#at which point i am unprepared and unresponsive

[catfishofoldin99colours]

I know I'm not the best at managing my emotions and I've bitched about people plenty in my time but it still always catches me off guard when my coworkers talk incredibly nastily about someone else in the office with what seems like reckless abandon, like.

Oh, you. You don't? Try and keep this to yourself? You don't consider this frustration a private thought? You just. Let these thoughts out, in the open, often to me specifically???

Can't quite tell if it's the eldest daughter thing that makes people vent to me or if I just have the Vibe that calls people who want to complain

Very odd. And not pleasant.

[angelamajiki]

PARINGS: Tomura Shigaraki x Prostitute! Female! Reader

CW: yandere, noncon, degradation, choking, somno? somno, prostitutes, unprepared sex, shigaraki has a FAT crush on mirko and decided he needed to take it out on you

AN: my first shiggy fic! please mind the tags and enjoy <3

For @tomurasprincess Shigaraki Birthday Celebration Collab! enjoy bb <33

Turning 21 and still being a virgin? It was pathetic, really. His birthday was not something he was used to celebrating; there were more important things for him to divert his attention to than a petty holiday. It was just another part of society that needed to be eliminated.

But, damn it all, if Dabi wouldn’t stop pestering him about “letting off steam” down on some street corner.

“I already told you, I don’t want some cheap hooker that’s gonna squeal on us.” Tomura sighed, scratching at his neck with a frustrated vigor. “Take Giran with you if you’re that desperate. Hell, Twice might even go too.”

But Dabi didn’t budge. “I’m not doing this for me, boss. It’ll be good to stop being so pent up and pissy.”

His grin was wide and toothy. Tch, of course, this was some kind of game to him. The bastard probably wanted to see how long he would last his first time, which even he knew wouldn’t be too long. Not that he would admit that out loud, least of all to the man sitting across from him at the bar.

“I am not pent up and pissy. I’ll go as long as you’re the one paying.”

“No sweat off my back, boss. I'll take you somewhere nice. Kurogiri said it's where your old man used to go to relax.”

———

The man wasn't lying when he said the place was nice. It was too nice. Made is his skin crawl to see so much money being thrown around so carelessly. They were all disgusting, sniveling pigs who would all bow to him one day, so he paid them no mind as they passed the whores around as quick as they would a used napkin.

“See, told ya I was takin’ you somewhere nice. So pick someone you like and a room to, uh, get to know them in. I'm off.” With that, Dabi stalked off to find his own kill for the night.

But how could Tomura choose just one? There were so many choices. Women, men, those who blurred the gender lines, mutants, both pretty and ugly. But hey, everyone’s got a fetish nowadays. The elaborate costumes and lingerie they wore meant nothing to him; it would just get in the way.

His eyes scanned the room before he did a double-take over the hero section. Heroes were popular, but Christ, would people be so depraved and desperate they would pay to stick themselves in a fake one just to bust? Apparently he was one of those people tonight. When he saw those bunny ears and that bodysuit, Tomura Shigaraki was done for.

A pink flush dusted his cheeks as he approved the vixen, the imitation of the woman of his dreams, more specifically, you dressed in a Mirko cosplay, tail and all. It was naturally unrequited feelings, but damn if his cock didn't get hard at the sight of Rumi viciously tearing through villains like they weren’t even human. She would make a fine one herself. Ah, but only in his fantasies. Or so he thought until tonight.

Lanky, bone dry fingers make their way around your wrist to yank you up out of your seat. Your eyelash had bat up at him as he had walked over, his attraction towards you was obvious. But he wasn't here to play games, so your coquettish flirting did nothing but make him cringe.

“Come on, little bunny.” He tugged you along to a private room. “We’re going to play together.”

Tomura was undoubtedly more excited than when he first entered the brothel. He sat down on the room's velvet couch and spread his legs, patting his bony left thigh.

“Sit. I don't like to repeat myself, so don't make me.”

You sauntered over to him, giving a slow walk to build than anticipation, but he wasn't feeling patient tonight. Tch, hero slut thinking you impress him? You were nothing but a hole for him to corrupt.

Four fingers brought you to his lap roughly, migrating to your neck for good measure.

“Do you know who I am, Mirko?”

Was he delusional? Not really.

Possibly.

Definitely.

But that wasn't the issue at hand.

A meek “no, sir” stuttered out from your bulging eyes and reddened face as he squeezed with bitterness he didn't know he had.

“No? The number five doesn't know who I am?”

It was true then, he was just scum under her shoes. Who was he kidding? That damn rabbit bitch would kill him without a second thought.

“You think you’re so high and might don't you, hero?” He sneered venomously, tightening his grip while your arms weakly hit him. Good, he liked a challenge. “Looks like you need to be put in your place, bunny bitch.”

Your thrashing did nothing to quell his frustrated growls and huffs as he pulled the thong of the cheap bodysuit to the side—no point in disintegrating the whole thing. God, he couldn't wait to get his cock stuffed to the hilt inside you. His hard cock sprung free from his sweatpants as he pulled up the hood to his black sweatshirt.

The scene was already set in his head, a camera pointed directly at her as he corrupted her hero pussy for all of Japan to see what a whore their number five was. Unfortunately, you would have to do, alone with him in the dank room of the brothel.

God, you were just ruining everything weren't you? You hardly looked like her at all, especially with all that crying and squealing. She would never be so pathetic.

“Shut the fuck up; I’ll give you something to cry about.”

With that, he sheathed himself inside of your unprepared pussy. Oh fuck, did your walls clamp down on him perfectly. At least you were good for something.

Tomura wanted it to hurt, relishing in the screams you let out as he inched his way into your resistant cunt.

“Yeah, that's right. Scream for my cock. It's stretching you out nice and good, isn't it?”

He only got a sob as a response.

“I asked you a question, bitch.”

Ah, an enthusiastic yes. Maybe you weren't such a bad substitute after all. Heavy balls pressed snuggly against your skin as he fought the urge to cum so soon after violating you. The thought of one day being balls deep in Mirko almost sent him over the edge, but looking at your tear-stricken, choked-out expression lulled him back. Ugh, that definitely would keep him busting on the spot.

His pace was brutal as he snapped his hips into yours, snarling and growling all the way.

“You think you're too good for me, Rumi? Think you're hot shit? You're nothing but a breeding bunny for me.”

Your cunt felt heavenly clenching around him, he noticed that the harder he choked you, you squeezed his coco tighter. He quite liked the sound of your crying and pleading for him to stop, it was almost cute. Keyword being almost.

Now he's not one for pain, but damn if they sting on his thighs from slapping against your skin didn't feel just incredible. He has a fleeting thought to wonder how you're feeling, but he supposed it didn’t matter all that much. It was your job to please him, right?

“Cum on this fucking villain cock, Rumi. Show the world you're nothing more than a villain’s whore.”

It was his turn to cry, more so out of frustration as he used your body like a fleshlight, pounding into your now wet cunt mercilessly. God, if this didn't hurt knowing he'd never have her. But you seemed to do the job just fine.

The tail on the back of your bodysuit was bouncing and jumping with his thrust. What he would give just to be able to grab the real thing and hear her squeals of Tomura, more, more!

At some point, you had lost consciousness, and he couldn't find it in himself to care as he continued to chase his pleasure. He moaned louder and bolder now that you were out cold, hell, he even whined a few times. Not that anyone was around, or awake, to hear him.

He couldn't help but sob as he creamed your unresponsive cunt, hunching over your limp body and nuzzling his face into the faux ears you wore. Tomura could imagine how soft the real deal would be as they talked after, saying everything and nothing all at once.

Although it seemed it would be nothing as you were still limp and flushed under his arms. At least you were breathing and had a pulse.

Cleaning himself up, he stuffed a couple of dirty dollars into your still dripping cunt and stalked out of the room.

He’d definitely come back for round two.

[blackberry-gingham]

I love your writing so much!💗 could you write something about how each of the boys would calm the reader down after a panic attack?

FJDJSNSN YOU BET I WILL !!!

I actually do have a bit of a history with panic attacks, so I'm going to write these imagines kinda based on the sort of care ik I'd want to receive at least, so I hope these are like, realistic but not too angsty for anyone sksksk

But uh yeah, enjoy!

Oh and PSA that isn't mentioned in any of my imagines, but on this blog John has been getting the therapy he needs and deserves for a while now, so that's what's going on with all the references to stuff picked up from his "therapy/therapist" in this post and my others. Just wanted to clear that up✌🏻😌

George

Honestly, George is a very calm and trustworthy guy, so if you could, I think you'd do your best to seek him out while you know you're having a panic attack

And if you can't bc it's really bad, then you definitely would after it's over!

You slowly walk into the living room, your blanket wrapped around your shoulders

George turns to greet you, but his smile vanishes when he sees the red rims of your puffy eyes

You don't need to say a word, George is already up from his seat and coming over to protect you

The two of you communicate easily so George knows about your tendencies with panic attacks and by now he can spot when you've had one, just like he's doing now

"There now love, let's have a seat yeah?"

He guides you over to the couch and helps you sit

George rubs a little warmth into your arms, but decides another blanket would do better

Quickly he drapes the large, fluffy throw over you and promises to be right back

He disappears for a few moments while you situate yourself in the blankets

When he returns, he's brought a modest armful of your favorite snacks and a box of tissues, just in case

George sets everything down on the coffee table, except for a little tin of biscuits, which he takes with him as he joins you under the throw

He leans in and gives your cheek a kiss, "Kettle's on, we can have cocoa if you like"

You smile, and nod to let him know you heard

"Would you like to talk?"

"In a moment", you respond quietly

"Of course love"

George pulls you against his chest for a cuddle, then balances the tin between your laps

"Would you like one?"

