WPaRG: Stories About the Water of the Womb

by chelonianmobile, MultiFanGirlWickedPony

Summary:

The main story sections ran out of space for all our ideas, so we're making themed collections of extra ones, mostly ones which don't have to fit strictly into anywhere in the main timeline. Hope you enjoy!

Sorry about having to delete all the character and content tags due to the new AO3 rules. We kept the fandom ones so you can figure out who's who from context, and will continue to put more specific content warnings in the authors' notes of each chapter.

Star Wars chapter has now been replaced, with a link to a copy of the chapter for archival reasons. The new one is Cocomelon, hope you like!

Notes:

• Inspired by Could Never Prepare You by Dira Sudis (dsudis)

Chapter 1: Introduction

“So… family, right? Let’s, uh, talk about that.”

On different days, at different times; different people stand on the Palace stage, looking out over an audience in the upper tens. They come in pairs and a few times in trios, occasionally more or less than that, but not often. And they’re all so different. Bookish; athletic; punk; pretty; plain. The ones that come later don’t look much like the ones who’ve come before - but they almost all bear some resemblance to their own; that is, the ones they came in with.

“Let me tell you about our family…”

Chapter 2: (Dragon Prince) A Story about Silver and Gold

Summary:

TW: gang-rape, attempted murder, paralysis, emotional abuse/parental favouritism, politics.

“Hi Dad! Hi Sor-Bear! Oh, wait!”

‘Dumbass.’ The Chairman’s children in the room. ‘Don’t call her a dumbass!’ Silver sits where everyone else does - at one of the many pushed-together card tables on the floor - in his fully automated chair. ‘That’s your sister and she’s smarter than you’ll ever be.’ He can see their father in his periphery and knows that the man’s hand rests on his shoulder. ‘The least you can do is accept that, but here you are being petty.’ He can’t feel the weight of it. ‘This is why Dad doesn’t love you.’ Along with everyone else, he watches Gold on the stage as she stands on the lip, light from the overhead catching in her long dark hair. ‘Yes he does!’ She stands completely on her own. ‘Well, he loves her more.’ He can’t do that either. ‘… I know.’

“Uh… wow. Sorry. Blowing it already with the names rule. Stupid, Claudia, stupid… whoops!” ‘Now look what you did.’ Gold laughs nervously and plays with one lock of hair’s deep-purple ends. ‘Did what? How could she have heard you? You didn’t say anything out loud.’ “Guess you know my name now too. Oh, geez… I really wish I had notes prepared for this… it’s always easier when there are notes. I’ve given great speeches before…” ‘So? She saw it on your face. Everyone can see it on your face. They all know.’

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Silver as a child - a toddler - in a hospital room. Soren, come meet your new sister. His mother does the talking, but it’s the Chairman that holds the infant Gold in his arms. He doesn’t take his eyes off of her, but lowers the bundle just enough that his son can see.

What’s her name? he mumbles, sucking on his thumb.

Claudia, his parents supply.

‘Claudia. Lame. It means lame. Pretty ironic, huh? Even before all of this, you’ve always been the hopeless one. And now you’re crippled. It’s funny. But don’t you dare laugh.’ “So… my brother said it was okay that I did this…” ‘They’re looking at you. They’re all looking at you. They know. They know. They know they knowtheyknowthey- Dad’s looking at you now. He’s touching you. Don’t think so loudly. He’ll hear.’ Gold teeter-totters on her feet. ‘Stupid, Soren, stupid. He’s not gonna hear. How could he?’ “To tell you, I mean.” ‘Like she needs your permission.’ “You’ve probably already heard stuff from our dad… about… what happened-” ‘They’re staring. He told them. You knew he told them. It’s okay. It’s okay.’ “-and who it happened to. And how that person… wasn’t me.” ‘Clauds is talking. Don’t make a scene.’ Gold swallows and carries on. ‘Don’t freak out. Don’t screw this up. Don’t give Dad another reason not to look at you.’ “But it was still scary… and I’m the one who…” ‘He has plenty of reasons already. Just look what you did to her!’ “Well, I guess we’ll get to that.” ‘She’s going to tell them everything. She’ll tell them and they’ll - but Dad already did. They already hate you - no they don’t. It’s okay, Soren. It’s okay.’

Bits and pieces of the Chairman’s tape, but this time the camera shoots from another angle… one much closer to the ground. Silver and Gold become Gold and Silver as the reel spins on. Silver sits in another audience, clapping small hands and looking up at Gold as she stands on another stage. This time she is smiling. This time she holds a certificate in her hands. That night the Chairman takes his family out for ice cream.

Hey, Dad? How come you never do anything like this for me?

The Chairman’s eyes are as blue as Silver’s, but turn cold when he looks at him. I would if you ever did anything worth celebrating. Does that answer your question? Silver nods and draws himself away.

‘Why are you such an idiot?!’ “I guess I’ve always been pretty good at school stuff - smarty-smart things - like math and science, and English… and all that.” ‘Show-off. No… no, she’s not a show-off… you’re just jealous. Jealous of your own little sister. God. What’s wrong with you? How pathetic can you get?’ “My brother though… uh…” ‘See? Claudia knows. Even she knows you’re stupid. What do you mean even? Of course she does. She’s smart. Dad’s smart. He knows too.’ “He’s good at lots of thing, don’t get me wrong! Like sports! And… other stuff… Oh my gosh, that sounds awful, I’m sorry!” ‘Don’t be sorry, Clauds. I know. I already know.’

A crowded football field and cheering coming from the surrounding bleachers. Gold sits in them now, her brother looking down at her from the shoulders of teammates who have hoisted him there. Later he asks his father if they can go out like they have for his sister so many times.

What for? the Chairman asks, one eyebrow raised.

For… for winning… Silver stares at the ground. You said… I just… His voice shrinks and he deflates unhappily. I… thought… we could… celebrate…

Celebrate? With your grades being what they are, you’re lucky I let you do this today at all. There’s nothing to celebrate about getting yourself a sixty-five.

… oh.

‘He’s never been proud of you because you’re stupid - you’re not stupid - he’s your father, wouldn’t he know? Dad knows everything - no he doesn’t. No one knows everything… but if anyone did…’ “We’ve always been super… different, I guess you would say. Not totally different though! We can both be goofy and silly and do dumb stuff and silly things… oh wait! I said silly already! My bad!” ‘Why does he like her better again?’ “But… uh, anyways, we’re still sorta different… I’m all into school stuff and student government and science fairs. Sor… uh, Silver doesn’t really like any of that stuff. He never has.” ‘This is why. Because why wouldn’t he?’ “That's okay! Not everyone has to like what I like - and for some people school isn’t all that anyway - but Dad - sorry Dad! - didn’t really see it like I do… or at least didn’t yet.” ‘He still doesn’t. He just feels sorry for you. He’ll change his mind after a few more weeks - he hasn’t yet - he will. Just wait. Just wait. Just wait.’

A boy lies awake at night - bathed in the silver-gray light of a fall half-moon - kept up by the sound of his parents’ fighting rising through the wood and carpet of the floor. He isn’t crying. He’s too old for that, the Chairman says. The door opens and a crack of golden light peeks in from the hall… along with a little sable-haired head and a pair of big, bright eyes - olive green ones.

S-Soren? his sister sniffles. Her cheeks are wet. Mommy and Daddy are fighting again.

Yeah… he mumbles. I know…

Can I sleep with you? she asks, and wordlessly he moves over, patting a place at his side. She grins and hops in beside him, snuggling him close and grabbing on with both her arms. Mmm!

Hey! I’m not some kind of teddy bear!

Gold doesn’t let up and her arms remain wrapped around him. Sor-Bear… she mumbles lazily before drifting off to sleep.

‘I’m an okay brother at least, right? No. No. No. Look around and say that again. Look at where you are.’ “He probably told you this already, but Dad’s kind of the one who raised both of us. He and Mom got divorced when I was younger. They’d been fighting for a while and… yeah.” ‘Oh no. She’s looking at you. She’s looking at you. She’s going to tell everyone what you did.’

The Chairman and the children’s mother sit Gold and Silver down. They try to explain the situation as best they can. As the Chairman has already told them all, this conversation ends with a choice.

“Mom wanted to leave… to go move back in with her parents in… in Delaware.” ‘Here it comes…’ Gold gulps. “A-and she and Dad didn’t want to go through the whole court thing where they fought over us… so… they said we had to choose-” ‘Sorry Claudia. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.’ “-w-which one of them we wanted to go with…”

For one of them, a reply comes - slowly, but eventually it does come. I… I wanna stay with Dad…

‘Why are you so selfish?’ “My brother… Silver said that he wanted to… to stay where we were… and Mom stopped and told me to stay with him. We’re siblings. She said we needed to stay together… She was gone the next day and that was… hard. We still saw her sometimes, on holidays and vacations and stuff, and I could call, but… it was never really the same.” She crosses her arms and sticks her lip out, pouting. “It was still hard… but I think she was right. We did need each other - or do - we always have.” ‘Wow. Just wow. Now look what you did. This happened years ago. Years. You’re beating yourself up over nothing. So what?’

No more fighting. Silver sleeps peacefully and wakes to find light in his eyes and Gold’s face inches from his own.

I miss Mom, she whispers. Can I sleep with you, Sor-Bear?

He slides over with a groan and lets her settle in. It goes like that until she’s old enough not to need it - need him - anymore.

“And Dad… he was great too… sort of… some of the time.” ‘Backhanded compliment much? She wouldn’t have said that about him before. This is because of what happened to you. What kind of monster are you? Turning Clauds against her own father like that. He’s your father too. Then you should feel worse about it.’ Gold bites her lip. “He wasn’t abusive or anything. He never hurt us… but he was always really hard on Sor- on my brother. A lot more than I think he really had to be… or should have been… or…”

Gold and Silver drop their bags on the floor after a long, long day at school. The Chairman comes in late after an even longer day at work. Report card day.

Dad! Gold all but knocks the man over, thrusting the cardstock into his hands. Check marks and pluses.

Their father smiles and ruffles her hair. Good work, Claudia! I’m impressed. He turns to Silver expectantly. Well, Soren? What about you?

Uh… Reluctantly, the older child draws out an envelope of his own. Check marks with minuses attached to them. … here.

The Chairman frowns and then sighs deeply. Soren… And the rest of the lecture is lost to time.

‘If you had worked a little harder, then maybe he wouldn’t have needed to yell at you so much. He always knew best before you went and screwed with his head.’ “I’m a lot more like our father than he is… so between the two of us, I was always closer to him. We didn’t fight about grades, because my grades were fine and he liked a lot of the things I was into. It was different for Silver… but it still wasn’t okay.” ‘Stop guilt tripping everyone! They’re looking at you! They can see what you’re trying to do!’

The Chairman picks his children up from their afterschool plans. Gold climbs into the front seat to chatter to her father about debate club and student council, and he listens attentively to each point she makes - even offers a few bits of sound advice. Silver slouches in the back, soaked with sweat, hair matted to his face.

We played Munster, he begins. We… we won.

And how was tutoring? the Chairman asks, eyeing him in the rearview. You will be getting those grades up, I hope.

‘Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.’ “It only got worse as we got older. Sorry, Dad! But… it did.” ‘It’s not his fault. You know it’s not his fault.’

Silver stands in front of his father, head hanging, as the Chairman lectures away. He doesn’t say stupid, but irresponsible and lazy and disappointed are all things he throws around.

But Dad, I-

No more excuses! He continues on with a new vigor behind his words.

‘It wasn’t that bad. You’re making it out to be worse than it was. Dad loves you. Claudia loves you. It’s not their fault you’re too much of a screw up to - shut up shut up shut up!’ “They fought a lot more when we got to high school.” ‘That wasn’t fighting. You never - Claudia says it was. She’s the smart one. You must be remembering things wrong. You always wanted to feel sorry for yourself anyways.’ “Especially after I moved up a grade and Silver was held back.” ‘See? He had his reasons.’

Lorde, Claudia? A name is called.

Oooh! Present! Gold waves her hand, popping up in her seat. I’m here!

Lorde, Soren? Another name in the same class period.

… Here. A red-faced Silver sinks down in his chair.

Oh! The teacher adjusts her glasses and blinks owlishly. Same last name? Are you two related?

That’s my brother! Gold beams, glowing with a pride that Silver doesn’t feel much of now.

Twins, hm?

Nope!

Silver puts his head down on the desk as his sister explains. Around them, classmates laugh behind their hands. Cut to that night; the warm glow of a harvest moon, the faint flicker of a thousand stars.

She embarrassed me in front of everyone, Silver complains.

The Chairman is unsympathetic. If you worked a little harder there would be nothing to be embarrassed about.

‘You’re such a failure, Soren. Why are you such a joke? No… no you’re not. Get a hold of yourself. Make up your mind.’ “… and when Mr. Har… oh sorry! I keep forgetting not to use real names. Um, Dad’s friend died earlier this year. He was important and… some people-” Her hands tighten into white-knuckled fists. ‘Great. You’re so goddamn helpless now that your baby sister is getting mad on your behalf. On your behalf? Get real. She’s probably just upset about Mr. Harrow. Not everything’s about you. You’re nothing special.’ “-didn’t like him or what he was doing. So they shot him. I know that sounds really sudden… but it was.” ‘It’s okay, Claudia. I know you miss him too. We both do.’

Silver and Gold dressed in black, throwing a handful of earth into a still-open grave. That night their father drinks and shouts at the wall. For the first time in years, Silver wakes to Gold peeping at him from around the door.

Sor-Bear…?

Once again he moves over without a word.

“It was hard for him. I know it was hard. I’d be really really upset too… if my best friend went out that way.” ‘Who is her best friend anyway? Callum? God, what’s wrong with you? You don’t even know who your sister’s best friend is.’ Gold sways slightly from side to side and rubs the back of her neck. “But that’s not really why we’re here. You guys know already that Dad took over his job, right?” ‘Here it comes. Here it comes. What are you freaking out for? You knew she was going to get into this eventually. Just calm the hell down.’

What on the Chairman’s tape was a lot of complicated decisions and heavily thought-through budgeting, here is only a pair of teenagers ordering pizza and waiting for their father to come home.

‘Breathe, Soren. Breathe. You aren’t even doing the hard part. She is. You made her do this for you so don’t you dare make a scene.’ “That didn’t go too badly for a while. Dad’s smart. He knew what he was doing.” ‘Here it comes. Here it comes. She’s going to say it. She’s going to tell everyone and then they’ll know.’ Gold pauses again, looking out and over the audience. Her eyes settle on Silver’s face. ‘They already know. None of them have made fun of you yet - that’s just because Dad’s around - Dad would let them - it’s okay.’ “Not everyone thought so. He would have told you that too.”

The Chairman begins to act erratically. Stressed and anxious and on edge. He snaps at Silver much more frequently, for faults both imagined and real, and - on rare occasions - even at Gold. And then comes the day he gets that email and he screams his daughter’s name through the floor.

“Someone was sending him all these awful emails and stuff about my brother and me. Pictures of the house and pictures of our school. That was scary. That was really scary.”

The Chairman paces in front of Silver and Gold, his eyes on his daughter for the most part and only occasionally flicking to his son.

You’ll have to call me, he says, every day, you understand? I want to hear from you the second you get home. And Soren, you’ll have to look out for her. He seizes Silver’s shoulders, shaking him. Promise me you’ll look out for her!

I… I will…

Please, Soren. For once in your life… don’t mess this up. I can’t lose her too.

‘He’s glad it happened to you instead. He’s glad. You know he is. Who wouldn’t be?’ “We always thought it was me they would go after. I’m a girl. I’m smaller… and I don’t exercise as much as I probably should.” She flexes one noodly-looking arm. “My brother played football and stuff. He’s the strongest person I know and… that didn’t really make a difference. I guess it never does.” ‘See? It’s not your fault. Sure it is. You were stupid, not weak. They only got you because you were stupid. Claudia’s not stupid and they cbouutltdhheayvdeigdon’tttgeent Claudia, now coduldin’td they?’

Gold on the tape - alone now. The Chairman gives her pepper spray and a small knife. Small enough that it fits in her boot.

For protection, her father says. If anyone comes after you, I want you to know how to protect yourself. Do… whatever it takes.

Okay. Okaaaaay. But… waiiiit. What if Soren is there too and I can only save one of us? The Chairman goes silent for a very long time. Whoa! she smiles nervously. It was just a joke…

Leave Soren, he says at last. If you have to make that choice. He sees her expression and his own softens. Claudia, he says, there are worse things than dying, you know.

“I think I’d probably still need to be here even if they hadn’t been able to do what they did… knowing they could have… or that they wanted to… that was still pretty bad. I was so scared I felt like I was gonna throw up all the time.”

A few times she does. In the school toilets. In the bathroom sink. Rumors spread of her having an eating disorder. Her hair falls out in clumps and grows in white. She becomes thinner and paler and frailer and this makes her even more afraid.

Silver isn’t. Silver continues on as normal. It’s okay, Clauds, he says with an unstrained smile. Dad’s overreacting. I’m sure. He still drives her home and watches her back, and when Gold peeks around his door he moves aside. We’re too old for this, he mutters once, but his sister has already fallen asleep at his side.

‘Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. What if it had been her? What then? It’s your own fault what happened. You should have been more careful. It’s your fault. Dad warned you. He warned you.’ “For a while nothing happened, but it was awful. I was on edge all the time. Just waiting for the other shoe to drop. Five weeks it went like that. Five weeks.” ‘She’s going to tell them now. She’s going to tell them-’ The Chairman’s hand on the back of Silver’s neck. He does feel that. ‘Keep it together, Soren. Man up. You can do this - no you can’t.’

Gold drives herself home in a nicer car than the one her father bought for her brother and finds an empty house. Silver stays late for a detention he didn’t tell the Chairman about having to go to. She thinks nothing of it and he doesn’t either. Not right away. Not for a while. An hour later he’s walking to his car - through the deserted parking lot - and finds that his engine will not start.

‘You should have known something was wrong then. You should have known.’ “It happened on a pretty normal-ish day, I think. I was home and he wasn’t, but… I wasn’t too worried. Um… I should have been. He texted and said his car was acting weird, but I figured it was nothing… I guess that was pretty stupid of me.” ‘No. No, Claudia. No. No. No. It’s not her fault you were stupid.’ “Later we had a mechanic look at the thing. Found out it was that old sugar in the gas tank trick…” ‘You just had the oil changed. You should have known.’

It isn’t a far walk from the school to the bus station. He’s up for it. It’s a warm afternoon in broad daylight, but after a few blocks… he notices a car trailing him from behind.

“I was about to call Dad to let him know I was okay, but just then my phone rang.”

Soren?

Claudia? Claudia, listen… I think someone’s following me.

What?!

It might be nothing, but I… look, if something does happen… the number is X-A- He only gets partway through.

“I sorta freaked out right then. Obviously I called him back… or tried to, but he didn’t answer and Dad told me I needed to keep myself safe and… I waited.” Gold looks so ashamed. ‘What does she have to feel bad about? You, dumbass. You tricked her into feeling bad for you.’ “I’m so sorry…” ‘Don’t be. I’m not mad at you. Tell her that, moron. Tell her that!’ Silver’s mouth stays closed. ‘Useless. You’re useless, did you know that? You can’t even make her feel better about something you did to yourself. Maybe you want her to feel bad. Maybe you want them all to feel bad. Then they won’t leave you. Then they’ll pretend to want you around. I don’t want that. Yes you do. Why else would you think of something like that? You’re really sick, you know that Soren? You’re really fucked up.’

Silver, on the other end of the line, is cut off by a hand covering his mouth and a rag tucked over his nose. The world spins and it takes a long time for him to come back to himself. When he does all is dark around him, his vision obscured by fabric. A strip of tightly tied cloth. He hears voices. Men and women. How many of them there are he cannot say. Silver listens to their laughter. He hears his father’s name.

‘Why were you so fucking careless? How could you let them do that to you?’ “From what he told me about it - which wasn’t that much - he woke up somewhere else. They blindfolded him so that he couldn’t see any of them… and then they beat him up. He remembered one of them mentioning Dad, so he knew what they were mad about.” ‘You should have stopped them. You’re lucky Claudia wasn’t there. They’d have killed her. They’d have hurt her. You couldn’t have kept her safe. You couldn’t even protect yourself.’

They beat him with their feet and fists and with blunted objects he cannot see. Pipes, maybe, or baseball bats. Silver tries to speak. Tries to demand answers. To ask questions. To… say anything. Shut up. Something cold against his forehead. A click that might be the barrel of a gun. Keep that mouth wide open if you know what’s good for you. He’s taking no chances. He does what he’s told.

“They… uh… Dad told you what they did right? And… we’re here… they can piece it out…’ ‘Don’tsayitpleasedon’tsayitdon’tsayitpleasepleasepleasepleaseple-’

Silver cannot speak now, he’s too busy trying to keep from gagging as… what number is this one again? Forcing in and out of his throat. Something - someone - tugs his hair. Tugs at it hard and another voice says, Get him on his back now. I want a turn. It’s a woman’s voice that says it. Small wonder. He’s put into a new position and shudders as the weight lands on his chest. Someone else lifts his head up. His mouth remains full until he’s breathless. The toes of sneakers and flats and heavy boots jab him in the side. White sparks behind his eyes. An expulsion.

Damnit! Another woman’s voice. You’ve wasted him!

A man’s voice now. Flip him over.

Silver can not work his mouth well enough to weep openly, but tears fall freely and wet into the thing around his eyes. And then he’s on his stomach and his mouth is empty. He bawls like a child that’s lost his mother. Someone slams his face into the floor.

“They really hurt him. Even besides the obvious stuff… and I didn’t know what they were doing - obviously - if I did I would have called the police, but… you already know I didn’t stay put.” ‘She could have gotten hurt. They could have killed her. Stupid Claudia. Stupid you.’

Gold, with her mace and her knife and her keys held like weapons, goes out to her car and checks the back. The engine starts fine and she drives towards her school, too panicked to register the Chairman’s calls blowing up her phone.

‘Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.’

He’s losing blood. Someone stamps down on his back and snaps a few ribs into pieces. Blood and worse than that between his legs. Someone reaches for Silver’s hair again and draws him up off the floor. I think we’re done here. A hum of agreement and then those strong, strong hands take hold and his head is twisted. Something SNAPS and then whoever it is lets go and Silver falls to the ground (or is it the floor?). He doesn’t move.

Sure he’s dead?

A thump followed by another crack of bone. Yeah. I’m pretty sure. He will later be told that they shattered his wrist. He can’t feel it now, though. He can’t feel anything.

They leave what they think is only a body on the hood of his car at the siblings’ school. A Godfather-worthy message for the Chairman. But it’s Gold who finds him lying there and it’s her that goes rushing to Silver’s side.

SOREN!

‘I can’t remember that. Good. No, not good. How is it fair that Claudia had to suffer through that alone and you get off scot free? You call this scot free?’ “I called an ambulance as quick as I could and they got there pretty fast… I just…” ‘Great. Your sister’s crying now. She’s crying thanks to you.’ Tears pour from pepper-green eyes. ‘Nice going, asshole.’ “I thought you were dead!” ‘I bet they did too. Hey! Don’t compare your sister to them!’

Paramedics load Silver onto a stretcher, stopping Gold as she tries to climb into the back of the ambulance. She follows them in her car, knowing the Chairman can pay for whatever tickets and fines she incurs. She runs four red lights.

“L-later in the h-hospital I finally got around to calling our dad.” She sniffles and wipes her nose on her sleeve. “I couldn’t even tell him what happened… just where I was… but he came anyway. Of course he came.”

Silver, unfeeling but conscious enough to say yes or no, is carried off to an assortment of doctors. One that swabs. One that X-rays. A few more that stitch up wounds and set broken bones. They ask him questions. Name? Age? Blood type? Any important allergies? Do you consent to a forensic exam? Are you in any pain at all?

He answers as well as he can manage. Soren… uh, Lorde. It’s Soren Lorde. Eighteen. B-positive. Uh… not that I know of. Yes. No. I… I can’t feel anything.

‘You got lucky, you do realize that? Lucky?! How?! You can still talk, can’t you? You can still breathe. Bet they wish you couldn’t. Dad always wanted you to shut up anyways and he couldn’t get that even now. He wouldn’t have wanted you dead - are you sure about that? Who knows what he says when you’re not around?’ Gold clears her throat, wiping her eyes with one quick swipe of her sleeve. “They wouldn’t let me in to see him for a while… and when they did…”

A door cracks open. Green eyes and dark hair peek around. Sor-Bear?

Silver lies on his back, his neck in a brace, perfectly still on the bed. Claudia?

I… I… She bursts into tears and flees the room, remaining outside until the Chairman arrives, face pressed into her knees.

“Dad didn’t handle it any better than I did. Maybe worse. No offence.” ‘That’s a sign of emotional abuse, isn’t it? Tearing your family apart. Turning her against him like that.’

The Chairman’s tape overlaps with this one:

Dad…? I… I’m sorry. I’m sorry… I… I… don’t be mad.

Silver looks up with very real fear as his father’s face tightens.

I’m not mad! Why in God’s name would I be mad at you?! Do you really think I’m going to blame you for this?!

Gold steps in then, from her position offscreen. Dad! she says and grabs the Chairman’s arm. Stop it! You’re scaring him!

‘Yoaurnlidttyleosiustwerehardteopsrocteactryoeufdroomf your own father. What’s wrong with you?’ “We ended up spending the night in the hospital. It wasn’t too crowded. They let me take the other bed, but I didn’t use it. I just fell asleep next to his…”

That night, Gold clings to Silver again, hugging an unresponsive arm with both her own. They wake with a start as the Chairman snaps into his phone.

Dad…? Gold mumbles blearily.

It… it’s nothing, Claudia. Go back to bed.

“Dad called our mom to tell her what happened. She flew up the next day.” ‘Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. You got Mom involved. She saw you this way.’

A woman, similar to both children in her own way, enters the hospital room and goes to hug Gold and to kneel down at Silver’s side. She isn’t crying and - by some miracle - neither is he.

“She wanted us to move in with her and our grandparents. A fresh start, she said. I think it was more that she was really mad at Dad, though. She said he couldn’t keep us safe.” ‘You couldn’t keep yourself safe. Mom’s angry with Dad because of you.’ “I don’t know if that’ll end up happening… the moving thing, I mean.”

I want to stay with Dad, Silver says when he’s well enough to assert himself.

I want to stay with Soren.

Their mother books a hotel room and stays put.

‘You’re so selfish. Why are you putting your sister in danger over this? You should just go. Just go. Just go. Just go.’ “I’m still scared and everything. For Dad and for my brother… and for me, but… I don’t wanna just move and leave it all behind. I don’t wanna leave him… and Mom doesn’t either. She can’t make him leave and…” ‘Sorry Claudia. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry for being so-’ Gold looks over at the Chairman and smiles slightly, through her tears. ‘-weak. God, you’re so weak.’ “We’re at an impasse, I guess you would say.” ‘You should just go. If you go you’re a coward. You were always a coward. If you stay you’re stupid on top of that. You are stupid. You always were.’

The Chairman and their mother are present when Silver is discharged from the hospital. It’s their father that loads the young man into his car.

I don’t like that he’s staying with you, the woman says.

I have security. And… he’ll be more comfortable in his own room.

Gold squeezes her brother’s limp, unfeeling hand.

‘She deserves better.’ “So… uh, I… um…” ‘She is better.’ She mutters through her wording. ‘She can do better. Shut up! She’s doing her best.’ The smile fades. ‘Better than she owes to someone like you.’ “I know we’re supposed to end this on a low note or a high note or… whatever. I don’t really have anything cute to say. Sorry. This sucks.” ‘It does suck.’

That night his door cracks open once again. Gold and golden light from the hall. Sor-Bear? she whispers, but Silver cannot move aside now. He can’t move.

Gold begins to cry in earnest. ‘She’s crying because of you. Ysotuuwpaindtsetdutphiidsswthuapti’dsswtruopnigdwsittuhpyiodu?’ Silver joins her in those tears. ‘Dsotnu’ptimdaskteuapsicdesnteudpoind’sttyuopuiddasrteumpaikdesatsucpeindesdtounp’itd! Stsuptidustpupiiddstsuptidustpupiidd. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid-’

“Oh my God Soren are you okay?!”

Chapter 3: (Monster High) Two Half-Stories about the Pharaoh and the Sphinx

Summary:

TW: rape, female genital mutilation, Islamophobia/racism, suicide attempts, emotional abuse/neglect, paranoia, semi-intentional manipulation, pet death. Please note Cleo is entirely right that most Muslims don't do the first one of those and some Christians do:
https://www.sciencedirect.com/science/article/pii/S1110570413000258
https://www.motherjones.com/kevin-drum/2016/02/female-genital-mutilation-not-uniquely-muslim-problem/
https://www.cmi.no/publications/5687-what-does-islam-have-to-do-with-it
However, it is indeed a widespread issue in Egypt, and has been since Pharaonic times, which is why we used Cleo specifically:
https://www.refworld.org/pdfid/5a17ef454.pdf

“Oh, don’t mind him.” A dismissive little wave. “He’s only here as a favor to me.”

The Pharaoh is a teenage girl with sharp, defined features and golden highlights woven through her long, dark hair. She’s wearing a blue and yellow shirt-short combination that looks expensive and a class ring that does not. Bandages wrap around her wrists and arms.

The Sphinx stands beside her, arm draped about her shoulder. His hair has been worked into a dreadlock-mohawk amalgamation and dyed bright green. He wears a pair of dark sunglasses and no class ring, though there is a pale circle of skin on the ringfinger of his right hand.

“Nothing happened to him,” the Pharaoh glances over anxiously, “at least nothing I was told about. So we’ll only have one story. Mine.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a tape plays, but it’s the wrong one. A young woman who is not the Pharaoh is pulled off the street. No one is around to hear her scream. Cut; the same woman with circles under her eyes lies in a hospital bed, stomach huge, hair soaked by sweat. A nurse holds a bundle up to her. Cut; the woman and the infant and two other women that look a little like both of them. Oh, one of them croons. He has your eyes. The baby blinks bright green up at her. His mother is looking down at the blanket instead. It’s blue.

“I don’t come from… well, family is complicated.” She clears her throat. “My mother died when I was little. I don’t remember her. I used to have an uncle, but he had a falling out with Daddy a few years back. I live with my older sister and our father… and he’s very hard to please.”

The Sphinx as a very young child, old enough to toddle if not properly walk. His mother lies sideways on the sofa, staring tiredly at the TV. He waddles up to her, scribbled drawing in one hand; in his mouth is the thumb of the other. Ma! He holds up the picture and she takes it from him, carefully, wincing when her hand brushes his.

Very nice, she says, barely looking at it. Then she sets it down beside her and goes back to watching her show.

“He’s not… it isn’t that he’s cruel, exactly, or at least I don’t think he means to be. He’s just cold a lot of the time. My sister is just like him, she’s older and impossible - I think that’s probably why he likes her better, and no, I don’t mean in that way. They’re just close. She’s his perfect, dutiful daughter and I… try to be, but-”

The Sphinx squeezes her hand, smiling tightly. “It’s okay.”

She relaxes a little, though not all the way. “I do try to please him and I’m sure he must love me, but I… he doesn’t show it very often and I don’t know what I’m doing wrong. It’s always something,” she says - a little bitterly - and then sighs.

The Sphinx at an aunt’s house, playing while his mother and her sisters chat. He’s big enough to run now and run he does, chasing his cousin around the yard. She’s bigger and faster (and blonder) than he is and outpaces him with ease. She turns back to smirk at him. Ha! I win again.

He pouts. No fair!

Yes fair. She sticks out her tongue. You’re just mad ‘cause you’re slow.

I am not!

Are too!

Am not!

Are too!

The argument continues on like this and then cuts out with a squeal as the Sphinx pushes the older girl a little harder than he means to, onto the ground. His mother hauls him up, face scarlet, furious trembling in her hands. She shouts at him in Greek (some expletives, mostly reprimands). Shouts until he’s reduced to tears and even the cousin he shoved over looks concerned.

“He’s never touched me, if that’s what you’re thinking. He doesn’t come to my bed in the dark. I’m his child and he would never. But, I guess it wouldn’t really be wrong to say that I’m still here because of him. My sister’s just the same, but… it’s complicated. How do I explain? She’s his daughter too, maybe that’s enough of a reason.”

The Sphinx, now a little older, in a new city; in a new house. An older girl from down the block waves at him as she comes walking by and he stares at her as she goes. His mother notices. Later she sits him down.

You’re big enough now that you should be starting to feel… differently about girls, she says. Isn’t that right? He stares down at the table top, awkward and embarrassed. That’s normal. She says it like she wishes that wasn’t the case. It’s… fine to feel things, but I want you to know that it’s very wrong to touch a girl that doesn’t want you to, understand? If I find out that you’ve ever done anything like that, I will kill you, do you understand?

Y-yes ma’am. He nods shakily as her eyes like green daggers bore into his own. I don’t want to hurt anyone.

If you did, she scowls, you would tell me that same thing. Now run along and make yourself useful. There’s still stuff to unpack.

“For one thing, Daddy’s really traditional. I mean really. Growing up, my sister and I were more or less expected to sit still and keep our mouths shut. He knew best, naturally-” A well-placed roll of the Pharaoh’s eyes. “-with us being girls and all. It wasn’t entirely terrible, just restrictive. Usually I got what I wanted. Whatever that was.”

The Sphinx’s aunts come to visit for some birthday or another. He blows out candles. Opens gifts. At the end of the night he’s presented with a little cardboard carrying case, punched through with holes. A young bearded dragon looks up at him. Smoky is the name that ends up on the paper taped to his cage. He doesn’t last long. The Sphinx is a little too rough in picking him up.

Oh, his mother says when she sees his tears. Well, I guess you didn’t do it on purpose then.

“Presents from business trips. Things mostly, but pets too.” She doesn’t seem to notice the Sphinx wince. “Dresses, jewelry, toys when I was little, and just about everything else you can think of. Gift giving is a love language, I suppose. He does care about us. I’m sure he does.”

The Sphinx reaches his tween years and with it begins to take interest in the things that young boys are wont to take interest in (at least usually). Shoot-‘em-ups and movies with violent death scenes. Contact sports. His mother confiscates devices and DVDs and bans him from participating. There’s little malice, but his friends stop hanging out with him. He complains to his mother, You never let me do anything!

I won’t have you turning out like your father!

That shuts him up.

“He just wants what’s best. Or his idea of what’s best for us anyway.” Long nails dig into her palms. “Erm… when I was twelve my father took my sister away with him. To Egypt, we were all born there. We have a live-in staff so it wasn’t as if I was alone, but they were gone for a few weeks and I was jealous, but when they came back… my sister wouldn’t so much as look at me.”

Highschool. The beginning of highschool. The one the Sphinx attends is crowded and underfunded. An inner city area with low prospects and high crime (of course, those statistics are skewed what with the masses and masses of White policemen around). His peers are darker-skinned than his Greek self. They have reason to be a little distrustful, and some are at first, but there is a lot of his father left in him. He’s not completely Turkish, but he might be able to convincingly make the claim.

“She was… everyone told me she was sick. I might not have believed it, but Daddy didn’t seem like he was hiding anything. He must have not wanted to scare me, but there wasn’t any shame or guilt from him. He didn’t - he doesn’t - think he did anything wrong.”

Across hallways and classrooms, from time to time he sees a girl. In a cheerleading uniform or nice new clothes. Only a freshman but the hallways part for her like the blue ocean tides. She rides the arm of a big man on campus and smiles slightly when she catches the Sphinx looking at her and over her. Up and down.

“I’m a junior in highschool now. I go to… Well, it’s not the best school in the area but I did ask to go to the public one in our district. My sister is three years older than me and went somewhere more… upscale. I wanted space. To make my own friends.” She grins at the Sphinx and he smiles back. “And I did. I really did. And that was nice for a while. He even loosened up enough to let me go out for the cheer team. I was made captain this year. I can still do it, but… it’s harder now.”

The girl from the hall - the Pharaoh - is with a boy on the basketball team, older than her - older than the Sphinx - by a year. They’re friends, if not extraordinarily close ones, and the Pharaoh is with him a lot of the time. Halfway through the year he feels his attraction towards her beginning to grow. He never makes a move, however, out of respect for both of them. He doesn’t notice when she starts to look at him the same way.

“I turned fifteen near the end of my freshman year. Daddy had been out on business, but he came home for my birthday as a surprise. He asked if I’d like to go on a trip with him. To Egypt. My sister helped me pack a bag. I remember thinking it was strange that she didn’t want to go.”

The Sphinx sees his friend again, a month or more before school breaks for the summer. The Pharaoh isn’t with him this time.

Dude, where’s Cleo? You guys break up or something?

Nah, man. His friend shakes his head. She’s on vacation. Had to go somewhere with her old man.

She doesn’t come back for a long time. When she does, her nails are torn and her eyes are red-rimmed - puffy. She’s quieter now and flinches slightly whenever anyone comes too near.

The Sphinx approaches carefully. Hey, uh… dude…-ette, are you, uh, okay…?

She looks about ready to cry.

“While I was there he took me to a special kind of doctor.” The Pharaoh bites her lower lip. “Female circumcision was officially criminalized in 2008, but… it’s still not really prosecuted. It still happens. And it… it did happen.”

The Pharaoh speaks quietly to the Sphinx, a lame excuse that she only gets out halfway. She sniffles and wipes her nose and, almost unthinkingly, he pulls her into him, hand on the back of her head.

“Daddy’s really traditional. He… there’s this idea that women need to be cut like that to prevent us from having sex outside of marriage. It works - usually - but that’s because they remove the stuff that makes it feel good. Normally it’s dangerous. You bleed a lot and… it’s not pleasant.”

Pleasanter things than what she has spoken of. The Pharaoh sits in her cheerleading attire, on the bleachers. Her legs are crossed at the ankles and knees. The Sphinx approaches and sits beside her, giving her two feet (or more) of space.

Feeling any better?

She's silent for a moment. And then she smiles. I am now that you’re here.

“There are a lot of ways people can… perform something like that. Sometimes they’ll remove or alter almost all of it. Other times it’s just the… middle part - I don’t want to get too graphic - funny thing is, it’s actually easier to repair the damage from some versions of the first than it is to fix the second. Unfortunately Egypt tends to use the latter more often than not and that’s what happened to me.”

The Sphinx and the Pharaoh, again and again. On the bleachers or smiling at each other in the hallway. A few weeks more. Summer begins. He’s home alone when a knock comes at the door. He finds her waiting.

Claude and I broke up, she says. Can I come inside?

Cut; his mother’s living room sofa, much less than two feet (or more) between them. The Pharaoh is the one to close the distance. She’s the one that kisses him.

“I… a lot of the time they don’t use anesthetic. Some women or girls will just have to lie there or someone will make them lie there, even if it hurts. Daddy… he thinks he’s doing what’s best. What God wants. Whatever needs to be done. He didn’t want to hurt me so…” She swallows hard. “So he had the doctor use some kind of numbing… stuff.” Shrug. “It didn’t put me under. It just stopped me from feeling anything… unpleasant below my waist. Then they held me down and I had to… I…” The Pharaoh trembles. “I had to watch them do it and it didn’t hurt much, but that’s still the worst thing I’ve ever… that I ever… I…” The Sphinx pulls her closer and rubs her back.

His mother comes home and finds them on the couch. She looks the Pharaoh over with stone-cold eyes. Deuce, she says tightly, who is this?

Uh, Mom… this is Cleo. Cleo, meet my mom.

“When we came back from our trip Daddy bought me a new pair of earrings and I did what my sister did… I stayed quiet. I won’t say that I’m not angry, but I couldn’t tell anyone. I could prove it pretty easily, but he’s my father. I love him… and there’s more.”

The Pharaoh leaves quickly, chased off by the woman’s furious green eyes. Before she goes, she gives the Sphinx a quick peck on the cheek. His mother turns to him, her face cold and pale and dangerous. I don’t want you having girls over, she says. Especially when I’m not home. Especially not that girl.

What? Mom, I’m… He trails off. Wait, what’s wrong with Cleo?

Well, what race is she?

What does that have to do with anything?!

“There’s no way to get around it, I suppose. My family practices Islam. There’s an awful lot of stereotyping when it comes to that. You know there is. It wouldn’t have mattered to people that it’s more about sexism than it is about religion or that the Quran never says it’s something that you should do to women, or even that most Muslim people don’t! Christians do this kind of thing too, you know - more often in some places, even - and no one’s condemning them for that!”

She looks just like your father.

Mom, they aren’t even from the same-

That doesn’t matter! I don’t want to see her again! Or you with any girls!

Mom, I’m fifteen-

Yes, well, I’ve heard that some folks start earlier than that.

On what?!

She turns her back on him. I won’t have you turning out like your father, you understand me?

“Sometimes, though… I wish I could say something to someone just to have it out there. I know what happened isn’t exactly the same thing as rape, but isn’t it still a violation? Isn’t it still horrible and awful and just… It shouldn’t have happened to me,” she says. “And I’m not really coping well.”

Another day in the midst of summer. She knocks at the Sphinx’s door.

Cleo? Uh, hey… listen, my mom says you can’t come over anymore.

What? She pushes forward, one hand against his chest. But I thought you liked me.

It’s not… I… he starts and stammers. Listen, it’s… I mean… I do.

Then what’s the problem? She tries to push by him again and he catches her arm. What?!

Cleo, I said no!

She jerks back as if she’s been struck. Oh… she says quietly, eyes cast down. I see how it is…

“D- the Sphinx here has really been a huge help with everything. Still, he’s only human and there’s only so much I can really expect of him. But he does help. He does a lot for me.”

The Sphinx rolls over in bed, phone blasting a rock song ringtone as he picks it up. … ‘lo, he mutters sleepily. Who’s this?

Deuce… The Pharaoh's voice is like a thread of gentle quiet. I want you to know that this isn’t your fault.

What isn’t-

What I’m about to do.

Suddenly the room gets colder. Colder and colder by twenty some degrees. Where are you? He leaves the house barefoot and coatless, still clutching his phone.

“Earlier on in our relationship… A little while after it happened, I snapped. Just a little bit, but I… snapped.” She rubs her wrists over the bandages. “I… hurt myself a little, but that was only because… No. He saved me.” A light little squeeze of the Sphinx’s hand. “I don’t know what I would do without him.”

The house is silent as an empty tomb when the Sphinx gets to it. He finds a key in the lock, strangely. There’s a light still on in the bathroom. The door’s been left ajar. There’s also a lot of blood.

Cleo! He kneels beside her, hands shaking and snatching towels to press against her wrists. Cleo?! You there?! Come on… come on… Talk to me!

Pale eyes flicker open, her smile faint. You came, she whispers. I… knew you… would…

Cut; the Sphinx in a hospital corridor. He stares blankly at the wall, his shirt splattered and blood soaking in.

“I was in the hospital for a few days after that. Daddy couldn’t come to visit and I wouldn’t have let my sister in to see me anyway, but… he came. It was almost enough that he was there.”

The Sphinx with flowers. The Sphinx with candy. Inside the Pharaoh's room and out of it. His mother tries to say something, I don’t like that you’re- and he glares at her with stone-cold eyes. She sighs heavily. Well, I guess I can’t stop you. But if I ever find out that you hurt her…

I won't, he says and keeps seeing her long after she’s discharged.

“Some time during all that, I suppose we just fell into each other. Into us, I mean. My father didn’t like that. He didn’t forbid us from seeing each other or anything, but he wanted… he wanted me to find someone else. Someone more ‘appropriate’,” she rolls her eyes. “Who else would even have me now?”

They dance together in the sweep-dip-swing of summer parties, sit together in the back of dark movie theaters. Her arms remain bound in cloth; his eyes and fingers are drawn to the fabric. One night - after months - she comes over late, and fixes him with a sugar-sweet grin. His mother frowns and stands to leave the room. I’m going to bed, she says. And then: If I hear anything… She looks over at the girl and her face softens slightly. All you have to do is scream.

As the woman leaves, the Sphinx rolls his eyes. Thanks, Mom.

What… was that about? the Pharaoh asks him.

He shrugs. Nothing. Nothing… She’s just crazy.

“No one else is going to want someone like me. After what he did… In Egypt a lot of men actually prefer girls that have been…” The Pharaoh shivers and carries on. “Maybe he thinks I’ll marry one. I don’t see how I could.”

A movie playing. The Sphinx’s arm around the Pharaoh, her hand roaming up from his knee… and gradually… gradually… down the front of his pants. Like a statue, he freezes up; then he grabs her wrist and holds it still. Cleo, he says, I don’t think we should.

Her expression changes. I thought you liked me.

I do! I do! I just-

I’m not good enough for you, is that it?! Because of… because of him-

No! He glances worriedly in the direction of his mother’s door, but no one comes out of it. No, it’s not like that at all! I just… I don’t know if we… I love you-

She shifts her weight around and isn’t all that strong, but strong enough to climb on top of him and press him down. Bandaged wrists and long, elegant fingers and polished nails. His zipper is pulled all the way down.

Prove it.

Hands on his hips. The Sphinx is still. He doesn’t move.

“How could I ever be with someone awful enough to… to think that sort of thing is alright? To be alright with someone hurting another person like that. Someone they should care about… just to make themselves feel a little more secure.”

The Sphinx is still as the Pharah works her own skirt up and closes herself around him.

Cleo, he whispers, my mom’s in the other-

We’ll be quiet.

I don’t want-

Tell me you love me, she says.

The girl on the stage scoffs. “The selfishness of it all.”

He grimaces as she carries on. Then he hears a whimper and feels blood. Oh my God are you-

Keep… going. The Pharaoh grits her teeth. Do it!

You… you’re bleeding!

Yes… and?

I… He stops. She doesn’t. Hold on, he says and pulls back. She leans further into him and doesn’t let go. Cleo… Cleo! Stop! I don’t want to hurt you!

You… aren’t hurting… me. Keep… keep going. Keep going… or else I-

Cleo, you need-

Her eyes light on his mother’s door. So do his. She hears the woman’s words again. So does he.

I’ll scream… if you… We need to keep going. I have to show my father he didn’t… I have to know that you still… that someone wants… Her eyes water. His are wet behind his cock-eyed shades. I’ll scream, she promises. I’ll scream.

“I don’t see why anyone could stomach being with someone like… like that. Tch. I’m lucky to have found the Sphinx. He’s been good to me.”

For a few days he doesn’t call her and stares at the wall. He finds her at his doorstep by the week's end with teary red eyes and fresh bandages wrapping her arms. She lies down with him again a few days after that. And the cycle goes on from there. Movies and popcorn; parties and plastic cups of stolen beer; bandages; blood; what comes after. The smell of latex and the old sofa - or his mattress or hers or the hammock in the yard at night - letting out creak after muffled creak.

I love you, the Pharaoh tells him on one occasion. This accompanied by a long kiss (reciprocated however reluctantly).

The Sphinx looks at her for a long time from behind his glasses. He reaches up and - with all tenderness - tucks a lock of hair behind one ear. “I love you too.”

Is it better or worse that both of them mean that?

Chapter 4: (TMNT) A Story about the Cardinal Directions

Summary:

TW: rape, physical violence, alcohol/drug use, parent loss, running away, anger issues.

“I guess we aren’t really teenagers anymore.”

The Cardinal Directions at the center of the stage, arranged almost like a compass rose. Four young men - brothers - with olive skin and not-so-dissimilar faces.

At the very edge is the first to have spoken. North is smiling, but his smile is strained. White teeth and straight black hair. Everything else is blue. The bands around his wrists and the sweatband around his head. He wears no sleeves. The design of a Christian cross stands out on his bare right arm.

West is an angry looking man and bigger than his brothers are. Much bigger. And stronger. His hair is as straight as North’s, but longer and shaggier. He wears a red jacket and shredded jeans. There’s red in those torn-open places - scratches and marks and a few just-visible bandaged wounds. His knuckles are raw and cracked and dark red too. His eyes have solid shadows beneath them.

Bouncing on the balls of his feet is a nerve-wracked East. His hair has been bleached in places and dyed orange - badly - and dark freckles dot his cheeks. His shirt is one of a Pizza Planet delivery man and with it he wears Bermuda shorts and beat-up sandals. He smells - quite obviously - of Mary Jane, and blinks at the audience with a bloodshot pair of eyes.

A little ways behind them all is South in his khakis and purple button-up. He’s skinnier and scrawnier than his brothers are, and still somehow avoids being either of those things beyond comparison. All of them are built like athletes, him being only a little less so. He has a phone in his pocket and glances down at it frequently and if he thinks no one can see him do it, he’s very wrong.

“And that matters because…?”

“Dude…”

“I guess it doesn’t.” North grimaces. “I was just thinking-”

“Uh, hey… maybe you shouldn’t-”

“About how different it was back then. With us. With Dad.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a tiny apartment built into the cement foundation beneath a so-so sized gym. The Cardinal Directions as children and then as teenagers, kicking and throwing punches, instructed and chastised and encouraged by a middle-aged and long-whiskered man.

“We’re New Yorkers! From the city, though, not the state. No one wants to be from the state.”

“No one wants to be from the city.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. We were happy, weren’t we?”

And they are. The tape plays a montage. The boys on skateboards and gobbling pizza. They are happy. This is a happy time.

“We were adopted when we were really, really young - there’s no huge big tragedy there or anything, that’s just the way it was - and we grew up fine.”

“Yeah. Nothing happened when we were kids.”

North has a short string of girlfriends (a normal amount for his adolescent years).

West has little interest in anyone and they seem less interested in him.

East moons over men in the movies and boys at their school.

South makes eyes at a redheaded girl.

“Nothing, huh?”

“… Not that I know of…?”

“Not that you…” West’s hands ball up into fists. “What about…?”

“… Dad…?”

The years move forward. Quickly. Quickly. Their father ages. And the older he gets the more anxious he seems.

“We always knew the old man had a past. Some stuff he talked about. Some stuff he didn’t.”

“New York isn’t quite as bad as here is, in terms of violent crime… but it does come pretty close.”

One day the boys return home to find bloody boot-prints on the floor.

“You’ve heard of the five families, right? Triads activity isn’t as bad as that in the area, but… it still happens, you know…?”

“… That’s what the police think happened there. To him.”

A man’s body lies face down on the floor, unmoving and surrounded by spatters of blood. North is the first to move, dropping down beside him. Sensei! Talk to me! He flips their father over, revealing a carved-open stomach with intestines falling out like fleshy streamers along with bile, more blood and the contents of his last meal.

East is sick right there on the floor.

South ends up being the one to phone the police.

“That… I think that was probably my worst…”

“Your worst what?”

“Anything.” He stops, blinks and then looks apologetic. “Wait, I’m sorry. Was that-”

“It’s fine.”

The Cardinal Directions standing by a fresh-packed grave. They wear no blue now, no purple or orange or red. Only black and a lot of it. What else would you wear at funerals?

“We were in high school when it happened, but seniors, so…” South swallows and tries to breathe. “… it wasn’t like social services came and shipped us off or anything.”

They stay in town for the rest of the school year. Try to anyway. Most of them…

“I couldn’t do it. Couldn’t handle it. I’ve always been more of a fight than a flight sort of guy, but you try fighting nothing. See how well that works out.”

West flees the city with only the clothes on his back, the contents of a backpack and not much else.

East finds the letter he left behind.

“That… kind of makes it sound like he was going to kill himself,” South says tentatively. “He wasn’t. Relax.”

“Oh, he went to California. That’s pretty much the same thing.”

Three brothers gather together in what was once the room of four. Two make faces as one reads aloud.

I can’t live like this anymore, the letter says, and Don’t try to find me (and he’s left his phone behind, they can’t anyway) and I’m sorry; but it only says so once.

Then North’s mouth opens and he says something else a hundred times.

“Scale of one to ten, how mad were you?”

“Me personally? Or just in general? Because I was upset but Leo- North, though?”

“Solid fifteen. Easy.”

Several things are broken open or thrown against the wall. Two of the directions watch as one rages and screams.

“It wasn’t that bad…”

“Dude, you put a hole in the wall.”

“Yeah, well… shut up.”

The tape rolls forward. Three attend classes and graduate on time.

One remains radio silent, crossing the country; finding a job.

“We all went our own way, I guess. Did what we had to do to feel good again.”

North stands alone in an empty room, making use of homemade plaster. Trying to patch the gap in the wall.

“I stayed home. Took over the business. It’s… what Dad would have wanted. I always did everything he told me.” He swallows, trying to force his hands not to shake. “I think pretty soon I’ll need to go back.”

West, bathed in the strobe light glow of a nightclub - at night. He holds a man up by the collar and pins him against the wall.

“I came here. Took a job as a bouncer. Knocked a few heads. Jokes aside, I’ve always had a pretty nasty temper. Anger issues. Bad ones. That’s gotten me into trouble…” East places a hand on his shoulder. “That’s… that’s the reason we’re even here.”

East on the east coast, ringing a doorbell. He holds a stack of pizzas in his hands. Later he will hand his collected tips over to a man who will hand him another kind of green in return.

“I moved out pretty soon after high school ended, but unlike some people I said goodbye and stayed in contact and… all the stuff you’re supposed to do with your family. I got into this one place for college and I got a part-time job… and started smoking. Don’t judge! There are worse things, right?”

South and the girl from before - the one with red hair - unpack in a shabby little apartment in the deep of Texas. He works from home with a laptop and earpiece, answering questions from a lot of people in a lot of places. Some very far away.

“I got into college too. Moved in with my girlfriend. Took a part time job in IT. Doesn’t pay much, and people are stupid, but it greases the wheels.”

For a while it goes on like that. Four parts of the same tape playing in unison. Playing as one.

And then the screen stops splitting and West’s tape speeds up.

“Okay… so let’s get one thing out of the way here and now, alright?”

“I’m the only one… something happened to.”

“Yeah… it’s pretty much his story.”

“We’re just a part of it.”

On Tuesdays and Fridays West frequents another group held in another part of town. Cheap coffee and stale donuts and people sitting in a circle of folding chairs.

“So… for a while I went to anger management. It doesn’t really matter why-”

“You said it was ‘cause you got written up at work too many times.”

“Yeah! For punchin-”

“Doesn’t. Matter. Why.” West stops and takes a moment to breathe. “Uh, but yeah. I’ve never been great at controlling myself… or my outbursts, and I lash out when I get angry. I… still don’t think I’m fixed yet… or that I’m ever going to be, but it… helped for a while.”

The men and women there are ordinary enough people. A collection of faces, some that the group will never recognize and a few they might just. For the most part things remain civil, but ugly arguments break out there on occasion. Thankfully, though, violence is rare.

“That’s one thing I didn’t think of when I joined up. Asking for help doesn’t automatically mean you’ll be better. And yeah, I’m talking about the other guys there too, not just me.”

Violence is rare, but it is not an impossibility. One meeting sees someone say the wrong thing to West and the young man replies back in kind. It’s hard to say who throws the first punch for sure but they find themselves outside, kicking and rolling in the dirt of the street.

“But… it was a me problem too… yeah.”

A waitress gets his order wrong and he shouts at her until she cries. A man cuts him off in traffic and West leans out the window spitting curses at the top of his lungs. Bad reception; his fist slams into the screen of his TV.

“That’s probably why what happened… did.”

“C’mon dude, you don’t know that…”

“I can guess.”

Like so many other stories… West in a bar. He’s been drinking and is drinking still. Dark liquid stains the countertop and dribbles down his shirt. His eyes are a blood-shot pink becoming red.

“I went out one night a while ago when I was off my shift. I went out a lot of nights, but… this one was…” He shakes his head. “Different. One way of putting it is… different.” Deep breath.

“He… got into a… bar fight…”

“I was so drunk… I don’t know what I did.”

He sits there most of the night, chasing down liquor with Scotch and beer with whiskey. The tape plays a little faster as the crowd around him fades in and out. He can barely see straight by the time the BLURRED OUT MAN sits down.

“See… it was… a special kind of anniversary. So I…”

“We… get it. It’s fine.”

That night it isn’t

just West

that drinks

until the room spins.

“I’m not really sure what happened. Not entirely. I can’t remember much. I know there was some… guy there, but I’d been drinking so much already… and I was so, so out of it… but even then I was still me…”

The two men get to talking. Half-sober and not even a quarter of that. It starts off well enough, but quickly - very quickly - devolves into half-decipherable slurring. An argument breaks out - over what neither of them will remember the next day - and a punch is thrown. Like Herne and his friend’s uncle, they stumble and knock their way across the bar until they fall down in the parking lot outside. It’s very late or very early and a weekday. Even the usual crowd is scarce.

East pats West on the back a few times.

They push and shove and punch each other. In the gut. In the face. A bottle (Empty? Full? Where did the bottle come from?) is raised (or does he fall on it?) and, like a felled tree, West goes down. And that’s almost the end of it.

“He didn’t knock me out exactly - it’s actually pretty rare that happens with a blow to the head. Causes brain damage and… whatever. Not important. Point is I wasn’t out, not entirely, but I was down for the count anyway… and that wasn’t so great.” He scowls. “I’d say worse if there weren’t so many kids in the room.”

Both still addled by alcohol and fury-frenzy, they roll together on the ground. West isn’t fighting back any more. The other man keeps kicking and punching. Maybe he doesn’t notice. Maybe he doesn’t care. It continues on either way.

“Before I knew it he was unzipping my… yeah… Yeah.”

An hour or so later the bar will close and the owner will curse at what he finds outside there, amongst the gravel and broken glass.

Oh… oh my God! Are you alright?!

West can only groan.

“Obviously he called an ambulance. I just wish he’d fixed my clothes first… Then again it might have been more awkward that way.”

“The doctors would probably have just taken them off agai-”

West smacks South upside the head.

He awakens in the hospital where a lot of soft-spoken doctors in bright white coats try to explain the situation.

“I already knew what happened, obviously, but there was a lot of other stuff to consider besides that. Dealing with the cops was one thing… but…”

Broken glass fished from places where it shouldn’t be. Ribbons of lacerated, hanging flesh. He wakes with someone else’s blood pumping through him and shattered, painful ribs. Stitches stand out against olive skin.

“… You were in a pretty bad way.”

We can’t release you, the doctors say weeks later. Not unless you have someone you can stay with. You’re going to hurt yourself if we let you out on your own.

Fine.

Miles away, in an apartment below a gym in New York City, a phone begins to ring.

‘Lo…?

Leo? Is that you? … Look, I… something happened. I’m sorry… you don’t have to come, but…

“He did anyway. They all did.”

I… Raph?! It’s been… years… no… no! Don’t hang up, okay? I… what… I’ll be there… and I’ll call Donnie and Mikey. They’ll be there too…

… you don’t have t… thanks.

L-Leo?! Are you… ohmygod! Is he okay?!

Tell him April and I will be there. First flight.

It’s in a hospital room that the Directions blend together for the first time in years.

North swallows and runs his fingers through his hair.

West laughs in that way people do to keep from crying.

East is crying now. Quietly.

South gives the audience a smile that is very, very tight.

“We’ve been living together for a while and it’s… almost like old times. I guess… It’s not really the same… it’ll never be without Dad and… it’s still weird with how I left and with everything that… happened… but… we’re working on it. I think… we’ll be okay.”

Evidently, there’s something to be said about silver linings.

Chapter 5: (My Little Pony) A Story about the Wondersmith’s Sons

Summary:

TW: rape, sexual/physical/emotional child abuse/neglect, unreality/unreliable narrator, missing person.
Soundtrack: "The Wondersmith and His Sons" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3FdUdvajOp0

“Father was a charming man, you should know, and he taught us all his tricks, because he had to. Cold as the world is, you can’t get by on strength alone.”

“We never had much of that anyway, not even between the two of us. Plenty, though, in terms of smarts.”

The Romancer and the Fabulist share a smile safecrackers understand. They’re two brothers, duplicates of each other really, close enough to be twins - though they aren’t apparently, as they’ve stated several times. The Romancer has a mustache while the Fabulist is clean-shaven, but otherwise the likeness is remarkable, even for them being so closely related. They’re both natural redheads with a few white-blond streaks running evenly through their hair, and they wear matching outfits - bowties and boater hats, button-ups and white vests striped with blue. The Fabulist rolls a coin between his fingers, flipping it into the palm of his other hand.

“Take this trick for example. Everyone thinks the toss is just so random. Random enough to bet on. Unfortunate for them that that simply isn’t true, but, I think, lucky for us.”

“Au contraire, brother mine. I think you’re misleading them. Once you’ve learned, you can control the way it lands every time. Luck has nothing to do with it. Father taught us that too.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; all the spectacle of an out-door carnival, rolled into the farcical glamour of a glitzed-out one-man show. Said man is neither of the brothers, but he stands taller on the stage than they and proud too, drawing in a crowd. As people gather, smaller figures dart around. There are three of them. The Fabulist, the Romancer and a little girl with ice-blonde hair. Like them, she wears blue. The money falls straight into their hands.

“We had a sister as well at one point. Dearest Beatrice.” The Romancer removes his hat with all the trimmings of theatrics, but he does look genuinely saddened. “The one in the middle, while my dear brother here holds the title of youngest and I, the eldest.”

“She was the charming one. I was the cleverest - cracking calculus by three, if you’ll take my word for it - and my dear brother was the practical one. Not that any of it mattered to our father, he taught us all the same.”

Behind closed doors, that charming man keeps his smile and the three dump their money in his lap. The Fabulist has come up with a little more than the others. The Romancer holds up a little less. Their father musses both’s hair just as affectionately and kisses their sister on her forehead. On the way out the Romancer runs into the door, leaving a bruise across half his face.

“It would be wonderful to say that he was a kind man, but he wasn’t, or even an especially good one, not that we’re in any position to claim the moral high ground. Then again, supposing we take after him?”

The Romancer rubs the side of his head, wincing. “Who else?”

Their father and a policeman shaking hands; slipping his wrists out of handcuffs; picking the lock of a holding cell; being declared Not guilty on the stand… The Romancer and the Fabulist and their sister getting, willingly, into the back of the same police car; a non-menacing social worker who speaks in gentle tones; a house they all enter hand in hand.

“Too much grease can break down a machine. True, regarding mechanics and metaphorically speaking in the real world. Our father never knew when to quit. That was his problem and he paid the price for it.”

“In a way, maybe we all did.”

The Romancer and the Fabulist get out of the same car, but embrace each other in front of their school like it’s been lifetimes. The Romancer is clean and dressed neatly. There are no bruises on the Fabulist’s arms or bugs crawling in his hair. Boys! their sister calls and they turn their heads. There are no teeth marks on her neck and her clothes fit, and she isn’t limping. None of them are.

“We found our way into the foster system in our early teen years and promptly fell through the cracks. It’s just as well, I suppose, tradition and blood ties can render even the steadiest of hands obsolete. I know at twenty-six what I knew at sixteen and what I’ll know at sixty, I was never going to grow beyond what my father made me. None of us were.”

“Well,” the Fabulist looks uncomfortable. “Beatrice might have. She was a better showman than she was a crook.”

The girl wears a purple hat and handmade cape, beaming like a spot of sunlight under the shoddy lights of an auditorium stage. Her costume does not look childish or like she cobbled it together the night before. She does look like she’s gotten enough sleep. There’s a standing ovation when she finishes her act. No one laughs at her magic tricks. She doesn’t flee the room in tears.

“Children can be so cruel, can’t they? But she really was a gifted entertainer. I think she’d have been better off in Vegas, rather than being born here. A magician sort, you know, and she had real talent.”

“But she was sensitive. They diagnosed her with narcissism while we were all in highschool - no, not all narcissists are at all like the Wildcard’s mother, not most - it made criticism… difficult for her. More than it is for most people.”

“The tragic flaw. Something… went wrong during a school talent show she performed at, hecklers I mean. She left the room in tears and when we couldn’t find her afterward, we assumed she’d gone… home.”

“But she didn’t come to school the next day… or the day after that.”

The girl runs up to the Romancer and the Fabulist, throwing both arms around them and squeezing tight. They do not spend all day waiting for her or going to her house to ask the family there what’s wrong. There aren’t any old bruises on her foster father’s knuckles. Or dents in the wall. The Romancer does not pull the Fabulist aside and say quietly, on their way home, I think… I think she must be dead. This does not happen because it has no reason to.

“She’d be twenty-five now, or just about, it’s been - what, ten years? I’d say a thing or two has changed since then, eh brother?”

“If you ask me, not nearly enough.”

Two young men in high-roller’s heaven, a casino with green-topped tables and wads of the same color, freely given (or as good as, anyway), shining in the absinthe of the pairs’ eyes. The Romancer sits at the counter, chatting up a man with brown hair and dog tags still in place. Pour another round on me, the Romancer says, and one for my friend here. You know I’m good for it. He offers a wink to the man who is not his quarry and is not weak for charming men. His right hand does not creep under the bar table or into the area between his legs. His left hand does not creep into the pocket where the stranger’s wallet hides. He pays with the money from his own. Elsewhere, the Fabulist plays his games. He doesn’t count cards. He doesn’t roll faulty. He does not hustle. Every time he wins, it’s honest. He honestly wins every time.

“Our father was a charming man and we learned it all from him. I suppose it was always going to be that we fell into the role he left for us, it seems to be all that we’re any good for. Maybe it’s just as well that Beatrice is… I’ll admit, we don’t care much about most other people - our people included - but she was… we did love her.”

“You should know, I’ve always hated the way people say that. Loved. Past tense. It’s ridiculous. When someone… goes, you grieve because everything you felt for them is still the same. People aren’t like a bottle of cheap booze from a shelf in the dry-end. When you lose someone, you can’t just pour one out and try again. It’s never been that simple. You still love or hate or feel them long after they’re gone and as long as you live you carry them inside you. That’s just the way it is.”

The Fabulist stares at his brother for a moment. “… Love, then.” He chuckles grimly. “I think we’d be alright, even if feeling did come with limits. Out of everyone I’ve known in my life, there’s only three I’ve given much of a damn about. Besides myself, her and… you.” Silence falls between the two of them then. “I’m so sorry.”

“It was meant to happen, so don’t be.”

In front of that same casino, there is no other set of lights and luck doesn’t run out for the brother. Not now. Not ever. Not yet. There are no officers in blue. They outrun all of them. They scatter. The Romancer and the Fabulist do not find themselves in the back of the same police car and Redheads, huh? the cop driving does not say. Oh, the sheriff’s gonna love you. The youngest’s hand doesn’t clench the bicep of the eldest.

“Nothing’s ever meant to happen, if you don’t make it first.” One arm slips around the Romancer’s shoulders. “Now fate, why that’s the god of fool’s and gamblers and, it’s like you said before. There’s no such thing as luck.”

“You have to make it happen…”

“I… Sorry about that, I didn’t mean-”

They pick the lock on the holding cell they aren’t brought to. There is no man waiting for them there. It is not the big-bellied sheriff with his face full of whiskers and breath that smells like flowers and not beer. When the Fabulist doesn’t hide behind his brother, the man who is not bigger than both of them does not lick his lips because he isn’t there to. None of them are there. Con artists, eh? Guess you won’t be stayin’ long… and here’s two a’ ya, just one of little ol’ me. He doesn’t stand there with his eyes darting between them. They aren’t there. They aren’t there. They aren’t there. What’ll it be then?

“I didn’t understand at first, well, maybe I did, it was pretty obvious from context so it could be that I just didn’t want to put two and two together. Can you blame a fellow for it?”

“I can’t, though I understood right away what he meant, and just hoped I was wrong about it. Ah, no such luck. Of course not.” He laughs. “We just decided it isn’t real, didn’t we?”

Let’s see here… says the two a’ yas was arrested for… fleecin’ the gamblers, huh? Let’s see how ya do in a game you can’t rig. The sheriff doesn’t say this. He doesn’t say anything.

What do you… The Fabulist doesn’t trail off when the officer doesn’t reach into his pocket - hand not brushing against his thigh - he isn’t holding a coin in his hand. He’s not.

Heads or tails, boys?

Wait! the Romancer doesn’t have to call out. Let me do it!

“I’m sure he knew I was going to rig it. I just don’t think he counted on how I was planning to spin the odds. If it had been anyone else in there then… you can all assume the worst of me, but it wasn’t. It was him.”

Heads! The coin shoots up and doesn’t come back down. It’s heads; it’s tails; it’s nothing. The Romancer doesn’t have to slap the back of his hand with the sheriff and his brother leaning over him. It isn’t anything so it isn’t the one he called out throwing. It can’t be heads if it isn’t anything at all.

Well, the lawman doesn’t say, sounding almost… touched and genuinely surprised. I’ll be damned.

It doesn’t look like it hurts when he slams the eldest up against the wall. No one screams. Someone comes when they hear that. The Fabulist pulls the cop off of his brother and kicks him until he stills. He doesn’t beat against the bigger man with his handcuff-bound fists and throw himself against him and scream himself hoarse, only to find that he can do exactly nothing but wait and watch or look away. He doesn’t have to choose the latter. Everything is fine. When nothing at all is over, the Romancer doesn’t collapse to his knees shaking and choking on stifled tears. The fog that should remain around him is not to be seen. In one hand he holds up a keycard. They don’t need one.

“I’m as charming a man as our father was. Picking a man’s pocket… now there’s no easier way to do that when you’ve got him out of all his clothes. I won’t say this was easy though. No one’s quite that stupid, are they? Or that strong…”

The brothers enter their own apartment in high spirits, trailing diamonds and dripping booze. They laugh and pour strong drinks and clink them together in a toast like they have before. To Beatrice! The Romancer does not curl up into a ball, sobbing on the couch. Are you sure you don’t want anything? The Fabulist laughs and pours another round On me! He doesn’t just sit there beside his brother, helpless, eventually standing up and announcing, I’ll run a bath.

Good. I need to feel… clean. It comes out like a joke, not sad and small and strangled. Not twisted and teeming with brokenness like the nets thrown by fishermen into the sea. But it’s not catching anything. There’s nothing to catch. He reaches out, before the Fabulist leaves and grabs his arm. You trusted me, didn’t you?

I’d hand my life to you. He doesn’t hesitate. No one else. The Romancer lets go of him.

“I know this isn’t the fair thing, but I did learn a thing or two from… what happened. To be more careful, for one… not to make impulsive decisions - however tempting, neither of us are really true gamblers - and… never try to dye your own hair if you’ve never tried doing it before. Easy as it looks, it’ll only end in disaster.” He brushes his fingers over his own head. “I would know.”

The bathroom looks like one that someone might actually live in, and not like the floor model of a fake person’s home. It hasn’t been obsessively organized and reorganized and the bottles in the medicine cabinet sorted by color - then alphabetical order - then size. They’re all still there because the Romancer is handling it all quite well. He’s smiling when the Fabulist walks in and finds him with the bleach and blond dye in his hands. He looks triumphantly into the mirror. I… And there isn’t a waver in his voice. My hair… I haven’t ruined it.

If you haven’t ruined it, then I haven’t too. The Fabulist takes the bottle. Later, when they stand before that same mirror admiring themselves, no one is crying and no one looks like they want to join in. They just stare into each other’s reflection, completely capable of meeting their own proper gaze. It looks like they’ve both been sleeping. Oh… The Fabulist’s voice can’t possibly crack here. I just realized… we look like her.

If only she could see us now, eh?

“I think she’d be proud, in all honesty,” the Fabulist places his hand on the small of his brother’s back, “of you.”

“Oh, brother mine?” The Romancer’s smile is grim. “And what do you suppose the old Wondersmith himself would think? What about you?”

Chapter 6: (Ever After High) A Story about the Rosey Sister and the Fair Sister

Summary:

TW: attempted rape, physical assault.
Soundtrack: "Long Red Hair" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Mw-cN4LxrK0

“It used to be the same length as hers.”
The Rosey and the Fair actually are twins - identical by the looks of it - with the same button noses and perfect white teeth, and big blue eyes. Like the Romancer and the Fabulist, their hair is naturally red. Unlike the brothers, only the Rosey has hers dyed. Almost half of it is colored purple whereas the Fair’s is completely untouched - much longer too; while her sister’s has been cut off at the shoulder, hers almost reaches her feet.
“Maybe it’s better now that he cut it. We’ve always been really different. Now I just look the part.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the sisters lie there in their cradle, flat on their backs and side by side. Even as infants, their hair has grown out and the ends line up with the other’s, giving the appearance of a connection.

“Maybe part of that comes from how people treat siblings, especially identical twins. Like… we’re the same person.”

“It’s hard, you know? Having to share everything with someone from a really young age? From the getgo? Even if it’s someone you love? So we turned to different things pretty quickly. At least that way we could each have something of our own.”
As they grow older they grow apart, each one taking solace in something the other can’t stand and vice versa. The Rosey is rebellious, going out to parties and sneaking in at the crack of dawn. The Fair waits up all night for her. Ever the dutiful one.
“That… probably doesn’t have anything to do with our sexualities, but I’m not a doctor so who knows? We’re different there too.”

“I’m a lesbian.” The Rosey points at herself. “She’s straight.”

“In a way I guess that makes things simpler. No fighting over boys.” The Fair reaches out to touch the ends of the shorn locks on her sister’s shoulder. “Well… at least in theory.”

One day the Fair meets a man while out with her sister, the Rosey too busy reading some magazine from a newsstand to notice. He’s as redheaded as they are and probably too old, but the Fair is smitten immediately. Snowdrop and the Norn and the Good Samaritan could have warned them away, but they aren’t there.

“Guys like that know all the right things to say… The specifics don’t really matter, do they?” The Fair laughs bitterly. “I really thought we might get married or something one day.”
She brings the man by the house when her parents aren’t home - one, four, seven times… Each time his eyes light up like a kid on Christmas morning. Each time his face falls marginally when he sees the Rosey on the stairs or in the room. Watching him.
“I’m not blaming anyone for falling for his bullshit. I wouldn’t do that, but… he always gave me the creeps. I could tell he was older. Too old to be wasting his time with some highschool kid. And if my sister wouldn’t listen to me about him being a weirdo, you can be damn sure I didn’t want to leave the two of them alone.”
Each time the man comes by, he becomes testier. He glares at the Rosey once when the Fair has left the room. She glares back.
“Eventually, I guess he got impatient…”

The man begins to kiss the Fair, keeping his eyes on her sister far across the room. His hand paws at her chest, and still the Rosey doesn’t move. This goes on for a little while. Then he stands up and leaves the room.

“I was annoyed at first,” the Fair sighs quietly. “At her. I thought she’d finally scared him off…”

“I wish.”

“Yeah. Me too.”

The Fair turns to snap at the Rosey, but the man returns very soon - before she can say one word. Something glints like a dagger in his hands.

“Close enough. It was scissors from the kitchen. I don’t know why he didn’t just use a knife…”

“Probably because I hid most of them.”
With a face as red as his hair, the man lunges, scissor blades flashing. Not at the Fair, but at the Rosey. He grabs her by a fist full of her much longer red hair. Hands on the hem of her miniskirt. Her pink face turns white from fear. The Fair sees that from across the room.
“I’m not really a fighter. I wish I was, or that I could have done something more, but for a moment I was too shocked to do anything other than just… just stand there.”

“I am a fighter though.” The Rosey puts an arm around her sister’s shoulder. “And I was fighting for her as much as me.”

The blades cut her clothes first and then the skin beneath them. The man pushes the girl against the wall, pressing their lips together. Her hand closes around his wrist as the scissors snap around the end of her ponytail and long red hair tumbles to the floor.

“I got him in the shoulder and he screamed like I’d stabbed him in the… you know. You’d think that no one had ever made him bleed before.”
The Rosey gets a knee on his back and a foot in his groin and shouts for the Fair who has her phone out, already dialling the police. Just hold on, Poppy! Just keep him still…
The sisters stand there. The Rosey and the Fair just look at each other. “I guess we have even less in common now…”

Chapter 7: (Glitch Techs) A Story about Player 2

Summary:

TW: rape witnessed by children, mentioned rape of children, psychological neglect, unreality, racist language.

“What is up, NOOBS?”

“Please don’t talk like that.”

Player 2 is one of five children on the stage and by far the most out-there looking. Her hair’s been dyed blue with purple at the ends and she’s wearing a bright yellow crop top over a black tanktop and a knotted sweatshirt around her waist, over purple leggings. The others are brown- or black-haired - or red in one boy’s case - and come across as a lot more ordinary in their sweaters and t-shirts and button-ups. The youngest girl there wears a karate uniform with a white belt. Player 2 is the only one of the bunch with the usual sort of name for the Palace; everyone else - Nica, Geoffrey, Lexi, Lee - brings their old one inside.

“DEATH BEFORE DISHONOR! Besides, normie speak is borrrrring. Right guys?!” Player 2 looks expectantly at the audience. “See, this guy gets it! Anyway, it’s not like you’re not gonna hear plenty of it from them.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the camera stares into a television, screen reflecting the faint outline of Player 2 with a remote controller, and the outline of the living room beyond. Big white letters that spell out CHOOSE YOUR AVATAR in bold. The choices: NICA , a girl in a varsity jacket with poodle-perm hair; LEXI , a pint-sized avatar in a karate gi, the belt as black as her long hair; GEOFFREY , a corpulent boy with a ginger bowl-cut and a ballet company logo on his bag; LEE , a very small, very ordinary-looking little boy. She presses the button on the one after that - on an avatar with a yellow shirt. ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO SELECT MIKO? the automated game-voice says.

“We’re all related, ‘case you couldn’t tell. WOOHOO! Hanging with the fam! Yay!”

“I think they could tell, Mi- I mean Player 2.” The one dressed for Karate - Lexi - rolls her eyes, arms crossing. “We all kinda look alike.”

“Oh yeahhhh, with the science and the genetics and what not. ‘Kay, now I’m bored. What were we talking about again?” Player 2 blinks. “Oh right! Their parents are my parents, but I mean that is what family means… usually. Unless, you’re adopted or you need to get a new family or something like that.”

“You’re rambling.”

“I’m always rambling.” Player 2 sighs. “Um, so anyway… what’s some stuff about us? Dad’s White and Mom’s Japanese - that’s why Geoffrey’s hair is weird - and… and they’re… okay. I mean they love us and all that mushy stuff and everything. It’s just… they don’t really seem to like me.”

Player 2 on the couch with her controller and MIKO dancing across the screen, raygun in hand fighting a boss with black hair, and curly red hair, and two heads - a woman’s and a man’s. She takes the shot but the game glitches and her own XP is whittled down.

“I don’t… they don’t… Okay, look, I know that I’m… weird-ish, and I guess that’s kinda off-putting for some people… I guess… I know, but like also why does everyone have to be such a jerk about it?! I mean, so what I talk weird and I reeeeeaaaaaally like games! Big heckin’ deal! Then again, I don’t think it’s just that I’m… y’know-” She does a spiral motion with one finger, pointing at her head. “-a lot of it is that they aren’t.”

The STATS menu as Player 2 shuffles through it. Categories like GRADES and LIKEABILITY pop up alongside the ones like STRENGTH and SPEED. MIKO comes up short on both accounts. Player 2 slouches in front of the screen.

“Oh come on, Mi-… sis, you know it isn’t like that.”

“Yes, it is!” She looks pleadingly at the audience. “Lee’s too little to do anything huge, but Lexi’s a prodigy and Geoffrey’s a freakin’ dancer, and Nica’s a science whiz! I’m just really really good at playing video games! That’s the only thing I like to do so of course our parents don’t want me doing it at all!”

“That’s not true. They let you play-”

“Barely!” Player 2 huffs, pouting. “Okay, maybe I’m not being fair here. A lot of the problem is that… it’s really super hard for me to focus on anything that I don’t like - so like… school and… school… and, well school mostly, but really anything that’s not a videogame turns into a total snorefest before too long - and that drives our parents crazy.”

A virtual trophy takes the upper half of the screen as the little MIKO avatar dances in place. Player 2 reaches out to touch the television when the power cuts out abruptly, leaving just the reflection of her face. The boss from before now stands in the living room, hand closed around the cable and plug.

“They think it’s like a… conscious thing, or that I’m lazy or that what I do isn’t real or ‘productive’ or hard work, which isn’t true at all. It’s just that…”

Lexi on the couch and on the screen, NPC-like with a dialogue box at her chest. How many times have you played this game?

Five times this week! Player 2 maneuvers MIKO with her tongue poking out at the side. Can’t move on ‘till I know this puppy inside and out.

“It’s not entirely their fault, I don’t think that most parents really know how to deal with kids like me. I’ve got some weird stuff going on upstairs, y’know? ADD or ADHD or whatever - I dunno what the difference is - one of those things that makes your brain go all bleh all the time! Most of the time people seem to think that we’re all just lazy or something - or stupid! And our parents-”

“They don’t think you’re stupid.”

“Maybe not, but they sure don’t think I try…”

The STATS page again. Player 2 and her avatar - in front of and on the TV. MIKO: and a line of bars here, ones with labels that GEOFFREY/LEXI/LEE/NICA didn’t have. EXECUTIVE DYSFUNCTION, SENSORY PROCESSING, HYPERFIXATION and FOCUS beside a number that oscillates between high and low depending on who, and how many people, are looking at the screen.

“So I’m bad at brain stuff, I’ll admit it, but whats the big deal with that? I’ve got a job at Gamestop and stuff, and you can make it as a professional gamer. I’m the reigning champ, not that anyone cares. They’re always like ‘Grades, grades, grades. School, school school. Why can’t you be more like your brothers and sisters?’ UHHHOOOOARGGG!” She lets out a frustrated growl. “It’s like they aren’t proud of me at all! No one is…”

Nica puts her arm around Player 2’s shoulder and the youngest child - Lee - hugs her leg.

“They, um… Our parents saw she was having trouble. I don’t really think they handled it the best way. They know she has an ADHD diagnosis, but they haven’t got her on Ritalin or Adderall or anything else that might help. They just… When she started really having problems, Mom’s solution was pretty much just to get mad at her for it.”

The little avatar girl alone and glowing in the dark, pounding against the wrong side of the TV screen as voices echo from beyond. Come on, Mama! Just one game! One round! Please!

Not until you get those grades up, young lady. If you've got time to play, you’ve got time to study, which is what you should be doing right now.

“I kept getting grounded until I could pass such and such test or raise my grade, but I kept messing up and not being able to to play everrr freaked me out so it just got worse and worse until… until…”

Now Nica sits in front of the TV, controller in hand. ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO SELECT RICKY? A brand new avatar - the redhead from the Delusionist’s tape, a perfect pixelated likeness. YES.

“I knew the guy that… I knew him from school. I was a grade older, but we had science club together. He was smart, I guess you’d kind of have to be to get away with what he did. I remembered what Mom said about Player 2 and everything so I asked him if maybe he’d want to tutor her. He said he did that with a lot of younger kids and our parents thought it was a good idea…” Nica winces. “This… this is all my fault.”

“No,” Player 2 reaches out to hug her, “it’s not.”

The television with an empty couch reflected in it, the MIKO character copying instructions on a locked screen. I’M SORRY, YOU ARE REQUIRED TO COMPLETE THIS TUTORIAL BEFORE PLAYING THE GAME she’s told by that pixel-portrait. A loud groan comes from the other room.

“Mi-… How can you say that? If I hadn’t asked him to come, it never would have happened to you…”

READY? Player 2 and the Delusionist’s tutor sit on the couch, books stacked between them and on the floor. They’re holding remotes now instead of pencils. I think we’ve earned ourselves a study break.

“It never would have happened to anyone if he hadn’t wanted to do it.”

The red-headed avatar launches a flying kick and MIKO tries to dodge. The screen glitches and the match freezes in place. What the…? Player 2 starts to stand up, but the boy beside her grabs her arm and pulls her back towards him as his lips smash against her own. What are y- Her voice cuts out and the camera pans up. Everything plays out as a reflection cast over the still images on the TV.

“He… After the first time he did it, he told me that if I said anything he’d hurt one of the others. I’m glad I believed him. He would have done it and… I figured it was better this way. I mean Mama was already disappointed and I couldn’t do any worse in school so when my grades went down no one really noticed. And no one liked my gaming anyway so it didn’t really matter to them when I suddenly didn’t want to do it anymore.”

Player 2 lies on her side, on the sofa, staring listlessly at the TV. The reflection of what happened stares back at her and plays no matter what she does or how many channels she clicks through. The little avatar girl looks the same as she always did, but now her yellow shirt is specked with red.

Miko, Lexi’s voice calls from the other room. Quit hogging the couch!

She gets up and goes without complaint.

“Everyone else… I know we’re all special - blah blah blah and all that - and I know I matter too. I don’t hate myself - I don’t - it’s just that it had already happened to me, but they were okay. I was already disappointing our parents, but they weren’t. I figured it’d be easier for everyone just to wait until he got tired. After all he’d already raped me, not like it could get any worse.”

The same screen. The same avatars. MIKO and RICKY. The same people. The tutor leaning over Player 2 on the couch. She’s crying quietly as he reaches to take the remote from her hand. Remember, E-Girl, he tells her, not a word.

“So I didn’t say anything the first time he did it… or the second… or the fourth or the… well, you get the idea. It just kept going and I was too scared to ask my parents to stop hiring him in case he thought…”

“It’s okay.” Lexi hugs her sister’s waist. “We probably would’ve found out eventually. She’s not good at lying, and even if she was, that guy got caught with some other kid. I almost wish it had gone down that way - it really wouldn’t have made much of a difference in the end - but Lee and I found out another way.”

“They were home sick… not homesick, but… gah! You get what I mean? Colds and sniffles and whatnot, it was flu season. I was home too, waiting for that guy to come and… ‘teach’ me. Kinda no brainer, I didn’t want them there, but what could I do?”

Player 2 clumsily picks up her controller with unfamiliar hands. MULTIPLAYER SELECTED says the voice behind the screen.

Okay, I really need you guys to stay in your room while the tutor guy’s over, capiche?

Whyyyy? Lexi smirks, even with her eyes crusted and nose running. You gonna do something you’re not supposed to?

What?! N-No! Uhhhhh- Oooof couuuuurrrrrse noooot!

“Ugh! WHY AM I SUCH A BAD LIAR?!” Player 2 groans. “That’s how they realized I was hiding something and instead of being good little… sick… troll-type things, they went and-”

A single long shot of a single blank screen. The couch is empty while someone knocks and Player 2 runs to usher them inside. Behind the sofa, the closet door opens and shuts.

“We decide to spy on her, so we snuck downstairs while she wasn’t looking and we snuck into the cupboard while she was letting that guy in. I wanted to see what she was up to, Lee just wanted to come along.”

“It was really scary in the closet… and dark enough that we couldn’t even see anything, so Lexi and me pushed our faces up against those weird slatty things - the gaps in the wood? - where the light came through. That’s how we saw… it. The r…really bad thing.”

DEFEATED BY RICKY! the screen-voice says and the little avatar bows. His real life counterpart shoves Player 2, a shred of yellow fabric in his hands. You… you tore my lucky shirt! She looks up, stunned through her tears. You ruined it!

He laughs. Is that really what you’re mad about, fortune cookie?

What do I tell my parents?!

Nothing. They always hated that thing anyways. You should really thank me. Maybe they’ll be able to put up with you a little better now… His eyes trail down to the place between her legs. Well, probably not.

“He left after that and she just kind of laid there and cried. I never thought I bought into that whole ‘big sister worship’ thing before that. I knew she wasn’t perfect, and I liked to point it out, but I still thought of her as my big sister and big sisters are supposed to be invincible - or close to it - and she was just… I was old enough to know what was going on.” She looks guilty. “I wish I knew karate better, I could have-”

“No, you couldn’t have,” Nica says quickly. “And you did the right thing by staying put.”

“She’s right,” Geoffrey agrees. “And by keeping Lee where he was too.”

“I still don’t really get it, what happened I mean. I know that guy hurt her, but I don’t get how… Why did that-”

Player 2 ruffles his hair affectionately. “It’s okay, kiddo. When you’re older, you’ll understand.”

She’s still on the couch when the television’s reflection sees the closet door open while the front one is slammed shut. Lee and Lexi pass between the couch and the TV screen, cutting Player 2 and MIKO apart.

Sis…?

“I wasn’t sure how much they’d seen at first, but once they told me…”

“She didn’t want us to say anything to anyone else. I could understand that with people at school and stuff, not that I’d tell them anyway, or even Nica and Geoffrey, but she was talking about Mom and Dad. I would’ve just told them anyways, but then… she told us about what he said and I couldn’t.” Lexi looks up at Player 2 with big, puppy dog eyes. “I’m s-”

“No! No, don’t be, Lex! I asked you not to! It’s okay!” She plays with a lock of two-toned hair. “I wish they hadn’t seen it, but… and I know this probably sounds bad, but it was sorta… not horrible to have somebody on my side for once.”

Player 2 lies on her back on the couch, reflection reversed in the TV. Lee and Lexi creep over both the arms, peering down. Got any three-player games?

“Plus I got the flu from hanging out with them so I didn’t have to see that guy again for a while. Booyah!” She pumps her fist. “Score!”

She curls up in a pile of pillows and blankets, staring blankly into the menu of her game. Whatcha thinking ‘bout? Lee asks and she shrugs him off, trying to smile. Something smashes in the room upstairs.

Nica swallows. “I’m sort of in with the popular girls at my school. I get to sit at the center lunch table and go to the good parties with the right guys and all that as long as I stay in line. That means I’m usually up to date on the latest gossip. So when I heard about what happened to the Delusionist - not that I knew it was you at the time - I was pretty freaked out.” She looks down at her feet. “At that point I thought he was a pedophile - which would have been bad enough - but… Look, it didn’t really occur to me that he would have tried something on an older kid. Still, I took our parents aside at dinner and tried to explain and they gave everyone else the sanded-edges version. And that whole song and dance about not letting anyone touch you where you don’t want to be touched.”

“I guess they didn’t think Lee and I would pick up on it, but we did.”

LEXI jumps up to launch a high kick but Player 2 grabs the remote and presses pause, suspending the little digital avatar in midair.

“I didn’t want to tell anyone then either. It was already over, so what was the point? And I didn’t want… I was worried everyone would just be… disappointed… in me, for letting them see… and letting him do that. I know I was wrong, but still… that’s how I felt about it.”

“She asked me and Lexi if we’d keep quiet. I said I would, but I guess that was the wrong thing to say? We told anyway.”

“We said we wouldn’t tell Mom and Dad - and we didn’t - we told Geoffrey, which is not the same thing.”

Someone else sits in front of the television, screen still frozen. The oldest brother hits RESUME and watches, startled as LEXI springs to life and as Lexi creeps up on him from behind. Real speech and word bubbles say the exact same thing: We’ve got to talk about Miko.

“I didn’t want to believe it when I heard, but it’s also… it’s not like them to make up something like that. So I told our parents what I knew. Whether it was true or not, I figured they could get a straight answer from her and I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t have to…”

The screen’s reflection: Geoffrey on the couch with the boss from before, speaking quietly. Lee and Lexi… they said… Miko… talk to her… okay… Cut; the same screen and the same monster, now with Player 2 picking at the upholstery. Cut; she vanishes in a burst of pixels and the rest of the family takes her place. The boss monster stammers out an explanation. Nica is the only one that looks surprised.

“And… we’re all here now…”

A business card lodged in the couch cushions and no one in front of the TV.

“I… I came here because I’m the one that found him for her.” Nica puts an arm around her sister’s shoulder. “Because it’s my fault, whether or not anyone else sees it that way.”

“I came because I sort of put all the pieces in motion, I guess…” Geoffrey puts a hand on Player 2’s arm, squeezing. “I have to see this the whole way through.”

“Our parents made us come because of what we saw…” Lexi glances at her older sister while Lee hugs her again. “I would have come anyways though. We stick together. That’s part of the sibling code.”

“And I came because it happened to me.” Player 2 smiles very thinly and looks like she’s trying not to cry. “But he didn’t hurt them… so I’m almost glad it did. Glad it was me anyway, if it had to happen at all.”

Chapter 8: (Craig of the Creek) A Story about Epimetheus, the Afterthought

Summary:

TW: rape of a teenager, police brutality, sibling bullying.

“My big brother is kind of a jerk.”

Epimetheus walks back and forth with his arms spread out, balancing on the very edge of the stage. He’s a younger boy, though not the youngest, at about nine or ten. He’s mentioned something once or twice about being in the fifth grade. His head seems a little too big for his body and is oddly shaped in places, making it look like a brain. They don’t think it’s anything serious though - he’s certainly active enough. In one hand he holds a staff - an old piece of railing with a big, shiny stone glued to the top - and a blue purse, bulging with sticks and rocks and other children’s treasures, has been slung over one arm. There’s nobody else with him.

“He’s seven years older and thinks that makes him soooo grown up. Just because he has a girlfriend and a job and a driver’s license.” Epimetheus huffs and puffs out his cheeks, crossing his arms. “He still can’t vote or anything so it’s not like it’s that big of a deal, plus, he was like that before. He’s always been this way. Grumpy.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the camera moves shakily, bobbing up and down with each step taken, up a set of carpeted stairs. It continues that bobbing motion down the hallway, stopping in front of a door with two framed pictures on either side. A smaller hand than Epimetheus has now pushes it open, revealing two boys playing Magic on the floor. One of them has round glasses and something of Epimetheus in his nose-eyes-mouth. He looks up, irritated, directly into the camera. Hey! Whaddya want?

Bernawd? Epimetheus’ voice from behind the lense. It’s younger now, but still recognizable. Can I play wit’ you? ‘M a little bit bigger now…

You’re too dumb to play. You wouldn’t get it.

“He’s such a… a jerk, but… he’s cool too. That’s the worst part about having older siblings. No matter how much they pick on you, they’re still… You still want to be like them. My brother is a big grumpy sourpuss, but he’s also the same guy that taught me all about Magic the Gathering when my friends got into it and gave me advice when one of my other friends kept cheating at this other game and… yeah. He’s like the bag of trailmix of the family, with all the good stuff mixed in with the bad.”

The camera is bobbing up and down again, now a little higher up. The boy from before sits at the kitchen table. He’s older now, round glasses replaced with browlines, and stringbean skinniness in place of baby fat. Bernard, can you help me with my homework?

What? No, Craig, I’m bus- His face softens and he exhales loudly. … Fine, but you’d better make it quick.

“Most of the time we don’t get along that well, but he knows I love him. I know he cares about me. We’re brothers, we’ve gotta stick together. And I’m a big brother too, to our little sister, so I guess I can kinda get why he’s the way he is. I don’t like it when she wants to follow me around.”

The camera pans down at a little girl with a big poof of curly hair, held up by a red scrunchy. She holds the hand attached to a yellow sleeve and grumbles as twigs get stuck in her shoes. I don’t like the creek, she whines. You’re throwing off my routine, Craig!

“She’s six and my parents didn’t tell her what happened. I don’t think they’d want me to know either, but I do. I wish I didn’t know…” Epimetheus fidgets nervously, tapping his scepter against the stage. “I’m not really close with her either. She’s too little to really go anywhere on her own and my brother watches her at our house since he’s there doing homework and she likes to do the same thing after school everyday. I, on the other hand, am an adventurer of sorts and as such I enjoy spending my time in the woods. There’s this old creek running through there where a lot of kids from my neighborhood go to play. I’ve even got a clubhouse - well, it belongs to me and J.P. and Kelsey, my two best friends.”

The camera does a full three-sixty, showing off a little dugout hideaway with earthen walls and floors. A girl with a green and yellow parakeet lies on her stomach over one of a few bean bag chairs, turning the pages of her book, while an older boy with longer sleeves (so long that they cover his hands) looks on. Whatcha readin’, Kelsey?

She turns the illustration on him, showing off a picture of a man chained to a rock with an eagle chewing on a piece of gizzard. Prometheus! From Greek mythology! It’s about this guy who was imprisoned by the gods because his brother-

Is that bird eating his tummy?!

No, J.P., that’s his liver…

“We used to spend every day there.” He looks down. “You know… before… some kids went missing. We’re not allowed now.”

Muddy boots on the porch and a hand knocking on the front door. It opens and Epimetheus’ brother looks into the lense, lip curling. Why can’t you do normal stuff? Still grimacing, he moves aside.

“He hates the creek as much as my sister does. And video games… and comic books… and movies where people sing and animals talk. He likes plays though.” Epimetheus makes a face. “I think when you get turned into a teenager you start hating everything that’s actually fun and you start caring about school and money and studying. Then that’s all you care about…”

Darkness, then the sound of someone hitting the other side of a door. The lense flickers as Epimetheus blinks twice. Craig, get up! His brother stands in the doorway, wearing his trademarked scowl. We have to leave early. I’m taking you to school.

“But… but… I didn’t want this to happen! I didn’t want… It was that… The day that… the thing happened, my dad had work and my sister had a dentist appointment my mom was taking her to, so my brother had to give me a ride. I woke up late…”

The bouncing camera on it’s way downstairs. A series of shots: the opened fridge; the label of a milk carton; the inside of a cereal bowl. The back of a boxy old car with melted crayon on the upholstery. The boy with glasses climbs into the driver’s seat, glaring into the rearview.

“He told me not to make any noise while he was driving. I should have listened, maybe then… I was really impatient to get where I was going and we were already in a hurry. Mom and Dad say it’s not my fault, but…”

Faster! Faster! Faster! Epimetheus’ voice chants from behind the camera. Come on, Bernard!

I’m going as fast as I’m supposed to, Craig! his brother spits, but each time he speeds up a little more and it takes him longer to slow back down. The speedometer creeps from 30 to 65.

“I didn’t realize how fast we were going until I heard the sirens. I don’t think that he did either, with the freaked-out look on his face. He was whispering really bad words under his breath the whole time, but he still pulled over and he was nice to the cop that came up to the car.”

Well… Look what we have here. A White man with a large mustache and a two-tone mix of brown and gray hair. He looks first at Epimetheus’ older brother, then straight into the camera in the back seat. You could kill someone, you know, driving like that. Demonstratively, a hand rests on his still-holstered gun. I think you boys better come with me.

“So we went down to the station like he wanted. I didn’t think you could arrest someone just for speeding, or someone else just for being in the car, but that’s what he did. I guess if no one stops you, you can do whatever you want. I tried to say something about it, but my brother told me to shut up. I was mad at the time… but looking back, it was probably a good idea.”

The floor of a holding cell and the lower down bars on the door. A nice pair of sneakers squeaking and scuffing the ground as his brother paces. Back and forth. Back and forth. This is all your fault, Craig! Oh shit oh shit oh shit… Mom and Dad are gonna kill me!

“The station didn’t call our parents. I think. I don’t know. Ber- My brother says that it probably wasn’t an accident. That they wanted to keep us there until after they’d had their chance to…” Epimetheus swallows and - shakily - tries again. “They… they hurt him, you probably already figured that out. My parents think that they probably would have done it to me too, except someone got there first…”

The skinny goggle-eyed officer from a few other tapes, the one with the toy fish on his belt, walking by the cell, frame by frame. When he sees the boys - one grumbling at the floor and the other behind the screen - he stops. What… what did they bring you-

Traffic violation, his brother says dryly.

Has anyone… talked to you yet? the officer asks, already fishing for his keys. Hey, how old’s your brother? Wait, he is your brother, right?

Yeah, he’s my brother. And ten. He’s ten.

The door opens and the officer looks into the camera lens and says, Come with me.

“I don’t think I would have if someone had told me what was gonna happen next. I told my brother that and he just said then it was a good thing I didn’t know. I went with him because he was a cop and he told me to and we went into one of those questioning rooms, like the kind you see on TV with the one way window-mirror things. At first it was kinda fun.”

An artistic angle of every nook and cranny. The underside of the bolted-down chairs and table. Fossilized hunks of chewed up old gum and places where fists have slammed the tabletop; scratches in the metal from handcuffs. Epimetheus’ voice asks a million questions as the officer patiently tries to answer them. Maybe too patiently - his expression is riddled with guilt.

“He said I was ‘in questioning’ but he didn’t really ask me that many questions. I guess his real plan was just to keep me there while the rest of those guys went to the cell. I don’t… I can’t say I’m not mad at him, but I’m trying to get it? My brother’s girlfriend is smart and nice and stuff and she says it wasn’t really his fault, and he did let me call my parents while I was in there. Didn’t do much good though. It was too late by the time they showed up.”

A panoramic view of the lobby. A few nondescript people in hard plastic chairs and the receptionist behind the front desk. The goggle-eyed officer stands very close and the shot zooms in on a middle aged man in a dark blue shirt and a woman the same age with long ropes of deep brown hair. Epimetheus’ brother stands between them, hair dishevelled, collar ripped open and glasses nowhere to be seen. He’s staring off into space when the officer enters, but when he sees him his eyes turn cold and he lunges forward. The camera spins and the image wavers as a hand lifts up and Epimetheus is yanked away.

Bernard! What are you doing?

Throwing himself at the goggle-eyed man. What’d you do to my brother?! What’d you do?!

“He almost got arrested again for assaulting a police officer, but the guy said it was just a mistake and it wasn’t a big deal. I don’t like him, but… that was cool. Mom and Dad were still mad, obviously, but then we got out to the car and they asked what happened - with more bad words, though - and… you know how Lord Gorgon said it was like he just lost it? Yeah. It was sorta like watching a dam burst.”

An uneven perspective; the inside of another car. His father in the driver’s seat, his mother reaching back. There’s an awful, high-pitched keening noise that gives way to wailing and his brother buries his face in his hands.

They… those guys in there… Gotta call Alexis… Mom, they… they r-raped… They raped me.

Bernard…? A hand goes out, cautiously reaching for him. As soon as it makes contact, it’s slapped away.

Don’t touch me, Craig!

“I had to go with them to the hospital. Mom stayed with me while our dad went off with him somewhere. I don’t know what they were doing, but they didn’t come back for a really long time… then just my dad did and Mom and I had to run home and get Ber- my brother something to change into, I guess the hospital needed to take his clothes? By the time we got out of there, it was two o’ clock - right before school was supposed to end and… nobody made me go the next day or the day after that.”

The door between those two photographs and Epimetheus’ hand. Knocking. Bernard? Everything okay in there? Are you-

Go away, Craig! Just… just leave me alone…

Honey? his mother calls from downstairs. Time for school.

“About a week later the station thing was on the news and my parents let me skip again - along with my sister. I guess they didn’t want us hearing bits and pieces from the other kids at school. I thought those guys getting caught would make my brother happy, but he’s just… He’s not even angry anymore. He’s just…”

Another shot of a different door, light spilling out from the crack beneath, tracing its way to the opposite wall. The sound of water and the sound of something else beneath it can be heard, barely muffled by the bathroom walls.

“Next morning I found the card in the bathroom, and a few other places. I think my parents left it out for him to find instead of talking to him so he wouldn’t get upset. I asked them if I could go, even if nothing really happened to me, and he ended up with one of those private therapists like the Wix’s aunt.”

Inside the Palace; the camera sweeps from floor to stage and over the people that come between that. Nametags… Nametags… Nametags… The next time he goes to the creek he asks his friend to borrow her book. The… the one about the brothers…? Where one of them gets hurt because of something the other did.

Prometheus? Sure! She hands it over, oblivious to the expression on his face. But you should know it wasn’t really Epimetheus’ fault exactly - Epimetheus is the brother - it’s complicated.

“I keep… I keep trying to talk to him and he keeps pushing me away. My parents say he needs more time…” Epimetheus hugs himself and closes his eyes. They’re glassy when he opens them again. “I just want to know if he hates me for… what happened to him. But I’m too scared to ask.”

Chapter 9: *CSA* (Big City Greens) A Story about Sheep Laurel (and Wolf’s Bane)

Summary:

TW: child sexual/physical abuse, child murder, kidnapping, unreliable narrator/unreality.

“It was Dad’s idea ta make us come here, he says it’s s’posed to help.”

Sheep Laurel’s teeth are almost as big as the Godchild’s. He’s a younger boy with nut-brown hair parted down the middle and his nametag plastered over the center pocket of his denim overalls. His feet are bare. Beside him, sitting on the edge, is an old stuffed toy, a soft, pillow-like thing with blue buttons for eyes and a mustache sewn on to it. a pale girl with short black hair and freckled cheeks. Her dress is the color of a fresh-raised bruise. Wolf’s Bane.

“If that’s what he’s after, I think he’d better come here himself. It’s him that’s got the real problem.” In a stage whisper Sheep Laurel addresses the crowd; “I think he’s goin’ crazy.”

“Now Cricket, you know that’s not nice,” Wolf’s Bane chastises. “But… Papa has been actin’ awful strange lately.”

“I know he don’t mean anythin’ by it,” he says to the empty place beside him. “An’ I don’t mean that he’s actin’ dangerous crazy, just… weird. Forgettin’ things an’ snappin’ at me an’ ignorin’ her. M’ not mad though, normally he’s great an’ it’s only been goin’ on a little while… Things were goin’ just fine before.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Sheep Laurel stands beneath the shade of an old oak tree, as ancient as it is tall, pushing a tire swing where an older girl Wolf’s Bane stomach-straddles, red black hair flying out as she goes. Faster, Cricket! Faster! Uh, I mean… purdy please…?

“We used to live out in the country before Dad lost the farm and Grandma had to take us in. He was pretty put off about movin’, but I didn’t mind it. Grandma’s family owned the house since before there even was a city, back when it was all still farmland, so there’s lots of cool old stuff around, not to mention everythin’ else about this town!”

Sheep Laurel and his sister Wolf’s Bane help a man, with one less finger than most, load Sharpie-labeled boxes into the back of his truck. He’s big and soft-bellied with Sheep Laurel’s brown hair and looks a little like both of them. Great job, kids! He wipes sweat from his brow and smiles in relief. Couldn’t’a done it without the both ‘a you. The redhead Wolf’s Bane hugs him, but Sheep Laurel is already climbing into his carseat.

Come on, Dad, we’re burnin’ daylight here! Let’s go go go go!

“I always wanted to see the big city an’ now I have an’ I get to see a little more of it every day, so I wasn’t too bummed about movin’, even if I miss the old house an’ all my old friends. I can still write, I s’pose, an’ I got new friends here.”

“We.”

Sheep Laurel “helps out” at the local coffee shop, doing more to pester the girl who works there. Sagging shoulders and dyed blue hair. He plays in his grandmother’s dirt-and-dust yard with a boy from way up town. Round glasses and expensive clothes. Wolf’s Bane at the park, crouching in the bushes with another young girl. Bobbing pigtails and chubby arms and legs.

“Even before that, we had our family. Dad an’ Grandma, an’ Mom - once she got outta jail - plus each other. We’ll always have that.” He hugs the sack-doll beside him. his sister. “Right?”

“Yes. Always.” She hugs him back.

The man with one less finger sows seeds out behind their rickety old house while an old woman with gray hair and glasses looks on, berating him. The kids run back and forth, chasing the animals. A woman with red hair like her daughter’s leans against one fence post, trying not to laugh.

“Used to think it’d be like that anyway… but things have been… different, ever since she snuck outta bed a little while ago.”

There’s a hole in the wall of the bedroom they go to sleep in, covered up by bushes on one side and clutter on the other, but big enough for a child to scramble through - or a grown man on his hands and knees. Goodnight, Tilly, Sheep Laurel says, turning over in his hammock-bed and closing his eyes.

Night, Cricket. The red-haired girl Wolf’s Bane whispers back, fluffing her own pillow, hugging the stuffed doll from the stage to her chest. Goodnight, Saxon, she says to it.

“I just woke up one mornin’ an’ she wasn’t there. Crazy, right? But I guess that’s girls for ya. Ah, don’t be mad, you know m’ only playin’.” Sheep Laurel’s expression falters slightly and his smile falls. “Y’know… why’d you go an’ do that for anyways? Don’t think you ever said.”

It’s by the dim light of early morning that he first notices the lack of an outline in the other bed and that the covers in it have been displaced. His eyes shut again and don’t open until the sun is up all the way and his father’s shaking him. Cricket? Cricket! Where’s Tilly?

“At first I thought she musta just been in the bathroom or somethin’, but Dad had already checked an’ she wasn’t there. Our old secret passage was uncovered so then we figured she probably went outside an’ we looked in the garage an’ the chicken coop, but she wasn’t there either. That’s when… that was when Dad decided to call the police.”

A uniform in blue takes Sheep Laurel’s father aside and the two of them speak in quiet tones. Later, more officers pull apart the children’s room.

“At first they thought our mom mighta had somethin’ to do with it. She an’ Dad are divorced and she was arrested a while ago after she snuck onto a farm and let a buncha their cows run away. I guess a lotta the time when kids go missin’ it’s their parents that take ‘em, but Mom an’ Dad still like each other, an’ even if they didn’t… why would she leave me behind? The cops still tore up her apartment though, lookin’ for Wolf’s Bane.”

“It made Papa real mad.”

“Didn’t it?”

The woman from the fence post with hair as red as the absent girl’s loses half her breath breathing and snarls when the policeman asks her where she’s been - and about her daughter. They tear her trailer home to pieces searching, and Sheep Laurel’s father has to let her sleep on the living room couch.

“She was gone for a few days after that - not even a week - but it was a scary coupla days. No one knew what to do, not even Grandma an’ old people know almost everythin’.”

Those days pass slowly. One then two then four and five. His parents become increasingly more manic. His grandmother grabs an officer by the collar of his shirt and shakes him until his eyes roll.

He examines the sack-doll girl beside him with an air of reproach. “Don’tcha ever do that again.”

“I promise I won’t.”

On day six Sheep Laurel is woken up by a scream. sleeps in.

“That’s the day Dad lost it, I think, an’ not just him. I think they all did for a moment there.”

“But that’s the day when I got back, remember? So it was a good day too.”

Sheep Laurel shoots up and dashes outside and to the yard where the sound is coming from. A few of the neighbors are out and he sees their expressions before he sees anything else. Horror and disgust and grief. Pity. His grandmother is stock-still on the porch. His father’s on the ground, cradling… something and weeping on his knees. Dad? Sheep Laurel calls out, but he isn’t answered. What’s…? Red hair so clotted with drying blood that it looks black. A formerly pale little body, naked except for the deep purple bruising covering her like a dress. T-Tilly…? Sheep Laurel looks down and sees more. He doesn’t wait for an answer, just turns and runs back to his room and pulls the covers up over his head. sleeps until the sun has completely risen.

“I didn’t wake up ‘til noon so I don’t know what happened, but somethin’ must have, because when I woke up Wolf’s Bane was there an’ it was like I’d gone to crazy town.”

When he opens his eyes the second time, there’s a moment where everything looks and feels and sounds like normal. Then his eyes settle on the empty bed and his sister’s favorite toy. Wolf’s Bane is sitting on her own bed, smiling at him. Tilly…?

Hi, Cricket. Sorry for droppin’ out on ya like that. Won’t happen again.

“I called Dad in. I thought he’d wanna see her since I know he was worried, but… I mean, sure he came runnin’, but he wouldn’t look at her at all. No one does anymore. I don’t know why.”

Sheep Laurel holds up the stuffed thing in front of his family while they are Wolf’s Bane covers her ears while the family is watching TV. I don’t like this program, she says. It’s too noisy. She’s ignored so her brother speaks up. Tilly says you guys oughta change the channel. She doesn’t like this show.

Cricket, his father says, sounding like he’s trying his best to stay composed. Tilly’s… gone.

Bill. The red-headed woman elbows him. Okay, Cricket, we can watch something else if that’s what your sister wants.

“Dad just… ignores her all the time now an’ I don’t know why. He talks about how she’s ‘gone’ like she ain’t really there or about how somethin’ horrible musta happened to her while she was… away.” He laughs shakily. “I think she woulda told me about somethin’ like that. Grandma’s been actin' weird too, but she was weird before an’ even Mom’s been different lately. She only talks to me now an’ doesn’t really seem to hear what Wolf’s Bane says to her unless I say it for her. Oh well, if she’s goin’ crazy too at least she’s tryin’ to be nice ’bout it.”

Sheep Laurel sits in the same waiting room that the Champion did, the doll Wolf’s Bane beside him. Cricket! Look at all the little fish!

Cricket Green? the receptionist calls out. Dr. Hooves will see you now.

He starts to pick up the toy take his sister’s hand, but his father stops him. Cricket, no, he says. You’d better leave that here.

“I just… don’t get it, what’s going on with him… with everyone. I mean, none of them hate Wolf’s Bane. They were all sad when she disappeared. It’s not like they want her gone…”

Sheep Laurel, with the doll under his arm, dresses in black and sits in a church pew, looking up while his crying father tries and fails to address the congregates. Tilly was a good kid… My oldest… My only girl…

Cricket! You gotta stop him! Wolf’s Bane shakes her brother by the front of his shirt as they stand there watching their father board up the hole in their bedroom wall.

Dad, stop! Sheep Laurel reaches out, trying to keep his father from patching his secret exit. What are you doing?!

Stand down, Cricket. His father gently-but-firmly-pushes him away. I’m not lettin’ what happened to your sister happen again. I can’t lose you too.

But Tilly’s sayin’ she doesn’t want you to do it! Why aren’t you listening to her? She wants you to-

SMACK. Before either of them seem to realize it, that four-fingered hand is moving and has struck Sheep Laurel straight across the face, leaving a bright red hand print - as red as his father’s gotten to be. Your sister’s dead, Cricket! What part of that are you too stupid to understand?! For a moment they both just stand there, until it all sinks in. His father claps a hand over his mouth. Cricket, I-

Sheep Laurel flees the room in tears, still carrying the doll. and Wolf’s Bane follows him out.

Sheep Laurel stands there, hand spread out on his cheek. “Things just ain’t goin’ back to normal and I don’t know why. I just don’t get why they don’t want us to be a family again…”

Wolf’s Bane offers up a big toothy smile. “It’s okay, brother. Everything’s fine. Your big sister’s here.”

Sheep Laurel hugs that toy.

Chapter 10: *CSA* (Jimmy Two Shoes) A Story about the Weakest Link

Summary:

TW: child sexual/emotional abuse, elder abuse, rape/murder in front of a minor, organised crime.
Soundtrack: "Runs in the Family" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G6f0AdWLXHE

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“You know how people will say something ‘runs in the family’? Like, uh, eye color, or blood type?”
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The Weakest Link is almost as wide as he is tall - which is to say very on both ends. He’s a soft-figured redhead with a long nose and ears that stick out, and so many freckles that his skin looks as red as his hair. He looks like he could throw a punch and take it; he doesn’t look weak…
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“My friend has problems with winter and autumn. One of those things you can catch, but sometimes you’re born with it. He gets shakes in the night sometimes, they say it’s genetic. I wonder if there’s anything inside of me like that.”
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Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Weakest Link slumps over on a new-looking sofa in front of a flatscreen TV. He and a skinny blond boy lean forward, game controllers in their Cheeto-dusted hands. The Weakest Link licks his fingers, wiping the rest of the powder on the couch’s arm.
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Geez, Beezy, won’t your dad get mad at you doing that?
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“I have this other… sorta friend who’s kind of a mess, one of those crazy types, you know? Like actually crazy, not just… whatever. They’ve done all sorts of tests and they think it has something to do with her grandmother’s grandfather’s grandma saving Civil War soldiers or something like that - infection.”
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A tiny girl in a red hospital gown holds one hand over a spot on her forehead, wincing, while the Weakest Link and the blond boy look on. Does it hurt?
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No, she says, not really.
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What happened?
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She nods to the flowers on the bedside table and shrugs. Why don’t you ask Lucius about that? And his work friends.
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“Somehow she manages - I mean, they both do. With me, well, I mean I’m healthy. That’s what everyone keeps telling me, I’m healthy, so I’m not supposed to complain. But if this is what wellness feels like, what the hell is…” He shakes his head and sighs. “Those are the people that don’t really know my old man.”
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The Weakest Link pokes his head around the door of a lavish-looking office, peering at the three smart-suited men inside. An old man with a bald head and olive-tinted complexion, a big man with a bad underbite and strong Russian accent, and a little man with as many freckles as the Weakest Link has and matching bright red hair. His face heats up when he sees the teenager peeking in on him. Viator?! What are you… get out of here! NOW!
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“My great-great-great-something grandad came over here from Ireland in the 1800s. Dad’s the seventh in our family to be born in America, and I’m the eighth. Only the eighth, even after more than a hundred and fifty years. I’m pretty sure most of the family didn’t really want kids - I know Dad didn’t - but they kinda needed them, I guess. Didn’t trust anybody else to run the family business. Heh. Yeah, that runs in the family too, as much as we run it…”
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The little man from earlier comes in late, blood splattered across his collar and cuffs where the black of his jacket gives way to his dress shirt’s previously-white. His shoes are scuffed with the same dark red liquid drying brown on them. The Weakest Link snores in front of the TV, stirring when he hears the door. What… Dad?
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Not now, Beezy. It’s late. I’m tired. Go to your room.
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“Maybe all the bad stuff is in our blood. We tend to bruise easy, and we’re usually… not mobsters, the way you're thinking of it. Not like the Viridianas or the Biggs, a little like the Lucias…? We’re Irish so the setup’s a little different, but it’s kinda the same… some of the time…”
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The Weakest Link and that girl from the hospital start an argument in a store, shouting back and forth at each other while that blond boy tries to intervene. She shoves him first and he pushes her back, knocking her into a display.
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What the hell do you think you’re… The employee that confronts him is almost too mad to speak. If you can’t pay for this I’m calling your parents! What’s your name?!
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Viator J. Hennessy, he says, blinking curiously as the color drains from the stocker’s face. I don’t have “parents” though, just my dad.
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H-Hennessey?
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“People are scared of us, of my dad, and for the longest time I didn’t get what for. I mean, the old man’s not exactly intimidating. Even when I was in elementary school, I was a lot bigger than him - everyone is, he’s like three feet tall or something. Not trying to start something here, but… c’mon, nobody’s gonna run away from that.”
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They do though. As the Weakest Link gets older he starts to pick up on that; notices how his father’s presence is usually enough to strike a room silent or clear a path through certain parts of town. The “friends” and “coworkers” that pass through the house leave little offerings behind - ten and twenty and fifty dollar bills tucked into the Weakest Link’s pocket when large, strange men ruffle his hair. Half the time when he goes outside there are police cars or uniforms out and about, asking questions. He learns to lie.
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“I mean, it’s not so bad. None of it’s even really why I’m here. I’m telling you guys this ‘cause I just want you to know me and my family… well, mostly just my dad. Mom walked out when I was really little, and he has a new girlfriend now, but me and her don’t really get along. With Grandma it was kinda the same thing, but Grandad’s still around. And he’s… he’s…”
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There are pictures and paintings of old, dead men on the walls of his father’s office. Seven in all, getting less impressive as the line winds down. The Weakest Link doesn’t have a photograph to hang there. This was Lucius Hennessy the Fourth, his father tells him, and the Fifth and…
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Who’s that last guy before you? Is that Gr-
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Yes, the little man says with his teeth clenched and fists tightened. That’s… your grandfather.
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“He and Dad don’t… really… get along. They never did. The way I heard, it was because my old man didn’t wait for his to retire before taking the business over from him, and because he wanted to work with people that… weren’t a whole lot like us.”
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The Weakest Link stands next to Signorina Sottocapo, awkwardly watching as his father and her grandfather embrace. Kids, we’ve got some business to discuss. Beezy, why don’t you show the lady around the place?
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“His bodyguard’s Russian and his girlfriend’s… I dunno, and he’s got a bunch of Italian friends. That’s actually how he took over in the first place, got in good with the Lucias and strong-armed Grandad into giving up. I always thought that was why they didn’t talk to each other, but… I don’t think that’s the reason anymore.”
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His father has a sometimes-girlfriend with heavy makeup and dyed-blonde hair, the this-and-that of which are smeared and messy when the Weakest Link comes downstairs for breakfast and finds them screaming back and forth over the sausage and eggs.
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You’re so pathetic sometimes, Lucius. What grown-ass man cries during sex?! I swear to-
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I said I was sorry!
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All I did was smack you around a little! Who the fuck…
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Blushing furiously, he turns to leave the room, catching only a little on the way out.
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I thought daddy issues were supposed to make you better in bed.
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“Dad was kinda… weird sometimes. Like that… and like this: we had this basement- no, uh, this isn’t a Haggard situation… That doctor I heard about on the news…? Dad doesn’t… well, I guess I can’t say he wouldn’t, but it’s more like… I think something might’ve happened down there.”
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There’s a locked door between the Weakest Link and the room beneath the house. Sometimes he hears someone down there, but he’s never actually seen his father - or anyone else for that matter - climb or descend those steps.
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“I was never really curious enough to go down there on my own. I’m just… not curious, like, in general, so if it was just up to me then I probably would never have opened that door. But my friends, the ones I mentioned earlier? One of them is… a really great guy and the other is… She talks to my dad sometimes, puts weird ideas in his head. She’s like Sa- Toadskin in a lot of ways.”
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She’s the one who picks the lock and the three kids creep forward, tiptoeing down the uncarpeted basement stairs. At the bottom, a desk has been upended, and a chair. There are six pictures and paintings hanging on the wall, each with a shattered glass frame.
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“It wasn’t actually that weird at first. Not like you’re thinking it was. It looked like it had been an office once or something, but everything was all… weird - pushed over or broken. Creepy, yeah, but not what I was expecting. I think H- my friend was kinda disappointed. She shouldn’t have been, with what we found afterwards, but at the time… we were sorta too young to really understand.”
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It’s okay, Heloise, the blond boy is saying, I’m sure we can find something cool! They keep looking. There’s a full-size freezer in one corner, the carpet beneath it left to decay and little spots of… something on the floor. Dark brown. Must be soda. They find bottles of the stuff in the icebox, too old to be any good now and with all the caps removed, though the drinks are filled up past the neck. Inside the desk they find other - smaller - bottles. These are opened too, but empty. Drained completely. Dry.
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“He must’ve heard us, but we didn’t hear him coming in. Not until he was staring down at us from the top of the stairs. He started shouting. My friends took off, I think it was that she grabbed him and ran, but… they couldn’t pull me.”
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His father takes a step forward, still yelling, with his face a dark, unfathomable red beneath all those freckles. Despite having more than two feet on him, the Weakest Link moves back, shaking. He flinches when the little man’s hand closes around the buckle of his belt. Dad, please!
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“I thought he was just gonna hit me. He didn’t really do that, but it’s something people do a lot of… So I thought…” The Weakest Link shakes himself like he’s trying to lose his bearings more than gain them. “That might still have been what he was doing. It could have… He could have… I… It could have been nothing, but… I don’t think it was.”
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In a handful of seconds, his father’s face goes from candy-apple red to stark, paper white beneath the freckles. His hand opens, knees starting to shake, and he sinks down to the floor.
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Dad-
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Go… Go t-to your room…
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The Weakest Link doesn’t need to be told twice - he takes two steps at a time as he rushes up the basement stairs.
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“It isn’t like he wants to hurt me, you have to believe that, but Dad’s… There’s a lot of bad stuff inside him, splashing around inside his brain. He doesn’t wanna… I mean, he didn’t, but I think he was scared. Maybe he had a reason to be, but I hope he was better than that… I hope…”
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Father and son sit five feet apart from each other, as far as they can distance themselves while pretending they aren’t trying to, on the Weakest Link’s bed. Beezy, I…
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“He said he wanted to talk to me about… the birds and the bees and whatever. Not the regular stuff, but that thing all parents tell their kids about ‘bad touch’ and all that. Except… it was weird this time.”
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If anyone ever makes you do something like… His father’s bright red and stammering. If you don’t want to… I need you to go to Molotov, understand? Tell him what happened and he’ll… he’ll take care of it.
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What about you?
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The tiny man doesn’t look at him when he says, Yes, Viator, even if it’s me.
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“That wasn’t really what I meant. I didn’t… I wasn’t… He told me not to go back down there and we didn’t really talk about it again. We had plenty else to talk about though.” The Weakest Link rolls his eyes. “Nothing I do ever seems to be good enough for him.”
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His room is messy and he should clean it, or he weighs too much and should go on a diet to shed the extra pounds, or his grades are too low and he plays too many video games, or… or…
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“He hates pretty much everything about me. I think a lot of parents are like that though. Weird. They love us as their kids, but don’t like us much as people, so that’s… always fun. Then my granddad came to live with us and I saw where some of that might’ve come from in the first place…”
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There’s an old man in the living room. Wheelchair-bound, wrinkled and gray-haired with dull, tired-looking eyes. His skin is cold as a corpse on ice when the Weakest Link grips his hand. His father doesn’t even bother shaking.
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“They acted really weird the whole time.”
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Granddad! Where have you been? he asks him at dinner.
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Your father tried to have me put on ice. The old man scowls. It’s the same old story! Father and son fight, someone ends up-
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What a kidder. His father’s smile is strained when he looks at the Weakest Link and fades completely when he turns to the grandfather. I wouldn’t have done it if you weren’t always… riding me.
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“And then Granddad did that thing you do, where you pretend to play a sad violin. They started screaming at each other and I went upstairs before dessert. I never do that, but they’re all… Something’s wrong with both of them and I hope it’s not genetic.”
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They put the old man in the basement. The Weakest Link hangs back once as the door opens and catches a glimpse inside. Nothing much has changed except now there’s a mattress on the floor.
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“Sometimes Mr. Molo- Dad’s bodyguard would bring him up to eat with us, but most of the time… Dad just locked the door and tried to pretend like Granddad wasn’t down there at all. He always kinda dodged the question when I tried to ask him why.”
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Because I said so, or Not now, I’m busy, or Quiet, Beezy, and let me think! He storms off once and the Weakest Link and his grandfather are left alone.
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What’s that about?
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His old man’s old man sighs, staring down at the tabletop, not looking the Weakest Link in the eyes. Your father hates me.
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“I said no he didn’t, because, like, if he did hate him then he wouldn’t let him stay with us, or go downstairs when even I wasn’t allowed to. I know now that I was wrong about all of that, but… Granddad looked at me kinda weird.”
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Lucius hasn’t… He’s never brought you down there?
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Uh… The Weakest Link blinks a few times, not really understanding. No? He says I’m not allowed t-
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I used to take your father down there… Granddad says, but not like he’s talking to the boy next to him. And my father took me… and his father…
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To do what…?
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“My dad came back in right then and I never really got an answer. Not… in the normal way.”
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The topic doesn’t come up again until the Weakest Link shoots up in the middle of the night, woken by something falling over below him. The basement is two floors away, but he can still hear the sound of muffled shouting at the top of the second floor stairs, even before he’s started down them.
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“I just figured Dad was arguing with Granddad or something like that, I didn’t… Uh, well, I guess they kinda were arguing… I don’t know what started it, but I could hear them yelling at each other and by the time I got to the first floor I could make out some of the things they said.”
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Where do you get off talking to me like that?! I’m your father! and Don’t remind me! Some father! and I only wanted what was best for you! I thought I was… I was just- and How is that what was best for me?! and I was trying to make a man of you, like my father- An enraged wailing sort of howl followed by another crash. The key is still there and the door is ajar. The Weakest Link opens it the rest of the way.
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“Dad and his dad were on the ground. Granddad had fallen out of his wheelchair and…” The Weakest Link stops and shakes his head. “No, he didn’t fall, my dad pushed him. I think he hurt his arm too, it looked like it was gonna fall off… and I said before that we tend to bruise easily, but his nose was pretty busted - twisted, with the nostrils on top of each other instead of… yeah, it was pretty… yeah.”
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He stands there in shocked silence as his father pulls back his arm and punches the older man as hard as anyone that small can hit anything. Granddad’s tooth comes loose and he spits blood. Red spots the carpet, slowly drying into brown. The Weakest Link stares as his father reaches for his belt again, like he did once before, when he found his son down here with his friends. This time nothing stops him.
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“I just… I just stood there… I couldn’t even scream.” He laughs hollowly. “I guess Dad finally found a way to shut me up. He used to make jokes about that…”
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The younger man stands over the old one, panting and red-faced and sweating. Granddad doesn’t move. The Weakest Link remains in the doorway. B-Beezy? His father’s voice sounds strangled. Did you… did you see that…?
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(
*

*
)
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What do you think, Dad? he says, averting his eyes.
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“I turned around and ran then. Maybe I shouldn’t have, but I don’t wanna call the police or anything. I don’t want… Maybe part of me thinks Granddad had it coming. Maybe it’s because I still love my dad… even if he… Look, Mary have mercy and all that Catholic stuff, but don’t blame me because I can’t help where I come from. I ran, I guess we’ve always done that too - all of us.”
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Jimmy! Jimmy! He beats the door of the house next to his with both fists, looking over his shoulder to see if his father’s followed him out here. Open-
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Beezy? The skinny blond kid answers him, rubbing sleep from his eyes. What’s… what’s goin’ on?
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The Weakest Link bursts into tears.
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“I’ve been staying with him for a while. Pretty sure my dad knows, but he hasn’t really come by. I could’ve run farther. I could run from the country, the city… from my life, but he’d never forgive me for that though and I don’t wanna die. And I can’t… I can’t run from him, not from my family. It’s like they’re hiding…” The Weakest Link taps his forehead with his finger, making a light pat-patter noise against his skull. “I don’t know if I’m going back. I know I don’t have to, but if I don’t, they- Dad - ’ll never forgive me. I don’t know if I can forgive either of them. My dad for doing what he did and my granddad for making him want to. I know I’m never having kids. Dad always said the weakest link can break a whole chain and… I think this is one chain that should be broken.”

