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dp-marvel94 · 3 years

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Face to Face- Chapter 34

Summary: When Danny went through the ghost catcher, he expected to be cured of the ghostliness that had haunted him since the accident, not to wake up on the lab floor with his parents saying he’d been overshadowed but everything’s back to normal now. But why does Danny Fenton cry himself to sleep to then dream of flying? Why does Phantom, the ghost who was supposedly possessing Danny remember a life that wasn’t his? Most of all, why do both the human and the ghost feel that something vital is missing, in their very soul? Or: Trying to cure himself of his powers one month after the accident, Danny accidentally splits himself but neither his ghost nor his human half know that that is what they did

First -> Last -> Next

Word Count: 5,208

Also on AO3 and Fanfiction.net

Note: I'm finally back with an update! It's been a while. I've been busy with my Invisobang story but it's finally finished. There's more about that at the end. But anyway, enjoy this much awaited chapter of Face to Face!

Fenton was distracted staring at the clock...again. His math teacher, Mr. Faluca, droned on in front of him and he was trying to listen. He really was but….there was just so much going on in his mind. Yes, he was less worried now that Phantom was back from the Ghost Zone, but now his curiosity was peaked. Halfa. There was a word for what he was and right now, his other self was talking about that with Sidney, the ghost he’d met earlier.

Fenton was so tempted to peak. He could, he realized. He could softly withdraw and see through Phantom’s eyes and hear through his ears. But… he needed to stay here, stay present. He was the human half right now, just Fenton. He couldn’t risk getting lost, getting tangled up with Phantom again before they were ready and able to really be one person.

So Fenton pushed away the thought. He put his pencil to his paper, copying the numbers and equations down. So this was new material. His brow furrowed, trying to figure out where the teacher was. After a few minutes, his expression relaxed. Alright, okay. This was actually starting to make sense.

Class continued and Fenton continued taking notes. About ten minutes later, the intercom turned on. “Danny Fenton.” The boy looked up, stiffening at his name. “Danny Fenton. Your father’s here to pick you up.”

Fenton’s stomach suddenly flopped with nerves as he felt his classmates’ eyes on him.

Mr. Faluca turned to look at the boy. “Go ahead Danny.”

He quickly started packing up his things, trying to ignore the muttering of the teens around him. Moments later, he stood and slung his bag over his shoulders. Head hung low, Fenton walked past his teacher and opened the door as the lesson continued without him.

Now in the hallway, his thoughts whirled, his worries resurging. Why was his Dad here? Why was he picking him up early? And-

The boy paused, the realization suddenly hitting him like a freight train as he passed by the rusty locker 724. Phantom. His ghost half had run off, in front of Mom. The woman was probably worried out of her mind.

The boy then continued, pulling his phone out of his pocket. Huh...it was actually surprising that he hadn’t got a panicked phone call from one of his parents yet. But that must be why Dad was here to pick him up. Obviously, Mom had told Dad what happened in the lab. And it made sense. If ghost Danny was missing, they’d want to make sure human Danny was safe at least.

Fenton’s heart sank in guilt at that thought. He hadn’t even called his parents. Not after he’d calmed down at lunch and not after Phantom had arrived through the portal. They’d both been silent for the past hour. Well...at least he’d get the chance to tell his parents what happened and ease their worries soon. Actually, he could do more than just tell them that Phantom was safe.

The human reached out with his mind, calling into the empty space between the two pieces of his mind. Phantom?

A gentle nudge was received in acknowledgement.

Fenton swallowed. Dad’s here to pick me up. You need to come too. He’s probably worried out of his mind.

The echo of his own guilt came back, projected from Phantom. Alright. I’ll meet you in the car.

Fenton nodded, humming in acknowledgement before he turned his attention back to walking down the hall. After a quick stop at his locker, the boy continued towards the front office. He pushed open the door, freezing as he saw the people staring back at him.

“Dad….Jazz.” He muttered, eyes flickering between his father and sister’s worried faces.

“Danny.” Dad breathed, relief flashing over his face. He took a step forward, sweeping the boy up in a hug.

The human Danny stiffened, blushing at the attention. His gaze shifted to the secretary who was looking at the large figure blocking the door with barely contained judgment. “Dad. I’m okay.” The boy muttered, pulling away.

His father’s face fell but before he could reply, Jazz advanced. Her face was set with deep worry. “Danny. Do you know where-”

“Yes.” Fenton cut her off, anticipating her question. “He’s safe.”

“But where-” She started.

“Not right here.” The boy whispered.

“Come on. Let’s go to the car.” Dad interjected, placing a gentle hand on Fenton’s shoulder.

The man returned to the desk to sign the two teenagers out of school before the three quickly walked towards the front doors. They exited, crossing the parking lot towards the GAV. Dad unlocked the vehicle and the three piled in.

As soon as Fenton was seated in the backseat, Jazz turned to face him from her place in the front. “Your ghost half ran away to the Ghost Zone?!” Her eyes were wide, tone rising with exacerbation.

“Yes. We did but-” Fenton held on his hands.

“How could you do that, Danny?!” She pointed. “And how long ago was this?”

“Maybe...an hour and a half? But-”

“An hour and half?!” Jazz glared. “And you didn’t come get me! You didn’t even call-”

“Jazz.” Dad cut her off, voice uncharacteristically serious. “Stop berating your brother.” He turned to Fenton, expression softening. “The other you is safe?”

The human Danny nodded. “Yes.”

“And where is he?” The man calmly asked.

His eyes flickered out towards the school. “Still in the school.”

“What?” Jazz gapped.

Dad raised a brow. “Maddie said he ran off through the portal.”

“We...he did.” Fenton bit his lip. “But uh...long story short, he managed to find his way back.”

“How?” His sister asked.

“So...umm...apparently, there’s a portal to the Ghost Zone in one of the lockers? Phantom managed to find it and flew through it.”

“And he’s still in the school because?” Jazz sounded slightly skeptical.

“He’s making sure Sidney gets back to the Ghost Zone okay.” Fenton said plainly, the information suddenly entering his mind. “He’ll meet us out here soon.”

Dad’s brow furrowed. “Who’s Sidney?”

“Oh.” The boy blinked, realizing what he said. “He’s...uh...a ghost who helped the other me find the portal. They talked about ghost stuff and..” He met Dad’s eyes, tentatively. “Apparently, the ghosts have a word for what I am. I’m a halfa.”

His father’s eyes widened in response. For a long moment, he paused as if processing. Then he swallowed. “We can talk about all of that later but your mother….”

Fenton paled, looking down. “Oh...uhh...yeah.” He froze, anymore words dying in his throat.

Jazz broke the silence. “Where is Mom?”

Dad’s frown deepened. “She’s….” He trailed off as if it was too hard to continue.

More tense silence. There was a tickle in the back of his mind, Phantom wondering if Dad was still waiting in the parking lot. Fenton replied with the image in front of him.

Phantom responded. Wait for me. I’m coming.

The ghost’s more active presence withdrew before Fenton could reply. The human looked up. “Phantom will be here in less than a minute.”

True to what he said, his ghost self soon phased through the back of the GAV. He flickered into view beside his human self.

Dad and Jazz both flinched, surprised at the sudden appearance before relaxing.

Phantom bit his lip. “I’m here now. Sorry it took so long.”

“You didn’t have any trouble with the ghost, did you?” Dad asked, raising a brow.

The ghost boy shook his head. “Nope. Sidney’s cool. We had to finish our conversation.” For a second, Dad and Jazz looked like they wanted to ask. But Phantom continued before they could, his gaze flickering nervously around the van. “Where...where’s Mom?”

There was a pause before Dad started, tentatively. “Your mom….she…” He pulled out his phone. “She left me a message on my phone. Here...let me show you.”

Fenton and Phantom both said nothing, anxiety flaring as the man pulled up the voicemail.

“Jack! Pick up your phone!” Mom’s panicked voice rang through the phone. “Come on Jack! You need to pick up! Jack!” Her voice rose as she rambled. “Our son...our son, he ran off through the portal. Through the portal Jack! He...he came downstairs to talk to me and….I f-cked up Jack. I f-cked up!” Fenton flinched, shocked at the language.

“Oh god I...I...Jack, I screwed up.” Her voice wavered, sounding watery. “He...he said...he said he was upset with me and...and...oh god...I just yelled at him. I just sat there and yelled at him and….oh god, I f-cked up Jack.”

There was a clatter, the sound of quick footsteps. “He ran off and…. I need to fix this. I have to fix this. I….” She paused, determination entering her voice. “I’m going through the portal. I’m...I’m going to find our son and bring him home.” More clatter, metal thumping again metal. “Go pick up Jazz and the other Danny. Make sure they’re safe and tell them I love them. And I’ll see you soon, okay? I’ll see you soon and the rest of our son will be with me.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The message ended with a beep. There was a sudden, deep silence. After far too long, Phantom spoke. “She went...she went after us. Through the portal.”

Dad nodded grimly. “I went back to the house before coming to get you and she was gone.”

The ghost’s hands were shaking. “She’s….Mom’s in the Ghost Zone, looking for me. But…” He put his head in his hands. “I’m not there.”

“I know.” Dad said quietly. “You’re safe and...your mom is a capable woman. She’ll be okay.” He turned back to face the windshield. “We need to head home now, okay? We’ll find a way to get up with her and everything will be okay.”

Phantom really hoped so. He did. He took a seat beside Fenton, reaching for his seat belt at the same time the human reached for his. The ghost’s hand lingered over the lock. He hadn’t done this, hadn’t been in a car since he’d split himself, since he was still trying to pretend that he was a normal human. He buckled the seatbelt. Now he was a ghost and he was sitting in the back of the GAV and Mom was the one lost in the Ghost Zone. Suddenly, he wanted to zip right out of this car, through the roof and go home. He needed to find Mom, even if...even if-.

He shivered, a thousand possibilities tumbling around in his head. He’d managed to push it away for a time but what Mom had said to him before he ran off still tore at his heart. The anger had leaked out of him but he was still hurt and scared and confused. And now he was shook up after hearing that message. Mom cussed. She cussed. And she was panicking and scared and said she’d screwed up, that she’d had to fix this. She was determined to bring him home. Was she...maybe she was sorry? Maybe she...she got it now. And...he wanted to hope. He wanted to hope so bad but it hurt and he didn’t know what to do or think or-

Fenton leaned into him, interrupting his thought. There was a brief flash of worry and then...the human was taking deep, purposeful breaths, trying to calm down. Phantom needed to calm down too. He couldn’t panic, couldn’t worry about all this right now. Instead he leaned back into Fenton’s side and tried to relax. Passively, the two clasped hands.

“Danny?” Jazz’s voice interrupted, her eyes focusing on Phantom, who looked up in acknowledgement. “I’m happy you’re safe.” She bit her lip and the ghost boy knew she was nervous like he was. “It’s going to be okay.” The girl could have been saying that for his benefit or for her own.

In response, Dad’s gaze flickered towards his daughter and then at the two boy’s through the rearview mirror. His eyes rounded, worriedly but lovingly, before he focused back on the road as they turned a corner.

The vehicle flew down the road while the passengers sat in silence. For once, Dad’s fast driving was the least distressing thing on Phantom’s mind. And it was fitting, that the man was in such a hurry to get home and figure out what to do. But the ghost had already made up his mind.

After what somehow felt like the blink of an eye and hours at the same time, the vehicle pulled into the driveway and slammed to a stop. All the passengers unbuckled. In a breath, Phantom turned invisible.

Dad looked back, eyes widening. Jazz gasped in worry. “Danny!”

The boy huffed. “I’m still right here. I’m gonna stay invisible until we get in the house. I don’t exactly want the neighbors to see me.”

His sister sighed. “Alright.”

“Come on kids.” Dad said visibly relaxing.

Phantom exited the GAV, following his human self. He shivered in the air. Now that he was here, at the house, it was taking all his self control to not dart forward in front of his family and fly down to the lab, through the portal, and-

Fenton found his wrist without effort and led him to the front door without a word. Dad unlocked it and the kids followed him into the house. Once they’d passed the threshold, Phantom had had enough. With the door closed, he returned to visibility and raced across the living room, kitchen, and down the basement stairs. He stopped at the bottom, eyes falling on the still open portal.

Behind him, the sound of footsteps pounded. His sister’s and father’s worried voices rang out. But the ghost didn’t listen, too focused on the portal and the soft song emanating from it. A sound which he knew the purpose of and wasn’t as scared of anymore.

Fenton jogged through the door and hopped down the stairs with the rest of the family at his heels. The human stopped abruptly, coming to stand beside his ghost who then turned to face his father and sister.

“I need to go after her.” Phantom said quietly but with determination.

Jazz’s expression shifted, turning serious. “You can’t do that.”

“Jazz.” He started, testedly. “I need to help Mom. She’s only...she’s only there because of me and anything could be happening to her and-”

“Your Mom can handle herself.” Dad cut in, equally serious. “I don’t want you putting yourself in danger too.”

The human Danny frowned. “She went off without a plan. No supplies. No idea what she’d face. She’s probably lost.”

His sister argued. “And getting yourself lost wouldn’t help her!”

“I won’t get lost.” The ghost straightened, confidently. “Look. Mom’s not coming back on her own until she finds me. I’ve actually been in the Ghost Zone before. And I can fly. I can get us out of trouble if something happens and get both of us back in no time.”

Dad took a breath considering. “I understand that son. But...none of that will help you if you manage to get lost yourself. You don’t know how far away your mom is. And what if you do find her but get lost on the way back?”

“Mom couldn’t have gotten that far.“ Fenton insisted, holding up his arms. “And Phantom literally can’t get lost.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jazz rose a brow in challenge.

“I literally can’t get lost in the Ghost Zone.” The ghost deadpanned. He grabbed onto Fenton’s arm. “If other me stays here, I’ll always have a beacon to lead me back.”

Dad and Jazz’s brows both furrowed in confusion. “Really?” Dad frowned.

“That’s how he got back to the school earlier.” Fenton supplied. “We’re connected because ya know, same person. He followed that line back to me.”

Dad tilted his head. “You could use that to find your way back after you find your mom?”

Phantom nodded. “And Fenton can keep you guys updated. I can show or tell him what’s happening.”

Dad still looked confused, like he wanted to ask more but after a long moment, acceptance crossed his face. He conceded. “Alright. Go find your mom.” The ghost boy floated higher off the floor and turned to face to portal.

“Hold on a second.” Jazz interrupted. She stepped forward and hugged Phantom. “Be careful little brother.”

“Yeah. Of course.” Ghost Danny returned the hug before pulling away.

A second later, Dad was wrapping him up in a bear hug. “I love you and...I’m sorry.”

“I...it’s okay. I love you too.” He whispered, returning the hug. His core pulsed nervously. The memory of his conversation with Dad last night flashed through his mind. He might have understood what Dad was apologizing for. For how Mom acted, for not being there for that conversation. But either way- “It’s not your fault.”

Dad didn’t reply to the statement, squeezing his son a little tighter. “Hurry back but be safe Danny-boy.”

Phantom pulled away from his father and finally, his eyes fell on the one person left to address. He grabbed Fenton’s hand and squeezed. “I'll be back soon.”

The human put his other arm around him, pulling him into a hug. “I know. Go find her. And…” He bit his lip and the ghost could feel his worry at the idea of facing Mom again. “It’ll be okay...we’ll be okay.”

The ghost squeezed back. “Yeah. We will.” He pulled away before flying towards the portal. With one last look back, he dove through for the second time that day.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

The Ghost Zone (World of the Dead? Infinite Realms?) was the same as the last time he’d entered. Swirling green, floating rocks, purple doors in the distance. But this time, he was more aware of his immediate surroundings. He paused, right outside of the portal to take in the environment. The portal’s frame was sitting on a shelf of rock. The shelf dropped off about ten feet in front of him. To either side, it dropped off after about twenty feet. He turned back around, facing the swirling green light. There was the portal but...what if he walked behind it?

