Archive of Our Own

“No wonder you were so good with a gun—you had experience, didn't you...?”

Logan inhales a shaky breath and holds it. 

Tyler’s question is only spoken loud enough to reach the ears of the five other teenagers crammed together down on the metal floor plates, but his words echo throughout the holding cell all the same. It's a more than reasonable inquiry, perhaps motivated by curiosity alone—but Logan can't help but hear the traces of accusation laced in Tyler's tone. The tension in the room is palpable. Logan feels every eye present—that of his peers and their parents alike—fall on him, burning with the heat of a thousand suns. 

The pensive stares coming from his friends burn hottest.

The question isn't new—actually, Logan is a little surprised (and tremendously relieved) that his friends haven't expressed more doubt and curiosity regarding his aptitude for firearms. After all, the most logical conclusion after Logan had shot the phantom on the Banner's roof all that time ago would be that he was experienced, at least to some degree, in marksmanship.

He doesn't blame them for being surprised that timid and frail little Logan is capable of such havoc when handed a gun. Logan knows that his reputation—if he is even noticeable enough to have one—isn’t positive. He is the quiet, fearful, pushover of a boy with notebooks full of class notes, the fashion sense of a retired financial consultant, and straight A’s in every class but P.E. Logan knows he doesn't exactly exude tactical combat expert—and rightfully so because he isn't one.

—But he does know a little. He knows enough. 

Not much.

Logan had refused to elaborate then—when the bloodied, bruised, and battle-worn children had collapsed in the confines of the tall, concrete walls of the school bus graveyard. They were tired, exhausted, and traumatized; but they were also lucky, grateful, and alive. He let the questions and complements roll off of him like rain and played it off as mere luck. There were a thousand things to worry about, the least of which was Logan, his past, and his ability.

And if at all possible, so long as it is done without being outright dishonest with the people he values most, he intends to continue evading that conversation.

He finds comfort in the fact that now is still not the time for this discussion, regardless of how he feels about it. Such a truth helps artificially alleviate a bit of the guilt he feels about his lack of transparency.

“No wonder you were so good with a gun—you had experience, didn't you...?” The question circles back to his ears in an echo. The lingering eyes on his weary frame and the empty silence hanging in the air remind him that he has yet to provide an answer.

“...A little. Not much.” Logan finally says, cursing the waver in his voice.

The answer is enough for now. It isn't satisfactory and he knows it.

Admittedly, there is a lot that Logan has forgotten about his past. Some things he has forcefully chosen to cast from his mind; and other things that have quietly drifted away from him over time like an unanchored ship gently carried away from the harbor by the ocean tide.

He has all but forgotten his first bedroom—the one he shared with his mother in the attic of his grandparents villa—quaint and cramped; a safe haven of soul-soothing comfort. He has all but forgetten the friendly orange tomcat that would lurk in the alleyway outside his home, nuzzling against his shins as he came and went. He has forgotten the names of all his old neighbors, and the strong scent of oregano and spice wafting from the small, family-owned restaurant just down the street.

Though he isn't quite willing to admit it, he has forgotten the sound of his mother's laugh.

He has tried to forget the odd and intimidating figures that would often lurk in his home; the thick scent of cigarette smoke and the ashes littering the floors; harsh knocks beating against the front door well past his bedtime.

Logan would never get used to the sound of gunshots—at least, so he thought. Each round fired was just as jarring to him as the very first. 

“In you go.” His mother whispers calmly. Her hand is steady on his back, she is gentle but urgent as she helps him kneel down and fit himself into the suitcase. Her bravery is betrayed by the smallest waver in her voice. He imagines that she hopes he doesn't notice but he does, Logan always notices. He has always been observant, perhaps too observant. He did indeed notice, and he remembers—in fact, he cannot forget no matter how hard he tries.

Logan is five years old, and this isn't the first time he has been hidden, in fact, it has become almost habitual. There are many hiding places in their home—countless nooks and crannies in every room where secrets and valuables are to be stowed away. His mother has drilled him on where to go and when—the trap door beneath the dining room rug, the cutout behind the portrait in the entryway room, the hollowed out bench seat nestled in the bay window. 

This is a new spot though. 

He could hear a commotion downstairs, loud voices he didn't recognize and words his mother had told him never to use—the scrapping and thrashing of furniture as it was manhandled. 

This isn't the first time he has been hidden by his mother, not by a long shot, but—though, he doesn't know it yet—it will be the last.

“I am a woman of many sins,” she whispers in his ear, pressing a trembling kiss to his temple before pulling back to look him in the eyes. “None greater than failing to be all that you deserve.”

Her eyes are piercing and damp. In the years to come he will spend many sleepless nights laying awake yearning to remember their color.  

“Momma—”

“—I love you, never forget that.” She squeezes his shoulders and plants one final kiss on the top of his head. “My Sirius,” she whispers, “the brightest star in all the sky.”

The noises downstairs grow closer and louder. His mother quickly, almost harshly untangles herself from him. “Don't come out, no matter what anyone says, no matter who calls you. Do you understand?” She says so firm and fiercely that it makes him want to curl up and disappear. He has never seen his mother quite like this—so serious. He wishes she would smile; tell him everything would be okay. But she doesn't. 

“What about—”

“No one. Someone will get you when it is safe. Do you understand?” 

“I-I understand.” His voice trembles, and he sniffles. "Momma?” He says, trying his very best to be brave and serious like her. “I love you.” 

Her face slowly and dramatically falls, all falsified determination and confidence melt away like snow beneath the blazing sun, and the truth underneath is revealed. His mother's lip quivers as a sob wracks her body. Logan is horrified and for a moment thinks he has said something terribly wrong.

“I love you with all my heart.” She breathes out in a trembling breath. “Pray. Pray while you wait.” She begs him.

The oddity of such an unexpected request takes him out of the moment. He still thinks about his mother's last words—at least, her last words to him. His mother was hardly religious, at least, not devout. For the sake of his grandparents, they had visited church on occasion—but church was not for people like them she had told him once.

“Pray.” His mother had begged him. He had never once heard his mother beg for anything. 

It all happens incredibly fast. Before he can even reach out to her, his mother is heaping piles of clothing on top of him and shoving his suitcase into the corner of the room. He doesn't dare breathe. He hears the click clack of her shoes as she hurries to the door, and a soft latching as she pulls it closed behind her.

He doesn't know how to pray, he realizes. A sob seizes his throat and Logan bites down on his knuckle. Silent hics and sobs rack his body and the pill of clothes stacked atop him trembles.

He hears his mother's voice—she is sad and upset. He thinks about getting out of the suitcase and running to her down the stairs when—

Bang!

His limbs go rigid. Logan stills. He is still and silent. It's as if his soul had left his body; like he had been shot by the gunshot still ringing out in the night. 

The doorknob rattles. Logan's heartbeat hammers in his chest. His mother had locked it on her way out, he had heard it. 

Any sense of safety he felt shatters into a million pieces when he hears the forceful and violent splitting of wood. The door caves in, battered down by whatever monster was on the other side.

Footsteps pound against the floor like war drums and Logan squeezes into the tightest ball he can manage. It's as if an earthquake struck in his parent's bedroom—the boy tries not to startle as furniture is smashed and destroyed.

He isn't sure how long the man ravaged the room, but it feels like years. Even after he stampedes back out the door, he hardly dares to breathe. He lives a thousand lifetimes curled up tightly in that suitcase, hidden beneath heaps of his mother's clothing. Eventually, he runs out of tears. 

He wonders how one is supposed to pray. He wonders if his mother really believed in a God. 

Never once does the idea of getting out of the suitcase even enter his mind. His mother said someone would come for him—whether it'd be her, his grandparents or someone else. He trusts his mother with his dying breath without a shred of doubt. If she has lied to him, then he will just starve here and die.

Bang! 

He doesn't startle when more gunshots ring out after the man has gone down the stairs.

Bang! Bang! Bang! Bang!

When he hears heavy, lopsided footsteps racing up the stairs, his heart begins to pound. He chokes on what shallow, stale air he can get beneath all the clothing. The individual enters the room with purpose—they are here for him and he knows it.

However, he isn't sure if the thought fills him with relief or great dread.

The feet stop in front of the suitcase. The load above him begins to lighten. At the age of five, Logan is afraid of a great many things, but he doesn't think death is one of them.

His grandfather’s balding head comes into view. The man is crying—he has never seen his grandfather so distraught before. “Oh, my boy—” The man laments in a whisper.

Logan is gently lifted from the suitcase by thickly calloused hands caked in blood.

He doesn't remember much after that.

Logan's expectations for the Savannah group project were not high—the moment the project is announced, his stomach instantly sinks. 

Logan isn't great with people. To clarify, he doesn't hate being social, no, a part of him quite longs to be better about interacting with others. But people are difficult; they are complex and unpredictable, requiring so much precious energy and time to navigate.

