eyes throw to Charlie at once. He swallows, dipping his head. ]

Brandon: Well, technically, he told Evan, but I don’t see why he didn’t just share it with the boys. Evan was more than happy to pass the message along, though, and we all thought it was just a swell idea. Quaint, really.

Billy: Yeah, where’s the lemonade stand? You should jump on that hot market next.

But belittlement aside, they really are here to get their cars washed. That’s all. The A class can take it or leave it, but if they choose to turn away willing customers then that’s their prerogative.

Well… business is business. Maya forces a smile, keeping her diva daggers locked on Brandon as she instructs Isadora and Farkle to go start filling the buckets. Brandon holds her glare, evenly matched with his cool, subtle smirk.

INT. AAA - JACK’S OFFICE - DAY

Jack is enjoying a catch-up with Angela over coffee, in generally good spirits all things considered. As he says, it’s nice to take a moment to forget all of the stress and just chat with a good friend. Angela is touched, placing her hand on her chest. She claims if her visit will be good for anything then, that’s a great reason.

The two of them get on the topic of her pregnancy, and how she’s feeling about impending motherhood. She confides that Shawn is way more nervous about it than she is, but ultimately she feels okay about it. Pregnancy isn’t the most fun experience in the world, but she has always thought that a family would be part of her future. Considering she’s not getting any younger, it feels like the right time.

She asks if Jack ever thought about having kids, and he grows a bit more somber. It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it… and to be honest, he figured if he did he’d beat Shawn to it, but clearly that wasn’t in his cards. And now here he is, coming off a failed serious relationship, already in his 40s…

Angela: It’s never too late, Jack. If it’s something you really want. I mean, hell, look at Eric! He skipped all the hard stuff, too.

Jack: I guess that is one way to look at Isadora’s tragic loss…

Angela: I’m just saying, never say never. You’re a great mentor, responsible and fair, and you care. You care a lot. If you chose to try, whether by yourself or with a partner, I think you’d be a great dad.

Maybe… it all just feels so out of the realm of possibility. Besides, he argues, he basically has 200 kids at any given time to take care of. It’s not the same, no, but he watches out for the Adams students as seriously as he would his own. And you know, sometimes…

Jack: Every once in a while, it kind of feels like they are.

It’s not hard to guess who he’s thinking about. Angela starts to question him further, thinking this is probably a meaningful discussion to have, but they’re interrupted by Evelyn knocking briskly on the door. She greets both of them cheerfully.

Evelyn: So nice to see you again, Angela! I do hope I’m not intruding on anything important -- I meant to come sooner, but I got caught up in a riveting chat with Mister Keiner. 

Jack: No, of course not.

Angela: In fact, I was just getting ready to head out, so I will get out of your hair.

Jack: I just wasn’t expecting you.

Evelyn: No need to rush, Angela. [ to Jack ] I’m just here to participate in that splendid car wash you’ve got out back. They’ve got a great little operation going, I have to say. And that Maya Hart -- talk about a firecracker.

Jack: Trust us, we’re quite familiar with her spark.

Angela bids both of them goodbye, promising Jack she’ll see him later. Once they’re alone, Evelyn commends Jack on inspiring his students to find creative ways to fund their financial endeavors. Especially given how their original proposal for the scholarships was voted down at the school board. In her opinion, she was hoping they’d at least contribute a portion -- she thought it was a nifty idea.

Jack: Yes, they weren’t thrilled to hear the decision either.

Evelyn: It’s disappointing, although hardly surprising considering the way Jefferson campaigned behind closed doors. He’s got a fairly influential stake in the voting bloc, unfortunately.

Jack: What? What do you mean?

Evelyn: Oh, Jack, I thought you already knew. It was an extremely close vote on the board to provide funding, but Jefferson tipped the scales against it. He and Yancy basically talked it down for days with colleagues before the actual tally.

Um, no, Jack did not know about that, and it obviously pisses him off. He’s speechless, trying to process the blatant partisan maneuvers being played against them within the inner workings of the board. Especially from someone who is now working within the walls of AAA. He knew Yancy didn’t like him, but this…

EXT. AAA - REAR PARKING LOT - DAY

The Haverford boys are loitering while they wait for the A class to finish cleaning their cars, showing how completely unbothered they are to hang around and watch their competitors sweat. Charlie is also hovering to nervously keep an eye on things, staying with Clarissa at the baked goods table and nibbling on a sugar cookie.

From where he’s scrubbing Dweezil’s windshield dry, Nate glares at them derisively.

Nate: Rich pricks. I should smash this damn window…

Yogi: Easy, bulldog.

Dave: Just smile and wash, boys. Smile and wash.

Thankfully, they’re efficient, and it doesn’t take them long to grit their teeth through the work. Maya slaps her washcloth against Brandon’s hood, declaring it finished, then marches her way back over to where he’s slouched against a lamp pole near the pay table.

Maya: Alright, knock-off Warblers, your cars are done.

Evan: Warblers?

Dweezil: From Glee.

Billy: Ha! She thinks we watched Glee.

Bottom line is, their business here is done, so they can roll their asses out. Maya essentially shoos them, but Zay pipes up from the pay table.

Zay: Um, they can’t go yet. They’ve still got a tab to settle.

Maya: They didn’t pay upfront?

Billy: Well, couldn’t very well do that. Why would we pay you before we get any proof that you’re going to do a good job? It’s simply smart shopping.

Clarissa: Well, the job is done now. So you can pay up.

Brandon: Ooh… see, I think there might’ve been a misunderstanding here.

Charlie tenses, sensing impending doom. He steps out from behind the table in case he needs to mediate, just as Isadora and Farkle march back over with their buckets and rags to see what the hold up is. They’ve got other potential customers waiting.

Brandon: Another smart business practice is to agree on the terms and conditions before you make a deal. Now, we always knew our payment was going to be contingent on the quality of the work. Sure, Babineaux here laid out the pricing for us, but we didn’t get anything in writing. You didn’t get our John Hancocks signing off on it.

Zay: You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.

Charlie, nervously: Come on, guys --

Maya: So you mean to tell me that we just spent the better part of an hour scrubbing your ungrateful little shits until they shined, and blocking other well-intentioned customers from coming in the meantime, only for you to stiff us at checkout?

Dweezil: At least we made you look busy.

Billy: Yeah, consider it practice. We know you could use all of that you can get.

Brandon: [ with a shrug ] Should’ve gotten it in writing.

Isadora: Yeah? Well how about you fucking get this --

She and Farkle snap first, lifting their buckets and sloshing them directly at Brandon. It catches him off-guard, totally dousing him in sudsy water.

Charlie: Oh no.

Riley, from the curb: Oh no.

Billy: Oh, hell no!

Hit the queen bee, feel the sting of the workers! The Havies immediately fire back, grabbing whatever they can get their hands on -- hoses, abandoned buckets -- and lobbing it back at Isadora and Farkle.

And with that, it’s a full-on brawl. Water and soap flying in every direction, the other Havies and Adams seniors launching into the battle without hesitation. Maya shrieks as she’s soaked, shouting for her classmates to take the Havies out. Zay salvages the cash box and dives under the table, taking cover.

INT. AAA - JACK’S OFFICE - DAY

Jack is still searching for what to say in response to the bombshell information Evelyn dropped, but Harley leaps in the doorway and gets both their attention.

Harley: Major problem at the car wash. It’s completely devolved.

Jack exchanges a quick look with Evelyn, then jumps up from his chair.

EXT. AAA - REAR PARKING LOT - DAY

Jack and Harley emerge as the water fight is in full swing, and basically everyone is dripping in soap water. Jack takes control and marches into the fray, stepping into authoritarian mode and demanding that all of the nonsense cease. The Adams students drop their weapons immediately, not daring to get even a drop on their principal.

Though he doesn’t command the same respect with the Haverford boys, they don’t push it any further. They got what they came for, managing to derail the car wash and pull a fast one on the A class. They cackle with laughter as they sprint back to their cars, piling inside in record time and peeling out of the parking lot.

Brandon’s car is one of the last to leave, catching the eye of Maya, Zay, and Charlie through the passenger window. He smirks and tosses a wink in their direction, but it’s impossible to say who it was meant for. Maybe all of them.

None of them look especially pleased either way. Maya shoots a death glare at Charlie, even though he arguably got the worst of it, completely drenched from head to toe. If he was in on the whole thing, he looks pretty miserable about it.

Break 1.

INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT - ISADORA’S BEDROOM - DAY

Now in fresh, comfy clothes and bare faces, Riley, Isadora and Maya lounge around in Isa’s bedroom. Maya’s hair is up in a towel wrap, while Riley’s is down and in the process of drying, and Isadora’s is pulled back into a messy bun. Isadora is also wearing her glasses rather than usual contacts. With a stretch, Maya hops from the bed.

Maya: I never want to work like that ever again. I’m exhausted, in pain, and starving. Is this Hell?

Riley: You truly weren’t built for working class, were you?

Tell her about it! Maya disappears to raid Eric’s fridge, leaving Riley and Isadora free from her complaints. Isadora uses the opportunity to pick Riley’s brain. 

Isadora: What do you think our chances are in the showdown? Full disclosure. 

Riley: Full disclosure? Not great. [ with a sigh ] But we could still pull through. If we work hard enough, and come together to --

Isadora: I don’t need the full spiel, but thanks. I know how stressed Lucas and Maya are about it, and I’m considering -- considering is the key word here -- offering to perform. You know, if it would help.

Riley’s face lights up, but upon seeing Isadora’s level glare, tries to suppress her smile. She fails. 

Isadora: Don’t look at me. Forget I said anything. 

Riley: Aw, come on. I’m happy you’re thinking about it yourself instead of, like, being peer pressured by Maya or something. 

Isadora: She’s very nearly at her breaking point, I can tell. Every day her will to just let me be is deteriorating bit by bit. 

Riley: I think… not to get too Uncle Eric here, but I feel like because you keep thinking of performing as doing it in front of an audience, like being judged, it’s holding you back. You should just do it for the joy of it. Why were you drawn to performing in the first place? 

Isadora, reluctantly: … because it was fun...

Riley: Exactly! Because it’s fun. You have to have fun with it.

In fact… Riley brightens with an idea, reaching for her phone and searching for a song.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Lady Marmalade” as performed by LaBelle || Performed by Riley Matthews, Maya Hart & Isadora De La Cruz

[ Lyrics specific to characters -- follow along here! ]

As the bass and keys begin, Riley stands up on Isadora’s bed, pulling her up with her. Riley sings the initial “hey sister, go sister” to Isadora, who stands awkwardly in the middle of the bed, not looking all that impressed.

In the first verse, Maya walks into the room with her haul from the kitchen. Her mouth opens when she sees Riley singing. 

Maya: Are we doing this? Okay, we’re doing this.

She drops the snacks without a care, jumping onto the bed to join Riley -- just in time for the chorus. They move around Isadora as they belt out iconic vocals, trying to get her in the groove.

Maya takes on the second verse with Riley on the backing vocals. Although Isadora tries to remain stoic, she can’t help but begin to vibe with them. By the end of the next chorus, she’s singing along, too. In French, no less! But maybe let’s not look up the lyric translation…

In the instrumental break, the three girls get down from the bed and strut forwards towards the door. They pass through it one at a time, puffs of makeup and glitter blowing around them in slow-mo as they do.

INT. AAA - LECTURE HALL - DAY

This time, the temporary performance space is the lecture hall, which is an inspired choice since it actually has a pseudo-stage and lighting capabilities.

When they emerge onto the small stage, they’re in full glam. Hair glossy, makeup glowing, and outfits iconique. They each wear a skintight jumpsuit along with oversized faux fur coats. Riley’s getup is a white jumpsuit and yellow coat, Isadora’s is a blue jumpsuit and pink coat, and Maya’s is a pink jumpsuit and white coat. They strut to the front of the stage, spotlights on them.

Isadora takes charge of the next verse, confidently singing and dancing with her friends by her side. Riley and Maya come in towards the end, before all three complete the rest of the song together. It’s glamorous, it’s sultry, it’s powerful. Foxy, ladies!

We fade out of the performance to see the rest of the class and Harper as they applaud. Although the girls don’t look quite as glam out of the performance-dreamscape, they look just as badass. Lucas and Farkle in particular seem stunned by the performance.

INT. AAA - TECHNICIAN’S BOOTH - DAY

Zay hands over the cash box from the car wash to Lucas.

Zay: Despite the carnage, the most important thing survived.

And, in spite of the disastrous end, it seems like they made good for their work. They raked in a pretty penny for all the scrubbing and washing -- it’s far from all that they need, but it should make a sizable dent in the auditorium accident debt. And that’s not nothing.

Lucas thanks Zay for his help and for watching the money, getting up to put it in a safe place in the booth. He claims he can’t do it until Zay leaves, though, since there are certain things only he should know about the booth. Zay rolls his eyes but obliges, throwing in an offhand comment about how weird he is before slowly making his way out.

As he’s heading down the steps, he passes by Missy, who is casually making her way up into the booth. Like she goes up there all the time, like it’s no big deal. She even greets Zay as they pass, which he uncertainly returns. He frowns at her over his shoulder as she heads on up, obviously confused by her presence.

As confidently as she enters, Lucas evidently wasn’t expecting her either. He jumps when she addresses him, moving away from wherever he stashed the car wash cash. When he realizes it’s her, his posture grows even more defensive.

Lucas: What are you doing in here?

Missy: Only what anyone would deem visiting this musty space worthy for. I’m looking for you.

Lucas: I don’t know if you missed the memo, but people don’t waltz in here whenever they want. No matter how privileged they are.

Missy laughs, allowing him the dig. Following their increasingly common rapport, back-and-forth that straddles the line between friendly fire and hostility depending on your lens. She maintains innocence as she waits for him to settle back in his usual chair, claiming she only wanted to discuss the current A class financial crisis.

Missy: I heard your little car wash wasn’t half-bad. Congratulations are in order. Though I don’t believe I heard much about you out there breaking a sweat to wash those vehicles...

Lucas: You can congratulate the rest of the class when you see them.

Missy: Shame. I’d think if we put you out there front and center, you might’ve garnered a greater profit.

Lucas: Please.

Missy: You shouldn’t undersell yourself, Lucas. It worked for Chubbies, did it not?

If her increased patronage is any indication, then technically, yes. But Lucas doesn’t seem keen to acknowledge that. She moves closer and hops onto the lighting booth table, crossing her glossy legs where they are in perfectly accessible view. In a place where Riley often sits. It just feels wrong. Lucas averts his gaze, looking down at the soundboard instead.

Missy: Anyway, as cute as the fundraising effort is, I don’t exactly see the point.

Lucas: Well, for those of us not in the 1%, there’s this annoying everyday thing we have to do called “acquiring money.” I’m sure that’s probably confusing for you --

Missy: I meant for Adams. Or for the A class, more specifically. I don’t see why you all should be out there sweating through manual labor… when you could just ask me for the money.

Oh. Well that’s… an interesting proposition. Lucas is surprised she’s even offering it, enough to lift his head again to meet her eyes.

Lucas: … it’s hundreds of dollars…

Missy, coolly: Drop in the bucket. [ looking him over ] Surely you would know that by now.

Lucas hesitates, contemplating. Missy observes him, watching for the chinks in his armor. Those rare moments when he’s not as aloof and disdainful as their banter leads her to believe.

Lucas: I don’t see why you would help when it does nothing to benefit you.

Missy: Isn’t helping the class helping me in the end? [ off his skeptical eyebrow raise ] And oh, they’ll find a way to pay us back somehow. Every debt gets paid eventually. Name on an auditorium seat, plaque outside the lecture hall. That’s the charity solution to everything, slapping your name on something. I’m sure daddy would love to have the Bradford name in gold somewhere in this heap considering the chilly reception Hunter gave us when all this started.

Missy found about a dozen unintentional trigger words to throw in that sentence to change Lucas’s tune. Whether the most credit can be given to the word “charity,” or invoking Jack in a negative light is debatable, but Lucas is suddenly even stonier than before. He clenches his jaw.

Missy, softer: It’s not like you haven’t already accepted donations from the Bradford fortune… and that’s lightened the load, hasn’t it? Nothing wrong with that. [ a beat ] And you and me… I wouldn’t call us friends, but we certainly have… our own thing here. Don’t we? We… mean something. To one another.

Lucas drops his gaze again, cornered. The very insinuation that they have a relationship in any capacity makes him uncomfortable… but then, it’s not wrong, is it? If he’s willingly taking her money, knowingly, then that does symbolize some sort of association. He can’t in good conscience deny it, not when her money is a big chunk of the reason his future is even possible. And she could take all the pressure off them, off him, in an instant… no more fundraising… no more sweating over showdown… scholarships guaranteed…

But his instincts are stronger than that. It’s too good to be true. Everything comes with a cost, and while he might be willing to risk that here and there for his own feeble endeavors, he’s not going to tie his legacy and the rest of the class to it. He returns her eye contact, resolute.

Lucas: If your family wants to donate to the cause, then by all means do. But I’m not asking you for anything. I don’t beg.

Well said and well meant! For what it’s worth, Missy doesn’t seem put off by the rejection. If anything, she seems impressed by his stubborn resistance, even if she knows damn well it’s full of contradictions. Impressed, and definitely stirred by that same fire that captivated her the first time they met during the school board trial. The tension in the air makes that loud and clear.

Missy: No, no you don’t, do you. All part of your… provocative charm.

Message received, it appears… some message, at least… Missy slips off the table and begins to make her exit, assuring Lucas that she understands his perspective. Some things are better kept quiet, and she gets his need to maintain appearances -- and his pride.

Missy: It’s our little secret. And I get where we stand. [ with a smirk ] I think we understand each other better than one might assume.

The mere notion makes Lucas a bit queasy, but he keeps his mouth shut. Missy bids him adieu and disappears down the steps, wishing the Slumdog President the best of luck with his continuing financial campaigning.

Even once she’s gone, Lucas can’t shake off the discomfort of her presence. He has to get up, walk it off, gathering his things and fleeing from the space -- one of the few he’s never felt the need to escape from before.

EXT. HAVERFORD PREP - COURTYARD - DAY

Charlie is having lunch with BRIDGETTE GARDNER, occupying their typical table in the grassy outdoor space. She listens attentively as he catches her up on all of the stuff with their sisters, Charlie clearly seeking counsel from the one person who has been on the other side of this potential falling out. Does she think he should be worried, based on her own experience?

Bridgette: And you haven’t seen any of this for yourself?

Charlie: No, at least not yet. But I don’t think that means much -- I had no idea most of this stuff was going on with you until it was already way too late. When I first saw you having arguments with mom, it was volcano level.

Bridgette: To be fair, you were what, 14? Even younger than that when it all started. But true. Our family is really good at concealing the ugly, and then pretending it doesn’t exist when the moment has passed.

Charlie: And this is coming from Daisy. You know she wouldn’t make things up just for the hell of it.

Bridgette: Also true. She sure is an unaffected little freak. [ a beat ] I say that with love. Every Gardner has to be fucked up one way or another.

Still, with so little firsthand information, it’s hard to say. She doesn’t think Charlie should tie himself in knots trying to problem-solve something he can’t see, but…

Bridgette: Look out for Rosie if you can. You know, keep an eye out. If history is going to repeat itself, and she’s following in my forsaken footsteps… I don’t want her to go through that. She shouldn’t have to go through what I went through. Not that I’m not fine now --

Charlie: Right.

Bridgette: But she’s not tough like I am. And I mean that in the best way possible. Rosie… she’s sensitive. Sweet. Her heart is right there on her sleeve, even if she tries to act like she’s all grit. [ softly ] Reminds me of another sibling I’ve got.

Charlie smiles, but underneath the kind words she’s confirming his concerns. If the stormy energy around Rosie does whip up into a hurricane, then it’s looking more and more likely to be an unavoidable disaster. History may just repeat itself -- and more brutally than before.

INT. AAA - COSTUME LOFT - DAY

Rosie isn’t the only one in a tempestuous mood. Jade is in full-on crunch mode as her deadlines loom ever closer, and even though she’s been basically holed up in the costume loft at all hours she still feels miles from the finish line. She’s skipping lunch to wrap up a couple of last-minute additions to another piece of her portfolio, using Asher as her mannequin. Currently, he’s sporting a rather fancy, outlandishly patterned and bold blouse over his maroon polo. It looks like it could be a ‘70s dance shirt, or the wardrobe of a funky, flamboyant villain, or perhaps an especially stylish swashbuckling pirate… but it’s a Jade Beamon original, so it looks fantastic.

If only the job of mannequin was as fun as the clothes he’s modeling. Asher is gritting his teeth so hard they might crack, cringing every time Jade threads her needle through a piece of it or sticks a pin somewhere. She’s an expert, a professional, but given her stress level she’s missed the mark more than once the last couple of days.

Jade, snapping: If you didn’t wince every two seconds like a little baby, then maybe I would stick you less.

Asher: [ through his teeth ] The two dozen pin prick battle scars I have beg to differ!

Nigel picks that moment to enter, catching the tail-end of their sharp exchange and clocking the vibes immediately. He hesitates by the door, not sure whether he should come in and interrupt anymore or not, but Jade spots him before he can duck out. She immediately loses some of her unpleasantness, straightening up and clearing her throat.

Jade: Nigel.

Nigel: Um… hello. [ holding up lunch ] I know you’re working through lunch again, so I just thought I’d bring something by.

Jade: Oh, that’s… that’s nice. You don’t have to keep doing that.

Nigel: It’s all good. I like being able to help. It’s the least I could do, make sure you eat.

Asher: Someone should.

Jade: I’m still holding pins, Asher…

As if that wasn’t signal enough, Nigel bravely ventures the question of how costuming is going this afternoon. Jade claims it’s all fine, and Asher repeats her comment in a tone that makes it very clear he doesn’t agree. Sensing that the best friends might benefit from a break from one another, Nigel offers to hang around and be her stand-in for a while.

Jade: Really?

Asher, hopeful: Really?

Nigel: Sure. All I have to do is stand there and look pretty, right? Think I can manage that. You know, if I clear the costumer’s standards, of course.

Jade: No, no you -- of course. Of course you do. You’re more than -- obviously, you’re up to standard. I mean, above. I, um…

Asher can’t help but laugh, but he hides it behind a fake sneeze. Jade shoots him a glare, then states it would be preferable actually for him to take Asher’s place for now. It seems like Bird Bones agrees, hopping down from the step stool and carefully removing the fanciful top.

Asher: It’s for the best anyway. I’m supposed to be helping Dylan proofread his college essays. I want to check mine one more time too -- Jade says reading them over seven times is more than enough, but pot meet kettle.

Nigel: A Dylan Orlando personal essay, huh? I’d pay to see that.

Asher: I’m sure he’d let you read it for no charge. One of the applications he’s filling out had the prompt to “describe a work of art from the last century that surprised, inspired, or challenged you and in what way,” so he wrote a whole thesis statement on why Taylor Swift’s album Lover is the most important contribution to art, culture, and society since the invention of music.

Nigel: Wow.

Jade: Of course he did.

Asher: I’ll be genuinely surprised if it’s not a video essay on his vlog in like four months. But you know what, no admissions officer can say he doesn’t have enthusiasm.

True that! Asher makes his grateful exit, handing the piece over to Nigel and wishing him luck. Jade giggles nervously once they’re alone, Nigel smiling and asking if he should just put the shirt on and stand where Asher was. She confirms, avoiding her gaze by digging through her sewing kit until he’s all set and ready to be pinned and needled.

Nigel: I hope I’m doing your work justice.

Jade: You, um… it’s good. You’re good. Ha ha.

She nervously pushes some hair behind her ear, then steps closer to get back to work. If anything can overpower shyness, it’s the stress of an impending deadline upon which your entire future rests. Jade softly explains to Nigel what she’s doing as she does it, since he’s never been her model before, and reassures her that he’s not worried and she can do whatever.

Nigel: I trust you, Jade. You are the expert, after all.

Jade glances up at him, processing the compliment. The declaration of trust. The fact that they’re standing so close, that if he just stepped down off the stool they’d be close enough to… it’s a lot. Sophomore year Jade would probably have ran and hid by now, if not passed out.

But this is the present, and Jade has work to do. So she swallows her butterflies and focuses on her needlework.

Quiet settles over them for a minute, then Nigel speaks again, barely above a whisper.

Nigel: You’re incredible, you know that?

Jade: Huh?

Caught by surprise, Jade’s hand slips… and accidentally sticks Nigel with the needle. He winces and she immediately launches into apologies, retracting her hands to drop the needle and asking if he’s okay. He promises he’s fine, keeping her from spiraling over it by taking her hand so she can’t drift any further away in retreat.

Nigel: Really, I’m good.

Jade: … so you were saying?

Nigel: Yeah. I just wanted you to know… I hope you know how amazing you are. I know you’re super stressed about all this and what these schools and programs are going to think of you, but they’d be insane to reject you.

Jade: I don’t know if I’d go that far.

Nigel: I would. I mean, you’ve made basically every costume we’ve worn for the last three years -- which I know everyone keeps throwing back at you -- and they’re fantastic. Not just because they look good, which they always do, but they’re durable. No matter how gorgeous they look, they can withstand a lot. When we finish a production, they’re worn in, but it’s still as if they’re freshly stitched. That’s impressive. Trust me, I’ve been in enough local Shakespeare productions to say so. One time a piece of my tunic fell off in the middle of the first act.

Jade laughs, charmed by the story and calmed enough by his gentle tone to actually breathe. Nigel smiles at her, fond.

Nigel: You’re reliable. That’s the best thing a person can be, in my opinion. And you’re talented to the extreme, hard-working, humble… I mean, is there anything you can’t do?

Jade: [ with a snort ] Socialize.

The word slips out, and Jade is instantly embarrassed by it. She hides her blush in digging to grab her needles again, going back to work as an excuse not to elaborate.

Nigel: Seriously? You’ve never struck me as without company. With the techies --

Jade: Oh, yeah, that’s the height of engagement. Just me and a bunch of emotionally inept teenage boys plus Dora, getting up to the same old shenanigans. Every girl’s dream. [ with a sigh ] Don’t get me wrong, I love them. Especially Asher, he’s my best friend. And I’m not saying I’m like, a recluse or anything, I have friends, I just… I don’t know. I don’t even know why I’m talking about this. Sorry.

Nigel: No worries. I don’t mind. But for what it’s worth, I don’t see you that way. Anyone would be lucky to have you as a friend. I know I am. [ a beat ] Or like, any kind of relationship…

Jade coughs, not prepared for that. She giggles compulsively again, frantically brushing off the thought as she focuses intently on pinning a piece of the fabric into place.

Jade: I haven’t… ha, I’m so busy, I… a relationship… I don’t have the time to even…

Though she can’t form a coherent sentence, Nigel gets the message. Not available right now. And he admittedly looks a bit disappointed, but he puts his acting credit to use and swiftly covers with another smile.

Nigel: Well, again. Anyone would be lucky. And in the meantime, I’m just happy to support you however I can. Even at risk of puncture wound.

Jade absorbs this, unable to hold back her shy smile. She murmurs a thank you, then hides by throwing all her attention to the task at hand.

But for Nigel, the only thing he can focus on is her. So incredible… and so close… as the easy bass line floats in…

INT. AAA - LECTURE HALL - DAY

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “How Deep Is Your Love” as performed by Bee Gees || Performed by Nigel Chey (feat. Dylan Orlando)

The lights are low and the set-up is simple, just Nigel on the stage with a microphone stand and sporting the finished product of one of Jade’s ‘70s costumes -- a glossy gold suit, styled like Saturday Night Fever, over a black silk shirt. He’s shimmering like a disco ball under the stage lights, reflecting the whimsical, dreamy quality of the number.

The only other person on the stage with him is Dylan, accompanying him on bass and providing back-up vocals. He’s dressed much simpler, dressed in black and wearing his custom-made Jade Beamon original suit jacket from junior prom. His hair is the ‘70s-ified element, swept up and combed back like John Travolta. While he happily lets Nigel hog the spotlight, he does take a moment in the performance to wink to Asher in the audience.

INT. AAA - COSTUME LOFT - DAY

Intercut with the performance, we check back in with Nigel and Jade in the loft, doing a metaphorical dance of their own around each other as Jade costumes. There’s something surprisingly amorous about the set-up when it’s paired with the ballad. Jade remains oblivious, studiously sewing away, but the romantic tension is more than apparent, in Nigel’s expression and the smooth delivery of his vocals as he looks at her.

And you may not think I care for you When you know down inside that I really do…

INT. AAA - LECTURE HALL - DAY

While she’s good at avoiding him while at work, Jade can’t keep her eyes off Nigel during the performance. Clarissa, Haley, and Asher cast knowing glances at her, but she doesn’t pay them any attention. In the back seats, Nate, Dave, and Jeff sway along to the beat playfully.

