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thatsonemorbidcorvid · 4 months

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ON AN AUGUST night in 2003, a young woman who went by the name Paulina sank into the sofa of her modest, rented apartment, opened up her laptop, and began talking about sex with a man she’d recently met in a Yahoo chat group. His name was Stephen Bolen. His first communications had been terse, but he soon warmed to Paulina. It didn’t take long for both of them to begin to open up.

Paulina had told Bolen she lived in the Atlanta area, that she had a three-year-old daughter, that her daughter’s father was no longer in the picture. Soon, she was sharing more intimate details: what it was like growing up a skinny white girl in a rough neighborhood outside of D.C.; how her dad, a Marine, had died by suicide two weeks before she was born; how her mom had been emotionally and physically abusive, and had never really shown her love. How she’d had a sexual relationship with her stepfather.

Paulina would put her daughter to bed and then she and Bolen would chat throughout the night, over Yahoo and sometimes on the phone. The back-and-forth could feel like dating, but with an added element of danger and risk: Both Paulina and Bolen knew they were tiptoeing up to a line to see if they trusted each other enough to cross it. It could take a while to figure that out.

Eventually, Bolen asked Paulina to send pictures of her daughter, and she agreed to do so, though the ones she’d shared were chaste — the little girl clothed and her face turned away from the camera or obscured behind an untamable halo of blond curls. After seeing the pictures, Bolen asked to meet. While a lot of the men Paulina had encountered in chatrooms like “Sex With Younger” just wanted to trade images and videos of children, to expand their illicit collections, Bolen was a “traveler,” someone looking to act upon his obsessions.

On Sept. 17, just as they’d arranged, Paulina sat on a bench outside Perimeter Mall with a stroller parked in front of her, scanning the parking lot nervously. Part of her hoped Bolen wouldn’t show. When he did, she could see he was handsome, a preppy guy in a pink polo shirt and khakis. “Paulina?” he asked eagerly. She nodded. As he smiled and pulled back the blanket draped across the stroller, he found himself surrounded, handcuffs slipped around his wrists.

“Paulina” watched his face fall, his confusion giving way to distress as FBI agents took him into custody. It was her first undercover arrest. It would be the first of many.

[long read]

IF ONE WANTED to hide in plain sight, one could do no better than the tidy, suburban neighborhood on the outskirts of St. Louis, where FBI Special Agent Nikki Badolato now resides. The well-tended, two-story homes are so pleasantly indistinct that I could hardly tell you what hers looks like, even if it were safe for me to do so, which it is not. Suffice to say that Midwestern comfort and conformity unspool around every gently winding curve. Here Badolato has raised her two children, a daughter who is now in college and a son who is a junior at a local high school. When planning a neighborhood scavenger hunt or tending the community garden, Badolato does not often mention her many years as head of the Child Exploitation Task Force, a joint effort between the feds and local law enforcement that targets some of the country’s most heinous crimes. Open a cabinet in her kitchen, however, and a government-issued Glock 42 can be found stowed away between the vitamins and mixing bowls.

On a sunny morning this past October, Badolato sat at her dining room table, scrapbooks and albums spread out before her on the dark wood. There was the acceptance letter she’d received from the bureau the spring of her senior year of high school, after a representative had shown up to administer a test in the typewriting room. “I chose to wear a red dress and red heels,” she says of her first day as an FBI mail clerk, two weeks after her 18th birthday. “I don’t know what the hell I was thinking. I guess maybe I was trying to go in bold?” She pauses at a picture of herself on the gun range at Quantico almost 10 years later, her shoulders squared and her caramel hair pulled back into a ponytail as she fires off rounds. By then, she’d married a man she met just after high school, had a little girl, completed college at night, and been accepted into agent training in the heady days after 9/11. She’d seen her first dead body only a few weeks into the job, after the pursuit of a bank robber ended with a shootout in a Walmart. When Badolato got to the scene, the body was still warm, and the perp’s head was resting on a bag of cookies. “It was surreal,” she says. “How many times have you been in a Walmart and walked down Aisle 4, not really expecting there to be a dead person with his head lying on a bag of Chips Ahoy?”

Badolato wasn’t deterred. She felt like the bureau saved her, plucked her out of a shitty home life, and gave her prospects and purpose. As a new agent, she was intent on proving herself worthy. “My training agent told me, ‘You know, Nikki, it’s a marathon, not a sprint,’ ” she says. “I was like, ‘That’s ridiculous. I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean.’ ” She turned a few pages to show a picture of the 391 kilos of cocaine and 140 pounds of meth she’d recovered on a single raid during a stint with a cartel squad, then pointed out another in which she poses with a five-year-old child she’d rescued, the little girl’s hair cut short because the kidnapper had wanted her to look like a boy. But the keepsake she really wants to find is the card that Bolen’s wife had pressed into her hand at his sentencing, the one with the picture of their children — a blond girl of about three years and a tiny baby — and the words “These are the faces of the children you protect each day.” Bolen’s wife had been the only one she’d ever encountered who had lobbied for her husband to receive the maximum sentence. Some wives accused the FBI of planting evidence inside computers. Most seemed intent on clinging to their delusions. (Attempts to reach Bolen for comment were unsuccessful.)

“Right now some little girl is being dropped off in the parking lot of a motel. There are four girls holed up in a hotel next to a McDonald’s. It is happening all the time.”

Which, Badolato has come to understand, is the way it goes with child trafficking and sexual abuse. She had invited me into her home — had agreed to speak on the record about her decades-long career working undercover — because when it comes to the crimes she’s spent her career fighting, she has had enough of the delusions people are under. She’s had enough of the way movies like Sound of Freedom both glamorize and trivialize the work she and her colleagues do, enough of the idea that swashbuckling white men burst through doors and rescue trafficked children with a Bible in one hand and a firearm in the other, enough of conspiracy theories about Hollywood and Washington that detract from the real root causes of why children are trafficked and abused. “Human trafficking is not the movie Pretty Woman — the girl doesn’t get the guy — and it’s not the movie Taken, where people are kidnapped in a foreign country and sold on the black market, or shipped in a container across the world,” one of the detectives who worked on Badolato’s task force tells me. “I’m not saying that doesn’t ever happen, but it’s not what we’re seeing.”

What they are seeing is a lot more insidious and a lot more homegrown. A report released in 2018 by the State Department ranked the U.S. as one of the worst countries in the world for human trafficking. While the Department of Justice has estimated that between 14,500 and 17,500 foreign nationals are trafficked into this country every year, this number pales in comparison to the number of American minors who are trafficked within it: A 2009 Department of Health and Human Services review of human trafficking into and within the United States found that roughly 199,000 American minors are sexually exploited each year, and that between 244,000 and 325,000 American youths are considered to be at risk of being trafficked specifically in the sex industry. Heartbreakingly, many of these children are victimized not by strangers who’ve abducted them from mall parking lots but rather by people they know and trust: Studies have found that as much as 44 percent of victims are trafficked by family members, most often parents (and not infrequently parents who were trafficked themselves). Between 2011 and 2020, there was an 84 percent increase in the number of people prosecuted for a federal human-trafficking offense. Of the defendants charged in 2020, 92 percent were male, 63 percent were white, 66 percent had no prior convictions, and 95 percent were U.S. citizens.

Badolato started her career as an FBI agent in some of the earliest days that children could be bought, sold, and traded online. As the internet-porn industry mushroomed, its most lucrative branch turned out to be that of child sexual-abuse materials (the term “child pornography” is no longer used by those in the field, as it implies consent). And as demand for these images increased, so did the abuse that led to their creation.

In 2003, just a few months after Badolato graduated from Quantico, a Crimes Against Children squad was formed in the Atlanta office where she’d been stationed. By then, the FBI was starting to get a handle on the extent of the problem — if not exactly what to do about it. At a weeklong training in Baltimore, Badolato was given a tour of the darkest underbelly of fetish chat groups and then instructed to figure out how to infiltrate. “Everyone was a little nervous,” she explains of the directive. “It was a process, a direction that was new.” Agents were told that they would need to come up with a “persona” and a “story,” and that they would likely have to provide images of children to “prove” they had a minor on offer. They were also told that they could use images of their own children, if they were comfortable doing so (the FBI no longer endorses this policy).

Badolato’s unit with a kidnapping victim after her recovery in 2011. A Health and Human Services review found that roughly 199,000 American minors are sexually exploited each year, and that as many as 325,000 American youths are considered to be at risk of being trafficked in the sex industry.

Badolato developed “Paulina” based on her understanding that any persona would need to share most of her own backstory and traits. “That’s the only way you can really do undercover work,” Badolato says. “People can tell the sincerity in what you’re saying, so there has to be a level of genuineness, but then you just add this criminal element to it.” Most of the things Badolato had told Bolen were true: where she was from, her family background, the monstrousness of her mother, a woman who she says would pass out cigarettes and beers to Badolato’s 13-year-old friends in a state of manic permissiveness one minute and fly into a violent rage about a piece of lint on the floor the next. (Badolato’s mother declined to comment for this article, but a childhood friend corroborated Badolato’s account.) It was true that growing up in an unstable home with a string of stepdads, she had never really felt loved, true that she had divorced her first husband, true that she was raising their three-year-old daughter on her own. The only thing that wasn’t true was her tale of being molested, her initiation into the “lifestyle” — to use the chatroom parlance — that Paulina said she now wanted for her daughter. As Badolato had familiarized herself with the language and behaviors of the chatrooms, she’d honed that added criminal element, imagining what psychological conditions might believably lead a parent to traffic their own child and how those conditions could be grafted onto her real life story. She already had a history of abuse; it was not hard to extrapolate to a fictional stepfather who had seemed to provide a gentle counterpoint, showing her love and making her feel special when no one else had, even if others couldn’t understand. From there, it was easy to convince the chatroom participants that she shared their belief — or justification — that most people had it all wrong and that “child love” was natural, and could even be beneficial for the child.

Badolato estimates that she has arrested more than a thousand people; not one of those arrests has failed to end in a conviction. She didn’t know until she was in the thick of it that most agents refuse this sort of work, that most can’t even pretend to forge a relationship with someone looking to victimize a child. But she could. “Paulina,” she points out, is not a name she chose at random; it’s similar to her own mother’s name. Badolato says she had grown up learning to compartmentalize for the sake of her own emotional survival. She’d perfected the art of engaging with someone whose actions she couldn’t stand. Doing this work had felt like a way of taking her trauma and putting it to good use, of leveraging her past as a safeguard against her daughter’s and other children’s futures.

Of course there were moments that were hard to take — when suspects mentioned which brands of lubrication were best or whether or not a parent might hold a child down. There were times when she knew that even talking about these things was a turn-on for these men, times when the conversations made her nauseous, times when she’d lie awake all night or play back a recording and think, “Holy shit, I listened to this? I said these words?” But she kept faith in the mission. She reminded herself that the pictures she sent of her daughter — the beautiful, little girl sleeping in the next room — did not represent a real child on offer. “I was thinking, ‘If I send this obscure picture of my daughter and he acts on it, then he’s never going to harm my daughter or anybody else’s,’ ” Badolato says now. “I was presenting a fake girl to save a real one.”

KYLE PARKS SEEMED to think he could get away with anything. He seemed to think, for instance, that he could get away with running a brothel, a 1-900 sex line, and a housecleaning company out of the same Columbus, Ohio, office park and under the same oxy-moronic name, XXXREC and Hygiene Services. He seemed to think he could invite one young woman and five teenagers (four of whom he had only just met) on a road trip to Florida, but instead deposit them in two rooms of a Red Roof Inn in St. Charles, Missouri. When they piled out of the minivan — high on the drugs he’d given them — saw snow falling and asked to be taken home, he thought he could make a little money off them first. All it took was a few ads in Backpage — the Craigslist of sex advertisements — and men began showing up.

