#lifes just been busy (in a good way) and ill probably be sporadic or disappear from time to time

[always-a-joyful-note]

Shoutout to ORV for letting the fictional and real world merge and keeping it that way and taking it a step further by reuiniting all the characters regardless of what worldline or reality they come from. Yes, your sacrifices matter and they change things and the people you came to love in either reality are so important enough to die for yet partings are a part of life BUT the webnovel really said that while they matter, your sacrifice doesn't have to end with death. You CAN be brought back. Maybe you don't "deserve" to live but maybe you're loved enough that it doesn't matter. And maybe you can be part of two worlds, one that you loved already and another that you came to see still had good in it

[shintorikhazumi]

I Have Two Sisters?! Chapter 1: Three Sisters and The Bastard Father (An LWAxRWBYxStarira Crossover)

A/N: What’s crazier than me writing a crossover I can’t get out of my head at 2am while still having multiple wips?

Writing a three-way crossover until 3am!!! (Ended at nearly 5am tho)

GAHHHHH.

Btw, this is a non-magic au. So Diana has no magic, and Weiss has no… semblance. Yes. Because the world of RWBY always goes “???!! OHMG, magic?!” Quite ironically. They become impressed at people turning into birds, but never flinch at Ruby who can separate herself on a molecular level. Sure.

I’ll be updating this sporadically, tbh. The updates will be as random as the coming of this idea. I do like it a lot, so I look forward to working on it. Just have to prioritize the wips.

[DO CHECK OUT THE END NOTES FOR SOME OF THE AU DETAILS AND BACKGROUND]

Still, I couldn’t let the concept pass me by so…

Enjoy?

~Shintori Khazumi

  I Have Two Sisters?! Chapter 1: Three Sisters and The Bastard Father

  The wind blew strong outside, rain water cold against her bleeding cheek. The numbness was her only relief from pain nowadays. She’d lost count of how many bruises she’d gotten this week. If only her mother hadn’t passed… If only she hadn’t had a bastard of a father.

Then maybe Diana’s life would have been much better than the shell that it now was.

He left her and her mother just as she turned three, the only support she got in the form of random gifts and her financial needs. Her father was nothing of a father. The man that… helped make her was never there. He never showed he cared. Everything he gave her felt obligatory. She hated it. Heck, she didn’t even know his last name, much less remember what he looked like. She did try looking it up at some point, but it seemed as if he was some kind of bigshot she couldn’t name.

Neither her mom nor her aunt had divulged his identity, so she had long since drew a blank to the man’s identity. All she knew was that his name was ‘Jack’ or something of the sort. She had long since adopted her mother’s as it didn’t feel right to take the name of a man she never knew.

All she knew was that he was the cause of all her sorrows. That wretched man had left her and her mother to fend for themselves. Even though her mom was of a strong, well-known medical lineage here in Britain, the fact that she had gotten pregnant out of wedlock labelled her as a shame to the Cavendish name, and she had been cast out to a vacation home in the outskirts of the foreign country, Japan.

After her death, however, the women who Diana now saw as practically witches with how cruel and evil they were decided that because their blood ran through her, took over their small land that she and her mother had cried blood and tears to call their own, and exploited the underage girl, believing she might be of some use as a pawn at the very least, for the sake of the Cavendish name.

And she was. For some time, until she had injured her arm, and was no longer capable of becoming the kind of doctor they wanted her to be, her hand slowly losing its immaculate dexterity, becoming constantly shaky, rendering her as only half the worth she originally was, and thus completely useless besides being their punching bag. Quite literally.

Diana Cavendish found herself spending the better part of her life being abused, and hiding in tool sheds, and escaping her dreaded household at every waking moment, just as she was doing right now.

She hardly believed in any religion, but she found herself always praying to get away from this hellish nightmare. She’d hope that even if she only had a jerk of a father, he’d soon realize that she was his flesh and blood that needed saving.

A hard knock came on the wood of her shed’s door. She flinched, no sound escaping. Had they found her?!

“Miss Cavendish? Miss Diana Cavendish? Are you in here?” An unfamiliar voice called for her, bold and confident sounding, but with kindness and worry interlaced. She felt like it was someone she should respond to. The situation felt like it was some kind of divine calling she should answer.

With legs shaking, she stood up, unlatching the bar that held the door closed and stepping out into the now late night that reeked of hot pavement, rain having stopped while she was lost in thought.

A police officer, clad in uniform and raincoat smiled at her in pity. She was both grateful for- and hated- that gaze. She wished it had come sooner, but at the same time, she disliked being thought of as sad and pathetic.

“Your aunt and her family have been arrested, Miss.” Her ears perked up at the voice and the message they conveyed. Looking up from the ground, she stared into the truthful eyes of the cop. “You’re safe now.”

And she truly hoped she was.

  //-//-//-//-//

  “Weiss.”

At the mention of her name from that familiar voice, she rolled her eyes internally, holding in the urge to snap at the man she called ‘father’.

“What.”

Maybe her control wasn’t as good as she thought.

“Don’t give me that tone. I know you hate me, but I am still the one that raised you!”

“You mean, you’re the one that paid for me.” The ex-heiress pointed out. Her father gritted his teeth, frown deepening as he stepped forward in an attempt to exert his dominance.

Weiss only raised a brow in challenge.

“Anyway.” Jacques continued. Weiss would have smirked as he neither acknowledged nor denied her statement, but she felt it wasn’t the best time. “You are yet to turn twenty, and as you aren’t considered an adult yet-“

“But I’m nineteen, father.” Weiss stated, confused, her raised brow now raised in question. “I’m of legal age, to drink even.”

“Not in Japan you aren’t.” He replied with a smirk so evil, Weiss would have loved to slap it right off if her mind wasn’t thrown in a state of emergency, dreading whatever plans her father had. Even if she wanted to do as she pleased, she couldn’t completely go against him as she was at the moment. Their family name was too widespread and known in the business world, and she feared the consequences of running away from her father who currently had her safety- and practically her life- in the palm of his hand.

“What are you planning.” She narrowed her eyes at him, fearing for the worst, but expertly masking that fear.

“I’ll be sending you away, just as you’ve always wanted. I’ve prepared you an apartment close to a school of my choice to pursue the arts as you so strongly desired,” He spoke in a mocking tone. “And I’ll let you have your way there.” He ended with a smile that sent chills down Weiss’ spine. It sounded too good to be true, her dream being accepted like this. It was like a carrot on a stick being waved in front of her, only to always be out of reach.

“What’s the catch?”

“Catch? My, Weiss, my child, are you questioning your father’s benevolent heart?”

“What’s there to question?” Weiss shot back. “You don’t have one, now do you?”

She grinned at her little victory as she watched him gnashing his teeth, clearly seething in anger. Her smile dropped however as he gave her his own.

“I mentioned Japan’s legal age before.”

And Weiss already knew what he meant.

  //-//-//-//-//

  Life in Seishou had been the dream. Her first two years of high school were the peak of her life, she’d proudly say. She had wonderful friends and comrades who battled side-by-side, pushing one another to greater heights, and… she had someone she adored just a little more than friendship allowed. She had never admitted it, though. Then, a school back in Paris, the place where her mother had blossomed as an actress in the past, offered her a scholarship as an exchange student there.

And like she always did, Claudine excelled. So much so that multiple colleges offered her full rides to attend their institutions. Even highly prestigious universities. Her opportunities were broad, her future looking bright-

-And then news came. Her mother had fallen terminally ill.

She had to go back. She had to see her. She had to be by her side as long as possible.

She had to repay her for the love, for the dream she had given Claudine. She had to be the family her mother had been for her in the absence of a biological father she never knew, and the loss of her adoptive Japanese father at an early age. The lack of a male figure in their family was no cripple to Claudine, but she also missed the presence of the man she knew as her papa. She knew her maman missed him too.

So she had to do this for her mother.

She had to… in the event that… she’d lose her soon as well.

God forbid, Claudine prayed.

She had to return to Japan, study and… get a job, find some way to help her mother pay the increasingly expensive hospital bills, their little family’s saved money steadily disappearing.

She wondered if she should just drop school all together and apply for a troupe. Earn both money and experience.

She had enough rapport both in Japan and France. She could probably get enough opportunities, and she would succeed like she always had…

But…

There was something she wanted to see through, going into university.

When she left for Paris, she had gradually lost contact with all her friends, the culture slowly choking her time, eventually disconnecting them from her.

She’d receive and return the occasional message, but… things were different. She knew she’d drifted apart from everyone.

So, when she found out that they would all be attending the same Arts Institute, and when she had decided to return to Japan for her mother’s sake, she believed it wouldn’t all be that bad if she could apply for a scholarship to the same place, and possibly rebuild everything that was slowly crumbling away.

She wanted to be with everyone again.

And though she believed herself capable of attaining what she wanted on her own, she might require a little assistance from a miracle.

…

And a miracle- could she call this monstrosity of a situation that?- came in the form of a letter that had documents that signified she was the daughter of some ‘Jacques Schnee’ currently undergoing some sort of trial, and because of this, some of the accusations led to the revelation that he was neglecting a daughter, not sending support, and now as some form of bribery and compensation or whatever, he had paid the court to shut up about it if he took responsibility for her now.

Claudine scoffed in disbelief and utter disgust.

So this was her damned biological father? Some apparently bigtime tycoon who slept around and left a woman to fight for herself while carrying his- Claudine would suppose she was now an- illegitimate child.

This… was certainly news she’d never have expected in a million years.

She laughed mirthlessly at it all.

Well, at least her financial crisis had been averted. For better or for worse… she hoped it wasn’t the latter.

One upside was that she now had a clear ticket to that university she wanted to get into, it seemed. Her ‘father’ had taken the liberty of enrolling her there coincidentally. At least he could do something right, Claudine guessed.

“Well… I suppose it’s time to pack.” She sighed falling back onto her current apartment bed, staring at the ceiling.

It wasn’t so bad, maybe. Her newfound reality.

“Japan, I’m coming home to you.”

  //-//-//-//-//

  Diana glared at the letter in her hand angrily. There, in neat script, she saw the name of the man who had caused all her misfortune.

‘Jacques Schnee.’

“I want to hate you for as long as I live…” She gripped the paper so hard, creases were forming and the agent currently assigned to her worried she’d rip it into shreds. “What is this garbage? And why am I… Why can’t I… refuse… this ugly form salvation…” She choked on her sobs, a hand sympathetically rubbing her back.

“Let’s get you ready, Miss.”

Diana nodded in agreement.

-----

All her bags now in her hand after being dropped off by the cab driver, she stared in awe at the slightly modest, but clearly high-end house.

What the hell, did her dad just get her a house?!

Regardless of its size, couldn’t he have… like… gotten her an apartment or condo, at least?

How rich was this asshole father of hers? Was money the only good thing about him? Not that even that was necessarily a good thing.

With a groaning sigh, she unlatched the gate, walking up the little pathway. There were small flowerbeds already present around the yard, and decorations were tastefully placed.

It at least looked the part of cozy.

Once she got to the door, however, angry sounds coming from inside made her question that.

-Wait. This was her house, right?

Why would sounds be…

In a panic, she unlocked the front door with the key that came with the letter, bursting through it like a mad man, blue eyes flickering about the room, shocked to see two pairs of eyes, wide and intense, staring back at her with equal surprise.

“Who…”

“Oh, this is just great!!!” One with hair as white as snow exclaimed, throwing her hands up in the air in clear exasperation. “Now we have another one!” She began marching around the room, palms rubbing her face aggressively and scratching through her hair. “That little fuck-“

“-Language.”

“Shut up! I don’t even know who you are, and why you were in my house when I arrived. And you say you aren’t a burglar or whatever, but what is up with your sword play? Even if you were using the curtain pole. Are you some kind of spy or assassin the corporation has sent to finally get rid of me?”

