#but it would be flat out unkind to go try and contact someone who blocked you omg so I would not

[sunspira]

Why am I blocked by Sarah Z from youtube on Tumblr lmao what did I doooooo !!

[siennahrobek]

Initially, Obi-Wan thought that sleep would assuredly allude him.

Perhaps he underestimated the trust and affect his troops had on him and how exhausted he really was because he slept fairly soundly through the night.

He was still surrounded by troopers by the time he woke up, although he was fairly certain that there significantly less numbers of them. Although it was a bit of a challenge with position, Obi-Wan tried to meditate a little before the next disaster would inevitably occur. It was only a tad successful as he kept going back to thinking about Anakin. And right now he just…couldn’t.

Afterwards, he got dressed, complete with his old armor pieces and left the barracks to get to work.

“Greetings, Master Kenobi,” Cin Drallig nodded at him as Obi-Wan walked onto the bridge. There wasn’t many present; it was mostly a skeleton crew, but they paid him little heed. Next to the battle master stood a clone trooper from the meeting before, one of Obi-Wan’s 212th boys, Menace.

“General,” Menace welcomed.

“Master Drallig, Menace,” Obi-Wan nodded at the both of them.

“The boys and I have encrypted and encoded a way for you to get a message to the other Jedi generals that are scattered across the galaxy,” Menace explained as he pulled up a map of the galaxy, planets already highlighted. Obi-Wan presumed that was where jedi and their troops had been positioned. “As long as we know where they are stationed, we can get it to them and encode it so only a Jedi would be able to access it. We made this option just in case there are any activated chipped troopers around or natborns who are loyal to the Empire.”

“That was rather fortuitous of you,” Cin glanced at the trooper, curiously but he projected gratitude, something a little odd from the battlemaster but it was no less appreciated.

“Just precautions sir.”

“Alright, we have to figure out exactly what information we need to send to the others,” Obi-Wan said as he followed Cin and Menace down the halls which ended up being to an office. Was it his? At this point, he wasn’t really paying attention and most of the office rooms looked virtually all the same. This one had been recently packed with communications equipment and a holotable for good measure.

“The basics will be key,” Cin replied with a hum as he closed the door behind them and tied back his longer hair. “We will have to divide it up between what to do when running from activated soldiers or what to do when communications have been shut down so they can’t receive the orders to active the chips.”

“Constrain natborn officers, no communications aside from jedi, which will come up in about three days,” Obi-Wan listed.

“That is a fair chunk of time,” Menace admitted as started to open up and turn on the machinery around the room, as well as the data blockers for outside communications, just incase someone would try to butt in on the networks. “Can they avoid the Empire for that long? We don’t know which forces that the emperor has now or how quickly they will go after those they cannot get a hold of.”

“If they come across conflict, leave immediately,” Cin suggested as made his spot off to the side. “Getting too close to activated chips will active any clones they are around. But we did warn many jedi. The Empire Forces have to be fairly diminished if they understood those warnings. I can’t imagine the new government is completely on it’s feet yet.”

That was true. Even though the Republic had been slowly shifting into something less democratic over the course of the war, it was still a fairly big change, and a lot of things would have to be restructured. There was also the issue, for the Empire, of those who would fight back against its creation or not agree with it. That may buy them some time, he mused.

“But we do need to plan quick, because I’m sure it won’t be long before they are organized and mobilized enough to chase us,” Obi-Wan added, sitting down in one of the chairs next to Menace. In front of him was a little desk area. “If they haven’t realized that Kamino specifically isn’t responding because of this, they will figure it out soon.”

“How about we make a list?” Menace suggested, his gaze flickering between the two masters.

Obi-Wan nodded and his hand shuffled around the desk to find a data pad. Putting it in front of him, he grabbed a utensil and created a list.

“Alright, so first and foremost, the clones are chipped, proximity to activated chips activates others. Activation can also be verbal but only from the Sith. Block all communications available to clones,” Cin started quickly as Obi-Wan immediately wrote down the thoughts on the datapad.

“We can send Healer Che’s information on where the chips are as well, if anyone has the equipment or skills to start taking them out,” Obi-Wan added, the pencil flipping around his fingers to momentarily point at the battlemaster. They both nodded in response.

“Two; the Republic is gone, an Empire has rose. We are being hunted and killed as we are claimed to be traitors. Confine any officers loyal to the Empire until further notice,” Cin continued

“If you have inactivated clones, keep them away from conflict with others, due to the proximity thing,” Menace included, flicking on a few more nozzles and switches.

“If you are around activated clones, get away as quickly as possible, stay low or get away from them if you can,” Cin added, eyeing Menace, carefully. The clone’s presence filled up with a moment of quiet grief and disappointment.

“I’m sorry,” Obi-Wan whispered, unable to meet his eyes.

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault sir,” Menace swallowed harshly but shook his head. “We can’t save anyone yet without a real plan.”

“Contact,” Cin started up again, a little hesitant to keep going as he looked between the two. “Contact will be reestablished within a couple of days, once we get to Kamino. If you have a long range holotable, use it, but keep your comm on you. There will be a coded message to indicate if communications come from us.”

They paused.

“I think…I think those are some good basics, hopefully they can survive until then,” Obi-Wan sighed, jotting down the last of the notes.

“Battle master Drallig and I can get these coded and sent out fairly quickly,” Menace said, gently taking the datapad from Obi-Wan’s hands.

“It’s a start,” he echoed.

***

“I believe it is about time we talk,” Padme said, her face flat with one hand rested on her stomach. Her greeting was desperate and although not exactly unkind, it wasn’t very patient either. Obi-Wan glanced around and let out a silent sigh. This was not going to be a pleasant conversation. One that he didn’t particularly want to have.

He had been working with the other masters and clones to figure out where to go and what to do next for some time. He knew this conversation was coming. He was just dreading it.

Obi-Wan just swallowed and nodded in defeat as he turned to face the pregnant woman. “Alright. But I think it would be best if we would keep this conversation rather private. The 501st survivors and much of the 212thhave been following me like ghosts and they certainly don’t need to hear this.”

Padme’s expression was something of confusion, but she consented, and they found themselves in Obi-Wan’s former office. It was still technically his office, he supposed, but others had been using it since the evacuation. One could tell by all the paperwork and things that cluttered it more than it already was, the things that he knew were not his or Cody’s. He locked the door behind them and let Padme sit on the cot in the corner. He dragged a chair over to her to sit himself, although he could not find a position that was comfortable.

“I suppose we can start with what happened with Anakin,” Obi-Wan said, a bit quietly. He did not want to talk about this right now, not at all. He wasn’t ready for this; he was hardly wrapping his own head around what had happened. His heart clenched harshly in his chest, and he was sure his throat would close up. Taking a shaking deep breath, he tried to continue to speak. “What, exactly, do you already know?”

“Ahsoka called me, telling me there was an attack on the Jedi Temple,” Padme confessed, shaking her head in disbelief. “She told me that Anakin had turned to the Dark Side, that he was killing younglings and leading brainwashed clones to kill everyone.”

Her tone was incredulous and unconvinced, not that Obi-Wan could exactly blame her. He was not even sure if he believed it, and he was there. It seemed impossible. He knew Anakin struggled with some of the jedi tenants, especially that of attachment, which Obi-Wan had tried to talk to him about, to reach out. But Anakin had been closing off more and more as of late. That didn’t mean he could have ever have seen this coming.

Perhaps he should have. Was he so blind?

“That…that would be accurate,” Obi-Wan choked out but did his best to keep his voice constant and steady with as much as patience as he could lacing it.

Padme stood up suddenly but then wavered and leaned against the wall for support. He leaned forward, ready to catch her if she should fall. She steadied herself and straightened her back to stare down at him. “That is absolutely ridiculous,” she announced with such confidence even he almost believed it. “And you know it, Obi-Wan! He is your friend, and he would never do such a thing; the Jedi…”

“If you start blaming my people while we are fleeing for our lives, please refrain,” his own voice continued to be soft but there was a steel bone underlaying it, that made no room for challenge.

“Anakin would never do such a thing,” Padme repeated firmly and shook her head. He closed himself off to her in the Force, he didn’t want to know what she was feeling. He wasn’t sure if he could handle her feelings along with his own. “He has been worried and stressed but that is only because of…”

“Because of what?”

“He’s been having nightmares…” she started slowly, eyeing Obi-Wan as if that would give her some insight, some answers on what was happening. “About me, dying in childbirth.”

“Nightmares,” Obi-Wan repeated numbly. “That is what he was so worked up about? He didn’t come to me or anyone else about them. And he knows how dangerous pregnancies are in this sort of situation. He should have known to talk to the healers about it.”

He should have talked to the healers. At least doctors, someone. Generally speaking, people didn’t just die in childbirth, not on Coruscant, certainly not a prominent senator. No one would ever deny her prenatal care, no matter who the father was.

Even if the father was a jedi.

“He was probably afraid,” Padme glanced away.

It was as if Anakin didn’t know anything of the Jedi at all. The Jedi would have never turned Padme away for pregnancy care or information, Force around, the Jedi wouldn’t turn anyone away who came to their steps in need of help with pregnancy. Force sensitive or not.

“We are getting off track,” Obi-Wan shook his head with a small sigh. He ran a hand through his hair. He just wanted… honestly, he wasn’t entirely sure what he wanted. He supposed he wanted this to all be his own nightmare, one he could just wake up from. One where none of this was real. “Padme, I don’t know how to convince you of what Anakin has done,” he continued. “He led an attack to kill everyone in the Temple, he led an army of brainwashed clones. He murdered Temple Guards and younglings just trying to escape the battle. He fought mewith the intent to kill, rambling about the failings of the jedi,” Obi-Wan stressed, leaning forward. “Master Drallig said he called himself Darth Vader which let me tell you, is a Sith name. All I could feel in him was desperation and fury.”

“You’re wrong,” Padme insisted, her eyes blazing into something so passionate, it nearly hurt to look at. Her loyalty, although her perhaps commendable to an extent, was difficult to work with. Difficult when she wouldn’t believe the truth. He knew it was hard to swallow. He was still in that process. “He is good, there is good in him, of course there is. Something else must be at play.”

“Something else?” Obi-Wan asked, his own voice echoing confusion. He couldn’t imagine much else being at play, his former padawan, his brother, had intended on murdering everyone in the Temple, all those that thought he was their family. All those that thought he cared about them. He had nearly succeeded. If Cody’s chip hadn’t been activated when and where it was… Obi-Wan nearly shuddered at the prospect. He sighed and shook his head again. “I love Anakin. And even after all that he has done I still love him; I will always love him. But I am not blind to what he has become now. I was blind before, not seeing it; only seeing what I wanted to, the good person I thought he could be, the person I thought he was.”

“He is that good person,” she persisted with a sound not open for debate.

Obi-Wan was tired, even the several hours of last night’s sleep would not erase all of the time he had been awake, active, fighting for his life and the lives of those around him.

“Tell that to the younglings that he cut down in front of his former padawan,” Obi-Wan’s hand waved out in emphasis. He hated bringing Ahsoka into this but Padme cared about the young Togruta, probably nearly as much as Anakin used to as well. “Or the 501st troopers who were forced to lead an attack on the Temple, on the Jedi, against their own free will.”

The young woman just stared at him, and he knew that she didn’t believe him. He didn’t think she would ever actually believe him without seeing it for herself.

The fact that Anakin, of all people, would lead a forced brainwashed army to fight people they never would have in their right minds seemed ludicrous.

“Okay, we are at an impasse,” Obi-Wan slumped back a little in his chair. He took a commlink out of his pocket and let his fingers sweep over it, absentmindedly. “Perhaps a break from this line of conversation may be beneficial,” he said slowly, giving Padme the time to sit down on the cot once again. “I think…we need to also talk about your pregnancy,” Obi-Wan added slowly. Padme placed a hand on her belly, protectively.

“You mentioned…you mentioned I could die from this,” Padme replied slowly, her eyes meeting his in a massive flurry of concern and fear. The conversation was not over about Anakin but for now, for now what he had said would have to do. He didn’t know how much longer he could try to help her in that scenario. “So, Anakin was right, I’m going to die in childbirth.”

“It’s not that simple. There is a lot that is included,” Obi-Wan shook his head. How to explain something that he only knew the basics of? Perhaps a professional was best to be in order “Look. Let me call my friend Bant. She is a healer, and she will be able to answer most, if not all, of your questions.”

