This text is from Sword Art Online Abridged by Something Witty Entertainment. Watch Episode 18 on YouTube.

So all credit for this idea really goes to them. It was way too cool not to think on it and say, "that's an awesome spell to use in some story."

So let's see what you all can do with it.

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

A toll for the living

A toll for the lost

A toll for the wise ones who tally the cost!

Greg pulled ahead, finding not only her completely unharmed but also Coulter and Wayne.

Of course the latter down a hand and with a sheen of sweat and unhealthy paleness.

Coulter hadn’t fared much better with his creepy cricket limbs splintered in clean smooth halves of meat. Blood pooling from multiple bite wounds, his bare leg washed in red.

And of course growls began to approach.

“The cars?”

“Nah magic based,” Mario reported. “Can’t pick or force.”

“Shit,” Coulter hissed.

“Well over the fence now!” Wayne insisted. “We can figure out transport and stuff later.”

Their resources were essential. Thus Greg tossed his bag over first, before cupping his hands to support Mario.

Beside him Coulter handled Wayne and Talia and undoubtedly had room for him too.

The sight of the gleaming leg intact and stretching him to nearly eight feet tall was in a way infuriating. An ever present itch at his eyelids he could never explain and had to shove aside NOW.

He rolled his eyes at the professed hand.

Still he said nothing.

On their ascent Coulter began to quake.

Not only was he off balance but he’d summoned three more legs, tearing out of his back to kick out at the goons snarling their frothed mouths.

Three whimpered at the savage whips they received.

Greg clasped the fence, face set in grim resolve.

He climbed the links, scuttling with all his speed and skill.

The tangles caught his sock tight, twisting and turning but refusing to yield.

Coulter grunted. “Greg! Oh good God,” he said looking so pale as if he weren’t being set upon by literal wild animals. “I should have let you go first.”

“Whatever it’s fine!”

“Just be quiet,” argued Wayne.

“No,” he argued just as heatedly, chest heaving in the blinding heat of righteous mania.

Long as some survived, long as their map survived and they escaped they had won today.

Only Wayne wouldn’t have it. He had promised after all.

With a terrible jerk and almost crack his now red, bleeding foot was left bare and free.

He flipped over the chain link, helped along by a thrust.

Until he realized what that meant.

The wolves knew it too, Wayne knew it as he smiled.

Now shielded in a hexagonal barrier they were massacred.

Someone, Talia, realized he had had the sense to cover his eyes. Bone parted from flesh and something rolled.

Coulter was flat on his side, all his limbs torn. Pain exuding from his expression, gritting his teeth against the awful claws digging about on his spine.

Not even his finger moved. He was completely paralyzed.

“Run,” said a voice. A voice much stronger and richer than his own.

Red hot coals stroked at his insides.

“Run unless you’re such a sadist.”

“You’re a sadist!”

“Sick freak.”

“Sadist!”

Greg ran. Oh he ran alright.

He ran hard and tirelessly screaming to the blue sky and air smelling of wet earth, honey, and lavender.

One and one,

One hand to another.

The hands who hold on tight as one entity, falls from the sky.

As only one can escape to see the sunlight again.

One smile.

That leaves you wanting and hurting for all your days.

One.

Only that one love, is whose hands you desire to hold.

From one singular point of the universe.

To that one place...

Called The End.

From snow to stone, from joggers to carpet floors Lydia came to the location on her ramshackle tracker.

Throwing open the door she found splatters of paint everywhere, chairs overturned with broken off legs, and the balcony door wide open.

Lava cascaded down her veins, slow and ominous.

Walking into the apartment she nearly walked into the one tired witness to this whole mess.

The friend she'd desperately tried to find.

Cradling him in her arms she made note of the blue punctures.

He hissed something, his eyes switching from his own blue to a lava color with slit pupils.

Torbin, one of the most Wanted men across the region. Had he been more ambitious-- possibly had a better more malleable power-- he'd perhaps be among the most sought after men in the nation.

Yet as it stood, he currently crawled about in the grimy filth of human excrement and the vile dirt off their bodies.

A debasing fate.

And the best part?

Heroes always went on and on about how their power lay in their relationships, their love for others-- of a too large and too selfish humanity-- in empathy and in trust.

Friendship. Family.

Well he had trusted only one man in his life.

A second time, Torbin had even permitted himself to develop affections for one young man.

But that young man, for all his bluster-- one that reminded him of himself-- turned out to be so truly weak and soft-hearted, that it had been easy for the devil at his shoulder to make him a toy. No, more like the weapon he'd so delicately pruned and groomed to his own designs.

Torbin, had meant to produce a viable heir. A person in his own right, carrying on chaos on his terms but by Torbin's own grace.

But his brother, smarter and snobbish Frederick who'd never deign to get his hands dirty, Frederick had wanted an object. A destructive object whom he could control and violate their memory however necessary to point them and allow themselves to be shot at the target of his desire.

For his brother had had no anger, no envy nor greed. He had no love or joy inside him either. Frederick from the very start had had nothing inside him at all. Simply the wanton need to dominate and to hold power.

For which Torbin (who now tsked at thinking back) had been quite the useful object. The accessory to achieve the destruction and rebuild that Frederick so took cold contentment from.

He had trusted his brother, he had wished to preserve his heir despite his wavering heart-- who had dared to look upon him with fear!-- and his reward had been his manor crumbling to the ground in front of him. Forced to his knees in sheer despair.

Powers remanded inside himself to near destruction his only option then had been retreat.

Torbin lifted his hand from his chest.

Where the bits left of the device once strapped and interweaved into his flesh crackled and spurted blue-white lightning.

If he didn't find someone, anyone to fix it, he would leave this life in a blazing pillar of lightning and release who knew what, razing the world with him.

But he would never see the look of agony on Frederick's face.

Should he die, it would be when he and Frederick killed each other.

19 Yrs. Old.

Raid Walker

Power: Four Clover, a weak little power for a weak spindly armed gofer.

Or so said the only doctor Mama could take him to, whom had no reason for pretense or "bedside manner." Given that the man served criminals and any person too poor to pay the fees, blackmailing the second sort until they were just as dirty as the border patrol men who commandeered the bars and the women at night, their uniforms caked in sandstorm dirt and body odor, committing all kinds of acts from thievery to bootlegging to dealing. To killing and to demeaning, to threatening and to burning.