You eye the variety to see if your favorite is left and then nod

By now you don't even have to request which one you want, George already knows

He picks it up and holds it out to you

Unfortunately, you're not quite feeling it yet, so you open your mouth wide instead

George picks up on the cue and holds the biscuit closer so you can take a bite, gently feeding it to you

The two of you take turns nibbling on snacks for a bit until the kettle comes to a boil

George goes off to fix hot chocolate for the two of you and returns with a pair of steaming mugs

When you're both settled, George gives you some space and let's you open up on what's troubling you

He hears you out and promises to do whatever he can to help you

And he's a man of his word, as you know

Afterwards, the two of you spend as long as you need relaxing on the couch, snacking and cuddling until you feel back up to speed

Of course, George wouldn't mind if you stayed here all day :)

John

I kinda feel like John would have like a sixth sense when it comes to anxiety tbh

Like when you're experiencing your panic attack, even if he's not there to necissarily see it happen, he just knows

You're in the middle of one now, when John peaks the door to your room open

"Everything alright love? You've been quite for some time-"

John finds you shaking and unresponsive, curled up in a blanket on the bed

As someone who struggles with anxiety himself, he knows exactly what's happening, so thankfully he doesn't panic like the other lads might

However, that doesn't mean it breaks his heart any less

John approaches calmly and sits besides you

You drag yourself up and apologize, a few tears streaming down your cheeks

But John just shushes you and holds you close

"We can talk when you're ready love"

You lean into him and do what you have to as you ride out the attack, while John holds you in a comfortingly tight embrace

When everything is over, John holds up on his promise and gives you the floor to talk about what's troubling you

He can be a great listener when he wants to, a trait he's exemplifying now as he holds you in his lap

Once you've said your peace, John would totally know how to validate your feelings and all that

"I'm so sorry love, I can't imagine how hard that must be for you. What can I do to help?"

For now, you feel best just being close to him

You lay down and John cuddles onto you a bit, just how you like, the warm weight of his body grounding you

He gives you some feather light kisses and keeps his voice calm and low

"This alright?"

You take a deep breath and nod, stroking his hair

It's times like this that John just feels flat useless

He knows what to say and some tricks to use from his therapy sessions for his own issues, but he wishes he could do more for you

Be charismatic and uplifting, like Paul would

Or warm and comforting like Ringo

Instead he's just a stoic lump

John looks up at you as a stray tear falls from your eye

He wishes so badly that he could take all your pain away

If he could, he'd bear the weight of the world, just to see you safe and happy

But for now, he hopes this old body of his is enough to help you feel warm, loved, and grounded

He shifts his weight a little so he can nuzzle your cheek

It's a bit too cold and damp for his sensitive nose, but he puts his personal discomfort aside

Well, there is one more trick he has up his sleeve that he hopes will help

John chooses one of your favorite songs of his and hums it to you quietly

The sound and vibrations combined with the warmth and pressure wraps you in a whole cocoon of John

You know that he wishes he was better with words, but honestly what he's doing now is what he usually does to steady you after an attack

And honestly?

It does far, far more for you then any sympathetic speech ever could

You give John's back a little rub and hold on tightly, hoping it can begin to express your gratitude

John smiles into your neck and hums just a bit louder, snuggling closer to you

Paul

I think Paul would be one who usually comes to find you after a panic attack

It's not that you don't feel comfortable with him, it's just... It feels rather embarassing to have breakdowns like that sometimes

Paul's always so confident and cool, you hate how your anxiety and panic attacks make you feel weak, especially compared to the likes of him

He finds you laid out on the couch, burritoed up in a blanket

He playfully asks what you're doing, but the look on your face is distant, as though your mind is a thousand miles away

Your eyes are rimmed red and you appear to have some shivers going on

Slowly, you turn your gaze to look at your boyfriend

Paul is frozen

He wants to help but he's not quite sure what's wrong. All he knows is he's desperately worried

"Paul..."

Your voice is hoarse and shallow as you call to him

Instantly, Paul snaps to action with no time to lose

He vaults the couch, careful not to land on you in the process and send beside you

"What is it? Tell me, tell me...", His voice is fairly calm, despite the begging in his tone

You get to the point, neither of you interested in beating around the bush, and tell him you just had a panic attack

You've told him about these before, but never at a point in time where he was able to care for you after you'd had it

Paul almost breathes a sigh of relief. Seeing you like this... He'd feared something much worse was wrong

Of course, this is still a very serious matter, but the catch is he's come prepared

Ever since you mentioned your history with anxiety and panic attacks, he's done some digging and research on what can be done to help

He's even consulted John on the matter!

There's plenty of things he can do, but Paul knows you respond best to his words

"Do you think you can sit up?"

You consider it a moment and then agree

Paul pulls you close to him, snuggling his face into the crook of your neck as he starts by speaking some words of encouragement and making sure you know how proud he is of you

The amount of affection he's laying on you takes you by surprise

You apologize for having him fuss over you, and your eyes start to water

Paul pulls back and looks at you as though he can't believe what he's heard, but his face softens when he sees you

"Oh no no no love, none of that now"

He wipes away your tears and asks if he's done something wrong

You shake your head, "No, I-I just wish I could be as put together as you, I guess"

At that one, Paul laughs

"I can't imagine why you'd want that. Matter of fact, I wish I was as strong and brave as you"

You look up at him questioningly, but Paul only nods

"it's true! I think you're incredible, living day to day like you do. You're a real fighter, you know that?"

He kisses your nose

"I don't want you to feel like you're not as 'brave' as I am because it's simply just not true!"

Paul smiles and brushes some hair from your face to reveal the little smile you've been hiding

Feeling a bit better at last, you open up your arms to invite Paul in for a cuddle

He readily accepts, and stays with you as long as you like

Ringo

I think the first time Ringo sees you after a panic attack, he'd be really worried about you!

You see, Ringo is just such an upbeat guy, no time ever really feels like a good time to tell him about your anxiety or panic attacks really

So when he witnesses it first hand, he's completely unprepared!

Ringo finds you laying face down on the bed, with your arms covering your head

He immediately freezes

His voice is dripping with fear as he cautiously calls your name

You barely stir, still riding out the end of a panic attack

Ringo is in a full panic now, and without another word he leaps onto the bed kneeling on all fours beside you

He wants so badly to touch you and make sure you're alright, but at the same time, he doesn't know what's wrong and he doesn't want to hurt you!

Instead, he places his palm on your back and gives you as gentle a shake as he can manage

"H-hey...?"

His voice is quivering and hardly more then a whisper

After a few moments it dawns on him that he can feel you shaking under his touch

Ringo sits up on his knees and whips around to find something to keep you warm

He stretches across the bed and yanks over a thin throw

By the time he's turned back to you, you've rolled over onto your back

You wipe your eyes and try to put on a brave face

"It's alright Ritchie, I'm fine..."

Ringo looks white as a sheet, his face stricken with worry

"No you're not!", he insists

He drapes the blanket over you, but decides that it isn't nearly warm enough and, like a giant cat, lays himself across your chest as well

"There now, are you warm enough? What can I do to make you better?"

You let your head fall back and close your eyes

Honestly you do feel a bit bad for him, but you simply don't have the energy to console him right now

Ringo gets off you for a moment and slides a pillow under your head before resuming his position

"How's that?"

You sigh, "Fine thank you. I'm just... getting over a panic attack love"

"Ooooh, I understand"

You lift your head up at that, and give him a confused look

"Yeah, John's had 'em back stage a couple times before a show now and then. He tells us about 'em sometimes and what to do and all"

Somehow you find that that does make sense, and so you lay back down, glad you don't have to explain yourself

"I-Is there anything you'd like me to do for you? John likes us to bring him some water usually... Would you like that?"

Ringo snuggles a little closer, looking down at you with big, puppy dog eyes

You smile a little. You're not use to receiving so much support after an attack like this

"Maybe later, right now I just need you. I-If that's alright..."

Ringo smiles and kisses your cheek before laying his head on the pillow beside you

"Yeah, I can do that..."

You hold onto him tight, grounding yourself and allowing the comfort to wash over you

Ringo stays with you until you've stopped shaking, runs off to put on the kettle, and then hurries back beside you to stay as long as you'll have him

[renaroo]

Super Brothers (1/12)

Disclaimer: Superman and associated characters are the creative property of DC Comics. Warnings: Child Abuse, Gender Dysphoria, PTSD and Anxiety, Character Death Rating: T Synopsis: Jon Kent knew he pretty much had the perfect family life, but something still felt wrong with himself. At the height of feeling like an alien in his own skin, however, his world got turned upside down when his parents took in a troubled child who embodied everything he felt he lacked. However, becoming a brother ended up being the smallest of the trials brought by adopting Christopher Kent. And being best friends with Damian Wayne has not exactly helped keep a neutral perspective on the matter.

A/N: I have made no secret over the last few years just how disappointed i’ve been by the treatment and reintroduction of Chris Kent, aka Lor-Zod, in DC Comics. This little guy is one of my favorite comic book characters in existence, and it feels so dirty to see what has become of him. For a while, I’ve wanted to do a story that really tried to rectify the Rebirth version of Chris and the continuity at large with the core of the character I love, so this story is my attempt at that. I can only hope that I bridge that gap gracefully.

On the other end, I didn’t want to erase Damian or Jon and all the positives I have seen with their relationship and additions to the DCU at large. For their parts in this story, I want to focus on being in the middle school age range, all the confusion that entails, and open a dialogue about issues of gender and acceptance. 

Obviously, these are a lot of heavy topics, and I am certain that despite my intentions, there can and will be things I mess up. My hope is, when that happens, you all can keep an open dialogue with me on the subjects. I want to learn and better myself and my portrayal of the issues. 

That being said, please pay attention to the warnings throughout this fic. I will touch on dark subjects, and I don’t want anyone to read and feel unprepared for the subjects broached, which is part of the reason I chose to make an opening scene that is rather dark and disturbing on some levels. It won’t be ALL dark and uncomfortable, but I want to make this plea now rather than later. 