Without waiting for an answer, he sent his friend a message who near immediately contacted him back, relieved that he had found their wayward patient. Apparently, Padme was not supposed to be out of the medbay. Obi-Wan imagined they would want to monitor her, considering her pregnancy and situation. His comm beeped again.

“We’ll be there in a couple of minutes.”

Obi-Wan didn’t know who the other side of the we was but at this point, he would take all the help he could get.

Those few minutes were the most awkward ones Obi-Wan could remember.

The Mon Calamari walked in with another healer trailed in behind her and Obi-Wan could not even help the sigh of relief. At last. “Hello Obi-Wan, senator,” Bant greeted, giving them both a nod, her large dark eyes brimming with sympathy and kindness. Obi-Wan would forever be baffled and astounded at the amount of love and compassion his friend could hold. “Senator, my name is Bant. I am a healer. This is Healer Jayden; she specializes in pregnancies.”

“You have special doctors for pregnancies in the jedi?” Padme asked, a little taken back.

“Of course,” the doctor nodded as Obi-Wan got up to give them both seats. He ended up standing off a little to the side, often finding himself leaning against the wall for support. “Believe it or not, the jedi are not celibate,” she pointed out, even though Padme’s glance looked a bit skeptic. “And although it isn’t extremely common, jedi can and do get pregnant.”

“They do?” Padme echoed.

“Of course. Force Sensitivity isn’t always passed down, but it is more likely if one or more of the parents have it,” Jayden explained, her voice smooth and calm. It could not be said that Jedi didn’t know when they were supposed to be healers. He could only imagine how determined they must be in such an art. “Pregnancies involving force sensitivity in general can be quite difficult, but we should really talk about your case specifically.”

“Is it…different?”

“I have been briefed on a few things,” Healer Jayden said, giving Bant a quick glance as if for confirmation. Obi-Wan wondered how much she had been told about the situation, about the father. “The father of your children is former Jedi Knight Anakin Skywalker, is it not?”

“Current Jedi Knight,” Padme corrected, her voice laced with bitter undertones and eyes narrowed. Something she had picked up from Anakin, he supposed. “Unless the Jedi have kicked him out for loving someone.”

“The Jedi do not typically, kick people out,” Bant continued, her voice just as relaxed and mellow. She was taking this very well. Obi-Wan nearly felt like shaking Anakin or someonewho should know better for all the things misinterpreted, deliberately or otherwise. “Not for loving anyone or getting people pregnant.”

“Yes,” Padme confirmed, her voice subdued. “He is the father.”

“Alright. So, the father has an incredibly high number of midiclorians in his body, which is how one can determine how force sensitive an individual is. He is a very high number, more than anyone else and is very, very strong in the Force,” Jayden explained, patiently. She spoke in chunks, probably to better allow Padme to follow what she was saying.

“What does that mean for the baby? That it will be force-sensitive?”

The healer nodded but her expression was a bit grave. “In your case, certainly. Because if they hadn’t, you would probably be dead already.”

And… Obi-Wan hadn’t expected her to be so blunt. Padme stared wide-eyed.

“Skywalker is so strong in the Force that it is killing you, not to mention the darkness that is practically permeating you,” the healer continued and although Obi-Wan could feel a tad of concern with it, she did not show it outright, rather keeping a cool presence of security. “The only reason that you are still alive and as strong as you are, currently, is because the two babies inside of you are also extremely force-sensitive and are keeping you alive. It is…very complex and seems a bit paradoxical, and difficult to explain when it comes to the specifics, as well as the ins and outs of what is happening in your body.”

“So, I will not survive this birth,” Padme realized.

“The odds are not fantastic,” Jayden replied truthfully with a small frown. “But the only way you can survive is with a Jedi Healer’s help. If you stayed on the planet, you would not have survived the birth and I doubt anyone would have understood why. But we can and we will help you, Padme,” she said, taking the woman’s hand gently, curling her partially translucent fingers around the younger senator’s. “You can trust us that we will do everything in our power to make sure that you survive to see your children grow up.”

“What are the odds?” Padme whispered, staring at her hands.

“It is difficult to say,” Jayden admitted, candidly. “We’ve never had a child from someone as powerful as Skywalker before. Best case scenario you will be out of commission, maybe even comatose, for some time while your body regenerates its strength.”

If it can, went unspoken.

With her free hand, Padme brought it up to cover her mouth, letting out a shaky breath, tears starting to slip down her cheeks.

“I think you could use some rest, senator,” Bant advised, speaking up for the first time. Although Healer Jayden did most of the talking, Obi-Wan was still grateful for his friend’s presence. “I think we have a small room near the medical bay that we can use for you,” she added and glanced at Obi-Wan. “Would you mind getting her there?”

He didn’t think, just nodded. With a second thought, he didn’t really want to, he didn’t want to talk with her right now. He was just so tired and there was much to do but he knew it was right. Walking over, he helped Padme up and walked her out of the door. He led her through the halls towards the medical bay, appreciative for the silence.

He didn’t need an argument right now.

As they got to the small room, he unlocked and opened the door. “I will have some of my handmaidens come and bring things from the ship,” she whispered.

He hadn’t realized that she had brought anyone. Oh, he hoped she hadn’t brought Jar Jar. He didn’t mind the Gungan, almost liked him really, but he had a tendency to get into trouble and that was the last thing they needed.

He was about to leave when she pulled him back to look at her. “There is good in Anakin, Obi-Wan,” she announced, although her voice stayed rather quiet, just firm. “You must see it. And I will prove it to you,” her tone reflected her eyes, something fiery and passionate.

This was always going to be a tragedy, he realized suddenly.

There was very little he could say to that. He didn’t believe her but then again, he was trying hard not to think of Anakin right now. His thoughts were dominated with the survival of his people, both jedi and clone.

He had to put them first.

“Okay,” he croaked.

And then whisked himself away as quickly as he could without making it seem like he was literally running from her.

He was entirely exhausted.

The talk with Padme had last longer than he had anticipated and honestly, all he wanted was to sleep. Could he though? How much was there left to do? Then again, at this point, he wasn’t sure if there was anything specifically, he could do, aside from perhaps trying to research? Maybe?

His brain just felt full. He wasn’t entirely sure if he would be of any help.

“There you are sir,” the familiar voice and tonal individuality of Boil registered to Obi-Wan’s ears nearly a beat too late. He turned to see the clone walking up to him, a small youngling on arm.

Waxer was the one who was outspoken about loving little ones but anyone who knew anything about Boil knew he loved being around them just as much.

The thought made Obi-Wan smile and his chest warm.

Presence of people that he cared about, that perhaps cared about him, ones that he didn’t constantly have to fight tooth and nail with, were something of a relief. Just a presence to fall into that wasn’t consistently looking for lies or secrets or to tear his head off.

“How are you, Boil?” he asked, trying for a smile.

It must not have worked very well because the clone gave him an odd glance but, in the end, he just shrugged. “I’m alright, just taking this young’in to the modified creche,” he explained, gesturing to the young jedi child on his hip. “He accidently got lost and I’m bringing him back before my allotted hours of sleep.”

“Allotted hours?”

How late was it?

“Sir, it’s quite late,” Boil pointed out, answering his unasked question for him, and gesturing lightly for the general to follow. He did so without pause or thought. It was interesting, he believed, how easily and unthinkingly he would follow them. Perhaps it was foolishness but perhaps it was just trust and faith. He was in a rather short supply of that these past few days. “The daytime officers and workers are getting ready for sleep. The Jedi are hunkering down in the creche places and barracks along with the children and troopers. I never realized how cuddly Jedi could be when they sleep together,” he added with a bit of a half laugh.

The child laughed alongside with him, although a bit louder and fuller.

“We slept in piles a lot,” Obi-Wan replied.

“We like to do that too,” Boil shrugged to keep a hold on the little one hanging from him. “It’s good that your sleeping arrangements are around the men, it’s good for morale, especially at a time like this. Everyone is a little freaked out, I think it helps there is someone they can trust around during those times.”

Obi-Wan narrowed his eyes. Who taught Boil manipulation tactics?

He paused, nearly tripping at the realization.

Oh right. Hedid.

Accidently, of course. It wasn’t like Obi-Wan was giving lectures or classes on how to manipulate or negotiate yourself out of situations. But still, his behavior would be seeming to be biting him in the butt now, as his troopers were now using it against him.

Part of him almost felt impressed.

“Right,” Obi-Wan muttered.

The child hanging off of Boil, giggled knowingly. As the two of them dropped the child off at one of the places set aside for the children, Boil offered to escort him to the barracks for sleep. Obi-Wan tried to back out of it but Boil was rather adamant and then….

And then Rex showed up.

And Obi-Wan knew he was completely was doomed.

He couldn’t say no to Rex right now, not with what his troops had gone through.

“Hello, general,” Rex greeted with a bit of a wavering smile. He was trying hard. Obi-Wan suspected he had spent most of his day with the survivors of the 501st. He knew it wasn’t pretty and they were trying very hard to make sense of what had happened to them. “People have been wondering where you have been.”

“Is that so?” Obi-Wan hummed in response.

“Yes, the 501stsurvivors have been curious to know if you are coming back tonight,” he added in, thinking himself rather sly. Survivors; wasn’t that what they all were now. Survivors of a genocide, survivors of brainwashed slavery, survivors of being unmade into a vacant body.

“As a matter of fact, Boil was just escorting me to the barracks,” Obi-Wan shot back. He kept falling into this trap, he knew it. But at least this time he would not be caught floundering like the day before. “It has been quite the day, full of… colorful conversations.”

“Oh? Who did you talk to?”

“I had to have to talk about Senator Amidala and her pregnancy.”

Obi-Wan could practically just feel Rex’s stomach drop. “You…you know about that sir?”

“I probably knew about it before you did,” he muttered under his breath. As if Anakin could keep a secret like that from him, as if Padme could. Any Jedi that came across her would have known; would have sensed her pregnancy. He, of course, was the one who knew it was Anakin’s child because honestly, who’s else could it have been. But louder, instead he tried, “Yes. I’ve known about Anakin and Padme for quite some time. It is not difficult to sense her pregnancy. I do not know why Anakin thought he was being subtle or discreet. And you, captain, well, I think you could work on your acting skills a little.”

The captain just blushed hard. “My apologies sir.”

“No worries. It hardly matters,” Obi-Wan shrugged. “But talking with her, about what we had to, was rather exhausting and I will, quite frankly, be a bit glad to get some rest before the next day comes about. Because soon, we will be at Kamino and a whole new situation will arise.”

“We don’t know how much time it will be before the Empire comes after us,” Boil realized with a deep frown.

“So, we should get as much rest as we can until then,” Obi-Wan nodded at the two of them as they neared the barracks. “Because who knows how much real rest we will get once the new conflicts arise.”

***

It was the middle of the night when he had heard it.

Obi-Wan had been stuck in the near middle of a pile once again, surrounded on all sides by mostly clone troopers, the main force being the de-chipped 212th and the 501st survivors, with a few others they had rescued within the Temple before and during the siege. He could make out Inkspot somewhere, leaning against Trapper and Gearshift.

Many of the survivors, mostly those of the 501st specifically, had horrible nightmares, even so soon after the events. He couldn’t blame them; it was a horrible ordeal they had gone through. He tried to shield them the best he could, to help them sleep with less nightmares. He did his best. He didn’t dare take a look into what they contained, he feared they would just feed into his own.

For some reason or another, the scratching woke him up.

Shifting his body up carefully so he wouldn’t awake the troopers surrounding him, he glanced around at the barracks for the sound. No way he was just hearing it in his mind.

There. Some movement in the corner.

Carefully he cleared himself of snuggling troopers and got up.

Obi-Wan moved through the bodies, making his way to the edge of the pile of clone troopers until he found one of the 501st in the corner, frantically trying to scrub his armor. Not just his armor, the jedi realized, but the blue paint off of it. And there was quite a bit of it.

The trooper nearly jumped feet in the air when he realized Obi-Wan had sat next to him, his eyes wide in fear and panic.

“At ease,” he assured quietly but it did very little to ease the trooper’s anxiety. Obi-Wan reached out into the Force towards his presence.

Calmpeacesafe

It helped more than words had.

“Are you alright, Graffiti?”

