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Breaking [My Heart]: Act VI Yielding

“There's nothing simple when it comes to you and I, Always something in this everchanging life” - Everchanging [Rise Against] Winston has issued the recall towards rebuilding Overwatch. Angela - formerly known as “Mercy” - is captured by Talon, who are searching for any information that can stop the rise before it begins.

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Trigger Warnings & General Statements This is a dark torture story. As such, there's going to be bad things happening - for the sake of not spoiling, I will not tag what, exactly will be appearing at any time. While I don't think any of the scenes are terribly graphic in nature, I do want to stress that the scenes are present and aren't for everyone. I did try to make the reactions and trauma realistic, following both real-world medicine / research and in-game universe canon (such as Angela's nanotechnology). There will be multiple POVs per chapter - two sets for both Angela and Reaper as well as a fifth from an additional character. Please, read at your own risk - and enjoy!

Here’s my chance for a new beginning I saved the best for a better ending And in the end I’ll make it up to you, you’ll see You’ll get the very best of me - One Day Too Late [Skillet]

He’d watched Baptiste go with some trepidation. What if he called Talon and told them where they were? Sure, they hadn’t been greeted by a strike team when he’d walked through the door, but that didn’t mean there wouldn’t be one sent now. But the only choices had been to send Baptiste out for the necessary supplies or go himself - and he was hesitant to leave Angela without protection, especially with someone he didn’t trust. He barely trusted Sombra, because he knew that she had her own agenda. Each person she had used to get them here was just another person that could sell them out. There were too many moving pieces that left her vulnerable. There were plenty of people - on both sides of the fence - that would love to get their hands on Angela as she was now. With that in mind, he set about securing the apartment as best as possible. He pulled the curtains closed - and then, for good measure, pinned them into place with some needles pilfered from Baptiste’s bag. It wouldn’t help against infrared sights like Widowmaker had, but it couldn’t hurt. Gabriel wanted to move the bed away from the window, make shooting Angela even more of an impossibility, but it just wasn’t possible. Perhaps he and Baptiste would be able to manage it once she was more aware. He pulled up a chair, placing it between Angela and the window so that - should there be a shot - he or Baptiste would, hopefully, take the bullet for her. Because of the angle it sat at, it was impossible to see into the next room when seated; he didn’t like that, either, but there was only so much he could do. After moving quickly through the rest of the small apartment, tugging the curtains closed as he had in the bedroom and hiding away various sharp objects, he returned into the bedroom and gently closed the door behind him. He stalked around the bed to settle on the chair, pulling out one of his shotguns and laying it on the nightstand - as far from Angela as he could - for easier access. Then he had nothing left to do but wait. He wasn’t sure what, exactly, would come first: Baptiste’s return or Angela’s awakening.

---

Angela had fallen into an uneasy sleep about fifteen minutes ago, going from lazy stillness to nervous twitching. Gabriel had called out to her softly, but she hadn’t reacted to his voice or her name. He watched her as she shifted and breathed shakily, clearly having another of her terrible dreams. Angela was no stranger to bad dreams - he had woken her from, or had been woken by, those dreams once upon a time - so he wasn’t sure if waking her would be the right call. She needed the rest - meager as it was - so Gabriel decided to leave her alone. If she started crying or screaming, he could wake her then. Two knocks at the front door had him pushing to his feet. He was standing in the bedroom doorway, shotgun in hand, as the front door opened. He kept the gun at his side - it was probably Baptiste because what kind of strike team knocked? - as he tugged the bedroom door shut behind him. Indeed, it was Baptiste; the Haitian man raised his hands slightly as if to show he wasn’t a threat. Baptiste opened his mouth, but then seemed to think better of it; instead, he turned to go into the kitchen and put away whatever it was that he had bought. Gabriel planned to watch him - as if he hadn’t left Baptiste unsupervised while he was out getting supplies - but he heard Angela make a small noise of fear. He turned away from the medic to reenter the bedroom. “Angela?” Gabriel kept his voice soft; he wasn’t sure if she was still asleep or reacting to her new surroundings. Her body tensed at his voice; she was awake, then. Gabriel was grateful for the quiet return. Talking her down from the nightmares was more challenging when he probably was her nightmare. “It’s alright, Angela,” he murmured as she opened her eyes and stopped pretending that she was sleeping. Warily, she scanned the room. “You’re safe.” Gabriel could see the doubt in her eyes and couldn’t blame her; what reason had he given her to trust him? None. He’d betrayed her at every turn - how could she believe that he was telling the truth now? Her eyes hardened as she stared at his right hand; he’d forgotten that he was holding a gun. “It’s not - I’m not going to shoot you, Angela.” Gabriel knew Angela and her moods better than anyone, and not even he could determine what flashed across her face. He could, however, tell what it wasn’t: relief. In the short time he had left Talon base for that failed mission in Russia, she had lost her fire. He had watched the recording of her ‘execution’; he’d seen the relief at the threat of the gun and the sheer despair when it was a lie. It was what kept him from setting the gun anywhere within her reach. Gabriel wasn’t sure if she’d use it against him or herself - or both. He’d gamble with his life, but he was done gambling with hers. Instead, he holstered it. He watched her face carefully, but Angela was no longer looking at him. She was looking around, searching the walls for whatever it was that helped her mind escape and generally doing anything to keep her eyes from landing on his form. He could tell, though, by the rigid way she held herself and the tightness in her eyes, that Angela was very aware of him. She would react to any movement, no matter how small. Baptiste knocked on the door frame, drawing Angela’s panicked attention as the medic paused just outside the room. He saw the recognition that changed to pain - betrayal - in her eyes as she took in the Haitian man, and then she was walled away again as she turned away to stare at the ceiling. Gabriel hadn’t realized Angela would know the man Sombra had sent. That new knowledge had him stalking across the room, forcing himself to ignore the way she flinched away and turn his back on her for a brief moment. “She knows you?” He whispered furiously, angling himself again so that he could watch her. Now that she was free, unbound, he worried about what she might do to herself. “We worked together once, about a year ago,” Baptiste replied, leaning against the door with his arms crossed as he kept his eyes fixed on him; Gabriel could understand his wariness. The Reaper was the biggest threat in the room. “Why?” The flippant tone made Gabriel want to throttle him. “Why?” Was he an idiot? “Look at her,” he ordered, one hand flying up to point in Angela’s direction. The woman flinched away - she was watching them, even when she didn’t appear to be. Baptiste frowned as he took in the broken woman again; her whole body radiated tension as she pointedly stared at the ceiling. When she thought they weren’t looking, she was stealing glances from her peripherals. Angela was still tense, trembling intermittently from the intensity, fists balled tightly; Gabriel doubted she even realized she was clenching them. “She doesn’t believe that any of this is real.” Every time she flinched and looked at him with those wounded eyes, he was reminded of it. He was the Reaper - Talon - and was not to be - could not be - trusted. Gabriel doubted she would believe it even if Cole Cassidy were to stroll in here right now and carry her away to whatever safe haven Overwatch had built. “She thinks you’re working with Talon.” It might be a misunderstanding, but right now, any misstep would further injure her. He was seething inside; she was hurt again after he had sworn she wouldn’t be. Baptiste sighed, deflating. He hadn’t been able to see what Angela was like when she was coherent - or, at least, whatever passed for coherency for her these days. “You need to get her help.” His cheerful attitude was gone, his face grave as he turned back to Gabriel. “Not this half-assed shit: real help.” Gabriel ground his teeth; what did this man think he was doing? It wasn’t like he had a lot of time - or many options. “I’m working on it.” The response was tight. If he could, he would just take her in to see a doctor. Gabriel wasn’t sure when it would ever be safe enough for her to be seen in such a manner, now that Talon had gotten its hooks in her. He wasn’t sure if she’d ever feel safe enough to leave whatever Watchpoint he’d end up delivering her to. Baptiste turned away without speaking. Gabriel wasn’t sure what he was going for, but he wasn’t going to leave Angela alone to find out. Instead, Gabriel strode back around the bed to sit in the chair at her side and pretended that she didn’t try to scoot away from him once he settled. Pretended he hadn’t heard the low, pained noise she had made when the movement hurt something - probably her knee. Pretended that she wasn’t tearing his heart out with every look and flinch.

---

Gabriel wished that he could call Sombra; that would make contacting Overwatch so much easier. Instead, he had to try and hunt them down the old fashioned way. That wasn’t - usually - a problem, but he usually didn’t have a half-dead doctor he was trying to hide. Normally he wasn’t on the run from Talon, either. If Overwatch had stayed at Watchpoint: Gibraltar, his life would have been easier - but then Talon’s task would have been, too. Now he was left trying to figure out what Watchpoint Winston might have chosen. He doubted they had moved too far, so he was pretty sure they were still somewhere in the European continent. That was still a good number of Watchpoints to look into - and all of them were on a completely different continent from him. Gabriel had briefly entertained the thought that they might create a new base, one that no one - not the UN, not the various enemies of Overwatch - knew about, but he had tossed the idea aside. The creation of a new base would take up time and resources that they just didn’t have now, especially once he considered how active many former members - like Reinhardt and Tracer - were in the search for Angela. There was the tip line that Tracer had spouted on behalf of the UN, but he was hesitant to use such a public method to reach out. There was no guarantee he would get someone he trusted to appear - and Gabriel wasn’t giving Angela to anyone he didn’t trust. Not even to Winston, though he knew Angela trusted the monkey and that she would be perfectly safe in his care. Gabriel didn’t trust it - never had and, at this point, never would - no matter how much Angela did. It had been hard enough to leave Angela in Baptiste’s care. Sombra had assured him that Baptiste only had Angela’s best interests at heart - had, in fact, tried to warn Angela that Talon was coming for her, though she had left out the part where they knew each other - but that didn’t mean Gabriel trusted him. Still, perhaps Angela would recover better without Gabriel - the Reaper - looming over her bedside. Hopefully, Angela would move past what appeared to be a betrayal by yet another person from her past. Hopefully, their shared history was positive enough to let her trust Baptiste in a way she no longer could trust Gabriel. He hated that he had broken that trust. He couldn’t change the past, though. He couldn’t take back the hateful things he did or said; all he could do now was try to make it better. That was why he was prowling in the dark, forgotten areas of the city. Even the precious “City of Harmony” couldn’t avoid crime; it was part of human nature. Instead, they pretended those places didn’t exist because they didn’t fit in the picture-perfect world they had created. Oh, the Reaper was sure that authorities tried to flush out these hot spots, but they would keep popping up. Eventually, they would give up, instead settling for knowing where the crime would be instead of trying to smother it, just like every other city in the world. Gabriel was hoping to find one of his contacts from his Blackwatch days. This contact was a shared one between many agents; Gabriel was sure that Cassidy had been one of the agents who used this particular man. If Cassidy was searching for Angela - and Gabriel knew he would be, even if he couldn’t be public about it - he’d have tapped any and all sources for help. Even if it were a tool he’d thought he’d thrown away long ago when he had left Blackwatch. Gabriel wouldn’t pass a message - no, that was too dangerous - but he might be able to get a location on the cowboy. All that would be left after that was contact and delivery; then Angela could, hopefully, be left in some semblance of peace.

Her eyes opened to blinding white lights. She became aware of her arms, straining at the shoulders from where she sagged against the chains that held her up; they shook with relief when she managed to brace her right leg on the slippery floor. Angela was dripping wet; they had just thrown the icy water over her, shocking her awake. Angela had known she would be back here. An escape had been too good to be true; Gabriel was dead and the Reaper had tricked her in such a vile way. Fingers dug into her cheeks painfully, forcing her head backward until her neck ached. “Didn’t I tell you, princess?” The Speaker was right in front of her, just out of sight due to the lights as he sneered. “We won’t let you go that easily.” He laughed, finding pleasure in her despair. Before he stopped, the strap with its many sharp edges cleaved into her back, tearing her back away one jagged gash at a time. Angela bit down on her lip, swallowing down a scream, as it all began again. She had to hold out and survive the pain and the overwhelming tide of despair. Questions. Pain. Silence. Drowning. Screaming. It felt like they had her for hours, the questions echoing and repeating around her as they hurt her. She hadn’t been able to keep back her sounds of pain, starting as whimpers and ending with throat-burning screams. It had to end soon, right? They always stopped, always gave her a short respite to recover and gather the ragged bits of herself back together. Shaking. She was shaking, a different voice calling over the Speaker. Angela blinked in confusion; no one but the Speaker talked to her during these sessions. When her eyes opened again, the blinding light and chains were gone. She was no longer hanging from chains but lying on something soft. Angela flinched back from the familiar man hovering over her, concerned as he looked down at her. Angela didn’t know how to handle such gentle emotions any longer - she didn’t believe in them enough to trust them after everything she had been through - so Angela turned her head slightly so she could stare at a wall instead. It wasn’t the same white wall she had become accustomed to. It was a beige color, textured instead of smooth concrete. “Dr. Ziegler?” Baptiste’s voice was hesitant as he removed his hand from her shoulder slowly; Angela hadn’t even realized he was touching her until the hand was removed - and wasn’t that foolish? He’d been shaking her, so of course he was touching her. She kept her eyes away from his form and instead swept them across the room, searching as she always did. Her friends had returned on the day of her ‘escape’ when the Reaper had been cleaning her body with painful gentleness. Angela vaguely remembered Baptiste. They had worked together some time ago, and he had seemed like a good man. But that he was here, in this room with her, meant that he couldn’t be trusted. This was a trap, a trick to get her to let her guard down and betray her friends - her true friends, not this one-time ally from some far off place and time. “Dr. Ziegler?” The man asked again. Angela glanced up towards him, body tensed and ready for the pain that had become expected. Her wary eyes met his concerned ones for a brief moment before glancing away again. Angela refused to speak because she knew that if she did, she might never stop. Instead, she looked around her new prison. It was a bedroom, she realized finally. She couldn’t see much from her prone position, but there were doorways and a small table - nightstand - next to the bed she laid in. The softness was alien and almost unbearable after so many days - weeks? Months? - sleeping on cold concrete or suspended by chains. “You may not remember me, doctor,” Baptiste’s voice was cheery, not at all deterred by her silence. Angela couldn’t tell if it was forced or real. “We worked together in Venezuela a year or so ago. My name is Baptiste.” He paused there, giving her time to respond if she so chose - which she did not. Once it was obvious she was planning to remain silent, Baptiste continued. “You’ve been sleeping a while, Dr. Ziegler. I’m sure you’re hungry.” At the reminder, her stomach suddenly made itself very known. Yes, she was hungry - not that she would admit it aloud. “If you’ll just wait right here, I’ll get that fixed right up. Sound good?” As if she were in any position to leave this bed. After another long moment of silence, Baptiste nodded once and left the room. Angela pressed her arms down against the mattress in an attempt to sit upright. Her body’s weakness and the pliable mattress made the attempt impossible. She wasn’t sure what she had expected; she had barely been capable of pushing herself off the hardened concrete to eat the last time they had fed her. When she finally lay still again, she was panting and shaking from the exertion. She had jostled her knee, which was now throbbing and pulsing in reprimand for her movements. But, Angela had discovered that she wasn’t restrained - except, of course, by her weak body. Her trembling hands explored the bed, marveling at the soft cloth and smooth sheets, before sliding to her body. There was some cloth covering her - a brief glance down showed some sort of green fabric. Angela marveled at that, too. It had been a long time since she had been clothed, since her naked body hadn’t been on display for everyone to see. Her fingers were playing with one of the buttons when Baptiste walked back in with a small tray. He placed the tray on a second table to her right, one that she hadn’t noticed when she was avoiding looking at him. “Now, unless you want to wear your food, you’re going to have to be sitting up.” Angela frowned; she had already tried that, which meant he would have to touch her again. As he reached out, Angela tensed. When his hands grabbed her with a careful, practiced touch, she began shaking, forcing him to pause. “It’s alright, doctor,” he soothed as he began lifting her despite her tension. “Just bear with me a little bit.” Angela stared past Baptiste towards the ceiling - and then the wall, once he had maneuvered her upright. “There we go!” Baptiste released her slowly, as if she would fall over without his support. Angela was leaning heavily against the pillows that he had propped behind her, so she was in no danger of falling. Once he was satisfied, he settled in a chair pulled up close to her bedside and grabbed a bowl from the tray he had brought in. “Now, I know, this isn’t exactly how you want to do this,” Baptiste said, scooping some broth up with a spoon and holding it up towards her face. “In a few days, you’ll be strong enough to do it yourself.” Angela didn’t want to eat, despite her hunger and weakness. Eating would prolong her existence and keep her in their clutches that much longer. But she knew what the consequences of not eating would be. Rough hands forcing her mouth open until her jaws creaked, food stuffed down her throat until she thought she would suffocate as she swallowed and swallowed to try and breathe. No, she didn’t want that. Resigned, she ate the broth he offered. The warmth soothed her throat - which she hadn’t even realized was sore - and pooled in her stomach comfortably. It tasted bitter, though; despite herself, she recoiled and glanced up at him in horror. What was in that liquid? Something to help calm her, to make her more pliable for their questions? He looked surprised, before realization crossed his face. “You probably can taste the supplements I added,” Baptiste explained hurriedly. “It’s nothing bad; just some extra protein and vitamins to help you recover.” He muttered something about the taste under his breath, but it was low enough that she didn’t catch all of it. “Seriously, look,” Baptiste ate a spoonful of the broth himself, as if to prove its safety; Angela knew that one spoonful was nothing compared to an entire bowl, but what could she do? Resigned, she went through the motions of eating as he fed her slowly - far slower than she was used to. Each time, the bitterness struck her and her anxiety spiked – but she couldn’t tell what the drug was doing to her. Perhaps he had been telling the truth, though Angela highly doubted it. Baptiste chattered brightly at her as she ate, but she wasn’t listening. Refused to listen, because Angela recognized it for the trap that it was. They had tried to break her with pain and death, but they had failed. Now, they were trying to break her with kindness and gentle hands. Angela wouldn’t allow that to happen; she had been through far too much to fail now. He was trying to befriend her, to get behind her walls to crack her open and reveal her secrets. Only one person had ever been capable of doing that - and he was dead, even though his body still roamed the Earth. Angela was surprised he wasn’t here, looming in a corner or hovering over her, trying to convince her that he was still Gabriel and not the Reaper. He’d sat with her the last time she’d woken, but, unlike Baptiste, he had barely spoken to her. He’d just sat there, brooding while she pretended he didn’t exist. She had found Ana then, perched on the dresser that was barely in her line of sight. Angela had let Ana soothe her until she could fall into an uneasy sleep - which Baptiste had helpfully woken her from. “Alright, all done.” Baptiste finally declared, setting the spoon and bowl back onto the tray. Angela’s hunger wasn’t satisfied, but that wasn’t unusual. Just like pain, hunger had become a constant companion to her these days. “Now.” Angela glanced towards him briefly - he was leaning forward slightly, looking a little uncomfortable. “Do you mind if I check your wounds and change your bandages?” She stiffened, eyes darting away to sweep the room again. No one was here - at least, not now. Perhaps they would arrive soon. “You’ve got some bad cuts there, doctor.” Baptiste continued carefully, when it was clear she wasn’t going to speak - or give any kind of permission at all. At least he was keeping his hands to himself while he was trying to convince her. “I just want to make sure they don’t get infected.” Infection was the least of her worries; in fact, if she were lucky - which she didn’t seem to be - an infection would kill her. Baptiste sighed. “Alright. It can wait a little while - but we have to check them soon.” Angela was surprised at the capitulation. She had expected him to press the matter - but that wasn’t how this worked, she realized. They wanted her comfortable, and forcing her into doing something wouldn’t meet that goal. That was why they’d brought in a familiar face to care for her, after all. They wanted her to let her guard down so that they could wean the information they wanted from her. He offered her the water, which she drank just as mechanically as she had the broth. Then, he chattered at her again, apparently unable to stand the silence. Angela tuned him out to the best of her ability as she looked around the room again. Still no one - not her friends nor the Reaper. Angela supposed the latter was a small mercy.

