#phobophobia

It had been two years since you’d done this. Since you’d saved the lives of everyone you held dear by doing the one thing you’d always been warned against. You’d known the consequences. Of course you had. Charles hadn’t been subtle in reminding you that using your own shadow would result in this. But you’d done it to spare everyone. 

Crossing the empty, white room, Logan set his hand against the solid, thrumming surface, feeling the small pulses of energy within the prison of your own making. He hoped, somehow, you could still hear him. Still sense his presence, even though he knew it was unlikely. Jean had said he was just hurting himself by continuing to see you. But he dared to hope. For the first time in his godforsaken life, he allowed himself hope. 

“Hi sweetheart,” he murmured again, resting his brow beside his hand. He swore he could still feel you in there. Still smell that one shower gel you used to use. Smell the cherry-flavoured chapstick across your lips. “Sorry s’been a while. Charles has us run ragged with the government. Yeah, they’re still up in arms about the whole thing. Stuck-up pricks.” He growled, smoothing his thumb over the glassy surface of the sphere. “Tryna play it off like they had no goddamn clue any of this was happenin’.” He knew it was his mind playing tricks on him, his own hopes manifesting in his brain, but he indulged in the way he thought he felt you react, a ripple of irritation within the endless well of darkness. “Yeah, I know. We’re workin’ on it, kay? Promise.” 

He didn’t mind Charles working everyone overtime to figure everything out. He owed the Professor big time for working this deal. In exchange for everything the team knew collectively, he was allowed to come in and see you, or what was left of you, every now and then. No cameras, no observations, just you and him. Of course, it hadn’t been like that the first few times. Whatever you had done was completely new in terms of containment, and he used to grit his teeth at the way they poked and prodded what you’d become, searching for any kind of reaction. It was too reminiscent of what you’d already gone through, and he fucking wished you could have been held beneath the school. At least then he didn’t have to wait for fucking government permission to see you. 

It was torture, waiting for every request to be approved or denied, pacing in his room after Charles sent the first email, heading out on Scott’s bike just to blow off some goddamn steam and hoping the faint adrenaline rush would be enough to knock him out by the time he returned. 

It never was. 

With an exhausted sigh, Logan dragged the chair closer to you, the steel complaining beneath his weight as he took a seat. “Wish I had more to catch ya up on but uh, not much’s happened since the last time I was here. Kitty’s beggin’ me to bring her along, by the way. So’s Morgana.” Once again he let his hopes manifest, eyes tricking him into seeing the light within flicker slightly in what he interpreted as excitement. “Yeah? Well alright then, I’ll let 'em know.” He smiled slightly, before his expression faltered, a wave of heartbreaking longing spearing his heart. 

“They miss you, ya know. Kitty and Morgana. Fuck, we all miss you, but they both took it hard. Morgo’s kinda filled in your role, and Jade’s role before you, bein’ like a big sister to her. Oh, and you’ll be pleased to hear Marie and Bobby are finally datin’.” His mind saw the shadows ripple once again, the steady pulsing of light becoming irregular for a moment. “You’re tellin’ me. She kept cryin’ on my shoulder because he wouldn’t notice her or some shit like that. Guess he finally did.” He shrugged, resting his hand back on the surface of your prison, feeling the warmth of your phantom laughter. It sparked his own series of slight chuckles, his thumb smoothing over the surface of the darkness.  

“Erin dropped by the other day with Atlas. They’re uh, engaged now, if you can believe that.” He still couldn’t stand to be around her. After everything she did, the role she played in your death, whenever she would stop by, which was extremely few and far between, he’d always find somewhere else to be. In the weeks following your death, she’d stayed beneath the school in recovery. There was only so much Atlas could do against a slash to the throat, but Morgarna refused to speak to her for a full month afterwards. Even now the redhead was curt with her, only exchanging the briefest of pleasantries whenever they ‘were in the area’. Logan could see right through her ruse though. She was trying to drown her guilt in the empty forgiveness from her friend. Atlas may have been able to understand why she did what she did, but it had almost resulted in your death. 

That was something he could never forgive. 

“I won’t be goin’. To the wedding. Sorry if you wanted to hear how it goes but I think Morgo might make an appearance then dip pretty quick so I’ll get the details from her if ya want.” Something deep within the prison rippled slightly, and he couldn’t make up his mind whether or not it was anger or excitement. Though he guessed, with the last interaction between the two of you, it was most likely the former. Not that it was real. He had to remind himself of that. None of it was real. 

