#existential dread o’clock

[whoevenamibro]

Some days I wake up just to remind myself that I’m still not who I thought I’d be.

[klausinamarink]

One Kid Gone, Another Up and Vanished (part 14)

getting back to the grove of writing and updating this on a reg. And look at that - an update in 2024! (jesus where did time go)

Part 1 Part 2 Part 3 Part 4 Part 5 Part 6 Part 7 Part 8 Part 9 Part 10 Part 11 Part 12 Part 13 next: Part 15 | ao3

After startling himself awake for the third time in a row, Jeff groans in defeat as he kicks the blankets off him and makes his quiet way downstairs. He pauses once at the front of his parents’ bedroom door, wondering if he could sneak in under their covers like he used to do when he was little. Instead, he listens to his dad’s soft snores for a bit before continuing on.

The kitchen is quiet. Usually, the liminal solace eases him. This time however, it makes Jeff hyper aware of every sound in the house. Any tap on the window and back door spikes his heartbeat up to eleven. The darkest corners where he can’t see manifest the faintest shapes of teeth. His mind is starting to convince him that the monster is hiding right behind the kitchen island.

He quickly flicks the light switch on and the shadows retreat to their abyssal homes. Jeff does a swift lap around the island, sighing in relief when he finds nothing.

Jeff goes over to sink and fills up a glass of water. He drinks, drinks, and drinks.

After his throat feels no longer dry, Jeff places the glass down, a finger tapping on the rim. He’s too worked up to go back to bed and sleep. Thank god it’s the weekend. He can’t imagine trying to trudge his way to class and lunch while every empty seat that should have Eddie in it continues to haunt him.

“Fuck.” Jeff huffs, rubbing the side of his temple. Because right. While he had just found out alternate dimensions with man-eating monsters exist, Eddie’s still incognito.

He just wanted to find his best friend. How did Jeff’s life come to this?

Another realization strikes him. If Eddie doesn’t come back, then what will happen to the Hellfire Club? Neither Jeff or the other members are as great at DM’ing as Eddie. There’s also no chance of someone else in the high school with the same skills to bother joining. Even if they did, it wouldn’t be the same with Eddie’s love for dramatics and methods of setting the scene to further engage them. A club without their leader wouldn’t last long even with the members still onboard.

Hellfire would be gutted out of Hawkins High. Every brick made of Eddie’s blood, sweat, and tears would be smashed into dust and swept into the dumpster. It would be like Eddie had never existed at all.

Jeff buries his face into his hands, leaning over the counter. He breathes in and out as slow as possible. He is not having this breakdown at whatever-o’clock at night-

The floorboards creak behind him. Jeff spins around, his hand about to throw the glass at the noise. He manages to stop himself at the last second when he sees it’s just his grandmother.

“Jeffery?” She squints at him, her accent more clear with her apparent sleepiness. “Why, why are you up? You should na koimásai, óchi?”

Jeff chuckles, wiping his eyes in case a few tears welled up. He walks over to her, gently holding her arms. “Kala, Gigi. I was just thirsty.”

His grandma studies his face briefly before she tutted, “Trouble sleeping. Óchi kala.” She waves him off as she starts heading over to the cabinets, the kettle already set to boil. “Tea would make you better.”

Jeff’s not sure if his grandma’s famous dandelion-honey tea will be enough to erase the shadowy monsters and existential dread from his mind. But hey, what not?

—

El wakes up to the sun. It’s nice and warm on her face. She sits up from the ground, keeping her head up to have the sun still shining on her. But a cold breeze hits her and the nice warmth is gone. She shivers, sinking her head further into her jacket.

The pretty blonde hair gets into her nose and mouth. She spits it out but now it sticks to her cheek.

El stands up and walks over to the large water, close to where she had slept. She looks down and sees the same Pretty Girl. Except that her eyes are puffy-red and her face is dirty.

El takes off the hair and Pretty Girl does the same. Now she looks just like Eleven. A monster. Papa’s failure.

El’s face twists, remembering how scared she was the night before when Mike and Lucas started yelling at each other before Mike hurt him. While they had all ran into Mike’s house after she Felt Will and Eddie, she had ran away from them.

She doesn’t want to hurt them anymore. Staying with them will bring Papa to them. Or turn Mike into someone like that boy Troy.

She still has the walkie radio in her hands. She hasn’t turned it on in case Mike starts calling her. But she hasn’t checked in with Will and Eddie either yet. She’s scared of hearing the monster again.

Something dark and hazy flashes in her mind. For a moment, she’s at the Room and someone - not Papa - leers down at her. Eleven, what have you done?

Somehow, it terrifies El to her entire body that she screams. The water parts away in a rush as if it’s scared of her too.

—

The first thing Nancy does after waking up is flicking her eyes to the bedside lamp. She expects it to turn on and off by itself like some sort of morning alarm. But nothing happens. Nancy shuffles over and twists the tiny knob to the side, but still nothing. Seems that the power is still out.

Nancy looks down at Jonathan. He’s still sleeping where he lies on the floor next to the bed, a thick duvet over him with his jacket as a pillow.

After the combination of the Poltergeist-esque communication with his brother (the reality of that situation is now hitting her wow) and the hectic post-blackout assistance (which involved many candles and hurried transport of food in the fridge), Jonathan had been drained enough that he had just dropped to the floor like a stone. Her mom had only allowed him to sleep in Nancy’s room because he literally couldn’t budge. 

Nancy watches him for a moment while his shoulders rises gently up and down. It gives her deja vu, bringing her back to that morning in Steve’s bedroom. 

Oh god, Steve. Nancy didn’t mean to say any of that to him. It was just supposed to be a way to convince him to leave so Steve wouldn’t see Jonathan and get the wrong idea. But she got too stressed by his questions that her emotions got the best of her. 

Now, after seeing Steve’s crestfallen expression, Nancy will know better than to hurt him again. 

She rolls over to her back and stares up at the ceiling. Her mind buzzes with the renewal of every emotion from the past twelve hours. Fear. Curiosity. Irritation. Regret. All of them fill up the new hole in her chest.

But none of it is enough to drown her worries for Barb.

Tears sting her eyes again. Nancy quickly rubs them away, not wanting to dissolve into a sobbing mess again. It hurts when she demands herself not to think about Barb for a minute. She needs to distract herself. Preferably something safe. Like, like-

Checking on Mike.

Nancy slips out of bed, tiptoeing past Jonathan and into the sunrise-lit hallway. Mike’s door is closed but she hears a faint rustling sound on the other side. When Nancy lightly knocks, it stops.

“Mike?” She calls, quiet enough to not wake up Holly or her parents.  

She hears her brother groaning. Nancy rolls her eyes and lets herself in, expecting Mike to yell at her as usual. Instead, she’s taken aback by his silence as he stuffs his backpack with something that looks like an extra set of clothes.

“Mike?” When he doesn’t look up at her, Nancy steps closer. Mike’s hunched over and the corner of his eyes look red. Either from last night’s craziness or his emotional outburst. Maybe both. “You okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Totally not because I can’t find Will.” Mike snaps with a swift zip of his backpack. His tone sounds too tired for a twelve year old. And something his answer confuses Nancy. Can’t find Will?

She thinks about to last night when the flashing lights in her room expanded to the rest of the house. Nancy had been terrified and too focused on Jonathan holding her that she’d barely missed Mike’s frantic calls. At first, she thought he was calling for their parents, but then she had heard him shout out Will’s name. After all the lights blew out, Nancy had nearly forgotten it.

Now that she thinks about it, she wonders if Mike had also found a way to talk to Will too. That might explain the behaviour of him and his friends from the past few days.

“Hey, if there’s any-” But just as Nancy sits on the bed next to him, Mike hops off. That’s when she notices that he’s already changed out of his pyjamas. 

“Wait a second. Mike, where are you going?” 

Her brother stops at the door’s threshold. He turns around and says seriously, “I’ve become the fugitive of the state. Tell Mom I love her.” 

“Wh- Mike!” Nancy jumps up to her feet but Mike’s already dashing down to the stairs. Frankly, she’s too taken aback about the sudden scene of normalcy to chase after him. 

She groans in exasperation as she returns back to her bedroom. This time, Jonathan is awake, rubbing his eyes and asking, “Whatz th’ time?”

“Morning, that’s what we know.” Nancy drops back on her bed. Her hand coincidentally lands on her notebook, left alone on the corner. She picks it up and flips back to the pages where she had transcribed Jonathan’s conversation with Will and Munson.

J: Munson? How are you here? EM: TAKEN TOO. DEMOGORGON. SCARY MOTHERFUCKER.

(At that, Nancy couldn’t help but laugh. That’s one way to describe the monster she and Jeff had fled from.)

J: Okay, did the demogorgon took you too, Will? WB: YES. J: When? WB: BIKING BACK HOME EM: IT HIT MY VAN

“What should we do now?”

Nancy glances up. Jonathan’s still sitting, picking at the skin around his thumb, not looking at her. “I mean, we know Will’s somewhere that’s not really here and Eddie Munson’s with him. But something happened-” he gestures to the nonfunctional lights, “-and now we can’t talk to them and find out.”

Nancy bites her lip. She doesn’t like this either, but it would be laughable to go to the police. Because what would they really do, even if they somehow believe the story? Shoot the monster and bring those two boys back? Yeah, very unlikely.

Thumbing through the pages with last night’s conversation, Nancy tears them out of the notebook. She hands them over to Jonathan, who finally looks up and slowly takes them. “Your mom is probably the only person who knows what’s going on. Give those to her. She’ll believe us.”

“And then what?” Jonathan mutters, staring down at the pages. “Knowing my brother’s alive is not enough.” He pauses, “Does Munson’s parents know about him?”

Nancy blanks. She doesn’t know Eddie Munson that much, save for his habit of walking on lunch tables and shouting at the popular students. Nancy used to find it funny, but eventually it turned into background noise.

Shaking her head, she asks, “Don’t you know Munson better?”

Jonathan sighs, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling. “Just because we’re both freaks at school doesn’t mean I’m friends with him. I know nothing about Munson other than he lives in Forest Hills trailer park. I don’t think he even has parents.”

He pauses, turning his gaze back at Nancy, “Wait, what about the demo-monster? We know nothing about it.”

“We do.” Nancy gets up, walking over to her bookshelf. “I’ve only seen the monster for a minute, but even if it’s not from our world, it’s still an animal. A predator. If we can at least guess its strengths and weaknesses,” she pulls out her animal encyclopedia. She hasn’t touched it since eighth grade, but it should still do, “then we hunt it and kill it.”

Jonathan stares at her. “How?”

“We can get hunting equipment. That should work.”

“But will that guarantee getting Will and Munson out?”

Nancy doesn’t know how to answer that.

—

Jim wakes with a startled gasp and a hand clamping over his neck. The side of it still pangs with the needle suddenly stabbing through the skin. Catching his breath, he takes in his new surroundings. He’s back in his trailer, now sitting upright on the couch as the morning beams through the curtains. Which means that, in between now and his baffling discovery at the Hawkins Laboratory, Jim had somehow made it home and blacked out.

Motherfuckers.

Jim rushes out of the couch and starts tearing through every inch of his place. Cuts through the pillows. Breaks more plates than necessary in the cabinets. Digs through the trash. Ruffles his bedsheets. The whole shebang.

It’s while he starts unscrewing the bulbs of his lamps that a knocking bangs on the front door. Jim freezes for a second, a sheet of sweat and fear dousing him. His gun is lost somewhere in the mess. If that’s the Lab folks again with that Brenner man again-

“Chief! You coming out?”

Jim shakes out a relieved sigh. It’s Cahallan.

He eyes at the lamp, wondering if he could still check it. He decides to leave it for now. Let the Lab listen to him like they want.

Jim finds his gun and checks through the peephole. Then he pokes his head out, glaring at Cahallan.

“Whoa, Chief,” Cahallan starts but Jim cuts him off with a (hopefully) very relaxed, “What’s up?”

As Cahallan stares at him, Jim notices two other men behind him. He relaxes when he recognizes Powell - who’s looking down like the dead leaves around his shoes are the Niagara Falls - and Conrad Smith, another officer at the station.

Cahallan snaps out of his stupor, shaking his head. “Remember Barbara Holland? A couple of those rangers went out and got a eyewitness who said she hitchhiked with a trucker somewhere west. Guess she did ran away after all.”

Jim nods, but his mind is already split between completing his search of the house and the goddamn state getting their hands all over Hawkins.

“There’s something else too, Chief.”

Jim barely resists an impatient sigh, “What?”

The men look at each nervously before Cahallan takes a breath and quickly says, “Will Byers’ grave was desecrated last night.”

Jim almost falls over at that, but he catches himself at the last second. He doesn’t hide his shock and disbelief though. “I’m sorry, what?!”

“We got the call just around ten last night.” Smith takes the reins to explain, “The grave was dug down to his coffin and the robbers broke it open.”

Oh sweet Jesus.

How Jim hasn’t collapsed to the ground yet, he chalks it up to his sheer force of will and the way his hand still grips on the edge of his door. He sucks in a deep breath, “Please tell me the kid’s body isn’t violated.”

Cahallan winces again, “Yeah, uh, we don’t exactly know.” At Jim’s bewildered glare, he quickly backtracks, “When we came over, the graveyard was swarmed by the state guys! They told us this was their ‘point of interest’, whatever the hell that means other than we should stay out of their business.”

A cold sweat drips down Jim’s neck. This definitely sounds like a government coverup in the making. Not to mention that if Joyce catches a wind of what’s going on… Jim’s not sure if he should pray for the state rangers from their inevitable fates.

Then another cold thought strikes him. What if the Lab already bugged her house? And Wayne Munson’s?

“Okay.” Jim feigns casual interest and clicks his tongue. “Well, if the case is going to be resolved by the state, then so be it. Now scram.”

Before he shuts the door, he hears Powell calling out to him. He glares out again, “What?”

Powell shuffles from foot to foot before finally piping up, “Am I still fired after the Munson kid is found?”

Jim slams the door.

He stays long enough to hear their mutterings and crunching footsteps as they walk away. Then he stomps back over to the lamp, digging his hand inside the cover. Something plastic touches his fingers. Jim immediately curls around it and pulls it out, barely catching a small snap as he does.

He examines the device closely. It’s a small black object that looks like some Lego pieces glued together with a couple exposed wires on the side. Jim doesn’t think twice about opening the window and throwing the thing out as far as he could without pulling a muscle.

—

It’s the crick in his neck that wakes up Wayne first. He slowly sits up from his uncomfortable position and rubs a hard thumb on the knot. As he does, Wayne presses a palm over his eyes, taking in the room with bleary eyes.

The living room’s the same as last time. The lights Joyce had reattached to the wall were sprawled across the table to the wall above the couch. Part of the old bedsheet, the alphabet hastily painted in black, had somehow fallen on his lap. Joyce herself is also sleeping, now lying on the couch instead of her stiff seating position from the last time Wayne had checked.

It’s surprising that either of them had slept after their grave discovery (no pun intended), especially after a frantic but thorough washing of their dirt-covered hands and disposal of the shovels.

He reaches over, nudging Joyce by her arm. It takes a couple tries but she jolts awake.

“Oh god…” She yawns with a crack of her jaw. Then she peers over at Wayne. “Had they said anything yet?”

Wayne shakes his head, picking up a string and letting it go so it clacks against the cloth. “I’ve actually fell asleep too, so I might’ve missed it.”

Joyce stretches her arms over her head as she sits up. She clears her throat and calls out, “Good morning, Will! Morning to you, Eddie.”

Wayne watches every lightbulb but none of them flickers. Joyce gives out a huff of frustration before she glances back at Wayne. “Coffee?”

“Best way to start the morning.” Wayne smiles. Joyces returns it, though smaller and strained. But just as she stands up, there’s a sudden knock at the door.

They freeze. Wayne whirls his head back to Joyce. Her face is pale with fear. When she catches his eye, she mouths questioningly, “Police?”

Wayne really hopes it’s not.

We got out of the grave fast. We ran back to my truck fast and quiet. I drove us out without a hurry just several minutes later so the ‘keeper won’t question it.

..Actually, looking back at it, Wayne might’ve been an idiot.

The knocking comes again. Persistent, louder.

Wayne stands up slowly. Joyce grabs onto his arm. “What do I do?” She whispers. He can already see her hand twitching towards a nearby hammer.

