#but i also have a very specific vision in my head of tucker going to grif like ‘dude im in love with your sister how do i deal with it’

[hidingoutbackstage]

Do you see my vision?

[according-to-the-laura]

StackedNatural Day 108: 1x14, 3x10, 14x13

StackedNatural Masterpost: [x]

February 7, 2022

1x14: Nightmare

Written by: Sera Gamble & Raelle Tucker

Directed by: Phil Sgriccia

Original air date: February 7, 2006

Plot Synopsis:

When Sam's visions start happening while he's awake, he and Dean investigate the unusual murders he foretold, only to find them all to be true, and that perhaps he's not the only one with special abilities.

Features:

Sam’s premonition nightmares are back, dressing up as priests, Sam’s first daytime vision, Max Miller’s telekinesis, Sam’s first telekinesis, Sam blames himself.

My Thoughts:

I have a feeling that this is going to be an especially strong Stack today. I’m watching these in order and doing my little write-ups (known as “Lore’s Supernatural Homework” in our house) before moving on to the next one, so let’s see what parallels I can start to draw and if I’m right or not.

I don’t remember if Sam’s visions are ever fully explained - by that I mean, we know he gets the psychic powers because of the demon blood, but we don’t know what force decides what he’ll see when he sees it, or if it’s a “natural” process of the universe. For the most part in later episodes I think they’re connected to the other psychic kids who have been infected with demon blood, although this is the first episode in a normal watch order where that’s true apart from Sam having seen Jessica’s death before it happened. Sam also had visions of their old house when it was a poltergeist causing the issues and Mary’s ghost was also there. I honestly don’t remember if he has other visions not related to the demon blood thing. So is it just visions that the universe is sending out that has to do with the origin of his psychic abilities, or is it something that Azazel controls?

Season 1 Sam is great because he’s so freaked out all the time by the things that are happening to him, but he also confronts them with a lot of bravery, vs Dean who will do basically anything to convince himself that everything is fine and that Sam is still a normal human, and that basically comes down to their opposing views on what makes a monster monstrous. Sam is a lot more forgiving and Dean is a lot more black and white. If Dean admits that the visions are a big deal, he has to confront his own worldview or move Sam into the “monster” category. Also interesting to note that Dean’s adherence to his worldview of Max as a monster and therefore a threat is the thing that has him bring a gun into the house, thus creating the situation that confirms his belief. Self-fulfilling prophecies.

This is very much a Sam episode, but there are some really interesting moments with Dean that I wasn’t expecting, specifically at the end.

As they’re leaving Max’s house, they’re standing on either side of the Impala talking and Sam says that they’re lucky they had their dad growing up (which, on a side note, Sam means “because he didn’t beat us black and blue every day” - low bar). I’d seen people talk about this scene and Dean’s reactions to this line before online, with his look of surprise and then confusion as Sam goes on to say that things could have had Max’s childhood if things had gone another way with John. I kind of assumed this was just Jensen, either making inferences about their childhood based on his own character work, or else being the vessel for Dean that we all know he is, but the camera agrees with him. He turns his head, his face goes in shadow, and then the camera angle changes to show us his face still in shadow from the other side. And then he turns back to Sam, his face comes into the light, and he agrees. Hiding the truth about his childhood from Sam. And now I need to go scour all of Phil Sgriccia’s episodes to see if he does this more often. It is really interesting in the text of this episode that Sam is tied to Max so strongly and he also admits that he sees the potential for the same kind of abuse from their own dad without understanding that his childhood may have been different from Dean’s.

The other Dean moment that stood out to me was Sam that John wasn’t there to be the advantage that Max didn’t have, and Dean says, no, I’m the advantage, nothing bad can happen to you while I’m here, and he’s putting John’s leather jacket on as he says it. Metaphorically taking on the role of parent, which will become more and more explicit as the series goes on.

I love Sam in these early seasons, because even while things are happening to him that he doesn’t understand, even while he’s scared shitless and he feels like he can’t save the people that he’s supposed to save, he really believes that he can do good. He tells Max he thinks he’s there to help him. Eternal optimist.

Notable Lines:

“Dean, I’m scared, man. These nightmares weren't bad enough, now I'm seeing things when I'm awake?”

“It wasn’t about getting away. Just knowing they would still be out there. It was about...not being afraid. When my Dad used to look at me, there was hate in his eyes. Do you know what that feels like?”

“For some reason, you and I...you and I were chosen.”

“We're lucky we had Dad. [...] Well, it coulda gone a whole other way after Mom. A little more tequila and a little less demon hunting and we woulda had Max's childhood. All things considered, we turned out ok. Thanks to him.”

Laura’s (completely subjective) Episode Rating: 9.2

IMdB Rating: 8.3

3x10: Dream a Little Dream of Me

Written by: Cathryn Humphris

Directed by: Steve Boyum

Original air date: February 7, 2008

Plot Synopsis:

When Bobby Singer is discovered in a coma, Dean and Sam uncover a student who works through people's dreams to destroy them.

Features:

Bobby in a coma, African Dream Root, dreamwalking, Sam has a sex dream about Bela, Bobby’s origin story, Dean confronts himself, Bela steals the Colt.

My Thoughts:

There’s a TON to love about this episode. The set design and effects in the dream are superb, we get more backstory on Bobby, Bela is here, and of course the scene where Dean has to confront himself is iconic.

Sam’s sex dream of Bela, while very funny, feels pretty out of place for me in the rest of the episode. I guess it’s there to distract us from why she would come help them so we wouldn’t guess about her stealing the colt, but it’s weird in an episode about dreams that there would be a dream that doesn’t mean anything narratively speaking. Sam isn’t even the one that she’s supposed to have sexual tension with, Dean is.

Speaking of Dean it’s very funny to see him accept a beer from a random person while he’s on a case when we just watched the siren episode a couple days ago. My man does not learn.

Something I find really interesting in Dean’s dream is how staged it is when Lisa shows up with a picnic. She literally has a spot light come up on her like they’re in a theatre. He’s embarrassed to want to settle down, to have a normal life and be loved, but even that deeply subconscious urge is performative. I would love to read the script for this episode and see if that framing was written in or if it was a directorial choice. Whether or not on purpose, it comes across to me as deeply closeted. He’s so used to lying that he can lie to himself. We see at the start of season 6 that this thing he’s convinced himself that he wants, that he’s ashamed of wanting, isn’t satisfying for him. Almost like Lisa was a stand-in for someone different.

On a side note, that picnic is also deeply infuriating to me as an Amelia-hater because the framing of the shot is so similar to Sam’s flashbacks in season 8. Lisa is a lie here, so Amelia should have been a lie there, but instead she’s just a random lady with an ambiguously dead husband.

Sam gets some more Christ imagery, which is a fun little running theme throughout the show, especially these earlier seasons. I have to admit to not having enough of an understanding of Christianity to know why or if Sam being Christlike makes sense or if it was just for the vibes.

There’s a great connection between the jacket moment I mentioned in Nightmare above and this episode. In Nightmare Dean metaphorically takes on John’s role as parent while putting on his jacket, and in this episode it’s really revealed the extent to which he sees himself as an extension of John. He isn’t his own person, he’s a tool that exerts John’s will or he’s Sam’s protector, and being Sam’s protector was a role forced on to him by John, so every strong facet of his personality is caught up in who his father was.

Another great connection to a Dean moment in Nightmare - the different experiences they had of their childhood. Sam thinks they’re lucky to have had John as a father and Dean looks away in Nightmare, and here in Dream a Little Dream of Me, Dean remembers Sam as being loved and himself as being trained.

Notable Lines:

“No one can save you, because you don't wanna be saved. I mean, how can you care so little about yourself? What's wrong with you?”

“Crap.” “What?” “Bela.” “Bela? Crap.”

“You should be nicer to me. In here... you're just an insect. I'm a god.”

“I know how dead you are inside. How worthless you feel. I know how you look into a mirror... and hate what you see.”

“After all, you've got nothing outside of Sam. You are nothing. You're as mindless and obedient as an attack dog. [...] What are the things that you want? What are the things that you dream? I mean, your car? That's Dad's. Your favorite leather jacket? Dad's. Your music? Dad's. Do you even have an original thought?”

“Dad knew who you really were. A good soldier and nothing else. Daddy's blunt little instrument.”

“My father was an obsessed bastard! All that crap he dumped on me, about protecting Sam! That was his crap. He's the one who couldn't protect his family. He's the one who let Mom die. Who wasn't there for Sam. I always was! He wasn't fair! I didn't deserve what he put on me. And I don't deserve to go to Hell!”

“You can't escape me, Dean. You're gonna die. And this? This is what you're gonna become!”

Laura’s (completely subjective) Episode Rating: 9.9

IMdB Rating: 8.5

14x13: Lebanon

Written by: Andrew Dabb & Meredith Glynn

Directed by: Robert Singer

Original air date: February 7, 2019

Plot Synopsis:

Sam and Dean look to occult lore for a solution to their latest problem, but instead of a resolution, they find much more than either of them had anticipated.

Features:

Pawn shops full of supernatural treasures, local teenagers learn about ghosts, a wish-granting pearl, John Wayne Gacy’s cigar box, a temporal paradox, Zachariah is back and he made Cas weird again, Family Dinner.

My Thoughts:

I was really excited to watch this episode - it’s one we skipped when we were getting back into the show because it wasn’t relevant to the overall plot, but I’d seen a ton of stuff online about it and a lot of love. In the context of the other episodes today it felt super timely as well. Both of the early seasons episodes had specific references to John’s parenting that mirrored him to the physically abusive father of the primary antagonist. I also thought the concept for this episode kicked complete ass, and I want to say that it writes itself, but. Well.

Unfortunately I hated this episode.

All of the things I liked about it feel very small in comparison to my main complaint, but I’ll start with them. For one, I love that they’re using Mary’s maiden name. I love that Dean is a regular somewhere, even if it’s just the post office, and that they have a community of people they care about. I love the local teenage lesbians that steal cars to impress a girl. I liked the red emergency lighting when Dean used the pearl, and I thought Jared’s acting in the scene where he talks to John one-on-one was actually great, even if I didn’t really like the content of the conversation.

This episode missed so many opportunities to explore characters and actually, meaningfully, give some closure on things that happened in the first two seasons and before the episode started. For god’s sake, the last episode I watched today had Dean screaming that his father was an obsessed bastard.

This episode should have been a mirror 12x22 Who We Are. Dean is allowed to have a complete breakdown at Mary, who actually can’t help the fact that she died when he was four, about how he had to be Sam’s mother and father. This is not an argument against Who We Are - that’s the episode that earnestly made me get back into the show instead of watching it ironically. But it sucks in hindsight that the person who ACTUALLY put Dean through all of that gets to comeback for an episode and has absolutely no conflict with the main characters. The words “John Winchester Apologism” get thrown around a lot on this site, but that’s all I could think of the entire time I was watching the episode. I kept waiting for there to be ANY mention of the stuff that John did on his insane, obsessed revenge quest to be mentioned, and it barely was. And when it was, it was hand waved away with “you loved us and you did your best”, as if someone loving you forgives all of their sins against you.

I was getting more and more dissatisfied and more and more pissed as the episode went on, and my anger is continuing to grow post-episode. It doesn’t help that @meg3point0 immediately pulled up the scene from Who We Are that Dean confronts Mary in and now I’m writing this with that in the background. John says that the fight was supposed to end with Yellow Eyes like he gave them any choice at all, like he gave them the skills they needed to survive in the world without hunting and scamming and dragging their way through.

Textually, John Winchester was abusive. It pisses me off that they would bring him back and not address ANY of it. I’m just repeating myself at this point but it really makes me mad, even on a meta level, how much of an opportunity they had to make a great episode of television and how badly they missed the mark. It should have been so messy and complicated and instead there were no stakes at all.

Notable Lines:

“I’ve wanted this since I was four years old.”

“I guess that I had hoped, eventually, you would… get yourself a normal life, a peaceful life, a family.” “I have a family.”

“I am good with who I am. I’m good with who you are.”

Laura’s (completely subjective) Episode Rating: 1.4

IMdB Rating: 9.3

In Conclusion: I was preparing to eschew tradition and put some actually well-thought out meta about the structure of this Stack, but now I’m pissed so instead I just think everyone should read The Family Business by chai_lattes on ao3, my most beloved finale fix-it that also fixes Lebanon.

<< Previous Day  |  Next Day >>

[secretgamergirl]

A Little Horrifying Primer on Transphobes

Some time ago, I put together a Little Fact Checking Primer on Trans People, as a basic resource for disabusing people of some of the many completely ridiculous yet absurdly widespread beliefs about trans people that simply have no basis whatsoever in reality. And wouldn’t you know it, every single lie exposed in that primer is not only still widely believed, but is presently being used as a basis to sign some absolutely horrific human rights abuses into law. So it’s high time I follow that up, in this case focused more on who keeps actively spreading these lies and why. I’m going to try and keep things as light as I can here, but we’re going to be looking at the most monstrous side of human nature, so apologies in advance if this is a dark read.

First, let me just note that there are two things I don’t plan to do in this piece. I’m not going to waste time debunking the arguments of the people I’m highlighting (much of this is already covered in my earlier primer, others have done the work in cases where I haven’t, and frankly these people’s claims should be self-evidently utter nonsense to begin with). I am also going to be very selective in what I link to, or even share related images of, as I would frankly not like to fill a post on a blog I generally try to keep safe for all audiences with media directly dealing with, for instance, child sexual assault, and much of the relevant information also involves stochastic terrorism against innocent people, and I would prefer not to throw more fuel onto such fires.

Transphobes lie constantly, about everything.

To some degree this is obvious. We’re talking about people who scaremonger about the possibilities of trans women dominating competitive sports and assaulting people in restrooms, despite the status quo already reflecting the conditions they insist would make these inevitibilities for decades and centuries respectively, and their grim visions never once having come to pass, and also constantly insisting that the woman in the photo below is actually a man, going further to say this is evident to anyone giving her the merest glance.

It goes beyond that though. There’s at least a little plausible deniablity in claims like this, or that “science is on their side” if they were simply uninformed about the world they live in, never actually looking into what laws exist, what science actually says, and never actually meeting a trans person or even seeing a picture of one of us. I’m talking really bold lies here. Like wholecloth fabricating a story that a convicted murder was trans, including anecdotes about wigs dresses and a planned name change, in a major newspaper. Or to cite an old favorite of mine, the time a pack of bigots walked up to a crowd of people peacefully picketing a transphobic legal proposal, started roughing them up and taking closeup photos of members of the crowd to stalk online when they got home, got sufficiently riled up for one to straight up assault an innocent person half her size, filmed the whole thing, uploaded it to youtube, and used stills of that assault as acomanying photos when they went home to write articles about the assailant being a “grandmother” attacked by rowdy trans women. And yes, they did monkey’s paw my wish to see that specific image on newspapers. Interesting side note, when it came to real public light that J.K. Rowling endorsed this sort of hatred, it was because she accidentally pasted some profanity laden rambling about how the imagined moral character of the other party in that incident, years after the fact, into a post praising a child’s fan art of her work.

To be a little less niche, transphobes can’t get enough of spreading the lie that the young fellow in this photo is a girl. Specifically a trans girl, providing proof that all their scaremongering about the dastardly threat of trans girls in competitive sports has finally come to pass.

To be fully clear, that’s a man (or a boy if you want to split hairs about him being 17 in that photo). Mack Beggs. A rather insidious choice for this sort of story, considering the actual context for that photo. See, Beggs attended high school in Texas, during a (still ongoing as I write this) period wherein that particular state had caved to this exact sort of propaganda, and in order to head off a wholly imagined wave of trans girls competing on girls’ sports teams, and enacted a law mandating that in all such competitions must compete under whatever gender is stated on their birth certificates. And as it happens, the first, and to my knowledge ONLY time this has come up was with Beggs here, who again, is a man, as no one with a grip on reality could argue against, has “female” on his birth certificate. Which is another way of saying he is a trans man. The guys in the same boat as trans women who we talk about a whole hell of a lot less because their existence is extremely inconvenient to the majority of transphobic propaganda. Case in point. And this is all information it is really impossible to come across if you’re coming across this photo in any sort of respectable source. Take this story, which is as unambiguous about this as you can get. And yet, in the very comments section of that story, there they are. Carrying on like this story about a trans guy, forced by a transphobic law to compete as a girl, which he absolutely did not want, and received horrific threats over, using phrases like “female to male” and bringing up that he was assigned female at birth and is on testosterone-based HRT, is about a trans woman cheating the system. Or to quote word for word, “Now also transgender female want to be male also compete in female sport. biological born“ That’s not “being confused,” that’s standing next to you in a white desert and complaining about being adrift in a black ocean, bald-faced, not even trying to be convincing just make a power play, lying through one’s teeth.

I could spend this whole article on just this point. Lying about who they are, various people’s falsified credentials, whole websites full of “anonymous parents of children who think they’re trans” turning out to be one single woman documenting the abuse of her very much trans son, or of course the people behind the whole “bathroom bill” panic candidly admitting it was all based on utter fiction. I do have other points to cover though.

Transphobes are firmly entrenched in the media.

It is extremely difficult to find oneself in a position of having to explain to people that a particular group of people is effectively in control of press outlets, as that is rather classically a claim conspiracy theorists absolutely love to toss around at various marginalized groups (including trans people hilariously enough, but of course the most common and lingering version of this is the antisemitic variant). I really can’t get around it here though. Specifically in the U.K., you honestly can say that transphobes control the media. I already touched on this with the assault case I mentioned above and the fabricated story about the murderer, but this is a pretty well-documented situation. I mean, even The Guardian calls out The Guardian on this, and that’s the outlet that gets the most attention because it’s the one with the most otherwise respected name, but every paper in the country has been running transphobic propaganda pieces on a weekly if not daily basis for years now, and while they do get reprimanded by watchdog groups and have mass walk-outs over the worst of it, it’s not like there’s some governing body with the authority to step in about it. Meanwhile the BBC is constantly inviting diehard zealots like Graham Linehan to news programs where he compares being trans to being a nazi, and hosting debates where someone just sits down and repeatedly chants the word “penis” at a trans woman.

Things are better in the rest of the world, but we still have right-wing creeps like Jesse Singal both writing horrific propaganda pieces (we’ll get back to that one) and blackballing trans writers out of covering trans issues ourselves (and personally stalking the hell out of those of us who try). We’ve got our Joe Rogans and Tucker Carlsons out there (no way in hell I’m linking videos here, have a real information link and a still).

The line between diehard transphobes and straight-up nazis basically does not exist.

