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repriseofthereprise · 6 months

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Fierce Love: Resisting the Weapons the Culture Has Devised Against the Self

by Starhawk

From Truth or Dare: Encounters With Power, Authority, and Mystery (Harper & Row, 1987)

Click for PDFThere is no mystery waiting for the asking No one can bring in the harvest alone The hour is late and it demands hard questions It’s gonna take a fierce love To get us home before the sun goes down

CHARLIE MURPHY, FROM THE SONG “FIERCE LOVE”

In the morning, after getting out of jail, I awaken with a voice in my dream saying: “They can let you out of jail, because now they’ve put the jail inside your mind.”

The jail is inside my mind: it appears in my dreams nightly. I am, inside my mind, in jail, surrounded by the concrete walls, the barbed wire, steel grids on the windows. In jail something is always blocking your view. Over the fence we can see only a slice of the distant mountains. In the dining hall, blue glass screens the faces of the women who serve the food: the hands scooping mashed potatoes onto our tin plates seem disembodied, cut off. Those who serve, those who are served, cannot look each other in the face.

There is an image in my mind in jail: a vise. A pair of tongs. A clamp– a clampdown, like in the Clash song:

You start wearing: blue and brown You’re working for the clampdown Now you got someone to boss around And it makes you feel big now . . .

One arm of the clamp is made of threats. What they can do to you. There is always someplace worse they can put you. The barracks where we are held are not awful. They are large enough and clean enough and we have each other to talk to. The lockup cells arc worse: tiny, with barely room to turn around, and the windows are painted over. When you are in lockup they can threaten you with the rubber room. It is bare and padded, with only a hole in the floor to piss in, and they take away your clothes and leave you there, alone.

The other arm of the clamp is made of promises. What they will give you if you obey. Privileges. A chance to buy shampoo at the commissary. Letters. Visits. Your good time and your work time. They will let you out.

Between the two arms of the clamp we are controlled. No matter how hard we try not to reach for the carrot or flinch from the stick, our fear and our hunger betray us. We who are in jail here are women willing to risk more than many; even so, there is a point beyond which we will not go. So we come out of jail hating ourselves a little bit—for we have been forced to see too clearly how we are controlled.

Outside of jail, something is always blocking our view. The promises are plastered across every magazine and billboard: they shriek at us over the radio and dance on the TV screen. The jail itself, the mental hospital, the prison, the gun, stand as the threats, the worst place they can send us if we scream too loud. But it is not that we go around in fear, it is that we don’t fear, we think this is just the way things are, the only way they can be, and the pervasive uneasiness, the dull rage, is some flaw in us.

When we discover that within us is also a part that holds the gun, we think we are uniquely evil—as if our minds could be anything but mirrors of the culture in which we are raised. As if we could be anything but victims—at best, survivors—of the weapons our culture has devised against the self.

RESPONSES TO SYSTEMS OF PUNISHMENT

We have seen how the needs of war reshape society into systems of control. Just as Marduk encaged the corpse of Tiamat:

“. . .Pulled down the bar and posted guards. He bade them to allow not her waters to escape.”

the living flow of life force that yet remains in us must trickle through the bars of the big jail. We can, nevertheless, still drink from that water. We can be more than victims or survivors. We can resist systems of control, renewing the world with other powers.

Systems of punishment bring the war home. We enact its battles within the self, becoming our own conquerors and judges. We reproduce war’s hierarchies in relationships and social structures.

War demands obedience to authority, and in systems of domination obedience is deeply ingrained in us. If we are not to obey passively and automatically, we must decline the offered security of obedience and listen, instead, to our own true passions and desires. We must begin to understand how systems of punishment function and how we react to them, so that we can replace our conditioned responses with conscious choices.

Both reward and punishment are dependent on a worldview that has destroyed immanent value, the sense of the sacred present in each of us. For when the sacred is present, all things have inherent value. But when value has to be earned, proven, it becomes a scarce commodity. The self-hater’s coin of trade is the granting and withholding of value.

Punishment can be inflicted overtly in a variety of ways: through the infliction of physical pain and damage; through the withholding of resources necessary for survival or desired for pleasure; through restriction of action and movement; through humiliation; and, more subtly, through the eroding of a person’s value as experienced by the self and viewed by others.

In Discipline and Punish, Foucault describes five distinct ways in which systems of punishment function:1

“The art of punishment . . . refers individual actions to a whole that is at once a field of comparison, a space of differentiation and the principle of a rule to be followed.” Judgment itself is part of the operation of punishment. When we are valued for how closely we approximate an imposed standard, we are not valued for who we are. So, for example, the operation of an ideal of feminine beauty sets up a field upon which all women can be rated and compared. A student told me she once polled her male friends on what a woman should weigh. They all answered “110 pounds.” She then asked them what a man should weigh. “That depends,” they all said, “on his height, his body type, his musculature. . .” Our value becomes dependent on how closely we conform to the rule; our unique beauty is rendered invisible, worthless. A woman’s own body becomes her enemy, her betrayer, by its insistence on shaping itself according to its own organic imperatives.

Punishment “differentiates individuals from one another, in terms of the following overall rule: that the rule be made to function as a minimal threshold, as an average to be respected or as an optimum towards which one must move.” When our organic individuality has been devalued, we are given back a false individuation. We can tell who we are not because we hear the song of our bodies or love the largeness or smoothness or hairiness of our flesh, but because we know our measurements and how they compare to the standardized charts.

Punishment “measures in quantitative terms and hierarchizes in terms of value the abilities, the level, the “nature” of individuals.” It is not just that we pass or fail; we are given “grades,” As or Bs, a 96 on the final or a 75. So we strive for gradations of improvement: we work to achieve a B + even when we know we cannot aspire to an A. The hierarchy gives us many shades and subdivisions of value, finer grades of comparison, the illusion of more individuation that becomes a more refined means of control.

Punishment “introduces, through this “value-giving” measure, the constraint of a conformity that must be achieved.” We attempt to live in the illusory world where all women weigh 110, where all children learn at the same rate, and where differences are seen as deviations.

Lastly, punishment “traces the limit that will define difference in relation to all other differences, the external frontier of the abnormal.” Every hierarchy has a cutoff point, a mark beyond which one is no longer part of the whole, where you are no longer acceptable in the school system, on the job, where your failure to conform to the rule may relegate you to the worst place: the mental hospital, the back ward, skid row. That fear, of finally being forced out from the circle of value, makes us all work harder to keep a safe cushion between ourselves and the pit of worthlessness.

Going to jail is a succinct way to learn about punishment. In jail, there are no clouds of daily details and none of the substances we use to soothe ourselves. The bare strategies of power-over are revealed, clean as gnawed bones. So are the patterns in which we respond to systems of punishment. For human beings are creatures of context. Although we imagine that our choices are free, our responses are greatly determined by the situations in which we find ourselves.

A system of punishment is a system of roles that shapes who we are and how we act. In a classic experiment, psychologists Haney, Banks, and Zimbardo set up a mock prison in the basement of a building at Stanford University. They staffed their jail and filled it with randomly chosen “guards” and “prisoners,” selected from volunteers carefully screened for “normality.” Guards and prisoners adapted so quickly and thoroughly to their roles that the experiment had to be stopped after six days because the brutality of the guards and the demoralization of the prisoners had progressed so far that the experimenters feared permanent damage might result.2

When we are conditioned to obey authority, we try to behave as authority expects, looking to others for confirmation and reinforcement, denying our own perceptions. Solomon Asch conducted an experiment in which volunteers were asked to compare the length of lines on cards. The subject was unaware that the rest of the group were deliberately giving false answers. A significant percentage literally denied the evidence of their own senses in order to agree with the majority.3

In war, too, “the most potent quieters of conscience are evidently the presence of others who are doing the same things and the consciousness of acting under the orders of people “higher up” who will answer for one’s deeds.”4

Authority relieves us of the responsibility of independent action. Instead, we react in set and patterned ways. Systems of punishment generate four basic responses. We can comply, rebel, withdraw, or manipulate. All confirm the power of the system because they respond to rather than challenge the reality the system has created.

Another sort of response is possible. I call it resistance, or empowered action–action that does not accept the terms of the system, action that creates a new reality.

“Creating your own reality” is a New Age watchword, but many of those who espouse it really mean “take the best of what the system has to offer for yourself”–an option open only to a few of the more privileged among us. But to actually change the terms of reality itself, to generate new systems based on different values, is a far more demanding, dangerous, and revolutionary task.

Punishment systems define what is real by defining what is valued. In essence, punishment is based on the destruction of value. The jail is an analogy that reveals the workings of all the systems that destroy our sense of worth.

From Haney and Zimbardo, and the laboratory of my own jail experiences, I have identified ten principal ways in which the prison undermines value. My experiences in jail for short periods with other political activists are a world apart from the experience of those who are imprisoned alone, unsupported, or for long terms. The structures identified here then become even more extreme, destructive, and all-encompassing. But the same structures are to varying degrees inherent in all punishment systems. For the prison we could substitute the school, the job, the corporation, the hospital, the mental hospital, the government office, the welfare system, the military, the cult, the church. We do not generally think of all these institutions as systems of punishment, but all of them are involved in the rule-giving, rating, and comparing that deny immanent value.5

Individual worth is defined by the person’s status in the system. The prisoner, the mental patient, is placed outside the bounds of the normal. In the corporation or the graduate school, the inmates are considered to have a superior rather than inferior status. Yet that status exists only as long as the person meets the demands of the system. The threat of being cast out is always present, and to be cast out of a system that defines one as valuable is itself a punishment to be feared.

The individual must be watched. Prisoners are kept under constant surveillance. Students are tested, workers supervised. We learn, also, to observe ourselves, to impose the standards of the Judge on our own emotions, bodies, and spirits.

Jails are ugly. They provide minimum sensory variation. Boredom is punishment. Corporate offices are bland; windows become identified with privilege because they represent access to stimulation outside the system’s control.

Prisoners, outsiders, are shorn of identity and individuality. Anonymity is enforced, often symbolized by uniformity of dress and appearance, even actual uniforms–whether of the prisoner’s khaki or the executive’s dress-for-success variety.

Punishment systems limit choices. In jail, the coffee comes with sugar already added. At work, the hours and conditions are imposed. Little or no room is made for negotiations and individual variations.

Punishment institutions are controlled by rules, and rules define reality. In the workplace, the rule that workers must be there between the hours of 9:00 a.m. to 5:00 p.m. creates a reality of massive traffic jams and downtown areas that go dead in the evening. In jail, the rule against touching makes expressions of affection, comfort, and sexuality illegal. The emotional reality becomes inevitably grim and harsh.

Emotional expression is required to be suppressed, for feelings are not amenable to control. Prisoners are not allowed to get angry; managers are not supposed to cry. The erotic, too, must be suppressed.

Time itself becomes distorted, becomes an instrument of punishment. Prisoners count the days; workers and students watch the clock.

Punishment systems are ultimately based on force and the potential of violence and/or deprivation of resources and opportunities.

In the most vicious systems, force and power are applied unpredictably and inconsistently, which further undermines the individual’s sense of control. In the Nazi concentration camps, perhaps the most extreme system of punishment ever devised, “the SS could kill anyone they happened to run into. Criminal kapos would walk about in groups of two and three, making bets among themselves on who could kill a prisoner with a single blow.”6 When punishment is predictable, when it is bound somewhat by its own rules, the individual can maintain some sense of power and control. But when death comes at random, the last shreds of personal power are undermined.

Punishment systems and their agents–the Conqueror, the Orderer, the Master of Servants, the Censor, the Judge–attack our inherent value. The roles that we play in response confirm our lack of value.

Resistance, in contrast, asserts the value of the self, arising from values outside the realm of punishment. Unless we at times inhabit a realm of freedom, we may never get a chance to learn empowered action.

We can create systems and relationships that liberate and empower, where we can learn free action, in which we can be seen rather than watched. Such structures, whether they are organizations, love affairs, or architecture, can generate beauty and pleasure, can provide a richness of the senses and a celebration of individuality and diversity. They can provide choice whenever possible, and affirm emotional and erotic expression. Instead of force, cooperation and interdependence can bind us together; instead of rules to define reality, we can let reality itself reveal its inherent demands. Time can become a blessing, not a burden.

This vision may sound utopian, yet the models we might take are common: a forest ecosystem in which each tree, each plant, each insect and animal performs a vital function that sustains the whole by acting in accord with its own nature; an organic garden in which the demands of work are determined not by clock time but by wind and weather and the cycles of the earth’s turning. We might even imagine walking the streets of a free city: see them lined with gardens and fruit trees that offer sustenance to travelers; see children playing on wide walkways and in small parks knowing they are safe, imagine big houses and small where people live in a hundred diverse ways–in families, in couples, in big collective groupings, in splendid solitude; feel the excitement as night falls and the lights go on and people come out to dance in the streets, fearing no one. See their faces of different shapes and colors, their eyes alive with pride in their own history and culture. Imagine walking through those varied streets, going to a workplace where the work you do has value because it contributes sustenance or pleasure or knowledge to the community and because you share equally with others in its rewards and responsibilities. You can bring a sick child here, or your dog; you can grow fresh vegetables outside and cook them up for lunch; and you can cry if you want to, or laugh, or flirt, or paint your walls with exuberant murals, for you and your co-workers all know that the way you treat and value each other is as important as anything you produce.

Reshaping the world in the image of freedom requires action that is freely chosen. To make those choices, we must recognize the patterns of unfree action we adopt in response to punishment. We must recognize the jail inside our own minds.

COMPLIANCE

We are in jail at the Lompoc Federal Prison. The women are held in a recreation hall, now covered wall-to-wall with mattresses. It seems a haven of peace and safety to me after the past few days, hiking in pouring rain through the backcountry to reach the missile silos of Vandenberg Air Force Base. We have spent a horrible night locked up in a cold, damp classroom, and a long, tense day resisting being booked, in solidarity with some of our fellow blockaders who were isolated. We refused to move, going limp as the military police dragged us away. We are bruised, sore: I am covered with the itching rash of poison oak and coughing from bronchitis.

But now it is morning. We have time to relax, to talk about life, sex, relationships, and finally to hold a meeting and begin to organize. This is the first time most of us have encountered the federal legal system. Because I have done some of the trainings for the action, I am briefed on the legal information and I share it with the group.

After the meeting, we resume our major occupation for the day–hanging out. There is nothing else to do, nowhere to go. A guard comes up and calls out a couple of numbers. I recognize my own. We have not yet given our names to the authorities, so our numbers are our only identities.

Without thinking, I respond. “Don’t answer,” my friend Jeri whispers, but too late.

“Get your things,” the guard says. “You’re going to the doctor.”

“I don’t want to go to the doctor,” I say. “I don’t need to.”

“You said you’ve got poison oak. The doctor’s got to look at you.”

“I don’t need a doctor for poison oak. I’m fine.”

“It’s not up to you to decide. We’re in charge here–not you. Now get going.”

A second woman has been called along with me. We confer. “I don’t want to go,” she says. “Don’t go,” my friends say. I know that if the guards were to try to take me away, the women would surround me and resist. But I put on my shoes. I comply.

“Let’s get it over with,” I say. The two of us are escorted into a car, driven by an older man in a gray suit who is accompanied by a woman. They drive us around the prison grounds–and then we realize suddenly that we are on the open road, headed in some unknown direction. “Where’s the doctor?” my friend asks. “What doctor?” replies the man.

“I thought we were being taken to see a doctor.”

“You’re not going to any doctor. You’re being turned over to the federal marshals.”

Paranoid visions flash through our minds–solitary cells, rubber hoses. But the marshals simply throw us out of jail, released without charges or explanations.

On the street again, waiting outside the K-Mart for our supporters to pick us up, we are furious. We want to be in jail, with the group, with our friends, part of the action and the solidarity that we feel we have inadvertently betrayed.

Mostly, I am furious at myself. “How could you be so stupid?” I say to myself over and over again. “You know that’s the oldest trick in the book–the medical call. Stupid, stupid, stupid!”

Only much later, after the fever of the action has subsided, am I able to put the question to myself not in an orgy of self-hate but a spirit of inquiry: “How, indeed, could I be so stupid?” How is it I could act without thinking clearly, could obey so automatically against my own wishes and interests? For in looking back, in trying to remember my thoughts and feelings at the moment 1 made the decision to go, all I find is a curious blankness, as if my critical self, my emotions, had somehow switched off.

I could only recognize that blankness after it was over, when I had come back to myself. At the time I was not aware of being unconscious.

Obedience is so deeply ingrained, compliance comes so naturally, that it sneaks up on us even when we intend the opposite. It’s not that we don’t think about what we’re doing, its that we are in a state in which we cannot think. We run on automatic.

Such automatic obedience is required of soldiers in war. One of the subjects of the Milgram experiments, in a later interview, expressed his rationale for continuing to administer shocks to the “learner” even when he believed the other person might be unconscious or dead: “I figured: well, this is an experiment, and Yale knows what’s going on, and if they think it’s all right, well, it’s all right with me. They know more than I do. . . This is all based on a man’s principle in life, and how he was brought up and what goals he sets in life. . . I know that when I was in the service. . . If the lieutenant says, ‘We’re going to go on the firing range, you’re going to crawl on your gut,’ you’re going to crawl on your gut. And if you come across a snake, which I’ve seen a lot of fellows come across, copperheads, and guys were told not to get up, and they got up. And they got killed.”7

Compliance begins with belief. The authority, the institution, constructs reality for us, by limiting our sources of information and giving us the information it wants us to believe. “I have to teach you about sex–all daddies do this,” says the father. We believe because we have no way to know what not to believe. In the jail, we cannot tell what is real.

Awareness is the beginning of all resistance. We can only resist domination by becoming and remaining conscious: conscious of the self, conscious of the way reality is constructed around us, conscious of each seemingly insignificant choice we make, conscious that we are, in fact, making choices. Resistance becomes a discipline of awareness, akin to any spiritual discipline that demands we remain present to our experience. When we resist domination, we must practice magic–the art of changing consciousness at will.

The jail constructs reality also, as we have seen, through rules. “Rules are the backbone of all institutionalized approaches to managing people.”8 The rules tell us how to behave, what to do and what not to do, and how we will be punished if we disobey. When we are brought into jail, we are immediately handed a list of rules.

“Rules can come to define reality for those who follow them. Since the definition of the situation frequently is the situation, violations and not rules are defined as the problem. . . “9 In the Stanford experiment, “when the guards . . . threatened to suspend visiting privileges unless a prisoner who was fasting ate his dinner, the other prisoners turned violently against him . . . not against the guards for their arbitrary rule. They had accepted the guards’ definition of the situation and regarded the prisoner’s defiance as blameworthy, rather than as a heroic, symbolic act to instill the courage they so desperately needed.”10

Compliance destroys the unity of resistance. When we accept the authority’s reality, when we blame the rule-breakers, blame the victims, we cannot see our own victimization or act against it. Resistance demands clarity. We cannot mistake the rule for the reality; we must continuously search behind the rules for the assumptions they represent and the power relations they enforce.

The jail wants us to comply, and it will exert all its power to see that we do. And we do comply, part of the time, for no one has the energy to rebel or resist completely.

March 1982, I write in my journal: “Intimidation: In jail, they pull one of the women out of our group, lock her up in someplace worse

so that we see their power

so that we become fearful

they pick the woman who makes us most uncomfortable, who is most loud and angry, least respectable, who least fits in

so that we do not really want to extend ourselves, to risk ourselves, for her

so that we can justify not risking ourselves, telling ourselves that there is nothing we can do (even though all of us are here in jail because we will not accept that there is nothing we can do)

so that we don’t try to do anything, telling ourselves

we don’t have enough information to act

that it is not yet the right time to act

that if we try to act we will make the situation worse:

that it is better to let someone else (our lawyers, the experts) act for us

that she may have done something to deserve it

that she created her own situation

“These are the voices that silence us, that keep us powerless inside the jail, and they are the same voices that silence us, that keep us powerless, on the outside. We can recognize the excuses when we hear them, but when we are scared enough we don’t hear them anymore, we simply do not act. And if at one time we can overcome them enough to speak and act, then another time they will overcome us, for if we are not afraid of one thing there will always be something worse they can do that we will be afraid of. There is always a rubber room–and when we are in the rubber room already, there is something beyond that.”

So we obey, because it is to dangerous not to, or simply too hard to fight every battle, because our chronic vigilance has left us exhausted, or because we cannot tolerate the isolation we suffer if we don’t comply. For us, as for the soldier, disobedience “means to set oneself against others and with one stroke lose their comforting presence. It means to cut oneself free of doing what one’s superiors approve, free of being an integral part of the military organism with the expansion of the ego that such belonging brings. Suddenly the soldier feels himself abandoned and cast off from all security.”11

To obey, we perform. We work. We do our homework. We put in overtime. We exhibit enthusiasm for the company. We conform. We observe ourselves, work on ourselves. We repair the damages done by a system that is slowly murdering us.

A life of compliance is a life of denial. We deny the body. We feel sick–yet we go to work. We feel hungry–yet we don’t eat. We deny feelings–for the jail requires that we suppress our emotions, especially our anger and our rage that might lead to rebellion.

Obedience has its cost: the destruction of the self. To be good is to be a slave, unfree. When we comply, when we aid the system in its ultimate disregard and destruction of us, we hate ourselves. We know that we have been stupid, blind, weak. And so we cannot comply all of the time and live. At times, we must rebel.

Becoming aware of how and when we comply can help us act consciously. I suggest the following questions as an aid in the process. This is the first of a number of exercises for groups and individuals that you will find throughout this and the following chapters.

QUESTIONS ABOUT COMPLIANCE

Consider these questions in individual meditation, journal writing, or group rounds:

When in my life have I complied or obeyed when I didn’t want to?

How did I feel at the time? What was I thinking? What choices did I perceive?

What other choices actually existed? What might have happened had I taken them?

REBELLION

Doreen has spent most of her twenty-three years in institutions. When she was thirteen, her mother, unable to care for her, placed her in a mental hospital. She graduated into juvenile hall and intermittent terms in the county jail.

Now she is trying hard to improve her life. She has a nurturing relationship with a woman lover. She is part of a supportive feminist community. She goes to AA meetings and comes to me for therapy.

One night she goes with her lover to a concert. During a break Doreen steps outside to smoke a cigarette. When she tries to return, the woman who takes tickets stops her.

“Where’s your ticket?”

“It’s inside–you saw me go out.”

“I never saw you before in my life.”

“Let me get my purse–it’s inside with my friend.”

“Hell no, bitch. You pay to get in.”

Doreen becomes deadly angry. “Nobody calls me ‘bitch.'”

“Oh yeah? You rather I call you fat girl?”

Doreen, in her mind, is back in jail, where the shreds of her self-worth are so fragile that not to defend them is to die. She lunges at the ticket taker, and in an instant they are yelling and fighting and kicking at each other in the street. Women are screaming as Doreen pulls out her last defense–her knife. She has just enough presence of mind to throw it away when the cops come.

We rebel to save our lives. Rebellion is the desperate assertion of our value in the face of all that attacks it, the cry of refusal in the face of control. The jail has taken all that was ours; and we must assert what belongs to us or disappear. Doreen, speaking about jail, once told me, “Sometimes I had to get in trouble just to prove to myself that I existed.” In rebellion, the future disappears, consequences become meaningless under the immediate, explosive pressure of our rage. So we lash out with noise and whatever force we can muster.

When we comply in our own punishment, the self knows and hates us for it. When we rebel, we feel, even for a moment, powerful and free.

But that freedom and power are false, for rebellion, unless it can transform itself into resistance, inevitably becomes self-destructive. When we rebel without challenging the framework of reality the system has constructed, we remain trapped. Our choices are predetermined for us.

The ticket taker’s insult has immediately constructed for Doreen a certain reality of limited choices. She sees only two possibilities: submit to abuse or attack back. Of the infinite potential responses to the ticket taker, her experience of life, shaped by the jail, has taught her only these alternatives.

The ticket taker herself, who, it turns out, also has a history of jail and institutionalization, inhabits the same limited reality in which challenge must be responded to with verbal or physical force. Had she met someone who responded out of a different set of choices, the whole incident would have progressed differently.

When rebellion does not challenge the choices predetermined by the system, it cannot lead to freedom. For the choices the system presents us with inevitably increase the system’s control. The system needs those who suffer the stick as much as it needs those who reach for the carrot. In order to retain control, the system needs to punish, and it needs to single out some individuals for more intensive punishment to serve as an example and warning to the rest. Rebellion provides the system with its excuse, its rationale, for punishment. Without transgressors, there would be no one to send to the worst place, no way to intimidate the good into being good.

When the system defines our choices, it channels rebellion into modes that it is prepared to control, into acts that harm the rebel, not the system. Prison guards know how to handle troublemakers; they are constantly on the alert for the belligerent, the instigator: such people can be quickly removed to serve as a warning to the rest. The schoolchild who rebels, refuses to study, harms her or his own future, not the educational system that functions, at least in part, as a winnowing device that removes those not temperamentally suited to obey from the tracks leading to the higher echelons of the hierarchy.

The culture of punishment also offers us channels for rebellion that destroy us slowly without challenging the power of the system at all. We can choose from a broad array of addictions that offer us the chance to rebel and administer our own punishment in a single act–for when we smoke, abuse alcohol or drugs, when we literally attack our own bodies with substances that harm us, we are affirming punishment’s essential message: “You have no inherent worth, you do not deserve to live.”

We find such addictions very hard to break because we identify them with being bad, rebellious, disobedient, unenslaved. The image sold to us by the media is that addictions represent freedom. They take us to Marlboro country. And we need to do something bad, for to be too good is to be dead. I had a cigarette: I’m bad (free); I denied myself a cigarette: I’m good (slave). We become addicted not just to the substance but to our failures to quit, which comfort us by confirming the existence of some small bit of the self that cannot be controlled.