“Answer it.” Wayne continues when Joyce gives him a baffled look, “Whoever it is, they probably won’t leave until you open the door. Might be the police. Might be Lonnie or somebody else.” His hands goes on her shoulders, squeezing them assuringly. “But the second they start bringing harm on you, I’ll break their teeth.”

Joyce nods, sucking in shaky breaths. She pats his hands, letting Wayne to drop them as she strides over to the knocking door. Joyce pauses to shoot another look at him. Wayne nods back. Go ahead.

She jerks her chin up with a defiant glare. Joyce calls out as she opens the door. “Alright, I’m here! No need t-”

Chief Hopper immediately steps inside, silencing her with a finger to his lips and a notepad aimed at her.

Wayne blinks. Well, he fears the police would come, but not in this kind of manner he’s seen before. “Chief?”

Hopper turns to him, holding his shushing gesture while shaking his notepad at Wayne. They’re written in black pen, large letters saying DON’T SAY ANYTHING!

“Hop-?” Joyce starts to speak, but Hopper shushes her again.

Wayne and Joyce soon stand at each other’s sides, watching in complete bewilderment and dismay as Hopper methodically turns the house inside out. After what feels like hours later, Hopper finishes his bizarre inspection as he nods at them.

“You’re good, Joyce.” Hopper sighs, dropping to the couch.

“Hopper, what the hell?!” Joyce throws her arms up, stomping over to him. “You come in here, tell me and Wayne to stay quiet, and you tear the rooms apart? At this point, I might as well move out!”

“I know, I’m sorry.” Hopper rubs his eyes wearily, “I just needed to make sure they didn’t bug you.”

At Joyce’s sound of confusion, Wayne steps in and asks, “‘They’?”

If he’s puzzled by Wayne’s presence, Hopper doesn’t show it. Instead, he answers simply, “The lab.”

“You’re losing us, Hop,” Joyce crosses her arms, “What lab?”

Hopper tells them. For the second time, Wayne thinks that he’s just hearing a ghost story. Only this time involving a reckless breaking and entry of the Hawkins Lab and discovering something in their lower floors that sounds more like a newfound gate to hell.

“It was glowing red?” Joyce interrupts. The horrified disbelief on her face probably matches with Wayne’s.

Hopper nods, “Yeah, from the inside.”

“Like my wall.” Joyce murmurs. Catching Wayne’s confused glance, she explains, “That night when I spoke to Will and he told me Eddie’s name? Something came out of my wall in the room and, well, I couldn’t see it probably but it glowed red and scared me out of my house.”

“Eddie’s name?” Now it’s Hopper looking confused.

Wayne blows out a soft breath, “We- well, Joyce here had spoken to her son. Turns out wherever he is, Eddie’s with him too.”

While Hopper processes that info, Joyce frowns at him, “Do you think that, because of whatever the Lab has in their basement, it’s why Will and Eddie are not here?”

“Not to mention the state taking over Eddie’s case.” Wayne remarks pointedly.

Hopper runs a hand down his face, muttering curses under his breath. “Yep.” He makes a short but bitter laugh, “Actually, I figured that they had to be covering for something when I tried to get to the morgue, but too many rangers were posted there.”

“Because Will’s body is fake.” Joyce says.

“Exact-” Hopper starts to nod before shooting his head towards Joyce. A sharp pang of panic shoots through Wayne as he whirls at her. Joyce immediately clamps a hand over her mouth but the damage is already done.

The silence loads into the living room like bullets in a gun chamber.

“Joyce.” Hopper says slowly with a careful tone. His hands are carefully outstretched and open. “Joyce, what did you just say?”

Joyce looks at Wayne with barely-hidden panic and apologies in her eyes. He just squeezes her hand comfortingly. It’s okay, I’m not mad, He hopes she understands his silent message.

She squeeze his hand back.

“Joyce, I promise you’re not saying anything incriminating. I just want to you repeat what you just said. Just as a friend.”

Screw it, let’s rip the Band-Aid off. If the Chief of Hawkins Police can handle sneaking into a government lab by himself, then what’s worse than grave robbing with good intentions?

Wayne clears his throat, getting Hopper’s attention on him, “We already know about Will’s grave because Joyce and I dug it up last night.”

He keeps his own head up as Hopper’s snap towards him with saucers for eyes.

Joyce drops her hand from her mouth and almost-yells, “But that’s to check on who they actually buried! And you know what we found, Hop? It was fake. They literally made up Will’s body out of plastic!”

“I accidentally kicked the head off.” Wayne adds with a casual shrug. Not the best attempt to have the atmosphere light again, but sue him, he’s trying. “Bless the almighty above that there was only cotton stuffings instead of blood coming out.”

Usually, he doesn’t like watching the light be drained out of people’s eyes in real time. But this time will an exception because it’s actually kind of funny seeing Hopper go into some sort of existential crisis on the spot.

“Please don’t report this, Hop.” Joyce claps her hands together in a prayer gesture. “At least don’t tell anyone Wayne and I did it.”

“Oh, don’t worry…” Hopper barely mutters, his gaze now blankly staring at the table as if the object had just sucked his soul out.

“Hop?” Joyce leans in as if to poke him, but Wayne gently stops her. Shaking his head lightly, he says, “How about we fix ourselves some breakfast? I don’t remember the last time I ate, to be honest.”

They both stand back up, leaving Hopper on the couch. Wayne notes Joyce’s carefully-steeled face and nudges her. “You’re allowed to laugh, you know.”

Joyce quickly shakes her head, but he can see a smile already cracking through her face while she rubs over her arms. In fact, she looks almost a tad too gleeful, “I’m glad that I got to actually say that out loud.”

Then her face falls again to the chronic worrying expression, “I just hope our boys are doing okay right now.”

—

When Will stirs awake, the first thing he feels is Eddie’s heart beating against his ear from where his head had at some point moved on top of Eddie’s chest. Relieved, Will keeps his eyes closed, ready to continue sleeping.

And then he hears the raspy breathing.

Will sits up so quickly that, for a second, his vision turns black around the edges. Even in the dark, he sees Eddie rapidly blinking up with glossy eyes.

“Eddie?” Will places his hand on Eddie’s forehead, only to immediately pull it back. His skin is so hot that it burns through all of Will’s fingers. Oh no.

Will moves so he’s kneeling right beside Eddie’s head, already carefully brushing his hair away from his sweating face just like how Mom does it whenever he gets sick. The older boy trembles violently, either from the touch or the fever, Will doesn’t know. He tries to remember what Mom had always said on those sick days, finally settling on the most important question - “Are you feeling okay?”

Eddie answers with a small gurgle before throwing up over his jeans.

-

Taglist: @unclewaynemunson @hellion-child @steves-strapcollection @sidekick-hero @penny00dreadful @hbyrde36 @mmmmwaffles94 @princessstevemunson @sirsnacksalot @tartarusknight @lyriclight @kodaik97 @plsdontdrinkmylavalamp @bookbinderbitch @gutterflower77 @soaringornithopter @angeldreamsoffanfic @panicatthediaz @renaissan-vvitch @manda-panda-monium @newtstabber @little-trash-ghost @niniel-karenine @tinyplanet95

[mojavepumpkin]

2/9/24

at my grandma’s - it’s her birthday, doing yard work for her. had a small existential crisis today at school when i was trying to figure out what i want to be. but i think ive figured it out. i’d like to make some money while appealing to my interests; lawyering. i’d like to lawyer in a rural area specifically i think, like blackshear, perhaps. plus it’s not a completely morally bankrupt position; can help and shape community, while entertaining my interests and talents, while making money. it all makes sense. everything falls into place.

didn’t do much today, will do a lot tomorrow, did well on biology - have public speaking thing that i’m dreading. really dreading. oh well, it will pass. ate pizza for dinner; was good. very tired; early night for me. 9 o’clock. i will see if i can write more tomorrow, but this is probably it from me.

[etherrealoblivion]

The Ones We Win

Summary: Owning a bookstore in downtown D.C. came with its fair share of downsides. You never thought that being the target of a serial killer would be one of them. Luckily, a nice FBI agent by the name of Spencer Reid is assigned to watch over you. What's the worst that could happen?

Pairing: Spencer Reid/Reader

Tags: fluff, smut, angst, friends to lovers, slow burn

Ch.1 words: 815

A/N: this is a finished fic. 17 total chapters. Updated frequently. <3

MASTERLIST

Chapter One: Prologue

It was a cold winter evening and the grandfather clock in the corner of the bookstore had just struck eleven.

The book you were reading was getting repetitive and you could barely keep your eyes open from the strain. It was a brand new one, hot off the presses, hadn’t even been released to the public yet. That was one of the upsides of owning a bookstore: getting to read books that no one else had yet.

Doesn’t do much good if the book is shit, you thought as you stretched and put the book back on the shelf — a little haphazardly — for the grand release tomorrow.

Grand releases always took a lot out of you, but thankfully, you weren’t working tomorrow, confident in your employees’ ability to handle the Saturday morning crowd.

The bookstore was shrouded in darkness, the only light emanating from the dim streetlamps just outside. It didn’t hurt your eyes to read in the dark anymore. Too many late nights with your nose in a book did that to a person. 

But your mind was still now yearning for a palate cleanser to get that dreadful writing out of your mind. After a moment of browsing the shelves, you decided on your trusty old copy of Meditations. Settling back into the overstuffed recliner, you cracked open the book and absentmindedly played with your locket.

It was easy to get sucked into a book whilst alone in the dark. Darkness was underrated. It was the only time that a person could be alone but still feel surrounded. You thought of that Emerson quote, how did it go. . .

I am not solitary whilst I read and write, though nobody is with me.

You felt this every day, the moment you set foot in the bookstore. It was cheesy, but the books on the shelves seemed to whisper and breathe, exuding life. With a touch of your fingers to the spine and a deep breath of the pages, you could feel the story behind any book.

The buzzing of the neon Open sign started to hurt your ears so you closed your book, flipped the switch off, and started to lock up.

No one came in after 10 p. m. anyway, but you stayed until closing time — eleven o’clock — every night. It was nice to feel like if someone did want to buy a book so late at night, they’d be grateful you were still here. It was a small hope but it helped you get through that extra hour that you needed on your paycheck.

Owning a bookstore in downtown D.C. practically cost more to keep up than you made in profit. But, on the bright side, anyone with a love for books knew that your place was the best in the city. And the people who loved books were your kind of people. 

You pulled on the door once you were outside, making sure it was locked up tight.

Living only a block away, it just made more sense to walk to work. Sure, there was some danger walking alone late at night, but you’d taken too many self-defense classes to be scared. Plus, holding your keys as a weapon between your knuckles gave plenty of comfort.

Owning a car was for suckers. You were home within ten minutes.

The stairs in your apartment were being repaired. It was a wonder that of all the things to break in an old apartment building, the stairs would be the first to go. Other tenants surely didn’t mind, probably preferring the elevator, but to you, the walk up to your apartment on the fifth floor was the highlight of your night.

Tonight, however, you had to take the elevator.

It was easy to get lost in thought in the harsh silence of the lift. Whatever happened to elevator music? you thought, rubbing your temples. Aurelius’ Meditations was much more thought-provoking in the original Latin. You made a mental note to not read that book again on a late night. It only caused headaches and existential thoughts that you couldn’t deal with right now.

Quietly, you kicked the door closed, locked it, and slipped off your shoes. Easy, though it would be, to fall into bed without changing and brushing your teeth, you needed the routine tonight of all nights. 

Toothpaste never tasted good. Maybe it was the minty flavor? It was supposed to be appealing but it just tasted like a bitter candy cane.

The calendar on the wall caught your eye. There were only two weeks until Christmas. Two weeks until you could take an extra day off work to do nothing at all. It wasn’t that you didn’t like the holiday, there just wasn’t anyone to spend it with.

Oh, well. It wasn’t like Christmas meant anything anyway. Jesus was born in April. Stupid pagans. 

If you weren’t so tired, you’d google the origins of Christmas. If an idea worm was planted in your head, you couldn’t sleep until you figured it out. But tonight, after a long week of studying and working, sleep was too enticing.

Your bed was particularly comfortable after such a long day. Normally it would take a few hours to fall asleep, but the moment your head hit the pillow, you were out cold. The soft sound of your breath was the only sound in your room now.

By midnight, you were in such a deep sleep that you didn’t hear the front door creaking open.

Chapter Two

[bare1ythere]

Looks like it’s existential dread o’clock

[bewaretheidesofmarchyall]

Sanders Swap AU

So, I’ve heard tale of a new AU circulating in this fandom. Basically, it’s an AU where the Sides swap jobs and powers with the other sides.

Here’s my take on who’d get what (this isn’t even a theory, just what I hope happens)

First off, it’s the same characters with the canon-verse history. However, Thomas decides that if they all swapped jobs and powers for a day, they might understand each other more and stop arguing 24/7

This may have been Emile Picani’s idea. I’ll figure it out (the sides need to go to Emile’s therapy sessions).

So!

Janus is Morality

-And he’s having fun with it

-”Why pursuing a false sense of morality is more detrimental than taking a singular self-care day: A 256 Slide Presentation”

-He only starts not liking it when he realizes how much responsibility Pat is really under

-He doesn’t know the answers to everything! He can’t deal with all of these emotions! HE ISN’T READY TO BE A FATHER

-It’s really easy to forget that Patton’s job is also dealing with all of Thomas’s emotions. Patton has practice at repressing everything, but it’s all hitting Jan like a truck

-There will be angst.

-Also now he has to kind of take care of all the light sides, including Virgil. So, more angst!

-Reactions Of The Other Sides

Roman: How Dare You Stand Where He Stood

Virgil: Nope. Nopity nope. NOPE.

Logan: It probably isn’t the mature, logical thing to do to laugh at Janus struggling with the FamILY. But he technically isn’t Logic at the moment, and it is kind of funny.

Of course, when Janus starts really struggling, that all stops.

Remus: Jan has to pretend to be the boring one! This is fun to watch!

Patton: He knows what it must be like for Janus at the moment. Trying to help him.

Patton is Dark Creativity

-Patton’s going through a crisis of conscience at the moment, so turning him into a dark side has Angst Potential

-He’s determined to fail at his job. Unfortunately, he’s quite good at the religious guilt part of Remus’s job.

-I think he’d like conjuring stuff though

-He’d try to conjure kittens, but since Remus’s powers work the way they do he’d conjure the ugliest sphinx cats you’ve ever seen in your life

-But Patton’s allergies are better around hairless cats! So he keeps the cats even after the drama is over and learns to love them

-He has no idea what to do with a morning-star or deodorant. Deodorant tastes like deodorant to him, and he doesn’t get why Remus eats it.

-Is this entire AU an excuse to have Dark Creativity be the one to say, “Language!”? Maybe so.

-Reactions Of The Other Sides: 

Roman + Virgil: They already have complicated feelings about both him and the dark sides. This is just a calzone of weird.

Logan: Not that much has changed, in his opinion.

Remus: The guy who thinks babies come from fucking STORKS is him?? NO.

Janus: So many thoughts and none of them intelligible. More like a long, drawn out scream.

Remus is Logic

-However much of a shitshow you think it’s going to be....it’s worse

-He goes full mad scientist. He eats his glasses. He knows the science of so many things he was curious about.

-He can justify anything with “It’s for science!”

“Why did you release goats into the living room?” “FOR SCIENCE!”

“Why did you draw all of these dorks on the ceiling??” “FOR SCIENCE!”

“WHY IS THE HOUSE ON FIRE???” “FOR SCIENCE!”

-Remus is Logic now, baby. And the world will burn.

-Reactions Of The Other Sides: 

Roman: Logan’s cool! Remus most definitely isn’t! He has no right to wear that tie.

Virgil: Terrified? He shouldn’t be in charge of anything!

Logan: Please. Could someone please get him to stop. THAT IS NOT PROPER LAB SAFETY-

Patton: Welp. That’s disturbing. Time to pretend this isn’t happening.

Janus: Entertained beyond belief. 

Logan is Anxiety

-Existential dread o’clock! Ever considered the true size of the universe when compared to you? Logan is the feeling of terror you get when you look at the sky and realize just how little it cares about you.

-Logan is a better Anxiety than Anxiety, because instead of being emo he’s informed (and potentially emo, since the concept of an emo Logan is quite a concept)

-And people listen to him more. He doesn’t even use the demon voice option. People just pay attention to him when he’s like this. God, no wonder Virgil acts the way he does!

