I regret never letting him know I did love him. I regretted being so angry all the time at everyone and everything.

And don't worry, he's still alive and he's living his life-- if not happy, then he's content.

My brother is 29 and he checks the boxes of what you expect a man to be-- of few words, minimally affectionate, stoic, and lifts weights.

This is the story of how I found out, just how deeply my brother loved and cared about me. Keep in mind for much of his life I was a dumb kid too wrapped up in herself to look at things too closely.

I remembered my brother as an awful tease. But he smiled, he had shaggy hair, I did like his face when it looked happy. I liked how he used to let me stand on his legs and he would hold me by my wrists so I didn't fall off.

He called me small a lot. Back then I hated being small, I hated being a girl. I hated that my emotions were too big and I hate when I yelled at him.

My brother started napping. A lot. He wouldn't go to school or he would be taken by force to school in the morning. Just to walk back home.

He didn't speak during the week. He was only my happy brother on weekends. I didn't think much of it, of course he hates school. That's why he goes quiet and looks all sullen-- after all, he just plays his videogames, he isn't too smart.

How do you apologize for thinking that way? I wish I could one day.

I was a kid but he's family, I'm in the house with him everyday, and I worried but I never did anything.

I even yelled at him and said I wished he wasn't my brother. That he were gone.

I think it was only in my teen years that it hit me, my brother had been depressed and only just got effective help in his twenties.

But the person he'd been back then-- who laughed and teased me to no end-- wasn't there anymore.

And I didn't understand emotional nuance at the best of times.

To me, my brother had suddenly grown all too distant. He didn't speak at home, I didn't know what in the world I could talk to him about.

I love him but back then I wondered if that love was reciprocated.

When I was nineteen I realized his love was a constant but silent type.

My brother, so tall and wide, like a wall or a mountain could be surprisingly gentle.

When he hugs someone, especially a small, five foot anxious mess, I could completely hide in his chest.

I broke down mid spring break because I hadn't had a spring break all week and I realized I'd missed an exam that semester when I was nineteen.

He let me bury my head in his chest and cry.

The most somber note of Vortex's crime against him was reduced to simply a foot note in the news story and even the files for the Star Shrine heroic federation.

Alex would never get all his memories back. Of the patchwork Frederick Weiss had made of his head, pieces were missing leaving hollows where wind passed coldly and hanging seams.

His Mother-- who was either a disengaged and cold caregiver or his singular parent who worked to provide the relative safety of wealth and in equal measures loved Alex for the mess he could be-- had been decidedly angry of the whole ordeal, and in her anger had exiled him from her (their) house.

He didn't remember where or what his favorite place for Asian food was.

That boy Caine-- that boy who was his singular friend who knew about his bully hunting-- had had to tell him.

Alex hadn't even known he hated his school principal, of which Santori had tried to take advantage of so shamelessly that it made Alex angry and therefore get another suspension.

Not that he'd be in that school long enough for it to matter.

Alex admittedly felt somewhat guilty.

Even if the vast view of glimmering city lights like a coffer of jewels spread out before him in a somehow starry night sky.

He wasn't allowed on the roof.

He especially wasn't allowed out on the roof by himself.

The juggernaut of Althea in the Northern states was mostly green powered, no smog to blot the sky like black ink forced to canvas, but the swathes reserved for biofuel and wind operated twenty-four hours a day which included watch lights and the blare of processing machines or inspection trucks.

And of course, the light pollution of backup batteries powering the high rise and glitzy skyscrapers of the rich and elite.

In fall weather a chill in Althea felt like the icy caress of a drowned man's hand.

Alex was allowed out by himself for a singular reason.

He'd managed to prove to a psychiatrist that he wasn't either a flight risk to the heroes in the dorm complex or-- more importantly, everyone would say-- a risk to himself.

Alex's favorite was the news. Every so often a member of the rich and elite was caught-- getting arrested when they embezzled funds, if they misused and abused their workers or their wives or their husbands, kids, family. They were abusive and it was disgusting. And it would be on the TV like nothing.

Drug lords and hitmen were processed from the continent. They were tried in court, and more often than not left the building either fully restrained for attempted violence or simply handcuffed. Disgraced. Depowered. Accountable.

Alex never quite wrapped his head around that part.

His arms were in goosebumps from leaning them on the glass balcony, deciding to place his head in them, hiding away from the light, the glamour, and even the stars.

It was funny, how easy it seemed that the stars could wink out of existence. That he focused on the sleek, but dark coats of the cars below the street and the rush of vertigo associated with the chiding warning-- to not fall.

Alex may have been content to just sleep on the roof that night.

He didn't feel like going inside.

He'd been given an isolated, out of the way corridor where a room had been repurposed and a wall knocked down--

Alex flinched, remembering how snide Torbin had sounded when speaking of the guardsman in a pranking mood who had almost covered Alex's designated room (his prison) in unicorn decals and a coat of pink polka dots for the walls.

Never seeing the man even once and all too quickly his existence had been erased from the house.

Whether Alex would never know if he'd died hadn't scared him-- much as when he realized, while scrambling to keep his own memories from flowing away like water-- that the man was as good as dead. Because he'd been forgotten.

And many of the Weiss Brothers' men had no life outside the manor.

A jolt stunned Alex out of his reverie.

