#embracing her natural hair color instead of keeping it navy blue for once

[josephslittledeputy]

Datura on a date with Jason (pre-Arkham Era) || A new guard at Arkham made the mistake of getting close to Datura in her cell, rip || Post Arkham Era, entering her Villain Era <3

Tagged by @detectivelokis and @clicheantagonist to do this picrew, ty!

[kodzukyan]

talking to the moon

notes: yoshiwara au featuring samurai!baji x courtesan!(fem)reader! some fluff? angst. tw death! song recommendation accompaniments: yoshiwara lament - teto kasane & talking to the moon - kream!

wc: 2.3k

summary: yoshiwara is not meant for love, but you think it's far too late for you when you meet baji keisuke.

For as long as you can remember, your world has been seen through the bars of the harimise. A display, a product, for hours you would merely sit there and hope someone buys you.

The endlessly same scenery: the temple up north, the colorful vibrancy of kimonos, the bridge that leads southwards. Yoshiwara is always the same hustle and bustle of the lively streets. A day of ethereal beauty and strategic deceit; a night of lust and hushed promises, a so-called love that dispels with the first rays of dawn.

Once upon a time, you wanted to be someone who blooms for one person only, to love unreservedly. A childish dream to be free, to love fiercely. But fate steals your freedom and leaves you in the embrace of men who look at you as just another woman who warms their beds. Each bleak night as you look wistfully beyond the faceless man above you, the moon and stars sparkle, despite your torment, almost as if it’s mocking you for being unable to shine as they do.

With each passing day as you stare at your dull reflection in the polished mirror, bitterness seeps into your hardened heart. As your lips become redder and redder with used paint, the light in your eyes becomes dimmer and dimmer with dull indifference.

As if Yoshiwara bears your profound grief, it’s raining tonight. On such a day, you encounter him under the deep veil of darkness. His navy kimono contrasts vividly against your crimson lips, and the rosy pink that dusts his blushing cheeks gently warms your heart. He’s adorable, you think, as he grumbles and his friend nudges him towards the birdcage. Your eyes meet his, and his friend laughs and jostles him again towards you.

“Sir, won’t you please purchase me?” you smile sweetly, softly.

“I -” he starts.

“He would love to!” a new voice injects. His enthusiastic friend with blonde highlights smiles wolfishly.

“Welcome, please come in.”

You escort him to a room upstairs as the rain pours outside. When he cautiously enters your room, it is nothing like you are used to. He stands there awkwardly and runs a hand through his long locks.

“Would you like to sit? Perhaps a drink first?” you politely ask as you pat to the spot next to you.

It catches you by surprise when you can see the grays in his eyes as he looks at you instead of past you. He sits gruffly beside you and starts promptly, “We don’t have to do anything.”

You tilt your head, not really sure how to naturally proceed from here. But you've merely learned to comply, to satisfy, so you nod affirmatively and agree politely.

“In that case, what would you like to do?” you ask softly.

In a night meant for lovers between the sheets, he tells you stories of his adventures under the moonlight. You learn his name is Baji Keisuke, and he’s a samurai serving his childhood friend and the young lord of the Sano family. The one who ushered him here is one of his dearest friends named Kazutora, and they’ve been together since they were little. He loves feeling the adrenaline in his blood when he fights and often feeds stray cats because he thinks they’re cute. He unintentionally made his mom cry once when he was younger, so he swears he will never make her cry again.

He has dazzling eyes that tell no lies and an enigmatical smile that illuminates your heart, especially when he flashes his sharp canines that strikingly resemble fangs in his boisterous mirth. Outside, the continuous rain slows to a drizzle before it promptly stops. In your heart, he ignites a small spark of attainable hope.

A free spirit that contrasts very deeply against your very being. Unlike a trapped bird, he flies through the unclouded skies and undoubtedly makes life his own. His hearty laugh and vibrant eyes gently remind you what it's like to have hope beyond these four walls, to dream of a life of consuming love. You smile softly as he makes wild gestures with his hands, and you feel every insistent beat of your heart fluttering, thundering as he smiles affectionately at you.

Over and over again, he returns and buys your time instead of your used body. Time and time again, he talks naturally to you like you are someone in this world and listens to you like you are still good enough to be heard. Like the sun that melts away the darkness in your heart, your days spark a little brighter when he’s nearby. Instead of staring bitterly at your reflection as you paint your lips, the girlish dream you abandoned returns back to you.

Love whispers in your ears and knocks on your heart.

"Will you return?" you ask softly into the luminous night when he visits again. Once, twice, countless times to where you think you know him enough to remember what it’s like to love again.

As soon as the night ends, he has to leave. He will soar into the skies beyond the scope of your vision, beyond realms of the world you can only dream of because he's meant for something grander.

Still, you yearn.

"Where else would I go?" he answers as his eyes meet yours.

He clasps his rough hand around yours, eyes earnest and heart genuine, as he brushes against your knuckles tenderly. A hand full of calluses and blood, a hand used to wield swords and destructive weapons, but he cradles your hand so gently, tenderly, fondly.

"I will always come back to you."

You breathe out a quivering breath. You’ve heard these careless words countless times before from many other men, but his affectionate eyes are constantly full of genuine promises and unmistakable sincerity. You know Yoshiwara is the land of foolish dreams and lies, that Yoshiwara is unmeant for lovers.

Yoshiwara is not meant for the undeniable truth that you are irrevocably in love with him.

Still, you hope. You want to believe him, so you trust. You trust him with your vulnerability; you trust him with your heart. Under the veil of the night with the moon as your sole witness, you cut off a strand of your hair.

"For safe-keeping," you tell him as you tie your hair around his pinky, "Until you safely return."

He blinks once, twice before he smiles radiantly, fangs glinting in the light. He tugs a strand of his hair out before he clumsily wraps it around your pinky.

“There is something important I have to take care of,” he starts hesitantly. His eyes are looking into the darkness of the night, and for a moment, you can see weariness cloud his eyes. You reach to cradle his cheek, and at your touch, he looks at you. He holds your hand and presses a soft kiss on your fingertips. Newly found resolve beams through the clouds of doubt in his eyes. “But after that… Will you come with me?”

You stare incredulity at him, wide eyes carefully looking into his promising ones. He squeezes your hand as he stares anxiously back at you. The world is silent, and all you see is his gray eyes that have been your silver lining since the very first day.

He can’t afford to buy you, you know, and the fear of the consequences of running away burrows into your heart. But he looks at you, clear and open, and Heaven is in his eyes. You squeeze his hand back and bring it towards your lips to place a tender kiss on his palm. You think you’re far too ruined to be this optimistic about it, to dream of happiness like this, but you grin and nod anyway.

“I would go anywhere if it’s with you,” you smile, eyes and words honest.

He instantly breaks into an infectious grin, and he hugs you in eager excitement. “Thank you. I’ll be back by the next full moon. Wait for me,” he whispers fiercely into your hair.

You nod again as you melt into his comforting embrace. The flutters of your heart bloom into warmth in your chest, and it feeds into your heating cheeks as you hold on to him. The moon that invariably seems to look down on you, the stars that always seem to twinkle in critical disappointment softens as the lights of dawn overtake the sky.

A new day, a new hope.

He holds his pinky up, your hair tied on and your heart in the palm of his hands, as he looks at you. When you meet his eyes, the first rays of light glows behind him. He looks beautiful, angelic, and he seems so ephemeral. You hook your pinky, with his hair tied around it, with his in hopes that these fleeting moments will last just a moment longer, that this will be more than just a dream when you wake up.

A lie, a promise, you’re not quite sure which it is.

(You hope it’s a promise. You want it to be a promise.)

So, you wait. Day after day, night after night, and all the moments in between. You miss him like the stars miss the sun in the morning sky, but he fuels a fire in your heart that keeps you warm on the nights he isn’t here. It hasn’t rained for a long time now, you think, as you glance at your pinky and sunshine fill your soul. During nights, you keep your promise close to your heart as you stare at the phases of the moon. Waxing and waning, but your heart holds steady as you dream of boisterous laughter and lively eyes.