The trooper looked at him, a little surprised. “You…know who I am? Y-You remember?”

Obi-Wan nodded. “Yes. Would you like to tell me what is going on?” he asked gently.

The trooper swallowed, staring down at his armor before tearing his eyes away. He couldn’t seem to keep his eyes on it for more than a moment.

“Everyone has nightmares, it is nothing to be ashamed of.”

“I do, sometimes,” Graffiti admitted, hesitant with his voice choked on tears. “It’s not even the fighting or the war or anything. I just see blank faces, marching blue, so much blue. People…people always think when terrible things happen, when blood is shed, everything is in a haze of red because blood is red. But for me…for me it was a haze of blue. Not just any blue. The 501st blue. It’s…its supposed to be something proud of, a color we should be proud of.”

Obi-Wan just waited patiently.

“I woke up shaking this morning,” he continued, his voice quivering with tears already accumulating in his eyes as he shoved the piece of armor that was in his arms away. “It was so bad I couldn’t even put my armor on. One of my brothers had to do it for me. But even then, I…. I felt so awful. I kept making excuses to go to the head and then my brothers kept making excuses for me, just in case.”

“You do not have to wear it if you do not wish to,” Obi-Wan replied gently. “Things, I imagine, are going to be different now.”

“It’s…it’s not the armor itself,” he confessed, staring down at the piece that he was holding. “I don’t think it is the armor. It’s…it’s the color,” he looked confused when he glanced at the jedi, as if he wasn’t entirely sure why he was saying this or even the reasoning behind it. “Every time I see it, I keep getting sick. I keep remembering when we were marching towards the Temple, all the blue of the amor, creating a sea of soldiers, all in time and not even…not even hesitating on what we were going to do.”

“You couldn’t move.”

“I couldn’t even think until afterwards,” Graffiti admitted the quiver in his voice growing. “I just wanted to scream. Even after we got into the Temple, I remember everything but…it’s all in this horrible blue haze that I choke on. Something I was once proud to bear, a color that I was proud of, was twisted into something horrible and evil. I know it doesn’t make any sense but…”

“Sometimes things like this don’t make sense to others or even ourselves,” Obi-Wan’s voice was quiet and calm as he looked over at the trooper. The latter had a difficult time meeting his gaze, but he finally had, tears welled up in his eyes, certainly obscuring his vision.

“I think I would rather have no paint, just be a blank set of armor like a no-name shiny again before I wear something that has been so twisted,” he whispered, running a hand along his helmet, half scrubbed of blue paint. “And isn’t that awful? I was brainwashed into being no one and now, I want to go back to being a no one again, just…slightly different type of no one.”

The jedi’s heart shuttered in his chest.

“Would you mind waiting here for a moment?” he asked, placing a hand gently on the soldier’s shoulder. “I will be right back. I think…I think I have something.”

Graffiti looked quite confused but nodded.

Obi-Wan stood up and made his way through the maze of people, towards the door. As he got to the halls, his pace quickened. There weren’t particularly many people around, but a few had caught him gliding through the halls quickly, often giving him looks that made him want to shrink back into the pile in the barracks.

Some did not seem happy to see him out and about.

He got to a storage room and opened the door. Upon finding what he was looking for, he grabbed it and hurried back. Obi-Wan came back, worked his way through the maze of sleeping men again, and set down a large can on the ground as quietly as he could. The trooper just stared at it, wide-eyed, a bit confused and certainly a lot speechless.

“It’s yours, if you want it.”

Graffiti took a moment to realize what it was. At first, he didn’t look entirely sure, like it might be a trap, but it took only a minute before he burst into a quiet sob, covering his face with his hands.

“It may not stop the nightmares,” Obi-Wan explained quietly. “But know that you will always have a place with us.”

Eventually, when he got a little more control of himself, Obi-Wan could make out a nod from him.

“I think I might need something new,” Graffiti rasped out, just barely.

“Perhaps you should make a visit to one of the creche groups,” Obi-Wan offered, shooting him a quick, warm, glance. “They are full of ideas. And they would love to see you.”

Graffiti met his gaze, his eyebrows scrunched together. He didn’t verbally reply but the jedi master had a feeling he would anyways.

Obi-Wan spent the rest of the night with him, quietly scrubbing off the blue paint and replacing it with shimmering gold.

[highfunctioningflailgirl]

Whumptober No.20

“Ow! Are you fucking kidding me?!”

Rios hissed through clenched teeth, staring at his shoulder in disbelief. An arrow was protruding from it, its head deeply buried in his flesh.

“Cris!”

Agnes dropped to one knee beside him, blue eyes anxious.

“Stay down!”

That was Elnor, his phaser spitting fire at the handful of natives they definitely shouldn’t have underestimated. More arrows clattered against the pile of boulders they were sheltering behind.

“Ow, dios, fucking hell!”

Rios was writhing on the ground like one of those idiots in an old cowboy movie, too stupid to take cover when the shit hit the fan.

“Don’t move! Stay still! Cris!”

Agnes had her hands on his chest and hip, trying to keep him from rolling. She looked afraid but determined in that shaky, fierce way she had when things went out of control. And keeping still was probably a good idea when you had an arrow stuck in you, so Rios made an effort at complying, hissing another curse to channel his pain and fury.

This was not how a first contact was supposed to go down.

“That’s it. Hold still.”

Rios rolled his head as much as the pain allowed to see what Agnes was doing. She took one look, then ripped his shirt open around the arrow shaft and inspected what they were dealing with. A little nauseous, Cris saw the arrow sticking out of his skin below his collarbone, shuddering with each breath he took, blood oozing up around the shaft and smearing his chest.

“Shit.”

Agnes tore her bandana from her neck and pressed it down around the wound. Rios bit back a scream.

“Picard!” She shouted into her comm badge. “We’re under attack! The captain’s been hit! Beam us up immediately!”

The reply was quick and disheartening: “Negative. Their defense system is blocking our transporter signal. I can’t get a lock.”

Oh, come on! They were shooting arrows, but their technology outsmarted La Sirena’s?!

Cris groaned.

Over Agnes’ shoulder, he saw Elnor rise cautiously and sweep the sight of his phaser across the landscape. But he’d stopped shooting, and the shower of arrows had ceased.

“Cris is hurt,” he heard Agnes shout urgently. “He needs medical assistance, and he needs it now!”

“I’m sorry, doctor Jurati,” the Emergency Engineering Hologram’s voice responded in Picard’s stead. “We’re tryna find a work-around, but I dinna ken how long that’ll take.”

“And Emil?” Agnes sounded anxious. “Can you send him down at least?”

“Negative.” That was the clean British accent of the EMH. “Holographic patterns are blocked as well. I will have to assist you from here. At least the bioscanners are working. Captain Rios’ vitals are indicating a traumatic injury including blood loss. What exactly is the nature of his medical emergency?”

Agnes groaned, tipping her head back to close her eyes for a second of endless frustration. Rios fought down a surge of fear. They were stranded, he was wounded with no help available, and if Agnes fell apart now…

But she didn’t. Rios saw her pull herself together. She took a deep breath, murmured a quick “okay”, and when she opened her eyes again, they were filled with new determination.

“He has an arrow stuck in his left shoulder, below his collarbone, close to the joint,” she reported. “There’s bleeding, but it doesn’t look arterial.”

“Copy that,” Emil’s voice came back. “Your observations concur with my readings. Do you see an exit wound?”

The bastard sounded intrigued.

Agnes touched Rios’ face. “Can you roll a little? I need to check your back.”

Cris nodded back and did as told. Gingerly, he shifted his body weight to his right side and lifted his left to turn on his side.

Ow. Ow. Ow.

He felt Agnes slide her hand behind his back and run it across his shoulder blade.

“Okay. It didn’t go through.” She exhaled. “No exit wound.”

Gently, she helped him back into his flat position.

“Meaning the head’s embedded inside,” said a matter-of-fact voice. “It will be all the more difficult to get it out.”

Elnor had joined them, apparently finished with their attackers. Judging by his usual efficiency, they were all lying stunned in the grass, out for the next hour or so. He’d had orders from Picard not to shoot to kill, and he mostly took orders seriously.

“Thanks for your candor,” Cris gritted out. “As usual, it’s very refreshing.”

The Romulan squatted down beside him, unperturbed, but he rested one hand on Rios’ arm in a comforting gesture. His honesty had nothing to do with unkindness.

“We’re not taking the arrow out here, Elnor,” Agnes informed them both. “We’ll leave that to Emil once we have Cris back on board.”

“Good idea,” Rios rasped. Agnes was still pressing the bandana down on his wound, and every time her fingers only so much as brushed against the arrow shaft, pain flared up sickeningly, burrowing along a fiery path through his shoulder. He couldn’t even imagine the agony of pulling the damn thing out without anesthesia.

“I’m afraid we can’t wait that long,” the EMH chimed in. “The scans tell me that Captain Rios’ system is being compromised by a class B biotoxin. I assume the arrowhead was coated with it.”

Chesumadre.

At least it explained the curious pins-and-needles feeling that had sprung up in Cris’ hands and feet. Unless that was related to shock, and Cris was pretty sure that shock was an item on the getting-shot-by-an-arrow checklist.

He craned his neck to look at Agnes. She looked… spooked.

“What’s a… class B biotoxin?” Elnor asked, sounding both curious and worried.

“It’s a type of poisonous agent that affects the central nervous system,” she explained, reverting to professionalism while Cris could see the worry in her eyes. “It paralyzes the muscles. Type B means it’s slower-acting, which is good, because it gives us a little time, otherwise…”

She put one hand against Cris’ neck, feeling his pulse, and bent lower to check his eyes.

“Do you feel any symptoms? Any numbness or weakness?”

Cris swallowed. “I have pins and needles in my hands and feet.”

Admittedly, the pain and the fear were slowly getting to him. He was used to the EMH materializing by his side in any case of emergency, wielding his tricorder and hyposprays and generally getting on his nerves while fixing him up. He was also used to stoically waving the hologram away and dealing with minor injuries on his own. But this wasn’t minor, and he could feel it.

Agnes’ cheeks flushed with worry.

“Can you squeeze my hand?”

She’d placed hers into his right, good one. Rios closed his fingers around hers and squeezed, but his grip felt odd, tingly, and from the way Agnes’ forehead creased he could tell something was wrong.

“Weakness in his right hand,” she spoke loudly into her comm unit. “I can’t check his left because of the injury.”

“Noted.” There was a moment of silence before the EMH spoke again, his voice sounding uncommonly grave. “Doctor Jurati, you have to remove the arrow, and you have to do it quickly.”

Oh fuck.

To Rios’ surprise, Agnes nodded without hesitation. She looked shaken, but like someone who had seen this coming. Her hand still held Cris’, and it was dry and warm.

“Affirmative,” she said. “How do I do it?”

“There is a small med kit in your backpack,” the EMH replied.

Elnor grabbed the backpack that she’d shucked off during the attack and pulled a silver case out from its bottom.

“I have it!”

“Open it,” Emil instructed. “It should hold disinfectant, bandages, a laser scalpel, a dermal regenerator and a hypospray with several loading vials.”

While Rios watched Agnes rifle through the kit, her lips moving as she read the medication labels to herself, he noticed a certain detachment overcoming him. Pain was still fanning out across his shoulder, reaching into his back and chest, but he somehow seemed to care less. The tingling sensation was creeping up his arms and legs. Was this shock or the poison?

“Agnes,” he rasped. “I… I feel strange.”

She stopped rummaging and stared at him. Her eyes were intense.

“What do you mean, ‘strange’?”

“I don’t… numb. Weird.”

It was true. His body felt heavy, and the tingling sensation had reached his stomach and neck. His thoughts as well felt… shrouded.

Agnes tore her eyes away from him and looked up, into the sky. “Emil? Did you hear this?”

“I did. We need to hurry, Doctor Jurati.”

Rios listened with increasing difficulty as the EMH listed instructions. Something about cutting wide enough to evacuate the arrowhead in one piece and about using the dermal regenerator to help get the bleeding under control. Something else about not cutting the axillary artery and staying clear of the radial nerve. Sadly, he didn’t catch anything about anesthetics, and he felt too sluggish to ask.

Agnes’ face reappeared in his line of vision. She brushed her blond curls out of her face and gave him a shaky smile.

“Okay, Cris. I’m going to be as quick as I can, but it’s going to hurt. Elnor will help you keep still.”

