#investigative journalism my ass

[news4dzhozhar]

[h3llenwrites]

Hi hi! Hope your having a nice day

How about our favorite radio host with a reader who owns a newspaper company in hell. They were a reporter when they were alive. They are investigating some of Vox's business and ends up running into Alastor?

Surprisingly I got enough motivation to write again so eat up

Alastor x Reader :

Platonic? Romantic? idk tbh. Just reader and Alastor working together to mess with Vox.

As someone who shares the latest news in hell, owning a newspaper company and all, you couldn't help but peep into the Vee's business. Something about them ultimately seemed unnerving, so naturally, every so often you would be prying at any information and bringing it back to your collection immediately. You often noticed Vox "convincing" his little crowd that gathers everytime he would step out of the comforts of his office, Running the other way when he starts to walk to your direction. Sometimes you would get caught writing your gathered info in the little journal you carry around with you, but you always put it away before Vox sees; Not like he could understand the handwriting anyway. (LISTEN HAVING TO WRITE DOWN A LOT OF INFO IN MERE SECONDS BEFORE HAVING TO BOOK IT FROM THE SOURCE IS GONNA GET YOU BAD HANDWRITING) When these occurences happen, you were lucky enough that he didn't think much of it, even though he noticed you a few steps behind the audience who were so glad to see him often.

You were collecting more information a few days after the last attempt where Big Ol' TV Man actually understood your handwriting and is now VERY wary of your presence. It didn't help that there were cameras everywhere either, you can barely avoid his watching gaze and it frustrated you that you hadn't been able to get anything from Vox or the other Vees since he probably warned them about your watching eye. Alastor was taking a stroll around hell heading to cannibal town, but ever so often pissing off Vox by destroying his cameras or glitching them and disconnecting the TVs that displayed on the stores. Luckily for you, the Radio Demon was headed your way and before Vox could check if you were peeping on him, Alastor had made his way in front of the camera and broke it. Vox cursed in his seat, choosing to get out either way so he can have a 'lovely talk' with the red deer. The commotion got more lively once Vox had stepped out. You smiled to yourself, getting your pen, paper, and camera ready. He did something quite unexpected today. Instead of standing there and giving off his usual speech, he quickly said some promotional shit and let off a light that would distract his crowd and he ran off, searching for the deer and cursing when Alastor was no where in sight. He was so distracted by getting revenge on his little enemy that he hadn't paid you any mind and dismissed the fact that he should've checked if you were present first. Naturally, you were overexcited. I mean you just got some worthy ass information about Vox, so naturally, you ran back to your work place as fast as you could. On the way there, you bumped into Alastor.. oh unfortunate soul. You were hurrying quite quickly, causing the both of you to fall on the dirty pavement below. You were processing what just happened, still a bit dizzy but you already picking up your items that you've dropped. You didn't think of the other person until you were done caring for yourself and suddenly you heard the sound of radio static. You gulped and hoped for the best, but of course, who else could it be? The moment you looked up, your eyes were met with Alastor's. Was he pissed? Please please.. "My apologies.. I uh-" You were quickly cut off by his cheery voice. "Nonsense, Darling! Say, Why are you in such a rush?" He noticed you earlier, seems you piqued his interest. "Um, Well I was just.. doing some research..?" He lifted his eyebrow, wide grin still present as always. "Hmm? Doing some research hiding behind a building?"

"Well I-" He picked up a paper you'd left, or rather used his abilities to make it appear in his hand. "Information on Vox Tech," He read the title on your paper aloud. "Oh! That's mine! haha.." You quickly grabbed it from his hands and stuffed it in your notebook. "It was.. lovely meeting you Mr. Uh.. Radio Demon..!" "Alastor." "Alastor! Right! ..I'd better get going." You quickly walked away, retreating to your place of comfort. He stared at you before continuing to make his way to Cannibal Town. A few days later, you still couldn't get Vox to come out, So you looked for something else to investigate on for a bit before returning. You were looking at some posters around hell when the 'Pointless Happy Hotel' or so was said, caught your attention. The Princess of Hell's beliefs for redemption was intriguing to you, so you grabbed a pen, a notebook and a camera, then headed to the hill where this hotel was located, having absolutely no idea the Radio Demon was there. After a few minutes of constantly avoiding violent sinners trying to behead anyone who passes by, Several explosions and Horny demons, You were at the front door. You cleaned yourself off and knocked. Charlie opened the door, a very bright smile on her face. "Hello! Welcomee~ To the Hazbin Hotel!~" She said in a sing-song voice. "Hi!-" You could barely speak before getting cut off by getting dragged into the lobby. "This is the lobby! That's the bar, the bartender over there is Husk. That's Niffty, she's our housekeeper! Oh! And that is.." The Princess ranted about the hotel, introducing you to the staff, patrons and giving you a tour. You kept trying to interrupt her, saying that you were only going to be staying for a few days maybe weeks for some research for your newspaper, You didn't get a chance to tell her until she reached Alastor's room to introduce you to him. "Actually, I'll only be staying for research to put on my newspaper.. Is that alright?" Charlie blinked before smiling again. "Oh! That's alright! Still glad for you to be staying here! Anyway, Let me introduce you to my.. Business partner I guess you could say?.." You tilted your head in confusion before she knocked and a shadow formed into the Radio Demon. You froze. "This is Alastor!" He turned his attention to you. "Ah, Yes. Pleasure to be meeting you, dear! Quite the pleasure. How is that research project on the Vees of yours going?" You nervously chuckled before answering him. "Quite alright, I suppose! Although.. I decided to investigate on something new since there had been no progress in the past week."

"I see! And what is this new project of yours about?"

"The hotel.."

"Hm! Well, I can certainly help with your research!"

"Research? Which one?"

"Why, both of course!"

"And why.. are you telling me this?" Alastor's grin grew wider. "Oh nothing, really. The topic of your little project just intrigued me is all!"

You accepted his help of course. The both of you work together to document the things you've gathered. He's honestly just helping out for fun. The relationship between the two of you grows (You can think of it as Platonic or Romantic, Idk I don't judge) and he sometimes has you with him, broadcasting the latest news, seated next to him while reading from your newspaper in his Radio Tower. He also often visits you while you're producing new info to feed the public. His favorite part of helping you gather info about the Vees is destroying Vox's cameras :)

A/N: This.. is sort of shorter than I intended it to be. I lost my ideas halfway through writing this because I thought of Alastor with a reader who has a bakery and he visits often or Alastor with wife reader who owns a bakery and she brings him baked goods. Should I write that?

[mamawasatesttube]

So i was just rotating your "Jack drake lives au" in my mind and at the same time remembered those panels of superman shaking hands with Some Fucking Guy (i think he was being a bitch to Lois or smth) and he makes direct unflinching eye contact with the tight lipped smile and his grip is a little too tight to be friendly

Anyways im not saying he hates Jack but i do think Kon off-handedly mentioned the "joke" about his nail polish and Clark went "oh really now?" And didnt forget

So rip Jack at that family dinner night bc not only is Lois waiting for an excuse to obliterate him but Clark is right there with her and if jack thinks that Good Ol Country folk Ma and Pa will back him up then hes in for a surprise lol

oh yeah absolutely!!!! the thing is. literally Nobody likes jack in this au ksjdhfkd like kon and dick absolutely have texted each other to bitch about him, ma openly shakes her head when she hears about how he treats tim (and she WILL speak her mind if he ever tries to shut that sweet boy down in front of her!), cass literally won't speak to him bc he failed the vibe check so bad, etc...

and like. no one is telling tim this. they Know it'll make him feel like he has to defend his dad bc he loves him! but sometimes tim mentions oh he can't join for games this friday night, he and his dad are going on an early morning fishing trip. and cass just meets kon's eyes across the room behind tim's back and rolls her eyes so hard.

but yeah. clark will mostly let lois handle the obliteration with ma's backup as needed bc he knows she's got this. his form of expressing his severe disapproval of jack, his views, and his parenting? supporting tim. thanking him for doing the dishes after dinner, praising his work ethic, ruffling his hair and telling him he did a great job with that case he wrapped up last week, etc. it makes tim go "!!! :D!!!" like that pic of the cat getting patted. tim has always craved approval and affirmation and affection from people around him and he gets it in spades from the kents. and jack sees his son light up and open up around these people way more than he does with him. it's not a good feeling.

it's just tough bc like, tim doesn't want anyone getting mad at jack. but the idea of anyone getting mad at jack on his behalf is also just such a shock to him. he's not used to that. he feels like he has to manage jack and be responsible for him in a lot of ways (if jack says something shitty in front of lois, tim cringes because now jack is gonna get his ass handed to him and feel humiliated, and that's his dad and he was trying to help, and also he feels like it's on him that his dad is being like that. why? oh you know.) (its the unnamed emotional abuse, thats why.)

but also clark and kon watch lois ask tim how his degree is going now that he's in engineering school, and lightly rib him and ask if she can't poach him into investigative journalism instead, because she doesn't usually take interns but she'd make an exception! and tim cocks his head like a dog and says well, maaaybe he'd be down to consider an internship if she's serious? it does sound cool. what are the details? and jack, who barely gets more than one-word answers when he talks to tim about his future, is just kinda seething. heart rate goin up bc hes mad. and kon and clark just exchange extremely amused glances across the kitchen and sip their hot chocolates.

like the tim and jack dynamic is complicated; it'd be a lot easier if the love wasn't so real but it is present. its just that jack is soooo emotionally immature and grounded in Classic American Manhood and ideas of fatherhood. and the fact that tim is growing beyond that and not fitting in the mold he's "supposed" to eats at him. its a tragedy but also we are all pointing and laughing at jack every time superfam make him grind his teeth.

[skyfallslayer]

Should We Stay or Should We Go? || Chapter Three

-A ST Rewrite Feat. Steve Harrington x Henderson!OFC-

Main Masterlist || Series Masterlist

🎲Summary: An Increasingly concerned Nancy looks for Barb and finds out what Jonathan’s been up to. The boys pair up with El for an investigation. Joyce is convinced that Will and Steph are trying to talk to her. Meanwhile, Steve feels like someone’s watching his every move.

🎲Pairings: Will x Platonic!OFC; Dustin x Sister!OC; Slow burn! Steve x Henderson!OFC (Ex-bestfriends to Lovers); Slow burn! Byler

🎲Rating: Teen-Mature

🎲Word Count: 15,209 (Oh, lord)

🎲Date: 05/27/24

🎲Warnings: Angst; Heavy Language & Dialogue; References To Broken Friendship; Talks of Kidnapping; Mental Strain/Breaking Down; Talks of Mental Health Issues; Bullying of All Kinds; Physical Fighting; Lying; "Death"; Crying (Lots of it); Brief Mention of Corpses; Gun Use; Implied Unloving Parents; Will & Steph's Mental Strain - Joyce's Too; Hopper Being a Great Cop & A Total Mess; Dustin Being a Gangster & A Total Mess; Steve's 'Asshole Era'; Steve's Emotional Damage. READ AT YOUR OWN RISK

-This also contains me not knowing how the fuck the Upside Down works despite so much research.-

(And let me know if I missed anything)

🎲A/N:  So… this is a very long, very intense one. Very emotional too. Hopefully y'all are ready for this. I notice a lot of you readers are spitting out theories and I can't help but love them. But unfortunately I have to stay silent and let you guess wait 🤭. While rewatching this episode, I totally forgot how fucking good of an actress Winona Ryder is. Seriously, rewatch the scenes with her and the lights again and you'll see. Any who, Happy Memorial Day everyone! Enjoy!

Steve practically had to “bully” Tommy into taking his girlfriend home last night. It was hard for him to make eye contact with her after their argument – A real argument, not just some mindless bickering they’ve done in the past that doesn’t pack much heat, but a real, real argument – and when she came back to his room only a few minutes later telling him that Barb must have left already and needed a ride, he couldn’t bring himself to do so.

Was this making him feel and look like a coward? Probably. But it’s not like he didn’t want to risk having another eye opening conversation with her again.

Eye opening, my ass. There was no “eye opening”. I’m just being paranoid. But was he though?

Nancy, oh, sweet Nancy, always talked about how she was aiming for journalism as her major. For a while, to be honest, he couldn’t really see it. Sure, curiosity was practically tattooed on her heart, but the months they’ve been dating he hasn’t seen anything else that screams “I’m a Journalist”. 

That was until last night.

He’s not sure why he never put that box away after their friendship ended, he doesn’t know why he didn’t just stuff it into his closet or under his bed, but the fact that someone had found it in his spot he called “out of sight, out of mind” shocked him. The little box that could fit under his dresser, completely oblivious to anyone who stands next to it. Of course out of all the days for someone to finally have spotted it was the day he brought his girlfriend to his home (Still, it might have been better for her to find it rather than his parents. They sure were… nosy).

And of course she would be the one to break him down when he was trying to forget, forget because it was the best option here.

And his girlfriend was smart, one of the traits he most admired, and she could read through his lies most of the time, a trait he hates. Loathe. But… did he really think he could have avoided all this? That once he put a lid on their friendship she would suddenly vanish? Every single thing about Stephanie Henderson would be forgotten? That was the plan, the “dream” so to speak. I guess dreams don’t always stay dreams unless you put work into them.

.

“So who is she to you?” Nancy asked, standing up and flashing the memorabilia at him.

.

She was just… just some kid he knew since they were five. Nothing more than that, It shouldn’t be more than that. She was just some girl that had confidence radiating out of her as they lock pinkies and swore–

.

“I’m not jealous. I’m just curious.” Nancy replies, honestly. She takes another look at the photos in her hand before looking back at him. “I mean, if she isn’t your friend anymore, then why do you hang on to all this stuff? Or better question–”

“Nancy, stop, it’s just–”

“Why did you break it off?”

His brain short circuits again. “What?”

“I said, ‘Why did you break it off?’ I mean…” She flips through some of the photos he has, memorized. “From what I see, you two remind me of Barb and I. You two look like you were tied at the hip. So why break it off?”

.

Because he had to. He needed to. God knows if he didn’t, her and her family would be… Jeez. He could barely remember it, not wanting to remember it.

The memory was blurry. So blurry. Maybe it was the many hits in the head for his shitty memory, or maybe he was really, really trying not to remember it. 

What was his parents planning on doing again that made him so… scared?

.

“Look, I just want to understand you. I mean, every time I think I have you figured out you throw me through a loop.” She gives him a reassuring look as she picks up the box, shuffling whatever was remaining around. “I mean, from what I see, you seem like a completely different person then. I just wonder if it’s a good thing or a bad–” 

.

No… no. He still doesn’t understand what she meant. He hasn’t “changed”. He’s still the same person since the day he was born. What was she even getting that from? A couple glances at some photos gave her a new impression of him? There’s no way. It’s laughable. It’s totally laughable. Everything that’s happened between him and Henderson was totally laughab–

.

“‘CAUSE IT WAS MY FAULT!! OKAY?!” Steve snaps, startling them both (He can’t believe he just lost his cool like that). He swallows again, head spinning at the memories (Why did he fucking leave the box right there?). “I just… there was an incident and… it… shaped my decision, okay? But it didn’t involve me or her with a gun, it was… s-someone else. Someone I know. I don’t know why I’m holding onto it, I…” 

.

That certainly wasn’t laughable.

Sometimes that memory is hazy, which he preferred, but the other times it was crystal clear. Too clear. Just a heated exchange between him and someone else just before it went to shit. He still remembers the pain in his bicep, the wind feeling like it was getting knocked out of him with someone’s loud scream. Then came the sinking realization that Henderson wasn’t bouncing up to her feet like he did. 

It still… fucks with him sometimes. Taunting. Haunting. Torturing. 

.

Nancy breaks eye contact, and only reverses it when she gathers the right words. “Look, Steve, I’m sorry I intruded, I probably shouldn’t have but… I’m just trying to understand you.”

Steve shakes his head, still confused. “I-I…” He shrugs, and crosses his arms defensibly. “What’s there to understand?”

.

Exactly. There’s nothing. N-O-T-H-I-N-G. Nothing. She doesn’t need to go digging around Pandora’s box.

.

But Nancy looked at him with eyes full of pity and took another step closer. “I don’t know what the reason was for you two to stop being friends, but all I know, from what I gathered, she wasn’t the one to end it.” She places Steph’s flier on his chest that he subconsciously grabbed, and said one last thing before leaving his room. And that was,

“Maybe there was a good reason for you to end it, but that’s not an excuse for you to stop being who you really are.”

.

But I haven’t changed. I’ve been the same person since I was born. Even his own gut coiled at his denial. The heaven’s beyond were probably busting a lung. Hell was shaking its head. He just keeps telling himself that lie and maybe it’ll come true one day.

Yeah, right.

This boy’s been telling himself that for almost two years now and hasn’t even sunk in yet.

Steve sighs, rolling in his bed to face his alarm clock; The red numbers glaring at him. It hadn’t even gone off yet, he still has about an hour but… 

Another sigh. School. Right.

He didn’t even feel like going, too mentally exhausted from staying up pretty much all night, completely alone with his thoughts – His very dangerous, troubling thoughts. He didn’t want to go, but his parents were going to be home any minute now from their trip and were not going to be happy if they saw him just lying around. They were surely going to berate him for missing a day of learning. Except...

Fuck. Going wasn’t an option, his brain hurts and his body was dragging and he really, really didn’t want to see Nancy’s pitiful eyes, or listen to Tommy’s mocking, or Carol’s sexified comments. Fuck, no. Fuck.

Where can he hide out for the next eight hours? He started putting what was left of brain together as he threw something on, not even trying to dress to impress today, and snagged his precious car keys. He is about a foot outside his bedroom when something tells him to stop. His chocolate eyes stare at the box on the end of his bed, something deep inside tells him not to leave it unoccupied.

He swallows, wanting to tell his subconscious to fuck off and leave him be, but… 

“Fuck it.” He races back over, making sure the lid was on before taking it with him. 

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

|| THE OTHER SIDE ||

It’s been… how many days since then? They don’t know. They stopped counting every time they ran into trouble. Like… right now. Traumatized by the beast pulling an innocent woman into the Harringtons’ pool and violating her before coming after them. They were lucky to have some kind of head start or otherwise they might have been goners. But–

Jesus. It was getting hard to breathe in this place, the cold weather was getting to them too. 

Eventually, miraculously, they had escaped from their predator when their bodies finally gave out.

“Fuck.” Stephanie gasped as the two of them collapsed in someone’s backyard. They both sat on their hands and knees, a line of sweat dripping off their icy noses. She sniffles and pants, her breath being seen in the air. “This is getting ridiculous.”

It really, really was. They can’t even take a break without worrying if that thing would come after them. 

How am I supposed to figure out how to get out of here if I can’t even stop to think? She sits back on her news, frowning. “Why does it keep coming after us?”

Will sneezes, and sniffles before resting his body against the side of the random house. He starts fiddling with his frigiding fingers, worried if he was going to say something wrong. “I don’t think this time it was. It looks like it was attacking someone else.”

“That’s true.” She sighs, taking her cap off for a second to rest. “However, we either were at the wrong place at the wrong time, or that thing was following us and grabbed the first prey it saw.”

He nods. “Yeah. But that doesn’t explain where the person came from. Does… that mean we aren’t the only people here?”

“I don’t know.” Are there actually more people here? “I mean, I guess on the bright side, if more people are going missing someone’s gotta know what’s going on, right?”

That honestly didn’t cross her mind at all while being here. She was so worried about keeping herself and especially Will alive that she didn’t think about what was going on on the other side. How was her family reacting? His family too? And what about the town? Did the police actually give a fuck this time?

I really hope it’s Hopper. He seems like the only one who gave shit last time. Stephanie prays he’s on her case as she subconsciously tries to grab the chain around her neck, only to find nothing. Her heart sinks as she looks down and feels around the front of her shirt.

“Shit.” She says, dreadfully. Did she really lose her–

“What?” Will replies, concerned. 

“Uh, I just…” Fuck. “I just uh, lost my necklace.” She frowns again. “I didn’t even realize it.”

Now it was his turn to look sad (I guess you could say he was just copying her expression). “We can go look for it if you like.”

She’s already shaking his head. “No. It’s okay. I could have lost it on the first day here without realizing it.”

“Can you replace it?”

“It’s… I don’t know. It was a gift.” She looks over at him, his expression seems so broken over her confession. “It’s okay, Will. It’s not a big deal.”

“I know, but still.”

Stephanie couldn’t help but crack a small smile on her peach lips, and ruffle the boy’s hair. “Don’t ever change, kid. You’ve got a good little heart.” That seemed to do the trick because the boy blushed and seemed all proud of himself.

“Do you think it’s safe to rest here for a bit?” Will asked, as she looked around.

“Yeah.” She nods. “I think we’ll be fine. How about you pull out the blanket?”

They both shrug their backpacks off, and keep their guns by their sides pointed safely away; Will unrolls the blanket they took from her house and scoots closer. Steph tucks the fabric under their feet before the boy snuggles up to her side. Dying from the cold was off the menu for the both of them. For most of the time they stayed quiet, controlling their breathing and rubbing their cold hands in their laps.

“There’s something I don’t understand though.” Will blurted out. I guess this was the thought that came to mind in the moment of silence.

“And what’s that?” The older girl asked, sparing him a glance.

“If that thing is supposed to… you know, kill people, then why bring them here?” He stares up at her nervously. “Why not just kill us in our world? Why the extra hassle to bring us here?”

Her eyes widened slightly, those words hitting her like a truck. “That’s… a good question.” A really good question. It was something else she hasn’t thought about either. If the beast could go between worlds, why bring them here for the kill? 

Will must have noticed the wheels turning in the girls head and looks down hopelessly. “It’s going to be hard for people to find us then, right?”

Stephanie says nothing, and gnaws on her bottom lip because he’s right. If they’re stuck in another world then…

.

.

.

How are their loved ones going to know?

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

When Jonathan woke up the next day he wasn’t expecting his mother to be leaving before he did. “Mom? Where are you going?” He asked, as she stopped upon hearing him speak.

“Oh, I’m going to town. I’m going to pick up a few things.” She replies, putting her belongings into her purse. “I was… you know, thinking about maybe getting some stuff Will likes to eat so he can have it when he gets home. Or, you know–”

“Mom?”

“And maybe a new phone? Our old one’s obviously not fine, so–”

“Mom?” Jonathan tries again, getting a hum. “You sure you’re okay going by yourself? I can miss school again if you don’t feel comfortable yet.”

“No, no, don’t do that. Go… I just need to get out of the house. I’ve been stuck in here for a few days.” Joyce replies, reassuring her oldest. “I’ll be okay.”

“Okay.” He nods. “But if something happens just… call the school and I’ll be there.”

“Okay.” She says, giving her a quick hug. “Thank you, sweetie. I’ll see you later.”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

In the early morning at the Wheeler’s house, the boys were planning a mission to finally figure out what happened to their friends.

