#response fic

You do not sleep.

You do not dream, and lacking dreams, you lack superstition. You don’t believe things just because you’re told them or because there seems to be some correlation; you need cold hard evidence.

This does not make you a brilliant inventor or a hard-nosed business person. What it makes you is a victim of analysis paralysis. Without hard facts to back you up, you can’t guess what might be true.  When there’s a controversy and there’s evidence on both sides, you don’t know what to believe. You don’t accept things as true just because your parents say them, so you’re lucky to be alive after all the times you burned yourself on a hot stove or stuck a fork in an electric socket or jumped off a building because you wanted to confirm that what people had told you would happen actually would.

You’re good at debunking. You’re brilliant at finding bugs in code.  You can find the flaws in a scientific study, and your merciless lens turns on academic and corporate research alike. But you can’t make anything. You don’t believe in anything you can’t prove, so fiction falls flat for you – it’s unreal – and you’re not terribly empathic, because human emotions from other humans who aren’t you is a thing you can never empirically prove. You aren’t creative – you can’t come up with inventions, you can’t innovate a brilliant new coding algorithm or prove a mathematical theorem no one has ever done before. You’re just very, very good at finding the flaws in other people’s creative products.

The autistic community embraces you as one of their own, though technically you are not autistic; you are something else. Your parents, wealthy captains of industry, are disappointed; they expected you to use your extra time in a way they would appreciate. They didn’t expect someone rigid, unyielding, someone who would demand proof of everything and whose analyses could easily disprove all the lies they used to convince themselves they were good and deserving people. You end up becoming a socialist because all the evidence suggests that, of the many ways humans can organize the distribution of resources, it’s the one with the best track record of causing less misery than the alternatives. You mock people who confuse socialism and communism. You are not above trading on your parents’ names and money to have a public voice, and you’ve become famous for your ability to debunk bad science.

You will not revolutionize the world, but you have a third more time than other people and you were born with money (the experiment that created you was quite expensive). You contribute to the betterment of humanity, in your way.

After the first generation of your kind are created, there are no more; wealthy capitalist parents do not want socialist children who can only tear down flawed structures built by others and cannot build anything themselves.  Your own children, for those of you who have them, may or may not share your mutation.  Eventually your condition is classified as a disorder, after your parents’ wealth has mostly run out late into your lifetime and the world has forgotten they respected you once. Humanity goes back to ignoring you and listening to superstition and tribal beliefs… because the ability to derive a pattern from a very small amount of data is the root of both superstition and innovation, and innovation turns out to be too important to give up superstition.

You do not sleep. But sleep performs the important function of re-organizing the memories acquired during the day and correlating them with each other, prioritizing some and storing others away in cold storage or even deleting them. This function was too important to do without, so your brain was re-engineered to do it while you are awake.

This means you’re dreaming, in a way, all the time, while you’re wide awake. It makes you very creative, but very unfocused. Some of your cohort actively hallucinate, but you can all generally tell the difference between the dream-things you see or hear or feel and reality; it’s just that the dream-things are vivid enough to capture your attention, most of the time. It’s a good thing there are self-driving cars, because you probably are not safe to drive yourself.

You are not a hard-nosed business person. Some of your cohort do come up with brilliant ideas for business, and because you have rich parents, they are able to get those businesses started… but all of you are too unfocused, too distractible, too deep within your own creative minds to be good at following the bottom line. Most of the businesses either fail or get sold to other companies run by people who can actually do business, but don’t have great ideas. Most of you go into art of some kind. Writing, visual arts, comic books, music… a few do movie or film, but none of you are at your best in collaboration.

The ADHD community embraces you as one of their own, though technically you do not have ADHD; no human could maintain a tight focus when ghostly images and snippets of dream are constantly playing in their minds. Because your family is wealthy, you get a personal assistant who helps you with the paperwork parts of your artistic career, and you get a publicist when you’re still very young, and the fact that you don’t sleep means you make the news just by existing. So your artistic career is successful, and your work is well-known, but artists don’t generally get rich; you live off your parents’ money until you get sick of their snide condescension because the ability they paid millions of dollars to infuse you with has a downside that means you will never be what they wanted you to be. Then you downsize your life expectations by a lot and live modestly off your successful art career. It helps that you can be very prolific, because a third of your life has been given back to you for conscious activity.

Some of the children of your cohort inherit the ability. Some don’t. Parents tend to fawn on the grandchildren who are pure human, Sleepers rather then Sleepless, because they’re the ones who could possibly inherit business empires. That’s fine. You try your best to raise your children not to compete with one another on the basis of whether or not they sleep, but kids will be kids and not all of the siblings get along.

After the first generation of your kind are created, few others are made; most wealthy parents want a child who can be good in business rather than a child who can be a brilliant artist, but there are those who like the feather-in-cap of famous, respected children who will be known for their creativity, so a small trickle of kids like you are born every ten years or so. When it happens it generally makes the news. You reach out to those kids when they turn thirteen to offer them your knowledge and life experience. When you encounter parents who have tried to cut their children off from your community out of religious belief or misguided belief in their own ability to mold and shape children, you bring child abuse charges against them. You’re not good with the paperwork but you are good with influencing public opinion, and most of you still have assistants or interns who can handle the paper part.