She blinked, blue eyes braver than anyone could have guessed she could be, and he met her gaze in silent trust. Elnor’s face hovered into view next to hers as he got into position, giving Cris a firm, wordless nod.

The EMH’s voice returned: “Ready, doctor Jurati?”

“Ready.”

Agnes pressed a hypospray to his neck that made him feel lightheaded. Elnor’s arms came down across his chest and hips, and Cris saw white-blue light flash as Agnes lifted the laser scalpel. Then the pain came. It bit into him, the smell of blood mixing with that of cauterized flesh, and he gasped. But the pain didn’t let up, and Agnes didn’t stop. He felt the laser cutting deep into his shoulder, relentless, and Cris arched his head back and released a scream. Elnor held him down, murmuring strings of Romulan - prayers? And Cris screamed, and Agnes cut, and the disembodied voice of the EMH drifted from the sky, and then Cris thought he would lose his mind as Agnes grabbed the arrow tight and pulled it up, pulled it through muscle and tissue and skin with a sick, slurping sound, and then, gracias a dios- darkness.

The pain wasn’t gone when he came to, an indefinite amount of lost time later, on La Sirena’s transporter pad, cradled in Elnor’s and Agnes’ arms, but the EMH was already bearing down on him with a hypospray. A hiss. A cool sensation, and then the pain ebbed away, and so did his fear at seeing his own chest splattered with blood and smeared all over Agnes. Cris heard voices, saw faces, but he couldn’t move, didn’t want to move. He only wanted to know if it was over and if he could go to sleep without worrying if he would ever wake up again.

He felt himself being lifted onto something soft, and, on his back, stared at the ceiling of the transporter room, then at Agnes leaning over him as they moved.

Her cheeks were wet, but she was smiling as she placed her hand on his forehead.

“It’s over. You’re okay.”

Cris closed his eyes and went to sleep.

[docholligay]

*WARNING, WHINING* I have been working on this all damn day+ and I am so fucking frustrated and upset about it, none of it turned out how I wanted and I hate it AHHHHHHHH. *END WHINING*

Something for father’s day! 2,400 and change. 

Lena Oxton was a cheerful sort, resilient and funny, who could generally find pleasure in her life even in the more difficult moments. She was not particularly given to long bouts of sorrow, preferring instead to quite experience all of it at once, get it over with, and move onto more pleasant things. There was no point, she figured, in dwelling on the things that couldn’t be helped. Life was short enough as it was, even when you knew what you future might look like, and she intended to spend the two to two hundred years given to her enjoying as much as she could. 

People loved this about her. She was the sort of person who could lift the mood of a room with her bright smile and loud, lingering laughter. Her happy chatter and quick, joyful movement had more than once led someone to a smile whether they wanted to or not. She was rather legendary, for her cheer, and people always wondered at how she managed it. 

But she was still human, and sadness still found her however fast she moved and how brightly she shone. 

Father’s Day was harder for her than it should be. 

She was hardly unique, in her little group cobbled-together group. Mercy was an orphan, same as her, and she hadn’t gotten nearly so long as Tracer with her father. Winston struggled with whether or not he had a father at all, or if he were only an experiment. Jack and Ana, well, Tracer wasn’t convinced that they were born of human beings anyway. So that was a solid seventy percent of them without fathers, what reason did she have to pout about it? 

And yet, every Sunday in June, she felt that little pang, that twist in her chest that said she was never going to see her father again, that she hadn’t hardly had a chance to say goodbye, that it was her death that had killed him, if you believed her grandmother. It was a heart attack, it was a broken heart, and they could both be true. 

That was the worst of it, she thought, sitting alone, as she often preferred to on this day, rubbing at the edge of her chipped tea cup. She had lost him, but he had also lost her. Losing him might have been tolerable if he’d at least been spared that. It seemed such an unkindness, a constant reminder that life is very rarely fair. 

“It’s only a quick flight, can’t tell you much. You know.” She smiled, “Be ‘ome for Christmas this year, they promised me.” 

The last conversation they had ever had, as Tracer quickly gathered up her things from her brief furlough. She’d believed it. There was no reason to believe the Slipstream would, at least temporarily and in a fashion, kill her. Why would she think anything else? 

“Tell me, soon as you’re allowed.” He took her elbow and kissed her on the temple. “And be careful as you can be, love.” 

He did know how it worked, and so he hadn’t pressed her too hard about the secrecy of the flight. He was, to a point, used to waiting around to hear from her, and she had always, diligently, told her that she was safe as soon as she could. He was an airman himself, but he could also be a proper worrywart when it came to the subject of Tracer. He never stopped her, but he always worried for her. 

“Dad, it’s nothing.” She had giggled. “Take your girlfriend out for a night or two, maybe, forget about the whole thing, and then you’ll ‘ear from me and remember you was supposed to be nervous. Nothing.” 

She’d given him a hug and rushed out the door. That was the last time she’d ever seen his face, and she hadn’t taken the care to memorize it, to know what it felt like to hug him tight, to take note of the every syllable and they particular way he said it. She hadn’t known. 

Grief and guilt are both complicated emotions, and it often struck Tracer that she was more sullen on Father’s day than Mother’s. It made her feel disloyal and ungrateful, and so she rarely told anyone. It wasn’t that she missed her mother less. It was that losing her mother was like losing a grand opportunity. It was the trip she never took, the house she never had. She had been so young that it was a part of her, the loss, as much as her mother herself was. 

Losing her father was like having her house burn down. It had been just the two of them for so long--at least as much as any Oxton is ever “just” anything--and they had been so close. She had never even considered moving out, why would she bother paying rent on a miserable flat when she and her father got on so well, and repaired their little place together, and cooked together, and teased each other about their dating lives? Why would she go elsewhere, when here she had a place where she was always loved and appreciated for what she was? 

And then it was gone. Oh, the house was there, and it was Tracer’s now, but if she fell asleep on the couch, there was not blanket set to cover her, dinner was never waiting in the fridge, and the only message on the whiteboard on the back of the front door was the last one he’d left. 

Keys. 

Wallet. 

Phone. 

Charger. 

Call your Nan while you walk to the tube. 

I love you, Dad. 

She’d never had the heart to erase it. He hadn’t either, in the six months she was gone. She returned to London to find her room exactly as she left it, excepting her small effects returned to where they belonged, Biscuit, her stuffed sloth, safely on her pillow. 

Tracer tried to cheer herself, narrowing her eyes in frustration at her own sorrow. She would make a chicken salad sandwich, and pack a bit of a lunch, and maybe she would head over to the East London Cemetery. It had been seven years. And there had been happy Father’s Days, for her, and for him. She had been spoiled by the joy of her life, in so many ways. Even in tragedy. 

She smiled as she remembered their first Father’s Day without her mother, strange as it seemed. She hadn’t hardly been gone more than a month, and her father was still so sad. Tracer had wanted, more than anything, to do something very special for him, to help him turn his face to the sun, like he always told her to do. 

Her Uncle Teddy had been the greatest help, being that he was a baker, and he and Mark had watched Tracer so much when her mother was ill that it wasn’t unusual at all for him to offer to take her for an afternoon. Teddy adored her--him and Mark never could afford to have one of their own--and she felt the same. So she skipped next to him down to Ballard’s Baked Goods and they had whipped up a little cake, which was hardly Teddy’s speciality, and the fact that Tracer had made it with only a little guidance was obvious, but oh how she remembered the look on her father’s face when she presented it proudly to her father, with tea, which had also, she thought quite expertly made. 

“Oh, don’t I ‘ave the most wonderful girl in all of London?” He smiled, and cupped her cheek, and kissed her forehead. “Look at all this!” 

They had eaten it together, sitting side by side on a small parcel of dirt behind the house, big enough to contain a block of cement, a tree, and perhaps one square foot of grass in a strip, but Tracer had known, in that moment, that they would make it, her and her father. They had each other, and that was enough. They could make the sun shine, even when it was cloudy. 

And she had, of course, found so much love in her life. The sun was easy to find, with all the people she had in, waving away the clouds. Tracer worried about a small handful of things, but none of them were ever that she would be alone. In truth, she really should be with Winston today, given his general troubles concerning Doctor Harold, and she nearly starting walking there, sandwich in hand, before deciding that she’d just like to spend a moment with herself. Or her father. Her parents. A fair amount of relatives stretching back to the first World War. Whatever it was that did or didn’t carry on after someone died, of which Tracer was never herself quite sure. 

The sun was bright today, wasn’t it? This was a rare enough treat in London, and despite the air of melancholy inside of her, she had to smile. Fathers were walking with their children, a few of them waving and smiling at her as they did so. It was the sort of day her father would have loved, where they would run around the Victoria Park together until he collapsed onto the grass, declaring the entire thing a disaster, as Lena was wound up, and he needed to be put to bed. 

Mostly, she went back, to her memories, after the Slipstream, when she was jumping around, trying to go home. There were a few times, though, where she got home. In her time, in her place, a living ghost. Tracer never liked to remember the few glimpses she had gotten of her Dad, then. But Father’s Day, they often couldn’t be shut out. The look on his face as he brought the box of her things into her bedroom. He’d taken out Biscuit and looked at him, just for a moment, before hugging him close and sinking to the bed, sobbing. 

“Oh Lena, my girl.” 

Those four words haunted her. Haunted her almost as much as the memory of him sitting on the couch, telling her Aunt Lily that the worst of it was not that she was dead. 

“If I just,” he was red-eyed and tired, “if ‘ad her body, Lil. If I could bring ‘er ‘ome....bury ‘er with Mary. Annie.” 

Her aunt, the oldest of all of them, with no idea how to comfort her brother through his worst nightmare. She felt guilty herself, sometimes, Tracer knew. She had four of her own, an embarrassment of riches, and her little brother, with his one. She was guilty, because was glad it wasn’t her. She touched his shoulder. 

“I know, Bert, really I do. It’s--grief is like that, sometimes, right? And--”

“Lily, I don’t think she’s dead.” 

He didn’t make eye contact with her, just stared into the carpet, and Tracer had tried so hard to scream to him, but nothing came out, nothing but the sheer cold of the lack of time pouring into her throat. 

“Oh--”

He held up his hand. “I know. But I get the sense--I get the sense she’s alive, and someone’s--” he looked up at the ceiling, “Someone’s ‘urting ‘er. I don’t know ‘ow it is I know that. But I do.” 

He was at least partly right, though he didn’t live to know it. He had never gotten rid of any of her things, marked her name on the gravestone but never gave up enough hope to lay her jacket and her sloth in the ground as all he had of her. 

He believed in her, always. He believed in her from the day she was born to the day she died the first time. Even when he said he’d accepted that she was dead, he believed she might just make it. Even after everyone said he’d gone mad, even after Overwatch had tried to suppress his call for an inquiry into Overwatch’s experiments. 

Your father was right, Mercy had said once, quietly. They should have been stopped so much sooner. He never got to know that, either. 

There was a little girl across from her on the tube, chatting happily to her father, who smiled sheepishly. Too little to know the unspoken rule of ultimate silence that lived in London’s trains. Tracer gave him a big grin. 

“Nothing ever really leaves the world, Lena.” He looked dreamily off into the sunset, the calls of children still playing echoing across the green, “Just, changes form a bit. New flowers grow from the old, right? Dead leaves, well, they’re the ones fertilize the trees. No,” he shook his head, “nothing ever really leaves us. Not if we can see it. When we look.” 

She raised an eyebrow and looked at him with all the skepticism of her sixteen years. “Dad, you do know I’ve no problem with you dating, right? Believe I suggested it. No need to tell me about renewal and all that.” 

“Lena!” He snapped off his flatcap and hit her playfully on the leg. “No need to step on every tender moment.”

“I’m not, I’m genuinely trying to discover what it is you’re driving towards.” She picked at the picnic dinner in front of her, enjoying the long London evening. 

He chuckled and looked back at the sunset. “Guess I’m not entirely sure meself. It’s just--I see so many people I’ve loved, in you. The best parts of them. Your mum, of course. Annie. Even people you never knew. And I think, ‘Bert, everything stays, some’ow. Changed, but, it doesn’t leave.’ That’s what I think.” He looked back at her. “I love you, Lena. You are a wonderful part of me life. I’m a lucky man, being your dad.” 

“Dad.” She looked away awkwardly, not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry, and opted to look at the cheese on the plate and mumble. “I love you too. ‘Course.” 

