#never mind that he was five foot two and had a face full of acne

[breakdownsbuttlights]

short-haired baby meso, who wore clothes with no holes and drove a car instead of a bike. and no tongue piercing! it doesn’t bear thinking about

Bold of you to assume that Mesothulas ever knew how to drive a car. (He’s got only the barest notion of how to safely ride a motorcycle.)

But even in his early days, there was always something… different… about him. When Prowl met him, he was in his brief but unfortunate tweed and bicycle phase.

[thewidowsghost]

Daughter of the Sea - Chapter 1

So, I started this on my Wattpad, and if figured I'd just put it on here! Just tell me if you want me to add you to the taglist!

Percy's POV

My name is Percy Jackson.

I am twelve years old. I'm a boarding student at Yancy Academy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York, and my sister, (Y/n), taking online schooling at home.

Am I a troubled kid?

Yeah. You could say that.

I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Manhattan—twenty-eight mental-case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff.

I know—it sounds like torture. Most Yancy field trips were.

But Mr. Brunner, our Latin teacher, was leading this trip, so I had hopes.

Mr. Brunner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always smelled like coffee. You wouldn't think he'd be cool, but he told stories and jokes and let us play games in class. He also had this awesome collection of Roman armor and weapons, so he was the only teacher whose class didn't put me to sleep.

I hoped the trip would be okay. At least, I hoped that for once I wouldn't get in trouble.

See, bad things happen to me on field trips. Like at my fifth-grade school, when we went to the Saratoga battlefield, I had this accident with a Revolutionary War cannon. I wasn't aiming for the school bus, but of course, I got expelled anyway. And before that, at my fourth-grade school, when we took a behind-the-scenes tour of the Marine World shark pool, I sort of hit the wrong lever on the catwalk and our class took an unplanned swim. And the time before that...Well, you get the idea.

On this trip, I was determined to be good.

All the way into the city, I put up with Nancy Bobofit, the freckly, redheaded kleptomaniac girl, hitting my best friend Grover in the back of the head with chunks of peanut butter-and-ketchup sandwich.

Grover was an easy target. He was scrawny. He cried when he got frustrated. He must've been held back several grades because he was the only sixth grader with acne and the start of a wispy beard on his chin. On top of all that, he was crippled. He had a note excusing him from PE for the rest of his life because he had some kind of muscular disease in his legs. He walked funny, like every step hurt him, but don't let that fool you. You should've seen him run when it was enchilada day in the cafeteria.

Anyway, Nancy Bobofit was throwing wads of sandwiches that stuck in his curly brown hair, and she knew I couldn't do anything back to her because I was already on probation. The headmaster had threatened me with death by in-school suspension if anything bad, embarrassing, or even mildly entertaining happened on this trip.

"I'm going to kill her," I mumble.

Grover tries to calm me down. "I'm okay. I like peanut butter -" He dodges another piece of Nancy's lunch.

"That's it." I start to get up, but Grover pulls me back to my seat.

"You're already on probation," he reminds me. "You know who'll get blamed if anything happens."

Mr. Brunner leads the museum tour.

He rides up front in his wheelchair, guiding us through the big echoey galleries, past marble statues and glass cases full of really old black-and-orange pottery.

It blows my mind that this stuff had survived for two thousand, three thousand years.

He gathers us around a thirteen-foot-tall stone column with a big sphinx on the top, and starts telling us how it was a grave marker, a stele, for a girl about our age. He told us about the carvings on the sides. I was trying to listen to what he had to say, because it was kind of interesting, but everybody around me was talking, and every time I told them to shut up, the other teacher chaperone, Mrs. Dodds, would give me the evil eye.

Mrs. Dodds was this little math teacher from Georgia who always wore a black leather jacket, even though she was fifty years old. She looked mean enough to ride a Harley right into your locker. She had come to Yancy halfway through the year when our last math teacher had a nervous breakdown.

From her first day, Mrs. Dodds loved Nancy Bobofit and figured I was devil spawn. She would point her crooked finger at me and say, "Now, honey," real sweet, and I knew I was going to get after-school detention for a month.

One time, after she'd made me erase answers out of old math workbooks until midnight, I told Grover I didn't think Mrs. Dodds was human. He looked at me, real serious, and said, "You're absolutely right."

Mr. Brunner keeps talking about Greek funeral art.

Finally, Nancy Bobofit snickers something about the naked guy on the stele, and I turn around and say, "Will you shut up?"

It comes out louder than I meant it to.

The whole group laughs. Mr. Brunner stops his story. "Mr. Jackson," he says, "did you have a comment?"

My face is totally red, I think. I answer, "No, sir."

Mr. Brunner points to one of the pictures on the stele. "Perhaps you'll tell us what this picture represents?"

I look at the carving, and feel a flush of relief, because I actually recognize it. "That's Kronos eating his kids, right?"

"Yes," Mr. Brunner says, obviously not satisfied. "And he did this because..."

"Well..." I rack my brain to remember. (Y/n) would have known the answer. She was nuts for this kind of stuff. "Kronos was the king god, and —"

"God?" Mr. Brunner asks.

"Titan," I correct myself. "And...he didn't trust his kids, who were the gods. So, um, Kronos ate them, right? But his wife hid baby Zeus, and gave Kronos a rock to eat instead. And later, when Zeus grew up, he tricked his dad, Kronos, into barfing up his brothers and sisters—"

"Eeew!" says one of the girls behind me.

"—and so there was this big fight between the gods and the Titans," I continue, "and the gods won."

Some snickers from the group.

Behind me, Nancy Bobofit mumbles to a friend, "Like we're going to use this in real life. Like it's going to say on our job applications, 'Please explain why Kronos ate his kids.'"

"And why, Mr. Jackson," Brunner says, "to paraphrase Miss Bobofit's excellent question, does this matter in real life?"

"Busted," Grover mutters.

"Shut up," Nancy hisses, her face even brighter red than her hair.

At least Nancy got packed, too. Mr. Brunner was the only one who ever caught her saying anything wrong. He had radar ears.

I think about his question, and shrug. "I don't know, sir."

"I see." Mr. Brunner looks disappointed. "Well, half credit, Mr. Jackson. Zeus did indeed feed Kronos a mixture of mustard and wine, which made him disgorge his other five children, who, of course, being immortal gods, had been living and growing up completely undigested in the Titan's stomach. The gods defeated their father, sliced him to pieces with his own scythe, and scattered his remains in Tartarus, the darkest part of the Underworld. On that happy note, it's time for lunch. Mrs. Dodds, would you lead us back outside?"

The class drifts off, the girls holding their stomachs, the guys pushing each other around and acting like doofuses.

Grover and I were about to follow when Mr. Brunner said, "Mr. Jackson."

I knew that was coming.

I tell Grover to keep going; then I turn toward Mr. Brunner. "Sir?" Mr. Brunner had this look that wouldn't let you go—intense brown eyes that could've been a thousand years old and had seen everything. "You must learn the answer to my question," Mr. Brunner tells me.

"About the Titans?"

'"About real life. And how your studies apply to it."

"Oh."

"What you learn from me," he says, "is vitally important. I expect you to treat it as such. I will accept only the best from you, Percy Jackson."

I mean, sure, it was kind of cool on tournament days, when he dressed up in a suit of Roman armor and shouted: "What ho!" and challenged us, swordpoint against chalk, to run to the board and name every Greek and Roman person who had ever lived, and their mother, and what god they worshipped. But Mr. Brunner expected me to be as good as everybody else, despite the fact that I have dyslexia and attention deficit disorder and I had never made above a C– in my life. No—he didn't expect me to be as good; he expected me to be better. And I just couldn't learn all those names and facts, much less spell them correctly.

I mumble something about trying harder, while Mr. Brunner takes one long sad look at the stele, like he'd been at this girl's funeral.

He tells me to go outside and eat my lunch.

The class gathers on the front steps of the museum, where we can watch the foot traffic along Fifth Avenue.

Overhead, a huge storm is brewing, with clouds blacker than I'd ever seen over the city. I figure maybe it was global warming or something, because the weather all across New York state had been weird since Christmas. We'd had massive snow storms, flooding, wildfires from lightning strikes. I wouldn't have been surprised if this was a hurricane blowing in.

Nobody else seems to notice, though. Some of the guys are pelting pigeons with Lunchables crackers. Nancy Bobofit is trying to pickpocket something from a lady's purse, and, of course, Mrs. Dodds isn't seeing a thing.

Grover and I sit on the edge of the fountain, away from the others. We thought that maybe if we did that, everybody wouldn't know we were from that school—the school for loser freaks who couldn't make it elsewhere.

"Detention?" Grover asked.

"Nah," I said. "Not from Brunner. I just wish he'd lay off me sometimes. I mean—I'm not a genius, not like (Y/n). She seems to know everything."

Grover doesn't say anything for a while. Then, when I think he is going to give me some deep philosophical comment to make me feel better, he asks, "Can I have your apple?"

I don't have much of an appetite, so I let him take it.

I watch the stream of cabs going down Fifth Avenue, and think about my mom's apartment, only a little ways uptown from where we sit. I hadn't seen her or my sister since Christmas. I want so bad to jump in a taxi and head home. Mom and (Y/n) would hug me and be glad to see me, but Mom would be disappointed, too. She'd send me right back to Yancy, remind me that I had to try harder, even if this was my sixth school in six years and I was probably going to be kicked out again. I couldn't be able to stand that sad look she'd give me.

Mr. Brunner parked his wheelchair at the base of the handicapped ramp. He ate celery while he read a paperback novel. A red umbrella stuck up from the back of his chair, making it look like a motorized café table.

I am about to unwrap my sandwich when Nancy Bobofit appears in front of me with her ugly friends—I guess she'd gotten tired of stealing from the tourists—and dumps her half-eaten lunch in Grover's lap.

"Oops." She grins at me with her crooked teeth. Her freckles are orange, as if somebody had spray-painted her face with liquid Cheetos.

I try to stay cool. The school counselor had told me a million times, "Count to ten, get control of your temper." But I am so mad my mind went blank. A wave roars in my ears.

I don't remember touching her, but the next thing I knew, Nancy is sitting on her butt in the fountain, screaming, "Percy pushed me!"

Mrs. Dodds materialized next to us.

Some of the kids were whispering: "Did you see—"

"—the water—"

"—like it grabbed her—"

I don't know what they were talking about. All I know is that I was in trouble again.

As soon as Mrs. Dodds is sure poor little Nancy was okay, promising to get her a new shirt at the museum gift shop, etc., etc., Mrs. Dodds turns on me. There was a triumphant fire in her eyes as if I'd done something she'd been waiting for all semester. "Now, honey—"

"I know," I grumble. "A month erasing workbooks." That wasn't the right thing to say.

"Come with me," Mrs. Dodds says.

"Wait!" Grover yelps. "It was me. I pushed her."

I stare at him, stunned. I can't believe he was trying to cover for me. Mrs. Dodds scared Grover to death.

She glares at him so hard his whiskery chin trembled.

"I don't think so, Mr. Underwood," she says.

"But—"

"You—will—stay—here."

Grover looks at me desperately.

"It's okay, man," I tell him. "Thanks for trying."

"Honey," Mrs. Dodds barks at me. "Now."

Nancy Bobofit smirks. I give her my deluxe I'll-kill-you-later stare. Then I turn to face Mrs. Dodds, but she isn't there. She is standing at the museum entrance, way at the top of the steps, gesturing impatiently at me to come on.

How'd she get there so fast?

I have moments like that a lot, when my brain falls asleep or something, and the next thing I know I've missed something, as if a puzzle piece fell out of the universe and left me staring at the blank place behind it. The school counselor told me this was part of the ADHD, my brain misinterpreting things.

I wasn't so sure. I go after Mrs. Dodds.

Halfway up the steps, I glance back at Grover. He is looking pale, cutting his eyes between me and Mr. Brunner, like he wanted Mr. Brunner to notice what was going on, but Mr. Brunner is absorbed in his novel.

I look back up. Mrs. Dodds had disappeared again. She is now inside the building, at the end of the entrance hall.

Okay, I think. She's going to make me buy a new shirt for Nancy at the gift shop.

But apparently, that wasn't the plan.

I follow her deeper into the museum. When I finally catch up to her, we are back in the Greek and Roman section.

Except for us, the gallery is empty.

Mrs. Dodds stands with her arms crossed in front of a big marble frieze of the Greek gods. She is making this weird noise in her throat, like growling.

Even without the noise, I would've been nervous. It's weird being alone with a teacher, especially Mrs. Dodds. Something about the way she looked at the frieze as if she wanted to pulverize it...

"You've been giving us problems, honey," she says.

I do the safe thing. I reply, "Yes, ma'am."

She tugs on the cuffs of her leather jacket. "Did you really think you would get away with it?"

The look in her eyes is beyond mad. It was evil.

She's a teacher, I thought nervously. It's not like she's going to hurt me. I say, "I'll—I'll try harder, ma'am."

Thunder shakes the building.

"We are not fools, Percy Jackson," Mrs. Dodds said. "It was only a matter of time before we found you out. Confess, and you will suffer less pain."

I didn't know what she's talking about.

All I can think of was that the teachers must've found the illegal stash of candy I'd been selling out of my dorm room. Or maybe they'd realized I got my essay on Tom Sawyer from the Internet without ever reading the book and now they were going to take away my grade. Or worse, they were going to make me read the book.

"Well?" she demands.

"Ma'am, I don't..."

"Your time is up," she hisses.

Then the weirdest thing happens. Her eyes begin to glow like barbecue coals. Her fingers stretch, turning into talons. Her jacket melts into large, leathery wings. She isn't human. She is a shriveled hag with bat wings and claws and a mouth full of yellow fangs, and she was about to slice me to ribbons.

Then things got even stranger.

Mr. Brunner, who'd been out in front of the museum a minute before, wheels his chair into the doorway of the gallery, holding a pen in his hand.

"What ho, Percy!" he shouts and tosses the pen through the air.

Mrs. Dodds lunges at me.

With a yelp, I dodge and feel talons slash the air next to my ear. I snatch the ballpoint pen out of the air, but when it hits my hand, it isn;t a pen anymore. It is a sword—Mr. Brunner's bronze sword, which he always uses on tournament day.

Mrs. Dodds spins towards me with a murderous look in her eyes.

My knees are jelly. My hands are shaking so bad I almost drop the sword.

She snarl, "Die, honey!" And she flies straight at me.

Absolute terror runs through my body. I did the only thing that came naturally: I swing the sword.

The metal blade hits her shoulder and passes clean through her body as if she was made of water. Hisss!

Mrs. Dodds was a sandcastle in a power fan. She explodes into yellow powder, vaporizing on the spot, leaving nothing but the smell of sulfur and a dying screech and a chill of evil in the air, as if those two glowing red eyes are still watching me.

I'm alone.

There is a ballpoint pen in my hand.

Mr. Brunner isn't there. Nobody is there but me.

My hands are still trembling. My lunch must've been contaminated with magic mushrooms or something.

Had I imagined the whole thing?

I walk back outside.

It had started to rain.

Grover is sitting by the fountain, a museum map tented over his head. Nancy Bobofit is still standing there, soaked from her swim in the fountain, grumbling to her ugly friends. When she sees me, she says, "I hope Mrs. Kerr whipped your butt."

I answer, "Who?"

"Our teacher. Duh!"

I blink. We don't have a teacher named Mrs. Kerr. I ask Nancy what she is talking about.

She just rolls her eyes and turns away.

I ask Grover where Mrs. Dodds was.

"Who?" he asks, but he pauses first and he wouldn't look at me, so I figure he was messing with me.

"Not funny, man," I tell him. "This is serious."

Thunder booms overhead.

I see Mr. Brunner sitting under his red umbrella, reading his book as if he'd never moved.

I go over to him.

He looks up, a little distracted. "Ah, that would be my pen. Please bring your own writing utensil in the future, Mr. Jackson."

I had Mr. Brunner his pen. I hadn't even realized I was still holding it.

"Sir," I ask, "where's Mrs. Dodds?"

He stares blankly at me, "Who?"

"The other chaperone. Mrs. Dodds. The pre-algebra teacher."

He frowns and sits forward, looking mildly concerned. "Percy, there is no Mrs. Dodds on this trip. As far as I know, there has never been a Mrs. Dodds at Yancy Academy. Are you feeling all right?"

Word Count: 3159 words

So yeah, this is the first chapter of this book.

Not much (Y/n) yet, but we'll get there.