On the day of the full moon, you wait anxiously as people pass by. You’re on high alert as your eyes eagerly scan the crowd for any signs of him - his navy blue kimono, his long hair, his hearty laughter. As the blue sky turns to brilliant orange before it fades into the darkness of the night, the crushing weight in your heart grows heavier and heavier before the numbing realization that he won’t come hits you.

When the full moon peaks in the unclouded sky, only silence surrounds you. You sit lifelessly in front of your mirror at the end of the night with the full moon as your sole company. You’re not sure how long you’ve been sitting here as you mindlessly keep brushing your hair.

The overbearing heaviness finally breaks your heart and breaches the dam that restrains your tears. You muffle your cries in your kimono because you should have known better, should have known that dreams are unmeant for someone like you. You glance wistfully at your pinky before you clutch it close to your shattered heart, and all the energy in your body just comes out as silent sobs. As you bury your face in your knees and hug yourself, each fond memory comes back and replays in your head.

A mistake. This is a terrible mistake because you know Yoshiwara is built of lies like these. But when you think of his sincere eyes, your heart breaks again. Baji Keisuke is many things, but he is rarely a liar. You want to believe in him, want to believe in the dream of a life with him beyond these walls.

Maybe it’s not this full moon, you tell yourself, but he will return one day. The next full moon, the one after that, and all these other ones after, you’ll keep waiting. You believe in him, believe in love, so you will hold on steadfastly, stubbornly, desperately because you don’t think your heart can handle it otherwise. 

In just another day of waiting in the similar scenery, you catch glimpses of a spark from the temple northwards. A new sight, but among the lively streets of just another busy day, it’s not a sight you focus on. The sparks are nice, though, you think as you suppress a giggle, because it reminds you of the fire in his eyes.

When it reaches dusk, the scorching winds blow from the northeast. The direction you watch him go from the confines of your birdcage, and when you still see the sparks, a foreboding feeling, a bad omen sinks into your heart as the sun falls.

The initial flare grows bigger and bigger until it bursts into a firestorm and begins swallowing the town. You run frantically alongside the chaotic crowd as the screams fill the air and fear fills your blood. You run, run, run until your legs are burning - from the fire? From fatigue? You’re not sure.

Your heart breaks with every step you take because death comes knocking. You keep holding on stubbornly because you still believe in your promise. But soon, your legs only carry you so far amongst the fleeting crowd and falling buildings and smoke fills your lungs and chokes you.

As fire devours you, you glance at the waxing moon. It ruthlessly tears through your skin and burns, burns, burns, but the pain of breaking your promise rips through your heart.

All you can think about are the moonlit nights under the same skies within the four walls you call home and the man you know as love. You think of his starry gray eyes and the promise you couldn’t keep, and you clutch your hand over your heart. Close, so, so close, but not quite another full moon yet. With sorry repeated on your cracked lips and lament in your anguished heart, your uncontrollable tears fall hopelessly.

(The news of the tragic death of a singular samurai, holding his bleeding hand to his heart, in the Battle of Valhalla never reaches you.

After all, fire travels faster than words.)

The deafening sound of crackling fire plays your requiem and ends the unfulfilled dream of love.

end notes: harimise is a viewing cage where courtesans were placed in, like products on display at shops. they sit there the whole day until someone buys them.

the act of cutting off your hair and tying it around someone's pinky is a lover's pact. basically, it's a vow of love between a courtesan and their customers, where they offer their hair, nails, and blood to seal the deal. it could be used to extort more money from the customer, but it could also just be a promise of love.

also fun fact: historically, yoshiwara did end up burning in a huge fire that originated in a temple! :")

[curiositiiii]

A Day of Differences | Ch 1

Hello, and welcome to the first chapter of my original story. A chapter should hopefully be up every other week or so, depending on how school goes. WTLBF is about a group of superpowered people known as libra, and follows one in particular, November, as she joins a conspiracy to break free of the training facility for all the wrong reasons: to spite a literal manifestation of her inner demon, and to try and impress her longtime crush Chassia. Recurring characters are listed in order of appearance.

WC:  3169

Characters: November (POV character), Lanü, Saffra, Lloy (mentioned), Harper Ren (the evaluator), William ‘Will’ (name not given)

All text in italics in the story itself is dialogue from Lanü. As she’s an internal voice and doesn’t have a physical manifestation in the real world, her dialogue is more like a thought inside November’s mind. For that reason, it’s italicized to distinguish Lanü’s contributions from November’s. 

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

They’re late.

 For what has to be the fifteenth time in the past half hour, I glance at the basic black clock that hangs beside the dorm door. It’s been three minutes since I last checked. Three minutes doesn’t seem like a lot, but it’s an eternity when the speaker overhead was supposed to read off your name in a haze of crackling static no less than thirty minutes ago. Doubly so when punctuality is so stressed that it might as well be the motto of Libra Red. And all this disquieting change combines to make one unnoticeable girl create imprints in the carpet as she paces, anxious.

Relax, child. You’re always so overdramatic. Perhaps Dr. Dai should adjust your medication next time you happen to visit his office. 

“Shut up, Lanü,” I murmur. Once again my gaze drifts to the clock. The second hand ticks around with agonizing slowness, and not even a minute has passed since my last check. Great. If she keeps talking, this has the potential to become even worse. 

Finally -finally- the loudspeaker buzzes to life. “82-RA20 through 82-RA25, please report to the auditorium for your evaluations.” The speaker is unfamiliar, their voice closer to the overly formal speech of Director Hathwick rather than the chipper, warm voice of the secretary normally assigned to this busywork. 

Without hesitation I fly through the door. See, these evaluations are routine, like everything else here in the complex. Everything is exactly on time, exactly the same. There’s a kind of comfort in the sameness. Different doesn’t happen here.

Which means that even though the results of all this different are still going to be the same, there’s a natural curiosity propelling me forwards to go find out the cause of all this difference. Maybe they brought some fresh raspberries to hand out. Perhaps we’re all due for some medical examination. Maybe they aren’t doing the libra evaluations today, a questionnaire or therapy session propped up in its place.

Silly November, Lanü chuckles, amused. Your daydreams are entertaining at least, despite their pathetic nature. 

“I don’t recall asking for your thoughts,” I snap at the inner demon. When everything about yourself is pathetic, and more than slightly, it’s just as well that your inner demon decides to criticize nonsensical things like daydreams. Better that than the important stuff. 

If you wanted, there’s a way to change all of that… it’s no help to anyone when you lie there and embrace this contemptible lifestyle. Negotiations, however, would be most helpful to your situation. 

Like I haven’t already told her a thousand times: “Never in a thousand generations, Lanü.”

You don’t have to be a bitch about it, she whines before fading out, her honeycombed voice disgusted with me yet again. 

Behind me, Saffra snickers as she brushes past. The mocha-toned girl’s hilarity is evidenced by the jangling of dozens of beaded bracelets stretching up her wrists. Saffra, official ident 82-RA24, is so small in frame that her entire body shakes from the tremors of stifled laughter. The only exception is her short-cut black bob, held stiff by litres of candied hairspray. At least she doesn’t turn to try and chat. Her contempt is more bearable than her conversation. 

A few footsteps ahead of me, she turns, shifty eyes colored a vivid saffron color by contacts focusing on me. My relief came a bit too soon. “Talking to imaginary friends again, November?” 

The Memoriam doesn’t bother to say anything else, thank Vera, but instead turns her attention towards my mind. Her effort is useless. I’ve already cleared my head of thoughts except that of my own headspace’s security, and begun the deep breathing exercises every libra child is taught as defense against Memoriam prying. This all serves as an encryption process hiding the rest of my thoughts from the minds of those like Saffra, dropping in just to see what’s there. 

Her presence is a throbbing headache, marked by the trademark earthy smell of saffron and sugary sweet, sticky, footsteps that create light, stabbing pains wherever they lead. Every Memoriam has a trademark, just like how every Elemental and Creator has their tic. The ability isn’t there without the other accompanying it. 

These three also happen to be the most powerful classes of libra, although this is unrelated to trademarks and tics. 