She hadn’t really understood what he’d meant, then. She was too young to know, hadn’t lost enough and found it again, to see the truth in what he said. Watching the little girl with her father, she knew it had been true all along. Her father had never left her. He was still here, in the little crocuses that peeked up through the grass. In her Uncle Teddy’s concern and gentle nagging. In the way Winston happily worked with her quick little mind, and called it never a burden, but a gift. He was with her every time she lucked into West Ham seats, and when she sat down to her family tea every Sunday with her mismatched and chipped china set. When she was loved. 

He’d never left her at all. And so there was nothing to find at East London Cemetery and Crematorium, at least today. 

The train screeched to a halt, and the voice from above announced her station. She got off the train, and walked right to the line headed toward Hackney Wick. Winston would be tinkering in his lab, trying to forget the day. She’d swing by the pizza place on the way to his house, pick something up, and she’d do a better job of making him know he was loved than Dr. Harold could have hoped for. 

Tracer was a cheerful sort, resilient and funny, and she did her very best to find pleasure in her life, even through the difficult moments. This was a gift given to her, she realized as she walked through the station, by everyone who had loved her, everyone who had entrusted her with the joy of this world, to be its bearer and its champion. She was all of their greatest dreams, and they were hers. 

Somewhere against the announcements and the chatter, Tracer heard it clear as day. 

“Proud of you, Lena.”

[accidentalnewsiesblog]

“The King of Brooklyn” and other monikers (Chapter 3)

yee yee it’s chapter three also read on ao3

1892

~3900 words

TW: deadnaming; references to abuse; smoking; canon-typical violence; panic attack

The Prince of Brooklyn

~~~

Yet another successful day at the racetrack came to a close for Spot and Tony. Not only were the illustrations of the Sunday paper an attractive draw to customers, but the whole city was talking about a murder that had happened in Massachusetts. All a newsie had to do was say the name “Borden” and the pape was all but sold.

It wasn’t even suppertime by the time Spot and Tony began the walk back toward the lodging house so Tony could catch the last carriage back to Manhattan. Coins jingled in their pockets as they walked, the promise of a splurge on candy or cigarettes.

“Who d’ya think did it?” Tony asked suddenly.

“Did what?”

Tony laughed, incredulous. “‘Did what?’ Whattaya think? The Borden murders! Who do you think did it?”

“Oh!” Spot had all but forgotten the headline. Her mind had already moved on to thoughts of how to spend the extra money she’d earned. “I dunno. Who do you think did it?”

Tony shook his head. “My money’s on the uncle.”

“The uncle? Don’t the cops think the daughter did it?”

“Ain’t no dame coulda done that! You read the description of the bodies in the pape?”

Spot had not read about the murders, as much as she had wanted to know all the gory details. She had only heard comments in passing about the Bordens having been hacked to death in their own home. “Did you read the pape? There’s stuff that don’t line up ‘bout the daughter’s story!”

“You think a lady coulda taken an axe to her parents in broad daylight? You think you could chop up your family like that?”

Spot knew she could never. Not even Mum. Even so, she responded, “Maybe on a bad day. Couldn’t you?”

Tony nodded but didn’t elaborate. “Well, you ain’t a normal lady. You dame newsies is basically boys, anyway.”

Spot laughed. “Don’t say that around some of the other girls. You’d have to high-tail it back to Manhattan explainin’ how you got a black eye from a lady.”

He chuckled, pulling a cigar from his pocket. He patted around his pants and bag, his brow furrowing. “Did I give you my matches?”

Spot searched her pockets and bag, but found nothing. She shook her head.

“Damn!” Tony turned and looked back toward the racetrack. “I must have dropped them. Damn!” he swore again. “Can we stop somewhere and I can get more?”

She shrugged. “Sure.”

“You see a drugstore anywhere?”

Spot looked around. They were far enough from the racetrack to be in a more residential area of Brooklyn, an area Spot suddenly recognized.

“Ah…” She pointed off down a familiar road toward where she believed was a pharmacy. “There?” And then Tony was brazenly striding through Midwood before Spot could react. “Wait, wait!” She jogged to keep up with him, suddenly paranoid that the brownstones lining the road had eyes.

Spot had been right about the pharmacy. The white storefront with green letters reading “O’Mara’s” and tall windows revealing jars of candy had normally been a welcome sight, but Spot was too anxious wandering around Midwood to find pleasure in it.

As Tony searched up and down shelves for matches, Spot hardly blinked, looking over her shoulder every other moment. She was hyperaware of every noise and movement she saw out of the corner of her eye.

“Ha!” Spot jumped out of her skin. Tony was squatting in front of a shelf, grabbing a box of matches and standing. He looked at her, but his smile quickly turned to concern. “Are you all right? You look like a rabbit in a snare.”

Spot shuddered, not realizing she had been holding her breath. “I… I’m fine. Let’s go.”

“Fine, let’s go.” Tony pocketed the matches and started toward the door.

Spot put her hand out to stop him. “You can’t take that.”

“What?”

Spot pointed over her shoulder at the distracted man working the counter. “You can’t steal that. You gotta pay. He’s got a family to feed.”

“How would you know if he’s got a family? Why do you care?”

Spot didn’t want to talk about it and gave in. She felt like she was going to throw up. “Fine. Fine!” She started toward the door, her head ducked so as not to make eye contact with anyone, especially not Mr. O’Mara.

This time it was Tony’s turn to jog to keep up. The bell on the door jingled twice as the kids left one after the other. Spot could have sworn she saw Mr. O’Mara look up at them, halfway waving at her.

Spot didn’t stop walking until she was blocks away. She breathed deeply, trying to calm her frantic heartbeat and churning stomach.

“What the hell?” Tony panted as he slowed to a stop, hands on his hips and coughing. “Ya gotta warn a guy before ya make him run two damn miles!”

“It weren’t two miles!” Spot snapped. Tony’s glare softened, and Spot looked away. “I’m sorry.”

“What’s goin’ on? You been on edge all day.”

Spot shook her head. “It ain’t important.”

“It is! You ain’t actin’ normal! Tell me what’s goin’ on!”

“Shut up!” Spot could feel tears welling up in her eyes. Tony was being too loud and was calling attention to them, attention Spot was actively trying to avoid. “Shut up!” she hissed, much quieter than before.

Tony didn’t listen. “Spot! What’s wrong?”

Over Tony’s shoulder Spot saw a group of tall boys coming around the corner. They wore caps like Spot’s and carried canvas bags. Overcome with dread, Spot turned her back, but not before she made eye contact with the shortest and stockiest of the motley crew, a mean and hotheaded newsie called Tomcat.

Tony grabbed her arm as she turned. “Spottie!”

“Dottie!” came Tomcat’s voice, and Spot cringed. “Been a while, wouldn’t ya say?”

She steeled her nerves then turned to face them. Spot hadn’t seen Tomcat’s gang since she worked for the Journal, almost three years ago. He was probably around twelve now, but his gang was usually comprised of dumb and brawny kids older than he was. While his gang had grown in number and height, Tomcat himself had only grown in width and arrogance. Spot knew he could knock her out with one punch. He’d done it before.

She addressed him. “Tomcat.”

Tony turned to watch as Tomcat led his brick wall of backup toward the younger, smaller, and definitely scareder newsies.

“Look at this, boys! It seems little Dottie found herself a new gig!” Tomcat and his boys had run Spot out of the Journal, and so bumping into her after so long must have been quite the laugh for them. “So, what are you sellin’ on street corners nowadays, Dot?”

“None of your business,” she quipped back, immediately regretting showing her hand and letting him get to her.

“Oh! She wants to play this game!” Tomcat turned to his chuckling gang.

“I don’t want to play any game. We was just leavin’.” Spot grabbed Tony by the wrist and pulled him away, but Tomcat was relentless.

“Come on, Dottie! You haven’t even introduced us to your boyfriend!” He grabbed Tony’s shoulder. “Where are your manners?”

Tony shook Tomcat’s hand from his shoulder and lightly pushed him away. Spot’s grip tightened on his wrist. He had no idea who he was dealing with, and Spot didn’t want him to have to find out.

Tomcat was a bully and his favorite was when kids would cry. Spot refused to ever give him the satisfaction, but she was already so close to tears she knew she would either cry or punch Tomcat in the face. She didn’t know which option would be worse in the long run.

“We’re going.” Spot tugged again on Tony’s wrist. “Didn’t mean to bother you.”

“Spot,” Tony whispered, barely audible, but Tomcat caught it.

“They don’t call you Dot anymore? Shame!” He threw an arm around her shoulders, and Spot lost her grip on her friend. “Spot sounds like a dog’s name. I guess that’s fitting for a bitch like you.”

Spot saw red. She shoved Tomcat with all her strength as Tony at the same moment punched him in the nose. Tomcat stumbled backward and fell flat on his ass, his face scrunched up from the shocking pain and embarrassment.

Tony and Spot had the same brilliant idea at the same time: Run. Spot grabbed his hand and bolted, already two blocks away before she heard Tomcat screaming at his gang to follow them and kick their asses.

Spot led them through Midwood, navigating familiar alleyways and fire escapes until they arrived in Prospect Park. They skidded to a stop next to a tall oak that Spot swiftly scaled, Tony at her heels. She stopped around halfway up and caught her breath as Tony settled on a nearby branch. The adrenaline in Spot’s veins was no longer from fear, but exhilaration. She had fought with Tomcat and escaped without a scratch, and Tony had stuck with her.

They locked eyes as they tried to steady their breathing, and Spot laughed. It began as a whispery chuckle, but it grew heartier and clearer until it turned into a teary cackle, a confusing release of emotions Spot had been repressing since the beginning of their adventure into Midwood. Tony laughed also, partially from excitement and partially in response to Spot’s uncontrollable sobs of laughter.

He lit his cigar with his new matches as Spot quieted and wiped the tears from her face. Tony looked at her with a mixture of concern and genuine hurt. “You all right?”

She shrugged. “Tomcat’s a jerk.”

Tony nodded and took a drag. A silence settled over the two that spoke more truth than the young kids knew how to articulate.

Tomcat was a jerk and his bullying hurt Spot more than she let on.

Watching his friend become the target of Tomcat’s unkindness angered Tony in a surprisingly passionate fashion, so much so that he’d punched a boy clearly years his senior for calling her names. He knew Spot could take care of herself, but nonetheless his instinct to hurt someone who hurt his friend was too sudden and strong to resist. Of course, Tony wanted to know the story behind Tomcat’s cruel teasing, but he was smart enough to respect Spot’s privacy and keep quiet.

He didn’t ask, but Spot knew she could trust him. She thought he had the right to know why Tomcat’s comments got to her like they did.

“I used to work with him at the Journal.” Spot hadn’t ever told Tony much about her life before she started living in the lodging house and working for the World. He listened intently as she continued, “He and his jerk friends were… just mean. That was the first place I worked and I still dressed…” She gestured to her clothes. “Like a girl. I still looked like a girl. I had long hair and wore dresses instead of pants.”

Tony tried to imagine, but the thought was so foreign he couldn’t wrap his mind around it.

Spot kept on. “Made me an easy target. A tiny five-year-old girl newsie with blonde braids that dressed like a dame and didn’t know how to throw a punch.”

He nodded. “Your name is Dot?”

“Used to be.” Spot sniffed. “Dorothy. My grandma’s name.”

“Why’d you change it?”

She shrugged. “Started working at the World and didn’t want to be seen like a girl anymore. Dot is obviously a girl’s name. Spot sounds kind of the same but more like a boy.” She scoffed. “And come on, I got a sense of humor. But the guys at the lodge don’t care if you’re a girl anyway. There’s lots of girls workin’ at the World.”

Tony paused. “You were five when you started sellin’?”

Spot looked up at him. The cigar was smoldering in his hand, ash falling as Tony stared. He was entirely engrossed, paying no attention to the still-burning cigar. Spot reached forward and took it.

She shrugged in response to his question as she took a drag. It was a Capadura, and the smoke burned her mouth not only from the heat but also the sharp peppery taste. The spice of it added a kick to the aroma of dark chocolate in the smoke, which made Capadura cigars Spot’s favorite. They were among the milder cigars Tony enjoyed, but even so, Spot coughed and passed it back to him.

“Why?”

Spot felt her face grow warm. She had already gotten so personal, she wasn’t sure she wanted to go much further in telling her story. “What’s it to you?” she spat, much harsher than she’d intended.

Tony’s eyes grew wide in response to the offense he must have caused her. “Nothin’!” He snuffed out the cigar and continued, “You don’t gotta tell me if you don’t want…” He trailed off in thought and bobbed his head as he considered how to proceed. “Ma was having a baby and Pop works at a slaugherhouse, so they said I had to find work or go live with my uncle in Maryland since we don’t got a lot of money. That was only last year so it just surprised me when you said you been sellin’ for three years.”

“It’s fine. I get it.” Spot shifted on the branch. “My pa died when I was five. Evan was almost three so Mum stayed home during the day and worked at night. Bridget took a job sewing in a factory but I was too little, so I started selling papes for the Journal.”

Spot hadn’t ever told Tony very much about her family, so he could only assume that Evan and Bridget were her siblings. “You see your family anymore?”

Spot snorted. “That’s a laugh. I ran away. I don’t want to see them and they don’t want to see me.” Mum had come looking for her once before. Only once. She had come banging on the lodging house door just before dark, but Mrs. Kirby had turned her away, citing no presence of a “Dorothy Connell” in the house. Spot had hidden on the stairs throughout the whole thing, basically in tears.

Tony didn’t press further. The sun was low in the sky, the day was almost over. The last carriage across the bridge would be leaving soon. Spot sighed and began the descent toward solid ground. Tony dropped to the ground just after. Spot led the meandering walk through the park, Tony following in silence.

They arrived at the lodging house twenty minutes later, most of the boys already returned from their days of selling. The clock on the wall read 6:10, enough time for the duo to eat supper and get Tony back to Manhattan.

“Conlon!” came a voice from the floor. Piker, a lanky eleven-year-old with a penchant for troublemaking, stood from her reading spot in the common area and bounded over, stealing Spot’s hat and ruffling her hair. “You’re home early!”

Spot grinned and grabbed at her hat, but Piker, ever the teasing older sibling, held it out of reach, forcing Spot to jump for it. Then Piker bolted down the stairs toward the basement, Spot and Tony following close behind. As Spot rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs, the cap collided with her face, Piker’s laugh growing dimmer as she ran down the length of the dining area. Hat in hand, Spot chased her, cackling as she ran with wild abandon under tables and between the legs of older newsies to tackle Piker.

As Tony caught up, the older newsie stood, pulling the squealing Spot onto her back as she approached the line for food. Spot picked her food from Piker’s back, Tony dutifully collecting her order and carrying the tray to a table. Spot and Tony always shared when they ate at the lodging house, since Spot was the only one who actually paid to be there. Tony offered to pay her back the first time, but Spot insisted, claiming that she never ate all the food they offered anyway. Not that there was an abundance of food on the plate. Spot just said what she knew would make Tony shut up and eat, since she had a feeling he wouldn’t be having a decent meal otherwise.

Tonight they shared potatoes, pot roast, and something that looked to be green beans. It all tasted generally the same, but the kids were grateful to eat something hot. They sat with Piker and a couple of the older newsies, laughing at their jokes and listening intently to their stories.

“How was the racetrack, Racetrack?” Piker asked as Tony took a large bite of potato.

Still not quite used to the nickname, Tony didn’t look up from the plate. Spot had to elbow him to get his attention, and Tony almost choked as he tried to answer. “Good!” he tried to say through a mouthful of food.

Piker barked a laugh as Spot rolled her eyes. “Gross! Don’t get potatoes on the table!”

“Lay off him, Spot!” Piker fired back. “He’s enjoying his dinner! Unlike you! You’ve hardly eaten!”

It was true. Spot had only picked at her food. “Not real hungry.”

“I am,” called Hank as he slid down the bench, aiming his fork at Spot’s plate.

She met his fork with her own, a metallic clink stopping Hank from stealing her food. “I ain’t hungry now, doesn’t mean I won’t be later.”

Hank backed off, mumbling something about leftovers.

“Spot!”

She turned over her shoulder toward the stairs where Shiner was standing. Her face fell. He didn’t look happy. Shiner jerked his head toward the stairs as he ducked out of sight, indicating she should follow him. A chorus of “ooh” rose from the table, to which Spot responded for them to shut it.

Shiner stood at the top of the stairs waiting, and then led her up the next flight and the next to the third floor. She followed him down the hallway, past the large barrack where a couple boys were already sleeping and toward the wing of private rooms. They were more expensive than the barracks and bunks, and so only the older newsies and best sellers rented the private rooms. Being the so-called King of Brooklyn, Shiner had a private room on the end of the hall across from a type of hospital room where kids went when they were sick. Spot followed Shiner into his room, and he closed the door behind them. Spot crossed her arms over her chest, leaning against a dresser, her back toward the window.

“What happened?” Shiner was intense, as though he were a pot about to boil over. “What happened today?”

“Nothin’. Tony and I—”

“I got word that you punched Tomcat?”

“I…” She hadn’t — that had been Tony — but she decided to take the blame for it anyway. “Yeah, I punched Tomcat.”

Shiner nodded and sat down on the bed. “So what happened?”

“He just… showed up out of nowhere and started being… you know how he is…”

“I know how he is. Why were you around him in the first place?”

“We… got lost.” It wasn’t quite a lie, but it also wasn’t quite the truth. Shiner gave her a look that conveyed his disbelief that Spot could have gotten lost going to or from the racetracks, a path she walked every day. “We stopped to get some matches and then ran into him outside the drugstore.”

Shiner shook his head. “You were deep in Midwood. That’s way off the path for you.”

Spot’s heart skipped. “How’d you know where it happened?”

“A little birdie told me.” Of course. One of Shiner’s informants must have seen it happen or heard about it through the grapevine. “Why were you so far in Midwood?”

Spot was tired of avoiding the truth. Shiner was as close to being Spot’s friend as he was anyone else’s. She knew she could trust him with her life, and he already knew so much that it didn’t make sense to keep secrets. “We was at a drugstore I used to go to when I lived there. Mr. O’Mara’s. He lived downstairs from my family. I… didn’t want to talk to him and so I ran away and we ended up way far off the path.”

Shiner sat his hand on his chin. “Tomcat’s pissed.”

“He shouldn’t have been a jerk,” Spot quipped under her breath.

Shiner spun to face her so quickly it startled her. “I don’t care if he was being a jerk. I can’t afford you running around punching our own, even if they deserve it. You gotta be more… diplomatic.”

Spot wasn’t quite sure what he meant. He ran a hand through his hair and continued, “I… know that you’re young, and you’re proud, but there are big things ahead for you. Tiny and I have been talking, and we both think that once you’re older, you’re going to make a great leader.”

Spot was shocked. She thought she’d come in to be chewed out, but Shiner had become much more sincere than she had ever seen him. “What do you mean?”

“Tiny’s my second, yeah? But once I’m out and he’s in, we think you should be next in line.”

Spot didn’t respond. Shiner was fifteen, which meant that at most he had around four or five more years as a newsie. Tiny was thirteen, so he would probably have around two years after Shiner left. If each of them lasted as long as they could as “King,” Spot would take the mantle at age fourteen. That was so far away, yet the older boys had already singled her out as a potential leader.

Shiner could sense that Spot was becoming overwhelmed. “You don’t have to be thinking about that right now. That’s a long way off. But you’re a great newsie. You know the business already. And I’ve been watching you teachin’ Racetrack. You’re a born leader. You care so much about the other kids, and everyone respects you. You are such a smart kid.” Spot smiled at the compliment but shook her head. “Don’t be humble. You’re smarter than me and Tiny put together. It’s a right shame you’re here and not using that genius brain for something bigger than sellin’ papes.”

He patted a spot on the corner of the bed, and Spot took the opportunity to sit. “It’s not something you need to be thinking about right now. That’s far off. But you get why I can’t have someone who’s supposed to be a leader runnin’ around punching people. Makes us look… rash. And you’re too damn smart to make rash decisions.” He reached out and ruffled her hair. “And just know that if you need anything to find me or Tiny. If Tomcat did something that really deserves a soakin’ we can take care of it in other ways, yeah?”

Spot nodded. “I’ll do better.”

He smiled and nudged her arm. “That’s our girl.” He stood and said, “It’s almost seven. Let’s get Racetrack back across the bridge.”

As they walked with Tony to catch the last carriage to Manhattan, Spot wanted nothing more than to tell him everything Shiner had said, but with the older newsie on their tails she thought it best to wait. She waved to him and watched his carriage disappear into the crowd, reminding herself that she still had years before she had to think about the big news she’d learned.

The future King of Brooklyn walked back to the lodging house with the current one, both silently contemplating the responsibility that comes with the title, a future responsibility about which Spot was tentatively optimistic.