Love y'all!              Kaitlynn ❤️😍

[agustdiv1ne]

candy hearts — TEASER

♡ READ HERE ♡

pairing: choi yeonjun x reader

genre: childhood best friends to lovers au, fluff, angst

wc: tbd (projected to be 10k+)

summary: spending valentine's day with your best friend had become a sort of tradition for ever since you were seven years old. despite the twists and turns in your friendship as both of you grew up, the one thing that never changed was the box of candy hearts that he placed in your hands every year.

warnings: tbd, none in this snippet

TEASER

tuesday, february 14th; age 12

you leaned your head against your palm as you zoned out in your last period class. science had never been your favorite subject, even less so given that your teacher had been informally dubbed the school's wack job. 

as the day had dragged on, you realized that the holiday wasn't as widely celebrated in middle school. the so-called 'special' day was reserved solely for the few couples on campus, most of which had been dating for only a couple weeks. you bet most would be broken up by next month, the typical cycle for immature, hormone-riddled relationships. 

but back to your science class.

you felt your eyes nearly roll into your skull as your teacher excitedly explained the concept of genetics and punnet squares. what a riveting topic to listen to for an hour on valentine's day. however, you couldn't focus on his boisterous ramblings when your mind was chock-full of bitter thoughts of how your best friend had decided that he couldn't be seen with you at school. 

okay, maybe not back to your science class. you were too distracted, too bothered, to concentrate.

because while yeonjun had promised to not leave you behind in middle school, it grew exceedingly obvious, as the year went on, that he had lied straight to your face. this holiday was only a painful reminder of that fact.

you couldn't entirely blame him, though, the vast sea of middle school causing you to slowly drift apart from each other as you both tried to find where you fit in. he had made new friends easily, the shy boy you once knew emerged from his shell, countless peers recognizing him for his impressive talents in baseball, in dance, in singing, the list could go on. he was good at everything that he tried his hand at, and by the middle of seventh grade, he had become the campus' golden boy. even the eighth graders knew him!

this came with a cost, however, and that was leaving you, his best friend of five years, behind (for the most part, at least).

you had found your own friends, of course. you had to, or else you would have been deemed a loner, and no one wants to be a loner in middle school. it was uncomfortable, having to talk to people you had never interacted with beforehand. despite this, you had found yourself a little group through your art class: yeri, chaeyoung, and yuqi. they had welcomed you into their trio easily. though it felt weird to have friends other than yeonjun for the first time, you were happy. well, uh, besides the whole yeonjun thing.

with only one class with him, it was easy to not speak to each other during school. your hangouts were now confined to after school, when he wasn't surrounded by his new friends and could make time for you. you never tried to talk to him about it, scared that he'd twist your words and it would destroy what semblance of friendship that remained between you. honestly, you wished that you could go back to elementary school, when things were easier, when you could talk to him at school without worrying about the consequences of doing so. 

yet you knew it wasn't that easy. this wasn't elementary school anymore.

your eyes subconsciously trailed over to the boy in question. you were supposed to hang out with him after school, but there was always that one insecurity that rattled around your mind:

what if this was the year that he finally blew you off? for good? 

you shook your head, going back to the worksheet your teacher had passed out as you were distracted by your thoughts. punnet squares, okay. one parent with a dominant and recessive gene, one parent with two recessive genes. now fill in the squares…

"hey, y/n."

your head shot up from at the sound of his voice. eyes wide at the fact that he was speaking to you at school. it had been months since he had last done so.

"oh, hi yeonjun. what did you need?" you sent him a tight smile, not that he noticed. twelve year-old boys were never most observant.

he placed a box of candy hearts, the same thing he gifted you every year, on top of your desk. it was blank, no message or name in sight.

"i wanted to give you this before i forgot and it got crushed in my backpack." his voice quietened, almost as if he didn't want anyone to hear what he had to say next, "we're still hanging out after school, right? like we always do?"

you nodded, and he shot you a small smile, "great, thanks."

he walked away. as soon as he sat back down in his seat, his friends were punching at his shoulder, teasing him, asking him if he was dating you. you could hear it all from where you were sitting, but you wished you couldn't after what he said next.

"me? with her? no way, we're just friends. i could never see her like that."

you never truly realized how much he truly meant to you until you no longer hung out until after school, but this? this hurt. it made your chest ache when you saw his borderline disgusted face at the insinuation that you were dating each other. what was so bad about you for him to have that reaction? was it your hair, your face, your acne? you found yourself mentally paging through every possible flaw you saw in yourself until the bell rang, signalling the end of school. 

yuqi walked up to you at the front of campus, immediately spotting the forlorn look on your face, "hey, you good?"

"uh, yeah, i guess. listen, i have to go meet up with yeonjun. catch you later?" you asked.

"yeonjun, huh? are you sure you're not dating him?" she smirked, and you rolled your eyes, your mood worsening even more.

"we're just friends," you spat, turning away from her, "he'd never like me like that, anyway. i have no chance with him. i'll see you later, yuqi."

the further you walked, the worse you felt about how you spoke to yuqi. she didn't deserve to deal with the brunt of your wrath, it was uncalled for. you wanted to run back to school and apologize, but you were sure she had already been picked up.

you'd have to make it up to her tomorrow.

as you neared the supermarket a few blocks down the street from school, you could see yeonjun waiting near the entrance, his foot tapping against the sidewalk impatiently. his bike sat next to him, which explained how he arrived much earlier than you.

"took you long enough," he teased as you approached, but you didn't answer, only sending him a half-hearted smile in return. his grin fell, eyebrows now furrowed. oh, now he noticed how you were feeling? typical. "you okay?"

that was the second time you had been asked that now. you wanted to say no, you definitely were not okay, that it hurt to hear him say those words earlier, that it hurt that you couldn't even talk to him during school. you wanted to tell him that you felt abandoned, you wanted to tell him that he broke the promise he made a year ago, that ever since the first day of seventh grade you felt left behind. you wanted to ask him why he even bothered hanging out with you when he couldn't bother even speaking to you at school.

but you didn't.

instead, you plastered an artificial smile on your face, trying to make your voice sound a little more energetic than you felt, "yeah! i guess i'm just tired. science wasn't exactly fun today, y'know?"

"tell me about it," he laughed as he walked beside you, easily accepting your excuse without prying. you wished that he would have pried. "he's the weirdest teacher i've ever had, i can't believe he hasn't been fired yet."

"right?" you replied as you walked down the aisle full of candy. you picked out one of the overpriced boxes of heart-shaped chocolates before walking up to the register. you tried to hand some of your money to the lady helping you, but yeonjun swatted your hand away.

"nuh-uh, you're not paying for this," he argued.

"but-"

"no."

you visibly deflated, scrunching your nose at him in distaste. he simply grinned at you in response.

"ah, young love," the cashier sighed as she took yeonjun's money. your heart clenched, thanking her before you two walked outside again, the air cool against your skin, the sun glaring into your eyes, the weather the complete opposite of your mood. you glanced over at yeonjun. you wondered why he hadn't protested when she said that. you didn't ask.

his hand found yours, dragging you around the corner behind the building. your heart raced, skin heating up slightly at the contact. your reaction couldn't have meant anything. no, you couldn't like him like that. you were friends, nothing more, nothing less.

as you sat next to each other behind the supermarket, unwrapping and eating the chocolate that he had bought you just a few minutes ago, you realized that you really couldn't deny it anymore: you were in love with choi yeonjun, your best friend, and you couldn't do anything about it.

hope y'all are excited :) if you would like to be tagged when the full fic is posted, please send me an ask!

→ © to agustdiv1ne. do not copy, repost, steal, and/or translate.

[retrogradedreaming]

heyyyyyy if you wanna write more sk8 prompt / headcanon things,,, may i request (imma give you options because i am ✨indecisive✨and don't know what you'd want to write lol)

okay so shadow giving the group friendship bracelets (idk how you feel about writing for shadow hence the other options because i panicked and this was the first thing i thought of lol)

or langa just sitting down and talking to carla because i feel like he would (also kind of a weird one lol)

or uhhh oH you like matchablossom ! joe feeling self-conscious about acne scars (or having acne as a teen ???) and cherry telling him that he's beautiful (in whatever way cherry would iuygfyuhi)

sorry for three options lol this is also partially a way to procrastinate doing my homework ✌🏻so thank you for providing me a means of distraction anYWAYS HAVE A GOOD DAY iuhgcfghuijokijhgv

Sorry this took a while!! I went with the first prompt for a challenge and it ended up WAY longer than I thought. I hope you like it! And thanks for sending these! I love the other ideas, too, so I might come back to them.

---

If there was anything Shadow knew, it was how to curate an image. At work, he created arrangements and bouquets to say exactly what the customer wanted. When he skated, he was the clown punk of the S community. Until recently, he’d never let those identities overlap. Now that they had, it felt almost like forming a third persona—except this wasn’t one he had to work so hard to maintain.

He’d started making the bracelets offhandedly at work on a slow afternoon at the flower shop, braiding and weaving colorful thread from the supply drawer. They normally used it to dress up orders, but there was so much that they wouldn’t miss a few feet. He didn’t realize that he was making them for his new group of friends until he’d finished the second one, and by then it seemed a waste not to finish the job. Now that he had friends who knew and actually liked both sides of him, he felt like they deserved...something. Something to show them what it meant to him, that it mattered.

And yet, once he’d finished them all, the idea of giving them to everyone made his chest tighten as he thought that maybe they’d all judge him after all. As Shadow, it was easier to pretend not to care, but he couldn’t pretend it wouldn’t mean something—something he didn’t want it to mean—if they did.

Still, the next night he showed up at S, five bracelets laden with charms and beads clacking together in his pocket. He swore he could hear them, even with the crowd around him. His palms sweat beneath his gloves, and he was only grateful that no one else could see how nervous he was behind his makeup. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this nervous, even for a beef. This should be easy. His friends wouldn’t just reject him over some bracelets. And if they took them home and threw them away, well...at least he wouldn’t be there to see it, so what did he care?

“Hey, you good, Shadow?”

Shadow jumped, and it was only when he stopped to look for the source of the voice that he noticed that he’d walked right by the same people he’d been looking for. Reki leaned forward, one foot on his board, looking intently at Shadow and obviously expecting an answer.

“Of course I’m good,” Shadow barked, but Reki didn’t seem convinced. He raised a brow and shrugged, shoving one hand in his pocket and absently raising one of his hoodie strings to put it between his teeth.

“If you say so,” Reki said, settling back against Langa’s shoulder. “You seem kinda weird tonight, though.”

“What do you mean weird?” Shadow shouted, voice low and gravelly. “I’m supposed to be weird! It’s not my fault you don’t know what it means to get into character.”

“He’s right, though,” Miya chimed in. “It’s outside your normal weirdness, and it’s kind of creeping me out.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” Shadow exclaimed, and his heart sank. This was exactly what he’d been afraid of, and part of him was already shoving his plan to the back of his mind, ready to leave the bracelets in his pocket and toss them himself once he got home. He could do it, and no one would know but him.

“It’s true,” Cherry mused from where he stood in Joe’s shadow. “You don’t usually look so...bothered when you’re here.”

“Listen—” Shadow began, whipping his hand from his pocket, only to hear a soft clacking as two of the bracelets hit the ground—the one he’d intended for Reki, bright red and decorated with beads of different sizes and a bright orange alstroemeria flower charm, and the other for Langa, soft blue thread woven simply with a white gerbera.

“What’s that?” Miya asked before Shadow could scoop them up and hide them again. He almost did anyway, almost tried to pass them off as some trick meant for a beef he wasn’t even skating tonight. In the end, he resigned himself to risking every single friendship he’d built over the past several months, and sighed as he held out the bracelets to Reki and Langa.

“I made them,” he said, and his voice lost some of the edge he reserved for his S persona. “Sorry I didn’t wrap them or anything. I didn’t wanna do anything too fancy, y’know? Anyway, if you hate it, at least wait until I’m not around to get rid of ‘em.”

Reki took his without hesitation, Langa picking his own up out of Shadow’s palm like he might break it if he weren’t careful. Reki twisted the beads between his fingers, rubbing them over the different sizes like they were a miniature skating course as a grin spread across his face. Langa immediately tried putting his on, fumbling until Reki paused long enough to help him tie it around his wrist.

“It’s soft,” Langa said, running his fingertips over the delicate braiding, and that told Shadow all he needed to know. Langa was particular about textures, and he always stuck with the same clothing brands because he knew how the fabric felt. Shadow knew to take it as a compliment when Langa left the bracelet on.

A weight felt like it had lifted from Shadow’s shoulders, and he let himself relax. He took the last three bracelets from his pocket, offering the next to Miya. The vibrant purple thread stood out next to the others, and it was the only one he’d added an extra charm to—a silver cat paw—along with the freesia he’d chosen for the youngest member of their group.

“I didn’t know a slime could make something so tasteful,” Miya remarked as he let Shadow tie it around his wrist.

“Watch who you’re calling a slime,” Shadow growled, though there was almost no bite behind the words. “I can always take that back.”

“After all that just to take it out of your pocket?” Miya scoffed, flicking the paw with a finger. “You wouldn’t.”

It was true, Shadow thought, as he turned to give the last two to Cherry and Joe. He wouldn’t dare take them back when his friends actually seemed to like them, and even more than that seemed grateful to receive them. It was what he’d hoped for, but he’d also learned by now to hope for the best and expect the worst so he didn’t get too disappointed if things didn’t work out. After all, so few things in his life had happened as he expected, for better or worse, and now, as he handed over a thin pink and brown woven bracelet and another green and woven like thick rope, he wanted to savor this thing that had.

“Hey, it’s not a cherry blossom,” Joe pointed out as he peered sideways at Cherry’s bracelet.

“Yeah, I thought it would be too obvious,” Shadow said, rubbing the back of his neck.

“The zinnia is appropriate,” Cherry said, eyes roving over Shadow’s handiwork as if he were trying to find fault. And yet, when he took his eyes away from it, he gave Shadow a smile that Shadow recognized as the same one he practiced for most others at S—except this one reached his eyes. “A symbol of acclaim and enduring friendship, correct? Certainly more refined than jealousy.”

“What do you mean?” Joe demanded when Cherry gestured to the bracelet in his hands.

“A yellow rose stands for jealousy,” Cherry said matter-of-factly.

“It means friendship, too,” Shadow cut in before their squabbling could turn into a full blown argument. What he didn’t say was that he knew yellow roses also symbolized jealousy. He worked at a flower shop, after all, and had put together enough subtle spite bouquets for people forced into occasions they didn’t want to attend that he of course knew all the various meanings of different flowers. Roses were some of the most versatile, and he’d hoped no one would pick up on the alternate meaning—the one that said he envied Joe’s strength as much as he valued his friendship.

“Put it on for me,” Cherry said, holding the bracelet out to Joe and lifting the hem of his pants to reveal his ankle.

“Sure, princess,” Joe said, taking the bracelet and stooping to the ground.

“Where’s yours?” Langa asked, eyes migrating to Shadow’s wrists, clad only in his spiked gloves. Shadow followed his gaze, turning his hands over absently, as if he didn’t already know he’d never made himself a bracelet.

“I didn’t make myself one,” he said. “It’s kinda weird to make a friendship bracelet for yourself.”

“I don’t think so,” Langa mused. “You’re our friend, so you shouldn’t be the only one without a bracelet.”

“Hey, yeah,” Reki said, grasping Shadow’s hand and inspecting his wrist like if he looked hard enough, a bracelet would materialize.

Shadow pulled his hand away. “It’s not a big deal. I made those for you guys because you’re the only people who know this me and the other me. I just wanted to do something to show that I...well…”

“That you care,” Miya supplied, and Shadow was glad that his mask covered the heat that rose to his face.

“Whatever,” he muttered, only to catch Reki and Joe both grinning out of the corner of his eye.

“It’s still not the same if you don’t have one,” Reki said, tapping at the beads on his own bracelet. He thought for a moment, and just as Shadow opened his mouth to say it was fine, that he’d make himself one eventually if it was that big a deal, Reki’s face lit up. Before Shadow could ask about it, the group was already dissolving to skate, each person wearing their respective bracelets.

The next time they gathered at S, Reki gave Shadow a gift of his own—a bracelet woven in orange thread bearing a yellow chrysanthemum.

[inkedstarlight]

Bittersweet: Chapter Ten

Summary: It's the first Christmas in six years where the three Archeron sisters will all be celebrating together, and Nesta struggles with feelings of guilt. Also her new neighbor gets on her nerves, making things a little awkward during their Christmas celebration. Notes: Read it here on AO3! Warnings: brief mentions of self-harm and depression, PTSD Bittersweet Masterlist

She stared into the water’s depths. Most pools were crystal blue, lapping quietly under the sunshine. This one was different. The water seemed to be thicker, like it was heavy. Dark like an ocean during a storm. Violent, unceasing. But confined neatly in the underground walls of the pool.

Nesta’s toes were at the edge as she stared into the water with a contemplative stare. She could barely see her reflection on the pool’s surface, for it was distorted and translucent and almost ceasing to exist. No matter how hard she squinted her eyes, she couldn’t tell what she looked like to everyone else.

