March Writing Challenge: 100 Stories. 1 Month.

[Sean *]

This is my favorite challenge of all the livelong year, because penguins live in colonies, and this is a collaborative project.

For newer players unfamiliar with how this works, here is our site history: Four years ago, Tony and Mads challenged each other to write 300 prompts, which they completed in under three months.

Four years ago, Hammel was given the challenge of doing 100 prompts in one month, and we completed it with flying colors. Three years ago, we were challenged to do 150 prompts, and we completed that within two months. Two years ago, we did 100 in one month again and did it like champions. Last year, we managed to do another 100 in only one month’s time.

This year, we are trying again to do 100 prompts before the end of March. And if we finish early this year, there will be a surprise.

The rules:

• Characters must be Hammel-related, but the ficlets are not site canon unless explicitly stated.
  
• Alternate universe interpretations of characters are allowed.
  
• Entries must be at least 300 words.
  
• You can enter as many ficlets as you wish
  
• Ficlets must be titled with the prompt and prompt number.
  
• Staff will update the prompt list as often as possible, striking through filled prompts.
  
• Do not write a prompt that has already been filled. Do not write a prompt claimed by someone else with an active claim.
  
• You may claim a prompt by posting in this thread with that prompt. You then have 24 hours to complete it and edit the post. After 24 hours, the post will be deleted.
  
• Please do not claim more than one prompt at a time. This promotes and preserves fairness to everyone.

1. Mellow 2. Eternal 3. Subtle 4. Cheat 5. Transparent 6. Believable 7. Repeat 8. Evidence 9. Write 10. Soulful 11. Taxi 12. Stop Time 13. Alcohol 14. Pauses 15. Affront 16. Run 17. Experience 18. Fatality 19. Helping Hand 20. Breeze 21. Get Up 22. Villain 23. Worst Day 24. Bewitching 25. Jubilant

26. Languid 27. Gloves 28. Recoil 29. Vehement 30. Collide 31. On My Mind 32. Mirror 33. Kneel 34. Locked 35. Punched 36. Tight 37. Urban 38. Health 39. Older 40. Vital 41. Dawn 42. Lust 43. Memorial 44. Pretend 45. Zeal 46. Disaster 47. Blush 48. Nimble 49. Remain 50.Shades

51. Done 52. Tower 53. Weapon 54. Tide 55. Accent 56. Indirect 57. Haze 58. Puzzle 59. Try Again 60. Reap 61. Search 62. Treat 63. Notice 64. Least 65. Exception 66. Rule 67. Correct 68. Harm 69. Strive 70. Temperamental 71. Divided 72. Victory 73. Delivery 74. Ballad 75. All I Ask

76. Harmony 77. Melody 78. Stormy 79. Terrible 80. Decay 81. Dramatic 82. Panic 83. With You 84. Killing 85. Jump 86. Waste 87. Voice 88. Impulse 89. Drought 90. Sword 91. Skill 92. Morals 93. Compromise 94. Shadows 95. Enter 96. Wired 97. Name 98. Stumble 99. Snore 100. Exit

[Adaryn Breslin]

21. Get Up

It wasn’t really a normal thing to see a specific dreamwalker curled up in messed up sheets, combat boots strewn across the floor. It was even rarer to see that he wasn’t faking, a light snore slipping past his lips as though he were completely knocked out. So when Adaryn entered Monroe’s room and saw him, her immediate reaction was to question everything. Question what she was seeing with a question, barely penetrating the near silence that the room provided but Adaryn knew it would be enough for him to hear if he was, in fact, awake. “Monroe?” Simple, but he didn’t respond.

So what was she to do? No, Adaryn didn’t have the heart to actually wake him up, even if it were four in the afternoon and she hadn’t been able to catch him for about a week. She couldn’t wake him up because she knew full well that he could have fallen asleep only twenty minutes ago. The one thing she knew about Monroe and his sleeping habits was that sleep came at random times, and even if she had come over because she desperately missed him, she couldn’t disturb him.

Instead, she decided to leave and hopefully come back later on in the evening before he had to work.

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

Coming back to the apartment, she greeted Eloise and spent at least a good half and hour to an hour talking to the blonde, asking her about her work and how she was doing, and then getting into a bit of a request on her part for her art course. She needed to use a model as a means to draw a portrait, and sure enough Eloise was happy to play the part. Adaryn was relieved, knowing full well she probably wouldn’t have been able to ask anyone else.

Her next move was to head over to see if Monroe was awake, considering he wasn’t lounging out on the couch watching television for the sake of watching it. Hell, even the coffee was cold. So upon reaching his bedroom, at about an hour before his shift was supposed to start (really, Adaryn wasn’t even supposed to be off campus but she wanted to at least talk to Monroe), the dreamwalker still lay on his bed, snoring slightly louder than it had been earlier in the afternoon.

At this point, he should have been up and getting ready, but he was sleeping. For the first time in a long time, he had been sleeping, and despite the fact that it hurt her to wake him up, and despite the fact that he probably didn’t need the money anymore, she still didn’t want him to be late for work. Or not go at all.

So what the Empath did then was slip over to the edge of his bed, giving herself a moment to take in his sleeping form. No he didn’t look tired, no he didn’t look stressed or upset. He just looked peaceful, something she couldn’t believe she was ruining. “Monroe,” She mumbled, her hand resting on his shoulder and pushing gently. Nothing. Still comatose. “Monroe, you need to get up…” Again, another shake. And this time, his snore changed to a groan of protest. “Monroe, you have work.”

“Go bedazzle a purse or something, Eloise…” He offered, his eyes opening as he said it, but as Monroe realized who exactly was standing near him, and how that person wasn’t Eloise and instead his girlfriend, his gaze went from hazy to confused.

“Addie?”

“Yeah, It’s me.”

But Monroe wasn’t really understanding why she was hovering over his bed, nor did he realize he had been sleeping for so long. “Addie, what time is it?”

“You have about an hour until work.”

Adaryn tried not to look amused as the shock covered his features, but she also started to feel bad that she cut short a time that probably would have been some good sleep. “I laid down at two…” He mumbled then, looking at the clock.

“I came in around four, but I didn’t want to bother you. You looked like you were sleeping well.” And he was, according to him. Actually, it was more like nothing happened - there was no dreams to fall into and it only seemed like two minutes had passed from the time that he fell asleep until then. He told her to hold on, however, after he managed to pull himself out of bed.

He walked into his bathroom with his phone, which to Adaryn, didn’t make much sense. Instead, she sat on the edge of his bed, waiting for the Dreamwalker to come out.

When he did, Adaryn noted a slight smirk on his lips, to which her brow raised in suspicion. “You’re still in your pajamas.” She offered, knowing he should have been getting ready.

“I don’t need to get out of them,” He said, “I called out sick.”

“But why?” Again, another thing that Adaryn couldn’t understand. Yes, she was sure that he didn’t need the money, but he was always so adamant about making the money just so he could offer some money for rent, even though it was pretty much paid for.

Instead of answering her immediately, he walked towards the bed, laying down in the tangled sheets and immediately pulling her down with him. “I could work and clean tables all night and try and drink coffee whenever I get the chance, but I haven’t seen you in a while.” He said over Adaryn’s immediate protests of being pulled against her will. In reality, she wasn’t protesting and he knew it. She knew it.

Shifting to her side to look at Monroe, hyper aware then that his hands were on her, she managed to squeak. “So you’re not going to get up?”

And immediately after she questioned, his lips tilted slightly. “Not yet.”

[Finn Eogeum]

#44 - Pretend

Word Count: 953

Finn had missed… a lot of school. This depression, it… it was so debilitating. He didn’t feel like he could do much more than lie in bed, curled up in his sheets, surrounded by cuddly toys. The morning was a cure, he wanted to sleep forever - every day. He knew it was unhealthy, and he knew people were worried about him, but he couldn’t do anything about it. His sheets were too comfortable and the world outside was too scary, somehow.