~~~

just some angst featuring bullies and deadnaming no i’m not projecting what are you talking about anyway thanks for reading i’ll love you forever if you give me feedback/comments/likes

[elfnerdherder]

The Unquiet Grave: Ch. 2

You can read Chapter 2 on Ao3 Here

Chapter 2: With Blurry Eyes We See

           They find a space outside where the air is cold but Will can have something to set his gaze on that’s not the eggshell white walls of the FBI. He’s passed a coffee from the visitor’s center, and he grips the cardboard cup tightly, almost threatening to pop the top off with his strangle-like hold. Occasionally, he sneaks glances to the man beside him in an odd blue suit with a yellow tie matching his pocket square, but he is just as silent, mind just as unbending. Will sees it much like a great stone wall, something he can press his palm to but ultimately see nothing behind.

           Is this what it’s like for everyone else? He wonders. Is this how wonderful it is to be someone nothing like me?

           “Dr. Bloom and I have worked together many times, so when she called me asking for a favor, I was obliged to help,” Dr. Lecter says, crossing one leg over another. He rests an expensive, wool coat over his lap, not quite cold enough to need to put it on. Will studies the smooth fibers of it and bobs his head, peeking down to their shoes. Beside Will’s faded, questionable dress shoes the product of far too many years uncared for, his are immaculate, nary a crease in the lining of them.

           “She is the prying type,” he replies, not unkind. Alana Bloom is the result of a friendship bred of her fascination with his mind but her refusal to disrespect him by prying. She works frequently with the EBAU, more often than not in order to keep an eye on him by request of Director Hansen, the DEA.

           “She informed me that you were an E-3, a rare demographic of empaths,” he says. “I’d heard of their existence but it was more of a rumor within the psychiatric field than anything else.”

           “There are five known E-3’s in the world, and four of them are in psychiatric hospitals,” Will replies. The words are bitter, and they leave a feeling on his tongue like he’s bit into the skin of an apple that hadn’t been washed of its waxy residue. He tongues the roof of his mouth, frowning.

           “You’re not.”

           “I’m not,” Will agrees. “That’s because I was discovered before I could have a complete psychotic break and go into a comatose state.”

           “The institute that they train and educate empaths at is here in DC, isn’t it?” Dr. Lecter asks.

           “There’s one here, one in Nevada, and one in Washington.”

           Dr. Lecter nods and stares out at the courtyard where trees shed their leaves, stains of red among russet ocher and golden delicious yellow. Will watches the breeze pull more leaves from a branch, tracks its spiraling movement before it settles to the ground to rest. He blows air out of the side of his mouth.

           “Why can’t I see you?” he asks when Lecter doesn’t pry for anything more. He chances another glance to his eyes –nothing. There’s absolutely nothing.

           “They did several scans on my brain quite a long time ago to try and ascertain why there seems to be a block within my mind that prevents empaths from seeing anything. There is a foreign wave that throughout much of my years in university they studied, but it’s ultimately come to nothing. A unique outlier, someone that Seers cannot see and Dreamers cannot broach the psyche of to grow thoughts within their own mind.”

           “What about Feelers?”

           “Feelers, with direct skin contact, can certainly gain impressions.” Lecter glances to the gloves on Will’s hands, snug against his skin, a thin and supple leather for every day wear. “Although after your last encounter with physical touch, I wouldn’t recommend it.”

           “I don’t have physical contact with anyone if I can help it,” Will replies. “…It was an accident.”

           “A burst of adrenaline in the heat of the moment, your desire to save a life far more paramount than your own survival. The fact that you only went into shock rather than die is a credit to the strength of your mind,” Dr. Lecter compliments kindly. “Given that you are an E-3, I am doubly impressed that such contact, skin to skin, eye to eye, mind to mind, was met with your blunt refusal to do nothing more than live.”

