Actions

Work Header

Rating:
Archive Warning:
Category:
Fandom:
Relationships:
Characters:
Additional Tags:
Language:
English
Stats:
Published:
2020-12-17
Updated:
2020-12-30
Words:
4,449
Chapters:
2/?
Comments:
36
Kudos:
78
Bookmarks:
15
Hits:
1,055

Ghost of a Chance

Summary:

“What the hell happened?!”

“Whataya think happened?!” Stretch whirled around, baring his teeth. “This fuckin’ loser didn’t look where he was goin’ and cracked his damn skull open!”

***

In which James Harvey survives his fall down the manhole, and fate changes its course.

Chapter 1: The Doctor is Out

Summary:

The man was alive, Stretch realized faintly. Somehow, by some fucked up miracle, the fall hadn’t killed him.

Notes:

Trigger warning(s): Description of injury, a moment of emetophobia, and a mean-spirited joke about suicide. Reader discretion is advised!

(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)

Chapter Text

“We are going to clean out,” Dr. James Harvey declared, throwing open the wooden doors, “every bar this town has got!”

Stretch’s vision was hazy, but he wasn’t so far gone that he couldn’t realize something was wrong. There, behind his therapist, was an open construction site - a bulldozer, utility signs, the whole nine yards. What the hell?

“Uhhhh,” he heard Stinkie stammer, sounding as nervous as he and Fatso probably looked, “Doc?”

But James wasn’t hearing him. His eyes were blissfully shut, head tipped back as he drunkenly shimmied closer and closer to the edge. The Ghostly Trio watched in horror as the doors swung open and shut, offering them mere glimpses of their fleshie friend until -

“AGHHHH!”

“SHIT!”

Stretch sprung into action, jostling his brothers off of him. The air around him whistled as he took flight, phasing through the doors and zipping downward. He was prepared to catch James by the arm, by the scruff of his neck, by his fucking foot for all he cared -

But apparently that ten-second delay had been ten seconds too late. If Stretch still had a stomach, the sight that greeted him would’ve made it flip.

“Oh.” He barely recognized his own voice - the weak moan that escaped him. “Oh, hell.”

“Stretch?” Fatso called. Even from a distance, the fear in the youngest spirit’s voice was palpable. “What’s goin’ on down there?”

Stretch couldn’t have answered if he tried. Blank-faced, he drifted towards the crumpled form laying on a patch of wet cement, blood pooling around his head like a sickening halo. The Doc’s body twitched - lips flapping, brown eyes staring straight ahead. One leg was bent at an awkward angle. His face, previously flushed pink, had turned a ghastly shade of grey.

The man was alive, Stretch realized faintly. Somehow, by some fucked up miracle, the fall hadn’t killed him.

He didn’t remember dropping to a kneel - just knew that one minute his ‘knees’ were pressing into the cement, and the next Stinkie’s panicked voice was coming from overhead.

“What the hell happened?!”

“Whataya think happened?!” Stretch whirled around, baring his teeth. “This fuckin’ loser didn’t look where he was goin’ and cracked his damn skull open!” 

He’d wanted to sound angry - accusing - but the pitch of his voice betrayed him and so did the tears that cut down his cheeks. Stretch doubled over, cradling his head in his hands.

“FUCK! What’re we supposed to do with him NOW?!”

“Well, he’s history if we just leave him, potato-head!” Stinkie snapped, whizzing over to James’ right. “He’s gotta go to the ER!”

Cruel words formed on the tip of Stretch’s tongue, and had it not been for the massive hand that squeezed his shoulder, he would have spat them like bile.

“He looks real bad, guys.” Despite his attempt at comfort, Fatso sounded close to tears himself. “I don’t think he’s even gonna make it to the ER.”

“You don’t know shit.” Stretch shrugged him away, swiping his forearm over his eyes and scrambling to join Stinkie. The inside of his mouth was uncomfortably dry, and the pleasant buzz from earlier was replaced by a nasty pulsing sensation. “How bad is he really?”

Like a man possessed - and they would all know - James sat bolt upright, spewing chunks.

Stinkie calmly turned to Stretch, wiping his cheek.

“Bad.”

The nearest hospital turned out to be nine miles away, in a completely different town, which Stretch thought was a real crock of shit. Most fleshies didn’t have the good fortune of ghost buddies who were willing to cart them around from county to county - as if the American healthcare system wasn’t fucked up enough as it was.