Chapter 11: (Cinderella) A Story about the Pigeon of Duty and Linnet of Devotion

Summary:

TW: rape, unreality, mention of abuse of the disabled.

“So we’re step-brothers, not brothers-brothers, if you wanna get technical, but you aren’t really supposed to get technical when it comes to family! Right?!”

“Uh… yeah! Right!”

The Pigeon talks a mile a minute and the Linnet speaks very slowly, and almost everything else about them seems to be as opposed as that. They’re both small men with long noses and mousey-brown hair, they both seem nice enough, but that’s the end of their similarities. The Linnet is fat and the Pigeon is pole-thin; the Pigeon moves like a blur of automation while the Linnet stands still; the Linnet wears green and yellow while the Pigeon wears red and orange. The Linnet has telltale facial features; the Pigeon does not. These are the Swan’s stepsister’s friends - two of them anyway.

“We’ve been together for a looooong time - very long time - right?!”

“Right! Long time!” the Linnet repeats. “Probably since I metchu.” He looks over at the audience. “The, uh, the… the Pig-jin, he’sa one that’s always, ah, lookin’ out for me ever since den.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; an old fashioned chateau with windows that expose a place that does not look much like the city; like a city, sure, but nowhere around here; try France a couple hundred years ago. The camera passes through a pane of glass and traces the floor to the wall and the life that crawls inside it. Little brown mice in colorful little jackets and caps. A lean one in red and orange and others in blue and pink and yellow and green.

“Our family was very, very big even before he came into it! I’m talking really really big here, living with my grandmas an’ grandpas an’ cousins, an’ all my sisters an’ brothers! Oh! Parents too! House wasn’t so big though. We were crammed inna wall to wall. Still are!”

“We live above, ah, th’ family bid-ness. Sells weddin’ dresses an’ weddin’ stuff.”

“Dresses in general, if anyone would let me run things!” The Pigeon holds up his hands. “I already know what, ah, you’re gonna say… sewing’s for girls… boy, if I had a nickel for every time I heard that one.”

The mice in the dresses stay holed up inside the wall. The ones with hats and jackets venture out, snatching crumbs from the tables and corn from the chickens outside. The one in red and orange leads the rest and drops his bounty at one doe’s feet.

“I run errands,” he says with a sigh, “an’ I manage the money or work at the front desk sometimes. That’s what boys are for. Sometimes I wish I could…” The Pigeon trails off. “It doesn’t matter. Isn’t what the family wants. Family first. Anyway… people would laugh.”

“They, ah, they do laugh at me!”

An old-fashioned mousetrap sits on the spiral stairs. There’s a round little one caught inside of it and more crowding around. He looks afraid. There’s cat hair on the floor and little red and orange threads caught between a few of the bars.

“Did, uh, ja know that lotsa people with, ah, diss-ibilities get bad stuff done to ‘em? Lots an’ lots of us. People used ta make fun a' me in school, but they didn’t do stuff other than that ‘cause the Pig-jin was there.”

“People used to pick onna me too sometimes. Not bad though! Not that bad! Anyway, he was more important! Family first! There wasn’t much I could do about the teasing, not with him in special-ed and me in another class, but we ate lunch together and saw each other inna the halls! Him and me an’ some of our other family members! Didn’t have that many other friends! Just them! And her…”

The Swan’s pretty stepsister comes sweeping down the stairs, dressed in an older fashion but her proportions are the same. The mouse in the trap cowers away from her, but the one in red steps up to calm him and to coax him into the young woman’s hand. Octavius? For short, can I call you Gus?

“That’s, uh, Pig-jin’s best friend. Mine too, but he knew, uh, her first.”

“She’s nice! Very nice! An’ she liked us! Enough that people stopped pickin’ on… on… him so much, because everyone liked her! One thing I didn’t like though… was goin’ to her house.”

Both of them scowl at the Swan.

Bells are ringing and voices shouting. The mice can hear them through the walls. ELLA! The Swan’s and her sister’s voices, every time the blonde girl sits down. Meanwhile, an unfinished dress hangs in her bedroom, and the mice creep out and peer at the plans.

“The whole house got invited to some hoity-toity debutante party a few years ago an’ they weren’t even gonna let her go! Kept her so busy she didn’t have time to find a dress or anything at all! We stepped up an’ took care of all that for her an’ then they ruined the dress! Just so she couldn’t go!”

“Big meanies… Poor El-” The Linnet clamps a hand over his mouth to stop himself from saying the rest of that name.

“I always hated bein’ around, ah, the lot of them! The stepmother an’ the sisters and… an’ there was a brother too…”

The mice with their forelegs full of beads and buttons run straight into another animal’s waiting paws. A huge tuxedo tomcat with teeth like long, white needles and yellow-green eyes. His mouth opens and they run.

“He never really talked much, don’t know if he even could, but he was…” The Pigeon shudders. “The way he was… he scared me. The way he looked at me. The way he looked at my family… at all of us. I tried to come over there less an’ less often! Invited my friend over to our place! Never went to the house alone!”

The cat steps down on the rounder mouse’s tail, lips curling into a cruel smile as he tries to run away. The one in the orange jacket pushes over a broom and lets it fall down on the bigger animal, giving his quarry the time to run.

“He, ah, tried ‘a do somethin’ to me once. Pushed me up against th’ wall. Didn’t really know what he was tryin’ till the Pig-jin stepped in. Got him off…” He blinks owlishly at the Page. “What’d I say?”

“Stop laughing!” The Pigeon glares severely down the end of his long nose. “Anyway, after that I didn’t want to go back at all, except… I guess she already told you about it.”

The sound of shrieking. The blonde girl in a tattered dress, pink and white littering the floor around her. She’s sobbing. The Swan, dressed differently than she was in her own tape, kneels at the younger girl’s side. The mice come scampering but it’s already too late.

“That other sister went, ah, too far. An’ she hurt her. You know all about that already, so I’ll make, ah, this quick! We said that she and the Swan could stay with us! No conditions! So what if it was crowded? Sometimes you gotta make sacrifices, right?! If it means helping a friend!”

“That’s why we, ah, went back there. It was th’ right thing ta do.”

“Even if it was… uncomfortable. All our friend’s things were there. We had to pick them up so we went. Me as the distraction, him as the one who would snatch, ah, everythin’ an’ carry it off. We figured it’d be, ah, okay!” Another icy look at the Swan. “Not like there was much to grab.”

The thin mouse pokes his head out through a hole in the wall. No woman - old, young or otherwise. No sour-looking teenage girl. Just the big tomcat. Tuxedo fur and yellow-green eyes.

“Didn’t count on him being the only one there… but I guess one kind of distraction is, ah, good as any. Glad I sent the Linnet to sneak around! Not just ‘cause he could, ah, carry more. Not just…” His face falls as his hands are raised and he buries his face in them. “I can’t be too upset about it! We got what we wanted! Better me than anyone else!” The Pigeon says this like he’s trying to convince himself.

A great maw opens and closes. Teeth snap and grind together. And the mouse is trapped inside. Later he crawls out of another wall and makes no sound when the blonde girl fusses at his tattered jacket. It’s a long time before he’ll say anything at all. The rounder mouse drops kernels at the young woman’s feet and scampers after the other buck into the wall. I, uh, I think, ah, you should go to the hospi-tull…

“Maybe he was right, but I didn’t an’ everything turned out okay! I just… I was sixteen then. If I’d seen a doctor, then everyone else would know and they were already… They have enough to worry about…” The Pigeon smiles, exposing huge buckteeth. “Ya don't worry family if you can help it! Family first! What I want’s not important next to that!”

The Linnet stands there without moving for a solid, silent minute. Then he opens his arms and throws them around his brother (step or not). “You’re wrong!”

Chapter 12: *CSA* (Monster High) A Story about the Least Of My Kind

Summary:

TW: sexual and physical assault of a young teen, sight loss.
Soundtrack: "The Least of My Kind" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jgCdDkmh5bo

“I’m not the youngest in the family and he ain’t the oldest.”

The Least Of My Kind is a small girl with an outlandish fashion sense and bright orange-dyed hair. One ear is pierced and the other isn’t and she wears a lot of flashy colors and plastic jewelry painted to look gold. Her eyes are a lighter shade of amber behind her dark sunglasses, not exactly impossible, but unusual; stranger still, they remain unwavering, unflickering - they just don’t move. She holds onto the arm of her brother, the Werewolf, an older boy with a strong jaw and varsity jacket. To the left of both of them is the Wifwolf in all her glitter encrusted and bedazzled glory - fake purple fur and hot pink tiger stripes. Just one of them would stick out like a sore thumb in any room, but they blend well together, sharing the same brown skin and snub nose; the same slight overbite and long canine teeth

“Our big sister graduated highschool about a year ago and flew the coop, she’s studyin’ abroad,” the Least affects a british accent. “Some fancy-schmancy school in London, learnin’ to be a real writer, says she’s gonna make it in Hollywood one a’ these days. I hope she does. I’ve got no idea what I’m gonna do once I’m outta school. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do now.” She waves a hand over her face, pushing the glasses up on the bridge of her nose. “I wasn’t always like this, yunno?”

Instead of an overture, a radio fragment; the sound of static and then voices - many many voices - and the sound of footsteps and shower heads and slamming doors. Claud, get outta the bathroom! The Least Of My Kind’s voice. I gotta get ready too, yunno!

First come first serve!

“There are a bunch of us, even with one of us outta the house now, not a lotta money to go ‘round with that many kids. Our parents are great and all, an’ we love each other, but… it’s easy to get lost in the shuffle, ‘specially when everyone else has their sh- stuff together an’ you’re… just you.”

Claudia’s all settled into her new apartment… My son, the football player… Claudeen starts her internship today… Gonna go far, that one…

“The little guys are just babies, basically, but here I am goin’ into highschool and I’ve still got no clue what I want or what I should be doin’ with my life. Everyone else is all figured out and I just… ‘When are ya gonna grow up, Leena? When ya gonna grow up?’ I just… Gettin’ lost was pretty easy back when I was still easy to forget.”

The sounds of cars and their radios. More voices, different from before, younger and older and mostly teenage, calling goodbye. Footsteps from boots and high heels and sneakers and all of them walking away. It goes quiet eventually, the only sound coming from bird calls and the distant hum of the highway and someone’s high whistling breath. The Least’s voice lets out a curse. Dammit, Claud, where are you?! Ugh…

The Werewolf and Wifwolf hang their heads, looking guilty. “We’re all supposed to drive home together, there’s only one car, but he and I… got kind of caught up with our own stuff and forgot… yeah.”

The Werewolf sniffs and pulls his arms around his youngest sister. “I’m so sorry.”

She squirms, shoving him away irritably. “Aw, c’mon, stop it. You don’t hafta be like that.”

Footsteps in the distance. An unaccented voice. Hey, kid, it looks like you could use a ride.

Silence. Uh, n-no… I’m alright, mister! Thank you though. The steps get louder and the Least’s breath quickens to panting. The wind picks up, howling around the static. Uh, hey, give a girl a little space would- Whoa! Something soft collides with something else just as pliable. A great splash.

“It had just rained… I dunno if it was that day or the night before. The ground was still wet though, an’ there were puddles all over the place. When he got too close I… I freaked out and shoved him backwards into one of ‘em. I just got scared, but maybe that made things worse.”

“Don’t say that,” the Wifwolf says, rubbing the Least’s back. “You gave that guy one hell of a fight.”

“Damn straight! You should be proud!”

Cursing. The sound of someone rising from the murk. A groan. A frantic march played on the pavement. Boot heels and heavier feet. It sounds a lot like battle drums.

“I did give him a pretty good fight, I guess.” The Least of My Kind smiles a little. “He was spittin’ as much blood as I was, I think. My shoes weren’t really the runnin’ kind, but they were big an’ clunky. He pulled me down and I smashed him in the face. Think I knocked a few teeth loose, I saw him spit one of ‘em… but I’ve always been on the shrimpy side. Not like them.”

The sound of something being pressed down on and the snap of a blade popping open. A shriek as that something sails through the air, tearing through skin as easily as fabric. More cursing. A metallic shink.

“He got my switchblade - yeah I have one, ‘s a dangerous neighborhood - pried it outta my fingers an’ kicked it away. Not before I got him with it though. Got him good. I can’t even be proud a’ that…” She bites the inside of her lower lip. “Cause it made him really mad an’ then he… he grabbed my hair an’…”

Beating. Breaking. Bone and cartilage and something splatters on the ground. Again, fabric tears open, but this time it’s a girl who screams. Y-ya aren’t gonna get away with this… my family- Something thunks against the ground again. Another scream. My eyes!

“He never paused or anythin’ while he was doin’ what he did! I mean, I get that he was… a sicko, but he wasn’t a very smart one. I mean, did he think he’d get off easy with some kid in a highschool parkin’ lot? I wasn’t old ‘nuff to drive an’ I look young for my age! He had to have known there’d be someone else around… an’ that I’d be, yunno, the least of ‘em.”

“And with all the damage one kid did, what about a pack of ‘em? Geez, that freak’s just lucky our folks weren’t there.”

“He was careless, wasn’t he? Came upon me by chance and decided to just…” The Least falters. “Um, maybe he was just thinking there was no way I coulda won. An’ he was right… but I’m a lot tougher than I look. An’ louder than the clothes I’m wearin’.”

A long, wordless scream, and suddenly the fragment flickers - for just a moment - and one thing can be seen. The Werewolf and the Wifwolf arguing in front of the school, ears just about pricking up at what they hear. The light goes out again, but the sound carries on a little longer. Long enough for two voices in unison: Leena!

The Least of My Kind laughs, cold and sharp and chilling. “Did he really think I had nobody? That he’d get away with it?”

Laughter rings out along with the static. Gurgling and raw and low. It’s not as audible as it is in the theater, though it’s a raspier version of the same voice, too drowned out by the sound of breaking bone and cartilage and the same scream as the one on the edge of the Least’s knife. Her siblings snarl animalistically - grief and rage and thick, hot hatred.

“I can picture what they did to him. I don’t even need eyes for that.” The Least stares at the floor and sees nothing. “It’s weird. I’ll never see my family again, even though they’re literally right here. They’ll never… I keep wonderin’ if I’ll forget what they look like one a’ these days.”

“Hey. Hey…” the Wifwolf shushes, running her fingers through her sister’s hair. “It’s okay. We’re always gonna be here for you. No matter what.”

“Yeah.” The Werewolf nods, putting one arm around both of them. “Like you could get rid of us if you tried.”

“You’ll always be our baby sister.”

“Dontcha get it?” The Least sniffles and wipes her nose, polishing the lenses of her glasses with her shirt. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Chapter 13: (Fairly OddParents & Danny Phantom) A Story about the Living Reminder

Summary:

TW: rape, suicide.

“I look a lot like my brother did. Or would have, maybe.”

The Living Reminder is a forty-something with black hair and ashy skin. His back has a hump to it and his posture is off. He looks tired. Like the wind could knock him down. Blue eyes flick behind Coke-bottle glasses and suddenly he looks angry enough to kill a man.

“He’s been dead longer than some of you have been alive,” he says with a hint of bitterness in his tone. “Longer than he ever was. Twenty-something years and counting. It feels wrong to be older than him now. He was fifteen when…” Skin-and-bone hands clench into trembling fists. “I was eleven, if I’m remembering that right. And now I’m forty and he’s still fifteen.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Living Reminder watches TV in the living room when a door slams open and an older boy storms in. Dark hair hangs over dull gray eyes and buck teeth bite the inside of his lower lip. He rushes up the stairs. The Reminder stands and follows.

“I can still remember the day he came home after what they did to him.” The Reminder is unable to keep the hatred from his voice. “Of course, I was too young to know what was going on and even if I hadn’t been… well, he never said a word. He came in and stormed off to his room and didn’t come out until dinner time. I knew he was upset, but I didn’t go after him, just so I could keep watching some stupid TV show. Two weeks later he was dead.”

Time jumps and the Reminder opens the bedroom door without asking. For some reason it isn’t locked. His brother is standing by the window, staring into space. He turns when the door opens. And drops their father’s gun on the floor.

“I was the one who found the body after he… shot himself. It was bad. Blood and brains everywhere. The floor. The walls. I couldn’t even recognize him afterwards with the way his face was…” He rolls his eyes. “The last thing my parents agreed on was the closed casket funeral.”

Their father has one arm draped around his wife’s shoulders and the other on his older son’s arm. The Living Reminder eavesdrops from the hallway. It’s not all good, what he hears. There’s some crying. Some yelling. Some of his father speaking tightly in this viciously quiet tone. His mother says everything will be alright.

“I’m a teacher and one thing I’ve picked up on… when a couple loses their kid it either breaks their relationship or binds them together. Mother blamed the old man for what happened, because it was his gun. He blamed her for not seeing something was wrong. After Sidney… after my brother died, they started fighting. It wasn’t even a year later that they got their divorce. I went with Mother and my father… he chose him.”

Another boy, with bags beneath his eyes and his face tearstained, stands on the Living Reminder’s front porch. The brother stands with his arms crossed in front of him. I’m sorry, the other is saying. I’m sorry… I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I- The Reminder goes up and hits him hard across the face. And his brother smiles for the first time in weeks.

“My mother remarried… briefly. My surname isn’t the same as his anymore. Maybe that’s better. She had my half-sister who went to go live with her father when Mother divorced him - or when he divorced her. We aren’t close, but I do love my nephew. I wonder if I’d have had one if he’d lived… unlikely, I know.”

The brother smiling at a graduation with a few empty chairs; packing for college; ruffling the Reminder’s hair as he carries the last box out to his father’s car. Infrequent calls from Europe; pictures of a “friend” he met there; their father shakes hands with the Observer’s father.

“I read the note he left behind. I told my parents I didn’t, but I did. It wasn’t for me. It didn’t say he was sorry or that… The sad part is that I understood him better after he did it than I ever did when he was alive. I think that counts for my parents too… I guess I knew he was gay before, but that’s not the only thing he had written down.”

Another graduation; a photograph in the newspaper - Sidney Packington Wins Nobel Prize; the Living Reminder and his brother meet up for drinks to celebrate. They have a few too many and a wrong remark or movement sends the brother into a fit of tears. Sid-

DON’T TOUCH ME! Don’t… Don’t… Just… stay over there, Denzel. Don’t come near me. Not now.

“I know what happened to him. I have since I was eleven years old. That’s what I’ve had nightmares about for almost thirty years. And like I said before, I’m a teacher now…”

The Living Reminder pulls down the big projector screen over the whiteboard in his classroom. A still image of his brother and some reporter pushing a microphone into his face. We’re watching a video today! The classroom cheers.

“I got into it because I wanted to help kids like him. Defend them against bullies and all that. He would have wanted that for me, but it isn’t quite how things worked out. I don’t… I didn’t count on not feeling anything for some of them. And I can’t help but… I should quit or do better, but I don’t know how.”

The Reminder and his brother sit down at a booth in some small-time cafe, smiling at each other over coffee and over tea. They’re older now, the Living Reminder older than he is onstage, the brother pushing fifty. They speak as easily as children when the younger asks for advice. The elder gives him as much as he’s asked and more.

“My older brother is dead and now… what do I do without him? Without someone to imitate?” The Living Reminder puts both hands on his forehead, fingers tangled up in his hair. “I’ve been asking myself the same question for twenty-nine years.”

Chapter 14: (T.U.F.F Puppy) A Story about Agent Copycat

Summary:

TW: rape, parental favouritism, mistaken identity.

“Mom always liked Katie best, maybe you guys would too if you got to meet her. You won’t, though, the Mother doesn’t let people like her in here…” A glance at Le Penitent. “Not usually.”

Agent Copycat is an attractive young woman with bright green eyes and a great dome of black hair, kept in place with a full bottle of hairspray at least. Her skin is a darker shade of olive and she doesn’t show much of it, most of her body covered up with gloves or knee-high boots or the black suit she always comes in with (or maybe, just owns several copies of).

“My sister,” she elaborates. “I have a twin sister. It’s… not really a secret, but I don’t bring her up a lot with most people. I never have. When we were younger it was because she was always outshining me. Now it’s because she’s in jail.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a plump woman with Copycat’s eyes pulls a pie from the oven, setting it on the counter to let it cool. One girl with the Agent’s… everything chats with their mother animatedly while her sister sits at the dining room table, picking at her food.

“She was always more popular growing up, getting invited to parties and all that. I was more… bookish. Frumpy, I guess. My grades would have been better if we did things honestly, but like I said, she was charismatic. She could always find someone to do this report for her or get those answers to that test, and no one ever believed me when I complained about it.”

Not her mother. Not her teachers. Not the few friends she’s been allowed in her sister’s domain. Green-eyed monster is a thing people will repeat to her over and over throughout the years. That and, Why can’t you be more like your sister, Kitty?

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe because she’s nuts? Sorry, sorry, I know you guys don’t think that way, but at the same time, you haven’t met her - probably - and maybe if you did… She’s really good at talking to people and wrapping them around her little finger, just like that! I guess it was easier to like her, so people did… and somebody who’s easier to like… is a lot easier to believe.”

Agent Copycat’s sister bites her own arm and scratches her face before letting out a shriek and running to their mother, trailing crocodile tears. Kitty! Copycat hears from the other room, along with the sound of doctored crying. Go to your room!

“She used to get me in trouble all the time when we were kids, just as easily as she got herself out of it.”

The sisters windowshop at a high-end jewelry store. While her double chats up the woman behind the counter, Copycat pores over the emeralds and diamonds and gold. She doesn’t feel the hand on her bag until she sets off the alarm at the door. A trip to the police station. For a full month she’s grounded. No one questions it when her sister starts wearing something nice and bright and new - and expensive. Agent Copycat is grounded for another two weeks when she points that out.

“I wonder sometimes if it was less her and more that everyone else… ah, nevermind. It’s stupid. I can’t just go blaming other people for everything wrong with her, now can I? Anyway, Queen Katie’s reign didn’t last forever. Like I said, she’s in jail. Mom called me about it right after I became a Fed. I thought she was going to congratulate me, but she just wanted to know if there was something I could do.” Agent Copycat smiles tightly. “I got mad, said something about how if my sister was on fire I wouldn’t spit on her, or whatever. I didn’t really mean it, she’s still my sister, but… I guess Mom told her and she thought I did.”

Months go by and Copycat’s sister refuses her visits. Eventually she stops bothering to come at all. Her mother chides her for that, but no more than she goes on about everything else. In the meantime Agent Copycat builds the beginning of her own life.

“I kinda liked what it was like with her in jail and no one knowing about her. I liked… I was living. Not for Mom’s attention or in her shadow, but for me. I… I liked that. Is that wrong?”

Her first serious boyfriend followed by her first serious breakup; her first apartment; her first time living on her own. Her boss is a tiny man with a big, booming voice. Her closest work friend is a stuttering little man with square glasses who lives and breathes “melting pot theory in action”. A new recruit with headstrong impulses and jet-black hair…

“My partner is a well-meaning idiot.” She rolls her eyes, but smiles fondly. “He’s… a lot, but I know he has my back in the end.”

Copycat’s partner has the energy of a kid in a candy store and about as much impulse control. He’s worse than any of the Snowbird’s men - even the silent one - and so she finds herself babysitting him more often than not. Mentoring. At least at first. To his credit, the (not much) younger man learns - not as quickly as she would like, but he does. Sometimes he does great things when the world is watching - and, more importantly, good things when they are not. Agent Copycat softens up.

“I know… a lot of things about him.” She looks uncomfortable now. “He… he never said it outright before all of this and he’s so oblivious I thought he might not get it himself, but I… I knew he had feelings for me, and what those feelings were. I just… we work together and I’d had a bad experience with that before and… Look, I didn’t feel the same way, okay? I don’t.”

Still, she sees her partner blushing, the little looks he gives her when he thinks she doesn’t see. There is something decidedly un-friend-like about his friendliness, though nothing at all unkind. Copycat can pretend all she wants though, so she does.

“I just… He’s a nice guy, really, but I don’t… He’s not my type. I can’t help it if I’m his. You, uh…” Her eyes flick to the left, then the right. “You’re probably wondering how my sister comes into this. Well… I didn’t tell him I had one. I didn’t tell anyone at work.”

Agent Copycat is woken in the night by the sound of policemen at her door. Katrina Kaswell?

She yawns, rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Something wrong, officers?

They exchange a glance. We’re going to need you to come down to the station, ma’am.

“She knew about them though, from our mom or… I wrote her a few letters while she was locked up the first time. I really wish I hadn’t now.”

Agent Copycat lays handcuffed wrists on the table, glaring at the interrogating officer from her bolted-down chair. What the hell is this about? I’ve been home all evening!

Lips twitching, he sets a file down in front of her, showing a young man with black hair - and lighter skin than Copycat’s own. Your friend here might disagree. Bruises in the shape of fingers and half-moons, scratches up and down those bulky arms and between his…

Copycat swallows. What… what in the world…?

“She hurt him. For no other reason than to get to me, she hurt him… just because! And don’t look at me like… like… like…” She looks close to screaming. “Just because I don’t like him like that, that doesn’t mean I’m just okay with something like this happening to a friend.”

It’s a long night in the station. Agent Copycat asks for a phone call and her mother doesn’t pick up. She pulls her knees to her chest in the cell and waits. She’s still waiting when dawn breaks outside.

“Thank God I’m a Fed. I know about the corruption issue now, but they didn’t dare get at me. Still, the fact that I was there at all was bad enough. I knew it must have been her, of course. Right away, I knew. It couldn’t have been someone else and I know I didn’t do it. The problem was that the station was run like a trainwreck and ‘evil twin’ sounds like the world’s worst excuse even if it hadn’t been, and we're identical, so I couldn't rely on the forensic kit to clear me since the genes in it were the same as mine. No one believed me for a while. So I sat there until I could find someone who actually would look through my records and show everyone that there wasn’t just one of us born on my birthday, there were two.” She flashes a quick smile. “Lawyers aren’t just for guilty people, kids.”

Copycat shakes hands with a silver-haired woman in a pressed blue suit. Nila Zircon, she introduces herself.

“That public defender they assigned me is awesome, let me tell you. Really knew her stuff… and then they had to let me go. Plausible deniability and all. They caught my sister half a day later, sneaking around, and had my partner… They looked at his statement and realized she was wearing the thing he’d described me as being in. So I got off the hook… yayyyy.”

Agent Copycat ignores her mother when she calls her phone. She ignores everyone for a few days, which is easy when no one tries her number. Then a familiar name lights up her caller-ID and she can’t answer fast enough. D-Dudley?! I… no, how are you? Are you… okay…?

“He wanted to meet up with me, so I invited him over to my place. He’s kinda… emotional. Maybe this will sound callous, but I was worried about him causing a scene in public. That would have just embarrassed both of us. Besides, I had the feeling there was going to be crying and I figured we could get drunk.”

Copycat is right on all accounts. Her partner cries into his hands and on her shoulder and they drink, first from glasses and then straight from the bottle of strong, strong wine that they’ve taken to passing between them. Dudley, I’m so sorry, Agent Copycat says over and over again. I- Their mouths crash together and he leans into her, as sloppy drunk as she is.

S’okay… know ya… didn’t… wouldn’t… He kisses her again, hands wrapping around her hips. I… love you… I love you…

“I kissed him back. I… oh, God… I kissed him back! I don’t… I didn’t want to. I don’t love him, but I just… after what my sister did… Don’t I owe him that much? Don’t I… I know it shouldn’t work like that. Not with other people. But this is about me.” Agent Copycat wraps her arms around herself, her face tinged as green as her eyes. “I’m sure it’ll be okay, he’ll get tired of me eventually. I’m the boring twin, remember?”

Chapter 15: (RWBY) A Story about Stingy Jack

Summary:

TW: family loss, child abuse/neglect, rape, gang-rape, torture by burning, attempted suicide.
Soundtrack: "The Devil and Jack" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=6rO14xrBMxY&t=2s

“Who doesn’t love a good ghost story?”

Stingy Jack sits on the stage, or more accurately, on the chair he has dragged up with him. His hair is red. His eyes are green. His coat is white; his hat is black; his scarf is gray. At his feet sits the Changeling, her empty board in hand and her legs dangling off the stage’s edge.

“This is probably gonna be a little different from what you usually do here. I’m not here to talk about what happened to me. I don’t want to talk about it. This story is… just that. It’s a story.” Jack smirks and ruffles the Changeling’s hair. “A scary story. What? The kids wanted to hear one.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; an old farm miles and miles from the nearest town. The winters are harsh here, and the summers short. The work is hard and profits lousy. Still, there is light and laughter and no shortage of hands. Stingy Jack grows up poor, but happy in this tiny corner of the world.

“You all like Halloween, right? Of course you do. How many of you have been pumpkin-picking? What? None of you? Where’d you get… oh, right, the store. City kids.” He rolls his eyes. “Well, at least you have pumpkins. Have any of you ever carved them?” A chorus of voices threaten to drown him out.

Jack watches as his father spreads old newspapers across the kitchen floor and sets the bright orange fruit at the center. Have at it, he says and a carving knife is handed over. Stingy Jack grins as the top slices open and reaches to pull the goop from inside.

“Bet you haven’t heard the story of the first jack o’ lantern, now have you?” The children quiet and shake their heads. “Oh, it’s a good one.”

Snow comes to cover up the fall leaves. The radiator breaks again and again. Each time someone from Jack’s family manages to repair it. Jack’s bed sits above a vent, and he is always warm. Warm enough to crack the window open for a breath of chilled winter air.

“They called him Stingy Jack, see. It’s where I got the name.”

One night, the family only pick at their dinner. A cousin yawns. A grandmother rubs her eyes. His father groans. Let’s get some sleep, he says, moving to stand. We can clean up in the morning.

“Pardon my French, but he was one lucky son of a bitch.”

That night Jack sleeps with his window open. Come morning, he is the only one that wakes at all.

“The stories say he was a real smart cookie. I don’t doubt that, but I’m a gambling man. I know that there’s always a few things bound to be left to chance. This guy, this Jack, he was real lucky and real clever. You’d think that’d be a good thing, right?”

CO poisoning, an officer mutters as her colleague shuffles a sobbing Jack into the back of his car. Poor kid…

“Thing is, this guy was a mean bastard.” Stingy Jack shrugs. “Oh, who knows why? Some people are just like that. Maybe they’re born that way.”

Stingy Jack is taken to the city and passed around from house to house, family to family. He never stays long. Somewhere in that is the punchline to a joke. The kind made about the red-headed step-child.

“What was that? No. I don’t think anything made him like that. If it did, well, there are lots of versions to this story, but I’ve never heard one like that.”

Bruises and anger and baggy clothes. Stingy Jack turns eighteen.

“Now, Jack wasn’t just an asshole, he was a criminal too.”

A scruffy-looking teenager holds up a passerby with a broken gun. A ring, a watch, a wallet drop to the ground at his feet. Jack eats that night and raises his glass to a stranger that never agreed to foot the bill.

“A con man, y’know? They say he was good at it. A real mastermind, and he knew it. That’s what got him into trouble.”

A break-in gone wrong. Jack lifts red hands in the air as blue lights flash around him.

“See, people were saying that our Jack was the trickiest guy around. Eventually word of that got all the way down to Old Scratch himself and- come again? Oh, that’s just a nickname. It’s what some folks call the Devil. I’m not sure why, you have a phone, don’t you? Look it up.” Another hand is raised. Another child. Another question. “No! It’s not like our names. Why the hell would the Devil want to be here?” A glance to the smirking Changeling. “Quiet, you!” Silent laughter. La Fantôme smirks.

Fingerprints and photographs. Stingy Jack sits in questioning with cuffs on his wrists and an angry gleam in his eyes. A door creaks open and the room fills with uniformed men. It goes the way it did with Gorgon. With le Penitent and the Star. Jack is scrawny and underfed and just one man. He cannot stop them. Oh, but he tries.

“Anyways, so the Devil is the trickiest out of all the tricksters. King of bending rules and the prince of breaking them. He’s used to being hot shit, if you’ll forgive the pun, and he doesn’t like the idea of any upstart messing with his reputation or stealing his title away from him.”

The guards straighten up and amble away. In time, more return and Jack is hauled off, his hands still cuffed and wrists still bleeding.

“So when he heard about this Jack fellow moving in on his territory, he was pretty unhappy. And that’s putting it mildly.”

A prison uniform. A cot in a jail cell. A dark-haired cellmate who looks at him with knowing eyes. The turn-about victim of the Molotov Cocktail, long before her turn with him.

“So he went to find him. See, he had this plan…”

The guards come again and again. For him and him alone. His cellmate remains untouched. One day Jack gets up the nerve to ask him, Why?

“They were calling Jack the best damn swindler to ever live, so the Devil knew he had to put a stop to all of that. He had to prove that he was the biggest kid on the block, see. What better way to do that, than by swindling the so-called swindler? Swindling him out of his very soul.”

SAY SWINDLE A FEW MORE TIMES, WHY DON’T YOU?

His cellmate pulls back a sleeve, revealing an array of tattoos beneath it. A “family’s” coat of arms. Mama and Papa fell in with the right people. He smirks. They can’t lay a finger on me. He looks over and eyes up Stingy Jack. Y’know, kid, I bet I could keep their hands offa you. If you don’t mind doin’ me a few favors.

Jack looks at him with barely concealed desperation and says: It’s a deal.

“Now I’m a gambling man, but even I know there are some bets you just don’t take. I guess no one ever told Jack that. Then again, maybe they did. Maybe he just didn’t want to listen.”

The next time the guards come for Jack, his cellmate steps between them. That night he pushes him down on the cot and has his way. It hurts but Stingy Jack does not cry out. Bruises bloom, but he does not bleed. He grits his teeth and bides his time while asking himself: what is one man compared to eight?

“Maybe he was desperate.” Jack shrugs, his smile carefree. “Who can say?”

His cellmate offers more than just protection. Alcohol that Jack has never tried; commissary he cannot afford; cigars like sweetened fire.

“Story goes that the Devil found old Jack in a bar, drinking himself silly. Some versions say it was the other way around. I don’t know how much of that I believe. I mean, this guy is supposed to be clever. Maybe that part is wrong. Maybe he was tired of waiting for his number to come up if the Devil was already itching to call.”

Bottles can be broken. Gifts can be taken back. Cigars can be put out on and in him. His cellmate has a temper. Stingy Jack learns quickly to keep it at bay.

“Whatever the case may be, the two of them ended up at a bar together and Jack asked the devil to join him for a shot. By the time they were through, they’d had a lot more than that.”

The Jack on the tape is drinking in his cell. He sloshes the dregs of one bottle around in his hand and then knocks it back. The black-haired man sleeps only a few feet away. So as not to disturb him, Stingy Jack sets the container down slowly. At his feet lie two others. Just as large and clear and empty as the one in his hands.

“This part of the story makes more sense if you remember how drunk they were. Alcohol makes grown-ups do some really stupid things.” He laughs nervously and a hand creeps to his necktie. “I am no exception.”

The smell of pressed grapes and sex and sweat. The sound of snoring and Jack’s own stuttering breath.

“So basically, both of them were totally shitfaced by the end of the night. Jack and the Devil.”

With a head full of fog, Stingy Jack reaches out and strips the sheets from his bunk. Despite the movement from above, his cellmate does not stir.

“That’s probably why he was taken in as easily as he was.”

His hands work clumsily, but they work fast. Jack ties a knot with shaking fingers, takes a deep breath in and leaps. For a few minutes there is kicking and dangling and swinging in the air. The reel goes black; the tape keeps rolling.

“See, it was closing time and the barkeep needed his fee. Jack, true to his name, didn’t wanna pay him. So, what he did was this: he asked the Devil if he wouldn’t mind footing the bill for him.”

Look who finally decided to join the living. A guard’s voice. Stingy Jack awakens to find himself surrounded by the white of a medical bay, with his throat burning and the smell of antiseptic filling his nose.

AND SATAN WAS LIKE “YEAH, SURE.” AND THEN HE TURNED INTO A COIN. I GUESS HE WANTED TO SHOW OFF OR SOMETHING. LIKE “LOOKY WHAT I CAN DO. I’M SATAN.”

“Yes, thank you, Changeling.” Jack rolls his eyes as she flashes him a thumbs up. “Thing is, soon as the money was there our guy decided he’d rather keep the stuff.”

For a week he lies there. No one visits. There is no one he wants to see.

“So what he did was this. He picked up the coin and he stuck it in his coat, right behind a silver… well, some stories say crucifix and some say cross. Ah, hell, I guess it doesn’t matter all that much. There’s a difference, but the result’s the same, isn’t it?”

Another cell. Another cellmate. This one is a thickset man, built like a soldier and with eyes like a wildcat’s. His hair is silver, though he looks no older than Jack himself.

“Crosses and the Devil don’t mix, see. Old Scratch is weak to anything holy. It burns him, takes away his power. What Jack did made it so he couldn’t transform back and for a while it looked like he was gonna be stuck for good.”

For the first few days, Jack tiptoes around his cellmate. Nervous and trying not to let it show; chattering like he doesn’t care and jumping when the other man moves. He looks for tattoos and finds nothing. This is one man that never hurts him. He never helps him either. Jack doesn’t expect him to.

“But that wouldn’t make for a very good story, now would it?”

The guards return before the week is out.

“Jack knew that the devil would be angry with him for that trick so he had to think fast and he made Mephistopheles a deal… yes, that’s another name for the Devil. There are a lot of them, alright?”

The man in grey will not stop struggling. The men in blue don’t seem to mind. That’s okay, Pumpkin, one hisses, yanking his hair back (yanking it out). I like a challenge.

“He said ‘sure, Devil, I’ll let you out… but first you gotta promise me something’. And you know what he asked him?”

Weeks turn to months and stretch into a year. The scar on his neck begins to fade.

“Stingy Jack made the Devil swear he’d leave him alone for a whole year, but that wasn’t all. Jack was old, see. So he told the Devil that he couldn’t claim his soul for that year either, not even if Jack died while Old Scratch was away.”

Another night. Another bad idea. Another cellmate’s snoring.

“And the Devil agreed.”

Once again Stingy Jack swings from the ceiling, his heels inches above the floor.

“Jack let him go and, true to his word, he stayed away until the time was up.”

He serves out the rest of his sentence in the medical bay, and the psych wing after that. Under the watchful eye of some guards, out of the hands of others.

“During that time Jack kept on living. I don’t think he expected to, not when he only gave himself a year the first time around. I’m pretty sure the guy thought that he wouldn’t be around when the Devil came a-knocking.”

Stingy Jack takes to the streets once again, finding where he left off and picking right back up again. Break-ins and robberies and muggings. He hides behind flashy (though inexpensive) clothing and motel room doors, takes the edge off with cheap bourbon and whatever else he can find.

“Hm? Oh, I’m not sure what kept him going. I’m really not.”

One night he turns a corner and finds the Changeling there. She looks up at him, all hurt and want and neediness, and Stingy Jack sees a bit of himself there in her rosey-brown eyes.

“Well… if I had to guess… maybe it was that he had something to live for.”

Rundown motels become two-bedroom suites. Flashy clothing becomes flashier. Stingy though Jack may be, he is thankful to not be alone.

“Whatever the case may be, Jack was still alive and kicking and that’s just how the devil found him.”

A robbery gone wrong; a sea of screaming sirens; blue lights and red hands. Jack tells the Changeling to go. Don’t worry, Nia, I’ll be fine.

“It was in an orchard this time. What kind of orchard? An apple… what? No! Not a pumpkin orchard. There’s no such thing. … Well, maybe because they don’t grow on trees!”

He is not fine. Handcuffs and mugshots and leering eyes. The jangling of keys and the sound of a door pulling open. Hey, Pumpkin, a uniform sneers, didja miss us? Jack sits up straight and spits at the floor by his feet.

“So the Devil cornered Jack in this old orchard. This old apple orchard. He decided that, since Jack tricked him the first time they met, he’d have to trick him right back. He invited him to have a drink again, just like they did before.”

A trial and a verdict; a cell and a cellmate with a familiar face. And silver hair. Thank God for that.

“But Jack was clever. He knew what Old Scratch was trying to do and he devised a plan to get the Devil off his back once and for all.”

The guards return time and time again. To push and to shove and to spill Jack’s blood across the jail cell floor.

“He said sure…”

One week passes and then another and another after that.

“… but first… Hey, you got it! Yeah, he had to do him a little favor, that’s right.”

Another week. Another day. Another.

“He pointed at the highest branch of the tallest tree and asked the Devil if he’d be so kind as to go up there and pick the apple on it for him.”

Six men enter the cell. Their eyes zero in on Stingy Jack. His cellmate turns his face away.

“And the Devil did.”

Footsteps fall in the hall outside, lighter than any of the others had been.

“While he was climbing Jack reached into his pocket and took out a knife and he- no! He didn’t stab anyone! Jesus! What is wrong with you little weirdos?!”

The footfalls stop for a moment and then retreat. A shadow hurries off down the hall.

“He carved a cross into the bark. That trapped the Devil up in those branches and when he realized what Jack had done he was mad… but if he wanted to get down he had to listen to what our guy had to say.”

Bruises and bitemarks and hands ripping through his hair.

“He wanted another deal, see. He’d let the Devil down, but only if Old Scratch agreed to stay away from him for ten years this time instead of one.”

Suddenly he is shoved forward and his face slams against the door. Again and again. Bruises form in the shape of metal bars.

“And the same rules applied as before. If Jack lost his soul before the time was up, the Devil couldn’t claim it for his own.”

Finally it comes to an end.

“This time Jack didn’t last as long and he died before the ten years were through.”

The men leave. A door opens and closes, then opens again. Stingy Jack looks up and the Changeling kneels beside him.

“Because of his deal he thought that he might have a chance at Heaven, so he floated on up to St. Peter at the pearly gates.”

A silent hotel room. Jack locks himself in the bathroom and tries, for hours, not to scream.

“Of course… he wasn’t allowed in.”

Stingy Jack sinks down in the shower, sobbing into his hands. Hoping on hope that this is enough to cover up the noise. Praying that the girl outside the door cannot hear him.

“So he went on down to Hell…”

Jack drinks in front of the television. His gun is nearby and he is alone. He thinks of the Changeling and remains seated until she comes home.

“The Devil didn’t want him either. Said he couldn’t go back on their deal.”

The Changeling watches as Stingy Jack falls apart.

“What does that have to do with pumpkins? Give me a minute, kid, sheesh! That’s not the end of the story!”

The Changeling returns to him with a tattered business card. Words and a number and help that Jack is afraid to need. Smiling, she holds it out to him. He can only shake his head.

“See, Jack’s punishment was that he had to walk between Heaven and Hell. Forever. A ghost, all alone in the dark. The Devil said it was only fair to give him something to see by. He was already walking through nothing, at least now he’d be able to find his way.”

Again and again the Changeling holds out the card. Over and over she asks with her eyes. Each time he turns her down. Each time he looks away. I’m sorry, Nia, I’m really not feeling it tonight, he says, or I’m reeeealllly tired, or I think I’m coming down with something, don’t want to get your little friends sick. Sometimes it is only: Sorry, Nia. Other times he pretends to be asleep.

“So, Old Scratch went and picked a gourd and carved it out inside, and he filled it with an ember lit by hellfire itself. That way the light would never go out. He handed Stingy Jack the lantern and set him on his way.”

One day when the Changeling offers the card, Jack says yes. She hugs him, her smile bright enough to put the sun itself to shame.

Once again, he reaches out to fluff and ruffle the Changeling’s hair. She doesn’t seem to mind. “Stingy Jack. What a story.”

Chapter 16: (The Buzz on Maggie) A Story about the Party Crashers

Summary:

TW: rape with foreign object, alcohol poisoning, possible child molestation, underage drug use.

This story has a few instances of white text. Please paste the text into a document to get the whole picture.

“Ugh. This is all my fault isn't it?”

“Kind of. Yeah.”

“Mag- Lucy! That wasn’t very nice!”

“Uh, I mean… Noooo, buddy. Whatcha talking ‘bout? That’s crazy talk, is what it is.”

Rotgut. The Teetotaler. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds. Two brothers and a sister. The oldest boy, the youngest one and the girl that fits in between. Rotgut’s a teenager with thick brown hair and strong arms bulging beneath his varsity jacket. The Teetotaler’s eight or nine with a baseball cap covering up the top of his shaven head. Lucy is freckled and dressed in several layers of loud, and her hair has been colored pink. They share a common thread between them - something about the nose and eyes.

“It’s okay, T,” Rotgut sighs and folds his arms behind his head. “Let her say it.”

“Mom says-”

“Mom says a lot of things.” He rolls his eyes. “Not all of them are true. And she’s wrong about this - this one’s on me. You, uh, you should still listen to her though. She and Dad get it right sometimes too…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Party Crashers pull up in front of a normal-looking house on a normal-looking street, in a car that looks like it’s seen better days. Rotgut is driving, a few years younger and pimply with braces and a skinny physique. A brown-haired Teetotaler and Lucy sit in the back, snapped awake by the sound of blasting music. Frazzled notes clinging to the air like static.

“Our parents used to do this ‘date night’ thing every so often, up until my freshman year. The last time they went out was that September. The September after I made the football team. I’m the captain now, and the quarterback, but back then… I was at the bottom of the pile. So when one of the older guys from my team invited me to his party, you bet your ass I was there.”

Rotgut starts to get out of the car. I’m just going in to make an appearance. It won’t be long, okay? So stay here.

Or what? Lucy smirks. You’ll tell Mom?

“Thing is, I was kinda in charge of babysitting that night too. Little T was like five at that point and L was ten - and I do not trust her enough to leave her home alone -”

“You worry too much, brother mine.” Lucy’s eyes roll. “Anyway, he brought us. Said it’d be quick and told us to wait, so naturally I got out the second I could and went to see what kinda action was going on - and the Teetotaler came with.”

“You told me to!”

Inside the house, it’s crowded. Pulsing bodies and voices drowned out by noise. It smells like smoke and alcohol and body odor. The Party Crashers don’t call out to each other. The Teetotaler is the only one who looks uncomfortable in the crowd.

“When I found the guy who had invited me, half the team was with him and I was the only new recruit. They looked happy to… Actually, scratch that. They weren’t really happy to see me. It was more like they were trying not to laugh.”

What did you want me here for again?

Initiation, one of the upperclassmen says, and picks up a bottle of the foulest-looking brew imaginable. Drink up, Pesky. Here’s to you! The other boys echo the words.

What? No… I would, guys, but I’ve gotta drive.

“It took a while to talk me into it, but… not as long as it probably should have. I was driving without a license anyway. What was one more broken law? I kinda forgot that they were supposed to be in the back seat.”

He downs the liquor in one gulp and the world goes dark, but not… not immediately. Rotgut gags and makes a face. Anise and grape and barley and grain. A dark sloshing liquid that he chugs with his eyes shut, holding his nose. Afterwards he gags and they laugh as he holds his gut and tries not to empty his stomach on the floor.

“I don’t know what was in there, a bunch of things mixed together probably. Whatever they could find in their old man’s liquor cabinet. Maybe they pissed in it too, I don’t know. It wouldn’t really surprise me. I know it was stupid of me to do it. I know that… now. I don’t remember what happened after that too well.”

Halfway across the room and completely cut off from their brother, the Teetotaler and Lucy weave in and out, her hand clenched around his arm. He begs her to turn back, but she doesn’t listen and drags him deeper in. They get a few strange looks but most of the older kids are content to ignore them; many are too drunk to notice them at all. At one of the tables, some boy - who looks a lot like a teenage Ringtail - snatches a little colored tab and pops it into his mouth. Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds follows his example. No one intervenes.

“I didn’t know what that stuff was at the time. I thought it was, like… I dunno, candy or something, but it just tasted like paper. It was already too late by the time I spat it out, not that I realized that until like twenty minutes afterwards.”

THe WhOLe RooM SPIIIINS. There are Green spiders ON ThE CEiLING. EvERYThiNG GLOWS AND gliTTERS LIKE thE LIGHT SHINIng InTO A KaleidoscOPE OR A FLY’s OpeN Eye.

Maggie…? The Teetotaler’s voice comes at a great distance.

She looks at him with her pupils blown very wide. Hubert, I feel… funny… One of the party guests turns and looks at her. He has a lion’s snarling face. Lucy S C R E A M S.

Oh no… We’d better find Aldrin. He grabs her wrist and pulls. Come on.

“I was blackout drunk at that point. Like I said, whatever they gave me was some kind of liquor soup. I took two steps before it got to me and four before it knocked me down. I heard her yell, but I wasn’t really… with it, you know?”

Everything is soft and fuzzy. Or his stomach hurts. Or… which way is up again? Why does everything feel…? He’s going to throw up. He’s going to be sick. He hears his sister scream and it covers up the sound of the voices around him like a patch on an enormous linen sail. His stomach churns. He doesn’t fight back when his friends roll him over.

“Hazing. People will do some… really weird things when it comes to hazing. They didn’t… it wasn’t like…” Rotgut swallows. “None of them… fucked me, not really, but they took the bottle and… I don’t think they thought of it the way I did. It’s different when it’s objects, right?”

Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds walks over a field of sunshine, the Teetotaler pulling her along. ThE STROBELIGHTS shine LIKE FRESH Cut GEMs AnD SWiRl InTO A SpiRAL lIKE the MELTED coSMOS OF a DriiiiippING RAINBOW SkY. THey MAKE Their WAY through The PARTY. PEOPLE StILL dOn’T Seem TO NOTice ThEM PickING tHrouGH. The Ones with the flies’ WINGS and RAms’ HoRNS aRe NoT EXCEPTIONS TO that.

The Teetotaler twists his fingers nervously, looking down at the toes of his shoes. “When we found him… with them… I didn’t know what to do. He was… asleep on the couch and Mag- Lucy was all… crazy, and those other guys were standing around laughing. I didn’t know what they were doing or what… I didn’t know if it was anything good or bad.”

The Teetotaler, all of five years old and the lone voice of reason, lets out a shriek and catches the attention of the boys in the letterman jackets who spin around. Fuck. Who let a kid in here? One steps between Rotgut and his younger siblings, obscuring him from view - partly, anyway.

Is Aldrin okay?

“One of the guys kinda reached behind him then, and… did something. I saw the bottle in his hand, and it was all-” He makes a face. “-gross and kinda bloody. He said he was fine though and I believed him. No one ever told me about… well, anything like that.”

LUcY DaNCES IN PlACE aNd TaLKS TO THE LiVING NOTES of MUSIC IN ThE AiR. Dude, someone says in the background, but it’s all white noise. All white noise. What’s wrong with her?

“They kinda freaked out when they realized I was up on some stuff. Apparently. I wasn’t really paying attention… for obvious reasons. I guess they didn’t want to call the police and get themselves and everyone there busted though, so they didn’t really do anything. They just hauled the three of us off to someone’s guest room and left us there alone.”

LUcY IN The SKY wIth DIaMonDS takes two steps and promptly falls RIGHT through the floor. EVerYthing SPIIIINS Like AN ElECTrIC CarouseL. SomeONE draGs her AwAy.

“Some people came in and out, and…” Lucy bites her lip. “One of them got right up close and sorta pushed my body around. I don’t know if they were just trying to move me to get to their stuff or if they were touching me. I couldn’t even tell if it was a guy or a girl - I’m not even totally sure they were really even there.”

“I didn’t see,” says the Teetotaller, playing with his fingers. “I’m sorry I didn’t. I was too scared to really be looking. ”

LUcY LiES uNDER The lOOMING HAnDS Of a lION-HEadED MAN. sHE SCreAMS bUT No sOUnD CoMES OuT.

“All your clothes were on when we left, so that’s good, right?”

“Yeah. Not your fault. I just kinda wish I knew what happened there. I don’t think mine was anything awful, but I’m not sure.”

The Teetotaler is caught in the middle, looking frantically between his sister and brother as one FLOATS DOWN A RIVER OF COlOR and the other dreams in a smothered haze of green. They’re there for hours and it’s the youngest who notices when the oldest cannot breathe.

“They call it rotgut whiskey for a reason. It’s not just cheap. It’s poison, the kind that’ll mess you up inside. I already felt sick after I drank it, but it took a few hours for me to start throwing up. They put me on my back when they tossed us all in there to sober up. You… aren’t supposed to do that with drunk people. When I puked… it got stuck in my throat and… yeah.”

A body that jerks and seizes. The Teetotaler fishes around Rotgut’s pocket, fingers closing around his phone. LUcY’S ScReAM MAkEs ThE STaRs EXPlODE.

“In the end, that stupid party was broken up anyway when pipsqueak called an ambulance. From what I heard, they all ran like hell when they heard the sirens.” Hands brush over a scar on his throat. “EMTs had to intubate me.”

“Is that the thing they did with the tube and-”

“Yeah.” Rotgut nods. “And then they saw Lucy and had a lot more questions… even before my pants came off.”

Over a period of several hours, the color ever so slowly drains from Lucy’s kaleidoscope eyes, returning her to normal. The dark lightens around Rotgut and the green haze drains away, leaving in its place a killer hangover. When her vision clears and his solidifies, the first thing they want is to close their eyes again. Then they remember the night before.

“I still say it’s your own fault that it happened.” Lucy in the Sky with Diamonds folds her arms stubbornly. “Whatever Mom and Dad have to say, you drank it and you brought us there… but that doesn’t mean I’m happy that you got hurt.”

“You’re right.” Rotgut doesn’t look up from the ground. “For once. You’re right about this.”

The Teetotaler frowns deeply at both of them. “That’s a horrible thing to say!”

Chapter 17: (Drake & Josh) A Story about the Lamia’s Keepers

Summary:

TW: discussion of CSA, false accusations, murder.

“I don’t wanna say she’s just a sociopath ‘cause I’m pretty sure she isn’t - or a monster. Or a devil or a demon or anything like that. Maybe I could, but… none of those words seem to fit. You get me?”

The Keepers sit on the edge of the stage with their legs dangling, a dissimilar and dark-haired couple of teenage boys. The bigger of them is tall and pudgy with a lot of soft angles and unshed baby fat. He has that look to him that might be handsome when he gets older; the other Keeper is handsome now. He’s lean and wearing clothes that fit, with musician’s calluses on both hands. There’s some space between them, but not very much, and every so often one will scoot away only to find themselves near-touching moments later. It’s like something’s tying them at the abdomen - a rope, perhaps, or a giant, constricting snake.

They haven’t picked individual names. They’ve already said that they don’t plan on staying long.

“He’s talking about my sister… our sister now, I guess.” That Keeper rolls his eyes. “And he’s wrong. That kid is evil. Like Samara, Rhoda Pen- no, Darla Dimple level evil.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t make her a sociopath. It just makes her… I don’t know what you’d call it, but something must be wrong with her.” He shudders. “Just don’t ask me what it is.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Keepers sit in two different church pews with an aisle put between them. Someone… something comes up through it, scattering flower petals in her wake. She’s a girl - and not a girl - in a pale pink dress and with a long serpentine tail where her legs should be. The scales are part sequin, part rhinestone; held together by filaments of polyester and polymer doll hair. Plastic limbs stick out, through the chinks in her playroom-floor styled armor. Like quills, or in place of draconic spines. The Lamia, most probably.

“Like I said before, my sister. Our-” He points between the other Keeper and himself, as if to draw a line. “-parents got married, and not that long ago - my mom and his dad - so they live with us now and we’re all stuck with each other. Five people in this one house.” He stops and whistles through his teeth then smiles something acerbic. “Still… Crowded or not, I guess it’s a lot quieter than it was when Dad still lived with us. I mean, my dad.”

One Keeper looks at the other very oddly. “You never actually told me about him. What was he like?”

Megan! They find her with her jaw unwound, forked tongue flickering as she opens up to swallow things like a guitar and a shredded magazine. What’s your problem? The Keepers snatch them away from her and she flinches - just barely - as they move. The dolls inside her dress tail scream, plastic arms thrashing as she runs from the room.

“A lot like her. Kind of a bastard. Kind of creepy. Not… not like…” He seems to consider whatever he’s thinking and then the Keeper shakes his head. “Sometimes I wonder if maybe she turned out the way she did because of something wrong with his genes. Or something he did to her… but if he did do something, it’s not like she ever told me. We aren’t that close.”

“She doesn’t like me any better,” the other Keeper says, head hanging. “Not for lack of trying though. My mom left after they diagnosed me with Asperger’s so when Dad started seeing someone else… Maybe I kinda glommed on too fast and too hard.”

“You think?”

“Well, excuse me for being excited!”

This Keeper is the loud type of affectionate, hugging the other one only to abruptly let him go when he gets uncomfortable (he keeps forgetting that his new or soon-to-be brother is always uncomfortable with that). His stepmother accepts this, but the Lamia wraps her tail around his body and squeezes back until he’s blue in the face, sinking long white fangs into his shoulder blade. Oh look, honey, his father coos as the Keepers’ parents look on, see how well they’re getting along.

“The weirdness kinda started out with little things. Mean pranks, digging her nails into our arms when Mom and his dad made us hug. I thought she was just mad about them being there, to be honest, I know I wasn’t exactly thrilled at first, but then a few months passed and she didn’t get used to it… or she did and that was never the problem to begin with.”

The Lamia slithers up between them with a smile like sugar and pigtails in her hair. Her tail curls around the middle of the TV remote, but one of the Keepers bats her away.

Nice try, Megan.

She smiles again, but this time flashes teeth. Long and knifelike and sharp. You know, Drake, she says, we talked about stranger danger in school today. The lady they brought in to talk to us about it says that most of the time when people are hurt, it’s by friends or family members, people they already know.

The other Keeper slides the remote over to her, and she swallows it whole, in the end.

“She hasn’t actually said we touched her or anything.”

“And we didn’t!”

“Whoa! No, we didn’t. We didn’t… I don’t think she’s going to say that we did either, but I’m not sure. She has kinda threatened it a few times, but… the world is kinda backwards and for all the Darla Dimple cases out there, there are a lot more cases of people telling the truth and not being believed. Plus we’re both White so…”

“Don’t say that like we’re taking any chances!” The Lamia’s other Keeper makes a face. “I don’t care what we are, that girl is crazy! One of those super liars… Our mom and dad are already eating out of her hand and they don’t even know it! She’s just that good.”

The neighbor girl’s cat goes missing, and someone’s fenced-in chickens and a few dogs from another street. The Lamia comes down to dinner with a rounded stomach and opens her mouth to take a drumstick. The Keepers stare at what their parents are ignoring or have not noticed - the clots of fur between her sharp, white teeth.

“Some pets went missing in our area. We think it was her. That’s usually how it starts out, isn’t it? Hurting animals, then hurting people… then…”

“And, hey, it’s not like we just assumed she did it from the getgo - I mean, yeah, she was creepy, but we didn’t think she was that creepy. Who knows, maybe she wasn’t to begin with but then when a little more time went by…”

The Keepers lie asleep now, as the Lamia crawls on her stomach into their room, something dropping into the wastepaper basket. Her mouth opens in the dark, letting out the shrieking sound of a pitchy smoke alarm. Flames leak out between her teeth.

“She burned our trash can once because… I dunno, maybe she thought it would be funny? Isn’t fire starting another of those things you’re supposed to watch out for? I think it’s on that list.”

“You mean the MacDonald Triad? I’m pretty sure that’s been debunked. The results aren’t exactly-”

“Whatever, you see it all the time on TV. People know about it.”

“I guess, but… Nevermind. Not as big a deal as the arson. She didn’t even get in trouble for that. Mom and Dad thought we were smoking and started the fire with lit cigarettes. She came up with that one, and he let me take the fall.”

“I said I was sorry, didn’t I?!”

“I was grounded for six weeks!” He breathes in deep and sobers, letting the red drain from his face. “Actually… that’s kinda part of it. I was stuck home and she’s just a kid so she can’t go anywhere; so guess who got put in charge of babysitting?”

For the most part he leaves her alone, giving his stepsister-monster free rein of the house. A few times she whines and thrashes her tail and asks him to make her something for lunch or a snack or dinner (breakfast once, while their parents are away). Usually the house is quiet; sometimes eerily so.

“So we were spending a lot of time together, obviously… and at first it wasn’t so bad. I mean, sure I was stuck at home, but I don’t go out much anyway and by watching her I was helping out Mom and Dad. Maybe I didn’t do a very good job of it though.”

He finds tracks in the earth, through the front yard and back. A snake’s body with mud lodged between the fabric and rhinestones and bits of doll hair. Megan, he says, knocking hard on her bedroom door. Did you go out?

The Lamia belches, a little bell collar flying out and landing by the Keeper’s feet. She smirks. Nope!

“She would leave when I wasn’t looking and come back with… stuff. Things that didn’t belong to her. She said she found them, like they were the kinds of things you'd just leave lying around! I tried to tell our parents about it, to get them to try and keep her in line but they just got mad at me for not watching her right. Like I could have done anything up against that!”

“I saw her playing with bones in the yard one time. Not human ones, but still.”

He watches from the porch and the Lamia comes in from the yard, bouncing slightly (as much as she can bounce anyway). Her teeth are not teeth anymore, but another kind of bone - white and cracked and probably animal - stained with brown and red. She cocks an eyebrow. What are you gonna do about it? The doll limb spines in her tail stand on end and bristle like stingers. And the sound they make inside…

“Rents didn’t believe me about that either and I ended up grounded for lying when she turned on the crocodile tears. That’s another reason I think my dad might have done something. Mom’s really overprotective, but maybe that’s just because of her being the only girl. Anyway, they told me to stay put around the house, but unlike someone, I don’t always do what people tell me.”

He’s out the door almost as soon as his parents are most days, leaving the other Keeper to attend to the Lamia, and she’s just as likely to leave him alone, coming back hours later with reeds in her hair and smelling like silt and summer mud.

“I’d go out with my band - I have a band - for practice, or to the theatre at the mall. Normal stuff. I saw her once, on my way back… coming out of the woods.”

The Lamia has long, sharp talons in place of fingernails, and when the Keeper pulls up beside her he sees that they’re caked in mud. What are you doing? he asks, beckoning her towards him.

She just shrugs as she climbs into the shotgun seat of his beat-up van. I won’t tell if you won’t.

“We live out in the suburbs and there was… still is, this creek behind our house. It’s kinda out there though, the kids had this whole hobbit village for a while, set up in the trees. I told J- him about it, but not our parents. I was worried she’d tell them I went out. I probably should have just said something anyway, but we thought… We just thought she wanted to play with her friends or something. And the water there isn’t deep enough to drown in, or, at least, it’s not supposed to be.”

Once or twice the Keeper catches her again before the weeks run out, and each time he stops the car and lets her climb into it. Once he finds her soaking wet, though it hasn’t rained in days, the vague shape of a small hand pressing against her belly. Caught between her scales and the woven fibers is a pink and more pink striped armband. Her talons are brown again, but it’s not the same kind of brown as mud.

“So at first I was worried about her, right? Creepy or not, she's still my sister and even after everything there’s still feelings there and she didn’t look great. She said she wasn’t hurt though and I took her home and that was the end of it.” The Keeper stops and closes his eyes for a moment, hands curling into almost whole fists. “That night some hippy-looking couple went around knocking on doors, looking for their twelve-year-old kid. I guess she was one of the kids that liked to play back there… with her dog.”

The woman holds up a picture of a girl with short blonde hair and a grin that could bleed the sky of sunshine. This is Leslie.

The Keepers’ mother offers sympathy, while her son stares at the photo, and at the girl’s pink-striped armbands. Hey, he says quietly, you haven’t checked the water, have you?

“Of course they called me an asshole for saying that, but when they did look, she was there. They found her in what wasn’t even neck-level water for a kid her age, but there were rocks at the bottom.” He makes air quotes with his fingers, eyes rolling. “The cops are saying she ‘hit her head’ but I’m not so sure. I wasn’t then either. I heard she had her pockets full of stones.”

“I was sure, at the time.” The Keeper shrugs in a disjointed motion. “Hey, you guys all fell for the Darla Dimple thing! I just thought it was an accident, Mom and Dad did too and they asked us-” He points to both himself and the boy with the same name. “-to stop her from going out there. I actually thought that was a great idea. For a while.”

But the other Keeper sneaks into the Lamia’s room at night to unzip her secrets, reaching into her snoring maw and taking out what it was he’d seen caught in her scales. Pink fabric in the low light, water-damaged and still covered in a layer of flaking mud. He carries it back to the room the boys share, tucking it inside a shoebox beneath his bed.

The Keeper produces the same thing now, onstage. The filthy, coral-colored arm warmer, held up. “I know it’s not much, but… I knew… maybe not that she was a killer, but that something was up, and I think she knew I knew. I woke up the next morning to find her going through our stuff.”

They catch their sister wrapping herself around the waste bin, squeezing like a vice. They chase her out and miss the tissue paper held tight in one claw. They don't look for the unmentionables or empty soda bottles or drooled-on pizza crusts or well-hardened gum, and the Lamia slides off down the hallway and up the stairs.

“That was the morning I tried to tell him what I thought happened. How she really must have done something to that girl. I knew Mom wouldn’t believe me, but I thought that maybe…”

“I didn’t believe him either. I was still thinking… maybe I just didn’t want to imagine living with a murderer, or that someone could do something like kill another kid at ten years old. It’s not something I want to think about!” One Keeper glances sidelong over at the other. “Sorry, man, I… I guess I just figured that that armband could have come from anywhere.” His expression changes and he bites his lip. “Thing is, it didn’t.”

For a few days they keep the Lamia almost as well as their name would imply. She paces the house, spines on end, and stares out the window. For the most part, though, she stays inside. Sometimes she has ordinary little girls over and they talk about ordinary things. A few weeks pass before she tries to leave again. For the creek in the woods.

“We both kinda freaked out for different reasons. He was worried about her falling in the water and I was worried about what she’d do to those other kids that used to play back there. In all fairness she’s little and I can kinda get not thinking that a kid that young would know enough to do the things she was into. Or smart enough to cover it up.”

“It wasn’t that, not exactly. She’s… She has friends from school and stuff. She plays with them and she loves Mom and Dad. Maybe that’s just for show, or maybe… I dunno. On TV, they always make it seem like the bad guys aren’t that bad as long as they care about something. In real life though… Well, I guess you know about Viridiana - he doesn’t have anyone here, right? Guy’s a total b-word, but he really loved his kid, that’s what people said anyway, when he disappeared and everyone was wondering if it was him…” He coughs. “Anyway, maybe caring about one person doesn’t matter so much - no matter how much you care about them - if you aren’t willing to do half that for anybody else.”

The Lamia comes in, humming, Cheeto dust staining her hands and teeth, her claws brown with dried-up red. There’s metal when her mouth opens this time, voice replaced by the jangle of keys. One of the Keepers rushes towards her, asking - demanding - Where have you been?! The other is quiet; he thinks he knows.

“I told him that later, and sure enough… I think it was Epimetheus that said something…? But little kids have been going missing from the area. Especially the ones that like to mess around down there. I think that it was another girl that time.”

“Yeah, we saw her on the news later. I think her name was… Kathrine or something? Kitty? I remember she had glasses and purple pom-poms in her hair.”

“Guess what we found in my sister’s room?”

“Yeah, but even before that I believed him. Once is chance, but this kind of thing was just too weird to be a coincidence. So I finally got on board… not that it helped much. He already told you that she’s good at playin’ innocent, and the story sounds crazy, so it's not like we could go to Mom and Dad. Not gonna lie, though, we - well, I - thought about it. Especially when the same thing happened with another kid.”

The Lamia’s skin shines like clear plastic or prescription glass, bubbling obscuring the kicking figure in her gut; the Lamia’s fingers turn limp and wither into streamers; her teeth move like an optical illusion, crooked and then realigned; her voice turns into the shrill whinny of a horse; cracked china and finest silk in place of spines and hair. On the news, the Keepers take notes. A black-haired girl with thick prescriptives and webbed toes; a rough and rowdy-looking tomboy; a Boy Scout with heavy orthodontia; a girl in a gray hoodie with a mousy brown ponytail; two girls in princess dresses and a boy in a suit.

“That was around the time parents started keeping their kids inside and not letting them go out there anymore. Good thing for us, probably, but…” He looks guilty. “I think they might kinda suspect some other kids. There were these older guys who go to our highschool and they play G&G in the woods - no, I don’t know why.”

A bigger guy and a skinny guy with peach fuzz and another with glasses and dark brown hair. I heard the police were at Barry’s house last night; I heard it was Mark; Wow, I just thought they snuck off to have sex out there…; Nah, that’s Courtney and Tabitha; Hey! A trill of conversations that go like that. The Keepers’ dungeon-crawling classmates keep walking, only the last one stopping to glare and open his mouth before the biggest drags him along.

“He hasn’t been back in school for a while and our sister actually doesn't have much to do with that. He came down with a case of mono, if you can believe it.”

“Not sure I do. Weird guy like him? No way. Plus his friends have been acting weird. And our teachers.”

“Yeah, about that… You don’t think he’s d-”

“Nah.” The Keeper’s tone is far too casual and he shakes his head. “They wouldn’t lie to protect our feelings so it’s probably that they’re worried about his. My guess is that he’s just laying low for now, or something. I think they would have said so if he was missing or if he died… we’d have seen something on the news.”

There is a lot of nothing in the days that follow. Their parents are home more often than not and the Lamia keeps her head inside, body bloated with limp, pale limbs poking out behind her, taking the place of the doll arms crawling up her spine. Her lips press against and around the Keepers’ window, warm and wet breath filling up the room with the stench of metal and water-rotted wood. Then one night they wake up freezing.

“Most of the time when little kids go missing there’s some kind of fuss. Sometimes there’s a lot of nothing, usually if they’re a foster kid or poor, or non-White. For us… when it was her, it was kind of… a relief? I know that sounds horrible, but… can you really blame us? I mean if the world has to lose people like Pyrrha Nikos and Billy Joe Cobra-”

“And that Rivera guy.”

“Exactly! We’re talking about artists here. Artists versus a messed-up little girl. It’s not like I was happy about it, but… it was easier not having to think about which of the neighbor's kids she would go after next. If it was going to be the Patakis’ daughter or one of the Louds’… I don’t know if she tried anything with any of them.”

“If she did, she didn’t finish the job. Sorry, that’s a shitty thing to say, I just… She did come home eventually. She must have come in through a window. We woke up in the middle of the night and found her there.”

“You mean you did. I was asleep.”

“She was rummaging through our trash…” The Keeper blushes. “We’re teenage boys, you know what was in there, right?”

One Keeper keeps one eye open, letting out a few fake snoring noises while the other lies asleep. The Lamia has hair like a briar, the individual strands matted together with twigs and leaves. Her arms are torn open with what look like scratches, but in the dim light are really just patches of velvet, growing there like a rash. Her fangs are longer now and she has both hands in the trash can, used-up stiffened Kleenex shish-kebabing her nails. He watches her, unobserved, as she takes what she came for; he pinches himself as he watches her leave, slithering through the exit. Then he shakes the other Keeper.

“We followed her outside. Was it dumb? Yeah, probably, but what part of this makes you think that we aren’t?”

“She went into the woods - big surprise there - and we went too, and we kept going for a while… Until she stopped and we hid behind a tree. It was dark, but light enough that we could keep up and see her kneel down. Dark enough that we couldn’t see what she was doing right away.”

The Lamia bows her head like an unholy prayer and her lips come up trailing mercury. The smell of iron stains the air and the Keepers squint until they go wide-eyed in recognition at the scent of blood. There’s no body at the base of her tail though, just a cluster of veiny, scent-free flowers. Heavy purple bells. The boys can’t see them well, and wouldn’t know enough about plants to recognize the shape. The Tea Rose would, and would warn them off touching. That’s Aconitum Napellus, she would tell them. But it has another name.

“There was a kid there who looked… a little older than her? Maybe thirteen-fourteen, tops. At first I thought her hair was black, but it was really just filthy.” He doesn’t say with what. “There was a rock nearby with dried blood on it and she was lying face up, but it was pretty obvious that she was dead…”

“I think I’m the one who screamed. Or maybe we both did, but it definitely sounds like something in my area of… expertisms. What? I can't help it if I’m a screamer.”

“Don’t say that, man…”

“Wha- oh! Gross! No, I just mean…” The Keeper scowls. “Oh, shut up!”

The Lamia looks up, unfazed for the most part, silver dripping down her chin like the juice from a good peach. Oh, she says, I thought you were awake. Her fingers seem almost boneless, rippling like gelatin has somehow melded with her hands.

“I told her we were gonna call the police.”

“Before we couldn't prove it, but then… we thought we had her.”

You won’t, she says. She lifts her hands up to reveal scraps of tissue paper sticking beneath her clawed nails. If you call them, I’ll tell them it was you, and what do you suppose’ll happen when they test the body for DNA?

“I guess we know what she wanted from our rooms now.” Both boys shiver, though it isn’t really that cold. “She told us she did that with all of them, all proud of herself, like she was showing off.”

“We’re the ones who… We brought her home - that girl and our sister. Neither of us have DNA in any kind of database and… that family should have gotten something. We made M- our sister give us the address and left that kid on the front lawn. I know that sounds awful, but I’ve read all that stuff about the Prenderghast kid… and a lot of Winnie Trubshaw’s… work.”

Their armloads of flowers drop onto the thrift-store green of a familiar lawn, turning the night to purple day. Their arms break out in furious red hives where they touched them. They scratch them bloody on the car ride home, the Lamia smiling under the dome light in the back. They arrive around morning and find their parents in the yard. They step forward, ready to say something, but stand still when the Lamia makes herself known. She puts on crocodile tears that reek of iodine and slithers forward, into their waiting arms. Drake and Josh saved me! A bad man took me away!

“She came up with a cover and we just went along with it. With one of us having our… DNA on the body, maybe we should just be glad she let us play the heroes there.”

“As far as our parents think, it was a situation like the Honey Bees’, and the police seem to believe that. I don’t know what happened with the doctors. I don’t really wanna know. She cleaned up before our parents could tell her not to and told them she didn’t realize what the hospital would do. I bet she did. From crime shows or something. Maybe the Catalan tria- when the Knave was on TV.”

The Lamia opens her jaws and coughs raggedly, until most of her own skeleton - half snake, half human - comes tumbling out and her skin crumples to a sheet of cloth and scales, hair and rhinestones on the floor, dolls writhing beneath other children’s waterlogged, heavy limbs. The Detective’s doctor nods sympathetically at nothing in particular and pats the back of a skeletal hand. Quite alright, my dear. I can get you a tissue if you’d like?

A round-faced police officer pulls scrolls and sticky notes from the hollowed-out pouches of skin. It’s okay, kiddo, just take your time.

“Mom got a card for this place from a work friend. She wants our sister to come, and she probably will. We’re here just to ‘see if it’s right for her’.” One of the Keepers starts to stand, reaching out to help the other to his feet. “But the real reason is just to make sure you know it’s not. We can’t report her or stop her from coming here but… we’re here now. We’re doing this.”

The other Keeper nods. “The Lamia eats children, that’s what every story says. We won’t be coming back here unless something else comes up, we just thought we should tell you all that.”

Chapter 18: *CSA* (Alvin & the Chipmunks) A Story about the Music Man…ager

Summary:

TW: child prostitution, drug use, suicide attempt.

“You remember Billy Joe Cobra?”

The Manager is an utterly ordinary-looking man with dark hair and a plain face. His most notable features are the smell of coffee that clings to him like a disease - the black kind that you drink instead of drinking - and the very tired look in his eyes. Everything else is pretty commonplace. He’s one of those guys with a face they feel like they’ve seen before.

“His agent was a friend of mine - ex-friend now, and ex-agent, he has new representation, I think, and we aren’t really speaking anymore… for a lot of reasons. I remember when he disappeared a few years back, but I also remember before that. With the drinking and the drugs and partying. It’s not like what happened with the Zoo Crew, he would have been dead anyways, eventually. Like Sarah Lynn was, like Frankie Lymon and Judy Garland and Marilyn Monroe… Hollywood has a body count… and most of it is burnt-out child stars.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a man with dark hair lies on his side on the stage of an impossibly large concert hall. He’s mumbling something to himself, half-sobbing, cheek resting in a puddle of his own vomit. There are old and new bruises on his wrists where the sleeve rides up- bruises and track marks, and a dark spot blossoming at the front of his pants. A crowd of seven billion gathers around to laugh at him as a bluish tinge overcomes his lips and face. Among them is the Manager, standing alongside a glasses-wearing, bald-headed man.

“There’s something that never really feels real about celebrities. I mean, we have this voyeuristic view of their whole lives - even the stuff that they don’t want us to know about. I mean, how many actresses have had their nudes leaked? How many pop stars get high and have meltdowns in public? It should be something we care about, but… most people don’t. I’m not judging anyone for that, I’m just saying… And I get it, there’s this feeling of ‘well, I would never do that’ every time another one of those stories goes viral. I used to think that way too.”

The stage clears, in front of that crowd of billions, and the Manager starts towards it, getting older in rapid succession as he reaches out. The people around him swarm and change and buffet him back. At some point he loses sight of the glasses-wearing man. He catches sight of the backstage for a moment and sees his silhouette there on the floor. Ian! But he doesn’t turn.

“I always wanted to work in show business. Not as the talent, never really had the stuff for that, but I am a musician, and a songwriter. I thought I could make it in the industry. My friend did and he was doing pretty great for himself. The issue was that… nobody wanted to buy my songs.”

Shifting, churning bodies push the Manager this way and that while the acts on stage fall down one by one, celebrities stepping towards the lip and leaning forward into the crowd which dismembers them. Some, though, keep their balance, even as blood splatters the lights and torn-out larynxes warble the same dying songs. He gets a hold on the edge once but the glasses-wearing man walks over to him and puts his foot down, crushing his fingers under the toe of it.

“The issue, they said, was that no one was going to sing them. That I didn’t have what it took to write something good and fresh and new… so, I went into advertising. I didn’t love it, but I needed a reliable source of income and writing TV jingles and commercial slogans, well, it was better than not writing at all. I kinda put my dreams on the backburner. Got a steady girlfriend - she dumped me. Wrote some more - got rejected. I sorta hit rock bottom a few Christmases ago. It was December and I’d just about given up on music completely. That was also the year that my cousin was arrested, him and his wife. We weren’t really close, but I had a stable job and room because I wasn’t living with anybody so their boys came to stay with me. I know this sounds bad, but… I think that’s the best thing that could have happened to any of us.”

A trio of preteen boys look down at him as the Manager reaches the steps of the stage (he hadn’t realized there were steps before). They’re messy-looking with brown hair that hangs in their eyes, and wearing baggy, ill-fitting sweatshirts. The one on the end fills out his all the way, dressed in green and a little paler than the other two, with big chubby cheeks; he’s eight or nine and probably the youngest by a few years. The tallest boy is lanky and bespectacled, his own blue hoodie too short and wide on him; he’s still not the oldest, at about eleven or twelve, though the gap is closer than with the first. The actual oldest is the one in the middle with the shit-eating-grin and the yellow A embroidered on the middle of his red shirt. They look at the Manager like they’re thinking over what it would be like to eat him.

“They’re good kids, kind of a handful, but really great kids. I do mean that. I’ll be honest, though, at first I wasn’t really thrilled with our arrangement. I wasn’t happy on my own exactly, but that didn’t mean I was jumping at the chance to have a bunch of kids around. Still, somebody had to take them in, and that person was me, I guess.”

A few steps forward as the Manager is spun by the crowd. The lights are very bright and the air is very hot and dense with sweat. The boys huddle around him and they trip over each other, left foot over left feet. Simon, don’t do that, and Theodore, get down from there, and just ALVIN! ring out in succession. His face heats up. Then the track changes.

“We didn’t get along at first, to put it mildly. Their parents were the hands-off type and I didn’t know a whole lot about raising kids. They crashed on my pull-out and ate my food and trashed my kitchen - several times - and we sorta just tried to avoid each other - well, I avoided them. What ended up bringing us together was our music, mine and theirs…”

The intro still playing, a path clears through the pulsing bodies of the billion-pack throng. The Manager takes a step and is not swallowed. Bathed in disco-tech, the kids walk like unsteady prophets towards the glowing stage and the microphones swivel like roulette wheels. By the time they reach the boards and walk across them the mics are about chin height on each of them.

“Let me tell you, those kids can sing. That’s one reason why I decided not to bring them by yet, I didn’t know other famous people would be here. They… I don’t know how it happened, but it did - one minute they’re driving me up the wall and the next thing I know we’re at the top of the charts. Okay, okay, it’s not that simple, you’re right, there is more to it than that. I heard how they sounded and asked if they’d ever want to record one of my songs. It’s not like I made them do it. They wanted to… so I called that friend again, asked him if he liked our sound.”

The glasses-wearing man reaches down and pulls up the boys by their shoulders - with both hands, though on the Manager, who weighs more, he uses just one. High, unbroken singing echoes through the concert hall as people stop what they’re doing and then erupt into nigh-unintelligible screaming of the trio’s names.

“I wish I hadn’t. I thought I wanted to be famous, at least by extension, but now… I shouldn’t have gotten the boys involved. Definitely not with him… I know at least some of you made it through the industry unscathed. Maybe my mistake was not picking a better agent, someone who wasn’t just in it for the money, but I didn’t and he took us all the way to the top.”

The boys dance to another track now, the Manager and the glasses-wearing man watching from backstage, nodding along with the beat. The lights get brighter and sweat drips down the kids’ faces and the backs of their necks, plastering their bangs to their foreheads. The Manager waits with a bottle full of clear water. The glasses-wearing man has… something else; it must be good, because the boys run to him.

“He was good with them, but not in the way you want people to be. Nice, but irresponsible. Not in a well-meaning way, either. He would have let them run wild if I wasn’t there to rein them in. It was always something, him pumping them up on caffeine and sugar right before a big show or buying them stuff they didn’t need. I know I sound like a buzzkill here, but I could see he wasn’t a good influence. Especially when he started trying to get them to call him ‘Uncle Ian’ - oops, sorry, can I say his name?”

Behind the scenes, the Manager spends a lot of his time saying No - as in, No, Alvin, don’t do that… ALVIN! and No, Simon, get down from there. Because you’ll hurt yourself! and No, Theodore, save that for later. You’ll spoil your appetite. The glasses-wearing man gives a lot of the opposite. Yes! Yes! Yes! The boys stick to the walls and cling to them.

“We started having serious problems around the time that they were really taking off. He was talking about merchandise and tour schedules and the kids were too young to really understand what that meant. I did, though, and guess who looked like the killjoy for not letting them burn themselves out working. But, like I said, they’re kids, and it’s hard to make kids understand that you’ve got their best interests at heart, especially when the wrong thing looks like so much fun - and he was working on them, I know he was.”

The Manager looks up at the glasses-wearing man, watching as he adjusts the stage lights, cranking up the brightness until white spots appear in their vision and the glow hurts his eyes. He makes the boy in red cover his, protecting the other two’s sight with his hands. The other man frowns. Oh, come on, Dave-

I don’t want to hear it. They need their rest. Alright, boys, let’s go.

“There were a few times where I complained about the kids when the first came to live with me. They were a handful and I was in over my head. I didn’t think he was paying attention, to be honest, but maybe he was. I think he might have said something to them about that, when he realized I wasn’t going to let him do whatever he wanted with them.”

The boys and Manager argue behind the curtain while the glasses-wearing man stands by. No, he says, you’re too young to-

But Uncle Ian says-

He’s not your uncle!

“It’s my fault, probably. I cared about them, but maybe I should have made that clearer. Kids get needy when you don’t give them enough attention - then again, I don’t think that attention was really the issue there. It was more, I think, that maybe I wasn’t as great as I thought I was about explaining myself to them. ‘Because I said so’ isn’t actually a good reason to make someone do something - it can be a downright dangerous one - and even though I could get the boys to listen… some of the time, anyway… they’d started to resent that I was forcing them to. We actually ended up getting into a fight about that right before… everything. I said some things I didn’t mean… we all did, but I’m the adult here.” He massages his temples with a sigh. “I don’t remember all of it, just that I said something like, ‘well why don’t you go stay with Uncle Ian’… and that they did.”

The noise in that hall is louder now, so much louder than it was before, and the rhythm is a syncopated anthem of discordant riffs and harmony. The Manager is on the stage steps, looking behind him over one shoulder while the glasses-wearing man and boys remain behind. Are you guys sure you want to do this?

The kids exchange a glance, starting to look uneasy, but the one in red nods at the one in blue so the third brother goes along. Yeah. It’ll be fine, we’ll be with Uncle Ian. And out of your hair… So it’s a win-win, am I right?

The glasses-wearing man leans in as the boys turn their backs. I told you, Dave, I never lose.

“Before you get on me about this, let’s be clear: I let them go on tour with him. I didn’t just sign over custody. I’m pretty sure you can’t do something like that on a whim anyway - and I wouldn’t have! I just figured fine, if they were so unhappy living with me, they could go around the world with him for a few months until they’d blown off some steam. Worst case scenario, maybe they’d call when they got homesick or it wasn’t as fun as they thought it would be and they’d get a valuable life lesson out of it. Or something like that. I could kick myself now for being so stupid.”

The Manager wades through the crowd, expecting it to swallow him easily. It doesn’t, and he’s buffeted back and forth the same way he was when he was no one, but now the mass of seven billion bodies keeps pushing him back towards the stage. The boys stand in the middle of it again with the glasses-wearing man behind them. They open their mouths to sing, and this time they don’t stop.

“It was lonely, having the house to myself again. But it was just lonely. Sometimes I’d see snippets of their shows online or on TV, but mostly I was alone. For a few weeks I figured the guys were just getting used to things, but then a month went by and I was still only getting my updates from the news. After another few weeks they still hadn’t called.”

The Manager tries for the stage again, but the stairs aren’t where they were before. He stands at the edge, yelling and waving his arms above his head in an in-and-out X motion. Ian! he shouts above the noise at the glasses-wearing man. Hey! He pretends not to see the Manager standing there. The boys are still singing center stage; they’ve carried the same note for far too long.

“So I tried to call them. They didn’t have cellphones at the time, but I got a hold of the friend they were with. Of course he said they were doing great, but he would. He… wouldn’t let me talk to them.”

The boys are still stinging a little bit from you kicking them out the door.

That’s not what happened, the Manager says, trying to get back on the stage again, but the lights get brighter until he can barely see. The note keeps up and gets louder, sounding hoarse now - and strained, like they’ve been gargling nails. Their edges have also started to look… flimsier somehow. Papery, like cut-out pictures from checkout counter magazines.

“I didn’t want to drag them out of there in case they really were enjoying themselves like he said. I didn’t want to be a jerk about it or anything-” It seems like he’s only phrasing it that way because there are other people’s children here. “-and I think - if they were happy - that would have just made things weirder between the four of us. So I tried to call when I could and watched a lot more TV, in case there was something I could see that the tabloids weren’t making up. It’s a pretty weird feeling to be honest, watching someone you know on a station that other people care about. Like I said before, superstars always feel kind of untouchable, but not when you know them. Not when you’ve seen what they’re really like.”

There’s a platinum tone to the lights now, beaming down and across the stage like tractor beams. The boys move and one hundred pictures flutter down from the ceiling. Glossy, hyper-realized pages torn from catalogues and music magazines, with all of the text replaced by dollar signs. Their dancing slows down when the Manager looks very closely, turning sluggish… and then starting up again, becoming fast-paced and manic as if the kids have taken a shot or two of something electric.

“I started to notice things, here and there. Little things mostly, nothing too obvious, but then, it wouldn’t be. They seemed really… tired. Really tired - and then they didn’t. And it was hard to tell with how kids’ bodies work at that age, but it started to look like they were losing weight. Maybe you’ll think I’m an idiot for not figuring it out then, since I knew the celebrity circuit has a drug problem, but I wasn’t there and, well, I don’t have ADHD, so how familiar do you expect me to be with the side effects of Adderall?”

One of the boys steps forward and vomits off the edge of the stage, into the roiling crowd, even as hands snap up and tear at his pant-legs and sleeves. The Manager watches, horrified, but they don’t pull him over. Not yet. Not now. He’s still carrying that lacerated cord as he stumbles back, stinking of caffeine and coffee with bile staining his teeth.

“I thought that maybe their agent was giving them too much sugar. He was irresponsible, like I said, not the best caretaker. I didn’t realize how spot on that was until after I’d already decided that it was a mistake to let them take off with him. There were other things I noticed too, things where I should have realized something was up.”

People are cheering and the note goes on. A few of them climb up on the edge of the stage. The glasses-wearing man doesn’t pull them up, but doesn’t stop them either, nodding appreciatively at their pressed suits and suede leather office shoes. The song jumps into a higher key, the noise near inaudible now, cracking the overhanging stage lights and showering glass.

“I should have been there, I should have gone with them… I should have…” He swallows the lump in his throat, working up and down on his Adam's apple. “Someone should have been watching out for them. I know that he wasn’t, but it was my job. My responsibility as the parent… guardian. Whatever.”

The music has stopped by the time the Manager elbows his way to the front again. The crowd too has gotten quieter, but not in the way that something does if it has stopped making noise or taken to whispering. It’s closer to the kind of muted not-silence you hear from the TV at a distance, or the radio when someone’s turned the volume down. Something like a generic ringtone plays instead of a backtrack. The Manager looks up at no one in particular as the crowd coagulates into a single, solid mass. Hello?

D-Dave? whispers a hoarse-sounding voice, noise echoing around the room like a repeated chorus. Dave, are you there?

Simon? Hey! Surprised to hear from you. Is everything-

I… think we need your help.

“I got that phone call after they’d been away for a while - maybe six months? They were coming back for a performance in the state and I knew that so at first I thought maybe that’s what it was about. I’d been meaning to go see them anyways, but… there have been a lot of ‘buts’, haven’t there?”

He moves as the sound continues, near blinded by the light in his eyes. Simon, what’s going on? Where’s Ian?

Ian… doesn’t know I called you, the backtrack spits through static.

What? Why?

Because… because… Listen, we’re staying at the Tipton. Uh, could you… could you come get us? I don’t think he’s going to let us leave. Lip-syncing to the tone of their own voices, the boys creep into the spotlight-glare and towards the edge, swallowing as they look down at the rabid crowd below.

“I can see a red flag when someone’s waving it. And he sounded… wrong, I don’t know how else to put it. I mean his voice was… it sounded awful, all strained and hoarse, almost like he was about to cry. Someone else was crying in the background - must have been one of the other two.”

The Manager leaps onto the edge of the stage… and falls back into the crowd as he stumbles, crying out as he does so. The boys stand frozen between him and the glasses-wearing man. He lunges again, but the crowd holds him back. The kids on the stage remain still, ice settling over them like a hush.

“It wasn’t as easy as you’d think it would be to get to them. My name wasn’t on the guest list at the show and the hotel they were staying at had some pretty serious security. One of my exes helped me sneak in, she works as press, but looking back I probably could have just called the police. I mean, at some point that had to have become unlawful imprisonment or something.”

A woman with straight blonde hair and brow-length bangs and a camera ‘round her neck shoves a pass into the Manager’s hands and pushes him forward. The steps again, but he falls through them. This time though, somebody hears. Simon! Theodore! ALVIN! The one in red turns. Their eyes lock.

Dave?! You’re here!

“I paid these two kids at the hotel to make a distraction and snuck my boys out the back. My old friend - their agent - probably didn’t even realize they were gone until their show was supposed to start. By that point we were back at my place. I didn’t realize how bad they looked until we’d been there an hour and they just crashed on the couch. Even then, that’s kind of normal, right? I mean, they are just kids. But then… the next morning they were still sleeping and I made toaster waffles but they wouldn’t eat any.”

The music has stopped; all four of them are alone on the stage now. The crowd has turned away to face something in the back, but the curtain is still raised and they haven’t gone anywhere. Everyone will hear if the Manager or the boys say something loud enough. Guys, are you feeling okay? You don’t seem… yourselves.

W-What? the one in red asks, nervously grinning. That’s crazy talk! We’re fine! Right, guys? His brothers don’t say a word.

“I wanted to believe them, of course I did. You want your kids to be doing okay, but something was wrong with them. It was obvious and I don’t mean in that ‘father’s suspicion’ way either. Anyone should have been able to tell, but maybe it was easier for other people to think that’s just how the famous act.”

The boys step forward, eyes glazed and heads nodding almost hypnotically as another dialtone-track plays over. They sleepwalk-shuffle to the lip, swaying over the moshpit maw of the waiting bunch below, whose arms and hands are reaching up as if to strangle them like they did to those that came before. 911, the backtrack says, what is your emergency?

H-Hi… This is Dave Seville. I need an ambulance. It’s for… one of my boys.

“Apparently my ‘friend’ had been slipping them ‘pep pills’, they used to call them - stimulants - to keep them awake enough to record everything he wanted them to and able to perform later than they should have been up. The boys don’t know exactly what he had them on, but earlier I mentioned Adderall? Yeah, that’s one of the big ones and the withdrawal symptoms were pretty close to what you’d expect from that. Loss of appetite, nausea and vomiting, fatigue, weird dreams, headaches… and suicidal thoughts. I walked in on the oldest with one of the knives from the kitchen. They aren’t actually as sharp as you see them on TV, I don’t know how much damage he really could have done to himself with it, but there was some blood and that scared me enough to call for an ambulance.” The Manager takes a few deep breaths and rubs his eyes, as if trying to steady himself. “He’s twelve. Twelve-year-olds aren’t supposed to… to think about stuff like that, let alone try it out.”

The crowd is stirring now, buzzing and agitated and craning their necks to see… to see… what the Manager has pulled the curtain over. It’s still raised but he holds tight on that velveteen corner, wrapping it tightly around the boys. So no one hears. So no one sees. There is still blood on the stage, but no one can see where it’s coming from anymore.

“The tabloids tried to spin it like I’m the one that hurt him, like I’m some stage dad living through my kids. That’d probably bother me more if I didn’t have bigger things to deal with, but they’ll print anything in those. It’s still better than them knowing the truth, celebrities always get written off as wanting attention with things like that. I don’t want that for him.”

The lights flicker and burst in the auditorium, each one shorting out. The Manager’s form is lost in the shapeless dark that he whispers through, almost drowned out by the sound of breathing. The crowd of seven billion is like a muscle, black and thick and flexing, pulsating faster and faster beneath the very slow thump-thump thump-thump of a sluggishly paced heart.

“I remember how it felt to be sitting in the emergency room with him, trying to calm down the other two. The damage wasn’t too bad to be honest, a few stitches in his arm. Still, it wasn’t what I’d call a highlight. They had to keep him overnight afterwards, I think that's the policy, and I mentioned the other boys had been sick.”

What do you mean withdrawal symptoms?! They’re kids! Even now, the Manager is sure to lower his voice. There’s an audience there, standing by.

Well, they work in the entertainment industry, a soft voice echoes from the speakers, sounding almost hesitant to do so. It’s more common than you might think…

“It didn’t turn out to be anything super dangerous, but still, I wasn’t exactly happy. I’m sure you can guess why. I was this close to calling up their agent and giving him a piece of my mind, but I figured they needed me more. By the time morning rolled around I think I was as tired as they were, drinking coffee like water and dead on my feet. I don’t remember much about that, just this one thing. There was this one doctor there who worked well with kids, or maybe she mentioned having some - Jekyll, I think her name was? I remember her and I remember her asking me to fill out the paperwork so she could perform a forensic exam. I don’t think I’ve ever been more awake than I was then, and only for a minute or two.”

A single spotlight illuminates a single spot at the very center of the stage. Nobody stands beneath it, even as the music cuts out again and straining voices syncopate back and forth. The Manager’s voice and someone else’s - the mother of the Brothers Day and Night. I’m so sorry, Mr. Seville. It might be nothing, but it’s better to make sure.

Why would you even-

I don’t know if you heard, but one of the other boys - the younger one - said some things that imply… You might have been dozing off.

The lights flicker to reveal the same four on an empty stage. Do whatever you need to, then… just keep it discreet.

“That was earlier this year. He was still twelve then, eleven when he first went on tour. Apparently Hollywood seems to think that’s enough. I guess I never really thought about why so many stars go off the deep end. I wish I had. Then maybe I’d only have the boys to think about and not people like Billy Joe Cobra or Marilyn Monroe.”

The screechy, ear-bleeding sound of a mic’s feedback, signal looping. It’s loud. So loud that no one can hear whatever is being said. Then it stops, abruptly, and the doctors’ voice says, Alright, so quietly that the crowd doesn’t hear. If you’re sure…

I am.

“In California, doctors are mandated reporters. Basically what that means is that no matter what you say to them, they have to call the cops for you and if you don’t want to press charges then you’ll have to talk to them. It’s even more extreme with child abuse, for obvious reasons. That’s technically what’s supposed to happen, but when she told me… I pretty much begged her not to. I know how that sounds, but hear me out. The last thing the kids needed was a media circus with them at the center. They were safe with me and quite frankly I was more concerned about what the press might do to them. I told her that and for some reason she listened to it. Maybe it was a miracle, but I think it’s a lot more likely she just had bad experiences with the police.”

Besides, it’s not like we know exactly what happened yet.

The curtains have fallen now, exit lights lit and orange-clad ushers going up and down the rows. The Manager crouches in the real brightness on the other side, peeking between the cloth every now and then while the boys sit cross-legged on the floor around him. Are you okay?

Not… really?

“I got the full story later, or a confusing three-part version starting with what the other two knew and ending with what he didn’t want to tell me. It probably didn’t happen the way you’re thinking. It wasn’t just him and it wasn’t their agent. There are a lot more ways to win over sponsors or to get record deals than what I thought of - in a way that’s almost worse, isn’t it?”

They only ever did that to him. The one with glasses looks warily at the microphone. But that doesn’t mean-

Does kissing count? the one in green pipes up. If you do it the grown-up way?

“I won’t pretend like I know all the details, but what I do… I don’t want it turned into some massive scandal. I don’t want people to look at them and call them liars and say things about them they aren’t ready to hear. They’re just kids and I want to protect them. They love music, they love performing, and I don’t want to ruin their careers. They’re just kids.”

The Manager and the boys take the steps again, four bodies settling at the midway point between the stage and the ground. Then the track changes and a new group treads the boards beneath the lights. The glasses-wearing man with his tombstone smile, flocked by a trio of other children - girls. A bespectacled brown-haired girl with a beanpole physique, a plump blonde with swinging pigtails, and a redhead dressed in varying hues of pink. They look at him the way the boys did, with stars in their eyes. When they sing, people stop and listen.

“I saw on TV that he has new talent now. Some girl group, or maybe it’s one girl and her backup - I know one of them is really the face of the band.” The Manager picks at his hand thoughtfully and then pushes his hair back. “They’re kids too and I feel like I should say something before he goes and lets one of their sponsors do something to one of them. But I’ve got to look after my own boys. They don’t owe the world anything, it doesn’t own them. They’re just kids.”

Chapter 19: *CSA* (Owl House) A Story about the Gemini

Summary:

W: child molestation, drugging, parental neglect, major health problems (Emira's is Turner syndrome, if you're wondering).

“Only one of us should really… be here.”

“But we don’t know which one.”

Hecate’s sister and brother stand back to back. His skin is as fair as hers; her eyes are like his, the same shade of golden-honey brown. They’ve dyed their hair the same color, a handsome shade of hunter green, thick and shiny with his sprayed up and hers in a long, tied braid. They both have beauty marks, but in different places, just below his right eye and her left. There’s some resemblance to their little sister (who isn’t here at the moment), but more with each other than anyone else; and how alike they are. When they move quickly, it is easy to lose track of who is who. That spark they shared on their younger sister’s tape has dampened slightly, but it has not gone out.

“Now, how do we begin this? For starters… Oh, I know!” Pollux nudges her brother in the arm, elbowing him. “Tell them about us.”

“Huh?” Castor blinks slowly and cocks his head to one side, thoroughly confused. “Aren’t we already doing that?”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Gemini flicker into focus, one after the other on the static-rippled tape. She appears first, then he does, outlined in black and white TV fuzz. They are switched out, one and then the other, every time the film flickers: in the same bedroom; walking down the same hallway. He is her shadow spread across the floor, she is his reflection in a mirror or a window. They share the screen, but they are never really together.

“We’re twins, duh. That’s pretty obvious, what’s not so obvious is what kind.”

“The doctors think we either are, or were going to be, identical, but something happened while Mom was pregnant that got us all… jumbled. Something about her losing a chromosome or it not developing properly or… blah blah blah, icky science stuff. Anyway, that’s why we look so much alike. That’s going to come up later so try to keep track.”

Castor and Pollux (or is it the other way around?) are a baby with a little round mole, switching sides with abounding frequency. They lie in their crib for hours, surrounded by wires and medications and machines. The equipment is less as they get bigger, but it takes a long time to disappear.

“Medical problems.” Pollux flaps her hand dismissively. “I guess it’s not really that weird, is it? A lot of twins are preemies and so were we, plus I’ve got my whole… thing. I’m still taking stuff for that, estrogen and growth hormones, and he’s got a really severe dairy allergy, but at least no one’s hooked up to a ventilator anymore.”

“Yay for breathing?” Castor squawks as his sister hits him with her braid. “Gack!”

Two years pass and then the Gemini share another thing - Hecate. She lies in their old cradle and alternately, her sister-brother-sister-brother-siblings reach in, prodding her and poking her and pulling hair, too young to really understand that they should stop what they’re doing.

“Okay, so maybe we aren’t the best at older sibling-ing, but c’mon. You’ve met Mittens, right? Our baby sister was just so… serious and full of herself. What were we supposed to do? Not tease?”

“It’s what big brothers do… and big sisters. No harm in that, right?”

Hecate sits in the windowsill, reading a book that looks too heavy for her, when Pollux sees. He runs up and the younger girl lets out a yelp of indignation as her sister snatches the thing from her hands.

Well, well… what do we have here?

Come on, Edric! Give that back!

She doesn’t until Hecate stamps her foot down and Castor lets go, crying out, Moooooom!

“We’re sorry. Especially with everything that’s… after everything that happened with that girl.” A dark look of guilt and anger passes over Pollux’s face now, but fades quickly, replaced by a quiet kind of sadness. “We were just kids, and it wasn’t really malicious - I know, I know, that’s not an excuse. Still, I wish someone had told us to be better. They never did though, I don’t know why.”

“Mittens probably told you that our parents didn’t punish us when they should have, she’s always going off about how unfair that is of them. It’s not… wrong, not exactly, but there was a lot more to it than that.”

A child-sized suit morphs into a dark green dress, wavering back and forth between the two. Castor puts it on and prances down to dinner, curtseying like the proper lady as her parents' friends coo. Pollux knows the difference between the salad and dessert fork and doesn’t try to eat the garnish once her plate has been cleaned. Hecate does.

“Mom and Dad… expect a lot from us. Mittens, Castor here, me… I guess we played our part the best and learned the fastest that we had to play along.”

“We’re good with people. We smooth things over and she lashes out. Charisma… well, I guess you’d know about that wouldn’t you? Some people are really good at drawing you in - oh! Like an anglerfish! That’s us. That’s why we thought…”

The Gemini, still young enough to believe in Santa Claus, get the same wad of gum stuck in their hair on a trip somewhere that - to a pair of rambunctious children - seems very far away. They of course blame Hecate and are believed, but have to sit with their heads together for what feels like hours on the way to their mother’s favored stylist (and the only one who will do, in her words). The double-haircut that results from this is something their parents call long for a boy and short for a girl and almost exactly the same.

“You can tell the difference between us now, but back then it was a lot harder. You know how younger girls look like boys and younger boys look like girls? Well we look like each other, so you can imagine how that went, can’t you?”

“Our parents had us in pink and blue for months until her hair grew out, just so they could figure out who was who. That’s probably around the time when whatever happened did.” Castor stops, biting his lower lip. “But we don’t know for sure.”

There’s a man with blond hair perched all straight-backed in one of the likewise chairs in the downstairs sitting room. He’s clean-looking and well dressed, with just one wide blue eye that seems to stare right through Pollux, right down to the marrow well past the bones and skin. His mother looks up when she sees her, grinning brightly as she pours black coffee into a mug from the cabinet above the kitchen sink. Edric, she says, Emira, this is Mr. Cipher, he works at the college. Don’t be rude now, say hello. Castor does.

Hey, kids, says the man after her mother’s left the room, holding out his cup. You want some?

“We aren’t sure who did it… or what it was they did.” Pollux reaches out for her brother and grabs his hand, Castor’s fingers intertwining with her own.

“We don’t know anything.”

You have a lovely home, my dear Mrs. Blight. Castor peeks into the dining room, eyes lighting on the table and the figure of an enormous man with his hair slicked back. She gags, hit by the strong, unexpected scent of cologne and aftershave running together with pomade and good French wine. His eyebrows shoot skyward when he sees Pollux. Oh my! Who are these handsome little devils?

Emira, his father sniffs distastefully, and Edric, our two oldest. Who should be in bed.

Nonsense, laughs the man at the table, the more the merrier. And she’s allowed to sit down.

“Our parents actually kept some very weird company. They didn’t know they were weird, but… it could have been… a lot of people, actually.”

“Thankfully, as far as we know, it only happened once… Wow, feels kinda weird to call something like that lucky.”

Castor is hauled to dinner at the house of her father’s friend in a pressed suit and pearl earrings. I want you on your best behavior tonight, understand? The Dancer’s outer demon welcomes them all inside, eyes glinting as they pass over his near-translucent face.

Edric and… Emira, wasn't it? As he speaks, his lip curls ever so slightly. How exotic.

“I guess you could say that in some ways we grew up pretty quickly and in others… Well, you can’t really expect us not to be kids anymore.”

“We started to act out more as we got older. I’d say it might have been a subconscious thing because of… uh, but we both did it so there’s probably more to it than that. Whatever, something happened and life goes on.”

The snap of a camera; the taste of something hot and bitter and sickly sweet; a low voice, but with its words covered up and blurred by memory’s bleeding blue notebook lines. Something like an animal’s howling, raw and chaotic and unrestrained; a name that starts with an E. This isn’t something Pollux remembers well enough to know that he ought to remember it, or something she felt enough to know what happened and to who. He ignores the lingering feeling of not-rightness that clings to her like an adhesive to his skin - and waking up in the bathtub with her mother scrubbing something… somewhere. It’s nothing, dear, you’re just a little… dirty is all. Here, drink this, now… go back to sleep. Remember, it was all just a bad dream. Her hair grows out and his is cut shorter and, just as Castor said, life goes on. Their parents still have their strange friends over, but now the Gemini are sent to their rooms and told to stay there, keeping Hecate out of the way as well.

“After that, or during or… everything was mostly normal. Normal for us anyway. Cas and I don’t really have any other friends but each other - our parents didn’t want us associating with anyone that might be… a lot of things, like disabled or queer or not White - so maybe that part was a bit weird, but we had school and all that.”

“See we’re good at that - school - and only partly because of cheat- ow!” He glares at his sister. “I was joking! Geez. Anyway, yeah. We went to school, made a public nuisance of ourselves and made fun of our sister. Normal things.”

Pollux enters highschool. Friendships are short-lived and girlfriends never stay that long, relationships tiptoeing around their parents’ field of vision until the arms-length acquaintance gets tired of this or Castor gets bored. Hecate joins her sister two years later and a familiar sequence begins to unfold.

“We’ve already been over that part.” Pollux clenches her wrist with one hand and holds it there, frowning hard. “Maybe our parents were right about a few things.”

“I mean, sure, that whole status stuff is bullshit, but maybe it’s… safer not to have any real friends. Then again, we’re her family…”

Hoodie girl from Hecate’s tape, crouched over her. Castor giggling from the door, tearing off down the hall. Later she smirks at her plate through most of dinner. Mittens has a girlfriend~ The color drains from his face when her sister lies. Convincingly.

Emira! Edric! Go to your room! He does, quickly.

“It’s our fault for not doing anything, but we really didn’t know. Neither of us… it looked like she was into… ugh.” Pollux makes a face. “Sorry, this is just so weird. I mean, I don’t wanna talk about my sister that way. Gross!”

“Gross or not-” and Castor really does look like he agrees, “-the point still stands. We thought she wanted it.”

Amity? Castor calls out gently, knuckles rapping on her sister’s door. Hey, Mittens, it’s us. Can we… His voice breaks. Look, Ed and me… we’re sorry. Are you-

GO AWAY!

“She might never want to speak to us again and I can’t blame her after we let… we let it happen. But we’re trying to be better now. Really.”

“Especially now that… we know how it must feel to be… yeah. Well, one of us… but we’re sharing. We always shared everything else.”

He gets the mail while her parents are working and his sister is locked inside the house, inside her room (leafing through that Azura book over and over, though Pollux doesn’t know about that part). Inside the letterbox is an envelope with no return address. E. Blight, it says. Curiously, he opens it and promptly lets out a shriek.

“Inside there was a picture - okay, it was a few pictures, but they were all lousy ones. It looked like whoever took them used one of those instants and had really shaky hands. There’s… a picture of someone from the chin down and someone else… but you can’t really see their faces.”

“One of them is-” Castor glances at the Norn and winces. “… probably a guy? He has a… um… and you can’t really tell with the other person there, but… they’re a lot smaller. And neither of them are wearing clothes.”

One arm visible; a finger in the way; a bare chest. The mystery photographer leans over a smaller figure, captured from the chin down. In the shadows lies another small bundle of arms and legs and shorn hair. This one is fully clothed but it’s too dark to see what they’re wearing. Stitch marks from old, old sutures.

“It had to have been one of us. Even if we couldn’t see the face all the way… Uh, E- Cas, could you…?” Pollux motions for Castor to do… something. Slowly, he lifts up his shirt. “When we were kids… We were born premature. The doctors had to poke and prod and one thing they did to save us was emergency heart surgery. The scar’s still there, see? It was brighter when we were younger, though, and in the picture it’s pink. That along with the other stuff… it has to be us.”

“One of us.”

Castor looks into the bathroom mirror at Pollux, trembling as she splashes water on his face. The sharp smell of bile hangs thick in the air and doesn’t dissipate when the reel jumps again and the Gemini switch place.

What are we gonna do? We should tell Mom and-

No! Her voice is sharp even as it wavers. No, we can’t do that.

Why?

Why? Are you thick?! he snaps. Because of Amity!

“We’ve hurt her enough already.” Pollux takes one hand and twists her whole braid around it, her breath coming in little half-disciplined gasps. “She doesn’t have to know we came here. We can keep this between us.”

“We always have.” Castor’s leg bounces a mile a minute, up-and-down up-and-down without any sign of stopping. “Besides… I don’t really want to find out. That might be even worse than not being sure.”

Chapter 20: (iCarly) A Story about the Surrealist Unburned

Summary:

TW: rape, partner abuse, schizophrenia, fire/pyrophobia, suicide, medication use, illegal drugs reference.

“You know how a lot of the time really famous artists tend to, like… go off the rails?”

The Surrealist is a portrait of constant movement, a blur of neon colors and calloused hands and an expression like he smells something burning. He has brown hair that almost reaches his shoulders and strange things in his coat pockets, and paint and grease and glue bits staining his clothes and fingers. He’s the one that paid for art supplies after a fight with Miss Normal ended with the Heiress eating most of the blue crayons - he’s on good terms with most of the kids just for that - but sometimes his vision is divided. Sometimes he jumps at things that aren’t there.

“So, I’m a sculptor. That’s close enough, I guess. Most of the time when people talk about this stuff they mean writers or painters, but lemme tell you…” He rolls his eyes. “We sculptors chug plenty of the good ol’ genetic Kool-Aid… wait, that doesn’t sound like I’m talking about… you know, mouth stuff, does it?”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Surrealist pounds on the door of a blockhouse on a military base. Mom! It’s Spencer, open up! He runs to one of the windows. It doesn’t give. He hits it harder. Mom… He slumps, still pounding feebly against the glass, until the sound of a baby’s crying tears him away. There’s a little dark-haired creature behind him, lying in a bassinet on the deck with a note taped to her middle. I’m sorry; that’s the main thing it says.

“My mother was kinda… she was schizophrenic. It doesn’t really work the way people are used to seeing on TV. She wasn’t killing people for the devil or anything like that. Actually, she didn’t even hear voices, and a lot of people don’t, it was more… she’d get really paranoid about people watching us or reading our minds. At least, when she wasn’t taking her pills. She usually did… at least until my sister was born. You can be on antipsychotics while pregnant, no big whoop, but there were complications afterwards. A lot of people have never heard of postpartum psychosis, but it’s a thing and if you’re already psychotic - even if you’re on the drugs for it - it can make your symptoms a lot worse. I don’t know what hers were exactly. I was thirteen and I think Mom and Dad wanted to shield me from some of it. Maybe they should have explained it better because I came home from school one day and found my sister on the porch with a suicide note on her stomach. Mom had locked all the doors and windows, and this was before everyone had a cell phone all the time so when I went to the neighbors' and the police finally got there…”

The Surrealist enters the house with his sister in his arms, bouncing up and down on his hip. A man in a dark blue uniform walks in behind them, hand on the older child’s arm. I’ll take Carly, he says gently, you just pack.

“I grew up on a few different military bases. Dad’s in the Air Force so we moved around a lot, whenever he got stationed somewhere new. That’s part of why I offered to look after my little sister, I thought it’d be good for her to settle down. Anyway, for most of my kid-itude we lived in these block houses paid for by the military, with a bunch of other officers and their kids. Some of the houses were spanking new and… a lot weren’t. When my mom… We had a gas stove she blew out the burners on and waited. They let us switch places after that, but that smell…” His nose wrinkles. “That smell…”

The Surrealist dreams of that stench. Like rotten eggs or sulfur, fire hanging over him like a shroud on unshed rain before a thunderstorm. He wakes up in a cold sweat to his sister crying out from her crib in the next room or climbing up beside him or standing in the doorway, clutching her throat and wheezing, Spencer, I can’t breathe.

“Like I said, Dad’s in the Air Force so he was kinda busy most of the time. Mom couldn’t really look after us even before, but I was almost big enough. So I kinda stepped up to the plate and kinda… became her…? In more ways than one - no, not like the Replacement, something else - but for now it’s just the house stuff that’s important. I was the one who made sure my sister brushed her teeth and went to bed on time and all that junk. I still carry around an inhaler in case she gets another one of her asthma attacks, and she hasn’t in years. I guess I got pretty okay at it… used to it. She still has all her limbs and squishy bits. I’ll admit though it was kinda touch-and-go for a while. She was just a little kid and I spent most of my time making sure she ate or the house wasn’t on fire. That and I had to think about school.”

He reads bedtime stories and cuts the crusts off of sandwiches, catching pages of The Inferno and Fahrenheit 451 in between. He takes temperatures and soothes fevers, and flips pancakes over an electric stove. The oven gets easier to look at each time they move. At eighteen he holds up handfuls of white envelopes. I got in! he grins, standing on the coffee table and waving his arms excitedly. Carly, I got in!

To where? the little dark haired girl asks, looking up from her bowl of celebratory ice cream.

School, remember?

Which one?

The Surrealist grins. All of them.

“People say I’m smarter than I seem a lot. I guess that’s supposed to be a compliment… I should mention the autism thing. I was diagnosed, I dunno, fifteen years ago, when I was eleven? That’s another thing I got from my mom - besides my sister. You know, you’d think having both would be some kind of rarity, but you're more likely to have one if you’ve got the other. I think it’s got something to do with DNA or some junk. Whatever, anyway, I’m a smart person.”

A college dorm room with books scattered across the floor and towers of pizza boxes and takeaway piled up on the bed. There are graded papers in neat stacks on his desk top, graded with A after A and plus after plus. This is the only thing his father sees when they videochat. His sister has seen more, but he calls her more often. Spencer, I can’t sleep. Tell me a story? And he does, every night, as they lie in two different beds. Thanks… Dad never has the time… Um, I love you.

Goodnight Carly. I love you too. I’ll be back soon, okay? For Thanksgiving break?

“I did fine in school, but I think a lot of people were still pretty hung up on like… the A word. I know Dad and Granddad still are kinda. Maybe it’s just that they don’t want me to turn out like Mom. Maybe it’s just that I’m a weirdo. Granddad’s been saying I’m too irresponsible to look after Ca- my sister since she came to live with me, when I got my first apartment near the school.”

The Surrealist helps his sister unpack her bags and suitcases in a nice place in a nice building, filled with riffraff. Wow! This place is so cool! The kid beams at him, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet, light-up sneakers blinking dimly in the light.

I know, right?! He grins back at her, then pauses, cocking his head and sniffing the air. Hey, do you smell smoke? She shakes her head, but he can’t help but notice curls of black and gray beneath the door. He blinks hard and shrugs and the smoke dissipates, and he’s left rubbing his eyes and wondering if it was there at all.

“That was about the time the first of my other symptoms started groundhogging around. Autism and schizophrenia are buds, especially the positive symptoms of it - that’s the kind of stuff that makes you hallucinate. There are plenty of other symptoms like having trouble concentrating or being disorganized, but seeing things that aren’t there? That’s the biggie. Another thing I got from Mom. No, I haven’t told anyone. I… There’s kind of a bias against people like me taking care of kids and after Mom… If they knew, I think they’d take my sister away.”

He’s making breakfast when suddenly the whole pan goes up in flames, catching on his arms and sleeve ends. It’s not until he’s doused the food - and the kitchen - with flame-retardant foam and his sister is staring at him that the Surrealist realizes he hasn’t been burned at all, and that there’s no sound from the smoke alarm. You okay? she asks him and he nods and brushes it off. They get takeout for the rest of the week.

“I’m not dangerous to her or anything, whatever Granddad says. He’s just had his panties all in a wad since I dropped out of law school. What? It was so boring… Plus it’s kinda hard to focus when everything around you is just… Whatever, so I dropped out and lied to my dad about it. My sister knew and didn’t say anything. Granddad said he’d keep it to himself as long as I could pay the bills.” The Surrealist fans himself, tugging the front of his shirt like he’s overheating. “I’m an artist. I make sculptures out of art… and things I find in the junkyard. It’s… it pays the bills.”

The Surrealist builds wonderful and strange things out of bottles and old furniture and learns to dip his hands into the flames. He wonders if other people will ever know what they really look like. Then he drives to the community center and his old college campus with crinkled green and shriveled brown filling the suitcase full of sandwich bags in back.

“And, before you ask, yes - I have been to one of those head doctors. I might be crazy, but I’m not stupid. I… They put me on a few different things, but none of them work that well. I’m still seeing a doctor but it’s not really… I mean how much can you really say? Mostly I just talk about my day and stuff. Mom sometimes… and my sister.”

The Wildcard’s therapist, then one of the Star’s neighbors, writing something on a notepad while the Surrealist talks. He drives himself home and pops a blue pill in his mouth and says Vitamins! when his sister asks what it is.

“The medicine helps, I stopped seeing stuff for a while… but I guess resistance to the stuff might run in the family. My mom’s antipsychotics stopped working after she had my sister and me, and… Look, I have a way with women. I don’t know what it is, but girls love me. A lot. Hot girls… not so hot girls… Sorry, wait, does that make me sound like a jack-…enape? I mean, it’s not like it matters if they’re pretty… well, it kinda matters… I don’t know, okay?! Girls! Pretty! Sometimes they throw things at my face!”

Attractive women that he meets at parties and restaurants and grocery stores, a few neighbors and some friends - one is the parent of one of his sister’s constant companions. None of these relationships last long, ending one way or the other. Normally when the she end of things pulls back. There are a few exceptions to this - the granddaughter of the man who owns the best pie shop in the area, and a history teacher at the middle school.

“You guys ever been to Galini’s? They make the best coconut cream pie. Would you believe me if I said I know the chick who owns the place? We kinda had… something a while back after her grandfather died. IIIII helped her find all the recipes he stuffed inside his console and she… touched me a lot without asking. It was mostly kissing and stuff. We didn’t, you know, do it, or she didn’t do it to me or however you put it. It was… It wasn’t…”

The Surrealist approaches a young woman with blonde hair and glasses, who plays with her hands when he comes close. I’m sorry about your grandfather, he says, leading into something. Without any sort of prompting she kisses him on the mouth. Hard. She’s stronger than she looks and it’s harder than it should be to push her away. Harder than it should need to be.

“I think she’s got some of the same stuff as I do. With social cues and stuff, but she still… yeah. I still eat at that place sometimes and I’ll see her there. She keeps trying to make out with me though and that’s just the setup to my real story. See, stress can do some weird things to your brain-juices and that’s doubly true for people like me. With the fire and the psychosis and whatnot. It might not have been so bad if she was the only girl like that in my life, but she’s not even the only person I know who goes to the same psychiatrist.”

He gets a call from his sister’s school principal and finds her in the office, red-faced and flustered and out of breath. Carly? He leans down next to her. What happened?

It’s Miss Ackerman, she snaps. She’s gone all kooky in the head!

“She was a little like me too, but in… other ways. Another case of ye old double dipping in the strange brain sauce. Bipolar and Borderline or whatever. Now, that’s not enough to just magically make you into a bad person or anything, but it can make you act a little… funky. She wasn’t taking her meds. I mean, I get it. Sometimes there are some…” He looks down and stops himself. “So anyway…”

His knuckles rap lightly on the door of the junior high classroom as he pushes it open and walks inside. A pretty but mousy reddish-haired woman sits behind the desk, grading papers and scowling at them as she does so. There are a lot of bright red Fs. I’m Spencer Shay, Carly’s older brother… Principal Franklin said you wanted to speak to me about her behavior.

“I got her on the rebound. She’d just been dumped by her boyfriend and at the time I just thought he dumped her hard, but… now I can see why he might have wanted to. Even if I’m wrong, my sister said she took all her ooky breakup stuff out on her students, which is a big no-no. You gotta be nice to little teenagers so they don’t turn out all jacked up and start talking to people on Webbit. I guess she didn’t care and I didn’t know she was whacked until later so I just thought she was having a bad time. I’ve had plenty of those what with my whole…” He waves a hand over all of him. “We got to talking, I made her laugh and I didn’t think she was that bad really. And she was hot, maybe that was it. Next thing either of us knew, I was inviting her back to my place for coffee and cookies. The soft kind.”

