#that fucking cult stash took years off my life

[amiracleilluminated]

*crawls out of the woods covered in blood, eye twitching, gripping a gun*

sam lake made me do math

[mothmanssweetsucculentass]

Nurse Ann Headcanons

It’s MY blog and I get to pick which creepypasta goes next for my HC list!

No but seriously I feel like Ann has always been such an underrated character, it sucks the OG artist (Yaguyi I believe) never came up with a canon story for her.

Everything I list here is purely not canon, literally the only thing we have to go off canon-wise is that one image made years ago.

You know the drill, expect canon typical violence. Extra warning for mentions of SA, this is your only warning, stop reading NOW if things like that bother you

Is some form of zombie, however has full sentience and intelligence somehow

Zombies aren’t normally this coherent, like???

Died around the 90s

Was a nurse at a small hospital in New York before her death

Got into a car accident on her way to work one day

Assumed on the way to the ER of the hospital she worked in that she was in good hands

Oops! There’s a secret cult operating behind the scenes at the hospital!

The head surgeon was always a lecherous creep to the nurses. Took advantage of Ann’s injured unconscious state in multiple ways

Wasn’t sedated, was fully awake and felt everything as her body was dismembered, all in the name of [REDACTED] in the hospital basement

Her organs were harvested after she died from her injuries. Heartless physically and emotionally!

Her body was dumped up north in the woods

Botched sacrifice left her life clinging to each part of her body in a weird unconscious state

The pieces of her body were found by Jason. He planned to use her for spare parts in his craft, but some other force urged him to reconstruct her instead

Now the two are besties (mainly because Ann considers that she has a lifelong debt to Jason)

Obviously this whole experience fucked her up

Like bro my coworkers just murdered me in a ritual sacrifice and didn’t even do it correctly smh

Is fueled by spite and revenge

Has yet to track down every person at the hospital involved or complacent with the cult

But makes sure every time she finds one, they suffer a painful death the same way she did

Besides vengeance, she’s motivated to kill for her own body

No seriously she’s a walking corpse. She’s gotta find new body parts every so often, or consume flesh to revitalize the parts of her she can’t part with

Often replaces limbs, refuses to replace parts of her torso, or her head

Thanks to Jason teaching her, she’s insanely good at sewing and stitching

Her and Jason are the go-to pastas for whenever someone has a ripped shirt or something

Has an immense hatred for the medical system for many reasons besides what happened to her

Tries to be as gentle as possible with her patients, especially Sally

Gentle =/= BS tolerance tho

The amount of times she’s kicked Jeff out of her office because he was rude or made a pervy comment. If you’re gonna be a creep go tell your jokes to the big demon with no eyes and mouth tentacles

Keeps a secret stash of candy like a real doctors office and often hands them out randomly. Most of the time it isn’t even for good behavior during checkups, she just likes surprising people with random candy

Is often found betting on who gets hurt by what on a weekly basis with Eyeless Jack. Both of them agree that Jeff is off limits because he’s showing up to either of them constantly

Any body parts she doesn’t use or consume gets shared with Eyeless Jack and the other cannibals

Her hair isn’t naturally red, or even naturally there anymore. It’s a wig. Like bro she’s undead, have you seen the hair on corpses at funerals. There’s no way in hell she’s getting human hair to look that good for that long

But on the topic of wigs—weirdly one of the few pastas allowed to mingle with “normal” society

She’s insanely good at disguising herself

Owns many different wigs and outfits that strategically cover the rotting or stitched parts of her flesh from the public eye

Will moonlight as many different roles/jobs to gain access to needed supplies

Also helps gather local intel when Ben’s usual online intel isn’t enough

Secretly has befriended a few humans. Often goes out for coffee/book club with this very small group

Would probably be fully mentally broken if the others found out and went after her human friends

She loves being friends with Jason, Helen, and Eyeless Jack, but she knows for a fact that all 3 of them would see that as weakness and use it against her somehow

If Helen found out, he’d immediately use the information as leverage and blackmail against her

Jason would get insanely jealous. As per usual in his case. And would obviously go after the poor people

Eyeless Jack would straight up just eat them. I mean at least he’d offer to share with Ann, because he’d assume she was just “saving them for later” but eat them he would and he wouldn’t feel bad about it

She’s terrified of anyone finding out and often has a “do I even belong here?” Crisis

Up until she remembers why she’s there in the first place and immediately goes back to tracking down those involved in her death

Ben offered to help track these people down for her once, which was immediately turned down

It doesn’t feel the same if someone else did all the work like that. She has to be the one to find them and make them pay or it just doesn’t sit right with her

Is neutral about animals, but hates insects due to the fact they so frequently go after corpses. Bug traps and cans of various bug killers are scattered throughout her office to keep them at bay

Wears a fuckton of perfumes and bug repellants when out in human society to mask her rotting scent and to keep bugs off her skin

Is friends/close with: Eyeless Jack, Helen, Jason, Kagekao, Masky, and Hoody

Has a tolerable relationship with: Ben, LJ, Clockwork, Slenderman, Nina, Liu, and Sally

HATES/doesn’t get along with: Jeff, Jane, the Puppeteer

Jeff is pretty self explanatory

She doesn’t like Jane because Jane just rubs her the wrong way. She can’t explain why, but it feels like Jane is trying to be better than her for some reason

Puppeteer mistook her for one of Jason’s creations and assumed she was free to “play” with. Once he realized she was sentient and not, in fact, a corpse doll, he stopped, but she’s never forgiven him for that

Oh yeah if it wasn’t already obvious she holds hella grudges

If you don’t apologize within the microsecond of wronging her, your ass is on the burn list

Piss her off enough and she’ll remember specific details of things you did, and then list them off in front of other people until you do whatever she wants in that moment

If Helen is the king of manipulation then she’s the queen

You’d think her and Jason would be the gossip besties but it’s actually her and Helen fr

Is pretty close with Masky and Hoody since they’re the only other ones who are able to go out in human society often

She has no idea that they know about her human friends, but it’s fine considering they’re ones to talk

Her and Eyeless Jack share a bond of having unfortunate connections to [REDACTED]

Has made sure to carve off every part of her original body effected with the brandings/symbols of the cult

Often changes her eyes out for new fun ones. Does heterochromia for fun, and to irk Nina

“But you look like a Mary Sue when you do that!!” “But it looks cool” “BUT THE PRINCIPLE OF IT!!!!!”

When not tending to the injured masses, she’s often in the mansion’s library, or out in human society hanging out with her friends gathering supplies

[young-dumb-and-vaccinated]

Cult Girl: Doctorate (Hannibal x Female!Reader) pt. 6

Positive

Cult girl and Hannibal find a way to turn a life-altering mistake to their favor.

@wisesandwichshark

Trigger warnings: accidental pregnancy, discussion of abortion, adoption, slight emetophobia

Another week passed and the 'hangover' didn't subside. Then a third week passed, so you had to give up the façade and just admit you were sick. Hannibal was smugly concerned, but not alarmed. It paid to have a doctor for a fiancé. Studying could be done from bed and you needed to be in perfect working order to burn down your grandmother's country club and fully enjoy it.

Hannibal wasn't so much of a hypochondriac that he denied you affection while bed-ridden. That, or he didn't believe what you had was contagious. Whatever it was.

It wasn't until you woke up late, just days before the start of the new semester, that you discovered. You hobbled blindly to the bathroom to take your medicine. You were fully prepared to drop to your knees and vomit in the toilet and you wanted nothing more than to return to bed and slip back into sweet unconsciousness. Not even microdosing meth could keep you awake.

You slid your birth control packet out of its sleeve. You were halfway through the green placebo pills, so you were sure that didn't help how miserable you felt. This period sure had a hell of a build-up.

That's when a number caught your eye.

It was a number you weren't even previously aware existed. A date on your birth control packet. Dated three months prior.

You weren't lucid enough to comprehend what it meant, but once it hit you, you spit the pill into the sink.

Expired. You thought. How the fuck do pills expire?

No. No. No. No.

"[F/N]?" Hannibal said. "Is everything okay?"

"Yeah." You called back. "I... just need to take a shower."

You turned the faucet on. It was a bad lie and he would figure it out eventually, but you couldn't involve him. Not yet. You needed a minute alone to think.

You found the pregnancy test you stashed under the sink all those years ago. You double-checked the lock, then began the test. There was no romantic or even palatable way to describe the process of peeing on a stick, quietly as possible, to avoid your frankly terrifying fiancé's notice. Once it was done, you wrapped the still-loading test in toilet paper and shoved it back under the sink.

You had no idea how long it would take to give you a result. Or if waiting four years to use it would give you a false result. There was so much you didn't know.

You jumped into the shower and washed up, trying to push all thoughts of panic out of your head. It didn't work. You went right into bury-the-body mode. A fall down the stairs could best pass for an accident, but had the unintended consequences of severe bodily harm. You wondered if those special herbal teas actually worked and where you'd find one. Or, instead of investing in gimmicky, pseudo-scientific abortion teas or throwing yourself down a flight of stairs, you could just talk to him.

You sat on the bathroom floor in a towel for what felt like hours, holding the mummified pregnancy test between your fingers. It took all your strength to rip through the tissue paper and confirm what you already knew.

A big, obnoxious pink plus sign. Almost like it was rubbing it in.

Your head was screaming just talk to him. He was your goddamn fiancé. The man you were going to spend the rest of your life with. But you couldn't tell him. Not after what he said at the country club.

"Hannibal?" You called out, voice weak. "Can you come here, please?"

He opened the bathroom door to find you huddled against the sink wearing nothing but a towel. It was a sight that would make anyone freak out.

"My god, [F/N]." He took a knee beside you. "Are you hurt? Did you hit your head?"

You gestured to the pregnancy test at your side. You hugged your knees into your chest and waited for him to process everything.

He looked at you with an unreadable expression. "I thought you were on birth control?"

You covered your face with your hands. "I did too. Nobody told me that the pills actually expire."

Then came the question that you were dreading.

"What do you want to do?"

That was why you were hesitant to tell him. Not because he would try to make a decision for you, but because he wouldn't.

"I don't know." You blurted out. "What do you want to do?"

Hannibal raised his eyebrows. "You know I can't tell you that. You need to decide for yourself."

"That's what I was afraid you were going to say." You threw your head back in exasperation. "I'm just asking for a little direction. You said you definitely wanted to have kids-"

"Not like this." He cut you off. "Not when it would derail your entire career.” 

“Look, you know I was on the fence about having kids at all.” You rambled, just trying to collect your thoughts. “But then you described what you wanted for us and it just sounded so nice.” 

“Darling, I am begging you,” He pressed his fingers to his temples. “Please, decide for yourself and only yourself.” 

“I’m trying!” You objected. “I just need a second to think.” 

“Don’t think, just answer.” He implored. “What do you want to do?” 

“I want to get an abortion.” You blurted out before slapping your hand over your mouth. 

“Was that really so hard to say?” Hannibal asked, voice broken with relief. Relief of what, you couldn’t place. 

You couldn’t bring yourself to make eye contact with him. “It was, a little.” 

“Why?” He tilted his head curiously. “And please don’t say it was because of me.” 

“I don’t know.” You shrugged, hiding your face again. “I just learned I was pregnant, like, five minutes ago. I shouldn’t be expected to make a choice this massive without at least ten minutes to think about it.” 

“Do you really want to get an abortion?” He asked. 

Your voice wobbled with uncertainty. “No... yes?” 

“I see.” He said, as if this were just a point of academic curiosity that didn’t involve him whatsoever. “Is there a part of you, no matter how small, that wants to see the pregnancy to term?” 

“Well, yeah. Thus the basis of my uncertainty.” You threw your hands up. “But I also know it’s insanely unrealistic to think I could just speedrun my last two years of school and however long it takes to establish a career just to get to the domestic bliss.”

“You would do good to not expect motherhood to be a blissful retirement plan, love." Hannibal gently scorned. "Parenting takes just as much commitment as your studies. Likely more."

"I know." You bashed your palms against your forehead. "I said it was unrealistic, didn't I? Look, I just don't foresee any worthwhile outcomes if I carry this pregnancy to term. Even to put it up for adoption just seems selfish. Why bring a kid into the world just to set them up for a shitty life?"

Hannibal paused, and looked off into the distance pensively.

"If you could forgive me a hypothetical," He began. "What if we could guarantee them a wonderful life?"

"Are we talking philosophy, or do you have an actual suggestion?" You probed.

"A bit of both, depending on where your mind takes you." He smirked as if he were about to say something very clever. "What if Beatrice [L/N]'s estate made sure our child had a safe, comfortable upbringing? With a weighty college trust fund in their name, naturally."

You couldn't tell if this was brilliant or insane. It all depended on how 'hypothetical' the whole situation really was. Either way, you were interested.

"Go on." You urged, letting the idea slither into your mind.

"There's nothing in the will that specifically states we must raise the child ourselves." He recounted. "Only that it must be of blood descent."

You hadn't considered that, but it made sense once you heard it out loud. Your grandmother had many skills to make her a sharp manipulator, but her inattention to detail was always her downfall.

“Forty-five million extra dollars in the bank would be nice.” You said. You were humoring him at first, but when you said it out loud, it rang true. 

“Forty-five is drops in the bucket compared to what we can get from her property.” He added. “The house and the golf course.” 