It was silent around her. So quiet that the only audible sound was her shallow breaths. Just Nesta and the water and the night. She closed her eyes.

But all serenity was lost when hands pushed her from behind, launching her into the pool face first.

 She had been right. The water was heavy. That was the first thing she noticed as she sunk lower and lower into the pool, struggling to keep afloat. Nesta squinted her eyes open but it was dark, as if she were alone in space among nothing but stars.

Except there were no stars below the surface. There was nothing down here.

Nesta tried to use her arms to propel herself upward, to no avail. Her limbs were moving in slow motion, her kicking legs barely moving an inch. She tried and tried and tried, but she only kept sinking downward instead.

 Her throat constricted with terror as she realized she wasn’t going to make it.

Nesta’s feet hit the bottom of the pool. She raised her eyes skyward. Somehow, she could now see what awaited above the water’s surface. The water above was no longer opaque; she could easily see through it as if it were a normal pool. But she knew it was anything but. Nesta noticed that, despite the transparent surface, the black water that directly surrounded her still remained. It was like she was trapped in a bubble of her own darkness, light unable to protrude within.

 A shadow reflected off the pool's surface as a figure approached the edge. Her mother stared down at her. She looked so far away, but Nesta could see every pore of her being. A twisted smile played at the curve of her mother's lips.

 “I told you no one would ever love you.” Her voice was muffled, but Nesta heard it as if it had been shouted into her ears. The words rang in her head, echoing what her mother had said over and over again.

Nesta clutched her wrist instinctively, squeezing tight and feeling nothing. Her lower lip trembled, but no tears escaped her eyes.

You were right, Nesta tried to say. But when she opened her mouth, she only inhaled water. Nesta choked as she felt it drip into her lungs.

A dark figure stepped beside her mother.

“It was your fault,” Tomas sneered down at her. An empty bottle of whiskey was in his hand.

I know, she tried again, only allowing more water into her mouth. Nesta clawed at her throat as if she could release the water that was burning in her lungs.

Her father appeared next.

“You're the most selfish person I know,” he accused. Disappointment was written all over his face. “You are useless to this family."

 Nesta agreed. She choked on another mouthful of water.

Then, she came to the edge of the pool. Her hair was a mousy brown. It could have been beautiful if it weren’t twisted in knots full of neglect. Nesta could nearly see every bone in her body. Her teeth rotting from starvation, her skin bumpy with acne. She was fragile, but her eyes could destroy. Her arms were exposed, red crisscrossed cuts visible all over. It was like looking at Death itself.

“You don’t deserve to live," the girl's voice - Nesta's voice - was cold and unforgiving.

This time, Nesta didn’t say anything. She didn't have to.

She just opened her mouth and invited the water to fill her lungs. A small, haunted smile played at her lips as she drowned.

Everything turned black.

The water went still.

Nesta awoke with a gasp only to be blinded by the bright light of the morning. Sunlight peered through the half-closed blinds and into her dusty bedroom. She looked down to see that the sheets were tangled up around her sweaty body, the comforter thrown completely off the bed. A quick glance at the clock told her it was just past eleven.

She noticed Iroh staring at her from the foot of her bed as if he were waiting for her to wake up. She patted the empty space next to her and he immediately slinked his way closer to her. With a quick nose-boop and a lick on her chin, he purred as Nesta gently stroked his impossibly soft fur. She tried to control her breathing as she comforted Iroh.

Her night terrors were getting worse. She’d always had them, sure, but they’d never been this frequent - nor this vivid - since her undergraduate years in college. Now, they were happening nearly every night. Often enough that Nesta didn’t even bother to try to sleep some nights. She was scared to see what her consciousness had in store for her when she conceded to sleep.

Nesta wiped off the sweat on her forehead and pinched the bridge of her nose. Her head ached painfully, most likely due to the millions of thoughts that were constantly circling in her head. She checked her phone and groaned when she noticed the date. She’d completely forgotten today was Christmas.

With a heavy sigh, Nesta managed to heave herself off the messily made bed. With a quick look at the sheets, she noticed the wet spot on the pillow, most likely from tears that were shed throughout the night.

Pathetic.

Opening her door and padding to the kitchen, Nesta noticed the wreath Elain must've hung on their door. It looked like a massive flower crown rather than a wreath. It screamed "Elain."

Before Nesta could make her way to the fridge to take a couple sips of whatever the fuck kind of alcohol they had, something else caught her eye as she passed the front door.

She stopped dead in her tracks.

“Elain!” she called out for her sister, her eyes still on the door, unwavering.

Elain popped her head from the kitchen archway. Her cheeks were covered in flour, and she was wearing her chef hat. She looked adorable. “Merry Christmas, sleepyhead! What's up?”

Nesta pointed to the very obvious new locks that were now on their door frame. “Did you install new locks on our door?”

Elain followed her gesture and seemed to hesitate. “Er, no... not exactly.”

Nesta tapped her foot on the floor and waited for her to finish.

Elain raised her hands in surrender and sighed. “Okay, okay. Cassian may have come by early this morning.” Nesta’s mouth dropped to the floor. “I tried to pay him but he said it was a Christmas gift.”

Elain must've seen the anger on Nesta's face. She knew – both from what Nesta had told her and the behavior she’d noticed – that Nesta wasn’t exactly a huge fan of Cassian. Sensing that Nesta was seconds away from stomping her way to Cassian's apartment, Elain called out, "Nesta, just wait - "

But she was unable to finish her sentence. Nesta was already storming out the door and up the stairs to the third floor.

Air whooshed in her ears as she climbed up the stairs. She was pissed. No, that was an understatement. She was livid.

Why the fuck did Cassian find the need to insert himself into their lives beyond the “family” dinners they attended? She had no interest in seeing his face outside of Feyre's house. She didn't want him to interfere with her and Elain's lives. It wasn't like they needed help - she certainly didn't need his help.

What’s he playing at?

As she approached Cassian's door, a thought wiggled its way through the angry cloud in her head.

Nesta wondered... wondered if she would have been this bothered if she hadn't awoken to that nightmare this morning. Would she even pay Cassian any mind? Would she perhaps be thankful for what he did?

She scoffed inwardly. No, her moodiness was Cassian's doing. He was responsible. And he was going to pay for pissing her off.

She banged loudly on the door, not a care in the world if she woke up his neighbors.

A few seconds passed before the door opened, revealing Cassian. He was wearing a white tee and low-hanging, grey sweatpants, hair sticking out in every which way. His eyes were red with exhaustion as if he’d only gotten an hour or two of sleep. Dark purple shadows were under his eyes. Gods, he looked horrible.

It was then that Nesta remembered what she’d overheard from Rhys and Feyre’s conversation the other night.

He's not the same.

Do you even notice how lost your own fucking brother is?

I don't want to lose him.

In all honesty, Nesta forgot that Cassian had been in the Marines for five months. Maybe it was because he - along with everyone else - hadn't even mentioned it since meeting Nesta.

On the other hand, his physique was certainly a reminder of the time he served.

But Nesta blocked out her sister and Rhysand's conversation. She wouldn't allow herself to have an ounce of sympathy for this man.

Nesta didn’t waste a second as she shoved a twenty-dollar bill in his face. “Here.”

She was prepared to storm away from him right after, but she paused as he looked down at the money with a puzzled expression. “Uh, what –“

“For the locks,” Nesta explained impatiently. You dumb oaf, she wanted to add.

Cassian looked up from the money and raised a brow at her. Shaking his head, he extended it back to her. “I don’t want it.”

“It’s not a request,” Nesta seethed. “Take the damn money. I don’t want your charity.”

“Charity?” he repeated, baffled. She noticed that his hand tightened around the money he held.

Nesta only narrowed her eyes in response.

He sighed and leaned on the doorframe, realizing that this wasn’t going to be an amicable conversation. “It’s not charity.”

“Isn’t it though?”

“No,” Cassian told her, finality in his tone. He was getting frustrated. Good. “It’s a friendly gesture because I was the one who broke them in the first place.”

They both glared at each other.

“I don’t want to be your friend,” Nesta spat, craning her neck just to be able to glare into his eyes. Gods, he was tall.

“I never asked you to be my friend,” he growled impatiently. His voice was getting louder. Sighing, Cassian tried to compose himself. “Rhys – who will more than likely become your brother-in-law – is my brother. That means we,” he gestured between them, “are going to see a lot of each other, whether you like it or not.”

Nesta chewed her bottom lip in contemplation. She wasn’t quite sure what it was about Cassian, but there was something that just… irked her. Maybe it was his arrogant attitude or the way he taunted her or the way he reminded her of herself. Either way, he was a thorn on her side and she wanted him out of her life. But she knew that wasn’t quite a possibility, unless she decided to up and leave her family again.

That wasn’t an option though. Not this time. Not again.

“If I could get your brother out of my sister's damn life, I wouldn't hesitate for a second," Nesta snapped. "But for some reason, Feyre likes your fucked up family. So just stay out of my fucking way, okay?”

She didn't care how cruel it was. She wanted to get a reaction out of him.

She wanted him to hate her.

Cassian stared at her speechlessly for a moment. He opened and closed his mouth, trying to find the words, but decided against it. He turned away to close the door in her face.

Nesta scoffed at his back, just loud enough for him to hear.

Cassian stopped in his tracks, turning slowly to face her once more.

“You know, I thought maybe we could be friends,” he laughed humorlessly. “I thought the locks could be a peace offering. But then you opened your mouth and Gods, was that just a fucking treat,” he spat out before taking a step closer to her. "Insult me, that's fine. But insult my family again, and I'll make the time we spend together a living hell."

Nesta’s fists clenched tightly at his words. "You've already done that."

Cassian shot her a smirk. "What can I say? It's pretty entertaining to watch you lose control."

 Ugh!

“Gods, you’re insufferable!”

“Merry Christmas to you too, Nesta," he sang before slamming the door in her face.

“Fuck you," she told him, but it was too late. Cassian had already gotten the last word in.

It wasn’t until she got back to her apartment did she realize that the twenty-dollar bill had been slipped into the pocket of her jacket.

She cursed Cassian all the way to hell.

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

It was about five o’clock in the evening when Elain and Nesta drove to Mor and Aurra’s house; they took turns hosting every once in a while. It was dark outside, the lampposts on the side of the street providing a soft, yellow glow. In its light, the flurries of snow were visible as they floated down, down, down. The radio was on, a Christmas tune playing quietly in the background. Elain was staring out the window, dessert in lap, as Nesta drove.

Nesta was tapping her thumb on the steering wheel when Elain turned to her.

“You know, we haven’t spent a Christmas together in…” Elain trailed off as she tried to count.

“Six years,” Nesta finished quietly. She didn’t need to do the math. No, she knew exactly how many years ago she’d lost her family.

A contemplative silence grew between them. Nesta shifted uncomfortably, her words hanging in the air.

“Well,” Elain murmured, turning to look at Nesta. She reached across the center console and took the hand that was resting on Nesta’s lap. “I’m happy we’re together. I… I hope we spend the holidays together even after this year.”

We will, Nesta promised silently. She wasn’t sure if it was a promise to herself or to Elain. It didn't matter because she had every intention of keeping it.

They turned onto Mor and Aurra’s street and pulled up to their driveway. There were several cars parked next to each other. Nesta recognized Feyre and Amren’s car. Her eyes slid to the one next to Amren’s. She recognized it from her building’s parking garage. Cassian.

Elain began unbuckling her seatbelt when Nesta stopped her. “I, uh… I actually wanted to give you your gift here,” she explained, biting her lip. “Privately.”

Elain smiled. “Okay.”

Nesta handed her a poorly wrapped box. “I suck at giving gifts, as I’m sure you remember,” she prefaced.

Elain giggled. “How could I forget? That was the best part of every Christmas,” Elain remembered fondly. “Feyre and I would always look forward to getting your gift. Remember that one year you captured all those fireflies in a jar, but when we opened them on Christmas Day, they were all dead?”

Nesta nodded with a little smile "You thought I did it on purpose. You kept screaming 'How could you?!'"

Elain burst out laughing. "I was quite the dramatic."

"No," Nesta murmured. "You're an empath, and I love that about you."

Elain's eyes widened in surprise, but it was quickly replaced by a smile that could melt hearts. "Nesta, I - "

"Just open the damn gift," Nesta joked. Elain conceded, but not before leaning over to plant a small kiss on Nesta's cheek.

Anxiety filled Nesta's stomach as she watched her unwrap the box with a delicacy only Elain could possess.

“It’s…” Elain’s brow twisted as she inspected it. "Cookie cutters?"

Nesta nodded in confirmation. She'd found them online the other week. They were pink plastic formed into different kinds of flowers and very clearly made for kids. But Elain loved pink and flowers, so Nesta was quick to add them to her shopping cart.

"I know that you don't bake cookies that often, and I know they look like they're made for kindergartners, but - "

"I love it!" Elain squealed, clutching them to her chest. "I've never had cookie cutters before!"

Nesta held her breath. "You don't have to pretend like you like them. I have the receipt."

Elain turned her body to her and gave her a reassuring smile. "I'm not pretending. They're from you, and I love them."

The sisters hugged each other before gathering their things and heading to the house.

It was boisterous inside. Christmas music played on the speakers as everyone chatted and laughed with each other. Right as Elain hung her jacket in the closet, Azriel approached her with a smile. She grinned up at him, cheeks flushed as if she'd had a few drinks. He grabbed her hand and pulled her to the living room.

As Nesta walked past the foyer, she saw Cassian talking with Azriel at the bar area. He seemed to sense her stare, because his eyes met hers in just a matter of seconds. She quickly looked away and approached Amren.

"You're looking cute," Amren complimented her as a greeting. Nesta was just wearing a grey knit sweater and dark jeans, her golden hair flowing down her shoulders. She didn't often wear it down.

"You look hot," Nesta shot back with a grin. Amren was always stylish in her clothing. Tonight, she had on a long-sleeved black velvet dress, adorned with a ruby necklace and earrings. "Cute" didn't quite do her justice.

Amren reached behind her and grabbed a full wine glass to hand to Nesta. "Here. You're going to need this."

Nesta gratefully accepted, taking a gulp or two before leveling a stare at her friend. "What does that mean?"

Amren shrugged. "There's always some sort of drama on the holidays. Especially with you and Rhysand in the same room. What's with that?"

Nesta snorted. "I have a feeling my dear sister shared a little too much information about me to her wonderful boyfriend."

"Rhysand can be difficult," Amren agreed, taking a sip from her wine glass. "He just wants to protect people he loves. But with that being said..." Amren leaned in closer and whispered, "He's being a fucking asshole, in my personal opinion."

"Cheers to that."

Just as Nesta was about to tell Amren about her interaction with Cassian that morning, a loud shattering noise interrupted them. Nesta looked to the other side of the room where Elain was staring down at her broken wine glass that had fallen on the floor. Mor came over with a broom and paper towels, and Elain apologized over and over again. Mor just laughed it off and reassured her it was okay.

Everyone resumed their conversations, but Nesta noticed Cassian was frozen in place, his eyes still on the shards of glass that were pooled in dark red wine. He didn't look as though he was breathing, and she saw his hands shaking at his sides. His face was pale like a ghost. He looked... haunted.

Nesta took a step forward but stopped when Rhys walked up to Cassian. He leaned in close and whispered something. Cassian's stare didn't falter, but he nodded absentmindedly at what Rhysand had said. Then, Rhysand guided him into the hallway. And although they disappeared from her view, Nesta found herself continuing to stare in their direction.

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

Nesta was sitting on the couch after dinner, her third glass of wine in hand, when the cushion next to her sunk with someone’s weight. She looked to the left to see Cassian sitting beside her.

Rhysand and Cassian were gone for about fifteen minutes before returning to the festivities. They both came back looking better, though Cassian remained quieter for the rest of the night. No one mentioned their brief absence.

"I know you saw."

Nesta barely heard his whisper as everyone gathered around the tree in the living room. No one was paying attention to them.

"I don't want your pity."

She didn't even look over to him as she responded. "Good. You don't have it, asshole."

Nesta could have sworn she saw him smile out of the corner of her eye.

As everyone began opening gifts, Nesta moved to the armchair that sat in the corner. It had been a long night, and she was utterly exhausted. She observed as everyone traded gifts. Since Nesta had already given Elain her gift, the only other person she needed to give a present to was Feyre. Luckily, Elain's present for her was arriving late so Nesta didn't have to worry about opening that in front of everyone. She'd assumed that no one else would be expecting a gift from her, nor would they give her something. She'd assumed correctly.

