haiku

Arcane

Harry Potter

Star Trek

Undertale

Alice Through the Looking Glass

All Characters/Mini Series Masterlist

Kissing Masterlist [grace, silco, sevika, kirk, spock, mccoy, scotty, nyota, phlox, hemmer, gaster, grillby, snape, kylo, hux, aziraphale, crowley + bonus!]

You’ve seen his room. His bed. Tall, full-wooden with tall drapes along the side. A dresser, a few shelves lined with books and trinkets from Jinx. Every knick knack covered with paint except one. Something metal.

A piece of Sevika’s old arm, you found out eventually. He’d stolen it from Singed’s desk when the man wasn’t looking. The man was irate, according to Silco, so he swore you to secrecy.

It was a strange trip over to your apartment. You honestly weren’t sure when Silco left the Last Drop except for meetings. You weren’t used to the way people looked at him. First curiosity, then it clicked, and they pushed into the crowd to step away. There was always a pretty large gap between yourself, Silco, Sevika and whatever people were crowded in the markets or down alleyways.

Sevika had to be there, though it wasn’t unappreciated. It just meant the whole time she and Silco were at each other’s necks. She’d make sly comments, something about Silco excited to give your bed a try, and he’d snap back about her girlfriend that worked at Bobette’s.

But it was routine, and it was lovely.

You couldn’t help but realize the look on Sevika’s face when she saw your apartment complex. Raised eyebrows and one side of her lips hiked in disgust. It was embarrassing, just the slightest. Silco, however, was completely unperturbed.

You didn’t know much about him yet. At least, not as much as you wanted to know. You probably, statistically, knew more about him than 99% of the population. Probably much more. You weren’t sure how long he’d spent in Zaun, or what he’d seen. You knew that when you both were young, working in the mines was common. So you assumed that he probably did that. But it’s not unreasonable to also assume he had some money starting out, or that he’d grown accustomed to safe housing and tailored clothes.

The floors and stairs creaked as you three climbed them. Sevika slowed down significantly, trying not to make sound as if it was a challenge. Silco had no such concerns, walking down the hall with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes flicking to the metal number hammered beside each door.

Silco reached your apartment before you did, and stopped. It pleased you, just a little, that he’d remembered your apartment number. You’d told him yesterday, yeah, but it still made you warm. You pull your keys from your pocket, enjoying the familiar clinks as you sorted through them and stuck the correct one in your door.

“Okay, so I don’t want to watch you two make out.” Sevika said dryly, raking a hand through her hair. “So I’m staying out here.”

Silco rolled his eyes, leaning against your door frame. “I suppose you won’t be joining us for the sleepover, either?”

“No, that sounds more like a fuck-fest.” She mutters, and rolls her eyes back.

“Such a shame.” Silco purrs. “We had movies planned, I brought popcorn.” Instead of waiting for Sevika’s reply, Silco slips in the door behind you, turning and closing it.

Silco’s face is an interesting thing, as you’ve come to find out. He’s incredibly expressive. Sometimes it flickers, a pull of lips, a furrow of eyebrows, and then nothing. But a lot of the time, he lets it take hold of his face. He’ll still let out small, tactful comments. Mutter something slightly disrespectful. But so often, at least around you and your family, his smile stayed put.

It was a strange realization, that he was so honest. And it was kind of heartbreaking that he’d really always just been that miserable when you saw him. But studying his face made up for it all. The way his good eye would flick around restlessly, how his typical smile was just his mouth hanging slightly open, getting to see the tips of his teeth. The way that one hair of his would break the pomade’s hold before the rest of it, and how it would fly around his face as he talked.

You never realized just how animated he was until you saw that hair.

You watched him now as he entered, taking everything in the room in. It was disheartening how fast his face fell. His eyes raked across your walls again and again, eye getting a little wider and eyebrows rising higher this time. “You like birds.” He says stupidly, and you understand.

Your walls are lined with birds, but out from magazines, feathers you’ve collected from the Zaun-Piltover border. You thought it was beautiful, yet heartbreaking that you didn’t have them in Zaun. They were caged in Piltover, you were caged here.

“Yeah, but.” You counter, reaching your hand around his waist and bringing him farther into your living space. You have to get out of the entry way to see it, turn your head around the short wall. You gesture towards it, and you know he sees it.

You know he sees it because the ends of his mouth pull up farther than you’ve ever seen them. You only get a glimpse of it before he covers his mouth with his hand. His eyes linger for only a few more seconds before he turns away, and that makes your eyebrows furrow.

“Silco?” You call, your voice a little more urgent than it needs to be. But then his shoulders start to shake, and you flounder for what to do. There's only a few moments of you standing stationary before you reach up to grab his shoulder, worrying over him. You call his name again, and as you scoot around him to try and get a glimpse of his face, he turns further away. So you let him. You hear a strange sound from him, it doesn’t sound tight or wounded. And finally, you deduce, he’s laughing. Harder than you’ve ever seen him laugh, full body moving with the strength of it. But it’s quiet, breathy. Your shoulders sink, and you let it happen.

Finally he turns towards you, and you gaze at his face. Your shoulders bunch all up again, seeing the trail of a tear left on his cheek. “Silco?” You ask again, but he looks over you shoulder to your wall.

To your coin collection.

When you do get down time, you play with the box. Flip it open, closed. It has nice hinges for such a small box. You run your fingers over the edge of the coin, try to memorize each bump, see how fast you can rub your finger over it before you don’t feel them anymore. The fabric in the box doesn’t get as much of your attention. It’s gorgeous, but not as interesting.

