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walkingmxuth · 4 years

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Teach You A Lesson || David Jacobs Self Para

If heaven's grief brings hell's rain Then I'd trade all my tomorrows for just one yesterday (I know I'm bad news) For just one yesterday (I saved it all for you)

Summary: After Karyn’s party, but before Spot teaches David how to fight. David worries about his friend and follows him, only to get caught by a few men.

TW: Gang stuff, mentions of fighting, violence

David knew the moment he threw on his jacket and stepped out the door that this was a bad idea. It was a good thing he never really claimed to be a smart guy because if he had, this would definitely prove him wrong (and David hated being proved wrong.) Still, despite being painfully aware that this was one of the worst ideas he’d had in awhile, he stepped out into the cool damp air. Spot had just left through the balcony, far enough away that there wasn’t any chance he’d hear the opening of the door, but not so far that David couldn’t see his broad shoulders under the glow of the street lamp.

He was going to one of those fights, that much David knew. It wasn’t even that hard to decipher, what with Spot promising to be back later after he ‘took care of things.’ He had wanted to protest at the time, but he knew that all he would get was some noncommittal comment about doing what he needed to do. Well, David was doing what he needed to do, too.

He kept his footsteps light and his hood pulled up, letting the cold settle into his bones as he pushed through the night. The cool night air woke David up more than anything and though he hated to admit it, he knew he wouldn’t be getting much sleep that night. Where ever Spot was going, he was walking and David couldn’t help but wonder if that was common. Had he stopped riding his bike because he had wound up too injured to ride at night, or did he just enjoy the cathartic silence that echoed around them?

He had to stop twice on the walk because Spot, ever the smart (yet paranoid) man would occasionally throw glances over his shoulder. The first time he ducked behind a building, waiting what he hoped was an appropriate amount of time before following him again. He left more space between them which made it perfect because the second time he was able to throw himself in with a group of drunks who were acting far too rambunctious to notice the stranger laughing alongside them.

They had walked for almost half an hour before Spot came to a stop and David held back, careful not to be seen as he watched his friend enter what looked to be an old rundown warehouse. The place didn’t look too big, though David knew looks could be deceiving. It could be anything on the inside. He knew he had to be even more cautious, but David wasn’t ready to just leave. He had followed Spot for a reason, he had wanted to see if there was anything that he’d be capable of doing to stop his friend from getting hurt and he wasn’t backing down yet. Crouched down, he inched forward, eyes on the side door that Spot had entered. Would there be a guard? He wondered to himself, quickly looking around him to see nobody was really in the area. Maybe they were all watching the fight and wouldn’t notice one more straggler.

Fingers slowly twisted the door knob, pushing the door agonizingly slow to avoid making any unnecessary noise and with a surprising quick motion, David was inside and the door was shut. He could hear the commotion, though it was hard to miss. The sounds of voices screaming over each other, some cheering, some yelling out obscenities, all creating too much noise to notice any new bodies in the building and David, fortunately, had plenty of cover. There were boxes and shelves in the area, one of which included a registry of some sorts. His eyes moved over it, wondering if they kept track of every body that walked into the building. No, it wasn’t a registry, it was a schedule. A schedule of who was fighting who.

‘SC vs LC’ was one of the many listed for the night, close enough to the top that David knew Spot would be one of the first few to go. He sucked in a breath, allowing himself to move closer to the ring. Was Spot already in there? Or would he be able to find something, anything, to keep him from getting in the ring?

“What do we have here?” A voice spoke up from behind David, hands grabbing him before he could do anything. The man, whoever he is, was rough, fingers digging into David’s arms as he pulled him into a tightening hold. Panic started to inch into David’s skin as he fought against the grip but he knew he wouldn’t stand a chance. The man laughed, calling out, “Hey, Stan, come check this out.”

The fight carried on, the other men shouting too loud to notice the scene and David could feel himself growing more and more concerned. Another man came around the corner and though it was dark-- too dark for David to be able to really decipher whether or not he knew him-- he could see the grin spread across his features. “Oh shit, that’s one of Spot’s friends.” At the sound of Spot’s name, David started to struggle again, cursing. This was a stupid idea. “Hold him still,” the second man, Stan, commanded, to which the first obliged, tightening his hold on David until he found himself worrying the guy was going to break something. His body ached and he stopped fighting, if only to save himself the trouble. Maybe the guy would lower his guard and he could escape, maybe...

Stan reached out and grabbed David’s face, leaning in close in an attempt to study his face. His breath was rancid and David could confirm that he had never seen the guy before, though the way he was commanding the other made it clear that he held some sort of power. “What’s your name, kid?” He asked, smirking when David seemed to flinch away from the smell. He didn’t answer at first, but the first guy gave his body a squeeze and he blurted it out.

“David.” He said quickly, his eyes moving to where the men were fighting in the ring, hoping against all odds that somebody would notice the scene. Specifically he hoped that Spot would notice, though he already knew that was a hopeless wish. It was too dark and the men were being too quiet over the thunderous cheering nearby.

“David... That’s right, you’re the one that does those fancy events, eh?” Stan sneered, forcefully turning David’s head to get another look at him before patting his cheek. His attention turned to the first guy and David felt his heart drop, the sadistic grin only growing on the guy’s face. “It’d be nice to take Spot down a peg. Can you imagine the look on his face?” The first guy laughed with him and David found himself struggling again, trying to find some sort of leverage to elbow the guy holding him.

“You- You can’t hurt me,” he said through shallow breaths, his struggling all but useless against the thugs. “I know what you look like,” he said quickly, knowing the only way he’d get out of this was by talking. “If you hurt me, I can go to the police, tell them of your operation. You two would be the first ones they prosecute.” It was an empty threat, mostly because Spot could be tied in with the group as well, but he hoped the men were too stupid to see past that.

Stan laughed again, which caused the other man to join him and David felt himself go cold. “You won’t be going to the police, kid. You won’t even be breathing.” He laughed again, pulling out a knife, letting the steel glint in the distant light. “The only people who get to know about this operation is us, this family that your friend is a part of.”

David doubted they’d do it here, but he had no doubt that they meant to hurt him and the panic which had long since settled into his bones broke through, his voice carrying out. “Then let me join you,” he said quickly, the words coming out before he even realized what he was saying. “I, I’m smart, I can do whatever, whatever it is you need. Let me join your family, if- if I join, then I’ll be just as liable and I won’t tell anybody. Please.”

The other guy stopped at that, seeming to contemplate the idea. David wanted to say more, to speak his case, but he wondered if talking now would only make it worse. He bit his tongue, letting the sound of yelling fill his ears as he waited for what felt like an eternity. Finally he grinned, gesturing for the first man to let David go. The other complied without question and David rubbed as his arms while Stan spoke. “You can join, if you can survive initiation. Be back here in two nights, you’ll get a chance in the ring. Stay alive long enough and we’ll let you join. Don’t, and... well, you’ll be dead so I guess that don’t matter, do it?”

Shit. Shit shit shit shit. “Don’t skip out on us, either, kid. We know where you live.” David had fucked up. He must have been staring because a moment later, the first guy was giving David a shove back towards the door he had come through. “Now get outta here.”

-------

David wasn’t sure how he got home, the walk a near blur as he found himself lost in his thoughts. He stood outside of his own door when he fished out his phone, checking the time. 3:12AM. He pulled up his contacts without another thought, pressing the button to dial Spot Conlon. It rang twice before the other answered and David waved off the concern in his voice as he tried to calm his own. “Sorry, I know it’s late, I was just thinking and knew I’d chicken out if I didn’t say something now. --- No, I’m okay, I just --- Are you free tomorrow? I think I may take you up on that whole, teach me how to fight thing. ---” He forced himself to laugh, keeping his voice light. “Yeah, noodle arms and all. ---Yeah? --- Thanks, Spot. See you tomorrow.”

#self para #once and for all | davey #could ever mean half as much to me as you do now | spot #davey self para #gang tw #violence tw #fighting tw

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aboredoverlord-blog · 5 years

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Chess Pieces.

One drip. Two drips. Three drips. Big drip. One drip, two drips, three drips. Big drip, pause, repeat.

A never changing rhythm, a constant that torments us every single moment of our forgotten and broken lives, as we stare at the leak above our head to not stare at each other, to not remember who we are and hope that as some point we'll be graced with an end that was taken from us since years ago; if not, with a new beginning that will finally allows us to break free to this prison that we cannot escape by ourselves, as our bodies are as rotten and broken as our cores and souls.

We were meant for greatness once, or so we believed; her honeyed words, so gentle and kind, coated our eardrums and quieted our inner voice of reason telling us that it was far too good to be true, while our plight blinded us from anything that could have warned us of how the one we saw as a saint was nothing more than a miserable bitch in sheep's clothing, a witch that only saw us as guinea pigs for her experiments, hunting those like us down as she knew no one would come searching for us.

Plagued, ostracized, abandoned beings that for a reason or the other were pushed away from their families and society itself. A perfect target for someone who wanted to experiment upon life and test how much they could play god without no one, not even the patient itself, complaining or without any repercussions. And alas, we wanted it, there was no doubt. We asked, we pleaded to be saved, some from illnesses and some from hunger, some from thugs and some from their own kind, seeking an escape, a savior.

How ironic that now we're all here, wishing for a death that might take years to come, trapped in cells hidden away from sight and mind, locked with bars and magic, cast-away much like we were at the beginning of this facade, without even the grace of forgetting who we are, who we were supposed to be. Even insanity would be a grace at this point, a place where to hide until our bodies would cease to 'be' – anything but being able to remember. To remember it all.