And he closely watched the form of The Seer: Belinda Thurgood make her languid, almost hovering off the ground way toward him.

Alex had carved the way her eyes were too wide into his memory.

Similar to how he'd carved the stars and the lights and the smell of clean Althea air into his memory.

Abel kept quiet in his seat. Even as the air having more reach of his face and his scalp was still a growing process.

Which he had tried to ignore since the morning when Emile had cut it.

Emile had promised that during their vacation both could sleep in and not worry too much about planning or lists or responsibilities.

Just getting away, spending some time together, and watching the motel TV when they weren't sightseeing.

Only for Abel to be caught well off guard when Emile nudged him awake just at sunrise-- 6:15-- commenting to the state of Abel's hair in a chiding voice.

Of which he had been much too confused to actually refuse or make a request.

Simply groaning and possibly making one or two whiny replies about being allowed to sleep.

Propping him onto the bathroom counter, he'd placed a couple of white towels that were surely complementary with the motel, and measured out his admittedly chin length waves of hair.

The end result being a low crop of hair and his sides buzzcut that all in all appeared quite fifties.

Prompting a fair question about the event's theme, "will it be fifties based?"

"Oh no, just a normal black tie and," he simply shrugged, responding in a hum, "I admit it's my fault your hair got so long."

Emile looked to the mess now made of the counter and sink.

"Not to mention unruly."

Abel had winced and glowered at Emile plenty as he had pulled at split ends and knots of hair.

Still, keeping his promises-- of a heating blanket and to send postcards to Violet daily--didn't go unappreciated.

And it was that warming blanket that he sank into from the front seat of the car.

Emile had been uncharacteristically silent through the whole drive as well. Quite obviously attributed to nerves and Abel could see why.

There were truly too many moving parts to even attempt to make Emile look less than the ever giving, doting, and understanding foster father who-- much as he loathed to admit-- loved Abel as his very own. With no... no contradiction to that statement.

Much less anything more severe.

Abel had been so tired. No other two ways, no silver lining much less a through line to explore about it.

Abel was simply… so tired.

Even the macabre image he'd conjured of how that "well-raised" young man in his head slowly silenced-- "smothered in a thick down pillow until it didn't move or even twitch anymore--" rang hollow.

He'd lost count of how many times he caught his thoughts-- believing in fleeting glances and of the serene, tepid repetition of the AC unit or the sound of intermingled voices, of silly poses from a horizon line or retro old arcades and disco glasses-- that he was a boy on a vacation.

Everything was fine.

Everything was fine, except Emile tapped, tapped, tapped the steering wheel with his fingers in a jilted, erratic rhythm.

He’d informed Abel of the rules quite early on.

Per usual stay close where he could be seen, ask when wishing to go to food or the restroom.

”You’d get lost or hassled without an invitation,” Emile reasoned, and then his face had shuttered closed— dark and bitter.

”And you show me a gentle adult with even a minutiae of power I’ll show you someone who is either high or touched in the head.”

And remembered himself and Abel around to just as quickly correct, “never judge an ill person. Never judge in general, things like that are invisible.”

Emile would not protect him should Abel choose to make a scene.

But of course, to be looked at as crazy, to be so indisputably ignored would be more than suitable punishment.

”Anymore would be just cruel,” he reassured but with no less frigidity in an otherwise placid expression.

No stealing or sneaking off. No violence or inkling of destruction—

He knew exactly what he was trying to do, appreciating the clever two-fold of making such a display of himself.

”You’re so sly,” such a simple admission and one that in Emile’s mouth enthused with beaming pride.

And while they had been sight seeing and Abel bounced around to see every inch of rising buildings and feel pavement on the soles of his shoes, Emile had also invested in buying him a new toy.

A simple handheld game that had a zombie shooter game and a similar knight themed game pre-downloaded.

He could play while the boring adults talked about landline phones and hippies.

Abel therefore, did not have to talk to anyone he didn’t wish to.

But he should shake their hands and make eye contact. Be polite.

Respond the way he would making a good impression upon Mr. Rossilini— Dad’s— clients.

The friend Emile was most eager to see had been in his loyalty from both home and school for many years.

Abel had studiously stored away as well as analyzed the fact that Emile had been in the foster care system— presumably aging out for unruly behavior without ever being adopted.

Hence on the outside of their own arrangement, there was at least one person who could jump upon the smallest inconsistency or silent distress.

But more urgent, was the realization that even if Emile was certainly lying about having no family to trace and likely gaps of his life undocumented or otherwise scrambled to be a viable paper trail of warning signs, he’d nevertheless possess many years of experience to possibly exploit the system or plant someone who could.

And more than likely, considering the guile with which he got even stone hearts to indulge his sixteenth birthday with a car, he certainly could instill the loyalty or subservience to risk being fired. Much less the subsequent jail time.

Abel looked at Emile, his focus on the road in front of him— the map propped up on the dashboard with the address.

As he spoke next it was more to himself than Abel, “fifteen years, hah! Fifteen whole years and I bet I’m the first with a kid.”

Abel watched as he continued rambling.

“It’ll be hilarious what they come up with to explain the twelve years old!”

Emile smacked the wheel lightly as if it were the shoulder of an equally obstinately silly classmate.

However he seemed no less aware and no less detached from present place or time.

Which was quite fortunate for both Abel’s own nerves and that they were driving.