“Need a few shots and a long island. I’m working on some beers,” Thieram says, gripping the door frame and turning to look at you. He pushes his hair out of his face, and gives you that strained smile with his too-big teeth.

“Uh, yeah.” You mutter, pushing yourself to your feet. The ache in them immediately worsens into a more sharp pain. But that's the same every night, so you ignore it. “I gotcha. Sorry, I got distracted.” You pull the box from your pocket, shoving the coin inside. The corner of the note is already bent from your fiddling, having not shoved it fully in the box and then setting it in your pocket.

His eyes give a little twitch, but he’s otherwise polite. “Yeah, you’re fine. I check out about now, too.” He slides to let you through, following you as you weave through the storage room, into the hallway and then out into the bar. You wonder what this place was, before it was the Last Drop. The layout makes zero sense.

“Thirty more minutes,” Thieram says, giving you a look that obviously means something. You’re not quite sure what it means though, so you just nod.

Shots are easy to pour, and you’ve made about a thousand long island iced teas, so it only takes a few minutes until you’re home free again. Instead of going back outside, you stand at the bar, opening and closing the box in your pocket. It makes a nice dull thud every time it closes.

Thieram sits with you, dwaddling and cleaning the bar. You eventually lend a helping hand, the club starting to clear out as birds start to chirp outside. It was a rough night, and you’re grateful for the silence.

A few drunkards have to be ushered out, but it’s otherwise peaceful. You go through the motions, put any extra food in waste, write it down, cap bottles, do dishes. Half way through, Thieram sets his arm across your shoulders, with a tired smile. “Ran said they’d help me out with the rest, go on up.”

You nod, thanking him generously. You’d been dragging a bit, exhausted to your core. You hang your apron up in the staff room, grabbing your belongings. You wave everyone goodnight, thanking Thieram again on the way out the side door.

Thieram says your name, you pause. “Silco, remember?” he reminds gently, and you jump.

“Oh fuck!” Thieram’s smile doesn’t help ease your worries as you turn sharply on your heel, dumping your bag and keys on the bar. The guard stationed at the stairs lets you up without question, giving you a small polite smile. You’ve never learned that one’s name.

You’re up the stairs in seconds, coming up to Silco’s door. It’s eerily silent on the other side, but you knock.

Instead of his usual, ‘enter,’ he says, “Yes?” And when you put your hand on the door, you find it’s already cracked. He says, “there you are,” before you’re even through the doorway. You turn to look at him, and… oh.

His vest is off, thrown over the back of his chair, leaving him only in his crimson undershirt. He has a small bronze box on his desk, the center cleared of papers otherwise. Upon seeing you, his eyebrows lift, before he moves the box to the side.

“I was expecting someone else, I apologize.” He says, and there’s a strange edge to his voice you’ve never quite heard before. He sits straighter, hand twitching towards his vest before grabbing his cigar instead.

As you bring the box from your pocket, he relights it with a match, taking a few quick puffs to get it going. You shake the box at him. “You were expecting someone else?” You ask gingerly.

His eyebrows raise again, and when his mouth opens this time, you notice the little gap in between his front teeth, one of them crooked. “Ah.” He says, his voice raising a pitch. “I suppose you were busy yesterday?” He asks, before taking another puff of his cigar.

You set the box in your pocket, finally deciding to leave the doorway to go sit. You choose one of the two chairs said closer to him, and settle into it. “What do you mean?” You mutter, taking the box out again.

He looks quizzical at that. “You didn’t receive it yesterday?” He asks, tapping the ash off his cigar.

“No?” You mumble. “Should I have?”

Silco runs a hand down his face, each word an obvious effort. “I suppose it was Theiram that was busy. You were supposed to be given that yesterday.”

You feel the laugh bubble in your throat. It comes out a small, weak thing. “I can absolutely appreciate you giving him the benefit of the doubt, but I think he didn’t want to have to interview new bartenders.”

Silco looks absolutely puzzled at that, setting his cigar to go out in his ash tray. “Whatever do you mean?” There's a stray hair on his forehead, you realize, as he swipes it away.

“He, uh.” You feel the small laugh leave your throat again. “He probably thought you were going to kill me, Silco.”

Silco, continuing to look puzzled, shakes his head. “I believe that would cause complications. It was a gift…” He goes silent for a moment, his eyes flicking to his cigar, then you. “An apology.” He finishes.

Without giving him much of a chance to breathe, you butt in. “Not to be ungrateful, but can I ask why a coin?”

His gaze gets a little flighty, going from drawer to drawer of his desk. Did he just grab something from his desk? Just a random thing?

He rubs a hand across his cheek before settling on it and tapping his upper lip. “Do you have any interests?” He asks. You know it’s meant to be conversational, but it sounds like a threat in his low drawl.

“Oh my god you did.” You mutter, mostly to yourself. But he straightens up anyway.

“What?” He asks, picking up his cigar again. He tries to take a puff off of it, but it's gone out. He clicks his tongue on the top of his mouth, disappointed.

“You just grabbed something random out of your desk.” You mutter in disbelief.

He runs a hand over his face. “Well I don’t suppose I should have just read your mind instead? Perhaps I should have sent someone to follow you, see what vegetables you buy at the market for your evening stew?”

You open up the box with your finger, sliding your thumb across the surface of the coin. “It’s perfect, Silco. The coin is perfect.”

"What the hell did you say to him?" Theriam wheezes out.

You glance up at him, squinting, silently asking for him to elaborate. He does as asked.