---

After each meal, Baptiste asked for her permission to look at her wounds. Finally, after her fourth meal – oatmeal, this time – he had pressed the matter. “I know it’s uncomfortable, Doctor,” Baptiste had said, carefully trying to pull the blanket away from her tight grip, “but your injuries need tending.” As a doctor, she knew that he was right. As a person, she didn’t care. It had taken him the better part of fifteen minutes to persuade her to let him pull away the blanket. He didn’t attempt to reach for her dress, not yet; instead, he turned his attention to her legs. Aside from the squares of gauze taped carefully to her skin, Angela’s legs were bare. Her eyes immediately fell on her knee, still a terrible purple-black and swollen even after – well, she didn’t actually know how long it had been since the Reaper had pulled her down from the chains. Baptiste noticed her attention and pulled out something. “I’ve got a brace for that,” he offered, holding up the object. “I wasn’t sure if I should put it on, considering the other wounds.” The brace would wrap and hold her knee in place, but it would also press against the half-healed burns and gashes still present. If she weren’t the patient, Angela would have put the brace on; the knee would continue to be damaged for as long as it was left free and unsupported. But, she was the patient – and she desperately wanted to die. Angela wouldn’t give him any advice towards her care, not even in this small thing that would only give her more comfort. If she broke her silence, she would be tempted again – and then they would have her. Instead, she ignored his unspoken question and let her gaze wander to the left, away from the man and his expectant gaze. Angela heard him sigh and set the brace down. She ignored the careful fingers that pulled the tape from her skin. Ignored the cool spread of ointment and the gentle, painful press where he held the gauze in place as he secured it. Once her legs were done, she tensed. Though Angela wanted to die – and, therefore, did not want medical attention – she especially didn’t want to be naked again. The dress was the only protection she had, besides her silence. It was flimsy and frail, but it was hers. Still, he persisted until the dress was unbuttoned and her bandages were bared. Angela glanced down at herself briefly – her broken skin was hidden from her by layers of gauze – before her gaze found the wall again. As Baptiste cut the gauze away, her attention was drawn towards the door; it had been left open by the man when he’d brought in her meal. Low voices, barely loud enough for Angela to hear, trickled into the room. “–ch longer—going to take?” Angela went cold. She had known that this was too good to be true. She had been trembling under Baptiste’s touch, but now she was shaking in pure fear. Until the day she died – which, hopefully, would be very soon – Angela would recognize the Speaker’s voice. “You—a month,” the Reaper growled back quietly. “Doctor?” Baptiste’s concerned voice drowned out whatever else the Reaper said to the Speaker. She couldn’t look away from the door, couldn’t stop straining to hear the words that would condemn her. She was panting heavily, eyes wide with terror as she cowered back from the door, even though it brought her closer to Baptiste. “–ot gonna–” The Speaker said, but Baptiste spoke over them again. “What is it?” He rose from his seat, the movement momentarily distracting Angela from the door and the monsters in the other room. Baptiste left everything as it was – gauze and tools laid about, her bandages partially cut away – as he grabbed a gun; she hadn’t noticed it since it had been propped up against the far side of the nightstand. Competent hands lifted the weapon as he stalked around the bed to investigate the other room. Angela wasn’t fooled; he was in on this charade. He was just acting for her benefit, to cover up the fact that this was a trick. She doubted that she was expected to hear the voices; they had been quiet and Baptiste had been distracting her with the stress of a bandage change. Her ears still strained to hear the words, but she couldn’t make any out. She could hear the voices of the Speaker and the Reaper, but their words were no longer intelligible between the roaring in her ears and their volume. Baptiste glanced into the other room cautiously before carefully exiting to ‘look’ more thoroughly. Angela looked away again; she couldn’t hear the words and she didn’t want to watch him come back in with his lies. Angela’s eyes cut across the bed towards the right side of the room – where Baptiste had just been sitting – and paused, fixated on the sheets next to her leg. He had left all of his supplies scattered around, including the bandage scissors he had been using to remove the gauze around her chest. Angela reached out for the tool with shaking fingers that steadied once she had it in hand. Relief chased away her terror, but she knew that she didn’t have a lot of time before Baptiste returned. Angela barely hesitated – she would not go back to the Speaker, to his chains and the pain. She knew that she would have to cut deep; that if she didn’t, either her nanites or Baptiste would put her back together more quickly than she could bleed out. With a steadying breath, she pressed the sharp edge of the scissors against her left forearm near her elbow before dragging down towards her wrist. It stung, but it was nothing compared to the pain she had experienced – and the pain she was trying to avoid. Switching the blade to her left hand was more of a challenge; everything was suddenly more messy, now that her blood was flowing freely. She should have used her left hand first; it was her least dominant that was now slick with blood and shaking again. “There’s nothing ou—Doctor!“ Baptiste stepped through the door as she was dragging a line through her right arm; he was across the room and yanking the scissors from her grip before she could get more than halfway down her right forearm. Swearing up a storm, he used one hand to clamp down on her left arm in an attempt to stop as much of the blood flow as possible, as his other scrambled to grab some of the loose gauze. Angela tried to struggle out from under his grip; the blood that was absolutely everywhere helped in that regard, and she managed to free her arm for a short moment – then he was upon her again. “Stay still,” Baptiste shouted, but she ignored the order and just squirmed more. Angela was surprised he didn’t call for help from the other room – or that someone didn’t rush in to try to help him. Angela knew there were at least two men out there; one was the Reaper, who could come in without ‘surprising’ her, because she’d seen him here before. In response to her squirming and attempts to escape his grasp, Baptiste moved until he was over her on the bed, pinning her down with his body weight as he focused on her arms. The positioning made her nauseous with terror, her body going cold – but perhaps that was from the blood loss. “No,” Angela whimpered plaintively as he began winding the gauze around her left forearm tightly – too tight, the medical professional in her noted but, right now, she doubted he cared. Angela twisted, trying to throw him off balance or drag herself out from underneath him. She was too weak for it to be more than a slight annoyance, and he ignored her struggles as he wrapped the gauze haphazardly around her arm. As she knew all too well, it didn’t have to look pretty to get the job done. Angela panted, terrified; though she knew it was pointless, she continued to try and escape – even as he tied off the bandage on her left arm. Already, she could see the faint pink tint staining the white gauze, but she knew that this was merely a stopgap; he had to slow her bleeding before he could properly stitch her back up. She knew she wasn’t weak enough, hadn’t bled enough, to die – but she was too weak to stop him. Tears welled; Baptiste had won. She wouldn’t get another chance – she had been lucky to get this chance. Angela was going to go back to that room, the room she desperately wanted to avoid. Her right arm went faster than the left, considering the gash was smaller than the other. He tied that off, too, before glancing around the room. Angela knew he was looking for his medical kit, which was just out of reach of the bed – on purpose, so that Angela couldn’t get her hands on anything like the bandage scissors he’d carelessly left on the bed. That forced him to leave the bed, leaving her free to writhe away and try to rip the bandages off. She had nearly thrown herself off the left side of the bed when his hand clamped down on her right arm and dragged her back. The action also pulled her hand away from the bandages, though she had managed to loosen the knot he’d quickly tied. As he turned back to his kit for a moment, her fingers lifted to yank at the knot again and began unwinding the bandages. She had nearly gotten all of them off when he clamped down on her again – this time, not to stop her actions, but to hold her still so he could inject her with something. “I’m sorry, Doctor.” His voice was distant and fuzzy as he yanked her right hand away and began undoing all her work as quickly as possible. “You left me no choice.” Her head was swimming, and she couldn’t focus – what had he given her? Hopefully, he’d given her too much, considering her malnutrition, wounds, and blood loss; if he did, she’d never wake up. Her eyes fluttered closed as he turned away once more, her arms securely wrapped in the protective gauze.

Gabriel froze when he walked into the bedroom, taking in the bloody tableau. The blankets were thrown on the floor carelessly, and sheets were stained with red. Small droplets of blood had splattered on the headboard as well as the carpet close to the bed. Angela’s arms, which had been bare when he left this morning, were now wrapped heavily with gauze. A noise pulled Gabriel’s attention away from Angela to look over at the medic. He was setting down his weapon – an impressive looking assault rifle that had, apparently, been modified for healing, though he hadn’t used any of it in this room – against the nightstand. Then, he leaned back in the chair, looking exhausted; through the whole thing, Baptiste never took his eyes off of the doctor. “What happened?” Gabriel demanded, snarling. He knew he should keep his voice down – or at least moderate it to be less vicious – for Angela’s sake, but it was hard when faced with this. “She got my scissors,” Baptiste admitted, not a single trace of his typical humor. Gabriel turned his gaze back to Angela, horrified; she was breathing steadily and – for all appearances – seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Angela didn’t sleep peacefully – not even when she was so exhausted that she forgot her nightmares in the morning. Gabriel knew that she always twitched and shifted, murmuring softly or crying out; the bedding would often be twisted when they woke, and it wasn’t from any fun nighttime activity. No, her sleeping this way was unnatural, especially after her torture from the last month. “How did you let that happen?” Gabriel growled, forcing himself to remain in the doorway. If he moved closer, he would probably rip out Baptiste’s throat – and he still needed the medic. “I managed to convince – I think, or maybe she gave up? Anyways, – her to let me change her bandages. I did her legs and was just beginning to remove the gauze around her torso when she made this quiet noise.” Baptiste paused there, appearing to be at a loss for words; Gabriel forced himself to look at the medic, because to continue looking at the bandages was infuriating him. “It made my hair stand on end, man; I couldn’t help but look up.” He rubbed at his arms absently. “She’s so amped, you know? Nervous. Always looking around, always noticing things even if she wasn’t looking.” Gabriel did know; she was hypervigilant. It wasn’t unexpected, considering everything she’d been through. “So, when I saw her staring at the door, looking so scared, I thought maybe she’d heard something I didn’t.” Baptiste gestured at his rifle. “I went to investigate, make sure we weren’t under attack. I didn’t find anyone, so I came back to finish up with her.” Baptiste took a heavy breath. “I wasn’t gone for more than two minutes, I swear.” A lot could happen in two minutes, as both men were aware. “I came back and she was cutting at one of her arms; I took the scissors away and tried to stop the bleeding.” Baptiste looked nauseous as he finally lifted his gaze from the doctor to look at the Reaper. “She fought me hard; I’ve never seen anyone so desperate to die.” His voice was bleak, face ashen. “I had to pin her down to get the first set of gauze on.” Gabriel was unsurprised at Angela’s determination, even though it saddened him. He’d seen it in the armory weeks ago, when she’d gone for the gun. That determination – despair – had only increased since then. “She nearly ripped the bandages off again before I sedated her,” Baptiste sighed. “I don’t know if the dosage was too much, considering everything. She’s been down for a few hours.” That explained the peaceful breathing, then. “I told you,” Gabriel rumbled into the silence. “I told you she thought this was a trick. I warned you that she was suicidal.” He had trusted this man with her safety – and that trust had been betrayed. The Reaper wanted to paint the walls red with Baptiste’s blood, but he couldn’t. Gabriel needed Baptiste’s medical experience, even though he’d nearly allowed Angela to die on his watch. Besides, if the Reaper decorated the room with Baptiste’s insides, Angela would be even more terrified than she already was. “Get out,” Gabriel ordered, stepping further into the room so that Baptiste could comply. He needed a few hours without seeing the medic, a few hours to watch Angela breathe and assure himself that – despite yet another injury under his care – she was alive. A few hours to berate himself for being so careless. Baptiste scrambled to his feet, somehow managing to carry a tray laden with a bowl and his gun as he made for the door. Gabriel noticed that Baptiste kept as much distance as possible between the two of them as he moved. “Call me if you need anything,” Baptiste told him quietly as he strode through the door. Gabriel stalked over to close it, barely keeping himself from slamming it. Then he made his way around the bed to take the seat Baptiste had vacated to watch Angela breathe.