“First of all, this is my house, not yours. And you came at me with a rapier!” A silver-gold blonde replied in equal stress. “You could have killed me!”

“I would never!” The first girl gasped with faux emotion. “At most, you’d lose an ear.”

“Umm…” Diana remained awkwardly fidgeting at the door, her usual bravery and confidence lost in the moment of shock.

“What.”

“I- I am simply here because… apparently my father purchased this place for me.”

Two pairs of eyes blinked once. Twice.

Then realization overtook them.

“Did you just say… father?” The golden-haired one stepped closer to her, a lot less hostile, but still aggressive looking.

“I- Um… yes?”

“Father… you say.” The lady with a rapier in her hand now approached Diana too.

These women were frightening, dear Lord. Diana slowly backed up, but stopped as her foot hit the bags she’d dropped in her frantic moments earlier.

“Can you tell me the name of this… ‘father’ of yours?” Rapier lady asked Diana who was beginning to wonder if she should look for a weapon to defend herself with.

“S-sure. His n-name is…”

“…”

“…”

“Is?”

“Fuck.”

Diana was not one to curse, but it surprised her that she did.

But she couldn’t help it, now could she? After all, her mind had been wiped clean as a white slate. A mental block was not what she needed right now, but just about anything involving that man seemed to bring about her misfortune.

At least the hands by which she’d die her early death were from very beautiful women it seemed.

She liked women, at least?

“Excuse me, um… are you alright?” Miss Golden hair was now very safe-looking and welcoming, Diana subconsciously stepped closer towards her.

“What is up with you? I just asked a question.”

“Perhaps, if you placed the sword down, and looked less like you were trying to murder her and look like you were willing to hear her out…”

Diana expected another heated retaliation, so it was a pleasant surprise to see the other woman sheath her weapon, and place it gently on a plastic-covered couch, clearly brand new.

“There. Happy?” She asked, glaring at the woman now gently holding Diana’s hand- and when had that happened?!

With a nod, the girl turned to Diana and asked again. “What is your father’s name. If you could tell us.”

Huh. She was a lot kinder than Diana had initially taken her for.

“I apologize. I can’t… remember at the moment. I- He hasn’t been around… for me until this point. I just… learned his name a few days ago but…” She hung her head in defeat, apologizing all the while. “Sorry I’m of no assistance to you…”

“No, it’s alright. Isn’t it?” The question was clearly not directed at her as she could only hear a grunt from the other side of the room.

“Yeah, fine.”

“Would your father’s name happen to be Jacques?”

At this, Diana lifted her head, another shocker delivered to her, hearing the familiar name, the cogs in her head clicking into place.

“Yes! Yes, that’s it! Jack, or Jacques or whatever. Snee? Shuni? Schee? I don’t quite remember, but something along those lines.” Diana found herself enthusiastic towards the prospect that some of her questions might be answered.

It seemed the other two shared the same sentiment.

“It’s Schnee.” The white-haired lady corrected, eyes furrowing, anger building up once more. “And… THAT BASTARD OLD MAN!” Grabbing her rapier she swung it around, probably to vent her anger. “He set me up! And what’s more…” She whipped her head about to carefully look the other two people over.

“What is it?” Diana said in a voice quite small.

“Seems he had big secrets to hide.” She sighed. Turning to the initial enemy she had, now turned… stranger? She wasn’t sure they were allies at this point, she stated rather than asked. “I guess it’s the same for you?”

The woman beside Diana nodded, expression looking a lot stiffer than her gentle demeanor as she dealt with Diana earlier.

“I see. I can’t believe this situation.”

“What do you me-“

A voice beside Diana delivered her fourth? Fifth? Sixth?- she’d lost count- Shocker of the day.

“Sisters. It seems we’re… sisters.” Turning to Diana, she held out a hand for a shake. “I’m Claudine.”

“I’m Weiss.” Was the grumble from the couch the woman had flopped on top of.

“…O-oh!” Breaking her stare from the hand, she looked into rose-red eyes. “And I’m-“

And the world suddenly turned black.

‘Hello, My Name is…

[Diana Cavendish]

[Weiss Schnee]

[Saijou Claudine]

-And it seems as though…

I have two sisters?!

  A/N: If you’re asking, yes. Yes, Diana fainted.

Here are some details for this AU btw:

I’ve decided to make Jacques a half-Jap, half german.

So all of them have a quarter of that blood.

Diana is half brit, quarter jap, quarter german

Weiss is ¾ german because of her mom, and ¼ jap.

Claudine is half French, ¼ german, ¼ jap.

Also, if you want to know their ages, and their order, I decided it this way, and let me just quote how I typed it out in the raw idea draft.

“Diana April 30 16yro in anime 2017+3yrs (2020) she's 19 too omg jahahahaha (wrote this coz I’m currently 19 and was amused)

Clau august 1, 2001 19 at present

Weiss Currently 19 (in volumes 5-6) may 15th lmao hahsha. Perfect!!

Wtf Diana was the oldest? Hooo boi. I did expect and want Kuro to be youngest tho, tbh.”

Why their ages are pretty much the same will be mentioned next chap.

And that’s how it went. Decided with Weiss being the legitimate child coz Jacques was the only canonically mentioned dad between the three girls as far as I know. Or I just didn’t search enough.

But come on. I wouldn’t pass at the chance to beat up the dude in a fic so… hihi.

Feedback is super appreciated!

Thank you for reading!

~Shintori Khazumi

[make-it-mavis]

Homesick (Entry #20)

01/07/88  11:56 PM

Hey.

That first night was rough.

The following six would not be much better.

Honestly, most of my time spent in the dump has excused itself from my memory, on account of being so profoundly unremarkable and entirely unpleasant. I’m pretty sure I know what I did, but a large sum of the details are basically gone. Thankfully, none of it’s all that important, but I still feel like I should write down what I can recall. It’s kind of weird -- it feels like the more I write, the more I remember. Maybe once all’s said and done, I should try keeping a journal or some corny crap like that. A real one.

‘Dunno if I could stay regular on it without the added benefit of pretending to talk to you.

Anyway. Seven-ish days, I stayed there, and each day, relations with Wreck-it stayed just as strained, clipped, and awkward as the day before. I found out on the first morning that he had a strike system in mind -- I break three rules, that’s three strikes, that’s my ass hitting the road. Of course, I found out about this shortly after making my first strike. Literally seconds into the first day. 

I hadn’t slept at all, being too sick and anxious and plagued by a snoring gorilla. So, when he woke up, before he could even stand, he was greeted by a violation of Rule #2:

“Hey, Maestro, what’s it like havin’ an entire brass section lodged in your nose?”

Then he, let’s say, ‘explained’ that I’d just struck one of three.

The second strike was not long for this world, either. Just hours later, I’d break Rule #5, completely by accident.

Business was pretty slow that day, being so early in the School Year (I heard some things here and there about so-and-so’s throwing First Day of School parties, but there was no festival this year -- not in the climate for it, I guess). Fix-it had a fair amount of free time between gamers, and made the incredibly ill-advised decision to try to talk to me. I was curled up on my pillows trying very hard to sleep when I heard him climbing up the bricks, calling out cautiously, “Mavy? Are you here?”

I didn’t say anything. I just grabbed a brick and tossed it in the direction of his voice. I then heard a yelp, a handful of Nicelander gasps, those tumbling sound effects, and that morbid little funeral drone. I didn’t expect to actually hit him, let alone K.O. him. He’s so damn easy to K.O., it’s like cracking an egg.

Regardless of it being an accident, regardless of the fact that Fix-it was assuring everyone he was fit as a fiddle seconds later, regardless of the fact that Wreck-it wasn’t even in the dump at the time, but watching from the roof of Niceland, it was a strike. So I had one left until I was out on my ass. I really had to pull it together in that regard. And I did, sort of.

I spent each day more or less the same: Looking for distractions that didn’t break any rules, puking, and trying to sleep.

I wandered around when I could. I took sporadic catnaps. I took very, very cold baths in the river, which I did not miss doing at all, but I certainly couldn’t use the showers in your game anymore. I drew sketches of the gamers’ faces as they played. I spent lots of time hugging a bucket. I very quietly played my guitar, more for the motion than the music. I snuck into the building from behind and raided apartments during gameplay, stockpiling food and water as my appetite slowly came back. It was all repetitive, futile, and not nearly enough to distract me the way I needed. I wanted buffs so, so bad. Even a drink. But for the life of me, I could not leave the game.

I tried many times, often several times in a day. I’d go stand at our dinky little train station, staring at the dinky little train I’d have to use as a newfound ground-dweller, and shiver. I’d pace. I’d kick the train, usually. It was so demeaning and frustrating. Nobody can keep me locked up. Yet there I was, too afraid to leave my own Dev-damned game out of fear that I’d be murdered. That had to be exactly what my attacker wanted me to feel. Just crippling, paralyzing fear. She may not have killed me, but maybe she was counting on other ways to make me disappear. And there I was, giving her what she wanted.

Wreck-it, on the other hand, left the game nightly to go to Tapper’s, right after closing. He’d check in with me beforehand, and it’d be the same each time.

He’d say, “Hey. Holdin’ up okay?”

I’d say, “Yup.”

He’d say, “Think you might leave soon?”

I’d say, “Hopefully.”

He’d say, “I’m going to Tapper’s, if you’re interested.”

I’d say, “No, thanks.”

End scene.

Word for word, the same every night. Those were really our only brief windows of communication, right up until the fifth night, after he had come back from Tapper’s and settled in. 

The withdrawals had cleared up by then, but, needless to say, I still didn’t feel too good. I’d been stuck in there for nearly a week, feeling more broken and pathetic than I’d ever felt in my life. Everything was weighing down so, so hard, it was like I could barely breathe. Being unable to find you, nearly being murdered, being villainized, practically losing my brush -- it all had me cornered. There was nowhere to run. I was wishing so deeply for a way out. So, like I’ve done countless times before, I stared out into the arcade through the screen, trying to imagine a reality where I could break out and leave all of this behind.

The thing is, though, I’d only ever dreamed of that when no one else was around. This time, I was peering over the mound of bricks that I’d been sleeping behind, barely ten feet from Wreck-it’s stump. I was lying there for Devs know how long before, completely by accident, a question slipped from my mouth.

“What do you think it’s like out there?”

Wreck-it jumped. “Huh?”

I jumped. “What?”

“What’d you say?”

I felt my face burn up. I couldn’t have that conversation, not with him. I slipped back down the bricks to my privacy, and instinctively grabbed my guitar. “Forget it. Doesn’t matter.”

Wreck-it didn’t press, but I didn’t expect him to. It was the heavy, awkward silence after that I was worried about, so, without a second thought, I started playing my guitar. I’d played quietly while Wreck-it was around a few times before, and he didn’t seem to mind. Up until that point, though, I’d been silent on the vocals, because… y’know, I guess I just didn’t feel much like singing since you’d left. But in my panic, I started singing the first thing that popped into my head. It was this song I’d started writing about a concrete world and a neon storm. It wasn’t done. I’d forgotten most of it. It was a freakin’ mess -- eventually, I just gave up. I sighed and started plucking no tune in particular. Me and my unpredictable mouth.

That’s when Wreck-it piped in again, casually.

“Was that a new one?”

I cringed. “Yeah. It’s... not done.”

He paused. “It was nice. When it’s done, you should play it at Tapper’s.” He paused again. “...Y’know, after… things die down a bit.”

“...Yeah, right. As if I’ll ever play there again. Certainly not at Qix, either.”

“No?”

“No. Sprites at Qix are there for a good time, and I’m not super conducive to those anymore, so… even if it ever opens up again, I’m off the setlist.”

Qix had, indeed, been barred from the public not too long after the incident. It had become even more of a hotspot for buff use and dealing. Hardly stopped users and dealers from finding new places for it, but, still, the arcade lost its one and only nightclub. So that was grand.