What Mama burned on Friday nights in a long silk gown and her own Mama's old wedding veil in the almost satanic ritual fashion, was absolutely none of his business. No matter how it stank.

With a shuddering breath, tears running down her face, Patricia prayed.

She silently asked that whatever God existed here-- if he or she or it had not abandoned this place altogether-- that white haired, pale red eyed [___] Walker forgave her.

With quick and now very accustomed hands did she strike a match and set it to a tiny candle wick.

And with her hand let the flame caress the corners of the page, of all the loose papers until they burned into ash on the writing desk he'd fished out for her so many months ago.

When he had finally smiled at her with the corners of his eyes crinkled.

___________________________________________

Raid knew this 'New West' fad the Others called it. Those rich folks outside the country.

While Raid knew it the way all the young people knew it. Not that he'd exactly be welcome among the "little maggots" anymore.

Anyone who survived to age out knew to run whenever you felt the slightest brush of an adult's shadow.

Because to actually live you had to be evil.

This country which was Baron's Coffer. What the mob man who had first struck bloody, iron colored order into the roasting sands and the screaming corpses fancied himself.

The Baron. Rich and opulent. Greedy and obnoxious in voice and of the size of his flintlock.

And no, no man knew the size of that. And besides, it was more of a glock. Very different guns.

Adults in Coffer were evil. A hideous, rotted bushel of fruit. Fruit.

Never seen what they actually looked like.

It was a rare photo that wasn't penciled over or written with crude sex-talking or threats of a mind that's snapped.

At the moment, Raid kept a stool on the bar counter warm. For an adult, Mama's coworker Hick Saw Hort was a steady presence who glanced past Raid as if he were an oddly large speck of dust but nothing more.

And let him nurse-- never drink-- an amber swig of the foul water from the faucet while he waited for Mama on her shift.

She had the tough job of actually manning the distillery and making repairs where necessary at a given moment.

Raid put his head down, eyes roving lazy toward a bushel of overweight, overindulging men in their blue work shirts acid washed and faded in filth.

His face contorted into a disgusted growl, the corners of his vision from his slanted view-- they steadily darkened.

Sly little wafts of vaguely violet shadows... pulsing.

And he let them.

One of the men had warts on his face, shocking white blond hair that didn't match his head's prune color on the backs of his hands and laughed like a pig.

Another had a complexion like wax and as he held his hand, his palms slowly, muddily began to drip.

A couple he could recognize by their freckles and jutting rabbit's teeth respectively.

Palomonio who lived on the loft below himself and Mama, who for every odd blue moon a month dragged bags of pilfered guard clothes and confiscated rifles and drugs, from the time Raid had been just seven years old. And Palomonio had always favored a finger gun to blow his little brains out than a bribe to keep him quiet.

He had once found a note in the eggs.

About Mama's big, curly hair.

How he'd run his hands through it, savor the feeling, almost sorry-- that he'd have to kill her.

And the rabbit teeth, once one of the "maggots," not too long ago. But turned just as brusque and cold as any pair of hands once he turned sixteen and began working with a "backdoor," charity doctor. The one who was so kind as to see clients without coin or collateral besides their own kids.

And the doctor didn't accept that.

Pig's stool broke, three out of three weak legs snapped clean in two making him land in a porking heap.

His "friends" rushed-- probably to see which sleaze could ingratiate himself by taking him to the hospital.

White hair moaned as his back quite suddenly gave out. And at the same time a small frame fell upon that same spot.

A waitress had passed by, only to jostle Raid's stool as she blundered and ultimately crashed.

Half a dozen glasses of mead and beer with a cockroach in one glass soaked into her uniform and the tile.

Ripping Raid out of his reverie and snapping reality back to what it should be.

Save... eight separate incidents and at least five injuries that could lead to demanding a free this or that or stoning the building.

There was fire in Hort's eyes as he helped the girl whose pearly tears shone in her eyes. Even against the truly grimy dins of light in the bar.

Raid simply tried not to gaze at her too long.

Until the cockroach in the glass turned out to be alive and crawled across her face.

Prompting a scream to cut down the ugly laughter at all sides of the building. The waitress running in a panic out the door. The slam making Raid flinch.

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

Raid was kicked out. Quite literally kicked out once Hack Saw put him down, kicking him and shouting expletives as he rained and extra one or two thwacks with his oddly polished shoe.

Well, that was probably a concern wasn't it?

Raid would be likely to be finding more little notes within his shoes or with his Mama on her way back.

Should the new proprietors be so merciful to allow her back to him safely. Not-- without recompense and restitution for the newly respectful establishment worthy of The Baron and his other fellows.

Raid continued down the winding paths and down, down a hellish looking chasm by a rickety stairwell.

Into a commune of just eight disparate little cottages and a relatively-- desolate-- almost gated neighborhood. At least, it's what the Baron's closest boasted and is what patrol guards would often throw in their faces during shifts.

Getting back to their blond and chubby cheeked little kids and their little wives who made snickerdoodles or something.

Raid watched as Ms. Hodden's little toddler-- toddled-- into the corner of the boulevard by its butt.

Whether that was sweet or something sexual, Raid had to admit he was vaguely curious.

Hands smacking on the hard ground and slight protruding stones on the ground. Raid called it-- he called it Toddy-- better than just "you" or thing-- even if it smelled like a swamp ooze on most days.

Around here that sort of thing was 'pleasant heat.' Dirty and sweaty as heat still is but at least the throbbing wasn't just from sun.

Or maybe, per usual, the adults were lying again. The 'teachers' or "priests," who deigned to impart wisdom on the maggots often had this...

<Look>

Some greedy, voracious, and hungry bug-out of their eyes when casing their powers, their freakish features--

Which Raid knew now was the cruel, blade's edged wonderment of what they could produce when paired off and the like. What manner of powers and hybrids could they weaponize and how to violate them to doing so.

Some little girls dared prance about and make noise.

The one most behind with cheetah spots-- stretched skin and jaundiced eyes too large and too-- too round like marbles, pushed her friends forward. And so did her friend in third place.

He wished them well.

So much like they snared kids in to listen in the first place.

Sometimes there are polls.

Needed to have something to do after all--

And in one, of all the adults and-- all the older adults who get a vote half do agree: the ones who snap and do themselves in might have the right idea. Surely anything, even the supposed condemnation for "weakness," had to be better than being some blowhard with compensation issues' bitch.