You put your hand on your chin, actually, seriously considering it. You were on the precipice of inheriting more money than you could possibly spend in one lifetime. Money that could make so many problems go away overnight. Money you could hand out to anyone you wanted to, just to make their lives a little easier. You pictured yourself giving waitstaff six-figure tips, or handing a hundred dollar bill to someone asking for change on the street. You could erase your best friend's college debt as a birthday present. Get Hannibal a proper gift. All with money you bled out of your abusers.

It was divine justice. All at the price of nine months of your life.

"So..." Your voice trailed off. "We just need to keep this thing alive for the next nine months..."

"We can find an adoptive family in that time." Hannibal nodded along. "And we can set up a college fund for the child to be given to them on their 18th birthday."

"And we could make the adoption open, in case the child ever wants to meet us." You said.

"Right." He agreed. "Allowing the option for an adoptee to meet their biological parents is much better for their mental health and adjustment."

You covered your mouth with your hand, only to hide your excitement. "I take it back, I'm starting to see a positive outcome."

[multifandomwriter56]

The Happy Reunion

A/n: This was requested by @ravenoussss​. So sorry about the wait, love! I hope you like it.

Request: Hiii! So I was just wondering if you could possibly do a Klaus Hargreeves x sister!reader ? Idk some cute angst fluff thing ? Just a thought, if not that's cool!

Summary: Y/n is trying to hitchhike and when a car pulls over, she’s not expecting to see her brother’s face. (This is set in S2, there’s not many spoilers, I promise)

Warnings: language, spoilers from s2 (I promise I don’t go into detail), fluff, little bit of angst, talks about being in foster care, talks about a woman overdosing but no actual scene

Word Count: 757 (I know it’s short, sorry!)

Y/n exhales a short laugh when she hears an engine rumbling closer to her. She holds up her left hand, thumb stretched high. 

She smiles when they slow down. Finally! 

She opens the passenger’s door, throwing her bag at the floor before sliding in. “Thank you so much! I was almost out of water.” She turns to let the stranger see her grateful smile; but when she makes eye contact, her smile falls.

“Y/n?”

“Klaus?”

Tears immediately build in both siblings’ eyes.

“I can’t believe it’s you.” Klaus exclaims as he pulls her into her hug. 

Y/n returns the hug. “I missed you so much.” She whispers. 

“I missed you too.” Klaus pulls back to get a better look at his baby sister; who he quickly realizes is not a child anymore. “Look at you! You’re not my baby faced sister anymore.”

Y/n rolls her eyes with a fond sigh. “Yes, well I’m eighteen now. I’ve been here for five years.”

“Five years?” Y/n nods her head. “What did you do? Where have you been living?”

She shrugs her shoulders; not really wanting to talk about the many orphanages and foster care homes she’s been in. “Here and there. It only started getting bad when I turned eighteen a few months ago.”

“How did you explain not having a birth certificate?”

She rubs the back of her neck. “I lied. I told them I’ve been living alone since my mom died from drug overdose and when I was born she had me at home. It wasn’t too hard after that; once they believed me. “

“I’m sorry you had to go through that, Y/n.”

Y/n shrugs her shoulders, not wanting to think about it anymore. “So what have you been up to? Where’s Ben? Is he around?”

“No, Ben unfortunately didn’t make it.”

She snorts. “Yeah, okay. Ben-” She looks around, not knowing where the brother she’s never met is. “If I took your spot, sorry. Hope you don’t mind.”

Klaus smiles. Y/n’s always been able to read him like a children’s book, “He said it’s okay and he’s glad you’re okay.”

Y/n grins proudly before asking her brother about his life once again. “Like what’s with the weird beard? You trying to be like Jesus or something?”

“You don’t like it?”

“Eh.”

“Eh? I’ll show you eh.” Before she can scramble away, Klaus’ fingers attack her sides; a wide smile forming at her squeals and giggles.

The two siblings talk for the next hour or so; enjoying each other’s company. When Klaus would talk to Ben, Y/n would stay quiet; curious about what her other brother is saying. 

They stopped to rest on the side of the road. Y/n decides to stretch her legs and exits the car. She walks around, ignoring the one-sided fight going on in the car. She frowns when she hears Klaus start to yell. She moves closer so she can hear him better.

“I’m not going back! The cult will be fine without me!”

Her eyes widen and she flings the door open. “You started a fucking cult?!”

“Oh god, she’s officially an adult. Her first curse word.” He places a hand over his heart. “I’m so proud.”  

“Klaus, did you forget you dared me to cuss out Luther when he ate my secret stash?” She asks in her most bored, deadpanned tone.

“Oh yeah.”

She slides into the seat. “I can’t believe you started a- actually, yes; yes I can. It’s totally something you would do.” At the offended look directed at her, she immediately soothes her favorite brother. “I mean, no one else could pull it off. No else has the talent.”

Klaus smiles. “Really?”

Y/n returns the smile. “Really. Now, tell me all about it. Is that why you grew the, uhm-” She pretends to pet an invisible beard on her face.

“It may have had something to do with it.”

Y/n giggles. “Tell me!”

“Later, I promise. I’m tired. Get in the back so we can both lie down.”

“What about Ben?”

Klaus scoffs. “He’ll be fine.” He groans when she shakes her head. “Okay, fine. We’ll share. Happy?” He pretends to be annoyed; but in all honesty, he’s okay with some sibling cuddling. He missed his little sister.

The two of them get comfortable; relaxing when they finally do. 

“You’re telling me everything in the morning.”

“I know.”

I love you, Klaus.” Y/n whispers as her eyes close.

“Love you too, Y/n.”

Forevers: @beautycinders​ @desiredposion​ @ravenoussss​ @simonsbluee​

[thepartyresponsible]

here’s a short, relatively fluffy fic about what happens when jason todd and clint barton, a pair of career criminals and expert thieves, steal the winter soldier.

and to the anon who asked for a fluffy fic featuring hot chocolate, blankets, and warm feels shared by clint, jason, and tony....um. i’m really sorry. i’ve had a lot of cold medication. my reading comprehension is compromised.

Popular opinion would no doubt suggest that stealing the Winter Soldier is the ballsiest heist Jason and Clint have ever pulled. Jason’s not sure he’d rank it that high. After all, their Batcave stunt was pretty egregiously ill-advised, and then there was the time they stole fifty grand worth of Kryptonite with the use of a clipboard and some fake EPA inspector badges they printed out at a public library.

But keeping the Winter Soldier. Yeah. Sure. That’s pretty ballsy.

No real other options, though. At least none that either of them could live with.

Jason knows they’re doomed the moment he hears the quiet horror in Clint’s voice, the way his words catch, just a little, when he says, “Um. Jay? I think it’s a person.”

Because stealing a serial killer robot from HYDRA and then handing it off to the League of Assassins for “decommissioning” is one thing, but turning over a living, breathing human being is another. He and Clint walk all kinds of fuzzy ethical lines. God knows even Selina gets shrill about their activities sometimes. But they don’t deal in people. Not ever.

“Okay,” Jason says, nudging Clint gently out of the way. “Go steal us something fast. I’ll handle this.”

Because, between the two of them, Clint’s got the softer heart. He doesn’t get fussy about what happens in an honest fight, but he can get downright melancholy about the necessities of after-battle cleanup, and Jason’s happy to spare him from it, when he can.  

So Clint goes to get them a car that’ll get them out of the country before Ra’s realizes he’s been screwed around, and Jason goes to hover over the Winter Soldier, freshly defrosted, still barely twitching his way back to consciousness.

And Jason’s not an asshole. Whatever this guy’s done, he hasn’t done it to Jason or anyone who belongs to him, so none of this is personal. It’s gonna be fast and easy, just a bullet between the eyebrows, but the Winter Soldier blinks his pretty eyes open, looks up the barrel of the gun, and stares right into Jason’s face.

“я готов отвечать,” he says.

Ready to comply, Jason thinks.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” Jason says.

And so, after that, Jason doesn’t have the heart to kill him, either.

  There’s a lot of yelling in the days that follow. From all conceivable sides. Ra’s al Ghul threatens every kind of unpleasant thing, and HYDRA hounds after them like they’re supposed to be scared of a group of megalomaniacal old cult assholes too creepy to get invited to the local Free Masons, and Selina calls Jason every day for a week to shriek at him about how she didn’t save him from the streets of Gotham so he could get murdered for stealing the world’s most brutal assassin.

“Selina, c’mon,” Jason says, muttering into the phone. Winter’s asleep in the backseat, shackled up like Houdini before a trick, and they’ve had a couple exciting moments, but he’s mostly just been quiet and kinda eerily empty-eyed. He keeps asking Jason about the mission. “He’s fine. I mean, he’s a little rough around the edges, sure. But I found Clint in a dumpster.”

“Hey,” Clint says, whisper-hissing at him from the passenger seat.

“And he looked great,” Jason tacks on quickly, with a wink he hopes will smooth things over. “Amazing. That dumpster didn’t know how lucky it had it.”

“You need to be careful,” Selina says. She put down two HYDRA goons this morning. They barged in on her in her pajamas, and she’s probably more pissed about getting caught with bed hair than having to dump two bodies before noon.

Although, she never was much of a morning person.

“We’re being careful,” Clint promises, leaning over to talk into the phone. “We couldn’t leave him, Selina. You didn’t see him. It was--- it was really bad.”

Selina’s quiet for a moment. “He’s an international criminal,” she says. And then, probably after she remembers that every single person in this conversation has their own personal INTERPOL file, she adds: “He’s an assassin.”

“I think he’s nice,” Clint says, stubborn and loyal. As always.

He only thinks that because Winter keeps trying to palm him extra food. Jason has to make a big show out of giving Clint food at the same time as he unlocks Winter for meals, or Winter will only eat half his food and then stash the rest so he can sneak it to Clint later.

Jason does not consider this behavior an endorsement of HYDRA’s caretaking expertise.

“He’d better be worth all the trouble,” Selina says. But she doesn’t mean it. Selina’s a thief and a liar and sometimes a killer, but she’s just like Clint, really. Softhearted for lost causes, both of them.

Jason can’t complain. It’s that shared weakness that brought both of them to him.

“Well,” Jason says, “if he’s not, we’ll just drop him with whatever country’s offering the biggest bounty.”

“That’s my boy,” Selina says. “But remember to start a bidding war first.”

  The thing about Winter is that he’s actually James Buchannan Barnes, Captain America’s best friend. He’s a Goddamn war hero, and HYDRA took him, tortured him, blended his brain, and made him kill people.

Jason grew up in Gotham, spent his formative years playing sidekick to Catwoman, so he’s seen some fucked-up situations. But it makes him sick, watching Winter work it out. Catching those sporadic flashes of Bucky Barnes, the miserable, devastated way he closes his eyes when the memories come, like it was better, somehow, when all he knew how to say was Yes, No, and Ready to comply.

And Clint was right. He is nice. He’s painfully sweet, really, in the way he frets over Clint until he figures out that Jason doesn’t actually run things, doesn’t own Clint, and sure as hell would never hurt him. And then he frets over both of them. Stoic and steely-eyed and stone-jawed, fretting like a Goddamn mother hen.

HYDRA wants him back, and Ra’s wants him dead, and Jason and Clint, as insistently and dramatically as they can, invite both of them to fuck right off.

They don’t really mean to keep him. Not forever. Just until people stop trying to murder him. Just until they can stash him in some nice town, where no one knows who he is, where he can go back to being Bucky Barnes full time and forget all about everything HYDRA made him into.

But people don’t stop. The whole world keeps coming after them. And Bucky, for his part, doesn’t want to leave them.

Six months in, Clint catches a bullet, and Bucky gets stolen, and Jason has to choose to leave Clint so he can go grab Bucky before they wipe him clean out of his own head. And Clint’s going to be fine, knows how to look after himself, didn’t get shot anywhere vital. But Jason crashes into that transport van with Clint’s blood on his hands, and it makes him crazy, a little. It makes him a nightmare.

So, afterwards, Selina brokers a meeting with Batman, and Jason goes, because Batman’s owed him a favor ever since that years-long game of tag he used to play with Nightwing resulted in him accidentally stumbling into a situation where he saved Nightwing’s life.

He doesn’t bring Clint, and he doesn’t bring Bucky, because he figures Batman’s not going to kill him, but he might throw him in prison. If he does, Selina will bust him out on principle, and she’d almost certainly do the same for Clint, but Bucky’s so new and so much trouble that she might just leave him where he’s less likely to get Jason killed.

“Look, Bats,” Jason says, when they’re finally standing uncomfortably on the same rooftop. “We don’t like each other. You’re the delusional iron fist of the bourgeoisie acting out your punishment kink on the unsuspecting poor, and I’m just a guy trying to make a living. But we gotta work together on this, okay? Or I’m gonna leak the porn I found on the Batcave computers.”

Batman takes a long breath in through his nose. He seems to visibly weigh out which issue to raise first. “You planted those files on the Batcave computers.”

And he hadn’t, actually. Clint did that. He’d spent the whole night before the job downloading Superman-themed porn, and he’d filled Jason’s laptop with so much malware that Jason eventually just burned the thing in a purifying pyre. But Jason had to admit that running those videos on every screen in the Batcave had resulted in a truly awe-inspiring, immersive experience.

“We were just trying to be supportive,” Jason says. “Anyway. Look. You owe me a favor.”

