To Love And To Learn

to love and to learn

I’ve had this request since 2022 and had half done for more than a year now. Sorry it took so long! 😭

Summary: (to have and to hold)

Zoey navigates her relationship with Mike and co. throughout the year, learning that just because things are tough doesn’t mean you shouldn’t hold onto who they are.

A girl with a heart as big as hers shouldn’t be afraid to speak it.

| he is so many things. he is everything. she loses her heart and gets it back, this time ready to hold on. |

*♥️*🩵*

Mal (Spring)

Zoey unlocked the door to her place, purposefully making more noise than necessary as she closed the door and placed all her belongings on the table.

“I’m back!” She called out.

The empty house said nothing back and Zoey sighed, heart sinking. She didn’t know what she was expecting, to be honest. Her house was always empty, always silent, always dark. Normally, that would be any teenager's dream, but Zoey had always felt constricted when she was alone — like she was one tug away from panicking.

Separation anxiety, is what Courtney would call it. Neglect.

Zoey the Lonely, is what the elementary school kids called her.

It wasn’t like Zoey’s parents were bad or anything like that. They were just … never around. They were busy with work and away on trips often, which was fine because they were making money and putting a roof over her head. So Zoey didn’t say anything when they didn’t call her and she always smiled when the neighbors asked how her parents were and if she was fine …

Zoey shook her head out of the thoughts she wandered in. She had friends — close friends, better than anything she could have asked for — and that was enough.

Zoey walked over to the fridge and opened it — only to find absolutely nothing at all. Zoey quickly began looking through the shelves in the pantry and resisted the urge to sigh.

Right, she was supposed to go grocery shopping like, a week ago, curse finals for making her forget —

Zoey grabbed her wallet, keys, and phone and walked out of the house even though it was midnight.

Anything was better than being alone in an empty house.

* * *

Zoey is a sixteen year old girl walking home alone late at night, and apparently that’s some sort of welcome mat to get mugged.

Her credit card is weeping from the amount of things she’s bought but the food will last her a while so she doesn’t have to go shopping again. Zoey’s in good spirits as she crosses the street.

Normally, she would take the buses, but she doesn’t want to wait around outside when it’s one am and she has school tomorrow — well, today. She's also relaxed enough for the first time in about three months to let her guard down a bit, so it's a real shame that she immediately gets jumped by thugs the moment she does.

Zoey shrieks when a heavy hand covers her mouth and she gets dragged into an alleyway. Her back slams into a wall behind her, and Zoey counts three big, dark, intimidating thugs in front of her.

"Hands up, sweetheart, nice and easy," the biggest guy says, waving his gun at her.

Ice-cold fear shot in her veins and she instinctively reached for her pepper spray. Her heart skipped a beat when she felt empty space. She forgot it!

"He said hands up, kid!" the second guy barks at her, his own gun leveling out somewhere wildly above Zoey’s shoulder.

Zoey flinches. Great, not only would she be killed by thugs, she would be killed by amateur thugs. With the way they were holding the guns, she would most likely be shot by their own carelessness rather than actual intention.

"We don't want any trouble, just your money."

Zoey bit back a retort. Yeah, because teenagers just happen to be real millionaires. Who's even teaching these guys how to pick targets —

The thugs move forward, and Zoey cuts off her inner dialogue. Adrenaline races through her veins and her hands tremble at her sides. Just as she tries to summon her voice to call for help, or to desperately use one of Courtney’s self-defense lessons —

“Hey.”

All four of them jump, and the three thugs turn around to see two figures. Zoey couldn’t make out their facial features in the dark, but one was short and stocky while the other was tall and lanky.

The short one took a menacing step forward. “Leave the girl alone, and I promise we’ll leave you with your teeth intact.”

The thugs laugh. “Oh yeah? Last I checked, there’s three of us, and two of you. And we have guns.”

The tall one walks forward, and the thugs gasp. From her place Zoey can’t see who he is, but it makes the thugs tremble.

“B-boss … it’s the Malevolent One! And … the short mohawked green punk!”

Short mohawked green punk? That sounded like someone she knew, but who was the Malevolent One?

Caught up in her musings, Zoey almost didn’t notice the conversation going on.

"Hey kid, we said — hey, stop that creepy grinning, we're pointing a gun at you — "

Duncan just grins wider, cracks his knuckles, and throws himself into a fight.

Zoey screams as Duncan tackles the thug that called him short and gleefully begins going to town on him. The Malevolent One moves like a shadow, knocking the gun from the thug leader and sending him unconscious.

Slowly, they both turn to look at the last thug standing.

The thug’s face loses all its color and he jumps back in terror, screaming as he drops his gun in his haste to escape.

Zoey is frozen, gasping hard as her knees tremble. The two took on three armed thugs and managed to escape with only bruised knuckles.

Zoey’s legs suddenly give out.

“Hey, Zo, are you okay?” A hand is placed on her shoulder, and Zoey looks up to see Duncan staring down at her.

Zoey can’t help but smile. Duncan liked to put up this bad-boy image to make him seem tough, but secretly he had a soft heart. Zoey was glad to be one of the few to see it.

“Yeah, I — um, yeah. Just in shock. No need to worry about me.”

Duncan offers a hand to help her up, handing her the groceries in the process. Zoey shakily stands up, letting out a sigh of relief. “Thanks, Duncan.”

She looks at the other guy, whose figure was hiding in the shadows. “Thanks …” she trails off hesitantly.

He steps into the light and her heart stops. Mike, is her first thought. The tall, lanky body, the skin color, the face. Then she looks closer — the frown on his lips, the dark look on his face, the hair covering his eye.

“Mal,” Zoey says. Her throat suddenly feels extremely dry and she resists the urge to swallow.

“Zoey,” he responded neutrally.

Duncan looks back and forth, obviously picking up the strange air between them. “So, are you headed home?” He asked. Zoey and Mal both broke off the weird trance they found themselves in from staring at each other.

“Yeah,” Zoey nodded. “I was just walking back.”

Duncan takes the grocery bags and turns away. “Come on, we’ll walk with you! Don’t want you to get mugged again, do we?”

Zoey exchanged a bewildered look with Mal, but when he merely raised a brow she quickly flushed and hurried after Duncan.

No way was she letting herself be robbed two times in a night.

* * *

“Hey,” Zoey suddenly asked on the walk back. “Where’s Scott?”

Scott, Duncan, and Mal were the “bad guys” of the neighborhood, the misfits. They liked going out at night and causing trouble — nothing serious or endangering, but just enough graffiti to give the police a headache.

Zoey wasn’t very fond of Scott, but if his friends liked him and they were happy, who was she to judge?

“He stayed in because he had to do a biology project.” Duncan said casually, swinging her grocery bags from side to side. On her other side, Mal was carrying her other bags.

Zoey raised a brow. “And he cares because …”

“He’s failing. He spent three hours begging Dawn to help him out.”

Zoey cringed. He must really be desperate if he went crawling to Dawn. She hated his guts more than Zoey did.

“Right…” Zoey said, because she didn’t really know where to take the conversation.

“Anyway, where’re your parents?” Duncan asks. “Should they be the ones doing grocery shopping? Or at the very least, make you do it at a decent time?”

Zoey shrugged, suddenly not in a very chatty mood. “Oh, uh, they’re on a business trip.”

Duncan narrowed his eyes. “Wait, didn’t you say that last month? What —”

Zoey cut him off. “Duncan, I’m tired. So please drop the topic or else I'll text Courtney that you were on the streets beating up thugs at two am on a final’s night.” Zoey waved the phone for emphasis.

Duncan instantly backed off at the threat of bringing Courtney in. He definitely didn’t want his on-and-off girlfriend to get on his case again (even if they were broken up now). “Okay, okay, fine. I get it, I’ll back off.”

Zoey sighed in relief. “Thank you.”

She turned to look at Mal and found his eyes already on her. They were dark and scorching, and it felt like they were burning her body apart to look into her soul. It felt like he knew every secret scrawled under her skin and was taking it apart to observe at his leisure.

Zoey looked away, her heart beating nervously as her skin tingled under his eyes. “This is my stop.” Zoey stopped walking in front of her house. “Thank you for walking me home and for carrying my bags. That was very nice of you.” Zoey sent Duncan a cheeky grin, knowing how much he disliked being called “nice”.

“Just don’t tell anyone about it,” Duncan huffed, handing her the bags. “Probably about time to start heading back anyway. Later, Zoey. See ya, Mal.” With that, Duncan turned away and walked down the street.

Leaving Zoey and Mal standing alone together on the sidewalk.

“Thanks for walking me home, Mal. I appreciate it.” Zoey held out her hand for the other grocery bag.

Mal stared at her open hand uncomprehendingly, long enough for Zoey to get uncomfortable before saying, “I’m supposed to be walking you to your house.”

“We are at my house.”

“No, we’re in front of your house,” Mal corrects.

“My house is literally right there,” Zoey stabs a finger up the front lawn. “I can carry a couple of bags across the lawn. I’ll be fine.”

But Mal just stared at her unwaveringly, so Zoey huffs and marches towards the door. Mal trails after her, and it’s only until she unlocks the front door and opens it when he gives the bags to her.

Zoey flicks on the light, already feeling unsettled by the darkness before she turns to Mal. He’s already staring at her intently, and Zoey bites her lip uncertainty. “Thank you for walking me back,” she says. “For real, this time.”

“No problem,” Mal shoves his hands in his pockets, eyes flicking behind her to see the undeniably empty house. He turns to walk away, before he hesitates. “If you’re ever feeling lonely …” he starts, looking like he was already regretting it, “call me. I’ll always be there.”

Zoey’s face explodes in red and her mouth drops open. Mal quickly turns around and hurries away, leaving Zoey to gape after him in shock.

She closes the door before leaning against it sliding down to the floor. She buries her face in her hands, cheeks hot from her blush.

Yeah, she would call him. She did have his number after all.

She had all of theirs.

* * *

Vito (Spring)

Now, Vito has always been a massive player.

While Manitoba liked to flirt, Vito actually went out with girls. When he wasn't busy starting fights, he was chasing skirts — and while his behavior had always bothered Zoey, lately it bothered her for an entirely different reason.

That reason used to be because she hated the way Vito eyed girls like they were a piece of meat. The smug smirk he wore whenever he flirted with them made her want to punch him.

These days, it was because he flirted with girls. Period.

Not because he was a jerk about it, not because he was crude, not because he finally realized females were more than just boobs and a butt.

It was because every time she caught him winking at a girl or talking her up, it sent her blood spiking. Zoey would find herself gritting her teeth and clenching her fists and she didn't know why.

