empires in my mind

brushes off grave dust

Tue, 03 Feb 2009 06:04:02 GMT

Haven't been around here in forever, but after tonight's episode, I just had to

SQUEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!

It's writing, Jim, but not as we know it.

Tue, 05 Aug 2008 04:14:02 GMT

I had one of those dreams this weekend that makes you really pissed off that you have to wake up, because all you want to do is find out what's going to happen. Only in this case, what I wanted was to figure out what the fuck was going on. I did some thinking after I got up, went out to the living room, and started telling my husband all the details I remembered, and we sat on the couch brainstorming possible explanations for about an hour. Eventually I said something like, "I think I'm going to have to do NaNo this year."

The thought of actually doing NaNoWriMo for srs scares the shit out of me. The last few times I committed to strict deadlines for writing, I just about went bonkers...and those were nothing like NaNo. Over a thousand words in a day, that I can do. 1500 to 2000 of possible unadulterated tripe, 30 days in a row, minimal editing? Eep time. That, and when my husband did NaNo a couple years ago (and actually finished!), I was basically in charge of everything around the house. This is not a good idea. The idea of him being in charge of everything instead...about the same. I have a feeling I'll be freezing casseroles on the weekends. But I realized that if I don't take the opportunity to power through this thing, I'll probably never write it. And I think the premise is too cool to stay in Lucien's library.

So now that I've decided what to do with the idea, I'm annoyed that I can't just write the darn thing, but on the other hand I'm probably going to have a better prewrite jump on this 'verse than any I've ever come up with. Which should help. And there's no rule against writing ancient history if it's not going toward your wordcount...

Conned

Mon, 28 Jul 2008 06:30:01 GMT

Back from Comic-Con. My shoulders and calves, and to a lesser extent the tops of my feet and the gripping surfaces of my fingers, feel like they've been diced and reassembled; I've eaten more refined carbs in the last four days than in a typical month of this year; and I'm not sure how I'm going to be productive at work tomorrow, only that it must happen. OTOH, I'm completely stoked about the new season of Heroes, I got into every panel I waited for, I didn't destroy any convention-center property or any of my own, and my hall costume and Sylar-ized forehead makeup got recognized. And I got to hear Kristin Chenoweth sing "Somewhere Over the Rainbow, watch a guy who looked uncannily like Hurley get awarded a jar of Dharma Initiative ranch dressing for his panel question, and meet eonism and tracker_lucifer. I am content. And I'm confident that, eventually, my shoulders will be too. Ow.

Neeeeed sleeeeeep

Tue, 22 Jul 2008 06:41:55 GMT

Hyeah, I'm turning into Those People who IM about fires in their wastebaskets instead of putting them out. On the other hand, there are now a whole friggin' lot of orange-ginger-cranberry-cherry scones in the refrigerator, and all the pieces of my brand-spanking-new cobbled-together Yomiko Readman hall costume have been washed. Now if only Friday night's henna would act as if it wanted to stay on my palm instead of seeming to cause my skin to rapidly exfoliate, I'd be very happy. (No, it's not "black henna;" I've hennaed myself a lot, so I know what's real and what's crap. I've been going to these people for years and have never had the really dark layer peel like this, so I'm assuming for now that it's just something my skin is doing on its own. It'll probably be pretty pathetic by con time unless I touch it up Wednesday night with the last of my old frozen stash. Meh.)

So....yeah.

Sun, 29 Jun 2008 06:40:55 GMT

I'm still alive, I think. Finally got a job lined up for 3 months or so, and I plan to keep applying elsewhere all the while. Bleah. Hard lessons suck, but at least they tend to stick. In the meantime, I've watched all of Bones and read all currently existing books in the A Song of Ice and Fire series, but I'm not sure I want to get into fandoms for either. Well, maybe ASIOAF, but mostly for the fanart.

Still going to Comic-Con. Thought I might not be, for a while, but the promise of income has saved that particular venture. We'll just be eating at Subway a lot. I'm dreading the Heroes panel since the "Season 3 premiere OMG!" announcement, though; I don't want to have to get up at 3 am to get in, damn it.

Sorry for the long absence...I just wasn't feeling as though contact with me could do anybody any good. Like my fail might be contagious or something. I think I'm better now.

I'm not a sleepstalker, I swear

Mon, 21 Apr 2008 08:57:29 GMT

I dreamed last night that I had a huge group of close friends, about 30 of us aged everywhere from 15 to 40, and we lived in a city with a big skyscrapery downtown. One of the guys about my age knew Milo, and invited him to spend several days roaming around the city with us. I was the only female over 20 who was jazzed when he accepted, and it ended up that of all the people who wanted to meet him, I was the only one he really seemed to want to talk to. I may have just been a welcome change from the squeeing high-schoolers (who I think were modeled on two girls I met at WizardWorld). We would go out and get food, see sights, talk about random stuff, etc. The paparazzi were strangely absent the whole time. My husband knew all the details and was completely cool with it; I presume the same went for Hayden but it never came up.

The problem was that people kept twitting us for flirting, which we weren't even thinking of and which we both kept denying (backed up by my husband, who'd presumably gone with us to some places). Milo kept saying that we should just do whatever we felt like doing, because people were going to have their opinions no matter what we said or did, and if we stopped hanging out then they'd feel vindicated and get nastier. Having gone through some similar things myself, and knowing he had too, I agreed. But it just kept getting worse, until finally one of the women in the group took me aside and said something like, "Finish this sentence. Trying to date a famous and attached person is..."

"Not something I'm doing," I said. But she pointed out that it didn't matter, because the court of public opinion would decide in the end. It was different from the couple-rumors I'd been embroiled in before, because people weren't going to care about the truth. I could keep hanging out with him at the rate I'd been doing, sure, but I'd have to be prepared for snarky press at my door and a total loss of anonymity. It might not happen, but it was more likely than not. And I had to admit she was right. If I didn't want celebrity, I couldn't be friends with one.

So on his last day in the city, I stayed home. A bunch of the guys came and got me about an hour before Milo was supposed to leave for the airport, and we got there as people were taking pictures with him. He gave me this funny look, like he was trying to figure out what had happened, and then asked if I wanted a picture. The woman who'd given me the talk was there, and she gave me a Look; and I said I'd take a picture with him if she was in it with us. Apparently that was the right answer because I woke up.

I'm not usually this philosophical in my sleep, or this bittersweet. In life, though, this is exactly what I have a history of doing: becoming friends with guys I like, just to be around them. And, true to form, the rumors have only ever flown when I'm not trying to get a guy friend to notice that I'm a girl. I actually made myself stay awake and review the plot of the dream so that I'd remember it, something I haven't done in quite a while. It's kind of sad to think that, out of all the crazy-ass explosions of color and mayhem my sleeping brain throws around, this is the stuff that messes me up the most.

