Yare Yare? Daze.

~~~

You remember exactly where you were sitting when, at 11 years old, your mother held your hand and explained that Santa wasn’t real.

The news was devastating. Not because it meant Christmas would lose some of its magic (as you approached puberty, lots of things felt less magic); not because your parents deceived you (who could blame them?); and not even because you felt foolish for believing as long as you did (most of your friends did, too).

What gutted you, what made your pillow damp with tears that night, was the thought that all those days of happiness had been fake. Your joy was based on a lie. And while you were sitting on some stranger’s lap at the mall or doodling a ‘stamp’ into the corner of an envelope to mail your Christmas list, the adults all knew. They knew the open secret that you were too naïve to grasp. They had looked at you with pity and condescension, and thought, I’m not gonna tell her. Let her have this.

You hadn’t felt that specific genre of heartache for a long time. But after finding out the reason you were selected as Ghost’s love interest was because you were so overweight and undesirable as to be a source of embarrassment, it came rushing back tenfold.

All your newfound main character energy, growing closer with the boys, gaining friends, getting gassed up on the subreddit – suddenly you were watching it swirl down a drain, circling languidly and then disappearing forever. At the center of it all had been the delusion that people were finally recognizing qualities you’d possessed all along, like your pretty face and sweet demeanor and quick wit. But they were no different from the adults who didn’t want to ruin your Christmas spirit by telling you the truth about Santa.

Even – no, especially – Ghost. At first he had been blunt with you about why this needed to end. He had explicitly told you it was uncomfortable and unacceptable. Then somewhere along the way, he must have noticed how happy it all made you, how excited, and the fucker started to get compassionate. Started to humor you, let you in on his bad jokes, insisted you call him by his name, embraced you in his office when the cognitive dissonance became too much to ignore.

In a way, you appreciated Graves for his straightforward admission. No punches pulled, no chance for your optimistic mind to warp the meaning. It was the wakeup call you needed.

On Friday, you somehow managed to drag yourself back to work. You got in early, put on a pair of headphones, and pretended to be busy whenever anyone came by. You transcribed Price’s chicken-scratch ammunition orders into a requisition form, so you wouldn’t have to think about Ghost’s soulful brown eyes; cleaned out your downloads folder, to distract yourself from the memory of his arms pulling you close; sank into the oblivion of realigning the columns of your permitting spreadsheet, hoping to forget the sound of your name on his lips.

The tap of two fingers on your desk startled you. You looked up to see Johnny’s concerned blue eyes peering down at you.

You did not have it in you to face the boys. “Sorry,” you murmured, quickly turning back to the monitor. “I’m busy. Shoot me a message if you need something.”

Very gently, Johnny reached over and removed the headphones from your ears. He set them down and said, “Please talk tae me.”

You bit your bottom lip to keep it from wobbling. “Is this work related?”

“Of course not.” He perched himself on the corner of your desk and leaned closer. “C’mon bonnie. We can see yer hurtin’. Ghost’s damn near—"

“I don’t want to talk about him,” you interrupted.

Johnny held up his hands in surrender. “S’no problem, Ah willnae bring him up again. But please, tell us how we can make it better?” He pitched a thumb over his shoulder towards the elevator. “Gaz and Roach wanted tae join me, but Ahm the most charming bastard a’ the bunch and we dinnae want tae overwhelm ye.”

They were so thoughtful, so sweet. The look in Johnny’s eyes was not one of a guilty do-gooder who felt bad for the delusional fat girl. Just a friend who hated to see another friend suffering.

You made the most unladylike gurgling noise, and then started bawling.

A few heads turned and you immediately buried your face in your hands to muffle the noises. As the support staff for your Task Force, your desk was right out in the open. Not an ideal place to have a breakdown.

Johnny somehow got you to stand and led you down the hall to his tiny office – another uninspired, windowless box. He sat you in his chair and took a step back to give you some space.

When you recovered enough to look up at him, your face covered with snot and tears and flushed cheeks, all you could manage was, “Thank you.”

He waved you off with a pshaw. “Nae bother. Ye wanna talk, or ye wanna be alone?”

I want to be skinny. I want to be pretty. I want Simon to like me.

“Just need to get myself together,” you assured him, sniffling up some uncooperative mucus. “I know you need to get back to work, but could I stay in here?”

“As long as ye need, hen,” he responded without hesitation.

“Johnny, you are actually the best and kindest human being. Never change.”

“Ye know, my nan olways said Ah was a nice young man,” he mused teasingly. He headed back to PT on the ground level as you took a few more minutes to gain your bearings.

You had survived just fine before the story, and one way or another, you would carry on after it. Sure, when a new chapter failed to arrive next week, the base would pitch a fit – but they would slowly forget about this strange misadventure. And it might take longer, but you’d move on too. Like Cinderella after midnight, you would transform from an object of desire to invisible hired help, picking up after your much prettier stepsisters.

Back at your desk, you stowed the headphones in a drawer and pulled up a browser window. If you couldn’t be the office hot-girl anymore, you would happily reclaim the title of the best damn admin on base. First order of business? Buying some decor for the boys' fucking miserable offices.