He’d been the one who insisted on carrying Doc during their trip, one arm around the skinbag’s back and the other around the bend in his knees. James’ face was tucked into the crook of Stretch’s neck, and if it weren’t for his ragged breathing and the occasional whimper of pain, Stretch would’ve thought he was as dead as the rest of them.

Just hold tight, you big baby. We’re gonna get you some help.

Miles Memorial was a small brown building located on a lakeside, surrounded by trees. Stretch was taken aback by how little it looked like a hospital - if he had an ounce of sentiment left in his body, he might’ve found it pretty.

“Well boys,” he announced, the four of them having made their landing at the entrance, “it’s time to let them fleshie doctors do what they do best.” Carefully, he laid James down by the doors, wincing sympathetically at the man’s latest groan.

“Leg… Str’ch,” James slurred. The three ghosts exchanged glances. These were the first words he’d spoken since the accident. “Wa’ch... the…”

And then, just like that, he was out again, head lolling off to the side.

“Shouldn’t we bring him in?” Fatso pointed out, wringing his hands. He was staring anxiously through the glass doors. “What if it takes ’em too long to notice he’s here?”

“That’d be real fuckin’ professional of them, then, wouldn’t it?” Stretch was in no mood for a debate, running a hand over the wisp at the back of his head. “If we bring him in, it’s gonna be total pandemonium.”

“And if we wait, he’s either gonna freeze to death or his brain’s gonna swell up ’till it explodes!” Stinkie snapped, ignoring Fatso’s flinch and Stretch’s glower. “I don’t know about you two, but I think the solution here is pret-ty obvious!” Without waiting for further response, he shifted invisible and flew forward, right through the automatic doors.

“Hey!” he barked, stunning Stretch with the sheer level of ferocity in his voice. “Can one of you scrubby scrubs get your butts outside now?! We got a guy whose greymatter’s fallin’ out, for Christ’s sake!”

“Wow,” Fatso murmured. “I didn’t know he had it in him.”

“Neither did I.” Stretch wasn’t sure if he liked it, either.

The two of them disappeared from view right when a handful of blue-clad employees burst outside, gathering around James’ battered body. Even through their jibber-jabber, Stretch could make out a handful of phrases, such as “Where’d the other guy run off to?” and “Someone get this man a stretcher, stat!” 

Stretch didn’t know if he ought to exhale a sigh of relief or brace himself for what was to come.

“You think what happened was our fault?” Fatso asked, breaking the silence that had been hanging over them since they’d left the hospital. He drifted between his brothers, glumly peering down at the myriad of lights that made up Friendship, Maine. “I mean, I was the one who brought up the ‘putting him out of his misery’ thing.”

“Are you kiddin’ me?” Stretch scoffed. “We weren’t the ones who pushed him. Besides, if it wasn’t a hole at the bar, it woulda been a window at Whipstaff. The guy was on the verge of a total shit-attack.”

“Jesus, Stretch!” Stinkie hissed, as if he wasn’t equally guilty of making comments like that. “Have a little bit of sympathy, will ya? The guy’s entire noggin got scrambled!”

“Like an egg,” Fatso chimed in glumly. As they talked among themselves, they began closing in on Whipstaff Manor, which stood proud on the skyline. “You gotta wonder if he’s gonna be the same after that.”

“He’ll be fine ,” Stretch gritted out. Why were they still talking about this? “Like I said, he’s got them fleshie doctors lookin’ after him. They’ll know what to do.”

“Since when do you like doctors?” Stinkie asked, raising an eyebrow. “Y’know, besides the one livin’ in our house.”

“I don’t like him!” Stretch was appalled by an all-too-familiar tingling sensation in his cheeks, resisting the urge to slap himself. While ghosts couldn’t necessarily blush, their bodies had their other ways of giving away embarrassment - and in Stretch’s case, that was lighting up like a goddamn Christmas tree. “I - I tolerate him! I expect him to hold up his end of the bargain with us and that’s it!”

“Yeah, I bet that’s exactly why you swooped in to play Superman to his Lois Lane,” his brother teased, elbowing his side. “As far as fleshies go, I think you could do a lot worse than Dr. Harvey.”