Coming to the hostel where his Mama did also have a paying job allowing them to live in the place, Raid peered in-- the little old lady was out.

And he didn't feel like having a sharply carved cane sharply smack him to the floor and pointed to his vulnerable throat.

Even as the door lazed open under his weak touch-- another little bit of "luck."

Raid booked it and went the side way.

Where high boxes were stacked in an adjacent building.

In his pouch he always had a scrap of fabric to serve as a blindfold.

Having tried so many times Raid could safely say there was a degree of-- trust, involved.

Just the notion made him cringe.

Then again, Raid wasn't sure yet-- whether he wanted to live out and eventually shrivel up into a son baked raisin and be ashed.

Unless he possibly had a chance to find out just in what building in this minute country they did that in. When every singular building here was ramshackle, uneven, and even cute for their small size.

Hiking laboriously over he could feel out when the air got that certain degree of sting at his face to make the jump, fingers <luckily> clinging onto the flat roof.

Of which he ripped the blindfold off and carefully lowered a foot first to unhook his window latch and then climbed in once he had gotten it open.

The old lady, for all her threats to kill either dead weight (him) or the girls who pocket extra currency for themselves treated them good, having given Mama with a newly born baby the only room with a window and therefore ventilation.

Raid slowly closed the window, but uneasy pins and needles rand across his shoulders and back when he heard a clatter.

He paused his breath-- waiting--

CAWW CAW CAWW.

Raid winced at the choked out sound.

And then--

SSCRITCH SSCRAATCH

Moji's complaining pitter patter on the door.

Raid made for the added bathroom which was just a broken ceramic toilet with rusted pipes and what was either neon green tequilas thrown up or some type of chemical across its surface and a bathtub equally inoperable. But at least inhabitable for a dog, a cat, and occasionally an oppossum.

Swinging open the door all of fifteen animals scampered out, nearly bringing him to the floor and made ownership of the rest of the little house.

He wondered how much of a tease he'd have to give the old woman to make her forget why she was mad.

We need to talk about a lot of things, starting with the afterlife and what philosophical concept-- if any-- decides Heaven or Hell. Is it a Heaven or Hell system at all? Is there reincarnation on the table, how do you judge the actions of the world at large or of individuals? How have you not been tempted to repeat Noah's Arc? Do angels come down to Earth? Do angels evolve and do you evolve with them if they ever experience human life?

______________________________

Keep in mind, I don't think I'd get time to ask even all those questions.

Basically another Give and Take from @Ferryman.

______________________________

Winterset sounded like it would be an idyllic Christmas retreat. That one small town, where everyone was perfectly perky and the adults as crazy about Christmas as the children and believed in that holiday magic. And it was.

Not to mention, the town could make a block party of decorating town square. Because the snow hadn't hit them in two years now.

Violet had made plans-- with Mom's approval-- to spend Christmas with her "club," being something of a clique.

To trade Secret Santa gifts and to swap stories.

Of when that city boy had lived among them for a year.

And that party was tomorrow night. And it was exactly seven minutes on foot from her house to this one where he used to live.

Where it currently sat empty in an unsettling respect, for all that had gone on.

Violet nuzzled into her pink and white plaid coat, starting the trek home.

Being welcome with hot chocolate by her sisters and girl talk. A very sympathetic kind. Somehow they still convinced themselves she and Abel back then had had actual feelings.

No matter how many times she'd explained it was a lie of convenience that made sneaking around, their voices in whispers all too easy.

Because what had settled inside her wasn't heartache. But the grief of the one friend who'd somehow understood her when she spoke in thorns or wound someone around-- because her own mouth couldn't control itself.

_______________________________

Okay not counting this section. But it was basically born because I decided on an epilogue for Winterset in my story The Winterset Conspiracy. Feel free to check it out.

Antagonist/MC: Jaydee Tram

Hero: Wyatt Eberly/Iridescent

The Villain: The Graduate Committee

From my story titled 'The Worst Supervillain Ever.' Takes place in a future where just about everyone has a superpower, the government keeps strict regulation on active power use, and a college student in graduate studies for a superpowered person lawyer degree has agreed to become a supervillain to supplant his less than stellar marks.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Jaydee Tram was just six years old when he had heard of Rosalyn on TV. He'd been eating a bowl of tomato soup that day.

Jaydee had been just nine years old when his lovely Mother, sometimes nicknamed Thumbelina Ballerina, introduced him to her side hustle. Thus developing the tertiary skill of making paper flowers.

When had been the moment he'd figured out what to do with their life?

And yeah, turns out girl and boy-- they just didn't do it. Ideally Jaydee would be xir. But for some reason that still wasn't an option yet.

Possibly when he had been in History class.

--It all started with a Super Virus--

Initially mistaken for a strain of fever, leaving strings of patients hospitalized and sometimes institutionalized for vivid hallucinations.

Powers often manifested after the illness itself had subsided. Or sometimes in the emotional stress.

Either way, they were witnessed quite enough times that even an apathetic, money-centric government had to take notice.

And Jaydee never got tired of asking (lie) when did any government see anything they wouldn't love to exploit?

Jaydee remembers that that's the moment they had made the connection, between the Rosalyn facility rediscovered in New Mexico. And why his Mother-- who had inherited granny's Pirouette-- had been so angry.

From Rosalyn onwards, former inmates, human beings who had been abused and misused as weapons of destruction and political gain took to the streets and either underground or out in daylight demanded equality in some form or another.

Human rights violations and abuses would continue, from the government essentially dog chipping the Afflicted in a "registry," to the underground snapping up children with Abilities out of their homes and relocated to "safety." Which funnily enough, wasn't always just code for conscription.

Defending supers, was the big new business.

So at eighteen Jaydee chose A Qualitatives Law major.

Qualities: the politically correct denomination for those with abilities. Superpowers. Even if you don't exactly call those who protect from Classers (villains) superheroes.

Jaydee by general rule just knew how to wind the right people around and how to be a bit less of that or a bit more of that in a given place.

So they could schmooze the right radical nutcase professor for a "undeserved" A grade in his Qualities Ethics class, Jaydee made about one or three ride-or-die friends and other acquaintances who either knew where to pick up bootleg study guides or where the best parties were.