And, perhaps most importantly, Logan isn't supposed to be in the business of getting close to people. His grandparents had given up everything to try and give him a safe, almost normal life—but that could all be jeopardized by saying the wrong thing to the wrong people.

However, though the ghosts haunting his family tree are many and great, Logan's anxieties regarding the Savannah Project are more accurately categorized in the social anxiety category.

On the first day, the boy had resigned himself to the sad reality that he would likely have to pull the weight of the group. On top of the work he was already doing for Barron, Logan is—kindly put—absolutely screwed.

But contrary to his worst fears, Logan, so far, has been pleasantly surprised. All of his classmates, even Aiden, have shown interest in getting down to business and contributing to the project. Logan realizes one morning—before the fateful trip to Savannah; before the thought of midnight made his hands tremble and choked him with a nauseating wave of dread; before he sees sadistic smiles in every dark corner and crevice—that he subconsciously looks forward to his history class. It's pathetic, but for the first time in a long, long time, Logan realizes that there is something about the five other classmates in his group that makes him feel normal; makes him forget the past.

Logan finds each of them to be incredibly fascinating. He is far more quiet than some of the others—certainly not more quiet than Ben, who does not speak and is respectfully not questioned as to why—but Logan doesn't mind. In fact, he finds himself content to listen, observe, and learn. And his five classmates don't seem to mind either—if they loathe him, or think he is too odd or eclectic, they never insinuate as much. Well, with the exception of maybe Tyler. However, from what Logan has astutely observed, his aggravation and displeasure with people is indiscriminate and equally dispersed amongst everyone but Taylor.

The group sits in their usual circle, desks having shrieked as they were scrapped across the linoleum classroom floor. To Logan's left, Ben doodles in his notebook; on his right, Ashlyn Banner twirls her pencil between her fingers.

“Okay—” Ashlyn’s voice cuts through the silence—the reserved, red-haired girl never has to raise her voice to get the attention of the group. Ashlyn always shows discernment with what she chose to say, never wasting her words. Everyone knows that if Ashlyn speaks, it is important. The moment he hears her voice, Aiden’s head snaps towards Ashlyn at a startling velocity, eyes eager and attentive. 

Ashlyn does not make eye contact. “—Let's go over our roles for the project again.” The girl folds her hands. “My focus is on Savannah’s history. I’ve mostly finished researching. I'll put my stuff in the shared document by tomorrow.” 

There’s a great deal Logan appreciates about Ashlyn, whether it’d be her drive, mellow personality, or singlemindedness for the project. He feels safe with Ashlyn, primarily because she seems equally hesitant and weary about getting too close to the others. Even though he hasn't known her for long, he trusts that she will pull her own weight, get things done, and not ask him to be too personal. All of these things are very positive in Logan's book.

With each passing moment of silence, Ashlyn grows more uncomfortable—cheeks reddening ever so slightly. To signify that she is done and someone else should really start talking now, Ashlyn gives a slight nod and a flick of her olive eyes.

Logan hears rustling to his left. Ben hastily jots something in his notebook before holding up the page for the group to see. ‘I have Savannah's climate and environmental factors.’ 

If it wasn't for Ben’s closeness with Aiden, Logan thinks he might feel quite safe with him too. Ben was harder to observe and know without intentionality. But, similar to Ashlyn, Ben seemed fairly uninterested in getting too personal with the others, while simultaneously being patient and supportive. He likes sitting next to Ben whenever their group meets up—Ben is predictably calm and steady. At this point, Logan's gut trusts Ben and Ashlyn and their silent stability the most. But, while Logan deeply appreciates what he has seen Ben to be, he also has a feeling he has barely scratched the surface in truly knowing the brawny teen. 

After holding up the notebook long enough for most of the group to read—Aiden is still squinting at Ben's message by the time he lowers it—Ben reaches down for his backpack, unzipping it and removing a large folder. The tall, sturdy boy opens the folder, revealing multiple pages of notes.

“That's great, Ben!” Taylor says encouragingly. Ben's eyes lighten ever so slightly; a faint smile graces his lips as the boy rubs his neck.

“Yeah, but be sure to put that all in the document, though.” Tyler says, arms crossed. “We need to get as much done on the presentation before the trip to Savannah.” 

Logan can't deny that Tyler intimidates him. Tyler was fiercely opinionated, confrontational, and high-achieving. He holds all the cards needed to be a god in the halls of Alto highschool—yet, the boy spitefully shirked the spotlight. Tyler is fiercely loyal to, and protective of, a select few people and did not seem to be taking new applications. 

“I had Savannah's important people.” Tyler's resting face is a frown, and this morning is no exception. “If you've checked the project document in the past two days, you'll have seen my stuff in there.” Tyler's critical eyes monitor the group as he speaks—his gaze reminds Logan of a large prison search light, scanning the courtyard for any questionable behavior. Logan dreads when the boy's eyes inevitably fall on him. 

“—And I have Savannah's culture.” Taylor chimes in, her voice like a warm front chasing away a dark, menacing plume of storm clouds. 

Out of all the group, Taylor is by far the most open and transparent. Taylor's warmth and optimism were a breath of fresh air from the angst and moroseness that billowed from Ashlyn and Tyler like smoke. Further solidifying Taylor's role as peacekeeper was her eagerness to please others—unlike some of the others, Taylor always showed a willingness to compromise and reconsider her opinions in order to come up with the best solution for everyone. She is the glue holding them all together. She cares—or, at least, does a good job at acting like it. Logan gets along well with Taylor—who doesn't? 

But she isn't safe. Taylor doesn't let him hide or go unseen like Ashlyn or Ben might, she makes sure he is involved and included in the group. He is equal parts enamored and terrified of her. It has been a long time since anyone has treated him with the kindness and genuine care that Taylor had, but she is also more likely to try and get to know him personally—which is trouble.

“My work isn't in the document yet,” Taylor admits, casting a sheepish glance at Tyler. Taylor's warmth dethaws her twin’s cold exterior ever so slightly. Rather than being harsh with her, Tyler flashes a competitive smirk. “—But I will definitely put it in by tonight!” Taylor lightly shoves Tyler, not giving him the satisfaction of making eye-contact.

“I have the city’s architecture and geography.” Logan speaks next, not wanting to be the last to share. “The majority of my work is also in the document, but I will be taking pictures when we go to Savannah to accompany my information.”

“Great. Thank you, Logan.” Ashlyn says with a nod. More silence follows—five down, one to go. All eyes turn to the final member.

Aiden. 

Speaking of trouble, Aiden is perhaps the only one in the group that Logan would prefer to have no contact with at all. Aiden was wild, unpredictable, and borderline deranged—and not in a quirky, cutesy kind of way. Logan has seen a lot of upsetting things, but Aiden's perpetually unsettling smile sends chills down his spine. The only thing that one can predict Aiden to do or say is the unexpected. And, perhaps worst of all, Aiden had little to no respect for the boundaries of those around him. Luckily, almost the entirety of Aiden's obsessive interest had been directed towards Ashlyn since day one. Logan can't help but feel grateful to not be the object of Aiden's infatuation, but also remorseful for Ashlyn. 

After the first week of their group meeting together, Logan had gone as far as to inconspicuously slip the red-haired girl a note asking if she was okay or needed help. She was appreciative, but let him know she didn't think she was in any danger.

(“—But I'll keep you posted.” She had said to him after reading his note, her voice hushed. Her eyes were narrow as she cast an untrustingly glare towards the blonde boy across the room. Despite being out of ear shot, Aiden had been watching them, waving brightly the moment Ashlyn looked his way.)

Regardless, Aiden is a true-crime documentary just waiting to happen, and Logan has no desire for his name to be in the credits.

Logan even finds himself wary to look at the boy sometimes, terrified he will discover those bright red contact lenses staring back into his soul. Choking down this fear, Logan glances across the circle to Aiden, who appears to have spent their meeting this far constructing an altar-like structure with an exorbitant amount of pens and pencils. 

“Hey!” Tyler exclaims, shock and anger washing over his face. “That’s my pen! I thought I lost it days ago—”  The boy says, gesturing to Aiden's structure.

Aiden calmly turns to the furious boy beside him. “I was doing you a favor.” The boy smoothly explains, a devilish playfulness dancing in his eyes. “Consider it as penance for your grievances. Perhaps you'll even be spares when the harvest arrives.”

Four horrified and disturbed sets of eyes stare back at him. With an unamused expression, Ben buries his face into his hand.  

After an uncomfortable bout of silence, Tyler snaps. “Aiden, what the he—”

“We’re going over roles for the project.” Ashlyn says, executing any unnecessary nonsense. “Everyone is saying what they are doing, and what progress they've made.

“Oh, I know. I was listening.” Aiden says. The boy rests his cheek on his hand, face drawn in boredom. “I'm organizing all your information into slides and making it aesthetic.” 

“I can't believe we trusted you with the slides.” Tyler laments. 

