#after I left their office of course! emotional displays in front of people especially ‘’authority’’ are not permitted!

[ronsenburg]

i saw this post and IMMEDIATELY started writing an essay, so I moved it here so as not to clutter up someone else’s post...........

it absolutely blows my mind that, today in 2021, i honestly can’t remember what’s canon from the turnabout serenade case, what i read in a fanficition, and what is my own personal HC. like, it’s been more than a decade since i played the case for the first time and it’s probably been 5ish years since the last time i played AJ (definitely forgot to play it again before writing youngblood which is.... contributing to this) so i really don’t know if what goes on in my head is accurate, but, over the years, i’ve come up with a Lot of Thoughts, which i’ll discuss below. 

tldr; it’s all about power (the desire for, the subversion of, the need to maintain), but if you’d like the specifics, here you go:

daryan: i think the explanation that he did it for “the money” is a line. please don’t mistake me, daryan is an asshole and a murderer, im not discounting that, but in court ive always thought that he was playing the part that everyone- especially klavier- is expecting of him. he’s the bad guy. might as well make it a finale for the books.

i’ve always seen daryan and klavier as opposite sides of the same coin when it comes to family and career aspirations. where i imagine klavier came from a well off and well loved family before his parents died, i see daryan from a working class, difficult upbringing. i read a few papers on the psychology of children/parenting style of police officers and decided early on that daryan’s dad was also a cop. his mother is either dead or (more likely) left them early on. dad coped by working a little too hard, gambling/drinking a little too much, and was overall not around a lot and kind of an authoritarian/controller when he was. it left daryan with a lot of anger he had to cope with, about what it means to be a cop, the idea of a “just cause” and the ends justifying the means, and an issue with authority (which is laughable, considering what a bully he turned out to be. sometimes we emulate our parents unintentionally; it’s the only thing we have to model our behavior on). so daryan started off at a disadvantage. klavier started off loved and supported and surrounded by expensive belongings, but the death of his parents and the subsequent emotional and financial abuse by his newly appointed guardian/brother left him in a similar place by the time he and daryan met. i think it was probably the foundation for their bond, and i think it’s why klavier decided to become a prosecutor instead of following in his brother’s footsteps and why daryan ultimately decided to enter law enforcement as well. i think they had a lot of optimistic, idealistic thoughts on being better than the people that hurt them, on utilizing the law to make the world a better place. i don’t think klavier ever conceived that kristoph could have wanted him in the prosecutors office as another pawn to play, and i don’t think he realized how fluid daryan’s morality could be.

shipping alert—you guys know me, im crazy for the idea of a “best friends to on again off again lovers to tenuous coworkers to bitterly disappointed in but still harboring feelings for the other person despite being on opposite sides” dynamic between daryan and klavier. i honestly can’t separate the ship from the case and im sorry about it. if you read youngblood you know that i think daryan started to resent klavier pretty early on, when they were still together, when the band was still successful, because klavier was able to move forward and work through the issues of his past while daryan was seemingly stuck. yes, daryan had made detective and the gavinners were a hit, he’d risen above his initial social standing and thrown off the control his father, he had money and fame and a future. but everything he had was because of klavier. daryan needed klavier, emotionally, morally, financially. but even when klavier was professing his love for daryan, both privately and in the form of chart topping songs, he didn’t need daryan. it was obvious (and of course, healthy, but how do children of abuse learn what a healthy relationship looks like without help? especially when the only relationships you’ve ever had are codependent and, in some ways, just as toxic?) and so things spiraled. daryan got possessive and angry again and klavier got distant and they broke up and got back together and broke up and didn’t get back together but kept ending up back in each other’s arms for comfort and for support and because how the hell do you move on when the person you’ve been in love with since you were 15 is sitting next to you on a tour bus and is also your partner in a homicide case and singing songs he wrote about you on stage in front of thousands of screaming fans?

okay, shipping glasses off, sorry. but no matter how you look at their relationship, daryan’s promotion out of homicide was probably the most distance they’d had from each other in years, as it removed a large chunk of the daily “working relationship” aspect. and without klavier there to act as a moral compass, it was likely easier to slip back into his earlier thoughts about what constitutes justice and his intense hatred of being pushed around by someone who has more power than you. so enter the chief justice with a son who is sick, dying even, but can’t get the medicine he needs because there’s a government out there telling them no. The reasons are arbitrary: the medicine could be used as a poison and can’t be found anywhere else so it might come back to bite the country in the ass if it’s misused by criminals. newsflash: pretty much all medicine is poisonous if it isn’t used correctly, should we stop using penicillin entirely because some people might be allergic to it? they’ve essentially condemned a whole bunch of people to death because they’re worried about their reputation. and that doesn’t sit well with daryan, who is caught up remembering the bullshit justifications his dad would spout when he knocked him around, that kristoph would give when withholding every single penny of money klavier was entitled to until he agreed to do what kristoph wanted. it isn’t right, it isn’t fair and unfair laws shouldn’t have to be upheld, especially when they’re the unfair laws of a country you most definitely did not swear to uphold and protect. it was never about money, though daryan agrees to take it when the chief offers it to him, more for his comfort level than for daryan’s need or desire. it’s about justice and putting a bully in it’s place with a (seemingly) victimless crime that should be so easy given his role in the international division of criminal affairs and klavier’s sudden hard on for the country of borginia. seriously, how could this have been any more straightforward? daryan is capable of murder, though. all cops are. and if it came down to a “them or me” shootout, of course he’d pull the trigger. 

machi: when you come from nothing, the desire to have something of your own is overwhelming. the idea that machi is famous and financially set is disingenuous; he is not individually famous, he is Lamiroir’s “blind” pianist. yes, she views him as a son and seems to care deeply for him, but his main purpose in her life is to perpetuate a lie. machi has been abandoned before; what will happen to him if lamiroir suddenly remembers who she was in the past? what if she has a family and a true son of her own and has no use for him? what if their secret is found out and the public rejects him for his role in it? he is 14. what does he know about being provided for? about contracts and trust funds and royalties? he ended up in an orphanage originally because he was unwanted, and that led to a life of poverty and hardship. abandonment issues are rooted in fear and are rarely logical. i find it far easier to believe that machi did it for the money, but more for the power money might have given him towards independence in an unfeeling and capitalist world.

kristoph: i won’t get into this, because this is supposed to be about daryan and machi and the guitar’s serenade, and kristoph is not really involved in that at all. but i think everything that kristoph has ever done in the game, good or bad, is rooted in a pathological need to constantly be in control. i think that kristoph and klavier both have very intense personalities that they have sought to control over the course of their lives for the sake of their careers. kristoph believes that to be a good lawyer, you need to play your cards close to your chest, that to show your hand is to expose a weakness that the enemy can exploit, that to show no weaknesses at all places you in a position of power. klavier believes that to show his true self, to display his weaknesses and fears to the public, would result only in their rejection. as such, they both wear masks of their own creation even under the most intense of pressures: kristoph as pleasant and calm, klavier as magnetic and dynamic. note the primary difference in their rational? klavier wants to be wanted, while kristoph wants power. and power corrupts, after all. once you have it, what could be more overwhelming than the idea that you might lose it all? it can drive even the most rational people to commit acts of passionate irrationality in the name of holding on to that power. and kristoph has so many pieces involved in his strategy to maintain.  

#i love daryan crescend i'm so sorry #i cut this to spare you all the pain of my rambling and also my inability to use caps and proper punctuation #gonna tag this as klavdar so you can avoid it just in case it bothers you #i think it's hilarious that this is JUST AS MUCH ABOUT KLAVIER as it is about any of these other people #shut up krissy #i have a lot of feelings about this case okay #man i'm still obsessed with lamiroir and machi's portrayal in 'dirty sympathy' #excellent stuff i'm going to go read that again #klavdar #i don't think i ever managed to squeeze in my hc about the specifics of kristophs abuse towards klavier into any fics #specifically the financial aspects of it #but its absolutely an effective weapon #klavier's money from his parents would absolutely be in a trust and controlled by kristoph until he was legally able to access it #he would have to ask kristoph for EVERYTHING #can you imagine how easy that would be for kristoph to turn against him? as a means of control? i just...... #broke: kristoph physically abused klavier when he was a kid #woke: kristoph didn't have to abuse klavier when he could manipulate him so completely with money and mind games #all the while making klavier believe that he was truly looking out for him and any hurt klavier experienced was selfish and misguided #and klavier's fault #:|

[horrorslashergirl]

Bahini Talibah: Horror Story ‘One Normal Night’

Authors Note: Finally, managed to finish this Bahini Oneshot after sitting in my drafts for days and days.

Warnings: 18+ for gruesome scenes and murder

Words: 1.5k

It was late at night that Bahini finished preparing the new ancient Egyptian exhibit of Bastet for tomorrow's visit; archeologists from Egypt will come to see it and everything needed to be pristine and put together, artifacts display perfectly by inch and Bahini smiled proudly at how well the place looked.

She couldn't wait for tomorrow to see the faces of all people gazing at Bastet statues put on display. Looking at the clock, it was almost midnight and she needed to get home to prepare herself for tomorrow; a bubble bath will make the ending of the day and all her hard work.

Walking to the exit of the museum, the strap of her purse on her shoulder, she passed the office of her coworker, an old man that collaborated with her for the Egyptian department.

"Dr. Sullivan. It's almost midnight. We should head home, everything is ready for tomorrow." Bahini spoke, the office door wide open and Sullivan was at his desk, absorbed in the ancient papyruses.

The doctor moved his gaze up and gave her a small smile.

"Ah, yes. I wish I could head home, but there is so much more that needs to be done. We received this morning some new papyruses." he told her, setting his glasses next to the old ancient papers.

"Always overworking?" the blonde joked, making the sweet old man shrugged his shoulders.

"When you have nothing left, working is all I can do." he replied, making Bahini give a sympathetic smile.

Dr. Sullivan's wife died last month of bone cancer, making the old man very sad, the only thing he could do was spend time at the museum, working and studying further, trying to occupy his mind.

Bahini gave him a sympathetic smile, knowing what a sweet lady his wife was. She remembers when she was healthy and how she brought her husband lunch every day at the museum. They were such a lovely old couple; an undying love and even after her death, the old man stayed loyal, keeping the wedding band on his finger and the picture of his wife on his desk.

She was his everything.

"Well, I should be going... I will be at the first hour of the morning tomorrow for the event." Bahini said, waving at her old coworker, which he did the same.

"Have rest, dear." he told her, getting back to the artifacts on his desk.

The blonde nodded, then walked towards the exit of the museum, the soothing summer breeze hitting her face. She closed her eyes, so glad to be outside after a whole day inside between bookshelves. Not to mention the fact that the AC of the museum broke down and inside it was hotter than outside, almost impossible to properly breathe.

Bahini groaned, remembering how the dust from the higher bookshelves flew on her sweat covered skin, sticking to it. She really needed a bath and a proper late dinner, since she missed lunch, because of the tons of work the museum had up in this period of time.

Time was precious.... for humans.

For Bahini time seemed to stay in place, seeing the people around her grow up, make their own families, get old and die together. Finding someone to share her life seemed like a fairytale, especially after she died... all because she cared too much and loved.

Despite the fact that she killed her ex-husband and his mistress, she still couldn't forget the look on the man she had loved and cherished so much; the way he looked at her as he held the gun at her forehead. He held no hesitation or regret in his eyes as he took her life.

Of course, destiny had other plans and brought Bahini back from the dead in the form of something she found herself repulsed. She was glad she could hide her monstrous form under her human form.

Walking down the streets at night was dangerous, but the blonde learned in time that fear wasn't an emotion she should feel when you're an immortal being.

She could feel someone watching her, her obsidian eyes looking to the left and right, expecting to see someone, but none was around so she continued to walk until she heard footsteps behind her; more than one person.

"Hey, blondie." a sultry male voice, spoke, but the woman continued to walk, not bothered by the voice; ignoring them was the best thing she could do or else...

"Hey! Are you deaf?" another male voice meets her ears, followed by a chorus of laughter.

Bahini internally groaned at the persistent group of men that followed her, not in the mood to deal with this now. She was tired, frustrated and all she wanted was to sleep, not listen to some ignorant clowns attempting to flirt with her.

She took a quick turn down a more isolated part between two buildings, picking up speed in her steps, but one guy from the group run in front of her, blocking her path and grinning down at her.

The woman stopped, looking up at him with a neutral expression. She wasn't afraid, if anything, she was more so afraid for them if they didn't stop this nonsense.

"Hey, babe! Didn't you hear when I called you?" he asked, taking a step towards her, but she stood her ground, already feeling her patience wearing thin.

"I need to get home." she spoke, voice void of emotions, not giving the guy any satisfaction in putting emotions out of her.

"How about I get you to my house?.... I promise you, you won't regret it." he proposed, taking another step towards her, hearing the guys snicker behind her.

The last mistake of the male was getting too close to the female, his arm wrapping around her waist, only for her to throw his body against the brick wall of a building, like he was a ragdoll.

"What the fuck, man?!" one from the group screamed, and Bahini turned towards them; four other men looking at her with scared expressions, only to turn into terrified as the woman shifted into her true form.

Blonde golden locks turned into dark green living snakes, hissing and snapping aggressively, sun-kissed skin turning pale green, glowing in a way that it gave you the impressions of scales. Her 5'5 tall frame grew until she reached 7'0, towering over them. Sharp black claws adored her hangs, her mouth opening into a hiss, long fangs on display, a long forked tongue poking out from between them.

"W-What.....What are you?" one of the guys choked out, taking a step back.

The creature's eyes opened, the black pupils now shining a golden color, like two drops of flames flashing into the darkness.

"Your Death." the creature hissed, and next followed the screams of the group, screams filled by the intensity of pain they were experiencing.

Their skin started to burn, slowly melting down like a candle, exposing muscles and tissue underneath. They melted down until they were a pile of flesh and bones.

A groan pulled Bahini out from the gruesome scene, looking over her shoulder at the man that had blocked her path, the snakes on her head hissing in irritation.

Opening his eyes, they widened when they landed on Bahini, crawling backward, putting distance between him and her. In a flash, she was in front of him, her gaze burning into his, one of the snakes from her head biting on his cheek, making him scream.

"Still want to get home with me now?" she asked him, a drop of sarcasm in her voice, looking down at him like he was an ant ready to be crushed by her feet.

"F-Fuck you, ugly p-piece of shit." the man spat, only for the immortal being to strike.

Two of the snakes jolted, biting the man's eyes out, but she didn't give him any chance to scream his heart out, for her clawed hand plunged into his mouth, claws hooking downwards and with inhuman strength she ripped his jaw off, tossing it in on the other side of the alley.

Her chest moved up and down, breathing hard from the rage this man caused her. She wasn't one to kill out of pleasure, but when the idiocy comes straight up at you, you just take it.

After a few minutes of calming her nerves down, she shifted back into her human form, with no spot of blood on her.

Looking around the carnage she made, she sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose.

She should have just teleported back to her house, but she wanted to feel as human as possible, using her cursed powers only necessarily; for example, when you were pestered by parasites like the dead ones here.

In a flash, the blonde vanished from the alleyway, teleporting herself into her house, ready to prepare dinner, forgetting about the horrific scene in the dark alleyway that will probably be the main story for the news tomorrow.

#Bahini Talibah #Horror Character #Original character #horror story #poltergeist #supranatural

[itsuki-minamy]

BEFORE ZERO: CHAPTER 2 “BIRTHDAY CELEBRATION”

Translation: Naru-kun Raws: Ridia

A cat that has disappeared recently appeared at the front of the garden with a prey that it had killed.

When Akio, who went to a distant university, visited a young man about six months later, Shiotsu was immediately associated with such a scene.

"Marry this boy."

Contrary to Akio's expression at the entrance, which is something she's good at, she brought a strange one.

Shiotsu thought.

The young man in front of him is slightly shorter than him. The age is the same as her, who is 20 or two younger, but when it comes to Akio, who is mistaken for a high school student at eighteen, she appears to be an adult and a child.

What kind of person does it mean to show up at someone else's house after being after a girl?

No, the reason he sees them with such colorful glasses is that he has probably been involved in Akio's love affairs several times in the past. If he looks at it without prejudice, the young man in front of him seems to be a very ordinary person without any special points. On the contrary, polite behavior makes he feel even better.

However, there was a sense of incongruity, like "why is Akio such a genuine person", which made him feel like it was strange.

Unfortunately, there was no advance notice for the day's visit, and her parents were paying, so Shiotsu decided to deal alone.

"I'm sorry to have arrived suddenly."

The young man, who called himself Hayatoshi Minato, sat down by the table and bowed deeply.

"Today, I was visiting Akio's parents' house to receive a greeting, and suddenly there was a story that said," I will show my face to Brother Gen."

From the first glance impression, it was a reasonable greeting, he was calm and uncomfortable.

On the other hand, Akio,

"Well, this is also like a family home. It's another home."

She immediately stretches her legs to make it easier.

"Akio... I don't mind if you relax, but at least after the greeting."

Minato nodded his head as Shiotsu frowned.

"I was planning to show you what I'm doing today."

"Oh, by the way... it's a pain."

Akio sat in a sitting position next to Minato, even though she was scared. Since she is experienced in kendo, when she sits down seriously the form is determined.

"Oh..."

It wasn't his attitude that attracted Shiotsu's interest.

Akio obeyed what the others said.

It is the fact.

"Akio told me that she has a family relationship with Shiotsu-san."

"Oh..."

Shiotsu returned to Minato's words.

"Well, it's a long-distance relationship, but this street and my house are in the neighborhood."

"Especially, Shiotsu-san was like a brother and sister, and they went to the dojo together."

"They told me to be careful not to hurt their son..."

"I see... Akio-san is committed to everything. The parents would have been relieved to see Shiotsu-san."

"Yes, I'm fine with that."

He was caught up in an indirect conversation, and Akio got in the way.

"Yes. Then..."

Minato corrected his posture towards Shiotsu.

"I think I was surprised by the sudden story, but I'm not overly cheerful. I don't know if it will be five or ten years before I get married, but I look to the future. I would like to apologize for the relationship I established."

"Ah..."

It is a long time to say that two people, who have just met, will ask for forgiveness ten years in advance...

"Sorry, nothing... what if I say 'I won't forgive you'?"

After blurting out such a word, Shiotsu rushed in and added Minato.

"No, I'm sorry. Right now, I want to say, "I don't mean to speak in the first place."

As a social resignation, it should be possible to say "Congratulations" or "Cheers to Akio" here. However,

"But it's okay."

Once again, he was afraid to say it again.

"Besides, brother Gen says that."

Akio sharpened her mouth.

“It's the cancer that makes you think 'it's not going to last any longer', so I came all the way to see you. You'll be fine next time."

"Eh?"

Minato bows his head and...

"Oh. Are you hanging me "decently"? I see, I see."