One day this week, he’d managed to get downstairs without feeling too off. That had been a good day, up until… until he had to leave his room and go to lessons. He had just broken down in tears, much to his sister’s despair, and had crumpled back into the worn, unmade bed, which he didn’t have the energy to remake, shaking with the remainders of a good sob, and had fallen bad to sleep, fully clothed. It was hard. He didn’t understand where it had come from. He’d had a girlfriend before this all started, but as the symptoms of his depression had progressed, she became stressed and confused. “This was for fun,” she had explained, “I’m not ready for something so serious.” And she left. It made things worse, and Finn was worried that more people would do the same - pack up and just leave without much of a second thought. Another reason he gave himself to stay curled up on his bed.

But this morning, he woke up… rejuvenated. Ready for the world. Ready for anything. This had happened during the holidays too. He woke up feeling bright and happy and perfect, colours back as they should be, prepared to seize the day without any problems lurking on his mind. Almost like he was temporarily invincible. It felt fantastic. He tumbled out of bed and practically skipped into the shower, singing happily (and loudly) as he washed himself, careless to whether or not he would be waking up his dear sister. Luckily, she was already awake, downstairs, eating breakfast and not able to stop herself from smiling as she did. Seeing her younger brother in such a paralysed state of mind was difficult. Hearing improvement like this was greatly encouraging.

Vicky was sipping her coffee when Finn walked in. She was still grinning, seeing the colours on his body, the pearly white that gleamed with his brightness, “Someone seems happy,” She commented, gulping down some more of the caffeine infused drink.

Finn nodded, “Today’s gonna be a good day, I can feel it!” He exclaimed, going past her to get her breakfast, “Everything’s gonna change!”

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

A lot of people were happy to see Finn. Rue had been coming over when he could but he was busy with his own work at Hammel a lot of the time. Finn understood that. It’d just been a bit lonely was all.

But there were some people showing confusion at Finn’s attitude. One of them was Megan, in his art class. He was sat, working away, feeling inspiration from about ten ideas at once. He couldn’t get the smile off of his face and he could hardly stop working. Even as she came up to him and began speaking, his hands were working away, sketching this and that and working things out.

“Finn?” He didn’t even look up as he replied, “Yeah yeah?” His speech was a little rushed, his knee bouncing, trying to stay fixated on his work. Megan’s brow furrowed, “You… feeling better?” Finn finally looked up, face screwed up in confusion and concentration, “Yeah, why?”

She cleared her throat uncomfortably, “Well… I, um…” The taller girl seemed to strongly think about her words before speaking again, “...you’re not depressed…?”

He blinked, “Well, I’m not… right now.”

“But that’s not how depression works.” She said back, “You… you see, my sister got depression, and she never did… this. You never get suddenly… better from it.” Finn stopped finally, putting his things down and turning to her, “Well, maybe it did for me.” His arms folded, “You’re not being very nice, I’ve been through a lot, you can’t accuse me like this when you don’t know what I’ve been through.”

Megan seemed to get angrier, “I know what depression is like, Finn. Stop pretending like you do too, because you obviously don’t.”

“What?”

“Depression isn’t an excuse to seek attention. It’s really childish, Finn, and I think other people agree that what you’re doing it very unfair on those people who actually suffer with the disease.”

Finn stood up quickly, face covered in disbelief, “I do suffer from it!”

“You clearly don’t!”

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

“I don’t know what to think, Rue.” Finn said, having explained all that had happened to his younger friend, “I just… feel better.” He looked at the aura reader, “Do you think it was just pretend? It didn’t feel like pretend, I wouldn’t… I wouldn’t do that on accident or something...”

“Finn…” Rue frowned, “It couldn’t have been.” His aura had changed into something different during that time. That hardly ever happened. Something had been wrong, and was still wrong. “Maybe… maybe you should go back to the doctor and talk about it.”

“But there’s nothing wrong now.” Finn argued, “I’m perfect, I… I could do anything!” He said this with certainty, “Nothing can stop me now. I can do… whatever I want now. I don’t even have to act like I’m okay, because I am; I’m brilliant!” He looked at Rue, smiling, “I can do anything.”

Was it pretend? That was something he still couldn’t really fathom, but he didn’t care, because now, he was fine. He was as fine as fine got.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#91 – Skill

“Build a wall.”

“I can’t.”

“Build a wall.”

“I’m not strong enough.”

“Build a wall.” The mental voice had yet to lose patience with him, despite his protests.

He remained grateful for that in the midst of his hopeless resignation. Unsure of what else to do, he whispered, “How?”

“Like this.

A wall appeared in his mind, strong and sturdy and impenetrable. Stone, like something from a castle right out of history or Arthurian legend. Suddenly, the worst of the noise had stopped, muted by the presence of the wall.

Despite watching it happen with his own mental eyes, Sean couldn’t replicate the feat. “I can’t do that.”

The mental voice refused to take I can’t for an answer. He never accepted that. “Then you and I will build it together, brick-by-brick.”

“How?”

A pile of stones appeared beside him. Robert’s voice manifested as a presence, and the gray-haired man approached him with a mallet in each hand. He held one out to Sean, who took it with trembling fingers.

“Don’t worry about rushing, son. We have all of the time in the world, and it is more important that we build it sturdy than to build it quickly.”

With that, Robert lifted a stone with ease and set it down beside the already-constructed wall. After a second of hesitation, Sean followed suit, slowly bringing a stone over to sit beside the one that his trainer had moved. Stone by stone, they built a wall.

Hours later, Sean opened his eyes in his trainer’s office. He had a migraine, and even the dim lighting of the room proved too much for him.

Yet the voices were blessedly silent.

*************************************

Today, Robert had declared that their training session would take place in the courtyard. Sean had bundled up in his winter coat and then had dutifully followed his trainer outside. Snow covered the grounds; although they had not had a storm for over a week, the frigid temperatures prevented even the slightest bit of melting. The piles stayed with them all winter and would remain until the end of spring, when the thaw took place.

The older telepath guided him to the bench in the middle of the courtyard, near the fountain. “I want you to sit here for exactly ten minutes. Don’t move unless your nose or fingers start to tingle. If that happens, you should come inside immediately, and we can go to the nurse.”

Sean trusted his trainer implicitly, and thus he did not fear getting frostbite or hypothermia. Rather, he couldn’t fathom the point of this exercise. “And then what?”

“I am going to walk around to the other side of the campus. After ten minutes, I want you to reach out and tell me that the time has passed.”

“All the way there?”

“And I will be shielding.”

Sean blinked in surprise at his trainer and he felt doubt creep through him.

The older telepath squeezed his shoulder. Despite being unable to feel anything through the bulky winter coat, the knowledge of the touch did wonders to calm him. “Only partially. That is what makes this a challenge, but I know you can do it.”

With that, Robert withdraw his hand and walked around the fountain, his long stride soon took him out of Sean’s line of sight.

Obediently, the young telepath began to count the seconds to himself.

Ten minutes on a snowy bench in the freezing Vermont winter felt like an eternity.

Teeth chattering, he reached the ten minute mark. He closed his eyes and reached for the mental link he kept with Robert, knowing that was the only way he could keep from shouting at the entire school.

It’s been ten minutes.

He waited with baited breath. Yet, a few seconds later, he heard his mentor’s mental voice. “I will be right there.”

*******************************

Weekends in autumn brought relaxation and excitement to campus. Students planned their Halloween costumes. Some of the younger students formed groups for trick-or-treating, where one staff member would sign out to make sure they got to and from town safely. Other students threw small parties in their rooms (with no alcohol and a mandatory open-door rule), and right before Halloween, Hammel held their autumn dance.

The cafeteria always served thematic food, and both pumpkin and apple flavors permeated the dishes. Outside, the leaves changed color before the first frost of the season.

Saturday morning, Robert told Sean to meet him in the parking lot.

The boy did so, and when his trainer’s car pulled up, he slid into the passenger seat without verbal encouragement.