Lostiness

Fri, 14 Mar 2008 22:05:38 GMT

I want Aaron/Ji Yeon future!fic sooooo bad now. Kid!fic is a longtime favorite premise of mine and I think this is the first time any show has really given me canon setup for it. Maybe I'll get out of my slump by taking advantage of that.

And they managed to put this in an ep which also had further opportunity for Desmond/Sayid. Oh, I am a very happy castaway.

Proving once again that my username is accurate

Fri, 29 Feb 2008 06:15:20 GMT

So. Uhm. Lost.

I really shoulda posted a few months ago that Desmond/Sayid appealed to me, because now it's gonna be the latest bandwagon and I'm just going to look like a generic squeemonkey.

Eh. If it means more fic, I'm not going to argue.

WonderCon bound

Wed, 20 Feb 2008 03:13:54 GMT

Absconding to the Bay Area, effective tomorrow morning, for WonderCon and other assorted pursuits. Most, if not all, of our reserved accommodations have wireless, and our laptop has been repaired (huzzah), so computing is not out of the question. According to the weather forecast, we will be driving in the rain for most of the trip. Oh joy, oh bliss. Not sure whether I'm going to do the Sylar-sliced forehead this time, but it looks as if a good number of people dress up, so I'm seriously considering it. Going to run by the Halloween Club on the way up for some makeup sealer either way; I'm sick of reapplying and having the latex absorb everything over and over, and I'd like to have the stuff on hand. Or on head.

It's alive!

Sat, 16 Feb 2008 00:09:31 GMT

Apparently I've been tagged by eonism for this:

Pick 10 people and give them the "you make my day" award. If you're picked, you are charged with picking 10 of your own. (My addition: if you don't want to, don't feel obligated. Awards shouldn't come with strings.)

In alphabetical order:

1. brighteyed_jill, with whom I would be honored to partner in crime for a future round of Big Boom.
2. eonism for remembering I exist even while my fic circuits are offline.
3. fantasticpants, who rarely fails to make me laugh.
4. indyhat for winning at the latest Heroes Slash Awards and thereby making me feel better about the whole thing.
5. moryssa, because of all the interesting stuff she does. It's good to know that there's still good Faire to be had out there.
6. origamifrog23, a huge inspiration to keep plugging away at the original project I'm tangled up in right now.
7. purexxjuice for reminding me of the way I used to be.
8. takethesky87 for writing up my Mohindiana ~~kink~~ crossovery thoughts and making it kick butt.
9. tiptoe39 for trading up in the work-o-sphere. You've inspired me!
10. weaselistic for laughing at the hypersensitive Americans when we do stupid tricks. No, really.

And of course, smooches to mercurys_hat, my permanent number one valentine. (Who probably won't see this post. ;)

Something's not working (besides just me)

Tue, 22 Jan 2008 01:09:41 GMT

I don't want to stop reading fic, but I think I need to. I've gotten into this rut where I read, start to leave a comment, wonder what I could possibly say that isn't exactly the same thing I said for the last three things by the author, leave the tab open to remind myself, and never finish. The sad thing is, even though that makes for a wonderful "supposed-to-be-doing" thing, it doesn't seem to motivate me to write. It's like writing is my supposed-to-be and I end up spending my time mucking around with games and guilt.

I also decided to take FFR off my friends page because honestly? I'm sick of all the stupidity on display and I'm tired of the badmouthing and I think it's making me paranoid. I'm scared enough of my own reaction to my work; I don't need to add fear of other people's to the mix. I've got about 500 words of alt-S3 written and I stopped because I was afraid I couldn't do verbal justice to the image and the implications in my mind. Normally, I'd have been mulling it over in the shower, rephrasing again and again until it was right. But no; my brain has been abnormally and unpleasantly blank at all my usual mulling times for over a month now. It's like it thinks it has something better to do. That's just bullshit, and it's got to stop.

Negativity is the enemy. What I really need to do is attack it rather than avoid it, because avoiding is part of the damn problem. But if I have to avoid the battles I don't feel up to fighting yet, so be it. Just as long as I actually find a way to fight them once the baby demons are nicely vanquished. (Heh, baby demons...makes me want to go finish the damn game in one huge marathon so it won't tempt me anymore. Focus, hon, focus.)

Also, I need to demand my S1 DVDs back from my parents because they said last night the TV's actually not connected to any aux input. (You'd think they could've mentioned that when I initiated the loan at Thanksgiving.) And I need to trade my in-laws something for the use of their S2 recordings so I don't feel guilty for streaming. Gotta reconnect with canon, stat. It damn well better help.

Ringing out the old

Tue, 01 Jan 2008 23:02:29 GMT

eonism did this a while ago and I started working on it then, but I didn't finish till indyhat did it. The result:

Looking back, did you write more fic than you thought you would this year, less, or about what you'd predicted? Considering I didn't set out to write fic this year, I'd say that would have to be more.

What pairing/genre/fandom did you write that you would never have predicted in January 2007?
Disregarding the above: Zach/Lyle.

What's your favorite story of the year? Not the most popular, but the one that makes you happiest?
Half, although "happy" is the wrong word. "Satisfied" or "accomplished" is closer.

Did you take any writing risks this year? What did you learn from them?
See #2 above. Coming to Terms wasn't just a risk in terms of pairing, but also in structure. Interspersing conversation with description seemed horribly cliché to me while I was writing, and I had to convince myself not only that it was one of those things that's not a sin if it's done right, but also that I could do it right. Which, apparently, I can.

Also, Good Intentions, which is the second largest piece of completed fiction I've ever produced. The only one bigger than that was done slowly over a period of years (and it shows :p), so I really wasn't sure that I'd be able to pull it off on deadline. It feels weird to know I can do something that big on a time limit; it's no NaNo, but I imagine it feels about as good.

Do you have any fanfic or profic goals for the New Year?
Finish my heroes15 table.
Work on my alternate Season 3 timeline, and maybe get some help if people want to take the characters I blank on.
Actually write some 3M.
Actually get back to my original stuff, which has been languishing since my husband finished NaNo '06 and I discovered Heroes. Y'all will definitely get a shout-out in any paper versions that appear. :)

Story Most Underappreciated by the Universe:
If you go by number of comments, Wasn't My Bullet is basically proof of concept for Niki being less popular than Maya. Thing is, I can't really say that makes it underappreciated as a story. And I'm not entitled to whine about Half having flown as far under the radar as it did, because I'm the idiot who decided not to pimp it anywhere but peter_mohinder. So I really don't know what to put for this one.

