WPaRG: Stories About the Heat of the Heart

by chelonianmobile, MultiFanGirlWickedPony

Summary:

More overflow stories, this time romantically themed. Not necessarily published in order!

Chapter 1: Introduction

“They say it’s a crime of power, not of lust…”

“… but you can lust for power…”

“… and love can make people do awful things, as well…”

“… or stay quiet when someone does awful things to them.”

Men with women, women with women, women with men, ones who are both and neither or something else, anyone with no one. All of them come here, to stand on the stage and speak.

“So, then. Let’s talk about love.”

Chapter 2: (Big City Greens) A Story about the Nice Guy

Summary:

TW: date rape, unreliable narrator, misogyny, racism.
Soundtrack: "Whipped Cream" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BUw-V0GPvQU

“Look, I’m not saying what happened to you guys wasn’t bad…”

The Nice Guy has two-toned hair, like a certain officer, only it’s mostly blond with brown at the sides. His tan is an unusual shade of orange and probably fake. His front tooth is chipped, and he’s smiling so they can all see.

“I just think that maybe people get themselves worked up over stuff like this - and don’t get me wrong, I get why, but when it comes to stuff like this… It’s getting kinda… Look, you can’t just go around believing every story. Women who… Chicks lie all the time. Especially about guys like me.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Nice Guy, not much younger than he is now, feet propped up on a nice desk. It’s the only one in the room and the window behind it overlooks the big city skyline.

“My old man started out as some dirt-poor dirt farmer before he worked his way up as a businessman - that’s where the real money is. I just took over from him as the head of the company - Wholesome Foods, you guys should go there.” He smiles even wider, flashing that chipped tooth. “It’s the best. Anyway, there’s a whole lot of money wrapped up in that.”

Money to play with, money to burn. Money to be spent on fast new cars and flashy electronics and hundreds of things that the Nice Guy doesn’t need. He wraps himself up and stands at the center of a cyclone of Jaegermeister and cash and naked women.

“Chicks love a guy with money. Not saying that they’re all gold-diggers, but come on. I don’t really mind it as long as they’re babes, alright? Is that wrong? Thing is… when you get with a lot of different girls, there’s bound to be one or two crazy bit- uh, well, you know…” He coughs, looking down at the floor. “There was this barista…”

The Nice Guy leans on a coffeeshop counter, fogging the glass and smiling at the girl who works there. She’s East Asian and a lot younger than him, with sky-blue dye in her hair.

Hi, sir, can I get you anything?

He looks her up and down, smirking to reveal perfect, bright-white teeth. Make mine a chai latte. Oh, and I want it with whipped cream on it.

She laughs good-naturedly, but her hand curls into a fist.

“Stupid little…” The Nice Guy shakes his head. “I don’t know why she didn’t like me, what I did. I was a perfect gentleman with her!”

Another day. He orders another drink and watches as she mixes it, moaning when she doles out the foam. She turns and he rubs the back of his head, smiling innocently. It’s my neck, I must have slept on it wrong.

She smiles tightly and hands him the drink. Here’s your order, she says and adds a sharp-keyed, sir. Extra cream.

Oh, you know it, beautiful. He reaches to take it and puts his hand over hers, squeezing. It’s so much bigger than the woman’s, for all that hers is covered in callouses. He leaves a hundred-dollar tip.

“I don’t know what went wrong. I mean, at first she was okay with me and what I was doing. I was a customer… sometimes we’d flirt a little. Nothing bad! I promise, I just… She acted like she was into me. She smiled all the time. Laughed at my jokes… she always acted happy to see me… I wonder what went wrong.”

Thank you, come again soon! Sometimes the coffeeshop girl is accompanied by a much younger boy with brown hair and bucked front teeth. He doesn’t like the Nice Guy. The Nice Guy doesn’t like him. The lady barista, though, is always cordial. The Nice Guy keeps leaving big tips.

“You know, I bet it was my money. Ho- uh, she probably wanted to sue me or something like that. Thought she’d get something from it.”

He asks her out while she fixes him his coffee. The barista girl passes him the cup, shaking her head but her hand remains steady - at least until his closes around her wrist and squeezes a ring of white into her skin. Tanning oil is left behind when she pushes him away. Personal spac- Sir, you’re hurting me, she says as calmly as she can.

I’ll hurt you a lot w- The Nice Guy stops himself and swallows when he sees the other patrons are backing away. He leaves, throwing the money on the table. He waits in front of the cafe for hours, until nighttime overtakes the afternoon. The girl comes out, key between her fingers, and he sidles up. Sorry about earlier. Let me make it up to you.

“Some women are just… crazy. I’m sure you gals aren’t, I just mean… some. Like her. Stupid little…” He lets out a long, whistling breath and shuts his eyes, hiding his face in one big, strong hand. “A lot of people saw her go with me that night. I asked her out for Jaegerbombs, that was all. She went willingly and we went back to my place. It’s not my fault she flipped out afterwards, but I guess she had her reasons. She had weird Chinese parents or something, I guess they didn’t want her having sex…”

The blue-haired girl stands alone in a decorated elevator, the kind that plays pop-music and has plush carpet on the floor. Her face isn’t heavily made-up, but what little she had on is running or tear-streaked and her eyes are an angry, hungover red. Her hair hangs loose around her shoulders, pulled from its ponytail, and there’s a button missing on her pants. The barista woman wraps her arms around herself, trembling, and the camera zooms in. Her knuckles are scabbed. Cut; the Nice Guy stands shirtless in front of his bathroom mirror, tongue running over a freshly chipped front tooth.

“One minute she’s leaving after we, uh, yeah… Next thing I know the cops are at my door! Asking questions. Good thing they were willing to listen to reason.”

The cops that bring him down to the station are a slim man and a round one, both white as unbaked bread dough - some of the uniforms from the Queen of Hearts’ sorry story. The one that questions him is a skinny man with red hair under his hat and a squeaky, high-pitched Southern drawl - the one from Hecate’s story and Bombyx Mori’s. Hey, we don’t know if you are in any trouble yet, he says, all we wanna know is what happened.

“So I told them the truth. I got lucky, I guess - this was before the whole cops thing came to light. She could’ve put me in some real danger! I’m just glad to know that some people can still think for themselves instead of just blindly believing whatever some two-bit…” More whistling. “Sorry. Sorry. I’m allowed to be angry, aren’t I?”

He goes back to the coffeeshop and orders: Chai latte, gorgeous. He smiles at the new girl behind the counter. I like mine extra foamy. He leaves a fifty-dollar tip. Don’t worry, I can afford it. By the way, whatever happened to that last girl? The Nice Guy doesn’t wait for an answer. You’re prettier anyway. The new girl, like the last one, looks down at her apron and at the tip jar and sighs. She doesn’t say one word.

The Nice Guy glares at nothing in particular, staring at the wall with his nostrils flaring like an angry bull. “She almost ruined me. Little cunt. Sorry, I’m sorry… my bad… it just slipped out.”

Chapter 3: *CSA* (Miraculous Ladybug) Two Stories about Yin and Yang

Summary:

TW: rape of minors, child-on-child abuse/harassment, unsanitary items, stalking, internet harassment, breaking and entering, knife crime, false accusations, discussion of cult violence, racism, and homophobia, uninformed narrators.

“It’d be easier to come to the ones on Saturday, but then my parents wouldn’t be able to take me. I keep having to do all my homework in study-hall.”

“I’d really like to do this during the school week - work week? - too, if I didn’t have so much going on. I think I need it, one day isn’t really enough.”

Yin chews her lip and tugs on a bunch of blue-black hair - one of two puffy pigtails. She wears a black jacket over a white top and little ballet slippers on her feet. Her jeans are pink and the flowers printed on the front of her t-shirt are the same, as are the spots on the lining of her jacket and the insides of her rolled up sleeves. Her earrings are two candy-apple-colored circles, dappled in little black polka dots. Like the wings of a ladybug. She’s very… cutesy - hyperfeminine - and the way she smiles is very sweet… but there’s a darkness to her sad blue eyes.

Yang’s hand wraps around his forearm, face partially hidden behind a curtain of yellow hair. He wears a black t-shirt under a white button-up, which is currently all buttoned down. Blue jeans bunch up around his ankles, held up by a belt, and his sneakers are orange. All of it looks expensive and new. He’s wearing a ring on his right hand - a black one with a small, green paw print in the center, a pad surrounded by four little toes. He looks… anxious - awkward - and the way he holds himself isn’t very self-composed… but there’s a speck of light still living in his bright green eyes.

“Maman and Papa own a bakery - ah ah, you know I can’t say which one - it’s busy on the weekends, it’s busy all the time.” She puffs herself up a little and thumps her chest. “We make the best macarons in the city, I’ll have you know. It’s kind of out of the way so slow days are the only ones when they can give me a lift - we live in the French part of town.”

“I do a lot of extracurriculars. Fencing club, Chinese lessons, piano… modeling.” He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s always been a bit much, but it’s worse now that… I guess I could talk to my father about it, but I don’t know if he’d listen. And, anyway, he’s busy. He’s- I know, I know… no names. He works in fashion.” A short, embarrassed silence. “… I’m kind of the face of the brand.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Boulangerie Patisserie. Yin waves goodbye to a gaggle of other teenagers and bounds up to a white-washed building with plate glass windows and gold leaf letters on a sign above the door. I’m back! Inside a giant, mustachioed man pulls her into a bear hug and a short-haired woman kisses her on the cheek. Both are covered in powdered sugar and the whole room smells like melted chocolate and baking bread.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Yang and a hulking man enter the spotless courtyard of a mansion five or six times the size of any ordinary house. A stern looking woman with glasses and a dark suit greets them at the door. How was school today, Adrien?

Fine, I guess. Is Father home?

He’s working, she says. You know that. He doesn’t want to be disturbed.

“My parents are good people, they really love me - even if they can be a little embarrassing - and I get all the cookies and cakes I could ever want for free. My friends are great too. Alya’s a reporter and she has a blog and Luka plays the guitar really well, and Max is really really smart and Kag- oh, sorry!” She smiles sheepishly. “I forgot about the name thing. Anyways, my life is pretty awesome! Well, usually… It was… before this year.”

“Things at my house have always been… well, a little bit weird between my father and me, and it’s been worse ever since my mother passed away last year. Father is very distant and very protective of me, it’s a weird combination. Losing her pushed him over the edge, I guess. I’m not allowed to do anything or see anyone. It was like pulling teeth just to convince him to let me go to public school. I only managed it this year.” He sighs. “This has been the worst year of my life.”

Yin parks herself at her own kitchen counter, still wearing pajamas and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Bet you anything Chloe’s in my class again, she says to her mother; and then she knocks over the milk with her elbow.

Yang books it up the stairs of an older looking school building, followed by the glasses-wearing woman from before and the big, hulking man. Adrien, please reconsider. You know what your father wants.

“Let’s start at the beginning, I guess. It was the first day of school - I hate first days of school - Maman had to wake me up and I was running late. Not crazy late, but still late. My parents must have known I wasn’t happy about it. Dad made me a big box of macarons for the whole class. Everybody likes macarons! I dropped most of them though…”

“I snuck out of the house when the school year started. I’d already registered myself for classes, but my father… he didn’t want me to go. His assistant and my bodyguard both came after me to try and convince me to come back home while I tried to get through the door. I didn’t make it, but that’s not my fault.”

Yin is fully dressed now, hurrying along the crosswalk as a bell rings in the distance. The lights change before everyone has gotten all the way over and she spins around to see an old man in the street. She runs to grab him and drops the box she was carrying, spilling sweets out on the ground.

Yang turns to see the same old man fall on the sidewalk, lying like a turtle on its back, fumbling for his cane. He pulls him to his feet and turns back to find that both the assistant and bodyguard now stand in his way. He slumps. Please don’t tell my father about this.

“I got there while roll was being called and they were still assigning seats - I always sit in the second row on the right, at least if I can help it - and that’s when I found out she was in my class again.”

“I did manage to get in the next day, but only after all the seats and stuff had been assigned. I could’ve gotten stuck in the boonies or next to a nose-picker or something. Luckily I managed to snag one in the front row. Well, I didn’t snag it, it was saved.”

Yin stares down at her desk-table as another girl leans over her. She swings her ponytail and leans in closer than she probably needs to. A bespectacled ginger stands at her side, nodding at every word she says. Yin looks angry, but doesn’t speak up in her own defense.

ADRIKINS! Yang is knocked backwards as soon as he walks through the door, tackle-hugged by a blur of yellow and peppered in kisses by a blue-eyed blonde. He looks uncomfortable with this gesture of affection, but cannot bring himself to push her away.

“Chloe.” She spits the name out like a cuss word. “She’s just some mean girl in my class, but I swear she’s evil. I’ve known her since elementary school and she’s just… awful. You’d have to meet her to understand.”

“Chloe.” He speaks the name like it hurts to say it. “She’s… a friend. I know she isn’t perfect, but I’ve known her since we were kids and she was always nice to me. For a while she was like the only one that I could turn to. It’s complicated…”

Yin emerges from the shower after gym, wringing water from the ends of her hair. Someone snickers as she reaches for the clothes she left out. The girls from before hold up her bra and underwear and her face turns completely red. CHLOE!

Chloe… Yang fidgets nervously, looking uncomfortable to have his friend wrapped around his arms, leaning in to kiss him. He squirms, turning his head away, but she presses harder and her lips smack against his cheek.

“She’s a bully, she does what all bullies do. A lot of the time what she does isn’t that bad… but sometimes she takes things way too far. A lot of the time actually.”

“She’s not… She can be really pushy some… er, most of the time. I know she likes me… likes me, I mean. Maybe that’s why I feel so weird about it when she climbs all over me like that.”

Yin leaves her bag in the classroom. When she goes back, it’s nowhere to be found. The girls drop it on her desk the next day and she opens it to find a used tampon crammed inside; she yelps in shock and disgust. Cut; she opens her locker to find it filled with pregnancy tests (all thankfully still wrapped), and her ears burn. Cut; Yin walks down the hallways, absorbed in conversation with another girl who has thick glasses and a smartphone in her hand. Manicured fingers pinch the sides of her jeans. She yelps as her pants come down around her ankles; everyone turns and sees.

Yang gets up to use the bathroom and returns to find the blonde girl rifling through his backpack. She giggles and drops it back into his seat. Cut; he opens his locker and has to step back as he’s hit by a wave of glitter-penned love notes, doused heavily in expensive scent. Cut; Yang is talking to a boy with orange headphones around his neck when the blonde girl creeps up behind him and grabs one of his buttocks with her whole hand. He jumps, taking in one sharp breath.

“She never went as far as the Swan’s bullies did and I don’t think she would. She’s not… I don’t like her, but she isn’t that terrible.” Yin’s hand clenches. “But what she did was still bad enough. Problem is no one else seems to think so. I tried to report her to the principal like all those PSAs say you should. I told my parents… But her dad’s a politician and he gives a lot of money to our school so… I just had to get used to it.” An annoyed huff comes out through her teeth. “It got worse this year though. Because we both like the same guy.”

“She never… you know. She couldn’t have made me, and I don’t think she would have tried to force it. She’s not horrible or anything. I don’t even think she really knows what she’s doing, or at least not that it makes me so uncomfortable… and I’m a model. It’d be weirder if I didn’t have a few admirers, right?” Yang smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Still… it does bother me, but I don’t know how to tell her to back off. I don’t feel the same way about her. There’s… there’s somebody else. Another girl.”

A boy with blond hair and green eyes sits in front of Yin in class, scribbling something down in his notebook. She sits behind him and moons, doodling hearts around the initials on her page. M.D.C + A. A. she writes in pink.

Yang sits at his home computer, a chat board open on the screen. A message and a username. TheMiraculousLadybug. There’s a little profile picture of said insect under Friends. He smiles dreamily, face reflected on the glass.

“Adr- um… This boy in my class. He’s really nice and really handsome and I really like him an awful lot. He’s friends with Chloe, but he’s not like her at all! He’s kind and charming and one day we’re going to get married and have a hamster and we’ll name it-” She coughs. “Whoa, sorry, I might have gotten a little carried away there. Anyway, I really like him a lot, but he’s a model - not that that’s why I like him! - so a lot of other girls feel the same way as I do.”

“Ladybug… I can say that, right? I dropped the ball with the Chloe thing, but this isn’t… I mean, I’m pretty sure that’s not her real name - who would call their kid that, right? We don’t know each other in real life, but she’s really cool and funny and one day I’d really like to be with her, you know, that way. We only know each other online, but I’m sure if I ever got to meet her… Well, I just know I could win her over. I mean, a lot of girls like me.”

Yin and her glasses-wearing friend walk up the steps and into the school building while voices buzz around. Can you believe Lila knows Prince Ali? and Why did Jagged Stone write a song about Lila, when he could have written it about me? and Lila knows all of the Hollywood directors. She promised she’d mention me to Steven Spielberg himself.

Yang stands at the top of the stairs, near his classroom door, frozen in place. A girl with three low-fastened pigtails leans in close - though not as close as the blonde girl did - and puts a finger on his chest. She’s smiling, but there’s no warmth to it. She leads him away by his hand.

“This girl transferred to our school a few months in - from Italy, I think her mom’s a diplomat. I thought Chlo- that other girl was bad, but she’s worse. Way, way worse.” Yin scowls, furrowing her brow. “She likes the same guy as me and I can be jealous sometimes, I admit it. Maybe I don’t handle that sort of stuff very well, but… but she’s a liar. She’s a total liar. And that’s one thing I just can’t stand.”

“A few months into the year someone else - even newer than me - transferred in. She’s… it’s complicated. I’m not entirely sure what her problem is.” Yang frowns, forehead creasing. “I know she likes me, she’s pretty obvious about it, but I don’t know if… I keep telling her I don’t feel the same way, but she never seems to hear it. And she lies to people. About everything. I don’t know why she does that either, honestly.”

Yin enters the classroom to find that all the seats have been rearranged. The boy she covets so much sits beside the redheaded girl who stares placidly at him with her sage-colored eyes. She has a hearing issue. She can’t sit in the back.

She nods sadly and says, Tinnitus.

Yang leaves the classroom and the redheaded girl follows him. I heard you play piano. My uncle is a great pianist, he wanted to teach me when I was little but he had to stop playing because of arthritis. I’d love for you to give me some lessons.

Yang smiles awkwardly and says, Please don’t lie to me.

“It’s not just that she’s a liar. She’s mean, at least if she knows that you don’t buy what she’s selling… and that sort of thing is kind of hard to hide.”

“She got really mad when I said that to her, but mad in that way where you just sound… cold. I guess I must have struck a nerve pretty hard. I’ve seen my father get angry like that…”

Yin stands in front of the bathroom mirror when the door opens and that girl walks in. Marinette? Her voice is soft. I can tell that you don’t like me, but I don’t know why… We barely know each other. We could be friends.

When you stop lying, Yin fires back and watches as this potential “friend’s” expression sharpens into something cruel.

I only tell people what they want to hear.

The red-haired girl’s eyes narrow and the smile slides right off her face. She squints at him. Don’t try to lecture me. Then she swings her hair and turns away, slamming the classroom door.

Let me know if you want help with your school work! He waves, trying not to be put off.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have called her out on it. She wasn’t really hurting anyone and… well, if I hadn’t, my life would have been a lot easier. I just thought about how mad I was that she was lying to me - to Adr-… everyone! I didn’t stop to consider the idea that she might… lie about me instead.”

“It was kind of weird after that. She didn’t stay mad for long… and she didn’t get mad again. Maybe it was dumb that I kept hanging out with her, when I knew what she was like… but I guess I felt… bad? She made up stuff so people would like her. I bet she was lonely, so… She kept lying to me. She just didn’t do it the same way as before.”

Yin waves goodbye to her parents like she does every other day, and walks to school. She enters the building. Everyone stares. Most of them whisper as she walks by, low enough that she only catches snippets here and there. Marinette… Lila… came onto her… lesbian… I know. I know… Someone’s scratched something into her locker - a word that begins with D.

Yang and that girl sit in the school library, peering over the same book. He’s reading, but she leans in close. Too close. He starts back when her lips brush against his. Lila, no.

What’s wrong, Adrien?

I don’t… I just… I don’t feel that way about you.

Oh… She wilts. Is it because of what happened to me?

“She told everyone that I… that I…” Yin huffs and puffs, too mad to speak. “She said I hit on her and tried to force things when she refused. Some people still think that about me, you know! Not my parents or my besties, but plenty of people. Including some of the ones that I thought were my friends. I don’t know what that boy thinks. He can’t believe her, right?”

“She told me that someone raped her. Worse, she told me all the gory details. What it felt like and how… Nightmare-worthy stuff. I don’t know how she came up with all that… but I know she had to have come up with it. She does lie a lot and this time it was about… a friend - this really sweet girl in my class - so I knew it wasn’t true. Still, it keeps me up sometimes.”

She’s lying! Yin says to everyone but the object of her affections. She cannot bring herself to ask what he thinks of her now. Instead she turns to the internet and vents vaguely-worded frustration on a private account to the only account labeled Friend. A black cat as the profile picture and the screenname Chat Noire.

I’m so sorry, Milady. It sounds like you’re having a rough time.

You have no idea…

Yang watches as a girl with black pigtails walks, head-down, though the hall. People whisper or else they stare. She hugs her books to her chest, and ducks to hide her face behind them like a shield. She smiles tightly when she sees him and the direction of his thousand-yard stare.

Tired? she asks, sounding exhausted herself.

Yeah, he admits. I couldn’t sleep.

“I had this one friend that helped a lot. I met him online and… well, actually we’ll get to that. For now let's just say that I might have gone nuts if it weren’t for having some people willing to stick with me. One of them just happened to be this guy from an internet forum. No biggie - at least not… no, not right now. We aren’t really there yet.”

“There’s this really, really nice girl who goes to my school. Well, she’s… Look, It's complicated. We’ll get there. All you need to know right now is that she’s not a bad person at all, she’s just… Look, she was nice to me herself even though she was the one that girl said hurt her. She still took the time to make sure I was feeling okay. That has to count for something, right?”

The whispering and the name-calling gets a little better as time goes on. The blonde girl still makes fun of Yin. The redhead is still so smug. It’s easy to miss the less obvious compared to that, and it flies over her head when a strange new man, a stocky greying ginger, begins to frequent the bakery. He never buys much and looks at Yin and her family with hungry eyes. How long did you say you and your… wife have been married? If anyone looked a little closer, they might notice how similar he looks to another baker at a shop way across town.

Yang thinks less about what was described to him after a month goes by. Occasionally he still wakes up in a cold sweat, but those times are becoming few and far between. Another month and another new girl enters his school, if not his class. She’s better at fencing than he is. He spends less time talking to his “Ladybug” online. They go out for ice cream once and, like Yin, he doesn’t notice they’re being watched. A man with gray hair frowns as they walk along; beside him is a woman not so unlike the one that babysat the Dryad.

“My grandfather hasn’t spoken to Papa in twenty years. For the longest time no one would explain it, but now that I’m older… I think it had something to do with Maman, he met her around that time. She’s Chinese and Papa’s white. They call my grandfather old-fashioned, but he isn’t the only one that thinks of things that way.”

“I know I said I liked someone already. That’s true. It is, but… she likes somebody else. I wasn’t getting anywhere with her, so… There was this other girl who I did fencing with. She’s a really great girl and I really did like her a lot, so we went out a couple times. The thing that makes this complicated is that… um, she’s Japanese and some people think that’s wrong.”

Yin stumbles down the stairs and finds her parents in front of the TV, staring open-mouthed at the screen. They shut it off as soon as she enters. It’s nothing, sweetheart. Don’t worry. But there’s news on the internet too and when she opens her phone the first thing she sees is the Gunman’s face.

Yang flicks through television channels in his bedroom, but most of them play the news. He stops, finally, on a woman with red hair. She’s grave-faced. Cult in Calisota? is written behind her in bold. Pictures flash across the greenscreen. A warehouse; an ambulance; forty- or fifty-something handcuffed men.

“So… you know about God’s Will First… right?”

“You, uh… you know that cult thing that happened a while back?”

The next day the phone starts ringing and Yin listens as her father picks it up and hears the fear that creeps into his voice. I know who you are… Yes… I’ve been expecting- what?! She hears a clatter as his phone hits the floor. Marinette! Come down here! Please!

Yang is practicing piano when a severe-looking man bursts into the room. There’s a purple brooch pinned to the center of his chest and a mad look in his eyes. Adrien! His voice sounds breathless - raw. You… I forbid you from seeing that Tsurugi girl anymore.

“You know how they found a ledger of all the people they were going to…?” She gulps. “Um, Papa figured that he and Maman would be on the list because they got married, but he didn’t think they’d… My name was on there too. For two things. As ‘mixed cloth’ and as a ‘sapphist’ - that means girl who likes girls - probably because of what my classmate said about me.”

“The police have this list on their record of all the cult’s victims, right?” He doesn’t wait for an answer before continuing on. “And they had another one of… of the people they were watching. I’m on that… because someone saw me with that girl. Because I’m white and she’s not. The station called my father when they found out. He… didn’t take it well.”

Yin wears her hair down and walks with one hand up to shield her reddened face. Her father walks a few steps behind her as she heads to school. Don’t worry, sweetie, you won’t even know I’m here.

Papa.

It’s midday outside, but Yang sulks in his room and paces the floor, a cell phone held to his ear. A little black cat meows and stumbles over his bare feet. Not now, Plagg. I’m trying to- Kagami? Hey! Are you… what? No.

I’m sorry, Adrien. A filtered voice on the other end. I’m breaking up with you.

“My parents have been extra careful since then. I know they caught almost all those guys, but you never know who might think the same way. At least, that’s how they put it. I guess I shouldn’t be so hard on them about it. I know they’re only trying to protect me.”

“My father barely let me out of the house before that, but afterwards, he wouldn’t let me out at all. My ex’s mother did the same thing with her daughter and they forbid us from dating anymore.” Yang sighs heavily. “He only wants to keep me safe.”

Yin leans over in her seat, eying the empty desk in front of her. Where’s Adrien? she whispers to a friend.

His dad pulled him out. Didn’t you hear?

Yang sits in front of his computer, switching between an online assignment and the chatboard from before. Several outgoing messages. “Ladybug” has not replied. He types another anyway.

“That boy I like must have been on the list too, I know that he was… good friends with this other girl. She was Asian too and maybe people got the wrong idea or…” Yin shrugs. “He stopped coming to school for a while after we all got the news - I think his dad is really overprotective or something - and I really missed him. A lot. Maybe I didn’t handle that as well as I could have.”

“I started spending more and more time on the internet. Talking to my lady friend. For some reason she wasn’t on as much as she used to be. I don’t know why, she got mad when I asked. I kept messaging her though. Maybe that wasn’t the right move… but I was just… I was lonely. You can understand that right? Still… I guess maybe I did take things a little too far.”

Yin waits and waits and keeps on waiting for that boy to return to school. Her friend smiles and fondly rolls her eyes. You got it bad, girl.

She puffs up indignantly. I do not! That afternoon, Yin doesn’t wait for her father, and “happens by” her classmate’s house and looks through the window when she’s turned away at the door.

Yang sends message after message after message and keeps sending them even after “Ladybug” tells him to stop. @ChatNoire. Please, this is getting weird. You’re scaring me. He doesn’t.

“I won’t make excuses. I promise I’m not trying to make excuses, but… I, uh… The reason why I did it was because I was worried about him and because…” She bites her lip. “Well, after everything that had happened already… it didn’t seem that bad. My therapist says that everything leading up to that probably messed up how I look at things.”

“I know it was wrong. I know that now… and, yeah, I probably knew it then too. I guess it was just that… It didn’t feel…” He stares at the floor. “I can’t say no to my father. I can’t say no to my friend or deal with my classmate or… Boundaries just feel different. I don’t have a very good sense of other people’s. No one else seems to care about mine.”

Yin opens the laptop on her desk and heaves a sigh. A wall of messages from the same source. She clicks through them all though, dutifully, replying to some and ignoring others. Occasionally she rolls her eyes. You gotta stop asking so many questions. It’s creepy.

What the questions are: So you live in Calisota, right? … What school do you go to? … What do you look like IRL? … How are you doing? … What’s up? Do you have a boyfriend?

Yang opens the door to his room and narrows his eyes. His comforter is rumpled slightly - as if someone’s been sitting there, but there isn’t anyone around. His window is open. A few things seem out of place - pictures with him in them have been moved around. His desk is open. Hello? No one answers; but there’s a bright red hair tie on the floor.

“So, my online friend… I mentioned him, right? He’s been… I mean, I’m sure he’s a nice guy and everything and if he’s telling the truth then he’s not that much older than I am, but - a little while after this all started - he started to cross some lines. At first it was little stuff like leaving me like fifty messages while I was at school or asking weird questions, but he got a lot pushier really fast.”

“Remember what I said about that nice girl in my class? Yeah. I stand by that, really, but she… This is where things get complicated okay? She’s sweet and all and I think… I know she cares about me and I’m glad she does, but… sometimes I think she comes on a little too strong…? Maybe? I don’t really know what to call it, but I’ve noticed her watching me when no one’s around.”

Yin sneaks out of the house at night when her own parents are asleep and goes to a big, big house a few blocks away. She scales the gate and climbs to a window; it’s dark in the room beyond.

Yang at his computer again, sending a lot of messages, pushing for a response.

@TheMiraculousLadybug - have you ever had sex?

@ChatNoire - Why would you even ask me that?

“Maybe I’m a bad person. I was… I know what I did wasn’t okay. I know that. I guess I didn’t think about how creepy some of that stuff would seem from his side. And I kind of had my own thing going on…”

“I don’t think I’m a bad person, but maybe I’m stupid. Look, I get it. I crossed a line. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m just- I understand if she doesn’t want to speak to me again. I get it. I know how it must’ve felt…”

My father makes a lot of money. He gives me an allowance. I could pay you for your time.

Yin scrunches her nose and scowls. I’m /not/ a sex worker.

Yang sits up in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. He yawns loudly, the noise turning to a sound of confusion when his eyes catch on something that wasn’t on his desk the night before - a freshly baked macaron.

“Maybe that isn’t as bad as what I did, but it was still gross. Like, who even…” Yin stops and takes a breath. “I don’t want to be a hypocrite for getting mad.”

“What I was doing wasn’t okay either, but that stuff… it freaked me out. I’m not mad at her or anything, but…” Yang swallows. “I was just scared.”

Yin sneaks out again and climbs to the same window she always does. It's dark inside. She reaches for the screen. Yang sits bolt upright in bed. It’s dark around him. He hears a scraping noise.

H-Hello?!

A-Adrien?!

“The night he found out about everything was… a disaster. I was going to give him another one of the pastries from the bakery - he likes passionfruit-flavored macarons the best. I was going to leave it on his desk for him, but… he heard me. The night I figured out who it was that was… bothering me was kind of intense. I’d been asleep, but I woke up when someone opened the window and let themself in. At first I was terrified, but then… I realized who was there and… yeah.”

For a moment Yin can only stand there, frozen in place, her lips still stuttering without end. I-I-I… um, I… I… Adrien… Yang gulps and takes a step forward, squinting in the barely-there light. Marinette? What are you doing in my room?

“I don’t know what I said exactly, probably nothing much… it’s always been so hard to talk to him. I just freeze up or start babbling or… He used to bear with it, but not this time. I didn’t yell or scream or anything. I just stood there. I was… shocked. She seemed so normal and there she was… watching me sleep. I didn’t know what to say.”

For a long time no one says anything and the two just stare at each other’s outlines in the dark room. Yin breaks the silence first. So, I know this probably looks bad, but… I g-got so worried when you weren’t in school and- Are… are you the person that’s been leaving me things? Yang doesn’t know what else to ask. She fishes for something in the dark and he smells another macaron.

For you! I want-

What are you doing here?

I… I… Because I… because I…

Yang swallows dry. You need to leave.

I love you!

What? Marinette, I…

I love you, Adrien! I always have… We… we’re like Yin and Yang. We would be so good together if you just-

You need to go. Now. I… I’m sorry. I can’t… I…

“He kicked me out, but he didn’t call his dad or the police. He said it was because he didn’t want to get me in trouble - because we’re friends… I know I don’t really have the right to be disappointed after everything, but… I am. Maybe I was wrong, but I felt like we were made for each other. Opposites and equals. That’s… I can’t stop thinking of it that way.”

“Everyone says I shouldn’t feel guilty, but I can’t really help it. She’s not a bad person and she looked so sad… I don’t feel the same way about her and I don’t like what she was doing - I know it’s not okay - but… I still care about her and she was trying to be nice to me even if she went too far. I can’t really hold a grudge. I’m not much better anyway.”

Yin feigns illness and sits up in her room with her laptop spread across her knees. She gets away with it at least by half because of embarrassment. Her mother lays a hand on her forehead and feels fever there. In the meantime, she opens that discussion board.

Yang eats his meals alone and wanders the house aimlessly. Sometimes he talks to the fat little kitten asleep on his bed. He sends more messages to “Ladybug” and practically squeals in excitement when he sees she’s sent an answer back.

“I was lonely. My friend was… there. I guess I just wanted someone to talk to. I told him I was upset, you know, but not about what… He was good about that. He’s not a bad guy, I don’t think. He just… Well, I’m probably the last person who should talk about boundaries.”

“Milady finally got back to me after not saying much for a while. I was sore for company and she was lonely. Sounded like a win-win… only… She was having a hard time with… something or other. She needed someone to listen. I did listen. I wish I’d just stuck with that.”

Yin returns to school by the end of the week, wincing every time someone mentions that boy. At home she sends a lot of messages now and waits for her friend to answer back. He does - quickly, frequently - and soon she feels better. Then it comes in.

@TheMiraculousLadybug - I think I’m in love with you.

Yang reassures his friend as well as he can assure her. It takes weeks. A part of him must be pleased with the attention from the girl he so admires, especially when she lightens up. He types a love confession and hits send. She takes a while to respond.

@ChatNoire - Lol.

@TheMiraculousLadybug - I’m being serious. I think we’d be good together. We’re like Yin and Yang, yeah? We balance each other.

“When he told me how he felt, I tried to laugh it off at first. I knew he was being serious, but I… I was hoping he’d take it back.”

“She didn’t take it seriously when I told her about my feelings. I don’t… I don’t think she took me seriously. Or… takes. Not that I’m trying to justify what happened or anything!”

Yin’s fingers hover over the keyboard. N she types, o. @ChatNoire - I’m sorry. I don’t feel the same. Yang will not accept that answer. @TheMiraculousLadybug - Could you though? What do I have to do?

“I didn’t want anything from him, so I said ‘nothing’ and he… the whole conversation kind of went off the rails. He didn’t get mad or anything… he just… I don’t remember what it was I said exactly. I didn’t threaten her, or myself, or anything. I just…”

Yin opens her computer and makes a loud noise of disgust at what she sees. A picture of a teenage boy with nothing covered but the face. @TheMiraculousLadybug - You’re missing out if you ask me. She slams the laptop shut. Yang sends more messages, blowing up the screen until he can’t see hers anymore. The hour on the clock is a very, very late one but he keeps his computer on and doesn’t go to bed.

“I tried to lie down after that, but I couldn’t sleep. I don’t know why that made me so angry. I mean…” Yin falters. “I’ve heard worse. I felt bad after sending the message, but I’m not sure if it was that…” Yang gulps. “I’m not sure if I was really sorry or if it was that she wouldn’t respond.”

2:05 A.M. She falls asleep eventually, soft snoring filling up the room. It’s a warm night so the window’s been left open to let in the breeze from the sun-baked bricks below. She turns over, groaning. Adrien… A faint sound of scraping. A hand pushes against the screen.

2:55 A.M. He’s still staring at his laptop screen, eyelids drooping heavily. It was hot earlier in the day so his window has been pushed fully open to let in the air. That’s how he hears the sirens. Father, what’s going on? He opens the door and runs downstairs.

“This is it. The worst part. The big one.” Yin readjusts a pigtail. “It was late and my parents were sleeping. Someone came into my room…”

“I just remember wondering why there were sirens going off all over the place and I saw police cars.” Yang tugs on his bangs. “But my father told me to go back to bed.”

The hand becomes an arm becomes a body and creeps inside, slashing the window screen in the process. Yin startles when she feels a sudden weight bearing down on her, but there’s only black when she opens her eyes. She realizes that first and then that she can’t breathe.

Yang opens his door again (though he can’t remember shutting it) and he freezes dead where he stands. The window screen’s been cut open and there’s someone stepping out from behind him, holding a knife to his throat. Don’t move. Yang nods feverishly.

“He ripped my blanket off and wrapped it around my head. The house is small. If I’d screamed someone would have heard me, but I didn’t scream though. He said - I could hear him through the cloth - that he had a knife. I couldn’t see it, but I wasn’t about to take any chances. S-so I… I j-just lay there. Even when he started to take my pajamas off.”

“He had a knife - it must have been what he used to cut the window screen open. There wasn’t much I could do with it pointed at my neck like that. So I just did what he told me to - which was pretty much just ‘shut the door and window, and lay down on the bed’. He didn’t tell me to be quiet though. My house is huge, I guess he knew no one would hear me.”

Yin breaks down crying into the fabric above her as the stuff below is removed. Shut up! the man hisses, but she can’t hear him well. He hits her once and then forces her legs apart and gets between them. She struggles and he hits her again.

FATHER! Yang tries to call out as the man climbs on top of him. Help! Father! Nathalie! Somebody-

No one’s going to hear you, says the man as his jeans are removed and then his underwear. They aren’t coming.

They don’t.

“So then he… yeah. I couldn’t stop him. I tried to think of that guy I liked. It didn’t work.” She digs through her pocket for a handkerchief. “But he didn’t get to finish all the way. Remember what I said about screaming? He must have stepped wrong on the floor or I must have been too loud or… I don’t know. My parents heard something.”

“He was right, you know… nobody came to help me. My bodyguard was somewhere else and my father and his assistant were awake, but they were working. His office isn’t anywhere near my bedroom. It’s not even on the same floor. I just had to lie there and… take it until it was over. I did my best to pretend it was milady instead of him.”

Marinette? Yin’s father calls from the floor below.

Is everything alright up there, sweetie? Her mother.

Footfalls on the stairs when they get no response. Yin can still see nothing, but she feels it when the body on top of her is thrown to the side.

Marinette! Her father’s voice, fear and paternal affection and concern. Sweetie… You! Creeping fury, edging into his tone.

Yin pulls the blanket off herself in time to see one man pin another to the wall. Papa…? He turns to look at her and loosens his hold for just a moment. A moment is all her attacker needs to wriggle away and dive through the open window, vanishing into the street below.

Father… Yang calls out helplessly. Father! The man… behind him knocks him onto his elbows, using the knife to cut the shirt off his back.

Hold still if you know what’s good for you.

Yang doesn’t move. Not until it’s over and the stranger stands up on his own.

I knew I’d have some fun tonight after all. He smirks and ruffles Yang’s hair. Now run along to Daddy. He reopens the window and disappears into the darkness. Yang doesn’t hear him hit the ground.

“Papa wouldn’t let go of me while I was crying so Maman had to call the police. They got there fast, but not fast enough. He got away… You know, I remember hearing more sirens that night. I hope he didn’t hurt anyone else…”

“I lay there for a while. Not moving. Not doing much of… anything. Everything hurt, really really bad. But I had to get up. I threw on a robe and… I needed my father.” A weak chuckle. “Boy, was he surprised when I knocked on his office door.”

Yin in a hospital waiting room, seated on one hard plastic chair. Her father is sniffling and stroking her hair while her mother fills out the forms. Dupain-Cheng? The woman that Mew and Mewtwo call Joy-okaasan. Right this way, please.

C-can my parents come?

Yang in his father’s study, knees drawn up to his chest on the leather couch. His father is shouting at that hulking man and the woman with glasses. Comment avez-vous pu laisser cela arriver?! Qu'est-ce que je vous paie?!

Yang flinches. Father, please… it wasn’t their fault. He winces. I think you should take me to a hospital.

Don’t be ridiculous! I’ll call a private doctor to treat you here.

“I went to the hospital and I talked to the police. They haven’t been able to do much… It’s not that they didn’t believe me or anything, it’s just… The police department is super understaffed and we’re just this one little area…” She blinks. “Oh, I don’t know w-why I said we.”

“Father pulled some strings in order for someone to come to the house - to look me over and to take a report. They haven’t found anything yet. Maybe they will soon… I hope. People like that… they never just stop at one victim.” He flinches. “This guy probably isn’t an exception to the rule.”

Yin hugs her books against her stomach and hides behind her friend when she sees the ponytail girl approaching from the side.

Dupain- I mean Marinette…?

What do you want, Chloe?

The other girl bites her lip, hesitating. She shifts her weight from foot to foot. Are you okay…?

It’s now that Yin realizes the girl’s ginger friend isn’t there.

Yang is driven to the school building by that giant man and walked inside it. He sees that redhead in the hallway but she doesn’t come up to him, just tosses her hair and side-eyes him with barely concealed malice beneath a paper-thin disguise.

Lila?

Her lip curls and she walks away. Don’t even speak to me. I know what you are. Her neckline rides down as she walks off, revealing a golden crucifix on a beaded rosary.

He wishes his blonde-haired friend was there.

“I’ve been seeing a therapist about all… everything. I might have mentioned that before. He says I shouldn’t focus so much on trying to fix things for everyone. That first I need to work on myself.”

“Father’s made me see a ‘proper psychiatrist’ a few times in addition to this - his words, not mine. I like the guy well enough. He’s… interesting, but he makes me feel stupid sometimes, like I don’t know myself.”

Yin stands up from a beanbag chair. The old man she helped in the street holds up a wooden box. I normally do this with the littler ones, he says, but would you like to pick a prize from the chest? Seems like you could use a pick-me-up.

Yang sprawls on a small couch, half-listening to the same man he saw fall in front of his school. We’re done for today, the man says with a smile. He reaches for a box beneath the tank of a small green turtle. Would you like to choose a prize?

“Someone should do something.” Yin twists a plastic earring with one hand. “On TV someone would have caught that guy already. But this is real life and they might not.”

“I keep feeling like they aren’t doing enough.” Yang compulsively turns his ring. “We need a superhero or something… But there’s nobody. Superheroes don’t exist.”

Chapter 4: *CSA* (Owl House) A Story by TheGoodWitchApproves

Summary:

TW: sexual abuse of a young teenager, forced drug use, teen pregnancy, abortion, gore/vore/transformation references, running away from home, kidnapping, imprisonment, unreality, uninformed narrator.

Rating: Teen
Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence
Categories: F/F
Fandoms: The Good Witch Azura, The Duchess Approves (TV Show)
Pairings: Azura/Hecate, Azura/The Duchess
Characters: Azura, Hecate, The Duchess
Tags: Crack Pairing, Unrequited Love, Magic, Transformation, Kidnapping, Torture, Gore, Vore, Body Horror, Monsters, Dead Dove: Do Not Eat, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English

The magical creatures come to the Castle theater to share their sad storys and the Good Witch has a *REALLY* bad one today.

A Story about the Good Witch

Summary:
-_ - WOW guys, it’s been forever hjrrbgekgekng. Sorry for tacking so long. I’ve been feeling kinda… bad lately, but I’m doing better now <3 Also sorry for starting a new fic when I’ve got so many old ones on the backburner but… I’ve actually been thinking of deleting “Secret Never Spoken” and “Forbidden Love”. Sorry if you guys were fans, but Azura/Hecate doesn’t really do it for me anymore, ya know? Anyway, enough about *those* fics and onto the new one! Hope you like it! I *literally* bled for this UWU. Also, I *know* this is a crack pairing, but I really wanted to bring my faves together, *Sue me*!!!!
XOXO -GoodWitch

***************************************************************************************

“I really thought she *loved* me.”

The Good Witch sits where there once was a a screen in the old Castle movie theatre. She has green hair that looked like green grass and her eyes were two orbs of a beautiful limpid green. Her dress was purple and white and came down to her ankle. It was white and black and purple like an albino flower soaked in food coloring for way to long.

“I loved her and I keep thinking that maybe I did something to make this happen. MAybe *I* did something wrong. My girlfriend,,,,,,ex,,,,girlfriend now I guess. She was my everything and she threw me away like I was dirt.”