"Silco told me to give this to you. I thought you two were in a tiff? It's what I heard from Sevika, at least."

You grin. "So you did send me off thinking I would die."

Thieram rolls his eyes, turning to scrub at a stubborn sauce stain. The Last Drop should have never offered food. It makes the cleaning process twice as long.

"With love." Is his only reply, mumbled grumpily. "What's in the box?"

You shrug, pushing on one side of the lid with your thumb, your other fingers wrapped around. You stop abruptly, turning to Theiram. "Okay so maybe we have had. Like. A lot of arguments."

Thieram grins and shrugs. "I bet it's a bullet."

"For me to kill myself with?"

"Yup."

You sigh. "Damn. I don't know how I've even lived this long. Do you think this really is a ploy to just murder me in a cool way? Or like, make an example of me."

"Could we just whisper scandalously about our last fuck and our salary like normal co-workers?" He's got most of the sauce off, bending down and scrubbing harder, like he's trying to look it in the face.

You throw your hands up, bow still gripped tightly. "How small of bombs does Jinx make?" You ask instead.

"Not that small." Comes a gruff voice from behind you. Sevika grabs your forearm, turning your hand to examine the box. "She give you this or somethin'?"

"Silco gave it to them." Theiram corrects, and Sevika's posture straightens.

"I heard you and Silco were fighting." She smirks after a moment of thought. "Lover's quarrel?"

"Was a 'lover's quarrel' what happened between you and your girlfriend last week? When you came in mopey as a fuckin alley kitten?" Sevika grunts, pulling the box from your hands.

"I'm not Silco, kiddo. You don't watch your mouth and I might actually kill you." She flips the top open and her eyebrows crease.

Thieram still has his back still turned to the both of you, putting the rag in his hand to work. "You two did work it out, yeah?" The question is in "quiet voice". Higher pitched, mumbled, sweet. He's about the nicest person in the building, really.

"It's a fuckin' coin." She coughs, handing you the box. Thieram whips around to crane his head over your shoulder.

"Am I getting a pay increase or decrease?"

"There's a note," Thieram has his finger in the box, wiggling it under the coin to pry in from the indent.

The coin is copper, and slightly oxidized. It's set in shining silk, purple, damn near reflective. And under there is in fact a small note. Sevika plucks it before you can read it.

"Oh my fucking— he is gonna kill you." Sevika's voice is a bit higher than usual as she says this.

"Huh?" It's higher pitched than usual, but you're proud of how calm it came out.

She jerks her wrist towards you, note in hand. You glare at the letters as they still and focus. "It's an apology."

You grasp from the note, bringing it closer to your face. "Do you need readers or somethin'?" Sevika's comment goes unheard as you scan the paper again and again.

It is an apology. He asks you to come up to his office today after hours. For him to "properly apologize".

Your head whips to Sevika. "Has he said anything out of character to you lately? Like… anything sappy or… not Silco-ish?"

Sevika shrugs, lips pulled tight. "He said he appreciates me." She pauses. "Well, it was more: 'you were a good investment.'"

Thieram hums, nudging you to the side for a better view. "Same thing," he mumbles.

You laugh. "Shit. You think my yelling did anything? Like, I convinced him or something?" There's the doubt there, but would he really make the effort if he didn't care? You're sorted proud of him, dubious, but proud.

Thieram hands you the coin, and you place the contents of the box back inside of it. "What have you two been fighting about anyways? I hear you two yelling up there." You snap the box shut, pushing it in your jacket pocket.

"About how he is around others." You shrug. "It started when you had that run-in with a gun and grenade? Got so badly injured? He acted like he didn't give a shit. Pissed me the fuck off."

Sevika snorts, rolling her eyes and turning away from the conversation. Before she's fully out of sight, she throws over her shoulder: "Yeah, kid, he might kill ya. Be careful."

It had taken weeks to get her improved prosthesis from Singed, and those weeks had left her restless and irritable. She'd spent most of her time at the bar as soon as she was cleared to have alcohol. Other days she would spend in Silco's office. Usually she would leave in a pissy mood, or Silco would sit in one.

The whole bar seemed lighter now that she had a working arm. People were thankful, kinder, happier. It would only last for a week, but it was an enjoyable week nonetheless.

"Hey!" A guard coming down the stairs, whose name you don't quite remember, catches both of your attention. "Silco wants you up in his office."

Sevika nods, and starts forward, but the guard shakes his head, and points to you.

You heave out a breath, and Sevika gives you a pat on the shoulder (one which was very obviously harder than necessary, and nearly knocked you off your feet). With a simple goodbye, you're up the steps.

Only as you reach Silco's door do you wonder what exactly he needs.

Three short knocks results in Silco's voice. He simply says, "enter," and you have to wonder how many times a day he says it.

You push open the door and side-step through the gap, grabbing the handle to ease it quietly closed.

"Sit." Is all he says, only sparing you a glance.

You do as he says, sitting carefully on the edge of one of his two leather seats.

"Good." He murmurs, finally dropping his pen and giving you his full attention. "We are going to discuss your paperwork that you turned in. Theriam said you handled the majority of it."

Your eyebrows creased. "Yes, I did. Why?"

"It was done… incorrectly. A variety of drinks have not been ordered. Ive also gotten quite a few reports of you fucking up orders. Having to give free drinks in turn? I'll be needing you to—" oh shit. He's pissed. Curse words and all.