A heavy sense of loss weighed in his heart. Thinking about Erin and Atlas’ wedding made him feel physically sick, but not because of his deep hatred for the girl. But because he couldn’t stop thinking that it should have been you and him. One day, far off into the future, it should have been the two of you getting married. Starting a life together. Maybe one day, even a family. You’d never expressed explicit interest in having kids, but it was something he’d entertained before in the afterglows of your nights together. Something he was always too fucking afraid to bring up.

Now he’d never get the chance. 

“Sorry sweetheart,” he gave the surface of the sphere a soft pat as if you could sense his sudden shift in demeanour. “Just… gettin’ to that time again I guess,” he explained quietly. He never really knew what to do on the days of your anniversary. Should he celebrate? Should he mourn? Should he try and spend it with you in this fucking alabaster room or should he drown his sorrows in liquor and try to forget? The last two years he’d spent it doing the latter, whether he’d intended to or not. It burned to think of the life he could have lived with you, the things you could have done together. But it burned more to ignore it completely. 

Pain was a funny thing. No matter what he did, there really was nothing he could do to escape its claws. A rogue tear lined one of his eyes, and despite promising you he wouldn’t cry during these visits, there were times that even he couldn’t stop himself. “Fuck I miss you, Firefly. So fucking much…” There was so much he still had to say. So much he still had to do. And there had been for the last two years. He was stuck in this purgatory state, not really living but being unable to die. Just… existing. Surviving. And he knew you’d kick his ass for it. He vowed to live a life you’d be proud of, but that proved a lot harder than he thought it was going to be when the woman he wanted as his life partner couldn’t be by his side. 

The surface of the orb shimmered, the glow within stuttering slightly to his grieving mind’s eye. You were telling him off. That much he knew. “Yeah, ‘gotta get my shit together at some point’, right?” He chuckled to himself as he remembered the ways you would attempt to imitate his voice, the way your chin would tuck against your neck to reach the lower parts of your voice and yet still get nowhere near close to his registry. The way he would tell you to stop when, in reality, he wouldn’t give a rat’s ass if you did it forever, as long as you were by his side. 

But you weren’t. He couldn’t protect you. And he knew you’d beat his ass to the ground for the guilt he felt, but he couldn’t help it. He was supposed to protect you. Supposed to keep you safe. And you’d died doing the very same thing for him. The irony wasn’t lost on him, and if it didn’t feel like razor blades to the chest, he’d appreciate the way fate worked. 

If only. 

His phone bleeped from his jacket pocket and he grit his teeth together, closing his eyes against the spike of irritation that flared through his system. He knew who it was and what they wanted, but that didn’t mean he was going to answer straight away. That was until there were three more consecutive notifications, and with a rough sigh, he thrust his hand into the pocket and snatched out his phone. 

“Alright darlin’. Duty calls, somethin’ about a string of real strange murders in the area Chuck wants us to investigate. Thinks it’s some mutant goin’ on a spree,” he paused, feeling the energy within your prison shift uncomfortably. “When’ve you ever known me to be reckless?” The ghost of your mutation spiked beneath his palm and he blew out a laugh. “Okay, yep, I’ll be safe.”

Logan had a moment of self-awareness and the sinking realisation that he must be going insane. Who else would talk to the embodiment of their dead ex’s mutation as if it could hold a conversation? As if it were replying to him. He was going mad. 

With a heavy sigh, he stood from the chair, dragging it back to the corner of the room before swinging his jacket across his shoulders, settling the leather around his arms. After having such an intense moment of realisation, he forwent the usual kiss goodbye. “I’ll be back as soon as I can. Promise,” he mumbled, suddenly wanting to be anywhere but here. Anywhere else he could be drinking himself into an early grave. Or he supposed, earlier grave. Maybe then he could see you again. 

Logan turned to leave, pausing as if to look back to you but decided against it. That was until he caught the reflection of the sphere in the glass of the door. Whilst yes, he was happy to admit he was crazy, he also knew when he was gaslighting himself, and when he was feeding his own delusions, which stopped the moment he stood from the chair. 

Then if that was true…

Why the fuck was the glow within the prison convulsing like that?

He turned back to the sphere, his head tilting to the side as he took a slow step forward. This wasn’t his imagination. Or if it was, he was a lot more tired than he thought he was. But no, it wasn’t his grief playing tricks on him. The light was fading and growing rapidly, like panicked breaths. And it wasn’t his imagination that felt the sharp, almost burst of kinetic energy when he placed his hand against the surface. There was always a hum of power that accompanied the sphere, but not like this.