You don’t regret what your parents gave you, even if they do. It’s a good life.

You do not sleep. Where other people have a third of their life where the energy hog that is consciousness is shut down, and therefore the body has more free energy to carry out tasks like growth and immune response, you don’t have that. Your consciousness is always on, always consuming 80% of the free energy your body has.

You’re thin. You can eat anything you want, but it burns off of you because your body needs so much energy. You are often tired. You can’t sleep to replenish your energy; you can rest, unmoving, but consciousness is still on even if you’re meditating or vegging out in front of the TV. When you get sick, you stay sick for a long time. You get sick a lot. It’s not enough to consider a chronic illness, but it drains you. It makes it hard for you to hold down jobs, because you don’t sleep but if you feel too miserable to go to work it’s just the same as if you slept through your alarm and never went in.

You have more time than chronically ill people; there are advantages to having 8 extra hours in a day. Most of you live off your parents’ money and do things like volunteering and activism when the work that needs doing are things like stuffing envelopes or reaching out to people on the phone, or you became independent contractors so you could make your own hours.

You take your vitamins, you eat healthy, you exercise when you have the strength for it. Maybe it helps a little bit; you can’t really tell, but it makes you feel like you’re doing something to improve your life.

Your parents sue the people who created you, because seriously, wasn’t “people who live an extra third of their day need more energy to survive” predictable? They lose, because they signed a lot of waivers. You didn’t sign any waivers, so some of you try suing, and win.

No more are created after your original cohort, largely due to the lawsuits; no one’s willing to make more of you. It’s just as well. You make the best of your life, but to be honest, you long to be able to sleep – to engage in a kind of rest where you aren’t bored, and your mind invents interesting stories to show you, and when you get up you actually feel rested and energetic? (People who sleep tell you that that second part doesn’t happen. You retort that that’s because they don’t sleep enough, and if you had the ability to sleep, you wouldn’t waste it by staying up late and waking up early!) You wish for that with all your heart, but you can’t have it, and you know it.

By the time you’re in your forties, the activism of you and your cohort has gotten your condition declared a disability, and many of you have been campaigning for disability rights for years, since you recognize the similarities with your situation when people suffer fatigue disorders or other vague and amorphous conditions that make them tired all the time. So when some of your children are born as Sleepless, you’ve changed the world to make it easier for them to maximize their own capabilities, and they get a little more done than you were able to do. And really, isn’t that what we all want for our children?

You do not sleep, and it’s perfect. You were re-engineered for a faster metabolism so that you can supply enough energy to your body and brain for the extra hours of consciousness. Your brain was re-engineered so that you don’t need to go offline and have fifteen minutes of dreaming every hour and a half for eight hours; you just need to enter an optional, meditation-like rest state for one or two hours every five days or so to get the same results. You are every bit as creative and every bit as capable of focus and have every bit as much energy as the average Sleeper, but you have eight more hours a day to do it in (except for every five days, when you only get six or seven more hours. Still a huge advantage.)

Your parents are wealthy – no one who didn’t have millions of dollars to spend on a designer child was able to make their child a Sleepless – so there are no barriers to your success. You get your education completed early because you had extra time; you developed friendships with children older than you, because those were the ones who were awake later in the evening; you learned how to make use of solitude, and all but the most introverted of you can spend most of the daylight hours interacting with people and still get a lot done at night. Whether you choose to be a scientist, an inventor, an artist, or an entrepreneur, you do well. Your parents’ wealth and your fame for being born as an exotic designer child amplifies your ability to do whatever you want.

With so much success and so much extra time and so much experience socializing, most of you find relationships and have kids before you’re 30. Some of your kids have the trait, some don’t. You try, as best as you can, not to favor the Sleepless children over the Sleepers, but it’s hard not to be frustrated at the lack of productivity your Sleeper children have.

It’s when your cohort is in its 30’s and 40’s that you learn what you really bequeathed your Sleepless children, and what your parents bequeathed to you.

A faster metabolism burns out a body faster. In your 30’s you look 30 but the aches and pains and development of chronic illnesses like diabetes are accelerating faster than they do for Sleepers of equal socioeconomic status. In your 40’s the decline accelerates; you look 50 at 45, 60 at 50, 70 at 55.

Members of your cohort start dying of old age in your 50’s. You realize you aren’t going to make it to 65, and that your Sleepless children, already in their 30’s, have much less time than you or they or anyone thought they did. In the end, you didn’t get more time than anyone else; you just got to take it all at once instead of spreading it out over time.

Many of your parents are still alive, the excellent health care that the wealthy can afford keeping them going at 80-something. You’re rapidly catching up with them, and the best medical care in the world can’t stop it. Some of you rant at your parents, or sue the company that made you, but you don’t. How could anyone have known? It didn’t happen to animals in testing, but rat lives are so short to begin with, perhaps it disappeared into data noise. You know your parents only wanted the best for you, just like you only wanted the best for your children. You reconcile with your Sleeper children, who are a trifle embittered at what they see as the favoritism you showed their Sleepless siblings, because you’re dying and they still love you even if you weren’t the best parent you could have been. Your parents apologize to you, and you forgive them. Your Sleepless children visit you constantly, knowing that you are their future, that what’s happening to you is what lies ahead for them.