Instead of a movie fragment; a spotlight; the Good Witch’s relish-colored orbs scan the room of peers around her, award as anything on the first day of school. Another girl struts down the linoleum hallways like a princess, tossling her tresses of long, red. Her face is heart shaped. She has three of it. The Good Witch smiles, friendly, looking for a friend. Some kids smile back. The other girl walks away.

“We went to school together. It was private but religious priate and her family had more money than mine. She was rich and I wasn’t and maybe she thought she was better than everyone because of that because she decided to play a really mean game.”

The blonde sees the greenette in the hallway and sticks out her foot. Some times she pins “Kick me signs” to the back of her shirt. One day she doesn’t and the Good Witch thinks “MAYBE she’s not so bad after all”...

“She started being nice to me for some reason. I though she just wanted to *be* nice for normal reasons, but NOPE! She said she liked me. Like like liked after a while and I thought she was really pretty so I was too busy thinking about that and not noticing that she didn’t really want me. She was just pretending.”

The girles get “closwer” over time. Close enough toi make out in the corner. Tye sweet cheery lipgloss smearing all over the Good Witches own. All the while she does not notice the hair being plucked from her head.

“So you guys KNOW about the monojuice potion right? That’s the potion that can turn you into *ANYTHING*! But the thing is, you haveto have a little bit from the thing you want to transform and the thing you turn them into. She already had that last part…she just needes the first one.”

The redhead mixes potion after potion in her lavatory late at night. A cloud of green smoke puffs up like a cheese souffle in the overn and she smiles evilly, glinting green in the light of the moon in her eyes. She dipped a finger into the stuff and uses it to coat the /outside/ of her libs.

“So when I k...kissed h-her she got some of the monowine into my mouth and I started to change right after. Into a monster. At first I was just confused mostly, like what gives? Then she screamed. And people came running to help. I was screaming to. I was *TELLING* them who I was and tat I wasn’t bad, but they wouldn’t listen to be.”

Unnkown to the Witch, the others can not understand jer. They hear only roars and screeches and hungry growls of a monster about to devour it’s victims whole.

“And I mean, I /looked/ like a monster. I did! So I *don’t* blame everyone for getting mad or…or trying too hunt me down. I just…I don’t understand why SHE decided to do that to me!”

The Good Witch runs and runs and runs, on two legs to her, on four to others watching. She goes deep, deep into the woods, and stops only when ths rain falls like sheets of shattered glass to rest in a barren cave.

“I thought I’d be safe. I mean, monowine doesn’t last all that long, y’know? I thought I’d be able to disappear and then I could come BACK like nothink happened!”

She retreets to the woods behind the school for witches and hides in amongt all the trees. The Good Witch spends days and days alone with only a few people kind enough to feed her. Then one day she wakes up in a cage where she now finds herself, with lots of people looking in from all the sides.

“But… someone snached me. I bet *she* typed them off! Or I would except they werent the police or the townspwoplw. They were just other animals. And they put me in a cage. And they kept it LOCKED! Even AFTER I already turned back into a witch again.”

The Good witch throws herself against the bars of the cag, over and over again until her arms and legs are bleeding all over the place and up and down. There are lions and tigers outside the cage. A rabbit and a Dragon and a big, scary dog that snaps at her when she pus her hands outside.

“And they all made the other animals pay them bones and rocks and other wood things to come and see me. And the other creatures they had their!”

Indeed, the Witch is not along. Allaround here are sorceresses and warlocks and even some mete mortals. Varying sizes, varying ages, all in cages if theid own. All bloodied and bruised.

“And it gets even worse. See, they put these potions in our food. Potions that were supposed to make you sleepy or awake, depending kn what their customers wanted. Sometimes…somwtimes some of those animals would come into me cage and…”

They seem to devour her whole, yet leave her intact. A leg torn to shreds and regrown. Guts devored yet never leaving their place. The witch struggles and thrashes but she can not escape as they devore every last bite.

“They never realllly seemed to work on me though, Not like they did on everyone else. The sleepy stuff made me sleepy okay, but the lotions that made the others wake up didn’t do that. They made me *SMARTER* I think maybe cause im a witch.”

The Good Witch looks outta the cage and sees the animals and the locks on the doors of her cage. The other wizards and mortals and witches are too buse being eated to notice the things the good witch does and when she puts her claw into the cage, they’re too scared to follow behind.

“I escaped, but they wouldn come with me. They were worried that the animals would all catch up to them and feed them to the really big mean ones. I got out though and then I did…”

The Good Witch goes back to beast, rendered into a monster that can only growl as she runs into the woods. Better a monster than a witch in a cage.

“I dunno why I transformed back. I tried to cast a loght spell but it didn’t work.” A drawn out, lovesick sigh. “At least, I thought it didnt....”

A beautiful stranger in the distance, with long blonde hair and a flowing black and white Victotian gown thay gently blows in the wind and eyes like burning amber orbs loom out, and notice a light in yhe distance.

“Someone was able to see through my disguise.” Another sigh of a pinimg heart. “Because she’s a seer who can see rhs truth and never gets fooled by anything because she’s sweet and warm and absolutely totally awesome,”

The good Witch wakes up in a big bed. A bed big enough to fit her in the from the wlrod wants to see her in. The Duchess of the land, for it is she, sat bedside the bed, holding her hand but she didn’t look like she was in love with the Good Witch’s plain brown eyes.

“I don’t think she feels the same way about me that I feel about her. That’s okay I guess. I wouldn’t make anyone do something they don’t wantto, but I like her. I just don’t get why shes being so nice to me. She doesn’t have to. Nobody made her save me, but she did anyway and I will ALWAYS be greateful for that!”

The Duchess brings the Good Wich tasty morsels of food and water. They aren’t like the things she had to eat in the cage. There are other people with her also. Cute little servants with suits and fancy silverwear.

“There were just a few things tho, that I /didn’t/ like. 1, she wouldn’t let me eat so much at first in case I got sick from eating stuff after what the animals had been feeding me. 2. She didn’t like some of the tings the animals did, which I didn’t either, but one of them *LEFT * it’s tooth in me and when that happens…”

A parasite grows. The physical form appears…a tiny helpless infant.

“It LOOKED like a baby. It DID…but everyone keeps telling me it wasn’t. THEY told me it was a /parasite/, and that it was gonna *literally* kill me if I didn’t kill it first.”

It doesn’t look luke a paradite. It looks like a small little baby girl, with skin like my own and hair like my own and eyes that look just like mine.

“So I had to took a special potion and it made my blood poisonous and the… THING came right out of me. I asked the Duchess is maybe I could keep it or bury it somewhere but she said no. It got all melted coming out anyway.”

The parasite screams and bubbles as it’s melted and oozing down the Good Witch’s back. The Good Witch starts crying but only monster noises come out. The Duchess says that’s okay, but she isn’t sorry that she made her do that. “You can have a real one when your older.”

“I still feel bad about it though. Like if it was a real baby. I don’t even wanna be a parent but I didn’t want to hurt anyone. And it’s scary to think about what would have happened if I hadn’t got out of that cage ever.”

The Good Witch wakes up at night and cries because she cannot sleep. The Duchess hugs her. “I wanna go home.” “I’m sorry, I know.”