---

“Hello?” Gabriel was surprised that Cassidy didn’t sound more defensive – but, then again, he’d probably scattered his contact information as widely as possible to try and find Angela. It was likely the cowboy had received several calls from unknown numbers in the past month. “Is this Cole Cassidy?” Gabriel asked, though he already knew the answer. Over familiarity at this early stage would make the man far more defensive than Angela had time for. Gabriel’s eyes darted to the woman, who was still sleeping peacefully on the bloodstained sheets. He’d sent Baptiste out for new bedding - apparently, this apartment didn’t have any. Gabriel hadn’t wanted to call Cassidy tonight – he had planned to call tomorrow when he was able to slip away from the apartment and have the conversation where Angela couldn’t possibly overhear. However, her suicide attempt required things to move even faster. Even though Gabriel wasn’t in the mood to be speaking to anyone at the moment, it was necessary for Angela’s safety – so he would force himself to remain civil for a phone conversation. “Who’s askin’?” There was the defensive note; perhaps he hadn’t given his name out with his number. That would be a wise decision, considering the incredibly high bounty Cassidy still had on his head. Gabriel couldn’t give him his name – either name – at this point, however. To tell him he was the Reaper would destroy any possibility of a somewhat peaceful delivery of Angela. To tell him he was Gabriel Reyes, his presumed-dead and traitorous ex-Commander, wouldn’t go over any better. “I’m the person who’s rescued Dr. Ziegler,” he growled instead, voice quiet in deference to the sleeping blonde. Once they had hashed everything out – like where Cassidy could come to get her – he could give the cowboy his name. Cassidy inhaled sharply. “You’ve got her?” He repeated, doubtful. “Lemme talk to her.” Gabriel looked at the doctor again. Even if she were conscious, he couldn’t have let her speak to Cassidy. She would scream about it being a trap, to stay away – and, while he didn’t believe for a second that Cassidy would listen to her warning, it would make things far more complicated than necessary. “She’s sleeping right now,” Gabriel said instead. “I can send you a picture if you’d like.” He’d have to find a blanket that didn’t have bloodstains to cover up the mess, but he could make that happen. “Right. B’cause those can’t be faked or anythin’,” Cassidy drawled, ever the cynic. Still, Gabriel could hear the faint note of hope in his voice; Gabriel doubted they’d had any good leads on finding Angela. If they had known Talon had her, there would have been a lot more violence reported in the news. “Look,” Gabriel growled, his temper too frayed to properly deal with Cassidy’s caution. Still, he had to find the words to convince the cowboy that this wasn’t a prank or a trap. “Talon is chasing us. I don’t know how long we have until they find us.” That was the complete truth. He was already considering moving them out of Numbani; he had used his outfit and reputation to bully Cassidy’s number out of the criminals here, which would eventually find its way to Talon’s ears. “You got her away from Talon?” Gabriel rolled his eyes; seriously, he could tone down the incredulity. “Is this 76?” Gabriel wasn’t surprised that Jack was out looking for Angela. She was important to him – to them both – despite everything that had happened in the past. He was surprised that Jack had contacted Overwatch, regardless of what name he had given them. “No, this isn’t 76,” he admitted; lying about it would come out wherever they met, which would only lead to further hostilities. “How’d ya get this number?” Incredulity melted into harsh suspicion, which was more along the lines of what Gabriel had expected. “Why’d ya call me instead of the tip line?” All fair questions. “You spread the word underground that you’ve been looking for information on the doctor,” Gabriel told him; he’d barely had to mention the cowboy’s name to learn that. It was almost a joke among the gangsters – a notorious criminal with an enormous bounty was searching for the doctor? There’d been some talk about trapping the cowboy, luring him in so that they could get the prize; they’d even offered to split the money with him if he helped. Considering Gabriel needed Cassidy to remain a free man, he’d declined. “An’ ya didn’ call the tip line? I ain’t got the money for the reward they’re offerin’.” The reward was pretty substantial – nowhere near the amount of Cassidy’s bounty, but still a significant amount nonetheless. “I don’t want the money,” Gabriel growled, “I just want her safe.” Even if she trusted him – wasn’t broken in a way he couldn’t fix – Angela couldn’t stay with him. Talon was coming, and he was just one man. Gabriel couldn’t protect her in the way she needed if she remained. He’d kill her enemies from the shadows before they reached her, instead. “She trusts you,” he added. Gabriel paused, and then, “I trust you.” “You tru—who is this?” Cassidy thundered. Gabriel didn’t think the cowboy believed he had Angela; without being allowed to speak and Cassidy not accepting a photograph, it would be hard to convince the cynical cowboy. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Gabriel was stalling; the Reaper was disgusted with his cowardice. Just say it and get it over with. “Try me,” the cowboy’s voice was hard. “You know me by two different names,” Gabriel started, because he’d have to give both names before the conversation was over. The first name would be the one that proved his honesty. The second name would, hopefully, keep him from being shot on sight. “I’m Gabriel Reyes.” Cassidy made a disbelieving noise. “Reyes is dead.” The words were a snarl, almost as if he were trying to convince himself. “And if he weren’t, I’d kill him myself.” Well. Cassidy hadn’t hung up yet, at least. “You call her Ange,” he said quietly. “She stayed with you for two nights straight when you lost your arm.” She had cried, too – but he was pretty sure the cowboy didn’t know that fact; the Angela from that time hadn’t been one for showing ‘weak’ emotions in public. Gabriel searched his memory for something that wouldn’t have been – relatively – widely known throughout the two organizations. Gabriel didn’t like to think of his time with the organizations he destroyed - didn’t like to remember the happiness he had tossed aside - so it took him a moment to find something to tell Cassidy. “One mission in Finland, you and I stayed up too late and drank too much tequila, which allowed our mark - Korhonen or Koskinen or some kind of nen, I don’t remember - to get away.” It had been stupid – they had been stupid – but it was something only they knew; Gabriel hadn’t even told Angela the real reason why he’d been delayed in coming home. Cassidy inhaled sharply, but Gabriel ignored it and continued. “Took three days to find him again, but we found him and brought him in.” “Th’hell you doin’ with Ange, Reyes?” Despite the anger, Gabriel was relieved; Cassidy believed him. “You shouldn’ even be alive, not after what you’ve done.” He couldn’t blame Cassidy for his ire – Gabriel deserved it and far more. “I told you: I rescued her.” Gabriel tactfully left out the part where he had been the one to kidnap her in the first place. That could come out later – when he wasn’t around to get shot, even if he deserved it. “She needs help that I can’t give her; they worked her over, and it isn’t pretty.” Angela shifted a little, drawing his attention. The sedative must be wearing off, finally. Hopefully, she would stay asleep until he finished this call – and there wasn’t a screaming nightmare to deal with. “They—she—shit!“ Gabriel didn’t believe that Cassidy thought Angela had been safe this whole time. Cassidy knew, better than most, what she had probably faced during her captivity. Still, the abstract was always more comfortable to handle than the reality; Gabriel had learned that the hard way – and the lesson had cost Angela far too much. “Angela will be better off in your – in Overwatch’s – care. I need to get her to you, now.” Gabriel explained quietly once the silence had dragged just a little too long. “I know you’re pissed at me, but don’t take it out on her.” The silence dragged on again as Cassidy wrestled with himself; Gabriel hoped he wouldn’t take too long, else Angela would awaken and he’d have to deal with her instead of the cowboy. “Damn you, Reyes,” Cassidy snarled after a moment. “Fine. I’ll get a ride; where’s the drop?” Gabriel gave him coordinates of an empty field a few miles outside of Numbani. It was utterly devoid of cover, which would hopefully prove that he – at least – wasn’t trying to trap the cowboy. “Tomorrow, then?” “Tomorrow,” Gabriel confirmed gravely as Angela began to murmur softly. Tomorrow, he would say goodbye again, this time for good. Tomorrow, he would never see her again – not even from a distance, because he doubted she would ever leave whatever base Cassidy took her to. “You said ya had two names, Reyes. What’s th’second one?” Gabriel tensed; he knew it had to come out – if Cassidy came to a field and the Reaper had Angela, they’d shoot first and ask questions later. He didn’t want to risk her taking another bullet for him. “The Reaper.” Gabriel disconnected before he could hear Cassidy’s response.

Angela jolted into sudden wakefulness when a hand closed on her shoulder. Wild-eyed, she turned to find the mask of the Reaper. “Easy, cariño. You’re alright.” Angela shivered and looked away; she knew that he meant the words to be comforting – that was the goal here, after all – but all it did was make her sad. He was pretending to be the man she had loved – still loved, if she was honest with herself. It was cruel, especially when she so badly wanted it to be true. Angela knew it was foolish, that hope which had flickered to life when he had pulled her down from the chains and carried her from that room of pain. But she had heard him with the Speaker. She had heard his betrayal, knew that it had all been a lie. It was that knowledge that gave her the strength to remain silent, to not engage with this shadow of a man. After a long moment, the Reaper sighed and released her shoulder. Despite herself, Angela glanced his way to see that he had leaned back in the chair to give her some space. “I’ve found Cassidy.” Angela froze, choking on a breath as her entire body seized with panic. No, this wasn’t supposed to happen. Talon wasn’t supposed to find any of them; she was supposed to protect them and keep them safe. It was all that was left, all she was good for – and even in that, she had failed. If they brought one of them here – she couldn’t even consider it. It would absolutely destroy her. Angela was barely holding it together now, after they had killed the parts of her that were strong – that were Dr. Ziegler, Mercy. Angela wouldn’t survive if they brought someone else in to torture in her stead. “Breathe, Angela.” Suddenly, the Reaper was in her face, fingers – not claws, she realized – gripping her shoulders as he tried to pull her back down. “No one is going to hurt him, cariño; everything is alright. Breathe.” Angela managed to suck in an unsteady breath, and he nodded encouragingly. “Yes, just like that.” Her body was still so tense that it hurt, but at least she wasn’t going to pass out. After a few breaths, the Reaper released her and leaned back again. “I won’t hurt him. No one will hurt him.” The Reaper repeated. “I’m taking you to him so that he can get you the help you need.” Angela would have scoffed, but she maintained her silence by biting her lip. ‘Help.’ As if he hadn’t been the one to put her in this position, to condemn her to be battered and broken. As if this ‘rescue’ was real. She had heard him. He didn’t want to get her help – he wanted to get her broken. They would capture Cassidy by using her as bait. They would put him before her, and then it would be his pain or her words. Would he understand if she – somehow – kept her silence? Would he forgive her? Would she forgive herself? “I know I’ve given you no reason to trust me, Angela.” The Reaper leaned forward again, and she tried to shift to put some distance between his familiar body and her own. “But please, mi corazón, please try to believe me.” Angela had never heard Gabriel beg before; that the first time would be now, when he was the Reaper and her enemy, was disconcerting. “Just hold on for one more day,” his mask dropped to regard her bandaged arms meaningfully before rising again. “If not for me or yourself, then for the others. You know what your death would do to them.” Angela shuddered, squeezing her eyes shut. “You know they want you to live.” Of course her friends wanted her to live – but they hadn’t found her. She had been abandoned in that prison – this prison – and no one had saved her. Cool fingers touched her hand cautiously, but she remained still and kept her eyes closed. Angela waited for the touch to turn into a painful grip, to dig in and to hurt. But they just curled around her fingers, holding her hand in what Angela thought might be an attempt at comfort. It was so familiar that it hurt. Despite the pain, despite the knowledge that it was wrong, Angela couldn’t force herself to pull away. She was too stubborn, though, to let her fingers tighten around his own. Instead, her hand remained limp in his grasp as she turned her gaze towards the ceiling and away from the Reaper’s mask to try to hide her conflicting emotions. Then, he ruined it. “I’m sorry, Angela.” She stiffened and would have pulled away, but his hands – both of them, now – trapped her own in a firm grip. Were she stronger, she probably could have wrenched away, but she had wasted all her strength earlier with Baptiste. “You were the one I was never supposed to hurt, who I had sworn to protect.” His voice was solemn, as if confessing – but it wasn’t a confession when the monster before her hadn’t been the one to make those oaths. It was a lie, tailored carefully to maximize the pain when they stopped pretending again. He seemed earnest, though; Angela hadn’t realized what a good actor he was. Had Gabriel acted like this when they had been together all those years ago, or was this a new skill that the Reaper had picked up along the way? Angela prayed it was the latter, because the former was far too painful to consider. “I ruined everything. I know you hate me.” Angela glanced over to find his head bowed over their clasped hands. “I know you can never trust me and that nothing I can do or say will be enough to make up for what I’ve done.” He took in a harsh breath, made louder by the mask he wore. “I don’t expect you to ever forgive me, but for everything I’ve done: I’m sorry.” The Reaper released her hand then, pulling away to rest against the back of the chair and give her space once more. A small, hopeful – traitorous – part of her heart wanted to reach out and reclaim his hand with her own, to believe his apology was real and that he was Gabriel. Fortunately, her time in that freezing room of chains and blood had hardened her, even this weak self that was merely Angela. It was what allowed her to look away again and lay her hand back down on the stained sheets. It was what gave her the strength to remain silent and to keep herself from crying – though what, exactly, she would be crying over eluded her.

---

She opened her eyes to find she was in a new place - again. The last thing she remembered was the Reaper lifting her off the bloody sheets so Baptiste could strip the bed. She had let her eyes drift to the open door - something she usually couldn’t see from the bed; Jack had been there, leaning against the doorframe to watch her with heavy eyes. She had fallen asleep as he whispered warnings of betrayal and heartbreak. He had urged her to be strong because this would take everything she had - and then some. Angela glanced around her new surroundings, trying to be surreptitious but sure she was failing. It appeared she was in a car again; if it was the same one that the Reaper had stuffed her in the first time, she wasn’t sure. He sat to her left, behind the wheel as he had the last time. Her dress was no longer green; at some point, probably when they had changed the sheets, they had put a blue dress on her. It took her a moment to realize that the vehicle wasn’t moving. They were idling with a large expanse of grass before them. Angela wasn’t sure if they were on the side of a road or not, since she wasn’t craning her neck to look behind or to the left. “It’s almost over, Angela,” the Reaper murmured once she had stilled in her seat. Angela stiffened at the reminder that she would have a companion in her captivity in less than an hour. Maybe more than one - despite all his knowledge, she didn’t think Cole knew how to pilot any form of aircraft. “After today, you’ll never see me – or Talon – again.” He promised her, once the silence between them became heavy and strained. “You’ll be safe.” She didn’t believe him, of course; Angela knew she was destined to die in a Talon interrogation cell. She kept her eyes fixed on the grass outside, searching for the troops that she knew were waiting out there somewhere. “Look,” the Reaper rumbled sometime later, one clawed hand lifting and drawing her attention away. Unable to help herself, she looked in the direction he indicated. “There they are.” Her eyes found a dark spot on the horizon: an air carrier, heading their way. Angela wished there was something - anything - she could do to stop what was to come. She didn’t have the strength to protect them, and that crushed her just as badly as the blows across Cole’s body would. “Shh, cariño,” the Reaper soothed. Angela immediately bit off the small, pitiful sounds she had been making, but it was impossible to stop her tears. She turned her head away, attempting to hide her face from his sight as she grieved. It wasn’t long before the roar of the carrier filled the air. Angela couldn’t help but watch in horror, tears streaking her cheeks, as it drew closer. The car rocking drew her attention away; she hadn’t heard him open the door, but now the Reaper was stalking around the front of the vehicle to open her door. “It’s time, Angela.” The words were practically a shout so he could be heard over the carrier. She trembled as he leaned in to unbuckle her; then, she was up in his arms and pressed against his chest once more. Her left leg - knee still shattered, as far as she could tell - only complained slightly. Angela looked at it, curious; it appeared there were at least two, maybe three, braces around the knee - it forced her leg to remain straight, even without any support from below. As he turned them, the carrier touched down. He kept them next to the vehicle until the cargo doors opened. The turbines continued to roar - Angela would have been surprised if they had stopped them, considering that this was a trap - as a familiar figure began making his way cautiously towards them. Behind him on the ramp loomed two other people - a familiar large man and a less familiar woman. When the Reaper started walking, Angela began shaking enough that her teeth chattered; this was bad, this was bad, this was bad. Any minute now, Talon forces would appear and throw the cowboy to the ground. His hat would tumble off and be left, forgotten, in the grass as he was dragged into hell with her. The Reaper tightened his grip on her, his mask tilting down to consider her briefly, but if he said anything, it was lost to the roar of the carrier. Instead, she got to watch in horror as Cole Cassidy – he was real this time, right? – drew closer. One hand was resting defensively on Peacekeeper, his sharp eyes darting around as he searched for the trap they both knew existed. She wanted to scream at him to run, but she knew her disused voice would never reach him over the roaring. The space between them narrowed until, suddenly, they were only five feet apart.

