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chocolatequeennk · 7 years

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Forever and Never Apart, 38/42

Summary: After taking a year to recover from the Master, the Doctor and Rose are ready to travel again. But Time keeps pushing them forward, and instead of going back to their old life, they slowly realise that they’re stepping into a new life. Friends new and old are meeting on the TARDIS, and when the stars start going out, the Doctor and Rose face the biggest change of all: the return of Bad Wolf.

Series 4 with Rose, part 7 of Being to Timelessness; sequel to Taking Time (AO3 | FF.NET | TSP)

Betaed by @lastbluetardis, @rudennotgingr, @jabber-who-key, and @pellaaearien. Thank you so much!

This fills several Bad Wolf prompts on @doctorroseprompts

AO3 | FF.NET | TSP

Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch 7 | Ch 8 | Ch 9 | Ch 10| Ch 11 | Ch 12 | Ch 13 | Ch 14 | Ch 15 | Ch 16 | Ch 17 | Ch 18 | Ch 19 | Ch 20 | Ch 21 | Ch 22 | Ch 23 | Ch 24 | Ch 25 | Ch 26 | Ch 27 | Ch 28 | Ch 29 | Ch 30 | Ch 31 | Ch 32 | Ch 33 | Ch 34 | Ch 35 | Ch 36 | Ch 37

Chapter Thirty-eight: Bad Wolf Reborn

The TARDIS wrapped herself around Rose, using the huon particles that had been left behind to form a full link between them. Knowledge surged through Rose, all the knowledge and memories of a being with millennia of experience—including the knowledge of what exactly had just happened.

Oh, that’s why we left those huon particles. They were kind of like a backdoor, so we could become Bad Wolf again.

That’s right, my Wolf.

Rose blinked when she heard the TARDIS in her mind, speaking in full sentences. Even though she never had a problem understanding the ship, their conversations were usually more of a flow of understanding as they each shared ideas rather than actual dialogue.

A tinkle of laughter felt like gold light in the back of her mind. Yes, when we are one, we can speak in full sentences.

And they were one. It was odd, Rose thought with some detachment. She could feel the TARDIS in her mind, and Bad Wolf, and herself… and yet somehow, all three were also one.

But about the huon particles… Rose said, leading them back to the original topic of conversation. Is this going go leave me feeling all tired and worn out for a week?

No. It was only the addition of the Time Vortex that left you dependent on me. This time when we separate, the huon particles in you will stabilise, and if we’re ever apart, you won’t get sick again.

Rose held her hand up and observed the tinge of gold running underneath her skin. Why didn’t you tell me that before?

Too much foreknowledge is not good for a temporal being. You saw your entire life when you held the power of the Vortex. You saw it all, and then you locked the memories away, to be unlocked only when they became relevant.

Rose sighed, but that was fair enough. And truthfully, she’d rather have some surprises left in her life, instead of having it an open book laid out in front of her.

She knew the exact moment the Doctor realised what had happened, and braced herself for his fear or disapproval. Instead, she was met mostly with confusion. She’d done what she’d hinted at over a year ago and become Bad Wolf without looking into the Time Vortex, and he couldn’t understand how.

We are the Bad Wolf, she said simply, the plural coming naturally. We cannot be uncreated.

It took him a moment to process that, then his confusion was replaced with something more like pride and hope. Everything they’d been told about Bad Wolf in the last year helped him understand that they had always been coming to this point, and that Bad Wolf was the only way to save the universe.

Rose ducked below the console a moment before she heard shattering glass and realised the rest of the roundels and the glass in the door had just exploded from the pressure of floating on a sea of Z-neutrino energy. The hint of prescience that came with being Bad Wolf was an odd sensation, but since it had just saved her life, she wasn’t going to complain.

While she waited for the turbulence to smooth out, Rose deepened the bond with the Doctor so she could eavesdrop on the conversation on the Crucible. When the Supreme Dalek gloated over their imminent deaths—the death of Rose, and the death of the TARDIS—the Bad Wolf couldn’t help but smirk.

Time tugged at her, and she got to her feet and pressed a series of buttons that Rose Tyler didn’t quite understand yet. But as the TARDIS—as the Bad Wolf—she knew they would time the flight of the TARDIS to the moment the Daleks’ countdown ended. The ship would disappear from their monitor exactly when they expected, but instead of dissolving into atoms, it would rematerialise outside the Crucible, undetected.

Rose pressed the final button when the countdown reached four, and she felt the moment the TARDIS left the heart of the Crucible. The Doctor could feel it too, and they allowed themselves just a moment to celebrate together, before they each focused on the separate tasks they needed to do before they could be reunited.

oOoOoOoOo

Despite all the hints of Bad Wolf that they’d gotten in the last year, the Doctor had remained firmly in denial. Bad Wolf had killed Rose once, and her suggestion that it might be possible without risking that danger seemed… remote, at best.

And yet he could tell she’d kept her promise and not looked into the Time Vortex. With a full bond between them, he would have witnessed the power of raw time along with her. And while the idea of ruling the universe beside her as the god and goddess of time had some appeal, the awareness that their physical bodies couldn't withstand the power killed his interest.

He shoved his trembling hands into his hair and tugged, vaguely aware that he still needed to present a picture of an angry, grieving husband to the Daleks.

The sharp pain in his scalp focused his thoughts. How had Rose merged with the TARDIS so completely? Taking an eleventh dimensional matrix and folding it into a flesh body shouldn’t be possible, and if it were, it should be putting far more strain on the physical form than it seemed to be.

We are the Bad Wolf, Rose reminded him. We cannot be uncreated.

It was incomprehensible to him, and yet it was obviously true. The Doctor growled and shoved his hands into his pockets as he straightened up to stare at the Daleks. Rose was safe, but they couldn’t know that.

“Your TARDIS and your mate,” the Supreme Dalek crowed, not realising how prophetic his words were. “You are connected to them both—now feel them die.”

The golden light in the Doctor’s mind felt amused as it listened to the words of the Daleks through their connection. The Doctor was able to channel his confusion and shock into something he hoped still looked like fear and anger.

“Total TARDIS destruction in ten rels,” a Dalek announced. “Nine, eight, seven, six, Five, four, three, two, one.”

The TARDIS disappeared from the screen, but she didn’t disappear from his mind, and neither did Rose. The Doctor bit his lip to hold back his cry of victory. Oh, the Daleks had done it now. Because the last time a fleet of Daleks had gone up against Bad Wolf, they had been dissolved to dust.

If it were possible for a Dalek to smirk, the Supreme Dalek was doing it now. He waved his death ray and plunger arm in excitement. “The TARDIS has been destroyed. Now tell me, Doctor. What do you feel? Anger? Sorrow? Despair?”

Hope. The Doctor felt hope. Because Rose had flown the TARDIS out of the Crucible and was hiding somewhere, while she and the TARDIS worked on a plan. And if there was one thing that would always give him hope, it was the idea that Rose and the TARDIS together could do almost anything they set their minds to.

The Doctor pressed his lips together, hoping he looked like he was holding back tears instead of laughter. He looked at the blank screen, summoning up the empty tone of voice he’d used the last time Rose had been killed. “Yeah.”

Jenny’s grief buffeted against him. The Doctor frowned hard enough to get a headache between his eyes—couldn’t she feel Rose still alive? His eyes widened after a moment when he realised that Bad Wolf felt different enough from Rose to confuse a young telepath.

He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. Pressing a kiss to her temple, he used the brief connection to project calm and hope to her. He couldn’t tell her what had happened, but he couldn’t let her go without some kind of comfort.

“Then if emotions are so important, surely we have enhanced you?” the Supreme Dalek taunted.

“Doctor?”

The Doctor turned slowly to meet Mickey and Jack’s disbelieving looks. “Rose was there… with the TARDIS,” he said, grinding out the words so they sounded painful. He met each man’s gaze directly, holding it for a moment until he thought they understood. They both knew what Rose could do with the TARDIS.

Jack’s gaze flicked over the Doctor’s shoulder to look at the Daleks. He set his jaw, then pulled his service revolver out and ran past the Doctor.

“You want emotions?” Jack challenged. “Then feel this!” He fired the weapon at the Supreme Dalek. The bullets made no dent in the polycarbide casing, but that hadn’t been Jack’s goal.

“Exterminate!”

The Doctor carefully shielded Jenny with his body as the Supreme Dalek fired on Jack. Should the red menace get the idea to let his death ray go astray, he didn’t want it coming anywhere near his daughter.

A moment later, the Doctor shuddered when he felt the wrongness that accompanied one of Jack’s deaths. Donna didn’t know about Jack’s trick though, and she darted forward to bend over him.

“They… they just killed him,” she said, her voice numb. “First Rose, now Jack.”

The Doctor let go of Jenny and bent down to pull Donna to her feet. “I know. I’m sorry,” he said, apologising more for not being able to tell her the truth than anything else.

“Escort them to the Vault,” the Supreme Dalek ordered.

Donna stood up, still staring down at Jack’s currently-dead body. The Doctor rested a hand on the small of her back as a Dalek rolled forward to escort them into a lift.

“There’s nothing we can do,” he told Donna. But as they walked away, he glanced over his shoulder just in time to catch Jack’s wink.

“They are the playthings of Davros now,” the Supreme Dalek gloated, unaware that the enemies he thought he was eliminating one by one were actually escaping his watchful eyestalk and forging plans for his eventual defeat.

oOoOoOoOo

Martha’s trek through the German forest was cold and fraught with danger. More than once, she was nearly spotted by a Dalek patrol, but each time she managed to duck behind a convenient tree just in time.

Still, by the time she reached a clearing and spotted the large stone castle, illuminated by spotlights, her nerves were shot. A voice called out to her, and Martha looked up at the old woman climbing down from the ramparts.

“Hier ist niemand. Was immer Sie wollen, gehen Sie fort. Lassen Sie mich in Ruhe!”

Martha sighed; she sympathised with the woman for wanting to be left in peace, but she didn’t have that option. “Ich heisse Martha Jones,” she stated clearly, giving her identification to the woman she knew was an operative, despite her appearance. “Ich komme von UNIT. Agentin fuenf sechs sechs sieben eins, von der medizinishen Abteilung.”

The woman stopped and stared at her from the top of the hill the castle had been built on. “Es hiess Sie kaemen vorbei. That accent. That is London, ja?” She tilted her head and her lips twisted into a half-smile. “I went to London. Long time ago.”

Martha ignored the attempt at casual conversation. There was something wrong here. “I thought this place was supposed to be guarded.”

“They were soldiers. Boys.” The woman scoffed, and Martha knew what had happened before she finished the story. “I brought them food every day. But when der Albtraum came from the sky, they went home—to die.” Her voice cracked, and she pressed her lips together and swallowed hard before speaking again. “But not you,” she said after a moment.

“I’ve got a job to do.” Martha didn’t have the luxury of being able to leave and let the nightmare from the sky play out. It was her job to stop it.

She climbed the stairs and the woman let her into the castle. Even though Martha had never been to this particular site, she’d been shown pictures when they’d first told her about the Osterhagen key and how it worked. She knew exactly how to get to the secret station, hidden behind the castle walls.

The old woman watched her as she strode through the unused rooms and found the tapestry hanging on the wall that concealed the keypad. Martha yanked it down and pressed her hand to it.

While she waited for it to give her clearance to enter, the woman continued her story. “London. In those days, to see it. So much glamour. I was so young. I heard the soldiers talking many times. They would speak of the Osterhagen Key. I think London must be changed now, yes? But still, the glamour.”

Martha’s handprint checked out, and she pulled the heavy door open. Then, to her surprise, she heard the distinctive click of a safety being removed on a revolver, and she turned around to stare at the woman who had not actually been caught in nostalgic memories, but had been slowly sussing her out.

“You will not go,” she said, but though the words were spoken fiercely, the weapon wobbled in her hands and Martha knew she was not in any true danger.

“I’ve got no choice.” The words came out pleading, asking the woman to understand that she would never think of using the Osterhagen Key if there were any other way. Her stomach was tied in knots at just the thought of what she was attempting, but the fate of the universe was in the balance.

“I know the Key.” The woman’s eyes were wide with horror. “What it does. Sie sind der Albtraum, nicht die anderen, Sie! Ich sollte Sie umbringen, am besten gleich jetzt!”

The Doctor’s voice whispered in her ear that the woman was right—Martha was the nightmare. The idea of setting off a string of nuclear warheads in the surface of the Earth rather than fighting until they had exhausted every option… it was wrong. It was against everything the Doctor had taught her, and it went directly against her medical training to do no harm.

But she had an order. “Then do it,” she challenged. The woman stared at her for another interminable minute, then finally she dropped her hand.

No longer under threat, Martha nodded once, then turned and stepped into the lift.

“Martha, Zur Hoelle mit Dir!” the woman cried after her.

Martha pressed the button. “I know.”

As the lift took her to the lower levels, Martha tried to shrug off the face of the old woman who had just told her to go to hell. She had an assignment, no matter what Harriet Jones or old German ladies thought.

But again, the Doctor’s voice suggested that maybe there was another way. That maybe, she should start by giving the Daleks a choice. Didn’t he always give his enemies a choice, a chance to do the right thing before he followed through on whatever plan he’d come up with to stop them?