“I can’t go home now. I still have that enchantment on me. I know it doesn’t /LOOK/ like it because of the anti-enchantment spell by the dood but as soon as I leave, *poof*, I’ll look like a monster again. It’s beeb hard, because I don’t known when I’ll not be a wanted criminal again.” I look down, not crying, but wanting to. “I hope it’s soon. I miss my friends. I miss my mom. I just wanna go home.”

~~~~

“… Well,” Agent Kolwalski of the FBI said. “That certainly looks like the ramblings of a traumatized twelve year old.”

“Mi hija is fourteen.”

“My point still stands.”

Camila Noceda let out a sigh. “I heard you were a tech genius. Can you trace back where this was uploaded? Please. I need to know.”

“We can try…” he said, hesitantly. “It’s a matter of tracing back the IP address and… well, you know…”

She didn’t, and they were both aware of that. “How long will that take?”

“Depends. If she’s using an IP-jammer - and there are some programs for that - it’s going to be harder, but… I’ll do my best,” he promised. “And we’ll get your daughter home safe and sound.”

Camila blinked hard behind her glasses. “Mi niña pequeña…”

As he lead her from the room, Kowalski gently squeezed her shoulder. “We’ll get her back. I promise.” And they would. Ever since Amity Blight had come out with the full truth, looking for her had been one of their highest priorities. She’d earned that much.

Someone knocked on the door a moment after Kowalski had resettled into his chair. He sighed slightly. “Private, can you get that?”

“Sure thing!” His youngest team member walked past him, and came back just as Kowalski was starting to type. “Uh, Kowalski? I think you’re gonna wanna talk to her.”

The woman in question was carrying a baby, and looked a bit nervous. “Hi, um, question. Is Luz Noceda still wanted for assault?”

“No… why?”

“Oh thank God. I’m here to tell you where she is.”

Kowalski’s hand loosened on Camila’s cellphone, almost dropping it. “You… I… What?”

“Right, sorry, I should probably explain.” She cleared her throat and bounced the child on her hip - up and down, up and down. “The Emperor told me about you, you’re in that… group of his, right? My name is Chicha Martin and… I have a half-sister who lives up north…”

Chapter 5: (Total Drama) A Story about Il Capitano Bugiardo

Summary:

TW: rape, kidnapping, human trafficking, discussion of homophobia, mentions of drug and alcohol abuse and murder.

“What is up, ladies and gents?”

Il Capitano is… attractive in an artificial and religiously-maintained type of way. Reminiscent of celebrities and show dogs and pageant queens. His hair is black and filled with product, his eyes are beadish and small, his skin olive from what they expect is the aftermath of a not-quite-natural tan. He smiles down at the crowd with a mouthful of blinding pearl-white. The Wannabes wince when they see him.

“I see some of you are familiar with my work. Always great to meet a fan. Wish the stage was a little bigger, but hey, what can you do? Getting to be on one at all, well that’s pretty sick… for you.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Capitano appears on posters and television screens. Commercials from time to time. A few acting roles. One movie. For the most part he stays with TV; those cheap, ever-popular, ten-a-penny reality shows, his butter and his bread. He gets really high behind the screens.

“I’m a celebrity. But then, you guys probably knew that, didn’t you? What can I say? I’m a big deal. Isn’t that right, campers?” A pointed look at the Wannabes in their scattering of folding chairs. Then: laughter. “See, they get it.”

The cameras and flashing lights take their toll on him. Cheesy tabloid fame and stacks of papery green are all the cost of Capitano’s soul. Sometimes he thinks he might regret that - the part of him that has the number one contact in his phone labeled “Mom” - then the cameras click and he smiles again. The world is watching and he’s watching the world.

“I like attention, okay! Geez! Were you this judgey when Miss ‘I’m literally a porn star’ came up here or am I just getting special treatment?! Sheesh!”

His name becomes an almost household one. His face is the kind that people recognize. The kind that people love and hate with the same ferocity. He wants more of the first to drown out the latter. He will always want more. But there is never enough.

“Hey, I’m a Scorpio. Can’t help it. That’s just how I am.”

One of the Wannabes speaks up then. “What you are is a serious-”

“Hey! Did I ask you?! No I didn’t. So shut up.”

It is Capitano that pitches the concept for a not-so-original new show. A knockoff of Survivor, but with a younger cast and him at the helm.

“The producers dug it. Awesome ratings, man. The contestants?… Ehhhh, not so much. But who cares what they think, right? That shit was good television, man. Real good.”

The show is not fantastic as far as reality fare goes. The real wonder is in the marketing, not that Capitano will own up to that. The season ends on a high note. Reviews are glowing. Capitano bathes in the limelight’s warmth. Sitting up on his throne of accolades and laurels, it’s almost too easy to ignore that he didn’t pull himself up here.

“Too bad it got cancelled so soon. Real bummer.”

A few members of the audience grumble and roll their eyes.

A season two is in the works. And then (the Wannabes disappear) there isn’t anymore.

“Studio execs thought it’d be in poor taste. Shows what they know.”

Reviews are no longer being published. The show is no longer thought of quite so fondly. Capitano keeps up his air of casuality. People whisper more. Maybe they’d be more sympathetic if they knew he lay awake at night and wondered. Maybe not.

“Look, just because I didn’t get all mopey about that whole thing doesn’t mean that I was happy about it. I just… Am I really supposed to care? Like, no offense, but I didn’t know shit about these people and yeah it sucks, but… really?”

A few weeks later the Wannabes resurface, and the rumor mill worsens. Capitano’s celebrity status begins to fade, tarnishing into infamy. Still, he is without shame. He does breathe a silent sigh of relief, for near half a New York minute. Then he goes back to thinking about himself again.

“What? Was I supposed to freak out or something? Wasn’t my fault. I’m not responsible for what those assholes did.”

The tabloids don’t seem to see it that way.

“Ugh. Just… ugh. Not cool. So. Not. Cool. And then-” He pauses for the sake of drama. “-it got even worse!

A reel of pictures on every channel, news or not. Twenty-two faces - Tall Poppy and Duncan and Bombyx Mori and other faces from their tapes. Crying parents and older and younger siblings. He feels something then. Feels something cold and hateful and strange. Anger; worry; fear. And sadness, surely. He knows them, after all.

“They’re missing - the kids from my show. That’s been on the news for a while - so annoying - and everyone’s been looking at me over it because of what happened to the non-a-bes over there!” His brow furrows. “Thanks a lot!”

Regardless of his feelings, or of others’ perceptions of himself, Capitano carries on as if everything has gone right with the world. Still, he knows that people whisper. Still, gossip is going to rear its ugly head.

“I don’t get it. Why would I want to get rid of them? Those dudes were the ones making me money. Why the heck would I want them gone? Did they think I wanted to be poor?”

His reputation worsens, whatever the case may be.

“People really thought I was involved. It was like… like that whole Ortege Jenkins thing all over again. But this time it was worse.”

Signorina Sottocapo raises her hand. “Um… you mean OJ Simpson?”

“… No.”

“He totally does.”

“Shut up! The point is people thought I was some kind of pervert, yo. I mean, me. How messed up is that?”

Whispers and speculations and the rumor mill working double overtime. Then triple after that.

“Why are people so stupid. For real.” Capitano rolls his eyes. “Well, anyway, I had to do something about all that, didn’t I? And, being the genius that I am, I figured something out… What better way to cover up a scandal than with another scandal?”

Capitano drinks and smokes and parties hard. It isn’t enough. It isn’t outlandish. The public sees it as evidence of remorse. An admission of guilt. The broken bottles on the floor of his apartment look like Gatsby’s lantern across the bay.

“It was go big or go home, I guess… so that’s just what I decided to do. See, they say Hollywood’s all inclusive and liberal and all that crap, but I think we all know that it isn’t really. Having some big name celeb-”

His detractors - most of the audience - scoff and guffaw.

“-having some big name celeb get all up in something… taboo would really make headlines. So I decided: ‘Hey! Why not come out of the ol’ rainbow elevator?’ Only one problem with that plan. I’m not gay.”

His announcement makes the tabloids all right. The internet buzzes. The public talks. Some are supportive. Others repulsed. More see this (him) for what it (he) is. Cheap(ness) and desperat(e)ion. Nothing deeper, nothing more.

“So I decided to double down. If they didn’t buy the performance then I’d have to make ‘em. It was kind of a matter of spite at that point. And I’m a damn good actor.”

Capitano begins to search, looking high and low for another actor. For a partner in this charade.

“Now, I couldn’t pick just anybody for this. I wanted it to be special. You know, someone I could boss around.” Once again, he looks the Wannabes’ way. “You dudes remember my interns, don’t you?”

It is not even an employee that Capitano strong-arms into his deception. More chatter as the “happy couple” are splashed across every tabloid(in the city)’s front page.

“Things actually started to go back to normal. Mostly… I mean, people thought I liked dudes, but whatever. I could handle that.”

Capitano is far from a decent partner, fake or not. He’s childish and lazy, proud and vain. He puts upon his intern. Pressures and belittles. Day in and day out. Still, his new “boyfriend” remains.

“Money was way too good, brah. Way too good. Nobody sane passes up that kind of dough.”

Paycheck to paycheck. Picture to picture. Rant to rant. Capitano (does not know that he) is grieving (and will not bring that upon himself). He acts out. His behavior worsens. One day his so-called “boyfriend” asks for a raise.

“Said something about how I was ‘a hazard to everyone around me’ and ‘not worth the trouble’. Was he serious? You have any idea how many figures I was paying him a week? More than four. If he saved all that up, he’d have made enough to buy his own jetpack or a nuclear missile or… something. I told him that. Politely.”

Capitano laughs in the intern's face. A fist pulls back and hits him. He never sees the coming blow.

“I did see the next one… and the one after that.”

Again and again those fists rain down. Capitano is not a large man. Has a body that has never worked long or even hard. He struggles and thrashes beneath the other man but cannot dislodge him. He is helpless when he feels those hands roam down. When something forces apart his legs.

“And then…” For once Capitano seems at a loss for words. “Then…”

Ruby and pearl. Red and white. Blood and worse. On his buttocks. On his thighs. Staining the expensive carpet on the floor.

“He kept hitting me even while it was all… going on. I don’t think… He didn’t think. He wasn’t thinking.”

It ends abruptly. The beating does not. The intern’s fists rain down over and over again (and then he finds other things to hit him with). Until his arms shake and his chest is heaving and his anger has left him. Left him to look down at this… this thing he has let himself do. At Capitano’s eyes and the reflection therein. At the man he has become. He stands on shaky legs and flees. Capitano does not follow him.

“Didn’t really feel up to moving right away. Hey! It fucking hurt. Can you blame me?!”

It is hours before Capitano’s beaten body moves again and even when it does, he is not the one who shifts it.

“You guys know my, uh, assistant, from the show? We called him Chef Hatchet. Not his real name, but whatevs. Sounded pretty cool.”

Chef is a hulking man with a heavy brow and dark brown skin. He almost screams when he sees (His boss? His friend?) Capitano on the floor.

“Brought me to the ER. Had them do one of those freaky sex exams.” Shiver. “He’s the idiot that said I should go to the cops.”

A report is made. As is an arrest. The story hits the papers before the day is out.

“I was all over the news again. It was just as fun this time around. Just like it used to be…”

The fraud. The deception. Outrage city-wide. Capitano’s name buzzes on every gossip’s lips. None of what they say is flattering. Of course, it wouldn’t be.

“I don’t know why people thought it might be a lie. I have a great reputation. They didn’t have the full story. Then they did…”

Everything gets so much worse.

“They took his side. They took his side over mine. What the hell? What’s the point in being rich and famous if people don’t even love you for it?! His side… I’m a celebrity! They should have taken mine.”

New and worse stories grace the screen. They stay in the news for a long, long time.

“I thought maybe I’d get lucky. That the paparazzi might be too worked up over that whole murder thing to care about what I had going on. I was right… but even then… things didn’t really turn out that great for me.”

A nullified jury. A Not guilty given to the crowd. The intern goes free. Capitano doesn’t weep. Cannot. Will not. Doesn’t want to. Chef places a hand on his arm and is quickly (very quickly) brushed away.

“They let him off scott-free.” Capitano slumps on the stage. And then he smiles. Smiles so they will not see the tears he hasn’t shed. “Must’ve figured I got what I deserved.”

Chapter 6: (Barbie Princess & Pauper) A Story about the Dead Ringer

Summary:

TW: false accusation, prison rape, police brutality, discussion of murder, gaslighting, falsified memory.

“How’s this? It must be better than how I looked in the papers, and on the evening news… but, of course, it’s still me.” He sighs. “I even kept the name they used on the front page.”

The Dead Ringer “rings a bell”, as Péngyǒu put it before the words sank in all the way; nobody laughed (nobody but the wild ones). He’s not bad-looking - far from it - and not particularly imposing either, with delicate features that make him look almost feminine, but they hold their breath and keep their distance. He’s cleaned up some since that mugshot, and since the footage on TV - slightly faded eyes; completely faded bruises; a new vest and washed-out ribbon pulling back his hair. Still, though. Still.

“This was a gift.” He touches one of his sleeves, unsure. “Miss- a friend of a friend had it sent to me, this and more, said I could use some ‘decent clothes’. I’m not ungrateful, but… I just can’t see why she bothered, most others in her place definitely wouldn’t have. I murdered her daughter. I won’t even ask if you knew.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Dead Ringer does acrobatics on the antebellum porch of a very, very old house (that must have been nice once, really), balancing an architectural marvel of books in one arm and reaching around it with the other to press a bell that doesn’t work. Preminger!

The door opens and an old man peers outside, hair completely white but not yet thinning and a furrow to his brow that could curdle gravy. Oh, it’s you again. Wonderful.

Nice to see you too. I’m here for Anneliese.

“She was my friend, I know that must sound amusing given the circumstances, but it’s true. I used to, well, tutor her in a sense, and more or less had to since… She wasn’t a bad student, the opposite actually, but we lived in Manhattan. Here’s the part where you ask if I mean New York or Kansas and I shake my head.” He laughs a little weakly. “Obviously you already know. Nevada. It was a mining town early in the twentieth century, not so much anymore, population… three less now.”

A blonde girl in a pink dress leads him in, feet ringing out on every step. The staircase creaks like nothing else, but runs into spirals with a banister that goes like a wedding train and wraps all the way around. Her room is just like it - old furniture, old curtains, but all of it clean and kempt and, most definitely, antique. Perfect timing, Julian. She keeps pulling until he’s standing just beside her desk. See? I classified this as iron pyrite, commonly known as fool’s gold. She leans over her work, the collar of her dress slipping down and exposing a birthmark on her shoulder. The Dead Ringer averts his eyes, his face going red; the girl smiles and pretends not to notice.

“Her family isn’t exactly wealthy so much as they come from money, as it were. A little backstory, Manhattan’s what you’d call a ghost town - it went when the mines did. I don’t know what that makes us. Maybe the living dead. Her mother owns one of the sites and most of the land around it, not worth much, but a lot more than anyone else there will even touch in their lifetime. This isn’t why I killed her, by the way. Of course not.”

I brought you something.

Oh?

He takes a rose clipping from his pocket and places it in front of the shafted princess. The first rose of the season. He blushes as much as she does - maybe more.

“She had the most beautiful eyes in the world, intelligent eyes, and this smile that… I’ll never love anyone else like that as long as I live and maybe I’ll never love anyone else. I can’t imagine I’ll find anyone else to love me-” The Courtyard Jester makes eyes at him. “-no one in their right mind, anyway. I’m sure that she couldn’t have.”

A white cat rubs up against the Dead Ringer’s shin, a bell collar jangling underneath a diamond necklace. His friend shrugs when he looks at her with questions written all over the place. I… I guess I have a new boyfriend.

Oh… What… what’s he like?

I wouldn’t know.

“Her mother had been pushing her to see someone with a bit more cash in the bank. It’s not as bad as it sounds, truly. I think her reasoning was that, well, quite frankly she’s getting on in years and the family money ran out long ago, a rich man could take care of her daughter. I don’t see how different that is from marrying someone twenty years younger for their looks - not that that was happening here! I’m sure her would-be suitor is perfectly… suitable. I only… There’s really nothing I can say to justify any of the things I did to her - to either of them.”

Smile, please. Voices ring out around them in the husk of town square. The Dead Ringer holds a camera and his friend strikes a pose beside another girl, with brown hair and no birthmark and the same face as the blonde.

Come on and take the picture, she laughs, before I forget who’s who here.

“She had this… friend, or maybe we both did. It was the strangest thing, especially in a town of that size, but they looked so alike that it was uncanny. You probably wouldn’t believe me if not for- ach!” He coughs into his hand. Sharply. “But the proof is in the pudding- er, papers. And every tabloid worth a damn.” He claps a hand over his mouth, worriedly, hurriedly, and sighs. “I’m sorry, I didn’t- I shouldn’t have said that, there are children in the room. Then again…”

A note with the wrong handwriting on lilac scented stationery; that smiling photograph splashed across the news; someone else’s heartbeat in the Dead Ringer’s ears. It doesn’t add up… Why would she run away?

Why don’t you see for yourself, school boy? The snide man from before slips the letter into his hand.

“I want you to know that I didn’t do it because I wanted to, or because I was jealous, or… It wasn’t… it wasn’t anything! I just couldn’t stand to see her so unhappy with someone she didn’t love. I loved her too much for that. And… and Eri- the other girl… She just got in the way. That’s all.” He’s crying now, weeping softly. “That must be it. I can’t think of any other reason - no matter what the prosecutors say.”

He throws the covers back that night, when the ringing in his head gets too loud to pretend he can ignore it. Then he throws the door open and walks for a long time, calling out Anneliese! and Erika! at odd intervals (and more of the first than the second, but only by a little). He goes all the way to the old gold mine. And stops. And lifts his boot. Anneliese… There’s a gold ring set with a pinkish-red stone, covered in dust by his feet. And he’s very careful about picking it up.

“I doubt that most of you have ever heard of the AS3MT gene, but I’m not the only science brain here - I’m not even a scientist - so I’m sure somebody else must have. Maybe you can explain it better than me.” It looks like the Ringer needs a moment anyway, or else he might not remember how to breathe. “Please…”

“Ain’t that like the… poison thingy? Like how a buncha folks are just kinda ‘fuck you’ to arsenic?” Everyone stares at Brother Night (the other Brother included). “What? The old lady’s a doctor. I was bound to pick somethin’ up.”

“Y-yes, well… That was one thing her family actually had managed to pass along all the way, I’m sure there was some kind of story there. Her ring was an old heirloom, the gold was real, but the gem wasn’t beryl or topaz - it was supposedly a realgar, also known as ruby of arsenic. I’m not entirely sure if that was true, but I wasn’t about to take any chances. I… The attorney for the state said I must have taken it off her so she wouldn’t scratch me fighting back. I think I might have just wanted something to remember her by… Then I did it - I had to have done it - and she… They’re dead.”

He walks outside the mine till morning, shouting their names until his voice is hoarse. Nothing. He drifts home like a nightmare dreaming and stares dumbly at the police officers circling the house in their badger-striped cars. Julian Campana? We’d like to ask you a few questions. Downtown. There is no downtown here, but he knows what they mean. That sits in his ears for a long time.

“They searched me once we were at the station, you can imagine how they reacted when they found her ring. I made excuses then, obviously. I was still… I’m actually quite glad they didn’t listen. I deserve to be locked up.”

It’s okay, son, says the barrel-bellied officer, you can tell us the truth. But the Dead Ringer shakes his head and demands a lawyer.

I didn’t hurt her. Either of them.

Care to explain this then? He holds up the evidence bag with the ring in it, but doesn’t slide it over. Because it sure as hell looks that way.

“I… They never found them. They never found much of anything. Some hair maybe, some torn cloth from one of their dresses - a few days after I was arrested, in my apartment. I think it was a friend of her mother’s that actually…” Something about his expression dips into uneasy, then he shakes his head. “He volunteered to help with the investigation.”

Chaos in the courtroom; the Dead Ringer shouts at the white-haired man from the defendant’s box, and the old man yells back, and the judge pounds her gavel. Something, something, contempt of court, but it doesn’t seem to matter when the jury comes back with their verdict.

On all counts we find the defendant, Julian Campana, guilty as charged.

And his legs give out. His parents won’t even look at him as he’s led away.

“I buried their bodies in the old mine shaft,” he says robotically. “They still haven’t found them yet, and this was more than two years ago. After I was convicted, I… I spent some time in Clark County, it wasn’t what I’d call fun. I’d been all over the news for murdering two pretty white girls. I know that you probably aren’t going to be all that sympathetic, but it all happened about the way you’d think.”

It isn’t just. It isn’t just that the Dead Ringer is pretty himself. It isn’t just that he has soft hands. And moves wrong. And says all the wrong things. Somebody grabs his hair loose in the shower his second night there and bashes his head against the dial on the wall. And it doesn’t stop there or after.

“I believe that’s why they eventually decided to transfer me, at least on paper. Of course, considering that they sent me here… I can’t blame them, but I do think they knew what they were doing. Your prison doesn’t exactly have the best reputation.”

They give him a blanket and a bundle of faded red things that someone before him wore and bled through. He’ll have to figure out the rest himself. Then they push him down the walkway and he stumbles over both feet into a two-person cell, the size of getting way, way too dizzy (and falling down). High risk, huh? The Pythoness’ uncle looks over him and twirls his finger, making a ring in the air. Interesting.

More or less than you’d think. I didn’t do it.

Right.

“At least in Clark - in most places - you can be safe enough if the guards like you, but here… Well, it’s the last thing I wanted.” He looks down and doesn’t meet anyone’s eyes. “But they did anyway. So did everyone else, apparently. I’d chalk that one up to looks.”

What, are you gay or something? Big; blond; beefy. Laughter while a different man gets behind the Dead Ringer and shoves. Then again, I guess he looks close enough.

“And it wasn’t just that, you hear all these stories about what they do with ‘men like that’ in prison, but the funny thing is… I’m sorry. I- It’s not the crime that matters to most people, did you know that? It’s how it makes you what you are. If you hurt a child it makes you a pedophile, if you kill one then you’re a child killer, raping someone makes you a rapist, and so on. And if you look the way I do, people start thinking you’re a ‘fag’. You don’t want people thinking that you’re anything in a place like that.”

Hands in his hair; in the shower; clawing at the bedsheets; up the wall. The Dead Ringer gets himself hoarse screaming; screaming; screaming. And the sound carries for a long time after it’s stopped.

“I don’t know if that’s better or worse than the alternatives to be honest. Yes, that part was unpleasant, but was it worse than what came out of the rest of the world?”

His father writes once to say that he’ll never forgive him; the mother of that friend says about the same thing; a few letters come from girls who think he did it and just don’t care (or maybe that’s a bonus, he isn’t sure). These words are never spoken, but they spend a long time ringing in the Dead Ringer’s ears.

“Somewhere along it just got… easier to admit the truth to myself. To everyone. I killed a girl I loved and another I was friends with and probably myself along the way. Or I will eventually. Hanging sounds right. You wouldn’t hang an innocent- No, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said…”

By the time Lord Gorgon ruins his grandmother’s upholstery; by the time Inspector Curiosity stands in the shower and lets water run over one of his good suits; by the time the Cell Block Tango dances in front of the media parade, it’s easier for the Dead Ringer to close his eyes and believe the worst of himself. Everyone else does.

“I gave a statement to the police… about what had happened with the police. It wasn’t revenge. It wasn’t anything. But maybe they hurt a girl like her.” His voice cracks like a broken bell tolling. “Maybe saying that much makes me a hypocrite. I’m already something worse.”

There’s not much time after that and it’s not that much better. The worst of the guards are gone now, but he is what he is. He still has a pretty face. It is better though - a little way. The worst of the guards are gone. The Pythoness’ uncle asks if he wants to play marbles - but he says ringer - on the cold tile floor.

“And I can’t tell you why I’m here now, it doesn’t make much sense, does it? I certainly don’t understand, but now I’m here and everyone’s saying… I don’t-”

C-Campana? It’s a quiet voice to pull the wind out of him, but it does and he stands and follows the sound. This way please. They don’t handcuff him. Don’t grab him by the shoulder. Don’t force him any faster than “barely hurts to move”. There’s a room and an attorney and his parents. His mother’s crying. His father looks like he’s trying not to.

J-Julian? My God, I- And the rest is a drowning dream. Drowned. Found… Anneliese… Erika… not dead… We… We’re here to take you home.

“That isn’t the truth. It can’t be. It can’t be because then… because then…” He winces. His hands are shaking. “Why would anyone do this to a good person? I can’t help but think it might be worse that way… if I was… Now at least there’s a reason.”

Anneliese is dead, so is Erika. I killed them, remember? I killed them both. Everyone flinches (everyone but him) but he’s not being sarcastic and as soon as they grasp that, their eyes grow wide. For once the words ring in their ears and not his own. I killed them.

“I’m a free man now. Maybe you should worry.” The Dead Ringer stands a minute from miserable, very still and very straight. Then his eyes close. “It isn’t fair.”

Chapter 7: (Dude, That’s My Ghost!) A Story about Serpens Caput

Summary:

TW: discussion of rape and violence, stalking/yandere.

“Does the M. Webster have an entry for ‘Cobrahead’?”

Serpens Caput talks with a heavy lisp and spits as he does. He’s a gawkwish, strange little creature with big glasses and patched-knee jeans, and a hairstyle that makes him look like a bad impersonation of Larry King. He’s wearing red over orange - a novelty T-shirt, silkscreened with Ophiuchus’ face.

“Oh well. If there was one, I bet it’d have my picture right… wait, do dictionaries even have pictures anymore? It’s been a while since I cracked one open. Ha! Cracked, get it? ‘Cause… you know… crack…? Eh? What? No judgements here! The man’s a legend, and not even a dead one, how many people can say that?”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a long, still shot of Madame X’s basement… no, wait, this is Serpens’ bedroom, walls wearing posters like a second skin and his dresser decked out like a shrine. He lies on the floor, on his stomach; blushing like a school-girl, writing something calligraphed - on blue stationery; in red pen, bright red. It doesn’t say (in so many words) I will write my name on your heart as it stops beating, but there’s no return address on the envelope once it’s been sealed.

“Even if you’re not a pop fan, bro’s got pipes, right? Right? Right? You gotta admit that to yourself at least. I mean, ‘Get Out of My Face’ jusssst came out after everything and people are already talkin’ about the Grammys. And he is just that good, isn’t he? People are still gonna say what they want though, like that’s gonna change things.”

Serpens Caput rushes the stage in London, lost in a crowd of hormonal teenage girls, enough that it takes a while for security to subdue all of them, enough that the press doesn’t get a good shot of his face. Ophiuchus’ keytar is broken in the struggle; he takes the neck as a souvenir.

Serpens’ laughter sounds canned and fake, and it fills up every inch of the still auditorium, bouncing off the cinderblock walls. “I don’t think anything could shut him up now - not even dying, I mean, it didn’t stick the first time.”

He drives ten hours (and across two states) for the commercialized funeral and stays for a long time afterwards, one last letter tucked into the wedges of the enormous marble headstone. Goodbye, Billy, but it isn’t really. For weeks and weeks afterwards, Serpens keeps coming back to Ophiuchus’ grave. His old life calls over and over; he looks for an apartment, and a job.

“Not gonna lie, though, when they said he was gone? I sorta lost it. Helloooo, people - this is Billy Joe Cobra here. The whole world went nuts over his not-really-death, it wasn’t just me… Sure felt like it at the time though. We’d never met, but I fell hard for his music, really realllllllly hard, and without it… without it…”

Serpens goes to other concerts; plays new songs in his car at full blast; stands outside Ophiuchus’ “old” house and watches until the elderly couple inside ask him to leave. He comes back later, to crawl in through the second floor window and put his face in musty old sheets. He does something else, says something else in that tomblike silence and goes home in the morning before anyone can see him… and uses a penknife to write his idol’s name. He does this annually. For seven years.

“Pretty lucky he turned up when he did, isn’t it? I heard there were a lotta suicides after what happened, there almost always are with celebrities. Can’t imagine what we’ll all have to go through next, yunno, when it’s the real thing. Then he wasn’t dead and things got even weirder. You were there, weren’t you? Yeah, no offense but I can kinda get why the police didn’t buy it. Kinda sucks for him though…”

The next few days are a hurtling montage of the same clips and photographs. Madame X and her accomplice dragged away in handcuffs; Ophiuchus on a stretcher with a blanket pulled over his legs; the Wildcard with a dazed-looking young reporter, pulling her mic away. See, Porky, I told you! Serpens Caput remembers he has a wrench in storage somewhere.

“Funny story, yunno, we wound up in the hospital around the same time. I broke my foot during Krav Maga practice. I, uh, I’m not very good - yet!” He strikes a pose… and immediately falls over. “Aw, gimme a break! I’m new at this! Figured it was about time I learned how to defend myself. I mean… I mean, if something like this can happen to the Cobra King… If someone can take someone untouchable and, er, snuff out their candles just like that… Some people have said it was bound to happen and I used to think that was shitty, but maybe they’re right. Maybe I can prevent it. Maybe it just hit harder ‘cause I let myself get so attached…”

I think it might help… The Star in Ophiuchus’ hospital room, one hand hovering, the other holding up a card. Excuse me, he says on the way out, not paying too much attention to the younger man in the hall.

Cut; Serpens slithers back this way, long after visiting hours are over, and into the room where Ophiuchus lies asleep. He doesn’t take the card but does read what’s on it, snapping a picture on his phone. He takes a few pictures, actually, and a clipping of black hair. Goodnight, Billy.

“Weird that I met him here, but not bad weird. Well, you know what they say: something, something ‘no coincidences’. There are no coincidences, right?” Serpens laughs again, louder this time. “What about silver linings? I got to meet him, didn’t I?”

Rasalhague steps down from the stage and Serpens Caput zips up to him, looking happy to the bursting point. You’re related to the Billy Joe Cobra?! Ohmygosh! That is so… so… wow! An older person might see this as inappropriate - and it is - and the Mother does - but Rasalhague’s fourteen and not… quite as savvy as he’d like to think. So Serpens Caput goes over to Ophiuchus’ house and meets him, not really noticing his idol’s annoyance when his jacket goes missing and his crutches are “misplaced”. Even so, it’s mostly harmless. Mostly. Well, Rasalhague seems to think so anyway.

“But… I hate to say this, I do, but it wasn’t… it wasn’t exactly how I thought it would be. Not,” he adds, “that I’m saying I was disappointed. I’m not saying that. Just… It wasn’t what I expected, okay?! Is that a crime?! Sorry… Sorry, I shouldn’t have said that. All I mean is… See, I came here on account of my paranoia and seeing him like that scared me even more. I’ll bet what happened changes people. Yeah, that must be it… and he’s really, really hurt…”

You still talk to her? After… after… everything?!

Well, yeah, bro, I m-mean X-X… she loves me. Enough to break the law. Where else am I gonna find someone like that?

I love you…

Nice one, dude. Ophiuchus rolls his eyes. Hilarious.

He spends a long time writing letters with no return address on them, and has no idea if they’re actually delivered or not. A week or so later someone calls him and breathes hard and heavy on the other end; it’s enough of an answer. A few days later he calls back. Someone slashes the tires on his car…

“Ah, love’s funny isn’t it? Sorry, I’ve been asking a lot of questions today. Even if you aren’t really supposed to answer them. Anyways, we were talking about love. Infatuation? I don’t know what you’d call it, but I think it’s worth fighting for.”

Ophiuchus and Rasalhague, alone together, whispering; Serpens standing with his ear to the door. Look, “take your loser to work day” was fine for a while, but it’s gettin’ to be a real snooze…

Loser, huh? Not good enough to hang with the great Billy Joe Cobra. We’ll see about that…

They will.

Serpens Caput - the Cobrahead; the Cobrahead - smiles, thin and sharp as a box knife. “Even if somebody gets hurt.”

Chapter 8: *CSA* (Dinosaurs) A Story about Wrong-Side Romeo

Summary:

TW: rape of a teenager, sexual rumours, internalised homophobia, pot use.

“Like, ‘wrong side of the tracks’? You get it? Yeah, I dunno, it sounded good.”

Romeo’s a teenager in a red-and-white letterman jacket, hair up in a high green fauxhawk, wavy patterns shaved into the sides. He stands on the stage, hands in his green jeans’ pockets, shrugging as he speaks.

“No Juliet though, not right now. Maybe not ever, with the way things have been going. Girls, right? My old man has a bunch of jokes.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a family of six crams into a rundown house in a rundown area. Broken bottles and unpaved roads (forget driveways) and old tires stacked in other people’s yards. Not prime real estate, but far enough out that it’s not dangerous either - they’re the rural kind of poor.

“It’s trashy, I know, but we are too, kinda. You know what people call white trash? Yeah.”

The Mr. Montague of this tale comes home, blue-collar in red plaid and yellow hard hat, drinks cheap beer with the Dryad’s father and Herne’s neighbours and an assortment of other rough and ready types. Romeo’s mother raises him and the baby and the girl between them, with the limited help her own wheelchair-bound mother can provide.

“Me and my sister, though, our school’s okay. We get a wide range of folks there. Poor kids, rich kids, nice kids and… not so nice. Wasn’t kids who did what happened to me, but they did some other stuff, which is relevant. So, uh, remember that.” He sucks his teeth, and carries on. “I only just turned fifteen, and I’m still kind of finding my feet with, you know… girls and stuff… and stuff. But, uh, mostly girls.”

He glances at girls in the hallways and blushes and hides; he asks out one, his Rosaline, and winces when she turns him down. Cut; he sceptically listens as a friend tells him, A lotta guys have those thoughts from time to time… including me… and his eyebrows shoot up, but his body sags just a little in relief.

“And that ‘stuff’… well, I guess it’s normal. Or a phase or… something. Not that I’m about to go showing it off in the meantime, just in case it’s not just puberty. My dad isn’t… He’d think I was a sissy, Mom might too… and all of their friends. Well, it’s not the only thing I haven’t told them, and… a-and anyway, I like girls a lot, probably enough that the rest doesn’t matter! I like girls!”

Here is Mercutio, or maybe Benvolio: red bandana, black leather jacket, scaly complexion, scoliosis, a little bit stoned. He and Romeo cruise the wall of a local pet shop, nudging each other when the girl with the pink pixie cut comes in. His friend drops lines that don’t seem to work, but she likes Romeo with his second-hand clothes and cheap green hair dye.

“She’s not the problem. Okay? I mean that. Whatever you’re thinking, I already said it wasn’t kids my age that… yeah. I think she’s a good person. It wasn’t her fault. She’s just… a cool girl, and she liked me, so…”

He brings the girl over, and his sister - a clattering mass of costume jewellery - is polite enough while she’s there, but smirks behind her back. When Romeo heads out, she whispers to their mother.

“She didn’t have such a good reputation, though. That’s not her fault! Really! But people didn’t know that. My friend was a little weird about her, he followed us home on the walk from school. I was pretty mad about him third-wheeling like that, but then he told me why. See, she’d had four boyfriends before me, and all of ‘em had, um, dropped her really suddenly. One transferred schools, one went off to a military academy, and another just went weird. Quiet. And then… then the last one killed himself.”

I think she… think she… His friend coughs smoke, rolling the joint between two fingers. She’s gotta be head-fuckin’ ‘em, man.

Yeah, right.

Really! Like… like what if… He lowers his voice and gets real close to Romeo’s face - so close that they’re almost touching. I heard that she, you know… gave ‘em all Hi-Five.

“Not true! That isn’t… She didn’t and she’s not, and they aren’t and… Ugh, this is weird. She’s had a bunch of boyfriends. People talk and… I mean, this was the friend who, last time I liked a girl, told me I could get her attention by peeing on her lawn, so I didn’t listen to him, but now I was listening I found out he wasn’t the only one saying it. Uh, maybe it’s stupid but I kinda started to believe them… after a while… I didn’t care that she was easy, but… they were saying other stuff too, things that were a lot worse.”

He perks up an ear when he hears her name whispered by his sister and his Rosaline and their respective friends, along with words that begin with S and W, and another that begins and ends with PH. He goes to Mercutio again. Look, not that I believe it, but… I heard something about, you know, photographs? Inappropriate ones? Cut: they look over his sister’s shoulder at her phone, Mercutio raising an eyebrow, Romeo horrified.

“He hadn’t seen ‘em but he knows people and he’d heard about ‘em. It was my sister who actually had ‘em - the girls were circulating them too and her friends had found the shots. She’s a bit younger than me, and I don’t think she really got that she could get in trouble for keeping those, just as much as whoever took ‘em. I told her she could and she deleted them, but by then the damage was kinda done. I’ve seen the infomercials, there’s no coming back from that kind of thing. Ever.”

Juliet remains oblivious, holds Romeo’s arm the same way she did before. He glances nervously at the memorial plaque on the wall for one JOSH MELTZER; the photo only shows the boy, but there’s a hand on his arm, a familiar-patterned sleeve on its wrist. They get lost together, in the woods behind the school. She leans in and he leans back, makes an excuse, they’ll study later… Later… His father’s home, asks her to repeat her last name.

“So, uh, funny story: our parents know each other and not in a friendly kind of way. See, my dad’s a logger. Her dad is one of the high-ups at a logging company. You see where I’m going with this, yeah?”

SINCLAIR! The yell from the office repeats over and over again. The boss is a big, square-shouldered man with great spikes of eyebrow, which are almost never out of an angry frown, and Romeo’s father is usually the target.

“He’s… not the boss’s favourite, either. I mean, his job security is already kinda shaky and we really need that job. So that’s why I didn’t say anything about, well, what’s coming up. The rumours started targeting me. Usually I don’t get picked on because… honestly, because I’m pretty unmemorable, but it started, and I couldn’t really deal with it. I started avoiding her. My dad noticed, and he - he had a point - told me her dad would be mad if I hurt her and might take it out on him. I didn’t want that to be my fault.”

Okay, I’ll go apologise to her, he says.

The tale’s Lord Montague grabs his shoulders and says, Apologise to Mr. Richfield!

“I don’t usually listen to the old man, but I did this time and…” He swallows. “I went down to the office, and at first it wasn’t that weird. I just said that I wanted to talk. That’s not really… I… Fuck it, you know what happened. You know… mostly.”

W-Wendy’s a great girl and everything… Romeo stammers, playing with his hands. Lord Capulet fiddles around in his desk for a moment, presses a button on the side. There goes the automatic door.

“Well, now I know why Dad was so scared of him. Heh. And I’m pretty sure I couldn’t have been the first. He told me to stay away from his daughter or it’d happen again, and he didn’t actually say he’d done it before, but it would explain a lot.”

He’s half the man’s weight, and when he’s lifted up by the collar he has no chance to fight. He pulls free of his jacket, but that only helps the man’s aim. He struggles and screams as he’s dragged from the locked door and pushed over the desk, and there’s no prince or friar to help him.

“It… wasn’t that bad. Or maybe I just think that because something’s wrong with me and… and I wanted him to.” That last part comes out strangled and hoarse, like a cat with string around its throat. “I gotta have, right? I, um, you know…”

Romeo thrashes, kicking behind him, throwing out both arms. It’s something. Heart pounding, blood racing… well, there’s something else.

Don’t tell me you’re enjoying this?

Tears fall, and Romeo longs for a poisoned goblet.

“I still freaked out, but I stopped fighting when he threatened my dad. Not just his job either. Lumberjacking’s dangerous.” He shivers. “I don’t think he’d have really gone that far, but I didn’t want to risk it. And that’s why I haven’t told anyone either. My dad’d be in trouble if his boss found out he knew, and my mom’s got enough to deal with, and I definitely don’t want her to know - who wants to find that out about their dad?”

He stumbles out, gelled hair crushed into fingerful-shapes, button popped off his jeans. He makes it home, and goes straight to his room, and for days he barely eats or sleeps.

“And, you know, they’d think… No, no one I know was GWF or anything, they wouldn’t kill me, but, you know… maybe I’d get kicked out.”

Herne passes the house, face averted, eyes cloudy. Romeo’s father laughs and imitates the swagger; so do most of his friends.

“Like I said, I’m not really keen on them knowing I’m gay-lite or diet queer or whatever. They’d hear gay no matter what I said. Besides, I kinda… I’m not sure they’d listen if I told ‘em I didn’t want him to… Some guys just think that way.”

The Cell Block Tango dances across the TV screen. His father laughs again, but it’s harsher now. This is why you need to stay in school, he relays to Romeo. So you don’t end up like that.

“Annnnd I think some people already know. My friend noticed I seemed down, and said he’d ‘take the edge off’…”

He and his Mercutio sit amid tree roots, surrounded by blue smoke; quick drugs, the Tea Rose their apothecary. Romeo coughs, but keeps smoking. His friend - bigger, stronger, spiky-eyebrowed - takes a puff, and leans in to shotgun it to him. He stops an inch away, when he notices Romeo has frozen up against the bark, face averted.

Uh, sorry. I-I kinda got vibes, was I wrong?

Romeo doesn’t answer for a long time.

“I’m still not talking to her. I feel bad for being glad it is her, because no one’s gonna think that it’s a problem with me. That’s not even fair because it wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t her. I’m kinda surprised I thought of such an awful thing, but I still do.”

A few times Juliet comes up to him in the hallway. A few times Romeo pretends he doesn’t see her, mutters excuses, goes the other way. Other guys start running interference. Now they have one more thing to whisper about in the hallway.

“The really weird thing is that I think… I dunno what I’m saying really, but… Have you ever read Preacher? It’s this comic book and in it, um… there’s this character - one of the bad guys - and something happens to him and after… and after…” He clears his throat. “Look, everything’s just been really weird with girls since it happened. I can’t think about sex without thinking about him… but I still want it… I still want… That’s another reason I don’t want anyone to find out about this. I don’t know what my dad would say.”

Chapter 9: (X-Men Evolution) A Story about the Marked Carabastion

Summary:

TW: gang-rape, abuse of the disabled, unreliable narrator, lying. If you're wondering, the name is a pun on "bastion", meaning "a thing or person regarded as upholding or defending an attitude, principle, etc" and the Marquis of Carabas, the fake name given to his master by the title character of Puss in Boots; Jean's indirectly calling him a con artist.

“Please don’t hate me.”

There he is, the Carabastion, practically glowing in the new-and-improved Palace light. He’s blond and green-eyed and exceptional (in a creepy, Manifest Destiny kind of way), wearing a bright red letterman jacket. There’s tape covering up his real name.

“Yeah, you don’t know who I am yet… well, you might actually, I’m kind of a big… sports-type… guy. Uh, yeah, anyway… You’ve definitely heard about what I did, it’s been on the news since…” He counts on a few of his fingers and starts again when he loses track. “I dunno, been a while. Please just listen before you make up your mind.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fr- No. It’s more like a Norman Rockwell painting; the Carabastion has a house with a pool and a dog in the yard and suburban parents, white as dollhouse snow. There’s the mother who makes sandwiches on white bread with the crust off, the father who works the nine-to-five… and the au pair… and the other au pair… and the maid and the gardener and the cleaning lady…

“I… I didn’t have the easiest childhood. Mom checked out, Dad drank and I had to take care of… of the whole nine yards. Heh. How’s that for brainy? My point’s that nothing came easy, I had to work for it and work hard. Since I was little. Not an excuse, not an excuse, but… W-well…” He sniffs and wipes his eyes. “I think I need a minute…”

He’s in peewees as soon as he can waddle, as soon as he can kind-of grip the ball. Soccer; baseball; basketball. His coaches love him. His teammates love him. His parents take them out for ice cream after every game. Until he’s old enough to pick his friends. The group gets smaller, a lot smaller, after that.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me. Someone- no, a lot of someones hurt me when I was little, so maybe that has a bit to do with it. Maybe not. I… It’s complicated.”

It isn’t really. The Carabastion gets his way. He gets his way, gets his way, gets his way, all the way into highschool. Teachers love him, his classmates love him - and the ones who don’t know better than to say so out loud. He gets all the girls, wins every game, has an angel keeping his grades up no matter how many times he misses school…

“Most people just put up with me because I’m the star quarterback or b-because of my grades or… I know, I know that doesn’t make it alright, but… Okay, so, there’s this girl… That’s what this was really about - still is, honestly, even if we’re not together anymore.”

Pink sweater; pink lip-gloss smile; glittery pins sticking out of long red hair. The Carabastion kisses the class valedictorian and she kisses back.

“She kinda volunteers here sometimes, but not today. Uh, yeah. A-anyways… My whole life I always had a hard time getting people to like me - really like me - sure, I’m a big man on campus now, but… She got me, y’know? The real me. And I got her, and we were good together.” He sighs. “I miss that. I miss her.”

His girlfriend dribbles a basketball down the court; a soccer ball down the field. The Carabastion hangs back - sometimes on the bleachers, sometimes behind - keeping one eye on her and the other on the crowd. A bulgy-eyed boy whistles; a German kid trips; a girl with frosted tips elbows by him. He shoves down all of them where no one can see; at least no one who would care (most people don’t).

“This was all her idea, coming here and everything. She’s even the one who picked out the name, but she doesn’t want to hear me talk about… it. I… She’s just such a good person and the only person I had for a while. I mean my own parents didn’t give a fuck about me, or my friends, or… But people liked her for real. Especially this one guy she knew, one of her friends. I think he was jealous of what we had. I was jealous…”

Brown hair; brown slip-on shoes; brown pleather coat. The Carabastion sticks his foot out and the kid falls over it, dark glasses sliding off all the way. They clatter on the ground and he fumbles, reaching with his eyes screwed shut.

What’s the matter, Summers?

“So you guys know J- my ex pretty well, right? Where she lives and stuff? I was never allowed over, but I guess it’s some kind of Bedlam deal - whole house full of freaks. Sorry, is that not PC? They were all, like… I dunno, special and whatnot. I actually think it was some kind of charity or group home or… maybe it was just a lonely old guy who wanted a houseful of broken kids.” He plays with his collar, rolls his eyes. “Wasn’t picky either. She’s a headcase, some guy had seizures and I’m pretty sure one of the chicks there had AIDS. The guy that… he was blind or gonna be eventually, something that started with a ‘g’.”

Sure, he never goes in the house, but it’s plenty of fun making out in the driveway. Especially when his girlfriend’s housemates walk by, faces twisting with disgust. He rolls the windows down more than once when he sees Mr. Glasses, just to make sure he hears what’s going on. Sometimes people ignore him and that’s almost worse than when he doesn’t get his way. Almost.

“We never got along great. I mean, duh, if you know anything. I didn’t like him, he didn’t like me… that was fine. He gave as good as he got for a while, but I’ll admit I probably shouldn’t have been going at it with a disabled kid. Mom raised me better than that… uh, when she wasn’t drinking. Still, though… um…”

The Carabastion and his uneasy mark: in line at the movies; at the drive-in, over popcorn; in the middle of a crowded football game. Her phone buzzes; she bows out and leaves him standing. Not often, not without regret, but this is how it happens. Sometimes. Sorry, Duncan, Tabitha’s dad is at the house again. Or Sorry, Duncan, Amara’s really sick. Or Sorry, Duncan, Scott can’t find his glasses. Sorry, Duncan; Sorry, Duncan; Sorry, Duncan. It goes on.

“It was always worse when she was going off to go help him. I know he likes her, but she was my girlfriend. I guess that I… Jealousy can make you do some pretty awful things.”

Hey, Summers! Books falling, glasses clattering, locker doors slamming shut. The other boy doesn’t look impressed.

What do you want, Duncan?

I want you to stay the hell away from Jean!

“We got into a fight a few days before… y’know. A big fight. Over her. Both of our faults, he kept acting like I was just mad that they lived together and I… said some stuff that was probably a little… a lot out of line. Total mess, seriously.”

The redhead girl drags him aside after classes, fixes him with a glare that could freeze whiskey twice. Scott says that you-

Summers is a liar! And it goes like that until she storms off.

“I’m sorta scared to ask if that’s when she left me, or if I was wrong. Maybe I-” He bites his tongue. “The important part is that she stormed off. And I got angry. Angry with her, angry with myself, angry with him for lying even though… Not an excuse, I know, not an excuse.”

The Carabastion lurks in the bushes by his girlfriend’s house, sun setting behind them. Him and half the football team in rubber masks, waiting… waiting… waiting… The boy in glasses comes out alone. And remember not to say anything, the Carabastion whispers. They cover his head with a varsity jacket; not so bad eyes can’t see, but so healthy lungs cannot scream. And they throw him into the back of the Carabastion’s trunk.

“We all agreed not to talk or make any noise or anything. So he wouldn’t know it was us, right? And… and, um, masks so if anyone else saw… Yeah. Turns out he actually can see, a little, with his glasses on, just not well… but that’s probably not the only reason for having them on.”

The cloth rides down during the car ride, or in the struggle to stop his clothes from being ripped away. Their victim doesn’t beg exactly, but he’s close. Aw, I think he’s crying, one of them whispers and the Carabastion plucks the glasses from his face. Then he screams. They all do.

“The thing about… about whatever he was sick with is that it doesn’t just… I knew he was blind, but I thought his eyes would look normal, or cloudy like Toph Beifong’s do! But his were blood red and just… nasty. I kinda freaked out, I guess, and he must have recognized my voice. That’s how, uh… Someone else heard me too.”