He didn't seem to feel uncomfortable with "next time", Minato cried, laughed and turned to Shiotsu again.

"Again... that's why, Shiotsu-san..."

Minato said, leaving a smile on his cheek.

“I want “brother Gen” to support me. Both Akio-san and me."

++++++++++

After that, the situation changed more quickly than originally expected.

Far from "five years, ten years ahead," he entered the group six months after the greeting, and a year later, Akio had twins.

Akio wanted to get married and give birth, of course, but Akio's parents and others around her with their "we want to summarize the story this time" and "we want to calm Akio" helped.

The other party, Minato,

"So, it's faster than I thought, but let's start over."

He made arrangements for important things like finding a job and moving.

Minato's parents died prematurely and it was said that a small inheritance had allowed his to earn a living until his income was stable. He said, "It's a long time before we can give back to all of you...", but he had no tactic to rely on public support or the home of Akio's parents.

Although Minato is calmer than the average person, Minato, who has not passed the age of 20,

"It's okay. You have plans for the future; I think there is something like a life plan."

I confirm Shiotsu every time,

"If I say it strongly, my plan is to complete it with Akio."

Saying that, Minato laughed at ease.

"I will not be bored for the rest of my life."

"Not boring." Shiotsu, who tends to accept unplanned situations as stress, is an idea that never comes to light.

"If it is okay..."

Rather, it is less flexible.

Have thought about it,

"I think it's good for Shiotsu-san to have the ideal of 'being there' in things," he said.

About five years later, the relationship between Shiotsu and the Minato family continued unabated.

Shiotsu, who dropped out of college to become a policeman, and Minato, who became a general clerk. Akio, who has had several short-term jobs while raising her twins. In general, they are a very ordinary citizen.

Akio's parents died one after another when the twins were three or four years old, and Shiotsu decided to take care of them on behalf of their relatives, but Shiotsu also had his own job and his own life. When he visited the Minato family on occasion, he was surprised by the growth of the twins.

The reason it changed is the appearance of a person named "Blue King".

The "Blue King" Habari Jin recently established an organization called "Scepter 4". As a result of the aptitude test within the police, Shiotsu was chosen as one of them, and was soon placed in the position of the King's official lieutenant.

Furthermore, the Minato family, who were related to Shiotsu, underwent a similar test, and it was found that everyone, including children, was fit to have powers.

Unlike Shiotsu, who originally had an ideal of social order, they had the option of living as ordinary people while being watched by the authorities. However, mainly due to Akio's high hopes, the Minato couple received an installation from the "Blue King", and they both became members of the "Scepter 4" maneuvering section.

Of course, Shiotsu objected. The functions assigned to the new organization are those in which the exchange of lives is normal.

Not recommended for couples with young children. That is something common sense cannot admit.

But there were some extraordinary factors in the situation.

One is that Minato Akio has displayed unusual aptitude that surpasses Shiotsu's. If she accidentally wakes up to a Strain and become a stray person, along with her own direct personality, it cannot be left out in the general public.

And one more thing is the rise of the "Red King" Kagutsu Genji. The number of people who can control the members of the red clan led by Kagutsu is scarce, and the breakwater that stops the collapse of society must be reinforced no matter what.

++++++++++

These are ancient stories.

Akio's twins are 12 years old. They will become middle school students this spring. It seemed to him a great achievement that this family was able to enter milestone season without missing any.

By the way, the twins' birthday is in early March. He tried to adjust the shift for the Minatos to celebrate this with their family, but he couldn't make it easy for Minato and Akio to go home at the same time, so the month was halfway there.

And now that day.

"It's a bit late so start first."

Said Minato who got the phone call from Akio,

Shiozu was a bit gloomy.

"Uh."

There are already five plates on the table. Minato's home cooking. He knows it's always good to work, but it will take a certain amount of time to prepare this beautiful dining table.

It was planned that Minato after the night shift would get ready for today's party, and Akio, who will be leaving the office for the night, will join him later. Shiotsu, who happened to be working at the same time as Akio, also decided to participate, but he remember that he was just an "uncle of a relative" and is in an extra position.

Although, that's...

Akio, the mother of this family, wonders what she would do later than that. Where the hell would she stray on a day like this?

While Shiotsu was irritated, Minato and their sons were...

“I can't help it. Hayato and Akito. Let's cut the cake."

"Yes, I'll get a knife."

"I'll serve you a plate."

Then she changed her schedule and started working. He's used to Akio not moving as planned.

Also,

"I'm glad Shiotsu-san is here. Only three of us really lack emotion."

"Oh."

It made him worry about it.

Akio returned home about an hour later.

"Oh, have you already given a gift? Did you give it to Hayato and Akito, brother Gen?"

The twins waited in time, looked at each other and responded with their voices.

"Catalog gift."

"Buhahaha! What is that?"

Taking the catalog brought by Hayato, Akio laughed even more.

"Brother Gen, this is what you will give them! It's like tableware or futon!"

"It's not interesting and I'm sorry."

Truth be told, a paper cutter similar to the one custom made the other day for "Blue King" Habari Jin.

The twins of the Minato family are said to have a strong longing for the "Blue King" Habari Jin.

If he gives a gift that matches Habari, Shiotsu's thoughts that would make him happy would collapse on his birthday.

The paper cutter that was supposed to be given to Habari was used to kill the member of the “Purgatory” clan at the hand of Zenjo, a member of the Mobile Task Force. A similar one is too sinister to give away.

"Brother Gen is really boring. He's too boring to laugh."

"Akio, I'm not saying that."

Minato gives up on Akio who keeps laughing,

"I am happy, Shiotsu-san."

"I have fun choosing."

The twins said to Shiotsu.

"It's good to be funny."

Akio said with a smile and satisfaction.

“Because we are like that. It's just ordinary boredom."

Namely, this year's gift that the twins were given with the couple's joint name, chosen by Minato, is a fountain pen with the names Hayato and Akito.

“It is a souvenir. It won't force you to be interesting."

Minato smirked.

"Thanks Dad."

"I appreciate."

The twins said.

"This house would be useless without me."

Speaking like this, Akio went to the front door and returned with a large box in both hands.

"What are you doing with that big box?"

When Shiotsu asked, Akio raised the box to her face level,

"I bought a set at an electronics store."

"Wow!" Said the twins.

"Akio..."

When Minato yelled, Akio looked back in trouble.

"I know. I spoke with the children and "decided to graduate the toy". This is not a gift, it is mine."

"Is there such a graduation?"

Akio ordered the twins, ignoring Shiotsu's words, if there was such a graduation.

“Hayato and Akito. I'll let them do it, so I can connect various things."

While Akio was late and ate, the twins clashed, hooked up a game console to the TV in the living room, completed the initial setup, and started playing together. For the game software, they choose what they bought together with the main unit and tested it.

Finally,

"Okay, let me do it too."

Akio, who had finished eating, also intervened there.

"The controller is not enough."

"There are only two."

"I am the owner. You take turns."

"She is not willing to give it to her son."

Minato said to Shiotsu who leaned forward.

"Apparently that was the correct answer."

"Correct answer...?"

"The children said:" We are adults now.", So I thought about putting them together... but I'm afraid I still don't have enough time to play."

The appearance of Akio and her children addressing the television in the living room is more like a close brother and sister than parents and children.

"But in high school, playing with parents would be boring."

"Perhaps it is a great distance from children of the same age. After all, the occupations of their parents and the qualities of children's blood are special."

"I see... it's a job."

"Even if I'm working or raising a child, I'm trying to find everything... I trust Akio's nose."

"What is that "nose"?"

"I call it instinct... She always looks messy and always makes the right decisions where necessary."

Shiotsu looked towards the living room. Both Akio and the children play seriously, shake their bodies and raise their voices. When he was really serious and Akio's legs stopped, Minato rushed over and stopped.

"That's it…"

Marriage, childbirth and enlistment in "Scepter 4". Akio's actions and choices thus far seemed to always be hasty and reckless from Shiotsu's perspective.

If everyone is connected to this scene,

"I see, it's true."

It certainly feels that way now.

(To be continue…)

#K #k project #k fan clan #K stories #K BEFORE ZERO

[lost-your-memory]

Old friends, aliens and curiosities - Part II

Listen, I can’t stop thinking about this gifset made by @lonely-night in which H.G Wells (Warehouse 13) & Lena Luthor (CW Supergirl) are old friends and working together in the present to retrieve a curiosity (A ping, darling) meant to kill Lena.

So this is VERY AU-ish and with a crossover no one knew we needed but well, we do. Here’s the second part (it covers the third gif, I think), I’m gonna try to write the whole thing.

---

“You have to stop bypassing my assistant on a regular basis,” Lena sighs as she enters her office, waving at Jess to let her know everything was fine. From her spot on Lena’s couch, Helena only smirks and raises a tumbler full of what looks like one of her finest Scotch. The way the amber swirls in the glass, heavy and slow, makes Lena longs for it, but she only shakes her head and takes a detour to drop her purse on her desk. “Where’s the fun in that?” Helena muses, voice low and grave. Her thick accent makes Lena’s ears buzz with memories and she can almost hear the distant echo of a string of “bollocks”. “Anyway, I’m not just here to make another dent in your fine alcohol collection.” “Oh really? Shame, you’re clearly doing a great job at that,” Lena sasses as she drops in her chair, already firing up her laptop. Helena rolls her eyes. She stands up from the couch and brings her glass with her. She places it on the edge of Lena’s desk before she starts pacing around, the smug smirk on her face gone. “We’ve identified a curiosity in the area, something specifically designed to …” Helena pauses and tilts her head, pacing a little faster before she stops entirely. Her eyes lock with Lena’s when she sighs. “It’s a device meant to kill you.” Lena shrugs. She glances at her laptop and winces when she sees the cohorts of emails that needs her immediate attention but since Helena is still looking at her, she smiles. “Okay.” The victorian-writer looks utterly dumbfounded for a second, before she narrows her eyes. “Did you not hear me?” Helena takes a step closer and she almost leans over the desk when she speaks again. “I tell you someone with an artefact is planning to have you killed and all you say is okay?” Lena shrugs again and clicks on one of the most urgent emails before starting to type an answer. “All I’m hearing is that you still call it a curiosity, while I believe the right term these days is … a ping?” “Have you been corresponding with Claudia again?” Helena glares but she dismissively waves Lena’s upcoming answer. “Never mind. This artefact is … unusual. It’s alien technology, I believe it’s a thing on this earth now?” “I don’t know, you tell me,” Lena curtly replies, waving at the TV currently displaying Supergirl’s latest combat. The few aliens in front of her have blue skin, big horns and they breathe fire. “Lovely,” Helena mutters under her breath. “Although, the one with the suit is very easy on the eyes …” “Don’t you have a TV now, in the warehouse? Not to mention that Claudia is both a tech genius and a geek so surely, you’ve heard of Supergirl before seeing her on my TV …” Lena snorts, finishing her email before starting a new one. “Supergirl?” Helena prods, eyes traveling from the screen back to Lena. “Is that how she calls herself?” Lena reaches out and grabs Helena’s abandoned tumbler of Scotch. She takes two large sips before placing the almost empty glass back to its previous emplacement. “The name stuck, yeah. Cat Grant chose it, a while ago,” Lena replies, not meeting Helena’s eyes. She can still feel the interrogation hanging in the air so she keeps talking. “She’s the former CEO of CatCo Worldwide Media, once Press Secretary for the White House under the Marsdin administration but she resigned, not too long ago. From what I last heard, she’s traveling the world with her son.” Helena moves and from the corner of her eyes, Lena sees her friend get hold of her Scotch decanter and another glass. When she comes back, she’s already poured an unhealthy dose of alcohol in the tumbler and places it in front of Lena. Then she refills the one she previously had. “Something you want to tell me, about that … Supergirl?” Helena has always been extremely perceptive. It’s one of the thing Lena misses the most, maybe. The way the author could always read her, no matter what. It had felt so nice, back in her past, to have someone she didn’t even have to talk to to feel understood. Helena had been one of the few people in her life to truly and completely get her. Today, though, too much time had passed. Too much had happened and Helena wasn’t up to date with the latest tragedies of her life. She couldn’t possibly understand. “Honestly? No. I really don’t want to talk about her. Not today, maybe not ever,” Lena replies, shaking her head. Helena nods, letting it go. They drink in silence for a while, with Lena sometimes typing an email in between sips of Scotch and Helena losing herself in her thoughts, eyes wandering on the city’s skyline behind the bay window. “Alright, enough sappiness,” Helena shakes her head and finishes her drink, bottom up. “Let’s talk about this person who wants to kill you.” Lena chuckles dryly and takes another large gulp of her Scotch. “Which one? You’ll have to be a little more specific, I’m afraid …” The look in Helena’s soulful brown eyes is priceless and Lena savors it for a little while. Until she sighs. “Let’s say that being a Luthor in this century is … a lot of work. Especially a live one,” Lena offers a tiny, clipped smile. “Here I thought that after so many years in the bronze, life would finally get easier …” Helena sasses and with her thick accent, the sentence sounds incredibly sarcastic. It makes Lena’s smile grow wider. “Not quite,” Lena counters, waving a hand in the air before she reaches for the decanter Helena had left on the edge of her desk. She fills her tumbler and then adds “What’s the artefact anyway? How comes it’s alien?” Helena throws her a meaningful look. “The creation of an artefact is simply the meeting of an object, a person and …” “A moment.” Lena concludes with a pang of nostalgia in the pit of her stomach. “Caturanga used to tell us that, I remember.” “It means that aliens, too, have the ability to creates artefact. What I don’t get is … how could an artefact be created to kill you specifically?” Helena frowns, playing with the heavy glass in her hand while the other rested against the base of her neck, toying with her necklace. “Well … My enemies are legions,” Lena shrugs and rolls her eyes. “I’m guessing someone has something against the only living Luthor left and they either designed or got their hands on an already existing device they programmed to kill me. After all, it would require only my DNA to be able to target me specifically …” Helena looks unimpressed at that. Her eyes narrow and all of a sudden, Lena finds herself being scrutinised. “You do know an awful lot about this …” “Pff, please. It’s basic science, with just a hint of engineering,” Lena waves, disdain lining her voice. “Hm,” Helena doesn’t reply for a moment but she keeps staring at Lena as if she was trying to figure out something. After a few minutes during which Lena kept writing, Helena finally relents and paces again. “Who would know that level of basic science and engineering, though, and have both the means to create such a device and the emotional involvement needed to make an artefact out of it?” Lena pauses in the redaction of her email, her mind racing over the possibilities. “The skills are pretty much common in my circles, so that won’t narrow it down,” Lena thinks out loud. She’s the CEO of a very advanced technological company and the products L-Corp put on the market every year are counted by dozen, if not hundreds. “The emotional involvement though …” Her mind goes to Kara, because of course it’s the first name she can think of. It’s ridiculous because Kara has no reason to kill her. It would be the other way around actually, if Lena wasn’t so hopelessly in love with the girl who betrayed her. She shakes her head and focuses back on Helena, who’s watching her carefully. “I don’t know. I’ll think about it and I’ll call you if I a name pops up,” Lena eventually says, waving at her friend. “Now, I do have work to do and day drinking with a century old friend isn’t helping.” “As if you’re not actually older than me,” Helena mutters under her breath but still loud enough for Lena to hear. “By six months, Helena, it hardly counts,” Lena rolls her eyes but there’s a smile tugging at her lips, strangely affectionate. “It totally counts. Alright, see you around Lee,” Helena relents but she has a smile of her own gracing her lips. “Be safe, alright? It’d be a shame to die so …” “Young?” Lena laughs, the echo of it swirling in the office. “Early,” Helena counters, a knowing look sparkling in her brown eyes. “If you say so,” Lena shrugs and then focuses back on her emails. After a minute, she hears the sound of her door closing behind Helena. 

#Warehouse 13 #Meets #Lena Luthor #AU-ish unexpected crossover #Warehouse 13 Supergirl crossover #Listen I really can't stop thinking about this #Sentences prompt #My writing #Whoops

[megabadbunny]

In Lovers’ Meeting (3/?)

The Doctor glared at her. Rose glared back. Jackie fanned herself as she watched them both, unimpressed.

A rewrite; dedicated to the absolutely wonderful @davinasgirlfriend​ . <3

* * *

- Chapter 3 -

The card-reader denied her ID. Typical; leave it to Oliver to update that sort of thing as soon as humanly possible. It was every bit as impressive as it was infuriating.

Swearing under her breath, Rose shoved the card back in her jacket-pocket and pulled out the sonic screwdriver instead. It felt more than a little wrong, using one of the Doctor’s most trusted implements to take care of this—especially given that it was a dead Doctor’s instrument, even if he technically had never really died, since that universe had technically never existed, or however that worked—but hopefully the Doctor would understand.

(The real Doctor, that was; she didn’t want to think about how the new Doctor would feel.)

A whir of the sonic and the door slid open, revealing a darkened lab filled with dozens upon dozens of projects in various states of assemblage, deconstruction, and dissection; Rose strode past all of them straight to the back room, where the Dimension Cannon sat, exactly as she’d left it days ago. With one last glance around to make absolutely certain no one was watching (no matter how much it felt like it), Rose flipped a few switches and the Cannon powered on, whining to life in the cold, dark room.

Rose entered the initialization sequence with trembling fingers. This would work. It would. It had to.

The Cannon’s whine gave way to a dull groan, flooding the room with sound until the walls and the floors and the soles of Rose’s boots buzzed and hummed with it. If she’d turned on the overhead lights, Rose knew they would be flickering right about now, drained by the massive amount of power required to operate the Cannon. She flipped on the sonic again, this time to bypass Oliver and Christa’s authorization codes and bring the Cannon to full power. The Cannon’s pilot lights glowed an eerie yellow-green in the semi-darkness, blinking here, flashing there. Rose waited and watched it all with breathless anticipation.

Blinking in greeting, the display invited Rose to step into the transportation chamber and enter coordinates. She complied, clambering into the chamber and typing in coordinates, her jaw set and her gaze grim. But she hesitated, after, her fingers hovering over the return key. The moment suspended in time, growing sluggish with each passing tick of the clock.

He would only be upset for a little bit, the nearly-Doctor. Maybe he wouldn’t even have time to notice she was gone—it wasn’t like Rose would leave him waiting for years on end. Rose would hop back as soon as she could—it would be easy enough, with the TARDIS—and she would give him the chance to come with her and the Doctor, if he wanted. Because as angry as she was, at the Doctor, at him, he still deserved a choice. The same choice she had deserved.

She bit her lip. Maybe she should wait, grab him first. Just in case.

(Maybe she shouldn’t do this at all.)

Deep breaths. Rose steadied herself. Reminded herself of the years of work and research, the months of construction, the weeks full of jumps, the hours of post-jumping sickness early in the trials, the late nights and early mornings and lost weekends that followed after. She remembered all of the terrible things she had seen, the things she had done, the people she couldn’t help, the worlds she couldn’t save—

All that time, she could have slid back into a normal life—could have, maybe even should have—and she chose this instead.