Only when they were halfway to downtown Pilot Ridge did Sean ask, “Where are we going?”

“You are going to the library. I want you to read the first three chapters of A Tale of Two Cities.”

“And where are you going?” The younger telepath knew that Robert chose his words carefully. For his trainer to specify that only Sean was going to the library implied that the older telepath would be elsewhere.

“You will have to find me.”

“But you have a car.”

“I promise not to leave the town limits. If you cannot find me within two hours, I will find you.”

Sean had no reason to doubt his mentor’s word, and the conditions seemed reasonable, even if the task also sounded impossible. He nodded his assent. “I’ll try my best.”

“Of course you will.”

Robert left him in the parking lot of the Pilot Ridge Public Library. He made Sean turn his back before he drove away.

As promised, he entered the library, went off in the direction of the English classics, and, after a couple of minutes of searching, found a worn, hardcover copy of A Tale of Two Cities. He brought it over to the nearest table, whereat he settled in to read.

By the time he had finished chapter three, all he could think about was income inequality and the abuse of the poor by the legal system. He had to imagine that was part of the exercise, to distract and disorient him a bit before he had to try to find his trainer somewhere within the whole town.

Granted, Pilot Ridge paled in comparison to Boston or New York City, but the task still felt daunting. Exciting the building, he stood on the street corner to find his bearings.

Closing his eyes, he concentrated, pushing away the closer signals of the minds in the library and on the street around him. He pushed past the man walking his dog across the street and ignored the children two blocks over who were buying Halloween candy.

He ignored every mind that clambered for attention within him, pushing past all distractions until, finally, he felt Robert.

A smile touched his lips, as he began to walk in the direction of the shining mental beacon of his trainer’s thoughts.

Then, when he reached the top of the hill, he broke into a huge grin. Next to the tree, in a pile of leaves, sat the older telepath with a copy of the day’s newspaper.

“I knew you could do it,” Robert said, before glancing down at his watch. “And you have an hour to spare.”

*****************************************

“A memory is the echo of experience.”

Sean could hardly argue with that description, although he did not know what to say. He had expected that they would do more shielding work today, but instead, his mentor had set out an array of newspaper clippings and photographs from Time Magazine.

“If you change a memory or lose a memory, it is akin to the loss of that experience. This is why caution is so important.”

The younger telepath nodded solemnly, although he added, “I haven’t had a slip up in a while.”

“I know, son. This isn’t about preventing slip-ups. This is about learning to be deliberate.”

“I can’t.”

Unlike his frequent and numerous objections that some task – like shielding, like projecting, like focusing on one person– remained out of his grasp due to lack of inner strength, this was different.

Sean was sure that he could learn to be deliberate when touching people’s memories. He had risen to every challenge that Robert had set out for him over the years, and he had no reason to believe that this would be different. Particularly not with how the slip-ups had occurred.

The slip-ups couldn’t have occurred so easily if his memory powers were weak.

No, the fact that they were strong terrified him, and that was why he couldn’t.

He did not want to learn how to erase someone’s memories. He did not want to learn how to change someone’s memories. He did not want to learn how to create false memories and implant them in someone else’s mind.

He was scared of what that power, that control, that temptation might do to him.

Robert understood. He always understood. Rather than insisting that he could, as he did with their past training milestones, he instead patted his back sympathetically. “The affirmative powers are always the most difficult. But you have to learn if you want to graduate.”

“What if I hurt someone?”

“As long as I’m here with you, I can undo anything you do. And by the time you graduate, my hope is that you never have to worry about that again.”
“How would we even train this?” Why had he asked that? The mere thought caused his heart to pound louder and faster in his chest.

“I think you know Claude Harris, one of the other trainers? He volunteered.”

Sean felt better knowing that someone had volunteered, as opposed to being made into a sacrificial lamb. Still, he could not quell the unease that constricted his chest.

Robert patted his back again. “We will go slowly. Have no fear, son.”

**********************************

“Doctor Neville?”

Sean looked over from the window that had preoccupied his thoughts. Watching some of the students play outside during recess.

“Please, come in, Tara.” He recognized her as one of the research assistants, a timid young woman who had graduated from Hammel the year before he had taken on the psychiatrist position. “What can I do for you today?”

“I heard a rumor...” She began, although the brief hope in her eyes, echoed in her thoughts, told him that she had a pointed question for him, as opposed to idle curiosity.

“Yes?”

She hesitated, and he heard the question that she could not speak aloud.

He lowered his voice, speaking gently, “That rumor is true. And we can talk about it for as long as you want, just close the door so we can have some privacy.”

She breathed a sigh of relief and did as he requested, closing the door before settling in a chair. “Please, tell me about how you do it.”

“Memories are the echoes of experience...”

[Deleted]

#13 - Alcohol

Zach moved back home. Again. His parents were welcoming, of course, but he couldn’t shake the whispers he heard when they thought he wasn’t listening. Then there were the not-so-whispered words people sent at him when he was standing right there.

Claudia mostly. She’d managed to finish her degree and, instead of moving on to graduate school, had found a place at a good company almost immediately. Actually, they’d offered her the position before she graduated. Headhunted. The Queen Bee was headhunted because she was that good.

Devlin, of course, would always be the star of the Bishop children, even if he never went to college. He was up for promotion, and that was worthy of even more fawning and praise.

No, Zach was not jealous. No, he did not resent his siblings for having breakthroughs in their life while he, the 2nd eldest, was still suffering from setbacks.

His parents didn’t blame him though. They never said anything about him dropping out of his graduate program. About returning home again. About practically abandoning his fiancee.

Were he and Kai even still together? It’d been weeks since Zach last heard from him…though even if Kai came to see him, Zach was likely to just send him away, angry and upset again over some small thing that the rich man happened to do that made the writer feel like he wasn’t good enough for him. And yet the man kept coming back, even when his own parents disagreed vehemently against their partnership. Kai didn’t blame him either.

At least not on the surface. They gave him the excuses he needed to hear, to know that it was okay and that he should just take the time he needed to get over it.

“Get over it.” Being attacked like that, in the middle of the street, was not something that someone just ‘got over’! You didn’t just…!

Lany seemed fine, though. She’d gone back to the stables and was riding the horses she loved like nothing had ever happened. Zach was always looking for some sign in her that she was just putting on a brave face, but….it wasn’t that Zach wanted Lany to be as distressed as he was. It was good that she had found out how to move on and put the incident behind her. At the same time, Zach wondered what was so wrong with him that he couldn’t do the same?

Despite the numbness in his cheeks, and the fuzziness in his head, Zach could still feel the tears stinging beneath his bleary eyes. He rested his head down against the bar counter, using his arm as a pillow while simultaneously hiding his face with it. He took in a deep breath and let it out slowly. It didn’t help.

“Sir? Are you all right?” the bartender asked with concern. “Should I call you a cab?”

Zach didn’t respond for the first few seconds, but then raised his head to face the server. He must’ve looked even more like a hobo than usual. It’d been at least a week since he last shaved. He could hear Kai getting on his case about it already. Zach just…didn’t care. He managed a smile and shallow nod. “No…I’m good.” He hadn’t had so much that he still couldn’t drive home, and if not that, he’d call Kai to take him….

And get an earful for not telling the researcher that he was going out like this. Alone. Probably point out how he still couldn’t walk the streets at night without getting jumpy.

Well, driving and walking were two different things. You could lock car doors and drive away.

Zach fiddled with the neck of his beer, turning the bottle around slowly between his index and thumb. He hated seeing his blurry reflection in the opaque glass. Zach closed his eyes, but the image of his pathetic self still remained burned against his eyes.

Zach sighed again.

“Actually,” he started, clearing his throat to get the bartender’s attention again. “I think…I will need a cab…and…” Zach held up his empty bottle. “Can I get another?” The bartender nodded and opened up another bottle for the customer. This would be his last one for the night….maybe…

[Salem Hirch]

94. "Shadows"

.................................................