But no. We sit here like string-less puppets, with our mind filled with grief and spite. With hands and feet we cannot move, as they're either incomplete, broken or rotten depending on what we are...no, what we were made into. Like the First Rook, a dwarf that dug out of the protection of his underground citadel in search of new ways to forge metal – attacked on sight by a human patrol without even an explanation and left to bleed out as they laughed and patted themselves on the back. I wonder; is his hatred and grief fueled more by how his peaceful greeting was met with an arrow in the eye? By how his belief that humans couldn't all be evil was shattered the second he met one? Or by the fact that, were he able to move, he could fix at least a few of us? His forger's soul restlessly burning with desire to be able to help the few that welcomed him like a family, but forced to observe how Second Rook – a sentient “automata”, or human-like golem, that was paired with him and created with the soul of a withering dryad which only guilt was to stand between some young nymphs and another human patrol?

What about First and Second Knights? Brother and Sister, elves who betrayed the demon lord, escaping during the early days of his empire right before he corrupted their kind into the demons that are now? They were good fighters, once part of the royal army's elite; Spear and Sword master respectively, combining martial skills with their kind's natural magic prowess to become fearsome paladins. But the Monster Lord never forgot, even if the elves believed that it did; and once their guard dropped, the brother found his gut pierced by a knife, while his sister was held back and forced to watch as they tortured him. Hours passed before he didn't breathe anymore, with screams and pleads falling on deaf ears as even when clearly clean from all corruption, elves were still seen as allies of the Monster Lord. And when they were done with him, they moved onto her...or at least, tried to, before someone appeared to help them.

A hood, a staff, and hands. Many, many hands, appearing from pools all over the walls and ground, aggressively taking hold of the attackers and pulling them in who knows what abyss but gently holding both siblings in their warm embrace. Yellow eyes looking at them, a voice echoing in that street's corner with a suggestion, and then darkness, light, a pact made and bodies changed with magic that we all grew to hate.

For him, he became an undead centaur, with his upper body now being nothing more than a living armor which gazed upon the world with red glowing eyes and struck the enemy of the witch with a cursed weapon, rejoiced to still be able to fight alongside his sister.

But for her...she had to pay an high price for such services, one she wasn't even told about. Gifted a new sword and told that she could live once more with her brother under that castle's roof, she was ecstatic, now having both a place she belonged and her brother still alive at her side, even if now with a new body. But at every swing, the sword revealed more of its true being, slowly corrupting its wielder until her body looked much like one of the demon's and her mind simply couldn't not care less. More power meant that she could protect her brother even better, so it was fine if that meant to be corrupted, right? Even if he was worried, even if he told her to drop the weapon, she refused, wanting to protect him, to stop anyone from repeating what she could still see in her mind, all those hours of torture, those screams...she had to. And she was happy to give her soul to the sword if that was needed.

And yet, even such sacrifices weren't enough, the two not even graced with having a common cell, separated and left to die or rust in this damp hell. Him, silently trying to maintain an hold of himself, unable to speak and make her know he was alright. And her, which at first yelled for hours for his brother, cried day and night, now able only to lie on one side, deprived of the sword that addled her mind and able to remember and feel everything she did. Did she lose her mind already? Or was her body all that was corrupted permanently?

...And did the witch need that sword, or is this too some weird, disgusting experiment she's subjecting us all too, to see how much our mind can take? Is she still even alive? Does she remember us? Will we ever see any kind of light before we'll eventually cease to be? So many questions I cannot answer, but maybe that's my dest...no, OUR destiny. To be abandoned, hated, betrayed...Forgotten.

The bishops too had no regard from that witch. One was a human from the Mountain Guard that anyone would mistake for a warrior given her physique, but that instead was one of the best mages of the troop that tackled the mountain. Depending on her far too much, no one noticed in time how taxing it was for her to maintain the spell that kept everyone safe from the chilling colds of the mountain, maybe thanks to how obstinately she hid such thing...not until her battered body and exhausted mind faltered and failed to fend off an attack from a Yeti, at least. Grabbed, crushed in his hand and then tossed down the mountain as the horrified eyes of her comrades lost her in the snow and mist, she gripped onto dear life as her body was ripped in bloody pieces from artic wolves, attracted by the smell of blood and more than happy to find a free meal in such a cold wasteland.

But once more, as if it was observing the situation and waiting for an opportunity, here was the hooded guy, bringing hope to someone who could only gurgle and choke on their own blood.

A nod was all he needed, taking her willing soul and bringing it to his master, already prepared to slot it into a body of her own concoction, similar to what humans would call 'angel'. Oh, how happy the mage was to be in such body, unaware of how it was nothing but a mix of various creatures' body parts, just cleaned and carefully altered to not look so different to one another. She was now so close to be just like one of Humana's servants that she couldn't believe it! Her behavior reflected this too, her actions trying to imitate the immense kindness of such creatures, wanting to be one in mind and body...but the hooded being's teasing was all it took to bring back her more combative, fierce personality.

An angel with a warrior's heart, an homunculus abomination which still lies to herself, thinking someone will come to help.

The Second Bishop instead was something more complex. An attempt to combine multiple souls into one, to see if their powers would mix and match, or if they would collide and break. That's what it told us at least, as we had no knowledge that a second bishop ever existed 'till we were trapped here. How long as it been here? How much longer than us had he to endure this prisony? It's calm behavior makes us think he is long gone, thought even now people could ask him and he would try to give us words of hope, attempting to keep us from fully giving up even when it itself has been victim of this abandonment without even being given a chance to shine, unlike us...

Apparently, the result was something that the witch didn't anticipate, with the souls fusing into a completely new one, but without maintaining all of the powers she hoped it would. Instead, much like a natural birth, his attunement to Magic and Willpower, depended on which 'soul gene' was randomly picked to be the dominant one. As for his looks, he seemed to be a human being, thought a long, blue and scaly tail came out to those monk-like garbs. A dragon-kin, the dwarf once spouted after observing the being's maw, to which the Bishop simply replied with a vague agreement. How exactly did the witch find a soul or body of such a being, it escaped everyone's grasp. Was her reach that wide? Or did she travel in places unknown to us? More question to the pile, never to be answered.

...Standing here, day after day, I could finally crack down on why she picked each and one of us. 'Rook', 'Knight', 'Bishop'...each and all of us were picked because our skills were greater than those she defined as 'pawns' and because we just...fit so well with our respective chess piece. The Dwarf and the Automata were picked as they were the 'towers', sturdy and powerful beings capable to withstand the most punishment, alongside being useful both fighting in the front-lines or fortifying the back-lines with their crafting skills. To no surprise, the Automata's belly could double as a makeshift forge, allowing the dwarf to repair and craft things on the go. The knights were the main front-line, powerful and fearless, capable to move around the battlefield and frighten it with sheer skill and power. Little would be more scary than an the living armor centaur and his corrupted sister fighting in the enemy lines. The bishops...If I met the monk first, or was told that the 'First' Bishop was actually the second one...How stupid was I? I cannot even excuse myself for being blinded, as I was the one called the 'Queen'. It was so obvious...!

...Maybe, maybe I was blinded. Maybe I just wanted to go back at the time where I used to actually being a queen? Was...Was I so greedy to condemn myself to this life simply for that reason?

I...I was, wasn't I?

I speak of 'we', I speak of 'us'. But it was I who was the most blinded. Blinded by that Monster Lord, speaking of how he could fight those humans that betrayed our trust and almost destroyed the elven kingdom, able to stand only thanks to the actions of those who live in the ocean. I wanted revenge for my fallen brethren, I want the humans to suffer as each family of each soldier under my reign did. Attacking us with those...those weapons...even bringing such a reviled sword! Our magic could do little under the rain of metal they tossed at us, and what little it could do it would be cut down by that disgusting 'Sage of War' that stood in front of their army and that sword, cutting away first our magic and then our lives. I never felt so much hatred in all my hundreds of years I reigned as the monarch of elves. Never, never I wanted someone dead so much. It was so...guttural, such a crude and utterly overpowering emotion that it fogged my mind, my judgement, everything else. I cut ties, I cut relationships, I cut lives I thought were guilty of such results.

And the Lord knew.

When he came, promising me what I so eagerly desired, I thought little about the catches such a pact would have. Make him my king, allow him to take power. I could see his power, I could see how he could bring us to the revenge we craved. But I couldn't see through his lies, becoming his willing prey with him feeding first from my despair and then from my actual body. And I still remember, I still remember in every single detail how happy I was during our 'honeymoon', a few days after the official marriage. I didn't mind giving my very body to this being, if it would bring our kind to the revenge we wanted. Anything I had was expendable as long as my people could feel safe and the human kingdom was brought to its knees.

Of course, when I saw the 'handsome' elf turn into a mess of pulsating flesh, gazing eyes and disgusting veins, locking me into my bedroom and slowly turning the room into a makeshift stomach, I knew that when he said 'making my body his', he didn't meant it sexually, but literally. And even without any part of it, I can still feel the pain, the burning sensation and... and...

And his echoing, frightening laughter as he saw me cry and melt into nothingness.

…

…...And yet.

Even then, when my soul was collected by that hooded being, which broke inside the room at the very last second, stealing it away from the Monster Lord, I couldn't see straight.

And once more, another slimy mouth whispered all I wanted to hear.

And once more, I fell for lies I couldn't see through, becoming what I am now.

At this point, my title of Queen is nothing but an ironic label that will dangle over my head forever, remembering me of what I was, what I lost, and how little I deserved such a title even if I was one all those years. My name, my body...nothing remains, but that title, to haunt me until what's left of the mana powering my body will dissipate.

And I guess I have to double down with my compliments towards the witch's ways to twist the knife in one's wound, as the body she chose for me was one of a string puppet. Though I guess I can't but blame myself on that, can't I? Pulled around like one of such, unable cut the strings those liars used to move me around, and unable to move now that both consider me nothing more than a broken doll.

To forever remain forgotten, to listen to that never changing drip.

One drip. Two drips. Three drips. Big drip. One drip, two drips, three drips. Big drip, pause, repeat. One drip. Two drips. Three drips. Big drip. One drip, two drips, three drips. Big drip, pause, repeat. One drip. Two drips. Three drips. Big drip. One drip, two drips, three drips. Big drip, pause, repeat. One drip. Two drips. Three drips. Big drip. One drip, two drips, three drips. Stone breaking, pa--- Wait.