The hotel proper was two doors down on a street with other small prop businesses which included ample entertainment such as an arcade, a 24 hour convenience store, and a movie theatre just across the street.

“Don’t even think about it,” he said, “you heard me— you’re the only kid.”

So he had been speaking to Abel? It could very well be.

And he settled with that off-bit detail.

“You might as well be on your own,” he joked but with such a needle to his levity that Abel’s shoulders sank just a little.

And he had quite the itch to pick at the fabric of grey washed jeans Emile had found in a bargain bin. But did the job to appear formal with an undercut collar v-neck.

With the upturn of the shift, they’d settled in a spot up on the hotel’s directed parking garage.

Back out onto the street Abel could more clearly see an influx of well dressed men and women conversing within their set little groups as they entered, were processed by a bag boy in stereotypical loud red and were let in.

At their turn Emile, with one hand on his shoulder, cleared his throat and crisply told the young looking Black man his name and the “Ringwell Party.”

“Hand,” he directed to which Emile complied.

“Welcome have a wonderful night, bar is open until nine but we have staff that’ll keep everything orderly,” he rattled off in a bored voice.

However he ended with quite a formidable glower, “so do act your age sir.”

“I wouldn’t think anyone who can’t has even that much audacity,” Emile remarked. “Trust me. And thank you very much.”

He tipped his hat to Emile and gave a mute wave to Abel who looked back, smiling much more softly.

The hall itself was-- well, for a small city it was modest-- but nevertheless exquisite.

In gold plating to the walls and an overall crystalline color scheme for a subtly elegant and black tie manner of space.

He hadn't been ready to completely balk.

Or a bit more fairly, he'd not expected to be thrown in such a familiar scene so... so soon.

A scene from his blurring memories of city skylines and the events within their own penthouse or a rented hall for the business social parties.

This one being equally suited for the men in either smooth black, typical suits or more threadbare but no less tasteful formal coats and women in all manner and types of dresses with just touches of makeup, that really did little to hide years and labors from their faces.

Emile nudged him, "if you're overwhelmed I won't mind if we have to go home," and his whisper sent an unpleasant pins and needles sensation across his extremities.

He shook his head. "Absolutely not," he said, putting on the mirror image smile that stretched his face in an odd way, "you don't get away on me learning all your embarrassing secrets."

"Okay then, well let me see if Timmy let me know where we would be sitting," he said, taking out his cheap little black phone.

And Abel had seen Emile "drop," his eleven model in the sink full of soapy water and dishes five months prior to the-- commitment of felony kidnapping.

He grit his teeth, even as the burning resentment settled quite unpleasant in his stomach.

"Okay! So Mocha'll be running a bit late but Will and Tim are already here, oh oh," and Emile now looked to bounce around, "I didn't tell you but Will works for a computer brand, nothing grand. Either IT or he moved to their financial department. Still, you could talk to him much more than I could at this point-- see he loves his work like I love Christmas."

"That-- sounds great," Abel replied placidly, yet his attention truthfully was on a close-knit, tittering flock of women.

They'd been the first to notice, in their high, obnoxious laughter of Emile by his lonesome standing just at the entryway. Seemingly last of the lot by the sheer volume of people.

Emile per usual wasn't phased in the least.

He in fact seemed to shine by all the attention.

A volume which sure enough, began to whisper. And all certainly much more gauche-- without even a child's attempt to be subtle in their pointing.

It began to itch at his skin again and he could feel the unpleasant splinters of so many EYES, did adults truly all have such an abhorrent sense of etiquette?

If so why did he have to learn it so absolutely?

Emile understood, he always did, and protectively put Abel's head in his hand so he could hide.

And yet not even that--!

When two men's voices assailed the pair, jostling his comfortable perch on Emile's side.

"Roderick! Shelly!" he enthused and Abel unconsciously looked up to the now identified men.

Well, somewhat. Unsure whether the red-head or one with a bald spot was either Roderick or "Shelly." Likely diminutive for a Shel-don.

"Hey woah! I figured you were actually-- uhh," the red haired one began, "well you know. How did you end up with a kid?"

A question that was asked in quite the shrill manner.

"Yeah spill it Prez," his friend agreed, who crossed his arms and looked at Emile with a pout too exaggerated to be genuine.

Emile sighed hugely but complied.

Though not without whispering toward Abel, "may I?"

Abel evaluated. While yes there was a glint in their eyes, they held drinks, and had a certain air of imbalance that suggested they were already somewhat "buzzed," he may as well not be the shy, asocial sort of child.

After all, he never had been within society functions which were often cutthroat and as his Mother and Father often described-- "political."

Emile pushed him forward. "His name is Abel and he's recently turned twelve."

"A pleasure, to both of you," turning to one and then the other as he presented his hand.

The red-head shook first. "And you know Emile, were you friends? Or did you bully him?"

Red-head laughed while his friend so figuratively threw him to the wolves as he nudged his shoulder.

"Nope, I assure you we weren't the types. Granted though," Red-Head said as a manner of shame became clear in his voice, "this town wasn't exactly-- friendly."

"Now Roddy, don't beat around the bush," Emile huffed, also taking a stricter, distinctly guarded posture. "My Abby isn't stupid. I'd say he's much smarter than any of us ever were. So do please not patronize."