Cole drummed his fingers impatiently against his seat. He never thought he’d be sitting in an Overwatch carrier again, but he never thought Angela would be kidnapped – tortured – either. Across from him sat Reinhardt, who was leaning forward against his giant hammer with his head bowed. His enormous armor nearly hid the smaller woman at his side – Brigitte, Torbjörn’s daughter. Lena was piloting the air carrier. She had managed to pick up the three of them and was now flying them to Numbani, but they were cutting it rather close. It was only the four of them; if this turned out to be a trap, the odds were heavily out of their favor. Cynical as he was, Cole expected one. Reyes and Angela had history; that much was true. Reyes had sworn to protect Angela - they all had, in their own ways - but Cole knew that personal honor meant very little to his previous Commander. Besides, it had been five years; that was a long time, and Reyes had been staining his hands with Overwatch blood in that time. No, this was a trap and Angela was the bait. It was too perfect: she was being ‘rescued’ by the Reaper - who just happened to be Gabriel Reyes of all people? The rush for a next-day meeting, for fear of being ‘caught’? No. There was no way in hell that this was anything but a trap. “We’re on the final approach,” Lena called back. “Scanners are only picking up two people – that’s got to be them.” Cole knew there were ways to hide from scanners, so that information wasn’t as comforting as he’d like. “Alrigh’ then. Let’s put ‘er down an’ get Ange back.” Cole was impatient to get this done – one way or another. He turned towards the two across from him. “You two need t’ stay back on th’ cargo ramp. Watch my back and come down swingin’ if things go sideways.” “I do not like this.” Reinhardt boomed as the carrier began to descend. “We should go with you; it is too dangerous.” Cole understood where the warrior was coming from; his job was always to protect those around him, and this was no different. Still, that didn’t change the fact that a show of force would probably end badly. “Trust me on this one,” Jessie replied, shaking his head. “We don’ wanna risk Ange.” He doubted that Reyes had lied about Angela’s health. Cole didn’t want Angela in any more danger than necessary. It was undoubtedly a trap, so having backup was more necessary than a show of force. Besides, if Reyes really was trying to protect Angela, like he had in the past, it would be far too dangerous for them to antagonize him with a heavy presence. “Then I should go!” Reinhardt insisted, one hand raising to slap his chest plate loudly. “My armor will protect me - and the doctor - if it is a trap; you would be killed!” That was a valid point – past the cargo ramp, he doubted that there would be no cover. Still, Cole shook his head again. “He called me. It’s gotta be me.” This was either a convoluted trap to capture him, or it was a genuine request for help. Knowing Reyes as he did, Cole knew that he had to walk off that ramp alone. The carrier landed with a gentle jolt; as soon as it was steady, both men were on their feet with Brigitte not far behind. Reinhardt towered over Cole in a way that would be intimidating if Cole didn’t know the German man. “You’ve gotta wait on the ramp; stay put unless things turn sour.” Reinhardt’s shoulders slumped as he sighed. Cole took that to be agreement, so he gestured towards the cargo hold. “If things do go bad, jus’ make sure y’get Ange. She’s the priority.” He allowed Reinhardt to precede him down the ramp, his giant blue shield erupting to life from his arm. Cole paused behind the warrior to allow his eyes to adjust. Once he could see clearly, he quickly found the Reaper standing in front of a car about two hundred feet away. In his arms was a bundle of blue cloth that had Angela’s head at the top. She looked thin and fragile – words he had never used to describe her except for that period directly after the fall. Cole met Angela’s terrified eyes briefly; based on her stark terror, she believed this was a trick. Cole forced himself to look away, fingers tightening on Peacekeeper as he searched for the trap. Cautiously, Cole pushed past Reinhardt’s barrier, as he and the Reaper approached each other. Even when they were within grabbing distance, Cole kept his hand tight on his weapon. From this point forward, he would be at his most vulnerable; once he took Angela into his arms, he’d find it hard to defend himself - or his precious cargo. While Reinhardt and Brigitte were nearby, it was still a long distance for them to travel. “It’s just me,” the Reaper shouted over the turbines, voice gravely as he closed the final few steps between them. This close, Cole could see her hollow cheeks and how hard she was trembling; it hurt his heart to see how damaged Angela – normally their pillar of strength – was. They had thought she was safe, and they had been wrong. “We both know I ain’t trustin’ you,” the cowboy returned gruffly. If it weren’t for Angela, he’d have shot the Reaper when he’d stepped off the ramp. He released his gun reluctantly so he could reach out for the doctor. Carefully, with a gentleness that proved that this was Reyes, the hooded figure lowered her into Cole’s arms. “Watch her knee,” Reyes rasped, as if Cole couldn’t see the straps and splints wrapped around it. The woman was lighter than she should be and shaking so hard Cole thought she might just come apart. “I gotcha, darlin’,” he assured her, though his eyes stayed firmly on Reyes. “There’s a list in one of her pockets,” Reyes shouted with a vague hand gesture towards Angela. “Everything that’s happened to her is written there.” Cole nodded once in acknowledgment. Though he wanted to look down at the small woman in his arms, reassure her that everything would be alright, he kept his eyes on the Reaper. “If I see you again, I’ll put a bullet in you.” It was another promise, one that he would be more than happy to keep. If he were able, he’d shoot him now and be done with it - but he had his hands full. “I deserve it,” Reyes agreed with a shrug, “but not for the reasons you think.” Cole felt Angela stiffen; clearly, there was something there. Hopefully, it was on the list Reyes mentioned. He’d hate to have to ask Angela about it after everything she’d been through. Reyes stepped backward, clearly done with their interaction. Cole took a step back too – and paused when one final question popped into his head. “Why’d you save her?” He shouted. Reyes stopped, head tilting as he considered Cole and his question. “Why did she save me?” Reyes called back. With that, Reyes turned his back entirely and walked away, confident that Cole would prioritize Angela over shooting him. It was hard to reconcile the image of the Reaper with the man Cole had once known. But it was obvious some part of Reyes was still alive; after all, the Reaper would never have allowed Cole – or any of the other remnants of Overwatch behind him – to leave unscathed. Still, Cole refused to turn his back to the clearing, even though it made his return trip much harder. However, before he had made it halfway back, Reinhardt had stomped forward to cover his retreat with his shield. Around that time, Reyes reached his vehicle; instead of climbing inside, he had turned to watch as Cole carried Angela away. The entire time Angela was a silent, shaking mass in his arms. “Thought I told you t’ wait on th’ ramp,” he grumbled as he turned his back on the clearing, trusting Reinhardt to protect them. Cole could feel Reyes’ eyes on his back as they moved further and further away. He didn’t look back at the monster from his past; the angel in his arms held all of his attention. “You are both too important to lose,” Reinhardt retorted. Cole shook his head before closing the remaining distance to the carrier. “Everythin’ alright, then?” Lena called from the pilot’s chair. Already she was flipping the switches that would get them into the air, even with the carrier door still closing. “We’ve got her,” Cole answered; he couldn’t say it was alright because the trembling woman in his arms clearly wasn’t. But, they had her back – and that was something, wasn’t it? They could call in people, and then she would be better. They could fix this. They would fix this. She deserved no less.

---

“This is normal?” Lena’s voice rose, practically to a shout. “Keep your voice down,” Cole growled with a meaningful glance towards Angela; Lena looked away guiltily, gnawing on one lip nervously. He knew he shouldn’t snap because it really didn’t matter how loudly they spoke. Angela had become unresponsive shortly after they had flown away from the clearing in Numbani. Even now, hours later in Watchpoint: Warsaw, she was still staring vacantly. “Yes, this,” he gestured towards Angela, “is normal.” Cole hadn’t needed Reyes’ list to tell him that this could happen. While he hadn’t dirtied his hands with torture – ‘interrogation’ – he’d seen the aftermath. “‘s a defense mechanism; she can’ be hurt if she ain’ here.” Considering what Angela had been through, he wasn’t surprised that she was protecting herself in the only way she had left. “But, she’s with us,” Lena protested, voice markedly quieter than previously. “We’re not gonna hurt her.” Cole shook his head, smiling mirthlessly. He wished he could have the same optimistic outlook, but life had been far kinder to Lena than it had been to him - or Angela. “You and I,” his hand shifted, pointing at first her then himself, “we know that. But Ange?” He looked over at the broken doctor sadly. “She doesn’ know it. Doesn’ believe it.” Cole sighed, one hand raking through his hair in absent frustration before fixing his hat. “It’ll be a long while before she recovers.” If she recovered, but Cole wasn’t willing to voice that aloud. Cole had read the list that Reyes had scrawled out, which detailed all the atrocities that Angela had been subjected to. Some were rather obvious - her malnutrition showed in her hollow cheeks and sunken eyes, the shattered knee in the various braces. Others were easy to see, if one knew where to look - the suicide attempt in the bandages on her arms, the scar at her lip proving her stubborn defiance. The worst, however, were the invisible wounds. Reyes had written a small paragraph instead of a bulleted list at the very bottom of the note. “I was the one who kidnapped her from Cairo and put her in chains. I’m the one that captured her after she managed to escape, and put scars into her arms and her heart when I put her back. I was the one that gave the order to escalate her torture, that made her into this. Angela knows who I am and how I have betrayed her. I don’t know if there is anything left of her to save after what’s been done to her - what I’ve done to her - but I know that you’ll protect her like I should have. -R” It had taken everything in him to keep from crumpling the letter or tearing it into pieces; despite his absolute rage at what was revealed, Cole knew that the doctor - who still hadn’t arrived - would need the information within it. He hadn’t told anyone else of its existence; they didn’t need to know the particulars of what she had gone through - hell, he didn’t need to know it either. But he had read it anyway. “Hey, Cassidy?” Lena’s voice was soft, almost tremulous. He glanced towards the younger woman, who was wringing her hands and fidgeting; even now, she was unable to keep still. “She’s gonna be alright, isn’t she? We weren’t, you know, too late?” Cassidy didn’t know how to answer that question. He could be honest or he could be optimistic, but he couldn’t be both. Cole was saved from answering by Angela as she shifted and gasped softly. Before Lena could do anything, Cole’s hand flew out and clamped down hard on her wrist. That she jerked against his grasp told him he had been right to grab her; Lena turned to look at him, mouth opening either in protest or in question, and he shook his head sharply. Once he was sure Lena wasn’t going to leap out of her seat, Cole released her and fully turned his attention to the blonde. He wasn’t sure if Angela had been looking around or not - his gaze had been on Lena during those first moments instead of Angela - but now she was staring at the two of them. Usually, he couldn’t read her emotions or thoughts on her face, but Angela’s terror was obvious even to him. “You’re safe, Ange,” Cole assured her after the silence between them had grown too long. He could practically feel Lena’s explosive energy next to him, but somehow the British woman managed to keep her seat. Angela’s wary eyes darted from him to Lena and back again. “Is - Is this -” Angela’s voice was hesitant and rough from abuse. “Are you - real?” Her voice broke then; the pure desolation made his heart ache for her. “We’re real, darlin’,” Cole assured her. In the silence, he nudged Lena’s leg with one booted foot. “Wha- oh, yeah! It’s all real, love.” Lena’s voice was chipper and bright, with barely a note of hesitation to betray her worry. “You’re with Overwatch.” Angela flinched then; Cole gritted his teeth as he forced himself not to imagine what had conditioned such a reaction in her - and found it impossible, considering the note he’d read. Lena glanced towards Cole, clearly unsure of how to act in the face of Angela’s fear. “Ange.” Cole leaned forward a little, bridging that small gap between them. He was gratified to see she didn’t react negatively to the movement; instead, she looked up towards his intense face with the barest hint of hope. “If you don’ wanna be with Overwatch,” he forced himself to ignore her wince, “you jus’ say the word an’ it’s done.” Lena made a small sound of protest, but he spoke before she could say anything. “I’ll take you anywhere you wanna go, darlin’. Whatever you want.” Cole knew that Overwatch was, probably, the safest place for Angela to be while she recovered - if she could recover. He knew that any decision she made now would be impaired by her trauma. Still, he would fight everyone - Winston, Lena, the UN - to take her wherever it was she’d feel safe. Angela’s eyes darted around; Cole wasn’t sure if she was looking for something in particular or if this was curiosity. He watched as her hands fisted and twisted her blankets, waiting for her to say something - anything. “I -” She pressed back into the pillow, glancing to the side and worrying at her scarred lip. “I don’t want to go back.” Her voice, barely audible, was small and sad. Cole wasn’t sure if she was referring to Overwatch or Talon, but, in the long run, it didn’t really matter to him; whatever happened next, Cole would make sure that Angela was safe and happy. “You won’t.” Lena piped up before Cole could assure the doctor. Obviously, she had interpreted Angela’s statement to be about Talon, but Cole wasn’t completely convinced. “We won’t let them take you, Dr. Ziegler, I promise. We’ll keep you safe.” Angela’s face crumpled then; she turned her head away quickly, but not before Cole saw the tears there. Were they from relief, at being safe from her tormentors? Or was it from grief, at the reminder that they should have kept her safe - and hadn’t? Slowly, cautiously, Cole reached out to touch one of her clenched hands. Angela jumped, recoiling from his hand as if it burned. Her head turned, wild eyes wide and bright, as she stared down at his fingers as if she’d never seen them before - like she hadn’t put him back together countless times. He pulled back slightly, giving her space while remaining close enough for her to reach out if she wanted. “We - I - failed you, Angela,” Cole said, voice low. “It won’t happen again. I swear it.” He could see the hope and despair - the disbelief and desperation - that was roiling within her as she continued to stare at his hand. After what felt like an eternity, Angela’s hand rose. Trembling, she reached out towards him - before flinching back and away again. Cole didn’t move, didn’t react in any way; Lena gasped, a small sound that seemed to roar in the small space. Angela reached out again, but this time she didn’t recoil. He remained unmoving as she touched his fingers tentatively, afraid that anything would scare her off again. When her hand curled around his in a weak grasp, head bowed as she trembled and shook, he allowed himself to gently tighten his fingers around hers. Maybe there was hope for her, after all.