"I used to be afraid of shadows."

.................................................

Something stirred in the darkness. The child pulled his covers closer to his face as his pale eyes began to water. Their was something in his closet, something dark and swirling. Something that was sure to devour his soul. Sitting straight up in bed, the boy cried out in fear.

A few moments later his door swung open and his light flicked on. An older boy rushed to his side and wrapped his arms around him. "Shh Salem, it was just a bad dream." A 13 year old Aiden said, trying his best to comfort his little brother. Salem shook his head and then gently laid it on his big brother's shoulder. "The shadow's were coming for me Aiden, they were going to eat me." In his 9 year old mind this made perfect sense. "Well, I'm here. I'm not about to let anything eat my little brother. So, go back to sleep."

Salem thought about this for a moment. He was sure he had seen something coming out of his closet, but now he felt better. Aiden was there, he'd protect him. With a little nod, he snuggled back down into his blankets. "Thanks Aiden, but...could you read to me. Please?" Giving a soft chuckle, Aiden nodded and grabbed the nearby copy of 'Green Eggs and Ham'. "Of course lil' bro, just go back to sleep." As Aiden began to read, Salem closed his eyes and began to drift off to sleep.

.................................................

"Then, I guess the shadows just became something of the unknown. But I was still sort of afraid."

.................................................

This wasn't right. Aiden was missing, gone, nowhere to be found. Young Salem felt utterly useless, after all he was only 14 and there was only so much he could do. When he slept, he would see faint images of his brother. Like a shadow in the far off distance and always just out of reach. Then, when he was awake, he'd either stand in his brother's doorframe and look at the dark room. Something was there in the shadows and though he knew better, Salem felt they had something to do with why his brother was no longer there. 

This particular evening, the young man couldn't sleep. He could have sworn he saw something move from inside his closet. Though, this wasn't really strange, he had been seeing a lot of odd things lately. Salem felt so silly, he was a teenager for crying out loud, he shouldn't be afraid. Yet, there he was slinking from his own room and into his brother's. The bed was cold, but for some reason it was oddly comforting. Be that as it may, Salem could not sleep. He stared at the ceiling for a long time, until he felt a little heat behind his eyes, and noticed a flickering light above him. Thinking it was coming from a crack in the door, he looked down. 

Into the dark room came a shadowed figure, which slowly became more focused as it got nearer. It was Aiden. Salem wanted to scream and jump for joy, but Aiden put a finger to his own lips and set on the edge of the bed. The younger Hirch boy was a bit confused, until he saw the 'Green Eggs and Ham' book. With a little smile, he snuggled back down into bed and slowly drifted off to sleep. 

.................................................

"Shadows, darkness...consumed me for awhile, but something pulled me out."

.................................................

Darkness, swirling black clouds, shadows...call them what you will, it was all Salem could see. His world had gone so dark and cold. Everything just felt numb. Inside his mind he was safe, he didn't have to deal with what was going on, or be nice to people. He didn't have to pretend he was okay. Everything had gone to hell for him and he just didn't want to deal with it. Salem's parents had forced him to go on the stupid Hammel retreat even though he begged them not to. No, he had to go, it would be "good" for him. 

It was time though, time to stop everything. Salem vaguely remembered leaving the cabin, he remembered trees, and a cool breeze. Then he remembered the cliff. It was high, sheer and the perfect place really. It was actually very pretty from this point. The young man was fully prepared, but then...a voice. The shadows in his mind cleared enough to acknowledge it, though he wanted it to go away. In fact, he ran from the voice, and the person that came with it, but they followed. Salem began to think the darkness was afraid of this person, because the more he talked, the more the shadows seemed to run. 

Garrett was the voices name, and though Salem knew nothing of him, he broke down in tears. It was gratitude, shame, and a little fear all mixed into one lumped emotion. Somehow, this person had broken through the darkness and reached Salem, the real Salem. The young man would be forever grateful for that. 

.................................................

"Not just something, someone."

.................................................

Salem clicked his cellphone off as he paced near the small alleyway next to the theater. He honestly didn't have his hopes up, but there was still a little spark. "Maybe I didn't make my feelings clear?" The blonde thought out loud as he leaned against the cool bricks. It was night time, chilly out, but not too bad. There were only a few people out on the sidewalks and streets. Most of them rushing home or to dates. "Should I call him one more time?" Once again he was talking to himself. Old habits really did die hard with him. 

Then, Salem felt a warmth behind him in the shadows. An arm interlinked with his as a voice chimed in with a chuckle. "Talking to yourself again?" Garrett asked as he cooly stepped out of no where and next to Salem. Rolling his eyes, the blonde smiled and nudged him. "Yes I was. So...um...I take it you got my text....and my voice mails?" Okay, maybe he had gone a little overboard, but he wanted to be sure he got out exactly what he needed to. "I did." Garrett's reply was soft and simple as always.

"Oh, so...should we.." Salem was cut off by a finger to his lips. "We can talk after the movie. Okay?" Garrett smiled and ran his hand gently across Salem's cheek before reaching down and taking his hand. "O..ok..okay." Salem stuttered as he let himself be led into the theater.

.................................................

"I'm not afraid of shadows anymore. In fact I find them...rather inviting."

.................................................

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

90. Sword.

It literally burned.

Directly underneath the skin. Or somewhere in the layers and layers of ink pressed into her body.

Always ready, always armed. She recalled the words passing her lips the moment she asked for it. Years ago now, to get the tattoo on her right forearm. Because she wanted something melee, and she wanted something at range. Twin blades dancing in perfect unison to twist together to reach a necessary point. Unfurled wings decorated the cross-guard; detailed, feather like exerts in muted gold.

How they told her her arm was just a little too small to really wear the design. How those proverbial wings would wrap her forearm and potentially distort the image. And she laughed. She laughed at the idea that the image could ever be distorted.

Yet there it was, turned to rest the leather-wrapped hilt in her hand instead of the other way round. It wasn't supposed to settle so violently. To be within reach at the curl of her fingertips. Her expression wore obvious distress, eyebrows quirked and furrowed with clear crinkles in her brow. She pressed her free hand to the distorted design, recalling the searing burn that coincided with how it turned itself backwards in the first place. Direct contact wasn't always necessary - she always had direct contact - but still, she tried.

Still, it wouldn't budge. Not a single ounce of movement for the ink manipulator who was suddenly so desperate to look okay. She didn't want to be armed, or ready. Not at the call of her own aggression over such stupid things.

In the moment where Lucy stared at the stubborn ink she wore, precise steps were carrying Penny to her dorm. The Australian had to shake her desire to walk away whenever arguments got heated. She had other means to handle the stress, why she didn't take them was beyond the Brit. Walking away in such a hurry was just as strange, if not more so.

Minutes. She'd had to have only left it for minutes at the most before she followed. But the steps she took through the common room of the familiar dorm were momentarily halted, stalled at the sudden crash from the other side of the familiar door, and the aggravated, heightened sound that followed it.

For once, the psychometrist didn't bother to knock. She still had the key to Lucy's dorm, and so she unlocked it and hauled the door open. A keyboard and a mouse to the computer she crumbled in front of were hanging off the desk, hanging by the cables that kept them elevated in the air just above the ground. But the riddled art books atop the surface were all over the floor, certain pages loosened and strewn across the ground. She didn't need to look to know each of those pages contained her own face; she tilted her head up a fraction more, stepped through, and closed the door behind her.

Without a word, Penny breached the distance between them with careful footing across the scattered availability of the floor. Hands collided with the ink manipulator's shoulders, and were it anyone else she might have flinched or even forced the contact away. But there, she settled. And she didn't move until she felt a familiar hand slowly track the contours of her arm to the twisted ink beneath her skin. A fully pressed palm greeted it, complete contact with the affected area. She rested her chin on Lucy's shoulder, eyes closed without a look in her direction. It was impossible to see her anyway, given the way she hung her head low. The way her hair fell like dishevelled curtains to either side of her face.