I hear something new. Am I hallucinating? What is this noise? So loud, slamming against the ceiling. Like an hammer hitting a nail, but much harder, much louder, much..

The plan wasn't exactly the most elaborate, nor the less silent. Surely there could have been better ideas than bringing a platoon of orcs inside his old master's inner chambers and just hammer away at the floor with maddening fervor. But Libitus wasn't one to use 'smart' or 'elaborate' plans when simpler and effective ones were available, especially when such plans would require breaking an incredibly complex seal on the secret walls she found in such room, while the floor was already damaged by the scorching fires of years ago, a fire that burned away more than just the furniture and lives of his ex-master's servants.

“Are ya sure, Boss?” Asked one of the orcs before he began, the hooded being nodding. “Yea. If anything happens, I'll get you all out of here.” He replied, pointing at the black pools around each orc's feet, a precaution he took to make sure their lives wouldn't be at risk simply for one of his whims. He knew that something was under there, he could feel the traces of magic leading there. He didn't know what would be there, but there was something, and that was enough. All that belonged to his Ex-master had to be taken and brought to Libitus' new base, less said master might get them back when they needed them.

“What do you think is under there, Sire?” The goblin leader asked him, standing as his side like always. “I don't know, but for such a seal, it has to be powerful.” He replied, adding something right away. “Thought I don't understand. Why putting a seal on a fake wall, but not on the floor leading to that same room?”

“Maybe she didn't expect orcs hammerin' away at it?” The goblin replied with a snicker, leaning onto the wall and crossing his arms. “Either that, or it might have faded away. Yer said she doesn't come here in years, right? Don't they need to be renewed now and then?” At those words, Libitus rolled his glowing yellow eyes at first, but nodded after a second. It made sense, thought why would the other seal still be active, then? Such a question was left unanswered as soon one of the orcs, with a powerful blow, broke a hole in the floor. It was small, almost the size of a fist, but Libitus found it to be enough and raised his hand to stop them all before walking towards it. The goblin followed, immediately kneeling to check inside that hole and clicking his tongue after along look. “Tsk. Dark as a moonless night in 'ere. Ya sure ya want to go down alone, sire? Doesn't look saf- aaaand you're already doing it.”

The frustrated goblin could only watch as his king melted into a pool of black goop, slowly leaking out of that hole and into the room. After a few seconds, enough of it passed through to allow Libitus to reform himself, raising his staff high and casting a small spell to create an artificial light. A grunt could be heard from above, the goblin not expecting that and being blinded for a second. “A'ight, what do you see, sire? Anything useful?” He asked, receiving no response. “...Sire? Still alive down there?”

A faint 'no' came after few seconds, causing the goblin's worry to grow tenfold. “Sire?! W-What's down there? Do we need to break a bigger hole?” His agitation was matched by the orcs' own, already bundling up around the holes, their weapons in hand. Luckily, Libitus replied again, this time explaining himself a bit more.

“...I found more than artifacts, Vort.” He spoke, his voice having a pinch of...anger in itself. “Much more. ...Contact base, tell them I want all crafters, all healers at the ready. We're gonna need them.” The goblin leader was confused, but nonetheless stood up and grabbed his speaking globe, following the orders to a T. Meanwhile, Libitus moved towards the jail containing what looked like a broken doll, breaking the bars with ease and kneeling once at its side.

“...I'm sorry.” He spoke, grabbing the hand of that unmoving being, her eyes being the only thing that proved there was still life in that body. “...I'm bringing you out. We're going to fix you.” At those words, she could see her eyes moving away, as if refusing. Was she scared? She had all rights to be, he thought, but he shock his head. “Not to 'her'. To a better place.” Her eyes didn't move, still not believing that this was real. Not until his next words.

“She betrayed me too.” He spoke, his hands holding hers. “...And I didn't know. I thought...” He shock his head, pushing away his thoughts. “Nevermind that, there's time for explanations. First, I'll have to bring you all home.” Standing up, he reached for his staff and tapped the bottom of it on the ground, pools beginning to form around all the broken and incredulous beings in that room. Only one spoke, however, with a tone as gentle as a draconian growl could be.

“You've finally come. We've been waiting, Libitus.” A small metallic sound echoed as the monk crawled to the bars of his cell and held onto them to pull himself up, years of mana starvation making him weak. “...I'm sorry, Vuthic.” He answered, but the monk shock his head. “You're here now, as I thought you would, eventually. That is enough, at least for me.”

“Sire, who're yer talking to?” The voice of the goblin caused Libitus to raise his head, breaking the conversation with the captive Monk. “...Old friends, Vort. We're going home, now. There's a lot to do and to say.”

And with that, orcs, goblin, captives and Libitus slowly slipped inside those pools of darkness, portals towards a kingdom away from the eyes and ears of Demon Lords, betraying mentors and other interlopers – but more than anything, away from that prison and it's drips. The 'queen' still unable to grasp the situation. Was she being saved for real this time? He...was the hooded boy after all. The being that saved her soul. But also that gave it to the witch. But he spoke of how she betrayed him too and...

Could she...finally hope once more?

#death tw #gore tw #first actual libitus lore I guess

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marypsue · 7 years

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Kings Among Runaways

So there's this Stanchez Summer Sizzle thing going on, and I've been meaning to write something for this ship for forever, so it was a good excuse to actually make the thing. This is partly inspired by the Decemberists' "On The Bus Mall" (I know, so punk) and partly by Joel Schumacher's The Lost Boys and ended up being sort of absolutely nothing like either of them.

Sort of falls under the prompt for alternate universes. Contains a little bit of non-graphic NSFW - they get their hands down each other's pants but that's about as far as it goes - and Rick-typical casual homophobia and use of slurs. Any errors, inaccuracies, or just plain unbelievabilities about the lives and habits of a couple of shithead teenage boys are entirely due to my being the kind of person who listens to the Decemberists.

I'm also on AO3 as MaryPSue, if you'd rather read there!

...

The poster is crisp and bright, sticking out against the ones plastered over the wall behind it, greyed and faded and weather-worn practically into tissue paper. It leaps out at Stan's eye, grabs him by the shoulders and spins him around without warning. The picture under the bold-face all-caps MISSING is dark, the image grainy, like something clipped from a newspaper. The face that emerges out of it is pale and defiant, eyes staring sullenly out from under a single furrowed eyebrow, one lip curling upwards in something that bears only the faintest, grimmest resemblance to a smile.

It's not the face, Stan catches himself thinking, of someone who wants to be found.

He can't decide if he's disappointed or relieved not to see his own face next to it.

"Eugh, they used that old yearbook photo?" Rick laughs, lurching to a stop when he notices Stan isn't beside him. "Shit, was I - was I ever that ugly?"

"Still are," Stan says, but his heart's not in it.

Rick elbows him in the ribs and then slings an arm around his shoulders, easy, like it doesn't mean anything. "Good thing we're heading out tonight, then," he says, steering Stan away from the wall of posters and flyers, from his own face. "Don't wanna make this - this - this town look at my ugly mug for too long."

"Shouldn't we take it down or something?" Stan asks, glancing back over his shoulder. He's not sure why. He doesn't look back, much, these days.

Rick doesn't bother with a backwards glance. "Nahhhh," he says, after a beat. There's a hint of snarl in his voice, a sarcastic curl that's a little tighter than usual, when he says, "It's - it's not me they’re looking for. C'mon."

The poster's gaze follows them down the street, accusing.

...

Glass Shard Beach High School was beyond the ability of the most skilled shit-talker to come up with an appropriate insult. The place was a hole, a dump, a wreck, a flaming shitpile. A quitting English teacher, school legend held, had once described it as 'like Lord of the Flies but less inspiring of hope for the future of humanity'.

Ford loved it. Stan didn't have any idea why.

The only redeeming features of Glass Shard Beach High, as far as Stan was concerned, were the (badly outdated, but still-functional) weight room and Carla 'Hotpants' McCorkle, who'd once let Stan talk her into going to a movie with him and making out in the alley afterwards. He didn't remember which movie. He'd been too busy trying to cop a feel through Carla's crop top and accidentally dunking his entire hand into her ice-cold Coke instead.

Since the weight room'd been closed down (because of 'black mold'; Stan would believe Glass Shard Beach High would close down an otherwise-functional room because of black mold when they finally cordoned off the east wing math room) and Carla'd hooked up with some mopey long-haired loser who wore ratty flannel and looked like he'd just wandered in off a construction site, there wasn't really anything keeping Stan hanging around. Oh, sure, Ford complained about Stan 'playing hooky', but he wasn't gonna be the one to rat Stan out to their pa, and it wasn't like Stan's grades were good enough for it to actually matter if he missed a couple classes here and there. Wasn't like he was going anywhere fast anyway.

That was how he'd met Rick.

...

The Stanleymobile's been running a little rough lately, taking too long to start. Stan has to wrench the key three times in the ignition before her whine turns into a throaty rumble, the floor buzzing and rattling under his feet.

"You could -" he starts, and Rick reaches over, turns the radio up until it drowns Stan out, kicks his feet up on the dash and cranks his seat all the way back.

"Wake me up when we get to California," his voice echoes up from somewhere near the backseat.

Stan reaches over, yanks the knob until he can hear his own voice over the blare of guitar. "You asshole, you coulda just said you don't wanna science my baby's engine instead of makin' me deaf."

"Last time I touched your - your 'baby's' engine you decked me."

"Because I didn't ask you to try to turn it into a bong!"

Stan's not sure how Rick manages to shrug while lying down with both arms folded behind his head. "You just said, 'Go nuts'."

"Yeah, well, my mistake," Stan grumbles. "From now on I'll tell you exactly what to do and how to do it. Bet you'll just love that."

"Depends," Rick's voice floats up from the backseat. "Are - are - are we naked in this hypothetical future?"

Stan ignores him.