Even after things started going south for him, Parks couldn’t fathom that he wouldn’t prevail. When someone alerted law enforcement as to what was going on, Parks (who, according to legal documents, had been out getting food when the police showed up) burst into the precinct the next morning looking to bail his “friend” out. When questioned about the 88 condoms found in the back of his van, he said they had been prescribed to him by a doctor. After being taken into custody, he protested that he was being set up. Most people would have cut their losses and pleaded guilty, but not Parks. He thought he could take his case to court and win.

And it wasn’t impossible to imagine that he might. Badolato knew that even the tightest cases could go sideways when put before 12 people who would inevitably enter the courtroom with a cinematic sense of what sex trafficking was supposed to be. In fact, it wasn’t just the jury that Badolato knew she would need to convince; it was also often the victims themselves, young people who had internalized the exact same misconceptions about trafficking that the jury had — along with any number of other judgments society had thrown their way — and who were loath to submit themselves to a courtroom full of more judgment.

Of all of Parks’ underage victims, the hardest to pin down had been a 17-year-old we’ll call Sierra. Once she returned to Columbus, Sierra seemed to basically disappear. Calls to her mother’s number went unanswered. When one of the other victims managed to track her down in December 2016, a month before the case was to go to trial, Sierra agreed to meet Badolato on a blighted Columbus block with a string of dilapidated homes, climbing into the bureau’s Chevy Malibu with matted hair, dirty clothes, and a wary expression.

By this time, Badolato had remarried, had a second child, relocated to St. Louis, and taken over as head of the Child Exploitation Joint Task Force, which had become one of the most productive FBI teams in the country in terms of arrests and convictions. Meanwhile, as the internet streamlined the process of buying or selling any good or service, trafficking had become one of the fastest-growing criminal enterprises, estimated by the Department of Homeland Security to bring in $150 billion globally and considered by many criminals to be a superior business model: If caught, the sentences were often lighter than those for peddling drugs; and unlike crack or heroin, the same product could be “used” again and again and again.

Badolato taught her team of 20 how to do the online undercover work she’d trailblazed in Atlanta, tracking the movements of child-abuse material through the online underworld and then prosecuting those who distributed and produced it. Her new squad also initiated her in the type of undercover work it had been doing before her arrival: covert sting operations in which a detective would pose as a john, set up a “date,” and then meet said date in a hotel room fitted out with hidden recording devices while, in the next room over, a taskforce team listened in, waiting for the code word that would let them know that enough evidence had been gathered for them to swoop in and shut the op down. This had proved a very effective technique for getting convictions, but Badolato’s arrival coincided with both a growing sentiment that consensual sex work had been over-criminalized and an increasing awareness that what looked like consensual sex work might actually be trafficking, no matter what the “date” professed in that hotel room.

Badolato has a tendency to say aloud the things she notices — about you, about others, about situations — observations that are not at all unkind but are perceptive enough that most people would keep them to themselves. She points out when someone deflects, and she has a sharp eye for defense mechanisms. She once casually mentions my tendency to mirror other people’s vocal and speech patterns. She is not shy about bringing up the emotional and physical abuse she says she experienced as a child, and she is quick to comment when someone is making excuses for someone else’s behavior. It was soon clear to her colleagues that Badolato brought a trauma-informed mentality to the work, a tendency to look beyond what someone was doing and instead try to parse why they were doing it. And she was relentless: While some squads did one or two trafficking sting ops a year, her team was doing four or five a month. In addition to the hotel rooms reserved for the john and the team, they would have a social worker set up in a third room, ready to offer services to the victims. They would have lookouts stationed to see who might be dropping the date off. If that date was found to be underage, the case was automatically classified as trafficking. But even if they weren’t, Badolato’s team was primed to get to the bottom of what was going on, to figure out whether they were being manipulated or coerced, and by whom.

“If I could put my hands on a pimp, that’s what I wanted,” says Jeff Roediger, a St. Louis county detective who was the “john” for many of Badolato’s sting ops and who makes clear that the team was not interested in policing voluntary sex work. “When I had those types of cases, and I knew they were being sincere with me, I wouldn’t book them,” he says. “It was all about talking to the girls. It’s not like in the movies where they come running to you. You know, ‘Thanks, you rescued me!’ It’s not like that. A lot of them try to bullshit you at first — ‘That’s my boyfriend, blah blah blah’— but once I talked to them for a while, they would become more forthcoming.”

Badolato’s unit was one of the first in the country to take on this “progressive and proactive” approach, as she puts it. Soon, St. Louis looked like a sex-trafficking capital — not because it was actually trafficking more victims than other cities but because the task force was so aggressively pursuing those cases, and classifying them as what they were. “I mean, I was working in vice for years,” says Roediger. “Back in the day, it was always ‘prostitution,’ ‘prostitution,’ ‘prostitution’ — until we started to figure it out a little bit, until we started digging a little deeper.”

Once they did, the task force found that roughly a third of the sex-trafficking victims they recovered were under the age of 17 — and they began to see the reach of the problem. Kids were being trafficked out of every hotel in the area, from the seediest roach motel to the fanciest Ritz-Carlton. They were being trafficked every time of day and by every socioeconomic group (“Before you go do brain surgery, you got to bust a nut real quick,” one underage victim told Badolato of her high-end clientele). Some of the victims were girls. Some were boys. Some were LGBTQ kids who’d been kicked out of their homes. Some were straight cis kids from the suburbs. “I tell people that I could probably name two or three [kids] in the school district they live in that have been trafficked,” Roediger says. “And they just can’t comprehend it.”

“If I can be perfectly honest, I truly don’t believe that the FBI realizes what they put their agents through doing that kind of work.”

There were kids who were about to age out of foster care (a particularly at-risk group, according to those who work in the field), kids who’d run away, kids who were being sold to pay their family’s rent, or to buy their family member’s drugs. There were kids who’d sit in the hotel room, backpack at their feet, dutifully working on their math homework while agents and social workers tried to figure out what to do with them. Was their home life safe enough that they could be returned to it? Would a residential program take them? Of all the imperfect options, which would make them least likely to be trafficked again?

The one common denominator was this: They all had a vulnerability that could be preyed upon. They all lacked a safety net — societal, familial, emotional, or some combination thereof — that might have broken their fall. Mostly, their stories weren’t dramatic; they were typical American tales of neglect, of abuse doled out casually, of a steady stream of letdowns by people and institutions who should have propped them up. Badolato found that she had a knack for getting them to talk about this, for getting them to open up to her. She didn’t look like an FBI agent — at least not what they’d imagined. She spoke softly, but with authority and a slight vocal fry. And she thinks that, at some level, they could probably sense that she’d once been a vulnerable kid too, that with only a few slightly different twists of fate, she could have become a trafficking victim herself — and that she knew it. “My trauma looks different than theirs, but it’s trauma nonetheless,” she says.

“And I think victims can feel that.”

AS THE TASK force learned more about the psychology of victims, they also learned more about the ways in which their vulnerability was being manipulated, and how those ways were evolving. It was known in law-enforcement circles that once a skilled trafficker set his or her sights on a vulnerable young person, they could be groomed in a matter of days: one day for an introduction, a day or two to make the victim feel special and cared for, and then the day when a “friend” comes over and he needs to be “cared for” as well. Sometimes violence was involved at that point; sometimes drug use was involved throughout. But emotional manipulation was the key element, which is why it was so easy for grooming to move online, for groomers to take advantage of the false senses of connection fostered on social media.

Of the victims who are not being trafficked by family members, the majority are being groomed in this way. “I would say that probably 75 percent of the initial grooming is happening online now,” says Cindy Malott, the director of U.S. Safe Programs at Crisis Aid International. “Recruiters used to have to work really, really hard to get access to kids, but now they’re practically sitting in a child’s bedroom. And kids put everything out there — what’s going on in their life, who they’re angry about, parents are going through a divorce, their insecurities about their body, about themselves, what they do, how they spend their time — so it’s like a gift to these predators.”

The ways to manipulate are legion: Get a kid to send a compromising photo, and she’ll do almost anything to keep you from sending it out to all her Facebook friends; find out a gay kid is still closeted, and the threat of outing him gives you incredible power. And predators aren’t just on Instagram and Snapchat; they lurk in the chat functions of Roblox, Minecraft, Grand Theft Auto. “They’re everywhere,” says Malott. “People think, ‘Oh, I just got to keep my kids away from those porn sites, those horrible places.’ Well, no, predators are gonna go where the kids are.” And once there, they’re going to zero in on the kids who are most vulnerable.

That’s what got to Badolato. In her online undercover work, she’d plumbed the psychology of pedophiles, but now she wasn’t just dealing with suspects; she was spending time with victims and seeing the same vulnerabilities in them that the traffickers had seen: the instability or poverty, the addiction or mental health issues or abuse that had been normalized in their lives long before the traffickers entered them. Sometimes Badolato couldn’t help but feel that all the conspiracies and misconceptions weren’t just a distraction from the truth of trafficking but rather some sick attempt to let society off the hook for trying to solve the much more intractable problems at trafficking’s root.

“People would rather stick their head in the sand than address the real problem, because then you have to face and talk about the societal issues,” she says. “With a movie like Sound of Freedom, it’s like, ‘Oh, this is in a jungle in South America. This isn’t actually in [my neighborhood].’ You know? It’s easier for people to ignore the problem than deal with the issues on a societal level.”

BY THE TIME Badolato was sitting in that Chevy with Sierra, on that blighted Ohio block, she knew that the rate of revictimization for children who are trafficked was as high as 95 percent, according to FBI reports. She knew that 90 percent of sex-trafficking victims have a history of child sexual abuse, that more than 75 percent had lived in foster or adoptive care. She knew that she could arrest one perpetrator, and another would pop up in his place, that she could send one pimp to prison and the same victims would show up to stings some short time later, run by a different crew. She knew that testifying was a way for Sierra to psychologically push back against what had happened to her, and she was right: After the young woman took the stand on Jan. 10, 2017, Parks was found guilty and sentenced to 25 years; while testifying, Sierra had seemed to transform, to channel and embody a sort of empowerment. But Badolato also knew that once her testimony was over, Sierra would go back to that blighted block. She wondered how long that empowerment would last.

She also wondered about her own trajectory, her own ability to continue doing this work. The youngest trafficking victim she’d ever recovered from a sting op — an 11-year-old who’d been recruited through Facebook — had been returned to her family in a house that had no heat (Badolato had used an FBI slush fund to get it turned back on). One did not become immune to the human misery of such things. They compounded, became harder and harder to compartmentalize. “It’s just a combination of all of those years — and it’s all awful,” she says. “But there are particular moments that, for one reason or another, you can’t get out of your head. I just don’t think it’s in human nature to be exposed to that for so long and it not start changing who you are.”

One night, at a restaurant near where Badolato lives, I ask her whether she thinks children are being sex-trafficked right then, in that very moment, in just the mile or two radius around us. She’s quiet for a long time, her gaze fixed downward at her glass of wine. By the time she looks up, her whole body is trembling. “It’s happening right now,” she says quietly. “Right now some little girl is being dropped off in the parking lot of a motel. There are three or four girls holed up in a hotel next to a McDonald’s. It’s not only when we think about it. It is happening all the time. And if I’m just sitting here, present, having dinner, not thinking about it, that means I’m ignoring a problem that I know is real.” Tears stream down her face.

“Many images have never left my mind,” she says. “It’s really hard to have worked your entire life in law enforcement with a lot of child crime victims and be at the end of your career looking at the situation where you realize you can only do so much to make a difference.” Badolato wipes back the tears with the palm of her hand and shudders her head, as if she can shake the thoughts away. “Damn,” she says. “Fuck. I shouldn’t be the one crying. I’m not the victim of this.” The veteran agent steels herself and repeats, “I am not the victim.”