Cause we're living in a world of fools Breaking us down when they all should let us be

Ultimately, though, even if certain truths remain unsaid, what can’t be denied is an excellent performance. Nigel brings it home with grace, understated as always but, in this case, pretty swoonworthy.

We belong to you and me…

INT. BABINEAUX HOME - ZAY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Zay is on the phone with Riley, the latter walking him through all of the bulletins from that day’s showdown discussion. He listens eagerly, living vicariously, but it’s obvious he’s also frustrated that he’s being excluded. He reminds Riley that they can call on him at any time to brainstorm on choreography or reevaluate concepts, but she gently waves him off by insisting she doesn’t want to put any additional pressure on him.

Zay: Well, to be honest, not being consulted kind of makes me feel more --

Riley: Oh, shoot, Maya’s here. She’s supposed to be meeting with Farkle after his therapist appointment this evening, so I’m sure she just has a bunch of notes she wants to Maya-splain to me first.

Zay: If she wants to get on speaker, then she could --

Riley: I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? And I’ll let you know if anything major happens. Love you!

Zay: But Riley --

She hangs up before he can get a word in, even a goodbye. He sighs and drops his phone on his bed, pulling his laptop back towards him. He has his applications webpage open, where he’s painstakingly attempting to piece together the final elements of his portfolio. It’s not in bad shape, but with the glooming reality of his booted foot and inability to make anything more, it doesn’t feel like enough. It feels like being trapped.

He grabs his phone again, obviously wanting to talk to someone about it. But he can’t talk to Riley -- he knows she’s busy. He can’t talk to Yindra. He can’t talk to Maya -- and nor would he want to, thank you very much.

Charlie…

He could talk to Charlie. God, he wants to talk to Charlie. And they’ve opened up the lines of communication again, haven’t they? Couldn’t it be easy, like it was before? All he has to do is say something… but he doesn’t know what that would be. It’s still confusing and twisted up inside him. And whatever happened with Haverford at the car wash is admittedly suspicious, though it just doesn’t feel right to think Charlie would do something like that.

Confusing. Complicated. Stuck. He’s stuck, stuck, stuck.

INT. THERAPIST’S OFFICE - NIGHT

Farkle plops down onto Dr. Han’s couch, releasing a dramatic sigh and telling her there’s much to discuss (as there usually is). He starts to rattle off about the showdown drama because of Zay’s injury and how he and Isadora dumped water on their greatest rival at the moment, but Dr. Han carefully interrupts. She explains that there’s actually something she wants to open this appointment with, something that she thinks it’s important to start exploring as soon as possible. Farkle is confused but intrigued, sitting upright and gesturing for her to go on.

She turns to her notes, pulling out a couple of prepared informational sheets and taking on a gentler, more professional tone. She explains that after their last few meetings, she thought a lot about some of the patterns Farkle had been mentioning in his recovery. She decided to follow her hunch and do a little more research, and she thinks she’s landed on what might be the root after conferring with his primary care physician.

Dr. Han: It’s my belief that you show all the clear symptoms of bipolar disorder.

It’s like all the air gets sucked out of the room. Farkle freezes, staring at her, but words stop making sense. She continues to explain how common it is for it to be misdiagnosed as depression, how now they can focus on proper treatment for his actual affliction, how it’s just as manageable with the right approach, but it’s like she’s talking underwater. Everything feels hazy, static, like Farkle is suddenly a thousand miles away.

Farkle: No. No, I -- I can’t be.

Dr. Han: I understand that an unexpected diagnosis can be intimidating. And bipolar disorder, like most mental conditions, is shrouded in a lot of misrepresentation and stigma. But with the right perspective --

Farkle: I’m not. I can’t… I have to go.

Farkle blankly gets to his feet, suddenly certain he has to get out of there. It’s like he’s underwater now too, like he can’t breathe. Dr. Han warns that he’s likely just having a strong reaction to the news, anxiety, but she assures him that the diagnosis does not change anything about him or his prospects. If anything, it will improve things, because now they can confront his reality with the right tools. And it will be safest for him to just relax here and process it during their session.

But no, Farkle can’t stay. He numbly repeats that he has to go, ignoring Dr. Han’s disagreement and stepping out of the office.

INT. THERAPIST’S BUILDING - HALLWAY - NIGHT

Farkle doesn’t stop until he’s fully out of her space, back in the endless office sprawl of a building like this. He waits a moment, dreading Dr. Han chasing after him and dragging him back in there, but she doesn’t come. He collapses back against the door, releasing a shaky exhale and screwing his eyes shut.

Bipolar. He’s bipolar.

A gentle piano begins to play, an iconic familiar riff while we stay close on Farkle’s face.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “All By Myself” as performed by Eric Carmen || Performed by Farkle Minkus & Zay Babineaux

Farkle takes the first lines of this legendary ode to isolation, singing them softly as the camera slowly eases away from him. The further away we pull, the more his sense of smallness grows, dwarfed by the hallway that seems to stretch on forever.

When I was young, I never needed anyone… those days are gone…

INT. BABINEAUX HOME - ZAY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Zay pushes off his mattress and rises to his feet, going a bit too fast at first out of habit and nearly stumbling on his bad ankle. He cringes, falling back on the edge of the bed to right himself. He huffs and hides his head in his hands, easing into the next lines.

Living alone, I think of all the friends I’ve known But when I dial the telephone, nobody’s home…

EXT. THERAPIST’S BUILDING - NIGHT

Farkle emerges onto the steps of the building in the financial district just in time to launch into the chorus. He carries on singing as he begins to make his way home, weaving through the streets and other passersby as if he’s invisible. Although he’s clearly emotional, it’s evident the information hit him hard, because he’s not at all at his usual level of verve.

INT. BABINEAUX HOME - ZAY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Zay keeps it tamped down whenever it passes back to him as well, though his limitations are outside of his control. He spends his portion of the vocals at his window, leaning out to breath in the life and excitement of the city he loves that he feels so locked out of.

Whether within or without the city, for vastly different reasons, both Zay and Farkle are feeling the same ache.

INT. MINKUS HOME - NIGHT

Farkle makes it home in time for the piano solo, showing off his proficiency on the instrument lest we dared to forget. Then he and Zay harmonize on the final, showstopping chorus, delivering a whammy even when they’re not quite in top form.

INT. BABINEAUX HOME - ZAY’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Zay rounds out the number, stepping away from his window and shutting it forlornly.

INT. MINKUS HOME - FARKLE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Maya is back to brainstorming in the Minkus home as promised, pacing in front of the moodboard they’ve been working off of for weeks. She’s avidly running through potential pitfalls to their showdown prospects, which seem to be piling up by the minute, while Farkle is seated on the edge of his bed. He’s stone-faced, truly lost in his own head now, and Maya doesn’t fail to notice. As she’s ticking off more items on their doomsday list, she halts and gives him an unimpressed glare.

Maya: … and an inattentive diva. [ snapping in his face ] Farkle! Earth to Farkle!

Farkle: What? Oh, sorry.

Maya: I swear, you have been exceptionally offbeat this week. Of all the times, too, naturally it would be our greatest time of crisis that your zany passion eludes us. Honestly, Farkle, where for art thou? Why have you abandoned me in our time of need?

Farkle: I’m bipolar.

Maya: Okay? And I’m a narcissist. Just because we use pretty words doesn’t change the state of the union, darling.

Farkle, shaky: No, like, I’m literally bipolar.

Maya pauses, actually looking at him. His tone convinces her that he’s not being cheeky, and his sallow expression drives it home. Her demeanor shifts instantly, dropping much of her diva arrogance.

Maya: What?

Farkle: I’m bipolar. I don’t know how many more times I can say it.

Maya: I heard you, I just -- when? How?

Farkle: My whole life, presumably. How, ask God for me.

Maya: Well… well, like, what does that mean? Like, so you’re bipolar, well, what does that mean for --

Farkle: I don’t know. I don’t know, my psychiatrist just told me. I didn’t… I didn’t do a great job of listening to what came after that.

Wow. Silence reigns as Maya attempts to process this new information. Farkle speaks again, even more uncharacteristically timid than before.

Farkle: I know this is bad timing. Just… with this, and everything at school, I don’t know how on top of it I can --

Maya: No, no, of course not. Shh. It’s fine. You don’t have to worry about all that. You need to focus on yourself. On this. Don’t worry about Triple A. I’ll handle it.

Farkle: But Maya --

Maya: I’ve got it. It’s okay.

She pats his shoulders reassuringly, then turns it into a hug. Farkle hesitates for a moment before returning the embrace, desperately leaning into the comfort. Maya remains stalwart for the both of them, features intense as her mind runs to problem-solve a million miles an hour. Based on the furrow of her brow, it seems she might already be onto something.

Maya: I’m going to handle it.

INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT  - NIGHT

Riley, Isadora and Eric sit around the dining table, chatting casually after finishing their meals. Eric looks between the two girls with a warm smile before offering to clear up. 

Riley: I’ll help.

Riley gets up to help Eric clean away the plates, but Isadora places a hand on Riley’s arm to stop her. Riley gives her a questioning look. 

Isadora: I actually… I have something I want to show you. In my room. [ to Eric ] If that’s okay? 

Eric: Of course, go ahead. I’m perfectly capable of filling up the dishwasher on my own.

Intrigued, Riley follows Isadora into her bedroom.

INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT - ISADORA’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Isadora goes straight to her desk and opens up a notebook to reveal Valerie’s letter. She passes it to a confused Riley, who takes a moment to look over it. When she realizes what it is, she looks up at Isadora with wide eyes. 

Riley: Is this…? 

Isadora: [ with a nod ] A letter to my father. I found it in one of Val’s boxes. You’re the first person I’m telling so don’t… don’t tell Eric or anything. 

Riley: Oh, totally. Sure. [ a beat as she scans through the pages ] Why aren’t you telling him, though? 

Isadora: I don’t really know how I feel about it yet.

Riley guides Isadora to her bed, where they both sit. She collects her thoughts. 

Riley: Did you know anything about your dad before now? 

Isadora: No. I asked about him a few times, like ages ago, but Valerie always claimed she didn’t know who he was. I can’t tell if she was lying or not; I don’t even know when she wrote this. 

Riley: It seems like she didn’t really think about it until he wrote to her. And it definitely seems like he wants to be part of your life. [ a beat ] Do you want him in your life?

Isadora: I don’t know. I don’t even know what that would look like. My gut is screaming at me that it’ll end in disaster, like it always did with my mom, but at the same time… like, I’ve gotten by fine without a dad until now, but it does feel there’s a part of me missing. What if it’s him?

It’s clear that she’s been thinking it over a lot. Riley admits that she isn’t sure what she could say to help considering her complete lack of experience in this department, but suggests again that she should talk to Eric. 

Isadora: I’m scared to. 

Riley: What? Why?

Isadora: I don’t want him to think that he’s not enough for me. He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me, and I don’t want to ruin it.

Riley places a hand on Isadora’s shoulder and offers a sympathetic smile. Isadora responds by resting her head on Riley’s shoulder, so Riley moves her arm to wrap around her. 

Riley: You know how much Eric cares for you. There’s nothing you could do to ruin it. You’re part of the Matthews family forever now, no matter who your father is and whether you meet him or not. 

Isadora: You’re my favorite cousin. 

Riley: I won’t tell Auggie you said that. And you’re my favorite cousin, too.

Riley plants a kiss on Isadora’s cheek with a ‘muah.’ Isadora pulls a face of disgust and escapes from her grasp as Riley giggles.

Isadora: Minus five cousin points. Auggie’s in the lead now. 

Riley: Nooo!

She chases after Isadora, trying to engulf her in a hug as both girls laugh.

INT. GARDNER HOME - CHARLIE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Charlie is back from a late rehearsal for showdown, changing out of his Haverford uniform. He strips off his shirt and places it in the laundry hamper, checking how his clothes from the car wash are faring.

Still damp. At this rate, it feels like they’re never going to go back to normal.

Suddenly, the house below him erupts with sound, voices being raised in the kitchen downstairs. It goes without saying, but raised voices are almost non-existent in the Gardner household. Charlie freezes, listening intently until he recognizes exactly what he’s dreading -- a higher-pitched, defensive voice. Rosie’s voice.

He drops the wet clothes and reaches for the first top he can find -- which just happens to be an AAA sweatshirt -- and yanks it on as he rushes into the hall.

INT. GARDNER HOME - KITCHEN - NIGHT

This time, there’s no question as to whether there is a fight. Rosie and ELEANOR GARDNER are more heated than we’ve ever seen either of them onscreen, yelling at one another and cheeks flushed. Rosie is particularly loud, in near hysterics since she’s young, emotional, and also on defense; Eleanor maintains a cool, superior tone even as she raises her volume.

Charlie slides into the room right in the thick of it, jumping in the middle without hesitation and questioning what the heck is going on. When he can get them to acknowledge him, Eleanor actually seems pleased by his presence, openly welcoming him into the argument.

Eleanor: Oh, perfect, just what we needed. A second opinion. Rosamund, why don’t you tell your brother why you’re in trouble? Go on.

Rosie, on the other hand, is not receptive to Charlie joining the conversation. She loses a lot of her fire, shrinking back and face flushing in embarrassment. Eleanor scoffs, though it seems like this is exactly how she expected her to react.

Eleanor: What’s the matter? Are you suddenly shy? You sure were loud enough arguing back to me about it, and now you won’t tell Charlie?

Charlie: Can someone just tell me what’s going on?!

Eleanor: Gladly!

Eleanor pointedly places Rosie’s phone on the countertop, which she’s been holding the whole time. It’s open to an Instagram photo on an unfamiliar page, one of Rosie’s new friends at her gifted high school. It’s a series of photos from some hangout the freshmen were having, but the photo in question surprisingly features another familiar player -- a bunch of the freshmen are sitting around and laughing, and Rosie is grinning while sitting on the lap of URI MINKUS.

It’s pretty innocent, but the implications are enough. Eleanor relays the whole tale, how one of Rosie’s friends from Catholic school told their mom about the photo in her tagged images and the mother was kind enough to inform Eleanor about it. This is already after a discussion she had with Rosie over this boy when she saw them interacting in a less-than-acceptable manner after school when she picked her up. She thought they had cleared it all up, but apparently not, between this photo and the fact that the text messages between her and this Jewish boy are nothing if not flirtatious.

Rosie: You shouldn’t have even been going through my texts anyway!

Eleanor: Oh, shouldn’t I? I didn’t realize you were the authority now! Privacy is a privilege, Rosamund, and you’re continuing to prove that you haven’t earned it!

They continue to escalate again, Charlie bewildered as he slides the phone towards him to get a better look. The photo really is so… nothing, and the whole argument feels so blown out of proportion. But Charlie knows the patterns, he knows what Bridgette warned him about, and all of the shouting and conflict is making him lightheaded.

Charlie, weary: Stop arguing.

Eleanor: I knew we shouldn’t have let you go to the gifted school. I knew you’d be better off staying in the Catholic system.

Rosie: Then why did you let me go?!

Eleanor: Maybe I shouldn’t have! Maybe that’s the thing I shouldn’t have done! In fact, maybe I’ll have to put a call into the deans and see if they can’t transfer you back --

Rosie, mortified: Mom, no!

Charlie: Stop…

The room is starting to spin a little bit. Charlie braces himself against the countertop, screwing his eyes shut and trying to block out the yelling. But he can’t run from it. He can’t hide.

Rosie: Charlie got to go to a different school! He got to go somewhere new without you breathing down his neck!

Eleanor: Because Charlie is responsible enough to handle it! You don’t see him posting suggestive content, flirting shamelessly, making questionable decisions. I don’t need to monitor your brother because he doesn’t give me any reason to be concerned!

Oh, Eleanor, if only you knew… it’s being invoked and talked about in such a discordant way that acts as the final straw. Charlie tries to catch his breath, but it’s not coming back, and it’s like the whole world is slipping away from him…

If anything will stop an argument, passing out probably does the trick. Charlie stumbles and then collapses onto the tile floor, shocking both Eleanor and Rosie out of their anger. Rosie shrieks and rushes to his side.

Eleanor: Charlie?! Ambrose! [ rushing to the entryway ] Ambrose, Charlie’s -- come quickly! Hurry!

Charlie’s down, all right. Rosie rolls him onto his back, checking for obvious injury -- lucky he didn’t crack his head open or something -- and trying to rouse him. But he’s out like a light… all of the tension slowly fading away…

INT. HAVERFORD PREP - AUDITORIUM - NIGHT

Meanwhile, Brandon is staying late at Haverford once again, only this time he’s not alone. He’s meeting with a mysterious figure, a HIPSTER 20-something man who is probably into photography or a wannabe filmmaker. But he’s clearly there on business, Brandon and the man speaking in hushed tones as they converse even though they’re the only ones around.

Brandon: And you’re sure you’ve got the whole thing? I’m not paying for poor quality or fractions.

Hipster: I’ve been doing this for six years. Think I know what I’m doing at this point. But yes, it’s all there. Professional quality. You’ll be able to see whatever you need to see.

Brandon deems this response satisfactory enough, nodding. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a small wad of cash, trading it off with whatever object the hipster is offering. When they retract their hands, Brandon comes away with the secret item -- a flash drive.

He scrutinizes it idly while the hipster quickly counts the bills, then they exchange a nod, Brandon thanking him for his service. The hipster makes his exit, Brandon pacing for a bit on the stage and turning over the flash drive in his fingers. Whatever it is, he seems pretty satisfied to have it in his grasp.

He loses some of his easygoing confidence when he hears the auditorium doors open. He slips the flash drive into his blazer pocket and straightens up, narrowing his eyes to assess his new company. When he recognizes who it is, though, an intrigued smirk blooms across his face.

Brandon: Well, well, well. I have to say, this is an unexpected surprise.

Maya Hart. Dressed in one of her sharpest ensembles, Valerie’s fur coat giving her that extra oomph, matching Brandon’s cool sophistication effortlessly. She leisurely saunters her way down the aisle towards the stage, taking her sweet time.

Maya: So this is the fabled Haverford Prep. [ pursing her lips ] I have to say, I was anticipating greater grandeur.

Brandon: It’s hard when the indigent experience excellence for the first time. Never quite meets the expectations of their hapless daydreams… [ off her sneer ] Is there something I can do for you, Hart? Let alone at this late hour?

Maya: Don’t flatter yourself. It’s 8PM.

She’s made her way to the stage now, coming to stand opposite Brandon front and center. There’s a healthy distance between them, keeping them staunchly on opposing sides, but they regard each other with respect. Maya claims she just wanted to come have a little chat, clan leader to clan leader.

Brandon: That so? I thought Friar was your figurehead.

Maya: We both have our respective areas of expertise. I like to think of myself as the Cheney to his Bush. Conservative politics notwithstanding.

Brandon: Was going to say. I don’t see Cheney being much of a swinger for socialist handouts like you all are gunning for. [ sizing her up ] But I’ll admit, I pegged you for a captain rather than a lackey. You sure took front and center at the car wash.

Maya: Ah, yes… the function you so ceremoniously soiled.

Brandon: Hope you’ll forgive the incursion. It’s only business. A little competitive spirit is all.

Maya: Oh, no arguments from me. I’m more incensed I didn’t see it coming. Wish I had thought of it myself.

Brandon chuckles, perhaps a bit won over by her… unique Maya charms. He claims he got the sense they were more alike than different… in fact, if circumstances were different, and they weren’t sworn rivals… Maya catches onto his drift right quick, mirroring his smug charisma as she feigns sympathy.

Maya: So you like what you see. Don’t despair, you’re far from the only one. But I’m afraid that’s a forgone impossibility.

Brandon: [ processing what might be a rejection ] Ah. I see. [ like they’re confidants ] You play for the other team?

Well. That’s a pretty bold assumption to jump to just because she doesn’t want to get with you, Brandon. But Maya maintains her coolness, unperturbed by such arrogant conclusions. She makes a face, as if she’s contemplating.

Maya: … no team. Let’s put it that way.

Brandon: And what’s that supposed to mean exactly?

Maya: The only team I play for is Triple A. And that’s what I’m here for.

Brandon backs off his advances and allows her the floor, back to all business. She tactfully begins to discuss negotiations around senior showdown, dancing around the details of everything going wrong inside the ranks of the A class but letting just enough of her cards show to indicate that she’s only here due to dire circumstances. Then she subtly tries to charm her way to an ideal outcome, brokering a deal where maybe, just perhaps, Haverford might find themselves on the losing side of the showdown confrontation.

You know she’s desperate if Maya is trying to arrange a thrown victory. And Brandon can sense that too, even as aloof as she’s acting, which just makes the whole situation more amusing to him. Though he feigned listening to her pitch, he is all too eager to shoot it down. Why would Haverford want to throw the competition, he muses, when their winning streak is so hot and their competition is apparently so weak?

Brandon: I knew you all were hardly a threat, but this is even more pathetic than I thought. I mean, you and Friar coming to me trying to cut a deal for an easy victory -- what a leadership duo. You all must be in harsher condition than I imagined.

Maya: Wait, what?

Brandon: … you didn’t know? That your president already paid me a little visit earlier in the semester?

Maya doesn’t respond, but the way she’s lost her easy confidence as she stares at him answers for her. Brandon laughs, shaking his head.

Brandon: What presidential teamwork. Clearly, the future of Adams is in outstanding hands. But with such low confidence, and even lower moves you’ll stoop to… no, I believe Haverford is just fine where we are now. We’ll beat you handily, as we have for the last six years, and rest assured Hart, it’ll be with immense pleasure. [ a beat ] You should probably be going, then. The security doesn’t take kindly to riff-raff hanging around our hallowed halls.

He swivels and swaggers offstage, leaving Maya alone and humiliated in enemy territory. She’s fuming, gritting her teeth and fists clenched at her sides.

INT. CHUBBIES - NIGHT

Riley is seated at the counter with her laptop, keeping Lucas company while he works the late shift. She’s running through analytics of the RSVPs they’ve already gotten for the dance fundraiser, which she claims is looking pretty good.

Lucas isn’t in a very optimistic mood, commenting that even if they get half of Manhattan to show up, it probably won’t be enough to cover all their expenses including the scholarships. With their chances at showdown dwindling by the minute… who knows. Maybe he’s not doing absolutely everything he can to make it happen…

Riley closes her laptop, giving him her undivided attention.

Riley: Don’t count Triple A out of showdown just yet, please and thank you. But I think I know what this is really about.

Lucas hesitates, freezing up.

Lucas: You do?

Riley: Yeah. You act like you’re so hard to read, like I don’t know you well enough to figure out when you’re not telling me something.

How could she know… did Zay tell her about seeing Missy in the booth? He swallows. She reaches across the counter and takes his hands, giving him a sympathetic look.

Riley: You’re freaking out over the college essays.

Lucas: Oh. [ a beat ] Yeah, well, I guess I am.

Riley reminds him that he doesn’t have to keep that kind of stuff from her and act like he’s unshakeable all the time. And honestly, she gets why he’s nervous about them. It sucks writing about yourself no matter what -- unless you’re Maya -- but it’ll be even harder for him given the things he’s been through. He hasn’t exactly been encouraged to view himself favorably, at least not until recently. Old habits are hard to break.

Riley: But that’s not necessarily what they’re looking for anyway. You don’t need to prove to them that you’re the most perfect shining candidate to ever apply, you just need to give them a really good story. Make them invested, get them to care about you. Show them a bit of your individuality, your personality -- which you are not short of in either department. And I know for a fact you can draw people in…

She is, after all, a prime example. Lucas still seems doubtful, but her perspective does help. And her belief in him continues to astound him, forged in steel even when everything else feels so unpredictable. Riley leans forward to give him a soft kiss, which lingers between them.

It’s impressive, too, how being with her grounds him. How their closeness doesn’t feel like an intrusion… and somehow, feeling cornered by other forces or put on edge just makes him want to be with her more. Lucas initiates another kiss, forgetting everything else for a moment, taking shelter in that inexplicable safety with her. Riley has no complaints, leaning deeper into it and tightening her touch on his hand.

Then the front door bangs open, the bell jangling ominously. Both of them jump and pull apart. Maya marches into the diner, indignant and blue eyes burning.

Maya: What the hell, Friar?

Lucas: What’s the matter with you now?

Riley: Is everything okay?

Maya: When were you going to tell me you shook down Brandon?

Riley: [ whipping to look at him ] What?

Lucas clams up, straightening upright and taking on a defensive stance. But the sheepish expression on his face gives him away. Busted.

Maya: You know, I think that kind of mercenary maneuver is exactly the sort of decision your VP should know about. Were you just never going to let me in on it?

Riley: Why the hell did you do that?

Maya: I don’t care about that. Friar’s a shady bastard, we all knew his methods were going to be far from clean. Who gives a shit. I’m pissed he decided not to keep me in the loop! Do you have any idea how humiliating it was for me to roll up there only for Brandon Rivas to hand my ass to me on a silver platter? Cocky prick, like he knows absolutely everything --

Riley: Wait, wait. [ eyeing her ] Why were you confronting Brandon?

Oh. Well. Cough. Maya flips her hair off her shoulder, but she can’t give a good excuse that doesn’t make her just as culpable as Lucas. He raises his eyebrows at her, emphasizing that if he’s going down she’s going with him. Riley closes her eyes, trying to catch up to this turn of events.

Riley: Let me get this straight. Both of you went to our competition, at separate times, to try and threaten them into… what? Giving up? Throwing the showdown?

Lucas: I just thought that --

Maya: Our prospects are in shambles even without the money. I was just --

Lucas: And I didn’t want you to be disappointed --

Maya: Everyone is counting on me, we’ve all got a lot riding on --

Riley: Okay, okay, stop. Enough!

Riley holds her hands up, getting them both to shut up. She takes a moment to compose herself, taking a deep breath, then she jumps into fixer mode.

Riley: This must be the week for damage control, because now you’ve really done it. You realize now we’re going to have to bring it even harder, since you’ve made it perfectly clear to Brandon and the Havies that we’re spooked. You wouldn’t go and grovel for mercy if we weren’t.

Lucas: That wasn’t --

Maya, scoffing: I do not grovel --

Riley: I cannot believe you would do something so stupid. [ to Lucas ] And that you would do something like this and not tell me…

Oof… hit him where it hurts, Riles. Lucas lowers his head, avoiding her eyes. Case in point, it doesn’t make anybody look very good. And now, Riley proclaims, she has to fix it once again.

Riley: We’re going to have to brainstorm fast for showdown and make sure everything is in pristine shape, which we already know is a shot in the dark. Call Yindra, tell her to come by our place in twenty. I’ll see if we can get Jeff and Isadora too.

Riley puts her belongings back in her bag and hops off the stool, Maya already heading out. Riley goes to follow her, but she pauses in the doorway and glances back over her shoulder at Lucas. She shakes her head, obviously disappointed.

Riley: I can’t believe you.

She leaves it there, pushing through the doors without another word. Lucas looks after her, ashamed, then curses to himself and lightly hits the counter with his palm.

Break 2.

EXT. DANCE LOT - DREAM SEQUENCE - NIGHT

Charlie is sprawled on the asphalt, just like when he collapsed, the city uncharacteristically quiet around him. When he comes around he jolts upright, spooked at being outside and on his own. He looks around in confusion, no clue where he is or how he got there. He slowly gets to his feet, recognizing the dance lot as a place he’s been before, but unsure where exactly it is or where to go next.

Only one clue exists to help guide him. Music.

It’s quiet, muffled, but he can hear it. A thumping bass, hypnotic beat… he spins until he zeroes in on the source. A heavy metal door installed into the wall opposite him, propped open just slightly, with a neon sign above indicating it’s likely some kind of club. Colorful light leaks out from the crack, mesmerizing and more than intriguing.

But it’s really the music that wins him over. He’s a dancer, and he cannot resist a compelling groove. He cautiously approaches the door, pulling it open and then stepping inside… as the faraway rhythms slowly become a familiar tune...

INT. DANCE CLUB - DREAM SEQUENCE - NIGHT

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Voulez-Vous” as performed by Mamma Mia! Original Movie Cast || Performed by AAA Seniors & Haverford Seniors

The rambunctious ABBA classic kicks off with a bang, music loud and boldly setting the scene. The lighting is mysterious, electric, the fully romanticized version of what a sultry, exciting disco scene might be like. Charlie is no longer dressed in his everyday clothes but is suddenly styled to match the vibes, sporting a sleek disco suit with Riley’s aforementioned blue dress shirt completing the look.

And as he ventures deeper into the club, he discovers he’s not alone. The place is packed with his classmates both current and former, Haverford populating one side and Adams the other, but all dressed in similar, near identical, disco suits. All eyes lock on him the moment he’s within view, judging him, waiting for him to make a move -- or pick a side.

The vocals start, and Charlie does neither, jumping down from the steps and sliding into the center of the glowing dance floor -- right down the middle of party lines. He starts the number dancing alone, challenging the established status quo in the club, tension mounting around his transgression of crossing lines…

Until Zay pushes through the crowd on the A class side. On both feet, looking fly as ever, no injury in sight and nothing holding him back from showing his stuff.