What even is there to say here? You can easily poke around havens for nazi activity for yourself and compare the particular unique vocabulary used there to the primary bastion of anti-trans hate speech on the internet (the “feminism” section of what was originally a site for parenting tips before violent fascists took the forums over) or just peruse the follows of the thousands of people I’ve blocked on social media and see if you can sort out a clear division in the networks of channers with frog avatars and the accounts with names like GoodieXXrealwoman, or you can read up on Gab and Spinster, the two twitter alternatives that are just different portals to the same server, set up by the same guy. Maybe do some research into “the LGB Alliance,” or WoLF but any way you slice it the only real difference to be found is the general purpose nazis take a little time off now and then to watch borderline pedophilic anime and the really dedicated transphobes think to use language that sounds vaguely well-educated and left-leaning. I mean, this came from the “feminist” side of the fence:

And not to belabor the point here, but the ones claiming to be a bunch of “feminist mums” sure do let the mask slip any time they’re confronted with the fact that “women” includes black women, and oh just have a whole thread about all the weird conspiratory theories these people have about how trans people’s whole existence is some sort of Jewish plot for world domination. I swear a few months ago they were all passing around a story about some bank having an above average number of trans employees and they were all just “and we all know who controls the banks, right?” about it.

Transphobes endorse an awful lot of people who are openly pro-pedophila.

This is the part where I am really loath to link the many many specific examples I have on hand. Or to talk about this at all for reasons of good taste. Or, for that matter, to talk about this in a tumblr post when there’s an ongoing problem of people with backgrounds strongly tied to this site making baseless accusations of pedophilia against every queer person they can find, so let me be very clear just what I’m talking about while avoiding anything too graphic.

That’s James Cantor. Transphobes love him for being one of the closest things they have to a scientist on their side. And I am featuring him in a screenshot here showing that he is followed by current queen of the transphobes J.K. Rowling, while speaking to both another big name in transphobic circles, Debra Soh, and based on their names, what I’m guessing is at least one straight-up nazi. And in case you think “the P” he’s talking about adding to LGBT (or “GLBT” as weird anti-queer bigots who also have issues with women often write it) might stand for “poly” or “pan” he’s all too happy to clarify that.

This is the entire thrust of Cantor’s work and life. He is the world’s biggest pedophile rights advocate. He wants it declassified as a mental disorder, all stigma on it removed, and tirelessly pushes forward the idea that the majority of.. people who feel compelled to sexually assault children are good people who present no potential harm to anyone and should in fact be lauded.

I am not generally one to claim that someone with a PhD is spewing out questionable garbage with regard to their field, but the reason I am aware of Cantor at all is that other transphobes keep trying to hold up a particular post on his blog as "a study” (which it is not) that offers “proof” (in the form of a blurry jpeg of basically some random numbers) of some ridiculous quackery about how trans kids will “grow out of it” if exposed to conversion therapy (another way of saying torture), which Cantor himself seems to be pushing, so I am somewhat skeptical of his academic chops. And I am, of course, REALLY suspicious that all these other bigots gravitate to him purely because they’re that desperate to find anyone with a PhD in anything that backs them up against literally every scientist in a relative field, to the point that they merely forgive his particular advocacy they are plainly all aware of, particularly when such a common fig leaf used by transphobes is “keeping children safe from sexual deviants.”

And of course, Cantor is most often invoked when coming to the defense of Kenneth Zucker. This Kenneth Zucker.

Those are separate papers. Zucker isn’t controversial though for organizing panels to discuss how attractive people agree small children are (at least not exclusively). Mostly, he’s known for running a conversion therapy center which subjected gay and trans children to various sorts of torture in an effort to “fix” them, which at least for those trans "patients” I have spoken with involved a fair amount of having them strip completely naked and talking a lot about their genitals.

Zucker is something of a controversial figure with the transphobic scene, as they are extremely on board with his sexual torture of queer children, but he does actual work (for some value of the term) involving trans people and thus is not able to commit as fully as they would prefer to making life horrible for trans people, due to a professional obligation to acknowledge reality now and then. As an aside, the similarly positioned Ray Blanchard, while not to my knowledge particularly interested in the attractiveness of children, lives in a similar purgatory of trying to reconcile his career, bigotry, and sexual hangups, yielding compromises like this:

Of course, that’s just looking at the straws transphobes grasp at when looking for scientific credibility. Real leaders of the movement include Germaine Greer, author of The Beautiful Boy, which is about what you are afraid it might be, and features a very young child in a cover feature he did not consent to posing for. Or Julie Bindel, who among other things is rather infamous for writing whole articles on subjects like whether a teenage girl she came across maybe has a huge penis you can totally see if you really squint at her skirt. Again, I will not share a link to go along with that one.

Transphobes terrorize and attempt to defund charities and other unambiguously good organizations.

Graham Linehan, previously best known for cowriting some sitcoms and possibly spending a year angling to get into my pants so awkwardly I didn’t pick up on it is now best known for trying to pull the plug on a children’s charity, in a story that somehow also involves Donkey Kong. Well, and the interview about nazis. And possibly the other interview about “defending me from nazis” until it got into his head that I might not be as young and hot as he imagined. Rather not link to a far right extremist youtube channel though.

There’s also a current effort to replace Stonewall (an organization named after the location where a pair of trans women kicked off a riot which is generally agreed to be the start of the LGBT+ rights movement) as the UK’s primary LGBT+ rights organization with the “LGB Alliance.” The hate group mentioned above, with the skull face and the rifle. Closest I can find to an article on that effort on short notice that isn’t propaganda.

Transphobes paper areas in truly disgusting propaganda.

I don’t want to directly link to grown adults skulking around children’s playgrounds and bathrooms plastering surfaces with mass printed stickers of crudely drawn penises, but would encourage you to read this very long post, being sure to load all the images, to really understand how deeply strange this behavior gets.

Finally, I cannot stress this enough, this really extreme behavior I’m citing, and the specific people involved in the examples I’m giving, these aren’t random cranks on the fringe of things. The people going on televised panel discussions, writing up news stories, and testifying before lawmakers in efforts to pass horrifically discriminatory if not literally life-endangering laws (there is a major ongoing effort to legally end all medical care for trans people, and I don’t just mean care directly relating to being trans) are literally the same people involved in the sexualization of children, nazi collaborations, and roving gangs assaulting people in the street. At a bare minimum I urge people, when booking guests and handing out writing contracts, to do background checks and see if they’re platforming actual terrorists. If we could actually bring legal consequences to bear against the worst of this, that would be great too. As things stand though, the whole world is just consistently citing a bunch of racist, woman-hating, serial liars with no real credentials, and questionable attitudes towards the sexual abuse of children, as “trusted experts” and refusing to seat actual trans people or people who have legitimately committed lifetimes to academic and practical work with trans people any seats at the table.

[thegreatobsesso]

OC Intro: Digvastra Akash

“Aha, but the Bible was written by men,” Dig countered. “Flawed creatures as they are, and even if you remove any bias from the equation, even if you assume they heard the actual word of God, you have to understand even they were translating. Even if they did their best there would’ve still been interpretation involved, and then the Bible got translated from one language of men to the next to the next.”

“Well, if you don’t believe anything the Bible says what’s the point of even being a Christian?”

Dig looked at her with a distinct twinkle in his eye that reminded her he was actually twenty years older than her, or something close. It was easy to forget that, with his weird-colored hair and the way he always smelled like pot.

“I love that question,” he said. “I don’t know the answer and I’m not about to try and pagansplain Christianity to you. All I know is, my husband’s God loves him, despite all his flaws. And He loves me too.”

“And you believe in Him?” she asked, stunned. “In God?”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Dig said, swooping up his cards with a tinkly jingle of his sleeve, “I believe in all the gods.” He winked. “They don’t give me much of a choice in the matter."

Name: Digvastra Akash (But he prefers you call him Dig.)

Age: Like 55 ?

Magic: Focused Divine. 

(Which, some people say, isn’t a real thing. Dig used to get fired up about it when he was younger, but now, he finds himself pretty dang untroubled by it. He knows his own reality and that’s good enough for him.)

Dig’s Story:

Dig’s very conservative, successful parents were not so much concerned about Dig being gay as they were the magic business. A gay son could still find a loving partner, get married, and go on to be a blazing success in the field of his choice, hopefully medicine like his father or academia like this mother.

It was when he announced his intention to leave home and go on a vision quest that things got... well, uncomfortable.

Dig can see Spirit’s intention for him like a shining gold thread, weaving and winding into the horizon in the direction he’s supposed to go.

Sometimes.

And when it happens, it doesn’t always make the most sense. It took him his whole childhood to learn to trust it. 

Regardless, the shining gold thread took him a lot of kooky places. He actually did end up in academia, albeit a sort of academia his mother never quite imagined. He taught at Nazindah for a decade plus, one of the six main magic schools. 

(Nazindah is [for me, The Great Obsesso] a utopia and an unabashed exercise in wish fulfillment. It’s a magic school rooted in a single principle: that magic comes from a higher power. It doesn’t get one iota more specific about which higher power that is, exactly, and magicians of ALL faiths exist harmoniously within its walls, practicing their faiths in peace and a mutual understanding in and appreciation of each other.)

While there, he met his husband. A non-magician, Jake was just coming to visit his sister, also a teacher there. A golden thread unfurled at the sight of him, swirled around Jake and sunk into his chest. It bound him and Dig, and Dig knew in that moment what their future would be.

But then he had to play it cool, you know. You can’t just walk up to someone and tell them they’ve just entered into an arranged marriage organized by Spirit. He let it unfold exactly the way it was supposed to.

(Except that one night, four or five years in, where he kinda spilled the beans when he was very, very high. He doesn’t remember doing this, Jake only told him about it the next day, and he’ll deny it to anyone else but his husband.)

Dig and Jake came to Delaney together because of pure geography - Delaney is closer to Jake’s family but Dig and his highly specialized skillset can still get a job there. Years into his tenure at Delaney School for Magicians, Dig is granted a mentee - a young man, and powerful telepath, in the middle of a crisis Dig can hardly begin to fathom.

Dig meets Simon under these circumstances - Simon’s just lost his best friend, and the current headmaster, Dorian Page, thinks it best to keep him close.

Simon’s got a million paths of light coming off him, the likes of which Dig’s never seen, and so does the alleged murderer who’s vanished without a trace. The two of them are practically bound together, and based on nothing else, Dig knows this guy’s gonna need someone in his corner for what’s to come.

Personality:

Dig’s the kind of dude who’ll throw down some runes and clarify your deepest issues but then forget it’s the weekend and show up to work. He is perpetually barefoot despite the terrain, uses magic to infuse his dark hair with different colors, and will occasionally spout prophecies in the middle of department head meetings.

He’s chill as hell and capable of diffusing almost any tension with sarcasm or silliness. He’s calm and wise, even when he’s not channeling. He’s fond of reminding people he’s merely a vessel and he doesn’t own any crystal balls, thank you very much, but someday he plans to, purely for Dat Aesthetic™.

♫ Dig Playlist: Spotify ♫

Veridia - Mystery of the Invisible

MC Yogi - Heaven is Here

Imogen Heap - Minds Without Fear

Wendy Rule - From Great Above to Great Below

Loreena McKennitt - The Mystic’s Dream

Abbi Spinner McBride - Behold

S.J. Tucker - In the Name of the Dance

Omnia - Alive Until We Die

MC Yogi - Shanti (Peace Out)

[ayamari-no-goshi]

Verboten 6 | (T)

ff.net | AO3

Fandom: Danny Phantom (DP)

Summary:   AU. When Danny was five years old, he went missing for 2 weeks. In the years that follow, his family tried to make sense of what happened, only for the truth to be discovered years later.

Warnings: rated T for violence, mentions of death, language. Be prepared for some very weird things

Parings: Danny/Sam

Notes: originally uploaded to Ff.net. Cross-posted to AO3 and tumblr. This fic is very heavily inspired by folklore surrounding mysterious wilderness disappearances

Chapter 6

"You're clearly frightened, so allow me to explain," the creature told them with a flourished bow. "I am called Plasmius, and this is the realm of the dead."

"And does that make you a ghost or something?" Sam spat, sounding both angry and skeptical.

"Something like that," Plasmius agreed before seemingly fading out of sight. Before they had a chance to response, he reappeared behind them. His red eyes appraised them, but specifically seemed to focus on Danny. "I've been watching you for a long time."

Danny slowly backed away from the so-called ghost as he sarcastically stated, "I'm not sure if I should be flattered or scared."

"Now Daniel, that's no way to speak to an old friend."

"Psst, do you know this guy?" Tucker whispered as he also tried to escape from its gaze.

"Last time I checked, I didn't know anyone this creepy or glowing."

"I understand your doubts." Plasmius grinned, revealing glistening fangs. "Sadly, it's rare for humans to remember their time in this realm, but when you wandered in this realm before, I played with and entertained you until you found your way home. We then played again when you were a bit older, but again, you found your way home."

"Err… thanks? I think." Danny still wasn't sure what to make of this creature. Something told him Plasmius wasn't exactly lying, but he was certainly omitting important details. Still, if it was going to be somewhat cordial towards him and his friends, it wouldn't hurt to try to be nice. "You wouldn't happen to know how we can get home, would you?"

"Of course I do."

"Great! Could you please take us there or at least tell us how?"

"You want to leave already? But you've only just arrived, and I've put an extraordinary amount of effort into arranging our reunion." Plasmius' grin turned predatory. "Come with me. I would gladly entertain you and your friends."

"Thanks for the offer, but we really should be getting back," Danny told the specter as he grabbed both of his friends and tried to get them to back away. "Our teacher and classmates are probably looking for us."

"And not to mention the Park Rangers are already on high alert," Tucker added.

"Do you really think I am concerned about them?" Plasmius just laughed as he vanished again. His disembodied voice seemed to come from everywhere in the clearing.

Danny had just enough time to turn to his right side and catch sight of Plasmius reappearing before something hit him in the back of the neck. As his vision darkened, he heard his friends screaming his name as well as Plasmius saying, "Like I previous stated, I spent a lot of time orchestrating our meeting. You are not leaving that easily."

….

When Danny came to, he was in an unfamiliar location. He was seated at a grand table, much like he had seen in movies depicting royal banquets. The room where he was had high ceilings and seemed to match the feel of the table. The walls seemed to be white stone, but something seemed off about them. He wasn't certain if it was something about the color itself, or if it was how empty the room seemed because aside from the table, there were no noticeable decorations.

He then noticed there were silver plates and bowls covered in pristine and delicious looking food in front of him. As interesting and enticing the food looked, he wasn't really able to determine exactly what they were. It made him uneasy, but the smell was starting to overcome him. It wouldn't hurt to take a bite, would it? A quick shake of the head quickly dispelled that thought. Without knowing exactly where he was or where his friends were, he shouldn't touch anything he didn't recognize.

After glancing around and making sure he was alone, he tried to stand only to find that he seemed stuck to his chair. He could move his hands and arms without trouble, but everywhere from his waist down was stuck. There was no sign of any visible tie or restraint, so he couldn't understand exactly why he couldn't remove himself. He made several attempts to try to stand, and although he was able to push the chair away from the table, his attempts only succeeded in tipping himself over.

"Why Daniel, you didn't touch your meal." Danny looked up to see Plasmius looking down at him while wearing a frown. The creature then disappeared and reappeared on the other side of the table and took a seat as Danny's chair seemed to right itself without any form of assistance and return to its place at the table.

"I think I'll pass," he replied as he glared at Plasmius. "Where are my friends? Why can't I get out of this chair?"

"Your friends are resting in a room upstairs. As for the chair," he chuckled darkly, "it is nothing but a simple trick. You might learn how to do it one day."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It's nothing with which you should concern yourself." Plasmius appraised him for a few moments. "You mentioned you have no memory of our previous encounters?"

"That's right. I only remember what happened after I was found."

"It's tragic really. There are weak spots between the worlds of the living and the dead, and humans occasionally find them. Usually, it is not an issue. The human may feel uneasy or sometimes get a glimpse of what lies behind the veil, so to speak." After chuckling as if he had made some sort of inside joke, Plasmius continued. "Sometimes that weak spot momentarily breaks and travel between the two words can occur. However, humans often need to catch sight of or hear something in this realm to travel to this side."

Danny's eyes widened. "You mean like that bird thing?"

"Exactly. Like I mentioned, Youngblood's pet is incredibly usefully for that purpose."

"So you purposely used that to bring me and my friends here?"

"Of course. Although, my intention was only to retrieve you. Their presence was entirely unintentional, but seeing how close you seem to be, in hindsight, it seems it would have been inevitable. You should be glad I am the one who found them as I can guarantee their safety. Others who live in this realm may not be as kind."

A cold chill ran down Danny's back at Plasmius' words as the image of Mikey being carried by that other creature resurfaced. "One of my other classmates… that thing took him, and Lester! Something killed him!"

"Yes," Plasmius' tone now sounded almost bored. "Youngblood is simply looking for a permanent companion. I doubt he'll purposely harm your classmate too severely, but humans don't always acclimate to this realm very well. I believe that is what happened to the one who passed on to this side."

"What do you mean? What happened to him?" Once again, Danny tried to stand, but to no avail.

"Ah ah, that is a discussion we should save for later. You should eat, son."

"I'm not hungry." Danny breathed deeply as he tried to keep his temper under control. It didn't seem to be a good idea to make Plasmius angry, and he still wasn't certain if his friends were okay. "Look, I know you're trying to be nice, and I appreciate it, but I'm worried about my friends. People are probably looking for us."

Plasmius regarded him for a moment. "If I show you that your friends are safe, will you then sit and have a proper conversation with me?"

"Maybe? Yes. I don't know."

"Very well." The ghost stood and made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Come along now, Daniel. I will take you to your friends."

After giving him a searching look, Danny hesitantly tried to stand. This time, he was able to move without restraint. Once he was out of the chair, the urge to bolt nearly over took him. Although he really wanted to be as far away from Plasmius as he could, running from his could potentially doom his friends. That was the last thing he wanted. So, after a deep breath, he slowly followed Plasmius towards the staircase at the far end of the room.

What seemed to be several minutes passed as Danny followed Plasmius. The building they were in seemed to be either a mansion or possibly a castle, if he was to judge from how large it was. The coloration was similar to what he saw in the dining hall, but there were other decorations of green and gold in places. Strangely, those decorations seemed almost out of place, but Danny was unable to exactly pinpoint why.

Although Plasmius previously demonstrated an ability to at least float, he was now walking a little ahead of the teen. It just felt off to Danny. It was as if Plasmius was purposely trying to seem more human. While it was possible his host was just trying to be polite, it was doing little more than making him more unsettled.

Eventually, Plasmius stopped in front of a room. After taking a moment to unlock the door, he pushed it open. Danny was briefly greeted with the sight of his friends standing up from a large bed when the door was slammed shut.

"Sam! Tucker! I'm right here!" He could hear his friends yelling his name as he slammed his fists on the door and tried to push it back open. "What gives?" he demanded as he turned to face the specter.

"I promised I would show you that your friends are perfectly safe, and I did." Plasmius' grin widened as he grabbed Danny's arm. The teen tried to break free, but the ghost's grip was almost like a vice. "Now boy, it is time for our long overdue conversation."

xxxxxx

Although Sam liked to think of herself as a strong and independent young woman who could handle herself in most situations, she had to admit that she was at a loss on what to do. When she came to, she and Tucker where in what appeared to be a guest bedroom. Other than the normal furniture, the quality of which suggested the own had some money, there was little in the way of decoration, so it was unlikely the room was often used. There was one window which was locked, but Sam was unable to find any sort of mechanism that would allow her to open it. The only visible door was also locked.