Or tried to choose, she thought with a grimace.

Certainty resurged through her veins and she smacked the return key with a vengeance.

 **

 (The Cannon didn’t work. Because of course it didn’t.)

 **

 At least the meltdown was polite enough to wait until she was far away from the expensive lab equipment.

(Why don’t you try counting, Rose? she remembered her first UNIT counselor advising her, along with a host of other exercises designed to dispel negative emotions. Try thinking of your happy place. Try punching a pillow or a punching-bag, and imagine your enemy’s face is there. Try finding your inner peace, he’d say, accompanied by a condescending paternal gaze thrown warmly over his oversized, outdated glasses that looked like something a 70’s serial killer might have worn. Needless to say, it didn’t take Rose long to switch counselors; her current therapist, a brisk and no-nonsense former military surgeon, urged her to find ways to investigate and resolve those negative emotions instead. Cognitive restructuring, she would say sharply, in her thick New Zealand accent. Deep relaxation. Support-network engagement. Open communication. Mindfulness, the counselor would urge, and much to Rose’s surprise, when she tried these techniques, they often helped.)

Approximately .002 seconds into her meditative cooldown, Rose punched through the washroom mirror.

(Why had she expected the Cannon to work? He’d told her he was closing up the last gaps between universes. He’d told her. And that was the one sort of thing he wouldn’t lie about.)

Probably she should stop while she was ahead, or at least not as far behind as she could have been, but instead, Rose drew back her fist and punched again. And again. And again. Tears gummed up her eyelashes and pain screamed at her from far away, punctuated by the sharp screech of shattering glass and cracking tile, but she forced her stiffening fingers to hold their shape and punched her fist into the mirror over and over and over, crunch, crunch, crunch, crunch, smash, until Rose drew her hand back to find a ragged-edged hole in the glass and her hand glistening with blood.

Rose bit back on a strangled cry, breath escaping her lungs in bursts. Pain blossomed through her hand, bleeding to the forefront of her consciousness, and she doubled over with the intensity of it, gasping as her hand swelled and throbbed with hurt. Idiot, idiot, idiot her pulse shrieked, in time with the lights flickering overhead.

Shaking, Rose flipped on the faucet and forced her hand beneath the cold water. Fresh hurt seared through her hand and she shouted in pain, cursing as she gingerly removed debris from her torn knuckles. Two of her fingers were turning purple already, stiff and swollen and tender to move. Sprained, Rose thought, and cursed herself for her stupidity.

Mouth tensing in pain as she gently dabbed her hand dry, Rose took a few extra moments to calm herself, allowing the pain to wash over her, breathing in and out through quivering lungs. In, out. In, out. Her uninjured hand flew up to her chest, pressing against the key that hung from a chain round her neck; hidden beneath her shirts, it laid heavy and solid and cool against her overheated skin, and she traced her thumb along its jagged-toothed edge, willing herself to calm, to let this moment pass.

In, out. In, and out.

She would get through this. She would.

Glancing up at the mirror, at the disjointed fractures of her reflection spiraling downward into the hollow left by her fist, she thought grimly about how she finally looked every bit as horrible as she felt. Great. Just great.

What the hell was she supposed to do now?

“Probably fix your damn fingers,” Rose muttered to her reflection, which didn’t disagree. All right. So that was step one. She could worry about steps two through forever later.

After a brief detour to the lab’s emergency first-aid cabinet, where she gulped down some paracetamol and grabbed a few key supplies, Rose made her way over to her office, a tiny room tucked away in an unobtrusive corner of the laboratory. Plonking down on her desk amidst a scuffle of loose files and stacks of neglected paperwork, she got to work splinting her fingers, wincing as she wound medical tape over gauze and bruises and blood, forcing herself to remember to breathe.

In, out.

One last circuit of the medical tape and Rose tore the stuff free from the roll with her teeth, tucking it securely in place. She closed her eyes, just breathing.

In, out.

Footsteps sounded gently in the near distance—quiet, but not quiet enough to ping the sense that someone was sneaking up on her, probably some labbie come to chase her off, what with her shiny new persona non grata status and all—but Rose paid the noise little mind.

In, out.

(Idiot.)

“Thought I mind find you in here,” said a familiar voice, slicing through her thoughts, and Rose opened her eyes to find Jackie standing in front of her, hands planted on hips, brow wrinkled in worry. “Or I was afraid of it, more like.”

Jackie flipped the lightswitch behind her and Rose blinked sterile white light out of her eyes. “Shouldn’t you be tucking Tony in bed right about now?” Rose asked tiredly, shifting her injured hand out of sight.

“Pete’s got it sorted. Not that it matters, the nursery let him have soda, so he’ll be up all hours of the night anyway,” Jackie sighed, shaking her head. “But I had a funny little feeling I should turn back round and take care of my other child right about now. Call it a mum’s intuition.”

“You don’t need to worry about me, Mum. I’m fine. Everything’s fine.”

“Right, so that’s why you’re hiding in your office in the dark?”

“Yep,” said Rose flatly.

Jacked tutted under her breath. “It’s not gonna do you any good, you know. You can’t avoid things forever.”

“I just needed a moment to myself, that’s all.”

“But you will give him a chance, though? The new Doctor.”

“Yeah,” replied Rose, her voice clipped. “Sure.”

“Don’t suppose it means anything that he gave up so much to be with you.”

Rose chuckled halfheartedly. “You’re taking his side, now? Maybe things have changed after all.”

“Listen, I may not know what a crisis-thing is, but I do know I’m glad he came here and brought you with him,” Jackie told her. “Cos he could’ve stayed over in the other universe, easy as pie, and you’d’ve stayed, too. But he didn’t. You’ve always been so willing to give up everything for him—your family, your friends, your home, your life—”

“That was my choice, Mum—”

“—so really, it’s only fair he’d do the same, ain’t it? High time he gave up everything for you, for a change.”

“It’s not like that.”

Jackie huffed. “Looks an awful lot like that to me. This Doctor, he said goodbye to that magic ship of his and everything, just for you, to stay here with you. Didn’t he?”

“He didn’t, though. He would never.”

“How do you know? Maybe this new one would.”

Rose grunted noncommittally, scrubbing her noninjured hand over her face. Jackie cocked her head, mouth pursed thin as she took a moment to gauge Rose properly. “What’s wrong, love?” she asked, her tone suddenly soft, maternal. “I mean, what’s really wrong?”

Rose shrugged. It doesn’t matter. Maybe if she thought it hard enough, it would become true. How was that for cognitive restructuring?

“You’re acting all angry at that new Doctor, but it’s not him at all, is it?”

Rose did not reply.

With a sigh, Jackie shucked her jacket, setting it aside. “It’s the other him, yeah?” she asked gently. “The one that sent you away.”

Pressure burned in Rose’s sinuses and she twisted her mouth, willing the tears back.

“Oh, sweetheart,” Jackie sighed, drawing Rose into a hug. Her embrace was warm, imbued with that special brand of soft maternal warmth, and Rose had to fight harder not to cry because of it. She hugged her mother limply, and Jackie squeezed tighter in response, like she could smoosh all the bad feelings away.

“It’s his loss,” said Jackie, gently. “You know that, right?”

“Yeah.” Rose didn’t have the energy to argue.

“I’m so sorry, Rose,” Jackie said, squeezing again for good measure. The hug was almost unbearably hot, but Rose couldn’t bring herself to pull away. “I really am. I know how hard you worked to get back. And it weren’t right, the way the other Doctor sent you away like that, without even hardly a word from you. I know it hurts. Believe me—I know. But in a way—well, in a way, wasn’t it sort of a good thing?”

“Downright charitable,” Rose muttered.

“This way, you get the best of both worlds. Him, and everything else. Or a version of him, anyway. And isn’t it nice, that you get to keep your family, now? Isn’t it nice that you’ll get to spend more time with your dad, see your brother grow up, keep all your friends, all that?”

Rose couldn’t muster a reply; hot guilt and cold anger and tired resignation all roiled restlessly in her mind and none of them offered anything useful to say.

“I would have missed you horribly,” said Jackie, her voice unusually small. “Wouldn’t you have missed me at all?”

“Of course I would’ve, Mum.”

“Yeah. So why don’t you talk to me about it all, then? Tell Mum what’s eating you, love.”

With a deep breath, Rose stepped back and opened her mouth to reply—she didn’t really feel like talking about it, didn’t really feel like talking at all, but her therapist’s words echoed in her ears (Support-network engagement, Rose. Open communication, Rose) and she knew, however grudgingly, that she should at least try; she owed her mum that much—but her words were cut off by the sudden shrill squeal of an alarm blaring overhead.

“Warning: Code Blue,” a pleasant female voice announced through the intercom as emergency lights flashed from the ceiling. “Code Blue. Status level Four. Please implement standard quarantine protocol. All personnel must proceed in a swift, calm, and orderly manner to their nearest quarantine station. Warning: Code Blue…”

“What’s that?” asked Jackie.

“Code Blue,” Rose echoed. “Something to do with Medical, I think.”

“Oh! Must be the thing upstairs, then.”

“What thing?”

“When I was on my way in, there were all these people crowded round the cafeteria,” Jackie explained. “I just thought it was alcohol poisoning—dunno if you’ve seen the news at all, but the emergency lines are absolutely swamped with reports of it, absolutely everyone’s pissed, s’like the stars came back and no one can hold their liquor anymore...”

She kept talking, but Rose hadn’t registered any of the words that left her mouth after cafeteria. Fog filled her head, obscuring any thoughts of anything that wasn’t her conversation with the Doctor outside the lift, trying to rid herself of him, telling him to do whatever he liked, with the unspoken addendum that as long as it was nowhere near her, he could go wherever he wanted.

Including the cafeteria—

Rose pushed past Jackie, ignoring how her mum shouted after her in confusion. A low whine droned in her ears as she stalked her way to the lab door, growing louder and louder and louder until it drowned out all other sound.

What if—?

Panic seized her and the lab door was sliding open and god, had it always been so interminably slow? Rose slid through the gap and made her way to the lift, striding, jogging, then sprinting as her heart pounded painfully in her throat. She slammed the lift button several times before remembering that, of course, emergency protocol meant lifts were down. She bolted over to the stairwell instead, throwing open the doors and darting up the stairs two and three at a time, shoving past the few personnel she encountered along the way.

“They said to go calmly,” one agent irritably called after her and on any other day she might agree, maybe stop to apologize or at least throw a Sorry! over her shoulder, but her throat was too thick and her chest was too tight and what had happened upstairs, what had happened in the cafeteria, what if he’d been there when it happened, what if it had happened to him, what if his new human body couldn’t handle whatever it was and now he was—what if—what if what if what if what if—

“Rose!” shouted Jackie, chasing after her. “What’s wrong?”

Do what you like, it’s no difference to me.

Rose barreled straight into an abandoned caretaker’s trolley, knocking supplies to the floor in a flurry of mops and spray-bottles. She left them rolling across the floor and kept running. Seconds later, she’d arrived at the lunchroom, and what she saw stole the last of her breath away. A bunch of hastily-installed plastic quarantine sheeting obscured much of the view inside the cafeteria’s glass doors, but the blobs of telltale bright yellow moving slowly round inside told her enough.

Oh, god. Oh god.

Rose flipped out the sonic and unlocked the doors without a second thought, pulling aside the plastic sheeting to see HAZMAT-suited agents covering every inch of the place. Agents with plastic-bagged oversized cameras photographed the scene while others scraped samples off tables and walls and counters and chairs, entering data into their tablets and laptops. Several operatives trawled the area with black light instruments, meticulously searching for any sign of biological fluids; others stood in groups of two and three, talking in low tones, their voices quiet in that special sort of too-casual way that suggests a conversation one doesn’t want attention drawn toward.

But then Rose’s gaze found the far corner of the room, and her stomach lurched awfully at the sight of it. There, nearly hidden by HAZMAT-suited medical officers in a disjointed row of highlighter-neon-yellow, sat a stretcher, a covered body lying still and unmoving atop it. And a memory swam up in Rose’s mind, of another stretcher and another body, in a cold dark room, with the TARDIS dying nearby…

Her blood turned to ice in her veins. All sound filtered from the room, leaving behind a strange buzzing in her ears instead. Rose’s feet carried her forward on impulse, leading her to the body. It wasn’t until one of the HAZMAT suits stepped in her path, blocking her view, that she realized how far she’d made it into the room, how everyone had stopped to stare at her.

“Excuse me,” Rose said in something of a daze, fishing out her now-defunct UNIT ID. “Agent Tyler, Special Sciences Division. I just have to check…”

“Sorry, Agent Tyler,” said the officer, stepping in her path once again as she tried to duck around him. “It’s essential personnel only. I can’t let you through.”

“It’s all right!” Jackie piped up, following after Rose with a hand pressed to her chest, wheezing as if she were winded from the run. “Jackie Tyler here, Director Tyler’s wife. She’s with me—”

“Just tell me if you’ve got an ID on the body,” Rose pleaded.

“That information is classified.”

“Please,” she choked out.

“Agent Tyler—”

“Look, I know you’ve got your protocols, but I’ve got to make sure, I’ve just got to know if it’s—please, I have to know, it’ll only take me a second—please—”

“For Christ’s sake, what are you doing, just letting them stand there?” barked out another HAZMAT suit, gesturing impatiently. “This is an active hazard area. Get them to decontamination! And would someone please lock the bloody lunchroom doors?” he snapped as the officer grabbed Rose and Jackie each by the arm to haul them away.

“No, wait!” cried Rose as the officer dragged them back amidst Jackie’s indignant shouts of “Well, that’s nice!” But the officer only pulled them further and further away from the stretcher and the body atop it. “You don’t understand,” Rose pleaded, “I’ve got to check, I have to make sure it isn’t him, I’ve got to—”

But the agent had already managed to tow them to the storage room at the back of the cafeteria, tossing Rose and hauling Jackie inside. Normally stocked to the brim with canned and packaged foodstuffs and paper goods, the storage room was now empty, save the decontamination station rigged up inside; the portable shower stood dark and ominous next to large dispensers of suspiciously unlabeled chemicals that Rose knew would not be intended to touch human skin under absolutely any other circumstances. Rose briefly wondered what on earth they could be dealing with here, just how terribly bad it must be, but shook her head; she didn’t have time to care about that right now. Right now, she had to make sure that corpse wasn’t the Doctor. Nothing else mattered.

“All right,” the HAZMAT-suited officer huffed, turning round to close the doors. “Now that that’s all out of the way—”

“Out of the way my arse,” shouted Jackie. “We’ve got rights, you know!”

“Oh, believe me, Jackie, I know—”

Rose lunged forward, slamming the agent bodily against the doors as she wrenched his arm up his back. “I need to know if that’s my friend lying dead out there,” she spat out over the sound of the agent hissing in pain. “So you can let me check, or I can break your arm. Which’ll it be?”

“Listen, you’ve got it all wrong—”

“Not what I want to hear,” said Rose, twisting the agent’s arm higher still.

“Doesn’t matter if you want to hear it or not, it’s still—blimey, Rose! Go easy, would you? It’s a brand new arm and I’d like to go more than a day without breaking it!”

It took a few seconds for the words to sink in, but once they did, Rose dropped the officer’s arm, her pulse thundering in her ears. She tore off the HAZMAT helmet and threw it to the floor, grabbing the agent by the shoulder so she could whip him round.

Sure enough, it was the new Doctor staring down at her, his eyes wide in bewilderment and his hair absolutely mussed.

Relief surged through her. He was all right. The Doctor was all right. (Only sort-of the Doctor bubbled up faintly in the back of her head, but she ignored it in favor of springing forward to envelope the Doctor in a bone-squeezing hug.)

“Stupid git,” she said breathlessly.

With a pleased little hum, the Doctor hugged her back. “Nice to see you, too. Well-worth the insults and the dislocated shoulder.”

“Shut up,” said Rose, but she didn’t let go, couldn’t do it quite yet, not until she was absolutely certain this was really him and her stupid imagination wasn’t playing tricks on her again. She resisted the urge to bury her face against his chest while her breathing calmed down, but only just. She settled for hugging him harder, instead.

“So why’re you in a suit?” Jackie demanded.

Rose shook herself, willing herself to calm down. Her mother’s presence and the plastic suit digging uncomfortably into her cheek was a timely reminder that no matter how glad she was that the almost-Doctor was alive and well, ultimately, that’s all he was—the almost-Doctor. Not a Time Lord in a brown suit in the TARDIS, but a human bloke, in a blue suit and yellow HAZMAT gear, squeezing her in a hug that was just a little too tight and a lot too full of stiff pointy plastic. He wasn’t the Doctor, no matter how relieved she was to see him, no matter how much her body wanted to believe it, clinging to him like one magnet drawn to another. This wasn’t exactly right. He wasn’t exactly him.

Rose pried herself away so she could swat him on the arm. “Why’d you scare me like that?” she demanded. “And yeah, why are you wearing a suit? Where’d you even get a suit? What’s going on out there?”

“Well,” said the Doctor, frowning and rubbing his arm where Rose struck it, “In order—it wasn’t intentional, it was the only way to get in, I stole it, and you’ve got a mystery medical hazard on your hands resulting in three dead bodies and no clue on what got them. That answer your questions, or are you going to opt for more surprise violence?”

Jackie’s eyes widened. “Three bodies? We only saw one.”

“She was just the first. There are two other scenes just like this elsewhere in the building.”

Rose swore under her breath. Four years of intensive training, teaching her to spot anything that looked out of the ordinary, even in the most innocuous of ways, yet here she’d been, so wrapped up in her own stupid self-pitying thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed anything was amiss, much less that three people were on the brink of death. And now they were gone, nothing she or anyone else could do about it. Gone, just like that. Forever.

(Was it anyone she knew, she wondered? If she hadn’t allowed herself to drown so completely in her own petty nonsense, would she have spotted the problems in time? Was there a chance she could have done something, anything, to help them…?)

Drinking in deep lungfuls of air, Rose centered herself. This wasn’t about her. It was about the three lives lost, the possibility of losing more. Besides, the Doctor was here, or someone enough like him, anyway. That meant the situation, as horrible as it was, was manageable.

Right?

“What happened?” she asked, her voice hard.

“Near as anyone can tell, we’re dealing with some sort of contagion.”

“Any idea what it is?”

The Doctor shook his head, his mouth set in a grim line. “Could be naturally-occurring, could be a manufactured bioweapon. All I know is that it’s bad. Really, really bad. Fast-acting, fast-spreading, alters the bodily fluids on a molecular level, resulting in suffocation due to fluid-filled lungs and a fever hot enough to cook the victim from the inside out.”