THE HOUSE WHERE Korina Ellison says she was first sex-trafficked no longer exists. It once stood on an unassuming lot in a residential suburb of Portland, Oregon, that stumbles down to the banks of the Willamette River. Now, Ellison can’t quite bring the house’s features to mind. She was so young back then, maybe four or five. There is so much she’s repressed, or only pieced together after the fact. As a child, she wouldn’t have known what she now believes to be true: that her grandmother scored her drugs by offering up her youngest daughter, Ellison’s mom. Or that, once her mom was hooked on the meth cooked by the man who’d lived in that house, she’d known just what to do to get more. But Ellison does remember being inside the house, unclothed. She does remember how the man would touch her.

Her life unspooled from there. Her father died of a heroin overdose when she was six. Her mom lost custody for good. She bounced around foster care, then various residential institutions, then whatever shelter she could find. In the story she tells of how she was sex-trafficked again in her teenage years, there’s no moment of drama, no kidnapping, no clear coercion. There was just a random, rainy afternoon when she had no place to go and was alone in the street and a car pulled up. The man inside took her home with him, fed her, introduced her to his girlfriend. They took her shopping. They let her stay. When men showed up at the home to have sex with the woman, Ellison was invited to watch, but she wasn’t expected to participate — not at first, anyway. According to a statement Ellison later made to law enforcement, she just “realized that people aren’t going to take care of [me] for free.” Soon, the woman was posting Ellison’s services on Backpage — $150 for half an hour, $200 for a full one — and the trio were traveling the Midwest. For a long time, it didn’t even occur to Ellison, then 16, to leave. “Where would I have gone?” she asks. “I’d been missing for over a year. Nobody was looking for me.” When the man told her to call him “Daddy,” she complied.

That was more than a decade ago, near the beginning of Badolato’s tenure as head of the Child Exploitation Task Force. But by 2021, leaving it had seemed a necessary form of self-preservation. One of her last cases had gone well legally: The perp, a retired police officer from California who had produced child sex-abuse materials of three sisters in Manila, had pleaded guilty to such charges when he learned that Badolato had brought the girls to the states to testify against him. But the experience had been emotionally devastating for Badolato, who had wanted the sisters, then 16, 13, and 11, to have memories of the U.S that consisted of more than reliving their trauma in a courtroom. She took them shopping and to the zoo, invited them to her home to have dinner with her own family, saw them slowly start to open up and laugh and behave like the children they were. Then she’d had to put them on a flight back to Manila, back to the aunt who had allowed the man to abuse them and who Badolato had been unable to extradite. Fortunately, she says, their estranged father ended up intervening and taking custody of the girls, but that feeling of futility in the fight lingered.

“I stayed for a little bit longer after that trial, but it really was when I should have been able to look myself in the mirror and say, ‘Nikki, you’re done,’ ” Badolato had told me in St. Louis. “It became clear that I had been doing it too long.” She’d spend the last couple of years working national security, a position without the immediacy of child-exploitation work, but also without the heartache. “If I can be perfectly honest, I truly don’t believe that the FBI realizes what they put their agents through doing that kind of work. I just don’t,” she says.

And yet, here Badolato was in Portland, leading Ellison, now 30, up to her hotel room, telling her about all the announcements she’d heard in the Atlanta airport instructing travelers to be on the lookout for sex trafficking. “It’s like white noise in the background,” she says as Ellison settles into the sofa. “It’s a false sense of doing something to help.”

“Here’s the thing: Nobody knows what to look for,” Ellison agrees.

“And what about the victims who are in that airport, who are walking around and listening?” Badolato asks.

“I wouldn’t have even heard that announcement,” Ellison replies. “Because I didn’t feel like a victim. It goes a lot, lot, lot deeper than anybody realizes.”

That’s what she and Badolato both understand. That’s why they started talking eight months ago. Of all the teenage victims Badolato’s task force recovered, Ellison is one of the few who she knows has permanently extricated herself from being prostituted, though it took years for her to get to that point, years for her to see that what happened to her was not her fault but rather a fault in the system, a fault in many systems over the course of generations. Neither she nor Badolato can fix that.

Yet they can’t help feeling like there’s something they can fix — or at least try to. Under the umbrella of an organization she’s founded called Innocent Warriors, Badolato created a program for schools, instructing educators on the signs that might indicate a student is being trafficked and teaching kids how to avoid getting groomed online, which, she believes, is not about stranger danger but rather an awareness of subtle manipulation. Ellison has been working with trafficked youth through nonprofits like Children of the Night, the residential program where Badolato’s team sent her when she was 17. Together, they’ve been talking about having Ellison help train undercovers who are learning to do trafficking sting ops. They’ve also discussed starting a mentorship program in which children who are still being sex-trafficked are paired with young adults like Ellison who once were, providing a way for victims to begin to envision a different future for themselves and a path toward it even while being prostituted. Such a program may be retroactive rather than proactive, but it would capitalize on Badolato’s and Ellison’s experience and expertise — and it could help in the healing of mentors and mentees alike.

Badolato had traveled to Portland for the two to talk face-to-face about how the program might work. “You have to understand how they’ve been traumatized because sometimes, to a child, relating doesn’t sound like you’re relating. It sounds like you’re pointing out all the bad things in them,” says Ellison from the driver’s seat of her Nissan Pathfinder as she drives Badolato around to show her certain landmarks of her past after she’d left Children of the Night: the bridge she’d slept under for over a year after a boyfriend had gotten her hooked on heroin, the blocks downtown where she’d bounced between a children’s shelter and the needle exchange. It had taken a prison sentence for her to finally break her addiction and commit to a different kind of life, though that evolution had had less to do with not having access to drugs than with seeing her own mother cycle in and out of the same facility — like looking into her own future and witnessing how bleak it would be. Maybe, she thought, she could provide the inverse of that for kids in Innocent Warriors. Maybe she could reverse engineer her own escape.

“I just want to make it very clear that if you were a victim, you are a victim, and just to not have any shame in that,” she tells Badolato as they drive through Portland’s misty streets.

“What I anticipate and hope is that then we get survivors that are like, ‘They get it,’ ” Badolato replies. “And that it opens up doors to help, for people to recognize that there are people who get what’s really going on.”

“It took a really long time for me,” Ellison says of coming to terms with her own victimhood.

“It’s like reworking your thought process about some of those things,” Badolato agrees. “And that’s hard, and it happens slowly over time, and it looks different for everybody.”

Ellison grips the wheel tightly. “The truth does matter. It does. The truth is the fucking truth. And it’s been empowering to be able to talk about it because that’s another way that I’ve realized, like, ‘Man, I was a victim,’ is re-going over all of this. Because when it happens so many times, you do blame yourself. It’s a lot easier to just continue to live in a lie than believe that you were lied to.”

Still, Ellison and Badolato agree that the impressionability that makes children vulnerable is also what makes them open to guidance and mentorship if a relationship of trust can be established. “What do you think a parent does? They groom you. I’d been waiting to be guided and groomed,” Ellison says.

It’s been instructive to see that potential from another perspective, as a mother doing the guiding. As the afternoon wears on, Ellison stops to pick up her then-15-month-old son, who was being watched by a social-worker friend. She buckles the little boy into his car seat, ruffles his hair, and passes him a bottle. He grins widely and begins removing his shoes and socks, throwing them gleefully onto the floor of the car and then kicking his tiny feet in time with the music as Ellison glances back at him and smiles. “Kids are so perfect,” she says.

The last stop of the day is the large plot of land where the drug dealer’s house once stood. Now, it’s been turned into a playground, with brightly-colored jungle gyms, a covered picnic area, and a large lawn, where a couple leisurely walks their dog. Ellison and Badolato climb down from the car and stand at the park’s edge, as Ellison’s son toddles around the grass, oblivious to what had transpired in that very spot. There is some form of poetic justice in the land being earmarked for children’s enjoyment, but neither woman voices it. Mostly, they’re quiet. Night is falling, the air growing cooler, and the gray sky fading into dusk.

“You would never think a park could hide what it used to be,” Ellison says at last. And yet it did. Driving off with Badolato at her side and her son babbling happily in the back seat, Ellison glances in the rear-view mirror, but only for a moment. Badolato keeps her eyes fixed only on the road ahead.

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upsidedownwithsteve · 2 months

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Could I request either “You’re always worrying.”“Yes, I am, because you're you.” or 'Their partner doing something and their clumsiness striking in a way that leads to good spirited laughter between the two.' with Steve please? Whichever you prefer 💚

I went with the first one, I hope that’s okay! 🧡

Steve Harrington x fem!reader

“You’re late.”

Your voice was a little mournful, your pout hiding your concern, your worry, but your eyes gave you away. Steve’s brows knitted together as his hand cupped your elbow, bringing you into him as you both began the walk to the pizza joint on the upper level.

His hand on your skin was soothing, a medicine you didn’t know you needed. It travelled up until his arm draped around your neck, the smell of Steve making your shoulders drop, tension forgotten, if only just.

Steve laughed a little, soft and not at all unkind, but you frowned anyway. “By like, three minutes, babe.” He didn’t say sorry - he didn’t really need to - but his voice was gentle enough that you heard the apology stitched between each word.

He tugged you into him, uncaring of the busy mall, the passersby, the onlookers. His lips found your temple, a kiss stamped there that was all adoration and love. “You’re always worrying, huh?”

You scoffed but leaned into him anyway, seeking out more of his mouth, lips lifting in the corners when his nose nuzzled at your hairline. “Well, yes, I am,” you mumbled, shy at being caught out, adored that he could read you so well. “Because you’re you.”

Steve snorted at that too, leading you through the evening crowds, the mall busier than usual as Hawkins residents made their way to the cinema, the new laser tag rooms that had opened up last week.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

You tried really hard not to roll your eyes but Steve must’ve seen, pinching at your side with his free hand and making you squeak, batting him away. He grinned, letting you escape his hold only to catch your hand and pull you back into him. Your fingers twined with his, nose wrinkling as you glared up at him, playful, for the most part.

“You have a baseball with nails embedded in it in your trunk,” you reminded him, “plus another under your bed.”

Steve grinned, nonplussed and he bumped his shoulder with yours as the pizza counter came into view. “Hey now, lower your voice, there could be lingering Russians.”

You really were glaring now, because you truly didn’t know if he was joking or not. To be truthful, Steve wasn’t sure either. But he was still smirking, enjoying your pouty mood, knowing that once he got you alone, he could kiss it right out of you.

“You’re not funny,” you told him, joining the queue and pretending to look at the overhead menus, bright signs and flashing pizza cartoons making your eyes ache. Steve knew you’d get your usual, a slice of chicken and sweetcorn, like always. “You probably are on some CIA watchlist, you know.” You prodded at his ribs, eyes narrowing when Steve laughed. “A whole team of agents listening in to you and the kids dragon game meetings. That’s why I worry.”

“Oh my god, you’re like, totally in love with me, huh?” Steve was still smiling but his grin had turned softer, jokes turning lovesick. He bent a little at the knees, nose nuzzling your cheek despite the people around you. He didn’t mind a little PDA. He pressed a kiss to your cheek, the corner of your mouth, doting when you allowed one to your lips. “S’real cute, babe.”

You let him kiss you, once, twice, cheeks hot when the woman in front of you huffed but Steve just wrapped his arm around you again, bringing your back to his front as you both waited your turn in line.

“You’re so annoying,” you told him, head resting against his chest all the same. You didn’t sound annoyed at all, in fact, from over your shoulder, Steve could see your smile.

“Tell me about it,” Steve hummed, more than happy to be at the receiving end of your worrying, especially if you let him dote on you like this to make up for it.