There’s a lot of back-and-forth after that, consisting mainly of Batman holding forth about how saving a life is its own reward and he doesn’t owe Jason a favor and Jason really needs to reconsider his life choices while he still has the opportunity to do so. But he seems to listen when Jason tells him what he knows about HYDRA, about how deep its infiltration of SHIELD and various world governments goes. He’s quiet when Jason talks about Bucky. And, when Jason hands over all their intel, he takes the flash drive readily enough.

“If this is more porn,” he says, holding up the flash drive, “I’m throwing all of you in Blackgate.”

“Jesus, Bats,” Jason says, not even trying to bite back a laugh. “If it had that much of an impact on you, you should do some solitary self-reflection about it. Maybe some of those documentaries we left for you could help.”

  Jason leaves Gotham and drives through the morning and afternoon and early evening, doubling and then tripling back on his route, making sure he’s not being followed. When he finally makes it to the safehouse, he’s shivery cold and dead tired. Bucky goes over his bike, checking for any trackers Jason might have missed, and Clint bullies him right into the shower.

Afterwards, Jason faceplants on the couch, and Clint hauls him up a few minutes later so he can press a mug of hot chocolate into his hands. “Drink this,” he says.

“Coffee,” Jason groans.

“No,” Clint says, as he settles next to him. “You’ve gotta sleep, you asshole. You’ve been up for three days straight.”

“Whiskey,” Jason tries, a little less plaintive and a little more mutinous.

Clint sighs. “I already put bourbon in there.”

Jason hums, appeased, and leans over to press a smacking kiss to Clint’s cheek. “You’re a fucking saint,” he says.

“Oh, a fucking saint,” Clint mutters, rolling his eyes. There’s a pleased blush settling along the lines of his cheekbones. “Didn’t know they made those.”

“The patron saint of fucking,” Jason declares, sipping at his hot chocolate. “Endowed with the power of---”

“This should be good,” Bucky mumbles, from across the room.

“Oh shit,” Jason says, and nearly sloshes the hot chocolate on himself. He tries not to talk about sex too much in front of Bucky. He tries not to think about sex too much in front of Bucky. He’s helplessly in love with Clint, and has been since he hauled him out of that dumpster in Gotham, but, as Winter fades and Bucky manifests more confidently in this new century, there’s been a growing tension between the three of them that Jason, frankly, has no idea what to do with.

“No, go on,” Bucky says, like this is the conversation he wants to have. Like he’s not the slightest bit curious about the mission Jason just ran, the one that’s supposed to clear his name, open a path that allows them to work with SHIELD to burn HYDRA to the ground. “He’s the patron saint of what, again?”

“Yeah,” Clint says, blinking at him with his innocent face in place. “What were you saying?”

Jason rolls his eyes and takes a pointed drink of his hot chocolate. It’s nice, he decides. That everyone’s comfortable enough to shit-talk him these days. Real refreshing. A Goddamn triumph of the resiliency of the human spirit.

“It went alright?” Bucky says, because he’s almost always the merciful one. Maybe he enjoys the novelty of it.

When he wanders over, he snags a blanket off the nearby chair, and he curls up on the end of the couch beside Clint, tossing the blanket over the three of them. He holds his hands out toward Jason, and Jason, without even thinking, passes his hot chocolate over. Bucky’s fingers brush Jason’s, and linger.

Jason isn’t making this shit up. He knows he isn’t.

First of all, he spends half his life watching people hit on Clint. He knows the signs.

Second of all, people get hot chocolate on their lips every day, but nobody licks it off like that unless they’re trying to plant ideas in people’s heads about what else those lips and tongue could do.

“Um,” Jason says, when he realizes they’re both staring at him. “Yeah. I mean. He didn’t throw me off a roof or put me in prison, so. I think he’s gonna help.”

Clint and Bucky exchange a look and then shrug. By their standards, that’s the start of a highly promising business relationship.

“Well,” Clint says, as he sprawls out, tucked in tight against Jason’s side, with a casual ankle hooked around one of Bucky’s. “You guys wanna watch Dog Cops?”

Jason figures, between the bourbon, and the blanket, and the warm weight of Clint’s body, he’s gonna be asleep in fifteen minutes. But he’d give Clint anything he asked for. “Sure,” he says, eyes already drifting closed. “Sounds great.”

  Two days later, they meet with a reserved, competent, endlessly unamused man named Phil Coulson. He doesn’t smile or laugh or seem to like them even a little bit. But he doesn’t try to kill them, either.

Four years later, they’re Strike Team Delta, and they’ve acquired Natasha Romanoff and a hell of a reputation. Coulson smiles more and yells more, and still hasn’t tried to kill them. Not once. Not even after Budapest.

HYDRA is ashes, and Bucky is theirs.

So what the hell. Maybe stealing the Winter Soldier wasn’t their ballsiest heist. But it was definitely their best.

[guidedbygunpla]

Gundam REDUX Side Story chapter 1

             “dad, I’m so sorry, Honeydew tripped while we were out riding, she can’t get up. Dad what do we do” the young child called up to his father, an older man, twice the age of his wife, and ten times the age of his young son.              “son, Honeydews leg is broken” his father said, cold and expressionless, looking at the horse laying in the mud mewing in pain. His son barely tall enough to ride it. Apparently too young for the responsibility.

             “but the animal doctor can help her right? The man who came to give her her shots? He can fix it right” his son said, tears in his eyes pulling at the robe his father wore. Regal and clean, white and gold

             “son he could set her leg yes, he could mend it and it could heal. But it will hurt her forever. She’ll never walk correctly again. She’ll never live a moment of her life not in pain again. The right thing to do is to put her down. “ he said crouching down and running his hands through his sons blonde hair.

               “Cassie, go grab the rifle from the car…..it’s the right thing to do” His father said, his tone low and calm

             “dad no! we can’t! I love Honeydew you can’t kill her!” he said tears pouring down his face

             “I won’t kill her son….you have to do that, she’s your responsibility. She needs to know that you made her pain end”

 His father went and grabbed the bolt action rifle from the back of the black limosene that sat at the front of the stable. The boy laid there holding the horses neck, trying to comfort them. His father came back, rifle in hand and put a hand on his shoulder

               “Casval, it’s time.”

 ________________________________________________________

Char lay slumped against the control panel, his zaku buried slightly in the remains of the woods that the forest fire had left behind. Kentucky was still burning, and he was still far too close to the federations mobile suits to be safe. He couldn’t breathe, its like his throat had closed up on him, he was crying, but there was no gasp for air, just tears, tears and tense muscles.

               “I killed him” he spoke, his voice a growl

             “I killed Garma……why in the world did I kill him”

               Images flew through his head, his father gasping for air on stage, as Degwin, Garmas father began to smile, standing at his side. The zabi soldiers pounding on his families mansion, his mother crying as he and his sister were taken away from her. Her face in the newspaper when he was on earth, Wife of famed cult leader Zeon Zum Deikun found murdered.

             Garma the first day he met him, a fresh faced 19 year old. Didn’t even know how to tie a tie.

Soft skin, soft hair

That little way he twirled his hair when he was nervous

His sister crying for days after they landed on earth

Being trained on his place as the head of the family by a family friend Jimba Ral

Sneaking away from that life, taking the place of another family friend Charles Aznable, and flying away to a Zeon military academy

Why did fate have to do this to him

Why did I have to do this

Why did I have to kill him

 He was shaking in his seat now, panic gripping him

They would find the camera data In his suit, or Garma or Grams suit, they would see his suit was pristine, and draw a conclusion, he had to do something

  Chars hand shook nonstop as he pressed the button to open his hatch

               “I need air”

He could hear his voice, but he didn’t feel like he was speaking

 He pressed the button on the side of his seat to pop up the emergency maintenance system, turning his center monitor into a small keyboard.

               “First things first, I need to wipe the video data……no but if I do that, they will be able to pull that from the black box” char slumped against his chair

What the fuck had he just done

Was this worth it?

                                          An idea crept into his mind

He typed away at the keyboard pulling up maintenance logs, a picture of a beam saber wound left on another zaku.

               “it just might work” Char said as he pressed away on his control stick, engaging the heat hawk and cranking its temp beyond its limiter, he raised the zakus arm twisted the heat hawk around and slid it into the body of the zaku slightly below his cockpit, melting the hard drives for camera, and audio recording. Now was the matter of the black box, it sat right below the pilot seat. Char grabbed the pilots helmet that sat locked in above him, slid off his captains helmet and then pulled the helmet down over him. He pressed the buttons to close the cockpit hatch. A few maneuvers of the control stick and infront of him his monitors began to melt, and crack as the heat hawk slipped through the wall that protected him from the outside world, he raised his feet up onto his seat, moved the hand and heat hawk away from the hatch, and opened the hatch again, he then took the leading edge of his heat hawk and slid it into the front of the cockpit, the heat was over whelming, but he watched his seat catch fire below him, and watched the side of the black box’s orange covering melt and bubble and then watched the boards inside of it become exposed, pop and bubble and catch fire as well

 He pushed the control stick back fast, and stomped out the fire on his seat. The smell of the burning plastic and metal made him woozy.

               “there, all the data is gone, now to sell this damage before the heat hawk burns up”

He began throwing the hawk into his suit wildly, and sheered off the left arm of his zaku. Char started laughing, as tears rolled down his face. He stumbled out of the Zaku and reached up and grabbed ahold of the climbing wire that hung inside the cockpit, and rode it down to the ground. It was cold out, despite the forest fire around them. Chars hands were still shaking, he reached around his dress uniform and found the pocket where he stored his cigarette case              “keep saying I’m going to quit you” he said with a small laugh as he slid one between his teeth and used the lighter he kept in the case to light it. The smoke slowed his shaking, and his mind.

             “he didn’t deserve that…” Char said, exhaling slowly “he was a good man, sure his dads a murderer, and he only got where he is because his dad murdered mine…..but” he stopped, taking a long drag “he didn’t deserve that……fuck…..Cassie what is wrong with you……ugh” he grunted as he threw the cigarette to the dirt, and rubbed it out with his foot. He heard a gun cock behind him

             “Char, you have 10 fucking seconds to explain to me what just happened.” He heard, the voice was familiar it was Garmas wingman, Gram.              “Gram now there is a perfectly reasonable answer……let’s be adults about this, no need to point a gun at me” Char said as he turned around and saw the man, he seemed to have broken his arm and his clothes looked to be badly burned

             “fuck that Char, you shot down Prince Garma, and then I find you here in the woods carving up your own Zaku? The fuck could explain this?”              “it’s easy, this will explain everything” Char said as he reached into his pocket and grabbed his officers tablet, and started to walk towards Gram, he saw gram lower the gun slightly, and then quickly with his other hand he pulled his side arm and shot gram!

             The shot was sloppy, clipping Gram in the lung, Gram fired a shot off too, that caught Char in the bicep of his left arm

             Gram lay on the forest floor gasping for air

             Char clutched his arm, and approached Gram

             “Gram you could’ve just walked away, you didn’t have to get involved….”

He saw Gram reaching for his side arm, Char kicked it away and stared down at the man gasping for air

             “figure I could just leave you here, you’ll die before someone comes to get you, or I could end this fast for you….before I decide that though.... I want to tell you something Gram, see how you react” Char said staring down at the man who was trying to yell at him, but couldn’t find the air

               “I killed Garma Zabi because when I was a very small child, his father, Degwin poisoned my father with Aconitum, I know that because while Kycelia Zabis Royal guard didn’t detect anything was amiss, Jimba ral found a large stash of it, and books on processing it in a fire place in my fathers former palace. I killed Garma so that Degwin would have to feel the pain I have lived my whole life feeling…..how does that make you feel Gram, am I justified in my actions or am I a monster?” Char said aiming the gun at Grams face

             “you…..dumb…..fucking……liar” Gram got out between gasps, blood coming out the side of his mouth

             “Seig Zeon” Char said as he fired 3 shots through Grams head

   Char reached into his boot grabbing the knife he kept there. 

              “the things I do for love” he spoke slowly as he poked the blade into the hole in his arm and popped the bullet out, luckily it was a low caliber and it didnt dig in too deep. he thought about laying his arm against the heat hawk, make it look like a burn instead of a gun shot wound, but he figured he’d be under enough suspicion as it was, selling a gun shot that strayed into his slashed open cockpit wouldnt be the hardest thing. at least now there wouldnt be a zeon round in the wound 

The door came up with a creek  when Char climbed back into the Zaku, and he had to pilot using the emergency screen stored in the attic above his seat, luckily the hole in the cockpit hatch made it easy enough to breath as the smoke was able to leak out of the room.

  Char piloted the suit north, knowing reinforcements would be heading for Kentucky soon enough.

             A great Green Gow broke over the horizon, and a garbled transmission called out over the emergency receiver

             “CHAR IS THAT YOU? WHERE IS MY BROTHER? WHERE IS GARMA” he heard through the static. It was Dozle. Char didn’t respond, he simply kneeled the zaku down, and climbed back out. The gow landed and dozle came out to meet him

               “Char where is the rest of the team that went to hunt the feddie suits?”

             “it’s just me, they were so fast…..they just overtook us so fast”              “Char…..Char don’t lie to me” Dozle said, tears welling up in the great mans eyes

             “I watched him get shot down Dozle, that sniper, his rifle, the beam left a hold like a rocket blast in Garmas suit, there was nothing I could do, and the white knight nearly took me out, it would’ve succeeded if Gram hadn’t shot them and given me room to get away

             “Char no……he was your……he was my…..” Dozel hugged char in a great hug and cried hysterically

             Char felt tears run down his face too

               "I wish I had your luster Garma, I wish I could hold you for the rest of your life, I wish I didn't have to say goodbye to you"              "you'll be the death of me Char, you're too much"

[3lc3lc3lc]

JOSHUA TREE

An excerpt from my short story collection NOWHERE FAST, out now.