You led me here, Then I watched you disappear. You left this emptiness inside And I can't turn back time - Never Be the Same [Red]

Act One | Act Two | Act Three | Act Four | Act Five | Act Six

This is, unfortunately, the end of Breaking [My Heart]. I do intend to continue this story in a second installment, but I haven't quite got it put together yet. I know what I want it to look like (mostly), but apparently writing requires you to actually write, annoyingly enough. Writing has become a challenge (again, ugh) due to real life getting in the way (again). I've been stressing about the business I own (US Tax preparation) while working as a manger at my mothers' trampoline park. Long hours have left me with little time to do pretty much anything that isn't eating or sleeping, and when I do try to write I just can't seem to get the words out. I hate that I have my unfinished work (Forged) that I just can't seem to close plus the recovery arc for Breaking [My Heart]. They're mostly outlined but, like I said earlier, writing requires writing and I can't seem to get the scenes out of my head and onto paper. I do have a few pieces that are written for my one-shot sets, The Healer, which I'll post sporadically (and, which will, hopefully bridge the gap until I can properly write again). I appreciate all of you that read my work and leave comments; truly, every time I see the notification I get super excited and I love that you feel strongly enough about my writing to tell me about it. I hope that I continue to produce work that you can enjoy! Feel free to reach out to me here. Until next time, stay happy and healthy!

OH MY GOD??? 😭😭 I honestly feel like this is SUPER realistic for Morty’s character also considering the times where he was at parties he always stuck out during them and was frustrated in some of the episodes too!! Wow like this fanfic really got me though 😕

"Morty in the Bathroom by Himself, all by Himself, all by Himself..."

TW FOR SUICIDAL THOUGHTS AND WRITTEN DEPICTIONS OF PANIC ATTACKS UNDER THE CUT

I am hanging out in the bathroom at the biggest party of the fall

Ugh, Summer threw a party because Beth and Jerry were out on a romantic vacation suggested by Dr. Wong. And of course Rick wasn't doing anything about it. 

I was hanging around him anyway, not knowing what else to do. I just tolerated him pinning some random dude he invited. Disgusting. Rick asked to the guy "How would you like to get out of it?" He purred out, clearly trying to sound sensual, but to my ears, it just made me shiver and gave me an overwhelming urge to take a very VERY long shower. The guy didn't seem to mind though as he smirked and took his hand. Rick grinned and looked at me "Gran-*burp*-dpa's has to go, Morty." 

Wait! No. No. No. He can't leave me here! I grabbed onto his labcoat before he could leave "Wait! Don't leave me!" 

My inner voice laughed "God you sound so fucking whiny and pathetic."

Rick glared at me "Don't be fucking pathetic talk to some girls or something" "No I can't-" Rick shoved me off and I heard him talking with the guy as he made his way, disappearing in the crowd "Sorry he's such a loser."

I held back the tears and ran after him, awkwardly going past people, the strong bitter smell of alcohol and sour stench of vomit attacking my nostrils, the scent so strong, it made it hard to focus. I was walking and bumped into someone, spilling their drink all over the one good thing about me, my shirt. "Ah! So-" I looked up and saw it was Jessica. My cheeks got hot. Ugh, seriously? Out of anyone it had to be Jessica. "I-I'm sorry Jessica-" She blinked "It's ok Mort-" Before she could finish her sentence Brad got in front of her. "Are you serious?!" I froze "I-" He pushed me "Hands off." "But-" Jessica put a hand on his arm, making my stomach twist in the worst way. "Brad-" "I won't let this punk bother you Jessica."

"Oh you are bothering her." My inner voice commented "You bother everyone." I gripped the sides of my jeans, hoping nobody noticed my knuckles turning white. I couldn't cry. Not here. Not in front of Jessica.

Jessica touched Brad's back with one hand and cupped his face with the other.

No...

Brad grabbed her by her waist and stared at me then Jessica whispered "Calm down baby..." then she kissed him.

She.

Kissed.

Him.

Brad kissed her back, the sounds of their kissing filling the room.

Filling my head.

I saw my vision get watery as I ran to the bathroom, not paying attention to Jessica asking what was wrong.

As soon as I got there basically collapsed against the door, locking it behind me and hugging my knees as I cried.

I could stay here or disappear, and nobody even notice at all

I was sitting against the wall, crying against my knees, the sounds muffled by my jeans, practically silent compared to the music blaring. 

"Why don't you kill yourself already? Nobody would notice. Hell, your parents barely notice you anyway."

I wished the tears would stop falling as I actually thought about the idea. Biting my lip so hard that I tasted blood as the ideas of how I could do it filling my mind

Y'know what I hated most about it?

I wasn't completely against the idea. I wasn't completely disgusted by the thoughts.

God there was something wrong with me.

(...) Micheal in the bathroom at a party, no you can't come in! I'm just waiting it out, till it's time to leave and picking at grout as I softly grieve

I started picking at the grout at the floor, wanting something else to focus on rather than the wetness in my cheeks and the water pouring from my eyes. 

I heard someone knock on the door, then I heard Summer's voice "Hellloooo? Can you open the door?!" 

I pressed myself harder against the door, closing my eyes tightly. "I know you can hear me!"

"Just go!" I yelled, hating the way my voice cracked.

Then I heard Summer's voice get gentler "Morty...? Is that you...? Everything ok?" 

"Yes everything's fine!" I insisted, even though my shaky voice wasn't fooling anybody

"But-" 

"Just go!' 

"Morty-" 

"PLEASE!" I begged. I heard silence then retreating footsteps.

I heard Summer's voice "Hey everyone! Someone broke the toilet in the bathroom, nobody come in!"

A small smile fell on my face at hearing that.

(...) I'll get replaced with a newer, cooler version of me

"You know, you shouldn't be so needy." My inner voice suggested "He can replace with someone cooler, not that it would be hard." My inner voice sneered 

I looked down, my eyes still wet, my inner voice definitely wasn't helping

"What? Mad that I'm right? You can't just cling to your grandpa for the entire party" 

I sniffed as I remember what Rick said when I asked if I was irreplaceable.

"Rick...am I...irreplaceable?"

....

I remember his response so clearly.

"Define irreplaceable."

I clutched my jeans so tight I could've sworn I heard fabric rip. My tears coming in faster.

God my inner voice was right.

I'm so needy acting like I'm special.

Rick could just replace me anytime.

He never hesitates to let me know how the only reason why he isn't replacing me right now was because it would take too much work and defeat the purpose.

I mean he already replaced me once.

A low growl escaped my throat involuntarily as I remembered the crows.

The crows that took Rick away from me.

My inner voice's bitter laugh filled my head 

"Awwww is doggy jealous because his owner is paying attention to another dog?" 

God, I hate myself.

(...) Micheal in the bathroom at a party as I choke back tears. I'll wait here as long as I need, until my face is dry, or I'll just blame it on weed or something in my eye!

I had my head against my door, hoping to dry my tears quicker.

My inner voice laughed "Wow, you are so pathetic. It's almost cute. Almost."

I wanted to swallow down the lump in my throat, but it was clear it wasn't going anywhere.

Damn, maybe I should've smoked the weed some random guy offered me.

At least I would have some excuse for why tears were spilling from my eyes.

"Geez, hoping you took drugs so nobody would find out what a sensitive little bitch you are, you're so fucking pitiful. But that would imply people actually care enough to feel bad for you...nevermind." 

I hate how right my inner voice was all the time.

"Well what do you expect? Can't have you believing you're a good person, now can we?"

...

I hated how it had a point.

Knock, knock, knock, knock

I jolted up, my eyes nearly bulging out of my sockets.

They're gonna start to shout soon

I walked backwards, my back hitting the sink

Knock, knock, knock, knock

My breathing quickened as I clutched the sink with a chain-link grip.

Oh hell yeah, I'll be out soon

No. No. No. I'm not ready to leave yet!

"Goddamn you're selfish, using the bathroom just because grandpa left you and because Jessica isn't interested in little bitch boys."

No...NO!

Knock, knock, knock, knock

It was getting louder.

The sound filling my head

It sucks he left me here alone

If Rick didn't fucking leave me everything would've been fine! But no! He was more concerned about fucking some random guy than his own fucking grandson!

If he didn't leave, I would've never bumped into Jessica! I would've never seen her kiss Brad! Everything would've been fine!

Tears fell down my face again.

Fucking again!

What the hell is wrong with me?!

"Everything."

Not now inner voice!

Knock, knock, knock, knock 

Please leave...please leave...

I was hyperventilating now, clutching my chest

Here in this teenage battlezone

I let my face fall into my hands. Why...why!? Why can't they just leave?!

"God you pussy..."

SHUT UP!

Just...please shut up

Clang, clang, clang, clang

No...no...NO! My knees were weak, my whole body felt, hot, hot, hot. My eyes were darting everywhere as if I could find some way escape this situation.  Leave please...

I can feel the pressure blowing up

I clutched my ears as the sounds got louder. Just wanting them to stop. My thoughts racing rampant through my mind. My body wouldn't fucking relax even through I desperately wanted it to.

Bang, bang, bang, bang

I fell to the floor. Just crying and clawing at the door, wanting a hole I could dig myself in. "Leave...please..." I croaked out, not caring how humilated I felt.

My big mistake was showing up

I should've fucking left like how Summer told me to! But nooooo! I had to fucking see if I could talk to Jessica! But of course she was with Brad! He's the hot, cool, sporty, popular football guy and I was just some weird perverted kid who nobody likes and who has no friends! Of fucking course she choose him! Who would choose the school's "creepy little grandpa's boy" over HIM!?

Splash, splash, splash, splash, I splash some water on my face

I went to splash my face as I tried my best to steady my breathing. Grounding. I need to start grounding.

I need to try to grounding techanics I read online.

Okay...what do I see? 

I see the toilet...I see the sink...the mirror...the ugly reflecting staring back at me with puffy eyes...I can see the light. I see the floor. 

I picked up the hand soap...how does it feel? It feels light...smooth...sleek...clean...clear...

I took a deep breath...ok what can I hear?

I hear people talking...the loud music clouding my head...my inner voice insulting me for everything I do...

I took a deep breath, focusing on the smells in the air...the odor of cheap alcohol...the rancid stench of vomit...

I took out a piece of mint gum and popped it in my mouth. Closing my eyes trying to focus on the taste...the cool mint washed over me. I spat it out in the trash can and took a deep breath.

And I am in a better place

The tears were gone.

I was taking shaky breaths and waited until my hands stopped shaking to open the door.

I go to open up the door, but I can't hear knocking anymore

I went to open the door, hand on the doorknob, but my eyebrow quirked up as I couldn't hear anything.

"Wow, you're going insane. It finally happened." My inner voice badgered

But I can't help but yearn for a different time

I just looked down, I couldn't fight it, I was exhausted. Heh. I actually remember when I did hate myself. Vaguely. Before Rick came along, I actually believed I was a good person.

Hah.

I was even dumber back then...so why did I miss it so much?

As I look in the mirror, the present is clearer, and there's no denying, I'm just- at a party, is there a sadder sight than-, mmmmm, Micheal in the bathroom at a party, this is a heinous night

I took a look at the mirror, hating the ugly face that stared back at me as I held onto the sink. God, why was I so pathetic. I walked back, collapsing against the wall. Looking down. Too tired to cry. To move. To do anything.

I wish I stayed at home in bed, watching cable porn

God, why couldn't I just stay in bed and keep my door locked? Why did I HAVE to follow Rick everywhere?

"Because you're Rick's little lapdog." 

I sighed.

Why bothering fighting it?

It was right.

It was always right.

Or wish I offed myself instead, wish I was never born!

"You know you should just kill yourself, nobody likes you anyway, and what's one important thing you did recently? C'mon, tell me."

...

"That's what I fucking though...you know I think there's some rope in Rick's garage...you can search up how to tie a noose-"

I attempted to grab my thighs, but I ended up accidentally scratching them.

Whatever.

At least it made the voices shut up.

For once.

I'm just Micheal, who's a loner, so he must be a stoner

Why did it even matter?

Nobody at school likes me. Everyone assumes I'm just a stoner since I always zone out at school and was always alone.

Maybe if I wasn't always tired from Rick taking me on adventures at night, I wouldn't zone out as much, and maybe if someone even fucking tried to be my friend, I wouldn't always be alone.

"That's your own fault, you follow Rick's every fucking whim and you are so insufferable, of course nobody would want to be your friend."

...

I mean it had a point...

Rides a PT cruiser,

Or maybe if Dad didn't drive me to school in an PT cruiser that he refuses to get rid of, people wouldn't make fun of me because they think my family is poor.

"Or maybe if you grew some fucking brains and wore something different to school instead of that ugly ass piss-colored shirt, people wouldn't think you're poor."

...

But...I like this shirt...

"Well it looks fucking ugly."

...

I looked at my shirt...

...

I fucking hate it now.

God, he's such a loser

Rick's words to the guy echoed in my head...

"He's such a loser..."

....

Tears started stinging my eyes

"You should be used to his insults by now, he does it to you every fucking day."

It still hurts...

"God you're fucking weak..."

...

I sniffled as a few stray tears fled from my tear ducts, running down my face.

It was all I could muster.

Micheal flyin' solo, who you think that you know

Why did everyone hate me?

I didn't even talk to anyone.

They don't even know me.

Rumors just spread and everyone just assumes it's true.

If they just fucking talked to me instead of assuming they know everything about me because of what they heard from random people I would actually have some friends!

"Oh please, nobody would want to be your friend either way."

...

T-they would...

...Right?

Morty in the bathroom by himself, 

I cried softly in my knees

All by himself, all by himself

I got up and washed my face, drying my face with my ugly shirt. 

And all you know about me is my name

I forced a smile as I went out and said 

"Awesome party, so glad that I came"

The Mystery and The Isosceles

Ch 6: Aboard the Isosceles

<Prev Next>

Also on AO3

Mabel and Dipper sat in the small room aboard the Mystery that they'd been given as their own. Dipper was pretty sure only officers were supposed to get their own, but Stan hadn't cared. There were four small cabins other than the captain's, two of each side of a small dining room. One was Soos' and one Wendy's, and now, the third was Mabel and Dipper's. It was much nicer than anywhere they'd stayed since grandpa died, the small space fitting a bunk bed on one end and a shelf and chest on the other. A small blue-tinged window showed the sea through it's lattice, and swafts of fabric hung from the ceiling.

It was nice, but Dipper was still not sure it was right to stay. Great uncle Stan—or grunkle as Mabel had taken to calling him—had told them he'd take care of them for as long as they needed it. They were all that was left of their family. They needed to stick together.

But they were still pirates.

"Yeah, well maybe a pirate's life is for me!" Mabel said, kicking him lightly from where she laid on her back beside him in the lower bunk. A proper mattress definitely beat the hammock.

Dipper sighed, flipping through the journal.

"I wish grandpa had had time to teach me more latin." He changed the subject. "I'm dying to know what this says beyond the bits here and there I understand."

"Maybe Stan speaks it?" Mabel suggested. "Wasn't great grandpa a merchant? If he could afford to have someone teach one of his kids maybe he did it for all of them."

Well, speak of the devil.

Stan showed up in the doorway, looking the room over before leaning against the opening.

"So. You kids settling in okay?"

Mabel looked pointedly at Dipper. He hesitated, before nodding.

"Alright. Well, hey grunkle Stan? Me and Mabel were talking and…" He closed the book and held it up for the old man to see the golden yellow six-fingered hand on the cover. "Well, do you know latin?"

Stan froze in the doorway, his eyes wide and his mouth falling open the slightest bit, as if he'd been punched out of nowhere. On unsteady legs he walked into the room and collapsed sitting onto the mattress beside them.

"Where did you get this?" He asked dimly.

"I found it on that island they left me on, it was buried on the beach."

Stan opened the book gingerly, looking through the first few pages of neat sketches and text until he reached the part where the text became sloppy and scribbled. His hand shook on the pages.

"I think it's research notes. Can you read it?"

"Kid…" Stan breathed. "This was Ford's."

"What?"