You’re 62 when you die, after many surgical interventions and a decade of the best prescription drugs money could buy. The creation of more like you is made illegal a year later, but not before every parent rich enough to do it has had a Sleepless child for the past six decades.

~~

You know what’s worse than being fired from a place like Oscorp?

Having had to work at Oscorp.

Norman Osborn both was, and is, a bastard, and he always seemed to relish in making his employees squirm. Especially those smarter than him. Yes, he’s CEO, yes he’s the owner of the company, bah. He’s not even a doctor, and the bastard acts as if every employee is worthless compared to him.

She rolled her shoulders lightly, and cracked her neck. It was never good to think about Osborn, it agitated her too much. What the man did to her and her partner…

Oh, Otto…

She sighed, and ran a hand down her face. That man was too soft, too sweet, to be working for a monster like Osborn. He was going to ruin the poor doctor…

And now… She can’t be there to shield him from the worst of it…

Several Months Ago…

“Dr. (L/N)... A pleasure to see you, as always.” Norman smirked at her, hands folded behind his back as he approached her.

She gave him a sarcastic smile back. “Mr. Osborn, how kind of you to grace us with your presence this evening.” She drawled, her fingers not stopping on her keyboard.

If he heard the sarcasm, he didn’t react to it. “How are things going down here, hm?”

“They’re going.” She turned her attention back to the monitors, “The actuators needed a little fine tuning this morning, the VI was giving a bit of… Trouble…” She frowned a bit. “But it was summarily handled. Nothing to worry about.”

“I thought it was AI, Doctor.” He leaned on the desk next to her, his arms now folded over his chest.

She held in a sigh. “AI is artificial intelligence, even with my genius, no one has managed to crack it. VI is virtual intelligence, that’s what everyone thinks AI is. Think of it as… A working brain, versus a dialogue tree.” She looked at the man, a bland look on her face. “One thinks for itself, the other follows coded instructions.”

He smirked at her. “Delightful.” He didn’t care, not a bit. “I have some rather… Unfortunate news, I’m afraid.”

She didn’t pause her typing. “And that is?” Her hours were probably going to get cut again, damn it all, how was she going to–

“I’m afraid we’re going to have to… Let you go. From Oscorp.”

Her fingers stopped moving. What?

“What?”

“Yes, we’ve decided that since your research notes with Dr. Octavius are, indeed, thorough enough to replicate the VI, should anything happen, well…” He shrugged, nonchalant. “Your assistance is no longer required.”

“... If you fire me, I’m taking my research with me, Osborn.”

“It’s copyrighted to Oscorp Industries, you’ll take nothing, my dear.” He smirked, and tapped a finger under her chin. “But cheer up! You’ve led us into wonderful territory, dear, your research–”

She slapped his hand away. “Exactly. My research, not Oscorp’s. I will fight tooth and nail to obtain my research notes, I will take you to court so fast–!”

“Unlikely, dear.” He wasn’t as amused now. “Your contract states implicitly that any research you do on company grounds immediately…” His smirk came back, darker. “Belongs to me.”

“... You son of a bitch.”

“Ah ah, watch that mouth, sweetheart.” He tapped a finger on her lips. “Don’t want to get in trouble, hmm?”

She slapped his hand again. “Stop touching me! And don’t call me those stupid pet names! I’m not your wife, and I’m not your bitch!” She pointed a finger at him. “This isn’t over, Osborn. Not by a long shot. I swear, upon my doctorate, you will pay for this.”

He gave her a false pitying look. “Then… We’ll have to fix that, won’t we?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

He snapped his fingers, and his security appeared. “Escort this woman off the property. She is no longer employed here at Oscorp.”

She gave the man a dark glare. “You’ll regret this, Osborn.”

He smirked and winked at her. “Swear on your doctorate?”

She didn’t respond, her lip curling in disgust.

“Take her away.”

“M-Mr. Osborn?”

Norman and (Y/N) both turned to look at who entered. Dr. Octavius stood in the doorway, a confused look on his normally anxious face. “Ah, Dr. Octavius!” Norman greeted with a smile. “Forgive us, we were discussing some… Business.”

“B-Business? W-Well, should I-I–?”

“Don’t worry, Doctor, we were just about to leave… Come along, now, dear.” Norma curled his fingers at her, and the guards grabbed her arms, causing her to snarl at them. “Play nicely now, hmm?”

“M-Mr. Osborn! W-What a-are you–?!” Otto moved to object, but Norman held up a hand. “S-Sir?”

“I’m afraid Dr. (L/N)...” He chuckled. “Miss (L/N)... Is no longer employed at this company, Dr. Octavius. She was just leaving.”

She snarled at the man, her teeth bared, her face angry.

Otto had… Never seen her like this before… “M-Mr. Osborn, please–”

“Go ahead and get to work, Doctor. We’ll have her escorted out immediately.”

“O-Oh… Um… G-Goodbye, then… D-Dr. (L/N)....” Was all he could think to say. He didn’t want this to happen… His partner, his…. His friend… H-His… “I-I… Um…”

She sighed, the anger seeming to leave her body with a breath. “... Goodbye, Otto…” She said softly, and then gave him a weak smile. “Save me a dance…?”