“Oh Jesus,” Jackie breathed, wincing. She fanned herself with her hand, as if the idea was enough to make her faint. “That’s awful.”

“It certainly is. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. And from what I’ve overheard, no one else here has seen anything like it, either—”

“It’s probably got something to do with those labs downstairs,” Jackie sniffed. “Lord knows what you lot get up to in there, making viruses into weapons and things.”

“It doesn’t sound like any UNIT projects I know of,” Rose replied, frowning. “And Pete and I keep a pretty close eye on that sort of thing.”

The Doctor nodded. “We should really look into UNIT’s secure servers just to be certain, in the event that any less-scrupulous employees might be hiding something we should know about. Right now, the prevailing theory amongst the medical team is that we’re dealing with a mutation of the Black Plague, but—”

“Do you think that could be it?” asked Rose.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“It just isn’t.”

“Okay, but…” Rose started to say, and stopped.

The Doctor watched her expectantly.

Rose hesitated. She didn’t want to hurt this new Doctor’s feelings just for the hell of it, she really didn’t. But if there was any chance that the UNIT medical team could be right...well, what was more important right now, sparing the sort-of Doctor’s ego, or finding an immediate solution?

(Besides—wouldn’t the real Doctor have figured something out, by now?)

“Is there any chance it could be the Plague, and you’re just overlooking something, or, I don’t know, maybe forgetting?” Rose asked, and the Doctor’s expression cooled. “Maybe all the memories didn’t transfer properly, or—”

“Nope,” the Doctor said cheerfully, his words only a little strained. “Doesn’t work like that. I know everything I knew before and I remember everything I remembered before. Same memories, same knowledge, same reasoning, same feelings, same everything up in the ol’ noodle.”

“Okay, sure, but just—”

“It was me then, and it’s me now,” the Doctor interrupted just a little too brightly, and good grief, even the way his dimple twinged in his cheek was exactly the same as before. “Not a Xerox machine; isn’t as if information was lost in the transfer. I’m not a clone, not a duplicate, not a copy, just me. The only thing that’s changed is the packaging. All right? Does that make sense? Do you understand that?”

Rose laughed nastily. “Well it must be you after all, seeing as you’re still talking to me like I’m some stupid ape too thick to understand anything. At least some things never change, right?”

The Doctor glared at her. Rose glared back. Jackie fanned herself as she watched them both, unimpressed.

He huffed in impatience. “The Black Plague, or Bubonic plague, is an infectious disease caused by the bacterium Yersinia pestis, commonly present in fleas that prey on ground rodents,” he began, his gaze locked on hers. “The most well-known symptom is a series of fluid filled ‘buboes’ located in the neck, the underarms, and the groin, in addition to acute fever, vomiting of blood, and sometimes acral gangrene in the extremities. One can also expect the sudden appearance of a rash, likely caused by the bite of the flea or fleas carrying the Yersinia pestis bacterium. Symptoms typically develop within two to seven days of exposure to the infected rodents, and, if untreated, worsen over time.

“Now,” the Doctor continued, speaking more rapidly the longer he went on despite his chipper tone, “the lack of buboes or rashes present on the victims, in addition to the absence of rodents in the immediately surrounding area, and no reports of rodent outbreaks in the general area, as well as the fact that none of the victims appeared to be presenting symptoms in the two to seven days leading up to their deaths, all suggest that no, this is not, in fact, the Plague, or any permutation thereof. The only symptoms that match are the presence of fever, the vomiting of blood—though it’s worth noting that it appears to be less of a vomiting action, more of an involuntary expulsion post-mortem—and the appearance of black cutaneous and subcutaneous tissues, but anyone with a working set of eyes and nostrils can tell you that the black tissues and disgorged blood are not discolored from the Plague’s trademark necrosis or septicemia, but rather something else altogether. Furthermore, while the Plague has managed to survive in some regions worldwide, its occurrence in this era is quite rare, and its symptoms have barely evolved over time, so unless this universe’s version of the Plague has inexplicably jumped forward a few dozen millennia in its evolutionary timeline apropos of no discernable evolutionary trigger whatsoever, the Plague does not explain the immediate onset of symptoms, nor the total discoloration of the eyes, a symptom present in each victim thus far. Ergo, no, we’re not dealing with the Plague, and just because it’s the most popular theory doesn’t mean it’s correct, and while it’s understandable that your panicking medical team is grasping for a familiar explanation, it’s becoming rapidly apparent that there isn’t one, and just because I don’t know what our mystery contagion is yet, that doesn’t mean I won’t figure it out very shortly. All of which I managed to calculate within precisely 5.26 seconds of hearing the posited diagnosis, precisely the same as I would have done before, in my other body, in the other universe.”

The Doctor drew a deep breath. “Now, does that satisfy your explanatory criteria, or shall I continue wasting time?”

“No, we’re good,” Rose replied. “I appreciate the explanation, though. It’s much better than simply being told to play along, no questions asked.”

“So if it’s not the Plague, then what is it?” asked Jackie before the Doctor had a chance to retort.

He frowned. “I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “Truthfully, I don’t know much about what our killer is, only what it isn’t. I’d really need the sonic to get a good reading on things—oh, I hadn’t even thought of that yet, the sonic,” the Doctor sighed morosely, scratching the back of his neck. “Suppose I’ll have to build myself a new one. I wonder where a fellow can find a half-decent subminiature electroacoustic transducer in this universe—”

Rose fished the sonic screwdriver out of her jacket and presented it to him.

Eyes landing on the sonic, the Doctor fell silent. His gaze flickered from the screwdriver to Rose’s face, back to the screwdriver and up to her face again. Rose forced herself not to flinch beneath his scrutiny.

“How did you get ahold of that?” the Doctor asked slowly. “And why, for that matter?”

“It’s not what you think it is. Or at least, it’s not whose you think it is.”

The Doctor arched an eyebrow in a way that clearly suggested her remark raised more questions than answers.

“Look, do you want it or not?” Rose asked impatiently.

Still eyeing Rose with a healthy dose of wariness, the Doctor took the sonic from her. “Just how many questions have you dodged today, hm?” he asked. “Have you given a straight answer to anyone, about anything?”

Rose didn’t blink. “That’s sort of rich, coming from you.”

The Doctor looked like he wanted to argue, but if so, he must have thought better of it, because the next thing Rose knew, he was scanning himself with the sonic, guiding it over the lines and planes of his suit and helmet. “Nothing to report here, not yet anyway,” he said, glancing at the readings on the screwdriver. “But even without the sonic, it’s obvious that the contagion is fast-acting. None of the victims reported to sickbay with any symptoms, according to the reports, and Miranda certainly wasn’t presenting any symptoms when I spoke to her, except perhaps a mild fever, maybe a little cough.”

“Miranda?” gasped Jackie. “Oh no, not the nice dinner lady?”

The Doctor nodded.

“Oh, what a shame. She didn’t deserve all that.”

“No, she didn’t.”

Rose watched him curiously. “You knew her?”

“Only barely,” the Doctor murmured, his eyes narrowed in focus. Rose glanced down to see what he was looking at, and—ah. So he’d noticed her hand, then, taking in the splint, the swelling, the bandage-job only just hiding a whole host of bruises and tiny cuts. Leaning forward, the Doctor took her hand in his, inspecting it.

“Oh my god, Rose!” snapped Jackie, aghast, jerking Rose’s hand away from the Doctor (and ignoring Rose’s wince of pain). “When did that happen? What did you do?”

Rose cleared her throat and avoided anyone’s gaze, fidgeting uncomfortably. “So you were saying, erm. Miranda and the others were totally fine, right up until they suddenly died.”

“It would seem that way,” replied the Doctor. He was still looking at her hand, as if maybe he was trying to ascertain, without asking, how her fingers came to be in such a state. He gently eased her hand out of Jackie’s grasp and now her fingers were the subject of the sonic screwdriver’s glare, its light bathing her in a ghostly blue glow. “So we’re either dealing with a totally invisible incubation period, or something that can infect and kill you within moments. Still can’t determine how it’s spreading, though; if it were transmittable via air or food or touch, you’d think we’d have a lot more victims by now, considering how quickly the symptoms seemed to manifest, and how many people our dinner lady would have come into contact with today.”

He gently turned Rose’s hand over, running the sonic over it one last time. “Three small tears in the ligaments of the intermediate phalanges,” he announced. “And for some reason, traces of…”

The Doctor trailed off thoughtfully, glancing up at her. “If I asked you what happened here,” he said, his voice light, “would you tell me?”

Rose thought of the Cannon and swallowed against the lump that had sprung up in her throat. “No.”

Jackie tutted impatiently. “Thought as much,” said the Doctor with a nod, and if Rose didn’t know any better, she’d think his shoulders were slumping a little, as if in resignation. As if that was precisely the answer he’d anticipated.

“So, erm. What else do you know about Miranda, then? Anything relevant?” Rose asked, more to fill the silence than anything.

“Not really. She was nice, though. Gave me some free food. And she’s got a boatload of kids at home, sounded like she was taking care of them all on her own. Does UNIT have anything in place, for stuff like that?”

“Yeah.”

“They’ll be well taken-care-of,” Jackie piped up, coughing into her elbow. “We made sure of it, Rose and me.”

“Sort of feels like the least we can do, considering,” Rose muttered.

“Considering?”

Rose worried the inside of her cheek. “I should’ve known something was off. Should’ve noticed straightaway. But I didn’t.”

“Rose Tyler,” said the Doctor, with a sad but knowing smile, “this is not your fault, in any way, shape, or form. You know that, right?”

Rose shrugged. “I know, but—”

“Nope! No buts,” the Doctor said, cheerful once again as Jackie looped one arm round Rose, rubbing her shoulder supportively. “Even I didn’t pick up on anything, and my senses are considerably more attuned than yours—no offense, that’s just how it is, human body or no—so no one could reasonably expect you to anticipate such an occurrence, much less react in time to prevent it. The whole abysmal business is unfortunate, of course. Horrible, even. But as difficult as it can be to admit it, sometimes bad things just…”

Something to the right of Rose caught his attention and the Doctor trailed off, his brow furrowing in worry. “...happen,” he finished a moment later, the word gone faint at the end.

He cleared his throat. “Jackie,” he said, in a tone that very much suggested he was fighting to stay calm, “I don’t suppose you happened to develop a penchant for black nail polish within the last hour or so, did you?”

“God, no. Why?”

The Doctor gestured to the hand resting on Rose’s shoulder; Rose glanced down at it and frowned. Strange, she didn’t remember her mum complaining of any bruises beneath her fingernails, yet here they were, all of them darkening near the nailbed, almost as if she’d got lazy while painting her nails and abandoned the task halfway through, or a series of blood blisters had erupted beneath the skin and she just hadn’t noticed or said anything. But it must not have hurt, or else Jackie surely would have mentioned it by now. In fact, the only thing Rose really noticed was how warm her mum’s hand felt…

Almost feverish.

“What is that?” Rose asked with a composure she did not feel. “On Mum’s hand, that black stuff—what is it?”

In response, the Doctor nudged Rose aside so he could scan Jackie’s face with the sonic, ignoring her indignant little “Oi!” as he blasted blue-white light directly into her eyes; whatever he read on the sonic caused him to pull back with a look of alarm.

“What’s wrong?” Jackie asked, panicking, glancing over her fingernails. “Have I got the thing? Am I sick?”

“We’ve got to get her to an infirmary,” the Doctor told Rose, and she wondered if she’d ever seen him so pale before. Rose’s blood pressure plummeted like a stone. “Now.”

A knock at the door, loud and violent like a battering-ram, made them all jump. “Stay back!” the Doctor shouted through the door, unzipping his HAZMAT gear to reveal that strange new blue suit of his underneath. Fishing around in his suit-pockets, he pulled out a medical mask, slipping it on over Jackie’s head. “We’ve got infected in here!”

Infected. Rose’s head swam at the word.

No voices replied but a knock sounded again, louder this time, heavier. “Move away from the door!” the Doctor called out, but the knocking only got louder and more insistent. “Not a very good batch of listeners, are they?” the Doctor muttered irritably, securing the medical mask in place; Rose tried to move to help but her earlier panic had returned with a vengeance and her arms were trembly and her legs frozen solid.

Her mother was sick just like the others and the others were dead within moments—

“What about you two, though?” Jackie asked the Doctor. Her voice sounded leathery and strange through the mask. “Are you gonna get sick too?”

“Don’t worry about me—I’m still in the first fifteen hours of my regeneration cycle, bursting with all that residual cellular energy. Remember?” he said, and he flashed his right hand at Rose—his fightin’ hand, Rose recalled. “I only stole the suit in the first place so I could sneak in undetected. Rose, on the other hand...”

He froze, glancing up at her, and swallowed. “I’m sure you’ll be fine.”

Rose nodded dumbly, unable to respond over the rushing in her ears, fear threatening to strangle her. She wasn’t too worried about herself. But her mother...

“All right!” the Doctor shouted over the pound-pound-pounding at the door. “We’re coming out now, give us a moment to collect ourselves, won’t you—?”

He threw open the door to reveal a whole host of HAZMAT-clad operatives waiting outside in the cafeteria. The operatives stared, no longer beating at the doors, but now silent and unmoving, watching Rose and Jackie and the Doctor through dark-fogged visors.

Rose gulped. Maybe it was just the lightheadedness swarming up in her skull, but something about all of this felt very, very strange.

(She couldn’t help but notice the blackish-grey stuff dotting the suits here and there, where she could have sworn it hadn’t, before; she couldn’t stop wondering why they were all so quiet, now, couldn’t stop thinking how much the dark impressions behind each visor loomed like shadowy skulls.)

“Can we help you?” asked the Doctor, nonplussed. “Only we’re in a bit of a hurry.”

“Give it to us,” rasped one of the operatives.

“Right, right, of course,” said the Doctor, glancing from one agent to another to another. “But, erm. Just to make sure we’re on the same page—we’re giving you what, now?”

Wordlessly, one of the agents raised its arm in agonizing slow-motion, pointing inexorably toward Jackie. She shrank back in fear and, unthinking, Rose stepped in front of her.

(But what was wrong with the medical officers? What had happened to them?

They were infected too, weren’t they?

How long did Jackie have, before she became just like them?)

“Interesting,” said the Doctor thoughtfully. “Also, nope!”

With that he seized both women by the hand and yanked them away just as an agent came lumbering towards them, arms slicing through the air where Jackie had stood an instant before. The Doctor sprinted for the lunchroom doors, tugging Rose and Jackie along, but one of the operatives caught Jackie and wrenched her back.

“Rose—!” Jackie cried out and in a blink, all the noise left Rose’s head as her UNIT training screamed in like a freight train. Whipping round, Rose punched the heel of her palm into the agent’s wrist, breaking his arm and his grasp before she shoved her mother away to safety.  The next suit that lunged for Jackie was met with a knee to the groin and an uppercut to the jaw. Swiping a chair, Rose whipped it at another agent, striking him in the face with a satisfying thwack that threw him bodily backward into the rest of his fellows, knocking them all down in a heap of limbs and screeches.

The Doctor looked on in open-mouthed shock. “What the hell was that?” he spluttered as Rose darted back to him, grabbing him by the hand.

“You’re not the only one who’s changed!” she shouted, pulling him and Jackie in a run.

At the lunchroom entrance, Rose threw aside the plastic sheeting and flipped open the lock, pushing the doors open before springing out into the hall. Knowing she had only seconds before the agents caught up to them, Rose cast all about the corridor, searching desperately for anything that would hold them back—

“Here!” called the Doctor, rushing over to the pile of caretaker’s mops and brooms Rose had knocked to the floor in her earlier haste. He tossed a mop her way and she shoved the pole through the door handles just in time for the agents to hurl themselves against the doors with a mighty WHAM. The force of the impact threw Rose and Jackie to the floor, but Rose glanced back to see that even though the doors were bowing outward, the metal-handled mop bucking violently with every hit and slam, the makeshift barricade stayed put.

(But Jackie was trembling and Rose could hear her wheezing now with every breath she took and—)

“Still think it’s the Plague?” asked the Doctor as he helped Jackie off the floor, pulling her toward the lift.

“Were any of the other victims acting like that before they died?” asked Rose, following after them.

“Not that I’m aware of, though it’s worth noting that our friends in there are acting like that after they died.”

“Wait—they’re dead?” asked Jackie weakly. “But how comes they’re moving and talking and everything?”

“Good question! Haven’t got a clue.”

They reached the lift but before Rose had the chance to tell the Doctor it wouldn’t work—emergency protocol—they had to turn round—they had to go back—he whipped out the sonic and the doors split open in front of him, like magic. Wheezing as she hobbled inside, Jackie clutched at her chest, her face pinched in discomfort.

“How do you know they’re dead?” she choked out.

“Fluid in the lungs,” the Doctor explained, sidling in after her and pulling Rose inside. “You could hear it in their voices, I’m sure—I could hear it in their breathing. A ridiculous amount of nonmucosal viscous fluid blocking the primary, secondary, and tertiary bronchii—no human could survive that.”

He punched in the floor command and slammed the doors-close button. “They’re all dead, Jackie. I’m sorry.”

Jackie coughed and winced at the sound of it. Eyes screwed shut, she slumped back against the lift wall, and Rose darted over to her side as she fought for air, forcing it in and out of her lungs with great effort. In, out. In, out. Like she’d done so many times, without even trying, without even thinking. (Like the people out there would never do again. And was it just Rose, or did Jackie’s breathing sound so much wetter than before?)

The lift arrived with a cheerful ding and the next thing Rose knew, Jackie was sliding down the wall with a groan. But she never met the floor; the Doctor stopped her with a hand on each shoulder, looping an arm round her afterward to heave her back upwards. With a grunt, he hauled her out of the lift, half-supporting, half-dragging her toward the infirmary.

“What’s gonna happen to her?” asked Rose, supporting her mother from the other side. “She’s not gonna end up like those others, is she?”

The Doctor glanced at her and his voice was sharp despite his reassuring smile.

“No.”

**********

Chapter 1 | Chapter 2 | Chapter 3 | Chapter 4 | Chapter 5

#ficandchips #tentoo x rose #tentoo x rose week #metacrisis x rose #tentoorose #tentoo is the doctor #jackie tyler #angst #angst with a happy ending #romance #adventure #horror #pete's world #UNIT #anti the turning of the tide #mbb fic #defenders of the altverse

[smkkbert]

Do you remember (4/13)

Eight years after Oliver and Felicity became teenage parents, they have everything they could have ever hoped for and more. They have a good life in a nice house. Their marriage is happy, and a second baby is on its way. The calm they have settled in is interrupted abruptly when a stalker starts terrorizing Felicity.

Previous installments in this series:  - The best mistake - In my daughter’s eyes - To make you feel my love

Rating: Teen

Previous chapters: 1 2 3 or read everything on Ao3

Author’s note: This fic is different than any other I have written. There are a lot of ups and downs. It’s not as even in pacing as you might be used to from my stories. Chapters will hopefully be posted every Sunday. Enjoy the ride!