“And I think you could do yourself a favour and shut the hell up before somethin’ bad happens to ya.” Stretch shot him a warning look, and though Stinkie’s smirk didn’t fade, he was wise enough to heed his elder sibling’s advice. Fatso, however, looked distracted, squinting at their house.

“Hey… you guys hear somethin’?”

Stretch and Stinkie inclined their heads towards Whipstaff. Sure enough, a steady bassline could be heard coming from within the walls. On the driveway, a large yellow school bus was parked.

A slow, devilish grin etched its way across Stretch’s features. He slung one arm around Stinkie’s shoulder, the other around Fatso’s, violet eyes alight with glee.

“Boys, it looks like the night may be saved just yet.”

Notes:

Well, this definitely isn't something my past self would've expected to write, but hey. 2020! Anything can happen, and that includes my return to an old fandom. Though I'm playing it kind of fast and loose with this story, I have a pretty good idea where it's going to go and the themes it will be touching on. I don't want to say too much due to spoilers, but buckle up buttercups. It's gonna be a bumpy one.

Special thanks go to HumanityinaHandbag & InvaderSam, both of whom have been massive sources of inspiration to me with their kind words and incredible story, 'You With Me' (which I highly recommend checking out!). Also sending a massive shout-out to Grendoc for allowing me to drag him into ghost hell, and to my buddies in the LGBT Casper server for being creative, hilarious, and massively encouraging!

Chapter 2: The Trick's a Treat

Summary:

Unbeknownst to the crowd, their night was about to take a drastic turn for the worse - for them, at least.

Notes:

Finally, I bring you guys chapter 2! Between its chaotic nature and the sheer amount of plot points and new characters that needed to be established (all for good reason, trust me!), this one took me a hot minute. I hope it was worth the wait. Rest assured, even though the cast is expanding somewhat the McFadden-Harvey family will remain the focus and heart of this story!

Happy early New Year!

Chapter Text

“Well that was a total bust,” Amber grumbled, shoving her wadded-up sheet into Vic’s arms. “We show up to scare her and she isn’t even on the main floor! How did she manage to ditch you before you got to ditch her?”

“I don’t know, okay?” The mention of their plan - Amber’s plan, Vic reminded himself - put a knot in his gut. “Maybe she got sick.”

“Sick? On Halloween night? Yeah right.” Amber raked her fingers through her gel-matted hair, scowling. “I bet you called her and ratted me out.”

“I did not!” But he could have, and it would’ve been the right thing to do. Vic bit his lip, glancing around the wide, cobweb-infested hallway. “Look, why don’t we just... hang out with everyone else downstairs? Do you know how lucky we are that we didn’t get suspended for what we pulled?”

“They wouldn’t suspend us and you know it. And I already told you.” Amber lifted her chin, peering down her nose at him. “Everyone thinks Harvey’s cool because she lives with a bunch of ghosts. But what if we met the ghosts? Then everyone will forget all about her!”

“Amber, I don’t think that’s such a good idea…”

“Oh, c’mon!” She tugged on his sleeve. “It’ll be fun! For all we know, they aren’t even real!”

“Um, yeah, they are! Don’t you remember all those stories my dad used to tell? About how he broke into this place when he was a kid and woke up hanging on the chandelier? We shouldn’t mess with these guys!”

“Then tell me this, Vic. Where were these supposed ghosts when we showed up here ages ago, hm? Why aren’t they haunting us right now?”

Vic opened his mouth to answer, only to find he didn’t have one.

“That’s what I thought.” Smiling smugly, Amber took him by the hand and dragged him along. “Now c’mon! I didn’t come all the way here not to make a fool out of the new girl.”

Alternative hip-hop blasted throughout Whipstaff’s great hall, which was jam-packed with middle school kids - some dancing, most admiring their surroundings. Sam Curtis, an eighth-grade teacher, watched over them with tired eyes.

“What a night, huh?” came a voice from beside him. “And we haven’t even breached ten p.m. yet.”

A woman he recognized from the hallways of Marshwood Junior High was dipping the ladle into the punchbowl. Her curly auburn hair was tucked back by a headband decorated with colourful pom-poms, the top half of her red dress covered in the same. Attached to her skirt was a little dispenser made up of black-and-grey felt, like the one you might find on a -

“Gumball machine?” Sam raised an eyebrow. “How long did that one take you to put together?”