#steve harrington #steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington imagine #steve harrington fanfic #Steve Harrington fanfiction #Steve Harrington oneshot #Steve Harrington blurb #Steve baby blurb

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chaotic-goodsir · 6 months

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Since it's Black Friday week, I'm gonna do a sort of series thing with the Hatchetverse headcanons and drabbles that have completely derailed my nanowrimo plans (curse of hyperfixation be upon ye, etc.).

They're all Spankoffski-centric, sort of, depending on who you count as a Spankoffski.

Speaking of which...

Ted and Pete's mom (I'll call her Annabelle, Annie for short) grew up in the bible belt in a super-religious family. She got out as soon as she could, leaving home at 18, and ended up working as a waitress in the tiny town of Hatchetfield. That's where she met Ed Spankoffski, who at the time was training to take over his family's shoe store. Annie and Ed fell in love, got married young, and had their son Teddy within a few years.

Annie cut all contact with her parents when she left home - but she did keep in touch with her younger brother.

He was always a smart, outgoing kid, and despite their parents' disapproval he managed to get funding to study physics at a college out of state. He left home a year after Annie did, and never looked back.

At first they remained close, despite their differences. They called each other regularly. He declared himself an atheist as soon as he got away from their parents. She kept her faith, but joined her husband's more liberal-minded presbytarian church. He came out to her as bisexual, and she told him she'd suspected that since they were teenagers and that she would never stop being proud of him.

She didn't see him in person often - he was busy with college and didn't have money to travel - but he still made it to her wedding and to Teddy's christening.

Things changed, though, when he was scouted by a secretive military agency in his final year. She didn't want him to join, but he'd made up his mind. After that, his calls became less frequent, and what little he told her about his work and life was always vague. He kept promising to visit her in Hatchetfield, but never followed through.

The last time Annie Spankoffski saw her little brother was at Pete's christening, when he surprised her by actually showing up. She spotted the engagement ring on his hand, and demanded to know when he had planned on inviting her to the wedding. He told her it was a long time away yet - there was a big assignment coming up, he and his fiancé were both involved, and they needed to focus on that for the time being. But as soon he got the chance, he promised, he'd bring John up to Hatchetfield to meet the Spankoffski family.

Annie didn't hear from him again until a solemn, uniformed PIEP agent turned up at her door with a letter declaring her brother missing in action. Nothing could be confirmed, but the agent didn't want to give her false hope. There was no funeral, no further explanation. She never got to meet John, there was no wedding, and Pete Spankoffski grew up without knowing his uncle.

Years later, Annie Spankoffski (nee. Cross) is driving home from church when an advert comes on the radio. It's for some tacky children's toy that both of her sons are far too old for. She doesn't pay much attention - at least, not until the name of the toy company catches her by surprise.

It's a coincidence - it must be - but it's such a horrible, unlikely one that it makes her blood run cold. Her brother's name is already rare enough that she'd be surprised to hear that on the radio, let alone a childhood nickname that only she used.

After that, she turns off the radio whenever that advert starts. Leaves the room whenever it comes on TV (that old sailor character creeps her out - does the actor really look familiar, or is she just losing it?). She tries not to look at the posters that are plastered all over the Hatchetfield mall.

But as Black Friday approaches, it's hard to avoid.

For some reason, almost everywhere she goes, she keeps running into the name Uncle Wiley.

#thank you to the person who left a tag on my other wiley post about him being pete and ted's real uncle!#i may have thought too hard about the implications #and here's the result #hatchetverse #black friday #starkid #wilbur cross #uncle wiley #macnacross #spankoffski bros #cw religion

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astrosky33 · 2 years

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Where you’ll meet people based on your Composite Chart Ruler together

Your Composite Chart Ruler can show you how you’re going to meet someone/how you met someone. Here are the steps to finding it if you don’t know how:

1) Check your Composite Chart with the person that you’re curious about - How to find Composite Charts

2) Check the chart ruler of your Composite Chart and what house that it’s in - How to find chart rulers

1st house: At a fight (for ex: at a boxing match or maybe you fight/are involved in controversy upon first meeting), at some type of race, one of you may catch the other off guard when meeting, at a fashion show, somewhere involving athletics/sports, or it could just indicate meeting near topics surrounding the chart rulers planet itself

2nd house: While buying something, at a store (a mall, grocery store, etc.), at a restaurant, through a job (usually a short-term one), at a bank (or somewhere involving money), near somewhere involving singing (ex: choir)

3rd house: Through social media (likely in a group-chat), through your siblings, in school (high, middle, elementary, pre-k), a cell phone store, in some type of transportation (not air only ground transportation - such as an uber), through being neighbors, near somewhere involving literature/writing

4th house: Through your family, through your mother, in a house, through real estate (for ex: maybe they’re a real estate agent and helping you find a house), during a holiday/tradition occurring or some type of holiday event, nursing home (odd but a possibility)

5th house: Through your children or near children somehow, at a concert/entertainment event (not a party though that would be 11H), near a playground, through a hookup, while on vacation, at a casino, near somewhere involving drama, while playing a game/at some type of game, while doing one of your hobbies (ex: playing piano)

6th house: At the gym, at a location involving health (for ex: a health food store), a doctors office/hospital, at a pet store (or near pets), near animals (ex: a zoo), at a place you routinely visit/go to daily (ex: if you go to the coffee shop every morning you could meet this person there), they could be your coworker, you could meet them while volunteering, through your step-siblings, through your best friend (not friend group but BEST friend)

7th house: At a wedding, through a couple, through someone you dated/are dating, at a dance/while dancing, through business partners, while signing a contract, through one of your agents, through an enemy of yours, while there’s a conflict occurring, you may be enemies with them upon first meeting, or it could mean you just meet the person while they’re with their gf/bf

8th house: During a hard/transformational time in your life/lives, at a crime scene, near the police, at a funeral (odd but a possibility), at a big business (usually one you’re in), through a psychologist/near somewhere surrounding psychology, near a place involving spirituality or black magic

9th house: At college/uni, while traveling, through or near television/media, could be during an interview of some sort, at an airport, on an airplane, at or near a church, at a court (could be any type such as a basketball court, a courthouse, a tennis court, etc), at a library, somewhere involving the law

10th house: Through your career, through your father/father figure, through one of your bosses/managers, through a famous person, at a meet & greet, somewhere in public/at a very public place

11th house: Through friends, at a party, through technology, at a convention, near film/technology, at a social event, while doing community service of some kind, through your step parents or step/half children, at a hotel, somewhere involving politics, at a club (not just the ones you drink at it could also be at a type of club like chess club for example), near somewhere involving science

12th house: Somewhere involving spirituality (for ex: a crystal shop), in a place that’s a bit hidden or in solitude, while high/drunk, in a place involving sleep or while you’re asleep maybe you wake up to them (kind of weird but a possibility), during a lockdown (maybe while a pandemic is happening similar to the covid-19 one), in prison, while you’re trying to escape from something/somewhere, places involving mental health

MY MASTERLIST - SUB TO MY PATREON

#astrology #zodiac #astro community #astro placements #astrology tumblr #astro chart #birth chart #composite chart

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embarrassedanon · 3 months

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Business Breeches Blowout

After two flight delays, an overly handsy TSA agent, and a chatty seatmate, Bruce wanted nothing more than to take a hot shower and a power nap before meeting his colleagues at the conference welcome mixer.

His good luck only continued as the gruff airline employee informed him that in the chaos of his flight delays, his bag hadn't made it to the conference. Just fucking perfect.

The bag wasn't even set to arrive until after the conference, so he was cursed to spend the next three days in the wrinkled khakis, sweat-soaked button-down, and too-tight briefs that had been giving him a wedgie since before the cab dropped him off at the airport, lest he spend a fortune at the convention center mall.

Resigned, he grumpily got in a conference shuttle. The overcrowded shuttle and stop-and-go traffic did nothing to help his mood. By the time they made it to the hotel, he shoved his way to the exit so he could beat the rush of shuttle riders to reception.

"Welcome in Sir, how was your flight?" said the cheery cherub-faced twink at the reception desk.

"Listen kid, cut the shit, I've had the travel day from hell ok, name’s Bruce Smyth, just get me a room key and book me a massage while you're at it."

"Oh, um ok. Mr. Smyth it says here that there was a water leak in the room you were initially supposed to stay in, it's all fixed but it won't be clean for a few hours. We'd love to offer you a complimentary glass of champagne while you wait."

"Un-fucking-belivable. One goddamn glass of champagne for a few hours of waiting? Are you kidding me? Find another room."

"Sir as I'm sure you're aware, we're fully booked for the conference."

"I don't give a fuck." Bruce was yelling now. "Find a solution! Bump someone else." Bruce began kicking the reception desk.

"This. Is. Un. Acceptable." With each staccato word another kick. On the final kick, a noise loud enough to break Bruce's tirade and silence the hum of the lobby rang out.

RRRRIPPPPPP

Bruce gasped as his hands promptly flew back to his ass. The pressure of his kicks tore his Brooks Brothers breeches right down the seam. His brief-clad ass was suddenly on display for everyone to see.

"Oh my god, he ripped his pants!"

"That's a big ass, surprised it even fit in those khakis, to begin with."

"Serves him right for cutting all of us in line, The jackass is now practically bare ass."

"Cheek out the peep show!"

This can not be happening, Bruce thought. This must have been a nightmare. The endless barrage of travel hiccups and now he was the center of attention for all the wrong reasons. Unfortunately for Bruce, it was all too real.

"Mr. Smyth," the twink said with all the smugness of someone watching karmic justice served in real-time. "Your room will be ready in a few hours, I'd be happy to convert that glass of champagne into a $10 voucher for one of the retail establishments. It seems like you might need it."

Before Bruce could even think to respond the hotel associate shouted "Next!" and Bruce fled the lobby with his head hung low and his hands shielding his ass from view.

Bruce's travel day from hell ended in the retail wing of the convention center dropping $150 on a three-pack of briefs and pair of slacks, trying to maintain his dignity as his ass hung out in front of a hotel lobby filled with his colleagues. How embarrassing...

#ripped #my writing #text post #eum

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generationlossupdates · 1 year

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GenLoss Episode 3: The Choice

Yall know the drill by now ^_^ I've bolded the most important bits for those who want to skim, and I'm putting it all under the cut to avoid dash clutter. If I'm missing anything important/messed up a specific detail PLEASE let me know so I can fix it, thanks!

The screen turns on, multiple error signs flashing before a drone camera turns on, showing different areas of the Showfall Media Headquarters. It switches to Ranboo, where he rips the dynamite attached to his neck. He walks up to the camera and asks the audience whats happening. As the can’t see chat, he gets no answer and suddenly we can hear H. They explain to Ranboo that they now have control of some of the facility, but still need to shut it down. They need Ranboo to get to the server room in order to take complete control.

Ranboo is panicked and attempts to take the mask off, when H tells him he can't yet, or else the entire operation will go up in flames. They also use the mask to communicate Ranboo. He begins to travel, needing to hide from Showfall agents with Squiggle masks. Ranboo peaks at different areas he'd been in, realizing that what happened was actually real. H confirms as such. He spots an exit and attempts to leave, wanting to call the police but H tells him he can't and to keep going. Ranboo doesn’t want to but H suddenly changes his story, saying the others are in fact still alive, and Ranboo (reluctantly) obliges. He goes down the escalator and when he nears a glowing blue mall room, a metal machine with a TV head runs to glass and starts to slam on it. Ranboo panics and H says its just security.

He keeps moving and makes it to the server room. It turns out he needs a keycard in order to get in. Ranboo keeps going, finding an office full of people with Squiggle masks. He seems apprehensive to enter but H says they're 'mostly harmless' as long as he doesn't do anything too entirely out of the ordinary. He has to get a keycard, a USB drive, and a code. He gets the keycard with ease but struggles to find the USB. After a few minutes of searching he finds the USB, and now has to find the code. After a bit more searching he finds 4 different codes and leaves the office.