Most fun:
Ends of the Earth was quick, cute fluff and I was grinning like an idiot all through the process. I also got a lot of enjoyment out of some of the heroes100words bits I did—Territory and Taxonomy, for example.

Most disappointing:
I was so disappointed in More Than Meets the Eye that I didn't post it for months, and then never posted it to any groups. And I still want to know why somebody voted against Two Truths and a Lie in round 1.1 of LAS.

Most sexy:
My money's on Good Intentions for this one. In the Closet has the highest sex quotient but I don't really find it sex-y.

Story With a Single Sexy Moment:
I think that'd be I See Dead People. Or, if you mean something with a single mention of sexual situations, Fission.

Hardest to Write:
Good Intentions, for sheer size and scope; and Half, for the absolute emotional wreck I had to turn myself into as I wrote.

Most unintentionally telling:
Probably I See Dead People, which wouldn't allow itself to be a plain old comedy. Apparently I love the angst as much as I love exploring concepts and making points.

"Holy crap, that's wrong, even for you" story:
At the time that I wrote it, Coming to Terms felt that way. In retrospect, I don't think I've really pushed the envelope all that far. Unless you count the brain scene in Good Intentions, because ew.

Heroes: Je m'appelle (gen, G)

Mon, 31 Dec 2007 08:59:18 GMT

Title: Je m'appelle
Author: fool_of_ships
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of characters, plot, or other elements copyrighted by TPTB of Heroes.
Character(s): the Haitian, Angela Petrelli, some cameos
Warnings/Spoilers: Through 1.18 "Parasite"
Summary: The Haitian has his reasons for remaining nameless.
A/N: Written for heroes_las Round 1 Challenge #7. This is the last of the Round 1 fics. I was glad to be assigned the character for the final challenge so that I could explore this idea. Posted to heroes_fic and paper_pwns_all.

Names have power.

It's not something he believes with the certainty of faith, but rather something he has learned to be true. He has seen spies unmasked and dying men revived at the sound of their names. He knows when a child begins to respond to its name, and that its parents will often have spoken it even before birth. And he knows that it was not what Thompson expected, years ago, to have introduced himself by name and received nothing in return.

It was shock that had stolen his voice at that first meeting, and distrust that had kept it away for weeks afterward. He could hear the rest of the people at the Company talking, over his head and in painfully fast English, always hard and businesslike except when they wanted something. Then it was slow and smiling, innocence that smelled of poison. He would have had nothing to say even if he could have spoken.

He heard Thompson on the telephone one day, pleading for help from the person on the other end; and the next morning he was shown to an office he'd never seen, with a similarly unfamiliar woman looking through papers inside. She wouldn't look at him until Thompson had left, and then her face was elegantly unreadable. He says you won't speak, she said, in unexpected French, and instantly she was better than a stranger. That's fine, but if that's what you want then you'd better know how to read. While he was still staring, she added, I'm Angela. Do you have a name?

He only nodded. Just like my boys, said Angela, with a long-suffering smile. Let's hope you do as well at your studies.

He had never expected his studies to include experiments, or learning the difference between a hasty eradication of a lifetime of memory and a precise removal of only a few details. She had explained to him the purpose of it all, how he would be able to help the Company do things they could only dream of before his arrival. The world would never accept us, she had said, one day in the office that had become their classroom. They would kill us all if they knew.

I know, maman, he had answered, his voice foreign from disuse; and she had stared. Don't tell them, please, he added when he realized what he had done.

They will never know, she said, and her eyes said she spoke truth. And he had taken the pencil from where it lay on the desk between them and painstakingly printed another truth, block letters that no power could extract from his mind to jot into his file. Angela had watched him, committing the moment to memory; and then she had taken a lighter from her handbag and held the page between them while it burned.

He remembers the ashes as he climbs the stairs at Bennet's house. It's what will happen to them all without secrecy, without the help he's been practicing for years to provide. Bennet's wife asks who he is, only once, and is silent. He doesn't tell her, even though he knows she'll never remember.

He hears Thompson and Bennet the next day, marveling at him, and realizes that they don't need his name. He's unique in this place, identifiable on sight and easily referenced. The Haitian, they say, as if he were a nation of one. It never brings his head around, never shocks him into obedience or freezes him in the path of a bullet. He doesn't want to be that vulnerable, and he knows he is perhaps the only person who can be certain that he never will.

The staff know him and his habit of slipping through darkness to meet with his maman. Tonight, he finds her asleep, alone, and he thanks all the loa he knows. He will never be sure whether she knew that he would do this, if she had ever anticipated feeling his fingertips on her own forehead, searching for every instance of revelation and carefully smoothing over the memory. I'm sorry, he says, though he knows she will have no memory of the pain he regrets having to cause her.

Names have power, and he has both. He doesn't plan to give up either one any time soon.

Heroes: Our Common Crime (gen, PG)

Mon, 31 Dec 2007 08:45:00 GMT

Title: Our Common Crime
Author: fool_of_ships
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of characters, plot, or other elements copyrighted by TPTB of Heroes.
Character(s): Maya, Peter, Mohinder and Sylar
Warnings/Spoilers: Through 2.11 "Powerless"
Summary: Maya makes an unlikely connection through similar tragedies.
A/N: Written for heroes_las Round 1 Challenge #7. Title is from Babylon 5/Crusade. I intend to write more in this 'verse eventually; I've got a huge bunch of plot threads I want to follow for an alternate volume 3. I may have posted about some of them earlier. *shifty eyes* Posted to heroes_fic.

They all tell her the apartment isn't large, but Maya can feel herself rattle around in it. She stays inside, as she's told to do, taking advantage of the flimsy protection the walls offer. It makes her feel better, cocooning in the space she can find, although she's sure locks and chains would be no barrier to Gabriel if he decided to come for her. Neither are they proof against the pain that finds her newly alone, threatening to seep out now that her insulation—her other self, her brother—is irrevocably gone.

Dr. Suresh makes room for her by staying at the laboratory all the time, and she believes him when he says she doesn't want to spend time there, with or without him. If he finds anything that might help her, he never says so. A few days after...everything, his roommate comes home, only to pack his things and leave. He takes Molly with him, and it's a strange experience for Maya, being the only one in the place who's not in tears. She's glad, though, that Molly doesn't hug her on the way out; she's not sure what might happen if someone cared.

She's curled up on the couch that night, leafing through a pink book about sleepovers that Molly left between the cushions, when there's a knock on the door. She freezes, certain it's Gabriel; but as she realizes Gabriel wouldn't knock, Dr. Suresh lets in a young man with a bleak, wary look and introduces him as Peter.

"You know Dr. Suresh?" she asks, offering a handshake he doesn't take.

