#and b. i need to get front and center again which under normal circumstances is so fucking hard lol
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i need the strokes to come back bc i very nearly made a sign that i’m 99% sure would’ve worked and it’s haunting my every waking thought
#problem is now i’m determined to actually do it but a. they need to play a show here again#and b. i need to get front and center again which under normal circumstances is so fucking hard lol#i was literally making the sign at 1am the night before and got tired and frustrated and gave up#bc i figured i wouldn’t be in a spot for it to work anyway#and then i absolutely was#amazing night but i literally can’t stop thinking about several missed opportunities i had lol#if they wait five years to come back here i’m gonna be too old to wait all day for a front spot lmao
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Family Business
read on AO3
Henrik jumped instinctually when he heard a knock on the door of the clinic. He was still getting used to Yan’s frequent visits; the only person who normally stopped by outside of patients was Jackie, and even then those were scheduled. He opened the door and was greeted by the red-haired ball of joy themself.
"Good afternoon, Henrik." Yan beamed and moved past him into the clinic, only speaking again once the door was closed. "I got those books you asked for." They put their messenger bag down onto the counter and began emptying its contents; two leather-bound books with yellowing pages and ancient symbols etched into the cover.
"Thank you, Yan. You’ve been a great help," Henrik said.
"It’s no trouble." Yan handed the books to the doctor. They then rummaged through their bag again, pulling out a tupperware container. "I also brought cookies. B ate most of them while I was at the Library though..."
"You didn’t have to..." Henrik trailed off when he heard a shout from the basement. But this was different from when he normally heard Anti shouting from the basement, this time he sounded... happy? There was a loud rhythmic thumping of Anti running up the stairs before the trap door burst open and he stumbled out into the room.
"I’ve made a breakthrough!" Anti was beaming, holding out a piece of notebook paper covered in his messy handwriting.
"Anti, as exciting as that is, please check next time you come stomping up the stairs,” Henrik scolded, worry creasing his brow. “What if Jackie had been here? Or someone from the Crime Department? You really ought to be more careful." Still shaking his head, he took the paper from Anti and began reading.
"Yeah, yeah, I know." Anti rolled his eyes. "Just shut up and listen. I was poring over that old book of remedies Yan brought over a couple of days ago and after brushing up on my ancient Greek, I was able to translate the recipe for a potion that stalls the symptoms of corruption. Not exactly a cure, but it’s a start." He turned his attention to Yan, eyeing the container in their hands. "You brought food? You’re the best." He grabbed the container and immediately shoved a cookie into his mouth.
Henrik stared in awe of the notes, a small smile tugging across his face. "This… this could actually work! Anti, you’re brilliant."
Anti swallowed and looked sheepishly at the floor. "It’s not a big deal. Just trying to keep myself from fully corrupting, is all."
"Not a big deal?" Yan’s eyes lit up. "You’ve managed to find the first step to a corruption cure, that’s incredible!"
As Henrik continued poring over the notes, his eyebrows furrowed. "As incredible as this is, it’s going to be extremely difficult for me to get these ingredients. The only place I could possibly get most of these things is Derekson's, but I'd have to get Jackie to escort me. Not to mention the Committee would find it suspicious…"
Anti shrugged, taking a bite out of another cookie. "No problem, I’ll swing by later to grab everything you need to start making this thing."
"Are you sure? It might not be safe for you to be walking out and about."
"It'll be fine, I'll wear a scarf. You worry too much," Anti said, scratching at his neck wound. Henrik sighed and left the room, closing the door to the apartment behind him. "Yandere, you wanna come with?"
"Sure." Yan hesitated. "Where are we going exactly?"
"Derekson's," Anti said. Yan still looked confused, so he continued. "It's an apothecary across town. The guy who runs it is under Committee surveillance, too." He glanced over at the apartment door and lowered his voice. "Apparently, all of his children were born mundane, and he tried to turn them into wizards by himself. Ended up killing all but one. The only reason the Committee hasn't thrown him into a prison cell yet is that he's such a talented potion maker."
"That's horrible," Yan muttered.
"Yeah..." Anti trailed off. "But he’s the only one who has what we need to make our potion. So I hope you don’t have any plans this afternoon, because we’re leaving as soon as I finish these cookies." He turned and walked back down into the basement, taking the whole container with him.
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The walk to the apothecary was surprisingly tense -- Anti had insisted they walk there, not wanting to spend even a few minutes on crowded public transport. He spent the whole time looking over his shoulder and tugging on his scarf like it was suffocating him.
"Are you okay?" Yan asked, sensing how nervous he was.
"I'm fine." He glanced at them over his sunglasses. "I just don't like walking around during the day. Too many people. I feel like they're all staring at me." Yan opened their mouth to say something comforting, only for Anti to cut them off. "We're here."
Yan looked up at the building they stopped in front of. It was a brownstone, the worn bricks painted green. A few strange-looking flowers and herbs grew in the windowsills. Above the door was a wooden sign that read "Derekson's Apothecary: family-owned and operated since 1812." Yan quickly followed Anti up the steps and into the shop.
The shop was empty when the two walked in. A wooden counter stretched around all sides of the room. Tall shelves filled with glass jars and bottles lined the walls behind the counter, each containing loose ingredients or brightly colored liquids. A rolling ladder was attached to the shelves, and in the center was a door marked "employees only". It reminded Yan of a candy store, only instead of chocolate and jellybeans, the jars were filled with dried herbs and what looked like eyeballs.
The back door swung open and a man in a patterned shirt walked out, putting on a big smile when he saw the two standing in the shop. He was followed by a teenager with similar features, walking on a pair of crutches. The teen stood in the back, staring at the ground while the older man walked towards the counter.
"Welcome, welcome! What can I do for you today?" said the man, whose nametag identified him as Derek. He gestured to the shelves behind him. "We carry potions for any and all circumstances. One that turns any creature into a harmless goldfish, one that can make your flower garden into your own personal army of floral warriors, one that makes the drinker fall in love with the first person they see for 24 hours. I know that one is popular with you young folks." He winked at Yan, and they only scoffed in response. He hesitated before starting his sales pitch again. "You two don't work for the Committee, right?"
"No?"
"Good! Because here I have a few things that blur the lines between potion and poison-"
"We don't need any of that!" Anti snapped, clearly running out of patience with the overzealous salesman. "We just need these ingredients." He pulled a list from inside his coat and handed it to Derek.
Derek gave a dejected sigh and took the list, turning and climbing the ladder to retrieve what they needed. He quickly maneuvered the shelves, seemingly knowing where everything was despite all the jars being unlabelled. He came back down only a few minutes later holding a few jars, piling them all on the counter.
"Is that everything?" Anti asked.
"Not quite," Derek said. "Some of the things you're asking for are highly dangerous, so I don't keep them in the front of the shop. Eric." He turned to the young man behind him, who flinched in surprise upon hearing his name. "Can you get the rest of this fine customer's order from the back room?"
"Yes, Dad," Eric muttered.
"I can help you with that," Yan chimed in, hesitating when they saw how stunned Eric looked at the gesture. "If you're alright with that."
"Sure," Derek said, waving his hand. "Just don't touch anything you're not supposed to." Yan moved around the counter over to Eric, smiling and opening the door for him. He gave a reluctant smile and went inside, Yan following shortly after.
The backroom was essentially just a kitchen. A few small cauldrons were simmering on top of an electric stove, empty glass bottles crowding the counter next to it. The linoleum floor was covered in shimmering, multicolored stains. A few barrels were pushed up against the back wall next to a staircase leading up to the second floor of the house. The walls were lined with cabinets, many of which were padlocked.
Eric hobbled over to the cabinets, leaning his crutches up against the counter and leaning against it for balance. He pulled a ring of keys from his pocket, unlocking one of the cabinets. Before he opened it, he turned to Yan. "Oh, right," he mumbled, as if he had forgotten Yan was there. "You can, uh, grab the fireroot for me. It's in the fridge."
"You got it." They smiled, walking over to the fridge and opening it. It was filled to the brim with potion bottles, as well as a few leftovers in tupperware containers.
"So, what's all this for, anyway?" Eric asked, before immediately looking away. "Sorry, I didn't mean to pry."
"It's alright." Yan walked over with the bundle of fireroot he asked for. "We're working on, uh… medicine. For someone who's sick. My friend's a doctor and he asked us to pick up some supplies for him."
"That’s weird. I’ve never heard of medicine with these kinds of ingr-" He cut himself off with a strangled cry. His legs suddenly buckled out from underneath him, and he gripped onto the counter for support. He shakily lowered himself to the floor, back against the counter. He scrunched his eyes shut and suppressed a pained whimper, pulling his leg to his chest.
Yan dropped to their knees in an instant. "What's wrong?" they asked quickly. "Do you need me to get your dad?"
"No!" Eric yelped, eyes wide. "It'll only make him upset… I'll be fine. I just need to sit for a minute."
"What's wrong?" Yan repeated, more gently this time.
Eric bit his lip, looking at the door to the shop and back at Yan. "You know what my dad did, right?" They nodded, remembering the story Anti told them. "The ritual he used to try and make me a wizard, it didn't work, but-" He rolled up one of his pant legs, revealing unnatural scars twisting up his leg. They looked like burns, only iridescent and an unpleasant shade of green. Yan clapped a hand over their mouth. He covered the scars and curled in on himself. "Dad says it's a form of corruption. It flares up every now and then," he continued. He gave a feeble smile. "It's almost funny. I'm not even a wizard and I still managed to screw up and get corrupted."
Yan winced, sensing a wave of sadness and guilt coming from Eric. "Hey, that’s not your fault. None of that is,” they said, trying to console him. They were quiet for a moment, mulling over what they were about to say. They lowered their voice. "I think I have a way to help you, but you have to promise not to tell anyone, that includes your dad. "
Eric looked back with confusion before simply nodding.
Yan glanced at the door before speaking, "A friend of mine is working on a cure for corruption. I know it sounds impossible, but we’re making progress. It will take some time before we have an actual cure, but once we do, we’ll be able to help you. "
"You- you’d really be willing to help me?" Eric said. He gave them a weak smile.
Yan smiled back, opening their mouth to reassure them before being cut off by yelling from the front of the shop.
"Eric! Hurry up!" Derek yelled. "We have a customer waiting!"
"Oh no..." Eric muttered before yelling back, "I’ll be right out!" He grabbed the edge of the counter, wincing as he scrambled to his feet. He grabbed his crutches, gesturing to Yan to pick up the miscellaneous items on the counter before going through the door. They placed them on the check-out counter before walking back over to Anti, who looked down at them over his sunglasses.
Derek looked over at Eric, drumming his fingers on the counter with impatience. "What took you so long?" he said, barely containing his frustration.
"I- uh," Eric stammered, trying to avoid eye contact with his father as he began to pack all the items into a box. "I couldn’t find the time cacti needles they needed, m-must’ve put it in the wrong cabinet when I was organizing."
"Yeah? Well, next time double-check to make sure everything’s in the right place." Derek turned to Anti, his glare turning into a smile as he rattled off the prices for everything, occasionally slipping in a sales pitch for other potions. Anti ignored his rambling, placing a stack of bills on the counter and taking the box of ingredients from Eric. He promptly dropped it into Yan’s arms and quickly made his way out of the shop. Yan gave Eric one last smile before following after.
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"God, I hate that Derekson guy. Did you see the way he talked to his own son?" Anti scoffed. The two were walking back to Henrik’s clinic now, Anti a little more relaxed now that the streets weren’t as crowded. "What were you and that Eric kid doing back there, anyways?"
"Just talking," Yan said. They decided it was best if Anti didn’t know they’d told Eric about the corruption cure.
"Of course you were." Anti smiled. "You have a real knack for befriending everyone you meet, huh?"
"I guess so." They smirked. "I managed to befriend you, didn’t I?" They nudged him with their shoulder.
Anti chuckled. "Yeah, yeah you did." The two kept walking, keeping up some light conversation to pass the time. Yan was in the middle of recounting the time they and B had gotten lost in a cave somewhere in the geography section at the Library when a man jogging by them accidentally bumped into Anti. "Hey, watch it!" he yelled at the man before turning back to Yan. They were about to continue their story when they felt a sudden surge of mixed emotions from behind them. Disbelief, sadness, joy.
"Chase?"
Anti froze in place. He chanced a look back, his heart sinking when he locked eyes with the man behind him. He stared at Anti as if he had just seen a ghost, the faintest smile pulling at his lips. His eyes were sunken yet bright, brown hair poked out from under his beanie. He looked like he hadn’t had a good night’s sleep in months. He surged forward, wrapping his arms around Anti and pulling him into a tight hug. "Oh my god, Chase! It’s been so long, I thought I’d never see you again!" He laughed.
Anti finally moved, shoving the man off of him and taking a step back. "I think you’ve mistaken me for someone else."
"Are you kidding? I’d think I’d recognize my best friend."
"I’m sorry, but I have no idea who you are," Anti growled.
"It’s me, Sean! Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you for years." The man, Sean, reached out to Anti. Tears started to fall when he flinched away. "You just disappeared, and I was beginning to think- everyone thinks you’re dead, Chase."
"Anti," Yan said softly, wincing from the waves of intense emotion coming from the two men. "Who is this?"
"Anti? Your name is Chase!" Sean yelled. He grabbed his head, struggling to make sense of what was happening. "You’re my best friend! Fuck, we have matching tattoos!" He quickly rolled up the sleeve of his jacket, revealing a trident-shaped symbol. Yan recognized the symbol; they had seen it tattooed on Anti’s right arm before. Sean kept yelling, tears pouring down his face. "What happened to the friend who promised he’d always be there for me? What happened to the guy who would never abandon his family no matter how hard things got? What happened to you, Chase?"
"I'm not Chase," Anti snapped, low and dangerous. "Now, I need you to leave me alone before I do something I regret."
Yan looked down to see his hand was glitching with red and green magic. "Anti." they grabbed his arm. "Please, don't."
Anti looked over at them, then back at Sean. "Yan, we're leaving." He turned to go.
"If you’re going to go, you should know Stacy remarried," Sean said. He averted his eyes from Anti, tears still falling down his face. "Nice guy, he’s a tennis instructor or something. The kids are doing well in school; Emma's been filling out college applications. They still ask about you sometimes. They do miss you, you know. Stacy too."
Anti stood for a moment. "Come on, Yan, let’s go home," he said, lifting an arm to wipe at his eyes with his sleeve. He walked away from Sean, not bothering to look back.
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The walk back to Henrik's was tense. Neither said a word until they got back. Anti opened the door to the clinic, immediately locking eyes with Henrik, who was sitting at his desk going over the notes again. "How'd it go?" he asked, standing up. Anti stayed quiet, storming past him and wrenching open the trapdoor. He slammed it behind him, and moments later the two upstairs heard him start yelling. It was a heartbreaking sound, laced with anger and sorrow. The sound of anything he could get his hands on colliding with the floor soon followed.
"What happened to you out there?" Henrik said, wincing at the sound of something glass shattering below.
Yan placed the box of ingredients on the desk, gently wiping fresh tears from their face. The emotion coming from Anti and Sean had been too much for their ever faltering emotion magic, and they had started crying from the sheer amount of sorrow coming from the two. "Everything at the store went fine. But on the walk back, we ran into a man named Sean," they spoke softly. They looked up at Henrik, seeing a flash of recognition on his face. "Henrik, who's Chase?"
Henrik sighed, gently removing his glasses and rubbing his face. "Chase is someone who Anti was a long, long time ago," he hesitated, looking down at Yan with regret. "It's not my place to tell you about his past. I'm sorry. You really deserve to know more, but-"
Yan held up their hand. "I understand." They pulled him into a hug.
Henrik froze at the sudden contact, then gently placed his arms around them. "It would probably be best if you went home. You don't want to see him like this."
Yan pulled back, giving a weak smile. "I'll see you next week. Call me when he's feeling better."
"Of course," Henrik said, watching as Yan walked out the door. As soon as they were gone, he sighed, leaning against his desk. He wanted nothing more than to get a drink, wait it out until Anti's rage faded, but he knew that wouldn't be good for either of them. He walked over to the center of the room, gently opening the trapdoor before heading down the stairs, bracing himself as the noises got louder. He gasped when he reached the bottom of the stairs.
The room was in complete disarray. All the books that had been precariously balanced on Anti’s desk were thrown to the ground, papers strewn everywhere. The desk chair was knocked over; all the dirty plates and glasses that he had hoarded in his room were in pieces on the floor. His knife was buried in its usual place in the wall next to the doorway. The only thing left untouched was the murky green jar on the desk, where Sam was repeatedly bumping his eye against the glass in an attempt to get Anti's attention.
Anti himself was hunched in the center of it all. His jacket and scarf were discarded on the floor. His sunglasses lay against the wall across the room, one of the lenses missing and the other shattered. His entire body was glitching. He was scratching at the wound on his neck.
Henrik quickly moved next to Anti, careful not to kneel on any broken glass. "Are you alright?" He spoke softly. Anti breathed heavily, barely acknowledging the man beside him. Henrik reached out, gently placing a hand on his back and rubbing circles. Even through his gloves, it felt like touching a broken tv screen. Slowly, Anti's breathing evened out and he removed his hands from his neck.
It felt like an eternity before Anti spoke. "I miss them so much."
"I know," Henrik said, barely above a whisper.
Anti looked back at him, his mind racing with a million things to say. He decided to stay quiet, just this once. He leaned against Henrik, letting the silent sorrow wash over him.
#wwoww anti#wwoww yan#wwoww henrik#wwoww derek#wwoww eric#wwoww story#antisepticeye#henrik von schneeplestein#yandereplier#eric derekson#derek derekson#wwoww chase#wwoww sean#chase brody
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Now You Get to Live With It
B!D Reader
Word Count: 1396
Request for @youngjusticeimaginesus
A/N: I’m not sure if this is what you had in mind, but I hope you enjoy!