The headache lifts, Saffra evidently growing bored of sifting through nothing. Her pace increases around a corner towards the auditorium, although for all her speed she’ll still be stuck in line one place behind me. My ident is 82-RA23, meaning I’ll be in the middle of the five-person set called up. In the middle of the group, invisible, just the way I like it. 

Completely unnoticeable and ordinary, according to you. 

According to reality, not me, although even the goddess Vera’s more in tune with reality than Lanü. 

 At last I reach the expansive auditorium of our year’s campus and settle into line behind Lloy. Up on the stage, feet can be seen moving beneath the dull grey privacy panel that protects the libra undergoing evaluation from the judging gaze of others, indicating that they’ve begun without me. I try not to mind. It makes sense not to follow protocol, to do things different, seeing how they’re so far behind right now. 

Part of me minds. That part nags, panic rising with my heartbeat. Different doesn’t happen here after all, it recalls. Different gets you flatlined, at best. 

The plethora of other differences start to spring out from around the room. Leaning against the dull cream walls are the Afterthought guards normally stationed around the auditorium on the twenty-first of each month, when our evaluations take place. Except there’s more than usual swarming the space like ants escaping a destroyed nest, and all of them seem tense. 

If there’s anyone in the world that shouldn’t be tense, no matter the situation, it’s an Afterthought. Only the eighty most powerful, most competent machines churned out from the Libra camps have the honor of progressing to Afterthought status upon graduation each year. Candidates are kept and trained at the Libra Black facilities, in a cutthroat competition to beat out at least twenty other fellow Libra Black in their year and secure their Afterthought status. 

They’re the highest class of libra, the rank we’re always pushed to try for. Incredibly powerful, respected above almost everyone, given comfortable and enjoyable job assignments in fascinating places, with luxurious benefits and short contracts to make it even more worthwhile, becoming an Afterthought is all any libra aspires to be from the time they’re old enough to know what it is. 

Many won’t reach it, of course. Anyone who started off in Libra Blue or Libra Yellow, the bottom 75% of libra, never had a hope to begin with. Members of Libra Red though, the upper quarter of libra excluding the hundred selected for Libra Black training, have a shot. Every month after evaluations, transfers up to Libra Black and down to Libra Yellow are announced, as well as the new Libra Reds replacing their spots. This month two or three will probably be announced, since graduation is in a little over a year. Hopefully I won’t be one of them. 

November, dearie, your lack of ambition is upsetting. You’re among the most powerful libra in this entire trash locale. There’s absolutely no reason to deny yourself the privilege and power of becoming an Afterthought. Hell, it would be so easy to abandon these worthless has-beens and move on up in the world. One word, darling, and I’m at your command. All it would take- 

“No, not now, not ever,” I whisper back, furious, ignoring the sniff of amusement from Saffra behind me. 

See, I don’t exactly qualify to become an Afterthought. Unluckily for my potential promotions, I still have a heart. 

It’s my turn to climb up the silvery steps to the top of the stage. An Afterthought motions me forwards with one wave of their arm, face hidden behind a reflective visor. Time for this month’s grand performance. 

Hurry up, Lanü commands, my slow, steady ascension up the narrow stairs and around the privacy screen too slow for her tastes. I grimace. Here, surrounded by Afterthought guards clad in identical tactical armor, with the evaluator a little ways ahead, I can’t say anything in response. To do so would probably incur a psych strike. And the last thing I need is more visitations to Dr. Dai. 

Every month, the evaluations are the same. There’s a comfort to be found in the dull, repetitive nature of our monthly evaluations. They call us up over the speaker in sets of five libra, every twelve minutes. We wait in line, perfectly still, until we’re beckoned up the stage and behind one of two bleached wooden curtains, both of which contain an evaluator. The evaluator sits us on a metallic tripod stool that’s always too tall for me. They are always nondescript. Dark hair of an indiscernible shade, unnoticeable eyes, same navy blue formal wear. They recite from a script, and we recite back. The evaluations are never different. 

What was a morbid curiosity has long turned into a dread inside my chest, sucking the rest of me down into its madness. Nothing ever changes. Nothing is ever different at Libra Red. Day in and out, we follow the same routines. Nothing is unique, nobody is special. Different doesn’t happen here. Different gets you flatlined. 

Given how unusual evaluations have been so far, it shouldn’t surprise me that the singular evaluator for today is different. 

It’s the scar that jumps out first, the faded, angry splatter mark of a burn long since bleached to a pale pink contrasting against his otherwise normal olive skin. The scar encases the entire left side of his face, running from his hairline down over his left eye to the jawline and down the poor man’s neck. When he raises his left hand to mark something down on the clipboard that like all evaluators, he carries, I can see the scar there too, trailing down what little of his forearm is visible and running across the palm, ending in five slender traces on the back of his hand where if anyone held hands with him, their fingers might rest. 

I wonder what libra got punished for that. I wonder if their death was merciful. 

There’s no question that inflicting such a wound even by accident would have brought death upon the poor child; that much is obvious by one look at the evaluator’s eyes. They’re a glittering onyx, with nothing but stormy contempt behind them. They’re dark as an Afterthought’s armlet, dark as the void, dark as the barrel of a gun. 

“Your name is November, correct?” He asks, sounding annoyed. I must have missed him the first time. 

 “Oh- yes, sorry sir.” Lanü’s chortle bounces around in my head. At least someone is amused by this spectacle. 

The evaluator seems unphased, and rather than give a huff of annoyance simply nods at my response. Perhaps he’s amused at my incompetence. “Alright November, we’ll begin with the vitals check. Your sheet also says that a blood draw has been requested, so if you don’t mind spending a few extra minutes here we can proceed with that now. Will that be alright? You may go to the infirmary to have it done after supper if you’d prefer.” 

“...That’ll be fine,” I murmur, taken aback. It’s not normal for them to ask. On any other evaluation day, they always demand. Not because they’re rude, or pushy, but because that’s what they’re supposed to do. That’s what the system is. Yet another foreboding difference for today. 

A med-tech emerges from behind the velvety red curtains, drawn halfway across the oak stage today to shield the full arsenal of evaluation supplies. Usually the curtains are drawn fully open, so the drama students can practice easily for the upcoming play they’ll be performing for the first time on Switch Day, written and performed entirely by Libra Red. Today they’ll remain half-closed, in blank gaping expression. 

 “Excuse me, shouldn’t I be sitting down?” I request as the med-tech prepares to draw blood, setting up a folding table to rest my arm against. They’re efficient at their job, and begin to swab down my arm even as they shake their head. 

“My sincere apologies, but unfortunately we don’t have a seat for today. As a favor for an old friend, I’m permitting his son to shadow me for evaluations today and as he’ll be here through the entire evaluation process, I’ve offered him the seat. The request was last minute, so unfortunately we weren’t able to find any other stools. Again, my apologies.” 

As he speaks the evaluator flicks his pen towards the corner of the privacy screen, where a boy perches in birdlike wonder. He’s recognizable, although from where I couldn’t say. Few people visit us, particularly human teens -we’re government soldiers in training, not a tourist attraction- so it couldn’t be from that. So what piece of pop culture is he from? 

The boy’s enlarged eyes, a pale shade of blue-grey, bore into my back as I turn to the evaluator. Blinking, I try to erase the shock of a guest from my mind, although that doesn’t change the fact that he’s still sitting behind me, light chestnut hair in disarray like twigs. Everything about the child, who is perhaps a year or two older than me, is reminiscent of a bird tethered to a tree, yet eager to take in the scenery. 

A quick jab of the med-tech’s needle is all the distraction I need. They siphon off three small vials of scarlet liquid from my left arm, slapping nothing but a bandaid atop the wound as compensation. That out of the way, they proceed to take my temperature, heart rate, and blood pressure, as well as perform the quick mental check-up questionnaire that’s part of vital checks. 

They’ve been drawing blood samples an awful lot lately. Do you wonder if perhaps your transfer paperwork is being drawn up?

I desperately want to tell Lanü to shut it, but with present company being what it is such an action would be inadvisable. 