“so what i’m gonna do is i’m gonna get a moped and i’m gonna ride it around the desert. and i’ll have my shotgun for if i see a rattlesnake. you think i could shoot a rattlesnake from a moped?”

“sure, prolly.”

“i’ll shoot the fuck out of a rattlesnake. fuck a rattlesnake.”

“yea fuck em.”

“anyway, you can visit me if you want.”

“hmmmmm….. maybe.”

“hey can i call you? i can’t type so good. i got fat thumbs. plus i’m on ecstasy.”

Anna was in Los Angeles, where Ray lived, two weeks later on business. The business was a magazine interview with an R&B singer whose manager stopped returning Anna’s phone calls immediately upon her arrival. The business was a free vacation. “Guess where I’m at,” she texted Ray from the hotel. They’d been messaging each other for a month, friends of friends. Ray seemed psychotic, but that was no problem. 

“You should come over and help me pack. I’ve got some soju,” he replied. Ray was moving to Joshua Tree in two days to make sad synthesizer music in the desert. “Oh. One thing I have to tell you. My teeth are all fucked up. I don’t smile in pictures. Thought you should know.”

An inflatable duck the size of a Subaru was drifting across the pool next to Ray’s apartment building on Sunset. The Elliott Smith mural from the one album cover used to be around the corner, he told Anna in the lobby, but they recently turned it into a brunch restaurant. “Oh and I’ve got a present for you.” They took the elevator to his studio, which was carpeted and offered roughly nothing in the way of furniture. The teeth were as advertised, a double row of craggy gray shards that made his mouth look like abstract expressionism. She sat on a cardboard box while Ray poured little cups of soju and retrieved a bag of mushrooms from a drawer. They ate a handful of caps each. “This isn’t your present. Come on.”

She followed him to the back of the apartment building, where three of Ray’s neighbors were smoking around a fire pit. Mary was in her fifties and blessed with the virtue of persistence, as demonstrated by the portable respirator she carted around in her non-smoking hand. Jeff with the blonde ponytail and Dickies had recently come back from Afghanistan. “Jeff’s better at Jeopardy than anyone on earth,” said Ray. “Other than me.” “Thanks, man,” said Jeff. In the corner, a large bearded man was lost in the act of twisting up some sort of balloon animal. “This is Balloonski,” said Ray. “Don’t look yet!” said Balloonski, his hands swooping and squeaking like ridiculous birds. Anna turned the other way and smoked a cigarette. By the time she’d finished, the balloon was in the shape of a man playing the saxophone. “Surprise!” said Ray. She promised to keep it always. “Balloonski,” she said, “you’re going places. The world will know your balloons. You’re headed straight to the top, kid. Did you know I’m a journalist?”

They went back to Ray’s apartment and fucked on the carpet to Elliott Smith, the popcorn ceiling rippling like lava. “Yeah so I think I’m in love with you,” Ray said. “Let’s go to your hotel and see what’s in the mini bar.” Anna swaddled the balloon jazz man in her jacket, their beautiful baby boy. “Sup, chumps?” she found herself barking at the nice people drinking wine in the hotel lobby, for no special reason beside the fact that she was untouchable and would never die.

They got to work on the mini bar, starting with the Wild Turkeys, then the Bombay Sapphires, then the Titos. Ray poured the last couple bottles on the floor and hurled them at the wall. “It ain’t on our dime, baby!” he crowed. “This is on Corporate America’s tab!” She couldn’t be sure if the room charges were, in fact, on Corporate America’s tab, nor if she would continue to have a job when all was said and done, but she could admit the sentiment was rousing. Give the guy ten minutes and suddenly you’re voting him for alderman. Ray called up room service, sprawled on the bed like some sort of Ottoman aristocrat. “Good morning. My wife would like to order steak and eggs please.”

It was May when she arrived in Joshua Tree. Or it was April. In any case, Prince had died and the desert was colder than she had imagined. It was an hour drive from the Palm Springs airport in a cab softly playing the greatest hits of Third Eye Blind, the windmills off the highway waving palely in the dark like great irrelevant gods. She should check out that place, the cab driver offered as some nameless saloon slipped past, if she wanted to meet a nice Marine. That sounded good, Anna said. She could swear the mountains were flashing with faraway wet yellow eyes.

The headlights caught Ray in front of a little house made of corrugated sheet metal that looked to be held together with staples, doing what could generously be described as karate. There were no neighbors to be seen for half a mile. “Darling, we haven’t any food!” Ray greeted her. The closest store was a two hour walk along the side of the highway, and it was closed. “But Loretta left a handle of Seagram’s, so we’ll be straight.” Who this Loretta was supposed to be she hadn’t a clue, but she would take a drink. Inside Ray’s Siamese cat hunted moths around the place, which was surprisingly well appointed, decorated with woven Navajo rugs and rattan furniture and a beaded curtain that clacked when you went from the kitchen to the bedroom. They drank gin and water and Ray told her the stories of his collection of scars, this one from being smashed over the head with a beer bottle, this one from falling through a skylight. By the time the sun was coming up she was drunk enough to ask: “Who’s Loretta?”

“Oh. Loretta’s my roommate.”

“There’s only one room.”

“We trade off. Anyway she’s not here right now.”

“Well where is she?”

“Couldn’t really tell you.”

Ray went and got the gin, refilled both their glasses to the top, and put on a movie about a dog who gets terribly abused by all numbers of people. Within twenty minutes he was sobbing uncontrollably, not even trying to be quiet about it. That was her favorite thing about Ray, probably. He cried at all the dog movies.

In the daytime Ray would hunch shirtless over his keyboard, chainsmoking spliffs and endlessly writing the same wordless song. Anna lay on a towel in the baked dirt of the yard, mindlessly scrolling through apps on her phone and seeing white when she stood up. Sometimes she watched Ray work, dragging colorful little chunks of minutiae back and forth across his computer screen and fiddling with knobs doing who knows what, the room quiet but for the bass in his headphones. This kind of boredom she had always liked, the kind that reminded her of sinking into decrepit couches to watch boys shoot at Nazis or whatever with their Playstation controllers. The wonderful kind of dullness that ferried you safely from one hour to the next. In any case, she’d lost her job. What else was there to do. She had two weeks left in the desert.

They were out front watching for jackrabbits when a bandaid-colored Volvo scraped up on wings of dust. A lady got out. She looked to be in her mid-sixties, with long gray hair and a tired face, dressed in the linens of some kind of cult, maybe. And she’d brought luggage. “I stopped at the Walmart and got hamburgers and beer,” she said, hauling out shopping bags from the back seat. 

“Hi mom,” Ray said. 

Ray’s mother turned to Anna. “Who’s this? Are you going to help me with the groceries?”

“Sorry... Ray didn’t tell me, uh...”

“You may call me Loretta. Here.” She handed Anna a case of Miller Lite. Anna carried it inside, shoving the underwear she’d left on the floor in her backpack before coming back for the next one. She caught Ray’s eye as he grabbed a box of frozen beef patties. “It’s cool,” he said. “We’ll sleep in the living room.” He turned to Loretta. “The drive was okay?”

“Left Tucson at four this morning,” Loretta said. “I feel like hell. Where did I put my…..?” She rummaged around in the glove compartment, retrieved five or six pill bottles, and went inside. Ray followed.

The sky was going pink and orange as Loretta unpacked her things and Ray heated up the charcoal grill. Anna made slow figure eights around the yard, listening to lizards scuttle around in the rocks. There were a few things she knew about Ray’s mother. She knew Loretta had been married five times. She knew Loretta had been a teacher, and that she wasn’t one anymore. She knew Ray hadn’t seen his mother in ten years, or at least that’s what he’d said, that Loretta’s boyfriend wouldn’t let him set foot in their house.

Loretta appeared in the doorway, her white linens dyed peach with twilight. “Would you like to play a game of Clue?” she asked Anna. They went inside and Loretta set the game board out on the floor, shuffling up the billiard rooms and candlesticks and slipping three cards into the little case file envelope. “I’m always Mrs. Peacock,” Loretta said. “Hope that’s not a problem.” They drank beer and waited for Ray to come and be the third player, Loretta’s left eye twitching gently as the sun went down.

“Are you Ray’s girlfriend?” Loretta asked.

“Sort of,” said Anna. “I don’t know. Something like that.”

“For the record,” said Loretta, “you shouldn’t trust half of what he tells you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I know Ray, that’s all. Known him all his life.” 

Ray walked inside with a tray of burgers. “You’re Professor Plum,” Loretta said, handing him the purple pawn. She turned her beer upside down, crumpled up the can and rolled the dice.

Loretta was holding Anna’s hair while she hugged the toilet, hurling. “Hey, we’ve all been there, hun,” Loretta said. “Mushrooms will do that sometimes.” Ray had brought his stash to the desert. It wasn’t sitting right. Anna choked out the rest, flushed, and staggered to her feet, sweating and mortified. “I should probably lie down for a minute,” she told Loretta, weaving her way to the living room. “Why don’t you take the bed tonight,” Loretta said, digging one hand in her giant purse. “I’ll send Ray in to join you. It’s no problem.” Anna slurred a thanks and goodnight and stumbled through the beaded curtain to the bedroom, wondering how long Ray’d been gone on his endless cigarette break. Or had he only stepped out five minutes ago? It was hard to be sure at the moment, considering that everywhere she looked, her surroundings kept turning to hamburger meat. She closed her eyes and tried to will away the kaleidoscope of tentacles churning inside her eyelids. When she woke up, Anna could hear Ray and Loretta’s voices softly from the other side of the curtain. The desert was dark still, a choir of crickets like distant static.

“I don’t have five hundred dollars, Ray. If I did, I’d give it to you. But I don’t.”

“Right. You’ve just got enough to make sure Gary can sit on his fat ass all day watching Matlock. But your only son can go fuck himself. Got it.”

“Let’s leave Gary out of it.”

“I would’ve liked to leave Gary out of it the day he broke my nose and kicked me out of the house, but I suppose we can’t have it all, can we.”

“Ray…... It’s complicated.”

“Yeah, being a mother sounds pretty fucking complicated. It’s not for everyone, I guess.”

Loretta was quiet for a minute.

“You know I don’t feel good about how everything played out. If I could do things differently…”

“I was thirteen years old living on the street because you chose fucking Gary over me, mom. I’ll say you could’ve done things differently. Jesus Christ.”

“That’s why I’m here every weekend, isn’t it? To see if we can’t be friends again?”

“You barely qualify as my mother, and you’re certainly not my friend. But I will take some fucking money, if Gary can manage to spare it from his Hot Pocket fund.” Anna heard shuffling and the crunch of cans being tossed in the trash. “And by the way, those pills are making you crazy. You shouldn’t be mixing all that shit at once. Your shrink ought to be in fucking prison. Anyway. Sleep well.” Anna lay very still with her eyes shut as Ray jangled through the beaded curtain and collapsed beside her in the dark, hitting the bed with a thud like he’d dropped from the sky.

In the morning Loretta was gone, and so was her car. On the kitchen counter were two notes, one labeled ANNA, the other MY SON RAY. Anna studied Ray’s face as he read, but it didn’t change, though he did slip a handful of twenties that had been tucked inside the letter into his pocket. Anna opened hers. In bold looping cursive it said, “Dear Anna, it was nice to meet you. He’ll take advantage of your weakness if you let him. Take care of yourself. Loretta.” Ray finished reading, folded the letter back up, and walked shirtless into the desert. He didn’t ask what her note said, and she didn’t either.

She remembered she had saved Loretta’s phone number a year later, after everything—after Ray had pawned most of her belongings and disappeared to Seoul with his secret girlfriend, that is, but before the whole Korean prison incident—and decided to ask. “What did you mean back in Joshua Tree, when you said he’d take advantage of my weakness?” she typed slowly. “How did you know?” She waited hours and hours until finally her phone buzzed. “I would never say that about my son,” read the text from Loretta. “What do you want from me?”

[nockfellblues]

I don't know if you do these kinds of asks but how about reader pulling a hunger games type moment and confronting Larry before he kills himself saying if you go I do too I won't let someone I love die alone type thing.

All aboard the angst train ♥  written as a mini fic! TW for attempted suicide! Reader is gender neutral.

If you are in crisis, please call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline and get the help you deserve. Call 1-800-273-8255. If you are like me and are afraid to call, there are also live online chat options as well, located HERE! 

You’d known for awhile something was... off with Larry. Ever since Sal had officially moved in with Todd and Neil, Larry had been stadoff-ish on a good day, and on bad days would seclude himself in the tree house, Sanity’s Fall blasting from that tiny stereo so loud you could hear it from your shared basement apartment. To say you were worried about his behavior was an understatement. Especially after you’d begun to notice the pattern of near constant headaches, the fact that he was always saying it was too loud in the apartment, the occasional mutter of, “shut up,” to an empty room when he though you weren’t close enough to hear, and the quickly worsening whip of anger he’d been developing… You were walking on eggshells at any given moment.

Finally, it all hit a breaking point. 