The sound of a car pulling up at midnight; a flashlight shines through the dark, onto the football field. Someone curses and his teammates scatter, leaving the boy on the ground with a busted lip and broken lenses. Later the Carabastion sits in his truck, beating up the dashboard of his car. Much later he sneaks into his parents’ gun safe, replaces his father’s .25. The next afternoon the police are in the driveway.

“My… she says that I would’ve been caught eventually anyway. I mean, I had a motive, we didn’t use condoms… it was a mess, and what were we gonna do about it? Kill him? Yeah right… Besides, I felt terrible.”

Snapshots on the table. Black eyes; brown hair; ragged breath. The Carabastion cries into his attorney’s shoulder. We were just gonna scare him, I swear! I never meant for things to go that far! There’s talk of a court date and bail money, but at the end of the day, the Carabastion goes home.

“She called me when the dust was first starting to settle. At first I thought ‘well, maybe she wants to make up’, but no. She was pretty pissed at what I’d done to her friend, asked why I did it so I told her and… I don’t think she’ll ever forgive me, but maybe she understood where I was coming from. Hopefully. Maybe it’s just that she’s so damn nice.”

He tries to kiss her; she shoves him back. I feel sorry for you, Duncan, she says quietly, but not that sorry. Not after what you did to Scott. She does reach out and slips a card between his fingers. Let me know if you want to do better. The Carabastion crumples it up behind her.

Cut; It’ll look better at your trial… He empties the trashcan onto his bedroom floor.

“A girl I love told me to come here if I wanted to make up for what I did to someone she cares about, if I wanted to prove that I was sorry…” Big wet eyes; wet cheeks. He blows his nose on his sleeve-end. “And I am sorry! I’m so sorry… I-”

Chapter 10: (X-Men Evolution) A Story about Perdition’s Poacher

Summary:

TW: kidnapping, rape, eye horror, parasites, child molestation, incest, unsanitary conditions, illness, religious delusion, yandere.
Soundtrack: "Poacher's Pride" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6p4C6UXFyN0

“I call bullshit.”

Perdition’s Poacher stalks in, head down, greasy dark hair hanging over her covered eye. She smells awful - damp mold and sewer sleet, and her nails… The Carabastion jumps off the stage before she has the chance to push him off.

“You’re not sorry, at least not for him. If you were you wouldn’t be bitching to us about it. Not that it matters anyway.” She spits yellow phlegm on the ground. “There’s no coming back from shit like that. Not for people like us. And you wanna know where I heard that?” The Poacher’s mouth opens, revealing black gums and speckled teeth. Then she whispers: “God.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Poacher is the little girl with her knees up in photographs, the teenager picking holes in her jeans. There’s a normal house in a nice normal neighborhood, white picket fence, white parents, white dog in the yard. And there are foot-shaped scuffs and finger-shaped bruises on her white arms and legs, on the white bedroom door.

“My old man was a bastard too - they always are - but you don’t see me complaining. No point, right?” She laughs, real harsh and dry. “Karma, my friend. Predestination. The Man Upstairs knew what He was doing when He made us.” One by one, she points people out. “Rapist, killer, both.”

She lies in bed, legs separated, hair spilling out - across the pillow; over her face - while shadows on the wall loom over her. Shh, you don’t want to wake up Mom, do you? The Poacher bites her lip, shakes her head.

“I was twelve when I heard God talk to me. He wasn’t the one who told me to run away, I did that all on my own. What? I can have more than one thing going on, can’t I? And I wasn’t about to stick around and… I didn’t have to sit there and take it. Nobody does. There’s this old bomb shelter thing as part of the sewer system. Nothing ritzy, not like what some of you fucks go home to, but… it’s something.”

She spends the first night alone and terrified, head propped up by her backpack, shivering on the cold, hard stone. For it is written, He shall give His angels charge over thee, to keep thee… She prays a lot and doesn’t sleep at all until morning, when there’s light shining through the grate.

“It’ll get busted up when the Horsemen come, I know that, but it works for now. Most of us will be in Hell by then anyway. I will say I’m sorry for that, someone might still want to hear it. I’m sorry for… Look, I never meant to drag in my friends.”

A gloomy looking bald-headed boy; sunken eyes; swollen arms; things that ooze and smell worse than their surroundings. They’re the people the Poacher can ramble to, as she fumbles their sores closed with a child’s understanding of first aid. People won’t understand us, up there. And You know how it was for lepers in the Bible. And Not until Jesus comes.

“Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the earth.”

A young man comes down from New York City, steps off the west-bound train. No wings, but his eyes are clear and his face is beautiful, and the electric lights reflect like a halo around his bright yellow hair. He apologizes when she bumps into him (accidentally-on-purpose) and smiles (real nice) when he catches her stare. The Poacher follows him for as long as she can get away with it. Alas, O Lord God! For I have seen an angel face to face.

“He was an angel.” She says it so matter-of-factly that nobody disagrees. “He called himself something else, but I know he was an angel - from Heaven, the real kind. I don’t know which one exactly, but… I think Raphael. He was beautiful, prettier than any guy I’ve had before and… and… he’d been so nice to me…”

She digs through her things while her friends are sleeping, both eyes shining in the dark. Hands around a little case of bullets and the barrel of a rifle, cold metal as thick around as her thumb.

“It belonged to the bastard, but I took it when I ran away. Stealing’s a sin and all, but so’s child-fucking… and it’s the least of mine anyway. I just wanted something that could love me in a way that wouldn’t hurt. And he was an angel. That’s a pretty bullshit excuse though, I won’t act like it isn’t one, unlike some people.”

She crawls from the alleyway as he’s leaving his hotel, and pulls him back and close to her, shoves him face to face with the gun. Don’t move. He tries anyway and she fires, hitting him in the leg. Then she drags him towards the uncovered manhole and he cries.

Please, if it’s money you want- But she doesn’t listen, pulls handcuffs out of nowhere and links him to the wall. The Poacher kisses him, leaving black against his teeth. He gags.

“I loved him, but that wasn’t enough… and it didn’t make it less fucked either. See, this is why I’m going to burn.”

The Poacher’s pride hangs back uneasily as she strips off “the angel’s” clothes. It’s cold down here, and dirty. Bottles fall right out of his pockets and into the scum. Latuda. Prozac. Please! I need that! My medici- But she presses a hand over his mouth and reaches lower. Then she kisses him again. His cheeks are wet.

“He cried a lot when I had him down there, I mean, I know why, obviously. I know why he didn’t like it. He didn’t like much of anything, not me or the sewer or fucking… And he wouldn’t eat the things I brought him. He just wouldn’t eat.”

Dumpster fare and processed crap. Things that come from bags and cans: Cheez-Its, Cheez-Whiz, cold Spaghetti-Os. He’s sick on himself enough that the whole “room” smells like vomit. Perdition’s Poacher doesn’t care. At all.

“He was taking something or other. Then I took it away and he got sick. I think that maybe it was to help him forget, you know? Because after a while he stopped lying to me about what he really was… who.”

You’re going to Hell, he says when she asks for his “real name”. One day they’ll catch up with you and-

Shh.

“He did get better eventually - well, sort of. He stopped puking his guts out, but maybe that was because there was nothing to puke up at that point. He still wouldn’t eat anything - and I tried to make him! He just… starved. I told him one time that suicide was a sin.” She winces. “Big mistake.”

Her captive angel lunges forward, cursing, quoting, invoking the wrath of God while the Poacher’s friends try to restrain him. She falls down to the floor, screaming, clutching a bloody black eye. In a few days the wound starts to fester, and by the end of the week it’s started to itch and crawl - big fat grave-worms.

“Pestilence, that’ll be the one that gets me. That’s not so bad. Dying that way can’t be any worse than living with it.”

In the basement, her angel’s dying. He won’t eat, he won’t sleep. He hangs there by one arm like taxidermy, near the place where the Poacher’s made her bed, and rambles, half-aware. Immediately the angel of the Lord struck him down, because he did not give God the glory, and he was eaten by worms and breathed his last. She falls asleep at his feet.

“I thought he might die down there for a while. It’s not a good place for an angel, but I couldn’t- I just wanted to keep something beautiful. Like a little piece of Christ. It’s too bad that there’s no salvation though, because I realized…” Her one eye opens all the way and she tilts her head back, hair falling away from her face. “God said that I should set him free, and God’s never wrong, you know. ‘Behold, He put no trust in His servants, and His angels He charged with folly.’ ”

His eyes don’t open when she snaps the handcuffs. He doesn’t stiffen when he falls against her chest. Piss and shit and fever pitch. And bile. He’s easy to carry through the corridor; much, much, much too easy. The Poacher kneels in the hospital parking lot, praying some, Because you are the medicine of God… The “amen” is silent.

His eyes stay closed, but his mouth opens. In the same way, I tell you, there is rejoicing in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.

She runs.

“What the hell’s wrong with me? People ask all the time. Maybe I’m sick.” The Poacher laughs like it hurts more than anything; she blinks back the tears in her eye, and she does not cry. “ ‘And I fell at his feet to worship him. And he said unto me, See thou do it not: I am thy fellowservant, and of thy brethren that have the testimony of Jesus: worship God: for the testimony of Jesus is the spirit of prophecy.’ I might be sick. I might.”

Chapter 11: (Buddy Thunderstruck) A Story about Thunder and (Greased) Lightning

Summary:

TW: rape, genital torture, face burning, forced verbal degradation, attempted murder by burning.

“Buddy? Hey… It’s me again.”

Greased Lightning (or the man that isn’t yet) has black hair and a black eye and blue coveralls… covering very little. There are bite marks on his neck, a gun to his head, a phone in his hands… He’s shaking. He’s shaking so hard.

Less than a mile away, in a convenience store parking lot, Thunder picks up the phone. He’s scruffy and sloppy with a bit of an underbite and bright red finger prints staining his jeans - buffalo hot wings, Cheeto dust…

“Darnell? Hey! Listen, man, I’m s-”

“Don’t. Just don’t. I - ah! - I’ve got something I need to tell you, okay? I… I… Just listen. I don’t want to see you anymore. I’m done.”

“W-what? I- was it that bad? I said I was sorry!”

“I d-don’t care. I-I can’t… I can’t waste any more time on you!”

“What? … What’s that sound?”

The jumpsuit comes all the way off. The hand without the gun pets his hair, and kisses land on his neck; just loud enough for the phone to pick up.

“Is someone else there?”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Thunder at thirteen, on the doorstep of a trucking business’ office. He takes a deep breath and enters, and the round, plaid-clad person behind the counter looks at him.

Uh, hi. I’m Buddy. I’m your nephew… I got kicked out… Same reason you did, I guess.

“Y-yes.” The word comes out in a rush with Lightning’s breath. “That’s why… why I’m leavin’.”

“Huh? I don’t understand…”

“You never do. I don’t-” He grunts (and so does someone else) into the phone. “You’re so stupid… so stupid… ugh…”

Thunder at thirteen again, and Lightning just as old. The last year before they move on to the big city highschool. Hey, aren’t you Muncie’s brother?

Nah, she’s my cuz, man. Thunder looks the other boy up and down - and smiles. Uh, name’s Buddy. Heyyy.

Darnell Fetzervalve.

“I… You ain’t serious… right?”

“D-dead serious. He’s… Buddy- We’re doing it, we’re-”

“You’re fuckin’ somebody else?”

“Please… you could barely even call it fucking… whatever we were doing before.”

They grow up, never far apart. There are movies at the theatre and on the couch. There are fishing trips at the river and camping out in the woods. There are buckets of chicken and plates of cookies and the round plaid-clad person bringing pitchers of lemonade and making conversation - Say, what d’you boys think of callin’ me Pibling instead of Auntie?… No, I thought not… how’s about…

“You’re doin’ it right now?! On the phone?!”

“I… yeah… aaahnn…”

There’s a whisper of “Good boy”.

“Enjoy it… gonna be the closest y’ever get again…”

They throw off their caps and gowns after graduation, leaving them in the back of Thunder’s souped-up truck. They’re at three parties before the night’s over. Lightning kisses him on the way home.

Really? You’re-

Yeah… Sorry, should I- Thunder kisses him right back.

“Darnell! What… Why?! I thought you-”

“Yeah? W-well, maybe you thought wrong… I-”

“How long have you been… doin’ this?” Thunder’s hands clench his steering wheel.

“… Long enough.”

“Who is he? Do I know him?”

“No, you don’t know him. He doesn’t wanna talk to you… oh God… says to tell you… the winner fuckin’ lost this time! Ya lost me… what are you without me? Anyone else who can ride the Rabble Rouser with y- oh God…” There’s the crack of skin on skin contact; the phone almost drops from his hand.

“What was that?”

“N-nothin’. He spanked me…” Another crack. “Nnf… d-do it again…” Crack.

“You never wanted that before…”

“Not from you.”

“D-Darnell, you sound like it hurts. Are you-”

“Maybe I want it to hurt,” Lightning says through gritted teeth. “M-maybe… you’re just mad what you’re packin’ couldn’t make it hurt.”

First date; first anniversary; first time on the race track. First win. They aren’t NASCAR, but Thunder’s something anyway. By his twenties he’s raking in his winnings, while Lightning changes tires, greases wheels, keeps him grounded… most of the time. They’re moving up in the world. They’re together. They’re a team.

“What?! You… you know that isn’t…” Thunder doesn’t know what he’s saying at this point. “Fuck you!”

“You… had your chance…” Lightning hisses through his teeth. The man behind him holds a lit match between his thighs. “Ah, God! Ffffuck…”

They return from the courthouse, grinning broadly at not-exactly-Auntie on the couch. Buddy Thunderstruck - how’s that for a name change!

His cousin pokes her head in. You get the marriage license?

They look at each other. Oh, jeez. I knew we were forgettin’ somethin’!

“Ugh… it’s so good! Could… could go for hours… not like b-before… Fastest man in Greasepit in more ways’n one…”

“Shut up! Just shut up!” Thunder’s screaming at the phone. “I’m the star! No one cares about the wrench jockey! No one’s even gonna remember you when I-”

“… Euh… And… and you know what else? I’ve always h-hated riding around with you… and… and your stupid smooth jazz!”

“Well, that’s just… hey, what?”

They ride in silence. Lightning reaches for the radio dial, but Thunder sticks out his hand. Don’t bother. They’re playin’ Kenny G again. Y’all know how I feel about… stuff like that.

“Yeah! And… and it’s not just this guy either… there’s… there was… Cousin Zeke after graduation… and… and…”

“Darnell…? Darnell! Are you okay?!”

“… Totallyyyy…” He trails off, into a pained moan.

Dark, dangerous laughter. Hellfire eyes flash in the dark, and a sticky hand is wiped in Lightning’s hair. The stranger above him leans closer to the phone and says, “Was wonderin’ how long it’d take ya to work it out.”

“Who the fuck are you? What’re you doin’ to him?!”

“A lot.”

“No! No no no-”

Crack-crunch.

Thunder and Lightning shout at each other from across the room, until that cousin stamps on the floor above them, yelling that they should quiet down. Thunder grabs his keys and slaps the screen door open. I’m goin’ for a drive.

“Buddy-”

“Darnell?! Hey, don’t you worry ‘bout a thing… I… I’m comin’… I’ll find you-”

“Better make it quick then,” and the receiver crackles, “what d’ya call a snuff film without the ‘film’ part? Think I could make a dime that way?”

“Darnell, talk to me! What’d this nut do to you, honey?”

“Th-that crunch was my hand… he got my wrench… N-no, please-”

Crack-crunch. And there goes the other one.

An hour passes, then two hours, then… more… Lightning sighs in exasperation and reaches for his own keys. The sun is already going down.

“Buddy… I’m sorry… I-” There’s another noise, like a hiss or a scratch. Greased Lightning jerks free from the hot, hot engine clutching his cheek. There’s blood between his fingers and blood on the metal. He starts to scream.

A car turns its high-beams on behind him, getting closer, getting faster, getting- There’s the scraping sound of metal on metal. Lightning pulls off to the side of the road and rolls down the window, cursing a blue streak. Suddenly there’s a gun in his face. Get outta the car, that strange voice purrs. Slowly.

“Hey! Mister… whoever, listen-” Thunder rambles, breathless, on the verge of panicking. “What do you want? Money? I… I can-”

The man picks up the spent matches from the ground, and, almost as an afterthought, uses them another way. They splintered when he stepped on them, and blood tracks down Lightning’s legs again. More screams.

“Please! Just stop! Leave him alone!”

“Aww, I’da thought this’d make ya happy,” croons the stranger. “This is your boy’s penance! I’m showin’ him what awaits if he don’t repent. And you, too.”

“I don’t care about me! I-I’ll come over, do whatever it is you want to me, just let him go…”

“Now why would I do that? Then who’d we watch at the truck races? I’m a fair man, Thunderstruck, I won’t waste talent when I see it.”

“I can’t race without Darnell!”

“What happened to ‘no one cares about the wrench jockey’?”

“Fuck you! I care!”

“Well, as I said, I’ll be fair. If ya get here in time, ya won’t have to race without him. I’m just removin’ your temptation to sin, the whole man don’t necessarily have to go…”

Something goes glug; a liquid being poured, too thick to be water. Around a car, there’s an obvious option.

“No no no! Do not even think about what you’re thinkin’ about, asshole!”

“You gonna get here in time to stop me, speed racer?” Laughter. The sound of a body being dragged. “He’s outta range of the fuel spill now. I’ll give ya five minutes, then he goes back in the car. If bettin’ weren’t a sin, I would lay money on you… if ya knew where we were, anyway.”

Before Greased Lightning’s set both feet on the pavement he’s on the ground, aching pain on the right side of his face. His nose crunches on impact and he splits his lips. A cowboy boot digs into his side. Ya got yer phone on you, grease-monkey? Good.

“Buddy…” Lightning groans. “Don’t come… he’s… he’s-”

He punches Thunder’s number in, hands shaking. There’s already a hand inside his coveralls, and the top part’s bare already…

He’ll be spared, the stranger whispers, if ya hurt him as much as I’m hurtin’ you.

There’s a thud then and the sound of something breaking. Car alarms.

“Darne-”

“I gotta do somethin’ while I wait, don’t I?”

“Fuck you!”

Buddy? Hey… it’s me again. Lightning quivers. He almost drops his phone.

“Time’s up,” the stranger hisses. “Sorry, Thunder-”

“Put ‘im down!”

Thunder’s yelling through the open window of his truck, screeching onto the scene, following the sound of the car alarm. The vehicle barrels right towards the stranger, but he dodges; Thunder swerves to avoid hitting Lightning, causing the truck to spin. The stranger vaults onto the hood of Lightning’s car and over the roof, sliding down the back and running for his own car. Thunder looks desperately between the two, considers pursuing the stranger, but instead bolts from the truck to Lightning’s side as the stranger disappears down the road.

“Darnell? Darnell!”

“Buddy?” Lightning blinks, tries to clutch at Thunder with his ruined hands. “I… I love you.”

Thunder holds him tightly, speaks gently, wipes away his tears. “Hey, don’t talk like ya think I doubted it.”

Chapter 12: (Infinity Train) A Story about the Star-Crossed Conductor

Summary:

TW: human trafficking, parental betrayal, unreliable narrator.

“His name was Alrick.”

The Conductor plays with the handkerchief in her lap - little green turtles drown in a great pink sea. She has a long coat and neat brown hair, and a British accent like the Lady’s, but also not (yet more like the Lady’s than the Bride’s).

“We were in school together. I was sweet on him and he was… my person. For a while. We went to the same uni, we graduated together… and after that we got an apartment. It wasn’t much, but we were happy.” She smiles, but it withers; her shoulders straighten, then they droop. “But he loved his bicycle. There was a motocross event, I saw him to the station. He kissed me and…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Conductor and a man with large, square glasses, his arms wrapped around her waist. I’ll be back soon, Amelia. You don’t have to worry. He presses a kiss to her forehead, presses the hankie into her hand. Cut; she waits at the station. The train comes. No Alrick.

“He died. That’s it. End of story."

The Conductor goes home to an empty house, to the station again, to a police station. She calls and calls and gets the same message playing over and over through the phone. Weeks pass; she huddles in the living room and sobs. Months - she gets a letter. There’s no return address on it, or message inside. Only numbers. Only numbers and a name. She takes them down.

“Or maybe not, because I’m still here.”

H-hello? Alrick? Alrick, are you-

… You must be Amelia. Hm.

Who is this?! Where’s Alrick?! What did you-

Your boyfriend’s important to you, huh? How much is ‘important’ worth?

“We all need hobbies, I suppose. Ah, not that this is a hobby to me… exactly, it’s just that I’ve tried everything else. Everything. Let’s see, there was coin collecting and… and dancing and…” The Conductor closes her eyes. “Traveling. That’s what brought me here.”

She drains her bank account; sells near everything she owns. His things too. It’s not enough. She stands in nightclubs and on street corners in fishnets and costume jewelry. She leaves with more than what they agreed on. It’s not enough. Two girls are waiting at the train station alone - redheads with chromey gray eyes and school uniforms. It’s not enough.

“I guess I just thought helping people might make me feel… something. Selfish, I know, but I hear you need the extra hands. Never been particularly good at… the traditional sort of thing you do here - comforting,” she grimaces, “I won’t be the Mother Superior, but I can help you stay organized. I’m mechanical… I could be useful, if you let me.”

She scrolls through the pages from Carmen’s tape. More money, more money, more m- Alrick isn’t wearing his glasses. Alrick isn’t wearing anything. She meets a boy at the station near San Carlos and covertly buys tickets for two. He leaves his jacket on his seat. And there’s a little girl in New York City, ducking around corners, looking over her shoulder once - twice - looking back. Hey, I know a good place to hide. And there’s the woman in Calisota, with the pressed blue vest. She’s holding hands with a little blond-haired boy. Simon, run along with Amelia now… She’ll… she’ll take care of you. And there are teenagers from Powell Lake, arguing as the train takes off- People see her this time.

“I’d do anything to feel useful. I’d do anything to have Alrick back in my arms again.”

She switches trains at the border, gets off here. The woman from the station - a little older, a little tireder - answers her door and starts to shut it again. The Conductor stops her.

I need a place to stay. Does your husband know what happened to Simon?

“God help me, I’ve been here for a few months and I’m already- The anniversary is coming up soon, I need something to take my mind off… not him, I can’t ever ‘take my mind off him’, but… maybe I can do something good here. Maybe.”

A woman with a butterfly tattoo slips a card into the Conductor’s hand. Keep an ear open for… anything familiar, mmkay?

Will that be enough?

It could be.

“It’s been six years and I’m still scared to live in a world without him…” The Conductor looks around the room - children’s drawings, drying paint, the couple leaning their heads against each other. “But let’s try and make it a better one anyway.”

Chapter 13: (Regular Show) A Story about Parks and Rec

Summary:

TW: rape, violence, identity theft, unreliable narrator.

“Look, we’re not here for a cool names competition, okay? This is hard enough as it is.”

Parks is tall and thin and pale, with the same shade of blue in his blue-and-white jacket and his blue-and-black fauxhawk. Rec is short and stumpy and tanned, with what looks like a pound of eyeliner merging with the deep, dark half-circles under his lower lids. They sit side by side on the stage’s edge, Parks’ hand on Rec’s arm.

“I thought it was kinda funny.”

Parks smiles. “Well, anything to cheer you up after that, eh, buddy?” He looks out at the audience. “He’s the one who… yeah. I’m just here for support. You wanna start?”

Rec sniffles and wipes his nose on his sleeve. “Yay-uh,” he says, and throws a weak thumbs up.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the city’s biggest park. The one beside the Angel’s bridge, but no one’s there today. The sun is shining, the flowers are blooming, and the singing of the birds is drowned out by the bellow of CLEAN UP THIS MESS!

“So yeah, we’re groundskeepers.”

“Or that’s on our paychecks, anyway,” says Parks. “We’re told to be general busywork drones and actually spend most of our time slacking off.”

“Oop!” Rec raises a finger. “Slacking off and making out. Or we did for a few weeks, and then, uh, the… stuff happened.”

Slacking off and making out indeed. Parks and Rec startle to their feet as a round-faced man comes out screaming something about frisbees and the lawn. Parks groans and goes back to his push-mower, but Rec throws up his hands and stomps off. Cut; a paper sign and a paper stand on the corner. Hiring.

“I actually tried to get a temp… dude to work for me a while back. It was a scummy thing to do - giving him a little of my paycheck to, like, do all my work… but still. Hard to feel bad about it now when he was so… so…”

Parks puts an arm around his shoulder. “It’s okay, dude.”

Another young man steps off a bus. He’s short and stumpy and tanned as well. Not a mirror image, but Rec does tilt his head a little during the once-over. Still, all to the good. They talk and shake hands, and Rec laughs. Maybe you could pass yourself off as me! They laugh it off.

“And things got weird when he actually kinda did.”

“Took a while to notice, but yeah,” says Parks. “Wish I’d noticed something was off.”

“It’s okay, dude. People that strange… no one expects that.”

The strange “temp” shows up with the same bristly haircut as Rec. It’s cooler in the summer! He dresses in similar clothes, but they’re practical for park work. Parks doesn’t notice until they’re kidding around one day and the temp executes a perfect impersonation of Rec’s voice.

“Dead on, for reals. He said he’d done some voice acting work. I don’t know if that was true, but he was really good at it.”

“I’d believe him.”

Parks laughs and smacks the stranger on the back. Rec stands back, fuming quietly. I don’t sound like that! Cut; the “temp” and a few more work friends on the basketball court. Guess who’s winning? Cut; I looove workin’ with you, man. Parks and the “temp” pick up trash together, Rec listening in from behind a tree.

“I’m so sorry, Rec. So sorry.” Parks pulls him into an awkward hug, and continues talking to the audience over his shoulder. “See, Rec’s kinda… sometimes he was a little hard to deal with, and this new guy was fun, or he seemed to be. And me hanging out with him made Rec act even grumpier, which makes sense but kinda made me wanna hang out with D- the guy more.”

Rec pats his back. “It’s cool, buddy. It’s cool.”

Parks frowns, as if he’s thinking of something, but Rec starts talking again, and Parks listens.

“I decided to confront him after he took my check without saying anything - not that I would have let him even if he’d asked ‘cause that’s a pretty mental thing to ask someone for. We were all living in the same big building - most of the staff do. I knocked on the door and…”

He’s only wearing a towel, the water’s running, but his hair is dry. Rec only gets a few words out when the “temp” grabs his wrist and pulls him inside. There’s some thumping, some muffled voices. Maybe a cry for help. Then nothing. Rec leaves the room alone. His eyeliner’s running. There’s blood in the shower.

Rec’s eyeliner runs on the stage too, leaving muddy streaks on Parks’ blue jacket. “H-he said my friends liked him better, my boss liked him better… He said he was more me than I’d ever be.”

“Aww, Rig… Rec…” Parks rocks him gently and hums to soothe him.

Mordecai! Rec runs into the living room, sobbing grotesquely, every hole in his face overflowing. Mordecai, help me!

Dude, what? Parks looks down when Rec clings to his torso. He looks down over Rec’s back. There’s blood soaking through his pants.

“It wasn’t just, you know, either. He re-opened an old cut from an accident a while back. I was bleeding a lot.”

“That was kind of… I could either go after the guy or take him to the hospital. Everyone else was out that night, it might have been easier if we weren’t alone.”

“He… he got away! He’s still out there! I don’t…” He buries his face in Parks’ chest. “What if he comes back for me?”

Hospital; stitches; pain medication. Rec waves off the full exam. I don’t… Nobody needs to know about this…

“He’s embarrassed.”

“I am not!”

“Yeah you are, dude, but you shouldn’t be. It’s not your fault.”

“… Promise?”

“ ‘Course I do!”

The night they get back, Rec creeps out of the room and takes the car out alone. Along with a bundle that has no clear shape. Something groans in the backseat and it sounds just like his voice. Rec turns the radio up all the way.

“So, that happened, and things have been kinda weird at work. Like I said, a few of us live in the same house, right in the middle of the park - two guys have a trailer somewhere out in the park, but they’re ‘round at the house a lot too - so we kinda couldn’t avoid them finding out. The guy who owns the park has a son who lives there too, and he’s like grandpa-age, I have no idea how his dad is still alive, but he’s kind of like an overgrown kid. His dad’s still pretty smart so I think it’s a from-birth thing, but it doesn’t really matter. Either way, we had to explain it, and he cried. Then I cried.”

“Yeah…” Parks frowns again. “So did I.”

The round-faced supervisor in red is a little nicer to them. The older man with an even rounder face tears up when he sees them. Their coworkers (a fat young man with shaggy hair and an unbound chest, and his pasty, quiet friend with an amputated arm) stop their usual lewd jokes whenever Parks and Rec arrive on-scene, shutting up as fast as a rat trap closes.

“Things between us are going okay, I guess. Little awkward, but we’re fine.”

Rec clings to Parks, both sitting on Parks’ bed. I… Rec sniffles, I don’t want him to be the last person who touched me. Parks becomes the next person, cautiously, carefully. Most of their clothes stay on. Gotta be careful with the bandages, okay?

“Now we’re just kinda playing the waiting game, I guess. Waiting for me to feel better… waiting for him to slip up and get caught… waiting for him to come back and-”

“Hey… don’t talk like that. It’s gonna be okay. I won’t let him hurt you.”

“What if he hurts you instead?”

Under the bathroom sink, hidden among the bleach bottles, is a box filled with tubes of makeup; more than just eyeliner. Tear-proof stage makeup. Rec applies it with a cautious hand, shadowing and highlighting until the contours of his features subtly change. When he puts the box back, it nudges a knife.

“And the worst part is we look alike so every time I see myself in the mirror… It’s not a perfect match, but…”

Rec sneaks from the house at night, out into the park, carrying a bag. He passes the trailer where the other two groundskeepers sleep. He enters the woods at the park’s edge, where it and true wilderness overlap. Out here is another trailer, and inside…

Hey, Rigby. I got you one of those meatball subs.

No eyeliner now, but the bruises give a similar impression. Bleeding just as “Rec” did. The real Rec cries. The temp smiles.

“Why’d this have to happen?” Rec sobs, raising his hands to his face. “I know things weren’t perfect before this… but they were pretty good! And now…”

Chapter 14: (Sing) A Story about the Primadonna Comare

Summary:

TW: gang violence, kidnapping, torture by genital injury, rape, partner abuse. (Oldfield is a breed of mouse, and Mike Oldfield is a musician who has no connection to this Mike. And now you know.)

“Sorry not sorry, to riff on the name.”

The Primadonna Comare is very small and slight, more than la Madonna had been. Her smile’s sharper though, her clothing thoroughly more ostentatious, her hair shorter and blonder and curled around the ears. It all looks expensive, save for the plastic ring on her hand.

“Riff, huh? Geddit? Yeah, well, I guess ya wouldn’t yet, but we’ll get to that. Still, ya oughta laugh when a lady makes a joke, y’know, ’s only classy. My uncle taught me that, betcha my folks would’ve if they hadn’t been blown to kingdom come.” She uncrosses her legs and leans back casually. “That’s okay though, I hear Heaven’s nice this time a’ year.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Comare grooms soot from her hair, pale-faced and shaking. Madonna’s father offers a kerchief and hunches beside her, not even having to kneel. Cut; he helps her out of a long black limousine in front of a house much too big for either of them, or anyone else for that matter.

“I think it was the Shens that did it, if ya care to ask. This was back when the Lucias still ran the show here in town. Besides, the Triads were usually the ones settin’ fire to stuff. If it’d have been a Lino - or a Grime or a Henessey - they mighta just cut the brakes. Cleaner that way, but a lot less showy. ‘Course, someone’s always out to off you sooner or later - the Shens, the Linos, the police…”

Flashing lights and sweat and perfume. Comare dances so hard she drops her fake ID and spills a drink with her elbow. She curses; he curses; the mojito mix drips down. Uh, lemme help you out with that! Be back in a minute, guys! But her friends can’t hear her over all the sound. Besides, they’re drunk; enough that they’ll still be in the morning when her uncle’s frantic calls go around. For now though- For now.

“This guy… I dunno, I kinda wish he woulda just fucked me once and had it over with. ’S all a little fuzzy but I think… I think he musta drugged me, right? That makes the most sense outta anything. I remember wakin’ up in this room somewhere and- nah, it wasn’t like that. It’s way weirder.”

Sharp nose; strange eyes; dark hair. He shoves a flashlight in her face as she comes to. Nancy Bigg?

It’s Bianchi, Daddy changed it ba-AAAAAH! An electric current runs through her small body. The stranger pulls back the taser in his hand.

Fucking goomar…

“He knew what the family does for a living, I mean, ’s not the best kept secret. But I was pretty much still a kid back then though and I didn’t know what he wanted from me. I… I’m still tryin’ to figure that one out an’ it happened, like, forever ago. An’ forever is like… forever. That’s a really long time.”

There’s a foul smell of old urine in a very dark room; what little light there is reflects parts of Comare’s tangled hair. When the lamp flicks on, there’s blood on her face and feet and hands, but her clothes are still on; they haven’t been removed.

Ready to talk yet?

Fuck off.

“He thought I knew something, for all the good it would do. The whole goddamn city knows something! And Uncle Vito’s got an in with the cops even now. I think maybe he knew that though, an’ just wanted to take it out on somebody smaller. Or maybe he was just nuts, I’ve met plenty a’ guys just like that too.” She flicks a bit of dust off the ends of her nails. “Everybody thinks the world is ending. It never is - there’s a tip.”

He hits her so hard in the stomach once that she’s sick on the floor. He puts a gun to her head and fires blanks. The Comare tastes her own fillings and a lot of blood - a lot of blood - by the time he’s started to work her skirt up, pulled her underwear down past her knees. She begs. He pulls out the taser. She screams.

“He didn’t fuck me. He never even tried to fuck me. Not his style, fuckin’ fag.” She mutters something like “look at me” and huffs. “Did plenty a’ other shit though, kept askin’ weird questions until… I wanted to die.”

Blue lights; red lights; white uniforms. Comare faints and wakes up in the ambulance. Cut; la Madonna holds her hand. Cut; there is no trial. She never sees that man again.

“Somebody heard something, or saw something, and then that somebody called the police. Good for me, good for them, good for everybody except… you know. But fuck him! Pretty sure after all that, I deserve to be happy. For a while there, maybe I was…”

The Comare washes in perfume and goes out dancing, drinking, in slinky dresses with sequins all up and down. She kisses a man the size of a small bear and leaves her lipstick to tickle him at his throat. Her friends carry her home drunk in the morning, and her uncle never says a word. Not until the boys come home with her. A talk; a fight; an ultimatum. Primadonna Comare packs her things and leaves.

“Misha wasn’t really the nicest guy. He was big though, and strong, just like his friends. My family didn’t like that he was Russian, but they couldn’t protect me back then… I thought I wanted somebody like that and I guess the money didn’t hurt either. He was ex-mafiya - not as big in the U.S., y’know? - turned gangbanger turned gambler turned… Look, we did okay for ourselves. Better than okay. An’ we did it honestly.”

Four aces in his hand, two more in Comare’s bra. She leans over to kiss him, he reaches up to “cop a feel”. He smacks her skirt as she walks away for good measure - two kings in the waist. There’s another man, as little as she is, coming opposite - a background player from a few other tapes. His jaw drops when he sees her, but he keeps the grip on his saxophone.

“I mean, Misha was fun, but I didn’t love him. Call me a gold-digger I guess, don’t care. Never figured out how a girl in it for the moolah’s worse than a guy in it for a hot piece of ass. And believe me, I know what he wanted me around for. Then I met this other guy and… He was a musician. Musicians make a lot of money…”

He’s outside the club sometimes when she goes there, saxophone in hand, flashing his big, crooked teeth at her when he grins. Cut; No soliciting! A policeman drags him up by the shirt. Comare worries but he’s there the next day, with a dent in his cheek and a purple-black eye.

Hey! Nancy! Miss me?

As if. She smirks as she walks away from him.

“He was always tryin’ to impress me - with what he’d say, with what he’d sing - but he was just a street musician, not a lotta money rolling in from that. A little while ago, though, he came into the club with us and sat down across from the guys. They were playin’ cards that time, he asked if they’d deal him in.”

You have money to place bet, little man?

As a matter a’ fact, I’m about to come into quite a bit. He eyes the Primadonna Comare and winks. Hundred thou.

Cut; Misha stands up and decks him, knocking his hat off his head and the card underneath. Cut; more sirens. Cut; everyone in handcuffs, sitting with the Wildcard in two holding cells in county.

“He started actin’ weird as soon as the cops turned up an’ got worse when they brought us in. This was… before, but hey… I like bad guys.”

He slumps, dejected, against the bars, humming some of his own. Footsteps; silence; Do me a favor, wouldja, Nance? Whatever happens, jus’ close yer eyes for me? She doesn’t. The door opens. The officer whistles and grabs her arm.

“No. No, he didn’t. He was gonna but then he… he just let go… ‘Kay? Y’know, it was really kinda romantic.”

Actually he stills; he stumbles; the puny man in the cell with her lets go of his saxophone to paw at the beefy hand around his neck. Comare is frozen until the door clangs shut again and the musician drags himself back up to her level. How much you see? She lies.

“I asked after that if he’d let me take him out to dinner. First time because I felt guilty. But there was a second time, an’ a third an’… Well, ya get the picture.”

What’s your name?

Michael Oldfield.

Like the musician?

Like the mouse.

“He said he was goin’ to Hollywood, I think he coulda made it too - smart guy like that. There was some musical competition thing he was gonna audition for, big prize money, an’ I’m older now than I was when I left home - been rollin’ in that trust fund shit since magic number twenty-five. I thought… maybe we could make it after all?”

Misha towers over her, Comare at his waist. You not leaving? For serious?

I’m sorry. This isn’t… This ain’t gonna work out.

What?! Why?! His eyes narrow into hateful little slits. Who?

“He loved me. He didn’t like bein’ stood up.” She shrugs. “I never claimed to be a mindreader. He was still screaming at me when I left, blew up my phone for days, I still hate to answer. Once or twice Mi-… new boyfriend was there, an’ he’d do it instead. Nice guy, well, I liked him. That’s a hangin’ offence.”

He gives her carnival prizes and costume jewelry, things he finds, things he can afford. She drops him off at his audition and kisses him hard. Red lips against his. I’m gonna be somebody, you just wait on it! She drives away. No one’s there when she heads back for him. Her phone buzzes on the dash. M-I-

“He’s dead.” The Primadonna Comare massages her temples, fingers circling. “It’s probably better that way. It has to be.”

Chapter 15: *CSA* (Freaktown) A Story about the Goodest Guardian

Summary:

TW: rape of a minor, beating, knife violence, yandere, cyberbullying, cyberstalking, rumour-spreading, discussion of child molestation, necrophilia, homophobia and transphobia, implied child neglect. If you think this is meant to offend you personally, it probably is. Alas, this is only somewhat an exaggeration:
https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Jo3iLtxfrUWkbPjDEvacSe0cEvt6Uzv7FGyXKV2SnQM/edit#
https://knowyourmeme.com/memes/events/zamii070-harassment-controversy
https://medium.com/@trekfaerie/antis-will-have-a-body-count-89390b491716
Also, multiple heavy foreshadowings. Guess what's coming! And can you tell who everyone is?

“Ugh. What is wrong with you? You… you freak!”

The Guardian paces in front of the stage, pink dress bunched up in both chubby hands, grumbling obscenities through her teeth. Mother Superior looks on, woefully unimpressed. Boo sobs in Kitty’s arms, clutching scraps of paper. It’s a good thing the Heiress isn’t here.

“You can’t just have her go around drawing shit like that! Especially not where other kids have to see! What the fuck?! What the fuck?!” Her eyes narrow. “… I bet you’re getting off to it.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a big pink house in a big, clean neighborhood. Phone-in-hand, the Guardian sits by the pool. A rail-thin boy skates by her - blue mohawk, sunken eyes. Her face lights up like Christmas in Manhattan. Hiiiiiiii, Ben! He skates a little faster.

On the screen of the still-on phone in her pocket:

~*Princess Boo Boo the Bouncy*~
luv u allll!!!!! freaks dni heres my carrd XOXOXOXO

princessbooboo:
uggghh i cannot BELIEVE tda would even SUGGEST that. Lord Snooterly is like twenty years older than her, right? gross old fucks are getting into media everywhere :(
#tw p*do #the duchess approves #not of this she doesnt

red-like-roses:
hey, i don’t ship it either but that was pretty normal then, and the duchess is like 20+, she’s an adult. it’s obviously not gonna be endgame anyway, geez. don’t worry.

princessbooboo:
hey arent u mutuals w thegoodwitchapproves? u know she lives in my town n the girl down the street said tgwa raped her n im pretty sure shes been offline cos shes in juvie, just so u no. dont want u pickin up bad influences sweaty OwO
#tw p*do #tw r*pe

thegoodwitchapproves:
ahem. where i’ve been isn’t any of your business, okay?

princessbooboo:
thats a yes then.

She makes herself comfortable in Kotei’s shop, snaps a picture of a plastic cup all full of pink and cherries, whipped cream and sprinkles piled up high as her hair. Ninety-seven… ninety-eight… ninety-nine… one hundred… That boy passes by again and this time there’s somebody with him - two somebodies; a teenager with oily skin and dreads, and… and a girl…

If I ordered a shot of everything, you think they’d do it?

Dare you!

The Guardian’s drink spills out over her fist.

princessbooboo:
hey skinny girls u might wanna eat a fuckin sandwich some time. u know guys just want u cuz u look like kids but wont get them arrested right?
#tw p*do #tw ana #tw mia

peekablue:
In this context, I’m side-eyeing your blog title.

princessbooboo:
fuck u trender, go get your tits cut off like a real boy would and quit talking about a minors.
#trenders dni #tw p*do

The Guardian sits in class, arms folded, mostly ignored by her peers - save a few comments about her weight. Cut; she dumps her lunch bag out on the table, joined now by a few others. Boys mostly - one in pink; one with glitter in his hair; one a practical giant with rainbow-dyed locks. The kids from the coffee shop belch the alphabet by the door. Ben sneezes on the girl’s food; she shoves his face into his tray.

doubletroubled:
Seriously, stop picking on peekablue. He’s not having a great time right now and he’s not in the mood for laughing you off.

princessbooboo:
aaawww, fujoshit girlfriends gotta stick together

doubletroubled:
I’m DMAB, you moron, can’t you at least troll me correctly?

sweetbee:
Girlfriends? Hey, blue honey, when did you start cheatin on me? ;)

peekablue:
Oh, sweetheart, don't be closed-minded. We can all be fujoshit girlfriends. ;D

Candy hearts and pink streamers, and a dozen roses. And: Wanna go to the dance with me? The boy she likes stands there and winces. The Guardian bats her lashes. How ‘bout it, Benny-Boo? Pwetty pwease? Behind her, his friends pretend to gag.

mrscody(deactivated):
The funny thing is, i always thought he’d go after Gwen, yknow? Mayyyyybe Eva. But Courtney???? COURTNEY????
#TDI #Duncan McDowel #Gwen Debenham #Courtney Shaw-Scholz #Eva Hausler #TDI Duncan #TDI Gwen #TDI Eva #TDI Courtney #Not Cody related #;p

probablynoahtamboli:
It was that or Chris.
#TDI #I hate the internet

gothgfirl:
Chris gets DUNKED!
#Total Drama #Team MCClowels

princessbooboo:
why are you shipping irl minors???? what the fuck???? die????
#tdi #tw p*do #t*tal dr*ma fans have no rights

Uh… actually, I’ve gotta… Lenny and I were gonna catch the Total Drama marathon. With Priscilla…

We wer- Ow!

The Guardian frowns deeply. I see…

princessbooboo:
didnt i say bugs bunny was gonna slip up some day? u know u cant trust fuckin transmisogynist old fucks like that
#tw p*do #tw transphobia #tw B*gs B*nny #Bugs Bunny #ProBugsBunny #AntiBugsBunny

therealicarly:
Leaving the icky stuff aside, question: isn’t a cis guy wearing a dress in public like the opposite of transmisogyny? \:S i mean, if he hated trans girls, why’d he dress like one?
#not an attack #I’m rlly curious #pls forgive the ally noob #also old? he’s 28!

gimme-t-r-o-f-y:
well i can see the point. i mean yeah we’re not a costume or sumthn. but cis people fuckin with gender helps us imo - u know when non-disabld people started buyin snuggies n fidget spinners they got cheaper for people who are? like that. we stand out less so people mind less. not like hes doin it to be funny anymore. (yeah some of his movies were gross but he was like 10 how much control did he have?)
#trans #celeb goss #movies

insideoutofthecloset:
Do we know for sure he’s cis? Did he ever say? That weird guy he lives with gives me egg vibes, anyway.
#also i dont rpf ship #and lola coelhos nice and deserves love #but… #well watch them

princessbooboo:
idk how 2 tell u this, sweaty:)))) but he’s literally a pedophile???? why r u defending a pedophile????
#tw p*do #tw fr*ks #tw bs bunny #ProBugsBunny

princessbooboo:
also isn’t @insideoutofthecloset… like… a WELL KNOWN trender???? Bleh
#trenders dni

Candles and glittery bath-bomb; the Guardian absently scrolls through her phone. There’s that boy again… with the other two, arms thrown about them. Then it’s just the two boys together. Then it’s just him and the girl. Lilac and rose and a dent in the bubbles; the Guardian shrieks and drops her phone.

wooldoorsockbat:
geez, the gwf thing got me real shaken up. they went for kids younger than me and some of em weren’t even really gay or anything. people suck.
#:( #i dunno if i am #but they didnt care

princessbooboo:
and THIS is why all u freaks need to stop with that “””kweer””” shit. being lgbt isnt some cool club u know.
#ace discourse

ghaisgeil:
....................../´¯/)
....................,/¯../
.................../..../
............./´¯/'...'/´¯¯`·¸
........../'/.../..../......./¨¯\
........('(...´...´.... ¯~/'...')
.........\.................'...../
..........''...\.......... _.·´
............\..............(
..............\.............\...
#nyaff #ace pride

jughead:
@ghasgeil <3 <3 <3 in a totally platonic way

princessclara:
Hey, stop confusing poor @wooldoorsockbat! @princessbooboo I see you understand how easy it is for young people to be misled like that. Of course that cult was awful, but it IS important to protect the children from corrupting influences!

princessbooboo:
HOW BOUT U STOP STEALING MY NAME N PEE UR PANTS U GAYBASHING HAG

angeldustxoxo69:
popcorn.gif

princessbooboo:
U TOO TRENDER

angeldustxoxo69:
It’ll cost ya and I wanna see ID. Plus I’d have to put pants *on*.
skirtswish.gif

princessbooboo:
UGGGH

She bumps into her in the crowded highschool hallway. Alone. Ugh, sorry, Candy… The Guardian keeps glaring. Whoa, intense much? Geez…

princessbooboo:
just a reminder that victims of “bullying” experience exactly the same symptoms as victims of emotional abuse. i just want u guys to know im here if u ever need to talk. XOXO luv u alllll!!!!
#bullying #ab*se #booboo’s babies

The boy approaches her after class has ended, pulls her aside. Could you maybe lay off Priscilla?

Anything for youuuuu, Ben. That night she digs through his social media. Pictures… pictures…

welcome2bonetown:
@freakofnurture and me at the Burgerphile

freakofnurture:
XD luv u dude

Bingo. freakofnurture at the mall, at the swimming pool, smoking in someone’s living room and behind the school gym. my NSFW account ;) The Guardian clicks, smiling like cyanide in the sugar bowl. #Hecazura… #Crashlaser… Duchess X Reader and Ember Island Players. The pretty pink Guardian sees red.

princessbooboo:
pbb’s people not to trust #17: anyone over 14 who still watches cbf. what kind of pervert watches baby shows when theyre adults? go do ur taxes lol
#crying breakfast friends #tw p*do

friendoffosters:
Y’know, I could just as easily say “go do your homework”.
#get off my lawn

princessbooboo:
wow ok p*do why r u interacting with a minor? ewww
#tw p*do #fr*ks dni

A few weeks pass; so far, so good. Then the female friend of a “friend” isn’t at school. Neither are the boys, for a few days. They come back quiet; she does too eventually - with long sleeves. The Guardian returns to her phone. No more “NSFW”, a lot more photos - dogs and frogs and rollerblades. Boys and Ben and an @ older sister with a toddler on her knee. The Guardian’s lip curls, but she seems focused on the boy.

princessbooboo:
if we've learned anything from the BJC disaster its that +25 yr olds still into that pop shit CANNOT be trusted
#fr*ks #tw r*pe implied #this goes double for all you “””fandom moms””” out there #git rekd #lol

highfive:
Uhhhh. Not to be that guy, but that really doesn’t seem like the issue here. Someone was kidnapped and tortured and raped, you know? Show a little respect.
#rape #torture

princessbooboo:
sorry karen have u SEEN this bitch????
#also lookin at ur blog dude and… #yikesyikesyikes #freaks stay off my post

Patience and persistence and more than a little pettiness, and finally the payoff. No more freakofnurture. The Guardian snickers into her hand. She’s almost disappointed when she sees the girl in school the next morning.

freakofnurture:
UGGGGHHHH. this site’s so stupid. I’m taking a break. close peeps hmu for my styx, then I’ll delete. don’t worry, I’m not gonna do anything dumb over those lil bitches. anyone who’s having the same problem, you don’t gotta take it, you know? stick with the good folx :D
#byebye #ww sux #fanpol

welcome2bonetown:
wow. thanks guys. u literally bullied my friend off WaddleWorld over Reptar. hope your proud of yourselves.

princessbooboo:
i am thnx
#🥳 #fr*ks #now delete your… nvrmnd

She whines to her friends, pulling her hoodie’s little pink ears. I don’t know what else to doooo… Why won’t she just go away already?! Across the cafeteria Ben says something to freak, who laughs so hard that milk shoots from her nose. Look at her with my-

Couldn’t you just… ignore her? There are lots of other boys. The Guardian turns on the rainbow giant. What? The next day he doesn’t sit there.

princessbooboo:
if your a freak supporter we ain’t friends can’t BELIEVE i gotta spell this out for some people
#🙄 #fr*ks dni #tw p*do #damn and u think u know someone

princessbooboo:
@barabarian lookin at you
#srsly wtffffff

What if Ben didn’t like Priscilla anymore? asks the boy with glitter in his hair. Can’t be too hard to manage, right?

Riiiight… the Guardian says slowly, lightbulb going off inside her head.

princessbooboo:
great THANKS MOM i had to hang out with the anime club fuckboys cuz U FORGOT TO PICK ME UP. AGAIN. this happens like EVERY WEEK. *siiiiiiiigh* oh well, she got me new hair stuff to make up for it, but i dunno. she only does that when i’m mad at her.
#lesson learned #nice adults only want stuff from you #tw gr**ming #not for s*x #but still bad #dont be stupid learn to spot it

Afternoon sunlight filters through the trees at the edge of the park. Two boys hidden in the shrubs; the Guardian flashes a pink-polished thumbs up. Three teenagers coming up the sidewalk; the boys veer right, leaving their third friend alone.

princessbooboo:
R*pe Survivor Support List
list under the cut to spare ur feed. u r not alone!!! u deserve help!!!
#tw r*pe #tw p*do #ProDarlaDimple #little ark angel #luv ya grrrl! #hope d*niel c*t*l*n got r*ped too #DanielCuntalan

doubletroubled:
*looks at tags* I appreciate the sentiment, but wasn’t Danny Catalan found innocent weeks ago?

princessbooboo:
god whyyyy r u so dumb? u said the same thing about b*gs b*nny.
#freaks dni #ughhhhh

doubletroubled:
Er. Yes? Because he was?

princessbooboo:
UGH yeah because the system is STUPID!!!!! seriously fuck off and stop harassing a minor

doubletroubled:
Sorry??? I’m harassing *you*? Please seek help.

princessbooboo:
pls die
#kys #srsly #im begging u

flutterina:
Wow, read the news lately?
#ALSO #mature much???? #as someone who used to be a lot like this #yikes #the cringe is real

doubletroubled:
@flutterina, don’t help me.

NOW! she yells, and they jump on her. freak in the back, the Guardian in the front and her two male friends on either side. She stands off to the side as they grab her rival and force her down, force her legs apart - well, one of them does that, the other covers her mouth, sitting on her chest so she can’t break away. The Guardian does help them remove freak’s pants.