"It was an incredibly hard week." You huff out sheepishly. It's followed with a breathy laugh that eases the tightness in your chest. "I apologize, sir. I can get it all re-done—"

"You've interrupted me and made excuses. Do you intend to lose your job?" His anger isn't nearly as palpable as it was nearly two weeks ago. You don't flinch, just watch.

"Just as Sevika is, you are my employee. I pay all of you generously, all I ask is for respect. If you cannot give me simple respect, then—"

You laugh, it's bitter and short. This poor, poor, stupid man.

"How is Sevika doing? What changes were made to her arm? What about your goddamn daughter, Silco? Has she—"

"Do not bring my daughter—"

"Has she eaten? Why is she down at the fucking bar, Silco? She should be asleep. She should have friends and a life! You won't admit it—"

He slams his palms to the table top, just as you had. The only difference is that the world stops for him, a powerful man, and not for you. "You have shown me nothing but obstinance. You have nothing to bring to the Last Drop, you are replaceable. Leave, and you will get a singular chance, before you are in a dumpster in the back—"

"Silco."

"—in several pieces."

"Silco, you can't keep on pretending you have nothing to lose. You love Sevika, enjoy her company at the least. Jinx I know you love." Your words are hurried, attempting to get them out before he interrupts again. Arguing your case before he kills you. "You need to treat them like it. Check up on them. Get a secretary, get help, and ask Sevika how she is. Give Jinx a hug. Thank Locke for keeping some from, I don't know? Assassinating you?"

"How I raise my daughter is my business. Jinx I take care of, and that is all." He seems to have lost his sense of superiority now. He's just fighting, and if he loses, he'll just kill you. He can't lose.

"That isn't all—"

"Having other's means weakness—"

There it is.

"It means strength. If you have nothing left then you have nothing to gain!"

"If I have nothing left then I have everything to gain."

"When you have nothing left, you have no one to defend you. Then you die, quickly and easily, and it's all in vain."

"I do not—"

"Having something to lose means you have something to fight for. The Chem Barons know damn well that it's true. If you have no one, then who's to stop them from killing you and taking everything you leave behind? Who will kill them in return? Without Sevika, Jinx, Locke, Ran, Chuck and your whole fucking staff, Silco? You are nothing."

Silco is silent.

You are on opposite sides of his desk, he's above, standing. You're below. He could do anything he wanted. He has the power, the money, the weaponry.

Instead, he sits, and speaks.

"Leave."

You had been, however, dreading this.

Your report.

It had been days since you'd fought and yelled.

Theriam and yourself usually split the reports. You'd both do half, someone would write the reports on sales, the other on alcohol. What was used moat, what needed to be ordered, etc. Any extra information was usually handed to whomever wouldn't be giving the report that week.

You'd begged Theriam to give the report. Offered to do it all yourself. Anything you could think of to get out of seeing Silco.

If he saw you, perhaps he'd remember what you'd done.

But, after hours of pestering, Theriam pulled you to the side.

"Silco asked specifically for you to give the report." He'd said, as if it was normal.

As if it wasn't a death sentence.

As if he wouldn't need another bartender by the end of the day.

But now you're trudging up the steps, nodding to the guard outside his door, and knocking. Your papers are in one hand, and your other is balled in a fist, nails digging crescents in your delicate palms.

Silco's calm, "enter," freezes you. Chest too tight to breathe, you fling open the door.

If you stall, you'll never make it inside.

The door slams into the wall, and you jump. You sheepishly apologize, closing it behind you.

Better not piss him off.

You glance up, ready to see his face. Hopefully decipher how slowly you are to die.

But there's Sevika, on the couch, watching you.

"I still don't think she's in good enough condition to kill me, Sir." You mutter out, turning to face your boss. He gives you a flippant glare in turn, setting down his pen. You hear Sevika behind you, and her annoyed groan. She's silenced by a wave of Silco's hand.

"I need the paperwork," he says your name coldly, unamused.

You breathe carefully, tilting your head, before glancing at Sevika.

She's missing her prosthesis, and a new chunk of her nub is missing. Leaning on the arm of Silco's couch smoking a cigarette, completely at peace, she raises her eyebrow.

You turn to Silco, whose eyebrows are raised, and whose head is tilted forward.

"You seriously aren't going to kill me?"

His eyebrows furrow in, and you swear his eye twitches. "I assumed that was… a joke. In poor taste."

You blow air out your nose as your chest tightens and your cheeks stiffen. And then you're laughing, bending over, hands on your knees. It only lasts a few moments, but it eases the tightness in your chest.

As your laughing calms, you cross to Silco's desk, handing him the stapled pile of papers, eyes watery.

"I don't see what you find so funny," he grouses, glancing over the papers.

When you don't reply, he rolls his eyes. "Dismissed."

You say bye to Sevika, who waves in turn, and you leave, alive.

"It's not my job to babysit my staff." He hums. You know he's putting on an act of indifference. He's not actually doing work, just staring at a paper, pen in hand.

You laugh again, but this time it's a bit more breathy. 

"Your staff, Silco? Bull-fucking-shit. Sevika is damn near your business partner." You spit, leaning forwards, palms-down on his desk.

"She is my employee. She does as I say, and I pay her. She is not my responsibility." He tacks your name onto the end, shaming you, trying to make a point.

And Janna, does it make things worse.

"She's the only person who gives a singular fuck about you, Silco! She's the only person that can and will deal with your planet-sized ego and your fucking attitude—"

"I like you to take a second think about who you're talking—"

"She's near fucking death, Silco. I can't fucking believe you'd ignore—"

"You need to shut your fucking mouth." His voice overpowers yours. He's louder, and draws more attention and authority.