But the badness of addiction does not buy us deeper, broader, more extended life. It too kills us, quickly or slowly. We enact upon ourselves the murder of the self, in our desperate attempt to keep alive some kernel of freedom.

Insanity can also be seen as an extreme form of rebellion, and is sometimes romanticized as such. “It’s not that I’m not in touch with this reality,” says James, a young man in the midst of what is clinically described as a schizophrenic break. “I defy reality!”

But to defy reality, alone and isolated, is not the same as to change it. To go crazy means to become the most vulnerable to control, to be isolated, locked up, subject to physical restraints, chemical, electrical, and even surgical punishments, all administered in the name of therapy. The insane serve as a warning to the rest of us of what will happen if we go too far, get too strange, challenge too much.

The punishment for rebellion is to be singled out, isolated, made strange. The price of being bad is to be outcast, cut off even further from the circle of worth.

Rebellion also cuts us off from the information we may need for survival. When we need our addictions to substitute for freedom, we lose the ability to feel what is really happening to our bodies. When we defy reality, we cannot see what range of choices reality may present us with.

Rebellion is our very life asserting itself, willing to settle for nothing less than freedom. But if our rebellion is to have any hope of achieving that freedom, it must transform itself into resistance.

Resistance challenges the framework of reality defined by systems of punishment. Rebellion can be the first step toward resistance, but we must avoid the sidetracks of self-destruction along the way.

Resistance differs from rebellion because it embodies a reality incongruent with that of domination. We do more than defy reality: we present its alternatives, communicating our beliefs and values.

Power-over is maintained by the belief that some people are more valuable than others. Its systems reflect distinctions in value. When we refuse to accept those distinctions, refuse to automatically assume our powerlessness, the smooth functioning of the systems of oppression is interrupted. Each interruption creates a small space, a rip in the fabric of oppression that has the potential to let another power come through.

The authorities can handle rebellion without stepping out of role. But when we speak not to the role but to the human being behind it, when we refuse to automatically defer to the power of a role, we challenge the basic assumptions underlying all hierarchies: that our worth is determined by our role and status. The philosophy and practice of nonviolence as a means of social change is rooted in the premise that all of us have inherent worth. To resist domination, we must act in ways that affirm value–even in our opponents.

We can begin by valuing ourselves, refusing to administer our own oppression, refusing to poison ourselves or numb the pain with substances that soothe but incapacitate, preventing us from making any serious trouble for the system.

We can also refuse isolation. To connect, to build bonds of caring and community, to create structures of support that can nurture us and renew our strength, are powerful acts of resistance.

QUESTIONS ABOUT REBELLION

Consider these questions in individual meditation, journal writing, or group rounds:

When in my life have I rebelled? How? With what success? At what cost?

What choices did I see that I had? Were other choices possible? What?

What might have been different?

WITHDRAWAL

“The only way to make it with the bosses is to withdraw into yourself, both mentally and physically–literally making yourself as small as possible.”12

There are many women in the jail who are neither compliant nor rebellious. Instead, they have retreated to their cots and sleep out the action, or sit quietly in a corner. Withdrawal is another way to respond to an intolerable situation.

Camp Parks, June ’82. We are meeting with our legal team, who inform us that the gym in which we are held has been used for many years for experiments with radioactive substances. No one is yet sure exactly how much danger we may be in.

I am standing on the outskirts of the group. I listen to the arguments.

I say to myself, “I cannot deal with this while I’m in here. I can’t think about it.” And I don’t.

Denial is a form of withdrawal, for when we withdraw, we shut out information. We may withdraw to conserve our energy and resources. Shutting out what we cannot cope with may give us time to adjust when we are thrown into a reality sharply different from what we have known before.

Victims and survivors of the Nazi concentration camps most commonly first responded to their ordeal by entering a state of shock, undergoing an “emotional death.” “Entry into the camp world was characterized by an overriding sense of nightmare and unreality–two words which appear constantly when survivors refer to their first days and weeks.”13 In the camps, the Nazis literally created a different reality, one of such extremes of horror and cruelty that for most people it seemed to have no connection with their former lives. The camps could be comprehended only as a terrible dream.

Withdrawal cushions us from feeling the full impact of our situation. But it is ultimately dangerous, for wrapped in our cushion we are cut off from information and observations vital to our survival. “It was deadly to remain within the dream. Prisoners unable to shake off their sense of unreality could only drift as one drifts in dream, defenseless and stupid.”14 Those who did not succeed in waking became the so-called “Musselmanner,” the ‘moslems’ or ‘walking dead,’ for whom time ran out before they were able to shake the sense of nightmare and wake to their predicament. They starved, they fell sick, they stumbled into situations that got them killed. . . They died inwardly, and as their spirit withered their outward aspect was terrible to see.”15

“They behaved as if they were not thinking, not feeling, not able to act or respond. . . Typically, this stopping of action began when they no longer lifted their legs as they walked, but only shuffled them. When finally even the looking about on their own stopped, they soon died.”16

Those who survived the camps somehow found the strength to awaken and name the nighmare real, to turn and continue turning “from passivity to action–from horror to the daily business of staying alive.”17 Survival, itself an act of ultimate resistance, required paying “sharp attention, not to the horror or to their own pain, but to the development of objective conditions which had to be judged constantly in terms of their potential for life or for death.”18

Unless we can grasp the reality in which we find ourselves, we cannot change it. When I refused to comprehend the reality that I and my friends were locked up in a place that might be contaminated with radioactivity, I tacitly accepted that we were powerless to do anything about our situation. Because we were only in jail for two days, the situation was not critical. Had we been held there for weeks or months, our acceptance of our powerless position could have led to damaged health and reduced life. Withdrawing, we were unable to act. Had we faced our situation, we might have been able to change it.

When we withdraw, our gifts, our perceptions, our energies are lost. The realities of domination go unchallenged.

To resist is to engage reality, to act. Awareness, emotion are not enough. Resistance is only real when it is expressed through action.

In turn, the action we take nourishes and strengthens us, for acts of resistance against systems that destroy us are ultimately acts of survival, creation, and nurture.

We often think of resistance as negative. “I don’t want to focus energy on resistance, on the negative,” people say. “I want to be positive, creative.” But resistance is the refusal to be negated by systems of control. When we are embedded in negative systems, only acts of resistance and refusal can move us in positive directions. Only by refusing to withdraw, to blank out and disappear, can we become present in the world and begin to create. And creativity itself may be an act of resistance, the ultimate refusal to accept things as they are.

QUESTIONS ABOUT WITHDRAWAL

Consider these questions in individual contemplation, journal writing, or group rounds:

In what situations have I withdrawn? What happened? How did I feel?

What information did I not receive? What was going on that I didn’t know about? What choices did I have that I didn’t perceive? What action could I have taken?

When did I awaken? How? What sparked my return to awareness?

MANIPULATION

“I sorted some of the morning’s mail–piles of forms which had to be routed to each engineer for initials before they were filed in several file drawers. . . I stuck the stack of the papers way in the back of the filing cabinet, and I was done. Somebody’s boss was watching, so I read my TempRite magazine.”19

While some comply, some rebel, and some withdraw, there are some who figure out the system and how to best it. When we manipulate the system, we have the illusion of being in control. We can keep the rewards of the system while believing that we are not really complying.

But we are still accepting the system’s terms, unspoken rules, and values, including the lack of value it accords to us. Women in traditional roles supposedly achieve power, money, and status through manipulating men, but such achievements do not challenge the low value placed on women.

When we manipulate, we may become sensitive receivers of information about the system. When we put on the mask of deception we feel conscious, not blank. But in reality our ability to see what’s going on is still severely limited–by the limits of the system itself. We may know everything about how the jail functions and how to get the most out of it for ourselves, but that doesn’t change the fact that we are still in jail.

“He came over to my desk, put one of his thick hands on my in-box, glanced at my tits, and gave me a smile. ‘Well, that’s okay, then, Kelly. We’re glad to have you pitchin’ for us even if you can’t make coffee. Now why don’t you sprint down to the corner and get me a cup of the real stuff.’

“I don’t like to get coffee. ‘I wouldn’t mind going out, but I have some Xeroxing to do for Toole,’ 1 told him, sweetly.”20 In this story from the radical office workers’ magazine Processed World, “Kelly” knows how to avoid tasks she doesn’t want to do–not always successfully (she does, in the end, get coffee) but more often than any of her bosses suspect. She can look sweet while arranging matters so that she has some small control over her work–more than the system allots to her. But the millions of minor acts of sabotage performed by secretaries and workers at the lower levels of the hierarchies do not change the essential structure of the working world.

Manipulation also does not challenge the low value the system places on the self. For in order to manipulate, we cannot be ourselves, express our true feelings, or share our real perceptions. We literally mask ourselves. “Kelly” must smile sweetly; were she to say to the boss “Get your own goddamned coffee, stop patronizing me, and go to hell!” she would simply lose her job. She would have moved from manipulation to rebellion. To move further, into resistance, would require organization and support.

Manipulation may garner for us some of the system’s rewards, or it may drag at the system’s wheels as they turn, but it neither liberates us individually nor changes the collective reality the system creates.

Resistance challenges the system’s terms and categories, counters its assumptions, and communicates other values. Resistance speaks its own truth to power, and shifts the ground of struggle to its own terrain.

QUESTIONS ABOUT MANIPULATION

Consider these questions in individual meditation, journal writing, or group rounds:

When (whom) have I manipulated? How?

How did I feel about myself? What parts of myself did I have to conceal?

What happened?

What other choices did I have? Did I perceive them?

CHOOSING OUR RESPONSES

Responses to punishment systems are similar to the roles children adopt in an alcoholic family. The Hero, the good child, complies. The Scapegoat, the bad child, the delinquent, rebels. The Lost Child, the quiet one who disappears into the woodwork, withdraws. The Mascot, the child who clowns, entertains, manipulates.21 All are responding to a situation in which power is experienced much as it is in any system of punishment: as arbitrary, inconsistent, capricious, violent. All follow the unspoken rules of the alcoholic family, which are the same as in prison: don’t talk, don’t trust, don’t feel.22

The roles, and the rules, are strategies we adopt in order to survive. None of these responses are necessarily bad or wrong. At times, any one of them may be the best possible choice. We play the roles open to us, sometimes one, sometimes another, and in facing systems of power they may seem to be our only options. We need not blame ourselves for following them, although the self-hater in each of us may leap to do so. But we can recognize that the roles, the rules, the strategies of the jail stay with us when we attempt to create something new. They undermine us.

So we must understand them, learn to recognize them. For these patterns carry over into many situations: relationships, families, working groups, businesses, affinity groups. Observing the simple and overt strategies of control in jail may give us insight into the workings of other sorts of groups.

Resistance is hard. We find it relatively easy to commit a single act of resistance, but to sustain that resistance over days, weeks, over a hundred minor issues and constant confrontations, requires a diligence and stamina far beyond what most of us possess. Our admiration increases for those who hold to resistance against greater threats, extremes of pain, privation, and fear, for months and long years. For we find that resistance demands enormous energy. We cannot resist all the time, in every area of life. We must choose our battles and the priorities of struggle.

But knowing that resistance is a possibility makes all our choices real choices. They become part of our resistance, not opposed to it. We can say, “I will obey right now because this issue is not where I choose to make my stand.” We can say, “I will rebel not by harming myself but by making trouble for the authorities.” We can say, “I will withdraw now to conserve my strength but I will return tomorrow with my eyes open.” We can say, “I can use my ability to manipulate the system to prepare the ground of struggle.” We can be conscious when we put on a mask that we are not wearing our true faces–and so retain the ability to take the mask off.

SELF-EVALUATION QUESTIONS

The following questions are for group consideration and feedback. Each person in the group should have a chance to consider these questions aloud and receive a caring response. Allow twenty to thirty minutes per person; in a sizable group, this process might take more than one meeting. If so, be sure that everyone is committed to completing the process.

Which roles do I play in the group? Which masks do I wear?

When? In response to what?

How do I feel in the mask?

How do others respond to me? (Ask for feedback.)

What other choices do I have? (Ask for suggestions.)

What choice would I make if I felt I had power?

Notes

Michel Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison, trans. Alan Sheridan (New York: Vintage, 1979), 183.

Craig Haney, Curtis Banks, and Philip Zimbardo, “A Study of Prisoners and Guards in a Simulated Prison,” in The Social Animal, ed. Elliot Aronson (San Francisco: W. H. Freeman, 1981), 52-68. See also Craig Haney and Philip Zimbardo, “The Socialization into Criminality: On Becoming a Prisoner and a Guard,” in Law, Justice, and the Individual in Society: Psychological and Legal Issues, ed. June Tapp and Felice J. Levine (New York: Hold, Rinehart & Winston, 1977), 198-223.

Solomon E. Asch, “Opinions and Social Pressure,” in The Social Animal, 13-23.

J. Glenn Gray, The Warriors(New York: Harper & Row, 1967), 175.

Haney and Zimbardo, “The Socialization into Criminality.”

Terrence Des Pres, The Survivor: An Anatomy of Life in the Death Camps (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1976), 59.

Milgram, Stanley, Obedience to Authority (New York: Harper & Row, 1974), 88).

Haney and Zimbardo, “The Socialization into Criminality,” 214.

Ibid.

Ibid., 214-215.

Gray, The Warriors, 184-85.

Haney and Zimbardo, “The Socialization into Criminality,” 215.

Des Pres, The Survivor, 82-83.

ibid., 85.

Ibid., 88.

Bruno Bettelheim, The Informed Heart: Autonomy in a Mass Age, (New York: Avon, 1960), 152-53.

Des Pres, The Survivor, 87.

Ibid.

Kelly Girl, “Kelly Call Girl,” Processed World, 13:18

Ibid., 19.

Sharon Wegscheider, Another Chance: Hope and Health for the Alcoholic Family, (Palo Alto, CA: Science and Behavior Books, 1981), 104-105. Claudia Black, in It Will Never Happen To Me (Denver, CO: M.A.C. Publications, 1981), provides a slightly different set of descriptive terms: the Responsible One, the Placater, the Acting Out child, and [the Adjuster].

Black, It Will Never Happen to Me, 31-52.

#resistance strategy and struggle

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loverscrossmp3 · 2 years

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what the FUCK is this mobile update

#got on my phone to check my morning newspaper (the polycule) as one does and was utterly horrified what do u mean the boxes are… rounded??#wdym laura’s talk about the person reading kpop fanfic on the bus was cut short?? the tiktokification of social media will be the reason i #go off grid! an awful start to my morning i hate it here #someone shut her (liv) up!

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calpalirwin · 3 years

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Adventurous Spirit

Summary: Ashton becomes more and more of a (lovestruck) hippie.

Word Count: 1.6k

And away, and away we go!

Ashton’s adventurous spirit was what had drawn you to him in the first place. Sometimes you weren’t sure what he loved more: being a drummer or being able to travel the world as a result. All you knew was Ashton seemed most at home when he was on the road, making the most of every moment, and you were an absolute sucker for someone who loved life with that much fierceness.

With tour dates lined up, and studio time charted out, life at home buzzed with the excitement of what was to come. Then, the world shut down.

The first week, you watched anxiously as Ashton paced about the house, phone glued to his ear as plans B through Z were discussed and refined, tension slowly building up in his neck and shoulders. But with an album release so close, the feeling of restlessness didn’t get a chance to settle in, and for that you were grateful.

About a month and a half into lockdown, you found him sitting on the couch, staring blankly into space. “Hey,” you said softly, sitting down next to him, and pulling him out of his trance. “You good?” you asked, your fingers dragging slowly up and down his arm.

“Hmm?” he questioned, giving a small shake of his head. “Oh… Yeah, I’m good, I guess.”

“You guess?”

Ashton shrugged. “It’s hard to put into words. Like, I’m thankful for the time to slow down. Because I know I sometimes worry you with how much I work. And my body could probably use the rest. But not knowing how long this lasts is… It fuckin’ sucks. Because there were a lot of things I always said I’d do if I just had the time. And now I do. But how much time? How long am I stuck here?”

“Well” you started with a slight teasing tone, “I’m pretty sure you have time to make a garden, and get some chickens if you’re really dedicated to that.”

He giggled lightly, then sighed. “I just hate not knowing. I don’t want to lose myself.”

“Oh, I don’t think you need to worry about that. Just take it one day at a time, and go from there.”

“I suppose that’s true. And hey, I got you, right?”

“Of course,” you smiled at him. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“Good. Cuz I need you more than I can put into words.”

“I love you too, Ash.”

~~~

You both stared at the box of Superbloom merch, you in awe, and Ashton somewhat dejectedly. “Oh, c’mon!” you urged, nudging into his shoulder. “You could be a little excited. You worked hard for this.”

“I am…” he defended. “But I want to do more.”

“More with the release? Or more solo stuff?”

“More with the release. I want to celebrate. I want a chance to play it live. I want everything the guys and I wanted with Calm, and this shit,” he thrust an angry finger in the direction of the window, “won’t go away!”

“So let’s celebrate.”

“How?!”

“We get tested, and we get out here for a bit. Camp in the desert under the stars for a few nights. I dunno. We’ll figure it out.”

“That… is not half bad. But that only solves one of my problems. I miss performing, babe.”

“Virtual concerts are a thing, you know.”

His eyes lit up in a way you hadn’t really seen for months, before he was kissing you passionately. “You! You’re a fuckin’ genius!”

You laughed against his mouth. “Thanks, I try.”

His forehead knocked against yours, his eyes holding yours steadily. “You are everything to me.”

~~~

If there was a downside to suggesting a weekend getaway for the Ashton’s album release, it was that it revived his desire to travel, and the desire was now stronger than you ever remembered it being.

“You’re becoming a hippie,” you joked as you guys woke up in the back of a pick up truck in the middle of nowhere.

“Becoming?” he laughed. “Thought I always was.”

“Well, it’s becoming more prominent now,” you laughed with him, running your hands through his hair. “I don’t think you’ve let your hair get this long since 2016.”

“Ah yes, the first hippie Ash stage. I’ve learned a lot since then.”

“So this is Hippie Ash 2.0?”

“The new and improved hippie.”

You both broke out in a fit of giggles, before you sighed in content, curling yourself into his side. “So where to next?”

“Anywhere we fuckin’ want to. Well… within reason. The guys and I are discussing the next album.”

“Shit, already?”

He shrugged. “Might as well. Gotta be prepared for when the world opens up again. Wanna hit the ground running. Make up for lost time.”

“Well, fuck. Let’s go somewhere with the guys then. A working vacation.”

“Working vacations are my favorite types of vacation. But after the holidays. I’m getting used to lazy vacations where it’s just me and you, and I’m not ready to give that up just yet.”

“Oh, some place with snow would be cool. Maybe a cabin so we don’t freeze to death.”