"Pacing angrily around the room isn't going to do anything," Tucker told her as he fiddled with his PDA as he sat on the bed. She just glared at him. "Seriously, you're making me dizzy."

"I'm just frustrated," she sat across from him on the bed. "We don't know where we are, and we have no idea where Danny is, or what that thing could have done to him. And to make matters worse, I can't figure out how to get out of this."

"I know, and I'm upset too, but until we have more information, we can't do anything." After pressing a few buttons on his machine, he smiled at the notification he received. "While I can't tell you where we are, I was able to get a hit from Danny's phone. He's at least in this building."

"I don't think that makes me feel any better. We don't know what that think wants with Danny or what it will do with us."

"I'm trying not to think about it." Tucker looked up from his devise. His frown and furrowed brows told her he was worried. "Hey, do you happen to have any food with you?"

"Told you should have packed some before we left." Sam momentarily left the bed to retrieve her discarded backpack. "I know you probably won't like it, but I did bring some granolas with me."

"I'll take it," Tucker told her, much to her surprise, as he held out his hand. "I'm that hungry, and I think my brain needs the extra energy. There's no service here either, but my PDA keeps trying to connect with something. I've been trying to get into whatever it is, but I'm not sure if there's interference or if its purposely cycling between strong and weak signals. If I can get into it, maybe I can send a distress signal."

She handed him the snack. "It's worth a shot. Hey, what was that?"

The sound of something at the door caught Sam's attention. After an audible click, the door opened to show Plasmius and someone else. It took a second for her to register the second person, but it was Danny. Getting to her feet, she was about to run to him only to have the door slam shut before she had a chance to move.

That didn't stop her. She screamed Danny's name as she bolted to the door and started to try to open it. She barely registered that Tucker was right beside her, or that she could faintly hear Danny's voice on the opposite side. Her next memories were a bit hazy, but Tucker eventually had her sit as she tried to calm herself.

Her memories kept showing her that momentary glimpse of Danny. Something happened to him. Something strange, but she was having trouble registering what was wrong. "Tucker, his hair was white. Not black, white."

"I know. I saw him too." He sat next to her and rubbed her shoulder.

"You seem a bit distressed, hmm." The two teens looked up to see Plasmius floating above them. "Do not fret. Young Daniel is safe with me, but I still have yet to determine what I should do with you two."

"What did you do to Danny?" Sam snapped at him as she stood. She would not look weak in front of this thing.

"Who me? I didn't do anything to him. His body is just adjusting to this world."

"What… what are you talking about?" Tucker stammered as he also stood.

Plasmius smiled. "If you partake of the land of the dead, you must remain in it, or so the old adage goes. When he was a child, Daniel did so, and as he has returned, this world has laid claim to him. I'm actually very impressed as the process often goes awry. I can't tell you how many times I've seen it happen."

"Are you telling me that Danny's becoming like you?" The thought horrified Sam. What else on her friend would change? Did… did Plasmius mean Danny would actually die?

"I certainly hope so, but I'm not exactly sure what form he'll take. This world can do strange things to the humans it turns, but enough about that. I came here to debate what to do with you two." Plasmius regarded the pair for a few moments before he began to pace about a foot off the floor. "I could simply kill the two of you, but Daniel would not appreciate the loss of his two friends. I could let you go, but that could cause me unnecessary trouble. While it is unlikely you will remember your time here, it is possible, and letting you go too soon could bring unwanted attention. Oh, I know," the grin he gave them sent chills down Sam's spine, "I could try to induce the process in the two of you."

"Don't you come near us!" Sam warned as she crouched in a defensive stance. She was still stuck against the door, but there was no way she was going to let that thing touch her again.

"Hey, don't antagonize him!" Tucker whispered. "I'm just as scared of him, but maybe we can use this. He doesn't seem to want to kill us now, and if he can get us out of this room…"

Maybe they would get led to Danny, and maybe the three of them could escape. It was the best plan they had since there didn't seem to be a way out of the room, but if it failed… Actually, Sam wasn't exactly sure what would happen if they failed.

Tucker seemed to have thoughts along the same line, so he asked, "What exactly are you going to do?"

"Ah, so you are interested. The easiest method is to eat some of the food of this world, but the results are not always guaranteed. After all the experiments I've run, it seems like young children have the highest success rate."

"And what happens if it fails?" Sam questioned, uncertain if she would like the answer. "And what experiments? You've been kidnapping humans?"

Plasmius' smile disappeared as his eyes narrowed. "I want young Daniel to remain with me, but humans cannot remain in the realm of the dead indefinitely, so I wanted to make sure his transformation would be successful. I don't expect you to understand my rationale or methods." He moved closer and looked them over carefully. If Sam had to guess, it seemed as if he was trying to determine something regarding the process he mentioned. "The question becomes how to do this successfully. I certainly don't want Daniel upset if this fails and you end up dead and possibly horribly mutilated."

"What?"

"It sadly happens sometimes." Vlad dismissing tone and wave of the hand made it sound as if that was of no concern of his. "When the process fails, it simply kills, but sometimes the process begins and fails, and that is when the more interesting deaths occur. Some of the results are quite gruesome. That is what happened to the man who went missing prior to your arrival."

"How… how did you know about that?" Tucker whispered. His eyes were wide, and he was shaking.

"How else? I'm the one who took him."

===============================

Note: regarding Plasmius' explanations, I am heavily drawing from mythology and legends here. Many stories from around the world state that if you partake of the food of another realm (whether it be the dead, the gods, faeries, etc.), you will be permanently stuck there. In some tales, you remain as a human, and in others, you are transformed. There are other tales that state you can leave, but you will die when you return.

Regarding the more gruesome details, this again comes from some of the reported tales regarding mysterious deaths. In the cases mentioned in the Missing 411 series, if the missing person was found dead, the cause of death is often undetermined, and there aren't usually severe injuries – maybe some scrapes or bruises. However, there are some strange stories reported by Park Rangers and Search and Rescue regarding people they've found who are rather… well… we'll go with messed up and leave it at that. In those cases that can't be explained by an animal, an accident, self-inflicted, or other person, the Rangers and/or Search and Rescue are often at a loss to explain what happened.

So, this is how brain has taken it for this story regarding deaths. Missing and never found – successfully becomes a ghost. Missing and found, intact – process failed or killed by ghost. Missing and found, not intact – process started and failed or killed by ghost. The killed by ghost mention will get explained later, although it was briefly alluded to in this chapter. There are certain things I'm hoping to explain within the story in a later chapter, but if that changes, there will still be a note which will explain it.

[heyheyitsstillgay]

Escaping the Eyes

Phandom Phic Phight Entry #1 based on a prompt from @gottacatchghosts

#TeamGhosts team leader: @ibelieveinahappilyeverafter

Also available on FFN ; Next Entry

Words: 2,411; Status: Complete

Preparing himself as he clicked open the lock, he walked out of the cubicle and over to the sinks.

There it was again. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. Adamant to ignore it, he kept his eyes straight, washed and dried his hands and left the room.

It got worse. Contorting his face into a casual bored smirk, he waved to the friends waiting for him. Waved as though his skin wasn't currently trying to crawl away from him.

"Come on man, are you tryin' to make us late?" Called the tall blond, turning away and leading the group down the corridor.

"I'm sorry," Danny retorted, "did you want to arrive at English early? Personally I don't want to be sat at a desk listening to that voice drone on for a single second more than necessary." He snickered.

A sigh escaped the purple lips of the dark haired girl next to him.

"And you wonder why you're failing English."

"Hey! Don't act like you find it remotely interesting. You were complaining about the poetry he's assigned us for the whole of lunch break."

"That's because it's a billion years old written by fancy white guys who weren't even trying to include any of the symbolism we're supposed to be able to see."

"Maybe you're just not looking for their visions hard enough?" Her girlfriend teased.

Despite their apparent running late for class, Dash felt the need to break apart from the front of the group. Of all the gazes on them currently, it was Nathan's he took issue with specifically. How many times did the girl he was unashamedly drooling over have to say no before the geek got the message? Sooner or later the kid was going to get his glasses broken from being stuffed into his locker at the wrong angle. Serves him right. Two less eyes on them. Two out of hundreds.

Needless to say, Danny didn't focus in class. He took his seat, at the far back right, like always. To get as far away from the teachers scrutinising gaze as possible. To get as far away from everyone's dissecting glare as possible. Of course, that feeling was still there. Something still studied him. It was almost tangible, wind clawing through and ruffling his hair. Externally, boredom seemed to weigh him down, slumping backwards in his chair. In reality he was clenching his jaw and leaning away from the stress biting at his neck. Oh my god, can he spend one second not being torn apart, please?

He can't help that he's 'special' or 'better' or 'skilled'. He was born to successful parents, very well off inventors. They have an… interesting hobby. They just had to rope him and his sister into it. He's a Fenton, that comes with intelligence and precision. His dad's gene pool perfect for muscle development, his mom's skills perfect for fighting. Fentons were supposed to be ghost hunters, he'd been raised to defend, protect and fight from a young age. He enjoyed it, learning 'ghost hunting skills' was about the only time he actually saw his parents because they were so busy with the family business.

The school bell was like a starting horn. Sure he'd been roped into being on the football team, how couldn't he with his athleticism? But track had always been one of his favourites. Over the sound of chairs scraping against the floor, he yelled a "Laters!" to his friends as he threw his bag over his shoulder. He bolted out of the door.

Too many, too many, too many. He weaved through the groups of people beginning to form in the hallways. No way was he spending one more moment than necessary here. Sure he loves the friends he's made but, there's always just, so many eyes. So many people. Looking up to him? Watching him? Another one of the cool teens who could have no imperfections. Having to exist around the sheep who ate at his soul with just their stares, day in, day out. A nightmare. It drains him, makes him feel dead on his feet. Slamming out of the doors, smirking in anticipation, he darts behind a shed.

Why? This wasn't right. It was supposed to go away. If he was truly alone then how can he still feel it? His senses are heightened now, he knows that that's why his school life is so much more difficult than it used to be, ever since the accident. His body can't be lying to him about feeling something nearby, if it is then he may go insane.

"Hey Phantom." He scowls as he finally notices the techno-geek crouched in the dirt.

"I told you not to call me that, especially when I look like this. The hell are you doing here Foley?" Calm washes over Danny as Tucker looks back to his PDA.

"Waiting for you. You realise it's painfully obvious that you always hide behind here-"

"I do not hide."

"-after school at every opportunity and that you're never seen leaving this spot either. Sure morons go to this school but I didn't take you for one of them."

Danny knows Tucker doesn't understand him. Sure, the teen was there when it happened but that was all, he was still a nerd. Tucker wants attention from other people, Danny wants to be left to his friends and hobbies without everyone else's judging looks. Thoughts running through their heads, about him, as though they knew anything about him. He used to want to trade places with Tucker, he came across as kind of a loner but he has the ability to blend into the background, to do what he wants without scrutiny from everyone. When people look at Danny, they could be thinking anything about him; jealousy, loathing, admiration, hatred. When people look at Tucker, their eyes gloss over him, no second thoughts needed. When Danny glares at the people who look at him, it's out of envy that they don't know what it's like to live in a constant spotlight. Being in the A-list is so much, too much, it burns, his skin bubbling and melting under the pressure.

"Then what do you suggest?" Danny folds his arms and stands with his shoulders back.

"Dude, mix it up a bit, there are other places to hide in this school. Or just like, walk off school grounds like a normal person and duck into an alleyway on your way home."

"Yeah? Because normal people duck into alleyways?"

Eyes still locked on his PDA, the boy sighs and shrugs his shoulders.

"You're not normal anymore, man. If you're so insistent on hiding yourself then you should make it so no one will guess where to find you." Tucker stood from his spot on the floor and hoisted his backpack on.

"Tsk, whatever." Danny mumbles as he turns away.

No one is looking at him anymore. Otherworldly energy thrummed from within, Danny grasps at it, pacing forward slowly and increasing his speed, light surrounds him as he envelopes himself in the instinct he'd been suppressing all day. Mid-jump, he vanishes.

It's like surfacing from water. He inhales deeply and soars. His hair pushed back by the breeze, body spinning occasionally from the thrill of it all. He doesn't have to look down to know that the earth is moving away from him, or rather, he is pushing free of it. He reaches out his hand above him as the clouds near his fingertips. They don't feel like anything but they were still magnificent. The world morphed to pinks and blues and yellows as he moves through them and drops the invisibility. He doesn't need it anymore. No one could see him up here, he may as well not exist. It's bliss.

The stark green glow of his eyes reflect onto the clouds as he races above them. He can't stop the laugh that escapes his throat, so he doesn't, he doesn't need to.

Time passing is shown by the oranges swarming in the sky. If he pictures the clouds as a couch then he can just lounge among them. It's still too bright out to see the stars but that doesn't bother him much. There's always later, if he awakes at night from the cold again, he can come see the stars then. Some day he's gonna decide to be stupid enough to go further and see how close he can get to touching them without killing himself again like a total imbecile. Is it supposed to be worrying that he looks forward to it? He doesn't think he's meant to. Death has had a strange beauty and grace ever since he became part ghost about four months ago. It's so much happier than he expected it to be when he was human. Times like these, getting away from it all, makes him want to go through another tomorrow, to do it again. He has so much hope, he wants to stay here forever.

He doesn't, obviously. He has to eat at some point. Remind his parents, hilariously, that he's not dead.

He doesn't change back to his other form when he reaches the ground. Just casually strolls around as if the fact that he's glowing shouldn't be a big deal. He curls into himself to keep from being too recognisable as his human counterpart. No one gives him a second glance. It's like he's still invisible. He didn't try this for the first two months after the accident but since the beginning, other ghosts have been popping up everywhere. His parents have been overjoyed with the hunt, regular people give them a wide berth and try to pretend like the dead aren't floating among them.

He loves that. Doesn't even have to be invisible for people to look through him now. A blanket of calm envelops him for the whole walk. Arms hanging loose at his side, he takes in the beauty of the sky and trees from the ground and grins to himself. He doesn't notice any other ghosts on his way back, which is kind of a shame. Danny loves hanging out with the spirits, no one around even stops to wonder what they're doing, too busy backing away attempting to give them as much space as possible. It was Saturday tomorrow, he'd normally meet up with Ember and her friends and mess around on the high-street. He'll have to find something else to do this weekend though, she's been super busy working on an upcoming album for the human world. Danny had promised he'd tell his human friends about it, spread the hype around Casper High. She'd jumped at the idea, offering backstage passes for himself and his friends. He'd had to turn her down of course, there's no way he's being spotted with VIP passes to a concert as Fenton when he could hang from the rafters and prat around as a Phantom instead.

It's odd how he can sense that more people look at him as Fenton than they do when he's Phantom. He could float into Nasty Burger via the wall and the people inside would actually try to avoid his gaze. Thrilling.

His stroll home is quiet, even the voices in his head are calm. There are never more than two pairs of eyes on him at a time. Even then they always look away quickly. Transforming back in the alleyway by the side of his house, he scales the drain pipe to get into his room.

It's funny how much he enjoys being at his house too. There's a basement full of devices being designed to hunt things like him. It doesn't bother him, it's the portal in that room that makes it all worth it.

He's been there before, the first time was about a month after the accident. Spirits live there, they're actual people, a whole manner of shapes, but they all glow, like him. They glance at him with only mild curiosity and then they move on with their afterlives. Understanding is beginning to form for his parents obsession. It's like a whole other world. Green as far as you can see but there's more to it than that. So many greens, so many shapes and textures and things with purposes he can't even begin to comprehend. He really wants to though.

The beings there speak in a strange language too, he's heard them, is somehow able to understand them. Crowded around the portal, he's overheard rumours. Someone said they saw a being that was half ghost half human. It took a moment to think, maybe that's what he was? Everyone around the ghost who spoke about it laughed though.

"A creature of both worlds, you say?" They had been shaking their head in disbelief, "don't be ridiculous, something like that couldn't truly exist."

In a moment of courage and curiosity, Danny had nudged a child at the edge of the group, the boy was dressed like a wizard, a skeletal owl perched upon his shoulder.

"Y'know," Danny whispered, "I'm a human who can make myself look like a ghost, what does that make me?"

The kid who was already holding back giggles about the current topic burst into all out laughter. He curled his knees up into his chest as tears formed in his eyes.

"Stop it! That's so silly!" the boy exclaimed.

"No, I'm serious, I can." Danny smiled.

"Yeah?" said the boy, his eyes shone "Wanna play a game with it?"

The boy, Youngblood he called himself, ended up dressed like an Olympic racer. They spent an hour or so running back and forth across a long floating rock. "Running on our feet of all things!" Youngblood had laughed, both moving as though gravity affected them. Danny even let him win a few times. He made a new friend. The best bit? Anyone who noticed, didn't care. This was his life now, no one back home would figure any of it out just by looking at him.

Ghosts didn't think he was anything special. He could be invisible just like the rest of them. He could be himself and he knew none of them even cared. Didn't even believe he was human, Youngblood had decided he could shape-shift, Danny had shrugged his shoulders and went along with it when the kid told anyone.

His human friends were fun. His ghost friends made him feel free.

Based on GottaCatchGhosts' Prompt - A-lister Danny Fenton likes to relax on his days off by hanging out around town as his nobody counterpart, Danny Phantom. (basically, an AU where fenton is popular and phantom isn't.)

I accidentally glazed over the "on his days off" parts and only dedicated two paragraphs to "hanging out" whoops, hope it's okay

[secretlystephaniebrown]

Back to Prison: 5/5

Summary: The Tartarus makes good things hard to hang onto. So when a couple of mercenaries offer Wash his freedom, he can’t help but think it’s worth whatever price they might ask. Even if it brings him into direct conflict with the Reds and Blues once again.

Mercenary Wash AU.

And here we are, at the end of things! Thank you SO MUCH to everyone who's read, commented, left a kudos, or reblogged or liked on Tumblr! This has been a very fun journey, and I hope you all had nearly as much fun as I did!

One last special thanks to @jomeimei421 for drawing the art that started it all, and @sroloc--elbisivni for being a brilliant beta!

Also on Ao3

“Your turn, Wash,” Felix says, after he comes out of the true warrior test. Something about Felix is jittery, more manic than usual, after that. Locus is silent, pensive, and preoccupied, far too busy talking to Chrissie about setting up the trap to pay attention to them.

“Not a chance,” Wash says. He’s seen the men come out, terrified out of their minds, having lived their worst nightmares.

Wash’s nightmares are a lot worse than any of theirs.

Felix laughs, and Wash’s skin crawls. He reaches for his knives on instinct, and barely manages to stop himself from doing something truly, dangerously stupid.

“I wasn’t asking.”

There’s the thing about Felix that Wash understands. Felix doesn’t respect people, at least not in the way that people normally mean. Everyone, everything, is disposable to him. The closest thing to respect is whatever Locus has.