“We just tell our parents we have AV Club after school. That’ll give us at least a few hours for Operation Mirkwood.” Mike explains, the three of them gathered around the upside down D&D board.

“You seriously think that the weirdo knows where Will and Steph are?” Lucas said, making the other boy eye roll.

“Just trust me on this, okay? Did you get the supplies?”

“Yeah.” He nods, and shows off what he’s got. “Binoculars... from ‘Nam. Army knife... also from ‘Nam. Hammer, camouflage bandana…” He grins. “And the wrist rocket.”

Dustin looks at him strangely, almost laughing. “You’re gonna take out the Demogorgon with a slingshot?”

“First of all, it’s a wrist rocket. And second of all, the Demogorgon’s not real. It’s made up. But if there is something out there, I’m gonna shoot it in the eye–” Lucas snaps the rubber and startles his friend. “And blind it.”

“Dustin, what did you get?” Mike asked, trying to get straight to the point.

“Well, alrighty.” Dustin starts pouring stuff out of his bag, also proud of what he grabbed (Which is totally not what Mike told him to bring). “So, we’ve got... Nutty Bars, Bazooka, Pez, Smarties, Pringles, Nilla Wafers, apple, banana, and trail mix.”

“Seriously?” Lucas said, disappointed.

“We need energy for our travels. For stamina. And besides, why do we even need weapons anyway?” He points to the girl on the couch. “We have her.”

“She shut one door!”

“With her mind! Are you kidding me? That’s insane!” Dustin could almost laugh with all the stuff he could think of about her powers. “Imagine all the other cool stuff she could do. Like…” He quickly looks around and grabs a giant toy version of the Millennium Falcon. “I bet that she could make this fly!” He stands in front of El and holds it out. “Hey. Hey. Okay, concentrate. Okay?” He lets go of the toy that quickly drops to the floor. “Okay, one more time. Okay. Use your powers, okay?”

“Idiot.” Lucas mumbles once the toy drops to the floor again.

Mike sighs. “She’s not a dog!” He says, taking it away from him.

“Boys!” Karen calls out from above. “Time for school!”

He crouches down in front of Eleven as the rest of his friends make their way up stairs. “Just stay down here. Don’t make any noise, and don’t leave. If you get hungry, eat Dustin’s snacks, okay?” 

“Michael!”

“Coming!” Why must he be rushed? “You know those power lines?”

“Power lines?” El asked, confused.

“Yeah. The ones behind my house?”

“Yes.”

“Meet us there, after school.”

“After school?”

“Yeah, 3:15.” It took a second for Mike to realize that she didn’t understand. “Ah. Hang on.” He unstraps his watch and ties around her own wrist. “When the numbers read three-one-five, meet us there.”

“‘Three-one-five’.” She repeats.

He nods. “Yeah. Three-one-five.”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

|| THE OTHER SIDE ||

“Did you get any rest?”

Her tired blue eyes looked back at him, his face scrunched up in concern for the girl that almost tripped two seconds ago. And to answer his question, it was ‘no’. Their little rest had turned into sleep, but once again she couldn’t dare close her eyes with the beast lurking somewhere (She’s honestly surprised she’s still standing at this point).

“Yeah, I got a little.” She said, hoping that sounded convincing. 

Will narrows his eyes and steps in front of her, stopping them from walking any further. “No you didn’t.”

“Will–”

“Why aren’t you getting any sleep?”

She sucks in a breath. Guess there was no point in arguing with a twelve year old. “Because I’m keeping an eye out.” She tries taking a step around him but he follows.

“That’s bullshit.” He replies, shocking her (She’s honestly heard him cuss before. Which is ironic since he hangs out with three boys that act like cussing is their first language).

“Will, it’s true. I’m keeping an eye out.”

“Yeah, I understand. But you can’t keep missing sleep because of that.”

“Someone’s got to protect you. Just like I promise.”

“Well how are you supposed to do that when you can barely stand?” That seemed to strike a nerve. “Can you just… next time we sleep, I’ll watch and you actually sleep.”

“Will–”

“And, if I hear something, I’ll wake you up immediately. How’s that?”

Well… she can’t say no to that face. She sighs. “Okay. I’ll sleep.” She replies, getting him to smile. “But you wake me up if you hear anything, okay? Don’t you even think about doing the opposite and handling it yourself. I don’t want you to wound up hurt or dead. Got it?”

“Got it.” 

The two of them continued their unwanted detour that ended up being Hawkins’ little downtown. This place looked more like the apocalypse than their neighbourhoods. Dark, abandoned, quiet and completely trashed. It seemed a little scarier to walk around than the previous routes they took. 

“Maybe we can hide out somewhere here?” Will asked, as they stopped at an intersection to look around.

“Possibly. If anything’s open we can. I want to avoid making too much ruckus in case that’s what attracts the monster.” Steph said, thinking. 

They walked slowly and carefully by each store, peeking inside to see if anything got their attention. Stephanie blissfully sighs upon seeing a familiar sign and points.

“Dude, I kill for some chicken parmesan right now.” She says, smiling at the thought of eating Italian at ‘Enzo’s’. 

“Hmm, meatball’s sounds good. But I think I really want my mom’s Sloppy Joes.” Will admits, and can already picture it in front of him.

“Sloppy Joes are awesome too. I wouldn’t mind eating that when I get back either. Then Enzo’s.”

“Totally Enzo’s.” He chuckles. “Uh, so when we do get out of here, how do we explain this to someone?”

“What? This?” She gestures to the open air. “You mean that telling the authorities that we were abducted by an eight foot tall creature with just a mouth and brought to a creepier version of Hawkins doesn’t sound truthful?”

He makes a face. “I… I don’t know. They might think we’re crazy.”

“Crazy, but it’s true.” She shrugs. “I really do wonder how we’re going to explain this.”

“I hope my mom contacted Chief Hopper. I know they were good friends growing up, I’m sure he believes her.”

“I hope it’s him, I don’t really like some of the people he works with.”

Will tilts his head, confused. “You don’t like cops?”

“No, I don’t certain cops here. I don’t trust them as far as I can throw them.”

“How come?”

“Well–” She cuts herself off and stops, eyes trailing to something inside one of the shops. She takes a second to make sure she’s seeing that right before pointing and saying, “November 6th.”

Will perks up at that. “That’s the day when we had our D&D campaign. The night we disappeared.”

“Yeah.” Steph looks around her hand following up to another object, a clock. “Nine Twenty-Three. That’s probably around the time we disappeared too.”

“But why is everything stuck this way?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, didn’t this place exist beforehand?” Will asked, head spinning. “How come everything is stuck on the night we disappeared?”

She purses her lips. “It… exist because of us? Or does time run differently here?”

“This is making my head hurt.”

She chuckles. “You and me both, kid.”

They continued their walk, popping into a few shops when they saw something useful, like another set of matches or even a sleeping bag they could share. They eventually ended up at a hunting store and scavenged there. Steph started grabbing a couple boxes of shotgun shells and ones that could fit inside Mr. Harrington’s pistol. It felt strange to have something like this in her possession, especially given the history of it. A very… bittersweet history of it. 

Stupid, Harring– The small box tv on the counter startled her when it made a noise. When her gaze locks onto it, she realizes it’s not even on. She sighs, shaking her head. Now I’m imagining shit? This is getting fucking ridiculous.

She starts making room inside her bag for the ammunition when–

.

|| –Those Poor Children. ||

.

Stephanie nearly drops everything and grips the gun and starts frantically searching for the voice. What in the fucking–

.

|| Jesus, I know. I can only imagine what their families are going through. ||

|| It’s such a shame– ||

.

“What the…?”

“Did you hear that too?” Will asked, eyes full of hope as she looked between him and empty space behind the counter.

“Huh? Um… Y-Yeah. I-I did.” She swallows and then realizes something. “Wait… is that what you– Is that what you were talking about?”

“Yeah!” He shakes his head eagerly. “I told you, I swear I could hear my mom and Jonathan talking that night. I told you I wasn’t crazy.”

Stephanie takes a deep breath, still in a bit of disbelief I mean– This changes everything she’s thought about this place. “If we can hear somebody, then…” She couldn’t even finish the sentence. It was so shocking.

“Maybe we can talk to them. I know for a fact my mom heard me when I called the phone. She even responded when I talked back.”

“So it’s totally possible.” She goes silent to think, an idea coming to mind in a matter of seconds. She grins. “Follow me.”

Will of course does, a little intrigued by the fact that they found themselves climbing to the top of an old bell tower that overlooks most of Hawkins. “What is this place?”

“Somewhere I probably shouldn’t have been hanging out at when I was young.” Steph admits. “Don’t worry, the tower hasn’t been used in decades ‘cause the bell’s broken. Alright.” She smacks her hands together. “We have to figure out a way to get someone’s attention. Whether it’s your family, my family, friends, or hell, even some random stranger. We just need to get someone’s attention.”

“But how? I’m not even sure how any of this works.” Will asked, truthfully. He’s still not even really sure how he was able to contact his mom that night. 

She hums, scratching her head. “Where’s your house at?” He gets close to the edge, looks around and points to it in the distance. She nods and starts doing the same as she speaks, “Alright, well there’s mine, Lucas’, and Mike’s. So we got options. We just need to figure out how you were able to speak to your mom that night. If we can figure that out, maybe we can do it again.”

“All I really did was just dial my house’s number and she picked up.”

“Okay. Maybe it’s just that simple after all.”

“Well… I know whatever happened that night, it fired the house’s phone. We’re going to need a new phone.”

“We can get one. And if that doesn’t work, we’ll move on to another house. Hopefully, one of our friends will pick up.”

And they have to. This is our only plan right now. She waves for him to go first. “Careful going down, it’s more tricky than going up.”

“Okay.” He says, doing what he was told.

She starts to follow closely behind when another voice appears.

.

|| I am such an idiot. || 

.

She froze, her heart sinking again. She looks back at one of the corners of the tower, and an aching feeling in her gut.

“Steve?”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Steve had a cigarette in one hand, and his other tangled up his own locks; One leg was dangling off the tower, while the rest of his body laid against the arch of the opening. Today was stupidly sunny, barely any clouds and no smell of precipitation in the air for a chance of rain – the aesthetic was the complete opposite of his mood right now.

He took a puff of nicotine and blew it out like a long, heavy sigh. The shit from last night keeps replaying in his head, provoking him to do or say something he’s probably not supposed to (or is supposed to, his subconscious yells at him) – He still doesn’t understand why he suddenly ended up here out of place. He could have gone to skull rock, or even the quarry, or maybe even just running around the mall hoping no one realizes he’s a teenager and asks why he’s not in school.

He groans, closing his eyes, listening to the traffic below and people bickering, praying nobody looks up and finds him here. Again, why did I pick this place?

“I am such an idiot.” He mutters, then the insecurities he had slowly started to fade away when he felt a presence nearby. Worried that maybe a cop finally found him, he changes his sadden look for something cooler before opening his eyes and looking. 

But strangely enough, no one was even there.

“Huh.” Steve blinks, swearing that he could feel someone was watching him. Maybe though? I mean, this was an old church that may or may not be haunted.

He shakes his head. “Fuck this.” He puts his bud out on the ground and stands up to leave.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

“Hey, Where’s Steve? I didn’t see his car in the parking lot.” Nancy asks, butting into Carol and Tommy’s conversation. She honestly wanted to see him to give him another apology, she still felt bad for prying so much about something she probably shouldn’t have seen. And I want to see if he’s in a good mental state today.

She watches the couple spare a look and gets worried, “What?”

“You haven’t seen him yet?” Carol said, as she shakes her head. “That’s weird.”

“Steve never skips school.” Tommy adds.

“What did you guys argue about last night?”

“Us?” Nancy said, pointing to herself. “You think he’s not here because we fought?”

“It’s a possibility. He finally has a girlfriend who’s charm finally made the King skip class.” Carol said, arms cross. “I’d say that’s an achievement.”

She scoffs. “First of all, It was just a disagreement, nothing more. A second, there’s no way that’s the reason he’s not here.”

“Maybe you hit one of his insecurities you were yelling about last night.”

Nancy holds her tongue and ends up just leaving in a huff. Every time she thinks she’s finally on their level, she’s pushed back down. She sighs and enters her first class of the day. Her gaze follows over to where her friend would be at, but atlas, her desk was empty.

She reaches out and taps the girl in front of her shoulder. “Hey, Ally. Where’s Barb?”

The girl raised an eyebrow. “Um, shouldn’t you know?”

Nancy’s stomach dropped. “You haven’t seen her anywhere... at all?” 

Ally shakes her head just as the bell rings and everyone’s ordered to sit down, leaving the Wheeler to wonder if she stayed home too because of their bickering.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

“There she is. Emerald City.” Powell announced as they pulled up to the one and only laboratory in Hawkins. They were going off really their only lead at this point, and hoping it plays out.

“I heard they make space weapons in there.” Callahan replies, getting a look. 

“Space weapons?”

“Yeah. You know, like, Reagan’s Star Wars. I guess we’re gonna blow the Ruskies to smithereens.”

“Hey, can I help you?” The guard asked once the police car rolled to a stop just in front of the gate.

“Uh, yeah. We’re here for a tour.” Hopper lied.

“Oh, we don’t give tours.”

“Okay... A quick look around.”

“You have to get clearance for that. You can contact, uh... Rick Schaeffer at the Department of Energy.”

“Maybe you seen it on TV.” Hopper pushes, not backing down from this. “We got two local kids missing. We have reason to believe they might have snuck in here.”

“Like I said, you have to speak to Mr. Schaeffer.”

Hopper exhaled through his nose, and turned the car and placed his hat on the dashboard; His partners beside him grew quiet, and let him have at it. “What’s your name?”

“Patrick.” 

“Patrick, I got a panicked mayor, and I got reporters breathing down my neck and I got two very upset mothers.” He said, his face growing softer, more wounded like. “Now, I know the kid’s not in there, but I gotta check off this box. Patrick, would you do me a favor? Would you speak to your boss and see what you can swing for us? I’d really appreciate it. I’m talking ten minutes, tops.”

Just ten minutes to see if they were in there. That’s all that the police chief needs…

And wants.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Steve heads inside the shop nearby, his stomach growling for food. It completely slipped his mind this morning – or afternoon now – he’s completely lost track of time. 

Now what kind of junk sounds appetizing today? He starts wandering around, not at all familiar with this layout or the shop for that matter (Why didn’t he just go to the sandwich shop next door again?). As he slips through one of the aisles, he notices the person in front of him struggling to reach for something off the high shelf. 

Deciding to be a nice boy, he reaches up and grabs it down for her. “Here you go, Ma’am.”

“Oh, thank you.” She said, surprised and grateful. “How kind of you.”

“Early Christmas shopping?” 

“Oh, I wish. No, I just need a new phone in case my son calls the house.”

He nods. “Your son lives far then?”

“Um, no, h-he’s missing.”

Oh?

Oh…

Oh!

Steve’s eyes widened at the realization. “Oh, oh my god, I’m so sorry. You’re that kid’s mother.”

“I am.” Joyce says, shifting her weight around. 

“Am… so sorry, I-I didn’t know, I–”

“Like you said, you didn’t know.” She puts the phone into the shopping cart. “It’s okay.”

“Okay, um…” This was awkward, right? Steve shifted on his feet too, not really sure how to wrap this up. “Uh, do you have… uh… heard any updates?”

Joyce shakes her head, sadly. “Not yet. I know the Police Chief has put many of his guys and volunteers to work. But I think at this point they covered all of Hawkins.”

“Oh. I’m sorry. I just, uh–” He trails off, struggling to make a sentence. “Sorry, I was just being nosy. I don’t really hear much news, I…” He swallows. “I went to school with the Henderson girl, so...”

Is he making any sense? Hopefully she’s understanding what he means– Fuck, his heart’s racing so fast.

“Oh, yeah?” Joyce said, looking bittersweet – Looking like she was a mother staring at her hurt child (How come his own mother never looked at him like that?). “Must be hard knowing someone you knew is missing.”

Damn, right on the money. “Yeah.” He says, his throat feeling tight.

She hums, and then gives him a stern expression. “Shouldn’t you be in school though?”

Annnnddddd… Fuck. 

Nice Going, Harrington. He scolded himself as he racked his brain for a believable lie. “Oh, uh, I-I graduated already. I was a grade ahead.”

“Oh.” She says, apologetically. “My mistake.”

“No worries, seriously. It happens all the time.” At least he didn’t say something stupid, and needs to get out of this conversation before he does but… damn his little heart sometimes. “Uh–” He gestures to her cart full of different items. “Do you want me to pay for some of that? For bothering you? Or uh, I… I know you’re probably–”

“Oh, no!” She shakes her head. “No. Thanks, but I can get it. Money’s a little tight, I’ll admit, but there’s nothing I can do about it. You know?”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I appreciate the offer.” Joyce smiles, and subconsciously pats the young man on his shoulder. “You’re very sweet. Take care.”

“You too.” He says, seeing this as he exits and walks past her.

Joyce watches as he turns to another aisle, growing a bit sad by the interaction. 

Alright, do I have everything? She has a new phone, some groceries– things she knows Will would like– 

The display of string lights flickered for a second.

Confused, thinking most likely it was probably a short circuit, she doesn’t understand why she ended up muttering her youngest name, “Will.”

Coincidentally, the light flickers shortly afterwards. “Will!” She says, again, hope blooming in her chest. Then, all the lights on the display shined for a few seconds. 

God, call her crazy, but maybe this was a sign that her son is still close by.

Before anyone could blink, the checkout counter was filled up with so many boxes of Christmas lights, some just the basic color, and some of the tri-colors. She can only imagine how much this is going to cost her, but who cares! If this is strangely how she can talk to her son, then this is what she shall do.

Her Boss, who was the clerk for the day, looks at her worriedly. “Joyce–”

“Just ring me up, Donald.” Is all she said, patiently waiting until he was all finished. Without sparing another word, she gathers all the bags into her hands and races to her car.

Donald sighs while watching her leave. “That poor woman.” He says, just as Steve comes up to the counter with his snacks and drinks. He raises an eyebrow. “Aren’t you supposed to be in school?” 

“Aren’t you supposed to be minding your own business?” Steve said, becoming bitter again.

“Mmm, hmm.” He scans everything and a price pops up on his screen. “That’ll be Five-Fifty.”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

|| THE OTHER SIDE ||

“Found a phone.” Will said, almost immediately as they entered. It shouldn’t be a shock since this is the place his mother works at.

“That should work.” Steph said, smiling. “Let’s get a move on.”

Will gets up on his tippy toes to grab it, slowly pulling it off the shelf when something presses his hand. Startled, he falls back and the older girl grabs the box before it falls. 

“What happened?” She asked, worriedly.

“S-Something touched me.” He says, taking a step back.

“What?” She hands him the box and peeks over the shelf herself (She’s not exactly tall either). There was nothing odd out of the ordinary, just the normal dust and native plants that grew in this world. She frowns. “I don’t really see anything.”

Suddenly the display of lights flickered. Out of instinct her hand reaches for the pistol at her side. Then her heart sinks at the next thing.

.

|| Uh, do you want me to pay for some of that? I know you’re probably– || 

.

“Steve?” Stephanie says, surprised. 

So she wasn’t crazy after all. She did hear him. 

Will looked up at her, stunned too. “Steve Harrington?” He asked, but before she could speak another voice could be heard.

.

|| –I can get it. Money’s a little tight, I’ll admit, but there’s nothing I can do about it. You know? ||

|| You sure? ||

|| Yes. I appreciate the offer. You’re very sweet. Take care. || 

.

“Mrs. Byers?/Mom?!” They both erupted, then went quiet to see if they could hear anything else.

Nothing.

“Shit.” The oldest said, and now gnawing on her lip again, nervously (And completely forgetting about Steve for the time being). “That might have been our chance.” She hears the boy drop the phone somewhere next to her. “Will?”

The boy seemed fascinated with an idea swirling around in his head. Stephanie finds herself just watching, waiting to see what he had in mind. Will reaches up and lets his fingers brush the display of some string lights, the lights getting a little bit hazy – It was almost like his touch was giving them electricity. 

.

|| Will. || 

.

Joyce’s voice broke through very faintly, but they both heard it and nearly cried.

“Touch the light again.” Steph said, urgently. Will does what he’s told and they both stay quiet again.

.

|| Will! ||

.

“She hears us.” He says, happily. 

“Holy shit…” She chuckles. “I have an idea. Touch all the lights.”

Frantically, they rush to touch all the lights they saw on display, not even questioning how this was even possible, they just hoped Joyce got the message. Once the hue died down they both held their breaths, and crossed their fingers. And then…

.

|| Just ring me up, Donald. ||

.

Stephanie threw her hands up. “Yes!” She says, with Will laughing beside her. “Thank you, Ms. Byers.”

“My mom’s the best.” He said, with a warm look.

“Hell, yeah she is. And forget the phone–” She locks eyes with him, determined. “I think we figured out a better way to communicate.”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

“And you think these missing kids may have crawled through there?” 

Hopper spares the man a glance before looking back at the drain. Somehow, he convinced the security guard to let him and his guys in, but so far their theories are turning out pretty sour. “Well, that was the idea.”

Their “Tour Guide”, I guess you can call him that, made a fact that was all smug and prideful. “Yeah, I just don’t see how that’d be possible. We’ve got over 100 cameras. Every square inch covered, plus all my guys. No one breaks in here. Certainly not some kids.”

Hopper perked up at the news, eyes trailing to a few cameras in view. Now it was his turn to be the smug one as he asked, “Those cameras, you keep the tapes?”

Well… I don’t think the guide was expecting that reaction.

Now, the three of them were following the man inside, the hallways swarmed with men in lab coats, and a security team blocking a room that was marked “hazardous”. 

The police Chief found this a bit suspicious and asked, “If you don’t mind me asking, what do you guys do in here?”

The guide chuckles. “You’re asking the wrong guy.”

“Staying one step ahead of the Russians?”

“I expect. Something like that.”

“Who’s in charge here?”

“That’d be Dr. Brenner.”

“And he builds the space lasers?” Callahan asked, eagerly. 

“Space lasers?”

“Ignore him.” Hopper replies, sighing. They eventually entered the surveillance room, the three of them watching the screen closely. “This is the night of the 6th and 7th we’re seeing here?”

“That’s correct.”

Hopper narrows his eyes, waiting to see if he sees anything unusual. However, to his surprise, the tape only lasted less than a minute. “Is that it?” He asked, in disbelief. 

“Like I said, we would have seen them.”

And then the cops were practically shoved out of there, and the guide gives them their condolences for the tired search (Yeah, what an asshole, right?).

“The night of the 7th, we had a search party out for Will and Stephanie. You remember anything about that night?” Hopper asked, seeing if he wasn’t the only suspicious one. 