-No but emo Logan consider it

-Him having to go back to being Logic after this would certainly do things to his character arc

-He still can never get into Evanescence, though.

-Reactions Of The Other Sides: 

Virgil: Why is he better at his job than the actual Anxiety? Is he even important to Thomas?

Remus: Likes Logan’s new aesthetic very much

Patton: Is happy that Logan seems happy, but knows that they’ll have to change back eventually. Worrying about all of his kiddos, honestly.

Janus: Was the first one to be hit with the Existential Dread. Freaks out.

Roman: Thank the gods that he isn’t the only one who doesn’t want to go back

Virgil is Creativity

-He hates everything about this.

-The imagination is confusing, Thomas’s hopes and dreams are worryingly fragile, and he is constantly suppressing the urge to sing Disney songs.

-The only thing he likes is the sword. The sword is awesome.

-Conjuring feels weird, like sticking your hand in a magician’s hat full of scorpions to do a trick. But he manages to conjure the darkest eye-shadow known to man, so there’s that.

-He wants out of this little experiment ASAP. He may not be the villain any more, but that doesn’t mean he was born to play hero.

Reactions Of The Other Sides:

Roman: Why is he so bad at this?? Thomas is going to need a creativity!

Logan: Worried that he’ll accidentally destroy all of Thomas’s hopes and dreams.

Remus: He prefers this to his insufferable brother, so

Patton: Swords are sharp DON’T STAB PEOPLE

Janus: He could have conjured a million dollars and given it all to his former best friend, but no. He went for the eye-shadow.

Roman is Deceit

-At first, he loathes it with every fiber of his being. Now he can’t even pretend to be a hero?

-But lying is just good storytelling, and he hasn’t been able to spin words like this in ages

-Plus, he gets to sing villain songs for once

-And he does love the shape-shifting. For once, he doesn’t have to be Roman Sanders, and it’s the best thing in the world

-After a while, he hasn’t looked like himself in the mirror for days. It’s much easier to tell you’re not the evil twin when you don’t resemble him at all.

-He isn’t going back.

-Reactions Of The Others: 

Virgil: Oblivious to the danger at hand, but would scream if he knew because he can’t be creativity forever.

Logan: Conflicted as heck. He knows that they both have to go back to their old jobs, but it’s harder to say it with conviction when Roman is encouraging him to stay.

Remus: Ugh. His brother is the one who gets Jan’s job? Typical.

Patton: Roman doesn’t seem okay. Why is everyone in his family not okay

Janus: AfraidTM

Just my thoughts!

Now I have 39 fics to write

[gypsydanger01]

THE STORM - Part nineteen

Fandom: The Boys (Amazon prime tv series)

Pairing: Black Noir x OC

A/N: Sorry for the wait guys!! I'm porting two parts to make up for it!

Disclaimer: I don’t own The Boys, only my OC characters and certain pieces of au plot.

Comments, reviews, constructive criticism, and other requests are always more than welcome!

The Waiting Game

While Black Noir spent the rest of his morning in his personal training room, Sarah stayed home and replenished the energy she’d spent the night before. While he beat the punching bag off its hinges, she poured green tea into her cup and cuddled into her blanket.

The one thing they both shared, however, was the confusion clouding their thoughts, which was sending Noir into a downward spiral. The violence in every strike balanced the tenderness of the moments they had spent together. Her soft, curly hair. Strike. Her extremely dark eyes. Jab.

“I really like you, too.” Uppercut.

In the meantime, Sarah sipped on her hot tea and let its warmth spread through her. It helped soften the existential dread that held her in a vice-like grip. In the morning light, she felt safe, but she knew she’d see him again. Once the sun went down and the shadows stretched across the ground, he’d be back.

Once she was dressed, she braved the cold air and rapidly made her way to the small convenience and grocery store she usually ran to for small necessities. The small bell signaled her entrance as she pushed on the door covered in advertisements.

.

Around four o’clock, she decided to venture out and make a trip to Dave’s Grocers to grab some supplies. The USB was undamaged, and she’d already made multiple copies of the information before stashing them all away. If she died, and he searched for the thumb drives, he’d hopefully stop after he’d found the original and a copy. Little did he know, she’d made five.

Sarah moved swiftly and with purpose as she weaved through the rows letting the items drop into her basket. Finally, she stopped at the front counter and waited.

A familiar young man exited from the back. He’d helped her find the straws for Noir when she was preparing their movie night. It felt like a long time ago when circumstances were completely different. When they were simply friends enjoying a movie or searching the stars at night.

Maybe it was Bernard, she thought. As he grew closer, his tag confirmed it.

“Hey,” he smiled, “It’s you, pink straws.”

Amused, Sarah laughed and nodded, “Yeah, that’s me.”

He began to scan her items. “That guy you’re seeing is still treating you right?”

She almost burst into hysterical laughter. He’s coming after me tonight, but hey, we’re doing great.

She contained herself and offered the simplest answer, “Yeah, he sure is sweet.”

Bernard smiled at her genuinely and gave her the total. However, his carefree expression soon morphed into one of confusion.

“This is an awfully weird assortment of items you got here,” he voiced his doubts, while scratching the back of his neck.

She payed in cash.

“Is it really,” she questioned innocently. “I’m just doing some home renovation, adding a couple things here and there.”

Understanding passed through his eyes and he smiled to cover his embarrassment.

“Oh jeez, I’m sorry, my bad. It’s none of my business anyway.”

She waved it off and grabbed her bags, “That’s okay, have a good one.”

“You too.”

As she exited the store with all the items necessary to build multiple bombs, she couldn’t help but smile at his naivety. She was definitely renovating: she was adding nail bombs, booby traps and trip lines to every corner of her house. She would not go down without a fight.

.

As ten o’clock rolled around, Sarah was ready. She suited up and checked her weapons. The nail bombs and trip wires were in place. The thumb drives were hidden and would be protected from the explosions.

Staring at her living room, she wondered how they’d made it to this point. She’d known that first time they spoke that it would end like this: lies, a fight, and ultimately one of their deaths. The dread curled tight in her stomach at the thought of hurting him.

But her purpose was greater than them: bringing Vought to the ground had to be done, she’d been waiting to avenge her parents, the other children, and the life she’d never had for over a decade. She could not afford to hesitate now. Not when he would come at her full force and either kill her or, even worse, capture her.

She shook herself from her thoughts before drowning in the memory of his rough, warm hands shielding hers from the cold. Or when he’d admitted she was his favorite person.

“I really like you”

“I really like you too”

She wondered if she’d imagined their connection, their reason.

Ultimately, she pushed those thoughts away and lowered the hidden foldable stairs that led to the attic. She closed the hatch behind her and lit a candle, waiting in the dark, cramped space. It had become a waiting game now.

And so, she waited and listened for his arrival.

MASTERLIST

Tag list: @ateliefloresdaprimavera @ellejo @dust-bun @coco724 ​  @proximio-5 @damiminator @omegahighendpro @rpgluvr95 @sweetrabbitteamx @rayray1463 @mialexisrodrigues

[marasamoon]

You're driving home on Christmas Day. The sun is setting. The air is cold. Night descends just as tears gather in your eyes. These are the songs you listen to. I present to you:

Christmas Songs to Cry In Your Car To

Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas by Judy Garland— Starting off with a classic. The context in which this song is originally sung is sad in itself. It feels like a green light to just let it all go. Go ahead, Judy says. It’s okay. Rest your head back on your car seat headrest while listening to this one. It’s starting to not feel like Christmas anymore and in a few hours, it won’t be. You’re not sure you’re ready.

Christmas Time is Here- Instrumental by Vince Guaraldi Trio— This cartoon was always so sad. You suddenly remember a quote from it: “The mere fact that you realize you need help indicates that you are not too far gone.” Who writes that for a children’s Christmas cartoon? Since this one is an instrumental, you’ll be able to hear your sobs a little clearer.

O Tannenbaum by Nat King Cole— No one has a voice quite like Nat King Cole. It is a warm blanket, a safe place to hide. The meaning of the lyrics in their original German escapes you (in the case you are not fluent), but their reverent cadence still resonates. You think that’s true of pretty much everything that is said in life. Words are hollow. You once said “I love you,” when you didn’t really mean it. It was more of a sound to you than a genuine feeling. You wonder if that coldness cradled in those words was discernible to them,  if it even really matters.

O Holy Night by Bing Crosby— Crosby might be the king of Christmas, musically speaking at least. Turn up the bass when the line “Fall on your knees” comes up; you want the entire frame of your car buzzing just as sad goosebumps of existential dread spread across your skin. 

I Heard the Bells on Christmas Day by David Bazan— This song does all the hard work for you. Acoustic, slow, each lyric heavy and defeated; there is a line in here stating that hate rules the world and peace will never really be achievable. This song sees hope and then in despair bows its head. 

Hark, the Herald Angels Sing by Vince Guaraldi Trio— Really sink in the first half because the last half with children singing kind of falls off. You’re at a red light, looking out the window at half-occupied parking lots of grocery stores and corner stores. The stores’ lights are on. There are people inside. Who are they? They have their lives and they have cried and they have loved, and you are certain they deserve better. Cruel world.

I’ll Be Home for Christmas by Bing Crosby— Reminisce about time as a concept and how the new year is almost upon us where you’ll have to do it all over again. Another year older. You still don’t know what you’re doing. If you could go back in time, you’d do it different. You’d appreciate so much more. The children playing with Nerf Guns and running around the house tonight have no idea how clean and clear their experience of the world is. 

There’s Always Tomorrow by Janet Orenstein— This song came out of nowhere in the original cartoon but it sure is good. This song cradles your teary face and tells you there will always be days like this when you are tired and disheartened, but hey, tomorrow isn’t that far away. 

Happy Xmas (War Is Over) by John Lennon— Let the tears flow. This is prayer for the world, broken as it is. You feel something like hope, but it hurts. “Let’s hope it’s a good one.” The tears in your eyes turn every passing street light into stars.

7 O’clock News/Silent Night by Simon & Garfunkel— Silent Night sung over grim news headlines; it’s a little too on the nose but reality doesn’t care for nuance. The air freshener hanging from the rear view mirror is a year old, odorless now. The dashboard display and digital time on the radio float in the dark of the interior of the car. You should’ve gassed up yesterday; you can’t get out of the car looking like this. It’s Christmas but the world keeps on turning.

God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen by David Bazan— A small twist on a classic song, this time with a dash of religious doubt. There’s so much terrible shit in the world; what kind of god would allow this to happen? Saints and sinners alike have spilled tears like blood over the absence of an answer. Maybe it’s not for us to understand. Or you think there might not be an explanation and God is our horrifically perplexed parent asking us, “Why have you done this?” and our only answer is “I don’t know.”

Auld Lang Syne by Bing Crosby— We end with one last song by Bing Crosby, the patron saint of Sad Christmas. Goodbye old year, hello new year. There will come a day when you won’t be here. There will be one year that will be your last. That year will be someone else’s first. It’s been fun, in its own weird way, despite the dampened expectations, the failures, the heartbreak, the pain. You’ve dreamed dreams and you’ve smiled and laughed sometimes. There’s been warm sunlight and cleansing rain and pale mornings of cold wind when the world was gentle. All of that, the bad and the good—that’s life, right? You think it might be. And it hasn’t been all that bad. Here’s to a new year.

[nitewrighter]

Ah okay!! How about Samir & Aedan being a bunch of sleuths trying to discover and dispatch the Talon scientists responsible for the creation of Andrea. Or basically Aedan asking Samir and maybe to an extent Sombra to find a way to completely trash all the cloning-related research that Moira got from his conception so that no more clones would be made to go through what he's gone through(the existential dread) or wind up becoming another killing machine like Andrea!

I really love this prompt! Though I think Aedan’s relationship to Talon’s cloning projects would probably be more complex than “TALON ONLY MAKES MONSTROSITIES AND OUR EXISTENCE IS ONLY SUFFERING.”

...okay did this fic turn into a “Mountains of Madness/The Thing” knock-off? Maybe. Do I still like it? Yes.

----

The four of them stood huddled together in front of a massive, ice-slicked steel door dug into the side of Monte Sarmiento. All of them were bundled up, virtually indistinguishable from each other save by the colors of their windbreakers layered over thick down jackets, and Marti’s black braid speckled by snowflakes. Their faces were mostly obscured by goggles and scarves, and what skin did show was chapped by wind.

“Secret South American lab?” Jaime had pulled one glove off and was picking bits of protein bar out of his teeth with his pinky nail, “Even for Talon, that’s... nnnot a good look.”

“Overwatch had them too,” said Samir with a shrug, “Though, granted, it was for Crisis-era prosthetics research.”

“I’m just saying!” said Jaime, he shuddered as an icy wind blew through and looked over his shoulder back at the snow-capped peaks of the Cordillera Darwin before pulling a glove back on, “At least we’re not in Argentina.”

“Overwatch’s was in Argentina, actually,” said Samir, and Jaime snorted.

“Focus,” said Marti, her goggles down over her eyes as she and Samir decrypted the code on the door.

“We’re sure this site’s abandoned?” said Jaime, “We won’t be activating any... ‘nuke from orbit’ failsafes, right?”

“Best intel Auntie and Lynx could get, and Winston’s satellite should intercept any signal it might send out,” said Marti, numerous lines of code running across the lenses of her goggles, “And the decryption should be complete... right... about... now.”

There was a deep whirring sound and the ice on the door fractured. The four of them flinched back as it fell down in sheets and shattered against the icy and rocky ground, opening into a dark, steel-lined corridor.

“Scout it out, Ebo,” said Marti, taking the small spider-like drone off of her back harness and setting it on the ground. The little robot scuttled into the darkness and one lens of Marti’s goggles lit up with a feed from what Ebo’s camera could pick up.

“...so when do we all get the cute little drone sidekicks?” said Jaime as the four of them lit up their flashlights and walked into the corridor.

“You’re welcome to build your own,” said Marti, shining her flashlight around the massive heptagonal hallway. There was a loud ‘thunk-CHUNK’ and the hallway suddenly lit up in unnerving red lights. It mostly eliminated the need for flashlights, but all of them hesitated to turn them off. There came a loud whirring and all of them flinched with alertness.

“Stay calm,” said Marti, holding up a hand to make them pause in their steps. she brought a hand to her temple, apparently focusing on Ebo’s feed in her goggles, “Security drones incoming,” she said. Jaime swung his rifle off of his shoulder and Samir materialized his rifle from hard-light, “Aedan, stay low. If they get your head the mission is scrubbed. Samir. Take drones at two o’clock to eight o’ clock. Jaime. Eight to two.”

Jaime audibly cocked his rifle. The drones came flying out of the darkness, unnerving things, radially symmetrical, somewhere between squid and jellyfish in their design, bearing some resemblance to the gwishin omnic but even more unnervingly reminding Aedan of the construction of his own mother’s combat suit with a strange tightness to their chassises. Aedan could already feel dread chilling his blood but both Samir and Jaime quickly and efficiently dispatched the drones. A few loud shots echoing off the metallic walls of the corridor and the drones spun and crashed to the ground next to them. About 7 or 8, virtual target practice.

“Not to jinx it but... seems a little underwhelming, right?” said Jaime, “As far as secret labs go?”

Both Marti and Samir gave Jaime a wary glance as if he might very well jinx it, but there was a sound overhead and all of them flinched, Jaime and Samir bringing their rifles to the ready, but only a few nonfunctioning drone chassis tumbled out of a duct. They glanced up at the duct, noting even more nonfunctioning drones jamming it. There was a scuttling sound and Aedan tensed, only to see Ebo scuttling back to Marti.

“...I guess at one point they were supposed to overwhelm any intruders with numbers,” said Marti, picking up Ebo, folding its legs back in, and tucking the robot back into a slot on the harness on her back. She glanced over at Aedan, stooping over one of the dispatched drones.

“Aedan, if you want to study it further, we can grab it on the way out---” Marti started but Aedan was folding and unfolding one of the wing-like appendages on the drones.

“Pseudo-organic...” murmured Aedan.

“Come again?” said Marti.

“Nothing just...” Aedan pulled himself up to his full height, “Technically they’re living things.”

“What?” Jaime tilted his head.

“Well... insomuch as a nanite is a living thing,” said Aedan, rejoining the group.

“...Are you good?” said Marti, as Aedan closed the distance between them.