The partying in part, may be where he had gone wrong. Then again, he had only fallen asleep in three classes. A week.

Well whatever. Either way Jaydee was genuinely freaking the hell out about being expelled!

And then, the Graduate Committtee-- get this, expelled him!

There in that moment Jaydee's entire world came down. Sure, just spit on all the money Mom slaved away for, doled out on her child's request to take graduate studies. Why hadn't they just settled?

There were still opportunities with the basic Law package.

Not good opportunities but some manipulation and maybe flirting with the higher ups could have gotten Jaydee somewhere.

Mx. Jaydee Tram was officially expelled.

It was over--

Unless...

And the looks on their faces had just been... evil.

Almost-- villainous.

He kind of should have seen this coming.

Turns out this college of theirs, they as college students profited actual healthy and five star food, gaming areas, and an actual campus house for end of year bashes off the money of federal offense crimes and general villain activity.

And now, their extra credit project for a down-on-their luck gender fluid student was to become the next thing on the Police and Supers Class Division List. Top ten. If doable, the old fifties Dad head so politely requested.

**Jaydee and Wyatt**

Jaydee looked up.

Too tired to move, to twitch, Jaydee had crashed back on the apartment floor watching the ceiling fan lazily spin with a whoosh. Whoosh. Whoosh.

Did Hero agents call dibs on that one special villain?

Did Jaydee have a nemesis now?

And also, who knew tabloid news did segments keeping up with the nemesiships. Whom certainly seemed to think the new "hotshot" purloining purses and goodie-goodie Iridescent were locked in a fiery moral tug-a-war. A very shippable tug-a-war.

He and Eberly had made eighty hits on AO$.

Jaydee ran his hands down his face.

And worst of all, barely eighteen Wyatt was so-- so bright.

Nothing like the grizzled, bitter adults they had expected.

Iris had literally scolded him to eat three square meals a day!

He also had a lot of speeches on hand.

All Jaydee wanted was to recuperate the required Stats credit and his half his elective roster.

Only an amazing Capstone could make that many D's go away.

And motive! Get out of town.

He was running on red bull, ramen, and childish spite.

*That Time in a Bank Vault*

Jaydee distinctly decided, they had to stop lying on floors.

People could get the wrong idea about them.

Besides, this floor was much less comfortable than the always oddly warm but smooth tiling in his apartment.

But also dirt cheap apartment floors weren't designed to withstand even the lightest of wind from a Qualitative.

Right now, Jaydee was missing dinner with their Mother and that "guy-friend" she wanted to pretend wasn't her boyfriend.

"We're not getting out of here," Iridescent moaned, finally giving up and wandering over to a nice box to sit by.

His legs giving out from under him.

"Congratulations then," Jaydee snorted from their own spot, smiling quite an unseemly, stretched smile that he'd developed for his 'role' from here on out.

"Excuse me!"

"You won, by morning someone will wonder where dear Eberly Wyatt has gone off too, they'll check your emails, your log history--" Jaydee put that little dusted spot in his eye called nostalgia-- "it must be nice, being so cared for."

"I was right here when you took that call from your Mother," Wyatt corrected.

"Threat to feed you your own starter moustache stands. Not a sound. Not. A word to anyone about my Mother."

Jaydee loved their mother. Adored her.

"If I am serious about anything..." so serious that they'd dare get off their back... "it is to not involve my mother with the government."

And there was no pretending to their distaste this time. Unlike when Jaydee had been in Professor Hemp's class.

\\Monday. 03/15//

Angeline Hope and Care Youth Center. Two years of volunteer work, part-timing as a grader, all while keeping a B average despite the missed social dates on her calendar paid off! AT. Freaking. LAST!

And, better yet, doing it all without being Akumatized.

No way was that a good look, especially for a Psych intern.

Better yet someone who would be dealing with actual patients. She--

She had real lives in her hands!

She had lives and people in her hands.

Deep breath.

Deep breath.

Felicia closed her personal journal, a hot pink book that could easily slip between the pockets of her purse bedazzled silver for some accents. A few feathers sticking out as bookmarks.

Opening the door of her dumpy black car Felicia stepped one boot heeled leg out first and then let her swept pixie cut be exposed to the sun.

Lucky the care center didn't require strict dress codes. As long as there weren't explicit or possibly triggering images.

But some pops of color or a mane of tri-dye in yellow, electric blue, and purple was fine.

Felicia let out a breath, pumping her chest and jutting into a strict, straight archway towards the glass door.

Seeing the reception desk through it's window.

Poised, confident... after all, she had a job now. She was a working woman now.

Felicia put on her best and brightest smile, walking in and shaking the hand of the assistant or secretary person when addressed.

Speaking professionally to ask for the office of her supervisor: one of the counselors, Margaret Anciel.

\\Tuesday. 03/16\\

The dyed hair-- for once-- wasn't the problem.

Felicia had been more than used to that being the case when fuddy duddy bosses or teachers got a look at her.

No, today she reflects at her desk an hour and some before work-- with Tuesday as her designated off day from classes-- the problem... had been her first patient.

Whom had immediately thrown her from a loop with no idea how to proceed.

The "Ladyblog," the prime-- read: only source-- for all things Ladybug and Hawkmoth kept a running list of Akumatized persons. Well, two or three after the first.

Who was currently in front of her.

The fourteen year old who'd once been Stoneheart was here in front of her. And from how he said it, some issues had resurfaced.

Felicia didn't dare go into details. Not even in her diary and her notes for the internship course credit didn't require or want such details in her documentation.

That didn't mean she wouldn't pose some questions to the paper.

Just to get them off her chest.

Part of what Stoneheart described-- out of his own body, "looking in," disconnection from his limbs-- rang depersonalization immediately.

And that only dealt with the physical aftereffects of the possession.

And good Lord a teenager had been possessed. And more and more after him. To the point that just one search on the Internet brought up all kinds of chat boards beginning to form about the experience.

It was becoming-- it made her hand tremble to think-- normal.

Might horror movies be a good reference on where to start? Make sense of it a bit with the added benefit of distance?

Except those movies never ended well.

Not to mention there could be a bunch of other things that could trigger him besides possession scenes from demons.

Akuma.

Now that she thought of it, when she had lived in the freshman dorms some girls used to have anime blaring on their computer screens.

That first time "Akuma," was on the news she had remembered hearing the word in college.

Akuma-- was Japanese for demon.