Ranboo returns to the server room and enters with the items he collected. H says to be careful and to plug in the USB. They need to put in a code to the computer, though it’s unclear which code is correct. H gives chat the choice to pick which code to use. Ranboo is instantly unhappy with this, and instead of going with chat's pick, he chooses a different code and unfortunately it’s not the right one. The server shuts down and security gets upped, forcing H to leave. The facility blares and everything flashes red. Ranboo runs away, trying to avoid the Showfall puppets.

Suddenly he hears voices coming from the former food court. He finds random streamers, though they cant hear him. He spots Charlie (WHO IS ALSO LIVE ON HIS OWN STREAM ON HIS OWN CHANNEL) and runs up to him. He pulls his headphones off and Charlie breaks out of the illusion, seeming incredibly confused. Ranboo screams at Charlie and tells him that they have to GO. They look for a directory, and after finding one Charlie looks behind the stand and finds a dead Showfall agent. They look over and Ranboo spots the 'security' (the metal TV head machine). They panic and run, starting to get chased by Showfall agents. They hide in a messed up props area and Ranboo picks up a knife while Charlie begs for an explanation. Ranboo says that he doesn’t have one and they go through the exit door in the room, winding back up where Charlie has been streaming.

They leave running towards an exit before Showfall agents start chasing them. They wind up running through the rooms of the episode 2, slowing down for a moment before more agents come pouring in. They run down a hallway and turn into a small room where they find H.

H has been stabbed and tells them both that he won't make it. They explain Ranboo needs to finish the job by hitting the kill button and hands them a map. Ranboo stares at H’s body before turning and storming off, entirely in his own mind. Charlie rambles behind him, though his words can’t be made out. Ranboo walks right up to a Showfall agent and stabs them directly in the stomach before continuing the search.

Ranbooo and Charlie find their way back to the set of the cabin from the first episode, and Security jumps out, attacking Charlie. Before he dies he screams out for Ranboo to hit the kill button. Showfall agents begin to pour in as Ranboo runs for the button. He hits the button and everything goes dark, shutting off for good. Ranboo walks through the rows of deactivated agents, heading towards the genuine exit door. He opens it, and right before he goes through he does a Truman Show style bow, revealing H behind him. His mask, for the first time in this episode, turns back to a glowing red and H drags him through the door.

Everything fades to black and when we come back, Ranboo is chained up (Jesus on the Cross style), with his head being in a box, in front of lots of TVs. His mask is slightly broken as well and we hear H. H congratulates Ranboo, saying he completed the experiments. H explains that they never died and that the founder gave them a purpose to create these experiments to find people ‘worthy’ of joining the cast and living (and performing in the future shows) forever. Ranboo begs to be let go as his mask flashes on and off. H goes on to say that Ranboo’s actions we’re entirely his own, and that Ranboo can join the cast. They say that we (the audience) can even decide Ranboo’s fate. The chat gets to vote whether to let him live or die. In the last 30 or so seconds, Ranboo begins to beg and plead to be killed.

The vote ends and H flickers onto the screen, announcing that the chat chose death. The box around Ranboo’s head clamps shut, killing him, and the credits roll. After they end, the screen slowly pans out to show a tv, and a gloved hand pulling out a tape from the TV, labeled ‘TSE’ (The Social Experiments). The hand places the tape back on a shelf, where 7 other blank tapes sit, and the stream ends.

#generation loss #genlossupdates #genloss spoilers

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reidsweetener · 1 year

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tw/ diet/ed * omg imagine bimbo!r gets scouted to be a model right? buuuut the contract seems a little … unfair. she’s just all for it, she’s ready to sign anything and everything to be a model. spencer is like “umm… this diet is impossible. jesus christ y/n if you turn to the side you’ll be invisible if u do this shit!” and the whole thing wasn’t even legit. so she’s extremely bummed and reid cheers her up with words of affirmations and tons and tons of kisses.

bimbo!r gets scouted at the mall! and she's obviously elated, but she atleast knows she can't sign a contract at random — both spencer and her dad have that ingrained in her brain — she's giddy and bouncing, and actually gives spencer's contact number and email instead of hers!🥹🥹✨✨

and when spencer skims through it, he's like absolutely not, it has so many legal loopholes and blatant exploitation clauses that he's convinced it couldn't have been real. he explains it in detail to reader, and she's obviously pouty; she's basically born to be a model! she loves attention, the clothes, the travel and the shopping. but it's ppl like those fake agents that just makes her enthusiasm of the industry dwindle.

reid would try to cheer her up with words of affirmation and lots of kisses and cuddles! he'd make you pick your favorite movie, and order some takeout in, and he'd just hold you until you're your usual bright self again🥰🥰

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid x female reader #spencer reid x bimbo reader #spencer reid x bimbo!reader #spencer reid

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burgundybmw · 2 years

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Waking Up In Vegas

Masterlist

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Hopper!Reader

Word Count: 3,863

Warnings: Drunkness.

Summary: After the death of her father, Y/N Hopper is left to pick up the pieces of her life. She was always the star daughter, perfect grades, never got into trouble, never had a sip of alcohol. She decides life is too short, and takes some of the money her dad left to go have a wild weekend in Las Vegas. Steve being the mother hen he is, decides she shouldn't go alone. Since Scoops Ahoy is in the dust, and job hunting hasn't been going so well, he tags along. Y/N soon realizes there's a reason she listened to her dad's rules all her life, when she wakes up hungover, covered in glitter, and wearing Steve's class ring.

Author's Note: So I found out Jamie Campbell Bower listened to Katy Perry to prepare for his role for Vecna (it was totally Dark Horse), so I took a break from 80s music to put on her discography. Waking Up In Vegas is one of my faves, and that lead to the creation of this. Hope you enjoy it! Takes place after the fall of Starcourt Mall and before Steve and Robin begin working at Family Video.

If you were to ask anyone in Hawkins how they would describe Y/N Hopper, there would be a common theme amongst the citizens. Y/N was responsible, intelligent, dependable, respectful, overall a good girl. She was beloved by her dad and the rest of the Hawkins police department, a model daughter any father would want. She maintained this reputation throughout her life. She didn't go to parties, she didn't sneak out at night, drink or do drugs, she never felt the need. She didn't want to make her dad's life more difficult after Sarah died, and then after mom left. He tried his best, and Y/N knew that. So she tried her best too, but now her dad was dead, and her best didn't seem worth it anymore.

She got the idea after walking past the travel agency in Hawkins. A massive poster filled with depictions of flashing lights and money falling from the sky.

Test Your Luck in Las Vegas! It said. Y/N stared at that poster for a long time. She remembered how much she missed out in her teens, parties, booze, and boys. She was turning 19 in a few months, and she had nothing to show for it. Nothing normal anyway. That's when she decided to go to the bank, cash out some of her inheritance, and book a flight to Vegas.

She could feel the adrenaline rush in her veins, she had never done anything like this before. Every decision she made was calculated, sure, she measured the risks for everything. This was sudden, spontaneous, exciting. The first time she felt thrilled in weeks. She knew her dad would be disappointed in her, but in the moment she didn't think of him. She couldn't, not without crumbling. Y/N needed this, to get away. Get away from Hawkins and all of its mess. Just for a bit, then she'd think about the future. She'd go to college like she planned, and resume her good girl lifestyle. One weekend wouldn't kill her.

Y/N went to the bank, took out $5,000 in cash, and made her way back to the travel agency. The agent, a nice blonde woman named Heidi, took care of everything. She had a first class flight first thing Saturday morning, a beautiful hotel room on the strip with a king sized bed, and a return flight home Monday afternoon. It was all set, and Y/N was in high spirits. That was until she walked straight into Steve Harrington as she left the office's front door.

"Y/N? Hey, uh, how are you holding up?" Steve asked. They had a bizarre friendship, her and Steve. It all started when she went out looking for her father on Halloween night. He had promised to be home at 5 to spend time with her and Eleven, and he was nowhere to be found. Who she found instead was Steve Harrington, nursing a heartbreak after Nancy told him their relationship was quote "bullshit." Y/N couldn't stand the sad puppy dog look on his face, and he did come through the year prior when they all went against the demogorgon.

So she took pity on him, and took him home and made him an ice cream sundae. It's what her dad used to do with her and Sarah when they were sad. He would make dessert for dinner, whatever they had on hand, but sundae's were always her favorite. That night she stayed over and they talked about anything and everything, Nancy, school, the future. It was nice, and they maintained that friendship for the past year and a half. Whenever things got too much they'd call each up, and make dessert for dinner. Before she realized it, she had started to fall for him. Y/N thought about what it would be like, to be with Steve. Strong dependable Steve. He never let her down when she needed him, but she broke that tradition when her dad died. Now all she gave him was radio silence for the past month. He called her often, but she never answered. This was the first time she spoke to him after it happened.

"I'm holding up alright... What about you?" She hated the cordial pleasantries, like they were strangers, but the guilt for ignoring him was weighing on her shoulders now.

"I'm good, the bruises on my face are finally gone. It's nice not to wake up looking like raw hamburger." That got a laugh out of her, and just like that the weight was gone. Steve didn't seem upset with her for ignoring him. Things seemed okay.

"Well that's good to hear. It would be a tragedy if your face maintained hamburger status forever, pretty boy." Steve looked a bit bashful then, his hair bouncing around has he chuckled at her comment. Then he noticed where she was standing, or rather where she was leaving from.

"Are you going on vacation or something?" He asked.

"Um, yea sort of. I'm leaving Saturday morning for Vegas." Steve looked like his eyes were about to pop out of his skull. It would have been a shock to anyone, Y/N Hopper taking a solo trip to Sin City.

"Are you going alone?" Steve had his hands on his hips, he was using the same voice he used on the kids when they were up to mischief.

"Yea. I was planning on it. Why?" She didn't understand why he was acting this way. Like she was out of her mind, maybe she was, but she wasn't a little girl anymore. She could make decisions and mistakes for herself.

"Why? Because it's dangerous Y/N! You know the mob used to bury bodies out there! Who knows if they're still at it! You can't go alone, no way!" Steve said with exasperation.

"Well I am. I'll be back on Monday, and it will all be fine. The decision is already made Steve. So I'll see you later." She could hear Steve's protests as she got into her car and drove away, but she didn't care. She had to go home and pack her bags, and not worry about Steve and his melodrama.

Y/N had never been on a plane before. The first class cabin was nice and spacious, she had the window seat, and the seat beside her was empty as the last passengers walked in. She hoped it remained empty, the last thing she wanted was some stranger try to make boring conversation with her. She looked out the window, soon she will be out of Hawkins. Away from everything that was wrong with that town. Eleven was staying with Joyce and the Byers boys, she had told her sister about her trip and told her when to expect her back. Joyce wasn't as happy as El was about the news, her motherly instincts kicking in. She didn't try to stop her, Y/N was just as stubborn as her father, she just told her to call if her if she needed anything. Now she was here, on her way to Vegas.

She felt someone settle in the seat next to her, but didn't bother looking to see who it was. That was until she felt a tap on her shoulder. The girl turned her head to see what they wanted, only to find Steve Harrington sitting next to her.

"What the hell are you doing here Steve?" A hundred and one questions were running through her head. How did they let him on the plane? Was he trying to stop her? How did she know what flight she was on?

"I'm coming with you." He said quietly as he buckled his seatbelt.

"What? How? Why?" Y/N asked, confused and mildly annoyed.

"I told you you shouldn't go alone, it's dangerous Y/N. I took my dad's credit card and bought the seat next to yours, told the agent you were my girlfriend and that we were paying separately. It's nice to know the old Harrington charm still works."