“Mmm, not much to remember. Called it off.” Callahan replies, thinking.

 “‘Cause of the storm.” Powell adds.

“Yeah, a lot of rain that night.” Hopper says, arriving at their car. “You see any rain on that tape?”

“What are you thinking?”

“I don’t know.” He spares a look at the building, a sinking feeling in his gut. “But they’re lying.”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Meanwhile, on the other side of town, the boys were outside shifting through the playground for some rocks. Mike picks one up and shows it off. “How about this one?”

Dustin looks and shakes his head. “Too big for the sling.” He says, getting on his knees to do some digging. “So, do you think Eleven was born with her powers, like the X-Men, or do you think she acquired them, like... like Green Lantern?

“She’s not a superhero. She’s a weirdo.” Lucas replies, rolling his eyes.

“Why does that matter?” Mike snaps, offended. “The X-Men are weirdos.” 

“If you love her so much, why don’t you marry her?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Mike, seriously?”

“What?”

“You look at her all, like…” Lucas makes a giggly face, and softens his body language, followed by a higher pitched voice, “‘Hi, El! El! El! El! I love you so much! Would you marry me’?” 

“Shut up, Lucas.”

“Yeah, shut up, Lucas.” Their bully, Troy, announced as he stomped towards the group. “What are you losers doing back here?”

“Probably looking for their missing friends.” James said, smirking.

“That’s not funny. It’s serious. They’re in danger.” Dustin hisses, annoyed.

“I hate to break it to you, Toothless, but they’re not in danger.” Troy bites back. “They’re dead. That’s what my dad says. He said that Byers was probably killed by some other queer. And maybe your sister’s been killed by some crazy stalker who is into weirdos like her.”

The two bullies laugh as Dustin looks like he’s about to strangle someone. No one says anything about Will like that. And nobody especially says something like that about his big sister.

Mike sees this, and puts his arm in front of his friend to soothe him. “Come on. Just ignore them.” He says, and starts to leave, only to be tripped – and face planted into the ground.

“Watch where you’re going, Frogface.” Troy spats, but he instantly gets a taste of his own medicine. 

To everyone’s surprise, Dustin was the one to deliver the karma, which was forcibly shoving him to the ground. 

Everyone stared, and before someone could speak he shoved James too and scrambled to pick up Mike.

“Lucas! Let’s go!” Dustin yells, and silently tells Mike to go. As they were leaving, he flips the bullies the bird and snaps, “You shitheads need to keep Will and Phanie’s name out of your mouths! Got it?!”

And then they broke off into a Usain Bolt type sprint.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

|| THE OTHER SIDE ||

They finally ended up back on Mirkwood, guns loaded, backpacks full, and hope in their chest. If this works, if Joyce does this right, then maybe they can finally communicate to the other side. All they needed to do was tell her where they are, and maybe they could figure out a way to get back. 

It sounded easy, and they just hoped it was.

The two of them were silent for most of the walk, and when they got to this specific road, the boy grabbed her hand, shaking. She says nothing, ‘cause nothing needs to be said about it. If that’s what made him feel safe then so be it.

“Do you think it’s negative emotions?” Will eventually said, breaking the ice.

Stephanie tilts her head, confused. “Hmm?”

“Do you think that’s how we can hear some people? Through negative emotions?” He looks up at her. “Like my mom, she must be worried about me, maybe that’s why we can hear her?”

Her eyebrows shoot up, shocked. It’s definitely a plausible theory (But would that apply to Steve as well? And if so, why is he so worried?). “Maybe.”

“But would that go with us too?” He adds, the wheels in his head really were turning today. “I mean, is that how the beast picks their victims? Because they’re in a bad mental state?”

Well, now that makes sense if you put it that way. “It’s possible.” She said, nodding. Yeah, that’s completely possible. 

It explains a lot of things. More or so she wanted to admit. She knows these last two years were… interesting to say the least. Definitely could qualify as a ‘Bad Mental State’. And… she also has felt a bit stressed about school and talks about her future. But if she knew herself was in a bad state, then that means–

“Then… are you okay?” Steph asked, realizing something. The boy froze, like actually froze when she said that. It was a trippy sight to see. “Will?”

“What?”

“Are you okay?” She tries again, a bit gentler this time. “Mentally?” Nothing. “Will–

“I… I’m fine.” 

And then he lets go of her hand and starts walking a bit quicker– not even realizing he was doing so. She stops, concern on her face. She wasn’t expecting that kind of reaction from a simple yes or no question. She makes a note for herself that when they do get out of here she’s going to have a talk with him (Or at least tell Joyce about her concerns).

She sighs. Always got to be the therapist, Henderson.

She takes a step to move but stops, her eyes trailing off the road to her right, right into the void of the trees. It was weird. She felt like someone was standing right there – The same kind of presence back at the clock tower. 

“Huh.” She turns her attention back in front of her, then proceeds to freak out a bit when she notices how far Will was. She cusses and breaks into a sprint to catch up quickly.

Completely unaware of who that presence really was. 

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Steve steps over the barricades, his feet sinking into the leaves. Curiosity got the best of him you could say, or maybe the conversation last night really was getting under his skin (Like he’ll ever admit that), but he found himself here. Standing at a… crime scene, I guess. 

Her car went off road with herself and the Byers boy in it. Not long afterwards, they ditched it. 

His brown orbs trailed from the tree the vehicle hit and down the long road. He also knows, from what he’s heard, they both ran back to the boy’s house and then the trail went cold after that. But that’s the part that tickled his brain a bit. 

Why run all the way back home, a place you’re probably the safest at, and then leave it? It didn’t make sense in his book. Hell, it shouldn’t make sense in anybody’s book. What was the urge for them to run away from home and into the thick woods that surrounds Hawkins? 

He rubbed his chin and started thinking like he was going to solve this or whatever. Like…

He then scoffs at himself. 

What the fuck am I even doing? What is he doing? Why did he drive himself here? It’s not like he should care anymore. I mean, he shouldn’t care anymore. His parents would have his head if they knew–

Then there it is again.

That strange feeling that someone’s watching him. 

He turns around, half expecting a cop to be there to scold him, the other half expecting nothing and– Oh! What do you know? It was nothing. 

But even if it was nothing, he swears someone is standing there, watching his every move. Almost like this presence was here to judge him and see what other stupid things he can do today.

It was definitely giving him the heebie-jeebies.

He frowns, and looks away. “What the fuck…?”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

It took her an hour, but Joyce got all the lights up. She strung them all through the house, up along the wall and hanging gently off the ceiling. She hopes that she’s not losing her mind – She knows how silly this looks; Putting up Christmas lights in November (I mean, the holiday’s not that far off but still). She was expecting some reaction to happen, some or maybe all of them would immediately start blinking; Instead, her doorbell rings and she’s met with Karen Wheeler.  

Not wanting to be rude, Joyce invited her and her youngest in. Karen pops in a casserole she made into the oven, sitting next to the worried mother and tries to see what state she was in.

Joyce chuckles nervously when her guest notices the festive decoration. “Will always loved Christmas, you know. So I thought if I... I put the lights up... I don’t know, he... I’d feel like he was home somehow.” She covers part of her face with her hand. “I-It’s silly, I-I know…”

Karen shakes her head. “No. No, it’s not silly.” She takes the other woman’s hand in hers, giving her a gentle squeeze. “How is Jonathan holding up?”

Joyce takes a deep breath. “You know, he’s good at taking care of himself. He always has been, you know? I…” She scoffs. “I mean, he thinks I’m losing my mind, but…”

“Joyce.” Karen says, softly. “I want you to know something. If you need anything, anything at all... Ted and I are here for you.”

This sentimental moment caused them both to become oblivious to the lights flickering on in the hallway, a walkway pointing towards Will’s room. The only one who didn’t miss it was Holly, who was now sliding off her chair to follow.

“Thank you.” Joyce said, sincerely. 

Karen smiles. “Okay.”

The two women continued to talk, Joyce even bringing up Mike’s feelings about the whole thing – and even wondered if Claudia and Dustin were okay too. Meanwhile, little Holly Wheeler watched the lights flickered on and off, guiding her to the bedroom. Her eyes watched in awe as the many, many lamps that were lingered around Will’s room turned off and on one-by-one in a symphony-like way.

She giggles and claps, excited to watch this “show”. Then…

They all stopped and the nightmare began. 

Her happiness starts to pool away as she hears a scary sound. She then turns white as a ghost when she notices one of the walls was moving and stretching out towards her.

Who knows what would have happened if Joyce hadn’t come in and grabbed Holly, handing her back to her mother. 

“She shouldn’t be here.” Joyce said, scared in both tone and facial expression. 

Karen didn’t notice the seriousness of her look as she apologizes, “Oh, I’m sorry. She’s quite the explorer these days.”

“Wait, did you see something?” The worried Byers brushes her off, and the little girl nods quickly. “What did... what did you see? Tell me. What did you see?”

“Joyce!” The blonde scolds, but she’s already being shooed away.

“Karen, thank you for the casserole, but I need you to leave.” 

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Nancy tapped her foot repeatedly, impatiently waiting for the person to pick up the phone. “Come on, come on, come on…” She mumbled, gripping the payphone tight. “Come on–”

[ ‘Hello?’ ]

Oh, thank god. “Hi!” She says, eagerly. “Hi, uh, Ms. Holland, it’s Nancy.”

[ ‘Oh, Nancy, how are you?’ ]

“Good. I’m good. Um, I was just wondering, uh, is Barb there?”

[ ‘Mmm... No, she hasn’t come home yet.’ ]

“But she did come home, right? After the vigil?”

[ ‘No, she said she was staying with you last night.’ ] 

Shit. Nancy mentally scolds herself. “Right, yes. She did, sorry. I meant, did she come home this morning? I think she left some textbooks and she was gonna go pick them up.”

[ ‘Oh, um, no, I haven’t seen her.’ ]

“Do– do you know what? I just remembered... she’s at the library.”

[ ‘Nancy, will you please have her call me as soon as you find her?’ ]

“Yeah.” She shakes her head, frowning at how worried Barb’s mother was sounding. “Yeah, I will. Sorry to bother you.”

She hangs up the phone, frustrated. This wasn’t like Barb at all. In the past when they’ve had some disagreements, she’s never once disappeared like this. The only thing Barb’s ever done that was “extreme” was she did the silent treatment for most of the school day. 

This is so weird. This whole day’s been weird. She sighs and digs out some more change for the machine, and dials another number she knows by heart. The whole time as it rang she was nipping at the tip of her thumb. To her surprise, a voice she’s never heard before answered the phone.

[ ‘Hello?’ ]

The voice was a bit husky, but sweet with a pinch of sass. 

Nancy’s confused, and twirls the phone cord around her finger. “Oh, I’m sorry, who’s this?” She asked, wondering if she dialed the number wrong. “Is this the–”

[ ‘This is Jessica. How can I help you?’ ]

Jessica?

Jessica?

Jessica? Who’s…

Her eyes widened. 

Oh.

Now she recognizes the name. 

It was Steve’s mother – The woman she hasn’t met yet – The woman she’s “meeting” for the first time over the phone.

She swallows, nervously. “Oh, I-I’m… sorry. I was trying to get a hold of Steve.” She replies, feeling a bit awkward (and nervous?).

[ ‘Steven? And who are you to him?’ ]

Well she sounds lovely. She can hear the snobbishness in her tone, almost offended that someone was calling for her son. That’s a little weird.

“Um, I’m his girlfriend.” Nancy replies, trying to sound confident. “I was just wondering if he’s home? I haven’t seen him at school day and I’m a little worried.”

Then came the very long, very uncomfortable pause. For a second there she thought the mom hung up, it was so quiet.

[ ‘Girlfriend? That’s new. ]

“Did Steve not tell you about us?” Nancy asked, a bit hurt and a bit confused. He seemed so proud to show the whole school that they were dating, how come he never told his mother?

[ ‘What’s your name?’ ]

Skipping my question. I love it. “Um, Nancy. Nancy Wheeler, Ma’am.”

[ ‘Wheeler, you said?’ ]

“Um, yes.” Now she was puzzled even more. Was this a bad thing–

[ ‘That’s wonderful!’ ] 

Nancy blinks. “It… is?”

[ ‘My son’s dating a Wheeler! I almost can’t believe it.’ ]

And the woman was laughing with joy(?), which Nancy puts to the side. She just needs to get an answer to her own simple question. “That’s… wonderful, um… is Steve there?”

[ ‘No, he’s not. *Sigh* I swear if that boy’s skipping school, we’re going to have a problem.’ ]

And I think I just made everything worse. She straightens herself up, ready to end this. “Okay, Well… thanks, Mrs. Harrington, I’ll see if he’s maybe hiding out somewhere in the school.”

[ ‘Okay. Well, you have a good rest of your day, sweetheart.’ ]

Sweetheart? Nancy shakes her head again. “Thanks. You too.” She hangs up the phone. Well that was even weirder than the last one.

She crosses her arms, turning to head inside only her eyes to beeline to Carol and Tommy following someone closely – Tommy looking pissed off, especially. 

“What the heck?” She says, and hurries towards them.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Hopper and his partner entered the library with an idea – an idea hanging on a very thin thread that is. So, he puts on his best smile and takes off his hat, strolling up to the woman at the desk. “Hey, Marissa. How you doin’?”

The librarian pursed her lips. “You have a lot of nerve showing up here.”

He blinks. “What?”

“You could have at least called, said, ‘Marissa! Hey, it’s not gonna work out. Sorry I wasted your time. I’m a dіck’.”

Oh, now he remembers. “Yep.” He said, agreeing immediately. “I’m sorry. Uh... Maybe we could go out again next week?” She, and even Powell, made a face at him that gave him his answer. He smacks his lips and looks around. “Newspapers? You guys got newspapers around here?”

Marissa nods and shows them where they all are. “We have the New York Times, the Post, all the big ones. Organized by year and topic. You can find the corresponding microfiche in the reading room.”

“Okay, we’re looking for anything on the Hawkins National Laboratory.”

“Well, shouldn’t you be looking for that missing kid?”

“Yeah. We are.” Hopper pushes, and adds, “So, why don’t you start with the Times, and we’ll check out the Post.”

She scoffs in disbelief and walks off, Powell stepping up with a look on his face. “The librarian?” He said, getting a shrug.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Nancy sped up when she saw who they were stalking in the parking lot. Why would two people like Tommy and Carol go after a kid like Jonathan Byers? Nothing that went through her mind would give her that answer. When she got closer is when it got more intense. 

Tommy was practically manhandling Jonathan, yelling and trying to take his bag away from him. The eldest Wheeler sped up even more, full on running now.

She manages to step between the two of them, arms out in defense. “Hey! What’s going on?”

“This creep was spying on us last night!” Tommy said, pointing furiously. “Nicole says he was taking pictures of us by the pool.”

“I was looking for my brother.” Jonathan replies, holding his bag close.

“Bullshit. Now let me see.”

“Back off!”

Nancy steps in between them again. “Tommy, stop!” She yells, making him scoff.

“You’re defending this creep, Wheeler?” Carol asked, in disgust.

“First of all, you really going to believe what Nicole said? The girl’s like the boy who cried wolf.”

“Nancy–”

“Lastly, so what if he has photos of us at the pool? It wasn’t like we’re naked.”

“Naked or not, he still took pictures of us!” Tommy snaps, taking a step closer as she takes a step back.

“Pictures or not, he was looking for his brother–”

“How do you know, huh? How?”

“Because he’s been hanging out missing poster signs of him and missing school because he’s the big brother.” Nancy looks over her shoulder, locking eyes with Jonathan. “Go.” He hesitates. “Go, man!”

Not wasting another opportunity, he hustles off towards his car. Tommy tries to lunge towards him, but Nancy isn’t letting up.

“What the fuck, Nancy?!” Tommy shouted, and she chose to ignore him by walking away once she knew Jonathan wasn’t around. “Nancy!”

“Nancy, get back here!” Carol yelled.

“Nancy, you such a fucking princess! Wait until your boyfriend hears about this!”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

“Dude, I can’t believe you did that!” Lucas said, as they bike away from the school. “You know Troy and James are not going to let that slide.”

“I don’t care!” Dustin says, bitterly (and if he could cross his arms right now he would). “I don’t like when people bad mouth my friends, bad mouth my sister! I mean, for Christ’s sake, she was giving Will a ride home. What’s so bad about that?”

He doesn’t care if James’s waiting tomorrow to give him a wedgie, or Troy’s fist plummeting into his face, he doesn’t care. Both Will and Phanie had their fair share of bullying themselves, or whispers of derogatory names and speeches – All because Will was the “quiet kid” and wears “colorful” clothing; All because his sister wasn’t a “girly-girl” and a total nerd. He’s heard that all throughout his life, and sometimes he said something, sometimes he stays silent when told too – He probably should have done that today.

But those… fucking bullies just had to poke him when he was the most stress. Stressed out with each day that none of them had come home.

Jeez, he’s either going to get scolded or praised by his mother if she finds out about that interaction. 

“And don’t even try to convince me to beg them for forgiveness. They don’t deserve it and I’m standing my ground.” Dustin adds, shutting his friend up. As they rode closer and closer to their houses, he frowned, worriedly.

I just hope El knows what she’s talking about. He just wants to find them both soon (Safe and sound would be a plus).

The boys continued to ride until they arrived at the power lines behind the Wheelers’ house. Mike shouted and told the girl to hope on, warning all of them they only had a few hours to pull this off.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Joyce was standing in her kitchen with a cigarette when Chester started barking. She looks up to see the lights in the living room start flickering, and hurries in there. As soon as she entered they died down. Then, slowly the light directly above her activated, and then made a pathway to the other side of the room. Her fingers laced around them, and followed, ending up being directed at a bundle of them lying on the floor.

She rushes to take them in her hands, sitting down and taking a deep breath. It was now or never to find out if she was really losing her mind or not. She closes her eyes, and whispers,

“Will... are you here?”

There was a brief pause followed by the ball lighting up and fading. She chuckles in excitement, completely over the moon with fresh tears in her eyes. 

“Okay, good, good, good, good. Are you…” How should she do this? “Um, blink once for yes, twice for no. C-Can y-you do that for me, sweetie? Can you do–” The ball lights up again just once as she feels a tear run down her cheek and hugs the object.

She can feel it in her bones, in her heart now. She knows this is her baby boy. She knows that her son is still with her.

Joyce smiles and sniffles. “Oh, good boy. Good boy. Okay, Will, um–” Another deep breath. “Is… Is Stephanie with you too?” 

One blink. The girl who was kind enough to pick up her son is still with him despite all this time. She can finally put some of that guilt away now.

“That’s wonderful news.” She said, her expression growing bigger. However, this was going to be the hardest question yet to ask. “Baby, I need to know…” She swallows. “Are you guys alive?”

One blink and her heart skips a beat. She thanks any God who’s listening for this.

Her lip quivers as she follows up with, “Are you guys safe?”

Two blinks.

Her son and Stephanie were not okay.

Now, Joyce was shaking like a leaf as she clenched the lights tighter, her mind running a mile a minute on what she can do. What could she say that wouldn’t revert to playing twenty questions four times over?

“I need to know where to find you two, honey. Where... where are you? Can you... can you tell me where you are? Can you…” She chokes, her cheeks completely stained. “Please, baby. I need to find you. Tell me what to do. Please just... Will…”

She didn’t know how long she sat there and cried, wondering what she could do for her baby, for Steph; But at some point a light bulb idea appeared. She suddenly found herself stringing some lights on the wall over her couch, a row of three, before popping open a can of black paint and began brushing letters on.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

|| THE OTHER SIDE ||

“How do we get my mom’s attention when we can’t see what she’s done?” Will asked after hours of walking back to his home, he was disappointed to find that his house still looks the same. I guess their theory about earlier was right–

This world was stuck on the day he and Steph got kidnapped by the beast.

The oldest walked around a bit, thinking. Unfortunately, despite all the lights Joyce bought, they can’t see any of them. “Did she put it in your room, maybe?” Stephanie thought, and wandered inside.

Nothing. Of course. The only thing she saw that was possibly different was some scratch marks on the wall, ones that would be too high for a dog to do.

She swallows and leaves, meeting the boy in the hallway. “Did you have scratches on your wall before?” Will gives her a weird look and shakes his head. She hums. “We got to find those lights quickly. I think that monster’s been lurking around here.”

They found themselves back in the living room, and started moving their arms around, squinting too to see if something would appear. All hope was starting to seem lost until her hand hits an object above, a glowing hue appears for a split second.

“Whoa…” Will said, in awe, and suddenly, they both swore they heard a dog barking. “Chester?”

Steph took this as a sign to keep going, hitting the same spot again before gently moving her hand along the imaginary line. She trails to the little cabinet against the wall, feeling around until she hits something that makes light.

Come on, Ms. Byers. Please tell me you’re home. The two of them waited anxiously, waiting for the woman to speak, waiting for–

.

|| Will... are you here? ||

.

Joyce’s voice broke through, breaking them.

“Mom.” Will breaths, coming down to sit on his knees. “What do I–”

“Start feeling around. Just like I did.” Steph said, coming to sit next to him. He nods again, keeping calm and feels around – His fingers touching something that made the hue appear again. “Perfect. Just like that.”

.

|| Okay, good, good, good, good. ||

.

“See?” Steph says, happily. “It’s working.”

“Mom.” Will says again, smiling. Now, they just have to stay silent and listen.

.

|| Are you… Um, blink once for yes, twice for no. C-Can y-you do that for me, sweetie? Can you do– || 

.

Of course they can. So Will reaches out and touches it once.

.

|| Oh, good boy. Good boy. Okay, Will, um– Is… Is Stephanie with you too? ||

.

One touch. Will is eternally grateful that he’s not alone in this scary place. 

.

|| That’s wonderful news – Baby, I need to know… ||

.

There’s a pause, and they hold their breaths.

.

|| Are you guys alive? ||

.

Their hearts clenched at how painful she sounded. 

His poor mother. I can only imagine what she must feel like. Steph thought, and touched his shoulder, trying to give him some comfort.

He touches the air with a shaky hand, trying not to beat himself up over how much his mother was suffering.

.

|| Are you guys safe? ||

.

They frown, and he touches the air twice.

I’m sorry, Mom. Will says, trying not to picture the state she was in after that answer.

.

|| I need to know where to find you two, honey. Where... where are you? Can you... can you tell me where you are? Can you… Please, baby. I need to find you. Tell me what to do. Please just... Will… ||

.

“Mom?” He croaked, after she went silent. “Mom?”

“Ms. Byers?” She said, worriedly.

“Mom, please… where did you–”

Then they heard the couch scrap across the floor, hitting the wall, followed by the sounds of hammering. 

“What is she doing now?” He asks, both of them standing and hearing the string lights she must have in her hands clink together, and move along the wall. “Why is she hanging up more lights?”