And hopefully none of the other kids had made that connection.

She shuddered to think what might happen then the next time they heard "demon," in the media they watch or the books they read.

How did she go about making sense of his emotional trauma?

Would he want the memories of what he did back?

Can it be ethical to let him stay in that ignorant bliss?

Dare she thank the literal terrorist for that "mercy?"

Ugh. No, she decided. That was going too far.

It curdled her stomach to such a point downing the expired almond milk she'd ended up hating, would be a better alternative.

\\Friday. 03/19//

Some parents were preemptively bringing their kids in.

There was definite fear.

Felicia almost let her annoyance show. Plenty of times.

The way those kids looked up at their mother or father, or whichever adult-- a bundle of taut nerves-- brought in the child.

Any kid would think their parents had become afraid of their children.

And were definitely now afraid of their emotions.

Felicia had a graduate thesis planned on the oh so common phenomenon of parents invalidating their children in their negative emotions. Always brushing them aside as petty and minimal.

That such displays were better silenced.

Now though, the adults in this city were certainly paying attention.

Then again, whose to say she wouldn't become the same once she became a fuddy duddy adult.

Almost a contagion that adulthood short-sightedness was.

Felicia got some mental numbers-- and kept it to a general observation!-- due to being on processing at the front desk.

Of which she met who on the LB list had been The Bubbler.

Who in real life was quite the easygoing person. And spoke in slang.

Here for his brother's session having been newly Akumatized.

Christmaster.

Felicia informed both boys of the doctor on their case.

Her own supervisor who had allowed Felicia to call her Margie!

And had a great amount of tips when it came to her patients once Akumatized.

\\Sunday. 03/22//

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On and on it went like that.

The pages were either shredded, and had been found across where Felicia had eventually come back to herself, scattered around like snow.

Or had been blotted out with black marker or spiteful, hateful faces and words.

'Idiot.'

'Bloody HEarT!'

BLOODY HEART SHOULD DIE!

With a picture of a heart stabbed with a curved knife.

The paper, the offensive ink, all of it was all over her bedroom. Under her bed, on her bed, ink decorating the walls and over her vision board and scheduling calendar.

She didn't have the energy to clean up all that.

Not that there was any fixing it either. It was just too many pieces.

That Reverser guy, he'd really had a time throwing his paper planes everywhere. That was the last thing Felicia remembered when she'd met a nice enough young man with round glasses and wild hair-- he worked at the museum he had told her-- and paid for her coffee and sandwich.

And her college instincts, always told her never to reject the chance for free food.

A scream, and then she had blacked out not long after.

At least, most of her diary was salvageable.

And those words-- they weren't true.

Felicia knew full well they weren't true.

//Tuesday. 03/24//

It-- it turned out to be quite good for her.

Turns out a lot of workplaces implemented mental health days after Akuma attacks.

The youth center had actually been one of the first to do it for their employees.

Felicia had opted to take that day-- but only one-- since really, she was fine. Nothing had happened to her except a ransacked diary and apparently having shafted that poor guy who had paid her food for all he had.

Not that he hadn't given as good as he got.

While screaming about solid proof and the 'brain rot' that conspiracies were.

Either way the guy had tracked her down.

Apparently he had pieced together a little more about the other day than she had.

Possibly since Felicia did her best to induce her mind to repress the whole experience.

After all, she hadn't insulted the kids she'd only vaguely, still safely, written about.

That had been her.

The-- Alicia! Alicia wrote all those horrid insults in red about Stoneheart and Bubbler and Misfortune, and Silencer.

Some other staff in the center had gotten hit by Reverser apparently.

A lot of people had been on edge.

A lot of people were sharing stories.

But even if Felicia had felt like it, it would again be very improper to put in the details.

Margie had been MIA the whole morning too.

Except she had clocked in.

It was one of the older men-- who worked with the center's insurance for counseling-- who had taken her outside the breakroom to discreetly tell her.

Margie had clocked in that morning, but had needed time in her office. To figure out how to face her coworkers with the truth.

She didn't stay shut up all that long.

Just when lunch break started, Margie had called for their attention.

Prefacing that she had cancelled all other sessions, which also meant her interns would be free to leave once she was through speaking since she'd be going home as well. It was no secret what she was about to say-- she mentioned that school's gossip-- Sunday's Akuma would be everywhere soon. She just asked that the information for the moment be kept in the office for the time being.

She had gotten his permission to say it too.

"The Akuma, it was my son-- [...]."

Frankly, I did feel awful for Margie.

A parent should never be afraid of their child getting angry or having a breaking point.

And Margie, well she was better than that.

Still, to think your child in their vulnerability ended up used by some malicious, powerful, and dangerously obsessive adult-- and the obsession was about some stranger's jewels rather than you, you were expendable!-- it was absolutely horrible. Disgusting to consider or contemplate.

Much less ruminate over the way Felicia was sure poor Margaret Anciel was doing.

Felicia decided to catch her as she left.

"Ma'am, I just-- are you okay?"

Margie's eyes ended up widening in surprise for just a moment.

Only to sink and fresh tears cascading down.

She put a hand over her mouth-- today painted a sunshine yellow-- to try and cover the noise.

Felicia ran toward her. "I'm-- I'm really sorry."

"No, no dear. My goodness this is--"

"Don't you remember the first thing you told me ma'am?"

"It's not completely the same."

Felicia nodded, she did have a point, but even so--

"I think it's the same enough," she answered with a grin, "it isn't the emotions that are wrong and neither are the responses, we can only get better with time and willingness! Even if I get Akumatized, I'm entitled to feel what I'm feeling. So, you are too ma'am."

Margie laughed.

"Thank you. Still, I should," she cleared her throat, "you aren't responsible for comforting me. And I'm sorry if I put you in that position. Have a safe trip home Felicia."

\\Thursday. 04/03//

The schedule works out like this...

Monday: [15 yrs. old. Trust issues with authority figures. Not originated in the home] [15 yrs. old. Consistent insecurities and anxiety associated with said insecurities. Dating an athlete with an equal passion for swimming to hers]

Tuesday: Alternate between processing at the front desk or a single patient. [12 yrs. old. Bounced around in multiple homes in foster care. I maybe shouldn't write it down but, tells stories. A lot of stories]

Thursday: [16 yrs. old. Stoneheart. Seen excellent progression and coming to terms with difficult, sometimes contradictory feelings about many experiences. Needs steady validation. Quite sensitive, not always a great idea to touch him if he starts panicking or crying in session] [Timebreaker. Sessions discontinued and referred to colleague due to-- conflicting interests] [13 yrs. old. Model with the Gabriel brand. Has other mental health issues that have been well managed with medication and counseling. Sought the Youth Center to address fears of current events privately]

Interns only get two patients on a given day. And never every day of the week that they work.