We’re all out of differences in this odd take on an evaluation, and the evaluator knows it. It’s time to proceed to the part that never changes. With a sigh he runs the pen across the papers on his clipboard. “Alright November, your sheet says that you require a second to demonstrate your ability.” 

“That’s correct.” 

“80-BA119-G, if you would?” 

He phrases it like the boy has the free agency to say no. From behind the same curtain the med-tech emerged from, a blonde boy shuffles forwards to stand three paces ahead of me. His gaze, a watery baby-blue, doesn’t meet anyone’s. At least, that’s assuming the floor can’t see. Dressed in the outfit usually reserved for libra in training -white polo shirt, black blazer, black pants, white pumps- he could pass for a Libra Red in my year if it weren’t for the pastel blue armlet tightly bound over his left bicep, and the two thin blue lines at the hem of his uniform pants. 

If Libra Black become Afterthoughts, the most powerful among all libra, Libra Blue is the exact opposite. They become nothing. There isn’t anything left for them after they turn eighteen and become a legal adult. Regarded as a waste of resources, those unfortunate enough to be classed with the bottom twenty-five percent of libra are completely reset once they come of age. A Libra Blue over eighteen isn’t a human anymore, or a libra, since most consider the two mutually exclusive categories. They’re nothing but a robot constructed from flesh and blood and wasted futures. 

With an unusual expression of etiquette added on, a ‘please’, the evaluator asks the boy to display his ability. 80-GBA119 obliges, biting on his lower lip as both of his hands suspend mid-air, quivering. In between the palms a shimmering, translucent film of water begins to coalesce. The action takes all of his energy to maintain.

It’s pathetic in a pity-inspiring way. Poor thing. He’s trying his best, even if his best is nothing but a failed joke. 

Somewhere nearby a Libra Black scoffs at the spectacle. It isn’t hard to tell why: if this boy can do no more than create a softball of water, a Libra Black with an ability similar would be able to create and control a waterspout from only the vapour present in the Nevada Sector air. Knowing that, poor 80-GBA119 almost seems laughable to me as well. 

This is the part of the evaluation that never changes. I already know full well what’s coming, and I can’t stop it no matter how desperately I want to. 

Eyes are the portal to the human soul, and it’s his eyes I now inhale, drinking in every detail of their baby blue gaze. They’re closed doors, with no existence behind their mama’s boy blue exterior. Whatever type the portal was, it’s long since been torn down and the pieces burned on the pyre of a Memoriam’s graduation gift. 

I always look at their eyes. There isn’t anything left I can do for poor 80-GBA119 now, so I’ll try to preserve what’s left of him. It’s a shame, really. This poor boy is going to die like all Blues do, and I don’t even know his real name to wish him goodbye. 

Eye contact won’t form the bond I need, however. Lucky for me, I can look at others without the potential to wreak havoc. Eyes may be the portal to the soul, but vision alone can’t form a bond strong enough to tether two people into some sort of acquaintance, nor form a bond in the psycheplane. Talking or touch works best. 

If it was an option I’d prefer to utilize conversation as my means of connection. The bonds it forms are easier to forget after they break apart. But there isn’t any time for that, so instead I grab the boy’s shaking hand, giving it a sympathetic squeeze before letting go. It’ll all be over soon, 80-GBA119. 

Nothing forms a connection quite like touch. The most vicious of the five senses, the ability to feel warmth or coolness, the different textures of the world, is often taken for granted. Without the sense, one might as well be blind and deaf and senseless. It’s enough to drive people mad.

“Permission to proceed?” I ask the evaluator, trying not to focus on the boy in front of me and the papery-thin ball of water he maintains. He doesn’t seem to notice that my voice breaks. 

“Permission granted.”

And so I close my eyes, ready to begin the blissful, repetitive task of descending into myself and my own personal realm, a sort of fourth dimension known as the psycheplane. It is, as Lanü puts it, Showtime, darling!

[csjolly]

Hello! For your prompts I’m a real sucker for CS adopting a child. :)

ok I know this is pretty out there and LOOSELY follows the prompt so please forgive me! I’ve been wanting to write this for ages. Hope you enjoy :) 

“Bite your tongue, pet. I’m walking you home, whether you like it or not.” Emma huffed at Killian’s stubborn tone, rolling her eyes as he shouldered his leather bag and extended his arm. A chill ruffled her hair, the cold October weather finally getting to her.“Fine,” She eventually conceded, without batting an eye at his possessive endearment, “I’m not some damsel in distress, though.” 

The top of his ears turned red as he blushed, glancing briefly at his crooked arm, which he had offered to avoid her tripping on the iced-over stairs.

“I don’t need help down the stairs, Jones, no matter how high we are up Fall’s ass.” She continued, pushing past his hand and stepping down to the sidewalk that wrapped around the campus library where she worked.Killian scratched behind his ear and grinned obnoxiously. He shook his head, chiding her playfully, “Oi! That’s professor Jones to you.” 

Emma held back a smile of her own, batting at his shoulder as he descended to her level. “I’m not your student. I’m not even a student,” She reminded him. 

He shrugged. “As long as we work for the same university, I think you’ll find my title stays.” “And what if I want to call you by your first name, instead?” She turned to him coyly, finding his hand and intertwining their fingers. In response, he craned his neck down to pull her into a languid kiss, his wrist pressed against the small of her back. He gently gripped the fabric of her red leather jacket, his right arm finding the curve of her jaw and pressing her closer.

The red-brown scruff of his cheek brushed against her fingers and she hummed into his mouth. That got him to pull back reluctantly, tapping her on the nose. 

“You’ll have to ask nicely, I suppose.” He murmured against her, and Emma laughed, pushing off of him. 

“Yeah, yeah, Casanova.” She giggled, shaking her head as he trailed behind her.

The two walked in a comfortable silence down the empty streets, only pausing once to tie Emma’s shoe (“Honestly, Swan, why do you bother with those boots? I’d much prefer you in heels”/“You couldn’t handle me in heels, Jones”). The darkened road to Emma’s place ran beneath the metro underpass, a heavy stone bridge that towered over the slums of Boston. Her house was a block or so past it, a tiny little bungalow hidden by big metal fencing and walls of foliage. Emma was an expert in budgeting, not having a degree to back her up for a higher-paying job, and not having the money to go back to school to get one. The discount fencing was to keep out the drunks that stumbled through the back alley that her garage laid along, and the foliage had been a nice touch of her own. She had always wanted to live somewhere green, with flowers and bright colors, and she had been piecing her way towards that year by year with each potted plant she added to her yard serving as a souvenir.

 Beyond her cool and guarded demeanor, she was a soft and gentle person, emotional in nature and kind in heart. The dismal mentality she grew up with was slowly tumbling away, whether it was at her own hand, or at the hand of a scruffy and rugged brit who smelled of coffee and vanilla, grumbling about the way she drove and embracing her tightly and protectively, as though each touch was his last. 

The little homestead with chipped blue paint lacquered over dulled wooden paneling and a dirt stained porch was all she could really hope for. It was dusty and odd, but it was unique and so very alive. She could feel the calm energy that buzzed through the windowsills and chilled the dew droplets on the grass each morning. Emma knew the warmth and love that she had put into the property, and the same affection it gave back.

Her financial situation was one she had always struggled with. Her affinity for books and charismatic personality had earned her a spot at Boston University’s library, which was certainly a blessing, but didn’t quite make for a luxurious status. She certainly had been offered help from her friends. There was always the librarian who picked up Emma’s shifts on her off days, Belle French. She had her friend Mary Margaret, an English Professor whose husband David worked as a deputy for the Boston Police Department. Even her best friend and boss, Regina Mills, had offered to lend Emma money. She refused, though, each time. She didn’t want pity cash, and she didn’t want patronizing looks. She wanted the be recognized as someone who could take care of herself. Killian had always respected that, offering to cover dinner and give her rides to the store but graciously nodding when she refused. 