Although he was puzzled, Stephanie was not. She walks over to the couch, getting onto the cushions and feeling around, the hues returning when she hits a certain spot. She laughs blissfully.

“Oh, your mom’s a genius.” Steph said, with a huge smile on her face.

Will gives her a look. “I don’t get it.”

“Watch closely. See–” She touches a line of lights near the ceiling. “Eight.” Then the middle. “Nine.” Then the bottom. “Nine. It makes twenty-six. Your mom’s a freaking genius.”

“Still not getting it.”

“Don’t you see? She didn’t just hang up more lights–” Her smile grows, and soon will his. “It’s an alphabet wall.”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Nancy wasn’t sure what she was going to do. First Steve doesn’t come into school, and now no one knows where Barb is. She decides to kill two birds with one stone after school, and takes a drive over to the Harrington house. A quick driveby shows that her boyfriend’s car wasn’t there, so she figures he must have just skipped school because of last night’s disagreement. As for her best friend though, she couldn’t have said the same thing.

She slows down and parks directly behind Barb’s car, jogging over and taking a peek inside. Everything was the same, Barb’s purse was on the floor board, and the sweater she changed out of was laid in the seat. 

No. No way. She couldn’t believe this. If Barb didn’t drive home last night then where was she? She tried to come up with excuses, tried to make up ideas that would lead to her coming home without her car but…

Nothing made sense. 

She about cried on the way home, on the verge of a breakdown as she thinks only but the worst of the worst. 

“Hey!” Her mother calls out as she enters the house. “You’re home early! How was the game?” When her mother notices how quiet she was, it is when she meets her daughter halfway. “Nancy? What’s the matter?”

“I-It’s Barb.” Nancy croaks, shaking. “I think... something happened. Something terrible.” She hopes she’s just over exaggerating, but she doesn’t know about that.

She can’t shake off this dreadful feeling in the pit of her stomach.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

“I don’t know, Chief.” Powell begins, really on the fence about all that they read.

“What don’t you know?” Hopper asked, confused.

“This lady, Terry Ives, sounds like a real nut to me. Her kid was taken for LSD mind control experiments? She’s been discredited. Claim was thrown out–”

Hopper sighs. “Okay, forget about her. Take a look at this.” He slides over a newspaper clipping he printed out. The headline said: ‘MK ULTRA EXPOSED’. He points to a familiar face in the picture. “Dr. Martin Brenner.”

“Who?”

“Brenner. He runs Hawkins Lab.”

“Okay…”

Hopper sits back in his chair with disbelief and scoffs. “You don’t find that interesting?”

“Not really.” Powell said, with a shrug. “He was involved in some hippie crap back in the day, so what?” 

“No, this isn’t hippie crap. This is CIA-sanctioned research.”

“Doesn’t mean he had anything to do with our kids.”

“Come on. Look at that.” Hopper points to the other people in the picture. “Hospital gowns. All of ‘em. Now, that piece of fabric that the teacher found by the pipe. That sure looked like a hospital gown to me, huh? Am I wrong?”

“I don’t know, Chief.”

“Come on, man. Work with me here. I’m not saying that there’s some grand conspiracy–” (You sure about that?) “I’m just…” He sighs, exhausted. “I’m saying maybe something happened. Maybe Will and Stephanie were in the wrong place at the wrong time, and they saw something that they shouldn’t have.”

Powell makes a face. “It’s a reach.”

“It’s a start.” 

Before more could be said, Powell’s radio goes off, and Callahan starts speaking.

[ ‘Hey, Powell, is the chief with you?’ ] 

Hopper wastes no time to reach over and take the radio off his partner’s shoulder, answering it, “Hopper here. What do you got?”

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

The boys follow Eleven through the woods, the sun finally setting, slowly engulfing them in darkness if it wasn’t for the lights on their bikes. To everyone’s shock and confusion, she had brought them to a familiar place.

She turns around and faces them, replying, “Here.”

Mike gives her a look. “Yeah, this is where Will lives.”

“Hiding.”

He shakes his head. “No, no, this is where he lives. He’s missing from here. Understand?”

“What are we doing here?” Lucas asked, dropping his bike in annoyance. 

“She said he’s hiding here.”

“Um…” He looks around. “No!”

Now it was Dustin’s turn to look annoyed. “I swear, if we walked all the way out here for nothing–”

“That’s exactly what we did. I told you she didn’t know what the hell she was talking about!”

Mike sighs and looks at her. “Why did you bring us here?”

“Mike, don’t waste your time with her.” Lucas replies, fed up and tired.

“What do you want to do then?”

“Call the cops, like we should have done yesterday.”

“We are not calling the cops!” 

“Hey, guys?” Dustin says, something catching his attention. 

“What other choice do we have?” Lucas yells again. 

“Guys!” He snaps, drawing their attention to the police cars rushing by, followed by an ambulance. Their sirens were blaring loudly, and were heading in a direction they all knew where it led to.

A dreadful feeling came to all of them instantly. 

“Oh no…” Mike whispers.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

|| THE OTHER SIDE ||

Stephanie wrote on the wall with a marker the best she could, drawing the alphabet in each row. They couldn’t see the lights or the letters Joyce probably scribbled on too, but they could make do with what they had.

“This should probably help, right?” 

“Definitely.” Will agrees with a nod.

“Good.” She smacks her hands together. “Alright, come on Mrs. Byers, talk to us. Ask us some questions.”

“Come on, Mom.”

They waited and waited, until they finally heard her speak.

.

|| Okay. Okay, baby, talk to me. Talk to me. Where are you guys? ||

.

“What should we say?” Will asked, as he climbed onto the couch.

“Uh…” What could they say? “Here! Right Here. Tell her that.”

“Okay.”

Will Reached up and started touching right above each letter, listening – His mother repeating back whatever he touched.

.

|| ‘R’. Good, good, good, good. That’s good. Come on, come on. ‘I..  G... H... T... H... E... R... E…’.‘Right here’. ||

.

Stephanie frowns, worriedly. Yeah, I know it doesn’t make any sense but it’s true.

“Come on, Mom. Understand. Please.” Will begged, quietly.

.

|| ‘Right here’? I… I-I don’t know what that means. I need you to tell me what to do. What should I do? How do I get to you guys? How do I find you? What should I do? ||

.

“Um…” Will looks over at the teenager. “What should we tell her?”

Steph’s mouth opens and closes quickly. What do they tell her if they’re not even sure what this place is? “Fuck… um…” She scratches her head. “How about–”

. “I KNOW WHAT YOU’RE DOING.” .

The vicious voice seemed to spread itself around the house like a disease making the hair on their necks stand, and a chill ran up their spines. And then all the supposed “dead” electricity started going off, turning the whole house into a light show; Radios and TVs started going frantic; Fans turning on and spinning around too.

Will starts looking around all disoriented. “Steph, what’s going on?” 

“I–” She gasps as she hears the infamous growl in the distance, then the sound of the beast trying to bust through the wall behind her. “Will!!”

The boy frantically writes something out of his mother, just as the monster’s claw broke through the house. Steph takes a quick shot to stun it enough for them to run out the back door – From there, they were off running into the forest.

Again. 

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Joyce set the brush down, her alphabet wall was done and ready to use. She takes a few steps back so she can see the whole thing, and rubs her hands impatiently.

“Okay.” She breathes, mentally preparing herself. “Okay, baby, talk to me. Talk to me. Where are you guys?” It takes only a second for a letter to appear. “‘R’. Good, good, good, good. That’s good. Come on, come on. ‘I..  G... H... T... H... E... R... E…’.‘Right here’.”

What? 

That doesn’t make sense. What do they mean they’re right here?

“‘Right here’?” She says again, puzzled. “I… I-I don’t know what that means. I need you to tell me what to do. What should I do? How do I get to you guys? How do I find you? What should I do?”

She sees the light flicker again, and waits to see what they spell. Slight spoiler…

It was not what she expected them to say.

They were letters that were going to take her breath away.

R

U 

N 

And then all the lights in the house turned on and flickers rapidly, a sound of growling coming from behind. Scarcely, she turns to find something trying to crawl out of her wall. Terrified to even scream or speak, she starts to back away towards the door as a beast breaks through the wallpaper and hisses. 

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

The boys biked faster and faster, trying to catch up to the emergency vehicles, fearing the worst was yet to come. Just like they suspected, they ended up right at Sattler Quarry.

Meanwhile, Hopper was shaking, praying that what Callahan told him was not true. He arrives at the scene to find paramedics going deep into the water, two stretchers trailing behind. He doesn’t even know if he parked the car or not as he rushes out; A terrible, terrible feeling in the pit of his stomach. He runs and blends into the crowd of firemen, waiting (im)patiently for their findings. 

“Oh, Jesus.” He mutters, trying so hard to keep his composure. “Oh, God. Please tell me it’s not the kids.”

The boys and El hid behind a truck, hearts in their throats as they watched as a waterlogged body of a boy was being loaded on the stretcher – soon followed by a larger female.

As soon as he saw the clothes, as soon as he saw the color of their hair, Hopper knew he was too late. Not wanting to break down right there and scream, he turns away and heads to his car. How in the world was he going to be able to tell Joyce and Claudia about this? How was he going to tell them that he failed to save their children after they begged him to? What could he have done differently to change this atrocious outcome?

The boys were shaking their heads from afar, not wanting to believe what they’re seeing. It was a nightmare. Just a nightmare. It has to be! They can’t really be–

“It can’t be them.” Mike choked, shaking his head. “It can’t be.”

“It’s Will and Steph.” Lucas says, lips quivering. Both boys were a mess, almost coming undone, but Dustin…

Oh, Dustin.

He felt like he was about to faint.

“Phanie…?” He whispers, taking a step back while holding his head. No. No. No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No, No– No! This can’t be real! This can’t be! She can’t be–

“It’s really them.” Lucas said, after getting another look once the bodies were brought back to shore. Tears were in his eyes, and they were ones he wasn’t even going to try to hide like he normally would.

Same thing goes with Mike, who was hugging himself, and sobbed. His best friend was gone. A girl that was like a sister to him was gone. He just couldn’t… wait. “Dustin?” He begins, looking over his friend who seemed so far away from this world.

It was a scary look, enough for even El to get scared and worried. She reached out to him, to comfort him; She even muttered his name for the first time.

To everyone’s surprise, he slaps her hand away.

“‘Dustin’? ‘Dustin’, what?!” He snaps, hatefully. “You were supposed to help us find them alive. You said my sister was alive?! Why did you lie to us?” He points at her, scaring her again. “What’s wrong with you? What is wrong with you?!” 

Eleven stays quiet, not even sure what to say from his outburst.

“Say something! Give me an answer, damn it!” He yells, as Lucas and Mike take a step closer.

“Dustin–” Mike tries, but the boy shakes his head and backs away.

“Screw this! Fuck everything!” Dustin turns around and grabs his bike, his friends ushering him to calm down before taking off. But whatever they say wasn’t going to be enough. The Henderson was practically up the hill when they finished their speech, and wasn’t planning on slowing down no matter what happens.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Meanwhile, not too far down the road, Joyce was running for her life – running whatever that thing was that crawled out of her wall. She was so scared that she didn’t even realize a car was coming towards her. Luckily, it stopped mere inches away, causing her to scream.

“Mom?” Jonathan says as he gets out. “Mom, what happened?” His mother couldn’t speak, only reaching out to grab her son and hold on to dear life. “It’s okay. It’s okay. I got you.” 

But everything is not okay. Far from it. 

Because in the distance, police were coming to inform them of the unfortunate news of their son and brother.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Steve slips through the sliding door in the back of his house since it was much quieter. He really didn’t feel like facing his parents just yet, and he knows this is around the time at night where they sit around with a glass of wine/beer and watch their shows. He’ll just see and deal with them in the morning, and hopefully they don’t notice any signs that there was a party last night.

He walks lightly across the floors, his mind set to go for the stairs which was going to be a bit tricky since they do tend to creak in some spots. A quick look into the living room he finds his dad on the couch, and his mother standing up but facing the opposite way. 

Perfect. He thought and made his move just as his mother’s voice broke through.

The black, wavy haired and brown eyed woman was pacing around a bit, clearly upset about something – or someone to be exact. 

“The boy was skipping school today, Richard. Can’t you believe that? How is suppose to keep up his grades?” 

Steve had to hold back from groaning as he eye rolled. Here she goes again. He chooses to ignore it, and is about to when he hears the next thing.

“If it wasn’t for his girlfriend calling we would have never known.”

He froze as soon as his foot touched one of the steps. Nancy called? 

His girlfriend actually called the house? She was actually calling because she was wondering where he was at? Even after their fight? He could smile because it warms his heart that she cares, but he was also devastated that his mother was the one to pick up the phone. He hasn’t even told–

“On the bright side, he’s dating a Wheeler. A Wheeler! You know what her father does for a living, right?” She chuckles with excitement. “It’s perfect. I can almost cry.”

And here comes another eyeroll. See this is why he didn’t bother mentioning this girlfriend this time around to his mother. He knew once she found out who her family was it was going to be a game changer. 

Jesus, Christ. He can’t wait to see what’s in store for him in the morning.

“Well, it beats the other choices he’s had in the past.” His father said, pouring salt into old wounds and making him shake his head.

These freaking people, man. I swear. Steve starts to go up the stairs when he hears another voice; This time it was on the TV.

. < In Other words– breaking news. The bodies of some local children, William Byers and Stephanie Henderson have been found. > .

He froze again, this time more rigid and cold.

No.

No, he didn’t just hear that right.

No, his mind’s just playing tricks on him because of last night…

Right?

. < The children have been missing since the 6th, and local authorities and it’s volunteers worked many hours to bring them home, only for it to end in a tragedy. >  .

“About fucking time.” Charles said, raising his beer with joy. “Damn weirdo. I guess our worries about her hanging out with our son again are put to rest.”

Jessica sighs with relief. “Thank God for that. I was tired of seeing her face everywhere.”

“Amen to that.”

He listened to his parents laugh, and clink their drinks together as the world started to spin around him.

No.

No.

This isn’t right. This isn’t right. This isn’t right. This isn’t right. This isn’t–

He’s not sure how much noise he made, or if he made any, but Steve was out the door again in a split second – running straight for his car where he’ll speed off to the unknown parts of Hawkins.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Dustin stumbles inside his house, slamming the door with more force than necessary. Maybe it was necessary ‘cause it got his mother’s attention. She came from the other room, asking what’s going on as he stares at her with a red face and puffy eyes, cheeks stained with tears that wouldn’t stop falling.

“Dustin? What’s wrong?” 

He felt like something was wrapped around his vocal cords, and there was a knife sticking into his chest, and there was something hot poking at his lungs. He has to speak. He has to tell her. It’s better if she knows from his lips rather than a man in blue. 

“Dustin?” She tries again, getting closer.”

“M-Mom…” He begins, his whole body starting to tremble. “St-Stephanie… sh-she’s… she’s…” Oh, god. Why can’t he freaking say it?

“She’s what?” Claudia asked, worriedness creeping up onto her features.

“Sh-She’s… she’s gone.” He whispers into a sob. “Th-They found them both in… I-In the quarry.” Another sob. “Th-They’re b-both gone. M-Mom. St-Stephanie’s gone…”

And then his mother started to shake her head and said ‘No’, followed by Dustin’s reassurance. This went back and forth for who knows how long, but it ended with Claudia being in the same state as her son – a hobbling mess.

“I-It’s true…” He gasps. “I-I saw it my-myself. They’re r-really b-both gone.” And then he broke down again, this time in her arms. She holds him tight, trying to be the strong one here. 

“Shh, baby, we’ll get through this.” She soothes, rubbing the curls on the back of his neck. Her son grips onto her clothes, burying his head into her chest and lets out never ending gasps for air.

“Mommy…” He choked, as his ears picked up on the sirens in front of his house.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°

Steve’s surprised the gas pedal hasn’t gone through the floorboard yet with how much force he’s applying. He doesn’t even know where he’s going, doesn’t even know if he’s hit something, or runs a red light, but he does know that he’s not anywhere near the speed limit. 

The news story was still playing around in his head and it was certainly not helping the situation. 

. < From the looks of it, the poor children had plummeted into the quarry and ended up drowning with possible hypothermia. But the mystery still remains on why these two disappeared in the first place. Hopefully, the police can find the answer to that, and bring some closure to the grieving families. > < Hopefully so, Liz. I can only imagine what they’re going through right now. > < Everyone here at WCPK would like to give our condolences. And we advise everyone watching to give a moment of silence for the children. > .

Steve slams on the breaks, the wheels spinning and making an awful sound as he stops along one of the abandoned roads in the town. He starts breathing heavily, which slowly turns into panting. His heartbeat was in his ears, his throat tight and dry, his brown eyes starting to gloss over.

“Fuck…” He whispers, in disbelief. No matter how many times he thinks this is a dream, thinks that maybe they were wrong and it was two other kids they found, his guts tells him ‘No’ and ‘This is real’. 

“Fuck…” He says again, the pain was slowly turning into anger which eventually led to him banging on every surface in his car. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck, Fuck, Fuck, Fuck!”

Stephanie Henderson was dead. The girl he knew since five was dead. The girl he made promises with was dead. The girl who was there for him at his every low was dead. The girl who was the only one to make him really laugh and smile was dead.

The girl he had to give up to protect was dead.

Stephanie Henderson… The girl that was his friend.

No.

Screw that! 

He didn’t want to make that choice but he had to.

The girl that is, and will always be, his friend is dead.

She was just supposed to keep moving on in her life, she was just supposed to keep hating him until she completes her dreams. She was supposed to stay in Hawkins and pretend not to know him until her dream life opens up and whisks her away. 

She was supposed to be alive and safe. 

She wasn’t supposed to be dead at the bottom of a quarry with a boy she offered to protect.

Everything he did to make sure she lived was now pointless.

Now, tears rolled down his face, his hands trembling and his lower lip quivered. Every emotion he kept locked up from their old friendship had returned and it was eating him away, tearing him bit by bit, suffocating him till he turned blue.

He still couldn’t believe it. He wishes he could blink and reality would reveal it was just another dream. 

He knows it won’t be like that. It never will be. So instead…

.

.

.

.

Steve found himself screaming until his throat ran raw.