           “What does Dr. Bloom hope you can do for me?” Will asks. He chances another look, stares at Lecter in profile, the surprise just as powerful now as it was before, when he’d first looked.

           “Ensure that you don’t internalize your experience to the point that at any given point in time, you either lash out at yourself or someone else.”

           “They think I’m a suicide risk?” His lip curls at the thought, derisive.

           “Aren’t you?”

           By general consensus, all empaths are a suicide risk due to the statistics of depression and suicide rampant within those cursed with the ‘gift’, but Will doesn’t want to say that. He doesn’t like thinking about it, let alone talking about it.

           “Therapy doesn’t work on me, Dr. Lecter,” he says instead, redirecting. He watches another leaf fall into the already large pile at the base of the trunk. Someone will have to rake them up soon.

           “Why?”

           “I know the tests, I know the tricks. My work at the FBI required a thorough study of psychology, apart from my training with my empathy. It’d be a waste of time for you and me, and if there’s one thing people tend to care about, it’s wasted time.” Among other things, like a wasted life, a wasted breath. A wasted death.

           “Then I certainly don’t suggest therapy,” Lecter says gravely. His agreement with Will is surprising; most people urge him to set aside his concerns, get over himself and get the help that he truly needs. He can’t explain to them how he can’t quiet his mind enough to do the exercises, that the tricks and tests are obvious enough to him that he knows the words to avoid, the things to say to get what he wants rather than the things he needs.

           “Thank you,” Will says, relieved. That’s twice in one day he’s surprised by this man. There’s something almost exhilarating in the fact.

           “Instead, I would suggest that we have conversations.”

           “Conversations.” And there it goes. Flat. Blunt. Unimpressed.

           “To my understanding, half of the struggles of an empath is the sense that they are trapped within their own mind, victim to the sensations that their brain waves cause due to the attunement they have to mankind around them. Sometimes, all one needs is another person to share such thoughts with, so that they don’t fester inside.”

           He sounds utterly serious in his explanation, like what he’s suggesting should come easy to someone like Will Graham. He wants to laugh, but he doesn’t. Instead, he sighs, tilting his head back to look up at the sky.

           “Jack Crawford tells me that you have a particular knack for the monsters,” Lecter continues when Will doesn’t reply. “Not all empaths do, but you do.”

           “It’s an active imagination coupled with my abilities.”

           “And that active imagination, coupled with your abilities, allowed you to save the life of someone who is now in a stable condition. If you hadn’t helped Abigail Hobbs by killing Agent Hobbs, she’d be in far worse shape –dead.”

           Will doesn’t see it that way. His hands flex, shake, and he recalls the sensation of his neck tearing, parting with ease like one would filet a fish –a smooth, swift slashing motion before the blood begins to pour, greedy with every heartbeat.

           Maybe if he could just see her alive, it’d be enough to quiet the screaming inside?

           “I don’t think conversations are what I want, either,” he says at last, standing up. A breeze turns, tugs at his jacket. “I gotta hand it to you, you threw me off at first. That doesn’t happen very much. I’m good at knowing people.” He peeks at his face once more, nodding to himself at the silence. Odd, he thinks, but it’s an outlier, and he will find enough ways to research the phenomenon he’s never come across before without having to talk to someone to do it.

           “I’d apologize for it, but I’m not entirely sorry,” Lecter says, standing as well.

            “At least you’re honest.”

            “I try to use terminology such as that sparingly, to not sully it with overuse.”

           “That’s fair,” Will replies, and he thinks to maybe shake his hand since most people shake hands in situations like this. He can’t, though. Even gloved, a small, whispering fear lurks that it will not be enough protection, and he’ll be back in a cabin in the woods with a neck wound that’s bleeding out. Jack would have a field day, and Director Hansen would find a way to set him off to the side on the bench for the rest of his career.

           He firmly decides not to shake his hand.

           “I would ask that you at least consider my offer; even a simple conversation can make a difference between standing on stable ground and feeling like one is too close to the edge,” Hannibal says. He doesn’t try to extend his hand.

           “No thank you.” Will heads towards the door, and he pauses when he doesn’t hear Lecter follow. “…Now that I know what I wanted to know about you, I don’t find you that interesting.”

           The door is closing behind him when he hears Hannibal say, twenty shades of amused, “You will.”

-

           It was a lie, of course. Will Graham finds Hannibal Lecter very, very interesting.

           He’s on the internet, not socially, but through published works discussing the phenomenon of his mind completely rejecting Seers and Dreamers. It was only through a Feeler putting a hand on him that he said he gained the impression of immense sadness and grief, and Lecter had admitted in the study of thinking of his long dead sister at the time. The Feeler hadn’t been able to see Lecter’s sister, vivid in his mind, but he’d merely gained the impression of sadness. Grief speaking of years of loss, something aged.

           There was an odd brain pattern that they detected through numerous scans, but after compiling the data, he ultimately left the study so that he could return to his own education. A man of medicine who worked as a surgeon before ultimately switching to psychiatry and establishing a practice.

           It’s during short breaks that he reads several published pieces in journals, Beverly’s tablet in one hand, a mildly shriveled clementine in the other. There have been studies specifically from where he grew up, Lithuania, studies in males with certain eye colors, certain builds, certain behaviors. So far, in the psychological world, Hannibal Lecter is the only one like this.

           Much like Will Graham, Hannibal Lecter is unique, too.

           He’s distracted from his hunger for information and from his clementine by work, though. Jack Crawford spoke with Director Hansen, and it seemed that he didn’t need a sign off from her after all. He can go back to hunting Rogue Agents, agents of the FBI whose empathy grew so burdensome that they snapped.

           The man he sits across from is older, greying and bespectacled, hair that was once blonde giving way to age. He is twitchy, and Will notes hands that clench, grip, and clasp before he focuses on the edge of his glasses so that he doesn’t have to see. He’s not a RA brought before Will, but a simple warm-up, a test from Jack to see just how he does after a mere week of rest after Hobbs.

           “Mr. Stammets, do you know why you’re here?” he asks.

           “Yes.” Although his body betrays his unease, his mild disconnect, his voice is steady and sure. A pharmacist, one used to dealing with confused and unsure patients.

           “You’re wanted in conjunction with the disappearance of several men and women that were found buried in shallow graves with sugar water being fed via intravenous fluids. You claim no such knowledge, although an unconscious woman was found in the trunk of your car.”

           “I didn’t do it, I didn’t,” he presses, and Will nods. It’s that declaration of innocence that caused him to be brought into the room.

           “Do you know who I am, Mr. Stammets?”

           “I don’t.”

           “I’m Agent Will Graham of the EBAU.” It’s his name that coins recognition; having studied medicine in school, Eldon Stammets would know everything there was to know about empaths. He stares at Will, and a slow, sorrowful resignation takes over. Seconds tick slow on the watch face on Will’s wrist.

           “…It’s over then, isn’t it?” he finally asks, and his hands that once twitched jerk about as he begins to drum them on the table to dispel anxious energy. “They had a legal sign-off allowing you to come in here, so you’re going to know everything.”

           “I’m going to know everything,” Will agrees, and God sometimes he wishes he didn’t.

           He doesn’t have to remove his gloves to touch; looking into Stammets’ eyes give him everything, and he removes his glasses so that there are no barriers, nothing to keep them apart. When he looks up to Stammets’ suddenly terrified face, he meets his eyes and falls in, tumbling over and over and over until he lands on his hands and knees beside mounds of dirt, the soil beneath him rich and decadent with fertilizer and life that grows with wild abandon.

           It is a need, and it grasps, reaches. We are not all this, beings of flesh and bone, but something spanning a greater time, a time when all there was was the sensations of living, of being alive. We reached, and in reaching we were touched, connected, and god that’s all I’ve ever wanted, was to connect.

           He pulls himself from the stream of thought, from the need that makes his throat dry and his hands shake. He’s never been able to connect, never been able to reach and be reached in return, and he stands from his crouched position, brushing dirt from his pants.

           Beside him, there is a shovel. He picks it up and turns, studying the comatose man whose hands are laid at his sides, at peace with what is happening to him –at least, that is what he tells himself.

           Mechanically, Will Graham turns and begins to toss dirt on him, starting from feet and working his way up. There is a detached, clinical side of him that grazes over the image, pausing at the tube inserted into his mouth so that he can breathe, then the tubes that are inserted with precision and practice at his arm. Alongside this grave, there are eight others much like it, and that is when the feelings of excitement, pride emerge. They know he is here.

           They know he is here.

           Will Graham pulls himself from the image, and in his mind it is a lurching sensation where he has to physically rip himself from the shreds of the memory, slamming a barrier in place before he can fall back in. In reality, his wide, unblinking eyes suddenly blink once, then rapidly to wet them. His hands clench, unclench in his lap, and he stares at Stammets’ nose so that he doesn’t crawl back into his gaze. His breath is curt, short.

           “They know you are there,” he tells Stammets, connected to one part of a whole.

           “They know you are there,” Stammets agrees, and at the sense of connection to Graham, he bows his head in relief.

-

           He sits across from Jack at his desk, file in hand.

           “You haven’t gone to see Dr. Lecter?”

           “We met.” Will props his chin up with a gloved hand, turning a paper aside to stare at a photo. He keeps going back to Stammets, then back to Hobbs. He blinks, and Hobbs doesn’t just fall with one shot –why did he have to shoot so many god damn times?

           “And?” Jack prompts when Will doesn’t continue.

           “I think I can deal with it in my own way,” he says, turning another photo over. The fungi reach, and he wants to reach back. “I don’t need a therapist to do it.”

           “Director Hansen informed me that sending you back without making you open up will only subject you to a further troubled psyche. She said you can’t properly hunt RA’s after the last one ending like it did.”

           “I need the repetition of work,” he replies. He wants it to sound firm, but it comes out more like a request. “My work is what’s normal to me, so for her to try and take it away will do more damage than good, I think.”

           Jack wants to argue that, but in reality his work is made all the easier because of Graham, so he decides not to fight it. Will can sense the see-saw of emotion before resolution sets in.

           “Did you know that mycelium can actually sense when you come near?” Will asks. He glances up from the file to focus on the paper weight on Jack’s desk. “Their spores reach out to you. You think you enter a glade without wildlife and you’re alone, but they know you are there.”

           “His confession means a faster court trial, and with your testimony on it, he’ll go away for a long, long time,” Jack says. That’s why they have empaths in crime units.

           “Hobbs thought of his victims as his daughters, but he was a hunter. In his own way, to stomach gutting them and grinding their bones, he probably also saw them as deer, as any other animal.” He goes to bite a nail, lips pausing at the glove firmly on his hands. It’s a rule that during work hours, those don’t come off until it’s time for application of his talents. Stammets wished so dearly to connect that he didn’t even have to use his hands. “Deer step soft in the underbrush so they don’t break the blades of grass and disturb anything. They know the mycelium is there, and it knows they’re there. In a way, Hobbs thought of the girls as his daughter, and as deer. In a way, Hobbs targeted people that were so attuned and connected that they could walk into the forest and know you were there, and in knowing, knew the mycelium knew as well.”

           “The girls were deer?” Jack asks, confused.

           “The girls were his daughter, but in a way they were deer,” Will says impatiently. “And deer don’t want to harm the ecosystem. They have more cares to connections than we do. That’s why Stammets buried us. So we could all connect.”

           “…Take a walk,” Jack suggests.

           Will takes a walk.

           He finds himself at the hospital where Abigail Hobbs rests, and he sits down on the bench outside of her room since they still won’t let him in. It’s logical, he reasons, that they won’t let him in. Although he is a FBI agent, she isn’t awake for questioning, and there’s no reason he’d need to trounce about her room with a file open containing photos of her father’s case.

           The Minnesota Shrike, caught at last.

           Will stares down at his display, ten shots along his stomach, chest, and shoulders. They’re a pretty centered spread, considering his panic and his fear –he knows part of that panic and fear was Abigail’s seeping into the air, but it does nothing to lessen the severity of it. Seeing the image makes him think of how quick he’d been to kill rather than subdue. Most empaths aren’t allowed to carry firearms, but after a series of tests and evaluations, he was deemed worthy of it.

           Seeing how many shots it took to drop Hobbs, he was going to have to change to a far more powerful gun.