Y/N was fuming. She didn't ask for a babysitter, she could do this on her own.

"You're getting a flight back to Indianapolis as soon as we land Steve. You had no right to follow me." She tried to keep her voice down, not wanting to alert the fellow passengers.

"Look I'm sorry Y/N, but this isn't like you. You're not the type to drop thousands of dollar on a whim for a trip to Vegas. I just wanted to make sure you're okay, ya know, after everything." Y/N took a deep breath. She shouldn't be surprised, Steve always got himself into trouble for others. The over protective shit head.

"Fine, but don't try to ruin my fun. For once in my goddamn life I want to do something exciting. Pretend I'm not the dead Chief of Police's daughter for a weekend. Alright? If you promise not to mother hen me I'll let you stay." Y/N huffed out. Steve flashed his megawatt smile and settled into his seat. This was going to be a long flight.

They landed in Las Vegas with no issue. The taxi ride to the hotel was tense, Y/N was giving Steve the silent treatment. He tried to break the awkwardness with a witty remark every once in awhile, but she didn't give him the satisfaction. After awhile he gave up.

They checked into the hotel in silence, and then Y/N realized another problem when they walked into the room. It was the lovers suite, the travel agent must have switched it when Steve said he was her boyfriend, the idiot. The heat rushed to her face when she looked around the room.

There was a heart shaped hot tub in the corner of the room, and on the other side was a large king sized bed with a mirror on the ceiling above it. A metal cart was placed in front of a velvet couch, a large bucket filled with champagne rested on top with boxes of chocolates next to it. There were rose petals scattered throughout the room, and everything was decorated in many different shades of red. At least the color would cover up the bloodstains when she killed Steve for this mess.

"Shit, I guess this is what Heidi meant when she gave us an upgrade." Steve said awkwardly, his face as red as the room they were staying in.

"You're taking the couch, and I'm taking a shower." Y/N placed her bags next to the bed and grabbed all of her toiletries. She wouldn't let this set back ruin her trip. Once she got into the bathroom, she turned the shower on as hot as it could go. As she felt the water cascade down her body she thought about what she would do for the rest of the day. One thing was for sure, she was going to open that bottle of champagne as soon as she could.

Y/N got dressed and ready in the bathroom, a black sequin dress hugging her frame. It was her mother's from the 60s, Dad called it her Nancy Sinatra dress. It was at the dry cleaners when she left, and she never came back to get it. So it was Y/N's now. It was the only thing that felt Vegas appropriate. Once her hair and makeup was done to her liking she finally walked out, Steve was sitting on the couch, dressed in a similar get up he wore on Halloween. She walked straight to the champagne bottle and popped it open, oblivious to the hungry stare Steve was giving her.

Steve had developed a crush on Y/N Hopper over the past year, and he finally admitted it to Robin when the Russians gave them that truth serum. That's when she told him that she used to have feelings for her as well, before developing her crush on Tammy Thompson. Steve had said that Tammy wasn't even in the same ballpark as Y/N, the poor girl sounded like a muppet and would totally get crushed in Nashville. That was how they became best friends, and that's when Steve started to allow himself to feel something for his other best friend. He didn't mean for it to happen, and he had no intention of telling her, not after Chief Hopper's death. Steve did allow himself to look at her though, the short black dress leaving just enough for his imagination to run wild. He caught himself when she turned around, two glasses of champagne in hand. She passed one to him before taking her seat next to him on the couch.

"I have decided that we are going to have fun this weekend. No talk of psychic monsters or dead dads. You and I are going to get drunk, dance, play with slot machines, and have a good time. I think we deserve it ya know?" Y/N raised her champagne glass in a toast, and Steve tapped his glass against hers.

"No complaints from me." They both drank their champagne in that cheesy hotel room, completely unaware of what would go down that evening.

Y/N felt a shooting pain in her skull when she regained consciousness. Her stomach was swirling with nausea and her eyes were sensitive to the light that was pouring into the room. She slowly opened her eyes to see the hotel room in complete disarray. Her mother's dress was thrown across the metal cart that was dangerously close to falling into the hot tub, which was still on and bubbling. She could see something floating in the water, and to Y/N's horror it was the bra she was wearing the previous day. The white lace cups bouncing against the walls of the red tub.

She looked down at her body, she was covered in glitter and was wearing a Hawkins basketball sweatshirt. It must have been Steve's. Thankfully she still had underwear on, but then she noticed that it wasn't the same pair she wore yesterday. She tried to remember what the hell happened the night before, but her memories were blurry. That's when she heard a snore beside her on the bed. It was Steve, shirtless and his hairy chest was on display. Y/N didn't have the courage to look below the covers to see if he was as bare below the waist as he was above.

He was still asleep, and Y/N took the opportunity to quietly get out of bed and clean up around the room. There was a mountain of cash in a duffle bag on the couch, and she had no idea if they had won it or robbed a bank. Steve's clothes were thrown about the room, and she carefully picked them up and put them back in his suitcase. She finally found her purse amongst the carnage, and she noticed the fake ID she brought was missing. Her car keys, real driver's license, and plane ticket home were thankfully still inside. There was at least one silver lining.

She tried her best to reorganize the room, but the hangover was getting worse. She needed an aspirin and water a soon as possible. When she went to go look for some she heard a groan from the other side of the room, Steve was finally awake.

"Jesus H. Christ my head hurts." Steve complained. He sat up and finally opened his eyes. He noticed Y/N first, she was bent over looking through her suitcase. She had no pants on, and was wearing his sweatshirt. He looked down at himself and noticed he was half naked. The only thing on his body was his gray Calvin Klein boxers and one sock on his foot. Steve shot his head up, deer in headlights look pointed at Y/N.

"What the hell happened last night?" Steve croaked out, voice sore.

"I have no idea Steve! I only remember bits and pieces." Y/N was pacing around the room, arms waving around. That's when Steve noticed something on Y/N's finger, and his stomach swooped when he realized what is was.

"Y/N... What's that on your hand?" He really hoped it wasn't what he thought it was. Y/N looked down at her finger, and finally noticed the piece of jewelry she wasn't wearing yesterday.

"Steve, why am I wearing your class ring?" Y/N asked, voice stern. It reminded him of her dad. Steve tried to remember how his ring got on her finger, he vaguely remembered a small white room. Elvis was there, or a guy dressed up as him. There were flowers, and Y/N had a veil on her head...

"Holy shit, did we get hitched last night?" Steve yelled. He shot out of bed and nearly toppled over, he hadn't had a hangover this brutal since sophomore year. Y/N didn't pay attention to him as she stared at the ring on her finger. She remembered the little chapel now, a very drunk Steve struggling to put the ring on her finger. She remembered a flash going off, there was a photo.

Y/N started looking around the room, heart racing and hands shaking. She picked up her bags, the pillows on the bed, the empty bottles of champagne in the room. It was when she got to the duffle bag full of cash that she noticed a polaroid hanging out the side pocket, she carefully picked it up and what she saw made her jaw drop.

It was Steve, he had her mid dip, one hand holding her back and the other gripping the thigh she had wrapped around him. Y/N had her arms around his neck, bouquet in hand and a veil on her head. They were kissing, and a large banner above a fake Elvis said "Congratulations to the Bride and Groom!" and written on the bottom of the polaroid in neat cursive writing read "The Harringtons."

Y/N's blood ran cold. She married Steve last night. Steve Harrington was her husband. The memories were coming back to her. It was after Steve had won the jackpot from the slot machine, in all the excitement he had kissed her against the machine. She kissed him back. They were drunk and running on adrenaline, and decided it was a great idea to hit the strip with their winnings. Y/N had wanted to bring the duffle bag filled with the majority of their riches back to the hotel room, Steve had lost the hotel key and they had to trace their steps back. Instead of finding the key, they found The Little Vegas Chapel.

That's when he went on this monologue about having a happy family, with six kids and a wife where they traveled across the country. Steve wanted to be a dad, be involved with his kids unlike his parents. Y/N always wanted to be a good mom, one who would never abandon her daughter like her mother did. Y/N had said she wanted the same thing, a big family, backyard, and a husband who loved her. She couldn't remember what happened after that conversation, Steve had said something, they kissed again, and then they went inside The Little Vegas Chapel. Elvis had married them, and Y/N found the spare hotel key in her purse.

Y/N sat down on the couch and lifted her hand to show Steve the polaroid. He was finally dressed and slowly walked over to her. He took the photo from her hand, and immediately dropped on to the seat next to her.

"We're married..." Steve said, voice barely above a whisper.

"Looks like it." Y/N responded. He put the picture down on her lap and began pacing around the room, mumbling nonsense under his breath.

"Shit, shit, shit. I have to call Henderson." Steve said as he went to grab the hotel phone. Y/N immediately hung it up before he could press dial.

"Don't call Dustin!" Y/N yelled. The last thing she needed right now was for that big mouth to tell all of Hawkins about what happened.

"What do you mean don't call Dustin? He might be able to help us figure this out!" Steve was yelling now too. He was nauseous, dizzy, and apparently married. Robin was gonna give him so much shit when he got home.

"How is a 14 year old going to help? He's not a fucking divorce lawyer!" Y/N regretted her choice of words when she saw Steve's face fall.

"One, he's a very capable 14 year old. Two, Why are you immediately thinking about divorce? What, is the concept of being married to me so horrible?" Steve hated how insecure he sounded. His memories of last night were returning, and he remembered telling Y/N about his dreams for the future, that he loved her. She kissed him, but she didn't say it back. He remembered that now. She agreed to marry him, but she never said she loved him. He felt sick to his stomach, and it wasn't because of the hangover.

"Look, Steve. We're 18 years old, we're too young to be married. We did it while we were drunk, hell, you don't even like me like that." Y/N went to go sit on the bed again, she didn't want to be standing for this conversation. Steve sat down next to her, his head in his hands barely containing the shaking in his body. He remained silent, so Y/N took that as a sign to continue.

"Steve you are my best friend. You've become one of my favorite people in my life, Jesus, now that dad's gone you probably are my favorite person. I care about you so much, and the idea of marrying you... I know you would make an amazing husband. Your future wife will be the luckiest girl in the world, but when you thought about your future, with your six little nuggets traveling cross country, I'm almost positive it wasn't me you pictured by your side." Y/N tried not to cry. She knew she wasn't Steve's dream girl, it was Nancy Wheeler. Beautiful, smart, incredible Nancy. She was the love of Steve's life, not her. Y/N knew that, but it didn't make it hurt any less.

There were so many things Steve wanted to say. He wanted to tell her she was wrong, that she was the one he pictured as his wife, the mother of his children. Nancy never wanted things like that, she wanted to focus on her career, and Steve didn't judge her for that. Y/N was the one who tagged along with him on babysitting duty, she was such a natural with them. He wanted to tell her that he would be a good husband to her. That he would love her, be there for her in sickness and in health, in times of struggle and in times of joy. He didn't realize how badly he wanted it until he saw that chapel on the Las Vegas strip. He wanted it with her, but she was right. They were too young, he hadn't even gathered the nerve to ask her out on a date yet. They would figure this out, and maybe, one day, Y/N would want to marry him for real.

"So what do you want to do now?"

A/N: If you guys like this I'll make a part two!

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington x y/n #steve harrington x fem!reader #steve harrington x female reader #steve harrington x hopper!reader #stranger things fanfic #stranger things fanficton #stranger things #steve harrington #steve harrington fanfic #steve harrington fanfiction #steve harrington fluff #stranger things x reader #stranger things fluff

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v-era-18 · 9 months

Text

HoneyBee

Chapter Five: Respect

‘Respect is important-but the higher power knows nothing about that’-Mikaela Banes

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Mad wouldn’t be the proper words to describe the sheer emotions she was feeling at the moment. This was the second time she was placed in handcuffs thanks to the boy who sat on the other side of Mikaela in the backseat. Her arms ached in the position she sat in, knees placed together in cramped fashion due to the driver's seat being rolled back a bit. Livid-yes that was the word (Y/n) wanted to use.