“Longer than your lobster, I’m sure.” The woman snorted, pouring herself a cup. “Your oven mitts for claws are very convincing.” Taking a sip, she leaned against the snack table. “Those two kids - they usually cause trouble like that?”

Sam sighed. He didn’t have to ask which incident she was referring to. “It’s not unlike Amber to act out, no. It’s Victor’s behaviour that surprised me - he’s normally such a good student. I wonder what’s gotten into him.”

“That depends. Do Amber and Victor normally spend time together?” Gumball Lady wanted to know. He looked at her, wondering where she was going with this, but her brown eyes remained focused on the crowd. “Maybe he’s acting out because he feels the need to impress her.”

Sam gave a dry chuckle. If only she knew how far back that went. “You must be new around here.”

“Just transferred from Cape Elizabeth two weeks ago. My name’s Joyce. I’m the new counselor at Marshwood.” She reached over, giving his hand a firm shake. “It’s very nice to meet you, Mr. Curtis. Kat mentioned that she’s new to your class.”

The way she spoke, one would think they’d been friends for years. It was flattering and overwhelming all at once - so much that it took Sam a moment to find his voice again. “Kat as in…” He cleared his throat, “Kat Harvey?”

Joyce regarded him strangely. “Given that she’s hosting the party, yes, I thought it was obvious which Kat.” Her gaze swept across the room once more, brow furrowing. “Have you seen her around? I figured I’d touch base, make sure she was alright.”

Sam thought back to the moment where Kat had answered the door. She’d seemed distracted, talking a mile a minute before dashing off to God knew where. At the time he figured she was letting her parents know that their guests had shown up, but… 

“When we first arrived, she did say something that struck me as a bit… odd,” he admitted. “‘Stay together and you’ll be safe.’ What could she have meant by that? Has she been upset recently?”

Joyce’s eyes flashed in a way that made him want to wince. It was the same look his wife got when he said something she deemed ‘careless’ or ‘insensitive.’ “I take it you don’t know a lot about her.”

“I mean, she’s a brand new student. I haven’t exactly gotten time to - ”

The lights flickered and buzzed, music warbling as the turntables skipped. Startled cries rang out and the two chaperones all but jumped out of their skin.

“Special effects?” Joyce wondered, barely catching her breath. For the sake of his sanity, Sam shrugged, forcing himself to offer a weak grin.

“They’re all kids can talk about these days.”

Unbeknownst to the crowd, their night was about to take a drastic turn for the worse - for them, at least.

“Look at all them rotten little rats, walkin’ around like they own the joint!” With a single flick of his tail, the invisible Stinkie sent some boy’s top hat hurtling into a chocolate fountain, splattering unlucky party-goers with sticky brown goop. “Didn’t their folks ever tell them to have some respect for their elders?”

“Yeah! ’Specially their elders’ elders!” Stretch breezed over to the closest adult, who sported a ridiculous spring-antennae headband and a red turtleneck. Stretch leaned in, exhaling against the man’s ear and purring, “So how’s about a little history lesson, teach?”

The sucker barely had a chance to go rigid before Stretch shoved a transparent hand through the back of his head. The man’s eyes bulged and a rattling gasp burst from his lips, garnering the attention of his lady-friend and some nervous young onlookers.

“Sam?” Gumball Lady grabbed him by the forearm, and Jesus, it was more of a grip than Stretch was expecting. “Sam, are you alright?!”

Stretch’s host’s head snapped in her direction, a gleam in his eyes and an unnaturally wide grin on his face. He grabbed her wrist and squeezed, leering. “Hold on, sugar! Daddy’s got a sweet tooth tonight!”

Just as he puckered his lips, moving in for a wet one, the woman reared her palm back and slapped him across the face - and that was fine with Stretch, who took the opportunity to start spinning his possessee’s head like a top. Around and around it went, doing complete 360s in a wild blur.

“Makeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstopmakeitstop!” the man’s real voice wailed. All at once, the party erupted into chaos - children and adults alike screaming, throwing themselves into a stampede. While a number of them made a break for the door, others dove for cover or scattered.

“STRAGGLERS!” Fatso boomed. Now in full view, he swooped towards the latter group, morphing a winter trapper hat onto his head and an old-fashioned whip in his hand. Their shrieks grew louder as he cracked it above their heads, herding them like cattle. “Mush! Mush! Mush!”