"I'd like to see it move." Penny requested. Softer notions to her words strung in the air, like she was granting the request its own necessary time.

It didn't move. Not at the words. Not minutes later as they stayed there as they were. But the rhythm of her heart caught a beat less erratic, and perhaps for now, that was enough.

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

47. Blush.

"Are you-"

"Is she?"

"I think so..."

"Oh she so is; look at that face!"

Skype. In hindsight, it was a bad idea. Skyping with both Serrano parents? Also a bad idea. Skyping with both Serrano parents to give them the news of Lucy's sort of impromptu engagement in an airport? Possibly - no, definitely - the worst idea the ink manipulator had ever had.

Because there they were, faces pressed together to fit in the small window the camera provided them. Nevermind the near one-year-old bundle on her mother's lap; Lucy didn't get the time to fawn over her youngest sister.

This would have been so much better over the phone.

"Shut up!"

Or by an e-mail. Did people still do that?

"Oh come on, Lucky." Her father protested, pausing long enough to fill the air with a quick, heavy laugh, "It's not every day people get to see you like that."

Lucy rolled her eyes, dragging her feet onto the chair in order to raise her knees. High enough so she could hide behind them a little more, lips pressed into the fabric of her jeans. Because lately, it very much did feel like she looked like this all the time.

"You know what this means..." Her mother started, the corner of her mouth dragging into the most amused grin the Serrano Matriarch had worn in a good long while.

"Well, duh!"

"No." Lucy quickly objected, tilting her head up past her knees long enough to force the word out before she ducked away again.

"Yes, love." Her father interjected, a small nod of his head and an incredibly embarrassing, incredibly broad grin on his mouth, "You gotta bring her down here. ASAP- No! Wait! Save your money, come down for Christmas!"

Instantly, he went to stand up. "Jesus, no." Lucy groaned against her jeans, muddling the words entirely.

Now all she could see was the line of her father's shirt, his hands, and the phone he held in them. "I'll call everyone! So everyone'll know!" Suddenly the phone was gone, and he was taking steps back. Away. Quickly, "It'll be bloody great to see you after all these years."

The phone was pressed to his ear.

"Mum-" Lucy tried, raising her head to follow the image of her father out of the room. Like if she tilted to the side she might get a look at him. But when she failed, she fell into a heap again, her chin resting on her knees. This time, she wore a look of evident distress.

"Oh, I know, baby." She replied, her tone wearing clear sarcasm to her daughter's clear worry, "But you know how he is. So... Happy saving."

And momentarily, Lucy dragged her gaze to the corner of the room; to the psychometrist hidden away from the monitors. She might have been smirking in her humour before, but she certainly wasn't now.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#33 – Kneel

“If you’re lucky, you’ll be bought at auction.”

Decades later, Sean remembered some of the only advice he had received since manifesting his powers. Since the age of twelve, he had been treated as a commodity, as a curiosity, and, occasionally, as a radioactive element.

Life on the Farms was miserable, with no affection and little stability. Meta-humans, almost all of them teenagers (and some younger), were graded like cattle, housed according to their power type and individual potential, sorted based on their probable final placements. Those meta-humans who would go to the government, or to the military, or to law enforcement were given the highest priority. Those who might find themselves purchased by multi-national corporations or by the entertainment industry had some degree of value.

Everyone shunned the psychics.

Psychics fell into two groups: First, the ones with powers that nobody trusted, so that they could never safely leave the Farms, even with training, such as those with mind control or possession. They were consigned to spend their lives there, working manual labor or training the young meta-humans, under penalty of punishment and near-constant power suppression. The second group included metas like telepaths, empaths, those with retrocognition, the ones that more likely than not succumbed to mental illness that rendered them incapable of productive work. They, too, found themselves confined to the Farms for life, pushed out of the way until they eventually passed on.

The odds of a psychic going through the Farms to auction were quite slim.

Through hard work, perseverance, and training, Sean had made it to auction.

The overseers at the Farms provided him with a simple suit – black and white with a black tie – before putting him on the auction block. He had stood for hours, no chair provided to him to wait, until it had been his turn for bidding. When he arrived on stage, the auctioneer had been met with silence initially.

Then the bids trickled in.

Eventually, a stockbroker named Robert Bernstein had won him, had taken him home to his wife and family, and had then set him to work. During the day, Sean had gone to the office with his owner, to assist with paperwork and clerical tasks. At night, he assisted his owner’s wife with housework and meal preparation. The young telepath was the same age as the oldest Bernstein son, but rather than pursuing higher education, he had a lifetime ahead of him of servitude in lieu of freedom.

He considered himself lucky, despite it all. He had retained his sanity, was the first telepath in years who had escaped the Farms with full command of his mental faculties. The Bernsteins kept him well fed, they provided adequate clothing, and allowed him to borrow any books he wished from the family library, as long as he had already finished his work for the day. They gave him his own bedroom, small as it was, removed from the rest of the rooms in the apartment, but still a place of his own, with an actual bed. If he fell sick, they took him to one of the few medical clinics willing to treat meta-human slaves. They spared him some of the utter humiliation some other slaves suffered, although the constant indignity of being treated as property rather than a person could never disappear.

He had no friends, of course, no social life of any sort. He had not heard from his family since first manifesting and being sent to the Farms. He didn’t know whether his parents were still alive. He had no idea of what had happened to his sister, whether she had manifested (which he dearly hoped she had not), or whether she had gone on to get married, have children, and have a satisfying career of her own. He didn’t know whether his parents had chosen to have other children to replace him in the household, or if Kathleen had taken on the mantle of an only child. He didn’t know whether Kathleen even remembered him at all.

He had no hope of children. He was sterile, although the government did not advertise that to the general public. It appeared in the medical records of any meta-human purchased at auction or otherwise sent to a government department. He couldn’t marry, not another meta-human nor a baseline human.

He lived in an apartment with other people, he lived in a city of eight million residents, he could hear the thoughts of thousands outside of his window, but he was forever isolated. Decades passed, and he remained isolated, remained property.

Then Robert Bernstein had passed away after a long, protracted battle with Alzheimer’s Disease. Sean then cared with Charlotte Bernstein until the end of her life.

With her passing, her attorney, as executor of her will, had divided up her property. Sean had stood quietly in the corner during the reading of the will, to serve beverages if anyone asked. The middle child, Joshua, had watched him sympathetically, as he always had. From the time that Josh had been a teenager only three years younger than him, he had expressed sympathy for his plight. Had become an abolitionist politician in his own right.

All three Bernstein children, as well as Matt’s and Talia’s spouses, and Sean himself, had expected that Charlie had bequeathed the telepath to Talia. She had young children and a busy household, and she could benefit the most from his domestic skills.

The apartment passed to all three children, to be sold and have the proceeds divided amongst them. Various accounts went to one or another. The car went to Matt, since he had two children of driving age. Then, came the last bequest. “I leave my meta-human, Sean, to my son Joshua, to look after him in any way he sees fit.”

Sean dared a glance at the younger man. He had never seen him so angry before, although he kept it to himself as best he could.

With the end of the reading, the other children and the attorney left. Josh and Sean remained behind. Looking ashamed, the politician asked, “Do you want to stay here tonight? We won’t start cleaning out the apartment for a week or two, and this is your home as much as it was hers.”

Sean looked down at his hands. He rarely made eye contact, as nobody expected it unless asking him a direct question. Quietly, he replied, “The co-op board only allowed me to stay because Mister and Missus Bernstein vouched that there would be a baseline human present with me at all times. They won’t allow me to stay another night.”

The politician grew angrier, although, to his credit, he did not say anything to Sean. Instead, he sighed and suggested, “I can help you pack your bag, and we can call a taxi.”

Sean did not mean to be contrary, but he replied, “The livery commission won’t serve meta-humans.”