And here we go again, we know the start, we know the end Masters of the scene

Charlie pauses, locking eyes with Zay. For a moment, finishing up the pre-chorus, they just hold eye contact… letting that tension bubble over…

Then Zay jumps into the center of the floor with him, joining in the dance.

Voulez-vous!

For the first chorus it’s just Zay and Charlie, dancing sometimes together and sometimes in contrast, epitomizing the back-and-forth pull between them. But it’s them, so the dancing is remarkably good, and especially satisfying considering how long it’s been since we saw them share a routine. Their timing and chemistry is just as sharp as ever, and it’s also a relief just to see Zay be able to move again.

Throughout the second verse, they weave back into their respective schools, Charlie’s peers still eyeing each other suspiciously and reluctant to break rank. But Zay manages to get Riley out on the dance floor (with Lucas in tow), and then Charlie nudges Evan. Bit by bit the classes mix and mingle, caught somewhere between dancing in tandem and facing off like foes. This becomes especially pronounced during the bridge about 3 and half minutes in, when the chorus becomes stripped and just relies on “ahas,” Charlie leading the Haverford delegation and Zay fronting the A class as they mirror movements and poses.

Then they officially bleed together, classmates crossing into opposite territory for the final chorus. For those who don’t already have a pair in their respective class (unlike say, Dylan and Asher), they pair with someone from the opposite school, like Brandon and Maya.

And, naturally, Zay and Charlie. They’re back together at the center of it all, intensity rising with the music, choreography much more intertwined this time and very close together. If not breaking charged eye contact were an Olympic sport, they would win gold easily.

The flash. The glamor. The drama. ABBA would be proud! When they round out the final seconds and strike their final pose, Zay and Charlie’s faces are so close, all it would take is a centimeter in either direction…

Zay: Charlie...

Charlie’s eyes flit down to his lips, as if he’s contemplating that very thing…

Rosie, faraway: Charlie!

INT. GARDNER HOME - CHARLIE’S BEDROOM - NIGHT

Alas, not meant to be -- even in dream sequence. Charlie rouses awake when he’s shaken by Rosie, sitting on the bed next to him.

Oh, well. Wouldn’t be the same as doing it for real anyway.

Charlie blinks to adjust back to reality, Rosie releasing a momentous sigh when she sees he’s conscious again. She snaps at him for scaring her, informing him that his fainting spell totally freaked her and Eleanor out. Ambrose is on the phone with their doctor friend right now. He manages to sit up and apologizes for worrying them. It’s probably just… stress.

Rosie: Either way, bad party trick. Mom was so bugged out. You shouldn’t tell her you think it’s stress, or else she’ll probably yank you out of school too and back into Catholic prep.

Charlie: Yeah, speaking of… you really think she’s going to do that to you?

Rosie: … after you passed out, the conversation was basically dropped. If I keep quiet and don’t do anything else to incriminate myself, I think she’ll let it go. [ embittered ] Though sucks that I can’t even text who I want without her knowing every message I send. I doubt she’ll even let me speak to Uri now.

Charlie: Pro-tip? Change his contact name. Mom only goes looking for what she thinks is a problem. If you give him something inconspicuous, she’s never going to know otherwise.

Rosie stares at him, shocked her saltine brother would even think of something like that. I mean, he might be an alcoholic, but still… but it’s good advice all the same. Charlie goes on to explain that he was worried about her, too, and he doesn’t want her to feel like she’s trapped or she has to lash out. You can negotiate with Eleanor, you just have to be clever about it. He doesn’t want her to make the same mistakes that Bridgette did.

Rosie: Yeah, I know… thanks for looking out for me.

Charlie: So… Uri Minkus, huh?

Rosie: Ugh.

Charlie: He’s really that worth sneaking around to text?

Rosie: … I guess you could say… perhaps… maybe… that I have like, the tiniest crush on him. Just a little bit.

Charlie can’t help his smile. He jokes that she should be careful, not because of Eleanor’s concerns, but because if they get married then Farkle is going to become their in-law, and she has no idea what she’s in for if that happens. She groans and nudges Charlie, telling him to shut up, but it’s clear she’s already in better spirits than most of this week. She asks if he’s okay given that all his “stress” is literally making him pass out. Is everything okay with Adams? Charlie admits that he wishes things were easier to navigate than they are.

Charlie: Honestly, I think I’m just naturally gifted at making everything worse. [ with a weak laugh ] Probably should’ve listened to dad when he asked if transferring during senior year was a good idea.

Rosie points out that maybe some of that stress weighing on him is just stuff he creates in his own head. Not to demean it or anything, but like… does everything have to be an anxiety-inducing dilemma? If he wants to go hang out with his friends, from either school, then he should just go do that. He’s allowed to enjoy himself every once and a while and take a break from being the perfect saltine protective older brother. You know, have fun.

Rosie: [ holding up a finger ] Sober fun.

Charlie’s turn to laugh and nudge her. But maybe she has a point. And there might be just the perfect upcoming event where he can relax and have some fun…

INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

We join Eric and Isadora in the midst of their conversation. Eric reads Valerie’s letter while Isadora watches with her lips pressed together. Once he finishes the letter, he takes a moment to process it. 

Eric: Wow. That’s… a lot. 

Isadora: What do you think? 

Eric: I think that what I think isn’t important at all right now. What do you think? Do you want to get in contact with him?

Isadora thinks about it as she wrings her hands. 

Isadora: I’m not sure. But… you aren’t upset? 

Eric: Why would I be upset? 

Isadora: If I do want to meet him, I’m worried you’ll think that you’re not enough for me or something. I don’t want to hurt you. 

Eric: Isadora, that could never happen. I’m not hurt at all, I just want what’s best for you, and a relationship with your father could be something really good. 

Isadora: What if it isn’t, though? I don’t want to set myself up for disappointment. Again. 

Eric: That’s understandable. You don’t have to make a decision now, though. You have all the time you want to think it over. [ a beat ] If you want, you could write a letter to him yourself. You don’t have to send it, but it can be cathartic to write out everything you’re thinking and feeling about the situation.

Unsure, Isadora pulls a face. Eric reminds her again to just think about it -- no major decisions necessary right now.

INT. AAA - JACK’S OFFICE - DAY

Lucas is meeting with Jack one last time before the dance fundraiser to grab another cash box and go over any last minute details. Jack questions if he’s going to be dressing for the occasion, to which Lucas rolls his eyes but begrudgingly admits that he thinks Riley would be even more upset with him if he didn’t. Though he doesn’t have all the details, Jack assures Lucas that he’s sure Riley isn’t going to be angry for long.

One can only hope. Jack wishes Lucas luck and then he heads out, leaving him to his work. He settles back into it until he lifts his gaze and catches Yancy heading out of the building, checking out for the weekend.

All of Jack’s frustration from his conversation with Evelyn bubbles back up again. He pushes out of his chair, jogging out of his office.

EXT. AAA - DAY

Jack catches Yancy on his way down the steps, telling him that they need to talk. Yancy claims whatever it is can surely wait until Monday, but Jack isn’t having it.

Jack: No, I don’t think your active sabotage of my school can wait another damn second.

Yancy is stunned by his coarse language, effectively halting him long enough to have the confrontation. Well, what then? Jack questions when exactly he planned to let him know about his ongoing anti-campaign against the student government’s scholarship endeavors, or what would drive him and Graham to work to pit the board against them. He knows that they aren’t fond of him, especially after his stunt at the trial, but taking it out on the students? Who does that benefit? What do they gain from that?

Yancy, sharply: Actually, Jackson, you’ve hit the nail on the head. After your little unprofessional display, why wouldn’t we be invested in halting any other schemes you deem a good idea? Particularly when your chosen favorite himself just miraculously managed to become student body president in a school that hates his very existence?

Jack: You have no idea what you’re talking about, and Lucas won that election on his own merit. It had nothing to do with me.

Yancy: It has everything to do with you! Everything does! So long as you are at the helm of this ship, making all the calls, everything ties back to you. And we used to trust you with that power. But all this behavior as of late -- declining lucrative offers, favoring delinquents --

Jack: He is not a delinquent!

Yancy: Or how about cavorting with a fellow employee? [ off his shocked expression ] Oh, come on, Jackson, I’m not naive. Did you and Eric really believe you could flaunt your little flirtation right in front my face and I wouldn’t notice a thing? As if my whole purpose at that school isn’t to keep it from collapsing under your unprofessional whimsy and desires!

This whole time, he’s been observing, watching the operation of AAA from the inside out, trying to determine if Jack remains fit to head the institution. Yancy admits, when Graham first put him up for the job, he was skeptical -- he’d always had great belief in Jack as an educator. He was doubtful that he had really slipped so far… but now he’s seen for himself. There is a certain way things are done, and it seems Jack has forgotten all of his proper perspective in service to that law and order.

Yancy: When I finish my report to the board at the end of the semester, they’ll be the judge of whether or not you deserve to stay where you are. But believe me, if I had it my way, you’d be out of that position and filing for unemployment faster than lightning.

Jack: You can’t do this. You can’t eject me from the role simply because your perspective is too old-fashioned to be flexible. Or empathetic. And unwilling to examine context --

Yancy: Well, we’ll just let the board decide that, won’t we.

Guess we will. Yancy fussily buttons his coat.

Yancy: I would watch yourself if I were you, Jackson. In my opinion, it’s far too late, but we both know how easy it is to tip the scales slightly in your favor. Maybe you’ll salvage this yet. Otherwise, I’d start contemplating alternative paths. Have a good evening.

Yancy stomps down the steps, not waiting for a goodbye. Jack swallows his panic, trying to remain resolute in the face of so much pressure. Scrambling to figure out what to do next...

A groovy disco track bleeds into the soundscape, totally dissonant to Jack’s dread --

INT. DANCE VENUE - NIGHT

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Streetdance” as performed by Disco Street Machine || Instrumental

The ‘70s dance fundraiser is in full swing, and it seems to be doing well! The venue is packed not just with Adams students but other community members, promising at least some greater revenue from the whole ordeal. The scene is set with funky lighting and a dance floor, along with some flower-power type decorations and a fun mirrorball hanging above it all.

It’s mainly cool to see everyone leaning into the theme and dressed in their best approximations of ‘70s garb. We’ve got funky vests, blazers for days, chunky platform boots, a few bohemian chic vibes, you name it. A few establishing shots show us all these looks and more while the assembled crowd grooves to the disco track. Yogi is wandering with his camera, capturing footage for posterity and social media.

Lucas is manning the check-in table, this time keeping control over the money in his own hands. He maintains a cordial enough demeanor as he interacts with potential patrons, and he is giving some semblance of ‘70s as promised in his collared-shirt-under-sweater look. He’s serving like… gothic Fred Jones, which is about as much as you’re gonna get from him.

Asher and Dylan, on the other hand, are representing much better. Asher is repping the funky vest and puffy sleeve shirt vibe, matched well with some maroon bell-bottoms and swooped back hair, while Dylan is truly going disco with a silky vibrant shirt tucked into silver pants, a huge, chunky pair of Elton John tinted glasses the cherry on top of the ensemble. They ask how cash flow is going, and Lucas claims fine, but they’re not out of the woods by a long shot.

Lucas: If things don’t pick up, I’m going to start pickpocketing.

Asher: Yes, that’s exactly what we need. A literal crook for president.

Dylan: Isn’t that like every president?

Anyway, Lucas needs to chill. Or as Dylan puts it, surrender to the boogie. Which is what he and Asher are going to go do right now -- the dance floor beckons them. Asher leads the way, Dylan walking backwards so he can maintain eye contact with Lucas and literally disco groove away from him as encouragement to give in to the funk. Lucas just shakes his head, unimpressed.

When Lucas gets back to work, who should be waiting to purchase a ticket in but Charlie Gardner. He’s dressed for the occasion too, dressed in dark pants and a white blazer… with Riley’s chosen blue shirt underneath. It seems he followed her guidance and went for it after all. Lucas greets him and commends him for turning out, considering all the bad blood between Haverford and AAA right now. Brave of him to show up.

Doesn’t he know it… but he wants to be here. Lucas takes his money and nods for him to go on in, sending him into the fray.

Meanwhile, Zay is parked at one of the tables, not in the best mood considering he’s surrounded by the boogie and can’t participate. Nigel is doing his best to cheer him up, but it’s sort of a fruitless effort. When Zay catches him eyeing Jade, who the techies managed to extract from the loft to at least enjoy the dance, he sighs and tells him to go have fun. He doesn’t have to waste away with him. Nigel argues against that take, but Zay nods him onward, insisting.

So Nigel bounces to his feet, thanking Zay before cutting through the crowd in the direction of Jade. Zay watches him go, bittersweet at being left alone again.

Charlie skirts the edges for a bit before finding companionship in Farkle, who greets him plainly. He’s dressed like Eric Forman, wearing a simple button down and bellbottoms combo with a loose brown corduroy jacket. He and Charlie briefly catch up, commenting on how the turn out is and how great the aesthetic is. But Farkle is still a bit lost in his own head, and Charlie notices. He elbows him lightly.

Charlie: You okay?

Farkle: [ with some of his usual humor ] Chuck, that’s like asking the sky if it’s red. I think you already know the answer.

But he’ll live. Once he figures some things out… it’ll be fine. It has to be. Vagueness aside, Charlie can tell there’s more to it, but he opts to focus on distraction rather than problem-solving. He’s had enough problem-solving for a lifetime this week. He invites Farkle to go dance instead, playfully challenging him to show what disco moves he’s got up his sleeve.

Farkle: Oh, you’re going to regret this -- and not because I’m good.

Charlie laughs, gesturing for him to lead the way onto the dance floor.

Maya jumps up onto the small stage set up with the DJ booth, taking the microphone and briefly thanking everyone for coming out. No applause necessary for putting it together, really… and she waits until the audience feels compelled to applaud. Then she waves them off “humbly” before reminding them of all the ways they can support the Adams senior class while at this benefit -- mainly financially! And by getting down and boogie-oogie-oogying. Peace!

Lucas shakes his head at Maya’s speech, lightly amused, but all of his calm is wiped away when Missy walks through the door. She’s dressed in simple ‘70s, a gorgeous and slightly revealing silk disco mini dress and with her hair blown out like Farah Fawcett. She cheekily compliments him on his get up.

Missy, sarcastic: An ensemble that elaborate must’ve taken ages to throw together. I see you really put an effort in.

Lucas: Maybe. And what’s your excuse?

Missy: Not everything needs to be silly and over the top. In fact, I think the richest things in life are those that go understated. Left unsaid… makes everything a bit more exciting, anticipating whatever more there might be to explore. [ a beat ] Same goes for fashion.

Lucas: … so are you paying, or what?

Missy: As I understand it, Adams seniors get in free. But since I can afford it…

She reaches into her small satin purse, pulling out a wad of cash. She siphons off about half of it -- way more than a ticket would cost -- and drops it into the cash box for him. He eyes it suspiciously, then flits his glare towards her.

Missy: I thought about our little chat. And you’re right, maybe there needs to be something in it for me -- which in this case is a victory at showdown. We’re embarrassing enough right now as it is. At least with the funding, we’ll look good when we crash and burn. And as for the rest…

She folds up the remaining bills in her hand and holds them out for him, gesture subtle but unmistakable. Lucas stares at the money, then glances around them nervously to make sure no one else is looking.

Lucas: What the hell are you doing?

Missy: Come on, Lucas. Don’t be noble. We know how things are between us. I’m just trying to help. And it stays discreet. Think of it as… a bonus, for all the hard work you’re doing for the A class. [ quieter ] I heard you in the booth. You don’t ask for help. Well, sometimes, you don’t have to beg. You can just take… whatever you want.

She raises her eyebrows, subtly challenging him to take it. Lucas hesitates, holding his breath… it feels like a test, he knows it is… but he’s already taken plenty from her without asking. What’s a little more…

Missy: Davis isn’t going to pay for itself, is it?

No. No it isn’t. She’s right, and he knows his chances of reeling a scholarship are slim to none. Does he really want all of this stress for applications to be for nothing?

Reluctantly, Lucas takes the money from her and slips it into his back pocket. Missy smiles, genuinely pleased, though why it’s hard to say. But it’s clear, now more than ever, that whatever little arrangement they’ve got going on here is a pattern now. It’s not just going to flutter away on its own, and the consequences that might come of it remain a mystery.

Missy: Groovy. Enjoy the dance, Lucas.

Lucas doesn’t respond, using the cash box as an excuse not to look at her. But based on flipping through the amount of money she handed over for the fundraiser, they’re way closer to their goal than before. And that has to make it all worth it, right?

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “September” as performed by Earth, Wind, & Fire || Instrumental

One of the best songs of the decade comes on next, earning an enthusiastic cheer from the crowd. Riley weaves her way through the throng and rushes up to the entrance to find Lucas, Nate in tow. She’s dressed in a shimmery lavender-mauve jumpsuit, a complimentary hair scarf tying together the groovy look. She pushes Nate in front of her.

Riley: Nate here is taking over table duty.

Nate: You know how I love dem bills, my brother.

Riley: So that you can come dance with me.

Lucas cringes, weakly putting up a fight. Oh, no, no, no… but Riley’s already got her hands on him, and her smile is so damn cute, it would be impossible to refuse her. So he lets her drag him out into the crowd.

Once they’re actually on the dance floor, Riley beams at him and pulls him closer, wrapping her arms around his shoulders. Lucas does his best to be a good sport and play along, especially since he’s already in trouble, placing his hands on her hips and casually swaying to the beat.

Lucas: So… does this mean I’m off the hook for the Brandon thing, or…

Riley: Hm… so as long you’re dancing with me and you look so cute in that sweater, I suppose you can be forgiven.

Better than nothing, though Lucas still clearly feels guilty about disappointing her. Just one of many ways he feels like he’s letting her down… but for now she’s happy, so he’ll just focus on touching her waist and how hot she looks in her jumpsuit.

Across the dance floor, Dylan and Asher are in conversation with Jeff and Yindra, Dylan with his arm draped casually around Asher’s shoulders and bouncing to the beat. They’re discussing the everchanging stakes of their showdown routine -- at this point Yindra claims they should just scrap it all and start over, they’ve got equally as bad a shot with the shoddy routine they have now. But Asher claims that would be a disaster, and they should only cross that bridge if they absolutely must.

Dylan spots something that seems to capture his attention, his eyes widening in excitement. He pinches Asher’s ribs and leans closer, Asher tilting his head to listen to his murmur.

Dylan: Shakespeare in Love, straight ahead.

Asher squints through the dancing crowd and finds what he’s talking about -- Nigel and Jade. He’s actually managed to pull her onto the dance floor, engaging in loose and easy grooving together. She’s laughing, waving off how bad a dancer she is, but he holds one of her hands and assures her she’s good.

Totally radical. Asher and Dylan exchange knowing looks, unable to hold back a grin.

Zay is less enthused, mainly because of his current view -- Charlie, dancing with Farkle of all people to one of the greatest songs there is. Not that there’s anything to be concerned about, really, since they’re clearly just goofing around with each other and Farkle is as promised quite an embarrassing disco dancer. But he’s up and moving, free, having fun, making Charlie laugh -- with Charlie looking disgustingly attractive in his expertly chosen shirt -- and it kind of feels like a perfect vignette of what’s locked away from him.

Everything Zay wants, desperately misses, but can’t have.

His brooding is interrupted when Isadora plops down into the chair across from him, giving him a nod in greeting. He asks why she’s not out there grooving on the dance floor, and she sagely says she’s not interested in getting up to boogie so… publicly. She’s amazed Riley got Lucas out there, but that’s only because of her unique Riley charms. It’s torture in her eyes.

Zay: Speak for yourself, but you’re entitled to your whack opinion.

Isadora: I know, I know. This is killing you. And I respect that. Just not for me. [ a beat ] Maybe it’ll give you some peace to know that you being benched is an undeniable tragedy for all of us.

Zay: The considerate part of me says no, but the egotistical side does love it, thank you.

Isadora: You’re welcome. [ with a sigh ] Now there’s talk of changing the routine if we can’t figure out how to fill your vacancy. Not that I don’t think we could pull it off, but it would take all hands on deck and everyone on board, and I don’t see that happening unless there’s no other alternative. Right now, if we could just find someone to fill your spot -- never as strongly, of course --

Zay: Again, my ego thanks you. You’re not going to take the spot?

Isadora: Uh… I mean, I don’t know. A couple of people suggested it, but look, we know I’m no you. I don’t learn as quickly, and I’ve got enough of a track record with performance mishaps on my own. I mean, what if I do it but I completely freeze the moment we have to go out there? My mom’s parting gift to me was giving me the one thing she never had -- stage fright. Doesn’t that seem too risky to throw in there when the stakes are higher than ever?

Zay: Man, I don’t know. I get what you’re saying, but all I know is that I would kill to be able to perform right now. And if you’re debating it at all, then to me, that means you want to -- and if I had the ability to do it, I wouldn’t waste it for a second on what ifs.

Very insightful, Zay. Isadora contemplates this… then she points out to Zay that just because he’s off his feet doesn’t mean he has to fade into oblivion. He’s got to take the time to heal, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be involved in the class or productions. He just has to find new ways to involve himself rather than what he’s used to.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Y.M.C.A.” as performed by Village People || Instrumental

Another classic! In an instant, Riley appears at their table, teeming with enthusiasm and reaching for Zay’s hands. She insists that he get up dance with her -- to which he reminds her that he’s booted -- but she points out that anyone can do the Y.M.C.A. It’s just shouting and arms! So he relents, allowing her to help him to his feet, but his grin betrays his aloof demeanor.

Farkle slides over moments later, telling Isadora that she better get up and join them too. If Zay can do it, she has no excuse. She rolls her eyes, but she really can’t argue with him on that.

So the dance wraps up with a flourish, the full class laughing, sing-shouting and goofing off together to the party favorite that literally anyone can do. Nigel and Riley each support Zay on either side, and he looks about as joyful as he has in weeks. Asher and Dylan prevent Lucas from escaping, keeping him on the dance floor and trapping him in the Y.M.C.A groove too. Charlie dances with Haley and Clarissa, who take turns twirling under his arms.

Yogi and Dave make their way through it all, capturing all the joy of a successful fundraiser on camera so they’ll never forget it.

INT. DANCE VENUE - LATER - NIGHT

The party has wrapped up, only the A class hanging around to clean up. Well, the A class and Charlie, who insisted it was no problem to stay back and assist in tidying. He’s working with Nigel and Yindra at stacking chairs, the latter of which comments playfully that he really is too helpful for his own good.

Yindra: Such a good little Christian, truly. It’s like God injected his compassion mission into your cute white boy veins.

Charlie: Well… not that good, admittedly. [ a beat ] I think if he was going to make his prototype golden child, he would’ve skipped the part where he made me gay.

Oop. Wow, a casual coming out -- and with a little humor, too! Charlie is getting better at this. Yindra raises her eyebrows at him, assessing for a moment whether or not he might be joking… and then she breaks into a wide grin, wrapping an arm around his shoulders.

Yindra: Oh, Charlie, Charlie, Charlie… I always knew I liked you. And I should’ve known, considering that awful Les Mis kiss still haunts my nightmares.

She asks how long he’s been out, or at least telling people, and Nigel slides in to proudly note that he told him before Yindra. She rolls her eyes. Charlie admits it’s slow-going and hasn’t been easy, especially with the community outside of AAA, but it feels good every time he does it. Hopefully the rest of his world will turn out tolerant too.

Yindra invites him to her church that Sunday for a change of pace. She’s performing a solo in the choir, so it’ll be guaranteed entertaining, and it might be good for him to see an actually accepting church environment for a change.

Nigel: She just wants to force you to see her ‘70s performance before she shares it with the class on Monday. The more people she can force to be her audience, the better.

Yindra: Hey, now, I don’t care for your sass, Chey Chey.

Either way, her church runs later than his, so it shouldn’t conflict. And Nigel will be there too -- she’s bribing him with brunch -- so it’ll be like a fun little outing. Charlie just seems happy to be connecting with his peers again, so he happily agrees.

Nate, pre-lap: 70… 80… 90…

INT. CHUBBIES - NIGHT

Lucas, Maya, Riley, Dylan, Asher, Isadora, and Farkle are convened in and around the back corner booth, watching nervously as Nate counts the final income from the dance fundraiser. All of them are holding their breath… Maya is pacing like a wildcat, ready to pounce and tear him to shreds if the number is too low.

Isadora: Jesus, Nate, can’t you count any faster?

Nate: No, I don’t cut corners when it comes to money. Now shut up, or I’ll have to start over.

Farkle, exhausted: Hush, Isa. Don’t make him start over.

Silence settles over them again… and Nate finishes counting the bills from the cashbox. He lifts up a finger to halt them from asking, writing the number down and then pulling up the calculator app on his phone. After combining the total from this with the car wash haul…

Nate: We did it. Crazy sons of bitches, we did it!

They officially made the money to pay for the damages and fund their showdown needs. Victory! All of them cheer, hugging each other and clapping enthusiastically. Riley wraps her arms around Lucas and kisses his cheek, while he’s looking pretty relieved.

Nate: I gotta say though, the numbers seem kind of skewed based on the actual attendance we had. Someone must’ve made a huge donation. [ to Lucas ] Did you notice anyone drop some major cash?

Oh, interesting… Lucas pauses, then breezes past the question. He claims it doesn’t matter who donated what -- they’re in the clear, and now they can focus on what matters. It’s time to kick Haverford’s pretentious privileged ass at showdown.

Hear, hear! The group cheers again, exchanging high-fives and reveling in their hard-earned success.

INT. ERIC’S APARTMENT - NIGHT

Isadora arrives home, shedding her jacket and shoes at the door. She’s relaxed, and has a relieved smile on her face. From where he sits on the sofa, Eric looks over to her. 

Isadora: We did it! We raised all the money we need. 

Eric: Oh, amazing! Well done, I’m so proud of you all.

Isadora sits down next to him and exhales. It’s been a long day. 

Isadora: I’ve been thinking about it a lot and I’ve decided to write a letter to Zachary. 

Eric: Tha --

Isadora, interrupting: I don’t know whether I’ll send it or not, but I do think it’ll help just to get my thoughts out there.

Eric nods his agreement, and reminds her that he’ll always be there for her. Just as she starts to ask for help on what to include in the correspondence, there’s a knock at the door. Eric goes to answer it, pleasantly surprised to find Jack waiting on the other side. Although he’s happy to see him, Jack seems stressed, so Isadora gets the hint that she should probably give them some space. She wishes Jack a good night and retreats to her room, leaving them alone.

Eric: Did you hear that they made the money to cover the auditorium damages? I’m honestly impressed, but I guess we should never doubt the A class.

Jack: Yeah… yeah, I did. From Lucas. It’s great.

Eric: … okay, what’s going on. You’ve got your thin voice going, how you get when something is wrong.

Jack doesn’t even bother to ask what that means -- Eric knows him well, it’s hardly a surprise at this point. He releases a strained sigh and explains what happened with Yancy, both about him sabotaging the scholarship fund from within the board and then the confrontation they had on the steps. Eric listens raptly, absorbing some of his dread with every word.

Eric: That sick… I always knew there was something off about him. He’s a corporate sellout through and through -- has been since he joined the board. And he has the gall to lecture you… we’ll get him for this, Jack. We just have to strategize --

Jack: No. No, we can’t do anything. Not right now. Not with so many things on the line.

Jack mentions the other piece of Yancy’s threat -- that he might be put on probation for real and potentially let go. Eric scoffs at this, disbelieving. Jack is well-known in the community… no way he’d get ousted. It’s an empty threat.

Eric: What’ll probably happen is that if anything, they put you off contract, and the position would reopen for applicants. So all you’d have to do is apply again, and Evelyn would hand it back to you without question. Yancy is just reaching, he can’t --

Jack: But Evelyn isn’t the only vote that matters, Eric. If they can flip a decision on something like the scholarships… that affects the students… and I don’t think he’s bluffing. I mean, he brought up Lucas, he mentioned… he mentioned you and me…

Eric shrinks a bit at this. It’s uncomfortable that someone is using their relationship as leverage, implying it’s a bad thing, but he’s also nervous about the way Jack is taking it. He knows how much he cares about AAA. He’d do anything to keep it afloat, to do what’s right for the school.

Eric: So… [ with a deep breath ] What do you want to do?

Jack, softly: Right now… I just think we need to… we need to step back. Put things on hold until the dust settles. My examination period should be over soon, and when this is all sorted, then… then maybe we can…

But for now, they can’t. There’s too much at stake… things both of them care about more than themselves. Although Eric is reluctant, he does his best to keep his emotions in check and nods along. He places a hand on Jack’s shoulder, letting it rest there for a moment. Stroking with his thumb, soaking in the touch for all it’s worth. Who knows when he’ll comfortably get to do it again.

Eric: Whatever you need, Jack. I understand. [ with difficulty ] I’m with you.