A/N: Did I emotionally destroy all of you enough? I apologize a bit if so...

~~~

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[bruciemilf]

ACTUALLY, you guys WILL listen to my Bruce & Officer Martinez brain rot because they have Peak " grumpy sunshine " and " asshole sunshine" dynamic and I'm not letting it go

Here's the thing about Jim Gordon; He has patience; He has tact. But he's also a petty shit, and God almighty, he WARNED Batman to stop his solo crime busting for extra dangerous cases

So yes; He gestures to Martinez, sugar cream on his moustache, files overfilling his arms. He tries to wave. They fall everywhere. ''This is your divine punishment "

"... Did you really just refer to Martinez as a punishment?"

" Honestly, I'm just happy to be included!"

Martinez is still SUPER sketchy about Batman, but of course he freaks out in the Batmobile; Yes, it's from the back-seat, but it still MATTERS, - " You know, my aunt is actually a mechanic, and-"

And that's the second thing Bruce writes about him in his profile journal; First thing being 'Talks too much.' Second is Family man.

But he actually listens to everything because it's comforting to know Gotham allows some love to survive.

And Bruce REFERENCES all stories. When they investigate different sources he's like " This is a professional dismemberment. We should ask your brother's opinion"

" My brother?" " I'd ask mine, but I don't have one." " No asshole I mean - you know my brother's a surgeon? You listen to me?" " I always listen."

FIGHTING OVER THE RADIO! GIVE IT TO ME! BECAUSE YOU JUST KNOWWWW BRUCE PLAYS THREE DAYS GRACE AND SKILLET AND MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE

" you listen to this shit??? Unironically?? THIS is REAL music" and then-

" GIMME GIMME GIMME A MAN AFTER MIDNIGHT-"

And also a ton of Nicki Minaj. " PULL UP IN THE MONSTER AUTOMOBILE GANGSTA-"

Bruce almost rearranges his whole skeleton right there; Martinez eventually figures out that it's Bruce's special interest so he apologises, " I'm sorry I called you out on your terrible taste. We can listen to that Bridge song or whatever"

*shaking with rage* " It's. Not. Called. That."

Literally give me Martinez whining Bruce's ear off until they reach a drive through, and Bruce is just standing there like a STATUE

Martinez leveled up to front seats and is rubbing his hands together like a greedy gremlin, but Bruce does Not move. " Welcome to Bat Burger can I take your order? Hello?" And Bruce is just. Petrified

" Can I had- have, can I - um,"

" what was that?"

" ... Burger"

He pins Martinez face to headboard and makes him SWEAR he won't tell anyone about it but Martinez is too busy laughing his ass off

Martinez always talking about Bruce, - He gave my sister a job as a security guard after she got out of prison. Murdering her rapist, you know how it is

"... I don't, actually." " Well yeah, you grew up in the good part of town, probably" "There's no good part. Only good coincidences."

"... Oh yeah, you're DEFINETLY rich."

Martinez and Selina strangers to enemies, 500k words, slow burn.

Martinez is a dog boy and she's a cat girl. It was expected. She kicks his seat in the Batmobile and he readjusts his chair as LOW as possible just to annoy her

" Crazy cat lady KNOWS something. "

" Don't call her that."

" I don't have to, her smell does it for me, - wait. Are you... Are you HOT for her? SERIOUSLY?"

And so what if Bruce's fast feels hot under his cowl? " Now's not really the time for a jealous scene."

" Oh I'M not jealous, bro. She's in your pants, I'm your emergency contact and organ donor. We aren't even in the same highway."

" ...When did you do that?"

" We don't have time to talk about all that-"

Martinez super casually mentioning he knows Bruce's identity. " Thanks for your help, Mr. Wayne"

[SHOCKED SILENCE]

" How... How did you?"

" BRO. I'd know that jawline in death."

[utilitycaster]

…so I decided to check out Polygon’s D20 coverage, and frankly I think you were entirely too kind to them. Good. GOD, some of that stuff read like they’ve never watched AP that *wasn’t* CR, D20 or the first season of TAZ. And have somehow made it thru the 2010s without encountering urban fantasy…

Anyway, to further nudge you towards your destiny of AP journalism (and with the understanding that you have a Real Job and a life outside TTRPGs and the internet); can you please expand on what you think D20 brings to the table?(pun unintended, but I stand by it) Because speaking as someone who has watched a handful of eps and enjoys the concepts, the praise PG were offering was damningly faint.

Hi! Thank you, and for what it's worth I don't think most of them have listened to the first season of TAZ either, given the way they talk about WBN as inventing the actual play longform podcast. I do want to note: I like writing longform stuff about actual play but I am adamantly not a journalist. I am not investigating or interviewing or reporting; I'm doing analysis and editorial. Amateur critic is the most I can claim to and that's a stretch (and even there I have a particular privilege in that I'm writing all this for free, anonymously, by choice, and don't need be be nice or maintain relationships with actual play performers within the space because I could burn every bridge and still make rent.)

Anyway. I think a major flaw of Polygon is that it's so focused on novelty and subversion that it forgets a well-worn concept, executed with skill, is actually great and for many people, preferable. Brennan, from everything I have heard him say and from how he actually runs games, has a deep respect for fantasy as a genre, and the stories he tells in D20 are ones he is clearly familiar with and loves. I also think to subvert things you must be a fan, and when D20 does successfully subvert or twist a genre, it's coming from a place of respect and understanding.

Anyway, just covering a few Intrepid Heroes seasons: I think Fantasy High (and I haven't gotten to the latest episode of Junior Year) is actually increasingly a brilliant deconstruction of D&D as a game by making the world aware that it's in a D&D game. What does it mean to be in a D&D party and be an adventurer and have that be a significant part of who you are? What does it mean to be a commoner in this world? What do you do when you're sort of a broke teen in generic suburbia but also you need the loot that an adventurer would theoretically get from dragon hoards? Why do you have to know what your life's calling will be when you're 14? One of my personal favorite things, as a lover of mechanics and TTRPGs as a system of storytelling and more generally as someone who believes that your medium of choice should be informing the story you tell, is when people engage with character roles and classes instead of treating them as just a set of cool things you can do, and Fantasy High very much pushes the players to do this. I also mentioned elsewhere that the downtime stress mechanics are a brilliant addition to one of the genuine gaps in D&D, namely, while downtime is a time for open RP, there's not a good way to handle things like stress or crafting or prioritizing well.

The Unsleeping City is one I like, honestly, just because I lived in New York for a few years and Brennan lived there far longer (as did much of the cast, though not all) and his love for it is apparent. I don't think it's groundbreaking; I just think it's really good. The characters are excellent and the story is fun. It's true that, for example, it allows you the satisfaction of making Amazon's and its attempted move into Long Island City the BBEG and smiting its ass instead of having to harangue your senators and councilpeople (as I did, and I wasn't even living in Queens) but really it's just a good story. It doesn't need to be more than that. It did not invent urban fantasy or the idea of a secret magical version of a real city or "most myths are real"; it's just a good story!

I think A Crown of Candy is also just a fun setting and, by making everyone food, emphasizes how petty and arbitrary the alliances in a Game of Thrones-esque milieu can be. It casts a scathing eye on religious interpretation as a tool for conquest without clumsily proclaiming the mere concept of religion is the problem. It has one of the best explorations of character death I've seen and Brennan's acting as Caramelinda remains a tour de force for him. Bringing the entire story of succession and war down to a final choice between two half-sisters remains a brilliant decision, the setting is supported by the mechanical limits Brennan imposed upon character creation, and it's overall beautifully done.

Even Neverafter, which I think have openly said didn't live up to its initial promise, had that promise with the fantastic handling of the TPK; I have a love for metanarrative and honestly my issue is that it was the wrong place to do metanarrative, but it was a bold choice to do in the unpredictable medium of actual play.

That's really only covering a fraction - I think some other standouts are Mentopolis, A Court of Fey and Flowers, Coffin Run, and Escape from the Bloodkeep, and while Shriek Week is just not a genre I'm personally super drawn to, I think the Mythic system is a great system for the story being told and Hicks does a great job running it.

Really what it comes down to is that D20 falls in between what a lot of shows are. It doesn't have the freedom but also the burden of a very long-running campaign (indeed, WBN exists because its performers, all of whom have featured in D20, wanted to be able to do longform actual play), nor is it quite as rushed as an all-miniseries or one-shot show. It has space to explore one or two things really well without having to carry a thousand different threads (and believe me, Brennan tries to put in as many as he can in that space - I actually wonder if the reason Fantasy High Junior Year feels a little more streamlined to me is that WBN was by that time in full swing). But it's not the first edited actual play, it mostly uses very widespread systems, the production values are high but not unheard of elsewhere (and I think that production values in AP beyond the basic 'can you hear and, if relevant, see things clearly and does the set look nice' are overrated though that's a personal preference), the cast is strong but not the first group of professionals or even comedians, and they didn't invent the concept of filming remotely or scrims or having an anticapitalist message.

My issue with the journalists, to reiterate that, is that they're not really doing much journalism, actually; and that their bias is horribly apparent. There's little analysis - just shallow reviews that show little understanding of actual play as a medium, fantasy as a genre, or TTRPGs as a system. And while being entirely free of bias is unavoidable - we are people, and we will bring our own interpretations and experiences in, and there are people who will love D20 and dislike Critical Role without doing so in bad faith - the fact that several of the journalists have openly crowed and preened about their special access to the D20 cast really makes it apparent that they like D20 because Dropout gives them early access and says nice things about them. And it's a feedback loop; Critical Role is going to keep saying "well, you constantly shit on us, so no, you don't get early access" and they'll keep writing bad reviews because they don't get early access.

But to return to the point, D20 is legitimately great and yeah the bias in my mind is only hurting them because, speaking only for myself, if there's two things I like and people heap fawning and inaccurate praise on one and nitpick the other? I'm going to start looking into that praise and find more flaws, and I'm going to start defending the nitpicked one. I really love Fantasy High Junior Year but the Polygon article is so bad I have to remind myself that it's just because the person who wrote it is an idiot. I probably would have gone into Kollok much more neutrally if people didn't act like it was the fucking invention of television. Do give D20 a try if you can! Don't read the articles.

[idolatrybarbie]

series masterlist | read on ao3

pairing: francisco "frankie" morales x f!reader

word count: 9.2k

rating & summary: mature - 18+ only! | You and Marcus haven’t spoken in three years. It isn’t like that—nothing bad has to happen these days for you to lose touch with someone. So goes adulthood.

tags: previously established friendship, lies and manipulation, canon-typical crime, mention of guns, mention of alcohol, the United States government comes with its own warning, reader does not speak Portuguese fluently and is written as such

notes: WE'RE HERE. oh my god. ohhh my god. this has taken MONTHS. it's a little gross, a little freaky. take it. read it. love it (please?) more to come. over and out.

“All truths – even the laws of science – are subject to revision, but we operate by them in the meantime because they are necessary and they work.” — The Elements of Journalism, Bill Kovach and Tom Rosenstiel.

You wake up in a cold sweat, adrenaline pumping. Your heart is beating fast in your chest; you almost tumble out of bed with the force from pushing yourself up. The phone rings—Mom’s landline—the trill high and bubbling from the kitchen. Following the noise through the fog of half-sleep, you pad across the quiet house slowly. You reach the phone by the fifth ring, answering on the sixth.

“Hello?” Your voice is raw with sleep.

“I was starting to think you were dead.” Marcus Pike’s voice reaches your ears, flowing down the line like water.

“Marcus?” you ask. Looking out the window above the sink, you see that the sun is not out yet. The sky is pitch black, forcing you to seek out the microwave’s clock. “It’s five o’clock in the morning.”

“Seven in D.C.,” he says.

Right. That cushy, not-so-new gig out in Washington. He went from art theft investigator to a DOJ special agent in what felt like the blink of an eye.

“How did you get this number?”

“Your folks still live in Kendall County,” he says.

“And I live in Hell’s Kitchen,” you counter.

“They’ve got that yearly trip to Mexico. You house sat for them at the start of every summer.”

“Back in college,” you say.

“You still answered, didn’t you?” Marcus asks.

You can’t help when you laugh. “You haven’t changed.”

“Nope,” he says. You picture him in an office somewhere, shaking his head with a satisfied smile. “Neither have you.”

You and Marcus haven’t spoken in three years. It isn’t like that—nothing bad has to happen these days for you to lose touch with someone. So goes adulthood. He moved away from Texas by the time you were already out on the east coast. Your job at The Metropolitan Post keeps you busy. Maybe a little too busy, absolutely quashing your personal life.

“Not that it’s unwelcome, Marcus, but—”

“You’re wondering why I’m calling you in Texas at the ass-crack of dawn,” he finishes for you.

“Sort of, yeah.”

He hums into the speaker, taking a moment before he speaks again. “I was wondering if you had time for breakfast?”

“Marcus, that’s a four hour flight,” you say.

“I’m not actually in D.C. right now,” he says.

“Okay…”

“I’m staying in San Antonio.”

“So that’s why you’re calling. You got bored, huh?”

“Something like that,” Marcus says. “Meet me at the Sunshine Diner? It’s on Commerce. Say, seven o’clock?” It’s like he’s rehearsed the line over and over again.

“Marcus—”

“Great.”

“Marcus,” you repeat.

He says your name back to you in that same firm tone.

“What is this about?” you ask. The playfulness can’t hide the weirdness surrounding a surprise trip down here.

“I’ll tell you when I see you, alright? All will be revealed.”

You roll your eyes, curiosity unsatisfied. Clearly he’s unwilling to tell you anything over the phone.

“Sure, fine. Breakfast at seven. I’ll see you there,” you say.

The drive from Boerne to San Antonio is only thirty-two minutes. Those thirty miles stretch to feel like thirty-thousand, but before you know it, you’re parked halfway up West Commerce Street. You see the diner, its sun-faded metal sign taunting you from the driver’s seat. None of the cars on the block look like they could be Pike’s. They’re too old or too dirty to be rentals, a sea of Texan license plates before you.

You sigh to yourself, pulling the handle on the car door as it creaks. “Now or never.”

The sun hasn’t brought enough heat to ground yet, the morning air still tepid as you walk onto concrete. Peering into the diner’s windows, you spot Marcus before he sees you. The absence of a suit over his shoulders throws you off. When you think of him, you picture Special Agent Marcus Pike. Sitting inside at a table alone, he looks more like the guy you used to know.

A bell jingles above you as you open the door to the restaurant. He looks up, face absent of surprise or question. It’s seven on the dot. He knows you like to be punctual. The kind waitress smiles at you when he waves you over, letting you join Marcus at his corner booth. He waits until you slide into the seat opposite him to say anything.

“Hey, stranger.”

“Hey, yourself,” you say. “You still have to answer my question. What are you doing here?”

“A man can’t find the sudden urge to visit the great state of Texas?” he asks.

“Not when that man is you.”

He’s got too many bad memories here for this be a vacation. He has never told you outright, but you aren’t stupid. The personal tragedy of a failed engagement and prospects of greener pastures for his career is enough to draw any man away from home. If Marcus is here, there’s a reason.

“I wanted to talk to you,” he says.

“That’s what phones are for. Remember this morning?”

“This…isn’t something I can really talk about over the phone.”

You furrow your brow, eyes squinting as you assess his body language. Shoulders tight, hunched close to his body. He runs a hand over the light scruff on his jaw, rubbing the pads of his thumb and forefinger together when his wrist meets the table again.

“What’s wrong?”

“There isn’t anything wrong,” Marcus says.

“You can’t talk about it over the phone, and you look like someone’s got you in a gun sight across the street,” you say. “But sure, nothing’s wrong.”

“Look—”

“What can I get started for you today?”

The waitress from earlier approaches your table with a peppy sway in her hips, dark ponytail swaying gracefully behind her. She pulls out a notepad to go with her stub of a pencil, ready to take down your order.

“Two coffees,” Marcus mumbles. “Two cream, two sugar.”

Then she turns to you. “How do you take it?”

“Black.” You don’t look at her, staring at Marcus as he taps his fingers against the plastic coating on the table.

“I’ll be right back with those.”

When she ambles away, you say, “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Instead of giving you an answer, Marcus reaches into his back pocket. What he puts on the table almost makes your heart stop.

“Where did you get that?”

You’re staring at a face—your face—on a second-rate identification pass. A name that doesn’t belong to you sits under your photo in bold black ink alongside credentials you certainly don’t have. There is no Molly Hills that works at the Justice Department. At least, not until you made her up.

“Doesn’t matter,” Marcus says.

“I already got into shit over this, Marcus, so if you’re here to—”

“I’m giving it back.”

You pause. “Giving it back?”

“Well, it’s yours. Figured you might want it.”

“There’s nothing that badge can get me that I’d want anymore.”

You were naive when you made it. Green, ready and willing to do anything to get the story. You’d paid the price, too. Lost your job, lost your place, almost went to federal prison. A lot of trouble for a silly little journalist. A long nightmare you don’t want to relive.

“I don’t know if that’s true.”

Irritation consumes you. “Marcus, did you come here to see me or did you come here to piss me off?”

“I need your help.”

He needs your help? That’s a chance in a million. “Aren’t you the federal agent?” you ask.

“This is something that I can’t do,” he says lowly. You don’t believe him. “I’m serious. This is serious.”

“What is this?”

The waitress returns with your coffees, setting them down in front of you. She asks if you want anything else. Not right now, and she’s gone again.

“There’s something you should look into,” he says, voice low as he brings his mug up to his lips.

“I don’t do that anymore,” you say.

He gives you a look of disbelief. “Of course you do.”

“I sit around on my laptop for nine hours a day sending out push notifications and rearranging the homepage, Marcus. I don’t even write.”

“You and I both know that’s not true.”

He knows about your…issue. It’s what gets you into trouble, always has.

“That’s why you’re really here,” you say.

“I’m here to catch up with a good friend,” he says. Reaching across the table, he takes your hand in his own. “It’s been too long.”

Marcus skirts around the topic from there, ignoring the disappointment etched into your forehead as he tells you about Washington: the job, the cases—all the pertinent details left out, of course. You start to play along, sliding the badge off of the table and into your bag. Even if he won’t tell you, you at least want to try and enjoy his presence. It’s been a lifetime since you’ve had it.

Apparently the job is hard work, but you could’ve figured that. Demanding, he tells you. Not much time for a life on his end of things either. You tell him about New York; about your one bedroom claim to fame on the edge of Clinton, about the house plants you’ve managed to keep alive for some time now. Not once does he bring up your old life, how things used to be. You’re relieved.

Marcus is gone when he finishes his coffee, scooting out of the booth to stand and rearrange his shirt.

“I should get going. I’ll call you in a few days, okay?” he asks. “It was good to see you.”

As he turns on his heel, your words stop him. “For the record, I don’t like this. You’re not being fair, Marcus.”

“I’ll call you soon,” he reasserts. And then he’s gone.

You don’t see which car he gets into. You don’t even care. When it’s been long enough and you get sick of staring at the brown dregs at the bottom of your mug, you fish the badge out of your bag. Putting it on the table again, you examine it. Not even half a decade and you already look so different. Weathered, maybe. In this photo you are so very bright and smiley.

Staring at the piece of plastic, you realize you resent it; you’re disappointed in yourself, begrudging Marcus for bringing it here as some sort of token. A reminder. A chit. You owe him, and this is his way of calling in a favour. With you, the man never has been one for the direct approach.

Turning the badge over in your hands, you notice a scrap of paper lodged behind the plastic. Marcus has written something on it. A series of random numbers and letters.

18USC209-14489.

It reads as gibberish. You toss the thing back into the shadows of your bag and flag down the waitress for another cup of coffee.

You try to ignore it; that lingering pull. It’s more like a sinking feeling than anything. You start making lists to distract yourself. Lists of chores to do, things to buy, times to remember. Keeping your hands busy with dishes, sweeping, tending to the back lawn. You hand-wash the guest room bed sheets to keep your mind from wandering.

Marcus hasn’t called for a couple days. You’re starting to think he never will. Even with him leaving you to this alone, you’re trying to keep the temptation at bay. It’s a game you play with yourself: whenever you’re seconds away from looking up the sequence on the back of the badge, you instead search for the specific statutes of federal law under which you almost went to jail for breaking. You’d say it’s pretty effective.

One week after that coffee, you almost trash the badge altogether. All that hunk of plastic does is take up space, both in your mind and your bag. You can’t look for your keys without your fingers brushing past it. Every time, you pull your hand away like you’ve been burned. As you stand over the sink, waste disposal roaring with life, you prepare to drop the card down the drain.

Screw Marcus. He could ask for any favour, but not this one. He didn’t even have the guts to ask you in the first place—he’d stuck you with it, laying this mystery burden over-top of you, smothered.

After a long while, you turn the disposal off, card still intact. You turn it over and over again in your hand, flipping between the two sides. Brain idle and eyes closed, the pause of silence is ultimately what does you in. The series is burned into the underside of your eyelids, a white shadow against the dark. It looks like a code; a sequence used to file records.

18USC209-14489.

You are bent over your laptop before you can stop yourself, fingers flying across the keys. You type in the first half, results for Title 18 showing up in a fraction of a second. Federal crimes and criminal procedure. Marcus has given you a case.

Looking further, you find chapter two hundred and nine of the code—extradition. Beyond scope, limitations, and a lengthy list of countries that the United States has extradition treaties with, this webpage is useless. The public access government site isn’t going to tell you anything about what the rest of those numbers mean.

That’s when it clicks. The badge. Marcus gave it back. What was it he’d said? This was something he couldn’t do. Something you should look into. That he needs your help. 

Immediately, you know what he’s asking. You don’t like it one bit. Of all the things he could ask of you, spend this life sized favour on, it had to be this?

You open another browser tab, accidentally clicking the bookmark of your email. There’s one new message waiting in your inbox. The address that sent it is professionally scrambled, the body absent of text altogether. Attached to the email is an unnamed file. It takes a moment to load before filling your screen: a one-way plane ticket to Reagan National, tomorrow at noon. You don’t have to know the address to know Marcus is the person who sent it to you. What he wants from you is clear now. The question lies in whether or not you’ll do it.

Except it isn’t really a question. You know it and he does too. The email keeps you up all night, finally caving at two o’clock in the morning. You pack a bag, something small, and call the cheapest hotel in Virginia that you can find. Your parents are due back in just a couple of days. Leaving a note on the fridge for them, you write that a work emergency called you home early. The identical text you send them won’t go through until they get back onto American soil, but it’s all the notice you can give.

The drive to San Antonio Airport is warm, the sun beating down on you through the windshield. In your head, you try your best to convince yourself that this is a good decision. At least the car will be there when they get in from Mexico City. You’re mostly focused on this playing out as a dead end. Maybe whatever Marcus is sending you to find isn’t all that important. The man isn’t exactly a journalist, or a lawyer; there could be no story here. He could be wrong. It’s not like he hasn’t been before.

Keeping your eyes open in the airport feels next to impossible. Even with the overwhelming chatter, the announcements, and the never-ending foot traffic, you almost fall asleep three separate times. A Styrofoam cup of cheap espresso is your only saving grace. You’re sat at the gate when your phone sounds off in your pocket.

Marcus Pike. You answer immediately.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

“Good morning to you too,” he says.

“Do you think this is funny?” Your hostility over the phone is drawing eyes. You get up from your seat, wheeling your luggage behind you as you search for a quieter corner.

“Quite the opposite. But some of us like joy in our lives, keeps the mood up.”

“I know exactly where you can stick that joy, if you’d like any suggestions,” you say. “What’s waiting for me in D.C.?”

“National Mall, the Dumbarton Oaks Museum, Capitol building…”

“You know what I mean.”

“And if you’ll remember, I already gave you the details on that specifically,” Marcus says. Can’t talk about this over the phone. “I’m calling from work.”

Of course he is. Positing you to violate federal law, and he’s calling you at the office. You’re starting to think he wants you both to go to jail.

“What am I going to find when I get there?” you ask.

“Something important. Something I know you’d want to see.”

“Don’t put this back on me,” you say. “I’m doing this because I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything.”

“You and I both know that’s bullshit.”