“And, as for Tapper, I kinda doubt he wants the arcade’s most hated sprite playing at his bar.”

“Tapper still likes you,” he said. “I mean, he even talked about you the other night, said he’d run into you at the memorial. Wanted to know how you were doing.”

It was true -- I had met Tapper briefly at the memorial, and I remembered that he said that I was always welcome in his game if I needed company. It really was a sweet thing, looking back. But I didn’t take him seriously at the time, ‘cause I still thought it was a big joke. And after that, I definitely made him regret his offer. All I’d done at Tapper’s was drink myself violent and end up throwing punches and breaking glass. I was certain that he’d changed his mind and started hating me like everyone else. That thought really stung.

I waited, for a moment. “...What did you tell him?”

“I just told him I wouldn’t know.”

“Good,” I nodded, “good.”

We were both quiet for a long while, before words slipped out of me again. “I’m gonna miss that bar.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well… whether Tapper likes me or not, I’m… bad for business, now. I could draw sprites in with my music, before, but, now… Even if he says I’m welcome there, I’m not really. It’s not entirely up to him.” I sighed, and felt my voice drop so low, it practically dragged. “I’m not welcome anywhere, anymore, so… that’s great.”

“Nowhere at all?”

I said, “Nope. Didn’t you say yourself that I’m trouble? Big trouble? Everyone seems to think that. Bigger trouble than anyone can deal with nowadays.”

Once again, we were both silent for a moment. I’d stopped playing, reduced to flicking one string with my thumb, just enough to hear it.

I heard Wreck-it take a deep breath behind me. He paused, and then, in a slow, awkward voice, said, “Well… Yeah, maybe, but… You don’t scare me, kid.”

I wished that could have made me feel better. It was, objectively, a pretty decent thing to say, and another sprite probably would have been very comforted by the chance of an ally in this mess, or at the very least, someone with something resembling loyalty. But it just made me feel worse. I felt too smart to believe any of that crap could last. He didn’t know it yet, but he’d change his mind. I’d always figured that sooner or later, everyone would decide I’m too much. That was just the way of things. 

However, given my bleak circumstances, I had little choice but to accept his… tolerance while it lasted. Having someone on my side, even for just a little while, seemed like it could have proven helpful.

So, after a long, sullen silence, I just went back to plucking idly on my guitar. “Good to know you’re not as dumb as you look, then.”

His breath caught in disbelief for a second, before he dropped right back into growling, “Name-calling. Watch it.”

“It was a compliment, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, a super backhanded one.”

I closed my eyes, trying to play myself to sleep. “Just take it, pal. I don’t got that many kind words to share, so I gotta ration them out wisely.”

He grumbled. “You would call that kind.”

“I do. Now, can we cut the yammerin’ and sleep?”

“Fine. Yeesh.”

He slept. I didn’t. Not ‘til midday the following day, anyway. I fell asleep during gameplay hours, and woke up just after closing when Wreck-it stomped his big ol’ stumps up the bricks. We had the usual pre-Tapper’s exchange, ending, of course, with me refusing his offer to come along. I was tired as hell, and I still wasn’t ready to go out there.

But, as I quickly discovered, it didn’t matter if I was ready or not.

I’d been in a fitful sleep for what must have been barely half an hour when Wreck-it’s feet woke me up again. This time, he came around behind my bricky knoll to stand next to me, towering with this look on his face that I didn’t like at all.

He said, “Hey kid, guess what.”

“I’m being evicted?”

“No,” he grinned in a way I couldn’t read -- don’t really see him smile that often, honestly, “but you are leaving. You’re going to Tapper’s!”

I was not following. “Uh… ‘kay, you do know that I said ‘no thanks’, right? That’s a thing you remember?”

“Yup, yup, I do. But listen to this -- I talked to Tapper for you, and all that stuff you said about him hating you or -- or, y’know, all that --” he shook his head, “-- not true. He misses you, kid. You gotta get out there and show him you’re alive.”

I felt my face burn up.

“You-- You--” I sprung to my feet, “You TOLD HIM I’M STAYING WITH YOU!?”

He put his hands on his hips nonchalantly. “Yeah, maybe I did.”

“HOW-- WHEN I SPECIFICALLY SAID NOT TO?! THAT WAS RULE NUMBER ONE!!”

“Ah, ah,” he pointed, “polite request number one, and, request denied.”

I’d have throttled his fat neck if my fingers could fit around it.

“WHY’D I WASTE MY TIME BEING POLITE, THEN, LARD-FACE!?”

He seemed thoroughly unimpressed. “Yeah, yeah, yeah, I’m gonna let that one slide, because you can bellyache all you want, but it doesn’t change the fact that you’ve been in here way, way too long, kid.”

“QUIT CALLING ME KID! I’M GONNA LEAVE, OKAY! SOON! ON MY OWN!”

“Uh huh, I’m sure you were going to,” he nodded in a condescending sort of way that made me want to hurl a brick between his eyes, “but now you get to leave with me, right now.”

“NO, I DON’T!”

“You said you’re here ‘cause you had nowhere else to go, right? Well, now you’ve got somewhere else to go, so get up off my bricks, and come go to the bar like I know you’ve been dying to do all week.”

He wasn’t wrong. But I was so angry. And I was still so scared.

“I DON’T WANT TO GO, AND YOU CAN’T MAKE ME!”

His eyebrows raised for a second, and he shrugged. “Alright, I guess we’re doing this.”

Then the colossal bastard grabbed me. Me, as in, my entire body, in one of his huge, meaty paddles he calls hands. It’s not that he’s never done that before, but it’s always been to throw me, and lasted only a second. This time, he started walking down the bricks, with the clear intention of just carrying me the entire way to Tapper’s. His code is still less dense than that of Fix-it, but that prolonged contact still made my binary crawl. Devs, did it crawl.

So, after a quick burst of threats and shrieking, I conceded. I agreed to go with him if he would just put me the hell down. He dropped me, I ran back to grab my book bag, and we trudged to the train. The way he walked behind me made me feel like he was marching me to some grim fate. Some grim, unnatural, unspeakably awkward fate.

As much as I lamented being reduced to riding the train like a chump, seeing the way his massive ass just barely fit into one of the cars was pretty rewarding.

Once we started rolling, he told me, “You know it’ll do you good to get out. You’re just not coded for life in a box, kid.”

I don’t remember if I sighed or gave the flattest laugh of my life. “Yeah, tell that to the Devs. And for cuss’ sake, quit calling me kid.”

In all truthfulness, as scared as I was, I really was so relieved at a chance to finally leave. And as much as I hated not being able to do it on my own, I was, admittedly, glad to have a second pair of eyes. It was probably a pretty decent thing of him to do, scouting out a safe place for me to go. Even if I really, really didn’t want or ask for it.

But I’m still pissed at him for denying my incredibly polite request.

[capnjay21]

A House is Never Still 1/6

Five years ago, Emma Swan disappeared under mysterious circumstances. Killian Jones’ disappearance, well, not so mysterious – given the denizens of Storybrooke all but blamed him for her murder. Drawn back to town by a series of strange events, he soon realises the story of what really happened the night she vanished is beginning to unravel, and what’s more: it isn’t over.

A/N: It’s @csrolereversal​ and @cshalloweek​ time! I’m so excited guys, this is my first time submitting anything for an event and I’m bouncing off the walls about it.

This fic is dedicated, of course, to @hollyethecurious​, without whose wonderful artwork it would not exist. Thank you for your creation, and for giving this chapter a much needed once over! Please go give her some love! 

Chapters will be posting weekly. Enjoy! 

Rating: T Warnings: mentions of suicide, canonical character death, and some Spooky Business™.

AO3

-/-

1 -- a house is never still

Present Day

Even after all this time, Killian felt something of a chill run down his spine as his Chevelle sped over the town line.

He had kept himself driving through the night, only stopping once for gas a little ways outside of Portland as he’d felt it would be better if he stayed focused on the road; that way he wouldn’t linger on the reason why he’d packed a few meagre belongings and gotten in the car in the first place. Naturally, with the long, empty and deathly still roads of upstate Maine rolling out in front of him, it had backfired completely and the only thing he had been able to think of since his journey began was the destination that awaited him. It was difficult not to mull on the anxious tone of the voicemail that David had left him, babbling and nervous and unsure. Impossible still to not dwell on its subject.

There’s something – I have something you need to see.

For the last hour the roads had been slippery, the rain-slicked tarmac a reminder of the storm that had hit the area earlier in the day, and a considerable amount of his attention was spent ensuring his back tyres didn’t slide out with every tight corner. Fatigue nestled around his shoulders like an old friend, urging him to shut his tired eyes and relax, but he did his best to ignore it. In the dark, the trees towered over the road in distorted, twisting shapes and the shadows cast by his headlights were just barely visible through the mid-autumn mist.

No, Storybrooke was exactly how he remembered it.

Suddenly the car radio burst to life and Killian jolted at the sudden disturbance, his movement causing the car to swerve dangerously onto the other side of the road as the tyres jerked to follow him. One hand scrambled with the volume on the radio as the other wrenched the wheel to regain control, and after a brief moment of wrestling with both he managed to restore the tentative peace he had endured for the last few hours, only his hammering heart an indicator that he had lost it to begin with.

The low, barely distinguishable synth of Yaz’s Only You was still pouring through the tinny speaker.

Killian, far more alert now and willing his racing pulse to slow, flicked it off.

It was an old car and often prone to such dysphoric outbursts, but that didn’t lessen the way the hairs at the base of his neck stood on end.

Piss off, he thought mutinously, ghost.

God, he needed to sleep.

Before long, the winding country road began to recede, and a taste of the Storybrooke suburbia began to trickle forth with a few dwellings by the side of the road, sporadic lots that quickly opened out into fully-fledged streets lined with house after house. He had agreed to meet David as soon as he got into town, although he doubted the man anticipated it being quite this late. Still, he didn't wish to waste any time. After a minute or so of tracking down the familiar turns, Killian was soon pulling his Chevelle into park outside a large, two-storey house. Once a brilliant white, dirt and age had weathered the paint until it was scratched and peeling. A single windmill lay spinning in the front yard.  

Killian tapped a brief message into his phone, before stepping out of the Chevelle and leaning against the bonnet while he waited. He didn’t wait long. After a few moments, the front door opened and David Nolan emerged, careful to shut it behind him as quietly as possible. Undoubtedly there might be a person or two inside not quite as thrilled to see him as the young man rapidly descending the stairs. He was wrapped in a thick coat and his breath was coming out in quick bursts of condensation.

To Killian’s surprise, the first thing David did when he reached him was pull him into a fierce hug.

He’d been expecting a lot of mixed emotions, certainly – trepidation, anger, disappointment. It had been a long time since he’d left the town under a similar cloak of night to the one currently slung over it. To his shame, he realised the entire drive there that he hadn’t once considered that David might be pleased to see him. Once again, he hadn’t given the man enough credit. Hesitantly, he returned the gesture with as much warmth as he could muster.

Some things, then, could still feel like home.

“Thanks for coming,” David said, once he pulled back.

“I’m sorry it’s so late.”

The other man waved away his apology. “Don’t be ridiculous… you look exhausted.” David tilted his head, as if finally noticing the way his eyes were desperate to wink closed again. “Were you driving all night?”

Killian let out a breath of mirthless laughter. “Something like that.”

Try all week.

David gestured to the house behind them. “Do you want to come inside?”

Tempting, certainly tempting. Still, he shook his head. “I doubt that’s wise.”  While he might have been wrong about which reception he should be expecting from David Nolan, he was positive where the rest of his family was concerned, his suppositions were entirely correct. For a moment the conversation stilled, and as Killian stared out into the dark road behind him he decided there was little point in not being upfront about the reason he had been summoned back to Storybrooke.

“So,” he began, “is it her?”