Logan looks over to Ben who has taken to his sketchbook once more. Once finished, the boy holds up the page with a shrug of the shoulders. ‘He’s actually really good at graphic design, believe it or not.’ The paper reads.

“Heard it from the big man yourself.” Aiden says with a cheeky grin.

“How do you pray?”

A sharp bark of laughter escapes from his grandfather. “That's a question for your grandmother.” He says almost immediately.

Logan obliges.

It is late in the afternoon when Logan seeks out the council of his grandmother. She is in her happy place. The soft scent of rosemary reaches him when he enters the kitchen through the rounded doorway; he pauses for a moment just to appreciate it. 

Logan knows better than to be too much of a pest when his grandmother is at work in the kitchen; sometimes she is like an entirely different woman. 

But the question feels like a heavy weight on his small, seven-year old shoulders—his muscles ache and burn; he does not know how much longer he can stand beneath the yoke. It's been two years now since his mother was killed. “Pray,” Her last words echo in his head day and night. “I’m sorry—” He weeps at the foot of her ghost. “I didn't know how.” 

The boy pulls gently at his grandmother's apron.

“How do you pray?” The question tumbles out of his mouth despite his better judgement. 

The woman pauses—an unseen sight when she labors in the kitchen. The question pierces through her concentration and she gently sets her wooden spoon aside. Her smile is soft, but her eyes are sad.

“Well. Many people like to start like this—” His grandmother drags her hand from her forehead to her chest, and then from shoulder to shoulder. “—by making a cross. And then calling upon the Holy Trinity. ‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.’” She demonstrates. Logan watches, sloppily following her motions. 

“—Then what do I do?”

“Well, there are certain prayers you can memorize, but it's also important to share your own thoughts, needs, and desires with God.” She says. His grandmother turns around quickly to make sure all is well on the stovetop. Then, she rests her back against the cupboards and slides down to the floor with him. 

“Talk to God like you would a friend. Talk about things you love, what you're grateful for, what you need, and things you're scared of.”

Logan frowns. He hasn't had many friends, and he doesn't do a lot of talking.

“But how do I know I am doing it right?”

His grandmother's eyes crinkle as she laughs, exasperated but endeared. She pats the creaky wooden floor board next to her. Logan eagerly sits.

“I don't think there is a right or wrong way to pray. Having a relationship with God isn't like a recipe, or formula or equation.”

Logan frowns, his nose scrunches up. His grandmother elaborates seeing his frustration. “Every relationship under the sun—whether it is with God, or with family, or with friends—will be different, depending on who you are and who the other person is. There's no one size fits all for relationships. God made you uniquely you—he wants to have a special relationship with you according to all the interests, abilities, and facets he has placed in you.” 

Logan considers what she says for a moment—he really does—everything in his heart wants to believe her. 

“What if He doesn't answer me?”

His grandmother is still and silent. He looks over to her; her face has fallen, not significantly, but enough to notice. 

“God always answers.” She says. Her voice is different now; it is distant, almost wishful.“Sometimes he answers in ways we don't expect; and other times, he may respond with that which we don't want to hear.”

“Has God ever spoken to you?” Logan asks instantly.

“Not face-to-face, but he had often answered my prayers in other ways.”

“Like how?”

Another drained laugh escapes his grandmother's lips as she pushes herself up off the floor with a groan. “We will talk more after dinner.” She says, moving to wash her hands in the sink.

Logan slinks out of the kitchen, plopping down to read a book in the living room. A few minutes later, Logan peeks into the kitchen once again. His grandmother wipes at her cheek with her forearm, he sees her shoulders quiver.

She must be cutting onions, he thinks.

He doesn't taste any onions in his dinner.

At first, Logan thinks he is in hell. 

That, or the rapture his grandmother urges his grandfather to take seriously has finally come to fruition. Perhaps God had finally given up on his family after all the wickedness and depravity they'd reeked on the face of his earth. Rightfully so, Logan thinks with shame. If there is a God out there, he is far more patient than most give him credit for.

Logan's head feels fuzzy; there is a heaviness in his bones. It is almost as if he were dreaming. Oh, how he hopes this is all just a bad dream. 

He doesn't wake up.

The sky is in disarray the stars and constellations he knows like the back of his hand swim in an ocean of blood.

He doesn't wake up.

The Hell Theory deteriorates when Logan is united with his five classmates from the history group project. Logan is fairly confident that Taylor Hernandez would not be in hell. The rest of them, maybe—but not Taylor.

There is scratching at the flimsy motel door—then banging and thrashing. Logan has seen a lot of horrific things in his short life, but the phantom realm is a brand new genre.

If there's ever been a time to pray, it is now. 

“What are you doing?” Comes a sharp hiss. Logan peeks open his eyes to see Tyler, annoyed and immensely anxious as he paces the room. 

The six teenagers cower together in the small motel room, unspeakable horrors laying just behind the door. Heavy beads of sweat tickle down Ben’s forehead—the boy firmly braces his back against the door. Ashlyn sits in the corner, massaging her temples; Taylor has her head buried in her hands; and Aiden excitedly swings around one of the table legs that had been broken off the table, clearly eager to go toe-to-toe with the nightmarish creatures after them.

“I'm, uh, praying.” Logan stammers awkwardly beneath Tyler's judgemental gaze.

The other boy scoffs. “If God is real, He hates us.”

Logan swallows the lump in his throat.

It starts one morning when his grandfather offers to drive him to school. His grandmother quirks her brow.

“It's on my way to the shop, after all. We'll just leave a bit earlier.” Grandfather assures her. Logan isn't sure what to make of the worry and sadness in his grandmother's eyes. He can tell she wants to speak, but she doesn't. She nods and doesn't make a fuss.

It isn't often that Logan rides with his grandfather—the man was almost always busy running the flower shop, leaving very little room for him to help around their villa. There's a knot in the boy's stomach as he sits in the backseat of his grandfather's jet black Fiat. 

The windows are tinted, Logan observes as he looks out at the passing shops and markets. There is something comforting about seeing without being seen.

It doesn't take long for Logan to realize his grandfather isn't taking the route that his grandmother usually takes when dropping Logan off at school. And soon, Logan begins to wonder if they are even going to school at all.

“This isn't how we usually go to school.” Logan says quietly, not wanting to question his grandfather, but unable to sit silently with the anxiety in his stomach. His grandfather chuckles.

“We aren't going to school. I already let Carlos know I'll be out today. We have more important business.” His grandfather's eyes are cloudy in the rear view mirror.

Logan trusts his grandfather—of course, he does. But the boy is shocked at just how quickly that trust wavers. 

—But Logan nods and doesn't make a fuss.

He knows the family business extends long beyond seeds and soil—he isn't stupid. He doesn't know everything, he is sure he doesn't even know the half of it. He thinks back to his mother, so honest, so fall of integrity.

He remembers his mother, ushering him out of the backdoor one night amidst thuds and shouts. “Be careful.” She had whispered so lovingly in his ear.  “Those closest to you will always be the most dangerous.” She took his hand, guiding him through the alleyway. The two emerged onto the street, the warmth of the setting sun kissing his bare skin. His mother turned to him. “—Love is never safe. Choose to love anyway.” Her hand tightened around his. 

He hadn’t thought much about it then, especially not after the two of them wandered to a nearby gelato stand. 

But he thinks about it now.

Logan startles back into the present at the sound of his grandfather's voice. “I don't want you to be in the dark about what I do.” He says, steely eyes on the road. He watches the house and shops outside his window become more and more sparse. They are headed into the countryside. “Your grandmother thinks it is dangerous to tell you—to train you—but I think it is far more dangerous for you to be unknowing and unprepared.”

Logan is curious, of course he is. But more than anything, he is anxious. He doesn't want this life. He doesn't want to be a part of whatever deal with the devil his family had.

He wants to be safe.

He wants his mom.

The boy feels a frustrated sob lodge in his throat. He can't let it out—it is a matter of life and death. His grandfather would never love him, never respect him if he knew just how much of a coward he is.

So Logan nods and doesn't make a fuss. 

His grandfather drives him out to the countryside, a duffel bag full of firearms in the trunk. “My associate owns this estate,” He says, pulling a cigar from his pocket and digging for the lighter. “He knows we're here.”

His grandfather drives him out to the countryside, a duffel bag full of firearms in the trunk, and teaches him how to shoot.

Logan hates it at first—he hates how his ears ring from the shots; he hates how his fingers buzz and sting; he hates how the barrel of the rifle slams into his shoulder and sends him staggering backwards.

But he'll get used to it.

Trips to the countryside with his grandfather become more frequent.

Logan nods and doesn't make a fuss.

Logan brings up the rear of the group more often than not. He isn't sure when this becomes normal, when they all fall into their place within the group; yet, it is a gradual and natural movement like the growth of a flower or the settling of dust.