Stan took a deep breath to steel himself, as he looked at the first truly sloppily written page—so different from Ford's usually meticulous work—and began translating for his eager audience.

A part of him was overjoyed to have another remnant of his brother. Another part dreaded what he would read.

Ford stared at the man in yellow and felt the air catch in his throat.

"We're researchers for God's sake, not merchants!" The captain of his own ship pleaded emphatically. "We don't have money, we have- we have books, and paper! You can take it if you want but that's all we have!"

Mismatched gold and blue eyes surveyed the frightened faces on deck with marked disinterest. Behind their captain—Bill Cipher, Ford had heard someone call him—his crew waited hungrily for him to make a call. They reminded Ford of a pack of wolves, pacing impatiently.

"Tie them to the mast and burn the ship."

Bill laid down their death sentence with all the emotion of someone deciding what to have for lunch. He turned, waved them off, and began to walk back towards his own ship. Clearly finding no desire to stick around.

"Wait!" The words were out of Ford's mouth before he could stop them. Before he could even think them through.

Bill paused, turning on a heel to see who'd spoken. He landed on Ford, regarding him like he was something caught under the sole of his shoe; insignificant and distasteful, but just the slightest bit curious. Then, it was as if the skies themselves darkened behind him. Bill's golden false eye seemed to flicker alive with a yellow glow. He grinned broadly, displaying wide rows of sharpened metal teeth to match the eye prothesis.

"What?" He asked. In two long strides, he was in front of Ford taking the young researcher's chin in his hand with mock gentleness. "You want to beg?"

Ford flinched, but made himself stand his ground. Like Pa had drilled into him as a child facing bullies, he made a show of squaring his shoulders and blustering. He grabbed Bill's wrist forcefully and pried the hand away from his face.

He bristled outwardly, if only to disguise the tremor that went through him. When his show of defiance didn't get him shot dead on the spot, he pressed on.

"Bargain."

"Interesting!" Bill's voice lilted with impish delight. "And what do you think you have that I'd be interested in bargaining for?"

Shit, he hadn't thought that far. What did he have that he could possibly hold over the head of a ruthless pirate? Everything he had brought with him was already theirs for the picking, not that they'd shown much interest in the cargo the second they learnt none of it was shiny.

Shiny.

The large ship was covered in gold, the captain's garishly yellow coat was lined with gold thread, Ford's eyes kept being drawn to the artificial gold details on his face. The sheer degree of flaunting was staggering.

"There's… There's an island." Ford began hesitatingly.

All his life, he'd been surrounded by scammers. Stanley and Ma and Pa all knew how to spin a convincing lie. He was half convinced any one of them would be able to sweet talk the devil himself into selling them his soul. But Ford didn't have the savvy. He couldn't make something up on the spot, not with everyone's eyes on him and everything at stake.

So, he drew on the first thing that came to mind which happened to be the children's stories his Ma had told him and his twin when they were little.

It was all he had to barter with: His own life, and a fairytale.

"Far from here, tucked away on the open ocean, there's a place teeming with treasure and magic." Ford regurgitated the opening to the bedtime stories practically word for word as he remembered Ma's comforting voice telling them. He tried to imagine she was there, reading them to him. Tried to let that thought block out the fear. "An island, called Port Cascada."

The second Ford said the name, Bill's face shifted from grinning lazily to suddenly alertness.

"The zoological research is a facade. What we're really looking for is that island." Ford lied. He risked a glance at the rest of the crew on his ship, but none of them challenged him.

Fiddleford stared at him with wordless terror. He was silent and still, but the thin man shook through his entire body. He had a wife and child who needed him to return home safely. Ford didn't have anyone waiting for him. Not since Stan-

"If I come with you, guide you to it-" Ford turned back to face the pirates. His voice trembled as he did so. "-you let the rest of the crew leave unharmed."

Silence fell. Even the rushing waves and creaking ship all seemed muted. The members of Bill's crew who'd already begun their approach at his earlier command had paused again, waiting breathlessly as he closed his eyes and thought. Bill drew a deep breath, he'd had no emotion in the earlier decision, but this time Ford swore he could see him actively fighting to compose himself and tap something back down. He succeeded, and when his eyes opened again they were cold and calculating. He scrutinized every part of Ford's face, before nodding once.

"Deal." He extended an open hand towards Ford.

Everything was spinning wildly around Ford's head. He felt ill, like he was about to heave over the side of the ship. His heart was drumming painfully against his ribcage like it was trying to break out, and his skin crawled along his arms. Desperately, he wanted some way out. He wanted to wake up from the nightmare, go back to earlier that very morning when everything had been perfect and the wide open sea had been exhilarating rather than terrifying. He didn't want to shake Bill's hand. Every fibre of his being screamed for him not to.

But if he didn't take the deal, they'd all die. If he did take the deal, only he would die. The answer was obvious, the dilemma trivial. It was one life against fifty.

Ford swallowed hard, and took the outstretched hand. It didn't feel real.

Bill tugged hard, and suddenly Ford's jaw hit the deck. Reality came back to him very abruptly with the pain shooting through him, and he scrambled to turn. There was the taste of metal in his mouth, and one of his teeth felt loose. Ford breathed heavily, his vision swimming behind cracked glasses.

Bill towered over him. Behind him were a sea of shoes and legs. The fact dawned on him that he was trapped with his back up against Bill's men.

"Bind him." Bill ordered firmly. Someone grabbed Ford's arms and pulled him back into a standing position. He wanted to fight, protest the manhandling, but instead he rooted his feet to the floor as best he could and made himself stand still. While someone unseen held firm around his shoulders, a tall broad man circled around to his front and roughly pulled his hands together. The efficiency with which Ford's hands were tied together with coarse rope suggested it wasn't the first time the man did it. The fibers dug into his wrists, scraping and burning against the skin. He breathed shakily through his nose, very pointedly looking at neither man. Despite the instinctive desire to make himself small, he kept his head high. Dignified. Like they were tying the rope around his neck at the gallows. After all, they practically were.

Bill growled and barked orders in the background. It was white noise. Barely even audible through the frantic screaming bouncing off the walls inside Ford's skull.

He searched through the chaos, finding Fiddleford's face again. The man wavered on his feet, like he wanted to do something but had no idea what. There wasn't anything he could do, Ford had chosen his own fate.

He forced the corners of his mouth to quirk upwards. It was a poor imitation of a smile, he was sure. But it was all he could do. He didn't want his friend's last memory of him to be a sheet-pale coward about to fall apart. He smiled, like it wasn't goodbye. He smiled, like a quiet assurance that it was alright.

He'd never see his ship again. Never see his home again. Never see his brother again.

It wasn't alright.

His eyes stung.

At the prompt of a call he couldn't discern, the crowd of pirates began moving back in the direction of their ship. They grumbled amongst themselves with frustration and dissatisfaction, but nobody dared to make their protests loud enough for their captain to hear. He was pushed sharply, the only indication that this was when his feet were supposed to start working again. Ford shuffled along with the crowd.

None of them acknowledged him. The owner of the painfully tight hand at his shoulder never addressed him. They acted like he was nothing more than cargo.

The last glimpse of friendly faces he got before he was forced into the belly of the ship was the vacant expression that decorated Fiddleford's wet face.

Then, the journal Ford had absentmindedly left in his coat pocket was all he had left of normalcy.

Nearly a week passed with Ford keeping up the pretense. He wasn't sure how long he could keep stalling, telling Bill he was calculating coordinates and charting a course would only hold for so long. Though in reality, he wasn't sure why he bothered. In the end, it'd be the same anyways. Bill would find out, and when he did, Ford would die. What was he holding out for? Rescue? Not likely. He might as well just forgo the anxious wait and cut right to it.

But survival was a stubborn thing, and it kept him making excuses and dodging questions. But it wasn't sustainable. Bill would find out. And eventually, he did.

Bill screeched and swore and threw things at the walls. Ford stood in front of him, face down and refusing to speak. The enraged man paced aimlessly, ranting in a voice that barely sounded human. His face, usually stained yellow with icterus, was instead flushed with blood.

The bars of his cell in the brig kept the two men separated, and Ford was acutely aware that was probably the only reason he'd not been physically assaulted yet. Of course, Bill could always just go retrieve the key. It was his ship. But he seemed so incoherent with rage the thought didn't strike him. Instead he just paced near the bars like an agitated animal at a menagerie.

Bill slammed his fist against the door hard enough to make the entire thing rattle and Ford nearly jumped out of his skin at the jarring noise. Bill pressed his face between the metal and snarled.

"What were you thinking?"

Ford clenched his fists at his sides and met the man's eyes. His pipil was tiny and his nostrils flared as he breathed erratically. The clothes he wore were still the same expensive, flashy yellow coat and black vest, but they were rumpled. The light brown hair on his head was sticking out every which way from him running his hands through it, and his gold teeth were grinding against each other. A deep scar across his throat commanded Ford's attention, like someone had tried and failed to slit it. All of him looked unhinged.

"What did you expect was going to happen to you when you pulled that stunt? Did you really think I wouldn't catch on?"

Ford remained rebelliously silent, only infuriating Bill further. He wavered for a moment, stewing in anger, before his hand frantically began searching through his coat. From within the folds of thick expensive fabric, he procured a pistol. Stepping back, he trained the barrel on Ford.

"Alright." Bill said somewhat frantically. "Alright! Fine! So you're useless then! Give me one good reason I shouldn't paint the wall with that useless brain of yours!"

He'd known rescue wasn't coming. He'd known this would be the end result. But Ford trembled anyway and his breathing grew dangerously shallow.

Still. Being shot in the head was a far quicker end than he could have hoped for.

"Go ahead." Ford choked out, hoping his voice came out with the dignified defiance he'd intended, rather than the genuine terror he felt. He stared down the opening of the pistol, expecting a loud bang any second. The same survival instinct that had made him keep up the facade for so long begged him to move; to protect his vitals and take cover behind the scarce furnishings. But he refused. He wouldn't cower. Wouldn't give Bill the satisfaction.

"At this point, my death gains you nothing. My friends are alive—that was all I was after." Ford continued with as much composure as he could manage. "So, do it. I won anyway."

Bill's finger trembled at the trigger. Then, he made another intelligible angry noise and stormed off, leaving Ford alone and—miraculously—unharmed.

Ford had known that wouldn't be the end of it. But another full week passed without a word from Bill. Ford never once saw him again in that time. Other crew members would silently show up to toss him a loaf of bread and something to drink, so apparently Bill still intended to keep him alive. But to what end, he hadn't the faintest idea. The tense unknowingness ate him alive.

Then, at the end of a week and a half, something finally happened.

Ford scrambled to shut the journal he'd been scribbling in and hide it under the plain wooden bench as two men entered the brig. It didn't seem like anyone had caught on that he had the book. If they had, Bill would have almost certainly torn the pages out and burned them in front of him just out of spite. But they hadn't. So as it stood, the journal was his only friend and confidant. Writing about his ordeal at least gave him some empty feeling of control over it. He still missed the comforting weight of the first two, though.

"Get up."

Ford stood without a fight. The cell was unlocked, and both men entered. They looked at him like they were expecting to be met with opposition, but what would be the point in that? Even if he could somehow overpower them both—which, considering his track record when facing bullies, seemed vanishingly unlikely—he had nowhere to go. There was nothing around for miles except the unforgiving ocean.

Heavy iron manacles were clasped around his wrists behind his back as he stood unmoved. Thick fabric was tied over his eyes. One of the men pushed him hard, and with a yelp he stumbled over the threshold. They grabbed one arm each and dragged him. At that, Ford resisted.

"I can walk." He hissed, writhing until they dropped him hard.

"Then walk."

Ford struggled to get back on his feet without the use of his arms, but he'd be damned if he let them drag him like something subhuman. He assumed the reason for the restraints and the blindfold was that they were going to finally execute him, and if that was the case, at least he wanted to face it with dignity.

He was marched out of the brig and through the ship. He heard people standing about, whispering to each other and buzzing with excitement. He tripped and nearly fell at the staircase.

It was night and still dark up on deck, he couldn't even see shadows through the fabric. But the sudden fresh air that hit his face was welcome. He wasn't sure he'd ever feel wind on his skin again. At least he got it one last time.

The men leading him stopped, and he heard knocking and a door creaking open before being made to go blindly inside.

"Ah, would you look at that! The man of the hour!" Bill's grating voice assaulted his ears and made him flinch. He heard footsteps on planks approaching. "Thanks guys."

At that, the hand on his back left and a new one grabbed his upper arm and pulled him close. Before he could even think about resisting, Ford was spun around and slammed hard against the wall by deceptively slight hands.

Ford's face was forced up against cold glass by rough fingers caught in his flyaway curls. The other hand had a firm hold on his cuffed wrists behind his back, keeping him uncomfortably pressed against the hard surface. A door slammed shut somewhere, blocking out the smell of torches and salt, and he was left alone with the captain.

"I figured you might be feeling a little homesick. So I've got a treat for you." Bill cooed into his ear, before the blindfold was torn from his eyes and Ford was finally privy to the view outside the window his cheek was pressed against.

He recognized the port, of course he did. How could he not? It was his home. Tinged by pinkish glass, Gravity Falls slept quietly outside the window.

The first cannonball that ripped through the still night air felt as if it blew a hole through his heart.

Ford screamed.

It was an ugly, guttural, wordless noise of anguish that left him almost against his will.

Bill grinned like a madman, Ford could make out the reflection in the window. His own face stared back in horror, overlaid with the blood red glow of his burning port. The fire danced in Bill's eye, frenzied and hungry. It was difficult to hear anything from outside through the thick wooden walls and the glass, but muffled wailing and howling reached his ears.

The hands on his back and in his hair held him firmly in place even as he thrashed and kicked and tried to break loose. Bill just kept grinning, slamming Ford's face back against the glass every time he managed to squirm loose even an inch.

After that, everything sort of got fuzzy.

What Ford did know was that Bill hadn't killed him, because when he came to the next morning back down in the brig he was bruised and bedraggled but still alive. But that was about the extent of what he could say for sure. He didn't know what had happened, all he knew was that he was still alive and-

And so many people he'd known weren't. Gravity Falls was gone.

"You killed them." He hissed at Bill, stating the obvious.

"We did." Bill insisted. "If it wasn't for you, I would have been perfectly content with only one ship. You did this. You brought the devil to their doorstep."

Ford wished it wasn't true.

But Bill wasn't done—wasn't satisfied.

Ford had mostly been left alone his first two weeks onboard, but now Bill appeared almost daily. Always with some new torture. He'd made it explicitly clear that he still meant to kill Ford, but not until he was bored of him. He'd cheated Bill out of a deal, but he wouldn't walk away empty handed. Even if all he could get was sadistic entertainment. Gradually, the threat of Bill killing him started to feel more like a promise.

Say whatever you would about Bill, but he was creative. More than half of that creativity seemed catered towards causing people pain for his own amusement. In the weeks that came, Ford saw him lash out and attack his own men with reckless abandon for the smallest slights. But a dead crew couldn't work, and so he reined it in. He could see it visibly agonizing him to be forced to use restraint, and so, hurting Ford became the outlet. He was ruthless. If anything, the day he attacked Ford's old ship Bill had been merciful.

Sometimes he heard them attack more people, more places. But at least Bill never again bothered to drag him out of his cell to watch. He hoped that meant none of the casualties were people he knew.

He was so tired of all of it. The scraps of his pride he'd clung onto earlier had been all but beaten out of him. He didn't speak. He barely ate, even when they felt inclined to actually give him food. When they took him from the brig, he let them drag him like a limp corpse.

When he and Stan had been little and running around the harbour, Ford had overheard an old superstition: Seeing an albatross was good luck—seabirds carried the souls of dead sailors back home.

He watched the gulls circling above like vultures waiting for him to die, and wondered if he knew their names.

