He tells himself he’s gonna change. He survived to change, but Adam has little going for him. Once, he dreamed of being a veterinarian, fuck maybe even a father, he’d even considered where he’d retire. That dream died quickly after stuff got bad for Scott.

Scott Tibbs has always been better than Adam, despite the slight stench that followed him and the way most kids avoided him on the playground, Adam has known since he was just a little girl that Scott has something he doesn’t. When Scott started insisting he was a rockstar, Adam decided that ‘something’ was star power. And so, he found himself wasting his little money on a decent camera and developer, propped up at the foot of every shitty stage Scott could book, snapping pictures like his life depended on it because Scott swore the pay would come and it’d be big.

But it didn’t come, and Adam’s rent grew closer, his morals more dubious.

That’s what had landed him in that bathroom in the first place, Scott, his shitty band. Adam had been a fine person until then maybe. He doesn’t have much else after he stops attending meetings though, the occasional meeting with the police over a new victim, and he ends up back at Scott’s.

It’s hot, the air is sticky and Adam is easily too old for this but he’s still pushing through a crowd of 18-21 year olds to get closer to the stage. He’s a solid 32 now, he’s getting thicker from the beer and less aware of his own strength. He’s fixated on his push forward when something next to him shatters, and the sound of a girl certainly too young for this show has him spinning in her direction.

“Watch where you’re going shit for brains!” Shouts a bony blonde girl with eyeliner smeared on her all too familiar face.

———

Diana Gordon’s life is ultra-fucked. She’d been on course to a decent one, once upon a time, up until her dad ruined his relationship so terribly that he was abducted by Jigsaw and a strange man took her and her mother hostage. The night was not unlike the storybooks her father had read her before bed and promised to be, in a way, true. She’d felt herself a damsel in distress, and maybe that cop passed for a knight in shining armor and the ambulance a mighty steed.

But her stories tended to end there, happily ever after and all that, and quickly Diana began to wish the one she was living would as well. Her father’s passing sent her mother into what she could only describe as a fog, Alison wasn’t particularly fond of her husband but he was still her husband. Diana never saw her mom cry much, she was more a yeller, a thrower even, but after Lawrence’s passing it seemed to be all her mom could do, eat, cry, work, eat, sleep, repeat, survivors’ meetings on Saturday.

Diana didn’t feel like she got much from the meetings, other victims were in situations so horrific she couldn’t wrap her head around them, she didn’t even really understand her father’s circumstances. But it.. sort of helped her mom? She assumed at least, because Alison picked up another job, and started hanging out with friends. It was nice seeing her mom feel better but the issue was… Diana wasn’t actually seeing it much. By about 10 years old she was a latchkey kid to the highest degree, dressing herself and making her own microwave dinner after school, even putting herself to sleep more nights than she should’ve been. It was lonely, but she quickly adapted her own way of fixing that.

Diana learned quickly that you do not actually have to ask permission, so long as you don’t leave evidence. It started off innocent, neighborhood kids coming over for unsupervised play dates after school, then movie nights in middle school, sleepovers once she hit 12 and Alison started sleeping at other people’s houses. The summer before her freshman year, one of Diana’s close friends introduced her to two things that would be potentially vital to who she was; shitty, shitty bands and shittier alcohol.

“Wrath of The Gods should not exist, they’re awesome”, is how Diana was introduced to her favorite band by a girl with uneven bangs and too much eyeliner one night. Diana is 14 and a half, and entirely unsupervised most of the time. When she does see her mother, it’s brief and an argument. More frequently, she sees a bottle of cheap vodka and free venue like tonight. It stinks, mostly is what’s on her mind, she doesn’t care much for the music at these shows anymore, she’s mostly here to take her anger out on unsuspecting concertgoers. As she’s scanning the crowd, attempting to decide which unlucky loser is the one she’s decided is stinking the place up, she’s interrupted by a shove and then her bottle dropping, shattering.

“Watch where you’re going shit for brains!” Diana shouts at the pusher, balling her fist up like she’s going to punch him then hesitating when she sees the height he has on her. She’d fight him without question were she bigger or drunker, but instead she stares for a moment before he speaks up.

“Do I know you?” He inquires, his face scrunching up as he digs through his memory to recall why he knows this little girl. Diana frowns, considers calling him a predator, then realizes she does recognize him, “oh fuck, you’re the guy who like killed my dad or whatever.”

———

Lawrence Gordon was not a good man, Adam reminds himself as he looks down at the dead man’s inebriated, certainly underfed daughter. He doesn’t really answer her, just sort of stammers and mumbles something akin to “I’m so sorry for your loss”, and leads her out of crowd — screw Scott’s pictures, she should not be here. He takes her outside and sits her on a curb, offering his jacket to clean the vodka off her before inhaling sharply. “You.. are you all right? Your mom know where you are?” Adam asks, he tries to sound as casual as possible, he doesn’t want to upset her with his concern.

“She doesn’t care, I’m all good.” The girl insists, ready to rise from the curb already only to be sat back down by Adam. “Not the best scene for you, y’know? You’re already drunk, can I call someone to take you home?” He offers her, reaching for his phone but the girl is already rising from her spot again and heading back inside.

Adam wasn’t sold on the concept of karma until he started recognizing that mess of lazily straightened and crimped blonde curls at every other gig he did for Scott. He didn’t kill Lawrence, but God, Adam winning might be what leads to the youngest’s Gordon’s demise. It’s all he can think about, every crowd he pushes through, every shit song Scott shows him, every substance he tries, supplied by the same people Diana Gordon is partying with. She becomes a constant weight on his chest, a pit in his stomach eating him from the inside. Scott gives him more beers than usual, and insists it isn’t Adam’s problem — she’s not Adam’s kid.

But when a fight breaks out over her backpack, and blood spills, Diana might be Adam’s kid — that’s what the 20 something year old guy trying to rob her thinks when Adam is on top of him, prying the bag out of his hands.