“Comfortable?” Simmons joked, he was met with an icy glare before the eyes traveled back to the window beside them, “I see you’re the smart one out of the three of them. You haven't said a word since we took you guys away.”

“I'll speak when we have a lawyer,” She bit out, her voice dripping in venom from the night filled events, “None of us are going to be talking to you.”

“Ah,” He grabbed his phone, pulling up a file with her face attached, “(Y/n) (L/n), only child-daughter of (D/n) and (M/n). Both parents tragically murdered in hit and run with the child being the only survivor, custody given to (GD/n) and (GM/n). (GD/n) died from cancer-”

Simmons was cut off from being struck in the head with the teens right foot, the heel of her worn out sneaker connecting with his jaw. Mikeala had moved against Sam to give the girl a passage of revenge to her utmost pleasure. The agent was shocked, locking in on heated brown eyes nailing him to the seat.

“Keep my family's name-out your fucking mouth!”

He laughed nervously, “I simply read your file-”

“Read it again, and I'll park my foot in your ass!”

“Okay-okay,” Simmons coughed and rubbed his aching jaw from the assault inflicted, “Did your alien friends teach you how to fight?”

“What?” Sam uttered.

“You heard me,”

“We have no idea what you're talking about,” Mikaela lied smoothly.

“Oh-oh, okay,” The man chuckled to himself, “Ladiesman217. That is your eBay username, right?”

“Yeah, but, you know-it was a typo and I ran with it.” Sam's excuse was total bullshit. He needed to just tell the truth for now on.

“What do you make of this?” The car went silent as Simmons played the tape, ultimately damning them with evidence.

“My name is Sam Witwicky, okay? I am here with my best friend (Y/n) (L/n) and my car-“

“Is that you?” He cocked a brow.

“Yeah that sounds like LadiesMan.” Mikaela stated simply. Sam rolled his eyes to hide his embarrassment.

“Last night at the station, you told the officer your car transformed. And that girl over there,” The man pointed to (Y/n), “Said she had evidence that they’ve been here for years.”

He looked between the three of them, “Enlighten me.”

“Well, here’s what I said, okay?” Sam laughed nervously, “‘Cause this is a total misunderstanding that my car had been stolen-“

“Really?”

“From me, from my home, but it’s fine now because it’s back! It came back!”

Mikaela noticed his error and decided to help, “Well, not by itself-“

“Well-no”

“Because cars don’t do that, because that would be crazy.” She started to laugh.

All of them joined in except (Y/n), the said girl looked at them completely done with the situation.

“That’s funny, that’s funny” Simmons went back serious, “So again, what do you kids know about aliens, huh?”

“Oh you mean, like a Martian? Like what, E.T? No.” Sam denied.

“It’s an urban legend.” Mikaela backed up.

“Yeah.”

“You see this,” he held up his badge, “this is an ‘I can do whatever I want and get away with it badge’”

Oh we know, you guys use it enough already.

“Right,” Sam's face went stoic, ultimately fed up putting up a front.

“I’m gonna lock you up forever.”

(Y/n) closed in on herself in the seat, Sam was ready to choke the man, he knew that he was directly targeting her with that statement. He felt ashamed with how he

“Oh, god. You know what? Don’t listen to him.” Mikaela snapped, “He’s just pissy cause he’s got to get back to guarding the mall.”

“You, in the training bra, do not test me.” The man quipped, “especially with your daddy’s parole coming up.”

“What?” Sam uttered, “Parole?”

“Sam,” (Y/n) tried, her voice was dry.

“It’s nothing,” Banes lied.

“Oh, grand theft auto, that ain’t nothin?”

The girl sighed looking towards the two best friends, “You know those cars my dad used to teach me to fix? Well-they-they weren’t always his.”

“You stole cars?”

“I know they had good reason,” (Y/n) defended the girl.

“Well, we couldn’t always afford a babysitter, so sometimes he had to take me along.”

“She’s got her own Juvie record to prove it!” The man exclaimed, “she’s a criminal! Criminals are hot.”

(Y/n) rolled her eyes in frustration, “ do you ever shut up?”

He ignored her, “That’d be a real shame if he had to rot in jail for the rest of his natural life. It’s is time to talk!”

Suddenly the car was hit, causing them to spin to a skidding stop. The three teens screamed in response, (Y/n) was more than prepared to see a decepticon emerge on the other side. Everyone in the car ducked upon large metal hands emerging through the windows and tearing off the car roof.

Upon looking up (Y/n) broke out into a grateful smile, it was no other than the leader of the Autobots himself who stopped the vehicle. Although he maybe could’ve done it a lot safer.

“You A-holes are in trouble now.” Sam smirked, “Gentleman, I want to introduce you to our friend, Optimus Prime.” His best friend smiled at his growing confidence, something about the two of them knowing the importance of their decisions was starting to have an effect. Sam was growing-slowly-but the signs were there. The prime slowly stood up in front of the car, inspecting the three teens in the backseat, his eyes staying on (Y/n) longer due to her dazed look.

“Taking the children was a bad move,” Optimus stated, “Autobots, relieve them of their weapons.”

The rest of the Autobots emerged, shocking the rest of the government men. (Y/n) felt her worries wash away for a minute, she looked over seeing Ironhide nod to her, pleased to see that she was safe. She smiled in response, glad to see she wasn't on the big man's bad side as she originally thought.

“Freeze,” Ironhide pointed his cannons, as a reflex the teens ducked their heads-although they weren't the ones in danger they knew the familiarity of the heat.

“Whoa! Whoa!”

“Gimme those!” Jazz took the weapons away. (Y/n)’s inner child screamed at the sight with questions on her tongue, ‘that had to have been a giant magnet or is it his hand naturally capable of doing that-’

Optimus kneeled down to the vehicle his faceplate could be read as furious.

“Hi there.” Simmons uttered with an awkward smile.

All nice now that you realize you fucked up.

“You don’t seem afraid. Are you not surprised to see us?” The Prime questioned.

The man shrugged nervously, “Look there are S-Seven protocols, okay? I’m not authorized to communicate with you except to tell you I can’t communicate with you.”

That wasn’t a good answer.

“Get out of the car.” The order sent chills down the human’s spines.

“All right. Me? You want me to get-“

“Now!”

The voice made the girl immediately try to get out of the car , it was that effective. She read that Primes could be terrifying, but she thought Optimus was an exception to that. She was extremely wrong.

Mikaela started to work on (Y/n)s handcuffs first, “Thank you” the girl whispered in thanks. Mikaela could feel the weight of gratitude the girl had expressed alone in her words as well as the hug afterwards.

She worked on Sam's next, “You’re good with handcuffs, too, now, huh?” This caused the girl to cringe at the boy's words, they weren't rough, just smart. The embarrassment set in of what her new friends knew about her and her past.

“You weren’t supposed to hear all that.”

“Yeah,” was all the boy could give as a response at the moment. He really couldn't think about Mikealas feelings at the moment

Sam grabbed (Y/n)’s face, turning it side to side to make sure there were no injuries. After the way those men were handling her he was on edge, after all these years Sam hasn't lost his overprotective touch. “Thank god you’re okay.” He whispered, pulling her into a hug.

She hugged him back.

Mikaela came forward looking at the two friends in confidence, “I have a record because I wouldn’t turn my dad in. When do you have to sacrifice anything in your perfect little life?”

(Y/n) shook her head, “Mikaela, your past doesn't make us view you any different. Those guys are assholes that don't have any respect.”

“Yeah,” Mikaela laughed bitterly, “Respect is important-but the higher power knows nothing about that.”

“What is Sector Seven?” Sam stalked up to Simmons, “Answer me.” The boy was done from the past hour, the fact of the matter is-he was holding his anger back. All he could think about was his friend going limp and he couldn't do anything about it. He felt weak-useless! His friend couldn't breathe and he couldn't do anything about it.

“I’m the one who asks questions around here. Not you, young man!” Simmons scoffed. This only caused Sam to step forward, his face growing red, the only thing that stopped him was the brunette placing a firm hand on his chest.

Mikeala stepped in, her anger radiating, “ How’d you know about the aliens?”

“Where did you take my parents?” Sam demanded answers again.

“I am not at liberty to discuss it.” The agent avoided answering once more. During this time (Y/n) felt a bit faint, shaking her head to get rid of the fog she looked around till she saw the faint outlines of black and yellow. With wobbly legs she made over to get guardian, causing him to look down and cock his head at her state-his optics narrowing slightly. Something was wrong.

“No?” Sam dove into the man’s pockets.

“Hey! You touch me, that's a federal offense,” the agent snarked.

Sam held the badge up to Simmons face, boldness radiating off of him, “‘Do whatever you want and get away with it’, right?”

Simmons scoffed, “Yeah. Brave now all of a sudden, with his big alien friend standing over there.”

Sam ignored him, “Where is Sector Seven?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.”

Bumblebee kneeled down, trying to get a better look at his charge as she wobbled back and forth with her balance. Offering a servo the girl took it, using it to lay against in order not to fall. Mikaela noticed the interaction and immediately walked away from Sam gaining his attention.

“(Y/n)?!” Mikaela took the girl's face in her hands before continuing to check her pulse, “Are you okay? Do you need to sit down-?”

“Shit!” Sam raced over towards her, “She usually takes her anxiety meds after an attack, she needs proper medical attention-“

“We already gave it if you were paying attention.” One of the agents spoke up. The way the teen boy turned so fast was dizzying. Anger practically radiated off of him.

Mikaela turned towards Ratchet, her expression desperate, “Have you checked about human anatomy? O-or possible medical conditions?!” The medic stepped forward and started scanning (Y/n)‘s body, judging from his sudden stiff stance it wasn’t good.

“She’s highly malnourished and experiencing high fatigue. The effects from this ‘anxiety attack’ has left the body weak and slow to respond,” The autobots turned to Ratchet in shock, it hasn't even been three hours yet and their Storyteller was already experiencing harsh effects of war.

Bumblebee froze before heatedly turning to the government men in front of them, ‘Are you *bleep* serious?!’. The radio within the bot was switching between channels fast for him to find a proper response for this situation, however he couldn't find any. His anger was spilling over by the minute.

Sam turned to Bumblebee, his face red, “No you heard it right!” The teen boy pointed to the two FBI agents that grabbed her earlier along with Simmons berating, “Those fucking idiots were the ones who caused it! The ones who are supposedly supposed to protect our people-our nation?!”

Simmons seemed to grow nervous, looking at (Y/n)’s state as she was practically being held up by Mikaela, “I-It was a mistake on my part-I skipped her medical file-,”

“Oh! So you run background checks on her family but don't bother to check her medical file on severe anxiety? And you call yourself an Agent-?” Sam cut off looking right behind Simmons, a quirk of a smile appearing as they all heard an abrupt pop.

A disgusted breath left the older male as he felt himself drenched with what appeared to be gasoline, “Hey-Hey! Get that thing to stop, huh?”

Optimus frowned at his scouts actions, “Bumblebee, stop lubricating the man.” He understood why he was upset-they all did. However there were more approaches to the situation at hand they could do. The scout simply shrugged, turning back to his charge faintly smiling at him the best she could.

Ratchet was kneeling before her giving instructions on what to do for her condition until they could get her to be properly treated. (Y/n) proceeded to do the breathing methods along with telling herself a story to distract herself from what was going on around her. Bumblebee stood on the side for support, watching her chest rise and fall at a good pace as well as making sure her balance was okay. It wasn't long before all the government men were seated that her breathing and body gained some strength back.