David’s countenance changed, a stiffness settling in his shoulders while his expression morphed into one of reluctance, of uncertainty. David Nolan had always been dreadful at masking his emotions, it made perfect sense that two years apart wouldn’t have had any impact on his attempts at duplicity. His lips parted, as if trying to perhaps voice a hesitant refutation, but Killian didn’t let him.

“You wouldn’t have called me if it weren’t.”

The other man shut his mouth, folded his arms. The wind whistled down the wide, empty street, sending gusts of curling, copper leaves up into the air. Killian waited.

David seemed to reach a decision. “It’s late,” he said, instead of an answer. “Let’s leave it for the morning, after you’ve had some rest.”

It wasn’t such a bad suggestion. He was exhausted. The answers he so desperately wished to claw from David Nolan could wait until he didn’t feel like any stiff wind might knock him over. He conceded the delay with a nod and a tight smile, one that David gratefully returned, and pushed away from the bonnet. As he tugged open the door David retreated a few steps back up to the house, wrapping his coat even tighter around him.

“It’s really good to see you, Killian,” he said, offering him the ghost of a grin that was almost – well. Almost sad. He then opened the door and slipped inside.

“Likewise,” he murmured to the shut door, and dropped down into his car.

The engine growled to life underneath him as he made to pull away from the curb, but as he paused out of habit to check behind him for any oncoming traffic, he thought he saw the trail of something white disappear behind one of the trees. It was brief, like the flash of colour from a light blinking out of sight. The trail of a dress disappearing from view. He was sure enough that he’d seen it to give him pause, for his hand to drop to the handle of the door as if he were making to get out again, but not quite enough to follow through. His hand tightened for a moment, but soon gradually released it.

It was late, he was exhausted, and he was seeing things. Or, as was often the case with him, he wasn’t, but whatever he’d seen he didn’t want to be dealing with until morning. Screw the brave thing to do; he was staying in the car. Giving the spot he had seen it one last lingering look in the mirror, he drove away.

The clock on his dashboard read just a little time before midnight, and while he considered spending the night in his car – it would be far from the first – truthfully he wished to avoid any run-ins with the Sheriff’s department where possible, at least until he’d reacquired his bearings. That left only one establishment that would remain open for a new patron so late into the night, and he realised with a jolt that his hands had steered him down the familiar roads before he'd really had a chance to think too much about it.

The exterior of Granny's Bed & Breakfast was barely visible, but from what he could make out nothing really had changed. It was made of the same chipped brick and shattered tile, the brush around the entrance long overgrown after decades of ill attention. The proprietor had always behaved like it was a complete mystery that business was never doing well, but hidden away behind the diner as it was and sheltered by woodland, most newcomers to Storybrooke would scarcely even know it existed.

Killian pulled into one of the parking spaces towards the back of the building, taking only his rucksack from the boot and leaving everything else. Although wary of such a choice at first, he felt everything else would probably be safer in his car than at Granny’s, not to mention aside from one disappearance presumed-murder several years ago, the crime rate in Storybrooke was almost non-existent. He clambered the steps and moved inside.

A loud bell rang out heralding his entrance, and he winced at the volume of the sound. Granny never wished to miss out on any potential customers. It was for that reason that the very same woman came bustling down the stairs with almost alarming speed, broad grin in place ready to welcome whomever had disturbed them so late into the night – until she realised who had done so.

Granny Lucas, small as she was, was a formidable woman. When her eyes narrowed with distinct venom, Killian immediately wished he had just decided to stay in his car.

“I have the right to refuse service to anybody that comes in here, just so you know.”

This was much more the kind of reception he had been expecting to receive from David, but it was late now, and he was tired, and he wasn’t ready to fight.

“Please,” he said. “I’ll pay whatever rate you deem is fair. Just for tonight. I can find somewhere else to stay tomorrow if need be.”

“If it’s that easy sunshine, you can stay somewhere else tonight, too.”

“Granny!”

He heard the admonishment before he saw the person who gave it, but a moment later Ruby Lucas had thundered down the stairs and emerged to join her grandmother.

She glared at her, fiercely. “You think business is good enough to turn anyone away?” The young woman immediately reached behind her grandmother to retrieve the heavy, cob-ridden guestbook and dropped it with a thud in front of Killian. She smiled at him, kindly, handing him a pen. “Particularly a friend.”

“A friend?!” Granny blustered.

“Here,” Ruby began rummaging for a key behind her, “you can take the square view.”

Killian hastily began writing his name in the book, before Granny Lucas either had a chance to assert her authority or pluck the pen out of his hands. In his haste, it became little more than a scribble. The ink smudged across the page made him think of the flash of movement he had seen by the Nolan house.

He needn't have worried. Granny Lucas let out a highly disgruntled noise, before clearly deciding she wished no part in it and stalking into the back room.

“Thank you,” Killian said, once she was gone. “You didn’t have to do that.”

Ruby gave him a look; a rueful, warm thing. “Don’t be silly. This is your home, too.”

The key she had handed him was the same as any other the inn provided, but it still made him ache. It was hung on a large metal keyring, the engraving of a swan at the top of it before receding into carved silver roses and thorns.  

“Come see me in the morning,” she suggested, “I’ll make sure we get you something good cooked up for breakfast.”

Killian thanked her again before mounting the stairs. He later realised, on closer inspection, that the silver swan was also engraved with another message.

Welcome to Storybrooke.

“Well,” he muttered, slipping the key into the lock, “we’ll just have to see, won’t we?”

-/-

October 14th 2014 – 5 Years Ago

Emma’s desk jolted as two strong hands thwacked down on it with force.

“I’ve found it.”

God, just when she was beginning to make progress.

Unimpressed, she lifted her gaze from the calculus textbook in front of her, after all this time still a puzzling, blurred mix of numbers and symbols that was only just starting to penetrate her mind, as easily distracted as it often found itself. Given she had left a desperate plea on the sign by the quiet study section of the library that she was not to be disturbed, she fixed her would-be guerrilla opponent with an irate stare.

There, with his dark hair stuck up at all angles as if he had spent the last hour running through it with an agitated hand, eyes wide and bright but distinctly pleased with himself, like the cat that had worked out just which dressing complimented diced canary perfectly, stood Killian Jones.

Of course he’d be the one disrupting her precarious peace.

“Don’t tell me – it’s hot cocoa, with cinnamon, and you’re about to hand it over.”

She held out her hands expectantly, offering him the sweetest smile she could muster.

Killian didn’t buy it for a second, and when he made to continue with that same eager glint in his eye, she cut him off.

“—Because that is the only reason I’ll accept you bothering me right now! Killian, you know how much math is kicking my ass, I have to work.”

“I know, but this is –”

“‘This is more important than hairspray to Regina’ better be how that sentence ends.”

“Aye, it’s—”

“More important than hairspray to Regina, say it.”

“Swan—”

She waggled her pen up at him threateningly.

“Say it.”

“Oh bloody hell,” Killian snapped, snatching her pen from the air with a huff of impatience. “Yes, it’s more important than – hair products, or – or David’s truck. There.”

David’s truck was a brand new (second hand) 1973 F-Series. It could manage nought to sixty in eleven excruciatingly painful seconds, but David could not be prouder of it if he’d birthed the thing and raised it himself, rather than receiving it as a seventeenth birthday present from Ruth.

Emma surveyed Killian carefully, leaning back in her chair and crossing her arms. “That’s a pretty serious allegation you’re making, Jones.”

“Aye, and I mean every word of it.”

“I caught him singing to that truck the day before yesterday.”

“Every. Word.”

After a pregnant pause, Emma decisively shut the textbook.

Immediately pleased, Killian reached hurriedly behind him and scraped a chair across the vinyl floor so he could join her at the table.

“I found it,” he said again, and he had that same excited, agitated look on his face, like the news was practically spilling out of him to tell her.

“You’re going to need to be more specific.”

“It,” he continued, “Brooke House.”

Whatever jest had been waiting to spring from the tip of her tongue died immediately on parted lips. She watched him for a few seconds, trying to check the sincerity of the remark the same way she always did – but no, Killian wasn’t trying to trick her. Whatever he’d found, he genuinely believed it to be Brooke House. Which was impossible.

“Brooke House,” she said carefully, knowing how much of a touchy subject this must be for him, “doesn’t exist.”

Killian shook his head fiercely.

“It’s there. In the north woods, just like Liam said. I was hiking on the White Pine trail when I heard –”

“You were hiking?”

“Yes, when I heard –”

“Like, honest to God, timberlands and a windbreaker, hiking? You?”

Killian let out an exasperated sigh, and Emma could see she was rapidly getting on his nerves, causing him to react far too violently for her to continue the passing jest. While ordinarily she would enjoy getting her friend so riled up, there was nothing ordinary about Brooke House. Especially, she realised, since whatever he had stumbled across he sincerely believed to be the missing piece of a puzzle he had lived for years without.

With that in mind, she sobered up quickly. She should give him the attention he deserved.

“I’m sorry,” she said, reaching out to squeeze his hand. “Carry on.”

He couldn’t even spare an ounce of his nervous energy on feeling grateful.

“It was so strange, Emma. I don’t even remember when I left the trail. I must have been walking for at least ten minutes or so off-road – that’s how long it took to get back – but I suddenly heard this… creaking. Like the way the sign for Gold’s shop moves.” With an almost supernatural precision, the sign for Mr. Gold’s Pawnbrokers had a tendency to rock back and forth at the same pace, no matter how high or low the wind whistled down Main Street. “And I just… knew. So I followed it and there it was – Brooke House. Near the edge of the ravine.”

Emma chewed on her lip. “Okay.” Killian wasn’t a liar, or she’d never known him to be. So, he found a house in the woods. That didn’t necessarily make it anything more than a holidaymaker’s cabin. “How do you know it’s… Brooke House?”

“There was a sign.”

Emma sighed. “Oh, well that’s convenient, isn’t it?”

Killian frowned at this, but she knew at least one of them had to point it out. Killian had searched those woods a hundred times, more – the whole town had given a crack at it once the Storybrooke Mirror had sensationalised the whole affair, and nobody had ever found it. It wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that this was all some elaborate prank from somebody caught up on the story – somebody uninterested in the emotional weight it carried for those to whom it meant more than a spooky episode in the town’s history.

Those like Killian Jones.

“It’s the real deal, Emma,” he insisted, firmly. Emma remained doubtful. “I just know it. Don’t you trust me to be able to tell the difference?”

It wasn’t a matter of trust. It was a matter of knowing just how much even the possibility that it actually existed must have been fucking around with his emotional state all the way from the trembling moment he had stumbled across it to right now.

Hope had a funny way of making somebody see a ghost – they had all learnt that the hard way.

“Liam wasn’t crazy – and this is the proof.”

Emma remembered when Liam Jones had died. It had been four years ago, just prior to the first time she met Killian. He had driven his car over the edge of a ravine near the boundary of the north woods, close to the town line, and had crashed into the river beneath. The coroner had ruled that death would have been near instantaneous at the point of impact.

After an investigation, it had been declared a suicide.

Not for the first time, Emma couldn’t imagine what kind of damage that knowledge had done to Killian.

But Emma also remembered a scared, lonely twelve-year-old who, even while processing the sudden death of the person closest to him, had found it in himself to be kind to somebody even more frightened than he at all the harm the world had wrought her.

Probably without his notice, his hand had crept across the table to hers and linked their fingers together.

Emma noticed, though.

“Will you – come back with me? To see it?”

To an imaginary house in the middle of the woods, on a hunch that its contents might pertain clues to his brother’s mysterious suicide?

For him, anything.

“Of course,” she said, and Killian visibly relaxed. When he released her hand she realised it was throbbing a little from how tight he had been clutching it. “Just, erm… let me drop this stuff back to Ruth’s.”

She started haphazardly gathering her strewn out study materials.