There was in fact something behind it. The frame of the portal closed off in the back, forming a wall of sleek metal that reminded him of the lab at home. Phantom turned away from the frame, his back facing it. He frowned, spotting the edge of the rock again. It went all the way around, like the portal sat in the middle of an island or...he quickly floated over to the edge. The rock continued downward, like he was on the top of a mountain or a cliff.

He felt the shadow of his heart skip a beat. If Mom wasn’t up here, then had she fallen? His eyes desperately searched over the landscape for a scrap of blue, the color of his mom’s jumpsuit.

“Mom!” He called out. “Where are you?”

There was no reply, her form not in sight. Frantically, Phantom turned to the side. Still nothing. He flew to the front of the portal. “Mom!”

He then looked down, gasping. There was a tiny spot of blue, standing out in clear contrast to the green and brown landscape. It must have been hundreds of feet down, at the base of the structure. The boy started shaking, panic overtaking him. She’d...she’d fallen, hadn’t she? Was she hurt or...or….

His eyes then widened noticing something. The small dot of blue was moving. No, not just moving. But moving quickly as if the figure was running or jogging along a narrow strip of rock, away from him. Stepping off the ledge, the ghost started descending.

“Mom!” He tried again, to no response. Obviously, she couldn’t hear him.

Phantom dove faster, keeping his eyes pinned on the blue figure as it continued down the twisting path. The road, since that’s what it resembled, twisted back, forming stairs and sloping down under itself. Then it met another, darker colored strip, forming something like a crossroads.

The ghost boy flew closer as the figure jogged down the stairs. Then he paused, flinched at what sounded like a motorcycle engine. Reflexively, he flickered invisible. He glanced down the darker path at the crossroads. Something metal glinted in the dim light as the noise approached. Seconds later, the object materialized in the crossroads. It was in fact a motorcycle and...two glowing figures sat on the bike. The blue figure froze.

Phantom paled, his speed increasing. Seconds later, he landed above the crossroads at a raised part of the road. His back faced the stairs that the blue figure had just run down. His eyes widened as he recognized the scene.

In the crossroads, two ghosts, both of whom were in their early twenties, sat on a motorcycle. The man had greasy looking blonde hair and was wearing a biker jacket. Behind him sat a woman with green hair, in a red jacket and mini skirt.

“What is that?” The woman asked.

“Kitty, I think...that’s a human.” The other glowing figure’s voice rose in harsh disbelief. “What is a human doing here?”

The girl scowled, judgmentally. “And what are they wearing?”

The blue clad figure slowly approached, holding something long and metallic to their side. “I’m not looking for any trouble.” A familiar voice rang out, slightly desperate. “Please. I’m just trying to find my son.”

Phantom gasped, his core pulsing excitedly. That was his Mom’s voice. Mom! Mom was in front of him. She was okay. She was alive and walking around and….She was...being pinned by two unfamiliar ghosts.

The ghost boy stiffened at the sudden realization. He sprung into action, calling out. “Mom!”

The two ghosts looked in his direction, brows furrowing at his exclamation. “What was that?” The girl, Kitty, asked.

Phantom ignored the question, darting in between the ghostly couple and his Mom. He tensed, holding his arms out to shield her.

“What’s going on?” Mom startled, taking a step back. “What was that?”

The man’s brow furrowed. He blinked, eyes focusing on Phantom. Then he snorted. “Kid? You tryin’ ta mess with this human too?”

“Mess with?” He muttered. Then Phantom frowned, realization hitting him like a brick wall. He was still invisible. With a slight mental push, he reappeared.

“Danny?” Mom’s disbelieving voice rang out behind him. Then it shifted into something relieved and hopeful. “Danny!”

The boy turned to the side. “Mom.” The same relief was in his voice.

The woman dropped her weapon. She took a step forward until she was close enough to touch. Mom reached out but Phantom was faster. Before he could really think about it, he was clinging to the woman from the side. “Mom! I found you.”

Mom was shaking. Her hand reached up to run fingers through his hair. “Danny. Baby, you’re okay.”

“Yeah, I’m okay.” He squeezed her. “And you’re...you’re not hurt or….”

Near the pair, someone snorted. “Mama’s boy.” Then there was yelp. “Ow. What’d you elbow me for?!”

“Give him a break Johnny.” The green haired woman chastised. “He’s what? Twelve?”

Phantom scowled, turning his head towards the other ghosts. “I’m fourteen!”

“Same difference.” The man waved him off.

Ghost Danny stepped away from his mother again. Now that he knew she was really here and uninjuried, he turned his attention back to the other ghosts, though he did cast a worried look behind him.

“So…” The man, Johnny, looked between the two, a curious if slightly up-to-no-good expression on his face. “How did a human end up here?”

“None of your business.” Mom said quickly, seriously.

Johnny raised a brow. “Some ritual to contact your dead son gone wrong?” Phantom and his mother both flinched at the word. “Found a thin spot and you waited for a portal to open.”

“Like she said.” The ghost boy glared. “It’s none of your business.”

The man smirked, opening his mouth to retort but Kitty elbowed him again. “Leave them alone Johnny. Let’s go.”

“Come on kitten. There’s a good story here.”

The young woman crossed her arms. “We’re going to Ember’s party. We’ll be late if you don’t hurry up.”

“Fine. I’m going.” Johnny rolled his eyes. Placing his hands on the handles, he pumped the gas. “See you ‘round kid.”

The two ghosts speed off, Phantom watching them warily until they disappeared into the distance. Finally, he relaxed, turning around to face the woman. For a moment, he hovered. After the initial hug, he was at a loss for what to do. He’d found Mom and she was physically okay. They should head home-

Mom quickly stepped forward, wrapping her arms around him without hesitation. “Danny baby.” She gently cupped the back of his head. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Somehow, with the stress of the confrontation over, she sounded more relieved than before. Her voice broke, sounding watery. “I shouldn’t...I shouldn’t have yelled at you. I shouldn’t have said that. But I love you. I love you so much, baby.”

The ghost listened to the words, his eyes tearing up. But he didn’t have it in him to return the hug. He didn’t pull away either. Instead he stood there, torn in two directions. He was happy, so happy that his Mom was safe. And the lack of hesitation, the words. They were exactly what he wanted to hear but…..

“It’s okay. You’re okay. It’s going to be okay, Danny. I love you so much.”

What was with the change in attitude? Well, he did run off to another dimension, after telling Mom that he didn’t think she loved him. And well...oh god he had no idea what to think. This was too much. Too much. He needed to just get them home and-

Mom pulled away, peering at him with tearfilled eyes. She gently cupped his face. “Danny baby. Look at me.” Obediently, he shifted his eyes up, to maintain her gaze. But it was a struggle as tears welled in his eyes and his lip quivered. “I love you.” The woman breathed. “I love this you. I love Fenton….” He averted his gaze from her eyes, an ache piercing his core. “And I love Phantom. I love both parts of you. You’re a part...you’re a part of my son. And I love this part.” Her voice wavered, tears falling down her face. “I shouldn’t...I shouldn’t have made you think that I didn’t, that I wouldn’t love you because you’re a ghost but-”

Suddenly looking down again, Phantom pulled away. Damnit, damnit, damnit! This hurt too much. He couldn’t stay here, couldn’t do this, could’t hear her say those words when...when….

Mom’s expression fell. Slowly, she lowered her hand and didn’t reach for him again. “You’re still upset with me?”

Numbly he nodded. Yes, yes he was. Because they’d done this before. He’d heard her say this before, that she loved all of him and then she’d contradicted it with her actions. And he couldn't...he couldn’t hope again, he couldn’t trust again. It was too good to be true. It was-

“That’s alright.” Mom finally said. “You should be upset with me. I deserve that. But I do...I do lo-”

Another stab at his core. “We should get out of here.” Phantom cut her off. “We can have this conversation later, once we’re back through the portal.”

Somehow, Mom’s expression became even more heartbroken but she didn’t argue. “Come on then.” She started turning back the way she’d come.

“I was going to fly us back.” Phantom said plainly.

The woman turned back around. “Oh of course.” Her frown deepened, studying him. “You’re going to carry me?”

His shoulder’s fell, pouting. “You know that I’m perfectly capable of that.”

“That’s not what I meant, sweetie.” She said gently, taking a step forward. “How do you want to do this?”

Phantom hesitated for a moment. “Here, put one arm around my neck.” The woman did so. “And I’ll grab your legs. Now hold on.” The ghost grabbed her legs, adjusted the woman so he was holding her legs and back with his arms. Both her arms looped around his neck. Slowly, he rose off the ground. “Don’t look down.”

A small forced smile unfurled her lips. “I won’t.”

The boy hummed, looking up at their destination. “How did you get all the way down here anyway?”

“I climbed.” Mom said plainly.

“You climbed?” He rose a brow in disbelief.

“It was the only option.” She muttered. “I had to find you, Danny.” There was no anger, no judgement. Just the determination, the desperation he’s heard from her earlier.

Ghost Danny didn’t reply, looking at the portal again. Well, it turned out, he had found her instead of the other way around.

Mom bit her lip. “It really scared me, when you ran off. But...we’re going home now.” She looked at him earnestly. “Everything will be okay. I’ll...I’ll find a way to make all of this up to you.”

Oh god. He hoped...he hoped he could believe her. He wanted to but...time would tell.

Endnote: Thanks for reading! I'm also going to take some time to pump up my Invisobang story. It's 76K, guys! That's literally the second longest fic I've ever written. Posting day is August 23rd so please check it out when it comes out (For the angst, clones, identity crises, friendship, sibling bonding, and Frostbite being a good mentor/dad.)

#Danny Phantom #danny fenton #split danny #double danny #Face To Face #my fic

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workofthediesel · 2 years

Text

BB CB - Chpt 2

Read also on AO3!

(Chpt 1)

Summary: Poppa didn't know what to do; no one did. All they could do was try to take things one step at a time, though how that was going for them so far was still a little up in the air.

Word Count: 4,603

“So. Is anyone going to explain to me what happened?” Poppa said.

He, Dustin, and Rockies One and Three were sitting around his kitchen table, talking in hushed tones. In the other room, Rusty was sitting on the floor, listening patiently as CB excitedly rambled on about the wild scribbling in the pictures that he was drawing.

CB had taken an immediate liking to Rusty, much to everyone’s relief. After the rough start he’d had with the rest of the freight, there’d been some concern that he wouldn’t be comfortable with anyone in the yard. But Rusty was different—no doubt due, at least in part, to the fact that he was briefed on the situation before coming into it. He’d still been visibly shocked when he showed up, but he was also prepared enough to hide it in front of CB. He hadn’t overstepped any boundaries by acting like he already knew him, nor had he overwhelmed CB with his own emotions as he tried to wrap his head around the situation.

He was also, as Rocky One had pointed out earlier, just good with kids. He was able to talk at an easy-to-understand level without it sounding patronizing, keeping a sweet and friendly tone without slipping into baby talk. He wasn’t phased when CB spit out a string of nonsense or gibberish, and he knew how to be both gentle and firm at the same time, enforcing the rules to keep everything under control but never once sounding mean about it.

It truly was a blessing, because it let them at least make a start at figuring out what was going on without having to worry about whether CB was doing alright.

“We really don’t know,” Rocky Three said. “Everything was normal, then all of a sudden, we turned around, and…” he trailed off, his gaze darting over to the small boy in the other room.

“There wasn’t anything special that went along with it,” Rocky One added. “No flash of light or weird sound or anything. It was just, like… One moment, he was an adult, then we all looked away for a second, and when we looked back, this kid was just… there.”

“He was really frightened,” Dustin tacked on. “At first, I thought it was just because he didn’t know what happened and it was a lot to deal with, but it turns out, it was because he didn’t recognize any of us.”

“Found that one out the hard way,” Rocky Three said with a grimace.

Poppa nodded. Of course, he’d demanded all the details the second Rocky Two had come to tell him what happened, and he’d told him—confusion and panic scrambling his thoughts, and subsequently his words—of how CB didn’t know who any of them were, and that they’d terrified the kid by acting like they were all close, and probably ruined any chance they had of getting him to trust them. But now that they’d had a chance to sit down and catch their breath after the initial alarm of the situation had worn off, Poppa was looking to get a fuller picture of what had happened. “Is that all?”

Dustin nodded. “Really, no one knows what happened. Not even CB.”

“You’ve asked?”

“Of course we have,” Rocky Three said.

“As far as we know, this just happened,” Rocky One said. “And as far as he knows, this just… happened. He doesn’t remember anything beyond whatever age he is now, and he doesn’t remember anything weird happening before all this.”

“Is that what he told you?” Poppa asked.

Rocky One nodded.

Poppa pressed his lips together, thinking it over. “Are you sure he was telling the truth?” It was clear that CB didn’t quite trust any of them yet, and it occurred to him that he might have an idea of what had happened and just wasn’t willing to open up to them.

“I don’t know,” Rocky One said tiredly. “He’s just a kid.”

Rocky Three was quick to agree. “Sure, maybe he was lying. Maybe he’s too scared to talk about it right now, or whatever happened was weird and he thinks we won’t believe him. Or maybe he was telling the truth and he’s really just as clueless as the rest of us. But that doesn’t really matter right now, because either way, we still don’t know anything.”

Rocky One nodded again. “Even if he does know something,” he said, “if he didn’t tell us the first time we asked, he’s not going to tell us now.”

For a brief second, Poppa entertained the idea of having Rusty ask him about it. He was the one CB was the most comfortable with, so if he was going to talk to anyone, it would be Rusty. But… Poppa fought back a sigh. The Rockies had a point: regardless of whether or not CB actually knew something about what had happened, continuing to ask him about it would only stress him out.

“So, where does that leave us?” Dustin asked.

For a long moment, no one answered. Then, Poppa took a heavy breath in. “We’ll have to try something else. Ask around a little more, in case someone else in the yard has an idea of what might have happened. Maybe hit the books, see if there’s a theory or a journal or even a fairy tale where something like this happens.”

Rocky Three shot him a skeptical look. “Do you really think we’ll find anything helpful?”

Poppa let out the sigh he’d been holding in. “Probably not,” he said honestly, “but what else can we do? We could try taking him to a doctor or a scientist or someone who can have a good look at him, but I think that would hurt more than it would help. I doubt they’d believe us if we told them what happened, and it’d probably just end up making CB—Rusty.”

The conversation died in an instant. Everyone at the table turned to look at Rusty standing in the kitchen entry, staring silently like they weren’t sure how to handle the situation. In all honesty, they didn’t.

Rusty smiled at them from the doorway, calm and confident when none of the rest of them were. “Sorry,” he said, “didn’t mean to interrupt. We just wanted to get a snack.”

We. As in, Rusty and CB. Poppa couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking down to the small child peeking out at him from behind Rusty’s leg.

It was a strange sight to see, in more ways than one. As an adult, CB was so loud and wild, Poppa never would have thought this shy and timid child was related to him based on behavior alone. The difference was almost unsettling, and it had Poppa worried that something was wrong. Of course, there was a lot wrong right now, and Poppa figured that there were a few things that had to take precedence, like ensuring CB’s immediate safety and trying to figure this whole situation out.

Poppa cleared his throat, focussing on the moment at hand. “Of course. Well, don’t let us stop you.”

Rusty nodded. Really, he didn’t need permission to make his way through Poppa’s house, but it seemed like he had been waiting for it anyway. He slipped into the kitchen, CB clinging tightly to his leg as he followed behind him.

All eyes were on the pair—on CB, in particular—as they crossed the kitchen. CB kept stealing glances back at them. Anytime he did, and he saw how closely he was being watched, he buried his head into the back of Rusty’s thigh. It made Poppa feel awful for still looking at him—he was clearly so uncomfortable being stared at, and Poppa didn’t want to make him feel any worse than he already did—but he just couldn’t tear his eyes away.