Josh sighed again. He had known that, but had momentarily forgotten. This changed so much, more than he can even conceive. “What about the subway?”

“As long as you go with me, they won’t prevent me from riding.”

“Then we’ll take the subway.”

Sean nodded in compliance. “May I pack my bag then, Mister Bernstein?”

The politician winced. “Call me Josh.”

Sean didn’t even know how to call an owner by his given name, but he would try to comply with the order. At least he didn't have to go back to the Farms; at least he could stay on the outside, even if he had to pass hands yet again.

He remained lucky.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#57 – Haze

“What am I thinking?”

“I don’t know.”

“Try”, the doctor implored. The older man behind him adopted a gentler expression. “Please,” he added, to make up for the doctor’s rudeness.

He concentrated for a long moment, staring into the doctor’s eyes. After an uncomfortably long moment of silent eye contact, he said, “You’re frustrated with me and want to know how long we have to keep this up.”

The older man seemed pleased with this, but before he could say anything, the doctor interrupted. “Why do you say that?”

He shrugged slightly, clasping his hands in his lap. “Because I’m frustrated too, and I can hear it in your voice.”

The older man’s face fell. “Just do your best,” he said. “If you regain any memories, let us know.”

With that, the appointment ended, and Sean was ushered from the office.

It was early afternoon, the typical lunch hour. Josh was at his office, and the other man had been kind enough to let him borrow the bicycle. Occasionally, his friend mentioned possibly buying him his own bicycle, although Sean always assured him that such a gesture, while deeply appreciated, was also unnecessary. After all, aside from the medical appointments, where did he go?

He had no visitors and no friends, no job and no home of his own. Instead, he lived in Josh’s guest space, and he felt grateful for the shelter and for the company. Just as he felt grateful for the allowance that Josh gave him, some pocket money while he found himself unable to work or manage his own affairs.

Today, he wanted to use that pocket money to buy his friend lunch.

At the very least, he could get the attorney a cup of coffee.

The ride to the downtown office took little time. Pilot Ridge traffic rarely constituted traffic in the same way that books and television shows depicted it, although Sean had no recollection of anything outside of the town limits, but for Maddock Hospital in the next town over. To his recollection, he had never seen “real traffic,” and thus could only judge by his own experiences. By his own experiences, traffic was typical, and cars stayed out of his way as he made the trip to the office building.

He locked up the bicycle on the rack outside the steps, checking twice to make sure he had done it properly. He could never forgive himself if he lost Josh’s bicycle or otherwise led to it being stolen or vandalized. Not when his friend had given him the freedom of mobility and took such good care of him otherwise.

Arriving at the office, he smiled at the receptionist, who looked at him in surprise. “Doctor Neville? What are you doing here?”

Intellectually, Sean knew that “Doctor Neville” referred to him. That was what the doctors had told him, was how they addressed him at his appointments. Josh confirmed that he was Sean Neville and that, once upon a time, he had been a psychiatrist. That he had held a medical degree for almost thirty years. That he had been Doctor Neville for that long, and that he had been Sean Neville for nearly twice that long.

He took that on trust, because he still had no recollection of any of that. Although he kept it to himself.

Offering the receptionist a smile, he answered, “Is Josh here? I wanted to take him to lunch.”

“He’s in a meeting, but if you want to wait for him in the lobby, I’ll let him know that you’re here,” Nikko informed him.

“That would be great, thank you.”

Sean took the invitation and sat down in the lobby, reaching for one of the magazines set out on the end table. An assortment of political and news magazines, and then, perplexingly National Geographic. Curious enough, he picked up the closest booklet, the most recent issue of Mother Jones (which he had already read half of, since Josh had a home subscription as well) and read to pass the time. He blew through the first few articles, as he had seen them before, and then settled in on page 28.

A retrospective on the history of the Gay Men’s Health Crisis gave him pause, and he stared at the pictures, at the names and dates littered throughout the text. Something about that seemed familiar, and he couldn’t place his finger on it.

By the time Josh came out of his meeting, Sean had stared at the same article for well over ten minutes.

“What a nice surprise!” The attorney greeted him with a smile. However, seeing the intense expression on Sean’s face, he drew nearer. “Is something wrong?”

“No,” Sean was quick to assure him. However, he could not set down the article, not yet. “Did one or both of us live in New York in the 1980s?”

“Yes.” Josh wet his lips. “We...we both did for all of the 80s. Why?”

“I don’t know.” Try as he might to reach for the feeling, tried to unravel the thread that drew him to the article, he could not. After another couple of minutes, Sean shook his head, as the concern melted back into the same haze as the rest of his memories. “I read an article, that’s all.”

Josh’s face fell, although he tried to mask it by bringing them back to his initial remark. “What brings you by today?”

“Did you want to get lunch?” Sean had nothing else to do with his time, and he enjoyed Josh’s company. Not that he wanted to deprive his friend and benefactor of attention from other people, but he cherished any time together.

“Of course. Just give me a few minutes to pack up.”

“Sure.” Sean leaned back to wait and returned his attention to the article. Maybe by the time his friend had finished packing up, he would manage to recover something. If nothing else, maybe he would have a clearer idea of the questions he wanted to ask Josh.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#56 – Indirect

1979.

“The apartment looks nice,” Mary Neville remarked, as she and her husband went through the living room. Sean knew that she meant that as a half-truth. His mother did mean that they had done a good job unpacking, since no boxes remained in sight, since they had a full complement of furniture, a full set of housewares, a couple of rugs, and what some could generously refer to as artwork. The telepath also knew that his mother did not agree entirely with the décor, and that she did not know what to think about the church pew that doubled as a sofa. But that she had expected nothing else from two young men, one about to enter his first year of medical school and the other who had only finished his freshman year of college the month before.

His family’s adherence to gender-based stereotypes occasionally had utility.

“Were you able to hook up the television and the turntable?” William Neville asked, stopping to examine what constituted their entertainment corner.

“Everything works fine,” Sean promised. He had hooked both up himself, since he had more mechanical knowledge than the younger boy did. Josh had essentially no experience with electronics, beyond knowing how to work them. The instruction manuals had clearly explained how to set both up step by step, and the telepath had made no mistakes. Now he and Josh had access to television and music whenever they wanted.

“Good.” While the Neville family did not subscribe to more blue-collar gender roles, he still expected that his son would know how to do basic home maintenance, just as he did for the house on Long Island.

His parents reached the hall which veered off in the direction of two different bedrooms. “Which room is yours?” His mother asked.

He gestured at the one a bit further from the corridor, closer to the bathroom. “That one.”

Without asking whether they could see it, his mother walked ahead of him, entering the room and flicking on the light switch.

Sean held his breath, hoping that she would not ask where the campaign posters had come from. That she would not want to take a peek in his closet, where she would see clothing that was not his size interspersed with his own recognizable outfits.

At least he trusted that she would not look through his nightstand drawers, and thus would find neither the pack of condoms nor the bottle of lubricant he kept there.

Thankfully, she only spent a moment looking in at the room proper, before nodding with approval. “It looks nice,” she repeated, which would be the extent of the compliments he received for decorating.

Sean accepted that. The less scrutiny the better. After all, his plan had been to make the apartment conform to the minimum standards necessary to pass his parents’ inspection, so that they would not feel the need to spend a weekend decorating for him. By complying with those expectations, he and Josh could live their lives uninterrupted. Hiding for Sean’s family or for Josh’s family, whenever they visited, was a fair bargain for the freedom of their apartment otherwise.

They could pretend to be two bachelors, only two friends who found it cost effective to share an apartment. Nobody needed to know that their apartment was their refuge from the rest of the world, the only place where they could be themselves: two young men who had fallen in love with each other and intended to make a life together.

They could present as though they each had their own bedroom, rather than the fact that they shared Sean’s bedroom, and that Josh’s bedroom served as a guest room and as additional storage.

“Will Josh be home soon?” William asked, walking back towards the living room. “We made reservations for 5:30p.m.”