Sliding back and forth on her chair, Felicity tried to find the right position to sit comfortably. Unfortunately, her baby bump made it almost impossible to stand, sit or lie comfortably. The weight of the bump seemed to pull at her front, causing a slightly dragging pain. The strain it meant for her back left a dull ache there.

Felicity loved being pregnant. She loved being so close to her baby and having this connection that only she could have to the baby. She enjoyed feeling his movements inside of her, whether he kicked or just had a hiccup. As long as the baby was inside of her, he was well-protected. Nothing could happen to him, and there was just something soothing about the thought. That Oliver spoilt her even more than he already did when she wasn’t pregnant was just the icing on the cake.

As much as Felicity loved being pregnant, she couldn’t wait for her baby to be born. Aside from the fact that she couldn’t wait to meet this tiny human-being after all these months, her body could also use the relief. Her back would probably be grateful, and her bladder could need a pause from being used as a trampoline too.

She really couldn’t remember that being pregnant had been this exhausting when she had been pregnant with Mae. The emotional struggle she had gone through at that time had probably covered the physical struggle though.

With a sigh, Felicity leaned back in her chair. It wasn’t exactly comfortable as the baby’s weight was now pressing down on her spine, but at least it was a different feeling now. She let the feeling sink in for a moment, stroking her hand over her bump, before she took the file from the desk and resumed reading.

She had just managed to skim the first three lines of the paragraph when her cellphone rang. Without even looking up from the text, she reached out her hand and grabbed the phone. Rereading the last lines once more, she took the call.

“Hello?”

There was a beat of silence that Felicity barely noticed. Only when a long noise sounded, she stopped reading and frowned.

“Hello?”

The noise continued. Felicity’s frown deepened as she tried to figure out what it was. She shot a brief look at the caller ID, thinking that maybe her mother was calling and the connection from Europe was just bad. The words that showed on the display of her phone made her suck in a deep breath though. Unknown Number.

Five days had passed since Saturday. Everything had been quiet since. She hadn’t received any more texts or any gifts. She had even been able to shake the feeling of being watched. She had thought that whatever had happened last week was over. Technically, those two little words on her display didn’t prove anything either, but Felicity just had a bad feeling about this given what had happened last weekend.

“Who is there?”

Felicity tightened her hand on the phone, listening closely. She tried to hear anything that could help her figuring out who this caller was or where he called from. There were no sounds of a train passing by or a special chime that could only be hurt in one district of the city like it happened so often in the movies. There was nothing but the noise that she soon noticed was heavy breathing.

Unable to take it any longer, Felicity hung up. She took in a deep breath, trying to shake the bad feeling. Without any hesitation, she turned to her phone and switched on the intercom to talk to her assistant.

“Gerry, please send Adrian in.”

Her assistant shot her a look through the large glass walls before he gestured for Adrian, who was standing at the other side of the office anteroom. With large steps he walked towards Felicity door. He knocked briefly before he stepped in.

“Everything alright?”

“I just got a phone call,” Felicity said and waved with her cellphone. “It was an unknown number. Nobody talked. There was just breathing.”

She threw her cellphone towards him without warning, but Adrian caught it one-handedly without much effort.

“I will try tracking this caller, but I cannot promise anything. If it’s the same person that sent you the texts, the flowers and the gift, he won’t get caught easily.”

“I know,” Felicity said, nodding her head. “Just try to find out anything please.”

Adrian nodded his head. “Of course.”

He looked at her for a moment longer before he nodded once more. He tightened his hold on Felicity’s phone, straightened his shoulders and turned around. He reached the door with two steps.

“Adrian?”

Adrian turned around to Felicity with perked up eyebrows. “Yes?”

“Do you think I am overreacting?” she asked honestly, her voice sounding small. “I mean nothing threatening happened, right? There were just texts, flowers, a gift and now one strange call. It’s nothing. I am just freaking out. That’s it. Right?”

For a long moment, Adrian just looked at her. He was scrutinizing her face thoroughly, thinking about how he should answer. Releasing a long breath, he sat down at the chair on the other side of her desk then. He looked at her insistently.

“One of the worst problems with stalking is that it is not taken seriously soon enough,” Adrian told her. “It’s not just about the victims but also family and friends as well as police. Everyone says it’s just letters or just phone calls or just whatever. Of course they are right. It is just that at the start, but that doesn’t mean it will stay like that. Stalkers are unpredictable, and every stalker is different. Wait and see it good tactic at the start, but if it doesn’t stop, you have to go on to the offensive. You feel unsafe, so we have something to do about this.”

Felicity took in a deep breath, feeling a little bit of relief. At least that meant she wasn’t completely crazy.

“What do you suggest we do now?” Felicity asked. “I mean our attempts at finding out who this is didn’t lead us anywhere so far.”

“Experts advise to four steps in handling stalkers,” Adrian explained. “The first step is setting boundaries. It’s easy when you know the stalker, but it will work this way too. You reject gifts. You reject calls. You do not answer to texts.”

Felicity nodded her head. “Understood.”

“The second step is telling people close to you about this, but you have already done this. The third step is to give one last warning and finally call in the police. Since you have personal security through me, that’s a lot of warning and actually close to calling in police already.”

Felicity narrowed her eyes slightly. “You know a lot about stalking.”

“I did a lot of reading about it after Saturday,” Adrian replied with a half-hearted chuckle. “Like you said, it’s a job with a lot of responsibilities, and I am taking my job seriously.”

“Good to know.”

“Really, Felicity,” he said with soft voice, “if there is anything I can do to make you feel better, just tell me.”

“Thank you, Adrian. I really appreciate that.”

Adrian smiled at her briefly before he got up and walked to the door. He had just reached it yet again when her phone rang once more. Felicity tensed immediately, and she felt her heart jumping up into her throat.

“It’s your mom,” Adrian said. “Sorry for looking.”

Felicity smiled quickly. “It’s fine.”

She reached out her hand and Adrian walked back to her desk to hand her the phone. He gestured towards the door with a questioning look like he wanted to ask if he should leave her alone. Felicity just shook her head and gestured for him to sit back down. The phone calls with her mother usually weren’t that private that nobody could be around.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Felicity!” The excitement in her mother’s voice was unmistakable. “Finally, I get a hold on you.”

“Have you tried to call me already?”

“Yes, a few times, but you were always busy,” Donna replied. “How are you? How are my grandchildren?”

“I am fine,” Felicity replied, “though I am impatiently waiting for your youngest grandchild to lay in my arms rather than on my bladder.”

Adrian tried to hide his amusement, but he couldn’t bite back a snort. When Felicity looked at him, he quickly cleared his throat and pretended to be really busy looking at his shoes. He hid his lips behind his hand though.

“You will make it through this. It’s just a few more weeks,” Donna told her gently. “I guess Mae is excited too?”

“Very excited, yes.” Felicity smiled. “She’s going to be the best big sister a baby could wish for. I already know that.”

“Of course she is. She had strong role models for good siblings.”

“That’s true.”

Felicity smiled to herself. Oliver was a great big brother. His relationship with Thea had had its ups and downs, especially since the gap in age. They had always been close, no matter what though.

Felicity had two wonderful big sisters too. Sara and Laurel had really made her feel like she was one of them and like they had always been sisters. She hadn’t been the stepsister. She had been their sister without any reservations. It was why she had confided in them when she had needed someone to lean on during the pregnancy with Mae.

“How’s Europe?” Felicity asked eventually.

“It’s a dream come true,” Donna replied. “I cannot believe it’s only going to be a few more weeks. This tour around the world has been an unbelievable experience.”

“I can imagine,” Felicity replied. “What other destinations are on your schedule for the rest of your tour?”

“We are currently on our way to Munich. After that, we still have Amsterdam, Paris, Madrid and some Portuguese island to go. I forgot the name.”

“Sounds like you still have a lot on your plate.”

“We do, but it’s great,” Donna replied. “I am sure you have a lot on your plate too. With the baby on the way and your last days at Queen Consolidated, you are probably busy. I hope my handsome son-in-law and Moira are taking good care of you.”

“Very good care, yes. I am quite busy though.” Felicity nodded her head even though her mother couldn’t see it. “There is always a bunch of work waiting for me at my desk. It doesn’t slow down just because I am having a baby. Buying all the baby equipment and making sure everything is ready for the baby’s birth – it’s a lot of work too, but it’s a good kind of work. I couldn’t be happier.”

“That’s great to hear.”

Felicity could hear the smile in her mother’s voice and tried not to feel too guilty about lying to her. The only reason she wasn’t telling her the truth which was that she hadn’t really bought much baby equipment yet because she had been too busy at QC and with this newest problem. She knew she needed to make time for that soon though if she didn’t want her baby to come home to an unfurnished nursery and sleep on the floor with nothing but a blanket wrapped around his tiny body.

“Mom, I gotta hang up now,” Felicity said quickly. “Have a nice time and just remember to send Mae as many postcards as you can, okay?”

“Oh, we surely do.” Donna chuckled. “Bye, Felicity.”

“Bye, Mom.”

Felicity hung up with a sigh and held the phone out for Adrian to take it. He did, looking at her with a hesitating expression on his face.

“You really don’t want to tell your mother about this?” he asked. “Because if I had a child, I would want to know about this.”

Felicity shook her head. “No. My mother would just end her world cruise early and come back to Starling to drive me crazy. I love my mom, but she and I do not necessary deal with things the same way.”

Adrian nodded. He didn’t look necessarily convinced, but he didn’t argue with her either. Still, Felicity felt the need to say something more.

“My mom has always dreamed of seeing the world, and this is the first time she got further then Illinois,” Felicity explained. “I don’t want to ruin this for her. This stalker is probably just going to get bored and leave anyway.

Again, Adrian nodded. He still didn’t seem convinced, but he just shot her a smile and walked towards the door.

She could hear her phone ringing from the anteroom once more. Adrian shot a look at the display. This time, he didn’t come back to hand her the phone though. He just tightened his grip and frowned seriously. Felicity didn’t need him to say anything to understand what this meant.

Whatever was happening here, it still wasn’t over.

* * *

A long breath escaped Oliver’s breath when he realized that he had woken up. Frowning, he turned his head to shoot a look at his alarm. According to the LED display board, it wasn’t even three in the morning, so it was definitely to early to even lie awake in bed until his alarm would go off like he did so often.

With another sigh, Oliver turned onto his side. He reached his arms out for Felicity, so he could wrap his arms around her and snuggle up to her back. He always slept best when there was little to no distance between him and her. When his hands found her body, touching her shoulders, he frowned though. All tiredness was like washed away immediately.

“Felicity?”

A little whimper escaped Felicity, and she only trembled more. Sliding to her as close as possible, Oliver wrapped his arms around her and pulled her against his chest. He could feel her rapid heartbeat and her erratic breathing. The back of her top was damp from sweat, and the skin of her arms was cold. Despite the tight hold she had on him, she was still restless, moving and trembling in his arms.

“It’s okay,” Oliver whispered soothingly. “It’s okay, Felicity. I am here. You are not alone. I am here. You are alright. Everything’s alright.”

Despite his soft whispers, Felicity didn’t calm down. Her heart was beating as quickly as it had before already. Her breathing was only getting more erratic. She was hyperventilating to a point that Oliver felt she would pass out if she was awake.

“Felicity, you gotta calm down,” Oliver whispered and stroked his hand over her baby bump. “You are home. It’s alright.”

There was still no reaction though. He didn’t seem to get through to her at all. She seemed to be too much caught in her nightmare.

Oliver felt his heart breaking for Felicity. He knew from own experience how much nightmares could make you suffer and how physically and emotionally exhausted they could leave you when you woke up.

After the Gambit had gone down and his father had shot himself in front of his eyes, telling him to go back to his family and take care of his girls, Oliver had been haunted by nightmares for years. He had relived the moment his father had shot himself and moments on the island, thinking he would die and never see Felicity or Mae, again and again every night. Sometimes, he had dreamed that he died and saw Felicity and Mae breaking apart at the news. Other times, he had dreamed about coming back from the island and being long forgotten. Neither Felicity nor Mae had remembered him. Looking back, he couldn’t say which nightmare had been worse for him to process.

Only therapy had helped him to make the nightmares occur less often though there were still nights that he woke up without knowing where he was. Usually, it was having Felicity right at his side, holding him in her arms and reminding him that he was home that helped him push past the aftermath quickly.

When Felicity’s whimpers grew louder and her trembles turned into spasms, Oliver pressed his lips to the soft spot right under her ear.

“Felicity, you have to wake up now,” he whispered a little more loudly than he had spoken before. “Wake up please.”

With a gasp for breath, Felicity opened her eyes. Even in the darkness of their bedroom, he could see how she was looking around quickly, trying to find out where she was. Still disorientated, Felicity moved her hand to her bump like she wanted to check if the baby was okay. Her fingers found Oliver’s hand that was already resting over her top, and that was the moment she finally relaxed a little.

“Oliver.”

He kissed the soft spot under her ear once more, tightening his hold on Felicity. His hand stroked up and down her baby bump slowly, offering some comfort.

“Yes, it’s me,” he whispered unnecessarily as Felicity was already relaxing against him. “I am here. You’re safe.”

“What happened?” Felicity asked, still being out of breath. “What- I don’t- I’m so cold.”

Oliver pulled the blanket up her body until it reached right under her chin. He put his hand to her arm and rubbed up and down, trying to spend some more warmth.

“Do you want some tea?” he asked her. “Or maybe some soup or just a heating pad. I could-“

“No.” Felicity shook her head firmly. “No.”

There was a long moment of silence. Oliver didn’t say a word. He just continued trying to warm her and give her a little comfort in this situation. He knew that all he could really do was being there for her and wait for her to tell her what she needed.

Felicity took a few deep breaths. Oliver could feel her breathing and her heartbeat slowing down. The tensions in her muscles disappeared completely, and her body melted back against his to a point that it felt like they were just one. Felicity moved her hand to his on her upper arm, lacing her fingers through his. She pulled his hand to her lips, kissed the palm of her hand and squeezed his fingers.

Even without hearing her say a single word about her nightmare, Oliver knew what it had been about. These last days had been a terrible up and down. After there had been a few days that nothing happened and those unwanted gifts had stopped, Felicity had started to receive phone calls. Whoever called her, never said a word. He just breathed heavily. The number of phone calls had increased quickly.

Oliver couldn’t say that he wasn’t unsettled by these developments. He tried not to show it too much because he didn’t want to frighten Felicity anymore than she already was frightened. He tried to be strong for her and for Mae, so they could lean on them. It was his job to do so. Internally, he was going crazy though.

As recently as this morning, Adrian had told Oliver that the way those phone calls he escalated quickly wasn’t a good sign. Within less than a week, whoever was doing this had gone from sending texts to seeking more direct contact through phone calls. If he really meant it seriously, he would soon try to meet her.

“It was just a nightmare.”

“Yeah,” Oliver whispered back. He nuzzled the nape of Felicity’s neck and kissed her shoulder. “I am here. You are safe. It’s-“

“I know,” Felicity interrupted him. “Let’s just go back to sleep. I am fine and-“

“No, you are not fine,” Oliver whispered, “and you don’t have to pretend to be fine for me.”

Oliver considered Felicity to be much stronger than he was. She was better at showing what she really felt instead of hiding it like he did. She confronted her pain because she had the strength to do so. If she tried to cover her emotions, she did so because she thought he needed it. He knew that.

“It’s okay to be scared. I am scared too.”

At that, Felicity turned around in his arms. She put her hands to his cheeks and let her fingers explore his mimics. Unlike Oliver, she couldn’t see well in the dark.

“Are you?”

“Of course I am,” Oliver whispered, tightening his hold on her. “I am scared that someone is trying to hurt you and, with that, our entire family. If there is something that scares me more than anything, it is that someone could hurt Mae, you or our baby.”

“Maybe it’s just nothing.”

Felicity’s voice was small, and Oliver could hear how close to crying she was. In the darkness, he couldn’t see any tears, but he was sure they were already welling in her eyes.

“Do you believe that?”

There was a beat of silence after Oliver’s question before a heart-wrenching throb fell from Felicity’s lips. She moved impossibly close to him, resting her head under his chin and letting him hold her. Oliver did so gladly, protecting her with his strong arms wrapped around her and rubbing his hands over her back that he knew was aching from the weight of her bump lately.

They had tried to tell themselves that it was nothing at the start, but there was no denying that something was going wrong here now. Even if there had just been texts, the moment Felicity had started to feel unsafe, they should have taken further measures. It wasn’t okay for Felicity to be scared. Even if this was just a joke, and Oliver got the feeling that it wasn’t, it just really wasn’t okay.

“I will have to get a new phone number,” Felicity said with a sob eventually. “I get these phone calls every ten minutes now.”

“I know,” Oliver whispered, kissing Felicity’s forehead. “I will take care of a new number for you first thing tomorrow.”

Felicity nodded, sucking in a deep breath. Her fingers were clinging to his shirt, holding onto him as tightly as she could. Her nose was resting against the side of his neck, and she breathed him in regularly.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for being here.”

Oliver smiled softly to himself. As messed up as all of this was, the little moments he shared with his family gave him the strength to stand through this and help Felicity to stand through this too. At least he hoped that he could help Felicity to stand through this a little.

“There is no place it’s rather be,” Oliver whispered. “Absolutely none.”

“Not even Aruba?”

Oliver chuckled. After they had spent their honeymoon in Aruba, they really wanted to go to Aruba now. If Felicity wasn’t pregnant, he would talk to his mother and ask for the private jet to take them to Aruba, far away from here, as soon as possible. He made a mental note to take Felicity to Aruba as soon as their yet-to-be-born family member would allow them to.

“Not Aruba. Not Bali. No other place on this earth.”

Felicity angled her head back to look at his face. Oliver guessed that her eyes were adjusted to the dark now, at least better adjusted than they had been before. She looked tired and exhausted, but there was a warmth in her eyes that only Felicity could feel with how messed up things were around them.

“I love you,” she whispered. “I love you so much.”

Oliver smiled and brushed his thumb over Felicity’s cheek. He could feel the wetness where the tears had fallen. He wiped them way, wishing the pain that had caused them could be wiped away just as easily.

“I love you too.”

They both leaned in at the same time, so their lips met halfway. Oliver could taste the salt of her tears on her lips, but it only made him want to kiss her more. He wanted to take the saltiness away like he had wiped the wetness away, so he licked over her bottom lip until Felicity opened her lips to the touch of his tongue.

A low moan escaped Felicity’s lips, and it echoed in his chest. Her leg fought itself free from the blanket that was covering her and wrapped around his hip. Propping herself up onto her elbow, Felicity turned Oliver onto his back and climbed onto his lap. Oliver was surprised in the sudden shift of atmosphere, but he held onto Felicity’s hips to pull her even closer nonetheless.