Jack nods, grateful. More grateful than he’ll ever know. He holds his gaze for a long moment, then leans forward and presses his lips softly to the corner of his mouth. So close, yet so far… Eric closes his eyes, trying his best not to crack.

Jack pulls back, swallowing hard. He clears his throat and nods, back to a fragile shell of professionalism.

Jack: I’ll see you at school.

Eric returns the nod, but he can’t meet his eyes. Jack hesitates for a moment longer, wishing it wasn’t this way, wishing he could stay… then steps back into the hall, shutting the door behind him.

Like he was never there.

INT. YINDRA’S CHURCH - DAY

Charlie and Nigel are in one of the pews amidst the usual congregation of Yindra’s church, waiting for the choir following the service to begin. Charlie seems excited but nervous, liking the high spirits and jovial energy but worried he’s an imposter just like he is everywhere else. He leans over to Nigel.

Charlie: I stick out like a sore thumb, don’t I?

Nigel: Mm, yeah. But it’s okay, [ patting his arm ] you can’t help that you’re skim milk.

Thank you for that, Nigel. Charlie opens his mouth to respond, but nothing comes out, so it’s a relief when Yindra steps down front and center in her church choir robes to address the congregation. She cheerfully greets them and explains that she got to choose the song for this week, which she used to also fulfill the requirement for her art school lesson. Two birds, one stone, am I right?

Either way, she wants to dedicate the heart of this performance to her peers at school and in attendance this afternoon. She knows they’re all going through stuff, and even though it feels like the end of the world right now, it’ll all be water under the bridge one day. All they can do is take it day by day, and by the grace of God, everything will end up the way it’s meant to be.

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Bridge Over Troubled Water” as performed by Glee Cast || Performed by Yindra Amino

If anyone could deliver soulful, impressive vocals to rival and honor Mercedes Jones (for those of us who did watch Glee, unlike the Havies), it would be Yindra Amino. And deliver she does, both in the church and on the atrium steps at AAA where she splits this performance. The rest of her choir backing her up gospel style really does add a certain something something, but the true emphasis of the number is the meaning.

Your time has come to shine All your dreams are on their way See how they shine, oh, if you need a friend I'm sailing right behind

When she makes it to the latter half and the gospel kicks off clapping to the beat, the entire congregation leaps to their feet and eagerly joins in. Charlie and Nigel are right there with them -- as is the A class in the atrium intercut of the performance.

Yindra brings it home with a spectacular vocal run, and you have to wonder if she really could make it out there in L.A. on her vocal chops alone. The church erupts into gleeful applause as she wraps up and takes a bow with the choir, beaming bright.

Charlie mirrors her smile, enthusiastically clapping along. Experiencing for an instant what it’s like to feel comfortable in church -- allowed to just be himself.

INT. CHUBBIES - DAY

Lucas is anxiously sitting opposite Riley in the usual booth, watching as she carefully reads over his personal essays. She’s doing her best to maintain a professional and neutral expression while she goes, but it’s impossible to hold back the slightest smile on her lips as she reaches the conclusion. When she lifts her gaze to meet his, but purposefully builds suspense by not saying anything, he cracks.

Lucas: Well? They’re terrible, aren’t they? You can just say it if they are.

Riley: … [ breaking into a grin ] They’re great, Lucas. Brilliant, honestly. Not that I ever had any doubt you could pull it off.

What a relief. Lucas exhales a sigh, thanking her for taking the time to read them. Then he continues, softly apologizing for not telling her about what happened with Brandon. Even though he had good intentions, he knows it doesn’t matter. And if he wanted so much not for her to know, then obviously it was never a good idea to begin with.

Riley: You know it’s fine for you to mess up. I just don’t get why you didn’t tell me.

Lucas: [ after a beat ] I guess I didn’t… it’s like the stupid personal essays. I know that… I’m not a shining example of a good person. I don’t think that’s exactly a secret.

Riley: I don’t think that.

Lucas: I know. I know you don’t, and I think that’s why I didn’t want you to know. Because it’s like every thing I do that shows you that, the more you realize that I’m… less than ideal, then…

Riley tilts her head, giving him a sympathetic look. Then she gets up and comes to join him on his side of the booth, sliding in next to him and leaning forward a bit so he’ll meet her gaze.

Riley: I told you that I wanted a relationship with you, and I meant it. And that’s all of you -- everything, the good and the bad. Even if you make a mistake, or I get disappointed, it doesn’t change that. We’ll find a way to work it out. I want you.

Her way with words makes everything sound so easy, so simple… and maybe it is. Maybe it can be just as simple as wanting each other, loving each other, and making it work. Lucas absorbs the sentiment, smiling shyly and thanking her again.

Hard part out of the way, Riley asks him how he managed to break his writer’s block and write those killer essays. What was his secret? Lucas hums, thinking about it.

Lucas: It was kind of what you said. You know, changing my perspective. When I was trying to write it from my lens, it was… well, you know. But then I just tried to think… what would Riley say? If someone asked you about me. And when I thought about it like that, I don’t know… suddenly, it was easy.

Riley chews her lip, smile blossoming on her face. She pulls him into a gentle kiss, one that he returns before swiftly stealing another one. She nudges her forehead against his, fondness shining in her eyes as she looks at him.

It’s no mystery how thinking like her made for some unbeatable work.

Billy, pre-lap: I knew it. I knew he wasn’t loyal.

INT. HAVERFORD PREP - SENIOR LOUNGE - DAY

Dweezil’s phone is sitting on the tabletop, open to the Adams social media page. Displayed are a handful of photos Yogi took during the ‘70s dance… including one clearly featuring Charlie, dancing with Haley and Clarissa. Although it looks like he’s having a swell time, Billy and Dweezil don’t seem happy for their classmate at all.

Dweezil: He’s never really jumped ship. We know he’s always hanging out with Riley anyway. This is just definitive proof.

Billy: Showdown is in a week. If he’s still this comfortable with his old chums, who knows how much shit he’s telling them.

Dweezil: And what if he finds out about the plan? No way he’s going to let us do it.

Billy: I say we take care of this now. Before it interferes with our performance.

Dweezil: He might blow everything.

Billy: Brandon. You have to have an opinion on this shit.

Opposite them and seated at the table, Brandon is examining the photograph for himself. He’s unperturbed as usual, thoughtful and contemplative. He doesn’t comment until Billy and Dweezil basically demand input from him, at which point he offers a calm smile.

Brandon: It’s nice to see him enjoying himself, isn’t it? I like Charles. He’s a nice kid. [ a beat, then suavely ] And a coward.

Brandon gingerly places Dweezil’s phone back on the desk, reclining back in his chair.

Brandon: I’m not worried about him.

Billy: Man, you’re kidding --

Dweezil: And what if he decides to --

Brandon: Don’t you get it? He’s not going to do anything. If there’s one thing you can count on with Charles, it’s that he’s spineless. He’s not feeding them information, and even if he does take offense to something we do, he isn’t going to do shit. Gardner is soft, and he’s the least of our worries. But in a week it’s not even going to matter. Especially not when we’ve got this.

Brandon retrieves the flash drive from his blazer pocket, placing it on the table between them. Billy and Dweezil eye it with interest -- they all clearly know what it contains.

Brandon: Once we crack into this, it’s over. We’re going to crush Adams like we do every year -- whether Charles helps or not.

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

Ah, to be back in the warm embrace of the auditorium -- even if it’s still a bit banged up. It’ll take a little while longer to get the auditorium back in tip-top shape, but the A class can at least come home to roost in it again, which is where they gather for the kick off the next week.

All of them give a round of applause to Harley for his assistance in repairing their mistakes, and hope that he enjoyed the performances of the last few days. He assures them he did, though as he understands it, the week isn’t quite over yet. He steps back and allows Jade to take front and center.

She thanks all of them for being patient with her while she finished up her portfolio materials, and at this point she only has one more request. Behind her, Dave and Dylan roll out the racks with her ‘70s portfolio costumes, and she explains that she needs models to pose for the photographs she’s going to include in her application of all her hard work. Now hm… where on Earth is she going to find suitable, available models for free who she just happened to know all the measurements of and would fit perfectly into these custom costumes…

Song Cue ♫ ♪ “Shake Your Booty” as performed by Forever In Your Mind || Performed by AAA Seniors

Riley beams, claiming she thinks she knows where they could find a few volunteers. The A class launches to their feet, rushing the stage to see what Jade has in store.

INT. AAA - BOYS DRESSING ROOM - DAY

The boys kick off this energetic, bopping closing number, changing into their Jade ‘70s ensembles and grooving in the dressing room. Sliding through the wall --

INT. AAA - GIRLS DRESSING ROOM - DAY

The girls are doing the same, fluffing their hair and doing each other’s make up as they sing into the mirrors. Once they’re all set, Yindra leads the way out into the dressing room hall…

INT. AAA - DRESSING ROOM HALL - DAY

Where they meet up with the boys, strutting in their fierce, authentically ‘70s looks. They make a mad dash for the auditorium --

INT. AAA - AUDITORIUM - DAY

And reclaim their stage, breaking into disco grooves as they toss around solo lines and show off their outfits. Jade stands with Yogi and helps him direct the costume shoot, both of them dressed up as well with Jade sporting the stereotypical but Jade-infused bohemian flower power girl look with a flowy white dress with puffy sleeves and a leather headband laced with wildflowers.

On the bridge, we get a montage of all of the A class posing in their outfits as they dance to get their pictures taken. This highlights not only how much we love this silly crop of seniors, but also how fantastic and individualized Jade’s costumes truly are. Paired with the earnest and jubilant performance, it’s a truly lovable showing.

Then they bring it on home with a disco line dance, all breaking into the same groovy choreography and all in their ‘70s garb. Zay watches from the audience with Lucas and the faculty, for once seemingly not in despair over being benched and still getting a custom outfit of his own. Dylan and Asher are front and center, and they pull Jade into it on the last few lines, so she also gets her boogie in before the day is done.

If one thing is clear, it’s that disco is far from dead, thank you very much! And while the A class has a lot on their plates -- and insurmountable stakes ahead -- it’s hard not to feel hopeful when they’ve got each other.

Whether that’s enough, well, soon we’ll find out.

END OF EPISODE.

[fanficfeeling]

Lovely Part 2 - Jaskier x Reader

A/N: Hey everyone! Wow! Part 1 received far more positive feedback than I thought it would! I'm super grateful to everyone who read part one, or left a comment, or was just very encouraging, you've really helped re-spark my love for writing <3 Boy, this took way too long to finish, but I just really wanted to make sure it held up the first part at least a little! I hope you enjoy this part as well, and I'm planning on writing at least one more part to this after this, so let me know if your interested in that/how much more of this story you're interested in seeing! Either way I'm planning on continuing to write for The Witcher, and on starting to post for other fandoms (of which I'll be posting a list soon!) so if you like my work please follow or just keep an eye out! Love you guys.

Summary: 3 times Jaskier has done his best to distract Y/N from the less enjoyable parts of her life.

Part 1

Warnings: Brief language warning.

Tagged: @failure-of-the-day (I might be assuming but I thought you might like to be tagged!) @ultracolorfulnerdcollection @blue-hoodies-for-life @athenaisalpha

~~

Y/N found out rather quickly that spending time with Jaskier is a surefire way to bring a smile to her face. Her job can be depressing, Geralt is often silent at the most inopportune times, and travelling for such long distances can be boring, but Jaskier is none of those things, and often goes out of his way to grab her attention from that which brings down her mood.

For instance, moments like this one: Y/N has returned to this small town's inn after helping the townspeople for the day, feeling like the weight of the world is on her shoulders after the day she's had. Geralt hasn't returned from his monster slaying yet, so she seeks out Jaskier for company.

When she finds him in his room, he's laying on his bed, writing something down on a piece of paper haphazardly, using his propped-up knee as a work surface. As impractical as the position seems, he looks comfortable: laid back, his normal, fancier wear tossed aside for a simple white shirt and comfortable trousers, and a smile upon his face. It take Y/N all of a second to decide that the look does him great justice.

"Jaskier." Y/N starts, making him aware of her presence.

He looks up, briefly startled, but when his eyes come to rest on her, his smile widens, "Hello, Y/N."

"I just wanted to let you know that I'm back in for the evening."

"I'm glad! It was getting boring around here with no company. Please, come in, sit down." Y/N expects him to gesture to the chair against the wall in invitation, but he simply moves his feet and makes room on his bed for her. She means to be more proper about coming into his space, but as she approaches, she finds that she ends up throwing herself down onto the bed, her exhaustion weighing down her bones.

This seems to be the first time Jaskier notices her mood is off, "Hey, everything alright?"

Y/N looks at him sheepishly, "Just a long day is all. How was yours?"

Taking the hint that she wasn't up for talking about it, Jaskier indulges her, "I started writing a new song today, and I have to admit, it's taken up pretty much all of my time. It's-"

It's all Y/N can do to stay focused on his words for that long, as images of ill people, broken homes, and crying children fill her mind. This town is lucky to have an inn still standing, considering all the havoc beasts nearby have caused. Why must monsters even have to exist like this at all? Why must innocent people suffer for mindless, bloodthirsty crazes? Why does Y/N dedicate herself to cleaning up messes that aren't even hers?

"Y/N?" She looks up at Jaskier at the sound of his persistent voice, and it isn't until she attempts to speak that she realizes she's begun crying. She also finds that she can't find anything to say to him to make an excuse for her state.

He doesn't question any further though, and swiftly gives her a soft smile, before setting aside his papers and opening his arms, beckoning her towards him.

She doesn't even think about it as she crawls towards him and re-positions herself so that he can envelop her in a hug, as she lays her head against his chest. Just being there quickly quiets the tears, but Jaskier doesn't let go, and for that Y/N is grateful.

They sit in silence as Y/N calms herself, and eventually Jaskier leans down a little bit to kiss her forehead and whisper, "Whatever you've been through, please just remember that I'm here for you and that your soul is good, and deserves to be returned the help and goodness that you give."

Oh yeah, that's why she does it all. However hard it can be, it's the good she does that keeps her moving.

~~~

The next time Jaskier goes out of his way to lift Y/N's mood, Y/N and Geralt are sitting at a table in another tavern, completely silent. Normally Y/N has no issues with respecting their silence, she often enjoys it, but her work involved a lot of repairs today, and she barely had any human connection at all throughout the day. She fidgets, doing her best not to disturb Geralt as he seems to contemplate something—she knows he has his own demons swimming around in his mind—but she worries that if she doesn't do something stimulating soon, she very well might burst.

Jaskier descends from the rooms above the tavern space, looking to begin his own work for the night as an entertainer. He had gotten permission from the owner of this establishment earlier in the day to perform in the space, and as it got on into the evening, he knew that now was his prime time. He had cleaned himself up, decided on his song list, and was ready to go.

As he looked around the tavern sizing up his audience, his eyes came to rest upon his travelling companions. Geralt seems lost in thought, and Y/N... Y/N seems downright bored. Knowing that she's been having a rough go of it lately with her work, Jaskier quickly decides that he cannot let this stand.

He swiftly changes his course and makes his way towards their table, a plan only half formed in his mind, and when he stops in front of them he finds himself asking, "Y/N, could I ask a favor of you?"

She looks at him, curiosity in her eyes and a soft smile on her mouth—a goddess in the flesh, he thinks—and he continues, "I have some songs that I was planning on playing tonight, and I would like to see how they fare as duets. Would you join me?"

Jaskier doesn't know by what miracle she says yes, and neither does she, really, but soon the two fall into a groove that brings the attention, and coin, of the patrons. They stumble through the first few songs, rousing some laughs from their audience, until they get to "Toss A Coin To Your Witcher", and the audience joins in singing with them. The pair puts on a show as they sing and they dance, and the audience adores it.

After a rendition (or several) of Jaskier's hit song, many of their audience members start to fall away, so the bard takes that as a hint to start slowing things down.

"Y/N, how would you feel about rounding this performance off by performing "Her Sweet Kiss" with me?"

Y/N's heart skips a beat. She's heard the way he sings that song, and the emotion he puts into it is always enough to bring her near to tears.

"I would be honored."

He starts the beginning off himself, and cues her when to come in. "So tell me love, tell me love, how is that just?" Jaskier never breaks eye contact with Y/N as they sing, and she utters no complaints as it feels like he bears his soul to her while gazing deeply into hers.

"I'm weak, my love, and I am wanting. If this is the path I must trudge, I'll welcome my sentence, give to you my penance, garroter, jury, and judge."

When Y/N had wished for human interaction, this was not what she had expected, but fuck her if it wasn't far better.

As the song comes to a close, Y/N still can't find it in her to look away from his eyes, but luckily for her, it seems that neither can he. The applause of the crowd goes unnoticed by both until the moment passes on its own.

"Thank you, for doing this with me, Y/N."

"Thank you for asking, Jaskier."

~~~

While traveling is, of course, a luxury, just the act of getting somewhere new isn't always the most enjoyable of activities. Travelling may be an integral part of Y/N's job, but knowing that is rarely enough to make her feel better about her soreness from riding her horse, or the boredom she feels as they slowly move along on empty side roads, past endless fields. Yet, this is ultimately a part of her job, so she grins and bears it for the satisfaction of helping people and the coin it brings.

Jaskier, in all his many observations of this captivating do-gooder, begins to notice that she rarely has a good time between locations. He notices that she has no way to occupy herself, besides just listening to him ramble, and he notices that she doesn't seem to plan on doing anything to remedy that situation. So, he resolves to do so himself.

"Y/N," He begins as he sits on her horse behind her, one arm wrapped around her waist. "How would you like to play a game?"

"A game? Why?"

"Because I'm terribly bored and would like to hear your lovely voice. Are you in?"

"Oh, uh, I suppose I am, yes."

"Okay then. I spy, with my little eye-" Her laughter that follows is enough to make Jaskier's heart light. Making her laugh always makes him just a little bit happier.

He hears Geralt groan next to them on Roach, and watches in amusement as he begins to trot further up ahead of them.

"What a grumpy, grumpy man. Alright, hush now, or you'll miss the object. Anyways, I spy, with my little eye, something very long and brown."

"Oh, oh, is it the tree trunks?"

"Very close but not quite. Something dusty."

"The road!"

"Ding ding ding! You've got it!" She laughs once more at his enthusiasm.

"My turn then! I spy, with my little eye, something... big and blue."

Jaskier pretends to think for a moment, and then feigns surprise as he exclaims, "The sky!"

He thinks her joyful laughter is stopping his heart by now, but he's certain he might fall off the horse when she says, "I could preserve this round for a little longer and say 'It was actually your eyes', but that might be a little obvious, huh?"

He rests his head on her shoulder and attempts to look at her face. "That gives me an idea. I spy, with my little eye, something lovely."

A blush breaks out across her face immediately, but she tries not to make assumptions. "Oh, uh... those flowers on the side of the road?"

"Not quite. A bit closer to me." She swears she can feel his arms tighten around her just a fraction.

"Then... is it the horse? You two seem to get along quite well." He chuckle is deep, and she can feel the motion against her back.

"I do love Cinnamon dearly, but you're still a bit off. Try again."

Y/N's breath hitches in her throat, and she glances to the side to look at him, finding him closer than she expected. "Lovely? Is it, uh... me, then?" His smile is enough to make her think her heart will soon burst out of her chest.

"Very good. You're excellent at this. Fancy another round?"

It takes her several minutes to calm down, but she gets into their game again, and sure enough, before either of them even know it, they've reached their destination. They both find themselves a little sad when they have to let go and get off of Cinnamon, but the feeling of being so close doesn't leave either of them for hours.  

Yes, Y/N reflects, everything really does get better with him around.

Yeah, Jaskier thinks, I wouldn't trade a second with her for anything.

[ordinaryschmuck]

What I thought about every episode of The Owl House Season 1 (Part 1/2)

Salutations random people on the internet who probably won't read this. I am an Ordinary Schmuck. I write stories and reviews and draw comics and cartoons.

Hey, do you miss Gravity Falls?

...

Yeah, I know, dumb question. Which is why I have good news! Not only is there a new series that is just as good as Gravity Falls, but in some ways, it's even better. That new series would be none other than Disney Channel's latest hit: The Owl House.

The Owl House, slowly but surely, became my new obsession since Eda reacted to decapitation with an unconcerned, "I hate when that happens." I wrote fan-fiction, made fan-art, and even began to separately review new episodes. Unfortunately, I got in a little late in the reviewing game and only managed to analyze the last four episodes of season one. And like an idiot, I promised that I'll review the rest when they came out on Disney+. Seeing that all of the first season has finally come on a legal streaming service (which means WATCH IT RIGHT NOW!), it's time I finally saw through to that promise. However, I'm not going to over-analyze each episode because that would be insane. So instead, we're going to lightning round these suckers. Because it's my Tumblr, and I get to decide what I review and how the hell I review it...hooah.

Which means this is your last chance to avoid spoilers if you haven't seen The Owl House yet. Seriously, it's a great show, and you can catch up right now on Disney+. A week-long trial is more than enough time to watch the series, so DO IT! With that out of the way, let's get started with:

“A Lying Witch and a Warden”: This episode gets a lot of flack for having poor pacing and being too preachy with its message. And to that, I say...you're not wrong. Yeah, I wish I could be that person who can defend this episode against criticism like that, but these are understandable problems that just left this icky feeling in my tum-tum when watching. But that's only when looking at it as a regular old episode when in reality, people need to see it as a first episode. The first episode in any show needs to get viewers interested enough to continue watching by answering these five essential questions: What's the plot of the show? What's the tone? Who are the main characters? What's the world they live in? And what are the rules of the same world? "A Lying Witch and a Warden" does a great job of answering all of these questions. And if you stuck around until the season finale, then that means it did a great job of keeping you interested in sticking around as well. So seeing how it got its job done, albeit, with mixed results, I give this episode a B-.

“Witches Before Wizards”: Don't mind me. Just reveling in the fact that Luz escaped to a fantasy world to avoid Reality Check Camp, only to get a reality check anyway. Because that's what this episode is in a nutshell. Through the "quest" that Luz goes on, she learns two important lessons: One, don't trust strangers who offer you something nice and shiny (bonus points for Eda warning Luz to avoid men with sandals and then have Ategast wear sandals). And two, there is no such thing as having a predetermined destiny. I love the idea that Luz coming to the Isles was just a twist of fate, and everything that happens afterward is pure dumb luck. And that moment when Eda gave a speech about making your own path instead of waiting to become something special? That was the moment when I went from thinking this was going to be a fun show to thinking it's going to be a great show. So consider this episode a solid A in my book.

“I Was a Teenage Abomination”: How is it possible for an episode to get better and worse with time? Because here's the thing: This episode does a great job of showing how perfect Amity's development is. After one single season, it already feels jarring, seeing the way she acts in certain scenes. However, in that same respect, it's the same reason why this episode got worse. I didn't mind that Willow practically got away with cheating and vandalizing the school with her magic because she and Luz were basically trying to show up a two-dimensional bully. But knowing what we know in the future, it does seem unfair that Amity gets punished for their bad behavior and Willow got little consequences for it. Sure, Luz got banned and had to work at gaining Amity's trust, but what about Willow? Although, despite this complaint, I don't really hate this episode. It builds a believable connection between Luz and her friends, and the B-plot King and Eda show off their budding friendship. So while this episode is a C-, it's a somewhat enjoyable C-.

“The Intruder”: Is it weird for anyone else that King gets most of the blame in this episode? Yes, he took the potion, but Luz was the one who kept pushing him. This is why it never sat right with me seeing how everyone, including himself, blames King for this episode's incident. That being said, "The Intruder" is fantastic. Eda, as the Owl Beast, is legitimately threatening, and the way the episode treats Eda's curse like a chronic illness is actually kind of sweet. It teaches kids how this is something that just happens to people, and they're not any weaker because of it, as long as they take the right steps. Which is cool, and it's why this is another solid A episode for me. Sure King getting the blame bothers me, but it pales in comparison to everything else “The Intruder” does right.

“Covention”: If you want my personal opinion (obviously, seeing how you're reading this), "Covention" is the perfect episode to show a friend to get them into watching the The Owl House. Everything there is to love about the show is seen in just these twenty-two minutes. Eda being a chaotic good, Luz being a sweet and understanding character, some incredible/natural world-building, an actually decent B-plot, an epic fight scene, great comedy, and, my personal favorite, the building of Luz and Amity's relationship. In fact, this episode has the most quintessential moment between these two, that Dana Terrace herself took charge of making the animatic for it. A scene that is so perfect that you can do an analysis of these few minutes alone...which is what I did. Click here to read it! "Covention" gets an A+ in my book and might possibly be the best episode of the season. Maybe even the series!

“Hooty’s Moving Hassle”: There's not really a lot I can say about this episode. I don't hate it, but I'm not exactly in love with it. The interactions between Luz and her friends are adorable, and there are a few good jokes that kept me laughing. But the story is kind of bland, and I just find Eda's sudden obsession with Hexes Hold'em kind of odd. Especially since a card game is what nearly defeated the "undefeatable" Owl Lady. If it wasn't for the nice reveal of Willow's and Amity's friendship (which comes into play in a far better episode), I'd say that you could skip this one on future rewatches. Because this is a C grade episode that just doesn't grab me as well as others.

“Lost in Language”: Ah, yes. The episode that made dozens of fans jump aboard the Lumity ship...unless you're like me, and you've been shipping these two since the show's theme song (And I don't know why, either. It's just the second I saw Amity my first thought was, "Oh, honey. You're gonna fall in love with the main character, aren't you?" AND I WAS F**KING RIGHT!). But jokes about shipping aside, "Lost in Language" is a fantastic episode. It has a great lesson about how people are more complex than their first impressions (Or to not judge a book by its cover, if you wanna stay on theme). Edric and Emira seem like a chaotic duo who cause mischief all for good fun. But Luz, as well as the audience, learns that Ed and Em are kinda the worst (they get better in future episodes, but still). Then there's Amity, who hasn't had the best first impressions in the last few episodes. We got glimpses of a good person here and there, but for the most part, that's all they were. Glimpses. Then there's this episode, which gives us more than a small look, but some actual insight into who Amity really is. Better yet, who she wants to be. It's something that I appreciate about The Owl House in that it wastes no time in developing Amity's character. So much so that I can forgive this episode for shoehorning a "Two idiots and a baby" plotline that does nothing but add maybe two minutes of padding. So yeah, it's an A+ for sure.

“Once Upon a Swap”: "Ugh! It's the body swap episode! How cliche and-" SHUT UP! Shut your mouth, and listen: Something being cliche does not always make it bad. Only when the cliche fails to tell an entertaining story does it have the right to work as a complaint. "Once Upon a Swap" may have a cliche premise, but it's still an enjoyable story (or stories) with great laughs and even some ok lessons. I can understand if you hate the episode because its premise is something you've seen a dozen times to the point where your sick of it. My most hated story idea is the "Character A saves Character B, and Character B becomes a life slave." If you have seen this story once, you've seen it a thousand times, and it's the same case with a "body swap" episode. But guess what: The Owl House is a kids' show. Kids'. Show. You can complain all you want about predictability, but kids are the type of viewers who will be new to this experience, despite if it's one that is done to death. Which is why this is solid B of an episode if you ask me.

“Something Ventured, Someone Framed”: Can people please stop shipping Gus with Mattholomule? Because that slimy, greasy, weaselly little son of A BASTARD BITCH WEASEL DOES NOT DESERVE LOVE IN WAY POSSIBLE!

...

But enough about how Mattholomule is the worst character ever, because "Something Ventured, Someone Framed" is a B+ in my opinion. Sure it shows the worst side of Gus and lets Satan's little herpe win in the end, but there is still quality to be had. We get insight into who Gus is as a character, on top of Eda swallowing her pride and cleaning the school so Luz can get into Hexide. Also, Eda's permanent record was the first time this show brought me to tears due to laughing so hard. So while I have to take points off for the inclusion of Mattholomule (I don't make the rules. I just live by them), this is still an episode I wouldn't mind revisiting.

“Escape of the Palisman”: I subscribe to this theory that Luz will one day have Eda's staff as her own. And episodes like this that strengthen the bond between Luz and Owlbert help confirm that theory. Luz's dedication to trying to make things right could just be part of her kind nature, but I like to believe that this is Dana and the crew trying to set up this possible outcome. As for what I think about the episode itself...it's ok. Again, Luz's dedication is nice to see, and King's adventure with Owl Beast Eda is somehow insanely adorable, but there's not really much to say other than that. So it's another B episode for me.

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

And that’s the end of part one! Part two has probably already been posted by the time you finish this, so you can go ahead and find that if you’re interested.

[cosmic-affinities]

Fantasy Meets Reality Ch.1

This is the first chapter of my take on the BNHA Fantasy AU, I posted a snippet of this fic earlier this week, let me know if you are eager for more! Also huge huge huge shoutout to @we-stanjirou for being my motivation and feedback machine for this! This would have taken a lot longer without their help!

Read chapter 1 on AO3 Here.