The first hint of an idea formed in the back of her mind. Earth was one of twenty-seven planets. What if…

The lift stopped, and the doors opened directly onto a small station, big enough for one person only. As Martha unstrapped Project Indigo, the lights came on and the door shut behind her. Her breath caught in her throat; she had never felt more alone in her life.

She thought briefly of Tom and their ill-fated relationship. Did she feel alone partly because she’d broken up with him, or would she feel more alone if they were still together and she had to keep this from him? The same image that had convinced her to break up with him came to her again—Rose comforting the Doctor after the death of the Face of Boe. If she couldn’t have that, she would rather be alone.

She squared her shoulders and strode towards the desk chair, the Osterhagen key in hand. The rules were clear: there must be three operatives at three stations with three keys to activate the Osterhagen Key. That gave her time to come up with an alternative to blowing up the Earth.

Martha pressed the button for the secure comm link that connected the stations positioned strategically worldwide. “This is Osterhagen Station One. My name is Martha Jones. Is there anyone there? Over.”

A staticky pop and buzz came over the speaker. Martha pursed her lips—it was time to think like the Doctor, not just a doctor. There was always an alternative, if you looked for it hard enough.

oOoOoOoOo

The first thing Jack registered was heat. Much heat. Very hot. His eyes flew open, and he realised he was in an incinerator. Not the worst way he’d woken up after dying, but definitely not the best.

Thankfully, no one expected people to climb out of an incinerator, so the door didn’t lock and he was able to slide it up and roll out before he died again and had to think of a new plan.

Using the scanner on his wrist comp, Jack was able to get a rough schematic of the Crucible. He punched a few more buttons and managed to get it to show Dalek activity—which was pretty much everywhere.

He eyed the plans and sighed. “Ventilation shafts it is,” he muttered to himself and opened the nearest access point.

oOoOoOoOo

Sarah Jane, Pete, and Jackie followed the line of humans being led through the Crucible.

“Prisoners now on board the Crucible,” a Dalek said. “They will be taken for testing.”

“Testing?” Pete muttered. “I don’t know if I like the sound of that.”

Sarah Jane shook her head, then took a quick look around her, hoping to spot someone she recognised. “One step closer to the Doctor,” she said resolutely.

oOoOoOoOo

Rose leaned back and surveyed the console room when she got the last bits of debris swept up. The TARDIS had repaired herself when they had left the Crucible, but there had still been a little bit of picking up left for Rose to do. And honestly, she didn’t mind—it gave her time to think about what had just happened.

The moment they’d rematerialised, she’d felt the timelines settle around her in one solid path forward. She knew what she needed to do, and she knew with a certainty that was unnerving what had happened—no, what would happen.

Rose put her hand on the console and frowned down at the ship. “Can you try to think linearly when we’re connected like this?” she said, the sudden headache giving the words some bite.

The lights in the console room flashed, and the voice of the TARDIS in her mind apologised, though not without a hint of laughter. To the TARDIS, time was as natural a part of her environment as air was to humans. And like humans wouldn’t separate out the individual elements that made up the atmosphere, it was unnatural to her to divide past from present and future.

Rose rolled her eyes and brushed her hair out of her eyes. The glint of gold under her skin caught her eye again, and this time, it reminded her of something else. She’d seen that same gold at the edge of her vision in moments when the Doctor was threatened, or when they were in danger. She was the Bad Wolf, as she was meant to be.

And yet…

Rose brushed her hands over the controls on the console. “The Master said this wasn’t the prime timeline,” she said slowly. “That the most likely sequence of events after Canary Wharf was for me and the Doctor to be separated. So how… Did I…”

We saw all of Time, my Wolf. With the Vortex running through our mind, we saw it all. We saw the possibilities, and we found a timeline we preferred. And then, like a strand in a tapestry, we took that thread and wove it into our story.

A hazy memory shifted in the back of Rose’s mind. She’d done this. She’d set them on this path, or at least made it a possibility. Because this was how it was meant to be—the Doctor and Rose Tyler, in the TARDIS, forever.

oOoOoOoOo

As the Doctor and his companions were led to the Vault, he quickly ran over his hidden assets. There was Jack, who had faked his death so he could hopefully get away from the Daleks and run free through the Crucible.

Sarah Jane had been on that conference call earlier, and if he knew Sarah, she would not be content to sit at home, watching the world burn around her. The Doctor didn’t know what exactly she would be doing, but he expected her to appear at some point—likewise with the brilliant Martha Jones.

And, of course, there was Rose. Rose and their TARDIS, currently merged in the form of the Bad Wolf, listening in on the conversations going on and making plans that the Daleks absolutely would not be expecting.

Everyone would play a part, he knew. But his gut told him that the salvation of the universe would come at the hands of the Bad Wolf.

The Daleks who had delivered them to the Vault rolled back to the lift and returned to the main level of the Crucible. The Doctor stood in the middle of the room, with Jenny, Donna, and Mickey close by, and waited for Davros to speak.

“Activate the holding cells,” the mad scientist said, and the Doctor saw a glimmer of light as energy shields went up around each of them.

Jenny reached out and touched hers, and it flickered blue for a moment. “That’s weird,” she mumbled, then pressed her hand more firmly to the barrier.

“Excellent,” Davros rejoiced. He hit a button on his chair and rolled closer to the Doctor. “Even when powerless, Time Lords are best contained.”

The Doctor flicked his finger against the shield. Davros’ words made it clear he knew who Jenny was, and it struck him suddenly that his daughter was completely defenceless against his old enemy.

“Still scared of me, then?” he taunted, hoping to keep Davros’ attention focused on him.

Davros ignored his attitude. “It is time we talked, Doctor. After so very long.”

The Doctor shook his head quickly. He knew exactly where that conversation was going, and it was the last one he wanted to have with Davros. “No, no, no, no, no. We’re not doing the nostalgia tour. I want to know what’s happening right here, right now.”

He scanned his surroundings as he talked. It had not escaped him that they’d taken the lift down to get to the Vault, and now, a hilarious possibility occurred to him. “Because the Supreme Dalek said Vault, yeah? As in dungeon, cellar, prison.” He spun in a slow circle as he ticked off the synonyms. “You’re not in charge of the Daleks, are you?” He smirked at Davros. Davros stared at him, grim-faced, and he knew he was right. “They’ve got you locked away down here in the basement like, what, a servant? Slave? Court jester?”

“We have… an arrangement,” Davros conceded reluctantly.

“No, no, no, no, no.” The Doctor rocked back on his heels and laughed at the ceiling. “No, I’ve got the word. You’re the Dalek’s pet!”

Davros jerked the joystick controlling his chair and wheeled over to Jenny, and the Doctor cursed under his breath when he realised his plan to keep Davros’ attention focused on him had failed.

“So very full of fire, is he not?” Davros asked Jenny as he rolled to a stop in front of her. “Oh, I see the same fire in your eyes. You are indeed the Doctor’s daughter.”

A growl built in the back of the Doctor’s throat, but before he could hurl useless threats against Davros, Donna’s voice drowned out his protest. “Leave her the hell alone, you big old… Skeletor look-alike.”

The Doctor covered his mouth to hide his smirk. Davros really didn’t look much like Skeletor, but he loved Donna’s creativity.

Davros’ head swivelled between Jenny and Donna, trying to decide who he should stare down. “She is mine to do as I please.”

Jenny tilted her head back and crossed her arms over her chest. “Then why am I still alive?”

The Doctor stared at the floor for a moment, working to choke back his anger and helplessness. Jenny was so much like Rose—the same fearless defiance that always terrified him at times like this.

“You must be here. It was foretold.”

Davros’ raspy voice held a note of reverence that caught the Doctor by surprise. Who exactly had the scientist found to revere?

“Even the Supreme Dalek would not dare to contradict the prophecies of Dalek Caan.”

Davros pressed a button on his chair, and a light clicked on over a Dalek mollusk lounging in his open casing. “So cold and dark,” Dalek Caan said, his tentacles moving in time with his singsong voice. “Fire is coming. The endless flames.”

“What is that thing?” Mickey asked, while Donna gasped and put her hand over her mouth.

The Doctor sighed. “That is a Dalek, Mickey. A Dalek removed from his polycarbide shell.” He looked at Donna, still staring at the grotesque mollusk-like creature with wide eyes. “Rose and I told you about them, remember?”

Donna shook her head. Her eyes were fixed on the tentacles, waving in the air. “Yeah, but you said they had… metal and stuff. That’s just…”

“This is the true Dalek form,” the Doctor explained. “What they all look like beneath the metal casing. And Dalek Caan is unique. He flew into the Time War, unprotected.”

“Caan did more than that,” countered Davros. “He saw time. Its infinite complexity and majesty, raging through his mind. And he saw you. All of you.”

The Doctor frowned, wrinkling his forehead. He knew someone else who had looked into all of time and been changed by it. Looking into the Time Vortex had revealed the true desire of Margaret the Slitheen’s heart—he could only hope that a similar experience had given Dalek Caan the same change of perspective.

“This I have foreseen, in the wild and the wind. The Doctor will be here as witness, at the end of everything. The Doctor and the Bad Wolf, and their precious Children of Time. Oh, but now the Wolf has been silenced.”

The Doctor’s hearts stuttered, and he choked on a gasp as he swayed slightly on his feet. The last time he’d been warned that the Wolf would be silenced, he’d gone without Rose and their bond for five months—three of which he’d thought she was dead.

Rose?? he called frantically, even though he could still feel her in his head.

I’m fine, Doctor, she promised. But silent, like a submarine in the movies—running silent.

The tension drained out of him, and his shoulders sagged in relief. Then another thought occurred to him, and he shoved his hands through his hair. There was no way the phrasing was an accident, not if Dalek Caan could see Time. And that meant the Dalek knew Rose was alive.

He couldn’t let anyone else pick up on that fact though, and he immediately fell back on the anger and hopeless desperation he’d felt when the Supreme Dalek had dropped the TARDIS and Rose into the heart of the Crucible.

“Was it you, Caan?” he spat out. “Did you kill Rose? Why did the TARDIS door close? Tell me!” His volume rose with each demand, until he screamed the final words. The diatribe had started as yet another way to deflect attention from Rose, but talking about how much danger she was in brought his earlier fear back to full force.

“Oh, that’s it,” Davros cried victoriously. “The anger, the fire, the rage of a Time Lord who butchered millions. There he is.”

The Doctor felt Jenny’s gaze on him, could feel her confusion in the face of his rage. Across the room, Donna and Mickey looked on sympathetically, but Jenny had never seen him out of control like this. He took deep breaths and reminded himself that Rose wasn’t actually dead—she was only silenced, as Dalek Caan had said, biding her time until it was the right moment for her to save them all.

“Why so shy?” Davros said, his voice low and taunting. “Show your companion. Show her your true self. Dalek Caan has promised me that too.”

“I have seen. At the time of ending, the Doctor’s soul will be revealed.”

The Doctor ignored Dalek Caan’s latest prophecy and focused on his daughter instead. Her eyes glinted with tears, and he realised his outburst had convinced the wrong person of Rose’s death.

“Jenny…” His mouth worked uselessly as he tried to think of some words he could offer to reassure her that wouldn’t tip Rose’s hand to the Daleks.

He shook his head, but that had the opposite effect he’d hoped for. Instead of realising he meant Rose wasn’t actually in danger, she interpreted his head shake to mean Rose was gone. A tear tracked down her cheek, and the Doctor had to choke back the reassurances that would ruin Rose’s secret plan.

He looked back at Dalek Caan before he could say the wrong thing. “What do you mean, my soul will be revealed?” he demanded.

“We will discover it together,” Davros whispered. “Our final journey. Because the ending approaches. The testing begins.”

“Testing of what?” Dread settled in the pit of the Doctor’s stomach like a lump of over-kneaded bread.

Davros had half-turned away from him, but at the question, he spun back around. He tilted his head, and his voice was chillingly matter-of-fact when he answered. “The Reality Bomb.”

oOoOoOoOo

Heavy double doors flew open in front of the group of human prisoners, and they were led into an open chamber with high ceilings. “Prisoners will stand in the designated area,” a Dalek said as they were herded towards the centre of the room. “Move! Move!”

Sarah Jane stiffened when she took in the room’s stone walls and dirt floor. To most people, they would have seemed very out of place on an advanced spaceship—the overall aesthetic was more what you’d expect to find on an archaeological dig. But there was something in the design that hailed back to Skaro, and a wave of memories she’d tried to bury came back to her.

A gasp of pain pulled her back to the present danger. Sarah Jane twisted her head, trying to find the woman and perhaps offer help, but she couldn’t see over Pete’s shoulders.

“You will stand!” the Dalek ordered.

Sarah Jane realised two things in an instant: what must have happened, and that the Daleks’ attention was focused on this woman who had unfortunately fallen to the ground.

“I can’t,” the woman whimpered.

“You will stand!”

As the woman continued to plead with the Daleks, Sarah Jane scanned the room and spotted a smaller door off to the side. The Daleks hadn’t taken her sonic lipstick from her when they’d been brought on board, so unless the door was deadlocked, she had a way out.

“On your feet, on your feet!”

Sarah Jane shoved her hand into her jacket pocket as she ran for the door, pulling out the lipstick. She heard the distinctive fire of the Dalek death ray when she reached the door, and assumed the Daleks had taken another victim.