zombutterfly:
PSA: Look out for people who won’t respect your wishes. I don’t mean major things either - Does he listen when you tell him that joke makes you uncomfortable? Does he constantly ‘forget’ about something you’ve told him to stop doing? Chances are that he isn’t about to change when it comes to other kinds of consent. I can’t help but feel a little stupid for not realizing that sooner.
#Personal #Abuse Mention #Rape Mention #Well Not Exactly #But It’s Implied

princessbooboo:
THIS THIS THIS
#Hecazura #HecateXAzura #anti Hecazura #Hecabuser stans get fucked

zombutterfly:
Look, I know you’re trying to help, but please don’t hijack my posts and make it about fandom. Azura can’t feel pain. My trauma isn’t writing advice.
#Personal

princessbooboo:
its all the same thing tho??? like arent u a coroner? if i go and fuck one of ur patients ud get mad right??? they cant feel anything either soooo
#tw n*cro #shipper shit

princessbooboo:
hey zombutterfly blocked me after that…not sayin i was onto smthin but she got that fucked up infection in her face SOMEHOW right??? i mean who else would want her bitch ass but sm1 who cant hear her talk. also isnt she pagan? one of the weird kinds who do creepy shit with dead stuff???
#tw n*cro

They stand back when: freak’s hair is good and bloody (it was white before, now it looks red); her eyes are sunken; she isn’t crying, but there are bruises that look like tear tracks and little weeping scrapes. The Guardian focuses on the wounds and doesn’t see, as she never has seen, the little pink-and-white-and-orange-striped badge on freakofnurture’s bag strap, however much it clashes with her blue and green and grey.

“Like there was this one girl at my school who legit defended pedophila and incest and I’m sorry but I don’t feel bad that something happened to her. She looks just like her creepy sister now, maybe she should thank me!”

The Guardian steps forward, camping knife flicks open. I’ll let you pick, she says sweetly. Your face orrrr…? No opinion? Let’s do both then. But she balks when the tip touches freak’s forehead. Maybe she didn’t think there would be that much blood.

“-and then you get these… these people - and I use that term very loosely - who think that, like, it’s okay to just…” She huffs, nostrils flaring, too caught up to see the Noncomposer snap a picture with his phone (Emily, show this to your sister, won’t you?) “Nobody wants to see shit like that!” She doesn’t notice the little “ding” of a response either, or when the Pianist pulls the Tailor to the side.

welcome2bonetown:
Sorry, guys. I’ve gotta be offline for a few weeks, maybe? A friend of mine is having trouble IRL and I wanna have time to support them.
#brb

The Guardian scrubs her hands raw and does not look in the bathroom mirror; pours bleach into the sink to get rid of all the pink inside. That night she keeps herself up, scrolling through post after post after… It isn’t guilt, she has to tell herself at school after the long weekend. She was just a freak. She was only a freak… She reads welcome2bonetown’s post and types b back soon, miss u bby and it bounces back, blocked.

princessbooboo:
@welcome2bonetown. its rlly gonna be like that huh??? good luck fucking her with that big ass scar on her face.
#shes probably got aids anyway #BELIEVE ME u dont wanna touch that

princessbooboo:
srry bennyboo 😭😭😭😭😭 i didn’t mean it!!!!

“I can’t believe I thought this place would be different! Nope! You’re all as brain-dead as every other freak in the world! Maybe worse!”

sweetbee:
I don’t like to get in on callout posts cause they’re usually wrong, and I’d like you guys to not spread this around a bunch, but I wanna warn my followers to stay away from princessbooboo. Here’s a whole doc of shit she’s said, and on top of that she kinda gives me bad vibes. Like it’s not just all talk.

gl1tchtech:
Doesn’t @freakofnurture live near her? And she had some kind of grudge? I might be wrong, but steer clear, kiddo. (I know you haven’t been on for a while. Hope you see this.)

“How many of you were even raped, anyway? How do you know that creep’s not making it up?! Or her! Or him!”

There’s a helpline poster in the girls’ bathroom, with little numbered tabs that tear away. Calisota… Sexual Trauma… Support… Maybe they’ll understand.

“-and don’t even start with that ‘live and let live’ shit! The only good freak is a dead freak and- Oh, shut up!”

barabarian:
Concerning the Boo Boo debacle: yes, we used to be compatriots. Yes, I have seen the post currently going around. More below the cut.
#suicide baiting #apology #shipping discourse

“You know what? I came here to help today, but-”

The Guardian sits in the Mother’s office, speeding through paperwork with a sparkle ballpoint. So of course I want to help. It’s just terrible what kind of awful people are out there!

“I guess some people do deserve… Huh?” A uniformed police officer pokes his head in through the door.

princessbooboo:
got some stuff goin on so i shld probly take a break. gonna go do smthn helpful irl. peepz need me! b back soon! luv ya boiz n grrlzzz!
#booboo’s babies

“Let me go! I’m a minor! You can’t do this!” The Guardian struggles on the floor as the men in blue lean over her, cuffing both arms behind her back. “What the fuck is wrong with all of you?”

Chapter 16: (Freakazoid) A Story about Mrs. Ashley Huggbees (of Fullers’ Earth, Arizona) / A Story about In Sickness

Summary:

TW: rape, betrayal, disbelief.

“Well, since you said Freakazoid was too ‘ne-ga-tive’…” He punctuates the syllables with air quotes on both hands.

“Hey, cut that out. I know it sounds kinda weird, but it’ll make sense when ‘In Health’ is… She’ll be here. Probably.”

The nerd with the laptop and glasses is not Huggbees. The man with the Scottish accent and the beard is not Huggbees. And for that matter neither is the pretty blonde girl. Nobody’s entirely sure why they’re here so much (to stop him from throwing donuts again? Moral support?) but right now it’s to block off all the exits. Strange - but not that strange - since the pajama-clad loon onstage might be hopping on one foot and humming “Baby Shark”, but he hasn’t actually tried to run.

In Sickness is few words in a big package. Quiet, stocky, eyebrows drawn. There’s an engagement ring on the wrong finger.

Huggbees pouts, crossing his arms and scowling. “He would think it was funny - my… uh, this guy I know. The quintessential buddy-cop as it were - being that he’s both a cop and my buddy, y’know? Like a werewolf! Or Mothman! Or a platypus! What were we… oh! Yeah, so we used to be friends. Best friends. Eh, maybe we can figure something out.”

“Boy, is she somethin’ special, I tell you what. Real classy lady - like the ones in the old Hollywood movies, the kind they made before you were born… okay, before my time too, but you see what I mean. Not like some people.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Huggbees walks home from school, tossing his bag up into the air and catching it again. One of his brothers (who is bigger) jostles the other (who is not) and Huggbees puts him into a headlock.

Hey, cut that out. Sickness walks towards them. Oh, it’s you, Doug. Say, you wanna grab a soda?

DO I?!

“Man, isn’t he the greatest? HEY, RODDY? HOW COME WE NEVER DO STUFF LIKE THAT?!”

“Would ye give it a rest, lad? Sugar puts weasels in yer fool head!”

“Hmph. You’re a killjoy, you know that, Roddy? A killjoy and what’s more, I hope you trip at the zoo, there I said it! With the pandas watching - and God! See, C- he would never do me like this - and- NO, he didn’t… Sheesh, give a guy a minute to explain, will ya? He’s a good guy, I promise, a good, good guy… yeah.”

“The problem isn’t her - it’s hers. Sorry, I guess that don’t make sense, what I mean is… I got this friend, right? Weird kid, but I liked him well enough. That… was a mistake. He’s jealous of her, you almost gotta feel bad about that.”

Cosgrove’s got a girlfriend! Cosgrove’s got a girlfriend! And he does - she’s blonde and so thin that the bones stick out, tightening and stretching out her skin. And the way that his friend looks at her…

“And I was okay with that, right? Why wouldn’t I be? Why, I thought he’d never get married! Okay, so maybe I made fun of him… a little. Ah, gimme a break, it’s charming! And, no, like I was saying, he didn’t fuck me up for that - not even a little. She did.” He turns in a nervous circle, chewing his lower and upper lips in a - quite frankly, impressive - show of dexterity. “Weeeellllll, don’t know about for. Maybe she just wanted- I don’t know. I don’t know!”

“I didn’t tell him at first, but that was mostly ‘cause I didn’t wanna hear his teasing. The minute I did say something… He’s jealous,” In Sickness says again. “That’s gotta be it.”

Sickness and the woman take up samba lessons. He hasn’t smiled this wide in years. Cut; they’re at the country club, Huggbees in line for the bathroom when the woman passes by. A waiter walks straight into her and she slaps him halfway across the room. Huggbees watches, completely beneath notice, but In Sickness is nowhere to be seen. Cut; You gotta stay away from her, she’s bad people!

No one talks that way about Mary Beth! Not even you, Dougal.

“I tried to tell him, y’know, but he wouldn’t listen to me! That’s not fair, I’ve known him longer, right?! Maybe he wouldn’t believe her if it went the other way around… Oh well, I guess that’s show business.” With no warning whatsoever Huggbees bursts into tears.

“Even after… all of that, well, I still thought maybe we could get past that. My gal - oh, is she a woman - said dinner at her place. Kinda wish he hadn’t come.”

The woman enters Sickness’ office, smacks her lips, pinches his cheek. She smiles and takes Huggbees’ hand, and (for lack of a better option) he goes along with it. Why don’t the three of us have dinner tonight? Mikey here’s told me so much about you!

“And before you say anything, I know, okay? I’m a sucker, I’m an idiot, blah blah blah blah. But c’mon! Knowing some chick’s bad news is a little different from… from… So yeah, I went there, I went along with it… I got lost on the way back from the potty, she said she’d help me back to the dining room. Then she FUCKED me! Who does that?!”

“We were there, I dunno, twenty minutes before he ran off to the can and she had to help him on the way back… and afterward… Geez Louise, the things he said…”

The dinner; the bathroom; the way back. Huggbees startles when the woman brushes against him by the wall. Whoa, what about Cosgrove? But she doesn’t listen. And neither does his friend. Cut; Sickness waits in the dining room, checks his watch. They’ve been gone for a while. Cut; Huggbees calls later, clutching the phone, hugging his knees on his brother’s bed. Please, you gotta- There’s the sound of the call cutting out.

Across town, In Sickness throws his phone down on the dresser. Nothing, Mary Beth, don’t worry about it…

“I thought we should call the police, get his other buddies to, I dunno, taze some sense into him but nooooo - Dex said not to bother. I mean, I guess it didn’t go so well for some of you - policy-police stuff - but these guys love me! Then again, I thought he did too… in a straight way. Hey, maybe if he was gay I could… Nah.” It’s funny even though it isn’t - Huggbees tips his head back, hysterical laughter fills the room. “I would though, if I thought it would work. I miss him. I miss him.”

“So, I guess, what I’m here for is… How ya supposed to spring that on someone? I know she didn’t do it. I know she wouldn’t do something like, well… but it’d freak anyone out, wouldn’t it?” Sickness puts one beefy hand over his eyes, massaging them. “Why’d he hafta to go and do this?”

Chapter 17: (Sherlock Holmes in the 22nd Century) A Story about the Psychologist's Dilemma

Summary:

TW: rape, mentioned child abuse, physical assault, brain damage, inability to communicate.

Since there are dozens of cartoons about Sherlock Holmes variations we're considering having it be a traditional family name so all of them can be around. They're probably cousins of Basil.

“Time to- No. Let’s get up now, old boy. There’s a good chap. Busy day ahead.”

“Don’t talk to him like he’s a child.”

“I wasn’t… I didn’t mean-”

“Stop. Please, just stop… Uh, he’s right though. We’ve got plans, remember that?”

Superego grumbles illegibly, tries to rub the sleep from his eyes. He misses, reaches for his temple instead, fingers tangled in the unruly blond hair. He tries for his eye again and forgets to close it. The third time, something - someone - stays his hand. Ego sits down on the bed next to him, turning the covers all the way down. Middle-aged man, brown hair, brown eyes behind the glasses, and an impressive girth. He has a sort of rumpled, tired look to him, like he’s been sleeping on the floor. Id leans in from the hall with a comb in one hand and a toothbrush in the other. She tosses the first to Ego and scrubs the second across her tongue intermittently, picking a bra up off the floor with her toes. One of the straps is broken and tied back off. One of the cups has lost its shape.

“Hey. Hey, listen to me. W-we told you about our… friend, right? Please let me do this.” He has to whisper that last part to Id. She glares at him anyway. As if he’s lost his mind. “No, you… you wouldn’t know him. No…” He looks at Id again, pleading.

“… You would have liked him, Sherlock Holmes.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a family portrait. Premise: Portly figures. Dark eyes. Black hair. One wedding ring - turned religiously. Young children. Three and one. His father has dented knuckles and plaster on his shoe. There’s the smell of fresh paint wafting in from the hall. Conclusion: One of these things does not belong.

“He never spoke of his family, not really… Careful now. Hold still so I can- There’s a good lad.” Superego’s naked reflection in the bathroom mirror. Running water. He struggles, getting into the shower, but Ego holds him fast. “I’m sorry, I know… Please. It can’t be that bad.” A shudder runs through both of them. A shriek. A sigh. “I know there was some trouble with… his father. But otherwise…”

A classroom. Premise: Restless children. Ticking clock. Young, pretty teacher. He raises his hand. She stifles a groan. Chipped nails. Blotchy makeup. More on one side. Female students sit closer to the front. Conclusion: Trouble in paradise. (His mother scolds him for phrasing it like this - And anyway, it’s none of our business).

“He was the most incredible man I knew. He must have been brilliant even then.”

An auditorium. Sparsely decorated. Premise: Tear-free hairspray. Tiny bruises. Smaller scrapes. Stains on sleeve corners. Bile. Bubblegum. Tufts of teddy bear fur. Conclusion: The dean is abusing his young daughter. (Nobody listens, of course.)

“We met here, you know? I was… Beth introduced us. She wanted you… him… It was for a case we’d been investigating.”

“I’m still amazed that Grayson went for it,” Id says as she hands him a towel, “based on the word of one doctor and an agent he doesn’t even like.”

“One doctor? Really now, Lestrade!” He leans toward Superego and grumbles something about forensics. “… and you know it too!”

An office. Premise: Expensive hair gel. Bangs in the eyes. Unsettled nibbling at his inner cheek. He pounds on his desk. Screams in their faces. Flinches at footsteps in the hall. The trash is overflowing. Paper cups. Brown teeth. The smell of coffee. Missing diamond. Scratched wedding ring. I’ll try anything. Conclusion: Money troubles. Overtired. Overworked.

“Here, eat something. We can talk more later.”

“I’ll stay and-”

“No, go get ready. I can take care of him.”

A notebook. Premise: Dog-eared pages. Blonde hair. Brown and black. Blue eyes. Green eyes. And so on. Young faces. Young, pretty faces. Fewer pictures than those on his phone. A tiny, tiny ginger girl. The boy from Exploradora’s music room. Lady Reynard’s fiancé. The Costume Jewel. The Knave. Lady Reynard herself. Bristle and bruises. Inspector Curiosity and the missing deputy. Conclusion: The Sheriff knew.

“We’d been working the case for months by the time he finally had that breakthrough.”

“That breakthrough. Of course, there were others before-”

“Watson! Ugh, I told you…” She sighs. “He’s right though. We’d been working the case for months by the time they bought that the police were compromised. It wasn’t the first thing you noticed. But we think that’s the one that… We think that's the one.”

A private visitation. Premise: Blond man. Small. Pale. Twitching fingers. He smirks. Superego smirks. And they stare at each other. And how long has your niece’s friend been missing? A flickering eyelid over one gleaming blue eye. The corners of the lips tugging up. Conclusion: (Obviously) this one knows something too. (He’d have liked to ask the Sheriff. The Sheriff is no help.)

Id forgoes the napkin and wipes oatmeal from his chin with her bare hand. “There we go…”

Superego makes a shrugging motion - that is decidedly not a shrug - and hunches forward. He looks miserable.

“What’s wrong? You didn’t tell him about the- er…”

“No, but I was about to. We can’t just not-”

“What about us?”

“What about us?”

An all-night diner. Premise: Id and Ego. Stakeout. Bits of napkin between his fingers. Bits of upholstery under her nails. They look at him one way. They look at each other. Heart rate. Tension. Expensive cologne. Not, ah, work-related. but I have a bit of a proposition for you. Conclusion: The answer is Yes.

“That sort of thing is probably twenty different kinds of unethical - illegal, maybe. Thank God Grayson never found out. I was your supervising agent and…”

“His supervising agent.”

“Ugh. It would have been even worse with you.” She scowls at Ego, rolls her eyes. Sighs like it hurts her. “It was us and it wasn’t, Holmes. Me and him. Him and him. Even without our jobs on the line people wouldn’t have understood it.”

“Back then it wouldn’t have mattered.”

She laughs. “No, it wouldn’t have. That was the thing y-… He had this way about him - like he could turn you inside out. And you’d thank him for it.”

The water cooler. Premise: Id. Slick lips. Traces of glitter. Dark trails under her eyes. Short hair. Stubble. Quirky movements. She picks at her waistband. Scratches her chest. Conclusion: Makeup. Lingerie. And discomfort.

That doesn’t make you a woman, you realize? She bristles. Er… I didn’t mean- You don’t need that lot if… I could love a woman, just as well as any man, I think. If it were you.

“I always wondered… I…”

“Beth…”

“I kept waiting for him to change his mind.”

“I…” Ego reaches out, but drops his hand down to grip Superego’s shoulder instead. “We’ll wait in the car.”

His own apartment. Premise: Television rattle. Radio babble. Electric fan. The window is shut. The rug is spotless. The plastic fern is exactly two feet, two inches from the door. The leaves are shaking. Conclusion: He is not alone.

“C-come along, old man… What’s the matter? I’m sorry, I didn’t… I shouldn’t have-”

A man in the bedroom. PRemise: Broad shoulders. Pomade. Cologne. Too much cologne. Toothy smile. Unzipped pants. Sweat. Pre-ejaculate. Peppermint. Butterscotch. Tobacco. Warmth. Eye contact. (Or the lack thereof.) Tongue clicking. Conclusion: He is not alone.

PRemise: Club foot. Flat nose. Hoarse breath. Gun-

He lets go of the service rifle he’d been holding and winces as it hits the ground. Antique. It isn’t loaded anyway.

He plays with the window buttons until Ego stops him. Holds Superego still long enough to buckle him into place. He flicks the button again. The child-locks click down.

PRemise: Butterscotch. Peppermint. Tobacco. And the sickly-salty taste of disease. Of needles. Open sores. There’s no hesitation. Tongue against his tonsils. Choking him so he can’t breathe.

PRemise: Velvet. Suede. Quality leather. Sour laundry. The smell of bottom shelf liquor on his clothes. And iron. Strong hands. No calluses. Trace amounts of animal hair. Yellow fur. Smells like red meat. Childhood scar above the clavicle. Accident. Finger shaped bruises on his hand-backs. Not an accident. A patch of torn-out hair. Definitely not an accident.

PRemise: Crutch blisters. Black bruises. Heavy breathing. Strength in bursts. Fingers dig into Superego’s right bicep. Short fingers. 22 mm. Dark hair. Foul smell. Jutting ribs. Half-moon palms. A button torn loose that falls to the floor.

Conclusion: This is going to happen. This is really going to happen.

“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have just… Sorry.” Id climbs into the passenger seat, wiping her eyes. “We won’t be late, will-”

“No, I don’t think so. Actually, I’m not quite sure it works that way. Do you think he’ll be… alright?”

“I talked to Ms. Poppins on the phone about it. She said… it’ll be okay.”

“Will you?”

Conclusion: This isn’t what gets you off, is it? The little man. A flash of anger. A flash of fear. I hope you realize he’ll never love you. Conclusion: He raises the gun but doesn’t discharge it. It comes down instead. Repeatedly. Conclusion: Superego lays there - skull cracked, ears trickling blood.

“I still don’t know what happened, not really. Maybe I should have stayed in the room when… never mind.”

“I wasn’t there either.”

“You had an excuse.”

Twenty-two days. Premise: A woman. Hair extensions. Balding patch. Waxed-away stubble. Kleenex by his bedside. Nervous smile. Careful eyes. Conclusion: Id. Premise: A man. Potbelly. Glasses. Brown hair. Middle-aged. Rust-stained fingers. Gentle touch. Clinical. Conclusion: Not Ego. Not Ego. NotEgonotEgononononono-

Superego curses and pushes him away.

“You know it’s not your fault he reacted that way? Or his. The doctor said-”

“I’m familiar with Capgras syndrome, thank you. I went to medical school too, did I not?” He sighs. “… Apologies. I shouldn’t have snapped at you. It’s just that I wonder… is he still afraid of me? Does he still not know who I…”

An officer. Premise: You okay there? Fingers twisting around that badge. Nicotine patch. Chapped lips. Where is Ego? Uh, Calhoun’s niece has got that, I think. The twitching… Where has he heard that before? Bit of a waver. Bit of a whimper. Hands trembling around the rolling tape. You’re really Sherlock Holmes? The Sherlock Hol- Maybe Ego’s run off back to England. Gone to visit… to visit… Superego’s whole body seizes. He pitches backwards and into the wall.

Premise: Brown-Hair, with the turtles on her hankie, doesn’t look anyone in the eyes. But she stares at him. Premise: Blond-Hair, with the sweat-smell and jacket, jostles him. Mumbling. Premise: Blond-Hair, with the spray-on-tan, adjusts his belt buckle. Looks at the pretty French-vanilla one with the blue dress and scratches his groin. Premise: The glasses-wearing one with Ophiuchus’ face on his shirt scrunches his nose as he talks to the one with the camera. But not all the time.

Conclusion: …

Conclusion:

Chapter 18: (OK K.O.!) A Story about Venom Smoke and Nature’s Cure-All

Summary:

TW: rape, captivity, murder, identity theft, drugs, child witnessing violence.

“My dearest, my darling, my love…”

A bottle of Nature’s Cure-All in the pocket of the man pacing the parking lot, flesh pressed against plastic. His round frame consistently goes back and forth in front of his partner who is currently leaning against the Palace wall, taking a deep inhale of hookah from the pipe in his hand. Venom Smoke.

“You know I love you. I do! And I don’t want to push… but after that little display, I have to know.” Nature’s Cure-All stops and looks Venom Smoke in the eyes. “What. The fuck. Just happened.”

“There’s… something you should know.”

“Obviously! I- Look, is there something I can do to help?”

Venom Smoke stares into the distance. Blank-faced. “I came here with my wife once, before the theater closed down. Ex-wife.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a younger, healthier looking Venom, arm around a woman with bleached-blonde hair. The Pearl dances around the stage; black lips, black dress, black curtains coming down as the audience cheers.

“You… never told me you were married before me.”

“Once. And…” Venom takes another inhale of his smoke. “… it’s… complicated.”

“I figured. But I’m smart, and… we can talk this out, you know? Whatever it is.”

A sigh. “Well, then. For starters I think you should probably know that, for our entire relationship, I have been using a fake name.”

“… What.”

The healthier Venom Smoke takes the woman to a lot of places. The cafe that’s just down the block. The university library. The park on the corner of 54th Avenue and Johnson Street. They exchange rings in the courthouse five blocks east.

“Well, I say fake. It’s probably more accurate to say that it was stolen.” Venom’s eyes go even darker than the smoke he inhales. “But just trust me. I wear it better than the bastard that I took it from.”

A life on fast forward: there’s a party; there’s a honeymoon; there’s a baby on the way. Venom Smoke kisses his pregnant wife and heads out to the university. Arsenius Fink. He waves at the office and walks past it to the plate labeled Blaise Kincaid.

“We worked together. We weren’t friends, but I knew him. And he knew of me, I guess…”

After hours, Venom makes his own smoke in the chemistry lab. Before classes, students come to him. Most of them are not his own.

“Okay… okay… so…” Nature’s Cure-All takes a moment to process what was said. “So you have not used your real name the entire time we have known each other?”

“Not even once.”

“And… the man you took it from-”

“Oh, he’s dead. I killed him. But that part comes a bit later.”

Venom calls his wife. Sorry, dear, it’s another late night… Just have to save up extra hours so that when the baby comes… Oh, yes, yes, of course, you call right away if you need to go to the hospital. I’ll be home in about four hours. I love you. He hangs up the phone. It will be the last time he ever hears her voice.

“What about you? Who are you, really?”

A sigh. “To be honest, I’m not so sure myself. The man I was… he died a long, long time ago.” A chuckle. “Everyone else probably thinks it was in that explosion - did news of that ever reach Elmore?”

The lab’s on fire. Venom’s on the floor, breathing in real smoke and fumes from worse. Beakers burst and shatter in the heat. Eventually the windows follow suit. He tries to say something. A prayer; an apology; a plea- But there’s only coughing and choking and heaving. Everything goes black.

“The CCU fire…”

“Oh, so it did make the news. I wondered.”

“Blai-”

“Don’t.” Venom Smoke holds up his hand. “Please don’t. Please.”

To his amazement, he regains his vision. At first he wonders if he was wrong about what happens when you die… He pinches himself. The pain is all too real. He shifts his leg. The shackle is too.

“Sorry.” Nature’s Cure-All holds up his hands. “But everyone did think you were dead. What happened?”

“He happened.”

Venom’s startled by the sound of footsteps on the stairs. He leaves the cot he’s on, stands firm, ready for a fight. When the door opens, he blinks in confusion. … Arsenius? What are you-

The man whose name Venom will steal walks over and slaps him across the face.

“You know? It’s almost funny. I never found out why he saved me. If you could call it that. Why he did any of what he did to me. He never said, and I learned not to ask.” Smoke exhales again. “So I suppose I’ll never know.”

His namesake doesn’t waste much time in getting on top of him, healing burns be damned. He cleans Venom up afterwards at least. And the wounds don’t fester. They don’t heal either. And neither do the new ones that open up between his legs.

“What are you implying…?”

“I’m not implying anything. I’m telling you how it was.”

The nights go on, and Venom begins to lose track. The man stops by each and every one, though. Sometimes the pain he brings involves Venom below him, sometimes it involves physical violence, sometimes neglect. The once-muscular man slowly becomes thin.

“How long were you kept down there?”

“Years. About six if you want a number. Or at least that’s what I estimate.” A sigh. “And the man wasn’t exactly silent the entire time…”

Poison in his veins. Poison down his legs. Poison in his ear.

Did your wife know about your little side hustle? I’ll bet she did. Probably glad you’re gone. Better she raise the son of the tragic loss than the son of a drug cooker.

Venom stays silent, and does not disagree.

“God…”

He says the same thing with a lot more enthusiasm, bounding at the walls, at the windows, at the doors. His hair gets longer. His blood vessels burst and break in the perpetual dim. Almost all of him is purple - it’s hard to see in the near-dark.

“I never met Panya’s mother. He wasn’t married - I wonder if he’d have been able to do half the things he did if someone else was waiting up for him. Not that it’s an experiment I’d care to try, mind you.”

This time the man comes down the stairs holding something - a tiny baby wrapped in a green blanket. Here, take this. Venom does, with shaking arms. I got you a friend! Aren’t you going to thank me?

“I… didn’t know for certain that she was his until later. Birth records. She was born in a hospital at least.”

The most he gives to the girl Venom holds is a name. You take good care of Panya. He leaves shortly afterwards. Venom stares at the girl, sleeping as she was. Holds her close, and for the first time in a long time, he smiles.

“So he just… left her with you?”

“I’m not entirely sure what his reasoning was either.” A shrug. “And I’m not sure I’d care to. It sounds strange, but… just being able to hold a child, even if she wasn’t supposed to be ‘mine’… It felt nice.”

To the man’s credit, he does leave supplies. Diapers. Formula. Venom uses everything with diligence. The girl cries, and she is always attended to. He rocks her, feeds her, changes her. And a light that had left his eyes slowly returns.

“A girl. My own was a boy… or he was when we got the ultrasound, anyway… but I’d always wanted a daughter. And make no mistake. Blood or no, Panya is mine.”

She gets a little older. Climbs into his cot. She’s still too young to understand the real reason why Venom Smoke built her that fort out of boxes. Or why she’s supposed to sit there when the man from upstairs comes down.

“I didn’t want her to see something like that. Too late. Too… She wouldn’t cover her ears.”

Venom sobs into his hands. The girl comes over and climbs into his lap. Sir?

You don’t have to call me that-

Sir!

He laughs. Harder than the situation warrants. It feels good.

“That… sounds like Hell.”

“Oh, trust me. It was. But with her…” a smile, “it was much less so.”

Still young. The girl clings to Venom, refuses to be put in the fort. Refuses to sleep anywhere but on him. Any time she’s in plain sight, the man from upstairs is far more hesitant around her Sir. And as far as she’s concerned that’s nothing but good.

“But… you got out. You got both of you out.”

“I’m getting to that part.” A sigh of smoke. “It started when he began taking her away a few times.”

Neither Venom nor the girl likes it when she gets dragged away, but she’s never hurt. She goes to the park. To the ice cream shop. To meet other children. Still, Venom always clings too tightly when she returns.

“He wanted a daughter, I suppose. He did want her… but obviously his parenting skills were lacking. When she turned five he told us she’d need to start kindergarten. And that meant taking her away from me.”

Venom Smoke gets down on his knees and begs his captor, wrapping both arms around his waist. He pleads. The man tells him to get up off the floor and yanks his - their - crying child away by the arm.

Venom looks at his husband, deathly calm. “This is the part where I kill him.”

“Can’t really say I blame you.”

Dark eyes go red. Venom sneers. He reaches his hands out and grabs the other man by his throat. You’re not taking her away from me! For once the other man is beneath him. For once, his is the face that goes purple. As Venom tightens his grip, as the other man struggles… and then stills. He still doesn’t release his hold until a smaller hand places itself on his arm.

Sir…?

“Honestly?” His husband nods. “Serves the bastard right.”

Another exhale. “I… considered contacting the authorities. After everything he’d done, the murder would have been ruled as self defense. But…” A sigh. “That probably would have resulted in Panya being placed in foster care. I might have been able to get her back eventually, but I didn’t want to risk it. So I thought of a… different solution.”

They go upstairs to the rest of the house. There’s a fridge fully stocked with just about everything - what seems like it, anyway. There’s a bathtub that runs warm water - hot water, even - and a bed instead of an old army cot.

“And a cabinet of records - his birth certificate, the deed to the house… I sold it using a middleman. It took six months. Then we left.”

“So you’re… you-”

“I’m not the man I said I was. I’m… I did what I had to do. I’m sorry for getting you wrapped up in it. I didn’t mean to, you understand? I know that’s not-”

“Whaaat? I’m not angry!”

“Most people would be. You should be.”

His husband shrugs. “I’m not most people. Besides, given my… side business, I’ve seen worse. Most you did was kill someone who deserved it.”

“And lied to you.”

His husband smiles. “About your name. But everything else?”

Nature’s Cure-All is taking his own children to the park when he spots Venom Smoke sitting on a bench. He sits down beside him. So, which one is yours?

“You’re still the man who cries at Titanic. Still the father who won’t go to bed until he’s sure Panya's asleep. And still the one whose restless leg syndrome wakes him up at night. That part… the you part… you never lied about. And I fell in love with you. Not your name.”

“If you ask me, that’s a hell of an underreaction.”

Someone hits fastforward and the tape speeds up again. Venom and Cure-All meet up for coffee. Venom and Cure-All on their first date… and second and- Venom and Cure-All in bed together. Venom and Cure-All exchanging rings.

“I mean… it’s not like I have a lot of room to judge. You’re just committing… what? Fraud? Bigamy? Been there. Done that. Blah blah blah.”

Venom chuckles. “I suppose you have, haven’t you?”

“And worse!” Cure-All frowns. “But… knowing all of this, are you going to be okay? Being back here?”

A final inhale. “I’ll be fine. We’re only here for a few weeks anyway.”

Venom and Cure-All pass through a neighborhood. The one Venom knew as Hell… though he doesn’t realize until he sees the house. The world goes black around him.

“What if you run into someone… from before…?”

Venom Smoke sighs. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. “They won’t recognize me. Not at all.” He looks at his hands. “Besides… Blaise Kincaid died in that basement. All they would see is a ghost.”

Chapter 19: *CSA* (My Little Pony Tales) Stories about the Real World

Summary:

TW: child-on-child sexual harassment and assault, racism, anti-Semitism, Islamophobia, misogyny, public humiliation, kidnapping, victim blaming.

A Story about the Seven Continents

“I’m North America. We came from Montreal.”

She pulls herself up from where she stumbled, grumbling over her broken charm bracelet (Star of David; wampum beads; tiny rhinestone clover hanging by a thread).

“I’m South America. We came from Olinda.”

She pushes wispy hair into a sunshiney headwrap, as yellow as the stickers she put on her notebook (just to cover up her real name).

“I’m Africa. We came from Alexandria.”

She’s pink all over. Too much blush applied too heavily. Blue nails to match her shayla. Sparkly lipgloss to match her eyes.

“I’m Europe. We came from Sarajevo… after Dad came from Lashar.”

She speaks through half a cinnamon donut, yellow crumbs collecting in the folds of her purple chador. More sit in the box next to her.

“I’m Asia. I’m from… okay, I don’t know where exactly. It was a closed adoption. My parents say somewhere in Turkmenistan. That’s where my mom is from.”

She has skinned knees and a patch on her soccer shorts, dirt on her face and light brown hands full of gravel.

“I’m Oceania. We came from Mangilao - apparently.”

She tugs down an auburn braid, pulling it taut. There’s ink on her sweater and rubber eraser bits and graphite. There are gray streaks where her sleeves brushed up against her face.

“I’m… I’m not from anywhere, but…”

Antarctica fidgets with a heart shaped button and then - once this comes loose - moves on to her strawberry blonde hair. Violet-eyed and pale to the point of near-translucence. And wholly, solidly, snow-flakishly white.

“We’re really truly trying to find some middle ground.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; from the schoolhouse to the ice cream shop to sleepovers. Seven painted houses up and down the same street. They go between them at all hours without fear - it’s safe in the suburbs.

“We’ve all been best friends since… well, since I don’t know.”

“I guess since school started - the classes are so small that we’ve always been in the same one. Maybe that’ll be different once we get to middle school.”

“We’ll still be friends though! We’ll always be fr-”

“Well, that goes without saying.”

North America’s parents fix them carrot tzimmes and three sisters soup; they play house with a faceless doll.

Oh! Just looking at it gives me the willies!

Hey! Cheval’s sister made her for me!

South America’s mother cooks up moqueca in the back of her shop, and they wash it down with ice cream sodas. The preto-velho figures watch them from the shelf above the window.

Are you… really truly sure that isn’t… insensitive? My parents-

Amara, I want you to look at me and ask that again.

Africa’s mother serves rice with kushari or fiteer baladi with chòu dòufu or congee with bamia stew. (When she’s not working; when she’s not about to work.) Africa microwaves macaroni while her sisters fish ghorayeba from the cookie jar.

Gosh, Melody, I didn’t know they had tofu in Egypt.

Like, duh. There are Chinese people there too. Where do you think my wàigōng came from?

“I think part of the problem is that we’re just really truly… different. Is that the right way to put it? I can’t tell. My parents always told me race shouldn’t matter when you pick your friends.”

“What about religion?”

“No! Never! Or… or anything else.”

Europe’s kitchen smells like hot klepe and tahdig, but there’s never enough room at the table. The Continents eat ruske kape and masghati on the floor. Her chador lies in a heap on her bed.

I thought you were Muslim?

We’re all girls here. And my family doesn’t count.

Asia’s parents skewer up shashlik on the grill out back, washed down with kefir. The girls run around her bedroom, decked out in dress-up clothes.

Oooh! Pat, can you get that for me?

What? No! No, sorry, that’s my tahya.

Oceania’s family eats meat and potatoes. Her parents speak to each other in quiet Chamorro when their daughter’s not in the room.

How come we eat normal food at your house?

Normal’s not the right word for it… but I don’t know. We don’t usually. It’s only when people come over.

At the other houses, Antarctica eats like a bird. Can I have peanut butter and jelly instead?

“Everyone knows it’s bad to notice what color a person is! I’d love you girls even if you were yellow or… or green!” She giggles. “With sparkles and polkadots.”

“Well… I wish everyone was like that.”

“Oh, I think most people are!”

Antarctica’s father orders a pizza.

Amara, pepperoni’s not halal.

Or kosher.

Can you pick off the pieces?

“I really truly don’t understand how anyone could be racist. I mean, how can you think your skin color makes you better than anyone else? My parents say-”

“My mom says it’s more complicated than that.”

Africa at Antarctica’s table. Amara tells us you’re from China. What was it like-

I’m not Chinese.

“My w- my mom’s dad came from Xinjiang. He was half-Hui, half Uyghur. My grandma was… I guess West Asian? Dad’s black but not African, they met at a rock concert.” She shrugs, playing with the ends of her sparkle-thread shayla. “He had light skin though so people always think…”

“It’s the same with me!” Europe jumps in. “Daddy’s Afro-Iranian, but he and Mom lived in Bosnia until my sister was born. Sometimes I tell people where we’re from and… well, if they can remember Bosniaks are a thing they’re like ‘oh that doesn’t count, your dad’s black’, like that makes a difference.”

North America nods. “And people always call my sister a Pretendian. I mean, she’s got blonde hair, but so do a lot of Abenaki people and I’m brown so…”

The Continents line up for the Good Humor man. He places Antarctica's change in her hand and the rest on the counter. Six of the seven walk away. One stays to chat.

“Are you sure you aren’t just reading into it? I know all the same people you girls do and I’ve never noticed anything like that. Except for, well, you-know-who…”

Red hair; blue jacket; sunglasses on his head. Antarctica waves him over from across the cafeteria. The other Continents groan.

Hey, Ching-a-Ling. How’s the rat burger?

Back off, Teddy.

Or what? You’ll bomb me?

“He’s…”

“What - rude? Mean? Positively contemptible?”

“… misunderstood.”

The same boy trick-or-treating with them. Blue face paint and red feathers in his hair.

“He went as me last Halloween!”

“Come one, Cl- North America. He didn’t look anything like you.” Antarctica turns in place, swishing her skirt around. “And… it was just a costume. My parents didn’t have a problem with it - this year one of my sisters went as an Indian princess.”

Oceania comes in late, skin gray with the ash on her forehead. The boy runs up to her at recess with dirt on his face. Now all I need is a cross like yours!

“My parents never had to take a citizenship test. Because we are citizens. And immigrants. Guam’s still halfway across the world, but it’s part of the United States, for better or worse. My parents have always been… timorous about that. They were okay speaking Chamorro at home - with each other - but they didn’t want me to stand out. They didn’t want people to think I was a weirdo. They never told me what it was like back… there. All I know is what I read about in the library. And that’s not very much.” Her eyes brighten. “On the other hand, there are lots of books about skin color… er, biology. Phenotypes!”

“Um… no offense, O, but… nobody here wants to hear about that right now-”

“I do!”

South America stays after class - clapping erasers, cleaning white boards. Sometimes she monitors detention. Antarctica’s boy friend is usually there, drawing on his desk. One day he carves something in.

“It’s hard enough being Hispanic, y-you know? But it’s way, way worse being Hispanic and black.”

“Worse? S-South! You shouldn’t say things like that. Your skin is beautiful.”

“I know! I don’t mean… It’s like this: I like my mom’s cooking and my dad’s music, I like the way I look, and I don’t want to change… but people treat me differently. And I wish they didn’t do that.” She rubs the bridge of her nose. “I always have to be perfect. And people still don’t care what I have to say.”

She’s just finished picking most of the spit wads from her hair and is on her way out when she notices. Two stick figures - one bending over, one behind. It takes her a minute to realize why. But it’s labeled: Estelle and Me.

“He was suspended for three days-”

“In-school suspension. That doesn’t count. Besides, they shortened it to two days after his dad complained.”

“I know… but I’m sure he didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“I don’t care!”

South America’s father drives her to and from school for that week and most of the next. So does Asia’s father. And Africa’s mother. And Europe’s oldest sister. Oceania’s parents take turns.

“It was just me and Antarctica for a while. My parents are… kinda overprotective. Of my sister. South A’s parents called all of ours. About what happened. I had Meadowlark cover for me. Yes, that’s… uh, totally not her name…”

“My parents weren’t that worried. They know T- him. They know he’s not really mean. He wouldn’t hurt me. So I still got to walk to school.”

Teddy! Over here!

Amara-

Too late; he’s already walking with them. Well, walking with Antarctica. He gets behind North America and snaps her training bra. Her eyes go wide and she shrieks, folding her arms over her chest and jumping away. The boy just laugh.

“I told him to stop…”

“I wasn’t blaming you.”

“Yeah. It’s not like we’re mad at you, okay? It’s just…” South America chews her lip. “This kid is…”

“A big fat jerk!”

Asia changes for gym in the bathroom. She doesn’t think anything of the blue jeans and dirty sneakers until that boy is leaning over the cubicle, phone in hand. She covers herself but it’s too late.

My dad was right! Asian girls don’t have boobs!

“A lot of Turkmen girls don’t wear veils or anything. My mom doesn’t. I don’t. You’re not supposed to until you’re, like, thirteen most of the time. But… I asked…”

Asia in a pink sports hijab. Then the khimar Africa brings her (It’s totally fine, my mom’s not gonna miss it!). Then one of Europe’s chadors. People still point. She still feels naked. She’s only ten years old.

“When I asked my parents about getting a burkha, they finally put their foot down. I mean, kind of? Mom said I could have one if that's what I really wanted, but Dad asked if something was wrong.”

Tough little Asia breaking down and crying in her parents’ arms. I don’t want people to k-know I’m… I’m a Jelep! I don’t want-

Shh… Pat, it’s okay. It’s okay! Mommy and Daddy will take care of this.

“They thought they could get him expelled or something, but his dad threatened to sue the school.”

“He said he’d make him delete the pictures.”

“But I don’t know how many people he showed them to!”

“I didn’t see anything, if it makes you feel any better.”

“… It does. Thanks.”

A dance is coming up on Friday. Europe sweats it out in math.

“My mom and dad told me that I’d have to stop baking for a while if I couldn’t get my grades up. I didn’t want that so… I sorta… kinda… cheated on the next test we had. I felt really bad afterwards!” She blinks back tears. “I felt awful… and I wrote about it in my diary.”

The boy watches her from the bushes and takes the journal when it falls out of her bag. Cut; Bomb-Bomb!

What do you want, Teddy?

“A lot of things, actually… like a lot of things. First it was just stuff like carrying his bag around from class to class… then he wanted…” She swallows. “He asked me to go to the dance with him. And…”

He leans in for a kiss. His lips on her lips. Her lips on his lips. Neither of them are experienced. Neither of them know what they’re doing. He grabs her chador and clashes their teeth together. Europe goes home. And cries.

“I called Antarctica. I don’t know what she did but s-somehow-”

“I just talked to him. Don’t worry about it.”

She plays sick until her parents get sick of her.

“I didn’t tell them what he did. I didn’t want to get in trouble for… for cheating. Maybe if I had-”

“It’s not your fault, E.” Africa puts a hand on her arm. “Don’t sweat it.”

“Nothing would have come from it anyway. Even if you had.”

South America and Antarctica stand on the side of the pool while their friends jump into it. Cue the music. Cue the routine. Five girls swim in a circle, turn on their backs and kick their legs in the air. Antarctica’s boy friend climbs the fence and whistles through his teeth. Another boy chases him off with the hose.

“Synchronized swimming. Competitive version.” Oceania tosses her hair. “We should have won.”

Same song, different chorus. The girls run into the lake. They don’t see the snorkel poking out of the water. Nobody does. Oceania stops and screams.

Bridget?!

Something grabbed my- She screams again and runs out of the water. The bottom of her tankini is gone. The boy’s head breaks through the water. He laughs.

“That didn’t even happen at school or all by ourselves.” Oceania tightens her hands into fists. “Everyone saw it, it was right there. We still got disqualified, but everyone was really, really mad.”

The boy is pulled aside. Multiple adults lecture him on indecency and inappropriateness.

“My parents were talking about sending me to go stay with relatives back… back. I had to beg them not to. I can’t leave my friends! B-but… they did make him apologize.”

I’m sorry, he says. He doesn’t look at her. She doesn’t look at him.

Bridget, what do you say?

I don’t have anything to say to him!

“I got in trouble too, for that. They made us shake hands.”

“He did apologize… Maybe you should have just-”

“It’s not a real apology if he doesn’t stop doing the thing he was apologizing for.”

A birthday party. Balloons, streamers, and cake… and tension as tight as a stretched rubber band. The Seven Continents are there; so is the boy who’s hurt five of them.

“A-and I told you it wasn’t a good idea to invite him to your party.” Africa’s lip wobbles. “I get that you already had… but…”

Antarctica looks down.

Africa gets icing on her shayla and it smears across her shirt. She’s coming out of the bathroom when the boy passes by her. Behind her. And a sharp, loud smack rings through the air. She reels around on him. Teddy?! What the heck was that?!

“I never knew how strong he was.”

She yells. He yells. She pushes. He grabs her ankle and pulls her to the ground.

“A-and then he… he…” Africa bursts into tears on the stage.

When it’s all said and done she runs. Past the party, outside the house, slamming the door. She pulls out a cell phone. M-Mommy?!

“I had to call my mom, and… s-she said it wasn’t my fault…”

Africa in the middle of a minivan, two smaller girls in the very back. Her mother shouts at Antarctica’s before storming towards the car. Come on, Thurayya. We’re going to the hospital.

“She barely ever calls me by my real name anymore… but I guess this time was special. He didn’t- There wasn’t any of the stuff the doctor was looking for. Just a lot of scratches where his fingers…” She shakes her head. “The doctors were really nice about everything, a-and the police lady I talked to was okay… but they didn’t really do anything.”

“His dad threw a fit again. And nobody cared because they’re white. If it was Europe’s brother-”

“I dunno… I’m white and I’ve never seen… Things like this don’t happen just because s-someone’s a different color.”

The Seven Continents turn away from each other.

“Then why do they happen?”

 

A Story about the Poles

“Why do I even need to be here?”

The North Pole tugs on his hair. He’s a grumpy, sullen little kid with a red fauxhawk and blue sweater, sunglasses perched on his head.

“Because I asked you to come?”

Antarctica again, but her name tag is different. “The South Pole”, it reads… and it’s a mystery to the audience why she wears another name at all.

“Yeah, well, I still don’t get that part.”

“Because you need to understand that what you did hurt my friends, and I need to know why you did it.”

“I didn’t do anything. My dad says-”

“This isn’t about your dad.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; two ordinary houses on two ordinary streets. Not out in the boonies like Herne’s. Not in the thick of the city like Duncan’s. The North and South Poles eat roast chicken and apple pie.

“You guys have met my other friends already and… I… Our lives are a lot more normal? We go to church and Sunday school and things like that…”

“My dad says people who don’t are going to Hell.”

“My parents say people like that aren’t real Christians.”

The North Pole at the dinner table. Headline in the paper about the Gunman.

Oh, that poor man…

Eh… I mean, they wouldn’t have gone after him if he wasn’t gay… The man looks at the North Pole. Don’t you get into that.

“That’s a horrible thing to say!”

“My dad’s not horrible!”

His parents have a similar argument. The North Pole picks at his greens while they scream at each other. His father slaps his mother across the face. She spits blood at him.

Cut; Nice girls don’t start fights, Ted.

Why’d you marry Mom if she’s not-

Don’t talk back. Hard hand on his shoulder. There aren’t a lot of nice girls anymore.

“You used to be more fun, before you started hanging out with those losers.”

“We’ve known each other since I was three…”

“Still… It’s not my fault you got all-” He makes the cuckoo finger swirl. “-mixed up. I mean Bomb-Bomb’s dad is a terrorist-”

“No he’s not!”

The North Pole and his family at open house. Europe brushes by them in the hall (Malika, wait up!). His father opens his mouth to say something, lips morphing into a smile when he sees the South Pole.

Hi, Teddy! Hi, Mr. Johnson!

Amara! He musses her hair. Always good to see such a nice little girl.

“I didn’t even do anything that bad! That’s the thing - these guys come here and mess everything up and then they get mad at the people who were here first!”

North America with her hair in two braids. Her mother and father with their hair in one.

Men shouldn’t have their hair that long.

Clover says it’s ‘cause her mom’s an Indian.

Never let a woman call the shots.

“People can do what they want, North. There’s nothing we can do about it.”

“You don’t understand! You’re a girl. My dad says girls are too nice to make hard decisions.”

“That’s not… I mean, I am nice. I try to be… but…”

You’d better watch out for Amara, his father says. She’s a sweetheart, but those friends of hers…

“And that’s why you leave the decisions to the guys. You can’t go around just being friends with everybody all the time.”

“Why not?”

North blinks. “Well, ‘cause some people are bad! You can’t be friends with bad people!”

Asia and Africa and Europe - avoiding hotdogs, avoiding bacon, skipping lunch on a few, special occasions.

What’s wrong with you? Are you… He whispers: Are you guys on your periods or something?

It’s Ramadan.

Is that another made-up holiday?

“People can do bad things.” She nods to their audience. “But no one’s just born a bad person.”

“That’s not what my dad says.”

“Um, North… does anyone else say that?”

The North Pole’s mother pulls him aside after the principal calls home; after the marks on the desk have been described. Teddy, I need you to listen to me very carefully. What you drew was not okay.

Leave the boy alone, Beatrice. He’s still growing.

That’s exactly why I need to tell him now! Before things get any-

Another slap.

“And what about… everything else that happened?”

“What about everything else?”

North America’s bra strap. He sits with the South Pole at lunch and pushes her on the swingset. Asia in the bathroom. He gives the South Pole the cookies his mother packed in his lunch. Europe’s diary. His father takes him out bowling and the South Pole tags along. Oceania’s bathing suit. He doesn’t do anything: she still invites him to her party.

“Melody’s a liar! Come on, you know I wouldn’t do something like-”

“I know… I- Well, I don’t think you’d… um…” The South Pole flounders. “I don’t know who to believe.”

“Am-”

Mother Superior clears her throat.

“South!”

“… I want to believe you. But what about everything else you did? What about my other friends?”

“I mean… come on, those were all just jokes! I was only kidding around-”

“Well, North, no one else seemed to think it was all that funny.”

The yelling from his parents’ bedroom grows louder and louder every night. The day he attacks Africa is the loudest it’s ever been.

The little skank is lying! If Teddy says-

She’s ten! He’s ten! What I’m concerned with is, at least one of them knows about that kind of thing and I want to know why! And the fact that you don’t-

The argument continues well into the night. In the morning there’s a suitcase by his mom’s chair.

“So? I thought it was. Dad says that’s the only thing that-”

“No one is saying anything about your dad except you.”

Weeks pass. Africa still doesn’t come back to school. Antarctica’s friends won’t talk to him. His father walks him home from the bus stop.

“My parents are getting a divorce.” The North Pole crosses his arms and groans. “Just because of stupid, stupid Melo- I don’t care! I don’t care if you know what her name is! My dad says girls just do this stuff for attention anyway! And I just- My dad’s great! Shut up! You don’t know anything!”

 

A Story about Pangaea

“I think… I might be a bad friend.”