Of fucking course it had to be Katsuki Bakugou.

Who else would have a weirdo clone from some kind of ‘Alternate Dimension’ show up to mess up their life. Obviously no one.

Of fucking course Bakugou just had to be the one who temporarily imprinted on the random ass third year who had a dimension summoning quirk.

Because why wouldn’t he?

It started with Bakugou being in the direct line of sight of a sick third year who was having trouble keeping his quirk under control. Next thing he knew there was a small pop and deceivingly large tear in the middle of the room.

Before anyone could react a second Katsuki could be seen, luckily Mr. Aizawa had been nearby and witnessed the ordeal. The teacher ushered the third year out of the room and sent him to Recovery Girl to relay the events in hopes of reversing them. He was lucky enough to have had him as a student and understood how his quirk worked. As he turned to face most of his homeroom class, an eruption of noise came over the room.

“WHAT THE HELL JUST HAPPENED?!” Was the most prominent question in the room.

“Everyone quiet down IMMEDIATELY.” Mr. Aizawa was quick to rein in his problem children.

“That student's quirk has the ability to pull a different version of anyone that is in close enough range from a different reality. In this case Bakugou happened to be in close enough range when the student lost control of his quirk due to him being sick, to have summoned a different version of him. Everyone is to remain silent as I talk to this alternate version of Bakugou.” The class was too stunned to speak, and those who weren’t took Aizawa’s words to heart.

“Now, I am Shouta Aizawa-”

“The mage?”

“No I am not a mage, you have been brought to an alternate reality than that of your own, we are going to get you back to your own realm as quickly as possible, but for the time being you will have to remain here.”

“How would anyone but a mage know of these things?” The skepticism was evident in his tone and expression.

“In this reality we do not have mages, many people are born with special abilities unique to them and your presence here happens to be because of one of those abilities.”

“If that is the case then why are there many people here that I recognise? That one with the dark blue hair is a knight, and the red and white haired one is the son of the insolent so-called King of the surrounding lands.”

“You must have been pulled from a dimension with similar people around you.”

“Are we just going to dismiss the fact that this fucking extra is wearing my face?!” Bakugou finally snapped.

“Bakugou, language, as I said we will resolve this as soon as possible but in the meantime you all must stay here, we can’t afford to disrupt two separate dimensions if the student’s quirk usage was faulty due to being ill, I want all of you to stay here until I get back, acquaint yourselves, I still can’t be sure as to how long there will be two of you.” The teacher left no room for complaints as he swiftly walked towards Recovery Girl’s office.

As soon as everyone was composed, the questions came flooding in.

“Did you say Iida was a knight?”

“Do you know who I am?”

“My father is insolent in more than one realm, who would've guessed.”

“Do you recognise me?”

“Who are you?”

The questions were all coming far too quickly for any of them to be answered, the ruckus did seem to alert another student though. As Midoriya walked in everyone became quiet.

“Hey Kaccha- You’re not Kacchan.” Midoriya stopped abruptly in front of the newcomer, obviously confused.

“Um guys what’s happening?” Before anyone could respond, though, the second Bakugou spoke.

“Izuku?” Any words the students had died on their tongues, they had never heard that voice call Midoriya anything but Deku.

“How do you know my name? Who are you? What’s going on?”

“I am Katsuki Bakugou.”

“No-no you definitely are not, would someone please tell me what’s happening?” The only one who surprisingly held their composure through all this spoke up.

“Some idiot third year who couldn’t control their fucking quirk brought this here from another dimension, and apparently you  happen to make an appearance there too.”

“Kacchan! Finally someone who will answer me, this is all because of a quirk? What are we supposed to do?’

“Aizawa just told us to stay here until he gets back from talking to the idiot that got us into this fucking mess.”

“Izuku.”

“Why do you keep calling me that?”

“That’s your name, is it not?”

“Well yeah but I don’t know you!”

“Well allow me to reintroduce myself, I am Katsuki Bakugou, Dragon Master. Although, you usually call me Kit.”

“Okay... Kit?  How do you know me, and anyone else here that you might recognise?”

“Well Izuku, you, a Knight in training, came to find me to join you on your quest to rid our kingdom of its biggest threat, a giant demonic beast determined to destroy everything we have built over thousands of years.”

“Okay… and everyone else?”

“Well there is,” he pointed around the room, gesturing to everyone as he spoke “Prince Todoroki, the witch Uraraka, the knight Iida, Martial Artist and aspiring Dragon Master Kirishima, Soldier Kaminari, the Musical Mage Jirou, Ashido and Asui are the Innkeepers of our favorite inn, and finally potion master Yaoyorozu.” He had gone around the room completely only skipping the other version of him.

“Alright, Kit, thank you. I guess we'll just have to wait for Mr. Aizawa, like Kacchan said.” At this his classmates began quietly discussing the new information, curious about their alternate personalities.

“Who is this… Kacchan?”

“Me, the one whose face you stole.” There was a certain edge to his voice that no one could place.

“Yes, I’m guessing the other version of me calls you Kit in a similar way that I call him Kacchan.” Midoriya said in a placating maner.

“I doubt that, based on the way Kacchan acts, I would say it is different from the way my Izuku calls me Kit.”

“Don’t call me that, my name is Bakugou, I don’t care if it's yours too.” Neither version of the fiery blonde took notice of the flush on Midoriya’s face at the usage of ‘my Izuku’ and newfound protectiveness over a nickname.

At this point the rest of their classmates became interested in the newcomer, curious to find out more about the alternate reality.

“Wait, bro can you tell us more about where you are from? I kinda want to know more about becoming a Dragon Master like you said I am becoming!” From there Kit moved towards the middle of Class A’s common room to answer their questions, now coming at a reasonable pace.

“Tch.”

“What’s wrong Kacchan?”

“Huh, nothing! I don’t care about that shitty version of me.” Although his voice radiated with confidence, he wore a look of distrust, waiting for something to go wrong.

“It’s all a little too weird for me, I guess everyone is really curious about what the other versions of them would be doing, I really would rather not.”

“I figured a nerd like you would be all over this, trying to figure out the formula to replicate the quirk that started it all or something equally as stupid.”

“Yeah no, it's kinda weird talking to not-you, although the way he talks about not-me makes me wonder…” Midoriya trailed off, not wanting to admit to wondering about Kit’s relationship with not-him.

“No one else seems to really care, even half and half is using an actual facial expression.”

“You two are so different though, it would be super easy to tell you two apart.”

“You really think so Midobro? They are pretty much identical.” Kirishima cut in, apparently satisfied with the answers from Kit.

“O-oh yeah I’m pretty sure it would be super easy.”

“Wanna try?”

“What do you mean shitty hair, it’s literally wearing a cape with no shirt, obviously he could tell us apart right now.”

“Why don’t you guys just change clothes? You are literally the exact same size, and I want to see if Mido could actually do it,” Kirishima quickly faced the rest of the room “Do you guys think Midoriya could tell these two apart?”

There were varying murmurs of agreement before Mina spoke up.

“Well yeah, but right now it is super obvious! They would need to change.”

“I never fucking agreed to this Shitty Hair!” Before anyone could respond, the door opened and revealed a tired looking Aizawa,

“Listen up everyone, Recovery Girl told me that the safest way to get Bakugou into his own reality would be to wait until the third year is no longer ill and just have him reverse his quirk. She also said that his recovery would not be for three to four days because she cannot heal the flu.”

Everyone looked at their teacher expectantly, they were waiting for him to continue. With a sigh Aizawa continued.

“He will stay in the extra dorm room on the second floor, and I just need to ask Bakugou to lend him some clothing while he is here, seeing as you would be the same size.” The teacher looked at the original Bakugou and nodded at his vague grunt in response.

“I will take that as a yes, and if I see him in the exact same clothes tomorrow, you will serve a detention.” With his words he walked out of the common room and left the students to their previous conversation.

“See Bakubro, if you just give him something now and then you go change, we can see if Midoriya can actually tell you two apart!” The only response Kirishima got was an eyeroll.

“I don’t think he could, they’re identical!” Kaminari spoke from his position across the room.

“I don’t think so either, sorry Midoriya.” Todoroki’s words caused Midoriya to flush. The rest of the class came to the consensus that, if wearing different clothes, they didn’t think Midoriya could tell the two apart.

“Do you think they’ll let this go?” Bakugou leaned in and whispered to Midoriya while everyone was distracted.

“I don’t think so Kacchan, you know how everyone can get.”

With an audible sigh and an eye roll Bakugou spoke up again, this time to the whole class.

“Fine whatever, none of you will ever let this go so let’s just get it fucking over with.”

Everyone looked shocked, no one expected him to agree so quickly, if at all. Their eyes soon drifted to Kit, who seemed slightly confused.

“Really?”

“Did I fucking stutter Shitty Hair? I don’t want to deal with this shit for three days, might as well get it over with now.”

“Wow, ok um Kit, are you o-”

“Um I would actually prefer if you didn’t call me Kit, thank you.” Mina and Uraraka shared a look at this information.

“Oh right sorry, how about Katsuki-kun?”

‘Yes that’s fine.”

“Alright Katsuki-kun, are you alright with doing this little test?”

“Um sure I guess, although I don’t understand what enjoyment could come of it.”

“Perfect! Bakubro, why don’t you take Katsuki-kun to get some clothes and we can set up here with Midoriya?”

“Tch whatever, let's go.” The blondes walked out of the room towards Bakugou’s dorm and the common room quickly got to work.

“I say we have them sit next to each other on this big couch and make Midoriya stand on the other side of the table. And we can have them put their hands behind their backs against the couch so he can’t tell by quirk usage.” Kirishima said, seemingly having put in a lot of thought.

“And we will just check to make sure there are no obvious identification marks on them.” Uraraka added.

“We also can’t let Midoriya see them walk in, what if they walk differently!” Tsu had a point.

“I can take Midoriya into the corner while they walk in and get settled then he can stand behind the table.” Mina suggested.

This seemed to appease everyone, Mina quickly whisked Midoriya into the corner and everyone waited for the two to return.

“So Midoriya, what’s got you so confident?”

“W-well I guess there's just something distinct about Kacchan that Kit doesn’t have, I honestly couldn’t tell you Mina” The pink girl took a moment to process what was being said to her.

“Just a distinct quality or..?” She hoped to get a little more information,’something distinct’ didn’t help her at all.

“Not a quality exactly, maybe a distinct presence? Like I said I’m not too sure, but I am confident that I’ll be able to tell them apart.”

“Well they do say confidence is key, maybe that’s all you need!”

“Alright I hear them walking this way, Mido turn around!” Mina gently grabbed his shoulders and faced him towards the wall and they listened to the instructions being told to the two as they came in.

“I don’t know Deku, they look pretty identical to me!” Uraraka slid in next to him and Mina, the two girls sharing a glance behind his back.

“Alright! They are in place! Sitting the exact same way and making the exact same face! Good luck Midobro.” Kirishima said before he motioned to Mina to move him towards the table.

He was right too, Midoriya saw the two from across the room and they could’ve been carbon copies of each other, but once he got into place he stood for about three seconds before he turned around and spoke up.

“So, when I get this right what happens?” The question created a small silence.

“Well what do you want IF you get this right.” Kaminari was first to speak up.

“Honestly? For Kacchan to make katsudon, but to ask him would defeat the purpose. OH! Actually I do know what I want,” He faced Uraraka directly “and that is for Uraraka to get off my back for that thing we talked about a few days ago, for at least a week.”

Everyone looked confused as Uraraka thought over the proposition.

“You really expect me to lay off after this?” Her eyebrow raise sent a note of challenge.

“Fine let's make a deal, I’m right and you lay off for a week. I’m wrong and I won’t complain for a week AND I’ll take one of your suggestions! You definitely have the better end of this.”

Uraraka had been on board when he mentioned taking one of her suggestions and didn’t hesitate to say yes.

“Now I really want to know what they talked about.”

“Well, you won’t be able to figure it out for at least a week Kirishima, because I know who is who.”

“There is no possible way you know already, you looked at them for like five seconds from ten feet away!” Kaminari seemed taken aback by the mere suggestion that Midoriya knew already.

“Well let me prove it then.” Midoriya faced the couch once again and pointed to the figure sitting to the right “To the right is Kit and to the left is Kacchan.” The air of confidence Midoriya possessed had rarely been seen.

The left figure spoke up first.

“Well shit, nerd, how did you manage that?”

Then the figure on the right.

“He’s right Izuku, that was quite impressive.” They were the only two to speak up for the moment. Then Midoriya responded.

“Kacchan, I could say your name before I could say my own, actually no, I couldn't say your name so I called you Kacchan instead before I said my own name, I’m pretty sure I can tell you apart from someone I just met like fifteen minutes ago.” This statement seemed to have gotten their class out of their stupor.

“Wait, that’s why you call him Kacchan? No wonder he won’t let m-”

“Pikachu I’ll kill you!” Bakugou made a move to stand up but Mdoriya stood in front of him.

“Kacchan really? Not worth the detention I promise, especially not one with Aizawa.” Bakugou slowly lowered his hands, resigning to the fact that the nerd was right.

Once his hands were lowered Midoriya turned away from him and faced Ochako.

“Now, you have to lay off for a whole week!” Everyone saw the smug look on Midoriya’s face, one they never expected to be pointed at another person.

“Izuku, would you come here for a minute?” The common room quieted down for a moment when they heard Kit speak up. Midoriya walked towards him in response and they both moved just out of earshot of the others, and they continued their shocked conversations.

“Can I ask you something? Will you promise to not be offended?”

“Uh sure Kit, go ahead, I won’t be offended.”

Kit dropped his voice even lower, making sure no one would over hear them.

“You love him?”

Even though he didn’t say who, the red of Midoriya’s cheeks gave away his answer.

“Seeing as you are only going to be here for a few more days, I’m not going to lie to you. Yes, I’m pretty sure I always have.” The simplicity of his words and the sincerity in his eyes were almost incapacitating, he had never even been that honest with himself, let alone to someone else. Even more so than to someone who had the same face as the one he was talking about.

“Thank you for your honesty, it is very noble of you. I have one other thing to admit to you.”

“Go ahead Kit, I’m listening.”

“I feel a very similar way about my Izuku, that's why I was in such a state when you came in, you see my Izuku became angry with me around a week ago after a nasty argument, I haven't had his gaze upon me since so the shocking green of your eyes momentarily disarmed me.” His honesty urged Midoriya’s primal need to please people to kick in.

“Hey Kit?”

“Yes?”

“If he's anything like me, then a little bit of time will go a long way. Once he realises you're gone he won’t want to lose you again, but if you want a piece of advice. Go after him, don’t let him think that you are willing to let him go. Trust me if you go after him, even just once, it will mean the world to him.” Midoriya disconnected their eye contact and looked towards his own hands.

“He’s watching us you know. Has been this whole time.” Midoriya’s eyes snapped up and over, he saw Bakugou huff and face the ground. “Do you trust me?”

“Depends on what for.”

“Will you follow my lead? If I can’t be with my ‘Zuku, maybe you can be with your Kacchan.”

“Yes, I trust you.”

“Good, act as if everything is normal.”

“Ok.” The two faced the rest of the class and stopped whispering, Kit quickly turned to Midoriya and spoke in a normal voice.

“It’s remarkable how similar you two are, and here I thought My Izuku was one in a million, or maybe I am just lucky enough to have met two of you in one lifetime.” As he spoke Kit ran his thumb over Midoriya’s cheekbone softly before letting his hand drop.

The flush on his face was evident, no one had ever spoken so poetically about him before. The silence that surrounded them was quickly broken by a small crackling that stopped just as suddenly as it started but not before Midorya caught a glimpse of an orange glow around Bakugou. Kit shot him a knowing glance.

“Wow Kit, uh, thank you. That was very nice of you, I’m sure your Izuku would love to hear it from you.”

“I’m quite afraid that I may have ruined my chances with him. I did and said some pretty harmful things.” Kit glanced towards the floor.

“I don’t think that’s possible Kit, some things are worth fighting for, you just have to choose what those things are.” Midoriya chanced a glance at Bakugou then directed his gaze back down to the floor. Once he looked back up he saw Kit looking at him.

“Thank you Izuku.” Midoriya had no time to prepare for the hug Kit enveloped him in, he stood shocked for a moment before he returned the gesture.

“Of course Kit.”

A whisper reached his ear from slightly above him.

“That was great, you should see his face.” Midoriya flushed at the implication and their arms dropped.

Midoriya was now fully aware of all the people staring at them, he quickly walked towards Uraraka to try and avoid their eyes. The reprieve he was searching for was not found with his friend, however.

“Deku what was that?!” Uraraka whispered to him, he should have expected this.

“What was what? He wanted to talk to me, is there a problem?” He tried very hard to give off an air of confidence, it seemed like he was succeeding.

Until he felt all the eyes on him. His facade wavered momentarily but that’s all it took.

“Deku, come over here now.” It was not a request, although if it was there was no way he would have denied it, he couldn’t say no to Kacchan.

“Alright I’ll be there in a sec Kacchan, I’ll come back as soon as I’m done, Ura, ok?”

Without waiting for a response Midoriya made his way to Kacchan, hoping maybe he would offer him a reprieve. As he moved across the room, eyes flicked between him and Kit, then eventually to Bakugou.

“Hey Kacchan! What’s up?”

“You’re helping me make katsudon for dinner.”

“Oh am I now?” Midoriya responded with a playful tone, both of them knew he couldn’t pass up katsudon.

“Unless you want one of these shitty extras to try and make some half assed dinner then yeah you are.”

“How could I say no to Kacchan’s katsudon? Oh right I can’t.”

“Damn straight, I make the best fucking katsudon.”

“Don’t ever tell my mom I said this but, yeah you do.” The two, so engrossed in their conversation didn’t notice the proud smile on Kit’s face, or the sea of eyes looking between the three of them.

“I don’t think Auntie Inko would ever forgive you.”

“Wait, who is Auntie Inko?” The first voice to interrupt their conversation spoke up.

“To you? Ms Midoriya-san, but I have privilege ‘cause she likes me more than her own son most of the time.”

“Kacchan! Hey! Mean! But yeah he’s talking about my mom, Kirishima. Ever since Kacchan was allowed near a stove he has competed with my mom to make the best katsudon and soba, and with Auntie Mitsuki to make the best desserts.”

“And you said I make the best katsudon so I win!”

“Wait, you guys call each other’s moms Auntie? That's freaking cute!”

“Can it, pinky!”

“No way! I need to hear everything about your collective childhood immediately!”

“Oh Ashido, it really isn’t that interesting! Plus if you all want to eat we should probably get started.” Midoriya didn’t want to get into every complicated aspect of his childhood so he decided to turn and walk to the kitchen without waiting for a response.

Bakugou followed soon after him and they were both glad to have a room between them and the rest of their class. Bakugou quickly got to work and started to cook. Midoriya had done this plenty of times before, even if he could never do it by himself he knew his way around the recipe. Their companionable silence was fleeting.

“So, what's with you and my shitty clone? I thought you said talking to him was weird?” Anyone else would have assumed his tone was passive, conversational even, but Midoriya knew better, this must have been the reason he was called in the first place.

“Oh it is, trust me.” Midoriya could’ve continued, probably would have if he was talking to anyone else. He wanted to see where Kacchan would take it.

“Then why’d you talk to him, you do have the ability to say no. It’s really not that hard.”

“He sounded so serious, I wanted to see what he had to say. Plus it's a little less weird now that I can see how different you are.” Again he cut himself off early, determined to not give everything away in an unfocused ramble.

“So… what was so serious that he had to pull you all the way into the corner for, seems kinda dramatic to me.”

“Really Kacchan? You are going to call him dramatic?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?!”

“Kacchan I have literally seen you blow up a pillow that you tripped over because, and I quote, ‘mother fucker was out to get me’ I was calling you dramatic.”

“Watch your fucking language Deku! If round face or four eyes hears you, they’ll get on my ass and I do not need that.”

“No one should ever hear me while I play video games, I think everyone would have a minor melt down.”

“Well you own damn fault for setting high expectations. Anyway, you were about to tell me the idiot’s sob story that lured you into a corner.” He had a signature smirk on his face but the fact that he asked four times gave Midoriya the impression that the smirk was nothing more than a facade.

“Well he asked me a question about our class, and then he started to tell me about the other Izuku, the one he knows.” He stopped there, hoping he could get away without lying about what Kit asked him. One look up from the vegetables he was cutting told him he would have no such luck. Bakugou was looking at him with an expectant look, waiting for him to continue.

“Apparently the other Izuku got mad at him around a week ago, to the point where he won’t even look at Kit, so when he saw me look at him and willingly interact with him he was caught off guard I guess.”

“And…?”

“What do you mean?”

“That’s not something he would hide from everyone else, in fact he told everyone right after you finished talking, so I’m asking what else he told you.”

Thinking quickly, Midoriya didn’t have very many options, he couldn’t lie to Kacchan, he would be the only one that would be able to see right through it, he would just have to think of something.

“Oh well, um he may have asked for some advice as to how to stop the other me from being upset with him, I’m guessing that's why he mentioned the two of us being so similar, although I wonder how true that can actually be given that a lot of me has been shaped by you and All Might, two people that the other me could not have had the same experiences with. It seems like the two of us from there had only met fairly recently so I wonder how different that makes us.”

“Damn nerd now you want to mumble?” Although Izuku could hear him, it was almost as if Bakugou was talking to himself.

“Oh sorry, I didn’t even realise!”

“Yeah no shit, are you finished chopping? I finished prepping the pork already.”

“Oh yeah, here. I made the onion thinner like you said last time, and I grabbed the stuff to fry the pork.”

“Great, now I know you actually listen to what I say.”

The two returned to a companionable silence as they continued to cook, working together like a well oiled machine, an impressive sight to anyone. They had been in the kitchen for about a half hour when Kit and Mina came in, luckily the pair had finished talking out the earlier occurrences with Kit.

“Hey guys! I wanted Katsuki-kun here to see the kitchen, he said he had a knack for cooking!”

“Although I am more accustomed to working over an open flame rather than a controlled heating box.”

“What the hell do you want pinky? Is there a reason you’re distracting us?”

“Actually yes there is! Katsuki-kun, Uraraka, and I need to steal Midoriya here for a few, isn’t that right Katsuki-kun?”

“Yes, that is correct.”

Midoriya looked at Bakugou who was resolutely staring at the food in front of him, Midoriya switched his gaze over to Kit and saw him look at Bakugou then at Midoriya trying to convey some kind of message. Apparently he had taken too long to respond.

“Tch, just go you damn nerd, I’ll be fine and I know you can’t say no to anyone.” The remark was punctuated with an eye roll, but there was a sincerity in Bakugou’s voice that Midoriya did not miss.

“Thanks Kacchan I’ll come back as soon as I’m done and I’ll help you finish up.”

“Yeah yeah whatever just go already.” Bakugou continued to methodically fry the pieces of pork, now moving slightly slower because he had to prep them himself.

The three walked out to the common room and immediately walked over to the corner Uraraka was sitting in.

“Ok so what did you guys need me for? I was in the middle of making dinner.”

“We know about your… thing with Bakugou.”

“Uraraka what are you talking about? What thing? And who are you talking about Kacchan or Kit?”

“Not me Izuku, what we discussed earlier, like what I have with my ‘Zuku.”

This was met with a blush covering Izuku’s face, he hoped that Kit hadn’t said anything.

“Hey Midoriya? I don’t think you should be worried all that much, I think you have a good chance with Bakubro!”

“Thanks Ashido, but I don’t really think I’m going to chance that, I’d rather be friends than nothing at all. So if that’s everything I’m going to help him finish dinner before he gets upset about me ditching him.”

Izuku left with no room for argument, he really didn’t want any of them interfering, it would only make the inevitable failure worse. He quickly made his way back to the kitchen happy to see that his spot wasn’t immediately taken by Kacchan, he went back to where he was and continued prepping the pork like he was before.

“Oh back so soon?” Izuku could hear the slight apprehension in his voice, he wanted to soothe it immediately.

“Yeah, they were just being dumb, not important enough for me to ditch you to make the rest of the katsudon alone.”

“So what the fuck did they want?”

“Oh they were just trying to um get me to tell them how I could tell you two apart, they seemed set on the fact that it was somehow rigged I guess.”

“Tch, what’d you tell them?”

“The same thing I told Mina before you guys came in.”

“Which was…”

“Oh right you weren’t there to hear it, I told her that you just have a distinct presence that Kit doesn’t I guess.” Maybe if Izuku said it enough it would be true, it was better than admitting the real reason to anyone.

“That’s bullshit, how did you actually tell us apart?” Shit, had Kacchan noticed? He couldn’t just say that his heart rate picked up when he looked at him or that Kacchan felt like a hero while Kit didn’t, that would be hard to explain. Hell it was hard to explain to himself.

“I really don’t know, I guess I just do.”  It was weak at best, a blatant lie at worst. Maybe he could get by being vague.

“I’m just saying maybe if you figure it out you can tell the extras, I don’t want to be mistaken for him until he can go back to wherever they hell he came from.”

“Ha maybe. Hopefully this gets sorted out soon, I know neither of you want him here.”

The conversation drifted off, neither feeling uncomfortable with the silence, it was a comfort neither took for granted.

Small requests for ingredients and tools passed between the two until they finally finished cooking and plating everyone’s food, Izuku quickly called for everyone to get a bowl and the class congregated at a long table, Izuku and Bakugou sitting down last, next to each other at the end of the table.

“Wow Bakubro, Mido wasn’t kidding when he said you make the best katsudon! This is delicious!”  At Kirishima’s words many murmurs and nods of agreement followed, even Kit had a positive word to say.

“Damn straight I’ve been perfecting this for years!” No one argued with him, many were surprised that he would put so much effort into such a random dish yet no one felt inclined to mention it.

“Hey, didn’t you say katsudon was your favorite Deku?” Uraraka seemed to randomly have an epiphany.

“Uh, yeah, it always has been. At least according to my mom.”

“Do you know why?” Deku blushed at the words, he did but he didn’t really want to tell that embarrassing story. He decided to stay quiet.

“You do know why! Come on tell us, I’m always curious as to why people’s favorite food is their favorite!”

“Oh well um, it’s all I would order when we went out to eat, because I was dead set on ordering for myself.” He continued to blush, the story was incomplete.

“Why is that all you ordered?” Uraraka really was not letting him out of this one. He huffed out a sigh and collected himself, preparing to be severely embarrassed by everyone in the room.

“Fine if you must know, apparently it started when I was about four. I was just learning how to read and I wanted to order for myself because I thought I could read the whole menu by myself which I couldn’t at that point. I could really only read my name and… Kacchan’s name. According to my mom I recognised katsudon on the menu and very excitedly told the waitress that, for dinner, I wanted… Katsuki. She thankfully realised I meant katsudon and that's what she put in. And then I repeatedly ordered it everytime we went out for food. Only realising when I was like seven that it was katsudon.” Izuku quickly buried his face in his hands feeling his entire face grow warm.

There was a chorus of ‘awws’ and other similar noises, apparently everyone was very amused and delighted at Izuku’s expense. There was also an undertone of laughter very quickly taking over.

Kaminari quickly began to speak, only pausing to wheeze out more laughter. “So you mean to tell me for years... hah you ordered a bowl of…. Katsuki… whenever you went out to eat anywhere?!” More laughter fell from the electric boy’s mouth punctuating his amusement with the situation.

Izuku only hid his face more, effectively answering the blond’s question.

“I was four!!” Izuku’s indignation only fueled more laughter. He chanced a glance at Bakugou and found the boy slightly flushed, he nudged him and shot him a pleading look, all he got in response was a whisper.

“It’s ironic that I’m the reason you love katsudon so much, especially since you are the reason I was set on making the best katsudon.” He quickly leaned away determined to keep the attention off of him.

“Really? I guess it all worked out then.” Izuku whispered back, not meeting his eyes. The two were oblivious to the two girls keeping a close eye on them from across the table.

Eventually everyone recovered from their varying fits of laughter and cute-overload imagining a small Izuku excitedly ordering Katsuki everywhere he went. The rest of dinner went relatively smoothly, save for Kirishima accidentally drinking from Kaminari’s water only to be minorly electrocuted and slightly dazed due to the residual electric current.

Once the dishes were cleared and washed (no thanks to Bakugou or Midoriya ‘Hey we fucking cooked you shits can clean!’) many went their separate ways into dorms to study or to the showers. Izuku looked around and noticed only Kacchan, Kit, Uraraka, and Ashido were left in the common room with him.

“Hey Kacchan? Do you want to spar tomorrow morning? I’m trying to perfect my new aerial attack and you’re the only one that still blocks it like it’s nothing.”

“Tch you practically fucking annouce when you’re about to do it, you need to work on the build up, make sure no can tell where you’re about to go.”

“So… will you?”

“Training arena two at 7:30, don’t be fucking late.”

“Thanks Kacchan!”