It was nearing nine o'clock when only a few gifts remained under the tree. Nesta's heart stopped when Rhysand handed a present to Elain. She knew he hadn't gotten her one, and that was fine. She didn't give a fuck if Rhysand liked her or not, much less if he gave her a Christmas present. But to make it so apparent in front of everyone? To deliberately not give her a gift? Could he be more of a dick?

Nesta willed herself not to turn red with embarrassment as Elain began opening the gift. She didn't even want to know if anyone noticed.

Elain thanked Rhysand after unwrapping the customized cookbook stand. It was fucking engraved with Elain's name on it. Engraved.

After the final gifts were given out, Nesta looked down at her lap to see what she'd received. Feyre had gotten her a $20 gift card for gas. And that was it.

She didn’t belong here. It was like they were sending the message to her in all caps.

But then Amren threw something at her. And it wasn’t a softball toss – no, she chucked it at Nesta. Caught off by surprise, Nesta just barely caught the neatly wrapped package. She merely looked down at it before raising her eyes to where Amren sat.

Her friend was smirking and tilted her chin at the gift, silently demanding Nesta to open the damn thing.

Everyone watched with curiosity as Nesta opened her gift. She held up what was inside and inspected it.

It was a homemade bracelet. The kind that six-years make for their friends. Only, instead of multi-colored beads, they were just black. And instead of the words "BFFs Forever" or some shit, it said, "Amren is my best fucking friend."

Nesta stared at it. Then she laughed. Not a fake one. A real, loud laugh. A sound she hadn't made in months. It was brief, but it took everyone by surprise.

She grinned across the room at Amren, whose eyes were full of mischief.

Thank you, Nesta mouthed.

Whatever, bitch, Amren responded with a wink.

Everyone around them began to clean up the wrapping paper that littered the floor. Nesta remained seated. She put the bracelet on and admired it.

If Nesta had looked to where Cassian was sitting quietly on the other couch, she would have seen the ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

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

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[hypnoticwinter]

Down the Rabbit Hole part 6

“I’ve never ridden a horse before,” she tells Eileen, and the girl glances over at her. Makado thinks she can detect a little more life behind those dark, sullen eyes, and she offers up a faint smile.

“Yeah?” Eileen asks, and Makado nods, gives her a little shrug.

“Yes,” she says. “I guess - I guess in a way I was always too nervous to.”

“How do you mean?”

“I mean, you’ve seen horses,” Makado says. “They’re enormous. What if the horse you’re going to ride doesn’t like you? It could bite you, or kick you, or -“

Eileen is laughing. Well, maybe not laughing, but it’s definitely a giggle. Definitely a smile, at least. Makado will take it. “No, I’m serious,” she grins. “Horses freak me out! They’re so huge, and -“

“But they’re so gentle,” Eileen says. “The horse I liked to ride back at my grandfather’s place, his name is Dragster, and -“

Makado is laughing too hard for her to continue. “Dragster?” she manages to choke out. “The horse’s name was Dragster?”

“Hey, it’s a good name for a horse!”

“Okay, I’ll take your word for it. Tell me about Dragster, then. Would he like me?”

“Of course he would,” Eileen says. “He likes everybody.”

Makado makes a wry face. “I don’t know, there’s something about me that just rubs horses the wrong way.”

“I thought you said you’d never even seen a horse.”

“I imagine there’s something about me that would rub a horse the wrong way.”

“Have you ever even, like, been close to a horse, or -“

“Okay,” Makado confesses. “Maybe I haven’t. But even so -“

“Can you two quit it with all the horses?” Fitzroy groans. “Ever since Eileen woke up it’s been horses, horses, horses -“

Eileen gives him a scathing glower and Makado rolls her eyes at him. “Yes,” she agrees. “Because you’ve been such a great conversationalist.”

“Whatever,” Fitzroy grumbles. He mutters something under his breath and Makado feels a little spike of anger prick at her, but before she can say anything Eileen reaches over and kicks Fitzroy in the ankle. “Ow! What was that for?”

“For getting us into this in the first place, you shit,” she tells him. “If you hadn’t decided it’d be a fun idea to pick on - “

Makado feels incredibly weary all of a sudden. She lets the bickering fade into the background and instead reaches down, flips her radio to transmit.

“Peter?” Makado asks. She frowns and then pulls out her radio, checks the battery level and the connection. The battery’s fine but the connection screen shows her direct link with Peter was cut. She curses and then switches over to the general channel. “Makado to Peter,” she says. Fitzroy and Tyler look over, then away again.

“Makado to Peter,” she repeats. “Come in please, our link got severed.”

She takes her finger off the call button and waits. With a repeater down, reception will be spotty but at short distances like this Peter should still be able to hear her.

The seconds stretch like taffy. All that she can hear on the radio is squirrelly bursts of static, nothing like a voice or a call.

She can feel the kids’ eyes on her; the static isn’t exactly quiet or innocuous. She counts to ten, slowly in her head, and then at the end of the count clicks the radio off and slips it back into its holster, and then rises from her chair and runs through a quick full-body stretch. “Alright, Mak,” she mutters to herself, eyes flicking over at the kids, voice barely audible. “Hey, guys,” she says, forcing herself to sound bright and cheery. Just like a tour group, she tells herself.

They all look exhausted, Eileen most of all. She’s stopped clutching her wrist so tightly but Makado can see it in her eyes, she just wants to be home in bed and treating this like it was a bad dream.

Makado’s been worried about her. She wasn’t talking much, even when Fitzroy tried to engage her, and even though Makado had gone and sat next to her and Eileen had seemed like she’d been receptive, leaning over on Makado’s shoulder and falling asleep almost immediately while Makado had spoken quietly into the radio to Peter, she’d woken up soon after and gone and sat by herself, staring into space. Makado felt a twinge of dormant maternal instinct somewhere deep in her psyche, looking at the tall, lanky girl. She hadn’t had to take care of her little sister for years, but old habits die hard. She’d rolled her eyes at herself inwardly and then  went over and sat next to her and pestered her and got her to tell her all sorts of things, like how summer school was going (awful), how her mom was making her get a job at the movie theatre for pocket money (yuck) and how her lame-ass dad was taking them all camping in August before school started again (groan).

Makado had felt a little like she were sitting with someone dying of frostbite, trying to keep them from falling asleep, but Eileen had seemed to warm up after a while. She was a horse girl, clearly, and after Makado had found out what her favorite animal was there was a wealth of conversation to dig into.

Makado groans to herself and clears her throat.

“There’s been a change of plans,” she tells them. “I’m going to have to go out and help Peter with something and I’m going to need you all to stay here and sit tight.”

“You’re leaving?” Tyler asks. He looks so young and so scared. They’d been doing alright there in the shelter for a while, now that things had slowed down and the convulsions wracking the Pit had diminished, but Makado knew that that situation could change at the drop of a hat. No point telling them that, though.

“Yes,” she says, “but only for maybe ten, twenty minutes. I’ll be back as soon as I can, I’m not abandoning you. Promise.”

Fitzroy nods; Eileen doesn’t look like she cares one way or another. “What if something gets in?” Tyler asks.

“Nothing’s going to get in,” Makado assures them. “Look,” she says, pointing to the door to the elevator enclosure. “That’s solid. No window, sealed along the cracks. Nothing will be able to see you or smell you from outside.”

“What about the elevator shaft?”

“Those doors take a lot of strength to pry open,” she assures him. “And anything that’s going to be able to wriggle its way past the elevator stuck in the shaft up there is not going to be physically able to open them. It won’t be big or strong enough.”

Fitzroy gives her a blasé look. “Are you just telling us that to make us feel better?”

“No,” she says, giving him a dangerous look. “I’m serious. That elevator door isn’t going to budge. This exit door, take a chair and prop it under the handle once I’m gone if it’ll make you feel better. I’ll knock shave and a haircut when I get back, that way you’ll know it’s me.”

They all look at her with complete incomprehension in her eyes. “No?” she asks. “Shave and a haircut?”

“I literally have no idea what you’re talking about,” Eileen murmurs. Makado makes a face at her.

“Thanks for making me feel old, guys.” She raps it out on the wall. “That. If someone knocks that on the door, let them in.”

“Oh.”

“See. You know what it is, you just didn’t know the name of it. Fitzroy, can I talk to you?”

“Yeah,” he says. Makado rolls her eyes.

“Over here, please.”

Acting like it’s a tremendous burden, Fitzroy gets up and saunters over to her. She leans in close to him. “Look,” she says. “We got off on the wrong foot. I was never going to charge you with anything, I told Peter to take you guys up to the surface and kick you out. We’re on the same side here. Okay?”

Fitzroy stares at her. He has acne scars on his temple and he smells like bodyspray slowly being consumed by several hours’ worth of sweat. His eyes, though, Makado notices, are wide and blue and concerned looking. He has honest eyes. She finds it somehow surprising. “Was that pool really acid?” he asks her softly.

“Yes. The bulb that ranger station is – was in -  that’s essentially a stomach. All that was acid. If Tyler had fallen in he probably would have died or at least been severely hurt.”

“And you aren’t going to charge us for that?”

“Fitzroy. Roy? Do you have a name you prefer?”

“I usually go by my middle name Robert.”

“Robert, you’re a kid. Kids do dumb shit. I’m not going to ruin your life over something where nobody got hurt.”

“But –“

“I’m not the bad guy,” she tells him. “I think after today you’ll probably have learned your lesson.”

“Okay,” he breathes. He looks like he feels a little better.

“I want you to take this,” she says, pulling out her emergency transponder.

“What is it?”

“It’s a rescue beacon, essentially. You break that seal there and then this will come off and there’ll be a button. If you press that, this thing will start screaming for help and somebody will get down here and help you. If me or Peter aren’t back within…let’s say forty-five minutes or so, turn that on.”

“Why not sooner? Or right now?”

Makado thinks about it for a moment. “Because everybody is very busy helping people who need it. Right now, we might be stuck down here, but I promise, I am going to get all of us out of here. Let them help other people first.”

“Okay,” he repeats. He puts his hand around the beacon and puts it into the pocket of his sweatshirt.

“Remember, twist it to break the seal and then press the button.”

“Easy,” he agrees.

“Yeah.” She squeezes his shoulder lightly. “You’re doing great. This will be over soon.”

“Really?”

“If everything works out, yeah. Now I really need to go. Remember to prop a chair against the door when I leave, alright?”

“Okay.”

And then Makado is running a hand through her curly brown hair, gathering it into a tight ponytail. She slips her helmet on and is out the door without giving the kids any time to doubt.

 * * *

 Even though Peter’s conscious mind is frozen, his instincts kick into overdrive as that giant hand descends on him. He snaps his leg out without even thinking about it and digs the cleats into the tender, vulnerable flesh at the heel of the copepod’s palm, and it makes a loud, angry chittering noise, its multifaceted mouthparts working furiously. Peter tries to pull his leg back in time but he can’t move quickly enough before its fingers snap shut around his ankle and it lifts him bodily from the ground and he dangles there, wiggling back and forth. The thing’s grip is tight and uncomfortable and he can feel his ankle bulge in its socket as its fingers squeeze, shifting lightly to get a better grip on him. Its other hand comes up and grabs at him but he twists and it plucks at thin air, then pulls back.

Makado’s voice has gone quiet; not even the faint hiss of static that undercut their conversations earlier is audible. The earpiece is still screwed tightly into his ear so that can’t be the problem, but the familiar weight of the radio in its side holster is no longer present. It must have fallen out when the copepod picked him up.

Peter has never seen a live abyssal copepod in person. He’s heard stories, of course – any ranger who’s worked the Flesh Pit has – but the copepods have an aura of myth around them despite being demonstrable, understandable creatures.

Nobody knows why they have hands. Even the scientists can’t figure it out; extraordinary evolutionary pressure, one of them had told Peter one time, when they’d ended up sitting at the same table in the cafeteria. The depths and challenges of the Pit forcing them to scrabble for any sort of generational advantage they could find. The older rangers and the miners, the ones who worked in the deepest areas of the Pit, where the copepods could usually be found, whispered of stranger explanations, though, but these were usually so outlandish that Peter found them easy to dismiss.

An entire three-day period of ranger training and orientation was dedicated to abyssal copepods. Everything else in the Pit could be put down with gunfire. True, some things like an amorphous shame or a shamble could take quite a bit of punishment, but if you shoot at a copepod there’s no guarantee it’ll do anything. Peter remembers watching the bits of video they’d played that first day, footage of copepod attacks on mining and exploratory trips deep into the Pit. He’d found it hard to believe the footage was real. The copepods had moved so quickly and had been so coordinated, popping up on one side of the dig site and causing a commotion as a distraction while three of them swept in from behind and snatched up four people, one of the copepods, the largest, carrying off two miners at once. The rangers there on the security detail had opened up on the copepods with the automatics they’d had but it had done nothing, the copepods had simply covered their vulnerable faces with their hands and let the bullets sink into their thick flesh or bounce off of their hardened, nacreous exoskeletons without any noticeable effect.

Earl, the grizzled ranger leading the class, had paused the video there and ushered them all outside, and they’d all walked down in a tight little group to the very middle of the Lower Visitor Center, right in the atrium, where, suspended from wires and perfectly preserved, was the only fully intact specimen of abyssal copepod that had ever been recovered from the depths of the Pit.

The thing had, Earl told them, crawled up the gullet, digging its hands into the flesh of the pit wall, leaving a trail of bloody pockmarks behind it like footprints. And then it had levered itself onto a ledge, a bony outcrop near the surface, where the sun had been shining, and it had laid there and died.

“Why?” someone asked, and Earl shrugged.

“We don’t know much about these things, about why they do the things they do. So I can’t tell you why exactly,” he drawled, “but I can tell you what I think. I think it knew it was fading. And it wanted to see the sun.”

The copepod plucks at him again with its free hand and again Peter twists out of the way. It keeps snatching its hand back after it misses, a telltale indicator that this copepod has run into rangers before. Maybe a miner with a taser, a ranger with an ESD gun, some experience in the past that let it know that humans can hurt it.

Electrical discharges tend to be the best way to deal with copepods. An ordinary taser, the kind the police use, won’t do more than tickle it, but every ranger station carries a rack of overpowered high-voltage tasers that would fry a human to a crisp but will knock out a copepod. Peter’s never had to use one, never fired one except for that day in training when they had to qual on them in order to pass. He’d hit five out of seven shots and that had been good enough. Hit a copepod with one of those, Earl had said, and that’ll put it on its ass long enough for you to take your knife and shove it right there, tapping the diagram of the copepod’s head between its eyes. “Its brain isn’t there, but a primary nerve is. Hit it just there, right in the center, dig the knife around in there, and you’ll paralyze it for the rest of its life, which will probably be about half an hour. Then just walk away.”

He made it sound extremely simple. Peter thought it was kind of sad, thinking about one of the enormous copepods, trapped there in its own body, unable to move, waiting for something to come by and eat it, or maybe for it to suffocate, unable to make its lungs breathe.

Peter reaches upwards to his hips and unsnaps his holster. The service pistol practically flings itself out and Peter fumbles with it for one heart-stopping moment before he gets a good grip on it. If he’d dropped it…

The copepod is drawing its arm back again for another swipe at him. Peter points the pistol at it, taking a moment to line up a shot at its head. The head is just as armored as the rest of its body, but the eyes aren’t, although that shot, hanging upside down in the thing’s grasp, would be one in a million.

The copepod’s eyes shift as he points the pistol at it and then it drops him. He lands heavily but scrambles to his feet as quick as he can. He sees the copepod cringe back, covering its head with one of its hands, the other blindly groping for him. He dodges a swipe and then turns tail and runs, his cleats digging into the floor of the trail and popping free with wet sucking sounds. It takes the copepod a moment to realize he’s booked it but once it does it screeches, sounding like a bucket of nails fed into a wood chipper, and takes off after him, pulling itself forwards on its powerful forearms, its frilled steering vanes beating uselessly against the fleshy ground.

 * * *

 Makado strides down the corridor boldly, one hand on the butt of her service pistol. She’s already sealed her helmet, just in case. No matter how hard she tries she can’t seem to get rid of the bubbling knot of trepidation, tensing in her stomach as she makes her way closer to the Organ Trail. A triocanth is one thing, nasty enough but easy to deal with, but an abyssal? Peter must have been mistaken.

But no, whispers a little voice in the back of her head. Wishful thinking isn’t going to save you.

She’s checked her pockets a dozen times on the way down but she doesn’t have anything that could properly deal with an abyssal copepod. The things are massive, cunning, angry tubes of pure rage, and if you were going to try to take one down without cheating and zapping it with an electro gun you’d have to use one of the big forty-mills they keep in the LVC for emergencies. Makado’s seen the plans, seen the contingencies, even though her clearance wasn’t high enough. She’d laughed at the time. ‘Organized assault by more than fifteen abyssal copepods?’ Give me a break.