He gulped and nodded his head, even as he flushed. “I-I… Y-Yes…”

And she was led away.

“Not to worry, Doctor.” Norman attempted to comfort the visibly upset man. “Now you have no more distractions, hm?” He wasn’t trying too hard. “No more of her horrendous music playing, no more her dragging you into that… Ridiculous dancing routine… Now just you and our… Experiments.” He gave the shorter man a squeeze on his shoulder. “... Now. I won’t bother you further. Back to work, Dr. Octopus!” And he was gone as well, following his guards with a light chuckle.

Present Day…

Dr… Well… Miss (L/N) sighed as she stood at the bus stop, hands in her jacket pockets and a backpack over one shoulder.

If Norman Osborn could do one thing, the man could follow through with a threat.

She attempted to get her research notes in a lawsuit against Oscorp, because she can follow through with a threat of her own, but after a harsh slap of reality in trying to take a high power company to court… Well… Norman followed through.

Her doctorate was taken from her. Norman stripped her of everything. Her work experience, her past jobs denounced her… She had nothing left. She was surprised her credit score hadn’t suffered. (It had, but due to a chain reaction, not Norman’s filthy hands directly).

So… With her car repossessed, her landlord breathing down her neck, and no laboratory wanting to hire her… She works at a coffee shop. While not unheard of at her age, with her current level of education… “Work is work.” (Y/N) sighed to herself. “I can’t begrudge work…”

It’s cold here in the city

It always seems that way

She had gotten mugged last week, her favorite jacket (which now had blood stains from both her mouth and her attacker's nose) was now either sold or being worn by some asshat in New York. Thick clouds hung in the sky, soft rumbles and grumbles indicating bad weather ahead.

And I’ve been thinking about you

Almost every day

She wondered how he was doing… Doctor Octopus… She couldn’t help a soft snort. (Y/N) couldn’t believe he decided to keep that moniker, he used to hate it when Osborn would call him that. Whatever happened to him that night… Whatever Osborn did to him… Otto had reclaimed that name. Made it his own. Took back every bit of power Osborn had taken from him.

… She wondered if he played music in his new lab… He had to have a new lab, right? Did he play music in it? Did his taste change?

… She wondered if he had a new assistant to spin around like they used to.

Thinking about the good times

Boom

Thinking about the rain

“Why do these things happen to me?” She grumbled to herself, her hair being flattened to her skull as rain pelts down upon her, falling into her face and covering her eyes. She quickly pushed her hair back, forcing it to smooth back on top of her head. She didn’t have an umbrella, she didn’t think she’d need one. Damn weather forecasters and their damn lies…

Thinking about how bad it feels

To be alone again

As she was soaked in the rain, she allowed her mind to drift. Usually, they drifted to her old calculations, formulas that ran back and forth through her mind. But this time… She dimly remembered the music that played in the lab. Otto’s ‘soft rock mix’ played in her mind’s ear, causing her to smile slightly. She missed those days. Just her and Otto, the music the only thing between them, soft laughter and sweet conversation…

I’m sorry things ain’t what

They used to be

His music taste must have changed, everything else about him did. Maybe he hired himself a new assistant, too. Did he lead when they danced? She used to lead, leading was never her forte. At least when it came to dancing. She didn’t mind it, though. So long as it was with Otto… She would dance with him forever…

I’m sorry for all the lies

I told you

She flushed, a memory coming to her. Oh, it was a little over a year ago now, one of their little… Impromptu dance sessions. He initiated it, this time. The song had ended in a flourish, and in a bold move, he dipped her, his hand cradling her back, the other holding hers. Their eyes locked, so close to each other. In her mind’s eye, she leaned upward, her lips meeting his, her eyes closing as she finally, finally, learned how his lips felt on hers. 

I’m sorry for all the things

I didn’t say

She should have told him. If she had just fucking told him how she felt, he probably would’ve hired her as his assistant… His new, evil assistant as he takes over New York, maybe the world… Would she have taken it…? Being a villainess… Even as an assistant, would she be considered one? She’s overthinking again, isn’t she?

I’m sorry if I took

Some things for granted

(Y/N) had definitely taken the easy contact with Otto for granted. She should have gotten his phone number, she could’ve been texting him. Who knows, maybe a kind word, or a friend on the outside would’ve made things… Different. Would he still be Doctor Octopus? (She still had to snort lightly at that, he hated that nickname so muuuuch). Or would he still be her Otto?

But more than anything else

She straightened as footsteps approached from her side, not wanting to look meek, or distracted. (She may hate herself for saying it, but that’s how she ended up getting mugged in the first place)

I’m sorry for myself

She smoothed back her hair again, and wiped her face, the rain pouring harder and faster.

For living without you

An umbrella came over her head suddenly.

She closed her eyes and sighed. “How much?” She asked blandly.

“Excuse me?” The stranger asked, a male voice sounding bemused.

“Look, I only have five bucks on me, man, and I ain’t giving you any extras.” She pulled a $5 note from her pocket.

“You think I want your money?”

“Acts of kindness aren’t free, man, I know that.” She turned to frown at the man, only to startle, her eyes widening. “Dr. Toomes?”