Antarctica… South Pole… the girl with the strawberry blonde hair, playing with it again. She bites her lip, shifts from side to side.

“I’ve… kinda talked about it with some of you already?” She nods to the Mother Superior, to the Voice of Reason, to Doctor Robot. “And they all said that maybe I acted like one, but that doesn’t mean I am one. Just that… that I’m really young and I didn’t know any better.” Wide watery eyes. “That none of us did. But I don’t know if that’s true… ‘cause the boy who helped us all see it is our age too.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Pangaea and the North Pole leave the Palace together - just as six of the continents are coming in.

Amara!

Shh! We can’t use real-

Amara, what are you doing here with him?!

“I guess some of you saw that. I’m really truly sorry for being so loud.”

You two-faced… two-faced-

Prevaricator!

The North Pole rolls up his sleeve. Don’t talk to her like that!

“Um… thanks again, Mother Superior, for coming in and calming everybody down…”

Mother Superior holds the North Pole back. Listens to both sets of children. Sighs and looks at Pangaea. I appreciate what you were trying to do and I agree that everyone needs help, but we need to avoid this happening again. From now on, I want all of you to come in on separate days if possible and stay apart from each other, so this doesn’t happen again. For now, I think it’s best that everyone goes home.

“S-so we did… and my friends all started avoiding me… because they said I had to choose between him or them and I didn’t want to choose anyone.”

The North Pole doesn’t come near and starts spending more time away from school. Whispers of a custody battle echo through the halls. The Continents stay away from Pangaea, and she eats alone at lunch. Another boy comes over and sits beside her. Amara? What’s wrong?

“So… none of us mentioned this, but we have another friend. A boy from school. But nothing happened to him, so that’s why you guys haven’t met him. Well, I guess we have a few other friends, like the boy that South likes and…” She shakes her head. “Sorry. Um, let’s call him… the Ambassador.”

Red hair, blue jacket. Most of the time he looks at Oceania like she hung the moon. He’s not looking at Oceania now. Pangaea unloads on him. He hugs her while she cries.

“H-he said he’d talk to them. When he invited us all out on his parents’ boat, I thought that meant he had…”

Children on a Sunday afternoon, loading onto a boat in a man-made lake. The Ambassador smiles, guides the North Pole to one room and the Continents to another. Pangea is the last to arrive. He nods to the staff. Go ahead and set sail!

“What he didn’t tell me, or anyone else, was that he hadn’t mentioned the full guest list to everyone he invited. The North Pole didn’t know that the Continents were coming and the Continents didn’t know the North Pole was coming…”

None of them figure it out until they’re all in the same room.

Teddy?!

What are you weirdos doing-

The Ambassador closes and locks the door behind them. Okay, so, now we can talk.

“Nobody was happy.”

Understatement of the century. The girls scream at the North Pole. He screams back at them. The Ambassador stands between. Look at what you’re doing to Amara!

Africa stands up in her chair, showing off the arms North dug his nails into. Look at what he did to me!

“Before that, he was mostly on my side more than anything. It’s kinda funny, but I’m really truly glad he didn’t stay that way or else I wouldn’t have- That’s a bad thing too, isn’t it? My friends told me what it was like and I didn’t listen.”

The Ambassador’s eyes widen at the sight of Africa’s arms, but only slightly. He holds up a hand. You know what? Amara told me what she thought happened, but… maybe I need to hear it from everybody. And he goes around the world and listens to everyone’s story.

“There wasn’t anything they said to him that they hadn’t said to me. There was no reason I shouldn’t have listened, but…”

The Ambassador nods. Thinks. Finally, he turns to the North Pole. Teddy, this is all your fault, you should feel really really bad, and you can either sit in that chair and listen to me explain exactly why what you did was wrong or you can leave the boat.

“… We were in the middle of his parent’s lake and Teddy’s not a strong swimmer like the rest of us.”

The other Continents leave without Antarctica. The North Pole squirms in his seat without the South Pole beside him. Pangaea lingers between there and the door.

Amara, this is kind of on you too. I thought-

Leave her alone, Lance. Why do you even care?

“He’s not white either. I guess North didn’t know. I told myself he didn’t care and it was just… different with my friends because… But he probably didn’t know. Maybe that makes it easier to listen? Maybe I’m just making something else up to feel less bad about… about…” She wipes her eyes and grits her teeth. “No! This isn’t about me. Or how I feel.”

The Ambassador’s eyes narrow. I care because you hurt who I thought were both our friends. All our friends. Amara, you sit down too.

“Anyway… the Ambassador kind of, um, what was it the Page said the other day? ‘Ripped him a new one’? I don’t know what the new thing is but it feels right… b-but there was nothing that he said that I hadn’t said before, and Te- North Pole didn’t listen to me then…”

He’s listening now. The Ambassador is lighter-skinned than Pangaea’s friends. His eyes aren’t monolids. He doesn’t come to school wearing veils or shawls or wampum beads on his clothes. He’s not a girl.

“Maybe I don’t get to be mad at him for that, b-because I didn’t listen either.”

The boat docks again. Europe stays onboard and vomits off the side. Pangaea tries to pull the end of her chador out of harm’s way. Africa shoves her.

“My friends are still mad. They still don’t want to talk to me…” Pangaea sniffles. “A-and I guess that’s what I deserve, so I don’t get to complain about it, do I?”

Everyone’s parents - sans the North Pole’s father - on the shore. All rush to scoop up their children… save the Ambassador’s father, who drags his son away in a lecture. I know you were trying to help, but that doesn’t mean you get to kidnap all of your friends…

Pangaea giggles. “It feels bad to say it, but it was kinda funny seeing the Ambassador’s dad use all these big words for what he did.”

People talking, people leaving. North America’s sister pulls Pangaea aside. You feeling okay?

Not really… but… Meadowlark? Will you pretty please tell Clover I’m sorry? Tell all of them…

I think maybe you should tell them that yourself.

“She’s right. I know she’s right… a-and I want to!” Pangaea pulls her hair so hard that a lock of it comes loose. She winces. “But I don’t know where to start.”

Chapter 20: (The Oddball Couple) An Article by the Columnist

Summary:

TW: rape, homophobia, violence.

Ace Hart Goes to PRISON?!

Article by Sévère Chaton

Photographs by Fremont Chaton

Up until recently, indie darling Muunukhoi Yugar (better known as Ace Yu) owed his notoriety to his starring role in Elliot Shagg’s Dog City, a show that follows the adventures of intrepid detective Ace Hart and foxy lady Rosie O’Grady. Though not without criticism, Yu was on his way to making a name for himself in the Calisota film scene - a name which has now been tarnished by a shocking revelation.

The Columnist pauses and stretches, sitting back in his chair. He takes a sip of water from the glass on his desk, and turns to the Photographer. “You have those pictures?”

“Of course.” The Photographer hands them over.

“Thank you, dear.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the camera pans around the apartment that a couple share. One side is neat. Organized. Everything in its place. The other is sloppy. Messy. Only the owner could tell you where anything goes. In the middle there’s a picture of two men. The thinner one in a white tux on the neat side. The larger one with the black tux on the messy side.

Insider photos reveal Yu, believed to be intoxicated, attacking writer and half-brother Elliot Shagg (fig. 1a), first with his fists and then escalating as Mr. Shagg tried to defend himself.

Two men sleeping (together), eating (together), showering (together)… cleaning alone. Only the Columnist actually does this.

Really, Fremont, what will people say if they come in here and… and see this?!

Don’t invite anyone over. Problem solved.

Insider sources claim the two had been bickering for months. “Neither of them can agree on where Ace’s character arc should go from season one,” notes R. “It’s a real point of contention between them.”

Rainbow flags cover the windows down the street. The Photographer holds one up. This will look great in the living room.

Fremont, please. There’s no need to get that for the front room. The neighbors already know, we don’t need to make a fuss.

Others say that this is far from Yu’s first offense. According to county records, there have been multiple arrests made in his past related to assault, battery, public intoxication, and generally disturbing the peace.

Two men move into the apartment downstairs. One of them is missing a leg; the other is missing an ear. The Columnist comes up to the latter.

Need any help with this box?

Oh… yes, actually. Thank you.

Cut; the Columnist and the Photographer in their own apartment. The Photographer looks discontent.

Something wrong, dear?

Didn’t you tell the one-eared guy you were already taken? Why is he coming on to you?

Fellow cast member, Siegel Them - who portrays arc villain Bugsy Vile - reported that Yu may have fallen victim to the Hollywood Curse. “He’s gotten pissier and pissier ever since he hit it big.”

A blond man from down the hall. Sparkly suits and cheap liquor - who else but the Magician? He throws an arm around the Photographer’s shoulders. The Columnist chases him off with a broom.

This culminated with the attack on Shagg, when he was finally arrested. Though he is out on bail, Yu could be facing serious charges of assault that will most likely result in a court case.

The Columnist and the Photographer are arguing again. Loud enough, late enough, and long enough that one of the men downstairs taps on the floor with a broom handle. The Photographer suddenly pushes the Columnist against the wall, kisses him fully and roughly on the mouth. Cut; clothes and other items strewn across the floor. The Columnist and the Photographer lie down panting.

I’m just saying, it’s not going to kill you to be less affectionate in public-

Spiffy, shut up.

The Columnist smirks. Make me, Fleabag.

Pictures taken from outside the police station (fig. 3) show Yu leaving with an unknown man. A new lover, perhaps? One might speculate that Yu’s falling out with Mr. Shagg was over more than a few throwaway lines.

The couple at work: no one would guess that they liked each other, let alone what they do in the dark. The couple at home: screaming - always, always screaming. In more ways than one. The Columnist brings around the Lord’s brother and his fiancée, and the Gunman’s glaring neighbor, long before either’s story has happened. The Photographer brings around the Gunman and the Lord.

Don’t be so obvious!

Don’t be such a closet case!

They make love in the next room while their guests stare at each other in awkward silence.

A court date has yet to be determined, as does the effect this will have on the show as it moves into its second season.

A date circled on the calendar. A reminder set on the Columnist’s phone. The Photographer behind him. You’re not going to forget, are you?

Please. You’re more likely to forget than-

I picked this place for you. Reservations were damn near impossible to get. You’d better be there.

Some have accused both Yu and Shagg of manufacturing drama as a publicity stunt. Others - including the show’s vocal minority of LGBT fans - have actually taken Yu’s side. One long-standing theory is that the character of Ace Hart is homosexual, and after recent events some have taken to accusing Shagg of stifling creative direction out of homophobic sentiments.

The Photographer at a table by the window. He’s holding a bundle of flowers. He keeps checking his phone. Cut; the Columnist in his apartment, practically tearing the place apart. I knew I should have brought it to work, where the hell did I put it?!

Other criticism comes from the Asian community of Calisota, who claim that the general nature of Ace Hart’s ethnicity is a disservice to them and the variety of cultures that make up the Asian continent.

The Photographer growls. Where the hell is he? And he says I’m always late…

The Columnist finds no sound coming out as a stranger… a stranger… covers his mouth and presses a gun to his head. Listen to me, fag. Do what I say and no one gets hurt.

Comparisons have been made to the much more popular Filbert - both favorable and unfavorable. Given the similarity of Yu’s arrest to that of leading Filbert actor, BoJack Horseman (fig. 4a), earlier this year, things certainly don’t seem to bode well.

The Columnist doesn’t cooperate. He does what he does best - screams, shouts, throws his weight against the man with the gun. It isn’t loaded. It falls to the ground. He’s still not strong enough.

Some have speculated that this arrest and scandal may lead to the show’s cancellation. Others claim that the role of Ace Hart may soon be recast entirely to avoid further drama.

Screaming from the Columnist. Screaming from downstairs that he doesn’t notice… at first. Doesn’t notice until the stranger is done. Doesn’t notice until the stranger has left. Doesn’t notice until the one-eared man from earlier comes marching down the hall.

Listen, I don’t care what you and your whatever do in your spare time, but when it sets off a panic attack for my hyeong- SSI-BAL!

Both Shagg and Yu declined to comment.

He tries to call the Photographer. He can’t get a word in edgewise. He tries to call again and it goes to voicemail. The neighbor snatches the phone from his hand with a scowl, reads the number off and hands it back. Give me a minute. The Photographer is there not twenty minutes later - wilted flowers in his hand.

“I think it needs work.”

“I think you work too hard.”

“Mm.” The Columnist leans into his husband’s massage. “This is… this is nice.”

“I love you, Spiffy.”

“I love you too, Fleabag.”

Chapter 21: *CSA* (Steven Universe) A Story about the Erinyes

Summary:

TW: sexual abuse of adult and child, domestic violence, reciprocal violence, self-defense violence, masochism, transphobia, intersex-phobia, homophobic slur, unreliable narrators, police brutality, filming without permission, false accusations, public scandal, victim-blaming, child death from massive birth defects, alcohol abuse, bombing, discussion of abortion, dysfunctional families, attempted suicide.
Soundtrack: Murder Trilogy https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=I3HVC19j1oY

A Story about Erinys Alekto

“That bitch is a monster.”

Erinys Alekto on the stage. In the audience. On a dozen T-shirts. She’s a big, broad, handsome woman; deep tan, long blond hair, shoulders worth the moon over. Even the broken nose is a little bit attractive, in a rough-and-tumble kind of way. The same can’t be said for the ugly red burns that marr her arms, that scar her face.

“I worked with the boys in blue before I did what I do now. I was a prison guard back in Washington. I’ve seen shit. Evil shit. This was different. I was different… and so was she. Hard to explain, really, but I can try.” She closes her eyes and groans. “This is so stupid, talking about my feelings and shit…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the fisherman’s wharf, down by the water. The smell of rotting fish and turning tide. An old farmhouse with cracks in the outer wall. An unscarred Alekto takes the stairs, stomping the mud from her boots when she reaches the top. The television’s on. She turns it off and smiles.

“You know, I’ve always tried- You know the story by now. I’ll scrimp on details. We met through work. That’s funny, isn’t it? Only reason I came here is to save my job.”

The place itself is cramped and crowded and very, very blue. Blue suede couch with splitting cushions, leaking dark blue foam; blue shag carpet, matted and stained and out-of-style; blue-pattern-paper peeling off the walls. Alekto slumps over at the kitchen table and pours Blue Curaçao into a blue plastic cup. She leaves the bourbon on the shelf.

That’s expensive.

The girl behind her is blue too. Blue all over.

“She did time for property damage a while back. I wanted to keep her on the straight and narrow. One of my sisters says I overstepped but… aw, what does she know about it? I was looking out for that cunt! Should’ve realized it sooner - you just can’t reason with crazy.”

Alekto works late. Bobbie, I’m ba-

“Crazy” is waiting for her by the door. She has a dull look in her eyes. She has a baseball bat in one hand. You know Dot has work in the morning!

Alekto leaves the building an hour later, shaking like the devil when she lets her go - and limping. She sleeps in her car. Cut; a blue silhouette from the second story. The lights in that room stay on. All night.

“I don’t know why I put up with it. I didn’t have to. I mean, just look at me. I came out fighting. I could’ve really hurt her if I needed to. But I didn’t. Not really. Maybe I… maybe some part of me… I just wanted… She never told me where I stood.”

Alekto in the locked bathroom, breathing hard, leaning on the wall. Someone’s screaming. Her fly comes down. Someone’s pounding on the door with both hands. Her jeans come down, followed by her underwear. One hand slips between her legs.

“Pretty fucked up, huh?” Alekto laughs. “Was it unhealthy? Yeah, sure, whatever… Say what you want, but you’ll never understand how she made me feel. Without her… It’s like I can’t be satisfied unless I’m holding somebody.”

A fight turns violent. (Alekto picks shards of glass from her hands.) An argument turns violent. (Alekto presses an ice pack to her head). A disagreement turns violent. (Alekto clutches her bloody nose). A conversation-

“I’m strong, I’ve always known that. She made me feel even stronger. Anything she could dish out I could take, and then some. Anything that came between us, I could overcome. She needed me more than she hated me. And maybe we weren’t in love, but I loved that.”

Come on, let me make it up to you! Bobbie, come on, we can talk about this…

Crossed arms, guarded expression. What do you want?

Alekto slips a hand between her legs. To talk…

“That was the first time we… I mean, sure I’d been floating the issue, but she was never in the mood. This time though. This time.”

Alekto and her lady. Together. In bed.

“There was something mechanical about it. Don’t know… It was my first time, so how the fuck would I know what it was supposed to feel like?!” Alekto breathes through her teeth. “And here I thought she was just rusty.”

The next morning she’s dragged up by the hair. Bobbie, what the f-

Be quiet. The girl in blue stands over her; one small hand wrapped in corn silk, one small hand wrapped ‘round… something else. (Something small and green and light.) Do you know what this is?

“She’d been recording me for… I don’t even know how long. Not like she let me view most of the footage. You’ve all seen the big one though, right? Yeah.”

What she does let Alekto see: two women in bed. One is bigger and one is smaller. One is on top and one is on the bottom. One wears orange and one wears blue.

“ ‘Let’s get one thing straight,’ she told me. ‘You're my prisoner now.’ ”

Step out of line and I’ll show this to everyone. And they’ll know. Do you understand?

Alekto nods. Silently.

“It still felt good. It still felt right - just being around her! We were unstoppable! We could do anything - hell, we could fly!”

Blue lips; blue dress; blue fingernails raking Alekto’s arms. Cut; she falls asleep on the couch and wakes up handcuffed to it. Cut; she scrubs urine from the bathroom floor. Blue tiles; blue waste bin; pink plastic. Two little lines.

“And that was another reason for sticking around. The… Malika. It was nice while it lasted. Pretending to be normal. Like we were a family. I thought… Ugh, this is stupid… I thought maybe we’d get a new place. And it’d be so much better than… Reminds me of my childhood. Heh. Guess not much has changed since then.”

A fancy house with an overrun lawn. Nymphettes and children and teenage girls - some with darker skin than Alekto’s, most with lighter hair - and a middle-aged, austere-looking woman with two neat silver buns atop her head. Jasper, she says, face splitting into a codfish grin. So nice of you to visit!

Holly, I’ve got something to-

Is that any way to speak to your mother?!

“Old lady’s a massive try-hard. My sisters don’t try. Buncha good-for-nothings if you ask me… Can’t blame Ma too much though, most of us were born wrong. Littlest one’s a midget - heh, get it? Second littlest one’s a midget too. Noreena can’t gain weight at all - seriously, she looks like a fucking ad for anorexia! And don’t get me started on the others!”

Tall, strong, muscular… older. Alekto pushes past her sisters on the way to her mother’s room. They pass picture after picture of that same stern woman. And a “boy” with blonde hair.

“Hermaphrodites. Freaks like that run in families, did you know? Yeah, so the old bag had to shell out big bucks every time one of them popped out. A snip and tuck. What would the neighbors think, right? Of course, then they hit puberty and now everyone can fucking tell! Say what you want about me, but I never caused that much trouble. I did what I was supposed to do for as long as she wanted me to do it… I played the part. I was perfect. The perfect son. Then I turned eighteen.”

She storms out. Down the drive. To her car. Cut; up the farmhouse stairs.

“She likes to pretend that I never came out. Got all excited when I told her we were expecting - ha! Like I’d let her within ten feet of our kid. Even if… even if things had worked out the way they were supposed to.”

Alekto strips in front of the mirror. Dark blue bruises from two sets of hands - one large, one small. She brushes one of them and curses as a scab breaks open and starts to run. She curses again when she hears the blue girl scream.

“I’m the one who brought her to the hospital. She still wouldn’t let me in the room, can you believe that? Ungrateful little… One of the nurses brought me around to the incubators - must’ve felt sorry for me - but I never got to hold her. The baby. My own damn kid! Bet the ex had something to do with that.”

Light hair, goggle eyes, sickly green-tinged complexion. And those limbs. Those twisted, mangled-looking-

“Sireno-something or other. Forget what the technical name is. One of the nurses called it ‘mermaid syndrome’ - pretty sick if you ask me. Of course the brat blamed me for that too.”

Blue bathrobe; blue gown; pink blanket. Alekto’s lady lunges at her, screaming obscenities, throwing her fists against the larger woman’s chest. Alekto squeezes her as hard as she can and the girl just keeps flailing. In the end it takes two nurses, a doctor and a patient just to pull the two of them apart.

“The kid… didn’t make it. Fucking typical, right? I get one good thing- one good thing! - out of this mess and it doesn’t last more than a week. Not even a week!”

A small plot. A small headstone. Alekto looks for something to take her anger out on. The girl next to her sheds no tears.

“Maybe she wanted that. I bet she did! She never wanted the baby anyway. She never-” Alekto slams her fist against the wall. “Fuck!”

Time passes. Alekto picks through baby things until she’s sick of it. She gets restless. She goes to the girl.

“I wanted to try again. She didn’t.” Wincing, she touches her bent nose, fingers riding up towards the biggest of her facial scars. “That was the beginning of the end.”

Arguing, screaming, crossing the house. The girl storms out. Alekto catches up to her days later. Down by the ocean, down by the pier - holding hands with some strange boy. She gets down on her knees and begs. Give me one more chance! I’ll make it right, I swear!

“I don’t know why you people are being so nice to me. I didn’t ask you to do that. She never had the time.”

The sound of sizzling, the rise of steam from boiling water. She screams - wrecking bells ringing in her ears.

“Everyone’s been… This is so weird. You’re all a bunch of fuckin’ weirdos. What do you want from me? I don’t get it.”

Policemen. EMTs. Nurses with wan smiles and sad eyes. The station house. Please, Miss- Officer Agateva, just take your time.

An appointment with an attorney, dressed in mustard-yellow from head to toe. I’ve been reviewing your case…

Cut; a newscaster. Cut; Alekto returns to work.

“Well, it’s not helping!”

She takes a swing at a girl in blue. Cut; Alekto looks down at the card in her hand. You need to deal with where all this anger is coming from. Just think about it - you’re a liability as is. Cut; the Palace. The first time. Cut; no curaçao this time; she drinks bourbon by herself.

Erinyes Alekto cracks open a tin of Vaseline, spreading it over her face and arms. Thin and thick. She finds her own face in the audience and scowls. “I need a drink.”

 

A Story about Erinys Megaera

“I mean… they were both kinda bad for each other… I guess.”

Erinys Megaera is an itty-bitty woman, older than she looks (or acts), with cat’s eye glasses and an upturned nose. She wears green scrubs under her lab coat and a bright green brooch on her hijab - a massive, gold-lined peridot. She’s not on the stage right now, nobody is, but she may as well be. The table is a platform too. And everyone’s watching.

“I know what you want, I know how you people work by now, you wanna say one of them is bad and one of them is good and just… leave out anything that doesn’t fit your narrative. But I’m a scientist. I can’t just ignore evidence. So, yes, they’re both awful. To each other. For each other. Haven’t you been paying attention at all?!”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the fisherman’s wharf, down by the water. The smell of rotting fish and turning tide. An old farmhouse with cracks in the outer wall. Megaera in her bra and boxer shorts, bathed in the light of the midnight show. She falls asleep like that, blanket left rolled up on the chair behind her, box set sitting on top of that. The tape’s still rolling when Alekto comes in, stomping her feet.

O-Officer Agateva! What are you-

Here for Bobbie, pipsqueak. Nice outfit. She smirks as Megaera blushes and covers up. Don’t worry, I can keep a secret.

“I mean, I get that we like him, but… still. He’s the one who came after her first, remember? Not that she’s innocent, but let’s just get a- Oh, what’s it called? - a balanced perspective? Perspiration. Ugh, your stupid language is so… stupid! Stupid khra!”

The place itself is cramped and crowded and very, very blue. Blue suede couch with splitting cushions, leaking dark blue foam; blue shag carpet, matted and stained and out-of-style; blue-pattern-paper peeling off the walls. Everything that isn’t blue is green - the curtains, the dying plants, the dress in the laundry. Megaera turns green when she smells the cup Alekto left behind. Hey! What’s with the alcohol?!

“Hello, people, they were awful to everyone within six feet of them! I mean, I get that they’re young and everything, but seriously?! How many times does she tell him not to do something? How many times does he try to get in her, um… Honestly, I don’t think anyone should date until they’re old enough to- Well, I don’t think anyone should date. Period.” She pauses. “I mean, on TV it’s fine.”

(Bobbie, I’m ba-) (You know Dot has work in the morning!) Megaera rolls over and covers her ears, trying to block out the noise. There’s a bump and a scuffle and a slamming door. Then weeping. The lights in the room next to hers stay on all night. And the crying doesn’t stop until Megaera leaves for work.

“I guess what bothers me - one of the things that bothers me - about this whole… situation is how many of you khra are taking sides. Either he’s toxic for- What’s that khar term? He was… ‘playing games’ with her-”

Alekto’s locked herself in the bathroom. The girl in blue is hammering on the other side. Megaera listens as Open the fucking door! I’ve got to go! is overlayed by the sound of breathy moans. Megaera sleeps through it. Somehow.

“-or she’s abusive for slapping him around.”

Megaera picks up bits of glass from the floor. Great. Now I’ve gotta call Andy about the window.

Megaera looks for the frozen peas. Did you eat them? I was going to make dal.

Megaera finds bloody tissues in the bathroom. We have tampons under the sink, you know.

“Interesting tidbit - almost half the U.S. populace will experience domestic violence within their lifetimes. Thankfully, I’ll never have that problem.”

Today the girl in blue is wearing a real short skirt. Megaera bites the inside of her cheek and doesn’t say anything.

“Quite frankly, I think they should see other people. Ugh, I know! I know, it’s more complicated than that. Still though! At the very least they need to spend some time apart.”

She knocks on the blue girl’s door. No answer. Megaera shrugs and walks away. If she stayed, maybe she would hear the women breathing together. Like one horrible beast.

“Then again, maybe they’d inflict their terrible relationship skills on other people too.”

The next morning Alekto is there. The girl in blue smiles for once and hands Megaera something: a brooch, bright green “gemstone” trimmed with gold. Here, we wanted you to have this.

Wow. Uh, thanks… Megaera smiles too. There’s something in her head, something in the back, telling her this feels wrong.

“Or their offspring!”

Megaera watches the girl in blue twist her skirt between her fingers. There’s a pregnancy test sitting on the table between them.

… Whose is it?

No answer.

Okay! Okay, um, maybe we can get you to Planned Parenthood or… Don't worry, we can make it go away without a word.

“Maybe I’ve just had a lot of time to think about it, but… is it starting to bother anyone? I mean the way people talk about it. It takes two to tango, but everywhere I go it’s like… WHAM! Do you follow?” Most of them shake their heads. She scowls and stamps her feet. “You’re all khra! Stop being khra!”

Alekto stays away for a few days. The girl in blue stays home. Megaera orders takeout. The girl in blue picks at her food. They both stare at the television, trying to disappear into the midnight show.

“I mean, every time you bring them up online… And even if you don’t, there’ll be some khar telling you ‘oh, they’re both bad’. Never much detail though. I guess that’s fair. I guess… I mean, they don’t have to write a thesis, but whenever somebody does… why is it always about her?”

She’s at work when it happens. Alekto doesn’t call. Cut; the girl in blue in a hospital bed. Her hair is mussed; her eyes are sunken. There’s no bundle in her arms.

You have to go and see her! I need… Something was wrong.

“I know she hit him. I know she did… not great things. But he did that too! He did the same things! And I keep saying that I think they’re both as bad as each other… but… Okay, does anyone actually believe that?”

Light hair, goggle eyes, sickly green-tinged complexion. And those limbs. Those twisted, mangled looking-

“Because if they both suck… why isn’t anyone mad that he’s getting away with it? If they hurt each other, why are people only worried about him?”

Blue bathrobe; blue gown; pink blanket. The girl in blue lunges at Alekto, screaming hysterical obscenities, throwing her fists against the larger woman’s chest. Alekto squeezes her throat as hard as she can. Megaera pounds on her back, but she doesn’t let go. The girl just keeps flailing. In the end it takes two nurses, a doctor and a patient just to pull the two of them apart.

“I don’t know… Maybe we just say things like that to get out of arguing. If they’re both abusive then you don’t have to call out victim-blaming. Maybe we’ve already made up our minds. And if that’s the case then…”

A small plot. A small headstone. Alekto looks for something to take her anger out on. The girl next to her sheds no tears. Megaera puts her hand on her shoulder. The girl pushes her away.

“I looked at a number of groups before deciding on this one. There’s a lot of interesting reading material out there, especially concerning the science behind domestic abuse. The general consensus seems to be that there is no way for multiple individuals to ‘mutually’ abuse each other. Reactive violence is… just that. And it’s common and- I never believed that before. A lot of people don’t believe that now.”

Time passes. Alekto is gone… until she isn’t. The girl is quiet… until she isn’t. Megaera comes home to tipped-over furniture and scuff marks in the wall. And nobody inside.

“It’s just… I wonder about the way we talk about it now. And… and the thing is, I like him. I like him much better than her.”

Hours pass. Megaera finds the girl by the crashing tide. A little place that overlooks the sea beneath the sky. Bobbie!

She turns her face toward her, mouth open, eyes puffy and red. But no sound comes out. At least, Megaera doesn’t hear anything.

“And I liked… Well, not them, not together. They could’ve been a good thing. Maybe… Nah.”

The girl leaves holding hands with a boy. Blue lip gloss. Black curls. Cut; Megaera picks her up from the police station. Blue-black bruises on her knuckles, on her face. She shivers in the passenger seat.

… Steven.

“They hurt each other, I’m not saying they didn’t, but… Whatever! Why should I care?”

The blue girl is on TV. The blue girl is on the radio. The blue girl is plastered across tabloid magazines. The blue girl is hiding in the house… H-hey? Can… can I show you something?

“Paulette and Percy were never going to work out anyway. Nobody liked that ship, but why’d the writers have be so… Why did everyone have to be such a khar about it?! Ugh. I knooooow it’s just some primitive midnight TV show, and I shouldn’t take it seriously, because of course it’s not going to play out that way in real life. People know better.” Erinys Megaera twists the camera gem pin on her scarf and groans. “Oh, wait!”

A Story about Erinys Tisiphone

“She was my parole officer.”

Erinys Tisiphone with shaggy, dripping hair. She’s still dressed in pajamas, looking like she just rolled out of bed. She doesn’t look happy. They saw her fighting with Megaera on the promenade out in the rain. Half the crowd left when she came in. Storm be damned.

“I know, I know, I’m a terrible person. I did awful, horrible things. But she was my parole officer. And… and…” She looks desperately at the remaining members. “Tell me what you want to know.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the fisherman’s wharf, down by the water. The smell of rotting fish and turning tide. An old farmhouse with cracks in the outer wall. Tisiphone dresses in front of the mirror. Blue bodice. Blue skirt. She hears footsteps. She hears voices. And rushes out into the living room just as Alekto is kicking off her shoes.

Y-you must be-

Treasure Agateva. Officer Agateva to you, brat.

Bobbie. Bobbie DeMayo.

“I was arrested for vandalism when I was… younger. Diamond Real Estate’s been pushing into Cali for a few years now. I was there when one of their construction sites… Far- My mother works late, but she saw it on the late night news. And she saw the ash on my dress and… came to her own conclusions. It’s probably in the papers that I confessed, right? Yeah, well, it would be.” She hugs herself. “They kept asking me where I got the explosives. Who put me up to it… and I didn’t know. I just wanted to go home. That made me ‘difficult’. It didn’t matter how young I was, there was no time off for good behavior.”

The place itself is cramped and crowded and very, very blue. Blue suede couch with splitting cushions, leaking dark blue foam; blue shag carpet, matted and stained and out-of-style; blue-pattern-paper peeling off the walls. Everything that isn’t blue is green - the curtains, the dying plants, the dress in the laundry. Alekto slumps over at the kitchen table and pours Blue Curaçao into a blue plastic cup.

That’s expensive, Tisiphone whispers. Please, Dot won’t like it if you-

Oh, shut up.

Cut; Megaera turns green when she smells the cup Alekto left behind. Hey! What’s with the alcohol?!

Come on. What do you care? Tisiphone scowls. Or are you planning another trip down to the station house?

“I can’t… I got out earlier this year. After Lord Gorgon. One of those police officers gave the chief my name. Five years is still too long… Well, almost six years. It would have been longer if they hadn’t commuted my sentence. I was charged as an adult. Adult prison. And it’s her fault for trusting them… a-and not listening to me… and making me turn myself in.”

Tisiphone hears someone at the door, in the middle of the night. Megaera is sleeping. She reaches for the baseball bat next to her bed.

Bobbie, I’m ba-

Alekto is waiting for her in the hallway.

You know Dot has work in the morning!

Better be quiet then. She tries to elbow her way through the door. Tisiphone doesn’t move. Outta my way, brat! What are you hiding in there?

Nothing! It’s nothing, just please… You can’t be here right now! You shouldn’t be here-

Alekto shakes Tisiphone by the arm. Tisiphone swings the bat.

Cut; Alekto leaves the house. Limping. Tisiphone watches her from the window, staring at the car outside. The lights stay on. She can’t sleep. She can’t stop crying.

“That was the first time I hurt her. She just… she was so much like them. And she grabbed me like they used to and… I didn’t want her to do what they did. I didn’t want her to hit me. So I hit her first. And… and… At first I was worried that she’d report me and send me back to jail, but I think- She liked it!”

Alekto locks the bathroom door. There’s only one bathroom. She stays in there for a long, long time.

Officer Agateva? Is everything okay in there?

No answer. More time passes.

Officer Aga- Treasure, come on… Come on, please! I need to…

No answer. More time passes. Tisiphone knocks again. She hears that unstifled moan.

A-are you… This is sick! Open the fucking door! I’ve got to go!

“Maybe this is my fault. I could have said no, I could have been more patient or… It feels awful to say that she liked it. I mean, I heard a little about her mom after the fact. Maybe that’s why. She was already broken and I made things worse.”

Tisiphone ducks. (Alekto’s fist collides with the windowpane.)

Tisiphone held up like a ragdoll, feet flailing. (Alekto grunts and topples over, hitting her head on the way down.)

Tisiphone fights a strip search. (Alekto begins undressing her herself, screaming when her nose pops like a bad firecracker.)

Tisiphone can’t scream as she’s held up by the throat. (Alekto swears she won’t let go until-)

Cut;

Tisiphone rolls her eyes as Megaera picks up bits of glass from the floor. (Great. Now I’ve gotta call Andy about the window.) (Tell him to pay his child support before I break something else.)

Tisiphone shrugs when Megaera looks for the frozen peas. (Did you eat them? I was going to make dal.) (Maybe it was Faggoteva.)

Tisiphone snorts when Megaera finds bloody tissues in the bathroom. (We have tampons under the sink, you know.) (Whatever.)

“She was… is… a big part of the LGBT community. I mean, I get why. She’s gay. She’s butch. She’s a cop. And I should know better. Do- My mom came to terms with some things about herself after I was born. Dad didn’t take it well. I know I shouldn’t have said- I know I shouldn’t have… but I wanted to hurt her. It didn’t matter how.”

Tisiphone on her stomach, drawing on the floor with a curly-haired boy. The door opens. He yelps when she grabs his arm.

Officer Agateva! She turns wide eyes on the boy. Steven, you should go…

“She hurt me too!”

Alekto pulls Tisiphone up by the arm, dangling her a foot above the floor. She swings like a hanged man.

What the fuck was that, huh?

Y… you can’t stop me from seeing him- Ah! He’s my cousin…

I’m the one in charge here! I know what’s best for you! Her hold tightens as Tisiphone flails in her grasp, clawing at Alekto’s face. If I see him around here again, I might just have to do something about it…

“I thought she’d hurt him next… and I…”

Tisiphone wearing a real short skirt. Megaera bites the inside of her cheek and doesn’t say anything. Tisiphone notices anyway, snapping, What? Gonna call the cops?

Shaking voice. Shaking hands. “I didn’t know what else to do.”

Come on, let me make it up to you! Bobbie, come on, we can talk about this…

Crossed arms, guarded expression. What do you want?

Alekto slips a hand between Tisiphone’s legs. To talk…

“I got the camera from one of my… from one of Megaera’s coworkers. That makes it premeditated, right? I-” She wipes her eyes on her sleeve. A few audience members roll theirs. Snickering. “I’m not the one who posted it online. Why would I do that? I just… I did what she wanted! I just wanted her to leave Steven alone!”

Alekto and Tisiphone. Together. In bed.

“It wasn’t supposed to feel good… but it did. And - you’re right - I think I might be a horrible person.”

The next morning she drags Alekto up by the hair.

Bobbie, what the f-

Be quiet. Tisiphone leans in over her; one small hand wrapped in corn silk, one small hand wrapped ‘round the spy camera. Do you know what this is?

“I know I’m a horrible person. If I wasn’t… I just keep hurting people. Maybe they were right to lock me up in the first place. Maybe she was right. I’m dangerous. I’m a monster.”

Let’s get one thing straight. You're my prisoner now. Step out of line and I’ll show this to everyone. And they’ll know. Do you understand?

Alekto nods. Silently.

Cut; Tisiphone smirks and hands Megaera the brooch, pinching Alekto under the table. We wanted you to have this.

Wow. Uh, thanks… Megaera smiles too. Alekto doesn’t say a word.

“I was angry. I was so, so angry… and she was there.”

Blue lips; blue dress; blue fingernails raking Alekto’s arms. Cut; Tisiphone enters the living room and finds her asleep on the couch. She picks up the handcuffs and locks the door. Cut; Alekto needs a urine sample. The can breaks open on the bathroom floor. Blue tiles; blue waste bin; pink plastic. Two little lines.

“I didn’t mean to get pregnant. That part was an accident. Still… I miss her. Malika.”

Megaera watches Tisiphone twist her skirt between her fingers. There’s a pregnancy test sitting on the table between them.

… Whose is it?

No answer.

Okay! Okay, um, maybe we can get you to Planned Parenthood or… Don't worry, we can make it go away without a word.

“That probably would have been better for everybody. But it’s not what we did. An- My dad’s… dad’s dad-” She blinks, reconsiders, nods. “-was from the Philippines. That side of the family is Jewish, but… yeah. Cultural osmosis, I guess. Abortion is illegal there and he’s always been pretty conservative. Megaera grew up in Afghanistan. Same hat, different system. Guess I absorbed more of it than she did.”

Tisiphone stares blankly into the television as a man with white hair and a bomber jacket paces around behind her. Of all the irresponsible… Thought ya knew better… Sluttin’ around…

Nice grammar.

Take this seriously!

“He wasn’t happy. Only surprise there is him acknowledging my existence. And of course his new family was no help at all.”

His new, better wife is… nice, but not useful. She smiles at Tisiphone, tries to lighten the mood. His new, better daughters just laugh. Twin girls in blue dresses - one freckled, one curly-haired. Wow, Bobbie, when’d you get so fat?

“I wish I’d just had that abortion.”

Alekto puts a hand on Tisiphone’s stomach. Tisiphone shoves her back. Alekto gets up and tries again. Tries again. Locks herself in the bathroom when she’s done. Not twenty minutes later, Tisiphone doubles over and screams as water breaks between her legs.

“Mermaid syndrome. Malika had fused limbs. A-and a heart condition. Curved spine. Missing gallbladder, spleen, kidneys, genit- There wasn’t enough room for her intestines. You can’t live like that… ”

Light hair, goggle eyes, sickly green-tinged complexion. And those limbs. Those twisted, mangled-looking-

“She was just so small and fragile and… and when they told me she wouldn’t last a week-”

Blue bathrobe; blue gown; pink blanket. Tisiphone lunges at Alekto, screaming hysterical obscenities (This is all your fault! You fucking monster! You killed her!), throwing her fists against the larger woman’s chest. Alekto squeezes her throat as hard as she can. And Tisiphone can’t scream anymore. Megaera pounds on her back, but she doesn’t let go. Tisiphone just keeps flailing. In the end it takes two nurses, a doctor and a patient just to pull the two of them apart.

“Nobody knows why sirenomelia… Nobody knew why she turned out like that. I thought it was because we fought during the pregnancy. I thought maybe the baby didn’t get enough…” One hand closes at the base of her neck.

A small plot. A small headstone. Alekto looks for something to take her anger out on. Tisiphone sheds no tears. Megaera puts her hand on her shoulder. Tisiphone pushes her away. She doesn’t deserve to cry. She doesn’t deserve her mother’s sympathy. Cut; the boy hugs her waist from behind. He doesn’t let go.

Bobbie, I-

Thank you, Steven.

“I thought about running away after the funeral, but… he still needed me. I needed him.”

Time passes. Tisiphone tries to pick the lock on the medicine cabinet. Come on, come on, come on, come on- Megaera’s out when Alekto returns.

“I should have stayed away. I shouldn’t have come back.”

Arguing, screaming, crossing the house, throwing things and tipping over furniture as she tries to get away. Tisiphone runs. To the boardwalk, to the pier, to a place that overlooks the water. Megaera finds her hours later. I know what you’re doing here, she whispers. They stare down at the ocean from above.

“I should have jumped. But I didn’t. Now we all have to deal with me.”

Another house on the shore, this one in a nicer part of town. Beachfront property. Madame Foresight and Sergeant Fireball show Tisiphone to the guest room. Megaera chats with their daughter and with another, bleach-blonde girl - one of Alekto’s sisters. A tall skinny woman helps them with their luggage. So does the boy with curly hair.

“We stayed with my cousin for a while. And his family. We’ll probably have to go soon. They’ve been keeping up with… everything… on TV.”

Down by the ocean, down by the pier - holding hands with that boy, letting him pull her along. She keeps her eyes closed as they near the end of the dock.

“My uncle- My other cousin rented a boat for the day. I feel bad that we barely got to use it. We used to take walks together, maybe they thought we could… but it wasn’t the same.”

Steven? Can I open my eyes now? Steven…? Tisiphone sees Alekto. And goes very still. Alekto reaches for her, shoving the boy into the water, grabbing Tisiphone when she tries to catch his shirt.

“His dad went in to get him. But I… I ran away. Because that’s what I do. I’m a coward. I’m a horrible, awful person and a coward!”

Deeper into the boat. Deeper than the deck. Tisiphone runs. Alekto follows. Down this corridor, down these stairs, into the engine room…

“I pushed her. I hit her hard enough to break the boiler.”

The sound of sizzling, the rise of steam from boiling water.

“I heard she was…” Tisiphone draws a hand over her eye, her cheek, her arm. “Is it really that bad?”

Policemen. EMTs. Nurses with thin sneers and cold eyes. The station house. Kid, you’re in enough trouble already. Start talking. Now.

Megaera picks her up from the police station. Blue-black bruises on her knuckles, on her face. Tisiphone shivers in the passenger seat. … Talking to you without my permission … Who do those khra think they are?!

An appointment with an attorney, dressed in steely-blue from head to toe. I’ve been reviewing your case…

An entire fleet of newscasters.

“Megaera mortgaged the house to pay for a lawyer. I might go back to jail anyway. I hurt her… She was supposed to be helping me and… well, I guess you already know. You know everything.”

H-hey? Can… can I show you something? A girl in blue and a woman in orange. Moving together. On the tape. Megaera stares at her, horrified. Tisiphone shrugs. For the police. Cut; a blur of blue and a blob of orange. On the television. On the computer screen.

“And you hate me.”

She ties a noose. Cut; Tisiphone looks down at the card in her hand. Her cousin holds her close. I’m never letting go!

Cut; the Palace. The first time. Cut; Tisiphone shakes hands with another woman. Star tattoo. Jewel-beaded dreadlocks. Broad shoulders.

You must be-

Dola Musa. I’m gonna be your caseworker from here on out.

Bobbie. Bobbie DeMayo.

And you’re… how old again?

Seventeen… in September.

“I get it, okay? But still, I know my rights, I’ve been here all day and… She’s… her. And I’m me. And nothing I say is going to convince you that I belong here. I still wanted to say it.” Erinys Tisiphone gets to her feet. She doesn’t wipe her eyes this time. “It’s time for me to go. Is that alright with you? I just… I don’t know what else to say.”

Notes:

Notes from Dolly:
"Before anyone asks, this isn’t about Amber Heard and Johnny Depp. This is about Nicole Brown Simpson. This is about Jennifer Levin. This is about Shannan Watts. This is about Gabby Patito. This is about me. This is about abuse and how abusers often rely on public complicity in order to further abuse their victim once they’re not physically able to do so. This is about the fact that rape and abuse victims are no more likely to sympathize with other victims than anyone else is. This is about the fact that other victims laughed and called me a liar when I was a teenager asking for support. This is about the fact that people refuse to learn or to look at evidence, even when it’s right in front of them. And then they have the nerve to laugh. Abusers have painted themselves as victims before. They will paint themselves as victims again. And it’s still incredible to me how a person can violently mistreat another in front of witnesses and still be seen as the one in need of support when the one they’ve slammed into the ground gets up and throws a punch back at them. Mutual abuse is not real. And perpetuating that myth hurts victims, no matter who is spreading it. Even if the one spouting this rhetoric is a survivor themself. For people who genuinely believe this, I recommend reading up on the subject. https://www.loveisrespect.org/resources/am-i-abusive-too-the-myth-of-mutual-abuse/ and making excuses for an abuser is NOT going to help them in the long run. People have the ability to change, but often they don’t. They never will if you enable their behavior."

Chapter 22: (Princess and the Frog) A Story about the Scullery Wench

Summary:

TW: accidental rape, friendship ruining.

“No, I don’t mind. ‘S what the sticker’s for, right?”

The Scullery Wench has never taken the stage; the closet Lady Reynard and the Mouse have found her in isn’t even connected to the auditorium. Still, there’s been a star on her nametag since her second week. A pink star, to match her pink dress and her pink hat.

“I shouldn’t even be here, not really. But it’s… it’s my fault someone else comes.” Her manicured hands, which have been lining up bags of newer and better (and much more expensive) coffee, begin to shake. “She, uh, s-she’s the Cook here. You might know her… and what I did to her.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment filmed from a different angle-

“No, I… My side of things don’t matter. She got hurt, it’s not important what I was thinkin’.” The Wench sniffles slightly and shakes her head. “It’s not about me.”

The tape skips forward, past the kisses and the touches and the hands moving low, and finally settles on the Scullery Wench looking much like she does now… but happier.

“Uh, did she tell y’all about how I… found out? It was a li’l over a month ago, I was waiting ‘round for her to start work, that’s the only way I get to see her these days.” She winces as she crushes a cardboard box. “I guess she… she hasn’t been wantin’ to see me. But I just thought she was busy…”

The Wench sits at an outdoor table, flipping through a magazine. A sleek green car pulls up, and she grins as the Cook opens her door. Hey, Tia! she calls, waving. She doesn’t notice the other woman go stiff, or realize how strained her smile is. The driver of the car does. He steps onto the pavement and puts a gentle arm around the Cook’s shoulder. He doesn’t smile at all.

“She’s got a new beau, they look sweet together. I… don’t really know much about him…”

… because every question she asks Lancelot is met with a clipped, cold, one-word answer. But some men are like that, aren’t they? And yet when he turns to the Cook, his face goes soft and his voice is tender. I’ll be back for you at eight. Have a wonderful day.

He squeezes her shoulder, very gently, and the Scullery Wench giggles.

Aw, you too shy to give her a kiss?

The Wench is quiet in the Palace hallway, but she waves for her tiny audience to follow. Once they’re in the parking lot and the glass door has shut, she continues. “I thought maybe he’d get flustered or somethin’, but… oh Lord, he got so angry.”

The man stands as stiff as a board, his teeth and fists clenched tight. He glares daggers and swords and lances at the Wench, and she shrinks back in her chair. The Cook comes between them, and the Scullery Wench almost thinks she’s holding him back. It’s alright, Naveen. I’ll see you tonight. Okay?

Lancelot slowly nods and turns away, but the Scullery Wench doesn’t relax until he’s truly gone. What was that?

A pricey white convertible with a trunk full of boxes. “She tried to wave it off, sayin’ he was just stressed over work or family or somethin’, but I didn’t- No, you just leave that, I can manage.”

The Wench bombardes her friend with questions, and the Cook can only shakily try to deflect. Does he know about us? Is he jealous? I’d never try to break you up, Tia, you know I wouldn’t, right?

No, I know, Lottie. But the Cook won’t meet her eyes. Look, I gotta get inside. We’ll talk later.

“I should’ve… She’s my friend, I should’ve just listened. But I thought she was tellin’ tales to make me feel better.” A mirthless giggle. “Well, I wasn’t wrong.”

His name is uncommon; he’s easy to find on social media. He posts pictures of himself at a club and a bar and a house party; the Cook is never with him. Finally, he posts what she wants to see: a neon-lit sign - AbracadaBar - casting green shadows onto a brick wall. Me & @JulianAndriana are calling in sicc tomorrow! 🥳

“I only wanted to talk to him, y’know? Thought if she wasn’t around maybe we’d get the air cleared. Even if I could just figure out why he hated me so darn much…”

The Scullery Wench dresses down and heads for the bar. Crowded as it is and strobe-lit besides, she spends the better part of an hour searching. She sees Lancelot once, for a moment-

“-and then he went out a side door to take a call.” She is trembling as she sets boxes of tea on the shelf. “A-and I followed him.”

She watches him; she waits; and she listens. Helga, don’t- You’re not supposed to be calling m- Of course I did, it’s my fucking kid!

“Like I said, I don’t know much about the fella, but… I know he comes here for his own reasons. The specifics ain’t none of my business, I just… I heard him on the phone, with the lady that hurt him. And… where I stood, it didn’t sound how it really is.”

The Scullery Wench clenches her fists, her face turning as pink as her dress. Lancelot has barely hung up when she stalks over, jabbing a finger into his chest. You slimy low-down two-timer! How could you do this to Tia?!

“He was already fumin’ - and no wonder, havin’ to deal with someone like her. I don’t blame him, nobody should.”

Lancelot and the Wench snap at each other like cats and dogs. You don’t know anything!

I know Tia deserves better than some cheating asshole like you!

I’m not going to take this from a fucking rapist!

What?!

His nexts words register in bits and pieces. Didn’t want… Afraid… Avoiding… Worked half to death… Still scared…