The one thing he was a stickler for was walking her home. She didn’t live far from the University, only a few blocks- but he never failed to accompany her after her shifts, muttering something about ‘good form’ (“So you’ve decided to be a gentleman today?” / “I’m always a gentleman, love”). She had to admit, despite her perfected ability to hold her own in a fight, his protectiveness was endearing. Each time he put his arm around her shoulder under the bitterness of the night and the fluorescent street lamps, she felt a sense of safety and contentment that she hadn’t known in years. 

That’s not to say she didn’t manage on her own, though- upholding her dignity atop muscled shoulders and and maintaining her quality of life on a head of blonde hair. In fact, her stitched-together abode even served as refuge to some of the scrap-starved kids that frequented the underpasses and tunnels near the train station. 

Growing up in foster care, Emma knew the loneliness and fear that went along with the life. As unofficial as it was, she had managed to supply a home to some of the runaways around the Boston area, providing what food and shelter she could give, as well as all the love her heart might hold. 

She and Killian had been together for nearly 10 months, and he had well managed to gain her trust enough to let him around some of the kids in her charge. Most of the teenagers drifted in an out of the area, stopping by for days at a time every few months. The youngest of the bunch, though, a 13 year old named Henry, came by Emma’s the most. 

His last set of foster parents had been a nasty two- a neglectful and cruel couple who hadn’t even seemed to notice that Henry had run away. The boy himself had spent the last few weeks on Emma’s couch, but eventually decided to return to the home to make sure the other kids were okay. She’d given him his own key for his 13th birthday, and he’d been using it ever since (leaving notes of thanks on the fridge or leaving his comic books strewn across the living room floor). Over the months she’d known him, she’d even managed to teach him some manners, and he’d taken it upon himself to take out the trash and wash the dishes whenever he could. Every once in a while, he’d bring some younger kids from his foster home back for dinner, raiding Emma’s fridge and showing them all the old Disney movies Emma had packed under the coffee table. 

Since Killian had started coming over, though, they’d found their interests in listening to tales of his travels (being an ex-navy man turned history professor, he had his fair share). Emma might have particularly enjoyed brushing the black strands of hair out of his face as he recounted his adventures, pressing a light kiss to his temple and fetching blankets for the kids huddled on the worn-down couch. She’d usually indulge them in steaming mugs of hot chocolate (with cinnamon on top, Henry insisted), and when she had saved up enough for the given month, they’d pile into Killian’s car on voyages to the aquarium or the marina. The older ones, who were more concerned about necessities like caps and gloves for the harsh winter, particularly enjoyed when she’d take them to the store and let them pick out a few things each.

Killian had grown attached to an older boy who shared his brother’s name. Liam was 17 and as nomadic as they came, only stopping by a few times a year or when he was in the area. He had fallen into a bad crowd, and despite Emma’s urgings to get himself straightened out, Liam had been impossible to get through to. That was, until he’d met Killian. The two had similar backgrounds- lost their mothers at a young age, deadbeat fathers- and were immediately inseparable. Killian had even managed to convince Liam to stay with him for a a while. After about three months of living with Killian, he had worked up enough to combine with all his savings to get himself his own place. The last that Emma and Killian heard from him, Liam had enrolled in the police academy in New York and was attempting to right some of his past wrongs. 

And that was simply Killian’s character: headstrong, determined, nurturing, wise- everything Emma had wanted to model for the kids. Having her boyfriend around had certainly made her job a lot easier. Henry, though- he had always been more in tune with Emma, despite Killian’s unfaltering adoration.  

Emma unlocked the gate and turned around to Killian. His dark hair was disheveled from a wind and his cheeks were rosy and pink. He smiled brightly, and kissed her on the cheek.“Have a good night, love.” He told her softly, but she grabbed his arm before he could turn to leave. “Why don’t you stay tonight?” She suggested through a yawn, tugging on the lapels of his heavy coat. He chuckled, and slid his arms around her waist. “You seem a little too tired for that, Swan.” He drawled mischievously lifting an eyebrow. 

“You got that right, pal,” she snorted, “But I don’t want you to take the metro home this late. I’d feel a lot better if you’d stay over. Neither of us have work tomorrow anyway, so we can sleep in late.” 

He nodded, bumping his nose against hers.“I’d love nothing more.” 

The two stumbled through the enclosed front yard, tripping over pots of plants and little garden-gnomes. “Bugger me,” Killian swore as he caught his foot on the jagged porch step. Emma laughed at him, and helped him stable himself. “I swear, Emma, you have to allow me to install garden lights as soon as tomorrow’s sun renders this death-trap of a lawn visible. You simply must.” 

She just rolled her eyes at his whining, and fumbled with her keys to unlock the door. “You could just move in,” She suggested, “Then you’d have full authority over what do do about our death trap lawn.” 

It wasn’t as though they hadn’t talked about it before, they knew they were a permanent thing and both wanted to take the step. The only issue was the location. Emma didn’t care if the house was falling apart. She’d make whatever repairs were necessary; it was her home. Killian, on the other hand, wanted to give her the absolute best that he could, and worried that the house was in a dangerous neighborhood for their potential kids to live. Emma argued that kids already did live with her, and she didn’t want to leave the only home she’d known.

“I think I could live with that.” He told her, and she looked back to him questioningly. “Really? But I thought-” He shook his head.“Emma, you know that I love you. I’d live with you in a bloody rubbish bin if you wanted to.” He stepped forwards, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear. A grin broke out onto his face, “Besides, David says you’re the best I can do.” 

Emma laughed and smacked him on the chest. “Hey!” She defended, and he smiled broadly back. “I’m only joking, Swan.” He hummed, leaning down to kiss her. Before he could though, a loud thud sounded from inside the house. 

Emma startled and quickly unlocked the door, rushing inside as soon as she could. She wasn’t quite sure what she expected, but a tumbling Henry collapsing under the open living room window was certainly not it. 

Killian was at his side in an instant, pulling him to his feet and brushing him off.“Are you alright, lad?” He inspected Henry for any injuries, finding only a blotchy purple bruise forming on his cheek. 

Emma cupped the boy’s chin and tilted his head to get a better look. “Who did this to you?” She demanded as Killian closed the open window. 

Henry averted his eyes and shook his head free. “Sorry for coming through the window. Didn’t wanna risk tripping on all the crap in the yard.” He mumbled, and Killian would have sent Emma a pointed look about porch lights if the boy didn’t look so sad. 

“It’s okay, kid,” She told him, pulling him towards the couch, “Sit down, I’ll make you some hot chocolate.” 

Henry nodded, pushing a mess of tangled brown hair out of his eyes. “Due for a shave, aren’t you?” Killian asked as he took a seat next to the boy, hoping to lighten the mood. Henry’s mouth nearly twitched into a smile, but it was gone in an instant. Killian sighed lowly, helping Henry shrug off his jacket. The boy’s shoes were drenched in mud and dirt, soaked through to the socks. 

Henry hissed as he took them off, tossing them onto the mat in the corner of the room that Emma always insisted he wiped his feet on. “Bloody hell, lad, how many puddles did you jump into?” Killian asked Henry as he wrapped the nearest blanket around his shivering form. Henry shrugged, teeth chattering. “I dunno. I was running too fast to keep track.” Killian nodded solemnly and put his arm around Henry, pulling the boy into a hug. Henry leaned immediately into the embrace, burying his head into Killian’s shoulder and clinging tightly to the blanket. Emma met Killian’s worried glance over Henry’s head as she set down a mug of hot chocolate in front of him. 

She rubbed the boys shoulder as he sat up, quickly wrapping his fingers around  the drink and gulping down as much as he could. “Henry, slow down, you’ll choke.” She softly reminded him, and he set the mug back down on the table. 

“Can we watch a movie? Pirates of the Caribbean, maybe?” He asked, his eyes pleading with her. Emma nodded and combed his hair with her fingers. Before her resolve crumbled, she reminded him, “You know the rules, though. You have to tell me what happened, first.”

Emma had a few of these, set just to make sure everyone was safe. The kids had to tell her their real name (no aliases allowed), explain where they got any bumps and bruises, and promise not to steal anything. Emma’s intuitive lie detector (a nifty skill she picked up that the kids had affectionately deemed her ‘superpower’) prevented anyone from escaping the rules, and made for a  safe and open house. 