Rusty must have also felt all the eyes on them, but he pretended not to notice, casually heading to the cabinet like he was modeling for CB the proper way to handle the unwanted attention. It was so quiet in the kitchen you could have heard a pin drop. It amplified every sound that Rusty made—the squeak of the cabinet as he pulled it open, the scrape of the bowl on the shelf as he slid it out. Poppa couldn’t help but wince at the noise.

He tried to avert his eyes as Rusty filled the bowl for CB; it felt weird to be watching Rusty’s every movement like he was. Even so, his gaze was drawn back to the pair every time. He couldn’t help it.

Once he had the bowl filled, Rusty paused. He eyed the line of cups on the shelf for a moment before turning to CB. “Did you want some juice, too? Or just the snack.”

With his face still smooshed into Rusty’s thigh, CB’s answer came out muffled, barely audible, but Rusty seemed to understand. He closed the cabinet and gently patted CB’s head. “Maybe later, then.” With that, he picked up the bowl and quietly ushered CB out of the kitchen, giving the group at the table a reassuring smile before he crossed into the other room.

Silence reigned in the kitchen for a few minutes. The brief, inconsequential moment of seeing CB like this served to remind them of the full reality of the situation they were facing.

Eventually, Dustin sighed. “What are we going to do?”

Poppa took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Take it one day at a time,” he said. What else could they do? “Whatever else is going on, right now, we’ve got a little kid to look after. Priority number one is making sure he’s taken care of; we can work on figuring this out later.”

“But who’s he going to stay with?” Dustin asked. “He hates us.”

“He doesn’t hate us,” Rocky One said.

Rocky Three shook his head. “Yeah, he’s just terrified of us. Completely different.”

“It’s been a shock for him, that’s all,” Poppa said, trying to sound reassuring. He didn’t like the idea of any of the freight being at odds with each other, even in a situation as bizarre as this. “He’ll come around.”

“But what are we going to do until then?” Dustin asked, sounding almost desperate. “Someone needs to take care of him, and it’s not going to go well at all if he’s scared of us.”

“He’ll stay with me,” Poppa said. It seemed like the natural solution. He’d always treated the freight like his own children, so it was only right that he’d be the one looking after CB.

“Of course,” Rocky One said. “But what about the rest of us? What are we supposed to do?”

Poppa thought it over for a moment. “Go home, for now. It’s starting to get late, and I’ve got a lot of work to do getting things ready for tonight.”

Dustin was hesitant. “Are you sure? We could stay and help.”

As well-meaning of an offer as it was, Poppa couldn’t help but think that it would end up doing a little more harm than good. CB wasn’t comfortable with them, and CB was the one he had to be worrying most about right now. Keeping the house full of freight would leave him on edge for the rest of the evening, and that wasn’t fair to the kid, especially after everything he’d been through that day.

It felt a little mean to be saying any of that out loud, though. Instead, all Poppa said was, “I’m sure. It’s been quite the day; I think it would do us all some good to have a little time to ourselves. Try to unwind, you know?”

Dustin didn’t look convinced. “You won’t have any time to yourself,” he said, his eyes flicking over to the living room.

“I’ll be alright.” After all, someone had to look after CB. It would be a small sacrifice for Poppa to make, and one that he would make a thousand times over for any one of the freight.

“Alright…” Dustin said slowly, reluctantly pushing himself up from the table.

Just as reluctantly, the Rockies followed suit. Poppa did feel a little bad about turning them all out—they were all worried about CB, and Poppa knew that they wanted to stick around to make sure he was okay. At the same time, he knew that reducing the number of cars in the house was going to be better for CB, and that had to be his priority.

Out of politeness, Poppa followed them to the door to see them out. He waved one final goodbye to them as they lingered in front of his house. He couldn’t be sure whether or not they would take his suggestion to go home and try to relax, but he’d figured he’d done as much as he could for them for tonight. Right now, he had to switch his focus onto CB.

With that thought in mind, Poppa shut the door. He took a deep breath, rolled his shoulders, and made himself a quick to-do list. He’d need to get his guest room ready: put sheets on the bed, run a duster over everything, clean up any clutter he may have left laying around. He’d have to make dinner, and try to find some way to get the kid to wash up and wind down for the night. It might be a good idea to check his cabinets to see if he had a spare toothbrush. That thought sparked the realization that he didn’t have any child-safety locks, and he’d have to move any bottles of cleaners or the like somewhere out of CB’s reach.

That last one, Poppa figured, should probably take precedence. He did a quick sweep of the kitchen and the closet in the hall, grabbing anything that looked potentially poisonous and shoving it onto the highest shelf he could find. He did the same in the bathroom, also using it as an opportunity to find a toothbrush for CB.

When the house was about as safe as he could make it, he took a spare set of sheets out of the linen closet and started making up CB’s bed for the night. It probably wasn’t going to be the most comfortable thing for the kid—it was a spare room meant for adults to spend a night or two, so it lacked any of the charm and comfort a child’s bedroom should have—but it was the best he could do. Hopefully, whatever this was would be temporary, and CB would be back to his adult self before the impersonality of the room really started to bother him.

On his way back into the kitchen, Poppa took a peek into the living room. The shock of seeing CB as just a little kid—he couldn’t have been older than four or five—hadn’t worn off yet, and it made his stomach drop. A million questions and a million worries flooded into his mind. Truly, what were they going to do? The situation hardly seemed real. How were they supposed to have any idea on how to fix it?

Poppa took a deep breath in and let it out slowly, forcibly shutting down that train of thought. He just needed to take it one step at a time and focus on the here and now, and right now, he had a little boy who needed dinner.

Poppa began searching through his cabinets, trying to find something that CB would eat. He didn’t know if he was particularly picky or not, but he was erring on the side of caution. In the future, he’d be worrying about healthy options and all that, but right now, he figured CB could use some comfort food. He had all the ingredients to make a quick mac’n’cheese; that would be good enough for tonight.

It felt good to be working on something, Poppa mused. Sitting down and talking things through with Dustin and the Rockies had been necessary, but it also left Poppa feeling like they weren’t really doing anything. This small stuff—cooking dinner and making the bed—might not have been solving the real problem, but at least he was taking care of the little things in the meantime. He felt like he was helping, or at the very least, like he wasn’t entirely useless.

The whole time he was cooking, he kept an ear tuned in to what was happening in the other room. CB was chattering away at Rusty, sounding as happy and relaxed as Poppa could have hoped for. It was a relief to hear, especially considering how scared CB had been every other time Poppa had seen him. He took a moment to say a silent thank you to Rusty; without him, Poppa was sure, CB would be miserable.

The recipe Poppa was using was a quick one, and ten minutes later, it was finished. CB was still sounding happy with Rusty, and Poppa almost wondered if he should put off dinner for a bit to let the kid have a bit more playtime. A glance at the clock told him no, it was far past the time that CB should have eaten something.

He rolled over to the edge of the kitchen and poked his head into the living room. CB seemed to be enjoying himself, which made Poppa feel a little bad to be interrupting, but he had to. “CB?” he called from the doorway. “It’s time for dinner.”

CB stilled at the sound of Poppa’s voice before shying away from him just slightly. But Rusty was right behind him and gave him an encouraging nudge on the back. “Why don’t you go get washed up?” he said gently. CB turned his head to look at him, eyes wide and worried. Rusty smiled reassuringly and gave him another nudge towards the bathroom. Reluctantly, CB went.

Rusty watched him go, keeping his smile in place until CB was completely out of sight. Then his face dropped, finally showing the shock that Poppa knew he’d been hiding all afternoon.

Only then did it dawn on Poppa how much they’d been neglecting Rusty. His little group in the kitchen had been able to sit down and talk things through amongst themselves, and while it may not have solved anything, they’d all left the table feeling at least a little better. But they’d left Rusty on his own to look after CB. He’d had to keep any bad feelings he was experiencing all bottled up, and that wasn’t good for him at all.

Poppa rolled over to Rusty’s side. “How are you doing, Rusty?” he asked quietly.

“Me?” Rusty asked, sounding surprised. “I’m fine. Nothing’s happened to me.”

Poppa shook his head with a small smile. Of course, Rusty would be more concerned with CB than with how he was feeling. But they were all going through quite the ordeal with this situation, even if CB probably had the worst of it; they needed to be looking out for each other, too. “What’s going on right now is a lot for everyone to handle,” he said. “It’s okay if you need to take a moment to yourself to process it.”

Rusty opened his mouth like he was going to say something, then he closed it without a word, sighing softly. He shook his head and tried again. “It’s just…” he trailed off, glancing after CB and gesturing vaguely.

“Yeah, I know,” Poppa said. There were no words any of them could use in a situation like this. Even without saying anything, Poppa knew exactly what Rusty was feeling. “It might help to talk about what you’re feeling.”

“What I’m feeling?” Rusty let out a quiet, sardonic laugh. “Where do I even start? I mean… Starlight, Poppa, he’s a kid. I don’t—” Abruptly, he cut himself off, and almost immediately, it became apparent why: CB had come back, hovering shyly off to the side like he didn’t want to interrupt.

Rusty smiled at him gently, switching so effortlessly into a calm and friendly tone that it was hard to believe he’d sounded upset just seconds before. “All done?”

CB nodded.

“Alright, let’s see your hands.”

CB eyed Poppa nervously, but he held his hands up to Rusty as requested.

Rusty made a playful show of inspecting CB’s hands before turning his smile up a few notches. “You did a good job,” he praised, his voice so warm and encouraging that it had CB cracking the first smile Poppa had seen from him all day.

“Squeaky clean,” Poppa agreed. He tried not to let himself feel hurt by the way CB’s smile faded when he spoke. “Now, how about we go sit down for dinner?”

“Dinner sounds good,” Rusty said. “Right, CB?”

CB didn’t answer, but he let Rusty lay a hand on his back to lead him into the kitchen. Poppa followed not far behind them. He knew enough to recognize that CB’s return marked the end to his and Rusty’s conversation. He made a mental note to check in with him later, sometime after CB had gone to bed so they could have a proper talk.

He let Rusty take care of getting CB settled at the table. He tried not to stare—he knew how uncomfortable it made CB—but he couldn’t help it. It was only once CB was seated properly that he was able to force his attention away, turning around to go get some food for CB.

“Everyone else went home?” Rusty asked quietly, following Poppa to the stove.

Poppa nodded. “I figured CB might be a little more comfortable if we cleared the house out.”

Rusty sighed softly. “He really doesn’t like them, does he?”

“I’m sure he’s just overwhelmed,” Poppa said. “There’s a lot going on right now.”

“Yeah, no kidding.”

Poppa shook his head, giving the macaroni one final stir. “He’ll come around,” he said. It was the same promise he had made to the freight, but he had to repeat it. He had to believe it was the truth.

Rusty hummed noncommittally. When Poppa looked back up, he was holding out a plate to him. Poppa gave him a grateful nod, ladling out a couple of spoonfuls of pasta for CB. He let Rusty be the one to grab a fork and bring the plate over to CB; he figured CB would probably take it better that way.

Rusty set the plate down in front of CB with a smile, which CB timidly returned. He didn’t move to touch the food though. He sat still for a moment before glancing around the table, his eyebrows pinching together slightly. He couldn’t help but notice there was only one plate on the table. He frowned for a moment, like he was thinking something over, before turning his head up to Rusty. “Aren’t you going to eat, too?”

“No, CB,” Rusty said softly. “I have to go home now.”

“He has to go make his own dinner,” Poppa said.

CB pouted slightly, his eyebrows drawing together as he thought something over. “You mean, you don’t live here? You’re leaving?”

“Yeah, I’m leaving,” Rusty said apologetically. “But it’s okay; I’ll come over again tomorrow.”

The statement wasn’t quite the reassurance Rusty had hoped it would be. CB was still pouting. “But, what about me?”

“You’ll be staying here, with me,” Poppa told him. He gave him a gentle smile. “I’ve got a nice room all set up for you, and I figure tomorrow we can work on getting you some toys. How’s that sound?”

“No!” CB cried, rocketing up from the table. “I don’t wanna stay here! I want to go with you!”

It was the loudest CB had been since they found him like this, and Rusty visibly startled at it. Still, he was able to keep the surprise out of his voice. “But Poppa’s already got everything all ready for you,” he said calmly.

His words didn’t make a lick of difference. CB ran over to him, attaching himself to Rusty’s leg, clinging to him like his life depended on it. There were tears in his eyes, just milliseconds away from spilling over. “I want to stay with you! Please, Rusty? Please?”

“CB—”

“Don’t leave me here, Rusty. Please.”

Rusty took one look at CB and felt his heart sink. There was no way he could say no, not when CB sounded so scared and so desperate. He laid a gentle hand on CB’s back, rubbing soothingly to try to calm him. “Okay, CB,” he said softly, “you can come stay with me.”

“Rusty…” Poppa said.

Rusty gave him a reassuring smile. “It’s fine; I have that spare room he can sleep in.”

Poppa lowered his voice, talking like he didn’t want CB to hear despite the fact that he was right there. “I don’t think your place is exactly child-proof.”

“Neither is yours,” Rusty pointed out. No one had time to prepare for all of this; there were no child-safety locks to be found.

Poppa still looked uncertain. “A young child can be quite the handful,” he said. “And, CB…”

“CB and I have been getting along just fine all afternoon,” Rusty said.

“Babysitting a kid is a little different from caring for them full time.”

Rusty shook his head. “Just look at him,” he whispered, nodding his head down towards CB.

It was a pitiful sight. CB was clinging tightly to Rusty’s leg, his head buried in against his thigh. He was trembling ever so slightly, and his breaths were coming hitched and erratic, bordering on stilted sobs.

Poppa’s resolve wavered. It couldn’t be denied that Rusty was CB’s favorite out of any of the cars he’d been introduced to so far, and the poor kid could use whatever ounce of comfort they could give him right now. But, like he said, taking care of a young child was a big responsibility. He didn’t want to doubt Rusty’s ability to keep CB safe and well cared for, but he also was reluctant to let CB out of his sight. He couldn’t help but imagine that CB would be a handful, and he didn’t know if Rusty would be able to handle that. Then again, he couldn’t be certain if he would be able to handle that.

One more look at CB and Poppa crumbled completely. CB needed Rusty. There was no way he could separate the two in good conscience. His shoulders sagged as he sighed. “Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay, you can take him.”

Rusty smiled. He leaned down a bit to give CB’s back a firmer rub. “You hear that? You’re coming home with me. It’s okay, no more need to cry.”

Slowly, CB’s sobs quieted down into light hiccoughing. Rusty took that as a victory. “There, see?” he said. “It’s all okay. Is there anything you want to take with you before we go?”

“How about dinner?” Poppa broke in, voice firm in the reminder that CB still needed to eat.

Rusty glanced up at him and nodded. “How’s that sound, CB? You can have dinner here and then we’ll go over to my house.”

CB didn’t give an answer, either agreeing or dissenting, so Rusty decided for him. He detached CB from his leg, keeping hold of his shoulders, before steering him back into the kitchen. CB didn’t look all too happy to have been removed from his hiding place, but he let Rusty guide him along nonetheless.

“Come on,” Rusty said as he moved them back towards the table. “Let’s go eat, and then we can go home.”

#starlight express #stex #stex fanfic #cb the red caboose #rusty the steam engine #poppa mccoy #dustin the big hopper #rocky one #rocky three #age regression / de-aging #light angst #fluff

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dragonrajafanfiction · 3 years

Text

Genji Heavy Industries (Part 2) Into the Underground

Chu Zihang makes me have a surprisedpikachu.jpg here.

ITT: The MC can have ally chats and date both genders soooo...