He’s literally letting her walk all over him when his sister finds them downstairs, more than a little baffled by the situation but not upset - not after they explain it’s just a back massage. The next day she comes home with two friends - a blonde girl and a brunet neighbor boy - giggling and smiling about how well things went at school. The Surrealist’s new girlfriend arrives a while later in a bright red dress.

“She gave me a brand new Pear Pod for our one week anniversary - brand new - and that was kinda… It was nice, but sort of… overwhelming, you know? Gift giving is normal in relationships, but a Pear Pod? After a week? It seemed cool at the time, I guess. She got five hundred songs on it, all for free, from one of those music sharing websites… but still.”

She calls him. Frequently. Constantly. They talk for a long time every day. At first it’s cute. Then it’s a little annoying. Then she has an outburst in his kitchen, screaming through tears about why he didn’t call her back. Then she hits him.

“Maybe if we’d been dating longer I would have just rolled with it. Maybe if she was a little better at… manipulation…ing - I don’t know! It had only been like a week so I called things off. She ran out in a huff and showed up the next day acting like nothing had ever happened. She even brought me this weird stuffed animal which was, like, a pig’s head on the body of a panda, it was cute but weird. I tried to let her down gently the second time, more because she was my little sister’s teacher and I knew who she’d take it out on.”

Thinks he does anyway. By the time his words sink in, the Surrealist’s world erupts in fires, dim yellow flames - glowing and lightless - half obscuring the woman’s face. She has her hands around his neck and he smells smoke - gas - even though he can’t breathe. She’s already up and slamming the door again by the time the air clears. He lies there for a moment, until he hears his sister’s scuttling footsteps on the stairs. He fumbles with the zipper on his pants.

“The thing with a lot of antipsychotics is… they make symptoms easier to deal with, but they don’t make you ‘normal’, whatever that means. They can help with some symptoms but not always make them disappear completely. Even not-schizophrenic people can have a psychotic break after something like… Anyway, my medicine isn’t some miracle stuff that I can just chug until I feel like myself again. When it happened… not gonna lie, it messed me up.”

He tries to keep his sister home the next day, but she pushes past him. She returns that afternoon with two friends and smoke pouring from her nose. Everything smells like a brimstone barbeque, and wherever the Surrealist tries to go he still can’t breathe. He doesn’t sleep for almost two days on end and then crashes on the couch.

“I’m sure my sister noticed something was up, but she’s a kid and she’s got her own problems. Maybe she just thought I was being overprotective when I tried to pull her out of that history class. I’d have done the same for her weird little friends, but they’re not my kids. I don’t even really have custody of my own sister, for the record, our dad does and she’s just staying with me… That’s why I don’t want him to find out about me or that the brain stuff is getting worse.”

His sister invites him to be on the web show she films in their cleared-out storage room and doesn’t tell him that woman will be there airing an abbreviated version of their dirty laundry.

“My sister has one of those YouTube channels with her little teenybopper friends. Some of you have probably heard of it, I guess it’s kind of a thing. I don’t know if any of you saw this video, but she had both of us on and had the viewers vote on whether or not we should get back together. They didn’t think we should, which made me happy, but I was kinda worried about what she would do to her class…”

He finds his sister and her friends at the kitchen table the next afternoon, clinking their glasses together. What’s going on here?

Sam showed last night’s video to her parole officer! Miss Ackerman’s in jail.

“Illegally downloading stuff from the internet is… well, illegal. She admitted to the Pear Pod thing on air… The thing is, she was a crappy person but stuff like that isn’t even that bad. Not compared to everything else she did. But I don’t think they would have had her arrested if I had just reported that. Probably not even if I was a chick. But she’s gone now so I guess there’s that.”

The smell of gas and smoke does not go away. Not that night or the night after that. He hears the crackle of a fireplace, shoots up in bed and yells for his sister through the beeping of a nonexistent smoke alarm. She screams when he shakes her awake and tries to drag her out of bed.

Spencer?! What’s going on?!

Come on! He drags her to the door. The fire-

What fire?! There’s no fire!

But… but… the smoke alarm…

There isn’t a smoke alarm. I dropped it in that pitcher of lemonade last Christmas, remember?

The mood lightens. And the Surrealist smiles slightly. Yeah.

She smiles back, just as genuine. Hey, are you… How come you’ve… been acting weird?

New medication, he says, scratching himself for good measure. I have a rash. It burns.

“It’s getting harder to get my brain to work the way I want it to, even with the meds. And yeah, I’m seeing my therapist and my doctor, but that doesn’t make things not taste like ash or smell like smoke.” The Surrealist shrugs. “I’ve been trying to keep it together for my sister, but she thinks I’m going crazy. I don’t know how to tell her that I’ve always been this way. I can’t tell our granddad.”

Chapter 21: (Pokemon) A Story about “Me” and “Gramps”

Summary:

TW: gang-rape, gang violence, physical injury, homophobia, family conflict.

“Are you sure it’s okay to… be here?”

“Look, if they didn’t want us coming in then they should’ve locked the doors.”

The Palace is mostly empty now. Because it’s Sunday. Because it’s early. Because there aren’t any meetings today. Two strangers tread the boards of the old stage. The first one in has eyes like the Selkie’s friend and his red baseball cap turned upside down with a live chameleon riding around inside, its eyes flicking in two directions. The other boy sits cross-legged on the stage with a half-dimpled smirk, his hair a bed-headed wonder of reddish-brown sticking out every which way - like the Beastmaster’s.

“Besides, it’s better if we’re alone. I, uh, don’t want anyone else to hear this. After all, I’ve got an image to maintain.”

The other boy laughs. “Sure you do. So… you wanted to-”

“Practice.”

“Practice?”

“Y-yeah… you be Gramps and I’ll be me, okay?”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; “Me” and “Gramps” overturn the stones in the back garden of their apartment complex, revealing the ants and worms and sometimes wilder things underneath. The Beastmaster is here as a toddler on a blanket, but “Gramps” chases around his sister - tries to - with a bright orange salamander in his dirt-caked hands.

“So-” “Gramps” begins in a deep voice which breaks almost immediately and sounds ridiculous even before. “What did you want to talk to me about?”

“Oh my God,” “Me” busts out laughing, “he does not sound like that.”

They live in the hammock of space between the separation of their lives. “Gramps” with his mother and father at different times - going back and forth between this apartment and the house in the suburbs where there’s the Selkie’s friend and a brown-haired woman and a man with his hair and eyes. “Me” lives with the real Gramps; the Beastmaster’s.

“Okay, how’s this then?” the “Gramps” on the stage asks, pitching his voice. “I’m Mr. Oak. Blue, what’s wrong? You can talk to me about anything.”

“He’d never say that…” “Me” isn’t smiling anymore.

He and “Gramps” shove each other around the real deal’s workplace, knocking into people and making a mess of things. They’re both doing it, but only “Me” is told off. That’s not fair! He jerks his thumb in his friend’s direction. He started it!

His grandfather rolls his eyes, arms crossed. Somehow, I find that hard to believe.

“He’s more of a ‘tell me what’s bothering you, you idiot, so I can yell at you about how simple it is’ kind of guy.”

“Your grandpa doesn’t sound like that either. Come on.”

He’s ten when the real Gramps’ face turns gray on a phone call and the Beastmaster comes to stay for a few days. Where’s Daisy? Where’s Daisy? Where’s Daisy? There’s an answer to that question. It’s still something that “Me” doesn’t know.

“Sorry. Sorry. Okay, try again. I’ll be serious this time.” “Me” fights against and loses to the smirk on his lips. “I’m very very serious.”

“Uh… right. So, Blue… What did you want to say to me? Is everything alright? You’ve been acting… off lately. Since-”

“I got my ass handed to me?”

“Stop interrupting!”

The boys are friends, mostly by proximity as they come of age. His father knows his grandfather, his half-brother plays with his cousin after school. Throughout elementary school at least, they’re also the only two Japanese kids in their class and no one wants to admit that means something. It’s a resentful sort of closeness though, and they brace up against each other, pushing and shoving until something gives way. When the boys fight they break things; they both break things. But it’s always “Me” cleaning up the shattered glass.

“So… uh, ‘Gramps’, know how I’ve been… sneaking around lately? The reason for that is… Sorry, this is hard to take seriously, I’ll try again. Um… you know how I’ve been spending a lot of time at your- at Red’s? Damnit, this is harder than it looks!”

“Well, that’s what practice is for, isn’t it? It’s okay. Just… say what you can.”

“Fuck you, old man.”

“Maybe not like that.”

They get older. Of course they do. Six becomes seven and eight becomes nine. And more time passes, but not between them. Then they find themselves looking at each other at the tail end of sixteen years, taller and not much wiser and “Gramps” no longer having a father. This is not the only thing that’s changed.

“Uh, so I’ve been spending a lot of time with that Red kid lately… No, that sounds stupid. How about ‘Red and I are…’ How would you say it?”

“You could just tell him you’re gay, that’s not even really the main issue here.”

What was infuriating when they were ten is interesting at sixteen. What was agitation has become tension, though the friction stays the same. In highschool “Me” and “Gramps” finally find themselves in different classes - and missing the other somehow, and what they had before. “Gramps” saves “Me” a place at lunch. “Me” goes over to “Gramps’ ” house after school.

“Fine. Gramps, guess what? I’m gay. So you don’t have to worry about me messing up and reproducing… at all. Congrats. That must be fun for you.”

“He loves you…” “Gramps” says, “I mean, I love you - and I do - you know that right?”

The boys close the gap between them; it means something that they’re man enough to do that now and know why they want to. “Me” stays over a few nights in a row when the Beastmaster visits and then returns to an empty house. He’s horrified, of course, when he gets his explanation - the things that the Beastmaster won’t let himself really understand.

“Anyway, I’m not sure if this is a surprise or not. It shouldn’t be, I haven’t really been trying to hide it, but then you’ve never been good at paying attention to me, have you Gramps? There’s a lot of stuff you haven’t noticed much of, isn’t there? Especially about who I do and don’t have sex-”

“Blue.” “Gramps” crosses his arms and looks uncomfortable. “He’s not really here, and I don’t think… Sorry, that isn’t how I think you should break the news… to, uh, me. Maybe be more, I don’t know, gradual? Start out with some of the other stuff?”

It isn’t that “Me” hates his cousin, but the real Gramps is busy all the time and there’s only so much Beastmaster that he can reasonably be expected to take. But there’s nothing all that reasonable about his grandfather, the way he puts it, and it's easier to ask him to babysit than to worry about explaining anything to anyone else. “Gramps” ends up pulled into this too, because “Me” is and because his brother is the Beastmaster’s friend. They sit on the couch and let the boys run wild. Sometimes this isn’t enough.

“I’ve been going out lately and… messing around. It’s with some things you probably wouldn’t want me getting into. Big surprise there, I haven’t done what you told me. What else is new?”

“Me” chokes on a stolen cigarette, leaning up against an old saggy-looking building with a doorway marked in a bright red “R”. There are other kids slumped around him with the same kind of letter tattooed on the backs of their hands.

So… Blue, was it? says a boy with dark green dye in his hair, his arm slung around the waist of a pigtailed bottle-blonde. You a runaway or were you kicked out? What? He shrugs when “Me” and some of the others give him odd looks (not the girl though). I can smell the rich coming offa ya.

I’m neither, “Me” says and stubs out his cigarette. But my gramps is a hardass. All I’m here for is to blow off a little steam.

“Does the name Viridiana mean anything to you? He’s the one who-”

“Blue, your granddad knows who Viridiana is. Quit stalling.”

“I’m not stalling, I’m just… Shut up!”

“Mmhm.”

He comes home later and later, smelling of alcohol and covered in animal hair. His grandfather is preoccupied with his work and with the Beastmaster, too much to notice most of the time. When he does, then come the lectures and groundings that he never has the energy to enforce. So “Me” goes back out again and pulls harder against the real Gramps’ lead.

“I’ve been running around with some of his… Rs - runners, if you get what I mean - and… I haven’t really been doing anything that illegal. I haven’t taken any money or dropped off any packages or anything, but I have been hanging out with them. And before you start yelling, I know, I know that it was a bad call.”

“I’m not going to yell at you, Blue, is everything okay?”

“You know, Red, I don’t think you really get my grandpa.”

“I think you might be the one who doesn’t know him that well.”

“Uh, sure, except I’m the one who’s been living with him for, like, sixteen years.”

“I guess…”

“Me” drags “Gramps” along once or twice, introducing him to his newfound friends. They don’t get on, perhaps predictably, which leads to two lines of conversation: What’s the big deal?

I don’t like them, Blue, they’re kind of… rough. I don’t think you should be hanging out there. He does anyway.

Your friend’s a fag. Don’t bring him around again. He does not.

“Anyway, I’m gay and I’ve been hanging out with gangbangers. How well do you think it worked out?”

“Do you wanna talk about that?”

“Me” stands back, swallowing saliva as that green-haired boy from earlier holds a switchblade under the tip of another’s chin (one of the friends from Mewtwo’s tape, the boy with a shoulder’s length of periwinkle hair). Hey! What are you- “Me” starts to say, to step in, but then his friend spits Okama like it burns his tongue. So he stands down.

“I mean, what’s there to say, really? It’s not like… It’s not like… What? You think saying all this stuff now is going to help?”

“I thought you wanted to tell him. Isn’t that why we came here?”

“Gramps” may not like what “Me” is doing, or the fire he’s taken to playing with, but he does like him. A lot. And “Me” more than reciprocates his affections, whatever his new friends have to say. It’s “Gramps’ ” idea to go to the big pride parade the city throws every year, and it is there someone snaps a picture of them in front of a giant rainbow flag.

“I lied when I said I was only there as an ally. I still don’t know why you bought that, nobody else would have… I would have told them that too, except… they didn’t ask me. Maybe they knew I wouldn’t have told them the truth.”

Hey! One of his friends nods to him when they see “Me” coming up the road. Blue!

“They asked me if I’d do them a favor. I said yes, because you don’t say no to them. They wanted… They said there was this guy who used to run with them a while back - some Masao or Misao Sugimori-”

“Masaru.”

“Whatever, he wasn’t in as deep as they were, but he’d still dipped out. They didn’t like that, at least that’s what they said. I think… they just wanted something to say to me. And they wanted me to kick his ass.”

“And what happened, Blue? You can talk to me.”

“Me” crouches in the bushes outside the house Mew and Mewtwo share with their foster mothers. He waits for the woman in pink and the woman in blue to leave and keeps his eyes peeled for the girl. Mewtwo drags the trash to the curb and he leaps out, seizing him by the back of the hood. He doesn’t see the others watching them from just beyond the suburban treeline, red “R”s printed on the backs of their hands. The one with green hair crouches at the forefront, smirking. The bottle-blonde girl grins back.

“I still don’t really get why they did that. I mean, obviously he kicked my ass, but they could’ve gotten the jump on me without him. Maybe they just wanted to flex their creative muscles, trick me into it. Or maybe they wanted to see how well I did… s-so they’d know if I’d cause them much trouble fighting back.”

If that’s the reason, then they must be elated (or disappointed as the case may be). “Me” doesn’t do well. Mewtwo is bigger and stronger and more experienced, even if they’re the same age. And “Me” has scruples where his would-be victim has none. It isn’t a fair fight. It isn’t even really self-defense, and it ends with the snapping of an arm.

“I ran. I didn’t know they were watching me and I ran - if I had known, I might have gone a little faster. I don’t know, though, if that would have made much of a difference. I mean I’d just gotten my ass handed to me so I was stumbling already and then they came up and… it was Butch? I think, Butch Kosaburo - well, one of the guys grabbed me.”

A skinny arm snakes out and snatches up a handful of “Me’s” fall-colored hair. He’s pulled back then, enveloped by a mob of familiar faces, gathered ‘round him in a circle like patchwork on a clock. What- he barely gets out before the tip of a switchblade pops out and sits under his chin. Some of the boys and all of the girls are laughing now (though in the latter’s case this is because there are fewer of them); the one with blonde twintails says Okama now and they force him to his knees.

“I tried to tell them that I wan’t gay, but I don’t really know if I would have believed me then. You know, I think I heard Gary say something about that to the real Gramps, about some guy saying something like that, only… he really was straight?” “Me” shrugs when “Gramps” looks at him. “I don’t know, I think his girlfriend just had a guy’s name or… something.”

He doesn’t bite, doesn’t struggle or fight or try to scream. If you’re a good boy, the blonde girl sneers, we’ll let you keep your pants. In the end they don’t, however wide his mouth is open, but what they do is the sort of thing that isn’t going to leave a mark. Everything else can be washed away.

“I don’t remember much of what happened after that.”

“Blue-”

“Really! I don’t. I think that maybe… someone must’ve dragged me out of there. I think I saw…” He squints. “There was a girl with… black hair, maybe? And… a guy with red, and he was White, I don’t think she was, though… She looked…” “Me” shrugs. “Familiar, I guess.”

“Familiar?” “Gramps” asks, his brow furrowed. “Familiar how?”

“Me’s” head lolls back against the pavement, eyes rolling back to reflect the sky. A girl who looks a lot like the Beastmaster’s sister crouches down beside him, with blood on her temples on either side. A boy who looks just a little like the Snowbird’s monster stands at her back. C’mon, she whispers, you aren’t really giving up the ghost that easy, are ya?

“Eh, it’s probably nothing. Anyway… ‘Gramps’, I woke up in the hospital. Don’t know how I got there, but I did and you were looking down at me and…” Something splatters against the stage floor; “Me” turns his face away. “I just, I didn’t want h- you to be disappointed! So… I said it was just a fistfight. Sorry, I guess.”

My fault, he says without making eye contact. I got into it with someone I shouldn’t have.

Well, the real Gramps says, maybe this is a teachable moment…

Who was it? “Gramps” asks from the edge of his seat.

“Me” shrugs. Something Sugimori. He used to hang out with… my friends. Former friends now, they kicked me to the curb.

“It looked like they’d done a lot worse than kick you. Like he had… You know, I still can’t believe you didn’t try to stop me from fighting him.”

“I did! You just decided not to listen and I still can’t believe he didn’t obliterate you.”

“Hey! Give me a little credit!”

“Sorry, sir, your card has been… declined.”

“Gramps” stands outside of the house from before, his hands curled into fists at his side. Sugimori! he shouts at the closed door. Come and fight me, you coward!

Looking for me? He turns around to see Mewtwo standing there, looking annoyed. Another one… What is it this time? Like I told your friend, I really don’t think- Before he can finish, “Gramps” has punched him in the face, knocking the bigger of the two boys (but not the older) off his feet.

“I love you.”

“Gramps doesn’t-”

“I’m saying that as Red Ketchum to Blue Oak.”

“Me” turns pink and looks away sheepishly. “Aw, that’s… Don’t get all mushy on me now.”

When the dust settles it’s Mewtwo on the ground with “Gramps” leaning over him, sitting on his chest. This is for Blue, he says like this is a movie. He’s still in the hospital, you know that?!

Still? Mewtwo looks remarkably unfazed as he reaches to rub the back of his head. All that for a broken arm?

“Then, uh… do you want to be there? You can tell him about connecting the dots and stuff.”

“If you want me there, then yeah, but I think it’s kinda… more your story than mine. And I didn’t really connect anything, I just figured he was lying or you were… about some of it.”

“It’s a lot more than anyone else did for me… so thanks.”

“Gramps” reaches out for “Me’s” hand and holds it. “Of course.”

He stands by “Me’s” hospital bed, ranting and raving and waving his arms to talk. And he said “All that for a broken arm!” Can you believe that guy?!

Heh… “Me” chuckles weakly, fingers fraying at the blanket thread. No, not really.

Are you feeling okay…? “Gramps” asks, eyeing him. Is there something I-”

I haven’t been honest with you, he says, just… don’t tell the old man, okay?

“How…” “Me” swallows and looks around the empty Palace; looks lost and small and ashamed. “How am I gonna tell him?”

“Gramps” puts an arm around his shoulder and smiles like they do on American Idol when the act is bad. “Same way you told me.”

Chapter 22: (Over The Hedge) A Story about the Woodland Critters

Summary:

TW: implied sex trafficking including of children, kidnapping, makeshift abortion, lying, theft, poverty.

“So, bit of a disclaimer… we’re… sort of here to ask for help.”

“It’s not like something like that didn’t almost happen to us, because it did.”

“But we’re not here for ourselves, we’re here for

someone else.”

“Another member of our family.”

“He’s

not here right now…”

“They have

him!

They’re doing God knows what to

him!”

“And… we need your help to find

him.”

The Woodland Critters are an… odd bunch. An eclectic mix that all call each other “family” despite it being clear that most of them are not related by blood. They wear clothing that looks like it was purchased from Goodwill, and their ages range quite drastically. The youngest ones look to still be in elementary school.

The Turtle stands in the very front, almost protectively for the rest. His head is bald, and his skin is tinted green like the Invader's.

On his right stands the Squirrel. He is nervous and jittering, shaking uncontrollably. It would surprise no one if they were told he was an addict.

On his left stand the Opossum and the Joey. The Opossum keeps the Joey behind him; he's the elder of the two, and the girl's father. The Joey is young, but not awfully so; she could be either a teen or a young adult.

Beside them are the Porcupines; a woman called the Sow, a man called the Boar, and three children, who call themselves Porcupettes One, Two, and Three. They all share brown spiky hair, though the adults have a touch more grey to them.

Last of all is the Skunk, a dark, curvy woman who some of the adults might recognize from the websites they’d never dare admit to visiting. Her hair has a bleached stripe down the middle and is short, yet still feminine.

None of them are ever seen apart. And all of them always seem worried.

“See, it’s kind of our fault

he's

in this mess.”

“And it’s not just that.

He’s

important to us. We’ve gotta save

him.”

“Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!

He

needs help! Really, really bad!”

“Maybe we should start at the beginning…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a clearing in the woods. Junk turned to ramshackle houses. A few tarps and tents. The Woodland Critters mill about the place during the night as well as the day. They have nowhere else to go.

“We were all homeless for a while. That’s how we met. We sorta just ended up camping in the same place at first and after a while it turned into… more than that. We got to know each other, and we started to care.”

“Don’t get all sappy on me.”

“Quiet, you!”

It’s not an easy way of living. The winters are harsh, work is hard to find and there’s never enough to eat. Many are the nights that most go hungry.

“It sucked. It really sucked. I won’t sugarcoat that, but… it could have been worse. Would have been if we didn’t have each other.”

“Now who’s getting sappy?”

“Shut up.”

Still, even with all of them together, the tape is a mixture of good and bad. Good; there are smiles and singing and joking around a fire. Bad; no one’s made any money and the forest provides nothing to eat. Good; the Skunk comes with a fistful of cash and some food to go along with it. Bad; a month later she has to look for help to make her bleed between her legs.

“But it was what it was. None of us had a way to consistently make money. We… we were kinda stuck for a while.”

“Yeah… but then

he

showed up and changed everything.”

“That’s just what

he

does, isn’t it?”

A stranger comes into their camp. His face is flat, his forehead large, and he has odd scars around his eyes. He is thin and, like all of them, his pockets are empty. He tells them his name is RJ.

“Told us

he’d

gotten in some trouble with a loan shark and

he

was down on

his

luck as a result.”

“He

wasn’t lying, exactly.

He

was just… omitting a few things.”

“He

asked if

he

could stay the night. We said sure. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

“But when

he

figured out I was… sort of the one ‘in charge’, so to speak…

he

kinda pulled me aside. Said

he

had an offer for us.”

The man speaks of wonders they’ve never seen. Of luxury beyond their wildest dreams. I can get you that, he says, but you’ll have to trust me.

“I didn’t. Not a first. Had a bad feeling in my gut about

him.”

“His gut is never wrong.”

“… Right. So I had a bad feeling, but the rest of us… well, we were desperate and what

he

said sounded pretty good… and

he

had a plan… so we heard

him

out.”

The man with the scarred eyes is street-savvy and crafty beyond that. Clever, very clever, and guileful. He does what none of them have had the nerve to: he breaks the rules… and the law as well.

“Con artist. You know the type.”

“Don’t you judge, you don’t know what it’s like livin’ that life! Once you’re in a hole that deep, honest work don’t pay anywhere near well enough to get you out!”

The Turtle is convinced that this proves his suspicion, but

the man with the scarred eyes

does come back with money… almost twice what they managed to scrounge up on a good day before. When they feed, it’s on fresh food. When they sleep, it’s with full bellies.

“I still didn’t trust

him,

but… look, desperate times call for desperate measures, and it’s not as if

he

was wrong.”

“He

did get the money! A lot of it!”

“I wouldn’t say a lot, but it was more than we’d ever had at one time. So when

he

asked if some of us would, erm… join in, so to speak, well…”

“We… didn't exactly say no.”

More hands, more money. More food. The Joey is able to buy a new pair of shoes, ones without holes in the heel; the Porcupettes have coats for the coming winter. Still the cash piles up and the Critters rake it in.

“We needed the money way more than anyone else did!”

“We’d never have done that stuff if we didn’t, okay?!”

Weeks go by. The moon changes phases. Waxing and waning and full. The months drag on and the group grows closer, congregating around

this strange, crafty man.

“It took us a while-”

“It took you a while.”

“… Okay, fine, it took me a while. But what can I say?

He

did help us out.”

“A lot!”

“He… he

sorta became one of us.”

“He

did become one of us.”

“And when you’re one of us… well, you’re family.”

The Turtle says as much to the

other man

one night.

He

goes strangely quiet when he does.

“… Remember how I said

he

omitted certain things? Well, here’s what

he

left out: that loan shark that put

him

down on

his

luck? He, uh… didn’t leave

him

alone, exactly.”

“His

debt was still… outstanding.”

“That’s the real reason

he

wanted all that money.”

One day the Woodland Critters wake to find

their friend

gone and the cash along with

him.

“We were pretty pissed.”

“Heather! Language!”

“Dad! Not my real name!”

The words spoken on the tape are stronger than any uttered by the Joey. The Critters are furious. Even the Turtle, with his greenish complexion, has gone red in the face. I knew we couldn’t trust

him!

I knew it!

“I wanted to kill

him.”

“We all did, it was a real dick move!”

“Heath-”

“Daaad!”

“She’s right. We were all pretty mad.”

“We didn’t get to stay angry for very long, though - that loanshark ‘friend’ of

his…

apparently he’d been keeping tabs. Watching us the whole time…”

A man built like a bear stands at the center of the Woodland Critters’ shanty town. His eyes glitter like knives in the daylight. Cut; the group finds themselves in the back of a windowless supply truck, bound at the wrists and ankles.

“I don’t think

our friend

knew he was gonna do that.”

“No.

He

definitely didn’t.”

The Turtle can say this with confidence because the doors of that windowless truck open while it’s still moving.

The face they see is all too familiar to them now. He works on the gags and the bindings.

The Turtle looks at

him

in disbelief. What the hell are you doing?!

The man looks back at him. Saving your ass, that’s what.

“He… he

came back for us.”

“A lot of lesser men wouldn’t.”

“I’m not even sure that I would, in

his

situation.”

The man utters apologies and tells a story of his own. One of a broken home and broken dreams and the predator that meant to destroy them all.

“Apparently,

he’d

borrowed money from this guy when he was young and dumb.

He’d

paid the loan back…”

“… more than…”

“… but you all know how interest works with people like that. Tried to con

himself

out…”

“… but that didn’t work and that’s what got

him

into that mess to begin with.”

The man finishes and encourages them to jump.

The Turtle asks if

he’ll

be coming with them.

The man looks him dead in the eyes. Don’t worry about me. Take care of your family, Verne.

The Turtle sticks his hand out. I intend to. All of it.

“He…

well, we’re here… what do you think happened?”

The man looks ready to leap…

“… but the driver must’ve gotten wise. He started speeding up.”

One by one the Critters make it out. First the Porcupettes and then the Joey, their parents close behind. The Squirrel and the Skunk and… and then the Turtle and

the man with scarred eyes

stand (with great difficulty) in the back of a speeding vehicle.

“I asked

him…

one more time, I asked

him

to jump.”

I’m sorry, the man says,

and the Turtle is the last one shoved to safety. The truck blazes off and he cannot run fast enough to keep up. Cannot even try.

“We aren’t known for our speed, you know.”

The man who helped them, hurt them, doomed them, and saved them

is gone. And the roads the truck may have gone down are many and winding.

“We have no idea where

he

is.”

“And it’s not like we haven’t tried to look for

him-”

“Trust me, we have.”

They go to a station to report

his

abduction. The officer is apathetic. They look down every road they can think of. None lead to anything substantial. They take the skills

the man

taught them and use them to pay for five different investigators… and each one comes back empty-handed.

“It’s… it’s been nearly three years now…”

“We…

he

might be dead, but we can’t stop looking until we know for certain. One way or…”

“… We can’t stop looking.”

They continue to look. They look and look and look… and one day, the Joey comes home with a business card and a determined look on her face.

“Found this group at a women’s rally of some sort.”

“And I mean no offense, but… you’re kind of our last resort.”

“His name is Robert Lotor Junior,

and I can guarantee you the police aren’t looking.

He’s

in the only kind of Hell you can breathe in, and if anyone in this city knows where that is, it’s gotta be you guys.”

“So… I know we’re not exactly the most reputable bunch you could find yourselves working with, and maybe

he’s

not either… but

he’s

our family, and

he’s

in danger.”

The Turtle clenches his fists and sighs. “We can’t just give up on

him.

So please… don’t give up on us either. We… we really need your help.”

Chapter 23: *CSA* (She-Ra) A Storybook about the Blood Traitors

Summary:

TW: all have triggers for unreality, body horror, blood, violence, and discussion of the military, and for each individual one:
1) child molestation, physical/emotional abuse, caregiver favouritism, pseudo-incest (they were raised together but didn't hit the Westermarck effect for various reasons and aren't related), dangerous driving, self-harm, suicide.
2) overprotective parenting, discussion of child molestation, false accusation, hate crime, mention of mutilation.
3) rape, physical violence, risk of death.
4) child molestation, physical abuse, neglect, animal cruelty/death, arson, drowning, kidnapping, attempted child murder, mention of parent death.
5) rape, ableism, false accusation.
6) child molestation, kidnapping, parent death, child neglect, racism, death, risk of death, freezing, crushing, suffocation.
7) discussion of rape, gang-rape, prior child abuse, corrupt/neglectful authority figures.
8) child molestation, lying, disbelief.

“This… Was this a bad idea?”

For once, the stage seems as crowded as the audience in front of it. A not-quite-army of bright, loud colors and outlandishly dyed hair. Most of them are women and girls, but not all. More look nervous than not.

“Right, this was stupid. My mistake. We should… I should just… go.”

“Not so fast. We came here for a reason. Didn’t we?”

“I… yeah. Okay. We can do this. Hey, do you guys mind if I-” A resounding chorus of shaking heads. “… thanks. I’d rather get it over with.”

 

A Story about Daniel and the Stray

“I still think your name is stupid. Just so you know.”

“Well, I had to pick something! Just go with it, okay?”

“Fine. Fine.”

Two young women take center stage, leaning on each other like they need the help to stand. Both of them are striking, in remarkably different ways. Daniel is tall and built like an athlete, long sleeves and pant legs not doing much to conceal the muscle underneath. Her eyes are dark blue and her hair is straw-colored, pulled into a ponytail with a puff in it, leaving her bare-faced. The Stray is a bit smaller and a little slighter, with dark freckles dotting golden-brown skin. Her eyes are mismatched - one green, one blue - and her mouth curves up in a smirk as if she knows a joke that no one else does. Her own sable hair has been cut quite short and there are scars on her arms, exposed by rolled up jacket sleeves. In the arm Daniel isn’t attached to, she cradles a dark-colored cat in a bright orange vest. Melog. The Stray scratches its ears with her long black-polished nails.

“Thank you.” Daniel huffs, but doesn’t pull away, one hand gripping the other girl’s. “I… can do this. Let’s, um… wow, that’s a lot of people-”

“Focus.”

“You’re one to talk,” she snorts, elbowing the Stray in the side. “Our… mom. This is about our mom.”

“Your mom. Not mine. She made that clear enough.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a woman… a witch at her fire bathed in copper-green light. Her hair moves as if of its own accord, directed by madness more than wind. Her face is cast in a death mask of shadows, thicker than any gauze. Two things lie at her feet. An infant kitten with its eyes still closed and a babydoll made of porcelain. The fire spits, sparks flying, and the kitten lets out a pitiful mew, clearly burned; but the hot sparks pass right through the doll beside it, sinking into the china skin. Glass eyes fly open, glowing with heat. The unnatural infant wails as bisque eyelids crack to pieces and glaze runs like tears down its face.

“We aren’t sisters, for the record. That was never what our relationship was, but we were raised together. It’s kinda complicated.”

“Not really. The lady we lived with was pretty terrible. Danny here was her ‘real’ daughter - with the fancy adoption papers to prove it - and I was just the foster kid.” The Stray sighs in exasperation, Melog’s head butting up against the palm of her hand. “My parents aren’t dead, but they couldn’t really… the city didn’t think they could take care of me. I barely remember living with either of them, but I’m pretty sure whatever it was like had to have been better than her place.”

“Cy-… Stray…” Daniel places a hand upon her arm.

“I still don’t know why she took me in.”

A half-starved kitten and a little china girl play in a room made of eggshells, pulverizing the floor beneath their feet. The doll has no eyelids. The cat has stripes and one tiger’s eye that glows just like the pair the Automaton saw in the dark. There’s no malice to the kitten’s expression. That doesn’t mean much when the door flies open and the wind pours in and the doll starts screaming, NO, MOMMY! NO! PLEASE DON’T HURT H- She’s cut off by a great, animalistic shriek. A bundle of scorched and bloodied hair lies quivering on the floor, the witch standing over it. The china doll looks up, tearful, and the shadows dance around the sorceress as she says something about bad influences.

“So, yeah. She used to beat me and scream at me and all that other abuse junk. I think she may have threatened to kill me once or twice when I was ten. It wasn’t fun.”

“I’m sorry.” Daniel swallows. “I… In a lot of ways I guess I had it easier. I was the favorite. The golden child. I always knew she cared about…” She trails off, shoulders sagging. “She cared about what I could do for her, and if I could do something for her, then she cared about me.”

The china doll sits at a piano bench - not a toy one, a real one, full size. The witch hovers over her, green sparks at her fingertips, her eyes flashing as the toy struggles to play the notes with the stiff fingers of porcelain hands. The cat curls up on top of the piano, purring in her sleep. Then the doll strikes a sour note and a whirlwind of ink-and-shadow black gathers around the animal, slamming her hard into the far wall.

Now, Adora, the witch says, putting a bony finger beneath the plaything’s chin. Keep. Playing.

Green sparks pass through her again, sinking beneath the painted skin. The cat is still on the floor, but the doll’s eyes glow like lights on the boardwalk. The doll obeys. The cat hisses and claws at her the next time she comes near, peeling the paint off on one side, leaving scratches but no blood.

“I used to resent that, the ‘favorite’ stuff.”

“You were right to. It wasn’t fair.”

“Yeah, but I blamed you for it. That really wasn’t cool of me.” The Stray looks around, tugging at her hyper-thick hair. “Don’t look at me like that! It wasn’t like I was obvious about it. I just… it was definitely a thing.”

“Hey.” Daniel smiles tightly, squeezing her hand. “Don’t beat yourself up about it. We were just little kids, remember? And anyway, you weren’t horrible or anything. You were my best friend.”

The china girl and the mangy, half-starved kitten play in a garden of tangled flowers and living vines. The doll falls to the ground, her leg cracking open. The cat is trampled underfoot when the witch comes running. Adora! she cries out before turning accusatory eyes on the animal. This is all your fault! The kitten spits and hisses before tearing off, every hair on end. She will not be seen for the rest of the day, but later that night (or early the next morning) the doll will find the warmth in her bed that she waited up for.

“She was a better friend than me - to me, even. I used to think that was just because it’s easier to be nice when you don’t have any real problems. I was an idiot.”

“You were a child.”

“So were you!”

The china girl comes up to the sorceress’ waist, and her shoulder when she’s kneeling down. She does as she gardens, a pair of quick, sharp shears in her clawed hand. There are pawprints in the earth, but no cat around. Adora, come and help me - no, take that off, I don’t want you getting dirt on your dress. Cold metal around the ghostly white bud of a not-yet-bloomed lily. The shears snap shut and blood gushes from the stem. Don’t cry, Adora. The crone’s fingers trail across painted bisque. You don’t want Cyra to hear this, now, do you? The china girl shakes her head. The shears in her hand are sharp enough to make quick work of ears or a tail.

“I… For the longest time I thought I was the only one that had it bad. I mean, our- her old lady beat me within an inch of my life when I so much as looked at her wrong. It was easy to miss that she was hurting both of us, just in really different ways.”

The table, set for breakfast. The china girl cries out as the hag flicks her hand back and the kitten is flung from the table and to the ground. The sorceress smiles at her, teeth seen through the shadows. You look nice today.

“She didn’t just hit the Stray. She was always going on about how she was worthless, too… and a disappointment and… just a lot of awful stuff like that. With me it was more like… I was good for something, but only what I could do for her.” She bites her lip. “It wasn’t love.”

The witch woman and the doll in a room of pale green fire. Dead and dying flowers litter the floor - red and white and pink. Gnarled hands and blistered fingers like bloody gardening shears. I’m scared, the china girl whispers. I don’t want to- The howl of a beast in pain from beyond the veil of poisonous green light. The toy stops, blue eyes glowing. What do you want me to do?

“It was love. I mean, on your end.” The Stray drapes an arm around Daniel’s shoulder. “She protected me.”

“Not enough. She still hurt you.”

“She hurt you a lot worse.”

“How can you say that? After what she did…”

The porcelain girl is taller now, with her paint chipped slightly and the cracks wearing through, but only just. The cat walks behind her, kitten no longer, almost fully grown with its tail bent and ears torn and scars crossing its pelt like stripes. The crone stands before them, bloody shears in one hand, the other filled with a cyclone of pale green sparks.

“I spent eighteen years in that house and she was there for twenty-one.”

“Actually, I was shipped off to boot camp after everything that happened… but I get what you mean.” The Stray’s arms tighten around her cat, nuzzling its face with her cheek. “This is so dumb.”

“We kindaaa… sorta… mayyyyyybe… stole a car.”

The doll and the cat on a street of black ice and obsidian, stumble over something wrapped up at their feet. A flying carpet with braided tassels and bright gold thread overlapping with velvety black. Are you thinking what I’m thinking? the cat says, but the doll shakes her head. Oh, come on, Adora. Don’t tell me you’re scared.

“Some yahoo left their car door open and their keys on the dashboard. It was barely stealing. Besides, we were only gonna borrow it.”

“It was still wrong, but… yeah. That thing was nicer than anything Mom had ever driven. And nicer than anything I’d seen the Stray’s dad drive when he came for his visits when we were kids. It looked new, too… and we crashed it.”

Hey, the cat says, let me drive. The carpet swerves beneath her weight, but the china doll pulls it back. Hey, let go! They tussle back and forth and then - with a mighty RRRRRRIP - the fabric tears in half and the two fall hard against the ground, stars shining when they close their eyes.

“The damage wasn’t that bad! We swerved and hit a guardrail, and lost a side mirror. That was the worst of it, but when we saw what we did to it we panicked and took off. That was my idea. Goody-two-shoes here wanted to leave a note.”

The china girl stumbles through a forest of knives, but nothing’s bleeding. The cat runs ahead of her, mouth caught around one skirt-corner, pulling her friend along. We… we should go back.

And what? Get arrested? Do you want to go to jail?!

No… no, I just… The doll stops in place. I don’t like this…

Adora… The cat’s eyes blaze like a tiger’s and her whole body shifts into something bigger, something stronger-willed. The china doll rides the rest of the way on a panther’s back. The witch meets them at the door. You’re back awfully late, aren’t you? The panther shrinks into a cat again. The doll cracks her hand on the floor.

“We didn’t tell her what happened, it wouldn’t have done much good if we had. Maybe if she was a better person… but she wasn’t, so we didn’t. I thought that would be it.”

The mangled-looking cat sleeps soundly, lounging out in the enchanted garden untouched by sun. The doll stands behind the witch-mother, stripped down to her chemise, watching the woman as she works. What’s wrong, Adora? Red-stained fingers yank up a handful of blood-saturated weeds, the roots dripping in gore. Cat got your tongue?

I… um, I… it’s nothing. But there’s still guilt in her glowing glass eyes.

“For a few days I played nice and stayed quiet, but the guilt was getting to me. I kept thinking about whoever owned that car and… I looked up if there had been any car thefts or accidents recently and found the one that looked right.”

The china doll holds a map rolled up beneath one arm and creeps towards the window, startling the cat.

What are you doing, Adora?

I’m going to turn myself in.

“The lady whose car we wrecked was some kind of, like, politician. Like the Chairman is, and Gorgon’s mom. Her daughter had taken it to go out - without permission - and she was the one who we took it from. I kept thinking about… well, I caused everyone a lot of trouble. I just wanted the chance to make it right. To apologize to them.”

“That’s not what I wanted.”

What? Are you crazy?! The cat hisses and jumps to the ground. You’ll get both of us in trouble if you do that! What then?! What do you think Beatrix is gonna do to me?!

I’ll keep your name out of it.

She’ll know. The mangy animal transforms again, into a panther with a pitchblack hide. You’re not leaving.

Yes I am.

“That… was the worst fight we’d ever had.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

“No… it’s not.”

The beast lunges and the china girl manages to dodge, and they circle each other in the eggshell room. A paw collides with an arm and porcelain shatters, sharp and hard and bloodied. The cat runs off and the doll stays standing, then she stoops to collect the broken pieces in her skirt.

“After that I left. I really just had to apologize. Problem was, it’s kind of a big city and even if you look up an address, you can still get turned around. I had to ask a few people for directions and still ended up lost.” Daniel sighs. “Some guy with rainbow tattoos ended up giving me a ride there.”

The doll on the back of a great white stallion with multicolored wings. They touch down at a marble castle’s great glass door. Uh… Ms. Yadao? She dismounts, knocking with an unbroken hand. Hello…? Anybody home?

“She didn’t really get it when she opened the door. She didn’t know who I was or why I was there or what I wanted, and when I told her… she was surprised.”

A tall, elegant-looking woman with flowing hair, flanked by a glitter-dusted girl in pink. The doll made out of china steps forward, withering like a witch-flower beneath the woman’s gaze. Hi, she says. I’m Adora. I… stole your car.

“I told her what happened and that I was sorry and that if she wanted to call the police I would understand, but she didn’t. She wasn’t happy, but she didn’t call the cops on me… or, really what she said was that she wouldn’t if I could pay for damages with money or by doing work around her house… and I didn’t have a job.”

They shake on it. It’s a deal. The cat waits up all night for the china doll to come back and warm her bed. And then it’s morning and the room is without tiny shoes and tea sets and anything that ever belonged to the porcelain girl - save this: a little paper note with an address on it and the map that brought the china doll there. The cat’s claws open, tearing both to shreds.

“I was angry. She left me and I was angry. Maybe that wasn’t fair, but none of it was. Whatever. I guess I can’t be that mad about… everything. I am glad that Daniel got away, but still…”

The cat howls and hisses as the sorceress lifts her up by the neck-scruff. This is your fault! I know it is! You’ve taken Adora away from me! She’s thrown out the door, a kick landing for good measure. Claws slash at thin air.

“She kicked me out like days after Danny-girl flew the coop. Well, not kicked out really. More like shipped out… to military school.” She runs a hand through her short-cropped hair. “Fun times.”

“It really wasn’t fair. Ms.Ya- um, the lady that brought me on… she and her daughter were really really nice to me. Even after I messed up. I wanted to repay them… and maybe to punish myself for everything that happened before. Not just between the Stray and me… See, no one likes being abused, but eventually you can start to feel like you deserve it, or that it’s something you need. Before I had this thing that could make me feel useful… something I could protect the Stray from… but no one was hurting me anymore and I couldn’t feel that way.” Daniel stares at her feet. “I had to do something else.”

A window is broken by the pink-haired girl and a boy with short hair and a bare midriff. An arrow pierces broken glass. The china doll rushes in to pick up the shards.

Adora! Watch out! You’ll cut yourself!

No, it’s fine! the toy calls back cheerfully. I’m fine! She turns her forearm over, revealing the cracks that web the porcelain. She pulls out the pieces one by one, filling up the holes in the glass. It’s okay, Bow, really, she says, tugging down her sleeve.

“I didn’t take great care of myself during those first few years. Neither of us did. I got really self destructive and-”

“I lashed out.”

The doll at a table, her plate half-piled and still half-full. She jumps to clear it, insisting on washing the dishes too. The cat in a cage too small for her, other animals closing in. She bats at the lizard, the mouse and the dog that get too close to her. For the scorpion, she flexes claws.

“I just didn’t want to get hurt again. You know… she wrote to me?”

The china doll may have no blood to bleed with, but she tips her cracked parts over the pages of her notebook and spills out words that drip perspiration and pulsate like beating hearts. They cling to the pages like a leech. The cat rips them all to shreds as soon as the envelopes are pushed through the bars.

“I wrote back once to say ‘I hate you’ or something. The letters stopped coming after that.”

“Not gonna lie, that hurt… but I didn’t really take it well. That part’s still my fault, I guess.”

“If you don’t shut your-”

“You don’t know! You weren’t there to see it!”

The china doll’s eyes never close. She sits in bed, unmoving and unseeing, but not asleep. Sometimes the girl with pink hair stretches down beside the bed. Often she’s joined by that boy. Aren’t you tired? But the china doll shakes her head. Somewhere else entirely, the cat sleeps with one eye open, hisses when any other creature comes too near.

“I wasn’t coping that well to begin with - neither of us were - maybe if I’d done better… Nevermind. When I got the letter, though… I was really happy. I thought - and it’s not her fault - it was the Stray’s way of reaching out. I thought maybe we could be…” Daniel’s eyes trail down to where she holds the other woman’s hand. “… but that’s not what I read.”

The doll in a room full of mirrors… a room that is a mirror. She pounds her hands against the walls until they crack and shatter, but she doesn’t bleed. Pointed fragments of painted bisque. The fleshy, sweat-dripping words pour from all the broken places, overflowing and overcrowding the room until it all goes black. One of the words is Help.

“I kind of…” With one finger, she draws lines on the inside of one arm. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself exactly, but I almost did when I went too deep. My, um, my boss’s daughter found me on my bedroom floor.” She giggles nervously. “It’s almost funny, my first thought when I woke up in the hospital was about how much blood there’d been on the rug.”

Adora? The woman and her daughter hover over the china girl, bleary-eyed. What happened?! Are you alright?! The doll lifts up all her broken pieces and lets them look inside. The gaps in the bisque glow with a pale green light.

“I told them everything. I mean, I was hopped up on all kinds of drugs and I had just scared them half to death. I figured I owed them that much at least, so I told them and…”

A more realistic picture than the ones before: a dishevelled-looking Daniel, lying there on the hospital bed. Nothing is shattered and her arms are there, just wrapped in heavy gauze and around the elegant woman’s back. The girl in pink strokes her hair. Weeks later, the Stray sits on her bunk bed, examining an envelope from another source. Do one good thing in your life and come see her, the end reads.

“Her little friend wrote me something after that. It was kinda… really harsh. I read that one because it wasn’t from Daniel. I found out a lot more than I wanted to hear. But… I am glad I heard it.” She squeezes the other girl’s hand tightly and smiles even tighter. “Really.”

A mangy cat paces its cage, eyes flashing as the other animals look on. A body that begins to shift and swell until it’s bigger. Fur darkens as form expands. A jet-black panther leaps, teeth like white knives gleaming, from the remnants of her crate. Hours later, the woman and the girl find the doll and beast together, a shattered limb resting on the scarred creature’s head.

“After that, Ms. Boss-bit-”

“Cyra! Um… I mean, Stray…”

“Ugh, the politician lady went and called the police while Daniel was all laid up like that. She told them everything she knew and they sent some cops over to talk to us. I didn’t really have much to tell them about that. She always touched me another way.”

“I… The trial stuff really freaked me out.”

The doll and the cat walk like they did when they were children and find themselves lying in the same bed. For a few nights it goes like that. Cyra… I’m scared. The china girl stares up at the ceiling with those always-open blue, blue eyes. If this goes to court…

“I didn’t want to see her again. Maybe she didn’t want to see me just as much.” Daniel looks almost hurt by her own statement. “She’s, uh… In the end neither of us had to. Because… because… she’s gone.”

“It was ruled a suicide.”

The witch woman in a cage while a panther of shadows circles both. The beast’s eyes glow green with flame and scars stand out against night-black fur. In her hands, she holds a crinkled letter as it too dissolves into fire and shadow. Do one good thing with your life and end it. The letters beat and pulse on the floor, spurting drops of blood and sweat at her feet. More fire, this time catching on the hem of her robe and the ends of her hair. You’re welcome, says the letter on the pile. That’s all it says.

“And… the weirdest thing is, even after all that, I still think she might have done it to protect me!” Daniel’s voice cracks and her eyes shut tight, but tears still stain her cheeks. “I-isn’t that stupid?!”

The Stray tugs them both backwards and behind the others on the stage, kissing Daniel’s forehead and holding her as she cries. “Hey, Adora,” she soothes, almost inaudibly. “Just breathe. Hey…”

“Is she okay?”

“She will be. Just give her some space, Sparkles.”

“But-”

“Space.”

“… Fine. Who wants to go n-… no one? Really? Alright, then. My turn.”

 

A Story about the Trailblazer of Mistruth

“The road to Hell is paved with good intentions. Hell is full of good meanings but Heaven is full of good works. That’s the expression. That’s why I picked this name.”

The Trailblazer is the girl from the previous tape, short and stocky and very very pink. Two-toned hair has been parted to one side and she wears a glittery sundress with a low back, exposing a pair of purple wing tattoos.

“I’ve always tried to be a good person, you know. But… I don’t think most people get out of bed thinking they’re bad ones. I guess some do, but not most. Not me.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a child with a golden circlet in a castle of bubbles and pale pink glass; a toddler’s idea of princessly perfection. The woman from Daniel’s story, now in queenly robes and with a gilded scepter in her hand. She sits high up on a silk-draped throne. A disjointed pile of limbs and frozen faces lie scattered on the floor. Brown skin and black hair and the girl’s shining eyes. There are more disjointed pieces than it would take to build a man.

“My dad died when I was younger, or at least we think he did. He was in the army. Someone bombed his base. They never found a body, but… with how it looked, there probably wasn’t much of a body left to find. My mom really didn’t take it well. She got overprotective. Cold.”

All around the castle is a forest of iron bars. The kind that can burn and shrivel a fae child’s skin. I just want to keep you safe, the woman on the throne says. But the young monarch retires to her room of feather pillows and finest glass and slams the door.

“I went to school and she told me to make friends, but I wasn’t allowed to spend the night at anyone’s house and I wasn’t allowed to go on day trips without a parent being there. That didn’t make me too many friends. I know she only wanted to protect me, but it was so stifling. We fought a lot because of it, and I barely had anyone that I could just talk to.”

The sovereign sits by her window, staring out into a starry night. An arrow strikes the window, but instead of cracking or thunking against the glass, it passes clean through, shattering into pieces when it hits the floor and reassembling into a boy made of gold-plated steel. Bow! They embrace.

She blushes. “Well, I do have this one friend. We’ve known each other since we were kids and he stumbled into my backyard. He’d sneak in sometimes when it was late, and we’d have a sleepover. The house is so big, Mom never heard us.” The Trailblazer laughs then sobers. “Most of the other people I knew then - and there weren’t that many - weren’t as good as him. And I mean good in the moral sense of the word.”

A raven-haired woman, with a cloak of her father’s skin, rides in on a monster that looks equal parts lizard and man, colorful pictures coating its reddish hide. In her lap sits a creature worth no description. Everytime the monarch looks at them, they seem to change.

“My dad had a younger sister, my Aunt Esmerelda… she and my mom don’t really seem to like each other, but she’s okay. It’s just that she’s nice in that kind of way a lot of relatives are - you know, where they, like, call you twice a day and cry when you don’t pick up. Still, she’s not a bad person and we love each other and all that. With the rest of the family, though… it’s more… complicated.” She clicks her tongue and rolls her eyes. “Her first husband was a kind of rough-around-the-edges guy who I never knew that well. Their kid - my older cousin - lies like they breathe.”

The pink-swathed royal and the shapeshifter sit on plumped up pillows on the floor of her painted glass room. Wanna see something, Gilda? A toothy smile as they hold up a handful of twitching, blinking, veiny eyeballs in their hands. The monarch lets out a shriek that turns to a snarl as the shifter laughs at her, dropping marbles onto the floor.

“I think they have some kind of condition that makes them do that, but I’m not sure. Either way, they were always an asshole and we never got along. I was four when my aunt started seeing someone else and five when my other cousin was born. I’d always wanted a baby sister and she was a girl, so naturally I was ecstatic when I heard the news. We were closer… or at least, that’s what I thought.”

The young sovereign extends a finger as the perch for a small, pink-feathered bird. Her eyes are a pupiless purple and from her back sprout gauzy and translucent butterfly wings, pale candlelight yellow edged with the color of her plumage. Gilda, this is your cousin Abby. The monarch holds the bird to her cheek and coos.

“We’d play together in my room or in hers as kids, and we did each other’s makeup when we got too old for that. I told her all my secrets and she told me hers, but now I think that mine were the only ones that were real.”

Her Royal Highness marvels as the bird drops in, a glowing yellow flower held in her tiny beak. She reaches out to smell it, taking in the rich scent of the bloom. Gilda! Time to go! Her mother's voice. She leaves, grumbling and groaning and rolling her eyes. The flower darkens to purple and the bird’s eyes blink sideways. A sprig of devil’s helmet lies upon the floor.

“I don’t know if she was born bad or what. Her dad had some issues… I don’t know if that’s my place to say - maybe that’s what made her the way she was, or maybe she just liked hurting people. I don’t know. It took me a while to realize she was doing anything at all.”

The young royal walks through the square of a large village, waving and smiling as people pass by. The metallic boy walks beside her; the little bird flutters behind. She doesn’t hear the song that starling whistles away from the breeze. She doesn’t see the blood filling up their eyes or the flower petals that harden and gleam like sharpened knives, ready to tear open a careless one’s bare feet.

“Maybe I should have picked up on something when the other kids started spreading rumors about me in school. Then again, kids are mean and I’d never been all that popular… and she was a good liar. I trusted her.”

The sovereign at her window, crying into the feathers of the little bird. They all hate me, she sniffles. Why don’t they like me? What did I do?

The bird’s beak opens, revealing jagged teeth. Well… I… shouldn’t say, but…

Her Royal Highness looks up. Tell me!

I don’t know if you should really trust your friend, Bow. How well do you know him, really? I… I mean, he seems nice and all, but… have you ever met his parents? Been to his house?

I… What?! No! No, Bow would never tell lies about me like this! He’s my best friend!

Gilda… the little bird croons. I’m your family.

The monarch walks through town again, nodding to whispering figures with scarred feet and scabbed-over eyes. The bird flies behind her and the font of blood spurts anew. The gilded boy is nowhere in sight.

“I was so taken in by her that I really started to think my own best friend - the love of my life - was spilling my secrets and telling lies about me. I just didn’t expect her to be able to fool me like that. Not just because I trusted her, but because she was little. Little like a kid, twelve to my sixteen.” The Trailblazer’s voice cracks and she wipes her eyes with one hand, nails flashing in the light, pink and sharp and sparkly. “She was like a little sister and I’d always wanted siblings, remember? I was… protective, just not as much as my mom tried to be.”

The bird on the monarch’s window ledge, pink plumage darkened and dripping red. Ohmygosh! Abby! What happened?! Are you okay? Feebly, the trembling creature shakes her head. Tell me what’s wrong! Come on! Speak to me!

G-Gilda? I… Don’t tell Mom, okay?! Don’t tell anyone!

About what?! What happened?! Abby!

“The school I went to was K through twelve, one of those close-knit rich kid type deals. She went there too, but was in a lower grade - seventh, I think, at the time. I was a junior and I thought I was the most grown-up teen ever. She came and found me in the bathrooms… she looked awful, like she’d been crying, and she told me… she told me…” The Trailblazer clenches her hands, digging nails into the center of her palm. “Somebody had raped her. That’s what she said.”

The color drains from the young royal’s face and her whole body shudders, shedding glitter like a snake’s skin. W-… I… Abby… Abby… she stammers, unable to find the right words. Who?!

It… it was a boy in one of the big kid classes… The little bird’s eyes well up with tears. He… h-his n-n-name is… Prometheus…? Her puny body is racked with sobs.

I’m going to kill him, the sovereign mutters. Are you hurt?! Hold on, I might have something in my bag… Hold on!

Wait… The word pours out like a gossamer thread caught in the throat, and then it is one. Sharp little teeth flash in the light as a wing lifts and a clump of red falls away - crushed berries, yew. The bird blinks sideways. Tears of liquid mercury splatter on the floor.

“The guy she said did it was around my age, we were in a few of the same classes but I didn’t know him that well. I think that made it easier to believe the worst of him. And I did think he hurt her. I did.”

We have to tell someone. The monarch paces her glass room. My mom. Your mom. Your dad… Somebody! Do you want me to call the police? I can go down to the station and-

No! The little bird, cleaned up now, has settled on a fat silk pillow. Fervently, she shakes her head. No! No! No! I need to… I mean, I can’t. What if they yell at me? What if they… She looks up at the young royal with overflowing eyes. G-Gilda, I’m scared…

“She acted like she didn’t think anyone would believe her. The guy had money and stuff, and so did we, but… we’re both biracial and her parents didn’t get married until after she was born. Snobby people care about that sort of thing. Also she was only twelve. Most twelve-year-olds don’t… I thought she was delicate. And that’s… that’s why…”

Her Royal Highness shimmers, a glowing blade materializing in one hand. She looks directly at the little bird, resolve hardening. Okay, she says, tell me what he did to you.

W-what? Why?!

She takes the sword and drives it up into her middle, tearing open her own lower gut. She lets the blood coat her fingers, drawing them across her arm and cheek, forming jagged, glowing runes.

“I… this is the part some of you are going to hate me for, but I really did think I was helping. I decided to make the accusation, to say he hurt me. That way at least something would be done about him. He’d go away and I would have protected my cousin and everything would be…” She closes her eyes for a moment. “… just fine. So I ripped some of my hair out and I beat myself up and… I…” The Trailblazer looks guiltily at the Knave and then turns away. “I went to a Spencer’s and used, um… yeah. I’m sorry! I thought I was helping someone! I had to make it look convincing. Then I went to the police.”

The runes on her face and arm glow like pinned lightning as more blood pours from the monarch’s gut. People gather ‘round her as she draws a circle in the village square. In the middle, there manifests a monster. An enormous bird-like creature with a shattered beak and, instead of feathers, millions of blinking, staring eyes. The sovereign steps back, her hand filling up with a light, hot and white enough to burn the world away. Prometheus Prince raped… me. Every one of the monster’s many eyeballs widens.

No! There must be some kind of misunderstanding… or she’s lying! I didn’t… I couldn’t have.

“Of course he denied it. I knew he would. I was lying, but I told myself that was okay if I… if I did it to protect someone else. Only when they brought him in for questioning… his story kind of disproved mine, and my cousin’s. Even without an alibi.”

A brilliant flash of color and energy. Even the young royal, who cast it herself, has to avert her eyes. When she looks back, there is no more monster, just a collapsing illusion. A slight breeze tearing apart the fragments of colored air. In the middle of the bloody circle lies another sort of creature, much smaller, but still with a beak. His feathers are white and brown.

“I said that he’d done it… the usual way. That’s what my cousin told me he did to her. Only… only…”

A single shot of something conventional; an armed officer leans over a teenage boy with lip-liner and heavy mascara, hiding behind blue-green dyed hair, brown at the very roots. I… I couldn’t have done it. I’m… I don’t… Slowly, he pulls his neckline aside, revealing the binder strap there. Behind the glass of the one-way window, the Trailblazer gasps aloud.

“He was trans and I didn’t know it. Nobody did… but they found out after. And they found out about what I did.”

The monarch stops in a crowd of unkind faces to pluck the razor-sharp flower petals from her wounded feet. Are you alright, Gilda? the little pink bird says, fluttering just out of reach. She blinks sideways and the young royal can see now that she has serpentine eyes.

Why did you… what were you… The sovereign looks around and then back at the bird with butterfly wings. Why?!

The little one floats ever nearer, landing on her shoulder, pressing her beak into the poor girl’s ear. Her wings shrivel and her feathers blacken, crumbling away. Crumbling to ash. The bird giggles. Because, she says, just because.

“I never got a straight answer. They suspended me for that one and I was grounded for the rest of the year. It’s just as well. I’d never had school friends before and now everyone hated me and… yeah. I didn’t realize until afterwards that my cousin had basically talked me into pushing everyone else away. Maybe she thought it was funny… Anyway, I was all alone.” She manages a small smile. “Almost, anyway.”

The young royal sits on the ledge of her window, her face stained with tear tracks. A whistle from below. She looks up as an arrow strikes the glass and passes clean through. Bow! The pieces shatter and she runs towards the boy they take the shape of. You… you still…

His expression is pained. Disappointed. I heard what happened. Are you… are you okay?

“I tried to explain everything as best I could and… well, he still wasn’t happy, but he believed me. He was my friend again - he always was - and he was on my side. Sometimes I think about how unfair that is. That guy… the one who I…” She swallows and clenches her jaw. “He had it worse than me.”

Men in hoods with knives and muskets stalk through the woods beneath the sovereign’s window, hunting a peacock with borrowed tail feathers set with living, glowing eyes. A shot rings out and he falls in the brush. The men fall on him with their knives and fingers, leaving a plucked bird lying there. Blood and bone and the skin hanging off it. A cross carved into a chest that still rises and still falls - but only barely. Pretender.

“This part isn’t entirely my fault, but it wouldn’t have happened if it wasn’t for me. I… I… Remember how I said other people found out about the whole trans thing? I guess word got around and… wasn’t the leader of GWF a judge? Yeah. Something… I guess something must have happened to him - I don’t know the details - and his parents pulled him out of school. I tried to go over to his place and apologize, I even talked my mom into bringing me, but… he wouldn’t give me the time of day and I really can’t blame him for it.”

The young royal bows before a man and woman in ordinary clothes with colorful birds’ heads. Their arms are crossed, their eye sockets hollow. Her Royal Highness can see inside them, at all the words spelled out there. Prometheus is tired now, says the woman. Let him rest.

Oh! O-of course… maybe I can come back when he’s feeling-

I don’t think you should. The words in their heads spell out worse.

“He hasn’t left the house in years. Not since… what I did. Maybe he will someday… I hope he does. I really do want the best for him.”

The sovereign walks through the village, head cast down as jeers and stones are thrown from both sides. With each step, her face changes slightly or she grows a fraction of a fraction of an inch. The stones stop coming when she stands at the edge of the village square, hair parted and years older than she was a moment ago.

“As for me… I’m trying to live with myself. With what I did. It hasn’t really been easy, but it really shouldn’t be, right?” She lets out a watery laugh, blinking hard. “Um… and my cousin… my cousin…”

A little bird sings from the branch of a nearby tree. Pink feathers and reptilian eyes.

The Trailblazer clenches her hands until her knuckles are nearly white. “She can go to hell.”

“Oh my. Well, that’s very… negative.”

“Yeah. Kind of the point.”

Silence.

“Do you want to go?”

“Oh! Yes! If that’s alright, I mean…”

 

A Story about Joan Barleycorn

“I love nature.”

Joan Barleycorn has hair like wheat in summer and a deep brown tan, freckles dotting her arms and cheeks. The dress she wears is pink and green, and out of fashion - a floral print bringing the flower power craze of the 70s to mind. Over that she wears an army jacket bedecked in pins - "Save the Rainforest" and "Coexist" and "Peace".

“Okay, I love a lot of things, but there’s a special place in my heart for Mother Earth and all her creatures. The world is one big family! I’m a vegan. I grow all my own food. I recycle everything. Of course, I’m not going to judge if you guys don’t do those kinds of things, but I try to. I want to save the world. The Stray says that makes me sound like a hippy.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the scene of an enormous forest, like a great living thing. Animals scamper through the brush and up the trunks of old trees with grandmothers’ faces. Flowers bloom from ground-locked fingertips along the bank of a stream like a vein of blood. At the forefront of it all stands a massive cherry tree in full bloom, reaching ancient and decrepit limbs into the sky.

“I got into activist work as a child, nothing big at first, just collecting recyclables and helping out with fundraisers and things like that. It was in highschool that I really hit my stride.” Barleycorn giggles nervously. “I did some pretty crazy things.”

The bark of the tree shines very brightly in the sunlight, like a copper-tinted mirror, or a window into the center of the trunk. A nymph girl is reflected in the surface, a hamadryad, a moving picture of dark eyes and light hair. The wind blows and the whole tree trembles, scattering the blossoms and shaking down more than just that. Hand-painted signs and flyers made of reused paper, pins with slogans on them and bottles that shatter on the ground.

“None of that PETA stuff, or PLASMA either, none of their methods. I don’t like hurting people - and it’s illegal - so nothing I did ever went that far. People we don't agree with are still part of Earth's family, right? Still, I went to protests and I handed out pamphlets. That was enough to make some people mad.”

The cherry tree shakes loose it’s blossoms, bowing and bending in the breeze. Stones fall hard and loose against the mossy earth and the girl in the tree trunk raises her hands as if to fend off a blow. A few rocks thud against the bark and the image is disrupted, parts of the surface darkening into fleshy-looking purple bruises.

“Some people would scream or throw things at us when we were demonstrating. It wasn’t very nice, but I guess that’s to be expected. No one ever…” She looks down at her knees, hands clenching. “So anyway, a few years ago there was this big thing with a logging company that… wanted to do what logging companies always do to that pretty little grove on the edge of town. You know, the one by that old convenience store?”

Tire tracks in the soft red earth around the giant cherry tree. Blossom-feathered limbs now truly limbs, spreading fingers in the breeze. The hamadryad in the wood folds her own arms around herself as the sounds of sawblades approach from the distance. Men in hardhats and bright jackets. One swings an axe her way. Watch it, you moron! There’s a girl there! Hey, kid! Get out of the way! The blade glances off the trunk, swinging back in the opposite way.

“Are any of you… familiar with the idea of tree sitting? What about ‘chaining yourself to a tree’? No one actually does that - not with chains, but tying? With ropes? Well I did that once.”

Axes and chainsaws and regular saws. Blades and big machines. They shatter on the bark and the girl reflected there smirks as each broken tool lets out an angry yell. What do you think you’re doing?! Stupid kid! Tree hugger! Get out of the way!

“But I didn’t and they couldn’t do much while I was there causing so many problems, so when it started getting dark out a lot of them left. But some didn’t, so I stayed put. I… wish I hadn’t now. Do you think that means I didn’t believe enough in what I was trying to do?”

The sun dips low on the horizon and the flower buds close like so many small fists. The hamadryad’s fists close too as two men in yellow hardhats advance upon her tree.

“One of them was nervous, but the other wasn’t scared. I didn’t realize what they were planning until the first asked ‘are you sure this is a good idea?’ and his friend said ‘we’ll never get a chance like this again’ and by then they were standing right in front of me and there was no time to untie myself and run.”

Like something out of Soul Eater, one man’s arm becomes sharp and flat and flashiest silver. He drives it towards the tree and the girl’s mouth opens, splitting the air with a silent scream. This is one blade that will not be broken and he swings again. Hack-hack-hacking into its side. Blood wells up and the shining bark tears easily like skin that’s just been broken. He keeps swinging his arm and more blood flows, washing the earth in a thick burst of bright red.

“I struggled. I kicked and bit and tried to scream, but there’s only so much you can do when you’re all tied up.”

Halfway to the center of the trunk the blood stops flowing and the air splits with a horrible, prolonged scream. The other man steps forward and pulls back his arm - a scythe, the kind for reaping. His heart isn’t in the movement, but he slices and hacks and goes almost the whole way through. Then a pair of bloodied hands bursts through a self-made knothole and the bark all shatters like copper-gilded glass. The hamadryad stands in the wreckage; flowers growing from her hair, moss and lichen covering her knees.

“Maybe someone above or below heard me. Maybe I just got lucky or twisted in just the right way… but the rope snapped and I fell forward. There was a big branch on the ground.”

Wildflower stalks weave themselves into ropes, strengthened and lengthened by vines of poison ivy. The men try to run and are pulled into place, held there by the green and flowered bonds. The bark of the felled tree trembles and reshapes - a giant hand, a giant fist. These men bleed chlorophyll and it mingles with her blood on the ground, the colors swirling together without blending, like water and oil.

“I didn’t kill them, but I might have gotten a little carried away. By the time I came to my senses… they were both… they looked so…”

A singular sensical moment; Joan Barleycorn brushes dishevelled hair out of the way and looks down to inspect her handiwork. There’s blood up and down the stick she’s holding, wielding like a club. There’s blood on her arms too, spattered past the elbows like the world’s worst opera gloves. There’s blood on her skirt, in splatters and in one place that will leave a heart-shaped stain. The men that hurt her there are bleeding too, their noses broken and their teeth smashed it. Still breathing, but only barely. Oh! Oh, I have to call… an ambulance! I need… Numb fingers smash into the keypad of her cellphone.

“I… They lived. The ambulance got out there in time to save them and there was another one that came for me. That logging company never cut that grove down, they were so afraid of being sued and… and…” Joan Barleycorn studies her own calloused hands, nails filled with dark crescents of earth. “I know I should be happy. I got everything I wanted and nobody was… permanently hurt, but still, I wish that I had… Forgive me. I’d sacrifice that whole forest if it meant that no one ever raped me. I’d do it if I could go back and hit them again. Harder.” Barleycorn tugs a sunbleached curl, letting it bounce slightly. “I liked doing it. I could do something like that again…”

“Wowwww… and you said sparkle girl’s story was negative.”

“What? Like yours will be any better.”

“I-”

“Ours is a tale of ADVENTURE! And great sorrow! And… well, arson too actually. Plenty of arson.”

“… Of course not. I’m sharing it with him.”

 

A Story about Apsu and Tiamat

“How long can you hold your breath?”

“Dearest… don’t you already know that?”

“What are… no-oh my God.”

Tiamat is a full-figured young woman with dark blue dye in her thick, braided hair. She has inch-thick eyebrows and black polish on her nails and smells heavily of the sea. Apsu is an outlandish-looking young man, affecting a British accent. He has brown hair that's just started going shaggy and a red bandana tied around his head. He shakes the rain from himself like a dog and flashes white teeth at them all. There’s a well-groomed mustache cresting his upper lip.

“I think the world record is twenty-two minutes… or just about, but most people can go for at least one. When you, like, swim a lot, it makes you better at it. I can do ten minutes now, I could go for like five minutes when I was still a kid.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the not-so-still surface of a deep blue sea. A mermaid on a blackrock jetty, sunning herself though the sky is gray and drizzling rain. Anchored not so far away is a sailing ship made of bright red bricks with a number and a name on the side. Blithe and 209. A sailor boy rushing back and forth across the bow, leaning over the railing. Elaysia! Elaysia! Over here! The mermaid dives.

“We knew each other as children, did you know? Ah, we were in Miss Sweetwater’s class. So sweet together. So little.”

“Uh, excuse you, I was tall for my age.”

“All the more to marvel at.” He sighs, absolutely smitten. “You were a goddess even then.”

“Yeah yeah.” She’s blushing. “And you were still… you. Just so you guys know, he’s always been like this. Since his family moved here back in third grade. I blame them, mostly, for how he got this way.”

The mermaid is on her rock again, combing out masses of turquoise hair. Below her is the upper half of a bare chested merman. Pita? Pita. Are you even listening to me?

Not now, princess. Daddy’s busy. How he says this is a mystery as his head is like a department store mannequins; featureless, smooth. He doesn’t have a face.

The sailor boy is on deck and at the bow, but this time he isn’t waving. Behind him is a man dressed like an admiral, one hand resting on his shoulder, one finger encircled by a golden band. His face too is smooth, but not featureless - a mirror that reflects the boatsman there.

“Ugh, right, so we should probably talk about our families. Well, I’ll get into my personal shit if he cracks the lid on his.” Tiamat rolls her eyes and groans. “Maan died when I was like five, and my old man was always working. Always busy. Even when he was there he was… checked out. It was fine though. I’m fine. He didn’t touch me or anything so… that’s great.” She nudges Apsu. “Okay, now you say something.”

“Ah…” He’s smiling, but his smile is strained, like a guitar string a fraction of a millimeter away from snapping. “I was six when my mother died - an accident - and I was seven when my father cracked. He was… he is… he’s… well, how would one describe someone like that?” He takes Tiamat’s arm. “Dearest? What do you think?”

“He was a creepy fuck.”

“You have such a way with words.” He’s not being sarcastic.

The mermaid lies on a bed of kelp and coral, bubbles erupting from her nose and mouth as she sleeps, popping on the surface of the water. The boatman lies in a hammock on his brick ship’s lower deck. He turns and tosses and shoots up as a rapier is drawn and pushed just under his chin. What… what are you doing her- He’s cut off as the sword’s tip is driven up and into the base of his jaw. It comes out the other side, poking through his teeth. The sounds he makes after that are less pain and more gagging. What splatters from the wounds and onto the floor and over him is not red.

“That’s really shitty.”

“Indeed it was!” He smiles with just as much energy as before. “But it was nothing one, ah, such as myself couldn’t handle. I was told once that I have the spirit of an undying fire!”

“Uh, you were eight and I know for a fact that you got that line from a fortune cookie.”

“Wisdom comes from many sources!”

“Sure it does.” Tiamat sighs. “Anyway… I knew him because of school. We used to, like, play together and shit. A lot of the other kids wouldn’t because apparently I bum people out or something like that and they wouldn’t play with him either because he’s a moron. Whatever. I bet their games were dumb.”

The seaman on the mermaid’s jetty, jumping along the jagged black stones. She wears a crown of polished abalone with pearl settings. He holds a sword. I’ll save you, Princess Mermista! Captain Sea Hawk to the rescue! The blade swings and slices, cutting through a leviathan that was - only seconds before - just empty air.

“Our games were weird too.”

“Alas, we always seemed to get in trouble after we played them.”

“Gee, I wonder why.”

The mermaid watches as her jolly sailor bold pulls and tugs at a still-closed oyster, smashing it frustratedly against a rock. Tara would kill you if she saw that, you know? I know molluscs aren’t like cute little animals, but you can’t just do that. It’s messed up.

The thing breaks open and he fishes around for the pearl inside. It’s for you, my princess.

“Okay, forget what I said before, he was even weirder as a kid. I seriously thought you were gonna grow to be some kind of psycho.”

“Erm… I don’t recall anything like that.”

“Rrrrriiiiight.”

The boatman stumbles onto the upper deck, still bleeding that not-blood color. A fin perks out of the water - golden and white. He sees a pair of large goggle-eyes - also gold. His eyes flare with literal fire and smoke pours from his nose like a dragon’s muzzle, and his hand flies and reaches for the musket at his side. A shot rings out and he stands back, staring as burst pieces of animal float to the top of the surface and swirl there, looking like gold coins from far away. Jeoff! He turns to look straight at the mermaid, hands dripping onto the wood. What did you do to that poor goldfish?!

“Ah… I do, um… I remember that one. I…” Apsu flounders for a moment, looking lost and a little overwhelmed. “Are any of you lot familiar with that Macdonald theory? The Triad?”

“It’s like this set of three behaviors in kids that can supposedly predict if they’ll be violent when they’re grown-ups. It shows up a looottt in crime shows. And books, have any of you guys read Mermysteries? No? You really should. They’re great.” Tiamat blinks. “Oh, but anyway, that theory thing is total BS.”

“Well… not exactly.”

Gray lightning rips through a storm-blackened sky, rain coming down in buckets. Even the mermaid takes cover beneath the surface. The sailor boy stands at the bow of his ship, even as it’s tossed to and fro by the gale, letting the water pour down on him. He wears nothing. In his arms he holds a bundle of spotted sheets. Why was your bathroom light on all night?

I was taking a shower.

“The first box on the checklist is ‘enuresis’. Erm-”

“That’s where you wet the bed.”

“Exactly. Thank you, darling. I’m not actually sure why that’s supposed to make you dangerous. Unless it’s got something to do with… shame?”

“Who knows. I’m not a scientist.”

“The next thing on the list is animal cruelty. I do see the thought process there. I still…” He cowers like a kicked puppy. “This is the thing people always get mad at me for. I just… it wasn’t fun. I did it because… I just wanted to have something I had power over.”

The seaman runs along a serpent’s back, blade between his teeth. The creature bucks and splashes, spitting poison and trying hard to knock him down. It doesn’t and the blade runs through. The sailor wipes the gore off on his pant legs. At least it’s gore coming off him.

“I never hurt anything with hair…?” He smiles like he’s on thin ice and knows it. “A-and the third thing is-”

“Fire. It’s fire. He’s a pyromaniac.”

“Clinically!”

The sailor runs a match along his sword’s edge, still bleeding that stuff that is not blood. Fire dances like the painted nail of a wooden finger, glowing even brighter as he lifts it towards his latest wound. The fire catches and spreads to the rest of him - not erasing, but… covering old and new and imagined scars. He coughs black smoke, but at least he’s breathing. The blood that is not blood burns away.

“Now the problem here isn’t that Arson Hands McGee didn’t fill out the triad or that Old MacDonald didn’t have a homicide. That’s all e-i-e-i-o. The problem is with the whole entire theory, because that stuff might be kinda weird and super scary, but also, like… All those things are also red flags for abuse, but people don’t always notice stuff like that. Like I said, I watch a lot of crime television, it’s never abuse when this stuff shows up. It’s always a bite-sized sociopath.”

“There’s a connection between police officers not believing rape victims and the ones that watch crime shows. Nothing in real life is ever as clean or easy… or as complicated as a lot of what you watch would have you believe. The thing is… a lot of people don’t realize that.”

Men dressed like naval officers, who walk in a tin-soldier-lockstep. The boatsman stands between two of them, hands shackled behind his back. The admiral stands on the deck of the ship, looking down at him. Thank you again, Mr. Blithe, says one of the naval men as he shoves the sailor forward. We’re letting him off with a warning for now. I trust you’ll discipline him. He smiles at the snap of the lash in the admiral’s hands.

“Everyone decided from the getgo that there was something wrong, naturally… but they were off the mark on what it was.” Apsu snaps his headband a few times. “Everyone thought the worst of me. I won’t say it was unfair, but… actually, I will. I will and I do. I was a child. They should have looked close enough! They ought to have seen.”

Tiamat pats his shoulder. “There there,” she says without emotion. “He got in trouble alll the time. Detentions… suspensions… I’m kinda surprised you weren’t expelled.”

“Me too!”

“I used to bring his work to him. Not my idea, but our teachers made me. Everyone else we knew was banned from being friends with him so it had to be me. That’s how I met his dad.”

The mermaid swims curiously up the ship’s starboard side, staring upwards. Her hair hangs like a shroud over her eyes and around her shoulders. Elaysia, right? The man that looks like an admiral stands by the rail, hands behind him. Jeoffrey’s told me so much about you. Can I get you anything?

“He was… nice, and not in that way that most adults are with kids. He wasn’t, like, condescending, he was just… nice. He treated me like I was all grown up. Maybe more than he should have. He stared at me like a cat does a canary - like he looks at matches - but I was too young to realize he was probably checking me out.”

Is that hair dye?

The mermaid sinks lower in the water, eyes narrowing. No. I’m a natural bluenette, what do you think?

The admiral lets out a throaty laugh. I like you, El… Elaysia… El? Do you mind if I call you that?

A small smile and a very slight blush; she swishes her scaly green tail. Yeah, you can call me that.

“I could tell that something was wrong, but I couldn’t tell her. I did at least try.”

A scene that is positively mundane; Apsu and Tiamat at the end of a long boardwalk, their feet dangling off of it, hanging just above the water. Tiamat dips a toe in, flicking the drops off. Wash-rinse-repeat. Say, Elaysia… Apsu shifts around, not out of nervousness, but discomfort. He looks like he’s in pain. Elaysia?

… What?

I don’t think… I don’t want you coming to my house anymore. At least, not when my dad-

Why? Are you jealous?

He looks affronted. No!

“I didn’t listen. I should have, even if he is a moron… he was right this time. And if I had-”

“No! I won’t hear any of that now! It’s not your fault for disbelieving. Maybe you would have if I’d given you the whole truth.”

Tiamat’s face softens. “Why didn’t you?”

The mermaid combs her hair out as the admiral watches from the deck of his ship. He’s leaning far over the rail now and practically salivating, fresh water dripping into the salt. They’re both laughing. And he told me to not come here anymore.

Did he now?

“Because… because I was afraid…” It looks like it pains him to say it. “I fear nothing. Nothing… but… I was afraid of him.”

The sailor tied at attention, bound to the ship’s sturdy mast. His shirt is gone, his back is bare and the man who dresses like an admiral has a whip in his hands. Count, he says, pulling his arm back, and this time don’t cry like a child. It sounds more like a belt coming down.

“I should have listened to you.”

“I should have warned you better.”

“Okay, we both fucked up. We can be fuck-ups together, happy?”

Apsu gasps, hand-on-chest offended. “NO! You are most certainly not a fuck-up! You’re perfect! Flawless. If anything… you… why, you’re a fuck-down.”

The admiral sits on the mermaid’s jetty, unfazed by the briny salt and algae grime he’s becoming covered in. Thanks for coming, I guess. She stares down at the swirling black water. My dad couldn’t make it. He never has time for me.

I wouldn’t miss this for the world. The man with the mirror for a face puts a hand on her tail and immediately withdraws it. May I?

Go ahead.

His fingers spread out across the scaly surface. You’re almost a woman, he says. I could never do this with my son. It’s nice to meet someone your age that’s so… mature.

“He used that word a lot when he was talking about me… and he did other stuff. Not… like that - not yet - but he’d let me eat what I wanted, which wouldn’t have been a big deal since my dad did that too, except he went grocery shopping every week. He’d also just… sometimes he’d rent a movie I couldn’t get myself and we’d watch it together or he’d give me presents. Perfume and jewelry and those big chocolate boxes you get on Valentine’s Day. I didn’t think about how weird that was because I was like ten and it didn’t seem weird at the time.”

The admiral holds up a string of pearls where his shipmate could only offer one (and one coated in grime). This was my wife’s - Jeoff’s mother’s - I want you to have it. You remind me of her sometimes.

“I was against the whole thing from the start, but that’s only… well, I knew already what he was capable of. And my ocean goddess is the most beautiful thing alive. I didn’t know that he would…” Apsu’s voice wavers and Tiamat squeezes his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“It… it’s not your fault, okay? I know you tried.”

The sailor boy and the maid on the rocks. Alone together. Please, Elaysia, I… where did you get that? Suddenly there’s a mother-of-pearl comb in her thick dark hair.

Your dad. It’s nice, isn’t it?

I don’t… I don’t think… I…

Yeah, well, whatever. He gave it to me.

I don’t think you should come to see me at my house anymore… He’s… Smoke from the boatsman’s nostrils. My father is-

Would you quit it with that? Your dad is really cool. The mermaid slaps her tail against the water, letting the spray leap up. And maybe I don’t come over to see you.

“I’m… uh… Sorry about that.” Tiamat pulls her braid loose. “We didn’t really fight. We never fight because he can’t swing an insult to save his life-”

“Be fair, love, few are the ones that would stick to you.”

“Uh-huh, well… um… anyway. I kinda stormed off after that and we didn’t see each other again… for a while.” She takes a deep breath with her eyes closed. “I ran into his dad on the way back to my house.”

The man dressed like an admiral leans far over the railing to see a mermaid half-submerged. Is that you, El? Everything okay? Behind him, the sun sinks into the sea. It’s getting dark, don’t you think? Need a ride? The mermaid is hauled onboard, clinging to a rope of golden filaments.

“Pita was working late again and it was a Friday night. It took hours for anyone to realize I was gone at all.”

The sailor boy dives into deep water, down to the mermaid’s abalone palace and coral bed. What he finds there is the big merman without a face. You’re that Jeoff kid, right? The arsonist?

I see that my reputation precedes me. Can I talk to Elaysia?

Is… isn’t she with you?

“The police were called after I went to check up on her the next day. The problem with that is-”

“Most missing kids turn up dead within a day. Obviously I wasn’t, but the thought was still there.”

A room below the ship’s deck. The admiral’s mirror-face reflects the mermaid’s as she looks up at him from the floor. She’s smiling, so he’s smiling in a way. Are you sure that it’s… okay to do this? I mean… my dad…

You said it yourself, says the admiral, he doesn’t care. It’s going to be alright, El. You can stay here now - with me.

Yeah, but… what about Jeoff?

What about him?

“So… he didn’t really kidnap me. I mean, yeah he did, but it wasn’t… Look, he didn’t threaten me with a knife or gun and he didn’t put a bag around my head. He just… talked to me. He told me if I went over to his place it could be like having a sleepover. I think he knew I had a stupid little crush… that I wanted him to like me… and he said all the right things to make me feel like it was a good idea to go along.”

The little sailor boy lies in his hammock, admiral’s rapier buried to the hilt in his chest, going through the canvas and piercing the floor. The mermaid lies in her quarters on a hammock of her own. And the man dressed like an admiral reflects the both of them at different times.

“If I had known you were there, I would have… Why! I would have-”

“It’s alright.” Tiamat brushes the hair from her eyes. “I was there for two weeks. By that point the cops all thought I was dead or else gone for good like most of the people who go missing around here. He didn’t take it too well.”

The boatman stands in what was once neck-deep water, all of it now only coming to his knees. Smoke rolls off him in all directions. So does steam. The rain is pouring. In the water float little scraps of monster skin. Elaysia… The name falls through the bottom of his torn-open chin, splashing up at his feet. Elaysia… There are matchsticks in his hands.

“I believe we’ve established that my, ah, more questionable behaviors before were coping mechanisms, yes? Poor ones, but coping mechanisms nonetheless. Sometimes I could feel like I was in control again… and then my lady was gone and they were telling me she wasn’t going to come back to me and I…” He laughs nervously. “I may have gone a little off the rails.”

“Actually, that’s probably a good thing. For once. Don’t let it go to your head.”

The mermaid swings in her hammock, smiling when the admiral enters. The hilt of his rapier is held in one hand. The blade flashes, reflecting the green of her tail and spotting the floor with refracted light. El… I know you like me.

What?! I… I mean… you do?

Yes. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I’ve known for a while now. The real reason I brought you here is because… I feel the same way.

“He put the moves on me after I’d been there for a while. Don’t know if he was waiting for the hubbub to die down or if he needed to work up the nerve or what.” Tiamat winces. “By that point, the police had pretty much stopped looking for me. A lot of the time that’s how it goes with little Brown girls.”

“I didn’t stop! I would never have given up on-”

“Yeah, but you were like ten and had other stuff going on.”

The sailor boy in another kind of boat. This one is at least made of something that passes for wood, but shaped strangely. Shaped like the Oseberg - a Norse ship with coffin plating. The seaman’s eyes pour with something too thick to be water. Then he pulls out a match and strikes it. Gasoline.

“I started a fire at the marina. Of course, I’d set things on fire before, but never so much at the same time. The flames spread to the boats and got at the fuel tanks and that was when things started to explode.” Apsu looks a little too happy about this. “Naturally the authorities were called.”

“Meanwhile I was over at his house with his old man and things were… getting a little freaky. Or… a lot.”

I… I don’t want to do this, the mermaid says as the admiral lifts up her fish-like tail. I… This is gross. I don’t-

It’s alright. Metal bites into scale and he begins to saw, red liquid dripping from two strips of muscle, skin and meat. Just hold still. You’ll like it.

I don’t! Stop it! The mermaid flails, splattering blood against the wall. Stop! He grabs one strip and rips it, tearing half of her in half. The mermaid opens her mouth and wails. Her tears are dark like gasoline.

“So yeah… I guess that happened. It hurt. He hurt me and I felt so stupid for walking right into all that. You know, like that one chick from The Lovely Bones?”

“Is that the one about the dead girl? But, dearest, you didn’t die. Let the record show that I almost did during the whole harbor fire thing… but in the end no one was hurt too badly. I was, however, apprehended by the authorities.”

The sailor boy stands at the center of a ring of navy men, a circle of cutlasses pointed at his neck. Hands up! Freeze! Cut; they force him into a tiny cell with bars on the door. We can’t question him without a parent there.

“They tried to call my father of course, but he was… preoccupied, so he wasn’t picking up. They had to send someone by the house to let him know what was going on.”

“It’s a good thing they did.” Tiamat hugs herself tightly. “I… I didn’t react the way he thought I would. Maybe he really believed all that stuff about me being ‘special’ and ‘mature’, but I cried when he raped me. I bled all over him and on the floor and I think it all just kind of hit him that he was wrong about me… lying to himself… so he picked me up and dragged me into the bathroom and…” She shudders. “He started filling up the tub.”

The man dressed like an admiral holds the mermaid in his arms and over the railing and above the sea… except that it isn’t the sea anymore. There’s no salt in the water she splashes down in. Stop it! Stop! Help me! The mermaid flounders and splashes and struggles to breathe.

“That’s when the cops came looking, they heard me scream. It took them three minutes to get the door open and one to find us. I was under for four. At that age I could have gone for five no problem, but if they hadn’t shown up… eventually even I’d have run out of air.” She looks at Apsu and smiles tightly. “In a weird way I guess I’m kind of grateful to him.”

“Dearest…” His lips pucker and he leans in.

She shoves him away with her hand. “Not. Here.”

“Ah. Right, well… In any case, suffice it to say I was more than a tick surprised when those officers returned to regale me with stories of their heroic endeavor, of how they had rescued the fair damsel from the clutches of…” He trails off, the facade falling. “They, um… they told me what he did to her. I don’t know if they were supposed to, but they did. That was the worst day of my life.”

“And mine…”

One sailor puts his arm around another, holding up a glass bottle and a very small ship. A tiny admiral and a smaller mermaid. No… he… he… didn’t… he couldn’t have… No! The bottle drops and smashes as the inside bursts into flames and the glass is clouded black with smoke. No! Every wound on his body breaks open at once then, bursting with blood in tongues and rivers. They do not all drip red.

The mermaid is thrown back into the ocean, caught by the arms of the faceless merman. She sinks like a stone to the bottom, her tail still torn in half. No good for swimming. Scales begin to grow rapidly inside the slices of the enormous gash. They grow in a dappled pattern, red and white.

“After that we both wound up in the hospital… well, two hospitals. ADVENTURE!” Apsu pulls back his sleeve to reveal a wrist-to-elbow banding of plastic bracelets. “Everyone at the psych ward knows my name.”

“I wouldn’t brag about that if I were you. Is that a good place to end it?”

“Nothing ever really ends.”

The sailor boy in a long nightshirt, hands in chains behind his back. The mermaid stares up from the water, flicking two tails behind her.

Elaysia! You came to see me!

Heh. Yeah… don’t make it weird, okay? Listen, I’m… I wanted to say I’m sorry about everything. And I… I think I… In one hand she holds up the pearl he gave her and the seaman sees it gleaming in her palm like a blinded, milky eye.

Will you come back? Again? Please.

The mermaid dips her head.

Apsu leans against her shoulder. “I love you, dearest.”

Tiamat rolls her eyes, but returns the gesture. “I… yeah. You too.”

“Fascinating.”

“Um… do you mind? We’re trying to have a moment here.”

“And what a moment it is!”

“Romantic chemistry is almost as interesting as actual chemistry… and that’s almost as interesting as robotics! I have a boyfriend! Is it my turn now?”

“Be my guest.”

 

A Story about the Mad Scientist

“SCIENCE!”

The Scientist is older than the others are, but still not old. A petite woman in black overalls with two long ponytails of purple hair. She’s grinning widely and hopping in place.

“I’m a scientist! I mean actually, it’s not just that I picked the name. I have a degree in engineering and it’s my degree! I didn’t steal it! I got it all by myself! At school! Well, college.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; little toy robots assembled on a conveyor belt, mostly square and mostly silver - but one of them has human eyes.

“I never actually liked school-school too much. It was too ‘do this’, too boring and the other kids never liked me. The teachers didn’t either. I never could figure out why.”

Tin toys in cardboard boxes as colorful paper is ripped away. The one with human eyes is lifted from her container… and promptly dropped onto the ground. I don’t wanna play with Estra. She’s weird. A larger hand closes around the little metal body, hitting a button by mistake and eliciting a loud BEEP; the toy is dropped again, unceremoniously, and left lying on the floor.

“Oh well, college was much more fun! I got to pick what I studied! I got to do it every day! And my classmates didn’t seem to care about my… differences. Most of them were weird themselves! They even wanted to talk about computers with me! And machines! And space! AND ROBOTS! It was… EXHILARATING!” The Mad Scientist spins in place, letting her hair and arms fly out around her, almost knocking Tiamat off the stage. “I did notice one glitch though.”

The little robot finds herself lifted up again at last, held inches from the face of a man. She chirps happily, buttons flashing, then a voice rings out. Gross! What are you doing?! She’s like twelve years old.

No I’m not, the robot counters. I’m an adult.

I mean mentally.

“I’m small, no record of achondroplasia in my family or anything, I’m just short. And I wear my hair like this. People say I look young. My voice sounds weird, I don’t know why. And I act like this - when I was ten they found I was autistic - so people say I act young too or that I must just be young mentally speaking. That kind of killed my dating life. For a few years anyway.”

A room with white walls and beakers filled with bright green goop, bubbling and churning inside the glass. A man in a long white lab coat stands at a bulletin board, squirming pieces of equation held there by a sharpened pin. The little robot knocks against his leg. What… what are you doing here? I had this room reserved. His skin is made of notebook paper, scribbled over in pencil and marked with eraser scuffs. There’s red rimming his sleepless eyes.

Hi! I’m Estra! Your equation’s wrong!

“I had a LAB PARTNER! We met at school! He was in one of my majors - astronomy, if you care about the specifics. He let me help him with his homework! Oh, we were GREAT together!” She starts to spin again, then stops. “Not everyone else thought so though.”

The man holds the robot in his palm as he walks down a narrow hallway. Suddenly a foot sticks out and the human-eyed contraption is knocked from his hands, denting as she hits the floor. Estra! His eyes flash like glowing searchlights. You’ve hurt her!

I hurt her?! What the hell are you doing with the little retarded girl?

The man in the lab coat lunges forward and slams the other into the wall, and keeps slamming until the little robot’s buttons glow in just the right way and his body goes completely rigid, trembling with electricity. My apologies… I overstepped.

That’s okay!

“Who cares what anyone else thinks? I didn’t. He… might. Oh, I’ve never been able to figure it out. Maybe it was worse for him because people thought he was the bad guy? But I should get to be upset too, they all thought I was a victim. And DUMB! I’m not dumb! I knew what I was doing and I wanted to date him! He didn’t trick me! But everyone thought he did…”

A room with a sideways pendulum, defying gravity as it swings between front and back. The robot sits on a high, high shelf, human eyes looking down as the man stacks boxes and climbs them to reach her. Then the blade of the pendulum swwwwwiiiiiinnnngggggs and docks the tallest two fingers on his right hand. The robot totters towards the edge, having turned her own key. It’s okay, Hector. It’ll be better after we graduate.

“I kept telling him that, but he didn’t listen to me all the time, only some. Then we graduated and moved on to bigger more important stuff, and for a while everything was GREAT… but that was before I met his work friends.”

The paper-skinned man holds up the robot as one would a medallion or a family jewel. Everyone, this is Estra… my girlfriend. He speaks to the blackboard and moving figures there, crudely drawn in chalk - a little stick figure with too many finger lines and glasses bigger than his face; a skinny, bird-like drawing with sprout-like hair and a beak-like nose.

O-oh… isn’t she… a little young for you?

Estra’s the same age as me!

Estra can speak for herself.

“He stopped inviting me out places… I think it got to him. I didn’t like that part. I didn’t have that many work friends.”

The little robot spears a word on a sheet of paper, holding fast as it tries to squirm away. And if I just add the square root of- ack! She has hair suddenly and someone yanks at it. She looks down to find a triangle that’s ripped an equals sign in two and used the lines for arms and legs, bending them as the need arises. A lock of heather purple is wound around a tiny graphite hand.

Congratulations, the triangle says. You’re pregnant, did you know that? I can smell it on you.

“I have begot a SPAWN!” And the spinning starts back up again. “We had a baby about a year ago! I always thought wetware sounded messy! He is messy! He’s PERFECT!”

The little robot beeps excitedly and totters in one direction, then another, as finally - finally - she’s within the reach-range of a child’s hands. A chubby little toddler with a few tufts of the paper man’s hair and eyes made out of fiberglass. All of him is made of fiberglass. He’ll never break.

“I LOVE HIM! I LOVE THEM! I LOVE… I loved… everything…” The Scientist stops twirling and tugs on a length of her purple hair. “We had it so good, why’d it all have to change?” Her face darkens. “No… I know why.”

The robot tuts over a sheet covered in equations - or one long equation really - and symbols. The man in the labcoat looks with her and then at one piece. The triangle from before, or one a lot like it. Hector, this is BILL! He’s like magiiiiiccc!

Ha! William Cipher, call me Bill. I’m a scientist. I don’t suppose your lovely wife has mentioned me?

Bill, you know we aren’t married.

Ah! Right! Sorry, you have mentioned that. Several times. Well, anyway-

“There was this guy I worked with. He teaches engineering at the college. I teach engineering at the college. So we knew each other because of that. Still do, technically, I don’t know why I keep using the past tense. He’s not dead. We just don’t talk anymore.” The Scientist wraps her pigtails around her face. “I thought he was my friend. I mean, we spent so much time together…”

The robot walks back and forth on a whiteboard’s marker dock, a triangle drawn in black marker just out of her reach. So does your husband stick around for the kid or for you? To be honest he doesn’t look like he cares about either.

He loves us both! The robot’s voice stays cheerful. Why do you wanna know?

“I’m not always the best at figuring out what is and isn’t inappropriate. Sometimes he’d say weird things, but I couldn’t tell they were weird. A lot of the time I could, but… I can be weird too sometimes. I didn’t wanna be mean. He talked to me like I was an adult, though. In front of and behind my lab partner’s back. It was nice having a colleague that actually respected me - do you KNOW how rare that is for autistic girls in the STEM field?! - but… now I know that he was just…” She blinks hard and covers her eyes. “It started six months ago. Three months after I’d gotten back from maternity leave.”

The toy robot stands on the desk near the whiteboard, chirping happily and not looking at the doodled triangle that widens and expands and grows enormous. Professor Vesselak? There seems to be an issue with a student’s paper, but I can’t for the life of me figure out what it is. You’ve always been better at this than I am. Can I come in?

Sure! The robot does look up now and the shape moves forward, blending dimensions in order to reach her, grabbing her little metal body and yanking her inside. The robot makes a sound like a muffled scream.

“He said he needed help with… with something. Something! So I let him in and closed the door. It was after hours and there weren’t that many people around - plus he put a hand over my mouth - and he grabbed my hair and pinned me. I couldn’t really fight him. I’m not that big.”

A screwdriver twists into the robot’s back, popping it out and pulling her open, carelessly poking at the mess of wires inside. Laughter from above - crackling laughter - and a poorly-drawn grin. Line-fingers reach for the not-so-obvious spot of metal beneath the part that’s been removed, tracing over it and leaving a name. BILL. Better not let hubby dearest see that. That’s permanent marker. No fun for you until it comes off. And… I wouldn’t try to tell anyone about this. I’ve heard the things that people say about you - between the two of us, who are they going to believe?

The Mad Scientist bites her lip to keep from crying, one hand clutching her inner thigh. “He… he was right. I knew he was right. It’s almost funny, everyone hates my lab partner for consensually copulating with me, but they all let this guy fly under the radar. That’s pretty ironic. Anyway I went home and I fed my spawn and my lab partner and I… didn’t. I don’t think he thought it was suspicious yet. Just weird.”

The man with paper skin peers at the tiny robot, the theorem that makes up his brow quirking with concern. Are you feeling alright?

Whaaaat? Y-yeah. I’m just reeeeaaaalllly tired. Yep!

… Right. Did you want to…? There’s a triangle symbol drawn on his chest.

NO! The robot leaps from his hand with a shriek.

“I was just going to wait until sex felt good again and not tell him anything. Time heals all wounds, doesn’t it? But I don’t know if that would really work now, or if that was just wishful thinking on my part, and even if it wasn’t… well, the problem is that he didn’t stop.”

The part of the robot that can be removed is almost black on the underside with overlapping signatures. She isn’t sparking or whimpering anymore, she only lies there in the palm of that Frankenstein’s equation’s hand. Ugh, he groans and then makes another sound. You’re no fun anymore, Miss Vesselak.

“That went on for another few months. Not very long, but… long enough. When I stopped crying so much he got bored of me. And… I thought that would be a good thing! But… it wasn’t… it really wasn’t…”

Reality breaks the frame; the Mad Scientist in her work clothes, bounding up a flight of stairs. She fishes for a key and opens a door and stops dead, bags falling from her hands. A man with ordinary skin and red-rimmed eyes sits on the sofa, a small child in his lap. The man from the Author's tape sits in the easy chair, a bra resting in his lap. I’m sorry, Estra, but I had to tell him! His one eye wells up with crocodile tears. I thought he had a right to know…

“He… he told my lab partner that we were having an affair. Then he left and it was too late to tell him the truth because… it looked like I was just lying to get out of it. Still… I… I tried…”

Hector, you don’t understand! Pincer hands clutch the paper man’s pant legs. Please just listen to me! He… we didn’t… it’s not-

GET OUT! The baby begins to bawl in his arms. The fiberglass cracks.

Wait…

“I… I…” The Mad Scientist ducks forward, hair covering her eyes like a curtain, gloved hands pressing her mouth. “Everything’s broken and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Do you… do you wanna hug…?”

The Scientist nods, sniffling and wiping her eyes. “… Yes.”

It’s quiet for a moment, then they pull apart.

“Okay. I’ll go now.”

 

A Story about the Frost Giant

“I was eight when my parents died.”

The Frost Giant is the shortest one there, a twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl in a big fluffy jacket and snow boots, even in the California heat. Her hair is dark and thick and cut off at her shoulders, pulled back by a rhinestone headband.

“There was an accident - black ice on the road. We lived in Canada back then and not in any major city, so it took awhile for the emergency crews to get to us. I was safe because I was in the back of the car, but they were… It was too late.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a screen mobbed by flecks of powder - clouds of snowflakes like a wild swarm of bees. They beat and batter each other, forming churning, blurring golems of swirling, spinning snow. People made of white, surrounding an upturned minivan, shards of the broken windshield frozen to the bloodied heads inside. Hold on. I think there’s a kid in there.

“The EMTs that found me rushed me to the hospital. I lived, duh, I just had a killer case of frostbite. The real issue was all that stuff with my mom and dad. We were kind of… alone, you know? So I didn’t have anyone I could go live with and… Canada is really bad at this especially, but First Nations kids usually don’t do so well in foster care. Oh! And I am First Nations, by the way! In case you couldn’t tell.”

The Frost Giant walks down an asphalt driveway that leads to nowhere. She seems very similar to the girl on the stage; right down to her winter clothes. A man with briefcases for hands, and pennies where his eyes should be, pushes gently on her back. Mackenzie, these are the people you’ll be staying with. Grey wolves crawl forward from the underbrush, their bellies low to the ground. The Giant steps behind the man, cowering at his leg. Don’t be like that, now. They’ll take good care of you.

“They didn’t, though. They were… well, they didn’t really hurt me. They just sort of… ignored me. It was kind of like being the runt of the litter, where no one cared enough about me for it to matter if I lived or died.”

A pile of dark fur at the center of an earthen cave. The wolves huddle together, their pups in the center of the grown ones' bodies with no want for warmth. The Frost Giant curls into a ball on her side, covered by a blanket of earth-stained snow.

“A lot of you have stories like this. No one loves you at home so you have to look somewhere else. I couldn’t make friends either, the other kids at school didn’t want anything to do with me. Kind of hard to make friends when all people know about you is how your parents died… and again it really didn’t help that most of them were White and I wasn’t, but I don’t think that was the only reason.”

The Frost Giant wanders through the center of a cluster of more moving, squirming wolf-young. A few of them tumble at her feet or nip at her heels. More of them growl or snap. She sits alone on the snow, shaping some of it with her gloved hands - a showman snowman with a great big smile on his face. Looks like you could use some company. She smiles back.

“He said he wanted to be my friend. The guy that… took me. He was a good liar, but maybe it’s on me for believing him. Then again I was lonely and I was eight or nine so…” Her teeth begin to chatter and she pulls her parka close. “And it’s not like I just got in a car with him, I knew enough not to do that.”

No fair! The Giant giggles as snowballs pelt her and as she returns with a volley of her own. That’s… that’s… cheat… But she can’t finish, she’s laughing too hard.

“I was at a park with my foster family. He didn’t ask me to leave. He didn’t really ask for anything. He played with me. It was the most fun I’d had for a long time.”

Mackenzie! Time to go! The Frost Giant looks up at her snow friend with the implications of an apology in her eyes. Mackenzie! She waves and turns and then spins back around when a white hand grabs her and she feels the cold through her sleeve.

Wait, he says. Hug? She nods and smiles and he pulls her into his chest… and keeps pulling until she’s inside.

“He must have had something on his shirt - like, those weird chemicals that put you to sleep. I passed out. I don’t remember much after that, just the hug and then waking up. And after…”

The Frost Giant lies on a bed in a room with a table and a chair and a stove in the corner. There’s a lamp that really works and a ceiling fan that hasn't been turned on and all of it is made of ice. The snowman stands beside her, his face very close to hers. There’s nothing nice about that smile now. Good, he says though his mouth cannot move. You’re awake.

“He had a cabin near the mountains. Not that far away from town, but still kind of out… maybe an hour or so by car? No one would want to go up there in the winter anyway, so I guess he knew he wouldn’t be disturbed… and that there was nowhere for me to run.”

The Giant shoots up, scrambling to get away. She presses her back against the wall and glares at the snow-creature. Why’d you take me?! What do you want?! She realizes too late that her back is bare - and so is the rest of her - when she’s frozen to the wall. No, get away from me!

You already know what I want.

“He… he… got me…” The Frost Giant sniffles and hugs the Trailblazer’s side. “He got me and then he… there was only one bed.”

It’s snowing on the inside of the ice room. The Giant looks up as a drift forms over her, covering her torso, legs and arms. The ceiling is clear. She sees the stars. Then the sun. The snow is brushed off by cold hands, but it makes no difference. It just keeps coming down again.

“I-it’s like… T-Tiamat said.” She rubs her arms, teeth still chattering. “Most kids who go missing get killed after like a day. Sometimes it’s because creepy people just like doing that. This guy… I think this guy was more worried about not getting caught. He kept me for a while. As long as he could…”

Day turns to night. The icicles drip. The snow comes down. Sometimes the Frost Giant tries to run. Sometimes the ice is too slick and the snow is too heavy and she can’t even stand. She never gets past the doorway.

“He had a bunch of locks on it. Like as many as you’d find in a doomsday prepper’s house. A lot of locks. I don’t think the cops ever found anything, but I wonder if there were other kids there before me. He knew what to do and how to do it way too well… maybe that’s why they still don’t know.”

The Giant lies atop the ice and beneath the snow, and the sky changes again. I have to buy groceries, says the man made out of snow. I’ll be back. He leaves a frozen lip print on her cheek.

“He left me a few days in, had to go into town and buy us food. I guess it wouldn’t look suspicious to anyone that he was buying for at least two. I never got to eat any of it though.”

A giant, the Frost Giant is not, and she bounces back when she throws herself into the door. There’s blood on her nose and lip and she gets back up and goes again.

“I had to get out. I didn’t know how long that guy was going to keep me for. I didn’t know what he was gonna do to me once he was done! I couldn’t stay there! I couldn’t get through the door, but… I don’t think it had occurred to him that I’d risk hurting myself by breaking the window. It was double-glazed, but that just meant I had to smash through two layers with the chair.”

The Giant scoops snow from the floor, packing it over her arms. They bulge out like a bodybuilder’s biceps. And she gains half a foot in height. It is a giant that smashes straight through the window, bits of ice flying every which way. It is a creature that lumbers out and into the wilderness.

“Maybe I didn’t think things through all the way. I got out… but when I got out I realized that I was kind of… stuck. I didn’t know where I was or which direction town was in.” She breathes evenly, in and out. “So I picked a way and walked in it. I didn’t think that walking along the road would wind up with me bumping into him.”

A car made of ice stops dead and the snowman climbs from it, flakes swirling around him. Mackenzie?! The giant that the Giant has become turns on her heels and runs.

“I screamed. I couldn’t help it… not that it did much good, you know, there was no one around for miles like I said before. But… we were in the mountains, so when I yelled… someone must have heard me.”

The Giant roars and the earth shakes beneath her. She’s ice and snow and larger than the smiling snowman. She opens her mouth, her teeth like snaggled icicles. He flies to pieces, torn apart by a wave of blurring white, shaping the letters of one, throat-lacerating word. HELP! And then she falls back, reverting into… something. She is once again small, but she is not the girl she was. She has iced over.

“An avalanche came down on us. Not a big one by avalanche standards, but it still came down.”

There’s white above and below her and the frozen girl isn't sure which way is up. She picks a direction and starts digging. A small, icy-taloned hand punches through the snow and into the open air, followed by a head of frozen hair. The frosted child crawls out, breathing hard.

“I don’t know if he was still alive when I got out of there, but he wasn’t for long. The police sent a crew out to find him later. They got there too late. It was almost too late for me too… I was cold and hurt and out of breath, but I kept moving. At the hospital the doctors said that’s probably what kept me alive.”

The frozen girl trembles, engulfed by those swarming clouds of snow. Her body - already so cold; already battered - is soon indistinguishable from the mass and the wind picks up and dissolves her, carrying the girl in tiny fragments down the ice-gilded road.

“Some hikers found me near the town. Tourists. Don’t ask me why they were out there in the middle of winter, they just were - I think they might be crazy. I got lucky though. One of them got me into the car with her while the other drove and they stayed with me at the hospital. They saved me.”

A breach in the absurdity of it all; the Frost Giant lies in a hospital bed in a colorful gown with a dinosaur print. Two women sit in the folding chairs beside her, one curvy and with dyed purple hair and the other a born athlete with dark skin and a cloud of pastel curls. Thank you for saving me, but… why are you still here? You don’t have to-

We want to, Mackenzie.

“I live with them now.” The Frost Giant shuffles her feet and reaches for the Trailblazer’s hand. “They’re good parents. They thought I should come here… so I did.”

“Ohhh! You need a hug!”

“What? No, I- gah! T…igh…t…”

“Shh. It’s okay. I’m comforting you.”

“I… can’t… breathe…”

“Oh! Sorry! I’m so sorry! Oh my gosh!”

“Just tell your story before you suffocate anyone else… python hands.”

 

A Story about the Tight-Lipped Gladiatrix

“I’m more a lover than a fighter… but, uh, I’m pretty good as a fighter too.”

The Gladiatrix is a tall, heavily muscled woman with an undercut and white-blonde hair. She’s wearing black lipstick and a lot of red. The army jacket Barleycorn’s wearing is about her size.

“I was a military brat. Three generations of my family have been in the army, starting with my grandfather. My moms met on-base and had to leave to take care of me - back when that ‘don’t ask don’t tell’ thing was still going on. Then there’s me… I went to military school, does that count? I feel like it should count for something. I feel like I should live up to my family's history.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; an ordinary beginning: a bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Gladiatrix rolls out her sleeping bag on one of many uncomfortable-looking bunks. She sets a photograph of two women - one as blonde as she is and the other taller with dark hair - on a tiny alcove she can barely call a shelf; she tucks a small beanbag scorpion beneath her pillow, careful to hide it so that none of the others there see. Milling about her are the Stray and another girl with dreadlocks in her hair and two boys who probably shouldn’t be where they are.

“I was really excited when I started out. They make it seem like fun, you know? Joining up… but it really isn’t. It’s hard and it’s scary and people were as mean at the military academy as they are anywhere else in the world. There’s that joke about drill sergeants, yeah, but they aren’t who I mean this time. Um, some…” She glances nervously down the line at the Stray, who still has one arm around Daniel’s waist. Their eyes meet and something seems to pass between them. “Some people were really… harsh. More than they needed to be. I tried to be nice to everyone anyways. The way I saw it, we were all friends - family, even - and I wanted to be a good friend really bad.”

Gray and red sand coats the terrain around a massive pit, the lowest points thrown over in black. At the bottom, barely visible, glints the polished silver of newly forged armor - a suit of it that moves on it’s own. At the top, around the edges of the chasm, stand the ones from before. Hooded figures in white masks and black robes. The armor moves and the earth moves with her, shaping into something that she doesn’t have; the all too human picture of a large, open ear.

“A lot of people say I talk too much or that I’m too touchy-feely. They said the same thing at bootcamp - heck, they said it more… so I tried to do what I could to make people like me. I remembered birthdays and I shared my care packages from home and I tried to make them feel like they mattered. A lot of them just needed someone to talk to… and I can keep a secret. At least… I thought I could, back in the day.”

A skinny blond-haired boy stumbles over to the crater, something awkward and stiff-legged about the way he walks. His hand opens and words fall out of it, breaking open on the armor’s helmet head. I don’t even want to be here. My dad says it’ll toughen me up. I miss my mom. Their insides leaking quicksilver, his secrets fall like broken eggshells to the floor.

“People would come to me and I’d listen to them talk about themselves. Their lives. Their problems. It was pretty normal stuff at first - homesickness, newbies missing their parents, stuff like that - but, sooner or later, I started learning some more… nitty-gritty stuff.”

A figure with clawed nails stands before the pit, reaching over it. Her hand opens like the boy’s did, but the words she drops are a furious, glowing red. She left me… abuse… Mother… favorite… best friend… still love… The words all melt into one another at the side, searing the iron like a cattle-brand.

“I heard a few things about people’s home lives. Bad things. Some of the Stray’s… something like the Stray’s family problems. I heard a lot about stuff like that. Still, it was never at this level, you know?” She demonstrates by raising a hand above her head, then slowly draws it back. “But this… kinda thing is really common in the army… Uh, no, nothing happened to me.”

A slightly younger version of the man from the Scientist’s tape, or a young man that looks much like him. Pale-skinned and pale-haired and green-eyed. He looks left and right and then throws his secret as hard as he can into the abyss. The armor puts out a hand to catch it, but it still shatters into pieces on the rocky earth below. My father loves us too much. No, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean that! He-

“Um… I heard about some really bad stuff. And even that at first… well, it was bad, but it wasn’t… that bad? No, that doesn’t sound right. What I mean is… Even once people started talking to me about-” The Gladiatrix gestures vaguely at everything around her. “-this stuff… it was still… Well, most of it had happened a long time ago and the military was their way - or their parents’ way - of running away from that. It was old news that still hurt and that was kind of better than…”

A brown-skinned figure with just-as-brown braids spits into the earth and the word reshapes itself midair. Something white and sticky splatters on the ground. Sergeant Arrrk made me… ugh… he made me… suck him off. Don’t tell anyone, okay?

“But, like I said before, this stuff is really common in the army - well, the military, the army isn’t special - and most of the time no one talks about it. Not the girls at least, I think it’s got something to do with the whole ‘women belong in the home’ thing.” She affects a voice, wagging her finger and making a face. “That isn’t true, but it’ll look to everyone like proof they can’t cut it… that’s what my friends said, anyway. But the guys never tell anyone either.”

A figure in a lizard-skin cape with snaggly, jagged-looking teeth. He’s enormous and the words that fall out of his hand look so small. Rorqu corner me after class. Drag me into bathroom. I not mean to… They’re roughened by an unplaceable accent.

“Maybe they’re embarrassed. I bet that’s it. They shouldn’t be… people shouldn’t judge anyone for that. I didn’t.”

The armor kneels on her hollow knees, reaching out with empty gauntlets to sift through the pieces of everyone’s shattered words. There’s nothing at all shaped like Thank you. Another shadow falls over the edge. More secrets splatter on the ground.

“I didn’t… um… It’s not like I needed people to love me for what I was doing. I was okay with doing it! I was okay with helping… but no one ever really wanted to hang out with me other than when they had something to tell me and there was always someone who needed to tell me something, but… You’d think that would mean I wasn’t lonely. All it really meant was that I was stressed out. I wanted to help them. I didn’t know what to do…”

The young man from the first time around approaches the pit on repeat. His words aren’t always secrets. His secrets are never terrible. The tangle of Hi Lynda - You look nice, Lynda - I think I have a crush on Rogelio fall into the chasm, multicolored and shining. They don’t break when they hit the ground.

“There was this one guy who always seemed upbeat. He told me some sad stuff, but never anything too bad. A lot of his secrets were the fun kind to keep.” Her expression turns sad. “Um, that didn’t last long…”

The way he walks is even more awkward now, painful looking, and he winces as he reaches the edge. These words are the color of recently and badly inflicted bruises and all different sizes as if made by different hands. They held back Lonnie and Rogelio so they could do it. Not everyone did… but they all watched. I knew I wasn’t popular, but still… These words don’t break either, but they crack the armor coming down.

“That’s what did it for me. That’s what… I don’t remember the right proverb - something about straw and camels - but that was it. I had to do something so I marched down to the headmaster’s office and I tried to file a report.”

The suit of armor throws her arms up in the air and the words - most of the words - fly with them, landing in a rubbish-heap ring on the sand above the hole. She falls to her knees, exhausted, glorious in her triumph. Then a little thunk rings out… followed by many more as the secrets are forced back inside.

“The reason… sex stuff is such a big deal in the military is because nobody does anything about it. Not even when it is reported. Not if you’re a guy, not if you’re a girl… not usually. I didn’t know that, though, so when they said they were doing nothing… that hurt. I guess they couldn’t have proved much, just going by my word alone, but they didn’t even try to investigate it or… or anything. They just wanted me to shut up. That’s when I knew that I couldn’t stay there anymore.”

The suit of armor stacks the words on top of each other, placing them all near the chasm’s edge. She climbs, and as she does so the earth changes until it no longer resembles a human ear, but a great, gaping mouth with ashy lips and enormous teeth. Gigantic words ooze out, smelling of bile and the color of vomit - barely solid. They soak into the earth, hissing and letting off rising steam. Mom? Momma? I want to come home. The armor stumbles on the puddle when she finally drags herself all the way out.

“So… that’s… that’s what happened. I feel kinda bad for telling you. It was all supposed to be a secret.” The Gladiatrix leans back, reaching for Joan Barleycorn who takes her hand. “And I feel bad for being there and for being fine…-ish. It isn’t fair that nothing happened to me.”

“Okay, wow, honey… you’ve got issues.”

“Um… sorry?”

“You all have issues. See a therapist. Or don’t. No skin off my nose.”

“… Why are you even here…? We don’t… do we even like each other? I didn’t think we were friends.”

“Oh, we’re not. I’m here for the drama, darling… that and Mummy Dearest said that I should come.”

“Uh-”

“So if you’re quite done talking, I’d like to go now. Best for last and all.”

 

A Story about the Mythomaniac

“I don’t like to call it lying… that makes me sound dishonest.”

The Mythomaniac is tall and thin, wearing green eyeshadow - and a lot of it - and a shit-eating grin. Heavily-applied mascara varnishes their lashes and they wink at the crowd, flipping a length of bleached-blond hair over one shoulder.

“I am, of course, but you can’t just go around saying things like that, can you? No. No. No.” They shake their head with the air of a wizened old woman. “Then no one would believe me. So I don’t like to call it lying. ‘Acting incognito’, now that sounds much better - or that thing the King says about ‘improving the truth’.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a woman lies in a hospital bed, cradling a bundle in her arms. Her skin is light brown like the Trailblazer’s, but her eyes are a little more finely shaped and her hair is black, damp from labor. She’s breathing hard. In the chair beside her sits a man with enormous muscles and a bad sunburn. He dresses sloppily, tattoos marking both his arms. Can I hold him? He takes the bundle from the woman’s arms and doesn’t scream at what he sees inside - ten or so hissing, spitting snakes. They turn back into an infant when he cradles them.

“For the record both my parents love me - that’s not a lie - didn’t love each other though. They had a shotgun wedding and I was born a few months after that. I think Mummy Dear was more worried about appearances than my old man was. Her family was more old school - that’s the side I share with Sparkles over there - and his was… to be honest, I don’t know if he had anyone besides us. Whatever, not important. Anyway, the travesty that was their marriage didn’t last too long. They were well on their way to a divorce long before I popped out.”

The man and woman shout back and forth across a modern-looking kitchen - the kind with tiles on the walls and floor. The stove is still on and something’s burning. The smoke alarm’s warnings go ignored. At the counter sits a small child with olive skin and a yellowish tint to their eyes. I just wish you’d get a real job! The woman fixes a plate of eggs and sausage, slamming it down on the counter. The child’s eyes turn brown.

Fuck’s wrong with what I do now?! The man beats his fist against the wall. The child’s lips twitch, exposing fang-like teeth.

“At least you can say it was never boring. Every day was another blowout until they finally got a divorce when I was six. Father Dearest wasn’t in much of a position to look after me on his own - that and he’d done time in prison - so I saw him on the weekends and primary custody went to Mumsy. It was an easy win in court, but I think she secretly regretted fighting so hard.” The Mythomaniac sticks their lip out in a pout. “Only boring kids are well-behaved.”

The Trailblazer as a toddler and the olive-skinned child sit in a crab-shaped sandbox behind a large wooden house. How come your Daddy doesn’t live with you anymore?

He died, the older one says. Their tongue flickers between their teeth, a forked thing that becomes a full-sized snake, one that twists at horrible angles to shape the words. The Trailblazer begins to cry.

“Mythomania isn’t really a condition, not like Captain Arson’s little issue is… but it’s still a thing, I guess, and I have it. ‘An abnormal or pathological tendency to exaggerate or tell lies’. Ha! It sounds so clinical. I just thought it was funny to see what I could make people believe.”

A child with snakes’ heads tipping their fingers, chasing other children through a locker-lined hall. I’m really a monster. Everyone’s talking about you behind your back. Tara says you’re… I shouldn’t tell you this but… Each head spits a lie that slithers around their legs on the floor.

“Of course, I probably could have played that game my sister-” The Trailblazer flinches. “-did, I could have made them love me and all that. I tried, but impressing other children is so easy. And easy is so boring. It’s funnier to make them cry. What?”

The child sits in their principal’s office beside the black-haired women, forked tongue flickering and an illuminated golden halo hanging overhead. The woman’s eyes narrow and she snatches it away.

“I used to think Maman could see right through me. She never bought what I was selling - not that I ever stopped trying to sell it - but then I got older and I realized something: she never believed me about anything at all.”

I don’t want to be a boy anymore. I’m not a boy… Mom, are you listening?

The woman with black hair shakes her head absentmindedly. Look, honey, I don’t have the energy to deal with this today. There’s no snake between the teeth this time, but she’s not looking close enough to notice that.

“Maybe I reminded her of my dad. Maybe she was just tired of my bullshit. Oh well, it wasn’t a big deal or anything - nothing more than annoying - until she decided to start dating again.”

The child has scales instead of skin and eyes with slit pupils. The woman with black hair has one arm around a smiling man. He extends a hand, but it’s a rattler his fingers close around. The snake hisses. He hisses back.

“I didn’t like him from the start, I told Mummy that. Part of it, I’m sure, was jealousy - one doesn’t like to share after all… but also, he was weird. I always thought there was something off about the way he looked at me. But Mother liked him.”

The almost-snake child opens a mouth full of razor sharp teeth, and spits a living snake onto the floor. He’s only in it for the money. He told me so. The black-haired woman rolls her eyes.

“I did tell stories about him. What the hell, I’ll admit that… but he was creepy. Especially after dear sweet Mumsy got herself pregnant and wanted to be ‘careful of the baby’.” A disgusted sounding noise at the back of their throat. “I guess I’ll always know that was worth protecting.”

Bex is saying that you’ve been watching them. The woman has both hands on her stomach and an annoyed look in her eye. I don’t know what I’m going to do with that kid. The man’s mouth opens and a dozen or so fiends fall out of it, but she seems not to notice - or else she does not care.

They’re probably just worried about the wedding and the new baby. A mamba lands on her stomach, sinking into the skin inside. You know how kids are. They’ll come around eventually.

“It was about a month before they had the baby. I was nine. He told Mom that it would be safer to sleep alone if she was pregnant. So the baby wouldn’t get squished. He was a regular gentleman in taking the couch and coming to check in on me.”

The snake-man’s jaw unhinges and it sounds a lot like the rustling of sheets and the creak of a bedroom door. Teeth made out of serpents’ heads and a tongue made from a lie. Saliva drips across the snake-child’s cheek, melting the scale-matter there and burning through to the bone beneath. The rest of the skin is eaten, ripped to shreds by those million reptilian teeth.

“He told me that if I said anything to my mom he’d kill us both. I told her anyway. It takes one actor to know another and, just between you and me, he wasn’t very good. I knew he wouldn’t have the nerve… I just… didn’t… I thought she would believe me.”

As close as they can come to normalcy; the Mythomaniac stands before the black-haired woman, head bowed, eyes bloodshot. They don’t look happy. Neither does she. I… I can’t believe this, she’s saying. I don’t.

What? But he-

Bex, you lie about everything. I don’t know why you think I would believe you about this… She laughs bitterly. I don’t know why I thought you wouldn’t go this low.