~~~

Over the weekend, you received a text from an unknown number. You had been in the middle of binging a Netflix show, mindlessly popping Raisinets, when it lit up your phone.

[Unknown Number]: DJ, hey. It’s Graves. I wanted to say I’m real sorry about how this all shook out. Ghost was my true target and I did not intend for things to spiral the way they did. You didn’t deserve to get caught in the crossfire.

No fucking way. Was he actually insane? Did someone put him up to this?

Then you remembered that Graves had no idea you were in the room with Ghost, that you had heard all the awful things he said. The mature thing to do would be to ignore him, but you had quite a bit of pent-up pettiness you were dying to get out of your system.

You: Save it. I heard what you said on the video call.

Graves: Knew that slimy fuck lied to me about being alone.

Graves: Look, I was just trying to goad him because I know he’s all invested in you now.

Yeah, right. You had not spoken to Ghost since the incident and you planned to keep it that way for the foreseeable future. It was all too mortifying, too fresh. And besides, Ghost was about as invested in you as a day-trader.

Graves: You must know I don’t think about you that way. Hell, I consider us friends! I’ve got lots of good memories from my time on base… don’t you?

You: I remember you hanging around my desk like a gadfly instead of doing real work. And pissing off my boys every chance you got.

You recalled Ghost’s advice not to engage, as it would only egg people on. But here you were, throwing gasoline on Graves’ fire. Well, whatever. Chewing him out was cathartic.  

Graves: Your boys, really? C’mon, DJ.

Graves: They flirt with you because you’re convenient. You think in another life, you’d have a meet-cute with Roach at a silent rave? You think fucking pretty-boy Gaz would bat his eyes at anyone over a size 2?

Your throat tightened involuntarily; that one hurt. He was probably right, but that was beside the point. No matter how it ended up this way, they wereyour boys and you were their desk jockey. Johnny had proven that yesterday.

You: Leave them out of this. In fact, lose my number.

Graves: Okay, okay. Point taken.

Graves: Sounds like I have a lot of apologizing to do.

No shit, asshole. You fired off a reply.

You: First smart thing you’ve said.

Graves: Yeah, ha.

Graves: Why don’t I start by taking you out to dinner?

What the actual fuck was happening. Was he… was he making a move on you?

Graves: Not trying to do anything other than apologize. No ulterior motives. Promise.

Graves: And even if it was a date, would that be such a bad thing? Remember, I *am* the Ghost from the story. There’s a depth to me that most people don’t see. I’d love to show you.

In the silence of your apartment, you laughed like a madwoman. What the fuck was this guy thinking?

An utterly vile, devious idea came over you. On the second floor, there was a plotter – a huge printer that could generate poster-sized maps for strategy sessions. You imagined screenshotting this conversation, printing enormous versions of it, and taping it to the walls of the cafeteria. God, wouldn’t that be perfect? Graves, made a public laughingstock exactly as he had done to you and Ghost. Simping for a fat chick. The temptation was nearly overwhelming.

But, of course you would never do such a thing. This was not the triumphant climax of a Disney Channel movie, where the bully gets his comeuppance for messing with a group of plucky tweens.

Revenge wasn't you.

You, who loved your job too much to risk it over a prank. You, who unfailingly took the high road because that’s how your parents raised you. You, who saw the good in everybody – even Phillip Graves, a man so surrounded by toxic masculinity that he behaved atrociously upon realizing he had a crush on someone who wasn’t conventionally attractive.