When their lips eventually parted, Felicity licked her lips. She moved against him, pressing the juncture of her legs against his lap.

“Make love to me.”

Her whisper filled the room. Though it was a request, it sounded like a promise. Oliver didn’t need to be asked twice. His fingers already snuck beneath the hem of Felicity’s top, and he straightened up a little, so his lips got closer to Felicity’s. He could feel her breath ghosting over his face.

“Gladly.”

The last sound had just fallen from his lips when he closed the distance and kissed Felicity once more. He wanted her to find herself in him and find himself in her. It was what they both needed tonight.

* * *

“I have fallen into despair.”

Felicity chuckled, opening the door further for Laurel to come in. Her older step sister sighed and hugged Felicity briefly before she went past her into the house.

“I really thought all of these samples of possible decorations would make choosing the decorations a cakewalk because I thought I knew what I wanted, but now I feel like I have no idea what I want anymore,” Laurel said with a shake of her head and sighed. “Tommy is absolutely no help of course. Men usually aren’t helpful when it comes to aesthetic decisions. The only decision Tommy wanted to have a say in was which drinks and food we were offering. Everything else has been up to me, and I am really going crazy here.”

“Good thing you have a real wedding enthusiast here,” Felicity said with a smile.

Laurel turned around to her with an amused smile and perked up an eyebrow. “You mean Mae?”

“Who else would I mean?”

They both chuckled. As much as Felicity loved weddings or had at least learned to love them, nobody came close to loving them as much as Mae did. Felicity wouldn’t be surprised if her daughter decided to plan weddings for a living someday far into the future. She would certainly do so with all of her heart.

“Where is Mae?”

“Coming!”

There was a rumbling upstairs before Mae came into sight. She ran down the stairs, jumping down the last two steps. She didn’t manage to stop soon enough and almost knocked Laurel off her feet when she threw herself at her, wrapping her arms around her aunt’s middle and hugging her tightly.

“Hi, Munchkin,” Laurel said, hugging her back with a chuckle. “Thank you for offering your help with the wedding decorations because I really cannot do this alone.”

“Don’t worry,” Mae replied. “You’ve got me now.”

Laurel smiled at her and pulled a thick collection folder from her purse. “That’s good because I really need your help with all of these possible wedding decorations.”

“I’ve got this,” Mae said and took the folder from Laurel. She had to hold it to her chest tightly and arch her back to keep it from dropping to the floor. “This will be much more fun than helping Uncle Tommy to pick a suit.”

“Girls’ days are always more fun,” Laurel agreed. “You did right to choose your mom and me over your dad and Uncle Tommy.”

Mae already walked ahead to the living room, and Felicity was about to follow her, but Laurel held her back. She grabbed her hand and waited until Mae had disappeared in the living room where she couldn’t hear them before she looked at Felicity.

“I am very sorry I asked you for help in this.”

Felicity frowned. “Why? I told you I would help you with the wedding preparations.”

“Yeah, but that was before all of this stalking happened,” Laurel replied. “It was why I wanted to delay the wedding planning until Donna was back to help me. That way I would have gotten the help I needed, and I could have helped you getting a little rest from your mom. I know you need it sometimes. When Ollie came over last week, he said it might be a good idea to ask you to help me though. I wasn’t sure but-“

“If Oliver thinks it’s a good idea, you can actually be sure that it probably is.” Felicity smiled warmly. “Oliver knows me better than anybody else. If he thinks it’s worth a try to distract me, it is. Besides, you went with me to a birthing class when were still in high school, so I might owe you one.”

“You don’t owe me anything, and even if you did,” Laurel said, scrunching up her nose slightly and shaking her head. “If this is getting too much for you at any time, you just tell me and I will pack in my stuff and give you the rest you need.”

Felicity took in a deep breath, nodding her head. She couldn’t deny that she would have probably told Laurel to please ask someone else to help her with the wedding planning. Since Oliver had explicitly told Laurel that he thought it was a good idea if Felicity helped, she was giving this idea a shot though. Oliver knew her quite well, so this might actually help to distract her a little bit.

“Is there anything new about the stalker yet?” Laurel asked. “The last Ollie told us was that you got a new phone number and that Moira increased your security.”

“Adrian Chase and his team are watching the house 24/7 now,” Felicity replied with a sigh, nodding her head, “in case that guy should show up here.”

“Were there any more calls?”

“Not since I changed my phone number.” Felicity massaged the back of her neck uncomfortably for a moment. “The truth is that I wouldn’t even know if something happened though. Adrian is checking my post and my emails in case the guy tries to contact me through that.”

When Adrian had suggested this, Felicity hadn’t been sure at the start. She knew that Adrian was trustworthy. If you worked in the security branch, especially for a family like the Queens, you had to be trustworthy. If there was any doubt about that, Moira’s thorough checkups of anyone she hired would have brought those doubts to the surface. Still, letting someone go through every piece of her life had seemed a lot.

Since the only other option had been a gasp for breath and a racing heart whenever she received an email or whatever, letting Adrian go through it first had seemed to be the better idea.

“And you still don’t know who it is?”

Felicity shook her head. “I have tried to think of anyone who could do that, but I really have no idea. I can’t imagine that I even know a person who would do that.”

“And Moira’s security didn’t find out anything either?”

“No.” Felicity sighed. “All possible leads led nowhere at the end.”

Laurel tugged some strands of Felicity’s hair out of her face and behind her ear. She smiled comfortingly, squeezing her fingers once more.

“I have no idea what you are going through,” she said, “but I am here for you whatever you need.”

Felicity took in a deep breath, trying to hold back the tears she already felt welling in her eyes. She couldn’t count how many times she had burst into tears or at least been close to doing so in the last few weeks. She felt like she was constantly on edge, always scared that something would happen.

“Thank you,” Felicity whispered. “Since there is nothing we can do to end this right now, I guess distraction is the best we can do instead. Otherwise, I will just sit here and wonder why all of this is happening.”

It wasn’t fair this was happening to them. After everything she and Oliver had already been through, they should be able to enjoy the last time before their second baby was born. They shouldn’t have to deal with something like this.

Felicity had tried to figure out what she had done to deserve this. She didn’t necessarily believe in karma, but she did believe that good people deserve good things happening to them. She was far from perfect, but she did consider herself a good person. Still, it seemed like the most terrible things kept happening to Oliver and her.

Life just wasn’t fair.

“You don’t blame yourself for this, do you?” Laurel asked with a frown. “Because this is not your fault.”

Felicity released a breath. “Then whose fault is it?”

“It’s the fault of that guy,” Laurel said firmly. “He’s crazy. He doesn’t understand the boundaries every other person understands. No matter what you said or do, there is no excuse in the world for anyone to act like this and make you feel like this. Even if those gifts and those texts and whatever were all meant well, it is not okay.”

Felicity sucked in another deep breath, nodding her head. She knew in the back of her mind that Laurel was right. There was nobody to blame but whoever was doing this. It was just easier to blame herself rather than a faceless and nameless person.

“If there is one thing you want to blame yourself for,” Laurel said with an almost amused smile, “it should be being so gorgeous that even a possible stranger just fell in love with you and can’t imagine spending your life without you now, and that’s hardly something that deserves blame, right”

Despite the tears in her eyes, she couldn’t help but chuckle about Laurel’s words. She nodded, wordlessly agreeing that Laurel was right. She wasn’t to blame, and she shouldn’t blame herself.

After a moment of silence, Laurel pulled Felicity into her arms for a gentle hug. Felicity leaned against her older step sister, taking some deep breaths until she felt more relaxed. Only then she pulled back and nodded her head.

“It’s probably just a crazy person,” Felicity whispered. “A really crazy person.”

There was a small part of her that noticed that there was little to no comfort in the fact that the person who was stalking her was crazy. Crazy people were even more unpredictable than sane people were.

“Hey, are you coming?”

At Mae’s call, Felicity took in another deep breath. She wiped her fingers under her eyes to make sure there was no sign of the tears that had welled there left. Closing her eyes for a moment, she took one last breath and finally put on a smile.

Laurel and Felicity joined Mae in the living room. Apparently, while the adults had still talked about the threats the little girl didn’t know anything about yet, she had gone through the entire part of the collection folder that held samples of table decoration. She had used the coasters Felicity had put on the couch table for the homemade ice tea Oliver had prepared for them to mark the pages with her most favorite decorations.

“So what did you choose?” Laurel asked, rubbing her hands together. “I am already so excited.”

While Felicity poured them some ice tea, Mae presented the three table decorations she had picked. Interestingly, she had chosen three completely different sets. The first one had a flowery theme and was held in green and different shades of beige. The second sample looked very noble with crystals and pearls on a light blue background.

“This one is my absolute favorite though.”

Felicity almost burst out laughing when Mae opened the folder on her third favorite. With the pink tablecloth, the pink flowers and pink feathers, it looked like it had been designed by Barbie while she had been high on ecstasy. If the expression on Laurel’s face was any indication, she felt the same way.

“You know, Mae, I think I like the other two just a little bit better,” Laurel told Mae carefully. “Let’s take a look back at the other two, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Granny Donna would be really proud of you though,” Felicity whispered towards her daughter, winking. “She would have had the same favorite.”

Mae smiled happily and browsed back in the book, trying to find her other two favorites again. Since she had taken out the coasters when she had first showed her picks to Laurel and Felicity, she didn’t find them as easily.

Felicity was just about to ask Laurel if she had already decided on the flowers for her bouquet since that could help them deciding about the further decorations. Before she could say anything though, her cell phone rang. She shot a look at the display, thinking Oliver would call her to ask if everything was alright, but her heart stopped when she saw those two little words she had hoped never to see again.

Unknown number.

Immediately, Felicity tensed. She had changed her number only a couple of days ago, and it had seemed to be the solution for her problem as she hadn’t received any more calls. Since then, she kept her number a secret. Only a small circle of people had this number, people she knew she could trust.

Her hand was shaking slightly when she grabbed her phone and rejected the call. She didn’t even have the hope that it was someone else, so she didn’t give it a chance. Instead, she just switched off the phone. She wouldn’t give this person the chance to drive her crazy by calling her every ten minutes again.

When Felicity was finally able to look away from the phone, she saw that Laurel watched her. She turned her head, shooting Laurel a brief smile and shaking her head. There was no need to talk about this yet. They had met here to distract Felicity, so she would let herself be distracted rather than thinking too much about this.

“Okay, so I actually like the one with the green a lot,” Laurel said before Mae could notice the silence. “It’s very simple, but it’s also very beautiful.”

“I agree,” Felicity said, nodding her head. “I think it’s very much your and Tommy’s style too.”

“Yes, that is what I was thinking,” Laurel said. “Besides, since there are a lot of decisions about the wedding that are open-“

The doorbell interrupted Laurel, making her frown.

“Do you expect someone?”

“No,” Felicity replied, “but Adrian or one of his colleagues is outside, so I guess it’s okay. Just continue here. I will go and check.”

Felicity hefted herself off the couch with a low groan and massaged the small of her back. At the start of the pregnancy, she had always rolled her eyes about women who were acting like that in TV. Now, she certainly wouldn’t judge anymore.

Walking into the entry room, Felicity shot a cautious look through the small glass part of the front door. It took her a moment to recognize the man at her doorstep as one of Adrian Chase’s colleagues. As soon as she remembered him, she opened the door though.

“I am sorry, Mrs. Queen,” he said, “but this was just delivered for you.”

Felicity saved the breath she would need to tell the man in front of her that her surname was Smoak-Queen. She just took the small parcel he was holding out for her and scrutinized it. It hadn’t been opened apparently which surprised her. Adrian had insisted on opening every post she got.

“Is Mr. Chase not here?” Felicity asked, looking past the security guy in front of her to find his boss. “When I saw him this morning, he said he was going to be here all day.”

“He had to leave for a brief meeting,” the man said. “Do you want this parcel now?”

Felicity doubted that the man in front of her had much experience in the security branch, at least when it came to personal security, but she nodded her head and took the parcel.

“I will be at my position if you need anything.”

“Thank you.”

The security guy went back to his car, and Felicity stepped back into her house. She walked into the kitchen, turning the parcel between her hands. There was no information about the sender. There was just her name and address written onto it with neat letters.

There was a part of her that knew it would be between to wait for Adrian to come back and let him check the parcel instead of opening it herself. This security guy had obviously not gotten the memo that any post Felicity received wasn’t just looked at from the outside but actually be opened to make sure the content inside wasn’t dangerous or even just threatening.

She knew she wouldn’t get a second of rest until she knew what was inside though. She grabbed the scissor from the topmost drawer of the kitchen counter and opened the parcel.

The first thing Felicity saw inside was an envelope with her name on it. The letters were written just as neatly as the ones on the parcel. With trembling hand, Felicity took the envelope. She turned it between her fingers for a moment and tried to feel what was inside before she opened it and took the card outside.

We are always getting close to each other. Can you feel it?

What Felicity did feel was the threatening meaning of these words. The fear they made her feel pooled in the pit of her stomach and spread all through her chest. It would paralyze her if it didn’t cause a wave of adrenaline to rush through her veins with force.

She grabbed the album that was lying at the bottom of the parcel. The sight of the cover alone, a white background with lots of red hearts on it, made her breathing falter. Despite the voice in her head that told her that she should just hand this to Adrian without spending another minute with this new gift, she opened the album and started looking at what was inside.

Her breathing stopped completely now, and her heart was pumping so quickly that her entire body was shaking from the force. Her fingers trembled so much that she was barely able hold the album. She tightened her hold on it quickly.

The album was full of photos of her and Mae. They were getting out of the car and talking in front of Verdant. They were strolling down the street, hand in hand, to get some ice cream after school. They were standing at the window in Mae’s bedroom and looking at the stars. They were standing at Robert’s grave, hugging each other tightly and so much more.

All of these photos had been taken in the last few days since Felicity had returned from Gotham. They had been taken from right outside this house or somewhere in the Queens’ forest or even across the street from Verdant. Whoever this was, he was so much closer than Felicity had thought he would be, and he was that close to her the entire time.

The other thing there was no doubt about was that whoever did this couldn’t bare the thought that Oliver was a part of her life. He was cut from photos, or his face was burnt out when it was more in the background. It wasn’t any less threatening than the first part.

There wasn’t just a person out there who stalked her. There was a person out there who stalked Mae and her, a person who had come so close to her daughter that he had managed to take photos of them in their home. The same person seemed to have trouble seeing Oliver anywhere close to them.

When Felicity’s legs started trembling, threatening to give out right under her, she quickly put a protecting hand to her bump. The baby was moving strongly, probably feeling his mother’s restlessness. Felicity tried to take in a deep breath, but she couldn’t. Her lungs were unable to take in the air, and panic spread in her chest at the feeling.

“Felicity, I think we need your help in the living room because your whirlwind of a daughter is-“

Felicity turned around, looking at Laurel. Shock was written onto her stepsister’s face as she must make a terrible image.

Before Felicity could say anything, black dots started dancing in front of her eyes. She tried to grab a chair to sit down, but her legs were already giving out under her.

“Felicity!”

Laurel’s worried shout was the last thing Felicity heard before everything blacked out.

@fannaz @promiseyoullbepatientwithme @bytemegeekette @felicity-said-just-in-case @phanseptiic @orangeisorange @mspotatohead14 @whentheheavenfades @emmaamelia95 @smoakingskye @seaolicity @ourwritinginvein @1022bridgetp @felicityqueenforever @leagueofolicity17 @yryssss @myhauntedblacksoul @muslimsmoak @sherlock44 @sinceriouslybea @arrowsalways @olivyflavescentdeer @olicitys-castle @ofnothingcharming @vaelisamaza @smoakedandcharmed @alexisa1206 @mysaudadespt2 @florence-bubbles @addictiontelly @queens-of-arrows @memcjo @hysterical-for-joshifer @oswinelevenforever @olicitylovemaking @bandanab310 @mymusiclove101 @lynslogic @scarletqueen23 @olicityshipper19 @alex-wesley @arrows-4ever @unabashedlynerdypatrol @louehmysoul @ligiapimenta @chattyyana @charlie-leau @coal000 @samcrowleys @ishippolivia @julianegomesqueen @malafle @miriam1779 @charlinert @melaux @ontheolicityship @myshipperlife @wrightainsley @lexi9515 @ladygreenwood @multi-fandom-crazy-fangirl @morinamel @mje-thomas @kebarry @canadianheartgirl @nannett2307 @almondblossomme @paarti12 @kathrynelizabeth89 @imdfabulous @cutearrowgirl @mrt2501 @mecha1330 @arsipaci14 @mzminx @salasvia @brandis91 @cainc3 @morganmiguess @pr0fessi0nal-fangurl @iamisalima @nessafra @jonhdiggle @niki-is-amazing @universed-posts @hopeful-warrior @senoritaswiftie @bellemmie @green-arrows-of-karamel @iheartarrow @olicityovereverything @oliverfel4 @navyaarsha @fandoms-breathe-life @simone4mcswarek @olicity-in-the-heart @fullychippedcreation @geemarie @everything-but-normal-cat @myarroworld @tjmartinez @pleasantfanandstudent @itsmagnoliagirl @j69confessional2 @scentedcolorpirate @icanica74 @javinancupil @tjmartinez98 @certainmentalityface @tatianadamaceno @ryelew @wildwillowzepplin @missafairy @letsplaymurde-r @lipizette @positivepiper @nuttymilkshakehologram @laksagirl @turnupthemusicandscream @pumpernickle93 @onceuponanolicity @1106angel @jaspertown @fadinglands @morganashimi83 @mochababychristy @omglovechrissie @mariejr88-blog @thetaufactor @onceuponanolicity @speakandseethetruth @bri206 @aglasgo @thats0klaroline @geemarie @pineprincess @nerdgirljen @peterpanslostgirl666 @eternal-olicity14 @allyouhadtodowas-stay-stay-stay @lovelycssefan @tsseract @flowerandsunshine @dcnmarvelgamergeek @blondeeoneexox @monetsmark @soaring-cities @bb-olicity @mashamarty @rulerofsilence @erika-amber @felicity087 @i-claim-only-emily @pattid1 @westallenandolicityshipper @babyolicityandwestallen @nothingmorethanmyotps @kayleenyc @tonto16 @olicityfluv @olicitea1990 @olicity5ever @haahaaa2408 @pattid1 @faegal04 @24karatgem

(If you want to be tagged or untagged, just let me know. :))

#arrow #olicity #olicity fic #olicity fanfic #do you remember

[sheithonearth]

Rockabye

Warnings: Mpreg, mentions of abortion but no actual abortion.

The chair scraped across the floor as Keith pulled it out and sat down, seat creaking under the weight. Iverson took his own spot across from him at his desk, wordless and unhurried as he set a stuffed folder on the surface then casually flipped through it. Keith knew what Iverson was doing and was prepared to not let that asshole get under his skin, used to his so-called “intimidation” tactics at this point. Sat adjacent to him was another officer whose name he didn’t know but was probably there to be a witness, meaning this meeting wasn’t going to be in Keith’s favor at all.