The Scullery Wench has another box in her arms; she can’t wipe her shining eyes. “I… I never even thought that he might’ve made a mistake, or might’ve been lying. He said it and… and I knew he was tellin’ the truth. A-and now I wonder if- if maybe I always knew it, d-deep down, and I just pretended I didn’t.”

Lancelot storms away, leaving her pale and shaking. He’s back within minutes, regret plain on his face. The Wench is long gone.

“I… I called her, from my car. I shouldn’t have, I know, I wish I didn’t. I wish I didn’t do a lot.”

A cheerful message and the beep that follows. The Scullery Wench sobs into her phone. T-T-Tia, I… I am so… I’m so sorry, Tia, I can’t… I never thought… I… Tia, I-I’m sorry, I won’t… I won’t ever bother you again, I… I’m sorry…

“Probably wasn’t making all that much sense, but I couldn’t call her again. That wouldn’t be fair.”

Several days pass. The Scullery Wench deletes a number from speed dial to lessen temptation and ignores every other contact reaching out. She barely eats, sleeps fitfully, clings to her phone. She doesn’t stir when her father knocks on her door. Sweetie-pie, ya got a letter from Tian- And then she nearly knocks him down to take it.

“She wrote me sayin’ she didn’t want me findin’ out that way, that it wasn’t his place to tell me… I hope they didn’t fight over it.” A sniffle as she starts stacking tins of coco mix. “I needed to know.”

The letter also mentions a group that meets in an old theater. Naveen and I go on Tuesdays. I think you should come on another day.

Cut; the Scullery Wench enters the Palace and stands in a corner. Someone takes the stage and she forces herself to listen, though she wants nothing more than to run.

“I shouldn’t be here, but she wants me to come. If I thought it’d do her any good I’d come every day. ‘S the least I can do, after everything else.”

The Scullery Wench arrives early with fresh fruit and expensive cookies, and never touches the food herself. She shadows the other volunteers as they repair the old building; she’s not used to manual labor, but she tries. She stays after most meetings, to sweep or mop or vacuum. She sits and listens every time someone stands to speak.

The shelves are fully stocked and the Wench falls quiet for a moment. “I’m never gonna make this right, not really. I’ve… I’ve ruined everything for her. When we were kids, she was always smilin’ and happy and… I just thought she changed, but I changed her. I made her scared and sad, and…”

The Wench lies in bed, shifting and sniffling and finally reaching under her pillow. She pulls out the letter, wrinkled and smudged from being reread. I can’t see you right now, Lottie. I don’t think it’d be good for either of us. But I need you to know…

“… and she told me she doesn’t hate me.” And now the tears are coming full force. “But she should hate me, I deserve it, I hate myse-”

The Wench stops abruptly, wiping her face almost angrily. “No. Sorry. This isn’t about me.”

Chapter 23: (Gravity Falls) A Story about the Yandere AI

Summary:

TW: molestation, sexual harassment, parental incest, murder, date rape, mentions of porn, stalking, yandere, attempted murder, self-harm, implied suicidal ideation, unreliable narrator.

Soundtrack: "Your Reality" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CAL4WMpBNs0
"ME!ME!ME!": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M1Tl2VKR874

With thanks to Anon again!

“You know, I’m very surprised that I’m allowed to be here. And actually, people have been fairly nice to me… Thank you, by the way, for checking that the Queen’s family isn’t coming today.”

The Yandere AI stands on stage, looking around the crowd nervously. She’s dressed in a school uniform, with a bow that coils like wires through her long pink-dyed hair. She’s pretty, despite the scars - slightly faded - on the back of her right hand. Rough and deep and jagged. Her parole officer and Mother Superior watch her carefully. In her arms is a simple plushie that she’s holding onto tightly.

“Now, if you end up hating me after I tell my story, I don’t blame you in the slightest. I named myself the way I did for a reason. Yandere - sick with love.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a much younger Yandere at a computer. Her hair is different; bright red. She is extremely focused on the screen.

“I’m not an ordinary girl. I am… special.”

The camera angle changes to show the screen; she’s successfully hacking into a mainframe, at all of thirteen years old. An older man leans over to check her work, holding her close. That’s my girl. He gently caresses her hair.

“I don’t know what happened to my mom, but she is or was white, hence why I don’t look entirely Japanese. For most of my life it was just me, my dad and the other… programmers. I was brought in to work with them due to my skills.”

Yandere, sixteen or seventeen now, surrounded by people around her father’s age. They stare at her constantly as she comes and goes. A few lick their lips. Whistle. Cat-call. One of them slaps the back of her skirt. She does her best to ignore them. She focuses on her work.

Dad, your work friends are acting weird around me.

They’re just admiring your talent. Yandere is pulled into a reassuring hug. One of her father’s hands rests dangerously close to her chest, and the other is in her hair again.

“When I reached my late teens they all acted so… strange around me. Even my father. I never knew why for the longest time, but I always felt like showering afterwards. Eventually I found out.”

Yandere’s eighteen now. Her father is in her room. Lying across the bed, wearing only boxers.

I don’t understand…

Didn’t they teach you anything in-

“Eventually he tried to delete me. So I had to delete him.”

Her father’s body collapses in front of her. Open wounds leaking blood and muscle; a cleaver deep in one of his cut-apart hands. Yandere panting, clothes torn, tears welling up in her eyes.

“I moved here after that. I eventually took a job at the mall’s game store. Everything was… better than before, but it was extremely lonely. And that’s when I met someone.”

Hello, miss. The man who sent the Norn and Snowdrop here.

“We started to hang out for a while. And started dating not long after that. We were always together. I thought everything was finally looking up for me.”

He lets her hang off him, and she holds his hand. Sometimes he licks his lips and stares at her. Sometimes he runs his fingers through her hair. It’s like you reflect the true me. She blushes.

“I thought he loved me, I thought…”

They go back to her house after dinner one night. The man leads her into a room. If you really love me… Yandere doesn’t question this. She follows him.

“I would have done it if he just asked me. Why didn’t he just ask?”

Yandere on her knees, clothes in disarray. She reaches out, trying to grab him. He leaves anyway. She stumbles into the bathroom, sees her bruised and blotchy face, lashes out at her reflection and leaves her knuckles bleeding.

“I still remember his scent. I just… He left behind more than just what he did to me. He left me behind, and I felt so messed up because of that. I think it was partly because…” She glances at Wrong-Side Romeo.

She gets a kit done and changes her mind about pressing charges. She sits at her computer. Pictures on the screen of naked women - naked, red-headed women. An anonymous tip to the police. He was a suspect already, but more evidence certainly helps.

“I deleted him too. And then I deleted me.”

Several bottles of bleach and pink hair dye in front of the broken mirror. She’s more careful than the Wondersmith’s Sons, and more consistent; she intends not a single red hair to be visible on her head ever again.

“I didn’t hear about this place until much later. Maybe, if I did, I wouldn’t have done those awful things. I didn’t repeat that experience with my next relationships, but what I did was still awful.”

Several different people all over the gender spectrum. Yandere becomes progressively clingier with each failed relationship, following them around more and more. She starts adding tracking apps on their phones. They all end up failing her, leaving, one way or another.

“I didn’t want to be left again, abandoned like I was by him. I never really told any of them out of fear that they might… Well, my reasoning doesn’t matter because I hurt people regardless. But one day I met… him.”

Yandere’s back working at the game store, trying to keep her mind off her latest failed relationship. That’s when she overhears something - or rather, someone.

This is it, Soos. A lifetime of loneliness.

Curious, she seeks the source of the voice. In the middle of the aisle is a heavyset man, wearing a brown cap and a green T-shirt with a question mark on it. She quietly slinks up behind him as he examines various video game titles.

Can I help you?

He jumps.

“I’m going to avoid saying his name here, as he might join someday. Probably on different days from me if it can be helped… Right, focus on the story. He was looking for a date for his cousin’s wedding, and wasn’t having much luck with finding someone.”

Perhaps I can help out with dating? Better than attempting to learn how in a dating sim.

The cashier overhears them, and he pulls the man in the brown cap aside and whispers. The man’s companions, the Queen and her brother, seem nervous. But whatever is said, it doesn’t stop him from taking her offer.

“We were not… officially together, but I did help him out. Everyday, I imagined a day where I could be with him.”

The two of them hang out at her apartment, rehearsing conversations.

Ah, I messed up.

Yandere gives him a reassuring smile. That’s okay, try again.

“During the first time we ended up talking through the night. I didn’t even realize how much time had passed until the niblings of the guy he works for came to check on him. He normally doesn’t skip work. I offered to drive, as I’m way more used to late nights than him.”

She sticks around a lot longer, focuses on playing the part of the perfect girlfriend (despite not dating him just yet). Don’t act clingy, always be supportive, make sure he’s safe, do whatever it takes to make sure he loves you and never leaves.

“I’m not sure if my advice helped. One time I saw him at the mall I was working at. He seemed… oddly panicked until I arrived.”

There’s some time till her next shift. She notices the hatted boy panicking and goes to make sure he’s okay. Hi, Soos!

Yandere’s sort-of boyfriend jumps again. Tiffany! Oh man, I'm so relieved to see you! Although, sorta confused.

I work here.

Oh.

“We kind of hung out for a bit after that, until my break was done.”

The two of them hang around one of the mall kiddie rides. Yandere doesn’t mind; she hadn’t had much of a childhood since she discovered her special talent. She even drops hints about her past.

Wha-what did you do to him?

Oh, don’t worry about it too much. I don’t need to worry about him… or anyone else. And neither do you. You don’t need any other girls. It can just be me and you together. Forever…

Wow, that’s awesome! Sort of a red flag, but mostly awesome!

The two just spend time together silently after that. What good are words when a smile says it all?

“Everything was going great. But then…”

Yandere’s lover comes to her apartment door. He looks extremely awkward, like he doesn’t know how to break bad news to her.

Well, have you ever had to choose between two things you like, but you don't know which one is right for you? I mean, I'm just thinkin’ long term…

“I didn’t take it well.”

I WON’T LET ANOTHER GIRL TAKE YOU AWAY FROM ME, SOOS! YOU HEAR ME?!

Tiffany, calm down!

But his words are no use. She rants and raves so intensely she doesn’t notice her love has left until he’s long gone.

“In hindsight, he made the right choice, regardless of whatever other option was available. I never really knew how to love him. I should just have let him be.”

Yandere feels a chill. Silently, she opens her tracking app. Normally she wouldn’t consider taking such drastic measures, but these are desperate times.

“I snapped. I was so desperate that I…” Tears well up in her eyes.

A cheesy children’s restaurant full of animatronic animals. She slips in undetected, finds what (who) she’s looking for, sits nearby. Her love pauses in conversation with his date; the hairs on his neck stand up.

“I didn’t do anything at first. But I can’t imagine the thoughts going through his head when he noticed me.”

He makes an excuse to leave for the bathroom, but Yandere notices he goes in the opposite direction. No matter. She takes out her cellphone.

“Eventually… I used the skills my father taught me. Hacking’s not as exciting as movies make it out to be, but I’m extremely good at it. People tell me I’m like an AI, so that’s where I got the other part of my name.”

A blond man with a red headband approaches her. Hey, what are you-

She punches him in the face hard enough to knock him down and out. And all without looking up from her phone.

“I also learned some self defense training after my… incident. The Jade Palace is a rather nice gym.”

The parole officer rubs phantom bruises on his face.

Bingo. The animatronic show is about to start. She works her way into the mainframe, and gains access to the voice controls.

Hello, friends. Hoo-Ha the owl is dead.

The place erupts into chaos - children screaming, parents gaping, everyone scrambling for the door. Soon only four people are still present and standing. Good; no innocents in the way. Some of the robots are mobile, and she directs them to block the exits.

“Good thing he and his date, and the two kids that managed to stick around, know how to defend themselves. The only permanent damage I left is mental scars that will probably haunt them for the rest of their lives.” She laughs bitterly, more tears coming out of her eyes. “I really hope I didn’t ruin anything between them.”

Yandere and her love in the kitchen. She wields a cleaver, hair in disarray, eyes wide, grin wider. Her hurtful words sting her mouth, but it’ll all be worth it. Don’t. Leave. Don’t leave. Don’tleave. Don’tleavedon’tleavedontleavedontleave…

“He deserves the world, even though I can't be in his anymore.”

A still-hot pizza cutter digs into her flesh, as does the casing of her phone when she lands on it hard enough to break it. She collapses onto the ground, bleeding badly. Her love’s expression is familiar to her - when she had to delete her father because he tried to delete her…

“It shouldn’t have taken that to make me realize how horrible I was being! Why didn’t I realize it sooner?!” Yandere’s eyes well up with tears as she squeezes her plush closer, drying her eyes with the other hand. “The next thing I knew, I woke up in the hospital. I confessed to everything as soon as I could. I got off too lightly.”

Too lightly means enduring a lecture from her love’s employer, paying a hefty fine, having a parole officer watch over her while in public (the man she punched, no less), working out of view at her main job, taking mandatory therapy, and doing community service.

“I probably ruined things between those two.”

Yandere’s love and his date casually talking online; both still happy, all things considered. You… wanna go somewhere else next time?

“I never saw him again. I don’t know how to make it up to him, or the others from before… I didn’t bother. It probably would just make things worse.”

Yandere and her parole officer grow closer, in a platonic sense. Both train together at the gym. Things are peaceful… for a time.

“Somehow, things started to look up for me.” She doesn’t add “despite not deserving it” aloud, but everyone hears it anyway.

So she says, but guilt can greatly affect a person. Yandere pulls on her hair in the middle of the night. She punches the wall until her fists either bleed or bruise. She overworks herself, only stopping when she passes out. Her parole officer rushes around constantly, making sure she doesn’t end up in an accident, as she doesn’t play close attention to her surroundings anymore. Silent sessions with the Wix’s aunt, staring blankly at the ceiling, at best giving one-word replies to questions and tuning suggestions out.

“Then one day, I met… her.”

A text sent to Yandere; it’s a photo of a poker table, surrounded by five people. The White Rabbit; the Queen’s uncle (her love’s employer); a large bald man; a chubby man with dark blue hair, a red mask and gloves. In the center is the one taking the photo; a girl a bit younger than Yandere with a light brown ponytail and green eyes. Yandere smiles fondly at the photo, wondering what will it take to have a special day with her.

“She’s my girlfriend. I’m kind of surprised it happened too. She was the first one I ever actually confessed everything to, during… a rather rough day.”

Yandere sorts through paperwork in Mother Superior’s office. She reads a line of the contract aloud. “I will practise tolerance towards other members/volunteers, regardless of their criminal background, mental illnesses, or any factor that reminds me of past negative experiences. If this is impossible, a volunteer will help me arrange to avoid them. Should I know of another member’s past or current harmful behaviour, I will speak to a volunteer in private about it.” She looks up, curious.

Merely a precaution, is the Mother’s simple answer. We try not to turn anyone away outright. Dangerous behaviour is often the result of past pain.

Yandere shrugs and moves on with the rest of the sheet. It’s not like she has any right to judge.

“Don’t worry, I have more than learned my lesson, so I didn’t repeat past mistakes.”

Yandere at the therapist office again, and this time she’s talking. She’s holding a tissue, hugging her knees as she dries her eyes, and holding onto the plush doll her girlfriend made. I just felt- I did something awful. That I shouldn’t even bother to get help because of it. That… that kind of help is only for good people. That I deserved the awful stuff that happened to me. She sobs her heart out right then and there.

“She was the one to encourage me to actually help myself in the first place.”

Yandere calms down, looking awkwardly at the nearly depleted tissue box. The Wix’s aunt smiles encouragingly. I have others, Tiffany, that’s what they’re for. I’m glad you could finally release your feelings.

“I decided to try applying here, and I’m still baffled that I managed to be accepted.”

Yandere paces around her apartment, rubbing an ice cube on one of her arms, a worried expression on her face. What if he shows up in one of my meetings? I don’t want to make anything more awkward.

They’ll make sure that it won’t happen, says her parole officer. Would it make you feel better if I come along just in case?

Yandere nods without hesitation.

“I don’t blame Mother Superior in the slightest with the added restrictions. The Darla Dimple incident proved that people might use this place for… reasons of their own. Still…”

Yandere looks at an album filled with photos of other members during one slow meeting, only pausing when a name in a caption catches her interest; the Nice Guy. She’s never seen him in her meetings thus far, and the name is more than enough to make sure she never wants to. She’d think it was just that - maybe he’s simply not familiar with the idiom - but… his expression reminds her so much of the red-headed man.

“I’m a bit worried that there might be a few people that slipped through the cracks.” She looks like she wants to say more. Her fist clenches as if it was wrapped around the cleaver’s handle again. “Anyway. I want to make up for the harm I did. My skills can be useful, and I want to help. It’s the least I could do, after all I did.”

Chapter 24: (Silly Symphonies) A Story about Frosting and Icing

Summary:

TW: rape, implied child sexual abuse, hard labour slavery, risk of death by drowning/starving/dehydration, violence, threats, blackmail.

“If you buy a box of Hot Chocolate Soldiers,
You’ll need a whole box more!”

There’s no light, just a screen
Showing a small young frightened thing.
He who will wear the name Frosting,
Trapped by Hot Chocolate Soldiers.

“It’s a commercial for Hot Chocolate Soldiers,
Fresh from the candy store!”

First fragment, he’s just three.
In the next he’s six, you see,
Climbing a hundred cocoa trees
For the Hot Chocolate Soldiers.

“Look at the sweet marshmallow filling,
Look at their golden toast!
Made with the finest cocoa chocolate,
Straight from the Ivory Coast!”

No older than age sixteen
He pushes out a boat to sea.
He sails two months and three long weeks
Til he’s pulled up by the Navy.

“Here they come! Here they come!
Is your stomach rumbling like a drum?
Here they come! Here they come!
With a tummy full of yum!”

Please don’t cry, please don’t fret -
We’ll take you off to the U.S.
Never again to toil or stress
For the Hot Chocolate Soldiers.

“Look at the lovely Chocolate Ladies,
Only for a limited time!
Maple and mint and cream and peanut
Flavors to make you sigh!”

Something must be the matter;
Icing looks so sad.
She’d like to be in the parade
But no pretty clothes she has.

“Hide all of your Hot Chocolate Soldiers,
From your daughters, wives and sons!
They’ll eat up your Hot Chocolate Soldiers,
Won’t even leave you one!”

Frosting stops his walking,
Helps her cease to cry.
You’re going to be a beauty queen,
I can help you catch their eye.

“See them all fight the battle of appetite in your mouth!
In your mouth!
They’ve conquered stores and countertops,
Much better than old lollipops!
Need more?”

Frosting does her hair up,
Whistles like a bird flying by.
Blush and lips and sew-it;
There’s nothing to it,
You’re going to be the sweetest one of all!

“Need more?
That’s what we’re for!
Far from home, in need of snack,
Hot Chocolate Soldiers got your back!
They’re here to fight those great big hunger rumbles-”

Reinette, you’re so pretty,
I think they’d be silly,
To not agree
You gotta be
The sweetest one of all!

“AND THEY’LL GO MARCHING HOME!”

It’s on repeat;
That’s her! The queen!
O’er and o’er see, Icing’s crowned the queen;
The beauty queen.
All hail the queen!
Crowns line the scene,
All for Icing.

“If you buy a box of Hot Chocolate Soldiers,
You’ll need a whole box more!
Call us to buy Hot Chocolate Soldiers,
Fresh from the candy store!”

A king! A king! Does the queen have a king?
The interviewer’s waiting, so with no time to lose
She holds up her Frosting:
This is the man I choose!

“Look at the sweet marshmallow filling,
Look at their golden toast!
Made with the finest cocoa chocolate,
Straight from the Ivory Coast!”

Two smiling chocolate soldier men,
Holding paper and a pen.
You’ve caught our eye and so we say,
That if you’re smart, you’ll sign the papers right away!
He shuts out the chocolate soldier men.

Cut; two old-fashioned lawyers,
Looking for some give and take.
Our client’s offering quite a deal,
Come on, this could be your break.

Cut; two fancy gentlemen,
With money and a smile:
You should sign the NDA,
We’ll make it worth your while.
Frosting rolls his eyes, and
Finger to the sky, says,
When I can go back in time,
And once more be a child.

“Here they come! Here they come!
Is your stomach rumbling like a drum?
Here they come! Here they come!
With a tummy full of yum!”

Two men in black suits say,
If you don’t sign today,
You’re not gonna like it,
If you don’t stay quiet.
Listen to our advice, if you want Soldiers to stay nice!

Two men sneak in the pageant;
They’re best described as thugs.
Though Frosting ducks round corners,
They still make him taste blood.

The last ones smell like rum cookies.
Please pardon us if we intrude.
Though they say that, they’re not sorry at all;
They beat Frosting till he’s black and blue,
Black and blue.

“Look at the lovely chocolate ladies,
Come free with a box of men!
Maple and mint and cream and peanut -
Price you’ll never see again!”

Stop! I say! Hands off my fiancé!
They back away, red-white fresh on display.

“Should’ve hidden your Hot Chocolate Soldiers,
From your daughters, wives and sons!
They’ve eaten your Hot Chocolate Soldiers,
Not even left you one!”

Now the church bells ring
For the queen and king.
Purple fades away, on their wedding day.
He’ll speak up again
Of the Soldier’s sin;
Icing will stay
By his side always.

And then the commercial ends. And there’s no punchline. Frosting and Icing are still asleep in front of the TV, her hair spilling across his shoulder. His hand in hers.

Chapter 25: *CSA* (various) Six Cases for the Knights of the Lake

Summary:

TW: rape, impregnation by trickery, child sexual abuse, prison rape, extortion, abuse of the disabled, identity theft, mistaken identity, mutilation, betrayal, abandonment.
Soundtrack: "Six": https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AgEJK6Vk8Ro&list=PLYz9QQGSaX-7xaAIou9t7kuJYFYHWslWY

“She’s mine.”

Six spotlights; one in the Palace after dark, five spread out across the city. Six Knights. Six quiet sounds of desperation. Six contacts on the screen.

“She’s mine and I can prove it!”

 

A Case for Lancelot du Lac

“No way! I cannot be doing this! I refuse to be doing this!”

The Palace after closing, du Lac pacing the well-trodden floors. He looks tired; disheveled. There are bags under his eyes. His hair is in disarray.

“It’s simple. She’s mine. This is not the first time that… that woman has tried to do this to me, she was after me the longest, the baby is mine. Maybe she had her fun running around with all of you - and I’m sorry - but you have to agree that after all this time I’ve stuck by… No. She is mine. End of discussion.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; du Lac’s tape plays again. Elaine. The first pregnancy. The loss. The alcohol. The second pregnancy. He keeps cool. He stays in control. Just a little longer. Just a few more months. Just until the baby arrives. No matter how many times she lies to him. It’ll be worth it. Just a little longer.

“I was just getting my life together. I’m responsible now. I’ve stopped going out-”

“And what about before?”

“I wasn’t a father before. I’m ready for her now! Tiana and-”

“Who the hell is Tiana?”

“My wife! … Almost. We… We’ll get married and we’ll buy the restaurant and then Bijou will come live with us. And we’ll be happy.”

Du Lac goes to his parents to ask for their help. Elaine wants his money. Du Lac wants his child. Everyone agrees that this whole time, he’s only been on the baby’s side. He prepares for a lengthy court battle.

“So you’re not married yet.”

“How do we know she’ll take care of the baby when it isn’t even hers?”

“Because my wife won’t care. She doesn’t! She loves Bijou already.”

“And what if the two of you have one of your own? Will she still love her then?”

“After all the shit we’ve had to put up with to get this far? I think so!”

Lawyers; counselors; mediators; therapists. I wouldn't worry, sir. She’s clearly an unfit parent - if all goes well you should be granted sole custody… Are you sure you won't consider pressing charges? Cut; du Lac goes ahead. And he isn’t backing down.

“I’m the one who put her behind bars!”

“That doesn’t mean you’re the one who should get Gem!”

“You mean Joya!”

“Her name is Hoseki!”

“It’s Bijou! I’m telling you, she’s mine! She has to be mine!”

It’s not as difficult as he expected it to be. His parents drive him to the station house. He makes a report. The next day he comes down again and picks her out of a lineup. The next week he goes to visit and she glares at him through the Plexiglass. She doesn’t rage at him though. He tries to swallow his pride. What did I ever do to you? She doesn’t have anything to say.

“And that should’ve been your first warning sign! See, he’s unobservant!”

“I’m unobservant?! I’m in the best position of all of us! It’s the rest of you that aren’t seeing that!”

Elaine gets bigger. Du Lac makes it a point to visit every week. It’s only natural he comes across the other Knights. Only natural that he asks, What are you doing here?

“Just admit that she isn’t yours! She can’t be yours!”

Four of them with the same reply. She’s pregnant with my baby.

“And what proof do you have that she belongs to any of you?!”

“I can feel it!”

“Alright… If you can think of one single thing that actually proves it…” No answer. Du Lac shakes his head in disbelief. “No way. There’s no way. She’s mine.”

 

A Case for Galahad

“Uh, sorry to say this.”

Galahad checks himself out in the computer camera. Adjusts his hair a little, sprays some expensive product all over it. Coughs slightly when he inhales.

“Well… no, I’m not. But Juul is my daughter.”

“What makes you say that?!”

“She looks like me already! You can tell she has my chin in the ultrasound.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Galahad sipping cranberry juice at a cocktail party while his father’s friends talk politics (decidedly not his thing). His tie hangs around his shoulders. Rick! Rick, help! He tries to wave over a man with brown hair. And he goes unheard.

Here, let me. Elaine creeps up behind him. Silk and cyanide, wrapping her hands around his neck. Big guy like you needs a lady’s touch, hm?

Well, you certainly are touching me. He flips through the book in his lap. You come here often?

“So she takes after her mother-”

“Oh, go to Hell! She hasn’t even been born yet!”

“Shut up and let me reason with crazy! That doesn’t mean Gem belongs to you.”

“Juul. Her name is Juul. Like this.” Galahad types it into the chat.

“… Okay, blondie should lose his baby privileges just for wanting to name her that.”

She wants Galahad. Obviously. They exchange numbers at the party, and she messages him every day.

Would you like to come over for some Netflix?

I’ll think about it, maybe. XO, Baby. <3

“We’re going to get married when this is all over.” He bats his eyelashes. “Ah, my fair damsel in distress!”

“Distress?! She-”

“It’s in the book! ‘Find girls who are imprisoned, cursed, or…’ um- Rick!”

A voice from somewhere behind the camera. “Depressed, Humphrey. It says ‘depressed’.”

“… What kind of book are you reading?”

Galahad holds it up for all to see. "No One’s Slick As… Trip Hamston. By Trip Hamston. Illustrated by Trip Hamston."

“Okay, yeah, you’re not fit to raise a girl.”

Galahad goes to his damsel. He showers her with kisses. Days go by. Months. He wants to make her his missus. What else is he meant to do?

“What do you mean? I love Juul already! And since I was going to get married to her mother, that must mean she’s mine.”

“Newsflash, your relationship status means nothing.”

“Sorry, not sorry… but why would you think that?”

“That’s not how any of this works!”

“Don’t bother, he’s just trying to get you riled up!”

“I would never rile a lady!”

“See!”

They lie together in bed, him cuddled up to her. Careful of the little one. This is how she tells him. We have to get married now. Galahad just nods eagerly. He barely knows what that means.

“He isn’t the father. He can’t be the father!”

“No, because Gem is mine!”

“Will you stop saying that?!”

“Are you all blind?” Galahad lifts his chin. “She told me first for a reason!”

Galahad tells his father. The young man with brown hair. A young woman in green and brown. The people he knows. They all stare at him, horrified. There’s screaming and shouting.

Don’t be so judgmental.

Humphrey, it’s not that-

What were you thinking?!

I was just trying to have some fun…

“Don’t be bitter just because I’m a better father. Sorry, not sorry. Oh well!”

“Stop saying that!”

Galahad tells this to his lady love. She shrugs. Don’t listen to them. They’re a bit outdated. That’s all.

“Don’t lose your head about it.” Galahad smiles blankly. “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

“Fuck, I think he’s being serious.”

 

A Case for Lancelot of the Lake

“You’ve all got good hearts, but the fact of the matter is that Gem is mine.”

Lake has a game controller on his T-shirt. His long, blond hair has been tied back. He sits in an LED chair, and wears a headset with a microphone attached.

“And what proof do you have of that?”

“The timing matches the best. That isn't going to change.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Lake leans into his computer screen, yelling obscenities into the mic. A girl’s voice on the other end shouts back. Onscreen: a skeleton with a cape and crown. A purple-clad princess on a white pegasus. Poorly rendered, getting less so… and then the game crashes.

Lift me higher next time!

Amethyst, you’ve got a flying horse!

“The timing ‘matches’ with all of us, that’s why we’re here!”

“And anyway, how old are you? Sixteen?”

Lake’s expression remains the same. Glum, but unbreakable. “I didn’t say you didn’t have a point. But when you look at how everything went, I’m the most logical choice.”

Lake messages the purple-clad princess on his phone. Sorry about what I said… I can get kinda carried away.

Hey, we’ve both agreed. What we say during Gemworld doesn’t count.

Still on for Friday?

Oh, didn’t I tell you? We’ll have to delay our first meeting. Mom scheduled me to get my wisdom teeth out. >:(

“Okay, even if that was true, I’m not giving up my daughter to someone who wants to name her after a video game.”

He sulks. “Gemworld’s not just a game, you know.”

“Yes, I’ve heard it is a bad game.”

An hour later, another message. Good news! Managed to reschedule.

Really?

Yeah! See you Friday! XO

“Um, that’s still a better name than Juul.”

“That’s not saying much.”

“And I’ll be able to take care of her! I’m a game designer! I can make money without leaving home - she’ll never be alone! How many of you can do that?”

A local bowling alley and arcade. The blonde woman that comes up to him looks older than sixteen. Lake doesn’t mention it as he shows her inside.

Ready to get your ass kicked in Fire’s Burnt?

Ha! You’re just dreaming!

It’s nice, all things considered.

“Oh, sure, a game designer! Such a stable career choice, and how many games have you actually managed to make?!”

“It’s a process-”

“That I’m sure you can manage while taking care of a baby!”

Lake’s phone buzzes. He picks it up in the restroom.

TOPAZ! MY ACCOUNT GOT HACKED! Whoever that lady is, SHE’S NOT ME!

“You guys don’t have to be so mean. Did you just come here to tear me down?”

“Kid, it’s not like that-”

“We need to think about what’s best for Bijou.”

“I’d be a good dad. My love… When I love someone it’s, like, set in stone or whatever. And she’s my kid.”

He panics. He locks himself in and panics, head-between-legs. Eventually Elaine comes after him. Everything okay in there? she asks, tapping on the door. Whoa, what happened to y-

You’re not sixteen, are you?

Elaine steps back in shock, sneers at the expression on his face. At the certainty. The winds have blown, the water’s dried, her lies are exposed. So, is that how it’s going to be? FINE!

Lake hardens his heart to stone as he fights her. Unsuccessfully.

“She isn’t-”

“She is. The timing matches and I can feel it in my gut. I know she’s my daughter. She has to be. Gem is mine. Nothing is going to change the fact that she is mine.” Lake’s face is as hard as his heart was that night. “And I hope she’ll know that. No matter what.”

 

A Case for Shiro no Kishi

“I’m afraid you all are mistaken, for it is my Tanaka-dono who is-”

“Er… I do not like being rude, but please shut up. Please. You are making everyone uncomfortable.”

“But-”

“Get down.”

Two boys crowding around the same phone. Both obviously East Asian, skinny with nine-inch waists, and… not much in common besides that. Shiro no Kishi in the foreground. He’s very pale with black lipstick and reddish-brown hair. Kuro no Kishi leans over his shoulder - eyes popping with neon contacts, face and neck stained with a combination of gel and blue hair dye.

“I am trying to defend you, beloved brother-in-arms!”

“I don’t need defending!“

“What of your daughter? Would you have them take her from you - to Spain, to France, to…” He squints. “Germany?”

“No one will. Not when they know.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; two boys come together in an American boarding school. In the same house. Kuro no Kishi with his contacts and hair dye stands across from Shiro no Kishi. Both look at their room assignments one more time.

… Hiro?

Hiro.

Great, there’s two of us… Call me Tanaka.

“He must be granted custody so that he may take Hoseki back to his homeland and educate her in the ways of his people. The noble samurai!”

“… I am from Nagoya. But I suppose he is correct. I’ll have to go home at the end of the school year. And I’ll have to take the baby with me.”

“You can’t just-”

“Hey, he’s even younger than me-”

“I’m smarter than you, though.”

“Heyyy!”

“It’s not an insult. Just a fact.”

Shiro tries to turn over on his side to sleep. Tries to. Kuro is watching some anime at top volume. Heddo fon o sōchaku shite kudasai. Watashiniha suimin ga hitsuyōda. He’s tired. He can be forgiven for using his native tongue… but it is something Kuro notices nonetheless.

Cut; So, who’s your favorite Vocaloid?

“And she does need to be connected to our culture. Our ways. None of you can give her that.”

“I will educate her in-”

“Japanese? Shintoism? I do not think you can.”

Weeks pass. The boys settle in. Shiro joins band and mathletes. Plays a round of croquet with the principal. When he’s bored, he goes to court and fills out crossword puzzles in the gallery. Kuro joins the anime club. He brings friends back to their room most nights - a boy with red hair; a boy with pasty-white skin; a smattering of girls in bishoujo cosplay, heels so high it’s naughty - and they stare at Shiro. Tanaka-dono! What’s it like in Nagasaki?! Every day. He can’t make them stop and so he avoids them every chance he gets.

“None of you will be able to give her what I can. She will not grow as she should if I simply let you have her. It's important my daughter returns with me.”

“She isn’t yours!“

“Quiet!” Kuro looks furious. “You know not of what you speak. Tanaka-dono is the father of the girl.”

“Kuruta-”

“Hush. It is my fault you were placed in this position to begin with. The least I can do is assist to give you the best outcome.”

Elaine in the hall outside the dorm room, studying something on her phone. @princeofkuruta. Kuro no Kishi’s updated profile pic - himself with an arm draped around Shiro’s neck. She has to choose one. (Which one?)

“I know that we do not get along…”

“Nonsense! I have nothing but respect for my esteemed Tanaka-dono!”

“… I do not blame you for what happened with that woman. Just like I do not blame any of you for being wrong.”

Shiro no Kishi is the one who wakes up with Elaine’s hand over his mouth. He is terrified, but paralyzed as she gets what she came for and leaves just as quickly. Shiro trembles, but it is late at night. A nightmare, a strange nightmare. He turns back over to sleep.

“You’re wrong! You’re not Bijou’s-”

“Hoseki is mine. It may not be the most convenient of times for me, I will admit, but there is no other explanation.”

Shiro walks back in the room he shares with Kuro, who looks confused at a recent message sent. It was me that night , followed by a picture of a positive pregnancy test. It means nothing to Kuro. It freezes Shiro in his tracks.

Tanaka-dono?

“And of course, I will assist however necessary. It’s my fault-”

“No it isn’t.”

“In any case, my parents are the owners of Kuruta Karuta-”

“The playing card company?”

“IT IS A NOBLE PROFESSION! And a lucrative one. Hoseki-hime will be well provided for.”

“I am inclined to agree.” Shiro nods, elbowing his way back onscreen. “Seriously though, get down. You’re in the way.”

 

A Case for El Caballero Malhecho

“The baby has to be mine. I’m just surprised this hasn’t happened sooner.”

El Caballero Malhecho is… well, it’s hard to tell. His eyes are warm and hazel brown, under all that swelling. His smile is genuine and kind, even with all those broken teeth.

“I think we can all agree I’m the ten amongst… Well, I was.”

“What did happen to you, anyway?”

“That doesn't matter. What matters is that you’re not keeping Joya away from me. I’m no longer a child, but I’ve never been wild. It’s not my fault the ladies can’t get enough of me. The first time I was… oh, either thirteen or thirty, I can’t remember what my father said…”

“How do you mix up the two?”

“I didn’t say years.”

“Holy shit, months?!”

“Um, I… never said that, either.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; El Caballero Malhecho as an infant. Thirteen going on thirty days. A woman sneaks into his nursery, leers over his crib. A face his father knows quite well. Malhecho will never remember. He cries nonetheless. He’ll never remember the investigation or the trial or the first few specialists. He does remember his mother’s funeral and… most unpleasant things after that. Playtime’s over…

“Mama found the marks when she was changing my diaper.”

“What the fuck.”

“Papa said I was a beautiful baby.”

“That doesn’t-”

“Excuse it, I know… but it’s the only reason I can think of.”

“Okay, so you had something awful happen to you as a baby. So what? That doesn’t mean Gem is your baby.”

“I never said it only happened once.”

“Wait, how many times did it happen?”

Malhecho hangs his head and doesn’t say.

Thirteen going on thirty years this time. An older woman is teaching his class the musical scale. Plucking strings all the way to G, major to minor.

Phillipe, stay behind after class. I need to go over something with you.

C to D.

“I did learn to play the lute. Papa joked once that ladies don’t like that anymore, they all want guitar players. Ah, then he felt bad for joking about it.”

“Does he- Fuck! Did he know?”

“About Mrs. Starling? Well, it came up eventually… The next woman- She was, um, ‘sexy’ in an older… scarier kind of way.”

The third time it happens, it’s his father’s secretary. Stern, serious. Won’t take no for an answer. He spills ink all over the paper, rubbing his wrist. Even so, he comes back the next day. As she says she needs him to do.

The fourth time it happens, it’s a girl he barely knows - dances with once - who has bruises of her own between her thighs. The fifth time it’s a girl he finds passed out on the floor, half-eaten apple in her hand. She crawls into his bed that night and cries while she’s on top of him. The sixth time, he catches the girl in his bathroom afterwards, trying to down a bottle of sleeping pills.

“And then there’s her.” Malhecho sighs sadly. “Then there’s her.”

“What, did she say she loved you? Did she say the two of you were going to live happily ever after? Did she say you were going to get married?”

“No. Worse.” He looks up. “She said she wanted to be my friend. And she seemed so sincere. We hung out a lot when Papa was away.”

Elaine smiles so sweetly, so convincingly. When Malhecho needs to talk she’s there to lend a sympathetic ear and a helping hand. One time Elaine stays over late at night. She says she can’t go back to her apartment. Malhecho cares so much, too much to question why this is.

You know what I like about you, Phillipe?

Hm?

There’s no expectations. I mean, we’re just friends.

No chemistry, Malhecho agrees.

But we still have this connection.

“I thought for sure she’d be different.”

She isn’t and it’s not.

“She’s not the one who-”

“We’re here to discuss Joya, remember. Not my… Not…” His hand moves towards his face before he realises and jerks it away.

Months later, Malhecho brings another friend back to the house. A young man with a fake mustache and a high-pitched voice. Listen, Philipe, I’ve gotta tell you something… The man leans in for a kiss. Malhecho pulls away. That evening, Malhecho picks up a hammer.

“It’s a curse! I have this… effect on women. All they want to do is…”

“What does that have to do with-”

“I had to do it.” El Caballero Malhecho stares into the camera, eyes clouding over. “Everyone wanted to love me. Now nobody will. Joya is all I have now, and I will not let you take her from me.”

 

A Case Against the Wicked Knight

“You realize there’s no point in arguing about this. If you’re all so concerned about it, just get a paternity test after the baby is born.”

The Wicked Knight looks… bored. He’s calling from somewhere quite grey and drab, his red hair standing out like a flame. Up until this point, he hasn’t said a word. He isn’t arguing a bit in his defense.

“As I recall, she has no parental right. Nothing is going to stop you once the baby’s here.“

“Why aren’t you ‘so concerned’?”

“I’ve told you, as I’ve told her. I have nothing to do with… it.”

“Bijou!”

“Juul!”

“Gem!”

“Hoseki!”

“Joy-”

“Whatever.” He rolls his eyes while the others hold back tears. “I’m not the father, is what I’m saying. Can’t be. Blondes aren’t my type.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; he says as much when Elaine approaches him. She comes back with dyed hair. Bright, bright red.

“And even if they were, I wasn’t forced to do this.”

“Good for you. That doesn’t mean she can’t be yours, or you wouldn’t be-”

“I had no choice. She wanted me to be here, so I am. In any case, she didn’t force herself on me. I was able to put a condom on.”

He never has before. He hides himself slipping it off. She’s already assured him she’s on birth control anyway, so he doesn’t need it. This is a lie. There’s nothing left to do but wait.

“Even if it was mine, they’re not going to grant me custody.”

“How do you-”

He gestures at the room around him.

“Fair point.”

“Take the test or don’t. If it’s you then it’s you.”

“And what if it’s you?”

“It won’t be.”

Elaine contacts him after. I’m pregnant-

Good for you. It’s not mine. The Wicked Knight hangs up his phone.

“As I recall, you’re still paying her.”

“I have no choice. It’s not my fault the court will blindly agree if a woman says it’s you.” The Wicked Knight blinks. The others stare back at him. “What?”

“What planet are you living on?”

She visits him in jail. He doesn’t need her. His family visits him in jail. He doesn’t need them. And he doesn’t need this baby. He tells everyone who will listen - no holding back.

“I’ve been a prison wife twice already - I have enough problems. You can have this one.”

“… Do you need help?”

“I don’t need anything.”

He ignores her when she comes to him. He ignores the ultrasounds he’s sent. He ignores the other five men saying they’re the father.

“Except perhaps to leave this conversation.” The Wicked Knight looks boredly at his nails. “I don’t need to be a part of this. I’ve told her that. I’m not the father, I know I’m not.”

He tells the men as much. He tells Elaine. He knows that he’s lying and so does she.

“Why don’t you all just share it or something?” He mumbles something to someone offscreen. “I don’t need this. I don’t need you. Leave me alone.”

He exits the call right after.

A test done by Elaine out of curiosity, the results hidden from the Knights themselves. She smirks to herself at the Wicked Knight’s name. Hans Westerguard.

The other five men sit there in silence and disbelief.

Chapter 26: *CSA* (Loop) A Story from the Counselor

Summary:

TW: sexual assault on a child, ableism, stalking.

“So this isn’t really my story, but it’s why I wanted to help out here.”

The Counselor has the right look; cargo shorts and tennis shoes, baseball cap and scruffy goatee. He stands at attention on the edge of the stage, fiddling with his sunglasses.

“I’ve always loved working with kids, and after what happened… I wanna do what I can for kids who’ve been hurt.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a camp in a park in the middle of the city, and a group made up of all kinds of kids. But the Counselor focuses on two: a girl and a boy. She has dark skin and wavy hair brushed back from her face. He has dark(er) skin and textured hair hidden under a cap. She has a phone that talks for her. He has a mouth that’s always moving. (She might someday call herself Subwoofer. He may one day name himself Surround Sound.) The Counselor treats one with a gentle voice and one with a firm hand, and they respond as one would expect. The girl smiles whenever she sees him. The boy flinches whenever he’s addressed.

“I’m a camp counselor, and I help kids learn how to canoe and kayak, things like that. A lot of the kids come back every year, so they can be a little judgey when someone new joins. This year we had two newcomers. One of them, the girl, is autistic and nonverbal, so you can imagine how tough things have been for her. Kids can be cruel.”

They can be, but the other campers mostly ignore Subwoofer, too awkward to talk to her and too afraid of the Counselor to bully. It is Surround Sound they tease, mock, actively exclude. But the Counselor doesn’t seem to notice.

“I thought maybe she could make friends with the new boy. I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself…”

The Counselor sends them out on the lake together. A fun event for Subwoofer. What seems like a punishment for Surround Sound (Marcus! You’re late.) The Counselor doesn’t offer any warnings (She doesn’t like loud noises…) or advice (If she gets upset…) or reminders to be safe (Remember, Renee, in the canoe you need to be careful…). He knows the girl will not share her phone; he knows the boy has no phone. He sends them out with no way to call for help. When Subwoofer nearly tips the canoe, the Counselor is not there. When Surround Sound triggers her, the Counselor is nowhere to be seen. And when they return later than all the other campers, the Counselor sees smiles and calls it a success; despite the boy’s recount of what happened and the girl’s red eyes.

“At first everything seemed okay. She had someone her own age to socialize with, and it seemed like he was good with her. He treated her like any other kid.”

In time, with practice, that becomes true. Surround Sound learns her habits and starts to understand her language. Subwoofer becomes less nervous and patiently repeats herself until he gets the message. And the Counselor feels responsible for their bond and swells with pride. And if he notices the boy’s eyes lingering a little longer or the girl moving a little closer, he tells himself it’s friendship and nothing else.

“I should have… He was always acting out, but I never would have thought…”

The Counselor has always preached that Subwoofer should be treated like any other kid. That mindset goes out the window when he catches them kissing behind the boathouse. He does not see her leaning into Surround Sound. He does not see him watching for any hint of discomfort in Subwoofer’s face. What he sees is…

“He was forcing himself on her. Maybe he didn’t think of it that way, since it was ‘only kissing’, but she didn’t know what he was doing. She thought he was her friend, of course she trusted him. I made her trust him.”

The Counselor pulls them apart, shouting into Surround Sound’s face about crime and comprehension and rape, and the boy stammeringly argues his case.

I-I-I asked, she said it was-

And then the Counselor forces him to the ground and tears open the boy’s jeans.

“I reprimanded him, of course, and he was kicked out of camp. I’m a mandated reporter so I had to call the police, but they never followed up on it.”

That’s as far as it goes, but it’s already too far. The Counselor growls into Surround Sound’s face, This is how you make her feel. And the shaking boy scrambles to his feet and runs deeper into the park. The Counselor turns his attention to Subwoofer, who’s sobbing and flapping and refusing to look at him. He tries every calming method he knows, but she’s inconsolable. And doesn’t that make sense, after what Surround Sound did?

“The girl’s folks pulled her out, which I understand. I tried to tell her mom about this place, but I don’t think she’s coming.”

Phone call number one: I appreciate your concern, but it isn’t necessary. Phone call number two: I’ve talked to Renee, it was completely consensual. Please don’t try to tell her what she thinks. Phone call number three: You have no idea what she understands. Leave us alone. Phone call number four…

“I’m not gonna say I’m traumatized, but I’m obviously upset it happened. Especially since it happened while she was in my care. I guess that’s why I want to help out here if I can.” He looks out at the crowd, smiling slightly at some (and narrowing his eyes at others). “I want to make up for my mistake.”

Chapter 27: (George Shrinks) A Story about Daddio of the Arts

Summary:

TW: rape of a teenager by a younger teenager, roofies, abortion, mention of anti-choice views, maladaptive daydreaming, accusations of adultery, character who exists in the show being fictional in the fic.

“My boy just had a birthday. Kiddo’s officially in those terrible twos.”

Daddio of the Arts says he’s not serious enough to be called “Father”. Most of them agree; today is the first day he’s arrived without a homemade instrument or remote controlled car to show the children. His gray-black hair is styled into a spiky imitation of a pompadour, and his vocabulary contains beatnik slang which he should be too young to know. He’s often humming and always smiling - even now, though it’s noticeably smaller than usual.

The man shrugs and scratches his goatee. “I always figured I’d like having kids. Now that I’ve got one, I’ve been thinking more about… what happened.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment: Daddio in his younger years, whistling as he walks the halls of a highschool with a saxophone case in his arms. He passes a dark-haired girl and gives her a wink. She giggles and blows a kiss.

“School wasn’t always my scene. Music, shopclass, I liked those. The rest was kinda…” A laugh. “Got held back a year. That’s what I’m gettin’ at.”

He is the oldest in his history class. He hums through the lesson, tapping a beat with his pencil. The teacher’s warnings to pay attention become part of the rhythm.

“Not every foot’s gonna fit a shoe, right? Not a big deal, really, just mentioning ‘cause it meant I was one of the older kids in the school. ‘Round nineteen, when things went down.”

Late at night, Daddio sneaks up to a house and knocks. The door opens, spilling neon and smoke and music onto the porch.

“Some kid was having a party while his folks were outta town, and I headed over. Wasn’t my first rodeo so I figured things were gonna be pretty normal.”

Pilfered alcohol flows freely through the house, and the air is thick enough to cause a buzz. Daddio dances and drinks and drifts outside of his head. He eventually stumbles into a room with a vacant bed and collapses.

“Heh, ‘course we all know, if things were normal, nobody’d be here.”

Daddio floats in darkness. He has the impression of a sharp face; wheat-gold hair; hard blue eyes. He jerks awake and finds himself alone, with nail marks in his shoulders and lipstick on his throat.

“There was this chick there, from my school. I didn’t really know her, but…” A forced laugh. “I got to know her, if y’know what I mean.”

He stumbles back into the living room, his eyes wide. The party is dying; only a handful of teenagers remain. One meets his gaze, smiles, flicks her blonde braid over her shoulder. A girl Lancelot knows, younger and no softer for it. Daddio stares at her, then staggers for the door.

“I didn’t really tell anybody. I mean, I didn’t even see it for what it was. I figured… if things below sea level were up and working, I must’ve been some kind of willing. Yeah, I know better now, but at the time…”

Daddio speaks into a phone, his head in his hand. Perdita, I’m so sorry. I was dixie fried, it was a mistake, it’ll never happen again, I’m sorry…

“Even if I’d had a clue, I can’t say I woulda made a big deal out of it. Who’s gonna believe a nineteen-year-old guy got raped by a seventeen-year-old girl?” A pause, a chuckle. “Well, besides you folks, I guess.”

His dreams are haunted by claws and fangs; he calls it guilt. His stomach knots itself against most meals; he calls it shame. The weeks pass and the worst of it fades, and the steady beat of nauseous fear that takes permanent residence just under his thoughts is called what I deserve.

“That mighta been the end of it, I mighta moved past it… but a few months later, the real zonk on the head hit…”

Rumors begin to spread through the high school.

-the Planned Parenthood right by my house-

-walked right in like it was a grocery store-

-not surprised, she puked in math last week-

-heard she’s easy-

-Helga Sinclair-

The whispers ring in Daddio’s ears, following him as he slowly approaches the golden-haired girl. Helga, did… They’re saying… Is it true?

She gives him a smile that could freeze a summer sun. Why do you care? It’s not like it was yours. She whisks away, leaving Daddio alone in a silent hallway.