"Next stop, California," he says, and kicks the Stanleymobile into gear.

...

If Stan wasn't flunking English, maybe he'd be tempted to get poetic about Rick. He could probably go on and on, about how the guy seemed to be made out of elbows and broken bottles, thin as a knifeblade and just as sharp-edged. He could probably make up some flowery bullshit about Rick's spindly fingers and how - elegant, there was no other word for it, they looked holding a stolen cigarette, like some silent film starlet decked out in velvet and diamonds, glowing silver through the celluloid. He could spew some purple prose about the way Rick was always either in constant, frantic motion or absolutely still, like he was the fixed point the entire universe turned around. He might even be able to string together words to talk about the wrench in his gut when Rick gave him that rare, knife-edge smile, the one that meant trouble, the one that meant, good or bad, that Stan was about to get a particularly heart-thumping reminder that he was still alive.

Maybe. If Stan wasn't flunking English.

They never did much more than dick around, smoking when they could bum or steal cigarettes, breaking into the old cannery plant or the pool to hang out, getting stoned, lighting the occasional fire, running away from people who didn't want them hanging around wherever they were hanging around. It was still the best time Stan had ever had. Rick expected nothing from him, but it didn't feel - crushing, like it did coming from his dad and Ford.

It felt kinda like freedom.

...

Ford was waiting outside of the classroom when Stan came running down the hall, his arms crossed over his chest, fingers drumming impatiently against his arm and a scowl on his face.

"Where have you been?" he snapped, as Stan slowed to a halt, trying to get his breathing under control. "The exam's been over for twenty minutes. I was just about to start walking home."

"Class," Stan gasped, sucking in a breath. He'd really just run in from the smoke pit behind the machine shop, and he knew Ford knew that, knew Ford could smell the smoke and engine grease on him. He wasn't lying to Ford. He was lying for Ford. That way when their dad caught Stan, Ford could say that he didn't know, that Stan told him he'd been in class, and he wouldn't have to lie. Ford always had been a lousy liar.

Besides, it wasn't like anybody cared where Stan was anyway.

Ford's eyes slid closed, and he exhaled a long-suffering sigh. "Let's go," he said, stepping away from the wall and brushing past Stan as he started down the hallway. "I've already wasted enough time, the science fair is coming up fast and I should've started studying a quarter of an hour ago."

"Sorry," Stan muttered. "Woulda been here sooner, but -"

"Save it," Ford said, and Stan snapped his mouth shut, glaring at the back of Ford's head. He really would've been back sooner, but for some reason Rick hadn't been at any of their usual haunts, not in the scrubby patch of trees at the park or the alley behind the gas station on Main or even the pool, though Stan hadn't actually expected to find him there, now it was summer and the pool actually had water - and people - in it. Stan hadn't realised how much time had passed until he'd stopped by the machine shop to see if he could at least score any swag for the Stanleymobile so the afternoon wasn't a complete waste, and the bell for the end of class had gone off.

"Sheesh, Sixer, get a life," Stan muttered, to the back of Ford's head, scuffing the heel of his sneaker along the hallway linoleum. The rubber made an awful squeal and left a long, black mark, just like Stan had secretly, viciously hoped it would. "You waste every waking moment studying, one day you're gonna wake up and there'll be nothing left of you but books."

Ford sniffed, dismissively. “Maybe then you’d bother to actually get acquainted with one.”

Stan opened his mouth to snipe back, but then shook his head and bit it back. “Whatever. Let’s just go home.”

...

They don’t make it to California that night, of course. Stan pulls in at a shitty motel off the freeway just on the edge of Columbus, Ohio, just about smack-dab under a huge cloverleaf exchange. The roar of traffic bleeds through the sickly salmon-coloured cinderblock walls as though they’re paper.

Rick starts stripping almost the instant that Stan slams the flimsy door behind them, shucking his leather jacket and tugging off his tank top almost aggressively, like he’s daring Stan to make something of it. Usually, Stan would take him up on the dare, but he’s burnt out exhausted and can’t bring himself to do anything but flop, flat on his back, on top of the weird plasticky cover on one of the beds. There's a big, long crack in the ceiling, stretching out from the window that looks out over the parking lot and the scrub of dead, yellowed grass that fills the ditch between the motel and the highway. The paint around the crack has bubbled and warped, stained yellow and brown. Stan wonders if that's where the faint musty smell under all the stale cigarette smoke is coming from.

The crack runs right overtop of the bed where Stan's lying. He considers it for a moment, decides they're probably gonna want to sleep in the other bed.

“You know they don’t uhhhhwash those, right?” Rick points out, eyeing the cover Stan’s lying on without any particular venom. “You're lying in basically a petri dish.”

Stan manages a grunt in response. He never would’ve guessed that sitting for eight solid hours could make his back hurt so much.

Rick vanishes into the bathroom, emerges about ten minutes later after a chorus scored for rattling pipes and off-key voice. “We’re ordering a, a pizza.”

Stan grunts again. It worked so well last time.

Rick doesn't go for the phone right away, though. Instead, he drops his bony ass down on the bed beside Stan, his little weight still making the mattress dip, and starts unzipping Stan's fly.

"Whoa, wh-" Stan starts, and Rick reaches over to grab the phone out of its cradle.

"Trust me, this is gonna be hiluuuuuurparious," he says, dialing with one hand while he eases Stan's dick out of his pants with the other. He passes the phone over to Stan, who has a sudden, vivid, technicolour vision of exactly where this is going.

“No way,” Stan says, reaching over to slam the phone back into its cradle, but a tinny voice speaks into his ear just as Rick wraps a warm, slick (Stan’s mind does a brief detour into wondering just when the hell he’d had a chance to lube up, and how long he’d been planning this) hand around Stan’s traitorously interested cock, and starts stroking it into hardness with a vicious grin.

“Hello, Tony’s Pizza Planet, what can I get you?”

“Hhhhhhhi,” Stan manages. “Can - uh, can I get - ah! - aw, shit, Rick -" He has to stop, biting down on his lip and desperately trying to swallow down the moan that bubbles up his throat when Rick twists his wrist just so. "Ummm, two, ah, two pepperoni pies?”

The kid on the other end of the line just sighs.

...

The other thing about Rick was that he was easy to talk to. Sure, he’d act like he didn’t give a shit about most of Stan’s problems, but most of the time he’d actually sit there and let Stan talk, instead of just telling him to shut up and stop bothering him or trying to give him sanctimonious ‘advice’ to straighten up and fly right. When Stan admitted he didn’t have any plans beyond high school and wasn’t even sure he’d make it that far, Rick didn’t get on his case about pulling up his grades and applying to community colleges or trade schools that he’d never be able to afford anyway, didn’t tell Stan to start looking for barnacle-scraping jobs down the docks because he was gonna be doing it for a long time, might as well get some experience under his belt. Rick just took a long drag on the joint and passed it back to Stan with a curt “All of human history’ll be obliterated when this planet spirals into the sun in a couuuuhhhhhhuple hundred million years anyway, who gives a shit.”

“Right?” Stan said, taking a puff himself and settling back on the beat-up sofa they’d rescued from somebody’s curb and dragged back to the old cannery plant. Well, Stan had dragged, until Rick had thrown together some kind of gravity modifier thing that made the couch light enough for him to lift with one hand. “Wish everybody else’d get the memo.”

Rick nodded once, slow and languid.

“Like Ford,” Stan went on, taking another drag off the joint before handing it back. He couldn’t understand why anybody would’ve ever wanted to throw this couch away, it had to be the most comfortable piece of furniture ever made. “We got all these plans to fix up a boat and go treasure hunting together after high school, but now he’s so hung up on this stupid science fair, this stupid scholarship, this stupid...fucking...school -”

“West Coast Tech,” Rick interrupted, not looking at Stan. He had this look on his face, like he’d just bitten into something unexpectedly sour.

“West Coast fuckin’ Tech,” Stan repeated. He considered the rough edges of the piece of plywood propped on two milk crates that was serving as a coffee table for a moment, before deciding, “Fuck ‘em.”

“Fuck ‘em,” Rick agreed, monotone. He stared, blank, at a spot in the air in front of Stan for a long moment before giving himself a sharp shake, kicking his feet up onto the plywood and leaning back on the sofa. “Your - your brother’s a real asshole.”

“Hey, fuck you,” Stan said, without any real heat. “He’s my brother, I’m the only one who gets to call him an asshole.”

Rick shrugged. “He is, though.”

Stan tilted his head back and forth until his neck cracked. “Yeah, whatever. You gonna smoke that, or just stare at it?”

Rick looked down at the joint he’d seemingly forgotten he was holding, and then met Stan’s gaze challengingly as he took what had to be the longest drag in history, the tip flaring cherry-red with embers.

“If - if your bitch-ass twin ditches, I’ll go treasure hunting with you,” he said, carelessly, into a cloud of exhaled smoke. “Gotta beat sitting in - in a shitty classroom for another four years.”

Stan had to swallow, hard, before he could make words. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Rick passed over the joint. “We still got any wafer cookies in here?”

...

"Where were you?"

Stan dropped his duffel bag on the floor of the room he shared with his twin, studiously avoiding Ford's eyes. "Boxing practice. You know that."

"What I know is that you haven't been to a single practice since September." Ford shut the textbook he'd been poring over with a snap, staring at Stan from the upper bunk. "Your coach didn't even know you're still enrolled."

Stan shrugged. "Is it so bad I want a little time to myself without Dad gettin' on my case about how lazy and useless I am?"

Ford's expression wavered, but only for an instant. "Except that I know you're not taking 'time to yourself'. You've been hanging around with Sanchez, haven't you?"

Stan didn't answer right away, ripping open the duffel bag and pulling out his gym clothes, furiously avoiding looking up at the sanctimonious expression he knew Ford would be wearing.

"So what?" he finally said, pulling out his boxing gloves and tossing them aside.

"So what? So I know you've been skipping classes too! And at this rate, you'll be held back -"

Stan shrugged, and Ford sputtered.