You're small. A malnourished street fighter.

And he's a King.

You lose, no matter what.

So you turn, hit something, ignoring the shattering of glass, and walk out the door.

Your name follows, but no guards do.

You're sure you'll die in your sleep, so your door stays unlocked. It's better to accept it.

She reaches your apartment complex faster than you thought possible, and you wave goodbye as you nearly jump out to the tall ass truck. You pull your bag and box of pastries out of the car after your feet are squarely on the ground, and thank her again.

“The last thing my husband needs is more sugar, dear. I didn’t marry the grand canyon, and I swear his doctor is going to ground him the next time she sees his A1C.” You laugh lightly, but she must catch your awkward smile, because she waves a hand around. “I always wanted to fatten him up, dear. I plan to get fat when I retire too. I just very much don’t like the idea of him dying before me. I think I’d kill him.” You grin a little broader this time, and she gives you a final smile as you wish her a good rest of her day.

You unlock your door, juggling everything in only one hand. It goes on your kitchen counter as soon as you get in the door, pushing it closed with your foot. Your shoes come off first, and as much as you’re happy your feet don’t ache today, you also barely made anything. Next, you set about organizing the heap now on your kitchen counter. It’s less because you’re organized, and more because you’re really hungry. As soon as your possessions are off of the box and your bag is off the floor, you open the box and dig in. She packed you an english muffin with cheese, a danish, a few donuts and two kolaches. You settle on starting with the english muffin and moving on to one of the danishes.

You grab a water bottle out of the case on the floor once you’ve devoured some treats at your kitchen counter and shoved the box into your small fridge. You land on your couch with a small, “oof.” But curl up and grab your phone from your pocket anyways. The couch is still a mess from you sleeping on it last night, the blanket thrown over the edge and one of the back cushions out of place from where you had presumably pulled it into you to cuddle.

You sip on the water once, set it down on the floor beside you, and pull up the news again. You know the news is self harm in any capacity, especially as things run wild and people get paranoid. But you can’t help but think that it’s better than opening up Instagram and doing a good scroll. It doesn’t matter what you watch, it doesn’t matter how many times you click ‘not interested’, it will always show you something awful. Panic, gore, questionable morals that set you to pacing around your room and muttering to yourself.

At least with the news they try to be professional, and attempt at using a filter.

There are negotiations at letting the monsters free. They’ve been cornered and forced to stay in a tiny camp at the mouth of the mountain. According to some sources, after more than twelve hours the monsters are receiving food. There are protesters gathering outside of the space, though no one can get a good look at any of the monsters. There’s too much yellow tape at the base of the mountain.

According to an article, they seized the 12 year old, questioned them. And Asgore, the King, is trying to get some kind of conference with the President. Trying to request the child, Frisk, be brought back before any more negotiations are had.

It finally gets to you, and starts to hit just how strange and horrible this all is. It doesn’t make you sad, it makes you irritable. You toss your phone beside the water bottle on the floor as you twist and turn on the couch. You eventually decide the TV would be good background noise. You ponder putting a youtube video on your phone, but you really, really don’t want to look at any kind of social media right now. Instead you decide to be brave, and click on the TV.

It slowly powers on, the screen turning a barely-noticeable navy before it bursts to life with a loud sound. It’s the news, what you had it on last night. You flip through the channels. Unfortunately, they almost all seem to be covering the monsters. You eventually decide you'll put up with the kid’s channel, the only one not showing the monster ordeal and the only kids channel you could get with a dish. It’s some ugly, far-too-cheery animated show, where the characters talk very simply and nothing really happens.

You finally start to doze, not sure what else to do and realizing for the third time this month that you don’t have many hobbies.

You wake up a few hours later, feeling stiff and just as irritable. You rise from the couch, putting your arms up in a long stretch, before doing it again with a crack that makes your hips sit right. You crawl off of your couch, suddenly very thirsty, and take the water bottle off the floor. You clear it in one go, the plastic crinkling as you take your last deep swig.

You head towards the kitchen, you phone in hand. You stop, briefly, as you hear a creek from your room. Staring in the open door, you see nothing, and instead turn your attention to the TV. Something much softer is on now, probably an older cartoon by the static. You watch it for just a few minutes as you stand in the middle of your living room. There’s a family of bears. They’re heading to a picnic, and the little girl gets upset. She doesn’t want to eat before she goes to play, she wants to play first. But she doesn’t tell her parents, just huff and puffs. The whole lesson is about communication and compromise, which you expect. The opening of the show comes on, another episode starting. You remember the series, vaguely. And the books, though you could swear the last name was spelled differently.

You finally turn, checking the time on your phone. It’s near six, which means you didn’t take a long nap, but you also didn’t take a short nap. You pull the box from your fridge, the edge of the box curved up and dented from being shoved in to fit the smaller space. When you set it back on your counter and open it up, all the pastries have slid to one side. You grab a kolache with a little bit of chocolate icing on the side, lick off the icing, and dig in.

It's fine cold. It would be better warm, yeah, but you’re too tired for the extra steps. You think, briefly, about going on a walk, but decide otherwise when you picture Amanda’s face and her insistence on bringing you home. Maybe you’ll just pace your living room to get the jitters out, and listen to some music.

You’re half way through a bite when you hear some… chittering? Quiet clicks in quick succession with a few longer notes that sound more like an out of tune viola. You turn, a cold weight dropping into your stomach.