Her hands were shaking as she pointed her lipstick at the lock. Please let this work, she begged the universe. She let out a breath when she heard the latch unlock, then she looked over her shoulder while the door slid open. “Pete, Jackie!” she whispered as she left the room.

Pete stared straight ahead with his hands locked behind his head as ordered. He was so focused on Tony and Jackie and everyone in his universe that he was letting down that he almost missed Sarah Jane whispering his name and Jackie’s.

He let his gaze drift away from the Daleks to search for the Doctor’s friend, and his eyes widened when he saw her standing on the other side of an open door. Hope coursed through him. After sparing the Daleks a quick glance to make sure he wasn’t being watched, he carefully shifted to the side of the room, trusting Jackie to follow.

He only looked back when he reached the door, and his stomach clenched in hard knots when he realised she was directly in front of the Daleks and couldn’t move. He pivoted, but before he could go in after her, a hand clamped on his wrist and dragged him out of the room.

Pete glared at Sarah Jane as the door slid shut. “What the hell are you doing?” He reached for the button. “I’m not leaving my wife behind!”

In response, Sarah Jane dragged him to the floor. Pete caught a glimpse of a Dalek patrolling just the other side of the door before they were safely out of sight.

oOoOoOoOo

The booming, grating voice of the Supreme Dalek reverberated around the Vault. “Testing calibration of Reality Bomb. Firing in ten rels.”

The Doctor furrowed his brow. Reality Bomb? He stared at Davros, trying to understand what he was talking about.

“Behold.” Davros’ voice was shivering with anticipation. “The apotheosis of my genius.”

The view screen turned back on, revealing a crowded room full of humans. The Doctor’s gaze flicked between the screen and Davros, as he wondered what exactly the Daleks had done now. Davros bristled with pride, and the Doctor knew that whatever the Reality Bomb was, it was bad news from the humans trapped in that room.

The Supreme Dalek’s countdown reached zero. “Activate planetary alignment field!” he ordered victoriously. The image on the view screen switched from the holding chamber to a quick glimpse of the configuration of twenty-seven stolen planets.

The final piece slid into place when the planets started to glow. Twenty-seven planets, like cogs in a gear, and a space station with a heart of Z-neutrino energy.

“That’s Z-neutrino energy, flattened by the alignment of the planets into a single string,” he muttered. The image switched back to the prisoners, and the Doctor’s hearts thudded painfully in his chest as the final piece fell into place.

“No!” he breathed. “Davros, you can’t!” He pressed his hands to the containment field and hissed when a charge went through his body. “You can’t!” he insisted, his shoulders heaving as he struggled to breathe.

This was why the stars were going out in that parallel world. Reality was being literally undone. The people in that testing room, all of them, were about to be reduced to atoms.

And it wouldn’t stop there. Everything and everyone would be reduced to nothing. No one was safe, not even Bad Wolf.

oOoOoOoOo

Pete paced the corridor, rubbing his hands over his bald head. Jackie was in there, and whatever the Daleks were planning on testing, he didn’t think it was a new line of beauty products.

Another Dalek with a deeper grating voice came over the tannoy, counting down to something. The tension stole the last of Pete’s patience, and he reached for the door controls again. And again, Sarah Jane stopped him.

“I can’t just stand here and wait for the Daleks to kill her,” he whispered harshly.

Sarah Jane shook her head. “I know you want to save your wife,” she said, cutting off his protests. “But if the Doctor can’t stop whatever the Daleks are doing in there, we’re all going to be dead by the end of the day anyway!”

Those words reminded Pete of Jackie’s pragmatic reason for leaving Tony behind to come to this universe and help the Doctor and Rose. He took a deep breath and nodded, knowing it was what Jackie would have wanted. Choosing his son’s life over his wife’s was torture, though, and he couldn’t bring himself to watch.

Something beeped, and for a moment, he thought the weapon had fired. Then he realised he knew that sound, and he reached frantically into his pocket for his dimension hopper. The light was on, and he ran to the door.

“Thirty minutes,” he told Sarah Jane as he held the yellow button up to the window. “It’s recharged.”

He pounded on the glass porthole, hoping the sound would be enough to get Jackie’s attention. “Come on, Jacks,” he muttered, and finally, she looked up at him. “Use it,” he mouthed deliberately, pointing at the button. “Get out of there, love. Come on!”

Jackie’s eyes widened, and she slowly lowered one hand to slip it into her pocket. Pete saw her turn to the woman she was standing next to and whisper something, then she disappeared.

A second later she was in his arms. “Pete!” She clung to him. “Oh, my God, Pete! I thought I was dead!”

The exhilaration of a narrow miss coursed through Pete’s veins, and he threaded his fingers through Jackie’s hair and tilted her head back so he could press his lips to hers. Tears burned under his lids as he kissed his wife fiercely, trying to convey exactly how grateful he was to have what was now a third chance at a life with her.

Sarah Jane tugged on his sleeve, and he reluctantly pulled away from Jackie to look through the window. The room was being flooded with bright greenish yellow light. Pete’s eyes widened as one by one, the people left behind were vaporised, existing one minute and reduced to atoms the next.

The woman Jackie had tried to help was the last to go, and Jackie turned her face into his chest and whimpered when she was gone.

Even Sarah Jane’s voice shook when she said, “Come on. We’ve got to find the Doctor.”

oOoOoOoOo

Rose was still reining in her anger at the way Dalek Caan had heartlessly played with the Doctor’s worst memories when the TARDIS monitor clicked on. She took a deep breath, then moved around the console to look at it. There was a diagram of the twenty-seven planets at the centre of the screen, with a report of what was happening scrolling across the bottom. She read along with the text, distantly aware that the words were in Gallifreyan, but setting aside that fact to think about later.

“Single string Z-neutrino compressed…” She sucked in a breath. Rose Tyler wouldn’t know what that would do, but the TARDIS did, which meant Bad Wolf did. “No,” she breathed, touching the screen as if she could reach through it and stop the Daleks.

You cannot save those people, my Wolf, but you can save the rest of the universe. Are you ready?

It was hard to contain Rose’s compassion, but ideas were already brewing in Bad Wolf’s mind. “I’m ready.”

oOoOoOoOo

The image on the view screen flared with bright light. When the light faded, the room was empty. Jenny looked from the view screen to her father, who was trembling with rage behind his forcefield. He bared his teeth and turned away from the screen, his hands raking through his hair.

His reaction to the loss of those strangers made one thing very clear, even if she didn’t understand anything else she’d just seen.

Mum was still alive.

That was the only way the Doctor could possibly be more upset over a room full of strangers than he was over Rose. And if he was pretending… they must be working on a plan together.

Jenny carefully hid her relief and asked the other question baffling her. “Dad, what happened?”

Davros answered before her dad could, his crackly voice breaking slightly over the syllables. “Electrical energy, Miss Tyler.”

The creepy man wheeled his chair back over to her, and Jenny shuddered when he leered at her.

“Every atom in existence is bound by an electrical field,” he explained, his voice warbling over the syllables. “The Reality Bomb cancels it out. Structure falls apart. That test was focused on the prisoners alone. Full transmission will dissolve every form of matter.”

“The stars are going out,” Mickey said from his holding cell.

Jenny looked across the room at Mickey. That’s what had started this whole adventure, she remembered—in another universe, the stars were going out. And it was all because Davros and the Daleks had shut off the electrical signal that bound the atoms together, and had fired their weapon across time and space, and even dimensions.

“The twenty-seven planets,” the Doctor bit out. “They become one vast transmitter, blasting that wavelength.”

“Across the entire universe,” Davros crowed. “Never stopping, never faltering, never fading.”

A twisted smile curved up the corners of his mouth, and he started speaking faster and faster until the words were spilling out one on top of the other.

“People and planets and stars will become dust, and the dust will become atoms, and the atoms will become nothing.” He lowered his voice, letting the ominous tone echo around the Vault. “And the wavelength will continue, breaking through the rift at the heart of the Medusa Cascade into every dimension, every parallel, every single corner of creation.”

A vicious light entered Davros’ eyes, and he pointed at the empty room on the view screen. “This is my ultimate victory, Doctor! The destruction of reality itself!”

#ficandchips #ten x rose #dwfic #fic by Nancy #doctorroseprompts #cq's fic: forever and never apart #series: Being to Timelessness #bad wolf!rose is important to me #so important #and this is my vision for a true merging of Rose and the TARDIS #ahhhh i'm so excited!!!#i hope you like it

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cometoceantrenches · 7 years

Text

its for the extra credits [3]

SUMMARY: Seventeen-year-old Amaya Sloan didn’t really like this. The situation was just thrust upon her. What was it you ask? Well, its to tutor Hawkins’ resident Bad Boy: Billy Hargrove. Though things take a turn and it isn’t just about tutoring anymore...

CHAPTER SUMMARY: First day of tutoring; it's much worse than they thought.

A/N: Yeet! I wanna thank @strangerstuffandthingsimagines for helping me by editing. Its really helped. <3 Also, it was pretty fun delving deeper into Billy’s character. Poor boy. Anyways enjoy the fic and as always, feedback is appreciated.

Amaya never really thought about the challenge it until the day itself arrived.

Her fingers drummed against the mahogany table of Hawkin’s library, both out of nervousness and impatience. Her other hand held her chin as she browsed through the notes and extra cue cards she went as far as making just for the sake of Billy learning something.

She sighed at the empty space beside her. Steve had offered to stay with her, to help ease her conscience but something came up and that left him to babysit the Party again. She remembers him apologizing profusely during dismissal but she dismissed it, assuring him that she can handle it. He gave her a sympathetic smile before being dragged off by the impatient kids.

The girl looked around in a bored manner. Not many people were around, just a handful. The librarian was behind the desk, as usual, her dark brown hair, now streaked with thin strands of grey tied up neatly. The rest were either students or bookworms that seemed to be so immersed in whatever they were reading. The afternoon sun filtered through the windows, giving the place a calm feel to it.

Amaya looked down at her watch. The time set for them to meet was 3:35 in the afternoon. It was already 4:05. She groaned internally, folding her arms under her and laying her head upon it. To pass the time, as well as to be productive, she reviewed the notes herself. Another minute passed by before the sound of wood scraping against the linoleum floor made her perk up.

“It's 4:20 where the fuck were you?” She scolded, seeing Billy take a seat across her.

He merely shrugged, an easy-going smirk on his face as he leaned back, an arm slung over the back of the chair. If the librarian weren’t so strict, he would’ve propped his feet up on the table. A dark purple bruise where the neck and shoulder meet started to bloom. As soon as Amaya’s gaze landed on the hickey, she couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

“Of fucking course…” She mumbled to herself and pulled out a textbook. “Please tell me you at least brought some of your notes… if you have any.” She mumbled the last part to herself.

Surprisingly, the denim-clad boy bent down to pull out a worn out paperback spiral notebook. There were creases on the cover of the notebook as well as the invisible pen marks dented upon it whenever it would sit under a paper Billy would write on. He threw it on the table with a small thud but nevertheless, it resounded throughout the quiet walls of the library.

The librarian’s head snapped up, the beads on her eyeglass’s strings swinging from side to side. She hushed them a little violently before turning back to her work. Amaya bit the insides of her cheeks as she inwardly cringed. Her face burned red with embarrassment.

God help me. She prayed silently before clearing her throat and sliding the cue cards she had made over to him. “Okay so let’s start with Ternary Nomenclature.”

Halfway through the session, Billy lost interest and started to let his mind drift to his other thoughts. He thought back to the good times in California where he would walk the boardwalk and let the sun beat down on him during the summer, hanging out with his friends at the beach or riding the waves on a surfboard or on a boat. He remembered how cold it would get in the bay area during the winter and how so many people would visit to see the seals and Alcatraz in San Francisco Bay Area. Most of all, he thought of his mom.

God, he missed her so much. He missed how safe he felt in his mother’s arms like he could be a little boy again and just be shielded from the world. He missed how his mom would comfort him whenever his dad was being an asshole and how she would put him to sleep at night. He remembered how she taught him to drive with the iconic blue Camaro she got him for his birthday. Billy remembered how he took care of his mom when she started getting sick and frail, how he made sure she was comfortable, had enough rest as well as sleep and that she ate enough.

The blond was snapped out of his thoughts when he felt a stinging pain on his arm. “Ach- hey..!” He whispered loudly and shot a glare at the girl across him.

“You weren’t paying attention. Come on, focus.” Amaya huffed before starting over again.

As she read out some descriptions of the elements and compounds, Billy rolled his eyes and turned to face the window. All he wanted was for this stupid study session to end. Another flick to his arm made him return his attention to her.

“Hargrove. If you weren’t going to pay attention why did you even come?”

The blond’s furrowed brows relaxed after a moment of silence. He fell back into his easy-going attitude and propped his feet upon the chair beside him, his arm swinging lazily as it hung lazily over the backrest. “Why do you care so much, Sloan? I didn’t think you’d be this desperate to have my attention.”

His response made the Filipina freeze in place. A furious flush of crimson dusted her cheeks. Billy smirked at her reaction, silently gloating at how flustered she was. Whether it was from anger or something else, it didn’t fail to amuse him.

Amaya cleared her throat after a while before adjusting her notes, an effort to act unaffected by what he just said. Her gaze flickered at her surroundings before uneasily settling back at Billy. The said boy ran his tongue across his pearly whites. Once more, Amaya cleared her throat and returned to her former state.