(Well, she did know why. She just didn't like it, so she ignored it.)

But the fact remained that something had changed, and it was aggravating the life out of her.

Despite everything, Zoey had resolved to simply ignore it. Whatever had happened to her would fade over time, and Vito was his own person (well … sort of. As much as he could be with five others in his brain). He was allowed to make out with whoever he wanted to.

Zoey also knew she was a major people’s pleaser and the type to obsess over every single detail — so she stuck to the mindset of ignoring Vito as well.

And it served her well, until one day after art club she rounded the corner and nearly crashed into Vito, who was currently sucking face with Anne Maria.

Zoey gasped and skidded to a halt. For a moment she simply stood there, gaping. Her feet were glued to the floor and her heart was pounding rapidly.

Zoey clenched her fists, digging her nails into her palm to clear her head. Zoey could feel a powerful emotion bubbling up and she bit her tongue.

What was Vito doing here? Football practice was over, he should have driven home by now. If he wanted to make out with Anne Maria then he should have done it under the bleachers — unless it was occupied by Geoff and Bridgette again. But why would he bring her here? He knew this was the path she always took to get to the bus —

Zoey suddenly stopped at the thought.

She watched as Vito pulled away and noticed Zoey staring at them in shock. For a moment their eyes met, holding a connection as they looked at each other.

Then Vito had the audacity to smirk at her, mouth pulling up in a cocky smile. His hands rested on Anne Maria’s hips and Zoey’s blood boiled.

She wanted to punch him. She wanted to punch him so bad, and she wanted to rip Anne Maria off him and yell and yell and yell until he made her shut up. But she knew what Vito would look like if she did that and Zoey would rather die than give him the satisfaction.

So instead Zoey clenched her fists, scoffed in annoyance, and brushed right past them with her head held high.

Zoey was jealous. Vito didn’t need to know that.

* * *

Chester (Winter)

Zoey was late, and she was dying.

The girl flies by pedestrians, red hair blowing out behind her as she runs down the sidewalk in a full sprint. Her legs burned and her lungs ached as she took heaving breaths of cold air.

It was one of those days in Canada where the air was so frigid it literally hurt to breathe, but the clouds still stubbornly clung to the snow that would fall later. She was late to her shift at work — too busy studying for classes after school — and had missed her bus, leaving her to wait for the second one impatiently.

Zoey burst into the shop. “I’m here!” She announced grandly.

Gwen looked up mid page-turn from her book at the register, observing the disarray that was Zoey. “You’re late,” she raised a judgemental brow.

“I know, sorry. I was just so caught up with school I lost track of time.” Zoey sighs, taking off her coat. Things would be so much easier for her if she had a ride … unfortunately, she and her ride had had a falling out a while ago and she doubted they would want to talk to her anytime soon.

Shaking off the negative thoughts, Zoey falls into the routine of getting ready. She worked at a small vintage shop that was tucked into the corner of the block for decades. Gwen had introduced it to her, and she had fallen in love with the still, older vibe of the place. Zoey was naturally attracted to older aesthetics, so it made sense that she fit in here.

Gwen and Zoey worked in tandem, attending to customers and working the register until people came in fewer and fewer. After a few hours, Zoey took a breath, checking her phone. Evening had come early, the sky turning a gorgeous shade of midnight blue outside.

Gwen reappeared from the back, bundled in a beanie and scarf. “I’m going to head out early. You okay with closing?”

Zoey smiled. “Of course,” she said, waving off Gwen’s guilty eyes. “Go have fun with Trent. I’ll see you at school.”

Gwen turned crimson, said a quick goodbye, then ran out the shop to the car parked outside at the curb. She slammed the door shut, and Zoey caught a quick glimpse of Trent waving at her before they took off.

Zoey sighed and started to close up. She was glad Gwen and Trent were back together after the rocky hardships that had actually led them to breaking up for a little bit. She wasn’t sure about the details of it — some jealousies and lack of communication — but she knew for sure that Gwen had found it hard to deal with her boyfriend's OCD, and struggled to manage it. She had confessed to Zoey about it, how she struggled to keep a normal relationship with Trent when his mental disorder was constantly interfering.

Gwen had come to her about that, asking for her advice about how to have a partner and manage their mental health, and Zoey had given it, feeling like a total hypocrite in the process.

The ding of the doorbell interrupts her thoughts, and Zoey looks up with an automatic smile to treat the last customer of the day before she freezes as she recognizes the person walking through the door.

Chester.

The alter shakes out his coat, wiping snow with a decisive sort of disdain off his cane. He looks up, takes note of Zoey’s unflattering stunned expression, and says, “Are you goin’ to be sittin’ there starin’ till my bones drop off or are you goin’ to make me some tea?”

Snapping out of it, Zoey blushes, rushing to make the drink under Chester's freezing glare. She sets down the pot, pouring the liquid into the cup as Chester grumbles before sitting down awkwardly.

“So,” Zoey manages to get her voice not to squeak. “How have you been, Chester?”

“Like you care,” Chester says gruffly and takes a sip of his tea. Perfect, just how it's always been. He and Zoey always had the same taste.

“I do care, that’s why I asked,” Zoey responds patiently. Without realizing it, her tone slips into the familiar, soothing, serenade that usually came out whenever Chester made a mean comment. “Just because we haven’t spoken in a while doesn’t mean I don’t wonder how you or everyone else is.”

Chester eyes her suspiciously, and Zoey finds herself randomly struck with how she sees him as Chester, and not Mike. To anyone else, it would look like a teenage boy was acting like an old man, but that wasn’t it. Chester hunched in on himself, and had crooked fingers that always itched for his cane; he subconsciously squinted in one eye and spoke with an inflection that Zoey never knew came from. Mike was the total opposite — he walked straight, but with a small slump in his spine as if to make himself less taller; he used enthusiastic hand motions and spoke loudly when excited. He didn't even like tea like Chester — he preferred juice.

“I’m as fine as these old bones can be in this weather,” Chester says after a moment.

“I see,” Zoey smiles. “You should stay inside and keep warm — what will happen if you slip and fall?” Even if Mike’s body was still young and strong, he had Chester’s psychology — so if he fell, he’d be in immense pain because he believed he had the bones of an old man and wouldn’t be able to get up on his own because of the psychological limits in Chester’s own mind.

“ ’s not like I meant to come out on my own,” Chester scowls. “The boy was already frustrated before that darn hooligan ran the red light while we were crossing. Nearly hit us too, that no good son of a —”

“You’re walking in this weather?” Zoey interrupts before he can go on his tirade. “What about your car?” Mike’s parents had bought him a car in the middle of autumn for passing his drivers test, a beat-up old thing. But still, Mike loved it, and the rest of his alters did too, taking it and driving it around to all their individual appointments.

It had been a fight for Mike to get his license — officials were too worried about him disassociating and switching out while he was driving — but thanks to his psychiatrist’s approval and his adopted parents pushing, he was finally able to get it. She can still remember how proudly Mike's eyes had shone when he first showed her his ID.

“Parents took it away,” Chester grunted. “He was switchin’ out with the rest of us too much.”

“Oh,” Zoey’s mouth felt dry. “I —”

“He's a mess without you, you know. They all are, those stupid young fools. But you should know, with what you said before.”

Zoey feels the words hit, like a sucker-punch to the gut. Her mind flashes back to the time when she asked Mike out. She had worn her favorite red halter top, with wildflower sticker tattoos stamped up her arm as she had rubbed it shyly. She had been so nervous; it had felt like the nerves her belly had turned into a livewire full of electric butterflies.

The words she’d said to him came back to her when he asked why she liked him.

"It's just that … the sort of mess you are ... has always felt like the sort of mess I am.”

How cruel of Chester to bring that up so suddenly. But then again, Chester never really had a problem with being cruel when he wanted to get his words across. Zoey found herself momentarily at a loss of words, stomach flipping in guilt. “That’s not … I didn’t …” What was she supposed to say? Sorry? As great at apologizing as she was, that felt too insensitive to say.

She was self-aware enough to know that she couldn’t keep her friendship with Mike, not after how much she’d hurt him. Maybe if they talked more, if she’d been more commutative …

The familiar sting of tears building up mortifies Zoey and she hides her face behind her hand, squeezing her eyes shut. That only makes it worse as the pressure causes a few wayward drops to slip out. God no, she wouldn’t cry in front of Chester, she wouldn’t …

Zoey waits for the sound of disgust that should be coming from him, a grumble about how sentimental young people were, but —

Something soft touches her cheek and she looks up to see Chester avoiding her eyes, holding out a handkerchief. She sniffles, taking it from his hand and unceremoniously scrubbing her eyes as hard as she can.

“You want to help everyone. You're too sweet to be alone,” Chester says gruffly. “Too dependent on others. You’d save a houseplant if you thought it could be your friend.”

Zoey lets out a choked laugh, not sure if she should be amused or offended at the words. “I just — I thought I'd get over it by now. We weren't even together that long anyways.”

Chester stared at her. “Why do ya still miss him? You’re the one that left.”

Zoey stares down into her cup, her eyes stinging with unshed tears. “Sometimes you don't get a choice. You think about someone ... a lot.” After she broke up with Mike, she had hoped that that would be the last of it. That he would fade into the background of all the other students, and that the only thing left would be a bittersweet memory.

But no. He still lingers, in her heart and in her mind. He was a bolt out of the blue, and a catastrophe that shakes her to the core. She could go about her day just like any other, and like a habit, she'd think of him.

“That’s what happens when ya give up on somethin’ ya care about. You grieve it just as much as you loved it.”

Zoey glances up at Chester before looking away again.

“What do I do now?” She whispers.

Chester takes a sip of his tea. “Ya know what you did wrong. Ya know what ya wanna change. The only thing that you can do now is try to be better next time around.”

Zoey blinks, the bowstring tightness drawn around her shoulders loosening at his words. She gazes into the mug like it holds all the answers, thoughts swirling around her head like a whirlwind. The fears and insecurities still weighed in her consciousness but now — although tentative — resolve was there as well.

She took a sip of her tea as well, chamomile lingering on her tongue. She could still try.

She wanted to try.

* * *

Svetlana (Winter)

Zoey watches on the sidelines as Svetlana dances on the ice, lost in her own music. The scrapes of ice against her blades are the only sound in the rink. It's completely empty, which she felt fortunate for because now Svetlana can completely focus on her routine while Zoey sits on the sidelines.

Svetlana skates by again, arms moving like the wind, somehow making the most complicated movements look like the easiest thing in the world.