"Yeah." The tone of Peter's voice is bitter, his eyes dull. "We met last year."

"Do you do research too?" It's a normal question, but he makes her feel as if she's prying.

"He's helping me find out who killed my brother," Peter says, and the rawness of the admission makes it suddenly hard for Maya to breathe. She can see, now, the signs of loss and pain tightening his jaw and shoulders, the anger burning deep in his eyes. He wears it differently than she ever could, without fear.

Dr. Suresh is watching their silent exchange, and touches Maya gently on the wrist. "Peter and I will be in the other room," he says, and she nods. Peter looks back at her as he reaches the doorway, then disappears.

She wants to warn him that knowing the answer might not help.

***

The lock clicks, and Maya just has time to realize that Dr. Suresh is still in his bedroom before the door swings open. "Gabriel," she screams at the man striding toward her, but his cold smile isn't the one she knew.

"Hello, Maya," he says, and the horror that creeps over her is a match for the fear she can feel spilling from her eyes. She wants to kill him, but she can hear Dr. Suresh in the other room, stumbling against walls and furniture and shouting her name, and she holds back. Pain blossoms at her left temple, blood trickling down to mingle with the slick of poisoned tears as the abomination of Gabriel stretches a shaking hand toward her. She thinks of Alejandro and kicks the man, Sylar, in the jaw, angry that he can still scream when she's not permitted to cry.

She's readying another kick when Peter appears in the hallway. Appears, as if a light were switched on. Maya stumbles back as he tackles Sylar, seemingly oblivious to the ichor beginning to stream down his cheeks. "I've got him," he shouts at her. "Let go!"

She doesn't understand. He should be dying. How can he... "No...are you all right?"

"I'm fine, I got this!" The black in his eyes is frightening with anger behind it, like an angel of death. "Let go, Maya!"

It's hard, harder than it's been since the first time she pulled back. Peter looks like a dead man and Dr. Suresh is slowly fading somewhere behind her, and it's only when Peter bellows, "Now!" that she can close her eyes and pull—

And when the contagion snaps back into her, springing her eyes open, Peter and Sylar are a flash in her vision and suddenly gone. She watches the space until Dr. Suresh staggers out into the living room, clutching his cellular. "Was that Peter?"

Maya nods. "What did he do?" Even the electricity arcing through the laboratory hadn't prepared her for what she'd seen. If that was really what she'd seen at all.

"I think he took Sylar and teleported," he says. "The way we agreed he ought to."

Teleportation, and the ability to withstand her curse. What else can Peter do? Maybe he could have detected trouble and come to rescue her, but the way Dr. Suresh is holding the cellular says differently. "You called him?" she asks.

He smiles, tightly. "Speed dial. Number seven. If you need it again. Or if I can't dial it."

But she knows, even before Peter comes back an hour later to say so, that she won't need it. She won't be staying here. It's not safe for anyone anymore.

***

Peter can do what she can do. It's the second thing Maya learns about him after they enter his apartment. The first is that he's a horrible housekeeper, and the third is that he means the disorder to stay as it is. He sleeps on the couch, and offers her the bedroom. It's no grand gesture; he's obviously been sleeping in the jumbled nest of blankets for days. She doesn't ask why, any more than she asks why the clothing strewn around the floor and the broken mirror on the wall have to stay where they are.

She finds the photographs on the second day. Peter is out most of the time, day and night, leaving her with a television and a library for company and a cellular to call him if—and from his tone, only if—the unthinkable happens. She's exploring, cautiously, and in a drawer she discovers a collection of pictures, snapshots and posed portraits, all of Peter. There's another man in some of them, with a smile that seems more for Peter than for the camera, one that reminds her of the photograph in her satchel. He looks protective; she understands that too. She leaves it all where she found it, and backs slowly away.

That night, she picks up a shirt from the bedroom floor, and from behind her Peter says, "Put that back."

"Don't you ever want to wear it?" she asks. He just looks at her, and when she looks again at the shirt she knows he doesn't. He doesn't wear anything businesslike or tailored. But she knows of someone who might.

"This is your brother's?" Maya holds it up, and Peter takes it from her hand. "All these things...they aren't yours," she realizes. "This is his apartment?" It would explain why he's acting like a guest here.

"It's my apartment," Peter snaps, walking out into the living room.

She follows him as he goes to the credenza where she found the photographs, turning his back to her. "Then what are these things?"

The broken mirror reflects his deep breath in shards. "I was...out of town. He was staying here."

"I think he missed you."

Peter sinks onto the couch, and Maya circles around it to face him. "You aren't sleeping," she says. "You should take the bed."

He shakes his head. "I...can't. ...It still—God, this whole place smells like him..."

His muffled sob makes her throat burn, and the single black tear beginning its journey down his face makes it worse. "Peter, stop," she says, alarmed, but he can't. She knows he can't. "Peter, you have my power," she pleads, taking him by the arms. "You have to—"

"Oh God, no," Peter whispers, and she's mesmerized by the darkness spreading in his eyes.

"Stop—"

There's a twisting, like a camera shutter blinking, and then she sprawls sideways, skidding on rough grass. Years-old tractor furrows stretch to an overgrown windbreak, and between Maya and the trees is Peter, crouched on all fours, shaking with grief. He's silent as black droplets begin to collect on the grass beneath him.

Maya knows she's crying as well, and for the first time in months she doesn't need to stop. They're far away from the vulnerable world, and finally, finally there is someone else she can't hurt. But she can't help wondering, as she closes the distance between them in a rough desperate embrace, whether he would even notice.

Consider my ass kicked

Sat, 29 Dec 2007 18:51:48 GMT

So we finally get the heroes_las results, and as soon as I post the first of my entries from the last round I get blown out of the water by runningondreams. Life After is a fantastic and heartbreaking Sandra-centric fic and please go read it if you haven't already.

Heroes: Eye for an Eye (gen, PG)

Sat, 29 Dec 2007 05:33:12 GMT

Title: Eye for an Eye
Author: fool_of_ships
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of characters, plot, or other elements copyrighted by TPTB of Heroes.
Character(s): Claire and Sandra Bennet, mainly
Warnings/Spoilers: Through 2.10 "Truth and Consequences"
Summary: Claire and Sandra reflect on what comes after the heartbreak.
A/N: Written for heroes_las Round 1 Challenge #7. ~~Will be crossposted when I'm sober, as apparently I have no ability to distinguish between hitting "post" and typing a P right now. Geeesh.~~ Crossposted to heroes_fic.

Sandra doesn't know what she's doing. The gun is uncomfortable, and she feels like a beginner; Bob is many things, but not a paper target. Don't point it if you don't intend to use it, Noah's voice says in her ear, phantom comfort steadying her hand. These are her children, more so for her choice to make them her own, to defend them as they are. What they are or aren't is none of Bob's business, and she feels the growl as steel and powder become claws.