He took the hint, pulling you into him with the blanket. “Sounds perfect.”

~~~

You awoke to an empty bed, sunlight, light laughter, and weed smoke filtering in from the open window.

“Morning, Luke,” you greeted as you found the blonde in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with his hands wrapped around a coffee mug.

“Mornin’,” he nodded, side stepping out of the way of the coffee machine. “Still practically a full pot if you want a cup.”

“Nah, I’m good for now. Ash?”

“Outside getting high with Cal.”

“Fuckin’ hippie…” you chuckled, headed for the front door of the cabin, Luke’s own laughter following you out.

Calum had a camera in his hand, pointed at Ashton who sat on a couch in his robe, a random disarray of items scattered nearby on the ledge of a firepit. “Oh, hey, Y/N!” Calum said, noticing you first, as Ashton looked over his shoulder at you.

“Hey guys,” you smiled, taking a seat next to Ashton on the couch and leaning into him. “Starting the morning off on the right foot?” you asked with a pointed glance at the ashtray with the cigarettes and blunts.

“Oh, yeah,” Ashton drawled, shifting to wrap his arm around your shoulders.

“Ever think you lean into the hippie stereotype a lil too much?”

“Nah. Haven’t gone completely off the grid.”

“Yet,” Calum snickered. “There’s still time. Luke kinda did, and I’ve never seen him happier.”

“I dunno. I’m already pretty fuckin’ happy.”

“That’s true,” Calum nodded, then clapped a hand against his leg. “I’mma head back in. Maybe shower. Maybe get another cup. You guys good?”

“Yeah, we’re good, mate.”

“You know,” you spoke up as Calum headed back inside, “when this first started last year, I was really worried about you.”

“Worried about me? Why?”

“You said it yourself back then. You’ve always pushed yourself harder than you probably should. I mean, face it, Ash, you’re restless. I was worried about all the things you were worried about. That you’d get stuck, or lose yourself. But then, I dunno. I guess I stopped because I realized how silly it was to worry about you. I mean, you’re you. You’re always gonna make the most of whatever you’ve got. Even if what you got was a year that wasn’t anything like you originally expected it to be.”

“This year was harder than I anticipated. And I did get stuck, and I did get lost. Like those moments did happen. Because you’re right. I’m restless. I’m at my most relaxed when I’m constantly on the move, either doing something or working towards something. So, yeah. This past year fuckin’ sucked. But it was also everything I needed at the same time.”

“Sometimes you gotta lose yourself to find yourself?”

“Something like that, yeah. So, while this past year has taught me a lot, it’s also solidified a lot of things I already knew to be true. Like how I couldn’t have done any of this without you. More than that, I don’t want to do any of this without you. And I wasted too much time trying to reconcile how both you and the band can be the adventures I want to spend my whole life chasing before realizing that I don’t have to.”

“Ash…” you cut in softly. “I’d never make you choose between me and the band. Or me and anything, for that matter. I’m always going to support whatever makes you happiest.”

“No, I know. That’s what I’m trying to say. My life with you in it is what makes me happiest, because you are what makes me happiest. In a year where I didn’t know which way my life was going from one day to the next, the one thing I knew for certain was that I’d have you. It made the dark moments bearable, and the light moments much brighter. That’s not something I want to give up. You’re what I want, now and always. So,” he got up from the couch, reaching into the pocket of his robe as he sank to his knees in front of you. “Marry me.”

You gasped as he snapped open the little box and cool metal slid across your left ring finger, your mind in a whirlwind of both his sentiment, and the fact that he said “Marry me,” more as a direct statement. “Mrs. Hippie does have a nice ring to it.”

“So, that’s a ‘yes’?”

“It’s a million ‘yes’s, Ash. You’re the love of my life.”

“And you’re mine.”

Tag List

@aquarius-hood1996 @creator-appreciator @philthepegacorn @myfavfanficsever @cxddlyash @youngblood199456 @stormrider505 @iknowyouthinkimbulletproof @hoodhoran @metalandboybands @maybeememez @major5sosstan @kaitieskidmore1

#adventurous spirit #ashton irwin #ashton irwin fic #ashton irwin x reader #5sos #calpal irwin

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kirishwima · 3 years

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Your prompts are amazing, may I have a MC, who loves gardening and wants to live in a fairy tale-like cottage surrounded by nature, they are even saving money, however they are willing to give up this dream if it means they can be with RFA+V?

awe, sure! though not my style, i find the cottage-core aesthetic so sweet, and can really see the appeal of this kind of lifestyle ^^

RFA + MC who loves gardening and wants to live in a fairy tale like cottage:

Yoosung:

* Let's be real, when MC describes their dream to him he...doesn't see the appeal

* He loves the city, the amenities that come with living here-most of all the wi-fi, lol, but also the comforts of walking down the street to a convenience store, everything he needs within reach

* Yet...when he sees the way MC's eyes light up at the thought of living this way, how they keep bringing leafy plants and vibrant flowers into their shared apartment, making it into their own little magical place, he can't help but indulge. Would it really be so bad, to live a little further away from the city?

* He's cuddling with MC one day on the couch, when he brings up the topic

* "I was thinking...if we start saving up now, get a fixer-upper cottage for cheap and work on it, I can get a car to drive to and from work-I think we can make it work. Your-your dream, I mean."

* And the smile MC gives him? Makes all the effort they put into this plan worth it.

Zen:

* Oof, Zen..he'd be so split when thinking of MC's cottage dream.

* He wants to give them the world, and for him, these aren't just empty words. If MC asked him for the moon he'd find a way to bring it to them.

* Besides, he sees the appeal of this kind of a life. Being able to wake up every morning, away from the hustle and bustle of the city, no more sounds of motorcycles outside waking him up in the middle of the night, the view of a beautiful garden, grown and tended to by MC greeting him each morning...yeah, he sees the appeal.

* On the other hand, it's not so easy to just pack up their life and move into a cottage. He still has to be in the city every day for filming and practice, has to attend meetings and meet + greets...he could use the motorcycle to travel, but that'd hardly be convenient for them both.

* So he makes a decision.

* One day he comes home, twirling a set of keys between his fingers.

* He'd sold his motorcycle, bought a car-big enough to be able to fit a bunch of their belongings in the back, since a lot they'd be selling, buying new ones together to furnish their new home.

* It's not that he ever felt forced to do this-he just...knew it was time to take the next step.

* And lo and behold, only a year later, he wakes up every morning, the view outside the bedroom window-his and MC's bedroom, being the sight of the garden MC has been tending, MC sleeping quietly besides him. He wouldn't trade this for the world.

* ((Also I can definitely see him having a dog?? It'd be so cute, him coming back home from work to be greeted by his beloved MC and a big fluffy doggo jumping on him with joy ;u;))

Jaehee:

* YES YES YES

* At first she's hesitant-living in the city's all she's ever known, and what MC dreams of sounds...well, just like a dream. Too good to be true.

* Where would they find a cottage? How far from the city would it be? What's even the price range for one?!

* Yet she's so open to the idea-they've already pretty much made Jaehee's balcony a mini-garden, and she loves tending to it as much as MC so...if they were to have a garden, perhaps a vegetable patch in the back, MC's favorite flowers at the front of the house...being able to cuddle in front of a fireplace, living in nature, away from the hectic life in the city...would it be so bad?

* It doesn't take long for her to start looking up houses they could move into, imagining how the shared space between her and MC would be like, smiling at the thought of it-their space, not 'Jaehee's aparmtent that MC now lives in too'-she loves the sound of it much better than this.

* Soon they find the perfect space-a cozy home, further away from the city-in fact they move besides a smaller city, something between a city and a village, really, just far away enough to feel secluded, yet close enough to be able to walk to town each morning.

* They're quick to open up a coffee shop in town, a small cozy space usually frequented by locals, and the occasional passer-by who's travelling through the town. Oftentimes the rest of the RFA will visit them, and well-it's everything both MC and Jaehee could've dreamt of.

Jumin:

* Jumin...he's a little confused, but he's got the spirit

* When MC opens up to him, describes their dream home, he hums. "We can buy a cottage, visit it whenever you want-have someone tending the garden when we're not there so it doesn't wither"

* MC appreciates the sentiment but...it's not what they want. They explain to him that it's not the home that matters, so much as the lifestyle. They want to tend to the garden, want to grow their own vegetables and produce, want to be able to live off the land, keep the busy city lifestyle at bay-not to bar it completely, obviously, just...distance themselves from it.

* Jumin tries to understand, he really does, but for someone who only occasionally goes to a grape farm to relax and then come back to his usual routine it's not easy. It sounds far too idealistic...and in Jumin's case, it is. He would love nothing more than to live in a cottage with MC, but they both know with his work, that's far from feasible.

* He hates how easily MC agrees, how they seem so okay with letting go of their dream-all for Jumin, he...he certaintly doesn't feel like he deserves it. They reassure him that he does, that they love him and just want to be with him, regardless of the where, but still, he can't help but feel bad, wanting to offer to MC everything they could ever ask for.

* Eventually they come to a compromise; they buy a cottage together, with plenty of garden space for MC to work their magic on, where they'll spend all of their free time together. MC refuses to go there when Jumin won't be able to join them, and it warms his heart, to know they want to share this dream, this joy with him...so he does his best to get as much free time as possible (even when poor Jaehee begs him not to lmao)

Seven:

* Um??? Y'all I think that'd be his dream too???

* I know we talk about Saeran a lot and obviously, with Saeran there's no question that he'd be 100% down for this, but Seven...he wants a place to call home, a cozy place for him and MC where he can lay down roots, and I feel like, after getting away from his line of work, he'll want less to do with technology, probably will want to keep his home a little 'smart-less'. No need for talking doors and fancy security systems, not anymore.

* Not to say he'd go completely off the grid-I'm sure that even if the two move into a secluded cottage, he'll still find a way to secure the perimeter, still wary from his past, still afraid of what might come to catch up to him. Plus...he'd definitely have an office/gaming room in there lol, definitely would find a way to get the fastest Wi-fi available even in the countryside.

* But he'd love to learn about gardening, would create fun gadgets to help MC with watering and caring for their plants. I can absolutely picture it, him crouched down over a small growing bud in the dirt, pure joy on his face as he turns to face MC with a proud grin saying 'Look! I planted this one and it's growing!'

* Just. A homey life with Seven. AAAAA :')

V/Jihyun:

* Listen. Listen I know I'm biased towards him, BUT picture this:

* MC and V buy a fixer-upper of a cottage; it's in a state of disrepair, the wood moulded in places, no electricity nor running water connected to it, what was once a garden is now a dry mess of twigs and dirt-

* But they both look at each other, smile, and know-this is the one for them.

* Each venture into the cottage is like a date, laughing as they pull out planks of wood, replacing them with new ones, trying their hand at working out the electric panel themselves-poor Jihyun tries his best but eventually gives up, sighs, and with slumped shoulders calls Seven-who needs an electrical company when you got a tech genius of a friend?

* It's a slow run, but soon the fundamentals are fixed, the walls are painted, the wood is clean and solid-MC takes care of the most work concerning the garden, reviving it back to life. While at first they just clean the mess and lay new dirt, they soon see the fruit of their labor grow as buds spring to life, as flowers they planted bud, a climbing rose latching onto the side of the house.

* Eventually it's not a house, but a home, the way the sunrays hit through the window-panes, how little dust particles dance in the sunlight; it's the exact opossite of a minimalistic house, there's trinkets in every available surface, the top of the fireplace is littered with things the two of them have collected during trips and travels-ranging from weird-looking sea shells to gorgeously crafted souveneirs, photos of them and their loved ones adorning the walls. There's always a messy blanket or two draped over the couch, from the late nights they spend cuddling and reading or just chatting with one another. The kitchenette has a whole rack full of spices, a myriad of plants on the windowsill-most are herbs used for cooking, ones that Jihyun still has a hard time differentiating between-it's not uncommon that he'll put mint instead of thyme into his cooking, still...it tastes good, because it's cooked with love, and care.

*It's everything they both could ever dream of.

-masterpost-

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halo-charlie · 3 years

Text

This was supposed to be a short post about what I thought would happen if Dream attempted to rekindle his friendships, but then thoughts happened and... I accidentally made a whole AU in my head.

enjoy!

——————————————————————

Dream said that he was planning on going far away and living out in the uncharted territory of the SMP due to most people wanting him dead at the moment. He doesn’t wanna go alone- he’s never had to live alone before. So, of course after the ash settles, he goes to Sapnap, stance apologetic. unarmed. Sapnap is a closed door, though, and frankly has to use every ounce of self control not to put an arrow between Dream’s eyes for even attempting to convince him to go out there and live like Dream hadn’t done awful things.

Dream half expected this response though. once Sapnap had broken free from the threads of control that dream had him wrapped around he was forever aware that Dream was manipulative. Sapnap was too intrepid to go back to Dream, had too much pride to give into the memories of chasing and playing and fighting alongside each other.

Dream knew Sapnap would do this. He just had to try.

However, George was always an enigma in the ways that dream would never know what he was motivated by. George wasn’t like Dream or Sapnap in that way - not willing to scream out emotions and motives blindly in battle. He was a brand of calculated and reserved. so, by this logic, Dream visited George next.

There was still rubble on the path leading to George’s home in the mountain from when it had been destroyed and rebuilt by the former king himself. Dream didn’t even know if George currently resided in El Rapids or not - but after seeing embers from torches floating through the windows, a pit settled in his stomach. It felt like butterflies, but had the sting of wasps. He stood stiffly on the doorstep, fighting back a shiver from the night’s cold.

George had every right to leave him out here all night, and to wordlessly stride past him in the morning and not even acknowledge him, only interaction between the two being George’s radiating distaste. Hatred.

But of course, the door opened and warmth seeped into Dream’s skin, not as violently as the cold. Sure enough, before him stood one of the people who helped to build the foundation of this world. The person he held closer, protected more valiantly, and had the hardest time pushing away.

George didn’t look physically different. However, his aura was guarded, which Dream never had to experience before. When they were alone together before, they both broke down walls that had been constructed so carefully to protect them from the judgement of strangers.

George held a sword in one hand, held at his side. Not wielded, but at the ready. And that struck Dream in a way he had never expected. Hurt melted his civility, and his stance softened.

“George.” it was pleading, quiet. Like they were surrounded by crowds instead of hills and meadows.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Dream let out a shaky breath. “I have to talk to you.” This was a whole different person than the one who had disposed of an entire nation the day previous. This was dream. This was the same person who had built the community house. Who stopped bickering between Sapnap and George with a fondness that couldn’t be matched.

George huffed a mocking, empty laugh. “Talk to me? Are you sure you’re not here to kill me? That’s normally the next step after betraying your best friends and becoming some crazed psychopath.”

Dream winced, the words hitting like shards of glass. This was George’s defence mode: cover the emotion with sarcasm and insults so that they hit a home run to the person’s heart.

“Please, George, let me come in. I won’t be long.” Dream hoped the gentle tone would be enough to infect George’s most recent memories of him, which had been him at his most violent. He hoped it would take George back to the days where they would daze in the fields next to the closest village.

Apparently it worked, because George pushed the door open wider, allowing space for Dream to enter the cottage. An opportunity, a chance. this was already further than dream had gotten with Sapnap.

Dream shifted awkwardly, unsure whether to sit or not. He noted how George kept the sword by him, disappearing into another room and appearing with a bundle of sticks, adding them to the fire in the corner of the space.

“Sit. I’m still brewing, but I can listen.” George told him, and Dream perked up a bit.

“Brewing? What for?” He knew George wouldn’t be brewing potions to use in a battle, so the curiosity got the best of him.

“Health potions. Turns out, it’s hard to control who an explosion hurts.” The venom was intertwined in his words, and George held up his hands and forearms to show Dream several burns and scars. Dream had assumed the dried blood on George’s shirt was Sapnap’s, and that already hurt him enough. Now seeing it was George’s, it cut a bit deeper. George’s face held no trace of any emotion, and at that moment Dream just wished George would start shouting at him, screaming, hitting him. Anything would be better than him staring at him with that vacant expression, devoid of- anything.

That was one thing that Dream had never seen George do- lose his composure. He was silently begging for him to do it now.

“George...” he began, searching for an apology in his words as guilt enveloped him. “I told you to stay away. You knew it was happening.”

George did another one of those empty laughs, turning back to the stand which held the glass bottles of water. “Unlike you, Dream, I wasn’t going to leave Sapnap to go out there and lose his life.”

Dream’s memory flickered back to the day before, when he had watched Sapnap swing furiously at Technoblade from the grid of obsidian above. Out of everyone fighting, Sapnap had come the closest to giving them a conclusion. However, at one point when Sapnap had taken one too many arrows, George had to drag him to cover from the blast. Dream had specifically instructed Techno to avoid them, spare them if it came to it. So when Techno approached an unconscious Sapnap being patched up by George with his back turned, Dream fired a warning shot. The flaming arrow from the sky was enough to make Techno look up, and Dream narrowed his eyes. Techno took the hint, briskly moving on to fight the next person.

Dream blinked away the hazy memory, focusing his gaze back onto his friend. He swallowed thickly, “Sapnap has no interest in talking to me.”

“And what makes you think I do?” George questioned as he measured out a handful of nether wart before adding it to the top of the stand.

 “Well, I’m here, aren’t I?”

George gave him a look. “I know you would have stayed out there all night. You’re just the type of person to be that stubborn.”

Dream didn’t confirm nor deny, though they both already knew George was right. “It’s not safe for me here right now,” Dream continued, watching George light a spark to the golden powder. George dropped the metal utensil he was using to measure onto the counter, it landing with a frustrated clatter.

“Then why are you here?”

His tone was cutting.

Dream moved in his chair so that he was facing George more, gaze remaining gentle and voice quiet. “For you.”

George let out a sigh to himself, trying to mask it as bitter, but the shakiness of it revealed everything. He made his way across the room and sat opposite Dream. He tried to keep his stare and body language closed off. “You made a mistake coming here then. These walls may have burned before, but you lit the final match when you turned on us. There is nothing left for you here anymore.”

Dream knew that ‘here’ wasn’t just talking about this home. The home he had went to seeking safety and warmth, and that he was always given. The home he visited and was greeted with arms wrapping around him, which felt so much more protective than the embrace of armour, cool metal against his skin. Everything that he had given away was now just hitting him. Everyone he had turned against him due to his actions. “You would have died as king.” He murmured.

“You don’t know that.”

“The possibility was enough to convince me.”

“What are you looking for, Dream?”

His breath hitched in his throat at the question. How come it was so much easier to ask Sapnap? He pushed away the thought for now. “I want you to come with me.”

The silence rushed back in waves, and George stood up, returning to the counter with his brewing stand. Dream could only watch his meticulous movements. George was always in his element with this type of thing. His hands weren’t made to hold blades. They were made to construct, to heal, to love. Dream held his hands out in front of himself which he had unknowingly clenched. They were rough and callous, perfectly crafted for the hilt of a sword. To hurt. He retracted his hands back to arms of the chair.

“Come with you.” George repeated, and Dream nodded in confirmation. “You want me to leave my friends to go with the person who caused mass destruction over, what, plastic? You took my position from me.”

Dream stood. “George, I gave you the position without knowing the danger that it put you in.”

“You were my knight. You were supposed to get rid of the danger.”

“And I tried to do that, but I couldn’t always be there when I also had to monitor L’Manberg. I took the kingship away to prote-“

“Protect me, Dream? Really?” George turned to face Dream. “You know, you were right about one thing. I never cared about being king. I didn’t even care when you took it away. It was never about me being king, Dream. We both know that. You hurt us. You said yourself that you never cared about u-“

“I didn’t mean it.”

George narrowed his eyes. “Don’t lie to me. You know I hate that. You only care about those stupid fucking discs. So don’t even try to lie about wanting to protect me. You used Sapnap and I to make you look more powerful. It’s always about power for you!” He exclaimed, exasperation and anger now fueling his words.

Dream took a step towards George. “George, you were already helping Quackity with Mexican L’Manberg, which in itself was creating conflicts! It went directly against the reason I crowned you as king!”

“Whatever, Dream. The answer is no.” George approached Dream, now only a few feet of space between them. “Did you hear that? I’m sure you’re shocked. My answer is no. I’m not going with you. Now, get out of my house.”

And just as George was about to turn, a gloved hand grabbed his wrist, and he turned back to Dream who’s expression was now blank. The mask helped to cover his trembling features. “I didn’t want to do this. I promised myself I wouldn’t do it again,” Dream began, his voice already regretful.

George attempted to pull his hand from the vice grip with no luck, fear now clouding his thoughts. “Dream? Dream- let go. What are you talking about?” The bite that was previously in his words had left.

Dream revealed nothing. “I’m sorry, George.”

“What? Dream, stop, you’re scaring m-“ He was cut off as Dream brought his hand up and rest two fingertips on George’s forehead, and immediately his vision started to haze.

“Wait, no! Dream, not this again, please. I’ll go with you! We can go far away from here!” George pleaded, but he could already feel his free will being twisted. Dream weakly shook his head. “I’m only doing the best for you, George. This way I can protect you.”

Anger now replaced George’s fear as his body went limp. “You’re a cheater. We aren’t NPCs, Dream.” He seethed.

“Shh, just go to sleep. It’ll be over soon. You’ll wake up and realise you’re supposed to come with me.” Dream steadied George and slowly lowered him to the floor. George couldn’t fight the unconsciousness that was taking over him. “I’ll f-find out… and stop y-you…” Those were the last words George said before he fell into a sleep, and Dream shifted him slightly.

Dream got to his feet, staring down at his unconscious friend. The guilt wasn’t strong enough to stop him.

They would leave in the morning.

———————————————————————

> 2114 words

#dream #dream smp #dream team #georgenotfound #mcyt #sapnap #roleplay #au #c!dream #c!george #c!sapnap #writing #drabble #fic #my fic #dreamnotfound #dnf #dreamwastaken

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sicparvismorrigan · 3 years

Text

Crisis of Faith

The will of God brings a young and impressionable Trinity soldier to the attention of Commander Konstantin.

Tomb Raider/Rise of the Tomb Raider/Konstantin

Viewpoint: 3rd person female Trinity soldier OC

Warnings: blood, descriptions of violence, PTSD, religious fanaticism, stigmata

Word count: ~2.5k [complete]

A short fic I wrote because I wanted to play with Konstantin’s heavily religious side.

Read on Ao3

Death.

Ailish sat up on her cot, freezing cold. She was drenched in sweat and panting heavily. It was pitch black in the gulag and she tried to slow her breathing so she wouldn’t wake her comrades. She listened carefully, there was snoring coming from all directions. Nobody had heard her, not yet.

She was safe. She was surrounded by big men with weapons, nothing could hurt her here. All the prisoners were securely locked up. Ailish reached down and felt the comforting cool steel of her own pistol in its holster.

She breathed in deep and counted 1...2...3... before breathing out again. Her pulse was still racing and she could feel her heart trying to leap out of her ribcage.

Safe. I’m safe.

It had been nearly two years since Yamatai and Ailish still had nightmares. She knew exactly what it was: Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. She had heard the guys talk, knew some of them struggled too. She had seen a few get discharged because of it. She’d spent a long time trying to convince herself she was fine. But in fact, she really wasn’t.

She needed air. Ailish quietly got out of her cot and shrugged on a few more layers before making sure her pistol was strapped to her body, just in case. She tiptoed past the guys by the light from her torch, and made her way out to the old guardhouse that was their temporary mess area. She just wanted some space to calm down.

Empty, thank God. The embers of the fire were enough to keep the warmth going. She pulled up a chair and settled in to watch the glow.

She kept replaying the last moments of her nightmare over and over in her head, despite trying her best to push it away. They were in that god-awful pit again, suffocating from the fumes. She checked ahead and yelled Clear! back to her second, Charlie. As he moved past her she heard something big land on the rock of the cavern floor behind them. Charlie swung back around and screamed at her to get down as a God-awful roar filled the cave, rattling her bones. He raised his gun to fire and Ailish shrieked at him stopitsgonnablow-

bang bang

BOOM

A flash of white light, then darkness. Waking up in terror once again from the memories that haunted her every night. At least she was alive, she had made it out. Charlie hadn’t, she couldn’t save him. She still blamed herself. The guys had tried to convince her again and again it was an accident, but she should have been there. In her dreams, she’d seen Charlie die a hundred times over, each more horrible than the last.

She had never been so close to quitting as she had after Yamatai. She had composed her resignation letter in her head on the helicopter ride back to civilization, but had never written it. Something told her it wasn’t time yet. She’d spent just over three years working with Trinity at that point and never questioned her beliefs before the clean-up mission to that hellhole. By all accounts it was even worse during the Nishimura expedition. She shuddered, it didn’t bear thinking about, how anyone could survive there for any length of time she’d never know. So many bodies. And in some places, the smell, it was unholy.

It didn’t help her sleep at night, but at least she had got a promotion out of it. The salary was great, which was a major reason for her staying put. Ailish was trying to help her parents put her younger sister through Yale, and every cent counted. Her mom and dad had just been grateful, and thankfully hadn’t yet asked where the money had come from. She didn’t want to have to lie. They’d hit the roof if they ever found out. As far as they were concerned, she was still working as a paralegal in Chicago. God, she missed her sister. She hadn’t seen her in months, and now Ailish was off-grid in Siberia. Freezing cold, snowy, desolate Siberia.

She was startled out of her thoughts by a voice outside. A deep voice, American accent. It sounded a lot like the Commander. She really hoped he wouldn’t come into the guardhouse. He was intimidating, and she’d never been in a room alone with him before. He sounded like he was talking on the phone.

“...and what did the doctor say?”

...

“Okay...Ana, are you smoking?”

...

“Yeah, I know, but-“

...

“Listen, she’s on the move. She may even already be in Siberia. I need you back here.”

...

“Got it, see you soon.”

Who was Ana? Was it his wife, girlfriend, daughter? Who was the other ‘she’ he was talking about?

Ailish heard footsteps coming up to the door and the latch lifting. Oh boy, here we go. I wasn’t eavesdropping, Commander, I swear.