Logan brings up the rear of the group more often than not, stationed faithful at the backs of his friends, rifle in tow. He hates how right it feels to have a gun back in his hands. He hates that the most substantial contribution he has to give his friends is intrinsically linked to the part of himself he despises most.

The back is where he belongs, out of sight—he’ll cover their trail, he'll do the dirty work. He'll hate every second of it, but he'll do it for them. He is already tainted, already filthy, already coated in human blood.

Maybe that's why Logan lets himself get pushed around by bullies—to test his own patience; to pay recompense for his sins; to try and reassure himself that he won't shed human blood ever again. A part of him revels in the abuse, savoring his physical weakness. He pretends, he wishes he were as weak and useless as he lets on as he is shoved into lockers and struck across the face. 

—Because it is far easier, far less devastating, to just be a weak, helpless, and pathetic coward than to be a murderer. 

Logan brings up the rear of the group more often than not, where no one's eyes fall on his back and peer into his soul. His friends don't know who Logan truly is—and with soul-crushing dread, he can't help but wonder if they'd trust him if they did.

The gun burns in his hands, but it is his burden to bear. His finger is always on the trigger; it is his offering to his friends.

It is a little, not much.

He would do anything for them, he thinks. Anything except be honest. Anything except be known. Logan is always observing, always listening, always learning. But he fears nothing more than being observed, listened to, and discovered. It is all so risky, the business of knowing others and being known. It is terrifying—especially for Logan. 

Every day Logan curses the blood that courses through his veins and stains his hands. He offers desperate prayers to a God he doesn't know if he believes. He prays that he can outrun the monster inside of him; that the blood in his veins and genetic material in his genotype will not define him. He prays that the lonely emptiness in his chest will either dissipate, or that he will learn how to better bear it.

 His finger is always on the trigger.

He hates how easy it is to pull the trigger, to watch the phantoms clatter to the ground, a mess of fleshy appendages. 

(Targets on the cypress trees.)

Maybe this is his way of redeeming himself for his sins; using the evil in him to protect what is good.

Or maybe this is all he can do—kill, destroy, and slaughter. It's in his blood, after all.

He shoots two men dead when he is ten years-old.

“P-Please,” Logan croaks, tears streaming down his red, splotchy cheeks. “L-Let her go.”

Logan's grandmother doesn't pick him up from school that day. After the long walk home to the villa, Logan is dismayed to discover that neither of his guardians are there either. The boy closes his eyes, and takes a deep breath.

He sneaks into his grandparents bedroom and grabs the Beretta pistol beneath his grandfather's pillow. Slipping the gun into his belt and hiding it beneath his shirt, Logan quickly stumbles out of the room. Ignoring the protest of his sore feet, Logan locks the front door and sprints to the flower shop as fast as he can. It isn't necessarily a short trip, at least on foot. It takes him at least twenty minutes to get there—his lungs are pinched tight with each breath he takes; his legs are numb; his head feels full of cotton. 

He can hardly think. He isn't sure he has thought a single intelligent thought since he started running. But he still has the common sense to slip around to the backdoor of the shop when he finally arrives.

There are voices inside—gruff and angry. He is too wired, too on edge to decipher what they are saying. He peaks inside the door into the backroom of the flower shop.

It's blurry and dark inside—his vision has been getting worse, recently. Even his grandfather had mentioned as much during their routine shooting sessions in the countryside. 

His eyes adjust, and while the room is still blurry, he can see clearly enough that his grandparents are bound on the floor by tight cords and thick tape. Two men he doesn't recognize roam free: they are tall and wiry; black dress shirts ruffled and torn. They've been given a run for the money, Logan wouldn't expect anything less. 

One man lies on the floor, floating on a bed of crimson. Logan can't see well enough to determine with certainty, but he safely presumes he is dead.

It isn't the first corpse he has seen, and—in all unfortunately likelihood—it won't be his last. If time was a commodity on his side, he would likely chide himself for his callousness and indifference for the dead.

—But he doesn't. He doesn't have time and, quite honestly, he does not care.

One of the men barks something at his grandfather. His words are too angry, too demanding to be intelligible. His grandfather doesn't waver—doesn’t blink.

The other man points his pistol at his grandmother.

The crack in the door is just wide enough…Logan thinks. It is a horrible thought, but it doesn't go away. Before he knows it, Logan has pointed the barrel of the pistol through the crack. 

He doesn't think; he doesn't pray. There isn't time.

He pretends he is in the countryside with his grandfather, shooting at small targets nailed to the trunks of the cypress trees.

Bang!

The trigger pulls so easily—too easily—easier than ever before. The kick from the gun is light. For a moment, he squeezes his eyes shut and feels no guilt, no shame.

Just a target on a cypress.

“—What the—”

The body crumples to the floor, pistol clattering to the floor. 

“—Who’s there?!” 

Logan throws his back against the wall facing the alleyway beside the door. He bites down on his knuckle so hard he tastes blood, squeezing his eyes shut. 

“Show yourself or I'll shoot them!” The remaining man from inside the shop barks with fury. He doesn't think; he doesn't pray. There isn't time.

With shaking legs and trembling fingers, Logan stands. He leads with his gun, and gently pushes open the door. 

Blurry, everything is blurry—even blurrier as the tears well up in his eyes. He doesn't look at the bodies on the floor—he can’t. He doesn't look at his grandparents—he doesn't even let himself imagine what they must be thinking. Logan focuses only on the last man standing in the room, eyes following the man's outstretched arm. The man's semi-automatic hand gun is pointed at his grandfather.

For a moment the man stands in a stupified silence. Logan swallows.

“P-Please,” He pathetically croaks, tears streaming down his red, splotchy cheeks. “L-Let them go.”

The silence shatters to a million pieces. The man laughs—terror seizes Logan’s heart as a boisterous peel of unbridled laughter erupts from the man's belly. It echoes, booming through the entire room and slamming into his eardrums. “A child?” He exclaims, incredulous and sickenly amused. 

He just wants it to stop. He needs the laughter to stop. He needs there to be no bodies on the ground, no blood coating the floors. He needs his mom here with him, lovingly whispering in his ear; not just in his memories. Logan needs the gun trained on his grandfather to point somewhere else—

“Put down the gun while you still have some innocence left, kid.” The man spits, lips twisting in a malicious grin. The man isn't laughing anymore, but Logan still hears it—that laughter. 

His grandfather grunts something, but it's impossible to make out with the gag in his mouth. “Shut up!” 

Logan has never had any power, never had any control. He did nothing to protect his mother—he couldn't, he was just a child, innocent and naive. He has always been so helpless.

He never wanted any of this. He wants to curl up on the sofa and read on a rainy afternoon; he wants to  lay out on the balcony at night and look at the stars, bathing in the light of the moon. He wants to hold his mother's hand as they walk through the market, cut up vegetables for his grandmother as she cooks dinner, and play cards with his grandfather. 

It's a horrific trade: innocence for control. The devil holds out his hand.

The laughter gets louder and louder. His heart races, pounding like a war drum—

—louder and louder till it booms like thunder. 

Till it is silenced. 

“Drop the gun! Drop it no—”

Bang!

They leave Greece for good after that.

“—it will be good for morale and—”

“—Taylor.” Tyler says, somehow crossing his arms even more tightly.

“Ah—no.” Taylor swiftly hushes her brother's objection. “Nobody even has to buy anything, just give me one realistic idea for decorations. I want this space to reflect everyone, and feel a little more welcoming and like home.”

It's an ungodly hour of the morning in an ungodly place. Logan dinks his head against the filmy bus window, desperately peering out into a crimson sky. 

He has yet to see the stars in this awful place. The constellations that have guided him thus far in life, remaining consistent even across the sea, are nowhere to be found. He wonders if it is too cloudy here, too dark to see them. Some nights, he doubts if they are there at all.

Yet, he keeps looking for them, night after night.

“—Come on, half-wit.” Aiden says from where he sits upside-down on the school bus seat. A vexing smile spreads on his face, sharp enough to nestle beneath the other boy's skin. “Could be fun to spruce this place up a bit!” Aiden's amused eyes snap to the other twin, “I think we should put a trapeze over the graveyard—”

“Taylor,” This time Ashlyn chimes in. “I understand your vision here and appreciate what you're trying to do, but I don't want us to let our guard down or get too comfortable.” 

“You guys—” Taylor looks slightly exasperated. “We've been here for months now. And, in all likelihood, we won't be leaving anytime soon.” The girl says, melancholy gently falls over the room, each teen falling briefly lingering in contemplative silence. “—If we're going to be here, let's make the most of it.”

Another wave of silence and sobriety washed over the group. Home. Logan longs for home, even though he isn't sure what he considers to be home. He doesn't really want to go back to Greece; but he doesn't quite feel at home in Georgia yet, either—and he certainly doesn't feel safe or at home in the phantom realm.