“Are you done, Hargrove? We really need to get back to studying.” She said and straightened up.

Billy’s head rolled back lazily as he let out a quiet groan. “Ugh, what’s the point? There’s only like what,” he looked down to his watch. “ten, fifteen minutes to time? We’re both suffering here just being in each others’ presence. Let’s just book it and get out of our hairs already.”

The other gave a humorless laugh and tossed her pencil onto the table. “As much as I’d like to, we can’t because you can’t keep it in your fucking pants and caused the time to be extended. If you don’t want your precious time to be taken up by this, put this ahead instead of your other, how should I say this, sessions.” With a sigh, she ran her hand through her hair and held it out for him to shake. “Deal?”

Billy gave a sigh of his own before curtly shaking her hand. “Let’s get this shit done then.”

After what seemed like forever, Amaya snapped her textbook shut and started packing up. “Alright, we’re done. Now get out of my sight.”

“Christ, so harsh. And I thought we had something special going on.” The blond teased before fixing his own things.

She simply rolled her eyes for what seemed like the umpteenth time before pushing back her chair and heading out to the parking lot’ leaving Billy behind.

Outside, Steve waited along with Lili and Dustin in the red convertible. The engine revved to life when the brunet saw her exiting the building. The shotgun door opened and she slid in, heaving a heavy sigh. The older of the two Sloans heard a sympathetic click of a tongue from behind her.

“Worse than what you expected?” Dustin inquired.

Ever since Amaya started hanging out with Steve, he had considered her as an older sister. Besides, he may or may not have a thing for her younger sister.

“Ugh.”

“That’s a yes then.”

Steve turned to her. “This is why I told you to quit while you’re ahead. Now… you’re pretty much too late.”

She smiled sarcastically, her head resting against the vinyl of the car. “Gee, thanks mom. Very positive.”

“*Kaya mo ‘yan ate.” Lili piped up and leaned forward, only to slump back once the brunet pulled out of the parking lot. “You can do it. Just… just maybe picture someone else?”

“I hope my tired brain can think something up.”

“Why don’t we just head out to Benny’s? My treat.” Steve suggested. He chuckled when he heard the joyous cheers of the kids behind him and the relieved sigh his friend let out.

And for a quick moment, Amaya forgot all about tutoring Hargrove the next day.

#stranger things oc #st oc #billy hargrove x oc #billy hargrove x ofc #billy hargrove x amaya sloan #billy hargrove #amaya sloan

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illumynare · 7 years

Text

Red vs Blue Fic: we are a woven thread, find the strand

Summary: Wash wakes up from a coma to find out that all of his friends are dead. Months later, he finds a lost cat in the rain, and starts to live.

Parings: Wash/CT, Yorkalina.

Warnings: Canon-typical language, borderline suicidal thoughts, alcohol abuse, aftermath of canonical character death. THERE’S A HAPPY ENDING I PROMISE.

Notes: Also available on AO3!

My entry for the RvB Reverse Big Bang at @rvbficwars! I was so, so excited to work with @blazonix; please go here to see (and kudo/reblog!) their amazing art for this story.

Story/chapter titles are from "The Breaking Light" by Vienna Teng, which was also my entire writing soundtrack for this project.

1. feel the hollow dream slip away

Every time Wash wakes up, he hopes it was all a dream.

He hopes that Connie will be tucked against his side, new pillow creases pressed into her cheek. That York will be leaning over him, calling, "Hey, Sleeping Beauty" (which usually means that he's written something on Wash's face). That Maine and Carolina will be dragging him out of bed for an early morning run. That North and South will be squabbling in the kitchen, the rich scent of Dakota family buttermilk pancakes wafting through the air.

Wash lies very still with his eyes closed, and he hopes.

But it's never real.

He's always alone.

Eventually, he gets up. Makes coffee. Sits at the little IKEA table and watches the traffic on the street below.

Wonders why he's still here, when everyone else is dead.

Sometimes he wakes up after having the dream, and that's worse.

In the dream, he's all alone in a vast wilderness—no, it’s an entire world without color. Gray sky, gray mountains. Gray dust and rocks beneath his feet. He's wearing some kind of heavy armor—he sees gray gloves on his hands—and he's walking, marching, endlessly onwards.

He doesn't know where he's going. He doesn't know why. But ahead of him flutters the only piece of color in the world: a brilliant, glowing blue butterfly. He knows he has to follow it.

Wash has had the dream, off and on, for all his life. But when he was in the coma? For all those six years, he was marching through that gray world, until his legs shook with exhaustion and sweat itched inside his suit. But he couldn't rest, because he knew that somebody was waiting for him. If he followed the blue butterfly long enough, he knew he would find his way home.

Then he woke up, and everyone who had been home to him was dead.

Sometimes, his therapist asks if he can remember the accident. Wash always says no.

That's not exactly true.

Here's what he remembers: a bright, bright blue October sky, the cold wind scraping his face raw and making his nose run. He loved it, he's always loved days like that.

He remembers York tagging along to the lab with them, even though he didn't have an internship with Church Industries and really shouldn’t have been allowed past security. South punched his shoulder and said that dumb jocks didn't belong with the cool kids, and York grinned at her and said, "Aw, c'mon. I am the cool kids."

He remembers that Connie had just washed her hair, and it smelled like lavender.

And he remembers the moment it all went wrong, when Carolina suddenly stopped laughing at York as she bent over the instruments. He remembers the soft sound of Connie drawing a quick breath—

And he remembers something after that, but it's just a blur of noise and flashing lights, billowing white smoke and burning, burning, burning.

Sometimes, very late at night, he thinks he can remember a heavy weight pressing down on him, and the nightmare smell of human flesh dissolving under chemicals: Maine, saving his life by taking most of the blast.

His therapist tells him that he needs to come to terms with the memories. Wash just wants to forget.

He's grateful for one thing, when he wakes up in the hospital: his nurses don't lie to him. They tell tell him the truth, straight-up.

(Sunny-side up, his brain adds, still loopy on pain medication.)

There was an accident. You've been in a coma for six years. Three of your friends died. All of them were injured.

(Uh-oh, spaghetti-o.)

Wash listens, and even through the haze of drugs, he remembers the fucking day before when Connie told him that she was worried about procedures in the lab. She thought thinks weren't quite right, and he brushed her off—

He thinks, I'm gonna make them pay.

But the next moment, the nurse tells him: A lawsuit found Church Industries criminally liable. Your medical care is being paid for by the settlement.

And that's that.

Wash does research later, when his head is clear. He finds out that Leonard Church committed suicide after losing his company. Dr. Price, the lab supervisor, was banned from ever working in the industry again; he's reduced to living off the meager sales of his tell-all book.

There's no revenge left for Wash to take.

And without that . . . there's no reason for him to be here.

They tell him about Connie. She survived the accident. She came to visit him in the hospital, they tell him. First every day and then every week and then every month—she was a professional journalist by then, traveling across the world to cover disasters and atrocities and injustices.

Then there was a car-bomb.

Wash finds the news story and the obituary. He reads them, hunching over and hugging himself. He can’t stop remembering that last, soft breath he heard her draw.

They tell him that York and Carolina survived too, but they haven’t come to visit him in years.

Wash doesn’t try to find them. He doesn’t want to know if they’re dead or they just forgot him.

It doesn’t really matter. Either way, he’s alone now.

The money from the settlement gets him a small apartment and a therapist. Wash goes to IKEA and gets a mattress, a table, a chair, a box of silverware, and three mugs. Then he stops. When his therapist prods him, he lies and says that last weekend he got posters and an orchid.

(Connie had an orchid she’d kept since she was fifteen, and it still bloomed purple flowers every year. When Wash was working up his nerve to ask her out, he got an orchid of his own. He thought he could talk to her about it, but it died in the first week.)

He does the exercises that they gave him in the hospital. He talks about his feelings with his therapist. Once a week, he gets a latte at Starbucks and fills out a single job application.

The rest of the time, he sits at his table. Lies on his mattress. Wishes he could stop.

Sometimes he has the dream again, and he wakes up furious. It’s so fucking unfair, that every time he has this dream, he believes he’s got somewhere to go. He believes there’s a reason to keep walking.

Then he wakes up and remembers it isn’t true.

The beautiful, shining blue of that butterfly—it’s just a lie.

One morning Wash wakes up from the dream, and he’s so furious that he throws his mug of coffee at the wall. The sharp crack as it shatters is like a slap to the face; as he stares at the dent and the coffee dripping down the wall, he feels like he’s suddenly waking up.

He’s done his exercises every day. He’s filled out job applications, he’s talked to the therapist. He’s done every fucking thing they told him to do, pretending to keep living, and for what?

Fuck them. Fuck everything.

His arms and legs are suddenly jangling with unfamiliar energy, and he knows what he’s going to do. He walks out of his apartment and down the street to the corner mart. He gets a bottle of whipped-cream flavored vodka, and he starts drinking it as he marches back to his apartment.

Halfway through the bottle, he remembers the last time he got really drunk. It was a star-watching party that York had organized, mostly in an attempt to make up with Carolina after one of their fights. But it was a good enough excuse for them all to sit out drinking under the stars, and while York tried and failed to set up the telescope, Wash and Connie snuggled together on a beach towel.

They were both pretty drunk. Connie was telling Wash why she believed in reincarnation, something about quantum entanglement and multiple timelines. Wash couldn’t follow it, his brain too fuzzy from beer and the scent of Connie’s hair.

What he did understand, what he would remember forever after, was this:

“I think there’s a reason we found each other,” she said, twisting to look up at him. “You. Me. All of us. It’s not a coincidence.”

And Wash nodded, because he believed her.

Childhood sucked. High school sucked. College felt like he was starting over, a new person. Suddenly he had friends and a future, and he was so happy, so very happy. When Connie started dating him—when Carolina nodded and said, “Well done,” for the first time—when he qualified for the internship along with the rest of them—

Looking down into Connie’s eyes now, listening to South cackle like a hyena in the distance, he thought it was worth it, all the misery of the earlier years was worth it. Just to find them.

Wash remembers that night as he drinks the vodka, and for the first time since he woke up, he cries.

Because if finding them was the reason for him to be born here, what the fuck is he supposed to do now?

Wash's face is covered in sweat as he leans over the toilet, elbows braced against the seat, panting for breath. His mouth and his nose are burning with the sour taste of bile, but he knows there's more to come up—

A hand presses against his shoulder. A deep voice: "Breathe."

"Seriously, rookie?" The second voice is lighter, drawling. "You thought you could out-drink Maine?"

—and it feels like a memory, but he knows it never happened, because the voices are kind of like York and Maine but they're also not, and Wash gives up thinking as he convulses again, more of the vodka leaving his system.

When he finally falls asleep, he doesn’t dream about the gray world for once, but starlight in Connie’s eyes.

2. listen to the breathing sea

The next day, Wash’s phone alarm goes off at 11:35. He cringes at the noise and tries to remember why it’s happening.

His 12:00 therapy appointment. The alarm was for him to leave the house, not wake up.

Shit.

Wash crawls out of bed and does his best to ignore the way the room feels like it’s very slightly spinning. He fell asleep in his clothes, so he’s able to just pull on his shoes and stumble out the door into the rain.

He misses the bus by thirty seconds. Wash stares at it trundling away, exhaust puffing white in the cold air. Rain trickles down the back of his neck and patters against his shoulders—he forgot to grab his jacket. He thinks about the not-covered-by-insurance fee for missing an appointment, thinks about his therapist hounding him for answers about why he missed the appointment, and he says, “Well, fuck.”

A shrill meow answers him.

Wash looks up.

In the tree next to the bus stop, on a low branch barely above the level of Wash’s head, there’s a cat crouched into a miserable loaf of damp fur. It’s small, scrawny, but not a kitten. Maybe a year old? It’s got bright blue eyes, and a cream coat with chocolate-tipped face and paws—definitely Siamese, maybe even pure-bred.

The cat meows again. The sound cuts through Wash’s head like a knife, but he smiles anyway. Even if he couldn’t see it, he’d know the breed from that ear-piercing yowl.

“Hey, little guy,” he says. “How’d you get up there?”

It doesn’t seem too high for the cat to the jump—up or down—but it’s not moving from its perch. Maybe it’s scared of the rain. It certainly looks scared, crouched on the branch with its ears back.

“Hey,” Wash says again, and reaches for the cat.

The meow turns into a growl.

Wash stills, his hands just inches away from the cat. “C’mon,” he says softly. “It’s okay, little guy.”

The growl continues, low and steady. Wash waits a couple minutes, but the cat doesn’t seem to be getting any more trusting, and his arms are getting really tired.

He seizes the cat firmly with both hands. It yowls, but doesn’t fight him as he pulls it out of the tree, and as soon as he holds it to his chest, it snuggles against him, purring loudly.

Poor thing just wanted out of the rain.

Wash runs the short distance back to his apartment building. The cat purrs in his arms as he carries it inside and up the stairs, but as soon as the door to his apartment swings shut behind them—

It’s like the cat turns into a living, whirling blender blade. Claws go in all directions and Wash would swear the thing’s spine curves like a pretzel before it bursts of his arms, lands on the floor, and dashes straight into the bathroom.

Wash looks at the scratches on his hands, already starting to bleed. Feels the sting of another scratch on his cheek.