Wash is a tool, a pawn in Felix’s games.

And, ever since Tucker’s escape…

Wash feels like he’s become just slightly more disposable of one.

But being shoved, head first, into the bright, alien light, is still unexpected.

He’s standing in the snow, looking down at a body wearing his armor.

Someone grabs his elbow and he looks down, into the helmet of Lavernius Tucker, the man who he barely knows, but who has, for reasons that Wash can’t begin to understand, decided to save him.

“Focus,” Private Tucker hisses. He’s not that tall, being shorter than Wash, shorter than Caboose, shorter than Epsilon’s body had been. But he somehow manages to radiate fierceness. “Don’t you fuck this up, okay?”

“Okay,” Wash says, trying to stay upright even though the edges of his vision are beginning to blur with pain. His ribs are probably broken. Blood loss has made his head too light, and Doc hasn’t had much time to help him, not while they’d been busing getting the armor switched.

They make it through the inspection, they make it into the Warthogs, and they leave Epsilon’s body behind in the snow, for the soldier’s to deal with, and Wash tries not to collapse the second he gets into the back of the warthog.

Tucker takes off his helmet, turning around to face Wash. His features are handsome, his skin dark, his hair long, and his mouth a thin, dangerous line.

“Don’t make me regret this, okay?”

“I won’t,” Wash promises, one part earnestness, one part desperation, and one part something that Wash can’t even begin to name. “You won’t regret this.”

“I better not,” Tucker says, putting his helmet back on and turning his attention back to the road.

He doesn’t say what will happen if Tucker does regret this, but Wash can fill in the blanks well enough. Prison, a bullet in the back of the head, or even just killing him in his sleep…

Wash has earned that, he realizes with a horrible shudder. He doesn’t know much about Tucker, and the man doubtlessly knows little about him, but Tucker, the leader of Blue Team, owes him nothing. He has given Wash this second chance as a favor to Caboose. He captured Simmons, he held Doc hostage, and he shot—the pink one.

He doesn’t even know the pink one’s name. He thinks Simmons might have said it, but he can’t remember.

Wash’s fate rests solely in Lavernius Tucker’s hands.

For days, Wash is paralyzed by fear, trying to stay out of Tucker’s way, trying to be useful. He almost misses the Leaderboard, because at least then he had been given concrete evidence of his use, his worth, rather than trying to read a man he barely knows, who wears armor all the time.

The Reds fear him, dislike him, and resent him in turn. They’ve closed ranks, glaring out at the Blues with unconcealed hostility and rancor, and Wash hunches his shoulders and tries to make himself invisible as Tucker argues with the Reds over the radio about something specific that Wash can’t understand.

“I’m sorry,” Wash tells Tucker.

“Does it look like I care?” Tucker snaps. “Just… look, Caboose likes you. I’m not about to make him cry again.”

And don’t you go making him cry either, Tucker doesn’t say.

Slowly, things change. Tucker wakes him up after a nightmare, and blocks the knife that Wash tries to bury in his shoulder without so much as a wince.

“Dude, calm the fuck down, it’s me.”

For a moment, Wash doesn’t know him, thinks that the teal helmet is someone else, and he nearly calls out Carolina’s name, before he catches himself, and freezes.

“Tucker—” he gasps, staring at the hand wrapped around his wrist, keeping his knife trapped. “I didn’t—”

Tucker releases him. “Dude, it’s fine. Do you think you’re the only one who gets nightmares?”

He’s not. Tucker has them too—screaming ones, ones that lead to him making horrifically sexual comments all the next day, and spilling anything he holds because his hands are shaking so hard. Caboose has ones that lead to him crying, soft, shuddering gasps, whispering a litany of names—his sisters, Wash learns—and not stopping until he manages to get them all right.

“Tex had ones like yours,” Tucker admits, one night. His face is streaked with sweat, and his hands are trembling as he tries to wrap his fingers around his mug of hot cocoa. “She taught me to grab the wrist. She used a gun, not a knife, but she made me do it over and over again, until I was fast enough. I had to wake her up, because if Church did it, it was… bad. And if we let her sleep, it was worse.”

“Couldn’t you have… taken her gun?”

Tucker gave him a look. “It was Tex. She had guns all over Blue Base. I found one in Caboose’s cereal once.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah,” Tucker says, and smiles at him—wide and brilliant, despite Tucker’s exhaustion. “She was an asshole like that.”

“You miss her,” Wash says, surprised.

“She was my friend,” Tucker says. He passes Wash his own mug of cocoa.

They sit in silence for a few moments, before Tucker looks up at him.

“You know you are too, right?”

“What?”

“My friend.”

“… oh.”

Carolina comes back, after that. Carolina, scarred and green eyed, her hair still dyed bright red, and her entire body coiled so tightly with tension that Wash thinks that, one day, she’s going to lash out and bring down everything with her.

It’s just like Freelancer.

She hasn’t changed a bit in any way, except now, her devotion towards the Director, has turned around on its head.

“Revenge, Wash,” she promises him, her hand extended. “For both of us.”

Wash reaches out and takes her hand.

The Reds and the Blues tag along, into a series of wild twists and turns, until it brings them to a room, large and strange, with Epsilon’s hologram hovering over them all…

And Carolina raises a gun against Tucker’s head.

“Well, what about now?”

“Carolina!” Wash says, but he doesn’t move. “That isn’t necessary!”

“We found the Director! We can make him pay! This is what we wanted!” Epsilon says. “Tucker, c’mon! He screwed you guys too!”

“Really? That’s what you guys want?” Tucker demands. He’s wearing his helmet, but Wash knows that he’s staring right at him. “Revenge? That’s the only thing that matters?”

“You don’t understand, Tucker,” Wash says, slowly, carefully, keeping half an eye on Carolina and the gun.

“I don’t want to understand!” Tucker yells, striding forward despite the gun that’s still aimed at the back of his skull. “Fuck, Wash, I thought you were—I thought you were better! But you’re not, are you? You’re still that selfish fuck who shot Donut and got Church killed and—” He reaches out, as if to grab Wash—in a hug, or a strangle hold, or something else entirely.

Wash raises his own gun, and Tucker falls silent.

“Carolina,” Wash says, staring down the barrel of his gun at Tucker’s helmet, familiar and teal. He doesn’t want to shoot, but he will, if Tucker moves. He doesn’t want to, but it’s just a fact, and Tucker knows it too, from the way he’s staring at Wash, but keeps staying absolutely still. “We don’t need them. Let’s just go.”

“Right,” Carolina says, holstering her own pistol, still radiating fury.

The two of them walk away, with Epsilon.  

“Fuck you, Washington,” Tucker whispers, at his back.

“So… they were right, not to trust you,” a voice, booming and alien, fills the world, and—

Wash is standing in a blank, empty room, driven to his knees by the intense pressure of that voice.

“What—what was that?”

“A different world… a world you wonder about. You wonder, what would have happened, had Lavernius Tucker chosen differently. I showed you what would have happened. I showed you that he was right, to leave you there. You are, and always will be… this.”

“No,” Wash says. “You’re wrong about me.”

“Am I?”

Wash grits his teeth, his hands clenched into fists by his side. “You are. I’m—I’m not like that.”

“I see no evidence of that.”

“You don’t know me.”

“I do. You saw it for yourself. You were offered everything you say you desired… and you threw it away, to seek satisfaction from the man who wronged you. As you throw away an entire world in the name of vengeance. You are NOT WORTHY.”

Wash falls backwards, out of the portal, gasping for air, and he stares down at his own hands.

What does that… thing know about him? He thinks, ignoring Felix’s laughter in the distance. There’s no way it could do what it says it can, reaching across worlds, and pulling that out.

Lavernius Tucker…

“You killed Church! You tried to kill Donut! What, was I supposed to fucking drag you along just because Caboose liked you?”

“It’s clear bringing you along would have been a fucking terrible idea.”

“Bet you would have thrown the rest of us under a bus the first chance you’d have gotten. If you hadn’t killed us all in our sleep in a fit of Freelancer paranoia first, at least.”

… had he been right?

There’s an ambush, today. An entire army, being led into a kill box. An army, that, according to everyone that Wash has ever talked to, includes teenagers.

And Wash is party to that. He’s been party to a lot, in his life, but this…

“So shove the broody righteous hero attitude, cuz guess what? You’re the goddamn bad guy here.”

Lavernius Tucker had been right about him, all along.

But that…

That doesn’t mean that whatever was in that portal was.

He can… there’s still time.

He can still change things.

Wash moves away from the portal and follows the rest of the pirates. He’s supposed to stay back, to prepare for a raid on Armonia.

That will be a good place to start, Wash decides.

He’s still trying to figure out how he’s going to manage to sabotage a mission that he’s leading without making himself a too obvious target for his own men, when Chrissie makes the call.

A tower that kills a planet… and a key that lets them do it.

Well.

It looks like Wash’s defection might have to be a little more obvious than he’d hoped.

The Temple of the Key is a craggy, strange building on a snow-covered mountain, and Wash immediately hates it when he gets there. There are cliffs, which are already awful, but there’s also snow, and the air outside is so cold that Wash can almost imagine he can feel it through his environmentally controlled armor.

“Any sign of them?” He asks one of the pirates, trying to ignore the prickles of memory poking around the edge of his mind.

“No sir,” Ross, one of the men who was here before the Tartarus, replies. “But the Temple is fucking with our equipment, so we can’t be sure.”

“Fan out and secure the perimeter,” Wash says, switching out his pistol for his rifle. “Radio me if you spot them.”

“Yessir.”

The interior of the Temple is huge, in a way that Wash… isn’t used to. Interiors of buildings and ships are always… small. Even the Tartarus’s center, open for floors upon floors, had always felt claustrophobic. But here, the ceiling is a high arch, curved in such a way that every slightest sound is audible, and the sleek, steel ramps curve around the walls, hinting at a never-ending maze of rooms. The light is a strange greyish blue and… alien.

And there, in the center of the room, is the handle of a sword just like Tucker’s.

“Do you truly think you are worthy?”

Wash turns around, and gapes.

An alien being, made entirely of dark red light, stands in front of him, gazing down on him with contempt.

An artificial intelligence. An alien artificial intelligence.

Wash really hates his life.

“It doesn’t matter if I’m worthy or not.” Wash turns his back to the A.I. and strides across the room to the sword.

“You don’t believe it matters?”

“No. What matters… is what I do next.” He crouches down, beside the hilt, which sits, like it has sat for probably hundreds if not thousands of years, before picking it up.

It feels… different, from Tucker’s sword. It’s still heavy, but the weight of it is different, and there is no feeling of wrongness spreading outwards from his hand. Instead, he thinks he can feel the pattern of the grip changing in his hand, shifting itself to suit him, and when he raises it, it bursts to life in front of him, forming the familiar lines of a Sanghelli Blade.

He looks up, and the alien is gone.

Wash almost wonders if he’d imagined it, but he knows that it really doesn’t matter.

The sword is bound to him until he dies.

“You really think the Chairman'll let you go?”

A sword, which, in Felix or Locus’s hands, could easily spell the end to this entire planet.

“Tell that to the sixteen year olds running around wearing armor.”

Teenagers in an army, fighting a war… a war that Wash can’t even begin to comprehend.

“You’re also willing to kill an entire goddamn planet just so you end up okay? Your freedom is worth that much, huh?”

Wash is in this war, on the wrong side. He can’t deny that. Felix and Locus would do anything to get their hands on this key. They will do anything to kill off this planet and collect their paycheck.

But it’s not in their hands.

It’s in his.

Wash lowers his hand, and the blade flickers out.

He knows what he has to do next.

His radio pings, letting him know that Felix is trying to establish a connection. He’s on his way to join Wash, and he’s probably excited about getting his hands on the sword. He doesn’t know Wash already has it.

He doesn’t know what Wash is planning on doing next.

Wash takes a deep breath inside of his helmet, trying to appreciate the safety, the security, of his armor. Because, soon, he won’t have that.

He’s going back to prison after all.

He’s survived… everything, and in the end, it’s all for nothing.

He shakes his head, because if he dwells on that, he might change his mind. And he knows he can’t. He has to follow this through, has to face the consequences of his actions.

Lavernius Tucker might be irritating, but he was right about at least one thing.

Wash isn’t the good guy in this story.

He keeps walking through the Temple, out into the wide open, snow spotted mountaintop. He clips the sword to his side, like he’s seen Lavernius Tucker do, and it clicks into place, proving once and for all that ancient alien technology is a strange, indecipherable thing, that can somehow interact with modern human armor systems.

In the distance, he sees a Federal Army of Chorus pelican circling, and he breathes a sigh of relief.

Felix’s radio pings his again, but Wash still doesn’t open the channel. If he’s about to turn traitor, he doesn’t have to listen to Felix’s voice anymore, and he’s going to take full advantage of that.

Wash turns around, and there’s a sword at his throat.

“Washington,” Tucker says.

“Tucker.” Slowly, Wash raises his hands in the air, dropping his rifle.

Tucker stares at him, slowly, incredulously.

“I surrender,” Wash says, just to make sure he’s getting the point across.

“You expect me to believe that?” Tucker demands.

“Felix and Locus will kill everyone on this planet if they get this sword.” He watches as Tucker’s helmet twitches slightly, probably having only just noticed the sword clipped to Wash’s leg.

“And since when do you have a problem with that?” Tucker lowers his own sword. “Whatever happened to “We’re fighting an army, not a planet,” huh?”

“Are you really going to argue with me about surrendering?” Wash demands, feeling a headache beginning to build.

For a moment, Wash thinks Tucker’s about to follow through on his earlier declarations, and just kill him right on the spot.

But then Carolina emerges over Tucker’s shoulder, keeping her gun trained right on him. Wash feels his heart speed up in his chest, and he does his best to not allow it to affect his stance, with his hands still held up in the air.

“He surrendered,” Tucker says. “Anyone got any handcuffs that aren’t pink and fuzzy?”

“You expect me to believe you don’t?” Carolina’s voice is tinged with affection in a way that completely throws Wash off. But her gun doesn’t waver from Wash’s helmet, aimed in such a way that Wash knows that one shot could put him down for good.

In his mind, Carolina has always been like she was during the project; stressed, competitive, and on the verge of collapse, just like the rest of them.

But, standing next to Tucker, the two of them unfathomably comfortable, Wash realizes, with a lurch, that she’s changed.

The vision the alien A.I. had provided had gotten it wrong, at least about Carolina. Carolina, standing here, is different from Freelancer. She’s grown. She’s changed. She’s happy.

Envy sweeps through Wash, strong enough to choke him.

“Did you not just hear me say that mine are pink and fuzzy?” Tucker says. “Donut swapped them all out because he says that metal ones are a hazard in the bedroom.”

“What makes you think he didn’t get mine?”

“Because you’d have switched them back.”

Carolina lets out a soft laugh that freezes Wash in place. “Cover me.”

Tucker switches out his sword for his gun, and Wash is shoved against the side of the mountain, cuffed, and relieved of his weapons. Wash grits his teeth so tightly that they hurt as the cuffs close around his wrists, keeping them trapped behind his back, but he doesn’t protest.

Carolina attaches the sword to her own leg but leaves the rest of his weapons there in the snow, and Wash doesn’t say anything, even though he wants to.

“Move,” she says. “Epsilon’s jamming your radio, so don’t even try to call for help.”

But the shove against his back isn’t as harsh as Wash might have expected.

The two of them lead him into a tunnel, dark and damp and cramp.

Wash struggles to keep his breathing even. It’s not prison. He’d never been in his armor in prison. He’s not there… he’s not injured, he’s not at the crash site. He’s… he’s fine.

This is fine.

“Why did you do it?” Tucker demands, suddenly.

Wash can’t help but turn around to look at him, even though it means that Carolina’s rifle digs into his shoulder.

“Do what?” Wash asks, so focused on how close the ceiling of the cave feels that he doesn’t realize the obvious answer as to what Tucker’s talking about.

“What do you think, dude? You let me go. Why?”

Wash should say something poignant, something clever; maybe even try to convince them that he’d always planned on betraying Felix and Locus, and that was him trying to prove it to them, use it to try to help his own situation.

But he’s exhausted and trying to stave off the claustrophobia, so he just tells the truth.

“Felix was going to kill you.”

“… and you care?”

“Tucker,” Carolina says quietly. “Later.”

“No! Not later.” Tucker steps forward, and shoves Wash backwards. Wash stumbles, but manages to stay upright, his boots sinking further into the snow. “I want to know why the fuck you’re changing your mind! You wanted to kill me, so why the fuck does it matter if Felix did it?”

“Because…” Wash’s breath is stuttering in his chest, and he feels like the ceiling above them is about to give, or maybe that’s just because he’s shaking so hard inside of his armor that absolutely nothing is standing still.

Nothing except the two figures in aqua armor in front of him, who aren’t even aiming their weapons at him anymore, just watching him.

“Wash, focus!” Carolina demands, her voice cutting through the haze in his head.

The world stops spinning, and Wash realizes he’s leaning against the wall of the tunnel, having a fucking panic attack.

“Why?” Tucker demands again.

“Tucker,” Carolina growls in warning, but Wash looks over her shoulder, right at Tucker.

“You were right,” Wash whispers, his throat dry. “I was just… following orders.”

“And that makes it okay?”

“No.” Wash tries to stand up straight, and stumbles. Carolina catches him by the elbow, more gently than she has to.

More gently than Wash deserves, that’s for sure.

“You want a choice again,” Carolina says, softly. He can’t see her expression, but her grip on his arm is supporting, not gripping.

“Yes,” Wash says. “I’m… you were right. What Charon is doing is wrong, and I was helping them, and I… I just wanted to not go back to prison.” He swallows. “I’m a soldier. Not a killer. Or at least… I’m supposed to be.”

Carolina and Tucker look at each other. And, in a flash of light, Epsilon pops into view.

“Well, what do you think?” Carolina says.

“Eh, good enough for me,” Epsilon says, his avatar shrugging.

“Kimball’s not going to like this,” Carolina says, sounding amused.

“Oh, and you think Doyle will?” Tucker snickers.

“Eh, it’ll be good for them to agree on something,” Epsilon disappears and reappears closer to Tucker.

“That’s true! And we can probably sell Kimball on probation!” Tucker nods, enthusiastically.   

“What?” Wash asks, not sure if he’s at all following.

Carolina turns away from him. “Grif, prep the Pelican, we’re going right for the Communication Tower.”

“What? You got it! Holy shit, you’ve got a sword now?”

“Noooot exactly,” Epsilon says, sounding way too amused about all of this.   

“I don’t understand,” Wash says, still dizzy with adrenaline and confusion, as Tucker takes a step towards him.

The handcuffs fall into the snow, and vanish, too heavy to stay above the surface.

“Man, you Freelancers are kind of dumb sometimes, aren’t you?” Tucker says. “Welcome to Blue Team, Washington. If you fuck this up, Kimball will probably kill you before I can, but hey.”

“What? Why? After… after everything I did? You’re just… letting me go?”