“Yeah whatever. I’m going to sleep don’t be loud down here or I’ll come and whoop some ass.”

“Good night Kacchan!” As Katsuki left Izuku turned towards the other three left in the room with him. He looked to find them watching him conspiratorially.

“Ok Deku, you have nowhere to be. Just hear us out, please.”

“Uraraka there is nothing to talk about, I went along with Kit earlier and Kacchan didn’t even act any differently. I got my answer and I’m happy enough being friends.”

“I know Bakubro, he never loses control of his quirk and yet his hands popped today when it looked like you were about to kiss Katsuki-kun here.”

“Well I know Kacchan, he was probably just surprised to see someone with his face that close to me, we haven’t been that close in… well let’s just say he had me pinned to the ground both of us exhausted and covered in dust.” Izuku thought about their fight, it was their unusual start to what everyone would call mutual pining, Izuku would call friendship, and Bakugou would call not hatred.

“Izuku, will you at least agree to sticking with me until I can go back? I’m still very confused as to how all of this happened and you are someone I have come to trust the most, maybe it’s the way you remind me of my ‘Zuku or maybe it’s just your personality but it’s all a little overwhelming.”

‘Of course Kit, I won’t leave you if I make this easier on you. Maybe tomorrow you can come watch me spar with Kacchan, so you can see our quirks. It's amazing to see Kacchan for the first time!”

“Thank you, I really appreciate it. I hope I don’t get in anyone’s way.” Izuku merely shook his head, denying the thought entirely, the four stood, quiet for a moment.

“Deku? Can I ask you something? You totally don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“Uh sure Uraraka, go ahead.” He had a feeling he knew what she was going to ask.

“How long have you, uh you know…”

He was right.

“I’ve um, been in…  love with him for years. Practically my entire life.” His voice was small, severely lacking his trademarked positivity.

“Wow, Midoriya we had no idea-”

“That’s kind of the point Ashido, that’s why I’m ok with the way things are, better than any alternative.”  Everyone could see the wistful look on his face, he had thought all of this through before and everytime he did he came to the same conclusion.

“Midoriya? Will you hear me out for a second?”

“Sure Ashido, what is it?”

“I think you should give it a shot. Bakugou has never shown interest in anyone but he has always been different with you, almost like any emotion he has is amplified just by you being there. That should count for something.”

“I don’t know Ashido. There is just so much between us, I’m not sure if there is room for any of this. Even if there was, Kacchan is so focused that he probably won’t think of it as anything more than a distraction and a waste of his time.”

The three figures in front of Izuku looked at him sadly, he had felt enough sadness already and wanted to alleviate theirs.

“But look guys! Just today we made dinner together and no one was blown up! I told an embarrassing story from my childhood and he didn’t make fun of me! He even made me feel better.” It was his last few words that shook them out of their saddened state, Uraraka even seemed to remember something.

“Oh yeah! I was going to ask you what he had said to you. You two were leaning towards each other, but not looking at each other. Almost resolutely keeping your eyes off of each other.” Izuku flushed at the mention of their seemingly private conversation, he knew Kacchan wouldn’t want him to share what he had said.

“Oh! That, right um I wanted him to help me! Everyone was laughing and I was embarrassed!”

“That didn’t answer my question! What did he say to you?”

“Oh you know just something about irony I guess.” The confusion on everyone’s face was nearly comical.

“What do you mean ‘ironic’? How was a story about you ordering katsudon ‘ironic’?” Uraraka was unfailingly persistent today, Izuku would have to think quickly.

“Oh um you know how I got the nickname Deku right?”

“Um yeah you said and I quote ‘That’s what Kacchan calls me to make fun of me.” when we first met. What does that have to do with irony? That’s completely off topic!”

“Well not really, you see the Kanji for my name can be read as Izuku all together but the first half can be read as Deku, and well he was one of the first ones to start reading in our class, go figure am I right? But yeah he read my name as Deku and just said how it was ironic that I had read katsudon as his name and he read my name as Deku and I guess we weren’t looking at each other so we didn’t draw attention to ourselves, but I guess that didn’t really work did it?” Izuku finally let out a big breath, filling his lungs with much needed air.

They all stared, taking a moment to process everything that came out of Izuku’s mouth, desperately wishing for Bakugou’s ability to understand everything Izuku says within mere moments of him speaking. Kit seemed to comprehend everything full first.

“Wow, I didn’t think both of you would do that, I was not fully prepared as I usually am.”

Izuku reddened at his words, although he had done it on purpose, having someone point out his rambling never failed to leave him embarrassed.

“Wow, that was a lot of information. Wait did you say that the other Izuku does that too?” Uraraka was next, having gone through her fair share of Izuku’s atics.

“Well yes he does, although he usually talks about dragons which is significantly easier for me to comprehend at higher speeds, and I can’t help but to be enthralled by everything he says.”

The two girls fawned over the admission, still not used to seeing ‘Bakugou’ being so open, neither of them being able to tell the two apart.

“Can we train Bakugou to be like this? He would literally never just say something like that, he probably wouldn’t even think it!”

“Uraraka! I don’t think that's true! He wouldn’t necessarily say that exactly but you just have to learn to translate slightly. Like for example instead of saying what Kit just said he would probably say something more like ‘ugh I hate that I can understand you and I swear if you distract me from something one more time I’ll kill you!’”

The two girls could only stare in shock at the startilingy good impression he did of Bakugou, even if he didn’t curse at all.

“Ok yes you have a point but oh my gosh how long have you been able to do such a good Bakugou impression?!” Ashido seemed genuinely affronted by this new information, as if it was offensive to have hidden it from her.

“Oh I don’t really know? I guess always? I’ve never seriously done one before, although I guess I do know him well enough.” Izuku seriously contemplated the information, allowing himself to briefly forget about his situation, he was brought back to shocking reality when Ashido spoke up again.

“I wonder if Bakugou could do that good of an impression of you?” Everyone pondered the question, genuinely curious in the answer.

“I mean if Deku can act like him why couldn’t he act like Deku?” Although the subject matter was weird, Izuku was grateful for the conversation shift.

The two girls quietly went back and forth as to why or why not the brash boy could emulate Deku convincingly, allowing Izuku to turn his focus to Kit, who had stood quietly since his last comment.

“Hey Kit? Are you alright?”

“Oh yes I’m fine, I guess everything is hitting me now, I really am stuck in some random world where I don’t belong.”

“Oh Kit, we’ll get you back soon. Hopefully tomorrow after a good night’s sleep we can ask Aizawa for an update, and tomorrow after I spar with Kacchan I will explain our quirks to you, it’ll be easier to understand once you see us use them.”

“Is it bad of me to say that I hope I wake up tomorrow and never see you again?”

Izuku couldn’t help the chuckle that escaped him, it was entirely inappropriate but completely necessary at the same time.

“You know what Kit, I don’t think it is bad at all.” The two boys turned to look at the girls in their company, still animatedly debating.

“Hey guys? I’m heading to bed for the night. Unless of course there was something else you wanted to question me about?” Anyone could hear the sarcasm dripping from Izuku’s voice as he spoke, he knew his friends meant well.

“You know what Deku? I think you’re off the hook for tonight. Try to get some sleep would ya? You know even if you're sleep deprived Bakugou won’t go easy on you.” There were small huffs of laughter at Uraraka’s words, amusing as they were accurate.

“Goodnight guys, Kit do you want me to walk you to your room?”

“I’m alright Izuku, I saw where it was earlier today and I can manage to make my way back. Goodnight.” With a swift nod to the three in front of him Kit turned away and walked out the door.

“Wow, just as aloof as Kacchan, don’t even know why I offered help.” He was talking mostly to himself.

“Night Deku, Mina do you want to walk up together?”

“Sure! Night Midoriya!”

“Goodnight you guys.”

The girls left quickly, walking up a floor to their dorms. Izuku paused for a moment, for the first time seriously contemplating their words throughout the night, did they see something he didn’t?

Not allowing himself any false hope, Izuku turned and made his way into his dorm, double checking the alarms on his phone on the way, turning his mind to perfecting his aerial attack. Izuku hadn’t realised the toll the day had on him until his pajama clad body hit the bed and instantly melted into the soft embrace, before he knew it he was asleep.

[adventures-in-a-world-of-fiction]

Practicalities of Censorship

Every so often I see a thread cross my dashboard arguing about censorship with relation to AO3 - in particular people claiming that AO3 is bad because it allows basically any story regardless of content, that people are bad for supporting it, or that AO3 should implement some method by which problematic fics get taken down. These complaints are usually met with explanations around the history or AO3, why it was implemented the way it was, and why thinking that AO3 is fine the way it is does not equal being a pedophile. I want to tackle this from another angle - practicality.

Let's assume for the sake of this post that the people making these arguments are correct and that there are some things which shouldn't be allowed on AO3 (or an an alternative fic platform set up to be a better version of AO3 without all the bad stuff - I'll mostly be taking about "fixing" AO3 in this post but the same problems would apply to setting up a new and "safer" fic site). There are a lot of arguments against censorship to do with quality of works produced and whether this results is less good art when people are scared to produce things that might get banned, or whether there is artistic merit to works that display despicable actions. Let's just imagine for the moment that the whole argument is settled and the "let's purify AO3 for the sake of the children" crowd are correct. What would need to happen next? This isn't something I've seen addressed in these posts.

There are a lot of problems with censorship. Skipping over the ethical discussion of whether censorship is good or bad and in what circumstances it should be accepted, let's focus on two practical aspects: deciding what should and shouldn't be banned, and how you would implement such a ban. Let's start with problem one: where do you draw the line?

Let's assume we have some scale of rating from absolutely sickeningly awful deserving of destruction to perfectly clean and innocent with not the slightest thing wrong with it. Somewhere between these two endpoints is a line and everything to one side of it is bad and should be banned/blocked/deleted from AO3, etc. Everything on the other side of the line is fine and should be left available for people to read. Some things may seem easy to define. Fic A is incest porn, where a child is graphically raped in a way that's cleanly meant to titillate rather than horrify and the abuse is glorified and justified in text, and it's full of poor writing, spelling and grammar mistakes, and has no artistic merit as a work (how you judge artistic merit would need a few thousand words to explore as a subject on its own right). Let's stick that on the bad side of the line since that's the sort of thing that people on Tumblr are crying out to be banned. Fic B is a fluff fic where a character makes another character soup because they're feeling ill and they watch movies together. Nothing remotely sexual, just two adult characters being sweet to each other. So we'll put that on the good side of the line, right?

But the problem comes in deciding where that dividing line should be and what should be done about the things that sit close to the line. You could come up with some simple rules. Let's say, "Everything involving underage incest is on the bad side of the line." Seems straight-forward. But what if you have a story dealing with someone's recovery from incest and CSA? The story has a character who was abused in the past and the narrative deals with them getting therapy and overcoming their trauma. None of the abuse is shown in the text of the story, it all happens off-screen as it were, and the story sends a message that incest and CSA are bad but offers hope to former victims. Surely that story would belong on the good side of the line? So maybe we amend the rule to, "Everything involving graphic incest is on the bad side of the line." That would let us keep the story about overcoming the trauma on the good side but block anything that uses incest as porn. But is consenting incest between grown adults treated the same as abusive incest?

And what if you get a story that's more about the trauma but that has a handful of flashbacks about the rape that would count as graphic. These flashbacks are meant to be horrifying not sexually exciting. Would that be okay? Is it the intent of the scene that matters? But in that case, what happens if the author writes a scene that's intended to be horrifying but a reader interprets it as arousing? Would it be okay if the author includes a disclaimer in the notes saying that this is a terrible thing and shouldn't be done in real life? Is it the intensity of the scenes shown directly in the story? In which case, where do you draw the line between something described explicitly and something merely eluded to? Is it the precise terms used? Which terms? Or how many times those terms are use? Is a subtle allusion to an event okay? In which case, what happens with a slightly less subtle allusion?

The stories that are far away from the line are easy to place, but the ones close to it become a challenge. Any attempt to define straight-forward rules starts to fall apart quickly and you get to the point where you have to argue on a case-by-case basis for each story, which would involve a massive amount of time invested to check each of these stories and decide whether or not they're allowed. Once again the practicalities of "how would you enforce something like this?" rear their ugly head but that's a question we'll address later.

We also have the problem that where I might draw the line between the bad and the good might be different from where you would draw the line, and would be different from where someone else would draw the line. Let's go back to Fic B as described above, our perfectly innocent fluff story. I might think that's perfectly acceptable, but if those two characters are both the same gender, there will be some homophobic people who will say that it's wrong and corrupting innocents because it sends the message that homosexual relationships are good. Or even if the characters are different genders, some highly religious people might think it sends a bad message if those characters are unmarried and living together in a relationship, even if nothing explicit happens within the story. Or what if the characters are married but it's an interracial marriage? A KKK member might say that sends a bad message. Different people have a different idea of what counts as bad content.

In the real world, there have been cases of books that address racism being banned because they use the n word. Harry Potter has been banned by religious groups. According to the website www.banned-books.org.uk a sweet children's book about two penguins hatching an egg was banned by a lot of schools and libraries in the US because the two penguins are both male - even though this story was actually based on a true story. The book Black Beauty, about the experiences of a horse, was banned during the Apartheid in South Africa simply for including the word "black" in the title. If you look at that site, a lot of books have been banned for a lot of different reasons and a lot of good literature has ended up caught up in the censorship usually because religious groups objected to in on moral grounds.

You could say "don't let the bigots and racists be in charge of the censorship," but historically, when censorship has come into play in the past, the people who tend to end up the worst for it are minorities. LGBTQ+ groups and people of colour tend to get censored more than straight, white men. Stories about their experiences often deal with problematic issues and therefore they get banned. The groups that generally end up making decisions about what is and isn't okay tend to be the groups that have the most power to begin with, and the end result is silencing of minority voices. This is one reason I'm very wary of anything to do with censorship, because the people who usually end up the worse for it are those who most need their voices heard.

But let's imagine all of these problems are magically overcome and we come up with a perfectly clear set of rules about what counts as good and bad fic and the dividing line is agreed by good, rational people who aren't remotely bigoted and who are able to define the criteria for what should be banned in a way that will only ever block the harmful stuff.

We still have to deal with the practicalities of enforcement we set aside earlier. We've built our perfect set of rules to define good and bad fics and now we want to put them into practice to ban any of the awful stuff. How would you go about doing it?

We could try and get machine filters to do censorship by looking for keywords and particular tags or using more complex algorithms to judge what a piece of content is about, but this ends up with chaos like Tumblr auto-flagging a lot of perfectly clean content, or YouTube blocking videos that just happened to be by/about LGBTQ+ people. Any software based implementation would struggle because someone talking about a thing as a problem contains the same words as someone glorifying that thing, and machines tend not to be great at picking up tone. You would get a massive amount of errors with things being falsely flagged as bad and things being falsely let through despite breaking the rules.

And people would be sneaky. Someone wanting to include their graphic story wouldn't tag it as for over 18s because tagging something as for over 18s would get it banned, so they would tag it as something else. The terms "lemon" and "lime" used to describe fics by older members of fandoms started from exactly this sort of thing. Websites decided to not allow adult content so people continued to post adult content but they used the citrus scale for tagging it so people would still be able to find it. Which works when people know the terms to look for or avoid, but which doesn't work for people not in the know. Is a "lemon" or a "lime" fic more explicit? Do you know what a fic being tagged as "grapefruit" would mean? By their nature, these tags are coded, which is not great for clarity.

Any sort of system that just blanket bans key words or tags would result in people just not using those keywords and tags but posting the stuff anyway. It would actually make the situation worse because there would still be incest porn and the like, only now it wouldn't be tagged. As it stands on AO3, people use the tagging system very well and people who don't want to see the incest porn can do things like exclude that tag from searches, or just not open fics they see that have the tag. If there were rules in place to not allow anything with that tag, then people would stop using the tag, which would actually mean more people would see incest porn they didn't want to because it would no longer be tagged properly, or it would be tagged using code words which only mean something to the inside group. It would be much harder to avoid the things you don't like.

So let's say we don't let a computer decide what's breaking the rules. Let's say there is a system by which readers can flag a fic as being inappropriate to get it banned. Human beings get to decide, but what's the threshold? Does a thing get banned as soon as someone reports it? Or does it need to be flagged by multiple people to be banned? In which case fics written in tiny fandoms might slip through the cracks because not enough people are reading it to them flag it. This is also open for exploitation. Someone who takes a dislike to a particular person might encourage others to flag their fics as inappropriate, regardless of whether or not they are. Someone might create fake accounts or log in anonymously over proxies to spam a fic with flags.

And even if no one acts maliciously to abuse the system, not everyone will be careful about checking the precise and perfect rules defined to mark the difference between acceptable and unacceptable work. People will flag things incorrectly, based on their own viewpoints of what should or shouldn't be allowed, which we've already said is a problem because everyone will draw the line in different places based on their own beliefs.

So what's the alternative to a community-driven method for managing content? You could have specific people whose job it is to go through content and decide whether it adheres to the rules. Maybe a computer system or community flagging could funnel fics into a review channel where human beings check every one carefully. These people would understand the rules and be certain to always judge fics accurately according to the magically perfect rules defined earlier, which are guaranteed to only ever block bad fics but never block a good fic.

So problem solved, right? We have our perfect rules perfectly implemented.

Except where humans are employed to check whether content is acceptable or not, it involves a large number of people checking through basically the worst content out there. Some social networking sites do this sort of thing now and it can be hugely traumatising for people who do that work. It's not good for them mentally to have to be exposed over and over to the worst content being put up online. There tends to be a high turnover in those jobs because they burn out fast, and that's where people are being paid for this stuff.

A site like AO3 relies on volunteers so it would require a large number of people to volunteer to look at the darkest most gruesome content and decide if it breaks the rules or not. Either you have people who hate those sort of fics doing this out of a sense of duty to maintain the purity of the content, in which case they will probably struggle with having to read a load of stuff they really, really don't enjoy. Or you will have people volunteer because they really like those fics and this is the way for them to read them. And that probably defeats the point of doing this, because it means that the people who would be seeking out those stories anyway would be the ones reading them to see if they break the rules.

There are a lot of problems with censorship, both ethically and practically. Even if you are fully on the side of censorship from a moral standpoint, you have to address the practical concerns if you want to propose an implementation.

As it stands, I think the current system works. There is stuff on AO3 that I would not in a million years want to read, but I don't have to. AO3 is brilliant for its tagging system and I can look at the tags and nope past fics that are full of my personal squicks or that I think endorse something terrible. Readers can exclude tags they want nothing to do with or just not click on ones that include elements you dislike. You can curate your own experience, which actually works with the whole idea of everyone drawing a line in a different place. You and I will have different stories we want to avoid, and we can both choose to avoid them based on author's tagging for them, rather than some other person decreeing what is acceptable for either of us to see.

If you still think that AO3 should be blocking or banning certain content, have a think about how this would work in reality. Because when ideas like that are implemented in the real world, all manner of problems happen.

I think the fact that this post is still a couple of thousand words long with me skipping over several parts of the debate is a sign that this is not a simple problem that can be easily fixed.

[takingcourage]

Bring to a Simmer

Pairing: Jaime x MC

Word Count: 2,200

Summary: Arden attempts to make the inaugural batch of ‘Dad and Arden’s Stroganoff,’ but with Jaime around, staying focused is more easily said than done. 

Note: This is just a silly little oneshot inspired by some optional dialogue from the “remembering mom” diamond scene in Chapter 13. I thought it could be a fun premise for a story, especially with a side of Jaime Lewis there to spice things up. Gosh, I’m going to miss this book. 

This also fulfills a request I received for kiss prompt #8 (the playful kiss on the tip of the nose). 

“I’ve got the onion sliced, pumpkin.”

Up to her elbows in flour, Arden looked over her shoulder toward to check her father’s progress at the breakfast table. “Great! I’ll bring the mushrooms over in just a minute.”

Turning her attention back to the recipe card in front of her, she mashed at the sticky dough again. It never looks this way on Bake Off, she considered, worrying her inner cheek against her teeth. But then again, they’re usually making pastry, not pasta. The thought made her feel slightly better, but she still had very little faith that the pasty substance before her was going to end up resembling anything close to her mother’s stroganoff noodles.

She pried one hand away from the clumpy mass, grimacing at the feeling of her very messy fingers sticking to the paper of the flour bag. How had her mom always managed to make cooking look so easy? Even a simple four-ingredient pasta dough was enough to tempt Arden toward a delivery service.

It’s not about the finished product, she reminded herself. This is about remembering mom and making new memories.

Picking at the excess lumps of dough from between her fingers, she wondered how she’d keep her father involved in the process once all of the ingredients had been chopped. His leg had been particularly bad today, which meant that he couldn’t spend much time on his feet without his trusty cane by his side. Unfortunately, canes and cooking didn’t mix particularly well.

“Can you see Jaime working out there?”

She smiled at his inquiry, lifting her eyes momentarily to catch a glimpse of the man at their fence line. “Yep, he’s hard at it. You’ll be really happy with how it looks, dad. I promise.”

“Your mother would have put me in the dog house if she’d seen how bad I let it get. I just…” His voice grew wistful as the sentence trailed, and Arden had to take a deep breath to steady herself.

“It just didn’t seem as important without her around. I think she’d forgive you.” 

The front yard had been a point of contention ever since her mother had fallen ill. Melinda Gale had always taken great pride in her plants, the perfect picket fence, her trailing ivy – all things that Harry only tended to on her behalf. In recent years, the yard had been gradually falling into a state of disrepair. 

Thank goodness for Jaime and his powers of persuasion. He’d been gently nudging for several months, and after coming home from the hospital, her father was finally ready to accept the offer. Arden was just glad that the matter had been resolved without too much nagging on her part.  

That’s not all I’m grateful for, she mused, sneaking another glance out the window. 

She’d known Jaime was attractive for years, but if possible, he’d grown even more gorgeous to her in the past week. Maybe it was because she’d been out of work and had had more time to appreciate him. Maybe it was because she’d seen every inch of him on the night after the gubernatorial debate and knew exactly what was hiding underneath those work clothes. Or maybe it was because she loved him. That word still made her pulse skip every time she thought it. 

Beyond being very nice to look at and prompting irregular heartbeats, he was also incredibly skilled at repairing fences. In a single afternoon, he’d managed to replace the missing and broken pickets, paint the entirety, and purchase new balusters for the front porch. His abilities seemed to go on without end. 

Arden’s own talents felt questionable at the moment, though her hands were becoming less laden with dough the more she rolled and patted the clump into submission. She gave it a final smack, drawing her hand away slowly to determine whether the consistency was ready for rolling.

Although she’d never assisted her mother in the process of making dough, she did have an idea, more or less, of what the final result should look like. The mass on the counter wasn’t an exact replica, but she didn’t think that her attempt was too far off.

At the table, her dad inhaled a sharp breath, but it was several long moments before his words came. “I’m glad you talked me into this, honey. I think your mom would probably get a kick out of watching our struggles in the kitchen.”

“So do I.” Smiling faintly at the thought, she sidestepped to the sink and began the chore of cleaning her hands.

“And she’d be even happier to see how well you and Jaime are getting along these days." 

Arden yanked the kitchen towel a little harder than intended, causing the cabinet door it hung from to squeal in protest. 

Her father clearly needed something else to keep him occupied.

Carrying in the colander of button mushrooms, she set them before the man without a word. As she traded him for the plate of onion slices, she caught the mischievous grin slanting its way up his face. 

"I’m not as blind as you think I am, Arden.”

“I know.”

“And he’s been looking at you like he wants to haul you off and marry you." 

She knew that too. 

Thankfully, her back was turned by in time to hide the blush spreading over her cheeks. "We’re still figuring things out,” she answered evasively. Pulling the largest pot from the oven drawer, she set about filling it in the sink.

“I know I promised not to tell you how to live your life anymore, but he’s the only man I know who’s good enough for my Arden.” She ought to just kiss him sometime. She’s been half in love with him since they were kids. 

Arden pretended not to hear his thought or his comment over the running water. Her father might claim to have seen things, but he’d missed an awful lot of kisses that had passed between them in the last couple of weeks. Beyond that, he didn’t have the faintest idea that she’d spent the night next door after the insanity of the debate. As she waited for the pot to fill, she snuck another look through the glass.

Jaime was removing his shirt.

Her skin flushed again at the sight of his toned, tanned body. Her hands ached to glide along those perfect abs – to wrap her arms around his neck so she was pressed flush against the heat of his chest. Sleeping with him had been incredible. Waking up in his arms, nothing short of divine. 

They hadn’t discussed their plans for after dinner, but maybe she could talk him into another sleepover…

With a start, she realized that the water was spilling over the side of the pot. She drained the excess quickly, vaguely aware of the sporadic sound of chopping coming from the breakfast table.

Her father didn’t say anything, but there was a distinct twinkle in his eye when she returned to the table with the beef. 

_____

 Thirty minutes later, she’d managed to produce something that vaguely resembled stroganoff. Arden counted it as something of a marvel that she hadn’t given up the whole cooking endeavor in favor of just standing and staring out the window. She knew he wasn’t doing it deliberately, but Jaime had been putting on quite a show.

Wielding a paintbrush, standing back to consider his work, wiping his brow – everything he did set her blood on fire. As the evening had worn on, the pan before her received less and less of her attention. The sight through the window had proven too tempting for her to resist. 

His work on the fence complete, Jaime had switched to trimming the bushes in front of the house. As he skirted around the plant, she caught his eye. Arden sucked a breath at his wink.

"I’ll be right back,” she promised her father, hardly taking the time to make sure that he was still cutting romaine hearts for their salad.

Jaime’s eyes were on her as soon as she passed through the door, the shears falling to his side. “The view from the kitchen wasn’t enough, I see. Did you decide it was time to get up close and personal?” 

She rolled her eyes. When she looked up at him again, she was taken aback by the glisten of sweat all over him. With his chest mere inches from her face, she could discern each perfectly sculpted ab, and her fingers twitched with longing at her side. Arden wondered idly how much it would scandalize the neighbors if she started making out with him in her father’s front yard.

Still not prepared for this view?

She reddened at his thought as their eyes met, his sweaty hair obscuring vision from one side. “I’m still getting used to...” she gestured vaguely at his stomach, much to Jaime’s amusement. “But I actually came out to give you a dinner update. It all just needs to simmer for about twenty more minutes and then we’ll be ready to eat.” 

“I’m looking forward to it. I should reach a pretty good stopping place shortly, so I’ll have time for a quick shower before we eat.”

Arden’s mouth grew very dry at the appealing mental images his suggestion graced her with. Distracted, her gaze wavered from his face for a moment – not long enough to satisfy her desire, but certainly long enough to attract his notice.

"You keep looking at my chest, Arden. Is everything okay?” Not that I mind. I’ve only been hoping for this for years.   

Knowing she’d been caught, Arden dropped all pretense and stared openly. She sighed and lifted her face to his. “I’m just thinking again how much I’d like to kiss you right now.”

Jaime bristled with pleasure. “You wouldn’t get any complaints from me if you did, but I am pretty sweaty at the moment. We should probably wait until after dinner.”

Someday, she’d have to tell him that she didn’t mind him being sweaty. In fact, she’d found sweaty kisses with Jaime to be extremely enjoyable just a few nights before. With that memory in mind, she was inspired. “Can I just have one for now?” 

He ran a hand through his hair, uncovering both eyes. The deep brown pools were gleaming with equal parts humor and desire. “I thought you’d never ask.” 

Arden tilted her chin, lips poised and eager for contact. Jaime’s mouth was warm and soft as it descended on hers, the salt of his sweat making her relish the experience even more. Body responding of its own volition, she had to pinch herself to keep from throwing both arms around his neck. Even after he’d pulled away, it took a moment for her to regain full control of her senses.

Just as her head cleared Jaime caught her by surprise, leaning down a second time to brush his lips gently across the tip of her nose. 

She wrinkled the bridge instinctively. “What was that for?”

“I couldn’t help it,” he explained. “You’re just so damn kissable, Arden.” 

“So are you. Please tell me there will be time for more kisses later?”

“I was hoping you’d suggest that.” He stretched out his free hand, skimming the pads of his fingers along her forearm. 

“The mind-blowing, earth-shaking kisses that are full of ten years of pent-up desire?”

He chuckled at her description. “You know those are my favorites. And I don’t have any plans for the rest of the night.” 

“Mmmhmmm.” His little half smile was doing funny things to her stomach. It wasn’t long before she’d lost all track of what he’d been saying. 

Should I put my shirt back on? 

His thought managed to get her attention, and she recoiled. “Don’t even joke about that. I’m enjoying the view way too much.” 

“You can enjoy it as much as you want after dinner.” 

“That feels like too long to wait.” She took another step toward him, forgetting both sweat and propriety in her need to touch him. 

“Arden,” he cautioned, though she knew from the yearning on his face that he wasn’t going to tell her no. 

Was that the door?

His thought corresponded with a click from the porch, followed by the beat of her father’s cane.