“You need someone with experience in Talon’s science division,” Aedan answered with a level of obviousness.

“But are you good?” said Marti, “This mission is already hitting close to home with you---”

“Look, it’s just a practical exploration of one branch of the capabilities of nanite design,” said Aedan, irritated, “I’ve already gone through my whole stupid clone angst well before I even defected, I’m here to make sure something good actually comes of it. Which I can’t do if everyone is treating me like a Fabergé egg.”

“I’ll take your word for it...” said Marti, glancing off.

Aedan did his best to ignore the implications of her words as they continued walking forward. “I’ll take your word for it,” didn’t simply imply that she believed his words, there was another layer to it. “I’ll take your word for it,” easily translated to, “I believe that you believe that---and of course, just because you believe this about yourself or your situation doesn’t make it true.” But no, despite everything he strived for as a person, Aedan knew his very existence represented probably the ugliest side of Talon’s unfettered scientific ambition.

It’s why they brought me, thought Aedan as they reached another massive steel door and the three of them looked to him expectantly. There was a retinal scan terminal next to the door.

“Your time to shine,” said Marti, as Aedan stepped up to it.

“...couldn’t you have tried to decrypt it? Or blow it open?” said Aedan, stepping up to the terminal.

“We don’t know if that would have activated some self-destruct failsafe,” said Samir, “We want to see the lab how Talon would have seen it.”

“Of course,” said Aedan, bringing his eye to the scanner.

Two blue lines of light crisscrossed over his mahogany brown eye.

“O’Deorain, Moira,” an automated voice sounded from the computer, “Vocally confirm any guests with you for biometrics.”

A bit of panic flared up in Aedan’s chest, but he glanced back t his three compatriots and looked back at the terminal. Pitching his voice in the best approximation of his mother’s, he spoke, “O’Deorain, Moira, reporting. And three guests.”

“Accepted,” said the terminal, “Enter passcode.”

“What?” said Aedan.

“Verbally state your passcode,” said the terminal.

“Let me decrypt it,” said Marti, bringing her goggles back down over her eyes.

“Please enter passcode in the next... 40 seconds,” said the terminal.

“Will it decrypt that fast?” said Aedan, quickly.

“No,” said Marti, looking at him.

Aedan brought in a sharp breath through his teeth. His mother never had very good passcodes for anything, largely because she was dealing with Talon passcodes around every corner with Talon putting pressure on her to come up with new ideas all the time. What would she pick for here? What would she pick for now? Something obvious. Something reflecting her sensibilities.

“Please enter passcode in the next... 20 seconds,” droned the terminal.

“Uh, Aedan?” said Jaime.

“Darwin!” Aedan flinched at how loudly the word came out of him.

“Passcode expired. Please enter current passcode in the next...9 seconds,” said the terminal.

“Aedan--” Samir started.

“Beagle!” blurted out Aedan.

There was a pause of a few seconds, then another ‘thunk-CHUNK’ as the gears behind the door shifted, and the massive steel doors pulled away revealing a large lift.

“...How did you know that?” said Marti.

“Well,” Aedan shrugged, “Some side effects to Mum supplementing my memories with hers, I suppose, but mostly? We’re both lazy in our way. I mean, I supposed there would come a point where you get so exasperated with passcodes that you just defer to the passcode being the location the passcode is in so...” He trailed off and scanned the faces of his team members.

“Let’s just... get on the lift,” said Marti.

The four of them moved onto the lift. There were only two other floors. A main level, and what seemed to be a ship bay for evacuation or Talon drop ships. They opted for the main level. The lift hummed and all of them felt a distinct gut-sinking feeling as it plummeted.

All of them tensed as the doors opened to a massive chamber hewn into the mountain itself and supported by steel beams like the ribs of a massive beast. There were more ‘thunks’ and ‘whirrs’ as the auxiliary power lit up the lab, cold little white lights on footpaths thrummed up from the floor, creating an eerie lighting from below, and there were a few industrial lights shining down on a central lab table. Lining the lab walls however, were what appeared to be massive cylinders of tight bands of metal, each equipped with its own terminal and what appeared to be a generator.

“Full scan, Ebo,” said Marti, once again taking the little robot off of her back and sending it scuttling off into the dark recesses of the lab. Scalloping around the tanks, the little spider drone bustled around a corner into a corridor which Aedan assumed might lead to the generators for this lab.

“What are we looking at here?” said Jaime.

“I’d guess maybe cryogenic research?” said Samir, walking up to one of the metal cylinders and putting his hand on it, “Feels like it would be appropriate, given the location...”

“So we might just end up thawing out Talon agents if we touch the wrong thing,” said Jaime. He snorted. “Can you imagine just... being forgotten in a freezer for years?”

“...Overwatch actually had that happen with Doctor Zhou,” said Samir.

“Speculating gets us nowhere,” said Marti as she walked up to the first cylinder’s terminal. She brought her goggles down and activated the holographic screens of the terminal, her fingers racing across them to decrypt.

“It’s too warm in here for cryogenics,” Aedan said, mostly to himself as he headed to another cylinder He rapped a knuckle on the cylinder. The reverberation of the metal wasn’t quite hollow. He frowned and turned to the terminal, typing a few old Talon access codes. The holographic interface lit up, displaying flatlined vitals. Samir might be right, thought Aedan, It could be cryo... but another possibility was itching at the back of his mind. Aedan selected a button that said, ‘Open exterior shell,’ just as an excited huff came out of Marti.

“Got it--!” Marti started as the metal bands slid to the side but that tone of victory in her voice quickly shrank in her throat. Aedan glanced at his own cylinder and saw the bands sliding away from it, revealing glass and… yellow. His gut seized. All four of them stumbled away from the cylinders, shrinking in close to Marti in horror as the metal bands slid away to reveal two yellowish glass tanks, each with a naked man floating in it with dozens of wires stuck into his skin and a particularly unnerving wire ported at his temple. Mnemosyne, Aedan thought, mindlessly feeling at the side of his own head. It took a second to make out their hair in the yellowness of the tank, it was a bit long for amnio-tank regulations. How long had they been abandoned? How much did the biotics slow the keratinization process of the growth of hair?

“Blonde clones in tubes...” Jaime said, trying to keep the nervousness out of his voice but somewhat blindly fumbling for Samir’s hand, “Like I said before: Not a good look.”

“Look at their faces,” said Marti, squinting.

The truth was their faces had that strange, anonymizing shadow of death upon them. The way death makes anything look so very remote from anything it looked like in life. They were in tanks of biotics, but all Aedan could think about were embryos and reptiles in jars of formaldehyde. But they could still pick up a sharp nose, a strong jaw, and thin lips.

“…Jack Morrison,” Samir said hollowly. Even without the scars, everyone could recognize that nose and that jawline from the posters that had colored their world since well before any of them were born.

“You’re telling me Talon devoted an entire lab to cloning Jack Morrison?” Jaime said, his face twisted up.

“It might not be just Jack Morrison,” said Marti, quickly heading to the lab’s central terminal, and Samir paled slightly.

“With all data on the SEP serum destroyed, it was their most logical bet,” said Aedan, “Short of grave-robbing other subjects from the Omnic crisis, but I doubt any samples there would be viable if they couldn’t scry the compound from genetic information.”

He felt Jaime’s eyes on him, shrewd and disturbed. Aedan pressed his own lips together, hating how much he still knew about how Talon thought. Hating how much he still thought like Talon.

Marti still had her goggles down, streams of data going over the lenses as she typed at the central terminal, “I’m getting the next one open.”

They all tried to keep steady, but the loud whirrs and ‘thunks’ which issued from Marti’s hacking efforts while all their eyes were fixed on the other clones in the amnio-tanks made all of them flinch.

A nervous laugh fell out of Jaime. “Keep expecting their eyes to open...” he said, his voice a little strained.

The metal bands slid away on the next cylinder, revealing not a blonde man but a floating amorphous pulp of black.

“Nanite amalgam?” said Aedan, tilting his head.

“What’s a nanite amalgam, again?” whispered Jaime.

“Baby reaper,” whispered Marti.

“They’re not ‘Baby Reapers,’” said Samir, “More like... Reaper goo coral colonies.”

“But we don’t--I mean Talon doesn’t usually let them get this big...” murmured Aedan, “It’s easier to observe cellular anomalies when they’re...” he trailed off and tapped at the monitor next to the tank with the black pulp. Aedan put a hand over his mouth.

“What?” said Marti.

“...it’s not a nanite amalgam. This... was an attempt at cloning Reyes,” said Aedan, his shoulders dropping, “Couldn’t maintain cellular cohesion. He...” Aedan took a steadying inhale, “In the most scientific terms... ate himself.”

Jaime’s lips pulled back from his teeth in some combination of repulsion and that odd scrambling need to use humor to try and maintain some mental grip on the situation but also knowing he shouldn’t do that for Aedan’s sake.

“Aedan, do you need to--?” Marti started.

“Open the next tank,” said Aedan, stiffly. Marti gave him a look and Aedan cleared his throat. “Please. If it’s... in your best judgment, team leader.”

Marti tapped away at the monitor again. The next tank was a similar black pulp but now in a roughly human shape, like a shadow.

“This one managed to maintain its hox genes...” murmured Aedan.

“I’ve found the ‘Emergency access’ channel--I’m opening the rest of them,” said Marti.

There was a series of clanks and whirring then and the rest of the tanks were revealed. These weren’t all identical clones. If Aedan had to make a comparison, he would say it was like An artist’s body of work as defined by a particular phase. There was Picasso’s Blue Period, and here was his mother’s “Try and create a supersoldier that combines the most terrifying aspects of both Morrison and Reyes with varying but all uniquely disgusting results” period.

“Subjects seven through eighteen,” Aedan said quietly, pressing one hand to the glass of an amnio-tank. He remembered McCree interrogating him shortly after his defection. Why does everyone always assume clones are made in bulk?

They weren’t made in bulk, thought Aedan, This is trial and error. This is throwing everything at a wall and seeing what sticks.

 There was a man in the tank with a ruddier skin tone than Jack’s but hair too light to be Reyes’s--or at least most of him--his arms and legs tapered off into cloudy black points, like a piece of wood that had only half of it burned.

“Couldn’t maintain cellular cohesion at the extremities. Organs were probably in a state of peril from the start and failed as it moved inward,” Aedan muttered.

“Uh--Aedan?” said Marti, but Aedan moved across the next tank, featuring a man with similar features midway between Reyes and Morrison, in somewhat complete form, but with the entire back of his head dissolved and trailing up 

“Could reconstruct most of his body but not the arbor vitae. Probably killed himself at the first attempt at a fade, yet the nanites still responded to the peripheral nerves. Very unusual,” he murmured.

“Aedan,” Samir’s voice was troubled but Aedan was too caught up in his observations, moving to the next tank. 

The clone in this one was... unfortunate. Really more of just a brain and spine surrounded by a black cloud of nanites. “The previous couldn’t maintain the integrity of the central nervous system, this one couldn’t maintain the integrity of the periphera--”

“AEDAN!” Jaime bellowed and Aedan glanced up. Jaime pointed to the end of the row of tanks. The last tank was empty--or at least, what was left of it was empty. What remained of the tank was jagged glass rendered virtually white from all its fissures. They had all been so busy looking at the tanks and monitors they didn’t catch the shards of glass sparkling in those cold floor lights at the base of the final tank. The glass definitely showed that something had burst out of the tank, rather than a force shattering it inward.

“...do we know... why Talon abandoned this lab?” the words came out of Aedan squeakier than he wanted.

“Well, mostly our prerogative is to secure any Talon site that’s tactically viable,” said Samir.

Marti pressed a button on the side of her goggles and a clear tension overcame her, “And you know what?” she said, her voice pitching higher than usual, “Let’s consider this one secured! Let’s go to the lift, everyone!”

“What?” said Samir.

“But there’s still so much to--” Aedan started.

“We are going to the lift,” said Marti through clenched teeth, “Now.”

There was a scuttling and Aedan, Samir, and Jaime all instinctively clustered close, only to see Marti’s drone Ebo scuttling out of a dark corridor of the lab. Marti un slung her shockcaster off her back and fired off several tether lines behind the little spider robot.

“Uh, Marti--?” Jaime started. 

“I said get to the li--” Marti shoved her goggles up off of her eyes as a horrible creaking, sloshing sound came out of the corridor behind Ebo, “NOW!” she shouted, “GO NOW!”

What lurched out of the corridor, Aedan couldn’t really compare to the nanite amalgams he had sent swarming over Urdr when he had defected with Rei. Too much of it was flesh-toned. But the black of nanites spiraled all over the whorls of skin and muscle making it up. Aedan didn’t try to make out how many eyes or hands were throbbing and blinking and clenching in it. Somehow, despite having far more eyes than any organism had any business having, all of those eyes fixed on them. Four dumb kids in brightly colored windbreakers standing smack dab in the center of the lab. Some of the eyes that looked at them were blue. Some were brown. Some had entirely too much pupil. Too much tapetum lucidum. Some were runny with tears and yellow gunk. The mass of nanite-spiraled muscles and flesh pressed out at Aedan like some creature trying to burst out of an amniotic sack. Aedan was frozen in place mouth hanging open, staring at this creature. This thing that came from a tank and was made of only a few smatterings of DNA and nanites, just like he did. He stood there, dumbly, until he felt felt Jaime grab his arm and he felt his own legs pumping as all four of them sprinted for the lift.

 Marti fired out a tether at Ebo, caught the little robot, then yanked back hard, whisking the drone into her arms. She hugged it close to her chest as she ran. It wasn’t clear if she was protecting it or she thought it might protect her. Jaime just kept running, gripping Aedan’s arm so hard it hurt as Aedan flailed behind him, unable to pull his eyes away from the crawling, clawing mass that pursued them. Samir tossed out a few turrets to slow it down but soon surrendered to the dead sprint to the lift as the pulsing mass of flesh and nanites and muscles and sinew and limbs that didn’t know if they were hands or feet but were still reaching out, feeling out, followed after them. The four of them scrambled into the lift and Marti feverishly slammed the ‘close door’ button as the mass sloshed and crawled and reached for them. Samir brought up a hard light shield and the fleshy mass pressed against it, not-quite-hands pressing white against the bluish light before the doors of the lift finally closed and the lift shot upward. 

“Guh--” some repulsed noise throbbed out of Jaime’s throat. Jaime, who never knew how to shut up for anything, was at a horrified loss of words. He suppressed a gag. 

“Subject Eighteen...” the words left Aedan in a breath, a manic laugh shook him, “You created something with SEP serum toughness, and nanite adaptiveness but it wasn’t--it wasn’t...”

“Aedan--” Marti touched his arm.

“It was adapting,” Aedan was babbling, “It was adapting. It knew not to give itself a mouth or vocal chords because maybe then we could hear it coming--”

Marti suddenly pulled him into a hug.

“Probably converted what labtechs were here into biomass...” Aedan’s voice was breaking. 

“Breathe, it’s okay,” said Marti.

“There’s a brain in there--maybe a lot of brains---maybe--” Aedan didn’t know why he kept talking. Maybe talking was all that kept the worst of the horror back. He felt Jaime layer himself around Marti in that same embrace.

“Tell me it’s not me--Tell me that thing isn’t me---” Aedan wasn’t quite sure when his face had gotten so wet with tears but it must have been bad because even Samir was piling into the hug now. 

“It’s not you,” Marti’s voice was half-muffled against the bulk of Aedan’s own coat. Aedan just sank to his knees, his breath heaving between hyperventilating and sobs, and the rest of the team sank with him. Their only comfort was the thrum of the lift itself, bringing them up further and further from the horror below.

[mousehole5000]

ah yes 10 pm, or as i like to call it, existential dread o’clock. the hour between realizing you need to sleep and actually trying to go to sleep

[blitheringmcgonagall]

We Can Be Heroes

Happy New Year to you all!

Also belated very Happy Birthday to @myloveluna and @maraudersftw (so sorry I’m late!!) - you’re both exceptionally kind and supportive people and I am in love with your writing!! Check out their ao3 fics ( blickscondiblick and Claudiawrites on ao3) !

🥰🌟🎉💓🥳🌟 🎁 🍰 😍🥰😘😇

Summary:

Walburga Black, Sirius' 20th Birthday, a Jily row, a cliffhanger and more...