“No, we’re letting you join the team! Dude, don’t you pay attention?”

“That makes no sense!”

“Look dude. You’ve got an alien sword that’s almost as cool as mine, we’re super outnumbered, you’ve decided to be less of a dick, and I already apparently owe you my goddamn life.”

“A second chance, Wash,” Carolina says, turning to face him. “Don’t… question if you deserve it or not too hard.”

“You can’t possibly be okay with this,” Wash says, staring at Tucker.

Tucker suddenly looks serious.

“Look, I’m not saying we’re buddies or best friends or anything like that dude, don’t get the wrong idea. But hey, you kiiiiind of only went to prison cuz we bailed on you, and I mean, Felix probably would’ve fucking killed you if you’d said no to helping him out, and you didn’t hand over the weapon that’d let them kill an entire planet.” He shrugs. “That counts for like, something.”

“Come on,” Carolina says. “The others are waiting for us.”

“Bet Caboose is going to love this,” Tucker says. “C’mon, Washington.”

He turns away from Wash, and keeps walking, out of the tunnel, leaving his back completely exposed.

Wash stares after him a moment, completely thrown off balance by all of this.

But, tentatively, he puts one foot in front of the other, and moves out of the tunnel, following Tucker and Carolina into the harsh, blinding light of day.  

[tuckertales]

(via How to Overcome Writer's Block | Tucker Tales Writing Blog)

Some people don’t believe writer’s block is a real thing. Others think it is a serious ailment. I believe that writer’s block is all in your head (but that doesn’t mean it isn’t real). Writer’s block is a narrowing of focus, it is too much of one thing, or too much of forcing the creative brain to the point that you have tunnel vision. I believe that it is something that one can overcome with some creative exercises to get the juices flowing again. So lets get FLOWIN’!

Write Something You Don’t Care About

To cure writer’s block or to keep myself writing even when I’m between projects, I will use daily writing prompts. I will find one that piques my interest and just write. It’s not turning into a novel or script, no one is ever going to see it, I’m not invested in it, and so I feel free to write. And, whether it’s terrible or actually kinda good, at least I WROTE. And just doing that can be helpful. It can get you back into the flow you need to work on your project and just write and not worry about the good or the bad.

Stop Writing and Just Think

Now, some of you may think that this is the opposite of helpful. “I’ve already stopped writing, that’s the problem!” Okay, calm down for a minute and listen. Sometimes, sitting down at your notebook or computer, pounding your head for ideas can be the absolute worst way to come up with them. You’re not allowing your brain the freedom to be creative.

When I’m having trouble thinking of ideas or solving a problem in my story, I take note to keep it on my mind all day. So, when I’m walking through the mall, when I’m driving to work, when I’m in the shower, I am thinking about it and ideas will often come. But, if they don’t, don’t get angry with yourself. The creative mind thrives with curiosity and freedom to roam. If you’re stuck at a specific part in your story, think about the possible character motivations, think about all the different possibilities of that scene. Giving yourself relaxed, prolonged, and genuinely curious time to mull over your story can produce the most sincere and exciting ideas.

Brainstorm with a Buddy

When I get stuck, the first person I turn to is T.S. Rather (T). She’s been my writing buddy for years and she can almost always help me untangle my problems. Like I said, I believe that writer’s block is similar to tunnel vision, and when you’ve got tunnel vision, it helps to get another perspective. More times than I can count, I’ve come to T with a problem and she’s immediately given me a solution that was so obvious I couldn’t believe I hadn’t thought of it myself. Hence my tunnel vision. And, even if her solution isn’t the exact right one, it opens my mind to the possibilities and helps me get thinking again with a fresh perspective.

So, what if your buddy doesn’t immediately give you the answer? That’s totally fine and absolutely normal. They can still help you get thinking outside of the box which is really what needs to be done

Research Instead

Sometimes when I find myself stuck, researching can really help for one of two reasons. 1. The reason I’m stuck is because I am missing facts, pieces of plot, or character info. 2. Researching can get me excited and get my brain working in a different way which refreshes me enough to begin writing again.

When I say research, I don’t only mean research. Sure, you could look into how exactly a CAT scan works or how long it would take someone to die from a gunshot to the gut. But I am also talking about any information that is in the background of your story. Which includes character history, character names, world building, culture, story planning, relationship building, etc etc. I could go on forever.

      Missing Pieces

As I mentioned above, one reason that you could be struggling with writer’s block is because you are missing fundamental knowledge that you need to move forward confidently in your story. And so, perhaps you need to go back to your outline or your notes and rehash them, or figure them out in greater detail. Perhaps your plot is not lining up as you thought it would now that you are fleshing it out.

You could also be struggling with character’s that are lacking motivation. So, now you feel like you’re just meandering through a story that has lost its tension and drive. Go back to your characters and give them goals, solidify their backstory, put more obstacles and/or goal building scenes in their way.

Or, you could just be missing actual research knowledge, and so then you’re writing about something that you’re not sure about. Take the time to research that subject so that you can continue writing confidently.

      Change of Scenery

Sometimes I just need a breather, a change of pace, something different. But I still want to work on my story. So, I turn to my notes. Planning your story is never really finished, so it’s easy to go back and fill more in. Solidify some back stories, name some side characters, plan your ending more in depth, fact check. If you’re world building there is SO so much that you can work with that, perhaps, may never even make it into your finished product but can be very fun and refreshing to work on. Just beware of info dumping. You don’t want to create all of this background stuff and then feel the need to dump it all in your story even where it doesn’t fit.

Music

I’ll be honest, using music is not my thing, but I know that it can be helpful to lots of people! Music in general could give you the energy or motivation to write or think about your writing. What I’ve heard most often is to use video game music. It is meant to ‘encourage focus’ and ‘keep you engaged’ and so can be really useful for writing. I’ve also heard of people creating playlists for certain characters, scene types, or genres that they’re working on.

T just recently suggested some non-lyrical music for me to try out. Lyrics are what distract me. I have a hard time thinking when words from the song are pounding into my head. She suggested Two Steps from Hell and Ludovico Einaudi. I’m excited to give it a try as a new exercise in writing.

Switch Mediums

Sometimes it can be as simple as changing up your process a bit. Have you been writing on paper? Try writing on your computer. Are you used to typing? Then try handwriting for a while. Exercise your brain a little, get a taste of something new. Sometimes a simple change can make all the difference.

Do You Really Have Writer’s Block?

Perhaps I should have asked this question first, but I trust that you guys can tell if it’s really writer’s block or not. But, I had to cover this possible pitfall. Sometimes, I find that I have the hardest time just making myself sit down and write. But, if I just do it, I can write fine. It’s not writer’s block, it’s literally just me not writing.

There are so many distractions. Writing is hard. TV is tempting. I get it. But, don’t fail to move forward on your project under the guise of writer’s block just because it is easier. Writing is rewarding. And, no matter how much pain it has caused you, you know you love it So, write on!

As always, feel free to subscribe or follow me on social media for updates on new posts! And take a gander at my ‘Services‘ page for prices on my editing services!

[dannyphantomrpg]

Analysis: Ten Years Later

So, I’ve been thinking a lot about the Ten Years Later videos lately, and this analysis post just sort of happened~

To be fair, I did need to work it all out since I mildly referenced it in my Foley Fest drabble.

If I get any comic book info wrong, I'm so sorry. I don't know anything about Marvel aside what my husband knows about the 90's Spiderman cartoon.

Let's start off with Sam and Tucker, cause honestly? There's not much to go over with them.

Sam is sort of basic. Sort of dull. Butch says "leather" trench, but it's most likely pleather, or something more animal-friendly. Even (especially) ten years later, I don't see Sam giving up the good fight.

Her crop top, tho, seems to be a constant. I don't know if that's really her aesthetic, or if Butch just thinks all women like to show off their stomachs. Either way, the DP logo is something Sam would definitely sport.

Something I wanted to point out: in her first TYL sketch, Butch compares her to Black Widow. A quick Wiki skim later gives a bit more depth to the comic book ignorant like me. Black Widow's origin story is that of an orphan child being raised by the Russian government as a sort of Anti-Capitan America. She met up with Tony Stark by trying to assassinate someone in his company.

Sort of interesting to compare Sam with Black Widow, and then give her all those huge anti-ghost guns, hm~?

Tucker, I have a few issues with. Not his design (aside how he only got one sketch and then his final design - show your own characters some love, Butch!), but how Butch talks about him.

Specifically, that he's running for president. Quoting from Wikipedia:

“Article Two, Section 1 of the United States Constitution sets forth the eligibility requirements for serving as President of the United States:

   No person except a natural born Citizen, or a Citizen of the United States, at the time of the Adoption of this Constitution, shall be eligible to the Office of President; neither shall any person be eligible to that Office who shall not have attained to the Age of thirty five Years, and been fourteen Years a Resident within the United States.”

Tucker would only be twenty-four in TYL. He's still got 11 years to go before he can even think about running for president. So, like...

What happened to that little bit of legality?

Also of note, Tucker is the only redesign without the DP logo. Most likely, this is because he was the first and therefore before Butch had the idea, but he did give the majority of Sam's the logo.

Moving right along, we get into the meat of TYL. The Fentons.

A moment of silence for my baby Jazz.

How did "I want to go into psychology to help troubled teens" turn into "I'm essentially Tucker now"? Yes, she's the only one we've seen use the Fenton Peeler, but that doesn't really equate to getting "into the tech side of things."

Even in her sketch of just being in a jumpsuit with a "Maddie" haircut, Butch specifically gives her a piece of technology. He has her in a lab, leaning against a circuitry panel. Not a book in sight - not even one on ghost hunting!

And her final design? Oh, my sweet, smart child. There's just something so inhuman and terrifying about this image. Physically wired into Fenton Works? She "helps run all the gadgets"? She has control over traffic lights and automatic doors? Somehow, I feel like Tucker being up close and personal with his iPhone would be way more helpful than Jazz in a building on the other side of the city would be.

What happens the moment she runs into Technus? Heck, just send someone in to cut the power physically and she's completely vulnerable.

I guess Jack would be happy to be half robot? I mean, it seems like half his brain would be gone, so he can probably just be programmed to be excited about it anyway. I've never really seen Jack as the kind of guy to be upset about hygiene. If anything, I see him as a really clean person (until he gets completely distracted with an invention or something).

His second sketch is the one I really prefer - older, but still Jack. He’s big and buff and still a big old teddy bear. I can see this as a man who saw his son save the world and think "I'm slapping that logo on everything to show how proud of him I am".

Jack's finalized sketch is what really gave me pause in the first place. He's missing an eye. He's missing a leg. He has a prosthetic that, according to Butch, runs on ectoplasm. And, ok, I can see that happening. For God's sake, he turned his son and college best friend into halfas on accident because he wasn't paying attention - this man is not someone you really want in a lab setting.

But that's not what happened.

According to Butch, there is a possibility that people did this. That flesh and blood humans went after the Fentons and did them personal harm simply because of their connection to Danny. Jack lost a limb because a person decided to a) take out ghost-hunting competition, or b) cause Danny some kind of psychological harm, i.e. "If we can't get to you, we can get to your family".

And Maddie?

She was first and foremost a mother. Despite all the angst and family drama this fandom produces, Maddie loves her son above anything else. I feel, personally, if there was a choice between continuing her research and her children, she would give it all up in a heartbeat to make sure they're safe and happy.

That's all gone in her sketches.

Her very first image, she has a buzz cut, she has a huge weapon that's creating some sort of unmerciful death-ray, her goggles are down and she means business. There's nothing matronly about her in that image, no remnants of the mother that would look fondly on her son. No, she's murdering the F out of some ghost and does not care.

Again, in he second sketch, her hair is cut off and the goggles are down. There is something out there and she is going to destroy it. There is something out there that made Maddie leap "out of some sort of an airborne vehicle" with the ghost equivalent of the Little Boy and the Fat Man.

And, again, Butch is not helping.

"Well, I think maybe the Ghost Zone is in turmoil. I think that the ghosts need to live somewhere, and they’re trying to come here. So that’s why the Fentons get involved and that’s why there are so many weapons and why they’re up night and day, fighting off the ghosts."

First off - it's been established that the Ghost Zone and the Human World are connected. Anything that happens to one, will affect the other. So if the Ghost Zone has become so uninhabitable that the ghosts are coming here? How bad off is our world?

Second, Butch didn't say the ghosts were attacking. He said they wanted to live here. Yes, there are some ghost jerks out there *cough*Skulker*cough* but what about peaceful ones like Dora and Poindexter? The people of the Far Frozen? Shouldn't the Fentons know by now that not all ghosts are hostile? (Plus, this would have been an amazing use of Jazz's psychology to talk to some of these ghosts, to calm them down and learn from them.)

Maddie's final version manages to paint an even more bleak image for her. Butch mentions Mad Max and, a quick Wiki read later, that's, like, not good. Civilization is gone, lawlessness runs rampant, murder seems to be the only way to protect yourself. And Maddie is supposed to call forth that image?

Her hair is now essentially the shortest length Butch can give her without shaving her head. She's still wearing those goggles. We have yet to see this woman's eyes, she keeps them so hidden from the world. She has no guns to defend herself, only an ectoplasm-charged bat. She doesn't care about keeping her distance - oh no, she wants to be in the middle of the action.

And those BDSM ghosts? She keeps them on leashes short enough that they could touch her. She keeps them around to "help her sense other ghosts", nevermind the fact that, from what I recall, Danny is the only one with an actual ghost sense. Those ghosts look angry and not at all subdued.

And she's still wearing the DP logo. Somehow, even knowing her son is part ghost, she still has enough detachment/hatred of ghosts to demean them down to an animalistic level.

Vlad's designs are, whoo boy... Unique? Different? Each one portrays a completely different vision of the future that don't really mesh together. His first sketch is rather, uh, let's be completely honest here, Satanic. But other than that apparent dive into absolute evil, he looks more or less the same. Like no time has passed. I guess Clockwork could have yanked him out of space before too long?

By now everybody knows about the second sketch with fat!Vlad, tiger!Maddie, and perfect clone!Daniel. Heck, I knew about Daniel before I even knew there was a Ten Years Later video.

And let me just say this real quick: I love that, as soon as the words "He’s finally got himself a cloned child." were said we all, individually, came to the conclusion that: his name is Daniel Masters, he can be a spoiled jerk but isn't really evil, and he just wants someone to be friends with and play video games with. Like, I've yet to even see him in a TYL setting, he's more of a "Season 4" character.

My other thing I love about this image? Fat!Vlad. For a middle-aged man who kept in perfect shape, who fights with ghost teenagers every day, to suddenly put on weight? To me, in my experience, that means he's happy. He's found a way to be calm and relax and, yes, be settled enough to put on a few pounds. That's what happened to my husband. Before we got together she was an anxious, angry (precious) emo chick. And now she's calm, she's happy, she's adorably chubby~ (don't tell her I said this lol). Like, Vlad's so chill in this sketch that, whenever he finds out Daniel's been hanging out with Danny, he's not even mad! He's just like, "Be home by curfew, love you!" (My TYL Vlad is -absolutely- Maes Hughes. There isn't a single employee at Dalv Corp that hasn't seen a fold out wallet full of Daniel's pictures.)

(And just think, when Daniel brings home his boyfriend/girlfriend, Vlad brings out the baby book and Daniel's S/O is just like, "Why were your first steps when you were fourteen???")

Tiger!Maddie is great, if a little odd. Then again, Vlad's just living the dream of every five year old that just went to the zoo for the first time: "I wanna bring home the big kitty!"

And we get back to crazytown with the third sketch. Vlad wants to be king, what? When? Butch do you... do you know who Vlad is? You were so close with perfect clone!Daniel, and then you pull this. The only thing I can see this working as is some kind of Medieval AU with Dora and Aragon/pre-Sarcophagus Pariah Dark. Other than that, I can't see this sketch fitting in anywhere in DP.

But Vlad's final sketch returns us to the nightmare that is TYL. Vlad was abandoned in space, all human contact cut off, the only person that willingly called him a friend turned his back on him. He's probably ready to curl up and die at that point and then aliens come and kidnap him, forcing him to be a miner and then a coliseum fighter. I can't imagine the blow to his pride all that did.

I can accept that he would keep enough presence of mind to escape. Heck, I can almost believe that he would willingly keep the chain on his arm (though as less of a "reminder of where he came from" and more of a "I'm going to make these guys pay!"). But what really gets me is Butch saying, "he really, really wants to get Danny now".

That's not at all ominous. Not at all.

Like, what is that supposed to mean? I'm sure we're supposed to infer he's coming after Danny, but, would he? After all that time alone, after being broken down by some crazy Criminal Minds aliens? I'm sure that, in all that time Vlad was captured, he must have let it slip that he wasn't the only halfa. That this boy on Earth was more powerful that he had been in his prime. Could he be coming to warn Danny? Maybe the reason he escaped was because the aliens have their eye on a new "champion"?

Danielle is absolutely precious to me. My sweet little girl who only wants to live her own life. I love that her first sketch gives her a bit more of the Vlad influence (especially since I headcanon that she has his fire core and not Danny's ice core). The opposing black and white outfit, though, just looks like a bad Harley Quinn to me.

The second sketch is kind of cutsie, kind of bleh. There's something about Butch's femme designs that just... don't really hit the mark.

I'm adoring her third sketch. The overall feel of "ghost" really comes through with this design (and she finally has matching boots and gloves) and it feels really right with her. I've always loved the idea that she's more ghost than human, and this images hits it just right.

Her final design is ok. We go back to the alternating colors, which I don't like, but she also looks more like Danny, which I do like. Butch says she "likes to party" which I can kind of see. She's full of spunk, she has an adventurous side, she'd love to go out and see everything and get involved with as much as she can. The fact that she can shape ectoplasm into words seems like something she'd be into. Just imagine her floating outside of Vlad's window, cussing him out with floaty green writing.

Now, we finally get to Danny. His first sketch isn't too bad. He has a dedicated place for the Thermos - good idea on his part. A little simple, little plain. Loving the cargo pants, tho.

His second design looks a little more like a plain upgrade form his usual hazmat, but with more armor. Makes me think Sam and Tucker went to a sporting goods store and slapped all the knee/elbow pads they could on him to keep him from hurting himself so much.

I like the idea of the third design. When he embraces his ghost side, he gets more Dan-like qualities. I think something like this would take him a while to adjust to, but he would be better for it. This design feels like it would be the strongest one - delving into his ghost half and pulling power from it instead of fighting to keep it balanced with his human half.

Danny's final design, however, make me think. His hazmat has been replaced, or most likely upgraded, to include more Fenton gadgets - specifically trading the Thermos for a Glove. But the Glove, instead of just being a catch/release system, actually uses the caught ghost to power his suit. The green isn't just for design, it's the power he's taken from other ghosts he's captured. Does this mean he's just taking whatever the captured ghost's power is (like weather-control, or even power over boxes)? Or is it like the rest of Fenton tech where he's actually taking the ectoplasm from the captured ghost to power himself? How much is that hurting the other ghost?