I hope the story is still worth your read <3 Thank you for your time!

Chapter One: The Cost of Friends

Jon hates this.

At the absolute worst of times, his tiny body reminds him of just how unreliable it is. He can’t count on it, it’s not consistent — it’s not a Superman body no matter how hard he tries to fit it in as one. His limbs are gangly, his bones poke through pale kin, and his messy black hair curls untamed out from around his ears. It’s not good it doesn’t do what he needs it to do.

And at that moment, Jon’s terrified that it’s about to get himself and his best friend killed.

Ordinarily, being half-Kryptonian, Jon would easily burst through chains and bindings without a second thought. And he’s still strong, he tore through the ripe around his waist like it was taffy, but the chains keeping his legs and neck locked to the floor aren’t budging. And Jon’s getting progressively tired.

There’s something strange about this macabre carnival where he and Damian take the center ring. Of course, there is, because it’s Professor Pyg and he’s the stuff of nightmares. But beyond even that, the spotlights on them show with a heavy red glow that is making Jon sluggish and weak.

So weak that he’s less than a circus ring away from Damian and he still can’t get to him.

“Come now, come now, wait your turn,” the grotesque villain squeals in delight toward Jon. “Little Bat has been scheduled for this appointment for such a long time! You must be patient, my little bird. So patient. Everyone has their time with the professor.”

“Superboy!” Damian snarls from where he is tied up, flat and without his utility belt. He’s laying on a gurney that looks far from sanitary and, if Jon didn’t know better, it might even look like Damian is actually concerned. “Focus! Red sunlight radiation shouldn’t dull your brains as much as it does your strength!”

Blinking, Jon looks up to the spotlights again and can see, with what vague telescopic ability he still has, that there is something unusual about the spectrum of light coming from them. “Is that what this is?” he asks, voice small but filled with relief all the same.

“Oh, my, I cannot, must not, pass an opportunity to educate my subjects, inform them of their peril,” Professor Pyg pantomimes his way from the circus ring with Damian toward the center stage with Jon.

Immediately, Jon feels his body stiffen on instinct. He looks warily at the flabby, disgusting pig mask as the rest of the pudgy and unkempt professor makes his way toward Jon. He knows he should be focusing on getting free, but it’s a difficult thing to do when he’s being approached by unmitigated evil and brutality.

He isn’t sure how Damian gets his suit on every night if this is what Gotham patrols are really like.

“It is your body,” Pyg snorts and chortles.

A cold splash washes over Jon. “My body?” he repeats with wide eyes.

“Get away from him, Pyg!” Damian roars, his gurney shaking and rocking with struggle.

“It isn’t right, doesn’t fit on your bones,” Pyg bemoans, jerking out his hip and slithering his own arms around his chest and waist. He sways back and forth on his feet with a sashay of his hips. “It misses the shape of your spirit, the delicate frame of your face. And it’ll only get worse with age.”

Despite himself, Jon feels his struggle slow to a complete stop. His eyes widen as he looks at Pyg. There is a chill that travels from the base of his spine up, standing all his hair on end.

Deep inside of Jon’s chest, muscles tighten and his heart thunders. He feels a shiver move from his core. No oh no oh no oh no. HIs guts churn, his jaw trembles.

“Oh, you feel it, don’t you, that deep deep down,” Pyg continues, approaching. “You’re in the last years of it being passable, of being acceptable. Before your bones grind and the sinews snap into shapes thick and unbecoming of your gentle nature. I see what you are, in that deep deep down, because I am an artist who shapes and molds my subjects out from their souls.”

“You’re a monster,” Jon whispers, his voice giving up halfway through.

Pyg’s eyes shine with something dangerous through the outsides of his mask. He reaches forward and cups Jon’s cheek with his itchy gloved hand. Jon doesn’t even know when he got so close; when he started towering so tall over Jon.

“You’ll be one of my finest Dollotrons,” Pyg promises, rubbing his thumb just under Jon’s eye. “But your clay’s too strong, have to soften you up, get you nice and fleshy, then I’ll shave and I’ll cut and I’ll shape you right up.”

It doesn’t come off as a promise, so much as it does a threat, one that terrifies and unsettles Jon deep down within himself.

Jon’s mind draws a blank, his eyes wide and unfocused and he attempts, desperately, to come up with some intelligent response. But he can’t, not while a fear racks his every nerve and turns his muscles to stone.

It takes Jon completely and utterly by surprise when a familiar whoosh in the air flies overhead before glass crashes and electricity sparks. He catches a glance at the familiar shape of a Batarang lodged into the spotlight directly overhead.

He’s instantly overcome with relief.

Pyg releases his cheek and steps back wildly, looking around. “No! Not now! My art is not ready!” he cries out before letting loose some piglike squeals and sobs.

Looking toward Damian, Jon expects to see his friend released but is surprised to see Damian still trapped. He squints, uncertain of what’s happening when a second then third Batarang plunge into the remaining red sun spotlights.

“Batman?” Jon wonders out loud.

“Ugh,” Damian lets out in frustration before struggling with even more force against his bindings. “Overdramatic, sanctimonious, can’t believe—“

Dollotrons are racing onto the tent floor while Professor Pyg whines and bemoans his ultimate fate, but as the lights extinguish one by one, the shadows take on a new form.

She moves like a dancer, each step and hit against the army of zombified victims perfectly paced and timed. She is all in black, save for her golden accents and bat, and she spares not a single motion. A kick becomes a launch for a leap becomes a smack becomes a twirl becomes a fist to the face of the blubbering Professor. And each and every movement grows in its momentum.

Jon has never seen anything like this outside of super speed, and he certainly hasn’t seen it using the shapes and silhouettes of the shadows like a comforting show curtain. He has so many questions and so many concerns that he forgets himself and getting free. Even if he could, with his body still unresponsively slow and dulled from the radiation.

Damian, at the least, is in motion, finally getting one of his hands free and using the points of his gauntlet to slice through the leather of the other bindings. He is muttering to himself, annoyed and embarrassed based on the flush in his cheeks. It’s not a rare sight but it is unusual for Jon to see Damian this way around one of his multitudes of siblings.

The shadowy bat launches into a final attack, knocking out the last of the Dollotrons before pouncing on the escaping Professor Pyg like a hungry lioness.

With her full weight on Pyg, the Bat narrows her eyes and for the first time can really be seen by Jon as she reaches over and yanks Pyg’s disgusting mask off of his face. Her lips curl in displeasure, but it doesn’t take away from her fair features or the delicate, smooth control she has over her body.

“Wow,” Jon hears himself say as Damian reaches his side and begins pulling out a small blowtorch for the chains. “Is that your sister?”

“SHH!” Damian hisses.

Jon strains to listen to whatever is being said between the Bat and Pyg, but it gets him nowhere, only words at a time coming in clearly as his powers remain in flux. Regardless, Pyg is squirming and blubbering too much for it to matter anyway.

“Took her damn time,” Damian snarls, letting Jon lean on him as he glares toward his sister.

“She saved our lives,” Jon reminds him.

Damian’s nose curls. “Tt, debatable.”

Cassandra apparently finishes whatever minor conversation she was having with Pyg and flips him over, handcuffing him swiftly. She’s powerful and strong without losing her leanness or size, it mesmerizes Jon in a way. By the time she looks up at them, her expression has completely changed.

“You okay?” she asks them both.

“No thanks to you,” Damian says at the same time Jon gets out, “All thanks to you!”

Something approximating a smile crosses her face before she gets to her feet and reaches up to her ear. “Oracle. Done.”

Looking at Cassandra, Jon feels like he’s found yet another new hero. “Whoa, your sister’s awesome. And cool. And so in control,” Jon tells Damian, his strength returning. “You’ve got so many siblings, can I have your sister?”

“Father would be displeased, otherwise I’d say yes,” Damian huffs in that way that Jon cannot tell, for the life of him, if it’s sarcasm or not.

***

Damian watches as his friend flies off.

It took the better part of an hour as well as a stop at Big Belly Burger for Jon to feel up to the task, but the half-Kryptonian flies home after departing from them and Damian watches him go.

Cassandra, as it turns out, is also there. She leans back against her motorcycle — a sleek but redundant design, like any of the numerous other bat-themed motorcycles or vehicles any of their extended family has access to — and watches Damian more than Jon.

They haven’t had much time with just the two of them. Their paths rarely intersect. And Damian is pretty sure he prefers it that way.

His cheeks are still on fire from the embarrassment of being rescued by her.

“I would have gotten out,” he informs her, crossing his arms. “Pyg was distracted and far away from me. I was working on my restraints.”

She tilts her head at him, a frown tight on her face. “Distracted you, too,” she points out.

And Damian knows she’s right about that, he was distracted. Just the look on his friend’s face, the growing horror and dread. Jon isn’t used to the types of villains that Gotham can throw at people, the psychological toll it takes. Damian is, or at least he likes to think he is, but Jon still can be scared and surprised.

But what looks crossed Jon’s face at that moment were unexpected even to Damian. He had never seen anything like it. Jon had been soaking up every word and phrase like it had been ripped straight from his dreams.

It was enough that it frightened Damian for his friend, and he didn’t even know why.

Over the course of an hour and a Big Belly Burger, Jon had refrained from mentioning a single thing about it.

That, too, was very unlike Jon.

Such things could be dwelled on at another time, though. Damian had the pressing matter at hand of his own reckoning. And his so-called sister.

Without looking up to meet Cassandra’s gaze, Damian kicked at the ground. “What are you going to tell father about tonight?” he asks.

“Truth,” Cass answers unhelpfully.

Gritting his teeth, Damian looks back at her, eyes narrowed and angry. “That’s not fair, you know,” he growls at her. “You never come around, never work with any of the rest of us, and then you pop in and judge us from on high. No wonder father speaks highly of you. You’re just like him.”