Their heads swung toward the doorway where Harry Gale stood, watching them both with an arched brow. Maybe she doesn’t need my encouragement after all... After taking a moment to collect himself, he announced, “Your pan boiled over. I got it off the burner, but I’m not sure what to do next.” 

Arden stared at him dumbly. “I was just….I, um.” She swallowed hard and forced her thoughts away from the man beside her. “I’ll come figure it out.” 

Her father retreated back to the house, leaving her alone with Jaime once more. 

“Go do what you need to do with dinner. I’ll finish up here and be in in a few minutes,” he told her, trailing a finger along her inner palm. Before she could pull away, he gave her hand a reassuring squeeze. 

“See you then,” she promised, breaking the link between them. As she hurried up the porch stairs, she decided that an addition to her mother’s recipe was in order: 

Step 1 - If Jaime is outside, close curtains on the kitchen window. 

[wutbju]

The Times They Showed Their Quality: My own experience with Liberty University’s treatment of faculty BRIAN MELTON·MONDAY, JUNE 24, 2019 Clarification: This note was written in direct response to comments from Liberty’s provost in a recent Christianity Today article claiming that the relationship between the LU administration and its faculty staff is “healthy”, and that the faculty is “completely comfortable with what [the administration] is doing,” and it should be read in that context. I offer this as a simple statement of my experience to serve as a corrective in honor of the many people whom I know wish they could speak out but can’t. Thanks in advance for taking this as nothing more or less than it claims to be. --Brian Anyone who is paying attention to criticisms of Liberty University these days is well familiar with the charge of “Fake News.” It is a common and mindless refrain, parroted back in obedience to The Donald’s talking points and it somehow resonates with otherwise intelligent people. It is also an easy charge to levy, as most of the time when people not connected to LU hear about nefarious happenings and underhanded actions, it is as “something that happened to this guy I heard about” or the like thanks to LU’s use of non-disclosure agreements. I never signed an NDA. So, I thought I might skip the rumor mill and share my own direct, first-hand experience with the administration’s behavior. What I can attest to is only the tip of the proverbial iceberg and not as bad as what has happened to others, but it marked the transition when, after fifteen years, I finally came to the definite conclusion that the upper administration at LU wasn’t simply self-serving or even inept, but fundamentally duplicitous. Worse, it demonstrated to me that they acted this way intentionally and with malice aforethought.

In 2014 my family and I moved back to the Lynchburg area, where I occupied a position as an Instructional Mentor, acting as a bridge between the College of General Studies and the College of Arts and Sciences. Previously, I had worked for LU full time residentially for over ten years. I served as a professor, chair of the curriculum committee, and moderator of the faculty senate during that time. I liked and respected (I still do) the people in those schools I worked with directly, and at the time we intended to spend the rest of our lives there. I figured whatever else happened, we would muddle through it and I would retire from LU when the time came. My point is that though I of course had my frustrations with the administration on some issues, but there was no ill will and I hoped to keep working for them for years to come.

One peculiarity of my position at the time was that it was “part-time full time.” Technically, I was a part time worker and I received none of the benefits that other faculty did, while at the same time I was counted as a “full time” faculty with a terminal degree for SACS purposes via a “limited benefit” contract (the sole “benefit” was that after filling out paperwork I could receive up to $400 a year to join professional associations).  I knew there would be none of the standard health or life insurance, tuition assistance, etc. going into the position and was fine with it, as we were allowed to take extra classes and make a comfortable sum that allowed me to pay for all the extras out of pocket. I recall speaking with my associate dean as late as 2015 and telling him that I would be happy doing this job until I retired.

Of course, the lack of medical coverage in particular was a complaint that many had, but I did not see it as a significant obstacle. Yes, it was on the unfair side to be a second-class faculty member who did not get the coverage others did, even though I did as much work, and getting on the school insurance would be a significant boon to our family. Still, I worked from home, was paid well, and just accepted it as a known downside of the specific job I had agreed to do. There had been constant rumors that the administration appreciated us and was taking steps to give us coverage, but nothing ever came of it. Until the Fall of 2016, that is.

That fall I received an email on a Friday afternoon (when few people would be expected to look at it, of course) informing me that I had worked enough to qualify for medical coverage under the university. I had one week to respond. If I didn’t I would immediately and permanently forfeit any claim to coverage now or in the future. As you can imagine, I didn’t wait! I responded immediately that I was grateful for the opportunity and to put me down for it. I also contacted both of my bosses, who were happy to hear that I had received coverage. Both promised to do everything they could do to make sure I kept it by giving me the required amount of work.The next week I called Human Resources to find out more. I spoke with the benefits coordinator, and told him how much I appreciated the gesture. He replied that he was glad to hear it and that LU was always happy to help its people. As he explained the details of the coverage, he was careful to sneak in a comment that if I ever happened to fall below the required line, I would lose my coverage. “Well,” I thought, “that’s fair.” And so I asked what I thought would be the obvious question: “Where is the line? How much do I have to work in order to rate coverage?” His reply was shady, and you could tell by the uncomfortable tone of his voice that he knew it too. “That’s proprietary information,” he said, “I can’t release it.”  “You can’t tell me at all?” I asked. “No” was the answer. My bosses, good people that they are, also both followed up with HR and they were both given the same answer.

From that moment, I knew that this was, in reality, nothing but an intentional set up. The reason they would tell no one where the line lay was because it was mobile--no one would ever cross it again. No matter how much we worked, it would always be “unfortunately” short of the goal. In fact, Liberty had obfuscated on Obamacare as long as they could, and now they were being forced to offer coverage to all full time workers. Rather than be frank about it, they were playing the situation off like this was a friendly and helpful boon to their employees, all the while laying plans to revoke the coverage at the first opportunity and blame it on said employees. It was as dishonest as it was obvious.

Sure enough, within a month, we began to get notifications of sudden “policy changes” that cut the financial rug out from under whole classes of faithful employees. My own turn at this came in December. In a move worthy of the counting house of Ebenezer Scrooge, four days before Christmas, I received an email informing me that I was to be locked out of any and all overload teaching effective January 1. For me, that amounted to an immediate pay cut of approximately a third of my yearly LU income. I was given approximately two weeks--including Christmas Eve and Day--to make adjustments. Never was an apology expressed, regrets offered, or even an acknowledgment made by anyone beyond my immediate superiors (who had no say in the matter) for the obvious effect this had on people’s lives or for the manner in which it was rolled out.  Over the next quarter, chaos ensued as the administration waffled back and forth about what to do next and my hapless bosses could only report what the whim of the day happened to be. One day I was looking at a 50% pay cut. A week later, the rumor was that my position was being eliminated. A week after that, it was 20%. Then 30%. etc. etc. etc.The following Fall, things finally settled out--as much as they do at Liberty, where things are constantly in flux as the latest disposable “rock star” tries to leave his mark. I ended up losing about 25% of my previous income potential and we were limited to a theoretical 30 hours per week of work. I emphasize “theoretical” because in fact no effort was made to track anything outside of teaching hours, which represented the hours for which we were actually paid. At the same time, Liberty’s “Co-Provost” announced sweeping changes to our positions requiring substantially more administrative work. Since administrative hours were never counted or totaled nor paid individually, in fact our workload as a whole went up substantially while our overall pay potential dropped significantly. Perhaps worse, we were now charged with tracing faculty compliance via a tool called the “FAR” which tracked and logged every single time a faculty member was late doing anything. While that information had been available to chairs and deans for years, now it was forced down to even the adjunct level and I, as an Instructional Mentor, was required to contact the faculty under me and ask for an explanation any and every time I saw a “red flag.” Miss posting your Monday announcement by five minutes this week? I have to demand a justification that I would log with the university on your record. Are you a little late in grading the papers the university suddenly required you to return to the students two days earlier than before? I’ll be checking up on you for an excuse why you shouldn’t be fired. And with the “Co-Provost” (What the heck is that, anyway? The real provost pretending to not be? The actual provost’s personal assistant?) constantly haranguing us with threats that there were “hundreds of people lined up for your job”, threats so thinly veiled that they insulted your intelligence as much as they frightened you, there was plenty of angst to go around.And so I found myself in an interesting position: I was working full time hours at a part time job that had at least full time expectations, being told that I could get in trouble if I didn’t accomplish my full time work in my part time hours. I operated on a one year contract with no job security under implied threats of “non-renewal” delivered via smarmy video messages that tracked how much of each you watched. I was part of an increasingly Orwellian surveillance system that meant I was party to inflicting all of this onto others. (Let us not forget academic standards that had fallen dramatically over recent years and about which I could perhaps write another whole article.) And I was supposed to be happy about it--sacrificing my time and my family for the university, but not being able to expect a scrap of loyalty or genuine appreciation out of anyone above the deans’ level in return. The only safe words that could be used to express serious dissent were, “Thank you sir! May I have another?” All of this was happening in the name of Christ, and every complaint was expected to be excused for the sake of the mission, a mission that it was increasingly clear the school’s own president regarded as secondary to making money and winning football games (since confirmed directly in a recent tweet). It should come as no surprise, then, that in the summer of 2017, when I was approached about an opportunity to teach in Europe, I decided to leave. And the medical coverage? In September of 2017 I received the equivalent of a medical “Dear John” letter, regretfully informing me that since I simply hadn’t worked hard enough in the past year, the university had no choice but to end my medical coverage. At the time, my wife and I were actively being treated with expensive anti-biotics for Lyme Disease and a malarial-type infection she had picked up on a mission trip. My new chair in LUO (my previous one had quit in disgust) went on the line for me to try to reverse the decision, but was told to sit down and be quiet--the administration didn’t care and he was risking his own position by speaking up.  In the final tally, I most likely could have made ends meet on the new salary they were offering, but money wasn’t the central problem. Neither was the still-absent medical coverage; we had lived without it before and could again. The most important issue for me was character. I had to be able to rely on Liberty University to treat me and others fairly and honestly if I were to bank my family’s welfare on working for them. My own personal narrative aside, I knew of many other people treated worse than I was--a whole list of persons I liked and respected. If the last few years had taught me anything, it was that while there are still many excellent people to be found there, Liberty University as a whole was as shifty, dishonorable, unprincipled, and hypocritical a work environment as could be offered. I could not trust my family to them, and I increasingly found it hard to have my reputation associated with an organization that had proved itself so often without honor. (Yes, I’m old fashioned that way.)  It was a hard decision. We love our friends in the Lynchburg area very much and we love the Virginia mountains. We love our church, and, as I said, we planned to grow old and die there. We miss them all badly, even as we travel and experience Europe. Unfortunately, Liberty’s behavior and lack of honor made it virtually impossible to stay--for us at least.

Moving into 2018, I learned that more cuts were likely. (Despite what Provost Hicks asserts, it is a relatively recent thing for faculty to be completely surprised by their non-renewal. At one point there was a written agreement that faculty would be notified by January if it were a possibility, and even later people were unofficially informed.) I approached my bosses and let them know I would be leaving at the end of the year in the hopes that if they knew it, someone else’s job might be secure (I was told that it did save a position). In true LU style, I later received official notification in a boiler plate email that they had regretfully decided not to renew the contract I had already informed them I wasn’t seeking. I arrived at LU in the Fall of 2003 to find an earnest, if humanly fallible university making its very best effort to transform itself into the Notre Dame of Evangelicalism. I left a financially successful behemoth where real ministry and Christian charity is carried out by earnest believers in spite of the effort and example of its upper administration to the contrary. Increasingly, LU is becoming more the Harvard of Evangelicalism than the Notre Dame (academic standards definitely not withstanding). It is a university where the original mission has been sacrificed in favor of a political agenda and a secular system of situational morality, Liberty falling to the right wing in counterpoint to Harvard’s left. Though the campus may be bigger and more beautiful than ever before, sadly, thanks to the trajectory of its current administration, its reflection of Christ is not. 

[fallout4holmes]

Journal 37

The scientists did excellent work; Valentine made the trip north without complaint or further mechanical failure. We stopped by Jamaica Plain again to stay the night with the Lockheeds, and left early for Diamond City.

Gunshots and shouting drew our attention midway to our destination, near a radio tower. A trade caravan had run into a pair of yao guai. One of the guards was mauled while his fellows unsuccessfully tried to intervene. Danse charged the first while Valentine and I assisted with the second beast. A rifle fired and the mutated bear fell, a bullet through its eye.

We looked around, surprised, and three shots from the hidden rifleman crippled one of the rear legs of Danse's opponent, allowing the soldier to easily finish it off. Danse stepped out of the way as the other members of the caravan hurried to the fallen guard's side. “He's alive, but gravely wounded,” Danse said.

“Can he make it to Diamond City?” Valentine asked.

The caravan leader sighed heavily, “It'll be close. Stimpak'll help, but I don't know… oh!” He was startled as he looked at the man addressing him. “Uh,” he looked at me, “thanks for the hand?”

“You're welcome,” I said, and introduced us, “This is my partner Nick Valentine, my name is Sherlock Holmes, and the man in power armor is the Lt. Colonel of the Minutemen -”

“Boss?” a familiar voice called from behind a tree a short distance away.

I turned and saw a young man in a green cap and ragged duster holding a sniper rifle, ammunition belt strapped to his thigh. Seeing that Danse had taken over discussion with the caravan leader, I moved toward the sniper. “MacCready?”

He gestured to a small boy behind him, no more than five years old. The boy clutched his hand tight as they came forward. The boy's clothes hung loose on his thin frame, his light brown hair and blue eyes a perfect copy of his father. “Mr. Holmes, it's good to see you,” said MacCready.

“And you, Mr. MacCready. Is this who I think it is?”

He grinned, proud, “Yeah. This is my son, Duncan.” He said to his son, “This is Mr. Holmes, he's one of the people who helped me find your medicine.”

“A pleasure to meet you, young man,” I smiled. He seemed inclined to come out of his shell for a moment, but quickly hid behind his father with wide eyes as he stared behind me. “Oh, this is my friend,” I reassured him. “His name is Nick Valentine.”

“Nick helped find your medicine too,” MacCready said, “He's not like the other ones.”

Valentine’s brow rose, “Other ones?”

“We ran into some of your cousins,” MacCready said. “Blue lasers and shi- stuff. No fashion sense.”

“Institute leftovers,” Valentine frowned. Then he knelt down and spoke gently to Duncan, “I know I look kinda scary, but you've got nothin’ to worry about from this old synth.”

Duncan was doubtful.

“The injured guard is secured for travel,” Danse reported. “We should keep moving.”

The caravan was happy to have extra guns and welcomed my friends and I, even if Valentine received a few suspicious glances. MacCready had signed on as a guard for the caps, thinking he would need all he could get to start a new life for him and his son wherever they ended up. He’d come back to the Commonwealth because the Capital Wasteland held nothing for him but memories, or so he said. I personally believe he came back because the Commonwealth held an opportunity to start over and be the sort of man his wife always knew he was. Whether or not he takes that opportunity remains to be seen.

Diamond City welcomed us home with Dogmeat's excited howl and Shaun running out of the house, overjoyed to see us. “Dad! Nick! Are you fixed?”

“Not all the way,” Valentine said with more good humor than I would have been capable of, “but we know someone who should be able to take care of the rest.”

I asked Valentine and Danse to take Shaun back inside while I made sure the caravan guard was seen to by Dr. Sun. Then I asked MacCready if he cared to stay the night while I tried to find a more permanent solution for him.

“Got room for all of us?” he asked.

“There's a spare bed in the Agency if necessary.”

Shaun came running back out of the house, “Nick said your friend and his son can stay and I should come out and meet Duncan?”

I laughed, “MacCready, this is my son Shaun. Shaun, this is Mr. MacCready and his son, Duncan.”

“You can skip the 'mister,’ kid,” MacCready smiled. “Duncan's kind of shy.”

“That's ok,” Shaun bent over a little to speak to the younger child, “Diamond City is a lot, but you get used to it. Do you want to see my toy car?”

Duncan's face lit up, “Yeah!” Shaun took his hand and led him into the house.

MacCready was amazed. “I guess we can stay for a little while.” He spoke briefly with the caravan leader, and joined me inside.

Shaun was marvelous with Duncan, playing gently and patiently. Valentine later confessed he'd warned Shaun that Duncan was only half Shaun's age and had recently recovered from a harsh illness. The chance to play was clearly good for Duncan’s spirits as well.

Codsworth recognized our guest, “Mr. MacCready, wasn't it? I hope your business with my master from your last visit was successfully resolved?”

“You saw him,” MacCready gestured to where the boys were playing upstairs.

“Oh of course! He seems a fine young man, and it is wonderful for young Master Shaun to meet someone younger than himself. Can I provide anything, sir?”

“Nah, I'm good right now, but thanks.”

Danse joined us after seeing to his armor in the workshop, “How do you and Holmes know each other?”

“I hired him in Goodneighbor, only to discover he required my services more than I required his,” I said. Valentine's brow rose slightly at my interception of the question, but he said nothing.

“I owe Holmes a lot,” MacCready said. “Without his help, Duncan wouldn't be here.”

“Danse, you wouldn't happen to know of a settlement in need of a sniper with room for a growing young boy, would you?” I asked.

Danse didn't like the fact that we hadn't fully answered his question, but he didn't pursue further details at that moment. “There have been reports from Finch Farm that the Forged are becoming active again. They might be able to accommodate. Or County Crossing and Somerville could both use an extra pair of eyes against recent super mutant activity.”

“No shortage of choices,” I said to MacCready. “We're headed to Sanctuary tomorrow, you should come. It's where all the new Minutemen recruits begin their training.”

He made a face, “I appreciate the hand, boss, and I'd be happy to give it a look, but I gotta finish this job first. I said I'd go with the caravan all the way, so I will. That was the deal. Besides, the Minutemen might be a good idea, but I'm… more of a freelance sort of guy.”

“You're a mercenary,” Danse didn't quite roll his eyes, though he clearly wanted to.

“That's right,” MacCready challenged. “And you won't find a better shot for your caps. Been handling a rifle since I was a kid.”

One of the caravan guards knocked on my door. MacCready could stay behind and get a quarter of the promised pay, or finish the job and receive one and a half times his pay to compensate for extra work now that they had an injured guard. Some minimal haggling followed, more out of tradition than anything else, but the terms remained unchanged and MacCready said he'd meet them at the entrance.

Duncan was disappointed he had to leave, but refused to stay behind without his father. MacCready promised him that he'd see Shaun again. Codsworth gave Duncan a small pack of bottled water and fruit for the road, and they took their leave.

The door closed behind them, and Danse looked at me, “May I ask why you required the services of a mercenary?”

I was dismissive, “I was bored, it was not one of my better moments.”

“Not sure 'bored’ does it justice,” Valentine muttered.

Shaun sat next to Valentine at the table, “I liked Duncan, he was nice. He told me he and his dad are from the Capital Wasteland, a long way from here. He said it's a lot different than the Commonwealth. That's where you're from, isn't it Danse?”

Danse nodded once, Shaun's enthusiasm drawing a slight smile, “Yes. He's right; it is very different.”

Dogmeat, seeing Shaun's attention was no longer focused on his guest, walked up and put his head in Shaun's lap. Shaun scratched behind Dogmeat's ears and said, “Wanna run the bases?” Dogmeat barked, and Shaun leaped off the chair to hurry outside, “We'll be right back!”

Valentine and I shared a smile. “A boy and his dog,” Valentine chuckled.

“His energy is boundless,” I said, a bit astonished.

“Takes after his father on a good day, if I may say so, sir,” Codsworth said.

I was a bit affronted, “A good day?”

Valentine laughed, “I couldn't agree more. Danse, stop standing there glowering. Soon as Shaun gets back, we can tell him about the trip to Sanctuary. You sure you don’t want to wait here for Preston to join you instead of heading west just to go east again?”

Danse shook his head, “I recognize you’re functioning somewhat normally, but I would prefer to personally see all of you to Sanctuary safely rather than stay behind with nothing to do.”

“You’re worried I’m not gonna make it, and you don’t want to be bored out of your mind sitting around here,” Valentine summarized with a grin.

“Didn’t I just say that?”

“Sure did,” Valentine lit a cigarette and tossed the pack to me. “Just makin’ sure I heard right.”

We didn’t waste any time. Valentine and I reported to Ellie, who naturally demanded the full story of the trip to Murkwater and the plan to help Valentine. She is very worried about her friend and employer, but put on a brave face and wished us luck with the best optimism. Danse needn’t have worried about Valentine breaking down on the way to Sanctuary, but I was glad for his assistance in safely escorting my family.

Sanctuary continues to thrive as the Minutemen grow in number. Valentine saw to getting Shaun settled in while I spoke to Preston and Danse. As I expected, both men were more than willing to do their best, and were attentive as I outlined what they should expect from the island’s unique residents. Shaun was ecstatic when we told him we were going to Sanctuary for an extended visit, though he was almost more fascinated by the mysterious island from whence his second father’s help would come… hopefully. Danse has no doubt become something of a knight in shining armor in Shaun’s imagination the next few weeks. With luck, he and Preston can coax a wizard from his cave.

[kinetic-elaboration]

April 18: Blade Runner 2049

So I have finally watched Blade Runner 2049 (which I have been hoarding since Christmas whoops).

Overall, I did enjoy it. I would say I liked it more than Blade Runner, which makes me feel pretty guilty. I hate that I find Blade Runner dated, but I kinda do. In particular, I think it’s too traditional a noir to me--I like the aesthetic of noirs but I think they’re too slow. I wanted more sci fi, less sad lone detective-man very slowly sifts through evidence in between walks in the rain. Also, so many subsequent sci fi narratives have stolen so blatantly from Blade Runner, and expanded on its aesthetic ideas (and its sci fi ideas) that the original starts to seem... simple in comparison. So I do think its very success altering the landscape of sci fi works against it, in a way.

Anyway, 2049 was more... modern, it felt more familiar to me in its aesthetic, and I felt more at home in it.

So I did think it was good. But. I would probably give it a B, B+. There were a lot of aspects I liked but I had complaints too.

Complaints first:

Way too long. It does NOT need to be (nearly) 3 hours and quite frankly, while I felt like the OG Blade Runner was a little slow, too, I think it was slow because it was being true to its primary genre, the noir mystery. This one felt long because hey if we put the words Blade Runner on it, people will sit through anything, so let’s not bother taking any sort of editing eye to the work. It was self-indulgently slow and my mind DID wander. A lot. Including at times when really it needed to be paying attention!

It was very depressing. I don’t need everything to be a comedy-drama but this was very grim and it has left me feeling honestly pretty down. I laughed like 2 times, once when K straight out ran through the wall and the other I’ve already forgotten.

I was very uncomfortable with the whole Rachael dying in childbirth thing. Like... I feel a bit uneasy even with this critique, because I know it does happen (know too well, sadly) but still, this is a narrative. It’s constructed. Someone made that choice to kill her off that way and it just struck me as a choice made for narrative convenience. In other words, a classic fridging. She was an important character from Blade Runner and yet she has NO importance in this film except to be a womb. Killing her in childbirth just emphasizes to me that she’s being used/treated as a means of reproduction: proof that replicants can reproduce, the mother of the mystery baby at the center of the plot, etc., and that’s it. As soon as she’s fulfilled that role, off she goes, because now she has no purpose. The story treated her like Wallace treated that replicant he sliced open so callously and that’s just... honestly upsetting imo. I also think it’s unnecessary because I prefer reading the OG Blade Runner to imply that she had a built in expiration date and so she could have just as easily given birth and then reached that expiration date, and died, which would also tie in that whole expiration concept--which was central to Blade Runner and nearly completely missing from 2049.

I guess I must grudgingly accept that it does make more sense for Ana to be the baby than for K to be the baby. It fits together very well and I do... appreciate that to an extent, all the little clues ultimately coming together: the two babies, the track-covering, the mysterious illness, the ambiguous description of the memory as “real to someone” etc. But like... I really wanted K to be the baby and my first thought was sort of that I’d been cheated? Maybe I just identified with him too much, but it felt like ‘well what’s the point then? Why is he the main character?’ I can answer that: because it IS his story--it’s his radicalization, and even though he wasn’t born, he still is human in some way by the end of the film. But STILL. Another way in which it’s all just GRIM.

Slow as the plot was, I could not always follow it. Actually, it being slow made it harder to follow because I would zone out a lot, possibly when helpful information was going on. Also I thought it lingered on some parts of the story while just straight up skipping over other things.

The stuff I did like:

I loved the aesthetic. They really went all in on the costumes, the sets, the advertisements, the sci fi concepts, etc. Similarly, the world building, especially the expansion of the technology, was great. I also liked that so many of the machines were very 80s looking, even if they were doing very futuristic things (for example, the scene where K has the wood of the horse analyzed shows this off well).

I especially liked the world building in relation to the advancement of the technology. Like.. I’m not sure how to describe this, but in both films, there is a very strong awareness of human nature as it relates to our own inventions, ambition, and hubris. Te replicants were created by human tech companies specifically to be tools, and all of this, all of the plot of both films, is about that technology going awry, being uncontrollable, and yet humans continuing to try to control it. They try to use the replicants only off-world. They try to put fail safes in the replicants. They try to make more obedient replicants. But they never give up on replicants, and in fact Wallace is really expanding them, taking out the fail safes on purpose: longer life spans, working on reproduction. The original problems haven’t even been solved! But we need to get to that tenth world!! That tension between human greed and human fear, that inability to put the toothpaste back in the container even when you really know you should, is so deftly portrayed. I think this is particularly true of the sequel specifically because it depicts the original company going bankrupt and another one taking it on, and the different ethos that goes with the new owner.

Similarly, seeing the technology advance between the two films was really interesting and felt right: that replicants are easier to spot, for example.

I don’t get the “test” in the original film or the “baseline test” in this film but I do think there’s something interesting in the concept of testing the replicants using personal questions. I especially liked that line of Luv’s: “There’s something exciting about being asked personal question. Makes you feel desired,” or whatever it was. And then she tries to ask K a personal question: a sort of replicant flirting?

I’m too close to the viewing experience and so this is just a bit of a thought but I do think the films, viewed together, have something interesting to say about what it means to be human. What’s-his-face’s speech in the first one. The concept of memories, giving them memories to make them feel more real and thus allegedly make them more stable--but then it also makes them more human? Perhaps perhaps? As soon as they exist, regardless of what safeguards are put in--the short life span, the “inability to lie,” the obedience--if they can remember, if they can experience, if they can imagine the future, they are human. I’m not as big a fan of “if they can reproduce, they are human,” (I’d uh rather not put all my own humanity on my ability to make future humans thanks) but certainly the movies consider different possibilities of what human means, and I appreciate that.

And if you combine the K and Joi relationship/romance with the above thought.... wowowow. I mean first of all I am a Sucker for Romance and I did instinctively think what they had was real. But then I wonder, especially given the overall Grim mood/morality of the movie(s), was it not? Was I suckered in this just like K was? In other words, is it possible for a sci fi AI to come to love? Yes. But did this particular one love? I don’t know. She was made to be whatever he wanted! And everything she did and said could fall into that category, right down to giving him a name and telling him he was special. Except perhaps one thing: asking to be erased from the home itself. That was self-sacrifice. That was for his benefit, and not hers. So was it real? And if it was not on her end, was it on his? Like, the concept of a fake human and a fake intelligence, or a human-designed human and a human-designed intelligence, falling in love, and whether or not that’s possible, and if it’s not or only possible on one side, of the synthetic human truly longing for love and seeking out a version of it just as a human-human would, but in the form of just another human invention, created by the same company that created him, is kind of heartbreaking. Very heartbreaking. Does his very longing make him human?

Also as a side note to that K/Joi parallel--he gives her the ability to leave the house at the beginning and the first thing she does is go out in the rain and “feel” the rain, and this parallels, imo, both the death scene of the last replicant in Blade Runner, and K’s final scene in the snow. I felt like he was experiencing the snow like she was experiencing the rain. Do Joi’s increasing number of experiences, including physical experiences (the rain, travel, sex), such as she can have them, make her more human?

While I was disappointed that K wasn’t the baby--I think because I felt like I’d been duped a little bit, made to think I was watching one story, the Deckard/Rachael’s baby coming to consciousness, while actually I was watching a different story, a random replicant’s radicalization--I did like that the real baby was not... a total success as a model. Like, Wallace will have a hard time creating replicants who can replicate. And the replicants will have a hard time using Ana to lead their army. You would expect the first known child of a replicant and human (or replicant and replicant, as I think the case is) to be a little off in some way. And she is! Her immune system is so bad she has to live in a single room for nearly her entire life. That seemed...about right, yeah.

I liked how the movie expanded on the aesthetic of the first: MORE rainy urban California, MORE big glowing holographic advertisements, but also MORE Earth dystopias, dystopian farms, dystopian irradiated Las Vegas, dystopian snow. The various holographic Vegas performances in Abandoned Vegas were particularly inspired. Also the gigantic dead-eyed Joi at the end was (depressing but) cool.