TW: mention of alcohol abuse

Chapter 42: Boys Don't Cry

Driiing, driiing, driiiiing…

Walburga Black lifted her head and groaned as the dizziness hit her. She fell back wearily onto the velvet chaise longue and grimaced as her mouth hit a wet patch – she had fallen asleep there and drooled onto the soft material. Her mouth felt like something ancient had crawled into it, her head felt like it was about to explode. Where was her Hangover Tonic? Why was bright, painful, unadulterated sunlight streaming into the room? Why was Kreacher not answering the bloody door? She was going to murder that foul, useless piece of filth. She was-

Driiiing, driiiing, driiiiiiiiiiing…

“Morgana’s Eyeballs! Make it stop!” she gasped, trying to sit up and doubling over immediately as her stomach objected.

Her hand groped vaguely around for her ebony wand, half hidden behind the sofa. She crawled over and sighed with relief as she grasped onto the worn, smooth wood. Casting a healing charm, she staggered towards the door of the Green Living Room.

“Kreacher!” she called, wincing at the shrill sound. “Get over here, now!”

No sound.

“That creature is dead when I next see him!” she hissed.

Driiiing, driiing, driiiiiiiiiiiiiing…

“Shut up! Shut up!” she said, her high heels tripping over the bottle green Ottoman rug in the hall and finding her face plastered against the front door glass. She flung the door open and squinted, mouth half open.

“Good afternoon, Mrs. Black,” said the older person, who was holding onto a large leather bag and eyeing her impatiently. “I believe we have an appointment? At two o’clock? Your son Regulus made it?”

“I…” Walburga blinked dramatically as the short haired individual breezed past her into her own study, throwing a well-practiced opaque charm at the windows and sitting themselves down on Walburga’s chair.

“You don’t look well at all, I might add,” they said, removing their wand from the bag and motioning for Walburga to lie on the desk which they had transfigured into a Healer’s examination table.

“Now just a –“ began Walburga, flopping gratefully onto her back.

“Mrs. Black, I am a very busy Healer,” the Healer interrupted her. “You have already kept me waiting for the past fifteen minutes. I will remind you that I am the visiting Healer to all the pureblood nobility, and that appointment slots with me are as rare as hen’s teeth. I only agreed to come at short notice because I happen to have a soft spot for your sons. Do you wish me to leave?”

Healer Enda* Mac Dougal was one of the few people that Walburga was intimidated by and held a grudging respect for. She shook her head and shut her eyes as the room swam in and out of focus.

“Excessive liquor consumption, inadequate sleep, excessive stomach acid with reflux, and finally, excessive use of Dark Magic,” said Mac Dougal, their wand hovering over Walburga’s upper abdomen.

Their voice sounded practical and confident. Walburga felt herself squirm.

“What nonsense!” she sniffed haughtily, passing her hand over her eyes.

“Mrs. Black, I do not appreciate being lied to, you can continue to wallow in denial after I have gone, but while we are both here, I shall not stand for it. Understood?”

Walburga peered up at the Healer from behind her fingers, speechless.

“I advise you to halve the Firewhisky consumption for a week, followed by further halving for another two weeks and that you avoid hard liquor after that, indefinitely,” the Healer said, writing on letterheaded parchment with strong quill strokes.

Mac Dougal looked up briefly and gave Walburga a penetrating stare. Walburga gaped back in shock.

“There!” they said, handing Walburga the parchment. “Some Capitis potion and Dreamless Sleep potion prescribed for a week. Avoid any Dark spells for at least a month.”

They stood up abruptly and put out their hand, which Walburga automatically took.

“I suggest you drink plenty of water and rest, eat bland foods only, and use a mouth wash, you have dreadful halitosis,” Mac Dougal said, fixing their oversized cloak and sticking on a large beret. “Please convey my good wishes to your sons. Good day. I’ll see myself out.”

Walburga remained staring at the retreating figure, saucer- eyed. She breathed onto the palm of her hand and sniffed.

“Ugh!” she grimaced at the smell. “The cheek of them!”

She closed her eyelids wearily.

“Awful hat-hair!” she added after a pause. “Where is that blasted elf? I shall skin him alive!”

Where was everyone?

…………………………………………….

“Excuse me?”

Walburga’s icy tones would have made most men in his position cringe. But Pongo Parkinson was not most men. After forty years of pandering to the whims, existential crises and bat-shit crazy tempers of the Scared Twenty-Eight, he knew how to handle Mrs. Black. And he was exceedingly rich as a result.

“Lady Walburga,” he murmured smoothly. “I assure you, there is nothing to be done about the outcome of this will and testament. He made me take an Unbreakable Oath.”

“What?” Walburga leaned forward, wand in hand, looking horrified.

“Yeas,” Parkinson raised his palms upwards helplessly. “It cannot be falsified. So, you see, he has been very thorough. If he dies, his inheritance passes back to his older brother-“

“He is no longer family!” Walburga shrieked.

Keep reading:

[tactfulgnostalgic]

how to never stop being totally not okay: a guide to emotional repression for idiots in love with other idiots (by dirk strider)

alternatively titled: baby, are you existential dread? cuz you make me deeply uncomfortable in ways i don’t care to think about (the john egbert life story) 

Summary: How Dirk Strider stole a car, learned to drive, and got a boyfriend (in that order).

(a late birthday dirkjohn road trip fic for my friend lou @vanillacorpse @centercharter! happy birthday, lou!)

1. When he asks you whether you stole it, say no.

“Please tell me you did not steal that,” says John.

“Why does that matter.”

“Because it matters! And because when Terezi asks me about it later, I need plausible deniability. Tell me you did not steal this vehicle.”

“I . . . did not steal this vehicle.”

“Okay. Now, are you saying that because it’s true or because I told you to?”

“What happened to plausible deniability?”

“Never mind.”

From behind the wheel of a glossy, scarlet, brand spanking new Maserati, Dirk Strider says, “Look, are you coming or not?”

From the front porch of his house, dressed in pajamas and sandals, and holding a duffle bag slung over one shoulder, John Egbert says, “Yeah, I’m coming.”

At four o’clock in the morning, the neighborhood is quiet and dark. The trees rustle in a gentle breeze. A cat prowls along the sidewalk, its first and second eyes a luminous yellow, its third and fourth a vivid green. Down the street, a light is on in Jane’s kitchen, and through the curtains, someone is moving around. Maybe it’s her dad, downstairs for a nightcap. Or maybe it’s Jane. She’s taken up late night baking recently. The last time Dirk checked, the melatonin was working, though, so it’s probably her dad, after all.

You’re a god, now, technically,” John gripes. He slams the door shut with a force that has Dirk opening his mouth to complain about treating the car better, until he remembers that he stole this thing off the display room floor an hour ago, and also that he doesn’t really give a rat’s ass what happens to it. “You can just make infinite money. Or alchemize a car. Or ask them for it, they’d probably give it to you. Why do you need to steal.”

John has this habit, Dirk’s noticed, of asking questions that aren’t questions, questions that are more an opportunity for the other person to prove John wrong than honest inquiries about things John doesn’t know. For example, this one.

“You’re also a god,” Dirk points out. “You live in an apartment the size of my garage. Why not buy a castle? Why not build one?”

“That’s not even, like, slightly the same thing, dude.”

“How so.”

“For one thing, I don’t -- you know what, no. It’s too early for this. Start driving before I change my mind.”

“If you don’t want to come,” Dirk begins uncertainly, and John groans.

“Drive.”

“Okay.”

It started with a midnight text.

Dirk doesn’t exactly know why John hangs out with him. He doesn’t. It makes sense for John to hang out with Roxy, because of . . . shenanigans in their past that nobody really talks about. And with Jake and Jane, well, they’re literally genetic family, so they probably have a lot of shit to talk about. And of course he’d keep in touch with his friends from his session. That doesn’t require an explanation. But there’s not much that Dirk has to offer John, except a whole fistful of absolutely no personal connection. Their first conversation took place in the aftermath of a dying universe, except Dirk doesn’t remember that. So their first conversation was . . . hours after the Game, Dirk guesses. Or maybe earlier than that. He doesn’t remember their first words. It was probably something inane along the lines of “Sup, bro,” or “Nice one.” Dirk probably said something stupid. John probably gave him a weird look and then left him alone. Statistically speaking, that would be how it went.

But somewhere along the line neither of them knowing each other turned into an advantage instead of a reason to avoid each other. Sometimes, when half of your social circle was related to you and the other half had dated you or one of your relatives in the recent past, it was refreshing to hang out a total fucking stranger, for a change.

So when John said, “I need to get out of this fucking town,” what Dirk said was not “Sounds rough, I’ll text Jade,” but instead, “I can get us a car by Friday.”

And instead of saying, “Um, okay, that’s kind of weird, I was just talking about a hypothetical,” John said, “Sweet. Come by my place as soon as you have it,” because he’s the kind of guy that says things like that. Dirk wishes he were the kind of guy who said things like that.

Granted, John does look a little bit like Jake, which is weird sometimes. He looks enough like Jake that Dirk has commented on it, once, in one of his habitual fits of saying dumb shit without thinking about, which that happen to him, sometimes, because his life is hell and existence is suffering. But John, after blinking in surprise, only laughed. “Haha, that’s kind of weird,” he said. “Didn’t you guys used to date?”

“Um,” said Dirk.

“Yeah,” said Dirk.

“I mean, kind of,” said Dirk.

“We broke up,” said Dirk.

“Whack,” John had said indifferently, and returned to ruthlessly beating Dirk’s ass in Mario Kart.

And because Dirk doesn’t know how to have nice things without fucking them irrevocably, he may or may not be a little bit in love with the guy. So he’s got that going for him.

John’s house is in what would be called northern California, if things like the United States government still existed, and if any of the people who created and shaped the global civilization had ever been to California. Upon Dave’s request, every principality and township in the continental U.S. had been subtitled Striderville, with various numerical identifiers to differentiate them. Austin was Striderville No. 1. New York was Striderville No. 7. Minneapolis was Striderville No. 666, for reasons that were unclear to everyone except Dave Strider, who when asked would only grimly profess, “It knows what it fucking did.”

Sacramento (Striderville No. 148) fades in their rearview as they soar across the freeway. Dirk, who has been getting this far on intuitive knowledge and gumption, takes the opportunity to admit, “I don’t actually know how to drive.”

It takes a moment for this fact to register.

“What do you mean,” John says slowly, “you don’t know how to drive?”

“It means what it means. I never learned.”

“What the fuck do you mean you never learned how to drive.”

“I mean that I grew up in the middle of the fucking ocean, Egbert, where was I supposed to get a car?”

“You’re driving right now!”

“Yeah, I mean, the operating part isn’t hard. It’s the lane stuff that makes it all complicated. Like, when to turn and shit. Actually, I think I memorized an old Texas driver’s ed manual once. Does that count?”

“No!”

“No need to get worked up about it,” Dirk mutters.

“Oh, my God,” John says, face in his hands. “I’m going to die. I’m going to die and it’s going to be because of you.”

“That’s a little dramatic.”

“It’s really not.”

“Have we crashed yet?”

“Let me drive,” John orders. “Pull over.”

Dirk really should let John drive. It’s the responsible choice. It’s the reasonable choice. It’s the choice that anybody with a lick of common sense to scrap together in their entire body would make.

Obviously, Dirk says, “No.”

“Do you even know what a stop sign is?”

“No, but if I employ a little bit of deductive reasoning, I bet I have a great guess.”

“What’s the first thing you do at a four-way?”

“Make sure everyone’s got a safeword.”

“Dirk, shut up, Jesus Christ. I bet you’ve never even had sex,” John says irritably, as they sail over the city limits.

Trying desperately not to actually sound wounded, Dirk says, “That’s a little below the belt, don’t you think.”

“How would you know? You’ve never gotten below the belt, have you?”

“That doesn’t even make sense.”

“It does if you’re not a virgin.”

“I’m not -- this conversation is ridiculous.”

“Virgin says what?”

“You’re bullying me. I’m being bullied, right now, by my own friend.”

“I get what Jane means,” John says, thoughtfully. “This really is therapeutic.”

“What? Making fun of me?”

“Yeah,” he says placidly. “Really good for the blood pressure. Hey, do you mind if I take a nap real quick?”

Dirk does a double take. “What happened to me not driving?” he asks suspiciously.

“Eh,” John says, waving it off, tipping his head back against the headrest and closing his eyes. “Don’t worry about it. You’re doing fine.”

“Wait. Do you know how to drive?”

A tiny smile tugs at one corner of John’s mouth.

“Your session started when you were thirteen,” Dirk exclaims. “You wouldn’t have had time to learn.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“You didn’t even care about it, did you.” The accusation is flat.

“Mmmmmmmmmmmmmmno.”

“You were just fucking with me.”

“Uh-huh.”

Dirk considers this.

“You’re a jackass.”

“Yep,” John says happily, and tosses his feet up on the dash.

2. Don’t let him pick the music.

“I get to pick the music,” John decides, apropos of nothing, around 6:30, when they’re in the middle of southern California (Striderville No. 83-195). The sun is just dawning behind them, a blinding pinprick of white against the asphalt in the rearview. It casts sharp rays of orange light through the back windshield, lighting their faces in warm colors, bathing the cab in yellow and the road in front of them in shadows that seem to stretch on for miles.

“What? No, you don’t. I’m the driver. Driver picks the music.”

“Driver has to keep his hands on the steering wheel. Driver can’t stop me.”

“I’ll pull this car over, so help me God.”

“No, you won’t,” John says cheerfully, reaching for the radio.

“Wait,” says Dirk, panicking. “Don’t --”

“WHEN I WAS A YOUNG MAN--”

John wheezes.

“--MY FATHER TOOK ME INTO THE CITY, TO SEE A MARCHING BAND--”

“Listen,” Dirk says, speeding up. “Listen, right, okay, listen, it was in the car when I stole it--”

“HE SAID, ‘SON, WHEN YOU GROW UP, WILL YOU BE--”

John hoots. He shrieks. He cackles, slapping the dashboard of the car like he wants to beat the dust out of it.

“It’s a good record, okay, fuck, I mean, like, it’s not the worst thing--”

“THE SAVIOR OF THE BROKEN, THE BEATEN, AND THE DAMNED?”

“I’m texting Roxy,” says John, wrestling his phone out of his bag. This terrifies Dirk so badly that he actually takes a hand off the wheel to make a mad grab for it, and the car swerves, careening towards the shoulder.

“HE SAID, ‘WILL YOU DEFEAT THEM?’”

“You can’t do that,” Dirk says, his tone hovering two octaves above where it should be. “Listen, she doesn’t need to know about this--”

“Roxy would murder me if she found out about this and realized I hadn’t told her, dude, are you kidding me? Look, it’s an ethical obligation, if anything--”

“YOUR DEMONS? AND ALL THE NONBELIEVERS? THE PLANS THAT THEY HAVE MADE?”

“John,” Dirk says. “John. John. Listen to me, John.”

The shutter of the Apple camera closing, artificial and tinny, ricochets throughout the car like gunfire.

There is a long moment of silence, then, where the only sound is Gerard Way’s indecipherable howling.

“BECAUSE SOMEDAY, I’LL LEAVE YOU, A PHANTOM TO LEAD YOU IN THE SUMMER, TO JOIN THE BLACK PARADE.”

John and Dirk regard each other frostily.

“Give it to me,” Dirk orders, vaulting over the seat divider, and John yells, seizing the steering wheel: “DUDE, THE ROAD,” while also holding the phone as far away from Dirk’s grasp as his considerable armspan can possibly reach.

The car cuts a wild path across the interstate, zigzagging freely between the four lanes as if the lane dividers were more suggestions than rules, at one point almost turning a complete 180 and cruising back the way it came. Black skid marks sear the road under the tires when John wedges himself far enough into the driver’s seat to slam on the brake, and Dirk tries to take advantage of the opportunity to grip John’s wrist and pry his fingers off the phone.

“This is for your own good,” John grits out. “Roxy -- has the right -- to know --”

“Egbert, so help me God.”

“That’s also me, dumbass, and I’m not helping you--”

“I’ll give you anything you want.”

John pauses, the car slowing to a cool forty miles per hour, and says, “Anything?”

From where he sits, perched on the divider between seats like a gangly bird of prey, clinging to John’s outstretched hand like a kitten dangling over a waterfall, Dirk vows, “Anything.”

John grins, and lets go of the phone.

Dirk shuffles into the passenger’s seat, rolls down the window, and flings the offending device out into the street.