As mentioned, Stoneheart is really making amazing progress!

And, well, he did a lot of the work.

Sure she was aware she helped a bit. Asked the right questions on occasion, spoke with him honestly and with compassion, learned some, and failed in some parts.

Felicia was never afraid to admit her failures.

Not when one of the first things she had learned from her supervisor is that the mistakes in their profession only ever hurt the patient. Especially when they are treated as correct and permissible.

So, she admitted it when she misread his cues and apologized when touch was unwanted.

She apologized their second session when his size had admittedly made her freeze for a few seconds too long.

Currently they were talking about some of the plans he had with his sweet girlfriend. She'd admittedly watched the news.

She knew who, all of Paris could at least place those two kids' faces as well as Ladybug and Cat Noir's.

"I think it'll turn out just fine," she replied with a smile, "now you have been wringing your hands, of course everything at your own pace--"

--It was important to use those reminders. It was much more important to mean them.

"Ummm just-- the trash did almost hit Paris, we could actually see them. They were like stars."

Felicity hummed, nodding her head.

"I can understand..."

"Why do people do that? I mean the ones who can do so much good," he wondered more quietly, fists now clenching on his knees, "they make the dumbest decisions. Then again he's Chloe's Dad so--"

"Well I can't completely answer that. Not any good answer," Felicity admitted, "but also you can't change others or well-- what I mean is the best you can do is control how you respond and make yourself heard and [...] you're doing a great job."

He sighed.

"Really, it's honestly impressive. There are so many people who want to do good but for one reason or another stay on the sidelines," she explained, then pointed to herself, "And in a lot of ways I'm one of them. You really do make me proud [...]"

"Thanks," he said, smiling and blushing, his whole face pink.

Felicity held back her own light, good-natured laughter, covering up the growing overeager smile with her hand.

Clearing her throat she checked the clock herself and found with an unpleasant, air-sucking punch that they were just fifteen minutes from their allotted hour.

"Alright now we can finish up with this topic or we can move on to some of the exercises we've been practicing and write you down for your next session."

Stoneheart nodded, quite quick and anticipation in his eyes. "The second one."

"Okay then, now begin with your feet firmly on the ground, your knees apart... first--"

Stoneheart didn't like the feeling of his toes curled and digging into the felt of his shoes. We skipped that part of the exercise each time.

\\Monday. 04/13//

Felicity currently gasped, her chest constricting like a cobra, choking her breath and lodging a hard ball of tension there.

Margie was at her side right now, hands on her shoulders which did help to ground her.

Even though she didn't completely understand.

"When I said good morning to you today, you saw it in my arms."

She nodded, "that's true I did."

"That diary," Felicity started looking at her shaking hands as scant tears began to prickle at her eyelids, "Oh God I'm so stupid I wrote private things in there! I wrote about my patients!"

"Felicity you did your best," Margie insisted, "did you use their real names?"

She shook her head, she luckily hadn't done that but anyone could look up to corroborate a lot of her data anyway. And for Akumas? She was certain they would.

"I make sure I know where it is, I don't let it go too often," she answered to Margie's next question. More security.

"Okay, okay we'll find it. And it is probably in this office building. So, not just anyone will read what could be considered private and even if they did open it they will probably just look for a name or number."

Two things she hadn't done. Hadn't seen the point and besides, a measure like that posed it's own risk.

Felicity nodded anyway.

Looking up she had eyes on some patients as well as custodial staff and a few of the actual doctors on staff moving out and around of the office.

Each and every one of them could have her diary. Could read that information and it would all be her fault. Worse yet if it happened she dropped it just outside the door. A homeless man could pick it up and then--!! Then--!

Well granted she didn't know what then in that situation. But still, it wouldn't be good and maybe no one else would know ethics had been breached, except she would know.

She should be fired.

Margie permitted her to spend an extra hour searching before starting her shift.

She reported the missing item to the secretary, trying to keep herself calm as to not tip her off to the kind of important, vital information there was in it.

Instead just describing it's hot pink cover with silver bedazzling and that there were only six feathers now instead of ten. Not to mention that the back cover had been almost torn off in the Reverser incident. Along with some other bashing and bruising at its material due to being thrown at a wall. Least it looked that way best as she could describe or theorize.

Felicity searched under the chairs with subtle glances as if she were making printer rounds.

She looked at each side of the vending machine, covering that up as a worry nicking at her to check that the machine worked properly.

Slowly, slowly her panic eked into her body.

Her head felt light and dizziness overtook her.

But she had a patient this Monday. And she'd already had to cancel the Gabriel model today.

She narrowly got through with Silencer, even if per usual he was much more attentive to her rather than himself. And unfortunately today she had to show up to him with a negative, agitated demeanor.

Alone in her office, is when one of the older doctors presented her with a find from the Lost and Found box. Her heart skipped several beats-- she could swear his smile was smug when he handed it back with his well wishes.

Her diary.

Had he read it? Did he know? Would he report her to the veery important ethics and safety boards and get her blacklisted...?

Would she be expelled from school?

The Akuma butterfly... it was oddly fascinating.

[Felicity found a quickly taken snapshot afterward... just before it had landed in her precious diary].

She didn't remember anything after that.

\\Wednesday. 04/14//

She cringed, thinking of how rude she had been to Ladybug and Cat Noir.

Of course they had saved her, not without some headache she was sure. Ladybug had a pogostick of all things and she noticed Cat Noir's eyes widened at the beep of his ring.

Felicity however, had been all too focused on the once Akumatized object in Ladybug's hands.

"The back jacket was already like this?" Ladybug had said nervously. Felicity hadn't noticed so then.

Snatching her diary harshly from the poor girl's hands. And she could remember she'd flinched backwards, looking at the pavement. "I'm sorry I have no idea why--"

"You better not have read it," she snapped. And even there did part of the task of tearing offending pages out.

"I assure you we didn't."