As soon as you see the creature again, so much clearer in the daylight, you jump. You’re not quite as calm as you were last time, stumbling to grab your phone off the counter. It’s indeed made of some viscous substance, almost like ink. Black like ink, at the very least. That white dot tracks you again, as you stand a little breathless. It’s bigger this time. You notice the shadows it creates are quite right. They’re too slim, and the purple shadows that wrap around it seem to come from nowhere. But it doesn’t really matter, because you get your hands on your keys as well as push your way out of your door.

You slam your door closed, instantly moving to lock it back. You open up your phone, you back pressed to your door, and dial 911.

You expect something to bang on the other side of the door. Expect some of that fluid to leak under the door. You expect something to happen as your phone rings. By the fourth fifth ring, your heart starts to flutter. You look to the top of your screen again, making sure you did in fact dial 911. You did.

Then the strangest thing happens. You’re sent to voice mail. “This line is busy at the moment, please call back.” The robotic voice speaks into the air of the hallway.

You realize, as you make eye contact with some man down the hall, grocery bags lined up his arms, that you aren’t alone. He looks a little wary of you, as he finally gets his door open and hurries inside.

That scared feeling sinks deeper into your bones, and you find yourself gasping for a little bit of breath. You decide to focus that energy somewhere, jiggling your door handle making sure the door is locked, before calling 911 again.

It rings.

And rings.

And rings.

That also means there are cute stalls along the street. Sweet old women selling their craft to make ends meet. People playing music, inviting you into outdoor pubs to drink at an ungodly hour of the morning.

But never army caravans. Those are definitely new.

A silence has settled over the city of Ebott, a silence that makes your skin crawl as you push open the door to the coffee shop you work at. It’s family owned, so they pay you enough to own an apartment by yourself, but besides that, there aren’t many upsides. Maybe family drama? And the fact you and one of your co-workers aren’t a part of it? But most days it’s more draining than entertaining.

The older woman at the counter greets you. She’s rather curt, which means something's happened. And you can definitely tell, the store is empty. It’s never empty around lunch rush. Warming up pastries, arguing that yes, you are out of the danishes, they’re made fresh in the morning and that's it. No, they’re not secretly frozen. No, there’s no box in the back.

“Hello Mrs. Amanda!” You call, stepping behind the counter and pulling your visor onto your head. You quickly circle her to clock in on the terminal. A minute early. She sets her hand on her hip as you clock in, immediately locking eyes with you when you’re done.

“I might have to send you home in an hour or so, labor is high.” She gestures to the building. Her voice is sweet and soft, but warbles with age.

You look around the place, pushing your palms on the counter and leaning over to see that even the little nook that people usually fight over is empty. “Why is it empty?” You draw out slowly, turning back to her, confused.

She looks startled, and a bit put out. But the woman is nearing her eighties, and you decided quite a while ago that she deserves to be put out most days. Especially with how hard working she is. “Have you not read the news… or noticed anything amiss for that matter?”

You pause, staring at her for a long moment before pulling your phone from your pocket. You type in ‘news’, and it comes up. The monsters from last night, except the situation looks more… severe now. Army stationed at Mt. Ebott, having made connections with them. They speak English, it seems, mostly. They have a King, and he’s speaking on their behalf. And a twelve year old, also speaking on their behalf. That one throws you for a loop. Amanda just watches you as you continue to read, clicking on article after article.

And then you see a damning one. Well, not damning, but horrifying. “Ebott City’s Borders Closed.” You click on it, letting out a short breath. The title itself explains it all. No one allowed in, no one allowed out. The National Guard has been sent to investigate, as well as the Ebott Police, and people are encouraged to stay inside. Well, they always are.

As you continue to read, the door bell chimes. A man comes in, a little frazzled. You look up, ready to take his order, but Mrs. Amanda stops you. “I haven’t taken any orders all day, I’m bored.” She says, stepping up to the register.

You go back to your reading, refreshing the Google page and seeing more updates already. These monsters use gold for currency, real gold. They’re apparently loaded and completely unaware. One article says it would be beneficial to let them be introduced to the economy, another says the economy will suffer with the sudden influx of gold. You’re just happy you don’t need to pay for gas, at least not directly, and move on.

The twelve year old is a missing kid from a year ago. You remember seeing the posters. People talked about it for a few days, reposted it on Facebook, and went about their life. The kid lived in a girl’s home, went to Ebott Elementary. You remember the face. A small frown, closed eyes. The child looks different now, a toothy grin and just a hint of their blue irises in the photos.

The King is… strange. His name is Asgore, which is interesting. Definitely not a human name. You guess the monsters were down there long enough to develop their own naming conventions but not their own language. But you don’t care that much for linguistics, or etymology, so you don’t care.

“Those monsters sure are crazy… hmm?” Amanda asks the man at the counter, and her tone makes you curious. You look up from your phone, and spot the police badge clipped to his jacket immediately. It makes something uncomfortable roll in your stomach and throat, but you swallow it down. It's obvious, now that you take a closer look at him. His jacket fits wrong, bulging over the shoulders of his gun vest. His hair flops to the side of his head, a little sweaty, and his face is strangely pale. He has a strange little blue dot on his temple, and you briefly wonder if it's a tattoo, but instead ignore it.

“Yes, ma’am.” He says quietly. He says nothing more as he hands Amanda his card. She takes it, taps it, and then spins the tablet around.

“I wish I knew more about them, this really is so strange. And so out of the blue.” She mutters as he’s faced with the tipping screen. That sly, sly woman. It works, though. He gets a little panicky, and you can see from your place down the counter that he’s quick to hit the 20% tip option without question.