“Thank you,” he added quietly. “I’ll meet you by the trail end?”

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

-/-

Present Day

Killian rose far earlier than he had been intending, but something in the town was preventing him from catching even a fading vestige of sleep. It was something in the air, a thickness, a sensation which hung heavily around him. As if from the moment he had crossed the town line he had become a pulse of disturbance, and with every twist he made in the scratchy sheets at Granny’s sent out waves of ripples out into the ether, like a beacon to his presence. He felt exposed, and he’d spent much of the last few years fighting to remain out of sight.

He had considered calling David, but even with his work at the shelter he couldn’t be expected to be as cognizant as Killian prior to six o’clock in the morning. Instead, his eyes heavy with the taunt of sleep, he had gone for a walk.

There was much of Storybrooke he wanted to see again, and the more he considered it, the less he wanted to be visiting them at more populous times.

After emerging from Granny’s Bed & Breakfast, he stopped briefly to check the handles and the windows of his Chevelle. It didn’t look like it had been broken into, and a quick glance in the boot abated his concerns for his equipment. If David was to be believed, he wasn’t sure what he’d need – possibly all of it.

The morning was bleak and grey, a dark cloud lurking towards the south of the town threatening to open up onto the streets below with little warning. Deserted, the only noticeable movement was the scatter of crisp, golden leaves across the centre of the Main Street as they were ushered further down by strokes of wind. He wrapped his coat tighter around him. The clock tower stood exactly as he remembered it, proud and unchanged, but it was the room underneath that interested him most.

The library had closed – not that he was surprised. There had been a significant decline in interest as most turned their attention to the new age of internet research and Netflix even while he had lived there, and it had been cobbling together its running costs through sparse donations from Storybrooke’s more sympathetic residents. Now it looked as if somewhere in the last five years it had conceded defeat, and the windows were now clumsily boarded up with a chain looped around the handle of the door.

Through cracks in the panelling, Killian could still spot the abandoned rows of books lining the shelves, now doomed to gather dust and little else.

Don’t tell me – it’s hot cocoa, with cinnamon, and you’re about to hand it over.

He winced.

The chain appeared weak, or a sturdy pair of pliers could probably make quick work of the lock; either way, he could definitely break his way in if need be. Given his less than warm reception from Granny the night before, he doubted he’d be able to conduct his study with any real privacy in a room at the bed and breakfast and he should be considering alternate locations. The library’s closure actually presented something of an opportunity.

There was one other place he had wanted to return to, but trepidation stayed his movements. Maybe he wasn’t ready. Besides, the town was beginning to wake, and it would be better if he got off the streets.

Going back the way he’d come, Killian quickened his pace but went a block further, rounding the corner to head into Granny’s Diner instead of the residential entrance – he sorely hoped Ruby had meant what she’d said about that cooked breakfast. The sign on the door beckoned open, so he slipped inside.

To his relief, Ruby was stood behind the counter, just beginning to tie her apron around her waist. When she saw who had entered, she offered him a reassuring smile, tying the bow off at the back with a flourish.

“Coffee?” she asked, brightly.

God, he couldn’t be more relieved people like her were still in town.

“Please.”

He unlooped his scarf from around his neck and dropped it on the counter, hastily warming up from the space heater Granny liked to keep on full blast above the counter as the months turned colder. The older woman had always been a little tight with her purse, but while she invested in central heating for the bed and breakfast at the behest of many a desperate customer, she had insisted the heat from the griddle and oven should be enough to keep the diner at a comfortable temperature. The space heater was the only concession she made, which usually kept the barstools constantly occupied at peak times and otherwise.

Ruby soon approached with a mug and a pot of steaming coffee, and Killian thanked her as she handed it over.

“You’re up early,” she mused. “Granny said she went to wake you about half an hour ago, but you weren’t there.”

Granny went to snoop, more likely. What kind of proprietor tried to wake their customers before seven? He shared a knowing look with Ruby, who had the good grace to look a little sheepish on her grandmother’s behalf.

“I didn’t sleep much.”

“Is it the guilt?” called a sharp voice from the kitchen.

“Granny!”

“Worse,” Killian bit back loudly, “your mattresses.”

Ruby looked part irritated, part flustered, and cast an angry glare at the door to the kitchen. “I’m so sorry,” she said to Killian, “just give me a sec.”

She disappeared through the door into the kitchen, and Killian watched through the pass as she exchanged some harsh words with the elder Lucas, who soon huffed and stormed out of sight. Killian thought he heard the connecting door to the inn swing closed.

“Sorry about that,” Ruby continued, marching back out to the counter, a forced cheeriness there that barely masked the fury he could see dancing behind her eyes. “Granny’s got some work to do, but Floyd will be here in like, ten minutes, and he’ll kick off the breakfast rush.”

“Fine by me. She’s, ah, still the firecracker I remember.”

Ruby sighed heavily. “Wouldn’t let a silly thing like a triple bypass slow her down.”

Killian smiled over the rim of his coffee. “Of course not.”

They passed a few contented moments in silence, Ruby running a cloth across the counter and switching on the milk steamer, and Killian had just about settled himself into it when she spoke again.

“So,” she began, “what brings you back to town?”

He was tempted to suggest Granny’s snooping should have given her an indication, but the words stopped dead on the tip of his tongue once he turned to look at her. She was concentrating perhaps a little too hard on the glass she was currently polishing, staring fixedly at the way the dishcloth had folded in on itself as she pushed it inside, determinedly not looking at him. It was too nonchalant, and everything else in her posture suggested her attention was still aimed solely at him. Lowering his coffee back to the counter, he realised why.

“You know,” he observed, “don’t you?”

Ruby refused to meet his eye.

“You do. Maybe I should be the one asking you questions.”

“I don’t know anything,” she insisted. “No more than anyone else in Storybrooke.”

Killian clicked his tongue. “I’m hardly what you’d call a local anymore, love.”

The waitress seemed more reluctant still, throwing a wary look at the door out to the kitchen. Granny Lucas hadn’t reappeared.

Eventually, she decided to continue.

“I’ve just – heard things. Rumours, mainly. People have been losing stuff they have no sense losing, hearing things they have no right hearing. Nobody has hiked in weeks because of some freak weather, and people are saying the trails are haunted. You know how Storybrooke gets in October.” Like most rural towns, every other house seemed to have a ghost story of its own.

Although, Killian thought to himself, at least one of them was true.

“Then there’s what happened to David, but I bet you already know about that. The moment he told me I had a feeling you’d be back.”

She wasn’t wrong, but Killian had a feeling there was more to this than she was letting on. He told her as much.

“It… it was only once. But as I was locking up two nights ago, I thought – well,” she bit her lip, “at the edge of Main Street, I thought I saw –”

The loud clanging of the bell over the door, along with the slide of the shutters against the glass, startled them both. Ruby almost dropped the glass she was holding, and Killian merely willed his racing heart to slow. Most importantly, he wanted her to continue talking.

“What did you see?”

Ruby shook her head tightly, quickly moving across to the other end of the counter to serve the new customer.

“Ruby –”

“Two coffees to – oh!”

With a start, Killian recognised who had just walked into the diner at the exact moment she realised he was sitting there.

Clad in a soft, lavender coat wrapped tightly around her, a grey scarf wound around her neck and a familiar looking beret atop her cropped dark hair, Mary Margaret Blanchard was staring at him wide eyed, a gloved hand having flown to her chest in surprise at the sight of him.

Gone were the softer edges of her jaw that he remembered from the last time he had seen her, replaced by the distinctive shape of womanhood, the muted hazel of her eyes just a little darker than he remembered them being. Clearly she was no longer the girl he had known when he was scarcely a boy himself, and this woman stood in her place, staring at him as if he were a ghost.

He wondered what she must see when she looked at him.

“Oh,” he echoed her, once he’d gathered his wits, “hello.”

“Hi,” she greeted weakly, uncertain. Five years had passed, and she was just a little less sure of them than he was. “Um two – two coffees to go, please.” This she directed at Ruby, who was happy to have an excuse to busy herself away from Killian’s inquisitive eye.

“I didn’t know you – how are you, Killian?”

He smiled; Mary Margaret’s first thought was always one of kindness. “I only got into town last night. I’m well, thank you.” Mary Margaret returned his smile, but it didn’t reach her eyes. Remarkably, she looked rather like she’d prefer to be anywhere than the tiny space of air three feet away from Killian that she was currently occupying.

Odd, he thought, when they had all once been so close.

“And yourself?”

“Oh, I’m – I’m good, too. Great, really. I work at the elementary school now.” Her body pivoted, as if intending to point out of the window but realising halfway through that it was pointless, as the school was all the way across town and, besides, he knew exactly where it was. “As a teacher.”

He almost said it. He almost did.

Emma would have loved that.

Instead, he offered his own congratulations. “That’s bloody brilliant,” he grinned. At least one of them had been able to get exactly what they wanted. “Amazing.”

“Thank you.”

“Cream?”

Mary Margaret wrenched her gaze away from Killian. “Uh – sorry?”

“Cream,” Ruby repeated, not unkindly, “did you want it?”

“Oh, yes. Thanks.” She reached absently up to straighten her beret.

Deciding to take the encounter as an act of providence, Killian figured he might as well make the most of it. If even Ruby had been detecting something had shifted in the air, then somebody like Mary Margaret had to have almost as many explanations as David.

“I was hoping to run into you,” he began, “I was wondering if I could ask you –”

“Killian, I’m going to stop you right there.”

To his surprise, her interjection had been decisive, and left little room for argument. It was the sort of voice she had always saved for when she wanted to put her foot down, when things were ever getting a little too far out of hand and she had decided to put a stop to it. It probably served her well in the classroom, and the sparsity of its use had meant they had always taken her seriously when she used it.

And she had used it now.

“Alright,” he said, tilting his head to the side and encouraging her to continue.

Mary Margaret hesitated, as if searching for the right words.

“I’ve put it behind me,” she said eventually, with the same directness. “All of it. And I want to keep it there.”

She could do that? Like it was even possible?

“So if that’s the reason… if that’s why you’re back in town, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t talk to me. Not until you’ve found your peace, too.”

Peace, that was what she called it. Putting a lid on something too painful to carry and shutting it away where it couldn’t hurt her – if that was peace, he wanted no part of it.

“Have you?” she asked, almost hopefully. Found your peace?

In answer he merely shrugged, rueful and tired. “What do you think?”

Two coffees were placed on the counter in front of Mary Margaret and after a long moment she broke eye contact and reached forward to take them.

“Take care, Killian.”

She turned to go.

He made to go back to his own coffee, now lukewarm and bitter since being left untouched for a number of minutes, but paused as he watched Mary Margaret hesitate, then pivot on her feet to take one last look back at him.

She smiled, and he knew this was genuine.

“It really is good to see you. I’m glad you’re okay.”

He returned the sentiment, and before long the door was chiming and clanging shut behind her, the shutters bouncing off the back of the wood.

Killian couldn’t work out how he felt. It would be decidedly easier if he was angry, and for a number of moments he tried to be. Tried to be furious that she could leave it all in the past, that she could throw everything they had all been to each other into a place where she couldn’t see it, David included. But the fury wouldn’t come. Only the same tired melancholy he had carried with him for years, begging for him to let it all go. Not everybody could carry a torch as enduring as that, and it had been draining him for almost a decade – first Liam, then Emma. He couldn’t resent Mary Margaret for wanting to preserve her strength for the next phase of life, not the last.

It just wasn’t that easy for him. Or for David.

Which just left Regina.

After a moment, Killian suddenly remembered Ruby had been about to tell him something, but when he turned back to the counter he found Ashley, another waitress, in her place.

“Where’s Ruby?”

“She said she had to go prepare a couple of rooms in the Inn for some guests checking in later.” Ashley grinned, and proffered a fresh pot of coffee. “Refill?”