Summary: After Thanos you believe you lost your mother, but that may not be the case
After Thanos came, life dissolved into chaos. Everyone did what they could, they tried to bring back a sense of normalcy, but there was only so much anyone could do. The death toll seemed to rise everyday, nobody was quite sure who was still around. You had lost almost everyone. Your sister, Kara, and you were the only ones left and she spent all her time trying to help who she could. You pushed through, went to work at the DEO, volunteered to help rebuild where you could, and just tried to keep going.
You and your mom never been close, but losing her was hard. You just wished you’d had the chance to say goodbye. But it’s been years, and there was nothing you could do to change what had happened. There had been whispers recently at the DEO, that the Avengers had a plan to fix everything, and you did your best to fight off the hope that started to blossom. This isn’t the first time people have talked about a magical fix, and nothing ever came from it. You were trying to focus on your work when the command phone rang.
“Agent Danvers,” you answered, wondering what could possibly be happening now.
“Danvers, this is Steve Rogers, we need some help over here.” Your eyes went slightly wide, this wasn’t the first time you’ve talked with the Avengers, but you couldn’t help but hope the whispers were true.
“Captain America asking for my help, this must be pretty serious.”
“We think we have a way to fix this, but we could use some insight. Your branch seems to have a little more knowledge of the…” he trails off.
“Extranormal? Yeah, that’s kind of in the title. I’ll assemble a team, we should hit New York by nightfall,” you say hanging up the phone. Whatever was happening, it was sure to be wild.
xxxxx
“We don’t know what’s happening here, this mission is classified. I will not be responsible for giving these people false hope. Nothing may come from this, but we’re gonna try. Wheel up in 20 people. Dismissed.” You sigh as the team scatters. You had assembled a team of 5, including you and your sister, if this cae to a fight you could use the extra manpower.
“Do we know what’s going on?” Kara asks and you shake your head.
“All I know is Captain freaking America called for my help. This really is the end of the world,” you chuckled lightly, but there was no humor there.
“Could we really be getting everyone back? Alex and Mom and...everyone?” your sister asks, her hope that you used to be jealous of, you now pitied her for. She was always getting crushed, this wasn’t a world for hope anymore.
“I doubt it, Kara. It’s been 5 years, we’ve tried everything, but I couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t. I don’t know what will come from this, but no matter what, we’ll have each other.”
“When did you get so wise? I thought I was supposed to be the older sister,” she teases and you roll your eyes.
“Someone had to be the realist here!” you call over your shoulder as you head towards the plane.
xxxxx
“What do we got?” you ask as you walk off the plane. There was a team of 10 or so Avengers waiting for you, which included what seemed to be a talking raccoon but you’ve learned not to let anything phase you anymore.
“We’re thinking, if we got to before Thanos got the stones, and take them first, we can stop this all from happening,” a man you didn’t recognize said and you look to the team who are all nodding along.
“Wait a second. Are you all seriously proposing time travel as a means of fixing this? Is that even possible?” you look to your team, who all look as shocked as you.
“We’re hoping, so, are you in?” Natasha Romanoff asked and you sighed.
“What the hell, we’ve got nothing left to lose. Where do you need us?”
xxxxx
By some miraculous turn of events, it worked and after a quite disastrous battle, the dust settled and you realized you’d won.
“Rogers,” you say walking up beside Captain America. “I’m sorry for your loss. If there’s anything my team can do-”
“You’ve done more than I could ever repay, get your people home. We’ve all got people to reunite with,” he says and you nod. You’re more than ready to see your family again, and you can tell your agents feel the same.
A few hours later you’re all landing back at the DEO, “I know we normally need a debrief, but given the circumstances I think we can break protocol a little. Go home, see your families.”
“You ready for this?” Kara asks as the team disperses, “I told you we’d get them back.”
“I’ve never been so glad to be wrong,” you say with a smile, “Let’s go.”
xxxxx
You find Alex in the middle of the command center as if no time has passed and you smile at her.
“Hey Director! You finally gonna take back the slack I’ve been picking up?” you tease and she spins around.
“There you guys are! I got back and nobody knew where you were,” she says, relief evident in her voice as she pulls you into her arms.
“Yeah, it was a covert op that became very much not covert when all the sudden half the population reappeared.”
“You did this?” she asks as she hugs Kara and you smile.
“We helped,” you say and she smiles at you.
“We should call mom,” Kara says and you nod. Kara pulls out her phone and you all three listen as it rings through to voicemail, “I’ll try again.”
Kara calls three more times before you get nervous. “Kara, go out there. Stay on comms and tell me what you see,” you say, settling yourself in front of the computers and pulling up a few databases.
“I don’t see her,” Kara says and you sigh.
“Check the house, see if anything’s been disturbed,” you instruct as you start typing.
“Nothing. There’s dust everywhere, and it’s a bit of a mess but nobody’s been here in five years,” she explains and you can hear the frustration in her voice. “Wait, her stuff is missing. Her clothes, and a suitcase. It looks like she packed up and left…”
“I swear to God,” you growl as you start typing furiously. You search any name she could possibly be hiding under, and your eyes narrow as results pop up. “I found her. She’s just south of San Francisco, going by her maiden name. It looks like she’s been there the whole time.”
“What do you mean? She just left?” Kara asks softly, and the pain in your voice makes your blood boil.
“I don’t know, but I intend to find out.”
xxxxx
You bang on the front door of the address you found. Your sisters share a worried look, they’ve never seen you this mad.
“Hello-oh girls,” your mom opens the door and you glare.
“So you are alive.” You say and she looks down, “just tell me why?”
“Everything was so bad, I knew we lost Alex and I just, I couldn’t handle it,” she says, as if that’s a valid excuse.
“We all lost her! We all lost people, but we pushed through. You thought your sadness was a good enough reason to leave behind the children you had left? We were all sad!”
“Y/n, calm down,” Alex says and you glare at her.
“No, I will not calm down! I mourned the loss of my mother, who what?” you turn back to your mother, “just wanted a change? Can you give me one good reason for letting your children think you were dead?”
She looks up at you and remains silent. “That’s what I thought,” you say, all the energy has left your body. “I had to be sure you were okay, and now that I know you are I never want to see you again.”
“Y/n, wait!” Your mom says as you start to walk away.
“No. You’ve made your choice. Now you get to live with it,” and with that you turn your back on her, and you never turn back.
Tag list: @rvgrsbrns
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OTP Questions
I was tagged by @risenlucifer
Okay disclaimer. I ship Alex with everyone, and I mean everyone. But for this I’mma just do the most common ship for me when I rp with peeps which is typically Alex x Jacob.
DISAGREEMENTS
who is more likely to raise their voice? Depends on how bad the argument gets. Alex physically can’t but sometimes, when she’s being incredibly stubborn. Jacob will get a sterner tone that seems to give the illusion of it being raised.
who threatens to leave but never actually does? Neither of them. They’re not the types to make light of threats such as this.
who actually keeps their word and leaves? Alex. If her words aren’t taken seriously because “I can have you back here at any time” she’s gone.
who trashes the house? Jacob if he’s having a PTSD episode, but usually neither.
do either of them get physical? Once again only if Jacob is having a PTSD episode and, even then, Alex knows when to get out of the area if he’s that bad.
how often do they argue/disagree? Quite a bit, usually about Project stuff. With domestic stuff not a lot.
who is the first to apologize? They’re both stubborn but Alex is usually first to apologize in a mess from her own mental issues.
The rest is under the cut, because a.) it’s long and b.) one section of it is 18+!
SEX (18+ y’all, these questions are pretty spicy)
who is on top? Jacob 100% Alex only gets dominance in foreplay (even then it’s rare)
who is on the bottom? Alex, she’s just more submissive
who has the strangest desires? They both kinda even out here. Usually Alex is the one to voice her desires.
who’s dominant in bed? Jacob. Just. Jacob
is head ever in the equation? Yes very much, usually Alex likes to give Jacob head.
if so, who is better at performing it? Both are rather good, Alex is just the giver most of the time.
ever had sex in public? Not really public, but definitely out in the woods/on the mountain
who moans the most? Both are rather quiet people, but usually Alex
who leaves the most marks? Jacob, he’s a biter
who is the more experienced of the two? Alex. She doesn’t talk about her previous sex life a lot but her suggestions make it obvious.
do they ‘fuck’ or ‘make love’? Usually Fuck, it helps to relieve stress after a long day, but it usually turns to making love half way through.
rough or soft? Rough. No soft setting unless Alex gets to take the lead.
how long do they usually last? They can last a while. It depends on when they’re having sex. If it’s at the end of the day they usually don’t go for long as they need sleep. If it’s in the middle or the start of the day they like to just mess around with foreplay for an hour at least.
is protection used? Yes. Alex takes day after pills as birth control is a little harder to find.
does it ever get boring? To them it’s never boring.
where is the strangest place they’d have sex? Probably in the woods near a wolf beacon. Alex had come to shut it down and Jacob caught her, decided to ‘punish’ her.
FAMILY
do they plan on having children/or have children? Not with how the world is and not with their mental states.
if so, how many children do they want/have? They would only want one if they ever had any.
AFFECTION
who likes to cuddle? Both, oddly enough usually Jacob when they’re laying down for the night.
who gets naughty in the most inappropriate of places? Jacob. If Alex comes with him to the center he may occasionally nibble on her neck when he thinks they’re alone. Neither of them are PDA
who struggles to keep their hands to themself? Usually Jacob, once again not to big on PDA
how long can they cuddle until one becomes uncomfortable? They usually fall asleep cuddling and Alex will wiggle away in her sleep. Usually by morning, if it’s a peaceful night, Jacob will end up either sprawled slightly on her or cuddling her.
who gives the most kisses? Alex, she loves giving kisses to Jacob’s palm or the back of his hand.
what is their favourite non-sexual activity? Hikes in the woods
where is their favourite place to cuddle? At home in front of the fire
how often do they get time to themselves? Not a lot due to the circumstances of the world, but they get enough.
SLEEPING
who snores? Both, nothing more than light snores
if both do, who snores the loudest? See above
do they share a bed or sleep separately? Depends on the day. They do like to share the bed but more often than not Alex goes to the couch when she’s having a bad night.
if they sleep together, do they cozy up together or lay far apart? They like to be close, but Alex usually tries to fidget away.
what do they wear to bed? Jacob tends to wear a t-shirt and his boxers. Alex likes to wear just her panties and one of Jacob’s shirts. The smell helps her stay asleep.
are either of them insomniacs? Oh you know it. Two people with PTSD? YEEEP. Alex usually tries to help Jacob sleep but often doesn’t end up sleeping herself.
can sleeping pills be found by the bedside? No. Jacob usually ends up sleeping in due to them and he won’t have that. Alex tried but she hated not being able to wake up from her nightmares.
do they wrap their limbs around each other or just lay side by side? Usually just side by side. If one is having a bad night they’ll end up cuddling the other.
who wakes up with bed hair? Alex. She has more hair to mess up.
who wakes up first? Jacob, usually because around the time he’s waking up Alex is passing out.
who prepares breakfast in bed for the other? This isn’t something they normally do. Alex likes to every now and then as a treat.
what is their favourite sleeping position? Side by side, fingers barely brushing to remind the other that they’re there.
do they set an alarm each night? No. Sometimes it triggers Jacob’s PTSD so they just make sure to keep the curtains open so that the light can wake them.
can a television be found in their bedroom? Nah, that’s in the den. Jacob does keep his laptop in the room though so occasionally they watch Netflix on that.
who has nightmares? Both. It’s a mess.
who has ridiculous dreams? Neither.
who sprawls out and takes up most of the bed? Jacob, usually he ends up smothering Alex a little.
who makes the bed? Both, depends on who gets out of bed last.
what time is bed time? Hard to say, Alex is usually early morning. Jacob tries to sleep early as he gets up early.
any routines/rituals before bed? They try to spend at least half an hour just being close, no words needed.
who’s the grumpiest when they wake up? Alex. She’s a gremlin until she takes a shower and has breakfast.
WORK
who is the busiest? Jacob, his work keeps him busy.
who rakes in the highest income? Honestly neither.
are any of them unemployed? Technically yes?
who takes the most sick days? They’d both die before they take sick days.
who is more likely to turn up late to work? Neither, in rare cases Alex
who sucks up to their boss? Neither
what are their jobs? Jacob is ex-military turned General of sorts for the Project. Alex is a military-flunky (tried to escape from her mom, didn’t work) but ended up as a deputy after she finally had the courage to move to her grandparent’s house. She joined the police force to try and do some good.
who stresses the most? They’re both walking balls of stress underneath their calm.
do they enjoy or despise their careers/occupations? This is difficult to say. Jacob definitely finds satisfaction in his work to prepare the project for what’s to come. Alex doesn’t know what to think. She likes helping people but she feels off about her coworkers at times.
are they financially stable? Yep, money isn’t an issue.
HOME
who does the washing? Usually neither. Alex would if she has the time
who takes out the trash? Both, they like a clean home
who does the ironing? Jacob if he really wants to
who does the cooking? This is usually a toss up. They both don’t really care for cooking.
who is more likely to burn the house ranch down just trying? Alex honestly. She forgets she turned the oven one sometimes.
who leaves the toilet roll empty? Neither, the only time it’s left empty is if one has has to go get some from another area in the house.
who leaves their dirty clothes on the floor? Alex, but she picks up it the next morning or after her shower
who forgets to flush the toilet? Neither
who is the prankster around the house? Jacob. He usually does small little jokes or pranks to help lighten Alex’s mood if he notices she’s having a hard day. He never fesses up to them though.
who loses the car keys when it comes time to go somewhere? Alex, she can be a little spacey.
who mows the lawn? Both, they take turns. Usually an hour on and hour off.
who answers the telephone? Alex will out of her paranoia.
who does the vacuuming? They prefer no carpet, but Alex will take care of the sweeping if necessary.
who does the groceries? Jacob since he’s usually out later.
who takes the longest to shower? Alex. Gotta wash away the depression.
MISCELLANEOUS
is money a problem? No
how many cars do they own? Two, they each own one vehicle in case of emergencies.
do they own their home or do they rent? They each have their own home.
do they live in the city or in the country? Mountains baby.
do they enjoy their surroundings? Very much, they’re both in secluded areas of the county.
what’s their song? Only You, nope a joke. Alex actually gets very pissed off Jacob plays this as she has gone through the trials and is affected by it still. They don’t really ‘have a song’.
what do they do when they’re away from each other? Alex likes to read and maybe garden or hike. Jacob will be working in his office or hiking.
where did they first meet? Funny thing that. Alex was going to arrest his brother.
who spends the most money when out shopping? Alex, she likes to occasionally get something nice for Jacob.
who finds it amusing when the other trips over? Jacob, he always checks on Alex but he gets a little smirk. Calls her a clumsy pup.
any mental issues? HA. yeah
who’s terrified of bugs? Neither. Alex gets spooked if they appear out of nowhere.
who kills the spiders around the house? Both. They’re not afraid.
their favourite place? The lake is usually peaceful for them
who pays the bills? Bills don’t exist at the time
do they have any fears for their future? Very much so. They worry about survival and what the world will become
who’s more likely to surprise the other with a fancy dinner? Alex
who’s the tallest? Jacob
who’s more likely to just randomly hop into the shower with the other? Jacob, only because Alex is usually home first
who wanders around in their underwear? Alex
who sings the loudest when singing along to the radio? Neither, at most they both hum
what do they tease each other about? Jacob usually teases Alex that she does so well with trials but she easily gets flustered or clumsy when he flirts at her. Alex teases Jacob for being a softie when they’re alone... in front of his soldiers.
who is more likely to cringe at the other’s fashion sense at times? Probably Jacob. Alex doesn’t have a wide variety of clothes but she’s fond of her Testie Festie shirt.
who crushed first? Hard to tell. After things calmed down it was kinda mutual.
any alcohol or substance related problems? They both take to the drink to help them calm down or try to forget their pasts.
who is more likely to stumble home, drunk, at 3am? Both are equally likely for this. Most of the time it’s Alex after visiting Fall’s End.
who swears the most? Neither, they’re both pretty good about using swears appropriately.
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Actions Speak Louder Than Words | Jacob Seed x f!Deputy
Chapter 14
[Read on AO3]
Previous Chapter - Next Chapter
Guess who's alive! It's me!
It took so long to get this out. Just trying to find time between work and sleep where I had not only the motivation, but also the energy and the creativity to write was so hard. But, just writing a little bit each day helped out. Even just one word.
I appreciate your guys' patience so much! <3
Packing was slow. Every few minutes Jacob or Cat would stop what they were doing and just give each other a sad smile or a quick peck. Their short time of peace and normalcy was up, and while neither said it out loud, they both knew that they didn’t really want to go back. Even if it was important. Even if the fate of Joseph’s followers depended on Jacob returning. Eventually their bags were full, the cabin was cleaned, and there was nothing left to do but get in the truck.
Jacob took one last, big breath before locking the door behind them.
“Ready?” He spoke in almost a whisper, despite there being no one else around.
“As I’ll ever be.” Cat smiled up at him, squeezing his hand that was twined with her own.
The truck ride back was equally quiet, but a different kind of quiet. Both had accepted that things were going back to how they were. There was no changing that. Now they just had to collect themselves before they arrived back at the Veteran’s Center. Gone was Jacob being able to actually sleep in and get some much needed rest. His dark circles had started to lighten during their trip but Cat knew they’d be back almost as soon as he got back to work. Cat would miss the solitude. She liked to think she’d had enough time to adjust to being around people, but her anxiety definitely was rearing its head again as they neared the Veteran’s Center. She had gotten comfortable not having to look over her shoulder. She didn’t have to worry about not being able to speak properly because Jacob had been there. Now she knew they’d have to be apart again and her self-confidence plummeted, knowing she’d be going back to her stutter once more.