Now, though, with the lights flickering and the floor throbbing to a sickly beat, she isn’t so sure.

Alright, Mak. Think. How are you going to take out an abyssal?

She still has no ideas five minutes later when she reaches the point in the corridor where Peter must have ran into that triocanth. There’s a great gout of bacterial fluid there on the grated floor, still wet and dripping, and huge spots of rust where it melted into the steel. She curls her lip; even though the closed-system suit prevents her from smelling it, she knows exactly what it would smell like, sulfurous rotten-egg stench mixed with a horribly biological rot-like odor, like week-old vomit.

There in the fleshy wall, she notices, is the slit that Peter must have seen the copepod reach from; it’s large, but it wouldn’t be large enough to let the copepod come all the way into the corridor without a great deal of squeezing and stretching. That must have been why all it did was reach out and grab the bacterium, she realizes.

For about the third time since she started her journey, she tries to call Peter again on the radio, but with even less hope of a response. Clearly something’s happened; she hopes it wasn’t the abyssal making off with him, but she forces herself to be realistic.

She reaches out to touch the rough-pink edge of the slit in the wall and notices her hand is shaking slightly. She makes a fist and then punches the side of the wall, hard as she can. Her  knuckles leave four little divots in the flesh that fade quickly.

“Alright,” she says out loud. “I’m going to go and I’m going to fuck up that abyssal cope –“

Her words catch in her throat as what she thought was a weirdly-shaped skin tag opens a set of six multifaceted eyes and looks at her. “Uh,” she starts, reaching down to her hip for her pistol, but the triocanth bursts out of the wall, propelled by its well-muscled, springlike tail, trailing slime and venterial lymph like a comet, and has wrapped its tentacles around her neck and constricted her arms to her sides with the rest of its wriggling body before she can even think.

 * * *

 The copepod roars behind him again and Peter ducks; another chunk of flesh with five puckered divots punched into it sails past him and slaps wetly into the wall of the corridor. Peter twists around. “Will you stop throwing shit at me?” he asks the copepod, which responds by digging its hands in again and lunging forward another seven or eight feet, but the sizable lead Peter’s amassed still puts him far ahead of the thing on the trail, close to the exit up to the Campground and the lower gastrointestinal zone. The thing pauses there and once again Peter reflects on the lumbering bulk of it, the banded plates and armor, the hands twitching with what he interprets as repressed rage. It’s getting tired, he guesses; at the start Peter was lucky to have gotten away from it before it was able to snatch him up again and disarm him but the thing was wary of his pistol, even though it wouldn’t really have been able to hurt it. He hasn’t shot at it yet, not wanting to have to, not wanting to reveal that the gun he holds loosely at his side isn’t an electrical stunner but just a puny .45 that wouldn’t hurt the thing if he didn’t nail it square in the face.

The copepod makes a fist and slams it on the floor repeatedly before it flexes and lurches itself another few feet forward. It’s such a human gesture that Peter pauses for a moment and watches it, watches the way its eyes glitter, locked on Peter’s, watches the way its sides heave with the vast gulping breaths it’s taking. He shakes his head eventually. “Fuck you,” he tells it, and then turns and jogs upwards, into the light.

 * * *

“Goddam,” Makado keeps muttering, trying to flex her arms and break the triocanth’s hold on her but it’s no use, the thing is basically all muscle, it’s much stronger than her. It seems to have figured out by now that it can’t bite through her faceplate, after a few minutes of slobbering over her and leaving scratch marks on the reinforced glass of the visor, its three serrated teeth flexing with the effort, and now instead has settled for trying to crush her. She’d only just managed to slip one of her hands up around her neck before its whiplike tentacles had laced over it, but the extra space her arm gave her was enough to let her continue to breathe.

The triocanth’s dull eyes, arranged in two tripled sets on either side of its face, regard her. “Goddam,” Makado repeats. She opens her holster and starts to take out her pistol but the thing’s tail won’t let her move far enough to get it all the way out. She makes a face, straining against the triocanth, and it shifts minutely, enough to let the pistol free.

The triocanth reels back and then strikes her in the face, leaving a smear of venom on her visor, as well as a hairline crack that she eyes with trepidation. She can feel her hands shaking as she angles the pistol up, rotating her wrist carefully. She can’t tell where it’s pointed, if it’ll hit the triocanth if she pulls the trigger. She thinks it will but she also doesn’t want to shoot herself.

It pulls back and batters itself into her helmet again and the glass shatters; Makado shuts her eyes just in time but she still feels several shards dig into the skin on her cheeks and her chin. She pulls the trigger.

 * * *

 When Peter hears the gunshots his head snaps up, away from the map readout on his wrist. “Mak,” he breathes. He’d slowed a little when he’d reached the well-lit corridors above the organ trail, following the map and taking a shortcut back to the elevator enclosure.

There are three different trails she could be down; he picks one at random and sprints down it, careening off the walls when he overbalances, when his cleats stick in the metal grates and don’t come up as quickly as they ought. He’s tired and out of breath but he makes it down to the end of the corridor and turns the corner and finds Makado, limp and prone, the triocanth still wrapped around her, its head inclined downwards and covering her face. “No,” he finds himself saying without any conscious bidding on his part. “No, no no no no no,” he says, pulling his pistol out of its holster and training it on the triocanth. He reaches down gingerly and takes ahold of the recessed groove on the rear part of its exoskeleton, expecting it to whip around and go after him, but the triocanth just lays still. Peter frowns.

“Pete?” Makado asks, and Peter almost falls to his knees he’s so relieved.

“Holy shit, Mak,” he says, putting his gun away and rolling the triocanth off her. He looks at her, laying there, smoke still rising from the barrel of her gun, shards of glass still dug into her face, and she smiles at him and it is truly the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“I came to get you,” she says breathlessly, sitting up, glass pouring from the inside of her helmet. She pops the quick release and it comes apart in two halves. She lets it clatter onto the floor. “I came to get you,” she repeats, “when your radio went dead.”

“I came to get you,” he tells her, “when I heard the gunshots. I thought you’d died, laying there, I…”

He trails off. Makado is bleeding from a cut on her chin and he watches as she picks a tiny shard of glass from her cheek, lets it tinkle to the floor and then through the grate and down onto the flesh below. He holds his wrist screen out to show her. “Look,” he says. “I have a map. I know the best way –“

Makado doesn’t look at the screen even once. When he leans in closer to show her, she leans into him, and then she reaches up and puts her hand in his short-cropped hair and then she kisses him, and her lips are warm and soft and her teeth nip at his lips lightly and her tongue darts into his mouth for only a moment, running along his teeth and gums before it’s gone, and the kiss feels like it lasts forever but it’s over in only a moment and when she pulls away from him Makado is smiling so hard her cheeks are starting to hurt and Peter is looking at her like he loves her and he opens his mouth to say something stupid so Makado leans in and kisses him again and this time he puts his arm around her and she still smells like peaches and her shoulders are soft and trembling slightly and he can feel her chest heaving as they press together and he can feel her breasts against him and he’s having trouble thinking.

And then there is a sliding, scraping noise behind them and Makado opens her eyes and speaks the words ‘holy shit’ directly into Peter’s mouth, and then she is scrambling away, tugging on Peter’s arm, for at the end of the hallway the copepod has just pulled itself into view and is sitting there, staring at them malevolently, tucking its arms in and trying to squeeze its bulk into the hallway proper.

“You weren’t kidding,” Makado breathes. Peter is only just now regaining proper brain functions and he keeps looking at Makado like he’d still like to keep kissing her even in spite of the copepod and Makado can’t help but smile at him and reach over and squeeze his hand very tight for just a moment. “We’ll do more of that later,” she promises.

The copepod reaches up and knots its fingers into the metal grille covering the ceiling and pulls itself another few feet into the hallway. Peter whips out his pistol and aims it at the copepod and again it sees and cowers back, covering its face. Makado whistles. “This one’s smart, isn’t it?”

“I haven’t shot it yet,” Peter says. “I don’t think it knows this is just a pistol.”

“I have an idea,” Makado says. The copepod rocks itself side to side a little. If it gets a couple feet forward it’ll have moved the largest bulging section of its exoskeleton into the hallway and it’ll be able to pull itself along freely, but for the moment it’s still stuck. Makado leans down and picks up the dead triocanth, grunting under its weight. “Help me with this fucking thing,” she says, and Peter takes it by the tail, trying to still keep the gun trained on the copepod, which is now peeking through its fingers at them, and between the two of them, Makado leading the way, they stagger closer to the copepod. After a moment it puts its hand down and watches them carefully, its arms retracting with their telltale pneumatic hissing noise, putting its hands on the inside of the corridor. “On three,” Makado says, “we toss this thing at the copepod.”

“What?”

“Just do it.”

She counts to three, heaving the dead weight of the triocanth back and forth between them to build up momentum, and then they toss it. It sails through the air and lands just in front of the copepod, which looks at them and then at the triocanth. “Now back off,” Makado says to Peter from the corner of her mouth.

They take a few steps backwards; the copepod reaches out and prods the triocanth gently. A few more steps; the copepod takes the triocanth in both hands and, with a ripping noise like fabric tearing, twists off the triocanth’s head and starts to eat it.

Makado and Peter turn and break into a jog. “I can’t believe that worked,” Peter tells Makado.

“Me neither,” she says. “Be glad it did. You know how to get up?”

“Yes,” he nods. One of the old evacuation shafts, the ones they put in when they were concerned about acid overflow. We can climb up and seal it after us and that’ll put us into Bronchial.”

“Lead the way.”

It takes them ten minutes or so to make it back to the elevator enclosure. Makado raps shave and a haircut on the door and Fitzroy takes the chair down and opens the door and practically falls over with relief when he sees Makado and Peter. “Did you get worried?” Makado asks.

“Yeah,” he says. “There were these noises –“

“We can talk about it later,” Peter says. “Guys, we have to go right now.”

It takes a little bit to get Eileen moving; she’d fallen asleep again and it took a little effort to wake her, but they get the three teenagers up and ready to go, and then shuffle off down the hallway, Peter and Makado in the front, referring to the map as they go. It takes them down about half a mile of halls, including a few detours due to failed stents and, in one case, a truly enormous cloistropod protruding from the wall and making a low subsonic buzz that set Peter’s teeth on edge, but they make it to the access shaft. Makado swipes her card and it unlocks, and then they have to spin the wheel and unseal the door, which takes what feels like an agonizing amount of time.

The door opens with a foreboding hiss, and Makado clicks on her flashlight and peers up the shaft. “Alright kids,” she says, her voice echoing in the tight space, “who’s ready for a climb? There’ll –“

Before she can get any further, though, the Pit bucks beneath them and roars so loudly that they all clap their hands to their ears. Fitzroy falls to the ground and Eileen screams but although Peter sees her mouth move he can’t hear her. The shuddering intensifies and again he reaches out as best he can, his face screwed up against the noise, and gathers Fitzroy and Tyler to him and takes them down to the ground while Makado does the same with Eileen, and they all huddle there for the short eternity it feels it takes for the Pit to settle. Eventually it does, and the roar peters out into a low grumbling moan that trails on and on. Peter rises to his feet finally, bringing Tyler and Fitzroy up with him. “Jesus Christ,” he says.

Makado looks shaken. “What the hell is going on?” she asks, and then stops. She looks at Peter and he looks at Makado.

The grumbling in the background hasn’t stopped; in fact, it’s only intensified.

Makado turns. At the end of the hallway, far, far down, a torrent of sickly-looking liquid bursts around the corner and shoots towards them, and buffeted along with it, looking almost smug, is the copepod, its arms tucked against its sides, its frilled rudder-like legs churning the stomach acid as it jets forwards, riding the tide.

“Go!” Makado yells, and Peter pushes Tyler and Fitzroy ahead of him and they clamber up the ladder like the devil were chasing them. Peter goes up next, turning halfway, and sees Makado pulling Eileen into the shaft.

Just as Peter reaches the top and Tyler and Fitzroy pull him up, he hears a scream from below and he turns and stares downwards; the acid is slowly rising at the bottom of the shaft and Eileen has lagged behind. For a moment he thinks the acid has reached her, and then he sees the hand extending out of the acid, clenched around her leg, a pale, translucent hand three times the size of a human’s, and he realizes what he’s about to see. “Don’t watch,” he tells Tyler and Fitzroy, but they don’t move.

“Eileen!” Makado screams. “Hold on! I’ve got you!”

But Makado doesn’t have her. She can feel Eileen’s grip slipping even on the puckered surface of her non-slip gloves. Makado, greatly daring, wedges her feet between the rungs of the ladder and, twisting around, reaches down to grab ahold of Eileen’s other hand.

Eileen is crying, the tears are running down her cheeks, leaving streaks of mascara in their wake, but she stays silent, her eyes locked on Makado’s, even though Makado can see the copepod twist its arm and break the girl’s ankle like it were a matchstick. A shudder runs through her and her hand flies open and Makado watches her fall into the copepod’s grip even as the acid rises higher in the access shaft. She can see it reacting with a bubbling hiss as it hits the sebaceous residue left on the copepod’s exoskeleton, the waxy layer of secretions that allow the giant arthropod to slither through tight veins and arteries at high speeds, but only a small part of her mind recognizes this; the rest of her is too busy watching Eileen, up until the point that she hits the acid and the copepod catches her with its other hand and then it’s drawn her below the surface, tucking her up under its armpit like a parcel. It seems to glance up at Makado as she screams Eileen’s name again, and then it wriggles its body like an overgrown lobster and darts off into the rising effluvial muck below and is gone.

It is only because Peter reaches down and takes ahold of her around the waist that he prevents Makado from jumping down into the acid to try and chase down the copepod and make it give Eileen back to her, ignoring the fact that the acid would already be burning its way through her like wildfire, sloughing off her skin like shucking an ear of corn, ignoring the fact that the copepod had probably already started to eat her.

It takes the combined effort of Peter and Fitzroy to drag Makado up to safety, and it’s only when the three-inch-thick safety shutter seals off access to the Lower Gastrointestinal Zone that she stops screaming Eileen’s name and the tears come, and with her shoulders shaking and her hands trembling, she lets the tears fall on the acid-proof steel until she can cry no more.

Continue with Part 7

Back to Table of Contents

[d0gdaze]

Totally forgot if I sent you a song already but if I didn't here's this! 'Modern Love' by David Bowie ~grownups-are-the-real-monsters

I love this song afshjkdal thank youThis is kind of messy and half finished but it was getting too long so

Word count: 2348

Pairings: Reddie, Stenbrough, Benverly

It was their lastday of high school, the final bell had rung and they all ran likehell to the parking lot and piled into Richie’s truck, Richie andEddie in the front seats, Mike, Ben, and Beverly in the back, andStan and Bill holding on for dear life in the cargo tray, the radioblasting Hungry Like The Wolf while they all screamed along,all of them absolutely overflowing with euphoria and a love for life.They drove straight to the Barrens without anyone even needing tosuggest it, it just felt so right thatthey would end up there after all these years. Intheir minds that was their starting point, where four had become fiveand then six, and then eventually seven. Lucky seven, as Bill hadsaid that fateful day, as they watched Henry Bowers scramble off onhis hands and knees following that rock war. Richie still had a smallscar on his forehead from a stone that had damn near knocked himunconscious, now hidden by a mess of blackcurls, but still a glorious reminder of their triumph.

Theypulled up on the side of theroad and jumped out of thevehicle, towing their backpacks that they had filled inpreparation that morning withfood and alcohol (but mostly alcohol), acouple picnic blankets, and Richie’s brand new boom-box that he hadbeen saving up for since junior year. Theyknew that evening was goingto be theirs, and the rest ofthe world, every problem and bad memory and all the pain they hadgone through, it all just wouldn’t exist.

Theyflew, hooting and hollering, through the trees to the clearing alongthe Kenduskeag stream, the same spot where an eleven year old BenHanscom had run into a much smaller Eddie Kaspbrak having an asthmaattack, and where they had later built the best damn dam in theworld. Where Richie Trashmouth Tozierhad mortified both Eddie andStan as they watched him and Bill trudge through the greywater inthat sewer pipe. It’s where Bill had first kissed Beverly and whereBeverly had first kissed Ben as confused lovestruck teenagers. It’swhere fifteen year old Mikehad captured a blurry photograph of a very surprised and cluelessEddie falling backwards into the water after an acne-ridden Richieleant in to kiss him, and another where Eddie had pulled Richiein after him by the collar ofhis shirt and kissed him back. It’s where first Stan, and then Bill,had come out to the group in junior year, and a week later confessedthey had been seeing each other in secret for months, and where therest of them tried their best to act like it was news. And so, somuch more. That place was theirs, and it always would be.