Roddy laughed-- a bit awkwardly, turned head and stood up from his knees. Now looking anywhere else.

"Shelly" stepped in at that point.

"What my friend means is we didn't want to be jerks but--" he stopped, and after a moment looked to swallow an unpleasant something, "it was homophobia. No parents, quiet, always in his head-- the assumption was whatever was wrong with him came back to liking other guys."

"I mean no one was sure whether he wanted to kill the football team or was checking out the team," Roddy provided.

"I am twelve," Abel replied finding the entire turn of things distasteful.

Even if what he knew weren't limited to the detached and child-friendly fashion presented in a video health course.

His friend gave a withering stare to "Roddy," and Emile's expression twitched unpleasantly.

"Alright then we're done," he decided. And like that swept Abel along by the back.

"I am so sorry about that and seriously," Shelly said, "we do wish you well. Sorry for-- everything."

"Acknowledged," Emile decided. Coldly and unequivocally.

Emile sighed, hitching a smile back on his face, "they really weren't worth much notice frankly. I just-- honestly didn't have anyone to confide in back when they were worth the time."

From that he waved the topic aside before Abel could open his mouth.

At that point some women took their turn to dawdle and wave their hands about in Abel's face.

They too talked about school and then needled about what he did for work.

"Used to work for some rich families raising their kids for them, until I got my own," and then toward Abel, "this may be a minute okay, you go ahead and sit down at our table."

"They don't get to touch me?" he wondered a bit nervously.

Nodding toward a still empty table where there were certainly place cards for Emile and his friends. Though Abel simply couldn't quite believe Emile would-- let him leave. In any capacity.

"Yes Abby, I mean it," he whispered quietly, "don't worry I won't up and leave you. Five minutes on the dot."

"Okay," he murmured and rushed to sit.

Although he'd never answered the actual question.

Abel let out a breath as by the looks of it, he would in fact be left alone.

He drew his game console from the deep pocket in his black windbreaker.

Switching it on, he chose the zombie game not bothering with keeping the volume at a discreet level.

If he was reading things right, impolite disruption would be swept under the rug and something Emile may even enjoy seeing from Abel.

Believing that the world existed for his convenience.

Around an hour and a half later is when Emile joined him, looking less tired this time.

This time, with three men at his left and right, who also-- took seats.

Abel couldn't help but stare at the three.

Emile leaned toward Abel whom had decided to rest his head.

"Are you hungry yet?"

He turned onto one ear, nodding in response. "I can go by myself."

"Oh if you'd like I could--"

"Oh no please Timmy it's fine," Emile insisted.

"I told you Em, it's Theodore now," he huffed.

"Hey it is just the right wall," another man mediated-- diverting-- "and hey, you seem like a smart kid. Just don't ask for beer," looking to Abel with a secretive, good natured smile.

"Why would I do that? I'm sure it doesn't even taste good," Abel replied.

Making the men in the table laugh. "He has a point there!" Theodore said slapping the other man on the back.

"Okay, okay but seriously, go ahead Abby. Food's over there. Oh and you'll find plenty, turns out it's a potluck."

"Yeah again sorry about that," the second man said. "Ugh Shaley up to her old bull again. Never liked when you of all folks got class president."

Abel let that conversation continue while he stood up and quickly pinpointed a long length of tables laden with all manner of dishes and platters of stacked foodstuffs and snacks.

A couple of ladies were there. And so was another man. This one with his own jacket tied at his waist.

One lady, blond and with a taudry glittering dress that completely clashed with her choice of makeup palette, tried to strike up close and intimate conversation with the man-- who in a soft but clearly irritated voice-- rebuked her at each turn.

But Abel focused back on the food and-- froze.

Pastries in boxes and a metal pot of steaming curry.

A couple other dishes of possibly Indian and Meditarranian culture were present at his right.

Abel just stared. Plastic and pre-made. Store bought. Just add water.

Just like-- just like home. In the city.

From there Abel was certain the night for him would be ruined.

As his knees folded under him.

_________________________________________

Michael had spent a long time frankly trying to run away from a lot of things.

His parents, his past, his reputation as the poor kid. The ol' Kenny in the flesh.

The people who had insisted on being 'Mom and Dad' here were really hardly worth a mention.

And he supposed, he had tried to run away from being involved in who knew what Emanuel Shaw had in mind before he also left for the big city.

Or no, he went by his birth parents' surname now. That he had done upon graduating. Old enough to legally change his name.

Michael had come to this party a hopefully fully realized adult. Having had as many good times as bad in school-- and if he happened to find out whether Emmy ended up in a good place despite those dark looks he would sometimes get-- or the way he talked about having a child "all his own," then-- Michael thinks he'd be satisfied.

How that ended up, catching the one child here before he fell-- possibly with low blood sugar or possibly falling into an epileptic fit-- both were unlikely but he couldn't be sure either way-- Michael knew very little.

Simply that the child's glassy eyes as he stared at the food was concerning.

Michael caught him by his shoulders and from there, kneeled down a bit, hoping to keep this kid grounded here and now, and steady. Make sure the child with dark blue eyes kept a steady pace of breathing.

"Are you alright? Can you hear me?" Michael said, each question asked quietly and kindly.

"Do you know where you are? Can you, can you look at me? My name is Mike."

Four letters. Much easier than "Mi-cha-el."