“Aw, man,” John complains, watching it bounce and roll away in the mirror. “I had a lot of music on that thing.”

“I’ll buy you another phone. I’ll buy you ten phones.”

“What the fuck am I gonna do with ten phones?”

“I dunno, dude, they’re your phones.”

John shakes his head. “Anyway,” he said. “You said anything.”

The man hasn’t stopped grinning since Dirk agreed. It is a truly unsettling sight.

“I don’t kiss. Aside from that--”

“Oh, man, literally fuck OFF--”

Dirk turns off the radio, which had metamorphosed into the song’s iconic caterwaul of guitars. “A deal’s a deal. What do you want from me?”

John says, “Can you read that exit sign for me?”

Dirk looks up and squints.

“You can take the dumb glasses off. That might help.”

Dirk does not, and so he doesn’t read what the exit sign says until John is steering them steadfastly towards it.

“No,” he says.

“You said anything.”

“I take it back. You know what, you can use my phone to text Roxy yourself. Strike me down for my arrogance. Smite me. Ruin me. Post nudes on my Facebook account. I don’t even have nudes. I’ll take some so you can post them. Just put my ass on blast. Or do you want to decapitate me? That’s very in, nowadays.”

John cackles, again.

The Maserati sails under the exit sign for the Wet N’ Wild Slippery Funtimes Happy Place Water Park, and Dirk Strider, neither for the first time nor the last, contemplates climbing out the window.

3. Do not, under any circumstances whatsoever, go to the waterpark.

Dirk is hot, wet, and covered in skin-tight clothing, and none of it in the fun way. He views this series of information to be a remarkably concise way of summating his life.

John strolls ahead. The bastard is barely wet. Somehow, the water always seemed to avoid him, migrating away from his form as if swayed from its course by his own ineffable good temper, and when he did get dunked, he could summon a gust of wind to dry himself off with all the effort it took to snap his fingers.

The Heir of Breath is such a useful classpect that sometimes it makes Dirk want to scream. Of course it would be Egbert who got the powers that served some fruitful day-to-day purpose.

He floats along instead of walking, like John, because unlike John, Dirk doesn’t derive pleasure from doing things the boring and painful way. Dirk spends most of his time off the ground, actually, even if it’s only by a few inches. It saves him the effort of having to walk.

“You look like a drowned cat,” John says, not unsympathetically.

“You’ve never fucking seen a drowned cat.”

“How do you know? I’ve seen a lot of shit. Maybe a drowned cat was part of it.”

“You know,” Dirk suggests, “if you really feel that bad, you could help me out. By doing things like . . . oh, I don’t know. Drying me off.”

“There were towels at the store,” John says innocently. “You could’ve -- hey, whoa, whoa. You gonna just climb into your luxury sports vehicle like that?”

Dirk, sopping wet and dripping onto the pavement, stops with his handle on the car door and gives John a dead-eyed stare.

“Just saying,” John says, raising his hands. “That’s leather upholstery. You get that wet, it’s gonna stink.”

“John,” Dirk says very quietly. “If you want me to dry off. You could summon the wind. To do exactly that.”

John presses his lips together tightly, brow furrowed in thought. “Hmm,” he said. “You know, I could do that, couldn’t I?”

“Yes.” Dirk resists the urge to vault over the hood of the car and throttle the man he is currently in love with. “You could.”

John summons a small tornado in the palm of his hand. “It’s really just so convenient,” he says blandly. “Don’t you think, Dirk?”

“It certainly would be,” Dirk says, grinding his teeth.

“Of course, I’d only ever do it with your permission. I wouldn’t use my powers on anybody without their consent, first.”

“Consider this,” Dirk grits out, “my full and enthusiastic consent.”

“Really?” John arches an eyebrow. “You’d just let me do that, Dirk? Wow. That’s a lot of trust you have in me. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just dry me off, asshole.”

John leans on the hood of the Maserati, arms folded, one ankle balanced on his knee. He grins, flashing thirty-two glossy white teeth, and the breeze stirs his hair just so, tousling it with a rakish charm. When Dirk looks at him, something twists in his chest. It feels hot and uncomfortable, and he doesn’t not like it, exactly.

Then he gets whisked into the air by a gust of wind, wrenched up like a ragdoll on the breeze.

As he soars through the air, one brief, fury-infused thought flashes through Dirk Strider’s mind:

He knows what he’s doing, the little shit.

Then this thought is swallowed by Dirk remembering that he can fly, and catching himself before he faceplants into solid concrete. Getting uppercut by the manifestation of the wind itself is bad enough. Eating shit in front of the guy you’re going on a roadtrip across America to impress would add insult to injury, really.

He staggers to his feet and trudges back to where John stands, bent over on his knees, still heaving with his last paroxysms of laughter.

“Granted unthinkable fucking cosmic powers,” Dirk seethes, “uses them like this. Oh, sure, that’s a great way to spend your time. Not like there’s anything more useful you could be doing with them. I’m sure that’s what you got them for. Tossing me around like a limp sack of nickels, that’s the real reason you got to be a fucking airbender.”

“Heh,” John says, straightening up, “yeah. I’m pretty great.”

But the smile he offers is smaller than it could be, and the laugh has gone out of his eyes, and Dirk is struck with a sudden pang of regret. This is chased by a needle-sharp jolt of self-hatred, because he knows what he did, and if he’d thought for half a fucking second before he spoke, he wouldn’t have said it.

They don’t talk about the Game.

4. Don’t think about the past.

Four months after Sburb ended, half of their friends still woke up screaming.

The other half didn’t, but that was because they hardly fucking spoke at all in the first place. Jade once went for a whole week without saying a word out loud to another human being. Jake fucked off into the woods for almost a month and didn’t take his phone with him, leaving everybody to wonder whether or not he’d wound up dead at the bottom of a waterfall somewhere until he came back. Roxy started coding again, but intensely, obsessively, staying up until ugly hours of the morning staring at lines upon lines of unforgiving binary, surrounded by empty cans of Redbull and wearing bags under her eyes. The Lalondes mourned lost mothers and walked quickly past bars, and Dave still couldn’t look Dirk in the eye without flinching, and they were all of them a little uncomfortable with each other, a little too aware of how like much everyone resembled some lost parent or dead guardian. Jane had her dad, but Dirk knew it wasn’t the same. There were some things so painful it became an act of trauma to speak it out loud.

Dirk remembers a lot of things, from that initial period of settlement, when they were learning how to be people instead of gods.

He remembers Jane turning up on his doorstep with a sleeping bag and a pillow, exhausted, tear tracks under her eyes, asking to sleep over because she couldn’t spend another night in the same house where she’d lived under threat of attack for thirteen years and six months. He remembers getting her settled on the couch in his living room, awkwardly trying to make her take the bed, and her refusing stubbornly because she “didn’t want to inconvenience him any more than she already had.” He remembers having a panic attack and locking himself in the bathroom before calling Roxy, demanding answers, demanding her to tell him what to do, how to deal with this, why anybody thought he was the person to go to for help--

He remembers Roxy turning up half an hour later with her own sleeping bag, and Jake in tow. Jake and Dirk hadn’t spoken in God knows how long, then, but it didn’t matter, because Jane was crying in a sleeping bag on his couch and that meant not a single other fact in the whole fucking world mattered one goddamn whit.

Dirk wonders who John went to, when he woke up screaming. If he woke up screaming.

He remembers that John doesn’t just come from a different universe than everyone else in the world, than Dirk and his friends. John comes from a different timeline. John’s friends have had two years, from their perspective, to learn how to be without him.

If Dirk were a braver person, he’d ask what that felt like.

If Dirk were a much braver person, he’d ask whether it felt good.

Instead, Dirk says, “Do you want to get food?”

John says, “Yeah, that’d be okay, I guess.”

It’s the closest any of them get to an epilogue.

5. Do NOT ask whether or not your midnight McDonald’s run is a date. (But if you do, like, be cool about it.)

They roll up to the McDonald’s around 11:30. Dirk is all for getting drive-thru and hitting the freeway again, but John wants to stretch his legs. They’ve been driving for close to eight hours, at this point, and nothing about the road is even remotely familiar. Dirk’s stopped keeping track of which turns they take, which exits, which back roads. They’re trying to get lost, and they’re well on their way.

John gets three hamburgers and eats two without stopping for breath. Dirk orders a carton of fries and a vanilla milkshake, which John makes fun of him for, but Dirk had accepted this eventuality beforehand.

The red leather of the booth they sit in is sticky, and there are stains on the table. Dirk counts the number of health code violations to distract himself from wondering whether or not this qualifies as a date, because it doesn’t, probably, and even if it did, that didn’t make it mean anything, or at least that didn’t make it mean anything to John. When he finishes health code violations, he starts on the ceiling tiles.

John steals one of his fries, and he’s a millisecond too late to bat his hand away.

“You should get something else,” John says, through a mouthful of fry. “You get crabby when you’re hungry.”

“I’m always crabby.”

“Then fuckin’ eat something, dude, that’s what I’m saying.”

Dirk nudges his glasses up his nose and takes a sip of milkshake. “I don’t require anything else,” he says, instead of answering.

“Whatever,” John mutters under his breath, in a way that makes clear how weird he finds this response, and redirects his attention to his third burger.

Dirk fidgets with his straw. The grease has pooled at the bottom of his french fry carton. It glistens under the fluorescents. John’s hair is lanky from not having been washed in two days, and there’s a smudge on the lense of one of his glasses. Dirk watches him stuff a third of a burger in his mouth.

“Hey, so,” says Dirk, before the part of his brain in charge of not saying astonishingly embarrassing shit catches up to his mouth. “Is this, like, a date?”

John pauses, chews, and then swallows.

“Um,” he says. “Do you want it to be a date?”

Dirk panics. This is the worst possible thing that John could have said. Not only is it not an answer, but it is the kind of non-answer which lobs the ball directly into Dirk’s court, making Dirk the one in charge of making the first move, and oh, this is awful. This is really, incredibly, exquisitely bad.

“I don’t know.”

John lifts an eyebrow. “You don’t know?”

“I meant -- yeah,” Dirk says weakly.

“Wait, so you do?”

“Do what?”

“Want this to be a date.”

“What did I say?”

“Are you really this bad at this,” John says, grinning, “or do you have to, like, try?”

“Hey, fuck off,” Dirk says, overwhelmed by relief at the change of subject. “Between the two of us, only one has actually dated.”

“You don’t know that,” John says, offended. “For all you know, I was hooking up with Dave sprite twenty-four sev, on that ship.”

“Davesprite has higher standards than that.”

“But you don’t?”

“John, we’ve established that mocking my taste is low-hanging fruit, in terms of comedy,” Dirk says. “It’s like writing a film school dissertation on Paul Blart: Mall Cop. I mean, you could, but where’s the sophistication? Where’s the talent?”

“Heh,” John chuckles. “Low-hanging fruit.”

“Oh, I get it. It’s funny because I’m gay.”

“So am I, asshole. I get to make that joke.”

“Oh, I don’t dispute that you get to. I’m baffled that you want to, however.”

“Screw you, I’m hilarious.”

“It is apparent in every element of your personality that you enjoyed Nic Cage movies as a child.”

“And it’s apparent in every element of yours that your favorite book is Fight Club. Your point?”

Dirk splutters, “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t even know what a Fight Club is.”

“Please. I bet you creamed your jeans when you read the part about glycerin.” John takes another bite of his hamburger, smug.

“I don’t have to take this from the guy who uses the phrase ‘cream your jeans’ in casual conversation.”

“I am almost one hundred per cent certain that you have said worse.”

Throughout the course of the conversation, the restaurant has been gradually growing quieter. Not that there are a lot of people there in the first place, of course, but the two or three other groups making midnight junk food runs have fallen into a lull, and the quiet bickering from Dirk and John’s table carries easily. As Dirk gives the room a glance, he notices that the trolls at the table next to them have become completely silent, and they’re both staring.

“Hey,” says the troll to the left, a short greenblood with corkscrew horns. Their eyes grow wide as they lean closer to get a better look. “Hey -- hey, aren’t you John Egbert?”

John stiffens. It’s barely noticeable. He keeps his eyes on his tray.

“Nah,” he says, forcefully bright. “Just got one of those faces, I guess.”

“No, you are,” says the troll, with an aura of revelation. “Hey, Niroxi, look! It’s John Egbert!”

“Hey, back off,” Dirk warns them, but they’re already getting up, craning their necks to try and get a gander at John’s darkening face.

“Are you -- holy shit, I can’t believe this -- what are you doing here?”

“Still don’t know what you’re talking about,” John says, voice strained.

“Are you here to check up on the government? We thought you’d gone off the map! Are Dave and Rose with you? Oh, shit, is Karkat here?”

“Jade says fuck you, too,” Dirk mumbles, and John shoots him a wry look.

“That would be so cool, if Karkat was here! Are he and Dave still a thing? I heard that Dave was dating Jane now, is that true?”

“No,” Dirk exclaims, repulsed. “What on earth--”

Niroxi groans. “You’re being so cringey,” she tells her friend, plaintively. Then, to John, almost shy: “But, like, for real? Are they here, though?”

John struggles to muster a smile. “Nah,” he says. “Just me and Dirk.”

“Dirk?” Her eyes flit to Dirk, who chafes under the attention. She brightens. “Oh,” she says. “Is Jake here, too?”

Dirk’s stomach takes a swan dive deep enough to bury it in the earth’s molten core.

“Nope,” he manages. “Nah, he, uh. I don’t know where Jake is.”

“Really? Told you,” Niroxi tells her friend matter-of-factly.

“You didn’t tell me shit. They’re on a break, it doesn’t--”

“Yeah? Like you’d know. You get your information from the Alternian Weekly.”

“It’s a good site!”

“The Alternian Weekly predicted that Kanaya and Rose would get divorced.”

“And the jury’s still out on that! Didn’t you see the photos? Rose wasn’t wearing her wedding ring at Target last week.”

“You can’t see her hand in the photo, that doesn’t mean anything--”

“And Kanaya and Terezi have been pretty chummy, lately, don’t you think?”

“Like Terezi would ever be into someone that wasn’t John,” Niroxi says, rolling her eyes, and John cringes. Dirk wonders how Terezi would react to that, if she were here. She’d probably laugh. Then she’d punch them.

Dirk isn’t great at doing either. So he does what he can.

“Come on,” Dirk says, standing up.

John tries to ignore the frenzied whispering of the table next to them. “You haven’t finished,” he says, in the carefully moderated tone of someone just barely keeping a lid on their shit.

“I have unless I want to be shitting water tomorrow. Come on.”

“You are literally so fucking gross,” John says gratefully, shoving back his chair.

They’re walking when they leave the McDonald’s. By the time the Maserati is in view, they’re runnin.

Dirk guns the engine as they leave, putting a family of goggling carapacians in their rearview.

6. Keep driving, and don’t talk about it.

They make it two towns over without saying a word. John picks the music, but after two songs, he turns it off, perhaps more comfortable with silence than the obnoxious country-pop blend that local radio stations seem to prefer.

Dirk, meanwhile, wages war with himself.

If it were Dirk, he wouldn’t want to talk about it.

On the other hand, it’s not Dirk, and John might want to talk about it.

On the other other hand, it would be excruciatingly awkward to talk about it, and being drop-kicked into that nuanced kind of social entanglement might actually kill Dirk on the spot. His heart would go into cardiac arrest and he’d die at the wheel. And then who would be driving the car? Nobody, that’s who. He’d die a Heroic Death, trying to get John Egbert to open up about his fucking feelings.

On the other other other hand, Dirk’s been informed that talking about things is healthier than not talking about it. So there’s that.

On the fourth other hand, Dirk’s not really familiar with the general concept of a healthy coping mechanism, and if John asked him for advice, he would have exactly jack shit to offer.

As it turns out, this debate is meaningless, because it’s John who speaks first.

“I was kind of immature back there,” he says, scratching the back of his head. “Sorry.”

“What?” Dirk stares ahead owlishly.

“Immature,” John repeats. “I shouldn’t have bailed like that. They were just kids.”

They soar past twin rows of wheat fields. A small town appears on the horizon.

“We’re just kids,” Dirk says, attempting to sound reasonable.

John snorts.

The town grows closer. It unveils the silhouettes of wide, boxy warehouses and tall, peeling billboards.

“We are,” Dirk says, frowning.