You had been helping Larry pack up the remainder of his non-essentials, getting them ready to go over to his new room at Todd’s. It had been a process to pack a lot of his stuff up- it was a whole lifetime to sort through; countless weird knick knacks to decide to keep or not, finding old drawings and sketchbooks from his childhood, finding a random little thing that had been lost years ago tucked away in a dusty corner someplace… 

To be honest, it had been more reminiscing about his childhood and the memories about each of the items you both went through than it was actually packing. But it was fun, and the wistful smile he wore as he told you stories of his mother, his missing father and his years of shenanigans with Sal and Todd made every wasted second well worth it. 

When you unearthed a little silver puzzle box, you expected a fun story and for him to add it into the donation box for the local second hand shop for some needy kid to enjoy it later. But the simple question of, “Trash or stash?” quickly devolved into an argument about how much you didn’t care about his sentimentality or that it was an important object to him- and it just got worse from there- until you gave up, tossed up your hands, and stated you were gonna bring the box you’d finished earlier over to Todd’s while he cooled off, and walked out.

When you’d gotten there, the first thing you did was tell Sal what was up, hoping maybe he’d have some kind of wise words or what you could have done to set Larry off in the first place. Sally, ever the sweetheart, pulled you into a gentle hug, reassuring you that Larry was probably just having a rough patch and that he would talk to him and see if Larry might open up about it. 

Taking Todd up on an offer to stay the night, you threw on a movie and made yourself comfortable on the couch, falling into a dreamless sleep. 

Neil woke you the next morning with a killer cup of coffee and a poor mans breakfast of sugar coated pop tarts. Sally had come around not long after, letting you know Larry had texted him, and they’d be headed to the apartments for some, “Ghost hunting.” He seemed kind of tense but reassured you that he’d talk to Larry today, before he met up with Ash. Of course, you’d thanked him, and settled into Larry’s soon-to-be room to start sorting out some of the easier boxes.

—–

You woke up later, sprawled on the couch, to the sound of Todd rummaging in the kitchen. Yawning, you stretched and made your way out to greet him, smoothing out your bead-head. 

“Hey Todd, how as class?” You asked, grabbing a seat at the kitchen table. 

Todd shrugged, idly stirring an instant noodle cup, “No complaints. How’s Larry’s room coming along? Sal said you were unpacking this morning.”

“Well, I made it through the clothes and some oddball boxes… Did Sally mention anything about Larry by chance?”

Todd shook his head, “No, but he left with Ash almost as soon as he was back, so we didn’t have much time to chat. Knowing Sal, things should be smoothed over. He’s always been able to mellow Larry out like that.” 

With that, you decided to head back and see if Larry was feeling any better after some Sally time. It was getting dark, and the thick clouds looming overhead finally opened into a sweeping downpour just after you had left Todd’s. You stopped under a thicket of trees just off the road, hoping the rain would lessen, when your cell phone went off. 

Larry: [Name] im rly sry. i nvr meant that shit i said.

[Name]: Dude its all good i know youre stressed lately. Im heading back now.

Larry: stay at todds. and just dont blame urself ok? its my time to go.

[Name]: Larry wtf are you talking about? youre scaring me?

Without waiting for a reply you took off towards the apartments at a breakneck run. Bypassing the front door, you ran around the backside of the building to use the back entrance, when you noticed a light on in the old tree house- Then your gaze trailed down to the baggy with a neatly folded paper pinned to the lower steps on the tree.

You felt your blood run cold. He wouldn’t- no. 

“Larry!” You scrambled up the rickety planks, ignoring the note, and all but threw yourself onto the tree house floor. “Larry, don’t!” 

Tucked against the wall of the tree house, just under the little window, sat Larry, an old camping lantern lit in the corner beside him. His eyes were puffy and his hair disheveled, evidence that he’d been crying before. Tears welled in your own eyes as you took in his distraught expression and the bottle of whiskey in his hands. 

“[Name]..?” He whispered your name, and the way his voice cracked brought you to instant tears, and you all but launched yourself at him, pulling him into a desperate embrace. 

“Larry Johnson, you fucking asshole! Don’t you dare- don’t you dare take a sip from that bottle-”

“[Name]-” you cut him off, taking his face into your hands and forcing him to look at you. The circles under his eyes were so deep, and the absolute emptiness in them broke your heart.

“No! You listen here, you fucking string bean- you don’t get to do this. You can’t just… just push me away and expect me not to worry. You can’t just text… text me something like that and not expect me to come running to- to fucking keep you from being stupid! What the fuck am I supposed to do without you?!” You were openly sobbing now, practically screaming at the boy who all but held your entire world in his hands. “You’re all I have! You can’t just-just leave me behind and expect me to move on- who am I without my other half, Larry? Who am I?!” 

He scrunched his eyes closed, tears streaming down his cheeks again, as he shook his head.

“If you fucking kill yourself, I’m going with you. And you can’t stop me.” You knew it was a dirty trick to play, guilting him like this when his soul was this ravaged and he was so vulnerable- but you were being honest. What would you do without him in your life? What about Sal? God, what about poor Lisa? He was so dear to you all, so loved, and he was ready and willing just throw it all away-

“[Name], I-I can’t take it anymore- I just- the cult shit, that demon, the ghosts! The fucking whispers-  they’re dri-driving me insane! I‘m not like you or Sal- I can’t handle this shit anymore!” He finally breaks down into heaving sobs at that, burying his face into your shoulder, and dropping the bottle in favor of a bone-crushing embrace that you readily return.

You kick the bottle away from Larry, as far as you can get it, and quietly thank whoever will listen when the cap pops the rest of the way off, spilling the amber liquid and the mostly dissolved remnants of pills onto the tree house floor.

“…Why didn’t you just tell me? Or even Sal. Someone. You know we’d do anything for you, Larry, absolutely anything.” He didn’t reply, just shook his head and pulled you closer. What the fuck was was this place doing to him? You had to get him out- get him away- Larry’s phone vibrated from the other side of the tree house, but you elected to ignore it, praying whoever was calling was also smart enough to find you both before things got any worse.

He sniffled, hiccuping into you shoulder, “I’m so sorry, [name]. I didn’t mean anything that I said the other day- or anything I said in those other arguments. I just- This- this place is.. I think I’m going crazy-”

You shushed him, smoothing a hand down his hair and he devolved into body-wracking sobs that shook you both with the sheer force of them. Your soul ached for the boy you had known almost all your life- the boy you grew up with, shared secrets with, made countless memories with, and loved with all your heart. 

Why didn’t you see this coming sooner? “I know, Larry, I know. This place- there’s something still wrong with Addison apartments and we’re gonna get you out of here, forever. I promise.” 

“I-I’m so, so sorry, [name]. Please... Please don’t leave me.”

The rain continued to pour in violent sheets outside, but you distinctly heard the frantic voice of Sal, calling Larry’s name, as he ran towards the tree house. You had never felt such absolute relief in your life, even with Larry clinging to you like a lifeline, and the stain of his near-death slowly seeping into the floor of the tree house just behind you.

 “I’m not going anywhere, Larry. I’m with you, always, no matter what happens.”

—fin—

WHEW. I tried to make it so you could read their relationship as either romantic or platonic, and tried to stay as neutral as possible in gender as well! I hope this is alright, and I hope you like it! I’ve actually never seen the Hunger Games so I kinda went my own way ♥

I’d also like to use this space as a PSA:I’ve struggled with depression and suicidal thoughts and tendencies my whole life- don’t let your depression convince you that you are trapped or alone or unloveable. I know its hard, and there’s no easy fix for it, but there are things in life that make it worth sticking around. Even if its something as silly as looking forward to a new game or story or waiting for a flower you planted to bloom, there are reasons to keep living. Please be kind to yourself and remember, even if we’ve never spoken or interacted or existed in the same space, I know that you are worthy of being loved and cared for and you are not alone. 

If ever you feel like you are truly alone in this world, please reach out- there will always be people out here willing to lend a shoulder to cry on, a hand to hold, and a friend to those who feel lost ♥ I know i will always be open to anyone out there in need of a friend so, please, never be afraid to reach out!

[jadenjace]

⤿ ⋆ JADEN JACE LAPOINTE | TWENTY-NINE | ALABAMA ➜ ROSWELL, NEW MEXICO. ( @roswellstarters​ )

hello hello !! my name is emily and this is jaden --  he’s my little angel bug , a sweet joker of a boy who loves sports & video games and is working part-time at forbidden planet . he’s had time off from working following an unfortunate accident that took most of his right leg but that doesn’t get him down -- him , his wife , their dog buffy and pet frog named legs have all recently uprooted and moved to roswell to start their new life away from any potential triggers . i seriously want connections with everybody and will be reaching out to bother anyone who even sniffs around this intro post , so drop a like and i’ll come a-knockin’ .

TW : car accident , mental illness , amputation , injury .. all that good stuff .

character info –

Name: Jaden Jace Lapointe Age: Twenty-Nine Pronouns: He/Him Hometown: La Fayette, Alabama Time lived in Roswell: Three months Occupation: Employee at Forbidden Planet

biography –

1991 brought the birth of the greatest lapointe child , at least according to jaden himself. he was always a little rocket running excitedly from place to place , high-energy , much to the despair of his parents who were left with the task of keeping up . their lifestyle in the early years suited the little powerhouse – his mother and father loved the travelling life and before he was even old enough to speak they’d state-hopped and explored every hidden nook and crevice that the world had to offer . being that young he didn’t realise that it was due to his father’s native american roots – alabama wasn’t known for their open minds , especially twenty odd years ago , and the idea of his mother marrying a man anything other than white seemed unheard of . circumstances relaxed with the realisation that hilary was pregnant and they settled in maine now things had calmed , the small closed off town that didn’t seem to have enough space for a boy desperate to see it all . thankfully , unlike his rather conservative and old-fashioned grandmother she heard so much about , hilary let jaden do pretty much whatever he wanted ( within reason , of course ) . it started off with semi-permanent hair chalks , washable markers on pale skin , an ear piercing when he was old enough to sign the forms , then another , an impulsive nature taking root and leaving him with some questionable scars and stick ‘n’ poked imagery .

during high school he never fit in , but unlike some of the ‘ loser ‘ kids he didn’t fit the mould for the simple reason that he didn’t fucking want to . he didn’t care if teachers told him to dye his hair a normal color , to take those ‘ foul pieces of metal ‘ out of his face , he was there to have fun and maybe learn along the way .. even if not much of it got through . one passion though was computing class . it was the only textbook that wasn’t filled with doodles of basketballs and surfboards , of little aliens and crazy superheros , simply because the world of pixels didn’t seem so far away when he was learning the facts . if he had been more dedicated maybe he would’ve become an video game developer , a big time sports star maybe ; the dream is still there somewhere at the back of that widened mind of his , and one day he hopes he might actually see his name in lights instead of just staring up at them . alongside the nerdy part of his mind was his sporty nature , gravitating toward the basketball team ( which was the only crumb of street credibility he could get his hands on ) and frequenting the skateboard to try , and fail , complicated tricks until they were finally perfected .

meeting ezra was a turning point in the boy’s life . their relationship began with a fateful meeting , a few awkward encounters across the basketball court and in her previous job at the movie theatre . asking her on a date was something that would impact his future in more ways than one , both positively and detrimentally .. on the drive to the arcade for their first real moment as a couple their car flipped and , in a final moment of sacrifice , tipped over on the driver’s side and in turn crushed the lower half of his right leg . beyond repair , the male was forced to have it  amputated merely a few months ago . with his existence put into perspective the couple decided to uproot and move somewhere with more options , more opportunities to heal , grow and recover from a moment so traumatic it was difficult for the both of them to cope , using money gifted from the lapointe parents ( who had practically adopted ezra at this point ) and some stashed away from savings they managed to find a little apartment to rent between them .

roswell is now their sanctuary , and jaden spends most of his days cooped up playing video games or watching cult movies to distract himself from the ever present demons inside of his head . now that he’s on the mend the male has landed a part-time job at the comic book store in order to help with bills and hospital payments alongside his new wife , the pair having wed just a few weeks ago in the height of the forest , a ceremony that was fit for a fairy tale . the two aren’t very financially stable thanks to the payments from extensive surgeries

personality  –

if there was one word to describe him in the dictionary it would be a GOOFBALL – nothing is taken seriously , which is maybe a downfall when he comes anywhere close to a halfway serious conversation or figuring ‘adult’ things out for himself . everything is a joke , followed by a witty comment or obscure reference , a type of humour that would’ve been suited to a late-night television host if he had half the confidence to execute such a thing . jaden never takes anything seriously , before his accident and after it . jokes have been his coping mechanism and they’d continue to be for the near future at least , the only way he is able to forget about what happened to him and figure out a way to cope is through puns , quips and jokes at his own expense . unfortunately for the boy that attempts to be a ball of sunshine 99% percent of the time he is haunted in flashbacks by his accident , old film reels that play back in his mind at the most inconvenient of times . jaden doesn’t admit to many people that late nights are spent fighting tears or crying so hard his head pounds , hiding from the outside world beneath countless of sheets just for a hint of solace , a sanctuary among the fear .