AUGHHHHHHHHH!!!

\\Tuesday. 04/20//

She'd taken way more days off then what she was reasonably owned.

She hoped her superiors weren't too mad.

She hadn't bothered to reapply the dye job so her dark roots dominated her hair by now.

Felicity decided she would trim it back to the short punk-ish length that she liked over the weekend, head hovering over her bathroom sink.

Blast the water cold in her face as she washed it there too. The least she deserved.

Felicity could easily imagine how mortifying facing everyone would be. She was completely mortified to just face those double doors.

Nevertheless she entered anyway.

Margie rushed right toward her, followed in tow by a jumble of half a dozen other co-workers.

She was only one of two interns. They were the youngest and so, were sort of treated like younger siblings. The kind you spoil with small candies or a taste of fancy bistro lunches or sushi. The kind you get super overprotective with.

Point is, the others had pitched in for an especially sweet dessert for that day. Felicity wanted to crawl in a hole, nestle her legs to her chest in a pitiful little fetal position. And die. Just die please.

Unfortunately there was no such hole available.

She received desk duty. Surely a punishment for the entire mess in the first place but she genuinely didn't mind. Now that, was well deserved.

Margie came to her just as she exited the ladies room.

Apologizing for stealing me away to her own office for a few minutes.

Felicity was well and ready to be scolded or yelled at. Or worse yet, be given the mom stare of the century and the "I'm not angry--" and that dreaded-- "DISAPPOINTED." That word sent spiders down her spine.

It was almost sick in it of itself, how parents had such a powerful weapon.

It's almost worse that a good number of parents don't purposefully weaponize that against their kids. Though some do, a professor had explained how "disappoint," purposefully or not can be used as a weapon to hurt when the parent is frustrated or truly angry with their child and their behavior.

You do punish the behavior.

You simply separate the behavior from the personality itself. Which are neither mutually exclusive or innumerable linked like a conjoined twin.

But Margie, for some reason, did none of that. Even when she absolutely could. She was a mother.

"Listen Felicity, I have noticed how stressed you are lately and you just seem to be taking things pretty hard on yourself," she began compassionately.

"Because patient information could have been leaked," she said in a mumble, plenty disappointed in herself, "if anyone had found that diary-- and then I had to be so stupid as to get Akumatized over it."

"Felicity!" Margie intoned in a shocked, disbelieving way. "That simply isn't true. At! All!"

"Isn't it? I should, I mean I'm a support for others. Not just anyone can do that day in and day out," she argued.

"Well okay I agree, it isn't a profession for everyone," Margie conceded.

"So what does it say when the therapist-- who knows how people are manipulated-- gets manipulated by the literal terrorist and could have read everyone's secrets aloud? Who had them written down in the first place!"

Her breath was starting to quicken again.

She had seriously never been like this before. So on edge all the time and overemotional.

"The presumption that a person can't or is above manipulation is the very thing that makes you the most susceptible," she countered, arms crossed and seated on her desk.

"Okay then I should have calmed myself down then," she fired back, "isn't like I don't have the know-how."

"Felicity, I will not allow you to talk yourself down like this," Margie said, looking pained as she met her own eyes. "You are not perfect. No one is, but honestly I'd say the one perfect person or a robot, would make a terrible therapist. In life we all endure our own share of setbacks and obstacles. It's not always equal for everyone, some suffer more than others, some haven't suffered so when they do it is a big shock. We're here because enough people do understand that any individual shouldn't keep suffering."

She placed a hand on Felicity's shoulder.

"And that it isn't weakness to need help."

Felicity only dimly processed she may as well be yelling at Mrs. Anciel.

"It's almost like you want to get yourself fired."

And maybe it would help to remember that Mrs. Anciel was her superior. Not some buddy-buddy friend she could call by a nickname.

"Maybe I should be," she bemoaned, "maybe I'm not cut out for this."

"Dear I assure you, you are. The fact that you care so much tells me that you're willing to put in the work. Which frankly," Mrs. Anciel laughed a bit, "is much more than a lot of people in this industry bother to do."

"That's awful," Felicity warbled, never able to just point out how wrong that kind of thing is. When something so precious as trust and a literal life-- the trust of their literal life-- was given to you.

"It is and this job," Mrs. Anciel proceeded, "it is going to get difficult sometimes. You having a diary, even you writing about work and your questions, it isn't wrong in it of itself. You were coping."

"I shouldn't have written about the patients though. I shouldn't have."

"Listen, we all have a system. We have little notes to ourselves about specific patients and we name them all sorts of ways. I'm not surprised you chose Akuma names considering how salient the topic has been for so long now."

Felicity wrung her hands. The physical contact did help a bit. It was a bit like a prompt... sort of giving Felicity permission to look at her face. And her expression, she almost looked sad to see her like this. And she had never meant to do that to Mrs. Anciel.

"Though maybe, it would be better if that diary stayed at home," she proposed a bit uncertain. Felicity nodded and her expression relaxed.

Another little silent cue. Which put a smile on Mrs. Anciel's face.

And in turn, put a smile on her own face.

"Are you ready to go back?" she asked.

Felicity took a deep breath and nodded.

Coming out she stood a bit straighter.

\\----//

From the diary of Felicity Prise. It had once been hot pink and was peppered with the spots of silver bedazzling. Several pages had been torn out over time and the spine enduring abuse that left it cracked and almost tearing.

She smiled, looking at one of the last things she had written in it. She'd been twenty-two then, it wasn't too long when starting her first internship did she pack the book away in the attic of her childhood house on break.

"Maybe everything will be just fine."

"And when Hawkdork is defeated kids will be able to feel again."

\\4 yrs later. May 9th//

"You've always been great. Oh and don't forget tea on Tuesday dear."

Felicity laughed, the motion straining her cheeks.

But she had had such a turn of good luck lately.

"I know, I'll see you then Margie," she said. Margie hung up which left her to the doors of her practice.

Not to mention she had read about the Akuma Recovery programs getting a boatload of support from the new mayor's office and slowly but surely Paris itself was growing more lively and dared to be loud again.

Dared to express.

Felicity, when she had started in the London office, had been described to almost strut into a room.

All boundless confidence bordering on arrogance.

These days she preferred a single color job for her hair.

Today choosing a deep, soothing plum color.