Her brows come together in a way that wrinkles her forehead. It’s hard to read her expression, even with her modified mask and hood. “I’m not,” she says. Her words sound final, but she apparently thinks better of them and shifts her weight from one foot to the other. “Judging you. I’m not.”

Damian looks her over. She hasn’t moved from her bike but her arms have dropped to her side. She is looking at him rather intently and it makes him want to squirm in his combat boots.

“Tt, sure you’re not,” he finally snaps back. “You’ll still tell father that I was captured by Professor Pyg.”

“Yes,” she said too casually.

“And that I let Superboy get captured, too,” Damian glowered more at that one, his eyes rest on the asphalt beneath his feet. He kicked again.

Cassandra paused slightly longer with that one.

When her hand snaked its way onto his shoulder, Damian flinched bodily. He slapped her hand away and twisted around to get away on instinct. He hated that — no one should be able to sneak up on him. He was trained by League of Assassins, he had been prepared since before he could speak to be on guard.

But Cassandra had, too.

She looked at him passively. “Not your fault, happens,” she said, in reference to Pyg.

“That’s not what father will think,” Damian snaps.

“I’ll tell him,” she promises.

Damian stares at her for a moment, sizing her up and considering all the ways he could make her more respectful to him. But it fizzles out quickly. He knows, as much as he resists the thought, that he isn’t upset with her.

He’s upset with himself.

“In the League, they trained us that there is a cost to every relationship formed,” Damian informs Cassandra like she doesn’t intuitively know from her own history. “Partnerships, even necessary ones, would cost you heavily. They could be deadly. And more relationships than strictly necessary should be avoided. All this family and friendship that is just around me all the time now. I don’t want to pay the cost for them.” He looks to the skies where Jon once flew. “I don’t want my friend to pay for them either. It’s not worth it.”

Cassandra stays quiet, but she places her hand on Damian’s shoulder again. He doesn’t attempt to knock it off this time.

“Sometimes it is,” she tells him.

But Damian isn’t so sure. Especially not hearing it from her. Cassandra does not work with others to the same degree as the rest of their family. She doesn’t go to school. She doesn’t join teams outside of father’s pet projects. She doesn’t operate in a daily partnership like Damian has with Grayson or father.

She seems to be living by those lonesome standards that the League taught Damian. And all anyone can do is praise her.

What sort of lesson is Damian supposed to learn from that?

***

Jekuul feels oppressively hot outside of the crystal palace.

Lor has watched his parents stand, looming in the skies, over the land’s natives as they constructed the palace for them. He watched as their eyes glowed threateningly each time the native population faltered, and he remembered how easily their bones cracked and snapped when corrected by the general and his lieutenant. It was equal parts thrilling and terrifying to witness.

Inside the palace, things are smooth and temperature regulated. The pantries are stocked with foods far greater than anything Lor had tasted within the Phantom Zone, but still foreign and sometimes unexpected.

If he questions what was on his plate, he is quickly reprimanded.

So he doesn’t ask.

It should be easy, if not simple, to follow the rules at this point. Stay in the palace, eat when told without questions, listen to his lessons from the Sunstones without fault.

He is the Last Son of Krypton, and he is supposed to inherit everything the universe owed them for their lost greatest civilization. All he has to do is stay in place, not ask questions, don’t be, don’t move.

But he was not born on Krypton, nor was he born on Jekuul — New Krypton, by his father’s declaration — he was born in the perilous depths of the Phantom Zone. A prison.

Inside of the Phantom Zone, there was no movement, there were no questions, there was not being or doing or screaming or aging — that had been the only thing he’d ever existed and it was torturous.

Outside of the Phantom Zone, he thought, things are supposed to be different. He is supposed to move and change and grow, he thinks.

So even though there is every reason not to leave the palace, Lor-Zod leaves in the oppressive heat and feels the sun against his Kryptonian skin as he flies under the two yellow suns.

As he moves across the lands, the violet skinned natives of Jekuul fall to their knees and avert their eyes. They whisper and whimper in a tongue completely foreign to Lor-Zod and it feels, well. It feels good.

Lor-Zod knows that they react this way to his parents, but to have even adults of the alien race fall in reverence to him, he feels more powerful. He feels like the Last Son of Krypton that his father insists he is.

He wonders, vaguely, if it is something his father would like to see.

Deep down, Lor hopes so. Because it is easy for Lor to imagine what his father would think or say when he doesn’t like something Lor has done. He has no concept of what would happen when he makes his father pleased.

He is nearly at the end of the primitive village when Lor’s eyes fall on an unusual sight.

One of the Jekuul natives, a young female no older than Lor and having not yet earned her yellow stripes, stands and stares up at Lor. She doesn’t drop to her knees or avert her eyes.

For a few seconds, Lor continues flying, arching his head back to watch for the girl to finally do as she is supposed to but she never does.

Aggravated and surprised, Lor turns in his flight path and descends, landing promptly in front of the girl.

“Why aren’t you kneeling?” he asks before his feet are even secure.

She stares at him, head tilting. Her black eyes are large and reflective, Lor can see himself in them.

He huffs at her, crossing his arms like he has seen his father do so many times before. “Don’t you speak Kryptonian?” he sneers.

After a quiet moment, she scratches at her head and looks around. That seems to answer Lor’s question for him.

“You’re supposed to kneel,” he groans. “Look, like this,” he says, bowing down to one knee and lowering his head. He’s seen so many others do it before.

Then he hears laughter.

Lor looks up and sees the girl covering her mouth as she giggles before she gets down on both her knees and dips her body down in a silly, teetering display. A mockery. Then she gets back to her feet.

“No!” Lor snaps, getting back to his own feet and grabbing her shoulders.

At first, she stiffens, surprised, and looks at him wildly. Her hands grip onto his wrists and she seems afraid.

“Like this,” Lor repeats, then pushes down on her. He dips with her, down to the ground on their knees. But when they both lower their heads, they immediately smack foreheads.

It feels like nothing to Lor, but for the girl, she jolts back and begins rubbing at her skull.

Instinctively, just like he follows his parents’ motions, Lor reaches up and rubs at his own head. They stare at each other as they both sit there on their knees, rubbing their heads.

Then, despite himself, Lor giggles.

The girl giggles.

They both giggle.

Once the giggles subside, they are both sitting on their knees in the dirt and staring at each other expectantly. They don’t speak the same language. They aren’t remotely the same and, yet, Lor has never felt more of a need to communicate with someone in his life.

He points at his chest, at the house emblem emblazoned on his armor. “Zod,” he tells her. “Zod,” he repeats.

For a moment, the girl is quiet, absorbing his words, then she points at her chest and the purple skin. “Jekuul,” she says.

“No, not what you are,” he mutters, catching on quickly. “I’m not…” He is a Zod, though. Maybe more than he is a Kryptonian, if only in his own mind. He sucks in a breath and tries again. He points at his face. “Lor,” he tells her.

Understanding fills her expression and she points at her own face. “Ti’ahl.”

And, maybe for the first time, Lor feels a wide smile cross his face.

From that moment on, their afternoon is filled with delight.

Ti’ahl points at every structure, every creature, every plant with words and phrases that will not stop saying until Lor repeats. Repeatedly, Lor picks Ti’ahl up easily, flies her from location to location, lifts up every boulder and animal they come across as she claps in delight.

It’s thrilling — and Lor laughs more than he has ever laughed before in his life.

By the time the second sun begins to set, a chill quickly crosses the lands, and Lor can see Ti’ahl gain a shiver. It makes Lor feel bad to see Ti’ahl uncomfortable in any way.

“Hold on,” he calls to her at one point, slowing her run through the grass. He reaches up and carefully unclips his cape from his armor. Grinning, he floats toward Ti’ahl and drapes her with the heavy fabric.

After Lor ties the cape closed over her neck, Ti’ahl looks down and touches the knot. A funny look crosses her face and she looks at Lor.

Ti’ahl leaps onto a nearby rock, standing tall and crossing her arms. “ZOD!” she declares herself.

Realizing what is happening, Lor giggles and drops obediently to his knees. “I kneel!” he laughs.

At first, Ti’ahl joins his laughter, but then she becomes strangely quiet.

Confused, Lor looks up at her. “Ti’ahl?” he asks before realizing that a shadow has crossed over them both.

Heart sinking, Lor twists around and sees his father, arms crossed, standing over them both. He looks displeased.

“Father,” Lor gets out, voice thin.

“Is this how I find the Last Son of Krypton? Kneeling before his lessers?” the general snarls. He drops his hands to his sides as Lor begins to stand up and easily kicks Lor back down. “If you lower yourself in the dirt for a mongrel child, you will stay there for your leader, do you understand?”

Breath catching in his throat, Lor nods. “Y-yes, Sir.”

“To the palace. Immediately,” General Zod orders, his gaze carrying over to Ti’ahl. “There will be a price to pay for this, Lor-Zod. Let us see if you are grown enough to pay it.”

Lor cannot bring himself to look at Ti’ahl as he leaps to his feet and takes off in the air. His blood is rushing to his ears, tears building up in his eyes even before he reaches his top speeds of flight.

It isn’t until he was home that he realized he had left his cape.

[katehuntington]

How You & I Will Be - part five (finale)

Fandom: Supernatural Main characters: Reader, Dean Winchester, Sam Winchester (mentioned), Bobby Singer (mentioned) Pairing: Dean x Reader Serie summary: When a hellhound case in the mountains goes sideways, Dean and Y/N find themselves trapped in a small cabin, miles from civilization. A serious injury forces the two hunters to come to terms with their true feelings for each other. Rescue is on its way, but will it be in time? Part 5 warnings: angst, severe anxiety, nightmares, hallucinations, swearing, alcohol, description of blood and injury, possible character death. Some fluff. Music: ‘Lullabye’ by Billy Joel Word Count: 2154 words Author’s note: This is it, folks. The end of my mini series, and what a pleasure it was. Thank you @idreamofhazel and @littlegreenplasticsoldier for helping we work on this, you both are wonderful betas. Fair warning when you proceed: I managed to move them both to tears. @littlegreenplasticsoldier even made clear that I will have to hire someone to do my obit at my funeral, because I will have no friends left after this.