As if sensing where her mind was going, Jacob grabbed her hand and lifted it to his lips.
She smiled at her husband, grateful for his unending support.
Too soon for her liking, they came around the bend leading towards the large gates of St. Francis.
The two guards readied their weapons at the approaching vehicle, only relaxing when they realized who it was. As they waited for the gates to open, one of the guards took a step towards Jacob’s open window.
“Sir. Nice to have you back.” He nodded quickly.
Jacob grunted, not even gracing him with attention.
The guard turned his gaze to Cat.
“You too, ma’am.”
Cat gave him a quick smile before turning her gaze back to the front. It was weird being addressed this way now. As an equal somehow. Sure, everyone knew that she was Jacob’s before they were married, but even then she was rarely acknowledged unless absolutely necessary.
Now she had to get used to that.
By the time they had managed to make it back to Jacob’s office they had already picked up the pile of reports from their time away. The Chosen that Jacob had replaced Pratt with, a stocky man named Isaac, followed them up to their room. He had long, dark, brown hair that was tied back away from his face. He wore the typical Chosen gear, minus the face mask, and had the Eden’s Gate cross painted across his left eye.
“No major incidents while you away, sir.” Isaac stood at attention near the door once Jacob was seated at his desk.
Cat went ahead and unpacked their things while also listening in.
“Any minor ones, then?” Jacob muttered while reading over the reports in his hand.
“Just the usual skirmishes with the Sinners. It appears the deputy that Brother John held captive, Hudson, has taken up the mantle of leading the attacks in the absence of you…” Isaac glanced up, making brief eye-contact with Cat. “Sister Catherine.”
Cat winced slightly at the title and her full name.
“Either ma’am, or Cat.” Jacob spoke. “If you must address her.”
Isaac nodded quickly.
“They’ve managed to take back some territory in Sister Faith’s region but that’s being taken care of as we speak.”
“Understood.” Jacob, sighed. “Anything else?”
“Nothing serious. We’ll get back to the normal schedule, sir.”
“If that’s all, dismissed.” Jacob called out.
When Isaac left the room Cat walked over to Jacob, leaning over him and kissing his cheek.
“Not even a moment’s rest, hm?”
Jacob huffed under his breath. “Not around here.”
One month passed.
It didn’t take long for Cat to return to her team and get back to work on the beacons. Her team was happy to have her back, bringing her up to date on all the gossip she missed out on during her honeymoon. Jacob still didn’t like having his wife out there, but she wasn’t going to be stopped. It was better than stewing in the Veteran’s Center all day like he tended to do. Everything was going smoothly until Isaac returned to Jacob’s room one evening.
“Everything good, soldier?” Jacob barely glanced up from his desk.
“Nothing to worry about, sir. Just that a letter arrived for you, ma’am.”
Cat perked up from her seat on their bed – Jacob finally replaced his cot with an actual double bed. She placed the book she was reading on the dresser before walking over. Isaac unfolded the envelope from his pocket before handing it to her. Cat glanced down at the envelope and smiled to herself before nodding to Isaac in thanks, earning one back.
“If that’s all?” Jacob eyed the man who was still standing too close to his wife for his liking.
Isaac confirmed and quickly made his exit.
“Who’s it from?” Jacob leaned back in his chair.
“Kim.”
“Rye?”
Cat nodded.
“She’s the only one who knows about…what actually happened to me. Why I came to you after all that. Everyone in the Valley knows about our marriage now. So, I don’t have to imagine what this is about.”
Cat maneuvered her way onto Jacob’s lap, despite his very light-hearted protests about having to finish his reports. She opened the letter with shaky hands.
“Dear, Cat.
I hope this letter reaches you. Wasn’t sure how to address it – not like the post office is really running around here though. And it was hard enough convincing Nick to even consider taking it to someone who might be able to get it to where it needed to go. Still, I heard the big news. Congrats on the marriage. Probably not hearing a lot of that from our side of things, if at all. I heard what happened from Hudson when she and the others returned. They might not understand, but you know I do. And I don’t fault you. Sure, I don’t quite get it, but that’s not for me to get. Anyways, don’t want to make this long, just wanted to let you know that we, too, had a change in the family. Finally had that baby of ours! It’s a girl! I’ll try and get you that money Nick owes you from your guys’ bet. Her name is Carmina and she’s a handful, let me tell you. But I was hoping you might be able to find that out on your own. Nick doesn’t know, and what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him. You know my number to get in contact with me. I just really want you to meet her. I don’t know what’s going to happen in the future but I still value you as a friend and I hope it’s returned. Anyways, let me know! I look forward to hearing from you.
Your friend,
Kim Rye & her adorable daughter Carmina.”
Cat took a shaky breath in as she finished reading the letter aloud.
“Seems like a trap to me.” Jacob raised one brow at her.
“Of course you’d think so. I…I really do want to see her. And the baby.” Cat leaned back, her side to his chest, resting her head in the crook of his neck.
“You’re not going anywhere that close to Fall’s End alone.”
“Maybe…”Cat chewed her bottom lip. “Maybe I could convince her to let someone come with me?”
Jacob gave a quick, sarcastic laugh.
“Worth a shot?”
“…Up to you, just know that I don’t like it, darlin’.”
“I know, hon.” Cat gently patted his cheek as she leaned over to bring his desk phone closer.
The phone call was a little easier to navigate than talking in person. Granted, Jacob was right there which helped tremendously. Kim was excited to actually be able to talk to Cat since she wasn’t able to last time. “Let’s me know things are going good for you.” She had said. Cat had explained that Jacob wasn’t exactly keen on letting her go out there alone – or at least without protection – due to the circumstances.
“Are you sure you’re okay with me visiting since we’re…t-technically on opposite sides?”
“Cat, we were friends first before all this happened. I know why you did the things you did, and I understand. Do I understand on a philosophical level? Maybe not. But that’s not what’s important. What’s important is that I want my friend to meet my new baby if she can.”
Cat looked back at Jacob. She knew he could hear Kim based on his face.
“I mean, I’d l-love to. You know this. But, like I said, Jacob isn’t exactly comfortable with it and if I’m b-being honest, I’m more comfortable with him around. If there’s any way…c-could he come along?”
Jacob’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
Kim was silent on the other end but Cat could hear her walking around. Cat held the phone to her shoulder.
“Sorry, probably should have brought that up first.”
Jacob shrugged. “Probably. But, chances are now she’s gonna say no because of that. I’m not exactly winning any popularity contests. While I might not like the idea, I don’t necessarily want to keep you from your friend. Even if they’re associated with the enemy. Not that much of an asshole.”
“Don’t tell that to your followers.” Cat chuckled, rolling her eyes. “They’ll think you’ve gone soft.”
“Only for you.”
They smiled at one another before Kim called out from the phone once more.
“Tell you what.” Kim’s voice was hesitant on the other end. “He can come, but only if he stays in the truck and you both come unarmed.”
Cat’s eyes widened.
“Y-you sure?”
“Not really. But I trust you, and after hearing him say he doesn’t want to keep you locked away, I’m willing to throw an olive branch just so I can see you.”
Cat blushed, knowing that Kim heard all that. Jacob just sighed.
“If that’s doable for you two, then let me know and I can arrange a date that Nick won’t be home. Would rather not have him shoot you on sight.”
“Hold on, Kim.” Cat turned back to Jacob. “What do you think?”
“I think it’s dangerous, going out with no weapons, for one. Two, could be a trap, but that’s just my brain talking. If it’s something you really want, I’m willing to…compromise.”
“Like what?”
“I want you to have a weapon at least. Should anything go down – on the way there or on arrival – I at least want one of us to have a means of defense. Hell, you can leave it in the truck or hand it over if that makes her more comfortable. But I’m not leaving this base without a weapon and putting you in harm’s way.”
“That’s fine with me, Seed.” Kim’s voice piped up once more. “I don’t want to see her harmed any more than you do.”
“Questionable.” Jacob mumbled.
Cat lightly swatted his shoulder. “Be nice.”
She could hear Kim chuckle on the other end.
“How does next Saturday work for you? Nick and the others are going to be meeting up that day so he should out for most of the day.”
Cat raised a brow towards her husband. He just shrugged, nodding slightly.
“Works for us. I r-really appreciate this, Kim.”
“Not a problem. I’ve missed you. See you soon!”
“See you!”
Cat placed the phone back on the receiver and melted into Jacob’s chest. He immediately started rubbing his hand up and down her arm.
“This ought to be interesting.” He mused.
“Oh, very.”
Saturday came far too quickly for Cat’s liking. While she was excited at the prospect of seeing Kim again, this was still a risky move. She glanced down at the pistol strapped to her thigh. Should anything happen while they were on the road that’s all they had for protection. Granted, Jacob could do some major damage with just a pistol, but still, not the best odds in an ambush. Cat leaned her head against the truck window, letting the vibrations cover her thoughts.
They had opted for a plain truck, all black, and changed into more “casual” wear. Anything to keep attention off of themselves. Cat had her hair up in a pony-tail and was wearing a thin, black long sleeve shirt to hide her sins, some regular blue, skinny jeans, her combat boots, and a black ball cap with her hair pulled through the back. Jacob ditched his signature jacket – which took a lot of convincing from Cat – and opted for just wearing one of his white undershirts, with his normal jeans, and boots. He also was sporting a black ball cap to hide his hair and face.
“We’re almost there. You okay?” Jacob glanced over at Cat.
“I think so. Nervous, mostly.”
“Eh, it’s just a baby. They’re not too scary.” Jacob grinned, laughing when Cat stuck her tongue out at him.
They pulled under the “Rye and Son’s” sign to which Cat smiled lovingly at. Jacob parked the truck in front of the house, far enough away to make Kim comfortable, but close enough to be there if things went wrong. Cat could see Kim’s outline behind the front window before she disappeared to the door.
Cat took a deep breath.
“I’ll be right here.” Jacob reminded her.
Cat leaned over, kissing him gently. He chuckled when their hats bumped against one another.
“Go on.”
Cat nodded before turning back to open her door. Kim was now standing outside the front door with a bundle in her arms. Cat made a show of removing her pistol and placing it on the roof of the truck and kept her hands visible as she walked to meet Kim halfway. Her hands were twitching with the urge to fidget.
“You look good.” Kim smiled hesitantly.
Cat smiled back. “T-t-thanks.”
She crossed her arms, squeezing her sides to distract herself from her stutter.
Kim’s eyes darted behind her, to which Cat turned to follow. She hadn’t heard him open the door but Jacob was now leaning against the hood of the truck.
“He treating you right?”
Cat nodded, smiling softly. “P-perfectly.”
“Good. That’s good.” Kim sighed. “I was worried at first, when I heard the news. Everyone was. I’ve kept your secret though, haven’t told anyone. Didn’t know if you’d want me to or not. It reminded me of why you did it and I think that’s what made it easier for me to accept it.”
Cat smiled sadly at her friend, thankful for her understanding at least.
“So w-who’s this?” Cat turned her attention to the bundle in Kim’s arm.
The one-month old was sleeping soundly in her mother’s arms, her thumb in her mouth.
“This beauty right here is Carmina.” Kim moved closer, easing her arms forward to meet Cat’s. “She’s a hard sleeper so don’t worry about her waking any time soon.”
Cat nodded as she was handed Carmina. She bounced her lightly, a smile already breaking out onto her face. She hadn’t held many babies before this, but it would seem instinct was kicking in. It felt natural. Cat’s eyes roamed over the baby’s face, admiring the small tufts of dark hair on the top of her head. Kim was leaning over, cooing lightly.
“It was a hell of a delivery. Almost didn’t think we’d make it to the hospital! You wouldn’t believe the things that happened on the way there. It was ridiculous.”
Cat chuckled lightly, trying not to jostle Carmina.
“Y-you’ll have to t-tell me about it sometime.” She whispered.
Cat began lightly swaying. She wasn’t sure why, but she suddenly found herself emotional. All the talk of the future a month ago during her honeymoon suddenly reared its ugly head in her mind. Reminding her of what she and Jacob might never have. Carmina started to become a blur in her vision but she didn’t stop smiling.
“You okay?” Kim placed a hand one her back.
Cat nodded and glanced back over at Jacob. His hat was shadowing his eyes but Cat swore his eyes were glassy before he turned away. This was too much for both of them it would seem.
They might not have been there long at all, only a few minutes, but it was enough for now.
“We should p-probably go.”
“So soon?”
Cat sniffled. “I know. I’m s-sorry. Things are…”
Kim nodded in understanding. “I think I get it.”
They traded Carmina and Kim wrapped her free arm around Cat’s shoulders.
“You take care of yourself alright? I don’t know if or when we’ll see each other again, but I don’t know that it will be on good ground again. You know?”
Cat nodded.
“Alright. Now get going before your husband gets too antsy.”
They traded quick smiles before parting ways. Cat blinked back the rest of her tears, putting herself back together. Jacob had already gotten back into the driver’s seat. Cat made sure to grab her pistol again before she joined him in the truck.
No words were said but once she was buckled in, Jacob started the long drive back to the Veteran’s Center.
They walked back to their room in silence. Jacob had his arm around Cat’s shoulder as they walked. Whether to comfort her or himself, Cat wasn’t sure. When they finally reached their room they both changed into more comfortable clothes before moving to the bed. Jacob laid down first and pulled Cat on top of him. She rested her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
“I had heard of baby fever. Didn’t know it would hit this hard.” Cat mumbled.
Jacob hummed in agreement.
“You okay?” Cat glanced up at his face. He was still looking a little teary-eyed.
Jacob heaved a heavy sigh. “I’m not sure. I think I was…taken aback, I suppose. Seeing you with a baby…? Awakened something in me I guess. I know I want that with you. But seeing it, knowing that it’s too dangerous for that right now? It was like waking from a perfect dream because some asshole dropped cold water on your head.”
Cat smiled sadly. “I get it. That’s how it was for me. It was like, we had talked about it, and that was enough for me. But then to actually hold her, it was like everything that we talked about went out the window. As if my brain was going ‘This is right, even if you aren’t ready.’ If that makes sense.”
“Yeah. Good ol’ basic animal instincts kicking into gear. We’re a pair, time to mate.”
Cat laughed lightly to herself. Of course he’d equate it in those terms.
“Hopefully soon.” He mused. “When the Project accomplishes our goals and it’s safe to have them. Maybe.”
“’Them’, huh? You wanting more than one?”
Cat moved up to lay next to Jacob instead, bringing herself even with his face.
“Of course. A whole pack of them.” His teasing wink got a laugh out of Cat.
“Oh really? And I’m birthing this entire pack, am I? Doesn’t seem like a fun time to me!”
They both laughed at that until Jacob kissed her forehead.
“I think at most three. There’s a part of me that wants the chance to make up for what my brothers and I went through. I want to be the father we never had.”
Cat rested her head on Jacob’s shoulder, her eyes getting heavy from the emotional afternoon.
“I think three would be lovely.”
“Someday.” He promised.
“Someday.”
Plans were underway two weeks later. New reports had come in from Faith about Hudson making pushes against her Bliss factories again. Jacob had agreed to send in more men to help defend them and had been coordinating all of that for most of the morning. Cat was currently relaxing up in their room by herself. She had woken that morning not feeling particularly great and so her team checked on the beacons themselves. Once she got the all-clear from them she felt comfortable enough to relax without having to worry about them. She was catching up on some reading – something other than reports for once – when it was as if a light bulb had gone off and shattered in her head.
How long had it been since her period?
She placed her book down on her lap, her eyes wide as she wracked her brain to figure out the answer. It was definitely before her wedding. When it didn’t started after her honeymoon she didn’t think twice about it. She’d been under quite a bit of stress lately, it wouldn’t be surprising if things simply got out of whack. Still, there was that tiny voice of hope in the back of her mind that was asking “What if?” Next to it however was a louder voice, one reminding her of the danger this could cause. They were in the middle of a war. A war in which she’d already been kidnapped, tortured, and kidnapped again. By this point she was wearing a path into the floor with her pacing. There was really only one thing left to do if she wanted a definitive answer. But what if she didn’t like the answer? And if she was being honest with herself, she didn’t know if she wanted it to be positive or not.
She pulled up her radio, calling for Isaac to meet her.
The man showed up rather quickly.
“Did you need something, ma’am? Jacob should be done with the ground team planning soon enough.”
“T-thank you, Isaac.” Cat realized now that this was going to not only be hard to get out due to Jacob being away, but also the sensitivity of the information. “B-but I was hoping to ask-ask for a favor?”
“Anything, ma’am.”
“Y-you can’t tell Jacob. I’ll-I’ll do that later.”
She looked up at him with pleading eyes. He wasn’t that much taller than her. Isaac seemed uncertain but nodded anyways.
“I need you to g-get me a p-pregnancy test.” She stared off at a spot on the floor as she felt her cheeks heat up.
If Isaac was surprised, he didn’t show it. But Cat swore she saw him stiffen up a bit.
“I’ll, uh, get right on that, ma’am.” And with that he turned and walked out the door.
Cat let out a sigh. Now she just had to wait.
Isaac returned about an hour later with a container of food from the mess hall. Cat raised an eyebrow as she took it from him at the door.
“In case Jacob asked what I was bringing you, I could say lunch instead of lying outright.” He smirked.
Cat chuckled. “A-appreciate it. Thank-thank you.”
“Of course, and,” He turned to close the door as he walked away “I wish you luck.”
Cat nodded her thanks once more before taking a big breath and heading to the bathroom.
To say that she was nervous was an understatement. She was currently sitting on the toilet seat staring a hole into the tile floor as she waited. It felt like she checked her watch every second and yet time was moving so slowly. Finally her time was up. She stared at the unassuming little stick sitting on the sink like it was a wild animal. She hesitantly stood up. The less than one foot walk felt like miles. She picked it up with shaky hands and squeezed her eyes shut.