Logan’s eyes widened slightly, fear icing his blood. What the hell was going on? If this was where he’d watch you fade away after two years of being like this, he didn’t think he could handle it. A bullet to the head wasn’t enough to kill him, something he’d already tried, but living after seeing what he dreaded to see simply wasn’t an option. 

A low, almost imperceptible hum accompanied the frantic pulsing, rising and falling with each anxious glow until even somebody without enhanced hearing would have been able to pick up on it. Taking a step back, Logan couldn’t help but feel yet another overwhelming sense of guilt. He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. Did he touch the surface too much? Disturb whatever fragile balance you’d found with your brother? He swore lowly, looking around for anything or anyone that might know what the fuck was going on.

Crossing to the small control panel on the wall by the door, Logan jammed his thumb against the speaker, pressing the alarm multiple times before anybody came to the receiver. 

“What?”

“R’you not seein’ this? The fuck is goin’ on?” He snarled, panic rising in his voice as the usually solid surface of the prison started to writhe and hiss like a ball of angry snakes. 

“Hold please.”

“Don’t you fuckin’–” Logan couldn’t believe he’d just been told to hold whilst your mutation had started going fucking crazy. “Motherfucker!” He shouted loud enough to grab the attention of any officials who may be in the control room. Though he couldn’t tear his attention away from the now rapidly deteriorating shadows in the centre of the room. “No… no no nonoNO!” he roared desperately, his voice catching on the ghost of a sob. “I can’t… I can’t do this again, Firefly– please… please don’t make me do this again…” Logan fell to his knees, his head bowing hauntingly similar to the way it did the first time he lost you. “Don’t do this…”

“You didn’t kiss me goodbye.” 

Logan felt as if he’d just been struck by lightning, every hair on his body standing on end as goosebumps prickled his skin. He thought he would have to die before he heard that voice again. Slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his head. 

And his mind went blissfully blank, his heart freezing in his chest. He had to be dead. There was no other way this could be happening otherwise. No other way he’d be looking at you standing across from him, as beautiful as the day he lost you. 

“Hey, handsome.” Your smile was so fucking soft, he didn’t even attempt to cease the tears lining his eyes, flowing down the sides of his face. He staggered to his feet, unable to take his eyes off you. You were exactly the same other than one noticeable change. 

One of your eyes had shifted golden, your iris now the exact same hue as the ones your brother had. 

He whispered your name so delicately, as if any louder and you’d shatter in front of him, and he’d wake up from this dream. But you just smiled wider, nodding gently. He’d intended to approach you slowly, to work his way over to you, wade through the quagmire of confusion, elation, and heartbreak before he got to you. Until your knees buckled beneath you and you collapsed. He surged forward, his chest expanding as his hands graced your sides, pulling you into him as he cushioned your fall.

You were real. This was real.

You were corporeal, here, in his arms, with him. 

His mouth fell open with silent sobs, crushing you into him with careful force, in case you would shatter. Your scent wrapped around his heart like a blanket of comfort, inspiring the same feeling he would get as if he’d just come home to you after a long day. But it was the other way around. 

You’d come home to him.

“Sorry…” you murmured a little weakly against the scruff of his beard, your nose tucked into the side of his neck. “Been a while since I used legs…”

“Wh… how? I don’t– I thought– why?” He had so many fucking questions dancing in his head, a carousel of confusion twirling about his mind as he pulled you back so he could look at you. Truly look at you. 

“I said. You didn’t kiss me goodbye. Pissed me off.” You explained as flatly as you could whilst being utterly exhausted. Logan blinked rapidly, your explanation meaning absolutely nothing in the face of reality. 

“I don’t… understand. You came back after two years because I didn’t kiss you?”

You chuckled tiredly into his chest, barely strong enough to hold your own head up. So he did it for you, his hand cradling the back of your head, supporting you in any way he could. 

“I’m kidding. Jus' took me a while to thread myself back together, honestly. Look, new arms!” You lifted your arms as high as you could, which really wasn’t much considering your severe lack of strength. But Logan gently took your wrists in his hand, his thumb smoothing over the clear skin. No scars. No marks. Just you. And whilst those scars were a testament to everything you’d been through, everything you’d survived, the new meaning wasn’t lost on him.

This was a fresh start.

“And Rowan…?” He asked slowly, his eyes raking from your smooth wrists back up to your face, taking note of each vanished blemish he’d come to know so well. Your lips pulled into a slightly sad smile.

“He’s still here… just, not around, if that makes sense?” 

Brushing back a stray hair from your brow, Logan really took in your new appearance, unable to stop himself from smoothing your cheekbone beneath your one golden eye. “Yeah… it makes sense,” he kept his voice as steady as he could in the face of more emotion than he’d felt since losing you. He felt like he was trying to hold back a tsunami with a spatula, wanting nothing more than to crush you into his chest and cry until his voice was hoarse. “So… you could hear everything?”