Find the ‘How You & I Will Be’ masterlist here!

     It turns out Y/N has a little more time on her side than they initially thought. Not that she will be able to remember much, since she laid in Dean’s arms unconscious most of the time, but somehow the huntress has made it till sunrise. Despite her brave attempt, her condition deteriorates with every minute that passes. During the hallucinations, Dean pulled her into his lap, holding the girl he loves with everything he’s got, like he would comfort an infant. The acid trip-like dreams had her in confusion and all he could do to sooth her, cradling her gently, whispering sweet words and promises.

     The nightmares seem to have passed now, setting in a new stage that is just as ominous. She has been unresponsive for quite a while, as if she has drifted off into a coma. It feels as if she’s slipping through his fingers like desert sand and there’s nothing he can do about it. Sometimes it takes over twenty seconds for her to breathe in again, which is only a weak gasp for air. Between those inhales Dean keeps her close to his chest, begging silently for her to take another breath, to stay a little longer.

     Red ashes have turned into grey charcoal overnight, causing the temperature in the cabin to drop. Now Dean’s leather jacket is the only item that can provide her some warmth; even if there were wood left, he wouldn’t let her go to restart the fire. The storm has passed quickly and it wouldn’t surprise Dean if it was the work of that witch that owed Bobby. The rescue-team was supposed to start their climb at the break of dawn; they are probably well on their way, now that the first rays of sun peek over the ridge, watercoloring the sky with pink and purple. The mountaintop of Glacier Peak is outlined with gold that glows ever brighter as the sun comes up. It’s a beautiful sight, one that Dean enjoys intently, aware that these will be the final moments he’ll have with his girl. 

     When the sunshine spreads a warmth in the cabin, illuminating the fibers of dust that float in the air surrounding them, Y/N opens her eyes slightly without Dean noticing it. The scenery outside captivates her. The view looks more like a painting from Leonid Afremov than it would seem like reality, and for a second she wonders if she’s hallucinating again. But when she observes Dean, who admires the spectacular scenery as well, she guesses it’s nature’s way of saying goodbye.

    “Well…” she rustles, words coming out raspy. “If that isn’t the most beautiful sunrise I’ve ever seen….”

     Stunned, Dean looks down at her. He honestly didn’t expect her to ever open her eyes again, but here she is. A moment of clarity. God, it’s nice to hear the sound of her voice again, despite it not being more than a weak whisper.      “Hey, you,” he returns, smiling down.      She smiles back, glad to be able to gaze up into those depthless green eyes once more. He lovingly strokes some wayward hair from her forehead, and places a tender kiss on her skin. Embracing the moment, she closes her eyes and sighs as her grin reaches wider. When he pulls back and witnesses the satisfied expression on her face, he suddenly notices the difference; she’s made peace with her fate. It scares him deeply, he isn’t anywhere close to prepared for her coming death.      “You wouldn’t be able to squeeze out a few more hours by any chance?” he pleads. “The rescue workers are on their way.”      For a moment she opens her eyes again, clearly worn out by the fight for life. She swallows with difficulty and lets the air escape from her lips, finding it harder to inhale every time she does so.      “I’m so tired, Dean….”      Her voice fails, but he heard her. The hunter nods slowly, accepting the true message behind her words. The fight is over. She’s lowered her weapons. With difficulty, he gulps, trying to ignore the sharp, stabbing pain in his chest. After all, he has to be strong for her. 

     But she’s no fool; she can see right through it. Y/N knows how hurt he is, how he’s trying so hard to prevent himself from caving. She might be okay with the fact that her hour has struck, he can’t say the same. The thought of letting her go causes the tears to pool in his eyes.      “Hey… It’s alright,” she tries to comfort him.      He scoffs, amazed by her urge to care for him, even now.      He manages a quivering breath. “I should be telling you that.”      “I’m not the one who’s about to be left behind, am I?” she reminds him.

     It’s a solid point. Who knows where she might drift off to. Heaven, the light, whatever one would want to believe. Dean will remain right here, on this spot of land without her.      “What do you think is gonna happen next?” he wonders out loud. “Lights out and that’s it?”      “Hell, no,” she chuckles, having found a little more spirit to strengthen her words. “It’s gonna be either Vegas or Hawaii. I haven’t decided yet.”      Dean scoffs through the tears, imagining it for a moment. He hopes she’s right, it makes the idea of dying a little less terrifying.      “Maybe my heaven will be driving down the road towards the sunset in the Impala, backseat to myself…” she continues on a serious note. “Maybe it’s this, this moment right here with you. This view.”

     Dean follows her thousand-yard stare through the window that portrays the colorful picture outside. As the sun rises further, it casts an golden light over the snowy mountains, and Y/N takes a moment to count her blessings. Sure, she wishes she would’ve had more time, but it isn’t the worse way to go. The man she gave her heart to is holding her close and they got the chance to spend their final moments together. The man who told her: I love you. The man she told: I love you, too. It’s not that bad, actually.      “Promise me something?”      He turns to face her again, waiting for a follow up.      Trying to speak, her voice hitches in her throat as breathing becomes more difficult. Her fragile state indicates it won’t take long now. “Promise you’ll let your friends and family help you. Promise you’ll talk to Sam. Don’t bottle it up this time, okay?”      The pressure on Dean’s chest becomes so heavy that his airway constricts. He is able to keep a hold of her questioning gaze, though.      “I promise,” he assures, choking up.      “And no deals,” she continues. “I know you’ve been thinking it.”      “Y/N -”      But she won’t have it and interrupts his attempt to object instantly.  “No, Dean. I don’t want you to get torn up by those hounds. If you make a deal, you’ll go to hell,” she pauses to catch her breath. “And where I’m going… It’s not a bad place.”      Dean sighs after a moment’s consideration, trying to blink away his tears as he admits to her conditions with a nod. “Alright.”

     She smiles slightly, glad to have his word and relieved that she got the message across. It remains quiet for a couple of minutes as her respiration slows down even further, taking down her pulse as well. Scared, Dean holds his love, watching her subside, further and further away from him.      “Dean?”      His name is barely audible, it’s more of a breath than her voice.      “Yeah?”      She forces her eyes open, taking in the hunter above her. For the first time since last night, tears stain her beautiful eyes. Dean knows exactly what she’s trying to capture, because he’s trying to accomplish the same. He takes her in, every feature, every perfect flaw. A few lost birthmarks that decorate her face and neck. That scar on her chin that she always tries to cover up with a scarf or the collar of her jacket. The slight frizz in the lock of hair that she cusses about whenever it’s rainy or windy. And damn, those eyes, those gorgeous eyes.      “I-I think it’s time….” she stammers weak.

     She’s might be okay with dying, that doesn’t mean that she isn’t scared of what lays ahead. Of course she’s terrified, who wouldn’t be scared of the unknown? Vampires, ghosts, demons; she faced them all. But with every single monster she came across, she knew a way to defeat them. Never, ever, did she show up for a fight unprepared. At the verge of battle she was armed with a weapon of choice, if it was silver, salt, dead man’s blood or the Colt. She knew her opponent, she did her research, she read the lore. But she can fantasize about casinos or white sandy beaches all she wants, the truth is that nothing can prepare anyone for what awaits on the other side.      “It’s alright, Y/N. I’ve got you,” Dean comforts, pulling her even closer, resting his chin on the top of her head. “I’m right here. I won’t leave your side, I promise.”      She cries against his chest silently, wheezing every time she tries to inhale. Dean’s heart is beating out of his chest as hers will stop any moment now.      “Y-you know what my mom’s favorite song was… to sing to me?” she whispers, referring to their talk days ago, about music and songs sang by their mothers. “It was Lullabye... Billy Joel… She always sang Lullabye.”      “It’s a good song,” Dean gets out with difficulty.      “It is,” you smile into his shirt, before she softly whispers the first lines.

     Goodnight, my angel      Time to close your eyes      And save these questions for another day

     Dean joins in with her, cradling his dying girl to the rhythm of the song. The melody somehow makes it easier to pronounce the words.

     I think I know what you've been asking me      I think you know what I've been trying to say      I promised I would never leave you, and you should always know      Wherever you may go, no matter where you are      I never will be far away

     She lets Dean take over the vocals completely, listening to his emotional yet clear voice. It hushes her into a deep sleep from which she will never wake again. Slowly Y/N sinks further into the depths of unconsciousness. But she can still hear him, she can still hear Dean. Scientists have proved that the sense of hearing is the last one to perish when a person dies. Seems like they are right.

     Goodnight, my angel      Now it's time to sleep      And still so many things I want to say      Remember all the songs you sang for me      When we went…

     He stops mid-sentence, waiting for some kind of response from Y/N. A flinch, her chest rising, anything. But nothing happens. There’s no cloud of humid air coming from her lips, even the drum in her chest has stopped playing. When he lifts his chin off her head and loosens his grip on the woman in his arms slightly, he is able to behold the blank expression on her pretty face, eyes slightly opened, but her soul is gone.

     “Y/N…?”

     Shocked he stares at her as a lump obstructs his throat. A hole in his stomach grows larger when the harsh reality replaces his denial. Dean can’t prevent the tears from building up in his eyes and so he looks up, hoping that they won’t fall down, but they fall anyway. Unable to cope with the avalanche of sorrow that hits him like a freight train, his bottom lip starts to quiver and slowly he begins to move back and forth, mourning, as he presses her lifeless body against his.