She was intricately beautiful, and Zoey can’t take her eyes off her. Even with all the inner turmoil in her head, she can’t help but stop and stare at her. She knew this place — here, on the ice rink — was where Svetlana belonged. Skating was her passion, and the movements of the dance were her religion. The air rushing by her ears could clear her head more than any words can, and Zoey knows that she is the reason why Svetlana is out on the ice.

The cold bites her fingers numb and brings a rosy color to her cheeks, stinging like a slap. Zoey didn’t bring gloves with her, a self-inflicting punishment for what is to come. If this was, perhaps, a month ago, she would have been out on the ice with her, sliding on her skates and trying to catch up to Svetlana. Laughter would be echoing throughout the rink as she kept on slipping, not the void of silence now between them.

She couldn't do it anymore.

She could feel her mind fracturing the more she was stretched thin.

She was just so tired. She couldn't handle it. Dating five personalities, each with their own individual traumas, was too much. The stress, the insecurities, the fears were piling up and she just wanted a break.

She thinks (or hopes, maybe) that the others can sense it — her pulling away. It was cowardly, but she hoped that they would willingly drift off into the sea of faces in the school so that Zoey wouldn’t be able to say anything at all.

Svetlana dances across the ice, blissfully lost in her own winter wonderland and slows to a stop. She opens her eyes and catches Zoey’s. She isn’t quite sure what look reads in her gaze, but Svetlana doesn’t skate forward and close the seemingly sudden large gap between them.

Zoey was gonna break her heart. Take the fragile organ that all of the alters held so dear and shatter it into a million pieces.

* * *

Manitoba (Fall)

Manitoba pulled her along by her hand, dragging her to wherever he was taking her. She honestly had no clue. Mike had switched when he was in gym class, and the now-present Manitoba Smith had promptly ditched and went to seek Zoey out, even though she was in a different class at the time.

It had been … an experience to find out about Mike’s alters. She had known that he had some sort of disorder, because he always seemed to have a pink slip note of visiting the counselor’s office. It wasn’t until Mike had told her about his Multiple Personality Disorder —or Dissociative Identity Disorder, as Cameron often corrected— and Cameron had explained what it was when she suddenly understood.

Apparently, back at his old school, Mike had been severely bullied for his disorder and was often called a freak. Monster. Jekyll and Hyde. It had enraged Zoey beyond reason. She herself had been picked on for being different back in her old town, and she knew how much words could hurt.

When he came here, Mike’s plan of laying low was shot when he saw Duncan, who recognized him when they were in juvie, and from Scott, who had wrangled the truth from Cameron with slightly unethical means. Because it was a small school, the information traveled around the grapevine. Nobody batted an eye. Wawanaka High, if nothing else, was filled with eccentric people.

Mike had explained that he didn’t tell her about his personalities sooner because he was afraid she would think he was a freak, but Zoey had simply laughed and told him how much she loved oddballs. But secretly, she was nervous. She had no idea on how to handle his alters, or his trauma that sometimes arose at the most random things. It had been weird, and scary, and confusing, to see the boy she liked (like … really liked), acting like someone else entirely. His posture, his voice, his entire attitude did a complete turn around, and she didn’t know how to handle it.

“Why are you dragging me out of class?” Zoey complains. “We have midterms coming up, and—”

“You’re focusing on the wrong things, treasure!” Manitoba laughs. Zoey trips at the nickname. “You only live once! Why not make this one worth living with adventure!”

Easy for him to say. Mike was the only one who had to focus on school grades and studying. All the others were there for fun.

Manitoba leads them up the stairs to the roof and Zoey withdraws when she sees the Emergency Exit plastered on the doorway.

“Wait, what are you doing?!”

“Huh?”

“You’ll set off the fire alarm!”

Manitoba laughs like she’s said something cute. He opens the doorway to the rooftop and Zoey holds her breath, waiting for the alarms to start. When there is nothing, she lets it out almost disappointedly. A dud.

Manitoba doesn’t let go of her hand as they walk onto the roof and Zoey doesn’t pull away either as she looks around. So this is where Manitoba went whenever Mike switched out with him. Since Mike had a full-time pass to the counselor’s, he was technically obligated to go there whenever he felt like he was about to dissociate, but he and the others never did. She knows that for a fact because the other alters have been caught trying to leave school (Vito and Manitoba mostly) and now Zoey finally knows where one of them disappears.

Zoey can’t help but stare at him while his back is towards her.

She liked to keep busy. Needed to, really, because then she can ignore the persistent loneliness that ached whenever she was alone in a house that was too big for only her. So she made friends, joined clubs, and studied hard. She took it as a challenge when Cameron had asked if she would date any of the alters since she was dating Mike. If her boyfriend had more parts of himself then she wanted to know them as well.

And she liked them, too. Zoey didn’t doubt that before long she would like them just as much as she liked Mike. Svetlana had a beautiful soul and Zoey loved spending time with her. Manitoba was wild but captivating and she could feel herself getting used to him as well. Vito was coming around as well, taking her on drives whenever possible. She was slowly finding the gaps in Chester’s prickly nature and she remained a polite distance with the ever-elusive Mal.

There were doubts, perhaps, that she had been too hopeful. Not that she would ever think Mike a freak, but she couldn’t help but wonder if she had bitten off more than she could chew. If she was truly the right person to handle this. Zoey had her own problems and insecurities, and she could admit that she was prone to keeping it in due to her upbringing — unlike Mike, who knew how to communicate thanks to his training with his therapist.

“You get quiet when you’re stressed.”

She blinks, broken out of her thoughts due to Manitoba’s casual remark.

“Sorry,” she said. “I think more in my head than aloud.”

“I know, love.”

Zoey is glad Manitoba doesn’t comment on the small jerk she makes at his nickname and her furious blush. It was still embarrassing to get used to the others’ affection.

“Now, get on the ledge, Sheila.”

Zoey raises a brow.

Manitoba’s mouth curved into a smirk. “’Course, if you’re feeling afraid I’ll have no problem holding onto a beautiful—”

Maybe it was because of the thought of Manitoba thinking that she was weak or too afraid or boring to do it, but before she thought about it she grabbed onto the metal bars separating her from the ledge and leaped over them. Her converse hit the other side and Zoey spun around to face open air. The wind wasn’t too bad, but if she let go of the bar it would only take a push to send her careening to her death.

Zoey glanced over her shoulder, a smile tugging at her lips. “You were saying?”

Manitoba gazed at her, none of his usual cockiness in his eyes. “Look.”

She's never had a fear of heights, so she isn't afraid when she stares down at the world. Trees dappled with red, orange, and gold leaves lined the block of houses they adorned. The cars looked like toys on the winding road, the people so small they looked like ants. She hears Manitoba jump on the ledge to join her but doesn't turn her head.

“Wrong place, Shiela.”

“What?” Zoey asks. She turns to look at Manitoba only to see him watching her already.

“You’re looking in the wrong place.”

Without any further comment, he takes her chin and gently lifts it up so her gaze shifts upwards. Away from the town and to the world beyond that. Midnight-colored lakes, rolling plains, and forests stretching as far as the eye can see. And even farther, mountains peaking towards the blue sky, desperate to touch the clouds.

The air rushed out of her in her next breath.

And suddenly, Zoey understood what Manitoba was trying to make her get. There was a whole world out there. A whole country, and whole continent, even, and Zoey was still lost in her head. Her problems seemed like nothing in the grand scheme of things, and Zoey was just letting her life pass her by because she let them consume her.

She stands on the edge of the rooftop. Wind brushes along her skin, causing goosebumps to rise along her arm, but Zoey doesn’t say anything. She didn’t bring her jacket, and Manitoba wasn’t wearing one either. Even if he was, she doubted she would ask for it. She stands on the ledge, making no move to shield herself from the wind and looks at the Canadian wilderness in front of them.

She tips her head back and closes her eyes, the wind making the loose strands of her hair fly around her. Her feet felt rooted to her place, but she imagines herself as free as a bird. She could taste the tantalizing weight of wilderness on her tongue and wants.

So Zoey stands, and stares, and breathes.

* * *

Mike (Fall)

Zoey walked into her last class of the day, Chemistry. It had taken her a while to find the classroom, so most of the tables were filled up. She spotted Lightning in the back showing off with Cody staring up with adoring eyes. Noah was on the other side of the class, rolling his eyes at the antics before burying his nose in his book.

Apprehension pooled her gut. She didn’t know who to sit by and barely knew anyone. The class was mainly filled with seniors she only knew by name with only a handful of juniors she had never spoken to.

Zoey feels sick. She wants to walk right out. Why was her social anxiety starting to act up now?

She spots a boy sitting with a table to himself, a giant bookbag next to him. He’s hunched over, like he wasn’t used to the open air around him, and is wearing thick glasses and a giant red hoodie that hide nothing with how scrawny he is. Zoey is surprised to see him have such a big bag, seeing as how the boy is basically twigs it looks like even the weight of a butterfly could knock him over.

He seemed like the safest bet to sit next to.

Zoey walks towards the small boy — anxiety trembling in her bones — and gives him a nice smile, trying to appear more confident than she truely was.

“Hi!” She greets cheerfully. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

The boy jolts so hard that he nearly topples to the floor. “Oh! Yeah, sure! No problem!” He eagerly swipes all his belongings off the side of the table to make room for her.

“Thanks,” she says, taking a seat. Continue the conversation, ask questions rings in her head from all the How-To-Make-Friends podcasts she had obsessively listened to over the summer. “I don't think I've ever seen you around before. Are you a freshman?”

The boy lights up, and soon he is talking a mile a minute. His name is Cameron, and he's sixteen like her — which surprised her, given his small stature — but this is his first year of attending Wawanakwa High after being homeschooled all his life. Apparently his mother was obsessively overprotective of her only son and as a result, Cameron was what was known as a “bubble boy”. He was sweet though, and eager, even though he lacked any real world experience he was quite knowledgeable in academics.

By the time Cameron kindly offers her some hand sanitizer, Zoey is estatic to find that she has made her first real friend of the year.

Their conversation comes to a natural lull and Zoey busies herself organizing her backpack and pulling out the notebook she will need for the class.

Officially, chemistry should have already started, but none of the seniors pause in their continuous chatter and after waiting for another awkward couple of minutes, Cameron turns and asks a senior, Courtney, where the teacher was. The honors student makes a face, nose wrinkling in a way that makes her freckles scrunch cutely and responds, “Our teacher is Blainely. She never shows up to class on time, no matter how much Principal McLean complains.”