“Stanley, how can you be so cavalier about this? This is your future we’re talking about -”

“Yeah? What future?”

The long breath Ford sucked in could have been exasperated or exhausted. Stan couldn’t tell, without looking at him, which it was.

“You see? This is exactly what I’m talking about. This - this character is obviously a bad influence on you. Stanley, you don’t really believe - I mean, I know school’s been difficult for you, but if you just buckled down and applied yourself -”

Stan clenched a hand around the laces of his trainers, tossing them out of his duffel bag with what might’ve been too much force. “What are you, my mom?”

“No, you idiot! I’m your brother, and I’m worried about you.” Stan couldn’t tell if the sudden sincerity in Ford’s voice was better or worse than the judgmental anger. Worse, he decided.

“Yeah? Well, sounds to me more like you’re worried about me getting held back and you having to watch your own back for once.” He dumped the rest of the contents of his bag out on the floor, giving it a shake for good measure. “At least I have friends.” One friend, his traitor brain reminded him, and Stan gave the bag one last, vicious shake. “Do you know where my deodorant went?”

Ford didn’t answer. The silence from over by the bunk beds went beyond simple ‘not talking’ into the chilly slopes of ‘not talking To You’. Stan realised, too late, that he’d taken it too far.

“Okay, I’m gonna go look in the bathroom,” he said, straightening up and heading for the door. He’d been expecting Ford to bluster about the mess he’d left on the floor, but there was still no sound from Ford’s side of the room.

Stan glanced back over his shoulder before he left the room, but Ford had buried his head back in his textbook.

...

The pizza guy, when he shows up, has the dead-eyed disappointed stare of someone who's seen the full range of human weirdness and is no longer surprised by any of it. He takes the handful of crumpled bills Stan hands him without a single shift in his expression, handing over the pizzas and walking away without a word.

"Did - did you see his face?" Rick gasps, barely stifling laughter.

"Yeah, yeah, you're real fuckin' funny," Stan mutters. He can feel how red his face must be, cheeks burning.

"Hey, don't blame me for how - how loud you get when you're just getting a handjob."

“Yeah, well, when it’s your hand,” Stan manages, despite the way his ears are burning. Rick snorts, snagging the top pizza off the stack of boxes Stan’s holding.

“Gaaaaaay.”

“Says the guy who had his hand down my pants half an hour ago.”

“Okay, just for that you don’t get any -” Rick cracks open the pizza box he’s holding, takes a sniff. “Pineapple? What - what - what kind of troglodyte puts pineapple on a pizza?”

“Maybe you shoulda been the one to make that order, huh?” Stan says, and he can’t resist a smug grin.

He instantly regrets it at the smile that creeps across Rick’s face.

“Maybe next time I will,” Rick says, and drops the ham and pineapple pizza back on top of the boxes in Stan’s hands. “Now give 'em here. One - one of these better be edible.”

...

The first time they'd kissed, they'd been hiding under the boardwalk from the owner of the pizza parlour they’d just swiped a pie from, laughing so hard Stan’s sides had started to hurt, sand and surf working their way through the butt of his jeans, leaving him itching and soggy. They’d been cramped and aching, curled up against one of the pilings, trying not to laugh too loud and give themselves away, dripping with grease and melted cheese as they’d stuffed their faces with their ill-gotten goods. It was the hottest day of the year so far, the impending summer hanging around like a promise, making the ex-marine life washed up under the pier stink and Stan sweat in his letterman’s jacket.

He’d been happier than he could remember having been in years.

They’d both held their breath for a moment as the pizza parlour owner had stomped past overhead yelling impossible threats, tension hunching Stan’s shoulders and making his last bite of three-cheese stick in his throat. He’d been all too aware of Rick’s wiry body pressed close against him, wound like a spring, his knee digging into the fleshy part of Stan’s leg. They'd sat like that a long moment after the threats to tie their ears together and then drop them both on opposite sides of a girder had faded into the distance, just sitting and listening to the bustle overhead and the gulls screeching over the midway and out above the water, Stan holding his breath and trying not to think about the heat radiating from Rick's leg where it was pressed against his own.

Then Rick had burst out laughing, yelling something defiant and triumphant and sprinkled with swears after the retreating pizza parlour owner, and Stan had looked over at the look on his face and the boney fist he was shaking at the long streaks of sunlight that slipped down between the boards of the boardwalk and the little string of melted cheese hanging off of his bottom lip and before he could stop himself Stan had leaned over and kissed him. Full on the lips.

Kissing Rick tasted like licking the proverbial ashtray, with a nice garnish of tomato sauce. He didn't move, going still and rigid beside Stan, and Stan realised too late what he'd just done.

"Shit," he muttered, pulling back and rubbing the back of one hand across his mouth, trying not to meet Rick's eyes. "Shit, I -"

"What - what the hell was that, Pines?"

Stan made some noncommittal noise, trying to turn it into a laugh, painfully aware that it wasn't working. His entire head felt like an oversized pimple, hot and red and just begging to be popped. But he could laugh this off, right? Rick pulled crazy stunts all the time to get a rise out of Stan, it wasn't - wasn't like this was any different -

"This is how you kiss a dude," Rick sneered, and Stan didn't have time to process what was happening before Rick grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket and mashed their faces together and oh. Oh. Okay.

They didn't come out from under the boardwalk until the sun was almost all the way down. No matter how hard, later, he brushed his teeth, Stan couldn't get the taste of cigarette ash out of his mouth.

...

“The science fair is today?”

Ford’s voice was clipped with impatience, cold and irritable. “Yes, Stanley. You’d know this if you ever bothered to be around for more than five minutes.”

For once, Stan didn’t rise to the obvious bait. “It’s really today?”

“That’s what I just said.”

“I know, I know!” Stan protested, raising both hands to stop Ford before he could launch into another tirade. “I just...kinda thought there was more time.”

Ford fixed him with a strange look, like he’d just been told something he’d always assumed was an apple was actually an orange. “I didn’t know you’d entered.”

“No, that’s not -” Stan shook his head. “Forget it. So, what, you need a ride?”

Ford looked like he wanted to push it, but instead, he just readjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose. “Yes, please.”

Stan was just easing the Stanleymobile’s long nose into a parking spot by the gym doors when Ford spoke again. “Stan,” he said, like he was trying to get Stan’s attention, though he didn’t turn away from the window he’d been staring out of the whole drive. “You - you do remember that the scouts from West Coast Tech are going to be here today?”

Stan tucked the Stanleymobile in against the curb and killed the engine, staring out the windshield for a moment.

“Yeah,” he said, finally. “Yeah, I remember.”

The engine ticked softly as it cooled. Somewhere to Stan’s right, Ford let out a breath that was almost a sigh.

“We’d better go in,” he said, the door handle creaking as he pushed it open.

Stan huffed, yanking the keys out of the ignition.

...

It’s a few misspent hours later that Stan finally forces himself to roll off the bed with the crack over it.

“We’re gonna be sleeping in the car tomorrow night at this rate,” he grumbles, pawing through his wallet. The wad of bills they’d left Atlantic City with seems a lot thinner now.

From over on the bed, Rick shrugs one shoulder, glancing over at Stan for a moment before turning his attention back to the ceiling. “Maybe there’ll be fewer bedbugs.”

“Wait, what?” Stan whips back the tacky fake-Mexican-print cover and the bedspread on the bed nearest the door, stares hard at the slightly yellowed sheets, looking for black dots bouncing. “If you get bedbugs in my baby -”

He’s cut off by the sound of Rick’s laughter, awful and grating, and huffs out a breath of relief. “You asshole.”

“You - you love me,” Rick says, with a leering wink in Stan’s direction, and Stan huffs, rolling his eyes before turning abruptly back to their wad of cash.

“We’re gonna have to fill up before we hit the road again, and I think we got about enough for two more tanks of gas.” He riffles the bills with his thumb, tapping it against the palm of his opposite hand before tucking it back inside the back pocket of his jeans, draped over the chair by the desk. “That’s not gonna get us all the way to the Sunshine State.”

“We’ll think of something,” Rick says. Stan can feel his eyes on his back. “By which I mean I’ll think of something, being the - the genius in this relationship.”

“Yeah, well, don’t count me out just yet,” Stan retorts, spinning around with his best huckster’s smile. “Still got a couple tricks up these sleeves.”

“What sleeves,” Rick says. It isn’t a question, more of a challenge.

“Oh, shut up,” Stan mutters, before crossing the room to make Rick do exactly that. With his mouth.

...

Rick didn’t go up to the front of the gym to accept the giant, ugly purple ribbon and the trophy that the beaming science fair judge held up. In fact, when Stan looked around the gym, he didn’t see Rick’s telltale shock of blue hair anywhere at all. Probably why he hadn’t realised the guy was even entered. It wasn’t like he’d bothered to actually look at any of the other projects, anyway, beyond a derisive glance. Ford’s was the best of the lot, hands down. And Stan was only here for Ford anyway.

He kept looking, though. Anything was better than seeing the look on Ford’s face.

“Of course it would be Sanchez,” Ford muttered, on the way out to the car, the first words he’d spoken since the winner of the science fair had been announced. Stan risked a glance over at him, to see his fists clenched, jaw jutting in the way Stan knew meant Ford was grinding his back teeth together, and knew that the light over Ford’s desk was going to be on all night again. “No one else in this school could have put together a project that would have outstripped mine, no one else in this school could have stolen that scholarship out from under me - I thought you said your little friend wasn’t entering!” he snapped, and Stan realised it was the first part of Ford’s tirade that he’d actually been meant to hear.

“I thought he wasn’t!” Stan shot back. There was something simmering low in his stomach, sick and hot and aching, and he threw the Stanleymobile’s door open with more force than he meant to.

Ford just plopped himself down in the passenger seat like he wanted to personally punish the leather upholstery with his butt, crossing his arms with a huff and staring out the window. Stan rolled his eyes, but sat down in the driver’s seat himself, slamming the door behind him.