Rather dazedly, he realised the tired jukebox in the corner was now spitting out the second verse to Only You. Once he noticed it, he zeroed in on the sound. He gritted his teeth. 

Shaking his head at Ashley’s offer, he rose from his stool. He had work to do.

-/-

October 27th 2014 – 5 Years Ago

A large mug of a bitter, foul-smelling liquid was placed in front of him.

“There,” Sheriff Humbert said, settling into the seat across him. “You said you were tired. There’s a coffee for you.”

With difficulty, Killian raised his tired eyes from the steam curling out into nothingness from the mug, and tried to stare the sheriff down. He was sure the effect was less than pitiful, what with the dark circles that had settled uncomfortably underneath his eyes, red-rimmed and barely blinking open. Sometimes when he tried to focus on the Sheriff, he found his gaze drifting six inches or so to the left, and his thoughts were becoming muddled and bleary.

Only one thing remained crystal clear in his mind. Over and over, the scream that battered and ricocheted around his skull.

(Killian – Killian, don’t –!)

When he spoke, the words scratched the back of his throat and his voice was hoarse – he had been yelling all night, and in the pastel pink glow of morning that trickled through the barred window, he needed to rest.

“You’re not letting me go?”

The sheriff folded his arms. “I’m not satisfied yet.” Bloody fuck this man was coming after him like a rabid dog. Emma was – Emma was – gods knew what had happened to Emma, but Killian would have much preferred he was out there looking for her and not trapped in here under the doubtful scrutiny of the town’s only detective. Damn Mary Margaret and her insistence on this.

He knew at this very moment the woods were being combed through by any of the denizens of Storybrooke awake and aware of what had happened, and he longed to join them.

“So, let’s go over it again,” the sheriff continued. “You and your friends are out in the woods in the middle of the night for – well, god knows what. Then Emma Swan just – disappears?”

Her wrist stained red, angry welts erupting across her forearm. Eyes as dark as obsidian.

Killian wanted to cry. Already had. Had wept for hours as they tore through the forest.

Killian – Killian, don’t –!

“Yes, she disappeared.”

“Your friends say she was with you when she went missing. That you were the last one to see her.”

“I was.”

The sheriff spread a hand, inviting him to continue. When Killian was not forthcoming, he pressed. “So, what did you see?”

“I didn’t see anything,” Killian snarled, even as his voice trembled and cracked. “Aren’t you the police? Shouldn’t I be asking you for answers?”

A wave of nausea rose from his gut to his gullet, and with difficulty he pushed it back down as he pressed a hand to his forehead. It came away wet, drenched in sweat and dew.

“Why were you out in the woods?”

He took a deep breath, tried to force himself to sound normal. “We were just messing around.”

“At midnight?” The sheriff stared at him doubtfully. “Near a ravine?”

The ravine, he knew he wanted to say. No use in either of them being coy about just why Killian, a seventeen-year-old, had become a target in this investigation.

“Seemed like a good idea at the time.”

“Were you drinking?”

“No.”

“Had you been drinking?”

Killian’s gaze snapped up angrily. “No.”

Sheriff Humbert clicked his tongue. “Had Emma Swan been drinking?”

Without planning to, Killian’s fist swung down and slammed on the table, hard.

He’d not let an asshole like Humbert disparage her.

“Nobody was bloody drinking, alright?”

“What other reason do five seventeen-year-olds have to venture into the woods in the middle of the night?”

His wrist was still sticky with blood, and he knew he stank. His leather jacket had been flung onto the floor within five minutes of him being shut in the interrogation room, but his shirt was still foul with sweat and earth. He knew how it looked, but he hadn’t been thinking of that when the four of them had finally agreed to admit this had spiralled far out of their control.

Emma was gone. And they needed help.

But they shouldn’t have come here.

“Emma is missing,” he spat at the detective, fury and misery overwhelming him, and he felt the humiliating sting behind his nose that he knew would preface hot tears as his shoulders began to tremble. He had always felt things too deeply, that was his problem.

I’m not finished, Liam had snapped, don’t you walk away from me.

“You should be out there bloody finding her, not grilling me!”

“Emma is missing,” the sheriff agreed sharply, “and I assure you, I’m doing everything in my power to find her, but for that I need you to stop fighting me.”

Killian could scarcely remember a time when he hadn’t been fighting.

Don’t tell me – it’s hot cocoa, with cinnamon, and you’re about to hand it over.

The sheriff drummed his fingers on the table. “Are we on the same page, Mr. Jones?”

Wiping his eyes, he nodded mutely.

“You and your friends reckon she disappeared around midnight, is that correct?”

“Yeah,” he croaked.

“Then why did no one come to alert the station until five?”

(Bring her back. You bring her back right now, Jones, or I swear –!)  

Killian swallowed. “We were – trying to find her.”

“You were trying to find her,” Sheriff Humbert repeated.

“We didn’t think it was serious. At first. We thought she’d just wandered off.”

The words tasted like ash in his mouth.

“And you say no alcohol was involved?”

“No.”

“Then why in god’s name weren’t you a little more concerned that your friend had just – disappeared? If you had told us sooner, we might have –”

The door to the interrogation room burst open.

Dr Archibald Hopper (MD) stood in the doorway, quivering with a barely suppressed rage which he directed solely at the sheriff. Killian, far more overwhelmed and relieved to see him than he had ever been in his entire life, finally gave way to the weariness of keeping his emotions at bay and felt tears begin to spill down his cheeks. He quickly covered his face with his hands, but could hear the furious exchange between the social worker and the detective.

“Sheriff Humbert, I must insist you stop this instant. Killian, don’t say another word.” A pause. “How dare you?”

The sheriff was unapologetic. “He’s a witness.”

“He’s a minor, Sheriff, need I remind you. And he has been through quite enough today already.” Killian dropped his hands, and he could tell the moment Archie realised he’d been crying. “Do you have any idea what kind of irreparable harm you may have already caused this poor boy? Killian, get your jacket.”

Forcing his stiff limbs into movement, Killian knocked his chair back with a loud scrape and reached for his discarded jacket. It was torn in at least three places he could see.

“This was a voluntary interview, Dr Hopper – Killian came to us. A girl is missing.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Archie replied hotly. “That girl was put under my charge long before she became your case, Mr Humbert. And I will not have you waste valuable resources in here interrogating a child when you should be out there, finding her.”

He ushered Killian to the door who went, willingly. He felt as if he might be floating, was more relieved to have somebody else take charge; he almost staggered into Archie as he was led out into the hall.

“If you approach this boy again without my express permission you’ll be hearing from my attorney.”

“This isn’t over,” the sheriff growled.

“Oh,” Archie scoffed, a hand landing heavily on Killian’s shoulder as they began marching down the hall, “it really is.”

Killian tripped over his feet as he tried to keep up, and caught only the side of Archie’s stony expression as he looked over at the man. He had never seen him like this. Ever since he had moved into the group home Archie had been nothing but mild-mannered pragmatism, had endured a thousand wild tempers from Killian over the years with nothing other than an infuriating level of understanding, to the point where it had occurred to him on more than one occasion that it wasn’t even possible for Archie to get angry.

It had also never really occurred to him that the man cared a whit for him beyond that which his profession demanded, but perhaps that had been more Killian’s tendency to close himself off to the possibility. Emma had taken a long time to penetrate, too.

At the thought of Emma, another wave of nausea rushed over him and he tugged on Archie’s sleeve as they left the station, stopping in his tracks and hunching over the flowerbed near the entrance. He retched three times, but nothing came out. There was nothing for his body to expel. He realised he was hungry. Famished. Archie rubbed a gentle hand on his back until he felt well enough to straighten.

“Killian,” he said gently, much more the man he knew than the hurricane that had whisked him away from Sheriff Humbert. He stooped to meet his eye, and Killian could see the sorrow that had settled softly behind the rim of his glasses. “I’m going to ask you this only once, because I trust you to be completely honest with me.”

Killian nodded, quivering in the brisk air of morning.

Archie’s mouth was set in a thin, concerned line.

“Do you know what happened to Emma Swan?”

Killian – Killian, don’t –!

It was a good thing Archie Hopper trusted him.

“No.”

Even if he shouldn’t.

-/-

October 20th 2019 – 6 Days Prior to Present Day

After a few moments, David realised he was awake.

Awake, but he couldn’t move.

As if there were some yawning gap between his impulses and his actions, when he tried to rise to a sitting position or even twitch a finger, he felt nothing stir. His ears had popped or, at least, that’s what it sounded like – the regular hums of the old house, the refrigerator, the electric heater on the landing that Ruth always insisted on leaving on, were unusually muffled and a distant ringing had settled there instead.

The room was dark as pitch, only a crack of light from the streetlamp outside falling against the opposite wall, and he knew Ruth must be asleep. Once again he tried to lift a hand, unconsciously intending to mop some of the sweat from his brow, but when nothing happened a swell of panic began to rise within him.

And all at once, he understood he was no longer alone in his bedroom.

With his eyes fixed on the ceiling David couldn’t turn his gaze to the unknown assailant, lurking as they were just at the end of his bed, but he could hear the gentle swish of fabric against the floor, the beams of light from the window winking in and out as the figure passed in front of them, and he began to breathe harder. He was desperate to take deep, gasping breaths but his lips refused to open further than a sliver, and the more he tried to regain control, the more agitated he became.

“Stop,” a gentle voice whispered, “it’s alright.”

David froze and his heart soared, but was immediately clutched by an intense and terrible terror; because he knew that voice.

Something touched his right hand, cold and dead and strange, clutching onto him tight and when David tried to flinch away he managed the barest flicker of movement. Pulse racing and bolstered by the progress, David focused all of his energies on his neck, stiff and unyielding, needing to turn and get a look at the intruder.

As their grip overtook his entire hand, with an enormous effort he managed to tilt his head.

Their eyes locked for a split second, and the darkness stole his cry.

The intruder stared at him intently. They wanted him to remember.

“Bring me the dagger.”

He blinked, and like a spell had been lifted David lurched onto his right side, gasping for air and resisting the urge to retch, a clumsy hand fumbling for the lamp at his bedside and slamming the switch. Warm light bloomed through the entire room, but David was alone again.

His mind kept whirling, replaying the image over and over and trying to process what he had seen – but that stranger, he couldn’t forget them. It was a face he’d spent every single day over the last five years desperate to remember and cherish forever.

It was Emma.

Not caring for the lateness of the hour, David scrambled for his phone left charging by his bed, and called the only person in the world who might believe him.

After stumbling his way through a greeting on Killian’s voicemail, he tried to get to the crux of the thing in the least alarming way possible.

“There’s something – I have something you need to see.”

[xiubaek-13]

Cognitive Dissonance

 I am still doing these sporadically. I have 8 to go!

  Prompt: Chanyeol + “You have a cold, you’re not dying.” + “It’s only one night, we’ll just share the bed.”

Setting/AU: Cyborg/Futuristic

Warnings: none

Word Count: 1,687 

“I think I’m dying. Chanyeol hurry. I need you to take down my final wishes.” Your body ached from the constant coughing and your nose couldn’t make up its mind as to whether it wanted to be runny or blocked. You were pretty sure you’d slept most of the week away but no matter how hard you tried to focus on anything, the fuzzy feeling washed over you and you’d wake up a few hours later in an incredibly uncomfortable position.

As far as you were concerned, you were dying. This was your body’s final fight against whatever bacteria had infected your system and your body was losing. Make sure you get a X488 shot your mother had nagged and nagged. Of course, you neglected to get one. The shot only inoculated you against one strain of the disease, and it mainly afflicted the elderly and the infantile.