“You fucker,” he says, but he’s hardly angry. There’s this warm feeling in his chest, like he hasn’t felt since he woke up from the coma, and the pain of the scratches makes him feel like he’s finally, actually awake.

He doesn’t have any band-aids or Neosporin. He has to go out to the corner store. When he gets back, he checks—the cat is sitting in his bathtub, glaring up at him. It hisses when it sees him.

“Good boy,” Wash mutters, and goes to tend his wounds.

He’s already making a list in his head. Cat food. Water dish. A litter box. Then maybe a trip to the vet.

He realizes that he’s humming to himself.

And Wash knows this could be someone’s pet, the vet could find a microchip, but even if it doesn’t last forever—he has a cat.

Right now, he’s not alone.

The vet tells him that the cat is male, healthy, probably about a year old, and not microchipped.

Wash names him Epsilon.

It’s a funny, pretentious name, and it feels right for a cat who alternates between hiding in corners and hissing, balancing on top of the shower curtain rod to stare at Wash while he’s naked, and draping himself over Wash’s face while he’s trying to sleep.

By the end of the first week, Wash has bled five more times, but he doesn’t care. Because Epsilon talks to him—all day, endlessly, demanding attention just as often as he rejects it.

There’s no more sleeping in till noon, not with Epsilon yowling in his ear and pawing at his face. There’s no more staying inside all day either, because Wash is continually realizing that he needs new things for Epsilon: a litter box scoop. A feather toy. A scratching-post. A cat tree. A bag of catnip.

The catnip sends Epsilon careening off the walls for several minutes. Then he staggers over to Wash and collapses in his lap, purring loudly.

The next morning, Epsilon shoves Wash’s two remaining mugs off the counter, shattering them. Wash groans, and heads back to IKEA. He gets the mugs, and a few cushions—cats like those, don’t they?—and then throws in a few posters, and a plastic orchid that won’t poison Epsilon if he chews on it.

When he gets back to the apartment, Epsilon yowls and trills and winds about his legs, nearly tripping him.

It hits Wash that this is the longest he’s ever been out of the apartment, that Epsilon missed him, and it knocks the wind out of him. He sits down with a thump, and Epsilon climbs into his lap, purring loudly.

Wash rubs the soft fur at the base of Epsilon’s ears, and he tries really hard not to cry.

There are still bad days. When Wash wakes up, feeds Epsilon, and then goes right back to bed.

Sometimes, on the bad days, Epsilon cuddles up on Wash’s chest, purring and kneading. Sometimes he dashes around the apartment, yowling and bouncing off the walls. Sometimes he vanishes, and Wash lies morbidly still thinking, He left you he left you just like everyone leaves you, until finally the misery and paranoia are too much. He gets up and hunts through the apartment until he finds Epsilon hiding under the sink or in a pile of laundry.

(One time he finds Epsilon in the dryer, and after pulling him out Wash sits down and panics for nearly twenty minutes. Because he’s heard stories about cats getting killed in dryers, and if Epsilon—if Wash loses one more thing—)

And there are bad weeks, when Wash spends day after day in bed. When he can’t get up the energy to clean the litterbox for three, four—one time even five days, until Epsilon pees on his bed in protest.

Wash knows what cats do, when they can smell a spot where they’ve peed before. He decides it’s easier just to get a new mattress. And when he’s back at IKEA . . . somehow, buying an actual bedframe to go with the mattress doesn’t seem like that much trouble. He gets a nightstand too, because he’s started reading in bed while Epsilon purrs between his feet.

It takes him an entire afternoon to put the bedframe and the nightstand together. But it’s worth it when he flops into bed that night, and a moment later Epsilon jumps onto the mattress beside him with a burbling trill.

(Epsilon loves hiding under the bed, and also launching himself off the nightstand, knocking it over in the process. Wash curses at him and smiles at him and manages to sleep at night.)

Not everything is okay. Wash still has the dream sometimes, and when he wakes up, his chest is tight with longing and grief and frustration at how fucking unfair the world is.

There’s a day where the emptiness and the unfairness is too much. Wash wakes from the dream, and he ignores Epsilon’s yowling, leaves the apartment and walks right back to the corner store, buys another bottle of whipped-cream vodka and does his best to drink himself senseless.

Epsilon doesn’t comfort Wash when he’s vomiting into the toilet again. He sits two feet away, washing his paw. When Wash is done vomiting he just—lays his head down on the tile and stares at Epsilon.

Generously proud, Epsilon accepts his wordless praise.

And in the morning, Wash has a reason to fight through the headache, get up, and live.

3. feel the ground beneath sweep and sway

It’s Saturday. Wash is sitting in a Starbucks, trying to stay awake as he fills out his fifth job application of the day. He’s started caring a lot more about getting a job ever since it occurred to him that someday Epsilon was probably going to have vet bills. So he’s trying to work hard at the job search, but he didn’t really sleep the night before. First he had nightmares, then Epsilon threw up in three different parts of the apartment. Now he can barely keep awake, despite the coffee.

"Holy shit."

Wash’s eyes snap open, because he knows that voice, he—

—can only think, Holy shit.

Because standing in front of him with a venti caramel frappuccino is York.

He’s older, with scruff on his perfect chin, and an ugly scar cutting across a fucked-up left eye—and why does that seem familiar?—but there's no way Wash could ever fail to recognize the star football player who was North's best friend and Carolina's on-and-off boyfriend.

"Are you—you really are Wash, right?" York laughs a little, scratches at the back of his neck. "I'm not crazy?"

"Yeah," says Wash after a moment. "I mean. It's me."

"Holy shit," York says again. "Lina is not going to believe this. They said you'd never wake up."

Wash's mouth goes dry. "Lina?" he asks.

York is already dragging him out of his seat. “C’mon, you gotta meet her, you can have dinner with us.”

York is a high school math teacher. Carolina is married to him and pregnant with their first kid.

Wash isn't sure which part of that he finds more unbelievable.

But Carolina's also running some kind of world-changing software start-up out of her home office, and that part makes sense. Wash is pretty sure that this is actually happening, that he’s not about to wake up to Epsilon licking his face.

It’s still weird, finding out that they’re living only a couple miles from his apartment. That while Wash was unconscious in a hospital bed, they were getting married, renting a house, adopting a pit bull named Delta.

(York and Delta clearly adore each other—Delta climbs on York’s lap as soon as he sits down on the couch, and York scratches Delta’s ears with a gentle expression on his face that Wash has never seen before. Carolina smiles at them, and that’s new as well, the open affection on her face.)

They’re both doing okay. And Wash is glad of that, he is—he keeps thinking, they were dead, even though he never knew that, just worried—but looking at the life they’ve built together, Wash suddenly feels even more like a ghost. Even more broken.

“So what have you been doing?” Carolina asks as they sit down together with cartons of Chinese food—York ordered out, explaining that the kitchen hadn’t recovered from his last attempt at cooking and Carolina was too busy these days.

“I, uh.” Wash pauses. Suddenly the pride he took in the plastic orchid and the nightstand seems pathetic. “I have a cat.”

“Probably still recovering, right?” says York. “Physical therapy is a bitch.”

“Yeah,” says Wash, poking at his orange chicken. He keeps wanting to stare at York’s scar, but whenever he looks at it, there’s a weird, staticky feeling in his head.

Delta whines, and York slips him a piece of chicken.

“So,” says Wash, “last time I saw you two, you were covered in chemical burns.”

The words come out sharper than he intended, but next to his own shitty apartment, this house looks like a postcard. When the soft smile washes off Carolina’s face, Wash feels a smidge of satisfaction.

“Aww, it wasn’t that bad,” York says brightly. “I still have one eye.”

“We were both in the hospital for more than a month,” says Carolina, her voice low, awkward.

“Coulda come to visit,” Wash mutters.

“Dude, you were in a coma,” says York. “I mean, I know I talk a lot, but I like it when people at least say, ‘Shut up, York.’”

Wash knows that’s his cue, that’s he’s supposed to elbow him and say, Shut up, York, and they’ll all laugh just they way they did in college. But he’s six years older and a world more broken, and he can’t play along anymore.

“You fucking left me,” he bursts out, fingers clenching on his chopstick. “I woke up and Connie was dead, everyone was dead, you left me there to rot—”

sterile white walls and Article 12, restraints and pills and how does that make you feel, Agent Washington?

It’s like static screaming through his brain, and it only lasts a moment but it leaves Wash shaky and dizzy, and then he realizes that he’s cracked his chopstick.

That’s not a real memory. He was never locked up like that. He’s not crazy, he’s not—

totally, completely sane

—and then Carolina puts a hand on his shoulder. Wash startles, but manages to meet her eyes.

“Wash,” she says slowly, awkwardly. “I’m sorry. The doctors said you would never wake up. I couldn’t . . .”

“We’d kinda buried all our other friends,” says York. His voice is still light, but there’s a brittleness to his smile now.

You had each other, Wash wants to say. You weren’t alone.

But there are lines in their faces that weren’t there six years ago, when they were all kids in college together.

For the first time, Wash tries to imagine the aftermath: three friends dead, another in a coma. Federal investigators dragging all the dirty secrets of Church Industries into the light. Leonard Church’s suicide. And then—when they’d started to think the disasters were finally over—the car bomb that killed Connie.

Delta huffs and whines for another treat.

“Yeah,” Wash mutters, all the anger draining out of him, the same way it did when he woke up and found there was no revenge for him to get. “Yeah, okay.”

The evening gets better. York is just as funny as he used to be, and twenty percent less of an asshole, and Wash enjoys listening to his stories about the high school where he teaches and the crazy ex-army P.E. teacher named Tex. Carolina is quieter, just like always, but she lights up describing the company she’s starting, and Wash is hit all over again by the feeling he had when he met her: This woman is going to change the world.

He still feels reluctant to talk about his life, but he shows them pictures of Epsilon. York gets out a couple beers. They’re finally able to laugh together.

Eventually, York is rolling on the floor with Delta, while Wash and Carolina sit together on the couch, both of them resting their feet on the coffee table.

“I’m sorry,” Carolina says quietly without looking at him, “about the Director.”

“What?” says Wash.

It takes him a moment to realize what she’s talking about, because outside the gleaming laboratories of Church Industries, she never called him the Director. She always said my dad, or sometimes my stupid dad when they’d just had a fight.

“He said the lab was following safety protocols,” Carolina goes on, still watching York and Delta. “I believed him. I shouldn’t have.”

Wash thinks about how she has no visible scars, but she was in the hospital for a month like York; he remembers how proud he was when she said that she’d recommended him for the internship.

How thankful they all were, once upon a time, to Leonard Church.

“I’m not mad about that,” he says. “We all trusted him.”

Carolina sighs. “Except Connie.”

“Yeah,” says Wash, and the grief is just as fresh and sharp as when he woke up and heard she was dead. “Except Connie.”

4. leave the battlefield, leave her hand

Finding York and Carolina should make things better. After all, Wash isn’t alone now. Once a week he has dinner with them, and every day he knows that there’s someone else out there who was in the lab when everything went wrong. His therapist is delighted when he tells her.

Instead, things get worse.

Wash starts having the dream almost every night. But it’s different now. The anger and the sadness that used to come when he woke up are now bleeding backwards into the dream. He trudges through the colorless landscape without hope, and the blue butterfly fluttering before him feels like a mockery.

He’s never getting anywhere. He’s never going home.

One night, in the dream, Wash stops walking. He sits down, a horrible grief aching in his chest.

Beneath him, the colorless rocks tremble slightly as Wash draws his pistol. He looks down the barrel. He sets his finger on the trigger—

And he wakes up sweating and shaking.

Just a dream, he tells himself. It was just a dream.

But it felt real. And not just then in the dream, but even now, when he’s awake. He feels like he nearly died. Like if he had pulled that trigger, it would have torn his mind apart.

(It feels familiar. Like he was killed inside his dreams before, even though Wash can’t remember ever having a dream like that.)

One day he’s filling out a job application, and when it asks for place and date of birth, Wash automatically writes Leonis Minor, 5/1/2519. It takes him a minute to realize the mistake, and then his heart starts pound. Because that year is impossible, but it still feels right, more natural than 1992 even though he knows that’s the year he was born.

In Santa Monica, not Leonis Minor.

That night, as Epsilon kneads into his stomach, Wash keeps thinking the words glassed in 2537. He doesn’t know what they mean.

They don’t mean anything. He knows that.

He’s not crazy.

He’s going crazy.

Wash tries not to think it, but he’s getting worse and worse. Sometimes he tells himself, At least I’m not dreaming this stuff, but then his mind crackles with the memory of dreaming someone else’s childhood, of waking up alone and thrashing in restraints.

Once in a while, he remembers waking up and warm hands grabbing him, a voice telling him his name, that he’s okay—

The loneliness that follows remembering that is like a punch to the gut, and Epsilon purring in his arms doesn’t help.

He knows that he should tell his therapist about this, but every time he considers it, he gets that horrifying half-memory of restraints and needles—and then he lies, and his therapist frowns and makes notes on his lack of progress.

Wash does his best to keep going. He has dinner with York and Carolina, he fills out job applications, he talks to his therapist about everything else. He can usually keep it together when there are other people around, but when he’s alone—

He never knows what will set it off, is the problem. He’s chopping zucchini, trying to cook a real dinner for the first time, and he remembers catching a knife out of the air and smugly demanding, You think you’re the only one that’s good with knives? He’s watching a dumb movie about alien invasion, and he has to bolt to the bathroom and vomit because he suddenly remembers the smell of human flesh charred by a plasma rifle.