The office had a dull hue to it with unremarkable white walls that surrounded him. Awards and photos of Iverson shaking hands with higher ups and world leaders, including the president herself, were tacked to the walls in a showy display. Included were the few picture frames on the desk that faced away from the guest. Keith didn’t care what was on the other side of the frames, especially not now.

Iverson finally spoke, “As I’m sure you’re aware, the Galaxy Garrison is known for its discipline, its displays of valor, and its adherence to its code of conduct, meaning those under the tutelage of the garrison are to follow the rules. Now you, Kogane, have not been very good at following the rules from day one. You’re only saving grace has been your piloting abilities, but now we are at a cross roads where that might not be enough.” Keith crossed his arms over his chest, giving off an air of defiance and to shove down the creeping fear he felt.

“Kogane, you know why we’re talking to you right now, right?” It was a dumb question and Keith refused to answer it.

“You’re pregnant,” Keith dug his nails into arms, almost painful enough to make him wince. He was well aware of his situation, one he had only found out about three hours ago after going to the med bay for excessive vomiting. It was still too fresh in his mind.

“We don’t care if cadets have relationships with other cadets, it’s inevitable, but sexual misconduct and pregnancy are to be strictly abstained from. Violations can result in NJPs and even expulsion.” Sexual misconduct. Keith wanted to scoff. “Misconduct” wasn’t being so overcome with emotions of want and love that everything else around you vanished–stifled moans and skin-against-skin being the only anchor left. The rush of adrenaline had pumped furiously through him, giving him tunnel vision, eyes set on one person and one person only.

“Now, Kogane, there’s something else we need from you. You aren’t the only other party in this situation and we need the name of the other partner.” Iverson was being diplomatic to start but Keith heard the undertone. Keith was ready for a fight, fear from earlier fading into courage.

He stayed silent, not breaking eye contact and maintaining his indifferent attitude.

Iverson sighed, “Look, Keith, it is important you cooperate with us. Are you protecting him? Did he maybe force himself on you?”

“It wasn’t like that!” Keith blurted, leaning forward in his chair. Both Iverson and the other officer straightened in their chairs, ready to be on the defensive. Keith huffed and threw himself against his chair’s backrest, hands clutched around the arms of it. They didn’t know who it was, but the thought of them accusing Shiro of forcing himself on Keith was ludicrous. They had no idea how willing Keith had been, how he threw himself into strong, caring arms. They had held him in all the right ways, hands delicate as they caressed him over his trembling body. Deep kisses turned Keith into a writhing, pliant mess, wanting more than he was getting. Keith’s breath came out shaky as he exhaled, the memory playing intensely in his head.

“Okay, so he didn’t force himself on you, but if it was another officer we’ll have a bigger problem on our hands. It could lead to their possible discharge from the garrison, and it could be worse for you since you refuse to tell us who.” Keith held his silence. Concerns had been voiced about Shiro’s position in the garrison and the possible ramifications, hushed as they lay in scattered blankets and sheets that spilled over their hips. But he had held Keith’s hand in his, intimate and close, and kissed everyone of his knuckles. Solicitous whispers of “I’m not afraid” and “I won’t let you go” dared Keith to believe that he meant what he said, and that he would come back to Keith after his year in space was up.

Iverson speaking again brought him back, “It’s interesting that you’re 8 weeks along,” he said as he shuffled through the folder, “The Kerberos mission launched 8 weeks ago as well.” The implication in his tone left no room for what he meant. The air soured as Keith tried to maintain control of his breathing, going over the exercises Shiro’d given him to keep himself grounded.

“You and Lieutenant Shirogane seemed awfully close in your short time here. I suppose that’s on me, though, for assigning you to him in the first place.” Keith’s knuckles were white around the chairs armrests, unsure how much longer he could keep his cool in the suffocating presence of these men, these men who had him figured out. All they needed was a confession straight from Keith’s mouth.

“All we need you to do is tell us Shirogane’s the father and then we can cut a deal.”

“A deal?” Keith didn’t ask in interest, but in quiet incredulousness.

“You’ll be able to stay at the garrison but...” Iverson glanced at the other officer, “you’ll have to terminate the pregnancy.”

Keith’s eyes almost bugged out of his head.

“Of course only authorized personnel will be aware of this and no one outside of that will have to know.”

Anger was beginning to grab hold of Keith, ire unforgiving as his body trembled and eye sight blurred with unwanted tears. How could they ask that of him? What would giving Shiro up do for them when they also wanted Keith to get rid of his child? Their best pilot was hundreds of miles away in space yet on earth they had some sort of conspiracy against him. What did they want?

Through his tears, Keith stared again at the frames on the desk. Did they have a picture of Iverson’s family? A partner. Kids. People he loved.

None of this was in his favor. He either lost his unborn child and the most important person in his life, or lost his entire future and means of living with no support from anyone outside. Even as he mentally weighed his options, going through the pros and cons, it all seemed moot. It didn’t make it any easier, the inability to see beyond what was in front of him hindering any sort of positive outlook. Tears streaked hot down his cheeks but he didn’t sob or cry out. All he had left was the burning embers of his rage at the unfairness of it all. A future to look forward to and someone who wanted him by his side, ripped away all at once. With Shiro gone, he didn’t have anyone, no family, no other friends, just the growing life inside him reminding him of who wasn’t there.

It’d been minutes since a word had been spoken, sniffling the only sound filling the empty space. He used his sleeve to wipe away the wetness on his face and around his nose. Iverson and that other officer hadn’t bothered to move in the growing time of silence, as if willing to sit there all day if it called for it. But Keith didn’t have all day, he had just this moment and the lives of two futures on his hands. Things were never meant to be easy for Keith, he figured that out at a young age, but to have to choose between his child growing up in uncertain conditions or Shiro losing everything he’d worked hard for shook Keith to his core.

But in the end, Shiro’s happiness has always taken precedence over his own, and Keith wouldn’t have made it this far if he hadn’t taken “improvise, adapt, overcome” and utilized it to his full advantage. Keith’s been wanted before, but never needed, and selfishly he knew this child would need him and would connect him to the very person who wasn’t there. Maybe Shiro wasn’t afraid, but neither was Keith.

The tears stopped and Keith breathed in and out, even intakes calming his heart rate and neutralizing his anger. No, things weren’t easy for Keith, but he’s survived this long–one more hurdle won’t take him down, especially not with out a fight. Shiro will be back and Keith will bring him their child and they will be reunited once more.

Keith stood from his chair, both sets of eyes following him, “I’ll go pack my things.”

A/N: I’ve always enjoyed playing with the idea of Keith getting pregnant while at the garrison but I’m so bad at long/multi-chaptered stories I just sit on them. So here’s a small scene instead :)

Also posted on ao3!

#sheith #keith #shiro #my writing

[tonystarktogo]

Tiny Tony Overlord Part 2

Part I | Read on AO3

Betaed by the amazing @folklejend. All remaining mistakes are my own. Enjoy! :)

Chapter 2: Recap

.Helicarrier.

“Everybody shut up!” Nick Fury yells and finally, for the first time in twelve long, frustrating hours, blessed silence reigns in SHIELD’s headquarters.

With a deep sigh, Fury closes his eye, opens it again, and lets his gaze wander over the assembled people, all of whom belong to the best of the best SHIELD has to offer.

At 4:12 am, his entire organisation is on the brink of total mayhem, all because of one man. Or rather the disappearance of one man. It shouldn’t surprise anyone that said man is Anthony Stark.

“We’ve got a room filled with some the best hackers, analysts, profilers, tacticians and spies in the world,” Fury says after a long moment, just barely restraining himself to keep from screaming. “Now can someone, anyone, explain to me how we’ve lost Iron Man in the middle of New York City with no ideas as to where he is or who might’ve taken him? Anyone?”

This time, the silence is a lot less blessed and a lot more tense.

[continue under the cut]

Fury rubs his temples. “Alright then. Hill! What do we know about the attack?”

Maria Hill straightens in her seat. “Oliver McWalker, age twenty seven, studied micro-biology until he dropped out of college after he was accused of regular misuse of the equipment and several cases of theft. No suspicious activity after that, no arrests, nothing that pinged our radar.” Hill clicks her tongue, obviously displeased by that oversight.

“Yesterday at 2:39 pm, McWalker set off a couple of small explosive devices in a park.” Hill presses a couple of keys on her keyboard and the screen to her left flares to life, depicting the surveillance footage from the park in question. “The authorities were first alerted at 2:42. A domestic terrorism special unit was supposed to handle it, with the support of the local police force. McWalker proceeded to use a device similar to a flamethrower that appears to contain a violet, highly flammable substance, as well as several other weapons the officers on the scene assumed to be magical. Our lab is still working to identify them all. The Avengers’ assistance was requested at 2:54. Captain America, Hawkeye, Black Widow and Iron Man were sent in and arrived at 3:01.”

Hill pauses for a moment to take a gulp of the huge cup of coffee in her hand. An unsubtle reminder that even Fury’s always impeccably dressed and composed assistant is running on less than four hours of sleep.

“Captain America engaged McWalker with Black Widow as back-up whilst Hawkeye and Iron Man helped with the evacuation. Now this,” Hill points at the screen, where the images flicker and turn black almost simultaneously, “is where things get spotty. It appears that before being subdued by Captain America, McWalker managed to set off an explosion of sort that disabled any working technology within two miles of the blast. According to Hawkeye, Stark was forced to leave his suit, which we have been unable to recover. Hawkeye then lost sight of Stark when a group of armed men in black combat uniforms attacked them. Black Widow and Captain America never saw Stark thorough the entire battle.”

Another screen flares to life, this one displaying a map of the location of the attack.

“This,” Hill points at a side street near the park’s back-entrance, “is Stark’s last known location. In his direct vicinity, one grocery story, two cafés and a house have been damaged by the fight.”

“So we know he’s been there,” Fury muses. “The rest of the team?”

“Captain America and Black Widow didn’t leave the park until near the end of the fight. Hawkeye appears to have started out on the other side of the road and then moved towards the main street.”

Three dots appear on the map. The fourth one remains a single question mark.

Fury frowns at the screen. “Was Stark intentionally separated from the others?”

“It’s possible.” Hill tilts her head in consideration. “But we don’t have the necessary data to confirm it.”

“Was the electrical wipe-out intentionally used to make Iron Man vulnerable?”

“It’s possible, but we don’t have the necessary data to confirm it.”

“Was Stark taken or killed?”

“It’s possible.” Hill pauses.

“But we don’t have the necessary data to confirm it?”

“You’re a quick learner, sir.”

Fury glowers at his cheeky assistant. “In short, we don’t know if Stark was the intended target, we don’t know if McWalker was working alone or if this was a coordinated attack, we don’t know what weapons he used, we don’t know where Stark is or whether or not he’s alive, we don’t know what happened to his armour, we don’t know who the enemy forces were working for, and we don’t know about anything that happened within a two-mile radius from that damn park.”

“That about sums it up, sir.” Hill takes another gulp of her coffee.

“What about the bodies?” Fury stares at the headshots of the men that didn’t live to tell the tale after facing of against the combined force of three of SHIELD’s most dangerous agents.

“None of them appear in any of our databases,” Hill denies with a shake of her head.

“So another dead end then.”

Hill sends him a half-hearted smirk. “I’m afraid so, sir. Our techs are tracking McWalker’s movements to figure out how he got a hold of the components of these weapons, but so far they haven’t made much progress. Our only lead is the three surviving, unidentified men we have in our custody. They are likely to wake up sometime in the next 48 hours.”

“Mother fucking Stark and his god damn drama!” Fury pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. “Alright, Wesley, get me Romanov on the line. Last thing I need is for the Avengers to go and make this mess even worse. Hill, take care of our wannabe villains. Nobody sees them, nobody talks to them, nobody who isn’t already in this room even knows they exist. Got it? The rest of you, get out of my sight, catch some sleep, and if you aren’t back at eight o’ sharp, you will live to regret it!”

“But sir!” a newbie protests. “That’s in less than four hours!”

Luckily for everyone involved, another techie manages to drag him out of the room before Fury gets the chance to make an example. Under the man’s baleful, slightly deranged glare, the room is cleared in record time.

* * * * *

.Zach’s B&B.

Tony stares down at the newspapers titled “PURPLE WIZARD ATTACKS NEW YORK” in bold, black letters. He doesn’t know what the most confusing part is: That an official publication uses the word ‘wizard’ seriously, that the date appears to be 02/09/14 or that none of this seems as weird to him as it should be. The picture on the front page shows Captain America in mid-strike and just looking at it makes Tony’s head hurt even more.

It has to be a fake because Captain America went down in WWII, everyone knows that. His father has been searching for the body forever. At the same time though, it looks completely accurate to Tony, even provokes a fond ‘Always has to solve a problem with his fist. Some things just never change,’ somewhere in the back of his mind. Conflicting facts and memories are warring in his head, things he knows to be true and things that can’t be false contradicting each other, pulling him into opposing directions.

For one thing, Tony is ten. He knows he is. Yet his body feels smaller than it should be, imbalanced and just plain off. It’s also 2014, which should freak him out but doesn’t. The technology around him, the fashion, the events, it is all wrong and so awfully familiar at the same time.

Perhaps the oddest part is that Tony isn’t panicking. He isn’t afraid. He isn’t feeling anything at all. It’s like his mind is processing the facts around him, contradicting as they are, but the link to his emotional side is—broken. Cut off. In some way that is perhaps a good thing. It allows Tony to acknowledge with a calm certainty he can’t logically explain that he is misplaced but not out of place. In his time but not.

What is maybe the most frustrating though, is that Tony knows he is aware of the answers to every question his current situation raises, he just can’t seem to access them. They’re right there, lodged in his mind somewhere, yet beyond his reach. And he can’t even seem to feel afraid because of that.

“Fuck.” Tony drops his head into his bandaged hands with a moan. He hates not understanding anything. Especially when it directly involves him.

Unscrewing the cap of the bottle of pain medication Goggle-Guy has produced from who knows where, Tony almost dry-swallows two pills out of habit before he remembers one is more than enough for his current size and weight. He’s not sure what possibility should worry him more, that his body might have been shrunken or that his mind might have been replaced in his younger self. Yet, for some inane, inexplicable reason, he isn’t worried over either of them.

On that note, Tony turns his head towards the darkest corner their cheap but homey motel room has to offer, from where his masked stalker watches him. It’s disconcerting how quickly Tony has gotten used to that sensation. To all of it, really. Even having a man die in front of him doesn’t seem that terrible anymore, now that the shock has faded and Tony has gotten a few hours of sleep.

Jesus, he really makes for a fucked up kid, doesn’t he? Maybe his parents should have sent him to a psychiatrist after all.

Of course, if there had been one thing Howard hadn’t tolerated near his heir, it had been doctors. He’d seen too much of the damage they were capable of, or so Jarvis always says. Complimentary memories of experimentations, trial runs and the mortality rate of the subjects flash in front of Tony’s eyes. They aren’t relevant now though, so he pushes them aside.

“Alright,” Tony addresses his murderous companion, “Care to explain why you and your friends tried to kill me? And why you killed them instead? Is there a bounty on my head? Because that would be cool!”

“No,” the word is muffled by the face mask.

“Oh.” Tony deflates. “What about a name then?”

“The Asset has no name.”

Cue the creepy, robotic voice again.

“Technically I suppose ‘Asset’ could count as a name,” Tony disagrees on principle. Then promptly wrinkles his nose. “Not an acceptable name of course, you’ve got me there. And really, talking about yourself in third person? That’s some wacky disassociation shit you’ve going on there, sweetums.”

So maybe Tony is a bit more comfortable with this complete stranger than he should be.

“Can you at least lose the mask and goggles? Honestly, I can’t believe nobody has called the cops on us yet!” Tony doesn’t remember much of how they’ve gotten to this little bed and breakfast, or how they got a room for that matter, but walking around with a muzzle isn’t what he’d call inconspicuous.

Goggle-Guy doesn’t bother with a verbal answer, simply lifts one hand and pulls first the goggles and then the mask off. Tony blinks at the uncharacteristic—and how would he know that?—compliance.

“Holy shit, you’re hot,” is probably not the appropriate reaction, certainly not from a ten year old kid, but Tony will later maintain that it’s still true. Clear, blue eyes, wild hair, a sharp jawline that could do with a shave. All of which is oddly familiar. In more ways than one.

I know you.

“Okay. Right.” Tony clears his throat, tries to shake off the unsettling feeling of having forgotten something important. Something essential.

He needs more intel.

“Can you get me a phone?” Tony blurts out, half wondering whom he’s supposed to call, the other half clearly remembering the tiny devices with a connection to a world wide web filled with information, if only one knows how to use it.

“Acknowledged,” Dead-Eyes—because that’s what they are, as pretty as they look—responds, thankfully distracting Tony from the mess inside his head for the moment.

He’s gone before Tony has the chance to say anything else.

Weird guy. Ignoring the strain on his aching shoulder, Tony folds his arms on the table and rests his burning forehead on top of them. I missed him.

He wishes those painkillers would kick in already.

* * * * *

Tony doesn’t realise he has nodded off until he opens his eyes to find his cheek pressed against the smooth wood of the table. There is a rectangular plastic case lying next to his right elbow, the only sign of Dead-Eyes’ return. Tony turns around but he needn’t have bothered. As expected, a blank-faced Dead-Eyes has once again resumed his position in the strategically most advantageous corner of the room.

“Thanks for this,” Tony rasps, awkwardly waves the phone around. Then, because his brain is gearing up again and he finally notices the bright pink phone case with the colourful flowers and emoji stickers all over it, “Do I even want to know where you got this from?”

Dead-Eyes doesn’t twitch, much less answer in any other way.

“Why did you get it though?” Tony can’t help but ramble. “Hours ago you pointed a gun at my face, and don’t get me wrong, I think we’ve come a long way. I’m just not sure where the change of heart stems from.”

If possible, Dead-Eyes stands even straighter. “Disobedience is punished,” he states without inflection.

“O-kay,” Tony drawls. “But why obey me?”

“The Asset obeys the handler’s commands,” Dead-Eyes answers mechanically. “Disobedience is punished.”

Tony blinks. “I know you’ve answered the question, but that doesn’t really explain anything, you know that, right?”

He receives no response.

After a long moment, Tony decides this is all he’s going to get from his cooperating, yet strangely uncooperative assistant for now and busies himself with googling his own name instead. Which admittedly yields more results than Tony has expected.

“DEAD OR ALIVE: TONY STARK MISSING,” “The Fate of Iron Man: Defeat or Disappearance?” and “Who Will Save Our Hero?” are among the first headlines to pop up, all of them less than a couple of hours old.