A desk over, a girl named Heather with beautiful, glossy long hair, scoffs in a way that shows her just how much she’s a fan of their teacher and goes back to filing her nails. Zoey wants to compliment her on her hair, but something primal very deep inside of her tells her that any word spoken to her would be met with a nasty comment on her hair.

She goes back to doodling on her own notebook before all of the sudden the door slams open and a harried teen rushes in. He’s holding a pink slip that meant he was coming from the office, and after seeing that the teacher is nowhere in sight, looks for a table.

He lights up as he sees the only open seat on Cameron’s other side and hurries towards it, practically dumping all his belongings on the table as he collapses in his seat.

“Hey,” he says, running his fingers through his spiky hair. “Did class start yet?”

Cameron shook his head no.

“Really? But didn’t class start like —” he glances at the clock, “— ten minutes ago?”

“Well, our teacher for this class is Ms. Blainely, and I heard she doesn't care about tardiness because she's always late.” Zoey reports back what Courtney said to her.

“Can’t see why,” the boy responds flippantly. “We’re as pleasant as all the teachers in the school.”

Zoey feels her cheeks pull up in a grin and she giggles. “Nice to meet you. I’m —”

Blainely slams through the door of her classroom like a typhoon of bravado and too-much confidence for a teacher who was late to her own class by ten minutes. “Alright, you little brats, it’s time for Chemistry!” She sing-songs.

There’s a thunk from behind of Bridgette slamming her head into her table and her deskmate Lindsay sympathetically pats her on the back. A few tables over, Heather fake gags.

Blainely, in her true, characteristic nonchalant fashion, tells them to have at it in mixing the chemicals after barely skimming the safety protocols and handing out labs.

Her, Cameron, and their new teammate work in tandem together, like they’re a well-oiled machine. He cracks jokes with Cameron and laughs with Zoey, and she feels her cheeks getting sore with how much she's grinning.

She hasn't had this much fun in a long time. Their new teammate is charismatic. And cute. And nice. Zoey didn’t really have a type, but if she did …

Well. It would probably be him.

From over Cameron’s head where he’s chattering, Zoey chances a peek at the boy to see him already watching her. Her heart leaps in surprise and she can’t help but stare at him even after he quickly glances away. Does she have pen ink on her face? It wouldn’t be the first time. Zoey opens her mouth to ask, but before she could —

The bell rings.

The students stir and begin packing their bags with vigor, chatter filling the air as the last class of the day is finished. Cameron bids them goodbye and leaves quickly, and Zoey waves as he practically sprints towards the door, saying something about his mom picking him up.

She spots the boy beginning to pack his bag with the new chemistry papers and realizes amongst all the fun they had together, she has yet to learn his name.

“Hey,” Zoey smiles over the space at the boy. “My name is Zoey.”

The boy blinks, then gives her this big, beautiful, beaming grin that seemed to light up his entire face. Zoey feels her heart skip a beat, then trip and stumble and crash against her ribcage at the sight of it. Oh boy.

“I'm … Mike.”

* * *

Bury Me After I Fall

A suicidal person dangles their feet over a rooftop in the rain. They don't know if they jumped or not.

Liminal Space: occupying a position, or on both sides of, on the threshold of in between.

Purgatory: a place or state of suffering inhabited by the souls of sinners who are expiating their sins before going to heaven.

Chapter inspired by "i used to have nothing and then" by dirgewithoutmusic

"This wasn't real. They were either falling, or fallen. They weren't in heaven, or hell, but a space in between. When they hit the ground (had they hit the ground?) they knew what it would cost."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You didn't know what was going on.

You didn't feel themselves hit the ground — but all of the sudden, you were standing in an empty banquet hall with a mile-long oakwood table in the center, golden light glinting off the surface. There wasn't any sound except for your harsh breathing — residue from the adrenaline.

"Why are you here?"

The voice echoed from all around them. You turned, but didn't see anyone.

"Who's there?" You called. You spun again. "What's going on?" You blinked, breath faltering. "I — I died. I'm supposed to be dead." You blinked rapidly. "Why am I not dead?"

"Why are you here?" 

"I wanted to die," You said, simply.

"Why?"

"Why do you want to know?" You asked. "Are you God? Is this some sort of ... test?" You gazed at the hall. It seemed endless, stretching along towards the end of the horizon as strange gold light bounced off the banquet table.

"Why now?" 

"Because I wanted to."

The voice considered them. "Everything comes at a cost," it said. "But you already know that, don't you?"

You backed away as you were quickly swallowed by the plummeting darkness.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You were born once, from a sixteen year old girl who committed an act she thought she was ready for. You were born in a cold hospital room, six pounds and eight ounces of screaming, quickly swaddled. Your mother wasn't ready, but she loved you even as she gave you up to the two husbands' in the room. The two men cried as they cradled their new child. They weren't blood, but they loved you. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You hit the ground, knees slamming on the cement. "Fuck."

Harsh sunlight beat down you as you took note of your surroundings. You were on a playground, with plastic slides and metal monkey bars and creaky swings. A huge tree stretched to the sky a little ways away.

You slowly rose to their feet, joints creaking. "What am I doing here again?" You asked.

Again. You knew this place. You’ve been here before. You grew up here.

You walked past the playground and made your way to the tree, touching the bark. The summer sun dripped through the shaded branches.

"A cost," the voice hissed. "A life." 

You startled as a dull thud came from the other side of the tree. A boy, not older than eleven, gripped strands of hair from a kid as he slammed their head into the tree. A sneer twisted his face as the kid trembled beneath him.

"A cost," you watched in horrified fascination as the voice pulled at the boy's mouth. "A life."

You stepped back out of range of the boy, feeling sick. "What are you doing?" You asked. "Stop it."

The boy took a step forward and you flinched back, instinctively. He stopped and stared at you with an unreadable gaze. "You're still running away?" He said. "Even when you're older and stronger than me?"

"Shut up." You snapped. "What is this? A test? A riddle?" You glanced down at your own frozen face, your younger self unaware of the conversation as your eyes burned holes into the ground.

The bully perked up. "You were always better at tests, weren't you?" He said. "That's why I was always so mad at you."

"Oh yeah?" You asked sarcastically, hurt and rageful as you stared at the bully that took up so many years and thoughts and days. The bully stared back at you, the pimples dotting his forehead shiny and raised. He seemed so small for someone who had such a huge impact on your life.

"I'm sorry."

"No you're not."

"I am. I cried when I found out."

"Found out?" You repeated. Your heart pounded. How could your heart pound? You were dead. You weren't in heaven, or hell, but a space in between. You were either falling, or fallen.

This wasn't real.

The bully stared at you, and you stared back. Taking a step back, a tendril of darkness snaked around your ankle and yanked you down.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You were raised once, from two loving fathers who would take you in their arms and smother you with scratchy kisses. From lazy Sundays with buttery sunlight creeping through the window's blinds. With pancakes and orange juice while watching bad cartoons dance on the TV. From crushing hugs and you being tossed in the air as gravity took over and you landed in their arms. 

Your dads always caught you. 

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You slammed back into you body as you gasped, kneeling on all fours. Trembling, you scanned the room, the itchy red carpet underneath you biting into your palms and knees.

You looked down. A flimsy drawing looked back, waxy colors scrawled all over the paper as crayons littered the floor. You knew this drawing. You knew this room, this carpet, this house.

You knew what would happen.

Arms wrapped around your torso, and you resisted the urge to scream as an overwhelming perfume made you choke from behind. "A cost," your neighbor hissed. "A life." 

You wrenched yourself out of the neighbor's arms, stomach turning. Your dads' were on date night, and decided to drop you off at their neighbor's place. The husbands' didn't notice how the neighbor's smile turned sharp and her eyes landed on you. Goosebumps had exploded throughout your skin.

"You know what it feels like to be taken apart," said the voice. "You know what it feels like to become unmade." 

Your neighbor's eyes blazed with sinful intentions as she took a step forward, a saccharine smile on her lips as she —

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The sky opened up as they dangled their feet over the roof of a building, rain pouring in sheets as it soaked their clothes. 

You hit the ground, and you were watching little kids running around, shrieking with joy as they ran over the place you were beat up yesterday —

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You hit the ground, and were immediately slammed into a brick wall by your classmates —

You hit — your grades were dropping, and anxiety tightened your heart as the teacher held you back after class —

Again — your dads' were disappointed, one angry, one worried, as they took away your belongings after dinner —

You hit the ground — it was a cycle, wasn't it? Kids laughed at you when you did good in school, beat you up, you dropped your grades, your dads' got disappointed, and then the sweet neighbor offered to give you tutoring lessons while your dads' had date night and —

"Why are you showing me this?!" You screamed as bloody spittle flew from your mouth after all the times you hit the ground. "My life was shitty, I know! I don't need to see it again, I know! Stop showing me this!" 

The voice paused, considered. Then darkness grabbed hold of your ankles and dragged you down.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You were born once, from the first time when you visited the relatives of your dads. Grandma kissed, cousins waved, and aunts and uncles hugged. 

Your dads laughed as you squirmed away and dashed off to play with the other children.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"Everything comes at a cost. You know what it feels like to be taken apart. You know what it feels like to become unmade."

"Why are you here?"

"Why now?"

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You hit the ground, this time in soft green grass. It was early dawn, the sky opening a purplish-blue as the pale sun peeked over the horizon.

You turned to look at the house, and in the shadows of the porch, you could see your dads' lean in for a long kiss as they basked in the quiet.

You let your head tilt back for a moment, breathing.

This wasn't real. You were either falling, or fallen. You weren't in heaven, or hell, but a space in between. When you hit the ground (had they hit the ground?) you wouldn't land in a warm afterlife. These worlds God kept throwing you into were just painful memories that only solidified your reason for death.

Footsteps rustled through the grass behind you but you didn't move — just breathed in the sweet smell of wind and closed your eyes.

"Hey, kiddo," your dad said, sitting down beside you. Your other dad sat opposite of you.

Your throat suddenly clenched, burned. Your eyes stung. "Hey, dads'," You croaked. "I — hey."

"So ... what happened?" He asked after a beat of silence. You suddenly remembered his laughs, the way it would sneak past your bedroom door as you laid with closed eyes and bruised ribs, wondering if it would get better, wondering if you were ever going to be as happy as your parents.

"I couldn't do it anymore, dad," you choked. "I — I'm sorry. At school I could barely hide the bruises from you, and the neighbor — she just wouldn't stop, and I couldn't tell you because you were so happy. And I messed up your lives from coming home drunk and taking pills and doing cigarettes and —" I couldn't do it anymore. 