Meanwhile, the walking-talking gumball machine launched herself into action mode. Armed with a feather duster she’d snatched off a fleeing maid, the woman swung her arm back and whapped her puppeteered companion right in the schnoz. Lobster Guy’s head flew back as he sneezed - hard enough to shoot Stretch through the ceiling at torpedo-speed, the phantom’s outraged yell echoing throughout the hall.

“OF COURSE YOU KNOW THIS MEANS WAR, FLESH-WAAAAAD!!!”

“I can’t believe this.” Vic was hot on Amber's heels, listening to her complaints as she stomped into the library. “We’re right back where we started and still haven’t seen a single ghost!”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” Vic couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong, especially where Kat was concerned. The more he thought about her, the more obligated he felt to make sure she was alright. Not that he could do that so long as Amber was around… “Can we go now? It’s getting late and my parents are gonna get on my case about curfew.”

“The party won’t be over for another half-an-hour! That gives us plenty of time. And look - we still haven’t checked up there yet!”

Vic followed the line of her pointer finger to see a second-story balcony that was built into the library. He hadn’t paid much mind to it before, and he didn’t see what was so special about it now.

“A fancy old chair and some books. Yeah, that’s totally proof that ghosts exist.”

“Got any better ideas, genius?”

“Yeah! Like going home and - ”

An eruption of screams on the other side of the doors shocked them into silence. Vic went stiff. Amber pressed herself against his side, clutching his hand for dear life. He could hear her voice tremble as she whispered, “Whatever… prank they’re pulling out there, I bet it’s super lame compared to ours.”

Vic might’ve feigned agreement if the doors hadn’t flown open, a gaggle of shrieking, hysterical middle schoolers flooding the room. Glancing up at what exactly had driven them here, Vic felt his jaw drop.

“What am I gonna do with you brats, huh?” crowed the glowing, horrible thing. It was round and light blue and see-through, with glittering golden eyes that flitted from child to child. In its hand was a shepherd’s hook, which it twirled like a baton. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you was gettin’ ready to stone me.”

Vic didn’t have time to register his own horrified cry. He was too busy gripping Amber’s hand and yanking her along, charging up the spiral staircase leading to the library balcony. No way in hell was he going to try getting past that monster - he’d sooner take his chances on whatever was up there.

Unfortunately for him, the sudden movement caught the ghost’s attention. It laughed a deep belly laugh, descending upon them at a speed Vic didn’t think was possible. “Where you guys goin’? You’re gonna miss out on all the fun.”

Amber squealed, ducking and covering her head. Vic thought fast. He swung her onto the antique chair - just out of the ghost’s reach - and lunged for the closest item in his vicinity: a Tiffany lamp.

“Get away from us, you oversized freak!” His fingers scrabbled for purchase, attempting to pry the lamp off the floor so he could swing at it at the ghost, but to no avail. It wasn’t budging. Driven to desperation, Vic grabbed hold of one of the hanging crystals and pulled.

“What the - ”

The note of alarm in Amber’s voice caught his attention before the whirring mechanical noise did. Vic whipped around to see the chair lurching into motion backward, Amber clutching its arms for dear life. Her green eyes went huge with terror as the chair zoomed across an unseen track, past bookcase after bookcase - rapidly approaching the stairs.

“Amber!” Vic screamed. His sneakers pounded on the floor as he raced after her, but it was far too late. The chair rotated, the stairs flattening against each other to form a ramp. All he and every other kid there could do was watch, horrified, as their classmate’s chair toppled forward and slid down, headed right for the floor below.

In Vic’s panic, he’d completely forgotten about the presence of the ghost. Something ice-cold whooshed over his head, rustling his hair and leaving the scent of ozone in its wake. The spirit was diving after Amber, his arms outstretched.

“Shit!” exclaimed that thundering, baritone voice. “Hang on, kid!”

What none of them expected was for a circular hatch to open at the bottom of the staircase, both girl and ghost disappearing through it.

Stretch slammed into a wall on the third floor, groaning as he felt his ecto splatter - or maybe that was just the snot he was covered in.