That didn’t mean the kids always liked it, though. Henry huffed and turned his gaze to the floor. “I went back to check on the others,” He began, and Killian’s arm tightened comfortingly around his shoulder. “Everyone was okay, but…” He choked up a little bit, trying to hold back tears. “Violet got transferred to another house.” Emma patted his hand sympathetically, knowing how upset he must be. Violet was his best friend at the house, and had been his main reason for returning. “I didn’t even get to say goodbye.” He sobbed out, finally letting his tears fall. 

Killian let go so Emma could hug Henry tightly as he shook, murmuring words of comfort as she patted his back. The boy unwrapped his arms from around her and sniffled, finding his voice again. “She forgot her necklace- the one her dad gave her. I was trying to get it for her, so if I saw her again I could give it back.” He shook his head angrily and  bunched the blanket up in his fists. “Then that dickhead Peter took it from me.” He spat, and Killian grimaced. 

Normally, he’d scold Henry for his language, but this was a special exception. Peter was a bit of a bully at the home, and Killian had encouraged Henry to stand up to him. That had earned Henry a punch to the ribs, and Killian had felt so guilty about it that he bought the boy three different kinds of ice cream. Henry had laughed it off and accepted the ice cream, but still tiptoed around Peter like a scared deer. 

“He flushed it.” Henry eventually choked, glaring daggers at the hot chocolate. “And landed a solid punch,” He finished, motioning to his cheek.  Emma examined it briefly and hummed. “Want me to kick his ass for you?” She joked, and Henry broke his sadness to giggle a little through tears. He sniffed again and nodded, picking his mug back up and drinking the rest of the hot chocolate in one big swallow. “I don’t want to go back there. Ever. The stupid parents didn’t even notice I was gone.” He bit out.

 Killian cleared his throat, standing to fish the Pirates of the Caribbean DVD out from under the table. Emma turned to the young boy, nearly taken aback by how much of herself she saw in him. 

“So don’t.” She told him unwaveringly, and Killian froze. Henry tilted his head in confusion, and blinked his tear-blurred eyes. 

“What do you mean?” He asked her, and though the system had beaten down much of the hope he should have had, Emma was proud to admit that she could see a flicker dancing around in his stare.

Killian looked to Emma for confirmation before finishing her thought. “I believe the lass is asking you to stay here, my boy,” Henry whipped his head to look at him with wide eyes as Killian clarified, “Permanently.”  

Emma saw the slight tremor in Henry’s hands and grabbed them firmly. “I know it’s a big jump, and you’ve only really known us for a year or so,” She quickly told him, “But I love you, kid, and I want to take care of you. For real.” 

Henry slowly leaned back, wary and a little nervous.“But what happens when social services finds out? They’ll make me go back.” He trembled, and she shook her head.“Not if I’m your legal guardian.” At his awed expression, she forged on, “I mean it, Henry. If you’ll let me, I’ll get the papers, do this all the right way.”

He nodded enthusiastically, flinging his arms around her neck. Henry was getting tall already, nearly 5′7, but he was tiny enough that Emma could still use her weight and leverage to drag him up into a standing hug. 

When Henry pulled back, he glanced curiously between Emma and Killian. “Will you two… I mean…” He started, not quite knowing what to ask. 

Killian grinned broadly, looking proudly at Emma. “I’ll be here, too.” 

“Actually,” She cleared her throat, making her decision, “None of us will be here. I think it’s time we go somewhere new.” She sent Killian a shy look, and whispered conspiratorially to Henry, “What do you think about a little house by the marina?”  

Pirates of the Caribbean ended up discarded on the coffee table, and the mug ended up unwashed. After all, Henry was much too busy to do the dishes, bouncing around the house excitedly with an icepack pressed against his cheek. Killian couldn’t do them, either, for he was on a very important phone call with his landlord about when the lease would be up, and if he knew how easy it was to obtain a marriage license. Emma was busiest of all, certainly, comparing her savings account to a sweet little cottage by the marina, painted in blue with lawn lights. 

[meenasmoon]

Waiting for a Star to Fall Ch 2: Brand New Sun

Her first week in the culdesac passed by so quickly that it felt like whirlwind. She worked everyday at the diner so she could have the weekend open for Rosita’s party on Saturday and church with her family on Sunday. Every evening she came home absolutely exhausted, her feet pulsing with pain, and her back screaming in pain. After the first night she was beyond thankful that she had befriended Ash. The spunky Hispanic woman made sure that she made it through her shifts without straining her body more than she needed to, even going so far as to swipe heavy trays from her and deliver them to the table. Meena was beyond grateful, and she let her new friend know every night when they rode the bus home. And on Friday night, just like every other night, she brushed off her fervent ‘thank yous’ with a warm smile and a comforting arm around her shoulders.

“I gotta take care of you cariño. Can’t let you stress out these precious babies of yours right?” She chuckled when Meena just blushed and cradled her distended belly lovingly.

“But Ash I-“ She tried once more but Ash just gave her a stern glare before she could finish the sentence.

“Meena. Let me help you, cause I’m not giving you a choice.” They had shared a laugh as Ash helped her off the bus and walked her to her front door. Meena gave her a hug, trying desperately to control her yawn as she said goodby to her friend.

“Thanks again Ash.” She said softly, leaning against the door slightly as exhaustion made her limbs feel like jelly.

“Don’t mention it. Now you get some rest for tomorrow. I will see you at the barbecue, 12 o’clock sharp.” Meena nodded and the watched as Ash headed down the driveway towards her house before turning around and heading into her own house. She stopped herself from heading to the bathroom and instead opened the fridge to check on her cheesecake for the barbecue.

It had set perfectly in the fridge, the little rivers of strawberry gelatin giving it the perfect artistic touch. She smiled proudly to herself and then shut the fridge, waddling back to her room. She changed out of her work clothes and eagerly slipped into her favorite purple nightgown. As soon as her head hit the pillow she was sound asleep, little snores coming from her open mouth.

Unfortunately, her babies chose that night to get picky about her sleeping position. Every couple hours she was waking up to cramping pains and insistent kicking from two different sides of her stomach. She tossed and turned until finally she fell into a restless sleep around 5 am.

She was jerked awake an unknown amount of time later when one of her babies pressed down insistently on her bladder. She groaned and rolled out of bed, ignoring the fact that the sun was blazing in her eyes.

When she finally emerged from the bathroom and looked around she realized that something was off. The sunlight was blazing through her curtains and the light seemed somehow off. Dread filled her stomach as she glanced over at her clock, hoping beyond hope that it wasn’t as late as she thought it was.

As soon as she saw the time she practically dove for the shower, moving as quickly as she could with her belly in the way. It was 11:45.

She managed to shower in fifteen minutes and get ready in another ten. She put on her brand new dress and her most comfortable pair of sandals. Her dress was long and loose, draped perfectly over her stomach and tied with a golden ribbon just above the swell of her stomach. He dress was light purple and covered in a white and golden roses with dark purple leaves. She brushed out her hair and groaned when she saw that her natural curls were starting to appear and she didn’t have time to tame them.

She grabbed her phone and the cheesecake from the fridge and hurried next door to the big blue house with white trim and a perfectly manicured lawn. She could hear the sounds of the party in the backyard and her nerves were suddenly overwhelming in their strength. She clutched the cheesecake in her shaking hands like it was the only thing that was keeping her from losing it.

Meena took a deep, shuddering breath and slowly made her way up the stairs, her chest constricting painfully with each breath. By the time she got to the door she felt like she was going to have a heart attack or something close to it. Just when she was about to succumb to her nerves and go home to hide, she felt a barrage of kicks from her stomach and suddenly everything came back into focus.

She looked down at her flower-print covered stomach in shock and felt another storm of kicking from the active little munchkins inside of her. A small, sweet smile spread across her face and she looked down at her stomach with pure adoration on her face.

“Thanks my little loves.” She whispered, and then gathered her newfound courage and rang the doorbell.

Almost immediately the door was wrenched open by a boy with curly blonde hair exactly like Rosita’s and a giant bubbly grin. He smiled up at her through the gap in his teeth as she looked down at him in surprise. Without saying a word he turned around and yelled back into the cavernous house.