“Uh-huh,” John says. “Okay.”

“Why do you think we’re not?”

“I hate to break it to you, my guy, but whatever you think passes for ‘regular kid,’ we ain’t it.”

“I don’t mean that we’re perfectly normal,” Dirk argues, uncertain of why his voice is rising all of a sudden, “but we’re still . . . you don’t have to take that kind of treatment.”

“Yeah, I do,” John said, and his voice is centuries old. His voice has cracks, crumbling pillars, smooth facets weathered silken by time. His voice is age itself. His voice is the ghost of a dead universe, and it echoes, hollow as the cavity of an open grave.

“You don’t,” Dirk says, and his voice is small, petulant.

“I’m their god. I can’t just tell them to fuck off.”

“Sure you can,” Dirk says sharply. “It’s easy. It goes like this: ‘I’m on a date. Fuck off.’”

“I’m not going to be a dick to them.”

“They were being dicks to you.”

“They’re kids,” John cries. “How do you not -- I made their universe! Me and Jade and Rose and -- what the fuck am I supposed to do?”

“Not let them walk all over you!”

“I’m not -- I don’t --”

“You deserve to get to be normal,” Dirk insisted, and he’s never sure of anything in his life, except for this. Except for the lone, simple, absolutely unshakeable fact that John get to be a kid, if he wants. He doesn’t even know why he’s so angry about it, but he is. “You are. You sure as fuck didn’t get to be, back in -- back when you were younger. But now--”

“Yeah,” John says bitingly. “Normal. Yeah, sure, Dirk.”

“Normal enough.”

“Normal enough? What the fuck does that mean? Normal enough.”

“Even underneath all the Game bullshit.”

It’s the first time either of them have mentioned it. Ever, in Dirk’s case.

Dirk says, “You still get to be normal.”

Because Dirk can’t be. Dirk can’t and won’t and will never be normal, not with how his brain works, not with what he’s seen. Dirk was born in a dead world, a world underwater, and he was raised to survive in a universe that doesn’t exist anymore, and everything about him reflects that fact. There’s no hope, for him. He can’t be the person this universe expects him to be, the person who could live in this universe, and that’s fine. Dirk’s made his peace with that.

But John can be. And it makes Dirk unfathomably fucking angry, to think that maybe, after all, he can’t. Maybe the one of them -- the only one who could, the only one who might, after everything that happened, be capable; the one who wasn’t dating an alien or raised by an alien empress or or fused with a primordial deity in the form of a dog -- couldn’t have a normal life, after all. Maybe none of them got to go back. Maybe all of them were out of place.

That was the bitch about winning, in retrospect. It wasn’t game over. It was a new game.

“Pull over,” John says suddenly.

The briskness of this command startles Dirk, makes him swerve. “What,” he says. “No. Why?”

“Do it.”

“Why?”

“Do it.”

Dirk hangs a left in the nearest intersection and pulls them into a sparsely populated parking lot, sitting beside a giant vacated warehouse. The street is empty. The only cars there are old, probably out of use, maybe even abandoned.

John takes deep breaths.

“Normal,” he says acidly.

“Yeah.” Dirk says it stoutly, emphatically. “You know. Normal.”

John lifts his hands, and every car in the parking lot rises into the air.

The sound of two dozen vehicles groaning and clattering off the ground, in conjunction with the shriek of the gale necessary to lift them, deafens. It choruses. It howls. The cars rise and hover at ten feet, most of them, with the lighter ones drifting higher and the heavier sitting at seven or eight feet each. The wind tears through the flypaper and rubbish littering the parking lot, tossing it up in small cyclones of whirling trash. It makes the trees writhe. It shakes the Maserati, but doesn’t touch it, doesn’t lift it; they sit in the eye of the storm.

Above, storm clouds start to circle and congeal. The wispy tufts of cirrus that had been drifting over the horizon blacken as if someone tipped over an inkpot in a bed of cotton. Flickers of lightning fork down to the east.

The lines of John’s muscles are rigid. A tic in his jaw is the only sign this is costing him any effort at all.

After a minute, the storm starts to calm. The cars lower gradually to the ground, settling gently in the same places they were. The wind quiets, and then Dirk can hear himself think again. John lowers his hands, hesitant, and then puts them in his lap.

But in a way, it’s much worse, now, with everything still. There’s room for the silence to move in again.

Dirk says, “Shit’s up and fucked, huh.”

John laughs wetly. “Shit’s up and fucked,” he confirms.

“I mean,” Dirk says, “you get to pull that kind of wizardly fuckery at the drop of the hat, and here I am over here, fuckin’ Prince of Heart bullshit. What am I supposed to do? Therapize you to fuckin’ death? Fuckin’ Captain Planet-ass bullshit. ‘Heart.’ Jade gets to play pinball with planets, Dave’s over here Groundhog Daying it every time he fucks up, who the fuck even knows what Jake can do, it sure as fuck ain’t Jake, and Roxy can just make shit. Make it! I mean, fuck the Law of Conservation of Matter, am I right? Let’s let her just magick stuff out of thin fuckin’ -- oh, the blond one? Oh, oh, that one? Yeah, toss him, fuckin’, uhhhhh, I dunno, what’s left -- Heart. Prince of Heart, yeah that sounds good. The one that destroys shit, that’s cool, right? What can he do? Shit, man, like, feel really bad about himself, probably? Be depressed? Yeah, that works, great. Cool. We’ve got Witch of Space, Knight of Time, Page of Hope, Heir of Breath, and Depression Man. Dope. Now there’s a lineup I can get behind. Put a ‘case closed’ stamp on that motherfucker, we’re ready to run a session.”

John cracks a smile.

“Gimme a goddamn refund,” Dirk huffs, “that’s all I gotta say. You see how that troll chick didn’t even fucking recognize me? I am the fucking -- I’m not even important enough to get recognized at a McDonald’s. You know that if Roxy had seen that, she’d have eviscerated me on the spot. ‘Prince of Heart.’ Eat my ass, Jesus Christ.”

John giggles. It’s kind of stifled by the lump in his throat.

They look at each other.

John reaches across the armrest and gently punches him in the shoulder. By John’s standards, it’s practically a caress.

In a movie, this would be the part where Dirk kissed him, and John would kiss him back, and everything would be okay.

But Dirk doesn’t kiss him. Instead, he looks out the driver’s window, so that when John cries, he can do it in privacy.

By and by, John clears his throat and scrubs a hand across his face. “Um,” he says. “So I think I broke some guy’s Chevy. We should probably get going.”

“Yeah.” Dirk shifts the car into drive, and the engine thrums. “Where to?”

“I dunno. You wanna head east?”

“That’s fine with me.”

“I heard there was some cool tourist shit out -- hey,” says John, squinting across the street. “Is that an arcade?”

7. Get him the shitty bunny rabbit.

John breaks the lock on the arcade with ease. It’s abandoned, with white sheets tossed over most of the bulky, box-shaped consoles and dust lining the whole place in a thin film, but when Dirk steals some tokens from behind the counter and slots one into the nearest machine, the lights fire up just fine. They fuck around for a little bit with Dance Dance Revolution -- John beats Dirk eight games to one, and that one was when Dirk dared him to do all the moves with one foot -- and then burn tokens on Donkey Kong and Pac-Man. John has to teach Dirk how to play Frogger. Dirk is so bad at it that John wonders aloud whether Dirk actually derives some sick pleasure from killing frogs. John skunks Dirk blind at skee ball, but then Dirk gets him back by climbing up and removing the grate over the holes, and then they spend the rest of the hour lobbing skee balls overhand at the target without much regard for the score.

After an hour or two, they get bored of this, and pass a claw grab machine holding a pile of decaying plushes. Atop the pile sits an abomination in the form of a rabbit. The thing looks like what would happen if you asked someone who’d never seen a rabbit before to design one, except the only reference you gave them was the transcript of a Looney Tunes cartoon. The bulbous, uncanny-valley proportions of the head emphasize the oblong pear shape of the body, and the tail is a limp tuft of stringy cotton. The ears are tattered and the fur on them is clumped and tufted. The animal itself is a weird shade of bluish grey that probably came from using cheap dye for the fur. Beady black eyes glint from either side of a button nose, imbued with a legitimately chilling malevolence.

“That is the ugliest piece of shit bunny I have ever seen in my life,” John breathes, his nose against the glass. “I need it.”

Dirk wanders over, his hands in his pockets. “They’re rigged, you know,” he says. “The machines. You can’t win them.”

“Dude. Dude. Look at me. Look at me, though? I don’t care. I need it.”

“We can buy you a bunny rabbit, if you want one.”

“No, you misunderstand. I don’t want any rabbit. I want that rabbit. Specifically.”

“. . . Okay.”

John wastes somewhere between forty and fifty tokens trying to get the claw machine to give him the bunny. He gets close to success several times, often getting so far as to actually grab the bunny within the prongs of the thing’s obstinately clumsy claw, before it slips out in the millisecond before being deposited in the box. Dirk watches John cycle through the five stages of grief not once, not twice, but every single time this happens, and then watches John recover and try again with unflagging determination. It would be endearing if it were not also making Dirk feel slightly deranged, just watching it.

Finally, John runs out of tokens, and steps back from the machine with a mournful look. “It’s hopeless,” he said.

“Oh, no. If only there were someone who could have told you that.”

“It’s not my fault! I got so close!”

“I know.”

“Guess I’ll just have to do without it,” John mutters. He hangs his head with exaggerated despair. “No bunny rabbit for me.”

He ruins the effect by sneaking a glance up at Dirk.

Dirk heaves a long, put-upon sigh, and draws a token out of his pocket.

“Yes!” John pumps the air, giving Dirk space to assume control of the joystick. “Oh, man, if you nail this, I’ll owe you forever. I’ll even stop making fun of your tattoo. Actually, I take that back. I’ll stop making fun of your hair. Tattoo’s still fair game.”

“The longer you keep talking, the less likely I am to try.”

John ignores this. “You gotta wait for the right moment,” he advises. “It likes to stall sometimes, so you have to jigger it to work. And the joystick is sticky in the lower right corner, so you can’t use it. But aside from that, you should be okay.”

Dirk slips the token into the slot. It chugs for a moment, waiting, and then the screen brightens, the claw stirring.

John is right about the stalling and the sticky patch on the control pad. Dirk wastes three tries on the damn thing before getting aggravated.

“Cool,” he says thinly. “Cool cool cool. Hey, Egbert, do you have any particular qualms about how you get the damn rabbit?”

“Uh,” says John, “no?”

“Good.”

Dirk decaptchalogues Lil Seb into the palm of his hand. The small robot’s red eyes glaze as he boots up.

“You see that rabbit?” he asks it.

Lil Seb directs his attention to the glass, and nods. If he is offended by this obvious caricature of one of his kin, he does not show it. That’s the great part about Lil Seb. He’s a chill motherfucker.

“Get it for me,” Dirk orders, and then slides Lil Seb through the flap at the bottom machine, into the pickup trough where prizes fall for collection.

John lifts his eyebrows. “I think that’s cheating,” he says, but he doesn’t sound upset about it.

Lil Seb climbs up the chute into the main prize pit easily, scaling the mountain of plushies like a man on a mission to the peak of goddamn Everest. He seizes the ugly rabbit by the ears and hauls it down with him, leaping neatly into the prize chute and tumbling back into the trough with a clatter. Dirk reaches in and pulls out both bunnies, captchaloguing the metal one and keeping the much sought-after abomination.

“There,” he says, with more satisfaction than he’s proud of.

He holds out the prize.John beams at him like he’s offering John the damn Genesis Frog, face warm, eyes sparkling. Dirk’s fingers dig into the bunny, frozen, and his breath stalls a little bit.

“Hey! What are you doing?”

They both turn. A burly, balding man stands in the door of the arcade, a ring of keys in his hand, frozen in the act of opening the door.

A katana falls out of Dirk’s sylladex, on instinct.

“I’m gonna call the police,” the owner snarls, but before he can continue, John lets out a long groan, squares his shoulders, and with a snap of his wrist, flings two thousand newtons of raw windspeed directly into the owner’s face.

The sudden gale inside the arcade sends the man sailing out the door, flying backwards until he tumbles to a halt a hundred feet from the building. He’s still moving when he hits the ground, stirring, but clearly incapacitated. The Breeze tears the inside of the room apart, sending papers scattering in a flurry of white and lifting the dust into tiny whorls. Wind rakes through Dirk’s hair and ruffles his clothes. Blue lights snap and spark over John’s frame, especially his fist, and even as the tiny storm is calming, his eyes have a vivid, uncanny brightness.

They’re not human eyes. Not anymore.

Dirk looks down at the bunny in his hands. He wonders if he could pull the man’s soul out, if he tried. His powers aren’t the kind of thing you can do on a whim.

“C’mon,” John says. “Let’s get out of here.”

When they leave the arcade, the man is still struggling to pick himself up off the street. He shouts after them when he notices them going:

“What the fuck are you?”

Out of spite, John flicks his fingers at him. The wind blast shoots a nearby trash bin clear off its foundations and hurtling directly at the owner. Whatever the man’s next words were going to be are muffled by the sound of him taking a full trash can straight to the mouth.

“Hot,” says Dirk, and John snorts.

They make it out of range of the arcade. The Mississippi runs alongside the town, its thunderous rush dwarfing the sounds of the city and the road the nearer they draw to it. As they’re walking away, Dirk hands the bunny to John.

“Here,” he says, holding out the tiny plush. “This is for you.”

“Thanks,” says John, sounding almost genuinely surprised, and then lifts it high above his head, reenacting the Lion King. “I’m going to call him Liv Tyler.”

“Isn’t Liv a girl’s name.”

“Open your mind, Dirk, jeez. We live in the twenty-fifth century.”

“Just saying.”

“Just saying what?”

“You already have a kid called Liv Tyler. Gonna give your son a complex, using the same name twice.”

“I take it back. His name is Dirk Strider The Killjoy, Who Hates Fun And Also Happiness.”

“Junior.”

“Junior,” John agrees, and tosses an arm around Dirk’s shoulders. “Thanks.”

They wander down to the river, where the sandy bank is littered with old beer bottles and plastic wrappers and the remnants of picnics past. In between the reeds, they find a hollow where the grass has been flattened and sit down in it. The evening slips into twilight peacefully, drawing long shadows on the grass, and the trees form black inkstains against the ochre sky. The river turns the color of fire, reflecting the horizon.

John says, “This is kind of, like, beautiful and shit, dude.”

Dirk says, “Did you know that the sky is that color because of air pollution?”

“Yeah, I did. Do you have any other slogans from Hot Topic to share with the class?”

“I don’t know what Hot Topic is.”

“That is honestly more tragic than, like, literally any other part of our lives.”

Dirk finds a piece of copper wire in the rubbish on the bank and starts twisting it into knots. John lies back on his hands, the bunny perched safely in his lap, and sighs with contentment.

“It was really cool when you wasted that guy,” Dirk says, for lack of anything better.

“Yeah? Thanks, man. Guy was being a dick.”

“Agreed. To be fair, we were trespassing.”

“Trespassing shrespassing,” John snorts. “This whole universe comes from some frog Jade found in her backyard. Everything in it is her property, technically, and so also my property, by genetics, technically.”

“You are the legal genius this generation needs. Somewhere, Terezi is weeping tears of joy.”

“You think I don’t know? I didn’t play the Ace Attorney series seventeen times for nothing.”

“Oh, man. I had no idea I was sitting next to an Ace Attorney master.”

“I know. It’s overwhelming. You can take a minute, if you need it.”

“You really are brains, brawn, and beauty of this relationship, Egbert,” Dirk deadpans. “Such a great burden for one man to bear.”

“Yeah, well, someone has to pull your weight, don’t they?”

Dirk bites down on a smile.

John leans over, close enough that Dirk’s breath fogs the lenses of his glasses, sealing a coat of white over those enormous, ridiculous, ocean blue eyes. John isn’t touching Dirk, but he’s not touching him in a way that almost feels like touching, in how obvious it is, in how it makes clear that they could be touching, if Dirk tried, if John tried, if either of them tried.

They’re breathing the same air, sharing the oxygen that lives in the half-inch of space between their lips, when Dirk says, “Wait,” and John pulls back, his expression all twisted up and fearful like he thinks he’s gotten everything about this wrong, and Dirk panics a little bit.