[foxtophat]

in today’s update, nick and kim discuss why they shouldn’t kill the guy who probably deserves a righteous death-by-asskicking.  nick is sort of an over-thinker, which usually puts him in tailspins, but thankfully kim and him have worked out a balance that keeps both of them afloat.

anyway, uh, there’s another chapter that could technically be added to this one but damn it i want to keep an update schedule for at least a few weeks lol. i’m still trying to figure out kim’s voice, a lot of the time i write her and end up pulling a softer fo5 marcy, which is... not accurate at all. so i’m working on her! also, i can’t write children too well so carmina tends to be like “fuck this i’m goin hunting” so oooo that should work out for me.

i hope you enjoy, please consider reblogging if you do!  the full text of the chapter is below the cut, in case you don’t wanna go off-site.  (yo, if you see a mistake please let me know, i’m pushing this update out before a bunch of errands so i might’ve messed up the formatting or a word or something)

Nick dreads every step he takes back down to the kitchen, but they only have a little while before Grace brings Carmina back. They need to make a plan before then — even if they're not going to kill John Seed, they're going to have to do something with him.

Kim is in the kitchen, taking her anger out on the vegetables she's picked. Nick can imagine his neck snapping as easily as the wimpy little carrots do, swallowing as he steels himself for the hard choices about to come. He'd sworn up and down that he was going to live a simple life from here on out, and yet here he is, bringing trouble in with him like a stray goddamn cat. Not even considering the safety of his family, or the feelings of his wife — or his friends , because what is Grace gonna say about all this? They have to tell her, right? And what about Jerome? Not to mention the other survivors. God — the list of people he's betraying grows by the second!

"Carmina will be back soon," Kim says, breaking another carrot into quarters. "We need to deal with John before then."

Despite her hostile tone, Nick doesn't think she means kill the guy. He hopes she doesn't. Nick will do it , of course — he can't expect Kim to clean up his mess — but he can barely stomach the guilt thinking about it. God, what if she tells him to do it? The man wouldn't even be able to fight back. Nick's never had to kill someone who couldn't fight back .

"Hey," Kim calls out, soft but firm enough to shake him out of his thoughts. "It's going to be okay."

"Yeah, I know," Nick replies, the words spilling out. "Just — I really messed up, Kim, what the hell was I thinking? I saw him lying there, I had my gun in his face and I decided to put us all in danger, because why ? Because I felt sorry for him? I should've done something differently. I should've..."

Kim has this way of smiling that never fails to pull Nick out of even the worst thought spiral. She uses it on him now, tiny crows-feet crinkling beside her eyes as she comes around from the kitchen. "There are a lot of things we could have done differently," she says gently. "We spent six years in a bunker learning that lesson. Six years un learning all of the bullshit the cult forced on us." She reaches him, taking one of his hands up in both of hers. If there's an easy solution she can see that Nick can't, she doesn't tell him; she only sighs and admits, "I don't blame you. I don't know if I could have done it, either."

"Well, at least I know I'm not the only one who's gone soft." Nick looks back towards the stairs, as if John might somehow crawl out of the spare room and demand they hand over the house. "The question is, what do we do now that we got him here?"

"Well..." Kim's shoulders slump with a resigned sigh, as she also turns to look up the stairs. "I mean, there aren't a lot of options that don't end with us shooting him. It's not like there's a court to try him in, or anyone left to hold him accountable."

Nick shrugs. "Maybe that was the plan? Maybe he thought he could outlive the consequences of his bullshit."

"I'm definitely in favor of shooting him if that's the case. I'm surprised he outfoxed the deputy, much less that he survived for this long."

"I don't think I'd call whatever he's been doing surviving ." Nick gestures up the stairs. "You saw the guy. All I know is that I found him next to an open bunker that smelled like a mass grave. I mean, Dep... Dep said they put him down. They wouldn't have left him alive somewhere. Right?"

"They never were big on murder," Kim points out. "Or revenge."

"God, if they fuckin' stashed him away after everything he did..." Nick exhales heavily; he's getting too worked up about a hypothetical situation. "I guess it doesn't matter. They couldn't've known what was gonna happen." No matter how often Joseph or his fucked up family would tell them otherwise, the Deputy had never been big on religious zealotry, and the concept of the end of the world had seemed impossible to them at the time. They hadn't been a fan of killing the Seeds outright, not if they could be brought to justice, but they had never been given the chance. Well, that's what Nick thought, anyway. Now, he's not so sure that Rook didn't play some key decisions too close to their chest.

"Okay, okay," Kim cuts through his thoughts, "Let's just focus on the information we have for now."

"Easy for you to say," he sighs. But, she's right, of course she is, so Nick sighs again and shakes his head to clear away the random what-ifs he's been conjuring up. "Okay, so — the facts. Right."

"You said you found him in a bunker?" Kim prompts.

"Near a bunker. He'd made a... I mean, it wasn't a camp . But he was living topside for at least a couple days. My bet is he crawled in there after the plane went down."

"He must have run out of food at some point and had to come up," Kim suggests.

"Yeah, for all the good that did him. Though I guess it might be better starving to death topside instead of pre-buried."

"Maybe if we're lucky, he'll starve before we get around to feeding him," Kim sighs, although she sounds too resigned to be hopeful of an easy outcome. "Although it'd be hard to explain to Carmina and Grace why we're burning a corpse..."

"Oh, man," Nick groans. "What do we tell Grace? And what are we gonna do about Carmina? She can't go anywhere near that psychopath. Even if he's too weak to hurt her, I don't want him giving her... weird ideas or something."

Kim hesitates. "Grace won't be forgiving. If we tell her, she won't consider another option."

Nick hates the idea, but not enough to keep from considering it. Grace wouldn't hesitate; she would do what needs doing and she would only wonder why it took her coming along for it to happen. And if they don't tell her, they won't just be keeping John a prisoner — they'll be harboring him from the justice he deserves. They'll have to keep him hidden from everybody, even strangers. The alternative would be to put the burden on somebody who doesn't deserve it.

"I don't think I've got the guts," Nick admits shamefully. "I feel sick just thinking about it."

He hopes that Kim has a stronger stomach than him, but she only sighs and nods. "I'm not sure it's the right choice. I'm not even sure there is a right choice. But — for the sake of fairness, he should at least be able to defend himself."

"We've gone soft," Nick chuckles. "Back in the day, we'd have busted his teeth in just for surviving."

Kim gives him this look, like maybe she's always seen him as soft, but he doesn't mind it coming from her. "So," she asks, "What do we do with him once he's well enough to be a problem?"

"Hopefully, he does something to inspire some righteous, old-world justice before then."

"Considering his track record, I won't rule that out. But... Ugh. I don't even want to say it." Kim rubs her face with both hands, pacing in a small circle. "Eight years is a long time to plan in. He could have any number of... of plots, or hidden caches, who knows what? If we don't kill him, there's a real chance that he might use our kindness against us." Kim's frown is heavy enough to pull her whole face into it as she turns back to Nick. "It wouldn't be the first time."

"We'll keep him in the nursery. He'll be under lock and key, 24-7, until we can figure out what his deal is. If he turns out to be plotting some kind of second cult uprising or, I dunno... resurrecting Joseph from the grave, we'll put him out of everyone's misery. Which, let's face it, is the most likely outcome."

"And if he doesn't? How long can we keep him prisoner up there? I mean, Nick... our food supply isn't exactly stable, and he's another mouth to feed on wimpy carrots and mushy turnips. Summer's almost over, and last winter was hard enough without four of us."

Nick chews his lip. Looks back towards the stairs, wondering whether John can hear what they're saying, if he's cognizant enough to understand the position they're putting themselves in on his dumb behalf. "And then there's all the stuff we gotta get done before then," he sighs, thinking of the myriad chores and home improvement projects he's put off in order to focus on basic survival. "Hell, I don't know, Kim. Maybe we can put him to work when he's able to stand upright. Give him all the jobs Carmina's too young to do yet."

"We do need somebody to dig this house out of the dirt," Kim suggests. She's mostly joking, even though it's extremely true — they haven't had time, energy or interest enough to do more than a cursory sweep to clear the stairs. "And you've been talking about fixing up the hangar again..."

"All manual labor that I can oversee with a rifle," Nick says. "John owes us — seems only right that we take what we need."

"Assuming he'll cooperate."

"He's not going to have much of a choice."

Kim frowns. "If he doesn't, are you sure you can handle making him?"

Nick should probably be offended, but she's right to ask. Truthfully, Nick's not sure he can be intimidating enough to sway John into listening to him. The guy is a fucking maniac, after all — other than pain and revenge, there's not much that gets him up and moving. Nick doesn't have an ace up his sleeve that can outdo the Cult. That doesn't mean he's not gonna try — it just means he's going to have to try harder than John deserves.

"I'm gonna have to be. Look, after Carmina gets back, I'll take up some food and see if he's willing to talk. We'll just... go from there."

"You've always been good at improvising," Kim hums. She's got a smile on her face that Nick's never seen before, something sad lingering in her eyes as she gives him a curious look over. "I love you, you know," she tells him, as if she hasn't said it a dozen times this week alone.

"I love you too," he replies. "And I'm sorry I brought this on us. I'll make it right."

" He'll make it right," Kim says. "Or we'll shoot him."

Nick laughs. "Yeah, or we'll shoot him," he repeats, pulling Kim in for a long, tight hug. Nick's not sure if it's old age or being a father that's softened him so much, but he's sure it hasn't softened him enough to keep him from doing whatever might need to be done. All he can do is hope that John won't put that to the test.

[farcryfuckmeup]

In Memoriam Pt. VI

Part VI of an eight part series on my archive!

Part I: Joseph Seed x Deputy

Part II: John Seed x Deputy

Part III: Jacob Seed x Deputy

Part IV: Faith Seed x Deputy

Part V: Sharky Boshaw x Deputy

Part VI: Nick Rye x Deputy

Part VII: Kim Rye x Deputy

Part VIII: Staci Pratt x Deputy

Nick isn’t in the mood to celebrate Prosperity’s success, and only has one person on his mind.

Nick Rye x Deputy

Prosperity was alight with celebration. The Highwaymen's forces had been weakened by the Security Captain, and Kim had wanted to boost morale by having a celebration of sorts. A team had gone out and hunted some different game for dinner, and everyone pitched in for the stash of booze. Music was playing, people were dancing, and laughter filled the air. It was the most carefree Prosperity had been in a long time.

But Nick Rye was hiding in the garage the Security Captain had helped him renovate. It had been a long day, and all he really wanted was some peace to himself so he could think about things. When he first had walked into the garage, the light was on and a milk crate was sitting next to his tool bench. His heart squeezed and he'd drawn back his foot to kick it away but changed his mind, and instead turned it over so he could sit on it. A voice in the back of his head broke the silence with an enthusiastic, "It's the last one Nick, c'mon!" They'd picked up so many of those as they'd wandered the county, Nick had thought he'd never be able to look at another vinyl record in his life.

Nick took off his baseball cap and set it on the ground next to him as he reached over and lifted open his toolbox. Inside were what was to be expected: hammers, screwdrivers, and other sorts of things he'd need to repair vehicles and planes. He picked up one of three things that stuck out, which was an old leather wallet. It was practically falling apart, but the seams held it together where it mattered most.

He flipped it open and ran his thumb over the picture of him and Kim. She was smiling while he kissed her cheek. They were still newlyweds when it was taken, but not a damn thing had changed since then. Then he slid out the other picture, the edges worn from touch. Nick bit his lip as it wobbled, and ran his free hand over his beard. He squeezed his eyes shut as he swallowed past the lump in his throat.

Nick set the photo on his lap as carefully as possible, glancing at it over and over again as he fumbled in his toolbox for the small match pad he had.

"You fucking missed! Nick Rye how the hell did you manage that?" The Deputy's voice came over his radio as he exploded into a fit of cackles. It was embarrassing he'd fucked up that bad, but hilarious at the same time, and apparently Dep thought so too. She was laughing hysterically as he rounded his plane so he was flying above her, able to shoot down any Peggies that dared go near her.

"You distracted me Dep, I'on know what you want me to do about it!" Nick tried to catch his breath as an arm wrapped around his stomach, the laughter only ebbing slightly.

"Be a better pilot, my dude!" She wasn't mad in the slightest he'd accidentally bombed her truck instead of the one with five Peggies in it. In his defense, the Deputy had been driving one of their trucks, but her truck was also the only one with no one in it.

He remembered the exact day they'd taken that photo. They'd gone back to the house to check on Kim and Nick's newborn daughter after Nick had gloriously fucked up with bombing the trucks. He'd had to land and pick up the Deputy, who was rolling in the dirt by the time his wheels had touched the ground. They'd made jokes about it the entire plane ride back, with Nick flying because Dep couldn't stop laughing about it.

When they'd gotten to the house, Kim had come out to greet them with Carmina, who was waving her tiny little arms excitedly. Rook had tried to tell Kim what had happened, but couldn't stop wheezing long enough to get a sentence out, so Nick had explained with red cheeks.

Rook had her arm thrown around Nick's shoulders and was using him to hold herself up as she laughed, and Nick was rolling his eyes with a smile.

He sniffled again and cleared his throat as he spoke up. "Damn, Deputy. It's been, oh I'on know, seventeen years, now? Carmina's seventeen going on eighteen, so yeah. It's been seventeen years. Shit, you'd kill to see how different things are. Kim says everything's in a um, ah what'd she call it...a super bloom? Yeah, sounds 'bout right considering how it looks. Flowers everywhere, man. I still 'member how you brought Carmina a couple flowers for her room when she was born. You said there wasn't many things 'round with the Peggies goin' ape shit and all, but you wanted to get her something."

Nick's voice caught as he reminisced on the days following his daughter's birth and what the Deputy had done for them.