Mom-

Go to your room. I’m very disappointed in you.

“Obviously that didn’t provide him with much of an incentive to stop.” For a moment the Mythomaniac’s mask breaks and they look like they want to hit someone. “In the theatre we call it an encore.”

The snakes and the skin and stifled screaming is soon joined by a backdrop of real tears. A baby wails and the teeth unhinge from the snakeling. They fall back against their mattress with a thud. Their eyes close and they listen to the sound of the snake-man’s crooning to the infant in the next room.

“Everyone immediately fell in love when my half-sister was born. Mummy and my step-father and my aunt and… everyone. I hated her.”

A little girl in a pink onesie tugs on one long strand of the snake-young’s braid. Beck! she babbles. Read me, Beck? The word no slithers from a barb-toothed mouth to her chubby toddler arm and wraps around it, squeezing too tight. She runs away in tears.

“It may or may not be my fault that she’s so… you know. Maybe. Or maybe not. I was mean to her and all that, but only for a few years. I went to live with my old man permanently when I was like… fourteen. My choice, but dearest Maman didn’t fight as hard as she did the first time. Not now that she had her perfect little family.”

A hole in the wall place in the middle of nowhere. There are dead lizards in the parking lot and cacti growing all over the place. Three-legged tables and ripped-up seats. A snakelike creature leans against the counter, mouth open only part-way. Welcome to Tung Lashor’s House of Hotwings. Can I take your order?

“He has this restaurant out in the middle of nowheresville - closer to fucking Green Lake than it is to here. It’s hot as fuck and everything within a ten-mile radius wants to shit in your eye or die in it. Still, it beat living like I was before. Whatever Daddy Dearest lacked in style, he made up for in having at least one line he’d never cross. He didn’t hurt me.”

Kid, what d’you think you’re doing? The giant man catches them with two hissing heads for hands, buried in the cash register. Drop it. Two jaws open and the money falls back. The man smirks, clapping the kid on the back. Nice try.

Am I in trouble?

Nah. Not this time. You’ll learn.

“Interesting priorities. I can see why he and Mama darling didn’t work out. He could read me better than she could though. I won’t say that he was a better parent - because I can’t say that - but… he knew something was up.”

They’re washing down tables when the snake feels a hand on their shoulder and reels around, hood flaring. Whoa! Don’t go biting my head off! The man holds both hands up in a gesture of surrender. Shit, you’ve been acting weird since you got here, kiddo. Mind telling me what’s wrong?

“Sometimes the truth’s worth telling. Sometimes. He wasn’t happy… I think he got into it with Mom.”

Screaming from the room downstairs. The snake-youth’s eyes go from yellow to brown and back again; their skin goes from olive to green. Bex is your kid too! Or is it all about Abby now?!

“In a perfect world maybe that would have gotten through to her. Or maybe Daddykins would have tracked him down and buried him alive in a cornfield like in that one movie about the gangsters. What actually happened seems a lot less dramatic to me, and by that I mean less violent. Between you and me, that makes it a lot less fun.”

Another spotlight, another movie fragment; a snake’s jaws open and gulp down a pint-sized girl. The tape zooms out to reveal a computer screen and the sister in front of it, smiling sweetly and looking like a sugar plum fairy with her hot pink dress and the pom-poms in her hair.

“There was some gross shit on his computer. Mom found it when she clicked on the wrong thing. I guess that’s what it took for her to believe me. I think she was more worried about how my sister was taking it, but then again that could just be the jealousy talking. Ah, who cares?”

A table set for Thanksgiving dinner. The Trailblazer and her mother, the little girl in pink and the woman with black hair. They all stare at them. The snake opens their jaw and swallows a turkey leg whole. No one says a word about it. No one says anything for a long, long time. So… the Trailblazer’s mother says awkwardly. How’s… college?

I wouldn’t know. I dropped out. Their mother doesn’t call them on the lie.

“So that’s all there is to say about that. That’s my story.” The Mythomaniac drops into a flourishing bow. “That is, if you believe it.”

Chapter 24: (Dude, That’s My Ghost!) A Story about Rasalhague the Faceless / A Story about Ophiuchus the Serpent-Bearer

Summary:

TW: rape, brief references to sexual abuse of a young teen, gun violence, discussion of death, obsessive behaviour, kidnapping/captivity, broken legs, depersonalisation, traumagenic amnesia, psychiatric sexual malpractice, emotionally abusive family, disowning, anti-Semitism, Stockholm Syndrome.

A STORY ABOUT RASALHAGUE THE FACELESS

“I finally got the last of my stuff outta my cousin’s room.”

Rasalhague leans a little to the young side of his teenage years. A gangly kid in faded jeans and a red-and-white T-shirt. His hair's a little shaggy in the front, a medium shade of cinnamon-bark brown. His eyes are a darker tone of that same color. His nose is puggish, pushed in and round; he’ll grow into it one of these days. A blue plastic guitar pick hangs from a string around his neck.

“It’s… kind of annoying, actually. No point in beating around the bush. Like, I just got everything the way I liked it and now I’ve gotta drag it all out again and get used to sleeping in another room. I know that sounds…” He hesitates in the way of young people that aren’t supposed, but want, to swear. “… shitty. Don’t lie. I know it does. Especially after everything else that’s happened. Maybe it is.”

A low light, a movie fragment; Rasalhague with a camcorder and length of twine. Things that he forces into the illusion of floating. Surprisingly decent practical effects. Amateur horror movies churned out on a budget of bubble gum and pocket lint.

“I’ve always liked that cheesy B-movie stuff. Slashers. Thrillers. Ghosts. Zombies. Horrible acting. Bad dialogue. Terrible effects. I eat that… stuff up!”

A probably-too-young Rasalhague rifles through his parents’ DVD collection on his hands and knees. Blair Witch Project and Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Halloween. Beside that, forgettable low-lister fare that he holds as if it were made of solid gold.

“I love Hollywood!” He pumps his fist, grin flashing, then lets his arm drop and smile fade. “It used to seem so… surreal to know that someone I was related to made it big, even if he wasn’t a movie star.”

Rasalhague in his car seat. A song plays on the radio. He nods and bounces his head.

You like that, Spencer? his mother asks. That’s your cousin Baruch singing that, you know?

“Unless you’ve been living under a rock… underwater… in Wisconsin, you guys have heard of Billy Joe Cobra. What? Sorry! Am I not allowed to say that? Sorry! I just… well, this is gonna sound bad, but I think everyone already knows.” He scratches the back of his neck. “Uh, anyway, he’s my cousin… a few times removed. On my mom’s side. He’s been… the most interesting thing about us for a while now.”

Not that the rest of his family is what most would call normal. A family portrait of the lot of them. A blond man with a cache of cheerleading trophies. A ginger woman who gives so-so haircuts and cooks like her life depends upon it. A younger girl who wears a gi and her hair in a long, black tail. They are an odd sort of ordinary, but not extra-anything by any means.

“I wanted to change that. To make it in the big leagues. The film industry! I want to write and to film and direct!”

And he does. Sort of. He writes scripts in chicken-scratch on butcher paper. He takes his parents’ old camcorder and films whatever he can. His movies aren’t good and he can only get his family to watch them, but they exist and he collects the tapes.

“They were pretty bad when I was little, but they’re a lot better now. I think part of that is… I had some help.”

A father who doesn’t understand him but cheers anyway. A mother who can lecture for hours about makeup and hair. A sister that is less than encouraging, but many relatives that are more than. Grandparents and aunts and uncles. Many on his mother’s side.

“And… I know what you’re all waiting for me to get into. Yeah. Him too…”

A young Rasalhague at a family gathering. The radio plays a pop song and a voice in the room raises to echo it perfectly, singing along. A young man with short black hair.

Billy Joe Cobra, he introduces himself, ruffling the boy’s hair. You’re Janie’s kid, huh?

Spencer, Rasalhague says. You’re famous.

Sure am. His cousin beams, white teeth flashing.

Just like I’m gonna be!

Oh?

“We met a few times when I was little - like six or seven years old. He was… I thought he was so cool. He was… I mean he is. It’s just… he was larger than life, you know? You don’t think about the bad stuff happening to people like that. Or at least, I hope you don’t.”

Rasalhague’s parents speak in low voices. His mother is crying into the phone.

What’s wrong? His sister tugs at their father’s pant leg.

Jessica… The man looks down at her and can’t think of anything to say.

“He died… ‘died’ a pretty long time ago. Feels like a long time. I was pretty young then, so…” Shrug. “You guys know the story. He was in his tour bus. Someone shot the driver from the road. Blood everywhere. Never found a body. True crime fan’s wet dream. Woulda been mine, but… I knew him. This wasn’t one of those cool cases like the Beldam Murders or… what happened with the Prenderghasts. Not that that stuff is cool, it’s just…” Sigh. “This one hit a little close to home. You get me?”

Rasalhague and his family are dressed in black. Someone reads a prayer in Hebrew. His family stares dully at a simple wooden casket. Cut; another funeral, highly publicized, with a crowd of thousands on TV. The coffin there - just as empty - is painted gold and there are mountains of flowers laid atop the grave. Someone famous gives the eulogy. Someone mentions Christ.

“Looking back, a lot of that stuff was really disrespectful. Maybe if I’d thought a little about it… I dunno. I was a kid, a lot of things were going on… I do remember thinking it was so weird that the two gravestones had different names.”

Rasalhague and his sister are present, but not all that interested in the reading of their “late” cousin’s will. Arguing breaks out among the adults, but the boy remains somewhat oblivious. Later his mother sits him down and hands two things over. A guitar pick with a cord strung through it and a camera. A nice one. There’s no note that comes with them, but the intention is clear. “Go on, kid. Make your movies.” It’s strange to hear the words so clearly when they were never spoken at all. For days after the funeral, Rasalhague is left with a strange impression in his head.

“We weren’t super high in the line of… getting stuff, right away, but I did get that… and then my grandparents died and we got his house too.”

Rasalhague, older now - but not quite as old as he is on the Palace stage - and his sister are sat down at the table by his mom and dad.

We’ve talked it over, his father says, and we’ve decided to keep it. It’s a really nice place in a really nice part of the city.

So… his sister begins. We’re moving then?

“We did. Ended up down here just in time for me to start high school and… let me tell ya, it’s been a trip.”

His new school is public, but better funded and occupied by the children of the elite. The principal of the school is all too aware of this and lets the students run wild… save for Rasalhague, who bears the brunt of an unstable man’s pent-up frustration. His peers - a blonde girl with a stupid name, a boy with a hulking frame and curly hair, and others - push him around and are allowed to do so. More annoyed than anything, Rasalhague rolls with the punches, faring better than most kids would in similar shoes.

“It sucked, not gonna lie, but… I’ve never been thin-skinned. I wanna be a producer. My cousin was really famous . I know people will say bad things about me just like they do about him.” A smug little smile. “It’s part of being a success.” He cracks his knuckles and leans way back. “And anyway, it’s not like I don’t have friends…”

A girl and a boy, brother and sister, with dark skin and brown hair. Her with a bob-cut and glasses and a bindi dot at the center of her forehead. Him with his curls pushed back with gel and the scraggle-crop of a bad pubescent mustache threading across his upper lip. Outcasts themselves, they love Rasalhague and he has them as well as his own family. And then, quite suddenly, a call comes at night and he has even more.

“Okay, so it’s worth stating the obvious: Bill- my cousin was never actually dead. Kind of an important detail there.”

The sound of a phone dropping and of a lot of overjoyed, surprised noise rips him from his self-made dreams and from his bed. Rasalhague meets his sister on the staircase. His mother is crying again and smiling through her tears.

What’s going on…?

Your cousin’s alive!

“And… of course I was happy - I am happy - but it’s a weird thought too. I mean, he’s been gone for such a long time. And… he was dead… to all of us. It’s… it’s really confusing and weird… at first it was just that…”

My… cousin? Rasalhague scrunches his forehead. Who do you-

Baruch! his mother says. Billy! Your cousin Billy!

His sister’s jaw drops. The famous one?!

“My parents kinda tried to explain the situation without explaining it, if you know what I mean. We got the abridged version…”

What happened? Where’s he been?

A long, long pause.

Well… His mother hesitates. He wasn’t hurt as badly as we thought he might have been back when… well. Someone got a hold of him and brought him back to her place…

And he stayed there?

Sort of… She wouldn’t let him leave.

“They told me some crazy fangirl of his got her hands on him. Kept him locked up. They didn’t tell us anything else. I think they should have. My sister’s twelve and I’m fourteen and neither one of us is stupid. We were gonna figure it out sooner rather than later. Would have even if he wasn’t some kind of pop god.”

Rasalhague and his family and a flower-filled, nicer-than-average hospital room. A man lies back in bed, his legs encased in a pair of blue plaster casts. They’re covered in signatures. Some by other patients. Some by the staff. Some are just different iterations of his own name written out several times.

Rasalhague’s mother shoves him forward. You remember Spencer, right?

The boy tries to smile. The man in the bed does a double take. Aren’t you supposed to be, like… five?

“For a while, though, they did hide it. See, it took a hot minute for the worst of the details about what happened to come out. They weren’t televised. So the public didn’t know… but of course, eventually someone got a hold of something and… then the TV mysteriously didn’t work in our house. Like that changed anything.”

I heard about your cousin. That female friend of his pulls him aside after class. Geez… is he okay?

I… guess? Rasalhague says. He’s still in the hospital.

I mean about the… her voice lowers, … you know…

Do I…?

I… The girl swallows and then fishes for her phone.

… Oh crap.

“Of course I found out anyway. And of course I talked to my parents about it. They asked me not to tell my sister. I said I wouldn’t, but I still don’t think that’s smart. She’s gonna find out eventually… but I guess they don’t wanna scare her.”

He visits that cousin again. His parents leave the room.

Something wrong, bromigo?

Rasalhague ventures forward with what’s really on his mind. Silence. Then laughter that sounds 1950s fake.

It’s okay, brozilla, he forces out. It ain’t so bad.

Billy-

It’s fiiiine. Doc says the worst of it’s all in my mind… so like, brain stuff, and I don’t even have a headache.

“It scares me. I wanna be somebody and it scares me to think that someone could do that.” He pauses. “And I feel guilty about being scared because half of that might just be, like… an ego thing, and the whole of it is making this all about me when I probably shouldn’t because it happened… she happened to him, but then… big-screen monsters never attack the audience and they’re still scary. If you think about it, all the horror in horror movies comes second-hand.”

Rasalhague is fine. Really. Hesitating, sure, but giving himself into this new life. Reluctantly, but without complaint, he packs his things and moves them from the room he’s slept in for the better part of the year. He lies awake at night, hearing voices that are not there. His cousin’s - scared and small - and how he imagines the woman that took him might sound.

“It was his room before it was mine. And it’s still his place… technically. I’d let him have it anyways. He’s going through a really tough time.”

Another visit to the hospital. The man in the bed is asleep, and Rasalhague notices for the first time… strange marks on his bare arms. He stares at the swimming pool for a long time when he gets back. That night he dreams of the devil and a great blue sea and the man who has defied death once leaping between them, not stopping to think things over. The next night he sees himself in his cousin’s place.

“My parents thought I should come here. Test the waters. Maybe they’re worried about how badly what happened freaked me out. Nothing really happened to me, so sorry if this story doesn’t have a climax. I’m sure he’ll show up here eventually and give you a better one. He’s a natural onstage.” Rasalhague leans forward, letting his chin rest on one knee. “I guess maybe it’s a good thing I’ll only stand behind the screen.”

A STORY ABOUT OPHIUCHUS THE SERPENT-BEARER

“Everyone knows a little about what happened. Now some bigshot in Hollywood wants to turn it into a movie…”

Ophiuchus has one of those faces that everybody knows. Inside the Palace and out. Spray-tanned skin and short dark hair, pushed back and slicked down with gel and spray. He smells strongly of product (well, that and cologne). He wears a dark green jacket and a collared orange shirt that rides up at his navel; blue jeans and a bright red tie. His clothing swamps him, held up with safety pins in a few places, though clearly it’s meant to be tight. It looks like he hasn’t slept in days.

“People will watch it, I know they will, even if it’s bad. They’ll get some big names to star in it - maybe British people pretending to be Americans - and it’ll make a lot of money.” He holds up his hands like the lens of a camera. "The next Misery! I can see it now! People eat up shit like that.” He folds his arms and nods a few times. “I should know. ‘Sides maybe the Star over there - sucks what happened, by the way - I don’t think anyone could know that better than me.”

A low light, a movie fragment; a very young Ophiuchus mounts the steps of another stage, a child-sized guitar in his hands. The lights dim and he begins to play. And the world stands still.

“I’ve been famous longer than I haven’t been. Got discovered pretty early - I was six and some talent show I was in aired on TV. People noticed. Of course they did.”

The tiny version of Ophiuchus hums to himself, coloring book spread out on the floor. His parents stand, talking with a spindly gray-haired man in glasses and a suit, a few feet away. The child on the floor continues scribbling as the adults shake hands. Cut; he’s presented with a contract. Sign here. He does so clumsily and has to be reminded not to use a crayon.

“What can I say? I’ve got it. The star factor, I mean. Like Sarah Lynn! Like Ernesto De La Cruz… sorry, Guitarrista, you know what I mean. People love me! The whole world knows my name! Or… well, sorta.”

Ophiuchus, still a child but in designer clothes and a little bit older. Another office. His parents hover at his shoulder, all but pushing him down into the leather swivel chair. The gray-haired man is back again. More paperwork.

“When I was ten, my agent said I should get it changed. Dragged my heels about it at first, but it all worked out. New one rolls off the tongue easier anyway.”

Billy Joe Cobr… what? Ophiuchus looks up, confused. That’s not my-

It will be if you want to make it in the big leagues. Baruch Cohen sounds too… unrelatable. The new one is easier to… digest.

But Mom said my name was important! After Jeremiah’s-

It’s fine, his agent says as if he were talking to a much younger child. You aren’t that Jewish anyway.

“Whatcha gonna do? No harm, no foul. There are worse things to be saddled with. And hey, it all worked, right?” Ophiuchus smiles, exposing bleach-whitened teeth. “Before long I was packin’ stadiums!”

Ophiuchus looks out over a crowd of thousands. He’s young. Very very young. Even so there are grown adults and an army of his peers chanting his now-legal name. Fan sites pop up on the early web. Like the Star he has little time for school, but there’s not one elementary-middle-high-schooler that doesn’t know his songs by heart… whether or not they like them at all.

“Most people love me, but only most. The people who don’t like me… reallyyyy don’t like me. Boys mostly. And girls that don’t like other girls.”

A twelve-year-old child in his own private dressing room, draped across the leather couch. Fanmail lies unopened on the table and he begins to rifle through the pile. Most of the letters are innocent, written by kids (girls mostly) of his own age. Some are not. I love you and I love you and someone who loves him a little too much. You’re fantastic and My hero and You don’t know shit about music. Slurs and compliments both. Love declarations that mix with the sentiment I hope you die. A few claim they’ll make it happen. A few more say they’ll kill themselves.

“It’s a good thing I could handle it so well. Lotsa people woulda freaked out in my place. Not me, though. I took it like a champ.”

This, of course, is a lie.

“My manager said something about getting someone to vet them for me. Throw out all the bad stuff. Kept forgetting though. It ain’t so bad.”

Ophiuchus is still just a child, for all his influence and wealth and fame. He badgers his parents and the people that work for him. The words get to him, as much as he wishes they didn’t. He complains, and all the letters - in their envelopes - are thrown away. That night he dreams he disappears. He doesn’t complain after that and braves through the art of insult and death threat both for the satisfaction of having inspired even the most warped sort of love.

“Okay, fine, it was… a little scary. Still, it was mostly fine! Everything was totally totally fine! Or… it woulda been, but… well, these things happen sometimes…”

A charity banquet or something similar. A name-on-the-guest-list type of party. Ophiuchus is combed and cologned and dressed to kill. He attends with his parents. They wander off (as they are wont to do) and he bumps into a young woman who giggles and twirls her hair and asks for his autograph and if he’ll sing. He signs and demonstrates. She offers champagne and keeps offering. This will be a pleasant memory until it isn’t. He’s only just turned fourteen.

“I’m fine, though. From that… with that, I mean…” Ophiuchus doesn’t look fine. He puffs up his chest and smiles a little too widely. “Nothing I couldn’t handle.” His face turns serious. “Anything for my fans.”

His record label is acquired by another - larger - company. A household name. The studio executive asks to meet Ophiuchus. Alone. So we can talk one on one. They don’t do much talking. There isn’t much the man gives him room to say. He’ll remember this better. He’s fifteen years old. Sixteen and seventeen after that.

“By nineteen I was the biggest star on the continent. Maybe the world. I’m big in Ireland and the UK, didja know that? I matter. I’m somebody.”

Somebody or not, he’s come of age now and it’s almost scary how little seems to change. Girls tear off their tops and throw themselves at him - but then… they did that before. Men scream expletives and issue threats - again, that’s nothing new. Graphic and gruesome letters come in the mail - more of the same-old-same-old.

“Everybody loves me. What more’s there to say?”

A just-alright therapist could come up with plenty. A young man parties hard as time rolls by. Drugs and dancing and sex and booze. He runs himself ragged and eats nothing but fast food. His agent orders him to diet, intervening only after Ophiuchus puts on weight.

“I mean, I guess love isn’t passive… or at least, it shouldn’t be. I know that! I… and I love my fans too.”

He takes up smoking when yo-yo diets leave him weak-kneed. He drops the cigarettes in favor of nicotine patches when his voice gets hoarse. He drinks. He parties and goes to bed with pretty girls.

“And I don’t love gentle. I don’t know how. No one was ever gentle with… ah, forget it! If I finish that, it’ll just sound cheesy.”

Men and women. Tour buses and hotel rooms. Sometimes it happens more than once; sometimes it’s one-and-done. The life of an icon.

“Sure there’s been a few rough spots, but you know what they say… ‘the road to glory isn’t paved in gold’ an’ all that jazz. I know I should probably get to the good part and start complainin’… but I like being famous. I want you guys to know that. I love it. I really really do.”

A crowd of thousands listens to Ophiuchus sing. He’ll lie down with a dozen of them. Sometimes they’ll take their time. Sometimes they’ll leave bitemarks and bruises. Sometimes they listen when he says no. Most of the time he’s too high or too drunk to say much of anything at all.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that, ‘kay? It ain’t so bad. It’s just show business. Most of that stuff feels… fuzzy anyway. Far away… like a really crazy dream.”

Dream or not, he’s self-destructive and reckless. Sometimes he wakes up lying sideways on the floor of police station holding cells. He doesn’t question this. He doesn’t question much of anything.

“What? Like you haven’t been there… wow, really? Huh. Boring much?” He laughs. “Well, anyway… sooner or later my agent got kinda fed up with all my bullshit…”

Ophiuchus drinks heavily, already high on painkillers. An ambulance has to be called when the bottle kisses back.

“Wound up in the hospital with a killer hangover. Doctors said I was lucky to be alive.”

This makes the real news, not just the salt-and-saccharine tabloid fare. Enough is enough, his agent decides. Ophiuchus is discharged and checked into rehab. He starts seeing a therapist. He will memorize the walls of many rooms.

“I’m more or less sober now, weirdly enough, and it’s got nothin’ to do with any of that… head-shrinky stuff. Not that I’m anti-therapy, I just… it’s complicated.”

A comfortable-looking office with two overstuffed chairs and a tank of tropical fish. A round little woman with large, square glasses and blue-black hair - the aunt of the Wix - holds a notebook in her hands and asks him, So what about your parents? They’re the ones that got you into all this, right?

“I’m not a shrink, but I think that maybe the reason I didn’t wanna see one was… maybe there was some stuff I wasn’t ready to see.” Ophiuchus blinks. “Wooooah. That was hella deep.”

Tiny changes here and there. Distance between his manager and himself. Ophiuchus goes to more family functions and stops sending so much money to his parents back at home. His therapist calls it progress until he buys himself a baby crocodile through less than legal means.

“Things were going pretty well actually, before… you know because everyone does… Call it the calm before the storm.”

It isn’t all smooth sailing. The letters - ever present - continue on in a steady stream. His mother complains about his spending habits, while in the same breath chastising Ophiuchus for not floating them enough to grease the wheels and after everything we’ve done for you. An argument that escalates into a screaming match. In a fit of anger he cuts them from his will. They don’t speak for months after that.

“That’ll come up later. The stuff about my folks, I mean. That will… well, anyway, let's just get to the part you people came to see.”

A bright orange tour bus; the road at night; Ophiuchus snoring in the back seat. A shot rings out and he jolts awake. Shattered glass and holes in the metal plating of the driver side door. The driver is bleeding. He registers that and that only before the whole thing pitches to the side and he’s thrown against one wall.

“Lights.”

He wakes after what could be hours or half-minutes added into half a day. Someone is standing over him. He sees purple lipstick and dangly gold earrings shaped like his own head. The blackness swallows him again before he can make out more than half her face.

“Camera.”

The feeling of his arms being lifted. The sensation of being dragged. An engine hums.

“Action.”

He comes to again in a strange room, with one small window set close to the ceiling and reinforced with thick, thick glass. His head is spinning. He feels sick and dizzy. He’s in pain. His legs have been bandaged. He doesn’t remember breaking them in the crash.

“I’m not too sure how I got there or how long I was out.” Ophiuchus crosses his arms and puffs his lip into a pout. “She never answers when I ask about this stuff.”

A woman is sitting at the foot of the bed. She wears dark lipstick and dangling earrings. Golden ones - souvenirs - effigies of Ophiuchus. As before, the camera only goes so far, never showing more than the lower half of her face.

“She’s my… you know. ‘One-side-stand.’ She was in the news too, because of that. You guys probably know who she is, but… let’s call her… Madame… X.” He hugs himself. “I don’t really wanna use her real name…”

She doesn’t give it to him anyways, when Ophiuchus asks. I’m a fan. She goes to caress his cheekbone with one long, milky white finger. He remembers those letters he’s gotten on and on and never off throughout the years and doesn’t bother to ask which kind.

“I think part of me always knew something like this would happen. When you get to be that big that young… people love me. I know they do. I’ve always known…”

Whatever he says to the Palace crowd, this Ophiuchus knows to be afraid.

What… what do you want…? He speaks cautiously, monitoring his tone. He doesn’t know where he is or how she’ll react if he offends her.

Dark lipstick curving into a sharp smile. What the woman says is: You.

“I don’t watch horror movies - not because they scare me or anything, they’re just dumb - but my little cousin has a real thing for ‘em. That feels like a line you’d find in one… but I can’t really ask him that.”

He laughs nervously, forces a smile, and she moves over to sit beside him on the bed.

“She told me she was my biggest fan. I think she meant it. The worst part - one of the worst parts - is…” The young man breathes in shakily and uses a tremulous hand to push back his hair. “… she wasn’t wrong.”

The thing that isn’t better than the worst part: the woman with the dark lipstick leans in for a kiss. She grabs his hair and wrenches when Ophiuchus tries to turn his face away. A hand creeps beneath the blanket and moves slowly for the place between his legs.

“Sorry. Was that too sudden? Try being there at the time!”

There’s nothing so unusual about the physical reality of this feeling and Ophiuchus has been made helpless before. Many, many times. But… but… but…

“But… with my other fans…” He swallows. “Sorry - shrink says I shouldn’t call them that - the other people that… did stuff, when it was over it was over, you get me? This was… different, because I couldn’t just get up and leave.”

His legs are busted. Ophiuchus can’t get up at all.

“I know most people think coke fried my brain, but I’m not stupid! Or, I’m not stupid enough to not know this was kind of a… not great sitch to be in. But seein’ as my bod was kinda busted, there wasn’t much I could do to, like, extricate myself from the situation. Figured I’d just have to wait things out. I mean, I am who I am after all. You were supposed to be looking anyway. But no one was.”

The woman returns sometime later, portable television in her hand. Something to do, she says. While you’re resting. In case you get bored… Let’s see what’s on, shall we?

What…?

The anchorwoman is crying on the news. A picture of Ophiuchus on the screen and beneath it, the words Billy Joe Cobra 1993 - 201X

“I heard from the cops later that it was a real Amelia Earhart situation. I mean, they found my bus… and my driver and the blood everywhere. A lot of blood. Guess it was enough that they figured… eh, just forget it. Everyone already knows…”

Nobody’s looking for you.

The Ophiuchus on the stage makes quotes with his hands. “ ‘That means you’re a ghost now…’ ”

Madame X kisses him again. Hands on his shoulders. Ophiuchus winces as her weight bears down on him.

“Y’know when I was in the hospital, the doctors said it was the damndest thing… my legs were all… zig-zaggy. Healed wrong, I guess. Ended up getting them both re-broken.” Shrug. “She set ‘em right, but you’re supposed to stay still and… we didn’t.”

No. They don’t. For the next few days, he lies there in a state of running-panic. His breath comes up short and doesn’t slow easy. Ophiuchus ignores the food brought to him by the woman and by a little man with bright-white hair who seems to take her cues. His stomach burns.

“How could I eat that stuff? How could I… She… uh, she made all my favorite foods.”

Bear claws and brownies. Smooth peanut butter. He breaks eventually and finds that all of it leaves him stupid, makes him slow. He stops eating again and Madame X calls in the little man to hold his nose and jaw while she forces the mess down his throat. Somehow he doesn’t choke. Maybe it’s a miracle. He wants to go home.

“It wasn’t… I mean… I know how this sounds, but it wasn’t like it was all bad, y’know? Like, yeah, it sucked, sure, but…” There’s something starry-eyed about his expression now. “She loved me.”

The woman owns more than just a pair of novelty earrings. That becomes clear enough, as Ophiuchus investigates the room.

“She was a fan, like I said. A super fan. Had my posters floor to ceiling on the walls. Signed autographs in frames. T-shirts with my face on ‘em. Cute little stuffed animals. BJC bobbleheads… The works. You name it, she had it and a lot of it. She loved me.”

Madame X tells him as much. When she’s finished kissing him. When she’s holding him down. When Ophiuchus stares up at her, both of them breathing hard. Sometimes that white-haired lackey of hers happens in on him. Sometimes he brings food or else toiletries. He can’t be reasoned with, either.

Don’t look at me like that… he says, grimacing. I… it’s not so bad. You’ll get used to it… eventually.

“That didn't mean as much as he probably wanted it to. Like, bro, I can get used to anything. Still shouldn’t‘ve had to, though. ‘Least, that’s what the head doctor says.”

The woman knows most of what there is to know about him. As much as his therapist does or ever did. More eventually.

“One of the weirdest things was, uh, she was a really good listener. I mean, it makes sense if you think about it. She was all kinds of obsessed with me. Why wouldn’t she wanna hear what I had to say? And it’s not like I had anyone else…”

I love you, Madame X says and this time, Ophiuchus allows himself to say it back. And half-mean it, too.

“Give me a break. I was there for… a long time. Years.”

It takes him a while to notice that his legs haven’t healed entirely. He blames the drugs. Blames the fear. Blames the woman and the little white-haired man.

“I don’t know if it was what we were… doing or if she was messing around with something else, but I didn’t really get better for a while and it was still hard to walk even when I was able to.”

Ophiuchus struggles to his feet, keeping his hands on shelves and on the bed frame and using his upper body to drag his lower around the room. He’s not paralyzed exactly, but the shattered pieces have been pressed back together in… not precisely the same place they were before.

“She didn’t like me gettin’ out of bed…”

She feeds him foods laced with things to keep him tired. Things that make him slow. Everything feels like a dream.

“Thing about drugs though, they stop workin’ so well if you take ‘em long enough. If you up the dosage… well, it can get a little tricky there. Dangerous tricky. She didn’t want to kill me so… she broke my legs again.”

He can’t get far, even on the dregs of sedatives and the fully healed - but badly twisted - things he can barely call his legs. Really, they’re little more than props now.

“I couldn’t run and she got me. Coulda been worse,” he says and seems to be trying hard not to look directly at the Replacement. “She cleaned me up right. Set the bones again. The right way. Same as before.”

Same as before, they aren’t still for long. This hurts him more than it did the first time. The drugs aren’t strong enough now to dull the pain. She leaves him howling in it. His throat burns. It’s not a pretty sound. Upstairs someone turns on the stereo and the sound of music drifts on down. At the back of his mind, Ophiuchus realizes something. This is one of my songs.

“So, you know birds, right? My little cuz’s weirdo principal has this funky lookin’ thing he calls Lorenzo. Beady little eyes and all these weird little feathers on top of his head.” Ophiuchus sticks out his tongue. “Eesh! Uh… I had a point there… what was it?”

A few more months. His legs heal again. Poorly. It’s worse than before. He still forces himself to stand. He’s more careful this time. She doesn’t catch him up. Still, she feels the solidity there and calls for the little white haired man; And the wrench from the garage if you can manage it, you incompetent-

“Oh! Right! I’ve got it now! I was thinkin’ of those birds of paradise!”

Madame X sets his legs again this time. The next time she doesn’t, though - always - she keeps the area clean. Very clean. The process repeats. The song is finished. She hits rewind and it plays again.

“Not the flower. Like, the actual bird with wings and stuff. It’s… they’re really pretty. Bright colors. Lotsa bright colors an’ fancy-lookin’ feathery things all up the wazoo. Their feet, though… they ain’t so pretty. People used to keep the birdies as pets an’ cut off all the… ugly parts. Now, she didn’t wanna take a razor to my ankles or anything - at least I don’t think she did - but… that was sorta how I felt lying there.” He coughs a little and kicks his feet, letting them dangle off the stage’s edge. “Whether or not she was, uh… on top of me.”

Often she is. Very often. And when she’s done she sits by the edge of the bed.

Sing for me, Madame X breathes. The radio doesn’t play you as much anymore.

To his credit, Ophiuchus manages to bite back his first and lesser instinct - which is to sneer and say Gee, I wonder why. Instead he says nothing. That night he dreams he disappears.

“Dude, it’s one thing to be missing. Being dead is another. But… for the world to go on without you? ’S almost worse. I don’t want to be forgotten. Don’t I deserve better?”

Ophiuchus has waited years by the time the powers that be decide to allow him even that.

“The dumbest thing about this whole story is how it ends.”

The drugs aren’t working and so she’s stopped drugging him.

“Not much point. They didn’t do much anymore, ‘least not as far as she was concerned. I was awake when it…” Ophiuchus twists fingers in his shirt’s hem.

The tape changes. This time Ophiuchus is absent and the woman is not home. Instead, keeping house for her is that assistant. The little man with the bright white hair. He leaves on some errand or for something in the street and - being not quite so fastidious in his playing of jailer - he forgets to lock the front door and leaves it ajar at that. A shadow on the sidewalk. A nip of black hair, just barely in-and-out of frame.

“The guy she had workin’ for her was a total hoser, man. Lemme tell ya’. Take it from an all-American cokehead, dude was not all there. Then again, she wasn’t either… and they were keeping me locked in a basement, so that mighta been the first tip-off.”

Still no Ophiuchus, but no shadow either. Orange sneakers. A cap sitting backwards on a small dark-haired head. Helloooo? Anybody home? You left your door open! A face looks into the camera. The Blank Wildcard.

“So anyway, the guy was a couple bricks short of a Blockbuster, if you know what I mean… ended up flaking out when he was supposed to be keeping watch. Worked out for me… in a way.” A hand brushes hair behind one ear. “Left the door open or somethin’ like that. Guess some guy wandered in…”

Helloooo? Anybody home?

Ophiuchus sits bolt upright, head cocking. Sweeter than any bird call is that unbelievable noise.

“Don’t really know that he was all there either. Maybe none of us are. Glad he was there though… most of the time.”

The singer screams at the top of his lungs. Somehow - someway - his voice travels through the floor.

“There was no music to cover it. There was no… nothing. So he heard me.”

With a pin from his pocket, the Wildcard makes what would, in any other circumstance, be troublingly quick work of the lock. The door opens. Ophiuchus looks up and into the Wildcard’s face while a manic grin spreads across his own.

You! You heard me! You’re not crazy right?! Listen, I need you to… to find a phone. Call the police! Please! I… look, I can pay you! I’m important! I can-

You’re Billy Joe Cobra, the Wildcard says in wonderment, a familiar but not unwelcome rapture in his voice as he calls him by his name.

“Being super-uber-mega-famous can have it’s perks, y’know?” Ophiuchus’ expression darkens. “Sometimes that’s not enough. See… this guy - not naming names here, don’t worry - was kinda… spacey. Didn’t have a cellphone. And he was… scrawny, so it’s not like he coulda carried me out and my legs were totalled and nobody uses landlines anymore…”

Hold… hold on, a visibly shaken Wildcard is saying. My roomie’s got a working phone!

“He said that he’d get help.”

The Wildcard leaves in a rush, forgetting to shut or re-lock the door. The camera goes with him, from the house and to the street. He hurries. First his expression is frantic and then… and then… a blank look takes its place and he stops and wonders what he was running for. Ophiuchus waits until that little white-haired man returns and finds the door wide open. He simply shuts it, too afraid to say anything to Madame X and not bright enough to consider the possibility of the police turning up with questions. Or more than.

“But he didn’t come back. He didn’t come back! He forgot about me! That’s almost worse than… the other stuff.”

That night he dreams he disappears.

“I know that he had this weird memory stuff. Doesn’t make me feel a whole lot better, even though it probably should.”

One more time the woman breaks his legs. This time Ophiuchus lies there, panting and sweating and nauseous from the pain, but he doesn’t scream. Cut; inadvisable movement. Cut; Why don’t you sing for me? He tries to. Hoarsely. Strainedly. He’ll die without her. If she forgets too.

“She wouldn’t. Not unless someone went up and knocked her over the head with something. She loves me too much.”

Still… in the time that follows, Ophiuchus makes an effort to play extra-nice with her. Not just because he needs her. Or at least, not just because he needs her physically present there… But because the TV has stopped talking about him on all days but the one he "died". Because she’s the only one in the world that hasn’t moved on. And because he might love her a little bit. Just for that.

“I don’t know how long it was between running into thhhhhhhaaaaat guy and… this, but it must have been a while. More than a few months. Less than a full year. Felt like seven - maybe more - but I made it.”

Again Ophiuchus is absent. The Wildcard in a doctor’s office, talking with a very thin, hood-eyed man, who looks… disconcertingly pleased to have him there. The man from the Rooster’s story; the therapist who knew his name without being told. The Wildcard’s face is blank again and, this time, not in a confused way. Peacefully - blissfully - empty.

What do you sssee? the doctor asks.

A door… the Wildcard mutters dreamily.

What doesss it look like?

Wood and nice wood and painted. There are a lot of little yellow stickers shaped like stars.

The doctor’s eyes narrow. Not the door to your parentsss’ room thisss time? His hand slides away from his waistband.

No. Still away with Lily White, the Wildcard shakes his head. This is different. I haven’t seen this one before. I’m a stranger here.

Why are you there?

Someone’s behind it. They’re screaming for help.

“Spence… my little bro… cuz… dude, talked me outta it, but I almost called myself the Blessed Priest. Guess it is kinda clunky, but I woulda liked it fine. Huh? Oh… it’s just the meaning of my other name. My old one? My mom told me it was important - back before I was, and then it didn’t matter anymore. It’s Hebrew, you know? I’d like to think the big dude was watching out for me.”

Open the door now. What do you sssee?

… Billy Joe Cobra.

The doctor makes a strange face when he hears that part. The… pop ssstar?

The Wildcard emerges from his trance too quickly, blinks and shakes himself. Um, can I use your phone?

“Someone must have been. I’m pretty sure of that.”

It’s late, but Ophiuchus isn’t sleeping. Low light from the street outside. Noise from above him. Madame X’s voice. The little white-haired man’s. Scatter and clatter and more he does not recognize.

Hands where I can see them!

Someone opens the door.

“I don’t know what the cops were expecting when they went down there. Probably not what they found. I mean… I’ve seen my gravestone, dude. Even with whatever that one guy eventually told ‘em, I’m sure it had to come as a big ol’ shock.”

The officers that come for him are positively starstruck. Ophiuchus could cry with relief. Instead he smiles and only grunts when they rip him from the bed.

“They didn’t ask for my autograph.” He pouts. “I don’t give a ffffffrick about professionalism. If they’da asked me, I woulda signed.”

Someone’s already called an ambulance. It’s only a matter of getting him there. The EMTs take his blood type. AB-positive…

“Now don’t get me wrong, I wanted to leave an’ all that, but when they cut me open… I guess I changed my mind for a moment there.” He laughs, but they get the feeling this isn’t really a joke. “And the really weird part was when they started callin’ me by my name.”

Not the one he’s spent so long holding onto, but Baruch Cohen; as in, Cohen…? Is that your-

Yeah. In case you need to check my file…

They don’t bother dosing him with dreamer’s drugs.

“You wouldn’t either, to be fair. Still, it wasn’t a fun time I was in for.”

They give him a private room with a giant window. Patients and doctors, nurses and visitors whisper and look through the glass on the other side of the door. Ophiuchus wishes they’d just come in. They don’t.

“Highlight of the whole thing was when the cop took my statement. Felt… good to talk to somebody.”

The officer is a large East Asian man with a sad smile and childlike enthusiasm in his eyes. He doesn’t ask Ophiuchus for an autograph either, but it’s clear he would like to. In the end, the pop star offers and seconds later the man has a slip of paper in his hands.

Thank you so much, Billy Joe… he trails off and amends. Mr. Cobra. Pause. Mr. Cohen?

“After he left… that was one lonely night.”

He asks to call his parents. Seven or twenty-seven, nine or nineteen, he wants them there.

“Someone lent me a cellphone. I needed it… or thought I did.” Ophiuchus’ lower lip begins to tremble. “I just… I was gonna… I tried to call my mom and dad…”

He remembers the number and, with trembling fingers, punches it in. His face lights up.

Mom?! Mom! It’s me! It’s Bil…ly… His face falls. … what?

“Remember how we got into that fight before… way back before… well, everything? And… h-how I wrote them out of my… stuff? Well… when I… ‘died’ they found out I did it for serious. They didn’t get anything-”

After everything we did for you!

Ophiuchus sniffles. “They were… they were really really mad.”

Mad enough that they do not come to see him. Mad enough to hang up before he can do much to explain. He spends that first night in the hospital watching himself on TV. That night he dreams he disappears.

“I still had my fans though! I love my fans! Most of ‘em… most of the time.”

Reporters outside, kept at arm’s length. The name he holds in the papers and on the screen. How the flowers and the candy and the well-wishes flow on in.

“The public doesn’t really seem to, like… wanna dwell on what happened. Specifically. With her. The details weren’t really televised. Mostly they were freaked out about my risin’ from the dead… and it wasn’t just the public either. I have other family.”

That he does. That he does. A not-quite-middle-aged woman with a short ginger bob and a friendly man with bright blue eyes.

Ophiuchus smiles. Jane?

“So on account of me… basically bein’ all MIA for a while, my big cousin ended up being the one to get my stuff. She and her husband and their kids…”

A teenager with brown hair and a flat, pug nose. A girl with a karate gi and a long dark ponytail. Cautiously, curiously, they approach the bed.

You remember Spencer, right? And Jessica?

Ophiuchus blinks. The boy smiles awkwardly. Aren’t you supposed to be, like… five?

“So they live in my house now. Have for a while. Not as long as I’ve been outta commission though. It’s… been a long time. Long enough for some people to get really dead. Whoa… that’s a bummer, though. Uh, point is now I live with them, which makes it kinda like having siblings. Things are a little different now, but I got my old room back and everything!”

Ophiuchus is discharged from the hospital. Hesitantly, he allows himself to embrace or at least to live this new reality… whatever that means for him.

“But I still… I… Sometimes when I’m alone at night I hear this stuff… voices. Her voice. It’s all in my mind. My doctor-lady says that’s pretty normal.” He sighs. “I wish it was just that…”

Paparazzi at the BJC front gate of Ophiuchus’ mansion. They flash cameras and ask questions. It’s rude and pushy and over the line, but he’s used to worse. He’s learned to crave it. Cut; Ophiuchus leafs through a series of fan letters. Hate sprinkled into the mix even now. He crumples it and throws it to the side. There’s not nearly as much hate as there is crazy, like salt mixed in with sugar; these letters disturb Ophiuchus, but he doesn’t throw them away.

“I… I’ve seen a buncha doctors about this one. Some call it Stockholm Syndrome. Some have other theories, but the gist of it is… I miss her. I miss… I don’t miss being there or what she did, but I…”

Ophiuchus in a suit and tie at the trial.

Guilty.

The woman blows a kiss at him as she stands to leave. He resists the urge to smile or to wink.

“She does love me. She worships me. And call me crazy all you want, but I’m the star that shines the brightest for a reason! I like attention and she gave me attention and I… I just…”

Billy Joe Cobra?

The woman sits behind a smooth glass screen. Grey doesn’t suit her any more than orange did. The camera still only catches the lower half of her face.

Uh… hi?

Wearing a visitor's pass; sitting awkwardly; shifting nervously; holding the plastic telephone in shaky hands.

She smiles. I knew you’d come back.

You’re not… mad at me? is the question he asks.

“My family thinks I’m stupid for doing that too. Well, stupid or crazy. I don’t know… maybe they’re right… maybe it is stupid. I mean, it’s not like the world doesn’t want me. People love me as much as they always have.” Ophiuchus pulls his legs up, pushing his face into his knees. “But that isn’t enough for me anymore.”

Chapter 25: *CSA* (Victorious) A Story about Cast and Characters

Summary:

TW: child sexual abuse, domestic violence, incest, step-incest, police brutality, stabbing, parental favouritism, unreality.

“ACTION!”

It’s late morning outside the Palace and cold, at least for California, and not summer either; but not inside the theatre. The kids from Los Angeles have brought the sun with them and dumped it out on the floor. It was nice of Ms. Poppins to let them use the stage. Their school won’t let them practice there.

“Sometimes to tell a secret you first have to teach a lesson. We’re going to start our lesson tonight on an early warm summer evening.”

Brown-haired, brown-eyed “Li’l Bit” looks out over a room full of folding chairs and card tables, almost all of them empty. She’s sixteen but carries herself like someone much older than that. Outside this place she has another name, and yet another for when there are other people inside - more than just the ones she knows. The Soloist, but her first choice was “the Star”.

“In a parking lot overlooking the Beltsville Agricultural Farms in suburban Maryland…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the girl playing Li’l Bit sits between her parents in an elementary school’s cafetorium. She’s dressed up in that kid way, and is not the one on stage. There’s another girl with different curly brown hair and different big brown eyes. This girl is older, wearing light-up sneakers and bleating into a plastic microphone at the top of her lungs.

“Ummm. I love the smell of your hair.”

The Stager in the role of “Peck” has dark brown hair that comes down to his shoulders and a handsome face - pretty, really - despite the dark circles beneath his eyes. His clothes don’t really seem to fit him; they hang loose around his legs and arms - a lot of unfilled space. He looks tired and half-starved, downright lecherous, but that last part doesn’t really belong to him.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a much younger Peck wears a pressed white shirt and smiles for the camera, pictures taken for a children’s clothing catalogue. Have you ever considered getting him into acting? someone asks his parents. He has a real knack for it, and I bet he’d be just great in commercials! He dodges so that his mother can’t pinch his cheek.

“And when you were born you were so tiny that you fit in Uncle Peck’s outstretched hand.”

“Mother” is no older than “Li’l Bit”, at least not by very much. She’s pretty and “fluffy”-looking, like sweet cotton candy or strawberry syrup in a physical form. Her hair is bright red and no natural shade of it either. She wears a lot of hot pink. It’s her purple giraffe that occupies one of the chairs at the base of the stage. She calls herself the Chartreuse, but probably means something else.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Mother sits on her bedroom floor, surrounded by stuffed toys, with her knees pulled to her chest and hands clamped over her ears. She hums to herself softly and then sings with her eyes squeezed shut as another, louder voice screams something from outside and fists beat against the door.

“Why’d you make her the lead and not me? I’m talented.”

The Diva has no role in this. Instead she kicks back in one of the chairs with her feet propped up on another, sitting next to the Chartreuse’s toy giraffe. She’s as curly-haired and brown-eyed as Li’l Bit, but maybe a little older and a lot louder in both dress and mannerisms. In a bit of a role reversal, she’s the girl who held the plastic microphone.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a young girl stands on the foot of her bed, singing - “singing” - into a spoon from the kitchen. Brown hair stands up in lopsided waves and her mother’s makeup has been smeared unevenly across her face. Her audience consists of dolls and stuffed animals, but she performs for them until someone screams Quiet from downstairs.

“I would let Paula Vogel eat both my kidneys.”

The Director is exactly what her name would imply and all sharp angles, dark makeup and multicolored streaks in her hair. A gothy, punkish teenager well on her way to becoming someone’s Lenore or Annabel Lee. Ophelia in the twenty-first century. She holds the stage directions out in front of her, drumming over the top of them with her long black nails.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a girl with dark hair, but not quite as dark as it is now, holds up a packet of stapled-together printer paper, scribbled over in ink and crayon. A gray-faced man sits at the table, not looking at her even as she tugs on his sleeve and pant leg. Daddy, I wrote you- He holds up his hand and she falls silent, slinking sulkily from the room.

“Yup. If Li’l Bit gets any bigger, we’re gonna haveta buy her a wheelbarrow to carry out in front of her-”

The Accompanist is “Grandfather” is a teenage boy with chin-length braids of hair and an off-color expression that might look better on one of the seated girls. He’s better behind a piano, but his acting isn’t halfway bad. More than good actually. Maybe Stanislavsky was right about small actors and small roles.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a young boy and an older woman sit at the bench of the baby grand piano she has in her living room. She plays something with Grandfather in her lap and his clumsy toddler fingers slip and slide over the ivory, not playing anything but touching each individual key for a feel of them. The old woman smiles and tickles him and he laughs.

Li’l Bit is talking again: “The only sport Big Papa followed was chasing Grandma around the house.”

Li’l Bit lies awake in bed, a pillow clamped over her ears as the sound of popstar caterwauling bleeds through the wall of the bathroom into hers. The shower head whines along. Trina, be quiet! I’m trying to sleep!

“Now, honey, that’s just their way-”

If the people like Peck at ten then they love him at eleven, when commercials bleed into small parts in big movies (mostly lineless crowd scenes) and a few not-so-small parts in stage productions. He’s fourteen when someone comes up to his parents and hands them a little white index card. Beck’s really talented. I think he’d really fit in at Hollywood Arts.

“Peck’s so good with them when they get to be that age.” The Chartreuse, now reading for “Aunt Mary”.

She’s playing with her dolls when the door breaks down, hinges creaking. A boy comes in, wild-eyed and bigger than her. She screams, but doesn’t fight much when he pushes her down and kicks her. There are old scratch marks and bruises bearing testimony to the probability that this has happened before.

“Okay, I can see why you guys didn’t want me to be in this now. I mean, talk about a waste of my talent.”

“It sure is…”

The Diva begs her parents for music lessons. Begs. Instead they sign her up for karate and there she picks up… something. One of the volunteers at the center is a nice old man who says, Oh, you’re an artist? in the realest tone she’s ever heard. None of my own little ones are performers, but then they’re younger than you. Maybe there’s time.

“Okay, people, let's see that scene again with more awkward! Beck, you’re supposed to be a pervert! Now act like one! From the top, people!”

The Director’s parents fight sometimes, screaming at each other. Frequently. She’s seven when her mother walks out. Then the house is quiet - both of them are. A few years on, her father brings someone new home. She’s not invited to the wedding. She’s not allowed in the hospital until days after her new baby brother’s birth. She steals scissors from the junk drawer.

“Lucy, your daughter’s got a mouth on her. Well, no sense in wasting good gumbo. Pass me her plate, Big Mama.”

Grandfather is almost a preteen when he first catches his grandmother acting… strange. At first it’s that her keys are missing or her glasses are and he finds them in flowerpots and under couch cushions, in the freezer once and on top of her head several times. He’s ten when she sits him down and makes him promise to be a good person. She stops leaving the house around that same time. He’s eleven when she mistakes his grandfather for a home intruder and comes after him with a kitchen knife. He spends hours behind the locked bathroom door.

“Grown-ups are always saying that. Family.”

Li’l Bit realizes before the Diva does that their parents have a favorite. She’s the one taking singing classes on the sly. The one they trust and listen to. She goes with her father to pick up her sister from the little dojo attached to the mall and is a bit too young to understand the prickle of gooseflesh when the Diva says, Mr. Candy says he thinks I could make it in Hollywood!

“Not me. I told you, as long as you’re with me, I’ll never drink. I asked you if you’d like a cocktail before dinner. It’s nice to have a little something with the oysters.”

Peck practices and practices for another sort of audition, trying on accents and costumes and trying out different scripts. He’s good, very good, but obviously nerve-wracked. His mother tries to calm him down with little result. Getting into this school could be a really big deal for me!

His father brings home a friend from work. Your parents tell me you have an interest in the theatre. You know I was quite invested in the stage arts myself, back during my glory days…

“A Mother’s guide to social drinking: A lady never gets sloppy - she may, however, get tipsy and a little gay.”

The medicine cabinet has been filled with blue caps and white plastic bottles. There are bottles of strong stuff in the pantry downstairs. The girl playing Mother and Grandmother and sometimes Aunt Mary or the odd high school girl learns to mix things with other things and slip them into her brother’s food when she’s alone with him. This doesn’t always work.

The Diva opens a bag of chips, the foil crinkling noisily as she dips her fingers in and stuffs an entire handful into her mouth. If she’s uncomfortable it doesn’t show, but she can’t be hearing much of anything over that sound like a jackhammer between her teeth. Not when it’s so loud. Then again, maybe that’s the point.

Mr. Candy tells corny old jokes and has pockets full of sweets. Her instructor loves him, her classmates like him. So there’s a certain thrill that runs through her when he smiles that way that nobody else sees or slips an extra gumball into her hand. You’re such a pretty girl, you know - and talented. Sometimes the two of them are alone.

“Okay, next scene! Let’s try out the one with Beck and Tori! Cat! Andre! Off the damn stage! And- TORI STOP TOUCHING MY BOYFRIEND NOW!”

The Director’s time is split between parents. Half at her mother’s and half at her father’s - with his new family. Either way she spends most of her time locked in her room. Her stepmother doesn’t like her and her father is indifferent. Her brother does, but the Director is never kind to him. At least her mother’s house is quiet. That changes at twelve when she brings a man home.

“Girl, you need to chill,” the Accompanist says as he dismounts the stage, abandoning the other labels that come with his role. “Seriously, we’re all friends here.”

They send his sister to live upstate with his father, and his grandfather asks “Grandfather” if he'd like to go too. You’ll be with Haydee and-

Nah, Grandpa, that’s okay. He shakes his head.

Are you sure? It might be… safer.

I wanna stay until Grandma gets better, he says obstinately. His grandfather looks down at the little white bottle of Donepezil in his hand.

“The bathroom’s really amazing here, Uncle Peck! They have these little soaps - instead of borax or something - and they’re in the shape of shells!”

She sits at the kitchen counter, watching as her sister shoves a whole frozen pizza into the microwave. There’s no sitter and their parents are out. I’m telling you, Tori, he’s really cool! He says I’m cool! And hot! I think he might really think I’m talented! She jumps and squeals even as the timer goes off. And he makes movies. He wants me to model for him sometime.

“I would suggest a dozen oysters to start, and the crab imperial…”

Peck’s new mentor can open doors that his parents couldn’t. He has money and important friends in high-up places and - when it comes to acting - he’s better at it than anyone Peck’s seen, even on the stage or in movies. Why don’t you do this professionally?

You can’t just do something because you’re good at it. Acting is a talent. Criminology is a labor of love. Do you know anything about love? he asks, slipping his hand down Peck’s inner thigh.

“Drink, instead, like a man: straight up or on the rocks, with plenty of water in between. Oh, yes. And never mix your drinks. Stay with one all night long, like the man you came in with: bourbon, gin, or tequila till dawn, damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead!”

She tries to tell of course. “Mother” and “Aunt Mary”, and whoever else the Chartreuse is playing into, goes to her grandparents and teacher and mom and dad. She tries to tell them, but, Blood is thicker than water, they say. And, All siblings fight.

I know, she says, but I don’t think we’re supposed to fight like this!

“Hey, you guys, I’m gonna order a pizza. Are any of you really anal about toppings or can I just goes balls to the wall?”

The Diva is sitting on the curb in front of the community center and Mr. Candy takes the spot beside her, arm around her shoulder, subtly tugging her into his lap. Your parents are late again?

She nods. Yeah, they hate listening to me sing along with the radio. They leave me alone all the time too, with Tori… that’s my sister. I don’t think they like me very much…

Nonsense! I happen to know you’re a wonderful singer and I’m sure everyone loves you!

You really mean that?

“Ugh… Back to the scene, people! We can think about food later! Now less eating and more talking about rich people food!”

Her mother’s boyfriend is good-looking, a fact that the Director’s father never ceases to gripe about. He’s a good person, people tell her and get cross when she laughs and says, There’s no such thing. Sure, he’s handsome. Sure, he has plenty of money to burn. He’s nice, but only when her mother is around. Those are the times he stares at her, making her skin crawl.

“I hope you all are having a pleasant evening. Is there something I can bring you, sir, before you order?” says “the Waiter”, braids flying out as he hurries back up the steps of the stage.

Grandma stays crazy. Half the time when she takes her medicine she walks in swaying circles of dizziness, and she never takes it reliably enough for any of the positive effects to set. “The Waiter’s” grandfather talks to him about doctors and places she could go. Options and syringes and paper white coats. Grandma loves us, Andre. She just… forgets about that sometimes.

“That’s what I’d like then - a dry martini. And could we maybe have some bread? … Okay, guys, Trina’s right, I’m getting really hungry,” “Li’l Bit” says, stomach growling as if to prove her point. “Can we get some food up in here?”

Her parents are out - her father on business and her mother with his partner from work - and Li’l Bit is sitting with the Diva in front of the TV. The bell rings and it opens to reveal that old man - Mr. Candy - with his big, sugary smile and pocket full of treats. She doesn’t like him, but she does like the candy he brings her. He goes upstairs with her sister (the Diva’s older, she must know).

“I could eat. This scene is kinda… is it weird if I say appetizing? I know it’s about some bad chiz. But I can’t really talk about crab imperial without wanting to have some.”

P.R.’s breath smells like baked Brie and expensive cigars, but they mix not-so-evenly and Peck doesn’t quite know what either flavor really is. He stares straight ahead at the windshield the whole drive home and his father leans down to sniff his hair. Have you been smoking? Peck shakes his head. There are no other questions. He doesn’t know what to say.

“Yay! Food!” “Mother” giggles, hopping giddy and clapping her hands. “I could eat… just don’t put barbeque sauce on my pizza. My brother always orders his like that…”

Their parents leave them alone again. The Chartreuse creeps warily into the kitchen, looking left and right in the way one crosses a busy street. She cracks open the door to the fridge, reaching for the strawberry syrup and carton of milk it’s nestled by. The footsteps sound before she can finish pouring and something knocks her backwards, covering the counter in sweet sticky red.

“Who puts barbecue on pizza? Whatever, anyway, it’s already ordered. They should be here in like…” The Diva looks down and peers at her phone. “… an hour and twenty minutes, give or take, so you guys have time for some more of your weird little play… thing or whatever it is you’re doing.”

The Diva smiles and twirls, singing for the camcorder and her audience of one in her bedroom. Mr. Candy holds up the recorder, seated on the end of her bed. You’re so talented, he says, and pretty. Now would you- She nods and begins to unbutton the top of her cardigan. Soon her clothing lies in a heap on the floor.

“Okay, everybody take five! Clearly, you can’t take this thing seriously until you’ve gotten your wittle bellies full. So… I dunno. Eat Tori or something.”

Her mother’s boyfriend and his friends are obnoxious. More than most people are. Precocious or not it still takes the Director a long while to come up with the word for why she doesn’t like him. What makes her so… uncomfortable about the way he watches her when she goes for a dip in the pool. When he comes up behind her and blows hot air against the nape of her neck. Wet breath. Warm breath. She breaks two fingers the first time he pulls his torso to her back with both arms, hands a little too high. She’s twelve. He isn’t.

“So… we’re taking a break then? I’m good with that. Who wants something from the vending machine? I think it’s… Peppy products.”

His grandfather still works. His great-grandfather is senile and aged. His grandmother is aging. Ungracefully. “Grandfather”, who is also “the Waiter”, who is also “Father” and “a classmate” and the Accompanist and himself, learns what pills mix with what and what sets the almost-old woman off. Sometimes she locks herself in the bathroom and yells at the walls. His grandfather cajoles her. He sits in the hallway outside the door for hours until his grandfather talks her out. He’s ten years old when she takes a knife from the kitchen in there with her.

“Li’l Bit” on the stage again, reading from her list of lines. “- Now my grandmother believed in all the sacraments of the church, till the day she died. She believed in Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny until she was fifteen. But she didn’t believe in-” No one cuts in because they’re still taking a break - the Director’s smoking out front while the Chartreuse and Accompanist wait for the pizza. One might wonder what the delivery boy is going to think about being asked to come here. “No, Grandma, I think that’s astronauts-”

By nine she’s used to the sort of mutual, reversed babysitting imposed by her parents where she watches the Diva more than her elder sister watches her. She’s used to the old man and his secret visits where her sister locks the door to her room. She’s used to having to promise, after he leaves, not to say that he was here at all. It’s unusual when the Diva comes to her.

“How can you hear yourself think?” Peck says, reading another line on another page. He takes the Director’s seat. “Of course, my favorite car will always be the ‘56 Bel Air Sports Coupe. Chevy sold more ‘55s - but the ‘56! - a V-8 with corvette option, 225 horsepower, went from zero to sixty miles per hour in 8.9 seconds.”

He stands in the shower until the water turns cold. His father pounds a fist against the door. Beck! You okay in there? Peck says something about washing his hair. They believe him. The next morning he eats the same breakfast as always and pushes cold cereal around the bowl. They ask him how the lesson went. They ask him if he wants to go back. Not really.

“Gym Class: In the showers.”

The kitchen: after breakfast. The Chartreuse is coming in from having taken the trash out. There are spilled bottles of “special” medicine on the counters and food from the freezer strewn across the floor. She groans loudly when she opens up the door. Something stirs behind her. Glass cracks against her head. Later her brother will say he thought she was breaking in.

“You haven’t heard the Mary Jane jokes?” the Diva reads, leaning over “Li’l Bit’s” shoulder, gasping loudly. Her acting… isn’t great. “Okay. Little Mary Jane is walking in the woods when all of a sudden this man who was hiding behind a tree jumps out, rips open Mary Jane’s blouse, and plunges his hands on her breasts. And Little Mary Jane just laughed and laughed, because she knew her money was in her shoes.”

She stands outside her sister’s bedroom, knock-knock-knocking until Li’l Bit opens up. Trina…?

I need a favor!

… What do you want?

Mr. Candy wants to take another video of me, but… She tilts her head slightly. Someone else needs to hold the camera.

Why?

Um, I’m not sure… I think he wants to be in it too. Something about another pair of hands.

“You know, I wanted to do Titus Andronicus.”

Eighth grade hits her like a truck and the Director spends the summer trying on clothes that don’t fit. That man watches her. She tries to tell her mother how strange it feels, but nobody listens. When he hugs her a little too tightly or puts his hands a little too low, it’s the same. Then he comes into her room just before the start of the school year and cries overreaction when the craft scissors from her writing desk find their way into his arm. The Director can’t prove he touched her. But she knows what he is - and knows he knows it.

“Good evening. Would you care to dance?”

It’s almost an hour of standing in the hallways and yelling from both sides of the door before he calls his grandfather. No answer. He tries again, tries his father in Pasadena, tries his sister and his aunt and uncle and cousins. Eventually he tries the police. Andre Harris. Eleven years old. My grandma. I’m worried she’ll hurt herself. They send over the man from the Brothers’ tape.

“But this is something - that I’m only doing for you. This is something - that you said was just between us.”

Nine years old is probably old enough to know that this isn’t right. If she had attentive parents. If the guidance counselor had said what to do if the strange man isn’t a stranger. Isn’t touching her. Isn’t being pushy or mean. Isn’t making her sister do this. Li’l Bit holds the camera and gives Mr. Candy back his tape. He kisses her on the forehead. His lips are warm. He kisses her sister.

“Li’l Bit - you’re scared. Your mother and your grandparents have filled your head with all kinds of nonsense about men - I hear them working on you all the time - and you’re scared. It won’t hurt you - if the man you go to bed with really loves you. And I have loved you since the day I held you in my hand. And I think everyone’s just gotten you frightened to death about something that is just like breathing.”

Peck stands as himself, on the stage of that performing arts school in front of a line of judges. The principal who gave him the card, a guidance counselor, some teachers he doesn’t recognize and a man with falling-out hair. He doesn’t sing. He can’t dance. He acts though, and for one glorious moment he does hold them in the palm of his hand.

“The whisper of the zipper - you could reach out with your hand and -”

The Chartreuse in a hospital bed with her head bandaged and dried blood still in her hair. Her parents are sitting in the hard plastic chairs. Her grandmother is shouting at them. She turns the volume up on her phone, playing music and singing along to drown out the noise and the silence. Her brother isn’t there.

The Diva comes in, holding a large, flat box over her head. “Pizza’s here! Hope you like feta!”

She sees Mr. Candy again, after her family goes on a long vacation. After puberty has steamrolled over her. He comes over just one more time and she throws him out in a huff when she realizes it isn’t for her. He said I was special…

Li’l Bit tries to smile. You are.

“Okay, you’ve had your food. NOW GET BACK ON THE STAGE!”

Her mother and the man break up after what the Director did. He gets twelve stitches from where the scissor blades opened inside of him. She isn’t going to apologize. Instead she goes into her room and sits down at the desk and takes out a spiral-bound book of notebook paper and she writes down what it feels like to look older than she is.

“How is Shakespeare gonna help her lie on her back in the-”

He stands behind the piano, rubbing his wrists with one hand and then the other. Wincing, biting his inner cheek, he sets his hands on the keyboard and plays… something like Dedicated to the One I Love or Sweet Dreams by Orbison. He doesn’t sing, but his grandmother does - off-key - and his grandfather and great-grandfather watch them from the sofa with smiles on their faces.

“Ahh…” “Li’l Bit” pauses like the stage directions tell her to. “I adjust my seat. Fasten my seatbelt. Then I check the right side mirror - check the left side. Finally, I adjust the rearview mirror. And then - I floor it.”

Chapter 26: *CSA* (Loud House) Eleven Stories about the Spectrum Suit

Summary:

TW: all feature sexual abuse of minors aged between three and seventeen or allusions to same; here are additional specific ones:
1) false accusation of incestuous abuse, police brutality, gang-rape.
2) kidnapping, abuse of an intellectually disabled minor.
3) allusions to drug and alcohol use, forced prostitution, and underage sex.
4) public humiliation via internet.
5) gang-rape, transphobia for religious reasons, allusions to parental incest and disowning of a non-focal character, menstruation.
6) repeated assaults, religious abuse, knife crime, forced incest, minor genital injury, emotional incest, brief gore.
7) internalised misogyny, discussion of incestuous abuse and false accusation.
8) false accusation of incestuous abuse, frightening medical examination.
9) repeated assaults, misgendering of a cis person, child-on-child assault, bullying.
10) discussion of underage pregnancy (the baby isn't the one who gets pregnant, FYI).
11) allusions to all of the above.
I should probably also forewarn you about the puns. You will wince.

“Uh… you guys can relax. We aren’t all here for the same thing.”

“We kind of are-”

“Yeah, but not in the same way, dummy!”

“Don’t call people dumb!”

“Or what? You’ll tell on her?”

“Maybe you shouldn’t go there…”

“Maybe you should mind your own business.”

“Guuyysss! We shouldn’t fight! This is a family.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Yeah, families fight! We fought on the way here!”

The Spectrum Suit is a group of eleven, all standing in a not-exactly straight row. Oldest to youngest, though with some the difference is hard to notice and with a few can’t be told at all. Blonde hair and brown hair and white hair and black. A boy stands at the center of ten girls.

“Guys! Seriously, cut it out! I thought you said you were ready for this.”

“I am.”

“Then get it together!” He sighs. “Uh, so yeah, we aren’t all here because of the same stuff. Our parents are fine, we’re just unlucky. Well, most of us anyway. Nothing actually happened to me, but… well, I’ll get to that when I get to it. Who wants to go first?”

“I will.” The first in the line. “I’m the oldest. It’s only fair.”

“Fire away.”

 

A Story about the Ace of Shades

“Okay… so maybe sometimes… I’m not the nicest.”

Even now, the Ace of Shades keeps both eyes on her phone, scrolling through it with the thumb of one hand. She wears blue. Pale blue. The color of her shirt and shoes and the makeup applied heavily to her eyelids. Around her shoulders hangs a curtain of loose blonde hair.

“I’m the oldest of eleven. Would you be?”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; chaos. Children everywhere, in the house, in the yard, packing a blue van like sardines. Aloof above it all, Ace of Shades flicks through her phone, calm as cerulean blue, until the phone is knocked from her hand.

“I won’t lie. I have a pretty nasty temper. Which… really isn’t great if you’re a babysitter, and I am. Progressive age or no, that’s pretty much what oldest girls are still expected to be. Problem is, I’m bad at it.”

The Ace hasn’t the temperament to manage children. It’s screaming that gets her by and through. Sometimes her hands. Painted, pale and veined with blue and perfect. She rules the house with a blue-steel fist.

“I don’t know why Mom and Dad left me in charge as much as they…” She glances around. “No, I take that back.”

Next in line is another sister. A bit dim. What some would call slow (and the Ace does in her weaker moments). Behind her, a bona fide metalhead. Behind her, an overenthusiastic practical joker. And behind her, a hyperactive jock with a temper twice as bad as Ace's ever was.

“No offense, guys, but we all know why.”

A few times another sibling will be left to man the house and the family returns to it in ruins (proverbial) or up in flames (literal on at least one occasion). Temper or not, the Ace takes control and comes out cool as blue and on top. That doesn’t mean the others don’t mind.

“Yeah, yeah… I’m sort of a bully. Whatever. Who cares? If you’re living in a house like that, you can’t afford to be nice! And anyway, we’re all siblings. It’s normal.”

Ace lounges on the couch, swearing at her blue-screened phone and holding the remote in her free hand. A gossip channel goes half-ignored and almost every one of her siblings launches a complaint. She pays them no mind.

She looks down. “And I guess that was why it was so easy for people to believe the worst of me.”

She arrives home from school, texting while walking, to find a police car at the door and her parents pale-faced with horror. Hi, are you Lori Loud? asks the chubby Chinese officer, blue shirt tight around his gut and biceps, concern in his eyes. I’m afraid you’re gonna have to come talk with us. There’ve been some very serious allegations against you…

“I… well, I’m here because… well, it was kind of like what happened to Panthera, y’know? Or like the Star. I was arrested and not even in the way I thought I’d be! It was for something I never even… something I…” She struggles. “Something I never even did!”

“Yay! You did it!” The next-oldest sister starts to clap, but the Ace silences her with a glare.

Frozen-faced, Ace of Shades goes with the man to the station and hesitates only when he reaches to cuff her hands. Can’t you at least tell me what I’m being, like, charged with?! And then he does.

“And… I kinda wish he hadn’t.”

Your sister says you touched her inappropriately. The words ring in her ears like death knells. I… darn, there are so many of you… I think her name was Lola? The little one in pink. Ace gapes and tries to speak, but no words come out, her face pale and her body cold as ocean ice.

“I didn’t! I mean, obviously, but I didn’t! I’d never have… I couldn’t have… I…” Ace sniffles; her mascara runs. “I didn’t…”

She says as much on the tape, alternating between horror and fury. Staring at the officer, but unable to meet his eyes. She looks down at his shirt instead. More light blue. And on the table she taps a set of painted nails. Acrylics.

“I wasn’t sure whether I wanted to hug my parents or wring my sister’s neck more! I guess they picked up how angry I was and that didn’t help, and Mom and Dad were… weird about it. They wanted to believe me, I could tell. But when it’s something like that, I understand they’d wanna be sure, and if it did happen, they’d want me to be away from the kids. And kids don’t usually lie about that stuff, so… I know why they did things the way they did, but that doesn’t make me happier about it.” She sends a tear-filled glare down the line, and a smaller sister cowers.

The family van pulls up outside the station, a single place inside it empty. The kids troop into the interrogation rooms, two by two with a parent by each one’s side.

“Trouble is, they asked the other kids if I’d done anything like that, and obviously I hadn’t and they knew it. But given that other stuff was going on for some of them, and none of them wanted to talk about it but a lot of them aren’t great at lying… it didn’t quite come out that way.”

Questions: just vague enough that the children can misconstrue. Answers: garbled and unconvincing and easy to misunderstand. Has anyone ever touched you in a way… that made you feel… icky? A single definite yes. One bluntly answers no.

“Like my brother said, nothing happened to him. And…”

Lori didn’t do it! the “slow” sister says, strangely the only one who seems to have caught on to the line of questions. She wouldn’t!

“Um… thanks, guys, by the way. For that…” Ace of Shades tugs at her hair. “But… but, um… apparently, that wasn’t enough. Especially when they weren’t the ones accusing me.”

Ace is left to spend the night in a cell as the blue sky turns to black, wondering what her parents must be thinking, wondering why her sister would say such a thing. Wondering whether they’ll let her call her boyfriend, and whether he’ll ever want to hear from her again. The dreadlocked stoner in the next cell hums the blues and she tells him to shut up.

“And that would have been bad enough, but, well, you guys know what some of those cops were doing, right? Well… Two’s thing happened before mine did, and one of those cops had liked her. I mean, actually liked her, not-creepily for once. She’s White and cute and well-behaved and got hurt, and I guess he sorta felt protective of her?”

A door pulls open. A man with brown hair and a large mustache comes inside, followed by two women and two other men, all dressed in blue.

“I don’t know what he thought I could have done! I mean I’m a year older than her! How the fu- how the heck was I supposed to molest someone a year younger than me? But whatever, I guess that doesn’t matter so much right now… right?”

She starts to ask a question, but the man grabs her wrists, pinning them above Ace’s head and shoving her down hard on the bunk. Another begins undressing her, stuffs her bra in her mouth as she tries to scream. Blue. Light blue. The same as their uniforms. The Ace of Shades gags and struggles and fruitlessly shrieks herself blue in the face.

“That only had time to happen once, but that’s more than enough, isn’t it? Sad part is it wasn’t too long after that the truth came out…”

More officers. Her parents. Her sister, shaking and shaken and pale. Lori? her mother says as the door comes open. Are you… okay, sweetheart? She hears the other side of the story, and immediately swears up a blue streak at the top of her lungs. Her parents don’t stop her until she physically launches herself at her cowering sister.

“I guess they gave little miss…” She stops, breathing raggedly. Out and in. “Forensic exam. No marks. No nothing. No case either, not really. They still had to try it, but my parents were all too happy to post my bail.”

She spends the weeks leading up to the trial locked behind her bedroom door. Sometimes her siblings knock. Sometimes it is that sister, but the Ace of Shades watches bruises fade from blue to purple and lets no one at all inside.

“I didn’t tell them what happened with the cops. It wasn’t a huge issue, I didn’t think. I was more worried about what the jury would think of me… and… and… we had other problems.” She looks down the line. “And hey, they found me innocent…”

The defense attorney with a blue suit and blue-rinsed hair. Ace wears a blue dress as the verdict is handed down. Not guilty. The words fall like weights from off her back and to the ground. She’s free. And still, in every corner, the Ace keeps her eyes trained on those spots of police blue.

“But in that time, rumours spread. I know, I’m usually one of the people that spreads ‘em.”

As she walks down the corridors at school, whispers follow. Someone trips her up. Someone hisses an insult.

“I mean, I get why people think some of that stuff. It’s a weird case. People thought I did it. That’s sorta why I didn’t wanna talk about the cop thing. What if people thought it was just some cheap way of drumming up sympathy?”

It comes to a head when she returns home with a broken phone and more bruises, her face all over black and blue. Ace’s parents do not make her return to school.

“I had to transfer. It sucks being new, but… things have actually been pretty okay.”

The Ace is pretty and charismatic. She climbs quickly through the ranks. The new school’s blue-eyed girl. Still, she remains nervous. Ever vigilant. Ever afraid. And when a certain story makes the news she braces up under its weight.

“Thank God I’m a minor. Thank God!”

A phone call comes at dinner and for once it is not the Ace of Shades that goes to answer. Her father does. The news hits him like a bolt from the blue. The handset drops and his face goes pale. Lori… he says quietly. Come into the kitchen for a moment. We need to talk…

“They called my parents. They do that if you’re still a kid. I’m not exactly happy about that part, but it beats having my name in the paper.”

Her classmates whisper about this latest case; about the officers from the news. Some make tasteless jokes. Others offer wordless horror. The Ace avoids it all as best she can and when she can’t she plays along with whatever crowd she finds.

“I’m really scared that someone will find out, and then they’ll ask what I was arrested for and then… and then…” The Ace of Shades swallows and winces, going white-knuckled around her phone and staring down. “This is all so stupid! I shouldn’t have to worry about this kind of thing! About them finding out! I didn’t do anything!”

Rewind; with an old belt of her father’s, the Ace makes a noose. Blue leather. Blue lips. When she wakes, blue is the bruise it leaves behind. Fast forward: blue pills of Valium, and still her mood is often blue.

“… I didn’t do anything wrong.”

 

A Story about the Two of Shades

“Everyone thinks I’m pretty dumb.”

Two of Shades is a pretty teenage girl with hair a little lighter than that of the Ace. She wears a turquoise dress trimmed with white fringe, and white sandals with turquoise bows. Her hoop earrings are a coral pink and a pair of white sunglasses sit atop her head. She smiles broadly, as if without a reason to be here, in this room or on this stage.

“But that’s okay!”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Two of Shades, two years or so younger, walks down the street beneath a sunny sky, gazing vacantly about. She jaywalks and ignores the car horns. Her sunglasses drop down over her sea-green eyes, and she stops and looks around as if night suddenly fell.

“Being smart is cool and all, but it’s not the only reason people can like you! Everyone tells me I always know how to cheer them right up! And… I guess I’m pretty?” On the last part, she trails off.

Boys make fun of her, but the Two of Shades can never quite tell. Some of them will make passes and she will accept. Whether or not she properly can lies in the line of gray and unclear.

“That’s sorta my reason for coming. Being pretty, y’know? But I’d probably come anyways since the rest of you guys did, even if nothing happened, because, like, molar support and all that!” She pauses and cocks her head. “Uh, I mean morality.”

“Um, Two?” Ace nudges her sister’s arm. “You’re getting off topic again.”

“Oh! Yeah. Well, like, with guys my age I don’t mind, but there was this older guy, and he, like, must have known I’d think he was gross and stuff…”

A nice car, the paint job an expensive duochrome blue-green, crawls down the road behind Two. She notices it briefly, waves and says, I like your car! and continues on, oblivious.

“I… People told me about strangers when I was little. I got all those talks on being safe. It would have been nice if I’d remembered them, but… I’m not so good at that.”

Another night, the same car. Two waves again, not recognizing it. I like your-

It stops. The window rolls down. Want to go for a ride?

“W-wouldn’t you? I mean… I guess not. That’s the dumb thing again. I still don’t think it’s fair that someone should get hurt just because someone else thinks they’re stupid.”

They drive for a while. Past the nice high school and the underfunded one in the inner city and the hospital and shopping mall with their glimmering glass walls. They pass the public swimming pool and Two of Shades pushes her face against the glass of the window, looking over at the squealing kids and teenagers, splashing around in puddles of aquamarine. Eventually, though, she says, I should go now. It’s almost dinner time. And the man keeps driving, his face impassive as if he doesn’t hear.

“I tried to open the door, but he was faster than I was and he had those childproof locks so I couldn’t get it open or anything. So we kept going, and he brought me to his house. If I’d known it was gonna be important later I would have tried to remember the way he went, but at the time I was really scared. I thought I was gonna die. Even super-smart people have trouble remembering stuff when they're scared.”

A nice house at the end of a long driveway and surrounded by a gate. Sculpted hedges stand like centurions all around Two and jade vines climb the walls, while chlorinated water bubbles in a fountain at the middle of the front yard and shimmers in a pool at the back. It’s all very beautiful, just like a doll’s dream house. But nobody is going to hear her scream.

“And they didn’t. He just grabbed me and made me go inside. It wasn’t so bad actually - I mean it was bad, but not… He didn’t, like, lock me up in the basement or anything. Just a nice room…” She bites down on an overglossed lip. “… with a big bed.”

A deep, soft, king-size mattress, and a real duck-down comforter (eider, not teal, but close enough one of her sisters could make a joke). Innocently, Two bounces on the bed, kicks off her shoes, and gets comfortable. So I should just wait here till my parents come, right?

… Right, says the man, already unbuttoning his shirt.

Are you okay? Is it too warm in here?

“So he kinda just… you know… That’s what made things serious. I might be dumb, but I’m not that dumb. I knew it was bad and I wanted to leave, but… what’s that expression again? Easier said than done?”

Two tries. Over and over again. Harder than she has at anything - even long division - but it’s still not enough. She runs down the hall once, but the man drags her back, and she hits him a few times but never hard enough to keep him down. Maybe it’s that window glass and floral china break a little less easily than they do on television. Maybe she isn’t strong enough to break it over his head. Maybe, maybe, maybe… He starts bringing her food on paper plates. Every morning the sky outside is a more greenish shade of blue.

“I was gone for a couple weeks, right? And I’m not that big. Even after I knew it was bad… I couldn’t stop him from doing it again.”

Turquoise bedclothes ruffled and torn away. Two of Shades on her front and back. The man clenches her arms hard enough to leave bruises in blue-green. Sometimes it hurts badly enough that she screams, but nobody hears her.

“Nobody was close enough to hear me. He had a really really big house and a really really really big garden.”

Not that she has free reign of it. Two of Shades stays locked in that room. It gets to be more boring than anything after a while, but boring is better than him being here. At least boring is safe.

“I don’t like to think badly of people,” she says, rubbing her arm awkwardly. “I thought he was just… like me, and he didn’t know I didn’t want him to do it. But when I told him, he said he did know and he did it anyway! That’s not fair.”

The man scoffs and says, Why do you think the door’s locked, kid? Two’s face turns sickly greenish pale as she finally realises the severity of her plight. The man gifts her with a strange looking bracelet. Blue plastic with something in the middle giving off green light. This thing tells me where you are at all times. Just in case you get any ideas, he says. He thinks it’ll destroy her hope. He doesn’t know Two.

“Anyway, I knew I didn’t wanna be there, and I know my family are smart so maybe they’d find me, but I couldn’t see how. So I figured I should at least try to get myself out. I didn’t know how, but I thought really hard about times I’d seen stuff like that on TV, and what a smart person would do.” She looks proud. “It takes me a bit longer to get stuff like that, but I did!”

Ace pats her back. “You did great.”

Two beams. “Yeah! I might be dumb but he thought I was stupid. And he didn’t pay as much attention as he could have to me.”

One day, after he leaves her in a heap on the bed, Two of Shades listes to the slam of the door, but not the click of the lock. Hands curl around the doorknob. It turns. Her eyes flash like aquamarines.

“The doors going out of the house were all locked up. I wasn’t that lucky. But I could still get around the place and there were plenty of heavy things laying around. I’m not that big, but I’m not a weakling either. And the window was just regular glass…”

Two cuts her hands and legs to pieces scrambling through the translucent blue glass. Outside, freedom is waiting. She grabs a shard and hacks through the plastic wristband, cutting her hands further but persevering, and she stomps on the electronic part when it’s off. I… don’t… want… your dumb gifts… you big meanie!

“Good thing I remembered to take that off… technically I didn’t remember it was a tracker till after it was off, but at least I left it behind either way. That would have been really super dumb!”

Blood falls and dilutes into pinkish spirals as she trips, dropping into the turquoise water of the pool. She comes up gasping, but pulls herself up and over the fence on the other side.

“It washed all of his… stuff off of me and there was nothing left for the doctors to find when I got to the hospital.” She pouts her lip. “So not fair.”

She runs, trailing chemical chlorinated droplets behind her as she goes. It isn’t blue-green that comes out where she cut her hands up on the gate spikes, though it smells like verdigris, but that falls in dashes too. Two runs.

“A nice… well, I guess he wasn’t very nice,” she frowns, looking over at Ace, “but he was a man - a policeman - and he found me… and he helped me even if…” Two gulps. “He was so nice… it’s sorta weird to think about him hurting somebody else.”

She runs - slams into - a policeman with a mustache and going-gray hair. His overwashed shirt has gone greenish-blue. Two doesn't see the little dark spots where washing wasn't enough. What the…? Oh - oh… Kid? Are you okay?

Two pants, looking up at him from underneath her sopping bangs. You… you’re the police!

“S-so yeah! He drove me to the hospital in his car and waited with me and everything. He even sat down when we went into the emergency room and gave me his phone to call my parents and… and he let me hold his hand. He told me about his own kids.” She looks sad. “I kinda hope they only got the good stuff outta him, yunno? Leave out the bad!”

She sits next to the man in blue, fingers hovering over number keys. It takes her a while to remember all the digits, but not that long and her whole face lights up when she hears a familiar voice on the other end. Mom! Mom, hi! It’s Leni!

“She came down as fast as she could to be with me. Then she called Dad and he brought the others around later. I…” She wipes her nose. Wipes her eyes. “I r-really missed you guys! I missed you so much!”

The sister in black hands her two gemstones, blue-green. Ocean jasper for positivity, and fluorite for mental clarity, she says.

The sister in green, still carried by the Ace and not even toddling but speaking full sentences already, says, You know magic isn't real-

They’re rocks and they’re shiny, the Ace whispers to her, it’ll make her feel better anyway.

“I’ve still got them at home! Ace was right, they did make me feel better! Though I guess I don’t feel as bad as a lot of you guys do?” Two frowns and pouts, as deep in thought as she can get. “I forget about it a lot, but not like the Wildcard did with his? I just get distracted really easy, and I can’t think about that and other stuff at the same time.”

Two makes her statement, the officer who saved her sitting beside her bed. He’s nothing but kind; she’s young and White and middle-class, and she’s not the one who did anything wrong. Still, Two’s own mind hinders the process, as she forgets details and gets distracted and gives green answers to blue questions until he snaps at her and she cries and he apologises profusely.

“Sometimes I do get worried, though. I mean, they never found that guy. What if he comes back? Or he gets one of the others? I don’t think he will, Mom says he’d have to be pretty dumb to come back where we might recognise him… but he’d have to be kinda dumb to let me escape, too.”

Two comes home, beaming again. The family wear the teal ribbons of Sexual Violence Awareness, and remind Two to keep her phone charged and on at all times and install a tracker app in it and call at regular intervals. Other than that, things seem to go back pretty much to normal.

“Except for some other stuff…” Two glances down the line, “but that’s not really part of my turn. So who’s going next?”

 

A Story about the Three of Shades

“This is not how I ever wanted to be on a stage.”

Stompy purple boots and purple tartan, purple eyeshadow, hair a shade of brown with a wine-red tint which shines purplish in certain lights, and a paperclip hanging from each ear. Three of Shades shrugs and gazes at the ceiling lights.

“Always did want to be on one, but, like, the usual way. With my axe in my hand and all of you screaming my real name…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment: Three of Shades in softer style, longer hair and lacy lilac blouse, in the good seats at a concert with her father by her side, some years ago. Hesitant at first; but when the singer arrives, screaming rock and roll with everything about him, from his shaggy hair to his wine-coloured open-necked shirt to his top-of-the-line guitar, she is transformed.

“Mick Swagger, dudes!” She throws up the horns and headbangs. “Some of you guys know him, right? Would it be weird if I asked you to tell him I said hi?”

Three goes home and cuts the sleeves off her shirts, her jackets, has to be stopped more than once in the process of shredding her jeans. The cool and classical gathers dust in the corner, making room for men with guitars - and women - to come and cover every inch around the purple-sheeted top bunk.

“Rock 'n' roll and all that! Love that… uh, stuff. You haven’t lived until you’ve jumped into a mosh pit - or crowd-surfed! Or… or just… Well, I dunno! How do you describe a feeling!” Some of her sisters roll their eyes while stars dance in her own. “Oh sure! Everyone’s a critic!”

She obtains a purple electric guitar. Noise. Noise everywhere. Her sisters and brother stock up on earplugs. Her dad listens, and can’t get enough.

“He was pretty into rock and roll too, and he’s not half bad! He taught me how to play properly, helped me find a decent roadie and start booking shows. Nothin’ too big under my own steam yet, but I have been on TV.” She wilts a little. “That was after this, though.”

Another concert. She dresses to the nines in studs and spikes, draped in the purple once worn by royalty. She feels like a queen in her gear, though she’s just one of the crowd, and worships the singer more than any king was ever revered.

“My dad and my girlfriend couldn’t come along that time, but I wasn’t gonna miss it, obviously. I was down in the mosh pit. It was crowded, but I don’t mind that… I didn’t.”

Eardrums beating like heart palpitations, Three hoots and hollers as she throws herself into the fray. She’s unafraid. Indomitable. Untouchable. Even the moshing, mashing crowd seems to agree with her there. They part, just a little, but an inch is a mile and a note is a symphony. And the music gets louder as she moves further towards the stage.

“It was kind of a free-for-all, not gonna lie. Kind of dig that though - at least, I did - pretty awesome just to… to… I felt so alive, man. Like I could burn right through the middle of the world.”

Flashing purple strobe lights and the smell of purple kush.

“And at first it was awesome. Everything I thought it’d be, more even! That’s… that was kinda the problem, yeah?”

More throbbing, more flashing, more purple glitter and fishnet stockings and screaming herself hoarse with the party sound. People who smell like booze and slosh it groggily - grapes turned wrong and stronger stuff - and most of them with vomit and sweat mixed in.

“I didn’t drink anything or whatever, ‘cept water, and I didn’t do drugs. I know not to do that, and it’s not like I wasn’t high enough just on the sound. But that much noise, and heat, and light, and pressure… I started to feel pretty dizzy. And that actually feels kind of good, but…”

Her head is swimming, the music sounds like it’s coming through water, and it takes her a while to realise a hand is creeping up her skirt.

“That’s actually, like, a problem, didja know? People getting… at concerts, I mean. I don’t know why, but maybe it’s that hand stuff doesn’t seem like real enough sex to them or maybe it’s that almost everyone is high - or drunk - and the music is really loud and that makes it easy to… lose yourself.” Three tugs on an earring, glittery makeup ultra-violet in the light. She shrugs. “Or maybe it’s nothing like that and whoever it was always wanted to do that and it was just easier to get away with… in the crowd…”

Flash-thrum-flash go the strobe lights, goes the music. Flash-thrum-flash. Louder. Three’s eyes pop way, way open. She realizes just how loud the music is when it swallows up her shriek. She tries to turn around, to look, but the crowd is pressed too tightly, and it’s dark, and all she can see is the purple lights.

“It wasn’t… you know, like that or anything, wasn’t as bad as it could’ve been. The dude or chick or… well, I’m not sure, actually, I never saw them and they only used their hands. Even if I had gone to a doctor, I don’t know if they would have found anything. I'm probably never gonna know who it was. Whatever, everything’s gone now. And after it the only things left on me were the bruises.”

She makes her shaky way home and flops on her bed, under the posters of her sun-and-stars singers, wondering if they know this sort of thing happens when they perform. Wondering if they’d have stopped and helped her if they knew. In the shower she can’t find a mark from them, just the knee-and-elbow-jab marks of the mosh pit.

“I didn’t wanna worry my folks. Besides, I thought they’d stop me from going to other concerts if they knew. I told my girlfriend, she’s been great. I guess if what IIII absolutely am not doing with her because I’m too young so there’s no need to tell our parents-” She snickers nervously and looks sidelong at the Ace. “-is sex, then that was… the bad kind of sex, too, so, yeah. I know I’m allowed to be upset. I kinda wish I wasn’t, though. It tainted my favourite thing ever for a while.”

Wanting a break from the thumping rock and bass that reminds her of hands and smoke, she tries her hand at pop, storyboarding a video of herself cavorting with pretty girls in a fairground under a purpling sunset sky.

“And I don’t hate pop! It’s catchy, it’s feelgood, most people like it - that’s the point of it. It’s just not what I wanna do all the time. But everyone liked my song, and I sent it in to- yeah.”

America’s Next Hit Maker, the show is called, and the producers adore her song. Not so much her style.

“Pop stars tend to… well, we know what happened to Sarah Lynn and B- Ophiuchus, but they at least usually present as more wholesome than rock stars. Audiences at their concerts tend to be less rough. More likely to have a lotta kids there. I thought it would be harder to get away with that kinda thing at pop concerts, so I… kinda thought an image change was worth a try.”

Pink and pastels under a softer light. Violets in her dressing room. She dusts herself in glitter and feels the music… but it’s not the same.

“Hey, I wasn’t born in the purple and they were trying to make a pop princess outta me. It was okay at first, I guess, but not… in the long term. Not a purple state either, I don’t swing.” She taps the pink-purple-blue pin on her top. “ ‘Least not on music.”

Maybe not, but punk rock can be strained into sugar that rolls like taffy and sticks like cough syrup on her tongue. Three of Shades plays as loud as she ever has, but tones down everything else and dances right to the front of a crowd of hundreds. It’s not quite the thousands Ophiuchus sang for, but it’s bigger than her audience has ever been. And there are bouncers to keep them all at arm’s length. Her purple patch is as bright as ever, but she’s wearing pink on the stage.

“And then I got to thinking… I felt safe, but it didn’t really hit right. Maybe I just don’t like playing things that way. How can I say I was protecting myself if I didn’t even feel like me anymore? Is that stupid? That’s sounds stupid, right?”

She talks to the directors. No sympathy. Either you go on as Lulu, or you don’t go on at all. While she debates, she hears whispers in their office. Letters. Lulu is the girl everyone loves, and it seems someone might already love her too much, the way people loved Ophiuchus, or the Manager’s charges. They don’t agree to anything, they do seem disturbed… but they don’t call the police immediately either.

“I don’t know if they’d have done anything about it, good or bad. I think I’d have done what I did whether it happened or not, though. I went on as Lulu… but you all saw what happened.”

Three hurls the pink wig offstage, grabs her real guitar, and plays it loud, plays it proud, and doesn’t care at all when she’s disqualified. She gets no record deal prize, but her Bandcamp account rakes it in for weeks after, not that she would care if it didn’t; she doesn’t even check it. Her family are overjoyed to have her back to normal. Her classmates hum her song in the halls, and some greet her and tell her that her song touched their hearts in a way her pop song never would have.

“Girl’s gotta be herself, right?” She swishes her tartan skirt and grins awkwardly. “I was kinda scared by what I heard them saying, but at the same time, I feel better? I dunno…” Three scratches her neck, shrugs. “Knowing there really is nothing I could do and no way I could be to make people not ever wanna do that is freaky, it’s awful, but… that means it really wasn’t my fault, or any of ours. That feels pretty good to know.”

 

A Story about the Four of Shades

“This place reminds me of a joke! What comes between sex and fear? Fünf! … What? Not the time? Dark humour is a valid coping mechanism!”

Yellow skirt, yellow socks, yellow scrunchy in her hair. Four of Shades grins, exposing braces. No one laughs.

“Tough crowd…” She wilts. “I guess you’re here for tragedy, though.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment… containing a spotlight of yellow; Four stands on another stage, telling jokes like the Comedian. Some good, some bad. She’s young and still finding her place in the crowd.

“I’m gonna be famous someday! I’ve known that since forever! I’ll be famous and then everyone’s gonna laugh! I’ve had trouble with that, you know.”

Not every joke lands easy and her audiences are rarely charitable. Not even to someone of her age. When worse comes to worst, she launches a banana cream pie and splatters yellow-white over herself. Sometimes it works.

“Sometimes I think I’m probably not as good as I think I am, but you gotta be confident. Performance is just as important as telling jokes that are actually good. You’ve gotta have charisma… and I think I do.”

She gets better. Graduates from gymnasiums to auditoriums to comedy clubs. People laugh now and the Four of Shades grins beneath the beam of yellow lights, and she dreams of golden statues on her shelves.

“But not everyone thinks I’m so funny. See, there were these two older kids at school. Can I use their real names? See, it’s part of the joke - their names were really similar, and they were dating.”

Richard Victoria. Victoria Richardson. Ricky and Vicky. Tall, the two of them. Skinny and with the same orange-red hair. They’ve appeared on tapes before. Her as the Fairy Godchild’s sitter and him as the tutor of the Daydreaming Delusionist.

“It was creepy, seriously. They looked like twins too. Of course I couldn’t pass up pointing that out - I mean, c’mon, anything that’s unusual is great material…”

So when you’re married, who’s gonna be the one who gets the redundant name? Ahahaha! Four laughs. The older kids do not.

“I know I was probably getting on their nerves, but I can get really carried away sometimes and… it’s hard to quit when you’re ahead.”

Aww, don’t be that way! Four giggles again, spit flying the couple’s way. You’re practically clones! You gotta know that, right?

“That sorta gave me… a bad idea.”

Hey, if you are clones does that make it incest or masturbation? The older pair’s faces go pink, then red.

“I thought for a moment they were gonna strangle me. Kinda wish they had just tried to do that… I realised I’d crossed a line and backed down, apologised. They scared me a little.”

A glimmer in their eyes that Four is too young and too good-hearted to truly understand, but wise enough to fear. You’re sorry? says Vicky. You wanna prove it?

“They told me to meet them behind the school gym, on Saturday. I was expecting an epic prank. Cool with me, that’s my thing! If they wanted to pull a joke on me to make it even, I can laugh with myself.”

She goes. She goes and the two do meet her there.

“… But… there wasn’t any prank waiting. Not the funny kind. Not even something unfunny…” Four of Shades wipes her eyes. “It was just really, really mean.”

An ambush. Four goes up to talk to the pair only for the boy to grab her ponytail and for the girl to shove her to the ground. Ricky holds her there while Vicky stands. Out comes the yellow light of her phone camera.

“They held me down, and when I tried to get up they punched and kicked me till I stopped. Then he started to take off my clothes…”

Burst blouse buttons. Skirt pulled up. One shoe kicked off in the struggle. Four screams and cries as loud as she can, but no one is around to hear. Oh, oh, wait, Ricky, look! Yellow staining white cotton and dripping to the ground, matching the colourless tears on Four’s face.

“I-I… I wet myself. That’s… I know that’s not that weird. I was scared. It happens. But they thought it was hilarious, and they had it on film…”

What happens happens. The Four of Shades showers as soon as she is home, clearing away the smell of her shame and of them with lemon shampoo. When she returns to school on Monday everyone is laughing. Behind her back and in her face.

“They posted it online - well, the part where I, you know, they cut out anything they’d get in real trouble for - and… and everyone saw. They all saw… and they thought it was funny. They all… they made fun of me!”

Even her friends are hiding laughter, even as they try to soothe what they think is only her bruised ego. Those who aren’t her friends don’t hide it. The crueller kids leave diapers in her locker, or call her phone and ask for I. P. Freely.

“Internet jokes often don’t stay popular for very long, but they don’t ever really go away. Now I’m always wondering if someone’s seen it, and I probably always will be.”

For a week or so Four walks, head down and bitterly silent, through the hall, goldbricking in class and avoiding her friends, trying not to listen to the snickering. Then people begin to take notice of the change, asking over and over again, What’s wrong?

“I didn’t wanna worry them, especially not after what happened with Len- Two… so I…”

She goes back to joking, laughing louder now and finding none of it quite so funny. Up in the gold ones of whoever’s available, butting in on conversations and surprising them from behind with her latest pun or riddle. Her pranks get more and more aggressive as time goes on; live wild animals in cupboards, cooking oil greasing the kitchen floor, intentionally-triggered allergies. Before she was as good as gold, and now she becomes a nuisance - and then a danger. Her family begins to worry another way.

“And at school… everyone was still… they were all still…” She hugs herself. “I used to like when people laughed around me. I wanted that! But… not like this. All I wanted was for them to stop and I needed… I needed those guys to take that stupid video down.” Four breathes slowly in and out. “So… I made a phone call…”

On the phone, she sobs; on the other end, Ricky laughs. You gotta take the v-video down! I mean it! This isn’t funny! More crying, more begging. I’ll tell, she bluffs.

“I don’t know if I really would have dared tell. But he seemed to believe me… seemed to. So he offered a deal. He’d come over to our place, just once, and I’d… let him do it again. And then he’d take the video down… Why did I believe him?”

Most of the family packs into the van. Four of Shades claims homework and stays behind, sitting on the couch in uneasy tension, fingers playing with the golden foil of a vending-machine condom she prays she can persuade him to use. A knock comes on the front door…

“… and…” She gulps, and looks down the line. “It’ll make more sense if Six tells it with her thing, but… I probably should, right? How can I leave that to her? God, I’m such a yellow-belly…”

“It’s fine. I’ll tell them. Just… hold my hand when I do?”

“… Thanks.”

 

A Story about the Five of Shades

“I guess I’ve always known who I am. I thought I did, anyway.”

Five stands on the stage, with her reddish-brown hair and red soccer uniform and red-rubbed knees and sunburned nose, and her lower lip bitten red.

“That doesn’t mean everyone likes what I am, though.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Five, much much smaller, with clipped-short hair and a blush on her face, mumbles to her mother, Uh, Mom? Girls can like sports, right? I mean, if a kid likes sports, that doesn’t make them not a girl?

“I was one of those trans kids who knew really early on, but… well, Mom and Dad would never tell me I had to pick between girl-ness and sports, but what people outside think can get to me anyway sometimes. I try not to let it show.”

Psychologist and doctor, and hair grown out, and conversations with her classmates, and hugs from parents, and Hey, thanks for givin’ me a neutral name!

“The problems didn’t really start for me for a while. Like, occasionally I’d get weird looks or whatever, but I got on blockers really early and… yeah. It’s pretty hard for random folks to tell that I’m not exactly like they are. And people usually aren’t looking for me to be.”

Five makes it all the way to middle school, completely unscathed. She plays every sport available, and every time she changes, it is in a toilet cubicle with the door locked.

“One day I just had to get the one that was broken.”

A classmate, not knocking, pushes the door and it swings wide at the least opportune time. Five grabs for her red shorts. Too late. Gasps and giggles, and she blushes a furious red.

“Some of the girls had been in elementary school with me and knew, but I’d asked them not to tell, and I don’t think they would have anyway - I mean, that’s rude, everyone knows that. But not all of them knew. I explained, and most of them were great about it… Most of them.”

A few girls; two from the Herald’s tape. A girl in a baseball uniform with a shoulder-length braid of bright red hair, and her closest friend, a pretty red-ribboned downy blonde. Both wear crosses at their throats.

“There were a couple mean girls. Religious types. One of them was on a few of my teams… and by on I mean she was the baseball captain, and she was really, really good.” Five dares to smirk a little and flicks her hair. “I was better though. Think that made her mad.”

Whispered mockery, rumours of Five’s nonexistent misbehaviours. Accusations of “cheating”.

“Which is double stupid because we were twelve, and at that age girls are usually taller and stronger than boys are! Girls - I mean, people with more estrogen, you know what I mean - hit puberty faster. But yeah, pointing that out didn’t help.”

More whispers between the redhead and the blonde, and to some boys. Five doesn’t see. The redhead needles her more at practices, sends a ball flying at her head, until Five flushes angry red and starts a full-blown row, not knowing she’s walked right into a setup. Behind her back, the girls grin like Venus fly traps.

“She challenged me to a race - through the woods, not far from school. The sports teams had done cross-country runs there before, we knew the route, so I knew she couldn’t lead me off a cliff or anything. You… you don’t really think of other kids thinking up that kind of stuff. I know it’s been a thing for some of you, yeah, but I didn’t know then and it’s not the first thing you look for, y’know?”

The day of the race. Five leaves home, tells her family not to wait up.

“They weren’t looking for me.” She chews her lip. “No one was.”

Five runs, overtaking the girl at times, but not by much. The two are matched, almost equally. And then… red hair stands out against the red-brown earth. My leg!

“She pretended to fall. And she called me a cheater!”

The Five of Shades stops. Hey, she says, is anything brok-

She reaches out a hand, but the girl grabs her wrist and pulls her down, red hair hanging over bloodshot eyes. She looks to the bushes and shouts: NOW!

“Her friend, and some boys… they were hiding around there. They came out, and they held me still…”

A mock trial, of which so many of the Palace’s number would recognise the form. Lynn Loud Junior… pretender… penance… Five struggles as they force her to her knees and gets one of their own knees to her face. She spits red; she sees red.

“They tried to do stuff… with my mouth. I hear that was how their dads did it with the people they got. I bit them, and…”

A punch, lips swollen red. Eyes bloodshot and tearful with rage. Hands in the waistband of her shorts.

“That girl… she didn’t wanna do things that way, yunno? Said something about saving herself. Sounded a little crazy if you ask me, all of it did. I can remember thinking that, but then those guys got my pants down and… I stopped thinking about everything but getting away.”

She struggles. Kicks and punches and screams herself raw. Does everything she can think of, but help doesn’t come and they hold her firm.

“There were just… so many of them…” She glares at the floor. “I know it wasn’t my fault.”

The last of the boys finishes, smearing red across the leaves and her thighs. The girl steps up then, smiling wolfishly.

“She didn’t want to… pop her cherry-”

“Ewww!” One of Five’s sisters makes a face.

“-but she figured she could do something else just fine… and, um…” She blushes at this. “She used her hands…”

Like Miss Normal’s aunt, the girl with red hair has sharp, sharp nails. Nails that scratch and come away cherry-pop red. Fucking tranny. She stands, glaring at Five of Shades. She spits on her.

“Then she did something… really weird.”

From her pocket the girl pulls a bill - a twenty. Here, more spit as she tosses it down, call a cab or something. Figure with that many kids your family must be in the red.

“The cop we eventually told said she might have picked that up from somewhere, it seemed kind of… specific. I knew most of what her dad did didn’t leave people alive to call a cab, so it seemed weird, but I heard about her brother… so, yeah. And I thought that was it, but…”

The blonde friend snickers and looks down at Five. The redhead looks quizzically at her, and the blonde sneers. Eww, like I’m gonna touch it… I have a better idea. She half-turns, absurdly preserving some modesty, and reaches under her skirt.

“She was on her period.”

Red on white swinging from the blonde girl’s finger tips. She throws the pad down and hits Five square in the face.

“That was so nasty… oh my God, it was so gross…” She gags and then chuckles mirthlessly. “Why is that the thing that freaks me out so much? Maybe ‘cause the others didn’t touch my face… or maybe ‘cause it just reminded me of what my body doesn’t do.”

With a few more jabs and jeers and gestures, the group dissipates and Five of Shades remains behind, on her back in the autumn leaves, staring up at the sky. She remains there for an hour or more. Until sunset falls and the sky goes a deep and bloody red.

“Of course I had to get up and go home eventually. No one even really noticed anything. I come home bruised and scratched up all the time, and with eleven of us it was really easy to lose track of how long I was supposed to have been out. I know I should have said something, but… I thought Mom and Dad would try to make me de-transition if I did. I know, I know, it was a stupid thing to think, but if I told them that was why… I knew they only wanted me to be safe.”

Five returns to school as usual and watches her back, perhaps too enthusiastically. A girl laughs - not even at her - and she threatens to hit her. A boy bumps into her in the hallway and she actually does. Soon the Five of Shades sits alone at lunch and keeps everyone two arms' lengths away. They are afraid because she is.

“I became a bully. I’ll admit it. I kinda feel bad for playing into a stereotype. Y’know, trans girls being violent?”

That bloodstained twenty remains in her pocket for the rest of the year, giving her a reason to remember why.

“Then the Gunman’s story happened…”

A man with red clothes and red in his hair and other faces she recognises from classmates’ cars, now on the news.

“And some of those kids freaked out and confessed.”

The Five of Shades sits in an interview room with an officer in front of her and her father at her side. Eventually, though it comes like pulling teeth, her story is told and her father tugs her into his arms.

“Maybe I shoulda pressed charges, but I didn’t want to. I wasn’t the only one they got to so they were gonna be punished anyway, and if I had everyone at school would’ve known, and we’d have to come up with something to tell the younger kids too. After Two… I didn’t wanna make things worse.”

Back to the therapist and doctor, for different reasons this time.

“I hadn’t said anything before because I know about mandatory reporting. Mom and Dad would have found out. But, well, they found out anyway. And, hey, I was wrong. They didn’t make me stop transitioning. That’s good. They… they don’t think it was my fault.”

Her attackers take time out of school. Some don’t come back, moved to foster parents in different districts. Some don’t return from juvenile hall. Those that remain are quiet, subdued.

“That girl from my teams? I think she spent a little while in juvie, but not long. Something about being messed up herself and not really getting what she did. I know after that, she moved in with a brother they’d kicked out, and she changed schools. I think she’s in therapy now. I guess I don’t have an excuse to be a bully anymore, but… stopping isn’t that simple.”

Five snaps at her siblings and at other students too, long after she trains herself not to hit. Time rolls forward and those incidents become less but they do not stop.

“I’m trying to protect myself. I know that and I know it’s not an excuse, but I…”

Anger and fear become as one and the Five of Shades sees red no matter how much she tries to pull those feelings from herself. To push each one of them away. The Ace’s story passes and she has to be restrained from strangling her older sister, and later from bashing in the younger one’s head. Her parents are firm but patient and exactly what she needs.

“I don’t know if… well, I heard about that girl’s brother. I know that her parents… wouldn’t have been the same way.”

Weeks pass. Then months. Five is called downstairs by her mother and finds a pudgy redheaded man, his shirt wrinkled and powdered sugar flecking his hair. He gives the mother a box of strawberry and cherry cupcakes, fresh red juice leaking into white frosting, and extends a hand. Gideon Grey. Five already knows. My… uh, my sister asked if I’d give this to you, he says and hands over a letter. Handwritten in red pen. I’m sorry.

Five of Shades glares at the wall, hot red spots of anger on her cheeks. “But I’m still mad.”

 

A Story about the Six of Shades

“They say that six is an unlucky number.”

The Six of Shades is a strange little thing. Pale and moody, her eyes covered by a curtain of pitch-black hair. She wears a dress of the same color and holds a leather-bound notebook in her hands.

“I’m not sure it’s any unluckier than any of our other numbers.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Six of Shades mills about quietly in the halls and rooms of a crowded house. Too young to be of much use for minding, old enough that she’s not inclined to hurt herself.

“I’m eight. I’ll be nine soon. That’s not so much younger than eleven.” She looks over at her brother. He scoots away. “And I don’t care for men. Most men.” Again her brother squirms. “It started… maybe two years ago?”

Six goes to school dressed in black, even as a six-year-old, even in the heat of a California summer, even when whispers and giggles follow her. She spends time in the library, and around older girls and boys with similar interests in the dark. She feeds bats in the attic, reads and writes poetry, explores an abandoned church with a black-and-white-film camera in hand.

“Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned my intentions to go there at school. My classmates have older siblings, and they talk.”

Gargoyles and gravestones and patterns of mould, and she doesn’t see two older boys emerge from the treeline until it’s too late. Almost twice her age and weight, one would be more than capable of holding her down. Lucy Loud… devil worshipper…

“I compared stories with Five. It was two of the same boys. They held my jaw so I couldn’t bite, and after what I heard from her, I’m glad I didn’t try.”

They hold her hair and leave the Six of Shades lying half in the black of the shadows on the ground. When she is sure they have gone, she pulls herself up and starts for home. No one sees the bruises on her wrists or the blackened eye beneath her bangs.

“Only two. I suppose they thought a small girl wouldn’t need any more. Maybe they thought I was more delicate, or more redeemable. I don’t know. I know they asked me if I was sorry for what I’d done, and of course I said yes, but I didn’t understand what they thought I’d done wrong. I don’t worship the devil and I didn’t know why they said I did. So I didn’t do anything differently, and…”

It happens again. Just one boy this time. And again. And again with two, a much younger third - the Backwards Preacher - observing with horror on his face but making no move to help her. When the older boys hold her down, he flees, in tears. They spit insults after him, but let him go. They don’t extend the same courtesy to Six.

“Some kind of initiation thing. I don’t blame you, Preacher. You couldn’t have stopped them any more than I could.”

Five’s incident. Five’s confession.

“The boys who admitted their actions weren’t the ones who got to me, so I wasn’t mentioned. I thought that was a good thing at the time. They went away and I didn’t have to say anything. But that doesn’t make the hurting stop.”

It happened rarely, but once would be too many. She has no way of predicting when it might occur again. She hides in corners or at the fringes of crowds, and keeps a wary eye out for unfamiliar boys. She listens to dark and dirty rumours about older boys, about her friends’ family members, about her teachers.

“For the record, Professor, I’m sorry I believed that one.” She taps her fingers together. “I understand now that my way of reacting looked strange, but it made sense at the time. You see, the only men I knew I could trust to never, ever hurt me or any of my sisters were my father, my grandfathers… and my brother.”

The boy on the stage winces.

The creekside shanty town frequented by Epimetheus and the Lamia’s prey, before the parents pulled their children out. Two teenagers lurk not far away in the darkening evenings, a fat girl and a thin girl, both in grungy-goth fashions. Sometimes they bring books, and Six of Shades borrows the ones they’ll let her have and notes the titles of others for library trips. Cut; Six hides a book under her pillow when another sister barges into her room. A close-up of the spine: The Cement Garden.

“It’s… slightly less disturbing than it sounds. I was drawn to him because I knew he wouldn’t be inappropriately interested. I wished for an intense spiritual bond in which I knew… that… would not be involved. I suppose it was misplaced curiosity and a need for reassurance. I expressed that oddly. My doctor tells me I didn't exactly do anything bad, but it was still a problem.”

Her brother keeps finding her standing in his shadow, hiding in dark corners around the house. Watching him, like a little gargoyle. He shrugs it off. She was a little on the strange side to begin with, anyway.

“I thought it was unfair to leave everyone else out. None of my sisters should have to put themselves in danger either. I thought we could all stay one big family forever.”

Six of Shades draws, black ink spilling from pen to page, creating figure after figure. Her brother looks over her shoulder. Hey, those are really good! Not your usual kind of thing, are you branching out?

“He asked what I was drawing, and I told him. I was thinking of what all of our future children might look like.”

Here’s Lupa, she’s mine, she says. Loan is Lori’s and Liena is Leni’s, then here’s Lyra, Liby…

She lists off many characters, and her brother asks, Which one’s mine?

She gives him a strange look and says, All of them. He gives her an even stranger look, and backs away.

“I don’t think he entirely knew what I meant.”

“I didn’t,” adds the brother. “I figured I misheard, or she didn’t understand, or… well, she’s eight, and I don’t know when kids figure out things like that. If she did mean that, I didn’t think she got why it was weird, but I really didn’t wanna be the one to have that conversation, so I didn’t ask.”

“Oh, I knew it was taboo and unwise,” says Six. “But it felt safe. Well, safe for me, anyway. I’m sorry I made you feel unsafe.”

“Well… that’s for later.”

“I suppose I must carry on, then.” A deep sigh. “Remember how Four’s story didn’t really end properly?”

Most of the family is going out. Four begs off on account of “homework”. Six really does have some to finish.

“So both of us were home alone together. She was downstairs, I was in my room, and I have a tendency to… blend in. I think she forgot I was there.”

She taps her pen across the desk top, dotting the black and white worksheet with gobby globs of ink. Something creaks from the floor below her.

“That was not so strange as the sound that came after. I knew Four was in the house, so at first I chalked the sound up to just that, but then I heard her voice and another one that… should not have been there.”

If… do this… take it down… okay? Four’s voice, black with despair.

Sure, says the other voice, the one that Six of Shades doesn’t know.

“But… I could hear that it was a male-sounding voice and that Four was upset. If it had just been her alone I might have assumed she’d fallen, but it wasn’t. I believe I’ve made it clear how I feel about strange men, so when… when I heard one in the house I thought, well, I thought he might be hurting her.” She hides behind her tar-black bangs. “I was right. He blackmailed her and showed up at our house and…”

That redheaded boy leans over Four like he leaned over Player 2, shadow looming. Six sees everything from the shaded alcove at the top of the stairs. She gasps. Ricky Victoria looks up.

“He saw me. So did she.”

Lucy, go to your room! Four shouts.

Ricky is already up and at Six’s side. His fly is still open, and she grimaces at what she sees there. He pinches her cheek. Heard a’ gothic loli before but this is a new one.

“Four explained what that meant, later. At the time I knew he meant something bad, and I didn’t know what, but I had a pretty good idea what he was going to do. Or I thought I did. It was worse. He said he wouldn’t touch me…”

Ricky turns to Four, grin sparkling like a knife’s edge. How ‘bout you do it?

“She put up a good fight.” Six squeezes Four’s hand harder. “She hit him, she told him she didn’t care about the video anymore. No one could say she didn’t try. But he didn’t like being told no.”

Dark fury in Ricky’s expression, and a real knife in his hand. Six tries to run, but in seconds it’s at her throat.

“He…” She touches her neck feebly with one hand, swallowing melancholy. “We weren't here to meet him, but I remember what you said about the Detective.” Four reaches out and wraps her shoulder in her free arm. It’s an awkward position, but the girls seem alright with it. “I guess he might have been able to empathize with my situation.”

Shapeless shadows on the floor, blurring together. Ricky flashes the knife, flashes a smile that flashes teeth. Silver and white and green for his eyes, but it all looks black, black, black through Six’s curtain of hair. She is crying. Four is crying. Her braces shine silver and scratchy-sharp. There isn’t black on her teeth when they separate, but they aren’t white anymore. Ricky laughs and slams the door and they sit there until the bulb burns out.

Four sniffles. “And after all that, he didn't even take the video down.”

“He was arrested over what he did to the Delusionist very shortly afterwards, so we thought we could get away with not saying anything. We didn’t tell our parents or the police until… until Nine’s happened. That was when the rest of the things we’d been keeping secret came out. And by that time… he was dead. A snake bite, the police told us.”

Green lizards on the red sand flash black, black teeth, and shadows fall over a hand lying in the dirt, skin sloughing off and blackening into slime. Back at the house of Shades: Six, for the first time in years, wears all white.

“Maybe that’s morbid enough to be worrying at my age…” Six’s black mood lifts, just a little bit, and she favours the audience with a smile of pearly white teeth. “… but you wear black to show you’re unhappy someone died, don’t you?”

 

A Story about the Seven of Shades

“I gotta say, I don’t think I’m a boy the way Five is a girl - I mean, I’m pretty sure I am a girl - but I don’t like bein’ a girl too much.”

Seven of Shades is tiny, about six or so, dressed in dark blue overalls and a red baseball cap, with fluffy little pigtails bound up with rubber bands.

“I like animals! I like dirt! And trucks and bein’ outdoors and baseball and breakin’ stuff!” Her big blue eyes blink. “Alla that’s good. That’s fun… but that’s ‘cause it’s boy stuff. Girl stuff isn’t any fun!”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Seven, younger than her number in years, runs through her parents yard, chasing after a girl in pink (who looks more like her than the rest of them combined), hand coated in dirt and filled with worms. Lana! her sister squeals. Cut it out!

“Eight’s a pageant queen like the bear guys’ aunt, and we’re twins so a whole lotta people think we oughta be the same, but… we just aren’t. We never were. Ever! And, uh, that means we fight. Like, a lot.”

Back and forth screaming blue murder and tearing out hair. Tiny girls trading insults and swapping blows. A bit like Pua Mae and Miss Normal in a way, with each twin giving as good as she gets.

“I just don’t like prissy-pretty-squealy things, yunno? I didn’t even… even before. Makeup smells weird and it hurts when people do your hair and I don’t have the time to just sit still an’ wait for someone else to do either! I mean, c’mon, people! I got places to be! So I guess I never really hung out with that many girls that weren’t my sisters. It’s sorta like Six’s thing, I guess.” She shrugs. “The ones at school all think I’m strange.”

Not that she has no friends. The boys think she’s strange too, but strange in a cool way. They make fun, until she repairs their toys and explains how engines work and catches frogs in the deep points of the creek and names more football teams than they can. She’s given an initiation ritual into a young boys’ club; no one expects her to actually eat the spider, let alone bring her own. They look on her with a wary kind of reverence afterwards, and can’t wait for her to show up each playdate.

“Thing is, there was this one boy… and he had a sister. Well, two sisters.”

Green eyes and dark hair. He looks like different parts of a pair from the Godchild’s tape. He winces sometimes when Seven knocks him in the arm with her small fists. She laughs every time and jokes about him being soft and doesn’t notice when he looks hurt. They stay friends anyway and one day he asks her: How’d you like to come over to my house?

“An’ ‘course I said yeah. Sure! I mean I went over to boys’ houses all the time an’ nothing bad ever happened. My parents were fine with it ‘cause he was my friend an’…” She snaps at the bands around her pigtails. “S-so I went over there when his parents were home, but I never saw ‘em. Maybe they… maybe they thought I’d be fine…” She looks unconvinced. “Or maybe they didn’t know…”

A tall, skinny girl with a long ginger ponytail. She leans against a blue house with the same blue trim as most of the others on the street. It’s a nice place, nicer than some of the houses her parents have left her at; many of Seven’s friends come from blue-collar backgrounds.

“An’ she was nice, at least while the grown ups were still there, so we all figured… well, I figured everything was fine! And my friend wasn’t scared!”

If Seven was just a little older, a little wiser about people, she’d see that he is. Victoria Richardson taps her foot as the children scamper inside.

“He had another sister, bigger’n him but littler’n her, but she wasn’t around just then. We played with trucks and stuff in the yard. It was goin’ fine…”

Hold on a minute, he says and gets to his feet, hopping anxiously. I hafta use the bathroom, ‘kay? She remains outside and doesn't hear the squeak he makes tearing off down the navy-painted hall.

“He… he was only gone for just a little bit. But it was longer than… um, so I…” She bites her lip and doesn’t sniffle but looks more than a little blue. “The door opened…”

Hey, twerp, the babysitter who has no business being a babysitter sneers, pushing her head outside.

Huh…? Seven stares up at her, uncomprehending.

“The whole thing just happened so… so… what’s the expression? Outta the blue?”

Looks like you got your pants dirty, Vicky sneers, better take ‘em off!

Well, yeah, I’m playin’ in mud- Seven starts saying, but the sitter is quick, and pushes her down and pulls her clothes to her ankles. The hedges are high. No one sees, or hears.

“I thought it was just a dumb prank, but then she… she hurt me for real! She stuck her hand over my mouth so I couldn’t yell and she got her other hand and… yeah. She just sorta left after that, and I didn’t know what the heck was happenin’. Then my friend came back…”

Y-you okay? he asks when he sees the way Seven is shaking.

Your sister… She stares at him, wide eyes popping, blue in the face like Ace. Does she… was she ever weird to you?

“An’ he said no! He didn’t even know what I was talking about!”

So he says anyway, but Seven is too young to notice that he just says, No, she doesn’t hurt me, without even asking what his flesh and veins did. She goes home, and she rejects femininity harder than ever.

“See, I didn’t know a lot about this stuff at the time, and I thought… I thought it wouldn’t have happened if I’d been a boy. ‘Cause, well, they’re different there and at least if I was a boy it wouldn’t hurt me the same way, you know? I didn’t know you could do that to guys. Mom says a lotta people don’t know that.”

Like Six, she draws.

“So I drew myself as a boy, and then I thought it wasn’t fair to all my sisters that they could be hurt that way too, so I drew them as boys, and the others were looking at me sorta funny and I didn’t wanna leave our brother out ‘cause that would be mean and it would look even weirder if I did, and I thought with ten boys to protect him no one would wanna go near him anyway. I mean, we all would protect him no matter what, but more people think boys can do that. So I drew him as a girl.”

Heyyy, Lana, Five asks, do all these, uh, mean anything? She picks up a picture of “herself” with shorter hair and shirt pulled up to show a binder. ‘Cause you know you can talk to us about that, right? Obviously!

Seven pouts. I dunno…

Still thinkin’ ‘bout it? Five pats Seven’s back, and misses her wince. It’s cool! Take time. We love you either way.

“And… an’ maybe it’s somethin’ like that, but I don’t think so. It’s like… I wanna be a boy, yeah, but not… not… I don’t think I am one. Or maybe I just don’t wanna be a girl an’ that’s not really the same thing.” She pulls at the cuffs on her overalls. “I dunno… I dunno.”

Hunting for beetles after school one day, she overhears her twin sobbing and her mother gasping through the open kitchen window. She doesn’t hear exactly what is said, but she sees when the man in blue heads up the path. Fascinated, she scuttles after him, and is shocked by what she hears.

“I went right to comfort my sister,” she says bitterly, glaring at the girl in question, who shuffles away.

Seven cuddles up in her twin’s bed that night. Are you okay? she whispers. A little whimper is the only response. Seven carries on. Y’know… you’re not the only one? Wasn’t Lori, but…

Her polar opposite squeaks beside her. “I’m sorry!”

“Yeah, well…” She huffs, kicking her feet a little. “That was really dumb.”

It is. And the lie is ill-constructed. And the truth comes a lot more easily than pulling teeth. Seven is home again, under the watch of another sister, when her parents come back with a contrite-looking duplicate and the Ace of Shades between them. They explain and of course she’s dumbstruck, shocked as if hit by a bolt from the blue. So it was all made up? Why would you lie about that?!

I… I didn’t know!