“I think it could be nice to have a few board games.” Logan says quietly. “...My grandfather was really busy when I was little, but we used to play a variation of chess where each of us would get five moves a day. It gave us…uh, something to look forward to, I guess.” He shrugs, fidgeting with the stem of his glasses.

Taylor beams at Logan with an appreciative smile  “I love that idea, Logan!”

“Yeah, great idea, Logan!” Aiden says all too supportively. His smile takes a mischievous bent. “Let's call Alto's retirement home while we're at it, I'm sure they'd love to come over and play.”

Tyler snorts in amusement.

“It is far from the worst idea we've heard today,” Ashlyn says, crossing her arms with a glare.

“Oh come on, Ash.” Aiden red eyes sparkling with  antagonism. “You can't honestly tell me that you wouldn't enjoy a trapeze—”

“—Aiden, I appreciate your cooperation, but I don't think a trapeze is exactly realistic.”

From the seat behind Aiden, Ben scrawls down something on his notepad, before lifting it up for the group to read. ‘Twinkle lights %100’ it reads. 

“Yes!” Taylor cheers, eyes brightening. “That is what I'm talking about!”

After a week or two, an elaborate Pinterest board, and a few trips to the department store, the once bleak and weathered school buses in the lot beside the Banner's residence are blooming with life, twinkle lights, and teenage charm.

“Tay, this is fantastic.” Tyler admits genuinely, hands on his hips as he surveys the interior of the bus with pride. The room is bathed in a dim, yet warm, light. In the center of the bus, the seats have been unfastened and rearranged to make for a more open space. Quilted blankets have been strewn over the seats, band posters have been hung on the walls, and a few board games and books have been fitted in a bookshelf.

Ben gently pats Taylor on the shoulder, giving her a ‘thumbs up’ and a smile. Aiden curiously looks around, “It's very anesthetically pleasing.” he says with approval.

“I think you mean ‘aesthetically,’ but thank you!”

“Taylor, this looks really good.” Ashlyn says. 

Logan's eyes scan the walls. “No way!” He exclaims. Three magnetic chess boards have been strung to the wall, a small sign hangs above each one: ‘Tyler vs. Ben,’ ‘Aiden vs. Taylor,’ ‘Logan vs. Ashlyn.’ Another small piece of paper hangs to the side: ‘RULES: Only five moves per day!’ it reads.

He feels Taylor step beside him. “I remembered what you were saying about your grandpa. I thought it would be fun to try. Like you said,” Taylor says quietly, an almost imperceptible melancholy slipping into her voice. “It gives us something to look forward to. I hope that's alright!”

Logan blinks a few times, finally turning to her with a small, but profoundly sincere smile. “More than alright. It's perfect.” He says. “Thanks, Tay.” 

To the surprise of no one, Logan dominates ‘wall chess,’ mopping the floor with Ashlyn, Ben, and Taylor within a matter of weeks. Next on his schedule is Aiden, who is floating at a 1-2 record. 

After a day or two, Logan frowns at the chess board. 

The others had some semblance of recognizable strategy, Logan recalls—but if Aiden had a strategy, Logan cannot for the life of him decipher what it is. The boy curiously tilts his head observing the oddly placed pieces. 

It gets worse the next day.

—A smiley face.

Aiden has arranged his chess pieces in a smiley face. Logan takes his glasses off and rubs at his forehead. How is one to intelligently combat that which is without a semblance of rationality or good sense? The situation continues to deteriorate throughout the week as Logan is left without a solid course of action.  

“Check.” 

Logan looks up his book. Aiden stands at the chess boards with his usual smile. “Huh?”

“Checkmate.” The blonde boy says casually as he walks away from the boards and makes his way to the cooler. Ashlyn too looks up from her book in confusion.

Before Logan knows it, he has shot up from the tire he had been sitting in. The boy practically sprints to the boards. His jaw drops.

“GG, pal.” Aiden says cheerfully as he grabs an energy drink from the cooler. “Gonna go train with the others outside. Hasta luego!”

Aiden’s departure leaves the bus feeling empty and silent. After a few moments, Ashlyn quietly stands to join a bewildered Logan at the chess boards. The anxious boy runs a shaky hand through his hair.

“No, no…that's impossible. He couldn't have…but that doesn't make any—how could he have—” Logan silently mutters to himself, wracking his brain for an answer to his unanticipated defeat. 

Ashlyn places a hand on his shoulders. “His ways are not our ways.” She says, sarcasm dripping. “His thoughts are not our thoughts.”

Logan's hands smack down onto the lunch table, silverware rattling from the force. “Aiden.” The boy says frantically, desperately.

“Dude, chill.” Tyler says, annoyance etched in his face as he secures his glass of water. “You almost made my water spill.”

Logan's hair is disheveled, eyes practically bloodshot. He looks exhausted.

At least, more than usual.

Aiden looks up from his chicken nuggets. “Woah. Looking a little rough there, buddy.” Aiden smugly rests his check in his hand.

“How did you do it?” Logan questions, eye twitching.

“What's going on?” Taylor whispers to Ashlyn with concern. The red-head leans over. “Aiden beat Logan in chess last night.” Ashlyn quietly informs her.

Taylor's eyebrows raise. “Oh.” She mouths knowingly.

“Dunno.” Aiden says, shrugging his shoulders. “Got lucky, I guess.” 

Logan looks even more perturbed. “Rematch.” The boy demands, slinging around his suspiciously shaped backpack. The group watches with concern, and amusement in Aiden's case, as Logan unzips his backpack only to remove an entire chess board.

“HAH—” Aiden's laughter pierces the air, echoing through the cafeteria before Ben reaches over to clamp his hand over the boy's mouth. Many heads in the cafeteria pivot towards their table.

“Oh boy,” Ashlyn mutters to herself. 

“Logan, man, you've got to be joking.” Tyler says. “Lunch break is what, twenty-five minutes tops?”

“It'll be fast, I promise—” Logan urges without taking his eyes off of Aiden. His breathing is heavy. “—I just don't…how did you—just one match—”

Taylor quickly stands from the bench, coming beside Logan and placing her hands on his shoulders. “Easy, tiger.” She says carefully. “In through the nose, out through the—”

Aiden rips off Ben's hand. “—HAHA—”

“—Aiden.” Ashlyn hisses. “Quiet down. Everyone is looking at us.”

Aiden's shoulders shake with laughter, but the boy heeds Ashlyn's command like an excited dog that knows nothing but how to obey its master. He wipes at his eyes as a final few hiccups of laughter rack his body. “—M-Maybe after school.”

“At least tell me what on earth you were doing.” Logan begs. “You made a smiley face with your pieces, Aiden. I don't know how on earth you managed to even do that—”

Aiden sobers. For a moment, his eyes gleam with something Logan doesn't recognize.

“You’re scared.” Aiden says, smile never dissipating. Logan freezes. “You're scared to lose your best pieces. You don't ever use them to their full potential because you aren't willing to let them get too close to danger. Too close to exposure.” Aiden's words are like ice, sharp and cold as they pierce Logan's chest. “So you hide them. You hide them away behind the pawns where they can't do any damage—where they can't hurt anyone.”

Logan physically shivers. 

Aiden's eyes are hot, contact lenses redder than Logan remembered them. They were like lasers, burning through his skull straight into his soul. “What are you hiding them from, Logan? What are you scared of?” Aiden says, calmly and Logan wants to scream.

The bell rings.

“—oop, gotta go.” Aiden says, standing with a wave and grabbing his tray. “Toodles.” He smiles, all too knowingly. He leaves the group in a mystified silence. Ashlyn's eyebrows stand high; Ben chews the inside of his cheek; and at some point, Taylor's hands had tightened significantly around his shoulders—tight enough to hurt.

Tyler exhales deep and long. “Well.” He says, still unmoving despite the clattering of trays and silverware as the rest of the students in the cafeteria begin to clean up. “That was definitely interesting.”

He is scared, he realizes with a doomed resignation. He is afraid of everything, really. 

He loves his friends with an adoration and devotion that grows at an unstoppable and exponential rate with each long 31-hour day, and every long, treacherous night spent under the starless, crimson sky. 

And they love him back.

And that love scares him, because he cannot control it, he does not deserve it, and he cannot live without it.

They do not know the one they love, the one 

Logan's friends don't know what he has done. They do not know the sins he has committed or the shame in his blood.

“What happened to my father?”

His grandmother fumbles her fork—the metal utensil clatters onto the table with a shrill twang. “Excuse me.” She whispers, refusing to meet the gaze of Logan or his grandfather. Speaking of his grandfather, the man is stoneface and cold, jaw clenched tight. The air in the room suddenly feels quite thick—Logan is aware of each breath he takes as if it were shameful to do so. Sweat pools on his forehead; the puttanesca on his plate grows cold.

Usually, the boy would have crumbled beneath the discomfort of his caretakers. He would apologize and change the subject. Not this time.