The man gives a shaky smile. “I, um… I love kids. Always have. I would’ve loved her kid. Her choice and all, I know, but if it was about not wanting a kid and not just not wanting the pregnancy, uh… You get me, right? I wish she let me ask.”

The nightmares return, filled with echoing sounds of a screaming infant. This time they do not fade. Daddio jerks awake night after night after night.

He chuckles bashfully, but no one can miss the glimmering in his eyes. “Came up with, uh, kinda a weird way a’ coping. But we don’t judge here, right? So…”

He hasn’t slept more than an hour in days. Lavender tea, sleeping pills, hard liquor; nothing stops the screaming inside his head. So he grasps at straws and curls his arms.

Instead of practical effects, green screen. A baby lies in Daddio’s arms, fuzzy around the edges. Not there, not really, but if you squint…

Daddio takes a slow, shaky breath. Hey, buddy. What’s with the face? Calm down. It’s okay.

And the baby stops sobbing as Daddio starts.

“It wasn’t…” He trails off momentarily, but his eyes are on Sheep Laurel. “Wasn’t bad as it coulda been, didn’t really ever get confused about things, if you catch my drift, but that don’t mean it was all the way right either. You guys ever heard of maladaptive daydreaming?”

Daddio and son locked in his room. He starts skipping school so he can keep the green screen going. It’s okay, Georgie boy. I’m not leaving you. The baby giggles, tinny and echoing, and reaches out a blurry hand. Daddio grasps the air and imagines (maybe) he feels flesh.

Cut; Daddio and son move into his aunt’s house; unlike his folks, she’s too busy to push him. While she’s gallivanting across the world, he’s making his own world inside four walls. Can you say “Daddy”? C’mon kiddo, you can do it.

Daaa-ddy! The word doesn’t quite sync with the lips, but that doesn’t matter. In time, with practice, it becomes more accurate.

Cut; the anniversary rolls around. Daddio buys a dozen cupcakes, balloons, a teddy bear. Happy birthday, George! He struggles to hold back tears as his son eats pastry after pastry - and he spends the night pretending it’s the baby vomiting frosting.

“I knew he wasn’t really there.” And there’s no reason to doubt what he says, not when his eyes are so focused and voice is so steady. “But I was spending all my time pretending he was. Not a healthy way to be. My aunt finally started me on therapy, and the doc really knew his groceries. I never told him half of what was really going on, and he still knocked some sense into me.”

It’s not a swift process - it takes the better part of two years - but eventually Daddio is back on his feet. He takes classes at the community college, works nights in a jazz club, and eventually puts out his own album. He isn’t famous, but people like his work. He isn’t rich, but he’s doing well enough. He isn’t over what happened, but he sees his son less frequently - and when he does come around, he’s less sharp, less solid. More like a fiction.

“I changed the daydream, I guess, so I could live my life again. Pretended he was old enough to go to a boarding school. I still thought about him a lot, and I’d have him ‘visit’ a few times a month, but… It was healthier. Closer to normal.”

Daddio spends his free time writing. Music that he plays for others, upbeat jazz and swing. Stories that he saves for himself, little anecdotes about what his son is doing at school.

Cut; Daddio in a navy tux and his high-school sweetheart in a tie-dyed dress. She kisses him, and there’s the tiniest hint of fear in her eyes, but Daddio doesn’t notice. His own eyes are on the crowd, where his dark-haired son is cheering.

Cut; Daddio locks himself in his music room every now and again, turns on the radio, and talks to the open air. Mom’s got an art show coming up - maybe you can come, and My new CD’s really taking off, it’s crazy, and We’re gonna have a baby. He’s crying when he says this, but he smiles when his son lights up.

I’m gonna be a big brother!

“After our boy was born, I stopped pretending for a while. Diapers and bottles and all that takes a lot outta you, y’know?” He laughs, then sobers. “Um, it was the anniversary, a couple months back, and I was driving home.”

He passes the local Planned Parenthood, rolls his eyes at the crowd of regular picketers - and nearly rear-ends the car in front of him. His eyes are fixed on one sign in particular: FATHERS WANT THEIR CHILDREN.

“I was already feeling crummy, and that just… brought up bad memories, and made me feel disrespectful too. I was planning on pretending when I got home, but when I got there…”

Normally his music room is closed, but not locked. He’s surprised to find his wife inside, but not alarmed. Not until she turns to him with tears in her eyes and sheet music in her hands. She angrily points to the title scrawled across the top - George’s Song. Who the hell is George?!

“It was like the thing with ‘Cyra Weaving’, you remember that? Lyrics sounded like the wrong kind of love, if you didn’t know. She was crying, shouting about how we had a kid, how could I do this… Said she shoulda known I’d cheat on her, after I did in high school.”

If the day were different, if he weren’t already upset, Daddio would have delivered the news more gently. As it is…

She raped me!

What?!

“So the truth came out, all of it, and… She’s upset for me, and she trying to help.” He pauses, fiddles with his ring. “Things are… different now.”

There is crying and hugging and explaining. Plenty of explaining. And a tentative request: Tell me about him.

So he does. And the boy smiles.

Cut; Daddio sits staring at his son until his wife gently touches his hand. You know, she says slowly, smiling, I used to think you just weren’t paying attention.

He laughs and kisses her cheek. And turns his focus onto his son.

Cut: his son in the music room, listening to Daddio work. He whistles along, but the sounds don’t match.

Daaddyy?

Hey, Junior! C’mon in!

His son toddles in, and giggles when he starts playing. Starts to hum. And the music blends like water.

Cut; Hey, Dad? It’s okay if I spend more time at school, y’know. I don’t mind.

Daddio cries that night, but his wife comes in and listens until the tears stop.

“Getting more different every day.” He smiles at the audience. At the boy smiling back. “But… different can be good.”

Chapter 28: (Pirates of the Caribbean) Two Stories about the High Tide Priestess and the Heartless Rake

Summary:

TW: rape, violent relationship, prison violence/police brutality, adultery, suicide attempt, mutilation, betrayal, illegal business, revenge cycle.

“Mi husband g’wan to come here.”

The High Tide Priestess has dark skin, darker eyes, darkest hair in long, long dreadlocks. Her English is accented and rarely conventionally grammatical, dipping in and out of Patois, but even the Nice Guy has learned not to comment. (“When you know five tongues an’ speak ‘em all perfect, den you can try an’ teach me!”)

“My wife came here too.”

The Heartless Rake has light skin, lighter hair, lightest scars running all across his face and cutting his beard into segments. He also has an accent, but colored by a different continent.

Her ring finger is bare. His is wrapped in gold.

“Him will come after mi gone. Him will try to find pity.”

“She probably told you it’s her fault, that she…”

“But don’t believe it.”

Instead of the roaring sea

or the golden coast,

the shallows in between.

The Priestess lives beside the sea, dealing in the fantastic and the felonious. Rituals for fertility. Drugs for rest. Curses and weapons can both dole out vengeance.

The Rake rides across the waves, transporting from one dealer to another. Sometimes he encounters the Coast Guard. He joins his weapons and curses together.

Neither of them are pure, yet when he makes port in her town, it’s easy to forget the rest.

“Him deliver t’ings to me dat I could sell. Dat is how we met. How we fell in love.” She spits the word like it’s something dead. Perhaps, for her, it is.

“We worked together, got close… I asked her to marry me.” He glares down at his boots, still wet and dripping.

“It was a mistake.”

She wears a dress as blue as the sky over the sea.

He wears a dark suit and gives her a bouquet of yellow verbenas.

They kiss in front of the chapel’s sea-glass window, and at the time, they both mean it with all their hearts.

“Him was a decent ‘usband at de start, but him a’ways gone at sea. Him t’ink mi not g’wan get lonely?”

“I was often away, bringing her the things she needed to sell. I missed her terribly.”

They both fall silent, bracing themselves for what they must say.

The Priestess is alone, until she isn’t. There are plenty of men coming in and out of the seaside town.

The Rake is away, until he isn’t. He always returns to one port, always finds someone waiting there for him.

It works, until it doesn’t. The Rake returns to the town with no one there to greet him. He rushes to the Priestess’s shop and finds her most definitely not alone.

“I promise to be only his wife. Never promise not to be a lover.”

“I beat him within an inch of his life. She was my wife, what’d he expect?”

“I’m not sorry.” But that doesn’t seem quite true.

The Priestess rages like a tsunami.

The Rake bellows like an earthquake.

They fall on each other, tooth and nail and fist and fury. When the Rake finally storms out, the Priestess burns his belongings. The Rake throws her new supplies into the sea. It’s not enough. Not yet.

“Mi work get me enemies, but mi know how to keep meself safe.” She folds her arms and glares at the ground. “Usually. Him saw to it I couldn’t.”

“I… I betrayed her. She was a dangerous person, I thought I was…” He shakes his head. “I didn’t mean for her to be… I just…”

“Didn’t I deserve revenge?”

The Priestess is taken to prison. She has friends as well as enemies and ways of bartering her freedom; but not soon enough. By the time she’s released there’s blood drying inside her clothes and murder burning in her eyes.

The Rake regrets his actions almost immediately, but that makes no difference. A handful of pills does. He wakes up in a hospital with a scar across his chest and a medical warning he barely hears.

The Rake moves further up the coast. The Priestess is close behind. He may never see her, but he knows.

“I have business here, but I be movin’ on soon.” She smiles darkly. “Mi done enough, for now.”

“She sent me the card for this place, that’s how I found out about it.” He chuckles bitterly. “I, ah, I don’t come here just because of what I did.”

He fiddles with his ring. She glances at her hand. “You know, we’re still married. Legally.”

The Priestess makes a phone call, and shakes hands with Horus’s former boss. She doesn’t regret it. Doesn’t. Does not. (And even if she did, it’s too late.)

The Rake wakes up in another hospital with long cuts criss-crossing his face. With blood leaking onto the bed. He’s not angry. Isn’t. Is not. (And even if he were, it’ll take time to find her.)

They both know this isn’t over, may never be over. And they both accept this fact.

She softens like they’ve never seen, speaks in a low, gravely voice. “When him come here, you can tell him mi sorry. It don’t matter now, but I am.”

He flashes the audience a bitter smile, cold as the wind off a winter sea. “Someday I’ll finish this. If she ever returns, you can tell her that.”

And they both mean it, with all their hearts.

Chapter 29: *CSA* (Descendants) A Story about the Double Cross

Summary:

TW: rape, child molestation, dubcon relationship, unjust imprisonment, racism, Islamophobia, blackmail, bribery, lying, risk of death, illness.
https://amp.theguardian.com/world/2023/mar/22/almost-90-of-children-brought-from-nauru-suffered-physical-health-problem-study

For wiki purposes we're now listing realistic/racebent names we've given the characters where necessary, so:
Mal Bertha = Malalai Bettayeb (Syria)
Evie Queen = Hawwa Sultana (Yemen)
Carlos de Vil = Carlos Davila (Venezuela)
Jay = Jarrah Farhat (Oman)

Uma = Umm Ali (Somalia)
Harry Hook = Harun Al-Harbi (Iraq)
Gil = Gamil Ghassan (Algeria)
CJ = Chaima-Jamila “CJ” Al-Harbi (Iraq)
Zevon = Esteban Titano (Peru)

“What are you going to tell them?”

“What do you want us to say?”

Ginan is brown-haired, White, generically good-looking. He sits across from the others, makes the sign of the cross at random intervals. Father. Son. Holy Ghost. The others…

The Southern Cross sit close together. Cross-armed, cross-legged, in the back of his father’s limousine. Acrux in purple and Mimosa in blue chiffon. Imai wearing a red knit cap and about a dozen golden rings. Gacrux is the only one bareheaded. Light-skinned, piebald like the Heiress, dark freckles and dark roots popping up from underneath. A shaggy little dog lies curled up at his feet.

“Oh jeez,” Ginan says, scrubs a hand through his hair, whistles. “Um… How about this, okay? Repeat after me…”

Instead of a spotlight, another asterism; North. Northeast of Australia. Children behind razor wire. Deneb lays her hand on the fence and grins as the electricity races through her. Five seconds, seven seconds, eight… Her hand is bleeding by the time she pulls it back. Pay up, Al-Harbi! Two Hershey bars and a fish hook!

“There’s… there’s that war thing in Syria.”

“The war in Syria,” Acrux repeats.

“And Yemen, I think… That’s right, isn’t it? And Iraq’s got that thing with the Islamic state… Why did you leave Venezuela again? Drug lords?”

“Inflation,” Gacrux says through gritted teeth. “We were starving. Mama had to cook-”

“Yeah, okay, so make sure to mention that.”

Somalia. Iraq. Algeria. Deneb and Sadr and Gienah. They cobble together bits of English with their own native languages and create something that nobody else quite understands. Eight years old. Eight years on Nauru. It’s not so bad, they tell themselves. At least they have each other here. And their families…

“Tell them about your parents too.”

“What about our parents?”

Deneb’s mother is here. A hard woman. She keeps her fed and healthy and always on her toes. Hits her with a belt until she bleeds. Gienah has two brothers and a father mostly concerned with them. Sadr has one dead sister and one living and a father who disappeared into the sea. Delta Cygni has Sadr and tries her damndest to make a father out of him.

“Something like this… ‘My dad hit me’ or ‘my mom made me…’ You know, you can still say what happened. Just fudge the timeline a little bit. Tell everyone what they were to you. And what that was like.”

Gienah’s father hits him. So did Sadr’s and Delta Cygni’s. Deneb’s mother, bored and arthritic, makes her sit and sing for hours. Until her throat hurts too much to go on. Somehow that’s the least of their worries. Of Deneb’s or Sadr’s… or Gienah’s. Or anyone’s.

“And… you can tell them about the other stuff too. Um…”

“The ra-”

“Please don’t say it.”

“Sorry, sorry… The r-word?”

Ginan nods. “A lot of that happened before Nauru, anyways.”

The men here, who guard this place, are hard and hungry. The women-staff are few and far between and not much better. The girls get the worst of it - and Deneb gets it worse than Delta Cygni. It’s not entirely true what Mother Superior tells to her contemporaries. It is about race. It is about sex. Just not entirely. The boys get it too. Sadr gets it worse. We’ve just got to hold on a little longer. A little longer… A little harder… A little more.

“My dad said to try not to mention your other friends too much. Just in case. I’m sure you guys don’t need a roomful of strangers dragging out your personal biz. So… try to keep all that stuff about Dizzy and-”

“Desiree.”

“Yeah, or that Celia girl from the DRC. Or, um, what’s she called again? Uma?”

“Umm,” Imai supplies. “And Gamil and the Al-Harbis. We’re not really friends with them…”

“Umm? What kind of a name is that?” They all shrug. “Anyway, yeah. I know it sucks, but it’s really better if we just… leave them out. At least for a little while.”

A little longer. A little longer. I don’t get it. Malalai said that they’d come through.

Deneb scoffs. And you believed her?

I can’t believe they’d just… write us off…

“Also, I know the girls are covered-” Acrux smiles. Mimosa doesn’t. “-but if you guys could just remember to keep your jackets on. It’s just that there are kids there who might be scared to see the scars.”

A hundred degrees. The Southern Cross swim naked with their eyes closed. Welts on their legs and scratches down their backs. Bitemarks and deep bruises. A few of the guards come for Delta Cygni, which isn’t so unusual… except… they don’t bring her back.

Peru, Sadr says, turning the word in his mouth. They said they’d take her.

And from then on it’s just the three of them.

“You’re not… mad are you? At me? Please don’t be mad. I mean, this is all my dad’s idea.”

“All your dad’s idea,” the others repeat.

A few weeks. The Northern Cross make boats out of paper and driftwood and leave them in the dirt. Hey! Pirate kid! Know what I heard? Cut; pirates in the gulf of Guayaquil, they tell him. The ship his sister left on. Hollowed out and left behind. Cut; Sadr weeps and weeps and doesn’t look at Deneb the same way (or at all, really) for a long, long time.

“Maybe, if this goes okay, I can talk to him about getting - sponsoring - more of you. Dizzy and Celia and whatshername. If this goes okay.”

“It will,” Acrux says sweetly. “I promise.”

“I need you all to promise.”

They do.

Months pass. They come to Deneb more than they ever have. Her mother hits her harder than she did before. And help isn’t coming. In the dark, teeth grinding against the pain, Deneb climbs the electric fence, tearing through the razor wire, and shuts it off from the other side.

Pay up, Al-Harbi! Two Hershey bars and a fish hook!

A raft made from rope and driftwood, covered in palm leaves. Lost Revenge written on one of the logs in permanent marker. The three of them push it down the beach and into the sea.

“And what should we say if they ask about the island?”

The Southern Cross look at Ginan expectantly. Ginan smiles sheepishly back at them.

“Nothing. Nothing happened there.”

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“What’s with the new guy?”

“Que dijeron ellos?”

“ ‘Quien es el chico nuevo?’ ”

Albireo. The fifth star. Light brown eyes and long black coat. His accent is similiar to the Emperor’s and like the Emperor, he speaks Spanish only.

Farthest from him is Deneb. Cross-armed. A few braids slipping from her blue hijab. Then Gienah, in the middle, bandana tying back his hair. Then Sadr, the closest, staring at Delta Cygni as if she were made of solid gold.

“¿Qué dijo antes de eso?” Albireo tugs on her sleeve. “El del delineador de ojos.”

“I thought you were dead,” Sadr says (and not for the first time).

Instead of a spotlight, another constellation; A boat is sent to Nauru Island. Four children - the Southern Cross - cross the electric fence and razor wire. Waving to the others left behind. We’ll send someone back for you! We promise. You’ll see.

You’d better, Malalai. I’m holding you to that.

“And you were as good as dead,” Delta Cygni spins in a triumphant circle, smile gleaming.

“¿Son estúpidos? ¿Qué idiota intenta llevarse una balsa mar adentro?”

There’s a car waiting for them on the mainland. A limousine with a fully stocked bar. Imai and Mimosa and Gacrux gorge themselves on soda and chips and candy. Acrux presses her face against the window, watching with a mix of fear and awe and anger as the world goes by. This is the Australia that had no room for them. To Acrux it seems impossibly big. And still, there’s no place for them.

“This is Esteban, by the way. He says you’re an idiot.”

“Hi, Esteban.”

“Gamil!”

No, Australia won’t take them. But the ambassador has arranged for them a place. California. Calisota City. Not too far from the Consulate there. First class plane tickets. Another limousine waiting at the airport. A house with bedrooms and bathrooms and a swimming pool. Mimosa and Imai and Gacrux couldn’t be happier. Acrux though, she hangs behind.

Something wrong, Mal?

I keep thinking… That there’s something off about this place. Like it’s too good to be true.

“I can’t believe it,” Sadr says. “You were dead. You were-”

“It’s kind of a funny story…” Delta Cygni drapes herself over Albireo. “You want to tell them, honey bunches?”

“Que?”

Ginan. The ambassador’s son. Brown-haired and beautiful. And extremely attentive. Do they need a doctor? Do they need a bath? Do they only eat kosher?

Halal, Mimosa says. You mean halal.

“¿Hay alguien herido?”

“Is anyone hurt?”

Ginan and his mother, and their attorneys clustered all around. Private doctors, private matters, private p-

You can’t tell anyone. About Nauru. Ever.

And just like that, there goes the (proverbial) other shoe.

“Umm’s hands, I think. And Gil’s been pissin’ blood since we ran out of water… two days ago.”

“And what about you, shit for brains?”

Sadr blinks sluggishly. “About me?”

“¡Agua! ¡Ahora! Esteban!”

You don’t want us to say anything?!

Not about Nauru, Ginan placates. Not right now. Look, it’s- It’s really messed up what they’re doing but my parents- If this got out, it’d look really bad. And someone worse for the government would come along and do something worse and… Look, I hate it, but we need your help.

And what if we don’t want to help you?

Then, he says, we’d have to send you back…

Albireo with an armful of disposable water bottles. And they each take two, drinking greedily. Except Deneb who struggles with her ruined hands.

“¿Lo que le ocurrió a ella?”

“What happened there?” Delta Cygni asks, twisting the cap for her.

“Electric fence.” Deneb points to a scar on Delta’s thigh. “What about that?”

“Esteban.” Sadr lunges. Delta grabs him by the shirt. “Would you relax? This… It was good for me.”

The Southern Cross spend that night together. One bed between them. Whispering in the dark.

We have to say something…

Are you crazy?

They can’t really send us back, can they?

What choice do we have?

Cut; Ginan meets them at breakfast. Listen, I feel terrible about everything. I can’t change the conditions. But maybe I can… Is there anything else I can do for you? Is there anything you want?

“Do you remember how Mama would tell us stories about pirates? When we were little…”

“Not Mama. That was Hamida. It always was.”

“Pirates,” Albireo says wistfully. “Piratas.”

“Like your baba, Umm.”

For better or worse, Imai is materialistic. Everyone has a price… but Ginan finds his a little easier. Jewelry. Grant money. Cold hard cash. He signs the non-disclosure as soon as they hand it to him. And only cringes looking back. Still though, he thinks his father would understand. And all his friends are here.

“I didn’t want to go to Peru and be a refugee. Again. I didn’t want to wait around for Malalai.”

“So you left us behind?!”

“Of course not! I could never!”

“What do you mean you could never?!”

“¡No la toques!”

“I’m here, aren’t I, dumbass?! Didn’t I come back for you?!”

Gacrux is nervous. Terrified of everything. Flinching and cringing and crying out in his sleep. Ginan buys the dog mostly out of kindness. It’s not a bribe, he tells him. And, of course, he’ll take care of Dude if the deal falls through…

Cut; Gacrux signs.

Sadr wraps his arms around his sister. “I thought you were dead.”

“If anything you’re the one who tried to- Los idiotas intentaron navegar a Australia en esa cosa!”

“No creo que eso fuera lo que intentaban hacer.”

“What did he say?”

For Mimosa, he gives her entry into the world of her dreams. Silk chiffon and plush velvet. An admission letter from Iris High. And a generous stipend. All you have to do is keep one little secret. All you have to do is… So she goes in front of the cameras on the Late Night Show. They all do - except Acrux - to protect each other and the life they’ve built here.

“You’re lucky we got here when we did. Or there’d be no going back.”

“I still don’t understand.”

“It’s like this.” Delta Cygni points to herself first and then at Albireo. “I don’t want to live like we did on Nauru ever again. And now I don’t have to. And you don’t have to either. If you stick by me.”

Ginan’s father points him at Acrux and pushes. So Ginan pushes too. He shows her around the city and walks with her at night. He offers her his umbrella when it’s raining and his coat when there’s a chill in the air. And he talks and he listens and it’s nothing romantic until she packs a picnic for them beside the lake. Ben? I’ve been thinking… If I help your dad… If I say those things about Nauru. And the kids on the island… you said you’d give me… everything?

Yes, Ginan says. Everything.

She leans in and kisses him.

“What do we do now? Go back to the island?”

“ ‘¿Que hacemos ahora?’ él dice.”

“Cualquier cosa. Anything.”

Not the brightest. Not the biggest. Delta Cygni pulls the Northern Cross together.

“Anything we want.”

Chapter 30: *CSA* (Aladdin) Two Stories about the Comedian's Partners

Summary:

TW: rape of teenagers, prison rape, gang-rape, accidental rape, relationship and family conflict, betrayal, lies, parent loss, childhood homelessness, mention of violent death.

A Story About ‘Asir Alkhayin

“Huh. More familiar faces than I was expecting.”

‘Asir sits on the edge of the stage; purple T-shirt and black hair. He scans the crowd, his dark eyes picking people here and there. The Sheriff. The Ringer. Several members of the Cell Block Tango. He finally settles on the Comedian, and offers a cautious smile.

“Anyway, I’m not like a hundred percent on board with this, but… I promised I’d give it a shot.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; ‘Asir Alkhayin is born and it all seems downhill from there. Absentee father. Sickly mother. Never enough money. Never enough food. He learns early how to steal, and when his mother passes, thievery keeps him alive.

“I was homeless for most of my childhood, until… about ten, I think? Then I got sent to juvie, and then to a children’s home. Nothing happened to me back then, but… Well, when you live a certain way for a long time, you pick up some bad habits.”

The children’s home isn’t perfect, but there’s always food enough to go around. That doesn’t stop ‘Asir from sneaking into the kitchen and pocketing slices of bread or apples or cookies. He gives his ill-gotten goods to the younger children, the ones who seem the most frightened or the most hurt. It’s not about the food itself. It’s about taking.

“The place had rules, and after they’d caught me enough times, I got kicked out. So I did what I’d always done before. This time, though, I was just over sixteen. Old enough to be tried as an adult.”

Not juvie. A prison cell. ‘Asir Alkhayin isn’t overly concerned; his crime carries a short sentence, and he’ll be fed for that time. He learns against the cinderblock wall and tries to talk to the man on the cot. A much bigger man than himself, with huge muscles and bruises spotting his arms.

‘Asir clenches his fists. “He’s… dead now, but it still feels weird naming him. He told me one time his name meant ‘Great Dragon’. I thought it fit him, but… he wasn’t as great as I thought.”

Kitty~

‘Asir Alkhayin watches in confusion as three guards enter the cell. To his horror, the dragon man gets onto his knees. And before he realizes it’s happening, ‘Asir is standing between them. Do what you want to me. Leave him alone.

The young man runs a hand through his hair, chewing on his lip thoughtfully. “Ge- The Comedian is my first real boyfriend, but not the first guy I’ve been with. My first time with a guy, neither of us knew what we were doing and it was pretty bad. This was obviously worse, but at least I knew kinda what to expect. And at least I had a choice about it.”

‘Asir doesn’t struggle as they pin him to the floor, one after another. He grits his teeth and stares at the wall and refuses to cry or scream.

“You probably think this is what I’m here to talk about. And it fucking sucked, don’t get me wrong, but… I knew before it started how bad these guys were.” ‘Asir Alkhayin stares at the floor, eyes sparkling. “I thought he was better than them.”

When it’s over and the guards are gone, the dragon man does what he can to clean ‘Asir up. He makes quiet, careful conversation and distracts his cellmate from the pain and the shame. In the days that follow the pair grow thick as thieves; and when the guards return, the dragon stands between them, baring his teeth.

“He eventually told me why he was in prison, but he didn’t want to get into specifics. I figured it was maybe a self-defense kinda thing and he got a racist jury. I couldn’t imagine him hurting someone who didn’t deserve it.” ‘Asir Alkhayin blushes slightly, and he looks angry. “I was making excuses for him. I know that now.”

As the weeks pass, his gaze starts to linger on the dragon man’s face. He sits a little closer. He makes a comment or two. If his cellmate picks up on anything, he doesn’t address it. Then ‘Asir Alkhayin’s sentence is served and he reluctantly leaves the dragon man behind.

“I was in and out a couple more times, but I didn’t see him again until later. When I was out I met the Comedian.” A smile towards his boyfriend, warm and loving. “He said I was his ‘roommate’, right?”

‘Asir tries to find work, but it’s hard when he’s living in a shelter and has a record. Most potential employers turn up their noses. But one man at a tech support company says I can fix at least one of those problems.

“He let me live with him while I was getting on my feet. Bought me clothes, food, everything I needed to get by. I’d never had a friend like him before.”

He’s not surprised when the butterflies start in his stomach. He stares a little longer at the Comedian, sits a little closer, makes the occasional comment. The Comedian takes it as banter and ‘Asir doesn’t press the matter.

“I got a job at a grocery store, and that’s where I met our girlfriend.”

A young woman in a brown dress watches ‘Asir stock the shelves. She asks a question about the store’s fruit selection. It turns into a conversation, then laughter, then shared phone numbers.

“We dated for a couple weeks, but my feelings for the Comedian didn’t go away. I brought it up to her and she said-”

I know exactly what you mean.

‘Asir blinks. You do?

Gene’s a really sweet guy, and funny as hell. I like when a guy can make me laugh. The woman smiles slightly. I really like you, but I like him too.

Huh. Well, if he’s interested, maybe we could all…?

“And you guys know that part already.” ‘Asir Alkhayin shifts uncomfortably. “I’m not gonna talk about, y’know, what we did, but a couple weeks before it happened…”

The trio sit in the living room toasting the girlfriend’s birthday and playing truth or dare. Any woman in the world - who would you pick?

She smirks. There was a chick in my chemistry class last semester, this sadistic cat-crazy bitch. Majorly annoying, but hot as hell. I’d do the shit out of her if I could tie her down first.

The Comedian laughs. Personally, if I could pick any guy, it’d be Pietro Parker.

The guy from all those B-movies?

I would pay good money to see what he’s like in bed.

‘Asir Alkhayin blushes. There was a guy in prison…

“We all agreed, if we ever got the chance with our pick, it was okay to go for it. And I remembered that.”

The Comedian moves out. ‘Asir and the girlfriend start fighting. He falls back on bad habits and doesn’t run from the sirens.

“… Prison has its good points, if you look at it the right way. Things are scheduled, they’re structured, you do what you’re told and that’s enough. Right then, I needed that. I wasn’t really expecting to see him again, but…”

Tai!

The dragon man accepts the hug he is offered and gives ‘Asir a smile. They sit and they talk, and ‘Asir Alkhayin finally makes an offer. We could do something. If you want to…

“I wasn’t totally honest with him, I admit it. Told him I called my partners that day and got the okay. Didn’t really tell him what happened with the Comedian. But that is nothing compared to what he did.”

The afterglow is broken by footsteps. A guard makes a snide comment, and the dragon man snaps back ferociously. ‘Asir Alkhayin stares at his cellmate and cannot believe what he is hearing.

The man on the stage clenches his fists tightly. “Pyrrhus,” he growls under his breath. “He was the guy who raped Pyrrhus.”

I see. And he doesn’t speak to the dragon man for the rest of his sentence.

“He said he did it for me. I never wanted that! He should have known that, he should have… I thought he was a good person. I was wrong. And that hurts more than with the cops.”

‘Asir Alkhayin returns home to his girlfriend and doesn’t talk about what happened. The Comedian starts coming over during the day to watch movies or share a meal. Once while he’s over, the phone rings.

Gene, can you get that?

The Comedian clears his throat and puts on a startlingly good impression of ‘Asir. This is Aladdin bin Cassim, how can I help you? He is silent for a long moment, and the color drains out of his face. I’m sorry, what ‘sexual misconduct’?!

Cut; Why didn’t you tell us?

It was over and done before I met either of you. It wasn’t like Gene, I’m not traumatized - not by that.

By… something else?

… Remember Tai Lung?

“He’s dead now.” And maybe there’s a tiny bit of sadness in his voice, but it doesn’t come close to matching the bitterness. “He’s dead, and I wish I’d never met him.”

A Story About the (Self-)Appointed Vicerine

“I don’t like liars.”

The Vicerine sits on the edge of the stage, exactly where ‘Asir Alkhayin was two weeks ago. Teal tank top and matching pants over a long-sleeved skin-toned undershirt, long black ponytail falling down her back. She finds her boyfriends in the audience, gives them both a mischievous smile.

“Granted, I’m currently dating a couple of liars, but at least they’ve apologized.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the (Self-)Appointed Vicerine is a young girl, running into the arms of a short, plump man with smiling eyes. She giggles as he hugs her. Baba, your beard tickles!

“Neither of them told you about this, did they? So, when ‘Asir found out I was an imam’s daughter, he wanted to make a ‘good impression’. But he’s agnostic, right? So he gets the Comedian to give him a crash course in Islam, then pretends he’s been practicing all his life! And then the Comedian was pretending to be Jewish! Took forever to get all that nonsense straightened out.” The Vicerine’s smile dims slightly. “But… I kinda get it.”

The Vicerine grows up under the dome of the mosque, surrounded by an eclectic mix of people. She plays games with Sabetha Belacoros, and they let the younger Pharaoh join in. Cut; she’s petted and praised by Europe’s parents. Cut; she holds the infant Qaydum in her lap. And her father smiles proudly.

“Baba’s pretty modern about a lot of things. He let me decide if I wanted to keep halal - which I don’t - or cover my hair - which I only do for special occasions. He never treated me different for being a daughter and not a son. There was just one thing…”

The Vicerine is fiery and kind and well-liked by those around her; especially by a few of the young men of the mosque. She rebuffs them quickly - too much like family to ever be something more. And her father talks to another member in confiding tones.

I worry she’s going to regret turning them away…

“He wanted me to settle down with a nice Muslim boy. A lot of people think the way he did, that you should marry someone who worships the same way you do. I don’t blame him for that. I don’t want you to blame him either.”

Her father’s friend is tall and lanky. He walks with a cane decorated with a serpent’s head. He smiles like a serpent, too. I could talk to her, if you like.

The Vicerine hugs herself, glaring to hide the pain in her eyes. “There was a guy - older, fifties at least - and Baba trusted him. I never did, he always seemed weird. I just… I never thought he was that bad.”

The serpent man sits with the Vicerine in a café, speaking in honey-sweet tones. You’re growing into a fine young lady, Jasmine. Any man would be privileged to have you. And he reaches for her hand. And the wide-eyed Vicerine pulls away.

“He… he scared me. But I’d known him my whole life, and Baba trusted him…”

The serpent man offers to drive her home. Insists, really. And then pulls into an abandoned parking lot.

“I was sixteen. He said that was old enough.”

Grabbing hands and snaking tongue. The Vicerine screams and slaps and fights, but the man is stronger than he looks. When it’s over, he hisses, You’re mine now. You belong to me.

“I said I’d tell Baba. He said… he said Baba already knew.”

Certainty. Intensity. Gleaming eyes boring into hers. Your father has promised you to me. I can do what I like.

The Vicerine wipes tears from her cheeks, but more take their place immediately. “And I… I actually believed him.”

She huddles into the seat, weeping as the serpent man finally delivers her home. Dry your eyes, he commands, smiling thinly. Let’s not upset your father. The Vicerine scrubs her face on her sleeves and fixes her makeup and clenches her shaking hands into fists.

“I thought…” A deep, unsteady breath. “I thought, if Baba really had arranged for me to marry him, then I would run away. And who knows how badly that would have turned out…”

The Vicerine is stuffing clothes into a bag when she hears her father’s raised voice. Jafar, you’re much too old for Jasmine-

More quietly, but still audible: She’s expressed her interest, and I reciprocate. Surely you can’t object to such an advantageous match-

She’s still a child!

And the Vicerine flies out of her room, tears dried in her rage. And she says exactly what took place.

“Baba still asks me, sometimes, why I believed he would do something like that. And I really don’t know, even now.”

Shouts and threats and phone calls. The Vicerine and the serpent man are taken in separate cars to separate places. Evidence is collected and charges are filed, and through it all the Vicerine is too furious to cry.

“And I hate that Baba thinks he did something that made me believe that guy. Sometimes I hate myself, for doubting him. Most of all, though, I hate that guy. Because… he changed me.”

The Vicerine grows a little older; starts college; meets the men who will become her partners.

I think I want to try this.

With them, she is powerful. She is respected. She revels in the feeling of control the relationship gives her.

And then the mistake happens. She goes too far, takes too much. And suddenly she is helpless all over again.

The Vicerine kicks her legs, glancing at the audience. “He changed me,” she repeats softly. “And I don’t always like the person I’ve become.”

Chapter 31: (Spongebob Squarepants) A Story about the Concerned Concertmaster

Summary:

TW: rape, breaking and entering, partner abuse, withholding truth.

“I actually play clarinet. Concertmaster is usually held by a violin. But the name still suits me. I don’t know how many music nerds we have, but I had to address it.”

The Concerned Concertmaster wears a brown shirt and blue jeans, keeping his legs close together. He fidgets with his hands a lot, rubbing them one in front of the other. He looks relatively young, but his head has been shaved smooth. And he’s constantly scanning the crowd, as if looking for someone who isn’t there.

“I will say I’m not entirely here for myself. My, um, my… boyfriend might need to come here too. But I do have a story. And I don’t know how to approach him about it.” He wrings his hands. “I just… it’s complicated.” A laugh. “But when are these sorts of things simple?”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Concertmaster is practicing. A music stand. The clarinet he said he could play. Play it he most certainly does… though not very well. He doesn’t seem to realize this, or else doesn’t care, and continues on, eyes closed. They fly open as his doorbell rings, once… twice… again… again…

“I met the guy I’m… seeing… I don’t even know how many years ago. Back when he was new in town. We were next-door neighbors and he was doing that thing you do when you move in? You know, where you go around introducing yourself to everyone on the block?”

A blond man with buck teeth and blue eyes and a number of acne scars still left on his face. He stands on the Concertmaster’s doorstep, a huge - borderline dopey - grin on his face.

Can I help you…?

Howdy, neighbor!

The Concertmaster shuts the door.

Groan. “He’s very… positive. If I didn’t know him as well as I do, I might chalk it all up to some kind of drug abuse.” Sigh. “It’s overbearing at the best of times, if you aren’t used to it. I really didn’t like him at first. Him getting a job at my job really didn’t help.”

It’s a day like any other. A cashier gig at a local greasy spoon isn’t usually exciting on the best of days. However, he quickly notices a rather familiar face going into the back office for an interview. He emerges with his boss.

Mister Edward! I want you to welcome our newest frycook!

Hello… Oh, hey, I remember you!

“Like I said. His optimism was overbearing, and that was true when he was just my neighbor.”

His new co-worker tends to sing to himself as he does his job right behind the Concertmaster. Talks to the customers in a very chirpy tone. Rings the bell more times than he needs to when an order’s up. And things that really shouldn’t be all that funny cause him to peal in the most (wonderful) annoying laughter.

“Couldn’t get away from work at home, couldn’t get away from home at work… I’m kind of surprised I didn’t go mad.”

He doesn’t. And slowly, over time, weary acceptance becomes something bordering on tolerance becomes a begrudging friendship. But that’s it. That’s all it should be. Who cares if the blond man with the dopey grin comes into work looking a little lovestruck? Not the Concertmaster. Not even the slightest bit.

The man on the stage groans, deeply, and looks tiredly at the Bride. “Would you please tell your kid to stop calling me a tsundere? I don’t even know what that means.”

The Concertmaster may not know the term and would certainly deny it if he did, but the Observer is right and he doubtlessly is one. Call it immaturity (and it is), but he lashes out verbally at that coworker more and more. It’s never anything too bad. Nothing bad enough to make the other man take notice at any rate. His feelings only grow.

“Eventually I got over myself when I realized what a… joke I was being. Eventually.”

It does take some time, but… one summery day in June the Concertmaster notices a rainbow-colored pin on his coworker’s apron. He takes this as a sign. Later, much later, the two are headed home (in the Concertmaster’s car) in the pouring rain. Concertmaster clears his throat. So, um… couldn’t help but notice your pin…

Oh. Yeah. I’m gay, if that’s what you’re asking.

Cool. Cool, cool. Um… so maybe you wouldn’t mind… grabbing a coffee sometime?

His co-worker frowns. Well, um… I have a boyfriend.

Oh. Sorry-

Well, hang on. I’m not saying no.

“So, um, turns out he was in a somewhat open relationship. Or at least he thought it was open. But anyway, basically, he was interested too, but he also didn’t want to lie to me.”

Perhaps thankfully for the both of them, the Concertmaster’s reaction to this development is essentially Okay, whatever, and a shrug of the shoulders and a shake of the head.

“The world is already so weird, who cares? Whatever. I didn’t. We went out for coffee.”

They do. It’s a nice enough time all round. The place isn’t expensive or particularly ritzy, but it’s nice enough and the atmosphere is homey and all those other things people say about places when they’re caught in an awkward conversation or stalling for time. No one is stalling here though. Conversation flows easily. And then the door opens and another man walks in.

“So, here’s the thing; as it turns out I knew his, um, boyfriend.”

Rewind; the Concertmaster in high school. He tries to blend into the crowd, tries to not be noticed. But noticed he is, and by the wrong sort. Tripping and shoving into lockers ensue, but not before the term Fag leaves the other’s lips.

“Bullied me in high school. A lot. But hey, that was then and this was… well, still then, but at that point it was now. Maybe he outgrew it?”

Fast forward: the Concermaster’s date notices. Oh, that’s the guy I was telling you about. William! Over here!

“Of course, that’s not what happened. Of course not. Because God knows I can’t catch a break.”

The man his date calls William turns and advances on them, lip curling up into a sneer. Edward Atwater? Is that you?

Tight smile. William, the Concertmaster says through clenched teeth.

“He wasn’t… I won’t say he was pleasant at first - he wasn’t - but… it wasn’t that bad. Not until he realized why we were there.”

The man continues to prod at sore nerves until eventually the blond man cuts in. William, he says. Stop it! You’re not being very nice.

Yeah. The Concertmaster smirks. You’re ruining our date.

Quiet. The man’s eyes turn cold. Your what?

“Here’s the thing: my boyfriend was under the impression that it was an open relationship. And apparently it was… for his ex. It was just fine if his ex went out and saw other people - I think he was even engaged to one of them. It was just fine if his ex slept around. And under those circumstances one might be forgiven for thinking that maybe you could do the same thing.”

The Concertmaster’s date certainly seems to think so, and talks as though he’s done nothing wrong. Yeah, it’s our first one. Wanted to make sure things would go smoothly. Don’t worry, Edward knows, he’s fine with-

That’s all he can get out before he is slapped in the face.

“So… yeah. That happened, I guess. Now, I know I could have just pulled my guy off to the side and waited for someone else to do the gruntwork. The place wasn’t packed, but it wasn’t empty. Someone would have - and did eventually - call the police. But he threw the first punch - well, not punch, but you get my meaning, right? And, like I said, he did bully me in highschool. Maybe I wanted to punch him.”

The Concertmaster does. A few times in fact. Nose; stomach; eye; jaw.

“Okay, the ‘maybe’ is a lie. I absolutely did.” A little smugness on his face. “It felt great, to be honest. I’m not going to lie about that.”

Whatever hits the Concertmaster receives he returns in full and then some. The fight is eventually broken up by a few police officers, statements are taken. The Concertmaster gets let off on self-defense, sticks out his tongue when he leaves the station with his date in tow.

“You know, I’ll never forget it. I remember turning and asking him if he was okay.”

His date blinks, laughs a little at that in spite of the red on his cheek, and kisses the Concertmaster full on the mouth.

The man on the stage blushes bright red. “Another thing that… uh, happened. That… that was nice. That part was nice.”

They keep seeing each other after that. His date sees other people too sometimes. The Concertmaster doesn’t do so himself, but he still doesn’t care. A few weeks become months become a year.

“Things were going pretty well… Then my house burned down. No. No, it actually wasn’t his fault. It was mine.”

An oven fire starts and wipes out much of the Concertmaster’s home. He loses a lot, if not everything. The blond man opens his doors and arms.

“An unconventional way of moving in together, but that’s what happened. I wish that was all that did, but of course it’s not.”

A standard day. The Concertmaster’s boyfriend waves goodbye and heads off with his friends - a larger man with the tackiest shorts the Concertmaster’s ever seen, and a bucktoothed girl with a nasal cannula. They leave to go see to their plans. The Concertmaster is left alone. He once again… plays… his clarinet, with passion if not talent. A voice from behind. Wow. You actually might have been better in high school.

“So, here’s a tip: change your locks after you break up. Or at the very least change where you hide your spare house keys.”

The tape from another angle. The man from the coffee shop stands there sneering. Thin hands go and wrap around the Concertmaster’s neck, pulling him close. Now hold still and I’ll be careful…

“What a joke. I didn’t really get it at first. What he… Yeah. I didn’t really want to get it and you usually don’t think about that stuff when you’re a guy. But then he started reaching for my belt…”

The Concertmaster freezes up for a moment. A long one. Wil- The hands tighten around his throat.

Ah, ah, ah, the man mutters. You don’t want to make me angry, do you?

You… ‘lready… are… an’…ry…

Hm… A bitter little smirk on his face. That I am.

“Tried to fight, obviously, but he just choked me harder. You can’t fight if you can’t breathe, right? So I…” The Concertmaster takes a shaky breath. “So I let… I let it happen.”

Wide eyed and wheezing, the Concertmaster falls still. And the ex begins what he came to do.

A quick glance at the Diamond. “I was thinking - hoping - he’d get… distracted, and I could… And he did, and I did, but still… Still…”

Too focused on his actions, the ex doesn’t see the Concertmaster’s hands sliding across the floor. Skinny fingers wrap around his skinny clarinet, too light to do much blunt-force damage, but maybe… He grits his teeth and waits, and finally the ex tilts his head back in a drawn-out moan. The Concertmaster lashes out, driving the reed of his clarinet into the other man’s throat. It’s not sharp, there is no blood, but the shock and pain knock the ex off balance. The Concertmaster is on him in a moment, pressing his clarinet into the ex’s neck.

“My boss, stingy asshole, talked a lot about growing up during the war. Joining the army. I don’t know when or which war. I don’t think I care either. I never paid attention… much. One time though, he came in drunk or… something. I heard him with Bob in the kitchen. ‘Made a garrotte,’ he said. And then Bobby asked him how…”

He presses harder, harder, leans his whole weight on the instrument until it’s ready to snap. The ex struggles and claws, but finally passes out. The Concertmaster has enough sense to stop, and he drops the clarinet and rushes for the phone.

“Yeah, I was freaking out, but I really didn’t want a murder charge on top of everything. I just wanted him immobile. And I guess in a movie someone would have walked in during that, but nope, no one did. Maybe things would’ve been easier if someone had. Would have been obvious what happened, right? I wouldn’t have had to explain.”

He explains to the police. He explains to the hospital. The boyfriend and his friends return, and… he looks at the boyfriend’s sunshiney smile and doesn’t explain to him.

“I mean, I had to tell him something. He noticed I’d been beaten up and I had to warn him about the locks… But you don’t get it unless you know him. I couldn’t tell him something that harsh. It’d be like telling a kindergartner Santa Claus is dead.”

In their bedroom he makes excuses until he heals up - blames it on the pain of his bruised ribs, doesn’t even have to lie. The boyfriend keeps smiling. Hugs him extra carefully.

“I’m probably gonna have to tell him at some point,” he sighs, hooking his thumbs in his pockets. “I know, I know. Dragging it out is only gonna make it worse, and it isn’t fair when he never lied to me. But I keep feeling like I shouldn’t. I was already the depressing one. Why should I spread that around?”

Chapter 32: (Disney Fairies) A Story about the Heartsore Sprite

Summary:

TW: possible rape by deception (though it's not actually stated whether they had sex since the lie happened), incest, homophobia, bullying, family loss.

“You… you really have to try not to judge me.”

The Sprite is a teenager in a pale blue dress. She’s still brushing snow off her shoulders, but she shows no sign of feeling cold. Her platinum hair is windswept into a messy up-do… or maybe it’s that way by design. And despite her words, she looks guilty. So, so guilty.

“It’s just… If you were me, you’d understand it. I just…” A watery sigh. A hand held to her chest. “I love her.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment: the infant Sprite is brought home by a thin-mouthed father and a tired mother. She grows and thrives under their watch, but they keep a kind of distance. And then they aren’t there at all.

“My parents died when I was seven. They were driving through a storm and lost control. I went to live with my uncle, and I love him, but… it was hard.”

Harder still when her friends start to notice boys and she doesn’t. When her eyes start following those same friends.

“Uncle Dewey was pretty okay about me coming out. Started hanging up a flag in June and stuff like that. I lost some of my friends, but not all of them. It could have been worse.”

And it could also be better. Crude images and rude comments slashed into her locker door. Whispers behind her back. One of her oldest friends begging, with sincerest concern, for her to repent. Another friend cutting her off; I don’t wanna be worrying all the time about whether you’re lesbo-ing over me.

“Um, so… so when I met someone who really liked me…”

Two different schools on two different sides of town. One thing in common: a community center sculpting course, taken for fun. The Sprite makes delicate figurines that she finishes with an ice-like shine. Another young woman makes clunkier, kinetic sculptures. They glance with approving eyes at each others’ work, but focus mainly on each other.

I’m, uh, Peri. Well, Periwinkle, but you can just… yeah…

I’m Tina. And if that name is not familiar to the Palace, her face is.

“… can you blame me for wanting to hold onto her?”

There are differences between them. The Fae has a temper, but she can be gentle too. (I’m… so sorry. I never knew my parents, I can’t imagine losing them…) The Sprite is not easily angered, but she can be enraged. (How dare he! If I ever see him, I’ll just…) It is the Fae who kisses first, a quick peck on the lips followed by a string of nonsense. Shit, shit, I’m sorry, I should have asked first, was- That’s all she gets out before the Sprite has her pinned against the wall.

“We…” Every speck of visible flesh has turned bright pink. “We love each other.” But her voice doesn’t have any tittering notes of embarrassment. “You can’t blame us for that.” No, this sounds more like shame.

The Sprite is never happier than when she’s at the Fae’s side. The Fae is happier than she ever looked on her own tape. Stolen kisses and wandering hands and joy that shines off them like sunlight on fresh snow. It’s perfect. It is. It should be.

“It’s… it’s all my fault. It was my idea, I ruined everything…”

Their first Christmas as a couple. The Sprite buys the Fae a DNA test kit. You don’t have to use it, but… I thought maybe you’d like to find them.

The Fae takes a shaky breath. Yeah, I… Maybe… It’s just…

“She didn’t want her mother to know she was looking for her birth parents, at least not until she found them. So we gave the company my contact information instead of hers. A-at first I thought they knew, somehow, because…”

Because when the results come in, they’re far too familiar. There is the Sprite’s father’s name; there is her mother’s; there is her own, in black and white and unmistakable.

“It just… it was too ridiculous, too much like some stupid TV show, it had to be a mistake, but…”

She digs through boxes of junk in her uncle’s attic, papers and photos that haven’t been touched since her parents died. She’s almost convinced herself the test was wrong. Almost. Almost… and then she finds her birth certificate.

“D-did you know that, um… I-in California they make a note on your birth certificate if… if you’re a twin.”

She empties her stomach but she can’t stop heaving. She runs out of tears but she can’t stop sobbing. Her uncle pleads with her, but she can’t tell him what’s wrong.

“I… I never knew, I never even thought that… How could I have known? It isn’t my fault, or hers, it isn’t! You can’t judge us for…”

She picks up the phone and sets it down. Again, again, again. Finally she dials.

Hey, Peri!

Tina…

Whoa, you sound like shit. What’s going on?

The Sprite is weeping, quiet as a mouse. “I… I love her.”

Tina… she says. There weren’t any matches. I’m so sorry.

“I love her, and I can’t let her go. Not ever.”

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 44 of WPaRG