She threw a hello to the secretary on duty today. A young student with beautiful blond curls, but a sour look to her named Allegra. But she did commendable work, now if only the girl accepted compliments.

"Yes greetings Ms. Prise," she said stiffly.

"Please you can just call me Felicity, I don't mind. I'm not a codger."

Allegra didn't respond to the joke and in fact her annoyance ticked just a tiny bit.

She leaned in instead, always focused on business, and Felicity complied to her hand signal to join.

Once Allegra deemed themselves in private she whispered, "this new patient, he's a celebrity. Not to mention he has family in France."

"Ahhh, I see," she said with an understanding nod. Then it was no wonder she'd been assigned a new client so out of the blue late last night.

Offices here she found, were automated with the newest technology and were also punctual yet speedy and most of all organized.

"Mmhmm," Allegra said, focus now on her yet unfiled nails. Which I gave a slight disapproving glance at, making the girl sigh. "Well either way the office owner himself is a friend of the kid's family or something--" and that made a bit of suspicion crawl up her back.

"Yeah I know," she said. "Completely sus, but it could also be so he actually gets privacy. He told me to pass that part on to his therapist. And also that it could make or break his grace for you."

"Okay then," Felicity decided, "thanks for passing it on I appreciate it."

Allegra simply shrugged and went back to her magazine.

Felicity made quick work of her simple breakfast, having the trash all stashed away when her radio chimed.

She rose from her seat, checking briefly to make sure her skirt was smooth and made a power walk to the entryway to greet her 10:30, who was even two minutes early.

Besides her impeccable poise and adaptability there was a very prominent reason she received cases originating or tangential to the whole French region.

Since there'd been some miscommunication-- on the scope of influence for magical jewel terrorism and possession.

Those in her class who had decided to become psychiatric doctors, counselors, or therapists had decided to stay local. In ground zero.

Very often she found herself the only one almost anywhere who knew how to handle supervillain-induced triggers.

The boy was very nearly taller than her, even if by his file he was only eighteen years old three days ago.

"Hello there you must be Adrien?" she greeted warmly. "I am very happy--"

The boy with slicked blond hair and a formal black and white casual suit raised a hand. "No I apologize, my cousin insisted on something sweet," Adrien's cousin simply shrugged in the exasperatedly fond way only family could accomplish. "Go figure. No my name is Felix, he has no license yet so he needed a ride."

"I see," Felicity replied, "well still it is very nice to meet you Felix."

He graciously shook her hand.

And Felix it seemed, didn't quite know what to do with that. Ending the conversation with an awkward, "yes," before taking a few steps backward.

She watched as Felix very nearly did bump into who could only be Adrien whose green eyes were a much clearer, shining shade of green than Felix's own suspicious and deep olive ones and his blond hair had a windswept quality to it.

Adrien laughed, his smile almost coy and certainly goading at his brother's-- cousin's-- prickling irritation.

They certainly did look alike.

Felix pinched the bridge of his nose but nevertheless looked elegant as he walked off.

"Hello there," she said once Felix had turned the corner, "I'll be your therapist Felicity Prise, and you may address me however you wish. And you'll be--" she pretended to think, "Adrien--" giving him a chance to speak up if he had preference in how he was addressed-- "Agreste? I believe."

The boy simply nodded and shook her hand. Simple pleasantries.

"Well please step right inside," she said, welcoming him into her office where there was a couch and desk at a right angle with a chair in the near center on the rug.

Adrien carried at least three gummy snacks from the machine, a soda, and an extra chocolate bar.

"Thank you," he said in quite a kind, even voice.

Which seeing the couch, he slowly but surely deposited there. Possibly anticipating a possible negative reaction from her.

"Alright now will Adrien or-- Mr. Agreste be alright."

At the sound of his surname the boy flinched. "Adrien, Adrien works just fine ma'am."

"Of course," she said, "and I apologize if I brought up something unpleasant. It wasn't my intention."

"No, no that's umm--" Adrien tugged at his cardigan-- "it's the point right? Actually talk. Tell the truth."

He was still standing and currently hugged himself with one arm, digging his nails into the long sleeve of his own suit jacket which was a beautiful split between dark red and-- black.

An odd color pattern for sure, that possibly should have made him look much less soft and sweet.

And yet he looked just as gentle and "pretty," as she had known magazines liked to portray him as.

"That can only go so far as you feel safe and comfortable about talking to me. What you should know about therapy Adrien is that any one worth their license will do their best to respect your boundaries and place the control and decisions in your hands."

"Is-- that door is closed? Right?"

Adrien didn't look to check himself. Despite of or possibly because of his tension.

Felicity smiled, a bit sadly to herself, before striding over to close the door with a soft click.

"It is now."

"And, you can't tell anyone? What I say? Not even Felix of my Aunt? Or the police or news?"

Police and-- well she understood his apprehension with the news quite well. The question itself was not so odd. By now she'd had many patients whose secrets had been divulged without their knowledge nor permission. Or clients in positions akin to the young Agreste who'd simply never been permitted the notion of privacy or respect of themselves and their personal business.

"Nothing that you tell me will leave this room," she reassured, "as long as you are physically safe, not injured or in any way planning to injure or do harm to others or yourself. If I have reasonable doubt to suspect that you or someone around you is being harmed physically or emotionally, or if you have plans to harm you or someone else-- then as a practicing professional I will have to report that to proper authorities or your caretaker if they are a safe and trusted adult."

Adrien, his body language was still quite guarded, his eyes had shuttered darkening the color and gobbling up the gleam she had seen before, but he nodded.

Adrien nodded and sat down.

Arms crossed and making a show of crossing one leg over his knee.

When he leaned back into the couch he was lackadaisical in a daring way. The kind that tells an adult to scold them-- he would be happy to rebuke--

"I was Cat Noir and Hawkmoth, the Hawkmoth was my Father."

Felicity was frankly floored.

And enraged.

But above all--

She hurried to the radio that connected her with the front desk.

"Alli," she said...

And received a retort, "never call me that."

"Okay. But also cancel my next four appointments. Don't worry young man free of charge," she responded warmly, before turning back to the speaker, "I'll need all the facts."

She looked at Adrien Agreste again, who nodded almost in approval, beginning to look out the window as the confidence in his face fell to a grey daze.

Felicity set herself into the chair so she was face to face, eye to eye with Adrien Agreste.

"Alright then Adrien, let's begin."