"Sometimes I wish you were here, Dep. I mean, nah I always wish you were here, but these people...I love 'em and I know we're doin' the right thing, but all they do is take. Kim gives everything and, yeah some of 'em help out, but not all. You'd be spreading yourself thin again, except there isn't an end to it. You wouldn't have beat the cult and stopped. This is life now." He rubbed his eyes and then his beard, then gazed back down at the photo.

"I just...damn it, I miss you so much man. I haven't seen you in seventeen years, ain't heard from you in seventeen years. You got the short end of the stick, and-and-and Joseph Seed's still breathin'. It ain't right man, all you ever did was help people," Nick hiccuped a sob, his thumb touching the Deputy's face carefully. "People still talk about you. The New Edeners call you The Sinner, but us...we call you a fuckin' hero, man. Carmina wants to be like you, and-and there's this new gal. A Security Captain that reminds me a bit of you. Except, and no offense Dep, she knows what she's doing. You and I, you and the others, we all just fumbled about with you and fucked shit up."

Nick let go of the photo and picked up the matchbook. Every year on this day, he did the same thing. He'd pull out his picture and matches, and think about his old friend. He struck the matches against the stripe, watching as they burned. He set it down on a little pile of sticks he'd collected over the last day or two, and stared as the wood caught fire.

"One day when things are better, I'll make you a cake," Nick reached into his toolbox again and pulled out a badge. It was the cleanest thing in all of Prosperity. He held it tight in his hand as he picked up his picture again. He looked down at his makeshift fire again and wiped his cheeks again. "Happy Birthday, Dep."

[tessbenser]

Three On a Match: Chapter 1

Chapter preview below the cut. 

August, 1994

Frances ***

If anyone had terrible luck, it was Frances Murphy. Not just bad luck, not merely a haphazard pile of unfortunate circumstances jumbled together like a badly tossed salad of crappy events. Honest to God, unequivocally terrible luck. If something were going to happen to Frances Murphy, putting money on it going poorly was a safe bet.

The alarm blasted a deafening shriek. Before Frances could even gather herself enough to groan in an appropriate manner to the jarring jolt back into consciousness from a dream which wasn’t a gargantuan pile of suck, she was hit square in the face by a down pillow with unfairly sharp corners, one of which caught her in the eye. “Get up, fuckwit!”

Frances blinked sluggishly, slamming her fist down on the clock radio to silence the racket.

Margot carried on shouting, “If you make me late, I swear to god I will circulate as many copies of that picture of you running around in your first training bra as I can afford to print. And I babysat. All summer!”

Frances frowned at her sister, the foul-mouthed pillow flinger who had taken it upon herself to ensure Frances’s misery over the last three months. It appeared she was to be unwavering in her efforts at the dawn of the school year. “It’s only 5:45. Did you change my alarm?”

Margot rolled her eyes. “Oh my God, Frances, it’s like you’re trying to be a dipshit.” Her little sister’s angelic and impeccably made up face contorted to something horrible and ugly when she swore. The pure, unabashed disdain matched Margot’s dark red and gray cheerleading uniform incredibly well. “I have to be there early. Melanie and Courtney want to show me my locker and where all the other cheerleaders meet before school starts, so I need to be early. Super early. I told you this, like, four times!”

Margot had spent the entire summer bragging to Frances about the apparently impressive feat of making the J.V. Cheer Squad as an incoming “freshie.” According to Melanie-and-Courtney, the two-headed conventionally attractive cheerleading monster that had apparently adopted Margot, her achievement was something akin to walking on water, raising the dead, and curing acne with the wave of a single pom. Before Frances moved back home, Margot hadn’t expressed an interest in cheerleading but after Melanie-and-Courtney’s prescribed diet of regurgitated jock cock or something, Margot was a total convert to the teenage cult of popularity.

“Christ, Frankie! I do not have time for your dipshitery! I would like to make a decent impression at this school even if you don’t. Get up right now!”

Frances cast a withering look at her sister, and then rolled out of bed before another down pillow in a pastel case could make contact with her already sore face. She slouched past her teeny tiny cute baby sister and tried to remember a time when she didn’t look at Perfect Margot without her guts twisting in dislike. She and Margot had never been braid-each-other’s-hair besties, but they had once upon a time existed a bit more peacefully. Or so Frances thought she remembered. Her mind was awfully cluttered with other garbage these days; it was hard to keep track of the minute details of whether or not she had ever gotten along with her Precious Baby Sister.

Once she was locked in the bathroom, Frances raked a hand through her long, colorless hair and dropped the boxer shorts she had worn to sleep on the floor. She bent over the tub, twisting the taps to turn on the shower, and then pulled her massive, sleeveless “WORLD’S GREATEST DAD” shirt over her head. She quickly peed while squatting over the toilet, and then stepped into the shower spray before she got any wise ideas about slinking back to bed.

Last year before the first day of school, she had climbed up the drain pipe and through her bedroom window at five in the morning. She’d hidden her clothes in a garbage bag stashed in the back of the closet because they smelled like gasoline, bonfire, and weed and fallen asleep in a matching pajama set she never actually wore, looking the picture of innocence. An hour and a half later when her Dad came in to wake her, Frances had put on an Oscar-worthy performance, convincing him that she had lost track of time studying to prepare for the Ever-So-Important Junior Year at Saint Francis that she got to bed late, and no really Daddy, that’s why I slept through my alarm.

Frances snorted as she shampooed her hair. That was back before her Dad had even considered that his Gorgeous Frankie could ever be anything less than an honest, innocent little lamb. Back before her Dad could even fathom calling his child a whore.

Frances tilted her head back, rinsing the shampoo out of her hair.

“You look like shit, Frankenberry.”

“Oh Sam… You’re just jealous you didn’t spend your evening fucking The Man or any man for that matter.”

“Before the first day of school? I’m so disappointed in you. Let’s go pray about it.”

The memory skittered unwelcomed and uncoordinated across the forefront of her mind like a spider. It was a clumsy, clunky conversation, one that seemed to Frances pathetic and naive in hindsight. Nothing was ever smooth between Sam and Frances, and for maybe the hundred-thousandth time since May, a dark discomfort spread from Frances’s belly through her limbs, cool and unpleasant, at the thought of him. She was so ashamed. She was so ashamed and embarrassed, both that she missed Sam and that they had been so stupid.

There was a violent successive thumping on the door. “WHAT PART OF EARLY IS NOT PENETRATING YOUR SKULL?”

“NOT A GOOD ENOUGH REASON TO USE THE WORD PENETRATE, MARGOT!”

Frances wondered if you could drown in a shower. Frances knew you could drown in a glass of water, so a shower could do the job, couldn’t it?

“COME ON FRANCES!”

Frances twisted off the taps. She stepped out of the shower and started violently toweling off her hair, as if she could begin undoing the shame she carried around with her by making her hair dry. As if she could be clean, free of it, if she just got herself put together in this fogged up bathroom.

She caught a glimpse of herself in the steam-clouded mirror just as she was heading out of the bathroom and averted her eyes. Frances hadn’t liked mirrors, not in months. As a child she had been a classic narcissist, obsessed with her fair complexion and fine, smooth hair. All of that had disintegrated since the Spring. There was nothing to see there anymore. Nothing worth looking at. Certainly nothing worth admiring.

“It’s almost six fifteen!” Margot moaned dramatically from just outside the door. “C’mon, you promised we could get there early. Please? Please please please?”

Frances turned to snap at her sister but – in perhaps the very first and last display of warmth she would show Margot in 1994 – she chose to bite back the caustic retort she had prepared. Frances took a breath. Took another. Looked her sister in the eyes and said, “Can you just give me like… ten minutes to get dressed?”

Margot rolled her eyes, but she and her brilliant new white sneakers trounced off to the living room to let Frances get dressed in peace. She selected a pair of cut off jean shorts and a black shirt from a still not unpacked box in the corner. Her mother had been on her case about unpacking all of her things since she’d been exiled here after Memorial Day, but Frances was more than comfortable with being difficult. She supposed now that she would be wearing clothes other than her work uniform or her pajamas, it might be worth it to move the clothes from old beer boxes and back into her actual drawers for convenience sake.

And yet.

Something about the idea of moving the artifacts of her destroyed life into the baby pink plywood furniture of her childhood seemed far too morbid.

“FRANCES! COME ON!”

“God, Margot, keep your briefs on!” Frances shouted back, hopping around, pulling on a treasured pair of Doc Martens and tying a worn old red flannel around her waist. She hoisted her backpack over her shoulder and took one single deep breath. Frances emerged from her bedroom, feeling perhaps the first glimmer of optimism at the prospect of a new start at this new school. Couldn’t be all bad, right?

“That’s what you’re wearing? God, do not tell a soul we’re related. I’ll be the laughing stock of the squad if they find out I came from the same family as the Sexy Lumberjack.”

Well, so much for that theory.

Ben ***

Despite overwhelming opportunity to disprove this thesis, Benjamin Franklin had utterly fantastic luck.

Even when circumstances seemed to dictate that his luck should be shit, the universe seemed to smile upon him. Take, for example, his totally embarrassing name.

His name was Benjamin Franklin. No middle name. He shared his name with a founding

father and a chain of craft stores. His dorky parents had let their ridiculous obsession with the American Revolution overwrite the parts of their brains that did logic when he was born, and in choosing the name Benjamin Franklin, they had essentially damned him to a life of people thinking he was a) kidding b) lying or c) utterly insane whenever he said his name.

And yet, as luck would have it, Ben was actually pretty good at steering into the skid that was his sort of embarrassing name. He would play along, and people thought that was grand, By the time he was ten, Ben could charm the pants off any passerby who thought to inquire about his name.

That was just the kind of life that Ben had. It was a lucky one. His parents, history nerds though they were, were doting, supportive, and kind. His siblings were significantly younger than he was, but rather than being bratty or attention hogging, Abbie and Georgie were generally pretty self-contained and well-behaved. Even though he attended the same school where his father taught history, Mr. Franklin was by far the most well liked teacher at Antioch Community High School, considered smart and funny and fair by most students, and Ben too enjoyed a level of popularity as a result.

And it was this, and only this, that gave Ben the ability to pull himself out of bed on the first morning of his senior year of school. Things had been shit these last few weeks, but things usually just worked out for him. He just needed to get over himself and get out of bed. Things would work out. Things always did.

Ben yanked off the covers, standing to stretch. He let himself shift into autopilot, going about the same morning routine he’d had for the last five years. Skipping and hopping over the piles of clothes and and other debris, he got dressed without thinking too hard about it - he had to spend the day babysitting freshmen for National Honor Society, so he had to wear the navy NHS shirt anyway. He was lacing his shoes when a knock came at his door.

“Ben, Daddy says fifteen minutes,” A tiny voice squeaked through the door. Ben stood up, snatching up his backpack slouched against the wall near the door, and opened the door. His little brother, George, was standing outside, all dressed in his first day of school outfit: a striped polo, new khakis that were a bit too big, and brand new sneakers that lit up when he walked. These shoes had real shoelaces, a fact that George had been rubbing in his little sister Abbie’s face since their mom had made her get Velcro shoes when they went shopping two weeks ago. George was starting the second grade; Abbie was starting first.

“Okay, I’m heading down,” Ben said, smiling as he stopped to ruffle Georgie’s bowl cut.

“Staaaaaaahp,” George whined, pushing Ben’s hand away. “Now it’s all messed up!” He was frantically smoothing out his hair, and Ben shook his head, smiling. Little Georgie was awfully finicky about his appearance for a seven year old boy. Their younger sister Abbie was content to show up to school in a mismatched outfit with her hair in a frizzy halo of red curls covered in mud, but George wasn’t happy until he had examined and approved everything their mom put out for him.

“Okay, kiddo, let’s go eat breakfast,” Ben said eventually, putting his hand on Georgie’s shoulder and nudging him toward the stairs. George took off at a run, and Ben groaned because he was sure that he would be in a full tantrum by the time he got to the foot of the stairs because Ben dared to touch his hair.

...Of course he was right. George was red faced and motor-mouthing to their mother by the time Ben ambled into the kitchen. His luck really wasn’t what it used to be.

“Morning,” his father said, looking up over his cereal. Joseph Franklin was the only self-respecting man approaching middle age who thought nothing of starting his day with Fruit Loops.

Ben nodded, heading over to the coffee pot and pouring himself a cup before moving to sit down at the table.

“Mom says that’ll make you short,” Abbie said from across the table. She was a sight, wearing yellow tights, a yellow tutu, and a yellow sweatshirt. She was sitting on her feet so she could see properly across the table, but Ben supposed she had managed to put on yellow shoes as well. “Mom says coffee will make you short,” She repeated when Ben didn’t respond. “She says it ‘stunts your growth.’”

“I’m already pretty tall,” Ben said, rolling his eyes.

“Benjamin, please stop being so grumpy,” His mother scolded as she stepped into the room, George hiding behind her legs. She was wearing a red blazer with shoulder pads that made her look kind of like a football player. Her hair was teased high in a way that seemed to only be popular among teachers and administrators these days.

“He’s just nervous about the big day.”

“What’s there to be nervous about?” Ben said quickly, feeling his blood pressure rise. He was fine. They were the ones with an issue.

“Well, you know, first day of senior year. First day of school since Penny…” His father trailed off, perhaps realizing how god damned insensitive he was being.