He's talking again. Mister Bishop, call-me-Bob with the false handshake, trying to talk her down. But there's no ledge here, only a doorway. A threshold; hers, for holding back the red haze that springs up around him as he says Noah's name. He was never yours, not really, says his condescending gaze, and the tremor that runs through her is nothing to do with uncertainty. She tracks him by the movement of the urn; the reflection leaves a fiery spot in her vision, and she uses it to blank his face, as a target for her rage.

Words. So many words, so little meaning behind them. There's nothing he can say that will change the truth Claire is speaking now. Noah is gone, and soon they will be too. That doesn't mean she can't protect her home as long as they're there. But suddenly she knows she couldn't shoot, and it's Noah's words that come back to her. I didn't want her to become you. She can't stand to be the one to paint Claire's misery on another girl's face.

She waits until she's sure he's gone before lowering the gun. She can't shake the feeling that it won't be the last time she replays this impasse, and all she fears is the thought of what she might lose. Next time, there might not be anything to stay her hand.

***

There is no normal. There hasn't been for a long time. It's just that the happy, posed picture has become irretrievably lost, buried in the ashes of a previous life. Claire wonders why everything has to burn as it leaves her. It makes her want to take boxes out to the firepits on the beach and stand too close as she drops a match.

The walls of her room are already bare, the curtains packed away. It was devastating, before, losing everything; this time, they were supposed to take it along. She can't imagine some things being packed into boxes. At least flames are alive, warm and bright and open. And bullets, she knows, are fast. It doesn't make her feel better. It doesn't really make her feel anything.

There's one more box, waiting for her to add the last few items left in the room. Clothing, bedsheets, slippers and lip gloss, things she could leave behind but wants to keep. The family picture she adds to the box, fitting it in atop the single surviving teddy bear, is only weeks old. She remembers their smiles, the scratch of her father's cufflinks against her shoulder and the instant of hesitation as he signed Butler on the receipt. They'll have to do it all over again, she thinks, and this time, her eyes are burning.

***

Elle's face makes Claire feel the thud of the pavement all over again, the rush of air from her body and the crack of bone. She finds consciousness again as she's walking toward the car, wondering why nobody's calling after her.

The symmetry's all wrong. Claire's done enough essays to be sure of that. And she doesn't want to make this another mistake, adding it to the collection of regrets. But she'll survive, whether she gets her revenge with fists or machinations; she knows that all too well. She'll live to break her mother's heart plenty more times no matter who pays for breaking hers.

Sandra remembers yesterday, sparks leaping to wreathe an anguished scream, and feels just as sorry. They're just girls. There shouldn't be this fight to keep them that way. They need to leave, before Claire loses the chance two fathers have given her.

Claire makes her threat and it surprises her. All this pain over staying hidden, and now she wants to step out into a world that's proven it doesn't understand her. She's surprised, too, that no one speaks up to silence her, or point out the flaws in her logic. Maybe it's that all of them want revenge, and none of them can say it. Maybe they think she won't do it. Maybe she won't. But Elle is alone, for all her ties, and as the glass crunches under her feet Claire knows she'll do whatever is necessary. They all will.

Revenge isn't what she wants, but it'll do. The whole world's already blind. This wouldn't make any difference.

All I want for Christmas

Tue, 25 Dec 2007 01:33:11 GMT

...is not to feel guilty about celebrating Christmas.

...which represents family get-togethers, song, and relaxation more than anything holy for me, and always has.

...which I know is not "inclusive," which I'm aware was placed on 12/25 to coincide with and subsume Saturnalia, which has become a battleground for no good reason that I can determine except that somebody decided that those of us who recognize that Christmas is not the only holiday one might be celebrating in December were making it a battleground by thus being cognizant.

...and the existence of which I feel as if I shouldn't even be acknowledging anymore, because it seems to make so many people angry.

Should this prove impossible, dear ~~red-suited white male cultural construct~~ Santa, I will of course happily accept one Peter Petrelli.

Dangit

Sun, 23 Dec 2007 20:19:25 GMT

I can haz LAS results nao plz? Kthxbai.

People should refrain from posting to FFR when they are just generally bitchy due to life.

The ability to write has sort of fallen out of my brain. Not that I can't do it, just that I keep thinking "Oh, I don't have to do this now, I can do it any time I want." Which turns into never. Which is actually what happened with work several months ago, which is worrying me. I can't afford this kind of procrastination snowball.

Christmas shopping should be shot. Repeatedly, in nonlethal spots.

Ideas for Heroes S3

Thu, 13 Dec 2007 16:04:49 GMT

Things that could happen in Heroes S3 that would be really fucking cool:

1. We get a gay hero. Like, a real one.
2. Maya figures out that she has one of the few known powers Sylar doesn't have a counter for, and gets all Inigo on his ass.
3. Nana busts out with ceiling-walking or water breathing or something else even cooler.
4. Peter's kid from the future meets Claire in Salt Lake City.
5. Heidi gets a clue, tells Angela to go fuck herself, and takes the kids to parts unknown. One or both promptly manifest due to the stress.
6. West starts training as an assassin.
7. It turns out that whoever shot Nathan did so because he was going to turn into a real asshole, not because he was going to reveal Company secrets.
8. Bob transmutes somebody. On screen.
9. Elle adopts HRG and borders on creepily stalking him.
10. Sylar attempts to absorb the brain in the jar in the vault and something goes horribly wrong.

Things that could happen that would be considerably less cool:

1. Elle and Mohinder become an item. The ship is promptly dubbed Elmo.
2. The idea of bringing Nathan back is floated, angsted over, and discarded for no discernible good reason.
3. Adam is set free after not nearly long enough below ground.
4. Caitlin appears out of nowhere, gets freaked out by Peter, and goes back to Ireland. We scratch our heads.
5. Sylar kills everybody and is left in the predicament of having to have chemistry with a real, live brick wall.
6. The vault dagger is actually magical OMG and enhances Monica's powers.
7. Everybody gets even worse haircuts.
8. Ando manifests the power to state the obvious. Oh, wait a minute...
9. Monica continues to use her power to get into trouble and has to be rescued by other people. Not even powered people.
10. The show continues to force mindless love interests, to the point that the only one we care about is the bitch they pair with Mr. Muggles.

Some of the good list is actually from a huge muse attack I had a while ago that planned out a bunch of S3 speculation. And some of the bad list...has a better chance of happening than the stuff on the good list. Grrr. Show writers, if you're reading: DO NOT READ THE LIST BEHIND THE CUT. It doesn't exist. You are getting sleepy. Yeeees.