If it was negative, she didn’t know what to do. She tried not to get her hope’s up but that’s impossible. She’d accept it, of course. It would be better in the long run, of course.
But if it was positive, that meant a whole new set of problems that, quite frankly, they weren’t ready for. If she was ready to accept those problems, would Jacob want to?
She took in a deep breath before psyching herself up and looking down.
It’s amazing how two, faint, pink lines can suddenly change everything.
Only seven and a half months to go, apparently.
#fic: actions speak louder than words#my ocs: catherine rook#far cry 5#jacob seed#jacob seed x female deputy#fc5#fc5 fic
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Rising Stars [4]
If there's one thing that U.A. prides itself on, it's the strength and solidarity of its students. Regardless of their quirks, students of the hero course were put through intensive physical regimes, were expected to be in peak condition at all times. Sero was no exception. He had too much to prove, too much to compensate for, to neglect his body. Plus, it's difficult to slack off on training when one of your best friends is Bakugou Katsuki.
This makes it devastatingly embarrassing when Sero feels his strength start to dissipate.
Yosetsu Awase, U.A. alumni , class B graduate. While the competitive spirit flew high between classes A and B, there was a kinship too. They fought, and argued (some more than others), but who else could understand the trials and tribulations of the hero course?
Awase drags Sero to his feet, yelling to his companion picking through the rubble beyond them. Sero wobbles, clinging to Awase's arm. Thick ropes of pink hair fly wildly, as Hatsume Mei climbs out of the wreckage, arms full of busted computer parts.
“Do we really need those? They don't even look like they work.”
“Of course they don't work, why do you think I'm bringing them with us? They need me!”
Am I blinking too much? Sero finds himself thinking. Is this how I normally feel? Should I say something? Experimentally, he closes his eyes, and finds instant relief. The world fades and the voices of Awase and Hatsume fade, and all Sero feels is relief.
When Sero opens his eyes next, his face is pressed up against someone's shoulder. His arms are wrapped around their neck, his long legs dragging on the ground behind him. He recognizes Awase's spiky black hair, poking him in the cheek. Awase has Sero draped over his shoulders, Hatsume keeping pace beside them.
“Sorry for the rough trip,” Awase says, feeling Sero begin to stir. “Best I could manage under the circumstances.”
“You owe me, by the way,” Hatsume pipes in, a bright smile on her face.
Sero weakly turns his head to look at her. He groans out, not trusting himself to speak.
“We could have managed a whole lot more scrap if we didn't have you with us,” she explains. “So next trip, you'll just be my pack mule.”
“Mei, he can barely walk, let alone-”
“Should have thought of that before he ruined my day!” Hatsume slaps Sero lightly on the back, causing stars to flit across his field of vision, and his ears to ring. He hears Awase speak again, but can't make out the words.
“We're here.”
Sero lifts his head, taking in the sight around him. A dirty, trampled patch of earth surrounds an expanse of concrete. A few partial walls stand, built into the foundation, and lengths of rope tied tightly around them. From the ropes hang tarps and blankets, offering several humble shelters. A handful of tents are scattered around, fit in between the broken lumps where other walls once stood. Off in the distance, perhaps 30 feet from the concrete, lays a pile of debris, the remnants of those same walls.
A couple of people stand between the shelters, and Sero stares at them with wide eyes. He'd never known how many people had managed to pull through. His group had never ran into others. He had barely stopped to consider the possibility of other groups, because as soon as he started to think about the number of people who survived, he would start to think about the identities of people who survived. And he had grieved enough.
Awase drags Sero into a tent on the outer perimeter of the camp. A middle aged woman sits inside, sorting through a heavy metal toolbox.
“He needs help. Don't know what, specifically.”
Sero finds himself on an air mattress, one covered by a thick, multi-colored quilt. The woman hovers over him, expression neutral.
“What happened?” She turns and begins to collect items from the toolbox.
“Collapsed building. Bitch that was with him left him to die. Passed out. Wasn't breathing.”
She shines a light into his eyes. When Sero flinches away, she grabs his face, forcing it back towards her. “Chest compressions?”
“Yup. And he passed out again on the way here.”
“How long before you got him breathing again?”
She lifts up his baggy shirt, leaving it pooled around his neck. She slops a stethoscope onto her ears, pressing the cool metal disc to his skin. He breathes in and out, deeply, slowly.
“I'm not sure.” Sero can't see Awase, but his voice is close. “As soon as we head the building go, we ran over. Didn't even realize anyone was in there at first.”
“How long?”
“I don't know! Maybe ten minutes? Maybe less? Hatsume dove right in to scrounge for stuff, and he was sitting right there at the top of the pile so it didn't take long to-”
“Awase” The woman stops, and turns away, lowering her voice. Sero turns his head, and can barely make out the form of Awase, just beyond the doctor. “This boy's lucky to be alive. He may not stay that way.”
“What?” Sero can't believe how rough his voice sounds. The woman's gaze shifts back to him.
“I'll do what I can,” she says, slowly,” but I don't have the tools for this. Oxygen deprivation is dangerous enough on its own, let alone without treatment. I don't know what effect it's had on you.”
After that, she shoos Awase out of the tent, instructing him to return with water.
“I'm going to get you to answer a few questions, alright?” she says. Sero nods. “Do you remember your name?”
“Sero Hanta.”
“Age?”
“Twenty.”
“Date of birth?”
“July 28, 1998.”
“High school?”
“U.A.”
“Year of graduation?”
“2017.”
“Can you sit up on your own?”
Sero does, with difficulty. Bruised ribs? Broken? Who knows. Falling two stories and having a building land on you does that, sometimes.
“Squeeze my hand, please.” The doctor reaches out a hand, her eyes boring into him. He takes it with his right hand, squeezing tightly. She nods. “The other, now.”
He shifts her hand to his left, trying to ignore the shaking in his arm as he does. He presses down as tightly as he can.
“Squeeze it, please.”
“I am.”
Sero can feel it. The lack of strength, the lack of control. The woman drops his hand, clasping hers tightly together. Neither say anything as the minutes pass. She hesitates before speaking again.
“The longer the body spends without proper oxygenation, the greater the risk of, well...” She trails off, unable to meet his eyes. “Permanent damage.”
Sero doesn't reply. She runs through a handful of tests, which pass in a blur. He's damaged. Worse than useless. Who knows what else is wrong with him. Eventually, the doctor excuses herself, leaving Sero along in the tent. Just how it should be.
The next two days pass slowly. Unable to determine if anything else is amiss, the doctor begins Sero with some kind of off-brand form of physical therapy. Exercises focusing on his left hand and arm. Squeezing balls of cloth. They hurt. Sero can't tell if they make a difference. In a way, he'd rather they didn't.
Awase forces him to eat. This camp is smaller than Sero's, with about half as many people. Meals are more community based. Everyone huddles closely together, laughing and joking and telling stories. Sero sits and eats and gazes into space.
“I appreciate all you've done,” Sero tries to explain to Awase,” I really do. But I need to go back.”
Would he really go back to his group once he left this one? Who knew.
“They left you for dead. We both know they don't give a shit about you,” Awase laughs.
“I can't just leave them. It's not right.”
As much as the two argue, Sero finds himself staying just one more night. Then through the day. And then the next night. Every morning, they have the same argument.
“You're not well enough to go on your own.”
“I made it this far. You think a little tumble's gonna keep me down?”
Every night, the same excuses.
“I'll stay just one more sleep. Then I've got to go. First thing tomorrow.”
“If you stay put all night, I'll take you there myself.”
On the fifth day, the tiny camp is buzzing. Sero wanders past the tents, searching for his fellow alumni. He finds them in the center, under the largest grouping of tarps and blankets, where the rest of the camp is gathered.
“You were gone so long! Did something happen?!”
“Find anything good? Food? Chips? Chocolate?”
“Weren't even supposed to go that far! Why can't you ever listen.”
A blonde boy stands in the center of the group, his back to Sero. Awase and Hatsume stand beside him, the others in the camp pressed close around the trio.
“Oh, you know. Just the usual business. Thought I'd go sight seeing a l'il, too. See if I couldn't find anything good.”
Sero knows that voice. He starts to walk towards the crowd.
“Well did you?”
“Nah, nothin' this time.”
Sero breaks through, elbows making a path between the bodies. He grabs the boy's shoulder with his good hand, spinning him around. He fights back tears as he takes in the face in front of him. Wordlessly, the two embrace, wrapping their arms around each other.
“You never bothered to mention this,” Sero says to Awase, accusatory.
“Wow, rude,” Kaminari interjects, grabbing Sero's shoulders and putting enough space between them to look him in the face. “I actually have a name, and it's not 'this'.”
Sero laughs and hugs him again. “I missed you, man.”
“Ditto. I'm glad you're alright.”
A grin fills Sero's face. One bigger than he's let out in months.
“Still plannin' on makin' a swift exit?” Awase asks. Sero can hear the smirk in his voice.
“You were going to leave?” Kaminari asks, his eyes narrowed.
“No,” Sero replies. “I think I'll do just fine right here.”
First Part
#sero hanta#kaminari denki#yosetsu awase#hatsume mei#more oc's that are probably never important#begone to the oc graveyard#bnha#mha#boku no hero academia#my hero academia#bnha fic#mha fic#apocalypse au#probably the worst chapter yet#I wrote it in like two hours
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“Sold”
All credit for the initial idea goes to the DGraycember art project @superbadlydrawnallenwalker has going on. This was supposed to be ~300 words but it mutated. I hope you enjoy!
Summary: Red gets sold to the circus. It’s not a great situation.
Word Count: 1383
no editing we die like mne
In a fair world, Scipio felt that he would have been ringmaster in the circus that he owned. It was only right that the man who kept the entire show on the road should receive the lion’s share of attention from those who flocked to the fairgrounds.
But the world was not fair, and Scipio was a dull-eyed, unpleasant man who very few people wanted to speak with, much less see perform. But what made him so unpalatable as a performer made him very successful as a businessman: he had an uncompromising hold on his warmer emotions, and the ability to turn any situation to profit.
That instinct for profit was why he was standing in his tent, entertaining a local factory foreman, Edgar, who had approached him about handing off a potential worker for a small fee of gratitude.
The worker in question was young, dirty from ratted hair to worn shoes, and gruesomely deformed. He looked miserable standing there, which irritated Scipio. How many children had cycled through these tents and dreamed about joining the circus? Ungrateful.
All together, Scipio rather doubted that he would be worth much money. But Edgar had seemed like a sensible sort, and rather desperate to have the boy off his hands.
“It seems like you want me to take him more than I need another set of hands. Well. hand,” Scipio drawled.
From the way the limb was hanging by the boy’s side, Scipio doubted it was good for much.
“Of course I want you to take him,” Edgar snapped. “I wouldn’t be here if not. We put him to work for a while- and he made it worth the cost of feeding him. He’s small enough to get under the machines, even while they’re running.”
Scipio cast a skeptical look at the boy in question. Whatever the factory had paid to keep the boy fed, it couldn’t have been much. His ribs had shadows between them, and the rope around his waist barely held up patchy trousers.
But maybe that helped to keep him small.
Edgar opened his mouth, raised his hand to point at the boy. Then the kettle whistled, cutting off whatever the foreman was going to say.
Scipio gestured at his table, hoping that Edgar would take his invitation to sit. He had a set of good china cups he had gotten while the circus traveled in France, and took every opportunity to show them off to company.
Edgar sat down easily, helping himself to the offered tea with a smile. And took a bit too much sugar. Impolite. That was an expensive indulgence. Scipio smiled through his irritation, and reminded himself not to set out the sugar pot for guests.
After a few moments of getting settled, the time seemed right to turn the conversation back to business.
He stretched his hands in front of him, cracking the joints and relishing the small wince Edgar gave at the sound.
“So what’s the issue with him. You say he was a valuable worker, but you practically knocked down my door to give him away. No offense, friend, but I never trust generosity.” Bad business policy, to let debts go unacknowledged.
The foreman chuckled around his cup. It sounded more than a little bitter.
“A wise policy- one that I share. And I won’t be giving him away.”
Scipio sighed. It had been worth a try.
Edgar continued. “To be honest, if it were not for recent, ah, circumstances I wouldn’t be speaking with you. Nimble fingers are hard to find, even only five of them.” He set his cup down on the table, looking aggrieved. “Three days ago the boy got clumsy. Got his hand caught in the machine.”
The boy had moved away from the center of the room while they spoke, tucked himself into the back corner as if the shadows would keep him out of view. Scipio glanced at the boy’s arms. One was normal, if a bit skinny, the other red and cracked and ugly as sin, but neither were mangled. Odd.
“Is that what happened to his arm?”
“No. Oh no.” The foreman leaned forward, a eyes glinting. “That has been attached to him for as long as we’ve had him. The problem is when it got caught, it broke the machine. Chipped one of the gears it was between. Those things have chewed up arms as big as his entire body, and his damn arm doesn’t have a scratch,” his voice peaked hysterically. Edgar sat back, shaking his head. “Not a scratch, and a whole machine that is still being repaired.”
He shot a venomous look at the boy, hunched on himself in the corner.
“And now no one will work next to him. Not the adults, certainly not the other children. I mean, we all knew he was damaged,” he waved a hand at the child to encompass the whole sorry image, “but that’s just. Inhuman. Can’t keep it around the others.”
Scipio tapped his fingers against his glass, considering. People would pay for freakish.
“A gear chipped?”
The foreman nodded. “Nothing can hurt that arm of his. I’ll bet you could take a hammer to it,” he added nastily.
Scipio got the distinct impression that Edgar had pondered doing just that any number of times.
“And he’s a willing worker?”
“He knows where his meals come from, I’ll just say that.”
Scipio nodded slowly. This might be a better deal than he’d first thought. But one last thing…
“Boy.” The child didn’t move, or look at him. “Boy. Hey, b-” still no response. “Is he deaf and dumb, too?” He asked, half expecting the foreman to say yes.
Edgar scowled. “He’s downright vocal once he starts to whine. He’s just skittish.” Edgar aimed a halfhearted kick toward the boy, not even bothering to stand from his chair. The child still flinched. “See? He’s paying attention. He’s a cunning little fellow.” It was clearly not intended as a compliment.
Scipio approved. He didn’t care for cunning children, especially those under his thumb. They tended toward trouble.
This time, when he called the boy he came right over, lurking just beyond arm’s reach. Scipio scoffed. “Don’t make me grab at you. You won’t like what happens if you make me stand up from my chair.”
The boy shuffled closer, staring at the ground.
“Put your arm up here,” he patted the table, “and don’t get clever- you know the one I mean.”
The boy lifted his left arm and laid it down between their teacups. Edgar pursed his lips and looked away, but Scipio leaned closer.
It was truly grotesque. Red and corded with deep cracks and ridges, looking like it had been sewn on to the shoulder, with ugly veins bulging from the skin around it. The hand was overly large, and hinged mechanically at the knuckles, with black shiny nails and a cross burned into the skin. Edgar had said the boy’s arm was inhuman, but it looked positively demonic.
Scipio had no love for the church, nor an abiding fear of god, but he found the idea of touching that hand… distasteful.
It was disturbing enough to be fascinating.
“Can you move it, boy?”
Hesitatingly, the child nodded.
“A little… I can hold things, lift them,” he whispered.
Edgar slapped the table. “There, you see? Good enough for work, and that arm will bring some business on its own merit.”
Scipio sighed. The foreman was right, and the circus did need help, what with the number of no-good brats that ran off every time they made camp. It would be nice to have one that had to stick around.
“I’ll give you three bob and not a penny more.”
“A half-crown, for the trouble of bringing him here,” Edgar replied.
Scipio scowled, but held his hand out. They shook, and Scipio got up to grab his purse.
“Does the boy have a name?”
Edgar looked vaguely surprised to be asked. “Not one we ever knew. We generally just called him Red.”
That seemed obvious enough. Scipio nodded, and with business concluded, the other man left. He never looked back.
Scipio looked over the boy - over Red.
“It looks like you’ve got a job again. Let’s hope you prove worth it.”
The boy stayed quiet as he pulled his shirt back on.
Scipio rolled his eyes. Just like he’d first thought. Ungrateful.
So, thank you so much @superbadlydrawnallenwalker, for giving me permission to write something based off your art! I’ve been at a standstill and all the young Allen angst made me start writing again.
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HMH Teen Teaser: THE LOVE LETTERS OF ABELARD AND LILY!
We’re so excited about this one, people! This is the love story of Abelard, who has autism, and Lily, who has ADHD. They’ve known one another since they were kids, but one fateful day in detention, Lily kisses Abelard. Their relationship deepens and changes in ways difficult to describe in words. Especially because Abelard’s autism makes it difficult for him to communicate verbally...so they write one another text messages, often quoting an old book they both love, and just when they think they’re finally connecting, a decision Lily makes about her own mental health changes everything.
You can read the first four chapters of this romantic YA below!
CHAPTER ONE
The day Abelard and I broke the wall, we had a four- hour English test. Seriously. Every tenth grade student in the State of Texas had to take a four-hour English test, which is too long to sit still even if you are a normal person. And I’m not a normal person.
After the test, I told my feet to take me to geography. If I didn’t tell myself where to go, if I let my mind drift, I’d find myself in the quiet calm of the art wing, where the fluorescent lights flickered an appealingly low cycle of semipermanent gloom. Or I’d stand in the empty girls’ room just to be alone. Sometimes I think I’m not attention deficient but attention abundant. Too much everything.
When I got to geography, Coach Neuwirth handed out a boring article about the importance of corn as a primary crop in the early Americas. Then he left the room. He did this a lot. Ever since basketball season had ended, Coach Neuwirth seemed like someone who was counting the min- utes until the school year was over. To be fair, he wasn’t the only one running out the clock.