“He should be home in ten or fifteen minutes,” the younger Neville promised. He confirmed that through telepathy a moment later.

One awkward supper was a small price to pay for the apartment.

***************************************

The mid-1980s.


“How are you tonight?”

Sean’s parents called him every Wednesday night, when he returned home from his residency. Just as they expected to see him twice a month for supper on the weekends, the weekly telephone call was one of many familial obligations intended to keep them close.

“I’m fine,” he lied. It took sheer force of will for him to keep his voice from trembling. To behave as though he was fine, rather than unraveling from the inside out.

“And how is Josh?”

His parents asked, because they cared, even if they failed to understand how much he hid for the sake of family harmony. He could not be honest, because they did not want to hear it, or otherwise could never handle it.

He could never tell them about the big events in his life. He could not talk about religion, or politics, or...

“Josh?” He repeated, and his voice cracked around the younger boy’s name.

He hadn’t seen Josh in days, had not heard from him since that night. Not since...

But he had not told his parents, because he could not tell them. How could he tell them about a painful breakup when they had never realized that he and Josh were a couple in the first place?

It took everything in him, every ounce of training that Robert Hopkins had given him in order to help him cope with telepathy, to prevent him from breaking down right there on the telephone.

If he broke down, his life would unravel around him, and he had so little left to keep together.

“He’s fine too,” he lied again. “Just busy with school.”

That was true enough. The law student did worry about his grades and had promised to focus harder on them, had made that clear that horrible night.

“We should all go out for brunch next weekend,” his mother suggested.

“I’ll see if he can come,” that was a promise Sean had no intention of keeping. “But I have to go; I have an early morning tomorrow.”

His mother let him go without further questions.

He barely managed to hang up the phone before he lost control. He barely fell into bed to bury his face in his pillow before the tears began to fall.

[Rhea Hartman]

42. Lust

Rhea Hartman, age 26

Rhea sat on the toilet in Trent's apartment, peeing quietly. She had waited all of the ten minutes it took for him to fall asleep so she could fart and mop up and check for spotting in private, and she didn't want to wake him now.

She dropped the last wad of tissue paper into the toilet and rested her head on the wall behind her. It had been makeup sex, technically, but the humid beginning faded to a mechanical ending. Trent said he was tired. Rhea almost told him to suck it up, but she didn't want to start their second fight in as many hours.

The bathroom was so small that Rhea bruised her knee on the underside of the sink while she was getting up. Swearing to herself, she limped back into the bedroom to find wherever her underwear had landed. Trent lay spread on his back in the middle of the bed. They'd never really established whose side of the bed was whose, and Trent slept like he'd been dropped onto the mattress from sixty feet up.

They'd been fighting about deodorant. Rhea had a toothbrush she kept in Trent's bathroom, and more recently, a Lady Speed Stick. She put it in the cabinet behind the mirror, but every time she came over it had been moved to the cluttered, fossilized mess underneath the sink. He said he didn't know how it got there. She asked if he was suggesting that someone broke in and rearranged his bathroom drawers. He asked why it was such a big fucking deal. She said it was a pain in the ass to keep pulling it out from behind the sunscreen bottles covered in old shaved beard hair, and what was his problem with keeping it in the cabinet. He said it took up too much space. She said what, more space than your three different kinds of shaving cream? And on it went.

Rhea spotted her lavender shorts easily in the sea of his grey and navy laundry. As she fished them out, she realized that was the problem. Pink. Her deodorant was pink. And Trent could press one fifty at the gym and looked like chiseled granite when he did it, but he couldn't have something pink and flowery in his bathroom cabinet.

It wasn't even worth the effort to wake him up. Rhea just gathered up her things and left. She helped herself to one of his better running shirts on the way out.

[Dr. Sean Neville]

#41 – Dawn

Sean Neville had lived on the edge for so long that he no longer recalled what it was to live within the typical parameters of society.

What was normal?

Normal people woke up and went to work. Sometimes they had a commute. Few people were fortunate enough to work around the corner from where they lived, or to work from home.

Sean woke up and went to work, although few people would consider his sworn duty the same as a career. His obligations afforded no opportunity for advancement, and the only reward was the satisfaction that he had made the world safer for mankind, and the fact that he would live to see another day.

He survived between the inheritance from Robert Hopkins and his family, and from the stipend paid to him by the same association that oversaw hunters throughout the nation. As long as he remained on the right side of the fight, they paid his rent and occasionally replaced his equipment. Secret associations helped them to protect and care for their elders, an important task given that most hunters lacked legitimate jobs and thus their eventual Social Security payments were minimal. Although Medicare proved a nice benefit to those among them that lacked access to healthcare through proper channels.

Life as a Hunter lacked glamor.

Sometimes he felt so disconnected from human society as a whole. He had no time for popular culture, had little time for typical politics – although he made sure to vote in every election (national and local – he even managed to vote in every schoolboard election for his neighborhood). He took no real vacations; nearly every trip he took involved warding off disaster in a different area: banshees in Boston, gargoyles at the Grand Canyon...the nicest trip he had had within recent memory was when the selkies had beached down in Florida. Even then, he had spent the entire trip herding the selkies to get them back to Ireland and to prevent anyone on the beaches from realizing what had happened. He had had four hours between finishing with his task and returning to New York, and the highlight of that trip had been eating at Sonic. The nearest Sonic to New York was in the Midwest, which was to say, not nearby at all.

He could not remember the last time he had gone to a human club, somewhere to relax and have a drink without having to watch his back for fear of being stabbed when his head was turned. He could not remember the so movie he had seen in theaters. He had not attended a play, on Broadway or off-Broadway, in years. He had attended a baseball game about a decade ago, and he had had to leave before the ninth inning due to an emergency.

What was normal?

He slept sporadically, ate carefully, albeit different from the diets that trended. While people in his neighborhood worried about gluten and organic vegetables, he had to carefully balance his meat intake to prevent from attracting the wrong types of creatures through his sweat. He lived on coffee and, despite enjoying the taste of alcohol, had to limit his intake to no more than one weak drink every couple of days. Wine coolers, rather than hard liquor.

As though he would drink wine coolers of his own free will, if he had the ability to relax, to let his guard down enough to consume something with flavor or a bit of a kick to it.

He never went to parties for similar reasons.

His human social circle had shrunk so small as to be practically non-existent; but for James Campbell inviting him to holiday parties every year, Sean thought he might never interact with another human being except when rescuing them from danger.

How some of the other hunters managed to have families to one degree or another, he would never understand.

Instead, he had relied on Robert for companionship until his mentor had passed on, leaving him otherwise alone in the world. Leaving him to his own devices.

“Is something on your mind, Liebling?”

Sean turned to look at his companion, frowning at the vampire. “You know I find that infantilizing.”

“You are a fraction of my age. By comparison, you are an infant.”

The hunter narrowed his eyes. “So what does that make you?”

“Honest and open-minded.”

Sean snorted dismissively. “Honest is not the first word that comes to mind when thinking about you.”

Joshua looked offended, although, as with many of his expressions and behaviors, it was primarily an affectation. The Vampire Lord valued dramatic performance more than the average thespian. “Do you call into question my intentions?”

“One of us has never broken his promise to the other one, and I’m the one with the perfect track record.”

Joshua could not argue that, and he knew better than to try. “Do you want another apology?”

“No, I meant to make a point.”

A jogger passed them on the path, alerting them to the time.

Daybreak would come soon.

“You should get back,” the hunter said with a sigh.

“You never answered my question.”

“We can talk about it tonight.”

Joshua looked like he wanted to argue, but time was against him. He relented, because he did have to return to his coven before the first light of morning. “Where shall we meet?”

“In front of the Guggenheim. I miss going to museums.”

“Very well.” Joshua leaned in to brush his lips across the hunter’s. Cold, as always, but Sean was used to that. It had been so long since he had been with a person whose heart beat and whose veins pumped blood that he could barely remember what warmth felt like in the context of physical contact. “Try not to get killed today.”