     He lost her. For a few moments she was his and now he’s lost her. He whispers her name in her hair, tells her he loves her once more and then again. God, he would give anything to see her react to those words, by throwing him that amazing smile.      Softly he continues to sing the song. The earth turns and the sun shines its light on the both of them. His voice is shaking so badly that he has trouble getting anything out at all. Being able to hold and cradle her helps, and so he sets off again where her death caused him to pauze.

     Remember all the songs you sang for me      When we went sailing on an emerald bay      And like a boat out on the ocean      I'm rocking you to sleep      The water's dark and deep, inside this ancient heart      You'll always be a part of me

     Someday we'll all be gone      But lullabies go on and on      They never die      That's how you and I will be

The end, people. Thank you so much for reading my story. I appreciate every single one of you. If you would like to talk about this or if you need a grief-counselor, let me know. Feedback is very much appreciated.

Follow Forever: @angelsandwinchesters @atc74 @bandobsession98 @books-wands-swords-impalas @canadianspnhunter @chumi-la-chula @cookie-dough-lova @dillpicklesunflowerseed @hannahindie @heartsaved @hennessy0274-blog @hyperella @idreamofhazel @just-another-busy-fangirl @kathaswings @like-a-bag-of-potatoes @mrswhozeewhatsis @myheartbeatsjustforyou @rainqueen @sammyssupersmile @sheepdogs33456 @sofiadiaz04 @spiritofoblivion @spnimag @sunskittlex @supernatural-girl97 @super-not-naturall @susan-is-in-the-house @theyaremyveryownthoughts @trashforwinchesters @ultimatecin73 @unlikelygalaxygiver @uzum4k1-uch1h4 @vvishous @vxxn128 @winchesterxtwo

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[eggoreviews]

My Top 25 Games Advent Day 4 - Kingdom Hearts II (#22)

“We can always buy some sea salt ice cream.”

I have a very odd relationship with Kingdom Hearts, and honestly, I sometimes can’t decipher whether it’s mostly love or hate I feel for this game. But above all else, this overtly ridiculous crossover between Disney and Final Fantasy captured my heart and mind when I was young and I became so obsessed, I actually managed to progress further in the game at age 7 than I did this year before I got stuck. Kingdom Hearts is my strange and confusing paramour and I still don’t really know why it exists or, even 14 years later, what the hell it is.

Kingdom Hearts II, which is of course the third entry in the series, came out for the PS2 in 2005 and was actually gifted to my mother first, before she gave it to me when she realised the Disney characters on the front weren’t a brilliant representation of the game’s contents. And so putting the disc in for the first time in 2005 and revisiting it on the PS4 this year had the exact same effect on me; I knew immediately I wasn’t in this for the story. Kingdom Hearts as a whole is notorious for having a bumfuck crazy story with ungodly amounts of branching plot threads that were more than enough to make my tiny 7 year old brain shut down, as well as my tiny now brain. And it wasn’t the fact that I entered the series at the wrong point, it just be like that. You follow Sora, and occasionally Roxas, along with everyone’s favourite least favourite companions Donald and Goofy as you travel to Disney world upon Disney world fighting off creatures called heartless and nobodies for a reason, presumably.

Taking a step back for a minute, I realise how vaguely and snarky I am referring to this game, so why do I love it enough for it to make spot 22? It’s not just blind childhood nostalgia (though I suspect that plays a part). Kingdom Hearts II is just a blast to play, from the engaging and varied combat mechanics that encourage experimentation with spells, abilities, limits, summons and transformations to make every fight constantly insane, to the fun little skateboarding sections at the beginning of the game. Focusing on the combat for a sec, which I view as the central portion of the game, it really isn’t child’s play. If you jump into a boss fight or even a particularly gruelling set of regular enemies unprepared, then accept the fact that you are about to have your arse personally handed to you by a Disney villain. This is especially true for the later stages of the game, as you start to take on members of the central villainous group of the series, Organization 13 (which of course has 14 members) where they really just pull out all the stops to make your life misery if you don’t master your style of play. But that really is the beauty of Kingdom Hearts; it encourages you to create your own playstyle based on the arsenal of weapon types, spells and abilities the game locks and loads you with, making each quick access selection you make for each menu be the crucial difference between life and death.

So other than the blisteringly difficult combat, the main draw to Kingdom Hearts is the fact you get to visit various different Disney worlds and beat things up on them. I'll be honest, each of the worlds in this game very wildly in quality. Unlike most others, I adore the opening to this game and how gentle and mysterious Twilight Town is as a starting area, which sets up some intriguing plot threads for later in the game. Hollow Bastion, the gathering place of the strange selection of Final Fantasy characters, is unique and atmospheric, as well as later in the game playing host to one of the coolest, well-crafted horde battles I've seen in a game (apart from the Goofy death fake-out, that was just weird). There's even a Winnie the Pooh section filled entirely with fun minigames and if there's anything that's going to make me regress into childhood, it's that. Some of the worlds, most notably A Nightmare Before Christmas, Pirates of the Caribbean and Tron actually alter the designs of Sora, Donald and Goofy so their costumes fit much better in the aesthetic; I think that was a brilliant idea and was well executed. My favourite of these though, as well as my favourite world in Kingdom Hearts overall, is the Timeless River world based off the first '30s cartoons of Mickey Mouse, which regress Donald and Goofy back to their original designs and gives Sora his own monochrome old style appearance! It's adorable and is just bursting with that Disney style and creativity I'm really sad they seemed to have lost overtime (but that's for a different post). To perfectly compliment these worlds and the game overall, the soundtrack is amazing (which I often hold as one of my main conditions of putting something in this list); sometimes they went for a basic instrumental of a song corresponding to that film, but for others like Twilight Town and Hollow Bastion, the original scores created for those are jaw-dropping, with the same applying to each and every battle theme they composed. It doesn't seem obvious until you say it out loud that a combination between Disney and Final Fantasy is of course going to yield some awesome music and I really can't get enough of it.

Oh yeah and then they decided to ruin it all with the Little Mermaid game, in which they threw away everything the game had implemented up to that point to make you play a babyish, unresponsive rhythm game so Sora and the gang can take a break from vanquishing evil to appear in a musical. And the best part is you can't get this monstrosity out of the way in one sitting! Nope, you have to continually come back and complete sections of this hell periodically just so the game can make sure you're not having too much fun.

Basically, other than that mild (monumental) hiccup at the end there, Kingdom Hearts II excels at what it's trying to do and be, whatever that is. It somehow succeeds in pulling off the tenuous connection between world-famous, family friendly Disney and edgy, batshit Final Fantasy. It's wild and it's funny when it isn't quite meant to be (see the moment when Tron just fucking yeets himself into a pit for no apparent reason at the end of his section, because I lose it every single time at that, especially since the game is playing it off as something really sad). But most of all, it's a reflection of pure insane creativity and corporate synergy all welded into a series literally no one can ever truly comprehend. And they actually hired on the late, great Christopher Lee to say the line "We can always buy some sea salt ice cream". So here it stands, as my 22nd favourite game of all time.

Standout Moment Award: The Nightmare Before Christmas, purely down to visuals and soundtrack alone. If not that, then anything involving Twilight Town because that's one of my absolute favourite settings in a video game.

Standout Character Award: Axel. Axel is just a chill dude, not quite hero and not quite villain, who’s a welcome presence throughout the Kingdom Hearts series. Not so edgy he’s completely unlikable, but enough edge and humour to make 12 year old me happy.

Tomorrow: No. 21; Intense family drama: Zombie Edition

[tori4thewin]

Pet Rabbits DO NOT Belong in cages.

Pet Rabbits DO NOT Belong in cages.

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As I begin this book, I am in the heart of a rabbit trust exercise. I am sitting in my lawn chair with my legs up, the computer on my lap. My front door is wide open. My front yard is not fenced in. It is a beautiful and sunny day. My bunnies have the freedom to be inside or out on our front lawn. There are more than several dangers and potential threats involved in this exercise. They could eat something toxic. They could hurt themselves. There could be an unleashed dog, mean outdoor cat, large predatory bird, rouge cougar, bear, or coyote. My bunnies could decide to venture outside of the parameters in which I deem safe. My anxiety is tormenting my innards.     I feel this way about my 4-year-old boy too. I worry about all the dangers of the world and how I can keep him safe. I worry about him constantly. 

 I can justify my decision based on this poor bunny that I met earlier today. My child was dropped off from 10 am until 12 pm at this kid’s church group thing. We are not a pious family but we are incredibly open-minded and willing to see from different perspectives. There is only 1-week left of summer break, and there is only 1 week left of this kid’s church group thing. My boy was invited to attend and attend he did. The location was a large ranch-style property. Large grass fields with giant rolls of hay. Fencing and a cattle guard for their cows and bull. Many growing plants and veggies throughout. A beautiful property. We dropped our boy off knowing that he was going to be the new kid, and also the only child in attendance who does not know what the Bible is. I was worried about how his interactions were going to go. If he would be confused about what everyone was talking about. I would have kept him home if I had let these anxieties rule my actions. We dropped him off and proceeded to check the mail and then do a bit of grocery shopping. We arrived to pick him up at 11:45 pm. The children were in the yard singing a song about how important it is to pray after reading the Bible. My husband says “Hey, Tori, look at the bunny.” 

There is a tiny little hutch/cage sitting above the ground, against the house. It is painted green and says “Snuggliest _____ Peter”. My bunnies are named Flopsy and Mopsy. If you have not read the Tale of Peter Rabbit, it is time that you do. This is a fully grown 6 lb rabbit, possibly a Hobnot/Californian breed mix. His cage is only about 1-square-foot all around, maybe 2 feet in height. A tiny little cage for such a big bunny. He has blue eyes and is not aggressive. He was chewing on the cage bars trying to be with us. It took every ounce of will power and consideration for the humans that I could muster up to stop myself from grabbing the rabbit and taking him home. My 2 female bunnies are not fixed yet and this could be trouble for me. It would have been worth it and I would have made it work. It is still worth it and I still wish to make it work. I want to go and save him, today, right now, this minute. However, this is not how adult-life works. I must be considerate and responsible for my own family and these kind strangers. I know that it is the social norm to house a rabbit like this but it is also wrong. My heart aches for this rabbit. 