“Well, you should have. ‘Not knowing’ ruined everything. Hope you’re proud of yourself.”

“I wouldn’t say ruined everything…”

Whatever their brother says on the stage, their relationship is definitely damaged. They don’t fight anymore. They don’t speak at all. Seven glares at her twin from across the room each night, until their parents put in a partition.

“We’re kinda thinkin’ ‘bout switchin’ rooms, puttin’ me with Ace an’ her with Two. She already hadda switch schools, just like Ace, an’…” Seven’s anger turns to guilt. “That’s my fault.”

She vents to a classmate sworn to secrecy. The next day, the whole school knows. Lying Lola has to leave.

“Maybe if the girls liked me more they wouldn’ta done that.”

Once, she tries to reach out to her sister - another sister - and goes up knock-knock-knocking on the Ace’s door.

“Um, I just… I didn’t wanna tell my parents ‘bout any a' this stuff, not after what she did, but I figured maybe L- Ace’d listen. She’s the oldest an’ even though she’s kinda bossy an’ mean sometimes… well, she’d always been good when it mattered before…”

Lori? Seven sticks her eye through the peephole. Can I talk to y-

GO AWAY! And Ace of Shades curses like a Navy man and for once no one reprimands her. Seven flees in tears.

“Stuff came out after another of our things. Mom and Dad wanted to make sure no one else was hiding anythin’ and check if we knew anythin’ about what they did know, so they had all of us talk to the cops. So now they’re lookin’ for that girl, the one who… Turns out she went missing, like a lotta people did.”

She sits sulkily in the questioning room, and the cop hands over a business card; one recognisable to the Palace members. It’s what they need, but Seven’s eye catches the line below the number: All ages, all genders, all stories. Printed in a calming, businesslike blue.

“That sorta… really upset me. I mean, not the ‘all’ part, I know there’s more’n two, there’s a kid who… well, whatevs, it wasn’t that. It was ‘cause that meant… that meant I was wrong.” She swallows, and looks out at the crowd; at the boys in it. “Sorry, guys. I didn’t know.”

 

A Story about the Eight of Shades

“I swear I thought she was just gonna be grounded!”

Eight of Shades, in contrast with her twin, is a perfect little dress-up doll, pretty in pink from top to toe and with coiffed hair. She’s even wearing mascara, but now it’s running from her tears.

“See, grown-ups always tell you no one should ever touch you in an icky way, so I knew that was bad, right? Everyone knows. But no one ever really told us what would happen if someone did.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Eight of Shades is more like the Ace than not. Girlish and highly demanding. Hers is a presence that expects to be obeyed. She seldom is, because of junior status. Because of her oh-so-young age.

“I was jealous! I admit it! Of her! She’s eleven years older and she thinks she can do whatever she wants. Mom and Dad always put her in charge all the time and she was allowed to drive, but she was so mean and bossy about it and… it just wasn’t fair!”

Eight watches Ace sit at the table and paint her nails, her phone pinned between her ear and her shoulder. Ace applies the last perfect slice of pink, and puts her fingers into a pink UV dryer which gleams with pink light.

“I really wanted to try that stuff. Pink’s my colour! So I… I went into her room…”

Eight searches drawers and boxes until she finds her prize, opens it up, and applies it in unpractised splodges and streaks, until the door opens. In surprise, Eight moves too fast, and the bottle overturns onto the carpet as the glass falls from her hands.

“I still say it was your f- EEP!” She moves to hide behind Seven as the Ace of Shades fixes her with a glare. “I… the bottle smashed. It was ‘spensive, and gel nail stuff’s really hard to clean up.”

Pink on the carpet. Pink on the glass. Pink coloring the Ace’s cheeks. And then her sister raises a hand.

“She hit me…”

“We’re sisters!”

“You hit m-”

“Oh, yeah, I’m the bad guy here.”

“Guys!” They quiet down at the sound of their brother’s voice. “We’re here to help you stop fighting, okay? I don’t think it matters whose fault it was anymore.”

Ace shuffles her feet. Eight sniffles.

“So, uh, yeah, she hit me and I got mad. Real mad. I didn’t know I could hold that much mad! So I wanted to make her feel bad too.”

A sore pink mark on Eight’s cheek. She sits in her own room and sulks, and plots.

“A-at school they always said nobody should ever touch us in icky places. That it was really, really bad if they did. And I… and I… Even then I probably wouldn’t‘a thought of doin’ what I did, ‘cept… Four’s room is right down the hall. She was on the phone and…”

Eight presses her ear to the door and listens to her sister’s call in full. You gotta take the v-video down! the girl lisps. I mean it! This isn’t funny! A pause for words the Eight of Shades will never hear. You touched me! You raped me! You… you… The tears from her tape. I’ll tell.

“I’m sorry…”

The Ace “hmph”s, but Four smiles and pulls the younger girl into a hug.

“So I got part of her story, and I knew it was bad, and I knew it was something they’d get in trouble about if she told…”

Eight peers in the mirror and artfully scruffs her hair. She stomps on her dress hem to wrinkle it up, and smells the gasoline stain on her sister’s laundry till her eyes water, bloodshot, and her makeup runs.

“Uh, I’m sorry about that too. Dad says sniffing gasoline even in really tiny amounts is super dangerous. I didn’t know that either.”

Suitably woebegone, Eight tugs on her mother’s pant leg, screws up her face, and lets the crocodile tears fall. Mommy, Lori did something really bad…

“I’m sorry… I… I’m sorry…” The tears are real now as they pour down the Eight of Shades’ face. Ace rolls her eyes. “I’M SORRY!”

“Shh!” Two, now, dropping down. “Lola, it’s okay!”

“… y-you aren’t s’posed to u-use my re-real name!”

Pink with the lie. Pink in the face. Pink that her parents mistake for shame. Eight tells a story no one wants to believe, and smirks behind her mother’s back as she goes for the phone.

“M-Mom and Dad were so upset! L-like Ace said, anything that coulda happened was bad. One of their kids was lying, an’ they didn’t know what to think!”

Ace led away in handcuffs, Eight sobbing her eyes out. Their parents bobbing frantically between horror and disbelief.

“They wanted to believe her! They really did, but… the thing I said was a lot worse than I thought and… Mom said there was only one way to make super-duper sure.”

H-hospital? Eight asks, the cause of the nervous tremor in her voice easily mistaken. But… but do I gotta? Her mother is firm on the matter - What if she hurt you really badly? - and makes an appointment for first thing in the morning. Seven crawls into bed beside her and offers hugs and condolences Eight doesn’t need, and tells her own secret. She falls asleep, leaving Eight awake and feeling queasy and feverish enough to really need a doctor. Cut; a hospital waiting room. The three, Eight and her parents, go in alone.

“See, what I said she did… she’s got long nails, and she would have scratched me. I hadn’t thought of that. I guess I thought everyone would just believe me. I’m glad they didn’t, even if…”

The doctor gives her a pink hospital gown and turns politely away while she changes, talking to the parents. Hairs and fibres won’t help when they live in the same house… We’ll have to skip right to direct observation…

“And Mom put me up on the table, and he s-said… he was tryin' to be nice about it, but…”

NO! DON’T TOUCH ME! The Eight of Shades kicks and screams. NO! NO! NO! NO! NO!

“He had to touch my… my special parts for real, or look at them… or…” She shivers. “It was scary. It was really, really scary an’ gross an’… bad.” Eight sniffs. “I’m sor-”

“Save it.”

“… okay. Um… s-so while he was lookin’ I kinda started freaking out…”

I DON’T WANNA! I DON’T WANNA! Eight of Shades kicks and thrashes until her father takes her hands and her mother holds her feet. The doctor peers closer, and Eight cries, LORI, HELP ME! The instant the doctor steps back, they let go.

“They thought that was weird, and the doctor said he couldn’t see anything, and she might have done something that didn’t hurt me but that’s not what I’d said, so…”

Eight sits up on the table edge, sobbing into her hands; her mother drapes her jacket over her, and the doctor looks on apologetically. He knows she’s in the pink of health; he saw not a mark. Between gulps of air, Eight gets out, I-I jus-s-st thought she w-was gonna g-get grounde-e-ed…

“Of course I was in big trouble then, but not that big. I still got grounded for lying, but they didn’t make it worse because of the lie being bigger. I kinda feel like they should? But Mom said the scare I got was bad enough already.”

The Ace of Shades comes home in a pink fit, paler and angrier and locked up tight. Their parents let her alone and it is Two, who shares the room, that plays mediator between the oldest of the family and the family itself, beyond the door.

“I tried to talk to her, to say I was sorry… b-but…”

Lori…? Eight calls out, fumbling with a knob that doesn’t turn. I-

GO AWAY!

Seven gets the same treatment, when the Ace cracks the door and sees only gap teeth and golden hair.

“And… and everyone else was mad too, but not mad enough ‘cause they didn’t know what happened to her!”

Eight picks at her dinner - brown meat with pink on the inside - when the phone rings in the other room and her father goes to answer, coming back with all the color gone from his face. Rita! Lori… come into the kitchen… And the Ace gets up with their mother and they follow him. They don’t come back for a long time.

“I didn’t know!” She stands there, blushing darker than her dress is, trying to hold back yet more tears. “This wasn’t supposed to happen! Pinky promise! I didn’t know!”

 

A Story about the Nine of Shades

“My family like to tell people I’m so smart I’ve already been to college. In a way, that’s true…”

Nine of Shades blinks behind her bottle-bottom glasses, tiny tiny hands entwined in her green sweater’s hem. Her hair is brown and unruly and short, and when she speaks a childish lisp comes out.

“… in that I have, at least, been on a college campus.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the family’s giant van pulls up in the psychology department’s parking lot. Hand in hand with both proud parents, Nine of Shades, a year or so younger, toddles along to a room. A sign taped on the door reads PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILING AND DEVELOPMENT OF GIFTED CHILDREN. Mew greets them at the door with a spoken M’yu! and Hello! written on a notepad in sparkly ballpoint, tiny doodles of flowers with green leaves around the words.

“Miss Mew’s psychology thesis. But I am actually really smart. She wanted to observe how really smart kids grew up, so we went back there a lot of times. Until she found out about… him.”

Passing through the halls, a man in a dark suit with slick-backed hair. He’s enormous and Nine is tiny and she feels more lab-rat than girl when she catches the way he’s studying her. The way he’s looking down. But then he smiles kindly and, intelligent or not, Nine of Shades is just young enough not to catch that green, green envy, that predatory gleam in the man’s dark eyes.

“I met him there, where else would I meet him? He’s a professor, or he was. He was also… kind to me. I just wanna say I don’t blame you, Miss Mew. Nobody noticed.”

Nine of Shades gets lost at some point, separated from the rest of the crowd, from her parents. Are you lost? An amused chuckle from behind. The man again. Black suit worth far more greenbacks than a professor would normally easily obtain, paired today with a green tie. He kneels down and Nine imagines she sees respect somewhere on his face. Hello, young man, he begins, now what’s your name?

Lisa. P.R. double-takes.

“He looked surprised when I told him. I guess when you’re three it’s sorta hard for people to tell, when you dress like I do.” She ruffles her hair and points to her pants. “Eight’s the one interested in dressing up. I’m too busy, I have science to be doing. But either way, he took me back to my parents. That time.”

She’s still small and, without her glasses, blind as a bat. The next week, perhaps by coincidence or accident, they go misplaced. Once again, Nine stumbles aimlessly through the halls, her green eyes squinting. And she runs straight into that self-same man.

“He offered to help me retrieve them. At the time I accepted that, but I’m reasonably sure he had them on his person the entire time.”

Smart but very young and green as grass when it comes to knowledge of ill-intentioned adults, she agrees to go. He leads her away, talking to distract her though she can’t see well enough to tell. She realises they’re going down a staircase, and attempts to struggle away, but his hand clasps her arm harder.

“Did you know a lot of laboratories have soundproof rooms? Some experiments need a really well-controlled environment.”

A door, a hand, a pull, a scream. The man bends Nine over and she cannot do what even the Angel could not. Not when her attacker more than dwarfs her in size.

“He treated me as if I were a boy during the entirety of the… proceedings. He went about the act as if I were…” She swallows. “I looked up some information about anatomy on sites I’m sure I was not supposed to look at, to find out why. I think he was trying to keep up the illusion for himself.”

Screams of stop it hurts help me and whispers of good boy echoing in the room. Soundwaves bouncing from the walls and back to her own ears, never passing through the double-layered vacuum-centred glass or the foam-filled walls, and no one nearby to hear her anyway.

“He… stopped after a bit, and let me go. I think I heard him take something from his pocket or off the table.”

The Nine of Shades shivers as P.R. presses a kiss to her lips and her glasses into her hands, and wipes runnels of green from her crying-blocked nose. Looks like we found them, he says, now your parents will be worried, won’t they? I have a feeling they’ll be wanting you back.

“Even then, I knew that this was not the way an adult was supposed to treat a child. Adults hurting kids is wrong, and everyone knows that. But I’d never heard of that specific kind of thing happening. I hit him and told him I’d tell, but he told me…”

It would be a shame if your future teachers found out you were such a brat, he snarls through a grin. Do we have an understanding, dear?

“He went on like that for a while. Said that if I told he could keep me out of good schools, make sure I never got to do anything with my intelligence… I was three, and I’m smart, but I’m not experienced, and adults always told me the truth before. I believed him.”

She begins to dread these frequent visits. Dreads the study and what comes with them. Rooms with quiet in the walls. Him. There are a number of children in the study and she isn’t always the one he takes away; the only girl, but not the only child. It’s still far too often that Nine’s own rub of the green fails her.

“Eventually I… I told him that I didn’t care about getting into school anymore. Not if I had to spend any more time with him.” She shrinks in on herself. “Perhaps predictably, he made things worse.”

Back in Mew’s lab, as she “talks” via notes to the children, Nine feels safer, even if her temporary guardian smiles and cheerfully cries M’yu! when Nine’s tormentor passes by. The kids sit around and read or draw or do their homework, and Nine is carrying a stack of books as big as she is when suddenly a girl with a long purple-gleaming black braid trips her up, seemingly for no reason. Another girl, with an orange sundress and spikes of sunny-gold hair, suddenly becomes cold when she had been friendly before.

“I hypothesised that he told the other children it was okay to bully me. I became certain of that after…”

A boy with glasses and red hair. Still so young, but she’s only half his age.

“It’s not really that boy’s fault, that’s what everyone tries to say. It’s not… but, well, I…”

The boy corners her alone.

“I suppose he must have done something with many of the others in the study. Perhaps all, or at least all the boys. I don’t know. It wouldn’t just randomly occur to a child to do something like that, and I don’t know that anyone else there would have given him the idea, besides him.”

It goes very much as it went for Little Miss Normal and Ka Pua Mae ‘Ole. Pain and biting and spitting angry words, as venomous as a child so young can think of. When the boy turns away, he’s sniffling too.

“It didn’t go nearly as far as it had with that professor. But it was bad enough.”

Nine’s safe place is ruined, and while she still goes every week, she goes quietly and with cheeks green-pale from nausea. Attacks of the anxiety-induced green-apple quickstep keep her home some days; not enough. Her parents notice nothing, distracted with so many other children and just glad one is behaving quietly for once. Mew notices something is wrong, and asks, but gets no answer.

“Then the study got postponed really suddenly, and she didn’t tell us why. Mom and Dad thought it was for mental health reasons - I mean, all the adults recognised her surname from the murder case. If I had to guess, that would actually be about the same time she joined this group and found out about him. Am I right, Miss Mew?”

“Mew!” from the audience. Nodding.

“But I still didn’t dare say anything. It went like that for months. Months and months… and then…” She looks at Eight who is the closest and then over at the Ace, nine of Nine’s siblings down.

An interview room and an officer. Nine’s mother, looking green around the gills and with frazzled hair. Has anyone ever touched you in a way that made you feel… uncomfortable? The Nine of Shades shakes her head, unable to meet the interviewer’s eyes.

“Being smart doesn’t mean I’m good at lying. They just got who I was lying about wrong for a while.”

Ace is freed, and comes home to hugs and apologies and Eight hiding in her room. Too concerned with the pair, their parents don’t think much about the responses of the other kids. It is easy to chalk them up to nerves… until they see P.R.’s face on TV, captioned HAVE YOU SEEN THIS MAN?

“The police wouldn’t have believed me before, but then we saw the news. I guess something changed. I’m glad. I don’t know what would’ve happened if we’d told and they didn’t believe me. What he might have done… They confronted me about it then, of course they did.”

Lisa, sweetie? her father says, sitting on the end of Nine’s bed. You need to tell us if anything happened, okay? I know you’re smart and grown-up, but there are some things you’ve gotta let us adults handle, okay?

“It… took a while, I won’t lie about that… but eventually…”

The dam breaks. The Nine of Shades collapses into tears. And from that, her parents pull a confession. Cut to the hospital and a white-haired doctor in green scrubs whose eyebrows shoot right up when she sees.

“I know how to get into the first aid cabinet, and everyone’s always getting bumps and paper cuts and stuff at home so no one had noticed I was taking things. The doctor said I did a really good job but she looked like she wanted to cry when she did.”

Nine holds still all throughout what Eight so feared. At the end she’s offered a lollipop. Lime flavored. Green.

“It’s probably going to scar, she said. I already knew. Of course I did.” The Nine of Shades bites her lip hard and plays with her hands. “I’m not stupid.”

 

A Story about the Ten of Shades

“Nothing’s happened to her,” says the brother, picking her up and showing her to the audience. “At least, we don’t see how it could. Like I said, our parents are great and no one but family’s likely to be able to get to her, and she seems okay. But we’ve all been watching her super carefully… and I guess one of the earlier stories isn’t finished.”

Ten of Shades is an infant, with a tuft of yellow hair, a gentle scent of lavender baby powder, and a single huge tooth in her smile. She is zipped firmly into a lavender onesie, bulging from a thick diaper, and cuddles a blanket of the same colour. She stares out at the audience, uncomprehending.

Two of Shades pipes up innocently, “Mine! He means mine!”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; flashes of the others’ stories, with Two in close-ups. Now the viewer can see that, slowly, shot by shot, her purple bruises fade; and then her belly gets bigger.

“False negatives in pregnancy tests are rare,” says Nine, pushing her glasses up again. “But they have been known to happen. Such as, for example, that time.”

“Yeah,” says the Ace. “By the time we realised it had come out wrong, it was way too late for emergency contraception…”

“… and I wasn’t gonna hurt the baby when I knew about her!” finishes Two. “It’s not her fault that icky guy did that, is it?”

“We did get her blood tested,” Three adds, “but the guy’s DNA wasn’t in the cop’s database, so, yeah, we still couldn’t find him. That blows.”

The doctor offers a settlement out of court; Not your fault, the parents say, but still they accept the money to pay the hospital bills. Two bloats out of her dresses, sews more, and starts on sewing much smaller clothes too.

“I picked purple ‘cause I didn’t know if she was gonna be a boy or a girl,” says Two. “I sorta hoped for a girl. I was a little worried a boy would look too much like his d-… the icky guy.” She swallows, then perks up. “But she was a girl, so it’s fine!”

Her parents make no objection, still glad she wasn’t laid out in lavender, but they whisper behind her back, and later confront her. Sweetie, says her father, we understand you don’t want anyone to take the baby away from you. And we don’t want to! We don’t want to hurt you more. But we think… we don’t think you’re ready to be a mom.

“And I guess I’m not. But I’ve already been a big sister a bunch of times, and that’s easy! So I took some time out of school, and they were okay with that because what happened to me did kinda mess me up and they thought it was just that. And eventually…”

A hospital room, a sunny morning. Lilac blossoms in a vase on the table, and Two drinks lavender tea. Ten enters the world in a much kinder circumstance than her creation, and the family sees only Two in her and not her mysterious father.

“Everyone loved her, so that went well. I mean, we are kinda… worried that guy might come back. No one wants him anywhere near her. But there’s been no sign of him, and we’re super careful with her.”

Adoption papers are signed. Two transfers schools, and the family almost-guiltlessly tell everyone it was always this way. Their lie lacks evidence against it, or any reason to seek same. As far as most people know, the king and queen of the Spectrum Suit have eleven children.

“And that’s how it’s been ever since.”

“Poo poo,” says Ten.

The boy bounces her gently and nods. “Yeah, that’s pretty much how this whole situation feels.”

 

A Story about the Joker of the Spectrum Suit

“I wanted to be the Joker!”

“Four, we agreed, no messing up the pattern! Besides, Knave and Jack were taken.” The boy, the Joker, clears his throat. “So, that’s everything that happened to them, and then there was me, in the middle. I’m the Joker of the pack. I’m the one who breaks the pattern. The only boy…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; tiny Five speaks to their parents while the Joker looks on. He is even smaller, too young to really comprehend. Later, their father sits him down and says, Lincoln, from now on, Lynn’s, well… um… Lynn’s going to be a girl. We thought she was a boy but we made a mistake, so we’re fixing that.

The Joker is thoughtful, then grins a sunshine smile. So now I’m def’nitely the favourite boy! The father laughs and ruffles his hair.

“… kind of a jack-of-all-trades…”

Over years, the Joker dabbles in different pastimes with his sisters, from sports with Five to tea parties with Eight. He cares for Ten with growing skill. He tries to get the girls interested in his own hobbies - comics and collectible coins - with less success, but some.

“… and no one’s ever touched me. Well, not really.”

Six draws. The Joker looks on, sketchbook and orange pencil in his lap, confused. Later, he finds her hiding in the dark of his closet, orange blossoms in her hands.

“That was weird, but it wasn’t scary. She didn’t hurt me, and she wouldn’t, and I don’t think she could if she wanted. And, well, I kinda thought she was just being… herself. I knew she liked to read weird stuff, I thought it was just that.”

Seven draws too. Different pictures. Orange crayon on blue construction paper. The Joker with a dress that looks like his usual shirt has been stretched out, and longer hair. Oh! she says. Almost forgot the freckles!

“And like she said, that wasn’t as weird, you know? Like, we mostly just thought it was gonna be another thing like Five’s. Sure, I feel kinda bad that it wasn’t, but… I know it wasn’t really my fault for not picking up on it. None of this stuff was really my fault… but it still sucks that it happened to them. And it’s not fair.”

Five stomps homeward, red-eyed and tired, orange leaves caught in her hair and blood on her face. The Joker finds her sprawled face down on her bed, and brings Band-Aids and ginger ale. It’s okay if you don’t wanna talk about it, but it looks like you need these. She thumps his back and grins half-heartedly.

“And that happened when I was like nine, or maybe ten? I dunno. I’m only eleven now and my parents say that’s not really old enough to have everything figured out.”

“It’s old enough to know not to-”

“I said I was sorry!”

Rewind to Two’s disappearance. Someone takes the Joker aside and whispers the definition of Amber Alert. She comes back smelling like chlorine and wearing a turquoise bathrobe. At first, he thinks that they were wrong.

“I was old enough to know what was going on when Ten was on the way, and that was pretty scary, but I didn’t really wanna let Mom and Dad know I was feeling like that, because they must have felt worse. I kinda tried to help as much as I could and stay out of the way.”

He handles with aplomb the shrieking in the night and the diaper explosions, and a few months later the spilled grape juice and partially digested carrot mush down his back. His parents are proud, and he doesn’t want to ruin that by letting them know he still sometimes lies awake.

“There were times I came close to figuring out some of the others, but, like I said, there were more obvious explanations for those things…”

He finds a greenish Nine on a stepstool by a sink full of hot water and peroxide, rinsing out her underwear. She cringes and flushes when he sees, and he mistakes the reason. It’s okay, Lise, I know you get distracted really easy and - yeah, I know you’re smart but your body’s still catching up, right? He picks up the detergent, pink and purple spirals and yellow mascot on an orange box. I’ll sneak ‘em in with Lynn’s rugby stuff, okay?

“Technically he wasn’t wrong,” Nine says. “The professor would put down a towel.”

“Ewww.” Eight turns pink as she blushes.

“I think we’re a little past embarrassment.”

Six again, and Four. Not looking at each other. Not talking. He mistakes this for something along the lines of Seven and Eight’s disagreements and says something that makes cheery, peppy Four snap like a yellow rubber band, bitter as marmalade, and slam her door. Six just sighs. Just shrugs. And follows him around the house. The vacuum cleaner picks up orange hairs.

“And there wasn’t really any reason to connect some of them.”

Three on stage, sparkled and spray-tanned into mainstream style and uncomfortable as anything, till she throws off her wig and is herself again, loud and proud purple, queer as a clockwork orange. The Joker doesn’t remember after that how she’d been uncomfortable before.

“Sorry, guys. If I’d have known-”

“But you didn’t. That’s not your fault.”

“Not yours either.”

The Spectrum Suit come home one by one from their afterschool activities and find an officer in blue waiting for the Ace. The Joker tries to ask, and is shooed off to his room. Later that afternoon the family troops into interview rooms two by two, one with each parent, and don’t leave till after sunset. The Joker’s puzzled completely by what he’s asked by the redheaded cop.

“Okay, I knew- I was old enough to know what they were talking about, but the why was all… iffy. I mean, I just didn’t think she’d do something like that. And in the end, she didn’t, but I guess part of the problem was that… a lot of people did think so. They did and… and… yeah.”

His parents whisper in the hallway after Ace comes home. The Joker finds her in her bedroom some weeks later, pale and still, but not yet cold. His odds are all of Lombard Street to a China orange but the Ace of Shades breathes.

“Orange you glad you got there in time?” Four smiles half-heartedly. “S-sorry, bad timing?”

“Heh, well, it’s not wrong.”

“I’m glad, anyway.” The Ace rubs her neck. “Where’d you learn CPR?”

“Clyde’s dads taught me ‘just in case’. They meant it for him, but hey.”

The station again, after P.R. is exposed. Nine talks about him, and the boy with red hair. The others spill more secrets, but again, the Joker has nothing to add, except his own worry and unwarranted guilt.

The Joker tugs at his shirt. “Y’know, nothing rhymes with orange.”

“ ‘Bizarre enj-oyment’,” quotes Four.

“Sporange,” says Nine. “It’s part of a fern.”

The Joker scowls. “Way to go, guys, you ruined my symbolism.”

“You are one of us. You do fit in here,” says Six. “I think that was symbolism that should be ruined.”

Chapter 27: *CSA* (Holes, Zootopia) A Story about Kissin’ Kate and the Fox’s Tailor

Summary:

TW: gang-rape, child sexual abuse, murder, racism, crack crossover family tree.

“I guess if anyone’s spiced peaches are good enough for a bribe, yours would be.”

X X X
x x x

Kissin’ Kate and the Fox’s Tailor sit on the stage’s edge. She is a woman with greying golden hair, perhaps fifty-five years old, with White skin and work-roughened hands, and a smell like the spiced peaches she shared with the group. Many of the audience have sticky hands right now. He is a man with flame-red hair, a good twenty or twenty-five years younger, with deep Brown skin and pointed features, and a face some of the group know from the police station, though today he’s in plainclothes.

X X X
x x x

“I know they’re good, honey. Best around,” she drawls with an accent that sounds vaguely of Texas and the dust from broken old roads, and ruffles the younger man’s hair. The crowd does not disagree. “Don’t know if these folks’ll need that though, they’ve kept quiet ‘bout worse, right?”

X X X
x x x

The young man mumbles, “Mooom…” But he doesn’t push her hand away.

X X X
x x x

“Old family recipe, you know…” she continues.

X X X
x x x

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Kissin’ Kate - years younger - peels and halves peaches, adding sugar and cinnamon and cloves. She puts them in jars of sugar syrup, and seals them tight to cure.

X X X
x x x

“I lived up in Green Lake, out in the desert, back when it was a town. Not much of a town, no, but it was one. This was before the lake went dry, and the land really was green as anythin’. Lot of smallholdin’s ‘round there, raisin’ cattle and sheep, and growin’ orchards of apples and cherries and the best peaches you’d ever had… and onions.”

X X X
x x x

Kissin’ Kate steps from the little schoolhouse, carrying books, and greets a man with a barrow of onions and bottles of onion juice, pulled, quaintly enough, by a donkey. Kissin’ Kate’s skin is pale. The man’s is not. Cut; a sweet and simple country wedding, peach blossoms tumbling, Kate and the man kissing in their own little world. After the ceremony she unwraps a tiny parcel: a golden lipstick tube, her favourite colour inside. It’s not real gold, but she holds it as if it’s the most precious thing on Earth.

X X X
x x x

“Now, that sort of thing has got better, even out in the country. It’s not anythin’ like as bad as it was, say, a hundred years ago. But still, people do talk about people who are… different.”

X X X
x x x

During the day Kissin’ Kate teaches children to read and to write and to do simple mathematics. At night - with grown people - she does the same.

X X X
x x x

“In a little town like that, most folk‘d send their kids to one a’ the bigger schools outside the district. For middle an’ highschool anyway. But there was an elementary an’ I taught at that. Ran night school classes for other people that wanted to learn.”

X X X
x x x

A man with gray hair reads, stiltedly, from a book that Kissin’ Kate holds out. He isn’t eloquent, but he does manage to stumble through. Someone laughs mockingly a few rows back.

X X X
x x x

“Y’all ever heard a’ Charles Walker? That case’s almost as famous as the Prenderghasts.”

X X X
x x x

This man is young and well-dressed, and he looks down his nose as he tells Kate, My daddy owns the lake. He sails a bowrider on the water, almost swamping smaller boats. When he walks by, wearing sandals in summer, Kate’s nose wrinkles.

X X X
x x x

“I know the foot fungus weren’t his fault, but it sure didn’t help. Everyone called him Trout ‘cause his feet smelled just like dead fish. He liked me, but I didn’t like him at all.”

X X X
x x x

This “Trout” doesn’t notice or else doesn’t care much when Kissin’ Kate’s lip curls up at him. He does notice how her red, red lips split into a smile when the onion man passes by.

X X X
x x x

Afternoon, Katherine. He raises a hand.

X X X
x x x

Afternoon, Sam, she says, white teeth flashing back at him.

X X X
x x x

“I can’t say for sure an’ certain if Trout did what he did on account of him bein’ jealous or if it was ‘cause I’m White an’ my husband wasn’t. Prob’ly both. Why not both?”

X X X
x x x

A tiny rowboat on the lake, painted with the name MARY LOU, the same name they call the donkey as they kiss her nose and tie her on a long rein. A sunny day, with just a touch of drizzle, easily solved with an umbrella.

X X X
x x x

“The fox’s weddin’, they call that kind a’ weather.” She smiles wistfully. “See, Green Lake’s in what they call a rain shadow - clouds gotta pass over the mountains from the sea to get to it, so it don’t rain there an awful lot. The lake was fed by snowmelt an’ streams for the most part. It’s darn hot out there, and a little rain felt special.”

X X X
x x x

The man rows out, and they pass their final happy day. When they reach land again, men in masks are waiting.

X X X
x x x

“ ‘Course I knew Trout right off even with the mask. The voice and the smell.” Kate winces. “Wasn’t nothin’ I could do right then. They had guns.”

X X X
x x x

And with those guns they force the couple from their little boat - just beached on the sandy shoreline. The donkey’s corpse lies on the ground nearby. Shot. Blood on the sand and in the water too.

X X X
x x x

“I remember bein’ real scared. More scared than I’d ever been in my life before. The kind ‘a scared you get when you’re so sure you’re done for that your life starts flashin’ before your eyes.”

X X X
x x x

It’s a short life. Very short. Kissin’ Kate is shaking as the men usher her into the back of a waiting car. The man beside her reaches out to squeeze her hand. They point a gun at him too.

X X X
x x x

Let go a’ her, the voice pretending not to be Trout’s says through a mask all made of metal. You let go a’ her right now, you- and he says something then that bears no repetition.

X X X
x x x

“He did, a’ course. I woulda done the same. Some things just aren’t worth dyin’ over… not that it made much difference in the end.”

X X X
x x x

They drive to a place that so many in the Palace - and out of it - would find familiar, even if only from the news. A warehouse.

X X X
x x x

“An’ you can tell where this is goin’, right?”

X X X
x x x

Race traitor. Fornication. Mark of Cain. The words bounce off the painted walls and barely register with the terrified couple.

X X X
x x x

“Fornication? Bah!” Kate clearly wants to spit. “We were married! But they thought, since he was Black and I was White, it didn’t count in the eyes of God. Now you tell me, who’s better’n God at keepin’ an open mind and approvin’ of true love?”

X X X
x x x

She doesn’t dare say so in the warehouse. She doesn’t dare say anything.

X X X
x x x

“I was scared. No one can blame me for that. So far I don’t know that anyone’s tried… still, I kept my mouth shut for mosta it. ‘Least until they… you know by now. I thought they were gonna go for me, but Trout told ‘em not to. Wanted me for himself later. Maybe thought I’d think I owed him.”

X X X
x x x

Please, friends, she’s a righteous woman, he says, grasping her shoulder, his breath (almost as foul as his feet) ruffling her hair. She’s merely been led astray by him.

X X X
x x x

She swallows. “They kept their eyes on me the whole way through, but they went for my husband instead.”

X X X
x x x

The man she loves is surrounded by the brown-robed figures of the ones whose faces she cannot see. So many of them that she loses sight of her husband. Still, she sees the blood on the floor. And she hears him as he screams.

X X X
x x x

“I couldn’t do anythin’. I… it ain’t like I coulda done somethin’, but… still. Don’t know that I’ll ever forgive myself for that. For holdin’ still.” She looks off at nothing and mutters quietly. “I’m sorry, Sam… I’m sorry.”

X X X
x x x

Man after man after man, and when it’s over they step back and let her see him broken on the floor. Trout Walker grabs him by the throat and pulls him up to kneeling, makes him face Kate, and he has time to mouth I love you with bloody lips before Trout’s revolver blows half his head away.

X X X
x x x

She dabs at her eyes, and looks sidelong at the Tailor. “I’d been goin’ to tell him I was pregnant that night. Didn’t dare say nothin’ then, it woulda been worse for us, so he went to his grave not knowin’.”

X X X
x x x

“Grave” is a kind term; the body that was her husband is flung in the lake, and Kate is allowed to go, half-paralysed in shock. She glares bitterly at the strangers, and the not-so-stranger. God’s punishment? We’ll see. And she walks away home.

X X X
x x x

“A’ course I went to the cops, but… well, y’all know how bad that could go.”

X X X
x x x

The town’s police chief grabs her wrist, and speaks in a whiskey-stinking voice she heard come from behind a mask last night. You kissed the onion picker, why won’t you kiss me?

X X X
x x x

“Lucky he was drunk. I got away easy ‘nough, but I couldn’t stay there, obviously.”

X X X
x x x

At dawn she drives away from Green Lake, all her necessary possessions in the back of the car. At dusk she drives into Calisota City. Cut; an apartment. Cut; a new teaching job. Cut; she holds and kisses a little newborn boy in the hospital, with his father’s skin tone and his grandmother’s pointed features and his grandfather’s red, red hair.

X X X
x x x

“Don’t know how crazy I’da gone if I didn’t have our li’l boy to live for, but I did live for him, and not a bad life, too.”

X X X
x x x

“Not a bad one at all,” says the Tailor.

X X X
x x x

In leaps, in half-steps, the baby grows. The Fox’s Tailor as a toddler and very young child, hands smeared with finger paints. When he’s old enough he helps Kate around the house and in the kitchen, spicing peaches and jamming them into cans.

X X X
x x x

“We never had a lot of money.” He shrugs. “Teacher’s salary and all, but we weren’t drowning or anything. It was all… it was okay. We were okay.”

X X X
x x x

“Just okay?” Kissin’ Kate teases, ruffling his hair again.

X X X
x x x

“More than. Happy?”

X X X
x x x

The Fox’s Tailor at spelling bees and barbeques and soccer games. He takes to sports like a habit for a while. When that interest fades, he joins the Cub Scouts.

X X X
x x x

“And that,” he sighs through his teeth, “was when they came back.”

X X X
x x x

The Tailor, all of eight years old, struts importantly home with a bag of picked-up cans, sash tips swaying with his steps. A car pulls up, and from the driver’s side he is greeted by a voice his mother would know. (But how could she have warned him? Voices are so hard to describe and she never saw the owner’s face.)

X X X
x x x

“I knew not to follow strangers with candy, but I kinda took that too literally at that age. He wasn’t offering candy, he was asking for directions, and I thought it would be okay if I got in the car to show him where to go… so stupid…”

X X X
x x x

“Oh, honey…”

X X X
x x x

The Tailor climbs into the car, and off they go. He points from windows, chatters happily, until he realises: Hey, mister, you’re goin’ the wrong way- And the childproof locks click shut.

X X X
x x x

“We weren’t here for Ringtail’s stage speech but we were there at the vigil, and he said something about how GWF didn’t - don’t - like Black or mixed-race people. And, of course, Trout Walker was still with ‘em, and they’d found out where Mom was, and so where I was.”

X X X
x x x

The Tailor kicks and screams, feet a mile off the floor, as he’s carried into the warehouse by his collar. The man hands him over to others and puts on a bloodstained robe. Laughter. You should put a muzzle on that thing. The smell of blood and shit and piss, and things he’s far too young to know, and dead fish.

X X X
x x x

“You know how it went by now. For the most part anyways…”

X X X
x x x

Nicholas Wilde, says the man behind the mask. Born in sin and Mark of Cain and…

X X X
x x x

“They said I was ‘mixed cloth’. Guess that was their way of saying mixed race. There’s some verse in the Bible about it, some people take it as a metaphor, but they’re usually the ones that believe in creationism so I think they might just be looking for an excuse to be-”

X X X
x x x

“I’ll remind you there are children present.”

X X X
x x x

“-unfair. They were being unfair. And even if any of that was wrong - which it isn’t - I… I was just a little kid.”

X X X
x x x

The Tailor struggles. He screams and someone gags him so their leader can get the whole way through. He smells fish.

X X X
x x x

“It wasn’t a regular gag, it was… you ever had dental surgery? They use this kinda metal thing to hold your mouth open all the way, it’s got a little ratchet on the side. They had one of those, I don’t know where from. Jammed it in my mouth, kept it closed while the leader guy talked, then turned it up as far as it would go. I thought my jaw was gonna break, it wasn’t made for kids. And they’re designed so surgical instruments can go in, so…” He gulps. “So they didn’t have to take it off me.”

X X X
x x x

There isn’t much they have to do. The Tailor is young and scared, and he’s tiny. It only takes one of them pushing on his shoulders to bring him to his knees. Laughter and the rustle of their robes.

X X X
x x x

“I don’t know if I really thought I was gonna die exactly, but I knew to be scared. I was too little to really get the rest of it. Then one of them pointed a gun in my face so I kinda had to just… go along.”

X X X
x x x

They call him dog. They call him worse. He cries, and they strap him to a bench and the leader does worse.

X X X
x x x

“I had no idea what was happening. The doc said it was lucky only one guy went ahead with it that way, I was really small as a kid and I’d probably have been hurt really bad if… yeah. But they didn’t kill me, ‘cause…”

X X X
x x x

The fish-smelling man begs the leader to let him go. Kate Barlow deserves one last chance, he says, and the Tailor struggles and whines at the mention of his mother. The gag is removed, but he has no words to say, nor breath to say them. Back in the car he goes, and he and his clothes are flung onto his own home’s lawn.

X X X
x x x

“Uh… yeah.” He coughs nervously. “That’s where Mom found me. Afterwards.”

X X X
x x x

Kissin’ Kate, her face bleached white with horror, rushes for him and drops down to one knee. Nick? Honey? What… She already knows. She sees the blood and the other. Hold on, sweetheart! I’m gonna get a blanket! Just hold on!

X X X
x x x

“I drove ‘im to the hospital fast as I could. Probably broke the speed limit by a country mile, but we got there.”

X X X
x x x

“Bet we turned a lot of heads when we came inside.”

X X X
x x x

The blood on his legs is covered by the blanket wrapped around him, but he’s trembling, crying, clearly a mess, and his mother is barely controlling her rage. She apologises for snapping at the desk clerk, and they’re rushed on in to see the doctor. He requires stitches. The scene cuts as they speak to a police officer: the Lord’s aunt, much younger.

X X X
x x x

“And in an ideal world, that would have been dealt with, but as you all know… we’re not in an ideal world.”

X X X
x x x

“There were so many of ‘em, the test results were muddled. Happens a lot, I hear. And we know a’ course they had friends in high places - didn’t the leader use to be a judge, ‘fore they gave the cops his name? Guess livin’ on the lam was a big come down from that.”

X X X
x x x

“And Trout Walker was the richest landowner in Green Lake, he had connections. I was a poor Black kid with a single mom, and this was twenty-odd years ago. It’s hard enough in cases like that now.”

X X X
x x x

“Speakin’ a’ Green Lake…”

X X X
x x x

It’s a few days after the Tailor comes home from the hospital. Kissin’ Kate sips her coffee, staring blankly at the not-so-local news. An old road sign and sand as far as the eye can see.

X X X
x x x

“S’ not much to look at nowadays, I wouldn’t say. Crummy place. All in shambles.” Kate blows bang-wisps from her face. “The lake dried up, real sudden.”

X X X
x x x

“The drought started before I was born. After Dad died and… You know, it’s weird. Always seems to rain around the area. Never on Green Lake. Didn’t happen often before, but since the year Dad went, not a drop. And, I mean, lakes dry up, but all the rivers to it getting blocked at once? Some people say the whole town is cursed. I don’t know if I believe that, but, like I said, it’s weird.”

X X X
x x x

Black and white; the very moment the bullet enters his father’s head, the drizzle outside stops, and never once has it returned.

X X X
x x x

“So Trout had to find somethin’ else to do with his land.” Kate scoffs. “Somethin’ else his pals would approve of. Leased a lotta the land to the state, and they started a reform camp out there. Still goin’ today.”

X X X
x x x

“They’re not the only ones, I think a coupla pray-the-gay-away camps started up out there too. Makes sense. Where else can you put kids where they can’t run away but a desert? Control the water, save money on fences.”

X X X
x x x

Wind over the flats. Scuttling lizards. An overturned boat, MARY LOU upside-down on the side. The breeze uncovers bones, and then blows dust back over them.

X X X
x x x

Back in the city, the Fox’s Tailor curls on the couch. His mother looks at the pitiful little form, and sets her jaw, and starts to think.

X X X
x x x

“Matter of fact, I passed that camp when I-” Kate pauses and sighs towards her feet. “I won’t say I shouldn’ta done it… still, ain’t really proud I did. As for what…” She reaches for her hip like a phantom holster. “I guess y’all have heard worse.”

X X X
x x x

She creeps out one night while the Tailor lies in bed and drives to a place she hasn’t been in years. An old town that’s barely a town. A house beside the only living tree. Kissin’ Kate knocks on the door.

X X X
x x x

“You-know-who answered it. ‘Course he did.”

X X X
x x x

The smell of fish wafts all around her, but Kate doesn’t retch or gag. She holds firm, one hand in her pocket.

X X X
x x x

Katherine- he starts to say-

X X X
x x x

-and she shoots him where he stands. Blood spatters both sides of the doorway. He falls. A few others inside the house hear the noise and come running - men with voices she knows. She shoots them too. Kate reapplies her lipstick and kisses each caved-in crown. She takes the little golden tube - evidence - from her pocket and flings it into the land which was the lake, where the last man she kissed before tonight lies. It rolls off into one of a million holes, and the police could never find it if they searched a hundred years. She kills the police chief on the way back. She kisses him too, just like he’d wanted.

X X X
x x x

“It was in every paper the next morning - every news show worth a dime, an’ a few that weren’t. He’d married someone else after I turned him down last time, and he had a daughter, really little girl… she found him. I am sorry she had to see that. I ain’t sorry ‘bout nothin’ else.”

X X X
x x x

Kissin’ Kate fixes the Tailor breakfast and changes the channel when the news comes on. Later the phone rings. A call from the police.

X X X
x x x

“I’d given Trout’s name to them when I went there ‘bout the boy. They knew jus’ how I felt about ‘im. So naturally, I was suspect number one. An’ because I kissed the body…”

X X X
x x x

“Saliva carries DNA. Forensics wasn’t so good back then, but good enough.”

X X X
x x x

The Fox’s Tailor in his own room, covers bunched up in his hands. Kissin’ Kate in her bed, lying awake. Neither of them sleep. In the morning she makes a call of her own.

X X X
x x x

“Wasn’t ‘bout to go down for what they had on me, not with my boy to look after. Had to get to thinkin’ an’… y’all already know now that the police was tamperin’ with their own evidence. Tearin’ open a sample, it ain’t so hard, so I found someone that could do that for me.”

X X X
x x x

Kate shakes hands with a tiny man. His skin is Brown, his ears are enormous, and he nods when she slips a wad of folded-up bills to him.

X X X
x x x

That’ll cover it?

X X X
x x x

Just about.

X X X
x x x

Good.

X X X
x x x

“I got to know that guy pretty well, and others like him. I guess I was looking for a father figure, a shrink might say. Maybe he wasn’t the best one. Here’s where my confession starts. Not as extreme as Mom’s, but… I hurt a lot more people.”

X X X
x x x

The short man is a career criminal, and the Tailor follows in his footsteps, until a couple of years before today. A run-in with a violet-eyed traffic cop, a series of events that has them hanging on the very edge of death until a mob boss’s sweet and squeaky-voiced pregnant daughter steps in. One thing leads to another, and the Fox’s Tailor steps out in blue.

X X X
x x x

“I’m a police officer now. Before that I was kind of a con man, we used to run scams but it was nothing big. Just the little stuff. Usually… but, um, sometimes it got me in trouble? I met my girlfriend when she tried to arrest me on the job. Things didn’t exactly work out that way.”

X X X
x x x

The Tailor slides into place in the department. He tells himself it’s only a little awkward when he sees the lady police chief. That fades eventually. Mercifully. He stops staring at her when they pass each other in the hall.

X X X
x x x

“Cops and robbers, it’s a lot more complicated than anyone would like to think. But even I fall into the black-and-white thinking sometimes, even though it only makes things worse. See, remember the Pleasure Island thing?”

X X X
x x x

He nods to another coworker, passing him in the hall; the Tailor is going to the waiting room, the other to interrogation. For whatever reason, it doesn’t matter, the Tailor has to go back; and something catches his eye through the door’s window.

X X X
x x x

“Yeah, I… I saw what was going on. Just like Pyrrhus. And I thought the same as him - it was okay, they were doing it to bad people.”

X X X
x x x

The Duke’s agent has red hair and a pointed nose, just like the Tailor, but his skin is White and his body is an adult’s and his sins are, in the Tailor’s eyes, real ones. They make eye contact through the window, and the officers in the room notice and freeze for just a moment until the Tailor glares and turns away. In the waiting room, the Duke, just the age the Tailor was, asks if he’s okay. You look angry. The Tailor shrugs it off.

X X X
x x x

“Of course, that’s never how people like that really work, and I should have known that bad is relative.”

X X X
x x x

Cruxshadow with his spray-paint can. The Wrong Note’s cousins with sloppy fake IDs. Immigrant kids whose only crime is where their parents came from, or the colour of their skin.

X X X
x x x

“I’m…” He gulps again. “I’m just really glad they never did find Mom.”

X X X
x x x

Lord Gorgon comes in cursing and struggling. The Tailor watches as they drag him into a questioning room and leave him there. Gorgon sees him on the way inside.

X X X
x x x

“I knew they were being rough with suspects too. I can’t justify that, not even in my mind. That part wasn’t just me though. Most of the department was overlooking things like that.” He looks over the crowd. “I’m sorry.” Cruxshadow and Discord flip him off.

X X X
x x x

Hours later the Lord’s grandmother comes in, his father trying to calm her down. The Fox’s Tailor is one of the officers that Gorgon sees on the way out. He’s shocked. Later the chief bursts from her office, completely furious. He’s terrified.

X X X
x x x

“I don’t know if it was a family thing or if it was the principle of it, but she was angrier than I’d ever seen her before.”

X X X
x x x

The Tailor in questioning, the chief glaring at him from across the table. There’s not much sound, even though his tongue and lips move.

X X X
x x x

“And she said…” He swallows, swiping a hand across his eyes. “She said to me ‘I’d expect you of all people to know how it feels’, or something like that. She’s right. She’s completely right.”

Chapter 28: *CSA* (Kipo) A Story about the Spotted Jaguar

Summary:

TW: a child witnessing implications of rape, child molestation, torture, castration, forcefeeding and subsequent vomiting of unspecified unpleasant things, bestiality, and necrophilia; and onscreen imprisonment, illness, mutilation, kidnapping, blackmail.

“My dad always called it the Burrow, but I think he might have wanted to use a shorter word.”

The Jaguar is gangly as a beanpole and about half as skinny as the space between the pickets on Tom Sawyer’s fence. She’s twelve maybe, or thirteen just recently, with a spiky, spray-colored ponytail and double teeth that stick out like fangs. And she’s covered in blobs of reddish purple, rhubarb-Rorschach blotches beneath her skin.

“He’s not the reason I’m here. Okay, well… kinda. I mean he is, but also not really? No, it’s not like that! He didn’t do anything to me, promise! It’s just that, everything that happened… it’s not his fault. It isn’t mine either or-” Her head jerking backwards. “-theirs. Or anybody’s, really, except for, you know, the guys whose fault it is.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the sounds of screaming desperation and of someone throwing something hard against too-thick-too-thin stone. A smooth-faced man holds the cub-like Jaguar, bouncing her gently on his knee. Shh, Kipo, he whispers like he wants to be sure of this, it’s okay. An army cot and some pillows; an old wool blanket and another on the floor; one teething ring on its last legs and another that looks brand new; a medical kit; cubicle walls that don’t reach the ceiling. The man hushes the Jaguar again. The screaming isn’t hers. This is the way things are.

“I can’t really call the place I grew up in home, I mean it was because we lived there, but…” The Jaguar stops and shakes her hands out, tongue trilling between her teeth. “Uh, so my story is like the Emperor’s, I guess? And a little like the Champion’s.”

The Jaguar, a little older now, sits cross-legged on the cement floor, turning the dog-eared pages of a book. There are two cots now, but both are empty and her father is nowhere to be seen. There’s screaming again, but it’s a different voice than it was before. The Jaguar yawns, back arching up like a kitten’s. She doesn’t look happy about this exactly, but not all that surprised. This is the way things are.

“It was indoors, mostly, we were always inside. My dad is probably still there. He’s a doctor, the medical kind, so was Mom before she died. That’s… important b-because, um, well he told me that was his job before that place and before we were in it - oh, or maybe before he was, I’m pretty sure I was born there. Treating people was sorta what Dad did there too, but he never seemed to like doing it. I know that some of you guys could go ‘oh that’s just work’, but you’re not going to. Because if it was I wouldn’t be here, right?”

Her father comes back very late or very early and leaves again at all hours (no one here can be bothered to tell what exactly is day and what is night). He takes that medical kit with him most of the time, returning with it empty after leaving with it full. Sometimes he looks very angry or very tired, but the Jaguar always has enough to eat. This is the way things are.

“Nobody did gross stuff to me or with me or, you know - or him either, at least I don’t think so - but that doesn’t mean, um, sorry, I don’t think I’m very good at this.” She laughs a little, half-heartedly, breath catching around the end of the sound.

Sometimes strangers are wont to lurk behind the door or come into the room and look the Jaguar in the eyes. P.R. and a rail-thin woman, and another with ice-blue eyes. When her father is there he stands between them; when he is not they look at her like a cat would a cradle of newborn baby birds. You’re Dr. Jaguar’s kid, right?

Wha…? Over and over, she sits up with a start or stands too quickly. More than once she falls off the little army bed. Oh! Yeah, hi! I’m-

Kipo! The smooth-faced man is not so smooth-faced any longer; he stands in the door, scowling, with his arms crossed. Leave her out of this. This is the way things are.

“I kinda always knew something was weird, even when I was really little, but it took a while to put my finger on what it was. Part of that was me being super cooped up until I was older-ish. Not like you were!” she says to the Replacement. “There were other people around, but, um, my dad almost never let me talk to them. Most of them.”

A young woman; a young man; a child: in the other cot in the room, bleeding from secret places while her father takes the floor. Sometimes the Jaguar pads up to them, looks over the faces of the people in bed; sometimes they look up at her. Hi! She smiles with big Christmas-song gaps at first and, later, double teeth. My name’s Kipo, what’s yours? They usually don’t answer her. This is the way things are.

“It was… We were… It is one of those places with the Ark, I can’t prove that, but I am pretty sure. It was like most of the places I’ve heard you guys talking about and everyone important there used animal names so it seems pretty unlikely that it would have been anyone else. If my dad hadn’t tried to keep me away from all of it, well, as much as he could…”

The Jaguar’s father comes back between the hours and hours of unreasonable time. Sometimes she’s asleep when he does and so she misses him for days. New books and old books and food with a little more than half uneaten - the things that prove he was there at all. And when the Jaguar does see him, his rubber gloves are all bloody and his face is very sad. This is the way things are.

“I almost feel bad for saying this, but the worst part for me was probably being alone most of the time. Dad never wanted me to go with him and I was just in the same old room every day. Believe me, you allll would have gone just as stir crazy. He told me to stay put though, not to go outside. When I was little that was easy, but it got harder when I got older, old enough to really wonder about the ‘sick’ people he kept bringing home.”

A man with thick muscles and dark, ragged hair stares up at the Jaguar while her father pieces his skin back together with a tarnished needle and what is probably not medical thread. Close your eyes, Kipo, he says when he reaches for the blanket and peels it down. Put that pillow over your head and don’t look, alright? Please. She nods. This is the way things are.

“I mean, it’s not like either of us is stupid, he did give me some explanation, it just wasn’t-” She cuts herself off abruptly and swallows. “The Bodyguard told his kids that people paid to beat the Emperor up. My dad said kind of the same thing. Everything but the sex stuff, just that we were in a place that hurt people and I knew it wasn’t good to be there, but… Yeah. That was where we were…”

Then why are we here? They don’t… they haven’t done anything to-

No! No, it’s not… It… His eyes soften as he reaches out, pulling an arm around the Jaguar’s shoulders, pulling his daughter into his chest. The people here like hurting other people, but they don’t want to kill them, he says this as gently as he possibly can, that’s what they need me for. To… to… This is the way things are.

“He said ‘help’ but a lot of them probably wouldn’t think of it that way. Basically, the way he explained it to me was that it was - is - sort of his job to take the people that everyone else had broken and put them back together as best he could. Yeah, I know that sounds bad, right? I know, actually I’m pretty sure I told him the same thing. Asked how he could be okay with helping people just so other people could keep hurting them. Of course, it wasn’t that simple, my dad’s not a bad person, he’s just… Well, it wasn’t like he wanted to be there.”

Why don’t we just leave then?! Can’t we- The Jaguar finds her anger smothered under the man’s all-encompassing hand. Mmmf!

It isn’t that simple, he tells her, you’ll understand when you’re… I wish it was that easy, but I… I work for some very bad people and they’ll hurt us if we try to get out of here. They’ll hurt you. I know it isn’t fair, but… Quite suddenly he wraps both arms around her. I’m sorry, I’m so so sorry, but this is going to keep us safe. This is the way things are.

“He never told me that much about what his life was like before that place, but I know that he had one outside of it. I know he loved my mom so I think she was either from out there too or… She was probably from the outside, I don’t know if they could have gotten together otherwise. I know that I had a hard enough time just making friends in there.”

She’s nine or ten, the first time the Jaguar ventures out from between the walls that don’t rise high enough to reach the ceiling. The inside-outside smells like blood and vomit; it’s a scent that has always been there, but now it’s so much stronger than it was coming from under the door. Keep walking, her father says as he pulls her with him through the messy throngs of people. Some are chained. Some are not. A boy with dark hair nods once before turning his face away; a pair of Brown-skinned, brown-eyed twins hiding behind each other; a blue-eyed blonde with a sunshiny ponytail. The Jaguar holds hands very carefully while her father wraps some things and splints others. This is the way things are.

“They mostly only did that at night to keep them from going anywhere. During the day… there was the obvious stuff.” She rubs her eye until it reddens. “There were these rooms my dad told me they would ‘hurt’ people in and that he had to take care of them when they left. He didn’t want me to see, but the people in charge told him I was old enough to help.”

It’s becoming easy to tell who has and hasn’t been here long. The oldtimers are the ones who don’t bat an eye at the ten-eleven-twelve-year-old with her hands full of gauze and bandages. The newer ones are always surprised by this. Always. The Jaguar learns not to be, learns to patch and sew and clean old from new and dead from living. She’s okay at it, good even, as she comes just shy of her teens. This is the way things are.

“For the record, I think you guys are wrong about a few things. Having strangers come inside isn’t… okay, it is, but… um, from what I’ve heard most of the money doesn’t really come from the people coming in, that’s what my dad says. Some of it, yeah, but not most. It’s… well, I guess you know about the videos…? I’m not really supposed to, but I do now, so… It’s probably easier to rationalize watching something bad than to actually go out and do it. I think that’s why the ones coming back from clients looked really awful, but the ones who went off to be in movies always came back looking worse.”

A woman leans over a bucket, pale and clammy with illness, vomiting up things that should never be consumed, with enough force that her throat bleeds. The Jaguar rubs her back and ignores the stench. This is the way things are.

A young man lolls his head back on the cot, mumbling to himself, flushed with fever, flushed with fear, black hair spilling off the edge. There’s blood. There’s a lot of blood everywhere. A man with cold eyes and a brown mustache winks at her as he passes down the walkway, leading a nearly-grown stallion by the open door. This is the way things are.

A girl dies on the cot right in front of the Jaguar. Her father strips out all the girl’s insides, and then pulls out a bottle of something that is not medicine, something that stinks like bad pickles and the science classes the Jaguar has never been in. THIS IS THE WAY THINGS ARE.

The Jaguar shivers. “I know, I know, it was bad and all, but probably still better than what might have happened if I wasn’t… um, if it had been me going to the rooms and not just… dealing with… the… the fallout, but that doesn’t mean I’m still all good!” She rubs at some of the purple on her arms. “Even physically, getting that close to… things like that is actually super dangerous. That’s how…”

The Jaguar sweats and moans in bed, hand wrapped in gauze beside her. This is not enough to cover up the disease smell or the yellowish-brown of pus leaking through. Her father hovers, worries, pushes her hair back and plunges the contents of a syringe into her wrist. She’s too out of it to cry. THIS IS THE WAY THINGS ARE.

“I nicked my hand while treating one of them and the wound got infected, went septic, that’s what my dad says. Cephalosporin - no, I don’t know where they got cephalosporin - is this special class of drugs that you use to deal with stuff like that. But sometimes there are side effects, like, well…” She runs a finger over one of those dark splotches again. “It’s called purpura; basically what that means is that my skin is all purple-y because blood vessels burst just under the surface. Sometimes that happens if you’re hurt or with some kinds of medicine, that kind…”

She gets better. Slowly but surely the Jaguar climbs all the way out of her condition (and only a little worse for wear). This is the way things are.

“Dad was really worried for a while there. It’s so weird to see your parents cry… Then I got better and he was happy, but… but… Don’t get me wrong, he healed me. He loves me! He’s my dad… but I…” She starts to sniffle and wipe at her eyes with the corner of her shirt. “He always tried to keep me safe. To keep me with him. He’s all I have. And it wasn’t enough.”

The Jaguar is on her feet again. Her father is crying. She’s holding back tears. But I don’t want-

I know, he says, and I’m so, so sorry… but I need you to… just do what they say, and I’ll find you.

She manages to smile there, pale and wan, but it’s still a smile. Not if I find you first. This is the way things are.

“When I was twelve - I’m thirteen now, so it wasn’t that long ago, but still - they said they had to separate us. That was the last thing either of us wanted, but they said I’d learned enough to… That they needed me for… They gave me to these guys t-to move me somewhere else. They were… French, I think? They spoke French…”

Two skinny men and a very large woman. They are neat. They wear mod suits. They have olive skin and very black hair. And the Jaguar struggles when they force her off with them, keeps struggling even after the tired-looking one with the pencil mustache zip ties her hands behind her back. THIS IS THE WAY THINGS ARE.

“They were supposed to take me from Cloverdale…? That’s what I saw on one of the signs we passed, so… to Las… was it Vistas or Vegas? I always kinda mix up those words. They didn’t, but they were going to.”

This isn’t what we signed up for, the one on the passenger side huffs into the end of his cigar. Sartori a dit que ce ne serait que de l'héroïne. What the hell do they think we are? Babysitters? In the back, the Jaguar’s started chewing on her bonds. She’s still gnawing hours later when she feels the car lurch to a stop. THIS IS THE WAY THINGS ARE.

“They stopped somewhere that looked like a really big gas station, minus the gas. Jole- my friend called it a rest stop. The lady and one of the guys went in and left the third one watching me. He wouldn’t stop grumbling about whatever. I… I really don’t know what he felt about being there. Maybe nothing, but maybe it was a lot…” The Jaguar shrugs. “I don’t know for sure.”

You need to do some soul searching. She glares at him, but the man in the front seat just turns up the radio and rolls his eyes. She sees something then, that he hasn’t. Horus left his phone to leave him open; this stranger leaves a lighter on the floor. THIS IS THE WAY THINGS ARE.

She says nothing for a moment, but turns her wrists outward from the stage. Darker, deeper, purple scar tissue. “That one guy was cocky, or they all were. I guess they didn’t think I’d be able to get my hands free so they didn’t bother locking the doors. Or he didn’t. Or he hit the thing that… does that with his elbow by mistake. I don’t know and it doesn’t matter. I ran.”

She does and it’s nothing like a cheetah and it’s nothing very fast, but he sure wasn’t expecting her to try. That counts almost enough to make up for what the Jaguar doesn’t have. Almost. She feels him heat the air behind her and runs straight into a boy.

Whoa there! Are you… The man in the mod suit is gaining ground behind her and the new stranger’s eyes narrow and his smile goes very wide. Minji, he says, loud enough that the entire parking lot can hear him, there you are!

“There was this guy that I ran into and he…” She blushes. “He’s nice. He helped me, made a big enough scene that that other guy backed off.”

You okay? the boy asks, putting a hand out to touch her on the arm. Who was that dude back there?

The Jaguar looks at him and her lower lip trembles. Little wet spots on the pavement while her hands open and close, open and close… And her story falls out of her, and after that, tears.

Hey… Hey, it’s… sounds like you’ve had a rough time, he says quietly, can I… Listen, I’ve got a place to stay if you need… if you need…

She nods and follows him. This is the way things are.

“So I’ve been here for a little while. In the city. Living with friends… I don’t know who I should really trust yet. Nobody according to Jo…lf… yeah, my friend Jolf…”

An abandoned house with CONDEMNED across the front of it and graffiti written in scribble, written in bold. The boy from before clinks soda cans together with a man in a green-and-purple tracksuit. The Jaguar nods off on the shoulder of a smaller girl with a sullen expression and one of those animal head hoodies; they fall asleep together on the musty old couch. This is the way things are.

“You know, it all seems pretty crazy. I was so scared of leaving that warehouse and seeing what the world was like and… I never thought about what I wanted or the way my life could be.” The Jaguar grins wholeheartedly, brighter than the stage lights. “I guess now the only thing left is to find my dad and make him part of it.”

Chapter 29: *CSA* (Suite Life of Zack and Cody) A Story about the Stunt Double and the Top Performer

Summary:

TW: child sexual abuse, bullying, perceived favouritism, loss of bladder control.

“He’s the smart one. Think it’s about time I admitted that.”

“Uh… it’s okay! You’re really good at… Mom says there are all kinds of ways to be smart, remember?! School isn’t everything!”

That gets a “… Thanks,” that sounds despondent.

The Stunt Double and Top Performer are twins, but at this point - in a group of this size - that’s nothing new. Pre-teen or freshly bitten teenage boys with unbroken voices and shaggy blond hair. The Double is in jeans and the Performer wears a sweater vest, and that’s the main difference between the two.

“He is smart, you know… I used to be really jealous of that.”

“Seriously?”

“Shut up! Maybe… okay, yeah, but I mostly wanted the attention. How great everyone thought… thinks he is. How… He’s the responsible one and the one that all my teachers compare everyone’s work to. People treat him like he’s special because he was born a genius and I wasn’t and that isn’t fair.”

The Top Performer stares at his brother for a moment, mouth open slightly as he tries to articulate his thoughts. “Who thinks that I’m responsible?”

“Shut up!”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Top Performer rides a luggage cart through the center of a crowded hotel lobby, chased after by a man in a suit. Zack! Cody! He snaps two names though there’s only one boy there, and despite the Performer standing in the middle of his pilfered chariot, it picks up speed while the sound of sneakers scrape the floor; as if it’s being pushed.

“Okay, maybe hold off on the ‘responsible’ thing, but everything else? Come on, dude, you know I’m right about that part.”

The Top Performer lays on his stomach on his bed, a book spread out in front of him. It’s opened and read all the way to the middle, the width of his thumb on both halves. Quit bugging me, he snaps as he turns a page, swatting at the empty air.

“I’m good at things like basketball… and girls-”

“And girls’ basketba-” The Performer doubles over, groaning as the Double’s fist sinks into his stomach. “Owwww… I’m telling Mom!”

“Yeah, well, Mom’s not here.” The Stunt Double looks sheepishly at the audience, flinching under the Mother Superior’s hardline glare. “Anywayyyy… I was jealous of him being the smart kid, but… not now. Not anymore.” His lip trembles and the Top Performer reaches out to awkwardly pat his back.

“Um… there… there…”

Guys! Guys! Look at this! He holds up a slip of paper, shiny like the kind for brochures and magazines. No one says anything, but the Performer turns to an empty space in the room. It’s for this thing at the college. They want me to be part of a study on gifted kids! More of the same nothing, but his face turns indignant. Mom!

Zack, be nice to your brother, says a woman with short dyed-blonde spikes in her hair. This is a great opportunity for him. Half-joking: It’s never too early to brown-nose some scholarships.

“You… You know about what Nine said? Mew’s gifted study? I… I was a part of it for a while and… yeah, okay, you’re right… That’s how I met him. Professor… is… is it okay if I use his real name? Nobody else has, so…”

P.R. with his gleaming teeth and slicked-back hair and freshly pressed suit. He leans down to get a better look at the Top Performer, grinning when the little boy takes a shaky step back. Whatever can be wrong… Mr. Martin? he asks, eyeing his little Sharpied-on nametag. I won’t bite.

“I did think he was kind of weird at first, but then I thought that maybe I was overthinking it. He was this cool older guy and he was smart and he knew stuff that even my parents didn’t and I was… ungrateful for it. It just kinda felt like I was looking a gift horse in the mouth, you know. And, I mean, it wasn’t like anyone else seemed to have an obvious problem with him… so I thought…” It’s the Performer’s turn to sniffle and the Stunt Double’s to put a hand on his shoulder, thumping lightly between the blades.

The Top Performer drifts between the clotted crowds of boys and girls, prodigy to prodigy, making conversation, the gap only just big enough for him to fit inside. Sometimes P.R. joins their conversations or listens in. Genius or not, they’re too young to really understand what it means that he only ever does this with the boys.

“Not really your fault, man. Nobody noticed that until way after.”

“People noticed, they just didn’t really point it out.”

“Same thing…”

“Of course you would say that.”

The Top Performer jabbers away to his mother and the blank space in the back of the car. And there’s this one kid, Jimmy - he’s the one from the paper with the robot dog - and he said that maybe he could have me over some time! Silence, then the Performer glares at the empty seat next to him. Well, excuse me for making friends.

“He never had me over though, and I never asked him. Actually, he left the program even before I did. At the time I just thought that was really weird, but… one of the girls from the same study went missing, along with some others from her school. I think she was his friend.”

He’s leafing through another book, this time in the living room, while the channels change spontaneously on the television screen. Four photographs of four kids just about his own age. Vortex, Folfax, Estavez, Wheezer.

“You know… another thing I noticed looking back was, he never liked Prof- that guy. Maybe he got the same feeling I did. Maybe not, but there was something weird there. I think he’s fine, but I haven’t seen him since then. All Mew told us was that he wanted to drop out.”

“Yeah, well, I woulda wanted to drop out too.”

“I know - I know, okay? - but I didn’t… I just thought his friends were what did it, it honestly didn’t occur to me that it might have had something to do with… him. Then some of the other kids started acting weird.”

Nine of Shades stumbles around, green in the face and tripping over the other gifted children’s stuck-out feet. The Performer watches from his mother’s car as she goes over to her own, head down, picking spit-wads out of her shaggy brown hair. He looks to the place next to him. They are nice… mostly. And don’t call them nerds!

“Jeez, dude, even I thought that stuff was way harsh. I mean, picking on you-” As if to illustrate his point, he thumps his brother on the head with his knuckles, messing up his hair. “-is one thing, but at least I don’t pick on preschoolers.”

“They only did it because-”

“Because he told them to. Sure, yeah, I get that, alright? But you didn’t-”

“I didn’t trust him to begin with.”

Mr. Martin, could I trouble you for a moment? P.R. isn’t really asking as he takes the Top Performer to the side. Then he points to the smaller girl who stands out from all the other kids and whispers something into his ear. One part of that sentence is the word deserve. But… the Top Performer shakes his head and backs away, eyes wide as saucers, lips forming a No.

“I can’t remember what he said to me exactly, something about her not really belonging there. How I was better and how I deserved all the attention she got… or something. Sure, maybe I was a little jealous, but I grew up with him.” He jabs a finger at the Double’s chest. “I know how it feels to be picked on and I wasn’t gonna do that to a three-year-old.”

“Good for you. Now, don’t you think that maybe you shoulda told someone that he wanted you to do that?”

“Don’t yell at me! I’m sorry! I already said I was-”

“Oh come on! Come on, dude… Look, I’m sorry, okay? I didn’t mean it… much. It’s not really your fault. Please don’t cry.”

The Top Performer gives P.R. a wide berth now, avoiding eye contact, never getting close enough for him to touch. The professor does not try to - not in front of so many witnesses.

“I knew, I guess… subconsciously, that there was something bothering me about him, but I didn’t know what that was. If I had maybe then I would have said something. Maybe then-”

“Oh, just shut up.”

For days he walks on eggshells, jumping when the doorman or the manager at the hotel his mother works at - or even the pretty blonde girl who tends the candy counter - approach him from the front or brush against him from behind. Quit it! he snaps at nothing. I’m not being jumpy!

“I didn’t think it was a huge deal… Maybe I was just being paranoid, but… but then… Well…”

“ ‘Well’ is right.”

The Performer speed-walks from the study room, shouting something about having to use the bathroom. He doesn’t notice the footsteps sounding off against the floor, not until he enters the men’s restroom and turns around to shut the door.

“He… He was in there with me.” The Top Performer blushes, staring down at his toes. “I don’t want to tell you what happened next.”

“Big whoop, man, you wet your pants.”

“Hey!”

“What? You think that’s embarrassing? That’s nothing. At least he didn’t… you know.” For all his bravado, the Stunt Double is a child still and he shrinks from the word. “You got away, didn’t you?”

P.R. lunges for the Performer, but misses, almost hitting his head on the cinderblock wall. His quarry runs as fast as legs will carry him through the almost-deserted hallways and, it being a weekend and after hours at that, he goes unheard; but the man doesn’t catch up.

“Not to you, maybe…”

The twins’ mother sits in her car out front, craning her neck to see through the throng of other parents collecting their own children. She turns to look at something in the empty backseat. Zack, hon, can you go in there and tell your brother to hurry it up, please? she asks, sounding vaguely exasperated. Then, grumbling under her breath: He knows I have a gig tonight…

“I’m-”

“Don’t. Just don’t. It’s not your fault. Nobody thinks it’s your fault, it just - don’t tell Mom I said this, but it really blows. Yeah, I went there. This whole thing, well, it really really… stinks.”

The Performer giggles weakly. “Worse than he did?”

“Ugh, don’t remind me. All that gooey hair stuff and too much cologne - gross.”

The Top Performer dodges around corners and behind doors until he can’t hear P.R. behind him. It takes him a long time to find the exit. Where’s Zack? his mother asks as he approaches the car. I sent him in to go look for you.

Seriously? He probably got lost himself.

“To be fair that was exactly what happened.”

“Hey! I was more worried about making sure you hadn’t impaled yourself on a diploma than remembering where to find the exit in a school I’d never been in before! College, I guess. School, college, what’s the difference?”

“Well, actually-”

“Dude, no one actually cares.”

“I-”

“Yeah, well, I don’t and it’s my story so we’ll tell it how I wanna.”

“I thought this was supposed to be our story…”

P.R. thunders into an empty hallway, smile stretching into a grin. There are two shadows on the floor. When he reaches out, they intersect. There you are! The professor’s hand closes around a little more than nothing and suddenly he’s not quite so alone anymore.

“Yeah, ‘our’, you just keep telling yourself that.”

“I never actually talked to that guy all that much. He didn’t know I had a twin. I’m…” He doesn’t finish the apology. “Anyway, yeah… I guess the Stunt Double’s right. This is his story. But it’s mine too, just to a lesser extent.”

A glance at her son, a double take. Cody, what on earth…?

The Performer covers the wet patch on his jeans, not wanting to explain more than he has to and not really having the word to explain it anyway. It’s just water, he insists, but doesn’t sound very convincing.

His mother doesn’t seem to buy it, but she rolls her eyes and gets a beach blanket from the back to put down. Well, I guess we’re waiting on your brother now.

Guess so.

They wait for a long time.

“It felt like hours.”

“It felt like years to me.”

“Yeah… I probably should’ve gone back in or told Mom or… or something, I was just so relieved and…” He shuts his eyes, not looking at his brother. “I wasn’t thinking right. I started second-guessing myself, actually. Maybe he was just trying to ask me about something. Unlikely, but everyone else had thought he was… pretty okay. So maybe I had just… overreacted.”

“Dude, he chased you through the hallway.”

“Well, yeah, but… I wasn’t being exactly rational. I didn’t want to think what had happened was what had really gone on. Everyone really liked him and I liked the program. I thought people would be mad if I said he did something wrong.”

Inside the building, P.R. lets go of a much thinner wrist and the Stunt Double disappears again. There’s no sound as the professor walks away. After that the camera snakes through deserted hallways, stopping at the exit door. In the car, the Top Performer looks up, still shaking. T-there you are! For a moment, the other twin flickers back into view.

“I think Mom was more worried about him, honestly. He did look like he’d seen a ghost, plus the whole… accident thing. And Mom did have to work that night… I don’t know if we mentioned it, but she’s a singer. She works at the Tipton Hotel.”

They enter the lobby from before, with the manager in the suit and the girl behind the candy counter and a strongly accented man in a pepper-green bellhop’s uniform. The Top Performer pushes past them, heading for the elevator with his eyes on the floor. His mother follows after, a roughly person-sized space between. After that, there’s a blur of hairspray and flimsy red fabric as their mother changes and the Performer makes a beeline for the bathroom. There’s no shadow on the wall or footsteps in the hallways, but someone slams the bedroom door.

“It wasn’t that I was hiding what had… happened, or at least, not like I wanted to, but… I dunno, it’s just that it was hard to talk about. I mean, I barely knew what sex was, how was I supposed to tell Mom that…”

“It’s my fault, I didn’t say anything either. You already know why.”

The Top Performer sits with his arms folded on the couch in the lobby; the space beside him is empty but the cushions are weighed down. What’s wrong with you two? the candy girl asks. Moseby got you down again?

“Moseby’s the manager. He doesn’t like us… usually, it’s sorta complicated.”

“He’s always yelling at us for running in the lobby or making a mess. Buzzkill. We aren’t half as bad as London, but she’s the Tiptons' daughter - plus he raised her - so she always gets a pass. Anyway, we used to think he was the worst, but I guess… I guess he’s not so bad. Not really. I know that now.”

A week passes and it’s time for the Top Performer to return to the college and to Mew’s study there. Mommy, I don’t feel well. She lets him stay home. The bed across from his also has a bulge underneath the blanket. The next week she can’t take him and asks if that’s alright.

“A few more weeks and it was kinda the same thing. One of us coming up with excuses or something coming up. Then the whole thing was cancelled so…” He looks down at the tiny woman in the audience. “Um, thanks for that.”

The Performer stands in the gameroom of the hotel, leaning over the controls of an old fashioned box-game. He stops when he loses, groaning and throwing both hands up in the air as he looks over his shoulder at nothing. Your turn… But the joystick doesn’t move. Are you sure you don’t want to play?

“By that point I knew I wanted to say something and just wasn’t sure how to bring it up. I mean, I was glad that he wasn’t going to go back there anymore - just in case - but I still… It was the kind of thing our parents would have wanted us to tell them about, but it just got harder and harder to bring up.”

“In the end he didn’t have to, but, yeah. I’m not going to harp on it now or anything, but it might have been good if our Mom had heard about it before everyone else found out. Though… admittedly, that one’s on me too.” Sheepish, he kicks at the ground, or the stage boards that pass for it anyway. “You guys know about the something else that happened with him after that?”

There’s something on the news that the Performer isn’t privy to. His mother won’t change the channel, but stands up from the couch with her mouth hanging open and banishes her son from the room. Zack, Cody, time for bed.

But it’s only seven-

Don’t argue with me.

Later the Top Performer lies in bed, facing the empty lump in the one opposite, covered in empty blankets and sheets like an old cicada shell. In the morning something else is on TV. Their mother shuts it off when he enters the room this time, plunking down a carton of milk and a box of cold cereal. He catches one snatch of one image - a name with blurry, stylized letters and a picture of P.R.’s smiling face.

“They haven’t caught him yet, but… something happened. I don’t know, nobody’s telling me the details, but he must have slipped up… somewhere.” The boys glance down at Lord Gorgon, sitting cross-legged by Boo on the floor. “Or someone made a complaint that stuck.”

The Top Performer eats his breakfast beside a hovering bowl on the living room couch; his mother gets up to answer the phone. He looks up when it falls to the floor like the condemned from the scaffold, swinging slightly in the air. Cody, she says, choked-sounding. Cody… Just that one word for a while. Just his name over and over again.

Mom, what is it?!

Honey, that was the police on the line… She says more and a spoon falls out of nowhere, into the invisible brother’s bowl.

“They went through his house and… found some stuff. I guess-”

“He had this whole scrapbook full of, well, us in there. The ones he got his hands on. See, this is what you get from reading. Anyway, the police found that and started going through it and… I was in there.”

The Performer sits in questioning, totally bewildered, with his mother fussing over him. He… He chased me, but it wasn’t… He didn’t…

That big, soft-looking officer from a few of the other tapes looks patiently over at him. Cody, I know this must be hard for you, but-

I don’t know what you guys are talking about!

More back and forth, only really an argument from one side. The officer tries to put a hand on his shoulder and the Top Performer bats it away. Well, maybe he was lying! He stops moving after he says this. Wait… wait… Zack!

“The only thing was that he wrote down the wrong name.” The Performer wraps both arms around his midsection. “Mine.”

“You were the one he wanted.” The Stunt Double shakes his head until blond hair hangs down, covering his eyes. “I’m not even jealous anymore.”

Chapter 30: (Elena of Avalor) A Story about la Elección del Segundo

Summary:

TW: rape, murder, blackmail, betrayal.

“Long time no see, eh, El Segundo?”

Two men in the Palace. Two figures on the stage. Two shadows, two accented voices crawling through the black. There was a meeting today, but that was earlier. It’s late now - the wrong end of one, when the second man checks the time on his phone and the hazy beam of fragile light illuminates the both of them. The first man is big and broad-shouldered; El Segundo is taller but thinner and no older than his thirties, but already has a lot of salt running through the styled black pepper of his hair. They stare at each other in the dark.

“Fourteen years, ah? Feels like longer. Forty-one, maybe.”

“This… this is true.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; two boys race through a house that looks like a fairytale, very nearly toppling furniture and knocking pictures off the walls. El Segundo in second place, a bigger, broader boy in the lead by more than just a little. They keep running anyway. Vamonos, Esteban! You can do better than that, can’t you?

“How is your family?”

They keep running, running, running and come out on the far side of eighteen. Careful, mijito, an old woman says when the second stumbles, patting the side of his cheek. You’ll hurt yourself.

Ah, Luisa, you worry too much, laughs a white haired man with a toddler on his shoulder. You are only young once, isn’t that right, mija? He looks indulgently down at another girl-child in a bright red sundress, who smiles widely and lets out a hoot.

Woohoo! Go Esteban!

“Tus primas pequeñas should be… how old now? Elena is, what, twenty? Almost twenty? And what about Isabel? You know, mi Carlita is all grown up? And she looks just like her mamá-”

“What do you want, Víctor?”

El Segundo steps down from the stage at his highschool graduation and takes his cap off while the others are thrown up and into the air. Ah, lighten up, Estebanico! A taller, bearded man claps his shoulder, while the woman at his side pinches his cheek. We are so proud of you!

Ah, gracias, Tía Lucía, Tío Raúl. His smile is real but a little embarrassed. Gracias.

“I am surprised you came, old friend. After what you did to me… but then maybe I shouldn’t be surprised-”

“Don’t. I… don’t. Please, Víctor, you’re the one that asked me to come here. I know you’re going to ask for… for something. Won’t it be easier on both of us if you just tell me what it is?”

He stands behind the counter of a spiffy uptown jeweler’s shop, dripping diamonds and weeping sapphires locked up tight behind glass. His friend, the first, leans over the top of it and smiles. Nice place you got here, eh, Esteban?

Please, it belongs to Tío Raúl and Tía Lucía-

Pero tú manejas el lugar!

This is true.

“And would you give it to me, El Segundo?”

Black hair, red lips, green dress. A woman sweeps through the door in a haze of perfume and a rustle of velvet. Suzu Shiraki, she says with a cold smile, offering a cold hand. She leans in so close to El Segundo that he can see himself reflected in her eyes, clearly. I have a business proposal for y-

He is not the owner, his uncle says as El Segundo opens his mouth. His voice is colder than this woman’s. If you have anything to offer you can take it up with me, alright?

“Sí.” He nods stiffly. “Sí, lo haría. I would.”

¡Nunca te venderé Avalor! ¡Fuera de mi tienda! ¡Fuera! El Segundo stumbles back as the woman in green throws open the door, snarling behind her as she leaves.

You’ll regret this, she promises. You’ll see! And her eyes catch on the young man while she goes. You’ll be sorry.

“Do you remember when Carla was born?” the first man asks the second, almost conversationally. “You told me-”

“I told you ‘ella es tu viva imagen’. That was not true, she looked more like her mother.”

“Looks. And that is not the only thing you’ve lied to me about. ¿Lo es?”

I tell you, Victor! It was the strangest thing! I’ve never seen Tío Raúl so angry! El Segundo carries on to his friend while the first man bounces a little girl on his knee, fingers combing through her thick, dark hair. And she looked so… so… I’m worried, you know? About the things she said.

“I… I never lied to you. Not to you.”

“¡Eso es una mierda! Look at me, Esteban! Look at me! You said we were partners! But because of you… Because of you…”

Someone breaks the windows at a jeweler’s across the way. A fire starts at another of the same; it’s ruled as an accident but nobody really seems to think it is. El Segundo goes to his family. I think we ought to reconsider Sra. Shiraki’s offer- but they brush him off.

No ahora, Estebanico eres solo un niño.

“It wasn’t my fault, Victor! I- It was Sra. Shiraki! She… she… You saw what she did to Elena’s parents! I had no choice!”

“You always have a choice!” the first man snaps, eyes glowing in the dim phone spotlight. “And you didn’t choose me. That’s fine. I’ve made my peace with that. But you… but you… You owe me! You owe me a lot! I lost everything because of what you did!”

“Because of what we did.”

“What you talked me into!”

Two young men are alone together in a room with no windows. El Segundo stands, the first one sits and, alternately, they check and recheck the lock on the door. We have to do something, Victor! For the girls! For Avalor! ¡Mi tío no tiene idea de con qué está lidiando!

“I’m sor-”

“I don’t believe you!”

The woman in green and the two young men. It’s dark outside now. So you - Esteban - will cause a distraction, understand? While Victor and I take the deed.

Is that… Will that work? El Segundo can’t quite hold back that solid note of disbelief. I know possession is nine-tenths of the law but-

Trust me, the woman says, I’ll make it work.

“I lost everything! My family lost everything!”

And… my family will be alright? You won’t do anything to them? Just take the-

The woman smiles like a paper slash. You have my word.

“And what about what I lost, eh? What about-”

The first man draws his arm back and hits El Segundo so hard that he almost falls backward and off of the stage.

Simple but practical: he invites the whole family out to dinner at a nice restaurant, the kind you spend hours dressing up for. Unimaginative, maybe, but it gets the job done. Though, when his phone rings, only his grandparents have actually arrived there with that youngest girl in tow. Victor?! What is… oh… oh… Oh Dios mío…

“I don’t want to hear that from you, Esteban! Not you! Not when you got everything you ever wanted!”

El Segundo wears all black when he meets with the solicitor. Avalor is yours, says the man, until the girls are old enough. Then it goes to Elena. I’m so sorry for your loss. He just nods, seemingly at a loss for words.

“Everything I… Victor! You cannot seriously think that I wanted this.”

Police statements and grief counselors and a double funeral. No one is even looking at El Segundo, but the first man’s full name and picture appear on the evening news. Victor Delgado… suspect in… Castillo-Flores double murder… dangerous… possibly armed… Sometimes there are pictures of his daughter under only one word.

“I thought I knew you. I thought we were friends. I thought… I thought…” His voice cracks. His hand tightens. He shakes El Segundo. Hard. “How could you? You ruined me.”

“No. No, she did.”

In the days, the weeks, the months that follow, it’s all too easy to lose himself in the what of things - planning funerals and wakes, looking after his young cousins, running the family store - and to lose track of the why. And then one night as he’s locking up the door opens and the woman sweeps in in a track of green.

Get out before I call the police!

Oh, I wouldn’t, she croons, tucking a finger beneath his chin and using it to tilt up his head. Not after I’ve been so good and kept your little secret.

“I will make this simple for you, viejo amigo, I asked you to come here because I intend to take what I am owed.”

El Segundo reaches into the jewel case, dropping the contents into the woman’s waiting hands. You… you will not tell them, then?

Keep me happy, she says, and we’ll see. Before she leaves, she kisses him once on the cheek. Adios!

“You let her set me up! Me debes.” He looks mad enough to spit on him.

The woman comes back again. Of course she does. Again. Again. Again. More jewelry. Sometimes money from the register. Sometimes just things El Segundo owns. She also says: You owe me.

El Segundo stares, stricken, but says: “This is true.”

But I… I cannot keep paying you like this… Nosotros iremos a la quiebra!

Well… We can’t have that, now, can we? She pauses as if to consider this for the very first time. Guess you’ll have to go about it another way.

“Where do you want me?”

Sometimes there are others and she watches. Sometimes it’s the two of them alone. Forward, backward and any other position she can think of. They have years. They have so many years to just themselves.

“Qué?”

His cousins get older. So does he. He doesn’t tell them, even after the oldest is old enough to understand. He doesn’t tell his grandparents. They’d never forgive him if they knew.

“I cannot lose my family.” El Segundo sighs heavily and sinks to his knees, fingers catching on the first man’s fly. “This… this is what you want, isn’t it?”

“What are you…?”

He stumbles into the house at midnight and a young woman in bright, bright red comes and hugs him at the door. Elena, I… shouldn’t you be in bed?

Isa is, she shrugs, and Abuela and Abuelo but you were late again. I worried.

El Segundo’s hand fastens around his old friend’s trouser button. For a moment nothing happens, then the man grabs him by the shoulders and pushes, holding him out at arm’s length. “¿Qué? ¡No! Esteban, ¡No!”

“I… I do not understand…”

“Así no! Not… not like this.”

Chapter 31: *CSA* (Casey Bats Again) A Story about the Catbird Kid

Summary:

TW: rape of a young teen, drug use, sexism, implied child neglect.

“So ‘Casey at the Bat’, huh? Bet you’ve heard that one old line.”
The Mighty Casey? That’s a baseball player. Well, it’s nine.
Catbird’s age is twice that number, with strong arms and good straight back
And she has her hair all tied up high. It’s red. Her ribbon’s black.

She wears a loose green T-shirt and side-striped shorts the same.
And she’s sweaty, scraped, and battered - “Sorry, got here from a game.
We won, in case you’re wondering. We got some fans here, right?
Yeah! I mean, it’s not the big leagues…” A fragment, not a light;

YOU’RE OUT! shrieks an umpire, on a sunny, muddy day.
The unhappy batter curses, throws his bat out of the way.
Then the crowd disperses, not a word, without a cheer.
Just one woman left remaining puts her lips up to his ear.

“Daddy was a bigshot, then, back in his glory days.
Didn’t go so well, ‘cause… reasons, but then he had us to raise.
Nine girls, if you can buy it.” Now she pauses - shy or coy?
“It’s daughters that God gave him. What he wanted was a boy.”

A room with tiny hats and gloves, the walls all splashed with blue.
I’m gonna be a daddy! Catbird’s dad tells friends. It’s true!
The day comes that he’s been wanting more than any in the world,
And the doctor holds up blue eyes and pink blanket. It’s a girl!

“He was just so sure I’d be a son.” She bites her cheek and pouts.
“They went and named me Patrick - they’d already picked it out.
I guess Mama thought that would… I don’t know, maybe warm him up?
But like we coulda told her, that’d never be enough.”

There’s no satisfying Daddy when he’s in this kind of slump.
He ignores his friends and Catbird till his wife shows a new bump.
He’s all smiles and celebration, with cigars, champagne and gin.
Catbird’s mother just gets bigger. Not just one baby, it’s twins!

“People told him - after me - to check, he never gave a fuck.
That’s the thing with sporty types, he thought he’d jinx it, be bad luck.”
Two little pink-clad sisters. Set of three. Three after that.
Catbird’s old man leads them. Someone hoots. He does know how to bat!

“I’m making Daddy seem just awful.” Catbird Kid plays with her bow.
“Yeah, that’s sexist and it’s stupid, but he was raised that way, you know?”
Now her red hair tumbles; she retrieves her ribbon from the ground.
“ ‘Sides,” says Catbird as she straightens, “eventually he came around.

Now, it was mostly that he had to, I have got to admit.”
Nine sisters, jigsaw baseball. Eight outfielders while one hits.
Their father stands and watches, teammates clap him on the back.
Dumbass, you’ve got baseball players. What do you say to that?

“I’d like to think we’re good ones - ‘least, the best I’ve ever met.”
She blushes, sheepish. “Sorry, Herald. It’s just sometimes I forget…
That’s a problem in our family. Uh, not your family - mine.
It’s one of Daddy’s issues, mostly-” Mumbles; all they catch is “pride”.

“It’s not that he didn’t love us, that’s what he’s supposed to do.
But… Look, I know that. I know that… but…” But he loves baseball too.
It’s not that she’s wrong; Daddy keeps them fed and clean and clothed.
Some forget, but Catbird had long years and years of feeling loathed.

At first she’s very careful, gut filled with stones at each game.
But eventually that stops, as they add luster to their fame.
And Daddy, to his credit, warms their laurels; how he cheers,
Surrounded not just by their mother, but their own fans and his peers.

These are the men that stood by Dad in weather dark and fair.
There’s a cake and there’s a lulu, and a meth-mouth with blond hair.
“I like mosta Daddy’s friends okay. For real! We get along just fine.
He made eight of ‘em our godfathers, and… I’m here because of mine.”

Say hello to Uncle Bucky, says her mother to her charge.
“Uncle Bucky’s” by her father, and he isn’t half as large.
It’s the blond man from the park who stands there, marks her to her place.
Catbird looks with morbid reverence at the Fitzgerald of his face.

“Big detail: he’s a failed player.” She turns her hand and rubs a scar.
“Kind of like the old man, always thought he’d be a star.
Only, he’s all wheels - all leg - no swing - we call that a table-setter.
He coulda been crazy or doped up, but… he saw that we were better.”

The Table-Setter does see, from the bleachers by the side.
Woo! Go Patsy! His son’s smiling ear to ear. That wide.
Youknowmyboyjus’lovesyou! he jabbers, Catbird in his sights.
How ‘bout an autograph? She nods. To Chester - Love Patsy, she writes.

Mighty Daddy blows his whistle. Then the sisters turn to go,
And the Table-Setter watches with green eyes they’ll never know.
“The other thing I should say’s he had ‘kissing Tina breath’.
What? That’s what I like to call it.” What the Catbird means is “meth”.

“Maybe I should’ve noticed, but I was just a kid back then.
And I don’t blame my folks, but he was one a’ their best friends.
So, this is how it happened: see, this guy had a little son.
Y’know, like Daddy wanted? ‘Cept instead of nine, it’s one.”

A little house, a little street, not the nicest part of town.
But the Setter’s son’s ecstatic, and she doesn’t let him down.
There’s sandwich fixin’s in the fridge, but they’re old and fuzzy green.
So the Catbird calls for takeout. You mind pizza with sardines?

“So he asked me to babysit and I said ‘yeah, sure, dude’.
It was for a full day working, but he said he’d pay for two.
I don’t think he was a good dad, even when he was outside his head.
He didn’t leave when I got there. He was tripping out in bed.”

At first it all goes swimmingly, though the food’s a little late.
The Table-Setter’s upstairs. Catbird fixes him a plate.
She climbs the rickety trick steps, while every hall-light looms,
And then she hears strange noises in the Table-Setter’s room.

“Maybe it was dumb of me to go and barge right in.
Still, I was worried. You weren’t there… But somebody shoulda been.”
She clears her throat and swallows, tucks some fringe behind one ear.
“Now here comes the bad part. Are you sure you wanna hear?”

Uh, hello, Uncle Buck- ow! She trips and bangs her shin.
But she rubs it and keeps knocking, till she hears the words: Come in.
The Table-Setter’s eyes are twitching, pupils dilated wide.
I ain’t hungry, he whispers when she comes up to his side.

Are you okay? she starts to ask him, but he shoots up like a gun.
The plate falls with a clatter; he hits her hard as a home run.
Uncle, what are you- Catbird thrashes, screaming No! and Stop! and Please!
But the Table-Setter keeps his hold, pushing angels through his teeth.

“He was messed up when it happened, like what that French guy said,
Except he really hurt me - physically.” She blinks; her face turns red.
“I…” She stops for a moment, wheezing in and out some calming breaths.
“And when I went downstairs again, I scared the kid to death.

He asked what the hell happened - well, maybe not that way.”
But he’s small and scared and staring. Catbird doesn’t know what to say.
I fell, she tells him lamely; the lie’s bitter on her tongue.
But the boy nods and believes her, and she’s glad that he’s so young.

“I woulda called up Daddy, only I didn’t have a phone,
And I didn’t know where home was, couldn’t leave the kid alone.
So we played outside, mostly, though it was getting pretty late.”
A game of two-man baseball, with an old tire as home plate.

Dad comes in the ninth inning as Catbird gives her bat a whirl.
He glows, smiles bright and proudly, and he says, That’s my girl!
DADDY! Catbird rushes to him, throws both arms around his neck.
Sheesh, kid, don’t go soft on me… Aw, he says, what the heck!

“He asked me where his friend was and I mumbled ‘oh, upstairs’.
He almost went to see him, but… I wanted outta there.”
Dad lingers in the doorway, letting out a little groan.
C-can we take Chester with us? But they’d best be getting home.

So she lets him pull her after him and tells the boy, Goodnight.
“Then Dad opened the car door and he saw me in the light.
It was pretty bad, I’m guessing, just from that look on his face,
And he’s not easy to lie to, so…” The Catbird starts to shake.

“I couldn’t make my mouth work.” Tears; the tough kid does her best.
“But he asked about a doctor and I sorta nodded yes.”
He asks, though Catbird’s locked up tighter than the Château d'If.
But he gets his answer, gains a look like a guard dog gives a thief.

I’ll see that bastard hang for this, the doctor hears him say.
Sir, perhaps you should step out for now, just… for your daughter’s sake.
“I’ve never seen him that mad, not before… but maybe since.
Mama calls it Irish temper.” They all watch the Catbird wince.

Catbird Kid lies on the sofa as a sister braids her hair.
I’m headed out, says Daddy and he doesn’t answer where.
He stays out later than most nights, more than any before that.
And he comes back with the smell of smoke, and down one wooden bat.

“So I know that Daddy loves me, I know that he loves us.
He must, right?” she asks, squinting through the motes of Palace dust.
“S'cuse me.” Catbird laughs a little, but without a pinch of joy.
“I just thought… would this have happened? Y’know, if I’d been a boy?”

Chapter 32: *CSA* (Barbie) A Story about Barbie’s Girls

Summary:

TW: rape of a young teen, child death, teen pregnancy, kidnapping, violence, false accusation, family fights.

“Vengeance is mine!”

Krissy isn’t dead, alive, or both - plastic has so little imagination that way - and her eyes are big and blue and glassy, reflecting white lights and the popcorn garlands wound ‘round and ‘round the Christmas tree. And the seven-year-old girl with her pink footie pajamas and curly-ended ponytail - all in gold and even brighter than Krissy’s hair - and the… and all the other people with faces that look… well, a little put off and very, very surprised.

“Barbie? I’m sorry, sweetie, let me take that for you.”

“Huh? Why?”

“I don’t think… they aren’t really supposed to do that, something must be wrong with the voice box. We can get you a new one from the store.”

“What? No! No, I like this one. She’s perfect.” The girl picks up the baby doll, but looks at the box behind. “Krissy…”

Barbie… But that isn’t one of Krissy’s words.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; pink, pink, pink and the hard plastic gilding of a not-so-very-grand toystore. Come on, Barbara, says her grandmother, pulling gently on her arm. For her part Barbie Classic seems preoccupied, staring as another cart zips past. A little brown-haired girl half rides and half pushes as an even smaller toddler babbles nonsense from the basket and their father rushes up behind.

Marie! Get back here! But she only cackles and picks up speed.

Are you listening, sweetheart? What do you want Santa to get you this Christmas?

A baby sister!

“Goodnight, Krissy,” says Barbie Classic, smoothing out the napkin she’s laid over her new “sister”, who’s been placed on a pillow and surrounded by books on the floor. “It’s just like a real crib, isn’t it?”

Of course Krissy can’t say “yes”, but her girl prods the button on her stomach and “Troops, assemble!” sounds just as good. Maybe better. She can’t see anything, but if she could she’d watch as the lights turn off and Barbie Classic flops into the middle of her bed (which really, really isn’t big enough for the amount of pink all over it).

Black hair; brown hair; blonde. Barbie Classic sits in class on a little plastic chair, folding her hands on the desk. There’s a girl with a bun and another with hawkish features and both of them stare at her like they’re working out how she’d taste. Um, hi! I’m-

Your daddy lets you wear nailpolish?! It’s less of a question and more of a shriek. Mine don’t let me do anything!

Ours.

Oh… Are you guys twins?

“Midge! Midge, this is Krissy, she’s my favorite. I used to play sisters with her all the time.”

“But… you don’t have a sister.”

“Well, yeah, but I wanted one. Now though I think I’ve got a new fave game.” She giggles, finger on the button. “Check this out.”

“Gungho!”

Aunt Marlene? Barbie Classic falls back onto someone else’s sofa, flopping over the arm. Where’s Uncle Wendel?

Erm… He’s not going to be around much anymore, I’m afraid. We aren’t… He didn’t want to be married anymore, do you understand?

I… I think so, but… Why?

“Baby, your aunt has… problems having kids on her own. You remember what we told you about how mommies grow babies inside of them? Well, sometimes they have a lot of trouble with that, like how we couldn’t plant… oh, coconut trees in the yard.” He makes a sharp turn and everything in the car goes flying - not Krissy though, safe in Barbie Classic’s lap. “She might still have them, but… it’d take a lot of work.”

“Oh…” She looks down at the doll in her lap and presses the tummy. No noise. “Huh, that’s weird…”

Barbie Classic turns her head in ten directions as her mother shows her through another plastic-gilded store. You’re growing up now. She watches a few pink slips of fabric fall into the basket of their cart. Training bras.

“Hm? Oh, that’s my old Krissy doll. Her voice doesn’t work.”

Barbie Classic puts on makeup in the bathroom mirror - for real, for the first time. Pink lip gloss like the dress she’s wearing, like the pregnancy test she never notices in the wastepaper bin. Mwah! She blows a kiss to her reflection then turns to leave.

“You know, it’s probably good that you can’t talk now. Wouldn’t want to scare the baby, right?” Barbie Classic giggles and spins with Krissy all around the room. “Ohmygosh! It’s finally happening!”

Really? You… you mean it? You’re- REALLY?! She jumps up from the kitchen table, face lighting with a megawatt grin. Boy or girl?

Too soon to tell just yet, her father smiles indulgently and musses her hair, but you’re going to be a big sister either way. Finally.

“Kelly? This is Krissy. She was my favorite toy ever, but now I want you to have her. Isn’t that amaze?!” Second Edition Barbie makes a little gurgling sound and reaches out to touch Krissy - who’s not much smaller than her - with one chubby, curled-up hand. Barbie Classic melts. “N’awww!”

Very, very carefully, Barbie Classic holds out her arms and takes the bundle of Second Edition into them, holding the infant like she’s made of glass. Ooooh! She’s perfect! She’s… What’s her name?

“Babby! Babbyyyy!” Second Edition has Krissy by the sculpted elbow, pulling on her sister’s sleeve. “I wanna… I wanna…”

“What is it, Kelly-Belly?”

“House wit’ me!”

Barbie Classic laughs, crouches, smiles… but her face looks strange. “Well, okay!”

Second Edition stuffs her thumb in her mouth and wails in her car seat while Barbie Classic reaches back from the front. Hey… Hey, it’s okay, Kelly! I-it’s just the doctor’s, you don’t need to cry!

Stay wit’ me?

Of course! She can’t, though, they don’t let her in.

“Then little Gerda wept hot tears, which fell on his breast, and penetrated into his heart, and thawed the lump of ice, and washed away the little piece of glass which had stuck there. Then he looked at her, and she sang…” Barbie Classic trails off and looks down at Second Edition, fast asleep before the ending, Krissy clutched in both arms. “… Sweet dreams.”

Second Edition sits at the foot of her sister’s bed while Barbie Classic leans behind her, braiding pink ribbons into her long, pale hair. Kell, can I… talk to you about something? It’s about… um, you’re… She takes a deep breath and sighs. You know what Mom always says about Grandpa? And about what happens when people… die?

“Oh no! We’d better get the doctor!” Second Edition jumps to her feet. “Krissy’s having a heart attack!”

Barbie Classic smiles like a candle on a Christmas tree, only after the light’s burned out. “Kelly, I… Maybe you should play another game, okay?”

The younger sister crouches by the stairs while big sister’s gone away, listening to her parents argue. I… I’ve already asked Marlene, she’ll help but she can’t pay for all of it. What about your mother?

You know she doesn’t have the money for this! I… Maybe we could move in with Mom? Sell the house? That’ll be enough, right…?

“Grandmaaaaa~” Second Edition drags Krissy behind her into the kitchen, climbing up into her grandmother’s lap. “Where’s Barbie?”

“At work again.”

“How many jobs does she have?”

Pink flowers; pink candles; pink plush teddy bears. Second Edition in a hospital bed - pink stickers on her hospital bracelet; pink gown; pink Band-Aids.

“Where’s Barbie?” The hold on Krissy’s arm isn’t so strong now and Second Edition lies back against her wall of pillows, small and rasping, soft and sweet. “Where’s Barbie? I’m scared.”

“Don’t worry, honey, she’ll be here when you wake up.”

Tomorrow’s the big day, Kell, you ready?

I… I think so, but… Um, are you gonna be there? Mom said-

I will, I promise, whispers Barbie Classic, leaning over to kiss her eyelids, lulling Second Edition off to sleep.

“We always knew that this was a possibility…”

Barbie Classic presses her face into Krissy’s stomach and cries.

Black dress; white flowers; forty-eight inches of pink and the earth around it. Her makeup’s running. There’s mud on her skirt. She stomps up to her room and slams the door and doesn’t come out for days afterwards, doesn’t eat or shower, quits her job over the phone. I don’t need it anymore…

“Honey, please try to be reasonable about this… you’ll like Malibu.”

“NO! I’m not leaving Kelly! You and Dad can go to California if you want to. Build the house of your fucking dreams for all I care!”

It’s dark where Krissy is now, but not quiet.

“I don’t want your blood money anyway!”

Barbie Classic stumbles into the kitchen in her pajamas with a death mask of makeup and knots in her long, light hair. What she finds there: her parents at the table; two men in dark suits; a check written in blue (should be red).

Different room; different house; different weather. Barbie Classic pulls Krissy out of the box and roots around for a bit before tossing her back in. She jumps when the doll lands on her stomach and there’s “Asssembllllle!” and a sound like a gun going off.

“Eeep! Huh? I thought…”

Same old pink, all new hairdo. Barbie Classic drives herself to school and turns heads down the hall. Nice bag; Nice shoes; Nice… Hey, are you free later? Then there’s that classic Hey! Watch where you’re going! and the girl it belongs to, with an upturned nose and bleach-bright locks, pulling another boy behind her by the gel of his hair.

“Oh that’s Raquel and Ryan Kazama… they’re sort of a big deal around here. I think their mom-”

“Their mom? Ugh, don’t tell me…” Pink polished nails leave little dents in Krissy’s plastic arm.

She sits alone that first week in this strange land; it doesn’t last very long. “Nice bag” and “Nice shoes” with big smiles and perfect hair; “Hey, are you free later” who carries around a camcorder and asks before the cap comes off. They start playing music in her garage after school - and her parents don’t say anything about it.

“Girl, what is that thing?”

“Just my old Krissy doll. I remember begging my parents for… I wanted a sister, so they gave me her instead and then I… Um… Hey look! I found that pen!”

Sweat on leather in the Malibu heat. Barbie Classic and that boy on an old couch in the garage; it’s boiling hot inside. Really hot. He kisses her; she kisses back and they smear her makeup all over his face. Pink cheeks; pink lipstick; pink bra straps… and pink in the bathroom when their fun goes a little too far one day.

Someone’s knocking at Barbie Classic’s door. “Baby- honey, I just want you to think about this. You’re very young and-”

“No, I… I can do this.” She bites her lip, closes her eyes and swallows. “How do I hold you?” Krissy’s head lolls.

You… you wanna keep… it? That boy fumbles with his zipper, shifts between both feet. I don’t know, Barbie… I don’t think I’m ready for-

That’s okay! She smiles in that way that could put the world at ease. I won’t force you. Actually, my parents have been talking about maybe taking me out of school for a while - homeschooling me - so nobody realizes…

You’re thinking adoption then?

“I… don’t think Alice likes dolls- no! Please don’t chew on that!”

Barbie Platinum whacks Krissy on the head again, drooling into her hair. She doesn’t have much of her own yet and it’s darker than Second Edition’s and Barbie Classic’s (her eyes, though, they’re the same type of blue).

“Their” mother chuckles. “Oh, she’ll come around.”

A familiar scene from a different angle; Barbie Classic holds a pink bundle out from her hospital bed, sweat and who-knows-what clinging to her hair. Platinum’s asleep now and quiet for an infant. Very quiet.

Oh… Oh, Barbara. What’s her name?

Alice-May, I think. She quotes: These northern lights have seen queer sights; But the queerest they ever did see…

“Auntie Kelly would have loved you.” Barbie Classic’s smile in her old doll’s vacant eyes. “And she loved Krissy too… so be nice to her, okay?”

Platinum puts her fingers in her mouth.

They go back north for Christmas and buy the biggest, pinkest, tackiest wreath they can find. Platinum can’t pay much attention to Second Edition in her gingerbread coffin beneath the earth; the graveyard isn’t quiet and there’s glitter in the snow. She’s still not old enough to understand.

“Raar! Look out for the tentacle monster baby! Oh no! She’ll eat us all! AAAAAAAAAHHHH!”

“Alice…? Are you-”

“Hi, Barbie! Wanna play sea explorers? Oh, but I get to be the skipper, okay?”

Platinum in purple overalls on her first day of daycare. Barbie Classic sends her off with a kiss on the cheek and another in the palm of her hand. And remember, “their” mother says, you have a mommy and daddy and big sister - in case anyone asks.

“Barbie! Barbie! Look at this!”

“Mama!”

“Oh… you fixed Krissy.”

“Uh-huh! Ken showed me how to replace the voice box! Now the baby can play with her!”

“What baby…?”

Platinum bites her lip as her mother-grandmother switches off the television and goes to sit by her on the living room couch. Ali- Skipper?

Am I in trouble?

No! No, it’s just that… well, you know you used to have an Aunt Kelly? How would you feel about- You’re going to have a new aunt or uncle- a little sibling, I want you to remember to tell people that.

“Skip? Hey… whatcha doing?”

“Dad said to pack up a box of stuff I wanna donate.”

“Even Krissy?” Barbie Classic snatches her up. “But you and Ken worked so hard to-”

“Well, yeah, but that was before. Boys don’t even like having dolls to play with.”

Blue eyes; blue blanket. Platinum leans around Barbie Classic, too small to hold the baby with her own stumpy arms. What’s his name?

“Hey, check this out!” Third Edition Barbie shakes Krissy hard, picking her up by the neck, glass eyes wavering and wobbling around the image of a skinny, scrawny four-year-old with shaggy ginger hair. “Skipper, heads up!”

“Ack! Todd! We’re supposed to be digging up stuff for the baby. Ooooh… Hey, it’s Krissy! You know, that might actually work.”

Third Edition smiles. “Called it! Yeah!”

Blue room; blue ribbons; blue sneakers, but this morning there’s pink in the wastebasket. Hey, Barbie! What’s this? I found it in the garbage.

I don’t- EW! I, uh, Todd… maybe you should put that back…

“What’s up with the doll, kiddo?”

“It’s for the baby when she comes, Mom says they’re having a girl.” Third Edition holds the doll and stares transfixed at the big TV. “Hey it’s that show about Gertrude Wilhelmsen! When I grow up I wanna be just like her… And marry Anastasia Pozid… Pozdah-”

“Pozdnyakova.”

“That!”

Pink blanket, blonde hair, and the same blue eyes as the rest of them. Platinum does get the chance to hold the baby this time, and her tiny fist curls around Third Edition’s hand. Barbie Classic smiles tightly; and no wonder.

She looks just like Kelly, doesn’t she?

Almost…

“BARBIE! Todd went in my room again!”

“Did not!”

“Did too!”

“Did-”

“Guys! Please. You’re going to wake up Chelsea.”

Fourth Edition Barbie sprawls out asleep in her crib, blonde hair growing fast, held up in pigtails, arms around Krissy and holding tight. “Mmm…”

Her first words come like landmarks, big sparkly landmarks with fragile shadows underneath. Mama… Dada… Sissterr… Aunt -

But that’s a secret, baby. Okay?

“Ch-Chelsea? Can I talk to you for a sec?”

Third Edition in Fourth’s doorway, interrupting an important meeting with no one at all. She pushes Krissy’s stomach. Canned laughter. She giggles. “Yeah?”

“I, um, do you have some of Skipper’s old dresses?”

“Why?”

“… I don’t wanna ask her if I can borrow one.”

T- Of course we still love you. Whoever you turn out to be… just like your sister says.

… Gertrude Anastasia.

Fourth Edition can’t help herself. Gezundheit.

Chelsea! You know we’ll always support you… um, Gertrude. The light pops into her eyes. Actually, I’ve heard there are some totally amaze therapists in Calisota. That’s not even far!

“Mama! Mama! Mama! Mama!”

Fourth Edition kicks her legs backwards and forwards, holding Krissy in her arms. “Skippppperrrr! Lemme play on your phone for a while! I’m borrrrred.”

“Well, we could always go back to the waiting room-”

“No! It’s cold in there and those toys are for babies anyway! Can we get ice cream?”

“Can I get a please?”

Last one there’s a rotten cheese! Third Edition tears off through the parking lot and into the building, Fourth and Barbie Classic running behind. Platinum doesn’t, eyes glued to her phone.

Alright, I’m going in with- with Stacie. Skip, you’re on babysitting duty, okay?

What? Yeah, sure. Piece of cake.

“Okay, here’s the deal. You get one flavor and one topping, got it?” Platinum holds up her hand. “And yes, sprinkles count as a topping. Understood?”

“Understood, but… but Krissy wants one too!”

“Well, I’m putting Krissy on a diet. Gotta watch that plastic figure.”

“Fine, Mom.” She squints at the menu. Hard. “Can I get strawberry cheesecake? Oh! Oh, with sprinkles - don’t be stingy with the sprinkles - the rainbow kind!”

“Aw! Big sister spoiling you today?”

“She’s not my sister, she’s my-”

“Uh, that’s enough of that!” Platinum claps a hand over her not-sister’s mouth. “Say thank you, Chelsea.”

‘Scuse me, miss. The devil’s eyes in daylight. Fourth Edition brushes up against a stranger with a hand that doesn’t close and doesn’t open. He isn’t waiting in line. Now that’s a right pretty bow.

… Thanks.

“Okay, I can see the office now. They should be out soo…n, hey what’s wrong?”

“Now, this wouldn’t be yers?” Spindly fingers; leather gloves. Krissy dangles. The man from the ice cream shop hangs behind the girls, mad eyes glowing, the rest of his face hidden by the shade. He winks at Fourth Edition. “How ‘bout it, sweetness, care to take ‘er off an old man’s hands?”

“Chelsea, no!”

Not-sisters on the sidewalk, grooming dribble from their cones. He takes the doll as soon as Fourth Edition’s not looking. Platinum’s been texting this whole time. Later he finds a place devoid of cameras, which most people in most of the parked cars won’t see. Most.

“Don’t worry, dear. It’ll all be over soon…”

Fourth Edition squeezes her eyes shut and hugs Krissy so, so hard at the tummy that she almost doesn’t make a sound. “Please don’t hurt my-”

“I’m sorry.” This strange, large woman does look like she means it. “I’m sorry, but your mother has to be taught a lesson.”

“She’s not my mother!”

“None of that now! It’s a wicked, evil sin to lie.” Her face softens. “How would you like to come stay with me instead?”

She screams when they’re dragged from the car into the clearing, screams harder when they take her out of Platinum’s arms. George, I’ll take her to our car. You did remember about Melody’s old booster seat?

What? No plans for that one? She was raised in-

No, says the leader’s wife with an air of finality, there’s nothing wrong with her. And I’m sure my husband will agree with me.

“Bubba!” Fourth Edition puts her face to Krissy’s middle and hits the button with her forehead. It isn’t louder than the sound outside. After a while, though, it starts to sound like “Barbie”.

“Kelly…”

“Kelly? Is that your name?”

Silence is the worst thing she’s ever heard.

She covers her ears. Screaming. Screaming. Screaming.

It’s okay, Kelly dear, that woman tells her and rubs circles into Fourth Edition Barbie’s back. After this she’ll go to Heaven… It’s better this way. You’ll understand soon.

N-no, I… I… She throws herself against the car door, but of course it doesn’t give for her. SKIPPER!

“Can… Can you drive this thing?”

“Think so, K-Ken’s been teaching me how in his- Whoa!”

Platinum slams on the brakes. Krissy flies. There’s a pistol on the floor and blood on the handle. There’s more in the driver’s seat.

It’s alright, sweetheart. It’s… The hold lightens by a lot on Fourth Edition’s shoulders and the strange woman’s arms fall down. Then there’s real quiet. Then footsteps. Then someone banging on the window of the car. Fourth peeks through the gaps of her fingers and finds the perfect and impossible. Platinum, bruised and bloody and standing up, holding a gun to the pack leader’s head. The strange woman sounds like she’s choking. George! Let… Let my husband go!

Give me my sister. And the car. And don’t follow me. They do.

The officer they give her is a man with a mustache and salt-and-pepper hair. He bends down low in front of Fourth Edition and admires the doll in her arms - makes a big show of it. “Well, hey there, sweetheart. Who’ve we got here?”

“This is Krissy.”

“Krissy, hm? I like that. And what’s your name?”

In the end someone pulls them over, and isn’t that policeman surprised when Platinum can’t get out of the car to speak to him, when he gets a whiff of the blood on the upholstery. Hey mister! Fourth Edition snaps. Are you a cop or aren’t you? My sister needs a doctor here!

“Okay, Krissy, here’s the deal,” she says very, very sternly. “Skipper’s sad and I need you to make her feel better. She needs you more than me - I mean, more than I need you - so you gotta be nice to her, okay? And you gotta look out for her. We got a deal?”

“Uh-huh!”

Barbie Classic leans over Platinum in her hospital bed, hands moving like a hurricane. Can I get you anything? More water? Juice? How about some aspirin? I- Skip, I’m so sorry, how about-

Come on, Chelsea, Third Edition says quietly, gently tugging at Fourth. Let’s give ‘em a minute. I think Mom and Dad are in the gift shop.

“Yeah, I know it’s kinda lame, but my sister begged me.” Platinum in the Palace, Krissy tucked beneath her arm. “I’m… right. Right, the names thing. I guess I don’t have one yet?”

She stays in her room for a few days after, and survives mostly on takeout - Chinese; Japanese; Thai, all left outside the door on the “good” plates. She finds the card on one of them and it’s as pink as everything else seems to be.

“Okay, hear me out, what about ‘the Dulcimer Player’? Like the automaton?”

“I dunno…”

“Eh, I like it.” She glances down at the dead-eyed doll. “What do you think?”

Her first day in and the Witch sidles up to her, eyes Platinum’s purple punk-rock streak. Your hair is so cool! Did you bleach it first? That’s how I got mine but it took forever for my parents to let me!

Heh, no kidding? I’ve been dyeing for a while. My mom’s actually… pretty cool. Or maybe it’s just that I’m not blonde - that way the colors won’t be as permanent - everyone else in the family is…

“And you know what… what the really funny part is?” Platinum holds Krissy so hard she cracks. “I’m infertile. I can’t even have kids… The doctor said.”

When I was four, my family took me to the Metropolitan Museum of Art… Platinum moves like iron clockwork. Bloodless.

Chapter 33: *CSA* (Caleb & Sophia) A Story about the Holy Apostate and False Witness

Summary:

TW: child molestation, religious abuse, physical abuse, disowning, mentions of homophobia. We'd also like to specify that, while Jehovah's Witnesses are not inherently terrible people, this chapter is not a fan-work.

“I don’t think Mom and Dad know about this place, or that I come here, and they definitely don't know about him.”

Green-brown eyes; Brown hands; brown pigtails with purple ties to hold them. You’ve got a name Mom wouldn’t like on the tag the bossy lady gave you. I think I’m one of the only people in the whole room now who knows what the real one is.

“That’s my brother over there and he doesn’t… Our parents still love him, because Jehovah does, but for me… about me… It isn’t the same.” And that part is my fault, that’s probably why you don’t wanna look me in the eye.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; me and you and Mom and Dad, squeezing together on one of the benches at the Kingdom Hall. Some kid’s crying in the coatroom and you’re scribbling with that weird purple pen you like, the one with the butterfly topper you’ve never let me touch. One of the elders is talking, someone usually is (not that we’re allowed to). He keeps looking at you and I do too, once or twice, but there’s nothing on your face.

“We’re, um, Witnesses. Not the police kind-” I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. “-well, actually I guess I kinda am? Not him though.” You’re mad, but I dunno if other people have noticed yet. “But what I mean is that we were born in the truth. Our parents taught us about Jesus and Jehovah and… and all that stuff.” But not just our parents. I grab the legs of the folding chair until my knuckles turn white and my palms turn red.

It’s Sparlock the wizard… well, it’s a toy my friend gave me for no reason, even if it was my birthday. But Jehovah hates magic - even the fake kind - and Sparlock, so Mom has me throw him in the trash. You’re the one with Carrie in your class, Carrie and her mom and the… lady she lives with. Mom tells you what to do about it, but Carrie doesn’t ever come over after that. Dad tells us to pay attention during meetings, even when it’s hard. And the elders at the Hall… they teach us everything. But with the girls it takes longer so sometimes they need to counsel them alone.

“Most of the other Witnesses are really nice! Maybe… maybe all of them, or…” I think I can see you swallow. “Someone has to be the bad guy here and either it’s me or they are. B-but only a few of them!”

We’re all dressed up again, out with Mom and her bag of pamphlets and snacks for the road. Dad’s sleeping off a hangover, but there’s another lady from our Kingdom Hall. This time I get to ring the bell.

Are you sure we should bother them? It looks like they just got back from a funeral…

Everyone looks at you and chuckles. Well, of course we should, silly. This is the time when they’ll need Jehovah most.

“There was, um… there was a guy everybody knew. He was nice… he was an elder. He used to do this ‘special Bible study’ thing with a lot of the girls my age. We aren’t as… you know, not like boys are, so he said he’d give us extra help. My aunt Adelina says that he only helped himself, but I’m not so sure. She says really mean things about my parents too.”

Sophia? Are you all ready for your meeting with Elder Jacobs? And you come down the stairs in your yellow dress, fixing one of your ponytails. Dad plays cars with me until Mom comes home. The elder’s giving you a ride, she says, and he does. But your hair’s undone. The next time you go Dad has to talk to you so well that you come down crying, rubbing the back of your legs. You’re missing a button when you get home, but he isn’t so sad about that.

“I didn’t like being alone with him. He was… I guess you know. I asked other girls about it and, I mean… some of them didn’t know what I was talking about? But most of them told me to stop. Maybe I should have.” I really, really don’t wanna cry. “It just seems like more trouble than it’s worth. Okay, that, and I wanna go home again.”

I can hear you praying with Mom when I get up for breakfast. Dad shushes me when I say good morning. Because he’s on the phone. The next day you go to the Kingdom Hall and we pray some more and you go off with some of the elders into another room. You’re there for a while. Then you cry while they talk to our parents. That’s the last I want to hear about this, Mom says on the ride home.

“I told my parents eventually and then they told the people at our Kingdom Hall and the other elders talked to me. I told them everything, e-even though it was scary, even though it made me feel gross and I… They said they’d counsel him, but forgiveness is important so they didn’t want to kick him out if it wasn’t really, really bad. So he stayed an elder and my mom bought me a new dress.” You smile, but not at me. “It has long sleeves and a longer skirt.”

You don’t have to study with him anymore, but we still go to the same old Kingdom Hall. He doesn’t go up to talk as much but I see him watching you. You start complaining. Dad starts talking to you in the coatroom like almost everyone else. Then you get called down to the office at school. Then Mom and Dad get called at home. By the police.

“I go to public school with worldly kids and stuff, but my parents never had the time to teach us at home. It’s not so bad, I made a lot of friends there… I think that’s one of the things I’ll miss the most. My aunt’s letting me finish up the year here, but then I’ve gotta go back to her place and she lives in Santa Ana. It’s my friends’ fault though. I told Colleen Casey what happened. That was a big mistake.”

Caleb, Mom kneels down and looks right at me, your sister said some things to those policemen, things that will make Jehovah very sad and angry. You don’t want Him to be sad and angry with you, right?

“I didn’t even want to talk to the police, but I thought I had to! It’s a sin to bear false witness, right? But… but… they called our parents and they got really, really mad at me. They told everyone what I was saying wasn’t true.” And they made me say it. I don’t know why you’re leaving that part out. “They even said that to my brother!” Oh. Oh. “And… and when we got home… they called my aunt up. She’s Dad’s sister, only they don’t talk ever because he found Jehovah and she married th-this Satanic guy.”

Mom sends me to my room while you’re crying on the couch. No one tries to stop you. Dad’s talking on the phone. No, Adelina, it has to be tonight. I don’t care who you send to take her away. I need her gone. We can still save Caleb. Two men come by later, I can see from the window; one’s dressed up really fancy and the other guy’s really big. They steal our tomato plants.

“I’ve been disfellowshipped for not listening and making that report and… I don’t remember. So now I’ve got to live with my aunt and her weird… Um, sorry. She couldn’t pick me up right away so she got the Adventurer and his friend to do it, he’s her ex-boyfriend. So I’ve been staying with them, and they’re nice but… This isn’t how Jehovah wants us to do things. I want to still be in paradise. I don’t want- I miss my parents and I want to go home!”

It’s weird without you around. Weird, weird, weird. Especially when your room gets emptied out and Mom donates most of the stuff you left to other people from church. She and Dad start talking about having another kid. I’m not sure how to tell you that. I see you sometimes at school, but there are other Witness kids around and we aren’t allowed to talk.

Hey, you’re Caleb Dominguez, right? Sophia’s little brother? Priya Khatri slips a card into my hand. She asked me to give this to you, but don’t tell your mom and dad. So I don’t. The Palace…

“The first thing Aunt Adelina said to me was that I did the right thing.” Your smile doesn’t look like your really, really real ones. But you’re smiling at me and maybe that’s… okay-ish enough. “But it doesn’t feel right.”

Chapter 34: *CSA* (Elena of Avalor) A Story about ang mga Nalulunod Na Sirena

Summary:

TW: child sexual abuse, attempted murder by drowning.

“Pakiusap! Please! Plea-”

Ang Sireno screams when he hits the water, eyes shining, dark hair spilling up. The sun is bright, he’s sweating profusely and then the weight tugs on his ankles and he goes under and into the bay.

He can’t get “H E L P” out in a way that sounds right, but maybe the letters float to the surface (where Coach is watching). Bubbles pour from his nose and mouth while he bites his cheek to keep from screaming again. He’s sinking. He’s sinking and he has to breathe.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Siren, that’s a Greek word. Ang Sirena squeezes rain and salt water from the end of her braid. Sirenas are probably the first thing that come to mind. No, let me explain, you’re thinking of mermaids, aren’t you? That’s one of our stories, from the Philippines. My father used to tell my brother and me the stories.