“You don’t know he got the scholarship too,” he tried, as he started to ease the Stanleymobile out of his parking spot, and Ford whirled, his eyes blazing behind his glasses.

“Oh, don’t be such an idiot, Stanley,” he snapped, and Stan stomped on the brakes to keep from ploughing the Stanleymobile’s nose straight into the rear bumper of the car ahead of him. “Why would West Coast Tech ever settle for second best? Not to mention that Sanchez’ project is right in line with their major research fields, they’re the number one institution in the world right now working on multi-dimensional paradigm theory...” He let out a hollow laugh, slumping back against his seat. “I’ll be lucky if they even bother to send me a rejection letter.”

Stan took a deep breath, checking over his shoulder before carefully inching the Stanleymobile out into the road. “Well, at least it’s not like you don’t got a backup plan, right? You and me, sun, sand, and surf, treasure and babes and really wild adventures...” He managed a grin from somewhere deep down just as Ford let out a deep, heartfelt groan.

“Stanley, I really don’t want to talk about this right now,” he muttered, pressing both hands against his forehead and dragging them up and through his hair. “I have to start working on finding a backup school, writing scholarship essays, finding a summer job, applying for loans...I don’t have time for childish daydreams right now.” He dropped his left hand into his lap, leaning the elbow of his right against the window.

Stan didn’t think he was meant to hear Ford’s mumble of, “What is Dad going to think?”

Stan rolled through the four-way stop, trying hard to swallow around the lump that had grown in his throat.

...

“What the fuck.”

Rick looked up, and a brief flash of annoyance crossed his face before he flicked his cigarette butt to the asphalt, grinding it out with his toe. “Wh -”

Stan didn’t give him a chance to get the word out, grabbing him by the shoulders and slamming him against the rough brick of the wall. “You didn’t tell me you were entering the science fair!” Rick started to say something, his skinny noodle arms pushing at Stan’s chest, but Stan gave him another slam against the wall. “You didn’t tell me you were some kind of super genius!”

Rick gave his head a little shake before answering, like he was trying to knock a few cogs back into position. "What, you - you didn't actually think I was a dumbass like you?"

Stan barely resisted the urge to plant a fist right in the middle of Rick’s smug asshole face. "No! But I didn’t think you cared. I bet you just threw something together for the science fair the morning of for shits and giggles, right? Just for a laugh? Oh, let’s ruin that nerdy asshole Pines’ life, bet it’ll be hilarious?"

“Would you shut up? I didn’t enter the - the - the fucking science fair,” Rick sneered.

“Oh, yeah, my mistake, that’s how you won it, by not entering,” Stan snapped back.

“Won -” Rick’s face went dark, and a flash of something sharp and cold shot through Stan, a sudden stab of fear despite the fact he easily weighed the same as two of Rick and had been taking boxing lessons since he was old enough to stand upright. “Fucking - Brewster - thinks he’s doing me some kind of fucking favour putting my name in for all this school shit -”

“Oh, yeah, the AP Physics teacher whose class you don’t even take put your project into the fair, not you. That sounds real convincing.” Stan gave Rick another shove, but it was halfhearted, halfassed. Rick’s expression didn’t even shift. “Maybe next time you oughta leave the lying to me.”

“Stan, I’m in - I’m in AP Physics,” Rick sighed. “I just - just went for the tests, it’s not like I don’t know it all already.” He shook his head, glaring at a patch of back-alley scrub bush just to Stan’s left. “Of course fucking Brewster’s fucking impressed.”

Stan bit down on his bottom lip. “Whatever. Maybe I’d buy that if your project wasn’t a goddamn portal to other dimensions. I don’t know what ‘multi-dimensional paradigm theory’ is, but -”

“- but West Coast Tech is the big name in it,” Rick finished for him, rolling his eyes. “Even though they’re - they’re at least two decades behind the times - ” He gave his head a shake. “How the fuck did Brewster even get his hands on my portal gun plans anyway? That - that thing’s nowhere near the prototype stage - unless my dad -”

“Save it,” Stan interrupted. “I dunno how stupid you think I am, but I’m not this thick. I’m out. Find some other dumbass to be your sidekick."

He gave Rick one more shove, before letting him go and walking away.

“Fine,” Rick called after him, like he was trying to sound casual but failing, his voice rising the longer Stan failed to turn around. “Like - like I need some stupid fag hanging around getting his - his - his stupid feelings in my way anyway. Maybe I’ll take that West Coast Tech scholarship and you can stay here and - and suck Stanford Pines’ dick instead! Does - does it matter whose it is, so long as you’ve got one in your - in your - in your stupid fat mouth?”

Stan didn’t look back, just flipped Rick off and kept walking.

...

Stan doesn’t snore. He doesn’t care what Rick says. The guy’s only actually spent the night with him, what, twice before their little road trip? He doesn’t get to talk.

Rick, though. Rick definitely snores. Rick snores like it’s a competition and he’s determined he’s gonna win.

The glowing red display on the clock on the nightstand is blinking 07:38. It’s been blinking that, Stan realises, the whole time they’ve been here. He has no idea what time it is, and he’s not getting up now to find his watch. Rick might snore like he’s trying to wake the dead, but he’s also impossible to actually get to sleep and wakes up at the sound of a pin dropping. If Stan tries to work his arm out from under Rick’s five whole pounds of body weight, Rick’s gonna be up for the rest of the night and probably be the crankiest asshole this side of Texas all day tomorrow. Stan can’t deal with that shit while he’s driving.

So he lies, in the slightly-too-warm cocoon of the covers, distinctly aware of the sweat pooled under his arms and in the small of his back, of the press of Rick’s ribs against the fleshy underside of his left arm, of the sound of his breathing in the motel quiet, of the occasional flash of light and speeding shadow puppetry on the wall in front of him when the headlights of some passing car on the freeway filter through the skimpy curtains. Stan tries to take deep, slow, even breaths. He wishes he could turn the TV on without waking Rick. If he doesn’t sleep tonight, he’s gonna be useless to drive tomorrow.

It’s weird, though, trying to sleep without the soft sounds of breathing from the bunk overhead.

Stan squeezes his eyes shut, presses his face into the back of Rick’s neck, and tries, again, to take slow, deep, even breaths.

...

The worst part was the quiet.

Life above Pines Pawns was never quiet, of course, with Stan and Ford’s ma always on the phone with the rubes, but even she seemed to be toning it down. Stan and Ford’s pa, never all that talkative at the best of times, was acting like none of the rest of the family were even there. And Ford -

Ford looked up from the books strewn across his desk exactly once, when Stan opened the door to their room, scowled, and then turned abruptly back to the page he’d been staring at. Stan noticed that the pile of hardcover, brick-thick textbooks around him looked like it’d doubled.

He didn’t ask if Ford’s eyes had got so red from staring so hard at the textbook or from crying.

“Dad seems...quiet,” he said, instead, lamely, dropping onto his bed. “What, did I just miss all the fireworks?”

Ford didn’t respond, didn’t even turn around.

Stan glanced off to his right, puffing out a breath. He didn’t really know what he’d expected. “Look, Rick’s an asshole.”

“Do you think I don’t know that, Stanley?” The words came out tight and controlled, like Ford was making them as quiet as he could to keep from yelling.

Stan shuffled back further onto the bed, kicking off his sneakers before he kicked both feet up onto the bedspread. “If there’s anything I can do to help -”

“You’ve done more than enough already.” The words came out like bullets, each one hurled at the wall Ford was facing. Stan didn’t even have time to open his mouth to snap back before Ford was heaving out a sigh. “Honestly, Stanley, I need to work twice as hard to prove myself if I’m going to impress any other schools into taking me, now that I already have a rejection from West Coast Tech under my belt. And for that, I need to be able to concentrate.”

He finally turned to face Stan, and Stan felt something sink into the pit of his stomach like a bowling ball even before Ford opened his mouth and said, “The best thing you can do for me right now is leave me alone.”

...

Carla wasn’t around when Stan stopped by the skate park. Her long-haired boyfriend glared him down, so he kept walking, hands in his pockets, whistling a little like he didn’t give a shit anyway.

Rick wasn’t up at the cannery plant. Which was good. It wasn’t like Stan even wanted to see his bitch ass.

None of the guys were hanging around the machine shop, and it was too early for the boardwalk to be any fun, all little kids high on too much grease and sugar running around screaming and their parents desperately running after them. Stan bought a bag of fries from one of the food stands and went and sat on one of the benches anyway. He ended up feeding most of his fries to a seagull that kept hanging around. By the time the bag was finished off, the seagull was practically sitting in his lap.

“Maybe I could be a seagull trainer,” Stan said, to its beady eye. “Think anybody’s ever put together a seagull circus before?”

The seagull didn’t answer. It pecked curiously at the empty paper bag in Stan’s hand, translucent with grease, and then, finding no more fries, grabbed the bag and took off with a flap of its wings that nearly hit Stan in the face.

...

It was nearly a week before Stan heard from Rick again.

The first pebble hit the window of Stan and Ford’s room with a dull, faintly melodious thwonk, startling Stan out of a dream he’d been having about some kind of British dog-man and a duck that was somehow the dog-man’s brother? And a detective? Some kinda nonsense, anyway.

He thought for a moment that the noise had just been part of the dream, until another pebble rattled against the window and Stan was instantly wide awake.

It took two more pebbles before he stuck his head out the window to see Rick standing down on the street, one hand shoved in his pocket like he was daring anybody who might pass by to think he was anything but totally relaxed and casual, the other winding up to throw another pebble. Stan opened up the window just in time for Rick to let it fly. The pebble bounced off Stan’s forehead and fell back towards the street, making Stan’s head twinge.

“What the hell?” he whisper-yelled down at Rick, before spinning to check if Ford had heard him. Thankfully, Ford was passed out across his textbooks at his desk, where he’d been sitting studying when Stan had gone to bed. His desk lamp was still on.