It’s what he has always said. That you don’t owe him, there’s no favour to be traded here. That he helped you because he’s your friend. You’re not about to go rehashing memory lane fifty feet from the American Airlines help desk, but last time you checked, helping a friend meant moving boxes out of their apartment or sitting a shitty pet—not sparing them from federal prison. You owe him, and for the longest time you thought you always would.

“If I do this, I’m never doing you another favour again,” you whisper. He says your name, almost exasperated. You cut him off quickly. “You can lecture me when I’m in D.C.. Next time, get your own damn cup of sugar.”

Boarding is frustratingly slow. You have to kick some whiny kid out of your seat as his mother gives him a coddling lecture—no sweetheart, you can’t just sit wherever you want. You nod off moments after reaching altitude, not waking until your seat neighbour shakes you by the shoulder.

The older woman is sweet, strands of long hair greying at her temples and forehead.

“I’m sorry to wake you, honey, but we’re here,” she whispers.

“Thanks,” you sigh. Glancing out the porthole window, you can see workers in their fluorescent vests loading luggage onto dollies. Idly, you ask her, “You ever been to Washington?”

“Oh, once. A long time ago. It was lovely,” she says. “How about you?”

You turn to the woman, giving her an easy smile. “Never been,” you lie.

“You’ll love it,” the woman says. “It’s the city of big things, you know. Everything important happens here. Everything good.”

“People really think that, don’t they?”

You’re speaking to yourself, the woman already close to disappearing as she walks with the toddling line of passengers off the plane. You’re the last to de-board, giving the pilot and flight attendants a polite nod as you leave. The air inside of Reagan National Airport is stale. You almost hold your breath the entire time you wait for your bag, taking in a deep gulp when you step outside of its main glass doorway.

Hailing a cab is easy. The ride is a smooth twenty minutes before the stout driver drops you off in front of your hotel. Check-in, the trip up, and swiping your magnetic key card through the door’s lock all blur together. Your surroundings pull into focus when you realize that you’re on your knees. The upper half of your body is hunched over the porcelain toilet in the bathroom as you wretch into the bowl. All that comes up is bile, green and oil slick.

When the vomiting finally stops, you wipe at your mouth and turn on the shower. You avoid the mirror as you strip, stepping under the steady spray. The water is ice cold, beating against your skin like hail. Pulling the shower curtain closed, you sit facing away from the stream. It soaks down your back, running in a dozen bitter rivulets. The cold seeps into your skin, freezing bone-deep.

You lodge your head between your legs to keep the nausea at bay. Your mind stays quiet as the water trickles into your ears and down your face. It feels like hours before you will yourself out, gripping the sides of the tub to stand. You leave the fresh towels where they are in a wicker basket, wet feet padding across tile and hardwood to the queen bed in the middle of the room. Wrapped in crispy white sheets, wet and naked, you squeeze your eyes shut and pray for sleep.

Everything glitters in your dreams. Marcus’ eyes especially, twinkling as they look anywhere but at your face. He sits across from you at this overbearing table—on the side of the good guys. Here, you are logically the bad one. The lawyer your father paid for brushes up against your shoulder as he pulls a stack of paper the rest of the way across the darkened wood. He flips through every stapled page and nods silently. Then he slides it over to you.

You remember this. Even if you can’t decipher the lawyer’s garbled speech, you know that he’s directing you on where to sign.

 It’s a good deal, he’ll tell you later. You’ll be standing in the hall of the courthouse, feeling small and stupid in this cheap suit as you wipe tears from your eyes. Seven years behind bars down to two years of federal probation. The ankle monitor will take some getting used to, but, y’know—

Consciousness comes in a slow roll, eyes opening to stare at the curtains you left open. The puff of a sigh passes your lips as you watch the stars outside the window, the sky still dark. If you look long enough, those glowing dots start to morph into Marcus’ deep brown eyes gazing back at you.

The image unsettles you enough to get out of bed. You pull the curtains closed and dress yourself, transforming into another person over the span of twenty minutes. Your own face slowly disappears under layers of makeup, your clothes a business professional clown costume. You know that you’re ready when you can’t see yourself in the mirror anymore.

The cab is called from a payphone across the street. You give the company your name, Jane Doe, paying in cash when the wheels stop in the middle of Penn Quarter. You walk the four blocks to the Justice Building without feeling any part of your body, sweating in the Washington cold.

The building itself is hard on the eyes, the visitor entrance not far from you now. The line to get in is short. You’re waiting less than ten minutes to get through the security screening. An officer rummages around in your purse for a moment. The badge—your badge, or Marcus’?—burns in your pocket. When he hands you your things again, he smiles. You smile back.

A tour group is forming in settled clumps just beyond the entrance. A woman in a button-down blouse and thick heels gathers the tourists, leading them down a cascading hall. You lump yourself in with the group, folding your coat over your arms as you pretend to listen to her history lesson. Really, you’re eyeing the halls, looking for an elevator.

It doesn’t take long to find one, the group rounding a corner into another hallway. The buttons are calling you as the tour turns down a thin corridor. Taking the opening, you part from the crowd, shoving the cylinder of fabric wrapped around you into the nearest trash can. The coat will be missed, but not dearly.

The elevator arrives in a matter of seconds, sleek metal doors sliding open. You press at the button violently to close them again after picking the third floor. A sigh leaves your nose when they pull shut. You’re acutely aware of the blinking bulb of a camera to your left, watching your every move as the car ascends. Right now, you are fine. You look like any other employee.

Inside the heat of the building, you can feel your limbs again. You swallow back the spit that’s gathering in your mouth. It isn’t anxious hyper-salivation, but accumulating drool. Your heart hammers in your chest, not from fear but from thrill. Some people like to fuck in public, picking up a rush from the real potential of getting caught. You like this, but not for the anticipation of failure in your mission—in the prediction of your success.

There is something wrong with you. Inside of you, maybe. Biological. A dark and inky well, a pocket of spoiled flesh. Marcus has reached in and pressed at it, prodded around with sharp fingers until he could coax the oozing stream of rot out of you. You hate to admit that it felt good—feels good now, as the runoff drives you to the very brink of smart and sane decisions.

You call it professional curiosity. Others might label it being a nosy bitch, too cerebral for your own good. Your eyes are always bigger than your stomach, though. The last time you chased a story, you almost choked. You get a little obsessed sometimes, what can you say? Everyone has their vices. Information is yours.

They have a name for it somewhere. L’appel du vide, you think. The call of the void. It turns people reckless, irrational. But this isn’t really your fault. You didn’t ask to be here. No, you were sent. An agent of someone else’s bidding, a man only a few floors from the one you step onto now.

Marcus knows exactly what he’s doing. It turns you on; it makes you want to kill him. If he is the good guy, and you are decidedly not, then what happens when you start working together? Does that make him bad or you good?

White hats stay on the good guys, but right now you can’t help but feel like Marcus has taken his off. And the million dollar question: why? You hope it’s for a good reason. If not, you really might kill him.

You remember this door, déja vu jolting you back in time. Bringing the badge out of your pocket, you hover your hand above the scanner. If this fails, security will be immediately alerted to a false attempt at access, and it’ll be over. Holding your breath, you tap the card against the bulky scanner. If it doesn’t…

The machine seems to wait, teasing you, before a small light in the corner blinks green. The lock on the handle dislodges for you, a soft click in your ears. You press down on the handle, push forward…and you’re in.

You don’t know how much time you have before someone else enters the file room, getting right to work. Starting at the bottom of the many shelves, you carefully rummage through box after box as you read over their labels. You go through shelves one box at a time, moving from sitting to standing every few minutes. Each file is left exactly how you found it. The last thing you need is anyone asking questions after you leave.

You go through fourty-five boxes in fifteen minutes, exhausting yourself in the process. Scooting into a corner between the wall and the end of a shelf, your head thunks against flaking paint behind you. This room must hold hundreds of boxes. There’s no way you’ll be able to find what you’re looking for in time.

Phone in front of you, you look down at the black screen. Dim LEDs reflect off the screen from the ceiling. That’s when you see it. The box next to your shoulder, the handwritten case file numbers on the front: 18USC209-14489.

You twist around quickly, practically tearing your body in half. Pulling the box off the second-lowest shelf, you keep it in your lap and shovel through the contents. There must be a dozen file folders here, all thick with paper. You start with the lightest one, flipping it open.

It’s mostly photos. Glossy, high quality surveillance images. Various men are featured in each of them, the same group of four rotating every other picture. They all look a little rough and tumble—you know the type. The images show them doing mundane things; walking a dog, sitting in a car, exiting a building at night. You’re still missing something.

Next, you opt for the chunkiest of the manila folders in the box. Everything inside is paperwork. Some of it is formally typed up, but a lot of these are handwritten notes. You start reading, and once you do, you can’t stop. Your eyes roll across the sentences over and over again, skipping over bits redacted in dark ink. You want to make sure you’re getting this exactly right.

Washington, D.C.…proposed extradition to Colombia for the violation of…several criminal charges. War crimes, including…illegal search and seizure of….American dollars…drug cartel.

You have to stop reading, scrubbing a hand over your face. You don’t know exactly how much money that is, the number blacked out, but it certainly isn’t insignificant. Somewhere in the hundreds of millions.

You go back to the photos of the four scruffy men. The U.S. government thinks these men have done it? Seriously. They looked like dads, like men who spend too much time in their garage. The carpenter across the street.

This must be it. Marcus’ big scoop.

You keep reading, flipping through other files. Everything starts to piece together on the floor before you. Four files have names on them— Benjamin Miller, William Miller, Santiago Garcia, and Francisco Morales. You assume the first two to be brothers, their blonde hair and pale skin matching in surveillance photos. 

The other two are a guess. You assume the shorter man with the dark grey-black curls to be Santiago, leaving the last man to be Francisco. He’s clean-shaven in this photo, shirt criminally unbuttoned as he leaves a grocery store.

When you get to the file detailing their (heavily classified) military careers, the suspicion makes more sense. The things these men are capable of scares you to even think about. Still, it doesn’t quite add up for you. The States cooperating with Colombia in and of itself is enough to call the investigation into question. There are very few historical instances of that even happening, and when it has, they have been more than a little self serving. The very last thing that you’re about to do is trust your government.

Getting your phone out, you take as many photos of everything as you can. With the four personal files, you’re going to need your own hard copies. You stand from the floor with them, approaching the copier at the other end of the room. With one quick pass, the machine rejects your badge. No one has been alerted to your intrusion, it just won’t let you into the copier’s system. The I.D. was amateur, made for one thing and one thing only: getting in and out of the building.

An idea comes to you. Terrible, reckless, and stupid, but haven’t we crossed that threshold already? You fumble for your phone again, weighing out two options. You have GPS disabled, roaming on airplane mode to avoid satellite tracking or being pinged by any nearby cell towers. If you try to text Marcus, it will only go through once you reconnect to cell service and it will place you here inside the Justice Building.

The evidence of the text, the location data, using his credentials to log into the photocopier…no. Too risky. Any connection to Marcus here would be bad, leaving a clear digital trail.

That leaves plan B, then.

You reorganize the files into their storage box, already regretting leaving them here. Unsure if your badge will get you back into the file room, you lodge the thin piece of plastic between the door and the latch. When you are sure that it’s jammed open, you head towards the elevator. You hold the files close to your chest as you wait for the car. When the ding hits your ears, you get in, choosing a random button. The elevator takes you up, stopping at the thirteenth floor.

Every hallway is a Greek revival monstrosity, the art deco influences hamfisted into the design everywhere you look. You wonder how Marcus gets on working here, how he likes it this way. You picture the many men that have walked along these halls, all of them the type to pride others on their sense of fairness as they jerk it to the thought of naked Lady Justice behind closed doors.

The kind of men whose life aspirations mirror those of John Ashcroft and hold appreciation for the Patriot Act. Dwelling on it for too long, you lose the sense of where those men end and Marcus begins. But you know him. He’s different.

Breezing past a set of sturdy wooden doors, you come upon an office floor. Cubicles are arranged in a strange game of Tetris, men in suits milling about. You walk straight down the aisle to a photocopier that’s practically calling to you across the room. Keeping your head down, you sandwich the papers into the scanner. You press some buttons, knowing they won’t do anything without badge access. When the thing beeps at you angrily, you make a point to sigh loudly. When it warns you again, you groan. 

Someone taps at your shoulder. You do your best to swallow a sly grin, turning to meet the eyes of a man you don’t know.

“Sounds like the copier is giving you some trouble,” he says.

You shake your head. “Honestly, I think it’s my card. This is the third machine I’ve tried today.”

“Well, here,” the man says. He slides his own badge from his jacket pocket and swipes it over the photocopier’s reader. The machine beeps again, this time in the affirmative. “That should have you all set.”

You’re about to mumble a thank you, batting your eyes at the federal agent, when another man catches his attention.

Behind Special Agent Chivalry stands another man—tall, tan, and all too familiar. Marcus. Over the unknown agent’s shoulder, the two of you make eye contact. He keeps his lips pursed, barely acknowledging your presence.

“Schrader,” Marcus says. “Hate to break it up, but the AUSA’s waiting.”

“Right,” the man who helped you nods, turning to look at you again. “Good luck with your files.”

He’s walking away without a second thought as Marcus behind to share another glance. You can tell by look alone that he is decidedly unhappy about this. You’ll be getting a phone call later, or maybe another message from that cryptic email dressing you down for playing fast and loose with risk. You hope he doesn’t say anything about it at all. Can he? What’s Marcus to do? Bitch you out via carrier pigeon?

None of that matters right now. You begin the process of scanning and copying every single page of the four personal files, starting with the Millers and ending with Garcia. It’s quick work, anxiety ratcheting up the speed of your hands as you open the lid of the copier, flip to a new page, and pull the lid down again. Doing this all out in the open is bold—again, terrible, reckless, and stupid—but that’s what makes it work. No one questions the receptionist at the photocopier. She’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

Back downstairs, you recoup in the file room. The door shuts behind you with a solid click, the plastic card no longer keeping it open. You stick the four folders back into their box, leaving things exactly as you found them. As for your personal copies, you fold them in half and stuff them into your purse. Making sure everything is in order, you quietly slip out of the file room and take the stairs down. Leaving takes less than five minutes.

Cool air fills your lungs outside, the usual trappings of an east coast autumn. It takes a moment, walking two blocks, for everything to really sink in. You really just did that. Had your cake and ate it too. Committed a federal crime and got out without anyone blinking an eye.

The success affirms you. This is the right thing to be doing, it has to be. Marcus wouldn’t lead you astray. You wouldn’t let yourself fall down the wrong path. Not again.

The city of São Paulo thrums with energy. You can feel it, a pulsing from the ground that shoots up through your legs. The air is hot and damp, the slow curl of spring transforming into summer raising the humidity. The sky is dark but not quite black, light from the many high rises illuminating overhanging clouds.

You pass by nightclub after nightclub with young and beautiful people waiting in line like cattle to get past the door. It’s been a while since your life was like theirs; not as much of an adventure, surely, but carefree.

There’s been a notable absence of laissez-faire for the past four months. The promotion from digital producer to staff writer has you working during the day and chasing this case in your free time. All of that is set to end. No more hunting down leads, trying to find these men who’ve turned up as ghosts instead of people.

Will Miller was impossible to find, and you only got one thirty second phone call—three months ago—with his blonder brother Benny before the line went dead. Francisco Morales hasn’t seemed to exist since November 2019. All that leaves you with is tonight: a contact in Brazil who promises a lead to Santiago Garcia.

The café you enter has more patrons than you’d expect at this time of night. The coffee culture is different here; the people of Brazil enjoy a good steaming cup of caffeine even well into the evening. You take a seat at the table you’ve been instructed to—a round surface with uneven legs and a thin metal stand holding a card to indicate that this is table five. You use your phone to check the time, catching a glimpse of another piece of cold and shiny metal in the process.

There is a gun in your purse that wasn’t there three months ago. It replaced the badge to the Justice Building in the process of looking for these Delta Force soldiers that the world wants to pretend don’t exist. Marcus hasn’t called, and you know that if he can’t protect himself then he certainly can’t protect you. Lord knows if he even wants to anymore.

You pissed him off that day in D.C.. Marcus has a bad side, everyone does, but you never imagined getting on his would be so icy. You are out in the cold, that’s for certain. The gun—one here and one in a safe inside your New York apartment—is the flame that’s kept you from freezing. So far, you haven’t had to use either. Let’s hope things stay that way.

The heat is getting to you. Sweat crawls down your spine, surely leaving a dark stain across the middle of your shirt. It doesn’t matter. The lead is so close you can almost taste it. A few more minutes…

Caught up in your thoughts, it takes a moment for the echoing silence of the café to register. It takes another moment for you to notice the wall of a man that sits down across from you. He’s tall, forehead beading with sweat as his hairline fights against gravity. Opening a dictionary, an image of him is what you’d find to illustrate the definition of gruff. Well-worn. He is exactly the man to do shady back alley deals with nothing-something American journalists. He’s exactly the man you need.

“Olá,” you say.

The man nods at you, then smiles a toothy grin. He says, “Você é mais bonita do que eu imaginava.”

You take a second to translate in your head. You’re prettier than I imagined.

“Obrigado,” you nod, returning the niceties. “Disseste que tinhas informações.”

“Certo,” the man says. The absence of noise leaves your skin cold, goosebumps prickling along your arms. “You are looking for a man named Santiago Garcia.”

“Yes. You said that—”

The heavy clink of a gun against the table halts your words. Everything changes in an instant when he picks it up and points it at your neck from across the table. He is simply itching to pull the trigger. Someone must’ve told him not to.

“You should stop looking for a man named Santiago Garcia,” he says.

“Sir, I—”

“Stop looking for Santiago Garcia. There is nothing for you here, pretty girl. Go home.”

The mystery man holds your gaze for a second longer before he stands from his seat pulling the gun away from you. You watch with wide eyes as he leaves, disappearing into the night.

He didn’t shoot you. The clip could have been empty. You can’t convince your legs to move, to follow him and make him answer your questions with the use of your own very loaded gun. Heart pounding away behind your ribs, you’re frozen in place.

You don’t trust the cab that takes you back to the sweat stain that is your motel, but you don’t really have another option. Your phone, too, is compromised—you’d made the rookie mistake of making contact with your cell. The room door stays bolted once you get inside. Then you take the remote of the complimentary TV to your screen, smashing it to pieces.

Dragging your luggage out from the closet, you toss everything you’ve brought inside. Shattered bits of glass litter the linoleum flooring. You were set to leave tomorrow morning anyway. The departure couldn’t come any sooner.

Tears flood your eyes, fear and pure embarrassment ripping through your chest. How could you be so stupid? So unthinking and hopeful, it disgusts you. You’ve wasted three months of your life on this.

All of that time and work for what? A man from a million lifetimes ago, who one day calls you friend and the next refuses to pick up the phone? Marcus used you and you let him. Leaped at the opportunity. Enjoyed it, even.

When the sun comes up, you vacate the dingy motel room, tossing your old phone battery in the pool on your way out. You don’t cry on the way to the airport, or on the plane back to America. It takes all of your will not to stain the fabric seats of the Queens cabbie that drives you home. You stay bottled and composed.

Inside your place, everything is just as you left it. The wine glass is still in the sink, the dishwasher stashed with clean plates. And yet the world feels different somehow. You feel different.

Dropping your bags at the door, you stalk through the apartment to your room. Under your bed sit boxes of files, all copies of what you took from the Justice Department. You yank them from their place beneath your bed frame, almost spilling paper across the floor.

You haul them to your living room window, stepping onto the rusting fire escape. The first box turns over in your hands. Hundreds of pieces of paper fall into the Dumpster below or get caught in the wind, floating away. You repeat the process with the second box, leaving a mess on the pavement.

In the kitchen, you sit down at the tall glass expanse of your counter. Your mom made you buy a cordless phone for the place when you first moved in, assuring you that it’d come in handy. Right now, you can’t help but agree.

You dial Marcus’ number, knowing it like the back of your hand after months of staring at it with no answer. This time is no different. The phone rings and rings. Marcus doesn’t pick up. You stopped leaving messages a while ago, but this time you wait for the dial tone to end.

“I don’t know who you think you are, or what leverage you may have had… But I’m done. Done, Marcus. You drop this bomb in my lap and walk away when I handle it in a manner you disapprove of? You leave me to follow a trail that’s cold, and set me up to become another corpse in a Brazilian morgue somewhere! I won’t do it anymore. You can take your story and your justice and shove it up your ass.”

You breathe heavy into the phone, collecting yourself. “This is the last phone call from me you’ll ever have to ignore. What a relief that must be,” you say. “Don’t ever contact me again, Marcus.”

It’s icy for late February. D.C. is only the slightest bit warmer than New York at this time of year, the snow melting into grey sludge quicker than the Big Apple. Yet somehow, the White House briefing room is about a million degrees. Fanning yourself with the silk of your blouse, you wait amongst the gaggle of other reporters and journalists for the president’s press secretary. You don’t have a speaking seat yet, but you’ve only been on this assignment for a couple weeks.

You remember watching President Bush unveil the renovated room in the mid-aughts on television, picturing it as a grand theatre. But no, it’s a crammed little room without enough chairs for the number of people they delegate to it, so here you are standing in the back rubbing shoulders with a writer from the Washington Examiner. Still, it’s the White House. How many people do you know who’ve been inside the White House?

You’re watching the press secretary, lithe and airy at the podium in her off-the-rack from Saks Fifth Avenue. She’s getting questions about the president’s new education bill—a topic that your readers couldn’t care less about. Foreign policy, tax legislation, land use laws—you wait for her to get to the good parts. Rich people want to know if the country is going to war so they know where to hedge their bets. They don’t want to hear about inner city kids getting a boost in the classroom.

An hour and twenty minutes pass before you’re released, hearing from the FEMA administrator and the secretary of education. Before you can leave, you hear someone call your name. A woman stands at the edge of the room, almost like she's trying to bleed into the fabric of the curtains and disappear. She's small in stature, the stiff blue fabric of her dress settling awkwardly over her shoulders.

"Do I know you?"

She clears her throat, standing a little taller. You're now noticing the large envelope under her arm.

"I'm an intern for Marcus Pike. He told me to give this to you."

She hands you the envelope, heavy in your hands. Before you can thank her, she disappears into the escaping flood of journalists. You look at it, swiping the pad of your thumb over the sharp corner. Discreetly, you slide it into your purse and follow your colleagues out of the press room.

You know that whatever Marcus has delivered to you via mousy blonde messenger is something you definitely shouldn't have. Your heart speeds up inside your chest, heels clicking against the floor a little too hard, a little too loud. The sky over D.C. is grey as always, but a welcome change of scenery from inside.

This rental car is your office, your living room, and your safe place all at once. Getting into the passenger seat, you lock the doors and put your purse on the center console. You stare at the leather, waiting to see if it explodes or if a SWAT team converges on the vehicle. When nothing happens, you pull the envelope from your bag, undoing the metal clasp at the top.

Inside is paper. A lot of it. A thick stack of fresh white pages stamped with bold, black printer ink. You scan over the first page, trying to figure out what it is you're looking at. At the bottom is a small pink sticky note, Marcus' loopy scrawl written in blue pen: Don't say I never do anything for you.

You bite back a sour laugh, peeling the note up and stuffing it into your pocket. Then your eyes are back to reading the words on the page, piecing together dates and times, people and places. A flight log.