Theyset up their things, Stan and Bill laying out the blankets, Beverly,Ben, and Mike pulling countless bottles and cans out of everyone’sbags and grouping them together on the ground next to the boom-box.Richie and Eddie had already made it clear they weren’t going to beof any help, as Richie hadEddie thrown over his shoulder, pounding his fists in protest againsthis back and screamingat him to let him go asRichie spun around in circles, cackling like a lunatic. Richiereceived a punch in the stomach after Eddie managed to squirm out ofhis grasp, causing him to double over in pain but still laughing allthe while.

“Canyou two hold out on trying to kill each other for one goddamnafternoon?” Beverly had teasedas she shoved a beer into Richie’s hand and a cigarette into theother.

“Yeah,spaghetti man, let’s save all this pent-up aggression for thebedroom,” he winked and leant down towards Eddie, making sloppykissing noises.

“You’refucking disgusting,” the shorter boy scoffed, rolling his eyes andstomping off to where the drinks were. Hesettled on a lukewarm wine cooler and joined Ben on one of theblankets.

Thesun hung low in the sky, slowly painting new colours across theclouds, and they all talked and laughed for hours until eventuallynight came and stars started to litter the heavens above them. Mikeand Bill had built a small fire for light and warmth, and they all atone point or another moved until they were all surrounding it,looking around at each other in varying states of intoxication, litup by the dancing orange flames, all thinking something along thelines of I am so ridiculously in love with these people, asthey reminisced fondly on certain memories and cringed at certainothers.

Thesong on the stereo faded into another, and Richie shot to his feet asthe guitar riff started.

“Ohgod, this fucking song!” Beverly squealed as he grabbed her handsand stood her up.

/ I catch thepaper boy / But things don’t really change / I’m standing in the wind/ But I never wave bye-bye /

Theystarted dancing together, in some strange, out of time, overexaggerated waltz, spinning and jumping around and singing along verymuch out of tune.

/ Never gonnafall for modern love / Walks beside me / Walks on by / Gets me to thechurch on time /

“Thisfucking song,” Stan muttered with a dopey smile on his face,leaning over to bury his face in Bill’s shoulder.

“Thisfucking song,” Eddie groaned, burying his own face in hishands, and Ben and Mike exchanged amused glances, both wearingshit-eating grins.

Ofcourse it had been Beverly’s idea. Stan’s sixteenth birthday and theywere going to celebrate in the barn on Mike’s family’s property.Richie had managed to sneak a mostly full bottle of vodka from hisparent’s liquor cabinet, Eddie and Bill spent the day sweeping andgetting rid of cobwebs and disinfecting the old couches that werestored in there, Mike and Ben spent the day baking, (though Mike didmost of the work and Ben just happily followed instructions when theywere given), and Beverly allowed Stan to drag her around to all ofhis favourite birdwatching spots in town for the whole day, listeningto him talk and laughing when he got overly excited when he thoughthe saw something new, and to her surprised she really enjoyedherself, so much so that she almost forgot about the party and theyshowed up twenty minutes after they were supposed to and completelyruined the surprise, but Stan had to hold back tears when he saw themall standing there nonetheless.

Theyhad pooled some money together to buy him new binoculars seeing ashis old ones were being held together with duct tape, and Richie hadmade a few mix-tapes with some rather obnoxious and inappropriatevoice messages between the songs, and Mike and Eddie put together asmall scrapbook with copies of photos of them all together. He hadcried then, and they all crowded him in a group hug which only madehim sob more, and they all just held on to each other for a minute ortwo until he recollected himself. They cut and ate the cake, it waschocolate and almost sickeningly sweet but too damn good to not eat,and then things started to get a little messy.

Stantook the first shot from a red solo cup, throwing his head backdramatically as he did, swallowing and scrunching up his face as theliquid burned the back of his throat.

“Fuckinghell, that’s gross,” he spat out once he was confident it wasn’tcoming back up again, “why do people do this?”

Richiehad laughed and swung his arm around Stan’s neck.

“You’llfind out, my friend,” he answered as he poured six more shots forthe rest of them, and hoisted one up in the air, “a toast to Stanthe Man, that glorious bastard.” The rest of them lifted theirplastic cups up in response, and they all threw back their drinks.

Twohours later, the vodka was all but empty, and though they had allobjectively had too much to drink, Eddie was probably the worstculprit. He had decidedly brought it on himself to give them all aprivate concert, standing on the couch, unbalanced and wobbling allover the place, a very intense expression on his face as he serenadedthem to the music that was playing.

Beverlyhad her head resting on Ben’s shoulder and his arms wrapped aroundher waist as they swayed along, giggling their heads off as theywatched Eddie almost fall off the couch multiple times, (it hadgotten to the point where Mike had moved the cushions from the othercouches for him to land on when he would undoubtedly face-plant).

Richieand Mike were sitting on the floor, singing along and cheeringwhenever a song finished. Stan and Bill were off in their own corner,partially obscured from view, the two were probably the least drunkout of all of them and they were having a very nervous discussionwhich would lead to their first kiss later that night.

/ It’s not reallywork / It’s just the power to charm / I’m still standing in the wind/ But I never wave bye-bye /

Eddiewas very dedicated to the bit, holding an empty cup as a microphoneas he slurred out the lyrics.

“That’smy fucking boyfriend, dude,” Richie had said to Mike througha dopey, lovestruck grin, before standing up and stumbling over toEddie and putting his hands up on his waist.

“Putsmy trust in G- Richie!” he whined as Richie started to tug atthe hem of his shirt in a weak attempt to get him off the couch.

“C'mere,”Richie slurred, balling up the material in his fists, “c'mere babe,Eds, Eddie Spaghetti.”

Eddiestarted to protest but lost his balance for a second, having to holdhimself up against Richie’s shoulders. Richie took the opportunity towrap his arms around his waist and pick him up and move him to theground, without letting him go.

“Richiiiiiiieeeeeee,”Eddie sulked, stomping his foot dramatically “I was doingsomething.”

Richiesmirked and tilted his head down to kiss him, which Eddie immediatelyescalated, grabbing his face and sloppily biting on his bottom lip

“Geta room, guys,” Beverly teased, and Ben hid a laugh in her shoulder.

/ No confessions/ No religion / I don’t believe in modern love /

Stankissed Bill first, interrupting a conversation that neither of themwere really keeping track of. His hand ghosted over Bill’s cheek,eyes closed, heart racing faster than it ever had. It took Bill amoment to even figure out what was happening and it was over by thetime he did, Stan looking at him expectantly, worry written on hisface. Bill had blinked at him a few times, lips parted, feeling ablush creep up his neck. And then they were kissing again, neither ofthem knew who initiated it that time.

Mikelooked over a little later to see Stan sitting in Bill’s lap, but atthat point his vision was pretty foggy and he wasn’t thinking verycommonsensical so he just shrugged it off and forgot about it.

“Haveyou told him yet?” Beverly asked, cigarette in hand, sitting nextto Richie at the edge of the water. The others were all still aroundthe fire when Richie had pulled Bev off to the side to smoke, butreally to talk.

“Notyet,” he replied, pulling on his cig and letting the smoke filterout a small gap in his lips, “honestly I don’t really know what Iwould say.”

“That’dbe a first for you,” she smirked, and Richie gave an offended gaspand punched her lightly on the arm. She laughed and took a long drag.“But really, he needs to know. Not gonna get easier the longer youwait.”“I know that, Bev, but things are just so perfect rightnow,” he turned his head to look over at the others. They werelaughing about something, just too far off to hear what it’s about,the music humming quietly in the background. “I feel like I’mfucking it all up, you know?”

“Don’tsay that, Rich.”

Hiseyes drifted over each of them, taking in how they looked in thefirelight. His chest felt tight and there was a lump in the back ofhis throat that he couldn’t get rid of no matter how many times hetried to swallow it down. He lingered on Eddie. Eddie Kaspbrak, thatdamn hypochondriac that he’d been in love with since middle school.Who’s house he spent more time in than his own. Who still keeps thatridiculous fanny pack in his closet even though he hasn’t used it inyears. Who he was sure he would have married on the spot if he wasasked.

“Idon’t want to leave him, Bev.”

Sheleant over and put her hands on his shoulder, forcing him to look ather. “Damn it Tozier, you’ve been given the best opportunity ofyour life here,” her voice is soft but still stern, “he’ll beokay. And besides, it’s only four hours away, yeah? Don’t tell me youthink he won’t be up there every chance he gets. You’re both toofucking whipped for each other.”

Helaughs, tears starting to well up behind his glasses. She pulls himinto a hug.

“HowI’m gonna live without your inspiring speeches, miss Marsh, I have noidea.”

“Shutup.”

Theyrejoined the group a bit later, Beverly taking her spot between Mikeand Ben and Richie pulling Eddie onto his lap. He pressed his faceinto the back of the shorter boy’s neck, causing him to squirm andhunch his shoulders a little.

“Ugh,you’re gonna make my clothes smell like cancer.”

“But you love me.”

“Debatable.”

[theoddcatlady]

Love Potion

Day One

8:24 AM

This is so not worth the hundred bucks I'm getting paid to do this. I hate you Gus. I fucking hate you. Now for the serious part of this 'scientific' journal.

My name is Brian Vance. I'm seventeen years old and a junior in high school. I'm a virgin (is this really necessary Gus) and I've never been on a date in my life. The closest I got to a date was to asking my eighth grade crush on a date. She said yes, but stood me up. Who's surprised?

Gus Katsoros is the 'scientist' who concocted the 'Love Potion'. It comes in a cologne and drinkable form, supposedly helps you secrete natural pheromones to attract the opposite sex. I am one of three guys using both the cologne and the drink. I will be using the cologne and drinking one ounce of the Love Potion before I go to school, and at night will be drinking another ounce of the Love Potion before I go to bed. I'll be doing that, now.

Ugh! Gus. If you're going to label something a 'Love Potion', don't make it taste like mud. For the final product, for the love of god, add some honey or sugar. Hell, high fructose corn syrup, whatever gets the job done! Just don't. Make it taste like dirt. The cologne ain't so bad though. Smells like it tastes, which it makes a much better scent than taste. Off to school.

---

 11:12 PM

 Well, nothing happened. Who's fucking SHOCKED. I will keep seriously journaling but if you have to read every one of these Gus I'm going to make sure I bitch the whole time. Yes you heard me. The. Whole. Time.

 Anyway, to the serious part. There seemed to be no 'pheromones' excreting from me. The most female attention I got was from the eighty nine year old half blind algebra teacher, who complimented my cologne. Ms. Valentine ain't so bad though. She's just... so old. So old.

 That was it though. I'll take my dose tonight and go to bed. Ugh. Still tastes just as bad the first time.

 ---

 Day Two

 8:15 AM

 Least I'm not allergic to this stuff. Although that could have gotten me out of the experiment sooner...

 Nothing seems to be wrong, I don't feel sick or dizzy from two doses of the Love Potion. I'll now spritz my wrists, toss the mud potion, sorry, love potion, down the hatch and get going.

 Oops. Spritzed it one time too many. According to the experiment I should've used one spritz on both wrists, but I accidentally spritzed my left wrist twice. Oh well. Now I'll just smell even more like dirt.

 ---

 4:48 PM

 I'm journaling earlier today because I think something actually worked this time! I mean. Nothing major. But something that probably you should know about, Gus.

 So I chilling near the music room, don't ask why I'm not in band, when Gretchen came up to me. We'd been friends when we were in elementary school, but grew apart when we got older. She plays tuba, isn't exactly popular but she has pretty eyes. Anyway I'm off topic.

 She came up to me and asked how my day was going! I was so stunned I nearly fell over. But we got to talking, and she really seemed interested in being around me. It wasn't like we made out in the library or anything, but she kept reaching for my hand. It wasn't much, but when she hurried off to her next class, I remembered something.

 Gretchen kept grabbing for my left wrist. The one I spritzed twice. Gus, I'm gonna fuck with your experiment a tad and do two spritzes on each wrist from now on. If I run out, that's your own damn fault for not having extra. I'm gonna go for a jog now. If I'm gonna become a pussy magnet, might as well work out!

 ---

 Day 5

 8:21 AM

 Thankfully I won't have to journal every day now. Just days with improvement.

 Gus was kind and understanding, so he gave me more of the cologne to make up for me needing a higher dose. The other two guys were keeping at the same rate so it wasn’t a big deal.

 There is absolutely an improvement. Like girls actually look when I pass by now! I mean, Gretchen and a few other girls are the only ones who bother to talk to me but I'm taking what I can get. Gretchen and I have really reconnected, I'm thinking about asking her on a date. She's nice. It's not like I was out to bone the popular girls anyway.

 Maybe it's due to the upwards swoop of my self esteem, but I'm going out to jog more. Luckily there's a nice forest near my house, lots of jogging paths. No one to stare at the skinny, sweaty guy either.

 Spritzed up, took my drink, I'm out!

 ---

 2:32 AM

 I just had seeexxx, and it felt so goooood... at least oral sex.

 I feel a little guilty though. It wasn't with Gretchen. It was with Myra. She's also in the band, she's second clarinet, and we'd gotten friendly lately, but when she asked me go out for sodas I figured what the heck and said yes.

 After the soda, she took me back to her house and she gave me a blowjob in her childhood treehouse.

 I mean, other than the splinters I'm still picking out of my ass, it was great. Lasted absolutely no more than five minutes for me, but it was the best damn five minutes of my life so far. After I'd finished, she was ready to get going to her afternoon job but I kinda wanted to return the favor. I mean. It took a lot longer than five minutes for her, as I had noooo idea what I was doing, but I got the job done! Points for me! Probably made her late to her job though.

 Honestly, there has been no downsides yet. I doubt there ever will be. I'm gonna be this new school's lady killer. And yes. I'll absolutely endorse Love Potion, Gus. Your smug ass will cash in with this.

 You still gotta change the taste though man. It's awful.

 ---

 Day 9

 8:45 AM

 Okay, prolonged use might have a side effect.

 I'm getting the nastiest rash on my head. It's covered by my hairline, which by the way my hair's gotten thicker and I'm finally growing facial hair, but it's very uncomfortable. I had my mom look at it and she says it looks like it's irritated. It's weird, since I've only been drinking and using it on my wrists, but maybe I rubbed my head in my sleep. Mom put something on it to ease the itching but I hope it doesn't spread. Magic love potion or not no one's gonna wanna kiss a face covered in bumpy rash. At least it's not covered in pimples anymore. Another side effect, my acne's cleared up!

 Still though, me and Myra have really hit it off. It's nothing serious, we chill in her room and wait for her dad to go out before we go at it like bunnies. I'm honestly petrified of accidentally knocking her up so I bought condoms. Thank god for self-checkout. It's so much fun. I'm having the time of my life with her.

 If Gretchen's noticed, she doesn't care. We still chill near the music room together. I've grown to appreciate the music room now, I'm even picking up guitar lessons. Girls think music is hot, and having another way to attract them didn't hurt anybody. Gretchen's even giving me tips on how to read sheet music as I just like to strum away at what sounds nice, although she usually shuts up when I pluck the right notes- just goes all dozy on my shoulder. It's weird, but hey, whatever.

 Gotta go into class now, ugh.

 ---

 12:45 AM

 This rash is killing me. Still, I promised thirty straight days with this stuff. And thirty days is what I'm gonna give it. Unless I have an asthma attack or something bullshit like that. Then I don't have to give back the money I've already blown on video games and snacks.

 I would've been back sooner, but after I left Myra's house I went for a jog. A really long jog. Through the woods. It just felt so right. I lost complete track of time but I wasn't the only one out there. I got a glimpse of Carlos running past. I think he's one of the kids in the two ounce drink test group. I didn't try to start up a conversation, he was clearly a man on a mission.

 When I'm out there, my head doesn't itch either. Maybe it's from something else.

 ---

 Day 10

 7:21 AM

 Okay. Body hair. That's not that new.

 Chest hair is though. And I think I'm starting to grow a carpet on my legs. I was pretty fair haired on the rest of my body before this whole thing started. Now I'm turning into Esau from Sunday School, the guy so hairy his brother could wear goat skin on his arms and trick his mostly blind dad into thinking it was his older son. I'm tempted to shave.

 Also my feet are starting to rash too, and they keep getting that ‘falling asleep sensation’, like there’s static under your skin. It's uncomfortable to wear shoes. I'll go to school today but if it gets worse I might take a break. From school, anyway.

 ---

 7:49 PM

 My mom's went out out tonight so Myra came over here instead... and by came, I mean literally came. We had a blast. She doesn't seem to mind the hair either even if it has come in a little fast. She keeps threatening to wax it though. No way in hell.

 She also brought up a threesome, with me and Gretchen. Oh yeah, they both know I'm sleeping with her. Apparently Myra's been impressed with what she's taught me in the few days I've boned her. A few more 'lessons' and she'll let me loose with Gretchen.