“I told West Coast Tech to go fuck themselves,” Rick called softly up from the street, and Stan’s attention was wrenched back down to the street. “Bunch of - of - of boring old cocksuckers. Like they can teach me anything.”

“What?” Stan asked.

“I - I - I told ‘em to take their stupid scholarship and shove it right up their collective ass!” Rick said, and Stan shushed him, looking back over his shoulder in Ford’s direction. “Fuck ‘em. Who - who actually wants to spend all of their formative years in - in - in some kind of human cattle pen? School is for - for dweebs like your asshole brother.”

“Rick,” Stan started, but Rick interrupted with another pebble to Stan’s face. “Ow! What the fuck?”

“Get your ass down here, we’re leaving,” Rick called up. “If - if you’re not down here with all your shit in ten minutes, I’ll find some other lovesick idiot with a car.”

“What?”

Ford made some soft noise from behind Stan, and Stan froze, holding his own breath until he heard Ford start breathing the slow and steady breaths of a sleeper again.

“You - you huuuurpeard me,” Rick shouted. “Fuck ‘em! Fuck your shitty schools, fuck your shitty family, fuck ‘potential’, fuck what everybody else wants! Treasure hunting, Pines! Some of your ideas don’t - don’t totally suck balls. You’re not getting me out on the ocean on - on - on a fucking boat that your dumb ass repaired, though.”

Stan couldn’t speak, for a long moment.

“Rick,” he started, around the lump sitting hot and inconvenient somewhere around his lungs.

“Yeah, yeah. Move it or lose it,” Rick called back up, then turned and vanished around the side of the pawn shop.

It didn’t take Stan any time to throw a bag together. It wasn’t like he owned all that much worth taking, anyway. He threw in a few pairs of jeans, t-shirts, a jacket, his wallet and the contents of the little jar he’d been saving change in for dates, another pair of sneakers, his boxing gloves. He debated a moment, then slipped the family photo on the nightstand out of its frame, folding it carefully and sliding it into his wallet.

He paused, a moment, watching Ford’s back rise and fall, the rhythm steady, peaceful.

Then Stan grabbed the blanket off the top bunk and draped it carefully around Ford’s shoulders, before hoisting his duffel bag over one shoulder and slipping carefully out of their shared room.

He made sure to shut the door silently behind him.

...

Stan must’ve gotten to sleep somehow, because the next thing he knows, he’s waking up to sunlight streaming yellow through the open window and Rick throwing their shit back into their bags.

Twenty minutes later, they’re back on the road, speeding up and over the cloverleaf. Stan’s pretty sure they’re never going to be allowed to stay at that motel again, considering they left the room full of pizza garbage and skipped out on the bill. He can’t bring himself to care much. He really, really hopes he’s stayed overnight in Ohio for the last time.

“We’re gonna have to stop somewhere for gas,” he says, peering at the green sign hanging over the roadway, trying to pick out the sign for their exit. “Maybe we can make it over the border first, though.”

“And we’re - we’re stopping at the next Shoney’s we see,” Rick says. “I’m not going anywhere today without waffles. Hey, dipshit, our - our exit’s on the right.”

“I knew that,” Stan says, swerving into the right lane.

“Put on your fucking glasses,” Rick grumbles. Stan flips him off.

The sun pours hot through the Stanleymobile’s windows, air conditioning rattling as it gamely spits odd blasts of freezing air out the vents in the dash, until Stan can barely feel his fingers on the steering wheel even though there’s sweat dripping down his neck. Some shitty rock song is playing softly on the radio, and Rick cranks the volume up, kicking one foot up on the dash and playing air guitar as he sings nasally along to the guitar solo. The sky ahead is a perfect, crystal blue, stretching from horizon to horizon.

There’s only thirty-two hours of driving between them and California.

#this is mary's fic tag #gravity falls #rick and morty #stanchez #stanchez summer sizzle #what the hell are accurate and consistent time period settings and where can I get one #damn tumblr anyway for introducing the search feature taking away tracked tags and then making it so links in posts won't show up>#<in the search

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rxdonmyledger · 7 years

Text

Once Upon a December (Part 3)

A/n: Hi guys! I’m sorry it took that long to publish this part but I was immersed in another literary project. Sorry! I hope you all like this and continue the story. Feel free to message me and feedback would be appreciated! Also, requests are open! And I’m just 3 followers away from reaching 700! Thanks guys! I love you!

Warnings: None.

Words: 1,549.

Tagged and those who might like it: @msmarvelchick @sebastian-bucky-stan @eileenlikesyou-maybe @a-girl-who-loves-disney @whotheeffisbucky @plumfondler @totheendofthelinepal @thatawkwardtinyperson @theh3aven @themistsofmyavalon @pleasecallmecaptain @writemarvelousthings @writingbarnes @sebbytrash @stephvera @shaerose98 @hollycornish @marvelfanuniverse @totheendofthelinepal @just-call-me-mrs-captain @bovaria @writing-soldiers @marvelouslymarvelousimagines @mangosoldier @rchlnwtn @goldwanderer @fourtyninekirbygamzeegirl @bvckys-doll @suvi-hearthcrow @justareader @themortallife @perrychastain @petitelaurie9

You sighed and took your coat from the hanger as the noise of plates being washed surrounded you. You felt your back aching from a whole day serving as a waiter. The owner of the place made a gesture with his chin to catch your attention and you walked towards him, taking the greasy envelope with your salary. You nodded, opening it and counting the bills to be sure everything was in order. Some of the bills were crumpled and filthy but it didn’t matter.

In a country immersed in a civil war the authorities didn’t complain about the state of the money. As much as you had it, it was fine.

You saluted your boss and kept the envelope inside your coat, trying to hide it as much as possible. You had a long trip to your house and you didn’t want anybody to place his or her dirty hands on your only way of survival.

You shivered as the cold wind hit you in the face, making yourself to wrinkle your nose. You put the collarbone up in an attempt to cover yourself as much as possible, even though it was useless.

The streets were poorly lighted with a lamppost. Some people were trying to get some rest, hidden in the main entries of the buildings. An old woman was under the ray of the lamppost, laying on the snowy ground. You thought that she was probably dead.

You had an tiny flat in one of the poorests neighbourhoods of the city. It had leaks and dirt everywhere. You had a mattress on the floor and a few pieces of cutlery.

It wasn’t the Imperial Palace, but at least you were one of those fortunate people that could sleep under a roof and had something to wrap themselves with.

Your feet led a path with your footprints on it, marked on the snow. You could see the condensation that escaped your lips as your breath came into contact with the cold temperatures.

Your feet led you to take another way to your flat you’d never taken before. The streets became more destroyed, even for a city immersed in a war. Even though, you could see the buildings had belonged to powerful people. The materials they were made of was richer than the ones used in the workers’ neighbourhood.

Your eyes observed the empty houses around you, wondering who were their owners. Several windows were broken and you could see people sleeping on the rubbles. Some of the old lamps showed an amount of antiquities you were sure you’d never be able to have.

You walked immersed in your own world, staring at the buildings that surrounded you. It had been a wealthy district on its day. Now it seemed like a ghost town.

You frowned as you saw several footsteps on the snow, leading to a enormous building. It was the back of it and it didn’t have as much ornaments as other similar houses near it. You stared at the snow, noticing they were fresh and you stared at both sides of the street, finding it as empty as the moment you arrived there. Taking a deep breath, you decided to follow it.

It was a dumb decision, actually.

The footprints led to a narrow alley that had bins everywhere. Some of them had cats in the inside, trying to hide from everybody. There was a wall covered with woods. You placed your hands on it in an attempt to take a glance inside it. It was dark and your eyes narrowed as they tried to watch inside the building. One of the cats tossed a bin’s top and it startled you, making you to jump and turn your face to both sides. You stood on tiptoes, grabbing the woods stronger when suddenly you heard a faint crack. You shouted as the woods disappeared and you fell into the darkness.

Bucky raised his head from the newspaper he was reading to be informed about the current situation of the country. He frowned and turned to Steve, who was writing in an old crumpled paper.

“Did you hear that?”

“What?” said Steve shrugging and shaking his head.

They both remained silent, attentive to any strange noise that might mean they had to run again. That Hydra might have guessed where they were. They were fighting to get the control of the country against SHIELD, one of the most important organisations approved by the King’s father.

Bucky’s metal hand clentched and it could be heard the gears whirring. He stared at Steve and his friend nodded before taking a gun from the upper drawer, pulling the safety off. They both stood up at the same time and walked towards the door, being aware.

There was a sound. Footsteps sound

Bucky felt his whole body tensed, his right hand on the knife he had hanging from his combat suit. Even though they had decided to not use any light he knew Steve was by his side, prepared to defend themselves from any threat.

They got to the throne room, hearing a fainted voice inside it. Bucky frowned as he recognised a female voice. Could it be a curious homeless who just wanted to see where the Imperial Family had lived?

Steve nodded to his friend and they both walked to the impressive stairs that led to the throne room. They were made in marble and needed to be cleaned. Bucky peeped over the handrail to find a young girl, muttering a song that echoed over the empty room. She moved slowly, her fingers tracing the lines of the covered furniture.

Bucky looked at his friend and he shrugged, lowering the gun and keeping it inside his belt after pulling the safety. Bucky did likewise with his knife and moved to the handrail, hipnotized with the sweet voice. The girl had her back at them and hadn’t realized about ther presence.

Bucky pressed his lips on a thin line as his hands grabbed the marble and opened his mouth.

“Hey!”

You growled as you hit the ground, feeling the woods under your body. With a stinging pain in your limbs you stood up and scrubbed your old coat to clean it. You coughed several times at the mist of the room and your eyes got used to the darkness.

You were in a narrow corridor, completely dark without any source of light. At the end of it, you could guess several rays coming through a closed door. You frowned and your feet started to move forwards, your arms extended so your hands could reach the walls.