To Tony’s disappointment, they don’t have any new information on the attack he’s found himself in the middle of. There aren’t even any mentions of the men in the black combat gear. Everyone seems focused on that Purple Wizard who apparently initiated the fight. Even the fifteen hurt civilians haven’t earned more than a side note so far.

There are quite a few pictures of the Iron Man suit and Tony Stark though. Well, the forty-something version of Tony Stark at least.

Tony frowns.

So another wannabe villain has attacked the city. That still doesn’t explain why he’s woken up in the middle of a battlefield, without his armour, in a body that appears to be around ten years old. Now that he isn’t so busy staying alive, just looking at his tiny hands is freaking him out a little.

He remembers the odd, purple light balls that had been shot around and the way the air around him crackled when he first came to. Is it possible, Tony wonders, that one of those light balls had hit him and reduced his body to that of a child? But for what purpose? And could something like this even be done? Considering what he’s seen magic do and the fact that his body is a whole lot tinier than it’s supposed to be, he admits with a disgruntled grimace that the conclusion isn’t that unlikely.

Tony hisses when a sharp spike of pain disrupts his thoughts for a moment. Perhaps he is more injured than he has assumed because his headache doesn’t appear to abate and so far, the painkillers have proven to be entirely useless. Or could this be a side-effect of the violet energy?

What has that stuff even done exactly? Has his body been shrunken? Has his younger body been ripped from his time and immersed into this day? But then what has happened with his grown one? And why does his mental state not fit the age of his physical self? The possibilities are endless, and frankly, they don’t ease the building ache behind his temples at all.

Tony curses. This is why he hates magic.

As much as he doesn’t like any of this though, for now, the “how” isn’t all that important. What matters is that it has happened and he is currently in the body of a child, in a cheap motel room with only a hitman for company. He really needs to come up with a plan. Preferably one that involves him as a grown-up again.

To achieve that, Tony is going to need help. The magic sort of help. Unfortunately, the people who have that sort of expertise aren’t just few and far in between; they also aren’t known for being easy to track down. In fact, there is only one whose location is both publicly-known and easily accessible to Tony in his current state.

“Prepare yourself, buddy,” Tony calls out softly and averts his eyes from the screen which is lit so brightly it hurts his eyes. “We’re going to pay the Avengers a little visit.”

* * * * *

.Secret Research Facility.

“What the fuck do you mean you’ve lost the Soldier?!” the commander’s flabbergasted cry sounds from his office, causing all recruits in hearing distance to exchange wary glances.

A moment later, the door his thrown open.

“Rosewell!” The commander yells, incensed.

“Sir?” A rapidly-paling recruit jumps up from his workstation.

“Activate the Soldier’s tracker!”

“Sir, yes, sir!” Rosewell stutters, causing the commander to roll his eyes.

“Useless, the lot of you,” he snarls, spittle flying everywhere, and lifts his phone to his lips again. “And you, White, better be back with the Soldier and Stark’s body in six hours or the state isn’t gonna waste money on your retirement!”

With that, the commander slams his phone onto the table hard enough to cause the screen to crack. Then he suddenly stills and turns back with an unholy gleam in his eyes. “Who in here was responsible for the Soldier’s activation phrase?”

A moment of silence passes before a college-aged kid clears their throat. “I-I believe that was Agent White’s job, sir.”

“Knew I should’ve drowned that whelp when I had the chance,” the commander spits and palms his gun with a hateful expression. “Bloody Star Wars fans.”

Sooooo... What do you think?

#Tiny Tony Overlord #ReRe writes #fic #multi-chaptered fic #tiny Tony #Tony Stark #Bucky Barnes #Winter Soldier Bucky #SHIELD #HYDRA #the secret organisations are getting involved now #Nick Fury #Maria Hill #Agent White #bloody star wars fans #yeah i think i'm funny #recap #background information to get this story moving #everyone is on the same page #except how nobody is

[thisishowyouletgoandfindyou-blog]

Up From Chaos

No one covets a stressful childhood. But the later-life benefits of growing up in a tumultuous home are beginning to come to light, upending conventional wisdom in the process.

By Megan Hustad, published on March 7, 2017 - last reviewed on March 14, 2017

SHARE

TWEET

EMAIL

MORE

Illustration by Gérard Dubois

Sarah* grew up as an only child in a middle-class Los Angeles home that wasn't nearly as sunny as it appeared from the outside. On the rare evenings when her father was home for dinner, she wished he had stayed at the office. She was used to the tension her mother alone brought to the dinner table. But having two problem drinkers to contend with was more than a 10-year-old could handle.  An evening might proceed smoothly—or someone might have a bottle broken on his head.

Her childhood left an indelible impression on Sarah, who is now in her late fifties, a happily married grandmother of three as well as a published author and writing teacher. She recalls growing up "in constant emotional danger. There was never a time when I felt comfortable, when I could relax." She remembers thinking everything was her fault and says she still tends to apologize too much today. The smallest affectionate gesture can send her back to her youth, feeling trapped, anxious, and desperate for escape. "I feel sorry for my husband," she admits. "He'll take my hand while we wait at an intersection, and my gut instinct is to yank it away and start running."

But Sarah also credits her upbringing for giving her the observational skills of a master spy. She can sense when people are hiding something from her, and her reading of the power dynamics in any room comes as if by instinct. "I can see how people stand in relation to each other in an instant," she says. "I can see where fear is coming from, where openness is coming from." The skills needed to navigate her turbulent childhood appear to serve her well as an adult.

What possible benefit is there in a tumultuous childhood? It is not an easy question to ask, particularly as each stressful upbringing is stressful in its own way. Some involve grinding poverty and some, overt abuse, while others are built on constant destabilizing neglect, or "undercare." These varied experiences are now the basis of cross-disciplinary research indicating that stories like Sarah's are not just the result of make-lemonade-out-of-lemons pluck. Early lives shape the very hardware of our brains, leaving some people impaired in certain respects, but others measurably stronger. As it happens, some of the adaptations taken on by children in stressful environments can come in handy later on.

Few who suffered deeply during childhood would wish the same experience on their own children. But as one self-identified survivor of a painful childhood concludes, "I'd be lying if I didn't acknowledge that misery benefited me in some ways."

A New Perspective

The downsides of a rough upbringing are well-documented. The standard model holds that early suffering leads to further setbacks as an adult because those who emerge from a punishing childhood are so damaged by those years that they may never live up to their full potential. They may be more prone to depression and score lower on tests of intelligence and memory. They also appear to be at greater risk for a range of physical ailments, from chronic back pain to heart disease.

Adults who experienced significant childhood stress can display a hostile attribution bias, meaning they perceive threats in situations that others properly view as neutral. Such a cognitive glitch can hamper the ability to form the kind of alliances that professional and social success most depends on. "It is essentially a biological phenomenon," or a dysregulated fight-or-flight response, says Daniel Keating, of the University of Michigan. "It means that the system designed to regulate your stress response is either undershooting the mark or overshooting it." Overshooting leaves you "reacting to things that are not significant threats in the world, but are either imagined threats or neutral things that you interpret as threats." It also makes you slower to return to your baseline. The effect can produce kids more likely to act rashly, even when unprovoked, who turn into sullen, withdrawn adolescents and, perhaps ultimately, adults who fly off the handle without warning.

But a nagging sense that the conventional wisdom painted an overly hopeless picture prompted Willem Frankenhuis and Carolina de Weerth, of Radboud University in the Netherlands, to publish a well-cited review suggesting that the script could be flipped, or at least amended. Recent studies had shown that individuals who'd had chaotic childhoods exhibited an enhanced ability to detect and monitor threats and to recall negative events. Was it possible that, under the right conditions, kids from stressed environments would perform better than expected at efficient information gathering, assessing people's reputations, and other reasoning abilities?

article continues after advertisement

"Most of the research on young people from adverse environments focuses on what they're bad at," says JeanMarie Bianchi, of Wilson College. "Our goal has been to uncover the psychological strengths of this population, because we know very little about what they're good at."

Researchers who have pursued this work, like Vladas Griskevicius, now at the University of Minnesota Carlson School of Management, see the core question as a natural outgrowth of life history theory, which proposes that people structure their lives depending on their childhood environment. Broadly speaking, those who grow up in safe, predictable environments with adequate material resources tend to employ "slow" strategies—they study hard, delay gratification, put off marriage and reproduction, and generally follow the advice given to most middle- to upper-middle-class kids on how to stay on that course. Those who experience considerable upheaval early in life tend to employ "fast" strategies—for example, having sex earlier or becoming parents at a younger age. The fast strategist's "reward horizon" is shorter, and their future less assured; they will take a smaller immediate reward instead of a larger payoff later.

But instead of thinking in terms of whether a slow or fast life strategy is "good" or "bad," couldn't one think in terms of what was appropriately adaptive in each environment? A child growing up in a stable, loving home who is presented with a candy bar and told that if she waits a half hour, she can have two, would be wise to wait. But if her home is chaotic and her caregivers deliver only sporadically on their promises, it would be quite reasonable to take the candy bar while the getting is good. Grabbing what you can when it's in front of you in this context is not "impulsive" or "shortsighted," as those behaviors are typically—and disparagingly—labeled. It's strategic.

To assert that the latter behavior is adaptive is one thing; to say that a harsh or unpredictable childhood environment could yield objective future benefits is another.

Illustration by Gérard DuboisThe Upside of Unpredictability

To pursue the question of potential upsides of chaotic childhoods, Griskevicius and a team led by Chiraag Mittal focused on two elements of executive function: inhibitory control, or inhibition; and task switching, the ability to disengage from one task and pick up another. They hypothesized that people who grew up amid unpredictability would fare worse on measures of inhibition but better at task shifting, especially in situations that evoked elements of their childhood.

article continues after advertisement

They primed half of their subjects to think about instability by having them read an article titled "Tough Times Ahead: The New Economics of the 21st Century"; the other half read a text about a person looking for lost keys. In computer-based challenges routinely used to measure inhibition, people who grew up in unpredictable environments showed no significant difference from their peers under the control condition of having read the article about the keys. Primed with the article about economic uncertainty, however, they performed significantly worse.

The results were different when it came to task shifting: In the control condition, the two groups performed similarly. But in the uncertainty condition, those who experienced unpredictability in childhood outperformed their privileged peers—they were faster in shifting focus without a loss of accuracy.

Developmental psychologist Bruce Ellis of the University of Utah describes this trait as the ability to "unstick yourself," a type of cognitive flexibility that correlates positively with traits such as creativity. It may be that individuals raised in stressful environments have a greater willingness to leave something undone—a lack of perfectionism that helps them do what's necessary without dwelling on what could have been—compared with those raised in homes with the luxury of routinely expecting perfection.

"We are not in any way suggesting or implying that stressful childhoods are positive or good for people," Mittal and Griskevicius have insisted. Still, a closer look at the potential strengths of every individual, no matter his or her background, could help overturn stereotypes, both in the culture at large and in the minds of those who have grown up in uncertain environments that tend to foster self-doubt.

Kids who grow up feeling that nothing is under their control may turn into adults who don't particularly value feeling in control, but that could be an asset for those making their way in a treacherous economy. Consider Steve*, a New York-based software developer whose most vivid childhood memories of Christmas involve hiding under the couch in the basement to avoid getting caught in his parents' verbal crossfire. "They spent so much time fighting with each other that they did not have much energy left over to tend to us," he says. Steve recalls wanting to help around the house, but never being told what to do or, when he completed chores, whether he had done an adequate job. Around age 10, he started cutting his arm with a razor blade, hoping to get attention—to no avail.

article continues after advertisement

"Even during the good times there was a sense that you were on borrowed time and disaster was just around the corner," he says. "And it always was."

As an adult, though, Steve has proven to be highly flexible, with a willingness to take significant risks with little hesitation. He is sure that his upbringing has helped him through rough career patches. When facing big questions—where to work or how much to invest in a relationship—he has a high tolerance for ambiguity, for living in that in-between stage in which one does not know whether success or crushing failure awaits.

Evidence of other possible cognitive advantages is gradually emerging. Chiraag Mittal, now at Texas A&M, is looking into the effects of childhood environment on memory. His early findings indicate that people who grow up in unpredictable environments are better at what's known as working memory updating; they have the ability to forget information that is no longer relevant and to attend quickly to newer data that is.

Bianchi believes that growing up with stress may promote certain forms of associative learning—the ability to recognize that multiple elements of one's environment are connected in some way or that certain behaviors will be rewarded or punished in a given scenario. Growing up in an environment that's constantly in flux, she says, may make people "more aware of and responsive to changes in the environment." In the lab this means subjects may be quicker to perceive that they have been given wrong instructions to a computer game—and to change their behavior accordingly. "This would have profound implications," Bianchi says. It means that people who are used to being able to rely on rules and to trust instructions—such as those who grow up in more stable environments—may stick with the rules even in the face of negative results. Meanwhile, those from stressful backgrounds may be quicker to explore other possibilities and stumble upon novel solutions.

Illustration by Gérard DuboisSorting It Out

Stress is not one-dimensional, and while socioeconomic background is a factor in examining its effects, it is far from the only one. Clear childhood stressors such as divorce; domestic violence; physical, sexual, and emotional abuse; and the mental illness, alcoholism, or drug abuse of a household member are not limited to any one demographic. Growing up in poverty but with a stable family life poses different challenges than, say, being raised with the trappings of privilege but knowing that an otherwise indifferent parent's affection is contingent on how well you perform. Several cultural critics, surveying the state of the millennial generation, suggest that those within it who had upbringings high in parental praise but lacking in competition have too little experience with loss and may now lack confidence, resilience, and decisiveness.

The amount of stress one experiences in childhood also appears to be a factor in predicting future cognitive benefits. A pair of longitudinal studies by Mark Seery, of the University at Buffalo, found that people who reported experiencing moderate stress throughout their lives tended to score higher on measures of resilience (and were less likely to have chronic back pain) than those who reported either little stress or extreme stress.

The re-evaluation of stressed childhoods is part of a larger reconsideration of the mental and physical impact of stress. Of particular interest is the effect of norepinephrine, a chemical messenger that's triggered to help us pay attention when we notice something new, unexpected, or frightening. In moderate doses, it can be a "sort of wonder drug to the brain," says clinical psychologist and cognitive neuroscientist Ian Robertson, the author of The Stress Test. Norepinephrine helps the brain make new connections, with positive effects for both learning and memory. There is also something of a reinforcing loop between norepinephrine and IQ; the higher your IQ, the more norepinephrine is released when you're faced with a challenging problem.

This hormonal effect may help explain why those raised in tumult could be better and faster at assessing threats—for example, reading emotions or intent in other people's faces. There may a tipping point, however. Too much stress, Robertson says, can lead to excess norepinephrine production and an ensuing, cell-damaging flood of cortisol, which in excess can lead to vascular difficulties in midlife and is associated with early mortality.

"The effects of stressors depend on many factors," says Frankenhuis, now codirector of the Research Network on Adaptations to Childhood Stress at the University of Utah. Innate biological differences in temperament, driven by a combination of inherited genes, can promote profoundly different responses to similar upbringings and lead to starkly different adult outcomes even for individuals within the same family. Positive aspects of an otherwise highly stressful childhood can also blunt the effect, such as optimal nutrition or supportive extended family members. And the varied types of stress in tumultuous households—for example, acts of commission vs. those of omission—can affect children in different ways, Frankenhuis maintains. A slap in the face is not the same as a failure to console a crying child, though both have consequences.

Someone like Sarah, who grew up in a home inundated with persistent emotional stress and tension—conditions that emotional intelligence and acuity could potentially mitigate—may emerge with stronger, or different, cognitive benefits than someone raised in an environment where "blunt force" stressors like physical abuse could not be prepared for or dodged in any way.

Illustration by Gérard DuboisCrafting Happier Endings

Left alone with an abusive, paranoid schizophrenic mother for much of her childhood, Lillian*, 85, admits to being generally suspicious of people's intentions. But she is also extraordinarily willing and able to shift directions—her CV includes stints as an actress, portrait painter, theater professor, college dean, community organizer, and entrepreneur. Her husbands' careers required several moves, including an extended stay in Japan, forcing Lillian to routinely adjust her own professional goals. "I had no difficulty doing this," she says. "I counted on the permanence of nothing in my life except my ability to meet the challenge of change."

Greater knowledge of the cognitive adaptations that stressed kids like Lillian tend to make could lead to curricula and school environments more geared toward their strengths and attentional styles. Today, Ellis says, most interventions for kids identified by teachers or social workers as high-risk take their metaphorical inspiration from cats' claws—kids "come into school like a cat with its claws extended." And all efforts to help them are variations on "trying to get the cat to retract its claws—to be more trusting, to be more comfortable in school, to be more connected to the teacher." In other words, they are pushed to act more like kids from low-stress, low-risk environments. But reprogramming people is hard, he says, and educators could find it easier to work with children's adaptations rather than fighting them.

Tumultuous childhoods, as novelists and therapists have long known, can make for more complex and compelling characters. "People who haven't suffered are as interesting as shrubbery," says therapist Ian Morgan Cron. "With happy people," he half-jokes, "you think, Oh man, I can't get any purchase in this conversation with this person, because there are no cracks."

But Cron has seen in his practice how growing up in a culture steeped in negative assumptions about one's intelligence, temperament, and mental state can lead an individual to play out self-fulfilling prophecies: I'll never recover from what I went through. I didn't have the foundation you need to get the most out of life. Skeptical of their own prospects, such people might shy away from opportunities or get lost in the pain and bitterness of their experiences.

While a fuller understanding of the effects of chaotic beginnings gain societal traction, individuals who can learn to grapple with the stress of their past and overcome bleak views of their future can generate new hope. "We are the stories that we tell about ourselves," Cron says. "At group retreats, I ask people to turn to the person on their right and say, 'Would you please just tell your life story in five minutes, in which you appear as the victim?' When that's done, I say, 'Now turn to that same person and tell the same story from the perspective of you as the hero.' And they say, 'What? Is that allowed?' Well, sure.

"You have agency in this matter, even without revising history. It happened. We're not going to deny the facts," he says. "But the way we interpret history is up for grabs, and it can have a tremendous amount of healing power."

People who have already embraced every aspect of their past don't need convincing. "I'm not a denier, but rather a realist," says Lillian, who recently self-published her first novel. "I've learned to creatively change what can be changed and to live with what can't be altered. And I always turn to the fact that I'm still here and actively in the mix. I strongly believe that we all have so much more within us than we allow to develop. The possibilities are endless—not threatening."

*Names have been changed.

Submit your response to this story to [email protected](link sends e-mail) If you would like us to consider your letter for publication, please include your name, city, and state. Letters may be edited for length and clarity.

Pick up a copy of Psychology Today on newsstands now or subscribe to read the the rest of the latest issue.

Facebook image: All kind of people/Shutterstock