You gotta do what you gotta do

Sun, 09 Dec 2007 07:41:09 GMT

Just finished retro-tagging for adult content. I've left the journal at large unlocked, because there's a good amount of fluffy slash and non-explicit gen on the bookshelf. But in the interests of not giving the LJ Police a reason to investigate me at the next policy change, the following adjustments have been made:

--All R-rated content is marked "Adult Concepts."

--All NC-17-rated content is marked "Explicit Adult Content." The exception to this is "Good Intentions," of which only parts 5 and 6 are marked for Explicit, because they're what necessitated the rating. The rest of the story, the directory post, and the notes post are marked Concepts. I've edited the directory post to note this so as to avoid people getting WTF-slapped.

Going forward, I intend to leave new posts completely unlocked for a week or so. I'm looking at the idea of updating on Mondays, like I've been doing with the heroes_las pieces; anything that qualifies will be locked on the second Monday after it's posted.

I know this will inconvenience some people, and I apologize. I apologize for LJ encouraging users to narc on each other and for my unwillingness to continue to be civilly disobedient in this case. But with the changing climate of LJ and the recent developments with SUP, it's potentially become an issue of self-preservation.

Heroes: Wasn't My Bullet (gen, PG)

Tue, 04 Dec 2007 07:01:30 GMT

Title: Wasn't My Bullet
Author: fool_of_ships
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of characters, plot, or other elements copyrighted by TPTB of Heroes.
Character(s): Niki
Warnings/Spoilers: Through 2.08 "Four Months Ago"
Summary: Niki and her baggage arrive at the Hartsdale facility.
A/N: Written for heroes_las Round 1 Challenge #6. Posted to heroes_fic. Title by Tori.

There's a mirror in her room. A big framed one, right there on the wall. Jesus. Shouldn't these people know better? Niki wants to run, straight out of this place and back to a pharmacy to try again with the refill of mood-zappers she has left. Especially since there's a whisper in the back of her mind that says she ought to pitch her suitcase across the room, shatter that smug shiny trigger into a pile of insect-eye shards. But she's slamming the door instead, breathing hard against the white paint of the wall, sliding down the doorframe to huddle on the floor. She feels like a coward, but at least it means she's still herself.

Enter the program. It had sounded so simple, like finding an AA meeting or something. Residential? Sure, bring it on. Less temptation, less need to worry about other people. She'd been skeptical of Bob (did he have a last name?) and his claims that this program, whatever it was, could work for her; but the tour she's just gotten on the way to this room has helped with that. They're equipped to handle fire, ice, lightning, probably even acid: much worse than she can dish out. The staff wandering the halls have to know what they could be in for. Not like the people outside. Not like...

Damn it, Niki, don't go there. She presses a hand to her forehead, wondering if she ought to be talking to herself in the third person, and figures they'll tell her sooner or later. No doubt there'll end up being a ton of stuff she shouldn't have been doing. Like thinking she could handle this herself. Maybe like thinking it could be handled at all. And now her mind's going there again, and all the tricks she's been using over the last few days—needing to get to the facility without incident, needing to act the part of the person Micah might believe she could still be—aren't helping her. She's here now, with no one depending on her. It doesn't feel anything like freedom.

She's not going to lose it in the hallway; she has that much control left. She gets up, carefully, taking the suitcase, and notices for the first time that there's no one in the hall, not even the orderly who brought her here minutes ago. It probably doesn't mean what she's afraid it means, that some kind of memo's been put around. Unstable patient arriving today, lower east wing. Approach with caution. She wouldn't blame them.

"Don't look at it," Niki mutters, staring at her feet as she shuffles backward through the door. "Just don't look at it." Maybe she can hang a blanket over it or something. Or hell, maybe they want her to get used to it being there, because God knows she's not going to be able to live without mirrors forever. And even if the door she's closing is as reinforced as she thinks—hopes—it is, she's not really, truly sure anymore that the facility would be able to keep her locked down if she were to slip. She almost wants to be back in prison. It would feel better, after what's happened. But even prison hadn't kept her from hurting people. If high security wasn't enough, how could she or this company or anyone else think institutional carpet and a walk-in closet were enough to keep everyone else safe? The only way for anyone to be safe from her, truly safe, is for her not to be there. And even that wasn't enough for D.L.

She can feel the thoughts coming, the familiar train wreck she's been fighting for weeks. It wasn't your fault, people kept saying. You were sick; you couldn't be held responsible. You had no idea. No idea that she'd be sinking onto an unfamiliar bed, her throat tight with despair, replaying another gunshot that rightfully belonged to her. But that she couldn't have known this would happen, or something like it…there's no room for that kind of lie. She can get herself locked up all she wants, but there's no prison she knows that would be able to keep her away from herself.

Niki turns. The mirror's harsh, but she needs it. Needs to see the strings that travel has made of her hair, the red that webs her aching eyes. This is what she's become; this is why she's here. She glares at it, anger bouncing off the glass and burning straight back into her. "You did this," she says to it, but there's no Jessica, no Gina there to take her blame.

She's never hated mirrors quite so much as she does right now.

Note to self

Sun, 02 Dec 2007 03:11:54 GMT

Attempting to write fic with a hard-and-fast deadline of THAT EVENING, almost from scratch = bad idea.

Doing the above while coming down with nasty sinusy crud = worse idea.

Doing all of the above and also forgetting to eat = recipe for disaster.

Fortunately, my heroes_las Final Challenge entry did get finished and has been sent. Pleeeeeease go vote once it's posted? Three authors writing our little hearts out for three weeks, guaranteed. It's gonna rock.

Heroes: Guardianship (gen, PG)

Tue, 27 Nov 2007 07:50:58 GMT

Title: Guardianship
Author: fool_of_ships
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of characters, plot, or other elements copyrighted by TPTB of Heroes.
Character(s): Mohinder, Niki
Summary: Mohinder and Niki trade perspectives on their employment.
Spoilers: Through 2.07 "Out of Time"
A/N: Written for heroes_las Round 1 Challenge #5. Posted to heroes_fic and paper_pwns_all.

The more he thinks about it, the less sense it makes. If he's never had the virus, if it can only infect the evolved, there's no logical reason he should be a natural source of antibodies. A protein, perhaps, something that dissolves the viral capsid, interrupts its life cycle. Yes. Some effect of inheriting almost the same genes, of being the lucky one—

"You're thinking out loud again."

Mohinder looks away from the screenful of lurching blood cells, toward Niki's pained smile. "Sorry," he says, giving thanks that at least she can't hear everything he's thinking.

"It's okay," she says. "You've got a lot to think about."