“You have a cold, you’re not dying.” came the emotionless response from Chanyeol. Really you shouldn’t have expected sympathy from him. He just wasn’t programmed that way. When you’d found him he was barely held together but you’d rescued his half scavenged form and had slowly but surely rebuilt him. He wasn’t like the cyborgs you would find on any street, those had the emotional AI programming chips that allowed them to pass as humanoid. Until you spoke with one for a length of time you probably wouldn’t work out that they were a cyborg. Not Chanyeol though, no, he was without a doubt, not human. One day you’d come across a programming chip for him but you’d mostly warmed up to his blunt manner of speech. It, however, did not make for great bedside manner. The 6ft, blue haired, emotionally stunted cyborg was all you had so he’d have to suffice.

“If I wasn’t on the brink of death I’d get you back for that.” you mutter. You didn’t need cheek from a hunk of metal and computer chips. You needed someone to bring you soup, to make sure you took your meds, to hack the network and show you a movie your mother always put on for you when you were sick as a kid. Trust illness to bring out the needy side of you.

“Finally, someone whose life is more pathetic than mine.” he muttered. Maybe it was the fever but you were sure that the emotionless robot just sassed you. As far as you were aware, he was fully functional but unable to feel emotion or respond in a conversational way. He could only respond with logic and a severe monotone. He shouldn’t be capable of muttering, nor forming an obtuse opinion like the one he had just uttered.

You glared at him, as best as any pathetic sick person can glare at someone, from your semi prone position under your required three blankets. According to Chanyeol, three blankets were required for the bedridden and no matter how many times you tried to remove a layer he always replaced it.

Being sick made you moody and emotional, two things you tried very hard not to be in your day to day life. There was no place for moody and emotional in the scavenging business. After fixing Chanyeol to 90% of his former glory he’d remained with you, citing that he’d leave once a better option made itself available to him. He’d been a military programmed bot, special forces from the intricate wiring you found inside, as well as the larger number of chip slots. Scavengers had removed his weapons and fighting chips as well as the tactical and behavioural ones too. Somehow you’d managed to condition him to recognise warning signs, for when you needed food, rest, patching up, assistance and someone to talk to. The last one was still a work in progress, and would remain so until you could get your hands on a chip. Apparently dismantling another cyborg just for the chip was immoral, he’d flat out refused this as an option every time you brought it up.

He finished making your dinner, chicken and vegetable stew, and brought your tray over to you. He waited as you sat up in the bed, repositioning the pillows so that you were propped up and able to eat, then placed the tray in your lap. For a robot he was a pretty good cook. You kept forgetting the skills programming that most bots had these days. They all had the I-Serve-U-Bot base model, from the initial house maid prototypes, and had been build up from there. Some got military upgrades and served the country they were programmed to while others were programmed as fully functional AI, able to learn and adapt to their environment.

In a vaguely human action Chanyeol held up a finger to prevent you from starting your meal as he disappeared back to the kitchen. Small things like this made you forget that he didn’t have the proper chip to elicit these actions. Maybe if you weren’t sick you’d have picked up on it. When he returned he has two slices of buttered bread and a glass of juice for you. “Now you can eat.” You chuckled at his direction but followed it anyway.

You didn’t realise how hungry you were until you started eating and soon enough your bowl was empty. You pushed the tray forward and licked your lips, savouring the taste of the hearty meal. “Thanks Chan. I really needed that.”

“I also made brownies if you wish to have dessert.” He stated as he collected your tray, taking it back to the kitchen. You’re pretty sure you start salivating at the mere mention of your favourite dessert. How he knew is beyond you but honestly, you don’t care. All you know is that you have a great need and only brownies can satiate it. Your face must tell him that you do in fact want dessert because he nods before leaving the room. “I’ll just reheat one for you.”

“Chanyeol, you’re the only one who understands me.” You call out as he disappears from view.

“Yes, but it doesn’t mean I care.” The response was unexpected and after you stop laughing you realised it wasn’t something he’d usually say. The more you ponder on his responses as of late, the more you realise that they are decidedly more human. Something he should be unable to comprehend. Another coughing fit prevents you from dwelling on the thought.

When he returns he has a bowl with two warm brownies and ice cream in one hand and a glass of water in the other. He must have heard you coughing and decided that you required further hydration. He places the bowl in your hands and stands next to the bed with the glass of water.

“Dude, sit down, you’re looming ominously.” You move over slightly to allow him sufficient space to sit.

“I am not looming ominously. I was just waiting for you to finish the food so I could give you the water.” He responded.

You chuckled and started to eat the brownies. “Regardless, please sit? It’ll make me feel better. Holy shit, these are good.”

“They are a simple recipe. I understand that chocolate and cake makes humans feel good and there are an amalgam of the two so I deduced that they might assist in restoring your health.”

“You do care about me.” You teased.

A pair of large eyes stared back at you. They weren’t real, you knew that, the one red eye basically yelling I’m a cyborg! “Tell me something Chan.” You started.

“You need to be more specific. I know an infinite number of things.”

“When did you start learning the nuances of my speech? I haven’t found the right chip for you yet.” You asked. You might not be at your brightest right now but you weren’t so sick that you hadn’t noticed the shift in his behaviour… or the fact that he even had behaviours now.

“The last upgrade you did had a small inbuilt AI chip. It’s allowed me to process small amounts of speech and learn the emotional patterns that go with it.” The response was almost sheepish, as though he thought you might be mad with him.

You held out your hand for the water which he handed to you. “Why didn’t you tell me?” you asked in between sips.

“It didn’t seem relevant.” He chuckled as you handed the glass back to him, which startled you since he’d never done that before. The sound wasn’t horrible but it was foreign to you. “After all, you kept insisting that you were dying.”

You had no response to that, too floored by the sass that your previously stock standard cyborg had not been equipped with. You decided to just focus on the brownie, because you understood chocolate and ice cream and right now you did not understand Chanyeol.

He moved to get up once you finished your dessert but you grabbed his arm, stopping him. “Stay, I have more questions for you Chan.”

He placed the bowl on the floor next to the bed along with the glass of water. “You will be asleep in the next ten minutes.” You cocked your head at him. “It is the average time you remain conscious after ingesting nutrients. I’ve observed this over the past few days.”

“Then stay until I sleep, you creep. I have questions.” He sighed as he moved his body to sit next to you. Real or not, it was nice to have the body heat next to you. You shifted your body closer to his. “Warm” you muttered as you draped your arm across his torso. You started asking him about the AI chip and what it had allowed him to learn. He responded to your questions bluntly, proving to you that just because he had started to pick up on emotion, he sure as hell hadn’t mastered it yet. His warmth was making you sleepy but you had no intention of moving away from his form. “It’s only one night, we’ll just share the bed.” You whined when he tried to get up.

“I fail to see the point of this. My knowledge of medical text does not cite this as a legitimate remedy for illness.” Good to know that he wasn’t fully capable of artificial intelligence yet. The small chip only did so much it seemed.

“Shut up and comfort me. I’m dying after all.”

[some-cookie-crumbz]

New and Improved Fic Schedule

New and Improved Fic Schedule

Okay, gonna try and be brief with the nitty-gritty details here so I can get you all to the good stuff!

I’ll be going on a six-seven week hiatus starting the first week of April due to my school load getting heavier and the one-year anniversary of my dad’s suicide on April 21st. I will try to keep checking in on my account, but my activity is gonna be way less.

I will still be participating in Kidge Week. I have already written a good chunk of the fills for it and, as such, will schedule the posts ahead of time so they’ll release on the right days. The only day I will not be uploading ahead of time is April 22nd, since I want to take the time to make my post about all the other wonderful Kidge shippers out there myself. I will be aiming to still participate in Hance month, but I may only complete a handful of prompt fills.

All multi-chapters are being side-lined until at least June, due to school, but there are also a couple new projects in the work, so that also has an effect. Also, if I find the time to write up any additional one-shots, I’ll upload those as well. I’ll also need to see about maybe getting a Beta reader to look over the chapters for me before uploading - excluding LMv.tW, as I already have a Beta for that story – so I might make a separate post seeking one out as we get closer to June.

There are 3 categories under the “Read More”; Main Projects, Developing Projects, and Undefined Projects.

Main Projects are ones that I have already started writing/ completed the outlining process for and have defined start dates, plots, and release schedules. These are the projects that I’ll be focusing on most of the time and can be expected from me on a regular basis.

Developing Projects are ones that I would like to write, but as of now are more ghosts of a thought than concrete works. These have the potential to be scrapped or, should I decide I myself do not want to write them, will be offered out to any writer interested in taking them on themselves. If a project is dropped, I’ll make a post letting everyone know I’m offering the idea over to another set of creative hands.

Undefined Projects are projects I have every intention of writing, but are a bit wider in scope/range and I am unsure of how far ahead in development they’ll be when I start making them more public. These are projects that I have started to write/ draft, but I have done very little in the way of determining where to end the project off at. Basically, these are stories that have no end goal in sight. This projects will have no upload date or upload schedule, as such, and will be more sporadic in when I choose to work on them.

Main Projects (Fics will be listed in chronological order based on release date.)

Dress Rehearsal: Voltron (Kidge, sidelined Hance): After publically calling out the shady business practices of Galra Tech, acclaimed actor Keith Kogane finds himself the subject of both an attempted assassination and threat of blackmail. Undeterred, he feels no fear at the prospect of making an enemy of the powerful conglomerate. Worried about his safety, both physically and his privacy being violated, his agent, Allura LeAltea, calls upon the help of an old charm school friend of hers. Enter Katie Holt; renowned tech prodigy and secret hacker known as Pidge Gunderson, hired on to be Keith’s personal bodyguard. The only catch? The two must pretend to be dating to assure that Katie can tag along with him wherever he goes without cueing Galra Tech into knowing their threats have had an effect. Release Date: June 15th, 2018 Update Schedule: Bi-Weekly Note: Only thing changing for this story is that it has a finalized update schedule and a proper working title.

Lance McClain vs. The World: Voltron (Hance, sidelined Kidge): After getting involved with a charming young engineering student named Hunk Garrett after meeting at a bar, Lance McClain finds himself getting dragged into a series of events that seem to be ripped right out of a comic book. He is given a warning from the leader of something called “Team Voltron”; a group of Hunk’s ex-lovers and close personal friends, dedicated to determining the worthiness of Hunk’s suitors through various competitive means. Never one to back down from a challenge, Lance agrees to the terms and is forced to learn various new skills and talents in order to compete with the roster of powerful opponents he faces. Release Date: June 29th, 2018 Update Schedule: Weekly Note: Pushed this one back a bit but also gave it a defined update schedule, so there’s that!

Lowlife: Voltron (Kidge): Inspired by the song of the same title by Poppy. After being framed for the murder of her own brother, Katie Holt is forced to flee to the bustling metropolis of Marmora, a city where anyone can disappear in an instance. Assuming the new identity of Pidge Gunderson, she tries to settle into life, despite the constant feeling of being watched. After an evening snack run takes an unexpected turn, Pidge ends up with a roommate who goes by the moniker Blade, a young man with a story all-too-similar to hers. Together, the two set out on a mission to uncover the truth and clear their actual names… While trying not to kill each other. Release Date: August 17th, 2018 Update Schedule: Bi-Weekly Note: I decided to place a month between when any new multi-chapter fics will be coming out to avoid burning myself out. My plan is that I should be close to having finished both my other projects by the time this one drops. This project will most likely be a bit on the shorter side, as it will center almost completely on the two goofballs, but I’m really excited to work on it! Hopefully it’ll be a fun adventure for you all as well!

Story Time: Soul Eater (SoMa): Soul Evans has been struggling with life as a single father for roughly three years now; working two jobs and odd hours to support himself and his precious daughter, Harmony. Upon the announcement of his older brother, Wes, getting married, he is begged to return home to help with preparing for the ceremony and to be his brother’s Best Man. Feeling that he’ll have better opportunities with his family’s support and more time to spend with Harmony, Soul agrees to moving back to Death City. Through fate and circumstance, Soul meets Maka Albarn, the writer of his daughter’s favorite series of children’s books and intended Maid of Honor to Liz Thompson, Wes’ fiancée, and the two get along pretty well. And, perhaps from there, more will develop between them. Release Date: September 28th, 2018 Update Schedule: Bi-Weekly Note: Again, another one where nothing really changes. This story is mostly just going to be domestic, romantic fluff, but I think it’ll have some nice touches to make it stand out.