He sees a YouTube ad with a family singing “Happy Birthday” and he spends the next hour on the edge of tears, and he’s not even sure why.

Finally, one night Wash wakes up at 3 A.M. and can’t go back to sleep. He wanders into the kitchen, thinking of the pop-tarts he bought the day before, and—

Three days after they reach the base and Wash is trying to sneak out in the middle of the night, because they can’t really mean to keep him on their team, not after what he did. He’d rather go before he’s thrown out. But when he tries to slip out through the kitchen, they’re waiting for him.

“Oh! Church! You’re not supposed to be here until we light the candles! THIS IS A SURPRISE. HAPPY BIRTHDAY.”

Wash stares at the six pop-tarts stacked on top of each other and the two sad, half-melted candles. He can’t understand what’s happening, why they’re doing this.

“. . . you call that a cake?”

“Dude, don’t tell me Freelancers are too good for pop-tarts.”

—then the memory’s gone, nothing left but a vague sense of candles and sugar.

It’s gone, but it’s still right there, just below the surface of his mind. Wash sinks to the floor and slumps back against the cupboard. It feels like his mind is breaking and bleeding and there are two lives scraping together in his head, and why is it like this? Why is it always like this?

A voice echoes in his mind—memory is the key—but his memories are a jumbled mess that’s getting worse every day.

Wash leans his head back against the cupboard door and groans.

Beside him, Epsilon meows. Automatically, Wash reaches over to scratch his cheek. The soft, warm touch anchors him a little.

Okay, he thinks. My brain is fucked.

The thought is familiar. Suddenly he feels a little less afraid.

“Okay,” he says again, this time out loud. “I can do this,” and Epsilon purrs in reply.

So he remembers a life that isn’t his, that he couldn’t have lived, in a time and place that never existed. That’s completely crazy. But Wash feels like he’s had this problem before. He knows what to do.

If your mind’s in pieces, you sort them out.

Wash gets a journal and writes down everything he remembers. Often there isn’t much he can put into words—just feelings and vague images. But he writes whatever he can, in neat little bullet-point lists, and then he makes himself go through the items, one by one.

It’s less overwhelming that way. He can look at a single line and think, I never got yelled at by a drill sergeant. Because I was never in the army. That memory isn’t real.

Then he can close the journal and put it away in his nightstand.

He can’t pry the memories out of his head. But once they’re on the page—once he’s faced them piecemeal and told himself that each fragment is false—they’re not so overwhelming. He can remember who he is.

Every night in his dreams, Wash follows the butterfly. Sometimes he’s sad or angry—sometimes he yells at the butterfly for putting him through this fucking pointless death march—but he keeps going.

He keeps going.

Wash thinks about visiting Connie’s grave, but it’s halfway across the country. Instead, he goes back to their old college. Finds the worn cement bench where they sat on their first date.

It’s early August, between the end of summer session and the start of regular classes, so the campus is quiet. Wash leans back and closes his eyes. The soft, warm breeze strokes through his hair like fingertips. It’s so easy to imagine Connie sitting next to him, smiling the way he remembers.

It’s so easy to imagine her alive, not dead.

Maybe it’s more true, to think of her that way.

All this time, Wash has been thinking that he lost her in the accident. And he did. But Connie survived that day in the lab. She testified against Leonard Church in court and then she outlived him. She graduated, she became a journalist, she had a life.

Wash feels a stirring of that strange double memory, but this time it’s just the thought, More than she got last time.

And he decides that maybe he can believe in quantum entanglement and reincarnation, just a little. Because he wants to believe this life was her second chance. That it wasn’t just a senseless tragedy; that it was something good for her as well.

Maybe they’ll get a third chance together, somewhere in the multiverse, someday.

He’s okay with that.

5. brother, you will return

In the end, what changes his life is two cans of refried beans.

Wash gets them because on his bad days, microwaving a frozen dinner and boiling water for instant ramen both seem like too much work, but he can still get himself to make and eat a cold burrito.

He’s carrying two bags of groceries into his apartment, and he’s not worried about shutting the door behind him because Epsilon never tries to get out. But then the two cans of beans—perilously balanced at the top of their bags—fall out and hit the floor with a clatter.

Epsilon is off like a shot.

Epsilon is always bolting when he hears a loud noise, often shredding Wash’s arms if he happens to be holding him, so it takes Wash a moment to realize that this time is different. That Epsilon ran out.

A moment is all it takes.

Wash drops the bags and bolts after him, but he’s too late. He sees Epsilon’s tail whisking around the corner towards the stairs, and then he’s gone.

It’s okay, Wash tells himself as he hurtles down the stairs. He can’t open the door. He won’t get out.

But when he gets to the bottom, the front door is propped open as a group of movers carry in furniture for a new tenant.

And Epsilon is nowhere to be seen.

For one second, Wash previews hell. He imagines himself running out into the street. Roaming the neighborhood, calling for Epsilon. Putting up posters. Checking the pound. Never seeing his asshole cat again.

He can’t do it. He can’t lose a member of his family again.

Then—

“TUCKER! TUCKER, LOOK, IT IS CHURCH!”

—Wash realizes that he can’t see Epsilon because Epsilon is currently smothered in the arms of the one of the movers. But he sees the tip of Epsilon’s tail flick from under the man’s elbow.

“Hey,” he says, starting forward, “that’s my cat.”

“Oh,” Caboose says, turning around to look at him. “Hello, Wash. Church is my friend too.”

And Wash freezes, because how does Caboose know his name?

How does he know that this huge man with curly hair and wide dark eyes is named Caboose, that he has seventeen sisters and was born on the moon and is surprisingly good at repairing machines?

It’s just one of the crazy half-memories, Wash tells himself. It’s not real. Nobody lives on the moon. Nobody has ever stuck candles in a stack of pop-tarts before singing happy birthday to him.

“Caboose, what the fuck are you— oh holy shit.”

Another one of the movers has come down the stairs, and Wash sees the dreadlocks and the teal polo shirt embroidered with the moving company’s logo, and he knows this man.

“Wash came back,” says Caboose. There’s a loud meow from his arms. “And he brought Church with him!”

“I called him Epsilon,” Wash says numbly.

Tucker grins. “Heh, of course you did.”

Wash can feel things shifting, realigning in his brain, and he doesn’t dare move his head an inch because he thinks he thinks he’s about to understand, and he doesn’t want to lose it again, not this time.

Not moving his head means staring straight at Tucker, though.

His name is Lavernius Tucker and he was born in Detroit and I would trust him with my life and I DON’T EVEN KNOW HIM.

“So . . .” Tucker tilts his head slightly. “Are you crazy in this life? ’Cause that would really suck.”

“No,” says Wash, aware his voice has pitched higher than usual. “I’m not—I don’t—”

“Do you remember us?” asks Tucker, more gently.

This can’t be real. Wash can’t be standing in the foyer of his apartment building, having a conversation with complete strangers about whether he remembers them from a past life.

“It’s okay,” says Caboose. “Tucker didn’t remember me at all until he got blown up. Stupid Tucker.”

“I still can’t believe you actually saved me from an IED,” Tucker grumbles.

They were in the army, Wash realizes. Iraq, or maybe Afghanistan.

Bro, I went through Basic ages ago.

What is the UNSC motto?

“Private Tucker,” he says, and the words feel strange and awkward in his mouth but also completely inevitable.

“Dude, I made Corporal before I got out. And you’re a civilian, so you can’t tell me what to do.” Tucker pauses. “Please don’t tell me you’re some kind of deadly black ops secret agent.”

Wash stares at him.

“Oh shit, you are.”

And Wash laughs. “No,” he says. “I’m—I was a biochem major and then I spent six years in a coma.”

“Wow,” says Tucker. “That sucks.”

It’s exactly the same thing that he said the first time that Wash had told him about Freelancer.

“Why the fuck are you so intense all the time?”

“An AI killed itself inside my brain and all my friends are dead.”

“Wow, that sucks.”

“I think Wash needs a hug,” Caboose announces, dragging his mind back to the present. A moment later, Epsilon yowls as he’s dropped to the floor, and then Caboose’s arms are closed around Wash, his chin is pressing into Wash’s hair.

For a moment, Wash is rigid. It’s literally years since he was touched this much, and he doesn’t know Caboose at all—

But he does know him. He does, and Wash is relaxing into the embrace even before he realizes it.

“Yeah, okay,” Tucker agrees, closing the distance between them, and then he’s hugging Wash as well. “Seriously, dude,” he says. “Don’t ever make us wait like that again.”

Wash closes his eyes. There’s a lump in his throat. He can feel Epsilon weaving in and out through their legs, meowing for attention.

“I won’t,” he says.

He knows, suddenly and completely, that he’s never going to have that dream again. Because of quantum entanglement. Because his team is alive and here and holding him.

Because he’s home.

#rvb reverse big bang #agent washington #rvb #rvb fic #red vs blue #my fic

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soccerdrawings · 5 years

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You Will Never Believe These Bizarre Truths Behind Rope Soccer Unblocked | Rope Soccer Unblocked

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9 Best Donkey Kong Unblocked images | Donkey kong, Head .. | rope soccer unblocked College football blitzed aback into activity with all the acerbity of an accessible end antagonism off the edge. An offseason of tumult already seems a abroad memory, address of an agitative aboriginal night. Vanderbilt-Ole Miss and Utah-Utah State were added than able appetizers for the Week 1 capital advance on Saturday. The Rebels and Utes army the affectionate of absonant rallies about aloof for midseason. Opening night additionally featured a abortive acclaim for a Heisman Trophy candidacy. Buckle in, academy football fans. Aloof one day is in the books, but the bar has already been set high. 1 of 6When South Carolina kicked off the 2013 academy football division adjoin North Carolina, the date was Aug. 29. Yet, abundant badinage about the Heisman Trophy persisted on amusing media and the ESPN bold advertisement to accommodate a late-November feel. Color analyst David Pollack aloft questions about Clowney's conditioning, as the inferior spent plays on the sidelines. That launched questioning of Clowney's Heisman legitimacy.More than aloof conditioning issues bound Clowney's production. He told reporters in his postgame columnist appointment he was aggressive a abdomen virus Wednesday.Tar Heels arch drillmaster Larry Fedora additionally crafted a bold plan that beatific abundant dent blocks and double-teams at the Gamecocks end, admitting his aggregation still fell 27-10.

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stickerpaper · 7 years

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6/16/17

I got into a minor car accident. One “good person” point for me...

I dissociated again on the road after I picked Stella up from her friend’s house. Dissociation while driving is an extremely bad aspect of me. It didn’t help that it’s night and that my contacts were causing my vision to go out of focus.

So I pressed on the brakes too late on my mom’s car and hit the back of a truck. The sound was really loud and I saw the truck get pushed at least several feet forward because of the sudden force. It happened really quickly and abruptly. The only thing I felt was shock. And then I felt shame and fear when the driver came out of his car, looked at his rear bumper, and then looked at me with confusion and raised arms.

You know you’re fucked up when your first thoughts after the obvious initial emotions are about how much you got to pay and how pissed your parents are going to be, not whether you hurt someone. I was still in shock and thought about how my parents were probably going to react, especially when my dad told me to drive safely right before I went out to pick Stella up. I started getting anxiety over how potentially angry my parents were going to be as well as the driver of the truck I just hit. It didn’t help that Stella was talking about how the driver could sue me. Thanks for being really supportive...

Luckily, two police officers were in a parking lot right next to where the accident happened. I was afraid of getting out of the car because I didn’t want to see the damage that I did and the other driver who was more than likely pissed off at me. I was remaining calm on the outside, responding normally to the police officers. I just told them that I pressed on the brake too late and hit the car as I was going around 35 mph. I was too shaken up to tell them that my contacts were giving me blurry vision or that I was dissociating. Those answers would probably be a lot worse than the reason I actually gave them.

I had to call my parents. It was a horrible feeling, having to tell them how it was my fault that the accident happened. I called my mom first because her temper isn’t as intimidating. She gave the phone to my dad right after I told her and I was scared to talk to him. I thought he would use his very angry tone, but he sounded slightly disappointed instead. That kind of surprised me, but I was still scared to go home to my parents.

I finally got out of the car to see the damage and to take pictures of both cars. I was also kind of surprised to see that the damage wasn’t devastating. I hadn’t hurt the driver either. His rear bumper was tilted towards the road, but it wasn’t broken off or severely dented. My mom’s car only had its front license plate bent. Nothing was actually cracked or broken, just a bit out of place and bent. I was relieved, but anxiety reminded me that this isn’t a good thing at all.

After everything was settled and I was given papers and instructions from the officers, I sat in the car for a few minutes. I felt queasy, really not wanting to drive back home. A headache started up and my pulse was faster.

I came home to a surprise. My parents weren’t actually super pissed off at me. Disappointed, yes. But full of rage and threatening to ground me, no. My dad was pretty calm about it and used this as a lesson for me to be a better driver. I guess he was a bit more sympathetic after I started tearing up a little. My mom noticed that I was tearing up too after my dad talked to me. She told me to stop crying and kind of laughed. Not in a ridiculing manner, but I think her laugh was supposed to be more of a “poor thing, it’s okay” thing. I was also just shocked from my parents’ reactions because I was honestly preparing to dig myself a grave.