As strong as Danny is, as strong as he keeps getting, why does he need to power a suit to keep fighting?

I've been thinking about this final design, thinking about the designs for all the other characters, especially the Fentons. I thought about how Danny would fight until his last breath to protect Amity Park, and, like...

Did he?

Did Danny die at some point prior to Ten Years Later?

Only once is Danny referred to as Danny Fenton, and that's during the sketch for Jack's original design. He's not even called Fenton in his own redesigns. He's had several sketches, but all of them were for Phantom. Heck, Vlad got a human drawing, even if it wasn't for his final design.

And the more I think about it, the more it seems to make sense.

Jazz gave up on psychology when her little brother died. She probably became depressed and couldn't leave the house. Wiring herself into Fenton Works seemed like the next logical step - at least this way she could help without having to face his friends who could go on without him.

Jack was probably grieving when he was attacked. He lost his son, his eye, and his leg.

Without having to reconcile her son's humanity with his ghostlyness, Maddie was free to revert back to a lifetime of thinking that all ghosts were nonsentient. She probably didn't get enough of a chance to being to change her views permanently, so she sees nothing wrong with how she's treating the leashed ghosts.

And Danny himself would even have an excuse for his suit. I've seen in the fandom that the reason Danny is such a strong ghost is because he's young, and he's still growing. That the more he ages, the stronger he becomes. When Danny died, he would have stopped growing in power. Heck, he might have even started -losing- power, and trying to revert to how strong he was when he first "died" in the accident. Having a suit that runs on other ghosts, using their power to replace his own, would actually make sense, especially if Maddie helped make it.

[scientifically-strange]

How about some insane af Danny (in a Dan way) and how the Avengers realize they can't do anything against him?

There wasn’t a specific point you could pin down and analyze. Danny going…Dark had been a buildup of several, countless things. Although, it was sooner or later bound to happen to the twenty-five year old.

First it started out with the nightmares. Both from the ghost fighting, villain fighting, and from when he first got his powers. Then it was probably when he was almost seventeen and his parents turned on him once they found out he was half ghost. Of course, he was already a part-time member of the Avengers, so he had somewhere to go. But home wasn’t it.

Tucker had been killed in the field. Stabbed by Taskmaster, and by the time they had gotten him to a hospital it was already too late. Danny had been 18.

Next was Sam, his beloved girlfriend and hopefully future wife. He will never get tat chance ever again. Nobody knew him like Sam had, and now that she was gone, he started to get irritable, defensive, reclusive. She had drowned at Niagara Falls while they were saving the world with the Fantastic Four. Danny hadn’t spoken to them since. He had been twenty years old.

Then, of all the people he thought were most protected, the one person who could never die on him…Had.

Jazz had made something of herself. She was one of the world’s top psychologists at the young age of twenty-nine, and was world famous. On top of that she helped him get through his PTSD and self-guilt while also occasionally helping from the sidelines. Then Vlad had shown up…

It was probably an accident, Danny knew. Vlad had never tried to murder Jazz. But he had gotten more ruthless through the years, and his slow mental decline sped up when Jazz uttered her last words in his arms.

After that, Vlad was nowhere to be seen. Plasmius or Masters.

Danny had made sure of it.

The Avengers , his friends, had tried helping, but they couldn’t. Not really. And when Danny realized that, he became unhinged.

Probably permanently.

He started killing the villains. First it was the Red Skull, who had been just as surprised as the rest of the world, who, at first, had considered it a win. No more Nazis to deal with. Then it was Taskmaster. Partly for Tucker, partly because it made him feel good inside. Watching his skull be crushed beneath his foot had been to satisfying. And when he possessed Loki and choked himself to death? Priceless. Danny hadn’t had that much fun in years.

A part of him kept expecting the Avengers or Clockwork to stop him, but Clockwork stayed in the Zone, and the Avengers couldn’t even touch him.

When the Thing got in his way, he turned the boulder-like man to pebbles.

Several heroes tried and failed to take Danny down. But the ghost boy was seven feet tall and made of solid muscle. Even his parents came out of their hiding spots in Amity and tried taking a shot at him. Killing them had been a weight off of his shoulders. Like a type of closure.

He was confused why people thought they could take over the world when they were this weak. Many of them couldn’t even take over New York. It took Danny maybe five minutes and his biggest Ghostly Wail ever to make the city crumple.

Dr. Doom had found him, ad had tried a partnership, but it quickly ended when Danny half drowned him before snapping his neck.

He didn’t know when his eyes turned red, but he thought he looked better like that anyway.

“There’s gotta be some way we can take him down,” Clint said. They were in an underground hideout they had never told Danny about. It was him, Cap, Iron Man, Natasha, Nick Fury, Johnny Storm, and a couple of Defenders, and about a quarter of the X-Men. Thor was in Asgard getting together an army as they spoke. But while they were too busy trying to make a plan, Phantom-a name the whole world had learned to fear-was taking down the Russian Empire.

“We weaken him and send in Thor’s army. Then, when he’s distracted, we go in for the killing blow,” Fury stated.

“Wait, what?” Spider-Man sounded appalled. “We can’t just kill him! He used to be our friend! Maybe we should try helping him instead!”

“Was he your friend when he dropped a building on your aunt?” Logan snapped. “Or when he turned Ben into a crappy pile of rocks? Or how about when he murdered the Hulk in cold blood? He was friends with Big Green too. Parker-he’s not our friend anymore. He’s a cold blooded killer that needs to be taken down, and the only way to do that is if he dies.”

“But he’s already half-dead,” Natasha stated. “What about his Fenton Thermos?”

“Too weak to hold him. He’ll break through within minutes, and that’s if we’re lucky,” Iron Man replied. “And none of the ghosts will help us, they’re all to afraid of him. Except for maybe Clockwork, but he’s not allowed to get involved.”

“I find that I can break a few rules if it means sparring humanity.”

They all whirled around at the ghost who had appeared before them, his purple cloak billowing behind him despite the lack of a draft.

“And we’re just supposed to site here and trust whatever you have to say?” Luke Cage said defensively.

“I understand your concern. But he’s a sort of pupil of mine, therefore he is my responsibility. I should have gotten involved sooner. However, ever since he wiped out the Observants I am free to roam as I please. Gather your armies. We will meet him in Denver tomorrow.”

“How do you know?” Beast asked.

“I’m the Master of Time. I see everything.”

——–

Thor was there, and so were the Warriors Three and Lady Sif, the most fiercest warriors in Asgard. Along with the Asgardians came Frost Giants and dwarves, all equipped for battle. On top of that, every hero left alive through the carnage that Phantom had caused was standing along side them, ready to take down their former friend.

They were ready.

———-

At the end of it all, a good portion of them hadn’t made it. Several Asgardians and Frost Giants had lost their lives. The Fantastic Four and Defenders were no more, and there was only a handful of X-Men left. The Avengers had lost quite a few, but had the largest remaining super-group. Iron Man, Cap, Thor, Vision, and Dr. Strange were among the very few that were left.

Danny Phantom’s still body laid in the middle of the crater. His eyes were closed, and he was no longer breathing. Clockwork had assured them that he was dead, and he would stay dead. He had already surpassed his full ghost form, and now he was ended.

All of the heroes watched as two white rings split at his waist and engulfed him in the light, until it was just Danny. He had the same black hair, but now there was a white stripe down the middle. He was wearing his favorite hoodie that Sam had given him, and a pair of dirty jeans and old sneakers. He looked at peace. But also like he died to young.

Every single hero standing around the crater had seen themselves and their colleagues going out in a blaze of glory. Not in a spiel of incurable madness that could only be stopped by death.

Clockwork floated into the crater gently, his head hanging. He slowly, but carefully, picked Danny up bridal style and floated back up. Iron Man didn’t say anything, but the ghost’s tears didn’t escape his attention. It must have been hard on Clockwork the most. After all, he had known Danny the longest, had helped him guide through the right and wrong.

Only to give the killing blow.

“I can help rebuild your cities, but I cannot being back the lives that were lost. I can only hope that, with time, they will return to you on the astral plane.”

And just like that, Clockwork and Danny were gone.

------

Okay but high key I had to stop halfway through because I got to emotional. The next one won’t be as depressing though, I promise!

[demi-dufresne]

they were the worst soulmates ever. of all time.

THEY WERE WAS THE WORST SOULMATES EVER. OF ALL TIME.

A Wash-centric story for the “Worst __ Ever” or “Soulmates” square of the @rvbficwars  blue team bingo! In which Washington puts the “shit” in relationshit. 

Soulmate marks were never something Wash really put that much thought into. Sure, there was one very obviously on his wrist, something he didn’t take that much pride in. He didn’t really care, either. But after society sort of rejected the idea of soulmates, before Wash was even born, it was custom to keep them hidden at all times. And for Wash, that meant long sleeves and long nights trying to figure out how to work makeup.

The first time anyone said anything about his mark, he was somewhere around fourteen. That was the first time he found himself sitting on Church’s floor, a box full of Carolina’s skin-toned products sitting in between them.

“If you think I understand how to do this, you’ve come to the wrong person,” Church grumbled. “Just because I have a sister doesn’t mean I know how this works. Don’t you have a sister, anyways?” He had his arms crossed, and somewhat of a scowl danced across his face.

“Please, man? I didn’t really get that anything was wrong with it until my teacher said something. My teacher, for crying out loud. Like, I’m sorry, is it really his job to be focusing on that?” Wash said. He was looking down at the concealer like it was some sort of dangerous explosive, just waiting to blow up and take him with it.

“Welcome to the world of dress code, dipshit,” Church said. His arms were crossed against his chest, and his socks were pulled up mid-calf. Those socks drove Wash crazy. Almost as crazy as the stupid soulmate marks. 

“Like, why aren’t they allowed to be shown anyways?” He muttered. He picked up a tube that read “BB Cream” in a large font on the front. He held it up to the light, confused.

“You know very well why. People wanted to have their own option of free choice who they got with, not to have it pushed on them by some gods or whatever. Just follow the rules, it’s not like it would kill you,” Church said. Wash sighed. He unscrewed the lid of the cream, pushing a little out onto his wrist.

“Do you just like, spread it around?” Wash questioned, moving the cream liquid around with his other hand.

“What are you asking me for?” Church said. “You should ask your sister. Or mine. No promises she’d answer, though.” Wash rubbed his skin, watching the color of his mark fade.

Washington’s soulmate mark was, unfortunately, a very dark color. It was something of a dark blue-green (teal?) ink, carved into a two-pronged key. It almost looked like a sword. It wasn’t going away.

“I think I’m going to have to ask someone else about this,” he grumbled. “This stuff doesn’t even cover up my freckles.”  He was holding his wrist away from Church, making so that he couldn't see it. Church was politely (for once,) diverting his vision.

“Why don’t you ask CT, maybe she’ll know,” Church suggested, leaning back against the nearest wall.

“Nah, Connie’s mark is right behind her ear. She keeps half her head shaved and everything just so people can see it. You know how Connie is,” Wash said.

“She’s your sister, Wash. Cut her some slack.”

“Yeah, whatever,” he said. He looked up at the analog clock on Church’s wall. “I should probably get going anyway. Dad’ll kill me if I’m home late.”

“Trust me Wash, your dad is lax. Mess with mine and he’d cut you, I promise,” Church said. “See you tomorrow, asshat.”

“Yeah, yeah. Bye, Church.” And he went home uneventfully. That’s how Wash’s life typically was- uneventful.

The second time he found himself in that position was three years later. But that’s beside the point.

Wash was sixteen now, and he had gotten the whole makeup thing down. Add a little pink for color correction, work in the concealer he bought at CVS specifically for covering up soulmate marks, blending with a blending brush. It helped that the weird boy who always wore pink t-shirts was willing to point out when his blending was flawed, even if he was a bit annoying. But sure. Wash was finally feeling the level of comfort required to go outside in tank tops and sleeveless shirts. About time, too, considering Summer was finally approaching.

He was wearing something of a gray and yellow tank-top, cargo shorts down to his knees. When he stepped outside and felt the breeze on his shoulders it was like he was an entirely new person.

The funny thing about soulmate marks was that they didn’t have to be in the same place as your soulmate’s. So long as you had that same pattern on your skin, the world knew that the two of you were destined to be. Or at least, it did before the people decided to start hiding them.

Little did Wash know how much that would be affecting him.

“Hey, asshole!” Someone called. Wash raised an eyebrow. Who-

Lavernius Tucker was sitting at the end of his driveway, riding some stupid teal and black bicycle that Wash knew he definitely stole. He had that same cocky grin on that he always did, and his thick dreadlocks were tumbling down his shoulders.

“You’re not wearing a helmet,” Wash pointed out, taking couple steps towards Tucker. The two of them weren’t really friends, per se, but they had something figured out. Whatever it may be.

“And you’re not wearing a jacket! Whoa! I’ve never seen those shoulders! What is this, some parallel universe?” Tucker joked.

“Shut up. I just felt like enjoying the weather today, that is all,” Wash deadpanned. “Why are you even here, Tucker?”

“Just felt like stopping by. Besides, I got this sick ride here,” Tucker said, gesturing to the bicycle. “I traded some kid some Pokemon cards and my old bike for it. Sucker doesn’t even know he got robbed.”

“I figured,” Wash said.

“Hey though, we could head down to the park and shoot some hoops or something. I know you have a ball in your garage, I’ve borrowed it before.”

“You did what.” “Come on, Wash, let’s go! It’ll be fun,” Tucker said with a dramatic wink. Wash rolled his eyes.

“Fine. Fine. Let me get my bike, I’ll meet you there.”

It was about twenty minutes before the two of them made it to the park, Tucker and Wash’s bikes tossed to the side with Wash’s helmet. They were sitting on the bench by the basketball court, Wash idly passing the ball between his two hands. They were quiet before Tucker spoke up.

“Hey, man. I’ve been thinking.”

“You? Thinking? That’s new,” Wash said. Tucker sent him a disgruntled look.

“Shut up. Just… Nevermind. Forget I said anything,” Tucker muttered, standing up. “Let’s just shoot some ball, okay?”

Wash raised an eyebrow. “Are you… alright, Tucker?”

“Just shoot the fucking ball, Wash,” Tucker said. Wash stood up after him, following quietly. He contemplated letting Tucker win out of pity, but decided against it. Tucker wasn’t the kind of guy to like that.

With this detailed makeup and long shirt strategy, Wash was finally starting to feel like he wasn’t that much of an outcast. People didn’t look at him funny when they saw his arms, and no one would question why he was being “indecent” or whatever. He was just Wash. And sometimes, that was all he wanted to be known for.

A year later and he was back at Church’s house. This time, though, he wasn’t there to talk makeup. He was on a date.

This was a first for Washington. He didn’t do crushes, didn’t do feelings, really. He grew up with most of his friends female and never was attracted to any of them. He just didn’t question that and figured he would when he was older. Guys dated girls. That’s how things worked.

And then he took a moment to get to know Church- to really get to know Church.

They guy wasn’t all too charming. Wasn’t all too handsome, either. But he had a jarring smile and light green eyes and was just funny enough to make Wash laugh. He was an asshole, but Wash figured that, well, so was he. And when the guy asked him to maybe grab a coffee sometime… Okay. Maybe Wash wasn’t 100% sure it was a date. But after talking to Connie and Carolina for all of ten seconds, he was smart enough to figure out it was. And he’d already said yes. What could go wrong?

So many things could go wrong.

“What do I wear. I don’t know what to wear,” he said, his closet open and half of its contents spilled out on his bed. “Tucker, this is important.”

Tucker, however, was in the middle of laughing his ass off. “Dude, you sound like a chick from a nineties movie, oh my god,” he coughed out between chuckles. Wash, though, was not laughing.

“What if he doesn’t like me. What if this isn’t meant to be a date. I’m overthinking things, Tucker, I need your help.” There was genuine concern in Wash’s voice that didn’t go undetected, but Tucker simply didn’t care.

“Just wear a damn t-shirt with a flannel or something, you’ll look fine,” Tucker said. “I know your weird fear of showing your arms to strangers.”

“Lavernius, I could really do without your teasing right now,” Wash said.

“Ooh, pulling the first name card. Low blow. Guess this means you're serious, right?” Tucker said. He straightened up then, looking at Wash with his head cocked to the side. “Just be yourself, Wash. Whoever this nameless guy is, he’d have to be stupid not to love you.”

“Shut the fuck up, Tucker,” Wash had stuttered out, but he did take a careful effort to pull out the t-shirt and gray flannel Tucker was talking about. He trusted his word.

So that's how he found himself on Churchs front porch, nervously tugging down his sleeves. “It will be alright,” he thought to himself. “He’ll see your mark and hate you and it will never be alright,” he also thought to himself. Wash needed to put some serious consideration into just stopping thinking altogether, at this point.

Unfortunately for him, it wasn't Church who opened the door. In front of him was a huge, hulking man with graying hair and glasses, staring down at him intimidatingly.

“Uh, hello sir, may I please see Leonard?” He asked, twiddling his fingers anxiously.

“You're speaking to him,” the man said, narrowing his eyes at Wash. Uh-oh. This was a test.

“Hey, dad, it’s fine, lay off the guy.” Wash felt his shoulders relax. Test avoided. That was definitely Church’s voice. “He’s sweet.”

“Is this something I could be concerned about?” His father said, turning from Wash to face Church. Wash heaved a sigh of relief.

“Nah dad, nothing to worry about. I'll be home by seven. See ya!” Church pushed himself in front of his dad’s huge form, a grin bubbling on his lips. He shut the door behind him, turning to smile at Wash. “So. The famous David Washington.”

“Well, I wouldn't say famous,” Wash said, but it was useless to deny the faint blush dusting his cheeks. Stupid pale skin, always giving away stupid feelings...

Church himself had also opted for casual attire, Wash noticed, and gave himself an opportunity to breathe. He also had on these really tall, really obnoxious light blue Nike socks, but hey. Church still looked kind of cute, in an endearing way.

“We’re headed to this one coffee shop I know, right on the corner of sixth street,” Church said. He didn't have keys in his hand, and had already started down the sidewalk. “I figured we could walk, if that was okay with you.”

“Of course, I love walking,” Wash said. The second he said it, though, he cringed a little internally. No shit he liked walking. Who the fuck doesn't enjoy general walking.

“Yeah, me too. Especially during Fall. The world’s prettier this time of year. I mean, humans are definitely killing our planet, but hey. Pretty leaves, amirite?” Church said. He was looking around, his head tilted to the sky. When Wash looked at him in this light, he had to admit he was kind of handsome. “I mean, humans are kind of asshats, but at least we invented coffee. We fuckin’ need coffee.”

Wash laughed at that. “Want me to be honest? I’ve never had coffee in my life.” Church stopped where he was walking, staring at Wash with his jaw hanging open.

“No way.”

“Way.”

“Well,” Church said, resuming walking, “I’m about to blow your mind.”