Sometimes he'd hear gunfire, and a bird would fall to be swallowed up by the sea and the sharks that seemed to always follow the Isosceles. Bill used them as target practice, when the crew protested him taking potshots at them.

"Shooting the bids is bad luck." Ford coughed through a bone dry throat. He looked at the sky, the sun blazing down on him relentlessly. He'd pleaded for water, Bill made him drink seawater.

"What?" Bill asked conversationally. "Would you rather I shoot you?"

"Yes."

Bill grumbled, and called him a downer, before walking off again leaving Ford to bake.

The only break from his monotonous, painful, routine came in the unexpected form of one of said seagulls: A small female, that squeezed its way in through a poorly patched hole in the hull leftover from battle. Admittedly, Ford didn't know much about birds. Yes, he'd been on a zoological research mission, but he'd always hoped to find something yet unknown. Something supernatural. Gulls had been nothing more than loud, mundane, nuisances that woke the crew up early and kept snatching their pencils. But this one was the first non-hostile being Ford had encountered in a month. That alone was enough for him to take a liking to her.

As for how he knew it was a female, on the night he first saw her, she made a nest behind the barrels just outside his cell. Not too long after, that nest housed three eggs. He sketched the bird in his journal, and fed her scraps of his own scarce meals. It didn't matter much if it left him with less. He was all but dead anyways. His beating heart was a formality. Better the one of them with a shot at life get the best possible chance.

Eventually, she even let him touch her, gently running his fingers down her smooth feathers as she sat on her eggs for hours on end. It was a small comfort, but a comfort nonetheless.

But then, the worst happened. Bill saw her.

He shot the bird and stomped on her nest, grinning as Ford begged him not to.

"I thought you'd learn by now. You caring for someone is signing their death warrant."

He laughed, and walked away, and Ford fell to pieces all over again. It was silly. It was irrational. It was just a dumb bird. But it was all he had. He stared emptily at the wet straw and egg yolk that had used to hold the promise of life, feeling tears drip down his cheeks.

Something rolled with the swaying of the ship out from between the barrels. A single egg, having been pushed aside instead of crushed under the boot.

Ford reached between the bars and took it gently, like it was a priceless treasure. It was smaller than the others had been. A single surviving egg out of three. He held it in-between his palms, close to his chest, and cried for it.

He tore pieces from his already ruined clothes and hid it with his journal. The egg grew as the days slogged on through Ford's haze of hurt and loneliness.

When a tiny bird eventually hatched, he childishly named it Stan.

His memories got fuzzy again after that brief window of clarity. Ford had lost count of how long he'd been captive on the ship, but it had to have been months. It was a week before Bill found out he'd lied about that useless fairytale, then one more before Gravity Falls burned. Then everything was a muddle of pain. It had taken the egg a few weeks to hatch, and bird Stan was now old enough to fly. Ford had tried to get him to leave through the same gap his mom had gotten in through once that had happened, but he refused. He stuck by Ford like he was his mother bird. It was all Ford could do to keep him quiet and pray Bill would never find him.

But the gull could fly.

Ford's arms burned. It felt like they'd be pulled their sockets any second and let his mangled body plunge into the stormy sea below. The ship rocked hard every which way with the waves that reached the highest gundeck. Ford hung limp from the golden figurehead at the prow, exposed to the rain and the biting cold.

It had been Bill's idea, as all the worst tortures were.

"I was getting sick of the old figurehead anyway."

Those were his exact words, and without hesitation his crew had complied. Ford had been hoisted over the prow of the ship and tied to the frontward facing mast by coarse ropes around his arms at the elbow where the joint would bend. They'd left him there as the storm rolled in.

The cold winds gnawed on his face like nails being driven into his cheeks. His clothes were soaked and his wet hair dripped into his eyes. Every now and again, a wave would reach high enough to dunk his legs entirely. He was sure it was just a matter of time before something took his feet off when they plunged into the water. Maybe something already had, he couldn't feel them. He couldn't feel his hands either for that matter. What he did feel was the rope digging into his arms as it supported his entire body. Yes, he was underfed and weak, but it was still too much weight. The ropeburns were deep enough to bleed. The only faint warmth he felt was the blood trickling down onto his back. He couldn't turn far enough to see, but he imagined that with a few more hours of this the bone would be exposed.

Something landed on his head, skidding clumsily on the wet hair before finding a grip. Its small claws scraped very lightly against his scalp. Ford mustered enough strength to weakly move his head, trying to shake it off before the bird would start pecking at him.

"'M not dead yet…" He groaned.

A pair of white and black wings unfolded over his head, like a tiny umbrella. The seagull cooed worriedly in a familiarly scratchy voice and raked its beak through his hair comfortingly.

"Stan?"

He heard another soft croak in what he assumed was an affirmative.

Really, the bird shouldn't be out there in a storm. He had barely even lost his baby fluff yet. He should be hiding in his makeshift nest inside the ship, where at the very least it was dry. But he wasn't. He was out there with Ford, trying to make it better. Trying to keep the rain out.

That was such an absurdly Stan-like thing to do.

Ford couldn't quite smile, it hurt too bad to move his face. But he closed his eyes just a bit more at peace.

And then a shot rang out.

"No!"

The bird squawked loudly—crying out in shock and pain—and fell from his head despite desperately flapping his wings as he spiraled downwards into the dark water.

Bill howled with laughter, the noise was high-pitched and deranged. Ford wanted to scream and curse Bill out. But he had no energy to do anything of the sort. All that was left in him was pain and hopelessness. He watched the white speck bobbing up and down on the waves and gradually disappearing out of view. Everything was blurry. Why? He'd managed to keep his glasses on.

He should have known better than to let someone in. He should have known better than to care. Bill was right.

Ford destroyed everything he touched.

He stopped thinking after that. Stopped caring. Ford tried his absolute hardest to just resign himself to what was happening. He thought he'd already accepted his fate, but on some level, he'd naively held onto the idea of getting out alive. Completely alone again, he finally let go.

They'd left him hanging from the prow throughout the night. He was cold, wet, and exhausted when he was finally thrown back onto the thin layer of hay on the hard ground in the brig. Considering all of it, along with the lack of anything even resembling proper food, it was perhaps no big shock that Ford grew ill in the aftermath.

His skin was hot and clammy, breathing hurt as his lungs rattled and protested. Occasionally, he was offered water and food by someone he couldn't quite distinguish through the incoherent fogginess of the fever. It was real food, and real water. But he couldn't eat. His body fought viciously against everything except sleep. His heart beat rapidly, as if he was frightened, but he didn't feel scared. He just felt exhausted. Every now and again, the galloping pulse would flutter and skip a beat. It felt like his heart was contemplating stopping.

He tried to write when he felt conscious enough. But the pages all turned out smudged and illegible. What was legible was nearly all of it a ramble of laughably insignificant childhood memories and fantasies of what could have been. It wasn't useful, but it was a distraction.

Bill's crew had never once objected to the torture. But what they did object to, was keeping a sick man with them. There was murmuring amongst the men. Concerns about disease on board floated around.

In the end, that more than anything was what finally made Bill agree to get rid of him.

Ford was carried up to Bill's cabin, just like he had been the night they'd attacked his port. The captain circled him like a shark, and finally gave an ultimatum to settle the debt.

"How about this: You hang in there for one more night, and as soon as the first rays of sunlight break the horizon, I'll let you go." Bill descended on him, taking his jaw in his hands and whispering. "I'll let you die. But I get to do whatever I want with you for the short remainder of your worthless life."

Ford's head was released and dropped slack back against the floor. A gloved hand was extended in his direction as Ford struggled to comprehend. Sluggishly, he moved a hand out from under him. His entire arm trembled, the rope burns were horrifically infected, and he barely managed to lift the hand the few centimetres off if the floor Bill required. He didn't so much shake Bill's hand as briefly brush it with his limp fingers. But it was enough. It was agreement.

He couldn't quite tell if the feeling that washed over him was relief or dread.

After the fact, Ford would say that he couldn't remember those last few hours. It was partially true, so much of it was just a blur. But even the parts he did remember, he didn't want to think about. Had he been given the option, he would have gladly erased everything about those months on the ship, and slipped away blissfully ignorant.

He remembered pain and fear. And then, he remembered morning light. He remembered the promise of respite it gave him.

Ford was hauled up on deck and thrown off on a beach. Sand clung to his hair and cheek as he lay on the shore unable to even lift his face. Bill threw him a pistol, patronisingly congratulating him for keeping his end of the bargain this time, and left him there.

A part of him was surprised Bill didn't want the pleasure of killing him, but the other knew that making Ford choose between doing it himself or slowly succumbing to exposure would be far more distressing. He watched the ship slowly sail away, leaving him with nowhere to go and no way to escape. The birds that seemed to always flock the masts of the Isosceles stayed with him. Some of them hopped close while others watched from trees and rocks. Even more sailed around and around above. Uncharacteristically, all of them were silent as they watched him. It was probably just the fever speaking, but the birds seemed almost solemn.

It was nice of them, waiting until he actually expired before scavenging the body.

The metal of the gun glinted invitingly with early morning sunshine. Gathering the last of his strength, Ford reached for the handle. He wanted it to end.

From within the folds of the quiet congregation of seabirds, a gratingly shrill and hoarse cry sounded. A blur of white shot forwards, landing gracelessly on the barrel of the pistol and pecking Ford's finger hard enough to make him wince and pull back.

Shrieking angrily as if scolding him and flapping one of its wings furiously was a young gull, and Ford's heart all but stopped right there as he recognised the tuft of feathers on its head and the scratchy screeching.

How was Stan alive?

One of his wings hung uselessly at his side, the fragile bird bone crippled by an ugly bullet hole still stained black from gunpowder. But the wound looked healed as best it could. The wing barely moved with the other, but the fact that he'd somehow survived both the plunge into the water and the injury…

"Stan." Ford choked. "Just… It's okay. You don't need me anymore. You'll be fine."

The bird protested loudly, almost as if he actually understood what Ford was saying. His flipper feet fidgeted agitatedly at the metal under him, trying to kick sand up over it. Ford weakly tried to reach again, but again his fingers were pecked almost hard enough to draw blood. Some of the birds were starting to fly off, scattering in different directions.

The bird didn't need Ford anymore. He was old enough to take care of himself, he clearly had managed after Bill shot him. Even if he needed him, there wasn't much Ford could do anymore. He had only two options available, and those were a slow agonizing death or a quick messy one. But… Looking at the wide eyes of the young bird staring at him pleadingly, he couldn't do that. Couldn't scare him, making him watch him shoot himself. It'd be more merciful on himself, but it would hurt someone else even worse.

"Okay…" Ford breathed, taking his hand back all the way and curling up on his side, trying to make himself as small as possible. There was the shade of the treeline a few meters off, but he didn't think he'd be able to drag himself that far. He closed his eyes tight, and tried to go to sleep. "Okay, I won't."

A small ball of feathers burrowed in-between his arms, pressing up against the crook of his neck. The bird croaked mournfully, brushing the sand from Ford's face with his beak.

Ford didn't expect to ever wake up again. But against all odds, he did. It was all very murky at first. He remembered voices, he remembered being firmly but gently made to drink something warm while barely consciously. He remembered the raw terror as hands touched his wounds and the image of Bill superimposed on the stranger. But the voice was distinctly female, and that was a small comfort. He heard squawking fading in and out.

Through the distortion, he heard reassurance that he would be alright, mumbled chants to some creature whose name he couldn't pronounce, and flashes of comforting memories of a brother he'd not seen in almost ten years.

Eventually, the fog that had rolled in over his mind faded gradually. The image of the real Stanley dissolved, leaving Ford staring at a gull with a broken wing perched on his bedpost.

Jheselbraum had honestly not expected the man to survive past that first morning.

His skin was covered in deep lacerations, some crudely cauterized and majority infected. Several ribs seemed broken, his face was bruised, he was running a dangerously high fever from probable blood poisoning and showed signs of both dehydration and malnutrition. There were rope burns on his wrists, but those were not nearly as concerning as the deep red gashes around the inner part of his arms. For a while, she'd wondered if the best course of action would be removing the damaged tissue altogether. But with the fragile state he was in she didn't dare. There was no sense in causing him even more distress when the risk was so high it would be too late regardless.

The man's injuries were horrific. It took days before she couldn't even tell if what she was doing was saving his life, or just easing his passing.

It wasn't that she was inexperienced with tough cases, she'd been a healer for many years, tending to all those whom nobody else would help. But usually when someone was very ill or severely injured they were so by unfortunate happenstance. It's women who'd had complications from childbirth, or men who'd been maimed in work accidents, or children who've been afflicted by unfortunate but commonplace diseases. It was very rare that she encountered someone so badly hurt intentionally.

It made her blood boil behind the professional bedside manner.

Still, she did what she could. It was hard to treat him when he was so out of it, any time she hovered a bit too close he flinched. The first time she'd cleaned and bandaged the wounds, she'd had to physically hold him down to stop him hurting himself further as he tried to escape the perceived threat. That should have been harder than it was, but he was gaunt and weak. He seemed somewhat comforted when she spoke, so she did. She spoke of her day, of chores, and insignificant nothings. She calmly narrated what she was doing as she did it.

A young gull sat at his bedside at all times, keeping watch while he fitfully slept. It regarded her every move like a hawk as she worked.

It had been the birds that led her to him abandoned on that beach. They'd circled high above the small stretch of land like a hurricane of wings; impossible to miss. She'd been interrupted in preparing her morning meal by one of the birds tapping incessantly at her window. Unperturbed, she'd opened the window to share some bread with it assuming it was simply drawn by her food. But it continued tapping at the glass as soon as she turned back away. She looked again, and suddenly there were two of them, sitting on her windowsill staring intently.

She stepped out into the morning air, and they took flight only to land again and stare back at her. That was when she spotted the flock, barely visible in the distance.

Jheselbraum had thought she was too late at first. The young man lying listless in the sand looked dead. But she spotted his chest rising and falling very slowly, and brought him back with her.

It took days, but—praised be the Axolotl—the man finally awoke.

Ford had no idea what to do now. He left Jheselbraum without much of anything to his name. He had his journal still in his coat, and his bird on his shoulder. She'd given him new clothes to replace his old destroyed ones, and bartered a place on a ship back to his childhood home for him. The people respected her, it seemed most everyone in the area knew someone who's life she'd saved. He supposed he counted amongst their ranks now.

The voyage was long, but eventually he'd reached his old port. The same one he and Stan had played in amongst the clamor and the ships. It looked the same, but it felt wrong. Too large and loud without his brother at his side. His own childhood playground shouldn't feel so overwhelming and threatening.

Nervously, he walked down the rows of homes and businesses tensing up and flinching at the shouts of merchants. He wanted to flee from it, but he steeled his resolve and kept walking until he finally reached the house he recognised the most.

He'd hoped for comfort. For Ma to reassure him and for the familiar rooms to offer safety. He'd hoped for his big brother, hugging him right and promising to keep him safe. He'd hoped for news of where Stan was, determined to track him down and set right what had gone so horribly wrong.

Instead he found strangers in his home, and two new graves in the local cemetery.

The neighbors told him his parents had passed not too long ago, and Sherman had left for lands unknown. Nobody had seen Stan. Filbrick told them he'd gone after Ford, and died doing it. Ford had nothing to come home to.

Everything he'd had before Bill was gone.

He made a new goal for himself that day. Jheselbraum had told him she thought Bill was inhuman. Ford certainly agreed. He wasn't a person, he was a monster.

And Ford was going to find a way to put that monster down.

Stan read the final page of the journal aloud, Staring emptily at the page.

With this, I return to where he left me to die and bury this book. I'm still alive, but the man I was before him died here. It seems a fitting memorial. I don't need painful memories and naively optimistic research.

I need revenge.