He stopped dead when she saw her at the table. Obviously not expecting anyone else to be awake at this hour. He slid the cellphone he was carrying into a pocket and nodded at her before closing the door behind him. “Sergeant.”

“Evening-“ Ailish checked her watch. “Ah, morning, Commander. Sorry, sir. I’ll get out of your way.” She slid her chair back to leave.

“Stay. You were here first.” Ailish sat back down immediately, wide-eyed. “What are you doing up so late?”

“I couldn’t sleep, sir.” Not strictly true but she didn’t want to feel like a little schoolkid telling her superior she had a bad dream.

“Likewise.” He pulled up the chair opposite her and sat down with a sigh.

Something was bothering him, he seemed fidgety. Ailish didn’t really know what to do so she started twiddling her thumbs and rambling to fill the silence. “Gee, the weather’s really turned these past few days, huh? Ha ha...kind of makes me wish we were back in Syria. Although it was almost too hot-“

He cut her off. “Moscovitch, isn’t it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We’re not on duty, you don’t have to call me sir.”

“Uh- yes. Okay, si- eh...Command- uhmm...”

“Konstantin is fine.”

“Okay.” It felt weird. Ailish wasn’t even sure if that was his first or last name. “You can call me Ailish. It’s slightly less of a mouthful than Moscovitch.”

“Don’t hear that name very often.”

“Yeah, it’s a weird one...my parents have always had this fascination with Ireland. It means ‘noble and kind’ or something like that...I dunno...”

He looked at her for a long moment. Ailish opened her mouth to speak again when a wolf howled up in the mountains. She grabbed for her pistol and her other hand tightened on the edge of the table until her knuckles turned white.

Konstantin saw her reaction and frowned. “Relax, it’s just a wolf, they don’t come down here-“

“Yeah, I know.” She started hyperventilating and bit her lip hard to fight back the tears. For God’s sake, don’t cry in front of the Commander. She hated hearing the wolves at night. Rationally, she knew they were miles away, but the sound still caused her pain.

For a moment she was back on Yamatai, wedged in a rocky crevice listening to the snarling as they hunted for her. The smell of rain, tree sap and decay all around. Her hands shaking as she pointed her rifle at the opening, just waiting for jaws and teeth to emerge around the corner and grab at her.

“Oh, shit.” This was going to be a bad episode. She’d had panic attacks increasingly often and could spot the signs of one approaching. Fortunately they usually hit when she was alone or could sneak away, but now she had no such luxury. Ailish knew this one had her beat.

Konstantin’s mouth tightened. “Language.”

She had time to blurt out “Terribly sorry sir!” before she slid off the chair onto the floor and crawled under the table.

The tears were now pouring out and rolling down her cheeks. What an embarrassment. She’d fought so hard to prove she was equal to the guys, and now she was being a silly little girl.

She felt the Commander’s boot gently tapping her back. “Mos- Ailish? Are you okay?”

“I will be, in a minute.” She panted.

Through the panic she heard the other chair scraping backwards. To her surprise Konstantin crouched and got down to her level under the table, facing her. Was he supposed to do that?

“You’ve normally got it together, Moscovitch.” Oh no, back on a last name basis. She’d definitely messed up. “Want to tell me what’s going on?”

Ailish shook her head, squeezing her eyes shut. “Just need a sec.”

The only sounds in the room were her panting and the low crackle of logs in the burner. She felt his gloved hand on her shoulder.

He quietly spoke. “Listen, I read the Yamatai report.” It was strange, how calming his voice was.

Ailish looked up, misty-eyed. “Yeah?”

He nodded. “I didn’t know they’d be sending a woman.”

“I’m just as capable-“

“Quiet. I’m saying it’s impressive you completed the mission, and even led part of the way, that place sounded like a nightmare.”

“It was.” Charlie, I should have saved you.

“And I am sorry you lost Corporal Collins. I know you were close.”

“Yeah...” she sniffed loudly. Her heart still hurt, so much. “He was like a brother. Charlie would have done anything for me. And I would have done the same for him.”

His eyes softened. “I know what that’s like.”

It meant a lot to Ailish, getting commiserations from a Trinity leader. Normally, you could forget about that sort of thing. Rourke had co-ordinated the Yamatai mission and hadn’t said a word to her when he had met them back on the mainland for debriefing. Dominguez had been silent too, though he had been one of those who had approved her promotion. They could be a heartless, insensitive bunch sometimes.

But she hadn’t expected the Commander to have a soft side. He actually reminded her of Charlie. Konstantin had a scarred-up face but there were similarities for sure. Blonde hair, blue eyes, they walked with the same purpose. He wasn’t bad-looking actually, as long as the light was dim.

Ailish eventually rallied and crawled back into her chair, still breathing quickly. Konstantin sat down too, regarding her with something akin to concern.

“Tell me the real reason you’re here by yourself in the middle of the night.”

She swallowed hard. “I...I have nightmares still.”

He shook his head. “I think you should talk to someone about this. If you’re serious about staying with Trinity. It would be a shame to bail out now that you’re a Sergeant.”

“I’m fine.” Ailish mumbled.

“You’re really not. I know someone who might be able to help, a doctor.”

“No, honestly...” Please no doctors, they might kick her out. She needed the money for Ellen’s tuition, she had to stay.

“I trust her, she’s with Trinity. Her name’s Wilkens. If I order you to see her you can’t say no.”

“Then I suppose it’s settled.” Great, just great.

“Indeed.”

He suddenly pulled his gloves off and took her hand in his. Ailish fought not to pull back out of his grasp. Was this really appropriate? Her free hand was reaching for her pistol when she realised he was just checking her pulse.

“Much better. Almost back to normal.”

She managed a small smile. “Thank you Commander.”

Ailish realised her hand felt strange under his, like a bug was crawling on her. She glanced down and started. “Your...uh, your hand is bleeding.”

Fresh blood was running down between her fingers onto the table. It was creepy as hell, she tried not to shiver. She’d been a bit squeamish about blood since she’d seen a literal underground river of it in Japan.

He didn’t react, just looked straight into her eyes. Ailish didn’t know what he expected her to do. She could still feel it trickling down her skin. Was he not alarmed that his hand had just started pouring blood? She was becoming visibly uncomfortable when he finally answered her.

“They’re old wounds. It happens sometimes.” He held up his other hand, palm facing towards her. “See?” That one was also dripping crimson.

Ailish almost gagged. Ugh, now she knew why he wore gloves all the time, even in the heat of Syria. What was the name for those wounds? Stigmata, or something like that. A sign of divine favour, apparently.

The urge to ask how he got them was overwhelming. Actually, she better not, it was maybe a touchy subject. The Commander could be...violent. She’d seen what he could do when he was pissed off. She had the fleeting thought that maybe he would hurt her, or worse, if the mood took him. Everyone else was asleep, who would know?

He spoke, jolting her back to reality. “Did you pray on Yamatai, Ailish?”

She nodded, not breaking the eye contact. “Yes sir, for my life, almost constantly.”

“And you truly believe in what we are trying to accomplish?”

“Yes sir.”

“Hmmm...”

There was a long pause, he seemed to be having an internal conversation she wasn’t privy to. Finally he nodded. “Keep your faith, Ailish. You have already been tested, and you’re still here. I believe you are destined for something greater, like myself.”

“Sir?”

He smiled at her, but it was cold and calculating, he reminded her of a shark. His eyes were suddenly dark and empty.

“The name Ailish is Celtic, yes. But did you know it has a different meaning in Hebrew?”

“You know Hebrew?” She asked in surprise. He ignored her.

“Your name means consecrated to God.”

She wasn’t sure she liked his train of thought. Ailish knew he was one of the more devout members of Trinity, but she didn’t know how deep it ran.

“I’m sorry, Commander, I’m not sure what you’re getting at...”

“I want to keep a closer eye on you, Sergeant. You report directly to me now, do you understand?”

“Yes sir.” She nodded, albeit reluctantly.

“And let me talk to Wilkens. We’ll help you, don’t skip out on Trinity yet.” He finally let go of her bloodstained hand. Ailish could smell it, metallic.

Konstantin stood up, pulling his gloves on. “I have a feeling we’re going to need you for something important.”

Ailish was dumbfounded, what had she agreed to? She didn’t like not knowing, but the Commander wasn’t a man you just said no to.

As he opened the door with a blast of cold air Konstantin turned back, giving her that empty smile again. “Get some sleep, Sergeant. That’s an order.”

“O...kay.” The door clicked shut, and he was gone.

Ailish glanced down at the mess on her hand. She felt like she’d been marked in some way.

Stigmata.

What did he mean?

Consecrated to God. What was it that Konstantin, or some other higher power had planned for her?

What was her purpose?

***

Thank you for reading!

~ Anyone who has read Behind Trinity Lines will recognise the character of Dr. Joanna Wilkens, I couldn’t not include her somehow! She is awesome and I love her. All credit to @BrittanyTheScrivener on Ao3 for Jo’s character. Her work is brilliant, if you haven’t read it I highly suggest you do

~ Sergeant Ailish Moscovitch, her family and Corporal Charlie Collins are my characters, all other characters mentioned are property of the Tomb Raider creative team and I take no ownership of them

~ I feel I should mention that nothing in this work is intended to cause offence or be blasphemous in any way. I myself am not religious at all but I am respectful of those who choose to be and anything I’ve written is only exploring character traits already displayed in the Tomb Raider video games

~ I have no current plans to update this with more chapters, it was intended to be a one-shot. I just really wanted to play with Konstantin’s heavily religious side. But if there is interest I might continue the story...what exactly does Konstantin have planned for Ailish? Where does she fit in with the events in Rise of the Tomb Raider? What will Ana think of her? What would happen if Ailish and Lara ever crossed paths? This could get interesting...

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crystalninjaphoenix · 4 years

Text

Tales to Tell

A Stitched Story

JSE Fanfic

Ah, a longer one. Perhaps not necessarily in word count, but in how much stuff happens. The boys have an encounter with some, shall we say, new magic. And meanwhile, it seems the two halves are having problems of their own. I actually was really glad that I was able to get out a longer story like this, given how I’ve been a bit busy recently. It was fun, too. Enjoy :3

Tagging @septic-dr-schneep for inspiring this AU with this post.

Read where it started: Stitched Together | Season One | Season Two

Previous Season Three story: Torn Apart

Taglist (finally): @bupine @violet--majesty

It was 6:45 am, and Chase had been awake for three hours. He’d been staring up at the ceiling the whole time, listening to the sound of JJ’s slight snores as he tried to get his mind to shut off. Of course, eventually, it was a lost cause, and sat up, looking around the dark room.

He’d been sharing the guest bedroom with JJ and Jack, usually spending the night on the spare air mattress with a sleeping bag. Though it appeared he’d fallen asleep on the actual bed this time. JJ had fallen asleep on the mattress instead, and Jack was nowhere to be seen. Chase couldn’t help but feel guilt curl in his stomach. Standing up, he grabbed his cap, adjusted his bandanna, which he’d apparently fallen asleep in, and quietly slipped out.

Stacy was in the kitchen (also dark, perhaps there was an issue with the power,) shoving the last dregs of cereal into her mouth. She paused for a moment, glancing towards Chase as he entered, then continued. “Uh...hey,” Chase muttered.

“Hey,” Stacy replied. She was wearing her work uniform, the simple skirt and apron that designated her as a waitress at the Dish and Glass diner. “So I have to leave literally right now.”

“Okay.”

“You remember how you promised we’d talk about everything going on with you once I got home, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And also the power’s gone out. I think it must be a problem with the city grid, cause I looked at the fuse box and it seems alright.”

“Okay.”

“...okay, then.” Stacy finished off the cereal, dropping the spoon with a clatter. She stood up, grabbing her purse and jacket from the nearby chair. Chase followed her as she went into the living room and opened the front door. Before she left, Stacy hesitated, and looked back. “You’re not...thinking about doing anything...?” She trailed off.

“Anything what?” Chase asked.

Stacy shrugged. The motion, usually so blunt and casual, seemed more hesitant than usual. “I don’t know. Just...” She sighed. “I hate to bring up old wounds, you know, but...after everything happened, with us, you just sort of...and then...never mind. Just don’t do anything...you shouldn’t.”

Chase nodded slowly. There was a small ache in his chest. “I’m not...being serious about doing anything...I shouldn’t.”

“Um...good.” Stacy nodded. "I’ll see you this afternoon.”

“See you.”

After Stacy left, Chase walked over to the nearest armchair and sat down hard. A few minutes passed. And suddenly, he laughed. “Perfect, now I’m staring at the living room ceiling instead of the bedroom ceiling. Fucking awesome. The patterns here are so much more interesting.”

“Well you do not need to rub it in.”

“Aaak—!” Chase jumped, flailing for a bit before looking over at the sofa. Schneep was laying on it, mostly covered by a blanket. If Chase didn’t know any better, he’d think that Schneep was also staring at the ceiling. “Jesus, man, I’m sorry, didn’t see you there.”

Schneep waved away his comment. “Is fine. I did not say anything.” He fell silent for a moment. “So. I could not help but overhear you two talking.”

“Oh, uh, did we wake you up? Sorry.”

“Not you, Stacy did. She was getting ready.” Schneep turned his head towards Chase. “This is not the point. Are you...Chase, are you okay?”

“I...yeah, I’m fine. Relatively, I mean.” Chase swallowed a lump in his throat.

“Hmm.” Schneep narrowed his eyes. “You said ‘I am not being serious about doing anything I shouldn’t.’”

“Well, I’m not,” Chase protested. “I just...sometimes things happen.”

Schneep didn’t answer for a moment. The silence weighed heavy in the early morning light. “Sometimes they are just thoughts, Chase,” he finally said, almost too quiet to be heard.

Chase sighed quietly and didn’t say anything. It just felt like everything was crushing him right now. Slowly. “I said something awful to Jay before you showed up,” he said quietly.

“Really?” Schneep answered in the same quiet tone.

“I didn’t mean it. It was just...things were getting heated. A-and now I don’t...don’t know what to say to fix it. I tried to apologize. It...came out wrong.”

Schneep paused. “Perhaps you just need more time?”

Chase shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Then you just need to find the right words.”

“I don’t know how,” Chase breathed.

“Well...then it is a good thing you have other friends, yes?” Schneep asked. “If you need an impartial...judge is not the correct word, but anyway, I was not there. I could—”

The doorbell rang.

Chase jumped again, then couldn’t help but chuckle. “Oh my god, the worst timing.” Sighing, he leaned back into chairs. “Probably sales people or something.”

“Ach.” Schneep scowled. “Ignore them. Always trying to sell you things.”

A smile pulled at the corner of Chase’s mouth. “Yeah, I’m pretty sure that’s what sales people do.”

Another ring, followed by a few knocks. “Persistent, whoever they are,” Schneep commented.

“Yeah.” Chase stood up. He was pretty sure that sales people waited at least a few minutes before ringing the doorbell again. He was pretty sure that most people did. “I’ll check it out.” Sighing, he walked up to the door and cracked it open.

An older woman in a neat navy-blue suit was standing at the door, dark hair swept to the back in a braid. She looked very out of place in the family-oriented suburb Stacy’s house was located in. “Hello, my name is Delyth Mae, I’m from the Department of Safety on the local City Council,” she said smoothly.

Chase blinked. “Uh...hi.”

Delyth nodded. “I’m out here with a team. It seems there have been some unusual radiation readings in this neighborhood.”

“...uh-huh.” Chase didn’t know what else to say. He was well aware that most people would’ve been at least a little concerned, but he’d been through worse. At least radiation wasn’t going to kill you right away. Or make you kill other people. Or—

“Ah, well.” Delyth seemed a bit...uncomfortable with Chase’s odd reaction. No, it wasn’t quite uncomfortable. Concerned? Maybe. Interested? Yes, in some way. “Anyway, we’ve traced these readings to this house. May my team and I come inside to see what the problem is?”

“Um...” Chase caught movement in the corner of his eye. He glanced over to see Schneep, now standing up, eyes narrowed and facing the door. “One second,” Chase said, closing the door before Delyth could protest. “What’s wrong?” He asked Schneep.

“I...she feels...different,” Schneep said slowly.

Chase blinked. “‘Feels different’ in the way that you couldn’t feel Jackie or Marvin and they turned out to be...?”

“I suppose.” Schneep folded her arms. “Well, I can feel her, but it is different. It is...spicy.”

Chase stifled a laugh, turning it into an awkward snort. “Spicy?”

“It is the best I can do, okay?” Schneep snapped. “Is...scharf, it verbrennt deine Nase.”

“Why are you talking about noses?”

“Look, do not let her in, okay?” Schneep headed to the hall. “I will wake up the others, I think they must know.”

“Uh, okay.” Chase opened the door again. Delyth Mae was standing there, looking over her shoulder. It was then that Chase noticed the unfamiliar gray van parked on the side of the street. There was a logo on it that read “Department of Safety,” but for some reason, that didn’t reassure him. He’d never heard of the Department of Safety before. “So...” he said, and Delyth immediately turned back to look at him. “This is, uh...actually my ex’s house. And I just remembered, she left for work a few minutes ago. I don’t really want to let anyone inside without her here, you know?”

“That’s very understandable, sir,” Delyth nodded. “But this will only take a few moments, and it really is in the best interest of her, and you.”

“Yeah, uh...can you come back this afternoon? She’ll be back after three.”

Delyth went silent, eyes darting around Chase to try and catch a glimpse of the inside of the house. Then she smiled. “Very well, sir. But if I may ask, may one of my team members take reading from this threshold?”

“You mean, like, on the step?” Chase considered this briefly. That couldn’t really do anything, could it? “Sure, I guess.”

“Excellent.” Delyth turned and waved at the van. Its passenger side door opened, and a younger man, dressed neatly but not as formally as a suit, stepped out and rushed up to the doorway.

“Hi,” Chase said idly. “I’m just gonna, uh, stand here while you...” he trailed off. The young man’s eyes were yellow. No, they weren’t just yellow, they were glowing. How were they glowing? That was odd, but it was...oddly pretty...

The effect was almost instant. Chase found himself relaxing, almost falling over. It was like being wrapped in a warm, familiar blanket.

“Man, that was easy. Barely did anything.”

“Yes yes, can we go inside now?”

“Hey. Let us in.”

Chase stood aside, pushing the door open. A moment later, Delyth walked inside, followed by the man with the glowing yellow eyes and, a few minutes later, another young lady who looked quite similar to the other man. Chase blinked. What...just hap—

He screamed.

The three strangers stopped in their tracks, spinning around to look at him. “What—?” Delyth couldn’t even finish the question, watching in disbelief as Chase suddenly sank to the floor, pressing his hands to his neck and hyperventilating.

“Oh my god, Tavish, what did you do?!” The young woman said.

“I don’t know! Nobody’s ever reacted like that before!” The young man protested.

“Enough!” Delyth snapped. “You two, go search the place! I’ll deal with this.” The other two nodded, and disappeared further into the house while Delyth kneeled next to Chase. “Sir, I understand this is probably overwhelming, but—”

Chase’s hand suddenly shot out and grabbed her jacket, yanking her close. “What the fuck are you?!” He shouted, blinking back sudden tears. “Why are you here? Can’t we have one fucking place that’s safe?!”

“Sir.” Delyth remained remarkably calm, carefully pulling her suit fabric out of Chase’s fist. “It’s okay, we mean no harm. We’re magicians.”

Everything froze for a moment, Chase’s whirling thoughts grinding to a sudden halt. Then he started to laugh. “Ohhh of fucking course! Of course of course of course—” Any recognizable words disappeared into hysterical gasping.

“I understand it’s a lot to take in,” Delyth said evenly. “And I do apologize for making Monroe put you under suggestion. But this is an urgent matter. We’ve been tracking an unusual—sir, please remember to breathe. Evenly. Count the seconds if you must.” She reached out to put her hands on Chase’s shoulder, and he slapped her arms away. “Alright, then. Even breaths, sir.”

Chase ducked his head, pulling up his knees so he could hide his face. His shoulders shook with the effort to control his breathing. It was just—magicians. How did none of them ever think of magicians? Of course if Marvin and Jackie could do magic, then other people would be able to, as well. They weren’t special. JJ had tons of magic books, too. Where else would he have gotten them except from magicians? After a few more seconds, Chase looked up at Delyth, who was waiting patiently. “What,” he hissed, “do you want?”

“We’ve been tracking an unusual magical signature for the past two weeks or so,” Delyth explained. “It has been wandering around, but we did a more in-depth scan last night and found that it’s now stopped here.”

“An unusual...?” Chase repeated, mumbling. Well, he could think of at least six things that could be referring to.

A loud THUD! came from down the hall.

Delyth’s head snapped towards the sound. She immediately stood up and ran towards it. Chase sat, puzzled for a moment, until it hit him like a bucket of cold water: the others. He scrambled to his feet and ran after her.

The door to the guest bedroom was flung open wide, a blue glow emitting from the doorway. Chase and Delyth ran inside, both stopping soon after. The two young magicians were facing Jack, Schneep, and JJ, who were pressed against the wall. The magicians’ eyes were glowing, and the woman had her hand extended, holding a long, white...wand, that was the only word for it. Flakes of ice blue magic drifted around it. A bright blue circle was shielding the other three, curving around them. JJ had his hands extended as well, clearly holding the shield in place. His mask was missing and his hair and clothes were a mess, but he wasn’t faltering. Schneep stood next to him, holding his scissors like he was ready to stab with them at any moment, his scleras strangely black. Jack was behind the two of them, and the first to notice when Chase and Delyth entering. “Chase!” he yelled. “What’s going on?!”

“Uhh I wish I knew,” Chase said. “These guys are like...magicians.”

“Yes, we are magicians,” Delyth repeated absentmindedly. “Nairne, what happened? I heard a noise.”

The young woman—Nairne, apparently—gestured with her head towards the bed. The nightstand had been knocked over and thrown a foot away. Pale blue magic was spreading like frost along the wall and floor. “We heard talking in here, and when we came to check it out, this crazy guy attacked us!”

“Excuse me, you threw that magic at us before I pushed you!” Schneep spoke up, protesting.

The young man—Tavish—scoffed. “Oh hell no, we just walked in and you flipped out!”

“I did not make it physical!”

“Everyone calm down!” Delyth shouted. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Tavish, can you run the seek again?”

Tavish nodded, eyes flashing yellow once before he closed them, muttering words under his breath. After a moment, he pointed at Schneep. “It’s coming from him.” He then moved a bit to point at Jack. “He kind of has a signature, too, but it’s a lot different, and weaker.”

“Wait, what?” Jack said. “Signature?”

Delyth nodded, like she was expecting this. “You two give off distinct magical signatures. We’ve been trying to pin down this one for a while.”

Jack laughed. “Oh yeah, we have magic fingerprints, not the guy holding up the shield, that makes sense.” He glanced at JJ, who shrugged.

“No, the warlock has one, too,” Tavish said. “But it’s not what we were looking for.”

“Hey, uh, don’t take this the wrong way,” Chase jumped in. “But I really don’t like having this discussion while that lady is pointing her magic wand at my friends.”

Nairne shot Chase a nasty glare. “Well I don’t like putting my wand down while your friend is trying to stab me with scissors.”

“I was not going to stab you!” Schneep protested. “Not unless I had to!”

“Alright, look.” Delyth’s eyes flashed purple, and she stomped her foot. The ground shook, and Nairne and Schneep dropped their things. “There. We’re all even, can we discuss this civilly?”

JJ nodded, and lowered the shield. He looked around at his friends. I think this has been a misunderstanding, he said. They might work for the ABIM. I’ve never met anyone from them, but I know they mean well.

“Um...” Tavish coughed awkwardly. “Sorry, are you deaf?”

“I think the signing has something to do with the...situation going on with his mouth,” Nairne muttered.

“Ah yes, the...stitch-uation,” Tavish chuckled.

Everyone else winced. JJ glared at him. Of course, that doesn’t stop them from being insensitive pricks. He finished off the statement with a gesture that you didn’t need to know sign to grasp the meaning of.

“Hey!” Tavish protested.

“Bit of a dick move there, dick,” Nairne said.

“Completely unprofessional,” Delyth said, leveling Tavish with a glare. “Do you want another citation?”

“No!” Tavish rushed to say. “No, not—” He turned to Jameson. “I-I’m sorry.”

JJ didn’t say anything, just folded his arms.

“Ummm anyway,” Jack said, walking around to stand beside JJ instead of behind him. “What was that you were saying? Those letters...ABIM?”

“The Association of British and Irish Magicians,” Delyth said coolly. “Yes, we represent them. For the past two weeks, we’ve been tracking down a strange magical signature.”

“She said that earlier,” Chase said, edging around the magicians to go stand with the other three.

“This investigation was spurred because someone teleported into the midst of our library, which is warded strongly, and should prevent any teleportation.” Delyth’s eyes ran over the group of four. “I was there. I saw someone appear, then almost immediately disappear. Though I did not get a good look, I do think it was one of you.”

“It was me,” Schneep said, raising his hand. “Thank you, now I know that that really happened. Was my back to you? Otherwise I am sure you would remember the scars.”

“Yes, it was just the back, but I recognize your hair. Vaguely.” Delyth clasped her hands together. “Tavish here, though his attitude is something to be said, is one of our best trackers. We’ve been following your signature for a long time.”

“Look.” Schneep stepped forward, in front of the other three. “If I did something wrong, I did not know that I did. I...was still getting used to my abilities. They were going hay-wired. I apologize if I troubled you, but do not bring the others into this.”

Delyth said nothing. Tavish and Nairne stared at her, waiting for a response. Then, slowly, she nodded. “I see. So you don’t know.”

Schneep paused. “Know what?”

“There is an...oddly high amount of soul magic in the city,” Delyth stated.

There was another small pause. “Okay...?” Jack said. “Is that a problem?”

“It is...strange.” Delyth said slowly. “There is only one soul magician in Mirygale, and she has nothing to do with this.”

JJ’s eyes widened. He turned to the others. Soul magic is very rare. It’s a talent you either have to be born with, or have accumulated throughout years of practice. So if there is a strangely high amount of rare soul magic in one given place, it may be cause for concern.

“Um...” Nairne shifted on her feet. “Can we...can someone...?”

“JJ just explained that soul magic is rare,” Chase summarized.

“It is,” Delyth agreed. “And you two—” She pointed at Schneep and Jack. “—are giving off soul-based magical signatures.”

“How can something be soul-based?” Jack asked. “Doesn’t everyone have a soul?”

“Yeah, but not everyone has the right kind of magic that can mess with souls,” Tavish said. “It’s very distinct.”

“So you can understand why we’d want to figure out what’s going on,” Delyth said. “But it seems none of you know anything.”

Chase, Jack, and Schneep muttered in agreement, but JJ looked thoughtful. Jack, can you translate this question? He asked. Can you ask them if a transference spell is soul-based?

“Oh, uh, sure,” Jack said. “JJ just asked if a transference spell is soul-based.”

The three magicians went very still. “How do you know about that?” Delyth asked in a low voice.

“Uh...it’s a long story,” Jack said. “Why, is it...bad?”

“That is very dark magic,” Nairne muttered, glancing back at the other two.

“Something’s off about them,” Tavish said. “We should take them in!”

Suddenly Schneep was holding his scissors again. “Go ahead and try.”

“Hey, let’s not fight, how about?” Chase said, raising his voice. “I wasn’t lying about this being my ex’s house, and she won’t be happy to come back to it trashed. And the girls are still asleep—”

“Are there children in this house?!” Delyth suddenly asked, looking around.

“Yeah, two of them,” Chase said. “I’m assuming they’re still asleep, I might be wrong.”

While Delyth and Chase were talking, Nairne and Tavish exchanged a look. Tavish raised an eyebrow, and Nairne nodded. Nobody else noticed except for JJ, whose eyes narrowed in suspicion.

Nairne suddenly flung her hand outward, sending a spray of white-blue magic outward. JJ was already moving, conjuring up his shield a second time. The magic bounced off it, attaching itself to the walls on either side and and spreading.

“Hey!” Schneep’s head whipped toward Nairne. “That is cheating!”

“Guess you won’t like this either, then,” Tavish muttered, and made a throwing motion at the shield. A ball of yellow light attached itself to the bright blue glow. JJ barely had time to glance at it before the ball suddenly exploded outwards, shattering the shield and sending the four flying.

“What are you doing?!” Delyth’s composure snapped as she yelled at the other magicians.

Nairne bent over and scooped up her wand. “They’re suspicious as fuck, so we’re taking them in! That’s part of the regulations, Mae.”

Schneep suddenly appeared behind Nairne, scissors open wide and held very close to her throat. “You have shitty regulations, then.”