The elevator descended to the bottom floor. The door opened to pitch black.

Chu Zihang flicked on the flashlight. The beam of light illuminated the dusty statue of the Virgin Mary. Although pigment has faded due to age, the Virgin Mary statue is still flushed with a magnificent red and gold, which indicates that the paints they used were mixed with real gold powder.

This is the second basement level of the Takamagahara. The building actually had a second underground floor and one of the four elevators was a freight elevator that could reach this floor.

"This house looks pretty old!" Lu Mingfei exclaimed, "This style is not like a Japanese house."

"Before World War II, this was a Catholic church. After the Meiji Restoration, many priests came to Japan to preach, and there were many Catholics at that time. This was once a stronghold of the faithful in Tokyo, where dozens of priests lived and held regular services and masses." Chu said, "When Tokyo was bombed in World War II, the bas-reliefs and arches were destroyed, leaving only the main structure intact. The store manager saw its location and rented it, spending a lot of money to renovate it into a nightclub. The stage was originally where the organ was housed, and the card seating area was originally the choir stalls. This floor was a confessional and reading room, and was used as a bombing shelter during World War II. To this day it is a government-planned shelter, although the store manager is using it as a storage room."

You’re riding on Caesars back, your legs straddling his waist and propped up by his arms. Even though there was no danger yet, you were still slightly inebriated by your night’s show and he insisted on carrying you until you sobered up. Practical reasons aside, he made it clear that he wanted you to stay close to him. You were essential to the mission. You surmised also that his own personal code of honor and justice pushed him to go the extra mile.

Everywhere the flashlight swept was grey with dust. The four walls were painted with chalk. The floor was just smoothed with cement. The walls still had traces of smoke and fire and, in the corners, were stacked organ parts, enamel-decorated pulpits, and two or three human-high crosses with aged ochre vestments hanging from them. You can vaguely feel the prosperity of this Catholic Church back then. You imagine the clergy shuttling to and fro, the sound of voices reciting the Bible. No one could have imagined that, a hundred years later, this place would become a nightclub of sound and fury of male strippers.

Chu Zihang found a cellar well in the corner of the hall. It was covered by an old-fashioned cast iron well cover. The rusty cover was probably hundreds of years old, and the German markings of the cast iron company were indistinct. Chu Zihang and Caesar worked together to move the well cover, and the sound of water gurgled in the darkness.

"The sewer entrance is actually inside the building!" Lu Mingfei whispered in surprise, “So Hydra won’t even notice us going in and out of the Takamagahara!”

"It's indeed a very coincidental thing." Chu Zihang said, "I also did not expect the entrance to the sewer would be hidden in Takamagahara. I found the sewer map of Shinjuku district from the Internet. It doesn’t look very big. There are only a dozen sewer entrances and exits. Most of them are housed in a sewage treatment station. Only this cellar well is the exception. It should have been sealed long ago, but because it was connected to the shelter, it happened to provide an escape route, so it was preserved. I should say we got lucky, we found the shelter at the same time we touched the back entrance of Genji Heavy Industries."

Lucky, huh? You raise your eyes again to the statue of the Virgin Mary and the words of Z in your dream echoed. He was doing this for a reason. Was it revenge for Black Swan Bay? If so, why wait 20 years? He told you frankly that you wouldn’t be able to understand until the very end. But your skin was starting to crawl.

“MC! Come on.” Caesar was waiting for you at the entrance. He once again lifted you up on his back and carefully you descended into the pipe.

They went down the iron staircase into the sewer, the flashlight illuminating the mossy brick wall. The structure of this section of the sewer was very old, completely different from the modern Iron Dome shrine, with a semicircular cross section. A water channel was in the middle and narrow paths for walking were on both sides. The ceiling is draped with some kind of aquatic plant, dark green and hair-thin, and if you are not careful, they will brush your face like cold hands in the dark. There was a foot-long black shadow slowly creeping across the corner, and when Chu Zihang shone his torch over it, it suddenly accelerated and disappeared into the dark green plants, emitting a woofing sound similar to a dog's bark. Lu Mingfei was so scared that he leaned back, Caesar held him up in time, otherwise he would have been planted in the gutter.

“Stop being so jumpy!” He hissed.

"It's a mud salamander, a kind of salamander, native to North America." Chu Zihang locked the thing's exposed long tail with the beam of the flashlight. "It eats the eggs of aquatic animals, which prevents them from overpopulating the sewers. They put them in the sewers as scavengers."

"Holy shit! Scared the hell out of me! There are actually such dumb things in the sewers!"

"Each city's sewers are an ecosystem, where there is sufficient water but basically no sunlight. Those species that can adapt to the darkness will quickly reproduce and eventually form a stable biosphere." Chu Zihang walked ahead with a flashlight, "The sewer ecosystem of each city is different, related to the city's rainfall, temperature and the acidity of the groundwater. The most important thing to be careful of here is the small things like blood worms, they may lay eggs on you. The big things are mostly not dangerous, even the water snakes are also not venomous."

"Anywhere you go, the sewers are not built all at once. The sewers you see now are the sewers of Shinjuku district a hundred years ago. Tokyo had a massive renovation of the sewer system ten years ago, connecting all the old sewer systems, and the excess groundwater enters the Iron Dome Shrine through the various sewers, and is purified and discharged into the sea from the mains. If we keep walking, we’ll eventually enter the main channel." Chu Zihang glanced at the map in his hand, "About 600 meters further we will pass under the Shinjuku subway station, where there will be giant water turbines, through the turbine holes we will enter the Iron Dome Shrine."

"Brother were you born in the sewers, so you know so much about them?"

"I googled it."

"But you can't read Japanese."

"I have Google Translate, and I learned a few sentences of Japanese through Google Translate." Chu Zihang switched to Japanese and said, "Thank you for your patronage. I look forward to seeing you again. Would you like some more wine? Cry if you are sad. And that's about it."

“You’re so smart.” You say, “Maybe someday I’ll be as smart as you.”

“You’re very intelligent in your own way, MC. Mostly by way of survival. In Chizuru, you didn’t hesitate to wait until nightfall, find your own clothing, make your way to the Internet Cafe and fend off attackers. You recognized the danger of the gangsters long before we did. And in the end, if I hadn’t distracted you, you probably would not have been injured. Those are the major examples. I could go on longer with the smaller examples. When I think of them I’m glad you’re our friend and not our enemy.”

“Aw…” You say, resting your head between Caesar’s shoulder and neck. “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

Caesar snorted. “Speaking of flirting, I’m very surprised not even the hottest men of Tokyo could earn your favor tonight. You really didn’t see anything in any of them?”

“They each tried to sell themselves to me very well. But I wasn’t interested in what they had to offer. It’s not that they didn’t have anything.”

“If you had no choice and had to pick one… which one would you choose?”

“That’s a weird question. I’m wondering why it matters. Have you bet on a favorite to win?”

“No. I just don’t think it’s good to walk alone in the world. I was honestly hoping that you and Mingfei Lu would get along a bit better but…”

“It wouldn’t be good for someone like me to court an ordinary human. Playing like this for a show is… alright.”

“You loved someone back in your old place… what was he like?”

“She.”

Caesar’s eyebrows lifted. “Oh!”

Mingfei’s head swiveled in your direction. “You like girls!” He slaps his forehead. “It all makes so much sense now!”

“I didn’t know I did until I was asked that question about lost love. It’s a bit sadder now because if I had understood my feelings then, I would have told her.” You shift your gaze back to Mingfei. “Can I ask you something? Are both your parents Chinese?”

“Yeah, why?”

“You look like someone I used to know. I think he may still be alive. I liked him too.”

“Then you swing both ways?” Lu Mingfei seemed to be having a mini-crisis. How was he supposed to protect your innocence from everyone in existence? It was funny to see him frantically holding back his bangs, concerned about that rather than being worried about breaking into the headquarters of the most powerful organization in Japan.

Caesar’s eyes shifted in your direction. “If you need help searching for survivors, you have the full support of the Student Union.”

“Thanks… If anyone could survive, it would be him.”

“That would be nice if you could meet again. Pick up where you left off maybe?” Mingfei rested his arms behind his head.

You stare at him in silence and give a sigh, your chest rising against Caesar’s back.

“Don’t mind him. It’s going to hit him in like an hour.” Caesar grumbles.

You bury your head in his shoulder, giggling.

#Dragon Raja

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imaginesmai · 4 years

Text

Peter Parker - See the light (1)

Here is the first part of the Tangled series! If you don’t know what I’m talking about, here is a small sneak peek . Let me know if you want to be tagged!

This doesn’t follow exactly the story, but I’m trying to be as accurate as possible. If you haven’t seen the film, you can still understand the story, but it will be easier if you have seen it since it follows the main plot. Just a reminder; reader is not as neutral as in other fics, since the story requires a specific characteristics and I didn’t want to change Peter.

Now, I hope you enjoy it!

Plot: Peter Parker has changed over the past few years. From the sweet boy that helped in town, to a thief running away from the guards with the missing princess’ crown. While doing so, he comes across a tower with a girl with a ridiculously amount of hair. First encounters had never been so agressive for him.

The forest was nothing more than a blur as Peter dashed through the overgrowth. The mossy ground was spongy under the soles of his feet, as he practically bounded around the trees and danced around roots and barbs. His lungs burned, his legs pleading with him to slow down, but he couldn’t. The soldiers were hot on his heels, and as long as the crown was still in his possession, he couldn’t slow his sprint.

“Parker!” one of the brother shouted over his shoulder. “Keep up!”

Peter just huffed in response. The other two men were already far ahead of him; both keeping stronger stride and pace. He leaped over a fallen log and narrowly missed getting clipped by a low hanging branch. Behind him, the could hear the pounding of horses and shouting from the commander of the guard.

Suddenly, the back of Peter’s vest was being grabbed, and he was pulled into the cool brush by a strong hand. He struggled for only a second before realizing that is the other Stabbington brother who pulled him in.

“Shut up and stay still” the one with the patch scolded, and Peter’s shoulders slumped.

The theft of the crown had been nothing but improvising. Even though Peter had been dreaming with having it for months, lately he had been more focused on other things. Like the death of his uncle, murdered by the guards in a misunderstanding, or the death of his aunt, killed by an illness that Peter couldn’t afford. When the Stabbington brothers had suggested him the job, he almost said no; but he had to do something apart from hurting.

And hurting the king wasn’t such a bad option.

The ground thundered with the thumping of hoof steps, and Peter bit his tongue. The other two men were already running, caring little about the ‘team’. Peter fell into pace behind them, his lungs aching again. They didn’t run for long thought, as the trees seemed to end and they were cut off by a tall cliffside.

The three of them stared at it, until Peter broke the silence.

“Alright, help me up” Peter clapped his hands. His colleagues just stared at him in shock. “I’ll pull you up after. I’m the smallest and the lightest.”

“Give us the bag” the first one growled, holding out his hand.

“And I thought I had earned your trust” Peter said, arching a brow. There was no trust between them, and they all knew they would kill each other; even the brothers between.

The brothers just gave him narrowed eyes, so Peter gave them the bag. The crown made a tingling noise, and Peter thought of all the things that could go better if he had it.

Less than a minute later, Peter was climbing up their back like a human ladder. He had always been a skinny boy, that had grown muscles with the years, and he was used to climb into the trees for fun; so it was easy to get to the top. At the last second, he slipped the satchel right off one of them and then scampered up onto the higher ground.

“Parker, your hand” Peter should really know their names, but he couldn’t quite differentiate them.

“Sorry, but I don’t think I have one to spare. See you later!”

The brothers caught sight of the satchel in Peter’s hand, but Peter was already running before he could steal it back. The last thing he heard was his colleague’s cries of anger.

That time, sprinting didn’t feel as tiring as it did before. The horses were still behind him, but it was less threatening that earlier. Peter assumed that most of the guards had stopped over the brothers, so he had a few minutes.

As he let the wind hit his skin, Peter thought how a few years ago he wouldn’t have been able to steal, or to cheat. He was a simple boy who lived with his aunt and uncle; not with too much money, but happy enough. He had a best friend – Ned –, a girl who he considered his girlfriend – MJ – and even a man who he was learning from – Mr. Stark, the inventor –. Everything had been perfect, until they all left him, one by one, and he found himself stealing for a living. It wasn’t fun, and sometimes he allowed himself to share a few tears over the night, but it was necessary.

Peter didn’t let the emotions much room, and kept running, until he found a tower to hide.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was someone in the valley.

You knew it wasn’t your mother. For one, the person didn’t call for you to let down your hair, and secondly, the person was then climbing the body of the tower to get inside. Years of being hidden in that tower, without getting out, let you know that whoever was there didn’t have friendly intentions. Your mother had warned you from them, men that wanted to kidnap you, armies that would drag you away. And thirdly, you had a too silent chameleon looking at the window.

You had hidden yourself from sight, the heaviest and most deadly pan you owned then secured in your grasp. It was slightly rusty, but that wouldn’t stop it from being able to be swung at the intruder.

The person was breathing heavily as they scaled the tower, and moments later, you observed in freight as they crawled through the window and into the living space. It was a man, and fortunately enough, he had his back turned to you.

The man reached for the bag he had slung around his torso and looked inside. He sighed.

“You arrived a few months late, my friend”

There was a slight sad tone on his voice, but he didn’t get to say much more before you had clobbered him in the back of the head with the pan. The hit wasn’t hard, just enough to have him fall to the ground, unconscious.

You stared at him for a second. For the first time, you were looking at someone other than your mother. Pascal scampered up your back and then rested on your shoulder, the little chameleon blinking confused. You ignored your friend and took a tentative step towards the stranger, curious; Pascal only shuffled backward.

The man, or boy, had chestnut hair, full of messy curls, and a clean jaw that didn’t seem like the ruthless beards of the vikings you were waiting. His long eyelashes rested peacefully in a face that seemed full of worries, although he could be sleeping. Lips parted and breathing, the stranger was beautiful.

He wore a bright blue vest without sleeves, an underneath white shirt and pants that had seen better days, brown boots scuffed and well worn. Something that seemed a small spider was drawn on the bottom of the vest.

“What do you think he is, Pascal? A ruffian or a thug? He doesn’t seem the bogeyman to me” you asked, feeling intrigued. “That’s not what the plague looks like, is it?”

Pascal seemed to roll his eyes on your shoulder, turning around and looking out of the window.

“You’re very helpful, Pascal” you sighed, and the animal just stuck his tongue.

The boy – he couldn’t be older than you – seemed out cold, so you stepped away for a second, walking towards the abandoned satchel. Keeping a cautious eye on him, you picked up the bag and opened it. A large, golden hoop, covered in what looked like shard of glass, and ornately designed stones, laid on your hand. It was gorgeous, and shimmered in the sunlight.

You turned the thing over in your hand a few times, and walked over to the nearby mirror and stared at yourself, then down at the hoop. You placed it on your wrist, but Pascal, who was back on the ground, shook his head, obviously not convinced. You spun it around your finger next, but the hoop quickly lost balance and you had to catch it before it clattered to the ground.

Finally, you brought the object to the top of your head, and stared at yourself in the mirror. Long, and hard. Pascal’s eyes seemed to widen for a moment, until he shook his head again. Defeated, you placed it back in its bag and went back to the knocked out stranger.

“What should we do with him?”

The only place you could think to hide him was in the closet nearby. Something about throwing him out of the tower didn’t seem right, so you decided to wait until he woke up and kindly show him the way off. And, maybe, you felt a little curious about the stranger.

With a grunt, you picked up the boy and dragged him over to the wardrobe from his shoulders. He was pretty heavy and you knocked a few things over, but finally managed to shove the man in; not without two or three bangs that probably had made him even more unconscious.