 This is insane.

 Almost too insane.

 I'm a little overwhelmed. I might cut out of this project early and somehow pay you back later Gus. I don't know how I feel about all this female attention. It's a lot to take in. Also I don't fancy being mistaken for Bigfoot's little brother Smallfeet when I walk into school and I'm just that hairy.

 ---

 Day 13

 2:21 PM

 I didn't think about journaling this morning but I am now. I think something's going wrong.

 When I went into the bathroom, I got a glimpse in the mirror of where the rash on my head was and I saw something. I took a better look, felt around, and it looks like two giant ass warts are starting to sprout. I hate warts.

 But I also hate the idea of losing my feet a lot more.

 One of the guys that picked on me since freshman year, Barry, stomped on my right foot. Right on the toes. Normally this would send me howling in pain while he would laugh his ass off.

 Nothing. I felt nothing. And he jumped on it, full force. I felt something crack, but I didn’t feel it. I ran into the bathroom again and took off my shoe.

 I can't move the toes on my right foot. The skin’s gone gray with blotches of purple. And my left foot's growing pretty stiff too. I'm pretty sure Barry broke my toes given how crooked they are but they're so cold. I'm freaked the fuck out.

 But also really nervous to tell my mom this might be because I'm taking a chemical to help me get laid. I would be absolutely grounded. So grounded. And of course, I'd veto my hundred dollars, which like I said- already long spent.

 I'll probably skip school until my feet stop dying. Also reduce how much of the drink I'm taking. Half ounce only.

 ---

 1:12 AM

 Barry came to my house, demanding to know what was up. He looked scared shitless.

 Guess who else was in the experiment and didn't tell anyone? That's right. Half the jocks on the football team. Gus isn't popular but he's a great salesman. Once the Love Potion started to turn shit around for me and the other guys, Gus got to selling. Guys were handing over so much cash for a chance to get more pussy.

 But Barry wasn't attracting pussy. He was attracting dick.

 Should've seen that one coming a mile away, the hyper masculine asshole turning out to be gay. Didn't bother me, we all got our quirks. But that's the thing, Gus promised that the drug would attract the opposite sex. A specific set of hormones probably wouldn't work on the same sex, he figured. He was not THAT stupid.

 And apparently I was one of Gus' 'success stories'.

 Barry demanded to know what else was going on with me, or he'd crush me like a bug. So I coughed it up in self-preservation. My feet. My head. The rashes. The urge to jog in the forest every night and the inclination to be near music. And guess what, Barry didn't freak out on me. He admitted to the same damn thing. Also the fact he was a tone deaf and now could sing bass like a star.

 Barry's thrown out all his shit in the toilet and scrubbed his neck so hard he's taken skin off. Apparently that's where he put on the cologne. I let him take the couch, texted mom telling her that he was a friend that came over for some help. Mom's a sweetheart. She'll understand.

 This isn't right. I'm stopping taking whatever's been given me now, it’s gone down the toilet with Barry’s supply. Fuck you Gus. Fuck you so much.

 ---

 Day 15

 1:11 PM

 I think it was too late for us.

 Barry's got the rash now, despite insisting he's stopped everything. Everything he had of Love Potion, not even a spritz of the cologne. He keeps complaining of the itching.

 Oh. And half my fucking foot fell off.

 I was in the bathroom, meeting up with Barry (nothing gay, he just wanted to talk) and I leaned too much on one side apparently. We both heard a snap and suddenly I had no more balance. I fell to the floor.

 I ripped off my shoe and the front of my foot fell out. It had turned entirely dark purple and felt like dry clay. Barry screamed like a girl and threw up in the sink. My foot reeks, at least what's left of it. But I'm more concerned that I think I have hooves now.

 Yeah. You heard me Gus. HOOVES. The bone that led to my ankle is all wrong shaped, split in two and is turning a coppery brown. The flesh around my heel is already peeling away and I feel sick just looking at it. Judging by the condition of the other foot, it's gonna go real quick here too.

 I claimed I threw up and went home. Barry actually followed me, wonder if he's got some sort of crush on me. He's probably too grossed out to try anything though. Seeing half a man's foot just fall off probably kills the mood.

 I don't know what to do. I still have the half of my foot, I'm keeping it in my dresser. Still trying to find you, Gus, but apparently you've faded off the face of the earth. Barry's vowed to tear your head off the moment he gets his hand on you.

 Meanwhile, I think I just figured out what the things on my head are.

 Horns. I'm growing horns.

 Day 19

 Barry refuses to leave my house. He's scared. I've played hooky since the last entry, staying home and playing video games. I'm super hairy now, a walking carpet is an understatement. I'm only bothering to shave my face, going after the rest of the mess is just too much.

 Okay. I wasn't gonna put this down because I thought it was just my imagination, but... my penis is bigger. By at least three inches. No I'm not kidding Gus. Normally I'd think this was a great addition to my bod. But no. It's not. It's fucking not.

 My other foot's gone and I'm having to relearn my center of balance. It's not as hard as I thought it was gonna be. It's rough though. I keep falling over and I think my mom's catching on that something's not right with me. Especially with the hopskip way I keep walking.

 I think the horns are ready to split free. I feel them now, they're bony nubs that are giving me the worst migraines. The only thing that soothes my pain is playing my guitar and hearing Barry sing. Because damn that boy can sing.

 I love music. But it’s of little comfort now.

 ---

 Day 25

 I ran away from home.

 Gretchen came to check on me. (Myra hasn’t so much as sent a text by the way.) She knew I'd been missing classes, and when I didn't answer the door, she got worried and entered the house.

 She found me at the worst time possible. When my horns were finishing their development. I was trying to get to the bathroom to get some more painkillers when the most excruciating pain I'd ever felt in my life filled my entire head. I screamed and hit the floor, curling up into a little ball. I hadn't even gotten fully dressed yet, a shag carpet with hooves and slowly sprouting horns.

 I woke up to Gretchen screaming at the sight of me. I slowly sat up and when she saw my face she realized it was me.

 Her face went white. She looked like she didn’t know what to be more shocked about. The fact that there was a man with horns and a small furry tail, or the fact that it was me, right there. Sitting in front of her. More animal than man.

 I tried to talk to her. Tried to reach for her. But when she ran from the house, I couldn't just let her go.

 So she's with me and Barry now.

 We stole my mom's car, I took all the money from her bank account that I could, and we're driving now. Just driving. Gretchen's tied up in the backseat, Barry's keeping her still.

 I don't know what to do anymore. But I need Gretchen. Need her. I can't explain why either. Maybe I'll know when I get to our destination.

 ---

 Day 30

 This would've been the final day of the test.

 I'm done transforming. Barry's about through the final stretch himself, it's just the horns left. All the others managed to catch up to us. We're hiding out in one of the national parks, not telling you which. All in various stages of development. Gus really went all out, hitting every clique he could before pulling his disappearing act.

 We're freaks now. All of us. They're gonna look for us, but they won't find us. Or they'll wish they hadn't. We have powers now. With our instruments and voices, we can hypnotize anyone to our bidding. Least it means we don't have to tie up Gretchen now. She's staying here whether she likes it or not.

 For now, we wait. For the hype to die down. For people to forget the missing teenagers from our highschool.

 I don't think you knew this would happen to us. But I really don't care. I'm sending this journal to your last known address, Gus. You can run, but you can't hide. We'll find you.

 We just want to give you a head's start knowing what we'll do to you once we get our hands on you.

[stolithecat]

Happy Hour.

Janie was working through the needlessly briny, settled half of her shitty martini, in gulps of two, when she spotted his blazer, jeans, and wingtips breaching the stained glass gates of the asinine hipster drinking den on which he had insisted via text at 2:51 in the morning when she had made the tragic mistake of telling him.

In retrospect, she knew better.

He approached with befuddling confidence upon spotting her at the high top. One steady foot in front of a steadily planted other. Light, modest smile. Eye contact. He possessed a certain blasé about him that she couldn't quite place, an unsettling aura suggesting familiarity with the circumstances teeming off the plaid of his outer layer.

She blinked with surprise. Then she blinked out of rage. And blinked once more in an attempt to cleanse the palette. This could not be real life.

His confidence, however, was not indicative of his circumspect.

"You're drinking..." he murmured in a whiny, whimpering, abject undertone.

Between gut-punched, wincing eyelids, she noticed his careful gaze fixed with interested bewilderment presuming far beyond his wiles. Her right eyebrow and upper lip moved up and over as one. This was either an act of hubris or naivety.

What did he think?

She might keep it?

"Yeah...and? What the fuck, Chris."

Full stop.

Her words cut through any potential for pleasantries like a razor lengthwise along soft, suburban, teenage skin. Her eyes sought to unearth his arrogantly grounded stature, shuddering slightly with each salty swallow as if timed to a heartbeat, but remaining affixed to his stupid fucking nose that she remembered more than she ever cared to. It had been cold. So goddamn cold. And while he had smiled up at her with ridiculous pride between the press of lips, tongue and mouth, she had desired desperately to slap the shit out of him for ruining an inevitably less than satisfying but serviceable fuck.

The sting of her profane retort was immediate, self-evident, and most importantly, effective. Shoulders pulled back. Pale palms flattened out with perspiring fingertips against the purposefully uneven, reclaimed tabletop. Widening eyes retreated. Stiffened jaw line. Smile turned flat affect. He hadn't prepared himself at all for this possibility. His presumption had anticipated mere anxiety. She had too firm a command of the situation for his liking.

Even Janie was a bit miffed by her own disposition.

You're pregnant. It's norrrr-mal.

Liz had assured her of as much after she brutally accosted the waiter at lunch for having brought sparkling in lieu of still. She remembered becoming visibly infuriated at Liz's suggestion. As if emotional infirmary existed solely within the boundaries of hormonal volatility.

No, she owned her inner bitch just fine, thank you.

"Isn't this, quite literally, your only job?"

Speechless, the waiter had scurried away, nearly tripping, taking his befuddled blinks, rose-colored cheeks, pursed lips, and worried brow with him to forewarn his supervisor of an impending customer complaint. He had to get ahead of it, after all.

She now eyed the boy before her with similar contempt.

"Look, I don't know, Janie. This is new to me."

Lie.

"I just...thought...I don't know...we'd have a conversation or something. I'm going to support you no matter what decision you make."

Lie.

He was desperate to hear the words "I'm going to deal with it."

"You must be kidding me..." she offered flatly. "You told me two weeks ago that you weren't looking for anything. That you just wanted something casual - you liked it how it is. 60 hour work weeks or some other shit excuse. How long have we been doing this, Chris? And now you expect me to believe that you're good with this? Fuck you. You must think I'm pretty fucking dumb."

"You know I don't think that...I mean, it's just...let's back up. This is a big deal. Janie, I get that. And yeah, things aren't exactly concrete between us. That's true. And yeah, that's probably on me. But I'm going to be here for you, no matter what. I just thought, I dunno...that maybe..."

Pathological. 

Janie wasn't stupid. I mean, she was fully prepared to acknowledge that she was stupid enough to have put up with his on-and-off-hot-and-cold for more than a year, or even stupid enough to have let him fuck her sans condom when she was between birth control and place faith in the pull-out, but in this moment, she saw right through his bullshit. Chris wasn't interested in responsibility of any kind, let alone one attached to her and her womb. And she was even less interested in playing this game. She had been duped into a whatever-the-fuck-this-is attachment by a mutual friend who had used phrases like "up and coming" and "great with his nephew" to convince her of his compatibility. She had known better, but at that time, was new to the city and in desperate need of regular sex, and truth be told, he was a pretty boy. Certainly not a forever boy. But a pretty one nevertheless. And for the time being, that was going to do just fine as her mother had liked to say.

Pregnancy was not part of the plan, either. Even in the most, how did it go, "favorable" of circumstances? Uncomfortably but willingly settled in that blindsiding, growing up part of her late twenties, she had yet to unearth a maternal bone in her body, which had her sister and not-so-favorite aunt on high alert, prompting recycled, once rage-inducing, and now banal anecdotes about some co-worker's daughter "...who had said the same thing, but when she turned 30, she met a man and changed her mind!"

She had found the rejuvenating face cream bone, though, resting high on both cheeks just beneath the bags she was convinced would arrive ten years too soon. She had expertly identified the sumo squat bone, too, stabilizing cellulitis along the olive complexion of what her trainer insisted were otherwise perfectly toned inner thighs. Daniel had said it was the product of stress. She had laughed one of those 135-pound belly laughs that really don't live up to the hype. Ultimately, it had checked out. She had even located the Lycra bone, bulging from the rear in the same defiant fashion with which she had beaten her StairMaster into warranty replacement.

Her proudest discovery, however, was the gravitational chicken wing bone, nestled in the underside of each tricep. Her grandmother on her dad's side had given her right arm a thick tug two Thanksgivings ago with the kind of cavalierness that dismissively rifles and whips through stuck together hangers of two times discounted sale selection, charitably advising, "You need to work on this, honey..." with fluttering, residue-rubbing-ridding fingertips as if her left hand had contracted this year's iteration of SARS, while mercilessly sinking a right claw-ful of crudités into a ranch dressing bowl down to her always polished and painted red fingertips. Janie ultimately took her advice; that very same Winter, she shelled out about five grand transforming her home office into a home gym, and had sought out Daniel like a fiend for a fix.

But alas, no pregnancy bone of which to speak.

Exhausted, she realized he hadn't left yet. For fuck's sake.

"Chris, I'm only here because you practically beat me into it. I figured I'd give you a few minutes to come up with something human. But I knew you'd fail. Miserably. And that ultimately, I'd do exactly what I'm about to do now, which is tell you that yes, I'm going to take care of it, yes, you are indeed an asshole, and yes, we're done fucking."

"Janie, I'm trying here. Don't do this. Let's talk about it. We can get through this." He shook his lowered head slowly, diagonally, and resignedly, for effect. He was afflicted with an insatiable thirst for her curiously freckled skin. She was the best he had ever had. Hands down.

"Don't call me.

Don't ask me when.

Don't offer to take me.

I'm good."

Nostrils opened out and steady, she inhaled the residual with a right hand coveting the saucer, then set the glass down gently by the stem, guided by the inside tips of her index and middle fingers, the foot stabilized by her palm, clutched her patterned tote with her left, and as she turned away to leave him to revel in his relief, glanced towards the remainder of their daytime soap of a meeting and confirmed,

"You got this, right?", completing her about face without waiting for an answer.

He nodded immediately, though she never saw it, right hand eagerly fumbling at the bifold in his back pocket, racing to extract the nearest credit card, as if that was his way of contributing to the solution.

Suffocating under the weight of what smelled like wet hay, peanut shells, and PBR fermenting within the cracks of the floorboards, the ensuing smack of 30 degree windchill might as well have been an orgasm. She was finally able to breathe.

She needed to get back to the office. She planned on staying late to make up for her early exit. Her coworker John, a senior programmer with the company, had been assigned her "company mentor", and had been putting in double-time since her start, due to what Liz referred to as "baby brain."

She was making mistakes. Careless ones. Un-Janie-like. And it would only be a matter of time before even John, a pleasantly depressed, well-meaning diminutive man, beaten down by all the hallmarks of a mid-life crisis (responsibility heaped upon round, sinking shoulders, breadwinner stress resting along the overlapping creases of his acne-scarred forehead, the too-eager and eyeful angst of unsatisfactory sex, and burgeoning waistline), who snuck anti-depressants when he thought no one was looking, politely turned his back on her and informed suits in an impromptu closed door corner office meeting, legs crossed, hands folded, with the classic opener:

"I really don't want to make trouble, but..."

Even though the brainwashing Silicon Valley tech-start-up-we-care-about-you-and-your-well-being-so-let's-build-an-adult-playground-for-the-kiddos management style had ravaged board meeting makeovers of corporate America like a fuselit fire raging along a leaky pipeline through the heart of middle America, what with the ping pong tables, foosball, and subsidized vending machines, there was still an unalterable truth to office politics: if someone else had to clean up your mess one too many times, you had better update your resumé.

Janie felt compelled to salvage their working relationship. They could be strong allies over time. Maybe even work-husband and work-wife. He was classic nice. And pretty smart, from what she could glean. She had noticed his poorly set MIT diploma in a cheap, black frame that he probably bought at Target after he graduated, with money in a Congrats! card before his wife had gotten ahold of him and his poor taste.

There was a greyish thumb smudge imprinted on the lower left-hand corner. Its paper texture, quality, and color suggested he had to be at least 45 at this point. She wondered how many times he had taken it out of the frame to feel its weight.

She composed an email with one hand while she buckled her seatbelt with the other, innocently smiling as she typed.

“I know I haven’t said anything, but I really appreciate everything you’ve done to help me acclimate since I’ve arrived. You’re the best coworker a girl could ask for!” – Janie.