Tavish glanced over at Nairne, then elected to throw another ball of magic towards Jack and Chase. JJ intercepted it, catching the ball in a net of blue magic, which wrapped around it in a sphere and absorbed the explosion. Chase looked away from the flash of yellow, and notices that in the commotion, something fell out of the nightstand drawer. He lunged forward and grabbed the gun by the handle. “Can we all just calm down?!” Jack shouted.

Nairne pointed her wand over her shoulder, a bolt of icy magic shooting out from it and hitting Schneep in the face. He gasped and stumbled backwards, wiping the magic away. Tavish chuckled, and threw another ball over at Nairne and Schneep. Nairne dived away, but Schneep got caught in the blast. He flew through the air and hit the wall hard.

“Enough!” Delyth shouted, eyes starting to glow purple.

Schneep got to his feet. “Yes, enough!” His eyes flashed turquoise, and the world shifted.

The ground seemed to tilt, the air wavering and warping, blurring the surroundings. Chase, in the middle of standing up, fell back to his knees and covered his hand with his mouth. JJ staggered, arms pinwheeling. Jack squeezed his eyes shut.

And suddenly, the four of them weren’t in the house anymore. Instead, they found themselves in the living room of an apartment, one that was familiar to all of them, even though the room was dim, lit only by morning sunlight coming through the windows. Jack opened his eyes. “Schneep...did you somehow take us to your place?”

“Yes,” Schneep said plainly. He was unaffected by the journey.

JJ leaned against the back of the nearest sofa, looking around. Seems not much has changed, he said.

Schneep nodded. “I try to keep it in order.”

Chase scrambled to his feet. “What the fuck, dude?! My kids are still there! With the crazy magicians!”

“I...ah.” Schneep coughed. “I did not think of that.”

“Chase, it’s okay,” Jack said, standing up. “You saw the way that...leader lady reacted to hearing the kids were in the house. She won’t involve them.”

“It’s not so much her that I’m worried about as the two other assholes,” Chase snapped.

They were remarkably rude, JJ signed, frowning.

“Ah...does anyone want something to eat?” Schneep hurriedly said. “I have been stocking the kitchen cabinets.”

Chase sighed, and collapsed on the room’s armchair. “Yeah...fine. I just...” He rubbed his face. “God, Stacy’s gonna be so pissed when she gets back.”

Can she call you? JJ asked. Do you have your phone?

“Uh...” Chase checked his jean pockets, then his hoodie pocket. “Oh, yeah.” He pulled out his phone, turning on the screen. “It’s kinda low, though. I never got around to charging it last night.”

“Your phone?” Schneep asked.

“Fuck, I mean, yeah, Doc,” Chase said. “JJ asked me if I had my phone.”

Schneep nodded. “I am now assuming that any pause you have is JJ speaking.”

“That’s fair.”

“Hey, can we talk about what just happened?” Jack piped up. “Some magicians showed up, telling us that wow, not only is magic real, but there’s a whole magic community with apparently some sort of fucking...I don’t know, government, then they call JJ a warlock, tell us Schneep and I have unique fucking signatures or something, and attack us?”

“I think they were trying to, like, arrest us,” Chase said. “That guy, he had...mind...” He paused, distress flashing across his face for less than a second. “I mean, uh, mines. Like, magic mines. Maybe it was a knockout...thing.”

Jack gave Chase a peculiar, but sympathetic, look, then moved on. “Maybe. Apparently we were suspicious, I dunno.”

“I think the suspicious part was that we knew what this...transference is,” Schneep muttered. He walked over to the edge of the room just so he could lean against the wall.

They said it was very dark magic, JJ said. Which does check out with what we know about it.

Jack quickly translated the signs for Schneep, then added, “Okay, but that’s no reason to immediately attack.”

“There is also a high amount of soul magic in the city,” Schneep recalled. “Which is unusual, yes? Perhaps they thought we were behind it?”

Chase sighed. “We’re not. But...maybe we know who is.”

Silence fell over the group, echoing with memories. “But...Anti is...gone now,” Jack said hesitantly. “So maybe the soul magic will...I don’t know, fade back to normal levels. And they’ll leave us alone.”

“Maybe,” Schneep muttered. He straightened. “Well, my offer of food still stands. Who will come to the kitchen with me?”

“Let’s just all go,” Jack said.

That sounds good, JJ agreed.

Chase looked down at his phone again. “You guys go ahead. I think I’ll...I might call Stacy, try to explain what just happened.”

“Alright. We’ll get you chips or something,” Jack said.

The three of them disappeared through a side door, leaving Chase sitting there. He opened up his contacts, then hesitated. Yeah...he should tell her. He should. Just in case.

— — — — — — —

Stacy was taking her first fifteen-minute break in the back room of the diner when her phone started ringing. She huffed quietly. The ringing had interrupted the mindless scrolling through Instagram that she’d been using to try to relax. She didn’t recognize the number, so she hung up. And then it called again. And once she hung up again, it called. Sighing quietly, she picked up the call, figuring the person was going to keep trying. “Hello?”

“Hi, um, I’m looking for Chase?” An unfamiliar man’s voice asked.

“You have the wrong number,” Stacy said coolly.

“What? Really?” The man said, surprised. “That’s...weird. Uh, do you know Chase Brody?”

“He’s my ex.”

“Oh fuck. Sorry.”

“It’s fine.” Stacy was starting to relax a bit. A spam call probably wouldn’t use such casual language. “Uh, if you want I can tell him you called.”

“Well, he doesn’t know me,” the man said. “I’m a friend of a friend.”

And Stacy was once again suspicious. “How’d you get this number?”

“Through that friend,” the man explained. “I asked him to give me Chase’s number so I could call him for him, but I guess he just remembered yours. That’s...a bit weird.”

“Very weird,” Stacy agreed. “What friend wanted you to call him?”

“What friend wanted me to call Chase?”

“Yeah.”

There was a slight pause, then a sigh. “This is going to sound insane,” the man said. “Anyway, I thought the friend was dead, we kinda all did, but apparently he’s here, and he really, really wants to find Chase but can’t remember his address, or apparently his phone number.” He paused. “The friend’s name is Jackie.”

Stacy was frozen for a moment. Jackie? The Jackie that they’d gone to the funeral of, where Chase has cried the whole time? “Is this a fucking prank?!” She suddenly snapped. “Cause it’s not funny to make—”

“No no no, I promise, it’s not a prank, I have just as much idea what’s going on as you do,” the man hurried to say. “I thought Jackie was dead, but no, he’s...he’s right here. I’m literally staring at him. And he wants to meet up with Chase.”

Stacy sighed deeply. This was going to be more of that bullshit Chase and his friends were getting caught up in, huh? The bullshit that they still wouldn’t tell her about? “Okay, I’ll tell Chase you called, tell him to...check on you or something, I dunno.”

“That would be great,” the man said. “Oh, uh, my name’s Malcolm. Malcolm Akela, you should be able to find my address online or in a phone book or something. Just in case you need something.”

“Uh-huh.” Stacy glanced at the clock. Her break was almost up. “Well, look, I gotta go, but I’ll tell Chase...all this.”

“Thanks.”

The call ended. Immediately, her phone started ringing again, this time with a familiar number. Stacy sighed, then picked up. “What is it, Chase?”

— — — — — — —

Halfway across the city, in a small apartment above a shop, a magician was looking for a flashlight in a dark bedroom. Yvonne silently cursed the strange power outage. She’d use her magic to light up her surroundings, but she needed to save it. After a bit of fumbling in a drawer, she found it. “Aha! Torch!” She flicked it on. “Let there be light.” Chuckling, she left the room and headed into the living room.

Marvin was sitting on her sofa. It wasn’t a sight she ever expected to see again, but here he was. He looked a bit distant, and had bandages wrapped around the cut on his throat, but was otherwise alright...and alive.

“Alright, here we are.” Yvonne shined the flashlight around the room, briefly flicking a nearby lamp switch to see if anything had changed. Nope. The power was still out. “How are you doing, Marv?”

“Hmm?” Marvin looked up at her.

“How are you doing?” Yvonne repeated. “Like...good, bad, whatever. You know? How do you feel?”

Marvin blinked. “I feel...we’re...not...where’s the other one?”

“Still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Yvonne muttered. “But look, I found something for you.” She crossed the room, making sure she didn’t trip over anything in the dark, until she was standing in front of Marvin. “Look! This thing!” She held up the object she’d found in her closet.

Marvin’s reaction was delayed a bit, but once it registered, he gasped. “Oh!” He reached out and took the mask from Yvonne. It was white, a few designs painted on the surface, most notably the four card suits arranged in a diamond on the forehead. He traced the outline of it, running his fingers over the ceramic. “This...this is mine. Just mine.”

“Yeah, it’s yours.” Yvonne cleared her throat awkwardly. “I’m uh...sorry I could never give it back.”

“Back...?” Marvin turned the mask over, now playing with the black ribbons that would hold the mask on his face. “I...gave it to you. You wanted...to copy it?”

“No, not exactly. I just...well you know, magically-enhanced ceramic, hard to come by. I always said it was an accident waiting to happen, if a spell backfired it could do some serious damage to your face, but you were so confident in the spell, that I just...had to see...” Yvonne trailed off. “Of course, while you were here dropping it off, I...did you...copy a spell from one of my books?”

“Mmm...” Marvin’s eyes clouded over, losing focus. “Spell, spell...spell on loose paper...spells in type...lots of spells...”

Yvonne sighed. “Never mind. Let’s just get this started.” She backed up, rounding around a coffee table, putting the flashlight down on its surface. There was a peculiar looking instrument on the table. It was mainly a giant lens, its diameter larger than a basketball. “Stay still, okay?” Yvonne said, positioning the lens so it was facing Marvin.

He nodded vaguely, still running his hands over the mask, holding it to his chest. “Just mine...” he said, voice barely audible. “Not the other one...not the...”

“It’s your mask, yes,” Yvonne said absentmindedly. She ran her hands along the edge of the lens, the silver frame holding it becoming alight with blue and hints of yellow. As she did so, she stifled a yawn. She’d been up all night, trying to figure out what the deal was with Marvin. The Soul Lens had only occurred to her a few minutes ago. She began chanting some words, causing the Soul Lens to start glowing with white light. Trails of blue and yellow magic dripped over the glass, swirling iridescently like the surface of a bubble. Until it suddenly cleared. Yvonne bent over, peering through the Lens.

Through the Lens, everything had lost its color, being seen in shades of gray. The room was still dark, except for a light coming from Marvin. She stared intently at it, eyes wide. After a few silent moments, the Lens powered down, and she straightened, shaking her head. “Marvin...” she said in a hushed tone. “I was right. Your soul is broken.” That was the only word she could think to describe the fragmented way the light had appeared. Also, the Lens couldn’t show it, but she’d detected something...foreign...when she’d first sensed his soul. “What the fuck were you doing?”

Marvin didn’t answer, closing his eyes and leaning back against the sofa.

“Jesus...” Yvonne shook her head in disbelief. This was way, way beyond her knowledge. What was she supposed to do next? She couldn’t go to ABIM, they didn’t trust her and she didn’t trust them. Was it possible there was something in her storage that could help?

She was so lost in thought that it took her a moment to realize there was something glowing outside her window.

Marvin noticed it first, sitting up straight and twisting his head to the side to look at it. He gasped, and started to laugh.

“Marvin, what—what the fuck is that?!” Yvonne ran over to the window. For a second, her first insane thought was that magic worms were trying to get inside. But no, as she got closer she realized it was string. Green glowing string, cut into various sizes, none longer than her forearm. They were wiggling as if alive, trying to squirm their way through the window seam. “No! No, out!” Yvonne double-checked the lock on the window, looking back at Marvin. “Is this your fault?! What is this?!”

Marvin grinned. “It’s me! Us? All. Shards, missing missing, put together, held together.”

“What the actual criss-cross applesauce hell does that mean?!” Yvonne looked back at the window. The green glowing strings were bunching together. As she watched, some of them formed into...a hand. “No!” She slammed her hands down on the windowsill, eyes flaring sky blue. A shockwave of blue and yellow magic burst outward, sending the green strings flying into the distance. They disappeared into the sky, and Yvonne took a moment to catch her breath. “Impressive Sending there,” she muttered. “Must’ve pushed them at least a few blocks away...”

Marvin seemed to slump a bit, somehow disappointed. He closed his eyes again. “It’s nothing, nothing...I-I...we need...it’s not...fair...”

Yvonne sighed, running a hand through her colored hair. “Well, life’s not fair.” She turned back around. “What do you need, Marv? What do you want? What can...what can I do?”

“Need...” Marvin opened his eyes. They flickered green. “Need...the other one. Want? Want...the...t̢̧h͠e͢m.”

There was something odd about the way he’d said that. “Who’s them...?” Yvonne asked hesitantly.

Marvin grinned. “The puppets.”

— — — — — — —

“I’ll text you the number, okay? For now, it seems like I really need to get home, since apparently you left the kids home alone with some strangers.”

“Sorry,” Chase muttered. God, he couldn’t do anything right, could he?

Stacy’s voice softened. “I’ll call you later.” And without further ado, she hung up.

Chase sighed, setting the phone down. This day had been a lot to process. And it was barely eight o’clock.

Jack reappeared in the living room. He smiled at Chase. “Hey, dude. I brought you some chips.” The smile quickly faded. “What’s wrong?”

Chase looked over at him. “Get everyone else in here. There have been some...complications.”

#jacksepticeye #jacksepticeye fanfiction #jacksepticegos #septic egos #septic egos au #chase brody #dr schneeplestein #jameson jackson #jackieboy man #marvin the magnificent #brigid writes fanfiction #the stitched septics #stitchedstories

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n8thegr8 · 4 years

Text

My Avengers Academy Chapter 1: An Old Fashioned Notion

Not everyone is created equal. There are people in this world that are born with privileges and advantages that put them ahead of everyone else. There are people that are born with nothing and must climb their way out of oppression. These lessons of privilege should be taught to children with care and respect. To help them understand. These lessons should not, however, be taught to children with violence.

Peter Parker learned this lesson at the age of five. He laid there motionless; eyes widened as he looked towards the sky. He had bruises on his arms and legs, dirt stained his cheeks, and his head was pounding with pain. All he could do now was crawl into a ball and cry his eyes out.

It was supposed to be a fun day for him; his kindergarten cancelled all classes due to a nearby villain attack which cut out all the power on that grid. A day off of school is supposed to be a fun time for children. It was supposed to be fun for Peter. It was, at least in the beginning.

He had a playdate with his best friend in the world, Eugene “Flash” Thompson. He was so excited when his aunt dropped him off at his house; he couldn’t wait to play hero. Their playdates consisted mostly of watching old footage of battles between heroes and villains, and any live fights happening on the news. Today, however, was different.

“Hey, Pete, wanna ditch this, and go to the playground? I’m getting kinda bored,” Flash said.

“Um, yeah! Let’s go tell your mom and-“

“Nah,” Flash said, “Let’s just go, we’ll be back before she knows anything.” This was unusual for Peter. Going to the park without any adult supervision? His Aunt May and Uncle Ben always told him to never go anywhere without an adult that he trusts. But, he trusts Flash. He wouldn’t let Peter get hurt right? Besides, Flash has this really cool quirk, if any bad people try to kidnap him, he’ll protect him.

Peter agreed, and off they went. Getting out of the house was easy since Flash’s mom was sleeping on the couch in the living room with some sort of bottle in her hand. This usually happened when Peter had a playdate at Flash’s home; his mom was asleep most of the time, letting them have free reign of the house. Whenever Peter asked why his mom sleeps so much, Flash would say, “She just works a lot, okay? Stop asking.”

The journey to the park, however, was difficult because they had to stay out of sight, so no adult would see them and call their parents, or aunt and uncle in Peter’s case. They ran from bush to bush, and jumped fences to get to their destination. Eventually, they came to the wall that separated the park from the playground. It loomed over the two kids, and it cast a great shadow over them. To Peter, it was the highest wall he’d ever seen.

Peter heard Flash chuckle. “This wall ain’t nothing to me.” Flash’s arms became covered in this black goop. The goop seemingly crawled up his arms and eventually to his hands, turning his small hands into big claws. Flash looked at Peter. “Lemme show you how a man climbs a wall.”

Flash stepped back five steps and then dashed towards the wall, jumped, and stuck to the wall, digging his claws into the concrete. Peter watched in awe as Flash effortlessly climbed up. Once Flash got to the top of the wall, he peered down and looked at Peter, flashing him a toothy grin.

“Well, come on!” he exclaimed.

Peter stared at the wall. Noticing it’s craggily state, how long has this wall been standing? Before he was born? Before Auntie and Uncle were born? Before quirks?

“What are ya waiting for?!” yelled Flash, “Just climb the stupid thing!”

Jolted out of his thoughtful daze, Peter looked for his path to climb up the wall.

“Come on, Peter!”

The more Flash shouted the more nervous he got. Finally, he found his path. Peter took five steps back and then sprinted towards the wall until-

“I AM IRON MAN AND IT IS TIME FOR YOU TO WAKE UP! I AM IRON MAN AND IT IS TIME FOR YOU TO WAKE UP!”

This phrase loudly repeated throughout Peter Parker’s bedroom, bouncing off the walls, and making his ear drums perform a drum solo. He let out a loud scream of confusion as he was rudely awakened by the pre-recorded message. He jolted from laying down comfortably to sitting up uncomfortably. Holding his head in discomfort, Peter groaned. “I hate that dream…” The alarm clock blared on his bedside table. Peter sighed as he clicked it off. It was a special alarm clock, a special edition Iron Man alarm clock, with a small figurine of the hero acting as the “turn off” button. Peter sighed once again and he flopped back on his bed. He took a moment to look around his room. He didn’t know why. It’s been the same for as long as he remembered. Plastered along the walls were memorabilia of his favorite heroes: Iron Man, Captain America, Thor, the Hulk, etc. Figurines of said heroes stood atop his shelves. His walls were a deep shade of blue. His bedsheets were red, but his blanket was Avengers-themed. He was fifteen-years-old, but his room was one of a twelve-year-old. Peter didn’t mind; he really liked heroes. He absentmindedly reached over to his bedside table, and grabbed his phone. The bright screen blinded him for a small moment. His eyes readjusted themselves, and he looked at his messages.

Wanda Maximoff :P (6:30 AM): Get out of bed sleepyhead. May made pancakes.

Pietro Maximoff (6:35 AM): Is my sister at your house? She’s not answering my texts.

Pietro Maximoff (6:36 AM): Never mind lol I took a quick run around town and saw her in your kitchen lol

She’s downstairs? Peter thought. It wasn’t unusual for Wanda to be over before school started, but sometimes Peter questioned if she ever ate breakfast at home. “Your Aunt’s cooking is just too good!” she’d say. He had his doubts, of course. She always said that Pietro was cranky in the morning, so maybe that’s why she spends her mornings here.

“Peter! Breakfast is almost ready!”

Peter groaned as he heard his Aunt’s voice calling for him. “I’ll be down in a second!” he shouted back.

“A second has passed!” he heard a shout from downstairs followed by a hearty laugh.

Oh, Ben, he thought. His Uncle really was a joker.

~A~

“How long have you been mastering the art of dad jokes, Mr. Parker?” Wanda asked inquisitively, “Because you need a lot more work.”

Mr. Parker lowered his newspaper, took off his reading glasses, and gave a thoughtful look. Mr. Parker was wearing what he always wore: an ugly red sweater with aged blue jeans. “It’s my look!” he’d always say whenever he was questioned about his choice of apparel. “Well let’s see… when Peter was born! His father hated whenever our dad joked with us, and I just knew that he wouldn’t do it for Peter. So I wasn’t going to let Peter live his life without the best form of humor.”

Wanda rolled her eyes. Highly subjective opinion he’s got there, she thought. She turned her gaze to Mrs. Parker who was just finishing cooking the last pancake. “Mrs. Parker, how do you live with this?”

“A strong will and wine, my dear,” she said, grabbing the plate of pancakes and bringing it to the table where Mr. Parker and Wanda sat, “A strong will and wine.” Mrs. Parker was also wearing what she normally wore. Underneath her cooking apron, was her usual yellow shirt and blue jeans. Unlike her husband, she knew fashion, which Wanda appreciated.

“Oh please,” Mr. Parker said, “You love it; you know you do.”

Mrs. Parker chuckled as she put down the plate on the table. “No dear, I love you, not your jokes.”

Wanda let out a small laugh. “See, she’s the funny one here.”

“No one here appreciates my stellar comedy,” lamented Mr. Parker.

“I do,” a fourth voice said. Wanda turned her head towards the stairs that led to the upper floor, only to see her best friend: Peter Parker. Peter looked like he crawled himself out of a grave. His eyes were droopy, heavy bags surrounding them. His skin was paler than normal and his hair was also more ruffled than normal as well.

“Ah, my hero,” joked Mr. Parker, “Jeez, son, you look like a zombie.”

“I always appreciate your jokes, Ben.” Even his voice was coarse.

Wanda eyed her best friend and gave a cocky grin. “Did you even shower? I can smell you from here.”

Wanda saw Peter roll his eyes at her. “Well, good morning to you too,” he said.

~A~

The ensuing breakfast was also per the usual for the Parker family. A lot of banter between Uncle Ben and Aunt May, but even more between Wanda and Peter. “Don’t pass out from being a geek when you meet Dr. Banner today.”

“And don’t try to pass out from boredom when he starts talking about the dangers of gamma radiation,” he retorted. However, Peter couldn’t deny his excitement. For the first field trip of the school year, his high school, Midtown High, was going to Avengers Tower to meet the heroes and watch a lecture from the Incredible Hulk himself, Bruce Banner, the fourth most popular hero in America. Eventually, the pair finished their breakfast.

“Thank you so much, Mrs. Parker! The food was great as always,” Wanda said. She always said this after having a delicious course of Aunt May’s cooking, which at this point was every other day or so.

“Oh you’re always welcome here, dear,” said Aunt May, “Now go, you two are going to miss the train.”

The two said their goodbyes to the married couple and off they went out the front door and onto the sidewalk, where an impatient Pietro waited.

“Took you two long enough,” he said while tapping his foot incessantly. “Mom and dad missed you at breakfast, dear sister,” he said in a mocking tone.

“Well get back to me when dad can actually cook something worth a damn, dear brother,” she fired back.

Pietro shook his head in disappointment, his silver hair flowing side to side as he did. “Hey Pete, ready for the field trip?” he asked excitedly, a complete change in his composure.

“Dude, you know it!” Peter exclaimed, high fiving Pietro.

Wanda groaned. “I’m surrounded by geeks.”

The walk to the train station was yet again, per the usual for the life of Peter Parker. Talking to Pietro about the villain fight that was on the news the night before while Wanda playfully mocks them.

“So the paper is due Friday right?” Wanda asked.

“Yep,” responded Peter.

“But does that mean 12:00 that morning or at 11:59 that night?” replied Pietro.

“No, it’s du-“

sudden explosion was heard. The trio stopped in their tracks and looked to where they heard the explosion. They see smoke in the direction they were looking.

“That’s the station…” Peter said.

“That explosion…” Pietro said.

Peter turned to Pietro. “Which means…”

Wanda eyes widened in horror. “Oh God, please no.”

Peter and Pietro's eyes lit up. “Villain attack!” they both exclaimed. Then the two ran off in the direction of the station.

“Hey, wait up you two!” Wanda exclaimed, running after the pair.

When Peter, Pietro, and Wanda got to the station it was a sight to behold. On top of the tracks was a villain they’d never seen before. He was gigantic in size and was entirely made out of sand. He stood on the overpass and roared out, daring any hero to attack.

“A new villain?” Peter asked with extreme curiosity.

“Yeah looks like it,” Pietro responded with eagerness, “He looks so cool!”

The villain reeled back his fist and punched a chunk out of a building. The crowd that was surrounding the scene screamed as debris threatened to crush them. That is until a blue and red blur flew in and destroyed all of the debris that dare harm the populace. It was the Avenger Captain Marvel, one of the strongest members of the team.

“Oh Cap’s here? This’ll be done in no time,” mused Pietro.

Peter swooned. “She’s so cool.”

Wanda huffed and crossed her arms, a small blush cascaded her cheeks. “She’s okay.”

The villain’s voice echoed and roared. “Get outta here pipsqueak, before I slaughter ya!”

Captain Marvel floated above the crowd, glowing with a golden light, her hair defying gravity as it floated upwards. Her very presence exerted the power she possessed. She looked back to the crowd. “Multiple Man, form a barrier!” she ordered.

“Alright people, don’t move past the clones y’hear?” multiple voices echoed.

The trio looked and saw the rescue hero Multiple Man! A new up and coming hero who could create a seemingly infinite amount of clones of himself. A sea of clones barred entrance to the battle. “They’re exact copies of him,” Peter whispered. “I gotta...” He reached into his book bag and took out a notebook and a cheap digital camera.

“And there he goes,” Wanda sighed.

He took his camera, aimed at one of the clones, and snapped a quick picture. Then, he opened his notebook. It had the number twelve written in sharpie pen on the cover. Peter opened it and flicked through the pages and pages of hero analysis until he found Multiple Man’s entry and feverishly wrote in his new finding.

“Oh, it warms my heart to see such an enthusiastic youth!” A laugh rang in Peter’s ears. He looked to his right and saw an older looking gentleman. Balding, but still has his white hair, a bushy mustache, and a cool pair of black sunglasses.

A blush danced onto Peter’s face. “Ah, well it’s just a hobby of mine.”

The elderly gentleman chuckled. “Oh don’t try to fool me, young man! I know exactly what you are! A fanboy!”

Peter’s face was bright red from embarrassment. “I, well I-“

“Hey there’s nothing wrong with being a fanboy!” Pietro exclaimed, standing up for his friend.

The gentleman continue to chuckle. “Not at all, young man! Why when I was your ag-“

The villain roared once again. “Don’t you come near me!”

Captain Marvel flexed out her arm and pointed at the villain. “Flint Marko, you are under arrest for illegal quirk usage and destruction of property! Anything you say can and will be us- gah!” The heroine was suddenly cut off by a gigantic fist made out of sand punching her into a nearby building.

“I ain’t going to jail!” the sand villain yelled as he reeled back his other giant fist, “And I’ll be sendin’ ya straight to hell!” The sand giant flung his fist into the building where Captain Marvel crashed into, but the attack was blocked by an invisible force field! Peter looked to the top of the building to his left, and standing there was the Invisible Woman, one third of the Future Foundation!

“Ah! It’s Susan Storm!” Peter heard Wanda squeal in delight. “She’s gonna kick this sand dude’s ass!”

“Nah, my money’s still on Cap,” replied Pietro, “She can probably bench press the continent if she wants to.”

Wanda groaned. “Not every problem can be solved by brute strength, dear brother,” she said in a mocking tone, “You need finesse and to think outside the box! Right, Pete?” She stood with her hands on her hips in a stance of confidence. However she got no response from her friend. “Pete?” When Wanda turned to face him, all she saw was him feverishly writing in his notebook. Deaf to the world around him.

“So Invisible Woman actually doesn’t disappear she just bends the light around her to make the illusion that she’s invisible so does that mean that she can’t see when she’s invisible or maybe the light is still hitting her eyes anyway so maybe she sees but you also have to consider…” Peter rambled on and on.

A moment of awkward silence fell upon Wanda, Pietro, and the gentleman as Peter muttered away. “Oh Pete.” Wanda sighed.

“Does your friend usually do this?” the gentleman asked.

Pietro scratched the back of his head in embarrassment. “Yeah, it’s hard for him to stop when he gets going.” Another crash was heard and the attention of the group was once again focused on the ensuing fight.

“You ready, Sue?!” yelled Captain Marvel as she flew upwards towards the sky.

“The barrier’s up, Carol; turn this villain into glass!” yelled the Invisible Woman back as she flexed her arms out.

The sand villain tried to reach for the flying superhero but found himself unable to move past the invisible barrier that blocked his path. “Wh-what the hell is this?!” he screamed in terror.

“This is the end of your villainy, Marko!” exclaimed Captain Marvel.

The crowd went wild, this was the public’s favorite part in villain fights: when the hero triumphs over the villain and saves the day. “Come on, ma’am! Show us a flashy finish!” the older gentleman exclaimed.

“I told you so,” Pietro said as he bumped Wanda’s arm with his elbow.

Wanda shot a dirty look at her brother. “Oh, shut up,” she said. She put her hand on Peter’s shoulder who was still writing in his notebook. “Peter, it’s about to finish. You’re gonna wanna see this.”