Adrian Toomes gave her an amused smile, his eyebrow arched. “Dr. (L/N), a pleasure as always.”

“The pleasure is mine, I’m sure.” He may have been Otto’s friend, but they two always got along well enough. “It’s been a while since I’ve seen you…” She looked him up and down. “At least without the gear.”

He chuckled softly. “Yes, well, the new upgrades don’t like water all that much.” He did the same, looked her up and down. “Seems as though you do though, hm?”

She rolled her eyes, “Ha ha.” She couldn’t help a smile anyway. “Can’t exactly afford an umbrella nowadays.”

“Oh? What’s going on, Doctor?”

She sighed. “That. I’m not…” She hated talking about this. “I’m not…. A doctor… Anymore.”

His brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”

“... Osborn had my doctorate rescinded.” She growled, feeling her hackles rise. “The bastard fired me, ruined my livelihood, and, with a glowing exit survey, made getting a new job nigh impossible…”

“You poor thing.” He cooed. “Norman Osborn has been nothing but a nuisance for decades now.”

“Yeah, well…” She rolled her shoulders. “Promised myself if I ever find him in the streets, his ass is grass… Forgive my language, Doctor.”

“Oh, no, it’s completely understandable, dear. The man’s a prick.”

She snorted, her hand lifting to cover her face. “I concur.”

“So… Am I to be assuming you’re looking for work, then?” He asked, his brow lifting again, a little smirk on his lips.

She snorted lightly. “I mean… I have a job, Dr. Toomes. I work…” She sighed, and rubbed her face. “I’m a barista now.”

He snorted as well, far more condescendingly. “A barista? Dr. (L/N), how demeaning of you.”

“Like I said, Dr. Toomes.” She snapped a bit. “... I’m not… A doctor… anymore…”

“... Oh, yes, that’s right.” He offered her the umbrella handle. “Hold this for me for a moment, would you?”

She blinked, her brow still furrowed, irritation still prickling her skin… But she still took the handle. “Doctor?”

“One moment.” He reached into his inner coat pocket, and pulled out a folded document. “This is for you. A show of good faith from… My employer, I suppose.”

She blinked, and accepted it, handing him back the umbrella. She unfolded it, and read the text upon it.

And nearly dropped it in the puddle beneath her.

“Is… Is this…?”

“Yes, it is.” He nodded his head. “Doctor… (L/N).”

Her doctorate. There was indeed a ‘void’ stamped onto it, but another stamp and a few signatures overrode it. It was… It was reinstated…

“I can obtain a clean copy for you, if you wish. However, we had thought you would appreciate the amended one first.”

“... Dr. Toomes… H-How…” She lifted her head, and unshed tears were shining in her eyes. “How did you…?”

He chuckled. “Not I, my dear.” He pulled a card from his pocket as the bus finally approached. “Come to this address tomorrow night, 7 o’clock. My employer wishes to meet you.”

She took the card with a shaky hand. “R-Right…”

He gently nudged her into the bus. “See you soon, doctor.”

And there was Evan now, heading right toward him in the library. Blaine couldn’t help but smile as he recognized the borrowed cardigan. But that smile disappeared quickly as soon as Evan plopped himself down at the table, his arms crossed tightly in front of him and a perturbed look on his face.

“Hey—Evan,” Blaine said, tentatively. Oh, Sam, he thought. What now?

Evan leaned across the table, and tapping his finger firmly on its surface for emphasis said, “You’re not making any sense these days.” 

Blaine’s silent, wide-eyed response (of disbelief, of what—seriously?) seemed to egg Evan on. “You’ve got some nerve, going to Coach Sylvester. How’s bringing her back here going to make anyone feel safer? I talked to Sam about it and I—”

Blaine held up his palm in protest. “Look, something’s not right. I told you—I mean I told Sam about Becky acting so weird. We just have to get to the bottom of it, we have to make things right. And I’m sorry, but this is the only way.”

“By you going to her aerobics class?”

“Look. You don’t have to go. Sam doesn’t have to go. Wait—why are you so angry at me?” Blaine felt more frustrated by the minute, and honestly, just missed his friend. Sam would’ve been all-in with regard to their plans; Sam wouldn’t have wanted special proof. Blaine hated the way Sam increasingly seemed to need Evan’s approval for everything. He just wasn’t sure he quite understood why. But he was going to have to think about it later, because Evan was positively glaring at him now. 

“You just . . . You think you can be there for everyone, that you can solve all these problems, but  you can’t,” Evan said, shaking his head. “You can’t. Sam can’t—”

“What about you?” Blaine interrupted, confused but curious at the same time, because Sam was in there, somewhere. And he wanted desperately to understand and help him. 

“I’m smarter than that. I know better than to question a good thing. Coach Sylvester is gone—I thought that’s what you and Sam wanted? Things should be safer now. They will be safer now.”

“But maybe we were wrong about her. Becky—” 

Evan threw his hands up in the air. “Just go, then,” he said. “But count me out. Sam, too.” 

Blaine sighed and got up, grabbing his messenger bag off the table. “Tell Sam I said ‘hi,’” he said, sadly. “Tell him that I’m here for him, and that I hope he’ll be interested in what I find out.”

Evan checked the knot on his sweater, and avoiding Blaine’s gaze, merely nodded in reply.