He sighs, because it's true. "And I'm not concentrating on what I should be." With the equipment in this place, it should be easy, but it feels more as if the lab is mocking him. He'd tried to get around it, and still he's landed right back amid the test tubes and microscopes and victims he can't help.

Niki shrugs. "You're thinking about the virus. That counts."

"I suppose. But it's..." Frustrating. Maddening. Disheartening. "Not getting me anywhere. I don't even know where to start looking for a different cure." He'd been special, for a moment, his deeper thoughts say, and now he isn't. Not so immune to the virus's effects after all.

His momentary wallow in self-pity doesn't upset Niki. "I'd be happy not to be the cure anymore," she says, looking thoughtful. "If it was me."

"How can you say that?" Mohinder asks. Niki, of all people, who talks incessantly about protecting the ones she loves. "It's going to kill you if I can't figure out another cure in time."

"Yeah," she says, trying to fold her arms, foiled by the IV. It's useless, now, he realizes, and he goes over to remove it. "But at least it won't kill you."

She doesn't understand. But then, epidemiology isn't a popular field of study, even for Company recruits. "Niki, if this virus jumps from you to the normal population, I'm in the closest proximity to you. I'll probably be the first to go. We have to stop it before that happens, and if I'm unable to provide a cure myself and can't find another in time, it won't be just me, it'll be everyone."

"And what if it did happen to everyone, and if you were still immune?" Niki asks, looking up. There's something in her eyes that arrests him, makes him pause with a bandage half-unwrapped between his fingers. "What do you think would happen then?"

A possibility he hadn't yet considered. "I'd keep searching, I guess. Try to find a cure before...I was the last one left." The room seems somehow colder, with that thought.

"With this virus, sure," says Niki. "But if you were still the only cure? Do you think you'd survive if anyone outside the Company knew about you?"

"Don't be silly," Mohinder says, but his fingers are unsure on the back of her hand and the temperature is still dropping. "No one would want to lose the only source of the cure."

"And nobody'd want to wait to get their hands on it," Niki adds. Her voice isn't quite the same as usual, either, but that could be the rush of blood pounding in his ears. Blood that he can suddenly see on dozens of desperate hands. Some of them are familiar.

"Why do you think I was assigned to be your partner?" Niki continues. Surveillance, he doesn't say. Wouldn't say, even if he could find his voice. "You'd need protecting, if the worst happened. That's what I'm here for."

He looks at her, the determined jawline and challenging stare mocking the way she leans on the counter for support, and sees what he hopes is truth. He's been fooled by partnerships before. "I guess, in a way, we're lucky that's not necessary anymore."

Niki smiles, bitterly. "Yeah. Lucky."

"I'm sorry," Mohinder says hastily. Sure, he's been shaken up, but dear god, could he be any more insensitive? "I didn't mean—"

"I know. It's okay." She squeezes his shoulder and slides carefully off her seat, and her smile is anxious this time. "Don't get killed without me. Somebody's got to protect our kids."

The words are more real from her, from a mother. This fight has always been personal for him, so much so that he's come to think of it as his alone. It's not, anymore. He understands, and he can't believe it took him this long to realize that she does, too. "I'll do my best."

Heroes: Iteration (gen, PG)

Tue, 13 Nov 2007 08:33:56 GMT

Title: Iteration
Author: fool_of_ships
Rating: PG
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of characters, plot, or other elements copyrighted by TPTB of Heroes.
Character(s): Sylar; hints of Sylar/Mohinder and Sylar/Maya
Summary: The future needs someone to explain what happened in the past. But it's not going to like the answer.
Spoilers: Through 2.06 "The Line"
A/N: Written for heroes_las Round 1 Challenge #4. Posted to heroes_fic. It's been Jossed but good, and I don't care. Long live AUs!

"Mr. Gray. You realize that you carry no natural immunity to this virus."

He doesn't answer. He doesn't need to answer; the loudspeaker doesn't expect it. They've been careful with him, much more than they need to be. He hasn't seen a live person since Peter Petrelli frog-marched him through the complex and sealed the cell door behind him. It was humiliating, being easily corralled by a man he'd almost taken down not five months ago; and it was odd the way Peter didn't seem to hold a grudge. Collecting him was an order to be followed, a mission to be completed, nothing more. Peter had just calmly blipped into existence beside him in the desert and brought him to this wasteland joke of a city. It was an imperfect teleport, placing them in the littered streets instead of this bunker, and it's all the chance he's had to take in his real surroundings. A pity; there are a few places he wouldn't mind visiting, now that they're gloriously empty. He's not sure he'd survive to see the real thing in his own timeline, or if would even happen. Space-time is a continuum, and without him, events could be different. Maybe he's still special after all.

"We don't want to condemn you to death," the speaker continues. He imagines the processed voice sounds like Mohinder, but that could just be delirium. Delirium, and wishful thinking. "I'm sure you're well acquainted by now with the mechanism of infection."

They've made sure of that: his faceless, nameless captors stocked the cell with reading materials and diagrams on some sort of virus. Microbiology is mostly new to him—his talents lie in...specialized physiology—but someone has been hard at work making the material easy to grasp. The virus, the one dominating the literature, is a retrovirus, capable of preying on its host to methodically dismantle its surroundings cell by cell. And the first symptom, for those lucky enough to display it, is the loss of the same abilities he's trying to get back. Only, he knows it would kill him whether or not he can throw the textbooks around the room in a mental whirlwind. And he knows, now, that a simple aerosol will start the process, but he's sure there won't be any fog hissing into the cell until he's given them what they want. "Very well acquainted, thank you for that. Will there be a quiz later?"

"Are you prepared for one?"

Well, now. That's an answer he hadn't expected. "I've always been good at pass/fail," he says, feeling the grin stretch across his face. He remembers places, dates: initial outbreak, Falls Church, Virginia, November 12, 2007. Six victims, local miscreants, all acquainted, some with criminal records. Two-week course of illness; one hundred percent fatality.

He could swear the loudspeaker sighs. "Watch the wall, Mr. Gray," it says, and the lights dim. A projector, somewhere in the ceiling, spews a candy-colored world map over one dingy cell wall, green dots glowing on the eastern seaboard. Slide by slide, dates and dots advance. December brings clusters in Texas and Russia; by January, Brazil and Australia have exploded in green light. The clock moves forward by weeks, dots melding into one another until the continents are outlined in light, a sick parody of a nighttime satellite view. And then...it goes dark. April, May, June are marked by barely a flicker. He knows it's not a cure; like today, there is simply no one left.

"Impressive," he says. "Who created it?" Because there's no way this is simple evolution. Avian flu, HIV, MRSA have all taken their time. Nature, the gears in his mind say, is not this swift.