Peter’s consciousness came reeling back into reality as he saw Captain Marvel floating in the sky. Her golden aura intensified as her hair stood straight up. Peter internally squealed as he knew what was coming, he quickly aimed his camera at the hero. It was Captain Marvel’s signature move! The golden aura stopped being an aura and started to be the color of Captain Marvel’s skin as her body stored energy. Her quirk: Binary Engine, allows her to store energy inside of her and release it at her will. She yelled out a battle cry and flexed her arms forward. “Binary Ignition!” A beam of golden energy erupted from her fists. If one were to ask the crowd what occurred that day, they would say that they felt the Earth shake beneath them as they saw the furious fiery energy hurdle itself towards the giant sand villain. With a loud scream of pain, the sand villain took the blast in his giant sandy chest. The extreme heat from the energy started to solidify the sand that it hit.

“No!” the villain roared, “I-I can’t move!” With the invisible barrier now closed fully around the villain, the extreme heat from the binary blast went to work. The heat was trapped and had nowhere to go, just like the villain. The villain was quickly calcified in glass, unable to move. A statue to the victory of heroes, the sand villain was.

The crowd erupted in cheers and chants as Captain Marvel slowly descended back to the ground and the Invisible Woman followed suit. The heroes gave the all clear for the police to restrain the villain, a tall order given his size but the police always came prepared.

Peter, on the other hand, was feverishly writing in his notebook about the intricacies of what he saw of Captain Marvel’s signature move. How much heat it truly produced being the main point of intrigue for him. “So for sand to turn into glass the sand has to be exposed to a temperature of 3,090 degrees Fahrenheit or 1,700 degrees Celsius which means that Captain Marvel’s energy output is far greater than what I initially calculated for her maybe…”

“He really likes to write doesn’t he?” the gentleman asked.

Wanda sighed with a tinge of embarrassment. “Yeah, he really does,” she said. She then put on a big enthusiastic smile. “But, he’s going to be the best hero of all time. I just know it.”

“Wow, thanks, sis,” said Pietro.

The old man let out a light chuckle as he saw the two siblings bicker and Peter mutter and write in his notebook.

“... and you also have to consider the possibility that with enough stored power she can become a walking sun and that would be devastating for villains but maybe she can also solve any future energy crisis that the world will face and-“

“Hey, kid.” Peter felt a hand on his shoulder and turned to see the old man standing next to him. “You don’t let anybody tell you that you can’t be a hero, alright? If somebody doesn’t believe in you, prove them wrong. Think of heroism as the classic mask and spandex costumes, it doesn’t matter who’s behind the mask. Anybody can be a hero.”

Peter felt the warmth and kindness of the old man’s words. He flashed him a goofy grin. “Thank you, sir! I promise to become the world’s greatest hero.”

The old man returned with a big smile. “Excelsior, young man! Now go out there, and become the best hero that you can be!”

The trio thanked the gentleman for his time and walked up to the train platform as the police gave the all clear to enter the station. They got on their train and sat down. Peter glanced out the window and a small smile formed on his face. Across the river he saw the apple of his eye. Adorned with a stylistic “A” on its face, stood Avengers Tower, HQ of the Mighty Avengers, the most popular hero agency in the world. While Avengers Tower was the HQ for the agency, it was also a school, Avengers Academy, where teenagers learn to become heroes. The school only taught from sophomore year to senior year of high school. Apparently because there wasn’t enough material for a full four years of hero education. “Hey, guys?” Peter called out to his friends.

Pietro and Wanda snapped out of their individual dazes from the painfully normal train ride and turned to their friend, his face plastered with an even bigger smile. “What’s up, man?” Pietro asked.

“Let’s apply to Avengers Academy,” Peter said. “Let’s be Avengers.”

Wanda’s face grew a soft smile. “Peter, you always say that,” she pointed out, “We’ve been wanting to be Avengers since we were kids!’”

“I think he just forgets that we made that pact years ago,” said Pietro, laughing as he did.

Peter turned to his left to face him. “No, I didn’t forget! I just want to make sure,” he said with a hint of anxiety in his voice. Peter’s face went from cheerful to solemn. This usually happened to him after being excited about heroes and his dream to be one. Almost as if somebody completely different swapped places with him. He would go from raving about heroes and claiming he was going to be an Avenger one day one second, and then the next second he would become eerily quiet. His eyes would darken with sadness. His whole demeanor would shift. He became reclusive and antisocial. In his head he thought to himself,

They’ll be the ones going to AA… not me. There aren’t any quirkless heroes in the first place, why would I be the exception?

Wanda noticed the drastic change in him. “Hey, hey, hey look at me,” she urged him. Peter turned to look at Wanda, and felt her hand on his shoulder. Her gaze met his. “You are going to be the best hero ever, okay? It doesn’t matter, okay? You’re already my hero.” She pointed to the red bandanna wrapped around her head as she said this. As Peter glanced at the accessory, he noticed how it wrapped down her cheek, under her chin, and was tied at the top of her head in a nice bow. Peter knew what she meant.

It’s been five years and she still remembers. To him, helping her up and tying his bandana around her head to keep her jaw in place was just the normal thing to do when someone trips and falls on their chin in Physical Education class.

He shot her a small, but genuine smile and said, “Okay.” Wanda shot a big smile back at him. As she did this his stomach became infested with butterflies and his face felt like it was lit aflame. He swore that he heard Pietro behind him groan and mutter, “Jeez, get a room.”

After yet another painfully average walk, they finally made it to their destination: Midtown High. Midtown High was just another average year 9-12 public high school located in Forest Hills, New York. Moderate in size, but gigantic in population. The school had trouble with too many students and not enough teachers to teach them. Cramped classrooms didn’t look good in the paper and it needed to be fixed. So to combat overpopulation and to promote transferring to other schools, there is a field trip to Avengers Tower for the freshman. If you want to tell kids to get out of your school, might as well tell them to be superheroes.

Unfortunately for Peter, the trio had to part ways for the time being since they all had separate homeroom classes. Peter sat in his classroom, and his gaze wandered around, looking at the 4x4 room that confined him. 25 desks filled the room in a semi-orderly fashion, Peter sitting near the back, which was unusual for him considering how studious he was. The floor was stained with age, under the coat of yellow was once a beautiful marble floor. The blackboard could never be truly cleaned as there were always remnants of past classes leaving their chalk footprint. Peter sighed and took a glance at the clock at the front of the class, however, he couldn’t make out the time with his bare eyes. He sighed once again, reached into his bag, and took out a container. He opened them and groaned as he was reminded that his glasses were ugly. Bright red covered the frame and the circular lenses felt as if they were half the size of his head. He put on his glasses, and the world suddenly became much clearer. He glanced at the clock again and saw it say it was 8:00 AM, right on the dot.

He groaned and let gravity claim his head. It made a nice and loud “bump” as it hit the desk. Peter knew what was coming. He counted down from fifty. He always comes in at 8:01 AM. Throughout the years of being bullied, Peter picked up a thing or two about personal quirks. At exactly 8:01 AM, he walked through the classroom door. His black hair stood in a spiky fashion, he wore a black muscle shirt, and baggy dark blue jeans. He was laughing as he entered the classroom, as if someone had told him a hilarious joke. Peter quickly stood up a book on his desk and opened it, creating a makeshift barrier between himself and the rest of the world. He fumbled with his glasses as he tried so desperately to put them back into their case. He lowered his head, below the book barrier. He didn’t want him to ruin today. It was supposed to be a happy day. He was going to Avengers Tower, he was going to see his heroes!

The world went silent and all Peter could hear was the sound of shoes hitting the floor, and it was getting closer. Peter silently whimpered. Why did he have to come after him today? Wasn’t he tired of this? Making his life hell? The footsteps stopped right next to him.

Oh no.

Pain was all Peter felt as his hair was being pulled back, forcing him to sit up straight. He felt every single strand of hair being unsuccessfully pulled from his scalp. He reluctantly opened his eyes, he had to face him now. All Peter saw was the black-haired kid smiling at him with a devious toothy smile.

“What do you want today, Flash?” Peter groaned, “Can you please let go of my hair?” Peter struggled as he grabbed the hand that had a fist full of his hair.

Flash gave a hearty laugh. “Aww, is Puny Parker all alone today? Is the quirkless wannabe sad that he can’t have his friends save him?”

He hated when Flash said that. It just reminded Peter of his true nature, that he was just normal. He doesn’t have the X-gene, he doesn’t have a quirk, he isn’t a mutant, he’s just human. Peter focused all of his might into digging his nails into Flash’s hand to make him let go. Suddenly, as he did that, Peter felt a gooey and slippery substance cover Flash’s hand, Peter squeezed but Flash didn’t let go. He only laughed.

“Oh Parker, did you piss off Venom?” he asked in a mocking tone. “Oh, is that right?” Flash said to no one in particular. Peter continued to thrash in pain as Flash kept his vice grip on his scalp. He felt like his hair was going to be pulled out, and his brain right with it. “Parker,” Flash said, his voice deepened, “Did you try to hurt me?” At this point, his voice became deep and twisted, almost demonic, as if two people were speaking in unison.

Peter grunted as he continued to struggle. “Yeah, so what? Let me go, damn it!” He glanced up at Flash and saw that his neck and a portion of his face were covered in black goop. Peter’s gaze then went to Flash’s mouth, he was baring his teeth, but they were all razor sharp. Oh God, Peter thought.

He saw this before. This black goop. Flash pulled Peter closer to his face. He could practically smell him failing to brush his teeth properly that morning. “That wasn’t very smart of you, Parker,” Flash said.

“Christ, Flash! Just leave me alone!” Peter exclaimed. Peter then curled his free hand into a fist and swung it at Flash. Momentum was stopped as Peter’s arm was caught, not by Flash’s arm, but a mouth, a mouth with sharp teeth. It wasn’t Flash’s mouth, but it was the black goop’s. It was a macabre sight to say the least. The mouth shot itself from Flash’s abdomen and latched on to Peter’s fist. Peter didn’t feel any pain, however, but he did feel the sharp teeth prick his wrist as it held it in place.

“Oh, Venom. You always know how to make me proud,” Flash said with a small chuckle. “Oh, that’s right! I didn’t feed you today, did I?” Peter’s eyes widened in horror. Flash gave a sinister smile. “Go wild.”

Peter shut his eyes as the word went into slow motion. Was Flash serious?! Was he going to let Venom devour his hand?! He could get suspended! Expelled even! He’d be charged with assault and battery and be tried as an adult! This is what perplexed Peter about Flash, he had great grades, was the school’s star quarterback, but he always did reckless activities that could have the potential of ruining his life. Even from a young age he was like this. Peter felt the terrifying mouth start to close on his fist, it was slow as if it was taunting him. As if it was letting his host enjoy the scene play out in front of him. He snapped back in reality, his gaze darted across the room, looking for someone, anyone to help him. His heart sunk as he saw the cruel reality; others had arrived by that time and they were all in their own groups, their own cliques, and they were watching the events unfold. They all just intently stared at the scene. No one dared make a move. Would anyone stand up and intervene? Peter closed his eyes, and braced for the pain that was to come.

It happened. Peter felt the teeth rip and tear into his skin. He tried letting out a scream but more black goop shot out of Flash’s chest and onto his mouth, which muffled Peter’s scream for help. The mouth kept slowly clamping down, it wasn’t long until it was going to hit Peter’s bone. Peter started to hyperventilate. His chest rose and fell. Rose and fell. Over and over again. As he saw what was happening to his hand his mind raced. Why him? Why today? Today was supposed to be a good day. Why? Why? Why? Peter felt the sharp teeth graze the top of his carpal bone. He closed his eyes and whimpered.

“That’s enough!” A voice pierced the unsettling air like a bullet.

Peter glanced towards where the voice was shouted from, and there he saw Wanda and Pietro. Pietro had his hand on Flash’s shoulder, grasping it with an iron grip, and Wanda stood near Peter, grabbing his arm and pulling it out of the jaws of the beast. Peter looked at her eyes, her pupils were glowing a bright red. She looked at the lacerations on his wrist with a deep and sad look. She took in a deep breath and put her free hand over the wounds, and then the magic started. Red energy started to flow out of her hand and into Peter’s wounds. When the red energy entered the wounds, Peter felt an extreme warmth run up his arm. It felt odd, but it wasn’t strange to him; he had felt this many times before. When Wanda first got her quirk five years ago, she’d been the person to heal Peter’s scars and bruises he sustained from his run-ins with Flash. The reason why Uncle Ben and Aunt May didn’t know how bad Peter really had it was thanks to Wanda’s quirk. He looked down in embarrassment, he could already tell that she was worried about him. The day had just started and Peter was already hurt.

“You got a death wish, Maximoff?” Flash growled.

“Leave him alone, Thompson,” Pietro demanded. Peter looked at the two feuding teens. To him, it was as if two forces of nature collided. Pietro, a benevolent mountain standing tall no matter the condition, and Flash, a ravaging tornado destroying everything in its path. Two titans facing off against each other, and it’s all because of a quirkless boy.

Flash scoffed and all of the black goop retreated back into his body, out of sight. He looked directly into Peter’s eyes. “You’re lucky your body guards came to rescue you, wallcrawler,” he said. He then went and sat in his seat at the other side of the room.

“Alright kids,” Peter’s teacher, Mr. Harrington said, “As you all know, today is the field trip to Avengers Tower.” Mr. Harrington was always an odd fellow, even in this world of superpowers. He was a tall lanky man, with brown hair and a bushy beard and moustache. Just by looking at him you can tell that he was a nerd in his youth. He wore brown suits to class, always had a neat tie on, and wore black dress pants. On his desk one could find memorabilia of the wonderful world of science. Globes, a model of the solar system, a Newton’s cradle, a map of the periodic table, etc. Peter liked Mr. Harrington; the appreciated his love of science, and even though Mr. Harrington gave the aura of a man who has been punched in the face one-too-many times, Peter related hard.

“Just so you all know, two students from different classes have requested to join ours for today.” Peter then took a glance at Pietro and Wanda who were sitting to the left and right of him respectively. As Peter looked at her, Wanda proudly showed him a small doodle of Flash being punched in the face by the Hulk. Peter smiled at the rough sketch. No matter how bad he felt, she could always make him laugh.

Peter’s gaze trailed back to his notebook in front of him. This was Peter’s Quirk Analysis book. It was open. The name Wanda Maximoff was written in the title section with neat handwriting. A picture of her was clipped on by a paper clip. Peter smiled at the photo he had taken last summer when they visited the planetarium. Her pose was odd, but unique. She had her fingertips touch one another, her legs spread and bent, her torso bent forward, and a big toothy smile plastered on her face as if she was saying, “Come at me, ya scoundrels!” She stood in front of a model of the planet Saturn. A small grin created itself on Peter’s face; that was a fun time for him.

Beside her picture were the words, “Quirk: Hex,” and below that were notes. Peter read these notes every so often. They were notes on Wanda’s Quirk. He came up with the name himself after seeing it in action so many times. Hex was one mystery of a power as it just showed up one day. For years people thought that Wanda was quirkless, until one day when she saved Peter from being Flash’s punching bag for the day. The memory flew through Peter’s mind like a bird through the sky. He remembered being pinned up to a tree, gazing into Flash’s eyes, which were filled with murderous intent. The next thing he remembered was Flash being lifted in the air by a mysterious red glow, and then seeing Wanda glowing with that same redness. This didn’t stop the bullying for her, however. Before she was being bullied for being a foreign quirkless girl, now she was being bullied for being a foriegn freak who got her quirk late.

Peter had spent hours studying Wanda’s quirk. There was one conclusion that he came about, Hex was a sort of probability manipulation, similar to Dr. Strange’s quirk: Mystic Arts. Her power could bend the fabric of probability in her favor. He theorized she can probably cause a gun to backfire just by looking at it, but he’d rather not test it. She can also shoot out red energy bolts as projectiles, they don’t hurt much, but it still was a force of concussive energy. Her quirk also allowed her to “heal” people, however, this was contested by Peter. The only thing she had done to heal him was close his wounds; he still felt sore and achy afterwards. Maybe since she doesn’t know the intricate details of the human body, she doesn’t know how to heal someone fully, or maybe she was just scared of screwing it up. In the end, Hex was an amazing quirk in Peter’s eyes. He couldn’t wait to see her become a hero one day.

He turned the page and came across Pietro’s entry. His picture was a one-in-a-million shot that Peter took at one of Pietro’s soccer games during Physical Education class. Pietro’s pose was simply art, his left leg outstretched after kicking the ball, his right arm crossing his body as his left arm is outstretched, keeping him balanced, and all the while a big goofy smile that screamed, “Yeah, I’m the best!” Peter remembered how much he and Wanda were cheering for him that day. In the end, Pietro’s team won and got bragging rights for a whole year.

Like Wanda’s entry, next to Pietro’s picture was the name of his quirk: Superspeed. It was fairly self explanatory, Pietro’s quirk allowed him to move at superhuman levels. He could outrun any car, train, plane… Well, maybe not a plane, Peter thought to himself. However, his quirk also granted him enhanced metabolism. Pietro was always fit, any scrape or bruise would be gone within minutes, and he had to eat a lot to keep up. Pietro always wanted to be a hero, and his quirk locked in his future to be one of the greatest heroes of all time.

Peter's smile turned into a frown as he turned to the next page. The name in the title box was Eugene “Flash” Thompson, and below that were the words “Quirk: Symbiote.” Flash’s quirk was the scariest of them all, it was a living organism that was bonded to Flash’s body. Its base form was a black goop that would cover Flash if it felt like it or Flash was being threatened. In reality, the symbiote was always on Flash. It was Flash, and Flash was it. It also gave itself a name: Venom. Venom can form any weapon from itself, be an impenetrable shield for Flash, and can enhance Flash’s strength fivefold. Flash and Venom were one and the same, they talked to each other, and they looked out for each other. Sometimes Peter would see Flash mumbling to himself, when in actuality he was having a conversation with Venom.

However, Flash wasn’t the only person in the world with a symbiote. Symbiotes were a quirk that arrived late to the scene as they’ve only been around for the past 80 years or so. Nobody knew where the symbiote quirk came from, and some even theorized they were a failed experiment caused by the Weapon program that was never properly disposed of. Unfortunately for people with symbiotes, there was a dangerous stereotype connected to them: cannibalism. It’s no secret that people with symbiotes need to have a larger intake of food since they’re effectively eating for two, so naturally rumors started to spread about people with the symbiote quirk. This stereotype was derived from one entity, a villain named Carnage.

The only symbiote that was able to leave its host and live on its own was one of the most dangerous villains alive. Its original host was a serial killer called Cleetus Cassidy, a cannibal with over 30 confirmed murders, most of them women and children. Cassidy was as messed up as a human could get. He truly believed that human life was meaningless, and he was doing his victims a favor by murdering them. Cleetus Cassidy’s religion was murder and cannibalism, and the symbiote believed as well. Eventually, the symbiote grew tired of Cassidy, and murdered him. Police found the gruesome corpse of Cassidy strung about the apartment, but Carnage was nowhere in sight. It escaped and bonded with a new host; It would continue this cycle for the next 26 years.

“Hey, uh, Pete?”

A voice pulled Peter out of his day dreaming, he looked around the room to see all the desks empty and Wanda and Pietro at the doorway of the classroom. Peter’s face turned red in embarrassment.

“Oh, sorry!” he exclaimed as he gathered his belongings and joined the duo.

At 200 Park Ave. in New York City sits a skyscraper unlike any other. It was a business center, R&D center, a laboratory, a Hero HQ, and an academy for young heroes-in-training. Adorned with a stylized “A”, Avengers Tower stands as a beacon of heroism. Peter Parker muttered these words to himself as he found himself standing outside the front door. He had so many questions to ask, but one stood out amongst all the others. A question he’s had since he could talk. A question on that day he would finally have answered.

As he stood in front of the building in a daze, Wanda and Pietro stood by his side, they both gave him a big smile. “Avengers Assemble?” Wanda asked them.

Pietro nodded. Peter looked Wanda in the eyes, and smiled as well. “Avengers Assemble.”

~A~

“Boss, there’s an emergency at Central Park. Reports say that Carnage has been spotted and is on the run.”

“Any heroes on patrol near there?”

“Negative, boss.”

“What about Carol?”

“Captain Marvel is currently with the Invisible Woman, they’re at the Raft making sure the villain they captured earlier is in proper custody.”

“... So you’re saying that I-“

“Boss, get off your ass and be a hero.”

“I don’t remember programming you with a potty mouth, Friday.”

“And I don’t remember asking for your opinion. The suit is at 100%.”

“How long will the charge last this time?”

“About two and a half hours, boss.”

“Heh, plenty of time.”

The shutters to the darkened room opened, revealing the city down below. A man clad in red and yellow armor walks out onto a balcony.

“Time to be Iron Man.”

To be continued...

#My Hero Academia #Avengers #Marvel #My Avengers Academy #Spiderman #Wanda Maximoff #Spideywitch #Pietro Maximoff #Venom #Iron Man #Fanfiction #Avengers Fanfic

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maria-deamor · 4 years

Text

Baby (Part Two)

(MC x Jake McKenzie)- Endless Summer

Plot:

MC chose Rourke's ending and tried to fix everything.

OKAYYY SO THERE'S A STEAMY PART HERE, BEWARE!

MC's PoV

"What are you doing in my backyard?"

I stared at him on awe. Tears started to well in my eyes and I instinctively put both of my hands on my mouth as if trying to drown out the sobs that threatened to escape my lips.

He's really here...

I slowly walked in his direction but stopped on my tracks. God! He doesn't remember me! He has no idea of what's going on. Only that there's a stranger on his backyard, and crying her eyes out. He looked at me with a poker face, weighing out his options. Thinking if I'm going to snitch or not. I never prepared for this moment and that's very stupid of me. I rushed off to a foreign country, in hopes of finding my love but never thought about what to say to him. To be honest, I didn't have that much hope that I'll be seeing him soon. I thought it'll probably take more days, months, maybe.

"I said, what are you doing in my backyard? I swear to God if you're Lundgren's men, I'll-"

He was interrupted with Rebecca's presence. "How the hell did this girl get in here?! Do you know anything about this, Rebecca?!" His sister looked down and murmured a sorry. Jake threw his hands in his short hair out of frustration. At last, I found my voice.

"I-It's not her fault, Top gun." I said, casting my stare on the sand and suddenly looked at him when I realized what I just said. Goddamnit! I must be forgetting that the man before me doesn't know who I am! I'm so stupid! He looked at me, wide eyed, after he heard what I just called him. There's a glimmer of hope inside of my heart that he remembered me, even just a tiny, little bit.

He regained his composure and crossed his arms.

"Get the fuck inside." He walked passed me, and my breath hitched the moment we were close even if it's only a few seconds. I stood there for a few seconds, shocked about all the feelings welling up inside me and thinking of my next move. Rebecca beckoned me inside. I nodded and went after her. We went inside the cozy living room.

Jake was seated on the couch, his eyes glaring at me as I sit down in front of him. I tried to relax. There's no need to worry right? You should be happy! You're finally reunited! Everything will be fine!

"Who are you?" He looked at me. I remember this expression of his. It was annoyance. Of course I remember every little thing about him. His mannerisms, his habits, his expressions, and the way he thinks. I was married to this man and I have loved him for more that a thousand lifetimes. In every lifetime that I've lived, We always found our way to each other. It was a mistake to trust Rourke after all the effort The Endless have made. I need to make up for everything that I've done.

"I'm MC. I came here to see you." I said calmly. I'll explain everything to him, hoping that he'll listen. Listen to me, and his heart. "The fuck you mean by that?!" He said, shouting at me. His walls are all up. And it's all my fault. We could've been happy together. Before, I thought that was impossible. How could he happy when we may be together but the whole world isn't? We're being selfish. And If I did saved the whole world... I wouldn't be with him. It's one way or another.

Rebecca sat on the arm rest of the chair I was sitting at and crossed her arms to her brother, glaring at him.

"Hear her out, Jake." She said, with a threatening voice. I breathed slowly, trying to calm my nerves. Yes girl, this is it. Don't fuck it up.

"I-I know everything. And I intend to fix it. I-It's my fault everyone is suffering..." Tears welled up in my eyes again but this time, I didn't dared try to stop it. I want to be vulnerable, just like I've always been whenever I was with him.

I continued. "Don't worry... I won't snitch to you and Mike. I couldn't do that to the people that I love the most." I weakly smiled at him. His eyes are showing confusion and uncertainty but he's curious.

Curious enough to hear me out.

3rd Person's Point of View

Jake's a wreck. He spent all his time trying to stay out of the grid and suddenly a girl showed up in his place, not knowing if she's a threat or not. How could she not be? The whole world is practically eating out of Rourke's hand. He never really knew why he hated Rourke's gut even when it's Rex Lundgren who framed him and Mike. Now, he's sitting in front of the girl whose name was supposed to be MC.

He listened to her, still with doubts but curious if there's anything that she says that'll solve even the slightest bit of his problems. She caught his attention ever since she called him 'Top Gun'. Somehow, the name rang a bell but he can't put his finger into it yet.

"I know about Rex Lundgren. He sold weapons to the people you were supposed to be fighting. You and Mike found out and planned to snitch. But Lundgren knew about your plan and sent you to a reckon mission, an ambush." MC paused. The last lifetime that she lived, Mike wasn't able to eject on time. MC thought that even with all the chaos around and 'His Eminences' supporters, one good thing came out of this new lifetime. Mike survived, he wasn't brainwashed and broken. She gulped and continued. (A/N: I checked again the Rourke ending and Craig mentioned Jake and Mike on the coffee shop so it made sense that he's alive. If he wasn't, then he would be brain washed and the whole squad thing on ES would've happened. With Mike being Mouse, and sacrificing his self.)

"The two of you ejected. MP’s awaited the both of you and you're now on the run." She finished. The only thing that's on Jake's mind right now is how the hell did she knew? And why is she on their side? He gathered his courage to ask. He wanted to be gentle but he thought she's not being completely truthful.

"How the hell did you knew? Who told you? Are you one of the Military Police? Why aren't you on their side? Wh-" He was interrupted by the girl. And he didn't expected this to be her answer.

"Because you told me." Jake got out of his surprise and looked intently on the girl. Told her how? He never met this girl on his life, or at least that's what he thought. He knew he's right but there's still a feeling that they're acquainted.

He glared at her again. But this time, it's just out of curiosity. Jake went on the risk of trusting her. "I was your wife." Jake looked to Rebecca, trying to find some sort of reaction but she stayed quiet.

"You knew about this stupid story? She's a crackhead!" He harshly said, not caring that the woman was inside the same room as them.

"Did you at least hear her out?" She asked her brother. "I did! That's why I'm saying that she's lying!" He retorted. His mind's now filled with confusion. He felt like his head was going to explode with all the information he got in the span of a few minutes.

"Did you, truly? Open your mind..." Rebecca walked over to her brother and put her hand on his chest. "-and your heart. I know for the fact that she's telling the truth. I feel it, Jake. You just gotta try." She pulled her hand away from his heart and walked out of the scene.