“I should say the same to you.”

They walked to the end of the path, where Joshua’s driver met him with the town car. The Vampire Lord climbed into the backseat, and the car drove away.

Sean watched it disappear into the distance, before deciding to take another lap around Central Park.

He supposed he should sleep soon too, when he finished his lap. If he fell asleep by 6:30a.m., he could sleep until 11:30a.m. and then go about his business. That would give him six hours of daylight to seek out some contacts and do some daylight hunting. Then he had a date.

By the time he left the park, sunrise had begun. If he had any regrets, it was that he could never watch it with Joshua.

Not that he would ever tell the vampire that.

[Carter Chevalier]

11. Taxi.

New York City was as busy as one could expect. Having dragged himself out of bed - or rather, inevitably been dragged - the elder Chevalier twin promptly got ready for the day. But by the time they made it out the door, it was closer to midday.

She, the Brit he found himself most drawn to, was invested enough in a day out in the city with Carter by her side. While it wasn't a place he was from, he knew it well enough. But their interests never collided, running in opposite directions when it came to interests. He thought to show her the gallery his father owned, and she seemed genuinely interested in seeing it. Later. Why spend so much of their time inside when they could be out in the proverbial elements during such a nice day?

...Alright. It was raining. But she was a hydrokinetic, and for her, a little rain is a very good thing.

Nevertheless, he promised her the day. And the day she could have. Anything she wanted by the hands of the Chevaliers.

Stepping out of the hotel lobby and into the buzzing street, Carter immediately glanced across the streets for the familiar. But before he could look, his eyes were attached to her. She was at the curb with a hand in the air.

A cab stopped. He raised his eyebrows.

"Come on," Rya motioned, hand pressed to the handle of the back door. Carter's eyes immediately collided with the connection.

He laughed.

"Absolutely not." He replied, grinning at the absurdity as he retrieved his phone.

"Hey, hey, hey!" She called out, letting the cab door go to reach for his arm, "Do not call your driver."

"I'm calling my driver." He reasoned, shifting his weight to his other foot as he pressed the device to his ear.

"Don't call your driver."

An impromptu series of loud noises emitted from the car itself. Either get in, or get out. Carter still kept the phone pressed to his ear.

"Rya-" He went to reason, motioning towards the yellow car with a wave of his hand. Like it was ridiculous and she had to know that. Her face kept its stern expression, and as such he lost his sentence and argument before he could even make it. Pursing his lips, he momentarily glanced away.

She stepped back, her fingers curling back around the handle and she pulled it open.

"You getting in or what?" The driver beckoned to her, and without a look she was quick to answer.

"Yes."

Rya tilted her head to the back seat, motioning for him to give it up and get in. He glanced back at her again.

"My shoes are worth more than the entire car itself." Carter declared, tilting his head up with a judgemental stare, "I spend more on my hair in a day then he does on tires for a-"

"Anything I wanted." Rya repeated, "All day." She raised her eyebrows, the corners of her mouth dragging down to the threat of a disinterested frown. Rocking his weight back, Carter looked at her, "You know it's not easy to accept something like that, but I did."

As far as intensity went, Carter believed that nothing matched the expression she gave him. She put up with a lot, really. The place they were staying made her uncomfortable. His driver, more so. She was the type to find a city for what it was, not what one could afford. And he knew that. Exhaling a sigh, he retracted his phone from his ear, hanging up the call and throwing it into his jacket pocket.

"Mon amour," He warned her, stalling shy in the space between the open door and the seat itself.

"Give it up, blondie," Rya quickly replied, smug connotations rifling across her expression, "There's nothing you can catch in there that you haven't had already."

[Lucy Serrano-Blaise]

53. Weapon.

Sixteen and home for the mid-year holidays already, Lucy quickly found herself in the only place she really wanted to be. Her first few months at Hammel had been - in her eyes - an absolute nightmare. She had one friend. One. And that was one more than she figured she'd have at this point. One was enough. Rowan Booker was plenty. As far as everything else went, the oppressive nature of the entirety of life at Hammel was too overwhelming for someone who rarely ever did as she was told. She wanted to be armed. Ready.

So she laid back, her head resting in her hand as the other was firmly held by a familiar set; those of her father. Five little pots of ink lined up in a row; black, white, purple, darker purple and yellow. The familiar buzz of a familiar tattoo gun in a familiar shop; for something so painful, it was calming. The hem of her dress was drawn up completely, the band of her underwear lowered just enough to make room. Familiar, albeit not-so at the same time were pressed against her skin. The watchful, trusting eyes of Luka Serrano examined the black ink as each line was placed. Precise stokes; fluid movements and not a notch out of place. At least, not to him.

A laser gun. On her hip.

A purple and yellow laser gun on his sixteen-year-old daughter's hip.

Forever.

"Birds are looking better." Her father pointed out. The once thick, shakey lines were now completely settled. Defined in their own way despite the simplistic designs of the sparrows at her hips. Given the current placement of her latest design, he couldn't help but look.

"Thanks." Lucy drawled, the little word sounding tired past her lips.

"Fits in well with the curve of this newey," He added, though his voice was strained, "Too bad it's a bit stupid."

"For someone so young," The artist started. A family friend, no doubt. And well aware of the fact that Lucy had been sixteen for just seven months, "You're looking at a lot of work."

"Parental consent." They both replied at the same time.

"Alright." He said, shrugging his shoulders before dropping his head in tandem with the needle back into the eldest Serrano's skin. She kept her eyes closed, a shaking breath passing her lips as her nose crinkled instinctively. He stopped, took a breath, and opened his mouth; "So if you think it's so stupid, why're you giving consent?"

Her father sighed. Luka Serrano was no stranger to a regrettable tattoo; he had too many to keep track of personally. "It doesn't matter what I say."

"Actually, it does. Like... A lot, it does." Because without consent, they wouldn't be there.

"Mate, you could tattoo the words you're a bloody idiot on her ass and it wouldn't matter." He explained, to the best of his ability. Because as if on cue, the freshly laid lines were working wonders to wiggle out of place. Just slightly; vivid shifting back and forth as if it were shaking. Threatening to straighten further or jump out of her skin completely. "Love," Her father warned, squeezing her hand in his tightly.

"I know," She stressed, eyes squeezing shut, "I'm sorry."

Hands of the artist raised, but he didn't seem surprised. He'd seen it all before. It wasn't as bad as the application of the lion on her forearm six months ago. It took time for the piece to settle again, the lines of the outlined laser gun seeming just that little bit crisper, as if they'd worked to shake the excess ink back into place. The moment it passed, she caught the eyes of the artist at her hip and offered a small nod in tandem with an apologetic smile.

A needle to her skin again, and she closed her eyes. Briefly. She exhaled a wavering breath before she looked up at the bright blue eyes of her father.

"After this, I wanna talk about another one." She started.

"Already?" He asked with a laugh.

"Yeah." She replied, squeezing his hands tightly, "On the ribs."

"Lucky." He warned, and immediately his gaze dropped to the grin she wore. Or was it a smirk? Either way, it was wrapped with confidence.

"I know, I know." Lucy started, trying to wipe off his concern with a nonchalant tone. A tone which stressed every time the needle caught her form again, "But I'll be fine." Dark eyes prospered in the available notion. Ribs were painful. Like cutting in with glass. She knew it, but she didn't know. She couldn't.

The man with his daughter's names across his surely did. "I dunno about that, love."

"I know exactly what I want it to say." She continued on, but her smile lost its light, and her eyes carried their usual colour. Stress. Distress for the idea that in a few weeks, she'd be gone again, "And I need it before I go back."

Luka Serrano knew that look. The same look that slapped her with consent for a lion on her forearm before she first went to Hammel. "Let's focus on this one, first." He replied, lowering his head at the words as his mouth caught a grin, "Figure out how to explain 'em both to your mum later."