Thirty seconds after Coach Neuwirth left, the low murmur of voices turned into a conversational deluge. I sat in the back of the room because that’s where the two left- handed desks were — in the row reserved for stoner boys who do not like to make eye contact with teachers. Two seats in front sat Rogelio, turned sideways in his chair, talk- ing fast and casting glances in my direction.
“Cosababa, pelicular camisa,” Rogelio said, and the boys around him all laughed.
Okay, this is probably not what Rogelio said. I’m not a great listener. Also, my Spanish is terrible.
“Camisa,” he repeated.
At the word camisa, Emma K. turned to look at me, and whispered something to the blond girl next to her. I instantly wondered if I’d been talking to myself, which is a thing I do. It attracts attention.
Then it sank in. Camisa. Spanish for “shirt.”
Maybe there was something wrong with my shirt. Maybe the snap-button cowboy shirt I got at a thrift store was not charming and ironic as I’d imagined, but seri- ously ugly. Emma K. had whispered about my shirt. Even Rogelio and his friends, who often wore snap-button cow- boy shirts, had laughed at my shirt. Or maybe not, because my Spanish isn’t good, and anyway, Rogelio could have been talking about someone else. Not Emma K., though. She looked straight at me.
What if I’d popped open a button at bra level and I’d been walking around all day with my bra exposed, and was I even wearing a nice bra, a sexy black bra? Or was it just one of those tragic old bras with a ribbon or a rose that might have been cute once but, over repeated washings, had turned slightly gray and balled up like a dirty piece of dryer lint stuck to the center of my chest?
I clutched the front of my shirt, and Emma K. and the blond girl giggled. My shirt was properly buttoned, but I couldn’t sit in my chair for another minute. School was a molasses eternity, a nightmare ravel of bubble sheets and unkind whispers unfurled in slow motion. I had to leave, even though I’d promised my mother that I would under no circumstances skip school again.
I stood. My feet made a decision in favor of the door, but a squeaking metallic noise stopped me.
I turned.
Directly behind me was an accordion-folded, putty- colored vinyl wall, along with a gunmetal gray box with a handle sticking out of one end. The squeaking noise came from the metal box. The handle moved.
When our school was built in the sixties, someone decided that walls impede the free flow of educational ideas, because some of the third-floor rooms are all double-long, cut in half by retractable vinyl walls. Apparently, the archi- tect of this plan had never been to a high school cafeteria to experience the noise associated with the unimpeded flow of ideas. The wall doesn’t get opened much.
Last time anyone opened the wall was during Geography Fair. One of the custodians came with a strange circular key he inserted into a lock on the side of the box. He’d pushed the handle down and the wall had wheezed open, stuttering and complaining.
Now the handle jiggled up and down as if a bored ghost was trying to menace our class, but no one else was paying attention. I wondered if the custodian was trying to open the wall from the other side. It didn’t make sense.
I left my desk and walked to the box. I leaned over and grabbed it, surprised by the cool feel of solid metal. And suddenly, I felt much better. The world of noise and chaos faded away from me. The touch of real things can do this.
The movement stopped. I shook the bar up and down. It didn’t range very far before hitting the edge of what felt like teeth in a gear.
I pushed down hard on the handle. After a momen- tary lull, it sprang up in my hands, knocking with sur- prising force against my palms. I put both hands on the bar, planted the soles of my Converse sneakers, and pulled against it with all my might.
There was a loud pop, followed by the whipping sound of a wire cable unraveling. The bar went slack in my hands. The opposite end of the vinyl wall slid back three feet.
Everyone stopped talking. Students near the door craned their heads to see into the other classroom. Dakota Marquardt (male) said, “Shiiit!” and half the class giggled.
A rush of talking ensued, some of it in English, some in Spanish.
I dropped the handle and slid back into my chair, too late. Everyone had seen me.
Coach Neuwirth ran back into the room and tried to pull the accordion curtain closed. When he let go of the edge, it slid away, leaving a two-foot gap.
He turned and faced the room. “What the hell hap- pened here?”
It’s never good when a teacher like Coach Neuwirth swears.
I waited for someone to tell on me. Pretty much inevi- table.
Dakota Smith (female) stood and straightened her skirt. She pulled her long brown hair over her shoulder and leaned forward as though reaching across a podium for an invisible microphone.
“After you left, the handle on the wall began to move,” she began. “Lily put her hands on the handle and pushed down and the cable broke and — ”
“Thank you, Dakota.” Coach Neuwirth strode to his desk. “Lily Michaels-Ryan, please accompany me to my desk.”
I followed him to the front of the class, keenly aware that every set of eyes in the room was fixed on me. Coach Neuwirth filled out a form for me to take to the office, not the usual pink half-page referral form, but an ominous shade of yellow with pages of carbons. As I stared at the razor stubble on top of his pale head, I realized I’d messed up pretty badly. So badly, I probably wouldn’t be allowed to see my father in the summer.
“It wasn’t just me,” I said. “There was someone on the other side pushing down. I didn’t mean to break the door, it’s just . . .”
Coach Neuwirth ignored me.
“You’ll note, Miss Michaels-Ryan, that I have filled out a Skrellnetch form for you. Your mother will have to sign the kerblig and return it to the main office before you can be burn to clabs . . .”
This would be a good time to mention that I’d stopped taking my ADHD meds about a month earlier because they made me puke randomly and caused my head to ring like an empty bell at night. Side effects.
“. . . Your parents will have to sign the kerblig before you can be burn to clabs. Do you understand me?”
He waited, holding the Skrellnetch form that I needed to take to the office. Clearly, he had no plans to hand me the all-important Skrellnetch form until I answered him. I contemplated my choices. If I said yes, he would hold me responsible for remembering every clause in his statement, and I would be made to suffer later because I had no idea what he had just said. My heart pounded with a weird mix- ture of fear and exhilaration.
However, if I said no, Coach Neuwirth would consider it a sign of insubordination and general smart-assery. It didn’t look good for me.
“So . . . what copy does my mom sign again?”
Peals of laughter erupted from behind me. Someone muttered, “Ass-hat,” and the laughter increased.
“Get the hell out of my classroom,” Coach Neuwirth said. He threw the Skrellnetch paper across his desk at me.
I began my trek to the office, hoping I wouldn’t run into anyone while I held the stupid Skrellnetch form. After the noise and glare of the classroom, the quiet calm of the hall, with every other row of fluorescent lights off to save on electricity, was a relief. Six steps of cool dark, six steps of bright white burn. Down the stairs. The first floor had a band of colored tiles at shoulder height: white, mustard yel- low, white, blue. I held my right hand out and touched only the blue tiles as I passed through the hall, feeling my jittery state of anxiety mute into a dull, sad place in the center of my chest.
Down at the office, kindly Mrs. Treviño eyed my yel- low Skrellnetch form with visible regret.
“Lily, what happened?” she said, as though I’d twisted an ankle in gym, or had some other not-my-fault kind of accident.
“I broke the sliding wall between Coach Neuwirth’s and Ms. Cardeña’s rooms.”
Mrs. Treviño sighed deeply. I looked away as my lips started to quiver. A gray cloud of shame descended on me with remorseless speed. I’d like to be the good, thoughtful person Mrs. Treviño had mis- taken me for. A person who doesn’t break stuff.
“Well, you’re not the only one,” she said. “Come on back.”
She escorted me to the inner chamber. There, by the vice principal’s office, were two ugly orange chairs. On one chair sat Abelard Mitchell. I took one look at him and knew he’d been on the other side of the wall pulling up on the handle while I pushed down.
Mrs. Treviño gestured to the empty chair and left us alone in the waiting area.
I’d known Abelard since kindergarten. Since my last name was Michaels-Ryan and his was Mitchell, we stood next to each other at every elementary school function. Abelard was tall and slim but broad-shouldered, with a mop of sable brown hair and dark blue eyes. He was gorgeous, but he had some sort of processing delay, mild autism or Asperger’s syndrome or something. He didn’t interact like everyone else.
But sure. Neither did I. When I was seven, I acciden- tally smacked Abelard with my metal lunchbox because I couldn’t stop swinging my arms. I cut his cheek, but he didn’t cry, and no one noticed until later, so now he had this little scar, which was weirdly sexy. Abelard never said anything. He had to have noticed that I was standing there in front of him swinging my Hello Kitty lunchbox with happy, maniacal abandon.
I liked to believe that he could have cashed me in to the teacher and he didn’t.
I dropped into the chair next to him, feeling suddenly nervous to be sitting on a chair that was actually bolted to his chair — as though even the furniture was there to be punished.
“Hey,” I said, a little too loudly. “So you were on the other side of the wall? Who knew it would break like that? You’d think a handle roughly the same age as the Titanic would be sturdier. Although I guess that’s a bad compari- son.”
He said nothing. He was probably thinking about com- puter games, or quantum physics, or the novels of Hermann Hesse. From all available information, which I’ll admit was limited, Abelard was pretty brilliant.
“You were on the other side of the wall.” Abelard glanced at me and looked away.
“Yes.” I felt a strange thrill of complicity. “Usually, I’m here by myself. Why did you . . .”
I stopped before I asked him the stupidest of questions: Why did you break that? My least favorite question in the history of questions.
“The mechanism was squeaking. One of the gears is rusted. They need to oil it.”
I nodded. I didn’t know what to say, or if there was anything to say. I thought of Abelard, under the same anx- ious impulse to touch everything in the world of the here and now that we could feel with our hands. But unlike me, he was thinking about the hidden gears in the box, years of neglect and humidity, gears rusting away unused. He wanted to fix things, not destroy them. A more evolved monster, Abelard.
He leaned over and peered at me from under his shaggy fringe of hair. I caught a hint of his warm scent. Nice.
“Lily Michaels-Ryan,” he said. “You were in my English class last year. You hit me with a lunchbox in first grade.”
“Yeah, sorry about that,” I said. “I hope it didn’t hurt too much. On the plus side, I really do like the scar. It makes you look like a pirate, a little disreputable, you know?”
Abelard brought his hand to his cheek and traced the edges of the scar as though checking to see if it was still there. Suddenly, I wanted to run my hand along his cheek- bone to feel for that slightly raised skin, proof of my earlier bad act.
The sight of his hand on his cheek made me conscious of where my hand was on the arm of the chair, touching the sleeve of his shirt. A phone rang in the office around the corner. Mrs. Treviño’s voice came from the outer office, but it felt like she was on the other side of the world. We were alone.
“Abelard, why didn’t you tell anyone that I hit you with my lunchbox?” I said. “I never got in trouble for that.”
Abelard frowned in slow motion. He seemed slightly offended, like I’d accused his seven-year-old self of being a tattletale and a snitch. I’d been right. He had protected me, one freak to another. I felt a swell of something more than gratitude, more than surprise.
Abelard’s lips parted slightly, like he had something to say that he didn’t want anyone else to hear. I wanted to know what he was thinking. Suddenly, what Abelard had to say seemed like the most important thing in the world.
I turned my head and put my arm down on the chair to lean in so he could whisper in my ear. My arm slipped on the ancient vinyl, and I accidentally moved too close to Abelard, which is a thing that I do. I’m not good with per- sonal space.
Abelard didn’t say anything. I felt his warm breath on the side of my face, a thousand little hairs on my cheek moving in the soft breeze, and I thought of his cheek and how I’d wanted to run my finger along the edge of his scar. And still it seemed like Abelard had something to say, but it wasn’t coming, and maybe he was too anxious to speak. I didn’t know what to say either. My brain was not forming thoughts in English.
I lifted my face and he looked away. But his lips were there, centimeters from mine.
I kissed him. The kiss was over before I really knew what I was doing, just a momentary soft press of my lips against his. A stray impulse that didn’t make sense, my wires crossed by the randomness of the day.
What was I thinking?
“Well, it was nice of you not to tell on me, even though you were only seven.” I went on talking as though I hadn’t just kissed him. I do this a lot. When you live at the mercy of your impulses like I do, you pretty much have to.
“Maybe you should have told someone? You probably needed stitches. Not that I don’t like the scar — it’s a great scar.”
Abelard brought his index finger to his lips and frowned. He had one of those serious, symmetrical faces that a slight frown only improves.
“Lily,” he said slowly, “I — ”
I braced myself for a quick, awkward rejection, but before Abelard could finish his sentence, Vice Principal Krenwelge rounded the corner. I didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
CHAPTER TWO
My mother came to get me at school. She arrived look- ing frazzled, a small coffee stain over the left breast pocket of her shirt, lipstick reapplied but the rest of her makeup faded, leaving her skin blotchy, nose reddened by the sun. I expected her to be mad, but this was far worse. She looked defeated. Friday, the end of a long week, and now this.
Mom had a brief conference with Vice Principal Krenwelge, and then we drove home in silence. I was tired, beyond tired, needing the comfort of a darkened room.
“Are you mad at me?” I finally said.
We were stopped on Lamar at the light in front of Waterloo Records, where Dad’s band had a CD release when I was five. I remembered Mom in a tight camisole and brightly colored skirt, holding a sleepy baby Iris on her shoulder. Her hair dyed magenta red. Happy clothes. Sexy, even. Afterward, we walked to Amy’s for ice cream. Life in the before time.
“No, Lily, I’m not mad. You’re just lucky Abelard’s mom volunteered to pay the damages.”
This made me sit up.
“Why? Abelard and I broke the wall together. It was as much my fault as his.”
“Not according to your vice principal. Mrs. Mitchell seemed to think that it was Abelard’s idea to break the wall, and you were just following along.”
Mom rolled her eyes to let me know what she thought of this explanation. Me in close proximity to a broken thing: cause and effect. Mom knew who was at fault.
Why would Mrs. Mitchell think that Abelard was at fault? There could be only one reason. Abelard must have taken the blame for me. It didn’t feel right. Abelard wasn’t the breaky type. If I hadn’t pushed down on the stupid handle, Abelard might have found a janitor to oil the gears. “Abelard said the wall was already broken. Abelard said the gears hadn’t been oiled in an eternity.”
“Well, the next time Abelard decides to ‘fix’ something, don’t volunteer to help, okay?”
“Volunteer to help,” I mumbled.
I liked the idea that I’d jumped up because I’d intuited that the situation needed my special breaking expertise. But what if breaking and fixing were really the same activ- ity, reversed?
Did Abelard really “fix” things, or did he just break things, like me? I wanted to ask him about his experience fixing things and breaking things. I thought about the time I’d pulled up too hard on the back seat handle of the car door while pushing against the door with my hip, and the handle broke. And then for some reason, I flipped the child lock switch thinking it might fix the door, only it didn’t. It locked the door, permanently. I’d tried to fix it, I really had. “. . . and Mrs. Screngle says tuber work.” Mom glanced over at me. “Lily, are you listening?” “No,” I admitted. No point in lying. “Did you eat today?”
I had to think about it. The day seemed like an eternity, as though the time before I broke the wall and the time after served as a clear demarcation of events, like the birth of Jesus or the arrival of the dinosaur-ending meteor off the coast of the Yucatan. And now my mind was filled with thoughts of Abelard. Why had he covered for me?
“I don’t remember,” I said.
“Is your lunch still in your backpack?” Mom asked.
I dug through the backpack at my feet. Sure enough, my lunch was untouched in the outer pocket.
“I would have eaten, but they told us to eat during the test, and I was still working, and I just sort of forgot about it, and then we had to go straight to sixth period, so I didn’t have time.”
“Are you hungry now?” I nodded.
We drove through P. Terry’s for veggie burgers, and we split a chocolate shake on the way home, like I was being rewarded for screwing up. I was happy enough, but I couldn’t let things go. I kept thinking about my dad in Portland.
At the start of the school year, Mom had promised that I could visit Dad if I kept my grades up and didn’t skip class. I’d been trying, but things hadn’t been going too well. My grades are all over the place, and I try not to skip, but sometimes I can’t help it.
“So, Mom, about the summer . . . I mean, could I still see Dad?”
Secretly, I planned to go visit Dad and just stay on. Dad taught English at a homeschool cooperative connected to the farm where he worked, kids getting life credit for milk- ing goats and picking organic beets. Heaven. I’d miss Mom and Iris, but clearly I belonged in a “less-structured learn- ing environment.”
“I know you want to see your dad.” Mom paused. It wasn’t quite a pregnant pause, just an awkward millisecond or two. “But it’s not that simple. We’d have to talk to him, and he may not be in a position to have houseguests . . . and of course, your grades . . . and no more skipping . . .”
I stopped listening. A qualified yes is almost a full yes. I’d have to improve my grades and attend all my classes, blah, blah, blah. I could do that.
“You know, Lily, seeing your dad again isn’t going to solve all your problems.”
I nodded to let her know I’d heard her and stared out the window. She was wrong. My father had solved my big- gest problem. There was no reason to think he couldn’t solve my smaller ones.
***
My father taught me how to read.
When I was in second grade, the school reading spe- cialist decided I was dyslexic. She told my mom to read to me every single night, but Mom worked nights. So Dad read to me.
In the beginning, he read me books about cat warriors while he drank craft beer. When Dad got tired of reading books about cats, he picked up Nancy Drew and the Three Investigators from a used book store. These books amused him with their gee-whiz ’thirties and ’forties references: chaste country club dances, German housekeepers devot- edly making strudel, and clubhouses with secret tunnels made out of packing crates and junk. Nancy Drew ushered in cheaper beer: Tecate in cans. I laughed at Dad’s earnest voice for Ned Nickerson, Nancy’s straight-arrow boyfriend, and I fell asleep worrying how Nancy was going to get out of that cave by the ocean before high tide.
“Choral reading,” my mother said, echoing the reading specialist’s advice. “Dad reads a passage, Lily reads a passage.”
My father sat by my bed with the book held between us as I painfully sounded out each little word. I learned to read the same way Hercules learned to hold a full-grown bull in his arms, by having to brute-force sound my way through every syllable until the words got longer and heavier. At first, I read individual words, then sentences, and eventually paragraphs.