“It’s not you,” he says (shouts). “It’s just -- it’s not -- I don’t not want -- I don’t -- I do, but I can’t just -- and not --”

“Dirk --”

“I wish I wasn’t like this,” Dirk says (whispers). “I wish I wasn’t fucking like this.”

John’s expression clears. “It’s okay,” he says gently. “We don’t have to, uh. If you don’t . . .”

“I do want to.”

John tilts his head. “Um,” he says. “Okay.”

He wants an explanation, of course he does, and the thing is that Dirk wants to give it to him. He really, really wants to give it to him. But he can’t.

John seems to realize this, because he scoots back, putting a good foot of space between them. With John farther away, it’s easier for Dirk to focus. It’s easier for him to think.

He opens his mouth, and he waits for the words to come.

8. When he tries to kiss you, tell him about your ex.

“Do you ever feel,” starts Dirk, and stops.

“Maybe I just,” starts Dirk, and stops.

“Sometimes,” starts Dirk, and stops.

The river flows past, wide and deep and fast enough to kill you before you realized you were drowning. Dirk lived on a tower with an ocean beneath his bedroom window and on some days he’d sit on the ledge, his feet eighty meters from oblivion, his face against the wind, thinking about what would happen if he leaned forward and let go. Sometimes it would take hours to convince himself he’d even hit the water -- that he wouldn’t just drift up into the sky, like a piece of flypaper borne on the back of the wind, and find another world waiting for him beyond the ceiling of stars.

“I have a hole,” he says.

John smirks. Dirk ignores him.

“It’s a hole in -- in the thing that keeps you together. Whatever that is. The thing that Roxy and Jane and Jake all have. I don’t know what you call it. It’s the thing that keeps the parts of a person together. Take Roxy, for example. Roxy doesn’t have to worry about whether or not whatever she does is going to be in character for Roxy, because Roxy’s the one who’s doing it. She doesn’t have to worry about whether or not she’s acting like a person, because she already knows she’s a person, so whatever she does is something a person would do. Or Jane, she -- Jane doesn’t have to think about why she’s doing something. Jane just does things because she does them. She doesn’t worry about doing something because she’s manipulated herself into doing it, or because she’s manipulated someone else into manipulating her into doing it, or because an elaborate configuration of circumstances conspired to create the specific conditions under which she would do it. She just fucking does it. And Jake -- Jake just does shit, too, he doesn’t need a rhyme or reason for it, he’s just him. They’re all people. They’ve got personalities and ideas and thoughts and they’re people, regular people, and they’re not perfect people, sure, but they’re people. And each one of them is held together by something. They’ve got a set of things that they believe in, or things that they are, or things that they do, and those things are them. I don’t . . . have that.

“I’ve got a hole in the thing that holds me together. And sometimes, I’ll just be doing shit, and I’ll think about that hole. And I’ll think about how much of me is just shit I do because other people like it when I do it, or because I think doing it will make other people like me, or because I’ve tricked myself into thinking I like it when I really don’t, assuming that I’m capable of liking anything at all. And when I was dating Jake, that was all I could think about, all the time, even when it was good, assuming it was ever fucking good for either of us -- ‘what if this isn’t real, what if you’ve dreamed this all up because you think you’re supposed to have a boyfriend, what if you don’t like him at all, what if he doesn’t like you, what if you’ve made yourself the kind of person Jake English likes instead of whatever the fuck you actually are.’ And when I think about you, I get the same kind of worries, like -- what if I like you so much I started being the kind of person I thought you’d like? What if the only reason you like me is because I tried so hard to be liked? I’d say that I was worried you didn’t like the real me, but that isn’t it. I don’t think the ‘real me’ exists, really. That’s the problem.

“So I guess what I’m saying is I’m not a person. Sometimes I act like a person and talk like a person and think like a person, but I’ve got a hole in the thing that’s supposed to hold people together, and I can’t sew it back up again. I’m not who you think I am. I’m a copy of a person that’s really good at making other people think it’s real.”

The river runs by, and he wants to be like the water. He wants to keep going and going and going, without cause or expectation of pause, until he hits something bigger than he is, and gets absorbed into it. Dirk has never wanted anything so much as not to exist -- not to die, but not to exist. It’s a quieter thing.

John says, “You are really kind of dumb, dude.”

Dirk’s neck hurts from how fast his head snaps around. “What?”

“I mean,” John amends, “that sucks, but you’re not, like, the only person who ever felt like they were faking it. And no offense, but you couldn’t manipulate your way out of a paper bag. I don’t think I like you because you’ve pulled some nefarious supervillain kind of shit, you know?”

“That’s not what I meant,” Dirk says, frustrated.

“No, yeah, I get what you meant. And I wanna make it obvious that, like, I don’t . . . not care? I do. It’s shitty, and it sounds like you could use some good counseling. But dude, I’m not looking for your hand in marriage, here. I just wanna eat chips and watch shitty movies and make out sometimes, and also maybe do more than that, if you’re into it. Or not, if you’re not into it. Cards on the table, I didn’t actually think I’d get this far.” John laughs a little. “The fact that you get so worked up about being like . . . the real you, or whatever? It makes me think I probably know exactly who you are after all.”

“Which is what?” Dirk can barely breathe.

“An idiot,” John says, with conviction. “But an idiot that I want to make out with, so I guess that makes me even more of an idiot, really.”

“Who’s more the fool,” Dirk quips, still dazed. “The fool, or the fool who wants to do butt stuff with him?”

“Oh my God, shut up. I’m never kissing you, actually. Ever.”

“That’s not true,” Dirk counters, with a feeble spark of confidence. “You said you wanted to make out with me.”

“That was before you talked about sex as ‘butt stuff.’ I’m taking it back. R.I.P., my libido. You had a good run, old buddy.”

“What’s wrong with butt stuff?”

“Stop saying that! Stop saying butt stuff!”

“Does it bother you?”

“Yes! I -- you are literally so aggravating.”

“You like it,” Dirk says, hazarding a guess.

“Asshole,” John grumbles. “You owe me, like, five makeouts for that alone.”

“I can do that,” Dirk agrees, now thoroughly bemused. Absolutely nothing in this conversation has gone the way he thought it would. He’s not unhappy about it.

“Five makeouts and my pick of movies.”

“Six makeouts, and I’ll drive the rest of the way.”

“Fine. But no more SBAHJ.”

“Shake on it,” Dirk says stoically, offering his hand.

John rolls his eyes and says, “Nerd,” before leaning in to kiss him.

This time, Dirk doesn’t pull away. The river runs by, and he doesn’t want to be anything but the creature living in Dirk Strider’s skin, anything but the person that John Egbert is kissing. It’s a new feeling. He likes it. He thinks he could live like this for a while.

[danphanwritingprompts]

People keep tagging me in this so let’s do this!

Rules: press shuffle on your music playlist and then post the first 10 songs that come up, then tag 10 people.

1) Screaming | The Void

2) Loud 2 am sobbing | Myself

3) More Screaming | Myself

4) Hurried, frantic running in the forest sounds | Local cryptids in the woods

5) OwO | What’s This?

6) What’s New Pussycat 7 times in a row, It’s Not Unusual, then 7 more What’s New Pussycat | John Mulaney

7) That squeeze feeling in the pit of your stomach and ache in your chest that makes you slowly mumble-cry | Existential dread

8) Round Three of Screaming | Scream O’Clock

9) Sheets Rustling As I Do Barrel Rolls, Trying to Sleep | My bed

10) A Sweet Lullaby | The Monster Under My Bed

Tagging: Your firstborn child (or you!)

[academiaipromise]

we’re back at existential dread o’clock i see

[dovabunny]

Fortune Favours the Brave and Stupid

Click link above to read on Ao3 or read below.

Relationship: Leliana/Cousland; Isabela/Merrill; Zevran/Alistair

Fandom: Dragon Age: Origins

Rating: General Audiences

Characters: Isabela; Merrill; Morrigan; Leliana; Aedan Cousland; Alistair Therin; Zevran Arainai

Tags: Alternative universe - Modern with magic; fortune-telling

Chapter: 1/1

Series: FicTober Ficlets

Summary: Aedan decides he needs to buy some divine intervention to convince Leliana they should be together. Only the outcomes are not at all what anyone expected.

FicTober prompt ( from @barbex ): “There they were, pursuing wisdom” (2017) and “Can you feel this?” (2018).

Dragon Age Inktober prompt (from Dankou): Warden

The result: this hot garbage.

 “So that’s when I said: can you feel th-”

 “-it coming in the air tonight?” Alistair lazily interjected through a mouth full of Cheetos not looking up from where he was focused on brutally annihilating Zev in Mario Kart with the intensity he’d only once before exhibited when he competed in that all you can eat ribs event where the prize was...more ribs.

 “-the love tonight?” Zevran purred casually, one arm draped over Alistair’s knee, his posture the exact opposite of his rigid, focused, cheeto-shovelling opponent. Zevran lifted his hand which Alistair high-fived, neither breaking their stride in game or taking their eyes off the screen.

 “I can not feel anything beyond the gnawing existential dread that plagues the existence of those of an intellect advanced enough to comprehend and question the great universal conundrums. ‘Tis a burden I bare gladly, as the alternative seems…” Morrigan gazes up from her tablet to lift an eyebrow at Zevran and Alistair. “...sweaty, stupid, and consisting entirely of a diet of artificial flavouring, colouring, and various dairy-based products.

 Aedan pinched his brow and took a slow measured breath, exhaling heavily out through his nose. “As.I.Was.Saying… I told her ‘can you feel this? There’s something between us here, something I don’t want to ignore anymore’.”

 “And, pray-tell,” Morrigan drawled, although Aedan knew her well enough by now to know this was her actually caring, “how did our resident chantry sister take such a romantically aggressive advance?”

 Aedan heard the sound of a muted beep from the TV and looked up to see two faces watching him from the couch, the game on pause.

 Aedan had never seen them pause during mario kart. He didn’t even know it was an option.

 Alistair was late to his own fucking graduation because they ‘had’ to finish their rematch after the two had a huge fight about who would win in a race where they also play chubby bunny with a pack of marshmallows that seemed to instigate the war.

 Zevran won. Alistar ran directly from the car, into the hall, and onto the stage, barely making it in time as they read his name.

 “She said,” Aedan sighed, “that she did feel it, but that that wasn’t enough. I don’t know, something about need a sign or something…”

 Morrigan scoffed. “If only your maker was as easily bribed as the chantry, we might’ve been able to arrange Andraste to come down and declare you two soulmates.”

 Alistair rolled his eyes, Zevran snickered, and Aedan - Aedan’s little symbolic lightbulb above his head went on with a lovely audible ‘ding!’.

 “Morrigan you GENIUS!”

 Alistair looked scared, Zevran looked amused, and Morrigan - Morrigan looked like she did that time she found out mayonnaise wasn’t vegetarian after years of eating it and calling herself a vegetarian.

 ~ ~ ~

 So here they were, pursuing wisdom...in dodgy little shop of a Rivaini seer.

 Said Rivaini was a beautiful, curvaceous, scantily-clad woman with caramel skin and eyes of molten gold. Her full black hair was swept back with a royal blue bandanna, and she all her bangles and necklaces chimed and jiggled as she moved. She greeted them with a sultry ‘hello sweet things’, but seemed startled when she saw Zevran, and gave him a knowing, polite smile and a wink.

 Alistair looked scared, Zevran looked amused, Morrigan looked irritated, and Leliana - Leliana was beaming with excitement.

 “So you’re my 3 o’clock, hmm?” Isabela glanced at her at a ledger that seemed to have more post-it notes than pages. “The reading?”

 Aedan swallowed nervously, but his voice didn’t waver. “Yap-pa-doo, that’s us.”

 The Rivaini’s gave them a calculating looking, seemingly analysing each of them. She sighed and shut the book, as if she somehow came to a conclusion in her mind.  “It’s not me you need. You need Kitten, the real deal. Consider it a...favour,” with that she shot Zevran a smile. “Follow me, if you will.”

 She lead them to a backroom where a petite elvhen girl was bent over old tomes, several herbs and mortars around her, and ...what was with the creepy mirror in the corner? The room smelled of elfroot, tea, and rain, with hints of cinnamon and spice that was entirely Rivaini. All over the walls were hanging plants and rich tapestries, the floorboards covered in lose carpets. A big round table stood in the centre of the room, covered in cards, crystals, and more books.

 “Kitten, I have some playthings for you,” the Rivaini said, her eyes lighting up as the elvhen girl turned. “Here for a reading.”

 “Oh! Marvelous!” she cried in glee. “I’m Merrill, please come in! I’m sorry about the mess. Oh this is most exciting, Bela usually don’t let me do the readings. She says I’m too straightforward, I don’t ‘razzle dazzle’ enough, so the customers don’t feel the need to return or buy stuff from the stores. Oh creators, I wasn’t supposed to say that, was I?”

 Merrill suddenly shrunk in on herself and looked at - Bela? - who just shook her head with a fond smile. “It’s quite alright love.”

 In a heartbeat Merrill was back to looking like she just saw the face of Mythal. “Goody! Oh, I should probably welcome you - come, sit! On the chairs, pillows, floor, anywhere. Although - I would appreciate it if you didn’t sit on my work table in the corner, but, if you truly wanted - I’m sure I could-”

 “Can we just get this over with?” Morrigan grumbled.

 “Oh! Of course.” Merrill arranged them all around the table, and after some awkward but polite offers of tea that was equally awkward but politely declined, she settled. “So - you’re here for a reading? Future, fortune, love?”

 “Foolishness?” Morrigan added.

 “Fun?” Zevran grinned.

 “Fear?” Alistair croaked as he glanced around the room as if trying to spot a demon that might jump out at him at any moment.

 “Love, if you please,” Leliana responded politely.

 Aedan smiled softly at her and shuffled in his chair, “Yeah, we’re-”

 “Oh!” Merrill interrupted as she turned over some of her cards, all with odd depictions of elvhen gods and mythical creatures. “Yes! Soulmates - wow, those are pretty rare, I don’t know how much you know about Dalish readings but those are quite the delight - amongst you, here. Oh how exciting!”

 Morrigan rolled her eyes, Zevran raised and eyebrow, Alistair raised both eyebrows, and Aedan and Leliana leaned forward with hope in their eyes.

 Even the Rivaini lounging in the corner of the room seemed intrigued.

 “Tru- truly?” Aedan stuttered. In his mind’s eye he already saw their wedding day, their children - they would have Leliana’s eyes and his nose - and their grey-haired smiles as they sat on the porch growing old together.

 “Yes! And between an elf and a human, even more odd…”

 There was a collective silence in the room. Eyes darted between one another, all lingering a bit on Zevran who shrugged in innocent defence.

 “Merrill,” Leliana cautiously asked, “who exactly are you referring to?”

 “Them, of course!” Merrill gestured to Alistair and Zevran who looked equally guilt-stricken. “There’s such a tangled chemistry between them, a connect both ancient and new.” Merrill said all of this as if it weren’t the truth bomb of 2k18, gesturing to the layout of her cards.

 She added a few select crystals, bones, and strange sparkly dust to a cup and jiggled it while murmuring some elvhen magic. She tossed it onto table with flare, then squealed in delight. “See???”

 The silence in the room was deafening, except for Morrigan who was trembling with restraint to keep from bursting out in laughter.

 ~ ~ ~

 It all worked out in the end. Miraculously.

 Leliana had taken the experience as a sign of how the Maker can work in mysterious ways, and accepted a date with Aedan. They’re on date 34 now. Yes, Aedan is counting.

 Morrigan went into Business with Isabela and Merrill, the three of them are quite popular and successful. “The Seer, the Witch, and the Mage” are fully booked months in advance. Their TripAdvisor reviews are excellent.

 Zevran and Alistair? Well, not much changed, as far as anyone could tell. If Zevran sat between Alistair’s legs, arms draped over his knees as they played Mario Kart, or if Alistair got Zevran his favourite snack and popcorn when they went to the movies without the elf having to ask - no one raised an eyebrow. No questions were raised when Zevran immediately knew Alistair had a bad day the moment he entered the room and went to make him a cheese sandwich with mayo (which horrified Morrigan every time), when Alistair left the bar with Zevran to walk him home. All because - nothing had changed. It was only that the others now saw what had always been there.

[appelaapaix]

Am I constantly exhausted due to a combination depression, parenting and existential dread or is it something more serious? Tune in to the 11 o’clock news to find out more! 🗞