***

The next day when the lights suddenly went out in the choir room, Blaine felt a quick spike of adrenaline. Hearing Sam shout out “zombie apocalypse” calmed Blaine’s nerves, but only for a moment, because in light of recent events, the images it put into his head, of the world falling apart, of feeling helpless in the face of danger, just made him uncomfortable—and made him even more concerned for Sam. 

He was being silly, probably. But then Sam played a song in the dark. It was simple and sweet and Blaine always did love when Sam played guitar, he was really good at it and—

It was just so sad. 

Later, after most everyone had left the choir room Blaine approached Sam, who he hadn’t talked to since he’d run from the library. The room was pretty dim now that everyone had gone—only one or two lamps stay lit on the floor. Everything was so still. There was no hum from the florescent light fixtures overhead, and even the halls were quiet, as students had to concentrate on not tripping a little more than usual. “That was really beautiful,” Blaine said. “The song. And I want you to know that I agree with what you said, about the, um, Twitterverse and stuff.” Then he waited for Sam to meet his eyes before he added, “Are we okay? Evan—”

Sam sighed, the neck of the guitar still in his hand, and was still for a moment before speaking again. “He’s just being difficult, and . . . he just worries about me.” Sam slowly walked the guitar to its stand before turning to face Blaine again. He shrugged. “Brittany just keeps getting these calls from MIT and like, Lady and Lord Tubbington aren’t getting along and I just want to stop feeling so uncertain about everything all the time.” Blaine nodded sympathetically and kept his gaze locked on Sam’s. All of a sudden Sam pulled his phone from his pocket and said, “You know what? I’m going to call him and tell him that—”

Blaine moved closer to Sam and put his hand over the phone. “Forget about it,” he offered. “It’s fine. Really. I’ll let you know everything that happens when I check on Coach Sue, okay?" He squeezed Sam's hand as it held tight to the phone. "It's fine," he said again.

“Yeah.” Sam said, putting his phone away again. “Yeah, okay.”

***

Turns out, there were some things about the aerobics class that Blaine was going to keep to himself.

It had been a while since anyone other than Kurt had looked at Blaine in that way. Not that Blaine hadn’t, at times, imagined Sam flirting with him. There was no denying that. Regardless that one look made his stomach flip flop, and he had found himself working a little bit harder at Coach Sue’s routine and consequently, working harder to hide the extent to which that routine was kicking his ass. 

He was being silly. And sure enough, after the workout ended he spied that same cute guy strolling over to one of the women who’d been working out behind Blaine. Just another guy not interested in him, he thought, even as his mind flashed to Kurt. 

After Blaine told Coach Sue that McKinley needed her (the Cheerios really were in a panic about the surgeries Coach Roz kept talking about), he grabbed his bag and walked straight out of the workout room, only to crash right into Evan. 

And Evan seemed—kind of different today. His hair was Sam-styled, for one. And while he wore his eyeglasses, Blaine noticed that the sweater (still the one he’d borrowed from Blaine) was tied not around Evan’s neck, but his waist instead. 

“Uh, Evan?” Blaine ventured.

“Hey, Blaine,” Evan answered, looking a bit nervous. “So this is where the class was,” he added, gesturing toward the open workout room. “I take it you saw Coach Sylvester, then? Any, um, intel?” he added, a hopeful expression on his face. Evan cast a look up and down Blaine's body. "And uh, nice outfit," he said.

Blaine raised an eyebrow, then nodded. “Well,” he said, “She knows we’re suspicious now—that I’m suspicious now, anyway. I even told her why I rejoined the Cheerios,” he added, raising his arms slightly. 

“So now what?” asked Sam—at least Blaine thought it was Sam, because he heard no accent.

Blaine squinted slightly at that and said, “I guess we see what she does next. Maybe—”

“Ooh!” said Sam. “When the good guys tell the bad guys they’re onto them, the bad guys always go right to their accomplice. This is perfect!” 

Blaine smiled widely at his friend, who seemed more and more himself. “Yeah,” he said. “Now we just need to find a way to get the truth from Becky.”

As they headed down the hallway, Sam got increasingly animated as they talked, as they brainstormed ways to nudge Becky to tell the truth. And if he reached for his phone, it was only to respond to a text from Brittany, announcing that Lord Tubbington had been caught nestled up against Lady Tubbington on the bed.

Outside the 23-Hour Fitness, Blaine walked Sam to his car. He watched as Sam opened the car door, then took his eyeglasses off and tossed them onto the passenger-side seat.

“You’re okay now, right?” Blaine asked, looking up at Sam hesitantly.

“Yeah—yeah, I am. Everything’s fine,” he said, as he tossed Blaine’s borrowed sweater right at him. 

Charlie smoothed down her dress.  She hated wearing things like this.  In fact, she rarely did.  When she was just lounging around the house or playing with the kids, it was jeans and whatever tank top came to hand.  But not today.

Today envoys from the Georgia Federation had arrived.  They were here to hopefully discuss a new peace treaty that would benefit both nations.  Charlie was deeply invested in the signing of this treaty.  It would mean less stress for her boys and a happier home life for her.