“Kiss my big, fat ass, Graves” you said to your phone, navigating to your settings to block his number.

~~~

It was Wednesday, and you had promised yourself that you would not visit the subreddit to witness the hysteria over another missed chapter. There would be no avoiding the interrogation at work, but at least your morning would be peaceful and as free as possible from thoughts of the story.

You had told no one about the identity of the author, and as far as you knew, neither had Ghost, Price, or Laswell. There was no reason to, given that Graves had been dealt with. Laswell had approached you before heading back to the States to confirm that you really didn’t want her to put anything about the incident on file. You explained that you had traded a promise of indemnity for a promise to stop writing, and she had relented with a little frown.

You hadn’t spoken with Ghost at all. The whole situation was humiliating, and every time you so much as imagined him in your periphery, you busied yourself elsewhere. You didn’t want his pity, his disdain, his regret – you didn’t want to think about him at all. So far, you had been successful. Either he was avoiding you as well or had gotten the message and was steering clear.

With your morning smoothie in hand (“orgasmic orange” today), you strode purposefully towards the elevator and braced yourself for the onslaught of complaints. Yet no one approached you. A few oddly judgmental looks were thrown your way, but no one was demanding a chapter. Similarly, there was no throng of people at your desk demanding the whereabouts of the latest chapter.

What was at your desk was a single, manilla envelope. You dashed to Price’s office and saw one sitting there, too.

Somehow, another chapter had been delivered across base. Again. After Graves promised he would stop.

“Fuck it,” you snarled. You were so ready to be done with this bullshit! You ripped the envelope off your desk and frisbeed it into the recycling bin. There was no way you were going to torture yourself by reading a sex scene between you and the guy you were ardently trying not to think about.

While you had successfully quashed your curiosity over the contents of both the chapter and the subreddit, you were dying to know why Graves had decided to publish again after striking a deal with Ghost. And in print, no less. You weren’t surprised in the least that he went back on his word – it was practically his signature move – but why bother lying about it? Graves was exactly the type to relish the snapping an olive branch over his knee, especially one offered by a rival. You had half a mind to unblock him and send him an irate rant via text.

It was near lunchtime when you finished compiling an agenda packet for one of Laswell’s upcoming briefs. You opened the messaging software and were surprised to see a wall of text from Gary.

gsanderson: I am temporarily lifting my ban on meta discussions about the story due to this morning’s developments. What have you learned about the author? Could there be multiple parties involved? Have you gleaned anything from previous chapters that could help us make sense of this? No piece of intelligence is too small to be valuable.

gsanderson: Should you prefer to discuss this pressing matter in person, I can make myself available immediately.

You glanced at the recycling bin. You really, really did not want to read the chapter, but… he did say it was “pressing…”

You compromised by checking the subreddit.

“Copycat?” “Change my mind: the author is punishing us.” “The End (thank god)” “Unpopular opinion, but it wasn’t that bad??”

Bad... how, exactly? Dammit. Your resolve to stay away from the latest chapter was flagging by the second. The recycling bin warbled its siren song to you, tantalizing you with the mystery of it all…

Tabbing back to the messaging software, you checked the rest of your unreads – sure enough, people were asking if you knew what the hell had happened with the latest chapter. You pulled up your chat with Gary.

You: President Sanderson, thank you for bringing this incident to my attention. I have not completed my reconnaissance yet, but will provide a sitrep ASAP. Stand by.

gsanderson: Roger.

And so you read.

~~~

“Bad” was your little cousin’s piano recital. “Bad” was how you felt when you ate gas station sushi. The chapter? It was unforgivable.

Either Phillip Graves had suffered a stroke, or the latest installment was written by an imposter. The action did not pick up where the fifth chapter left off; rather, it was a series of loosely connected flashbacks (or flashforwards?) depicting snapshots of Ghost and DJ sharing their life. Things like grabbing coffee, hitting a movie theater, her picking him up from the airport after a deployment.

But that was where your comprehension ended. The narrative jumped back and forth between present and past tense. Although most of the grammar was intelligible, the author had clearly never written dialogue before and seemed to have no idea how to use quotation marks. Any trace of eloquence or nuance was as absent as the plot. It was basically a series of stilted lines tagged with “he said” and “she said,” and short, factual descriptions of the action.

And perhaps most mysterious of all, there was no QR code at the end leading to an author’s note or poll. In its place were the words, “THE END.”

Although you had been doing your damnedest not to think of Ghost this week, you couldn’t stop yourself from wondering what his reaction was. He must have some theory on who was behind this, or at least what the motive might be. You thought the best move would be to track down Toad, as he must have been the one behind the distribution, but you couldn’t do the good cop/bad cop routine like last time without your stakeout buddy…

Knock it off, you chastised yourself. Why were you trying to turn this into another bonding activity between you and Ghost? The story was over and so was your friendship. Whoever had made a lame attempt to keep the former going was not your problem.

After some consideration, you composed your follow-up to Gary:

You: I’m stumped. I agree it’s not the original author, but there are too many potential means and motives for me to narrow it down. I’m sorry.

He replied quickly.

gsanderson: No worries DJ. But, it is a damn shame. I was very invested.

You: Yeah. Me too, Gary.

It saddened you to think that the boys wouldn’t meet up for their post-work literary discussions on Wednesdays any longer. They deserved a mental vacation from the exhausting responsibility of risking their lives for justice and peace.

Determined to find a silver lining on this clusterfuck of a raincloud, you typed:

You: Hey. Would you consider keeping the 141 Book Club running even without the story?

gsanderson: What do you mean? Like, pick a different book?

You: Exactly. It was fun to discuss with you three. If it’s not too much of an imposition, I’d love to keep the meetings going.

gsanderson: I think that’s a great idea, DJ. It would really take the edge off losing this masterpiece.

gsanderson: Any recommendations for what to read next?