Together we read all of Harry Potter; The Lightning Thief ; The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe; Inkheart; and Diane Duane. When the words began to swim on the page, Dad read to me from his own personal library of medieval classics. By this time, I was sharing a bedroom with my sister, Iris, and she listened with rapt attention.
Dad read Le Morte d ’Arthur and Physica by Hildegard von Bingen, Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, and The Letters of Abelard and Heloise.
At about the time we started on Tolkien, with a nightly supplement of The Prose Edda and the Nibelungenlied, my father had discovered vodka. Cheap, easy to hide, and packed more of a punch than beer.
I never questioned the hours I spent sequestered away in my bedroom with Dad, reading while he drank. It was fun, and it was too good to last.
The end came when I was in fifth grade. My mom caught me alone in my room with her copy of Jane Eyre.
“Are you reading?” she asked, hands on her hips. Her dark green eyes glittered with some internal fire I recog- nized as hopefulness. She had a sort of feral alertness that alarmed me.
“What? . . . No,” I replied, thrown off my guard. I quickly regained my composure. “This book is weird. I can’t understand this language. What’s it about?”
“It’s a love story about a girl with a strong moral compass. It’s an older book, so the language can seem a little stilted, but it’s really good.” She smoothed the hair away from my forehead and attempted a wan smile. She looked sad. “You should have your father read it to you.”
“I will.”
I felt bad about lying to her, but mostly I felt relieved. Crisis averted! My father read me Jane Eyre, or he reread me Jane Eyre, because I’d already finished it by then. I didn’t care. Mom was happy; Dad was pleasantly drunk. Life was golden.
At the end of fifth grade, the school tested me again. I’d never seen my mother so thrilled. She came home wav- ing her copy of my test results over her head.
“Your phonemic scores are still relatively low,” she said. “But your comprehension is off the charts. You’ve made amazing progress, Lily.”
I didn’t immediately get the magnitude of what I’d done, but I think my father did. He greeted the news that I was in the 98th+ percentile in reading comprehension with a queasy smile. I’ll never forget the look he gave me. It was as though his usefulness on the planet had suddenly ended. Maybe he knew divorce was not far off.
“I’ve heard about this book Wuthering Heights,” I said, hoping I wasn’t overplaying the wide-eyed thing. “I don’t think I can read it by myself, though. It’s for older people, right? But we could read it together.”
“Sure thing, Lil,” Dad said, his eyes distant.
We all smiled at one another. The happiest part of my life ended there in the fifth grade.
CHAPTER THREE
Monday morning my mother woke me while it was still dark. She stood by my bed with a cup of tea and a piece of toast.
“Eat the toast,” Mom said. She hovered over me, already dressed for work in a white linen shirt and a fifties beaded cardigan that may have once been an ironic statement for her but that she now considers an heirloom.
“It’s the middle of the night.” I rolled over to face Iris’s twin bed next to mine. “Look. Iris is still asleep.”
My sister was an inanimate lump of covers. Iris usually springs out of bed like Snow White, ready to polish silver and sing with birds, but it was so early she wasn’t even stir- ring.
“I have to go to work early today,” Mom said. “You need to take your medication.”
“I can’t take it on empty stomach.”
“Hence the toast.” Mom thrust the plate at me. Reluctantly, I bit into the toast. At this hour of the morning, food seemed like a human rights violation. I chewed twice and swallowed with difficulty before slump- ing back on the bed.
“Now your medication.”
I took the pill and swallowed without hesitation. She handed me the lukewarm and very weak tea with milk to wash it down.
“You don’t trust me anymore,” I said.
“It just doesn’t seem like you’ve been taking your medi- cation lately, Lily. Maybe you’ve forgotten. I thought I would help you remember.”
Every morning for the past month, Mom had left a cup of tea, a piece of toast, and a pill on a plate for me by my bedside. And every morning I’d taken that pill and stashed it in an old pickle jar under my bed. I didn’t like the drug. It sucked the creamy goodness out of life.
Antidepressants tend to do that. I should know. This wasn’t the first one I’d been on.
Bells and whistles went off in my head. On Saturday, the day after Abelard and I broke the wall, Mom offered to take me and Iris to a movie. She didn’t go with us, and at the time, it seemed kind of weird. She must have gone home and searched the room for missing pills.
I probably should have flushed the medicine in the toilet so downstream fish and migratory waterfowl could expe- rience an unexpected rush of jittery calm and the sudden ability to meet deadlines and organize paperwork. Yes, I could have shared my drug bounty with the ecosystem, but a strange frugality had stopped me. The stuff was expensive.
Once Mom left, I looked under the bed. Sure enough, the pickle jar was gone.
I’m sure Mom was relieved to find my hidden stash, because I’d saved her a couple hundred bucks. One thing was for certain: She would never mention the pickle jar, and neither would I.
***
School. I met Rosalind at our usual spot under the live oaks in the courtyard for lunch.
Rosalind is my oldest friend all the way back to kinder- garten. She’s tiny and plays small children in local theatri- cal productions. With her long dark hair in braids and her giant brown eyes, she can pass for twelve. Maybe ten on a really big stage.
Rosalind was eating out of a bento box filled with brown rice, raw carrots, and seaweed salad. Rosalind’s parents are restricted-calorie-intake people who have formulated a plan to live for all of eternity. Like the children of vegan, mac- robiotic, gluten-shunning parents everywhere, Rosalind’s favorite food is pizza — though she likes classy pizza: feta cheese, black olives. Her dream is to move to New York and eat nothing but pizza. Also — acting.
“Lily, how was your trip to the vice principal’s office?” Rosalind asked.
“Gripping and poignant. I laughed, I cried — ”
“Was your mom mad?”
“Weirdly, no. I have a week in detention, but that’s it. She even said I can still see my dad this summer.”
“Really?” Rosalind raised a skeptical eyebrow. “Your mom said you could go to Portland?”
“If I keep my grades up and don’t skip class.”
Truth be told, Rosalind didn’t entirely approve of my plan to visit my dad and then refuse to return. She didn’t think I was cut out to be an organic beet farmer. Also, she would miss me.
I glanced across the courtyard. Abelard sat at his usual spot on the low wall under the crepe myrtle. Alone. The sight of him through the milling crowd sent a jolt of electricity up my spine. I realized I’d been scanning the halls all day, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.
I settled on the bench next to Rosalind, carefully avoid- ing a patch of grackle poo, and opened the lunch that Iris had packed for me. A tomato sandwich, apple, Oreos. I nibbled on an Oreo and set the rest aside.
“You’re not eating?” Rosalind said. “Why, if I had a sandwich on actual bread — bread made from real demon wheat, mind you —”
“Here, have it. It’s yours. Taste the evil.”
I handed Rosalind my sandwich, but she just shrugged. I suspect she actually likes brown rice.
“So you aren’t eating. What’s up?”
“I’m back on my drug-based diet. My stomach will
refuse all food until five thirty, at which point I will eat my entire day’s calories in two hours, mostly in potato chips. Straight out of the bag. If we even have potato chips. Might be stale crackers.”
“Healthy,” Rosalind said. “I thought you weren’t going to take the drugs anymore.”
“After my little trip to the vice principal’s office, my mother decided she would watch me take my meds, like some hospital matron in one of those old movies your parents love.”
“The Snake Pit, Olivia de Havilland,” Rosalind said. “Whatever.”
Rosalind frowned.
“The drugs aren’t good for you, Lily. They change you.” “It’s not like I have a choice.”
“Um, you know how my mother is always talking about . . . balance between . . . gluten and sugar can . . . talk to your mother . . . only if you . . . off the medication . . . take you to a dark place.”
I shrugged, uninterested in the topic of my medication and diet. Abelard was eating cookies or crackers, reading something on his phone, dark hair falling over his eyes. I couldn’t stop thinking about him. He was an attractive nui- sance, a shiny object.
“What do you think of Abelard?” I asked.
Rosalind followed my gaze. “I don’t know. He’s kind of in his own little bubble. Why do you ask?”
“He was on the other side of the wall when I — when we broke it.” Breaking the wall was beginning to feel like a shared secret, a source of pride. Abelard and I destroyed something — together.
“Okay,” Rosalind said slowly. Dubious. I know that look.
“He took the blame. For both of us. He didn’t have to do that.”
“And you think that was about you?” “Maybe it was about me,” I said.
I continued to stare. It was easy to stare at Abelard. He never lifted his head, never glanced in my direction. Plus — kind of beautiful. Rosalind had a point, though. Abelard was self-contained. Maybe he hadn’t thought about me once since I’d kissed him in the office. And here I was thinking obsessively about him, imagining we had some sort of secret kinship just because ten years ago I hit him in the face with my lunchbox.
“I’m just saying, don’t construct an elaborate fantasy about him before you find out what’s really going on in his head,” Rosalind said. “Abelard is not like everyone else.”
“Neither am I.” Rosalind sighed.
“You know what I mean, Lily. Unlike Abelard, you can carry on a conversation —”
“Almost like a normal person,” I interrupted. “You are a normal person,” she said.
I kind of loved that Rosalind thought there was nothing wrong with me that couldn’t be cured by regular helpings of wheatgrass shots and a little extra understanding. This was why she was my best friend — but it bothered me to hear her say Abelard was not like everyone else. Broken.
Whether she admitted it or not, I was also not like everyone else. Why be polite — why not just say “broken”?
I am a proud Broken American. There. I’ve said it.
CHAPTER FOUR
Normally I leave school each afternoon like I’m running the bulls at Pamplona. Not that afternoon. I went to the bathroom and fought for space at the mirror with the girls who did their makeup. I brushed my hair in the corner, but then one of the mirror regulars, a raccoon-eyed blonde named Montana Jordan or Jordan Montana, took pity on me.
“Here.” She waved me to a free spot in the mirror. I touched up my base and put on some lip gloss.
“You should really sclur your blash,” Montana Jordan/ Jordan Montana said. Her voice echoed noisily against the bathroom tile. “Screeb pretty.”
“Sure,” I replied. Screeb pretty. That was me.
“Sclur your blashes,” she said, holding out an eyelash curler.
“Oh.” Curl my eyelashes. My brain took the visual cue and made sense of the words. “No thanks. I’m on my way to detention. Coach Neuwirth.”
I stared at my reflection in the mirror — a slight bump on the bridge of my nose, skeptical green eyes. My wavy brown hair already starting to look like my time with the brush had been an exercise in futility. I couldn’t see how curly eyelashes would be much of an improvement.
“Really?” she said. “Me too.”
And then she went back to curling her eyelashes.
***
Abelard was already in detention when I arrived. The only other people in the room were Richard Hernandez from my algebra class and Rogelio. An emo boy I didn’t know wandered in after me.
I dropped my backpack on the floor and sat at the desk in front of Abelard, my heart pounding. Coach Neuwirth could show up at any moment. I turned around and faced Abelard before my heart rate settled.
“Okay,” I said. Extraneous hand movement. I do this when I’m nervous. “Why did you take the blame for break- ing the wall when it wasn’t just your fault? Because my mom said that your mom told the vice principal that you said you were to blame.”
I stopped because I’d run out of breath. Also — tortured sentence.
Abelard looked up. His eyes were a clearer, deeper shade of blue than I had remembered. He looked away.
“And when I hit you with the lunchbox in first grade, you never told anyone, but you probably should have. It wasn’t like we were really friends or anything —”
“You came to my house,” Abelard said in a surprisingly loud voice.
Tectonic shift of the earth’s crust, a realignment of everything. Abelard and I had a prior history, a reason I’d felt a natural connection between us. I wished I remembered.
“You came to my house,” Abelard repeated. “I was five. We watched Pokémon together. You insisted Charizard was a dragon, not a lizard.”
I’ve had an obsession with dragons ever since Dad read me The Poetic Edda. There’s a dragon in Norse mythology who chews on the roots of the tree of life. A bad thing, right? But my father contended that without the dragon, the tree of life would become overgrown and eventually choke itself out of existence. My personal spirit animal — the destructive dragon.
“Because — fire-breathing,” I said. “I mean, hello, dragon?”
Abelard blinked.
“Char — lizard, Charizard,” he said slowly. “Etymology.” Beside us Richard and Rogelio switched their conversa- tion seamlessly from English to Spanish. Should have been a hint, but I was too excited to pay attention. A rustling
noise at the front of the room and throat clearing. “Turn around.”
“Oh, you did not just play the Pokémon etymology card,” I said, experiencing a rush of word-borne feels. More fun words than I’d had in a long time. “Dragons are everything! It’s a dragon who nibbles on the roots of the tree of life, because otherwise —”
“Miss Michaels-Ryan! Turn around!” a voice boomed. “Stop pestering Mr. Mitchell.”
Pestering. I was pestering. A word invented by teach- ers to mean “bothering” but sounding infinitely worse, like something you’d get arrested for doing in a movie theater.
I swiveled, and Coach Neuwirth locked eyes on me. I felt my stomach flop, but at that moment Rogelio muttered something hilarious in Spanish. Rogelio is a natural-born confrontation clown, one of those guys who always have to get the last word in. It didn’t help Coach Neuwirth’s mood that the last word was in Spanish.
“We’re going to break up your little party,” Coach Neuwirth said. “Mr. Mondragon, please move next to Mr. Kreuz, Miss Michaels-Ryan, next to Mr. Hernandez.”
I moved back a row next to Richard Hernandez. Abelard turned sideways in his chair and stared out the window. The room went quiet, unearthly quiet. Montana Jordan/Jordan Montana slid soundlessly into the room and took a seat across from the emo boy. Coach Neuwirth glared at her from his desk.
“Nidhogg,” Abelard said in a voice that cut through the thick stillness. “Yggdrasil.”
Nidhogg — the dragon. Yggdrasil — the tree of life. I didn’t remember the names from Norse mythology, but Abelard did. Abelard, my secret cartoon-watching friend from a childhood I didn’t quite remember. Abelard, who knew Norse mythology and the finer points of gear mainte- nance. Was there anything he didn’t know?
***
Detention was pretty boring. Half an hour later, I’d fin- ished my homework. I hadn’t eaten my lunch, and I was hungry and tired, too burnt to read. There was nothing to do.
Richard Hernandez sat at the desk next to me, draw- ing. I leaned over, expecting to see badly drawn girls with gravity-defying breasts, motorcycles, guns — the standard Grand Theft Auto love letter to chaos and faceless sex. The stuff boys draw.
Instead, Richard was drawing Abelard. Abelard with a three-quarter profile, his right cheekbone illuminated by sunlight streaming in from the window. Richard had drawn the barest line of a mouth and was filling in the details of Abelard’s chin, muscles in his jaw shaded diagonally from top left to bottom right.
The only part of the picture Richard had finished was Abelard’s eyes. He’d perfectly captured the way Abelard’s dark blue eyes held the light, the open, almost mystical quality of his gaze.
I glanced at Abelard and felt a strange thrill in the pit of my stomach. There was something otherworldly about him. It wasn’t my imagination — Richard saw it too.
Richard finished Abelard’s chin and moved to his hair. “Wow,” I murmured.
Richard wrapped his right arm around his picture to shield it from my view and looked up. He had close-set, intelligent eyes and dark hair in a Caesar cut.
“That’s really good,” I whispered. Good was an insuf- ficient word for his drawing, like telling a rock star his music was nice. I felt a little stupid about that, but what could I do? Drugs kill thought — even the happy, helpful drugs.
“Shhh . . .” Coach Neuwirth hissed. “Thanks,” Richard mouthed silently.
Richard returned to drawing, and I continued to watch. Minutes passed while he sketched in rapid, assured move- ments. It was calming, watching Richard, as soothing as a lullaby. I almost forgot that I was hungry and that the skin over my skull was beginning to crawl and itch.
One of the basketball players came by to talk to Coach Neuwirth. They stepped out into the hall, and I leaned over toward Richard.
“You’re left-handed — like me. Also Leonardo da Vinci,” I whispered. “You shade in the same direction — top left to bottom right. Do you know they think da Vinci was dyslexic?”
I held my hands out to visualize this, making the clas- sic L for loser with my left hand. Kindergarten tricks. They never get old.
“You’re making that up,” Richard said. “How could anybody know?”
“I’m not making it up. I saw it on Nova. Da Vinci wrote letters backwards and misspelled words. Classic dyslexic tendencies. I should know. I’m dyslexic, too.”
“No you’re not.” Richard looked up, his close-set eyes in a savage frown. “You can read.”
Richard said the word read with the naked bitterness I usually reserve for the terms late slip or instruction sheet. Dyslexia. You can pass for normal for a while, but even- tually the anger gives you away. The monster will out. I decided I liked Richard.
“Yes, I’m totally normal,” I replied. “That’s why I’ve been in the same algebra class with you for two years running.”
“But I see you reading all the time. You always have a book —”
“I hear talking,” Coach Neuwirth boomed.
Richard startled at the sound of Coach Neuwirth’s voice. His pencil slipped, and the picture of Abelard floated off the desk, slid across the floor, and landed face-up in front of Rogelio Mondragon.
Richard froze, a stricken look on his face.
Coach Neuwirth was in the hall talking, his back half turned but still in the line of sight. I eased out of my seat in a crouch and moved slowly toward the picture, hoping to snatch it before Rogelio noticed.
I was too slow. Rogelio spotted the picture and grabbed it. He glanced at Abelard and back to the picture as his expression changed from perplexed to positively gleeful. It was as though he’d found a secret love letter, ready-made for a million stupid jokes. Someone was going to be made to suffer in both English and Spanish. Rogelio scanned the room, searching for his victim.
At the exact moment Rogelio’s eyes settled on me, Coach Neuwirth strode down the aisle and ripped the pic- ture out of Rogelio’s hands.
“Whose picture is this?” Coach Neuwirth demanded. Richard looked a little sick.