Slowly, the child turned around. Which made a smile break out on his face.

Which he carefully tempered down.

From what he knew about this sort of thing, he and the kid were hardly out of the woods yet.

"Hi there," he said voice even and a tepid smile on his face.

"I-- I don't--" the boy stammered. He closed his mouth, but Michael could sense the tension in his jaw, gritting his teeth similar to a self-imposed gag.

A habit Michael himself had used once upon a time.

"That's okay," and he meant it. And Michael nodded as an affirmation.

Until-- Emmy, came into his life...

Taught him just how powerful speaking just a little bit too much could be.

Damn it, people were starting to crowd. The women beginning to whisper and coo-- all the while helping being the last thing on their minds.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," the child said quietly and made to stand up.

"Everything's okay," Michael soothed, "where's your Mom or Dad? I can get their names if not yours, or do they call each other nicknames?"

He didn't reply.

And seeming to realize the contact, his eyes widened and he shoved Michael aside with the meager strength a child his age and build could have.

"Geroff!" Recoiling and whirling back around with the ferocity of a viper burning in his dark blue eyes.

He really was a rather skinny boy.

Michael gently helped along all the same, helping the kid get his bearings.

He was at a party, in a hotel, and yes, some people were around now. Any one could call whomever he needed or get him in a seat if he wasn't up to walking yet.

Some began to get closer as the child huddled into himself, one hand clutching his other arm in a nail biting vice.

Michael looked up at them with a withering stare-- one that quickly abated once he caught what some were actually whispering.

"Emmy actually has a--"

"SHH"

"So young."

"He's so young," coming from a shrill, especially scandalized source.

One that Michael could pin from a hazy freshman year. Knowing that particular gumshoes from the very beginning.

"Someone should get--"

"Where'd he go?"

"But why did the poor thing go--"

Why indeed.

What did make a kid his age react that way? Any answer he could come up with wasn't a good one.

But, that wasn't exactly the focus right now.

"Hi there," he started, "my name is Michael and--" looking around a bit he dipped his voice a bit, "listen I'm part-time at a Boys and Girls Club, you know what that is?"

The boy, dubiously, nodded. Dark blue eyes alert and keeping close watch on what Michael did.

"Yeah, so I see kids go through this, they can get overwhelmed sometimes. Sights, sounds, and even smells."

"That sounds scary," Abel replied, "it sounds awful and scary."

It... is," Michael agreed, deciding honesty might be better suited than a bracing lie. "I... know some breathing exercises that can help. What about you? Do you know one that you like?"

Abel thought for a moment, hand to his chin now and then just shrugged. His expression becoming an anxious grimace.

There was a bit more uproar. Something about a 'Roddy' on search duty.

If it really was the same-- Michael didn't know how worse that would make the situation. So, it became especially important to get this kid situated.

He and the kid went through two rotations of the 4-7-8 technique, which luckily served the kid well but still-- the three sent to look gave no word.

That was-- disconcerting.

And by the looks of things he didn't have any means to contact his guardian himself.

"Are you-- do you feel better?" Michael asked softly. Much of the initial crowd had died down, plenty going back to their business once it was clear nothing "too interesting" would happen, plenty more simply at a loss once someone else looked to have things handled.

The child just nodded.

His eyes-- proved it. In a way. They were alert, and by how they hardened, certainly calculating.

"Is there anything you want to ask me?"

Kids usually had a million and one questions, even ones who had been in tears or otherwise going through separation anxiety when they met him-- but he instead, just introduced himself.

"Thank you. My name is Abel. I used to live in the city and yes, Emile is my foster parent," he said primly, putting out a hand to shake. "He loves me very much."

"Okay. Okay then," Michael agreed-- color him shocked-- but accepted the gesture all the same.

"Then do you miss it? The city?"

"I do," he said.

'Is Emile a good-- Dad?'

"So has that-- ever happened to you? Did you learn how to-- manage. When your emotions are-- big?" Michael wondered, gesturing "big" with his hands as a giant mass.

Again, he simply shook his head.

"Hey," Abel asked, "are you-- you're Mocha? Aren't you?" He tilted his head and had a special kind of questioning look. The kind where a kid figures, he's right either way.

Asking, was just being polite.

"Yeah, I am. But 'Mocha' isn't exactly professional. So I go by Michael," he joked.

"Listen, how about we go back to where you were sitting. Your Dad can get you some food," he offered.

"Hm," Abel replied and that was it.

"Okay," Michael stood himself up as he turned his back. "Come on."

Looking back, Michael could see a moment of confusion on Abel's face making some aborted gesture to reach his hand but then followed him without misstep or hesitation.

"Okay so where were you...?"

Abel tugged on his sleeve pointing not too far away at an empty table where only a Black man with a shiny bald head sat. And if that couldn't be...

"Theodore!" Michael called out.

The man turned from his phone, a serious expression on his face that quickly gave way to a mischievous shine.

"Michael! It's been a minute, oh and hey brought him back," Theodore turned to Abel, "what happened? Were you... not that hungry?"

Theodore raised his brow, and Michael could see Abel shrink a bit and just shrug.

Trying to answer though, he could quickly see his voice had been stolen again.

So Michael took that up.

A hard expression coming to his face. "So what happened is..."

And relayed the whole incident.