Dozens of them, going back almost five years. A name you've become quite familiar with in the last few months adorns every one. Francisco Morales. Yahtzee.

At the back of the pile are pages and pages of minutes. A series of disciplinary hearings that resulted in a pilot’s license suspension for Morales. From the look of things, it was reinstated shortly after only to be revoked again two years later for the same reason: drug possession.

Francisco was given a mandatory stint in rehab. The facility is redacted from the paperwork, but it doesn’t take you too long to track it down. Some place called New Beginnings Medical Hospice in Austin. Of course, the lady on the phone won’t give you answers.

“I’m sorry ma’am,” she says, no trace of a southern accent in her voice. Must be a Texas transplant. “We cannot give out information on any patients, past or present. We have a confidentiality clause.”

“I hear what you’re saying but—” Oh fuck it. “As I said, I’m calling on behalf of Mr. Morales’ insurance company. We’re having trouble tracking him down for billing of his fees, and this was his last known address.��

You know never said who you were, and certainly not that you were with his insurance company at the beginning of this phone call. You also know the woman on the other end of the line will zero in on the fact that this man apparently owes them money and completely ignore the discrepancy. It’s not your first choice in journalistic strategy, but beggars can’t be choosers here. 

She coughs up the address easily. Somewhere in Lubbock, Texas the answers to all of your questions is sat on his ass in a trailer park. Francisco has been there the whole time. Only four hundred miles from your parents’ place, right under your nose. If you didn’t start laughing as soon as you got off the phone, you’d cry.

You’ve got all you need: the man and the myth. One flight to Preston Smith International, and you might be able to figure out the legend.

The city of Lubbock is small, but not too small. Insignificant enough that someone looking for something, someone like you, would glance over it unblinkingly. You figure that’s why Morales chose it. Property records show that his new lease to the park lot started about eight months ago; two months before Marcus put you on his trail.

Maybe he’s hiding. Maybe—and you try to expel these thoughts as quickly as they materialize—he really did it. Maybe they all did. But Marcus doesn’t think so, and you would like to have more hope in these men than that. Guilty people run, but so do the scared. Those who don’t have much left to lose; who want to hold onto what they have left. It’s not like the government is all right and fair here.

Honestly, you aren’t too sure what to think. You know that you have to know. Whatever happened, whatever story is here, you need to find it. So you found Francisco.

The trailer park is located right at the outskirts of town. You can drive through the populous area end to end in under twenty minutes, but the ride out to the Morales place is a good fourty-five. The warm weather has you sweating, forehead damp as the truck’s windshield does little to hide you from the sun. Adjusting to the temperatures here compared to chilly D.C. gave you a bit of weather whiplash. That’s Texas for you.

There’s not much to look at out here. Grass, a few sparse trees. The past three billboards have advertised some beer brand you’re sure tastes like wheat piss. Your eyes almost glaze over at the scenery. The next billboard coming up finally catches your attention.

LOOKING FOR A SIGN? This is it!

It straightens your spine a little, unglued your shoulders from the driver’s seat as you pay attention to the road. Oddly placed, here in the middle of nowhere. It is, in fact, a sign. Could be something else for you, too.

Rolling into Muddy Creek Mobile Residence, half of the trailers look abandoned. Beer cans and newspaper pile up at the steps, garbage bags left out for the elements and wildlife. Francisco Morales’ registered lot sits at the back of the park. Things look fairly tidy from the outside, meaning someone still lives here. With any luck, it might still be him.

You take a moment to walk around and circle the trailer. Every window has the curtains drawn. Not a single way to see in. A part of you wants to get back in the truck and wait him out. Drive back to the airport entirely.

There’s no way to calm your nerves. After months of buildup and being left on the hook, it’s now or never.

Climbing the few steps up, you sigh to yourself. “Maybe he’ll just…”

You deliver three sharp knocks to the door, then take a step back. The seconds stretch on painfully, wind blowing up dust behind you until finally—

The door jerks open with a creak of its hinges. You recognize the man behind it immediately from the surveillance photos you are holding.

“Hi there,” you say.

“You sellin’ something?” he asks.

“No. Actually Mr. Morales, I was hoping—

“I’m not interested,” he grumbles, moving to shut the door in your face. You jam your foot between it and the doorway before he can.

“Mr. Morales, I’d just like a moment of your time,” you say, the words rushing out of your mouth.

He presses against the other side of the door harder, slowly crushing your toes. “Not interested. Now get your foot out of my goddamn door—”

“Why would the U.S. government have a reason to draw up a warrant for your extradition?” you ask.

You know it’s the only thing that will catch his attention. You’d been hoping to lead into it, lull the man into a sense of personable security before you sprung the trap on him. He stares at you now, the door ajar, his mouth slightly agape. Maybe that’s why they call him Catfish.

“Excuse you?”

“I’m here because the government is currently in communications with the Republic of Colombia about your extradition to South America. Along with,” you pull out your pocket notepad, reading off what you’ve scribbled there, “Santiago Garcia, and William and Benjamin Miller.”

“This isn’t funny.” His voice is low, timbre rough as gravel. “How could you know that?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say. “The fact is that I do. And whatever you did in Colombia? The government knows too.”

“Why are you here?”

You open the file folder under your arm, pulling out the blurred picture. “This is you, right?” Francisco doesn’t have to nod for you both to know it is. “I’d like to help you, if I can.”

[formulatrash]

That anon acting like being a journalist in motorsport is like being an executive in a capitalist establishment. 🤡 It’s like accusing a McDonalds crew member of being pro capitalism because they work in McDonalds. Like??? As if being treated poorly and paid dirt despite working your ass off everyday is not reason enough to he a socialist. I am a socialist precisely because of my experience as a worker in these filthy corporations! Clown anon!

you're absolutely right but a very large number of people in motorsport and the media are obviously very right wing. even when it's wildly against their own interests or totally in opposition to the concept of journalism or whatever.

especially in worlds like motorsport or the car industry. a lot of people don't like actually covering things, they enjoy being there. whether that's at the Frankfurt motor show or the Miami Grand Prix. and if your goal is just being there then you're willing to work for places where you do actively bad stuff because what you make was never the goal.

that's not how it's ever worked for me and this isn't meant to sound morally superior or whatever because honestly, get what you want i guess. but for me being in paddocks or factories or literally driving cars is so that I can write better pieces and find out more. the pass is to make the media, not the pieces a bartering chip for the pass.

in retrospect, some of that is why it was often pretty lonely. because I wasn't playing the same game as quite a lot of people. and it also makes the industry all the more exploitative because people want that lanyard so much they'll do anything for it.

I was thinking the other day that there's been almost no coverage of the investigation into F1 lobbying the EU and British government on behalf of Aramco, via synthetic fuel. It's a really damning link and I'm not just saying this because I'm quoted in the article but I would absolutely be writing about it if I still had somewhere to do it. it's a really shocking scandal, that F1 is helping hold up combustion car bans by contributing (unproven) information about synthetic fuels.

it's not the kind of thing F1 like people reporting. so suddenly all the men who self-style as hard-nosed business journalists in the paddock are being awfully quiet. because it is more important to still be there.

obviously, I am not still there. I did indeed criticise FE one too many times for their liking and fell out of favour. I am not a model for holding onto your pass. but there is also no point pretending that I could have acted differently just to keep it. anyway, this all turned into a bit of a ramble but turns out there's bad people kind of everywhere and often they're holding the controls.

I think that's part of what's upset me about the Watcher thing. these are guys who deliberately set out to make their own media company so they had that control to make things they were proud of, with the production values they wanted, under their own ownership, without having to fire people all the time. and you're asking them to be more like Buzzfeed? that was the bad old days, friends.

[hatchetno1]

sage forest mental institution.

chapter 1. pilot Dingy job at a dingy asylum in a dingy town. Everything goes wrong. CW: unfortunately slightly comedic because I can't help myself but it won't always be this way, hopefully 2.8k words

Note: You are referred to as Reader. Y/N is a bit too much of a hassle to type.

You sigh as you're tossed into the back of a car, with the man named Jeff grumbling about how he can't kill you, with Masky admonishing him, Toby ticking away, Hoodie pinning you down, and EJ hanging his head.

You wonder how you got here, and that questioning is so intense you feel your system being choked up with tears, eyes stinging and throat hurting.

So here's how you got here:

You couldn't believe you got the job.

Staring down the asylum on the hill, you thought it was pretty much the typical cliche asylum on a hill. Like, literally, with dark clouds surrounding the cliff it stood on, the sky thundering. Except this time, the sky was a clear blue, contrasting the dark colors of the brutalist-style architecture asylum. You wondered if the walls were a faded greyish-black because it was supposed to be black but the paint faded over time, or if it was originally another color and no one had maintained it for ages. Either way would honestly work, seeing as this asylum was on the outskirts of town, a town that rarely anyone passed, which was ironic, because it was just an hour and a half away from the city. Behind that town was a big patch of forest. Everyone you knew in this town—and you knew everyone—knew not to go into those woods.

And it wasn't as if you were the social type, no. You were pretty friendly, but you didn't consider yourself as someone who would go out of their way to meet others. No, in fact, it was because this town was so small, even the goddamn sheriff was related to you in some way. Your paternal cousin's uncle on his maternal side, yeah yeah, long story that you didn't want to recall. You'd moved into this small decrepit town not because you wanted a romantic getaway from the city or whatever (this place was hardly romantic), but because your place burned down.

Good, you had thought, good riddance of that fucking hellhole where my lifegivers stayed, acting like I was some tenant. Actually, I don't even think a tenant should be treated that way, abused verbally and emotionally.

Barely 3 months had passed after their deaths before that godforsaken house burned down in the suburbs where no one would hear your cries. You recalled having the happiest day of your life when you called 911, and the second happiest day when the half-assed murder investigations finished.

And a week after that day, your house burned down. Crashed and reduced to nothing but ashes. Pretty comical, you'd thought, but then you were out of a place to live.

Sighing, you'd packed whatever stuff you had left after the fire—the clothes on your back, your phone and your precious journal—and hauled ass to the town  on the other side of the city, where your cousin's dog's foster parent's friend or whatever lived.

Really good reason why no one came here, you'd realized, when you reached the town and even the goddamn sign was either burned down or too covered in bird shit to even see the actual sign itself anymore. It's impossible for bird shit and burnt wood to be differentiated, you'd thought, until you met that sign, stared lovingly into its eyes, and immediately fucked off because it was so horridly gross.

You'd knocked on the sheriff's office door, which was in some old-time 1970s building, because you had no clue who to go to in this town. Turns out, the sheriff was more like some village elder than law reinforcement.

"No one tries anything in this town," he'd said with a cigarette in his mouth. "No one." You didn't know if it was because there wasn't enough people in this town for anyone to try anything, or if the sheriff was just incompetent.

No matter. He'd plopped you down on the patio of an abandoned house, whose condition could honestly be way worse. After an entire weekend of spring cleaning the house, you finally had a comfortable (enough) place to live in. It wasn't so bad, you thought.

"There's an asylum behind this town, on the cliff. Sage Forest Mental Institution, or just SF. You can't miss it, it's pretty much visible from everywhere," said the sheriff. Anderson, his nameplate said. "Don't try anything with it. God knows what those teenagers from the city have tried to do in there, but they never came out," he said with a scoff, propelling the smoke in his nose to jet out in a big puff.

You were insane enough to apply for a job at that asylum. Of course, you didn't tell the sheriff. You told no one. None of the, what, twenty people who lived in this town, who'd gathered to welcome the new neighbor. Honestly, it might as well have been called a village at this point. Your fellow town-dwellers were nice, but as you gazed them in their eyes, you noticed something off. Eye contact was noticeably weaker than it was where you previously lived, but you chalked it down to the small population size. Hell, there wasn't even a 7-11. Just a tiny grocery shop. You probably couldn't even get condoms there, which was ironic, because the birth rate would supposedly go up without protection, and thus, population size.

Just as you'd finished contemplating your life choices and the absence of condoms in a small town, you stepped past the threshold of the doorway separating the asylum from the outside world.

Dingy. Horribly dingy, poorly maintained, old building smell. Those words were what came to your mind the moment you were able to take in the inside of the building.

"You the new hire?" A voice so rudely interrupted your admiration for cobwebs on the ceiling. A woman, tanned skin and dark hair, looked at you with an almost impatient aura.

"Uh...yeah. Hi, I'm Reader," you introduced yourself politely with a light chuckle, hoping to lighten the atmosphere, get her to be nicer, anything that could help save your ass from a toxic work environment.

Instead, she rolled her eyes with an "ugh", and droned, "I'm Andrea. Follow me."

Okay, so much for a healthy work environment.

And so you followed her. If you were being honest, you had no idea what to expect. An asylum in a town this remote was one thing, but you didn't know whether to expect many patients, or very few. You also had zero gauge on the employee count, and if the building size was anything to go by, you would've guessed maybe fifty, sixty or so.

But nope, as you walked behind Andrea, you heard nothing but the echoing of your footsteps and your now co-worker muttering angrily about something like why'd they choose me to go all the way out here and useless fucks, the latter of which was very ambiguous as to whom she was referring to. The building had almost no lights, either, and you wondered if there was even water or electricity in this place. Everything was confusing you at this point. But oh well, you thought, you had a steady pay and that was enough.

Begrudgingly, she led you to an unlit back room directly behind what was probably supposed to be a main counter. "This isn't the main building of SF," she started, setting a box down, and as it made contact with the floor, you heard plastics rustling—these were probably meds for the patients. "The main branch is a whole 3 hours away, and for some godforsaken reason," she punctuated with a glare at you, "they sent a measly 5 patients over here and got me aaaall the way over here just to introduce some newbie to their duties," she grumbled. You had no idea whether this was directed to you, or if she was just talking to herself.

She sighed and stood up, facing you. "I won't be here for long. I'm just here to deliver instructions." She fumbled around in the box, causing more plastic to rustle. The noise was almost jarring and you swore you heard it echo off the walls of the empty store room. Again, you thought it was ironic. She pulled out a file from the box and hastily shoved it into your arms. This prompted you to open up the file, and though you couldn't read its contents too well in the darkness, you made something like a table of instructions, timings and diets out.

Just as you thought you'd finally gotten the gist of what you were reading, Andrea snatched it out of your hands and tossed it into the trash below the main counter.

What the fuck?

Your jaw left itself agape. You had no idea, at this point, what you were expecting, what you were currently expecting, and what to expect at all in the future. Why on God's green earth did your weirdly cranky co-worker toss the only instructions you had at all in this dingy place into the trash?

Upon taking in your shocked expression, she sighed and rolled her eyes. Yet another show of begrudgingness. "Look, I know you're new and all and you might have the gusto to work or some shit, but no one is here. No one. You aren't even required to report back to the main branch, I bet no one over there cares and not even the guy in charge of this entire village gives a measly fuck, and the 5 they dragged over here probably creeped out those at the main branch. Look, your job here is, as admin told me, to keep them alive." Upon noticing that your expression was still slack, she decided to oh-so-kindly dumb it down for you. "That is to say, if they die, it's no one's problem."

You wondered how it was possible for your jaw to go even more slack, but it did anyway. But before you could utter any words, oh you had *so many questions*, and so many profanities to cushion those words between, Andrea turned tail and nearly skipped away. You could've sworn she was a ghost, with how quickly she appeared and disappeared.

*What the absolute fuck is that work ethic?

It was actually, legitimately so bad that you drifted over to the main counter, sank into a chair behind it, and buried your face into your hands.

What the fuck just happened? What did she say to me? Why do I know the words she said but not what she said? What is that work ethic? What about the patients you're supposed to take care of and treat with kindness? Did HQ abandon me or something? What the absolute fresh fuck is that work ethic?

You swear you turned into a ghost or something too, because you felt your very soul leave your body.

It took you all of 45 minutes to gather your wits, and finally stand up, because holy shit, that work ethic was so bad it literally dealt a blow to your *own* mental health. But no matter, you told yourself. You're here to take care of patients, and damn right will you take care of those patients.

After picking the file up from the trash and dusting it off, you confidently strode down the hall.

It was at this moment that you realized that Andrea had work ethic so abhorrent that she never even showed you where the patients were. This cost you another 5 minutes, which you spent crouched down on the floor sobbing so hard you shed tears, and you had no idea if you were laughing in despair or if you were crying from a really bad joke.

After a hard slap or two to your face, you straightened up. How hard could it be to find 5 goddamn patients? If you're lucky, they'd even be right next to each other!

They were not.

Of course they weren't.

For after what felt like hours of wandering the interior of the building, you finally came across an area where light flooded onto the floor from the window of a cell. Gasping in relief, you damn near ran over to the cell, but then remembered you probably shouldn't make any sudden movements around the insane, and immediately slowed down, increasingly so as you neared the source of the light from the window to your right.

You came to a stop at the window and turned your head to the right.

Right in your face was a Cheshire grin. A blood-red grin, teeth so white it almost rivaled the sun, but oh, this person's eyes.

Unblinking, black irises so dark you could have mistaken them for the pupils themselves, sclera so bright in comparison and yet bloodshot, and eyelids rimmed in black, like a smokey eye makeup look, but dear god, this was DEFINITELY not makeup. His eyes scared the shit out of you, and you felt like you had to physically grab your soul from leaving your body.

Your vision blurred for a moment. The colors white, black and light blue.

"Whoa there, sweetheart. Can't have you fainting on us."

Those words in a raspy voice brought you back to earth.

The person, the person with not-smokey-eye-makeup and a Cheshire grin, was speaking to you. You blinked and your vision refocused. A dark eyebrow was raised at you, rippling near-white skin. You wondered if it was face paint, but then remembered that one could not procure face paint from asylum air in the middle of nowhere.

"Uhh," was your intelligent response. The man—it was clear, from the baritone of his voice—chuckled, eyes still unblinking, though narrowing a little as the chuckle reached his eyes. But he didn't stop chuckling, no, this man doubled over, laughter reaching a crescendo.

"HEY! HEY, YOU SEE THAT, BEN?!" He howled, gripping at his light blue hospital gown.

Who was this Ben?

"Oh, don't worry about it," he chuckled, wiping a tear from his still wide open eye. "I'm gonna kill you anyway."

Huh?

Before you could even dismiss his words as something a crazy person would say, the glass in front of you shattered, and out shot his hand, veiny and as pale as the rest of him. He nearly tore your clothes with the sheer force at which he pulled you forward, hands wrapping around your throat, constricting breath, blood flow, and your senses.

Nails. Your nails, they dug into something. Your hands hurt. Your eyes teared up, and your lungs screamed for air.

Something like a voice sounded behind you, though at this point, your hearing had left you, but you felt your center of gravity lower and something hit your ass hard, followed by your skull.

You regained your senses and gagged, hands around your own throat, eyes tearing up even more now, and your body couldn't decide if it wanted to choke, gasp for air, or throw up. You heaved and heaved, for ages and ages, till your mind grasped reality again.

Yelling. Yelling, from two different voices, from two different directions. The one behind you was named Jeff, apparently, and the newcomer—there was a newcomer?—was called Masky. Or Tim, but just as that name popped up, Jeff's quarrel was cut off, followed by choking sounds. Deja vu, you thought, as you turned around to see another patient in a hospital gown holding Jeff—the one with wide eyes and a scary grin— by the jaw. Or was it his throat?

"Shut the fuck up," Masky or Tim spat viciously. "And stop killing random people. The reason we're still here is because you keep fucking KILLING our keyholders, and then shifting to a new room every goddamn time! What the actual FUCK," he snarled, "is WRONG with you that you can't compre—"

A loud slap, and Masky-not-Tim fell to the ground.

No, it wasn't a slap. It was way too powerful to be one. Perhaps it should be called a blow instead. Whatever it was got him knocked out cold for a whole of 2 seconds—2 seconds that Jeff took to vault over where the glass was supposed to be, and grab ahold of you again, but not before Masky lunged and pulled him down by the neck, sending them both tumbling into the mess of glass shards, a tangle of limbs.

Honestly, you didn't know what to think. Your first instinct was to run, away from Jeff, but your second was to stay and help Masky, your benefactor. Your final, rational thought, was to break them apart, and so you did, but Jeff's flailing caught you in the face.

You blacked out.

chapter 2 is out.

[hannahwashington]

NEW DREAM JOURNAL POST ALERT!! Here it is:

I was Phoenix Wright. I was working on a case with Maya, but we had to do some investigating in the dead of night at some old dusty building. As we were walking around with our flashlights, we run into... Edgeworth! he was lacking his jacket and had his sleeves rolled up. From what I could see, he had really grown out sideburns and had hairy ass arms. Anyway, he was like "wtf are you doing here" and we were all "wtf are you doing here" and after a bit of back and forth we decide to continue our investigation together.

After a while, something goes bump in the night. In fright, Maya and I drop our flashlights, and Edgeworth urges us to start running. Maya's ahead of me when we go, and we follow the moonlight shining through a line of windows. I look back and see nothing but darkness behind me, but I didn't stop running. eventually we all run into a place that looks like a boiler room, and i close the door behind the three of us.

It's a quiet moment, and Maya asks, "What WAS that!?" and I answer with "I really don't think we want to find out." Also, it should be noted that I (Phoenix) talk with a Bostonian accent. This is a VERY important detail. Anyway, it's quiet for a moment, and I (because I am Phoenix) take a goooooood look at Edgeworth and his new look. His ears are pointier, his teeth seem sharper, and he's filling out his clothes a lot more than he usually does. Yes, it's EXACTLY what you're thinking.

Before I connect the pieces, though, something bangs heavily on the door. The three of us freeze, holding our breath. The hinges of the old door rattle with the force. However, a voice then comes from the other side: "Hello? Please, let me in! I need help!"

The three of us are still unsure, though. I look to Maya and Edgeworth. Miles is staring hard at the door, but Maya has moved herself behind me and is looking up at me. "Come on, Nick," she whispers, giving me a little shove. I roll my eyes but comply, quietly going up to the door and peeking through the peephole as if I wasn't experiencing a horror movie. Looking through it, I see... a girl.

The white/grey haired girl from the splash screen when you open the Ace Attorney Phoenix Wright trilogy, actually. Thing is, when I originally made this post I didn't actually know her name, but I was just told that her name is Franziska, so what I called her originally in this post (Grey) will now be changed accordingly. Franziska asks that we please open the door, and while I'm still not trusting of the whole situation, I see that it's a regular person and open the door. Maya and Edgeworth immediately give their complaints about this course of action, but before I can correct it Franziska shoves her way inside and closes the door behind her. She smooths out her clothes and brushes off dust from her collar, then looks to address us.

"There is sinister power at play, here," says Franziska. Before we can ask what she means, Edgeworth starts moaning and groaning from his spot. We look over and there, standing perfectly in the middle of a moonlight square, is Miles - holding his body and writhing. He falls to his hands and knees and his groans turn to pained cries as - you guessed it - he starts turning into a werewolf. I'm scared but I also can't help but find it kind of hot. Franziska is all like "There it is" and shoves me behind her as if to protect me (but I'm like, a good foot taller than her). Maya joins the congo line and stands behind me.

Soon, the transformation is complete, Edgewolf towering above us. He regards us, a snarl playing on his lips. Franziska is wearing one of her own. Then, Edgewolf says, "Come on, what are you all playing at? I'm dignified. I don't do mauling."