You checked over your shoulder to make sure Price wasn’t about to come out of his office and get an eyeful of your screen.

You: Ever heard of a book called Pandora’s Cocks?

~~~

No sooner had you walked into your apartment than your phone rang. You rarely received calls that weren’t marketing, so you ignored it until it rang a second time. Sighing, you fished around in your bag as you kicked off your shoes and leaned back against the door.

“Hello?”

“Where are you?”

You were struck dumb for a minute. “…Ghost?”

“Did you leave?” he asked, carrying on like you had been in the middle of conversation. You could hear rapid footfalls and the whine of a door opening.

“Uh, yeah.” You did not add that you’d started coming in and leaving half an hour earlier to avoid him.

“I was – was tryna find ya,” he said, seeming distracted. “Got busy in the morning, thought I’d catch you before you left, but then… Anyways. We should talk.”

“About the chapter?”

“Yeah.”

Huh. Maybe Ghost did want to play another game of whodunnit with you. You were not so delusional to hope that this would restore your friendship, but maybe there was a possibility of things going back to the way they were before all this. Of being the admin who occasionally gave him baked goods or an illustrated calendar that made him smile. If that was on the table, you’d be a fool not to pursue it.

Settling into the couch, you said, “Alright. Well, I’ve got some theories, but why don’t you go first?”

You heard him stop walking, like your answer had caught him off guard. “I, er, wanted to talk in person.”

You had never, not once in all the years you’d known him, seen Ghost outside of work.

Before you could protest, he rushed, “I’ll come to you. Address?”

If it were anyone else, the pushiness might have made you uncomfortable. But you trusted him implicitly, and his brusque assertion was more a function of not understanding the subtext of inviting yourself to your colleague’s apartment than any ill intent.

So you told him your address and ended the conversation. The moment you hung up, regret swarmed you. What were you thinking? Your apartment was a disaster. You immediately ran to open your windows to air out the place and started scooping up dirty dishes and piles of clothing. You could not let him know that the competent, professional DJ he knew from work had an alter ego: depressed, exhausted DJ, whose home was in a perpetual state of disarray.

Not half an hour later, there was a knock at your door. Your hands were trembling. You wanted to start with an apology for running out on him last week, but he had seemed so frenetic when he called, like he had something to get off his chest. Maybe he thought Graves was still connected somehow.

You opened the door to find Ghost impatiently waiting on your welcome mat, his arms crossed tersely over his chest. Without so much as a hello, he brushed past you inside.

“Oh. Uh.” This whole episode was so disorienting. “Can I get you something to drink?” you managed.

He looked a bit disheveled, the mask askew and a tuft of blond hair poking into the opening for his eyes. “Not really here for that, bird.”

He calls me out of breath, speeds to my apartment, pushes himself inside… like, where’s the damn fire? you thought, peeved. You didn’t understand the urgency when the next chapter presumably wouldn’t be published for another six days. If another was even coming, given the valediction on this one.

“Okay! Fine.” You made a shooing motion with your hands, still standing in your hallway because you weren’t sure if he was ‘not really here’ to sit. “Spit it out. What’s the gameplan?”

“Wot?”

“For hunting down whoever wrote the chapter,” you clarified. “That’s what we’re talking about, right?”

To your surprise, he looked away and said, “I just wanted to know what you thought of it.”

You had never known Ghost to be anything less than direct, but there was clearly something he wasn’t saying. Even if you didn't understand what was going on, you didn't want to add to his obvious discomfort by pressuring him. Best just to answer his questions. “Well, I kind of resolved not to read it when I first saw another one had come out. But then everyone was saying it was so awful, and I thought it couldn’t be that bad—”

“Right,” he said tightly.

“—But Gary convinced me to pick it up, and, boy, they weren’t kidding. Total dogshit.”

“Okay, okay.” Ghost put his hands up to stop you from continuing. “I’ll agree s’not exactly poetry. But you did read the whole chapter?” You nodded. “And? What’d you think of, er. The content? Writing style aside.”

It was difficult to divorce the meaning from its inelegant delivery. “Honestly, whatever plot or message this new author was trying to convey got lost in the errors and awkward wording. I’m even wondering about potential learning disa—”

“For fuck’s sake,” Ghost snapped. “You wanna just kick me in the bollocks? Be less painful than all this.”

You squinted as his words caught up with you. Holy shit… Recognition must have eclipsed your clueless expression, because Ghost offered you an insipid smile beneath the mask.

“Take it you don’t want my autograph, then?”

~~~

A/N: Begging you guys to check out this incredible DJ/Ghost art by @clevestark.

Fingers crossed the finale does not disappoint! Thank you for following along on this adventure!! <3

~~~

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