           It’s not the first Rogue Agent he’s tracked, but it’s by far the worst. Will Graham’s specialty in the FBI isn’t so much his empathy as it is his ability to use his empathy to keep other agents in line. Empaths working in any form of the government are trained under the FBI’s fierce regiment to control their gifts and are considered ‘agents’ of some way, shape, or form –in the almost inevitable turn of their mind, when barriers fall and the empath experiences a psychotic break, it’s Will Graham that steps in and tracks them before they can hurt anyone.

           Agent Garrett Jacob Hobbs waded his way through eight girls and one wife before Will managed to find him.

           “Agent Graham, she’s ready for you.”

           He looks up at the nurse holding a small clipboard, confused. Her stance isn’t wavering, her mark clear. She knew exactly who to speak to, what to say. Rather than question it, he nods, clears his throat and stands up, glancing about the hallway, seeing no one to tip him off to what’s happened.

           “Thank you,” he says slowly. He follows her no-nonsense walk into Abigail Hobbs’ room like this was his plan all along, like he hadn’t planned to lurk outside of her room until it was verging on weird and distinctly not okay.

           Hannibal Lecter is waiting inside, and that’s all he needs to know.

           “Agent Graham,” he says, and he thankfully doesn’t extend his hand.

           Once the nurse steps out, he takes note of the room, making a quick left face and heading to Abigail who lays fast asleep. He takes her in with the same quick, sweeping glances that he had in the hall, and he adjusts a blanket rumpled from someone setting something on it. It looks like the indent of a book.

           “How did you know?” he asks once he can gain control of his voice. Every steady, assuring beep of the heart monitor bolsters him, gives him courage that his actions weren’t in vain.

           “Agent Crawford called, and I supposed that you would want to come here, to try and gain some semblance of yourself. Having felt her in death, you will not feel whole until she wakes, yes?”

           “…Yes.”

           He wants to look at Lecter, see his silence once more, but he can’t because he is wholly fixated on Abigail Hobbs and the way her lungs expand and lift skin, utterly promising with the assurance that she can indeed breathe.

           When he can finally tear his gaze away, he pulls up a chair and sits down, gripping the case files tightly. Hannibal mimics him, drawing up a chair near the foot of the bed.

           “…I looked you up,” he admits. Look up is an understatement, but he’s not going to go into any more details than that. He still has the journals pulled up on Beverly’s tablet to read whenever he gets the chance.

           “Did you?”

           “I wanted to see if what you were saying was true.”

           “What did you find?” Hannibal wonders.

           “You don’t connect in the sense of modern day people. No apps, no social media sites; you do have a website, but you encourage them to call or e-mail rather than glean your therapy style off of what someone posts online about you.”

           “I said no such thing,” Hannibal objects kindly.

           “You didn’t have to,” Will replies. “I’m good at picking up on tone, and while you’ll use the internet as a tool, you prefer in-person connections.”

           “Yes,” Hannibal agrees. “Anyone can project what they like onto the internet. I find that face-to-face conversations yield the best results in learning about a person.”

           “You’re also not afraid to manipulate if you think it will get you something that you want,” Will said, staring at Abigail. Although her eyes are closed, he can see the sallowness of her skin, can see walls rising up around him to become her house, a world in which she loves her father and fears him, hunts alongside him and wonders when she will become the hunted. He’d tried to connect to her the only way he knew how. Hobbs tried to protect her the only way he knew how.

           “I think that in our own way, we all have a special talent for manipulation when we think it’s something important,” Hannibal replied guiltlessly. “My gaining you access here was so that we could speak, yes, but I also thought to help you ease some of your burdens in worrying over her state. You hadn’t seen her living, therefore you could only focus on her potential demise.”

           The fact that he knows that after only one conversation with Will is staggering, and he thinks back on Lecter’s personal works he’d chewed through with eager interest. He was prominent in the psychiatry circles, not necessarily due to a frequent use of the journals to promote his work, but that he only published sparingly. What he did share, though, was so utterly poignant and dense with information that even Will could see the mild genius behind it.

           “You honestly think that a simple conversation with you is going to be the thing that I need?” Will asks. He glances over to Lecter, stares at his face, and marvels at the absolute silence.

           “Better me than Jack Crawford. You honestly made him nervous with your speech about deer and mycelium,” Hannibal replies. He sounds mildly amused at the thought.

           “…I think that when I speak, I make him nervous about a lot of things,” Will says slowly. His words have somewhat of a ‘confessional’ vibe to them that he’s not entirely fond of.

           “Do you experience that with most people you know?”

           “Do you?”

           “No,” Lecter replies. “But that in no way lessens my ability to have conversations with you.”

           Will chews on the side of his mouth, staring at Abigail’s hands. He wonders what impressions he’d get of her now, if he dared touch skin to skin. He’s touched those in unconsciousness before, gotten a feel for their dreams, their last emotions while conscious. He decides not to risk it with her, in case the only thing he can feel is her dying. Although trained to build barriers between him and those he comes into contact with, Will is well aware that that sort of ability does not exist with Abigail Hobbs –not after the first time he grabbed her neck and thought he was dying.

           “If she wakes up,” Will murmurs, agonized, “she’s going to see me as the man that killed her father.”

           “Perhaps. Or perhaps she will see you as the man that saved her life.”

           Will nods, accepts this as an option although it is a bleak, reaching one at best. He blows air out of his mouth harshly, rubs gloved palms together. “I’ll talk to you, Dr. Lecter, but I can’t ensure you’re going to entirely like it.”

           “Rest assured, Agent Graham, I’m going to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in getting to know you.”

[mybrainwall-blog]

Relationships

Relationships are hard, some of the hardest things we have to navigate in our busy and changing lives. Yet unfortunately, a lack of relationships has a negative impact on our psychology as human beings, and so we must always have social contact wherever possible, to prevent us becoming- to use the common phrase- stir crazy.

The hardest thing about relationships is the words we say to each other. Sometimes, our words can cause hurt and upset. It may not be intentional, and it may not even be directed, but the things we say and the words we choose to use matter, because once we say them, we cannot take them back. 

This is what I’m struggling with currently. I’m sure my argument will seem silly in a week’s time, when this post finally comes out- that is why I tend to write them so far in advance, so that I can take my words back if I realise I don’t mean them. A lot can be said in the heat of the moment.

I want to talk a little about my school life and my relationships and character that I had back then. When I a little girl, my mother always told me to ‘treat other people as you would like to be treated’, and I use these words as gospel even to this day.

However, this may not have been in my favour when I was five years old. When people would say horrid things to me, I would cry, or I would ignore it, but either way, the bullies that plagued me at school found me an easy target, and I’ve recently discovered it is because I am too nice.

Modest, I know. But when my mother told me this, and I took it upon myself to uphold those words, I decided to smile and be nice to everyone. If someone told me I was ugly, I would feel the pain, but I wouldn’t retaliate. Instead, I’d dissolve into tears, or I’d ignore it and try to be nice, even try to be their friend. And unfortunately, I carried that attitude with me all the way through primary and secondary school, until I got to university.

This is where I decided to have a backbone- or at least, start. Moving to uni is a difficult experience, because you have to move away from your family, and into a flat with strangers that you didn’t pick, and try to get along with them. I was excited and nervous, and of course I was as nice to my stranger flatmates (all 14 of them) as I would be to any other person.

This was all well and good, until the flat divided into two camps. There were the nerdy lot- my lot- who wanted to study and work hard and get a good degree; and then there were the party lot, who wanted to achieve their 40% in their non-credited first year and have the full blown uni experience.

The nerdy lot went to all of their classes, ate healthily, and socialised politely together before going to their rooms and studying before bed. The party lot would skip their morning lectures, wake up at midday, consider their afternoon lectures, then skip them in favour of going out for coffee before coming back to the flat with ten strangers and party into the night.

Not only was this uncomfortable for us nerdy lot, who simply wanted to go to uni to get the degree- no-one asked me if I was OK with having these strangers in my flat- they frequently partied into the night and the early hours of the morning, playing their music so loudly that there was no way I could sleep.

It wouldn’t have mattered much if it was once in a blue moon, but it was around 3 or 4 times a week. Some nights, I would leave my room- the only one of use nerdy lot who would, as my friends were all afraid of being bullied to say anything- to ask them politely if they could keep it down. It usually followed this script:

I’m really sorry, but it’s two in the morning and I have a 9am lecture that I need to be up for tomorrow. Could you possibly turn down the music so I can get some sleep?

The first time I said this, they turned the music down, only to gradually turn it back up over the hour or so that proceeded. The second time, they turned down the volume, then turned it straight back up even louder than it had been before the second I left the kitchen. The third time, and every time after that, they laughed in my face, or told me to fuck off. Then they’d raid the fridge for my food and eat it.

For some stupid reason, I didn’t stop being nice. Why on earth would they do what I wanted if I started acting like a psyco-bitch? The bullying got worse and worse, until one night, the girl at the head of the party lot decided to go full bully mode. She set herself up outside my bedroom door with a group of her friend, and bitched very loudly about everyone she didn’t like in the flat, and why. Most of it was about me.

After that, I was afraid to leave my room. I used to text my friends in the kitchen to see if it was OK to come make my dinner in peace, and whenever I went out of the flat, I would run from my bedroom door to the exit as fast as I could, head ducked down. 

They continued to keep me up at night. I continued to be polite and not say anything. I got very ill from lack of sleep, and my grades started to slip, and I still didn’t say anything.

Then, one night, I decided enough was enough. I didn’t have the courage to go out and speak to them as I once might have- understandably, I hope- so I called the senior resident of the block of flats at three in the morning, anonymously, to ask if he could come and break up the party. 

He came down to the flat three times. Once to ask them to keep the noise down, once to tell them to break up the party, and the last time to grant security entry to the building.

When I woke up next morning, after only four hours of sleep, I entered the kitchen to find the fridge door broken, having been smashed against the wall, and a big, sticky, alcoholic mess across the table where I now wanted to have breakfast.

I kept quiet and went about my business, keeping out of their way like I usually would. I went to my lectures, did some food shopping, and came back to hide in my room like usual. When I went in the kitchen for dinner, my friends were sat around the table chatting about the incident. They all looked up at me and stopped talking. One of the girls- the one who claimed to be my best friend- asked if I did it.

I told them no.

And they told me they knew it was me.

And then they started having a go at me. Bear in mind that every single one of these people had been feeling exactly the same as me, that one of those girls had been losing sleep not just over the parties, but over the loud noise of the sex that was going on in the room next door, and that every single one had said that they should be reported.

They abandoned me, because they knew that I wouldn’t fight against it, and because they would get bullied if they stood by me.

These two-faced people asked me to live with them the next year. I agreed, an they continued to treat me badly, but only because I let them. I never stood up for myself, and I never have, because I didn’t want people to be unkind to me the way I would have been if I have been unkind to them. I didn’t want them to treat me the way I should have treated them.

Over the last year, I have been training to teach. And believe me when I say that if there’s ever a job where you need to grow a backbone, it’s in the teaching career. You can’t lay a hand on a child anymore- physically or otherwise. You can’t even punish them. If a child is excluded, and they come onto school property, you have to let them sit in your lesson, and they cannot be forcibly removed from the school. The old punishments just don’t work anymore.

So you need to be assertive. And over the last year, my backbone has stiffened to enable me to not only handle the children in my class, but the people I have relationships with in my life.

Unfortunately, when you’ve spent your entire life letting people walk all over you, they’re quite affronted when you stand up and say your piece. So now I’m in a fight.

It’s OK though, because I know I’m in the right this time. I’ve taken a lot of crap for a lot of years, and I deserve to be spoken to with dignity and respect. Everyone does. And so from now on, I’m not going to be nice when someone else isn’t. I’m going to assert myself and tell them that it’s not on. I think, after all of these years, I deserve to be able to do that.

x   x   x

Thank you for reading this. It was a conglomeration of a lot of my feelings, and to be honest I’ve probably edited this a lot to make it sound less angry and bitter. I won’t use names, and I won’t go into specific about what is going on currently, because that isn’t right. But I urge any of you who are struggling with confidence or assertiveness to be brave and hang on in there. You’ll find a time when you can stand up and say ‘enough is enough’. Have courage, and be kind, and don’t let others make you feel inferior. You deserve respect and kindness as much as the next person.

Until Sunday.