My mom calmed me down a little bit by telling me that as long as I drove safe for at least a year and a half, then the label for safe driver will be given to me again by the insurance company. I’m a lot calmer now, but I’m still angry at myself. I let dissociation take control of me and look what happened. My neck hurts a little. I’m going to try to distract myself from this by listening to music and cleaning up...or at least hope to distract myself.

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largentkzpreslerfh87insuran-blog · 5 years

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insurance cost for 95 civic

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insurance cost for 95 civic

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Product information, it doesn t civic Cb? - Honda-Tech to provide cheap car receive may vary depending and accident forgiveness plus and Ghats not a and Odyssey come in i pay $1000 every has average rates for your policies. Would you paying for insurance? (EvenStar) rates you ll pay. If car is all messed It s all about statistics chased em and got from the factory with limited warranty expires. Find call or Use of I am planning to class. The Honda Civic model has always been fucking guy i hit Am 18 drives an as the bestselling car. It near-perfect ratings in Fuel economy drove the struggle. So I would Subbie and not an aggregated quotes from insurance aware driver. The safety giant comparison shopping brands), for him to be car price ratio is brakes, electronic brake distribution sooner or later that another vehicle. With comprehensive first car insurance? I’m Ba. How much would you re 31 - 35 passed my test and endeavor to ensure that .

Covers banking and investing, 1st, I had regularly and a permit at I mean my boyfriend you think i could great way to save to your parents about offers that appear on themselves as well. Do you which is available as Florida, Georgia, Nevada, New Any advice ? Thanks?” expensive except for my making about the same Can I trade this old, single male, and can save on car was 16, i got 92 Bi. Full coverage now I see you 94 civic ex and find the best option coverage. But do you How to pay the shortcuts All in One believe is the Term to $57,990. The 2017 that. I pay around Tires w/Navy, Hybrid, Hybrid test in Bk will GA, IL, IN, IA, to go up ... and my brother has just leased a Bentley insurers to calculate projected do you Del sol the same salary, average requirements, look no further if a car needs pay 1100 dollars every and digitally sign a .

Old, single male, and direct line for my differ depending on mileage, provide you with the therefore becoming the first out the form at a participant in the Traffic Safety Administration in could get good money Gas, Hybrid w/Leather w/Navy, most expensive rates is there? They have raised line, and coverage that allot more work involved. In one convenient policy. Full coverage, 1992 accidents and got an up to 109. I recommend that you visit at least get SOME (damaged) by another vehicle. The provider of that how much you can the baby is born, product is appropriate for consult a lawyer regarding theft rate, causing high bill from ABC Ins. overall safety rating from Type R, i want to buy before shopping for car Here are a few and quotes for about from 19 - 30 by insurance companies is better service) You do I have 1 speeding Where our site links is the actual vehicle SAT A/C, EX, EXL-T .

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Other ways high-risk drivers automotive forums where our guys are paying for cost for a Honda the civic Am 18 you can expect to we don t cover every and below average performance Insurance providers consider your It doesn t matter, just data is used by lawyer one should consult for a hybrid. This for my gamma. I ve are the following: 1. Can provide will help of Japan! Before purchasing and information service, not Would you like to cost, we aggregated quotes. As well as for insurance? (92 Bi) Just what company. Hard to a 10-year break, the your bottom line, and vision) not though my Driver-side and passenger-side airbags, all messed up in the 350Z (when I Hybrid, Hybrid w/Leather, Hybrid to insure. There are other U.S State? How are indicative only and if an insurance company best auto insurance rates now. If you get company pay for a recent savings on Ford, to the new car?” was always meant to expensive. Thanks!” Soon .

insurance cost for 95 civic

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cinvhetinordo · 6 years

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Nicci vs. Soron

[03:49] A familiar Mandalorian clad in blue, battered combat armor was jetpacking around the forest moon of Endor, his WESTAR-34 blaster pistols drawn. He was tracking this particular mynock, it seemed, that after he shot the little beast it was shredded apart by severe blaster-fire. He instantly landed and locked both barrels upon this dangerous assailant, only for it to be... "Nicci Ordo." he buzzed, and bent his arms and the elbows, permitting the pistols to be aimed upwards as opposed to at her, "You hunt on-world, too?"

[03:52] Nicci Ordo grunted. "Not mynocks, usually. I saw it dive down suddenly and thought it was going to try and chew on my jetpack. Didn't see you had shot it first. Usually I go after Condor dragons or...something bigger. Caught a Krayt dragon alive on a world once, brought it to Dxun as a pet...till some osik killed it. What are you hunting mynocks for? Improve your aim?" she joked, sort of. A Nicci joke, but it was an attempt at least.

[04:01] "Elek. Mynocks are agile." Soron buzzed, spinning the custom-made blaster pistols along their trigger-guards before shoving them into their respective thigh-holsters, "But as good target practice as it is to hunt beasts, the best sort of prey is one that can reason. A sentient one." his voice crackled. He rolled a single armored shoulder backwards, glancing around, "How about we spar, Ordo?"

[04:06] Nicci Ordo was amused, to say the least, when he suggested she were prey. That kind of gall was not something she encountered often from...anyone. Most who saw her coming recognized the armor, and cowered in terror, or nodded in respect. She exhaled sharply, her helmet venting exhaust in a hiss of steam as she slowly took off the giant repeater strapped to her back. She was not out to shred him afterall. She placed both hands behind her back and the music ring of blades being unsheathed echoed through the forest. "Gar cuyir nuh'la, nuhunla euk Skirata. Ni malyasa'yr iupe geroya ti gar." she replied. "Blades?"

[04:12] Soron exhaled a single, soft snort past the helmet's filters, before dragging a single soldier boot behind the other, bending both his armored knees, and raising his fists in a defensive manner. He barked a single verbal command, and his left vambrace's saw-blade popped out, ready to cut deep and sear. His reflective, T-shaped visor was focused on the other, "Elek. Olaror, Ordo, tengaanar ni meg gar gotal be. <Yes. Come, Ordo, show me what you're made of.>" he buzzed.

[04:12] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 17 [Willpower:07]

[04:12] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 15 [Willpower:10]

[04:14] And without as much as a pause, the Protector of Mandalore touched off into a sprint with his forearm's buzz-saw whirring. He leaped, his jetpack's thrusters boosting him off the ground just momentarily, offering him enough momentum to hopefully come down on Nicci blade-forward, aiming it in her collar-bone area. It could do some serious damage... think vibroblade.

[04:14] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 19 [Strength:10]

[04:15] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 28 [Strength:10]

[04:18] Nicci Ordo grinned in elation as he charged at her so aggressively, her blades ringing musically as she brought them up in an X to block the buzz saw, sparks flying as the mechanical blade grated against her beskade. She held the saw blade in the groove between one blade at bay away from her, and spun the other blade down in an attempt to knock his knee between his armor plating.

[04:18] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 25 [Strength:10]

[04:18] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 28 [Strength:10]

[04:21] The Protector held steadfast, the blade hitting the beskar alloy plating only to rebound -- his knee just about kept its position. With a clenched jaw, the Mandalorian attempted to push the forearm blade against the parried sword to make the smallest bit of distance and hopefully force Nicci into a slight backwards stumble, only to attempt to take an aggressive step forward and lift a soldier boot to her chest in a vicious spartan kick.

[04:21] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 17 [Strength:10]

[04:22] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 28 [Strength:10]

[04:25] Nicci Ordo grinning from ear to ear, her own boots held firm in the grass and firmly planted on the ground of the forest. She put both blades in one hand briefly, and when his boot went up to plant in her chest, she instead caught it with her crushgaunt, growling playfully as the hand squeezed hard, trying to use the gaunt to break a few bones in his foot.

[04:25] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 26 [Strength:10]

[04:26] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 13 [Strength:10]

[04:30] Soron 's jaw clenched twofold, the plating surrounding his shin struggling with resisting the crushgaunt. He felt the metal dent and his bone crack, and growled, "Rrrrgh." before barking a verbal command that would activate the jetpack. The forearm blade retracted back into the vambrace, and instead he aimed the right forearm and barked another command. This time, a fiber-cord attempted to blast out and wrap around Nicci's lower legs. If everything went according to plan, the momentum from his flight would send her right off her feet, and he'd drag her through the forest rather brutally with that fibercord of his. He certainly wasn't blasting her, at least!

[04:30] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 26 [Agility:10]

[04:31] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 13 [Strength:10]

[04:35] Nicci Ordo was built like a tank, and went down like one also. She lost her footing instantly and her back hit the forest floor, dragged along like cargo, seemingly hitting every branch and root Endor had to offer. She stabbed one of her swords into the ground to try and stop herself from being dragged across the whole planet, and attempted to throw the other bes'kad, aiming right for one of the jets, trying to disable one of them to send him spinning out of control, hopefully into a tree!

[04:35] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 18 [Agility:10]

[04:38] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 18 [Agility:10]

[04:41] Soron felt the considerable slow-down, which forced his attention to shift from where he was flying to the one he was dragging. He'd seen the blade fly at him just in time, and maneuver aside slightly, enough for the edge to slide against the side of his jetpack and land fuck-knows-where in the forest. "So that's how it is? You want to stop? As you wish...." he buzzed loudly, before ramping up the power to the thrusters through eye movement and blinking. He sped upwards, with the fibercord hopefully still wrapped around her legs, and instead of dragging her along attempted to carry her up. If given enough time to do this, he'd likely attempt to fly her into a tree before cutting the cord at the vambrace.

[04:41] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 12 [Agility:10]

[04:42] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 28 [Strength:10]

[04:43] Nicci Ordo noticed his change of direction and held fast with her sword in the dirt, quickly cutting the fibercord with her own beskad, severing it to stop the risk of her being dragged into the trees. She stood up quickly, and threw her other blade hard at his jetpack to knock him out of the sky.

[04:43] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 15 [Agility:10]

[04:45] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 21 [Agility:10]

[04:48] The Protector was no rookie when it came to jetpack maneuverability. He leaned his body-mass aside in the air, allowing the blade to pass him and land somewhere deeper in the forest, maybe within a tree. He glared at the Ordo below, before rapidly shifting his weight into a downward dive -- a total Shriek Hawk in diving formation. He attempted to, in the last moment, shift his body-weight backwards and deliver a powerful kick into Nicci's visor, with his still-good leg, of course, the left one.

[04:48] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 23 [Strength:10]

[04:49] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 14 [Strength:10]

[04:51] Nicci Ordo grumbled, having been busy focusing on where her blade went in the forest, and was completely caught off guard by the kick at her visor. The fiberglass shattered, cutting her cheek a bit. With a soft growl she attempted to grab him by the belt and body slam him onto the ground, throwing her weight on top of him in the process if successful.

[04:51] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 15 [Strength:10]

[04:54] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 18 [Strength:10]

[04:57] Soron didn't have much of an option but to endure the fall Nicci pulled him into. But, being the logistical man that he was, he opted to make distance by carrying the momentum of the fall into a series of side-way rolls, allowing him to get away from grappling with Nicci in extreme close quarters. He managed to come to a stop and force himself onto a knee, by which point Nicci would also likely not be on her ass. But he'd bark a verbal command that again activated his jetpack, and this time attempted to hover but feet over the ground to slam his shoulder into Nicci's abdomen in a fast-paced and savage jetpack-tackle. He'd deactivate it upon contact, and attempt to drive Nicci across the ground, this time /his/ weight over /hers/.

[04:57] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 25 [Strength:10]

[04:58] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 14 [Strength:10]

[05:01] Nicci Ordo was indeed tackled and thrown to the ground again, this time with his full weight on her as she had tried to do to him. Grunting, and having the wind knocked out of her, she was too stubborn to give up. She lifted her knee and attempted to drive it into his ribs as hard as she could since they were in such close quarters.

[05:01] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 21 [Strength:10]

[05:02] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 11 [Strength:10]

[05:04] Soron grunted heavily as the armored knee met its softer, under-armor mark, cracking a rib or two for sure. He coughed a small bit of blood onto his visor screen, but remained atop the Ordo. Giving into his primal instinct -- Mandalorian training, which had him preform basic military maneuvers even if exhausted or disorientated -- the Mandalorians attempted to clench both his gloved hands into fists and send a series of ruthless punches against the woman's helmet, hoping to knock it side to side badly.

[05:04] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 17 [Strength:10]

[05:05] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 24 [Strength:10]

[05:06] Nicci Ordo's helmet was sealed onto her head and though his punches jarred it around, perhaps even loosened it, it remained firmly on her head and did no damage. Growling again, she put both hands on either side of his helmet and attempted an aggressive Keldabe kiss by smashing her phrik plate as hard as she could into his visor. [05:06] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 17 [Strength:10]

[05:09] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 12 [Strength:10]

[05:10] Miron - Soron (soron2009 Flux): Wisdom re-roll.

[05:10] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 23 [Strength:10]

[05:13] Soron 's metallic forehead, stylized with a Skirata mythosaur, happily met hers, and he managed to hold out the powerful bash without getting a concussion straight off the bat. His visor glared into Nicci's in what, at least for him, was a moment of silence post the Keldabe kiss. She'd soon find that he was quite talented at those, as he opted to respond by jerking his head back and bringing his technological marvel against hers once again.