“There is a man in the tower” you said, crossing your arms and looking at the closet. Was it a finger what stuck from the opening? “There is a man… in my closet. In my – ha! How you like that, mother? Who’s the sapling now?”

The little dance-off you were having against the unconscious man and out of happiness ended quickly when a new voice rang up from the valley.

“Y/N! Let down your hair!”

You tumbled to the window, and looked down to see your mother smiling at you. She was carrying a basket with some fruits, and you squealed in excitement; the unconscious man would be enough proof to let you go outside. You let your hair fall towards the ground, and your mother stepped into the tower.

“I have a huge surprise” she said cheerfully.

You reeled the rest of your hair back into the tower, and singed back a happy ‘so do I’, staring at her back as the older woman removed her cloak.

“Mine first, I’m sure you’ll love it. I bought mangos!” your mother chuckled, placing his back full of fruit on the table. “Thought we could make some special dessert, it’s been a while since we did so. How’s that for a surprise?”

“It’s great, mother” you replayed, kissing her cheek when she gave you a pointed look. “I wanted to talk to you about something, though”

“Treasure, you know I hate leaving after an argument, but-“

“No, mother, you don’t-“

“Don’t interrupt me” her voice was hard, and you casted your eyes down..

“Sorry. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, mother”

“When are you not?” your mother laughed.

You looked around the walls of the tower, where a lot of drawings and books were kept. There were pieces from all over the world that your mother had given you, and some of them done by you. There wasn’t much to do when you spent your whole life up there.

“But I have –“

“I hope it’s not about the flying lanterns”

You inched closer to the wardrobe, looking for an emotional support on any of the habitants of the tower. Pascal was too busy, chasing a fly on the window, and your mother only had disapproval on her eyes. You sighed, hand shaking.

“Mother, just – earlier, you said I wasn’t ready for the outside. But I just think you were wrong –“

“Don’t tell me what’s right or wrong” you mother corrected you quickly.

“But, if you just trust me, mother, I know –“

“Y/N, we’re done talking about this.”

“I know, mother, but I just wanted to –“

“Y/N”

“Please, mother, just listen to –“

“Enough with the lights, Y/N! You’re not leaving this tower, you’re not leaving me, and you’re stopping right now if you don’t want consequences!” your mother all but screamed, eyes blowing side open and voice louder than you had ever heard it. You immediately removed your hand from the wardrobe’s handle out of shook.

It took her a second, but eventually your mother regained some form of composure and fell into a chair like the victim.

“Oh, perfect” she sighed. “You’ve made me the villain”

You watched your mother, your heart rate decreasing slowly, with your enthusiasm and happiness along. After a long moment where you fight to keep the tears at bay, out of frustration and sadness, you stepped towards her tentatively, until you could kneel by her side.

“Before… I just – I just wanted to say I know what I want for my birthday”

“What do you want?” your mother eyed you with a critical eye.

“New paints. Like the one you bought me last year, that had a special bright red glow, or the thick blue one”

Your mother narrowed her eyes at you, and leaned forward against the chair.

“That man doesn’t live close, treasure. The trip will be long. Almost three days.”

“I just thought it would be better than the lights”

Your mother let out a long sigh and stood up. She walked around for a bit, until finally stopped in front of you with a too kind smile, that only showed when she got what she wanted, and knew she had won. Leaning down, she took your head in her hands and brought it forward, so she could plant a kiss to the top of your hair.

“You sure you’ll be okay on your own?”

“I’ve done it before” you smiled shakily at her.

“Alright” your mother’s mouth was pressed in a grim line, yet she still nodded. “I’ll be back in three days. No more. I love you very much, treasure”

“I love you more, mother”

You helped your mother with the bags and wished her a safe journey under the promise of being careful in the tower. As you watched her walk away, you thought about how three days was enough time to coax the boy to take you to the flying lights and be back before she noticed.

Now you only had to wait for him to wake up.

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smooshjames · 4 years

Text

forget you not (ii)

your voice a serenade and it sings to my heart (or: concerts, closure, and an la sidewalk)

word count: just under 4k

a/n: part 2 of forget you not is here! again, i didn’t write any of the songs mentioned herein; all credit for the music in this story goes to little mix. links as always to the songs mentioned in this part: x, x, x, x. if you like what i do, consider buying me a coffee! it’s never obligatory but the support would certainly be appreciated. if you can’t/don’t want to donate, don’t worry about it!! i’m just grateful people take the time to read my work!

warnings: more angst teehee, an obscene amount of italic text

previous part: here

Your break seemed to pass in no time, and then it was time for mic check. You noted Courtney and Shayne sitting in the front row and wondered silently if God was punishing you for something you’d done. Maybe this was karma from a past life.

Doing your best not to look at him, and pushing down the absurd hope that he’d be looking back at you if you did, you went through mic check as quickly as possible and made your way back into the safety of the dressing room. With mic check done, the concert would begin in less than an hour, and you were starting to reconsider singing Towers. The front row of the arena was close enough to the stage that you’d be able to see him even with all the stage lights, and you weren’t sure you could sing the song if you had to actually look him in the eye while you did it. It was one thing to know he was in the room, another entirely to actually watch his reactions.

But Carly had already gotten Michelle to coordinate with the sound people and the backup dancers, and you didn’t want to have to force them to go back on all that. You couldn’t back out now.

That knowledge weighed on you up to the start of the show, and then you got your game face on. You had no time to dwell on Shayne once you were out of the dressing room, doing warmups as you made your way to the lift below the stage, performing your pre-show ritual which involved some call-and-response singing and a lot of hugs, and then getting into position on the lift which would bring you up from beneath the stage floor.

You could already hear the audience cheering and talking, and you felt your heart skip a beat at the sound of it. You counted out the beats in your head as the intro music started, the lights began to flash, the dancers got into place, and the lift began to rise.

“Make way for the G-O-double-D-E-S-S.” The mantra of your newest album, and the way you began your show. The band harmonized this phrase a few times before the song, and the concert, began in earnest.

It went well. You were right; you could just make out Shayne’s face even through all the stage lights. But for the first few songs, you were so occupied with remembering your choreography and making sure you sounded good that you could sort of forget he was there.

And then it was time for Towers, and your heart fell into your stomach.

“We’ve got a little bit of a treat for you tonight,” Alexis said. The audience quieted slightly as she spoke, obviously wanting to know what she was talking about. “We’re gonna take it back a little bit. We haven’t sung this live in quite some time, so forgive us if it’s a bit rusty.”

You heard the familiar drumbeat of Towers begin to play. The audience started screaming immediately, obviously recognizing the song right away, and you grinned despite your nerves. For the time being, you managed to keep your eyes off of Shayne. You focused instead on Carly as she began to sing the first verse of the song.

And then it was your verse, and you stared out at the sea of nondescript shapes that made up the majority of the audience; you could only see the first few rows before they became dark, vaguely person-shaped forms. “It’s a shame, you’re to blame, ‘cause once you owned my heart,” you sang. It sounded a little wobbly, but overall it was okay.

You made it through the first line of your verse before your eyes betrayed you. You couldn’t stop yourself any longer; you looked at Shayne.

He was staring directly at you. You couldn’t make out much of his expression, but it seemed… pained, like he was sad.

The sound died in your throat and you heard the audience murmur as you stopped singing. You looked from Shayne to the rest of the audience and then to Carly, who was nodding in an attempt to be encouraging. You took a deep, shuddery breath, frantically trying to get your shit together. You could hear the audience trying to help you by singing the lyrics you were missing, and you were vaguely aware of Alexis and Piper holding their microphones out to the crowd in encouragement, but everything was sort of blurry.

You kept your eyes locked on Carly. You would not look at Shayne. You couldn’t. You knew that he was hearing you, and that would just have to be enough. You opened your mouth to sing again.

“I still feel love when I see your face, but all these tears I can’t erase.” Luckily, you had only missed a couple of bars of the song and were able to pick up just about where you had left off. You hoped the audience would just chalk it up to what Alexis said before the song started; it had been a while since you’d sang Towers live. “Sorry heart, I’m sorry heart but we’ll have to start again.”

And then, like an angel from heaven on high, Piper began to sing. You had a momentary reprieve to collect yourself and take a deep breath. Since performing this song was so impromptu, there was no choreography for you to remember, nothing to think about as Piper sang her bit.

The second chorus was yours, and you weren’t sure what came over you but you looked at Shayne again as you began to sing and this time, you didn’t stop. You didn’t look away. Maybe it was all the pent-up emotion finally being released, or maybe it was just the energy in the room making you braver than you might’ve normally been, but you held his gaze through the chorus: “you never brought me flowers, never held me in my darkest hours. And you left it so late that my heart feels nothing, nothing in towers. Once we were made like towers. Everything could’ve been ours, but you left it too late, now my heart feels nothing, nothing at all.”

You felt a tear drip down your cheek as you sang, but you forced yourself to push through it. You were sure the audience had probably noticed the shaky quality of your voice by now.

You continued to look at Shayne while Alexis began singing the bridge. You thought you saw him reach up and wipe at his face like he was wiping away a tear, but that was probably a trick of the stage lights. It had to be. Why would he be crying?

As the final chorus began and Piper belted out her high notes, you watched him in sort of a daze. He reached up to swipe at his cheek again, and then he stood up and started walking toward the exit. You lost him in the crowd almost immediately.

If that was what closure was supposed to feel like, then closure was pretty fucking useless.

***

The evening air hit Shayne like a freight train as he stumbled out of the arena and into the night. He took in a gulp of air and wiped at the tears on his cheeks, letting out a pitiful noise of frustration and anguish. He sat on the edge of the sidewalk. He bowed his head between his knees, ran his hands through his hair, and tried to remember how to breathe.

It had been going alright, all things considered. He felt a little bit like he was getting the shit beat out of him as he watched you grind on backup dancers and sing about love and moving on and strength and how you didn’t need a man, but other than that he’d been having fun; the show was good, not just from a musical standpoint but from a technical standpoint as well. He could tell that you and your bandmates had put countless hours into learning dance routines on top of singing everything, which was really impressive. Costumes and special effects made the show feel complete.

And you had been utterly ethereal, silhouetted by stage lights and grinning as you walked around the stage like you owned it. It had seemed, for a while, that you were having the time of your life. That you’d forgotten he was even there.

Your bandmate -- Alexis or Piper, he couldn’t be positive which -- said you were doing an older song, and Courtney reached out to grab his forearm like she’d just won the lottery. When the intro started playing, she shot out of her seat to sing along. For the first few seconds, it was fine. Just another song.

When you started to sing, though, you looked at him, and he felt his heart ripped from his chest and stomped into the ground like it meant nothing. You seemed so sad, so angry, so accusatory. And you had every right to be, he knew.

But it was when you stopped singing, when you made that little sound that he knew meant you were about to cry, it was then that the room slowed and shrank around him. The air was punched out of his lungs and he couldn’t seem to get any more. He felt like his world had gone off-kilter, like he was careening at lightspeed into the sun.

You tore your eyes away from him and looked at Carly, who nodded at you. You seemed to find your voice again, and oh, it was like fire curling out from his ribs and up into his throat. He was utterly transfixed by you; he couldn’t look away even as one of your other bandmates began to sing.

“You never bought me flowers,” you sang, and you were looking at him again, all that sadness and fire behind your eyes. He felt his throat spasm around a sob, felt his eyes burn. “Never held me in my darkest hours.” God, you were right; he’d fucked up so monumentally. “And you left it so late that my heart feels nothing, nothing in towers.” This was when the tears started to fall.

The rest of your words were sort of a blur. All he could focus on was your eyes boring into his.

Eventually, he couldn’t take it anymore. He stood up and rushed out, and now here he was, close to hyperventilation on a gross LA sidewalk.

His phone buzzed in his pocket. It was Courtney asking where he’d gone, making sure he was okay. He typed back that he had just needed to get some air. He was grateful when she didn’t reply.

In all honesty, he wasn’t sure how long he sat on that sidewalk. He didn’t want to go back inside. He wasn’t sure if he could see you without dissolving into tears all over again. He wanted to go home; or, even better, he wanted to go to Damien’s and cry on his couch and eat ice cream until he couldn’t think straight. But he knew Courtney would be worried and disappointed if he left early, and she would push him for a reason, and he couldn’t tell her. This was her favorite band.

He didn’t want to change her opinion just because he was still pining over a relationship that ended years ago.

He sniffled, stood up, and dusted off his jeans. Before he went back inside, he sent Damien a text asking if he could come over after the concert. Damien’s answer came quickly; sure, he wasn’t busy. Shayne let out a sigh of relief and made his way back into the arena.

You didn’t look at him for the rest of the show.

***

Luckily, the concert ended sooner rather than later. You and your bandmates waved and called goodbyes as you disappeared beneath the stage floor. Shayne, anxious to get out of the arena, was out of his seat as soon as the house lights turned back on. He rocked up on the balls of his feet while Courtney gathered her stuff.

Once she was ready to go, Shayne began pushing through the crowds toward the exit. It took a while, but he finally managed to get out of the building with Courtney in tow.

“So, did you like it?” she asked as they walked back to their cars. Shayne stuffed his hands into his pockets and did his best not to look like a kicked puppy.

“Yeah, it was pretty good,” he said.

“I thought it was great. I was so surprised when they sang Towers; it’s one of my favorite songs by them. And they all sounded so great, too.”

Shayne tuned her out for most of the walk, too deep in his own feelings to give Courtney his full attention. Once they made it back to their cars, they hugged and went their separate ways.

He’d never been so anxious to get to Damien’s.

He was greeted, as usual, by the cats. They meowed up at him and twined around his legs, almost like they knew he was upset. He leaned down to scratch behind their ears. Damien shouted a greeting from the kitchen.

Shayne didn’t respond, just toed off his shoes and went to sit down on the couch. He leaned back against the throw pillows and closed his eyes for a while, lulled into a sort of trance by the sound of the sink running in the kitchen.

Shayne turned up on Damien’s doorstep with hunched shoulders and red-rimmed eyes. He reached for the doorknob and, as Damien had said he would, found it unlocked. Zelda and Freyja swarmed around his legs as he entered, purring and twining around him. He smiled softly down at them but didn’t stoop to pet them. He was pretty sure if he crouched to their level he wouldn’t be able to get back up; the exhaustion and sadness and disappointment in his system felt so intense, so bone-deep and pervasive, that he was fairly certain he might keel over unconscious any second.

He shuffled over to the couch and collapsed onto it, groaning into one of the throw pillows. He’d only been there for a minute or so when Damien emerged from the bathroom. Shayne heard his friend suck in a sharp inhale at the sight of him and realized that Damien probably hadn’t heard him come in. “Sorry,” he said, “didn’t mean to scare you.”

“It’s fine,” Damien replied. “I just didn’t realize you’d get here so fast. You want something to drink?”

Shayne thought for a second and then decided against it. “No,” he replied. “I’m not thirsty.”

Damien didn’t respond, though Shayne did hear his footsteps receding into the kitchen. He came back after a few seconds with a bottle of water. Once he had made himself comfortable on the couch and taken a long drag of said water, he peered at Shayne for a long moment. Shayne didn’t look back at him; he was fixated on a point off to Damien’s left, and he was only half-aware of his surroundings, anyway. He didn’t need to look at Damien’s face to know what he’d find there: confusion, disappointment, probably some anger.

“What happened?” Damien asked. That question was almost worse than the uncomfortable silence.

“I don’t know,” Shayne replied, and it wasn’t a lie. “I don’t… dude, I don’t fucking know. I panicked, I ended things, and she just… she just left. She didn’t even try to fight it.”

“Please tell me that’s not you trying to blame her for this,” Damien said, and Shayne could hear the anger creeping steadily further into his voice. He squeezed his eyes shut, scrubbed a hand over his face, and reached for the water bottle. He downed the rest of it and set it on the end table. With the water gone, he sat up and turned so that he could face Damien.