“It’s mine.” The words were out of my mouth before I realized what I was saying. Lies are like that sometimes.
Coach Neuwirth held the picture and examined it care- fully.
“So, this is your boyfriend?” Coach Neuwirth chuckled. “Pretty good likeness of our friend Abelard here.”
Hard to determine who he was trying to humiliate at this juncture, Abelard for being unlikely boyfriend mate- rial, or me for being, well, me. Sometimes I think Coach Neuwirth lets the cruelty fly randomly just to see who might get hit.
Abelard turned to look at me briefly. I couldn’t tell whether he was horrified, embarrassed, or intrigued that Coach Neuwirth just told the whole world he was my boy- friend. I looked away.
Coach Neuwirth handed the picture to me.
“Put it away, Ms. Michaels-Ryan,” Coach Neuwirth said.
I folded the drawing of Abelard and slipped it into my book.
***
In the afternoon when I returned home, the picture fell out of my book. Abelard, beautiful and distant. Richard Hernandez’s own version of the Mona Lisa, a mystery for the ages. Abelard, no doubt named for Peter Abelard from the twelfth-century text The Letters of Abelard and Heloise. Strange.
I drew a thought bubble over his head and wrote the words I am Abelard, medieval French philosopher and time traveler. I have come to the future on a quest for love and beauty, but find only the barren wasteland that is high school. My tra- vails are for not!
I stuck the picture on the bulletin board and collapsed on my bed, empty. I opened my book, a novel about a girl on the run with her brilliant, eccentric father. After three pages, I quit reading, because I didn’t care what happened with the father’s new girlfriend or the daughter’s desire to go to a normal school for more than three months at a time. My head had begun that drug-fueled end-of-the- day descent, circling the empty runway of a town called Apathy.
I put my book away.
My sister came into our bedroom.
Iris is in seventh grade. Tall like me, brown eyes to my green. Same wavy brown hair, same bump on the bridge of her nose. Iris doesn’t seem to have inherited my moth- er’s large breasts like I have. She wishes that she had my breasts, but she is wrong about this.
Iris attends the Liberal Arts, Math, and Engineering Academy — LAMEA, or LAME as everyone calls it. She is the perfect student, equally adept at the long-form essay and robotics, and building musical instruments out of found objects. Found objects are a big part of the curricu- lum at LAME.
For someone with such a full curricular life, Iris has an overdeveloped interest in my activities. Like being me has a 1950s-motorcycle-and-leather-bomber-jacket sort of glam- our for her, because she has never tasted the fruits of failure. I could tell her that living outside the lines is not all that, but she probably wouldn’t listen anyway.
“What are you doing?” Iris said. “Nothing.”
“Who is that?” She leaned over the picture of Abelard, studying it with the dreamy intensity she usually reserves for K-pop stars with ice-blond dyed hair and too much mascara.
“No one,” I replied. “A kid at my school. His name is Abelard.”
“He’s adorable,” she said.
“No.” I stared at the picture. “Well, yes, he is.”
I thought about my impulsive kiss, and my heart flopped in protest. Continued exposure to the sight of Abelard’s faraway eyes was unfair.
“It’s dinnertime,” Iris said. “Mom told me to tell you.” “Not hungry,” I replied.
“Mom made a really good salad. We’ve got Supernatural cued up.”
Supernatural. Salad. These are the things we do together, eat salads and watch Supernatural because all three of us, Mom, me, and Iris, think those guys are hot. Iris likes the taller baby-faced one, but Mom and I prefer the deep- voiced snarky brother. It’s like a miracle, Mom says, to find such transgenerational hotness on TV.
This was our familial idea of a good time. It meant nothing to me at that moment — good TV, hot guys in a seventies ride, salad.
“No thanks,” I said. “I’ll just lie here and listen to the inside of my skull buzz.”
Iris wandered off. I played Candy Crush on my phone until I saw little orange and blue striped candies exploding on the insides of my eyelids when I closed them, and still it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough pleasure, not enough light or color to fill the emptiness of my brain. It didn’t feel good or fun, but it was motion of a kind. If I stopped playing, I would realize that there were no thoughts left in my head and I was truly alone. This was what happened when my ADHD medicine wore off. This was why I hated drugs.
***
I left the picture of Abelard in my room, thinking I would show it to Rosalind over lunch. But when I packed my stuff up for school in the morning, the picture was gone. This didn’t surprise me in the least. Most pieces of paper I come into contact with disappear suddenly and without reason. It’s just the way it is.
******
Want to learn more about Abelard and Lily? Pre-order the book today from any of the links below!
Amazon
Barnes & Noble
Books-a-MillionHudson
IndieBound
Powell’s
#hmh teen#hmhteen#am reading#amreading#yalit#ya lit#young adult fiction#booklr#bookstagram#excerpt#ya excerpt#the love letters of abelard and lily
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Heart of Wisdom - Chapter 13
WARNINGS: Contains Hyrule Warriors spoilers and story items. I highly recommend playing the game if you haven’t! It’s complete fluff, but fun fluff…. minus Lana.
______________________________________
Heart of Wisdom | Chatper 13 | Courage
Link rode as hard and fast as he had ever in his life pushed poor Epona. She rose to his challenge, and gave no signs of tiring or complaint despite her perspiration and labored breathing. He wasn’t sure, but it felt as though Epona knew, or at the very least understood the need for urgency.
Volga kept up, though at a short distance. Tactically it was sound. If something jumped them on the way, they agreed Link had to keep going. They rode all day and all night across Hyrule Field and into Faron Woods, only stopping when the horses had to. As it stood, they were making good time.
The Woods were quiet, and though there was a trail, they could not go quite as quickly as the field road allowed. Link was agitated, nervous, still very angry. He’d never been angry with Zelda, he’d parsed through those thoughts as the wind rushed by and only the sound of Epona’s hooves beating the ground filled his ears. He was angry with the situation, and murderous towards Ganon. It never got easier - not in this life or any before. The fate of Zelda to live again and again to sacrifice and put her life on the line in order to defeat Darkness chafed him beyond words.
He wanted to end it. For good.
That he could never seem to find a way fueled his anger even more. Times he recalled having the discussion that an end would mean that the cycle would be broken, and he may never get a chance at a real life with Zelda never phased him - she was the Goddess reborn. They were destined to be together. He had faith that whatever the end was when it came, they would be together.
If only it could be without Ganon. Without Darkness, or Demise, or whatever the demon wanted to call himself this time.
They reached the Sacred Grounds by mid morning the next day - having shaved half a day’s ride from the journey with their breakneck pace. However the moment he stepped foot off Epona, Link knew something was wrong.
Holding up a hand for Volga to stop, he crept forward silently, keeping a keen eye out around them. The first wave of moblins that came seemed to have only been on a kind of patrol, but during Link and Volga’s fighting with them, enough noise was made that it served to summon more.
The Sacred grounds were crawling with goblinkin of the North, and it did not take a Sage or Scholar to figure out that Ganon had anticipated this, their journey to reclaim the Master Sword. As Link fought, it was with every ounce of anger he had ever felt. They’d not slept the night before, but neither Hero nor Dragonknight seemed hampered in the least - their mission was dire, now more so than before.
Cutting a path across the ruins, Link could see the entrance to the temple, but knew it would take longer than his stamina might hold to carve a path through the sea of monsters attacking them. It seemed Ganon’s plan was either to have Link succeed and reclaim the sword, releasing the last of the Demon King’s power, or die trying.
Just as he was running out of options for a plan B, the Hero felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as a blue flash streaked through the air in front of him. “Proxi?” he managed, thinking perhaps it was merely another rare blue fairy, as Proxi had left with Lana to her Sanctum. But the question was answered when 50 or more bobkins were rather suddenly encased in what for all the world looked like a magical glass box, killing them all when it shattered.
From overhead, in the center of the now cleared path landed a familiar figure with blue hair. Lana stood, her book clutched to her side, and turned to nod at Link and Volga. Her normal chipper demeanor was missing and she wore the white robes of the Guardian of time, but she was a welcome aid to the battle.
With Lana’s help, Link and Volga’s spirits were emboldened, and soon enough the majority of the goblinkin lay dead around them, the path to the temple entrance clear. Pausing long enough to catch his breath, Link gave Lana a small smile. “You know, I’m sure there’s some cosmic problem you’re going to have to face for this, but I have never been happier to see you than I am right now.”
Lana blushed and didn’t meet his eyes. It was no secret to anyone that Lana found feelings for the Hero. But she understood his bond to Zelda, to the Goddess she technically served, and had vowed to not interfere. Link also wasn’t going to treat her any differently than his other friends, as he considered her such. Finally looking at him with a wink, she said, “Well I couldn’t leave you guys to clean up my mess now, could I?”
Link gave her a nod and bemused smile and took off, jogging for the temple. Volga however came up behind Lana and rest a hand on her shoulder. “It is good to see you, and not merely in dreams this time.”
She smiled, warmed by his affection and covered her hand in his. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to invade your dreams - I had the stray thought that maybe you could help… and then there you were.”
“Do not apologize,” he assured her kindly, “I am glad you did.”
***
Inside, Link ran full force to the back of the temple where he knew the Sword rest. It seemed none of the goblinkin could make it past the doors - that was something. The last time he’d battled here they had been able to enter under Cia’s magic and it had been a mess.
What was there brought him to a sliding halt and twisted something in his gut, however. The doors to the Sacred Grove were open, Sheikah magic that Zelda had cast to ward them broken, and even the doors themselves seemed cracked in new places.
Not only had Ganon anticipated they would come here, but he had been here.
A cold hand gripped his heart as Link considered this all might have been in Ganon’s plan, and now he was two days from Zelda where Ganon was likely less than one. Moving forward cautiously, he was surprised to find there were no traps, magical or mundane set in the doorway or the grass covered grove - but then why would there be. This was clearly what the Demon King wanted.
Reaching forward, he gripped the hilt of the Master Sword and felt a touch of relief. Like the embrace of an old friend, The Master Sword slipped easily from the stone in his grip, and he held it skyward, feeling the magic course back into it. “Hey, Fi,” he whispered reverently, knowing that somewhere at the core of the steel and divine metals from which it was forged, lay the soul of his once very dear companion. “I know it’s been shorter time than usual between seeing me,” he said, resting the flat of the blade against the other hand, “But I need your help again. Think that will be okay?”
There was of course no response, but the blade sparkled in the noonday light, and he felt it was her way of accepting. “Thanks, Fi,” he added with the last, and sheathed the sword on his back, tucking his other into his belt before turning around. Volga and Lana stood in the doorway, Lana’s hands clutched over her book at her chest, and Volga smirking.
“He knows we’re coming,” Link said striding forward. “He was here. We have to hurry - Zelda is in danger.”
“I can help with that,” Lana said with a nod. “Get the horses and meet me by the Goddess shrine on the east wall.” With that, she turned sharply and darted off.
Volga and Link fetched their horses and did as Lana had asked, coming up the shrine to find Lana’s book floating in the air above her as she cast a spell… and opened a gate. Turning to face them with a sad smile. “I can only get you to the other side of Faron Woods, so you’ll still have a part day’s ride… but I don’t have the Triforce to extend past it.”
“Are you coming with us?” Volga asked, stepping forward.
“I’ll be around,” Lana nodded, face sincere. “You may not see me, but I’ll be helping.”
Link stepped up to the portal, tall as they very wall, and mounted Epona. Looking down with a grateful smirk, he nodded. “Thank you, Lana. I hope we meet again under better circumstances.”
Lana gave him a sad smile, and something told him they probably wouldn’t, since she wasn’t supposed to intervene, but he meant it. “Go,” she said with a tearful smile. “Beat him to our Goddess, yeah?” She didn’t have to tell him twice. Link nodded and urged Epona forward through the portal. With a turn of the stomach and a brief fall later, Epona was running full speed across Hyrule field once more.
On the other side of the portal, Volga turned to look Lana over as she longing watch Link gallop away. “You know, no one blames you.” She turned and looked up to him, her damp eyes now holding the smile on her lips.
“That’s kind, but it’s my fault.”
“Ganon is tricky, powerful, seductive… and it was not you. It was the weak part of you that is gone now.”
She shook her head and looked back after Link who was disappearing over the rise of a hill. “But I… she… has caused so much heartache. I was never supposed to be a part of this.”
Volga looked up as well, knowing he needed to catch up, but feeling this was important. “You cannot regret another’s actions. Only your own.”
“I love him. I regret he ever had to know that.”
“Do you love him, or the idea of him?”
Turning to look back up at him in wonder, Lana didn’t seem to understand. “What’s the difference?”
Volga smirked. “A soul that is reborn eternally when the one who loves him needs him?” Knowing Lana was immortal he looked down to the young looking sorceress. “For someone sworn to spend eternity alone, I could see where the idea might appeal.”
Realizing he’d hit the nail on the head, Lana’s eyes were brimming with tears, and the Dragonknight felt a swell of empathy, reaching out to tug her into a gentle hug despite his armor. “You know, I happen to have the ear of the incarnation of the Goddess and her Chosen Hero. Perhaps… I could find a way to come visit you occasionally.”
Lana wiped her eyes trying not to cry anymore, and gave him a weak laugh. “That you’d even want to means the world, Volga. Thank you.” Giving him a brighter smile now, she stepped back and jerked her head to the portal. “Go. Make sure he wins. And I can’t hold this thing all day…”
With one last smirk, having made up his mind, Volga nodded and mounted his horse, charging through without another word, but vowing silently to petition Hyla, Din, Nayru and Farore all for a way to make sure Lana and her second chance were not left lonely.
Soon enough, he caught up with Link mostly, and after hours of riding, Hyrule Castle was growing larger in the distance.
Catching Link’s attention, he slowed his pace and convinced Link to do the same, despite the Hero’s irritation to do so. “What?” Link said, trying not to snap.
“We need to get closer, but are not yet expected back. Perhaps dawning our disguises will give us an element of surprise.”
“If Ganon is already there…” he said and started moving Epona on again, yet still looked at Volga.
“Then all the more reason for trying to gain surprise, would you not think?” Link blinked and watched his friend a moment trying to cool his head. Considering for a moment, he reached out to take the disguise from the Baron, his thought process being that Zelda would have probably agreed with Volga. He valued the wisdom of his ally, and accepted that perhaps he was not thinking quite as clearly as he should have been.
Dismounting and dawning the disguises that Impa had given them, Link felt a magical charm settle over him with the clothing and grunted in approval. Yes, this was the right option. Nodding to Volga, he remounted Epona and didn’t wait for Volga before taking off again. Soon enough they were riding full speed across Hyrule Field once more, the Master Sword and their identities hidden, while the Hero repeated the mantra in his mind, “Please don’t be too late…”
#zelink#legend of zelda#hyrule warriors#hwzelink#zelda#link#ganon#impa#midna#lana#volga#fanfic#fanfiction#otp
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Flying 1,500 miles with fumes in the cockpit
I will admit up front, this is the most scared I’ve ever been in an airplane!
We were flying a B-1B, non-stop from Andersen Air Force Base, Guam, to Ellsworth Air Force Base, South Dakota. We were heading home after a lengthy deployment; we were all looking forward to family reunions and that Big Hug!
We departed Guam at 2200 local time, along with an accompanying KC-10 “Extender” tanker. We took a quick sip of gas shortly after takeoff, to test our air refueling system, then topped off about two hours later.
It’s roughly 3,300 nm from Guam to Hawaii. The plan was to fill up again northwest of Hawaii; we would then continue to our destination, and the tanker would land back at Hickam AFB on Oahu.
Over the Pacific Ocean, at night, is not the time for fumes.
Just past the halfway point, we suddenly got hammered by an extremely pungent odor in the cockpit. Our training kicked in and we immediately went from our “cruise comfort” configuration (regular David Clark headsets with boom mics) to donning our helmets with oxygen masks secured. The smell was so bad, you could almost taste it. Even with our masks on, there was still a faint odor. Without a tight mask seal, it made you gag.
Once everyone was “up” on oxygen, we quickly jumped into completing the Smoke and Fumes Elimination checklist. A key step in that checklist is: Determine source of smoke.
But there was no smoke.
In fact, there were no Master Caution Panel lights, individual system warning lights, or any other indications. All the instruments appeared normal, the engines responded to throttle movements correctly, and all the flight controls functioned properly. All our equipment, including the complex, automated fuel and center of gravity management system (FCGMS), still worked. The B-1B also has an integrated test capability that monitors virtually every system on board the jet, and it showed no malfunctions.
The scariest part: it definitely did not smell “electrical,” and we could not isolate the source. There were no strange sounds, abnormal vibrations, or unusual “seat-of-the-pants” sensations. To my very experienced crew, everything felt normal.
The Bone has several fire, overheat, and pressurization-related emergency procedure checklists. We went through each one, very methodically, several times… of course, we had nothing better to do!
I ordered the crew to also go through our “controlled ejection” and “bailout” checklists.
After completing all these checklists, we realized it’s virtually impossible to fight an invisible enemy. We turned off everything we didn’t need to aviate and navigate with; we shut off all the cockpit lighting to help us see if anything was “glowing” in the dark.
Nothing.
I had one of my weapon systems officers (B-1B crew: 2 pilots, 2 WSOs) unstrap from his ejection seat, and go back into our electronic equipment bay—a small cubicle behind the crew station, to see if he could detect any smoke or flames.
Nothing.
The copilot grabbed our one-and-only fire extinguisher and held it in his lap for the remaining three hours of our flight. The plan was, as soon as we saw any flames, he would discharge the whole bottle; if they went out, we would deal with whatever circumstances we were left with.
If they didn’t go out, we’d eject.
The weather was “tropical” VMC; there were lots of cumulus clouds scattered along our route of flight, and we had maybe half-moon illumination. I was not concerned about maintaining a specific heading, other than to keep pointing at Hawaii, which was our only “land as soon as possible” divert option.