Your other dad looked at you sadly, an old look that you knew well. It was one of sorrow, of exhaustion and pain that weighed him deep in his bones as he looked at you when you came stumbling home after a night of shame.

"Why didn't you tell us?" He asked. "We could have talked about it ... given you therapy, meds. We could have talked to the teachers, and the parents of the kids, and had that neighbor arrested. We — we blame ourselves."

Your eyes blurred and you blinked rapidly as your dad's face swam into view. His broken look, his tearstained lashes, his red eyes. Grief was written on both your fathers' faces as he placed a hand on your shoulder.

Suddenly, your father's face shifted. "Everything comes at a cost," he said. "But you already knew that, didn't you?"

His palm suddenly felt heavy on your shoulder as you whipped around to look at your other dad.

"A life," your other dad rasped.

"No," you jerked back away from your dads', suddenly angry. "No. You don't get to use them. You don't ever get to use them. Don't ever touch them."

Your fathers' faces twisted into confusion, frustration. "I — I am trying. To ask. Why are you here?" 

"I just told you — told them. I couldn't do it anymore."

"Why now?"

You didn't have an answer.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The rain pours on the rooftop, dripping down the buildings as it washes into the sewers. They are coming apart at the seams, the stitches have been tearing for years. They know what it feels like to be taken apart. They know what it feels like to become unmade. 

You hit the ground, and the stinging alcohol sliding down your throat as buzzing lights danced under your closed eyelids. You wanted to forget, you wanted to be ok, you wanted — your locked eyes with a stranger across the room. You smiled.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

You hit the ground, and you took the first drag of smoke, ash staining your mouth as you used one stick, then another, then another, until the whole pack was finished in a day. You wanted to die.

You hit — you swallowed pill after pill like it was candy behind your locked door, and when the capsule was empty you curled under the covers and waited as a sickening weight built up in your chest —

You hit the ground, and you slammed against the banquet table, gasping as vertigo made your head spin. Your limbs felt cold as the lead in your chest built up —

"You have done terrible things to yourself. You can never repent."

"They did this to me, they did it first," you gasped. You were drowning as your lungs filled with water. Images in their brain filled up — good times and bad.

Early in the morning, you sat with your dads as you watched the sunrise. Later that day, you were slammed into the playground tree for being better than their peers. Later in life, you popped your first pill, lit your first smoke, drank your first shot.

Your grandma gave you kisses on cheeks, your cousins still waved, aunts and uncles still hugged you. Your neighbor slid her hands along your body just like that stranger did. Sunday mornings with orange juice and pancakes and cartoons were replaced with hangovers as you stared at the top of a building and pretended to see the curve of the horizon.

"They hurt me first."

"They don't cancel each other out. Souls are never scrubbed clean, but can be overgrown."

"What are you trying to say?" You spat. "That I should've lived? That I should've dealt with it? It's too late, it was too late, it has been too late! I wanted to die, so I killed myself. I don't regret it, I'm just sorry for my parents." You clenched your fists. All you could feel is the cold in the warmly-lit room.

"You want time," said the voice. "You want to see your parents again."

"Of course I want to see my parents again." You said. "I love them. But —"

Instead of falling, images rose above you like smoke.

Your dads' pulled each other in for a kiss, murmuring about how much they loved each other. Your dads' woke you up at the crack of dawn to watch the sun rising for the first time, and it was one of the most favorite memories they had. Your dads' tossed you up, and you soared, before gravity quickly took over and your dads' caught you in their arms. Your dads' introduced you to grandma, to cousins and aunts and uncles. Sunday light crept through the windows and you toasted your orange juice to your dads' coffee.

"You will never get them back," said the voice. "But isn't that what you want? I will show you time." 

Your dads' pulled each other in for a kiss, murmuring about how much they loved each other in the early dawn.

Your dads' fell to your knees in grief and shock and horror, sobbing as men painted in red and blue lights wordlessly spoke of a suicide. Early sunrises were replaced with broken twilights as your dads found the pills, the bottles and the words on pages.

A man opened the news one day and recognized a classmate who killed themself. Horrified guilt made him weep tears of shame as he remembered how he slammed them into a tree for being better than him.

A neighborhood woman opened her door and was met with charges piled higher than her taxes as the police handcuffed her and dragged her to jail after years of freedom.

Your dads' walked up to a woman, a broken look in their eyes as they exchanged words and handed her a picture. The woman covered her mouth, stared at it blankly. You can only assume that this is the birth mother who was never a part of your life. Funny, you didn't even look like her. You must get you looks from your birth father.

Decades later, you watched as your dads' forgave themselves a little as they placed a white rose next to a wilted black one.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The rain washes the world clean. The showering pellets will wash the blood clean, pooling it into the gutters from when they jump. 

"Everything comes at a cost." Said the voice, but this time it sounded kind. "You know what it feels like to be taken apart. You know what it feels like to become unmade."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

"What does this matter?" You said dully. "This isn't real. I'm already dead. I'm falling, or fallen. I'm not in heaven, or hell. I'm in something in-between."

"Do you want to die?" 

"Yes," You said. "But if I lived a different life, then no."

The voice paused, considered.

"I didn't want any of those shitty things to happen to me. I didn't want to get bullied, or touched, or hurt, or drugged, or anything. But what the hell does that matter? I'm already falling, or fallen. I'm already dead, or dying. I didn't want any of those shitty things to happen to me, but they did."

"It matters," whispers the voice. "That's what makes this a sacrifice." 

"I'm angry," you whispered. "No one should go through what I did. No one should feel what I felt. My parents —" you trembled.

"Be angry," said the voice. "I am."

That gives you more comfort than you thought it would. Your eyes stung with fury and hurt and sadness as your throat grew tight and your hands started shaking. "I didn't want to die," your voice broke. "I don't want to die. I just —" you sobbed, an ugly sound. "I just wanted it to stop."

The voice pauses, considering.

You don't fall, and the images don't rise, but suddenly your whole world went dark and you woke up in soft green grass as the early dawn opened the sky a purplish-blue as the pale sun peeked over the horizon.

You let your head tilt back for a moment, breathing, tears drying.

This wasn't real. You were either falling, or fallen. You weren't in heaven, or hell, but a space in between. When you hit the ground (had you hit the ground?) you knew what it would cost.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The sky opened up as you dangled your feet over the roof of a building, rain pouring in sheets as it soaked your clothes. The rain pours on the rooftop, dripping down the buildings as it washes into the sewers. You are coming apart at the seams, the stitches have been tearing for years. You know what it feels like to be taken apart. You know what it feels like to become unmade. The rain washes the world clean. The showering pellets will wash the blood clean, pooling it into the gutters from when you jump. You gazed along the length of the building you had chosen, heart heavy as you hope that your dads' love you enough to forgive you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Earthbound

earthbound definition: attached or restricted to the earth.

In which Cole stands up to a tyrant that is cruel and unjust deep within the mountain. Because he made a promise.

🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤

It doesn’t take a genius to see that Cole’s losing.

The cave is in chaos; the sound of screams and clanging weapons fill the air as two sides clash against each other.

Vangelis and the Skull are toying with him, and he knows it: they’re circling him, trying to throw him off by telling lies about his mother. Cole blocks the hits from Vangelis and the blasts from the Skull, feeling like a fly they were winding up in a web of lies.

Vangelis rises above him, resembling a winged creature of death with his blank mask and the glowing Skull of Hazza D’ur in hand. “And now, her deceit has doomed you!”

“Her only son,” the Skull rasps.

Vangelis hurls the Skull at Cole; growing brighter and brighter the closer it gets. He stands his ground and braces himself.

The Skull collides, and the blades …

… shatter.

Cole is thrown back, the air knocked out of his lungs as his body rolls to a stop. He sits up weakly, before throwing back his mask to gasp at the sight of the broken Blades of Deliverance.

“No!” He cries. With trembling fingers, his gloved hands hold onto the shattered pieces of the black and white blades. “It can’t be …”

His mother … lied …

“It is,” Vangelis glides towards him menacingly. “And now, you will pay the price for your mother’s lies.”

“Lies, deceit,” the Skull rasps.

Cole screams in pain as the Skull unleashes fire upon his fallen form.

“Your cause is lost.”

More fire.

“Have the grace to admit defeat.”

More fire. More, more. Blistering pain wreaks havoc across his broken body.

It’s hopeless. He’s finished. He’s too weak. It’s over. He just wants to —

He remembers his mother.

🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤

“I want you to promise me, Cole. That you will always stand up to those who are cruel and unjust. Always.”

“Always.”

🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤

His mother … her strength hadn’t come from the Blades of Deliverance. She’s always been strong. She had been sick all his life, yet no matter how weak her body had gotten she had moved through her life with implacable momentum. Impossible to sway or dissuade. Ever since he was young, his mom had power — from her beliefs … and from the Earth.

“It was her,” he realizes. “It wasn't the blades. It was her. The power inside my mother.” The power inside of me, his heart whispers. Not the Spinjitzu Burst. The power of Earth.

“It was all her.”

“Alas,” Vangelis laughs cruelly. “You are not half the warrior your mother was.”

Pain and grief bite through his being, but Cole forces himself to his feet to glare at the Skull Sorcerer. “Maybe not, but I am her son.” Conviction buries itself deep into his being. “And I made her a promise to stand up to tyrants like you! Always!”

The mountain rumbles its agreement. Cole digs his fingers into the rock and feels it mold around the shape of them. Every grain of earth begins to glow as his power seeps into it.

“What are you doing? What is this!” The Skull Sorcerer demands.

“It's the Burst!” He barely hears Master Wu cry above his roaring element.

But no. It's not, and Cole can feel it. It's something different. Deeper.

His power was strongest when he was the closest to the earth and he’s never been farther underground. He was basically at the bottom of the world. Never has he been more surrounded by the very thing that powered him. The Skull Sorcerer thought he was burying him — but what if bringing him closer to his full strength? To the source of his elemental power?

Cole could feel it — the connection to the earth. He could feel it reaching out towards him, coming from the ground all around him.

He stands and lets it in. He let the energy of the earth infuse him, deep into his core and surging forward. The Skull of Hazza D’ur comes flying forward to finish him off and Cole bursts to life.

Unparalleled power explodes from the earth, bright and blinding, and Cole feels more alive than ever. His skin disappears, being replaced with magma and rock as the mountain quakes under his force.

The battle halts as everyone stops at the sheer force of the Earth; Ninja gape in shock, the Shintarians fly back in fear, the cave-dwellers stare with awe.

“Son of Lilly,” the Geckle and Munce whisper.