“All right, tough guy,” Mikaela waltzed over to Simmons, “Take it off.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Your clothes, all of it, off.” The brunette demanded once more.

Simmons was beyond pissed, “For what?!”

She took a deep breath before responding, gathering all the patience she needed from tonight, “For threatening my dad,” She then proceeded to point to (Y/n)-the girl walking back over to the scene, “And for disrespecting (Y/n).”

The man took a long look between the three teens, his eyes unforgiving. It wasn't long before he started to do as he was told, “Little lady, this is the beginning of the end of your life.” Mikaela simply nodded, already ready for the consequences that would unfold from this. “You're a criminal. Let's face facts. It's in her gene pool-”

“You got a lot of mouth from someone with hideous underwear like that,” (Y/n)s face scrunched up in distaste.

“Now get behind the pole.” Mikaela ordered next.

“This is such a felony what you're doing,” The other man said, his stance prideful.

‘This bitch.’

(Y/n) looked him dead in the eye, the brown iris screaming in anger, “You guys commit felonies everyday but get off scot free because of your privilege. Don't talk to us about felonies. You lost that right forty minutes ago.”

Simmons turned to her and Sam, “I will hunt you down, okay? He'll hunt you down.” Sam simply replied with a nod. His threats aren't working, “Without any remorse! No remorse.”

(Y/n) froze as she heard it, the distant sounds of helicopters flying overhead and cars revving in the distance, “Uhh-guy’s! It's time to go!”

Ironhide heard it as well, “Optimus! Incoming!”, he slammed his servo on the ground causing a rippled effect of electricity to slow them down.

The autobots started to transform, leaving the three teens to look at the vehicles in pursuit anxiously. (Y/n) held the necklace on her chest, her heart hammering as her body still felt weak. If she needed to make a run for it she wouldn't get that far, she knew that for a fact-but if they-.

“Roll out,” Optimus orders the autobots, the screeching of tires filling their ears as they make their escape leaving them with the Prime. The leader lowered his hand, making (Y/n)s nerves go on edge, “Up you get.” In her mind it wouldn't make more sense for him to transform and the three of them claymore in, it would save the big rig a lot of time and be more discreet around the humans.

Not gonna argue right now.

Each of them climbed onto the Primes hand, before he lifted them up to his shoulders making haste on foot. OPtimus begins to run around the bridge, the helicopter's lights landing on them as the three teens try to hang on tight to whatere piece of metal on his shoulders that they could find. It wasn't long before he headed through the street, cars honking and skidding to a stop in order to not be crushed underneath.

“Oh my god,” (Y/n) gasped, she tried closing her eyes but she could hear it all. From the cruising of gravel to the endless screeching of tires and helicopter blades.

Optimus finally was able to lose them, hiding underneath the bridge high enough from the helicopters and cars so they wouldn't detect them. There was on problem. Gravity.

“Easy you three,” The prime tried to comfort, he could hear their panicked breaths in his audio receptors, concentrating especially on (Y/n) considering her current condition. Optimus shifted slightly trying to get a better grip, accidently knocking the three-of-them hanging off a piece of his shoulder like a loose thread.

“Oh my god! Sam no!” (Y/n) was hanging onto Mikealas hips, tears streaming down her face as a helicopter passed too close underneath her.

“No! NO! No, Sam!” Mikeala tried to grab the boy's other arm making sure the girl holding her wouldn't fall, “Sam don’t drop us!”

“Oh God!”

“Sam, don’t! Sam, dont!” She tried to get a better grip, her fear pumping into her stomach as she thought about the girl at her hip, “ I’m slipping! I’m slipping!”

“Mikeala don't you dare! Please don't let go!”

It was too late Sam lost his grip, causing the rest of them to scream the ground coming fast, “Hold on!” Optimus tried to catch them with his feet but was unsuccessful with them, being unable to grip in time.

With some hope for a miracle (Y/n) screamed “Bumblebee!”

A flash a black and yellow reached her peripherals before she felt herself being jostled a little. Her and Sam both held on to one another as they felt Bumblebee hit the ground coming to a skidding stop.

It wasn't long before they heard the copters again and the revving of engines, (Y/n) looked up at Bumblebee, her thoughts racing wild as she feared for his safety. “Bee you have to go now!”

“Stop! Stop!” Sam’s pleas were going unheard as they continued to fly overhead. The first cannon was shot and locked on, pulling the scout in another direction, “Wait! NO!”

“Take the shot! Get him! Take the shot!”

“Stop! No! Don't hurt him!,” (Y/n) raced forward but was pulled back by Mikaela, her grip strong, “Let me go! Bumblebee!” The second one was released-his other arm, the the third-one of his legs. She could hear it-the painful whirrs he was letting out from the assault-the worst part is this. He wasn't fighting back. He wasn't a threat to them.

The final shot flipped him completely off his feet leaving the girl in shock, her resolve crumbling, “Bee, you have to fight back! You hear me! Fight back!” (Y/n)s screams were useless underneath how loud the blades were, each second that went by hearing her protector in pain caused her great turmoil.

The cars arrived, blocking the exits from the scene before them. Sam pulled the two girls behind him, making sure to have a firm grip on his best friend so she wouldn't run to the scout, “No! Stop!”

Guns. It was the guns that made everything humbling, so frightening. That's all she could see around her from each man in black-badges on full display. “Get down on the ground! Get down! Get down!” The three teens' hands went up, slowly getting down on their knees in defeat. It wasn't enough for them as they were shoved down to the pavement, groans of discomfort leaving their lips, (Y/n) didnt care-she was too focused on the black and yellow mech groaning in pain- not making any effort to escape.

“Look! Please! He's not fighting back!” The afro haired cried, “You're hurting him!”

Her screams were ignored once more, only to be covered up with another chilling command, “Freeze it! Freeze it! Freeze it!”

They were pulled up, giving them a full view of the white smoke being blasted at him, Sam's screams filling the air, “Stop hurting him!”. Bumblebee fell to the ground, pained groans and whirrs filling the air as the girl's heart ripped in two. For a brief moment she didn't see the mech on the ground she could see another scene, a small framed femme trying to crawl away, two bodies laying waste in her arms as the men surrounded her. The surroundings were different. Instead of a bridge it was street lights and open roads-stores.

They had done this before. They had done this the night of her parents' deaths. And it definitely won't happen again tonight!

(Y/n) kicked the officer from behind, quickly making her way over to the black and yellow mech before them. It was blind rage, she could feel it, from the way she grabbed the house aiming it to the other men, one going down after she proceeded to kick him repeatedly. An officer tried to grab her, only for her to grab his baton and whack him with it, a resounding crack following. The best thing is she wasn't alone fighting for this mech's life-Sam and joined in hosing down another group of men as well, before being taken down by two other men.

She got through, getting in the scouts face-his optics focused on her, “Bee get up! You got to get-” Her sentence was cut short as he was grabbed from behind her mouth covered, before being pushed to the ground to be handcuffed. She fought back her fight not leaving her much to the officers dismay.

It was a domino effect, once she was pushed to the ground, they heard it. The angry whirrs from the scout was unmatched as he started to pull the helicopters down with him. (Y/n) looked over eyes catching optics as it seemed like he was trying to get to her, one copter was successfully pulled down it crashing on pace. It didn't explode, which was a good thing but it only got worse for the bot as another copter hooked him again pulling back down with more force this time.

No…

The girl let out a sob in defeat, her efforts were in vain for her protector couldn't be saved with her own hands. Sam was stopped in front of Simmons-the agent had a satisfied smile on his face, “Happy to see me again?”

“I'd rather jump from that bridge,” (Y/n) scowled.

Simmions simply cocked his head at her, “Put them in the car with their little criminal friend.” The two were ushered into the car, (Y/n) in the middle with Sam and Mikaela on either side of her. The afro hairs slammed her head back in frustration at the agent's next words, “I want that thing frozen and ready for transport.”

(Y/n) sobbed, “They're gonna do Bee just like they did Estel,” She turned to Sam, her expressions telling it all, “They're gonna freeze him and experiment on him.”

The witwicky shook his head, “We're not letting that happen, I promise,” He looked her in the eyes-they didn't waver this time causing her heart to swell, “And this time-i'm not breaking it.”

The cars pulled away the helicopters following in tow giving the green light for the autobots to emerge from hiding. Jazz was the first one to transform, scoping the area, “Hang back let me check it out,” He climbed down to underneath the bridge where Optimus was hiding. “Optimus, are we just gonna stand here and do nothing?”

“There's no way to free Bumblebee without harming the humans,” Was the Primes reply.

“But it's not right. He-”

“Let them leave.” The leader finalized, his tone filled with sorrow. He looked down before picking up the glasses they sacrificed so much to obtain, only to realize the book was still with the girl.

Their storyteller in the hands of the humans with the book was risking, but they trust her with their lives. With the way she fought hard to protect Bumblebee in her weak state-they'd be fools not to.

~ ✯ ~

(Y/n) sat across the other man and women on the helicopter nervously. She had never flown from so high before and she didn't think today was going to be the day she got to experience it. The night had quickly turned into day signifying she needed a long day of sleep in the comfort of her room snuggled up into one of her bears. Mikaela and Sam sat on either side of her once more, not giving her the glory of seeing the view down below, she guessed she shouldn't be complaining so much. She didn't know if she had a fear of heights, and today she didn't want to find out.

“So,” Sam started the conversation.

The blonde woman nodded in understanding, “What do they get you for?”

“Uh,” He turned to (Y/n) an awkward smile on his face, “I bought a car. Turned out to be an alien robot, and uh she-”

“My family has been associated with them for god knows how long,” His best friend finished for him.

‘Wow’ the man mouthed.

“Who knew?” He smiled, (Y/n) as well finally finding a tad bit of humor in their situation.

It wasn't long before they reached their location, the dam came into view with tourists becoming more apparent. With getting out of the vehicle the group of teens got a good view of their location, it was beautiful, if that's what anyone wanted to hear.

“This is not my idea of a vacation?” (Y/n) muttered, “I would rather to go to disney world than here,”

Sam laughed, “Shes finally back,”

“Meh,” The girl shrugged, “Just trying to make the best out of a shitty situation.”

The three of them followed the men, soon being met with the sight of Simmons, erasing the easy expression on the girl's face. She could still hear her protector's groans of pain in her head, ikt was even worse with the image of him reaching out to her, pulling down a helicopter in the process.

“Hey kids,” He looked between the two best friends, “I think we got off to a bad start huh?”

“A bad start would be an understatement,” The afro haired huffed.

He shrugged, playing nice, “You guys must be hungry,” he placed a hand on Sam’s shoulder, the boy growing annoyed, “You want a latte? HoHo? Double venti macchiato-?”

“Where's my car?” Sam questioned, “No better yet wheres my friend-”

Another man stepped forward, “Son, I need you to listen to me very carefully. People can die here.” He turned to (Y/n), “We need to know everything you know. We need to know it now.”

“No-”

“Okay,”

“Sam!” (Y/n) hissed, “What are you-?”

“But, first I'll take my car, my parents. Maybe you should write that down,” The boy replied, “Oh, and her juvie record. That's got to be gone. Like, forever.”

He turned to his best friend, “Anything you want to add (Y/n)? Since you know you're the one with all the history that these guys need to know,” the boy turned back to the other man with a smile on his face, “This girl beside me was raised on this stuff, She’s a (L/n)-learn to remember.”

The man froze for a minute, turning back to the girl, “(L/n)? Daughter of (D/n) (L/n)?” (Y/n) nodded, biting her lower lip from the man's intense stare. The man pointed to her looking at Simmons, “Get that girl whatever she wants immediately, her uncle is practically a veteran here and her family are legends.”

“And you son, come with me. We'll talk about your car,”

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