“Mooooom!! The pregnant lady is here!” He then dashed away to another room and Rosita emerged from what looked like the kitchen with an irked look.

“Casper Tenny! You have better manners than that! Use them.” She called after her son, her ‘disapproving mom’ voice making Meena’s smile grow even brighter. When she saw Meena standing uncertainly in the doorway her face brightened into a welcoming smile and she quickly ushered Meena into the house.

“Come in sweetie come in!” She took the cheesecake from Meena’s hand and led the way into the kitchen, where she put it into the gargantuan fridge that practically dominated the entire room.

“I love your house.” Meena said as she looked around the big open spaces in awe. Despite the size of the house, everything was meticulously organized and color coded. There was even an intricate chore chart and reward system posted on one wall. Meena was trying to decipher it when Rosita returned from the fridge and put an arm around her waist.

“Thank you sweetie! I’m so glad that you could make it.” Meena blushed, ashamed of her tardiness.

“I’m sorry that I was late. I had a rough night.” She looked down at her stomach and Rosita followed her gaze with a knowing look.

“Don’t worry about it honey. I know the feeling.” Meena shared a smile with her as the petite woman led her out into the backyard where chaos reigned. On one side of the yard, a portly man with plain brown hair manned the grill. He was wearing a ‘Grill Master’ apron and looked like he was in his own little world. He was most likely Rosita’s husband.

At the other end of the yard a slip n’ slide had been set up and four other blonde devils were screaming their heads off as they enjoyed the simple distraction. They were joined by a familiar little boy with a rainbow mohawk, a portly boy in a gymnastics uniform, and a little girl that looked suspiciously like Cora. Meena shook her head to clear it and resumed scanning the people in the yard, but before she could, familiar calloused hands covered her eyes.

“Guess who?” A familiar voice asked Meena giggled as she took the hands in her own and spun around so that she was face to face with a smirking Ash.

“I knew it!” Meena winked playfully and Ash pulled her into side hug as she lead her towards a group of people who were mingling around the snack table. Her grip relaxed as they got closer and she pulled her arm back, but Meena didn’t let her go without gripping her hand tightly, her accursed nerves playing up again. Ash squeezed her hand just as tight and gave Meena an encouraging look that gave her just enough confidence to release her hand and paste a shy smile on her face as they neared the group.

“Hey! I wanna introduce you mensos to our new neighbor.” Ash rudely interrupted their conversation but they all seemed used to her brash personality because they just stooped and looked at the two women.

A short older man with prematurely gray hair and a kind smile was the first to greet her. Despite the casualness of the party he was wearing a white button up with rolled up sleeves, a red bow tie, navy dress pants, and black dress shoes. Meena took his hand and gasped in surprise when instead of shaking it he leaned down and placed a little kiss on the back of it.

“Oh my!” She saw Ash roll her eyes next to her but she just giggled and smiled politely, “Thank you um… I’m Meena Jones.”

“Buster Moon.” He grinned as he released her hand and proudly straightened his bow tie, “I live a couple houses down and I’m usually the one throwing these things but you can’t really say no to Rosita, as I’m sure you’ve discovered.”

Meena giggled and nodded, her hand coming down to reflexively rest on her stomach. Buster didn’t even seem to register the fact that she was pregnant like most other people did, rather he was too focused on introducing himself and gathering up as many finger sandwiches as he could.

Before either of them could say anything else Meena felt someone gently tapping her arm. She turned around to find herself face to face with a short, wrinkled old woman who was giving her a kind of loopy smile. She was wearing way too much makeup and she was dressed in a garishly orange and yellow dress that could only be from the 70s.

“Hello Dearie. I’m Miss Crawly. I live at the end of the street with my cats.” She embraced her feline obsession with an almost naive pride that made Meena smile despite her persistent nerves, “You must come by and visit me sometime. We’ll just have a blast you and me.” Meena laughed and rested her hand over top the older woman’s.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Her words made Miss Crawly’s eyes widened and one teared up while the other seemed to stare blankly up at Meena. In a moment of clarity she realized that it must be glass and that was why it never really seemed to move or have any life in it. Miss Crawly slipped her hand out from under Meena’s, cupped her surprised face and pulled her in so that she could kiss her on her cheeks. She then proceeded to wander back into the house, muttering to herself about something that Meena couldn’t quite make out.

“Miss Crawly is a little loca but she’s sweet, and harmless so…” Ash just shrugged and Meena gave her an amused grin. Once again her attention was turned away when a lanky man in board shorts, a brightly colored tank top and jewelry that vaguely reminded her of a gangster. But his disco-era afro and innocent brown eyes assured her that he was just oddly dressed, not a threat. He scratched at his thin facial hair as he spoke, his eyes darting all over the place, almost as if he couldn’t focus on one thing.

“I’m Eddie Noodleman and that’s my son Luigi.” He gestured to an awkward looking teenager who was desperately trying to blend in with the chair that he had folded himself into. He had hopelessly pale skin, a face full of acne and bright red hair that stood out on all ends like a rats nest. He looked severely uncomfortable at this party and Meena felt a pang of sympathy for him given her initial misgivings about socializing with people.

“He’s just gotta warm up to ya. He’s a good kid.” Eddie shrugged and shoved his hands into his pockets, “Anyways we live in that huge house next door to Busters with my N-“

“Aaaand this is Gunter!” Ash interrupted Eddie before he could finish his sentence and she physically turned Meena to face the chubby man who was practically dancing in place, his entire being radiating pure happiness. His golden blonde hair was pulled back into a loose ponytail and he was wearing a golden sequined track suit.

“Ja! Zat is me!” He said excitedly, his German accent thick enough that Meena had to concentrate to understand what he was saying.

“Velcome to zee neighporhood! I am zo excided to haffe ein new friend!” Meena stepped back a little when his excitement translated not only into words but also hand gestures, “You must come to mein zumpa schtutio und dance vith me!”

Meena giggled and put her other hand on her stomach, “I might just take you up on that, but we should probably wait until after the babies are born.”

Gunter let out a loud belly laugh that shook his entire form with its intensity, “Ja, ja. Ve vait.” He agreed with her easily and proceeded to pull her into a tight, awkward hug. A few minutes later when he was still clinging to her she looked to Ash in desperation, her eyes pleading for help. Her snickering friend rolled her eyes and gently pulled Gunter off of Meena.

“Okay Gunter. Let her breath yeah?” Gunter nodded happily and resumed his position in their little circle, his wide eyes watching Meena like she was his new favorite TV show.

“So, Preggo, what are ya doin’ at this shit show?” A teenager with white hair shaved into designs while his long bangs covered his eye. He was wearing saggy gray cargo pants and a black t-shirt with a skull printed on it, not to mention countless jewelry and studded bracelets. Before Meena could even be offended by his derogatory nickname, the blonde man next to him snarled at the teenager.

“Frankie! What the hell did I say about runnin’ yer mouf at dis pahty?” He yelled in a slight New York accent but the teenager just flipped him off and slunk away towards Rosita’s house. The slim man, obviously the boy’s father, turned so red in the face that Meena swore he was going to explode. Instead he just took a deep breath and turned back to the group. He took a flask out of his jacket pocket and sourly took a sip of whatever was inside, swallowing the liquid eagerly. Meena noticed that while he was dressed in a nice business suit and his dirty blonde hair was slicked back, the circles under his eyes and the five o’clock shadow on his face kind of ruined his put together image.

“Sorry bout the kid Preggo. He gets that mouth from his mom.” The man wiped away excess fluid from around his mouth and shoved the flask back into his pocket.

“Her name is Meena, pendejo.” Ash snarled and the slim man just gave her a snarky unimpressed look.

“Yeah yeah. Keep your pants on Drama Queen.” He looked Meena up and down and she cradled her stomach protectively under his gaze. His attitude didn’t make her feel very welcome but there was a hidden softening in his gaze when he glanced at her stomach.