If she could be honest with herself, Charlie hated the Georgia Federation.  She knew for a fact that they didn't respect her because she was a woman.  Never mind that she was the mother of four children or the most powerful woman in the Republic or even just the one person who could keep Bass and Miles from killing each other.  No, she was a woman and she wasn't worth their time.

It had annoyed her so much teh first time it happened.  Not even Bass could soothe her from her pique.  Miles had been forced to use every dirty trick he knew about Charlie to calm her down.  Charlie still suspected he had help from Danny.  but they did manage to calm her down.  MIles talked about some boys club they had that made them think women were inferior.  Bass pointed out that she could be even more devious when they came because they wouldn't think it of her.

Charlie ran these words of advice through her head as she poured tea for the delegation.  "Well, I just don't see what the problem is," she said.  She caught their looks of 'you're a woman, of course you don't'.  "I mean, why can't this be beneficial for both nations?"

"The Republic is plagued by numerous...revolutionaries," the one general said. 

Charlie leaned over to give him his cup, knowing full well that he could see down her dress.  "Are you saying the Federation doesn't have it's share of desenters?  No government is perfect, general, you know that.  But I hear attacks are down 40%."  Charlie smiled at them.  "That might be because Miles is always going on campaign to avoid being in the house."

"Always hard when the kids starting hitting their teens," a different man nodded.  "My little Raven just turned thirteen.  She's is getting sassier than her mother, I swear."

"I'm sure she's just lovely," Charlie smiled.  "Would you like some more tea?"

"Oh, please."

Charlie averted her eyes towards the cup.  "The fact that my boys are still surviving to this day amazes me sometimes.  But then men are usually more suited to war than homemaking."

"Good thing they've got a lovely female like yourself to look after them."

Charlie smiled at the man.  IF there was one person in the Georgia Federation she hated more than any other, it was General Shanks.  Last time he had visited the Republic, he had felt her up twice.  Miles nearly beheaded the man for that transgression.  Bass had convinced him not to for the good of their nation.  Personally, Charlie wouldn't' have minded his head presented to her on a silver platter.  "I do my best," she replied modestly.  Shanks reached for her and Charlie subtly twisted away from him.

"She does wonderfully," a new voice cut in.  Charlie looked up to see Bass in the doorway and felt her first real smile of the day bloom on her face.  "If you gentlemen are done, why don't we adjourn to my study and discuss this new treaty?"

The men excused themselves and headed to the study.  Bass smiled stiffly as they all complimented him on his pretty, convivial wife.  As though Charlie didn't exist beyond skin deep.  Charlie sighed as Bass crossed over to her.  "I hate them," she stated.

"I know."  Bass kissed her forehead.  "Your job is done for the day.  Go enjoy yourself."

Charlie darted out of the room as soon as the door shut behind Bass.  She changed into her jeans, tank top and leather jacket.  She needed to go riding.  Maybe do some archery practice as well.  Anything to prove she wasn't as superficial as they thought.

When she finally came back as the sun was setting, she found Miles and Bass celebrating the new treaty in Bass' office with a bottle of whiskey.  Charlie found the fact that they were mainly congratulating each other intensely annoying.  "I take it things went well?" she sighed.

"Very well," Miles agreed.

"The Federation is even agreeing to hammer out new trade laws," Bass smiled.

"Fabulous," she muttered as she swiped his mostly full glass.  Bass raised an eyebrow.  "I will have you know I flashed cleavage for your little treaty.  The least you can do is give me whiskey."

"I'm sorry," Bass placated.  "You're beautiful and I love you."

Charlie snorted.  "I told Danny to keep the kids.  You've got the day off tomorrow," Miles said with a smile.

Charlie raised her glass in salute.  "You get sex tonight," she declared.  She glanced at Bass as she allowed Miles to pull her into his arms.  "You can watch."

Miles smirked at his other lover.  Bass gave him a 'challenge accepted' look.  "I have better news," he told her.

"Doesn't really get much better," Charlie replied, not moving her face from Miles' chest.

"The delegation leaves tomorrow."

Miles felt his throat close up.  That couldn't be Charlie lying there.  Not his brave little niece who had fought so hard for family.  She had journeyed across states so she could find her brother, only to get caught up in a war she had nothing to do with.  So it couldn't be her that died in that explosion.  "Uncle Miles?" a soft voice called.  Miles turned to see Danny there.  "Is that Charlie?"

"No," Miles denied.  "Of course it's not Charlie.  She...she got away.  Like she was supposed to.  That was the plan.  It's just someone that looks like Charlie is all."

Nora was talking quietly with one of the Rebels who had been in charge of the stupid plan to blow the bridge in hopes of cutting off Militia supplies.  She kept looking back at Miles and Danny which was not helping Miles' ability to breathe.  Finally she walked over to them.  "I'm sorry," she began.

Miles cut her off.  "Damn it, Nora.  Tell me that's not Charlie lying there."

"She...she got caught," Nora explained.  "There was no time to get her out."

"So they just what?  Left her to DIE?!"

"Miles, I'm sorry.  Okay?  I really am.  But the bridge was going to blow.  Charlie knew the risks when she joined up."

"The hell she did," Miles spat.  "You never told her about risks.  You promised her a new country where she could take care of Danny.  IF she hadn't listened to you she'd be alive right now!"