Ang Sireno squints up through the silt and dark salt water, eyes burning as he’s dragged deeper down, down, down. The side of the boat says “Hyperion”, which has never been goodbye, except for today.

Ang Sirena twists her earrings. The stage is wet and small fingers of light trail blithely across her face. I promise that he’s not a bad father. He’s not really even a bad man… at least not anymore. You know what they say about how getting married can mellow some boys out? She used to say that to my brother too sometimes.

In Dagupan, once, the tide came up from under him and swept him off his feet and his mother dove in after him. Here, though, the water’s still and no one’s coming. The anvil pulls a little harder and his whole body jerks. “Mff?!” It hits the floor with a whimper, stirring up mud, silt and leaves.

Before he met my mother though, Tatay was a money lend- She sighs and amends: … loan shark. He wasn’t… As far as I know he never raped anyone and wouldn’t have, but that isn’t the only awful thing you can do to somebody. Maybe not even the worst one of them.

Crabs; fish; spiny lobsters. Ang Sireno throws both hands against the block behind him, cuts his arms to ribbons faster than he gets the rope. How long has it been now? And Why is it called hypoxia? And How much longer?

I guess you could say love changed him, or maybe my mother did. I haven’t decided if that’s the same thing or not yet. The story goes that they met on the beach in Bohol. She was there on vacation - I think for spring break - and the tide caught her. He jumped in and saved her before she could drown. Later that year my brother was born, you can figure out the rest.

There is an old story about the god of war, and giants holding him inside a bronze jar. That took thirteen months. Ang Sireno’s hands come free, wrists shredded and bloody; he moves on to his ankles. There isn’t that much time.

After that he stopped - we stopped - but the thing about changing is… people don’t have to believe you about it, or forgive you even if you really have. That’s fair and it’s not my place to say it isn’t, it’s just that… She takes a breath and holds it. My family has nice clothes to wear and expensive jewelry and a nice house in the nice part of Makati. Growing up, I had everything a little girl could need or want… and people would stare at us when they heard my father’s last name.

One foot loose and he’s pretty sure his toe is broken. The water’s getting darker. What’s this one called again? Marzel. Marzel! No, that one belongs to him… His ankle’s bleeding. He should focus on… focus on that. It’s getting darker. It was always cold. What time of the year is it again?

Sometimes… it wasn’t that bad. Odd looks here and there and some of the other girls at school were afraid of me. She sighs. And then there were the people who knew Tatay. Old clients. Old friends…

When his sister was two years old they went down to the shore as a family and someone grabbed her as she ran to their parents in the tide. In the end nothing came of it. Because their parents were there. Because they were watching. “Marzel, never go into the water alone.” What was he doing? Right. He can’t feel that foot anymore even while he paws at it. His hands are getting numb.

My parents have always been a little… paranoid doesn’t feel right to say, is protective better? My brother is the same, actually I think it’s worse for him. Not my place, not my story, but… She stares a little too hard at the Little Merman. My father has more enemies than friends.

Arctic. My name is Marzel Coronado. Feet free, he kicks, kicks, kicks, swallowing briny water from the wrong ocean. Atlantic. Two plus two equals four. His head breaks the surface, eyes streaming, gagging, gagging, gagging and pushing salt out from his nose. Indian. I… I can’t remember what my address was before. Makati, though - Philippines. The Hyperion’s been painted with big, red letters. The coach goes pale and swings his head. “W-what?” Pacific. Today is Good Friday, tomorrow I’ll be fourteen. He makes a noise that sounds like singing and leaves a trail of blood in the foam behind him. Coach starts up the motor and follows suit. Ang Sireno opens his eyes underwater - sharp rocks ahead. Southern. If you’re born to be hanged, you’ll never drown. And there’s a song like scraping metal. He keeps swimming and doesn’t look back.

All I want is to smooth things over, enough that what my father did isn’t the fir- isn’t the only thing people think of when they hear our name. You can understand that, right? So I’ve been volunteering, this isn’t the only place. Maybe it would make more sense to do this back home, but I… it’s complicated. Ang Sirena bites the end of her pigtail, purple light shining in her long, black hair. I do want to go home one of these days, back to my city, but I feel like I owe something to this one first.

His feet don’t really touch the land when it’s over, but he grabs hard plastic, holds on tight. The boy flicking matches into the water and the girl with blue hair don’t stare at him as long as anyone else would, but they stick their oars out and haul him up. “Thank… Thank you. Salamat.”

Chapter 35: (Young Justice) A Human Interest Story

Summary:

TW: rape, roofies, forced fatherhood, medical malpractice, long-term stalking.

The Red Spotlight: Out-of-Commission Theater Repurposed for Victims’ Support
By Clark Kent & Lois Lane

The reporter opens his laptop on the table, eyes smiling behind the glasses and the blue-black hair. “A real front-pager,” he laughs - it’s a joke, of course. The journal he works for doesn’t have a front page.

Under new ownership, the Palace Theatre has once again opened its doors to the public. Following the death of actress Elizabeth Bou in 201X, the Calisota theater stood empty for almost two years, even after coming under the care of the city council. Originally purchased for use as a community center, the Palace has finally begun to operate - now as a safe haven for the Calisota City Sexual Trauma Support Group, somewhat self-explanatorily a support group for the victims of sexual trauma and abuse.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; an infant wails in the arms of a park ranger dressed like his own ghost, tear tracks rolling down his face and making lines in the hot, gray ash. Behind them the sky folds in on itself in a smoldering display of orange-black-white. Parents were camping on the mountain… Smoke got to them first.

While a certain amount of funding is taken care of by the city to provide for the building’s upkeep, most of the group’s resources come in the form of private donations and volunteer work. At the helm stands Mary Poppins (28), the CCSTSG’s founder and most outspoken advocate.

Paperwork, paperwork, paperwork and small-town Kansas. Flatland; flat accents; flat-Earthers; flattened-out acres for growing corn and grazing cows. He’s almost a year old when the social worker puts him in his parents’ arms. They’re nice people, they do love him and care for him and watch with pride as he grows into a young man… but this is also a very small town.

“The idea is to provide a safe environment for anyone who needs it,” Poppins explains. “Some of our members do see professional therapists, but many can’t afford to. Others just prefer the anonymity of the large group setting, the namelessness of it all.”

The reporter pulls a seat up at the kitchen table, setting a few glossy pamphlets down while his parents throw anxious glances back and forth. Clark, honey, I don’t know if… His mother hesitates, voice wavering. We can’t afford…

I know it isn’t cheap, but I think I can manage it if I take out a loan or something, and CCU does this thing with grants… Look, Lana and I were sorta planning to drive to California this summer, check the place out. How about that? He chuckles lamely. Worst case scenario is that I run out of gas.

That’s another feature the CCSTSG implements: almost all members attend under pseudonyms, a feature that some say is as much about personal image as it is staying anonymous.

“It’s like being a superhero! With a secret identity and everything,” says W (12), who wished to remain anonymous.

He and another dark-haired country mouse tread linoleum steps and marble hallways, gaping wide-eyed and making fools (and nuisances) of themselves. The Scapegoat’s brother comes in, drops his lunch and curses, having tripped right over the reporter’s feet. Now, Abraham… Smooth voice, smooth head, smooth steps from the doorway. Is that any way to talk to our… Why, our guests! Sorry about that. He smiles apologetically, offers his hand. The reporter’s friend takes it, but the strange man’s eyes don’t stray from him. Alexander Luthor - donor - I sit on the board.

The group itself is a feat of impressive diversity; while most participants are residents of the greater Calisota area, others are not even permanent residents of the country. Take K (19), a Peruvian native, or M (22), a citizen of the UK, both currently staying with friends in the U.S. And the variance doesn’t stop with nationality.

The reporter stumbles aimlessly over his own feet in the dark, checking the street signs as the sun starts to dip. Even before the car pulls up, he groans. You look a little lost, Luthor says, leaning farther out than he probably should. Need a hand?

Oh, uh… thanks, but I probably shouldn’t. My ma said-

Luthor laughs. It isn’t cold. It isn’t sharp. It isn’t pretty. But the “why” part is hard to pin down. You’re joking, a young man like you? You must be - what? - eighteen now. Seventeen?

I (58) and G (15) are both nonverbal, communicating with the group via sign language and use of a personal text-to-speech device. When asked about whether this obvious language barrier had a major effect on interactions with other members G could only shake his head. “Not as much as you’re thinking, no. My mum comes here too, and I’m pretty cool with some of the other kids. If anyone has a problem I haven’t noticed it. Ms. Poppins is pretty good at keeping all of us in line.”

Expensive champagne in a cheap motel room. The reporter rubs his eyes. Mr. Luthor, it’s really getting late…

So it is. Luthor rises, takes his coat, leaves the bottle where it stands. We’ll have to be in touch. And please call me Lex.

Lex, then. He watches him go.

Ms. Poppins herself makes it very clear that there is one stipulation to joining the group. “Of course, we’d like to open our arms to everyone, but that just isn’t realistic.” There’s an extensive screening process for prospective new members and no small amount of paperwork. All this, she says, for the purpose of security. After all, everyone is here for a reason.

Again his family sits ‘round the old oak table with all the ring-shaped stains on top. The reporter tears an envelope open and gapes, wide-eyed. That scholarship I applied for… I can’t believe… They want to give me a full ride! He grins and shows his parents, careful to cover the bottom of the letter - the See you soon written in blue - with one hand.

Volunteer Denahi Copeland (26) recounts the story of one member, a younger boy, who was reportedly beaten by his mother after months of attending the CCSTSG in secret along with a younger sibling.

Getting settled, are we? The reporter unpacking boxes in his dorm room; Luthor leaning in through the door. And no roommate, hm? Fancy that. He watches the reporter sweat now, seated on the just-made bed.

“It’s not that all of us have horror stories, but enough do. And you gotta know that the bad ones are really, really bad.”

How would you like it if I took you out sometime? To Gusteau’s maybe, five star dining, I doubt there’s much of that in Smallville.

The reporter tenses. I, uh, I’m not sure… I-I wouldn’t know what to wear! Or say…

Oh? Luthor’s smile doesn’t change. Don’t worry. Come have dinner with me this evening, I’ll show you how.

“We all know what happened with Darla Dimple,” says D (21) about the disgraced child starlet. “Yeah, it was a little before my time, but I guess she used to come here, uh, you know - before everything. Not that it’s Ms. Poppins’ fault, kid had the whole city fooled. Still, the vetting process for who gets in and who doesn’t is a little bit stricter now.”

He drinks. Luthor doesn’t. I shouldn’t, I need to get us home. At this point the reporter’s too out of it to remember the chauffeur. He keeps drinking, tells himself it’s fine when he wakes the next morning in his own bed, in different clothes, with a note taped up beside him. You were sick in the car. I’ll send Mercy with your suit.

And just how strict exactly? Well, it depends on who you ask.

Two weeks later he goes to apologize and Luthor has him in his office, smirking into his coffee as his assistant tops off the reporter’s cup. Blue eyes in the dark brown liquid, turning lighter as he stirs in cream. Listen, Mr. Luth- Lex, I really can’t apologize enough. Just… Thanks, you know, for being so nice about it.

Not at all, my boy. I’m sure you’ll find a way to make it up to me. You know, as a matter of fact…

“Some of the others aren’t huge fans of the rules, or the stuff like not swearing too much or getting into fights. Other kids mostly, or the weird grown-ups.”

Alexander Luthor leaning forward, lips pursed, eyes closed, and the reporter not expecting it. Luthor’s not expecting it either, not when his cup breaks and he falls backwards, two big hands planted on his chest. I’m sorry, the reporter starts to say, I’m not-

I figured as much. Luthor sighs. Go, then, just tell Mercy there’s a mess to clean up in here.

Nevertheless, the general consensus seems to hold that Ms. Poppins’ boundaries are fairly reasonable. “It’s not as bad as all that,” says Norma (65), the grandmother of a member. “There are no sharp objects, narcotics, or drinking onsite. That’s really not what I’d call an unreasonable set of standards.”

The reporter starts out of bed when he hears the knocking, pulling his pants up while the girl beside him drags the covers over her head. Luthor pinches the sock from the doorknob with a grimace, looks over the reporter’s state of underdress. Is this a bad time? His lady friend collects her things and leaves shortly after. A week later someone smashes all the windows on her car.

“There was a bit of a problem with confidentiality a while back. I don’t mean that someone broke it, just that, well, sometimes you want to,” Poppins recounts. “The strictest rule I have is not to tell anyone about what happens during meetings - or who they see there. Of course, that’s the hardest one to follow for some of us, especially when it comes to younger members keeping secrets from their families.”

Modern decor; cold leather furniture; White, bald-headed man frowning like a frustrated teacher or a disappointed parent. Mr. Kent, I dare say you’ve been avoiding me. Awfully rude, don’t you think? Especially after all the trouble I went through, speaking to the board, putting a good word in. The reporter doesn’t answer. More coffee?

Certainly not ideal, but, as she’s quick to point out, the wrong people finding out could put said children in an even worse situation. “That’s the sad truth of social work, I’m afraid. Sometimes your colleagues don’t care enough or there isn’t enough evidence - there’s always a few cases where nothing can be done. That’s part of why I think we need this. This is something.”

Water? His vision swims, but he’s pretty sure it’s darker than it should be. Colder than… than- Do you often have fainting spells?

No… No, I… ugh. He rubs his temples. I don’t think so…?

I can recommend a doctor-

No! No, I’ll be fine. He doesn’t sound so sure.

Of course, the experience is different for everyone. Meeting times have become more flexible as members and volunteers step up to help things along, and the number of days the Palace is open has expanded to six, well surpassing the former once-weekly meeting. The group has also been able to double their original Saturday schedule, now meeting twice - in the early afternoon and evening.

A classmate whispers into her boyfriend’s ear. You know what I heard about Cipher? It’s an evil thing to eavesdrop. He listens anyway.

Cut; You know what I heard about-

Cut; You know what I heard about-

Cut; Think any of that stuff is true? Don’t you have a class with him?

The woman across from him only shrugs and shakes her head, fanning out jet-black hair. I don’t know, Clark. It’s not like we’ve ever been alone… but, I-I don’t think I’d leave Donna in the same room with him.

“Some of us go to all the meetings,” R (44) says, “but most don’t. I certainly wouldn’t have the time.”

The reporter bites his words in half, swallowing the worst ones, strangling the arms of the chair in front of Luthor’s desk. The businessman sits behind it, tents his fingers, frowns. You have to understand, Clark… It’s not that simple. There’s the university’s image for one-

Not that simple?! How is… How can you… That’s what you’re worried about? Image?!

Listen, I can’t discuss this with you when you’re… hysterical. He takes out his wallet, thumbing through for cash. I’ll call a cab for you and we’ll- He drags a fifty from the leather, gets more than he meant to take. Little green pills. The reporter stops and stares and turns to go.

As for the structure, well, it doesn’t appear that there’s much of one. Most meetings appear unregimented, allowing members to socialize and talk as they please about matters serious and not. Former member Yue Pamuy (1929-201X) had this to say: “We try to make things as welcoming as possible. We aren’t only here to discuss our trauma, you know. There’s also- well, see for yourself! It was just boxes of donuts and cheap coffee starting out.”

The reporter slinks around the school between classes, cornering underclassmen and upperclassmen and… and others with the same cornered animal look in their eyes. Around their age, in their class. He keeps going and, well, it isn’t as big a surprise as it could be when he’s called into the dean’s office and finds the notice on his door.

Looking at the Palace now, Ms. Pamuy’s words are hard to believe. The room’s been filled with a hodgepodge of donated furniture, old and new, including a small refrigerator and a table laid with dry snacks. Some members don’t eat well at home.

No way they’ll let me print this. He slumps across from a woman with dark hair and a press-pass hanging from a lanyard around her neck. She sighs and pushes a packet, half a thumb thick, back across the desk. I would if I could, believe me, but… there’s just not enough evidence. We run the story and Luthor’ll sue us for everything he can.

There anything I can do about it?

The lady smiles, showing teeth. Like I said, there’s not enough evidence now.

Along one wall there is a massive, unfinished mural: what looks like a gigantic purple flower with smaller handprints much lower down. Ms. Poppins explains that it’s an art project that a few members took interest in. It’ll have to be an impermanent one, however - the owners of the building have plans to knock that wall out.

The woman from before goes up to the reporter as he picks through his office supplies, setting a large iced coffee down on his desk. Morning, Clark, she smirks, you look like hell. Cut; they pull an allnighter in the office and nod off at the reporter’s desk, his head dipping next to hers. Cut; he drinks white wine, smears bright red lipstick around the edge. Cut; It’s fine, Clark, I’m on the pill. She opens her shirt and pops a button, little green circle rolling across the floor. His eyes follow it.

Wait… I… I don’t think we should do this. Not yet.

“Some of the newbies get surprised coming in. Like, they expect it to be all grim and dark and depressing just because of, you know, why we’re here? Yeah, but the boss lady says it kinda defeats the purpose.” (L, age 11)

A cold room with white walls and flooring; a white paper curtain hung up with metal rings; a smiling doctor with polished glasses in a clean white coat. Don’t worry, Mr. Kent, he says, you’re clean! Really, in my opinion, I’m not sure anything happened between the two of you at all.

The reporter sags in visible relief. Thank God. Are we done then? Can I go now?

Well… there is one more thing I’d like to check.

“Us being here, it’s not- It shouldn’t have to be a tragedy. We lived, right?” (E, 21) “There’s enough of that already.”

He undoes his girlfriend’s bra while she’s still on top of him. The condom breaks. You said you were on birth control? She nods; so does he. Well… the doc says I have a low sperm count anyway.

Indeed, as cheerful as their headquarters may look, it’s obvious that no one’s forgotten why it is they come. Poppins maintains that no one is ever forced or pressured to tell their story, but all are free to do so on their own time. “Those days are never very pleasant, but cathartic, I think. It’s all part of the healing process.”

The reporter and the woman: flowers and candy in a heart-shaped box; the reporter and the woman: his parents looking at them soppily from the other side of a table, from the other side of a video call; the reporter and the woman: him kneeling and her with a ring around one finger; the reporter and the woman: two more rings and a lot of white.

You know, we should really thank Luthor for bringing us together.

Oh, didn’t I mention? the groom jokes. He sent us a lovely card.

The Palace was a theater once, not so long ago. It doesn’t seem like it's forgotten, not yet, not now - not with the stage still here, taking up almost a quarter of the room. This, unlike the other remnants of the old theater, remains at the group’s request, more than a year after renovations began.

A house; a dog; a promotion. The reporter puts his ninety-five theses on the backburner, puts the story on ice, doesn’t forget yet - not yet. There’s a picture in his wallet of Luthor’s assistant, her stomach just about big enough to burst. More than once a familiar ID starts to ring him and, no matter how many times he changes the number, it’s all he can do to let it go. But he hasn’t shown up at the house - yet. He could, though. He could.

As volunteer Marisa Coronado (18) explains: “We used to tell our ‘stories’ just by standing in front of it, didn’t really take. Some people still do that for- for whatever reason, but come on! If there is a stage you might as well use it, right?”

The school that the Little Prince fell into, and Almost-an-Adult; the reporter takes a little blonde girl by the hand, jerking her to a stop. He sees Luthor coming out the entrance, lugging two identical boys behind him. Blue eyes; strong jaws; black hair. Come on, Cassie. I’m sure your aunt’s waiting.

“I think it makes people feel sort of powerful, to be up there and under the spotlights, even if they don’t work anymore. And it’s not like you have to go up if you don’t want to. You don’t need to say anything at all.”

He crowds into a booth with his wife, the friend from college, and another man who dresses like he’s trying to prove a point. A skinny preteen snatches the blonde kid trying to climb out of her seat. You don’t understand. The reporter keeps his voice low and hopes that the kids don’t hear him. It was… bizarre. They looked just like me.

It could be nothing.

What if it’s- He stops, reconsiders… You’re probably right. But the next night someone calls, leaves a message that’s only nervous breathing on the other end.

Actually, there’s a system for that.

The years according to other people’s responsibilities; a freckled redhead scraping his knees up running track; a bigger kid with a buzz-cut kicking up the bone-white sand; the boy from the restaurant. Years of this until he’s woken up by a dozen frantic phone calls and four kids hammering at his front door.

Mr. Kent? Um… hi? Look, this is-

Luthor’s son stares up at him like he’s looking into the face of God. I… It’s Conner, Conner Kent. I think I’m your, uh… There are other words after that; the reporter catches about one in ten. The ones he hears include paid off doctor and stolen and sample.

Almost all CCSTSG members come in wearing name tags labeled with their chosen pseudonyms. Some don’t, or wear only blank ones, but generally this remains the rule. Those who have “spoken” have theirs marked, either with a sticker or another small symbol drawn in pen.

He sits to one side of his bakery booth alone, face to face with a look that screams “business”, attached to a grumpy-looking businessman. The reporter picks at the edges of the menu. Look, I know he… troubles you, his friend says gruffly, but he’s here. This boy needs his father.

I’m not his father!

According to Ms. Poppins, this was prompted by an incident with one member specifically being pressured to talk before they were ready to do so. “Poor dear nearly went to pieces in front of everyone. Bit of an awkward situation for all involved.”

The reporter stands over the kid that looks just like him, gesturing irritably at a dented-up car. You need to be more careful! You barely know how to drive that thing!

Maybe you could, you know, help me figure that out?

… Bruce has got that covered. Then his phone goes off.

The solution? Marked nametags and a new rule:

For a long time he stares at the pregnancy test in his wife’s hands. Clark? We have to tell them…

What am I supposed to say?

No asking questions until after someone’s volunteered.

Chapter 36: *CSA* (Wishfart) A Story about the Iron Shamrock / A Story about the Copper Clover

Summary:

TW: sexual abuse of a child and a young teen, the latter by another young teen, underage pregnancy, religious conflict, war.
Soundtrack:
"Mary Le More" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oRd86Sa69ss&t
"Three Flowers" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ENeKh7vblR4
"Derry’s Wall" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=grr3CUZDm6o
"The Orange and the Green" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Qqs4EbU02As

A Story about the Iron Shamrock

“So this is America.”

The Shamrock reclines, sighing and scowling, more rage than anyone that small should really have in them all woven over green eyes and fairy dimples and freckles spread out like speckled daisies. She has one hand on her stomach (which looks bigger than it did the last time) and the other pulling apart the braid in her waist-length hair, orange-brown as rust. She sighs again, unceasing.

“S’ not so impressive if you’ll be wantin’ my opinion. What? Don’t go lookin’ at me that way.” She scowls. “It’s me da what wanted us to come here, take it up wit’ him if ye like! Take it up with North Down an’ Ards - that’s back in Ireland - an’ before ye think o’ askin’, don’t go bringin’ me ma inna this.”

“Huh?” The Wildcard blinks, a little too slowly. “Why? Did she leave or some-”

Before he can finish - before anyone can process what’s happening - the Shamrock has her shoe off and she’s thrown it at him, face heated (red as the rose that…). “She dint LEAVE!” And now she’s shrieking. “Don’t ye ever say that!”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a very young Shamrock walks between two grown ones, through a town with green weeds and orange flowers. A flag with a cross and crown on it flutters from the church’s eye. A family passes, and the very short man beside her spits on the ground. Feckin’ orangies. He gestures. You’ll not be wantin’ anythin’ from the likes o’ them, understand?

“I was born on an orange street in orange Ireland - that’s the northern bit, for all ye Yanks in the crowd.” She rolls her eyes. “Me ma an’ da met in the eighties. They married in the nineties. I was born near ten years after that. Fill the blank spots in for yerself!”

Metal bin tops and plastic bullets, and secret photo albums hidden beneath the floor. Shamrock’s father gets drunk on occasion and curses their neighbors, curses the queen in the north. She starts to do the same dead sober, comes home with black eyes and knuckles bleeding, scrapes that look like the Shamrock’s eaten lash. Her mother smiles as she spreads the ointment. That’s me girl!

“Lotta Ireland is as Catholic as I am, but we lived in one o’ the worse parts. Orange, soup taker, prods far as the eye could see. An’ o’ course me da dint make no secret o’ what we thought o’ them. You’ll be workin’ out that dint make us popular, but what would I be wantin’ outside friends for, anyway?” She eyes Lady Reynard skeptically. “Ye were excommunicated for a reason, weren’t ye? Besides that… besides…”

The Shamrock huddles in her blankets, frightened by the sounds from the street. Her mother crouches beside her, combing fingers through her hair and crooning. Slowly - slowly - she nods off to sleep. Cut; orange-painted letters, like a corrosive rash down the house’s front side, lark and raven perching in the gutters, laughing mad, while the Shamrock’s parents sweep up bits of broken glass.

“Ma was a right saint, ye hear me? I won’t let any o’ ye lot go tellin’ me anythin’ but. She loved me as much as she loved her country, but she only died for one.” She kisses her fingers once and rubs her stomach. “In the end, she cried for me.”

A screech owl lands just outside the Shamrock’s window, only to startle again when another shatters on the ground floor. Ma? M- A hand covers her mouth in the darkness.

Be quiet, Finnuala, Shamrock’s mother whispers. Not a sound, ye mind? That’s me big brave girl.

“It was jus’ me an’ Ma the night it happened, Da was late comin’ home. Bastards woke me up, bashin’ the door in, scared the bejesus outta me, t’weren't no time to scream though. She hid me in the closet an’ went down herself to see… to see…” The Shamrock ducks her head to cover it, rubbing the heel of her hand beneath her eyes. “… Heard a shot, an’ I shouldn’ta cried out, but I did anyway. Next thing I knew…”

The lights switch on and the door opens, big hands dragging the Shamrock out by the hair, pulling hard. Their hands aren’t bloody when they hold her, not yet, but they leave great red bootprints all over the floor. She fights hard. She screams. She prays. And it’s not enough to stop them. Maybe God is, but He isn’t there. Shamrock lies there between them for what feels like hours. One rifles through her dresser, removes a decorative comb, hums “The Belle of Belfast”.

“Dint get much o’ a look at them, but I know they were Protestants - what self respectin’ Catholic would get off to callin’ another ‘mick’ an’ ‘taig’? Ugh. The old man got back hours later. Fat lotta good it did, seein’ how they’d already gone. Wasn’t even enough to save the house.”

The singe-haired Shamrock leans back against the wall of the police station, bandages patching her arm and eye, wrapped like a summertime circlet around her head. Her father won’t stop yelling. An’ you listen here, he threatens the terrified uniform, you’d best be findin’ the men who did this quick, mind? If ye don’t then I will.

“He said that, but then he moved us here.”

They lay the turf over her mother before they go. With wildflowers they strew the grave beneath the willow, and they leave, the Shamrock glancing back.

“Tried to sell me all that stuff about remembrance ye hear in Streets of New York. What Da told me was… He said that Yanks don’t care as much about religion - green or orange, so long as yer White - an’ I’d be safer…”

New sounds; new smells; new city; she lies on their new apartment’s floor. Bucko upstairs seems nice, says her father without looking up from the TV. Could make a decent Irishman one day.

I doubt it. Haven’t ye never wondered where they go to Mass?

He doesn’t say anything else.

“Before we left, I took a flower from a place we stopped near Belfast. I took it to press, to keep.” She holds up a dry, dead sprig of brown-white clover. “The name I call it is Wolfe Tone.” Finally the Iron Shamrock smiles. “The song calls it the bravest flower of all, but there’s other verses. I ought to have picked two… I’m thinkin’ David, maybe Anthony.”

 

A Story about the Copper Clover

“I was born here, but my parents? Uh, emphatically no.”

The Clover knocks his chicken-bone legs together, hiding his face in his hands - scabby knuckles, rainbow Band-Aids, bitten nails, one of his fingers in a splint. What peeks out are verdigris-green eyes and freckles, curtained by gingery orange bangs, and skin sickly pale.

“You know much about, like… the politics of Northern Ireland? Yeah, I knew it was a long sho- huh? Oh.” He gulps. “D-did she tell you? That checks out.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Clover shuffles his feet in church, crammed into a little box pew.

Peace be with you. A man with dark hair and an aviator’s cap leans over from the next seat, extending a hand.

Clover takes it and squeezes. Peace…

“My parents are… well, first thing’s Protestant and secondly we’re Anglican, which is almost weirder. Think diet Catholicism? But… Protestant.” He smiles at the Lady. “See, you get it! Sorry, I know this is kind of confusing - believe me! I’m not even that religious, or that Irish - my parents are, though, and my Uncle Phil.”

Said uncle sings in the shower, accent high and clear and sharp. The whole house more or less has to listen, including the Clover, slumped in the hall. With heart in hand, and sword and shield, we’ll guard old Derry’s walls…

“They left in the nineties, before I was born, but a while after the whole Troubles thing started. From what I’ve heard, it got really ugly, they were scared. My uncle's never really gotten over that, but the rest of us… We’re all doing the best we can. Honestly, I never used to think too hard about this stuff. I mean, yeah, Mom and Dad are from Ireland, but we live here now!”

The Clover crowds into a wheelchair with a sickly dark-haired girl and a boy whose nose looks red in the light. A girl in a hoodie stands behind them, eyeing all three skeptically. Are you guys sure about this?

No, but we’re doing it anyway! Let ‘er rip! He starts screaming just as soon as she lets them go.

“And it’s not… There’s this one guy in my congregation from, I think, the Falklands?… who uses a fake accent and acts like he’s lived here all his life. Sure, he can if he wants to, I won’t stop him, but that’s not what I’m about. My friends are American and most aren’t even Christian, let alone following the C of E. Plus, the diet war’s been over in diet Ireland since before I was conceived and the full sugar war’s been over for… Okay, you know what? Screw metaphor. I guess I just didn’t think something like it could touch me, you know? Does anyone?”

His uncle’s singing in the shower again, and someone else is drumming on the door. The Clover’s expecting the superintendent here with a complaint, but there’s a girl his own age on the mat instead, glaring daggers from the hall. Shut the ol’ fart up, won’t ye? she asks before he can get a word out. Jetlag’s bad enough without some jaffa bastard howlin’ in the wind!

Who- But she slams the door in his face.

“She moved into my building earlier this year. I always… Listen, I know why she’s so… like that now, but… Let’s face it, the girl’s a nightmare! I can’t picture her not screaming at me, it’s that bad. In all fairness, we didn’t like her any better, but at least nobody… Sorry, this is weird… She really hated me. Hates, maybe? Hates.”

Her visits don’t stop with the first. Clover drags himself out of bed on a Sunday morning, looks through the peephole and finds the girl cursing a blue streak from the other side. She scowls at him from across the lobby, behind his mother’s back. Once she jostles his friend in her wheelchair, accidentally-on-purpose. He almost socks her for that. Most of the time, though, she just trails after, spitting insults into the marks of his shoes and hoping other people slip.

“That was annoying, sure, but not scary. She’s like four foot seven soooo… Heh.” He chuckles bitterly. “Probably shouldn’t be making fun. Little… little doesn’t actually mean as much as you’d think.”

You again? And she’s glaring in from the doorstep. What is it this time? Was Oi breathin’ too loudly for yer loikin’?

Cute. She rolls her eyes and scoffs. Actually I’m here on business. Seems I got your mail ‘stead o’ mine. Not the biggest mix up you’ve ever seen, is it?

Can’t believe I’m hearing you say that.

She bristles. An’ what’s that supposed to mean?

“It’s partially my fault, I guess… maybe… She didn’t… It’s not like she set out to do it, it just sort of happened that way. Crazy girl. Awful temper. I stand by that much. But this time I picked a fight with her and maybe if I hadn’t… I should stop saying stuff like that. ‘Maybe it wouldn’t have…’ Well, it did.”

If ye don’t shut your damn mouth, I-

Why, whatever is the matter, Finny? Finny Mc… Mc… Ugh. What's a good Catholic- um… Hey, are you okay?

No. She’s gone pale and still and quiet, voice little more than a whisper when she speaks. What’d ye call me? The Clover’s lips begin to shape an apology but before he can offer it, she slams him hard into the wall, grabbing his hand before he can shove her away and wrenches one finger with a sickening CRACK; it turns crimson where it’s raised high above his head.

“I had no idea there were that many words for Protestant. I… She grabbed me by the hair and held on until the roots bled. I don’t know how many times she knocked me against the floor, not that many… we weren’t there that long… And when it was over I didn’t look that bad, not enough to see a doctor or anything…”

He meets his friends for noodles the next day or so with no black eyes and just a few bruises (and the worst in places covered by his clothes). He orders and doesn’t eat. The doggy-bag in the fridge turns green. Then someone else plays another song on the door. It’s the neighbor girl’s father, all in green with orange hair, but he’s waving pink around in his hand.

“You… I guess you know the rest…”

You can’t be serious! says the Chairman of Coins. That girl’s a menace! There are children here!

And the Reluctant Hunter nods along. We got rid of Darla Dimple, didn’t we?!

Izanami looks dryly between them. We have allowed le Penitent to stay. And Horus, she adds when the Hunter starts objecting. And myself, as I must remind you. The Shamrock isn’t a monster. She’s hurting.

She has a point. The Avatar voices her agreement. Look, I don’t like it any more than you, but I gotta go with Thing One here.

“Thing Two” steps up to stand between them. Grandmother would have wanted it this way.

The Clover sits by himself, off to the sidelines, trying to make himself small.

“There’s one song I remember hearing… somewhere, or maybe it was just part of one. Whatever, it went like: something, something… ‘Michael Dwyer, the strongest flower of all, but I’ll keep it fresh beside my breast though all the world should fall.’ I’d like to think I’m strong enough not to… Oh.” The Copper Clover makes a face like he’s only just remembered something deeply unpleasant. “… Or maybe I heard it through the floor.”

Chapter 37: *CSA* (Cocomelon) A Rhyme about the Singing Shiver

Summary:

TW: mentioned child molestation, stalking, cyberbullying, attempted kidnapping, violence.

The original Star Wars chapter was written by a writer who left, and is now archived here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/54870697

The soundtrack for this chapter is various Cocomelon songs. We decided it’s probably not necessary to post the whole list, but we will add them if it’s requested.

“The videos are all private now. We’re probably going to delete the channel.”

A shiver is a group of sharks, but there are only two people on stage. Bullhead: a man with auburn hair and a green plaid shirt, tall and thin. Hammerhead: a brunette woman in white and pink, covered head to toe in fading bruises. Theirs are familiar faces, screen faces; not household names like the Underdog, but more quickly recognized than the Sniggler. Many of the young children gape at them in wonder. Some of the parents have to fight back resentful expressions.

Only two on stage, but they’re shaking hard. Maybe that’s what the name means.

“We don’t really want to,” Bullhead says. “I mean, the kids love it, they keep asking when we’re going to make another video…”

Hammerhead shudders, fighting back tears. “We have to protect them. We can’t let this happen again.”

Instead of a story, a song;

Mommy Shark (the one called Hammerhead):
Three times lies in a sterile bed,
Three times screams ‘til her face is red,
Then she smiles.

Daddy Shark (Bullhead is what he chose)
Changes and feeds and tickles toes,
And gladly wipes each runny nose:
It’s no trial!

Basking Shark, the oldest of the brood -
Green-eyed, mechanically shrewd -
Builds vehicles: hammered, sawed, and glued;
So agile.

Leopard Shark, the one and only girl -
Freckles and carrot-colored curls -
Shows off her paintings and unfurls
Her own style.

Thresher Shark, their precious baby boy -
Blond locks, brown eyes, laden with toys -
Loves singing, and his simple joy
Will beguile.

Ev’ry day, the Shiver has such fun -
They dance in rain, they play in sun -
Then - sometimes - they click a button;
It’s Share file.

Comments: 7

My daughter gets so excited about your videos :)

“It was their idea to start the channel. People don’t believe that, they think it was all us. I know there are parents like that - parents who push their kids into sports or dance or whatever - but we didn’t.”

Bullhead nods. “Our oldest recorded himself building a model and asked if we could post it online. And when our daughter heard, she wanted to film a cover of a song she likes. And we thought it sounded like fun. I mean, I was in a band for a while, my wife does some local theater - we know how fun it is to perform.”

“And it was fun. That’s all it was supposed to be.”

The itsy-bitsy Thresher dances in mismatched socks;
Basking displays a bridge made out of blocks;
Leopard Shark paints a rainbow-colored sky;
And then Thanks for watching, friends! they all say, and Goodbye!

Comments: 84

Great video! My son loves your channel.

“We don’t know why it got so popular. They were just playing. We did the uploading and screened all the comments, and sometimes we were in the videos, or family members - her parents, my cousins - but it was always their ideas.”

It’s the Animal Dance!
That’s what they say,
But they’re not alone
On the screen today.
Sev’ral adults
In suits and masks
Make many different creature sounds
Doing the Animal Dance!

Comments: 355

This is so cute! Love the ideas for easy animal costumes, and the little song at the end is just adorable!

“But for some reason, the channel blew up. And the kids were excited, obviously, and we were happy for them, but…”

Hammerhead hugs herself, leaning into her husband. “At first, people were criticizing us. How we parent. None of them even know us…”

Can we film?
Sure, let me get my phone!

Can we film?
Not right now, this is family time.

Can we film?
Have you done your chores?
Yes.
Okay!

So they film,
And it makes the kids happy.
Then they post,
And it makes the fans happy.
Sharing is caring,
The parents both preach;
So their brood share their talents
As far as they’ll reach.

Comments: 1,022

Yeah, the vids are cute or whatever, but you don’t need to film every single thing your kids do, ok? Quit trying to make them internet stars and just let them be freaking kids. Jeez.

“It didn’t help that… We tried to be safe. We never let the kids film in the front yard or at school, and we made them use nicknames in the videos. They each picked a toy they really like and made a name from it. But the boys’ nicknames sound like they could be their real names.”

Basking loves his Tonka trucks,
He drives them through the hall;
Thresher loves his Jumping Joey,
His fav’rite toy of all!
Just in case of copyright,
They modify the names -
But yo-yos aren’t a brand so
Leopard’s doesn’t change.

Comments: 2,412

What kind of parents name their kid YoYo?! That is so f*cked up! ETA: @SimsalaGrimm Your parents didn’t NAME you Yoyo though, *Johan*, did they?

“And then there were the comments about how the kids don’t look very much like us. That just happens sometimes, genetics can be strange. Their hair’s lighter than ours, but that’s normal, blond kids’ hair often gets darker later. And what if the kids had been adopted, or were stepchildren, or-” Hammerhead shakes her head, clenching her fists. “People are only interested in the worst possibilities.”

Leopard’s hair is orange-red, yes, that is true.
Thresher’s hair is blond, and that’s different too.
Basking’s eyes are green of a darker hue
But Bullhead pays no mind.

Comments: 4,600

So who’s gonna tell the dad his wife’s been messing around? Cos I won’t be nice about it.

Bullhead pulls his wife closer, gritting his teeth. “That was just… It was so insulting, it took us so off-guard… We thought that was the worst thing that a stranger could say. No. Not by a long shot.”

The daddy on the bus says:
I love you!
Sons one and two,
and Hammerhead too.
Then finally to daughter:
I love you,
All through the town!

Comments: 7,380

Am I the only one creeped out by the dad? Like seriously, look at how he tells YoYo he loves her! He didn’t even look at his wife like that!

Hammerhead looks mad enough to spit. “What kind of person would say that?! My husband loves our kids, he would never hurt them! It’s disgusting that someone would jump to that kind of conclusion over the words ‘I love you’. It’s just sick.”

No, kids, I don’t think we’ll film today.
Oh, please, Dad? We put all our toys away!
No, no, why not play hide-and-seek?
Please, please, Mom? We haven’t filmed all week!

A fine line of trying to protect;
They have no excuse that’s not the truth.
Well, okay. But you’re only filming one!
And their kids light up like the sun.

Comments: 10,298

Why does YoYo spend so much time parenting JJ? Starting to think we’ve got another Cleo Telerin sitch (RIP) ETA: Yeah I know CT’s not dead yet. She will be.

“There are a lot of things we could have - probably should have - done differently. But… the kids loved making videos. We never let them see the worst comments. Yes, we were disgusted by them, but the kids had no idea. We thought if we kept screening all the comments, it would be safe for them to keep the channel. We never imagined…”

Hammerhead bursts into tears.

So the children sing and play,
Film away,
Post some days.
When their mother’s face goes gray
The kids don’t notice.

Comments: 30,441

Thanks for showing your address; gonna make my call to DCFS much easier.

“It was my fault,” Bullhead says hoarsely. “There was a piece of mail in one of the videos. I should have noticed, I should have cut it out…”

Hammerhead sniffles. “It wasn’t you. It was them. It was him…”

Daddy, can you take us to the park?
Just for one hour, before it’s dark.
Thresher is sleeping; Hammerhead stays.
It’s quieter than it is most days…
There’s a creak, Hammerhead spins -
Some strange man has broken in.

Comments: 58,629

The way you’re profiting off your kids is disgusting.

“H-he had a mask, a-and a…”

Bullhead holds her tightly as she sobs.

There is nowhere Hammerhead
Can run.
There’s nothing that she can use
To fight.
She cries and stares at the man’s
Black gun,
And thanks God that Thresher is out
Of sight.

Tell. Me. Where is your husband?
Dark. Grin. Unthreatened ease.
He… took… the kids to the playground,
I’m all alone, it’s just me-
Mommy?

Comments: 87,314

Parents like you should have your children taken away.

“The baby woke up, and called for her… He started for the bedroom-”

“I-I couldn’t, I couldn’t stop him…”

“You did, darling. You did so much.”

Watch out for the stranger man -
Big, strong, terrible danger man -
Watch out for the stranger man;
What color’s on his fists?
Red!

Blood drips out of Hammerhead’s mouth,
She spits and one-two teeth come out.
But still she clings and still she shouts:
Please! Not my baby!

Comments: 107,264

Seriously, what kind of mother are you?

“That’s why…” She motions vaguely to her bruises. “B-but he was so big, I couldn’t… I be-begged him to…”

“It doesn’t matter what you said, it doesn’t matter…”

“H-he didn’t want me!”

Please, just take me-
(One punch.)
I’ll do anything-
(One kick.)
Whatever you want-
(One step.)
Please stop!

The front door bangs
And Bullhead shouts
At the scene, so grim
And he charges in
And the stranger runs out.

Comments: 149,294

No kid deserves these kinds of parents.

“We were walking up the driveway when we heard her shouting. I sent the kids to the neighbor’s house and then… The cops think maybe it was a fake gun, and that’s why he ran. They don’t know, though. No one knows anything.”

Hammerhead’s black and blue,
The children all start to cry,
And no one knows what to do
All through this horrible night.

Police report goes in;
We’ll do what we can comes out.
Bullhead can only shake-shake-shake,
So full of guilt and doubt.

Comments: 193,739

You’re the worst kind of people.

“The police didn’t have much to go on - he had a mask, she didn’t see his face. So they started looking online to see if… if people had talked about…” Bullhead looks like he’s going to be sick. “They found this… this deep web site, all about our family, our kids… All these… horrible things that people want to do to our kids… We never knew, we never…”

Mommy? Daddy?
Yes, sweetie?
Are we… safe?
Yes, baby.
Are you sure?
Yes, honey.
But they know it’s
Not likely.

Comments: 261,952

You people are monsters.

“We’re staying with my parents,” Hammerhead says quietly. “The kids don’t know it yet, but we’re selling our house. They’re going to be so upset…”

All the Shiver is asleep,
Save Bullhead, who downstairs creeps.
Sets his phone upon the floor,
Explains the basics and no more.
He turns it off, he cries a while,
Then, one last time, he clicks Share File.

Comments: 301,682

Wow, real convenient that this “home intruder” thing happened RIGHT when people started calling out your BS. Seriously, fuck you and your whore wife.

“We just want our kids to be happy and safe.” Bullhead hugs Hammerhead and doesn’t look at the audience. “I never thought we’d have to choose one or the other.”

Chapter 38: (Open Season) A Story about the Two Bears

Summary:

TW: rape, kidnapping, creepy behaviour towards a child.

“No Papa Bear. Not anymore.”

Mama Bear spins her park ranger’s hat around on one finger. Khakis and hiking boots and long red hair pulled back tight. Baby Bear towers over his mother - enormous and intimidating… with a little teddy bear backpack slung over his shoulder.

“Good riddance.”

“You can probably guess where this is going.” Mama tugs on a curl and it bounces back; Baby hugs her from behind. “His dad isn’t really my… anything. Well, maybe that’s not true. Just nothing good. This was years ago, in Idaho. I was young…-er.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a teenager with loose red curls steps out of the shower, clothes lying in a heap on the floor. She kicks them as hard as she can and the pile turns over - blood on her shoes, on the back of her shorts. Cut; pink pregnancy test with two little lines. Cut; an actual cut. A Caesarian; he’s too big to do otherwise. Baby Bear latches onto her chest.

Congratulations, Beth. What’ll you name him?

Booker, she says, not letting go of him. Boog.

“It’s harder to get an abortion in some states, but… even then I never wanted to. I’m glad I didn’t. I loved being a mom, but it wasn’t easy. I know, I know, it never is… but seriously.”

“Uh, sorry…”

“No! Not your fault, honey. I was talking about… Did you know it’s actually pretty easy to sue for custody? Yeah, even if you’re a guy - especially in some cases. Even if you’re a rapist. Allegedly there are laws on the books that terminate parental rights if you’ve got evidence, but that’s not actually- they don’t have to. A lot of times they won’t.”

Wouldja look at that, fellers, the Girl Scouts is here! Big nose; beady eyes; bad teeth. Mama Bear pulls Baby into her lap, on the other side of the divided screen. He squirms around uncomfortably. The glass clouds with the wildman’s breath.

Oh, he’s beautiful…

“He’d say a lotta things like that, man. Freaky stuff. And I don’t mean in a nice way either, but you try makin’ ‘em understand that. Mama would complain and nobody listened. Still, uh, visitation wasn’t so bad… Visitation. Then he got outta jail.”

He’s too young to understand it, really. The man wears an orange vest instead of a jumpsuit. They sit across from each other at a crowded fast food joint. Sooo… Boog? How’d ya like to come live with me? Baby ducks behind Mama Bear and hugs her leg. His father scowls. Nobody eats.

“Here’s where I might lose some sympathy… or maybe not. I know this city is all kinds of weird, but you do realize most kidnappings don’t end in rape or murder everywhere else, right? Then again, a lot of people don’t. Custody battles can get really nasty… and… and I didn’t want-”

It’s the middle of the night, in the middle of nowhere. Mama Bear loads as much as she can into the bed of her truck; down for the count, Baby Bear lies asleep in the back. He wakes up as they’re crossing state lines.

“We stayed there for a while, Oregon, then Nevada, and so on until we ended up down here. He would have caught up to us eventually if we stayed too long. He would have, he’d-”

“Uh, he kinda did.”

No Mama in sight, but Baby Bear is almost grown. A skinnier, scruffier boy walks alongside him. Maybe they’re arguing; with teenage boys it’s hard to tell. A truck pulls along to the curb - beaten red pickup - then there’s the sound of a shot ringing out and his friend falls to the ground, clutching the side of his head. Baby Bear reaches out, but he stops when the rifle turns on him. He sees the man behind the wheel and it’s not a stranger. Get in.

“He didn’t, uh, y’know - but I think he was going to. We drove for a while, way out into the woods. I asked him once or twice what he was gonna do to me an’ he didn’t answer. I thought I was gonna die.”

The car pulls off what’s left of the road and they drive haphazardly between the trees. This doesn’t last long and his father drags Baby Bear out by the collar, swearing through his gritted teeth. Cut; back in the city Mama Bear’s phone starts to ring.

“He shot my friend’s ear off, but the bullet mostly grazed him. He called her from the emergency room.”

“And I almost had a heart attack! I didn’t know how he found us or where you were or… or anything…” She has to stop and take a few, deep breaths, shaking violently. “I’m okay… I’m okay! I… had to tell them who I thought took him… and why. That was, well, about as good as admitting I’d abducted him myself - I guess because I sort of did.”

She’s a mess, shaking and crying, face red as her hair. The mother of the Champion’s siblings puts a hand on her arm - comforting, yes, but not only that. You do know I can’t let you leave…?

“It’s the law, I know it’s the law… but you don’t know how helpless it feels to know that your kid is with this… this monster… and you can’t do anything about it… I just wanted to protect him. Look how well that turned out.”

The man knocks the butt of his rifle against Baby Bear’s head, causing him to stumble. His father shouts and he stands back up. Again, he’s knocked onto his knees. Awww, don’t cry, buddy. You’ll see your mama soon. He fires behind him. Misses. They both yell.

“He wasn’t a great shot… weird for a hunter, you kinda think he would hafta be. Maybe he was out of it, don’t know - don’t care, really. I just know he missed - obviously - or I wouldn’t be here to say anything. But… but I…”

He misses again. By inches. Baby Bear hears the man behind him muttering and - under his breath - reloading the gun.

“I saw our shadows on the ground. And mine was bigger than his.”

The wildman’s snarl turns into a lot of panicked screaming. Baby Bear isn’t screaming though. He r o a r s.

“Let’s put it this way: I didn’t kill him, but he didn’t kill me either. I got the gun away, got his phone. I tried calling Mom, but… Then the police. They kinda have to pick up for you - still, it took a while, I guess, to track us down…?”

They let him back past the holding tank and he hugs his mother through the bars. His father watches from another cell. Leers is more like it. Cut; neither of them is there to see Baby blow out his candles - eighteen of them.

“Parental kidnapping has a minimum one year sentence. It could have been more, considering that I brought him across state lines. As it is I got time off for good behavior, so I guess it could have been worse… and people know why I did it.”

The syrupy blonde cop and her mustached co-conspirator nod amicably to Mama Bear, and he says, I’d have done the same.

“And of course I’m out now.”

Baby Bear picks her up from county, picks her all the way up off the ground.

Aw, I missed you too!

“Do you remember that song we used to sing when you were little? How’s it go again?”

Baby Bear scrubs the back of his head, a little sheepish; kicks his feet against the stage. Mama’s smirking as she puts her hand on his arm. “C’mon,” she teases, “remind me how it goes… Please?”

“Uh… ‘today’s the day… the teddy bears have their picnic’?”

Chapter 39: (Gravity Falls) A Ballad of the Belle of Big Bucks Bloodbath

Summary:

TW: murder, torture, traumatisation and endangerment of a child, animal abuse via using them to torture humans.
Inspo: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/22sz2o/death_at_423_stockholm_street/
Soundtrack: "Blood and Bones" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=cSKntELdm5U

“I kind of like how this place is always noisy.”

The Belle has perfect teeth and too much makeup and big blonde hair clogged with spray. She isn’t smiling. She never does.

“It was never quiet at home. Old houses aren’t usually, especially the big ones. Daddy always blamed the pipes, but I knew… Well, I always knew something weird was going on. My idea was monsters. Living in the walls.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Belle lies in bed, not quite sleeping, not quite awake, and with the blankets pulled all the way over her. The partly-opened curtains show a ground-floor view of lush, broad, rolling lawns and climbing roses, but she’s not looking at the window. Sure enough, there’s a scritch-scritch-scratching, coming right through the pretty pink-painted walls. Scritch-scratch, scritch-scratch.

Susie, I love you. Ramona Shepherd.

“At first, when I was really little, I- I don’t know… I thought it could have been a guardian or something, so when the noises started up I’d sit there and talk at the wall. My parents thought it was weird, but they let me do it. Then I got older and… those sounds didn’t seem so safe anymore… But of course I had other things to worry about.”

The Belle primps and poses in her locker mirror, smoothing concealer beneath her eyes. The mirror catches graffiti on the opposite locker row.

“Well, maybe not worry about… Think about…?”

SLUT

in marker over pink glitter stickers. The Queen of Hearts passes, head down, clutching an old stuffed animal. The Belle nudges her friends and they laugh behind their hands.

“Okay, yes, I haven’t always been the best at… being ‘nice’. Daddy always said that didn’t get you anywhere. He said a lot of things…” She rubs her nose. “But I still miss him.”

A tall man with high cheekbones and an unkind face; a thin woman with brown hair and a forced smile. The Belle runs to them, crying into her mother’s nightgown. Paz, it was nothing. I’d know, wouldn’t I? She catches sight of herself in the black-glass window, sees the scrambled writing on her pajama shirt.

Princess.

“My great-something grandfather built the house himself.”

She lays in bed again. Not asleep. Not awake. There are tigers on the ceiling - it’s an old place. Scritch-scratch-scratch-scratch…

Tell my children they were my world. Summer Rose.

DADDY!

Quiet down in there or else! And the Belle’s father pounds on the wall by her head.

“Just goes to show you… How well do we know our parents, really? For years they swore up and down that I was just hearing things and- I mean, it’s not like I believed them. With voices in your head… you shouldn’t be able to drown them out.”

Bells, whistles, windchimes. She leaves her window open at night, lets freezing air fill the room. It’s loud. It’s so loud. Loud enough to sleep through. And everything else goes away. The light distorts the writing on an old birthday card.

Your favourite uncle.

“I heard about ouija boards one time. Yeah, don’t get mad, okay, witchy people? I know, I know I’m not supposed to use ‘em alone, but I was like nine and I didn’t know that then. I didn’t have a real one, I just wrote out letters on paper and borrowed a shot glass for the pointy thing, and I thought if I asked what it wanted…”

The Belle sits in her room, finger on the upturned glass, and asks her questions to the wall. Is anyone there? Nothing. Nothing. Nothing…

a b c d e f-

“What do you mean, they didn’t want to scare me? Geez, Fantôme, you can be weird.”

There’s the scratching again. There’s the… whatever it is that sounds like a muffled wail. But isn’t. She drops the glass on the floor and watches it break into pieces. Daddy!

Can it wait, Pacifica?

Bu-

Not now!

Tell my father I forgive him. Hilda Shirasaki.

“I guess now I know why they were so busy. Just like I know I was never in any danger. At the time though… I was scared. And nobody was going to protect me. Nobody believed me about those… those things in the wall. I was alone.”

The Belle spends her allowance… and her Christmas money… and whatever else she can scrounge on more bells, more windchimes. Starting a band? her mother teases. She doesn’t answer - and carefully strings them up that night.

“My friends thought I was crazy when they saw that setup. Especially when I told them I didn’t want any monsters getting through.”

A sleepover. Giggling girls, playing music and sharing gossip and filling the room with noise.

“But this one time…”

BEST FRIENDS

in tiny letters on a stamper. The shiny gleam of wet nail polish and lip gloss. Popcorn spilled across the carpet. It’s all going very well, until… BANG BANG BANG, and they scream and scramble for the door, not looking behind.

“That made things worse. I knew then I wasn’t going crazy, but do you know what it feels like when it seems like everyone else thinks you are? My p-parents said it was just the wind, but wind doesn’t do that. Not from inside the house.”

Eventually her friends shrug it off, just the same. But… they don’t come around as often. But… they don’t want to stay the night. But… they leave her all alone. The Belle comes to school and finds her locker vandalized. A word barely visible through all the scratches.

Psycho.

“There were rumors going around about me, that I was starting to… yeah.”

She corners the Queen of Hearts and screams herself red. Other girls blink and whisper behind the Belle’s back. She pretends not to hear.

“I knew she didn’t have anything to do with it, but sometimes it just feels good to take your anger out on someone who won’t fight back. Ugh, that probably sounds awful. It’s true though, at least in my case. Part of me likes it and… I’m a little scared of that now.”

The bus has to drop Belle off at the end of the street. Police cars and film crews and

AMBULANCE.

The Belle clenches her fists and shuts her eyes. She is quiet for a long time.

The girl flips her hair in annoyance and moves through the crowd with her nose in the air. At her doorway a man is introducing himself to the camera as Howard Handupme, senior correspondent and stops when she pushes past him.

“I probably should have wondered more about that, but, I mean, Mom and Dad are… were… rich and popular and why shouldn’t we be on TV? Then the cop found me, and he looked so freaked out. I… I guessed something had happened to Mom and Dad. And I was right. Sort of.”

Miss, you can’t- Blue uniforms; spotless walls with the pictures looking down on her, varnished smiles and fat-drained cheeks. The Belle keeps going, reaches the basement door.

Off Limits.

“There were scuff marks on it. Like someone had kicked it open. Kinda surprised they didn’t knock it down. And when I went down the steps, I-”

She can see herself in the unfinished metal walls. Herself and the secrets that have spent so long locked inside.

“Th-there was… I guess you might have seen the photos. The table, it… I think it used to be shiny, like a hospital operating table, but it was so scratched and covered in these stains…” She swallows. “There were shelves and shelves of… stuff, like a medical museum, only worse. And more.”

Not just the surgical implements. Not just the things her twelve-year-old mind doesn’t want to admit to knowing the purpose of. Not just the cameras. Coffin-sized boxes at the far side of the room. Chains on the walls. A tank of leeches, another of spiders, another with a snake. Boxes of wormy dirt or maggoty meat and secret jars of poison. A cage of half-starved, anxious rats, which scratch and scrabble at the bars. And the same has been done all over the walls. And now she can see it, the right way ‘round.

Ian, I'm sorry. Barley Lightfoot.

“That must have been what I heard all those years. Those pictures from the news, where they had to blur out all the names? That’s nothing compared to what it looked like in person. All the… all the… They just wanted to go home!”

She stands there for what can’t be more than a few minutes (and feels like hours), blank faced and hollow eyed and- The Belle is ushered out, wrapped in a shock blanket. The officer crouching beside her smiles tightly, badge reflected on the side of her squad car.

Specter.

“They took me to the kids’ halfway house. The one with the boss with red hair and glasses? Everyone there said he was a jerk most of the time but he must have felt sorry for me, he was really nice… Didn’t help.”

The balding man with red hair and the fat man with the moustache fuss around her, and the volunteer with a pink bow in her buzzed-short hair leads the Belle to a room. A single room, where she lies awake all night. Too afraid to see blood and bones when she closes her eyes.

“I appreciate they wanted to give me privacy, but I’d never tried to sleep in silence before, and I don’t think I could have even without the… the… I didn’t sleep for days. I still haven’t really slept. They have to knock me out with pills. I’m living with my uncle - well, my mom’s cousin - now and he makes me take them. The doctor says if I don’t I’ll die. How long does it take to die from not sleeping? Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad. It can’t be as long as it took the people in there.”

The Belle lies in bed. Lulled into her artificial slumber, one hand dangling down towards the box of letters on the floor. One lies on top upside-down and the ink shows through.

Love, Mom.

A man watches in the doorway. Blond hair; one eye. And slowly, slowly, the scratching starts up again.

K a g -

I’d quiet down if I were you, he says, no louder. And the scratching stops.

The Belle covers her ears and shakes her head to clear the ringing. “Maybe I am going crazy. For real this time.”

Chapter 40: (Secret Magic Control Agency) A Story about the Caged Magician

Summary:

TW: rape, abduction, torture, disownment, disbelief, unreality.
Soundtrack: "Little Boy Blue" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=psAsOO0ZxKY

“Who are you? What are you?”

“I can’t seem to recall. Everyone has a different word for it - really, it’s the darndest thing… So far ‘charlatan’ seems to be the favorite. Bit partial to mountebank myself, but I dunno… Think it sounds a bit too pretentious? Not pretentious enough?”

“Please. Don’t patronize me.”

“You know, your face’ll freeze like that.”

The illusion is nine years old. She has green eyes and a blue dress and butterfly barrettes in her bright red hair. She has a real name. It doesn’t belong to her.

The Magician hunches over the card table, thumb in his mouth. He’s a little old for that, but no one says anything. He’s dressed up like a stage magician with glitter in his hair and a lot of concealer to hide the bags under his eyes.

“You remind me of my brother.”

“Yeah?”

“Wait… Hansel?”

“Yeah…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Say cheese! The illusion and the Magician smile for the camera, standing between two (likewise smiling) adults. He looks much younger. She looks exactly the same. Gretel, put your arm around your brother. There’s no hesitation. Weeks later, when the photos come in, this is the one she will tuck into the cover of her notebook. She will keep it there - for a while, anyway.

“What happened to you?! You’re… You-”

“Disappointed? Yeah, me too, actually. Straight A student-” He measures distance with his hands. “-highschool dropout, I mean talk about a downgrade.”

“Sooo… what? You decided to take the easy way out?”

“Our parents died! What part of that sounds easy?!”

Two beds made up in a puny little room, drawings pinned to the baseboards. The Magician’s is empty. They sit on the other one and cry. An old woman is puttering about the kitchen, brochures open on the counter. Vacation… Paradise… Cruise.

“We went to live with Granny at first… but you know what she’s like. Remember how she used to sit for us and we’d sleep the whole time? Benadryl is a hell of a drug. She made us dinner a few months in - gone by morning. She must have waited until she could withdraw our parents’ money… That’s kind of on them though, for never setting up any trusts. Rookie mistake.”

“Don’t say that.” The illusion rolls her eyes. “What happened after?”

“A few foster families. Eventually a group home. Most people don’t want older kids… for pure reasons. And we got to stay together, there’s that at least, though… Mr. McLeish was a jjjjjerk. Always liked you though… in his own way.”

A teenage Magician falls asleep at his desk after one too many late nights. It looks almost sweet, not that anyone else seems to think so. Detentions; proper suspensions; ISS… He steals the statue in the courtyard. He returns it. He’s expelled.

“I started working as soon as I could pass myself off as fifteen. At first it was supposed to pay for our college tuition, but… eh, stuff happens. My grades slipped and yours didn’t. There was barely enough for one of us anyway.”

“No, I wouldn’t have let you-”

He knocks on his sister’s door and stands there beaming, letter in hand - Gretel Beck… Scholarship… and a near-perfect duplicate of the dean’s signature. He spends all night on the computer, transferring funds. The illusion doesn’t need to know.

“I think you wanted to believe me. For the record, I’m glad you did, that I could do this one good thing for you… even if you ended up hating everything else.”

“W-what do you do?”

“Rich kids’ birthday parties, sometimes bigger shows… or smaller ones. Magic tricks only get old when you know the secrets. And everyone loves my merchandise!”

“That doesn’t sound sustainable.”

The Magician peeks between the stage curtains, scanning the audience for… for… Master Hansel, we start in five!

“I invited you to one of my shows, starting out. I think we rented out the Palace - that old creepy place by the Anglican church? You never showed.”

“Oh, come on, I must have been busy! I wouldn’t just… stand you up like that! We’re family!”

“Maybe. … Look, I’m sure you had your reasons. I’m not the brother that you’re thinking of.”

Still no illusion, even now that the show’s ended. The crowd hasn’t dissipated yet - some stick around for autographs or pictures, others to buy love potions and crystal balls and “protective amulets” carved out of wood. He drinks champagne and counts his money… and puts more than half towards his sister’s loans.

“ ‘How could you, Hansel? Our parents were raising us to be honest, Hansel!’ ” The Magician waves his arms around and flounces, falsetto impersonating his sister’s voice. “ ‘As far as I’m concerned, I don’t have a brother.’ ”

“I might have understood if you had just explained everything.”

“I know! I know… but back then I don’t think you would have believed me. And I can’t do it now! Nobody deserves that kind of guilt…”

“What are you talking about?”

He watches the illusion graduate, skirts around security and into the crowd. The building looks like a great, stone castle. His sister looks like a king (and he wants that for her - he does - that and an overflowing purse). He rolls a coin over his knuckles and it catches the light and reflects her side-view.

Neat trick. Another young woman smiles at him from her chair, batting her eyes.

“I… can’t remember what we used to think at this age. Do you know what sex is?”

“Kind of?” She clears her throat. “When a man and woman love each other very-”

“They don’t have to love each other. Sometimes they do. Sometimes one of them does and the other doesn’t… Sometimes they just don’t love themselves.”

The Magician and his string of ladies. The bottle-blonde sister from the Selkie’s tape; the redheaded girl from the Pearl’s (now quite grown up); the round, dark-haired woman from Ursa Minor’s temporary abode… They all leave eventually, or he does, and it doesn’t matter. There’s always someone else to pursue after that.

“EWWW!”

“Uh, yeah… heh… You get the idea. And, um, Gretel…?”

“Huh?”

“What about that thing Mom and Dad used to tell us? About strangers… and private parts…?”

He’s the first one there to clean up the place, the morning after his last show. The trinket boxes are empty; the safe in his arms is so heavy that he sets it down to breathe. Someone watches from a distance, eyes flickering, cigarette flickering, tongue flickering in and out and between his teeth…

“Did something happen to-”

“No, I… Yes. Not yet though. Not yet.”

He walks back from the flavor of the week’s apartment - five or six blocks to his own. There’s a red-faced man at the door. Master Hansel?

Er… yes?

“Freakshow carny type. He offered to buy up half my stock. And I figured I’d just made bank, you know? Little extra work on my part, but that stuff is cheap as anythin- What? I gotta make a living too, don’t I?”

“Charlatan.”

“Your words sting, sister, they really do.”

The Magician parks in an empty lot, on the foggy side of the bay. He sits in his car. Waiting… waiting… waiting… Someone else knocks on the car window.

“I thought maybe he was a cop. What I do isn’t… Let’s just call it a legal gray area, shall we? There had been a few attempted busts before and… yeah, so I was on edge with him. Not enough to back out, but enough to be suspicious. Of him. Not the random guy asking for directions. Big mistake, he drugged me before I realized it.”

The Magician comes to in the open trunk of a car. His head is spinning and there’s a chemical burn around his mouth where the halcyon rag was taken away. His would-be client waves his arms around, agitated. The stranger holds a gun in his one good hand.

“At first I couldn’t make out what they were saying, but the buyer looked angry enough. I thought he wanted to help…”

“And did he?”

He holds out his arms and the illusion walks into them. “Can we stay here for a minute? Like this?”

As he gets more lucid, he can hear their conversation all the more clearly. The stranger’s words (Blasphemy… witch doctor… false prophet…) and the buyer’s (Numbers… margins… orders… and another kind of profit entirely). The Magician lunges forward, knees buckling. They both reach out to grab him.

Wha’s wrong, fellas? M-maybe we can work thisss oww-…-t? He’s struck across the face with the stranger’s gun.

“I tried talking my way out of it. You’d think it would work, that’s what I’m good at. All I managed to do was make them angry. I think that second guy already was.”

What the hell are we doin’? Hellfire laughter; eyes burning like a black mass moon. Even the buyer looks perturbed. Tell you what, mayate, I’d like to spend the night with you. My friend here wants every night after that.

You’ll live longer.

“They let me choose.”

“Made you.”

“I’m not sure-”

“No, but I am. They forced you. How is that a choice?”

“… I didn’t want to die.”

He’s hauled to his feet and shoved struggling into the buyer’s roughened hands. He takes something from his own pocket, pricking his captive’s neck. We could use someone like you, you know? the Magician hears as the world starts spinning. Even now, he knows that those words aren’t meant for him.

“But… but you’re a grown-up!”

“That doesn’t matter as much as you’d think. Look, this next part isn’t pretty so-”

“I can handle it. Really, it’s okay.”

The Magician struggles, hands tied above him, cuffed to a metal bar. He’s in a room draped up and over like a carnival tent. There’s a camera rolling a few feet away.

“I should count myself lucky that they made more on films than on… you know, the other stuff.” He cringes. “Don’t look at me like that.”

Blood in his eyes, between his legs, in his mouth. The stranger takes his turn and kisses him with a smoldering match on his tongue, laughing when the Magician cries out in pain.

“What?! No! That can’t be… No…”

“Hey! Hey, it’s okay-”

“No it isn’t! I… Did I save you? I came to help you, right?!”

“It’s not your fault. You weren’t there.” He buries his nose in her hair again. “Anyone can do magic, if they have the right audience. I knew if I tried to leave too early that I wouldn’t make it, and - if they could catch me - that they’d do something… worse than what they already had. So I waited. I played along. And nobody came to help.”

Maybe that’s a good thing tonight. The Magician slips his hand from the chain while no one's looking. He springs the lock and leaves the room.

“That wasn’t the hard part - par for the course with a lot of advanced magic tricks - the real issue was getting out of there before anyone noticed I was gone. E-easier said than done, whole place was crawling with guards… but they don’t call me the best for nothing!”

No gun on the floor like there was for the Emperor, and he doesn’t have half of Eris’ wit, but there are a few bullet casings on the ground. That light fixture isn’t that high above him… neither is the one next to it.

“It’s all about misdirection, you’d know that if you came to my show. I knocked about half the lights out, waited for them to open up the door. No windows.”

“How long were you… um, how long did they keep you in there?”

“A few weeks. It felt like longer. At that point I was just glad to be home.”

He runs down the street in broad daylight, stands thunderstruck by the roadhead, sticks his thumb out for a ride. Unsurprisingly, no one stops for the strange, half-naked man with stains on his sundays. It takes hours to walk back to town.

“I… I tried to call you, from the phone in my apartment. You know you’re a special agent now? Just like we always talked about. I think I woke you up… you sounded startled… but I had to talk to you. I… I told you everything…”

“And?”

“You brushed me off.”

The Magician sits curled into the fetal position, both hands clutching the receiver, pleading into it. I know you’re busy, but can’t you just- No! Don’t hang up! The call disconnects. He cries into his knees.

“Th-that can’t be right! I would never! You don’t just turn your back on someone like that… not after…” The illusion’s eyes well up and her lip trembles. “I’m so sorry.”

“A lot of things have changed.”

He stands on the stage again, amid glitter and spotlights and motes of floating dust. This is real magic! Maybe he half believes it. The audience does.

“I gave up calling after two months of nothing. I was- no, listen, I was never angry with you… but I wanted to move on. And you clearly didn’t want anything to do with me. You were burning that bridge whether I was on it or not… so I stood back.”

“I sound paranoid.”

“You did what you had to do, I guess.”

Visions of the illusion with a gun on his buyer, forcing him over to the roadside; the three terrified figures in the back of his van; a brown-haired girl in the interview room mumbling particles; there’s a passcode and a website and a familiar face on video to fill in the rest of the blanks.

“You called me afterwards. I guess that’s something that you’d want to know.”

The Magician locks himself in the dressing room, scrolling through voicemails and newsfeed. Someone knocks but he stands there frozen, trapped by the sobbing that comes through the phone. He stares at his own reflection.

“I still don’t know if I deserve this.”

“The good or the bad parts?”

“Either or.”

It’s his turn to wake up with a start. The illusion stands there crying in the doorway. Hansel- He holds open his arms.

“I missed you. You know that, right?”

“Do you have to go?”

The Magician opens his mouth, says nothing for a moment. And now it's too late. His real sister is standing over him, hands on his shoulders.

“Wake up. Come on, it’s time to go.”

“I love you too.”

Chapter 41: *CSA* (Ruby Gloom) A Story about the Costume Jewel

Summary:

TW: attempted suicide, child prostitution, parental abuse, false imprisonment, murder, attempted murder, drug and alcohol abuse.
Soundtrack: "Ruby Jewel Was Here" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_33iJPa7rLE

Sorry about this everyone. im sorry.

The Costume Jewel has the bathroom door bolted and a marker in her hands. White skin, red hair, ink as black as the dress she’s wearing - a fine, sad little bijou of a girl with bare legs, buckled shoes and striped pantyhose on the floor. The stalls are covered in words already, so she writes on the wall.

But i mean, this place is already haunted. Not like thatll get any worse. No matter what happens hear. No matter what. She stops for a moment and cocks her head to listen as a strain of piano music drifts down the hall. And singing. And dancing. im really sorry, she writes again. i never told you guys my story so here goes.

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a redheaded woman holds a redheaded newborn on a bed with filthy covers. The child’s swaddling blanket is a stained old lacy petticoat, styled so short and wearing so thin that it’s barely worth the bother. The baby cries. In her other hand, the woman holds a bottle; not one of milk. Here’s to you, Ruby.

My mom was like the charmer and stuff except she wasnt very nice and we didnt have a nice house. Or any house. Most of the money went to the lady she worked for anyway. And the stuff that didn’t was for her.

Jewel’s mother and two dollar-bill bundles in her hands, tied with elastics. One for the gray-haired woman in the dark red dress. One for the man with falling-out teeth. The baby cries in soiled diapers while the woman puffs a pipe of something stronger than nicotine, eyes a million miles away.

Sumtimes her freinds woud be nice or i thouht they were but it was weird nice. They told me I was pretty and cute and sweet and stuff and sumtimes they gave me stuff but it was all makeup and things to make me pretty.

Jewel’s older now, toddling, and she’s tripped on her mother’s robe and almost made her drop the pipe. A stinging slap leaves her with a cheek as red as her hair, and the Costume Jewel wails. Her mother sniffs. Kid, get used to it.

Ah, don’t hurt the little gem, says a friend, lightly pinching Jewel’s other cheek. Don’t damage her now.

i was way too little to get what that ment when they were doing it. But i know better now. Their was this one guy spif speci spefically who liked my mom but he liked me better. Hes in jail now (not just cuz of what he did) but he used to be a big deal.

Seedy motel; room thirteen; her mother’s screaming. RUBY! She’s at the door, dressed up in tawdry satin and her namesake strings of glass and brass. There’s a man behind the door when she opens it, almost in his drawers already. Gray hair and a chin covered in whiskers, pinned with a silver star. She prays under her breath, but no one’s listening.

Mom did my hair and let me borrow one of her fancy dresses. Didnt fit right but i dont think he cared. i was scared to death and he wouldn’t let me run from him. He had a gun and i was scared.

He turns the radio up, a cheerful piano tune (one you could dance to) drowning out any noise she makes. No one here would stop him anyway. Cut; her dress is on the floor. She’s on the bed, a towel down to catch the growing pool redder than her hair. He’s sleeping with one arm over her, and just that one arm feels like it weighs as much as the little Jewel does, but she struggles free without him waking.

I could tell Mom was gonna make me do this again. i didnt wanna so i tried to escape. The door was locked and he had the key but he left his gun out.

The Costume Jewel quietly gets to her feet, points the barrel between the old man’s eyes. She goes for the trigger and pulls. Nothing. Again, again, again. It’s the click that brings him around. His hand could wrap all the way around her neck; her wrist is easy. Wasn’t loaded, Gem. He smirks. Y’know this is assault on an officer, right?

i mean, im sure he left out the part about what he did to me. Nobody believed me when i tried to tell them. or they just didn’t care. All alone she sniffles, big fat tears splatting against the tiled floor. Mom backed him up at my trial. And she didnt come visit me in jail. Maybe he blackmailed her. Probly he wouldnt have had to tho.

With the smack of a gavel, the scene changes to juvenile hall. Not half as crowded or quite as violent as the boys’ wing, but the next-youngest girl has three years and a full head of height on Jewel. She burrows into her oversized grey scrub uniform and tries to keep her head down.

i think Mom lied on the paperwork about how old i was. They dont usually put 10 yr olds in juvie. Maybe she wanted rid of me. Maybe she wanted to scare me so id behave when i got back. I guess maybe she couldve thougt id be safe there cuz she wasnt mean all the time, but that was dumb if she did.

It could be worse. The food’s better and more regular than she got at home, and the other, older girls don’t touch her. They’re busy with each other, fighting, yelling, making friends. She dares to relax.

Gloom! One of the guards yanks her aside in the cafeteria. You got a visitor! She expects her mother and it isn’t. The Costume Jewel turns whiter.

Most of the time they dont let people have privet visits. Sometimes they do tho. Especally for guys like the sheriff since he was important and stuff. Something like that i dont know. Theyd put us in a room together and hed do stuff. A lot. i think he mightve touched the other girls too but i was his favorite. If he wasnt lieing. He couldve been.

He cuddles her like she’s a doll, noses at her neck and hair like he’s a hungry wolf. She’s long since learned not to struggle, but not yet not to cry.

Someone had to know what was happning but maybe they didnt wanna rock the boat. They couldnt have saved me anyway. Thats what most of the other kids their had to say.

One of the others - not so much a girl anymore - grabs Jewel’s shoulder on the way out. Sorry, kid. You’ll-

never meet a day that isnt crool.” I dont really get why she said that. It didnt make me feel any better. Just a lot worse. i thought it id be there forever and ever and ever. just like mister Nave said. But i wasnt and only cuz they found out about what hapened to that other guy lord gorgan. And im really really sorry but thanks anyway. Nobody wouldve lissened if it wasnt you.

Inmates trooping into interviews, one by one, and soundproof doors slamming shut behind them. Gloom! The man who calls her in has red hair too, and skin a shade opposite to her own milk-pale, and a distressed and exhausted expression.

I herd he was arrested and everything but i didnt believe it. There are a lot of weird rumors in the world. Especially in there. But he did stop coming by. A few days later a whole bunch of us got taken to see a doctor. Then we had to talk to the cops. Nice cops. Well niceish.

He’s patient, but nervous. His eyebrows rise when she states her age. She can’t be sure, but she thinks she hears him sob as she’s leaving, and it’s a little while before he calls the next girl in.

Its OK Taylor i get it. I dont think anyone knew they were going for real little kids and i guess were easy to forget about and i now you were mad. Even when peple see the bad things peopl do they wanna think better about them i think. Lots of people said that here. And at least i got to go afterwards. i dont know what happened there but somebody must have talked to somebody. A few months later they said i could leave.

A big, Victorian style house in the suburbs. The Costume Jewel hides behind her social worker, peeking around him as a beak-nosed man ushers them both inside. Marble countertops and a room with two beds. One side is decorated, the other is not. A sad looking, dark-haired girl is there already. Misery? Why don’t you give Ruby the grand tour?

Mister Po is relly nice and all. And i like the other kids a lot. I dunno if anyone told them what happened but theyre sweet to me. Especially Eyeriss. Sometimes tho, i dont know if they really understand.

What happened to your parents? The other girl has pale, pale skin and long dark hair and only one eye. She’s smiling so hard that it looks painful and Jewel feels guilty drawing back. Mr. Poe says they didn’t die. How come you don’t live with them?

Um… my mom got into some trouble…

What kind of trouble?

Even if i could tell them, im not sure they would. Mom came back a few weeks ago. Not sure how she tracked me down but she did. she wanted me to go home with her. she promised shed be better. she said she needed me. I said no.

The Costume Jewel’s mother yells obscenities on the stoop and bangs on the front door with both hands. Jewel hides upstairs, under the covers, and doesn’t come down; even long after the sound fades away. Her foster father lets her eat dinner huddled up in bed.

I knew she was gonna make me do that stuff some more. but i know she needed the money. Is that selfish? It feels selfish. Especally with what happened.

The beak-nosed man changes the channel, not fast enough for Jewel to miss her mother’s face and the words river and throat cut.

I guess she mustve made them mad and she was too old for them to take her inside like they did with Loki and Eris and Yor Jor their guy. I know she wasnt good to me but she was my MOM you know?

Jewel in her room, sobbing into her pillow; Jewel in a brightly painted office while a man sits at his desk, flipping an hourglass; Jewel climbing out the back of her foster’s car…

I dont know what to do. I dont except this. The Costume Jewel ties her pantyhose around her neck, traces them back to the hook on the door. If she were taller this wouldn’t work at all. If she were heavier… But she’s not. Ruby Jule was hear.

(In the auditorium, the Rosey Sister springs a sudden nosebleed, and runs for cold water…)

Chapter 42: *CSA* (Mr. Peabody and Sherman) A Story about the Time Traveller and the Voyeurger

Summary:

TW: rape, children being exposed to sexual violence, possibility of child molestation.
Inspiration: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4538958

20:00.

“Dad, it’s almost bedtime.”

“Well, I think we can let that slide, just this once.”

The Voyager copies the Time Traveller’s movements: adjusting his little red bowtie with both hands; pushing up his glasses; sweeping back his hair. He climbs into his father’s lap on the stage steps and stays there, a carbon copy of the man in a different mold.

“Children. I always wanted children, even when I was one myself. That’s not so unusual, is it? At least not for girls, but I was never much of what I suppose you’d call ‘a man’s man’ by anyone’s standards. Not my teachers’ or my classmates’… not my own.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; 10:59. The Traveller on a school playground, younger than the boy he holds on the stage many years hence. Kids roughhouse and shriek around him while he, like the Detective, like Nine of Shades, reads from a book that looks as big as he is. Teachers love him. His peers do not.

“I could say something here about… oh, I don’t know, confidence, maybe? Sticks and stones and not letting it get to me, but I won’t. That’s a lie, we all know it, and I’m trying to set a good example for my son. My status did improve a bit as we all got older, more mature… though my adolescence came with its own set of… difficulties.”

12:28. His school is good, reputable (he’s there thanks to scholarships on his part). His peers can’t get away with anything too obvious. Still, someone nudges against him in the hallway and mutters Fag.

11:47. A couple of years later, he gazes at another boy, and figures out they were right. That doesn’t make the insult sting less.

“The funny thing is that nothing happened, not there, not then. High school was… an experience, then it was over. My time at university was uneventful. I wasn’t exactly being invited out to parties every other night, but I was comfortable. I’ve since learned to look back and be grateful for that.”

15:06. He earns degrees for a multiple major and jumps right into a post-graduate course in engineering, scholarships all the way through. Perhaps his choice of course is unwise.

11:05. He sits in a lecture hall, and at the podium stands a mad-eyed man in yellow tweed. In the corridor, he bumps into the Author, and thinks nothing of it.

“I transferred to another university after my first graduation, thought I’d get my engineering doctorate. A university that had experienced a rapid improvement in its reputation. I wanted to be part of its rise. Of course, I knew going in that it wouldn’t be easy - I’m intelligent, not a computer program - but I thought I was… I should have been prepared for… I was ready for difficult coursework, long hours and not sleeping for days at a time. I was prepared for that. But the professor… I wasn’t expecting a professor like… I shouldn’t have had to.”

“Dad-”

“It’s alright!” He forces his face into a smile, squeezing the Voyager… a little too hard (not that the boy complains). “I’m alright!”

09:04. The Time Traveller picks up the gown for his next graduation. He gets to class early; his professor pulls him aside. They talk about career plans. Does he have enough credits? A job lined up? Yes to the first, no to the second. Let’s do lunch.

“There wasn’t anything terribly strange about the offer. That’s just it - you never know. So I met him.”

13:33. The professor hauls a limp Time Traveller against him, dragging him out to the parking lot while his shoes scuff the floor.

“You’d think nobody would get away with doing that kind of thing in broad daylight, but I looked it up later. It’s more common than you might think. It only would have taken one person saying something… but no one did.”

14:42. The Time Traveller comes to in the car, parked somewhere far from any help. There’s a blanket over the seats. The professor’s already on top of him. There’s already blood on the blanket. He’s too groggy to scream. He struggles, but it does no good. The professor is built like a stick, but so is the Traveller, and the professor is sober.

“He said some remarkably cruel things to me. It feels like that should matter less than the physical aspect, but it stuck with me. I’m sure many of you know how these things go.”

15:01. What’re you crying for? the professor hisses between groans. If you’re so smart, you must have known this was coming. You didn’t think that was why I gave you such a good reference?

“That was bad enough, but he… he was holding a digital camera in the hand he wasn’t pinning me down with. The film must have been shaky but he definitely got a good clear view of my face and of… of what he was doing to me. We’ll get into how I know that soon…”

15:40. He comes to (the second time) in his own car, and might think it was all a dream if not for the pain. The Time Traveller sees himself in the rearview, wet red eyes behind his glasses.

16:51. He fills out forms in a hospital waiting room and shrugs it off when a nurse offers to phone the police. Ah, no… We just got a bit carried away, is all.

18:42. He returns home, head down.

“I had plans. It’s hard enough going the places I wanted to… I didn’t need that hanging over me. Maybe it was selfish - it was selfish - but it was the best I could think of at the time. Given just who that man was, it’s unlikely my accusation would have been taken seriously.”

14:23. He walks the aisle at graduation with a limp. He tells himself the diploma and the fact that he's leaving are enough.

21:02. More studies, and work, and he settles down into “real adult” life and almost forgets about the incident.

“Never completely, no, but I refused to let it hinder me. I was used to doing that.”

11:21. With his intelligence and his references, however they were gained, he finds an excellent job, which leads…

15:50. … to a nice home. A large, clean, tidy… empty apartment. He looks around it, and decides it's time.

“Well, time to start trying, anyway. Single men are not really favourites of agencies in the adoption business, especially, I’m sad to say, when a single homosexual man enquires about taking a particular male child. Of course there was no ill-intent on my part, but prejudices do persist.” He looks guiltily at Professor Pessoa. “Fortunately not as much as they used to, and Calisota does have quite the abundance of infants and children in need. The agency couldn’t tell me where exactly he came from, but I didn’t care. I knew he was perfect.”

14:39. The child who will be the Voyager appears here as a tiny tot just learning to sit up, with fine tufts of reddish hair and a squint that suggests the need for glasses later on. He babbles some sounds close to words, and the Time Traveller turns misty-eyed. This is the one.

“Things proceeded apace. I brought him home, and everything went quite the same as it does with any child, adopted or not. There were good times and bad times, more of the former, none of it really relevant to the point except to say I was very happy. I almost did forget entirely about the incident at college. Then he started school.”

08:28. He arrives at the same school as Almost-an-Adult, one grade behind her. The Voyager is decently smart, though like Tall Poppy he owes more to hard work, and to his father’s enthusiasm in teaching him extracurricular material. He’s well-behaved and polite and the teachers love him. As so often happens, the opposite is true regarding the kids.

“He had a particular nemesis - didn’t you, son?”

“Yeah. Uh, I can’t use her name, right? But there was this girl, and she was blonde and rich and really mean…”

10:17. Their teacher asks a question. Two hands shoot up while the rest of the class eyeballs the floor. The girl gives the right answer; the Voyager gives a better one. She glares at him as hard as a seven-year-old can glare.

11:06. The Voyager on the playground; someone shoves him from behind. Watch it!

“It wasn’t great. She’s smart too, but I’m not sure if she’s used to… to having to work for it. Dad said she was probably just jealous and to ignore her, only, um, it got worse. Worse than worse.”

“There, ah, was an incident at school.”

“I bit her. She liked me even less after that.”

15:45. The Voyager comes home with smudges on his glasses, waving a note. The Time Traveller looks up warily. This isn’t about Penny again…? It isn’t. The Voyager holds up Mew’s full name - and where she goes to school - and points to another part on the paper. His father is already shaking his head. Absolutely not!

07:14. A letter comes from the mail this time.

20:33. The Time Traveller shuts his laptop, face blanched white.

“Ironically, I don’t think my old… friend was involved in the study, but the young lady who ran it- you were getting help from… someone else?”

“She was invited too, only her parents let her go. And she made fun of me for that.”

“As far as I know, she came out unscathed physically, but one does worry… and unfortunately, we know she didn’t come out without something happening to her, because that affected the Voyager. The first I heard of it was when I was called into the school again. I regret to say I was not pleased. I thought there had been another fight.”

“There kind of was.”

“Yes, but remember how I said it was okay to fight if someone was hurting you like that? Showing you things like that counts.”

11:52. The Time Traveller’s let into the school building by the man who tips his hat. He stalks towards the principal’s office, but is greeted by the long-nosed counsellor instead. His anger fades at the look on the man’s face. Is… is Sherman okay?

The counsellor’s mouth twists and he half-shakes his head. He’s had a nasty shock… we should talk to him.

“I was really really upset, I was crying and I got snot all over my shirt. Sorry about that.”

“Not a problem, I promise.”

12:01. The Voyager is curled up in a corner of the sickbay, on the floor, hiding from the world. As soon as he sees the Traveller, he throws his arms around his father’s waist and cries, You’re okay! He speaks, and the Traveller stiffens as his mind is thrown right back in time.

“See, remember the video Dad mentioned earlier?”

16:00 on the dot. An office, murky afternoon sunlight streaming through mostly-closed blinds. Blond blue-eyed man stands over blonde blue-eyed girl. There’s a video on the computer. Timestamps changing as it rolls. 15:00 - 14:00 - 13… It isn’t science fiction, but it is the past. You’ve got a phone, right, kiddo? All you little ones do these days…

11:00 on the dot. Her finger hits the Play button.

“Yeah. We weren’t allowed to hear exactly what happened, but she told me that he showed her the video and gave it to her, and she found me on the playground and told me she had a cool video Dad wouldn't want me to see. I, um… ‘m sorry, Dad. I said I was old enough to see it and I didn't care what Dad thought. I do, I just wanted her to stop picking on me! B-but then she showed me…”

11:01. The Voyager sobs, hands over his mouth, unable to tear his eyes from the video, unable to shut his ears against either of the mocking voices - one recorded, one not. The girl sneers and snickers, shoves him and says, You remember how Blossom Appleseed told us how dogs and cats have babies?

“I was pretty sure she was wrong about that part, but I didn't know, and she told me… she told me I hurt him too when I was born and he probably hated me for it, and that’d be dumb even if he was my mom instead of my dad and I wasn’t adopted ‘cause all babies are born like that, but I was really upset and I couldn’t think.”

11:02. The Voyager screams and shoves back. The phone clatters to the ground; before the girl can grab it, he snatches it up and runs with it to the nearest teacher, big blubbery sobs preventing him from speaking but the video still playing and telling the teacher all she needs to know.

“I'm sure you can all imagine I wasn’t happy to be reminded of that incident, but of course my priority was him. Still, that was several awkward conversations rolled into one, once he managed to explain the whole story.”

11:13. The Time Traveller gets the call, leaves work early, offers his apologies to the Avatar’s wife as he goes. She waves him off. He enters the principal’s office and the Voyager runs into his arms, eyes still flooded with tears.

15:04. They sit together in his home office, book open on the table. It’s intended for children, though maybe not those in his son’s grade. It’s not like they have much of a choice.

Wait, says the Voyager, wrinkling his nose. If you only go out with men, who’s my mom?

Um… The Traveller adjusts his glasses and sighs. Do you know what adoption is?

“I always intended to explain things as such, though… not so early. What’s the right age for that? Some schools cover the basics around ten… No use dwelling on ‘what ifs’, I suppose.”

“I kinda wonder what they told her after that, or who told her that stuff to begin with - Dad says probably the same guy who showed her the video. I dunno. She wasn’t in school for a few days.”

“I know she was suspended, but not for long. She really didn’t know how wrong what she did was, and seeing something like that and being manipulated as she was… I think they left it off her official record on condition she attend therapy for seeing that and for the bullying issue.”

“Doesn't seem like enough.”

“Hm. I’ll refrain from commenting either way…”

09:06. Long, long talks with the principal, the parents, then the police. Can I have some time to think about it?

17:07. The Mother Superior’s office.

19:08. At home, looking through a thesaurus.

Hey, “Voyeur” means someone who saw something bad.

Um, sort of. Let’s go with something else, perhaps…

18:59. The car pulls up beside the Palace, and the Traveller takes the Voyager’s hand to lead him in as the clock ticks over to 19:00.

“I don’t want to press charges and make things harder on the Voyager, and I can’t say how much good it would actually do. With the other professor it took undeniable evidence, didn’t it? The video doesn’t show any of his face, and if it did he’d likely just use the same excuses I did at the time. But… I really don’t think I can in good conscience let him carry on this way, but I need time. I just wish my boy hadn’t been brought into it as well.” The Time Traveller looks at his son and sighs. “If only I could turn back time.”

Chapter 43: *CSA* (Treasure Planet) A Story about the Unsoiled Dove and the Blue Pigeon Flyer

Summary:

TW: murder, physical and sexual abuse of a young teen, forced and subsistence prostitution, threats, violent fantasies, false accusation, breaking and entering, poverty, unhealthy relationship, STDs. Spot the Simpsons reference!
Soundtrack:
"A Cautionary Song" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0WH2JRfLRP0
"The Mariner's Revenge" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iPAr7kL-mmg

“Do you want to go first, Mom?”

“Do you?”

The Unsoiled Dove and the Blue Pigeon Flyer, mother and son, sit on the stage. She’s thirty-three and looks older in her exhaustion; he’s sixteen and looks younger in his nervousness. Both of them look similar, with shaggy brown hair and old but clean clothing.

“We can try to go together?” suggests the Flyer. “It’s kind of the same story, for parts of it.”

“Alright.” The Dove breathes in deep, in through her nose and out through her mouth. “I suppose it starts with the inn.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment: the camera pans down past the sign of Beacon Street, down by the docks; the Knight’s and Molotov’s student housing stands at one end, and at the other stands the Admiral Benbow Inn. The Dove, little older than the Flyer is on the stage, waits and wipes down tables. Her belly is growing, and her fingers are bare. She’s smiling, humming, contented.

“It’s been in the family - my family - pretty much since the settlers came west. I think it was originally named something else, but I’d have to look that up. After Robert Louis Stevenson got popular…” She shrugs, and smiles. “Well, I’d have to tell you our real names to explain the joke. The family’s well-established enough that, when I got married, my husband took my name. He’s… he didn’t harm me, but it wouldn’t be inaccurate to say he’s why we’re here.”

“Yeah, my dad was…” The Flyer shifts uncomfortably. “I dunno how to describe him anymore.”

A rake and a roustabout, someone might have said a hundred-fifty years ago. He’s but a lad of eighteen, and he looks like the Flyer, with curlier hair and olive-tinted skin, and a sparkle in his smile. He has the same cheap and debonair charm as the Wondersmith’s Sons, but maybe he means it when he kisses the Dove. In memory only, it’s hard to tell.

“I got pregnant earlier than I really should have. Nothing too scandalous, but early. Seventeen. We thought everything would be fine, since I already had an established home and future career, and my parents were… kind of dubious on it, but they gave permission for us to get married and he moved into the inn’s private quarters with us.”

Enter the Blue Pigeon Flyer, blue-blanket-bound and soundly sleeping. His father strokes the boy’s fuzzy brown hair, but there’s distance in his eyes already. Months go by, and little by little the father spends less and less time at home… at the Dove’s home, at any rate. Was it ever really his home, in his heart?

“I don’t think he was ready for responsibility… or maybe he never would have wanted it. He was that kind of guy. The kind you can’t bear to look away from when you’re seventeen and never want to see again when the shine wears off him. I thought of him as a free spirit. Like you,” the Dove says to her fledgling with a gentle smile. “And things might have worked out okay, even with him drifting, until my parents died. The inn was successful so I was well taken care of, money-wise, but that much responsibility when I’d only just turned eighteen and we had a new baby? It didn’t go well.”

(The Blue Pigeon Flyer submerged in bathwater, lips turning purple while his father lies passed out. The Blue Pigeon Flyer frozen to death in a stroller outside one of his father’s bars, tears shining on his chubby face. The Blue Pigeon Flyer emaciated and sluggishly breathing, too weak to even cry…)

“They say it’s normal to worry about your children. My own father had dreams of dropping me… but with that much stress…”

“I was only, like, three when I started noticing he wasn’t great. Little much for a kid that young to have to handle. They’d fight, but Mom would give in because she didn’t want to freak me out with yelling. It took me a few more years to figure out exactly what he was doing. Oh, no, he didn’t touch me - and I don’t think he hit her or forced her or anything?” The Flyer looks to his mother, who nods. He shrugs and adds, “Didn’t hug me either, though.”

The father comes home with alcohol on his breath. With lipstick on his collar. With dirty hands and trousers torn. With slips bearing horse and dog track logos in his pocket, replacing money. With tiny blood spots and snap-flashes of microscopic movement in his underclothes, with sores, with burning urine, and the Dove soon suffers the same.

“Of course I knew he was sleeping around. I told myself it was okay as long as he came back to me. I denied the drinking. I wanted to believe him when he said the missing money had gone on keeping the inn afloat, even though I did the accounts. He never was good at keeping records even back when he was trying to, so…”

Denial’s as good as any gag, keeping her sorry tongue from any speaking.

(The Blue Pigeon Flyer, older, bleeding from similar sores at his mouth. The Blue Pigeon Flyer, handing over stacks of bills at poker tables. The Blue Pigeon Flyer at street corners, handing over more bills to men with ziplock baggies and women with unconcealing clothing.)

“And then,” the Flyer says, fists clenched, “he disappeared. I think I was eight then, maybe ten, and he walked right out on us. Left his gambling arrears behind, though. And Mom,” he swallows, “Mom damn near lost her mind but she had to hold it together for me. I’m so sorry I didn’t help.”

“Honey, you were eight.”

“I mean later. I’m not talking about not eating my collard greens or anything. I was a little shit when I hit my teen years. See, back in the old days, a blue pigeon flyer was the term for a guy who stole lead off roofs. I don’t even know if they use lead for roofs anymore, but I definitely went up there and I definitely did some illegal stuff, so, yeah, but I’ll get to that later.”

“And a soiled dove…” The Dove trails off and shrugs at the adults. “You probably guessed my story already. The debts just kept growing, and the inn fell into poor condition so people came there less often, and the debts got worse… I had to do something to save it. To save him.”

The Dove tucks the Flyer into his nest, and walks down Beacon Street towards the red lights in the softly-falling rain - not snow, not in California at sea level, but the wind still feels bitter cold to a woman in a skirt so short and a blouse so thin. She spent her last dollar on the pepper spray she clutches as she reaches the docks, and joins the flocks of women wearing even less. She glances at them and ties her blouse off under her bosom, hoping it’s enough to bring the gentlemen calling.

“I can’t say it worked well, I had no idea what I was doing then. But I learned fast.”

A man shows the Dove how to flip her hair sideways.

(The Blue Pigeon Flyer digging through trash cans, chewing on stale bread and potato peels.)

A girl talks about bars and hotel lobbies.

(The radiator is broken, and the Flyer falls asleep in an empty house…)

The soiled Dove bites her lip and nods, and soon her clothes fall to a bundle in an alleyway.

“I was too little to understand at first… to really get it, you know - what she was doing for me… and why… but I knew him leaving made her sad. And even then I was angry. I hated him for that.”

(The Dove’s husband eaten by a dragon, a hungry tiger, a whale… The Flyer rides or watches with a smile on his face.)

“Being around the inn made me remember Dad, so I started spending more time away. We couldn’t afford after-school clubs or anything so I’d just go hang out at the skate park. Couldn’t afford a board but by then Mom had taught me how to fix stuff around the inn, so I got hold of a broken board, made my own from plywood and duct tape and fixed the old one’s wheels on it, and I got pretty damn good! So that was okay, till I got bored with the park.”

The Flyer skids his skateboard down steps, then down the handrails. He is banned from the local library for riding down the indoor staircase. He shimmies up a drainpipe and uses a church roof as a ramp, landing on the nearby shed. Every time he sees a Do Not Enter sign, he enters, and usually finds a good place to use his board.

“I guess it’s probably a good thing I never got a ride out to the gorge, right? Remember that guy? I think the ambulance is still there.” He chuckles, and the audience giggle along. The Flyer sobers. “That was okay for a few years. I was staying out of Mom’s way, I didn’t see anything, and people are more okay with ignoring an eight-year-old doing stuff like that, or else they just tell you to stop ‘cause you’ll get hurt. But once you hit thirteen or so, then you’re a ‘teenage thug’ and it gets serious.”

(The Blue Pigeon Flyer lying on a stretcher as a sheet’s pulled over him. The Blue Pigeon Flyer with his body bent and twisted, rasping out a few last breaths - the Dove can’t help him, she isn’t here.)

The Blue Pigeon Flyer in a holding cell, grumbling about his confiscated board. Hey there, birdie. A blonde woman peers through the bars.

“I never had to do it with all eight of them. They weren’t all there that first time… but, I mean, one person would have been enough. And one time would have been too many. I remember crying… begging for Mom… for my dad to help me. But Dad wasn’t there. He was never there.”

The Flyer’s finger broken when he struggles.

(His father’s hands shattered to splinters.)

The Flyer stripped and buried under a much bigger body’s weight.

(His father clawing at the ceiling of a coffin.)

The Flyer with bleach-droplet burns on his clothes.

(His father dissolving in the belly of a whale.)

He tells the Dove he fell when she asks about his bruises. She tells him she called in a favor when he asks about the repairs. Each pretends to believe the other. Neither would say a thing to cousin, kindred, kith or kin, even if they had any left but each other.

“I got… mad. Really mad. I tried not to take it out on Mom, I knew she was having a hard time keeping the place afloat even before I figured out how she was, but I know she noticed I got snappy and of course the cops had to talk to her a few times. I think she thought it was, uh, everything else. I mean, I don’t wanna make it sound like she wasn’t doing her best or anything but it was tough for both of us.”

“It was. No need to sugarcoat that, honey, it was. I… I thought it was just stress at home making him act out and he’d got into fights with other kids. Teenagers get like that over less. Don’t they?” Her tone is pleading. “I didn’t want him to know what I did when he was asleep, but I should probably have guessed he knew. He’s smart, I never doubted that.”

Jim, I just don’t want to see you throw away your whole future! the Dove cries when he’s dragged home with bruises yet again.

(The Dove sits at a bolted-down table. The Flyer faces her, dressed in orange, clasping a phone.)

The Flyer takes dirty dishes into the kitchen with a mutter of What future?

(The Flyer and his father standing dockside. He throws him into the water and watches him drown.)

“That happened a couple times. Mom had it way wo-”

“J- Flyer, please. I was an adult. I knew what I was getting into and I chose it.”

“Still sucked…”

Street corners, different ones each time. The Dove’s the oldest of some groups, the youngest of others, the healthiest of most. Raddled women with bleached hair and pipe burns and tiny ones with too much makeup and padded clothing; men, mostly on the young side, with knives in their boots; and all are very, very tired. The Dove would take them all under her wing if she could, open her inn to them all, but she can barely hold onto it as it is. A short Mexican boy with a green bandana shows her how to pick pockets, but she never dares to try it. There’s enough of a sorry racket in maidenhead.

“Of course the cops knew, and even some of the ones who weren’t getting at the Flyer were on the take, or open to negotiation.”

Hard-earned money drains away into blue pockets. The Dove can’t get them drugs but points them to girls and boys who can. One or two count her offer of exchange as consent. One or two don’t care, and sometimes she and her son are clasped and pinioned, unknowing, by hands with each other’s blood still under the nails.

(The Flyer held down. The Flyer, grown up with no decent man to guide him, holding someone else down.)

(The Flyer holding his father down.)

“I was getting older and I knew what those guys liked by now. I was… I was just sick of getting hurt. I’m sorry, Mom…”

(The Flyer makes an offer-)

The Flyer makes an offer.

“You did the right thing. I’d rather see you hurt less.”

“I guess. And, um, Dad… Dad didn’t do that. That’s a bit later though. I figured out what was going on with Mom - even if I hadn’t, they kinda… one of ‘em made fun of me about it. Jerk. I was a pretty shitty kid, but not shitty enough that I was just gonna let her keep doin’ that with no help. So I got a part-time job… kind of…”

(The Flyer wielding a crowbar, breaking a shop window-)

The Flyer wielding a crowbar, breaking a shop window, and crawling inside. Bigger, stronger men, blunt instruments similarly in their hands, follow or stand guard. Later, he sneaks money into the safe. The Dove finds it, and he refuses to answer when she asks from where it came.

(The Flyer’s crowbar striking his father’s head.)

“Yeah. Be fair, the legit employers around town knew me as a troublemaker and who else was I gonna meet in lockup? And… there were worse alternatives.”

She’s standing in the harbor, waiting for the barges and the party boats. The Dove hugs herself a little tighter, just barely covered - by the skirt she’s wearing, by the money, by the storm drain. A man with biceps the size of butchers’ blades holds an umbrella over a girl with milky hair. Red faces; red ink on the backs of their hands.

(The Flyer in a cell with one of them… Easy money: with a face like yours, with hands like that…)

“At least with those guys I had a protector. No, not a pimp! He was sorta the leader of the group. He’s… he’s kind of a cool guy. Ignoring the whole burglary thing, I mean. I don’t think he liked actually hurting people, or at least not kids.”

A hulking boulder of a man, eye-arm-leg on one side replaced by prosthetics, gets between the Flyer and a bug-eyed, lank-haired “coworker” with a switchblade. The knife-wielder backs off.

(The Flyer bleeding out.)

Crisis averted, the man’s flesh hand claps down on the Flyer’s shoulder. Didn’t yer pap ever teach yeh to pick yer fights more carefully? The Flyer’s face turns sour, and the man is immediately regretful.

(The man’s flesh hand slipping into the Flyer’s pants.)

“That never happened with him. Never even got a creepy vibe from him, though I think he was trying to give the other guys that impression so they wouldn’t hurt me to get control over him. I was in the sweet spot there - young enough to look sorta girly so he didn’t look too gay, and old enough none of the other guys got protective. Gotta work the double standards, right? I think he wanted to be the dad I didn’t have. Maybe he used to have kids of his own, or never did and wanted them. I never asked. It’d be weird to, now.”

“While that was happening, my sideline was still going, and…” The Dove hugs herself, until the Flyer hugs her instead. “The Ark obviously can’t keep tabs on every sex worker in their territories, but I’m not that great an actress. The kind of people who picked me up were the kind who liked that I didn’t like it, and, um… let’s say there’s overlap in the target market. I don’t know who, but someone must have snitched.”

The only one who actually comes to her is a teenage girl. No older than the Flyer.

(The Flyer in those jeans, with those faint bruises…)

She tries not to think too hard about it.

Thank you for your cooperation! Mother will be so happy!

She hands over thirty dollars that first time, more later on. The money pours away again.

“She showed me pictures of the inside.” Shuddering. “Told me there were some of their guys watching the place so I couldn’t just refuse or stop her from leaving. I think Jewel’s mom was in a similar situation? As long as I paid for the ‘privilege’ of working in their territory, they’d leave me alone. If not… well, they might still leave me alone, or not.”

(The Flyer chained in front of cameras… The Dove chained in front of cameras, the Flyer on the street when the inn closes down…)

“After that I didn’t even care about the inn anymore, I would have sold up and fled, except I was scared. If they found me… I was seriously considering taking the Flyer and getting out anyway, but the rest of his story happened before we had the chance.”

“Yeah. That guy I mentioned before? Him and me got caught one night. I was kinda hoping that if any of those cops were on duty they’d leave me alone if I came in with backup. Of course I know he couldn’t actually fight off a bunch of people, but… that’s not exactly what happened.”

Busy night at the precinct. The Blue Pigeon Flyer and his… not-father are manhandled into the last holding cell. There’s already a man inside.

(The Flyer’s hands closing around his neck…)

Jim?

“I always thought that when I saw him again - if I saw him again - I’d give him a piece of my mind. And a punch to the gut. It wasn’t like I didn’t recognize him, but… Thinking something isn’t the same as really wanting it. And wanting… well, that’s not the same thing as doing either.”

The Flyer stands still. Then lunges. His not-father isn’t fast enough to stop them from colliding, falling, crashing on the floor.

“I hit him. A few times. I think he deserved it - deserved that, at least - but not…” He looks desperately at the Dove. “I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean- We made too much noise.”

“It’s not your fault, honey. I think the cells are soundproofed. Maybe they just came in at the wrong moment… Um, not that any moment would be right.”

The cell block door clicks open and a switch is flipped, fluorescent light flooding the whale’s-belly-dark cell block. Hey, Speed Racer. Lookin’ to add assault charges?

The Flyer’s not-father tries to hold him back. It’s too late. He tries to get between the boy and the officers. One pulls a gun.

“They didn’t wanna mess with him ‘cause he’s not good-looking and he’s tough enough to be trouble, and they didn’t really have anything on him they could use to push him around. Me, though… and my dad…”

The Flyer’s gene donor does look very much like him. Still a charming face. Still not that big or strong. Five officers; one to hold the gun, two each for the Flyer and the once-flown. There’s grey in the second one’s hair but they call him Boy.

“I didn’t mention it before because it wasn’t relevant, I didn’t wanna make it sound like that was why he did that stuff, it’s not and it’s a stereotype, but Dad isn’t - wasn’t - fully White. Actually, Mom isn’t either, but it was a little bit more, uh, visible with him. Not much, but he was more obviously Brown than either of us. I… I gotta wonder if that’s part of why it went so much worse for him.”

His father struggles. The Blue Pigeon Flyer lies still. They really do break his fingers to splinters, to keep him from clawing at the first one’s chest. They don’t have to. It would have been easy to hold him down…

“But why it happened doesn’t matter. They… they… And he…” The Flyer gulps. “He fought back a little too hard, and they pushed back harder.”

The Flyer’s father lies bleeding on the concrete, his skull cracked open on the bars. The officers panic and scatter. The Flyer falls to his knees, his not-father standing close behind but looking lost. He bloodies his hands and knees bending down and (he) leans (in) close (and) whispers (the) last (words) his (father) will (hear)… (Fuck you…) I’m sorry, Dad…

“I sorta held his hand. I couldn’t even grip it properly, it was so broken.”

(The Flyer’s father dies in front of him-)

The Flyer’s father dies in front of him and the Flyer

(laughs)

cries like he hasn’t since before the man ever left.

“Of course that was when I came in. See, his father and I, well, we never actually divorced. They contacted me to tell me my husband was dead. I came to the station to identify him and they only told me the Flyer was there when I arrived.”

(The Flyer in cuffs. The Flyer in a cell. The Flyer in torn and ruined clothing. The Flyer in tears. The Flyer seeing death, seeing murder) and NOW ALL OF IT IS REAL…

The Dove flies to his side.

“I don’t think they even knew he was my dad until after… after they had to call Mom. The sheriff talked to us afterwards. He seemed to think it was funny.”

“They’d have had to call me anyway, eventually.”

It’s okay, the Dove whispers, running a hand through the Flyer’s hair. Let’s get you home-

Sorry, miss, but he ain’t goin’ anywhere.

“They needed a fall guy. And… and who else was covered in bruises?”

That’s not my… stuff on him! the Flyer stutters. When they test it-

Who d’you think’s got access to the tests outta the two of us, Speed Racer? The sheriff picks a brown hair and flakes of blood from his own shirt cuff. The Flyer and the Dove frantically search for words and cling to each other; the Sheriff takes her hand and pulls her away…

The Flyer’s not-father stands, and says, I’d like to make a confession.

The sheriff stops.

“Like I said, they had no reason to mess with him, and he was already going down for the burglary stuff.” The Flyer wipes his eyes, and sniffs hard. “He argued ‘em down to mopping up the… the sex stuff and just sayin’ it was a fight. No fuss, no questions… He could be out in a few years, maybe. Maybe less if he can get can get a good cop to listen to what really happened. I don’t know how it’s gonna go. Mom didn’t let me go anywhere near the station or the prison after that, and, I mean, I didn’t wanna go either. I feel like we should’ve, though. None of my friend’s friends were gonna visit him.”

“And we had other problems…”

The body is their responsibility. Cremation, no service. It still costs a good thousand dollars. More than they have. The inn is in disrepair again; no one will buy it. The banks are dubious.

“It wasn’t too long after that when I first came here.”

The Dove sits in the Mother’s office, begging for any contacts, anyone who might be willing to help. The Mother picks up the phone immediately.

“Thank you all so much. I’m getting close to being able to pay you back…”

I hate to accept handouts, the Dove says, as the Mother hands her an envelope.

Consider it more that we’re paying your ransom, says the Mother. She clenches her fist. We have every intention of taking that money back. I’m assured that the Ark’s assets will be dissolved when we’re done with them and they owe us all a great deal.

“I don’t have to… do what I did anymore,” the Flyer says. “And Mom doesn’t either. I wonder if that’d make Dad happy.”

(The Flyer on his father’s shoulders. The Flyer hugging his father’s waist. The night in the cell, men in blue surrounding his father, the Flyer stepping in the way…)

“I think he loved us.” The Dove caresses the Flyer’s cheek. “I don’t think he fit well in a family life, but he would have wanted us to be happy.”

The Flyer lays his hand over the Dove’s and squeezes. “I feel sorta bad for wishing my friend had been my dad instead, now. I still wish I’d known him when I was little, if Dad had to leave. Maybe… maybe either of them could have kept me out of that life instead of in it.”

Chapter 44: (Madeline) A Story about La Vierge Madeleine

Summary:

TW: blackmail for sex, victim-blaming, estrangement from family.

Dear Ms Miss Clavel,

Hélène says you live in California. Whats it like being there? Have you seen anyone important yet? Vicky’s been telling us all about super famous american movie stars. I like the Bugs Bunny ones the best, even though she says he’s super old news now. You’ll tell us if you see anyone, won’t you? And send pictures?

XOXO,

Lucinda

P.S. When are you coming back?

La Vierge Madeleine reaches up to adjust something that isn’t there. She’s brown-haired and plainly dressed; neither ugly nor beautiful. And she sits, saying nothing: dowdy gray skirt spread out like a tablecloth, a stack of colored stationery, letter opener in one hand… The others give her a wide berth.

Mademoiselle Clavel,

My English has getting better so I th ink I wood rite to you this way. The Française is so much easier but I am learned. I wish you were hear too teach me. I hope to see you soon.

Much luv,

Marie-Odille

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; an old house in Paris all covered in vines and twelve little girls in two straight lines. La Madeleine walks hand in hand with the smallest one. Red hair, yellow sailor hat. Cut; she breaks away. Cut; she walks along the bridge rail. La Madeleine flutters like an especially pious moth, snatching her back to safety.

Dear Miss Clavel,

Happy late Valentine’s Day! I wish you could have been here. Pepito and Madeline have been spending a lot of time together. Still no fighting. It’s almost boring. Almost. We thought maybe they’d be sweethearts until she helped him carry in a big bouquet for Vicky. She looked so happy we thought she was going to cry!

Yours,

Sylvette

P.S. Vicky is allergic to roses.

The smallest one in bed with a fever, screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night. The smallest one on a hospital stretcher, la Madeleine hanging, horrified, behind. The smallest one holding up her pajamas to reveal a three-inch scar. Cut; moving vans out front when they return together. The Spanish ambassador’s moving in next door. And there’s a boy with a vespa, and a sullen face.

Miss Clavel,

I know you said not to kick up a fuss, but I really do think we need you back, and soon too. My head will explode just by listening to Chantel recite Uzbeki poetry when the ambassador comes by.

Help!

Signed,

Serena

A man in a black suit comes by in the middle of dinner, eyes the girls clucking in their chairs. He and la Madeleine speak outside.

I’m closing the school down.

But-

Cut; she sends the girls to bed.

Dear Miss Clavel,

Pepito’s new tutor is showing us how to fix a motorcycle. Apparently, he used to drive them professionally. Serena says he’s just lying to sound cool, but I believe him. We miss you though. At least we know why the old one had to leave. The old tutor. Sorry, I’m not very good at this, am I?

KIT,

Veronica

That night the girls wake the whole house up screaming, the ambassador’s son at the window in a rubber monster-mask. Cut; la Madeleine carries over a tool box and rings the bell. His tutor answers, eyeing her up and down. What do you do on your day off?

… I pray.

Dear Miss Clavel,

I think Genevieve misses you. She keeps whining and stopping at the car when we go out for our walks. The new sister they sent us said not to have her in the dorms, but Madeline’s done it twice already. Going for a third.

Pray for us!

- Elizabeth

The girls in dresses; the house all done up with red balloons; she drags the smallest one off the boy kicking and shouting. Cut; two lines writing lines and grumbling about it. They’re still arguing about it days later. The smallest one gets up on the bridge-rail. Cut; a yellow dog pulls her out of the water. Back to la Madeleine’s arms.

Miss Clavel,

I thought you should know that Madeline snuck out yesterday. Vicky and I followed her, of course. She went to the police station. I think she’s been trying to see Mr Leopold, only he wasn’t there.

From,

Lolo

The smallest one stays in bed the next morning, la Madeleine heads out with the rest of her brood. The piano seat’s been pushed in from its usual angle; there are large, muddy prints on the mat.

Seigneur Connard paid us a visit, the cook says. Cut; the smallest one and the girls upstairs.

Lord Cucuface is selling the school! I heard it! Cue the tears.

Miss Clavel,

Did you know Artemisia Gentileschi was a tortured artist? Literally! They used thumbscrews on her during her boyfriend’s trial, just to see if she was lying or not. I think they should have let her gouge his eyes out or cut his tongue or something. Like in all those paintings.

Thinking of you,

Beatrice

Twelve little girls turned loose at the circus. La Madeleine spots the Ambassador with his wife and son. And the tutor. Later, she runs by them, hustling the girls through the rain. Cut; the next smallest sobbing in the foyer.

Who? Who ran away?

Madeline! I tried to stop her. I… I tried!

And so la Madeleine rushes out again. She doesn’t come back until well past dawn.

Dear Mrs Clavel,

What’s a prostitute?

Chantel

Policemen and doctors and calendar pages. The school changes hands. La Madeleine and the Uzbek ambassador: I can’t leave… I can’t- What if she comes home? Cut; the start of a new term. The letters come a day after that - the ransom notes. La Madeleine looks at the church, looks at the other girls and the house next door. She’s still looking when the ambassador’s son returns.

Pepito! Thank God… but what about my Madeline?

He puts a slip of paper in her hand - an address - and that’s all there is, there isn’t any more.

Miss Clavel,

What’s it like at your new school? I mean really. I looked the name up online, you know. No offense intended of course, but those yellow coats are just horrendous. And those uniforms are just so blah. I don’t know how you put up with it, I wouldn’t be able to. Really, the most sensible thing would be if you just came back.

Please?

Regards,

Vicki

She turns out the light, leaves the girls in bed, leaves the dog in the shed outside. The cook will watch them. La Madeleine drives. There’s the tutor, sitting on the roof of his car in the darkness when she steps out of her own. There’s the smallest one, drugged and unconscious, but physically unharmed, in the backseat. La Madeleine reaches - Ah, ah, ah… we had a deal. - for her wimple. Funny, I thought your hair would be longer. It drops on the ground, and the rest of her clothes follow suit.

Miss Clavel,

I’m worried about Madeline. The other girls too, but Madeline’s been missing you really, really bad. Me too. Can you at least call us more?

Wish you were here,

Aggie

God as your witness, Sister Clara, is this true?

La Madeleine nods for a room full of clergy. Yes, Father, it is. But, I did it for-

Did you scream? Was there force involved?

Slowly, she shakes her head.

Dear Ma Miss Clavel,

You must think I haven’t written. Fine, okay, maybe that’s half true. I do write the letters, I just don’t send them. I never know what I want to say. At first I missed you. Now I’m just angry. Why did you leave me? How could you? You said you loved me. Why didn’t you want me to come along?
The older girls know something they aren’t telling me. Was it my fault?
I tried to be good, you know, I always tried. Why wasn’t that enough?
Why wasn’t I enough?

I hate you,

Madeline

A new house in Perris, still covered in vines, and more little girls in two straight lines - only eleven. A habitless Madeleine takes the uneven spot at the end.

“No. No.” It must be raining. There are droplets on the page. “P-pas mon… Madeline.”

Chapter 45: (Onward) A Story about the Math Wizard / A Story about the Unsung Hero

Summary:

TW: rape, grooming of a teenager, kidnapping, torture, implied murder, amputation.

A Story about the Math Wizard

TO DO:

One finger in his mouth, the Wizard flips through his notebook, nursing a splinter between his teeth. He’s painfully average looking - skinny, long nose, curly hair… and there are dark blue bags under his eyes.

◻️Speak up more

The Hero throws up his arms, eyes gleaming. “Onward ho!”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a man with glasses picks the Hero up and hugs him, beard bristle scrubbing his pudgy baby cheek. The Wizard sits on the couch, totally wrapped up while the silly home video makes a mockery of the brand new flatscreen. You know who that is, Ian?

Da-da!

BARLEY! Get the camcorder!

◻️Learn to drive

“I know I’m smiling now, but… shit man, I haven’t felt this way in years. W-we had to keep going after Dad died. This time won’t be any different - it shouldn’t be…”

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, IAN: The Wizard (two years old) giggling as his brother smears icing on his nose; the Wizard (four years old) wriggling in the Hero’s arms as he’s held up to pin the tail on the donkey; the Wizard (eight years old) tearing wrapping paper off a huge cardboard box, revealing the smaller box inside ( It’s that calculator thing you wanted, pretty cool, right? And the Hero ruffles his hair); the Wizard (sixteen years old) squirms and frets and weaves between cars on the highway, only crying a little bit. You wanna make it in time, don’t you?!

I’M NOT READY!

You’ll never be ready! Merge!

◻️ Invite people to party

“You know, I was the fearless one before… before everything and he was the egghead, and that was okay. Now, though… You know how they say a watched pot never boils? What about the opposite of that? ‘The world changes when you look away’. Think that’s an expression? It should be.”

The Wizard gets up in class and stammers out a greeting, leg bouncing, toes tapping one-two-double time on the linoleum floor (Hold still, Ian. Hold still). Nobody but the teacher is listening. The Hero stands behind a gameboard, at a table with some six-odd fellow teenagers spread around.

What do you mean Yi’s not coming?

You know Mr. Ao hates you, right? What’d you think would happen when he found out?

◻️ BE LIKE DAD He turns to the next page.

“I wonder what the old man would think if he could see us now. Ideally, he’d be proud, but realistically? I think he’d probably cry as much as Mom did.”

They drive past the big university. The Wizard leans out the window while the Hero stares straight ahead.

That’s where Dad went, right?

Think so.

I think that’s where they’re giving us the… never mind.

✓ Take the AMC

“He was supposed to be part of the - no, hold on,” the Hero clears his throat and drops into… what could be an impression of the Chairman. “- the International Mathematical Olympiad. Bit of a mouthful there. Yeah, guess who’s been paying attention?”

The Wizard wades through children in the hallway, too flustered to question what they’re doing there in the first place. He finds Mew in front of the big double doors; she tries to point him the other way. Huh? I’m sorry, I don’t think I…

I’ll take care of it. Pomade and velvet and dulcet tones. P.R. smiles like Christmas in July. Mathematics, eh? A man after my own heart.

✓ Spend more time with Prof. Ratigan

“They caught him- well, maybe not caught, but still… and that’s… great. I just wish I had something to do with it - does that sound selfish? Yeah, well…” He blows his nose with a much-abused tissue, stuffing it back into his jeans. “I knew something was wrong with him. I always knew.”

Four o’ clock on the dot when the Hero rolls up in his broken-down van. The Wizard comes out at five-oh-three.

That’s your brother?

Um, yeah… he mumbles. Listen… I should go-

P.R. laughs. Please don’t be embarrassed. I know how… disappointing some families can be.

✓ Ask Prof. about Dad

“I dunno how long that guy was working on him. Probably from the beginning, but I didn’t meet him right away. If I had- Woulda-coulda-shoulda… Whatever. That didn’t happen and we’re here now.”

Open face; open heart; open door. The Wizard ducks into the professor’s office, stops sharply when he sees the girls. They’re younger, ginger, bespectacled… and P.R. looks bored as all hell. Ah, Ian! Come in, come in!

Cut; he waves a scoring sheet around wildly, drinking in the big man’s (surprisingly sincere) applause.

Cut; Did you ever… meet my dad when he was a student here? the Wizard asks.

P.R. sits in the chair across from him. A little blonde girl colors on the floor. Willden Lightfoot? Goodness, yes! Why, I remember one time-

Cut; he holds his hand out and P.R. places something - a gold ring - into his palm. The stone inside looks like amber, shines like glass. The Wizard turns it over and around - again; again; again! - then he smiles. This belonged to my dad?

✓ Write/send thank you note

“The crazy thing is that I didn’t see it sooner - even before I laid eyes on the guy, there were so many red flags. Some big brother… some big brother… Dad would have been better… but Dad isn’t here.”

Open window; open sandwich; open mouth. The Hero kicks back in the parking lot and waits. Cut; he waves to one of Nine’s peers on his way to the bathroom. That boy keeps going with his eyes cast down.

Cut; Ian, hey, we’ve gotta… oh. Well, hey there, kiddo.

This boy shrinks under his gaze. I… I… Do you like dinosaurs?

Cut; a teenager with glasses leans against his sister. Professor R-Ratigan, he whispers. That’s all the Hero hears walking past. There are bruises around his wrist.

Cut; Barley, uh… hey? This is Mr. Ratigan, he works at-

Professor Ratigan, he says through his smile, reaching out to take the Hero’s hand. It’s a pleasure, I’m sure.

◻️ Barley

“Talk about creepy. It was my job to- I’m the oldest, he’s my little brother - you gotta look out for little brothers. I wanted to protect him.”

I don’t think Barley likes you…

My boy, and P.R.’s hand comes to rest on the Wizard’s lower back, you did say he was… eccentric. Perhaps he’s jealous.

Of… us spending time together?

Of your success.

In the office, the Wizard lets out a small, nervous chuckle. He’s silent during the car ride home.

I just… He seems creepy, okay? I don’t like the way he-

Yeah, well, maybe it’s none of your business.

✓ Be more independent

“Listen, I know the Wizard isn’t up here, but- I mean, I get it, it’s hard to talk about… even if it’s not his fault. It isn’t. You… you know that, right? I hope so.”

The Wizard crams for another test in P.R.’s office. He’s not a math professor, but there is graph paper on the table and quiet in the room and practice tests by the sheet. Ah, Ian! I made these up for you.

Cut; You don’t understand, Mom, he’s so cool! He says Dad-

I don’t think your father ever took criminology.

I guess he just didn’t talk about it.

Cut; Just drop me off here, okay? he says, getting out a block from the school.

Are you sure? I can-

Cut; Guilt, my friend, is the most useless emotion. And it- He’s a nuisance, you said so yourself. Both big hands on those fragile shoulders. Say, I know just the thing to put your mind at ease.

I really can’t-

No, I insist. Don’t doubt my decision.

✓ Dinner on Friday (Gusteau’s)

“I kinda wish I’d stopped him from going at all. Wait, kinda? I don’t know why I said that.”

Nice clothes, nice manners, and the best restaurant in town. The Wizard tugs on his shirt collar, looking wildly from the fountains to the waiters (who are better dressed than he is) to his older “friend”. The cosmos here are to die for. No, don’t worry, I’ll take care of everything. All you have to do is hold still… Like it was for the Painter, that first sip tastes like salt.