"You're not here to find that out," says the speaker. "What we need is the vector. A...patient zero."

The gears snap into place with almost audible relief. It would be pathetic as well as familiar, this scrabbling search for a pinpoint, except that in this world, someone remembered him. Someone sent Peter back from this shithole of claustrophobia to retrieve him, of all people, to solve it. Because...he knows how things work. "And you need my help. How nice."

"With your assistance, this can all be avoided," the speaker says, and he can't help laughing. "I fail to see how this is amusing."

"You're amusing," he says. "You have me kidnapped while I'm defenseless, you lock me up with your library and a death threat, and you know full well I don't survive your perfect holocaust or you wouldn't need to steal me from the past."

"Then think of this as a chance to save yourself."

He doubts it, but he'll tell them anyway. "What you're looking for is a carrier. Someone who can infect six people at once and not die. Have you really not found that yet?" There's no answer; he imagines the computerized Mohinder glaring at him in beautiful exasperation. "Pity. I have."

"What do you—"

"She was right beside me when Peter arrived," he continues, picturing Maya asleep, reaching for him in the darkness of the stolen car. "A wonderful ability. Area of effect. Reversible death. Of course, she can't reverse it herself." One final piece. "But if she could. If someone could. If they drained off your virus along with her plague. If they could spread it as well, and the virus went along for the ride."

"You're talking about acquiring powers," says the speaker.

"Acquiring," he repeats. "Not necessarily stealing. Have you talked to Peter lately? Found out what he did on his spring break?" But he knows they won't consider it. He wouldn't either. Easier to believe Gabriel the messenger becoming the angel of death.

The speaker stays silent, and he wonders if they plan to kill him now. They might; he wouldn't blame them. Much. But it doesn't matter who the vector is. It's inevitable, sooner or later.

In the end, it's just another mutation.

Heroes: Eyes of the Beholder (gen, G)

Tue, 06 Nov 2007 06:55:22 GMT

Title: Eyes of the Beholder
Author: fool_of_ships
Rating: G
Disclaimer: I claim no ownership of characters, plot, or other elements copyrighted by TPTB of Heroes.
Character(s): Molly
Summary: Molly didn't mean to draw those pictures. Honest.
Spoilers: Through 2.01 "Four Months Later"
A/N: Written for heroes_las Round 1 Challenge #3. Posted to heroes_fic.

First it was horses. The palomino stood off to the right inside the paddock, contentedly munching feed; the one on the left Molly imagined as Black Beauty, but with a white spot just there on her leg. Her mane came out a little spiky, and Molly fixed it with another pass of the black crayon. The point was wearing down, though, and she frowned, wondering who might be using her crayons without her permission. Maybe it was Jakob, sitting next to her; he'd been watching her and making weirdo eyes for the whole art-center time today. She made another fence, being careful to draw all around the crayon to get it pointy again. Wait till her horses were on the board and his laser spaceships weren't.

But the next week, the only horses up on the board were Emily Bergstrom's stupid pink Pretty Ponies, and Jakob's spaceships were right beside them. Molly asked Miss Gerber why her drawing wasn't up and Miss Gerber said she was worried it would scare the class.

"Horses aren't scary," Molly said. Not even to plastic horses.

"You drew horses?" asked Miss Gerber, sounding confused. "Did you turn in the wrong picture?"

"No. I turned in what I drew." But the picture Miss Gerber took from her desk wasn't horses. Molly stared at the heavy black lines and gray background for a second—

—eyes that don't sleep watching watching he knows where you are—

—and slapped it back onto the desk, face down. She searched her whole desk for the horse picture but couldn't find it. She wanted to believe that Jakob might have taken it, but if he'd replaced it with that... No. It was impossible.

The center assignment the day after that was to draw a place they'd been with their family. Molly didn't think the hospital or Kirby Plaza counted, so she drew camping with her first set of parents. The tent had been bright red, the campground full of trees. She kept sneaking looks at Jakob until Miss Gerber told her to keep her eyes on her own work. That was insulting; she was not a cheater, and how could you cheat at art? She added the sleeping bags and put her paper in the basket.

The next day, Miss Gerber asked if she had something she wanted to talk about. "I think Jakob is using my black crayon," she said, but then she saw the red eyes and the bed on the paper her teacher was holding and she wanted to run away. They couldn't send her to the guidance counselor without Matt's permission, she thought a minute later as she stood over the drinking fountain, clutching a hall pass and trying not to cry. That was the rule. If she just stopped drawing these, they might not ask him. She could do that, she knew she could.

It was pets the next week. Taking a resolute grip on her brown crayon, Molly handed the rest of the box to a surprised Jakob for safekeeping and slowly, carefully drew Mohinder the lizard. She couldn't get his feet to come out right, but she didn't want to draw too much and end up with more nightmare eyes. "Does that look like a lizard?" she asked Jakob, who was staring.

"I guess so, yeah," he said, shrugging, and Molly grinned in triumph and grabbed her crayons back to give Mohinder a properly decorated aquarium to play in. There were more decorations in it than he actually had, but she was happy enough to be drawing something normal that she didn't care. Jakob kept staring. He was probably wishing he had a lizard too, instead of the bird he was drawing.

But when Miss Gerber called her over at recess she knew it didn't matter whether Jakob wanted a lizard. She grabbed the drawing this time and marched out to the yard to shove it at him. "You said I drew a lizard," she snapped.

"That looks kinda like a lizard," said Jakob, pointing to the squiggle in one corner, standing out among the sets of eyes.

"It does not!" she yelled. Out of the corner of her eye, she could see the teacher catching up, and she knew she'd lost her recess privilege for the day, but she didn't care.

"Then what is it?" he asked, and as Molly turned to go back to the classroom, she realized that, for all it showed up in her drawings and the dreams they depicted, she didn't know.

Molly decided not to draw after that. Not with her crayons, not with Jakob's. She sat quietly during centers, hands tucked into her pockets, until Miss Gerber noticed and asked what she was doing. She didn't answer, because she didn't have an answer. And when Jakob asked to use her crayons the next week, because somebody had stolen his for the third time, she didn't have an answer for why her black crayon had been worn flat against its peeled-down wrapper, or why the items in her desk were moved around from where she always put them. She looked up at Miss Gerber, but she didn't dare ask.

So when Miss Gerber wanted to talk to Matt after school, even though she didn't have a pencil in her hand for him to sign the counselor form, Molly knew what they had to be talking about. But until he took the drawings out again at home, she'd been able to forget. Now, she could feel the nightmare menacing her from the pages, half familiar from dreams she didn't want to remember, and she couldn't hide it anymore. She didn't want to talk about them. There was no way Matt could ever understand. Not if she didn't.