Jaws on the FLOOR. We're FLABBERGASTED. Edgewolf groans and motions for us to keep moving, and to stop gawking. After a moment we do, but we carry on in our Scooby Doo looking conga line. Maya whispers to me, asking me if I knew Miles was a werewolf. 'God I wish,' I think. "No," I actually say. Franziska commands us to hush up and keep moving.

And then... that's it. For that part, anyway. It jumps to a chapter select screen, and the dream has been split up into these parts: The Investigation, The Chase, The Confrontation, and The Transformation. Our of curiosity I choose The Chase, only to find myself back in the boiler room with Maya and Edgeworth. Remembering what happens, I pre-emptively open the door, only for Franziska's limp body to be tossed in my arms. I scream, but Edgeworth thinks quick and shuts the door, barricading it with his body. I hold the girl in my arms, staring at her face. She seems... Mostly fine, except for a long, jagged, crack-like cut coming from her hairline, down her forehead, and over her nose. I check her pulse - still beating. Hover my hand over her mouth - still breathing. Other than the cut, perfectly fine.

"Is she okay, Nick?" asks Maya. I nod, adjusting my grip so she's in a more comfortable position. Just then, Franziska's eyes flutter open, confusion swimming in them. "Where am I..?" she asks, trying to lift a hand to her face, but ultimately too weak to do so. Maya is there in a moment, piece of fabric in hand as she wipes up Franziska's face. "You're okay, it's safe," Maya tells her.

Just then, someone starts banging on the door. Edgeworth, gritting his teeth, tells us to run, that he'll hold it off. Maya's like "WHAT" but I understand. I tell her to trust him as I properly pick up Franziska and start running. Maya is right behind me as we make our sprint, and when we turn a corner we can hear yelling and the splintering of wood. Then... That's it, again.

A new chapter was added to the selection screen: The Aftermath. The cover image showed Franziska, but the cut she had had healed into a very prominent scar. I go into it, and now I'm controlling Franziska from a third-person perspective. She's in a dark and rainy courtyard, umbrella in hand. There's an open gate in front of her. Knowing this is probably where she should go, I begin guiding her towards it. When she enters, the gate closes behind her. Then I watch as she walks up a long, winding path up to a dark and gloomy castle, lightning illuminating it in frightening ways. I distinctly hear an organ playing as she makes her way up, and then, it all fades to black...

Then I wake up.

[moominofthevalley]

Sempervirens

If all else fails, write some letters.

emily rose

teen | wc: 1.1k | cw: mentions of grief

a/n: first drabble of 2024. sorry it took so long. hope you enjoy ♡ banner credits from airidescence

It’s been ten years and I still don’t know where to put all this grief.

Uncle Tommy suggested I see a shrink, so I told him to fuck off. I promised him I’d write these stupid letters instead. Journaling, mindfulness, yoga – all that does nothing for me. This shit better work. So…here’s a list of things in my life you never got to see.

I stopped doing soccer right after you passed. I’m sorry.

I know even when you were here I had horrible grades. But I made it. I graduated high school. I got into college, worked my ass off, and somehow became the youngest person in NYC to make the Homicide Division. I hope you’re proud of me.

…But it’s brutal. Captain Thompson is just cruel. Tommy met her at a few holiday parties and I don’t know. There’s no concrete evidence yet, but I know there’s something up with her. And the rest of the NYPD. I’ll move on to something better eventually.

By the way, Tommy misses you too. A few weeks ago, we looked through the attic and found a bunch of old photo albums and VHS tapes. We spent all day looking through them. There was a picture of us sitting on your ‘Smoke Couch.’ The black leather one in our old living room. It still reeks of cigars.

My head hurts writing this. Me and Tommy still have nothing for you. No evidence, no lead. Not any fingerprints. Even the files have nothing. I’m so sorry. There has to be something. You’ve been gone ten years and all that I have left of you are old photos and some beat-up jackets.

You need justice. I need answers.

We miss you so much. I’m going to stop writing before I throw up.

Always surviving, Emily Rose 09/10/18

* * * *

I had a fluffernutter sandwich this morning and thought of you.

Don’t know why I love it so much. I probably have a dozen cavities by now. I’m sorry it’s been a while since my last letter…a lot has passed. Anyway–some life updates as promised.

I quit the NYPD. Are you surprised? I found so much shit - probably enough to fire every cop in my precinct - but HR turned on me. So I left. I spent two weeks moping, just bartending at the Drunk Tank until Tommy made me chat with an old friend of his. Mafalda. I think you knew her too. It’s so much better at the agency. There’s this guy named Luke who does all the computer stuff for us. He’s pretty sick. He lost his mom around the same time I lost you. And there’s a forensic analyst who occasionally works with us, Ruby. I know you were never much of a gossip, but they just started dating. They’re cute together. You’d like them.

Also, I got rid of that stupid leather couch you loved. It was all ripped up and probably had mold in it. And it smelled like absolute shit. Smoke and Horse Creek. Yuck. Uncle Tommy and I spent a whole day looking for a new couch. I landed on this velvet green one with a fancy fringe at the bottom. I can already hear you calling me bougie right now.

They say this in movies, but I didn’t expect life to change so fast. I have a dog now. Twilight. I found her at some deli during an investigation. (Everything’s fine now, don’t worry). She’s adorable. I woke up this morning with her head in my arms, staring at me with her big brown mopey eyes. I love her so much.

You know, it’s annoying funny how people enter your life and stay there. I don’t think I’m complaining this time. His name is Trystan Thorne and you’d love him. Uncle Tommy does, but I think it’s because he buys him fancy donuts every morning. I wish you could meet him. I barged into his penthouse one day and now we’re partners. Isn’t that weird? He’s infuriating, but it’s nice to have him around. Don’t tell him I said that. I told him some stories about you today and it was so nice to talk about you. I know I introduced you to him the last time we saw you.

Finally, some good news. We might have something for you. Big V. I told Tommy and Mafalda about her and they both think there might be a chance she did it. I hate that it’s taken so long to come up with just one possible lead. But I’d do anything to know what happened to you. I hope you know that.

I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you more. I miss you so much. Here’s to fifteen years without you.

Always surviving, Emily Rose 10/08/23

* * * *

It’s only been a few months since my last letter and so much has happened. Trystan was put on trial for a murder he didn’t commit. We had to fly half the team to Drakovia as a hail mary. Ended up playing lawyer for a few minutes. It was weird.

I messed up so many times. Trystan and I fought over something we both knew the answer to. Sebastyan…Fuck. Vasili is dead. Every time I remember that look in his eye, I want to throw up. My head hurts. It’s 3 AM and I can’t sleep.

Trystan is sleeping right beside me. He’ll never admit it, but he drools in his sleep. I love him so much. He always listens to me talk about you. I want to bite him sometimes. I keep imagining all the dinners and talks we could’ve had, just the three of us. You could’ve told him all of your stupid jokes - like the one about eating a clock.

Tomorrow is my twenty-ninth birthday. Tommy told me he had something planned. I bet you ten bucks it’ll be a party at the Drunk Tank. I remember growing up, you guys would spend the entire night decorating the apartment with balloons. I hope Tommy isn’t doing that this year.

You’re here everywhere I go. I was doing laundry earlier and saw one of Tommy’s button-downs that used to be yours. It still smelled like you. I make coffee just like you did - black. I have your small, bulbous nose. I took a train to Montauk and thought of you.

I hate that your life was taken from me. But I will find you at the end of mine. I love you, Dad. Come visit me sometime? Please.

Always living, Emily Rose 3/31/24

* * * * I’ve missed writing. Fun fact, this was originally going to be called ‘someday, anything.’ Glad I didn’t go with that! I wrote this all in a day after I found the most devastating YouTube comment and just had to write something. Also, if you didn’t notice the start of the 2nd letter is a little reference to this fic. Anyway - there’s definitely more writing coming from me soon...Hope you enjoyed this angst xx

Click here for the masterlist of all my works so far! Tags: @choicesficwriterscreations @jerzwriter @logolepzy @stars-are-within-me@shadyinternetblizzard @urcowboyboyfriend @lexicook74-blog @leahtine @jahrobin @calisomnia @kyra75 @icarusfallsforever @inlocusmads @tessa-liam

@dutifullynuttywitch @juudaimes-true-form @plathski @cnvrsecupid @im-the-galactic-starfish (let me know if anyone else would like to be added to my perma tag!)

[duchessdepolignaca03]

several sentences Sunday - except its 500 filthy crack words

It wouldn't be a Several Sentences Sunday if I wasn't posting on technically Monday morning, and if it wasn't much longer than several sentences. Thank you for the tag @onthewaytosomewhere @sparklepocalypse @priincebutt @hgejfmw-hgejhsf and @taste-thewaste. I'm not going to tag anyone else because its MONDAY.

I seriously contemplated posting some bullets for my interview assignment just to troll/bore everyone. But after my work computer died, I decided to put my brain to better, less productive uses. And this is what happened to answer the question: What if Alex is a journalist who is tasked with confirming a scoop that Prince Henry is gay as a maypole?

It's 500 words. I don't know if there's more to this. Probably not. So I'm going to post it here and decide whether to post it on A03 later.

Warning: EXPLICIT and Spicy! This is the spiritual sequel to "Pull It, Sir, Prize" I suppose, with far less gloriously unhinged vocabulary.

This is the story of how Alex Claremont-Diaz found himself doing a Grand Plie at the end of a kitchen island in Kensington Palace, eating the deliciously majestic ass of His Royal Highness, Prince Henry of Wales. 

HRH is making the most obscene sounds as he fellates a cornetto, licking it from cone tip to the top of the rapidly disappearing mound of strawberry ice cream. Alex watches from his vantage view between the Prince’s legs, though his view is partially obscured by the enormity of the Prince’s cock. His Royal Cock (HRC, for short), by the way, is wet with precum and Alex’s saliva from when Alex was the one doing the fellating. The HRC, not the cornetto - the latter of which is objectively less delicious than the former.

Alex’s own WCC (Working Class Cock), is sadly helpless and lacking for friction besides the kiss of the cold marble. It twitches when HRH starts lewdly licking the cornetto drippings from his unexpectedly and hornifingly muscular forearm. Alex squeezes his glutes to steady himself, but they are burning with effort, especially as they are already slightly sore from the brutal spanking HRH had given him in the backseat of his opulent Rolls-Royce. 

Better speed this up, he thinks, before he comes untouched or his knees and glutes give out from the uncomfortable position. He presses down on HRH’s prostate with his finger as he licks broad stripes with the flat of his tongue along HRH’s perineum, giving him some dizzying internal and external stimulation.  He’d found the Royal P-Spot a while ago, but stimulated it sparingly out of a desire not to see the cornetto flung into his hair by the overly aroused Prince. 

It’s clear he’s made the right call when the cornetto does get flung across the room as HRH’s orgasm rips through him, HRH shouting obscenities that only makes Alex work harder, like the sadist he is. When he’s come down enough, HRH wipes the cum off his own belly with the flat of his palm, then shoves that hand through Alex’s curls, gripping tightly and pulling Alex up to face him. Rude. And filthy. Turns out Alex liked that.

“So, does this confirm you’re gay then?” Alex asks, grinning cockily. How HRH still manages to look imperious is beyond him, especially when he barely seems able to catch his breath. Alex takes a moment to wipe his face with a wet-wipe and rinse out his mouth with some whitewash. They learned from Round Two. Breath smelling minty fresh, he walks to the other end of the kitchen island to place an upside down kiss on HRH’s “dictionary definition of dick-sucking” lips. 

“I’m still not sure. I think I’ll need at least four more go-rounds to make sure before we put it on the record.”  “Four rounds? Let’s make it five. For the sake of journalistic integrity.” “Well, in that case, if it��s for the sake of journalistic integrity, we should make it at least ten sex sessions, and two romantic dates. We’re going to get you that Pulitzer Prize for Investigative Journalism, baby.” 

“Deal.”

[n0thingiscool]

Hot Takes From Troll Accounts - re: Breaking Bad and the MSM's General Influence on Populous Beliefs/Behaviors

Exhibit A) absurdly-“useful”

Except mainstream anything has an immediate influence on the masses hence why electing a pro Nazi rapist to office was fucking BAD for the population and the safety for women, POC, queer folk, and people with disabilities… ya goofy misdirecting troll account see you next tuesday. 😂

Exhibit B) wackweeder, grimeclown, and cactusseeds

No, to answer your question - grimeclown. But that’s kinda not really the focus.

*eyes rolling at cactusseeds* - tell me you work for media without telling me you work for media.

For wackweeder - you say “media illiterate” like that’s a bad thing. Lmfao. I prefer to put my limited time in reading published studies, reading historical books, interacting with people who value educational content (not you), taking STEM classes, and beating my ass up in fitness arenas than working on my “media literacy.” I have all my social media feeds to tell me shit I don’t care about in relation to mainstream television now, anyway. It’s not like I get to bury my head away from any of it as much as I would love to. But why the hell would I want to watch brain rot with what limited time I have on this planet. I rhetorically ask. Here’s the key response to your overall population influence illiteracy - media influences everything including drug usage. This is why most developed governments are so sensitive about tobacco and alcohol ads in the presence of children. It doesn’t generally matter how the shit is portrayed. If it did then Nancy Reagan’s “War on Drugs” TV specials would’ve had some positive effect on the masses. Hint… it didn’t.

https://academic.oup.com/alcalc/article/44/3/229/178279

Now - you can go ahead and make the argument that BB the show, itself, could’ve turned people away from using because there are zero studies to counter that argument but that’s disingenuous claim to make at best. Personally, I feel more comfortable looking at all the other numerous studies looking at drug and alcohol usage influenced through media, in general, and applying that data to the picture at hand because that is a rational thing to do.

For a lay example - why don’t news outlets publish suicide rates? Because it increases suicide. Just because it looks bad in the broad scheme doesn’t mean it has none or an anti-influence. That’s not how this works. I can think of other media influencing mob behavior: Flash mobs. The increase of street takeovers in a post Fast and Furious world. How little girls think they need to look like some twig on the runway. How little boys think they have to hide their emotions because the machismo men on their favorite shows do so. How Bhutan’s GNH (presumably - the documentation has all but vanished from online sources I had read from in the aughts - shoulda saved it back in the day…) fell after the introduction of Western Media. And so on…

People are easily influenced, man. They teach in journalism school (yes, I went) the average American reading and comprehension level is at the equivalent of the third grade. When you see mofos out there believing Q-Anon conspiracies without second guessing you know that fact isn’t far off. We’re not anywhere near as evolved a you want to believe.

Exhibit C) roadkillbuffet

I can’t tell if this is sarcasm or not but Breaking Bad was not the first gay kiss on television…

But also… if the comment isn’t sarcasm or a troll then - “but Breaking Bad was the first gay kiss on tv therefore if you’re calling a meth based television show out you are homophobic” - is a piss poor argument to make for the queer community. Of which I am in, btw.

If that were actually true and BB was the first show to validate queer relationships then how homophobic is Hollywood to take that first dive into validating queer lives in a show about meth? I’m going to guess this is a sarcasm response though. No one can be that off base… can they?

Exhibit D) "I can't read this" Cool. Go back to your basic memes.

[onboardsorasora]

This literally popped up in my head after I finished that 'in the tags' post lmao. So....here's what no one asked for: Big CityTM reporter Dan and Country Boy Max

Daniel is a up and coming reporter for the local paper in the city. He had a really great breakout peace that garnered him a lot of attention from his peers and the editor in chief for his paper. The problem was that Daniel’s editor hadn’t wanted to run his story and a story got scrubbed last minute.

To punish him for being good, Daniel gets assigned to interview this guy a few towns over who claimed to see an UFO. Daniel’s livid, he knows whats going on but he can’t say no. He’ll go to this stupid town, interview this guy and write a fucking thesis on the sighting. 

So he goes, jumps in his Raptor that was a bit of a splurge but it makes him happy. He pulls up to this smaller town by about lunch time, the address he’s given is this almost cabin like house on the edge of a cattle farm property.

He knocks on the door and this older man with a punchable face opens it, Daniel recognises the ‘the fuck do you want?’ face immediately. He gets it a lot as a journalist.

“Good afternoon, my name’s Daniel Ricciardo. I work with [insert big city newspaper here]. I’m here to ask about the sighting?”

Eventually he meets Max after Jos grumbles for a bit and complains about ‘fuckin aliens’. Daniel thinks Max is cute, in a very stocky country strong type of way. But he’s also about to interview him about seeing a UFO soooo …yeah.

Max has them walking around the edge of the farm and is talking to him about the sighting, that it was a weird light in the sky, no sound, no wind, some kinda pressure in the atmosphere that made the animals spooked.

Daniel picks up that Max doesn’t truly care about the whole UFO aspect of it all, he just cared about how it affected the animals. So Daniel tells him, like he gets it, its kinda weird but theres not really a story here.

“What? Because I didn’t get taken on their ship and fucked in the ass its not a story?” Max was deadpan and Daniel was shocked for 1.5 seconds before he bowls over laughing. He doesn’t see it, but Max is cheesing that he made him laugh. 

“I wasn’t the only one to see it, you can ask Alex.”

In journalism, 2 sources are more concrete than one, so against his better judgement, Daniel agrees to meet this Alex. Turns out there were several people who admitted to seeing the same thing Max did and Daniel’s still skeptical but he’s aware that something must have happened.

His investigative journalist brain has been pinged, he has an itch to get to the bottom of this. So he calls up his editor and says hes staying out there for a few more days. He books a room in the motel nearby.

He and Max end up spending a lot of time together because Max was his first point of contact and knew everyone in the town. He could wrangle people and animals. Daniel’s also realizing that the longer he spends around Max the more he’s captivated by him. He truly wasn’t the dumb farm boy Daniel had initially pegged him as.

At the same time, Daniel is knee deep in all sorts of secrets about this town. His UFO story gained like three extra branches because this town has apparently been a hot bed for weird activity. And he enlists Max to help him sort it all out.

They’re working late one night in Daniel’s hotel room looking over maps and they kiss for the first time. They have sex in Daniel’s room surrounded by books and maps of the town’s history.

Daniel eventually goes back to the big cityTM and writes a killer of a story that gets a place on the front page with spillover on page 4. He gets a lot of interview requests and his career takes off. He gets invited on an interview in another big city for a nationwide news agency and bumps into Max who looks good. Daniel can’t help but think how nicely he cleans up. 

They’re interviewed together and they kill it and people love their chemistry or whatever people look for in interviews. Daniel invites Max for dinner and they have sex in Max’s hotel room. And then they get together and live happily ever after.

[thegeminisage]

i guess it star trek update time. last night we watched ds9's "armageddon game" and tng's "sub rosa."

armageddon game (ds9):

this one was so fun and evil. i LOVE when obrien and julian are besties and yes they fought once but they were besties in most of this

NIGHTMARE scenario for keiko. im glad they actually put her in this instead of it happening offscreen but im sad there was no reunion :(

keiko realizing the recording had been tampered with bc of the coffee thing and then finding out that wasnt true is actually lowkey terrifying. they came THIS CLOSE. what a twist ending

quark's toast was like...strangely sweet. good for him.

i cant believe DAX was gonna keep julians journals instead of sending them back to his parents?? i also cant believe julian kept a diary for years and then decided to hand all of his diaries to his crush lol like he is insane

julian foot fetish also. don't think i forgot. i didn't. what a loser <3

these aliens being so committed to peace they'll kill people is actually kind of funny. you missed the point by lightyears

i liked how serious sisko was in this episode. he was wearing his very very very serious face. he was not fucking around. i also liked that he believed keiko INSTANTLY. on tng picard would have offered 1000000 other reasons why keiko was out of her mind bc in fairness she does sound fucking nuts but sisko believed her right away and immediately started an investigation because he trusts his people and also by extension their spouses. ugh i love him SO MUCH sisko for PRESIDENT

sub rosa (tng):

wow. wow wow wow wow wow

where do i even. BEGIN. with sub rosa

so, i knew there was a sex ghost in this episode and i was sort of aware that the sex ghost fucked or wanted to fuck beverly. but i had NO IDEA what i was truly in for

firstly, let's get this out of the way, this is a FAMILY SEX GHOST. "all the howard women have green eyes" "nana was over 100 and had a lover!" can you IMAGINE having like a family vibrator. the same vibrator your grandma used. getting off to her erotic diary entries. getting off, i repeat, to your grandma's stories about your grandma HAVING SEX with the SAME SEX GHOST who is chatting you up. beverly is INSANE

deanna took all this with so much good sportsmanship. first of all, i'm so thrilled that they're the kind of girlfriends who can share their wet dreams with one another in GRAPHIC detail. secondly, her fucking face journeys when beverly was talking about this shit in ten forward I REPEAT IN PUBLIC SHE WAS LIKE YEAH I WAS GETTING OFF TO MY GRANDMA'S DIARY

picard SOOOO put off that beverly would leave his ass to fuck a 30yo with long hair. JUSTICE! who's skipping breakfast now bitch. run around on her one more time i fucjing dare you. you WILL respect the woman you impregnated with the affair baby

speaking of affair babies, when beverly was like yeah all my family members have green eyes except mom and me i was like......is SHE the affair baby? sadly, no. but i know she had one

beverly looked the most beautiful she's ever been by the way. real bodice ripper shit. picard you blew it so bad

speaking of bodice ripper, there is a version of this where it's very serious and an allegory for abuse and the sex was dubiously consensual etc etc etc. this has happened to deanna so many times and it was so icky because it was obviously a male fantasy which objectified her. fortunately i don't think anyone can be expected to take a story seriously when it involves your grandma's sex ghost so i was perfectly happy to have a good time

WHEN THEY EXHUJED THE BODY. BY SIMPLY BEAMING IT OUT OF THE GROUND.

nana who looked not even a little bit dead sitting up in her coffin bc she was possessed and zapping the daylights out of geordi and data. PLEASE.

also, sorry, i nearly forgot, but picard walking in on her while she was quite literally fucking the sex ghost. ohhhh i KNOW he was sick

OH YEAH AND. the gravestones saying vader and mcfly. set designers i love you forever

anyway, hands down the funniest and perhaps my favorite tng episode of all time. that was the first real laugh i've had in almost a week

TONIGHT: ds9's "whispers" and tng's "lower decks."

[thestupidhelmet]

I have a couple for Eric & Donna (#17): E, G, and Y

sorry if any repeats!

Emotional Wounds: Eric/Donna

Answered here.

Greatest Regret: Eric/Donna

Within the timeframe of T7S, their inability to see past their own insecurities and triggers to be able to recognize how their actions are hurting the other in season 3.

Headcanon: they spend the summer when Donna is in California doing self-reflection so that by the time Eric shows up at the Cali beach, he and Donna truly are ready to reconcile.

Younger Adventure or Experience They Had, Pre-T7S: Eric/Donna

They form a detective duo after their middle school, Old Maine, burns down. They investigate friends and classmates, but neither Eric nor Donna find out anything related to the building's destruction.

What they do learn is a bunch of gossip about students and teachers they otherwise would never have known. Once they exchange some intel with each other --

Eric: Man, this is lame. Who cares that Sharon Wheeler kept a stash of ABC gum under her desk and chewed on a piece whenever she could get away with it?

Donna: Yeah, and I found out that kid Mitch got his hand stuck in the fly of his jeans during math class. Yuck!

Eric: What a dumbass. He told me you stuffed a dirty Valentine's Day card in his locker before winter break.

Donna: That was Hyde!

Eric: You stuffed a dirty Valentine's Day card in Hyde's locker?

Donna: No, Hyde smeared an old card in mud and shoved it in Mitch's locker because Mitch wouldn't let Hyde copy his homework.

Eric: Okay, well ... this was a bust. Whoever burned down the school will probably get away with it.

Donna: I don't know. I kind of liked asking people questions. And maybe the fire started as an electrical fire. My dad said Old Maine wasn't up to code.

Eric: How does he know that?

Donna: He wouldn't tell me.

Eric: Maybe you should find out. What if he's friends with someone in the Arsonist Mafia?

Donna: What's the Arsonist Mafia?

Eric: Everything basically has a Mafia.

Donna: You and Hyde snuck into The Godfather II -- without me!

Eric: Um ...

Donna: And now Hyde believes there's a Mafia for everything, and he convinced you!

Eric: Damn! I confess, okay?

Donna: It totally sucks you saw that movie without me, but getting you to admit it kicks ass! I wonder if There's a career in this ...

Eric: It's called journalism.

Donna: Gee, I had no idea. Thanks for teaching me, Mr. Dillhole.

Eric: What'd I do?

Donna: I was wondering if I could be a journalist, not what journalism is. Do you think I'm that stupid?

Eric: No!

Donna: But you think I'm stupid in some way.

Eric: I didn't say that. You're the smartest person I know!

Donna: How many people do you know?

Eric: I need a nap.

Donna: I'm kidding, I'm kidding. Let's go learn some more idiotic gossip. We can question people together.

Eric: Can I be the hardass while you're the nice one?

Donna: You can be the bony ass, and I'll get the answers.

--

Note: I used Point Place Time to make this ficlet work. 😅

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