I stood there outside his cage and spoke to him. I wanted to give him some fresh grass but was unsure if the grass had been treated with chemicals so I abstained. He has 2 water bottles attached to the cage and they are both nearing empty. I look inside and see his only flooring option is the wire bottom with no relief. His 1-square-foot home is further limited by 3 empty, ceramic food dishes. There is no hay available. As he chews on the bars, I try to get a look at his teeth and they seem warped. I wonder if he still has all his toes. I wonder if his nails are trimmed. His feet look bad from my aerial view and I wonder what shape his soft padding is in. This is wrong. I will not stand for this mistreatment. I wonder why they have this rabbit. I wonder if they let him outside to play, ever. I wonder what his daily life is like.

The father of my child’s friend, to whom invited my kid to attend this function, walked up to greet us. I tell him that seeing this bunny in this tiny cage makes me feel very sad. I tell him that I do not like it. I tell him that my bunnies live in the house with us, in our living room and that I do not like to see such an intelligent animal be quarantined like this. I tell him again that it makes me feel very sad. He is aloof. Most humans are aloof to this issue. I ask him if this rabbit is food or a pet. He does not answer. He just smiles. I imagine my comments come as a surprise and he is unsure what to say. I understand. Whatever. I imagine he is surprised that a bunny-lover like me would feel sad after seeing someone else with a pet bunny too. No clue about where my point is. This is not okay. I wish to change this in the world of pets. Domesticated rabbits have had it rough. 

My family, the 3 of us, buckle up and drive away. I can finally talk openly and crassly about how I am feeling. I was trying my best to be considerate and polite before and now is my chance to really extrovert my feeling. I tell my husband that I feel awful and sick about this bunny. I tell him that I want to take him home. I tell him that I will not let this go, no way. He proceeds to remind me that this is how most pet rabbits live. I ask him “If you saw a dog or cat being housed in a tiny cage like that, what would you do?” He said, “I would speak up.” A sharp spike of rage penetrated my soul at this moment. I proceeded to tell him that I am going to defend this rabbit’s life and do something about it.

As an INFJ personality type, I am often misunderstood. Rabbits are misunderstood as well. I wish to make a difference in the world but have been foggy regarding practical applications to contribute. I have read every piece of literature regarding house rabbits. I have read every reputable article, instructional guide, and books about house rabbits that I can find. I have seen all of Loreli’s videos on her channel “Lennon the Bunny”, on YouTube. I follow BudgetBunny, StormyRabbits, Rabbits 101 and have seen every video I can find regarding house rabbits. There are simply not enough resources and literature out there in this world to help sway opinions and save bunny lives. I am going to do something about it. 

It was April of 2019, I had been researching rabbit care and knew I wanted one. It would have been more practical to adopt a rabbit from the SPCA because they are already fixed and ready to go. Instead, I searched on Kijiji and found a rabbit for sale. A black New Zealand bunny with beautiful eyes highlighted by a thin white line circumferentially. She was for sale for $20. I was super excited and naive. I contacted the seller, told her I was coming next week and asked her to send more pictures. She did send me more pictures but I wish she had not. These new pictures she sent of this rabbit better showcased her living conditions. It was this beautiful rabbit and the background was all meshy cage. It was not pretty. My brain compartmentalized this feeling because I put it aside and worked on preparing our home for her arrival. I decided to name this bunny, Lucy. In my head, she will always be, Lucy. I will never forget this bunny. 

It was April, there was still an abundance of snow and ice and the temperature was about minus 10 degrees centigrade. The sun was shining and this was the day I was finally getting my bunny rabbit. We live right in town and all 3 of us drove about 20-30 minutes deep into the rural outskirts. Once we arrived, my husband had to slip and slide down some thick ice in order to open the gate so we could drive up to the house. The seller and her daughter greeted us and I told her how excited I was and that it was a cold and beautiful day. She laughed. She walked us over to where the rabbits were being housed. It was a sight that I will not forget. A large chicken coop with more roosters than chickens. It was fenced in but certainly not predator-proof. There was some roofing over top of perches. The ground was mud. The top was partly covered and partly open to above. In the center of this large, walk-in chicken coop were cages. The cages were above the ground with about 2-3 feet of open-air underneath. They were only about 1-foot in height with access panels that lifted. They were divided into sections. There were more cages underneath the perches. I saw Lucy, the black New Zealand. She was sitting and unresponsive when I said hello. The seller told me that she had 2 other bunnies that would be better pets because they were more calm and good at being handled. She said it was my choice and she was not going to charge the $20. I could either take the 1 black New Zealand rabbit to whom I already had named, Lucy; Or, I could take home 2 bunnies. These other bunnies were really cute. One bunny had white fur with brown patches and upright ears and the other was a brown (agouti) lop. I thought the white bunny was so beautiful. I wanted 2 bunnies instead of 1, obviously. I felt torn because I wanted to take them all home and I had already committed to Lucy, in my mind. I wanted to rescue Lucy from that tiny cage. I looked at my husband and he shrugged and told me it was my choice. I chose the 2 bunnies because I liked how the white one looked. 

I was entirely unprepared to bring 2 bunnies home. I did not have a carrier. I asked the seller if she had an extra, empty cardboard box and she did. My husband carried the white bunny and I carried the brown one. We thanked the seller. I told her about my grande plans for them to be free roam bunnies”, she gave me a funny look. I put the box on the ground of the passenger-side and my husband set the white bunny down there. I did not let go of the bunny I was holding. We plugged the seatbelt in and I sat on it. It was unsafe, especially considering the climate conditions outside but I took the risk in order to hold my bunny without the seatbelt interference. My husband shut the door and we drove home. 

I had the most sincere joy pulsating through my body. I was so happy I could cry. I probably did cry. All I remember is pure bliss. I was high on these bunnies. They lifted my soul and held it up. I was smiling like a child at Christmas. Other than my husband and my child, these bunnies represented everything I ever wanted. Money makes the world go around? Nope, love does. I loved these bunnies already and I did not even know them yet. It was love at first sight. I knew they were scared and I had done my research. I knew what I had to do. I knew bunnies can die of fright and stress. I knew they would not trust me right away. I knew I had to be reserved and contain my energetic excitement towards their presence. 

We were home and I had already set up our back-entryway to accommodate 1 bunny. I did not have a litter box. I had blankets and pretty textiles lining our laminate floor. I had some hidey houses and a huge stack of hay on the ground. I had water, pellets, and fresh veggies. We brought them inside the house and set them down in their area. They were so scared. I sat on the floor and began to speak to them. I made them promise to love them and protect them. I told them that I am very sorry that they lived like that but everything would be different now. 

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Wabbitat regularly used every day with a litter box on ½ and a blanket on the other with a puppy pad underneath makes it really easy to travel with bunnies. Using it every day, with the gate open, blanket overtop creates a comfortable home-feeling space. When you have to get in the car with rabbits, chase them into their cage, lock the gate and you are good Great for cleaning their area too or anytime you must contain the beasts. When we have to head out of the house with the bunnies, they are perfectly happy being in their cage because it is not a small prison but more like a hidey house with a locking door. About 1-hour before we head out, I will get both of my bunnies into their cage and lock the gate. I like to move the cage by the front door so they get the idea and can see me getting ready to leave. I then use this time to not worry about the rabbits and instead get everything ready to leave, including cleaning up their area. I like to think the bunnies know this means, “We are going out with our family”.

It is not safe to have any animal in the front seat of the vehicle with you. Dogs, cats, other pets, and rabbits should be kept safe and contained in case of a collision. We do not want to imagine our beloved pets flying through the windshield if we hit something. We like to think that we can hold them and secure them with our arms in that event, but this is not often the case.          MORE ON CAR SAFETY LATER.

With all this stated, I will admit that I am not always as safe with the rabbits or even myself when it comes to car safety. We live in rural BC and one is way more likely to hit a deer, slip on the snow, or get caught in a freak storm than to get into a traffic accident. We do not have traffic. We have 4-way stops, long highways, and dirt roads. I love to have my bunnies on my lap in the passenger seat while we drove. I even use it as a method to help me bond with them. It is so nice to have my bunnies, who normally hop away from me, to find comfort in the security of my arms. Talk to them softly, pet their little heads, tell them it is okay, hold them close when we make a sharp turn or hit a bump, it is all irresponsibly wonderful. I would never do this with my child. 

People who insist on calling their rabbits, “their children” should consider taking a second look at this.  If I were to really consider my rabbit to be my child I would certainly invest in a proper car seat for them. I cannot afford one right now. I cannot afford to buy anything extra right now. If I could not afford a car seat for my child, I would not drive. We would forfeit the vehicle all together or find some way to pay for the car seat. We would never just go without, no matter the cost. With my bunnies, I give them the best life I can with what I have. Maybe one day I will have that awesome pet stroller that converts into a car seat, backpack, and a suitcase. One day. Maybe that day will come sooner when we are living in the city and the possibility of a traffic accident greatly increases, probably. Rabbits are family, but they are not my children. I have adopted them, they live in our home, celebrate the holidays with us, get treats and gifts, and are deeply loved. They are still not my children. The human family members still get preferential treatment over the bunnies and that is good and natural. I refer to myself as “their human”; my husband is “the lettuce man”; and our young son is “their kid”; and they are “our rabbits/bunnies”.

[ecotone99]

[AA] Cadillac

Cadillac

by Chuck Corson

Brick stepped through the broken glass façade of a Wawa convenience store, shotgun in hand, looking for food. Beau Castles got the nickname Brick after staring off his amateur boxing career nine and zero with nine knockouts, a career that was abruptly ended by the war. When the attacks began, Brick’s Philadelphia home was destroyed with the rest of the city. The militia was starving, Brick took this food gathering mission upon himself, not wanting to put any of the others at risk as he was the only one with enough strength left to fight.