“I’m not. It’s my fault. I’m not stupid enough to try to deny that.”

“Well, you’re stupid enough to end a three-year relationship for no good goddamn reason, so at this point, I’m not a hundred percent sure where all of your brain cells have fucked off to.”

Shayne grimaced at the biting words as if Damien had taken a physical swing at him, unable to help the wounded sound that lodged itself in his throat. He didn’t try to fight it, though. Damien was right.

There was a moment of tense silence. Damien sighed and shook his head, and then his form softened; his shoulders relaxed and some of the ire left his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he said. “That was harsh. I just… I’m just confused, dude. I thought you guys were happy. This is kind of coming out of nowhere.”

“The other day, we talked about getting married. And we both agreed that it was something we wanted.”

Damien’s brow furrowed. “Oh… kay?” he said slowly, sounding out each vowel. “That kind of proves my point, Shayne.”

“Today, I got home and she was sitting on the couch and she asked me how my day was and I panicked. Suddenly, it was just… too much. And I started talking before I could think about it. And from there it was like I was completely out of control, like I couldn’t shut myself up. The look on her face… that look is gonna haunt my fucking dreams. And by the time I realized what I had done, by the time I was about to get down on my knees and beg her to stay, she was gone.”

Another long few seconds of silence. Shayne realized with a start that he was crying. He took a shuddering breath and wiped at the tears on his cheeks.

“I’m scared, Dames,” he continued. “She didn’t fight it. She just… she just packed a bag and went. Maybe she wanted this, maybe she was waiting to tell me. Maybe she wasn’t happy. Maybe that’s why she didn’t fight.”

Damien looked at him like he had grown a second head. “You’re crazy, Shayne. She was… she is so utterly in love with you. Think about the shit you’ve gone through together. Do you honestly believe that she would’ve stuck around this long if she wasn’t happy with you?”

“I texted her after she left,” Shayne said. “Right before I texted you. I apologized and asked if we could talk more. She hasn’t responded.”

“Can you blame her?” Damien asked. Shayne shrugged feebly. “She’s probably with Carly right now. I’d bet any money Carly told her not to answer, and that’s probably for the best. Wait at least until tomorrow and give her a call. You both need a little time to calm down, but you can still fix this.”

Shayne nodded, but he knew deep down that it was done. You were done.

Shayne was startled out of his memories as, in the present, Damien sat down on the couch next to him. He opened his eyes and looked at his best friend, and he knew without having to see himself that he had the same expression as he’d had five years ago; shocked, distant, utterly devastated.

“You okay, man?” Damien asked. Shayne scrubbed his hand over his face and let out a long, frustrated sigh. “That bad?”

“You’ll never guess who I ran into today,” Shayne began. Damien didn’t say anything, just sort of cocked his head as a sign for Shayne to continue. “Y/N, of all people.”

Damien perked up at the mention of your name, but then shrank back down and made a sympathetic sound in the back of his throat. “Was she at the concert or something?”

“Oh, not only was she at the concert,” Shayne said. He surged upward so that he was sitting up straight, feeling a surge of frustration course through him. “No, she’s in the fucking band.”

Damien’s eyes widened and his mouth dropped into a sort of shocked “oh” shape. Shayne nodded and threw his hands in the air for emphasis.

“So not only am I caught completely off guard seeing her again during the photo op or whatever, but then I’ve gotta watch her for the whole concert. And she sang this song that I just --” his voice died in his throat as he remembered the look on your face, that same look from years ago, so wholeheartedly hurt.

“I’m sorry, Shayne,” Damien said. It was clear that he wasn’t sure what to do. “Do you wanna talk more or do you wanna take your mind off it?”

Shayne sighed again. “I think I just need a distraction. Let’s find a comedy special or something to watch.”

Damien nodded and turned the TV on, scrolling through Netflix until he found something they agreed upon. Shayne drifted in and out of sleep for a while, exhausted from the emotional whiplash of the day, before he finally passed out on Damien’s couch.

***

He woke up to a sharp pain in his neck and the smell of bacon frying in the kitchen.

“Morning,” Damien greeted him as he entered. “Figured I’d make some breakfast.”

Shayne nodded his thanks and went to the fridge for some water, and then he sat down on a stool at the breakfast counter. His phone was almost dead, but there was just enough power to make sure he hadn't missed anything important. He checked his texts, listened to a voicemail from his dentist’s office about an upcoming appointment, and then scrolled through his emails.

There was one in his work inbox which caught his eye; the filming schedule for the upcoming week. He clicked on the email and scrolled down until he got to the attached document. At the top, Monday, he and Damien would be filming a guest Try Not to Laugh. When his eyes scanned across the page to see who the guest was, his heart dropped into the pit of his stomach.

There, written in clear, bold print, was the name of your band.

And Shayne’s lungs were caving in all over again.

#shayne topp x reader #shayne topp #eliza.txt #forget you not #part three will go up around wednesday!

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lindoig4 · 5 years

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Across Canada

I will try to post a little more text today, but the internet service here is pretty poor so I will leave posting of any more photos until we get home. We leave the US this evening and arrive back in Melbourne before dawn on Wednesday, having missed an entire day along the way.

We took a cab to Union Station to catch the VIA Rail across the country. We have usually paid cab fares by card, but Heather used cash this time. The cabbie gave her a few coins as change and when Heather said that there should have been some notes, he said he was keeping that as his tip - about 50% of the fare. Heather argued, but he bullied her and insisted that he was keeping it. Had I been closer instead of getting our bags out of the boot, he may not have been so demanding, but it left a sour taste in our mouths as it was.

The train is by no means luxurious, obviously oldish, but it is quite functional and we are comfy enough in our little cabin. One good thing is that the bunks are bigger and much more comfortable than on the ship or the other trains we have used. We have both slept well.

On the other hand, there is no WiFi at all, only an occasional phone signal and although there are 110-volt power outlets, they won’t charge my PC - so once again, the technology has failed us. Maybe I am naive, but we are now in the 21st century and I reckon basic power and signal issues should have been sorted out years ago. As it is, the battery in my PC is flat and there is no way I can use it until we reach Vancouver at best. That means I can’t look at my photos or do much with my blog other than draft bits on my iPad.

Canada is exquisitely beautiful. It is an absolute picture postcard, full to bursting with trees and lakes. The overwhelming colour is green, with literally billions of tall skinny pointy trees. Actually, they are not that tall. We have seen very few trees more than 8-10 metres tall, but there are zillions of them, mostly densely packed with both understory and overstory. In some places, it is a bit more open, but still usually gloomy and mysterious, inviting us to explore - if only we were out there in the bush. Aspen, larch, spruce, alder, birch, pines and firs, conifers of every description, millions of stark white trunks, black trunks, all sorts, drowning in a thousand shades of green, leaves shimmering in the breeze, gleaming in the sun, with just a smattering of autumn tones starting to appear here and there.

Then there are the thousands of lakes. We must have traversed 1000 kilometres of marshy land with water shimmering through the low vegetation as far as we could see. But there are thousands of open lakes as well, from just a hectare or two to those speeding past the train for kilometre after kilometre. Did I say picture postcard? We have seen them all. The little ones that look like they came out of a cutesy 50s or 60s movie, with the summer camp atmosphere - a few canoes tied up to a little landing, a pontoon and shallow diving board, a short rowing course, maybe a pathetic little waterski-jump and a collection of quaint little huts that are probably family holiday shacks. Then there are the more remote ones, some with a tiny island or two with just 2 or 3 perfectly conical fir trees on them and a kayak tied up to a partly-submerged drowning landing that defies imagination about how one might access it - not even a hiking track, much less a road, in sight. Then we have the larger ones with a couple of small tinnies out there, each with a fisherman or two, sound asleep with their rods dangling limp over the side, or perhaps the ten deserted sheds, some literally falling down, and only a tiny Cessna anchored to the shore to suggest that anyone might occasionally visit them. We are not talking upscale Hillbilly country. This is magically picturesque country that should warrant criminal charges if anyone but us invades it. Add your own superlatives, but for me, I have run out. Simply stupendously glorious!

Later. We have just crossed the border from massive Ontario into Manitoba - after more than 20 hours heading west. Slowly, the trees and lakes seem to be getting slightly larger, the terrain is a little more open, the trees a little lighter green and the wildflowers more profuse and colourful - mainly white, yellow and mauve/purple.

For the entire trip, there has been a line of telegraph posts and cables beside the train: around 20 cables, but obviously long defunct. Thousands of the posts have simply sunk into the boggy earth or fallen over or submerged into the lakes, and many of the cables are broken or hanging limp and tangled. I am amazed that nobody has attempted to salvage the hundreds of thousands of dollars of copper out there.

As we went west, it became a little hillier and we even went through a couple of short tunnels. We also went through many cuttings where the rock had been blasted away for the track. There was a lot of red in the rocks and it is likely that some sort of algae was growing on it to make it that colour.

It was getting dark when we rolled into Winnipeg, but we had an hour and a bit stopover, so we went into the station and used the WiFi to download our email - alas, mostly more bills to pay! I had prepared a few emails to send, but they were all on my PC and inaccessible due to the flat battery!

It was a very rocky night, but we were up early for showers. I raised the blind just a centimetre or two in our cabin and could see everything there was to see. The landscape was entirely in landscape. Flat, flat, flat - all the way to the horizon. Everything looked manicured as if the farmers had risen early and swept or ironed their paddocks to welcome us. A bit later, we saw patches of forest and lots of neat (or sometimes sprawling) farmhouses, often with 2 or 3 little cottages and a barn or two, and mostly at least a field-bin or ten (or 30) and a tractor parked nearby. Many farms also have a machinery graveyard, usually at a distance from the house, with rows of rusty tractors, trucks, cars, pick-ups, ploughs, harvesters, caravans, campers and who knows what, all lined up in their final resting places, slowly sinking into the landscape. The houses all have pitched rooves, presumably to avoid too much snow collecting on them in the winter.

The paddocks are mainly cropped with wheat, barley, oats and canola, but there is also a lot of uncropped land, mostly looking too boggy to crop. Quite a bit of the uncropped land is still productive though, with miles of road and rail verges being harvested and baled for silage. It is obviously harvest time over here with quite a lot of crop already cut, but with plenty more still to go. We haven’t seen much actually being harvested, but plenty of hay bales in neatly shorn paddocks. There are a few cattle but no big herds. Also a few horses, half a dozen goats, a donkey, a young deer standing beside the track staring at me - and at least one fox scampering across the prairie with four magpies harassing it. It was nearly two days later before we saw any sheep: about 20 near one house and 3 at another – then none through to Vancouver.

There have been a few shallow lakes, mainly fairly small and at last, a few birds. We crossed one wide river, very shallow with flat mud islands and hundreds of birds: all gulls and Canada Geese as far as I could see. It is very frustrating not having any internet because I can’t identify the birds conclusively without my favourite Merlin app, but I am taking photos and making notes and hope I will be able to tie some of them down later. It is even more frustrating that Heather can sit there posting to Facebook and her blog almost any time when the SIM we purchased for me doesn’t work in either my phone or my iPad!

There were a few places along the rivers and nearby lakes where I suspect beavers were at work. A couple of creeks appeared to be dammed and there was an area near one suspected lodge where a whole lot of smallish trees had been felled – all with pencil-sharpener bases. And I saw a few flat conical structures a metre or so above the water level – again with a collection of pick-up-sticks pencil-ended logs embedded in the structure. I could be just imagining it, but the indications seemed to be there that beavers could have created the dams and underwater pyramids.

It is strange that we rocketed through the night, speeding along much faster than anywhere to date, making for a very bumpy ride - then arriving in Saskatoon where they said we were way ahead of our timetable so there would be a two hour stopover to get back on schedule. Go figure! The track we are on is apparently owned by a freight company and freight trains always have priority. This means that we frequently need to stop at sidings or on branch lines, often for half an hour or more until a freight train passes. The freight trains are massive, up to about 3 kilometres long and mostly double-deckers that roar along carrying hundreds of thousands of tonnes of cargo across the country day and night. They are not as bad as in Russia where a few kilometres of freight barrelled past us every time I raised my camera for a shot, but there must still be at least several dozen here each day.

Next time we woke up, we were in Saskatchewan and the terrain slowly became more varied, with lumpy low hills, uneven ground, more diverse vegetation, taller trees and in due course, we had an hour or so stopover in Edmonton and next morning we rolled into Jasper in the Canadian Rockies. Our Edmonton stop was marked by the start of a dramatic electrical storm. It was really ferocious with lightning flashing brilliantly around us every few seconds. We went to dinner as it was getting dark and the lightning outside the dining car was tremendous. We were soon locked up, cosy in bed, but several other passengers said the electrical storm was amazing and followed us for hours.

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goddamnitdazai · 7 years

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{3} Like Smoke

holy shit I finally updated. I’m going to try and be consistent and update this story weekly. Finally found my inspiration for this story again. {Prologue} // {1} // {2} { Mafia!Dazai x F!Reader }{ Mature }{ Canon Divergent }{ canon - typical violence } __________________________ The silence is unexpectedly comfortable. Or maybe the alcohol gliding through your veins was keeping your body relaxed and mind focused on the blurring lights framing the empty road. Dazai had practically force fed you potstickers before scurrying you out of the door with fried dough still partially hanging from your lips. Starless, the night looks like a canvas painted with heavy strokes of flitting navy blue with a half-moon pinned in the corner. He barely gave direction as you drove with nervous fingers drumming on the steering wheel. Dazai whistles with the song on the radio, head leaning against the window.

“This is the only time of night I like,” Dazai muses, “before the next day starts and the night ends. Everything stops.”

“Like limbo.” You say, eyes flickering to the left.

“Limbo it is then.”

The rest of the drive is quiet, which is surprising considering the last encounter you had he’d graced you with a velvet smooth repertoire and a charming smile. Thinking back on that night makes your stomach drop, but maybe it had all been part of the plan. Dazai catches the way your lips turn—agitation, he remembers that look—but he saves the comments for later. The highway eases towards the docks. Water catches the glare of the moonlight in funneling ripples of white gold.

The world, as Dazai said before, has completely stopped. Reticence compresses the two of you in a private universe draped under moonlight and the scent of salt water. Dazai still doesn’t mention where you’re going. Rows of identical warehouses sit on the other side of the road tracing the curve of the water. Instinctively you ease off the gas as the road narrows towards an empty toll booth under a single street lamp.

As barren as the rest of the world the shipyard gives no sign of life, former or current. Two single cargo ships idle one right after the other against the dock. Rows of unmarked orange and white containers big enough to house an elephant cram the deck of the ship completely full. Dazai waves his hand left towards a single unattached warehouse veiled behind the larger ones. His command is wordless but understood. Easing off the gas you pull through the alleyway running along the side of the warehouse just thin enough to fit the car. Metal scrapes on the side mirror causing you to flinch, but Dazai just chuckles under his breath.

“Thought you drove for a living?” He mocks before sliding his arm across your chest and unlatching the door. “I can’t fit between the car door and the wall, and a gentleman always opens the car door for a lady.

Exhaustion keeps your eyes from rolling, but the adrenaline is building up again. Wet grass slips across your ankles and Dazai doesn’t seem entirely too concerned about keeping quiet. A low hum echoes against the heavily leaved trees as he walks, hands shoved in his pockets like he was taking a stroll through the park on a summer day. Dazai pauses and bends forward a little to allow you ahead of him. You catch the slight upturn of his lip as you pass, but there is too much going on to be concerned with another smirk.

Instincts kick in and the area around you is suddenly unrelentingly suspicious. Eerie silence void of city life sets your nerves on fire. The remaining alcohol has been stomped out by adrenaline, but there’s a lingering touch of anxiety gnawing at the back of your mind. Sobriety was complicated, apparently. Every muscle from your head to your toes turns rigid and strains with each movement. The light above the toll booth flickers as you approach with caution. Slender fingers glide down your lower back. Dazai pushes you forward like a mother duck ushering her timid duckling to the water for their first swim.