“This better be good,” Wash said with a smile. But before he knew it, he felt a hand brushing against his. He gave a quick glance at Church. The guy was looking anywhere but his eyes, pulling a face like he might start casually whistling. Wash smiled. He laced their fingers together. “What’s your favorite drink?” He said, going back to a comfortable topic.

Church chuckled nervously, looking down at his and Wash’s hands. “I-” He stopped though, his breath audibly hitching.

“What’s wrong?” Wash said. “You okay?”

“Uh, yeah, it’s just… your wrist,” Church said. In taking Church’s hand Wash had exposed the bare skin on his wrist. He hadn’t covered it, thinking that the flannel would stay down. Church had his head cocked, staring at it. For the second time they stopped walking, standing in the middle of the sidewalk.

Wash felt himself go pale. “Uh, yeah. Yeah. Sorry. I’ll cover it up if you want me to, I wasn’t expecting it to show-”

“No, it’s fine, I just-” Church said. He let go of Wash’s hand. He paused a second, thinking, before crouching down on his knees. Wash raised an eyebrow in confusion.

“You okay there, buddy?”

“Yeah, yeah, just. Look,” Church said. Slowly, carefully, he pulled down one of those obnoxious Nike socks, revealing his pale skin underneath. There, on his left ankle, was a gray and yellow two-pronged key. Wash’s eyes widened.

“So,” Wash said, bewildered. This means we’re-”

“Right. Yeah,” Church said, the same tone in his voice.

“I… I think I should go now,” Wash said, taking a step back. “I really need to leave.”

“Wait, Wash, We could-” Church said, standing up. But Wash was already on his way back, walking quickly back to his car. He needed to go.

Church stood there, one sock down and mouth hanging open, watching Washington until he was gone.

Tucker couldn’t stop laughing when he heard the story.

“So wait. Wait. You’re telling me he had the same mark as you and you just ran? You fucking dork!” Tucker said. He was once again sitting against Wash’s bed, sprawled out on the floor.

“I didn’t know what to do and I panicked,” Wash said. He, alternatively, was face down in his pillows.

“What even was the guy’s name, anyway?” Tucker said, looking up at Wash.

“Doesn’t matter,” Wash said, his voice muffled.

“Was it Prince Charming? Because you’re definitely Cinderella,” Tucker said, erupting into another series of laughs.

“He was my soulmate. I know we’re not supposed to share those but I got scared and now I’ll never get that chance again,” Wash said, rolling over to face the ceiling. “Life has become meaningless.”

“Hey man, don’t give up so quick. I mean, you’ve still got me,” Tucker said, standing up from the floor. “Or I mean, most of the time. I’m gonna go get some pizza. Wanna come with?”

Wash moaned, but turned to face Tucker anyways. “Only if you’re paying.”

Flash forward another year and Washington was bedridden. Which like, was very uncomfortable. Wash was the type of person who never wanted to sleep, nevertheless stay in bed all day. He was recovering from surgery. It was nothing too serious- he’d had his wisdom teeth removed last week. He was allergic to the medicine or something, and it was causing him to feel like hell. So much that he’d been out of school for days, and boredom was going to be the death of him. He was sick of sitting there, and if he played another round of Halo he might explode. Wash was sitting up straight in bed, eyes wide, and-- heaven forbid-- actually missing being in school.

Thank god that at three o’clock that day, his bedroom door was slammed open.

“Wash! Wash, hey, I totally just got a date!” Tucker said. He shut the door behind him, a giant grin splitting his face.

“What?” Wash said. He words were still a little muted, his face swollen.

“No okay, so like, we were walking to class and you know how all the leaves are changing color, right? Well, I made some comment about it and he told me that-”

“Wait, wait. He?” Wash said. “You too?”

“What? Man, I don’t even fucking know. If someone’s hot, they’re hot, parts be damned,” Tucker said. Wash shrugged. He didn’t expect that from the guy, but sure. Not like Wash could judge. “Anyway. We’re going to this park down by sixth street on Friday. Wish me luck, friend.”

“Friend?” Wash said, his cheeks burning from speaking.

“Dude. It’s been years. If anything, you’re my best friend. Figured you’d guess that by now,” Tucker said. “Figured you’d guess a lot of things by now.” Tucker’s eyes went down then, his smile falling from his face. “Anyway. I’ll see you soon, man.” He shut the door as he left. Washinton was left feeling very, very confused.

Tucker was back on Saturday, of course, there to report the news. Wash was still sitting in bed. His mouth was to a point where he could talk again, but he’d still get dizzy every time he stood. Even making his way to the bathroom was a struggle.

Tucker opened his bedroom door slower this time. He sat down in a chair by Wash’s bed. In all of this space, he hadn’t said a word. For Tucker, this was very bizarre.

“So?” Wash said, looking his friend (?) up and down. “How did it go?”

“Well. In fifteen minutes, he saw my mark, showed me his, started crying and we kissed. So it was an adventure,” Tucker said. Wash sat up a little more, raising an eyebrow. Tucker sounded very… tired. Washington was interested.

“So like, he had a little picnic basket with a red and white checkered cloth- something exactly like you’d see in a movie. And I have my mark on my neck, right? I was pulling my hair up and he got a view of it, I guess, and totally freaked out. So he showed my his. Makes sense, right? Well, it’s the same one,” Tucker said.

“Oh. Really?” Wash said. For some reson, the idea of Tucker seeing somebody, somebody who was his soulmate. It made Wash uncomfortable.

“But there’s more. So apparently the guy had already met someone with the same mark as his before, but it didn’t work out or whatever? And he asked me how that would work, how we’d both have the same ones. So I mean, I told him the other guy was probably dead and he started crying. Guess they went to the same school and he didn’t see the guy in over a week, I don’t know. Guess it all made sense. But you know how I get when people start crying, I don’t do emotions. So I just sort of… patted him on the back and stuff. He stopped and hugged me, and we ate some sandwiches. From there it was actually kind of good. We played some basketball. I think he let me beat him,” Tucker said. “And then we kissed. He was really good. Like, best kiss I’ve ever had. It was pretty good overall,” Tucker said.

“Then why do you seem so, like, sad about it?” Wash said. Tucker paused, looking up at him. “I mean, you’re moping around and pouting and stuff, but you’re telling me you went on this awesome date. Are you okay?”

“I’m okay. Yeah, I’m okay. I just figured my soulmate would be… someone else, you know?” Tucker was fiddling with his hands. He looked so small all of a sudden. “I don’t know. Hope you feel better soon, Wash. I’ll see you around.” Tucker stood to go.

“Tucker, wait,” Wash said. He paused then, looking back over to Wash. “Stay a while. We could put on a movie. I heard there’s a new comedy on HBO or something.” Tucker smiled at Wash, looking him up and down.

“Okay,” he said. “Okay.”

About a week later and Wash could finally walk again. And with this ability, where did he go? To a park? On a hike? To school? No, of course not. He went to a damned coffeeshop.

He was sitting at this table that was too far off the ground with a steaming hot cup of coffee in his hands. His back was to the door, and he was waiting for someone. Two someones, actually.

Tucker had decided that Wash needed to meet this mystery boy of his. Wash was a little reluctant, especially when the two of them had been out on like, two dates, but he figured he’d play the “scary dad friend” card if he needed to. Hell, it’s not like Tucker had a dad to do that. That left it Wash’s responsibility.

He took a sip of the coffee. As a person who’d never tried it before it was kind of weird, but. Wash smiled to himself. It was just coffee, black. He kind of liked it.

He heard someone ordering at the counter behind him and purposely didn’t turn to look. He wanted to appear stern and strict from this first impression. He was going to remain calm. He would be smooth.

“Wash, hey!” Tucker said, sliding into the seat across from him. Wash looked up to see his date.

With that he dropped his coffee, brown water spilling all over the table.

So much for smooth.

“W- David. You’re alive,” were the first words out of the guy’s mouth.

“What the- Church?” Wash asked. Tucker looked between the two of them, pausing.

“Right,” he said. “Well. I’m gonna go get some napkins. You guys talk.” He got up and left. Church stared quietly at Wash, eyes scrunched.

“How is this happening?” Church said. Wash shrugged, his eyebrows so high they were practically in his hairline.

“Why are you telling my best friend that you have the same mark as him? Why did you tell me that? Is this a trick you pull? Do you do this on all of your dates?” Washington asked.

“I- wh- No! I promise that’s the only mark I have!”

“The two-pronged key,” Wash finished for him.

“Right, on my ankle! And Tucker has the one on his neck and you have the one on your wrist and they’re the same damn thing!” Church said. “And it’s not like everybody secretly has the same mark, I’ve seen another guy’s before and his was like, a fucking donut or something! I don’t know!”

Right about then is when Tucker came back with the napkins. He looked between the two of them as he pressed them down into the table. “So. You guys know each other?”

“Tucker. Show me your mark,” Wash said.

“What?”

“Show me. Your mark.” Tucker looked nervously to Church, who nodded. Tucker shrugged, pulling his dreads into a high ponytail. There it was. A light blue mark, the same color of Church’s damn socks. Washington’s mouth dropped.

“I told you I wasn’t kidding,” Church said.

“Tucker. I-” Wash started, pulling up his sleeve. Tucker’s eyes widened immediately.

“Holy shit. I mean, just. Holy shit!” Tucker said. He pulled Wash into a hug then, right in the middle of the coffeeshop. He pulled away abruptly though, looking to Church. “Wait a second. So does this mean-”

“The three of us are soulmates?” Church finished, looking up at Wash. It was almost as if he wanted a conformation, proof he wasn’t crazy.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “I guess so.”

It wasn’t too hard for him to believe. It was a little weird that he was soulmates with Tucker, but thinking back on it… no, it really wasn’t. And to finally have Church back, to make up for that mistake he made over a year ago. It all made sense.

“Wait,” Tucker started. “Does this mean I could get to kiss you-” he pointed to Church “and you-” to Wash “whenever I want? Like, is this a thing?”

“Whoa, slow down,” Wash said. He paused, though. “Maybe someday. I mean. Church, would that be okay with you?”

“Dude this is literally a dream come true,” Church laughed.

And it was, for the most part. The three of them bickered on and off, more than any normal couple. And sharing a bed got a little uncomfortable, once they were older. Explaining this whole thing to their parents was a little weird, too, especially with the world’s overall take on soulmates. But if Church was honest… If Wash was honest… If Tucker was honest…

They were happy.

Even if they were the worst soulmates ever. Of all time.

[deruste]

Lord of light: Rise in the afternoon.

As one would do in my situation as soon as the rich redhead from new york said I was the son of god. Or was it a son of a god. I threw a tray the muscled surfer as the blonde with gray eyes and Jamaican goat man looked in surprise. I wish to say that I thought it was a bull right there and stormed out like a boss. What I actually must say is that I took the quickest way to the elevator and used the employee key to shut it off immediately. My hand was still shaking on the key still in the control panel. “ What the fuck!” I clapped my hands onto my face. “I threw my best job away.” I should properly chastise myself for thinking about my minual wage job and not the fact that those people were properly from a cult. And not the fun kind. I sat in the corner of the elevator trying to compose myself and figure out what the hell is going on! My hand and face were beadings with sweat and with my hands being over them it started to pooling into them. The door finally opened to the main lobby door. And while I could start talking about the gaudy Greco-roman statues and water fountain with a naked bearded man that looked suspiciously like mister...Adriano, I rather run as far away as possible from those loons. The letter popped into my mind when I said his name and the name on the letter kept rattling in my mind. Oceanus, Oceanus, God damn Oceanus. Why the hell does that name sound familiar! It clung and clanged like a loose bot in a long rusted machine. By the time the frustration stopped, I was in front of the statue of Bossman. The statue aside from some difference in features they looked exactly the same. The biggest difference were horns on the sides of his head that looked like crab claws. Maybe...no,no,no,no,no! I'm not believing those guys just because my boss looks like some statue. I looked at myself and saw the nameplate of the statue which made me anger grow. It had Oceanus engraved with some info on the gold plating. Oceanus, eldest of the Titans, father of the rivers and their nymphs. Most importantly of all the most faithful of the divines. Faithful had a marker adjustment the read “mostly” on the tail end along with “tethy forgive me”. Which sounded uncomfortably like Adriano wife Betty...tethy...betty. The more I sounded it out in my head the more they sounded similar. NO no, I'm not going down that rabbit hole. I went past the fountain and went into the kitchen to get friends help. In most case of poverty like me, no family help and no love for foster homes you learn to make backups when you're found out for running away or being an unsupervised youth in general. My backup is Aigle, I know a weird name but she is the closest thing I have to a friend along with Manual. She was in front of a stove cooking some empanadas. The scent nearly distracted me from Aigle. “Seriously one Blanco was enough to make you quit your post.” She said with a low, harsh voice. Imagine your abuela smoking a 12-pack daily while garbling several pounds of sand and you have Aegle sound and look. Very leathery skin that resembles a burlap sack bleached white with very sharp eyes that sometimes flicker like a predator. She was, as I can best describe a grandmother who fought, lived and breathed war than let herself go a bit except for her arms. She flicked her braided silver hair over her shoulder as I described the loons but didn't mention the camp or the son of a god shit because I didn't even want to think about that bit. “You know those Jesus camps on the other islands. The ones were they force people to submit to Jesus or they never leave. They gave me that vibe.” She shrugged her shoulder at my concern giving me an empanada. “ Seriously they were like PTSD ridden cultist,” I said biting down on my food. “Elio remember the Feminist conference.” I shuddered for a few seconds have Nam flashbacks to a large group of women yelling patriarchy and privilege left and right. I still hear them at night, offer one lady a free drink and suddenly you're running from the convention from a mob paying for later damages. “I don't want to but yes, But these-”  she held a hand over my face. “And then there was the congregation of those Haitian Santa Marians.” The sound of several angry priests rattles in my mind as the image of me, Aegle and Manual carrying several snakes away burned itself into my eyes again. The smell of snakes didn't leave my arms for a week. “You were the one who wanted to rescue the snakes.” She gave me an exasperated sigh. “And you verbally assaulted the priests and their faith. You told the head of the congregation that he was a bargain bin pope and his priest’s pedophiles in training. You have a tendency towards-” “Honesty and frankness,” I said earnestly chowing down on another empanada. “ being an assshole, yes.” she gingerly puts a hand on my shoulder as she pulls a fresh batch of food from the oven. “ You tend to assume the worst and then make it worse by reacting according to what you think and not what is not there.” she eyes my messy eyesight, the way my vision darted around to find something to focus on. “You took your pills for the day right?” She chided me. She inspected my face with rigorous perception and urgent worry oozing from a disapproving frown. She was close enough to me that I could count her liver spots. I give a sigh. “I didn't take the pills, they make me slower.” listening to myself it sounded whiny like a kid stomping his foot and crying while his parent was trying not to be mortified. Raised her hands to her face, cupping them in disappointment. “ What did you see?” she held my face gingerly examining my reaction quite closely, her hand felt quite cold and hard for some reason like her leathery skin became part iguana for a moment and her skin flickered green for a moment. I took a breath. “The pale Jamaican had goat legs and you had green skin for a second there.” Her face went stone face stuck in quiet contemplation. For a few seconds, her face went through a gambit of movement. First anger that made her eye go “predator stalking its prey” mode for a second, or what is more vengeful? Then it went more towards sad resignation, a sense of fear that crept into eyes darting every which way. She grabbed me with a pot of food. “What are you-?” she pulled me from the kitchen, the pot swing back and forth as burst through multiple doors. “What else did they say to you?!” Her voice was starting to crack in a panic yelling sort of way. She finally stopped running in a frenzied state and started frantically looking in all directions. After orienting myself I saw we were in the back parking lot of the Hotel, specifically the employee parking spots. It gave me some ideas as to why was Aegle dragging me here. She has no car so in all likelihood with her frenzied state, we might be “liberating” a car. It's also a bit funny that Aegle was reprimanding me for leaving my post but now she is dragging me around in the parking lot looking for a getaway vehicle and I know she is looking for one because she has settled on the “o shit,o shit” look of despair and fear. A classic face in times of crisis most popularized by small black comedians such as Chris Tucker and his upgrade Kevin Hart. “They said some bullshit about me being the son of a god!” it came out angrier than it should but I didn’t care anymore. She didn't seem to hear my words anyway, standing still and staring blankly. I saw a look of pain spike in her cheeks. “Are you-” She began to change. What do I mean by that? Ever seen in some superhero or fantasy stories where there is a shapeshifter that changed seamlessly into a new shape. Remove the seamless part and that was basically what I saw. Through painful, baneful screaming she started to burst through her own skin. Her leathery, wrinkled skin was shedding away making way for hard emerald scales that gleamed what little light that was in the parking lot. Scales popping from the worn skin like long-buried ingrown hairs minus the puss thankfully.   I got weirder when I saw what was happening below her waist. Now before you start making a mental image I'm not talking naughty sections. Trust me if I had to trade what I saw with being harassed by a flashing hobo all day I would seriously consider the merits of staring at a random man's dingleberries. Her legs began fusing quite painfully as her screaming suggested into a large snake tail slightly longer than let's say your average lady, so about 5’5 in length. It had a brown splotchy pattern like the boa snakes that are common this side of the island. Faced with this amount of excitement I took the manliest route and passed right there and then. Dreams are weird, at least that's what I'm told. Visions people have at night that might be related to what they did in the day or nothing at all. Never got it as a concept, or at all really. I didn’t know people dreamed until I left home. Before any conclusions are made I do sleep. It's just I see, feel and experience nothing when I do. Imagine endless darkness to what felt a few seconds to you but when you wake and its morning. That doesn't mean I don't get nightmares, by god do I do get nightmares. It's just that for me they happened when I was awake. Imagine little confusion at people talking about there weird dreams while you nothing or the worst nightmare. Thank you, life. As I ascribed, I simply woke from my lack of dreams. The time was early sunset as the clouds were starting to get bloody red in preparation for when they would be drenched of the black of night. I felt a crushing sensation, not enough to harm but enough to know I can’t move without something hard and rough giving me “Indian burns”. Who invented that phrase by the way? I don’t remember any story about a tribe uncomfortably burning peoples arms, trust me my tribe at least had the capacity for much worse. The discomfort was coming from my torso so I gazed downward trying to glimpse what was constricting my movement. Sure enough, a snake tail was pinning me to the corner of a pickup truck, spilling out from the drivers back window. “Oh good your up. I don't have to prop you up.” The tail receded into the driver seat. With that, I could now see that I was in the back of a pickup truck with my stuff from my apartment on the far back while I was behind the driver seat. “Ssshame, I thought you would be sssleeping the whole the trail through like when we first met.” A memory went quickly in my mind of a kindly older women letting a preteen catch a ride in her truck and her giving some pitty by buying some food for the both of them. I looked around again to get specific info on what trail we were on. The path was a very messy gravel road, they are not too uncommon in the south end of the island to some of the lesser villages, meaning...oh no. “We ain't going towards El ponce if you hadn't figured it out. There'sss a ssstop I want to take you to before we do anything elssse.” The voice was definitely Aegle but much sharper and smoother and snake lisp. She always had one but now it was overpowering. “ So how long?” I said, stealing my nerves. I don’t really want to know, I wanted to forget all this happened and wake to Aegle at my bedside saying I caught a bug the knocked me outperform I could deliver the food. I won't deny that but I also didn’t want to be left in any darkness anymore. “How long were you hiding ...this?” I could barely describe what I witness or at least recall it in a way that didn't warrant a similar response. She apparently heard me because the truck immediately stopped hard enough to send me flying if I didn't have an iron grip at the moment. “You know what, ssscrew sssecrets, ssscrew hiding at this point. You remember how to start a fire?” That seemed a bit disjointed but I obeyed seeing as it was my only option for answers. I gathered some dried sticks and leaves from the forest floor on the side of the road the side of the road. Aegle kept a close eye on me with full reptile eyes as she took the pot of empanadas from the back of the truck. Guess my clothes will smell delicious now since they had been right next to it. “Alright, the first question What are you and what am I?” Obvious questions first to anchor everything in a sense of this what normal is now. “You're a demigod, half mortal half divine. I'm a sssnake.” A bit too obvious but at least she still acted the same despite scales. “A bit too quick to lay it on me but is that a good or bad thing?” “Yessss and no”. She sighed. Aaand back to gibberish Again. “Why?” She held her head with an inquisitive hand while stirring the pot over the fire. Her feature became more youthful, my best guess is that since I witnessed was her shedding her skin in the horror film way and the natural way snake actually does. Her skin was still tanned but now inlined with green scales along the edges of her body like natural body armor. All the rest is what you expect from a snake hybrid, Snakes eye slits, flat nose, fork tongue, and fangs. I would properly be sacred if the face didn’t mostly stay the same. Kind but stern, attentive when needed but will bite your head off if you piss her off, guess that's literal now. “Demigodsss, as the name impliesss are the children of the godsss. In your case the greek onesss.” She explained. “There are other ones? Wait what about Jes-” she clasped her scaled hands over my mouth. “Sssaying the names of godsss draw their attention, that or being very attractive. In the cassse of that one.” She trailed off. “Besides the Judeo god is more metaphysssical nowadaysss.” “That explains nothing.” “Quiet! The godsss are a very … whats the word you would use for angry and horney all the time.” She stammered looking the sky with legitimate fear. I start to rattle in my mind all the greek stuff I could remember, it wasn’t much but a few things rattled.   “Bangry, so they have children with humans sometimes. How does this apply to me in any way.?” She poured the food from the pot in two small clay bowls and gave one to me. A simple soup with a few pieces of steak takes me back to when she let me travel around with her learning to survive. “ Yesss, that is the big question that I don’t know. If they wanted you for their camp they would have done that when you were younger. Then again since they just got out of combat, they may want to quickly replenish their numbersss.” She jabbed me several times in the chest. “Combat? Wait didn't that Jackson guy talks about a camp.” I Recalled, rising to my feet. “Yesss, Wait for What!.” She shot out from her seat and looked like I just said Hitler came back to life and is marching this way. “Are you sure that his name was Jackssson!” She was yelling now, nearly straight to my ear. “I think so?” I blurted out. Her snake features made it look like she was going to pounce on me and swallow me whole for mentioning that guy's name. “Oh by the light of Heliosss! A sssatyr and Jackssson, must be Underwood and the other one? Did ssshe have blond hair and grey eyesss?” She commanded. She opened her mouth and let her forked tongue waggle in the air. Yeah weird but explainable. Snakes smell by flicking their tongues in the air, it's why they flick it every few seconds. Does Not make it less weird just explainable and in this case, the more explainable bits of weirdness are welcomed. “Yeah and a redhead who likes to draw on her clothes, what's the point? Wait! You know those people!” I’m what you can call the quick-witted sort. For example, if Aigle was a monster that wanted me dead or eats me, should have done it by now so I did not have  much to fear from her. Hopefully. Another example if she knew them by name and even as a big snake monster quaked by their mention, safe to say that there either dangerous for both of us or to her. Either way unacceptable. “I have heard storiesss from the mainland of a child of the big three, the main godsss of olympusss. Of a child who fought against all The Fates could throw at him and stand still.” The surfer? Although now that I think about it. I remember the sharpness, the tension in his demeanor. He was playing the fool or perhaps was one but has done things that won't leave his mind. “Their spawn are some of the most powerful, I heard it said that he fought your father sssingle handedly and left without a scratch.”   “Not that big of an accomplishment if I don’t my father position in the divine Ma'am.” She blinked twice and starting laughing. “It’sss nice to know that you still treat fairly, even knowing what I'm truly am. Your father wasss… Remember you can tell me to stop whenever you please. I know it's overwhelming and I know how talking about your family tends to set you off.” I trembled a tiny bit, my fist rested on my four head while my other hand was covering it open palmed. I have mixed views on father and only pity for my mother. Aigle gave away he was the divine one between but I didn’t the hint. Gods don’t die. My father was also arrogant enough to be one. Only his swagger was enough to silence a room, his voice could be reading bedtime stories and be frightful, his stare made men turn to little boys in a few minutes. My mother had fear at least. She always found ways to frighten people, whether wanting to or not, whether caring or not. She did as she wanted and there's where my compliments end. “No, if this is my life now. I have no choice in the matter. Tell me everything that is useful to me.” I raise my face to match her, match her reptilian, predatory stare with my own. She slithered towards me and hugs me. The scales poking into my skin. I saw something clutched in her hands. A gleaming necklace. May surprise you but I really like gemstones, they shine and blind those who seek them and when properly maintained don't lose their luster. One of the two places I actually liked working at was a stand selling Taino necklaces. Sure they weren't actual tribal jewelry, they use more wood and lizard/turtle symbols but I could stare at them all day if I wish. I can barely explain why I like them but they do bring a simile to my face. Aigle let me go and held the necklace in front of my eyes. “Thisss isss my gift to you, a form of protection from certain ...dangerousss elementsss thought I am aware of your opinion on cryssstal healing.” I shrugged. “Honestly with everything that happened I believe Superman is properly in the bushes waiting for Wonder Woman to give me several years worth of birthday money.” She snickered at my comment. I still didn't really believe the crystal healing nonsense but she means well. It also looks really nice. “It's not that grandiossse but this will help keep your mind at eassse. If not that then at leassst focusssed for what comesss ahead.” She wrapped the necklace around my neck. The chain was made of lustrous gold on the right, the left of it was silver. The centerpiece, the thing that had the gems, was an inverted pyramid. “So is it just a snake thing your is that a lisp?”     “Oh that, I just wanted to know if you're paying attention. Most of my kind has but I got rid of the accent years ago to get better work.” She said matter of factly, Thought it did make sense. “ Being a demigod is very dangerous the more one knows about the more your scent becomes irresistible. Monsters hunt your kind for sport or food when they are aware of you.” “Wait for what?” I was drawing a blank the size of Texas. “Think of it this way, typically you learn you're a demigod late in childhood or at least near puberty end. You start making a magical scent when that happens. Either a satyer finds you and bring you to their camp, camp half blood or your die. Your a….” She spread her arms and let them slump making a clunk sound when the scales of her arms hit her torso. “Special case to say the least.” I start to piece together what I understand. “I'm screwed is what you're saying.” she nods. “Oh most definitely its only because your father laid claim to the island.” I listen, particularly to the last bit. Dad was frightening but taking the isle and battling someone that would a fraction of his age was disorienting. “Again I won't say his name but you will know his place in the divine totem pole. What do you know of the Titans?”