Cole rises with the power of the Earth; the Skull spiraling, lost, as he reaches for it with a molten hand and throws it down against the Earth. Destroying it.

The battle — one that had been reigning in secret for decades — is finally over.

🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤 🪨 🌋🖤 🪨 🌋 🖤

Vania dips her head as the last servant that has finished attending her and shuts the door.

She takes a deep breath, listening to the fading footsteps of the servant and the guards clanking armor move away.

Then she springs into action.

She quickly changes, flying out of her normal, queenly wardrobe into more plain, neutral robes. She glances at Chompy, who’s watching her from his bed. She touches the dragon’s head.

“I’ll be back before morning — promise,” she whispers. He makes a chattering noise, telling her he’s displeased. “I know! I will, I promise. I just …” she bites her lip. “I just can’t leave him alone down there.”

Maybe Chompy can hear the pain in her voice, because he doesn’t argue — simply pushes his head into her hand with a small chur of forgiveness.

Vania pushes past the grief and stands, lighting a candle before leaving. She sneaks through her own palace silently, moving past guards like a ninja as she heads for the gardens.

She makes her way to the entrance of the garden alcove leading into the mountain, her heart steadily beating harder. The caves beneath the mountain were deserted, with the Geckle and Munce people deciding that they wanted to live their new lives above the mountain.

She scurries down; down and down the winding mountain, past cramped caverns and twisting turns, the cloying darkness only fought off by a single flame.

Finally she reaches it.

The Heart of the Mountain.

The legendary temple for the Masters of Earth. Ancient scriptures written in the Old Tongue read: Let pass through here, into this refuge and sanctuary, only those who are One with the Earth. Orange flames danced off the walls, even though no one had been down here to light them. Power shined through the giant doorway as Vania drew nearer.

Creak …

The door opened slightly.

Vania went inside, following the carved path molded by Geckle and Munce. Statues of ancient Earth Masters and their stories echoes around her, and she ignores the familiar goosebumps that rise along her skin. Her eyes linger on the statue of Lilly, before moving on.

Statues are more than solid pieces of art. They are immovable, unbreakable monuments that enrich storytelling, making the experience of living more profound and unforgettable. They remind us of the strength of traditions, the power of history, and the enduring spirit that echoes throughout the ages.

She draws closer to the one standing in the middle, heart beating loudly in her chest. It's tall and strong, newly carved. Awake and glowing with the surging elemental energy. She reads the plaque in front of it.

This statue was carved with love and gratitude by Geckle, Munce, and Shintarian craftsmen in honor of Cole Brookstone: Ninja, brother, and son.

Vania places the candle on the stone ledge and takes a seat on it, facing away from the statue. It feels like yesterday she was trapped in here with the Upply and Master Wu, trying to figure out a way to stop her father. She forces the memories away when she feels the mountain move.

“Hello, Cole,” she says softly. The Earth rumbles under her feet, before slowly forming and making a vague shape of the person she used to know. Orange light shines through the cracks of rock as he peers at her curiously, waiting.

Vania smiles.

“So, what story would you like to hear today?”

Teenage Mercenary Headcanons

(Most of these are of Dayeon Yu because she's my fave character, but the Numbers are thrown in, too!)

☆☆☆

— Dayeon absolutely knows Ijin's secret, but she isn't confronting him because she wants him to trust her and come forward himself. Dayeon is sweet, not oblivious.

Who do you think sews the clothes whenever he gets slashed? Washed out the blood? Takes out the trash that has all his bloody bandages? She's literally seen him try to stab someone's eye out with a chopstick. Fight against experienced killers when she was kidnapped with Yeona. It only takes a quick google search to find out Dushik Cha is the biggest gangster in Seoul, Korea — and Ijin has him on speed dial. When the Congressman and his childrens' crimes broke the news, you think Dayeon didn't see it — didn't notice that with all the videos posted on the internet, only hers wasn't shown?

Ijin got a job at SW, the most prestigious company in the entire world, as a bodyguard. You have to have an extreme amount of fighting talent and skill to be able to become a bodyguard there, even as a part-timer. Normally, that would take months, years to be accepted. Nobody knew how he was scouted, not even the higher-ups. Which would mean Ijin was personally hired and got the job through connections with the CEO of SW.

The point is that Ijin is the most unsubtle person on the planet, and Dayeon is ready.

— The Numbers have tattoos! After they got initiated, they all got tattoos of their numbers. It serves as a reminder that they belong to The Camp and have no identity beyond that.

— I feel like Dayeon would be really into psychology. Being bullied by Huijin for years, I think that Dayeon would pick up behavioral cues from her as a coping mechanism. She is very observant, so I imagine she psychoanalyzes those around her to determine whether or not they are good people. I also see her use her psychology skills to translate into being a detective for learning about Ijin and the Numbers. I can picture her basically backing the Numbers into a corner and forcing them to talk about their feelings. She has a lot of impromptu therapy sessions.

— Ijin and Dayeon go to a rich kid school but live in a bad neighborhood. Yeona Sin, granddaughter of the SW CEO, goes to their school, and so did the Congressman's children, so it has to be a rich kid school. I headcannon that Grandpa Yu worked hard to send Dayeon to a good school, so that's why she goes there even though they don't have money. Also, they live in a bad neighborhood because how else would Ijin beat up high-school assholes and live within motorcycle-riding distance from Dushik Cha, Seoul's #1 gangster?

— The Numbers speak multiple languages! Being sent on multiple assignments in different continents, I feel like they would pick up different languages in order to blend in.

— Dayeon is good with first aid! It's not through want, but when she was being bullied, she had to patch up her own injuries by herself, so she became well practiced in it. And, when she was younger and first learning how to cook, she kept on getting cuts on her hands from the knife. But she didn't want her grandpa to worry and send her to the hospital for stitches, so she learned to do it herself! 

(Inspired by my mother, who cut herself with a knife and promptly sewed herself up with a needle and thread with no tears or medical experience whatsoever.)

She helps heal her brother's injuries. She's not as good at stitches as Ijin is, but she insists she has to when he comes home with injuries, and it's the thought that counts, right? Also, she took it upon herself to learn CPR for her grandpa when she was really young in case he had a heart attack from his weak heart ;(

— Dayeon steals her brother's jackets and wears them around. At first, it was merely coincidence — her just grabbing the first thing when she's in a rush — but soon it becomes a habit to reach for Ijin's jacket instead of her own. They're comfy and oversized, and she loves it. Her favorite is the grey one with white armbands Ijin often wears. Ijin doesn't mind. Her wearing his jackets actually protects her more even when he is not around. He goes out and takes care of high school jerks often so that they start to recognize the clothing he beat them up in.

High-School Gangster: (sees Dayeon walking home alone innocently) Ooh, cute girl!

Gang: (goes up to harass her before pausing when they see her jacket.) Wait ...

(Recognizing Ijin's jacket, paling, and realizing that he with absolutely fuck them up if they mess with his little sister.)

Gang: (jumping the guy who pointed out Dayeon, beating him up.) You piece of shit! Don't you drag us into your goddamn death wish!

Ijin traumatized all the gangs in the area, and it's beautiful.

— Ijin and Dayeon have dimples! At first, it was only Dayeon because I researched and found dimples represent a sign of beauty and cheerfulness in many cultures, which I thought suited her perfectly. But then I wanted Ijin and Dayeon to have something in common due to resemblance, and the dimples appeared. Also, I wanted the Numbers to have that extra wow factor when they see Ijin's smile and realize he has dimples.

— Grian is a melting pot filled with orphaned children of all ethnicities. I imagined that missionaries from all countries came to Grian to try and "fix it up" before having children with the locals. Maybe the parents were killed, or they abandoned them, but the point is that most of the children there grew up orphaned before they were inducted into military camps.

— Besides Ijin and 032, all of the other Numbers are in their mid-to-late twenties. Think about it — it's been 10 years since the plane crash, and they were all teenagers when they were in the Camp. And none of them look especially older or younger.

— Ijin takes after his parents in looks. He has his mom's hair and his dad's face. You can tell he was their son just by looking at him. That's why Grandpa Yu was so emotional when Ijin came back. It was like seeing his son and daughter-in-law come alive again within his grandson. But Dayeon?

Dayeon looks exactly like her grandma, so much that sometimes it literally hurts Grandpa Yu to look at her. It almost seems like a cruel twist of fate — to leave him with the little girl that looked exactly like his wife to raise when he should've been left with Ijin, so Grandpa can still have some part of his son and daughter-in-law with him (Dayeon internalized these thoughts when she was younger).

— Dayeon knows how to do makeup! Again, this was mostly out of necessity — she had to learn how to cover up the bruises when she was being bullied. The bullies were smart enough to not go for her face, but sometimes when she fought back she'd catch a blow across the cheek — hence, she was forced to learn how to cover it up with makeup and over the years has perfected the art of hiding bruises. Sometimes, when Ijin comes home with bruises, she drags him to her room and helps him cover it up with makeup.

— Ijin and Dayeon actually have a lot of similarities and neither of them realize it. They have the same habits and quirks, and subconsciously hold the same fears of revealing their past traumas. It's honestly a bit ironic and hilarious, seeing as physically Ijin and Dayeon look nothing alike for siblings. For example, Ijin works out and goes on runs when something is weighing on his mind while Dayeon paces the floor until it is practically worn and tries to busy herself with chores.

It always makes Dayeon petulant when one of her friends or the Numbers point it out because she knows firsthand how frustrating her brother can be.

— When Yeona gets drunk she has the habit of buying an excessive amount of things for her friends. Dayeon's cold? Watch her buy a full set of expensive winter gear for her. The guys are feeling hungry? She'll clear out the entire convenience store. She has zero recollection of what she bought the next day and Hyeokjin and Jaehyeong find it hysterical when they see all of the absurd, random things she's bought. The whole group makes fun of how much money she wracked up in a single night. Seokju always has to take away her wallet beforehand whenever they go out.

— After the whole kidnapping arc with Dayeon and Yeona, Seokju took it upon himself to teach the girls some basic self defense. Mostly it's dodging and escaping holds, and they've both gotten pretty good! When they first started out, Ijin would be staring lasers at Seokju on the sidelines whenever he would handle his sister, which he felt he could personally do without. Now, Ijin helps out with the training while Yeongchan, Jaehyeong, and Hyeokjin spectate and cheer. While it irks him, the girls love it and take the opportunity to show off what they've learned.

Bros before Hoes

In which Duncan happens to find his neighbor cute, and his idiot roommates throw him a party because of it.