She thanks him, and hands him his card back. As she turns to make his coffee, she catches your eye and shrugs as if to say, “I needed to make back the money somehow.” You laugh, mostly to yourself, but the cop still catches it. He stares at you, a little jumpy. You pause to stare at him back, and then go back to your phone.

You refresh, there's more news. This time, it’s much more grim. Three monsters presumed dead, scuffle breaks out among monsters and the National Guard. You press on the article, and let the video play. You have your volume rather low, but the shop is empty, so it echos. You hear the police officer shift almost immediately. You glance up through your lashes at him. He’s watching you uncomfortably, shifting from foot to foot.

“You know,” Amanda starts quietly from her place by the drip. “I’m sure your co-workers are rather tired with all this mess. They could probably use a coffee too. We still have plenty of pastries in stock, as well. No one came by this morning.”

You go back to the video. It’s pretty brutal, all things considered. There’s some yelling, and some men with full body shields warn a yellow monster to get back. The camera falls as bodies shove around, and you hear screams.

There's no blood, though, when the camera finally steadies. There’s just a pile of dust instead. It makes you physically recoil away from your phone screen. It’s not gory by any means, but it’s so obviously left over from the… monster. A stark, glittering gray against brown dirt, a pile almost knee-high. It’s horrifying.

And you see, for the first time, a monster. It’s not really the first time you’ve seen one, but this time it’s different. The thing (man? Woman? Other?) is tall. Incredibly tall, in fact. And wide. The camera has to point up at him and you gather he’s almost eleven feet tall. You’d think the first thing you’d notice would be the billowing, purple robes. But instead it’s the horns. Gorgeous, curling behind the monster’s head with a sense of regality. Then you notice the purple robes, then, the beard? The monster looks like a ram. White, furry, with human hands It strikes you as odd that those hands look natural, with nailbeds and fur alike. The monster has shaggy hair around its head, trailing down in mutton chops before it connects on its chin. The hair there is longer, golden.

The goat monster reaches its arms out, voice booming as it guides monsters away from the men in bulletproof vests. You see the tears in its eyes, though, and how even though its voice doesn’t shake, its hands tremble. Someone yells the name “Asgore” at it, and you realize that’s the King. He’s the King. You’re rather quick to decide that they are sentient. You feel guilt well in your chest that you're deciding that, because it feels strange, and you’re not quite sure you’d want someone to decide that about you. Especially under the circumstances of death. But you’re human, and this is the first you’ve seen of them at all. They were just pictures to you before.

When your face finally pulls away from your phone, Amanda is by you, her face peeking over your arm at the screen. She’s a little pale, and her mouth is pulled into a grim pucker. She looks towards the door, where you realize the cop has just left. He’s still parked outside, loading what looks like a box of donuts into his car.

“I should have kicked him out,” She says, eyes locked to your phone.

You shrug, a little helplessly. “I mean, you got a lot of money out of him?” You supply, with another little rise and fall of your shoulders.

It doesn’t seem to alleviate her worries as the video plays again, and you can hear the shouting. You’re silent, too, looking down to watch it again. As soon as it stops, you click your phone off, and you both turn to stare at the counter.

“Did I get a good tip out of him?” She asks, moving to the receipt spike and pulling the cop’s receipts off. It leaves the thing empty. He raises her eyebrows at them, and then pushes them back on to the metal spike. “Good,” she mutters, more to herself.

She turns to you, her hands clasped gently in front of her. “Well, dear, why don’t we get you some pastries packed up and I’ll drive you home?” She turns to grab a box for you without waiting for your answer.

“It’s fine, I promise, I know you have to take care of the shop.”

She shakes her head. “I’m closing early. Even with… him.” You distinctly get the impression she’s holding herself back from being rude. “We’re burning far more money than we’re making.” She pauses for a moment more, “and I have a bad feeling that the streets are not as safe today.”

You bring out your phone to check the weather again. It’s still a tornado watch until 8:00, in your county. Which means you’ll be stuck in a closet for roughly two hours.

You check your phone battery. It’s nearly full. You’d watched the weather channel anxiously as it charged. You weren’t often bothered by storms, but this one was oddly close.

You click on your flashlight and bring out your book, but quickly decide better of it. You’re tired, and the fluffy blanket covering you is only making you more and more comfortable. Sliding down, resting your head on a box, adjusting your position. You’re sure you’ll wake up in time to actually sleep in your bed. In fact, you doubt you’ll do anything but doze.

You set all your possessions within reach, and make sure your phone is off. With a little more shifting, your head is resting on the box, and you’re warm. Completely covered by a blanket. The lights flicker, as they have been doing for the past hour.

It takes a few minutes of laying down for you to get uncomfortable. Cardboard is annoyingly sharp when your neck is rested on it. It doesn’t help that your neck is sat at a ninety degree angle.

“Fuck it.” Your voice is breathy, largely unused.

When you were younger, you were always told to stay in the closet, whilst someone else would go watch the window. Eventually you’d get bored, wander out of the closet and find them on the porch. Then they’d lead you back to the closet and sit with you until the coast was clear.

Since you’d moved into your own apartment, you’d never had the chance to watch.

You’d been laid down long enough that, once up, your neck ached. You stretched it carefully, the pain stopping your breath. Blanket shoved against the wall and phone in your pocket, you slide your closet door the rest of the way open.

The storm is bad, and it roots your feet to the floor for a moment. The childish urge to hide in the closet, blanket over your head, grabs at your sleeve. But you step forward nonetheless, listening to the knocking rain and screaming thunder.