I liked K a lot. Like every other character, he didn’t get much to do emotionally.. but I was into following him through his extensively-long narrative, and I could see how he was changing, becoming less obedient and more human. Also, I do NOT think he died at the end. He was just being emo in the snow.

Mmm that might be it. I can’t think of any other thoughts currently though I’m sure I am forgetting stuff. I am very hungry though, so I am going to eat.

[whenisitenoughtrees]

thousands to prophecy failure

Janus blinks. “You’re sick,” he says. “Someone needs to make sure you don’t die in here.”

Well, yes, Roman has gathered that much. But that doesn’t answer his real question: why is Janus the one doing it?

When Thomas experiences creative burn-out, he struggles with a few days of unproductivity. When Roman experiences creative burn-out, he gets sick. And it's fine, really; he'll suffer through it if it means that he can come up with ideas for Thomas. That's all that matters, right?

Luckily, there are others who disagree with him.

Content Warnings: vomiting, depictions of illness

Word Count: 4,427

(ao3)

It doesn’t come on suddenly. So really, Roman has no excuse.

It starts with chills running up and down his spine, shooting into his limbs and setting his fingers to trembling. He glares at his hand and decides to press on, decides to keep going, because he has come up with so many ideas but none of them seem quite good enough, quite able to hold up under the inevitable criticism of the others. He keeps going, keeps creating, and ignores the way his body begins to ache.

None of it is good enough, and he hates it all, because with every failed idea, he’s failing Thomas, is disappointing Thomas.

Magnifying, Logan’s voice whispers in his head, and he should probably pay attention, but Logan’s voice is also whispering things like, Illogical and unrealistic, and, Really, Roman, you couldn’t come up with anything that makes more sense than this? And it’s joining other imagined slights, joining the image of Patton’s face turning away from him and Virgil’s dark glower, Janus’ smooth, mocking laugh and Remus’ smile looming out of the darkness.

He needs to come up with something good. But the words are slipping away from him, slipping away even as his body trembles harder and his forehead beads with sweat, and he can’t think of anything at all. He starts and stops in fits, and he scribbles out half-baked ideas only to crumple them up and throw them in the wastepaper basket moments later. He began this morning so well, so upbeat and optimistic, ready to tackle the day and let the creativity flow like it has for the past week, so why is this happening now?

He keeps trying. But one moment, he’s trying, and the next, his pencil is slipping from his grasp.

He stares at it. It lies there, innocuous, on top of a blank piece of paper. He reaches for it, but his vision swims, and he is hit with a wave of dizziness even as his entire body shudders. 

He should have stopped before it came to this point.

But he needed to come up with something good. Still needs. Needs to push through, so he reaches for the pencil again, manages to pick it up, but he’s barely set the tip to paper before his stomach rebels against him. He lurches to his feet and stumbles into the bathroom and vomits into the sink, gripping the counter in order to stay upright. He turns on the tap to wash it all down; he skipped breakfast this morning, so eager to get to work was he, and so it’s more bile than anything else. He wipes his mouth and looks up at his reflection in the mirror.

He looks terrible, his skin shining and flushed, his eyes bright and glazed. He ignored the warning signs, and now the fever has set in, and he can’t possibly work like this, can barely even string a coherent thought together, but he has to, doesn’t he? Doesn’t he need to keep working, to come up with something good, something that he can share with the others without shame, something that they will like, so that they will tell him he did a good job, Roman, we’re proud of you, except they don’t usually tell him that even when he does do a good job, so what exactly is the point?

No, wait, the point is--

The point is Thomas, isn’t it? He needs something good for Thomas, and it doesn’t matter if the others don’t praise him so long as it helps Thomas follow his dreams, succeed in life, be who he wants to be--

Does Thomas even like him, though? He’s not sure. His brain is hazy, muddled, dark. He can’t remember.

He needs to keep working. He knows that much. Needs to keep working, even though he feels lightheaded, unsteady, even though his empty stomach is performing flips and twirls and the very thought of moving makes nausea rise again.

He trudges out of his bathroom, intent on making it to his desk, but then, the floor rises up in front of him. He barely feels the impact, though the breath is knocked out of his lungs in a wheezing gasp, and it’s harder than it should be to draw it back in. He takes a moment to realize where he is-- the floor, cold and hard and hardly the place for a prince to be-- before heaving himself up, but that doesn’t quite work, because all the strength seems to have been drained from his limbs, so he collapses back and lies there for a little while. Breathing.

The world swims. He pushes himself onto his back, eventually, and the ceiling wheels above him, all his fairy lights spinning and twirling. He raises up a shaking hand, but they bob just out of his grasp. And it’s sad, because he just wants to touch them, just wants someone to touch him, and his skin is too hot and too cold by turns and he’s so uncomfortable so he just lies here and he thinks he might be crying but he can’t stop and he can’t get up.

He needs to keep working. The longer he lies here, the more of a failure he is.

But he can’t get up.

Time passes, he thinks. Nausea crashes over him in waves, though he doesn’t throw up again. He might sleep at some point, but his dreams are troubled, full of darkness and laughter and eyes, all looking at him, all pointing at him, and he tries to run but he can’t escape them because no matter how fast he goes, the ground slips out from underneath his feet and he falls, falls, falls.

Someone knocks at the door. He turns his head to look. Someone asks after him. His throat is too dry to do anything but croak, and the door is too far to reach. So whoever it is leaves, and he is left with the spinning fairy lights and the bad dreams that bleed into waking, and he is hit with the sudden surety that there is someone in the corner of the room, staring at him.

He wants to get away. Wants them to stop looking. He struggles to sit up, wide-eyed and scared and shaking as they keep watching him, unblinking, and he doesn’t know their face, but those eyes are his brother’s, he’s sure,bright and gleaming with malice, so either Remus is here or something else has stolen his eyes and he doesn’t know which is worse.

He struggles to sit up, but he fails, collapsing backward and coughing, coughing until he thinks he’s about to literally cough up his lungs. The fit passes, and he curls into himself on the floor, and he thinks he cries a little bit more. Reality drops in and out of focus, hazy images dancing before his eyes, and he can’t even begin to make sense of any of it, and his head pounds.

He sleeps, and then wakes again, and sleeps, and wakes, and then, there are hands on him, lifting him, and he gasps, striking out, because what if the thing is back, the thing with Remus’ eyes, taking him away? He struggles, but to no avail, and only seconds pass before he is dumped on something soft. He cracks his eyes open and sees-- his bed? He’s on his bed. There is a figure moving in the room, too blurry to make out, and he opens his mouth to ask who’s there, but all that escapes his mouth is a weak groan.

The figure stops, turning toward him, and then approaches, reaching for him. He flinches back, but the figure is relentless, placing a hand on his forehead. The hand doesn’t feel like a hand, though. It feels like cloth, like soft cotton, and that doesn’t make any sense at all.

“Easy now,” the figure says, and their voice is smooth and familiar, and he thinks he should recognize it, but its identity slips from his mind, like trying to hold on to smoke. “You’ve done quite a number on yourself, this time.”

He can’t figure out what they mean. But then, it strikes him, a bolt out of the blue: he needs to work. He has work to finish, or else Thomas will be disappointed in him, and the dread of that happening is enough to give him the strength to move, to start to get out of bed.

But the figure holds him down. And he fights, he tries, but he is too weak, and he has to lie back against the bed again, gasping and humiliated. He needs to work; doesn’t this person know that?

“The only thing you need to do right now is rest,” the figure says, pushing him against the pillows. He wants to keep fighting, really, he does, but the pillows are so soft, and then the figure covers him with a blanket, and he has no chance at all against that.

His dreams are uneasy, still, full of lights and sounds and colors he doesn’t understand. His brother is there again, though whether he is friend or foe, he cannot tell. He has never been able to tell. He wakes panting, and there is someone sitting on his bed, hovering over him, their face just beyond recognition.

“Here,” they say, and hold something in front of his face. A water glass, he realizes, and with that comes the realization that he is so, so thirsty. The person helps him tilt his head upright and holds the glass to his lips, and he gulps the water down, almost choking in his eagerness. They take the water away too soon, and he whimpers a complaint, but they hold fast in their denial.

“Too much at once will make you sick,” they say, and pause. “Well. Sicker, I suppose.”

The words don’t quite make sense, don’t quite resolve into meaning in his head. But he decides that he likes the sound of their voice. It is cool and comforting, a balm to the heat that rages through his mind.

They laugh. “Thank you,” they say. “Get some more rest, Roman.”

That sounds like a good idea. Only, not, because isn’t there something he’s supposed to be doing?

“Yes,” they say. “Resting.”

No, that’s not it, he’s sure of it. In fact, he’s fairly certain that he’s supposed to be working on something. Something for Thomas? He needs to have an idea for Thomas. That’s it.

“You’ve already had plenty of ideas for Thomas,” they tell him. “That’s why you’re sick. You push yourself too hard.”

Alright, he is absolutely certain that at least part of that is a lie.

“Oh, I so want to argue this with you right now. You don’t even know what you’re saying.”

Besides, even if that’s right and he has had plenty of ideas already, none of them were any good. That was the point. It doesn’t matter how many ideas he has if none of them are good enough, and he distinctly remembers an overflowing wastepaper basket, spilling over with all of his failures, all of his broken attempts at creating something that will pass muster.

They sigh, then, and he wonders if he’s done something wrong. He feels so very tired.

“You haven’t,” they say. “And that is the whole truth.” 

He is fading back into sleep, and it feels like he’s falling. He’s not sure if he imagines the kiss to his forehead, or the fingers that lightly stroke his hair. He hopes not. It’s all soft and cool and sweet, and he would very much like to be touched like that again.

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps. It feels like no time at all before he opens his eyes, his head pounding, and sees Janus sitting by his bedside, flipping through the pages of a book. It’s an utterly incongruous sight; he doesn’t think Janus has ever been in his room before, or at least, not that he can remember. He might be forgetting something; his head feels fuzzy, his thoughts disordered and confused and feverish, and he feels as though he is burning up.

That would be the fever, probably.

“J’nus?” he rasps, and Janus jerks, snapping his book shut. He glances over, and Roman’s vision is a bit blurry, but he can see the way his eyes widen.

“Roman,” he says, scooting his chair closer to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“‘M hot,” he says. He pauses, considering. “Head h’rts. Back aches. Why’re you h’re?”

Janus blinks. “You’re sick,” he says. “Someone needs to make sure you don’t die in here.”

Well, yes, Roman has gathered that much. But that doesn’t answer his real question: why is Janus the one doing it? He knows that illness makes Virgil anxious, and he can’t imagine that Logan would jump at the chance to play nurse, but why not Patton? Unless it has been Patton, and Janus is standing in while he takes a break.

His head hurts so much.

He must be making a face, because Janus frowns. “If you’d rather someone else,” he says, voice unreadable, “I’d be happy to get Patton.”

For some reason, that thought is just about unbearable. He doesn’t want Janus to leave. In fact, he rather wants Janus to be closer to him than he is right now.

“No,” he says, and works his arm free from the covers. It’s harder than it should be; the limb feels unaccountably heavy. But he manages it, and makes a grabby hand in Janus’ direction. Janus stares at it, and then sits on the edge of the bed, hesitant. It’s odd. Should Janus be hesitant? He’s pretty sure that’s weird. But that’s fine; Janus can be weird as long as he stays.

He stares at his face, at the frown twisting his lips, at the furrow between his brows. His hat is missing, and that’s definitely part of what’s weird, because it’s left his hair messy and sticking out in all kinds of directions, almost like he’s been running his hand through it, though Roman has no idea why he’d be doing that when he usually takes so much pride in being put together. He looks tired too, like he’s been awake for a while; his eyes are bloodshot, and there are deep bags beneath them. Roman finds himself staring at the left one, yellow and slit, and from there, his gaze travels across the left side of his face. His scales are lovely, green-gold, and they appear as though they’re moving, rippling on his face, though Roman’s pretty sure now that they’re not, that the fever is cooking his brain and making him see things. 

“Hey,” he slurs, “c’mere.”

Janus frowns deeper, and that’s a bit funny, but he scoots closer, leaning in, like he thinks Roman needs to tell him something. He doesn’t. He just wants to touch.

He brings his hand up and starts trailing his fingers across his cheek. His scales are so, so smooth, so nice and cold under his fingertips, and he loves them so much.

“They’re very nice,” he says, enunciating as much as he can to make sure his point gets across. “Very pretty. You’re very pretty.”

Janus inhales, but doesn’t say anything. His eyes are wide, and Roman notices that his slit pupil has blown wider, rounder. There’s a word for that, but he can’t remember it. Also, his face is red. The right half, the human half, which also looks nice, but not as nice and pretty as the scaled half.

If his scales are cold, is the rest of him cold? Roman is very hot, hot like he’s full of lava instead of blood, like he’s burning from the inside out, and his thoughts are fuzzy, but this seems to make sense. He nods to himself, and then grabs at Janus’ arm, yanking him closer. Janus doesn’t move much, so he tries again.

“What are you doing?” Janus asks, sounding a bit strangled.

“Cuddling,” Roman informs him. “‘M hot, an’ you’re not. C’mon.” He tugs again, and this time, Janus moves closer. Slowly, though, as if he’s waiting for Roman to tell him to stop, which is ridiculous. He swings his legs into the bed and settles against the headboard, placing just a bit of distance between the two of them, but Roman is quick to fix that, snuggling against his side.

Janus makes a noise. Like a little squeak. It’s cute.

“You’re cute,” he mumbles, just to make sure he’s aware, and falls asleep again.

His dreams are restless, and he wakes up several more times to sip at water, and once to throw it all up over the side of the bed. He imagines castles falling and doors that won’t open and a dragon that glares down at him with golden eyes and tells him to sleep, that he’s safe. He fights dragons, usually, but he believes this one. It speaks with a voice that he knows he should not trust, but does all the same.

He wakes, and he is alone.

It takes his sluggish mind a moment to parse out why this is strange. His last clear memory is throwing up in the bathroom sink; the journey from there to here is foggy. He fell on the floor, and… made it to the bed, somehow. He is alone now, but someone was here, beside him. Someone comforting, someone safe, someone who should still be here. The memories dissipate when he tries to reach for them.

He levers himself into a sitting position, wincing at the weakness of his limbs. There is a dip in the mattress next to him, as well as a half-full glass of water on his nightstand, but his room is otherwise undisturbed. His gaze travels to his desk, messy and disordered, wastepaper basket overflowing, and he winces again.

So much for getting any work done. The whole mindscape has probably heard of his weakness by now. He sighs, swinging his legs over the side of the bed, pressing his hand to his head as a wave of dizziness hits him. He has no idea how long it’s been, whether hours have passed or days. Most likely the latter; he feels as though an entire castle has collapsed on top of him.

Did he dream about that? He’s pretty sure he dreamed about that.

The door opens, then, and he looks up, startled. It is Janus who enters, a steaming bowl balanced in one hand as he closes the door behind him. It takes a moment for him to notice Roman looking at him, and Roman takes full advantage of that time to panic, because why is Janus here? He could imagine anyone else being his caretaker, but not him. Sure, they’ve apologized to each other, fixed what was most obviously broken, but that does not mean that there is no tension between them, a hesitance to their interactions, a caution in the way they look at each other when they think the other won’t notice.

Roman has wanted to bridge that gap for some time now. But he has never known how.

Janus meets his eyes and visibly startles. His hand jerks, sloshing a bit of what Roman assumes to be soup onto the floor, and in the split second before his expression reverts to cool, blank professionalism, he makes a face of what Roman can only assume to be unadulterated relief, and Roman’s breath catches.

When was the last time someone looked at him like that?

“You’re awake, then,” Janus says, walking over and placing the soup on the nightstand. There is a chair next to the bed, and he sits in it, smoothing imaginary wrinkles from his pants.

“Um, yeah,” Roman says. He licks his lips; his mouth is dry and his lips unbearably chapped. He must look a disaster. “How long--?”

“Three days,” Janus replies, and Roman blanches, because that long, really? He could be lying, of course, but there’s no reason to lie about this. So he’s likely telling the truth, which means he’s let Thomas down even worse than he thought. That realization makes him want to shrivel up and die, just a little bit.

“Well,” he says, trying for his characteristic bravado and not quite finding it. His voice trembles, and as annoying as it is, he can’t smooth it over. “I suppose you got drafted into playing nursemaid. I apologize for that. I’m sure you--”

“I didn’t get drafted into anything,” Janus says, his voice sharp, but infuriatingly sincere. “I’m the one who came in and found you.”

He pauses. “Ah,” he says eventually, because how else is he supposed to respond to that? He vaguely remembers being unable to make it to the bed, spending what must have been hours on the floor before… well. He doesn’t remember being transferred to the bed, but it must have happened, and it must have been Janus who did it. Must have been Janus who picked him up, held him against his chest and carried him to his soft mattress, and he should probably derail this train of though because it’s definitely making him blush, and he really hopes he can blame it on any lingering fever--

“We’ve had this discussion before, Roman,” Janus says, his voice just as sharp. There is something else there, too, something that sounds almost like worry. But it can’t be worry; why would Janus be worried about him? “You know very well how creative burn-out affects you. You need to be taking better care of yourself.”

Roman looks away, looks past him and to his desk, cluttered with papers and yet not a single good idea among them. Of course, he should head off burn-out before it happens, because it leaves both him and Thomas in a worse position than they started in. But he thought he could push through it, thought that just another few minutes would bring the inspiration he sought.

“Right,” he says quietly. “I’ll do better next time.”

To his surprise, Janus groans, and he looks over to see that he’s covering his face with one hand. One gloved hand, and another memory floats back to him, of a hand touching his forehead, carding through his hair.

“It’s not about doing better,” Janus says. “It’s about you needing to not make yourself sick, and not because it means you’ll miss work. You deserve to take care of yourself. It seems that you’re the only one in the mindscape that doesn’t understand that.”

He blinks. “I just don’t want to disappoint--” he tries, but Janus doesn’t let him finish.

“Oh, yes, because everyone is so disappointed in you,” he says. “Because no one is worried out of their minds that you pushed yourself into days of illness. Because absolutely no one cares about you for you and not the ideas you provide, which, I might add, are certainly just as bad as you think they are and not worthy of being used at all.” He takes his hand from his face and glares. “Really, Roman. How many times will it take for you to get it through your thick skull that just maybe, we all love you and want you to be well?”

There is so much to unpack there. But for some reason, Roman’s mind is stalling on one phrase.

“You… love me?” he asks weakly, because if he’s not mistaken, Janus said, we all, which would imply that he’s including himself in that, but that simply doesn’t make any sense at all.

How, after everything he’s said and done, could Janus care for him?

Janus stares at him, and then scoots his chair closer, so that their knees knock against each other. Roman is expecting denial, or a lengthy explanation of some sort, but instead, Janus gathers up both of his hands in his.

“Yes,” he says simply, and leans in to kiss him on the forehead. All of the breath escapes Roman’s lungs, but Janus doesn’t stop there. He plants one on Roman’s cheek next, and then the other, and Roman thinks his heart might beat right our of his chest. Perhaps he’s still feverish, still dreaming, still hallucinating, and perhaps he’ll wake up to find an empty room and a cold bed, or will wake up to find that he is still on the floor and none of this was real at all.

Then, Janus captures his lips, and he forgets to think. It’s soft and slow and sweet, barely more than a graze, barely long enough for him to respond at all. He should say something, he thinks, when Janus pulls back, but his mouth has forgotten how to make sounds, apparently.

“Forgive me if I misinterpreted,” Janus says, sounding a bit hoarse. “But you, uh. Said my scales were pretty.” A blush has risen on his right cheek. Roman doesn’t think he could feel any more mortified.

“Oh, Odin’s beard,” he moans. “I said that out loud?”

Because he really wouldn’t put it past himself, feverish and delusional, to admit something that he’s thought many times before, thought and never intended to reveal. And for a moment, he fears he’s said the wrong thing, that Janus will mistake his meaning, will back off when that is absolutely the last thing he wants, once he gets past his embarrassment. But then, Janus laughs.

“Oh, no, not at all,” he says. “Just like you didn’t call me cute, or tug me in to cuddle with you.”

Oh, that’s… ringing a bell, now that he thinks about it. Great. Wonderful. Very princely behavior.

But then, Janus kisses him again, just like the first, and he forgets to feel upset with himself, if it has led to this.

“Not to put too fine a point on it,” Janus murmurs, “but I’d like to make sure you take care of yourself, if you’ll allow me.” He pulls away a bit, just enough to look into Roman’s eyes. “You are so worthy of love. And you’re allowed to take things that you want.”

And Roman feels so very warm inside. He doesn’t think it’s the fever anymore; it’s like a sun, finally rising after a long night, like flowers blooming in the meadow now that spring has come at last.

Perhaps ideas will come later. And perhaps that’s not a bad thing.

“Well, if that’s so,” he says, and leans in to kiss Janus himself.

-----

Writing Taglist: @just-perhaps @the-real-comically-insane @jerrysicle-tree

[coppicefics]

Masked Omens: Week Three

New chapter here, or read from the start here!

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[Image Description: Image 1 - A simple rendition of the Masked Singer UK logo, a golden mask with colourful fragments flying off of it. The mask has a golden halo and a golden devil tail protruding from either side. Below, gold text reads ‘Masked Omens’.

Image 2 - A page from the Entertainment section of the Capital Herald, dated Saturday, 9th January, 2021. Full image description and transcript below the cut. End ID.]

The Capital Herald - Saturday, 9th January, 2021 Entertainment

Main story: SECOND SABLE BRAND AMBASSADOR ADMITTED TO HOSPITAL Stunned fans phone in to save the day as model collapses during charity fundraising challenge Model and social media influencer Adam Mann, 29, was rushed to hospital on Friday night after he collapsed during a live webstream. Worried fans alerted the authorities and an ambulance was dispatched to Mann's Kensington home at approximately 8pm last night. Mann's representatives have yet to release a statement, but a source close to him told The Capital Herald that Mann had been feeling unwell for some time. “He's been out of sorts for ages,” she admitted, “and when I looked up the symptoms online, it said it was probably malnutrition. I told him, it's that diet he's on. But Adam wouldn't listen.” Mann is a brand ambassador for Dr Raven Sable's diet and lifestyle products. Earlier this month, another Sable ambassador, Lilith Root, checked into an in-patient facility to begin treatment for an eating disorder. Sable's representatives have so far declined to comment on either incident, despite repeated invitations to do so. Mann is a  dedicated charity campaigner, often urging his peers in the modelling industry to raise awareness and funds using the wry social media hashtag #NotJustAPrettyFace. In the few years since he rose to prominence, he has supported hundreds of charities ranging from local foodbank initiatives to global human rights and animal welfare concerns. “It‘s so like Adam,” our source told us, “to literally collapse in the middle of trying to help someone else. He always puts himself last. I really, really hope he’s OK.” It’s a sentiment that’s been echoed in Twitter threads and on message boards across the internet - including in the comments of Mann’s most recent Instagram post, which was uploaded just an hour before the livestream started. “Ready to take some questions, have some fun and raise some cash for a great cause,” said the caption. “Please Adam, look after yourself and get well soon. You’re so thin in this photo :( xxxx” replied a user  with the handle @adamfann95, three hours later. Similar messages soon followed as news of Mann’s condition spread. At the time of Mann’s collapse, his charity livestream had raised over £15,000 for Lionheart, a charity dedicated to the care and protection of lions and other wild animals who’ve been illegally kept as pets. Since then, fans have continued to make donations in his name, and the charity is now set to receive over £38,000. “We wish Adam a very speedy recovery, and we hope he knows he’s  always welcome to visit us at the Lionheart Sanctuary,” said Noah Shipman, the charity’s founder and chairman. “Thank you to all those who’ve donated; we firmly believe that these animals belong outside, not cooped up between four walls or in someone’s garden. Just like us, they like to roam! Thank you for helping us to save those poor creatures who’ve been put in a horrible position through no fault of their own.” At time of writing, there has been no update on Mann’s condition. MARY HODGES. [Image Description: a close-up of biblical Adam biting the apple, taken from the Good Omens TV show. End ID.] TAKEN ILL: Adam Mann, pictured above in an ad campaign for Dr Raven Sable’s CHOW nutritional lifestyle regime, was admitted to hospital on Friday evening (Image: QuiteUnlikely.net)

Centre left: Memory Lane: Tip from the Top The gunge plunge was a child's idea of justice, but it worked. They don't make children's telly like they used to. Before Peppa Pig and Shaun the Sheep, there was Superted and Maid Marian and Her Merry Men. Those shows have had their time, changed the genre for the better, and been consigned to history – and there's certainly an argument for reviving them. But one children's show that's going to be hard to replace is my old favourite, Tip from the Top. Hosted by Blue Peter alum Pat Maputi, the show was based on a simple, winning format; kids competed to score points, win prizes, and ultimately get the opportunity to drop their least favourite parent, guardian, teacher, or other adult into a pool of gunge and goo. Named for the chair that tilted forward and dislodged the unfortunate adult seated on it, the show might have been nothing more than a simple gameshow curiosity, but its concept of offering redress for the many perceived slights inflicted on kids by grown-ups made it a real treasure. To children of my generation, it was like a little revolution; when we were sent to our rooms unjustly, when we were kept behind after class, when we were made – horror of all horrors – to tidy our rooms, Tip from the Top offered the tantalising prospect of justice. Of course, all the adults on the show had agreed to be there, accepting the risk of being plunged into a thick layer of green slime. Pat Maputi was in league with the detention-givers and the room-senders all along. But as children, we didn't realise that; to us, Tip from the Top was the highest possible Court of Appeal. And for that, it will always be remembered fondly. Sadly, Tip from the Top was cancelled in 2000, a new millennium bringing a new wave of children's television to our screens. The focus of children’s programming began to shift towards a more fiction-heavy schedule, and some undoubtedly excellent shows came out of it. But perhaps, even after all these years, a reboot might not be too much to hope for – after all, children these days must have just as many complaints about their adult overlords as we did, back then. Clearly, somebody needs to give Pat a call and set the wheels of justice in motion once more. SARAH JEUNE. Memory Lane is our regular feature, looking back at the books, shows and films of yesteryear through a nostalgic lens. Do you miss something you’d like to see featured? Just send the show name (plus channel and airdates if you know them) in an email to: memorylane@capitalherald.co.uk - your prayers might just be answered!

Centre right: The Masked Singer Continues Did I really have a life before the live shows? It's only week three of The Masked Singer UK's first ever live series, and already I've forgotten what I used to do with my Saturday nights before it was on. Is it just me, or is anybody else having funny turns on the Tube, squinting suspiciously at strangers and wondering, “could it be you?” Of course, the likelihood of running into Apple, Axolotl, Black Cat, Bonfire, Goose, Pony, Snake, Squid, Sword or Teapot on my morning commute is vanishingly small, and they'd be unlikely to give themselves away if I did see them. But after a Saturday night spent hunting for the slightest clues and rummaging through my own brain for names, it's hard to turn those instincts off come Monday morning. Everybody seems to have a theory, of course, even at this early stage. My postman claims Apple has to be a tech mogul, my colleagues have a betting pool on which character turns out to be a former member of Blazin' Squad, and my dentist waited until she'd got the little mirror in my mouth to ask me if I thought Pony walked like a minister, whatever that means. Me? I have a few wild guesses, but I'd prefer to keep them to myself until we have a little more to go on. Many of our readers, I'm delighted to report, have far more faith in their own guessing ability, and we've collected some of the most interesting responses from the comments section of our website on the page opposite. Give it a read and tell us what you think – your comment might be featured next week! In the meantime, let me recap what we do know. Bell was unmasked in the first week, and turned out to be Sergeant Shadwell, a former soldier turned YouTuber. I am assured by my more online colleagues that he's known for debunking conspiracy theories, whatever urban exploration is, and occasionally looking for ghosts. Then, last week, we met and said goodbye to Ninja, who turned out to be none other than Esther James, England women's rugby captain. I never would have guessed, and I'm quite keen on rugby; identifying someone by their singing voice alone is much harder than it seems! I may not know who this year's contestants are, but I know I'll be on the edge of my seat all night waiting to find out. I'll be tuning in tonight for  another live show; if you join me, don't forget to get in touch and tell us your best theories! EDWARD BIGGS. The Masked Singer UK will air live tonight at 7pm on ITV. Contact us via our website or at: entertainment@capitalherald.com to share your thoughts and guesses. Ad (bottom third of the page): [Image Description: A banner ad with a black background. On the right is a photograph of Agnes Nutter as seen in Good Omens, demonstrating some serious side-eye. Overlaid is Agnes Nutter’s signature, followed by the words ‘DS member & Author’. On the left, bright yellow-green figures demonstrating various exercises - a football goalie making a save, a gymnast balancing on their hands, and a weightlifter - surround the main text. End ID.] Have you been skipping leg day? Come on down to DIVINATION STATION [the words ‘Divination Station’ are a graffiti-style logo] where fitness is fun! www.divinationstation.com