His hand lingers for a moment, leaving a warm ghost of an imprint when he pulls back. Your eyes waver to the right; Dazai sighs. Both of his hands encircle your ribs to push you forward. Stifling a surprised gasp you wriggle from his touch and send him a glare from behind your shoulder. Irritation is painted over his face despite half of it being covered by bandages.

“The booth is empty. Go”

Dazai’s voice is a knife cutting you down piece by piece; you’d never heard this tone before. It drips Mafioso. Quickly you move past the booth and continue towards the docks, macabre silence following both of you like a shadow. Ebony water ripples between cracks in the dock spraying white foam up at your shoes. Both ships tower over the entire port, cutting through the moonlight and concealing the length of the dock in black. A long plank wavers into view and runs up the side of the second ship. From afar it’s thin, almost like a string tying the ship to the down so it won’t float away. Dazai’s hand tugs a belt loop on the back of your pants. You freeze, awaiting instructions on what the ever loving fuck you’re doing here.

“Think he expects us to come right through the front door?” “Doesn’t the mafia plan more tactical and ruthless infiltration over just busting someone’s door down?” “Look at you, already surpassing my expectations.” There’s no time to feel insulted. Dazai pushes you forward again, forcefully, towards the elongated plank of wood in the distance. Despite his incessant need to shove you rather than let you creep along the side of the ship Dazai’s face reads nothing but excessive boredom. His eyes flit around without taking in a drop of detail. You notice how certain boards creaked beneath the weight of your foot while others splintered depending on the angle.You notice the faded etching on crates slowly rotting in piles in the center of the dock, and the smell of old fishing nets draped haphazardly over the unused rungs--wet and moldy; you noticed everything. Polar opposites working towards an unmarked goal; the Port Mafia operated in the strangest of ways. The makeshift ladder could break at any moment. At least, that’s how weak and feeble it felt beneath your feet as you ascend towards the small opening in side of the ship. A single musty yellow light flickers near the entrance, barely radiating enough glow to highlight the scratched white name wrapped over the entire side of the ship. Dazai follows leisurely behind, moonlight finally breaching the barrier of crates on the deck. He’s still humming low in his throat. As expected, the deck was entirely void of life. Dazai steps beside you wordlessly, eyes blank and face unchanged from his prior look of indifference. At this point you assumed he’d tell you what you were looking for, or who, or anything. “This ship sure is strange,” Dazai says, “no organization at all. How peculiar.” “What are we doing here?” “Looking for someone who has been causing trouble for us.” Dazai says with a shrug, “I haven’t been on a mission so boring in a while though. This is terrible.” “I’ll try and be more entertaining the next time you drag me to a fucking rusty cargo ship at three-thirty in the morning after dunking me in ice water.” “Ah, it’s unhealthy to hold on to grudges for so long ____.” Your jaw locks; Dazai’s lips crack open enough to show his teeth. A growing headache inches up the back of your skull and Dazai’s sarcastic smirk is only making it worse. With a huff you turn your attention to the endless uneven rows of crates before you. There’s only a lean slab of deck untouched by freights that cuts to the other side of the ship; you’re surrounded. There’s no space to move anywhere but the mismatched walkway made by the stacks, and with the way the metal juts out it’s a miracle whomever placed them like this didn’t break their knees walking back out of the maze. Maze. “After you my dear.” Dazai bows again, head tilted towards the mouth of a dangerously constructed alleyway between the crates. The ship becomes an improvised city far too condensed for your liking the further in you wander. Stacks grow higher and higher. Within a few minutes you’re completely shrouded in darkness for a second time. Slivers of moonlight barely funnel through the spaces between the never-ending towers of metal. Recycled air starts to choke you. Heat creeps up the back of your neck. Dazai is inches behind you and barely giving you room to breathe. The smell of salt water undulates ahead; the edge of the ship is drawing closer. Your palms shoot outwards to find where the crates curve as the path gets more narrow, but Dazai grips your wrists before the metal comes in contact with your skin. He locks your wrists behind your back, chest flush against you with his lips at your ear. “Dangerous things hide in the dark.” His chin rests on your shoulder. There’s a twang to the left, soft enough to blend in with the sound of waves lapping against the side of the ship. Three identical objects catch your attention. Barely inches above your head the grenades twist, catching a pinch of moonlight against their rigid outline. Thin wire splits from the top of the swinging bundle down to both sides of the path and disappears to the floor. One finger on that wire and you’d be a pile of burning ashes. A shudder bolts up your spine; Dazai releases your hands. There is only so much deck left of the ship. The further you step the more concave the walkway becomes. One foot in front of the other and hands glued to your side is the only plausible way to keep moving. Although, seeing in the dark is proving to be an easier task over keeping your balance. Thick, musky air scratches your lungs with each inhale. Abruptly the pathway forks and the sound of clicking machines fill the small space. Something feels uneasy in the pit of your stomach; Dazai’s breath is no longer brushing down your neck. Your hand reaches back, fingers dancing in the empty space where he once was. That fucker.

#bungou stray dogs #bungo stray dogs #dazai #mafia!dazai #dazai osamu #like smoke #ls #my writing #my writing dazai #dazai x reader #reader x dazai #bsd fanfc #bungou stray dogs fanfic #bsd reader insert #dazai osamu x reader #bsd #mafia!dazai x reader

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savvystories · 6 years

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Hello again, gang!

I’m looking for a few folks to check out my new murder mystery novel called Double Blind, part of the Death and Damages box set.

All month I’ve been positing sample chapters form the other authors; now YOU can read my full book as a beta reader!

If you are interested, CONTACT ME and I’ll send you over a copy.

HERE IS A SAMPLE – THE FIRST TWO CHAPTERS!

TITLE: Double Blind TAG LINE: Two detectives hunt a serial killer. The killer’s hunting them.

DESCRIPTION: A lone trucker is ambushed, shot, and brutally stabbed. A tourist meets the same fate while out for a jog. Facing two crime scenes that could have come from a horror movie, Detectives Carly Sanderson and Sergio Martin search for the crazed serial killer. Five more attacks happen in a week, launching the entire city into a panic, causing the mayor to throw all of the city’s resources into stopping the rampage. But while the detectives work around the clock, they don’t know the killer has upped the game—by making them his next targets.

Chapter 1

The killer clutched and re-clutched the big knife, his heart pounding as he eyed his prey.

Twenty feet away, a lone, paunchy truck driver, his shirt wet with sweat, wheeled a third dolly of boxes onto a desolate loading dock. In the distance, past the dark warehouses and empty train cars, a boat horn blared. It cut through the foggy night, signaling another departure from the Port of Tampa. Maybe tourists heading to the Caribbean, maybe car parts heading to Mexico.

The killer didn’t care.

What concerned him as he crouched behind the warehouse dumpster at McClain Oil was his first victim—and how he would proceed with the murder.

His .38 would do the job the fastest, but the noise might attract attention. He glanced around. There was not another soul on 22nd street. But a gun was less satisfying. He’d learned that with raccoons and stray dogs. And you never know; some brown-noser accountant might be working late in one of the warehouse offices.

No, it needed to be the knife. He wanted it to be the knife.

He lifted it and gazed at its long, serrated blade, flipping it to admire the smoother, sharper other side. The honed edge glinted in the warehouse lights. Through his latex gloves, he gripped its thick hilt and ran his thumb along the small metal hand guard.

Beautiful craftsmanship in such a large knife.

Using the knife would be more . . . personal. He’d feel the blade go in, piercing the trucker’s shirt, sliding through the soft fat and dense organs; then he’d feel the warm, thick wetness of the blood.

Bliss. The very thought of it made him shudder in anticipation.

He licked his lips, peering over the edge of the rusty blue garbage bin.

With some effort, the truck driver bent and slid the dolly from under the boxes, pausing to wipe his brow. He pulled a cell phone from his back pocket, his considerable belly heaving as he pressed the button.

With each passing minute, the killer’s hate of this man—this stranger—grew, intensifying into a rage so he could summon the courage to go through with his plan. He needed to hate this man, to despise this stranger enough to kill him, stabbing and stabbing—and then instantly switch it off . . . and enjoy the bliss. The serenity, as the trucker kicked and clawed, fighting for his fading life.

The killer squeezed the knife handle, breathing the hot night air in quick gasps. Sweat formed on the back of his neck.

He would not chicken out. Not this time.

“Dispatch, put me through to O’Connell.” The trucker rested against the dolly, his phone pressed against his ear. He moved his head back and forth, looking skyward as if trying to get a better signal. “Mac? I decided to unload the freight myself.” He closed his eyes and covered his ear with his other hand. “I don’t care about procedures or contract rules right now. I’m three hours late as it is. The dock workers will be here in twelve hours and I need to be in Tallahassee in ten, so what do you suggest?”

He nodded. “That’s what I thought. Look, there’s nobody here and nobody comes to these warehouses after hours. If some petty thief happens by and wants to boost three palates of car parts, I say let ‘em.”

He ended the call and shoved the phone back into his rear pocket. “Moron.”

The man grabbed the dolly and tipped it backward, rolling it off the loading dock and onto his vehicle. Inside the truck, the light of a single caged bulb illuminated the plywood enclosure and a few stacks of boxes. He scribbled on his manifest, snapped shut the steel lid of his clipboard, and reached toward the light’s pull chain.

Instead, his eyes met a .38 caliber pistol pointed at him.

His jaw dropped as he backed away, raising his hands. “I don’t have a lot of money. About two hundred dollars in the cab, but it’s yours.”

The killer glared at the steel clipboard, raised high in his victim’s trembling hand. The truck driver followed the killer’s eyes, glanced at the steel case, and opened his fingers. The clipboard clattered to the floor.

The driver swallowed, his eyes wide in the dim glow of the overhead bulb. “Okay?” his voice quivered. “Two hundred bucks, and it’s all yours. It’s right up front in the—”

“You misunderstand.” The killer stepped forward, impressed with how calm his voice sounded. “I’m not here for your money.”

The man’s eyes darted about the space, his breath coming in gasps. “The freight? It’s not a big load but – but it’s yours. Hubcaps.” He swallowed hard. “Nice stuff. I’ll—I’ll even help you unload it.”

“Nope.” The killer took another step, shaking his head. “Not that either.”

“Then . . .” The blood drained out of his face.

“Are you from Atlanta? That’s what the sign on the side of your cab says. Messenger Freight, Atlanta.”

The rush came upon the killer, welling in his gut. This was no raccoon or stray dog. The tension of glorious anticipation swelled in his neck and shoulders as he moved forward, closing the distance between him and his terrified prey.

The gun had done its job. He dropped his other hand to his belt and slid the knife from its sheath. Its beautiful power mesmerized him, but only for a moment. His gripped it firmly, eyeing the man he intended to kill, smiling as he eyed the man’s soft torso.

The trucker stepped back, shaking his head, stumbling over the few remaining boxes in his vehicle. “Don’t do it. Please, just take the stuff.”

“Or are you based out of somewhere else? I’d like to keep this local if I can.” The killer’s voice was calm and even, not displaying an ounce of his desire to jump and slash.

“Please. I have a wife and kids. I have a little girl.”

The killer eyed the knife, admiring it. “That’s a shame. To think of some other guy raising your kid. Smacking her in the mouth when she gets out of line. Or maybe worse.”

The man whimpered, dropping to his knees and clasping his hands together. “You don’t have to do this.”

The killer snapped upright. “Don’t tell me what I have to do!” His voice boomed loud, blasting off the plywood walls. The trucker flinched, turning his head. The raw hatred of the killer was boiling upward, ready to become unleashed. “You don’t know what I have to do!” He screamed, his mouth turning into an ugly grimace. “You don’t know!”

He stepped back, almost staggering. Taking a deep breath, the killer steadied himself.

He raised the knife, staring past it to the truck driver’s eyes. “Only I know what I have to do. Oh, and I do know. I do.”

The itch that couldn’t be scratched, the impulse that churned within him, the adrenaline, it was all becoming too much. He wiped his forehead with the back of his hand, trying one last time for control, savoring the moment, not wanting it to pass too quickly.

“Would you . . .” His voice fell to a whisper. “Like to say a few prayers?”

The trucker groaned, unable to form words. “I—”

“Too slow.” The killer lifted the pistol and leveled it at the man’s torso. “Do you believe in fate?”

The shot was deafening inside the closed area of the vehicle. The noise of the blast bounced off the plywood walls as the flash from the muzzle turned the killer’s vision white.

The trucker fell backward, shrieking in pain, kicking and flailing as he held his gut. He crashed onto an empty wood palate, sending a bounce through the vehicle’s floor. Blood appeared on his fingers.

The killer chuckled, the release of energy surprising even him. The rush was upon him now, an uncontrollable energy that owned his every move. He fought it, wanting to go slowly, forcing himself to not leap upon the man and cut him to shreds.

“Now,” the killer shuddered. “The knife.”

He raised the blade slowly, his hands shaking with anticipation, his eyes fogged with delight.

The trucker opened his mouth to scream.

Instead, clutched his hemorrhaging gut, kicking in pain. A gob of spit swung from his mouth as he writhed and groaned on the dirty plywood floor.

“Yes,” the killer said. Twirling the big knife in his fingers, he smiled as blood seeped over the trucker’s hands. “I think . . . in here. What do you think?”

The trucker gurgled and coughed, spitting blood.

“Yes.” The killer lowered himself to the floor, crawling forward to the dying trucker. “Yes, you’re right. It’s time.”

The rush returned. His pulse throbbed in his ears as he squeezed the knife and plunged it into the trucker’s belly. Past his hands, past his protests, into his warm, soft guts. The trucker’s screams filled the air as the killer pushed the blade in deeper, warm blood meeting his waiting fingers. The serrated edge rumbled across tendons, sending vibrations up the killer’s arm. The sensation electrified him. He yanked the blade out and plunged it in again, shouting in ecstasy over the cries of his victim. The sensation was fantastic, each nerve ending alive. He thrashed and swiped, sending small wet chunks of flesh to the plywood floor as the carving continued. He was enraptured in his task. Each thrust of the knife gouged out new and bigger pieces in his bloodlust-filled rage.

The excruciating moans of the trucker were met with joyous cries of his assailant. Faster and faster, the killer chopped his way into his victim’s torso, spilling blood and kidneys and intestines in a thick, frothy soup. He raged again, screaming as he plunged the knife one final time, driving it as hard as he could inward and upward into his victim. His arm disappeared up the elbow, coming out soaked in thick, warm blood.

Sated, the killer sat back, pushing himself to rest against the plywood wall. His chest heaved as he caught his breath, blood covering his arms and abdomen. Splattered bits of his victim stuck to his cheeks and shirt.

The trucker lay as a mess on the floor, wheezing slowly as death came over him. His hand reached outward, clawing at anything. At nothing. At life.

The killer swallowed, drawing a deep breath. “You were good, my friend. A worthy first.” He sniffed, throwing his head back, clearing a stray hair from his eyes. “In fact, I want to remember this occasion.”

Exhausted, the killer crawled over to the dying man, placing his face next to his victim’s. “A souvenir, I think.”

The trucker groaned and clawed, twisting his face away.

Nodding, the killer patted the man’s shoulder. The dying eyes never moved, the open mouth dripping blood and drool.

“An ear, you think? Is that a good commemoration?”

The eyes stared into space, unfocused but not yet dead.

“No? Not an ear? A finger, then.”

The killer pushed himself to his feet and bent over to grab the dying man’s hand. He brandished the knife and let all but the last limp finger slip from his grasp.

A low moan escaped from the trucker’s lips.