Everything that could spoil did long ago, only canned goods and foods packaged and full of preservatives remained. Bottled water was a necessity, all fresh water was contaminated with anthrax or pathogens from the bodies. The store was burnt-out and picked over. Carefully stepping around the shards of glass and overturned shelves, Brick scanned the ground like a hawk. A three sided counter still stood in the middle of the store, a good foxhole should one be needed. Brick went behind it, where cashiers once stood, ringing up hoagies, iced tea and Tastykakes.

The racks above the counter were empty, as were the first two cabinets beneath the counter. In the third and final counter, Brick saw something that brought him more joy than he had felt since the first Human Liberation Guerilla bomb went off four years ago. One lonely carton of Newport cigarettes, still wrapped in cellophane, sat waiting to be found.

The trademark seafoam green packaging reminded Brick of the satisfaction of having a smoke. Creature comforts were an exceedingly rare commodity, and the one that Brick cherished more than any other was before him, like a Christmas gift sitting under a tree with his name on the tag.

Brick snatched the carton and squatted down, hiding himself from any passers-by. The Hu-Li-Gu’s, as the Militia took to calling them, patrolled this desolate area and they were not in the habit of taking prisoners. Brick closed his eyes, held the carton up to his lips and kissed it. He wanted to whisper sweet nothings into its ear, take it out for dinner, romance it, then bring it home and make love to it.

Snapping out of his fantasy, Brick looked about cautiously. He rose and inspected the countertop, the place where lighters were kept available for sale to unprepared smokers. Nothing. Anything that could start a fire was treasured, so Brick wasn’t surprised. He would have to wait until he got to camp before he could consume the delicious menthol flavored ecstasy.

When he started boxing, his trainer admonished him daily for his filthy habit. He would even go as far as taking Brick’s clothes from his locker and throw them out into the street, telling him that the smell of smoke was not welcome in the Joe Frazier Boxing Gym. Still, Brick could not give them up. He limited his cigarette intake as much as possible during the weeks leading up to a fight, but he could not leave them alone for good.

Two years passed since Brick had his last smoke. The Hu-Li-Gu’s destroyed tobacco products when they found them, their utopian vision didn’t include addictive substances. A bunch of fucking wet blankets as far as Brick was concerned.

Seeing no one out on the street, Brick made his way out of the store, leading with the barrel of his 12-gauge. He crept along, staying close to the storefronts that lined East Erie Avenue. The bounty recovered from the Wawa was tucked in the waist of his pants against the small of his back. Traveling during the day was dangerous, but it was impossible at night. Having lived his life in the city, Brick had never seen absolute darkness until there was no electricity. Carrying a torch outside the camp was a death sentence.

Crunch. Brick stiffened, his head went up like a sleeping dog hearing a car door slam. Crunch. Someone was near, walking slowly, deliberately. This was bad. Any noise- a scream, a whistle, the explosion of a shotgun shell, and the Hu-Li-Gu’s would be on him. Not being able to smoke at least one of the Cadillacs stuffed into his jeans would be a fate worse than death, he had to get moving fast.

Cadillacs is what Reece, his training buddy from the gym called Newports. In prison, Reece told him, they call Newports Cadillacs because they are the best of the best and commanded the highest price. Reece was a smoker too, that’s how he and Brick initially bonded. Walking home from the gym Reece would always say “Ayo Brick, lemme get a ‘Lac yo.” Brick always told him to buy his own, then would hand him one. It was as routine as their training regimen.

Moving swiftly, Brick minded his surrounds, praying he didn’t see someone. For the love of Christ, he thought. Please just let me get back to camp. Allow me this so I can smoke these damn cigarettes and I swear, if you want me dead tomorrow you can take me. Just please let me have this one thing. I’ve earned it after all the miserable shit I’ve dealt with over the last four years. Don’t you take this away from me you motherfucker, don’t you dare.

“Stop right there,” the voice said evenly. “Drop the shotgun, put your hands over your head and turn around slow or I am gonna air you the fuck out.”

Brick rolled his eyes. Well played.

“You got one second,” the voice said. Brick dropped the gun, raised his arms and turned. He wasn’t a Hu-Li-Gu. That was good, but he was holding a rifle.

“What you have?” The man asked.

“Nothing worth taking. Just the clothes I’m wearing and the gun I just put down.”

“You sure about that? You didn’t find nothin’ in that Wawa? I saw you lurkin’ around in there. What you got?”

“Does it look like I got anything? You think I was in there shoving cans of corn up my ass? I don’t have shit.”

“Bullshit. Take your shirt off.”

“This ain’t Chippendales pal.”

“Keep talking,” the stranger said. “See what I do.”

“What, you gonna shoot me? Go ahead stupid, the Terrorists will be on your ass before you cross the street.”

Brick took a step towards the stranger, keeping eye contact, still holding his hands up over his head.

“Stop walking. Stop right now or I will shoot you. They wanna come they can come. I might make it, guartunee you won’t.”

Brick stood, no more than twenty feet away from this guy. He has the typical survivor look. Dirty mismatched clothes, overgrown beard, messy rat’s nest of hair.

“Listen to me.” Brick took another step forward.

“I got no beef with you and I got nothing for you to steal. You want my shotgun? Fine, be a thief and take it, I’m not going to chase you. You got the drop on me, so I guess that’s your prerogative if you want it, but I ain’t stripping for you, because I ain’t hiding anything. And if you don’t hurry this up, someone is going to see us out here and interrupt this little Mexican Standoff with an RPG. So what do you want to do?”

The man appeared stunned. He stared, unresponsive.

“Didn’t think this through did you bud?” Brick took another step forward. “Let me help you out, I’m not your enemy. You need a place to stay? I can take you somewhere.” Another step.

“I don’t got much for you there. A little water, I can get you cleaned up, but buddy, you gotta stop pointing that gun at me.” Brick took another step forward.

“You just stop right there.” He sounded unsure of himself. “You don’t take another Goddamn step or I will shoot you. Now back up and take your fucking shirt off and show me that you ain’t got nothin’ or else I’m gonna-“

Brick stepped forward. “Shoot me?” Brick hit the stranger on the jaw with lightning speed. The stranger’s ass went back and his top half crumpled forward, toward Brick, going down on top of his gun which he pointed up trying to hold onto it while putting his hands straight out toward the ground to brace his fall, his right index finger stuck in the trigger guard, the butt of the rifle hit the ground, causing the rifle to go off with the barrel pointed under his chin, blowing his face off.

“Holy fuck!” Brick screamed, his heart literally feeling like it skipped a beat. He turned without hesitation and ran, scooped up his shotgun and took off down East Erie at a full sprint.

Motorcycles came speeding down the avenue towards the gun shot. Brick looked over his shoulder and could see them in the distance. He cut through the parking lot of the old Erie Lanes bowling alley. The wall had been blown out where the front entrance used to be. He dipped inside. Bowling balls were scattered around the floor, shook loose from their racks. Outside the reach of the sunlight coming through the missing entrance, it was pitch black.

Bikes pulled up, stopping in the street. Brick listened carefully as the Hu-Li-Gu’s surveyed the strip mall parking lot where the faceless stranger lay dead. Hopefully they didn’t see me. People off themselves all the time, maybe they will think he got tired of not finding food in bombed-out Wawas and decided to snack on a bullet.

“Where is the other one?” One of them asked.

“How do you know there is another one?” “Because you don’t scream after you’ve been shot in the head. Someone else screamed and I want him found now.”

Well shit, Brick thought. There goes that. Brick went down to his hands and knees and crawled through the bowling alley. He couldn’t see his hand in front of his face and rolling his ankle on a bowling ball guartuneed that he would be found. He could hear them getting closer to the entrance. Just as he felt the end of the rental counter to his left, he saw beams from flashlights enter the building.

He got behind the counter and took the Newports out of his pants so he could sit with his back to the wall. He focused on keeping his breath to a minimum. Two Hu-Li-Gu’s stepped inside, searching with flashlights on their assault rifles.

“Hurry up,” a voice yelled from outside.

Economy of energy, his boxing trainer Bernard always said. Economy of energy, meaning save it when you don’t need it, use it when you do. You don’t need energy before a fight- panicking wastes it, nerves waste it, so don’t worry, don’t panic, don’t even think if you don’t have to. The fight was near and it wouldn’t end in a knockout.

Brick closed his eyes. He placed the carton of cigarettes on his lap and as gently as possible he peeled away the wrapper. He fingered open the cardboard box and slid out a pack. He traced the outline of the pack with his thumbs and pulled the cellophane from the top. He opened the pack and pulled away the foil, then brushed his thumb across the top of the filters. He pinched one, pulled it out and placed it in his lips. Brick opened his eyes seeing the flashlights moving methodically in his direction.

The memory of his first cigarette, given to him by a sixteen year old girl in Love Park when he was thirteen came to mind. Brick reached up feeling a shelf under the counter. Between a metal canister and a rosin bag was an open box full of paper matchbooks. He took one and held it for a beat as the flashlight beams went across the countertop. He folded back the front flap and tore off a match. Smoke ‘em if ya got ‘em, he thought, striking the match, a wisp of sulfur stinging his nostrils. He put the flame to the cigarette hanging from his lips. The pop from lighting the match and the faint orange glow it gave off got the Hu-Li-Gu’s attention. Brick racked his shotgun as he stood, inhaling smoke deep into his lungs.

Gunfire. The cherry of the cigarette extinguished as it touched the blood pooling up on Brick’s chest. They continued shooting into Brick’s body as he lay on a pile of old bowling shoes.

Chuck Corson chuckcorson.wordpress.com IG: Chuck.corson

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