Since Penny had left for college, since Penny had dumped him over Dairy Queen saying he was “too depressing to be around these days,” since Penny had decided to turn into a total bitch and never actually call him to say if she got to Northwestern alright even though she promised she would and swore that they would still be friends? The possibilities were endless.

Ben breathed heavily out of his nose. He counted to three and reminded himself that he was Ben Franklin. Things just worked out for him, even when they sucked.

“Well we should hit the road,” His father said, rinsing his cereal bowl and moving smoothly toward the attached garage as if he hadn’t just accidentally reminded Ben of all the reasons he did not want to go to school that day. His dad stopped, kissing Abbie, Georgie, and their mom all on the tops of their heads as they bent over the table to finish their breakfasts, and then grabbed his keys from the hook over the counter. “Ready, Ben? Let’s motor.” He pressed the button for their new automatic garage door opener.

“God Dad, just…. don’t. Say. That.” Ben said, dumping out his coffee and following his dad out into the garage. He flung himself into the passenger seat heavily, and his dad fiddled with the radio for a moment before backing out of the driveway.

“Buckle up,” his dad said after a moment, and Ben heaved an uncharacteristically moody sigh as he pulled the seat belt around himself. “You alright, champ? You seem a bit more riddled with teen angst than is your usual MO.”

“Why do you talk like that?” Ben found himself wondering aloud, the words spewing from his mouth before he could remember that his dad wasn’t actually the reason he was a in an awful mood.

Joseph Franklin had always been an incredibly patient human being, and he very politely did not react to Ben’s unnecessary level of snark. “I’m just worried about you,” he said, as if Ben had never spoken at all. “You have not been your usual self since Penny left for school. I know it’s not easy, bud, but that’s fairly common when it comes to first loves. That’s why they are firsts. They end, and there are lots after.”

“Says the guy who married his high school sweetheart.”

“We’re the exception, not the rule kiddo. Your mother and I were made for each other.”

“And me and Penny weren’t?”

“Don’t get defensive,” His father said, stopping at a stoplight. “I’m only saying that I know you feel bad, but that you can’t just expect to feel better by throwing all that badness at other people.” He made the turn into the staff parking lot, continuing to go on about being a good person and a good example, especially since Ben was National Honor Society president and he was going to working with impressionable freshmen all day, but Ben kind of just tuned him out, hoping that he could just stay positive and not bite anyone else’s head off during school today.

His father parked the car, and Ben hurried out before his dad had even finished telling him to have a good first day. Ben strode inside with single minded resolve to throw his shit in his locker and stop being a total dick for the rest of the day. Things worked out for him. He just needed to tap into some as of us untouched internal source of luck.

He reached his locker without incident, the school still sparsely populated with forty-five minutes still to go until the school day started. He had to try his combination twice to get the damn thing open.

“Hey white boy!” Ben looked up as he was closing the door to see his best friend, Joel, striding toward him with the kind of confidence that nobody wearing a National Honor Society shirt had any right to have. “Heading to cafeteria to herd some ninth graders?”

“Yeah, in a sec.”

If Ben had to pick a favorite thing about Joel Clark, it was his complete unwillingness to discuss emotional matters. When Penny had unceremoniously dumped Ben in the Dairy Queen parking lot two weeks ago, Joel had taken the news like a weather report, blinking twice before summarizing, “Oh, that’s bull,” and then dragging Ben to an end of the summer kegger that some mutual acquaintance was throwing. None this “first love” garbage that Ben’s parents had been spouting, nothing mushy or fabricated like the few girl friends he had run into since the dumping. Just beer and an agreement that Penny sucked and they didn’t talk about her anymore.

“So… should we do the whole ‘Senior Year is gonna kill it, we’re totally getting laid’ bit, or is that too Fast Times at Ridgemont High?” Ben asked as he and Joel took off the hall.

“I feel like it’s more like Carrie.”

“Skipping it then?”

“Oh, absolutely. Can’t tempt fate.”

“They always kill the black guy first,” Ben said.

Joel stopped, flinging an arm across Ben’s chest to stop him. “Dude, that’s racist,” He said in a serious voice.

They locked eyes for a moment.

Joel laughed first, like he always did, and Ben laughed with him. Joel shoved Ben playfully, Ben stumbled a little for dramatic effect, and they started off down the hall again.

Joel and Ben stepped into the cafeteria, totally empty except for the small group of navy NHS t-shirts all gathered around a table in the far corner.

They got greeted by a smattering of “hey Ben”s and “hey Joel”s as they took up their spaces in the group, falling easily into routine just-back-from-break questions.

“Sorry to hear about you and Penny,” Sarah Freeman said in the middle of the business as usual conversation, and the whole group went completely silent.

“Thanks, I guess,” Ben mumbled, feeling heat climb in his face. He was so over talking about this.

“Okay, people, buses are arriving!” sang Mrs. Williamson, the NHS advisor. “Please remember to be polite and friendly as you help the new students find their way around. And stop telling people about the pool on the third floor, Dominic, we all know it was you last year.”

Sam ***

Samuel Keddy knew better than to believe in luck.

Luck was something for children, like Santa Claus and the saying “everything happens for a reason.” It wasn’t real, it didn’t mean anything, and it certainly should not be impacting the way a person lived their life. That was the mistake that people usually made, Sam thought, trusting that the universe was controlled by something as stupid as luck.

In the fourth grade, Sam had this stupid blue rabbit’s foot he had carried around, hoping that if he kept it close, luck would win out and save him the horrors of having his lunch stolen by the sixth graders.

He didn’t eat his lunch once in the fourth grade. It was always stolen, and he was always hungry, and nobody and nothing did a thing to change it. On the last day of the fourth grade, he chucked the damned rabbit’s foot at the head of Chuck Finn, one of his sixth grade enemies. The end result was a fist fight, which nobody won, because the playground attendant broke it up right after they had each landed a swing. Sam started the next school year with a note about disciplinary problems on his permanent record and a week of detention. Luck? Fuck no. A lie, like justice and fairness and Santa Claus. Something to tell the kids to help them sleep at night.

So Sam knew there was no such thing as luck. The world wasn’t nearly that organized.

“Samuel!”

Sam pulled the covers over his head.

He heard his door open. “Sam, you need to get up right now,” his mother’s commanding voice invaded his bedroom, and he heard her click on the lights. “I need to be in the office in forty minutes, I will drop you on the way, but you need to get up right now.”

Sam rolled over, firmly keeping the blanket over his head.

“Damn it, Sam, now!” He heard his door slam and the flimsy wooden cross above the door clattered to the floor. Sam slowly turned over, and after a moment of deliberate stalling, he pulled himself upright. He took his sweet time pulling on his white dress shirt, gray pants, and his navy blazer with the St. Francis crest on the breast pocket. He did up his shoes, annoyed to discover that they were a little tight - like his mother said they would be when she had tried to drag him shopping last week. Sam wondered how long he would be able to put up with the pinching of his toes before he finally agreed to let his mother buy him new shoes.

He glanced briefly in a mirror and saw that his dark hair was a long, stringy, dirty mess that certainly did not abide by his private school’s dress code. Good. If they were making him go back – and they were making him go back, no matter how much he had protested and fought and whined and bargained with his parents and the administration – he wasn’t going to come quietly.

Sam cut through the foyer to avoid saying goodbye to his father and went immediately to sit in the passenger seat of his mother’s Jetta.

“God, do something with that hair of yours,” Sam’s mother said, slamming the door as she climbed into the driver’s seat in a pair of royal blue scrubs. Her black hair was tied up in a neat plait, her bangs hanging heavily over her eyebrows. When she didn’t fluff them up and spray them, Sam thought the bangs made his mother look incredibly young. Like an anime character who ought to have been wearing a sailor suit uniform instead of scrubs.

His mother rooted in her purse and tossed a small, foldable hairbrush at him. Sam let it bounce to the floor while his mother pulled out of the driveway.

“Surgery today?” Sam asked, ignoring the hairbrush and playing around with the radio until his favorite rock station from Chicago came in clearly.

“Jesus, Sam,” His mother said, switching off the radio. “Fix your damn hair. You know how much trouble your father and I went to to keep you in school, and you will show up looking presentable.”

“I don’t even know why–”

“I don’t want to hear it, Sam!” His mother shouted, braking suddenly at a stoplight and flinging her arm out so it hit Sam’s chest and kept him from flying forward. “Put on your seat belt for Christ’s sake!”

Sam rolled his eyes, but nonetheless buckled himself up.

“We have been over it a thousand times. We are keeping you in this school so that you can actually get an education! We want you to stay in one place, to learn something, and now that that girl-”

“Mom, for the last time, none of this was Frankie’s fault-”

“Sam! Enough! I don’t need to explain this to you again. You are going to stay at St. Francis’s because I said so. You are going to stay out of trouble, because I said so. You’re going to join an academic club, and you’re going to improve your grades, and you’re going to go to a good college like your sisters because I said so! Is that clear?”

Sam shook his head in disbelief. “Why is it the end of the world if I don’t do well in school? Worried about what the other moms will think?”

A look crossed his mother’s face lightning fast, and it occurred to him that she could kill them both with a sharp jerk of the steering wheel. He’d hit the soft spot. His mom, Dr. Lily Keddy, had been trying desperately to fit in with the other parents at Sam’s schools, with the neighbors on their block, with her co-workers for as long as Sam could remember, but it was never easy or smooth. There was always judgment: judgment about her having married a man with two preteen girls, judgment because she was a surgeon while her husband worked in insurance, judgement because she had been in the Navy, judgment because she had married a white man and adopted his white daughters but then dared to produce a kid who was definitely not white...

They had pulled into the school’s parking lot. “Can you just drop me off here?”

His mom stopped the car, her brown eyes flashing as she through the car into park. “I’ll walk you to your first damn class if I have to, Samuel. You’re going to do better this year, is that understood?”

“Yeah, fine, got it! Whatever!”

“And drop the goddamned attitude!” Sam’s mother shouted.

“In a church!” Sam shouted as he unbuckled and pointed to the steeple of the chapel on the high school’s campus.

“I think God will understand! He had a smart ass for a son too!”

Sam slammed the door of the car, his hands curling into tight fists. He wasn’t sure how he was supposed to just become this perfect kid his mother thought he should become. He had been trying for as long as he could remember, but Sam had never been able to measure up to his sisters Dorian and Iris who were perfect and brilliant and responsible. Dorian was a lawyer, and Iris had started her surgical residency, and Sam was the fuck-up.

Sam had always been the fuck-up, who struggled in school and couldn’t play nice and who stole money from a Catholic School fundraiser to pay for an abortion. He argued with teachers, his grades were unimpressive, his focus was shit and his talents mediocre. Sam was good at the guitar and good with fixing cars, but his parents didn’t reward that. Those weren’t desirable strengths. They were signs that he simply wasn’t applying himself in the areas that his parents thought mattered. He just got trapped in the middle of the road, never being good enough for his parents or bad enough to get sent away from them.

Sam hurried to his first class, slinking into the only empty seat just two minutes before the bell was set to ring, earning a sidelong glance from the teacher.

“Hey, sweetheart, having a rough morning?”

Sam turned to see he had chosen the seat in front of Jim Peterson, who was possibly the worst human he had ever had the misfortune of encountering. Jim was your typical brand of asshole, who liked to zero in all everything that made a person different and then make sure that everyone around him noticed too. When it came to Sam, Jim had a few favorites he liked to share: Sam being half Japanese, Sam getting caught ditching gym class to smoke cigarettes and having to serve weeks of detention by cleaning up the bathrooms after school, and Sam being the only person who still talked to Frances at the time that she got kicked out of school last year.

At least Jim never made a big deal out of Sam liking boys.

That was the only secret Sam seemed to still have left. Sam supposed that, if nothing else, those drunken make out sessions with Jim the summer after their sophomore year had bought his silence in that respect. At least Jim hadn’t been the shining example of asshole he was now when they fogged up the windows of Jim’s Volvo… Though that brief escape from Jim’s predictable bullying and assorted other bullshit was mostly Frances’s doing.

Frances had been really very popular, due mostly to having an older boyfriend who bought beer for underage morons, until she broke up with Kurt and was expelled last May. Apparently Jim and his jock friends only liked the parties, and when those stopped, Frances, and Sam by association, were quickly phased out of the reigning teen royalty at St. Francis. Before long, Sam was back to being shoved into lockers, called unrepeatable names, and having zero friends at this damn school.

“Come on, Spicy Tuna Roll, how come you won’t talk to me? Run late because you were working in the rice field?” Jim leered, and his other jock friends tittered with low laughter as their teacher brought the class to order.

Jim was too stupid to even properly be racist. He started miming karate chops and reversing his R’s and L’s just before the class let out, and Sam bit his tongue. His mother would be so proud. As the jocks all chuckled and high fived over Jim’s blatant display of racism and idiocy, Sam decided he needed to put his foot down. He was not going to spend his senior year of high school playing punching bag to the closet case who was far too comfortable living in a shit hole excuse for a suburb.

Parents be damned, he just wasn’t capable of shutting up and staying out of trouble.

Sam winked at Jim on his way out of class. “Catch you later, stud.” Sam exaggerated the swing of his hips as he walked out of the door on his way to gym class, and there was a collective “ohhhhhhh” of schadenfreude from the football and lacrosse players still loitering in the back of the math class.

Sam Keddy didn’t believe in luck because he didn’t have any, good or bad. He just had himself.