"Shiiii-- shoot," Theodore said, aghast. "I, seriously none of us well okay, okay we wondered about what took him so long. But Emile and us kinda guessed the kid was either wandering to entertain himself or he got stuck in conversation with some of the others around."

A note of skepticism continued on Michael's face. The two of them were still standing, and his sight strayed to Abel. Who mashed the buttons of his handheld game as if the entire incident had never happened.

"I know, I know. But Emile said his kid was gifted. It was expected he'd be bored and that's what we figured. We were going on and on, so he latched to someone with a cool job or some other thing. Besides," and Theodore sighed, which Michael could sense a shame in, "Em had said his son was getting better."

Which made Michael stiffen. He knew that sticky, awkward emphasis around "better" all too well.

"Better in what way?" he asked stiffly.

Theodore exhaled, "not sure if that's mine to tell."

And saying that made him look exhausted in a way, Michael felt himself-- slightly-- relenting.

"But you're completely right. I know, I know it was seriously messed up. We shoulda checked any one of us. But look we can relax now. And Thank God that things did turn out well."

Theodore slid a hand to the small of his back leading him toward the table.

Michael let himself be led where Abel while clearly frustrated as his game progressed kept the picture of polite if not distracted.

Emile along with Will came back not long after, and the former grinned so wide Michael idly wondered if he would like to see his face tear.

He could hear Will speak, about a Simon person who'd found some other engaging conversation with someone else.

"Mocha!" he squealed, grabbing his arm forcing him to stand. "Have you met my son? This is Abel."

Abel's lip simply quirked, mildly responding to his exuberance. "We've met."

"And we have to talk about that," Michael said and whispered, "look does he have a condition or some-- other thing," with just a slated look they were back to being sixteen and gossiping behind foster Mom's back about what damage she had.

"He had some kind of episode, dissociative or anxious I'm not totally sure and he hates being touched."

Emile took everything with steady horror growing on his face. He looked to be shaking a great deal before he swept up Michael. "I am so sorry!" he exclaimed. "And thank you! Thank you so much!"

Michael kept one eye on the pair as the table ate, talked, took turns with dance cards or swapping trivia and new gossip.

Emile, for all intents and purposes, was perfectly loving and attentive of Abel. In just that embarrassing, hovering way two foster kids could long for.

It was something to see though, that even Emile's touch elicited a bit of recoil from his son, not to mention, Emile should know better than to keep pressing.

And then... "did I do something wrong?"

And Emile, without finesse, replied, "absolutely not! Never think that Abby! But we will talk later. Just enjoy yourself for now."

"Talk later."

Michael knew he frankly had a great deal of trigger phrases and complexes surrounding just about anything that could be taken day-to-day- to day.

He knew he didn't react to things the way others did.

Including being told to go to a therapist. He still wasn't completely secure in believing his girlfriend wasn't subtly threatening him with it.

But enough "parents" had.

Possibly, he was just being paranoid.

Even if he was firm that something was off in just-- everything about the two.

Michael continued to sit on that, straight on watching the child, as he looked to unfurl once Will got to finally talk about his work.

"Right now we're working on advancing our computer languages on identifying inflammatory texts as well as other tracking software and trying some Swiss security measures that they use for their banking system's firewalls."

Will babbled on, with Abel asking questions with an equal measure of jargon.

"Oh my God! Do you want to be adopted?" Will gushed as a result, looking utterly starry eyed.

Emile laughed but on a switch glowered as he quite abruptly took Abel into a one armed hold that Michael was reluctant to call a hug.

"Easy there Will."

To the page or to the type, the warriors go.

Skinny or stalky or large and ruddy.

Wearing their armor, festooned in fatigues and acid washed jeans.

These warriors to the play pen; all clever and adept, all precious and all loving. Some cruel and some callous. Some manipulative and some bleeding.

They can fight and they can die. They can love and they can lie. But by the swipe of the pen, by the twirl of the God Queen's fingers. They're all her tragic puppets.

Her beloved and bleeding victims.

Donna Hathrow, lush dark hair and forest green eyes.

Tragedy, when she is formative and young. With only one witness but too young to speak, too young to know the hideous face of evil.

Swipe. In five years, her burden is too much to bear. This secret that already killed secrets swapped between brother and sister. A secret that under the night sky of a November night she may be choked from her throat.

Seth Morgan, oh! I've talked about him here before but a refresher for those who aren't aware...

Seth Morgan, the older brother by a double six rule, yet he could never protect and could never reach, what his other half would graze in the sky. Of little fairy wings that were really gaping eyes. And as Drake Morgan is placed to bed in the Earth, he becomes yet another unseen fairy wing.

Swipe. He'll bleed and he'll hurt, a sword to his chest, hold it in your fingers that hilt of the blade, so the metal twists and it writhes as his now empty heart does. May the bereaved hold the weight of the world, of their sins upon their dead. May a Wishing Ghost choke on scrawls of paper and ink from the spirit speaker becoming the spirit.

Molly Jones. Swipe, hers is swift and it is final. The busybody mystery gal. Exposing secrets and giving chase. The detective whose parents played pretend on the stage for the millions, for millions who couldn't care less and who hide things. She'll bag adult cases not too far in the future.

A barren room and an adult man who didn't want to be a kidnapper, has McDonalds in hand.