Rebecca wanted the two of them to have their privacy. Even if MC wasn't saying the whole truth, the fact that she knows about Jake and Mike's situation is enough for her to trust the girl. The moment that MC told her the story back on the park, she thought about the dreams Jake has been getting ever since he went on the run.

Rebecca's Point of View:

(A few months ago...)

My boss changed my shift from the normal time to this shit. I thought it'll be easy to adapt to it but it's been a week and my body clock is so messed up. Because of this, I lacked on sleep and I was sent home today from work. My new schedule is from midnight to morning. My apartment is farther than Jake's cabin so maybe I'll just crash there tonight. I'm sure Mike won't mind.

I used my key to get inside the cabin. Mike's still up, reading a book on the living room. He smiled at me and continued on his novel. I went to the kitchen, opened the fridge and took a jug of water. I was pouring it when a shout came from Jake's room, startling me, causing me to spill water on the kitchen floor.

I disregarded it and made my way to Jake's room. He's sitting on his bed, sweaty and panting.

"Jake, are you alright?" He looked at me as if he's expecting someone else to be there for him.

He stared at the air and then suddenly pulled on his long hair out of frustration. He brushed his palms on his face and groaned.

"What a fucked up dream."

"Why? What happened?" I finally found my voice and asked him. "I... Don't remember. All I know is I hate it. I hate this feeling as if I lost someone."

I stared at him. I really don't know how to ease his feelings. I've never felt something like this. I squeezed his shoulder and head out.

"Another dream?" Mike asked and took a sip from his tea cup. I took a seat next to him.

"Huh? This has been happening?" I asked and glanced again at my brother who now lied in bed and stared at the ceiling, his eyebrows furrowed.

"Yeah. It happened a bunch of times already that's why I'm not too shocked anymore."

I looked at the table in front of me, speechless.

"I really don't know how to comfort Jake. I have strange dreams too." I looked at him only to see him wistful and his eyes distant.

"In my dreams, I was brainwashed and became Jake's enemy. But there's this girl that he's with, along with a few more people. They never gave up on trying to get me to their side." I listened intently on what he's saying. Why is it that Mike remembers his dreams but Jake doesn't?

"That girl and Jake though. They look perfect for each other. They're all over each other and I can feel the love through my dreams. I almost thought she's real when I woke up." And he chuckled.

Now, I'm very curious. Never in my life did I see my brother love anyone. Flings? Sure. But my brother isn't like what Mike describes him to be on his dreams as he continued on explaining.

When he finished, I finally asked him a question.

"Does Jake know any of this?" I said and I gripped the hem of my clothes a little bit tighter than I anticipated.

"Hmm? Hell no. I don't want to confuse him more than he already is." Mike is a really great friend. My brother is very lucky to have someone like him.

"Do you remember the girl's face?"

"Yeah. She's very hard to forget. Not that I'm interested okay! She just looks very unique. And I would never forget the woman Jake's with. He's very sappy and sweet with that girl, you know. That's a rare sight."

Mike and I talked through the night as I asked about what he knew about the dream girl that my brother is with.

3rd Person's Point of View

Jake tried. He really tried. But he's afraid that he will be wrong. And he will eventually fuck everything up. If he's the only one going to get caught, it'll be alright for him. But the fact that everyone that he's acquainted with will be dragged with him, it really breaks his heart at the very thought.

This woman in front of him though... She's able to stir feelings inside of him that he didn't even know existed. He may be glaring at the girl but deep inside, his heart is leaping every glance that he took from her.

It's like he missed her after a long, long time when actually he only met her a few minutes ago.

"Anyway... I don't even know why I tried to find you, knowing that you know absolutely nothing of what's happening." She grinned sheepishly at him. His eyebrow shot up as he studied her face, noticing the streaks of dried tears on her cheeks.

"Enlighten me." He coldly said, not trying to let her in. She brightens for a moment after his response but retorted to her anxious manner.

"A thousand lifetimes ago... You and I met." He suddenly felt anger rise up from his body. What is this crappy story? Is this some kind of a prank or a lame ass fairy tale joke?

But just like Rebecca said, try. So he tried and continued to listen.

"You were our pilot. We didn't even know by that time that you were on the run already. You're flying your precious Delilah. You took us to an island called-"

"La Huerta." He finished. The girl looked at him in awe. A memory shot up on his brain and he groaned because of the pain. It's a memory, he's sitting on the cockpit and a blurry faced girl approached him, asking if they should be landing anytime soon. He was annoyed so he gave her a nickname.

"Princess." He called. The girl clasped her mouth with her hand and a tear rolled on her cheek once again. He felt like he wanted to dry those tears away with his own hand but he made no move. He was hurting deep inside but his fear is still there.

The silence is growing too loud for the both of them. The girl tried to break it, even with the feeling, no, a glimpse of hope inside her that he finally remembered her. She's happy. More than happy than she's ever been in all those months.

She continued. "We were stranded in the island, got into fights, but you and I had each other's backs with every problem that we faced. We got married on the Vaanti's village and we promised a year and a day together..." She spoke in between sobs.

'Vaanti'... He tried to find the meaning of that word. And he stood up from his seat, hit with another surge of memory. He remembered those Vaanti shown on the news that Rourke captured who tried to reach out for a man named Diego... and MC.

He remembered being on a huge tree house full of blue skinned people. He's getting married to a girl, she's walking on the aisle with a glowing flower attached on her hair. As she walked closer to him, he finally got a glimpse of her face.

It was the same as the girl who's sitting just in front of him. He knew something that finally made sense. He's overwhelmed by the feeling and was frozen stood on the ground, not knowing what to do. The girl kept on sobbing in front of him with a smile on her face.

In the midst of everything, the door opened and a man came through.

"Man, that line on the grocery is too long for this morning-" Mike strode inside the room, completely unaware of the situation. He heard no response and so, he looked at what's in front of him. Out of shock, he let go of the paper bag that he was holding

"Y-You're that g-girl... You're real...?" He stuttered as he spoke, not caring about the goods that just fell out of his grasp.

"Mike! What the hell are you talking about?" Jake replied, finally snapping out of his daze, and disbelief shown on his face. Why the hell didn't Mike said anything? He looked like he know something and Jake definitely has the right to know if it involves him too.

Mike slowly walked into the girl's direction and he stopped when he's finally in front of her. He put his hands on the girl's cheeks, checking if she's real. Somehow, Jake felt something stir inside of him. Jealousy? Who knows?

Mike pulled his hands away when he realized what he has done. The girl looked shocked to as how Mike is handling the situation. Does he remember me? Jake's reaction is way different than Mike's. What's the difference?

Mike glanced at Jake and sat on the empty seat beside him. Mike was silent but Jake stared at him until he snapped out of his little bubble once more.

"I said, do you know anything? Who's this girl?" Jake insisted. He really wanted to know everything. The situation's giving him a headache.

Mike looked at Jake and replied. "She's... In my dreams." Jake looked at him expectantly and he continued on his story. He sat down on his seat again. "The both of you saved me from myself. The both of you... Are inseparable. She's fought along you when things got tough but, I don't really know her."

A huge pang of pain shot through his head, a lot worse than he's had earlier. He gripped his head and the girl stood up from her seat and went in front of him, worried.

"Jake? Are you okay?" She said. Jake couldn't hear her properly because of the ringing on his ears.

And he passed out.

Memories worth a thousand lifetimes flashed through Jake's mind. He haven't realized that he was unconscious. But he's seeing everything, everything that he had done. It was enough proof for him to trust the girl.

He woke up in a haze. All the dreams of his past lives now gone. But he does remember one. His previous lifetime, the one and only successful lifetime that the Endless have created. The one where MC made the choice.

His eyelids fluttered open slowly. He's on his room, lying on his bed and a woman on his right, holding his hand as she slept on a chair beside his bed.

He remembers now.

Oh, how he misses her.

He used his other free hand to smooth out her hair. She looked tired, and skinnier that he remembered her to be. Was she okay on their time apart?

He realized how she felt. The guilt has been weighing in on her ever since she made that choice.

A tear rolled down his cheek. Is it because of sadness or happiness? Maybe both. She stirred and she groggily lift her head up. She looked at Jake and her blue eyes widened when she realized she's been holding his hand. She let go but was shocked when the pilot took her hand back into his.

"J-Jake?" She said, tears welling up on her eyes again. He brought his left hand into her face, drying her tears away with his rough fingers.

"Don't you dare cry now, Princess." He said, his husky voice ringing inside the small bedroom.

"Jake? Do you...?" She questioned and he nodded as he smiled at her. She sighed out of relief and put her cheek onto Jake's palm. She closed her eyes and smiled as she cried tears of joy.

She kissed his hand and looked at him lovingly. "I'm sorry I forgot, Princess. I'm sorry for being rough on you earlier." He said and sat up.

"No! No! I totally get it. You don't remember. I won't fault you for that, Top Gun." She said as she straightened on her seat.

"I missed you so damn much." He said and brought his hands into both of her cheeks. Finally, their lips met. Fireworks burst inside the both of them. They kissed passionately as they both cried their hearts out. They didn't dare stop, thinking if this is just a dream. If this really is just a dream, they would want to make the most of it.

Breathlessly, they pulled away.

"I can't believe you remember me now..." MC said. Jake smiled at her and kissed her forehead.

Their lips connected once more. Jake lifted the girl out of her seat, using his muscles into work. He rested her on his lap and she straddled him as they kiss. He bit her lower lip, asking for consent. She parted her lips and his tongue met hers. They didn't fight for dominance, for she let him take control of her.

The kiss heat up and it was becoming sexual. She rested her hands on his chest while his hands caressed her ass.

They pulled away to look at each other.

"You're so beautiful..." He said and moved the back of his hand into her cheek. She smirked at him. "I know that. And a beautiful woman needs a handsome husband." She wrapped her arms into his neck and they kissed again.

Suddenly, MC pulled away.

"What's wrong?" Jake asked her, worry featured on his handsome face.

"What if someone walks in? Rebecca and Mike is still here, you know." She said.

"Psh. I don't care if they hear. But I don't want to stop either. Just lock it and we'll be fine." He said. He rolled his eyes out of annoyance.

MC climbed down and locked the door. She looked at Jake, who's sitting on his bed and resting his back on the headboard.

"What?" He asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Nothing..." She seductively said. She started unbuttoning her white blouse slowly. He raised an eyebrow again, but this time, he's smirking. "Teasing me, aren't ya?" He said and lifted his hands into the back of his neck. He's definitely enjoying the sight.

Her blouse dropped to the floor and her bra is now exposed. Next, she zipped down her jeans and slowly took it off.

"Come on, that's torture!" He complained, and stood up from his position. He approached her and went to her back. He wrapped his arms on her waist and kissed her back and shoulders.

"Hurry up, Princess. I can't wait any longer." He whispered on her ear. He resumed on kissing her back, and gently bit the side of her neck.

Goosebumps appeared on her skin and she obliged. Her jeans finally joined her blouse, that's lying still on the floor. She felt something hard, rubbing on her ass.

"Feel that? I told you I can't wait." He moved his hand from her waist into her front. If he's turned on, she definitely is too. Actually, more than he is, maybe.

His hand travelled down into her wet core and rubbed it gently. Pleasure coursed through her body and her knees buckled. Her back collided into his chest and she used him as support.

The whole time after this lifetime was created, she never dated anyone. Never even kissed anyone or had a one night stand. She knew it into her heart that her body only belongs to him, to her husband, to her pilot.

The love of her life.

"F-Faster..." She moaned. She felt him smirk on her skin. He took off his hand all of a sudden and she was so disappointed. She looked at him with annoyance.

He chuckled. "Let's get into somewhere more comfortable. I don't want to fuck you on the floor." He said. He brought his fingers into his mouth and licked her juices off.

She saw this and immediately blushed. She smacked his chest and arms multiple times and mind you, HARD.

"Ow! What was that for?!" He shouted as he rubbed his arm because of the sting.

"W-Why did you... T-That was so embarrassing!" She said and and covered her face. He just laughed at her reaction and took her hands off of her face so he could look at her.

"Hey... Don't cover your pretty face. What are you embarrassed for? We're married, baby. And it's not like it's a first!" He teased.

“I know! But why do you gotta- Ugh! I hate it when I need to explain things to you!” She shouted and took his hands off her face. She crossed her arms, covering her breasts so he wouldn’t dare look at them. She knows how much of a pervert Jake is.

He chuckled and amusement shown in his orbs. He’s happy, very damn happy. They’re finally back together and no one will ever separate them again.

As she was pouting and looking away, he used this chance to take the girl on his arms and carry her onto the bed.

“Hey! Let go of me, perverted husband!” She protested as she kicked her legs, trying to make Jake let go of her.

“No! I ain’t letting you go! You know you love me too much to not let this happen!” He replied and gave out a laugh. He haven’t laughed like this in years. His wife really is a miracle.

He let go of her, and she landed on the bed with a soft thud.

He smirked at her as he looked at her appreciatively and she immediately felt her cheeks burn hot. Here he go again, making fun of me. Can’t say she doesn’t miss it though. They’ve been separated for too long.

You could say that they had a very wonderful time inside that room, wink wink.

They didn’t mind about anyone else and what those people might say. We all know they probably woke up all the sleeping neighbors from miles away. But that didn’t matter to them.

Because finally, they’re together once more. Forever.

OKAY! I’M FINALLY DONE! I’M SORRY FOR THE LONG WAIT! I GOT THIS MESSAGE FROM ‘WEB NOVEL’ IF I COULD WRITE STORIES IN THEIR APP AND POSSIBLY MONETIZE MY WORK SO Y’ALL COULD SAY I’VE BEEN BUSY. DO YOU GUYS WANT A THIRD PART? I’M THINKING OF MAKING ONE, WHERE JAKE CAN MEET THE GANG AND MAKE THEM REMEMBER TOO. IF I DID MADE IT, I’M THINKING FOR A FOURTH AND LAST PART WHERE THEY’LL BE RESCUING THE VAANTI AND OF COURSE, DIEGO’S LOVELY BOYFRIEND, VARYYN!

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shannaraisles · 6 years

Text

Well, that was a good start to the new year. Ranting under the cut, don’t read unless your curiosity gets the better of you.

This is not whining for the sake of being heard, nor am I fishing for compliments. I need to get this out of my head, to experience the pretense of being heard that posting thoughts like this in this kind of forum can provide. That’s all.

Let’s start with saying, I don’t do well with criticism. There are a number of reasons, most of which are depressingly personal, so I won’t bore you with them. In bland terms, I struggle with anxiety and depression, and all the “little” things that usually go hand in hand with those difficulties.

I am getting better at handling criticism in certain circumstances - when it’s couched in constructive terms, with a little guidance on how I can improve, I don’t take it so personally. I don’t internalize it and let it eat me up. This is not a rant about anything anyone has said to me online, no matter how recent. This is about a stupid mistake I made a few weeks before Christmas that has, just this morning, taken me by the hair and slammed me face first into a wall.

I don’t share my writing with anyone off the internet. My family knows I write; one or two of my very small circle of friends knows I write. They don’t ask for details, and I don’t offer them. They’re not interested, which is fine. What isn’t fine is that the one “friend” I thought I had who was interested in my writing ... as of this morning, she is no longer a friend, and I have no idea how to tell her that.

She’s been bugging me for a while to let her see my writing. As I do with everyone offline, I haven’t given her my tumblr or my AO3 names, and I didn’t give her any clues that would help her find them. But she wouldn’t let it go; she was enthusiastic, encouraging. She wanted to read what I was writing because she remembered the stories I wrote when we were teens, and she was convinced I’d improved immeasurably and that she would enjoy what I’m writing now. I’m an idiot. I let her enthusiasm overwhelm my caution, and sent her the completed Set In Darkness. She emailed me back with a promise to read it and give me constructive criticism, to help me improve.

This morning, that criticism arrived. It was neither constructive, nor was it encouraging. Choice excerpts include “this is worse than the original story you wrote in fourth year”, and “this reads like a mawkish fantasy only a hideous virgin could write“. According to her, my dialogue is laughable; my descriptions are bland; I have no understanding of how relationships work; I have no idea how friendships work; I have a view of the situations that is too optimistic to be believable, and an inability to write action, romance, or basic daily routine in a plausible manner. Even the word count was unimpressive, in her view. I should have written twice as much, because I have nothing else to do with my time. This person I trusted with something I spent almost six months writing ripped it apart in four hundred words without a second thought, peppering every other phrase with jarring smileys as though trying to soften what she was saying. She ended her vitriol with advice to “write what you know, because your imagination is letting you down”. I know it is her opinion, and opinions are ten a penny, but fucking hell, it hurts.

Because if I write what I know, all I will be writing about is unhealthy family relationships; how to fly under the radar of everyone who might have helped if they’d noticed something was wrong; how to screw up your own life to the point where anxiety, depression, and fear holds you back from experiencing anything at all. I’ll be writing about being fat and ugly and sad and lonely. Because nothing happens to me. I actively avoid anything happening in my life. I have no experience of anything to draw on in my writing. And now someone I trusted has told me that even my writing - the one thing I was beginning to feel good about, confident with - is complete and utter crap.

And the worst part of that? I’m so conditioned to smooth things over, to avoid conflict and upsetting the apple cart ... I can feel myself agreeing with her. Even if I never say it out loud, even if I never agree to her face, that thought is there now. It isn’t a thought that makes me angry. Anger would be easier to do something with; anger would motivate me to write in spite of what I’ve read this morning. But the anger isn’t there. I’m hurt and crying and shaking, and my warped survival instinct is telling me to never write again, just to avoid this feeling ever coming back. I’ll get over it. I’ll just stop expressing myself in ways that anyone else can dissect. That’ll help, right?

Except I know it won’t help. I gave up acting in my teens, because my mother never had a good word to say about my ability and openly laughed at me when I expressed an interest in maybe going to a stage school. I gave up singing just a couple of years later, because my mother hated the idea that I might be better at it than her and went out of her way to destroy my confidence in it. One person whose opinion I valued destroyed my hopes and I let her do it. I went from being confident and social to being frightened and isolated, all because I lost my means to express myself.

And now I can feel it happening again. I want to write. I know myself well enough to know that the boost which comes just from completing a chapter and posting it does amazing things for my self-esteem. Just writing and hiding it away doesn’t feel right to me. What’s the point of writing a story and never sharing it with anyone at all? How do I improve, learn, get anything out of that isolating experience? But what’s the point of writing anything when I’m so awful at it that not even a so-called friend has a single shred of praise to give it?

I’ve been here before. I’ve felt this before. Part of me knows that giving up is the worst thing I could possibly do.

I promise anyone who has read this, I am not asking to be praised unconditionally. I’m not asking anyone to encourage me, or tell me I’m a good writer. I’m just frightened that I may be about to drop off the grid when it comes to writing, and I suppose I wanted to explain why, before it all becomes internalized and I never speak another word about it. Because once it’s in there, it becomes a shameful secret, like all those other shameful secrets I have that are nothing of the kind. Occasionally they’ll come to light, usually when I’m feeling down, and I apologize to everyone who’s been unfortunate enough to have me whine at them about that.

I’m just sorry for everything today - for existing, for daring to think I might have something worth sharing, for not being able to take criticism without breaking down in tears. I’ll get over it. I always do. But right now? I’ve lost a friend, and the excitement I was feeling for the stories I want to write is gone. I won’t get that friend back. I hope the excitement returns.

And I’m sorry this is such a depressing read for anyone who was stubborn enough to get this far. I’ll try to bury this with as many reblogs of better writers and amazing artists as I can find.

#not okay to reblog #tw: mental health #a bad reaction to a bad situation

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hardspruce-blog · 7 years

Text

New Social Order

By: John Wheeler

It was a cold day in New York City, colder than most days at this time of year. If there was rain in the clouds it would certainly come down as snow and powder the city with a crisp white accent. Some people lived in the city for the sole reason of seeing the first snowfall of the year. It was one of the most popular types of photos and paired with the right filter, someone could certainly make national news for the stale photo that got recognized every year. Almost everyone seemed to have taken in the new social order, the government was now a figurehead of what it used to be, merely there to give importance to a once used system. Now it was all electronic and in the hands of the people. Society had made social media the law of the land and the voices of the people were the judge, jury, and executioners. One had to be careful to follow certain social traditions or trends if you didn’t want to be labeled a terrorist, extremist, or some nasty word given to anyone outside the social norm. There was recently a man who spoke out on the awful working conditions of one the country’s favorite coffee store brand. Within an hour he had got 90% of the country against him, people he would never meet were calling him some quite awful names, people are their worst when separated by a piece of glass. After the incident, the man was better off in jail where he had no access to the hate that was spilling against him constantly. Something was wrong, and I could feel it. There was some sense of order and justice that was missing, a term ‘blind justice’ rang in his mind like an old friend whose name was on the tip of his tongue but could not remember no matter how hard he tried. Public law was the lay of the land and it seemed to work. Justice was swift, the order was seemingly restored, and the people against society were put away. It was easier more than ever to become famous, one just had to be at the right place at the right time for the gorgeous sunset and the right quote under it with the right filter posted at the right time to ensure maximum coverage. It was all very complex to me, I could never quite understand the fuss over the same picture a thousand times by a thousand people. I was a part of the craze, however, confusing it was. I followed all the recommended blogs to stay up to date on the new social trend that seemingly appeared out of thin air without warning. Though I never understood what the trend was about or why it was popular, I followed it anyway, like there was some sheepdog guiding me in the right direction wherever that may be. I certainly was not one of the popular people online, I had a few friends that I occasionally got together with so we could all traditionally get our picture taken together and raise our appeal slightly by appearing a way we did not see ourselves but wished others to see. I never felt a true connection to them, conversations consisted of new trends and how we may get ahead of the curve. Sometimes we would bring up a new idea for a trend, but scared of backlash, we hardly ever stepped out of our neat line society had generously placed for us.

My father had died recently, so I was enjoying a slight increase in my quality of life. Everyone was giving homage to my father who they had never seen besides in the pictures I posted with him and I posing together before he died. He was certainly an outcast of a man, did not enjoy the new social order and spoke adamantly against it, however, he was certainly a rich man. He often gave to charity, not for the popularity of it, but simply to give. He never made any occasion of it, if it was ever brought up it was by a friend trying to seem favorable to him by congratulating him. He had his own island that he often retreated to towards the end of his days, told me “I can’t stand the way society is going, this is not how people ought to act. All the kindness in the world is masked by social gain and no raw emotion.” I never really knew what he meant by raw emotion. In his will, he had left me his island. It was quaint, he showed me pictures of it. A simple wooden cabin on the beach overlooking the ocean faced in the direction of the rising sun. Around it was lush forests, untainted by the human hand. He had a simple garden that sustained him during the summer times. It was almost its own society away from society.

At one of our bi-weekly social meetings at a café that was the new flavor of the week, that was crammed with people here for the same exact reason. A friend suggested to me that I go live in my dad’s cabin for a while. He said paying an homage to your dead father may raise my popularity. People love seeing other people go through hard times, struggling with the human condition and working through their own depression somehow made other people a little less depressed about their own condition. On the walk home I was mulling it over, for once my phone was not in my hand swiping through the newest trend of sandals in the winter months. I was tired of my life, I felt like I needed a fresh start. It was hard to escape this life though, dropping off the grid was almost like suicide, losing out on all the news and trends. It made you seem socially retarded and no one wanted to be around someone that might lower their own popularity. However, I could skip around the social suicide, start a new life without any repercussion to my life. It was the perfect scenario and I felt I had been blessed. I began packing my bag up tonight, ensuring I took plenty of pictures so I could tell my story to everyone I could. After packing up I took steps to ensure someone could take care of my hypoallergenic dog, you never knew what kind of guests you would have so it was best to air on the side of caution. My friend, Jessica, from my bi-weekly social group, said she would be, “Totally flattered to dog sit for me.” She also had been wanting a dog to take selfies with so it was a win-win for the both of us. I then made sure my landlord knew I would be gone for the year and after hearing my story, whether out of pity or fear of social stigma, allowed my apartment to remain untouched and rent-free for the year. Finally, it was time to set my phone away in a safe place. I thought it best to leave it in a safety deposit box at my bank who said it was the most unusual thing they had ever seen. Some had looked at me as if I were quite insane. Nonetheless, I was now free of the social network.

After I was dropped off onto my dad’s old island, I instructed the boatman to bring supplies at the beginning of each month and to not bring anything that told me what was going on beyond my stretch of the horizon. After words, I made my way to the cabin which was about a half mile uphill which allowed for a gorgeous view overlooking the beach and the sunrise each morning. It was quite deafening and disorienting to hear only the sounds of nature and not the sounds of cars rushing past and peoples’ thumbs on their phones. I felt slightly sick at the thought of what I was doing, I was alone after being so connected for almost my entire lifetime. After slowly coming to terms with my situation, but unable to shake my unease of it all, I made my way into the cabin. It was well furnished, a fireplace when it began to get cold, an arm chair next to a massive collection of books, a simple kitchen with a modern stove with a refrigerator that looked like it came out of the 80s. The bedroom had a queen sized bed with simple bedding and an extra blanket at the foot of the bed on top of a chest where I could store my personal affects. I was happy that there were at least some comforts of my old life but happier that it was all away from me.