Oh… Oh my God, is that a sword?!

✓ Ask Mom for a ride

“So, so, so, soooo… it’s important to remember that there is one thing to be proud of in all this. Still…”

The Hero holds the iaito over his head like something sharper. P.R. looks up from his gougeres, looks completely nonplussed, looks straight at him. … Mr. Lightfoot, what are you doing here?

What are you doing getting a sixteen-year-old drunk?

I’m-aech! The Hero bonks him with the sword.

◻️ Kill Barley

“The Wizard was pissed. I mean we’d been fighting anyway, because- okay, full disclosure, I probably should have been arrested. The only reason he didn’t press charges has to be that he was up to something worse. See, I can’t prove that, but seriously! I don’t care if my little brother has a couple of drinks at a party, but what kind of adult gets a teenager to drink with him? Hell, what kind of college professor spends that much time with some high school kid at all?”

The dog slinks into his kennel while masters one and two shout back and forth. The Wizard shoves the Hero back into his gameboard. The Hero gets up and shoves back… harder than he probably means to. And the ring that P.R. gave him slips from his pocket. And the “stone” shatters on the ground.

◻️ Visit jeweler The Wizard flips to another page again.

“Don’t beat yourself up too much about it, alright? I would have been mad too.”

Why are you such a… such a screw-up?! The Hero reaches out, the Wizard smacks away his hand. Stay away from me! Just get away from me!

Ian, I- … Okay. I’ll just… MA? I’M GOING FOR A DRIVE. He stops for gas after just a mile, puts his forehead to the machine and wails. He doesn’t realize that he’s not the only one there.

✓ Call G&G group

“I never actually saw the ones who, uh… not until after the fact. For the longest time I thought it was him.”

“He probably had something to do with it,” little brother says from his chair, his voice almost a whisper. “That’s what the police think.”

There’s a prick in the side of his neck. Then a lot of nothing. The Author’s old friend wipes off the needle. P.R. catches the Hero as he goes down. You realize now that you owe me a favor.

That’s refreshing. Laughter. Please, you just want chubby out of the picture.

✓ Printshop

“I think maybe I did get it right in the end. I did protect him… just in a crazy, majorly fucked-up, sort of way… Still counts! I was gone and the Wizard was worried and he spent less time around the creepy dude, less time studying, and… and he…” The Hero winces. “What really sucks is knowing how bad he wanted it and still being happy that he failed.”

One hour later; the Hero’s beloved van is easily disposed of. Off it goes: off the road, off the Emperor’s highway, down the slope - jostling rubble until it’s buried beneath. One night later; the Wizard catches the bus. One week later; he passes out the Hero’s picture to anyone who will take it. One month later; a test sheet sits in front of him, more red marks than answers filled. What do we have here? P.R. goes still where he’s pressed himself to the Wizard’s back. The boy steps out for a moment and comes back to find his things in the hall. The lock ticks when he tries the door.

And Now: Rewind.

✓ Hand out fliers

“I know this one! Your band of merry adventurers taken captive by the enemy! The unfortunate party awakens in chains - ALACK! - imprisoned within a keep of solid ice! Roll for endurance! The end is NIGH! Heh… Not really, but how cool would that be?”

He comes to with one leg bound and one ankle twisted, short metal chain securing him to the floor. There are others (unclamped, unspoken for) and a medical table and hooks on the walls, hung with a few things that wouldn’t be out of place in a hospital and a lot of things that wouldn’t be out of place in a toolshed, and still others that would look very strange in either or.

“And… I shouldn’t have to state the obvious.”

The Hero bucks, arms flailing wildly as the man mounts him from behind, pulling him into a chokehold. Jets of molten pearl and ruby run over their feet. More when he finally collapses and the skinner steps back, returning with a blade in his hand. He’s laughing, but the earplugs hold and the Hero doesn’t catch the sound at all.

✓ Go in for statement

“I tried to hold out the first time one of them cut me. All the other times though? Sometimes they’d drug me, wouldn’t make an incision until I was nice and numb. I still screamed, not that it made a difference. Nobody heard me. Or nobody cared.”

Knives; scalpels; razor blades. A little of him; a lot of blood-letting. An hour passes and he has no idea what the scars must look like and it hurts too much to trace them. The Hero lies on his side, tears trickling under the blindfold, awaiting the sensation he’s dreading. The man stands above him, one eye gleaming. He smiles with blood in his teeth.

✓ Pick up prescription (Xanax)

“And… and even after all that, I still- Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t want them there with me. It was worse when they weren’t, though.”

Even when the light’s turned on it’s dark in the corners. So making out the little girl is difficult. She sits off to the side, arms crossed, glaring through a curtain of black, black hair. The Hero can’t see at all. She’s real though, she must be. There are no angels here to keep them in line.

✓ Call Colt

“The first time I tried to take the blindfold off… one of them grabbed me. And the second time. And the- I don’t think I was ever really alone in there, no matter what the shrink has to say about it. But I’m not sure if… Either they were in there just, like, watching me or… there was somebody else. One or the other. I could feel the vibrations through the floor.”

The Hero screams himself hoarse, pounds on the wall, yanks the chain on his ankle as hard as he possibly can. The rewards are the same: a little blood, a lot of frustration. Worse when the door opens and the man comes in. Now, don’t fight back. You’re missing the point.

◻️ Barley

“I never actually saw the others, the other carvings I mean, but my hands weren’t tied up unless he… they… whatever… wanted me a certain way. I thought they were regular old scratch marks the first time I leaned up against a few. Someone clawing at… They weren’t, though. Is that any better?”

He scratches his name in, during those first few days (and it feels like longer). His nails crack open and fingers bleed, and it doesn’t matter; he’s all out of hurt. Sometimes he drums against the wall. Sometimes the other side knocks back.

✓ Meeting with Dr. Cricket

“I keep wondering if he - if they - wanted to see how far they could push me, see what I’d do to myself to get out of there… Maybe. It has to be something they did on purpose, right? They were never this stupid before so… so… I don’t think they expected me to make it farther than the door. Or they didn’t think I’d have the guts to do it at all. I wish I didn’t have to. Have you guys tried driving with only one foot? It feels weird. Uh, no, it… it doesn’t hurt. Not right now.”

Barley Lightfoot: the Hero (after three weeks) curls up on a sawdusty floor, back to the scar-carved wall; the Hero (after nine weeks) whimpers as a hand snatches up a fistful of hair and drags him to his feet, chain clanking - blood trickling - as they move; (twenty-seven weeks) there’s a scalpel on the floor, a blunt one, but even so… (He saws and saws and saws and saws.)

◻️ Gladioli Another page. He squeezes his eyes shut, but the ink blurs along with his vision.

It’s a cold, gray day outside. It isn’t raining. The street is wet. There’s a nice car parked in the driveway. The Hero pulls back his arm; IAN! The high school parking lot. The Wizard freezes and the Hero falls into his chest.

✓ Gladioli

“Docs just turned me loose in case you were wondering. Said the bumps should fade in a week or so. The other stuff… well, now I have an excuse to get that tattoo. Ugh. I’ve hated hospitals since Dad died. Still, it could have been worse… I guess. It wasn’t like I was alone.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Wizard carries a board over to the Hero’s hospital bed, helping to spread it across his knees. I was wondering if you might want to… y-you know, um… He holds up a small plastic figure - a sorcerer in a purple robe. Wait, no, don’t cry!

◻️ Apologize The Wizard stops and underlines it a second time.

“Everyone needs a hobby or a thing or whatever. Wiz-Kid over there’s got a number fetish, our mom does, like, jazzercise and her weird boyfriend does… her. UH, ANYWAY-” He almost loses his balance, catching himself on the edge of the stage. “So, yeah, Goblins and Grottos, King Arthur, fantasy shit - this… this is what I’m good at. I know, I know… but if it makes me feel better then it’s not really a waste of time… Besides, I’ve had enough of people taking over my narrative.”

The Hero hikes up his jeans; hips swivelling; wooden crutch pressing into his armpit; one wrist in a cast. He’s a big guy with a lot of muscle and a little facial hair - light Brown to contrast the blue streaks and the blue bruises, and the blue prosthesis beside the ordinary foot. And there are folds of skin where he’s lost the topmost layer of fat.

“It’s not a crutch, okay? It’s a wizard staff!”

A Story about the Unsung Hero

Chapter 46: (High Guardian Spice) A Story about the Growth Cycle

Summary:

TW: gang-rape, human trafficking, teen pregnancy, abortion, kidnapping, betrayal, incest, referenced racism, sexism, and homophobia.
Soundtrack:
"English Country Garden" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L0XnfUdSghg
"Dance with the Devil" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k8yKTuvRmPE

A Story about the Seed

High Guardian Spice: A Beginner’s Guide to Herbs and their Many Uses

The Seed paces back and forth down the aisles (there she is by the table, there she goes, bumping her foot against the base of the stage). She’s a round girl in a school uniform, hair gathered into twintails. (And now she breaks wind, and now she scratches herself in unladylike places.) The whole room is empty. She has a book spread out in front of her. And a yellow-tipped pen.

Actaea Racemosa (Black Cohosh, Black Bugbane, Black Snakeroot, Fairy Candle)

Family: Ranunculaceae

Take by mouth for hot flashes after menopause and pain after birth. Good for snakebites. Good for sore lungs…

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; weeds and wildflowers bloom in the field. The Seed spreads her arms out in the grass. A woman in fatigues sits down beside her, wind blowing through her white-blonde hair. There’s a boy who looks like that woman, a man who looks like the Seed. And the air smells like lavender and rosemary.

Caulophyllum thalictroides (Blue Cohosh)

Family: Berberidaceae

Take for a variety of uterine complications. Used for colic and sore throats. Good for menstruation. Good for cramps…

Golden star in the window. The Seed pulls her knees to her chest, crying at the top of her lungs. Her father knocks on the door. Her brother slumps over the kitchen table, face buried in two skinny arms.

Rosey, come on… Just come out here, we can talk about this - as a family!

Mentha pulegium (Pennyroyal, Pennyrile, Pudding Grass, Mosquito Plant)

Family: Lamiaceae

Take for common cold, fatigue and pneumonia…

Applications and paperwork and, Dad, sign here for me!

Military school? Are you sure you want-

Cut; the Seed and another girl meet in the road between their two houses and grab each other’s shoulders as they jump up and down.

The ACADEMY?!

I know, right?

They go back to squealing. People watch from their porches and whisper, grumbling behind their hands. Affirmative action… diversity…

Glycyrrhiza glabra (Licorice, Liquorice)

Family: Fabaceae

Roots good for flavor. Sweet scent. Use to treat heartburn, acid reflux and cough…

Someone scratches DYKE into her father’s car window. Someone spray-paints another word on her friend’s front door. The Seed’s skinny, amiable brother comes home with bruises - on his knuckles, on his face… People keep whispering.

You know they only got in because…

I know, Chic, I know… but don’t tell your sister…

They make the test easier for females. Everybody knows that…

Feminists…

Uncaria tomentosa (Cat’s Claw)

Family: Rubiaceae

Good for viral infections…

Your mom would be so proud of you.

Mom is proud of you.

The Seed hugs her crying father, takes her friend’s hand, waves to her brother. The train huffs away from the station. And the town falls behind.

Salvia Officinalis (Common Sage)

Family: Lamiaceae

Use for taste. Burn for fragrance. Cook into stuffings and with meats…

Two nights in the city before classes start. Two nights with the Seed and her friend and her friend’s cousin, and her friend’s cousin’s wife. They wander through the city like blind mice with empty stomachs, passing lamp posts and desecrated walls - and the posters hanging off them like old skin. Policemen pacing back and forth on the corners. Her friend is cautious, but the Seed barrels forward, dragging her along by the hand.

Salix (Willow, Sallow, Osir)

Family: Salicaceae

Take bark for headache and fever…

Ethics with a red-faced, black-haired woman; science with an… uncomfortably sexy crone. Then there are the push-ups and the pullups and the drill-team marches. The Seed falls on her bed, and cries for her mother in her sleep. Sometimes, during her off time, she imagines that she sees her, standing there on the city street. But these lapses are few and far between. She’s fine. Everything is fine.

Angelica sinensis (Dong Quai, Female Ginseng)

Family: Apiaceae

Roots good in tea. Brew for menstrual pain…

New boy; blond ponytail; dreamy eyes. The Seed drools behind her notepad. Her friend scowls. Other classmates just look between the two and sigh. Cut; Uh, hey… it’s Rhubarb, isn’t it? And her knees go weak.

Momordica charantia (Bitter Melon)

Family: Cucurbitaceae

Take by mouth to stimulate digestion…

The Seed and her friend in the middle of an argument. Keep your voice down-

I will not! You can’t… With… ASTER?! Seriously?! Tell me you used a condom at least… You did use one, right…? Rosemary!

Trigonella foenum-graecum (Fenugreek)

Family: Fabaceae

Good for cooking. Helps with inflammation and diabetes…

Listen, I need your help with- No! He didn’t- Nobody forced me… NO! Don’t tell Dad. Could you just… be here? And we can figure this out? You’re the cooking whiz and Sage got me this book of herbs… She hangs up the phone. Her mother would know what to do. She goes to sleep and doesn’t hear the scraping.

Cichorium intybus (Common Chicory)

Family: Asteraceae

Flowers treat gallstones and gastroenteritis. Leaves stimulate appetite. Take for healing cuts and bruises…

There’s an X carved into her dorm room door. She shrugs off her roommate’s concern, and her brother’s once she’s snuck him in. Eventually, she relents, mumbling something about making a report to the headmistress or the dean.

Thymus Vulgaris (Thyme)

Family: Lamiaceae

Take for bronchitis, cough and stomach pain. Cook with vegetables. Good for patchy hair…

The girls are up and out at the crack of dawn. It’s dark by the time they get back. The air smells like rosemary and lavender. They pass a woman with her head turned away from them, hand on her belly, draft lifting up a strand of white-blonde hair.

Hydrastis canadensis (Goldenseal, Orange Root, Yellow Puccoon)

Family: Ranunculaceae

Good for colds and hay fever…

Her brother isn’t there. They don’t lock the door behind them. The Seed is asleep before her head hits the pillow.

Tanacetum Vulgare (Tansy)

Family: Asteraceae

Use to kill roundworms, threadworms, lice and other parasites…

The Seed sleeps through her alarm the next morning. She can’t sleep through her roommate’s horrified scream.

Aloe barbadensis miller (Aloe Vera)

Family: Asphodelacae

Soothes burns and cuts. Relieves fissures…

Sage, what the hec- Chicory!

Her brother lies on his side, by the half-opened doorway. His own belt has been used to tie his wrists together; someone else’s jacket is knotted around his face. He wears nothing else besides this. The Seed sees everything: the blood, the burns, the bruises, and the marks on his ankles from another kind of restraint.

Whoa! Whoa, hey… l-listen, we’re gonna get you outta this… stuff, okay? What was that?

Mom… Mom… He keeps mumbling. And he doesn’t say anything else besides.

Artemisia Vulgaris (Common Mugwort)

Family: Asteraceae

Take to soothe an upset stomach. Boosts energy. Relieves vomiting…

The Seed sits in a sterile white hallway, hands her friend the cell phone.

… Mom would be so disappointed in me. Mom…

And that’s all her brother keeps repeating - through his fingers, behind the door.

Lavandula (Lavender)

Family: Lamiaceae

Regulates menses without risk of miscarriage. Safe for children.

The book slams shut.

 

A Story about the Sprout

“How many kinds of sweet flowers grow

In an English country garden?”

The Sprout at his daughter’s bedside, one arm over her, and his hand cradling the back of her head. Red beard, red hair (with not too much gray in it), starting to bald. There’s another kind of “sweet flour” on his shoulder, on his face - overlaid with tear tracks - on most of his clothes.

“I’ll tell you now of some that I know

And those I miss, you’ll surely pardon.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Sprout paints frosting flowers on a vanilla wedding cake. A woman watches from the other side of the counter. She smiles. He smiles. Cut; pink and purple flowers - in hand and icing and pinned to the bridesmaids’ gowns. The Sprout leans in for a kiss. Hand on her belly, his bride kisses back. Cut; bouquets on the bedside table, all over the hospital room. He cries. She cries. The baby cries too.

“Daffodils, heart’s ease and phlox,

Meadowsweet and lilies, stocks,

Gentle lupins and tall hollyhocks.”

First anniversary; first birthday; first steps. Their boy gets older; he sends pictures to his wife - wherever she is. A lot of pictures. And another kid (they’re ready this time).

“Roses, foxgloves and forget-me-nots-” He tilts his daughter’s chin, smiling through his own unshed tears. “-In an English country garden.”

Big bows and birthday candles. A picture of the little girl in her mother’s uniform. The Sprout hands it to his wife, holding the real article to his chest. You should keep this one. To remember her when you’re… away.

As if I could forget.

“How many insects build their homes

In an English country garden?”

He takes her to the airport - some time early, before the children have a chance to wake - holds her close and leaves her there. Cut to a uniform at the door. And a letter. And, beyond that, empty hands.

“I'll tell you now of some that I know

And those I miss I trust you will pardon.”

Don’t tell me she’s- He can’t make himself finish.

We don’t think so, no.

But… her deploy-

Deployment? Even the basil plant in the window freezes. Mr. Spitzer… tell me everything you know about your wife.

“Dragonflies and moths and bees

Spiders falling from the trees

Butterflies sway in the cool gentle breeze…”

He tells the family not to bother with a funeral, and tells his children they’re too young to attend. For the next few nights they stay at a hotel, the next town over. Don’t worry, everything’s taken care of (when his son asks about the bill, when his daughter begs for Mom, when they come home to a thoroughly trashed house).

“There are wasps’ empty homes

And tiny little gnomes-”

“Daddy,” his little girl giggles sleepily. “Those aren’t the words.”

He visits the police station once. A car drives him down to the old military base. An incomplete picture - lavender and rosemary and inked-in butterflies. The Snowbird stares at him grimly for a second before putting his foot in his mouth. The Magician’s sister doesn’t even have that much tact.

 

“In an English country garden.”

His daughter in her mother’s fatigues again. His son brews lavender tea. And the Sprout doesn’t stop them. He opens the window and puts a gold star between the glass and the screen.

“Wet underfoot and the leaves are thick with soot

In an English country garden.”

And he tells himself his wife is dead.

“Newspapers torn and strewn across the lawn

In an English country garden.”

And he tells the neighbors.

“Litter, garbage in the yards

“Little doggies' calling cards

One scraggy rosebud peering through the weeds.”

And his children - no matter how much it hurts to see them cry.

“For they've all downed tools

While they do their football pools.”

She’s fallen into a lull now - fast asleep and puff-eyed. The Sprout reaches for the light and bends down to kiss her cheek.

“In an English country garden.”

 

A Story about the Bud

Spitzer’s Famous Tiramisu

White as a ghost, thin as a sugar wafer, the Bud putters around an empty dorm room while his sister is away. He licks the nib of his pen as he doodles, thousand-year-old notebook propped up on his knees.

Ingredients:

∴ Six large brown eggs

🙔 ¾ cup of white sugar - granulated

✿ 1 ½ cups heavy whipping cream

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Bud lays powdery hands on his mother’s stomach. I can feel her kick!

∴ ¾ cup whole milk

🙔 1 teaspoon pure vanilla extract

✿ 16 ounces mascarpone - let it adjust to room temperature

The baby’s crying keeps them up all night; the Bud sleeps in the nurse’s office. His mother’s deployed, his father’s working; the Bud skips lunch and walks his sister home from school. His mother’s deployed again and his father’s still working; the Bud burns a platter of petit fours behind his back.

∴ ¾ cup strong brewed coffee (substitute coffee beans with ground chicory and brew) - room temperature

🙔 2 ½ tablespoons of Kahlua substitute with blue curacao

✿ 7oz ladyfingers

His sister gets older, does more, needs less. The Bud turns his attention to the family business. At first his father is glad of the extra pair of hands. At first.

∴ 1 bottle blue food coloring

🙔 1 jar grape jelly

✿ 1-4 tablespoons cocoa powder

More burnt things; sugar-snot running from half-cooked pastries; orange cream and chocolate mousse. It’s not long before the Bud is relegated to the front of the bakeshop - washing windows; mopping floors; ringing up orders and answering phones. Sometimes he works the mixer, under his father’s watchful eye.

🙣 White chocolate curls (grated) He stops writing for a moment and listens. Someone’s walking down the hall - more than one person, he can hear their voices … Well, it is a school, right?

His sister gets a letter from Mom every other week. She doesn’t write to him as often (they aren’t as close) but she does write. Until she doesn’t. Chicory, take Rosemary upstairs. But he hears his father talking to the… colonel? Policeman? He hears his father with the man at the door. He can’t be hearing them right.

∴ In a medium saucepan, whisk together egg yolks and sugar until well blended. Whisk in milk and cook over medium heat, stirring constantly, until mixture boils. Boil gently for 1 minute, remove from heat and allow to cool slightly. He can still hear someone, now right outside the door: a boy’s voice, and a girl’s. He smirks - probably someone sneaking around with her boyfriend. Then he frowns.

Flour… Vanilla… Roses and pansies… The cupcakes don’t look too bad this time. They’d look better if he’d left them alone. Why don’t you take care of the dishes, ‘kay, bud?

His sister sticks her finger in the icing. Tastes fine to me- She picks something from her teeth. You, uh… kept the root in there?

🙔 Cover with plastic wrap and chill in the refrigerator for 1 hour.

His sister comes home with a pamphlet advertising a school out of state. Their father might be a little on edge, but the Bud’s not too worried when she sends her letter - not until the response comes back, and the neighbors find out.

“Classes get out around three, right? So they should be back here around…”

“… and what about the other girl?”

“I’ve got you, don’t I? Ask her to help you find your lost cat or something and she’ll go for it. C’mon, they’re just-”

✿ In a medium bowl, beat cream with vanilla until stiff peaks form. Set aside.

“Okay, okay… Just shut up and help me with this door-”

Slashed tires; broken windows; bloody knuckles. The Bud isn’t any good at fighting. I know, Chic, I know… but don’t tell your sister. It’s almost a relief to send her away. Then he remembers his mother.

∴ Place food coloring in shallow bowl or tray with raised sides, then add ladyfingers.

Something scratches the doorknob. Then it turns.

🙔 Allow biscuits to steep only long enough for the color to set before flipping. Repeat the process on the other side.

In the hallway: a boy and a girl. Black hair and pale purple - lavender and burnt rosemary.

She writes too, sometimes… when she remembers, anyway. This time she calls. And he picks up.

“You’re not supposed to be here,” the girl whispers.

∴ Whisk or beat together the chilled egg yolk mixture with the mascarpone until smooth.

Her friend lunges.

🙔 In a medium bowl, combine coffee and Kahlua chicory and Curacao. Roll each ladyfinger in the coffee mixture once or twice. Take care not to oversaturate the ladyfingers.

Cohosh and pennyroyal and chicory and sage. Can you bring spices on an airplane? Thyme and licorice and female ginseng-

- more lavender and rosemary, to cover up the scent of Halcion. The boy smothers the Bud’s nose and mouth. The girl catches him.

🙣 Arrange half of soaked ladyfingers in the bottom of a 7x11 inch dish. Spread half of mascarpone mixture over ladyfingers, then half of whipped cream over that. Repeat layers and lightly dust with cocoa. Cover and refrigerate for at least 6 hours, but preferably overnight.

✿ Garnish wit

The recipe book lies open on the floor.

 

A Story about the Bloom

“How many kinds of sweet flowers grow
In an English Country Garden?”

The Bloom sits on the concrete floor, blood mixing with the sweat from her face. Her hair’s fallen out of its ponytail and hangs down like willow-shroud, covering her eyes and nose and the long, pink scar. A young man lies splayed out on the floor - eyes closed; head in her lap. The Bloom doesn’t know if he can hear her. She hopes not.

“We’ll tell you now of some that we know
Those we miss, you’ll surely pardon…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a teenage Bloom in a long black gown and tassel cap. She’s as bushy-tailed and blue-eyed as her daughter, and there’s a banner emblazoned with the same school crest.

Guard, Lavender. And applause fills the room.

“Daffodils, heart's ease and phlox
Meadowsweet and lady smocks-”

Her breath catches for a moment, but she carries on.

“Gentian, lupine and tall hollihocks
Roses, foxgloves, snowdrops, blue forget-me-nots…”

The Bloom leans back in the salon chair, dead silent as the stylist teases her hair up into curls. What happened there? She points to a bandage on the woman’s wrist.

Oh, that’s a new tattoo, dear. She’s close enough to smell - rosemary and lavender - as she peels back the gauze. I’m thinking about getting another, on my back. What do you think?

U-um, I’m not sure… I love butterflies too?

“In an English country garden.”

New bunk; new quarters; the Bloom in a room full of other recruits. Some of them heckle her as she passes, others stare in awe.

Private Guard? A bearded man with stars on his jacket.

Colonel.

At ease, soldier, at ease.

“How many insects come here and go
In an English country garden?”

You’re Fay’s friend, aren’t you? She told me- He smacks his lips, plays with his lapel pin, doesn’t finish. She didn’t say you were pretty. The Bloom doesn’t flinch. He seems to like that. If you need anything - anything at all - don’t be scared to let me know.

“We'll tell you now of some that we know
Those we miss you'll surely pardon.”

The Seed will have it bad; the Bloom has it worse. Someone’s broken the lock on the women’s quarters. Someone’s been picking through her things. She makes a complaint. Nothing happens. Another private stops her by the laundry room and pushes her against the wall. The Bloom breaks his hand.

“Fireflies, moths, gnats and bees
Spiders climbing in the trees-”

Sir, please! I’m the best hand-to-hand in the unit, you said so yourself-

Being good’s not enough, sweetheart. They want me to have you court-martialed.

I see… The Bloom goes eerily still. And what do you think about that?

I say it’s a damn shame. He holds something out to her, waits for a reaction. Her eyes do widen, but not by much. Tell them Noah sent you.

“Butterflies drift in the gentle breeze
There are snakes, ants that sting-”

Chains and lice and lavender to cover up the smell. Cut; the Bloom, with her arm in a sling, begs for help carrying a package to her car. Cut; the hairdresser dresses the slash on her face.

Sorry, dear, I’m afraid it’s going to scar.

Cut; she sits at a table, probed by lusty eyes. Have you decided on a name?

“And other creeping things
In an English country garden.”

She goes to check up on a new warehouse, then heads back, meets a man on the way between. He smiles at her in her army clothes and doesn’t charge full price. A few weeks later they meet again. And again. And again. A few years later a child is born. And again.

“How many songbirds fly to and fro
In an English country garden?”

There are still long plane rides and late nights and concrete stained with blood. But now she has something to compare it to. The Bloom calls her husband from the warehouse, collects her daughter’s letters from a P.O. box.

“We'll tell you now of some that we know
Those we miss you'll surely pardon.”

Bank statements; invoices; long messages.

You can’t keep this up forever, you know. The colonel.

Just watch me.

In the end, though - newspaper clippings; IRS agents; amateur sketches on the evening news - she makes the call.

“Bobolink, cuckoo and quail
Tanager and cardinal…”

The last time her husband drives her to the airport, kisses her goodbye. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of the kids. She knows he will. She knows.

Cut; the Bloom stands in an unfurnished apartment. The colonel stands behind her, hands wrapped around a large potted plant.

Tradescantia pallida. I thought it might brighten up the place.

“Bluebird, lark, thrush and nightingale
There is joy in the spring-”

Time passes. More of the same old same - there’s no one to come back to now. The purple heart plant is flowering now, the vines spilling down onto the patio floor. It stands between the Bloom and her former commander as he pulls her toward him. She breaks his hand. He comes crawling back eventually. School picture; small town paper; Rosemary and Lavender. A little birdie told me something… Cut; the Bloom with binoculars, outside her daughter’s dorm.

“When the birds begin to sing
In an English country garden.”

It should be hard to see her child like this - from a distance, out of her grasp. There’s nothing to hold or caress or feel… and that’s almost liberating. The Bloom nods in approval at her own photograph - herself, her son, her daughter - on the table by the bed. And there are no difficult conversations. She comes by more and more often; sometimes, she does not come alone.

“How many kinds of sweet flowers grow
In an English country garden?”

The Bloom passes a man in the hallway, on her way outside. She doesn’t look at him head-on. The Colonel takes his knife out and scars the violetwood door. He comes back the next night, just to see his handiwork for sure.

“I’ll tell you now of s-some that I know…
Those we miss you'll surely pardon.”

… standard recruitment procedure - for grunts at least.

She looks back at her former superior, eyes cold. And you want me to do… what, exactly?

Tell ‘em what to do and make sure they do it, Ms. Spittlebug. He strokes the barrel of her gun.

“Daffodils, heart's ease and phlox
Meadowsweet and lady smocks-”

Rental unit; muffled screaming; a man pinned to the floor. His hands are tied with a belt; his head is covered with a jacket; his legs are held apart. She gets between his legs first - and the newbies get in line. And they go. And they go. And they go - until he stops crying out.

“Gentian, lupine and tall hollihocks
Roses, foxgloves, snowdrops, blue forget-me-nots.”

The boy with purple hair grabs the man on the floor by his collar and cocks the Bloom’s gun.

Lose the jacket. I want to see how you do seeing his face.

Her son groans when she lifts him, face turning into the side of her throat. It feels terribly natural - the way it did when he was small. Even as the Bloom steps over one of the corpses.

“In an English Country Garden.”

Chapter 47: *CSA* (Max and Ruby, [spoiler]) A Story about the Wight Rabbit

Summary:

TW: child molestation, murder, corpse desecration, eye and mouth/tooth injury, body horror, neglect, stalking, drug and alcohol abuse, unsafe sex, self-harm, mention of poisoning, mind screw.
Soundtrack: "White Rabbit" https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TKZVUtvjBdM
Other references:
https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-1903
https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/scp-2999
We don't know if there's a name for the particular self-harm manifestation here, but it's anecdotally a thing people do: https://www.reddit.com/r/AskReddit/comments/c7qrz4/nurses_of_psych_wards_what_did_a_patient_do_that/eshb3hw/?utm_source=reddit&utm_medium=web2x&context=3

This story contains white text near the end, don't forget to highlight or C+P.

“You got any siblings, pal? What about a big sister?”

The Wight Rabbit is bare to the knee, bruised around the eyes, bloody at the mouth. Yellow skirt and paler pigtails, stirring in the draft. Feet pace the wooden floorboards, bloody footprints left behind. The Palace is (almost) empty, and the main lights off. A switched-on flashlight on the floor has rolled some feet away.

“Y’know, that’s a hard job - bein’ a big sister - and a thankless one. I’ll bet you were mean to yours. Kids are little assholes. It’s worse when your parents don’t give one more fuck than it took to make ya. I know mine didn’t.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Rabbit leans over the stove in an empty house, standing on a step-stool in order to reach. Come on, Max! You have to eat something. The little boy across from her stares at her empty plate, and shakes his head.

“It’s almost funny. ‘Cause ya think that being a big sister means being a sister, y’know? Still just a kid, maybe you babysit once in a while. That’s it. But my parents, nah, they thought that a big sister’s job was to be parent number three… Actually, that’s giving them way too much credit. Bein’ parent number three would mean they cared to be parents at all.”

The man tied to the chair is silent.

They’re around… sometimes. Not often. She tells her brother that they’re busy. With work. With Grandma. Maybe she believes it - they’re both still young, too young to understand that “busy” just means “has better things to do”.

“It was always like that. ‘Ruby, watch your brother!’ ‘Ruby, get Daddy a beer!’ ‘Ruby, wipe my ass!’ You don’t know the half of it- And it’s nunna your business! But…” The White Rabbit’s nose twitches; lip wobbles. “We loved each other. We did.”

The Rabbit tucks her brother into bed. Their parents are “busy” again. Goodnight, Max. Sweet dreams. The White Rabbit stares up into space when she leaves the room. Looking at everything and nothing. Nyquil packages lie in the trash can; her brother’s taken one so many nights running that now they do nothing at all.

“We loved each other, but… it was hard, y’know? I don’t know if you’ve ever had a little sibling - probably didn’t care much if you did - but it’s hard when their brains are different. They don’t talk, they’re unpredictable, they burn ants… Heaven help ya if you take your eyes off ‘em for two goddamn seconds.”

She finds him with his arms wrapped around the neighbor’s black cat. Squeezing, squeezing, even as the poor thing hisses. Her brother whines as she drags him away. She shakes him - hard - and he starts to cry.

“Yeah, yeah. People tell me now that’s a crappy way of handlin’ things. Special kids need special treatment. Whatever. How the hell’s a seven-year-old supposed to know that, huh? It’s not like anyone was around to explain. We did the best we could, ya got that? Don’t let nobody tell ya different. I mean, not that they will anymore.”

The White Rabbit on the sidewalk, petting the black cat, waiting for the ice cream truck. A boy from the neighborhood - an older boy - is there too. The Rabbit sees him slip a dollar bill into her brother’s hand.

Anything you want, okay, buddy?

MAX! We don’t talk to strangers!

“It’s funny. They always say don’t talk to strangers. They never say why you shouldn’t.” The Rabbit waves a hand in an “iffy” kind of motion. “Only that some strangers are dangerous. Never why. Never how. But you…” The Rabbit chuckles in a low, dangerous way. “… you’d know all about that. Wouldn’t you? You’d know that better than anyone.”

Hide and seek. The Rabbit looks under beds, in the showers, in the closet, in the attic, under the table where they play chess (well, where they play with the men on the chessboard). Her brother doesn’t appear to be anywhere. She cups her hands and calls his name. Max? Max! MAX! Where are you?! It’s almost dinner time!

“But… even if you’ve got a little shit for a little brother… he’s still your little brother. And you love him. And when he does something stupid or dangerous-”

The Wight Rabbit slams the front door behind her and stomps down the street. To the neighbor boy’s house.

Where’s Max? I told him not to talk to strangers!

Wh… Oh, sorry. He smiles sheepishly. There was this cool caterpillar down by the rabbit’s warren. He’s probably down there.

“You killed us both then and there, you know? You took my whole family away from me!”

“I-”

“Quiet!” The Rabbit marches forward. “You… are going… to be quiet. Right here, right now. It is the least that you can do.”

The Rabbit in an interview room - talking backwards. Shaking head; shaking hands. The Rabbit in the morgue. The sight of a teeny tiny body bag. It’s still too big for the body in it.

Hey, little one, you can’t be back here-

Tiny hands unzip the bag before anyone can do anything.

“Single. Digits. Age. Seven and four. Not even old enough to know the stuff in your bathing suit area is ever gonna do more than piss and make a mess. Not even old enough to know why boys and girls look different. Not old enough to get that death is forever. They call that innocence. And you ripped it apart in the worst possible way.”

The neighbour boy kicks dirt over the warren’s opening, beneath the yarrow blooms. There’s no logic or proportion. Just the fallen, sloppy dead. He picks up a pale, round object too carelessly and groans in disgust as bloody ooze coats his thumb. One blue, glassy eyeball and one sagging set of lids, bruises deep around both.

“Head wouldn’t fit, huh? Or didja want a souvenir?”

The man is silent.

“It’s alright. You can talk now, I won’t hurt ya. I want answers.”

“I-it wouldn’t fit.”

Animals sniff around the hole. A coyote pulls out an arm; a hiker screams bloody murder when they see it. A bloody murder there has been.

“Figures. So where’d you put it?”

He shrugs.

“Come on. Make this easy on yourself and tell me where the fuck you put the fucking head!”

“I… Please. I read about… I fed it to…” The neighbor man takes a deep, hookah-smoking breath. “The pig farm. I don’t remember which one. I’m sorry. I’m sorry-”

“Oh, you’re sorry, are you? I’ll bet you’re really sorry right now. I’m sorry for us! You got a long time with someone who loved you enough to look after you, I bet. We got four years together. That was it.”

Foster homes, most no more caring than their birth parents were. Houses with damp in the walls and mercury in the pipes.

“I’ve never had that kind of bond again. It’s not fair. It’s not fair. Why did you split us up?!”

Decades wasted chasing rabbits, decades moving lower and falling deeper. At the bottom of whiskey bottles, in the embers of old cigarettes. With some kind of mushroom. In stranger’s beds. Until one of them lets the Rabbit stick around in the morning, offers coffee the Rabbit pours a full flask of brandy into.

“You know what?” The Rabbit laughs again. “It doesn’t matter. I don’t care if it was an accident or if it was on purpose. The why doesn’t matter. What does matter, though, is how. Tell me how you did it.”

An office. The man from before straightening paperwork while the Rabbit looks around.

You’re sure about this? I got a criminal record-

So do I! You know the old saying. Who better to catch a thief, right?

Work. More shared coffee. Later, wedding rings.

“I… ra-”

“Blah, blah, blah. Yeah, I know, idiot. The body wasn’t that messed up. No DNA, but everything below the waist was pretty obvious. It would be. With a kid that small.”

“Then what-”

“Gimme the gory details.”

Adoption papers. A little girl, skipping in jump cuts till she's older than the dead child ever got to be, still innocent of what the living one has seen. Both parents have every intention of keeping her that way, even before the Rabbit’s husband knows the specifics. Any decent parent would.

“… You want to know how I killed-”

“Give the man a prize! He finally figured it out!”

“Why?”

The Rabbit gives a bear trap grin. “Because it’s either what you came up with or what I can come up with and I think we both know which one will be less painful. Just trying to do you a favor. Not that you deserve it.” The Rabbit shifts. Ruby red runs down.

Spring cleaning. The husband cleans - the Rabbit doesn’t. Sorting through the closet. Where’d we get a box of little kid’s cloth-

DON’T TOUCH THAT! And the Rabbit knocks him against the wall.

“… Cut throat. I meant to cut the throat. But… please… I didn’t mean to-”

“You didn’t mean to what?! What the hell didn’t you mean to do?!”

“I-I… w-well, you were both just small, I was like ten feet tall next to you guys… and the knife went all the way through. The head came off before… I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Please don’t hurt me!”

The White Rabbit sobs into a stuffed bunny. The husband holds a picture; a picture of a little girl and even littler boy. How… how old were you?

F-four and seven… we were four and seven…

God… Is there anything I can do?

“… ‘Don’t hurt me’?” The Rabbit laughs again. More loudly this time.

“P-please-”

“YOU HEARD THE SAME THING BACK THEN, DIDN’T YOU?! YOU HEARD THAT WORD FOR WORD!”

The man shrinks.

“There’s only one thing I want.” The Rabbit’s eyes go black. “I want to go back. I want to stop it from happening. Grow up the way we should have. But you can’t do that for me, can you? No one can.”

“Please…”

The husband at the computer; reading news articles about the incident, pictures on screen of the tiny brother and the pigtailed Rabbit. Spy software. Poring over addresses and marking maps. Cut; they drive past the neighbor's now-decrepit house. Same spot. Same neighborhood. So close to where the body was found. The Rabbit leaves a note under the doormat. Meet me at the Palace Fri 22:30 in scrawled messy letters. Cut; in the graveyard, hands digging, digging, digging until the fingers are bloody.

“Heh. The other arm was still there. Sometimes I get poetic.”

The Rabbit sits at the edge of the stage, waiting. Waiting until the man walks in. The killer. The man’s eyes widen and his face turns pale.

Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes? Surprised you recognized me. Now that I’m all grown up.

“So let me make one thing clear. You took my family from me. And since you can’t give it back, you’re going to give me the next best thing. The thing I have waited oh so long for. What I have been saving myself for.” The Rabbit leans in. “You are going to give me the pleasure of watching. You. Die.”

The two of them, rolling on the floor of the Palace. The Rabbit’s on the bottom. The man’s on the top. There’s… blood between their legs. Why is there blood between their legs? He rips the Rabbit’s pants down. He pulls out a knife drenched in its owner’s blood. Ruby red and bone white. The Rabbit laughs hysterically.

“Y’know, there’s somethin’ I don’t think either of us realized all those years ago.”

The White Rabbit turns the carved-bone blade in his fingers. He’s not four years old anymore; far from it. He’s as pale as ever but he’s pocked all over with cuts and track marks, and deeply shadowed around the eyes. At some time between then and now, his front teeth were filed to points, and his lips have been chewed bloody. His phone fell out of his pocket in the fight, and the custom-printed case shows a picture of him with a man in a grey suit and hat and a little redheaded girl staring at her own phone. There’s a gash in his leg several inches long, soaking red through the back of his jeans. It is there he stored the small but dead-sharp knife.

“She mighta got between us… but she wasn’t my protector. My sister was protecting you from me.”

He brings the knife in, pulls it deeper and… and… It stops, hits bone. He tries again. Different angle. Same stop.

The White Rabbit doesn’t see the Wight Rabbit behind him. Neither does the man tied to the chair.

“That’s not true, Max,” she says, barely above a whisper. “I was protecting you from yourself. I always will. That’s what big sisters do.”

Notes:

*SPOILER*

The second piece of media used in this chapter is The Adventures of Sam & Max

Chapter 48: (Fish Hooks) A Story about the Freshies and Mr. Seahorse

Summary:

TW: implied past child sexual abuse, implied prison rape, discussion of cult violence, sexual harassment, trans male pregnancy, birthing, invasion of personal space.

“This is an intervention!”

The Freshies have surround Mr. Seahorse. They’ve pushed their desks into a circle. They’ve got people guarding the windows and doors. The annoying one at least looks embarrassed (but then, he always does). The annoying female one does not.

The REALLY annoying one steps forward. “C’mon, teach, you gotta talk to us one a’ these days.”

“Milo, please, this is the third time this week…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Mr. Seahorse drives to a clinic. He looks through a portfolio of different men. This one. He nods to a technician in sterile blue and white.

“You know you can tell us, right? It’s okay!”

“Milo-”

The annoying female one sets a hand on his shoulder. She’s… Great, she’s got the pamphlets again. Always with the pamphlets. “You’re safe now, Mr. Baldwin. He can’t hurt you anymore. This is a saaaafe plaaaace.”

The same technician. The embryos have about a one in four chance of attachment…

Alright then. Put eight in. I want a few kids, I don’t mind multiples.

The small orange one bites her lip and shifts from foot to foot nervously. “It was G-God’s Will First, wasn’t it? Because you’re, um…”

“What?! No! It wasn’t-”

The big orange one makes… what Mr. Seahorse thinks is a sympathetic sound and hands him a Kleenex.

“Look, kids, I get that you’re worried, but-”

“GIRL… er, TEACH-ER DUDE. It wasn’t your fault,” says the one that stole his credit cards. “You know that it wasn’t, right?”

An ultrasound appointment. The technician points, and Mr. Seahorse gapes… at all eight amniotic sacs currently inside him.

You can’t be serious…

It’s rare, but… not unheard of. We can remove-

No! No, don’t… I… They’re my kids. I want them. All of them.

“And it doesn’t make you any less of a man,” the annoying female one says, trying to push more pamphlets at him. “The hospital shouldn’t have made you carry them to term-”

The one with the duck frowns. “Hey now. S’ not the babies’ fault-”

“It’s not his fault either, Bo!”

“Yeah. Don’t you, like, believe in bodily autocracy?”

“Autonomy, Chelsea. It’s autonomy.”

“What, like, that thing with wizards?”

“I’m a Pisces!”

Trips to the hospital. Very frequent trips. They monitor him like a hawk.

It’s far too dangerous to consider attempting a natural delivery. We’ll schedule you for a C-section.

And… if I do go into labor?

Contact us. Immediately.

“Look, I know you’re probably all… shaken up by what happened-”

“Us?!” the one with anemia squeaks. “What about you?!”

“Yeah, teach, you’re the victim here!”

“I’m not a victim, I-”

“Of course you’re not,” the annoying female one says, wrapping an arm around his shoulder. “Milo. He’s a survivor.”

“Oh right. Sorry, teach!”

Mr. Seahorse at dinner with an orange-haired, lipstick-wearing woman. He winces and puts a hand on his belly. Are the babies coming?! People stare at them.

He grimaces. N-no, honey. I think it’s just gas.

“Listen, you’ve all just misunderstood-”

The annoying female one winces. “Oh… Did you know him?”

“That doesn’t make it okay!” The one whose mother won’t approve an IEP blurts out. “Jaque’s dad always said it was, but the moment Jaque said something, they carted him off to jail!”

The same woman from earlier rubs Mr. Seahorse’s back, smiles at him as he leans against the couch. I can take the day off from work. Don’t worry. I’ll be right there at our children’s c-section.

Can you believe it’s less than a month away? It’ll be nice not to carry so much weight around.

“Listen, I- Samantha! Get off of Oscar.”

Sexual harrassment clam lets go of the annoying one - begrudgingly - and backs away.

“Th-thanks, Mr. B. Um, you know we’re here for you… right? If you need… anything?”

Mr. Seahorse packs a bag and kisses his girlfriend. I’ll be back around… six tomorrow?

Are you sure you’ll be okay on your own?

Please. We do this trip every year. The kids aren’t that bad.

“I don’t need anything. I’m fine-”

“Ah.” The REALLY annoying one nods. “Denial. The first stage of grief.”

“Listen, all of you-”

“There’s anger.”

“If you would just listen I could-”

“Oh, bargaining!”

A tour of the museum. Mr. Seahorse follows along… and winces at a tightening pain. He rubs his back. Braxton-Hicks, he assures himself, and keeps walking. He ignores the next one. And the next one. And the fact that they’re getting closer together…

Mr. Baldwin? Mr. Baldwin?! The girl pales, looks down and sees the blood. MILO! OSCAR! Somebody! Call 911! Call the fire department!

The one that bit him flips her hair, pigtails flapping. “You want me to kill him for you? ‘Cuz I’ll do it. My mom killed my dad for-”

“Veronica, we’ve talked about this-”

“-what he did to me. I won’t get caught though.”

“YEAH!” The one whose mother won’t approve an IEP beats his chest. “JAQUE KILL HIM!”

“Uh, no, honey. I’m gonna do it.”

“No one needs to kill anyone, if you would all just-”

“VENGEANCE! VENGEANCE FOR TEACHER!”

A bald man approaches them as the REALLY annoying one is on the phone with the paramedics. Excuse me, can I help? I’m an OB-GYN.

That’s a baby delivery doctor, right? I don’t think Mr. Baldwin-

Mr. Seahorse grabs the stranger’s arm. YOU’VE GOTTA HELP! I’m carrying octuplets! I can’t have them HERE!

“Does Ms. Lips know?” the annoying one asks.

“Oscar! He gave birth in front of-”

“I know that! I just mean… does she know about the, um…?”

Mr. Seahorse sighs. A lot. “Does she know about what?”

“What, um, happened to you a-and-”

“OF COURSE she does!” the annoying female one says, aghast. “They’re getting married! I bet they tell each other everything!”

Someone cuts his pants right off him. Someone holds his hand. Someone reminds him to breathe. The Freshies stand back, wide eyed and somewhat horrified as the blood and… stuff starts to flow between his legs.

“I just meant-”

“Oh, I know what you meant.” The REALLY annoying one glares at him.

“L-look, this isn't about Phx-”

“No, but you sure as hell didn’t LEARN!”

The bald-headed man is in between his legs. Don’t worry, I’m going to do everything I can to make sure we don’t lose a single one. Okay? I need you to push… Okay, I can see a head!

The one with crabs faints.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Baldwin. Unlike some people, I know you didn’t cheat on your girlfriend.”

“I didn’t-”

“Ohhhhh, you would never. Would you? Phi-Sakchai.”

“Milo, don’t-”

The REALLY annoying one gets in his brother’s face.

Mr. Seahorse screams. The first head emerges. A lumpy, fleshy bundle of gunk and- Oh, but he’s crying. He’s okay and- Second one’s coming. He screams again.

“Phx’s been weird all month because of you!”

“Me?! You’re the reason he ended up on TV!”

“At least I didn’t tell him I wished he’d died in prison! He cries at night because of you!”

“… He cries at night?”

The second one is crying too. Crying. Crying means they’re alive. Crying means they’re okay. So are the third and fourth and the paramedics arrive as Mr. Seahorse passes out.

“Yeah! You didn’t even notice?! You made him cry and you didn’t notice!”

“He wouldn’t be crying at all if it wasn’t for the unicycle incident, Nong-Aat!”

“You take that back!”

“You first!”

The ambulance. The hospital. Waking up with his girlfriend draped around him. The kids! My kids-

Are fine. Relax. Everything’s gonna be okay… They’re all fine. I always wanted a buncha kids.

Marry me? Not the best time, I know, but-

Of course! Can I be the best man?

“Kids-”

“I bet Mr. Baldwin Junior never talks to his phx that way!”

“Which one? Wait, none of them can talk yet!”

“WILL ALL OF YOU PLEASE JUST SHUT UP?!”

Four boys. Four girls. Mr. Seahorse is in front of them all as soon as he’s able to be so. Reaching through with rubber gloves to hold them equally. I love you all. My little fighters…

“There was no rape! I understand that what you saw must have frightened you, but my children are the product of in vitro fertilization! I wanted to get pregnant! There were no cults! No abusive boyfriends! No… whatever your family drama is! It was all done in a doctor’s office with my consent, so will all of you PLEASE JUST CALM DOWN?!”

The Freshies stare at him. Big, round eyes, slackened jaws, pale faces. Steve Jackson smiles and flashes him a thumbs up.

“… Thank you, Steve Jackson.”

Chapter 49: (Dog City) An Episode about Bitch

Summary:

TW: prison rape, racism.

DOG CITY: Season 2, Episode 1 - BITCH

Written by Eliot Shagg

Starring Muunokhoi “Ace” Yugur

EXT. PALACE THEATER - DAWN
Outer shot of THE PALACE, an old, decrepit theater. It’s early morning. No one is around. Opening chords to Savannah’s “Solitary Confinement” play in the background. Fade to black.

ROSIE (V.O.):
It’s been weeks since Bugsy’s trial. Everyone’s starting to worry about you.

INT. PALACE THEATER - DAWN
Cut to inside. It’s dimly lit and very dusty. The seats have been ripped out. ACE sits on the end of the stage. There are dark circles under his eyes. ROSIE stands in the doorway. She looks angry.

ACE:
What? I’m worth worrying about all of a sudden?

ROSIE:
Don’t be cute with me, Ace. What the hell is going on?

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Cur who writes this crap stays up all night, pounding away at his computer. The Bitch who mangles it turns over on the couch and yawns.

You ain’t done yet?

I’ve told you a million times, Ace! It’s a process!

ACE:
Look, I don’t want to talk about it.

ROSIE:
You don’t? Well, too bad!

ROSIE crosses the old dusty theater, posture and demeanor still very angry, until she stands in front of ACE, ripping the bottle out of his hands.

ACE:
What the- Rosie! I need that!

ROSIE:
(holding bottle away)
You’re not getting it back until you tell me what’s going on here.

The Bitch sitting on the couch, reading over the script the Cur has written. He nods approvingly.

Not bad, bro, not bad.

Thanks… Think someone will pick it up?

ACE lunges for the bottle and stumbles, falling to the ground.

ROSIE:
Look at you! What’s wrong with-

ACE:
What’s wrong with me?! What’s wrong with me?!

ROSIE:
You know we’re really too old to be playing these games. And you’re way too old to be running away from home with your tail between your legs.

A woman from Hollywood with a harsh LA accent and tight red curls. The Cur signs what she hands him. That night he hugs the Bitch so hard that he lifts him off the floor.

Fuckin’ hell, Eliot! Give a guy a little space here!

ACE:
Well, you’re getting too old to… to… gah!

ACE gets up off the floor, throwing his hands in the air.

ACE:
Can’t talk to you. Fucking woman of the law.

ROSIE:
And what’s that supposed to mean?

Hair and make-up crews. The Bitch coughs up hairspray, dons his costume for the very first time. He practices his expressions in the mirror; the stoic, drunk detective. Hopes it’s enough to impress.

ACE:
It means you won’t listen to me!

ACE turns on his feet to look at ROSIE.

ACE:
You didn’t that night and you won’t now!

ROSIE:
(BEAT)
Are you still upset I arrested you?

Think this means I can quit my day job?

His co-star laughs and tosses her head back, red wig falling off to reveal dark brown. The Cur pats his shoulder.

If everything goes well.

Why do you work at a Korean restaurant anyway? Isn’t your family from-

Hohhot. And, uh… yeah, that’s kind of the point.

ACE:
You gotta ask?!

ROSIE:
I was doing my job!

ACE:
Last I checked, your job usually involves throwing guys like us into solitary. Protective custody. Like we did with Bugsy! Like I did with Bugsy. Last time I checked, you need more than circumstantial evidence to hang someone!

ROSIE:
Your life was never in any danger.

ACE:
Wanna bet?! Because you know so fuckin’ much about it!

Bitch helping Cur write another episode. They bicker slightly on the plot. There’s an angry knock on the door, and the Bitch opens it to find his upstairs neighbor with bags under his eyes.

It’s two in the morning, and I know you’ve got a shift tomorrow. You haven’t hit it big yet. Keep it the fuck down.

The show suddenly gains an annoying twink.

ROSIE:
(BEAT)
Was it in danger?

ACE throws his head back in laughter.

ACE:
Oh, my life? No, no, no. Killing me woulda been too kind for Bugsy’s crew.

ROSIE:
What are you talking about?

More cameras. A woman interviews them on a late night show. They watch the tape over and over again - even when the Cur is dog-tired and the Bitch comes home covered in sesame oil and chili paste.

ACE:
What d’ya think happens in gen pop, anyway? I thought you knew. I thought everyone did. Leave it to a stupid broad-

ROSIE:
Watch yourself.

ACE:
You said we were a team! You said I could trust you! And… and you threw me to the wolves just like that!

ACE pulls down his collar to reveal the place where a bite mark has scarred the right side of his neck.

ACE:
(quietly now and close to tears)
I woulda protected you.

The show premieres. The Cur and the Bitch check their phones for the reviews. Some negatives. Overwhelmingly positive. They both cheer.

We did it!

Soon I’ll be able to quit!

ROSIE:
(gasping with her hands over her mouth)
Oh… oh, Ace…

ROSIE walks towards ACE, until she’s inches away. She places a hand on the bite mark. ACE flinches, not quite away.

ROSIE:
Ace, who did this to you?

ACE:
(growling)
Who do you think, Rosie?

The show gets a little bigger. The money’s not rolling in just yet, but there’s talk of a second season. Someone stops the Bitch in the street and asks for his autograph. He smiles and signs. The Cur shrugs it off.

ROSIE:
You said… Bugsy’s people, right? Which ones? I can-

ACE:
You can what?

ROSIE:
I can get you justice!

ACE:
(laughing)
Justice. Yeah. I don’t want justice. I don’t even want revenge.

ROSIE:
What do you want?

ACE:
I don’t know. I just- Just gimme the bottle back. It’s the only thing that makes it go away.

The Bitch clocks out of his shift. His boss looks up from his desk.

Saw your show the other day.

And?

His boss gives half a smile. Not bad. Your brother knows what he’s doing.

ROSIE:
Makes what go away? The memories?

ACE:
(laughs)
I fucking wish. No, nothing makes the memories go away. The booze… it dulls the pain.

ROSIE:
Why didn’t you tell me about this sooner?

ROSIE cups ACE’s face with her hands.

ROSIE:
I woulda believed you.

ACE:
(BEAT)
Maybe I didn’t want you to know. Didya think of that?

More publicity. More people stopping the Bitch in the street. He signs autographs until he gets sick of it. He gets numbers. He gets discounts. People are nicer to him at work. He starts taking it for granted. The Cur notices.

ROSIE:
Why are you telling me now?

ACE:
Because you won’t leave me the fuck alone!

More reviews come in. Praising the writing. Praising the direction… Criticizing the acting.

Ace, don’t be ridiculous-

S’ cuz I’m a Daur, isn’t it?! They wouldn’t say shit about a White guy and you know it-

Please, you know that’s not true… If you don’t like it, maybe take some of what they’re saying to heart?

They’re saying I look wrong! They never met Charlie Chan?

ACE:
(almost crying)
I didn’t want ya to know. But you keep pushing me and pushing me…

ACE grabs the bottle. Starts to chug straight from it.

ROSIE:
Not so much-

ACE:
I didn’t want you looking at me different.

The Bitch comes home and finds the Cur at his computer. He hangs up his coat.

Hey, bro? I kinda had an idea for Ace’s character…

Oh, let’s hear it!

ROSIE:
Oh, Ace…

ROSIE looks at ACE, wide-eyed, and tries to step closer.

ACE:
Like that. See? You’re looking at me like I’m some fucking china doll that got chipped ‘cause a little girl played with it. That’s not what this is.
(BEAT)
I’m not weak.

ROSIE:
No one thinks you’re weak, Ace.

ACE looks down at the ground.

ACE:
(BEAT)
That ain’t exactly true.

The Cur shakes his head. It’s too risky. We haven’t even gotten greenlit for another season yet. We can’t risk doing something that controversial-

Controversial? My entire goddamn culture is controversial to you?

Ace-

The Bitch storms off before the Cur can finish.

ROSIE:
Hey. Whoa, this was not your fault.

ACE:
Never said it was.

He takes another drink.

ACE:
It still happened.

The same argument. Over and over and- Wash, rinse, repeat. Each time it gets a little more explosive.

ROSIE:
You’re a survivor-

ACE:
Don’t call me that. It sounds way too dramatic.

ROSIE:
What do you want me to say?

ACE:
I was somebody’s prison bitch. At least that’s fuckin’ honest.

ROSIE:
You’re not just some guy’s prison bitch. You know that, don’t you?

ACE takes another drink.

ACE:
Actually, you’re right. I was more than just one guy’s bitch.

Another knock on the door. When the Cur opens it, he finds not his neighbor, but the cops.

We’ve gotten several calls from this building about a noise complaint.

Oh, um, it’s nothing, my… roommate and I are having a disagreement.

ROSIE:
More than one?

ACE:
They took turns. They held me down. They all… all…

ACE falls onto the floor. Pulls his knees to his chest.

ROSIE:
Ace!

ROSIE runs over, places her arms around him.

ACE:
(BEAT)
I didn’t want ya to know, Rosie.

The Bitch storms off set. He’s not even out of his detective costume. The Cur runs after him.

Ace! Where are you-

Filming’s done. I’m going wherever the fuck I want. What do you care, huh? Bitch looks at Cur with narrowed eyes. I’m just your roommate, after all. The fuck you care what I do?

Me? The Cur gets up in his brother’s face. Why the hell do you care so much about… about… Mom’s the one who raised you! You’re more White than you are-

The Bitch punches him in the nose.

ROSIE:
It’s going to be okay, Ace. Eventually.

INT. ACE’S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Cut to a shot of ACE in bed, tossing and turning in his sleep. Fade out.

INT. PRISON - NIGHT
Fade in to BUGSY’s cell. ACE in a prison uniform, shoved inside.

It soon turns into a full-on fight. Bitch and Cur both on the ground. Hitting. Biting. Screaming.

You’ve never accepted me!

You’ve never acted like my brother!

Police in red and blue flashing lights. They pull the two men off each other. Recognition in one of the officer’s eyes for all the wrong reasons.

BUGSY:
Well, well, well. Look what I got for an early present.

ACE opens his mouth. Tries to speak as BUGSY’s shadow looms over him.

BUGSY:
What’s the matter, Ace? Cat got your tongue?

The Bitch in an interrogation room. He shakes his head.

I invoke the fifth. I demand to have my lawyer present.

Fine. One officer nods to another. Put him in a holding cell until this lawyer of his shows up.

ACE sits up in bed. He’s sweating. He’s cold. He reaches for his phone and dials.

ACE:
Rosie? Rosie, it’s me. Yeah. Listen, I need a case. Anything. You were right, this isn’t working. I need to go back.

They shove the Bitch, still in costume, into the overcrowded holding cell. A dozen drunk faces look up at him. A few of them sneer.

What ‘re you in for?

Assault - if I had to guess.

INT. ROSIE’S APARTMENT - NIGHT
Cut; ROSIE sitting up on her phone as well. The screen is split between the two.

ROSIE:
Think you’re ready?

ACE:
I’m never gonna be ready. I can’t sit around waiting to be ready. ‘Sides, bills are piling up. And I can’t go back to waitin’ tables.

One of the drunk men laughs. Oh, that’s rich. Comin’ from someone like you. Were ya too bad even for this fucking department?

It’s then the Bitch realizes what he’s wearing. The danger he’s in. Oh, this? Sorry, pal, I’m not-

The drunk man stands and holds him down.

ROSIE:
You wanna talk about it?

ACE:
I want a case. Come on, Rosie. You gotta have something for me.

His lawyer doesn’t come for hours. An officer does and asks if he wants to use the phone. The Bitch nods. He calls the Cur. The Cur doesn’t answer. He starts to dial… his mother (she’s sick)… his father (he’s back in Hohhot)… He calls the man from the restaurant.

M-Mr. Ji? It’s Ace. Please, I… I know, I know…

INT. PRECINCT OFFICE - DAY
Cut to the precinct. ROSIE opens the file in her hands and holds it out for him.

ROSIE:
Someone’s been casing the city museum - the same museum. Over and over again. We think it’s-

ACE:
Someone on the inside?

The man from the restaurant walks in on a leg of flesh and a leg of silicone. He doesn’t look all that amused with the Bitch… at first. Something changes in his eyes at the sight of him.

ROSIE:
We do have three suspects. We think it’s either the janitor, the assistant curator, or the researcher. We’re not sure who and we’re not sure why.

ACE:
And that’s why you’re sending me.

It’s a quiet car ride. The Bitch looks out the car window. It takes longer than it should to realize something.

This… isn’t the way back to Outland Avenue.

That’s because I’m taking you to the hospital.

The Bitch turns in shock, opens his mouth to say something.

I was a prisoner of war in North Korea, Ace. Don’t tell me this isn’t what I think it is. We both know you’d be lying.

ROSIE:
Ace…

ACE:
I can do this.

ROSIE:
I believe you, but… I’m worried. I don’t want to see you get hurt again.

ACE:
Great, me neither!

The two of them in the waiting room. His boss asks for the Cur’s number and steps outside. He comes back in, smiling like a tiger. Mr. Shagg is on his way. Cut; the Bitch lays down on a metal table, cringes before the doctor’s even touched him.

ROSIE:
Ace-

ACE:
I’ll be careful, Rosie. Don’t worry.

ROSIE leans forward and kisses him on the nose.

ROSIE:
You’d better be, Ace.

The Cur enters a few minutes later. He approaches the Bitch slowly, gently. Mr. Ji told me you were hurt… Ace… He reaches out, only for the Bitch to move away.

INT. MUSEUM - NIGHT
ACE wanders around the empty halls. Whistles to himself.

ACE:
Sure is quiet… Why’d it have to be a museum? Fucking hate museums…

It’s a long way back to the tenement house - long enough for the painkillers to take full effect. The Bitch falls asleep in the car. He wakes up hours later on the sofa, covered in a warm woolen blanket.

ACE walks deeper into the museum. The exhibits around him begin to warp. Teeth become sharper. Swords point slightly. Everything becomes increasingly more dangerous. ACE continues to mumble.

ACE:
Stolen shit…

The Cur comes by. Passes him a mug of tea. Neither of them say anything… then the Cur clears his throat. We got greenlit for another season. I was… wondering if I could get your help for an episode on… on your character’s Mongolian heritage.

ACE:
Put up for a bunch of White people to gawk at…

ACE stops in front of a set of Mongolian armor, from centuries ago. Through the reflection, he wears the helmet.

ACE:
No one ever asks how we feel about it.

From behind, BUGSY shows up. Wearing Renaissance Italian garb. He grabs ACE’s shoulders in the reflection.

BUGSY:
Nothing’s changed there, huh, Ace?

ACE:
That’s not my name!

Cur at the computer, and Bitch peering over his shoulder. Are you sure you want to call it… that? It seems insulting…

To you, maybe. There’s this thing people do with their kids, back where my side comes from. Name them after something terrible - so terrible not even death wants a bite.

ACE:
Don’t you remember? I’m someone else now. You called me

The Cur stops typing. Leans back and yawns. “Well… S’ a work in progress.”

The Bitch smiles. “For the record? I like it so far.”

Chapter 50: *CSA* (Pokemon) Stories about the Opposing Pairs

Summary:

TW: rape of adults and children, child physical/emotional/verbal abuse and neglect, child-on-child assault, child/adult death/murder, attempted and completed suicide, extreme violence, ableism, abuse of disabled, elder abuse, transphobia, forced crossdressing, racism, real-life war atrocities, animal cruelty/pet death, animal attacks, stalking, creepshots, grooming, date-rape, attempted gang-rape, blackmail, betrayal, domestic violence, misunderstanding, deliberate trauma triggering, disbelief about abuse, family loss/death/abandonment, kidnapping, incest, incestuous reproduction, kidnapping, forced prostitution/trafficking, forced marriage, running away from home, police brutality, statutory rape, teen pregnancy, serial killing, torture, bugs, needles, drowning, poisoning, drugging, sleep deprivation, claustrophobia, genital injury, permanent injury, false accusations, false confessions, unsafe medical experiments, gang violence, spiritual abuse, brainwashing, delusion, identity theft, abuse of authority, parentification, cancer, miscarriage, food restriction, threats, unreliable narrator.

Notes:

Happy somewhat belated fifth anniversary of this fic's publication on AO3! Whew, it's been a long time. Couldn't have done it without all our wonderful readers, and we hope you'll continue enjoying our work for more years to come.

To celebrate, a challenge for you; write your thoughts on each section as you read them, one by one, then send them to us in the review! Let's see how your thoughts change with each revelation. See end notes for a list of who everyone is, in case you need it.

The stories keep pouring in and pouring in: Sunday sometimes, Monday, Tuesday… Two weeks. Three weeks. One month straight and more. Tapes that play back to back to back and don’t stop rolling. It doesn’t matter when the theater empties - someone else is always around to hear.

 

A Story about Ephraim and Menashe

“I always knew they loved each other more than me… and that was alright. It usually goes that way, doesn’t it?”

“With sisters?”

“With twins.”

“Gramps” and “Me” again. On a Sunday. On the stage. The girls aren’t here, not in the flesh, but they wear static smiles on the screen of their brother’s phone. Brown-haired and brown-eyed, posing for the camera; they’re eight or nine in the picture, no older than that.

“What’s the saying again? The one you mentioned a while back? Like Esau and-”

“Ephraim and Menashe, dummy. And it’s not just an expression, I think it’s a Jewish blessing too - the youngest son before the oldest but they didn’t, like, get mad about it. They didn’t fight. Maybe that’s part of the blessing?”

“Maybe that’s all of it.” “Gramps” laughs, stills, sobers. “Do you remember that night?”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Jacob and Esau, two bundles of dark hair in their mother’s arms. Jacob is Brown-skinned and amber-eyed. Esau is paler, and both of them have double eyelids, but… in general, he looks a lot less like their mother. She holds them very, very tightly. My little Chase, she murmurs. My sweet Elaine. She looks less a woman than a girl.

“It was my tenth birthday. I wanted a pool party. You were still worried about sleeping alone, but my dad-”

“ ‘Boys in one room, girls in the other,’ yeah, I remember that part. We all crammed into your bed and the girls took the couch. I knew that was weird.”

“We were just little kids…”

A man next to the bed. Olive skin and slicked-back hair. Keep her, he says, I’ll take the boy.

No! You can’t-

I’m being real generous here, Delia. ‘S a good deal. Don’t push.

Cut to years later; Esau wanders aimlessly through the big house, through the manicured gardens. Jacob pulls an envelope from the mail and runs up to her mother - older now, with a different baby on her hip.

I think it’s the check from Dad!

“I don’t get how nobody heard anything. Why I didn’t-”

“It’s not your fault. My guess is that he brought her outside first. You know she would have gone with him. Then he threw her in, or held her under or… whatever. I heard the old man on the phone once and- It was probably the latter. Or he popped her on the head first. I know she knew how to swim.”

Jacob at the mailbox again. Two letters this time; one of them is addressed to her.

‘Dear Elaine,

Dad says I have a sister. I guess we should try to be friends. Do you like animals? Dad has a lot of animals around the place. I have a rabbit of my very own. And a fox - but that’s a secret. Don’t tell anyone, okay? (Their names are King and Evan.)

From,

Chase Viridiana’

“Green used to have nightmares about that night. About water. Almost all of mine are about waking up. Like I’m standing next to the bed with you and Ash and Gary in it, still sleeping, then I go out into the yard and he has the pool all covered and… he asks me if I’ll walk across the tarp.”

“And do you?”

“Sometimes I make it halfway across. But I always know that I’m going to fall.”

‘Dear Chase

Mom says you’re my brother, huh? That’s neat! I have a little brother already and he’s got a big brother and some sisters. But he’s LITTLE. You’re my age and that’s even better! Maybe we can play sometime? Can I see your rabbit? (Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about the fox. Promise!!!!!!!!!) I’ve got a chinchilla called Pikapika which means sparkle. She’s the cutest thing ever!!!!!!!!! My brother Ash wants one too but he’s too little right now.

XOXO

Elaine Viridiana’

More letters. Pictures of Esau and his father. Pictures of Jacob and her family.

He writes:

‘Dear Elaine,

Call me Silver…’

She writes:

‘Dear Silver,

Call me Elaine.’

“When we couldn’t find her… a-at first I just thought she was hiding. When the police came… I wonder why they didn’t check the swimming pool, cover or not. She must’ve been there, right? She would have been right underneath…”

“You know we shelled out big for that stupid thing - Mom and Dad saved up for years - just to fill it in after… just to…”

“Did he ever say why he did it? She was just a little kid, we all were, so why? She was your friend…”

“I don’t know. Gramps doesn’t let me visit.”

“I was really happy when Mom said they found her. I thought that just meant she was coming home. Then Green started sobbing. She knew.” He hunches over, “Me” rubbing his back in circles. “They wouldn’t tell me what he did until I saw you guys at the funeral and… and your dad wasn’t there.”

The names become Nii-san and Sorella as time goes on. They get closer, they get older - but not that old, never that old. Nowhere near “old enough”. ‘I want to meet you’ and ‘I want that too’ and ‘the park, 8:00’. He heads to the one uptown. She heads down the street. They sit there waiting for a long, long time. Cut;

‘To Silver,

Where were you? What the heck?’

The letters stop coming after that.

“I was at the trial, you know. Well, he pled guilty, so… the sentencing. Mom made a victim impact statement, Green cried so much that they had to take her out into the hall. I remember someone telling her that it would be alright since Leaf was with our dad now - Delia or, uh, your aunt - and I wish they hadn’t.”

“How long has it been since…?”

“Since Leaf? Six-”

“Since Green.”

“… Four. Same anniversary. Some anniversary. Her room was empty when Mom went to get her up for school. It took almost a week for them to find her shoes in the river. T-they say she must have jumped off that bridge in the park…”

“A lot of people do. Sometimes they don’t… y’know.”

“This time it stuck. And now I don’t have any sisters, not blood sisters anyway. I just… Why couldn’t she talk to me?”

Jacob’s mother running to the phone. Jacob’s mother crying on the phone. The man with slicked hair holding back tears on television. Jacob stares, transfixed, until her brothers’ brother changes the channel. They wrestle for the remote.

Esau in a dark, empty space. Esau held tightly, stripped naked, sprayed down with a hose. Esau’s hair rinsed until it comes out red.

Grow it out too - it’s a good look for him.

He finally looks like his mother with her red-brown hair.

Jacob walking through town with her remaining brothers. Shouting names, hanging posters. SILVER! SILVER! Chase…?

“I almost wish it had been me, not in the same way that she must have, but… If it were me then at least they’d still be… Both of them. They had each other.”

“You’ve got me. You’ve got Ash, and Delia, and Elaine.”

“My sisters are gone, Blue, don’t act like you know how that feels.”

A cough.

“Sorry, that's not what I meant. I know Daisy hurts, but… I think a cousin's not the same.”

“Yeah. That's true. Gary's been off ever since.”

Jacob and Esau grow up. Her skin gets browner under the sun. He gets even paler than he was to begin with. A warehouse in Japan. A new house in the suburbs. A girl with chains on her ankles. A new foster brother with fast-talking hands and Einstein puffs of hair. The Flying Rooster led down the aisle and chained next to Esau, and a gun left unattended on the floor. The Flying Rooster on the late night show. Talking, talking, talking… Token knocks at Jacob’s door.

“If it makes you feel any better, I heard my Dad joined a gang in prison. ‘Magma-Dan’, whatever that means.” “Me” rolls his eyes. “Maybe he couldn’t cut it on his own.”

“You don’t think he was-”

“The cops? Probably. Or someone else. Gramps wouldn't look at me for days after that made the news so… Yeah. Yeah.”

“Do you ever miss him? I mean, he’s still your dad.”

“No, I don’t. And he isn’t - not really, not anymore. He should have died that night.”

“I wish he had.”

There are two funerals. Jacob is only invited to one of them. She places a candle inside a wooden lantern, places the lantern into the black water lapping at the shore. She sneaks into the Catholic cemetery and burns incense on Esau’s grave. I love you, she murmurs. I love you… Goodbye.

The river again. Jacob stands waist-deep. Another girl on the shoreline, swinging a turtle by the tail. Careful, she says, you’ll hurt yourself.

“Do you believe in reincarnation?”

“I… never really thought about it before?”

“Not even after…” He shakes his head as if to clear it, and it doesn’t seem to do much good. “Well, I do. I hope they’re together, that’s what she wanted.”

“I hope my father burns in Hell.”

 

A Story about Ebb and Flow

“Most sets of triplets aren’t identical. Did you know that?”

Amber eyes and sharp, pale faces and unruly tufts of hair poking up like horns. Flow looks like her brother, just… not as much as she looks like the other girl, in front of the stage, talking for both of them. That’s Bianca. Just Bianca.

“Yeah, it’s pretty unusual - I mean, triplets in general are pretty unusual, but - uh… It’s like this. Usually there’ll be two separate eggs, like how you get fraternal twins, and then one splits into two. So, in the end you get three kids - an odd one out, and a matching pair. Usually. That’s our deal, except… Well, they were more like a set, not us.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a woman in red flanked by two boys in black. One is sunken-eyed and leering. One is droopy-eyed and fat. They look about the same age. Sicily and Naples, and birthday candles. Presents and ribbons and a pair of kittens - an exotic shorthair, a golden-eyed Bombay. More birthdays, weddings, funerals. They bury the cats behind the house when they die. They bury their mother in a casket lined with silk. Will readings. Lawyer meetings. ‘To my sons… Giovanni… Leandro…’

“Dad died while our mom was still pregnant - waterskiing accident - she… wasn’t really dealing with it, so our grandfather took us in. He’s a good guy, it’s not like it was ever a bad situation or anything, we just… People are so weird. They had to split up their classes - and mine too - so we’d all make different friends. Didn’t really work out that way.”

A son disappears. Sicily mourns again, ignoring his remaining child. Naples stands by - silent, supportive, subordinate. For months and months.

“Call it antisocial if you have to and I guess it probably was. She’s the only one who was ever anything but useless when it came down to stuff like thaaaaACK!” Bianca squeals as the other girl grabs her. “Still is, even now. Usually that’s a good thing, but- No! No, I’m sorry! I didn’t mean it like that. I mean, it’s not like any of us were seeking out strangers! Or… or creepy old men or anything! And- Yeah, I know… It wasn’t men anyway.”

The brothers drink, and women enter the bar - a pair, with wire-rimmed glasses and short dark hair. One in crisp business attire. One dressed like a gothic lolita. Sicily ignores them. Naples stares.

“Some kid actually saw what was happening and called the police. Too late, but y’know…” Flow shrugs on the stage, Bianca shrugs in front of it. “I don’t really get why they did it, Grandpa’s tried to explain…”

A blur of club music and shot after shot after- Naples wakes up at home. Dark hair and red eyes in the bed next to him. Glasses broken in the corner. Lolita dress in a heap on the floor. Cut; apologies met with tears and curses. He drives her home. Cut; Sicily glares at him.

I can’t believe I-

Never mind the girl! You left me to pick up the tab!

“There’s this guy, I guess, making money by selling stuff he isn’t supposed to have in the first place. Sometimes animals, sometimes jewelry and special candy that makes you feel weird. Apparently he’s got a lot of people working for him, doing things like that - like those girls - and even people who don’t usually do what he says. But not Grandpa. He’s in charge of the maritime museum here and there was this huge pearl we had on display sometimes, it’s from a shipwreck, probably worth a lot… The, um… the R guy offered to buy it, but he said no. Then Dad had his accident.” She lowers her voice and whispers, “We think it might be cursed.”

Naples sends flowers, candy, money… until she begs him to stop. Sicily ignores the problem, ignores the problem, ignores the problem. And then the other woman comes to him, pregnancy test in hand. I can’t afford to look after my sister and a kid! What are we supposed to do now?!

Cut; Naples turns very pale, very quickly. She’s what?! With… me?

“They were scared - obviously - but those two girls didn’t really… do anything after that. That’s what she told me, I don’t think the adults believe her though - I do! They said a lot of stuff like that, almost every day, but they never actually… and that guy never showed up either. Maybe they were lying, or maybe they were waiting so they could get me? If that was it, they never got the chance.” Ebb’s face is as blank as ever, but Flow stiffens. Bianca makes a fist. “They were only gone for a few days, but the house was near the river… and it was flood season.”

More drinking - the first time since that night. Naples begs his brother. Please, I’ll do anything just… just to be there for her…

Words are spoken; money changes hands. A baby is born. A woman is hired on as Sicily’s personal assistant. A woman disappears (and nobody reports it). Naples leaves.

“You know, even though we’re close to the ocean, there hasn’t been a hurricane in Calisota County since… 1978, I think? Most of the flooding is riverine, my grandpa says. It was raining. A lot. A lot of people won’t even dig that far into places that flood a lot. Some will. Someone did this time.”

Pictures and postcards. Naples writes to his brother, until he doesn’t. Sicily keeps the secretary anyway, keeps offering raises, keeps her happy (thanks the Lord that she’s actually good at her job). He keeps his eye on the woman who looks just like her too. Boilerplate emails of ‘Thank you, valued customer’ with an addition of ‘We’ll have Miss Glow-Worm broken in soon.’ Sometimes he passes along pictures he scours from the internet. Naples and a little girl with a ragdoll and dark hair.

“He was always a little bigger than us, but we’re eleven and this was about a year ago. Even a grownup might not have been able to knock down the door. Then… then the windows broke… and the water kept coming… He said it would be okay. It wasn’t though. She told me it was like riding a bike, where somebody holds the back for you? And you don’t even notice them letting go…”

A phone call. Someone at the police station. Sicily’s hands shake around the phone. Did you find his body? His fist crashes into a picture of his niece’s face. He dials Naples for the first time in years.

“She won’t talk since it happened. Not can’t. Won’t.” Flow stands up, fixes her red dress and her brother’s photograph, reaches for Bianca when she gets down from the stage. They hold each other. “Nobody knows why, but I think it’s because… her voice sounds too much like his.”

 

A Story about Kiss and Cry

“I always thought I’d be somebody. Someday. Even when I was a little girl.”

“I wanted to be an ice dancer. Funny how things work out.”

Kiss and Cry are tall, pale, buxom. Their eyes are brown, their hair is red (it’s probably artificial), and they look almost exactly the same. It’s not a perfect resemblance, but it’s close. Close enough that, well… it’s easy to get mixed up.

“He took me from the rink that night. It was late. It was dark. I know it doesn’t snow here much, but it was snowing then. And I was eleven years old. My mother was working late.” Cry reaches back to straighten her ponytail. It’s already straight. “We never had much money, not as much as you need for a sport like that. My skates, my costumes - all of it was second-hand. And everything else went towards my lessons. It’s really quite sad when you think about it. What a waste…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a hot spring day; the city zoo; a fragile-looking man in a fancy-looking wheelchair; two young boys dragging behind. They do look exactly alike, except for the eyes. Try to keep up, Roger, the old man quips, we haven’t got all day. Pound-Foolish groans.

“I tried to run, but I didn’t get very far before he pulled the gun on me. Looking back, I should have screamed instead. I don’t know how long we drove for, it probably seemed longer than it actually took. I can’t remember where we went either. I spent most of the ride looking at him when I wasn’t crying, begging him to let me go. I thought he might if I wished for it hard enough. That was… naive.”

Penny-Wise and their father go out and come back with bottles of pills and a yard of bandages. Pound-Foolish watches them stagger up the stairs to the old man’s room. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t offer to help. And nobody asks. Another appointment comes and goes and has been marked off on the calendar. Their father doesn’t leave the house this time. Someone comes to him instead - a lady doctor dressed all in white. Penny-Wise hovers by the doorway. Pound-Foolish walks right by. Totally unconcerned.

“My hair is black naturally - the first thing he made me do was dye it. I don’t know if it was that he wanted to change my appearance or if it was just some kind of fetish. I asked once and he hit me in the mouth. Whatever the case, he kept coloring it until I was old enough to figure it out myself. Call me crazy, but I’m a little taken with the look now. He kept me downstairs most of the time. I had to tell myself I was beautiful.”

Just hold still, boys, it’ll be over in a minute. The doctor again, and more with syringes, and more to straighten out their arms. You want to help your father, don’t you?

I don’t see how this is going to work.

Next morning: I feel much better today. But their father doesn’t look better. Still, he eats with abandon at breakfast, lunch- He’s sick at dinner. He vomits at the table. The maid takes his plate away. Cut; more doctors; more blood; more needles. Please, boys, I need this. Next morning; I feel much better today. But he’s been saying that for years.

“He didn’t like it when I cried. Just as well since I got to be pretty good at not doing that. Cool as ice,” she smirks dryly, “hard as stone. Especially when he touched me. That was… I learned how to do that too. When he was angry, it went about as well as you’d expect. I was a little girl, then a teenager, then a starved young woman, and I was at his mercy. Once he beat me so badly that I had a miscarriage. So badly that I can’t have any children. Not to mention the time he broke my ankle. No more ice skating. No Olympics. Even if I wasn’t too old… Needless to say, I tried to keep him happy with me. Whatever that meant.”

Pound-Foolish spends his twentieth birthday alone in front of the television. Penny-Wise helps their father in at midnight, gauze all wrapped around those arms, purple residue on both their hands. The old man has a bag in his lap. No one comments. No one asks. Come morning, there’s a lock on the fridge.

“When he was in a good mood… he took me ice skating. It sounds crazy, I know. Even the police were confused. We’d been together for years at this point, he must have figured I’d be too cowed to say anything. He threatened to hurt my family. And I knew he would.”

Graduation; Pound-Foolish falls into an office chair; a young woman pushes a microphone towards him as he comes down the stairs. Mr. Clifford, what do you have to say about-

Shabby-looking teenagers in the waiting area, slung-out and strung-out on the leather couch. He starts to protest, but Penny-Wise pushes past. Relax. They’re with me.

A younger Mewtwo grabs Pound-Foolish by the shoulder to turn him around. I’m looking for your father. He sees him leave with purple dust on his fingers and a package under his arm. CliffoRd with a fat, red R.

“We started going out more as I got older and… looked less like the girl people would have been looking for. He let me have free run of the house. Well, reasonably free, anyway. ‘Reasonably’. Then one day he came home and… He said, ‘No one is looking for you.’ I didn’t know what he meant at the time.”

A girl stumbles out and collapses in the empty waiting room. She lies there, cold and pale with purple dusted fingers and the same coating inside her nose. Pound-Foolish drops down next to her, prodding for a pulse. Nothing. He reaches for his pocket, runs for his phone. There’s another door open along the way. Call an ambula-

There’s that doctor; there’s his brother; there’s a boy with a needle in his arm (and blood running through it). There’s a bag of purple powder in his lap. What’s wrong, Roger? You want to help your father, don’t you?

“My father drives tour boats for a living, fishes during the off season sometimes. When business was good he used to come home late, pull me out of bed and we’d eat dishes of deep-fried carp - even though it wasn’t on my meal plan.” She pauses, wipes her eyes, grimaces. “He stopped for a few months the summer I turned ten. I just thought he’d forgotten… He got up before I did on the morning of my birthday and got back late, but I woke up to a skating dress laying on the foot of my bed. Not a hand-me-down, not homemade. Store-bought.”

Pound-Foolish in his father’s office. Do you have any idea how dangerous this is?!

We detoxify everything before- Oh, you mean… At least they’re doing something worthwhile.

I… I… I’ll tell someone…

Oh?

Penny-Wise in Pound-Foolish’s place in the office. Don’t worry about it, Dick, says their father. It’s no different than the blood.

“My mother said she wanted to name me Kanna. That’s ‘summer wave’ in Japanese. They went with something more American, so I wouldn’t be picked on in school. I think she always regretted not being able to do more for me, but I never minded that my skates weren’t as new as the other girls’ or that my skirt ripped a little more easily. Maybe I would have when I was older. She said I was beautiful. I thought they knew me better than they did.”

That night Pound-Foolish sits by himself and stares blankly at a news broadcast, picking up and putting down his phone. He can’t bring himself to make the call. He gets up the next morning. There are police at the door. Cheek swabs. The lab. 50% certainty…

“Imagine going through what I did. And when you’re finally free, you realize he was right. No one is looking for you. And they haven’t been.” Cry glares, even behind her fogged-up glasses. “You’ve been replaced.”

“I’m sorry.” Kiss doesn’t say anything else after that.

 

A Story about Water and Oil

“Yeah, I’ll talk to you guys! But not to him!”

“May, I-”

“SHUT UP! I… I… Just stay away from me!”

Oil’s face is as red as the old stage curtains, even before she stomps up to it; red like her jacket and the bandana in her hair. Water starts to follow her up, thinks better of it and stops, one foot on the first step, the other on the floor. He tries to bury his face in his hands. His glasses get in the way.

“Our parents made us come in together. I don’t mind - I don’t - but she…” He bites his lip, hands in pockets, rocking on the balls of his feet. “Um, I guess you could say we’ve never really gotten along, but it was never this bad before. Normal brother-sister stuff. Sibling rivalry. That’s what they said…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; crepe paper and cardboard and sneakers scuffing on the floor. A highschool science fair; a college auditorium; a few much younger children running around unsupervised. There’s a familiar face and slicked-back hair - P.R. with a judge’s pin stuck to his chest. He nods at Shock with his electric smile, starts to say something when Awe jostles him.

Sorry, Mister!

Oh… It’s no problem. Who do we have here?

“She-”

“I’m a 4H-er, winner of last year’s Champion Rosette! In the eight to tens, but still! I did such a good job raising my rooster that Dad’s letting me have one of our piglets. That and… he said it might give me something to focus on.” She glances furiously at her brother. “Oh, but Saura’s just the cutest little thing! He was gonna enter too this time, but after what happened, well, I wouldn’t trust him with so much as a teddy bear!”

She pulls him between the different exhibits, chattering his ear off. You know, you look like Daddy. Except he’s got a beard. How come you don’t have a beard? Is it ‘cause you’re a teacher? My friend Buster says that’s against the law!

Tell me about your brother.

Huh? Oh, Clemont’s super smart! But he’s kinda dorky. She giggles. So I’m trying to find him a nice girl… She continues talking as they circle back. And Serena said- Awe puffs her lip out, crosses her arms. Hey! Are you even listening?! The professor hums and stares through her - clearly not. I’m talking to y- Oh! Clemont!

Shock grabs her arm, half-scolding and half-apologizing to a man who doesn’t seem overly concerned, even as he waves him off.

No. No, it really isn’t any trouble. Take care of the young lady, won’t you? She’s a gem.

“I, um, I…”

“Einstein over there has always thought he was a real brainiac. Smarter than everyone else, that’s for sure! Wayyyy more than his dumb big sister, right? What was it that you said the other day?”

“That I was sorry?”

“Couldn’t be. Oh, I know! Apparently if it weren’t for him I wouldn’t be able to tie my own shoes.”

“Hey! I said I- Wait! No! I wasn’t gonna…” But it’s too late, Oil’s already cowering away from him.

Oh, so it wasn’t a mistake. That’s great! She’ll be there. Shock puts his phone down and exits stage right, passing right over his sister where she’s hidden behind the door.

Cut. They walk up to the big university building together, holding hands, but Awe doesn’t look at him. You okay, Bonnie? Something wrong?

Cut. She sits cross-armed, away from the other children. Someone taps her on the shoulder from behind. May I join you?

“Mom and Dad used to make me walk him in and out because he’s so little. They were worried he’d get lost - and he totally would have - so big sister to the rescue, right? Lotta good it did me. They were always making me do things like that before, get him to class, get him ready, walk him home after school… Now sometimes they still start to ask me, but then they remember and change their minds.”

Shock has a madhouse to wade through when he comes for Awe. When he makes it past the throng of noisy prodigies he finds her on her stomach, drawing, with her new professor friend.

Well, Miss Limone, I must say you’re quite an artist.

Thank you, sir! You can keep that one, if you want. She waves goodbye and leaves with her brother. P.R. steps over the picture on the floor.

How was it? Shock asks, Awe scrambling to buckle herself in.

Great! Mr. Ratigan was there again today and he showed me his office. I think I might wanna be a criminal-olo-gist someday!

That’s fantastic. And did you do anything with the other kids?

“There was this guy at the school, not part of the program, he… Uh, no, this other guy. We met him the first day there. She and I were arguing, I was still mad and-”

“It took me almost twenty minutes to find him because someone got lost trying to get back on his own!”

Nine of Shades comes down the hallway, big baggy sweater, dark fringe in her eyes. Ace and Two walk behind her - one on her phone, one swinging her arms.

Hi, uh, sorry… is she in the gifted program? Gifted study? I’m coming from there now and I can’t find my sister - Bonnie - she’s about-

Nine listens, flinches, points. The office is down that way. You can’t miss it.

“I didn’t say you were dumb, exactly-”

“YOU MIGHT AS WELL HAVE!” Oil pulls back her arm to slap him but stops herself, retreating to the other side of the stage. “He’s always saying stuff like that! Oh, my sister’s so stupid! Oh, my sister’s only good with animals ‘cause they’re all dumber than her!”

“C’mon, nee-san, I never said that!”

“And I’m not jealous! I just can’t stand it when stupid know-it-all little brothers act like they’re soooo much smarter than they are. And why does everyone have to make such a big deal out of it?! What’s the point in skipping a few grades if you’ll listen to just any random guy?”

“He was a teacher - sort of, like a teacher for grownups, and I wanted him to like me. He said he did. He told me I was smart, that I could be a student of his one day, if I thought about it… I started sneaking off to see him when nobody else was around.” He bites his lip and fumbles with his buttons. “He said a lot of things.”

“Oh, I bet.”

Shock leaves the bathroom with the fan on, towel wrapped around his waist. Awe darts by him, into the room, reaches for something underneath the sink. Cut; she holds up a fold of cheap instant pictures, lets them fall on P.R.’s desk like a winning hand. And this’ll… help, right? she asks slowly.

Of course. All of our students start by submitting photographs. It’s standard practice at most schools… or do they not do picture day anymore? He laughs. I’m not quite as young as I used to be.

“It was little things at first. Stuff you could kinda brush off as him being friendly, like him sitting too close or… My parents told me about not letting grownups do… certain things, but they never told me to worry about guys who didn’t do them. And he didn’t! He didn’t have to… He told me some stuff, he said it was supposed to be for older kids but it was okay. And then I started to think maybe it was like staying up late and eating too much ice cream, stuff that my parents say not to do, but aren’t such a big- Um, I could be wrong about that. I was wrong about this.”

“I hate you.”

Shock runs in, running late, and finds his sister by the vending machine with a big bar of chocolate in her hand. Hey! Sorry I’m late… Where did you get that?

Mr. Ratigan lent me some money. I… It’s only two dollars, is that okay? He said you could pay him back.

Bonnie, he groans, digging through his pockets in spite of himself. Ugh, fine, where’s his office again? And he follows her down the hall.

“I wish Ash was my brother! Or… or Harley! Or anyone! Stop it! Stop looking at me like that! You don’t even know us! You weren’t there!”

“Neither were you! Um, that night we got into another one of our arguments. I don’t even remember what it was about…”

“Liar. We were out in the coop. Alone. The chickens are supposed to be my responsibility, and his is to stay out of the way. But that’s not what happened. Obviously.”

She doesn’t come in with her brother; P.R. squints into the hall. The door shuts - is shut, Shock shuts it - with a metallic click. The desk drawer opens; something’s taken out. A spade is a spade, but these are pictures - Awe’s pictures. Shock starts back. Where did you-

P.R.’s voice is no louder than a whisper but his eyes are ice cold. If you don’t want these sent to every school you’ve applied to, you’ll do exactly as I say.

“She just… she just wouldn’t stop yelling… and… and I thought back to what that professor guy said… I didn’t… I-I didn’t know that-” Water bursts into tears and runs off into the audience and down the hall. There’s a slam from the men’s bathroom door.

“I don’t care if he’s sorry! I don’t care if… if…” Oil’s face crumples. So do her knees. She puts her head in her hands and wails. “I wish none of this had ever happened. Th-then maybe we could be friends again… I just want to want my brother back.”

 

A Story about Smoke and Mirrors

“We’re in love… I think.”

“And I know we shouldn’t be… probably. Can you even call it love?”

Smoke and Mirrors and the smallest audience yet (and that may be for the best). They lean into one another, her head resting in his lap. Mirrors smiles contentedly, long hair parted into pigtails and dyed blue. Smoke is frowning, baseball cap pulled over his eyes. It’s not as obvious as Menashe and Ephraim, but the resemblance is there - something about that mouth and nose, those eyes…

“You know, some cultures used to celebrate twin marriages. I mean, sure, times have changed and all… but it’s not like… like… Look, I love him. We love each other. We always have. Since we were kids!”

“That was a little different.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Hot and Cold in leaps and jump cuts - as infants, as children; their first steps; their first day of school (the stuff of home movies). There are also tears and second-place trophies and light bruises where no one will see (and another genre completely, just as amateur). Like the Duke of Dolls, like the background of the Champion’s tape: there is cake and there is candy and sugary drinks from Jasmine Dragon after the long, long night. Their father smiles at them over those whipped cream mountains and waves their thanks away. It’s the least he can do. After they did so well.

“Before you start, no, nothing happened to make us… At least, I don’t think it did.” He glances at his sister. “Your memory is better than mine.”

She shrugs. “Who can say for sure? But I don’t remember anything either. Normal childhood.”

“Our parents were divorced-”

“When we were, like, ten. I don’t think that’s got anything to do with it. Things just got kinda… muddled when we hit puberty, yeah?”

“That’s one way of putting it.”

Hot and Cold come and go as they please. The door’s wide open. They come back late, sometimes early. Once hungover, after two days. Dad isn’t angry, not even when Hot wets herself and Cold is sick on the floor. Teenagers, he mumbles and draws a bath, you should learn to be more responsible. Then he smiles fondly. Then he pushes his daughter’s hand between his legs.

“And… it’s weird - it’s all probably weird to you guys anyway, but - it’s not like we didn’t have other options. There were plenty of girls at school that-”

“Oooh, we got a ladykiller over here!”

“H-hey! That’s not- I didn’t- What’s with you, huh?”

“Relax, I’m only teasing. Anyway, he’s right, it didn’t have to happen.”

“But it did. We just want to know why.”

Smile! Picture day; signed yearbooks; the fat, white portfolios the kids bring home and their father splits open. And there are other pictures - on the refrigerator; in frames on the walls; in the album, in the room where he’s locked all the doors. Cold watches as he flips through it and comes a little closer (both of them in stained underwear and not much else). There he is, there’s his sister… Who’s-

We’re having dinner in ten. You should get cleaned up.

“And there was this other boy, friend of ours from the neighborhood. He had this huge crush on Mirrors.”

“Has.”

“Maybe. I wouldn’t hold my breath.”

“Meanie!” She sticks out her tongue at him. “But, yeah, he’s a nice guy - really - but it’s kind of his fault that… Well, it is in a way…”

Hot wakes her brother up crying. They have separate rooms but she slips next to him in bed. Cold doesn’t say anything; he does move over. And, the next morning, they clean the blood off his sheets. Cut; Cold stares into space washing dishes, long enough that the faucet sputters and the sink overflows and the hot water scalds his hands. His sister stands in front of him, ice pack at the ready, speaking softly until his eyes clear. Cut; their father is driving. They sit silent in the car. Oh, don’t be like that. Don’t you know how lucky you are?

Cut; He loves us. He loves us so much…

Cut; I work hard all day and come home to- Don’t be ungrateful!

Then it stops happening.

“He came around a lot. We used to go out, not on dates, just as friends. I know he wanted more, but I couldn’t give it. I didn’t love him the way I love Smoke. I probably never will.”

“You still went with him to Homecoming.”

“Don’t be jealous.”

A long time passes. There’s less coffee. There are no long nights. Hot takes her braids out, shaking down her long brown hair. She’s at the door in a short skirt and a low neckline that she pulls lower when she lets her father in. Cold stacks the dishes in the cabinet, listening to his father’s pitiful attempts at conversation just enough to ignore them. He doesn’t say a word. Cut; there is a woman in the living room. They don’t know who she is.

I want you to meet Ayuka. They aren’t listening. She has thick, dark hair (it’s very pretty). She has tired blue eyes (they’re very pretty). She has a thin smile (it’s very pretty), and when she looks at them it widens into teeth (they’re very pretty). The corgi in her lap wags its tail at them (it’s very cute).

“He saw us together the night of the dance. After he brought her home.”

“I’d had a bit to drink. What? C’mon, it was a party. Smoke had to get me up the stairs. I kissed him while he was helping me change. Vincent came back with the phone I left in his car. He hit my brother, pulled him off me… I’d never seen him that angry.”

“He thought I was hurting you.”

Monday; Tuesday; Wednesday - Dad’s out with that woman and there’s money on the kitchen counter. Thursday; Friday; Saturday - they’re getting sick of microwave pizza. Sunday dinner is a godsend. He doesn’t look at them the whole time, even when Hot reaches for him under the table cloth. But she does.

So, Kakeru, Daddy tells me you want to be an electr-

Don’t call him “Daddy”, it just sounds weird.

They clean up after dinner, when the grown-ups retire upstairs. Hot looks at her brother through the dishwasher steam. And he stares back.

You try to scare her off, okay? Let me handle Dad.

“At least he doesn’t hate us, I don’t think, but he’ll never understand. No one will.”

“We knew that from the beginning though.”

“He told our mother what he saw, and what we had to tell him to get him off of me. She told our father. Then she called a doctor. Then he called a doctor - probably more than one. Then everyone knew.”

Hot takes money from the intruder’s purse and her father’s study, buys a pound and a half of makeup from the Dollar or Less up the road. Cold plants the change when she gets back. Cut; Hot bats her lashes, cleans out the litter box and the chinchilla hutch with zero prompting. Cold takes the droppings and smears them under the guest bed. Cut; their father has a date planned. Sugar in the gas tank. Cut; another family dinner. His sister cooks up a storm. Her brother serves the food. Cut; Cut; Cut… They remember the photo album. The guest bedroom. They leave it somewhere she’s sure to see and… nothing changes. Hot and Cold go in together, find the book turned over on the opposite side.

“They were going to separate us, we had to leave.”

“And now we’re here and… we have to be normal if we want to go back. And we don’t know what we want.”

She’s waiting for them when they get home from school, tired as ever, hair in disarray. Her dog presses its face to the car window, yapping up a storm. There’s been an accident, she says quietly. Hot’s palms are getting sweaty, Cold shivers in the sun. The car is cluttered, really cluttered, but there’s room enough for them to climb in side by side. Two seats in the back. Silence. Then they pass the hospital. Then the locks click into place. The intruder keeps driving. Past the school; past the park; past the Jasmine Dragon… and the one in the next town.

You c-can’t just-

It’s okay. You’re safe now.

There’s a picture lying on the seat between them. Of a younger man. And a pregnant girl. Daddy and Ayuka, 200X. She has thick black hair and tired blue eyes.

“Something’s wrong and we don’t want to fix it.” Smoke looks up at the ceiling, then down at the floor.

Mirrors puts a hand on his shoulder. “Nothing’s wrong… but we still have to try.”

 

A Story about Gall and Wormwood

“Honor thy father. Love thy brother. Paraphrasing a bit there, but you see what I mean.”

Wormwood ducks behind her brother. Big round eyes, floppy cap, red hair sticking out of her ponytail on either side. Gall doesn’t try to push her, tugs the scarf-monstrosity around his neck, lets his bangs fall over his face.

“That’s what put her in a hospital bed. Our father is a dangerous man.”

“Hey! You said that wasn’t my f-”

“It’s not.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Time takes a TV dinner from the microwave, goes and turns on the big television. Something hits the door from the other side and a woman stumbles in, dripping blood down her legs and onto the carpet. She falls onto the couch and wails.

Cut- running through red lights with rain on the windshield. Cu- hospital corridors. C- white. The clips blur together, as do the months, and soon Time’s standing by her mother’s bed, holding a screaming bundle of red and white.

Mom, don’t you want to hold her?

Leave me alone, Cynthia. The woman turns away.

“We’re half-siblings, technically - different mothers. Not that it matters,” he adds quickly, brushing back Wormwood’s hair. “But I thought I’d mention it. Just in case.”

“We only met last year, after Mama died. That’s when Papa came to get me. Before that he sent money and things on my birthday, but we hadn’t really met. I guess she was trying to keep me away from him. I don’t get why that worked. A-at first I was kind of excited, you know? Sad that I’d lost my mom, but I was gonna meet my dad for the first time and live in a big house with a swimming pool. And I’d have a big brother! That was the most important part.”

“And I let you down.”

“No you didn’t!”

Years pass. A toddler now, Tide waddles across the room, towards her mother on the couch. She makes it halfway there before falling, but she still falls. Then she begins to cry.

Cynthia! Your sister wants you.

Later, they find the door locked. Time takes Tide down to the water and watches her scramble around on the shore. Seashells, sand and hermit crabs. They both come home soaking wet.

“If anything, it’s my fault that I didn’t catch on sooner. I mean my mom loved me and all, but no one’s that nice unless they want something. People warned me about strangers, but I didn’t think… He wasn’t really a stranger. He told me he loved me.”

“He probably meant it.”

There’s money, but not for a babysitter. Their mother is busy. Time forges a sick note, misses school. Cut; two seats at graduation. One filled. Tide stands up on her chair. College brochures and essay letters. Applications: accepted; accepted- Declined, Time sighs, making a show of it. Guess it’s community college then. You’ll study harder, won’t you, Verity? Tide jumps up into her arms.

“The first time that it… The first time that he… did that he said he was sorry. He got Chespie the day after that.”

“That’s her rodent.”

“Chihuahua!”

“Whatever.” Gall sighs and leans on his sister’s arm. It looks strange with her being so much smaller than him. “I shouldn’t be surprised this happened. He only wanted pretty things.”

The Roman Empire; Sparta; the Huns. Time twists in her chair, looking sideways into the hall. Tide waves, playing around with her sister’s phone.

Hi Mom!

Cynthia? Is everything okay?

Its Varitty.

No response.

“For what it’s worth, I do think he felt guilty. Because he cared, in his own twisted way. My own mother didn’t want me, my father owned me, but at least that meant I was worth something. He had a chauffeur drive me to school everyday, and wherever I wanted after that, but only so he could keep an eye on me. And every night he’d make me feel pathetic, and tell me that I was strong.”

Another gown. Another graduation. This time her mother is there to hug Time when she comes down from the stage. Tide wraps herself around their waists, squeezing tightly. One woman reciprocates. The other brushes her away.

Cut; bags in the foyer, cartoons in the background, Tide eating Froot Loops on the couch.

You’d better take your sister with you.

I was planning on it.

“A-at first I thought it was just me.”

“So did I. And when she finally told me… I didn’t take it well.”

How come we had to move and Mommy didn’t?

Because this place allows pets, isn’t that cool?

Tide’s eyes get very wide, very suddenly. I want a penguin!

Cut; Tide runs wild around the living room, arms stretched above her. A blue parakeet flies just out of reach. Time looks on. Then the phone rings. Then Tide puts her arms down and the little bird perches. Tell Mom Pip says hi, okay?

“My father threw a party when I turned eighteen. I left the next day. Not permanently, just long enough for me to figure out… something. I’d get a job and a place of my own and then I’d come back for her. I thought Wormwood would be fine without me for a little while. Even though she begged me not to go.”

It’s late enough that Tide should be in bed, but isn’t, and too late for Time to really be taking calls. Little sister presses her ear to the door and listens.

You have to come, Verity hasn’t stopped talking about- You’re her mother!

Barely audible: It’s not like I had a choice!

Neither did I!

“I left the county, stayed at a hostel in Citrus Heights. There’s a gambling hall there, they hired me on as a croupier. Good money, good enough that I thought… I let a few months pass, and Wormwood was still home with him.”

“What happened isn’t- It’s not your fault.” She sighs. “Chespie ruined the carpet. Papa told everyone it was a pitbull that… but it wasn’t. The vet put him to sleep. I wanted to sleep forever too.”

Tide in the hallway outside Time’s apartment. Tide on the sidewalk, broken glass and splash-up gravel scraping her bare feet, cutting them open. She keeps running, keeps running, keeps- The boardwalk is all lit up tonight and reflected on the water. You can’t see the ocean beneath the waves. Not enough people on the pier. Tide kicks a bottle cap off the end, watching as it sinks into the deep, dark black. Now her feet. Now her torso. And the rest. It happens slowly - there’s not even a splash.

“I’m sorry, Mair- I’m so sorry, I should have been there.”

Wormwood shakes her head. “You were when I woke up.”

 

A Story about Fits and Starts

“Is it too late to go with ‘the Fast and the Furious’?”

“No! I-I mean yes! Fast makes me sound like a slut.”

“I wasn’t going to say anything, but-”

“H-hey, shut up! YOU’RE A SLUT!”

“Cool.”

Starts and Fits pose for the audience - arms crossed, lips pursed, leaning into each other from the back. He’s wearing a wig and she doesn’t have to (her own hair’s dyed blue and pink on top of bleach-blonde). His leg’s in a cast. Both have enormous sunglasses. They look absurd.

“Oh, please,” Starts says, flipping out his hair, “you wish you were us.”

“Okay, okay, so we’re a bit of a mess. Whatcha gonna do?”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Claw is shouting. Tooth is crying. A little boy crouching in the janitor’s closet, peeking out through the slats while the contents of his older brother’s pockets skid across the floor. A teenager bleeding onto the linoleum, straightening his clothes; Don’t look! But Tooth still pokes his head into the hall.

“I was on the track team, up till recently. Actually I started out in the Champion’s circuit, back when I was a little kid. Then I had my accident, hurt my leg… Now I’m a gyaru. That’s not really a thing in the U.S. though. And people have some weird ideas about it back in Japan.”

“I guess you’re a lot of things to a lot of people.”

“Yeah, I guess. At least someone’s thinking about me, huh? Anyway, so, it healed up okay, before the season started, and yet… here we are. It’s not like I didn’t miss it, but every time I tried to psych myself up again I’d just freeze. It got so bad our parents started making me see a therapist. Talk about pathetic.”

Claw pulls him along one-handed, little ruby veinlets on his legs - on the floor. They pass a row of dogs in cages. Cut; he hustles Tooth past the cats. Fast forward; thedoctorandthepolicestation;talkingtoamanwithTooth’sbrowline. Just like before the clips are cut together; the background music doesn’t change.

“Lots of people see therapists.”

“Uh, yeah, for ‘lots’ better reasons. Whatever. I’m sorta over it now. But, yeah, it was rough for a while. Especially after…” she groans, “everything. See, there was this doctor at the hospital, the same time that I was. Doctor… uh, Doc.”

“Nice save.”

“Shut up, salad-licker. Anyway, Dr. Doc and I- well, it’s complicated… or hard to talk about. Sometimes that feels like the same thing. I’m sure you get it, though - I’m here now, back then I couldn’t run away.”

Claw sits on his bed, phone pinned between his ear and shoulder, fingers wrapping the unplugged charger around his hand. Tooth’s voice moans from the receiver, high-pitched and tinny and way too small. Dad’s always working! And… and…

I know. I’m sorry. I miss you too.

“He was always really nice to me, you know, and to all the other girls. Just the girls though. I was about fifteen at the time and he was… older, but some of the kids on my ward couldn’t have been older than ten. And he was nice to us! He was really, really nice…”

One year: bells ringing in Hokkaido; Beethoven’s Ninth; Claw in a kimono that doesn’t quite fit; Tooth watches him when they kneel down to pray. Two years; fireworks in golden California; osechi-ryōri on the table, the whole apartment full up with the smell; Tooth sits stiff and awkward in front of the television; Claw puts a hand on his arm and squeezes. Three years; Kurata cards and folded envelopes; their father with two pochibukuro - U.S. dollars, Japanese yen; Claw trims his hair in the bathroom, leaving the family cat in the hall, sitting at the door, pawing and yowling… and yelping when Tooth kicks him in the side. Four years; bags on the floor and unpacked suitcases; kagami mochi all in a row; Claw gets something out from under the table; Tooth stares down at the little monkey terrier.

“He didn’t hurt me. He didn’t have to. That’s the worst part.”

“Aw, don’t be like that. It’s, uh, complicated.”

“No, it’s not! I… Sorry, I shouldn’t have snapped like that. I just get mad when I feel stupid. It was stupid of me to think that some hot, thirty-year-old doctor wanted - really wanted - a future with a girl like me. I was a lot plainer-looking then, dark hair, no makeup or fancy contacts… and he said that I was special. He lied.”

There’s a puddle in the living room, and Claw’s at work. Tooth opens the door on a flustered woman, peering at him from behind her glasses, clucking about the noise. What on Earth are you doing to that thing?! The puppy cowers in the corner, away from them both, out of sight until his master’s brother comes home.

Cut; the terrier lies on a metal table, poked and prodded by a white-haired man in a bright white coat. He glances skeptically up at Claw. You’re sure you don’t know what happened? Tooth keeps his mouth shut.

“I kinda dragged my feet - heh - when it came to checking out. Not that I had a ton of say in the matter. As soon as I could hobble I dragged myself back there. And I saw him with… I caught him with… That was when I decided to change my look.”

“Makes you look like a cosplayer, I like it!”

“Um, thanks, I think? I’m glad someone does. He didn’t, though.” Fits pinches the skin above her nose. “At first I didn’t say anything because I didn’t want him to get in trouble. Then I got older and… I know he shouldn’t have done it, but it’s not like he had to force me.”

Claw takes his seat in the principal’s office, cringing while Tooth glares straight ahead. Two more seats besides the principal - one for Jacob and Esau’s mother, one for the Beastmaster’s friend. His lip is busted; the other boy has a bruise on his cheek.

Come on, Paul, say you’re sorry.

You too, Ash.

“Every time I tried to run again… Part of it was scary, yeah, I didn’t want to hurt myself. Part of it was that I’d have to see him if I did. I didn’t want that anymore - I don’t! - but what if I changed my mind? That’s the thing that really keeps me up at night.”

“Then I got hurt too.” Starts gestures to his own leg. “Not an athlete, but you don’t need to be in a house full of would-be MURDERERS!”

“He fell over the cat.”

“You say cat, I say assassin with claws.”

“For better or worse, my brother here happens to be an overdramatic boob.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Um, I am sorry about this time though.”

“Don’t be, I needed it.”

“I know. Still…”

Claw kneels on the floor of his workplace, scrubbing the inside of a metal crate. He’s doing that when his phone starts ringing.

At the station Mother Mew stands up from her desk, badge a-flashing, and leads him to the room where Tooth sits in shame. Cruelty… charges… reckless abandonment…

Can’t we talk about this? He’s just a kid…

She walks off.

“She wasn’t home when it happened, Mom had to take me in. She called Dad at work, and I called Fits at the bus stop and-”

“I thought you were dying.” Here a well-placed eye-roll. “Who wouldn’t, with all that crying and carrying on? Didn’t help that they were at the hospital. Didn’t matter that the doc only went for girls. I heard what I heard and I panicked… Yeah.”

A man with rough, thick skin comes in panting, Claw following meekly. His shirt is red, his eyes are pink and his hair hangs over his eyes, obscuring one of them. He doesn’t say a word to Tooth in the car. They don’t go straight home. More red - red crosses.

“I’d never run so fast in my life. The bus was late… Even then, that I beat it there at all…” Fits puts a hand to her cheek; it’s faint but the audience can still see a blush. “Kind of impressed I can still do that after so long not running. Maybe I should start again, but I’m still nervous.”

“I think you should try. Gotta face your fears, right?” Starts pats her back. “Everything’s going to be okay.”

 

A Story about Hammer and Sickle

“How do you call it again? The bitter cold? Chiến tranh lạnh.”

The Hammer wears his hair long. Dark hair; dark jeans and jacket; dark bandana tied around his forehead, emblazoned with a yellow peace sign. His eyes are tinged red. The Sickle has sunken eyes and no hair at all. She wears a flowy purple sundress that hangs dead there, like dessicated skin over bone. A newspaper between them on the Palace steps. Calisota Times, 1974.

“Sounds about right.” He nods. “Something like that.”

“At first I blame Japan for what they did. And then I blame France. Now I blame the American and Russian. Mostly the American.” She clenches her fists. “This is not cold.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Safe (without Sound) stops to puff on her inhaler. Someone calls something from across the street. She keeps walking. She doesn’t understand until the car breezes past, knocking her back and just barely missing.

What’s wrong with you? Are you stupid?!

She can comprehend that.

“Are you a Japanese? I don’t mind, I’m just asking. You have the… the Japanese voice.”

“Hāfu. Half-Japanese, half… My mother doesn’t like to talk about it, but she came from somewhere else.” His smile doesn’t look like a smile. “I grew up in Miyagi. I came here to attend the university.”

“What are you study?”

“History.”

Sickle clenches her jaw. “Yes. Good… My children will be half too.”

Safe in the schoolyard with other children. They skip rope, the caller says something. Safe trips and gets everyone’s legs tangled up.

What’s wrong with you? Are you stupid?

Cut; Safe walks home, face swollen. Two girls in blue bathing suits splash around a kiddie pool. She smiles. They stop and glare and say… something. Safe keeps smiling, keeps waving. They turn their backs.

What’s wrong with you? Are you stupid?

“You should see what they did to our Hanoi. Fire. Everywhere. Men killed. Women killed. Kids. It was terrible. They killed my mother. I never see my father anymore - maybe run away, maybe dead. Maybe better off that way.”

“My old lady used to say things like that. I haven’t asked, but… It was war, you know? We were fur farmers. There was an old fox trap she used to keep letters in, hidden under her bed. Maybe she still does that. I used to wonder why she never sent any of them home.”

“Maybe your father wouldn’t let her.”

“It wasn’t like… I don’t think it was like that. Not with them. I hope it wasn’t.”

“It was like that for me.”

Safe swipes an apple from the kitchen counter. She passes a few other children, who point to the empty bowl. They say something. She doesn’t copy. Safe keeps going until one smacks the fruit from her hands.

What’s wrong with you? Are you stupid?

And they keep yelling until their mother comes downstairs.

“I tried to run through the water. He put me onto the bank. We… đã quan hệ tình dục. Do you know what that means?”

“Do you need… help?”

“I had to marry him. My home was broken. My family was dead. Who would take care of me?” She brushes a hand over her scalp. “He did me pregnant, you know. We lost it when I got sick. I’ve lost eight since then.”

“Fuck… I’m so sorry.”

Sickle shrugs. “What happened to you?”

“What?”

“Your legs. They hurt?”

Hammer looks at his knees, where his jeans have ripped. The yellow of healing bruises. He doesn’t smile so much as bare his teeth. “Make love not war, sis.”

Safe’s mother shouts at her - too many words spoken too quickly. She catches maybe two in ten, dragged along by the scruff of her neck. The woman shakes her. The woman doesn’t stop shaking her. Asking… something. Demanding… something.

What’s wrong with you?! Are you stupid?!

Switch and belt and electric cable. Safe screams as the assault moves between her legs. She tries to run, winds up crawling, rolling down the porch steps and onto the lawn. Screaming, screaming, screaming.

What’s wrong with you? Are you- And then her mother stops.

Sound standing over her. Another kid, a boy dressed in blue, standing behind Sound, calling 911. Safe curls in a ball and whimpers. Sound kneels down at her side and fumbles with xir text-to-speech.

What’s wrong? Are you okay?

“You might not understand it, but this country loves soldiers, almost as much as it loves war. And I’m just a dirty hippy. A dirty hippy who isn’t White.”

“We’re the same then. No people cares about me either.”

“I’ll drink to that.”

Safe in the hospital with Sound at her bedside. Cut; Safe and Sound on the couch together while xe plays video games with the boy in blue. Safe doesn’t follow all of it, but watches them high-five. She looks at Sound expectantly. Xe ruffles her hair instead. Subtitles as xe signs.

‘What’s wrong? Are you okay?’

“Ah, fuck.” Hammer pulls a bottle of… something from… somewhere and promptly drops it on the ground.

“Your hands. They’re shaking.”

“I’m jonesing, couldn’t you tell? Ah, fuck. Again. I’m sorry- No, don’t…” Their blood runs together on the pavement as they clutch the places where glass sliced their hands. Hammer takes Sickle’s in his. “Okay, it’s not that bad. Whew.”

Skipping rope, splashing around the community pool, races up and down the lawn. Sound high-fives the boy and ruffles Safe’s hair.

‘What’s wrong? Are you okay?’

“Looks like we’re blood brothers now.”

“Blood what?”

“Blood brothers. Didn’t you ever try that when you were a kid? Pricking your finger and… Eh, maybe that’s a guy thing.” He shrugs. “Consolation prize.”

“Do you want to really make up to me?”

He cocks an eyebrow. “Sure, sis. What do you have in mind?”

Safe led into a courtroom, shaking and sniffling. Her mother behind another stand. (She’s shaking too.) Sound puts xir hand on her back. Sometimes the lawyer stops to ask Safe if she understands.

And, Miss-

Her thoughts play out loud over his voice. W-what was wrong with me? Was I stupid?

The blood; the glass; the steps of the Palace. Hammer and Sickle interlocked on the ground.

The jury comes back with their verdict: Guilty. Outside the courtroom, Sound grabs Safe, picks her up and spins her around. High-five. Nose nuzzle. They hug each other so hard.

‘Nothing’s wrong with you. You’re okay.’

“This… was a mistake, wasn’t it?”

“What, you don’t believe in free love?”

“I’m sorry.” Sickle stands. “I should go. My husband will be- I should go.”

“I’m s- I… It was… good for you, wasn’t it, sis?”

Hammer and Sickle stand facing each other with sweat on their faces and blood on their hands. He reaches out. She pulls away.

“You remind me of someone. I can’t know why.”

 

A Tail about Yako and Zenko

“Once, long ago, there was a man with many children.”

“Kyu no kodomo.”

“As many children as the fox spirit has tails.”

“Kyubi no kitsune.”

Two young women in two very old photographs. Yako is small and fresh-faced and a little plain-looking; Zenko is tall and willowy with a fluttering scarf. Two young women holding up the pictures, narrating the action. Two more young women on the stage. The sister playing Yako wears a simple brown kimono. The sister playing Zenko wears pink and blue. And they both wear fox masks.

“The gods gave him seven sons and two daughters. The eldest was an ordinary child, the youngest was a trickster with a changing shape. Both of them were foxes, for all women are.”

“They lived by the West Lake, where the Hồ ly Tinh is buried. This is where the man buried his wife. This is where his children buried him.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; snow melts in Hokkaido, tracked in by a man and his son. The boy tugs down his embroidered face mask to better talk his father’s ear off, dropping an armful of wood on the floor. Cut; rain falls in Okinawa, soaking the hair of a man and his son. The boy huddles closer, pulls his scarf up over his nose, and grips his father’s hand until the knuckles turn white, breathing hard and not saying a word.

“Yako’s brothers were too young to take care of the business and keep it running. So the responsibility fell onto her shoulders. Many young men from the city, enticed by the family’s good fortune, came seeking Yako’s hand. Each time, she turned them down.”

“ ‘I will marry no one until the last of my brothers comes of age!’ ”

“Remember, now, that the youngest sister was a trickster. And hearing her sister’s words, she decided to hide her nature within the shape of a boy.”

“ ‘My sister will not marry at all!’ ”

“And so time went on. And one by one, Yako’s brothers grew older. War broke out just as the last one had reached his prime. And so all seven of them were summoned off to fight.”

The woman in brown falls to her knees.

“The brothers fought valiantly…”

“But the army folded…”

“And the city fell.”

Snowmelt climbs the tallest tree he can find. The tallest tree on the edge of the highest cliff. He looks out at the water below him. Tokoro Fishing Port; the boats coming in. Rainfall looks up at the corona of sun behind the mountain. He shivers in his thin winter jacket; shivers in the cold he isn’t used to yet. Snowmelt’s father tells him not to go too far, tells him the forest is dangerous (and it is). He runs off anyway. Rainfall’s has something similar to say (and he’s right). The boy still wanders. They meet in the woods alone.

“The imperial army came to Yako and Zenko’s door, looking for women, looking for girls. To take them as handmaids and war brides.”

“Zenko turned into a dahlia flower and the soldiers stepped over her.”

“Yako tried to run and they caught her by the lake.”

“They brought her to Kyoto. Not far from Fushimi Inari Taisha.”

“Fox hunters!”

“First they cut her fur away-”

Yako’s kimono falls from her shoulders, into a heap on the floor. She faces the audience in koshimaki and hadajuban.

“-then her skin.”

The koshimaki falls down also.

Snowmelt laughs at the other boy’s attempts at a snowman (Rainfall’s never made one before). Rainfall shoves him backwards and Snowmelt loses his balance (he’s never been in a fight before). And they tumble down the hill, barreling for the cliff-edge. They fall; they hit a ledge - Snowmelt on the bottom, Rainfall on the top. Some scratches, some gashes, some bruises… and a broken leg. Snowmelt cries out as he tries to stand. Rainfall hyperventilates.

H-hey! It’s okay! We’ll get out of here. Snowmelt doesn’t sound sure.

Snowmelt is tall enough to grab the roots of an up-slope tree. He pulls himself to his feet. He can’t pull himself up further than that. He motions Rainfall over. You should go get help. Rainfall says nothing. He does climb up.

“To kill a fox, you must first cut off its tails. They took eight.”

Eight strips of fabric. Red silk ripped eight times.

“But Yako was clever - she hid the ninth beneath her skirt. And so the men could not harm her. Not with their fists. Not with their swords. Not with their guns or bayonets or weapons made from flesh and bone. For eight months they tried. For eight months she survived it.”

Yako wraps both arms around her stomach.

“In the ninth month, a child was born.”

Yako wails.

“The baby lived eight days. On the morning of the ninth she woke to find that her child was dead.”

“The war continued for three more years. Yako birthed seven more children. Triplets and two sets of twins. All lived just eight days - as many as the tails she’d lost.”

“Yako longed for her family. For her sister and brothers.”

“On the ninth day of the ninth month of her ninth pregnancy, the last child was born, and this one lived.”

The sun starts to set. Snowmelt blows on his hands to keep them warm, teeth chattering. Footsteps from above. He looks up… but it’s only Rainfall. Back again, holding an armful of rhubarb and smudged with dirt. Snowmelt bites into one and grimaces. I told you to go for help. The next day, somehow still not frozen, Snowmelt lobs the stalks back at him. My father’s probably looking for me!

Two sisters lie down on the stage together.

“Many miles away, Zenko had married a local girl, while still in the form of a handsome young man. Their children were born on the self-same day.”

“After the war had ended, Yako was free, and she tried to return home. But she was too weak from childbirth. And too ashamed to face her family. Or to look into the West Lake.”

“A man from Mount Zao, who had no children, offered to make her his wife. And they were happy. For a long time after that.”

That afternoon Rainfall comes with an armful of blankets. That night he comes with more blankets. And sweet potatoes. Snowfall pokes his fingers through the skin. Please… Please get help.

Rainfall mouths something and shakes his head.

Why?! Answer me! Answer me! Call the hospital… or the police or something!

Stick and snow and Rainfall scratching haphazard kanji into the ground. ‘They would only leave you here.’

Two sisters pull origami foxes from their costumes and let them scatter on the floor - nine apiece.

“And in that time, Yako wrote many letters. But sent none. So she sealed them away in a fox-trap.”

“And in that time, Zenko wrote many letters, but didn’t know where to send them. So she sealed them away inside an empty lantern. And prayed to the gods that her sister was not dead.”

Rainfall leaves again. He comes back. Snowmelt’s stopped shivering. What did you mean before? They wouldn’t-

Rainfall shakes his head until he’s dizzy. ‘They’ll hurt you too.’

W-what do you mean?

Stick figures. Stick-guns. A crudely drawn American flag.

But… but you’re Japanese.

‘No.’ Another flag - not American, not Japanese. It’s not the Okinawa flag either. ‘Ryukyuan.’

“In time, war broke out once more. In time, Zenko went to fight alongside her brothers, leaving her dear wife and child behind.”

“The giants from the west called fire down from the sky. Zenko fought for nine years and returned to a burning city. Even Yako could see the flames from where she lived. And still, she didn’t send the letters.”

“The family home was destroyed in the battle, crushed under one monster’s foot. And Zenko’s family had gone - her brothers slain, her wife dead, her daughter taken as a captive bride.”

The woman in blue and pink drops to her knees.

“She offered up a prayer to Yako, and one to the terrible monster beneath the lake.”

“For vengeance!”

“ ‘May the men of the west be reborn as foxes so that they may know what it is like to be hunted down!’ ”

Well, what are you doing here?