At the relatively low altitudes we cruised at, there was no chance we were going to run into anybody over the middle of the Pacific Ocean at night.
Those tankers are more than just fuel storage; in an emergency they are a lifeline.
Meanwhile, the tanker became our lifeline. They could climb much higher and serve as a communication link between us, ATC, and any search and rescue assets that might be needed.
They could also keep track of our position, including marking our location if we did eject.
As a last resort, the “smoke and fumes elimination” checklist calls for slowing below 450KIAS, staying below 25,000 ft., and opening a ram air door to vent the fumes. We tried that initially, but it didn’t improve our situation. Since we knew the fire was not associated with the engines, we decided to use our full fuel load to go faster. We did some quick math and figured out that we could afford to push the throttles up to a fuel flow that netted us about .85 Mach, way faster than the .72 Mach we would have used to cruise all the way to South Dakota.
We ended up getting well ahead of the KC-10, but we could still talk to them and they could still follow our progress. The tanker guys were great; they kept checking on us—I think mostly to make sure we hadn’t “succumbed” to whatever was burning—which was not a bad idea. (They also tried to keep the mood light by entertaining us with some jokes… yeah, not so much!)
So, on we flew in the dark, still committed to finding the source, but to no avail. I handled all the driving; the copilot kept up his vigil with the fire extinguisher; the WSOs maintained verbal contact with the tanker, monitored our position, kept track of our systems status, and kept us updated on Hawaiian airport and enroute weather conditions. They also made sure that in our laser-like focus to avoid a night swim in the Pacific, we didn’t miss the Big Picture stuff, like half-hourly station checks, or the descent, approach, and landing checklists.
We all kept a constant watch on our fuel situation. To make sure fatigue and stress hadn’t taken a toll on our cognitive abilities, we each did our own individual calculations, then cross-checked them with each other. We finally determined we had enough to fly supersonic the last half hour or so.
We headed directly towards Hickam and landed without further incident, just as the sun was coming up over Diamond Head. I pulled off the runway, shut down, and we all scrambled out.
Not a comfortable place to sit and wait for a fire to break out.
The tanker had relayed our emergency status and all our associated vital statistics to the appropriate agencies in Hawaii. We had both Hickam AFB and civilian Honolulu International Airport emergency crews waiting for us. The smell was still so bad that when the USAF crash team went up into the plane after we shut down, they also gagged on it.
My home unit ended up sending some B-1B specialists from Ellsworth out to investigate. After tearing out a lot of the jet’s interior, they discovered the source was an environmental control unit, basically an air conditioner, that’s isolated in a space under the pilot’s seat.
It had essentially eaten itself alive. It’s got a blower that spins at about a zillion RPM; its internals had failed, which caused prolonged metal-on-metal contact, turning it into a smoldering pile of molten junk.
Knowing that we probably weren’t in danger of exploding, or burning to death, at night, over 10,000 ft-deep water, after all, doesn’t change the fact that it’s an experience I’d rather not repeat. What’s that old saying? “There are no atheists in foxholes.” I don’t think there were any in our B-1B that night either.
Out of the many, many lessons learned that generated from that mission, my top four are often repeated, but proved pertinent in this case:
Always expect the unexpected.
Always have a Plan B… and a C… and a D… (and having a tanker is nice, too).
Crew Resource Management isn’t just another catch phrase, buzz word, or annoying acronym the FAA wants us to memorize. The most valuable asset you can have in an emergency, like in combat, is a professional, disciplined, well-trained crew: mine was phenomenal.
The concept of CRM (and Single-pilot Resource Management) includes using invaluable help from resources outside your own fuselage. My biggest regret from this experience was that I didn’t get to buy the crew of my KC-10 “wingman” a round at the O Club.
The post Flying 1,500 miles with fumes in the cockpit appeared first on Air Facts Journal.
from Engineering Blog https://airfactsjournal.com/2020/06/flying-1500-miles-with-fumes-in-the-cockpit/
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The Amazing and Fantastic Promethia!
The site was not chosen by accident.
The hills over which the city of Veii once sprawled were mined by tunnels, open wounds left by the Roman conquest. Centuries might have passed, and yet the opportunity for scarring was never granted to the city.
Veii was once the richest community of the Etruscan League, perhaps of the entire peninsula. First among equals, maestros of culture and finance. Nobody expected the Gauls to defeat the “civilized people.” Nobody expected the scum that lived in a place called Rome to break free. Even as the city was taken, everyone expected the Romans would just leave their burnt and filthy hideouts and be assimilated by the grandiose Etruscan culture.
Nobody expected the stubborn determination of the Citizens of Romulus, who gutted Veii and butchered it for all that it had good, stone by stone using its carcass to give Rome a second foundation.
No longer the center of the world, why would the affluent and novelty-hungry elites even bother to rebuild Veii? They moved to Rome and beyond, taking away any chance the city would have to be reborn.
Nobody that expects anything chooses Veii; nobody chooses Veii. Only the most desperate of the dejected poor, people that the moment they have a piece of silver to their name depart to more auspicious slums.
It is not to say that nothing grows among sewers neglected for centuries, poisoned wells, ransacked buildings, feral dog packs and clogged aqueducts. One crop finds this soil fertile enough.
Discontentment.
And so, the gathering came to pass. Hooded figures slowly made their way to a large underground chamber, created not by intentional engineering, but by the collapse of two major tunnels. Being this close to Rome made Veii the perfect hideout for those seeking to plant a knife in its vulpine underbelly.
They made a purple multitude, if one was feeling kind or colorblind. If you had to live in Veii you would have to make do with the cheapest dyes, and some probably just soaked their rags in something or someone’s blood. Discussion was well and alive, like barrels of pitch rolled along arguments, looking for a metaphoric spark. All they needed was a good kick and a target.
The bulkiest of the hooded men, with some actual purple pigment dyed in, stood over the gathering. A greasy beard poked out of his mask, refusing to be restrained. He tried to impose some illusion of order by punching the wall, causing dust and dirt to fall on the audience.
“How many times we have been over this? The Temple of Saturn is too hot, it is impossible to rob. Are you too dense to understand my problem with it? It is in the god-crammed Forum.” He shouted left and right, punctuating with additional punches.
“We have to keep trying!” Someone close to the front shouted back; the bearded one grabbed him by the tip of the hood and gave him a good shake.
“It is the third time this month that some idiot tried. Everyone has the same brilliant idea; everyone thinks they will be the one that makes it. The magistrates are distracted, they will never notice me. The Crows and Eagles are a thing of the past, I am stronger, faster and smarter than any Roman. Everyone of worth is up North with the legions, I can allow myself to be careless, foolish and stupid. The sheer arrogance. Is anyone here that much blind? Step ahead, if you want to be used for thunderbolt practice so badly I can make your wish come true!
“B-but Grand Veiente, we cannot free our brothers without money! The Carthaginians no longer want to have anything to do with us ever since that Sicilian fiasco, no matter how much we dye our hoods.” A dissident voice safely in the back uttered, receiving words and nods of agreement from his neighbors. “We can only deal with pirates, and they know exactly how much we need those. They keep raising the prices and show no intention of stopping soon. We need the Treasure that Roman greed begot. We have no other choice.
A long exasperated sigh.
“Put something in that thick head of yours.” The beard clenched his fists one against the other. “Unless you can wield the power of Tinia or withstand a thunderous discharge, you are not prepared even to steal a latrine in the Palatinate. Forget about the city of Rome entirely. I pondered about this for a long time and came up with an alternative.”
The Grand Veiente threw a silver coin towards some of the rebellious murmurs in the back.
“What is this?” One said, picking it up. “Is it meant to mean something to us? Seems like some Roman coin.”
“Wrong!” Shouted the Grand Veiente. “What is important is how non-Roman the coin is! Romans do not make coins, Romans use coins. This one, like all the others, are mined in the South and minted in either Sicilia or one of the Greek colonies. Since it all comes from the outside, all we have to do is intercept the silver while it is in its way to Rome.”
“That has to be even more dangerous than stealing from the Temple of Saturn.” Pointed out one of the women as she adjusted her hood. “Any coin shipment will be heavily guarded and their route and scheduled a well-kept secret. They will not send any auxiliary forces whose loyalty is not absolute, so it would be quite hard for us to infiltrate them or apply coercion.”
This seemed to satisfy the beard.
“Finally, someone here is thinking their plans through. You are correct, under normal circumstances this would be a futile attempt. However, we were able to come upon a secret weapon.” The Grand Veiente signaled towards someone outside the chamber, some poor half-dead miserable, legs and arms bandages that covered the burns but did little about the stinking ointments that were feebly trying to save his life. “This brother of us managed to grasp a boon from the latest fiasco. During the failed assault, they stumbled upon some Vestalis nailing some public announcements and official edicts. Without a Lictor bodyguard, it was easy to taker her as a valuable hostage.”
“Where is the Vestalis?” A rebel inquired. “We do not need to rob anyone, we can demand a prisoner’s exchange!”
“A Triumphant took him away from her before she could be smuggled out of the Temple, and foolishly let our brother escape. You see, he had taken something from the Vestalis.”
The Grand Veiente revealed a signet ring with the sigil of a flame protected by an arc.
“Only the ruling consuls can order the coinage of a new batch of coins, and like any other official document issued by the Senate and the People of Rome, which has to be audited, authenticated and archived by the priestesses at the Temple of Vesta. The gods support ours endeavors, and they have seen that Gaius Atilius Regulus was taken to the Underworld. “Another glimpse of the signet. “With this ring, we can forge a letter from the dead consul, prepared and sent before his untimely death. In it he orders more coins to help with the war effort and establishes very strict instructions of how the delivery should be made and the identities of the escort force. Needless to say, they will be our own brothers.”
“Wow! That is quite impressive!” Another feminine voice interrupted. Everyone turned around, looking for its owner. They found a tiny and plump woman, that somehow had not been noticed until now. Even if she was wearing quite the nice hood and cloak, which happened to be dyed with an intense and expensive pigment. “That could actually have worked! I must confess, here I was, dismissing you all as a bunch of idiots. I should have known better than to underestimate other people.”
“Identify yourself!” Demanded the beard. The woman obeyed, the visage revealed disturbing everyone around her. The leader stepped back, as his gaze painted the gentle wrinkled face of an elderly woman.
“Mother?”
The tender smile turned into a malicious smirk, the intruder throwing the hood towards the Grand Veiente, spinning her cloak in a wide circle, clearing a path. The terrorists seemed in shock, unable to do anything but express their surprise and horror.
“What are you doing here?”
“No, no, it cannot be you…”
“What are you even wearing?”
Each of them seemed to react as if they were seeing someone different but always familiar, giving in to chaos and failing in presenting a unified answer. Laughing at their lack of discipline, the intruder escaped the center of the chamber and revealed herself in all her glory to the Grand Veiente, touching her noise with the index middle fingers as she winked with her left eye.
After the event and comparing their notes, none of the presents would remember the same physical impression of the woman. However, they all could agree on what she was wearing. A white and blue tunic not long enough for all the women perceived, showing quite a lot of leg and leaving the arms revealed as it gently wrapped around her neck. The most curious element was her heavy, bulky scarf, a military focale of vivid dark red.
The paralyzed terrorists finally started reacting, snapping due to the furious commands of their leader.
“It is a trick! It is one of them! TRIUMPHANT! Do not let her escape these tunnels!”
“Come here, boys.” The invader invited. “I will be very displeased if anyone escapes.”
“Get her!”
She did not show any terror, nor did she take any defensive stance or tried to evade the circle of attackers. All she did was lower her arms in a rapid arc, the sheer flow of power levitating her a few millimeters off the ground. The clothing of the closest caught fire, while the exposed skin of another one suffered as if boiling water had been spilled all over it. This caused other terrorists to hesitate. However, they would never have guessed that these were just the obvious collateral effects of her unleashing of power; she did not waste time reacting to their bumbling approach. The woman once again raised her arms and lowered her head, eyes semi-closed and blinking furiously. A fragmented crown of light arched over her head. The very air seemed to dry up, as if all the underground moisture had been sucked out of the tunnels.
The arms once again descended as the woman twirled around herself.
An extremely precise heat wave suddenly flooded the tunnels, triggering the most basic instincts of the terrorists. They ran away, trampling and stumbling over each other. As their strength was sapped away, one by one they gave in to unconsciousness.
Touching the ground, the woman shook her head, disappointed.
“This was quite anti-climatic.” She pouted, grabbing one of the hoods. She pinched it, the dye staining her finders and the fabric ripping apart. “How embarrassing, I had to pick up a fight with such light-weights.”
She shrugged. It was a good test drive for her abilities. All she needed to do was recover what she sought in Veii and this first outing would be a flawless success.
The Grand Veiente had fallen just like the others, the signet forsaken a meter away from him. As the woman lowered to pick it up, she sensed movement behind her. She tried to raise and turn her head as fast as she could, only to find herself facing the bearded leader. A quick and brutal headbutt left her dizzy, but she tightened her grasp around the signet, refusing to let go. All her world was pain and the smell of blood. Her opponent lifted her with only one hand, clenching her chin and pushing her against the wall. She struggled and kicked him, feeble attempts to free herself.
“Really? You must be the weakest Triumphant I ever heard about. You are nothing but cheap parlour tricks.” The Grand Veiente snarled. “This is exactly what I expected from a Roman. I do not even know if you are a woman or not, but wearing that face is not going to save you. What is what you people say? Ah yes. Memento Mori.”
As the man balanced himself to deliver a devastating punch, the woman took a deep bite into the hand holding her, forcing a release. The fist struck the wall, debris and dirt covering both of them. Trying to recover her breath, she tried to gain some distance. The terrorist leader chuckled and grabbed the points of her scarf, pushing with so much strength that her neck almost snapped like a dry branch.
“You used to have to be someone special to play the myths and receive a Triumph. I am surprised that someone would awaken a divine spark and still be so feeble.” The Grand Veiente declared. “It seems a poor receptacle ruins even the best grapes. Your festering city could not ask for a more fitting champion.”
He forced the woman to turn. The only hint of what was going to happen was her eyes rolling. A jet of flames was the answer to the insults, igniting his clothes and burning most of its torso. As the man struggled to avoid system shock, she put off the smoldering tips of her scarf. Finally free, she clenched over the Grand Veiente.
“Go ahead, she-wolf. You have claimed your prize. Leave.”
The Triumphant landed her sandal against the bearded face of the terrorist, pinning its head against the floor. She proceeded to make her position known.
“You know why you are nothing? I need you to understand before I can leave.” She uttered with soft voice, refusing the call of loud fury.
“Because of you. You took everything from us!”
“No, you gave it away. You threw it away, we took it just like any other people would take it. And even if you got it you would throw it away over and over again. And why do I know that? Because you are a little sad creature that believes that avoiding using excessive force is a show of weakness. You see us as tyrants and you do not want to free yourself; you just want to replace us.”
Even as he was struggling for his life, the Grand Veinete laughed.
“Oh, that is just so precious. You think you won.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“This is not your so-called republic, she-wolf. Do you think we need to sniff each other’s butts until we come to a consensus? I do not need or care for the opinion of these fools! I did not sit idle holding the signet. The letter was forged, the men picked and the plan was already set in motion.”
Her eyes narrowed as she applied more pressure with her foot.
“This could all end here.”
“What happened to withholding power?” He groaned.
“From where I stand? I would not need much to finish the job.”
“Go ahead. Show the sheepherders how hungry the wolves are.” The terrorist babbled on, unable to keep his eyes open. “Let them fear losing more sheep, let them unite for some wolf-hunting.”
“I’m just wasting my time...”
The woman turned away and left, trying to make her way out of the tunnels. Of course, it had to be tunnels again; nothing good happens underground.
Almost there. She could already see the light. Such a beautiful day, why did they insist in turning it miserable by hiding beneath the ground?
“You really need to be more aware of your surroundings.” A voice chasing after her pointed out. The Triumphant turned to face another woman, sweating as she leaned on the tunnel walls.
“I recognize you! You were the one actually saying something smart!”
“Forget about that.” The woman dragged herself closer, an inquisitive look in her face “Why do you look like me? That is what I am supposed to look like? I’m not imagining things, right? That is supposed to be me.”
“Pretty clever, don’t you think?” The Triumphant gave a little shake and a wink. “I wanted to be an inspiring.”
The other one was silent on how disturbing the pantomime actually was.
“Right. That. Forget about it, I followed you because I heard what you said.” The Triumphant’s face beamed with an almost childish eagerness, eyes sparkling in anticipation. “This is a way to do things different from the one I am used to; that was not the brutality and oppression I came to expect from your side. When I saw the Grand Veiente grab you, I was marked with the ease with which he did that to you; the fact that you were a Roman did not weigh in my mind. Our cells are filled with people like that. I always knew there was an alternative way to do this, that we are not supposed to escalate the savagery against each other as conflicts arise.
The Triumphant opened her arms as if to hug her, but she stepped back, hands raised.
“Do not get me wrong. I still despise your people; Veii is still a ruin. The Grand Veiente was right when he said we need to join together and put you down. I am not your client or you friend, I am someone that has decided that if we are to stand against Rome we have to offer something besides a replacement tyrant. “She opened her arms wide, as she also exposed her neck. “Perhaps this was not what you sought to inspire. Perhaps you should burn me right now.”
Her own face worn by another turned serious.
“What is your name?”
“Aritimesia.” She replied, defiant.
“You know something is not right in the world and you are trying to change it. I am happy for you, Aritimesia. I wish the best Fortune to you.”
The Triumphant climbed back into the light, a deep feeling of dread twisting in her stomach. She felt as if she was making a terrible mistake.
“Tarentum.”
Turning one last time, back to the woman still shrouded by darkness.
“If he sent the letter to somewhere, it has to the Tarentum mint. You should start there.”
An exchange of nods, both wondering about the future.
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