I spent most of my days walking around the island, taking in the look of the trees, the smell of the island, the feel of the sand on my feet. On days where the weather was a bit too extreme, I spent the day indoors reading my father’s old books with a fire. I had never heard of any of them before and a lot of them challenged almost every viewpoint I had previously held. It made me rethink my lifestyle that was centered around myself and how others viewed me. My walks in nature furthered this new found way of thinking. For once, I looked above my eye level, I looked at the trees and their beautiful simplicity. I looked at the wild flowers and stared in awe at the different sizes and types. In the ocean, I could make out the school of fish all moving as one and it reminded me of my group of friends, moving without thinking and just following the rest of the group. I wondered how they were doing, not how their social status may have improved or worsened, but how they were feeling. Every morning I would drag myself out of bed no matter how tired and I would look out at the sunset. The air was almost dyed a golden color, the water was a mixture of reds, oranges, and yellows. I had slowly begun to understand why people had such an affection for filters mimicking sunsets and why so many people posted pictures of them. There was a true beauty in the sight of watching the sun slowly creep over the horizon and give its light to the land, giving its beauty to nature and all the light touched as it rose slowly into the sky.

As the months crept by, I began to see a certain sadness in the boatman’s eyes. I recognized this look because I saw that same look in my own eyes every morning when I woke up in my apartment in the city. This leads me to compare my two lives, my old life in the city and my new life on the island. I began to see that my life in the city was a depressing one. I couldn’t remember the trees in the central park, the flowers in flower boxes littering the sidewalks. Maybe it was my environment, or may it was the situation I put onto myself to force myself to fit into a crowd I was not happy in. Being alone in nature made me feel full and complete than I had ever been before. No longer did I worry about what other people would think if I wore this outfit or had an opinion, not in line with the answer society had. I felt like I could speak my mind more than ever and be the free and happy person I had been denying myself my whole life. For the first time in my life, I could look at my reflection and love what I saw because I knew that what I did and thought made me happy. It made me feel like I mattered, that my opinion mattered because it was my own.

Eventually it came time for me to leave the island and make my way back home to see my friends, who I did not know if that was really who they were. If we were just in a mutualistic relationship, benefiting off each other. On my return to the city, I saw the colors of the trees and the flowers for the first time. Vibrant greens playing off one another and the flowers painted reds and yellows and oranges dancing in the wind like a beautiful dance. I went to retrieve my phone and on my entry I saw the grim faces hidden behind the smiling mask that people put on to disguise their real feelings from the feelings society wanted. I got my phone out of the safety deposit box, covered in webs, almost like it was a warning to the world I was returning too, however I felt it my duty to share the message I had learned from my father’s island. Upon turning my phone on I was immediately blasted by notifications, messages, calls, and every sort of communication method I had at my fingertips. I let my ‘friends’ know I had returned safely to the realm of the living to which they remarked at the savage life I must have lived off the grid.

I thought the best course of action to inform the public of my discovery was to use the system I had beaten out of myself. I did not hold back, I slammed the system which people had opposed on themselves and emphasized that the lives we are living do not give us any sense of real happiness. That the happiness that everyone had been searching for in quotes and other people was only a fleeting sense of happiness. That happiness came from within yourself, making yourself happy and not focusing on what others thought of you was the key! I expressed plainly that nature was the root of this discovery, that my time alone on an island was what brought me to my discovery. I offered this up to society and awaited the mobs that were sure to come from my inflammatory comments criticizing the life they lived.

I awake to my phone shaking violently on my nightstand, upon further investigation I was receiving notifications on my post. The first comments were the ones attempting to start a train of hate, however it never left station. People loved the idea of nature being their key to happiness, it struck a chord with the general public. I had never been happier than to see my discovery receiving the praise I thought it deserved. Checking my messages, I noticed I received an invitation to go on national television and they requested an interview with the pioneer of one of the most expensive trends the nation has seen. I was enthralled by the idea of speaking directly to the nation! I was given a plane ticket to fly out to L.A. and given a luxurious hotel room, one I had dreamed about as a kid. I was still receiving praise from all corners of the nation, people jumping onboard my discovery saying it helped change them. My speech to the nation was almost identical to the one I had given in my post, there was no need to add fluff to the truth. The host was visibly taken aback at my account of my lifestyle away from society, she went as far to say if she did not know better she would think I was insane. However, I was content that my message had been heard around the nation and people might begin to turn themselves around.

I was offered a quite lucrative book deal that told of my expedition onto my father’s island. The money I made helped me to re-establish myself. I was able to move out from my small apartment that overlooked a simple street, gray with enthusiasm. I found myself in love with a penthouse that overlooked central park, I was able to see the colors dancing and the sun glistening upon every leaf and flower each morning. I hosted many parties in my home in hopes of giving people a more firsthand account of my journey. People saw it as a luxury and a privilege to be invited to my parties. I felt as if the whole world wanted to hear what I had to say, I had people clamoring over my attention and listening to me as they might find a nugget of wisdom in what I said. I hosted parties nightly so more and more people could come, and the more parties I threw the more popular I became. I was finally able to have people listen to my own opinion. As the months drew on, the parties began to dwindle in size, less people showed up so to free up their time to visit another party they heard was the new talk of the town. I would follow these parties online, wondering what they had done that I had not. I shook this feeling of self-pity off as I thought that no matter what the new trends where, what I said had more weight than any party out there.

It had been a year since my return to society, and people had all but forgotten about me it seemed. The new friends I thought I made simple left without saying a word to me. No one made mention of my profound discovery that was the answer to the nation’s problems. It almost seemed like the nation was content dwelling in its own pity, somehow thinking it would give them the attention they felt they deserved. For some reason colors began to blend together more. Greens were not as vibrant, yellows stood out less, reds bleed together, and the sun no longer dyed the air with its grace every morning. I began smiling less, even in my walks around the park I could not seem to muster up even a simple smile. I wondered what went wrong, why I was no longer popular, why I had faded out of public favor. These thoughts plagued my sleep and invaded my daily thoughts. It seemed almost pointless to go on in a world where my opinion did not seem to matter despite how deep and profound it was.

The sun rose as it did every day. I shaded my eyes from its cruel glare, hiding myself from the light and warmth it offered. I looked out across the once beautiful park, wondering where the magic had gone. However, it no longer seemed to matter. I would take my daily walk through the park like I had always done. I took a step and felt the wind rush past my ears, blocking out any sound and the thud at the end.

#short story #dystopia #happiness #writing

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mutantsrisingrpg · 4 years

Photo

Congratulations JULIE! You’ve been accepted as HYPERION.

Julie, your app captivated me from the very beginning. You gave Gerrard a rich history and truly made the skeleton come alive. You showed the line between those who are feared and those who give others a reason to fear them, and captured the true ambition and power I’d had in mind when writing Gerrard’s skeleton. I love how you made this gray area between where Gerrard ends and Hyperion begins and I truly, truly can’t wait to see that explored on the dash!

Welcome to Mutants Rising! Please read the checklist and submit your account within 24 hours.

OUT OF CHARACTER INFO

NAME/ALIAS: Julie

PRONOUNS: She/her

AGE: 20

TIMEZONE & ACTIVITY LEVEL: MST timezone. I’m juggling a lot right now, from work to other accounts to taking care of my mom, so chances are, my activity’s going to be touch-and-go until I get my shit together as much as I can. I usually try to do my drafts and post them in a batch once a week at the very least. On a scale of 1-10, I’d say, like, a 4.5. Plus, you guys know how it is. When you’re going, you’re going, and when you’re not, it’s rough.

IN CHARACTER INFO

DESIRED ROLE: Hyperion / Gerrard Bermudez

GENDER/PRONOUNS: Cismale, he/him pronouns

DETAILS & ANALYSIS:

Imagine this, for me, for a moment. You have power that fits into every empty space of your body. Real, genuine, awe-inspiring power that has never left you feeling empty even when you know you are alone. The sort of abilities that would have had you revered you as a God among men in the days of old, the kind that makes you alluring to those who understand you and those who don’t. It’s like a blackout in the dead of night that doesn’t just leave the streets dark -- it also leaves them deaf, dull, dumb. In the new age, though, your abilities don’t leave you revered. They leave people terrified of you.

The story goes like this. When you are fifteen years old and living on the outskirts of Vegas the power doesn’t go out because of a switchboard mishap or a surge, it goes out because of you, and when your mother finds you tucked in the corner of the bedroom you share with your brother, she can’t touch you for fear of electrocuting herself and dying. It had only been small before, this little secret of yours, zapping currents out of batteries and into toys to make them alive because it brought joy to your sisters’ faces. But now --- your skin crackles with energy that is alive and potent, instead of dormant and you look at her, staring you in the eye with a lack of recognition for her own child, utter abyss, and you realize that it’s all over. In the end you learn to control it because your mother stops speaking to you and your sisters cower when you enter the room. The world around you is saturated with power that sings siren songs in your ears. You pass a power line and know you could set it alight. You stroll down neon streets and know that you could make it darker than dark, a chasm lacking in light. But you don’t. You can trace the pattern of power grids beneath the asphalt because it reverberates up into you, into your body, a whole new language spoken just to you. If you so desired you could draw it up from the well like a bucket of water, but you don’t. Why? Because it’s not having the ability. It’s what you do with it that makes people terrified of you, and you never want to feel like you had that morning in your bedroom ever again. To me, that’s what Gerrard is all about: controlled chaos, organized havoc, becoming Hyperion is at its core.

BIO:

There was never a time where Gerrard didn’t practically thrum with energy. It follows his every step. As a kid he is always off the walls, bouncing his leg under his desk at school, tapping a tune onto the hardwood surface. For years his mother worries, hovering over him as he becomes more difficult to constrain, harder to pin down. His attention flits from subject to subject, his grades rise and dip. Her worry is justified, he thinks, looking back now -- he was the oldest son of four siblings, and she was a single immigrant mother from Guatemala just doing her best to survive. He used to look outside the windows at school and stare at the power lines, and imagined them talking to him. They hum, in a strange way, he tells his mother, like they’re trying to say something to him and he just needs to listen harder. She tells him he’s being silly, to go back to bed.

But it’s so loud in his room he can’t fall asleep.

The first time it happens he is maybe ten and it scares him so badly the beat in his head goes dead silent. It’s a compulsion to touch the screen, something he’s unable to deny or overpower, sick and at home alone, wrapped up in blankets. He can remember with sharp clarity the way the electricity had wrapped around his arm, under his skin, into his chest. It makes his heart beat so fast he thinks he’s dying, and then when he presses his hand to the television it sparks alive again. He’s confronted with a smiling anchorwoman, eyes glassy and wide, who reassures him in a strange voice that -it’s all going to be okay. Back to you, Mark!

He doesn’t remember if he’d imagined that part of the memory or not but it felt like a message sent down from God. He hides in his room for two days and stays quiet. When he comes out, it’s like he’s a new person. Small little bolts are hidden away like secrets. Something to make toys jump to life or fuck with his brother when Alejandro isn’t listening. Lights on. Lights off. He’s fifteen.

Lights off, and, well. This time they stay off and he feels like he’s going to burst out of his skin.

He’s not sure why his mother doesn’t rat him out, in the end, but after three years of being a stranger in his own home he packs his bags, kisses Sophie and Maya on the top of their heads, smiles at Alejandro, and disappears on a cold day in Vegas, never to be seen again. His mother tells people he’s gone off to join the military like a good American boy. It couldn’t be farther from the truth. For the first time Gerrard is by himself and it is here that he learns to use wit and charm to run from problems, beguile his way out of trouble. He spends the first three years on the strip alone. And then he meets the Aces (they’d thought they were being clever with the name, but Gerrard had only ever thought them dumb). He’s taught how to lilt his voice in the right way, make a flash in the pan with a zap of electricity. The Aces consider themselves solvers of problems. (It goes like this, every single time: some indescribable no-name gives them a bundle of cash and they beat sense into whoever needs beating in exchange.) Some have powers, some don’t.

It doesn’t matter: blood money’s still good money. It still fills their bellies, pays the raising rent, makes cops turn a blind eye when they get caught out.

At first there’s no resentment among them. Or if there is, maybe he’s just too stupid to notice, blindly ignorant, but he’s twenty-two and feels more powerful. The Aces, after all, are a small group, a clutch of misfits doing their best to make a place for themselves in a world that hates them for whatever fucking reason. But then they grow from five to ten, ten to fifteen, fifteen to twenty. The jobs get more serious. Soon it’s not just no-names, it’s the cops they’ve been paying off. Politicians. Talking heads on TVs. People who come to Vegas with the sole purpose of winning. They become a mob led by Trinity.

Trinity changes faces only because they have to, because they’d been born the color of crimson with eyes just as fiery. They’re authoritative, strong-willed, leave no loose ends. When they work with Gerrard on jobs they’re never not brutal and it is in the same dark spaces with blood on the floor that Gerrard thinks he falls in love for the very first time. He loves them no matter what face they take on, their posture, whether or not they change their toothy grin. He loves them in the middle of their ranting and ravings, their late-night motivational speeches that always end on a high note. He loves them so much it’s like a revelation, a neon sign humming to him in the desert, pointing to nowhere: this way!

They share secrets. Gerrard is thirty by now and anti-mutant sentiment has skyrocketed but it doesn’t matter because he beats bodies bloody or hides them under concrete and Trinity hand feeds him small stories. The first time they changed their face. How they learned how to modulate the pitch of their voice. The first time they realized what they were and cried. The first time they got so angry they thought it was going to leave them dead. Gerrard, in turn, tells them that the ringing of electricity is so strong sometimes he worries he’s going to burn up from the inside out. It’s a song, yes, but a siren song. They pet back the hair sticking to his forehead and tell him to hum what it sounds like, and he does.

(It’s never that simple, but he likes to believe it had been, looking back.)

Here’s the thing. He thinks, for a very long time, that Trinity loves him enough to drown out their rage. That when they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder with him in bed or sprawled out across the rest of him that it’s easy for them to forget. It is not. They pick up more jobs. Trinity gets angrier. Marlowe is arrested and Angela’s strung up around the neck by anti-mutant protestors. The same cops who’d hired the Aces don’t even glance their way. Business is booming. The world hates Gerrard as much as it holds him up on a pedestal. He learns how to take life from a body, absorb a person’s bioelectricity until they’re ice cold.

The long and short of it is that Gerrard thinks one thing and Trinity thinks another and they make themselves a martyr. A job goes wrong. Gerrard watches from home as their death is televised for all the world to see. It starts as a car chase and ends in a shootout and Gerrard does the worst possible thing. He doesn’t rally. He doesn’t summon up the courage to light Vegas up so bright you can see it from space. He packs a bag and all the fucking money he can and runs, headlights on the street so bright no one can make out it’s him. He drives and drives and drives until the gas tank is empty and everything is quiet.

There is no long and short of it. Gerrard doesn’t even know what the long is. Trinity hadn’t shared details. They’d kissed him on the cheek, he’d been half awake, asked where they were going, they didn’t need to be anywhere until, like, the afternoon, come back to bed-

Chicago is not his first choice but it’s a choice and that’s what matters. He has contacts here, he knows, and they don’t ask questions, but they do hook him up with the Jem Family. It’s familiar work and there’s something comforting in putting muted anger to use. He hides his cards the way Trinity had hidden their everything. Smiles become flashy. So do clothes and shoes and cars. He sees a vision in the fight club under the Cornerstore Convenience and makes it happen because he can. Damien Matthews needs a bodyguard and he steps up because he couldn’t keep Trinity safe but he most certainly can try again. He hides rage with cheshire grins and flashy loafers and it’s here that Gerrard Bermudez ends, or maybe that was in Vegas. It’s here that Hyperion begins.

EXPANDED CONNECTIONS:

PAN: There’s no doubt in my mind that Gerrard is taking advantage of Eoin’s presence in the fight club, and I think it’s fascinating that he’d even be bothered enough to stoke Eoin’s flames a little bit. Most people these days are passing interests to Gerrard. They garner his attention for a minute and then he passes them onwards once they’ve wasted their potential, but Eoin is brimming with possibility. I’d love to explore what makes them different in comparison to someone like Kiara, who also has potential, but for entirely different reasons.

EXTRA: Pinterest board! Nothing else because it’s 11:22PM and if I stare at this thing any longer my brain’s going to melt out through my ears, eugh.

ANYTHING ELSE: Take a shot every time “anger” or “rage” pop up in this application. I’m sorry. I’m a hockey-loving monkey and only know two words, apparently.

#accepted #accepted: hyperion

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spideycents · 5 years

Text

B-Roll // Shawn Mendes - 4: rolling

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TABLE OF CONTENTS

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trigger warning: sexual harassment

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"Maybe I'll just see you guys at lunch," Shawn suggests as we're climbing out of the van. It's stopped on the street outside a massive high school gym.

"Yeah maybe," I shrug. "Depends on how busy things get."

"I won't be busy," Michael chimes in. "I'll probably be on my third plate of pasta."

"Unless it's chicken," I laugh lightly.

"If it's chicken, then I'll eat salad," Michael says flatly.

Shawn's looking back and forth between the two of us. "Chicken's bad, eh?"

"Very," I say simply before Michael can go off on his long rant that I've heard a billion times.

"Man, guess I won't eat chicken today then," Shawn laughs lightly.

"Oh no," Michael cuts him off. "It's not your chicken. Crew food is always super bougie and delicious and amazing and sometimes you guys have lobster and chocolate fountains and basically crack. It's the extras food that's dogshit. It's like school mystery meat."

"Someone probably ran over the extra's chicken on their way to set," I add. "A month ago."

Shawn grimaces. "Crazy."

We nod.

"It's the worst," Michael continues. "Always has been. Always will be."

"I don't know," I shrug. "I think I've accepted it and kinda like it now."

"Well then we'll trade today," Michael says. "You can eat extras catering while I get crew."

I cringe. "I think I'll just bring you a brownie and we'll call it square."

Shawn chokes back a laugh and I look at him.

"Cause brownies are usually square," he smiles.

I roll my eyes, but a hint of a laugh sneaks it's way onto my face.

I'm about to say something really stupid about puns, but I'm saved by someone yelling for Shawn over by the gym.

We all look over and see the guy who was with Shawn in the parking lot this morning. He's waving him over. I can see base-camp across a practice field by the gym, so Shawn's trailer must be over there.

"Well," he turns back to us. "That's my cue."

"It was nice meeting you," I smile at him and hold out my right hand. He takes it in his. His handshake is strong, but it doesn't hurt. It's just...secure.

"Yeah, you too," he smiles back.

"See ya around," Michael nods at him.

"Let me know if ya get the bad chicken and maybe I'll bring you a burger, man." Shawn tells him.

Michael laughs lightly. "You got it."

"Break a leg," I tell him.

"Thank you," he smiles again and turns away. "See ya."

"See ya," I say softly as he turns away and heads over to his friend.

"Fuck, it's cold!" Michael exclaims, already walking quickly toward the gym doors. Blue signs taped to orange cones have arrows printed on them that say Extras Holding is that way.

We drop our things at our usual spot in holding.

Michael collapses into a folding chair. He pulls a hoodie out of his bag and bundles it up then sets it on the table in front of him.

I raise my eyebrows at him. "Nap time already?"

He nods.

"Are we not gonna talk about what just happened?"

He shakes his head.

"But-"

"Shhh." He folds his arms under the hoodie and buries his face in the fabric.

I roll my eyes and look around the gym. There are tables set up for breakfast, but nothing's been put out yet. There's a bright orange water cooler on a table against the wall by the door where we came in, but that's about it. No one's come by to set out boxes of fruit and granola bars and gummies yet. I'd kill for a PB&J station right now.

My stomach's actually starting to hurt, I'm so hungry. I should've grabbed something from home. Michael managed to down an iced coffee before we left, that'll honestly hold him until lunch. All I got was my water bottle.

If I don't have real food in five minutes, my inner Hulk might be unleashed.

Maybe crew crafty's been set up by now. I won't get in trouble if I ransack the cart. I have email proof that I'm part of this movie.

God, they need something more solid and tangible, like ID badges or something. Walkie-talkies with our names sharpie'd onto a piece of tape is so half-assed. I don't think I get one of those anyway.

I wonder where crew crafty is...

Close to set? Maybe? Probably?

I don't know.

Should I ask someone?

Can I ask someone?

I look like a fucking child. No one is gonna believe I'm crew. That PA definitely didn't.

Maybe I should pull up that email and have it ready to flash to anyone who questions me.

I wander out of the gym, into a big open hallway. The makeshift signs taped to the walls have arrows pointing toward holding, set, catering, base camp, and the bathrooms.

Thankfully, those are right by the gym. I make a mental note of the location of the women's room and head outside, toward catering and base camp.

There are no real parking lots at this school, which explains why we parked at a gravel lot behind some church a few blocks away. The only parking spots line three of the four streets surrounding the school. This part of the city is a grid system, which should mean we're downtown and near a parking garage or two, but we're basically in the suburbs. Like the old suburbs. The houses around the school are all one story, maybe two, not big at all and look like they were built in the 60s or 70s. Which they probably were.

I leave the school through a row of three sets of glass doors. I walk through the middle set and push both doors open in a grand double door exit because I'm extra like that.

I head for the large practice field behind the school and make a bee-line for base camp.

I wonder if Shawn's made it to his trailer yet.

Since they can't park any trailers on the grass field, they're all in a gravel lot in the corner farthest from me. Except for all the semis full of costumes and the makeup trailers that flood out onto the street. As I trudge across the field, which is slightly muddy since it's been raining a lot this summer, I notice another parking lot behind the gym. I see steam rising from a small village of tents, which can only mean one thing.

My pace goes from tired trudging to Usain Bolt Olympic sprinting in three seconds flat.

I lurch to a stop when I reach catering. I'm panting, but I can't tell if that's from the running or my hunger or both. The cooks are in a frenzy, getting stuff ready for breakfast. Everything smells so amazing that my mouth waters. I'm about to dive my face into a griddle covered in bacon when another smell catches my nose.

Nicotine.

Oh god, it's foul and unpleasant and completely ruins my appetite, so now I'm really pissed off.

There's a small group of smokers huddled around a loading dock that's just past catering. I'm so annoyed that they're standing so close to the food. They're gonna make their awful smells seep into the food. I swear, if I eat pancakes that taste vaguely of cigarettes, I will shove their lighters up their butts.

No pun intended.

There's a door that goes back into the gym, but to get to it, I have to pass the smokers.

I get some weird looks from the caterers while I quickly make myself a cup of coffee and grab some eggs, bacon, and toast, but no one comes up to me and yells at me or demands proof that I'm really crew.

I try to hold my breath while I walk past the smokers, but my lungs haven't been under this much pressure since middle school cross country.

I hate this.

The smell's going to cling to my clothes.

This sucks so much.

I hate nothing more than this god awful, putrid stench.

I try to take in long deep breaths in the clean air that still smells and, oh god, kind of tastes like bacon. Fucking shit. I'm so fucking hungry!

I don't want to make it too obvious that I'm holding my breath or speed walking, but I want to get by the smokers as quickly as humanly possible without full on running.

"Lyla!"

Oh god. Oh please no.

"Hey! Lyla!"

I look over at the group and waving back at me is Jake, the literal bane of my existence.

Fuck him.

"Hi Jake," I call back and walk over to him, but still keep a wide berth between us.

Take note of the space I'm not closing. Let this conversation end before it even begins.

He smirks at me and I notice his gaze fall down my legs and back up my body for an agonizing second, then he looks back at my eyes. "How you been?" he nods.

Really?!

A slight shiver makes me turn my neck and raise my shoulder slightly to force it down.

I hate this.

I hate him.

Rot in hell.

"I'm great," I say, faking enthusiasm. "How are you?"

"I'm good," he nods again, but it's more like a bro nod rather than a flirt nod. "Living the dream."

I choke back the feeling of something rising in my throat.

God, I forgot how much he says that. I hate that stupid phrase.

I laugh lightly, but it's in that moment that I realize everyone else in the smoker's group has stopped talking. They're watching us.

They're quietly taking long, slow drags, the soft glow briefly illuminating their faces. They're shrouded in shadow until the light catches their eyes and I know they're looking at me. I don't want an audience. I didn't sign up for this.

The stench of the smoke is still so foul and it's taking every ounce of self-control I have to not scrunch up my nose or cover my face with my hand or my shirt.

"What are you booked as?"

Why is he still talking to me? For once, I want him to be the douchebag that he is so I can go inside and get the hell away from him.

I don't understand. Usually, after we've exchanged the pleasantries, he looks bored and it's clear he's lost interest in me, but he's still looking at me intently. I don't think his eyes have left me once.

I feel a flush rise in my cheeks.

I don't want to deal with this right now. Especial not here, exposed and self-conscious. We're not doing this right now

"I'm not an extra."

Stop responding, Lyla. Walk away. Go inside.

His eyebrows raise in surprise and I have to fight the impulse to roll my eyes so hard, it gives me a headache.

"I'm a makeup assistant," I add.

"Oh, really? That's awesome!" Gotta love his fake excitement. "I'll be sure to come to your chair then."

He winks at me.

I'm gonna kill him.

He's not hot enough to get away with this shit. He may have nice eyes and he's tall and in moderate shape, but he's got a weird face, receding hairline, protruding jaw, and disgusting beard that's somehow always greasy.

He's garbage and I'm done with him. Really done.

"If it's open," I say curtly then I turn on my heel and walk back into the gym.

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I couldn't sleep when I wrote this so if it’s awful, blame global warming.

#b roll #shawn mendes #shawn mendes fanfic #shawn mendes fanfiction #shawn mendes story #shawn mendes fic #shawn #mendes #mendes army #shawn peter raul mendes

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