Carly Andrews.

Swipe.

Tyler, mouth with incisors and rotting of stillborn blood.

Swipe

Beholden to his monarch; Sammy.

Swipe.

May poison drip its purple hue down his lips. May ash line his lungs like tar where a body was found.

Jocelyn Alvarez, swipe. Love unrequited.

Olli Moors.

Swipe.

Not a modicum of trust, of reciprocity to speak of.

Swipe.

Tragedy upon tragedy, death upon death all observed by the God Queen.

She who so graciously gifted them life and with such hands can so tenderly smother that very life out.

A silken pillow and a final caress as the skin pales and each archetype dies.

For every story, for every series are the girls and boys picked apart and put back together.

The God Queen, a gentle and lovely killer.

The God Queen by the twirl of her pen.

Again and again and again.

Does the author write and redress her cherished victims.

How about it? There are all sorts of nice names to use, yours may just do!

We write, we like and we post and we comment, because if we don't--

Then who will?

If we don't write then who will listen to us?

Absolutely no one.

At some point as I started writing, I started to learn that I was tired of never being listened to.

Cole took the front lines for a reason whenever they took weekend hunting jobs.

From a completely practical perspective it simply made sense much as Donna may loathe so, even recently turned Cole with his vampiric powers made the ideal tank.

And in this parallel world full of ash and bone dust that position meant the difference between whether their mother and father would still have children by some sunset. Tine ran fluid in the world Nezgrat, where demons resided.

The air made her agitated. Her mouth constantly tasted of bile and she had to force herself to find a taste in the scraps or flayed meat from a bony creature that they could catch.

The air... made Cole's bloodlust burn until he'd nearly scratched himself out of his skin.

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

Cole came to see...

That he might be a very terrible person.

As he fisted through bony ribcages and marveled at the fluids that spilled out from gorgons and laggers he'd dare say getting caught in Demon Lord Gogormazel's trap was the most fun he's ever had.

His mouth split open in a grin to see the last biped sneak attack him.

But the looks on his siblings' faces...

Before anything else... this has to be said.

Miss Caroline Lenore insists that future scholars the future people who read about these incursions after the fact...

That she-- at fourteen years old-- genuinely had no idea how she ended up among Coven meetings for a Cold guerrilla war that had never been meant to break the oh-so frail veil shielding the unnatural, unexplainable to mortal eyes.

Therein was the first lie then, Caroline Lenore would write.

Incursions of witches against werewolves, moving against the scattered cabals of Vampire lands and drafting prophets across Europe in chains, it'd never been against France as a country.

There was no war-- should not be recorded-- as a war of France against Sweden and small, isolated holdings deep in Italy.

Perhaps there'd been an entirely unseen, unknowing third Party of provoking humans, perhaps they'd been the ones a little too close to the Covens, they'd sold plants that turned out to poison their potions and medical salves unknowing that they'd take lives.

Possibly the Wolves had had no choice but to expand their territories what with four cubs being born to a pair.

No one entirely knows how or if the wailing souls-- Ghosts-- even joined the conflict to begin with.

All Caroline Lenore knew is that she tried to focus on the good that came from befriending Yvette Evers. A witch-in-training from Petit Epee Way.

Coming to awareness, Seth knew-- he wasn't awake.

What with the last memory seared into his mind had been the dark figures made of-- no that made the shadows in an inventory space. Of what, or why he was in such a place he couldn't quite remember.

And this not dream-- it was suitably unsettling.

A vast expanse of what looked like a sketch work of rolling hills. Far, far into a distant horizon. Of a black nothingness that passed for the sky.

One blink and Seth found the wish granting ghost sitting pretty with his hands on his knees. Looking at him with a too-long grin and the sly eyes of a cat.

"You've... never, come to talk to me," he said of the spirit with blood red eyes.

"No I haven't, but," Hao Gieum shrugged, "I've decided I want you around."

"Around?"

"Alive," he said, "for one, your brother in my space, following me, it's gotten annoying. And you aren't awful company. For someone who couldn't see me otherwise."

"Uh huh," Seth accepted, "but those shadows you talked about. Would you be in trouble?"

"No more than usual," he replied, voice more distant than normal. "So, about Drake..."

Before we start: Imagine an OTP or that no-TP you can think of, the dialogue is meant for a larger piece of mine in the paranormal genre. But for the prompt don't feel compelled to follow this rule. And in this world the Disney Donna and Cole watched did make Varian and the Seven Kingdoms-- look it up-- which I don't dare mention explicitly in case it's a strike and their lawyers could come for me for copyright.

Mason: (amused) Donella?

Donna: (laughing herself even as she blushes): Oh God! You're gonna laugh!

Mason: Maybe a bit, (warmly) but never at you.

Donna: (stammering a bit) It was... geez... that kids show. The Seven Kingdoms, Cole and I watched it together every Sunday when it came out. And the main villain had to be named Donella, (Donna rolls her eyes despite the tinge of nostalgia that colors her voice) she was a bossy, arrogant nutcase that she used to be mean to Hugo. Obviously we were nine, so neither of us meant it like *that.* We didn't get that like we hadn't gotten just how bad Mother Gothel was. It was the last thing Cole and I had bonded over when we were young.

Mason: (smiles but it's a bit sad, nevertheless he says nothing. At the moment.)