(AKA: The bros who drink together, sleep together)

Inspired by PPG/RRB fic on ao3

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

On a list of things Duncan would like to wake up to (women on the top, cops on the bottom), this is not it. Heck, this probably wouldn’t even be on the list. 

And by this, he means the completely trashed apartment littered with beer bottles, overflowing trash, and very questionable stains on the walls. Not to mention the dead bodies currently scattered around the living room.

Wait, not dead bodies, but Duncan can only wish.

How was this possible? He went to sleep at, like, ten last night and if he wasn’t mistaken, he had gone to bed while the house was quiet and the only people home were Geoff and DJ. So how the hell were there more than a dozen people in the living room and why did it look like an absolute shit show?

A groan emerges from the couch before a blonde head appears in sight. “Oh,” Geoff says when he sees Duncan standing there. “Sup, dude?”

“What— ” Duncan takes a breath. “ —THE ACTUAL FUCK HAPPENED HERE?!”

Geoff winces and raises a hand to rub his head. “Ouch, not so loud. I have a headache.” He whined.

So did Duncan. “What. Happened. Here.” Duncan narrowed his eyes and lowered his voice dangerously. Geoff laughs awkwardly and avoids his eyes.

“Oh, well, we sorta … kinda … uh,” Geoff gestures vaguely at the apartment. “... had a party?”

Duncan honestly doesn’t know how he could be surprised. This is what he gets for rooming with Geoff.

“How?!” He yells at him. Duncan wasn’t a really light sleeper, but he’s pretty sure he would’ve heard a party going on downstairs. “What time did these people get here!? How did I sleep through a fucking party?”

“Yeah … about that,” Geoff laughs nervously. “We sorta had a kickback last night but we knew you were asleep so we didn’t want to wake you up. Somehow, it became a game of ‘how quiet can this party be so Duncan doesn’t wake up' and we lasted the whole night! You didn’t wake up at all! Everyone was whispering and we had music playing at the lowest volume, and it was actually really fun. Super weird, but fun.”

Duncan is almost impressed. Almost. Trust Geoff to make a quiet party fun. “I’m not helping you clean up,” he informs him. He eyes a body on the floor that turns out to be DJ, cuddling an empty beer bottle while completely unconscious. 

“Aww, dude!” Geoff whines, “I hate cleaning! Come on, we kept it quiet for you!”

Duncan takes another look around the room and begrudgingly admits that it is kinda amazing that they managed to have a party without him waking up. It’s actually a little sweet that they took him into consideration. But still, fuck them.

“No.”

“Duncaaan,” Geoff groans, throwing his upper body off the couch. “C’mon, bro! Please? Dunky? Dunk-man?”

“Don’t call me that!” Duncan yells as he grabs his gym bag. “And this place better be spotless by the time I get back!”

He slams the door and a satisfied smile grows on his face as Geoff’s protests are cut off. Duncan turns to head down the hallway and nearly crashes with someone who lets out a high pitched squeal.

“Oh! I’m sorry!”

Duncan looks down and— oh hell, it’s her. Of all the people in the apartment for him to run into, why does it have to be her? Granted, she did live next to him— but still, why?

Wide brown eyes peer up at him and her head cocks slightly to the side as she blinks. “Oh, it’s you.”

“Huh?” He’s so close to her he can see the smattering of freckles on her nose. 

“Oh! Sorry, I just mean I see you around a lot because you’re my neighbor,” she stumbles, cheeks turning a little pink.

“Oh,” he says a bit more gruffly than he should. He tries his hardest not to check her out and fails. She must’ve just come back from a jog — her short brown hair is tied back and she’s wearing tiny gray shorts and a matching crop top.

“Are you going to the gym right now?” She asks, taking note of the gym bag slung over his shoulder.

“Yeah,” Duncan grunts, staring at the staircase behind her. He will not be weakened by a tight fitting tank top, he will not. “I go early to avoid people, I hate crowded gyms.”

She makes a noise of understanding. There’s a beat of awkward silence, where she looks as uncomfortable as he feels before she sticks out her hand. 

“I’m sorry, but I don’t think I ever got your name.” She tucks a loose piece of hair behind her ear and Duncan’s eyes follow it, wondering why the hell he thought the little action was so cute.  

“Duncan,” he shakes her hand, hyper aware of how soft and small her hand is as his big and callus ones swallow hers. 

“Courtney,” she dimples and Duncan’s stupid heart skips a beat. “Well, have fun!” She smiles cheerily at him and Duncan can’t take his eyes off of her. What the fuck.

“Thanks,” he mutters as he walks past her. He catches a glance of her as she opens the door to her own apartment. Damn it, she has a nice ass.

Duncan contemplates throwing himself down the stairs before he decides against it. 

It’s a waste, he figures. One flight won’t really do any damage.

***

By the time Duncan makes it home it’s evening. Stopping in front of his door, Duncan narrows his eyes as he hears muffled voices inside the apartment. Either Geoff and DJ actually cleaned the place or he’s about to open the door to the same shitshow as this morning. 

For their sake, he hopes the former.

He pushes the door open and the apartment abruptly falls quiet. The two occupants have frozen in fear, staring at the door with varying degrees of terror. DJ is cowering behind Geoff, who isn’t making a very suitable defense seeing as he too, is shielding away. Duncan’s eyes flit between them and he’s pleased to see a cleaning device in each of their hands.

The apartment isn’t exactly clean, but it’s not a complete mess anymore. At least they’re trying, he has to give them that.

“O-Oh hey man, you’re back,” Geoff coughs, hugging a broom to his chest. “We were cleaning, I swear!”

“I can see that,” he grunts, closing the door. “Sup, Malibu?” He greets the other occupant in his apartment. 

Bridgette is sitting by the counter, skimming through a surf magazine while stroking DJ’s pet, Bunny. She looks up with calm green eyes and gives him an easy smile. “Hey Duncan,” she says. 

“What happened to being clean by the time I got back?” Duncan asks his roommates pointedly.

“Cut us some slack man, we didn’t really wake up until Bridgette got here,” DJ says from his spot by the sink. 

Duncan ignores him with a roll of his eyes, plopping down across from Bridgette. Bunny hops over to him curiously and Duncan sets him with a glare. Yeah, he might have gotten DJ his pet after Geoff and Bridgette might’ve killed his last one (Geoff kept insisting it was lost while Bridgette said it was eaten by a snake that was eaten by a hawk or something), but that didn’t mean he wanted that thing closer to him. 

Duncan didn’t do cute things. 

So lost in his (one-sided) glaring contest, Duncan didn’t notice the change in conversation until too late. 

“Oh yeah, who’s that cute girl by the way?” Geoff asks. “You know, the one who lives next to us?”

“Oh, you mean Courtney? Short brown hair, cute smile?"

It’s a little embarrassing how quickly Duncan perks up, and from the corner of his eye he can see Bridgette give him a knowing glance. Duncan scowls warningly. Out of the four of them, only Malibu knows about his little problem— and Duncan would like to keep it that way, thank you very much.

Except the thing is, he forgets how much Bridgette likes a good romance. “Oh yeah! The girl that Duncan likes, right?"

The reaction is instantaneous.

“What?! Bro, you have a crush? No way!”

“Why didn’t you tell us? My boy’s growin’ up!”

“EVERYONE SHUT UP!” Duncan roars and Bunny leaps back in shock. 

Bridgette just grins and flips through another page of her magazine. Duncan is tempted to crumble it up. “Oh, you didn’t know?” She says casually. “He met her a few weeks ago and it was like love at first sight.”

It was not.

“You should’ve seen him! She stopped by to say hi, he said ‘nice to meet you’ and when she left he couldn’t get a word out for the next ten minutes. He just gawked at her, although, I guess I can’t blame him. She was cute.”

He did not.

“I’ve never seen him look so lost before, it was kinda adorable. I think he was blushing.”

He was not.

“Bro, I don’t think you’ve ever had a crush before, have you?” DJ asks.

“How would you know!" He shoots back indignantly.

DJ shrugs, unaffected by the rage that’s coming off of him in waves. “I dunno man, I’ve just never seen you show any real interest in anyone before."

Duncan is momentarily struck dumb. Shit, was DJ right? He’s had crushes, right? This isn’t so special. Of course he’s had his fair share of girls, dicked around with them like any other guy— but those had only been short flings, chicks he’d pick up in bars and fool around with until he was no longer interested. Has he never really had a crush before?

Geoff, thankfully, interrupts his spiraling thought process and slings an arm around his neck. “Dudes, you know what we should do?” He grins. “Let’s celebrate!” 

“Hell no!” Duncan shoves him away. “What are we even celebrating for?”

“Your first crush, dude!” Geoff beams and Duncan is this close to strangling the happy-dumb look off his face.

“It’s not a crush!” He yells.

“C’mon man, it’s Saturday,” DJ says. He even pulls out his puppy eyes, as if his sparkling round orbs are going to convince him. “What are you even gonna do today anyway, huh?”

Duncan grimaces and can feel himself actually give the idea some consideration. Why is he considering it again?

“We’ll get your favorites,” DJ adds. “It’s your party after all. You get to call the shots.”

Duncan winces. He takes a look around the room and sees their stupid faces beaming with excited grins. 

Duncan sighs. “Fine.”

***

One pack of beer, two bags of chips, and three pizzas later, and everyone is absolutely smashed. 

It’s at this point Duncan can say with complete confidence that he fucking loves his best friends. Sure, DJ can’t swim without a floaty and always listens to his mama and Geoff is way too happy and loud and can’t go a day without making out with Bridgette, but man, they’re just, like, such good people.

 Like, he just loves the fucking hell out of them. They’re the best guys out there, and have been with his shitty self since high school.  Duncan doesn’t know why he spent so long denying that they were friends— he wishes he could beat his younger punk-ass self for all the dumb things he said back then.

If only there was some way he could express how he felt.

“Hey, I fucking hate you guys,” Duncan says earnestly. “But, like, in the best way.”

They groan in acknowledgment and Duncan closes his eyes.

Girls are dumb. Feelings are dumb. Everything is dumb, but he doesn’t even care anymore. Why? Because he’s got his boys by him, and Duncan would fight the whole fucking world for them.

Yeah.

***

Duncan wakes up to something soft and fluffy smothering him. Fur is in his mouth, and he is suffocating on it because his head is pounding and he doesn't have the strength to pull away. 

Duncan groans, agonized as the fluffy thing slides off his face. He squints to see Bunny, furry butt in his face as it cuddles against him. You better not have pooped in my bed, Duncan doesn’t have the strength to threaten aloud. His mouth is tacky and his eyes are crusty and Duncan would very much like to wake up when the next century has passed, thanks. 