Nora wanted to respond but Danny started wheezing badly.  "Charlie..." he panted.  "Charlie can't be...."  Danny felt to his knees and Miles was by his side in an instant.

"Danny, look at me!" Miles ordered.  "Where's your inhaler?"  Danny made a vague motion with his hand.  "Damn, Danny where the hell is your inhaler?!"

"B...b....bag," Danny spat out. 

"I'll get it," Nora said.  She darted off while Miles tried to calm down the distraught teenager.  Miles swiped the inhaler from her as soon as she was back.  Nora tried not to be hurt.  Danny and Miles were grieving. 

"Easy, Danny," Miles murmured. "Just breathe for me."

It took a little time but Danny finally got his breathing under control.  "Is she really dead?" he whispered.

"Looks like," Miles agreed.  He glared at Nora one last time before leading Danny away. 

The burial was short  They didn't have time to stay in one place even for grieving.  Both Miles and Danny hung to the back of the group as they left the site.  Nora assumed they were still trying to process the fact that Charlie was gone.  She hoped they could come to her when they were ready.  Nora had liked Charlie too and she was just as hurt.

They bedded down in the forest that night.  Miles arranged to be on watch, claiming that he didn't want to sleep anyway.  Nora wanted to argue but he had a right to stay up if he wanted to.  Miles waited until he was certain everyone was asleep before waking Danny.  "You ready?"

Danny nodded.  "Let's go." 

************

Bass knew he should have been in bed.  It was late and he had a Republic to run.  "You've got shit security," a voice slurred.

Bass whipped around to see Miles standing just barely in the light from the open window.  "Maybe I was expecting you," he countered.

"Not with that expression," Miles gestured.  Bass looked pointedly at the expensive brandy in the glass Miles was holding.  Miles looked down.  "Sorry," he shrugged.  "I got thirsty."

"Miles...what happened?"

Miles licked his lips as he looked away.  "They...they killed her, Bass.  They killed Charlie."

"The Rebels?"

"She was supposed to get out before the bridge blew but something happened."  Miles swallowed as he looked back at Bass.  His grip on the glass tightened.  "The debris....it fell on her and shattered her spine."

"So you were responsible for that explosion," Bass said stiffly.  "And you're here to...what?  Gloat?  Because if you think a sob story about your niece is going to get me to back off, you're dead wrong."

Miles' grip finally shattered the glass.  "Screw this," he decided.  "I'll take Danny to the Wastelands."

He started to move but Bass quickly crowded him.  "No, please, Miles, don't go," Bass said.  "Please, I'm sorry.  I...I don't know what you want me to say.  I don't' know why you're here."

"Need a job," Miles shrugged.  "And I can't work with people who don't care who they kill."

"You'll come back?"  Bass didn't even try to hide the hope in his voice.  "You'll really come back to the Militia?  The Republic?"  Bass tried to make his brain work through this logically.  "This isn't some kind of trick?"

Miles glared at him.  "Bass, I am about five seconds from walking out that door and disappearing on the other side of the country."

"I'm sorry," Bass said quickly.  "I'm sorry, I swear.  I just...Look, you can start back as general tomorrow if you want."

Miles swallowed hard.  "Bass...if I come back....Bass, there  have to be rules. Understand?  We tried this 'make up as we go along' shit and it sucked.  So there'll be rules this time."

"Anything you want," Bass agreed.

"And...you have to help me take care of Danny."

"Danny?"  Bass finally realized that Charlie's brother had been in the room for the entire conversation.  He was deeper in the shadows, looking like he wanted to bolt at any minute.  Bass was strongly reminded of a terrified rabbit.  He also understood why Miles' eyes were wet but not a single tear had fallen.  The older warrior would never allow himself to cry while he was looking after his nephew.  "Hello, Danny," he said softly.

"Hello," Danny mumbled.

"Danny can have his own room," Bass agreed.  "Hell, his own house if he wants it.  And no pressure to join the militia, either."

"Strausser gets within five feet of the kid and we are gone," Miles warned.

"Done," Bass nodded.  "I'll see to it that the entire Militia leaves him alone."  Miles gave a sharp nod.  Bass turned to Danny.  "Are you tired, Danny?"

"A little," the teen replied.

"There's a bed just down the hall if you'd like to rest."

Danny looked at his uncle.  "It's okay," Miles promised.  "You'll be safe there."

"Alright," Danny agreed quietly. 

"Captain Baker!" Bass called, striding away from them.  Jeremy appeared at the door.  "Please take Danny here to the spare bedroom down the hall.  See to that he's not disturbed."

"Of course," Jeremy nodded.

Miles began to waver on his feet as Danny was led away.  Bass didnt' even think as he wrapped his brother in a hug.  Miles sank to his knees, sobbing out the pain of losing a niece he barely knew.  "She was so damn young," he said.  "She shouldnt' ahve been out there."

Bass knew the pain of losing family.  He knew that even all the alcohol in the world could make that pain end.  MIles was going to be in a very dark place for a very long time.  But Bass would be right by his side every step of the way.  He didn't know what to say as Miles sobbed so he settle for just holding on until Miles finally cried himself out.  Then he called for Jeremy once more to put Miles to bed.