Donna: Wha-- was that weird? I mean it was dumb. Besides things are okay.

Mason: Nothing, don't worry about it. (He decided not to pry. Yet)

As of then, not one rich, trust fund snob had seen me smile.

Obviously though, Celia never fell in that group.

It amused me to think-- possibly-- everyone else decided I didn't know how.

Because Megan relayed at lunch that day, it was the most prominent rumor spreading around that week.

And still, Jared frowned a bit. "Liar."

At that point a car pulled up.

"Meh I tried," I decided. "Don't worry, I hate it here, but I hate my Dad's smug wife more."

I made sure my Dad couldn't suspect that last part.

The two of us filed into his Camary.

Fred was already in the backseat, cheerfully waving at us both. Until he tried to signal me for another 'How to treat a boy of "class"' lecture.

Then what did that make him?

"Um hi, I'm Jared," he said.

"I know who you are," Dad said in a clipped voice, eyes searing onto him from the mirror, "now let me have a word--"

"Nope," I said turning around to Jared-- white and petrified in his seat.

"I am very scared."

And it was a whole show to get Clarisse in the car.

"I bet Mom could've given you a better one," she chuckled once inside and shutting the door with a demure click, "I mean when there was no pretense left. Sure it's great, all her cars are, but this for her new husband?"

"Sweetie the most expensive is hardly always the best," Dad replied. "Besides Harley's always wanted a pink convertible, right?"

"When I was seven!" I trilled, finding Jared and Fred both laughing.

"But I mean," Fred then complained right to Clarisse, "I only try to help these two kids."

"Oh so true, poor thing is clearly whipped."

"No gossip. And play at least a few games. Be a good experience for all you kids to break the ice," Dad said, emphasizing the title.

"Yes Father."

"Sir."

"Dad."

Soon after we made it to the place, while Clarisse and Fred went on who knows what tangent about a bike, girls, and boys (?) dunno how that last one got in there-- Jared talked my ear off about all the old fashioned games we were sure to try.

"I just mean, if arcades are anything like those 80s buddy comedies and coming-of-age, okay I see that look," he said, and replied, "my Dad also got a guy to get me catalogues to look at to see what game trucks I want for my birthday next month-- by the way five weeks, save the date-- but anyway there were tons of options. Just. Tons."

And he gestured that with his hands.

"Thank you, thank you so much by the way, for setting this up. It's gonna be awesome I promise you."

"Don't make promises you can't keep," I teased. But seriously, I was also not the type for gaudy flashing lights and all. That. Noise. That chaotic, not even well lit place of noise and bodies and crazy little kids on a sugar rush.

I only joined a couple dudes that looked cute on a first date to the arcade. And when Wendy and Aria needed to take their little brothers who would cling to us girls' legs like koala bears for games.

"Not even Dance-Dance? Girls like dance, right?"

"Girls who--" I bit my lip. Girls who like to sweat, so no. Absolutely gross!

"Not all girls," I replied instead. "But whatever okay. I'll play if you're really so lonely Your Grace."

"Stoooop," Jared whined once I pulled out the title.

And I could see my Dad flit his eyes to us all bunched in the backseat. Somehow using that Dad intuition to focus on the two smallest things in the car.

I sighed. Every time. Every. Single. Time.

And I didn't even want a pair of new boots or imitation silver jewelry with cool rock band charms out of this boy.

Who could get me real silver!

But, put that thought: Right. Out. Of my mind.

Dad completely stalled the car on purpose while he parked on the vast pavement field the large arcade and pizza parlor was located on.

I drew the line on that greasy, carb load.

Clarisse and Fred filed out on one side and I opened the other door to let me and Jared out on the other.

Only for Dad to strangely point Jared toward the door Clarisse and Fred just closed.

"Join Clarisse and Fred," Dad pointed.

"Uhh yeah, yeah. Okay sir," he replied, in a heap to do as he'd been told. "See you."

"Uhhh yeah," and then I turned for my Dad, "what--"

"I know honey, just a moment and then I won't keep you," he said. I settled myself back down. With just us he let a measure of concern show.

"What is it?" I wondered now vaguely on edge.

"Tinker Bell," Dad sighed. And oh gosh, Dad hadn't pulled that clincher since my worst shop-a-holic tantrums. "Look Harley I really just want to apologize. I am so sorry for everything before. About that boy and not listening to you because I didn't and that's a failure on my part. "If in any way harms you, tell me. I will believe you and as for your mother," I cringed still hearing him address her that way, but whatever, "if she does say anything, I am going to make clear to her that reputation, status-- they may be nice but they cannot and will not matter more than you under our roof."

That was nice to hear. I could be sure now Dad was on my side. Just as he always was.

Only... we were three to two and not even Mr. Prince always gets what he wanted.

Obviously.

Not when he smiled so wide at just about anything and everything.

Soooo, sure, I maybe didn't know what to do with all that now. Knowing what I knew.

Nobody could hear that.

"Sure," I decided on, and gave my Dad a kiss. I genuinely would have forgotten to had he not kept me up. Which was not acceptable.

"Be safe Tinker Bell."

"Obviously," I called slamming the door closed behind me and ran to catch Jared waiting for me just out the door.

Ugg, and our tag-alongs spying against the glass.

Jared turned to me. "I am still scared. Why won't they stop looking?"