Duncan lets out an annoyed grumble and tosses the covers from his body. He’s about to roll over to the ground to do his push-ups (a habit he’s had since juvie) when he notices two things.

One: the sheer amount of nausea he feels. Duncan almost throws up if it weren’t for the deep breaths Malibu taught him to calm himself. Oh God, he’s definitely listening to her more when she goes on about him and the guys consuming poison. Hangovers are hell.

Two: the suspiciously familiar cowboy hat. 

“What the fuck?!”

His hoarse yell makes the other occupant in his bed jerk awake. “Man, keep it down,” DJ says. His bandana is twisted backwards. “It’s too early.” A hand appears to shove him back into bed.

Duncan is tempted to smack him away, but that requires effort and energy. None of which he has right now. He settles for a weak shove as DJ snuggles him like he would Bunny. Curse him and his incessant need for cuddling. “Why the fuck are you in my bed?”

Another groan sounds by his feet. Geoff yawns and rubs his eyes, lifting his head to look at them. He looks stupid without his ever-present hat on (he looks stupid with it on anyway) and is curled up like a puppy at the foot of the bed. Duncan is struck with the urge to kick him off before he decides that’s too cruel.

“Don’t you remember?” Geoff asks. “We all came in here to talk about our feelings.”

Duncan stares at him in disbelief. “No we did not.”

“Yeah we did, and it was magical,” Geoff responds, voice muffled as he buries his face into the pillow. “You wouldn’t shut up about the girl who lives next door.”

“Courtney,” DJ supplies helpfully.

Duncan stares in mute horror. How drunk did he get last night? He talked about feelings? And girls?

Who even is he?

“It’s okay Duncan. Mama always says that the more you deny the bigger the feelings are. You can keep pretending you’re not a softie. It’ll come out someday.” DJ pats his head, like Duncan’s green mohawk is supposed to be Geoff’s idiotic blonde mop. 

Duncan almost tells him to fuck off, but bites his tongue because DJ is too sensitive to be told that. Instead, he says, “And doesn’t your Mama say to never drink?” DJ reaches a hand out to cover his face and shoves him back down into his pillow. 

Wow, the bed feels amazing.

DJ tries to pet him like he would Bunny — all gentle and reassuring — but the big guy’s hand feels like a meaty deadweight hitting his face over and over again.

“I hate you guys,” Duncan mutters, shoving his hand away.

“Yeah, yeah, we know,” Geoff yawns. It sounds like he’s going back to sleep. That actually sounds like a pretty nice idea.

“You guys better get out,” Duncan grunts, feeling his eyelids grow heavy, “I’m warning you.” He lets himself sink deeper into his pillow. “Leave or die,” he mutters, eyes closing. The last thing he hears is Geoff’s quiet snoring.

They don’t leave, and Duncan sleeps peacefully.

Icebound

icebound definition: surrounded, obstructed, or covered by ice.

In which Zane uses his element against the Overlord to save the city and his friends. Because it wasn’t about numbers, it was about family.

❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️

It is the end, and Zane knows it.

The Overlord is conquering Ninjago City, webs of gold stringing across buildings like Christmas lights and tying up his friends like flies. They struggle, but it is useless under the might of the Overlord.

Zane flips out of the way of a golden band reaching to ensnare him and lands on a roof. All of his friends are tied up, and only Zane is free. He knows what he has to do. He is the only one who can.

“Support me, friends. For one last time.”

He takes a running leap off the ledge, and Jay flips midair so his feet plant squarely on top of his. Then Cole, Lloyd, Kai, Sensei Garmadon, and Wu.

He soars, flying straight at the Overlord, and grabs onto his golden fangs.

Immediately, he feels its power, and its agony. Pain rips into every crevice of his body; his jolts rattle and shake and his wires spark under his skin.

“Let my friends go!” Zane shouts.

“Go where, Doomed Ninja?” The Overlord sneers. Its eyes, red and hateful, glare into him.

Zane writhes under the immense pain and power. His body cannot handle it, he knows, and he feels himself falling apart under it.

“The Golden Weapons are too powerful for you to behold. Your survival chance is low.”

But Zane isn’t trying to hold them. He’s trying to destroy them.

He thinks of his brothers. He thinks of PIXAL. He thinks of his father. He thinks of an old man with long white hair as pure as snow and ice blue eyes that visited him a long time ago, who had come and left as quickly as winter did and had breathed that power into him because he saw him worthy of it.

“This … isn’t about numbers … It's about family!”

The golden webs holding the Ninja fall and they escape. He can hear them screaming, telling him to let go, and he thanks them for that. Wu and Garmadon grab onto them and yank them back, away from the oncoming destruction.

His core — his heart — started reaching critical mass. Frost began creeping upon the Overlord’s fangs. Something blue and blinding in his heart freezes under his power, and Zane embraces it. It's his power. His choice.

“I am a Nindroid. And Ninja never quit. Go Ninja … go!”

He is the Master of Ice. He was built to protect those who cannot protect themselves. He stands for peace, freedom, and courage in the face of all who threaten Ninjago.

Frostbite burns his skin away; jolt and wires freeze under the cold; until he is left completely bare.

The last glimpse they get of Zane is him surrounded by a blizzard of his own making, bright and beautiful like a supernova. Burning blue and white with the terrible brilliance of his own determined choice.

Zane died; not as a machine, not as a human, not as a tool of anyone or anything — but as himself. Zane died to save the ones he loves.

And woke up as something completely different.

❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️🩵❄️

PIXAL climbs her way up the steep cliff side, careful to place her foot in secure crevices in case she slipped and fell from the icy mountain. Heavy snow blinded her vision as the blizzard whipped around her, but she kept her pace steady and sure.

It had been months since she had left Ninjago City and began her search. Months since Zane’s death and memorial. PIXAL knew, logically, that she should be back there, properly mourning him. But she could not.

He had never given up on her, not when she was under the Overlord’s control or when she was struggling with the newness of emotions.

And that meant she could never give up on him.

When she had first met Zane, she became more than a machine meant to function. He was vital to her, and she was a part of him.

She carried half his heart, and against all logical explanations, she knew he was still alive.

She did not tell the Ninja of her suspicions: the immediate aftermath of Zane’s loss had been devastating. She’d watched as the team fractured, splitting at the seams as they all fled their separate ways, too heartsore and dizzy with grief to do much otherwise. She did not tell Cyrus Borg where she was going either, for she knew if he begged her to stay, she would.

If she had told them she had seen a snowy wraith emerge from the destruction of the frozen, apocalyptic atmosphere on the rooftop, she would have been told she had imagined it due to her grief.

And while she was grieving, she was not imagining it. She is a Nindroid, and she did not have an imagination. PIXAL was built to observe, to analyze, to collect data and gather information. She built theories and hypothesized, not assumed.

So she followed the signs. She kept track of all weather anomalies that happened across Ninjago — sudden snowstorms, cold drops in temperatures that swept through small villages and towns. It led her all across the country until it ended here, with her climbing up the frozen, snow-peaked mountain.

Finally, PIXAL arrived at her destination.

The Ice Temple.

Slowly, she makes her way towards it. Her sensors indicate the temperature dropping the closer she gets. For a normal human, they would have already gotten frostbite without the proper equipment and numb with it, but PIXAL was made of metal. The cold did not bother her.

She peers into the glacial architecture, but does not enter. Or more like, she is unable to. It feels as if there is some sort of force of winter that is keeping her at bay.

“Zane?” Hope finds its way into the desperation of her voice. Freezing winds whip her hair out of its ponytail and against the purple circuits on her cheeks, but she barely notices. “Is that you?”

There’s nothing except for the howling wind, then her eyes catch movement. Slowly, almost like a ghost, a figure starts to come closer, making a shape against the blizzard.

If PIXAL had lungs, all the air would have rushed out of them.

A being made of pure winter floated in front of her. Formed of ice and frost and molded by the wind, it stood there and looked at her. Opaque ice carved the face that has been imprinted in her memory drives, the one she had traveled across the entire world to see again.

It was frozen, and beautiful, and Zane.

Inside her neural drive, alarms were blaring into her system, flashing behind her eyes. Warning: Severe weather alert. Temperature reaching sub-zero levels. Retreat into a warmer climate —

PIXAL shut off the notifications.

“Hello,” she says. Zane does not move. She dares a step closer. “Do you recognize me?”

He says nothing, so PIXAL continues on. It feels like their roles were reversed when they first met: she, the one struck speechless by the other’s beauty. Him, stoic to it all.

“I’m PIXAL, the Primary Interactive X-ternal Assistant Lifeform. I’m a … friend. I came searching for you to bring you home. There are things about you that you don’t understand. That you have yet to discover. I am here to help you remember.”

Zane is quiet, but she senses that he is listening. Something glowing in her chest aches.

“It is alright if you don’t remember me,” PIXAL says. She cannot cry, but is she would she could. She is still new to emotions, and many are overwhelming her: joy and grief and something fierce and pure deep in her heart. “I remember you. And we are still compatible.”

Zane tilts his head and drifts closer. The snow slows its fall, the wind stopping altogether. Snowflakes gently coat her hair. Now that he is closer, she can see the differences that make him unlike the old Zane: he doesn’t have the one dimple on the right side of his cheek, or the small beauty mark on his collarbone, or the tiny scar on his index finger from his shuriken.

But he is still Zane, even as an icy spirit.

She held out a hand. “Your brothers miss you very much. Will you come back with me, Zane?”

He is silent, staring at her. Unlike before, it is impossible to know what he is thinking. She gazes up at him, imploring. His eyes have no irises or pupils, so she is simply staring up at pinpricks of pure blue light.

Slowly, his hand reaches out of her.

BANG!

A loud sound echoes across the ice, and out of nowhere chains of Vengestone come flying out and capture him.

Fear slams into her. “Zane!” PIXAL cries.

Ice races out from his body and across the chains as Zane struggles, but no matter what, he can’t break them.

PIXAL whips around to face the assailant.

A man in his thirties, wrapped in a thick parka to prevent the cold and wearing a red mask. He has shoulder-length brown hair and is wearing a dyed red straw hat, and under it she can see he is hiding an eyepatch.

“What are you doing?” PIXAL shouts. Anger — an emotion she rarely feels — burns through her.

The man lowers his gun and pulls out another one before she can even blink.

“Sorry, sweetheart. Just following orders.”

Before she can question what that means, he fires. A net tangles her limbs together and brings her down against the cold snow. Before she can fight against it, electricity courses through her.

And then everything went black.