“Jeez Louise, would it’ve killed them to have a box of Kleenex nearby?” he asked no one in particular, flicking a glob of slime off the bridge of his nose. “Eugh. Them fleshies are even more disgustin’ than we are.”

He was about two seconds away from prying his body free when the wall he’d attached himself to turned out to be a door. Cue the loud SLAM and an unplanned facial reconstruction.

“Eeee…”

“Asshole!” As the door was yanked back (taking some of Stretch with it), he came face-to-face with none other than the Doc’s perpetually pissed off brat. She glowered at him, pointing a miniature version of the dreaded vacuum cleaner directly at his inverted snout. “What have you done with my dad? I know he’s not with you!”

Oh, right. He’d had a feeling that something slipped his mind, and what was worth forgetting more than annoying offspring? Stretch rolled his eyes, ignoring the fact one was at the top of his forehead and the other was oozing down his chin. “Yeah, about that.” He grabbed the squashed-up tip of his nose, pulling on it until his face snapped back into place with all the elasticity of a rubber band. “It might be a minute before you see him. He’s a little, uh, banged-up right now.”

“What are you talking about?” All colour drained from her face, leaving Kat almost as washed out as he was. “Stretch, what did you do to him?!”

“Knock it off with the hysterics, would ya?” Stretch placed his thumb in his mouth and blew until his original body shape returned. Finally pulling himself to freedom, he placed his hands on his hips, looming over her. “Your dumbass dad went out drinkin’ with us boys and had himself a little accident.”

Kat gasped, eyes going all shiny, and it was all Stretch could do to stifle a growl of annoyance. He was not in the mood to deal with waterworks right now. “But don’t worry,” he added, patting her shoulder in a display of faux concern, “his medical colleagues are lookin’ after him as we speak!”

He may as well have been talking to the wall. Kat ignored him, her breath hitching as she started to slip back into Short-Sheet’s room. A surge of frustration took hold of Stretch, though he wasn’t sure why - the girl’s insolence, maybe? Her extreme overreaction to the whole situation?

God, where the fuck was Short-Sheet, anyway?

“Hey!” Stretch barked, storming in after her. “I’m talkin’ to ya, bone-bag! You kids today don’t have any…”

The words faded as he laid eyes on what - or rather, who - was sitting upright in bed, staring at him. It took Stretch a moment to realize why he recognized the face. The eyes, however, were a different story. These were eyes he looked into nearly every day. Eyes that were closer to his own than anyone else’s in their dysfunctional little family.

Stretch lurched back, feeling as though someone had struck him. Shook his head over and over again.

“No… no no no no, there’s no way in hell…”

“Wee-eeell!” Fatso chirped, wiping the remainder of the shaving cream from his face and adjusting his new bow tie, “I thought that was fun.”

The little blonde sprout, who’d spent most of their joyride cowering in her seat, stared at him as if he’d just crawled out of a sewage pipe. (Wrong ghost, missy. That job belonged to Stinkie.) Just for that, Fatso flicked some foam at her, laughing uproariously as she leaped from her chair. He watched as she blindly sprinted forward - so blindly, in fact, that he had to grab her by the arm and pull her out of harm’s way for the second time that evening.

“For cryin’ out loud, kid, ever heard the term ‘look before ya leap?’ You're actin' like you got a death wish.” Fatso fixed her with a stern look, gesturing around them. The track they’d taken to get down here passed over a canal of seawater that encircled the entire room, with the two of them standing on an island built into the room’s center.

“What is this place?” The way the girl tugged her arm free, cradling it against her trembling body, you’d think he’d wounded her. “Why was I taken down here? What does this mean?”

“Beats me, junior. I’ve haunted this house for the last hundred or so years and ain’t been down here once.” He could see blueprints and half-finished devices scattered about on tables lining the walls - beakers full of various colourful substances, a blackboard with indecipherable equations. But they were mere decorations compared to the island’s centerpiece, which filled Fatso with a great sense of… something. Unease, maybe. Dread. It didn’t feel good.

“What the hell?” the girl hissed, forgetting her fear long enough to scrutinize the massive, spherical machine in front of them. “That looks like an evil Easy-Bake Oven.”

“Yeah,” Fatso agreed, eyeing the steam wafting out of the open chamber door. “And someone just finished cookin’.”

Four floors above them, his oldest brother’s disbelieving shriek rang louder than any chaos they could hope to cause.