“Names Mike. Obviously I live in dis sappy culdesac wit my boy Frankie.” Before he could say anything else a loud blaring coming from his pocket interrupted him. He yanked out the Blackberry and pressed it up to his ear. Almost immediately the person on the other line began chattering in a shrill voice and Mike’s face screwed up in fury.

“God Damn it woman I told you never to call me on my work line!!” He yelled into the phone and the person on the other side only screeched louder to combat his own yelling.

“We already talked about this! I’m keeping the goddamn house. It’s mine you-“ He turned and began to walk away, still yelling into the phone. Meena glanced at the part of the house where Frankie was leaning against the wall, blatantly smoking a cigarette and glaring at his father. For a moment his expression shifted to a deep sadness as he watched his father engage in a screaming match with his phone. Meena tried to smile comfortingly at him when he glanced her way but the familiar sullen look appeared on his face and he turned back to his cigarette.

Meena frowned but her attention was pulled back to her babies when they suddenly began to kick insistently on her stomach. She winced and rubbed her stomach soothingly at the same time that it rumbled angrily. She blushed when her neighbors laughed and Ash threw her arm around her friend’s shoulder.

“Howabout we get you some grub huh? I think that might appease those little rascals.” Ash lead her over to the grill where Rosita’s husband was loading the last of the burgers onto a tray.

“Hello ladies. Just in time for lunch.” He gave them a kind smile and led the way over to the table where Rosita was setting out the rest of the spread, including Meena’s cheesecake. They began filling up their plates as Rosita called the children over from where they were playing. When Meena say the screaming giggling hoard running towards them she was suddenly grateful that she had gotten her plate before they descended upon the table.

The little boy with the rainbow mohawk ran over to Ash and eagerly accepted the plate that she had made for him.

“Thanks Mama.” He said in a sweet little voice that made Meena’s heart ache with happiness.

“Of course mijo. This is Mama’s new friend Meena. Can you say hi?” She said affectionately, ruffling his sopping wet hair. The little boy giggled and gave Meena a big gap-toothed grin that made her fall even more in love with him.

“Hi Miss Meena. I’m Hendrix.” he shoved a ranch covered carrot stick into his mouth as he examined her with bright green eyes, “Why is your tummy so big?” He suddenly asked.

Before Ash could scold him, Meena gently took his tiny hand and placed it on her stomach. Almost immediately the babies kicked back and Hendrix looked at her in a mix of awe and confusion.

“You feel that? My babies are growing in there.” Meena said softly and Hendrix smiled up at her. He patted her stomach as he shoved another carrot stick in his mouth.

“Hi babies. I’m Hendrix.” He whispered to her stomach as if he was telling them a secret. Then he turned to his mother and proudly showed her the veritable sleeve of temporary tattoos that someone named Tess had given him. It was a mix of girly flowers, race cars, and characters from his favorite show, ‘DinoTrux’.

Ash smiled at Meena before turning her attention back to her son’s new tattoos. She gave them the proper amount of accolades before Hendrix was satisfied and followed his mother and Meena as they made their way to a nearby picnic table. Meena was grateful to finally sit down, her feet starting to ache again from standing on them for an extended period of time.

“Did you have fun with the other kids mijo?” Ash asked as she watched him devour the small pile of chips on his plate.

“Si mama.” He happily began to tell her about the game that they had been playing with the slip n’ slide. He was in the middle of his story about how a kid named Rory didn’t want to go down the slide backwards when it slipped out, “And you know why he didn’t wanna go backwards mama? Cause he has no cajones.” He giggled to himself, completely unaware of the dark look that Ash was now giving him.

“Hendrix Manson Rodriguez! What did you just say?” He suddenly froze and looked up at his mother with a mixture of fear and shame.

“I’m sorry mama.” He tried to please her but Ash’s brown eyes blazed with fury.

“Sorry isn’t good enough. You need a timeout!” She picked him up out of his seat and began carrying him inside the house so she could find a timeout spot, “Where did you even learn a word like that?”

Meena heard her ask as they walked farther away, leaving her alone at the picnic table, “From you mama. You told daddy to grow some.”

Meena snickered to herself and took a large bite of her burger, enjoying the silence for a minute as she looked around at the activity of the party.

She was watching Eddie and Buster as they chatted near the slip n’ slide, sharing mischievous looks, when her table was suddenly invaded by the Tenny family. Rosita and Norman sat down across from her and Meena shook hands with the sleepy looking man. Her children, all five of them, all blonde with color-coordinated outfits and identical plates of food plopped themselves down to fill the rest of the table.

They chatted amongst themselves as Rosita pointed out which one was which to Meena. She was reintroduced to the mischievous blonde with curly hair named Casper as well as Hannah a little girl with braided pigtails and big round glasses. Tess had her blonde hair cut short like her mothers while Rory had his blonde hair spiked, and Nelson’s was long and shaggy. Rosita fussed over them before she finally released them from their introductions to go play with the rest of the kids.

Rosita then leaned forward on the table and fixed Meena with her curious hazel eyes. Meena smiled shyly at her as she finished off the rest of her burger and wiped her mouth with her napkin.

“Soooo…. is your husband going to drop by anytime soon? We would love to meet him.” She gushed and Meena choked on her glass of iced tea, coughing slightly to clear her throat.

“Oh um…actually I’m not married.” Meena said awkwardly and looked down at her empty plate, wishing fervently that Ash was there with her to run interference. She looked up to see that Rosita’s face had fallen a little bit and she was looking at Meena with concern in her eyes.

“Oh well… your boyfriend then.” She laughed nervously and Norman looked at her with a surprisingly annoyed expression.

Meena fiddled with her dress and fought the nervousness that welled up in her throat like bile, “I don’t have a boyfriend, anymore.” She felt her heart twang painfully as she was reminded of the fact that her ex-boyfriend, Trevor, had left her alone with these babies.

Rosita’s face suddenly looked concerned and a little bit disapproving as if she was looking at Meena with new eyes, “Oh! I didn’t- I mean why would I- but why? Where is he?” She sputtered over her words as she tried to continue the conversation but before a mortified Meena could even try to reply Norman stepped in.

“Rosita! Enough. She doesn’t have to explain herself to us. Leave her alone.” Norman scolded his wife and Rosita looked at him in a mix of embarrassment and anger.

“Norman I’m just trying to make sure that-“ Rosita tried to explain but Norman just got up from the table, taking his plate with him.

“Make sure what Rosita? That she has a perfect nuclear family just like you?” He turned to a shocked Meena who had been watching the whole exchange with mounting confusion. It felt like she had stepped into an already open argument and they were just using her situation to resume it.

“Thank you for coming Meena and I hope that my wife didn’t offend you in any way.” Meena gave him a confused smile and rested a comforting hand on her suddenly rolling stomach.

“No not at all.” She said softly and Norman gave her tiny smile before glaring at Rosita and storming off into the house. Rosita let out an awkward laugh and tripped over herself as she dashed away from the table and after her furious husband. She brushed past Ash as she hurried past and Ash looked back at her in confusion before shaking her head and heading back over to Meena.

Meena smiled in relief at her and finally noticed that Ash was leading a little familiar looking little girl over to their table.

“Meena!” She called out and then hurried over to sit next to her, practically vibrating with excitement.

“Hello little ninja!” Meena greeted her and pulled her into a hug. When she released her she noticed that the little girl was wearing a bathing suit under her sundress.

“What are you doing here honey?” She asked curiously and out of the corner of her eye she saw Ash grinning mischievously and looking at something behind them.

“We live here silly.” Cora laughed and took a huge bite of the cheesecake that Meena suddenly realized that she had been carrying.

“Oh my.” Meena blushed, her heart pounding in her chest as she came to the realization that Johnny must live in this culdesac too, that he must be at this very party, in this backyard.

“’Ello Meena.” she heard a familiar heart-stoppingly smooth voice say from behind her and based on the smug look on Ash’s face she knew exactly who it was. She spun around in her seat and came face to face with Johnny in all of his glory. He was wearing a worn pair of jeans, a white t-shirt and his thick black hair was spiked up and styled perfectly. The sun cast a halo of light behind him and she was struck dumb by that crooked smile of his.

“H-hello Johnny.”

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