Stan shut the leather bound tome heavily, breathing hard to keep from breaking with the kids so close.

Ford was alive.

At least, he'd survived Bill.

"So… Bill lied?" Dipper asked hesitantly.

“Bill is a liar." Stan agreed. "But when he lies, there's no consistency. He never bothers to remember which lie he told whom. He’s told me about Ford. Over and over and over again; all the goddamn graphic detail he can. Bastard thinks it’s funny.” His shoulders trembled. “Thirty years, his story hasn’t changed. He doesn't know.”

He looked at the children, regarding him with a mix of trepidation and anticipation.

"We're coming up on Gravity Falls." He told them. "Fiddleford. We need to talk to Fiddleford."

<3

I wish the people that came by the other night would have just shot me. Or broke into the house and robbed me. Or kidnapped me. I don't fucking care anymore

There's not a day that goes by where I don't struggle with suicidal thoughts and feelings of worthlessness.

Not one day. There's hasn't been a day in so many years. And some days I can ignore them and they're fleeting, and other days I don't see myself living an hour from then.

I'm so tired of these feelings. I've never made an attempt but I don't know how much longer I can handle these thoughts, I don't want to die, I just want them to go away. I want to fade and hide inside my own head away from the world and for once have the desire to be alive again.

Its such an odd feeling, not wanting to die and yet having no will to go on.

I'm so scared one day someone will find me and all my online friends will have to wonder why I just stopped responding. I don't want that to happen.

I want to want to live.

I don't think anyone needs me.

Sure, some people might be sad. But everyone has friends, has family, has loved ones.

They'd move on. And after a while I wouldn't matter. Some people wouldn't even notice I was gone. And even more wouldn't care.

This is how my brain works, right down to the abrupt suicidal ideation and self-loathing.

How did you manage to write down my exact thought processes?

MADOKA - “I’m thinking I’ll order a beef udon bowl, since Sayaka-chan told me that they make those really good here. What about you, Homura-chan?”

CONSERVATION OF ENERGY - Food needs can be met with an expenditure of 1.23% of total magic. Proceed?

GRIEF SYNDROME [Trivial: Success] - MAGICAL GIRLS THAT IGNORE FOOD ARE OFTEN MORE PRONE TO GRIEF ACCUMULATION. MY ARMS WILL ALWAYS BE WAITING FOR YOU, HOMURA, BUT IT’S IMPORTANT TO BE HAPPY UNTIL THAT DAY. BESIDES, MADOKA WANTS TO EAT WITH YOU. DISAPPOINTING HER WILL FILL YOUR SOUL GEM WITH A HALF A GRIEF SEED WORTH OF DESPAIR.

TEA WITH MAMI-SAN [Legendary: Success] - Sayaka says the beef bowl is good? Maybe go for that. She knows Madoka’s tastes better than anyone — and if Madoka likes something, you will certainly like it too.

“I will have the same as you, Madoka.”

“I’m not feeling very hungry.”

[CALL AND RESPONSE - Medium 10] Come up with an order on your own

CALL AND RESPONSE - [Medium: Failure] - You’ve eaten here before, you’re pretty sure. Was it Loop 32… no, Loop 12..? No, wait, it was on the first Friday of Loop 68. No… that’s not right. You’ve never eaten here before. In a stunning display of incompetence, you have taken Madoka on a date to a restaurant that you have never experienced before.

THE ANGEL - It’s okay, Homura-chan! I don’t mind if you haven’t eaten here before. Remember what real me said, Sayaka thinks this place is good! And even if it’s not perfect, that’s okay, just spending time with you makes me happy.

THE CRAVEN MASSES - Sayaka has raised her blade against Madoka 16 times before. You should leave this restaurant and kill her. It would only take-

FALLING SAND [Trivial: Success] - 1528 seconds on average.

CONSERVATION OF ENERGY - It can be cut down to 1243 seconds with an expenditure of 2.7% of total magic pool.

THE CRAVEN MASSES - Exactly. Do it in front of her family and make it bloody. Kyoko would likely try and stop you, but even she isn’t immune to bullets. And if Mami comes for revenge, well, you know the exact words you could say that would destroy her, don’t you?

THE ANGEL - A-Ah, I think that’s a bit of an extreme reaction, Homura-chan!

HUMAN SHELL - Your heart rate is increasing. Stop that. You have absolute control over your flesh. Act like it.

MOE INSTINCT - AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH AHHHHHHHHHHHHHH WHAT ARE WE GOING TO ORDER MADOKA IS GOING TO LAUGH AT US

WITCH’S NIGHT - Is… is this a trap? Walpurgis may be defeated, but you know that the stage witch never truly ceases its show. Perhaps this restaurant is a part of the stage?

MADOKA - “Um, are you okay, Homura-chan?”

MOE INSTINCT - OH GOD SHE HATES US

“I’m going to kill myself.”

“I’m so sorry. Would killing myself make you feel more comfortable?”

Isn’t there anything else you can say?

YOU - Isn’t there anything else you can say?

THE DEVIL - Come on, Homura. It’s high time you do it. Really, this is just another in the long, long chain of failures that make up your life. The only way to fix it is to kill yourself.

CLOCKWORK PRECISION - Target: Located on right ring finger. Target is not moving. Chance to hit: High. Plan: Retrieve pistol. Aim pistol at ring. Pull trigger.

THE ANGEL - Oh my god, please do not do that!

"I am going to kill myself."

"I'm so sorry, I'll kill myself if it makes you feel better."

"I'm so sorry. Should I kill myself?"

There. There has to be better options than this.

YOU - There. There has to be better options than this.

MOE INSTINCT - I CAN’T TAKE IT ANY MORE. THE ONLY RECOURSE IS IMMEDIATE SUICIDE. THAT’S THE ONLY WAY MADOKA WILL LOVE YOU AGAIN.

"I am going to kill myself."

"I'm so sorry, I'll kill myself if it makes you feel better."

"I'm so sorry. Should I kill myself?"

YOU - “I’m going to kill myself.”

MADOKA - Madoka’s face twists, her eyebrows raising slightly in shock. Whatever response she was expecting, it was clearly not this.

GRIEF SYNDROME [Challenging: Success] - IF MADOKA WAS A MAGICAL GIRL, HER SOUL GEM WOULD FILL BY A QUARTER HEARING YOU SPEAK THOSE WORDS. THAT WAS CRUEL, HOMURA.

MOE INSTINCT - WHY DID YOU SAY THAT?

MADOKA - “I’m so sorry, Homura-chan. Please don’t do that. I… I really care about you and so does everyone else.” Madoka’s eyes fill with tears as she speaks. She hugs you.

DAMAGED MORALE -4

CALL AND RESPONSE [Trivial: Success] - Quick, tell her you were making an edgy joke that didn’t land. You’ve gotten away with that before, you’re pretty sure.

SPACE-TIME MASSACRE - Twelve quarter shifts left and two up from your current space-time position, and there’s a Japan that it’s actually illegal to not commit suicide in.

FALLING SAND - You’ve been seated for 5 minutes and 32.5 seconds already and still have not ordered. Mami has requested your presence at her apartment in 3.4 hours from now.

TEA WITH MAMI-SAN - She wants to help you find a hobby. She’s really worried about you, you know.

STRINGS OF FATE - You can feel Madoka’s heart beat in sync with yours as she holds you. Everything will be alright, as long as you follow the beat.

THE ANGEL - Yeah! It’s okay Homura-chan. Just explain what’s been going on and Madoka will understand. And then order something, it’s important to eat a full meal!

YOU - “Ah, sorry Madoka. I was… overwhelmed with choice, and my… brain spit out the first thing it thought. I am not planning on killing myself.”

MADOKA - “Um, I think we should probably talk about this more, Homura-chan….”

CALL AND RESPONSE - Ask her a question to change the topic. It’s worked in three different loops, it should work here.

RATIONALITY COMPLEX [Trival: Success] - Ask her if she wants to try anything else and then order that for yourself. This will accomplish your goal of deciding on what to order, as well as showing Madoka that her desires are important to you.

YOU - “Is there anything else you’d like to try, Madoka? We can share our dishes.”

MADOKA - “Uh, okay Homura-chan. Maybe get some tempura?”

Order 10000 yen worth of tempura

Order 1000 yen worth of tempura

Order 100 yen worth of tempura

YOU - “Excuse me waiter, give me 10000 yen worth of tempura.”

HUMAN SHELL - Calories and magic are just two different types of fuel. Feed me and control me.

THE ANGEL - T-that’s probably too much, Homura-chan. Maybe you can sneak some into your cool shield, though!

MADOKA - Madoka doesn’t say anything, but her eyes do bulge out slightly. She gives you a gentle pat on the shoulder and smiles at you.

HEALED MORALE +1

RATIONALITY COMPLEX - Displays of wealth like this can broadcast value to potential mates. This will increase your value in Madoka’s eyes, furthering along one of your goals.

THE ANGEL - I think you should just focus on enjoying the food, Homura-chan. Take a break, everything is okay.

Thank you.

Why don’t you hate me?

YOU - Why don’t you hate me?

THE ANGEL - Because I care about you, Homura-chan! And besides, you hate yourself far too much already.

Thank you.

THE ANGEL - You’re welcome! Now, please, enjoy your meal with real Madoka. She loves you a lot too, you know.

Lucius: My child is fine

Draco: Your child fakes being cheerful while he constantly thinks he wants to die

Draco: What? It's a meme. It's supposed to be funny

Lucius: Draco...

Sometimes it’s just you and your fantasy of being beaten to death with a baseball bat against the world

You are a beautiful and amazing person, I hope you feel better soon. You can feel free to DM me if you need someone to rant too, or don't because you don't feel comfortable opening up that much to some stranger on the internet. Either way please note that there are people who care about you, love you, and are willing to help you through all of your struggling!

Good things don't come for me. My bad, I forgot how my life is so fucked up. I shouldn't have asked for anything outside my ill fate. Maybe god owns me a fucking refund for giving me a life.

don't watch Bo Burnham's "Inside" if you are not in a safe mental place

before you get mad please let me elaborate

I am in no way saying you should never watch it, or that mentally ill people shouldn't watch it, or that you should only watch it if you are completely mentally healthy. I'm not even saying you should block the tags or avoid engaging with it at all costs

i am saying that if you are actively struggling with your mental health, for example you currently have suicidal ideation or are self harming, please be very careful about watching this special (or clips of it)

if you are struggling in that sort of way but still want to watch it now, please make sure you have a support system that you could turn to in the event that something in the special triggers a severe reaction in you

if you do not have that kind of support system but still want to watch the special, i highly encourage you to wait until you either establish one or make enough progress in your mental health that you can cope with a reaction safely

I just watched Inside and i am really glad that i'm in such a good place with my mental health, because it prominently discusses and depicts Bo Burnham's spiral into severe depression. I'm also glad it didn't come out earlier this year while I was in a depressive episode bad enough I had to increase my med dosage, which had been stable for two years. I can only imagine how watching this during any kind of dangerous mental health episode/crisis could end up. I think Inside is an incredible piece of art, but I worry about people in vulnerable situations where their impulses can lead to very very dangerous places. Plenty of the special is typical comedy music and stuff, especially in the beginning. I personally plan to go back and look for symbolism and metaphors and other subtle shit, but after the first 20-30 minutes, less and less of it is subtle. Bo Burnham made a movie of himself as he fell to a self-described All Time Low, including the ugly and scary parts. So make sure you can be safe if you’re gonna watch the whole thing, and use caution when watching clips.

TL;DR

i believe much of Inside could be very triggering to those prone to self-destruction or suicidal ideation. If that applies to you, please use caution and be proactive about your mental health before going to watch it.

thought about buying a gun today

had a conversation with a trans friend of mine who's thinking about joining the military to escape poverty. not gonna go into detail there but it was heavy conversation and sparked these thoughts.

on the one hand, i'm queer and leftist. i'm scared when i see right wing people hoarding guns. i'd like to have one or more for the peace of mind that if push comes to shove i have something to defend myself with.

however, i know that if i do acquire a firearm, im going to put it in my mouth to see how that feels. not with any bullets or anything. just to feel it, taste it, experience that feeling.

but i know enough about mental health to know what that is. that's a big step in suicidal ideation. what's to stop me from putting a round in the chamber once i get more comfortable? and even if i'm not actively planning how i would kill myself, if i owned a gun, i would know i could. i would know deep down that if i ever wanted too id have a really easy way to do that. and is that even really different from having a plan? i also don't like that i don't know if i would play russian roulette if i purchased a revolver. i'd like to think the answer is no, but if i'm honest with myself, 17% is like, not terrible odds?

i'll be 23 soon. and i've noticed over the past few years my suicidal ideation has progressively grown. when i was in highschool, or maybe even middleschool, i realized nothing really cosmically mattered. i think soon after the idea of dying was scary but it wasn't impossible, and i thought hey it would suck but i'd be dead so it wouldn't really matter to me at that point. i wouldn't ever kill myself, but if i got hit by a bus it wouldn't be a huge deal.

and that's how it stayed really. and i still feel that way, although now that i'm actively transitioning and finding myself, i'm a lot more hesitant when i think rationally about these things. i don't want to die and have my obituary and headstone say [deadname], and what's more, things have just started getting good and i am excited to see where life takes me. despite that though, a few weeks ago i looked at my window differently. i live 5 stories up. would that be high enough? i didn't google for an answer. and i frankly still don't want to know.

objectively, i am the happiest i've ever been. ironically though, i'm also the closest i've ever been to suicide. i've been throwing that thought around my brain for a few months now. it's weird.

So...I was giving permission from @cheshiresartblog to write this story idea based off of their Nomu Trio AU. It’s an idea that I got after listening to The Princess and the Frog soundtrack for hours on end.

I really, really shouldn’t be doing this because I have other AU stories in mind (one of them being a huge crossover), but since this is based off of two things that I’ve watched (in BNHA’s case watched and read) I think it’ll be easier to write. So here’s the basic plot.

WARNING: Spoilers for BNHA and The Princess and the Frog ahead! Will also contain mentioning of depression, suicide, and disturbing themes.

Shouta, Hizashi, and Oboro have been dating each other since high school and dream of opening a hero agency using an old abandoned building.

Years pass by, and something happens to Oboro and Hizashi, causing them to ‘die’ in battle. Shouta went into a spiral of depression and hardly interacts with his family and friends. Nemuri decides to help Shouta reconnect with society by taking him to a party. But at said party, Shouta hears some devastating news.

The building where he and his late boyfriends were planning to set up their hero agency was going to be bought by some land developers.

Shouta ran back home as grieves over not only the loss of his boyfriends, but the loss of the one dream that they shared. While on his way home, he doesn’t pay attention and gets hit by a car.

As he’s rushed to the hospital, the doctor who works for AfO tells Shouta’s family that he had ‘died’ due to committing suicide, and proceeds to take him to AfO to be turned into a Nomu.

More years past and Kakureru works for the League of Villains, but he feels like he’s missing something and tries to remember his past. Suddenly, he remembers that the doctor that supposedly saved his life was the one who killed him in the first place.

He was the one who was driving the car that killed him.

After convincing the flirty Raiu and the music-loving Kurogiri to leave the LoV with him, they start to connect with each other. Shigaraki, Toga, and Dabi tagged along because they had nothing better to do.

Then the three Nomu start to remember who they were, which causes them to question themselves.

Now they must choose to follow their new dreams or going back to their old lives.

Roles (Still trying to decide who’s who):

Aizawa Shouta/Kakureru: Tiana

Yamada Hizashi/Raiu: Prince Naveen

Shirakumo Oboro/Kurogiri: Louis and Ray

All for One: Dr. Facilier

Kayama Nemuri/Midnight: Charlotte

The Doctor: Lawrence

(If anyone has any idea who should play what role in the story, please leave your ideas in the comments)