The figures move another way. Rainfall takes a minute to finish drawing.

Snowmelt stares at the ground. You… you were-

‘Americans. Soldiers. There’s a military base.’

And… the police didn’t do anything?

‘You wouldn’t get it.’

Of course I do!

“Soon, Yako’s child left home himself. And he had children. They raised them along another shoreline in a strange western land.”

“Across the ocean, Zenko’s daughter told her own children of the tails buried beneath the West Lake. And they told theirs in the secret tongue of foxes that few men can understand.”

Snowmelt. Snow melting. His breath turning to smoke in the air. We… I… It was some Japanese guy from the mainland. He used to… when I was little… sold the tapes to A-American tourists. He blows his nose on his sleeve. Then I got older. Dad says we have more body hair than…

Snowmelt and Rainfall hold onto each other and cry. And the sound echoes down from above. And this time, someone hears them.

“Yako died on the ninth day of the ninth month. Zenko lived eight hours longer.”

They fall down backwards on the stage. A fifth girl ducks out between the curtains. She holds two lanterns over her sisters, each one shaped like the head of a fox.

“Now the letters are all that’s left of them.”

 

A Story about Annual and Perennial

“Annual flowers only bloom once. Perennial flowers bounce back. Those are the two main classifications - ‘types’, basically. With all plants. Not just flowers.”

Annual licks her finger, grooming back her little sister’s bangs. She’s a tall, pretty woman with long black hair and half-moon glasses. And a purple hairpin. Perennial is just as tall, just as graceful, just as pretty. Her hair is black too, but off-black, probably dyed. She ties it back in a ponytail, secures it with little orange barrettes. Her glasses don’t have frames. They both wear lab coats - long, white, pristine.

“I think - to me at least - love is like the first one. Trust is like the second. Or forgiveness or…”

Perennial doesn’t look at her.

“I’ll always care about you, imouto-chan. So, so much… But this is hard for me, please try to understand.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Peaches and Cream in an old chateau, far away from other people. Cream’s skin has a little more color here, Peaches’ hair has a lot less. The sisters gather together, under the same blanket, reading by flashlight. ‘My name is Mary Katherine Blackwell…’

Footsteps in the hall outside. Peaches drops the book. Cream switches off the flashlight. Fantina! Get under the bed!

But, Blanche-

Now!

“It happened back when I was still in middle school.”

“And you hadn’t started coloring your hair yet,” Annual teases, mussing it.

“She was an intern at Silph Co. - that’s this company that produces tech. That’s where pretty much all computer parts come from now, be it Waddletech, Pal Labs, or… whoever makes those B-bot things, or Q-bots or… whatever.”

Peaches helps Cream out of a stained white nightie. They lie together in the same bed.

I thought he was supposed to take care of us…

We can tell Mama and Papa the next time they visit?

Their parents don’t visit often.

“The man she worked under was… He was-”

“He took advantage of a lot of people, I think. It couldn’t have been just me.”

“You don’t know that. She doesn’t know that. It could have just been a one time thing. That happens sometimes… to… to all of us. A moment of weakness.”

The man who takes care of them is old and gray and not that strong. He doesn’t need to be. There’s no one else around most of the time. The sisters lean into each other and keep to themselves. Keep to their room. They read: ‘I am eighteen years old, and I live with my sister Constance.’

“He was really nice at first - they usually are, aren’t they? That’s why-”

“Annual.”

“… He told me I was smart. I had potential - more than any intern he’d had before. I was flattered, but not moved, exactly, if you catch my drift.” She blushes bright pink. “At that point, I’d already started seeing someone. Exclusively. Truly, there is no stronger bond than the covalence of our hearts!” Annual hugs herself and spins around, dancing across the stage, flashing a wedding ring on her hand. Abruptly, she stops. “I wouldn’t have been interested even if I was single. He was so much older…”

“Not that old.” Perennial winces. “I… I was the only one at the house when she got back.”

There’s an old-fashioned sugar bowl in the kitchen. Fine china. Actually stocked with pure, white sugar. Peaches watches the butler stir some into his tea.

‘I have often thought that with any luck at all, I could have been born a werewolf, because the two middle fingers on both my hands are the same length, but I have had to be content with what I had.’

“It wasn’t as bad as it could have been. He hurt me badly enough that the doctors had evidence. I lost my place at the company… but so did he. Eventually. I didn’t win in court, but I won a civil suit. Of course, now a lot of people think I did it for the money, but…”

“You did the right thing. You taught him a lesson.”

“I wish I could believe that.”

“He hasn’t hurt anyone since then. You showed him what he was doing was wrong and… and… He’s different now. He’s a good man. You did that.”

Arsenic… but where is a ten-year-old girl supposed to get arsenic?

‘I dislike washing myself, and dogs, and noise.’

“I wouldn’t have chosen him if I didn’t think he’d changed, you know that don’t you?”

“Why did you have to choose him at all?”

Perennial looks guiltily at the audience. “It wasn’t like I planned it. I wanted to be like my sister. I took a job at another lab - the Biotope company. I didn’t even know he worked there. And when I found out, I hated him. But… people can evolve. People can change. And maybe-”

“He still hurt me.”

Sleeping pills? Weird plants? The butler grabs Peaches and fondles her against the wall.

“We’ve talked about it… a few times. He understands why Annual doesn’t want to see him. I know it’s hard and I’m so sorry, but Z- he really is sorry too. He didn’t mean to hurt you. He’d take it back if he could.”

“You saw what he did to me! She saw!”

“Tell her she’s being selfish!”

“Tell her she’s being naive!”

“I didn’t start dating him for years. I didn’t even trust him for months. Why… why can’t you trust me on this one? I know him. I love him. I love you.”

Rat poison? Antifreeze? The butler leaves bruises on Cream’s neck and lips.

‘I like my sister Constance, and Richard Plantagenet, and Amanita phalloides, the death-cap mushroom.’

“If you really loved me you would understand.”

“That’s not fair.”

“You’re being stupid!”

Antifreeze. Peaches scoops the crystals from the radiator when no one’s around - and no one ever is.

‘Everyone else in our family is dead.’

“I just… I want my fiancé in my life without losing my sister. Is that too much to ask?”

“Yes. This isn’t a normal situation and you know it. You have to make a decision. You’re not the only person I’m worried about.” Annual takes Perennial’s face in her hands and holds her tight. “If I have to… I’ll choose myself.”

 

A Story about Flesh and Blood

“Snowy wanted to come along. I hope that that’s okay.”

Flesh shifts her weight from foot to foot while she’s talking, and her cat from arm to arm. It’s only a kitten, pure white with big blue eyes, just like her dress and the ribbons in her braided hair. Blood takes a lighter from his pocket, flicking it on and off until Mother Superior asks him to stop. He’s not old, but older than Flesh is - about twice her age, maybe a little less - with sharper eyes and a sharper mouth and a lot of tiny metal studs in his ear.

“Mom gave her to me, but she… she’s not allowed to be here, my brother said - or at least he didn’t want her to come. I… You have to understand, she’s not a bad person-”

“No,” Blood’s face barely changes, hand closing around his sister’s wrist, “but she was.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; door slam; summer night; teenage girl. The Grave pounds on the screen one-handed, bookbag under the other arm. She’s begging. She’s crying. So is the man on the other side. The door stays shut. Fuck! I’m your daughter, doesn’t that mean anything to you?! I’m your-

Our son, Hilbert. Come back when you’re ready to act like it.

GO TO HELL!

“You know the type, not quite a ‘pageant mom’ but something close enough - always obsessing about appearances. How does she look to her employees? How does the house look to the neighbors? How do her children look to random people in the grocery store? Things got worse after our father died. They were never good unless he was home.”

Same door; different summer; teenage boy. The Cradle tries the lock, yanking on it. He’s groaning. He’s whining. He’s on the inside. The door stays shut. Come on, guys, I’ll be careful! I’m not-

You’re our daughter, Rosa. We just want to make sure you’re safe.

Please don’t call me that…

“He was away on business most of the time, but - no, I don’t think he was avoiding her. They did love each other, I’m absolutely sure of that. I only meant that I… He didn’t seem to know her as well as I had to.”

“Nobody did.”

The Grave spends all night on the sidewalk, even as it starts to rain. The one-eyed man comes in the morning. You’ll catch your death out here, you know.

Fuck off.

Now, now, don’t be like that…

Cut; a black plastic bag torn open as it’s loaded into the back of the garbage truck. Something soft and warm and gray falls out onto the pavement with a wet thunk. A curled-up hand, with the thumb over the other fingers, severed at the wrist.

“All she did was drink the first night after the funeral. It happened on the second. And if that sounds sudden to you, well, imagine it from my perspective - it was. This was before our mother realized she was pregnant. Not that long before. I was nine years old.”

The Cradle skates past a dumpster on the same street, mother jogging close behind. He falls on the curb, curses and clutches his knee.

I knew this was a bad idea! Come on, we’re going home.

I’m fine, lady, jeez-

I think you’d better hold my hand.

“I started sneaking out after that - well, walking out, it wasn’t much of a secret. Honestly, I thought she was relieved to have me gone. I was… mistaken.” His hand lingers on Snowy’s head. “Lillie?”

“Huh?”

“This is the sad part, okay?”

The Cradle on the front steps, licking the last bit of popsicle off the stick. Another boy sits down beside him. Wild eyes, wild hair, wild grin. A fat, happy-looking potbellied pig sprawls out on the grass. Then the door flings open. And the Cradle is dragged inside.

The same pig. A younger Grave. She holds him still and slips on the collar. Pokabu on the tag. Who’s a good boy?

A long green snake climbs the Cradle’s arm, curls around it. Old Pokabu looks on from the floor. Jalorda? Jalorda? Pretty girl?

“I didn’t call the police. Maybe I should have, but what’s that thing they say about the devil you know? Besides I’ve known too many people who tried to ask CPS for help and… Sometimes it works, sometimes it really doesn’t and I wasn’t going to risk my neck for a chance.”

“But you came back!” Flesh chimes in. “He came back and we’re a family now! Because Mother… Because me.”

Grave’s father holds her as her mother takes the scissors to her hair. A few things lie in shreds already. Fabric. Girls’ clothes. Cut; everything in the Cradle’s room is pink - the walls and the curtains and the bedspread and the floor. And the closet is full of frilly skirts. We bought them when your sister went missing. They should have been hers.

“My father’s last gift to her, I suppose. At first I stayed so when she had the baby… I don’t know what I was going to do. Something. Then she had my sister and everything changed again. You know, in some places they have this program where inmates look after pets. It’s supposed to teach them empathy or…” He shrugs. “I can believe that now - not that Flesh is a cat, she’s just… the one worth changing for.”

Antiseptic and her mother with her hair wet. Her father crying. The Grave screams until she’s blue. It’s a boy!

“And after a while… it was just easier to act like we were normal. I wanted to be there for my sister and I didn’t think I could take care of us both if we ran away, so I stuck around. Mom works a lot, that helped a bit.”

“I never minded being left alone so much. There was school, there were my friends and… us.”

“That just… I probably sound selfish, but that just isn’t enough for me. I want… I wanted… I don’t know what to do now, I didn’t then. I… She’s our mother and she’s… different. I don’t want her to go to prison. I don’t think most people would believe me if I told them now anyway. And the ones that would-”

“-wouldn’t understand? I would if you’d talk to me!”

Pictures spread out on another table. His mother crying. His father sweating. Nate Kyohei. The Cradle looks into the camera with bright pink cheeks. This one looks like our girl…

“I don’t want to ruin their relationship. But… I also do, in a way. It doesn’t seem fair if she loves her more than me.”

Flesh hugs the kitten closer, rubbing its fur against her cheek. “I don’t.”

“That isn’t what I… Thank you.”

 

A Story about Tooth and Claw

“A little off-topic, but you don’t know anyone interested in adopting, do you? Sorry, adopting a pet. There’s an Affenpinscher that- I’m trying to find him a good home.”

Tooth’s small and stiff and angular - sharp eyes; sharp nose; sharp tongue. Claw is taller, thinner, stringy; his skin is lighter. Their hair is the same sort of purplish black.

“Listen, I know what you’re going to say. I know what people say about rehoming, especially with dogs. I work at a kennel, some animals have separation anxiety just from being left alone while their owners fly out for the holidays. I don’t like this - I don’t - but… You’ll see, in the long term this is… probably for the best.”

Tooth scoffs. “If you ask me, we’re better off without that thing.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Fits on the track field - starting position - and Starts cheering from the side. Cut; she pulls ahead of the others. Cut; the finish line. Cut; a shriek, a snap and a stumble. Fits falls down clutching her leg.

“I was sixteen when it happened, two of the older guys at work… That part’s not very ‘interesting’, I guess. I went to the police, nothing came of it - last I heard some rich guy from the Big Apple offered them a job. I… This was years ago, and… it can’t hurt forever, right? I just wish he hadn’t been there. Still, I guess it could have been worse.”

“It wasn’t your fault anyway. If it weren’t for those stupid animals…”

“Come on now, what were they supposed to do?”

X-rays; plaster casts; Fits lying in a hospital bed, leg elevated. Children’s ward; handsome doctor; She’s in good hands here. Starts goes. Fits doesn’t. Obviously.

“Our father flew in from Hokkaido for a few weeks afterwards. When he left again, he brought me with him. And we didn’t meet in person again until New Years.”

“He was just trying to help. Before that, well, Dad paid the bills, but I was looking after Tooth on my own. Now that I’m an adult we’re sorta back to it. Er, I guess that kind of thing is more common in Japan. Living away from your parents is.”

“I think the idea was to take some of the pressure off my brother. I didn’t like Chitose. At least here I know where I’m going - not that I missed this dump.”

Daytime visits; nightly rounds; her parents leave daisies, but that doctor slips in with a bright pink rose. You know you’re very pretty, right? Do you have a boyfriend?

She shakes her head, blushing. No one’s told me that before.

“He did ask if I wanted to come along, but… I don’t know, maybe he respected me enough to listen when I said I didn’t want to leave. Hard to tell, he’s always been… distant, we just call him by his first name. I’m sure he loves us, he just has his own way of showing it.” He smiles slyly, “A bit like someone else I know.”

“Whatever.”

Fits leans back, hair splayed across the pillows. The doctor crouches between her legs. It doesn’t hurt, does it?

N-no. I’m fine. Keep going.

The next day he comes in early, brings her a box of candy before his morning rounds. The next day it’s more flowers, then chocolates again the day after that. And it goes like this until she’s discharged.

“Our father finally let me come back earlier this year - it was a welcome home gift. Honestly I wanted something bigger to protect… the house.”

“Apartment. And I think the landlady might kill me.” Claw frowns. “Probably for the best anyway, he’s only a little thing and we still couldn’t handle him. It’s my fault, I’m the adult here.”

“It’s its own fault. Training animals isn’t really that hard, it should have learned.”

Fits on crutches, limping down the hospital corridor. Hi! I’m here to see Dr. Proctor? I’m a friend. The receptionist narrows his eyes, but lets her by anyway. She finds him in the children’s ward. With more pink roses. And a girl half Fits’ age.

“I… Everyone keeps telling me I should have done something - and they’re right - but I can’t be there every second. On… on some animals, it’s really hard to notice bruises. It’s not as hard to notice weird behavior. Some dogs are just shy, but… I messed up. Raising kids is a lot harder than looking after animals. Well, some things are the same. Our father was never very big on discipline. I’d like to think I turned out fine regardless, but maybe I overlooked too much. I just… I don’t know anything about coming down hard.”

Fits in another starting position, crouched for an imaginary cap gun. She lunges, stops- She feels a hand around her ankle. She looks around and there’s nobody there. She doesn’t have an answer when Starts asks why she stopped.

“Look, not liking animals doesn’t make me a psychopath. And neither does getting into one fight with some kid. If he’s not a-”

“Hey now, nobody’s saying that.”

The Selkie perks up in the audience. “Speak for yourself.”

Days-weeks-months-years passing into the lens flare. Starts in a hospital bed of his own this time. With a bandaged leg and a phone in his hand, crocodile tears welling up in his eyes. R-Risa? I’m scared.

Wait, where are you?! What hospital?!

“This… I didn’t… Well, I…” He’s not stammering per se, but it’s obvious Tooth’s at a loss for words. Finally he hangs his head. “California has some of the harshest penalties for animal abuse, even if you are a minor. That lady saw me leaving the dog tied up… leaving… I was going to tell him that it ran away.”

“I couldn’t just leave him there! I didn’t start a fight or anything, I didn’t cause a scene, I just- One of the other policemen… I asked if there was anything I could do. He kept his end of the bargain. It wasn’t as bad as I remember…”

The bus is late. Fits takes off her high-heeled shoes. And runs.

“I’ve got the little guy staying at my job now, but that’s just a temporary solution, not a long-term thing. It’s been months now. I really don’t want to just… get rid of him, I mean, God, that sounds awful!” Tooth and Claw share a look that doesn’t last. “But if I have to choose…”

 

A Story about the Hound and the Hare

“He’s a member of the family too.”

The Hare tosses her braid back across one shoulder, bracing herself. The Hound - which is not in fact a hound - stretches his neck up to lick her face. Both are covered in fur, for very different reasons.

“I have an actual sibling, a little brother, but- no, stop it, boy! Dad says he’s like the youngest in the family. Spoiled, and I’m as guilty as the rest of them for making him that way. When I was little though… littler, I used to, uh, not do that. This was before Parker was bor- oh, sorry, that’s my brother’s name.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Straightedge and Hardline sit on a bathroom floor near the tub, helping a younger child with his hair.

N-Natural, hold still! Don’t make us tell Father.

He freezes dead.

“I’ve never really been… fond of animals. Ever. My dad’s a veterinarian and, well, I guess I see enough of them. My best friend’s got about a million pets at any given time, his best friend is the same way. Not me though.”

Antha? The toddler N looks up at his big sister, tugging at her hair. What’s Plass-ma?

It’s a group of people that help animals like Dad does, she says. Isn’t that right, Concordia?

“Apparently I was even worse when I was a kid. Jealousy.” She winces, embarrassed. The Hound cocks his head. “My parents couldn’t even pet him while I was in the room or else I’d throw a fit.”

Straightedge on one side of the couch, Hardline on the other with N shuttered in between. The computer’s on the table, and just on - playing something, noise blaring.

Father said we should show you this.

Why?

For when you’re older. So you’ll know what not to do.

“I don’t remember that part so well, but my dad thinks it’s funny - who knows why? In it I sound like such a brat.”

Hardline in one bed, Straightedge on the other. N creeps into their room at night, wiping his nose until it’s red. I… I… Um, I have a question…

Hardline rolls onto her stomach with a groan. Can it wait? It’s-

I know! I know, but… F-Father sh- told me- That movie you showed me… Is it just as bad to do those things with another boy…?

“He ran away when I was four. It was probably my fault, in case you were wondering. I know, big surprise. I think… I was so little… It’s hard to really get all the details, but I’m sure I went out looking for him. By myself.”

There are animals inside the house. A cat brushes Hardline’s leg, bell collar jangling. She kneels down and cuts it free, startling when her brother barges in. Frantic.

Where’s Lilli?! I can’t find her anywhere!

Oh, I think Dad released her. Don’t worry! She’s in a better place.

“I didn’t run, it was dark and I was scared and… One of them reached me. He asked if I was lost. I think I might have said no, or maybe I shook my head, but they didn’t listen. Another one put his hand over my mouth when I started to cry.”

Black cloth and vegan leather; Straightedge and Hardline lose track of him in a crowded room. It doesn’t take long to notice, but longer for N to come stumbling back out without much of an explanation - and with a few new bruises. Ghetsis said he wanted to speak to me. They wonder when he started calling him that.

“And that was that for a while. I was super young and I wasn’t hurt very badly, so… I know people don’t like to think that something like that is easy to forget about. When you’re that age, though, it can be.” She twists her hair around one finger. “I don’t think it was repressed either. My dad sort of brought the story up the other day…”

It’s the middle of the night. And something’s screaming. It’s not a very human sound. Hardline shakes Straightedge awake and drags her sister down the hall, flicking the lights on as they go.

“That’s not so bad… It’s not, not really.”

Smoke in the room at the end of the hall; empty shoes; an old lamp on the table left burning for too long. Their brother sits undressed, half-conscious on the bed, staring blankly at the corner, at the dead man lying there, and the animal - the huge white lizard - with blood on its teeth. They take N and run.

“I didn’t even remember, so…” She rubs her eyes, smiling tiredly. “It could have been a lot worse.”

 

A Story about Rags and Riches - and - Rack and Ruin - and - the Lion and the Lamb - and -

Harmony and Melody

“My brother won’t be coming.” - and - “My sister couldn't make it.” - and - “My brother’s not allowed inside.” - and -

“My sister is dead.”

Rags’ picture in Riches’ watch-head and the reflection in the glass. Mustaches and broad shoulders and dark hair going gray at the sides. Rags holds a little girl up on his shoulders. Riches wears a suit and tie. - and - Rack’s face on the demo that Ruin keeps turning around in his hands. She’s pale and punk and pretty and he’s… pale and punk. They have the same green eyes. - and - The Lion in a suit like Riches’, and red jacket with huge patches sewn on. It’s not a good picture. He hid his face. The Lamb looks like him though - same golden-brown eyes, same thick, dark hair. Much shorter. - and -

Harmony stands knobby-kneed, trembling on his own two feet, just barely. His eyes are brown. His hair is brown. His skin is Brown. His lower lip is wobbling like a flute-player’s throat. The Melody on his phone looks stronger. But, of course, she isn’t here.

“It’s probably for the best.” - and - “I don’t like leaving her alone.” - and - “I used to idolize him.” - and -

“What do I do now?”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the big, brick building from Ursa Minor’s play-by-play, but this time it’s Pins tottering through the door. She falls. She whimpers. The headmistress steps over her on the floor, producing a safety pin from her pocket, and the little girl stands up, still keening. The camera zooms in as she takes her next step forward. There are tiny, tiny punctures in the bottoms of her feet.

“We’ve never had the best relationship, if I’m being honest. Chess is one of those games, isn’t it? People put a lot more stock into… Oh, how do I explain? I was exceptionally gifted - academically, that is, I don’t suppose I’ll be winning any beauty contests. Him being the ‘Rags’ to my Riches as it were, well, he was never very good. Plenty of potential in other areas, mind, but our parents didn’t seem to care about that.” - and - “It’s my fault, I guess. I taught her how to play, yunno? Of course, I’m hopeless. She could make grandmaster though - smart kid like that. Now I can barely get her out of bed.” - and - “He was the world champion. Nobody talks about that part anymore, not even my parents… not even me - well, except for now. He’s still the world champion, I don’t know for how much longer… even if this thing doesn’t go to court.” - and -

“This never should have happened.”

Pins soaks herself and scrubs the dishes, bubbles in the air and on the end of her nose. Enter Needles with hair in her eyes, squinting through her bangs.

Here. Pins reaches up for one of her own hair clips, passes it to the other girl.

… Thanks. Stilted English, heavy accent. But she’s understood.

That’s okay, we’re sisters now.

“We went our separate ways before we should have, I suppose. Some people just can’t take the pressure. I can’t say we’re any closer, but he has a family. I’ve met his daughter.” Riches chuckles, dark and deep. “She’s a chess player now, for irony’s sake. I recommended her for the women’s Olympiad next year… My brother vetoed it. Just as well given the disaster that became.” - and - “We’ll have to head back home soon, I just don’t know how I’m going to get her there. Ever tried to ignore a bawling kid on an airplane? Imagine that with a teenage girl. I don’t want to embarrass her like that. I don’t…” Ruin groans. “Flew all the way in from Jersey and what have we got to fuckin’ show for it? She never even got to play.” - and - “We were planning to stay a while anyways, these things usually have at least six months of prep beforehand.” The Lamb rubs the skin under his eyes and swallows. “Here’s what I thought would happen: we’d come to the city, I’d meet the team, my brother would be the captain and… we’d have a good time. We did, I did… he wasn’t. And now I don’t know what to think.” - and -

“She always shone the brightest, y-you know? Between the two of us. There’s nothing that memorable about harmonies on their own in music, people just use them as a metaphor. More than melodies…” He hugs himself. “She should be here now. I’m just the afterthought.”

Needles is alone, leans on the wall below the window with all her weight, clenches her hand around Pins’ hairclip. Her eyes are blank, staring listlessly. There are bruises on her arms, shaped like fingers. There are track-marks between her toes.

“I have a son of my own now. Didn’t make the team either, unfortunately. Family is terribly complicated isn’t it? Ironically, nothing to do with my being here-”

“Then why did you mention it?”

“Because it strikes me that they’ve dodged a bullet. And that I stood next to a smoking gun - for years… For years.” - and - “ ‘Come see California,’ they said, 'your baby sister wants to go,’ they said. Goddamnit! First day in, she gets up all nice an’ fancy, I drive ‘er down and you know what they tell us?” - and - “I was friends with the girl that he… uh, y’know… maybe. She was my age… so just over half of my brother’s. And better, apparently. Good enough for captain. Do you know how insane that is? A first timer like- I don’t want to be mean, but maybe something else was going on with who the chairman - no, not that Chairman - picked… L-Lion thought it would be him - we all did - but he didn’t seem mad when he heard… maybe he was though. I think I would be.” - and -

“Little girls don’t make grandmasters. I-I mean they do, but not… Y-you know what I mean? She definitely deserved it, but… when we got our invitation… It was a great opportunity for her… a-and I came too! I always went everywhere that she did… second twin, second fiddle… second…”

Needles holds a fuzzy purple mound in her lap. The actual needle (the one in her hand) slipping from felt. Enter Thread. She peeks. She watches from around the door.

What is that?

Come sit with me. Needles pats the spot beside her. This is Gengar. He’ll keep you safe.

“Before the Olympiad, there’s always a period of preparation. I flew my team in for that, younger people than would normally be chosen for this sort of thing - my generation of prodigies. It happened during those first few days. That poor girl…” - and - “So yeah, we were pretty down about the whole thing from the get-go. Weird, unprofessional shit… I know this sounds awful, but she was devastated. Our friends had come down to see her and everything… I could have killed that girl. I mean, I… Oh, fuck me…” - and - “When she and her brother came in that day, I was already there with mine. I don’t know what to tell you, he looked happy to see her, impressed at least. Someone heard him say that he’d help her find the bathroom… That’s where they- um… the body…” - and -

“My mother won’t tell me what happened. I’m too scared to look it up on my own. But I saw the paramedics wheel her out… i-in more than one body bag. She was so excited to come here…”

The smell of burning. A lonely Thread stirs syrup-strings on the stovetop, balancing on her toes. And how are we comin’ along? the proprietress asks. Sickly sweet. Smiling like a vampire bat in June. There’s a slosh. There’s a gurgle. There’s a scream.

“We don’t know what happened. That’s the truth. I know what the media consensus is, but they’d have arrested him by now if they had the evidence, don’t you think? They would if they could, trust me - it’s just about the only thing that would get the public off their back.” - and - “Poor kid didn’t take it well when she saw the news that night. Since then, she’s been too fucked up to go outside. I heard it was the champion.” - and - “I used to idolize him and that’s a little crazy to think about. It’s hard to believe in somebody that no one else does. Even if you love them. Even if they love you…” - and -

“Half th-the city turned out for the vigil - er, not literally… I mean, most of them weren’t from here, but… Sorry, I’m stammering… I do that sometimes. Mel used to talk so I wouldn’t have to. I loved her for it… I never said ‘thank you’.”

Thread has a bulge at her middle and a black eye, reaches up inside her shirt to produce another, hands it to Thrum. Here, she says, it’s boys’ clothes.

“My brother called me as soon as the news broke. As I said before, we aren’t close, nor are our children… after a bit of a falling out, shall we say? We’ve spoken a bit since then. About the incident. About… more…” - and - “Look, I’ve been tryin’ to be a badass here, but this whole situation is fucked and we know it. I’ve got my friends lookin’ after Rack around the clock when I’m not there. Sooner we leave the better - I knew this city was dangerous. We never should have come.” - and - “I’m scared all the time now. What if he did it? What if he didn’t do it? What if he knows what I think? If I’m wrong, he’ll never forgive me. And if I’m right…”

“I don’t think it was him, if that’s what you’re wondering. My sister is… She was… Nobody who knew her could have done something like that.”

Thrum in a ripped nightgown, silk and lace, too long and far too old. The hem’s badly ripped. It’s ruined anyway and he can blame it on a “guest”; he takes it off, tears it right up the side, and uses it to scrub off his smudged makeup.

“A few people have urged me to cancel the entire workshop. As if I haven’t put every inch of myself into making it a success. No, callous as it sounds, we can find another venue and… as for the girl… It’s a pity, I won’t deny that-” - and - “Got a call from the almighty asshole, asked if my sister wanted a spot as a reserve. I told him to go to Hell. He hasn’t called since.” - and - “Technically my brother wasn’t disqualified, I don’t think, but he quit. Or they asked him to leave or… something. Two empty spaces. It seems a little cursed.” - and -

“I’m never going to be able to play again without thinking about her. Without anyone else thinking about what happened and bringing it up. People forget it was my game too.”

Can you actually play that thing?

Thrum, sitting in a psych-office, looks away from the fish tank and up from the sheet music in his lap.

Pins stands in front of him, buds blooming on the twig in her hand. Well?

Riches wrings his hands, speaks these last words very carefully. “It’s… a tragedy. But we have to press on.” - and - Ruin tips his head back and spits on the floor. “It’s a fuckin’ mess. I’m gettin’ my sister outta here.” - and - The Lamb peeks at the audience through the gaps in his fingers. “This is the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.” - and -

“You know, if you only hear the harmony, most people can’t recognize the song anymore.” Harmony turns his face towards the normal lights, in the place the spotlights used to be. His cheeks are wet. “And when you turn the r-radio down, they both stop playing.”

 

A Story about Pins and Needles, A Story about Needles and Thread, A Story about Thread and Thrum, A Story about Thrum and Pins

“It’s always been two of us, if it wasn’t one.”

Pins is small and scruffy and tough-looking. There’s rabbit fur all over her clothes. There’s a single clip in her hair and a green cap pulled over it.

“I’m the oldest, you know.” She sounds so-matter-of-fact that they can almost buy it. “Even if we were all the same age, I’d be the oldest. Because I was the first. See, we grew up at this pretty awful ‘group home’. For girls. And people who looked like girls. One of those places that looked nice, but really wasn’t. At all.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Rags argues with his daughter and with Riches on the phone. And I told you she’s not ready! - and - Rack holds up a letter opener, gutting the envelope down its gorge. Her eyes fly wide open. Piers! I’m in! The chairman wants me to join the team in California. - and - The Lion hurries between flight gates, jostling his carry-on and his brother. Hop, come on! Shake a leg! - and -

Melody drags Harmony behind her, under the FIDE flag, through the big, front doors. Let’sgolet’sgolet’sgolet’sg-

“We ate okay, I guess, but the lady in charge used to make us work for it. Things like the dishes and cleaning up and stuff, but I was really little so it was hard to… yeah, and when I messed up she used to take a needle and-”

“-jab us with it. Where no one could see.”

Riches silences his phone in his pocket, clears his throat, starts his speech. On the other side of the country, Rags makes another call. - and - Rack presents her golden ticket at the door. And the man there waves her away. I’m sorry, miss, you’re not on the- Oh, Mr. Chairman! and cut to No, no mistake. I’m so sorry, I don’t know why that was sent, it shouldn’t have- - and - the Lion watches them set up the boards and chairs and pieces. Um… can you help me? Green cap. Brown hair. I’m looking for the bathroom. - and -

Harmony dawdles and Melody strides. Past the others, past Riches and Ruin and Rack (and the friends they brought with them). They pass right through.

Needles holds a little felted… animal? Dark purple and round with long fuzzy ears and a huge toothy grin. Quite frankly, it’s a little sinister. She hides her face behind her pigtails.

“And she’d use special ones when she wanted us to hold still. Which was a lot. Because she had a lot of guests coming over.”

Another phone call. Finally, he steps out into the hallway, dodging the couple jogging by him. Pink hair, heavy makeup. Whatever. What- NIA?! Where are you? No, are you alright? - and - Rack tugs along her sulky brother. It’s okay, bro, let’s just go back to the hotel and… Her brother isn’t listening.

We’ll meet up with you later. The friends they came with start to slip away. Rack and Ruin barely notice. A little less black leather, fewer metal studs. - and - The bathroom door shuts heavily, the Lion turns to go. Now which way did I…? - and -

The champ’s been gone a while, don’tcha think?

Harmony hums along to his sister, completely wrapped up in one of the practice matches.

Yeah. I’m gonna go look for him.

Just like Rack and Ruin, he doesn’t feel her leave. And nobody really looks out into the hallway, sees the ravens standing there. Punk and punker looking.

You seen Leon?

We’ll help you look.

“For a long time I’d have these awful dreams about things like this. Hiding under my bed. Eating me up. I thought if I made friends with it then maybe… So I made Gengar. And the bad dreams stopped. And I made them for the other girls too. I missed them when I went, but the best part about that place was leaving.”

“The worst part was watching you go.”

Riches pockets his cell, makes a mad dash for the exit. It looks a little silly with the way he’s dressed. Oh! Terribly sorry, I’m in a hurry. It’s that couple again. They follow him out. - and - Rack and Ruin in their hotel room, staring through the TV. The door opens, their friends returning. Smeared makeup and disheveled pink hair. - and - The Lamb trots up to the Lion, eyebrow arching. Have you seen Gloria anywhere? I saw you leave together.

Huh? That wasn’t… You mean that other girl?

What other girl? - and -

Why the girl’s room? Melody shrugs as quick as she asks, already turning the handle. The woman slips in after her. Her male friend guards the door.

For Marnie, she whispers low enough that only he can hear.

Thread twists the corner of her skirt around her fingers, fidgeting and fumbling and puffing her cheeks. She’s the smallest so far, with baby fat and candy-stained teeth.

“Kids got picked up a lot from there. By nice families a-and… not-so-nice ones. It was hard to tell who was who. So I worried. We all did, until it was our turn to go.”

There’s a girl waiting in the hotel lobby. U-Uncle Ambrose! I… Please don’t call my dad. He does it anyway. - and - There’s a news story waiting on the fancy suite TV. And a picture of Melody’s face. Lois Lane here, live at the scene- - and - There’s a policeman waiting at the Lion’s door. The Lamb wipes sleep from his eyes. Are you… arresting him?

We just need your brother to come back in for questioning… for now. - and -

There are blackened arrangements waiting on the table, and the couch, and spread across the floor. Sympathy flowers… sympathy cards… gladioli and Persian shields.

“We got lucky - us four, I mean. Needles’ parents tuck her in at night, Pins’ mom is a chess arbiter… My new family is good people too. I sorta had to know how to cook before, but my grandma taught me to do it better. And my parents are great. And we raise snails - for food, I think it’s called heli-… helic-… uh, never mind!”

Riches on a street corner, on the way to the police station. Rags, breathing into the receiver on the other end. Don’t tell them anything. You can’t… What if they hurt her?!

Attachments; There’s a shot of his niece in the lobby; on the sidewalk; through the window of the hotel. Riches swallows hard. I wouldn’t do that to you. - and - What d’ya mean you’re leaving? Chairman didn’t even offer you a place?!

Rack pinches her wrist till the skin turns white. I don’t want one anymore. - and - I’m going to resign from the team… just so you know…

The Lamb can’t even look at his brother. That’s probably a good idea. - and -

Harmony sets up a board in an empty room.

“The hard part is living like this. Like, with everything nice and normal and… clean, everything but you. Well, me. I feel like I’m ruining it. That’s the worst part about not living there anymore.”

“My parents are, well…”

A spotlight flickers. - and - A spotlight flickers. - and - A spotlight flickers. - and -

A tape ejects. Side B starts to play.

Thrum is dark-haired, vest-clad, smiling. There are musician’s calluses on his fingers and fisherman’s blisters on his palms.

“They call me R- my other name and I have all boys’ stuff now. But I think I’m closer to my grampa. He taught me to fish after I was adopted. We still do that sometimes. Like on the way back from this place, or from regular therapy. And, and…” He thumps the flute case at his side. “He taught me how to play!”

Rags alone with his daughter. - and - Rack alone in her hotel room. - and - The Lion alone with himself. - and -

Melody alone in the ground.

“The headmistress was in the news a little while ago. After, um, it was probably Ursa Minor’s thing that did it. The news doesn’t really give out kids’ names, right?”

“Unless you’re missing.” Pins again. The circle closes. She looks just a little bit like Melody. Enough that you could get confused from the back. “Or dead.”

 

A Story about Steam and Diesel

“I am Steam. I am a train operator for the New York City Subway System - and I enjoy it. I like trains. I like numbers that divide evenly by two. And- and I am verrrrry sorry.”

Steam stands straight. Steam wears white. Steam has light hair. Steam has light eyes. Steam is smiling. Diesel isn’t. He’s a carbon-copy of his brother… wait, no, that’s not quite true. Ignoring the black coat and the way it’s been torn and stained, he’s a little thinner, and a little paler too.

“And I’m Diesel. I’m also a motorman - we work together - and I love my job. I’m good at it. Regardless, I don’t think I’m the best when it comes to people. When it comes to understanding people. Grave as the error may have been, I don’t blame my brother. Please don’t think too badly of him.”

Instead of a spotlight, one fragment splits into two;

Doubles! Doubles! Toil and Trouble climb into the back of a long, black car. Toil looks at his brother, pleading silently, clutching the envelope in his hands. P-please…

I hear they handed out report cards today.

Trouble grins. They did, Mommy! I got all A’s!

Fire-Burn and Cauldron-Bubble hop into their brother’s side-car. Cauldron-Bubble waves around a slip of bright-white paper - adorned with stickers and smiley faces. My science tes-

I got a call about you skipping class again.

Fire-Burn shrugs nonchalantly. So?

“We were born on Manhattan Island. I was born second. My brother was born first. Our mother did not expect us. Our uncle looked after us in her place until we were old enough to manage on our own. He did not watch my brother closely.”

“He was a very busy man. Is. He’s the head of the reptile house. Central Park Zoo. It’s a marvelous place, you know.” He gushes without smiling once. “Truly marvelous. I certainly recommend going once in your life. Ah, anyway… It’s a big responsibility. Uncle was derailed easily. You can’t blame him.”

“I do blame him. I blame him because he is responsible. If you hadn’t gone to-”

“I was meant to meet him at the Grand Central Terminal. I was waiting… A woman offered to buy me coffee. I don’t remember exactly what she looked like - just that she had an accent and, I think, brown hair. Alas, I can’t be sure of anything, so please don’t hold me to that.”

What about you, Avery?

What about you, Klara?

Toil looks down at his lap. ‘A’… ‘A’… ‘A’…

I, um… well…

Trouble grins again. He’s only got a B-plus in math.

Ugh, finally! My teacher says I can probably skip ahead to next year’s… Hey! Listen to me!

‘S my fault, Fire-Burn groans. Parent-teacher conference on Friday. You know how he gets.

Stripped naked, hands on head, Toil stands facing the wall. A few red marks on a few important papers. More on his back. More on his legs. Not left by a pen this time.

Trouble snickers behind him. Wow, Dad really laid into you.

Still wrapped up in her winter coat, Cauldron-Bubble sits down at the kitchen table and cracks open a textbook. I need some tunes for this. She picks Gazelle. Cauldron-Bubble bobs her head.

Fire-Burn rounds the corner. Turn off that pop crap, will ya? ‘S gonna give Piers a headache.

As they get older:

Toil and Trouble study in their rooms. In the library. In the middle of the night. Trouble gets to go out sometimes. Toil doesn’t. Trouble sits still in class, Toil doesn’t. Trouble sits down in class. Toil doesn’t. Trouble has time for friends. Toil doesn’t. (That part doesn’t matter so much - neither of them can find any.) Both of them have teachers who say: Oh! Your son is a joy to have in class! Only Trouble graduates early.

Fire-Burn and Cauldron-Bubble don’t study much. They have more important things to do. Fire-Burn plays chess online and doesn’t do her homework. Cauldron-Bubble experiments with a home (and later homemade) chemistry set. Fire-Burn plays chess in person. Cauldron-Bubble is moved to the advanced class. Fire-Burn’s teachers call home frequently. Cauldron-Bubble’s teachers… won’t, no matter how hard she tries. Fire-Burn misses too many classes. Cauldron-Bubble sets the chem lab ablaze. They drop out at sixteen.

“I remember when I took the phone call from our uncle. I was verrry angry. I was verrrry worried. I only have one brother. Do you understand? I only have one companion.”

“There’s…” Diesel stops to think for a moment. “… Elesa? I remember Elesa.”

Nga Sirena opens her mouth to say something. Then shuts it. Steam looks happier than they’ve ever seen him - and he’s always smiling, so it’s hard to tell.

Trouble shakes hands with a man from the city. Pale green eyes and product in his hair - expensive product. And a suit that screams yuppie louder than he can raise his voice.

You’re a bit young to play in the Olympiad, or… green, shall we say? Still, I’m always looking for new potential.

Fire-Burn beckons over a woman in red, white and black. Big metal earrings and knife-point heels. And the best contacts money can buy. She stands over the chess set and watches, lips puffed slightly into a bored-looking pout.

You’re a very promising young lady, I’ll give you that. Still… I’m not sure it’s quite what we’re looking for. Maybe when you’ve had a bit more… experience?

Trouble leaves on a west-bound train. Fire-Burn stays put in the city she was born in. Toil’s parents throw him out of the house. Cauldron-Bubble leaves of her own accord.

Sidewalks and street corners. Toil’s too old to stay in a women’s shelter. Too young to stay anywhere else. Too flamboyant for the Christians to take him in.

Cauldron-Bubble in bars and ballrooms. Fake IDs and sickly-sweet music - the stuff that would make her sister wince. She’s just good enough, pretty enough, smart enough to get by. Just barely.

A man he’s met once hands Toil a flier. A kind-looking man with an aged face. Some kind of school in California - you ever been, kid?

My brother lives there now. That night he sends a letter.

A customer points Cauldron-Bubble to a commercial on the pub TV. A kind-looking man with striking white hair. He runs some school in California - you ever thought of going there? Makin’ it big?

Well, now I have. The next morning, she makes a call.

“He went away for a long time. I missed him. I called the police station every day until they requested that I stop doing so. I kept calling until they threatened to have me arrested for doing so. Most unfortunate.”

“I remember… there was a building with gray walls and one with white walls and one with… I think it might have been splashed with paint. There were a lot of children there. I remember…” He tapers off. “They made me do such awful things.”

“My brother is still recovering mentally. The doctors called what he has complete retrograde amnesia. Complete retrograde amnesia is a condition where you forget who you are. Complete retrograde amnesia can be brought on by stress. It is usually temporary.”

“I seem to recall thinking you would hate me. The… the process is strange. You forget the most recent events first. Then the rest. The worse it got… the worse I became… the more I was railroaded… the more I forgot. At least, I imagine that’s how it happened. Gradually. Of course, it could have happened all at once. I still don’t recall the end.”

Masters School, Calisota, California:

Toil works more than he studies - mopping; cooking; cleaning - anything to be kept around. (His academic skills aren’t good enough for them, have never been good enough for his parents, will never be good enough for him.) He calls his brother to let him know where he is now. Trouble - in his sponsor’s mansion, with picture windows and open doors - hangs up the phone.

Cauldron-Bubble sleeps more than she studies. She doesn’t work - doesn’t really need to. (Her looks are good enough for other students, for creepy teachers, for A’s on exams she does poorly on and B’s for the ones she doesn’t take). She texts her sister a picture of herself - pink hair, pop-eye contacts. Fire-Burn texts back: When R U comin home?

A man with gray hair and a white coat. And spectacles.

Trouble’s sponsor smiles. Bede! My friend - Dr. Billions.

What are you a doctor of?

Cauldron-Bubble’s classmate groans. That’s Mr. Billions. Talk about a hardass.

Hey! This is a science class, right?

Cut back;

I’m… familiar with a variety of fields. Astronomy, chemistry, genetics - you’re a multiple, aren’t you? I’m conducting a study on twins.

And

Miss Klara - for the thousandth time - I assure you, there is no scientific evidence to support a… How did you put it again? ‘A wonder twin gene’?

Prove it!

“The best we can surmise is what the doctors found during their examination of him. Blood, hair, bruising, semen and va-”

“Children present! Er, yes, I fear I was an unhelpful witness. They were able to find my identity through the missing person’s database. And they were able to get even more information out of the girl I… left with.”

“The young lady never said where it was that they had come from. She only told the authorities what happened, where she had come from. She told them where she wanted to go back to. They were brought back to New York. I went there with Uncle as soon as I heard the news.”

“It must have been quite alarming when I didn’t know your name. Not that… Please, I’m not angry, but try to understand…”

Toil on the phone with his brother. Come on, just do me a favor. It’ll make you look good with Mom and Dad…

Toil treks across campus - the science lab. A lot of people, not enough room. It’s not obvious yet, but they came in pairs too. Half the group goes one way, half the group stays put. Toil’s separated from his brother. Toil’s handed a hospital shift.

What? Why on Earth would I…?

Fire-Burn on the phone with her sister. You told him what?! Did he believe that? Oh thank fuck- Well he’s a doctor, right?

Fire-Burn gets a letter in the mail. PIERS! PIERS! Cut; rejection at the door of the pre-Olympiad. Cut; the chairman shaking his head. Cut; Fire-Burn in her hotel room. All alone. Fuckin’ bullshit…

Gray hair, black turtleneck: in the room with Toil; outside Fire-Burn’s window.

Bland food. Bland questions. Bland everything. The man with spectacles hands Trouble a survey and a pen. Are you afraid of the dark? Are you claustrophobic? How much have you eaten today?

Elsewhere, the man with the turtleneck herds Toil into a small, dark room with only enough space for standing - and he’s left to stand there. For days. As soon as he’s out, he’s asked: How do you feel?

How do I feel?! How do- I’m leaving! I want to go home!

That’s up to your brother now.

Loud music. Loud arguments. Loud complaints from the hotel lobby. The man with the turtleneck bangs on Fire-Burn’s door until it opens, looks her over, mutters something about the noise when her brother comes up behind.

Elsewhere, Cauldron-Bubble daydreams in class, humming softly. The man with spectacles asks: How is your sister?

Marnie? Fine, I mean… nothing’s wrong.

Yes and I’m sure you’d notice if there was… Oh, nothing! ‘Twin telepathy’ and all.

“I was distressed. I wanted to help. I know that is not an excuse.”

“Amnesia is almost always temporary. But it’s a waiting game. And part of it was, quite frankly, I didn’t want to remember. Didn’t want to remember the worst parts, anyway, and jogging those memories would have been the first step. The counselor they directed to me meant well, but was sadly ineffectual. Eventually I was discharged.”

“We were encouraged to seek therapy upon returning to Manhattan. We decided to seek therapy as a family. My brother attended separate meetings as well. As did the girl.”

“She’s been staying with Uncle for the time being, in another part of the city. Steam and I have been staying too. Before this we lived alone. I’m sure because that’s how it was for a little while after too. Before my past came back to me.”

“I took time off of work. I enjoy work. My brother is more important than my work. I tried to fix him. This did not proceed down the route I had hoped.”

The man with spectacles hands Trouble another questionnaire:

Have you had any trouble sleeping lately? A room with bright lights, high-pitched whirring. Toil’s eyes rolling back in his head, so, so tired, but unable to fall asleep. Are you currently experiencing any physical pain? Please describe. A room with bright lights and whirring and a hospital bed complete with restraints. Toil screams as the man with the turtleneck straps him to it. Scalpels; burners; little live things and dead things and formaldehyde. Have you experienced a recent change in sex drive?…

The man with the turtleneck approaches Fire-Burn on occasion, asking questions, sneaking peeks at the file on his phone.

What’s your name, kid? Name: Klara Nezu Where you from? Hoboken, NJ You got any siblings? Emergency Contact(s): Piers Nezu (older bro/guardian) + Marnie Nezu (sis) A sister, huh? I’m a twin too, y’know. Total drag… What’s she like? I enjoy: Chem, music (POP ONLY), weed (lol blaze it) You have dreams about her? I dunno, that’s a twin thing, right? Well, what do you have in common? Allergies: N/A, Medical Conditions: N/A, Accommodations Needed: N/A But you’re identical, aren’cha?

Another subject dies on the table - powertools gone through the abdomen. Shit, says the man with the turtleneck. Okay, who’s next? What, no volunteers?

The man with the spectacles talks to Cauldron-Bubble after class. This precious Marnie of yours… would you even notice if she was gone?

“He brought me around familiar environments - our old school, Japantown, the boardwalk and Central Park… even the station. That was the only place I…” Diesel’s face remains impassive. He wipes his eyes. “When we arrived at the Grand Central Terminal, I dropped down and cried on my hands and knees.”

“His doctor told me that rediscovering the source of a trauma can be a good thing. It can stimulate memory.”

“That’s not exactly what she said.”

A brown-haired girl with a tam-o’-shanter. In the paper. On the news:

Avery and I should go to the vigil. I’m sure Chairman Gulab will agree.

I’m afraid, says the man with spectacles, that would compromise my study.

I’ve gotta call out sick for a few days, teach. Gotta go take care of something.

I hope you’re not planning to skip class.

Look, can I at least talk to Avery?!

You, like, can’t tell me what to do!

Toil and the others huddle together, terrified into silence as the man with the turtleneck snarls into the phone. What’dya mean they’re gettin’ suspicious? You still want the little punk bitch? The fuck are you-

Language, please. And… I think perhaps it’s time we brought our little experiment to an end. The man with spectacles. The other line. Calmer, quieter, but not that quiet. Cauldron-Bubble hears. She doesn’t understand.

The man in the turtleneck leaves. Toil lies awake on the floor, falls asleep, wakes again. Hours have passed, not that he has any way of knowing. He’s still alone. Him and a handful of strangers.

Fire-Burn takes a pill and sleeps in late, doesn’t notice the man with the turtleneck outside her window. Someone else does. Pink-and-black paint smears washed away in a sea of red. She wakes late in the morning. She looks outside and screams.

“I wanted him back. I was willing to do anything. I am my brother’s brother - one of two. I wanted him to remember me. And I was wrong. I thought I could jog his memory.”

“You did. I remember most things now. But I remember what you did too. At a point, intentions don’t matter. There’s never a good reason to rape someone.”

Trouble’s still asleep when the doors burst open. When the police force him to the floor with his arms above his head.

Fire-Burn sits with a shock blanket wrapped around her shoulders. Quivering, swallowing, absolutely-fucking-positive that she’s never going to sleep again.

Doubles! Doubles! Toil and Trouble in the same ambulance. In the same hospital room. One staring through the other. One staring straight ahead.

Fire-Burn and Cauldron-Bubble hold each other. Hold their brother between them. Sobbing. Shaking. Whispering in each other’s ears.

Steam and Diesel stare at each other - each waiting for the other one to speak. And nobody says anything. In the audience or on the stage.

 

A Story about Time and Tide

“She’s not my mom. Why does everyone think that?”

Time flips her bangs back - long; thick; bleach blonde. Tide tries and fails to follow her example, her own hair being short and dark and gathered into a ponytail at the top of her head. They have their gray eyes in common. And little else.

“Our mother is… a difficult woman to understand.”

“That’s because she doesn’t make a lot of sense!”

“I… It’s complicated, you know that…”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; an immaculate white house on an immaculate green lawn on a perfectly square block. Gall shoulders open the front door, kicks off his shoes. Wormwood’s there on the sofa, sipping grape juice from a plastic cup, and there’s another man behind her - taller than them both by half; red hair and ice-chip eyes. He smiles when he sees Gall in the doorway. Alain! There’s someone very special I’d like you to meet.

“She didn’t want to have me, but she did, and then she didn’t want anything to do with me once I was born. It’s… Okay, maybe I’m not being super fair here. Not about… I mean, the situation with my ‘dad’… I mean… it isn’t great. Help me…”

“It’s okay.” Time puts a hand on her little sister’s back. “It wasn’t exactly a planned encounter. Or a consensual one. I was sixteen at the time. When she came home, I was the one who took care of her. And when Tide was born…”

“She took care of me too.”

Wormwood pokes around her big, bare room - all the things she brought with her covering maybe a third of it, even spread out on the floor. She flops back on the bed, turns the light off and on again, walks in a circle. There’s a private bathroom, but she goes for the one in the hall. And doesn’t think too hard about the… noises creeping out from under Gall’s door. Or the heavy footsteps that stop outside her own a while later.

“I thought of dropping out that first year. Don’t act like it was a tragedy - it wasn’t. I’m sure my mother had it worse, it was hard for her. It was hard for us, but we made it out in one piece. I used to take Tide into school with me, have her sit on the bench outside my class. Colleges let you get away with these kinds of things.”

Breakfast and the maid washing up afterwards. Lunch out on the town. Wormwood can’t pronounce a thing on the menu. Gall has to whisper the translations - baked snails; fish stew; red meat - into her ear.

“Time was always there, you know? School plays, when I had to learn recorder, swim lessons… I shouldn’t complain because I had her, right? But that’s just it. It was only her. Mom didn’t care. She still doesn’t.”

“She really can’t help it-”

“That makes it even worse! What’s so horrible about me that she doesn’t even want to… What did I do wrong?!”

At the end of the day her father presents her with a box and the little dog inside of it, collar garnished with a big green bow. I’ll help you set the crate up-

No, no, I can manage.

Papa does and then doesn’t leave her room.

“It’s not your fault. I… Honestly, I think Mom does blame her. It’s irrational, but, yes. I resent her too sometimes. It’s why we moved out. I didn’t want Tide to be exposed to that kind of negativity. I tried to protect her, but I didn’t. Some of the worst things still seeped through.”

“We have an apartment near the beachfront. Not on - nobody’s got that kind of money - but close enough that I can walk to it. Not that I really, um, do much of that anymore. Time doesn’t trust me to go alone.”

H-hey, Alain? Can I ask you… Wormwood stands in her brother’s doorway, looks around his great big room. Where’d you get that?

It was a present. From our father. There are crescent moon circles beneath his eyes.

Oh.

Cut; Gall stares slack-jawed at his sister. He didn’t…

She tilts her face up to his, lets him see the same exhausted eyebags. He did.

“We love each other. I don’t regret anything I had to do for Tide, but she’s more my daughter than a sister. And when our mom had her… I was really just a kid. I doubt all the calls I made were the right ones.”

“Don’t say that! Y-you’re a great sister-mom!” Tide forces a smile, though it looks a little strained. “I came home crying once and we walked across the city for donburi. I said I was lonely while she was at work and she got me a parakeet. Hey, you guys want to see a picture?! He’s so cute!” She looks up at Time. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Gall shoves the last of his things into a duffel bag and walks straight out the front door. It’s dark outside, but Wormwood is still wearing her day clothes. She grabs his sleeve; he jerks away. She tries to follow; he pushes her back.

Stones Gambling Hall on the sign above the doorway. Gall spins a wheel, shuffles cards. Hours away, his father punches a hole in the wall, curses in French. Wormwood covers her ears.

“Something really, really bad happened a couple of weeks ago. There was a f-fight and…”

“Between our mother and me. Tide’s graduating from middle school soon. I thought she should spend more time with her own daughter. Things… escalated rather quickly.”

Red ink; white paper. Her father glares daggers at the Living Reminder, still with a smile on his face. I think you’re mistaken. My daughter works very hard. Cut; he comes home from work and drinks so much he can’t get out of bed in the morning. So she lies there until he realizes he’s not alone. Cut; her puppy trembling and a dark spot on the carpet. Cut; Wormwood sobs in the veterinary waiting room. Shh. You know it was an accident, don’t you?

I’m sorry. The Swan’s stepsister wrings her hands. There wasn’t much we could do…

“I… What I said was… I admit my words were poorly chosen. She told me she didn’t ask to be Tide’s mother. I said I didn’t either. I didn’t mean… I didn’t think anyone would hear me.”

“And I ran out of the house, towards the water. Ended up falling off the pier.”

Wormwood hangs on to the balcony railing, looking down at the swimming pool four stories below. She falls.

Cut; Gall drives six hours; runs two blocks; sits by Wormwood’s hospital bed. When she wakes up he holds her. They both cry.

Time looks down at her sister. “I’m so sorry.”

Tide smiles softly. “I’m not even mad.”

 

A Story about the Cradle and the Grave

“Shh! They’ll hear you!”

Not the stage, and nowhere near it. The Cradle in the women’s bathroom, eyes wide, twintails dangling, holding onto Mother Superior’s wrist for dear life.

“My parents are right outside the door, don’t make me go home with them!” He takes a minute to compose himself. “I… Look, I shouldn’t be here. Nothing happened. I’m not their real daughter. I’m not even a girl - I never was a girl.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; a 360 shot of a modern kitchen, sleek appliances and stainless steel and a lot of tile scrubbed viciously white. Blood pads in, socked feet on the tile floor (no sneaker scuffs, no sweaty smudges). He’s pale as a ghost and smaller than he should be, with a head that doesn’t even reach the countertop. The pantry’s door doesn’t give when he pulls it. There’s a combination lock on the fridge.

“I think they did have a kid at some point, a couple of years ago, maybe two kids. I know about the girl, but she isn’t in any of the pictures. Maybe she was trans and they just didn’t take it well, or maybe they were… They. Make. Me. Wear. Her. Clothes. They call me Rosa.”

A big blond man with big strong arms scoops Blood up and holds his feet against the ceiling. Next time I see you, you’ll be too big for us to do this, he says for the third year in a row. You gotta eat more, kid, you’re getting shrimpy. He catches his son later, trying to swallow bits of a greasy paper plate. Not what I meant…

“That girl is dead now. No, it wasn’t… I thought so at first, but no. They found her name on that vampire couple’s wall, the one from the news? That’s all from what the neighbors told me. I’m not allowed to talk to them. I’m not allowed to go outside either, not much.” He closes his eyes and shudders. “Don’t make me go back with them.”

Not good enough, Gladion. Mom stands behind him, holding his arms, making him crumple a drawing in his hands. Physalia physalis is very beautiful. Do it again. Before he can start there’s a knock at the door. A police officer holding his cap to his chest.

“I don’t even know why they wanted me. Maybe I look like her? They made me grow my hair out and wear color contacts, just like she did. My eyes aren’t even blue. Neither were hers. Bianca - sorry, the neighbor again - told me they hated her for doing that. Maybe it’s a guilt thing? Honestly, though? It doesn’t matter. I don’t care.”

Black earth; black tie; black bullet circles on Blood’s arm where his mother’s dug her fingers in. A couple in white comes up quietly and her grip tightens. The woman with curly hair dips her head. Let us know if there’s anything we can do.

Two nights later his mother lies with him, one arm draped over his middle, with her eyes red and face blotched and whispering his father’s name. She doesn’t ask Blood for forgiveness. She doesn’t ask him for anything. He runs to his room as soon as she lets him and listens to her clean the sheets.

“This can’t be legal, right? Can we lie and say that they don’t feed me? It’s half true, I guess. S-sometimes I don’t eat. I think I’m being drugged.”

Empty litter box; empty fish tank; empty cage. He brings home a salamander and fills its terrarium up with leaves. Oh, it must have run away, she tells him. Now maybe if you’d take better care of your pets… Blood finally picks the lock on the fridge.

“I can’t call anyone for help - I’m not in danger. I can’t talk to anyone long enough to get the point across.”

Worn-out sofa; abandoned house; Blood turns over, making the springs creak. Keep it down, will ya? A boy with dented sunglasses in the recliner, four others on the floor. But there’s no one in the doorway. He goes back to sleep.

Cut; Honey? Blood lets go of the mattress he was poking under and it falls back into the frame with a thump. His mother stands in the doorway, blonde hair silvery in the moonlight, stomach round and wide and full. I was wondering when you were coming back. She puffs her lip and crosses her arms, pouting like a toddler. That was mean! Making me worry like that!

He’s blubbering now, still clinging to Mother Superior. She lets him. A little stiff, a little sharp at the edges, but she lets him.

Flesh with a red face, wrapped in a white blanket. He gets up to her crying in the night and stops dead when he sees his mother already cradling the baby in her arms. Shh, shh, it’s alright… In the morning he checks for bruises. There are none.

Cut; Blood holds Flesh in his lap and reads aloud from a picture book. In a shakier tone, his little sister does the same.

Cut; Flesh comes in ragged and worn, nose bleeding. Blood runs for the first aid kit, nearly tripping up the stairs.

“Rosa? Honey, are you okay in there?”

Fried dough and cotton candy and the lights of the boardwalk. Flesh reaches for her mother’s hand - Blood intercepts. They walk ahead. Home again; she whines and tugs on his elbow. When’s Mommy coming home?

Not until later. He carries her to bed.

Why don’t you like it when Mommy’s around?

Blood moves over on the bed, patting the spot beside him.

Gladio-

Read this for me, Lillie? He puts the little paper card in her hand. I’ve… There’s something I’ve been thinking about…

“Please,” the Cradle whispers. The knocking gets louder. “Don’t let them take me back.”

 

A Story about Penny-Wise and Pound-Foolish

“In the business world, they advise you to make multiple investments - you never know what will pan out and what will fail.”

Pound-Foolish and his brother in their father’s watchhead. Two men with sandy hair, one with dark glasses. The man on the stage is blue-eyed and glum and a little bit fragile. His wheelchair is even more decked out than the Princess’. His nametag reads “The Visionary”, scribbled on as an afterthought.

“Don’t put all your eggs in one basket, you understand. Don’t be reckless, but any, ah, good businessman knows there’s a certain amount of risk involved. Be selective, but cast your nets wide and know when to cut your… Sorry, I’m probably boring you. Anyway, I’m a very good businessman. With a number of… enterprises. And two sons. Brings to mind an old expression - to be pound-foolish, but penny-wise? Oh, have you heard that one?”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; ice princesses and neon lighting, and Kiss sitting up in the stands. She’s wearing a lot of makeup for a child that young, squinting through thick prescription glasses, blowing her bangs out of the way. Her hair is dark, yes, but it isn’t black. You promised to take me swimming…

Prima. The man beside Kiss cuffs her ear. Not now.

“It was alright when they were young. I was busy, even then, but with ordinary obligations. A desk job. An investment portfolio. A family… It was difficult, parenthood always is, especially after their mother abandoned us. Still, we were happy. Then I got sick. I have to admit, it did look rather bleak for a while there, didn’t it? I suspect that’s where the problem started. You see, when I fell ill, I gave up- I lost a lot of the vigor that I had before. Running the business fell to my children. Perhaps I should have hired someone on… but how was I to know that my own son- I can’t get past the fact that he was really waiting for me to die. And for what? A few measly pounds?”

Kiss’ parents are arguing again. It’s a big house, but she can hear them through the bedroom floor. Cut; Prima, how about those swim lessons? Cut; Prima, why don’t we pay a visit to the aquarium? Cut; Prima, wouldn’t you like to come with Daddy on vacation? He’s never paid so much attention before.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to…” Pound-Foolish’s father sighs. “I’m still very angry with him. Even so, I recognize my own faults as a parent. I should have kept a closer eye on him.”

A canopy of orange trees and a hotel on an island. A just-pubescent Kiss climbs out of the pool, shaking her hair out. Her father looks at her like he never has before.

“Clifford Industries manufactures a great number of pharmaceuticals. Everything from Clifford-brand bandaids to heavy narcotics. It’s all very precise and responsibly maintained - at least, it’s supposed to be. What is it that you young things are calling it now? Purple Rocket? ‘R’? Horrible stuff, really horrible. And to think he was testing it on people! On children!”

That night: Here, have some of this. I’d say you’re old enough. Cut; her head hurts, her throat hurts, her groin hurts… Kiss looks between her legs the next morning. There is blood.

“Of course, they were that Viridiana’s grunts. So I’m told anyway. Still. What a waste.”

Candy; presents; a trip to the mall. She’s almost forgotten about her father’s indiscretion by the time they head back to the mainland (almost). She misses her mother. They don’t go home.

“It was bad enough with the animals. It was bad enough with domestic animals. Can you believe he used exotics? Species that are endangered as it is! Lord’s sake, I’m a conservationist!”

Nice room. Nice hotel. The places they stay never get any cheaper. The gifts he brings her never decrease in quality, or quantity for that matter. Kiss cries for her mother, lying in bed next to him. She keeps crying for a long time after. What, you think she would have kept you if it wasn’t for me? Another time; I heard the old harpy has a new daughter now. This goes on for years. She’s not allowed outside anymore.

“I actually hired a detective to trace that awful, awful stuff to the source. Imagine my surprise when it was my own son. Imagine failing so spectacularly. I suppose he must have pieced out what I knew… It’s my own fault for not confronting him sooner.”

Kiss packs a bag a week in advance, slowly gathering fives and twenties from her father’s wallet. She drinks with him, kicks the window screen open, climbs down the fire escape and runs. She collapses in a park, maybe a mile away from him. Cry’s picture on a poster, on a post. Age-progressed. Put up recently. Somebody wants her back.

“I still can’t believe he actually… My own son… touching me like that. It’s more of a violation than anything I’ve ever-”

A long walk and gas station hair dye and a public bathroom sink in the wee hours of the morning. She keeps the poster, memorizes the address. M-Mom? Dad? It’s Lorelei.

Penny-Wise’s father snaps the pocket watch shut, voice choked with emotion. “Thank goodness his brother was there.”

 

A Story about Shock and Awe

“The future is now, thanks to science!”

“Stoooop it, you’re embarrassing me!”

Blond, blue-eyed, baby-faced, the both of them. Shock grins like a mad scientist and folds one arm around his sister, using the other to fix his glasses. He doesn’t even bother with his hair - Awe reaches up to smooth the static out instead. She sighs.

“He’s such a geek, but- WOW!” Her eyes light on the Dulcimer Player. “You’ll take care of him for me, won’t you?! You’re a keeper!”

“H-hey! I… You can’t just say things like that! Um, I’m sorry everyone, I swear I didn’t put her up to this…”

“That’s quitter talk! Sheesh, with that sort of attitude you’ll never get married.”

“I don’t want to get married… yet. I’m busy.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; it’s too big to be Herne’s town, or the Diamond’s. This farm is bigger, better, with no broken fences, no unpaved paths. Oil holds a golden sebright under one arm and a purple ribbon in her brother’s face. You shoulda seen the look Drew gave me! Smug jerk!

Don’t be that way, you know he likes you~

“I actually met him at the same fair the Author was talking about. Not the same year, obviously, but you know what I- ah, anyway… At first I figured he was in the engineering department, surprised he wasn’t - I think he was surprised when I didn’t recognize him.” Shrug. “I don’t really watch the news. I did wonder why a criminology professor would be judging a science fair. Mystery solved. But he seemed alright at the time, don’t they always? And he was nice to Awe.”

Water stands on his chair at dinner, gabbing excitedly. They want me to skip a grade next year, isn’t that cool! His parents beam and don’t make him sit down again. Oil nods her approval from her own seat, mouth too full of meatloaf to speak. And that’s not all! My teacher took me aside today and told me about this study they’re doing at the college. For gifted kids! So that’s just perfect!

“I just figured he liked kids, you know? And not in a creepy way… so I let them talk while I set things up.”

“He mostly asked about you anyway.”

“I won the fair, for the record, and I know he didn’t rig the vote. Anyway, a few weeks later I got this email about a… about some girl’s thesis. Uh, sorry, at the time we didn’t know it was yours. Anyways. It wasn’t me they wanted, it was her. You’d think that’d be great, right? Two geniuses in the family…”

“Yeah! Except I’m not one!”

The big city college, almost familiar at this point, and here they are again. Oil holds his hand and leads him down the hall. A man with one eye pokes his head out of the office. The Sugimori thing’s down that way.

Thank you, sir!

“It wasn’t fair, I wasn’t supposed to be there. It’s okay, I know. Just because I’m not a super-ultra-mega brain doesn’t mean I’m stupid. I can be smart too! And I’m smart enough to know that I was only picked ‘cuz that guy wanted me there… and that he only wanted me there since my brother was too old to join.”

“I didn’t really notice anything wrong at first. I know, I know, you probably get that a lot, but seriously - she seemed happy every time I picked her up. Then again, well, there were a few things…”

So how was it?

Water shrugs as they keep walking, nestling his hand in hers. Not bad. Miss Sugimori is nice enough. It’s the professors I’m not so sure about.

Mr. Ratigan seemed nice to me.

I dunno. Mr. Cipher says he’s kinda, uh…

“I mean… they weren’t. It wasn’t like they were jerks to me or anything. But most of the girls were friends already and the boys were super quiet… and… I really wanted them to like me, they just… didn’t.” She bites her lip and looks away from her brother. “The only time we got along was when…”

Soooo… The Author’s ex-lover, old professor, former friend, rifles through his desk and comes up with a candy bar that he places in Water’s open hand. You’re part of Sugimori’s little project, huh? Must be pretty smart. What about that girl? The one you were with before.

Who, May? Yeah, no, she’s just my sister. He puffs himself up a little, like one of the chickens they have at home. I mean, she’s nice and all, but…

Later, Oil finds Water coming out of the office, candy staining his mouth and hands. Ugh! I’ve been looking everywhere for you! Come on! Her brother goes, kicking and whining. You’re so slow…

“If it had just been the other kids, I don’t think I would’ve done it. I know that doesn’t make it okay, but… but…”

“Shh.” Shock takes his sister by the shoulder, tugging her into him. “Shh, it’s okay.”

“No it’s not! I’m sorry! I’m sorry… He told me… he told me she was being mean to him… and that’s not even the worst part.”

Water swallows thickly, squirming in his chair. The man’s one eye flickers to him, then back to the two animated figures on the computer screen. One is big, the other is small. The first is female, the second is not. The small one is (mostly) clothed, the big one is (entirely) not. Don’t worry, kid, it’s just a movie. You’ve got a big sister, don’t you? I bet she watches things like this all the time.

Really?

Well… probably not, actually. Let’s face it, you said you were more mature.

Back at home, Water comes out of the kitchen with two bowls of ice cream, passes one (the one with much less in it) to Oil in front of the TV. He sits a little too close, resting a hand on her leg. She shifts uncomfortably, squeaking when she feels him pinch.

I’ve been thinking about going into engineering.

“I had no idea what she was doing - if I had, well, obviously I’d have made her stop, and not just for my sake.” He looks at her when he says this next part. “It was very, very wrong for a grown-up to make a kid do something like that.”

“But he didn’t make me!”

She groans as much at Water on the tape, but doesn’t mean it. He stomps to his room upstairs, tracking in mud and muck from the barn. She grumbles and goes for the mop. It’s already half cleaned when she gets back. I still hate you.

Uh-huh. Sure.

Some time later; Say, you look rough. The professor doubles over, rubbing Water’s shoulders from behind. No, don’t tell me. Sister troubles?

Um, kinda, but it’s okay, she-

Shh. No need to downplay it. I understand.

“When he lent me money, I didn’t think it was that weird. We were friends, right? I thought it’d be okay if Shock paid him back.”

“I was kind of annoyed, to be honest, but I didn’t want to leave a bad impression. The guy’s a professor, he’s decorated - at least, he was. And the other reason was that… Awe liked him. I didn’t want to ruin that for them.”

You know, the problem with… May, was it? The trouble is that she doesn’t respect you. She must think that you’re… naive.

So?

What if I told you you didn’t have to take it? And their eyes drift toward the black computer screen.

Cut; there’s a crunch and an awful wet noise. Oil shrieks and Water raises his foot a little, revealing a small, crushed egg. Big sister advances, little brother takes a step back. He lunges. She screams. The way the tape is edited, the two shots look like one.

Cut; Oil crying, chickens clucking, the rooster from before pecks her face. Water is crying too, in the corner. Oil runs for the exit. Cut; Water in his room alone, in the fetal position with his back to the door.

“I’M SORRY! I’m sorry… sorry… I’m so sorry…” Awe wails and wraps her arms around Shock’s stomach. He buries his face in her hair. They both shake. “I-”

“I know. I love you too.”

 

A Story about Straightedge and Hardline

“What’s it called when you do the right thing for the wrong reason?”

“I’ve only heard that expression the other way around.”

Straightedge and Hardline are both tall and thin and conventionally pretty; one blonde and braided, the other with masses of muted red hair. Definitely sisters, but no one would mistake them for twins.

“Our father is like that, he told us plenty of true things - more than untrue ones. He lied about his intentions though, about being a good man. I don’t know what kind of people we are. Decent maybe, less than that as far as sisters go.”

“Not to each other,” Straightedge adds cryptically. “N- Let’s call him… N.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; the Hound - a fat little corgi puppy - chases its tail in circles around the Hare’s living room. She screams and jumps up on the furniture.

Don’t worry, Chloe, he doesn’t bite.

She cowers away. How do you know?!

“You know punk is a subculture, right? And I mean more than the way you dress and what you listen to. That’s enough for some people, but for others…”

“Father didn’t believe in drinking or smoking… or medicine, or caffeine or sugar or chocolate or abortion or birth control… or eating meat. Pure body, pure mind and the sanctity of life, and that sort of thing. That’s what he believed in. He raised all three of us the same way - the two of us,” she amends, waving at her sister. “Us. We taught our brother, it was our job to look after him.”

Hare bawls out one of her father’s interns, a young man with shaggy hair and glasses sliding down his nose. You’re not allowed to pet Yamper so stop doing that NOW! To his credit, he takes it on the chin. The Hound can’t really be expected to understand.

“And if the things that we told him weren’t true, well, we thought they were at the time. And if you think that’s not enough… don’t worry, I do too. I guess I could say that we were all children, Straightedge and I and N, but he was younger. Young enough for it to matter… Young enough that…”

You’d better not follow me! Stop it! The Hound runs around to the Hare’s other side. Yamper, why don’t you just go somewhere else!

“The three of us have different mothers. The three of them died different ways. I don’t know how old they were. If I remember right, I don’t think his was much older than I am now. I didn’t think about it at the time.”

Mother soothes; Daddy will go out and find Yamper, so don’t you worry. She goes back to her room alone.

“I said that was even worse. I didn’t know… Willingly is one thing-” Straightedge’s nose wrinkles, her lip curls. “-but it’s different when somebody is doing that to you. Like how eating meat is wrong, but not if you’ve been tricked into it. Informed consent and that. Right, Mother?”

She wanders through the park at night, dressed but with her hair down. Hey, Yamper? Where are you? Nothing. Not even a yelp. Then footsteps - too heavy to belong to such a small dog. Three men with torn black coats and bloodshot eyes. She starts to back away in tears.

“We were children then, like I said, but children grow up fast. Still…”

Looks like that artist, doesn’t she? Talia… Yoshino?

How should I know?

Hold the kid still, would you? It’s not that hard.

Then there’s the barking. And the Hound. And the Hare falls into the wood chips, picks herself up and runs. The men take off in the other direction, afraid of a much bigger dog.

Yamper! She lets the corgi leap into her arms.

“You have to understand, Father didn’t let us out much. Even when he did… it was always around his friends - and they weren’t much better. Not that it’s an excuse. N was… He’s our little brother. We should have been better about looking out for him.”

Oh, I remember now! I went out looking for Yamper and… these men scared me.

The Hare watches her father’s expression change. Hm? What men?

“He’s still young. There’s still time-”

“Not to save him!”

“Define save.”

I… don’t… She screws up her face in concentration and scratches the Hound behind his ears.

“We’re being careful now. Father’s friends are still around.” She turns to Hardline and whispers. Her sister nods. “And besides, Komodo dragons usually don’t kill people. Who can say that he’s really dead?”

 

A Story about Peaches and Cream

“It was an accident, I know that.”

Peaches hunches over herself on the edge of the stage, shuddering under her sister’s fingertips. Purple contacts; purple dress; purple dye in her piled-up hair. Cream would come up to her waist if she were standing. She’s the plainer of the two, in her nightgown, clutching a plush rabbit to her chest.

“That doesn’t make it any less stupid.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Annual comes home in tears and tatters. Her parents crowd around her on the couch - soothing, cajoling. Perennial watches from the top of the stairs. Or, rather, a girl resembling Perennial. This one is chubbier. This one has half-moon glasses. This one has brown pigtails. Later she brings Annual a glass of water. It goes untouched. She sets it on the table and climbs up into her sister’s bed.

What’s his name? Nobody will tell me.

Doctor… something. Something Zed.

Want me to beat him up for you?

“I don’t suppose you’ve read much Shirley Jackson? The Lottery doesn’t count, everyone has to go over that by highschool. She did. And we read Hill House and We Have Always Lived in the Castle - that one’s about sisters too. I used to like it better than I do now.”

Annual doesn’t leave the house for weeks. Perennial wouldn’t either if it weren’t for school (and her parents forcing her to go). At the end of the day, she comes home, running up the footpath.

How’s Fennel?!

Fine.

This isn’t the true answer, but Perennial is young and frightened and it’s easier to believe in a false, good thing than a bad one. And it’s easier to believe something you’ve been told by your parents. And it’s easier to believe something you’ve been told when the answer stays the same.

“ ‘Everyone else in my family is dead,’ ” she quotes on her fingers. “Page one, line five, first person. Not entirely true in my case, but our parents were jetsetters, so it may as well be.”

Annual finds work in a new program. Perennial graduates - middle school, high school… She fills out college applications. She applies for internships.

Oh, what are you so worried about? Honestly, imouto, any lab would be happy to have you!

Accepted. Her first day. A man with gray hair and glasses. Welcome to Biotope. I’m Dr. Zed.

“They’d leave the two of us home alone with-” She hesitates. “He was… a member of the staff. And he liked us a little too much.”

Perennial avoids the man for days, dodges Annual’s questions when she asks about work. Eventually he catches her alone. She threatens to scream. He turns white.

Why would…? Oh. He eyes the Makomo on her name tag. Fennel’s little sister. S-Sharon?

Shoro! And it’s Miss Makomo to you.

I’m so sorry. I… I wish I could take it back.

“I don’t know when my brilliant sister got the idea to ‘take care of the problem’ but she never told anyone about it. Neither did the girl from the novel, but I digress. She got enough of the details wrong to nitpick.”

He doesn’t approach her. Perennial doesn’t approach him. They’re still thrown together more often than not. They still have a job to do. Once, twice, three times he makes an offer: I could write up a good report for you. We don’t have to keep this up. Then he apologizes for speaking to her at all.

I’m doing it for the experience. There’s a little less bite to her words each time.

A man with curly hair approaches from behind. Perennial startles, knocking over the picture on her desk - Annual and another woman in white.

Jason! You scared me.

Sorry, sorry… We’re all going out for drinks tonight - except Toren, obviously. I know you and Zed don’t get along, but-

I’ll go. And she does. She doesn’t fix the picture.

“You see, in the book everyone died of arsenic in the sugar bowl. Not especially practical. That much arsenic? You would notice something. Yes, yes, I know you aren’t supposed to be able to taste it, but it still isn’t sweet. Credit where it’s due, Peaches found something that was.”

Perennial doesn’t drink much. Perennial gets very, very drunk. She wakes in a stranger’s guest room - fully clothed (she checks that first). The doctor offers coffee and donuts.

I should go. But… but thank you.

It’s the least I could do.

She starts talking to him a little more at work - stops avoiding him, anyway. She’s pulled aside by her supervisor. How would you like to be more than just an intern?

Perennial runs home to Annual and gushes. They set her up with a job under Dr. Zed.

“I was the favorite, when her hair was as black as mine. On some level I understand that the idea wasn’t… She must have been jealous. Of the attention. Heaven knows what for.”

Have you considered trying a new prescription? When was the last time you had your glasses replaced?

She listens. The new ones do feel better.

He comes to her again, smiling easily. I’m so sorry, I hate to ask you this, but it’s just… Management thinks your hair might be a little too distracting. I’m sorry. I can tell them off if you’d like…?

She starts wearing it in a ponytail. She dyes it black. She goes home for the winter holidays. Her mother hugs her and says, Shoro! You look just like your sister!

“Another thing: the main character had an older sister too, in that story. She didn’t have to warn her because she didn’t like sweets. But I do.”

Perennial returns to work. She and the doctor make pleasant conversation. He calls her Sharon. She doesn’t correct him this time. By the time he kisses her, she’s in too deep. (Surely Annual will understand…)

“This is all your fault!” Cream stares daggers at her sister, lunges at her, shrieking and raking nails. “Look at me! Look at me! Why won’t you-”

“She can’t hear you, you know,” Ebb says gently. “They never do.”

 

A Story about Safe and Sound

“Could… could you repeat tha- Wait, never mind, I got it!”

Safe smiles at the audience, flashing the biggest teeth they’ve ever seen. She’s brown-haired and heavyset and a little lumpy, bunches of cellulite on her arms and legs. Beside her, angled so xe can read her lips, Sound waves. Dark hair, glossed lips, shiny text-to-speech at the ready. And when Safe steals a nervous glance back at xem, xe ruffles her hair.

“I’m not stupid, okay? I promise! J-just a little slow. Uh, it’s called Sensory Processing Disorder? Yeah, sorry… I know I ask you guys to put up with a lot. I know it’s annoying. I’m annoying. Sorry… It, um, used to make my mom really mad.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Hanoi burning, Sickle up to her neck in West Lake’s water. A White man in a uniform wading in after, snatching her by the hair - she still has hair here. Cut; Calisota drowned out by the sound of rubber bullets. Hammer holds up a cardboard sign. I STAND WITH VIETNAM.

It was just her mom, for the record. My folks have always been pretty amazing, especially about my stuff. Not bragging, just clearing the air.

“We’re not real siblings. Not really. Not even adoption-wise or whatever you call it. But, I mean, I guess… kinda? I live with Sound’s family now. Xir mom’s a lot nicer than mine was. And xir dad is too! And… and… and, um, xe’s only got one brother but he’s okay… They don’t do the things my old family did.”

A lot of parents are pretty shit when it comes to dealing with special needs kids. Sound makes air quotes around those last three words. Mine were the exception, not the rule. Are. Remember that. And a lot of people are dumb about SPD anyway. Right?

“Hm? O-oh, yeah. Right. Right, yeah. They thought I was spacey. Or, um, that I just didn’t pay attention. And I guess it’s rude to say something sounds like gibberish? Even if it’s not their fault, they’ll take it like I think it is. Even if I’m telling the truth.”

Hammer twists a blunt between his fingers. Western friends. Western car. Peace signs spray painted on the hood. They roll up the windows. He laughs until smoke fills his eyes. Then tears.

“My teachers don’t like me that much either. Didn’t? They, um, kinda feel bad now. Since I got my diagnosis. Since it’s not my fault… That’s okay! I just kinda wish they’d cared before… It’s still okay though! They, um, never really noticed how bad things were. I’m not sure if I should be mad at them or not. They knew I was scared of my mom. They still called her every time I messed up in class. I think they knew she hit me too. A lot of people get hit by their parents, so I don’t know why that was…” Safe scrunches her brow. “I think it was where she did it that was the problem.” Safe’s hand hovers between her legs. She shudders. “She hit me all over, but that spot was the worst.”

It doesn’t hurt less, you know. When you have a vagina, I mean. That’s a myth. It’s not as easy to hit, but it’s all the same tissue. It’s more dangerous with AFAB people, actually. Something about internal damage.

“My brothers and sisters never got it this bad. Maybe it’s because I’m dumber… or… I dunno. They used to make fun of me too. For being stupid, for being fat, even stuff like my blood type… and my skin is darker than theirs, so…”

Sickle coughs up water and bile, bleeds onto the wet, red earth. Onto the man’s military fatigues, as he works them down his legs. Her skirt has already been ripped open. There are other men milling about the water, setting fire to the house. They don’t intervene.

Marry me, the army man says. I’ll take care of you.

Die first! Sickle spits at him.

You will if you stay here.

“The last time it happened, um… We had a rule about snacking - I wasn’t allowed to until I got skinny like Mom. I thought it would be okay if I just took an apple since it’s… it’s healthy, right? I know it has sugar, but it’s… Where was I again? Oh, right! One of my brothers was hungry too. He saw me take it. He got mad. We got into a fight. Mom heard us. She wouldn’t let me explain… or… I think maybe she asked me a question? I didn’t understand. And that made her angrier than she already was.”

Hammer and his friends in front of town hall. The police surround them, locking them in. He’s not surprised when the first shots are fired. Then the first body hits the ground. Kuro! Kuro, they’re not rubber bullets!

“She beat me. It was really, really bad. Worse than all the other times. I ran outside to get away and… she followed me.”

That was how we met. My brother and I were out walking. I forget what we were doing, but he heard the screaming. I didn’t realize what was going on until I saw her on the ground.

“Thank y- oh, wait!” Safe touches her chin with her hand and brings it forward.

Sickle in an American hospital. Screenings for the baby. Screenings for… something else. Hammer in the emergency room with a bloody arm. They brush by each other. They’re pulled away - him by a stoned teenager, her by the man tugging on her arm.

“I’m still learning sign language. It’s… not going that well, mostly because I’m really slow. But I know some stuff! I didn’t back then. I wanted to talk to Sound, but I couldn’t - and xir big brother had to transcribe everything. Um, I mean translate. See? Not very good at talking either. But I’m getting better at that too. I’m getting better at a lot of things.”

Sickle flushes the contents of her stomach down the toilet, wipes her mouth. Her hair is falling out in patches. Cut; she flushes something else instead. And uses a paper towel to wipe the blood away. Cut; her husband hits her so hard that her eye socket cracks. Cut; he moves on to the next one.

“The trial was last week. I had to t-testify. It was really scary with everyone looking at me. And the defense guy kept talking really fast, even when the judge asked him to slow down. And I had to look at Mom the whole time and she kept glaring at me and… and…”

Sickle’s husband passes a line of protestors in his fatigues. Hammer spits on his boots. Sickle’s husband lays Hammer out on the ground, kicking in his ribs. The police are there. The police do nothing. Cut; Hammer in a holding cell. Cut; Hammer on his knees. Cut; he winces and wipes his mouth. Cut; he burns the shirt he was wearing. Cut; Sickle lies awake all night while her husband screams in his sleep.

“I did it. I still did it. And I don’t have to go back to live with her for a long time - maybe not ever. And… and that’s a good thing because I like being with Sound. I like being safe… What’s so funny?”

He can’t tell his mother. She has no one to tell. He buys a bottle of cheap spirits and drinks it on the steps of the old theater (old even now). She just needs somewhere to sit down.

Safe turns to Sound, smiling warily. Talking with her mouth and hands. “I think I’m done. The end!”

Sound grins and spins Safe around before high-fiving. You did good. Didn’t she, guys? Let’s hear some applause!

 

A Story about Hot and Cold

“We’ve been kidnapped. Our father is probably beside himself.”

Hot noogies her brother. Cold tugs on his sister’s braids. They may be twins, but they are not identical even beside their genders - she’s brown-eyed, he’s blue-eyed; she’s a brunette and he has pitch-black hair. They look like teenagers… very small teenagers, no bigger than ten year olds.

“Being kidnapped’s not so bad. Once you get past all the brainwashing and-”

“No! No, wait! Don’t call the police! Let us explain first! Okay? Let us explain!”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Smoke and Mirrors lie together on the den floor, breathing loudly. The television is on with the volume up, the speakers play J-pop at full blast. Footsteps in the hallway. They shoot frantically upright, fastening buttons and snapping clasps into place.

H-hey, Mom!

“He’s the one who… with both of us. Our, uh, older sister too, or…”

“Our mom. She’s our mom.”

“It’s really sorta complicated. She was even younger than we are when she had us. We never even knew that we had a, um… whatever until… Dad never told us. Big surprise there.”

He tugs a Great Dane toward the sidewalk, clutching the lead with both hands. She leans on the fence and talks to a neighbor boy, little gray Shih Tzu in her arms. The boy laughs, smiles, blushes. Smoke stomps down the street.

What’s his problem?

Oh, you know Jimmy. Always in a mood, right, Li’l Miss?

“This is gonna sound really, really gross, okay? Promise you won’t get mad?”

“Why would they get mad? You heard what Okaanee said. It’s not our fault.”

“Well, yeah, but-”

“He lied to us. He made us think that we… that we wanted that.”

“I mean, I think he did - does - love us, but it’s weird. He was like normal dads most of the time - baby pictures, embarrassing stories, movie night, sleepovers… We just also had sex sometimes. It was easy to think of that as just another kind of love, y-you know what I mean? He didn’t force it, not physically. He wouldn’t do it when he was mad… That made it seem like not doing it was a punishment, though. So we tried to make him happy. And he usually was.”

Mirrors pours an entire Kool-Aid packet into the milk carton at her elbow, waving her brother over from across the room. The boy from the street sits down next to her, on the other side. The twins' hands creep together under the table. Another girl passes by them, uncomfortably close, scoffing and muttering beneath her breath. The twins’ hands pull apart.

“Maybe he was worse with Okaanee - we’re a little scared to ask - that’d explain why he was so nice to us. And why she ran away. Maybe she was s-smarter than-”

“It’s not about being smart or dumb, stupid! It’s about being manipulated.”

“Well, whatever it is, we told ourselves it was normal because it felt normal. And then she came back…”

Flowers and chocolates and paper hearts. The girl who sits behind Smoke in Spanish asks for his number. Mirrors is ogled by the boy she’s tutoring in math. He doesn’t use his phone much. She isn’t interested.

You can tell me if you’re… les, you know? It’s alright.

What? No! No, I’m just… It’s complicated.

“We didn’t recognize her at first. We think… I mean, we always thought we were adopted. He was White and… But blue eyes have to come from somewhere.”

“She was adopted. We think. She’s always like ‘it’s not about me’ when it totally is. Oh!” Hot grabs her brother’s arm. “Maybe she tried to tell someone! And that’s why she had to leave. Because nobody believed it.”

“I wonder if people would believe us if we went back.”

Homecoming floats and streamers. Mirrors twirls around the room in a bright pink dress. Vincent should be here soon. You sure you don’t want to come with?

Not my thing. I’ll be here when you get back.

Your loss.

This song isn’t a new one: Mirrors goes out and Smoke stays home, watches Jeopardy with his mother, waits up for her. She stumbles in, bleary-eyed and smiling, in a liquor-sly daze, giggling and swaying her way to the stairs. Then she stumbles. Smoke helps her the rest of the way. And into her bedroom after that.

“Anyway, so… He started seeing this- It was Okaanee, but let’s pretend it wasn’t for a minute. We thought he didn’t love us anymore. B-because he wasn’t paying as much attention. Isn’t that sick?! He was our father and I- And we-”

“It’s not our fault.”

“We tried to get rid of her!”

Wobbling, mumbling, they fall on the bed together. Smoke rifles through her dresser. Mirrors works off her clothes. They do not hear the front door open, or the bell before that. Or the footsteps on the stairs. Mirrors leans into Smoke and kisses him full on the mouth.

Marina? It’s Vincent, you forgot your- Oh my God!

“We didn’t try to kill her, okay? Let’s clear that up right now. We were just… total assholes.”

“We were really, really mean! And she was so nice and… and…” Hot sniffs. “We tried to steal him away from her. Because… we thought…”

“We wanted him all to ourselves.”

Their mother’s home. Their mother’s crying. Their friend pulls Mirrors aside. Are you sure he didn’t force you? You can tell me, I-

I can hear you, Smoke says, rubbing the bruise on his chin.

“Sometimes I still want that… Does that mean there’s something wrong with me?”

“Of course not! Don’t be dumb!”

“Will it ever go away, do you think?”

No answer.

“We were on the news, after we disappeared, for a little while. Then that thing in Nevada happened - with the guy and the two girls? White girls, yeah, though I don’t think that’s the whole reason they got all the fuss, it’s just more recent. Nobody remembers us now. We’re probably safe.”

“Unless he comes looking.”

Counselors; phone calls; policemen. There’s talk of Smoke going to live with their father. There’s talk of pulling them both out of school.

We should leave. Together. Mirrors puts her hand in his. Tomorrow night.

And so they do.

“Sometimes I want to go back.”

Hot and Cold take each other’s hands, as if to share body heat. He sweats. She shivers.

“S-sometimes I want her to touch me like… like… I just miss that kind of love. Isn’t that disgusting?”

 

A Story about Snowmelt and Rainfall

“No, it’s not a different season in Japan.”

Snowmelt ties off his ponytail. Clean-shaven face, brown eyes, brown hair. Rainfall’s eyes are closer to amber. His hair is loose and darker in some places, lighter in others, all the way down to the skin. They both wear scrubs and labcoats, Rainfall’s collar pulled up. And the same fraternity rings.

“Other side of the world, sure, but it’s the same hemisphere. Probably colder there than here, actually. At least where I grew up.”

“Where I grew up too,” Rainfall says softly. “After we moved. Hokkaido is almost a part of Northern Asia. Okinawa… isn’t. I do remember that it rained a lot.”

“My father lives in Sapporo now. Before that it was the Kuril Islands. Russia. We visited Hokkaido once a year. He always said the wood there was better for carving. He’s still not happy that I’m…” Snowmelt looks down at himself. The scrubs. The coat. The sensible shoes. “… here.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Yako and Zenko and seven strong young men. Dead foxes unloaded by the lake side. Yako skins them with a practiced ease. And they pay no mind to the planes overhead, roaring louder than thunder.

“We met in Sapporo. Outside of it.”

“Right, yeah. I think we must have been… about ten years old?”

Rainfall nods.

“I wanted to play by myself. I picked, well, the woods. Not like there was anything else around.”

“I was hiding.”

“From your father? Right, I guess that would have happened around-”

“A few months before.”

“It was a year with me. More than, sort of. It happened more than once.”

Shouted French and mumbled Vietnamese. Zenko hugs her sister and marches off to war. Yako sets her own traps. Yako sharpens her own knives. Yako carries her goods to market and a man in khaki catches her by the throat.

“Father sold to a lot of local businesses in the city - there’s a market for Ainu art. Gift shops, craft companies, commission work… There was a woman he knew and she had a son. He was older than me. Much older. And Japanese. ”

“Mine were Americans. Soldiers. There are U.S. army bases all over Okinawa. They won’t leave. The government won’t stop them. And… they didn’t. That’s why we left. Partly.”

“My father didn’t know.”

“We… So he was playing in the woods. And I was hiding. And then… we were together.”

“And then we fell off a cliff.”

Yako’s hair pulled loose. A new dress. A crowded station. Everybody shouting things in a language she doesn’t understand - oh, but she learns quickly. And that keeps her alive.

Zenko and her brothers in an empty house. In Yako’s room. In Yako’s clothes - the ones that fit anyway. The nightgown that was too long on her; the festival dress that was too loose - one’s too short on Zenko, one’s too tight. She keeps going back to that room - for more than just the memories there. She writes a letter to her sister. She hides the letter in an old lantern (and prays for the dead).

“Obviously we survived, we’re here. But we got pretty banged up. My leg was broken, so I couldn’t climb up, and when he was a kid-” Snowmelt gestures to Rainfall. “-he was a lot smaller than you’d think from looking at him now, so nor could he.”

“Not alone.”

“No, not alone. So we didn’t get out alone. I pulled myself upright on some tree roots and gave him a boost, and I asked him to get help…” Snowmelt trails off.

“I didn’t.”

“It’s a little more complicated than that. How much do any of you know about the indigenous groups in Japan?”

Yako cries as the doors turn open, as women stream out into the brisk fall air. Tears and laughter. And then the baby on her back stirs. The hāfu baby. And she realizes she can’t go home again.

Zenko slips into her sister’s ao dai one last time. She’s married the next day - a girl from the city. Zenko wears an Áo Ngũ Thân.

“Rainfall is Ryukyuan. They’re not really, ah, recognized as an ethnic group by the Japanese government. My father and I are Ainu. We are, but neither group really fits what people there consider ‘good Japanese’. I wasn’t a very good Russian either, when we lived there.” He shuffles his feet. “That’s one of the reasons I came here. Americans can’t tell the difference. As for how that connects with him leaving me there…”

“I was sure anyone I brought there would refuse to help, or would hurt him further - many Yamato would, and I did not trust his people either. My suu - my father - does not trust many people and did not teach me to. I came back with food and blankets. I was not strong enough to pull him out.”

“I asked why he wasn’t going for help and he said- well, wrote as much. He was mute at the time, because of… well. Like Flow, or the Princess?” Snowmelt asks, and Rainfall shrugs. “Either way, he wrote in the snow.”

Yako takes the train as far as it will carry her, finds herself at a fur farm at the base of Mount Zao. Watashi wa hatarakeru. The man there nods. They’re married in the wintertime. There’s no one around for miles who will say their son isn’t his. She writes her family sometimes. She writes her sister. And keeps the letters in a fox trap beneath the bed.

Zenko keeps writing her own letters. Her child grows older - a little girl the self-same age as Yako’s son.

“That was when we told each other about what had happened to us before that.” Rainfall’s voice becomes even fainter. “I already said it was Americans for me.”

Snowmelt looks at him with concern. “Do you want to say more, or stop? Or do you want me to tell mine first?”

“It’s… alright. There’s not much to tell. They were soldiers. They took me to the base. They did what they wanted. Then they stopped. And the police didn’t care.”

A number of stills, all out of order: Yako’s son leaves for America. Zenko kisses her daughter, cuts her hair and marches off to war. Yako in an empty house with her cage of letters. Zenko comes home to a pile of rubble. And nothing more than that.

Yako writes more letters. Zenko doesn’t - she has nowhere to put them. Her daughter holds the salvaged lantern in her hands sometimes and never parts the silk to look inside.

“Mine was the son of that friend of my father. He would film what he did, and he sold the tapes to disappointed American… visitors. The age of consent isn’t really thirteen. It never was. The prefectures set their own and the nation-wide minimum they can legally be is thirteen, but none of them are actually lower than about sixteen in practice. Of course, there are as many people willing to break those laws there as there are here.”

“Especially when the victim is not a mainlander.”

“Especially then. I suppose it’s like how Black kids are treated here. And I think I remember something about how Black children are seen as looking older than White children of the same age and that complicates matters further? Something similar happened with me. I got older. I, ah, developed a little early and it was more obvious with me than it would be with a mainlander child. Ainu people grow more body hair than they do. So his customer base dropped off, and he was angry with me for that. I remember he hurt me, but the marks were long gone by then.”

Yako’s husband dies eight years after Zenko’s wife. Yako’s son comes home for the funeral - long black hair and Western clothes. He doesn’t stay long. He comes home a few more times, with a few different women.

The invention of the internet. Zenko gets an email from across the sea. A photo is attached - a woman who looks like a young girl once did, thinner and paler now with shorn-short hair. There's a tall, dark and handsome man beside her.

‘Tên của anh ấy là gì?’

‘Kagetora. Cha của anh ấy là người Nhật.’

Yako’s son sends pictures of his own children. His many children, and many, many grandchildren. Four boys; five girls; five girls; five girls again. Zenko’s daughter sends pictures of her son. Of his son. Of her new husband. Of his son. Of the son they had together. Of the first daughter-in-law who doesn’t last long. Of the soon-to-be second daughter-in-law who looks so much like Zenko it hurts.

“He told me he would kill my father if I told.”

“They told me to go ahead and tell mine. Suu is only one man.” Rainfall smiles behind his collar and glances at Molotov, at Mewtwo. “One clever and vengeful man. Yet another reason not to go to the police. That is why we left Japan.”

Yako celebrates an anniversary in silence. She writes one more letter. And dies in her sleep. Miles away, in a rebuilt house near Hanoi city, Zenko follows suit. This is what they leave behind.

‘Cho Kuro, tất cả số tiền tôi còn lại.
Cho Raizo, Mizuki và Atsushi, những con dao lột da sắc bén của tôi.
Cho Taichi, chú chó săn cáo nhỏ của tôi.
Cho Koume, Sumomo, Satsuki và Tamao, chín chiếc cặp tóc xinh xắn của tôi.
Cho Sakura, trâm cài giọt lệ của tôi.
Cho Fleur, Kannon, Marilla, Nigella, mỗi một furisode của tôi.
Cho Zuki, Sayo, Miki và Kuni, chín bộ kimono bằng lụa của tôi.
Cho Naoko, ô giấy dầu của tôi.
Cho Valerie, cái bẫy cáo già của tôi.’

‘Nhà và đất của tôi, cho Châu Anh.
Sợi dây chuyền pha lê của em gái tôi, cho Kagetora.
Nhẫn cưới của tôi, cho Ilima.
Hộp trang sức của tôi, cho Virgil.
Valerie Trinh nữ, mở đèn lồng.’

“I was planning to wait there until he was… better. I thought if I explained everything he would understand.”

“I understood,” Snowmelt says.

Rainfall nods. He squeezes his friend’s hand, and their fraternity rings tap together. “I know.”

 

A Story about Toil and Trouble, Fire-Burn and Cauldron-Bubble

“My dear brother’s been lying to you.”

“My bitch of a sister’s been tellin’ the truth.”

Toil and Trouble on the right side of the stage. This one’s blond and this one’s blonder. This one looks like a carnival act. This one is dressed like a cotton candy cheerleader. This one has scars and this one doesn’t.

Fire-Burn and Cauldron-Bubble on the left side of the stage. This one’s black-haired with shaved sides and this one’s got a pink wig. This one’s punk (not goth, punk). This one has a bow the size of her head. This one’s frowning. This one’s smiling. This one is Rack.

“He’s not an orphan. We have a family back in New England. Actually, they’d be appalled if they could see you now - lying to all these people! They’d have the skin off my back for less.”

“Pssh, don’t be so dramatic.”

“She didn’t know anything. I know she wasn’t involved, no matter what the coppers say. No matter how much we fight.”

“Awww! You do care!”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut yer face.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Steam gets a phone call. Steam answers the phone call. Steam takes the first flight across the state. Steam hails a taxi (hailing the taxi is easy). Steam takes the taxi to the hospital. Steam enters Diesel’s hospital room. Steam sets a small toy train on the table. Diesel stares at Steam. Diesel’s eyes roam over Steam’s face. Do I know you?

“The authorities must have informed our parents of what happened. I certainly didn’t, n-not that I’m complaining! They’ve called me every day since then. Even now that I’ve been discharged.”

Trouble scoffs. “And you answer?”

“Of course! It’s important to maintain bonds with one’s family. Tsk, you really are a failure, aren’t you? An ungrateful son, an undutiful brother…”

Cauldron-Bubble rolls her eyes. “Fi’s pissed cuz I left home. Not sure why-”

“What d’ya mean yer not sure why?!”

“What? Nobody wanted me around. A-and anyway… an opportunity opened up. Masters School and all that.”

“Trouble’s a fitting name, wouldn’t you say? He’s always been like this. Spoiled, lazy… Everything came easy for you and that made it easy to shirk your responsibilities, didn’t it? Unlike me. I work hard. Not that it was ever hard enough.” Toil polishes his glasses on his sleeve. “Nothing quite compares to genius. Not even ‘greatness’. Not even ‘goodness’. They’re different things, you know.”

“I was a brat. I’ll admit it. Our parents, though… they were awful. We’re better off without-”

“THAT’S EASY FOR YOU TO SAY!” Toil picks his brother up by the collar, holding him off the edge of the stage. He doesn’t hit him… yet. It looks like he wants to. “They’ve. Always. Loved. You.”

Fire-Burn holds her sister’s shoulders.“Wot the fuck are you on about?! We wanted ya!”

“Y-yeah, well… I know that now.”

Steam is talking to doctors. Steam is talking to police officers. Steam is talking to counselors. Steam is talking to frightened people who are underqualified. About his brother. Why does he not remember me?! Steam sits at Diesel’s bedside, head in hands.

“Don’t listen to anything he says! Trouble thinks he had a hard childhood?! Don’t make me laugh. He was out of the house practically by the time we entered highschool. Some fancy internship-”

“Sponsorship.”

“-with the chairman of FIDE. Naturally, I didn’t measure up. And they didn’t need me anymore. My own brother wasn’t much help. I tried calling… give or take a few times?” Trouble flinches. Toil grins. “He hung up. Didn’t need me anymore.”

“Do you have any idea how many times we tried to call ya?!” Fire-Burn wallops her sister. “I… Sorry, sorry, people. Fuck… this whole situation is just so…”

“I came here for school,” Toil says. “I saw a commercial on TV. Work-study program. I thought… if I could prove myself… Mummy and Daddy would let me come home again.”

“I came here for school too,” Cauldron-Bubble says. “Same deal, really. I saw a commercial on TV. Work-study program… not that I did much of either. I thought Fi and our brother’d come after me. I wanted to make ‘em jealous.”

“How productive.”

Fire-Burn turns to Trouble and slugs him. “Don’t talk to my sister like that!”

Diesel comes home. Steam shows him to his room. Steam shows him to the kitchen. Steam follows him outside the house - to doctor’s appointments and the therapist’s office. (If he could, he would follow him inside.) Steam goes to therapy with Diesel. Steam goes to therapy with Diesel and his uncle and another girl, one with huge pigtail-puffs of hair.

Ingo… traumagenic amnesia… probing the cause… okay with that?

Steam ignores the doctor. Steam focuses on his brother.

Diesel nods. Maybe eventually.

“My sponsor knew a man who-”

“I’ll tell them! He worked at my school, but of course my brilliant brother met him first. I was in honors science - only honors. He taught advanced classes for the next grade up. Of course you’d want to rub it in-”

“Will you relax? He… It had absolutely fuck all to do with brainpower, you understand? He was a friend of a friend. That’s how we met! That’s all there is.”

“I did know him.” Cauldron-Bubble straightens her bow. “I was in his class, an’ I wish I wasn’t. This whole thing… this whole thing is probably ‘cuz of me. It started the first week there I guess. I was joking around about some stupid shit - I knew it’d mess with him. I didn’t think… Made some jokes about crystals and zodiac signs… One of my friends knew I had a twin. I leaned into that. Y’know some people still buy into that ‘psychic connection’ shit? The more he argued with me, the more I pushed. I was just messing around…”

“So it is your fault.”

“No more ‘n yours, fuckface.”

Steam and Diesel visit their old elementary school. Steam and Diesel visit their old middle school. Steam and Diesel visit their old high school. Steam and Diesel visit the park. Steam asks Diesel if he remembers anything yet. Diesel shakes his head.

“They haven’t caught him yet, but… I must’ve been the one who- I gave him the idea. It was just a joke! Holy shit, it was just a joke!”

“This guy had a brother. They were twins.” Trouble coughs nervously. “I never met him, but-”

“I did.”

“There was supposed to be this study. On multiples. My sponsor didn’t know what was going on, he trusted this… this bastard… so I did too. And when he asked for volunteers, well… I knew Toil was in the city.” He looks at his brother for a long time (and slaps a hand over Cauldron-Bubble’s mouth). “It’s the biggest mistake I ever made.”

“The first day of the study was the last day we saw each other. Some assistant split us off into groups.”

“There were quite a few other pairs around, enough to make up two sets - Romulus and Remus. The variable. And the control. I… They put me in the latter group. They put my brother in the former. It was… better for us.”

“To put it mildly.”

“To put it mildly,” Trouble agrees. “They had us all in one part of the lab. We could read or use the internet or call home if we needed to. The food was… fine. We were given enough time to sleep and bathe - and fill out paperwork. I had no idea what was really going on. None of us did.”

“I didn’t even know there was a study. ‘Study.’ Maybe I shoulda guessed. Professor Skeezball was askin’ me all these fricked up questions… I just thought he was hitting on me. Lotta older guys do that.”

Steam and Diesel go to the station. Diesel hyperventilates. Diesel cries on his hands and knees. Steam kneels next to Diesel and holds him on his hands and knees. People stare at Steam and Diesel.

Steam takes Diesel home within the hour. (Emmett? Emmett, I remember…) Steam takes Diesel to the doctor the next day. (Something connected to his trauma… Why on earth did you bring him there?)

The next day Diesel stays in bed. The next day Steam asks him to go back. They do go back the day after that. Do you remember anything else? Diesel is shaking. Diesel shakes his head.

They go back to the station. They go back to the station. They go back to the station. They go back-

“What? Oh, stuff about my diet, what I was into, allergies… whether anybody cared if I lived or died.”

“I was asked the same thing. Er, somewhat. To an extent. The paperwork they had us fill out wasn’t… not unusual, but… I don’t know. When a doctor asks you things about your libido, it doesn’t seem that strange. Especially not when it’s sandwiched between questions about your emotional state or your appetite. They got stranger, slowly. And then they got more specific.” He holds up his arm. “ ‘Are you in pain here?’ ” He points to his forehead. “ ‘Are you in pain there?’ ”

Toil mimics his brother. His movement reveals scars. “I wish you had felt it. Felt something.”

“That was around the time I got my letter. F-for the Olympiad. They’d been scoutin’ me and… I thought… Even the chairman thought it was a mistake.”

Trouble sniffs. “Please, like my sponsor would ever be so careless.”

Cauldron-Bubble shoves him. Hard. “Prof started riding me even harder once she got into town. I didn’t know why then - I still thought he was harmless. Meanwhile his fuckin’ psycho brother was cozyin’ on up to her.”

“Meanwhile my brother was having holes drilled into his head!”

“And you didn’t notice!”

Steam puts on a movie. Steam sits with Diesel on the couch. There is a rape scene. Diesel cries. Steam puts his arms around him. I am sorry, Steam says. Do you remember anything?

Steam cuts himself in the kitchen. Diesel is afraid. Steam punches the wall and yells. Diesel is afraid. Steam turns all the lights out and creeps up on Diesel from behind. Diesel is afraid.

Do you remember yet?

Do you remember yet?

Do you remember yet?

“That’s the thing, though. We weren’t s’posed to notice. That’s the shitty, crazy, fucked up thing. We think they did it to prove a point.”

“Why else would they have done it? I remember the doctor saying that if we wanted it to end we’d better work on projecting. Maybe then one of our lesser halves would feel it too.”

“That doesn’t sound like-”

“Yes, well, then he laughed at me for trying. Then he started killing us off. You realize he was probably going to kill you too?”

“Mm. I’m not stupid. He found the hotel I was stayin’ in. Thought he was another guest. Thought he was just bein’ polite. Then I thought he was a pedophile. Not sure if that’s better or worse than what I got.”

“What you got?”

“Yeah! What I got! Think it was a picnic?”

“I think it was easier than what happened to us!”

“What happened to me, you mean. I assure you, brother dear, there was no us.”

Steam and Diesel go to the therapist’s office. Steam and Diesel walk up the long, long stairs. The doctor talks to Diesel for a long time. The doctor calls Steam into his office after that.

You need to leave your brother alone.

I am trying to help my brother. You are the one who is not doing anything!

“With me,” Toil says, standing on his tiptoes. “With me, there was no need for such niceties. He didn’t have to pretend and I didn’t have to wonder. He took what he wanted. Maybe he told himself it was all for research - for his glorious science! - but I know better. And my brother didn’t feel anything-”

“Because that’s not how it works! That’s not… I started to get suspicious when… What are we calling her again? Melody. I knew her. We all did. Her funeral was held in… whatever city she was from, but there was a vigil here. I thought we had better attend. The professor… doctor… was oddly resistant to the possibility.”

“One of them took the notes when he fled - or destroyed or hid them, I’m not sure which it was. There must have been notes with all the paperwork he had us doing…”

“I’m scared to open up my email, or to check my messages now. What if he sends them to me? He was my teacher, he had my contact info.”

“Cry me a river, we lived with him!”

“We didn’t do anything.”

“You have no idea what I saw when the police arrived! I… Oh, Avery, I didn’t mean-”

“Whatever. Point is, we have no idea what they were planning. I seriously doubt it involved letting us go. The doctor - the one I was with - started going out for longer and longer periods of time. To, ah, visit with Fire-Burn, most probably. I assume he would have killed us all, killed her and probably Cauldron-Bubble as well, once he got the chance.”

Diesel comes home and doesn’t remember. Diesel eats dinner and doesn’t remember. Diesel watches television and doesn’t remember. Diesel goes to bed. Steam doesn’t drink. He drinks tonight. He drinks to steady himself. Then he picks the lock on his brother’s door. Then he walks over to his brother’s bed. Then he climbs on top of him. Then he doesn’t stop. Diesel is crying. Steam is crying.

Do you remember? You have to remember.

“Looks like you’ve got an angel watching over you.”

Fire-Burn shudders. “They found his body - I found his body - outside my hotel room. If that sounds sudden… well, it was. They still don’t know who killed him.”

“Good! I hope they never find out.”

Doubles, doubles. Toil and Trouble, Fire-Burn and Cauldron-Bubble. On the stage, coming down from it.

“It still hurts, you know.”

 

A Story about Sicily and Naples

“All I’m asking for is a little help here.”

Two men in the Palace. After dark. In the dark. One with slicked-back hair and dirty shoes. One with sunken eyes and petals on his shoulder - forest gardenia.

“I can’t-”

“He was your nephew. Doesn’t that mean anything?”

“I’ve got my own family to worry about now.”

“Ohhhh, right. Your family. Whatsherface. That little-”

“Acerola.”

“I’ll tell her, you know.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Ebb and Flow lean way out of a blue and white motorboat, digging their arms into the sparkling blue canal while Bianca sleeps between them.

Careful, the old man at the wheel says, looking back.

Yes, Grandpa!

Flow with a smile; Flow with tears in her eyes; Flow (for better or worse) with the girls from school. A boy in Ebb’s class passes a note to him. It’s never opened and promptly crumpled in his hands. They eat together at lunch, at a table with just three chairs.

“Assuming she hasn’t figured it out yet, I mean, how old is she? Ten? Thirteen? Old enough to wonder where Mommy is, right? Say, you ever tell her about her auntie? What about good old Uncle Gio? Or Silv-”

“She’s got nothing to do with this.”

“Doesn’t she, though?”

Tourists in floral print, with sunburned faces, dribbling ice cream onto the hot cement. Ebb sits with his back to the canal, book open in his lap. Flow waves at the strangers, smiling wide. Some of them linger. Some of them wave back. Some of them stand there for a little too long, watching, until her brother tugs her back inside. This doesn’t happen often. It’s still often enough.

“I gave her to you, didn’t I? Think the ball and chain would let you see her? Think you’d have the house in Hawaii?! All I’m asking is one little-”

“You’re asking… asking me for murder.”

“I’m asking you to be my brother. Haven’t I been your brother? Just… do this for me. One last time.”

Two young women - girls really - with cat’s-eye smiles; one with pigtails, one with ash-blonde hair. Where’d you get that shirt? Flow starts to answer and they pull her towards them, off the pier and into their boat. Matching shoes; matching grins; matching red ‘R’ symbols inked into their skin. Pigtails drives; the younger sister covers her mouth with one hand. The Selkie’s friend, and the Beastmaster’s, runs after them from the shore.

I don’t get it. He coulda just sent us to go take the pearl, no need to get the old man’s brat involved. Pigtails gestures to Flow - terrified and bound with duct-tape in the backseat.

Little sister shrugs. That’s the boss for you.

“I did all that for you, you know! I loved you!”

“I know. I… Gio, I can’t be the guy I was anymore, do you understand that?”

“No! How the fuck would I… How could I-” Sicily swings at Naples. Naples blocks. “I’m just asking for you to do this one thing for me! Wasn’t I there for you after Ma died? Wasn’t I there for you when…”

Flow tied up in a corner; two phone calls; Yeah, we’ve got her; Come alone.

Ebb stands in the street, gem in hand, and waits. He never sees the older sister when she stuns him from behind. The pearl rolls off into the water; the younger one jumps in.

Cut; Azzurro?

Carmine? He blinks groggily, half-carried down the basement steps. Flow stares up at him, wide-eyed.

“You know people. I know people. I just… You’ve lost weight and all, but Hennessy might still listen to you. And Lino and Grimaldi. Maybe the Lucias. After the way I helped you-”

“Same way you always helped yourself.”

Ebb and Flow hold each other in the basement, listening to the older girls on the floor above. Sometimes they come down with boxes of takeout, throwing them on the ground.

What are you gonna do with us?

Your granddaddy made the boss mad. He’s gonna make some money offa you. And the rest is bleeped out. It isn’t the kind of thing children should hear.

“Now what the hell is that s’posed to mean?”

“How old was that Delia girl? Sixteen? Fifteen?”

Sicily swings at Naples again.

One day the girls don’t come down at all.

“My Silver’s not around to care now, but I wonder… what would your girl say if she knew about her old lady?”

“Same way your girl’d feel about-”

“She’s not my girl. She chose Delia! Just… just like you’re choosing that little brat. Like I chose Silver. Like I chose you.”

Brown water trickles through cracks in the blocked-up windowsill, mud and silt dropping sluggishly onto Ebb’s forehead and Flow’s cheek. They run for the stairs and hammer on the door until the glass breaks. Pity that the wood doesn’t give. And the water rises, keeps rising, soaks into their socks and shoes. There’s an opening in the plaster, but it’s higher than either can reach on their own.

Azzurro… I’m scared-

Get on my shoulders, he whispers, I’ll give you a boost. It’ll be okay…

“I-”

“Can’t help but wonder how the conversation would go down. What’s it like for normal parents - ‘when a mommy and daddy love each other very much…’ Well? Does she know where her mommy is now?”

“She doesn’t need to know!”

“She doesn’t need to know… if you talk to the guys for me. Please, Leo? Do it for me. Do it for Ma. Do it for old times’ sake!”

Ebb and Flow, white with cold, in the sturdy arms of strange policemen. They wrap her up in a red shock blanket. They wrestle him into a blue nylon bag. What’s your name, sweetheart? But Flow just shakes her head.

Bianca and their grandfather, and a hospital room and a police station. Pen; paper; crayons. She draws the girls. She writes the things they said. And you’re sure they didn’t touch you? They didn’t do anything? It’s okay, you can tell me. But she doesn’t say a word.

“Do it for Silver.”

Slowly, finally, haltingly, Naples nods. “Okay.”

 

A Story about Jacob and Esau

“It’s only a matter of time now.”

Jacob and Esau; two photographs - one of them together as children, one of her, older and alone. She has Brown skin and a nutbrown ponytail. He’s lighter-skinned and darker-haired, and could pass for White if one didn’t know any better. She can’t.

“They’re just like us now. At least, that’s what He told me. And He wouldn’t lie. He’d never lie to me, y’know? He never has. Sucks that I might have to lie to her. Not that much though. She can’t be a very good person if she’s just like me.”

Instead of a spotlight, a movie fragment; Menashe and Ephraim are a matching set. Same eyes, same face, same shade of nutbrown in their hair. A little more wildness in the eyes of one. They share a brother not far off in age - the one who’ll play “Gramps” one day - who doesn’t notice this. Nobody does, and it doesn’t matter; it is simply wildness, not danger.

“Don’t look at me like that. I know- I know it’s not a perfect match, shut up! It’s the best we’ve got, though. The others were flukes and you know it! It’ll work this time! Mr. Cipher said- Of course I believe Him! You’re not listening! They’re just like us! It’ll work this time!”

“Me” and “Gramps” and Ephraim and Menashe face each other over chessboards, switching partners around and around, winner and loser changing often. At the local chess club, they’re some of the youngest players, and far from the worst. They catch the eyes of other members. The single eye of one.

“You know what I heard? They’re Viridianas. Well, Viridiana’s. Something like that. What’s that thing we read about Jacob and Esau? She stayed with her mom. She let their dad take him away. I’d never do that to you. Do you think she was jealous? With him living in a big, fancy mansion and her left behind and all… I might have been. Maybe.”

The girls go to every meeting together - even when their brother can’t. They walk home together. They don’t stay together while they’re there. The man with one eye comes by just as often. Ephraim stops smiling.

Hey, what’s wrong?

Ephraim says nothing, even as the one-eyed man ruffles both the sisters’ hair.

“When he disappeared, they say the old man lost his shit about it. I wonder if he’d have done the same thing if it was her. Probably not. Oh? Not sure. There’s gotta be some reason he didn’t want her, right? Because she looked Asian-er - more Asian? - than his precious sonny-poo did. Or maybe it was just that he didn’t want a girl.”

Menashe asks and asks again, What’s wrong? Ephraim, again and again, says nothing in response. Their mother, their father, their stepmother notice Ephraim is withdrawing even as Menashe blooms. They meet the one-eyed man. Menashe smiles even more.

Whispers from him to Menashe in quiet moments at the club: You’re special… You’re smart… You’ll do great things…

Whispers from him to Ephraim in hidden corners of the building: You’re not special… Your sister’s better… This is all you’re good for…

Finally, whispers from Ephraim to Menashe in their room at night: Can I tell you a secret?

Menashe listening, Ephraim picking at her skirt.

Who was it?

I can’t tell you that. I can’t tell anybody.

Menashe tells her one-eyed friend.

“She should have watched him better. It’s her fault. What? Of course He told me that. Who the hell else would? And then he died a couple of months ago. The brother, not… yeah. It was in the news and everything. I wonder who they told first - mommy or daddy. I wonder if she cried. I bet she did. Red always said she was a big baby when we were kids. The news was all over it for a while - still is, kinda. I dunno if it was because it was messy or… It was messy, though. Even worse than what happened to you. Don’t look at me like that! It was. You know it was.”

Oh, sweetheart… If she was a little older, she would understand why her friend embracing her feels wrong. He wipes away her tears, dabs at his own eye. Her body’s ruined now.

Wh-what?

It’ll be okay. She’ll have a new one next time…

Books on Buddhism and Taoism and Anthroposophy on his e-reader. Other books, with illustrations highly inappropriate for her, and poorly-translated dialogue declaring that he’s right. His smile glitters behind her back when she looks down at the screen.

Such a shame she’s young. Who knows how long she’ll have to wait?

“They never found the body. I saw the funeral on TV. It was sad. And they still haven’t caught the ones who did it. Hey, wait… I’ve got an idea! You can talk to him right? Ask him how it's going and all that. When you come back…” Fingers smudge Jacob’s face. “When you come back, we can go to the police about it, right? And… and… we can get Uncle Maxie out too! I mean, you’ll be back, so… what are they gonna do, keep holding him? I know, I know, it’s brilliant. I’m brilliant.”

More books. More chess games. More Ephraim crying in her sister’s bed. It’ll be fine, Menashe hears the man say. She says it aloud. Her sister stares at her.

How do you know?

Menashe smiles. Trust me, okay? I know what’s best for you.

“Don’t worry, we won’t get caught. Besides the police are fucking useless. A-and anyway, once we explain the situation… I’m sure our little Jacob will understand. She probably wants to be with her brother, just as much as I wanna be with you.”

Menashe practices tying her jump rope into a noose. She examines the labels on things from under the sink. She measures the distance from the roof to the ground. None of these seem workable. And then her brother’s friend invites them to use his pool. She could thank him if it wouldn’t blow her cover.

Leaf, c’mon. Come outside. I wanna show you something!

“She’ll understand. She has to understand. I mean… she’s Red’s sister too. She’s our sister too. She couldn’t protect Chase. She couldn’t protect you. You were raped! You were… Don’t you see?! I… I had to do it! He said… I can fix you! It’s gonna be okay, imouto! It’s gonna be okay.”

Full moon. Cold water. Nobody hears the splash. Or the struggle. I’m doing this for you! I love you! I love you! I love you! Menashe keeps saying that until Ephraim stops moving. Then she says it one more time. Then she sees the man on the porch (red hair, red pajamas, glasses sliding down his nose). And he sees her.

Green! What have you done?!

“I just wanted to help you! I will help you. I love you! It’s gonna be- It’s gonna be- What? What’s wrong?” Blood and bone and shattered glass. Menashe lashes out at her own reflection. “WHY WON’T YOU TALK TO ME?!”

Notes:

Here's a list of characters, in case you need it to keep track. Some game-only or comic-only characters have been composited with show or movie ones.
"Me" = Blue, "Gramps" = Red (see their chapter), Ephraim = Leaf, Menashe = Green
Jacob = Elaine, Esau = Chase/Silver composite
Ebb = Latios, Flow = Latias, Bianca = Bianca (M05)
Sicily = Giovanni, Naples = Nanu/Leandro composite
Kiss = Prima, Cry = Lorelei decomposite
Visionary = Howard Clifford, Pound-Foolish = Roger, Penny-Wise = Ditto
Oil = May, Water = Max
Shock = Clemont, Awe = Bonnie
Smoke = Jimmy, Mirrors = Marina
Hot, Cold, Ayuka = unnamed kids from GOTCHA music video
Gall = Alain, Wormwood = Mairin
Time = Cynthia, Tide = Verity
Fits = Risa, Starts = Rick
Tooth = Paul, Claw = Reggie
Hammer = Umbreon, Sickle = Espeon (Mystery Dungeon)
Safe = Bidoof, Sound = trainer (Bidoof's Big Stand)
Yako = Eevee, Zenko = Sylveon (PK25) as portrayed by the Kimono Girls (PE007)
Snowmelt = Alec, Rainfall = Zorua
Annual = Fennel, Perennial = Amanita/Sharon composite
Peaches = Fantina, Cream = unnamed ghost girl (PG10)
Flesh = Lillie, Blood = Gladion
Cradle = Nate/Rosa composite, Grave = Hilda/Hilbert composite
Straightedge = Anthea, Hardline = Concordia
Hound = Yamper, Hare = Chloe
Rags = Peony, Riches = Rose, Rack = Marnie, Ruin = Piers, Lion = Leon, Lamb = Hop, Harmony = Victor, Melody = Gloria
Pins = Tsubomi, Needles = Shoko, Thread = Anna, Thrum = Rikuo
Steam = Emmet, Diesel = Ingo
Toil = Avery, Trouble = Bede, Fire-Burn = Marnie again, Cauldron-Bubble = Klara

Inspo for Leaf/Green's story: https://www.reddit.com/r/nosleep/comments/26wytd/the_disappearance_of_ashley_morgan/

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 32 of WPaRG