“Every word.”

“And I wasn’t…” going crazy, he finished in his head, unable to voice his thoughts. But you knew. Your soft smile of understanding told him you knew. 

“No, you weren’t. It was all I could do, send little wisps and waves to let you know I was still there. Still listening.” You fell into a contemplative silence for a moment, your eyes closing as you rested tiredly against his chest. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Not giving up on me…”

The dam holding his emotions back cracked, breaking apart completely when he watched tears filter along your lash line. Knowing you didn’t have the strength to hold yourself up, he braced a broad palm against your back and the other against the side of your neck, pulling you up towards him and finally, finally sealing his lips to yours. 

He kissed you with fragile passion, terrified that, with nothing more than a light breeze, you’d be taken from him again. But the way your hands managed to slide up his chest to the scruff at his jaw, the way you leaned into him as much as you could, the way your lips parted for him to find his way home to you. It told him all he needed to know. 

No more experiments.

No more Kreva. 

No more fear of who or what you were. 

This was a new beginning. A fresh start. The start of the rest of your intertwined lives. The other half of his soul had come back to him, knitting together the shattered remains of two years spent grieving. 

Everything he wanted to say to you. Everything that was still left unsaid. He had a second chance. You’d gifted him a second chance. And he wasn’t about to let it slip through his fingers. Not again. 

Never again. 

“Never gonna give up on you, Firefly” he whispered against your lips, carding his hand through the roots of your hair. 

“Promise?”

My surroundings shifted until I was standing in front of my childhood home. 

Great. 

I walked inside where I was greeted by the savory aroma of a freshly cooked meal, and saw the dining room table set and ready for a family dinner. I took my seat, and waited for the level to begin.This level was the easy part. At first I could hardly stand it, but after so many tries you grow numb. They say that childhood trauma is the leading cause of phobias…and I can see what they mean by that.

The level begins with my mother and father walking in, and taking their seats at the table. The conversation begins with my mother pulling out an envelope. 

I winced.

“Loretta, darling. Do you know what this is?” My mother inquired, her beady eyes narrowed at me from the other end of the table.

I froze.

 “Yes mother…” I managed to squeak out.

“A C minus, Loretta. This is quite unbecoming of a Thornefield…have you simply given up on your future?” My mother’s gaze was frigid and stiff.

“I didn’t mother! I swear, it’s Mr. Crowe! He fails me on purpose because of the divorce-”

“Loretta!”

I froze as I was cut off by my mother.

“Enough. Look at you, and what you’ve become. Lying to your mother to avoid retribution, failing a class, talking back?” My mother scoffed at me, turning away in disgust before looking back at me.

Here it comes…

“You have let me down Loretta. I did not raise a failure such as yourself… I am beyond disappointed in you.” My mother’s words pierced my soul.

‘Booting Up…’

‘Select Level: [1- Vehiphobia] [2- Emetophobia] [3- Aphenphosmphobia] [4- Autophobia] [5- Atychiphobia]’

‘Level 5 Selected: Atychiphobia - The Fear of Failure’

‘Loading… this may take a while…’

‘Ping!’

The familiar sound of level initiation rang in my ears.

Here we go again.

This was attempt number… it doesn’t matter. I am determined to beat this, to finally succeed. I know I can do this. So what if this game has never been beaten? I mean, it was still in beta afterall…at least, my copy was. All the playtesters had been so determined to beat the game, but they were in it for the paycheck incentive, I on the other hand had something else I was fighting for.

Something playtesters were never told before playing the game was that you couldn’t leave the game until you beat it.

Hah, surprise!

But this was going to change very soon.

‘Thump.’

My feet hit the ground softly. I will never get used to just how real everything felt. I was in a digital body, yet everything felt like I had every ounce of my humanity intact. The brisk air harassing the hairs on my skin, the sharp sting of frigid metal brushing my fingertips as I made my way to the staircase.

“Phobophobia” was credited with being the very first VR game of its kind. The game would analyze the player’s psyche and retrieve their top five biggest fears (‘Level 1’ being the least feared of the five, ‘Level 5’ being your biggest fear) creating uncanny levels that simulate each of their fears. The catch was that each level was personal to the player. If you had underlying trauma that resulted in your phobia, the game made sure to include that, thus adding to the existential dread one would feel when trying to face their fears. To make matters worse, everything was hyper-realistic. You could feel everything that happens to you, even dying felt realistic.