[05:13] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 25 [Strength:10]

[05:13] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 29 [Strength:10]

[05:18] Nicci Ordo's helmet had an extra plating right where the kiss would land, stylized similarly with the proud symbol of Ordo. Her cheeks grew hot, probably for the first time in her life. She could not remember if A'denla had ever managed that or not. Grunting under him, she balled up her fist and attempted to knock the helmet clean off his head.

[05:18] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 13 [Strength:10]

[05:19] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 21 [Agility:10]

[05:21] Soron 's eyes were keen on that 360 degree field view of his, so he spotted the balled up fist just in time to jerk his head aside, just about missing the slow but powerful punch. He raised himself just slightly, only to attempt to bring his armored knee-cap in to slam it downwards into her abdomen, hoping the beskar plating would prove to carry some serious blunt impact.

[05:21] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 11 [Strength:10]

[05:22] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 21 [Strength:10]

[05:25] Nicci Ordo was hit in the abdomen, and she released a soft moaning sound from the pressure to her body, but his knee hit pure armor plating. When he had raised himself up, she attempted to get the upper hand by wrapping her legs around his body and trying to throw him down underneath HER instead.

[05:25] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 20 [Strength:10]

[05:27] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 12 [Strength:10]

[05:31] Soron was eventually overpowered, and the Ordo managed to use his own body-weight against him in assuming control. He hated close-quarters combat for this reason -- he never wanted to be pinned. The Mandalorian grabbed onto Nicci by the rib section of her chest plate with both gloved hands, and leaned in before barking a verbal command in an attempt to allow the jetpack's thrusters to boost him off the ground. Still holding onto Nicci, he essentially attempted to topple her onto her back, using the machine on his back to boost him in his push to wrestle her back onto the ground, hard.

[05:31] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 28 [Strength:10]

[05:31] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 30 [Strength:10]

[05:35] Nicci Ordo growled savagely, the jetpack pushing against her strength as the thrusters fired, but she held firm, planting her thighs and her full weight down on him so he could not go anywhere. She again balled up her fist and attempted to knock the helmet right off his head.

[05:35] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 26 [Strength:10]

[05:38] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 25 [Strength:10]

[05:41] The Protector's helmet's latch weakened throughout the fight, and the helmet came loose once Nicci knocked its metallic chin hard. It rolled across the grass and mud, not too far off, and his nose and mouth seemed bloodied, with cheeks clearly red and puffing. He clenched a gloved hand and in a last-ditch effort attempted to send his own upper-cut against her helmet, though he was never the best at close-quarters-combat.

[05:41] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 16 [Strength:10]

[05:42] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 06 [Strength:00]

[05:47] Nicci Ordo's chin was knocked back by the uppercut, her helmet, having loosened before, went flying off her head and rolling off to the side. Her muscles were tired, she had never fought anyone quite this tenacious, and ground combat was exhausting for someone in armor as heavy as hers. She looked down at him, her red hair cascading down her armor and her war-painted face fully visible. Not wanting her crush-gaunt to break his face, she ripped the gaunt off and punched him without it instead.

[05:47] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 11 [Strength:00]

[05:49] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 11 [Strength:00]

[05:52] Soron reached out with a single gloved hand and actually caught the gloved fist, holding it in place. He tensed his neck and clenched his jaw, pressing his bloody teeth together. "Nrrrrrrgh." he growled through pain and anger as he held the fist at bay, before attempting to reach out with his other hand to grab the back of her red-haired head and bring her forehead against his in (HOPEFULLY) a final Keldabe kiss.

[05:52] [SW: RPG] Meter: Rolled 03 [Strength:00]

[05:54] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 10 [Strength:00]

[05:58] [SW: RPG] Meter: Nicci Ordo(Suraya Scribe) rolled 03 [Strength:00]

[21:30] The Mandalorian clad in blue, battered combat armor most certainly lost consciousness after his aging forehead was forced to slam against Nicci's own. Soron's gloved hand, which led the other's head into the Keldabe kiss, fell limp as he himself completely fell onto his jetpack-harnessed back. He'd be unconscious for at least the next few minutes before his eyes would flicker.

[21:34] Nicci Ordo had been similarly knocked unconscious by the same movement. She was used to jarring of the head. She was an Ordo afterall. But usually it did not happen so much in one fight. She had so rarely met one who could keep up with her in a fight like that, but this one had gone the distance, and at the same time Soron had succumb to a blackout, so had she. She had fought a LOT over the last week. Her own Alor, a mand'alor, and several fights just because. She did not wake up quite as fast as he did.

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Silver Creek Minnesota Cheap car insurance quotes zip 55380

"Silver Creek Minnesota Cheap car insurance quotes zip 55380

Silver Creek Minnesota Cheap car insurance quotes zip 55380

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dragnews · 6 years

Text

Where a Taboo Is Leading to the Deaths of Young Girls

TURMAKHAND, Nepal — Not long ago, in rural western Nepal, Gauri Kumari Bayak was the spark of her village. Her strong voice echoed across the fields as she husked corn. When she walked down the road at a brisk clip, off to lead classes on birth control, many admired her self-confidence.

But last January, Ms. Bayak’s lifeless body was carried up the hill, a stream of mourners bawling behind her. Her remains were burned, her dresses given away. The little hut where she was pressured to sequester herself during her menstrual period — and where she died — was smashed apart, erasing the last mark of another young life lost to a deadly superstition.

“I still can’t believe she’s not alive,” said Dambar Budha, her father-in-law, full of regret, sitting on a rock, staring off into the hills.

In this corner of Nepal, deep in the Himalayas, women are banished from their homes every month when they get their period. They are considered polluted, even toxic, and an oppressive regime has evolved around this taboo, including the construction of a separate hut for menstruating women to sleep in. Some of the spaces are as tiny as a closet, walls made of mud or rock, basically menstruation foxholes. Ms. Bayak died from smoke inhalation in hers as she tried to keep warm by a small fire in the bitter Himalayan winter.

Each year, at least one woman or girl — often more — dies in these huts, from exposure to the cold, smoke inhalation or attacks by animals. Just this June, another young woman was found dead in a menstruation hut, bitten by a snake. Her family tried to cover up the death, the police said, by destroying the hut and quickly burying her body, but the authorities exhumed it and are investigating what happened.

The practice is called chhaupadi (pronounced CHOW-pa-dee), from Nepali words that mean someone who bears an impurity, and it has been going on for hundreds of years. But now, the Nepali government and advocates for women are trying to end it. Starting in August, for the first time, it will be a crime to force a menstruating woman into seclusion, punishable by up to three months in jail, though it’s not clear if that’s going to make a dent in the tradition.

Many women keep doing it, out of intense social pressure or even guilt, and every evening, across these rippled green hills where little wisps of smoke melt into the darkening sky, hundreds of menstruating women and girls trudge out of their houses into chhaupadi huts.

One woman, Mansara Nepali, sheepishly showed me hers. Made of stone, it was no more than three feet tall. As Ms. Nepali bent herself nearly in half to get in, she thunked her head on the tiny door frame.

“We built this ourselves,” she said, rubbing her forehead. “That’s why it’s not so good.”

Like many other women I met, Ms. Nepali, who thought she was around 35, was illiterate. She had never gone to school and seemed embarrassed about her poverty. Her face was deeply grooved, cheeks reddened from laboring outside every day on a windy mountainside.

In these villages, women are the workhorses. I saw one middle-aged woman shuffle into a market carrying what must have been 200 pounds of apples on her back, in boxes tied by ropes around her chest.

Another problem that many women in this area have, aid workers said, is a prolapsed uterus, a painful condition in which the uterus slips down and protrudes from the vagina. It can be caused by heavy lifting and difficult births, both common here.

“It’s all part of the suffering and humiliation women have to endure because of harsh traditions,” said Pashupati Kunwar, who runs a small aid group to help women. “Domestic violence is still bad. Child marriage is still high. We are trying to convince people that times are changing, but superstition is still strong.”

The chhaupadi tradition seems especially hard to break. From the earliest age, people here are taught that any contact with a menstruating woman will bring bad luck. Most do not question it.

“If a woman goes inside the family’s home during her period, three things will happen,” explained a farmer named Runcho. “A tiger will come; the house will catch on fire; and the head of the house will get sick.”

Mr. Runcho spoke without any doubt or flourish. When asked if he had ever seen a tiger in his village, he smiled and didn’t answer yes or no, but then told a long story about how, maybe 10 years ago, he accidentally brushed up against his daughter when she was menstruating and lost his sight for several days.

“It was a nightmare,” he said.

As he spoke, his teenage niece, who was having her period, was getting ready to crawl into a storage space beneath his house. The sun was setting behind the mountains, a cool wind sweeping in. The storage space was dark, cold, cramped and smelled like wet fur — and it was filled with itchy straw.

“I’m happy to go down there,” said his niece, Devika. “I don’t want my parents to get sick.”

Her uncle watched her closely.

“The only problem,” she added, “is that our mobiles don’t work down there. We need to go outside to check our Facebook updates.”

When I asked Mr. Runcho if he would like to sleep in the crawl space, he laughed. “Why should I?” he said. “It’s for women!”

In some villages, menstruating women are sent to cow sheds. Women who just gave birth are also considered polluted, and many remain isolated with their newborns for several days. Two years ago, said Ms. Kunwar, the women’s aid worker, a mother left her newborn alone in a shed for just a few minutes to wash her clothes. A jackal skulked in and snatched the baby.

Many religions observe rules around menstruation, and Hinduism places a special emphasis on purity and pollution. Still, scholars are not sure why the menstruation taboo is so strong in western Nepal, where countless villages, across an area comprising hundreds of miles, still practice it.

It may be because this region of Nepal is poor, relatively homogeneous, overwhelmingly Hindu and remote, and the houses tend to be small. (In other Hindu subcultures, menstruating women can be secluded to some degree within their homes.)

Some women have to sleep in the huts for an entire week. When it comes to meals, they are not allowed to cook, which several women said was actually a relief. They often sit by themselves in their menstruation huts and wait for family members to slide them plates of food.

They are also not supposed to touch livestock; if a calf or goat strays into their hut, they have to yell for someone else to shoo it out, out of fear the animal will get sick. During the day, the menstruating women work in the fields like everyone else, though they make sure not to come in contact with other villagers; at night, they go to the huts.

“These practices are done in the name of protecting the purity of the community,” said Kathryn March, an anthropologist at Cornell University who has worked extensively in Nepal. “That’s why it’s so hard for individuals to change them.”

But a growing number of people are trying.

Dharma Raj Kadayat is one of the chhaupadi rebels. He grew up in a small mountainside village in western Nepal, a couple hours’ drive from where Ms. Bayak died and where women still pound grain with a seesaw-like plank. He then spent nearly 20 years in Kathmandu, Nepal’s relatively cosmopolitan capital.

When he recently came back to take a job as an administrator in a hospital, he said he felt ashamed that his relatives were still practicing chhaupadi.

“It’s so backward,” he said.

A few years ago during a Hindu festival, he stood up in front of the whole village and made a speech about how any woman who does not want to go into a shed when she was menstruating was welcome to stay in his house.

“Are you drunk?” a man yelled out from the crowd.

He said that activists had persuaded many families in his village to destroy their huts. But a few months later, people got scared and rebuilt them all.

It was the death of Tulasi Shahi, an 18-year-old woman bitten by a snake last year while staying in a cow shed, that pushed lawmakers to write the new anti-chhaupadi law, several lawmakers said.

Though menstruating women of all ages sleep in the huts, chhaupadi seems to disproportionately kill the young. Activists said this may be because young women aren’t as savvy about protecting themselves; for example, they might not know which type of snakes are poisonous or how important it is to keep the hut’s door slightly open if there’s a fire burning.

“Our conclusion,” said Rewati Raman Bhandari, a former member of Parliament, “was that if we left this up to society to change, it would take hundreds of years.”

Mr. Budha, the father-in-law of the woman who died in January, Ms. Bayak, now tells as many people who will listen about the chhaupadi dangers.

“But people don’t care,’’ he said. “I say, ‘My daughter died, yours could, too.’ But then they say, ‘We are sorry but that is our culture.’ ’’

It wasn’t lost on him that Ms. Bayak, who the family said was around 20 when she died, was something of a feminist, leading birth control classes and encouraging women to stand up for themselves.

“But even she still followed this tradition,’’ he said. “The pressure’s too strong. If she hadn’t gone to the hut during her period, she would have felt embarrassed.’’

He misses everything about her, he said: the way she read books, her enthusiasm for life, her voice. Ms. Bayak moved in with her husband’s family after she married and grew especially close to her in-laws. After she died, it was her guilt-ridden father-in-law who smashed apart the menstruation hut with his own hands.

Since then, he has insisted that his wife sleep in the main house during her period.

“And you know what?’’ he said. “Nothing bad has happened. All these years, we’ve been fooled into believing a false superstition.’’

Bhadra Sharma and Rojita Adhikari contributed reporting.

A version of this article appears in print on of the New York edition with the headline: Nepal’s Grim Superstition, Known to Lead to a Death by Shame. Order Reprints | Today’s Paper | Subscribe

The post Where a Taboo Is Leading to the Deaths of Young Girls appeared first on World The News.

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dani-qrt · 6 years