Logan is twelve years old, and he has just made one of the biggest mistakes of his life.

His grandfather looks at his grandmother until she finally caves, looking up to meet his gaze. They share an indiscernible look with each other, as if communicating in a language completely foreign to anything Logan has ever studied. It spans for the longest three seconds of Logan's life. 

Finally, his grandmother stands, grabbing her plate. “I will be washing up.” She says quietly. “Call if you need.”

Logan's eyes follow her as she leaves the dining room to step into the kitchen. He can feel his grandfather's heavy eyes upon him, weighing like stones.

“I shot him.”

Logan laughs—his grandfather's dry and deadpanned sense of humor has largely shaped his own. But, even knowing his grandfather's propensity for out-of-pocket statements, nothing could have prepared him for that.

Only, when Logan searches his grandfather's face for any sign of amusement or wit, there is none. In fact, the older man's frown has deepened.

He had to be joking.

“You…you can't be serious.” Logan mutters, eyebrows beginning to furrow. 

“Let's go out back.”

Logan's stomach twists with nausea as his grandfather stands, grabbing his unfinished dinner plate and heads to the kitchen to place it in the sink. In all his years of loving with his grandparents, never had he seen his grandfather leave a scrap of his grandmother's cooking uneaten. Shakingly, Logan follows suit—half eaten plate of pasta in hand.

The October air that evening is brisk—too chilly for comfort. Logan would've wished his sweater was thicker if he would think about anything but the deep dread gnawing at his stomach. His grandfather plops down on the top step which descends into the alleyway behind the flower shop. Logan hesitantly sits behind him, adverting his eyes when his grandfather pulls a cigar from his pocket and flicks open his lighter.

“Don't tell your grandma.” He mutters—shoulders relaxing with his first puff. Logan twindles with his thumbs. 

“You’re so unlike your mother.” His grandfather finally says. It stings, Logan can't deny it. “Sorry.” The boy says—his apology falling somewhere in the no-man's-land between sarcasm and sincerity. Because Logan is sorry, deep down—his mere existence is sin.

His grandfather proceeds unphased. “She was wild and spirited. Fearless.” He whispers. The man's eyes are somewhere else—something softer than anything Logan has ever seen from him before. “We couldn't control her. And it would've been devastating to try and do so.” He smiles wishfully. “Like a wild stallion.”

Logan doesn't bother correcting his grandfather that technically, a stallion is an unneutered adult male horse, making it an odd and unfitting analogy for his mother. But even with his slight tone deftness regarding social cues, Logan can tell this isn't the time. He bites his tongue and nods instead.

“—But fear is a natural thing. It can protect us from situations and people that may damage us.” His grandfather exhales, small ploom of smoke wafting from his mouth. 

“She surrounded herself with poor company. Her big heart clouded out her better judgment. There was one man in particular she took special interest in. And he in her.” His grandfather’s eyes grow dark, grip almost imperceptively tightening on his cigar. “Too much.”

Logan swallows, curling his toes in his shoes. He begs God—even though he isn't sure he believes in God yet—that his grandfather doesn't say what he fears most. But, perhaps, after all this time, Logan still isn't praying right.

“He took her one day. Didn't let her go. He…used her.” His grandfather's voice chills Logan to the bone. It is distant. Numb. Cold. Suddenly, his grandfather no longer felt like the man who would walk with him in the greenhouse and rattle off useless facts about botany and agriculture; it didn't feel like the man who would always be ten steps ahead in every card game they played together, the man with such an infuriating, arrogant laughter erupting from his core; it wasn't his grandfather, who used to tell him the most exciting and intricate bedtime stories. 

“Somehow, he knew about my connections. He held her for random after…” For the first time, James Fields breaks, the man's gruff and raspy voice trembles and Logan wants to scream. Instead, the boy draws his knees close and rests his forehead on them, squeezing his eyes shut. When he realizes his eyes are damp, he takes off his steamed glasses, folding and setting them aside next to him.

“We got her back, but that man got away. I didn't see his vile face again for six years. Right after he killed your mother.”

With a deep, shaky breath, James executes whatever emotion had slipped through the cracks of his face.

“The copper I paid him on our final meeting wasn't a ransom payment, but five rounds from the barrel of my Beretta.” Logan is not concerned about the lack of remorse in James' voice—in fact, Logan thinks he might understand his grandfather more in this moment than he ever has before. “I would have shot him a thousand more times if I had that kind of ammunition.”

Silence follows, with the exception of Logan's sniffling. James stares off down the alleyway as if it went for thousands of miles. He continues to speak monotonously, as if he were reading the words off the wall at the dead end of the alleyway. “She wanted to keep you though, after everything. She didn't want that man to take one more thing from her.” The old man swallowed. “I…I didn't want her too. I wanted every trace of that man's blood to burn in hell.” Logan bits down on his knuckle. The tears flow freely down his cheeks now. Finally, for the first time since the two had sat down out behind their apartment, James Fields looks at his grandson.

“But I was wrong.” He whispers, a few tears escaping his ancient eyes, tricking down the wrinkled crevices of his face. “No one is defined by their blood, their heritage, or even their own past. We choose who we become with every small decision we make. People are like water—always changing, always taking a new shape. You alone choose who you will be.”

Logan tries desperately to listen and take to heart what the man is saying, but it's as if the revelation of his origin is an impenetrable wall placed in front of him. 

“Do…do I look like him?” He can't stop the question, no matter how childish and shallow it sounds, to slip out of his mouth.

James gives a sick chuckle. “Certainly not after I was finished with him.” Logan winces, squeezing his eyes shut. Realizing his words weren't the most comforting, his grandfather clears his through and gently pats his back. “Logan. Look at me.” 

Logan does, but the dual blow of 1) being without his glasses and 2) having eyes full of tears leaves James looking blurry and distorted. The man's large hands take his shoulders firmly. “That man might've brought you into the word,” His grandfather says with his entire chest, “—but he is not your father. And His evil decisions do not define you.”

Logan isn't sure if he believes his grandfather. Logan isn't really sure of anything. He is sobbing now—the boy collapses into his grandfather who, despite not being an overly affectionate man, wraps his arms tight around his grandson. “It was hard for me at first,” James admits, “But since the first time I set eyes on you, I have never seen him. Only you. Only you, son.”

Aiden: @Tyler H. @Taylor H. RIP hernandez twins. gone but not forgetten

Ashlyn: forgotten*

Aiden: booooo 

Aiden: no but seriously, where are u guys

Aiden: Ben is literally crying rn he misses you so bad

Ben: false. do miss you guys tho. 

Ben: Everything okay?

Tay: hey!!! So sorry! We are both feeling a bit under the weather today so we stayed home!

Taylor: awww miss you too Ben. Tyler says so too.

Aiden: mans so sick and decrepit he can't even be bothered to type for himself 

Tyler: yeah sick of your impudent and idiotic irreverence. go suck a lemon, you turkey-brained psychopath 

Ashlyn: oop–

Ben: ‼️

Logan: ah

Aiden: blah blah big word blah blah dumb stupid

Aiden: ^ thats what u sound like, big dog

Ash: @Tyler H. @Taylor H. btw I think Logan grabbed your history homework

Logan: Confirmed 👍 

Logan: Want me to bring it by after school is out?

Taylor: that would actually be really great if you don't mind! 

Logan: No problem.

Ashlyn: u guys need anything else or r u good?

Tyler: think we are good, but thanks.

Aiden: you're welcome :D

Tyler: someone take him to the vet and put him down PLEASE 

Logan has never been to the Hernandez's home before, he isn't sure any of their group had been. Anxiety pools in his stomach as he rides down the sidewalk on his scooter. The boy keeps a keen eye on the address numbers plastered on the side of each home, which only continue to creep down, closer and closer to the one he had received.

Logan is observant, perhaps too much so, and it is a habit that has only ever gotten him in trouble. The twins were tight-lipped when it came to their personal life—conversations that veered in the direction of their parents or home life were effectively diverted to anything else. Tyler and Taylor were clammy and avoidant when it came to anything outside their social life—and rightfully so, Logan adds. He would never judge, as he is perhaps the most stingy when it comes to information pertaining to his parents and arduous history. 

After all, they have all only been “friends” for what, a month or two? Sure, when adding up the seven fateful hours the group spent together in hellish limbo every night it felt more like years, but, all things considered, they hardly knew each other. Neither the Hernandez twins, nor Ashlyn, nor Aiden, nor Ben—despite his admirable transparency and honesty when it came to his own past—owed him a shred of vulnerability or trust. The intrusive voice of doubt whispers in Logan's ear that, having not been bound together by some ill-fated curse, none of them would be friends to begin with. It's true, he can't deny it, but the thought still stung. He pushes it down for now.

1015 Poppy St. He feels a little queasy upon spotting the house. Will the twins be upset that he knows where they live? Is he intruding on the personal life they have gone to such great lengths to keep disclosed? His mind anxiously races—Logan wishes he would've just let Aiden do this when he had all-too-enthusiastically offered.