“Why, thank you.” The killer smiled, firmly holding the pinky, and brought his knife under the man’s palm. He forced the blade through at the knuckle, slicing. It caught for a minute, jerking the hand upward as it snagged on the joint. A few solid pulls and a bit of rough sawing, and the finger came free. The killer held it up to the dying man’s eyes.

“I’d have rather had an ear, I think. But this will do.”

He strolled to the rear of the truck, admiring his souvenir, rolling it back and forth in the palm of his hand. His rush relieved, calmness came back to him.

“I didn’t see a wedding ring, either, you liar. And I bet you don’t have any kids. But that’s okay.” He chuckled. “It was my first death, too. Neither of us knew what to expect.”

He jumped off the back of the truck, peering back into the plywood crypt. “It was a good death. For me, anyway. And even though your pretend wife and daughter won’t miss you, you’re about to be famous.”

The faint gurgling lessened until the man fell silent. A final weak twitch from his leg, and he was done.

Sweat brimmed on the forehead of the killer, his pulse returning to normal. “Thank you.” He shuddered, releasing a final sigh of satisfaction. Straightening himself, he took a deep breath and walked into the darkness. “Thank you very much.”

Chapter 2

Sweeping his hand over her cheek, Sergio Martin tucked a strand of soft, amber hair behind the woman’s ear, bringing his face close to hers.

The phone in his pocket buzzed.

He winced. “Do you believe that crap?”

The beautiful redhead pulled him close, brushing her nose against his. “Ignore it.”

“Yeah. Can’t.” He dud into the pocket of his blue jeans. “Duty calls.”

“Are you sure?” She leaned back on the couch, placing an elbow on the armrest and winding a finger into her hair. “Things were getting interesting.”

Sergio stood, patting his pocket. “I’m pretty sure I can’t ignore this one. It’s my work phone.”

“Lousy timing.”

“Would there have been a good time to interrupt this?” He pulled the phone from his pocket and mashed a button. “Detective Martin here.”

Plucking an empty wine glass off the end table, the woman sauntered across the living room to the small kitchen.

Sergio pressed the phone to his ear as he flicked on a lamp. “Warehouse district south of Ybor.” He scribbled a few notes on a pad. “22nd street. Got it. How many bodies?”

His date leaned on the counter and took a sip of her wine.

“Okay.” He shoved the pad in his back pocket. “Can you call Detective Sanderson for me? Tell her I’m leaving my house right now and I’ll be there at the scene in about fifteen minutes.” He ended the call and slid the phone back into his pocket.

“Okay if I let myself out?” The woman swirled her glass, turning its contents onto a tiny, bubbly whirlpool. “I’ve had a few drinks and don’t feel like driving.”

“Stay as long as you like. Finish the bottle.” Sergio grabbed his gun and wallet. “My wife won’t be back until tomorrow night.”

“You got yourself a deal.” She picked up the bottle of Asti and refilled her glass. The golden bubbles raced upward but the foam didn’t go past the rim. As Detective Martin picked his car keys up off the end table and headed for the door, she raised her drink and winked. “Hurry back.”

He smiled. “Lady, you’re about to see record-speed police work.” Yanking open the front door, he darted out, pulling the door shut behind him.

* * * * *

The blue strobe lights of half a dozen police cars flickered off the fronts of the warehouses on 22nd street. As Sergio stepped out of his sedan, he waved to the attending officer.

“Lieutenant Breitinger is up there, detective.” The cop pointed to a raised loading dock.

“Thanks.” He clutched his notepad and glanced at the cop’s nametag. Fuentes. Sergio made a mental note. “How’s it look?”

“Messy.” Fuentes shook his head, pointing to a truck. Messenger Freight was stenciled on the door. “The body’s inside there. I wasn’t the first one here, but I got a look. Never seen anything like it.”

“No?”

“Nope. Talk about hacked up. It was brutal. I’m happy to be stringing police tape tonight.”

Sergio rubbed his chin. Fuentes looked shaken by what he saw; his face was a little pale. “Okay. Sounds like a long night ahead. I’ll see about getting some coffee to you guys in a bit. Let me know when—”

Light spilled onto the scene as the rumble of a big engine approached. Detective Martin lifted his notepad to shade his eyes from the car’s headlights. A burnt-orange Camaro with black hood stripes bounced over the patchwork asphalt.

“—when Detective Sanderson gets here.”

Fuentes chuckled, recognizing the car. “Looks like she’s here.”

Carly Sanderson put down the passenger window as she drove up to the men. “Good morning, Marty.” She nodded to the cop. “Morning, Officer Fuentes. Or is it still night? I’m not really sure.” She lifted her wrist and glanced at her watch.

“Twelve thirty goes either way, Detective.” Fuentes said.

Sergio leaned on the car door and spoke through the open window. “The boss is over on the loading dock, and the vic’s in the big truck over there.” He patted the orange roof of the car. “You can leave the General Lee right here, Daisy Duke.”

Sanderson got out of her car and gathered her dark hair into a ponytail. She eyed Sergio’s sedan. Even in the dim lights of the warehouses, the dent in the rear panel was visible. “Right. My car’s the one to make fun of.” She strolled past Sergio and Fuentes. “There’s half a dozen coffees in the back seat, Carlos. You and the guys can help yourselves.”

Officer Fuentes smiled. “Thanks, Carly.”

Sergio lifted the crime scene tape for them and walked with Carly across the parking lot. She was dressed up. White silk top and black slacks.

No high heels; her shoes were practical flats—all cop.

Guess she swapped them out in the car.

When they reached the worn concrete steps of the loading dock, Sergio shoved a hand in his pocket. “How’s your Friday night going?”

“Probably the same as yours.” Carly climbed the stairs and waved a finger under her chin. “You have some lipstick on your . . .”

Sergio wiped his face with the back of his hand, then quickly followed his partner up the steps.

A few cops lingered at the back of the truck. They parted as Lieutenant Breitinger stepped out and moved past them onto the loading dock. He put a hand on the truck frame and shook his head. Behind him, camera flashes filled the van with blasts of light like a summertime electrical storm.

Breitinger glanced at the detectives. “Good morning. Nice of you to join us.” He pulled a handkerchief out of his suit pocket and wiped his mouth.

Sergio raised his eyebrows. “Is it that bad in there?”

The lieutenant took a slow, deep breath. “Worst thing I’ve seen in twenty years.” He sniffled, wiping his nose with the hanky and glancing over the street of warehouses. “Some palm trees around here are driving my allergies nuts, the stupid things. It’s November. They should stick to blooming in summer like everything else.”

“Yeah.” Sergio eyed the truck. The uniformed officers there didn’t seem too happy at what they’d seen inside, either.

Carly pulled a notepad from her hip pocket. “Do we have a name on our vic yet, sir?”

“Yeah. Victor Franklin. Local short run driver. Shot once in the gut and then hacked to pieces with a long blade knife.”

Segio flipped open his notepad and slid the pen from its leather clasp. “Was it a robbery?”

“No, and I want you guys to pay attention to me on this. Over here.” The lieutenant placed his hand on Sergio’s shoulder, pointing to a spot on the loading dock away from where the uniformed officers stood. Carly and Sergio walked with him there.

Their boss lowered his voice. “Whoever did this is one sick individual. They didn’t rob the guy and they didn’t just kill him. It doesn’t look like the murderer got interrupted, it looks like . . .” Breitinger chewed his lip. “The killer took his time. He hacked the guy up like he was enjoying it.”

Carly nodded. “Think it’s part of something bigger?”

“Let’s hope not.” Beitinger grimaced, dragging the hanky under his nose again.

A young uniformed officer shouted from the far end of the loading dock. “Lieutenant, the coroner’s here.”

Breitinger waved at the cop, then turned his attention back to the detectives. “Stay on it, keep me posted, keep it tight. Report to me only, until we know what’s up.” He stepped away, walking backwards as he spoke. “Find this sicko. Fast.”

“Got it boss.” Sergio crossed from the loading dock to the truck. The vehicle floor swayed slightly with his weight as he stepped aboard. Carly followed, bouncing it again.

The bulb in the truck lit the gruesome scene, a picture right out of a horror movie. A middle-aged man lay prone on the floor, massive pools of blood surrounding him. His eyes stared at the ceiling, his mouth hanging agape and crusted with blood. His chest and abdomen were flayed apart, soaked red with blood to the point where it was impossible to tell where his shredded clothing stopped and his ripped body began. A small blowfly crawled over his forehead and across his eye, pausing briefly before crossing the man’s cheek and disappearing into his gaping mouth.

Standing in the back of the truck, Sergio exhaled sharply and forced himself to swallow so he wouldn’t gag. The streams of drying blood nearly reached all the way to his feet. The putrid stench from the severed intestines and hacked organs hung in the air, reeking like an overused porta potty on a hot day at the fair.

Carly held her hand over her nose and mouth. Nobody would be drinking any coffee at this crime scene.

She pulled on a pair of latex gloves and squatted, examining a bloody footprint. Large sole, with a pattern. A man’s running shoe. She raised her eyes and glanced at the walls of the truck. Blood splatter coated nearly everything. “From the looks of this mess, we’re in for a long night.”

“Yeah.” Sergio put his hands on his hips, sighing. “But our killer left behind a ton of evidence.”

“He’s new at this.” Carly glanced at Sergio. “Or he didn’t care.”

“Well, happy Thanksgiving, partner.” Sergio tucked his notepad under his arm and reached for his gloves. “Can’t wait to see what this maniac does for Christmas.”

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tailorfeet-blog · 7 years

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Misunderstanding

There are certain things in life that make sense. Math makes sense, numbers make sense. It’s either a one or a zero, and that’s it. I always took comfort in that. I remember as a kid, I had this old ham radio. I tinkered with it all the time, to the point that I understood it inside and out. I used to use it to pick up music from any radio station in range. That’s how I developed any kind of music taste: it was just applied math, right? I would sit with that thing listening to music and the world actually made sense.

It’s people that make me uncomfortable. There aren’t any certainties with people. I can never be sure if someone is saying what they mean or if there’s some kind of hidden nuance I’m not picking up on. With that old radio, I’d sometimes pick up truckers talking to each other on the highway. I never joined in but I would sit there and listen to them talk, safe within my silence. They all had call signs and jargon and inside jokes that I could never decipher, but I would sit there pretending I knew what they were talking about. Sometimes, I still feel like I’m that kid listening to the radio and struggling to figure out what anyone means.

Apart from my more obvious abilities, I think my super power is misunderstanding. Maybe even being misunderstood. Back in Nebraska, one of the first times I used my powers, I demolished a crane. I had been having these headaches, and I was walking through downtown Omaha back to the orphanage when suddenly the crane I was looking at practically exploded. I almost dropped ten tons of steel on a crowd of innocent people. As incapable as I was, I still managed to destroy the crane’s payload before it fell on those people. In my typical charming manner, I was somehow unable to convince them I meant no harm. They chased me all the way to the railroad tracks, and I hopped a freight train to save my skin.

The only person that really understands me can read my mind, literally. She knows what I’m thinking when I say something, so on the common occasion I put my foot in my mouth she can help translate Scott-speak into plain English. Take out the mind reading and I’m terrible with people. If you’re looking for a leader, I would have chosen anyone but me. Hank would have been a good choice; he’s smarter than I am but people like him. I would sooner not be the face of anything, but a smarter man than I thought that I should be the one to lead the team. He believed in me, the way I’d like to think my father would have.

“Go ahead and take a seat, Scott,” he said, nodding in that kindly way he had.

He was sitting at the window, looking out at the others. The red light of the setting sun lit up his face while it cast shadows on the rest of the room. As I reached the chair, I couldn’t help but hesitate as I looked out on the same view. The world was awash with that same red light, but Jean’s hair still stood out to me more than the sun itself. She was watching the sunset with Warren. I felt my stomach knot as she playfully shoved him. Bobby and Hank were having a snowball fight, and while I watched that I hadn’t noticed her look back at the window. I flushed when I noticed, shrinking away from the window.

“She’ll be there when you get back, Scott,” the man at the window said, a look in his eyes that I couldn’t place. Balking, I quickly took my seat as he turned around, the mechanisms in the chair whirring as he steered it behind his desk.

“Sorry Professor, I don’t mean to be distracted,” I intoned, scanning his desk as I felt his eyes bore into me. Sunglasses do wonders for avoiding eye contact, but with the Professor it was a moot point. He knew what I was thinking. I focused on the radio sitting on his desk: a 1950’s Sentinel model. This one looked to be in working order, and I remember wondering what it would sound like. Sometimes the older models had a tinny, rusty sound that interfered with the quality.

“Don’t worry my boy,” he said, the skin around his eyes crinkling. “You’re not the first to be taken in by a beautiful young woman with red hair.”

I sat in silence for what seemed like forever before he filled in the gap.

“By now you’re aware that this is not like any school you’ve been to before…” the Professor intoned, tilting his head forward as he regarded me.

“No sir,” I replied, shaking my head earnestly “Most schools have a gymnasium, not a Danger Room.”

The Professor chuckled, the same ever-present smile on his face. I smiled in return. I wasn’t sure how what I’d said had been funny, but mirroring had always been a solid go-to for me.

“Yes, well,” he started, tenting his hands and leaning back in his chair. “It has occurred to me that, lately, people are becoming more and more afraid of so-called ‘mutants.’ People like us.”

“Honestly, I don’t really blame them,” I said as the smile dropped from my face. “I could have hurt a lot of people in Omaha. I’m afraid of me too.”

The Professor didn’t stop smiling, but his smile changed slightly. “Have our exercises in the Danger Room helped with that, Scott?”

“I’m not afraid to look at people lately,” I lied, adjusting my sunglasses. “I mean, these make it a lot easier to control my powers.”

“And wouldn’t you like to help other people feel the same way?” he asked, tilting his head. “If your control of your powers could help people without them feel more comfortable with mutant-kind, would you be willing to show them?”

I continued fiddling with my sunglasses. “I’m not sure I know what you’re asking, Professor.”

“People fear what they do not understand,” the Professor continued, gesturing calmly with his hands as he spoke. “If people never come to experience that which they fear, then they will never understand and will be lost to fear. I believe that we might coexist peacefully with humanity, if only they come to understand that we mean them no harm.

“I’ve brought you and the others here to form a team,” he said, clasping his hands on the desk. “Not men and women; X-Men. Sworn to protect a world that hates and fears you so that, one day, they will know that they have nothing to fear. I believe that you, Scott, are the perfect person to lead this group. Will you help me?”

My thoughts swam. I thought of the others, and how any one of them would have been better suited to the task. I thought of Jean and her red hair that was a finer red than any other in my world. I thought of my brother and me falling out of the plane all those years ago. I thought about all the misunderstandings that had been ever-present in my life. All my insecurities and shortcomings rushed past my mind’s eye. Despite all of that, I remember my words all these years later: “I won’t let you down, Professor Xavier.”

Charles saw something in me that I still don’t see in myself. He saw the leader of a movement. A tactical genius that could analyze the strengths and weaknesses of his team and come up with the perfect strategy to save the day. He saw Cyclops, leader of the X-Men. I still see Scott Summers, the orphan with a head injury desperately trying to decode the world around him.

The thing is, even all the way back then I think I actually started to understand what the truckers were saying. At least, I could try to figure it out. The only thing that prevented me outright was static; interference caused by one thing or another. Without interference, it was just a matter of working it out. That’s why Jean and I work so well; she can cut out all of the interference so it’s just her and I. No static, just understanding.

So that’s what I think the X-Men do, just on a larger scale. We cut out the interference so that humans and mutants have the best chance of understanding each other. Even if they miss a few notes, at least they’ll understand the song Charles wrote. This is Cyclops, signing off.

A�?|#

#superhero #comics #marvel #x-men #cyclops

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workofthediesel · 3 years

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One Comeback