At 6:23 the sky is completely dark, lighting up a deep blue as lighting pulses through the sky in angled clusters. You approach the window, struggling to see the sky the closer to your window you become. The light in your apartment is dim, but it differs so greatly from the darkness outside that all you can see is your reflection. The sweet potato plant on your windowsill is only a silhouette in its glass jar.

You dare to open up the sliding door to your small balcony. You see no obvious tornado, and wonder if it’s coming from the opposite direction. You ponder the fact that you simply don’t know what a formed tornado looks like, and it makes you want to climb back into the closet.

Lightning flashes.

The thunder that follows not a second later shakes the ground, and you cover your ears. Blinking open your eyes, you look over the edge of your balcony. There's a couple with a jacket over their heads, running into their apartment. There’s another loud bang.

You bolt inside, lock the balcony door. The rain soaking your shoulders becomes evident, your breath shuttering. White-spotted vision follows you into your nest in the closet, making everything hazy.

You breathe again, deeply as you can. Squeeze your eyes shut, will the spots away, and open them.

Lightning.

Thunder.

You squeal, cover your ears, squeeze your eyes closed.

It goes silent. Blessed silence. You breathe, your breath is steadier. You’re calm, finally. You can get through this, your blanket is soft, your closet is warm. You reach around, making sure your phone is still clutched in your hand. It is, and the smooth edges of the case soothe you. You count, slowly. You can feel the air enter your nose and run down your throat, but it’s wet and warm. It’s still steadying enough that your heart slows down.

You open your eyes.

Your power is out.

There’s a face in front of you.

It’s rather hard to tell what it is at first. Smooth, round, white with an obvious face. Two giant holes, a crack running from one to the back of the face. A skull, you realize. The rough texture and the way the edges of the mouth meet the cheekbones tell you that much. But it lacks a nasal cavity. You let your eyes trail down. The body a black, viscous fluid that envelops your legs. From the liquid, comes a very proper looking and clean turtle neck. White. It strikes you as rather odd, but the whole situation is rather odd.

You realize, at some point, that it’s looking at you. A white pinprick in the eye with no crack. It moves over you, examines you, just as you have been doing to it. Your legs start to ache, the blood moving through them sluggishly.

You decide to try moving your legs first, but the liquid is much too heavy, and it makes a noise. A chittering, almost like a bug. So, you decide instead to close your eyes. You hold them tight, not daring to make a sound, and then they blink open.

The lights flicker back on. You hear the beeping of your microwave.

The creature is gone.

You struggle to your feet. They feel numb and heavy, the only sign of the creature's true presence. Your feet sting when you stand, flicking on the light for the closet and barreling down into your spot.

Looking over your legs, blanket, your shoe box, the vacuum at your feet. All free of anything. No goo, no liquid.

You flex your toes.

They’re sore, stiff. Your calves still ache. It’s…

Quiet outside.

You don’t check, you slide down into place, back to the wall.

You close your eyes, hands over your ears, phone to your chest.

Soon your heart rate dips, and your breath comes easy. It becomes quiet again, still eerie and without birds. You, for once, long for the sound of cars. You ponder pulling the sound of a busy street up on your phone, but decide otherwise. That feels like losing. Against what? You’re not sure.

You reluctantly unfold yourself, pressing the button on the side of your phone to bring it to life. 8:03, it shows, in stark black text. You run a hand through your hair and breathe. It had only been a few seconds. A minute, at most, that the thing sat on your legs. You decide it’s been a weird night. Stress hallucinations are not uncommon. You’ve heard people call your name, seen figures out of the corner of your eye. This is nothing new. Just something bigger, more severe. But most importantly, something for you to deal with in the morning.

You lay back, knees pulled up and your head on the box again, and allow yourself to doze. Tell yourself the face was a remnant of the fear crawling through your skin, the cold burn on your spine.

When you wake, you click your phone back to life again. It’s midnight. You fear popping or moving your neck, the ache is so great, but do so anyways. It doesn’t help much, so you stand up and move from the closet. You grab the remote the second you're out of the closet, powering on the TV. It starts to reboot, and in the meantime, you walk again to the balcony. You don’t hear the birds, but the sound of cars is back. A large drop of water falls from the gutters onto your back, but that's all the water there is. The concrete is damp, but nothing more comes from the sky.

The TV had booted up while you were outside, and the news channels set a blue cast on the room, showing clips of a shop you’d passed before. They say that there was damage done to part of downtown, but not anything substantial. A building on fire due to a strike of lightning. No one died, few were injured.

Your hardwood floors are ridiculously cold, so you are quick to curl up on the couch and scroll on your phone, the blanket on your shoulders thick and weighty. It's been an hour and the articles are already pouring in. Did the monsters cause this storm?

You pause. Monsters?

You open a new tab, type in the word monster. There are results. Many, many results. New York Times, Washington Post. “Mt. Ebott Holds Monsters?” You click on the article almost immediately, raising an eyebrow. There’s a photo of a group of non-human looking… things? People? Monsters? This is all becoming very confusing very fast.

You read the article. Read a few more. It seems legit, even if it looks like a heavily doctored photo. Government workers in hazmat suits facing seven foot tall humanoids who speak English? The whole thing is absurd. You finally decide that maybe, just maybe, this whole night is just a weird dream.

Plus, you have work in the morning. You leave the TV running, and decide to curl up on the couch. Your phone will stay charged enough for tomorrow, so you decide to just set it on the coffee table. You grab a blanket that was folded on the edge on the couch, and throw it over your feet. Getting cozy, you glance over at your window sill.