[demi-dufresne]

Halloween God

Because I’m sentimental and miss Halloween, here, have some red team loving to support my blue team pals. Grimmonns for romance in the @rvbficwars bingo!!!

Have you ever seen Mean Girls? Right. Yeah, come on, who hasn’t seen Mean Girls. Now I want you to picture that scene where Caty goes into a halloween party. Picturing it? She was all dressed up as Frankenstein's Bride, covered in gross, gory zombie makeup while everyone else was in skimpy little bunny outfits. Remember that? Now imagine Caty is an angry drunk who lashes out at everything, tackling potential boyfriends to the floor and eating all of her friends’ Oreos.

Because that’s pretty much Grif’s life right now.

“Hey, glad to see- uh. Grif?” About an hour prior to this shit going down, Tucker had opened the door, staring at the man in front of him. He was covered head to toe in bright orange armor, something that looked straight out of Halo 4. “Is that you in there, buddy?”

“Yeah, what was the giveaway?” Grif gave a grin, not that Tucker could see it.

“You’re the only one I know would show up in fucking- ugh. Whatever, just… come on in, hurry,” Tucker said, shutting the door. He himself had on a football jersey and jeans. Maybe the joke was that he’d never be caught dead in that outfit otherwise, who knows? Grif walked right into Tucker’s living room, a grin on his face.

Twenty steps in and the grin was falling.

Like, okay, he figured his costume would be a little out there. But his mom had ordered it online somewhere, he didn’t want to disappoint, and there was no way in hell he’d make himself a homemade costume. That required, like, effort.

He figured it’d be a little out there, but compared to what these other people were wearing, he was… well, he was…

A goddamn Halloween god.

Okay, so maybe Grif lacked the humility most would have. Who needs to worry if you’re standing out if you’re standing out and looking this awesome? Not even awesome, effortlessly awesome. The only thing better.

Most teens around him were wearing sports uniforms or like, fishnets and short dresses in the cases of girls. Grif was pretty sure Tucker would be having an aneurysm right now. What a loser. Grif, in his Halo Spartan Mark VI Armor was definitely the coolest dude around.

He did spot one guy dressed like Link. The dude was talking animatedly to some other guy dressed like a doctor. Grif waltzed right over to say something. If this night goes bad, at least he could get a new friend to hang with, specifically one who loves Legend of Zelda as much as he does. Becuase hey. He would definitely need to replace Tucker, that asshole. “Hey, uh, Hey!” He struggled to shout over the echoing music. “So I’m guessing you like video games?”

Link turned around, looking him up and down. The guy had bright blonde hair, and patchy scarring across the left side of his face. “I mean, duh. I am Zelda,” he said. Grif took a second.

“You mean Link.”

“Uh, no, I’m pretty sure I mean Zelda. Or Donut. Pleasure to meet you!” The dude stuck his hand out for a handshake, which Grif ignored. He took a deep breath. Why did he continue to go to Tucker’s parties? They were always a fucking disaster anyways, he didn’t know why he thought this one would be any different.

“Right, uh… I’m gonna like… use the bathroom,” Grif said. He trailed away from the guy, not really having to go. He just didn’t want to continue that conversation, thanks. He had a little dignity. And boy, did he need a drink.

Little did he know, at the other end of the house, his situation was basically being met.

“Church! Hi! Uh, why aren’t you wearing a costume?” Simmons was standing at the front door to Tucker’s house, looking Church up and down. The guy was wearing a flannel and a beanie, with a half-emptied Solo cup in his one hand, his cell phone in the other. He was swaying a little. Simmons knew better than to comment on that.

“I’m a lumberjack, dumbass. Or maybe a hipster. Or a cowboy? I still haven’t decided yet. What the fuck are you?”

“Don’t you remember? You, Caboose and Tucker came over to my house last week, right after you and Tex-”

“Don’t say her name. Don’t even,” Church said, taking another long swig from the cup. He might have downed the rest in one sip. Simmons was pretty sure some of it got stuck in his goatee, but again. Didn’t say anything.

“Right. Okay, uh, we played Halo. The video game with the aliens. Remember that?”

“Sure, whatever, man. Come in, I guess,” he said. He opened the door a little wider, the pounding of the bass and the staunch smell of alcohol reaching his nose.

“Wait. What kind of party is this? I thought we were just gonna like, hang and play board games, maybe talk about TV shows…” Simmons trailed.

“You’ve obviously never been to one of Tucker’s parties before. Come on in.” Church opened the door wider, an invitation that he wouldn’t let Simmons decline. Simmons sighed, defeated. This armor weighed a ton. He didn’t know how long he’d be able to take this place.

He stuck out like a sore thumb. God, he was so stupid. Why couldn’t he have just dressed like Church, normally, finding something to say he was later? Then again, Simmons’ wardrobe and Church’s wardrobe were a little different. He didn’t know how he’d feel showing up to this place in a polo and nice slacks, either. Ugh, this whole thing made him want to leave immediately.

The song that was playing wasn’t something he was generally opposed to, thank god. Maybe that was his saving grace- the DJ had a thing for techno renditions of video game OSTs. He lost himself among the dancefloor, bobbing his head along to the beat. Soon enough, bobbing his head devolved into shaking his body, which lead to something that, whatever it was, couldn’t be described as dancing.

“Grif, cut it out!” Tucker said, pulling Simmons by the elbow. “You look like you’re having a fucking heart attack.”

“Who’s Grif?” Simmons said.

“Haha, very funny. Look. I found someone really hot. Some friend of Church’s sister, I don’t know. I don’t want you to make a scene, got it? You’re already a mess in that fuckin’ cosplay, dude. Now like, stand by the wall or, I don’t know, just… stop doing whatever that is. Like, you’ve been to enough parties you’d think you’d know that I’m just here to get laid.”

“What?” Simmons asked. But Tucker had disappeared into the crowd. “He’s probably stoned,” Simmons reasoned to himself. Yeah. That’s probably it. He wouldn’t put it past Tucker, especially at a nutty party like this.

“Hey, Grif, have you seen Wash?” Grif, meanwhile, was standing in the kitchen, looking in Tucker’s pantries for a box of Oreos when Carolina approached him.

“Who?”

“Oh, you know, tall guy, blonde hair on top, super grumpy?” She pulled a face, mocking her friend. Grif took another sip of the drink through a straw into his helmet. It was somewhere near his fourth one. He knew he should probably stop, but that wouldn’t stop him.

“The only super grumpy guy I know here is your bro Church, and I’m pretty sure he’s drinking away his sorrows in the dining room. Sorry,” Grif said.

“Eh, no problem. I’ll just ask your girlfriend,” she said, walking off towards the living room.

“My- my girlfriend? Carolina, what?” Grif said. He followed her, curious. He left the cabinet open, search for the Oreos forgotten.

He staggered after her. Arriving in the living room, he saw her across the dancefloor, talking to someone- wait. Someone in Halo Spartan Mark VI armor… No.

His vision was dancing, and only one thought crossed his mind.

There could only be one.

“Uh, no, I don’t know a Wash. Also, who’s that Grif guy you guys keep talking about? I’m pretty sure I’m not him, and I’m definitely sure I’m not dating him,” Simmons said.

Carolina ignored his last two sentences. “Oh. Huh. You’re a boy. Well, you send Grif my love, tell him congratulations on coming out or whatever. Now I gotta find Wash before Tucker does. See ya,” Carolina sounded off. Simmons shook his head, watching as she faded into the crowd. Maybe this is why he didn’t go to parties.

“You copycat motherfucker!” Simmons could barely register what was going on when he was tackled to the ground. Nevermind. This was why he didn’t go to parties.

“Wh- Wait! Wait, help me!” He called. Some dude was on top of him, punching him in the damn gut. He was wearing- wait. He was wearing Halo Spartan Mark VI Armor.

“Simmons!” Church called. “Simmons, stop punching- yourself? What?” He paused, looking down at the situation.

“Ah-ow-owww,” Simmons whined, curling up with each punch.

“I’m the Halloween god!” Grif cried.

“Grif, stop beating up your boyfriend, that’s domestic abuse!” Carolina called in, wrenching Grif off.

“Copycat motherfucker, I’m the halloween god!” He shouted again.

“What the fuck,” Simmons said. He was suddenly glad he decided to wear this stupid armor. It got him beat up, sure, but it didn’t hurt nearly so bad as when he was only wearing a Polyester-Cotton blend polo and khakis. Trust him. He would know.

“Alright, both of you, out,” Carolina said. “I’m serious. Leave. I still need to find Wash, before- aah, who am I kidding. He’s probably sleeping with Tucker as we speak. I don’t think there’s anyone here who hasn’t slept with Tucker, that asshole.”

Church nodded solemnly.

“Anyway. No more fist fights between you lovebirds, or I’m calling the police. We clear?”

Simmons, having not even drank a single drop, nodded. “Crystal.” He grabbed the other guy- Grif- by the forearm, dragging him after him out the front door.

“Stay here. You probably just need some water, or… something. I’ll be back,” Simmons said. He walked back into the house, closing the door behind him.

Grif was fuming. He was supposed to be the coolest one there, and they kicked him out? It was all the stupid maroon guy’s fault. What was his name again? Stimpson? It’s his damn fault. All Grif’d wanted was some stupid Oreos and now he’s stuck on Tucker’s stupid doorstep while Tucker probably fucks Carolina’s stupid friend. It was all so stupid.

He checked where his pockets would be for some cigarettes, then realized that they’d have to be under his armor. That stuff took ages to take off! Grif groaned, putting his face in his hands. He was too fucking drunk for this.

“Here. Maybe this will sober you up,” Simmons said from behind him. Grif didn’t move his head from his hands. Simmons sat down next to him, offering him the cup of water.

“I’m not thirsty,” Grif muttered.

“I found some cookies to make it better,” Simmons said offhandedly.

“You- you what?” Grif said. He looked over to Simmons, who held up the blue pack of Oreos he’d been looking all over for. “Where did you find those?”

“They were on top of the fridge. It almost seemed like they were trying to hide them from you specifically. Can you even reach the top of the fridge?”

But Grif was ignoring Simmons at that point, too driven to really care. “You know what? I think you’re actually the Halloween god. I take it back, that crown goes to you.”

“Oh really? Thanks,” Simmons said. He was being genuine, too. “You like the costume? It took me hours to make it.”

“Eh, I got mine online for like, twenty bucks,” Grif said.

“What?” Simmons said. He paused, taking off his helmet to get a closer look at Grif’s.

Wow. Grif was pretty impressed. This guy was kinda hot. Not in a conventional way, really, but… something about the (almost latin?) darkness of his skin with the bright red of his hair… It was nice.

“You can see the cracks in yours. Mine’s much better, obviously. I even have the little decals on the shoulder blades, see?” Simmons said. “Red team.”

He was a dick, kinda, but he was still hot.

“Yeah, well. Fuck that. I spent no time at all on this thing. Now who’s the real winner?” Grif plucked his helmet off, reaching for the Oreos.

Simmons wasn’t blind. Nor did he have particularly good taste in dates (that thing with Jenkins… that ended poorly.) But still. The guy who just beat him up? He was undeniably pretty.

“Dude. Would you stop staring at me? I’m trying to eat my Oreos in peace, thank you.” That didn’t mean he wasn’t an asshole.

“Hey, just out of curiosity. Cookie or the cream?” Simmons said. Grif paused eating, chewing thoughtfully.

“If I had to pick, I’d say cream. But then again. What’s the cream without a cookie? They’re a cookie sandwich, Simmons. What’s one without the other?”

“That’s… a pretty good answer,” Simmons said. “I think if I had to pick, I’d go with cookie, though.”

“Of course you would, Simmons,” Grif said, picking another cookie from the box. “Of course you would.”