She figured an upbeat tone would set the table for a forgiving conversation in which she revealed too much but then promised to exceed his expectations in short order. Caught off-guard, he would briefly bathe in shame for having quietly cursed her name in her absence, fall prey to her soulful reveal, and offer to support her in any way she needed. She would respond with sincere appreciation. But specifically insist that he was going to be surprised in the weeks to come. Her plan was to correct his work. Not the other way around. His eyes would lift, brightening at her confidence, as if she were an adult version of his college girlfriend whom he let get away, the one destined for big things, the one his mom still asked about. She sensed that this was what he needed.

What frustrated Janie the most was that she was, undeniably, the best programmer at the company. They would one day know her brilliance. Come to rely on it. She would be on-call, 24-7, not as a function of her job description, but by default. She would be the consummate originator, designer, and fixer. She'd even be invited to an off-the-books company holiday party at the CEO's vacation home in the Vineyard. John would not.

But right now, all they saw was a shell of her actuality. They needed her to put on a show and prompt the kind of competing side eyebrow raises between upper management personnel that meant not only "She was my pick!" but also "She's taking your job - not mine."

She had always been the best. First semester of Berkeley, she had wiped the floor with all of the stereotypes.

Chubby. Still actively dealing with teenage acne. Flaming-hot Cheetoh-stained fingernails long overdue for a trim. Stringy, greasy brown but almost black hair scattered across his forehead. Straight-leg, loose-fit jeans in a grandma shade of blue just shy of acid-washed. One-size-too-big Pantera shirt. The one who sat in the very far right seat of the very first row playing World of Warcraft on his overpriced Alienware while the professor droned on about syntax. He typed /s after everything and had recently been dumped by his chatroom girlfriend.

Average height. Well maintained upper body. Mismatched skinny legs. Olive green hemp messenger bag. Blue corduroys. Grey and pink plaid button-up. Probably JCrew. Messy hair that took him 15 minutes to get right. Tortoise shell rimmed Dolce glasses with a prescription-less lens. Varvatos sneakers. They looked just like Chucks. Windows running on a Mac. Schwinn cruiser that he never locked up. The one who sat in the back row of the lecture hall so that when he was called, socially awkward girls far from home would look back and notice that he was surprisingly good-looking and think, "Smart and good-looking? I could bring him home!" He had a thing for Asian women.

Asian background. Hair cut by roommates. Parents' pressure visible in the uneven trajectory and shuffling of his aimless and yet spirited pace. He spent more time in a quiet corner in the basement of the Doe, where he sometimes got himself locked in on purpose, than he did in his dorm. Blue Berkeley hoodie. Black G-Shock, watch face exceeding the width of his wrist. Grey, nylonish cargo pants. Navy blue and white New Balance shoes. Japanese-designed backpack with more velcro than zippers housing a covert, built-in phone charger. Off-market-no-name-brand South Korean cellphone glued to the inside of his front right pocket. Wireless earbuds. Spent lots of time gazing at the pavement. He had a crush on Janie. She was the smartest woman he'd ever met. With each passing class, he would position himself one seat closer to her. He spent every shower with her.

Short. Unathletic. Vegan. Heavily pierced and tattooed pale skin. Emerald green eyes. "Hang in there" cat tee-shirt. Black jeans with handmade knee hole rips. Beat to shit camouflage hi-tops. Eye contact intended to provoke fear. From a gated community in the Phoenix burbs. Learned she was into girls after getting drunk at her friend Cassidy's for her 16th birthday after no-showing to a dinner with the rents. Cassidy ultimately abandoned her for NYU. On the day she herself left for college, after she had finished packing her 76' VW Bug purchased with money squirreled away from working at Old Spaghetti Factory, she punched her stepfather in the face and broke his nose when he told her not to turn into some kind of sorority slut.

They had endeavored, valiantly even, to dethrone her. Except G-Shock, of course. But had been spectacularly undefeated in their collective failure.

Mostly, they had hated her. Because she looked as if she had just stepped out of a goddamn Saks Fall Magalog, and yet, delivered coding assignments in half the time, lines, and  energy required of others. Professors loved her. They were wholly uninterested in anything other than the work-product and hers was of the kind recalled at retirement dinner parties as a sort of nonchalant and yet conceited tribute to their professional accomplishments. They offered themselves like sacrificial lambs come time for recommendations letter requests in the weeks preceding graduation.

"I'd be honored, Janie."

"Please, keep in touch and do let me know where you land."

She had liked Jin Soo. When they had partnered together during the second semester of her inaugural year, he had focused on the work. Never not so innocuously suggested a working lunch or some other sideways step towards extra-curricular niceties. Just the work. He had unceremoniously brought her a surprisingly delicious, hipsteresque, pour-over coffee during their first meeting in a dusty, cloistered, and somehow oddly established corner of a campus library basement she had never before visited, without so much as even suggesting a prideful eye upon handing her the cup. She was almost certain that he didn't even make eye contact. It was simply a working formality. How else would they set the curve if not properly fueled? She smiled to herself every time she spotted his cartoonishly large black watch on his wrist; it was so ridiculously massive that covering it with his sweatshirt sleeve was an exercise in futility. And while he appeared so detached from any romantic ambition, had he made a move, she probably would have rewarded him right there in one of those musty aisles somewhere between historical copies of Cold War propaganda and periodical assessment of Nixon's undoing. She found his civility, earnest, and patent intellect supremely attractive. And his good-natured wise cracks felt like a proper complement to the blunt-force trauma that she regularly inflicted upon the world at large.

Auto-pilot for the entirety of the fifteen minute return to the office precipitated an ephemeral and yet shiver-chill-inducing, adrenaline-coursing warning shot throughout her physicality. Coming to felt a lot like the backhand her dad had gifted her at the age of 15. She and her mom had been discussing college options, and she had told him she wasn't interested in his opinion. Apparently, she was going to hear it anyway.

She parked her black 335 right next to the garage entrance of a building buried at the end of a corporate cul-de-sac, moments later waving her keycard in front of the lobby elevator sensor. Seven floors later, she faced a set of glass double doors with the word "Subtilitas" in thick, Copperplate font, all caps, etched crudely across its distance as if the adjacent business nameplate was insultingly insufficient.

After taking her first two rights and rounding her second corner, she spotted John knocking back one of his pills straight from the bottle, easing its swallow with a quick gulp of cold, leftover, Keurig-crafted coffee.

It was Lexapro. 10 mg. She had looked.

And it had come in the same bottle they had found in her mother's car after they pulled her body from the choppy, freezing seafoam beneath the Golden Gate Bridge towards the end of her second semester of undergrad. 

Jin Soon had cried real tears when she told him. There was an empathy in his eyes that had frightened her in the way that a small child can't know if ghosts are real or not. As if some secret between the two of them buried beneath the surface of the Earth had been anticipating this exhumation. She remembered a numbness free-falling within her, cementing her feet to the visually dizzying 80s carpet of a library begging for a reno.

Her dad hadn't called until the day after.

"I'm sorry. I didn't know how to tell you."

She was 45 minutes away.

With traffic.

She slowed her gait, now approaching with definitive pronouncement in her step, swing, and breath so as to alert him of her intrusion. What appeared an incensed stare at his screen while coaxing medication down the hatch morphed into a startled, sudden, left-snapping doe-eyed fixation upon her presence over the wall separating despondence from promise.

Pretending not to notice his eye, searching hers, for his secret, as she set her bag down, Janie retrieved a hair-tie and began industriously and furiously weaving thick, professionally cut-and-colored strands of blonde in and out of a one-inch diameter circle, made smaller and smaller by her repetitive pretzeling of its elastic form. Split-endless tips slapped against her hands with each hair pull through while she committed to the ceremony in an effort to postpone the inevitable eye contact that was going to need to happen, while inside, struggling desperately to access appropriate words of reintroduction that might mask just how intimately she was aware that he was mismanaging his mania, marriage, and manhood.

Through. Widen. Twist. Through again. One more for good measure.

Fashioning a melodramatic dissatisfaction with her work, she turned to him with a heavy sigh as if nothing were awry other than her subpar ponytail.

She looked over to find his ever-fixed eyes.

And his silent inquisition.

His request for an admission of guilt.

She stared back.

With an air of feigned surprise.

She would give him nothing.

But the pill was still in his fucking throat.

She could see it.

He hadn't managed to get it down in time.

Was he going to fucking choke?

Good lord.

In this moment of time, like countless others prior to the present, she was exhausted by having to manage someone else's feelings, especially those belonging to yet another participant in a parade of disappointing men in her life, and particularly at the expense of addressing her own. 

He was going to have to shelve his privileged mid-life crisis pity party. He was going to have to take one for the team.

"I have to get an abortion."

Yes...that was going to do just fine.

[bothsandneithers]

Day 2318

To experience totality, I took a drive through Kansas, and landed on the couch of my sister, her husband, and their two cats. 

It’s true what they say -- that, unlike a lot of scales ranging from 1 - 100, the difference between a 95% eclipse and a total eclipse is not an arbitrary difference in experience, but rather: everything.  And, even if those two minutes, when the sun was perfectly occluded by the moon, was the most phenomenal thing I saw that week -- there were a number of runner-up phenomena, of acute instances of humanity that could probably be found all over, but are more easily detected in small towns, when the pretenses that fill a larger city are not obscuring the image.

Middle of Kansas

The huge ornate egg stood tall in the town center, with almost enough poise to make one not question why the twenty-two-foot object was even there. The placard said it signified that the small town was the Czech-capital of Kansas. Even though the 2010 census added up all of its inhabitants to be a few shy of 800 people, the town did have a train-station-turned hotel that was in plain sight, once you turned left for a few miles from the freeway, and then right onto a dirt road, littered with skeletons of farms and mercantile buildings.  

In the basement of the hotel was a restaurant, and in the restaurant, everything was a dilemma. I sat at the bar. The glass used for a vodka and lemonade was first too small, and then re-poured into something entirely too large by the bartender. The components of this vodka and lemonade needed to be clarified with the customer by two different servers. The older woman, probably new on the job but maybe not, had a question about every order, every button on the register, and every action that took place between the bar and the small section of three tables she was serving, which was then discussed in depth with either other server, the bartender, or the busboy. 

It looks like you are learning, said the manager, who momentarily stepped into the basement, either not detecting or, more likely, not being distressed by the slow motion movements of all of her earnest employees. 

The busboy busied himself on the other side of the bar. What book are your reading? he asked, with his adolescently long hair, acne, and dirty black baseball cap. He was holding a stack of ten or so pint glasses. It’s turtles all the way down, I thought, even though the imagery didn’t align with any present metaphor. His lower hand firmly gripped the entire rim of the first glass -- making me wonder and hope that he was taking them to be washed. His hand palpitated around the rim as he anxiously talked to me. 

I showed him the cover. It’s called Plainsong. What is it about? he asked. 

I’m not quite sure yet, I just started. I do know that it’s set in a small town, because all of his books are about the same small town near here, in eastern Colorado. I like small towns because there is no posturing. The sky is big, the streets are wide, and people are people. I didn’t say any of this to him, because it sounded as if I were describing a scene in a snow globe. 

I read a lot, he says. Whenever we get a new book in the library, the librarian gives it to me. I’ve read over 300 books. I can’t pronounce the name of the book I’m reading now. There are a lot of words in it that I don’t know. I’m not sure how much longer I’ll be reading it. 

I think it’s always a good idea to walk away from a book you don’t like, I advised him. 

He shrugged and continued on about his school: We share our school with both the middle and elementary school. It’s just so cute to see all of the little kids walk around. It is just so cute. 

The repetition of that phrase seemed out of the ordinary for someone like him, but it’s as if he knew that it would take at least two times before I realized that he was talking to me, an apparent full-fledged adult, who was not only well-versed in the cuteness of small children, but also had enough authority to validate his perception of the little ones in his community. 

His glow subsided a bit when I asked him how many students were in the high school. About 20, he said. We keep losing students to the next town over. We lost four this year. He said with some amount of loss, wrapping up the conversation and his hand tightly engulfed the bottom glass. 

Then he turned away from me to take the stack of glasses where they needed to go; I’m not sure of their final destiny, and I’m not sure if it really matters. 

Middle of Missouri It didn’t have the painstaking detail of the small-town large-egg, but someone had painted a twelve foot pink strawberry on the shed behind us. We sat on a blanket in the field, and behind us was the crop of vegetables that the urban farm that would soon donate to the local food shelters. The sky grew darker, as the moon further eclipsed the sun, and the cicadas started to lose their minds in the rush of cool air. 

The car, that must have noticed the change in light, had turned its lights on. It drove, under the sun and moon, and past us onlookers. To add to the disorientation of feeling as if we were in a time-lapsed version of reality, with the darkness presenting itself in record time, the car gave off the impression of an anachronistic event. It pulled up to a stop sign, turned left away from us and the eclipse, and onward to something else entirely. 

Quarter of Kansas

After making my own journey a few hours west and back into Kansas, I learned of the nearby park and its facilities.

The swimming pool is empty, said the Inn-keeper upon my arrival -- but it doesn’t have to be, she said with some amount of disappointment that extended beyond the pool and on to a systematic misuse of labor and resources in the town. It’s hot for another month -- but all the student employees have already gone back to school. 

The drained swimming pool, which consisted of both laps and a tube slide  -- that, if measured in height was small, but if measured by the number of turns, was moderate in size -- and the large park were divided by a minimally used road and a handful of diagonally painted parking spaces. 

The park contained all sorts of things: A playground, an equestrian arena, old World War II tanks, a rose garden, a gazebo, and a fountain. The air was perfectly warm, and the sun was slanted to remind you that summer nights last a while. To be an outsider, it was refreshing; to be a resident I imagine it could feel a little stifling, though I couldn’t tell you why. 

Within the handful of the diagonally marked parking spaces between the park and the pool, a white Buick was parked. In the next parking spot over, a man and a woman sat in folding chairs. They were old -- probably great-grandparent old. They faced the metal fence, which retained the drained swimming pool. She was crocheting, and he was reading a magazine. He brought a wooden footstool with him, because he had done this before. 

To be deliberately outside; to be faced with systematic mis-handling of a summer that was coming to an end earlier than it had to. I wanted to ask them what they thought of everything, if they knew how unique they were. I’m sure they had regrets. I didn’t care about those. But I wish that I could have asked them what they thought that they would regret, but never did. 

Up-and-Over in Kansas

Mrs. Pratt said that if she could do over, then she would never have moved here from England. 

The house historian reflected on these words that he had found written in a letter to her daughter, as he stared at her travel chest, which had crossed the Atlantic Ocean and arrived at the house in the middle of Kansas over 100 years ago.

We were standing in one of the oldest, and definitely the most carefully restored houses in Kansas, that was built and lived in by Mr. and Mrs. Pratt who had moved here from England. I was standing inside, but a few minutes before that, I was standing outside, thinking I was alone and reading a placard in front of the house. 

You can come in, you know. I heard a man’s voice from inside the  house — over the hedges and behind the screen door. 

Where are you from? He asked. Denver, I said. Oh, I think I’ve heard of that place, he said. Without further ado, he dived into the history of the Pratt’s and the house. It wasn’t intentionally scripted, but he had lived and breathed their life for so long, that none of the words that came out of his mouth hadn’t been recited before. 

He had a deep appreciation for Mr. Pratt, who had impeccable record keeping. He recorded every penny he spent (he was a tightwad, the historian repeatedly said), and even documented the size and sex of every cow that was hit by the train that used to run through this area. The historian owed Mr. Pratt a great deal. It’s anthropologists all the way down, I thought, only partially appreciating the sacredness of one person carefully documenting their life, and the care of someone else, one hundred years later, piecing all of the pieces back together to continue telling the story. 

This chair here broke, and so they took off the back, and used it to practice their needle work, he pointed to a vibrant cross-stitched flowers that looked newer than old.

The house looked old yet maintained. He did all the work himself, of both physically restoring the place, and triangulating information that he had received from his various data sources (and tracking down the original bathtub that had made its way to the farmyard of a neighbor down the street).  

We walked through each of the five rooms, and he described in detail the fixtures, the tin paneling, including how much everything cost. He knew the precise cost of everything, because Mr. Pratt had told him. 

We went into a final room, which doubled as his messy office. This is what the wall paper looked like during different  years, he said, pointing to five 8x8 inch squares, each square going one layer deeper back time. I’m a trained archaeologist, he said. 

We walked around the property and across the pasture, in a manner as if I were interviewing him for a filming of a PBS documentary that nobody would ever see.

Did you watch the eclipse? I asked him. He had mentioned that the last week had been pretty busy because of travelers passing through. 

No, he said. I was out here working. I liked the blueness of the sky, and the softness of the shadows. But, I didn’t watch it.

love,

amy