But perhaps the reason he felt so obligated to deliver the homework himself is because he understands. He understands the caution, secrecy—the shame. Aiden would have undoubtedly pried far more than Logan intends to. In fact, Logan doesn't intend to pry at all. 

It's a nice house, though he tries not to take too much notice out of respect, but he is nothing if not observant. 

—Perhaps too much so.

The lawn is short, freshly cut, checkered like a baseball field. The shrubs aren't mangy or unkempt; they've been trimmed within the last few months. But by far the most notable about the home is the wealth of marigolds thriving in the flowerbed. The vibrance and warmth of their red and orange hue help ease his nerves, beckoning him to come closer. 

They've been well looked after—he knows a thing or two about flowers, after all. He also knows what they represent—marigolds, that is—especially to South American cultures. 

(“‘Día de los Muertos’” his grandfather’s voice rasped all those years ago. The older man briefly paused his watering, and pointed a calloused finger to the flowers in question. “Means, ‘Day of the Dead’ down south of the border. It's a holiday; some people like to plant marigolds then. The idea is that the bold colors help guide the souls of the dead back to their loved ones who are still alive and kicking.”

Logan silently, soaked in all his grandfather had said. “Is it true? Do they actually—”

His grandfather's loud cackle echoed throughout the greenhouse. Logan's ears burned. “Sorry—is that a stupid question?”

“No, no. It's a great question. I'm sorry for laughing.” His grandfather’s large hand heartily clapped him on the back. Logan felt some wind escape his lungs. “Isn't for me to say if it's true. But what matters most is that they guide the souls of the living into my shop.” His grandfather smirked.

After a moment or two, Logan watched his grandfather's face sober. The man returned to gently spraying down the plants. “In my experience, it seems for most people, traditions and customs are less about what's definitively true, and more about connection. Connecting to who we used to be, who we are; and remembering what we've lost.”)

He is intentional to not make any assumptions about why the Hernandez’s chose marigolds, maybe they just thought they were pretty. After all, most people don't work with flowers all day—but the thought does linger in his head.

The closer he gets to their front door, the more nervous he feels. ‘Maybe it would be best to just leave the homework on the doorstep, leave, and send a message,’ Logan thinks. The boy mulls it over, but finds he is out of time as he arrives at the front door.

‘They know you're coming.’ He reminds himself. ‘They asked you to bring their homework. Get out of your head.’ 

With a deep breath, Logan knocks on the door. To knock would likely be quieter, which means a higher chance that they won't hear him. And if they don't hear him, then he will just leave the homework outside and send a message—

—his stomach sinks as the door opens.

“Logan! Hey!” Taylor’s head peaks out from inside the house. He feels a significant sense of relief at the sight of her instead of Tyler, or some other member of the Hernandez family which he has never encountered before. Out of all his friends, Taylor made him the least anxious. She was predictably kind, understanding, and gracious.

And, in all her calming predictability, she did not appear to be displeased or irritated to see him. 

She looks tired, drained of her usual enthusiasm—yet still grateful. 

He wishes for only the best of things for Taylor Hernandez.

“Thank you so much for bringing that. I'm sorry you had to come all the way over here.” She cracks the front door open just wide enough so that she can slip through and shut it behind her. It's an interesting move that he can't keep himself from psychoanalyzing: it's as if she is trying to keep something inside the house.

Or, perhaps, keep someone out. Logan instantly feels guilty for being here. He chokes down his reservations and pretends to be a normal, socially adept individual.

“Yeah, of course.” He says, handing her the packet of homework. “Are you guys feeling any better?”

He is surprised to see a poorly disguised guilt creep on to Taylor's face as well. “Oh. Uh, yeah—definitely getting there.” She laughs nervously as she takes the papers from his hands. 

“That's good.” Nodding, he gives her a kind smile. He isn't here to dig or investigate—just to be useful. He hopes that is clear to her. That's why he made sure it was him who made the delivery, not Aiden. So, he'll make sure that they don't need anything else, and then get out of their hair. “Do you guys need anything at all? I don't mind to—”

“I–No, that's sweet, but thank you.” Taylor assures him. Logan is prepared to leave at that, but something in Taylor's expression makes him wait. “We, uh,” The girl chews on her lip and tilts her head—he can see the cogs turning in her face. There is clearly something on the tip of her tongue. “We aren't actually sick or anything. Just—” 

He waits patiently without making a sound. Even breathing feels almost disrespectful as Taylor, renown for her giftedness in conversation, struggles to string together her thoughts. “Taylor, it's fine. You don't have to explain, really.” He assures her. Of course Logan is curious, dreadfully so. But there is a deep, remorseful understanding within him; it reminds the boy that there are many things he himself is not yet willing to share with his friends, no matter how fond of them he may be. What a filthy hypocrite he would be to expect more from others than he is willing to give. “I-I get it.” He adds quietly.

There is trust to be found in sharing secrets, yes—but there is also trust formed in restraint and patience.

Taylor’s expression conveys relief; there is gratitude in her eyes. “I know, I–” Finally, she exhales. “Thanks.” Her eyebrows remain furrowed. Logan has given her an out, but from the look on her face, he has the feeling she will not take it. He understands that feeling too. 

Logan wonders if his friends would treat him the same if they knew him through and through—if they were made aware of the secrets and sins he hid. He wonders what they would think about him keeping secrets from them to begin with. But Taylor is braver than him, far more committed to her integrity. He is almost certain that telling the group her and Tyler were sick was not an idea that originated from her. She couldn't make her home in the morally grey, not like Logan had for his entire life.

His guilt returns—he wants to reassure her that she doesn't owe him anything. He doesn't expect anything from her. He is here to be useful not to take, and take, and take—

Taylor’s voice breaks him out of his thoughts. “You don't have anywhere you need to rush to, do you?” She asks, “Do you want to sit for a minute?” The girl  gestures to the front steps.

“Yeah, of course. If-if that's what you want.” He says all too quickly. He is still caught off guard when anyone goes out of their way to spend time with him. Logan isn't sure if that feeling will ever wear off despite how kind and patient his friends are. He doesn't think he'll ever be able to believe for himself that anyone actually enjoys his presence; that his existence isn't a constant burden upon those in his atmosphere. 

But if anyone has planted seeds of doubt in his mind regarding his value, making him question self-defacing beliefs he has held about himself for his whole life, it is his friends. 

The girl loops her arm between his—a gesture not uncommon in Taylor's arsenal—and tugs him down to sit beside her to sit on the front step. 

For a few seconds, all is silent and Logan feels the discomfort trickle up his spine. “Uh, I—your house is nice. I, uh, the landscaping is really well done.” He blurts out. ‘No! No, you idiot.’ Logan curses himself. ‘She didn't want to sit down to talk about the shrubbery.’

Amidst his tonal deftness and internal horror, Taylor smiles—almost laughs, even. “I’m honored. That's high praise coming from a plant expert.” 

“I am definitely not an expert.”

“Don't sell yourself short.” She says, eyes brightening. “No, but unfortunately I can't take any credit. Ty takes care of the yard like his life depends on it.” Her face falls almost imperceptively. She lapses into silence one more, and this time, he doesn't dare break it. 

The marigolds peer up at the two teenagers, gently waving in the breeze. 

He feels Taylor's hold on his arm tighten. Logan risks a glance at her. She doesn't meet his gaze.

“—Today is our dad's birthday—or, uh, would've been.”

The words are spoken softly, settling like dust. He isn't surprised—no, he is far too observant and fatalistic for that—but he finds himself gutted and helpless all the same. Logan swallows. He isn't quite sure what to do, he wishes so desperately that his GPA reflected his social intelligence.

—But perhaps he doesn't need to know what to do; the revolutionary thought that comes to him, seeming far too easy and obvious to hold any potency. But maybe, just maybe, Taylor doesn't expect anything from him, either; and maybe, he decides, the kindest and most thoughtful thing he can do in this moment is simply to sit in the silence, grief, and discomfort with her.

He tightens their arms a little closer together, too. 

“I'm sorry.” He whispers knowingly. She hums in gratitude. 

“He was a firefighter, and—” Taylor's eyes are damp and soulful, but the faintest smile comes to the girl’s face. “—And he loved being outside—sometimes, when he was off duty, he would let us call into school sick and we would all go hiking and have a picnic together.” 

She pauses. A peaceful silence falls between the two of them. It is a comfortable and natural silence; surprisingly, Logan doesn't feel the need to fill it. A car drives by, presumably a neighbor because Taylor waves to them—she is unbothered when they do not wave back. He is learning that this is who Taylor is. Her love and kindness isn't transactional, but something she gives freely. 

But Logan can't help himself no matter how hard he tries—and he tries so hard—to keep his mind from making this about his own father.