Twilight: Voltron (Kidge): One night, Matthew Holt disappeared from his room without a trace. In the time that he’d been gone, his younger sister, Katie Holt, has been frantically pushing for more action to be taken in bringing her brother home; believing he has been whisked away to the deadly mystery of the forest around their small village of Kerberos. With her brother missing, her mother’s health rocky in her grief, and her father away to help a neighboring village with a fast-spreading illness, she is struggling to maintain not only all effort to bring her brother home alive, but also keep the family farm up to its normal functionality. The Head of the Village Guard, Thace Kogane, insists that she accept the help of his two children, Keith and Allura, to assist her with the farm. Initially cold and distant, Katie slowly warms up to the duo and finds that they may be able to offer her more help in finding her brother, as well as unraveling the mysteries of the dark forest just outside the fences of their small village. Release Date: October 31st, 2018 Update Schedule: Monthly Note: Decided that I want to push this one back to Halloween for very specifics reasons. Also, because this is a project with a lot of world building and establishment to it, I want to give myself/ any potential Beta plenty of time to go over it to make sure everything makes sense.

 Developing Projects

Keidge Month Day 30 Prompt: Voltron (Kidge, potential other pairings as I develop it further): Not gonna say too much about this one, as I want it to be a surprise, but basically a canon-divergent story that would fall more inline with the headcanons I had in the very first Kidge fic I ever wrote, which Day 30 will also kind of expand on in a way. Note: If I do decide to pursue this project, it’ll most likely end up under the Undefined Projects category.

Starring Role: Voltron (Lanlura, mentions/hints of Lotura, sidelined Kidge): Inspired by the song of the same name by Marina and the Diamonds. Lance understands that, as far as things go, Allura doesn’t really need him. Gorgeous, confident, intelligent Allura Altea could have any guy she wanted at the snap of her fingers. They all trip over themselves to just catch a glimpse of her as she wanders the campus of Olkari University. But, for whatever reason, he’s the one she calls upon when the nights are cold and lonely. He knows that someday she’ll realize he isn’t worth her time, but until then? Until then, he’ll enjoy pretending that there’s more to their nights together. He’s always been a showman, after all. Note: I fell into Lanlura Hell and I am not sure I want to crawl out yet. I’ve been entertaining the idea of writing something a bit more on the bittersweet side of things (though I’d probably end up giving it a happy ending because I AM WEAK). Plus, Lance would give Allura everything, even if it could break his little heart.

A Mirror’s Edge: Voltron (Lanlura, sidelined Kidge): For centuries, the Galra have pitted the families of Altea and Terrain against one another, framing the other for assassination after assassination, hoping the two noble bloods would wipe one another out so that Galra may control the entirety of the city. Tired of the bloodshed and scorn on the streets, the Grand Duke Mage of Voltron creates a magic veil; a mirror made of illusion and incantation, to keep the two warring families from coming in direct contact with one another. But even magical bonds do not always hold against forces of a different kind, forces that songs and poems and theater have been written about. This is the tale of how two young children, belonging to House Altea and House Terrain, happen a glance through the mirror’s glamour and find the spark of something more enchanted in between. Note: I fucking hate Romeo and Juliet but damn if the stupid thing doesn’t give a lot of room to play and come up with some fun ideas! I have already started to develop a whole world for this one fic but, again, I am unsure if I want to do a full exploration of it (or, also, if I might want to use my own characters for this one).

Seashells and Scallops: Voltron (Plance or Lanlura, I swing both ways, with potential side pairings if I decide to pursue this project): After being saved from drowning by what can only be called a mermaid, Prince Lance of the Azure Isles, falls in love with his rescuer. Mermaids, however, are tricky and mysterious creatures, leaving him with almost no chance to meet his dream girl again; at least, not without taking fate into his own hands. In exchange for his voice, a witch on the outskirts of his city trades his legs out for a tail and gills. He has six months to woo the young mermaid and have his feelings reciprocated, or be fed to the witch’s pet sleeping deep in the murky depths. Note: A Little Mermaid AU with a twist! I like to subvert tropes, and this seems like something Lance would absolutely do.

 Undefined Projects

The Star Witch: Voltron (Kidge, potential others as I develop the story): A continuation of my Keidge Month Day 25 Prompt fill. Would further their relationship, probably get a little spicy, probably have an incredibly tragic end. Might warrant having a sequel series, or just being a really long running multi-chapter fic?

Copper and Indigo: Voltron (Kidge, potential others as I develop the story): It’s the Soul Eater!Kidge AU I’ve been planning out! Haven’t yet finished the finalization of everything, as I want to wait a little longer on the poll, but this will be coming! And it will be coming soon!

Time, Space, and Everything Between: Voltron (Kidge, potential others as I develop the story): A continuation of my Keidge Month Day 15 Prompt fill. I have an idea for a good chunk of the beginning, but it’s simply determining where I want to go through the middle and end. I want to have it still follow some of the series, specifically in regards to them all piloting the Lions, but then it becomes a question of to what extent and where I’d want to end things off at. But I am most certainly going to be doing more with this!

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Most Depressing Thing About Life

Most Depressing Thing About Life Do you ever, just lay there, thinking about what turned out badly? How did things turn out badly?

For what reason did you wind up this way, gazing at the roof trusting that the dividers will surround you?

In the event that you have been having such contemplations recently, you may be going through a burdensome scene.

For every one of us, wretchedness holds an alternate importance.

For a few, it is grinning through the agony, while for other people, it can intend to plunk down in a room in isolation and weep hysterically.

There is no estimating apparatus to choose what is the most discouraging thing on the planet.

Misery is just about as abstract as anyone might imagine.

There is no answer with regards to what melancholy is or what can cause the most despondency.

Our encounters are unique. We don’t have a similar viewpoint nor a similar way to deal with life.

Things for you may be totally different than they are for another person.

On the off chance that a setting off occasion happens to two individuals simultaneously and in similar conditions, these two individuals don’t have to respond in a similar way, one may be more set off than the other one and elevate their burdensome scene.

While, the other probably won’t be upset by any means.

Such is the mind boggling nature of wretchedness.

Everything relies upon the individual. A slight trigger of losing an important thing can likewise trigger an enormous burdensome scene.

Indeed, even the best specialists have no answer with regards to what is the most discouraging thing on the planet.

Side effects Of Depression

Rest Irregularities

Nervousness

Crabbiness

Craving Changes

Self-destructive Urges

Self-hatred

Kinds Of Depression

Abnormal Depression

Nonetheless, they have approached see every one of the various sorts of wretchedness there are.

Before we get to the sorts of misery, we should bring a look into the a wide range of side effects there are.

1 Side effects Of Depression

HopelessnessIf you are miserable about things in your day to day existence to a degree where you see no promising end to current circumstances, there are high possibilities that you may be introducing the side effects of gloom.

In the event that you contemplate internally ‘Why bother or Why am I doing this?’ prior to busy, you are most likely showing indications of sadness.

2Rest Irregularities

Individuals who experience the ill effects of sorrow frequently have unpredictable rest designs.

There are two furthest points that happen here. On one hand, you may rest for expanded timeframes while then again, you probably won’t rest by any stretch of the imagination.

On the off chance that you rest for a few a really long time, it is conceivable that you are low on energy or exhausted.

While, on the off chance that you can’t rest or are experiencing a sleeping disorder, it is conceivable that your burdensome contemplations are not permitting you to rest by any means.

3 Nervousness

Nervousness is straightforwardly identified with sadness by numerous specialists.

You might be thinking about what precisely is uneasiness.

Indeed, tension is the point at which you have windedness, alarm gets comfortable your heart, or experience difficulty zeroing in on things close by.

Steady tension can be an indication that you may be experiencing misery.

4 Crabbiness

A great many people experiencing misery give inordinate indications of crabbiness.

You may carry on occasion and act in a way that you shouldn’t or the circumstance didn’t call for.

In the event that you are continually in a condition of peevishness, you are probably going to encounter sorrow.

5 Craving Changes

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Individuals who are experiencing gloom are found to have serious craving changes.

We have all known about pressure eating and anorexia, these illnesses however are free yet in addition relate near discouragement.

In the event that you feel that your hunger has changed suddenly, you should pay special mind to different indications of wretchedness.

6 Self-destructive Urges

Self destruction is the actual sign of melancholy.

At the point when you are at the pinnacle of your burdensome scene you may have the compelling impulse to commit suicide.

Self-destructive urges advise you if your downturn is deteriorating and in the event that you need to change things.

7 Self-hatred

Self-loathing can be very harming to your psychological well-being.

On the off chance that you are stuck in a circle where you disdain things about yourself then you might be under gloom.

On the off chance that that is the case you need to look for help.

Since you realize the indications how about we center around the various kinds of melancholy.

8 Kinds Of Depression

Significant Depressive Disorder

This is the most well-known kind of sadness that individuals experience the ill effects of.

It is additionally normally known as Clinical Depression.

In this sort of wretchedness you may almost certainly feel the accompanying side effects:

Mind-set changes

Absence Of Happiness

Loss Of Joy

Weight Gain/Weight Loss

Sporadic Sleep Patterns

Absence Of Attention

Self-destructive Thoughts

As per specialists on the off chance that you face a dominant part of these indications for a drawn out timeframe you should race to get help.

As indicated by the essential determination, this sort of sadness doesn’t have a particular reason.

Tireless Depressive Disorder

Tireless burdensome sorrow is in a perfect world the kind of gloom that can be dependable.

It is called ongoing sorrow and is discovered to be the most ‘tenacious’ type of discouragement.

All through the residency of this downturn, you may have a flood in your manifestations or they will fall.

There is no assurance that your downturn will stay reliable.

There are likewise situations where individuals have been found to have a scene of significant sorrow before they saturate the steady burdensome issue.

Since the indications are drawn out, it might feel like, the manifestations are essential for your character.

Post birth anxiety

Post birth anxiety is the point at which a mother conceives an offspring. The difference in chemicals achieves this type of gloom.

It is typical for new moms to feel the accompanying manifestations, in any case, in the event that they delay, you can be determined to have post birth anxiety.

Feeling Sad

Crested Anxiety

Aversion For Your Baby/Indifference Towards Your Baby

Self-destructive Thoughts

There is no specific answer for this kind of sorrow however you can work through various medicines to feel good.

Premenstrual Dysphoric Disorder

This type of despondency is just found in ladies as their natural make-up considers it.

This type of discouragement is achieved by the forthcoming month to month cycle.

The manifestations for this type of melancholy are as per the following:

Weariness

Elevated Anxiety

Desires

Absence Of Concentration

Emotional episodes

Season Affective Disorder

On the off chance that downturn hits you during the colder months, you may be experiencing a condition called an occasional full of feeling problem.

In this issue, you may confront side effects, for example, inordinate rest and weight acquire.

This problem is achieved by the progressions in the climate.

This condition is regularly undiscovered and passes without acquiring consideration.

9 Abnormal Depression

This type of gloom isn’t exceptionally ordinary as it tends to be whimsical.

One second you can be extremely discouraged however when a decent circumstance introduces itself you can overlook it and anticipate it.

Here you may encounter comparative side effects yet they may disappear and return however they see fit.

Misery is devastating, in the event that you are confronting everything all alone, it is time you found support.

Last idea

Numerous understudies are under the attack of misery and as a result of that they can’t finish their papers.

Rather than letting that stress you, it is ideal on the off chance that you purchase online paper composing administrations and save yourself the concern.