You heard noises from rats running around you and your breath, mist coming out of you lips due to the cold temperatures. Your left hand closed around the knob and pushed it.

Your eyes saw a humble room that could be the servants’ dinning room. Next to it, there was a kitchen with plates and several china’s objects broken on the floor. You heard the crack as your feet stood on it and continued to one of the doors.

You continued walking through exquisitely decorated rooms. The walls’ paper had been ripped and had stains on it. There were paintings, incredibily old paintings and you felt several pairs of eyes fixed on you. It seemed the one who had inhabited the Imperial Palace were following your movements.

Your fingers grazed some of the old vases that had survived to the Red Night. You frowned as you saw one with bears on it. Something clicked inside your brain, but you didn’t know what it was. You tried again and again but nothing came to your mind.

You stopped at the top of some staris, your eyes observing a enormous painting hanging from the wall. It was the Imperial Family a few years before they were all killed.

Dancing bears, Painted wings, Things I almost remember, And a song someone sings, Once upon a December.

The song came naturally from your lips as your eyes travelled from one face to another. You saw the King and Queen’s features, similar to yours. A little boy, grabbin his mother’s hand and an older girl. She could be thirteen at the time of the painting. You narrowed your eyes as you analysed her. You looked alike her.

Someone holds me safe and warm, Horses prance through a silver storm, Figures dancing gracefully across my memorySomeone holds me safe and warm, Horses prance through a silver storm, Figures dancing gracefully across my memory.

You shook your head as you continued singing, your brain not allowing you to remember whatever it was. You moved and descended the steps, looking at the beautifully decorated windows that led the light come inside the throne room.

Far away, Long ago, Glowing dim as an ember, Things my heart used to know, Things it yearns to remember And a song someone sings

Once upon a December.

You didn’t realised the two figures coming from another corridor as you were nosing about the furniture that had belonged to the Imperial Family. Your lips sang the last lines of the song as you took a ripped photobook and started to watch the King and Queen’s smiles. A voice echoed over the enormous room and startled you.

“Hey!”

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thegnasticious · 7 years

Text

Advertisers of Death pt.2

“The last thing I need is a break and no, I have not been drinking before presentations, Pete, I didn’t know I needed to clarify that to you.”

Bob said, stepping off the moving floor. The giant skybridge connected two skyscrapers and funneled crowds of people all around through a massive concrete archway on the other side. The echoes of a million footsteps descended into the dark corners far above as the 3 walked into the masses around.

Digital advertisements played out all around, in a method of seeming digital hypnosis, most would be looking at the self-catered adverts surrounding, every advert making the next person feel just as special, advertising to them personally. To the executives with the implants long removed, these little things appeared as oddities, as some they walked by smiled at a digital screen, running what appeared to the executives as a constantly re-run advert. People’s sense of specialization in that truly confused them. Pete found himself thinking this as he scratched the elliptical scar from his implant removal. The eyes on the screen no longer stared at him, the kinetic fonts no longer flashed his name. If it wasn’t for Bob and Steve, he’d be no more then the bums they passed in the streets below.

In Pete’s mind, he jumped back 13 years to a vivid memory of his father.

“Even in the future there will be vagabonds, you can’t stem decay with advancement, you know why?”

The difference between the two’s size was daunting.

Yes, age separated them by an obvious gap, but they almost appeared as if they were another species. There was a strange glimmer of resemblance, somewhere in the hulking scarred flesh of what the boy considered to be his father.

The man slammed a giant bowed knife into a steak.

Blood seemed out the sides as he pulled at the charred mass with a bronze fork.

He cut a chunk off, and slipped it into his giant jaws, a little bit of blood dribbling down his chin.

“Rare as gold. I’ll tell you what, if half of those vagabonds had the chance to enjoy a meal like this, they’d think twice about living in the streets. They’d get jobs, make something of them damn selfs.”

What his father labeled to him as Vagabond didn’t truly connect until he found his first love. The girl was a local Disc Jockey; most of the radio stations were now broadcasted from satellites, to underground relays. These relays still had some nice people running them, she happened to be one of them. A nice, petite blonde haired girl who had a great sense of music. She spoke to him through a radio broadcast, perfectly tailored for him. First it was his favorite Stan Getz song and then a little familiar voice chimed in,

“Come meet me at Benny’s Place”, it said.

Benny’s Place was a local bar in the lower section of the loop.

Mainly seedy types and gangsters would meet there to do dirty work off site;

small drug transactions, prostitution, to extents of torturing the local self-owned business, pulling profits from the businessman who came to get there end-of-the-day drink.

As he pulled the heavy red metal doors to Benny’s Place, a giant indian man rushed out, nearly knocking him over. The man stumbled off into the distance yelling in some unrecognizable language. He continued in, the darkness inside glimmered with a neon glow. People were all about, some suited, some sitting clad in leather. Despite the advanced metal skyscrapers and businesses developing above, places like this continued to exist. Becoming a little niche of society, a place where the lost can go to get a little more lost. The girl was no more than this, and that’s why this was an apt meeting place for such an obscure purpose. She approached him, from the mass of strangers. She was a small woman, the kind with a face you’d remember, you’d have yourself trying to find her nationality after to find how such a beautiful creature could possibly exist. Her smile led him to a black leather adorned booth in the corner of the establishment. As they sat, an awkward creek of ancient springs came from the leather fluff below. He smiled at her as a slower Jazz song played through the speakers above.

“Nice place, dontcha think?”, she said,

knocking her feet below the table like Dorothy;

The click, click of thick heels.

“Seems just like home for me. You know it’s not every day some stranger speaks to me through the radio to meet them in some random bar. But some days, on days I guess, like today, this happens. People like you happen. I completely forgot to ask,

What’s your name?”

Pete inquired.

“Dorothy, I come from the land of Oz. You know, I’ve been watching you, listening to you. Your broadcasts are more beautiful than most people’s. I look at most guys and all they can think about is lust, the next best high, the next loot. You seem to think about decay, about what happens when things go. It’s not every day you meet someone who has a greater interest on the mold of existence rather than the fruit. Regardless of what I know or say, we all still serve different purposes”,

Dorothy said.

“Why don’t we just ditch this dive and go back to my place?”,

Pete asked.

“That’s fine by me, let me get my stuff together”,

Dorothy said.

She rounded up some miscellaneous things, A couple of mints and a few tooth picks into a little blue purse. As she stepped out you could see the curves in her structure. She had long black hair, and a dark blue dress under a Long Green Trench-coat. As Pete stepped out she grabbed for his arm. He didn’t want to rush things, so he figured take it at this pace. It was nearly impossible to talk in the bar anyways as it was so god awfully noisy. The air seemed to clear as they stepped out of the warm smog of the evening business of the bar. The hum of the neon lights seemed like an odd goodbye as they walked off to an alleyway nearby.

“My apartment is just a couple of blocks down, I just moved down here, how long have you been here for?”

Pete said.

“I feel like I’ve been here forever. Don’t get me wrong, it’s probably just a couple of years now. But what’s a couple of years? I guess it depends on how old you look”,

Dorothy said, she smiled at Pete as a brisk breeze blew from an intersecting alleyway.

Her hair kind of glided for a moment, she was the kind of girl you’d think you saw in the movies. Not like a main role, but someone you just get a glimpse of, and even in technicolor you can see who they are. She felt like a room Pete had imagined in dreams. A haunted corner of the universe that he always resides in, but only every so often does he wake up to it.

They approached another intersection of alleys, this one much darker than the last, few lights adorned anywhere near. She lit up a cigarette, showing an expression as growingly nervous as him.

You could hear rats stirring about. Avoiding the clicks and steps of her black heeled shoes. A light ahead clicked on and off. Below that looked like a pick-up entrance to an even darker area. As they neared, they could hear a grunting from inside. There was almost a tension to the area itself. As they neared, the grunting turned to almost a vomiting noise, but as soon as they stepped to the alleyway, the light fully dimmed, darkness spread throughout. There was a rush of air from the alley, and something swept Dorothy from Pete. She let out a harsh scream as Pete turned and saw a decrepit homeless man groping her, she batted at him and escaped into the darkness he came from. That was the moment when Pete saw bright red. A violet red that grows from an aura deep in the back of your mind. He felt the click of the homeless man’s spine in his hand as he twisted his neck. The aura only grew deeper. As the red intensified a scream came from the alleyway. He saw blood on his hands. She ran from him, he grabbed for her getting blood smeared on the bottom of her Blue dress. As she left, the light began pulsing. With every flash he made out a new detail of what he had just done. The man’s head was twisted and smashed in, blood skewed the brick walls around, and dripped into the sewer drains below.

The day Bob and Steve showed,

They had the pictures of this man’s blood drained corpse right in their suitcase. That and the picture of Buck just the same. Basically personal coroner’s reports. With the interjection of their business and the actions of Pete, both could reach a sort of stalemate by being forced to work together. Pete’s actions opened the gate for their business. The woman he met was a setup, she knew exactly what he’d do given the circumstances, coincidentally she was also a whore of Pidge’s. The perfect victim to trap Pete into an owe-able crime. Her blood stained dress was also a picture in the report, with a statement of every piece of what happened that night. ‘She wasn’t a person, she was a two-way mirror’, Pete thought, but there was nothing he could do now. He could feel the weight of the allegations toppling down like stones on him. They also showed him pictures of his friend that was supposedly overdosed, living in Colombia like a King. It turns out he was under a lifetime witness protection program, his death was staged because they felt he had danger stemming from within even his family. In this moment of realization Bob showed Pete a picture of a Skyscraper. Something about this place seemed oddly familiar to him. Bob proceeded to explain that Pete had been taken to this place many times in his life unaware by both friends and family. If he did not opt to stay there, he would wake up in his alone unaware of anything that ever happened, Bob and Steve would have never existed in his world. They told him it was the only way out, unless he wanted his past to catch up to him. He would have to spend a night in the Skyscraper and in the morning he would wake up their third and final partner.

That was exactly what Pete did

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