‘You’re father sounds like a good man, Tay.’ He hears his own phantom whisper. ‘My father was a monster. He didn't deserve to breathe.’ Logan bites his cheek. This isn't about him, Logan scolds himself. This is about Taylor and Tyler grieving their father.

But Logan can't help himself no matter how hard he tries—and he tries so, so hard—to ward off his most intrusive thought. It is always lurking in the back of his head. It is always there whenever anything good happens to him, whenever he finds any joy or comfort in his friends, every time he is at peace.

‘Your father was a despicable, evil man and you're just like him—a monster, a murderer.’ Logan trembles.

He wonders what their face would look like if they knew; he wonders if they would be disgusted and furious to know the secret he had been hiding from them; he wonders if Taylor would still be here, arm in arm with him, confiding and content in his presence. 

Suddenly, Logan feels quite sick. He is extraordinarily relieved when Taylor begins to speak again.

“Tyler has been a rock for my mom and I.” She whispers to him. “I know he isn't always a ray of sunshine or the easiest guy to get along with,” Taylor's eyes give the slightest glimmer when talking about her brother, “But he does so much for us that other people don't see. He would do anything for the people he loves, no matter the cost.”

Logan listens closely, surrendering his own understanding of Tyler in order to see him through Taylor's eyes. Tyler gave Logan significantly more anxiety than Taylor did. Tyler was confrontational, unafraid to verbally and physically address anything he disapproved of. Logan couldn't remember the last time, if ever, that he had seen Tyler smile.

For the briefest moment, Logan allows himself to imagine what a normal family would look like—with parents who love each other and are very much alive; to have a sibling or two who, even though may be a source of irritation, are a dependable companion and confidant. 

Is it worth it to know such a great goodness if it is just destined to be snatched away, leaving a gaping hole in its absence?

“Do…do you ever want to forget? Forget the good times so that it doesn't hurt so much?” The question tumbles out of his mouth before he can stop it. It is probably an insensitive thing to ask; he should probably apologize, but just this once he doesn't, because it is an honest question. It is perhaps the most honest he has ever been with his friends (which is quite pathetic, but still a start).

Taylor quickly looks over to him. For a moment, she looks surprised and Logan is about to panic.

If there was any distance left between them before, Taylor closes it, pressing closer into his side and resting her head on his shoulder. Logan's anxious heart does an abnormal sort of thump in his chest. Honest, sincerely meaningful friendships will surely be the death of him. 

“Sometimes,” She admits, carefully contemplating her words, “But I think it's worth it to remember, even when it hurts. My dad helped make me and my brother who we are, and I want to carry a piece of him on with me everywhere I go.”

Logan listens intently, and he understands. He is, again, quite grateful she chooses to continue, pulling him out of a self-destructive train of thought.

“In a cool sort of way, I feel like we give a little piece of ourselves to everyone we love, and the people who love us give a piece of themselves back. People change people, y'know?”

He hopes so with all his heart. He hopes that his friends make him braver and kinder until there is no room left for any trace of the man his father was. Logan doesn't realize that he has tightened his grip on Taylor.

“Sorry, that was dumb.” Taylor snorts, lifting her head. “It sounded a lot better in my head.”

“No, no—” He reassures her, “I really liked it.” He says with truth and sincerity. 

“You're too nice.” She laughs, untangling their arms so she can elbow him on the ribs. “Tyler would make fun of me so hard if he heard me say that.” She grins. Logan pretends to look offended, nursing his ribcage with a matching grin. 

“Is Tyler alright, by the way?” He asks carefully, hating how Taylor's face falls ever so slightly. He almost wishes he could take the question back. 

“He's been resting in bed most of the day.” She says solemnly, “But honestly, he never rests these days, and I worry about him. As odd as it sounds, I'm really glad he is taking it easier, especially today.”

Logan nods with understanding. “Tell him that I really hope he feels better.” 

Taylor gives him a small, but deeply sincere smile. “I will.”

A familiar feeling overtakes him: guilt, shame, unworthiness. Taylor has been nothing but honest, transparent, and vulnerable with him, and what has he given her in return? A packet of crumpled homework and a convoluted web of secrets and lies. She hasn't asked a thing from him—she hasn’t prodded about his skill with a sniper rifle, his relationship with his grandparents, or his noticeably absent parental figures. 

But it isn't just guilt and obligation; for the first time in maybe ever, Logan finds that he wants to tell her something. He obviously is miles from ready to spill everything, but he wants her to know him at least a little better. 

He values his new friendships. He wants to love them and be loved. He wants to know them and be known. He hungers for it with his whole chest.

“—Love is never safe. Choose to love anyway.” He hears his mother's voice whisper in his ear.

But he can't. He can't be fully exposed before them because of what he is, what he comes from. 

But, maybe, they can know a little. 

A little. Not much. 

“Hey, T-Taylor?” His voice cracks unceremoniously. Great, he thinks. What a fantastic way to inaugurate a conversation that is already threatening to give him diarrhea from nervousness. 

“Yeah, Logan?”

He wrings out his hands, and closes his eyes. “Thanks for being so honest with me. It, uh, means a lot. I know…stuff like this isn't easy to talk about.” 

He feels her arm wrap around his shoulder. “Always. That's what friends—”

He doesn't mean to cut her off, but he knows it is now or never. “—My, uh, my parents are gone too.” He swallows, continuing with a hoarse whisper. “They were shot. I've been with my grandparents since I was five.”

Taylor is silent at first, but her actions speak loud enough to put Logan's insurmountable anxiety to bed. Her arm silently tightens around his shoulders—so much so that it is almost uncomfortable.

When the girl finally speaks, he is very nearly rocked to his core. 

“Does…” She whispers so quietly that anyone not sitting right beside her would have been unable to hear it. Her voice is more fragile than before. “Does it ever get any easier?” 

He thinks of his mother—her face which grows more and more distant by the day; her beautiful loving eyes which have been drained of their color because he just can't remember. He thinks of her last words; he wonders if she would be proud of him now. 

She loved him and wanted him despite knowing what he was; despite all the pain and abuse she endured at the hands of his biological father; she still gave him a chance for God knows why and now—

—would she still think he was worth it? Would she still want him and love him?

He doesn't know. And he can never know—not for certain.

Because she is dead. She is dead and gone. 

“Logan.” Taylor whispers brokenly. “Hey—” 

Despite his usual perceptiveness and keen observation, Logan doesn't realize he is crying until Taylor gently lifts him to his feet. It's only then that he realizes she is crying too. She tugs him close, and he wraps his arms around her likewise. “—I'm sorry, Tay...” He apologizes against her shoulder. 

Because he isn't sure it does get any easier. 

Just different.

“Sit up.”

“—Ash—”

“Don’t talk, it'll make it worse.”

“S’rry.”

“Here, lean forward.” Despite the girl's fiery firmness, her hand is light on his back as she guides him forward. She is here with him; she isn't going to leave. He tries to focus on her instead of the agonizing throb of his face. 

The rag he holds to his nose is soaked—no, drenched in his blood. It is too far gone to be of use, but Logan holds it to his nose all the same to avoid dripping blood all over Ashlyn's bathroom. Ashlyn notices, quickly grabbing a few paper towels. “Here.” She trades with him, tossing the rag into the sink. He gratefully accepts.

Though his eyes are squeezed shut, he can feel her gaze longer on him assessing his injury. Her hand trails from his back to his shoulder as she, no doubt, surveys the damage to his face. “She really got you good, huh?” Ashlyn gently quips.

The “she” in question is Ashlyn's mother, military veteran and combative virtuoso. 

Self defense training is going great by the way. Thanks for asking.

“Uh huh.” He murmurs. She pats his shoulder.

“Hold tight for a second, Logan. I'm gonna get you some ice.”

Her footsteps creak against the floorboards as she swiftly leaves the upstairs bathroom and his nose instantly hurts a thousand times worse. 

How ironic. The training designed to toughen him up has only proven just how pathetic, how weak, and how useless he is. He hates it; he hates being a burden on his friends. He hates being the weak link, the one who always needs to be defended.

(‘...But it's better than being a murderous monster…’ The darkest voice in his head whispers to him. ‘Savor this. The abuse; the weakness. Let it break you, beat you down until you are harmless and maimed. Let it teach you and tame the stubborn beast that you are.’)

He breathes heavily through his mouth and stops thinking. He prays—not a very significant, or reverent, or holy prayer, but he prays nonetheless—that Ashlyn comes back soon; to serve as a chaperone for him and his dangerous thoughts. The prayer goes unanswered for longer than is comfortable—as all prayers do—but, by some divine grace, is finally heard.

“Hey.” The red-haired girl says as she makes her way to him. “Ice.

Words between Ashlyn and he have always been few. They are both observant, the two of them—dangerously so. Words often feel redundant with Ashlyn. If she can see right through him like he fears she can, she doesn't say anything. 

He is forever grateful.

“Mmm,” he hums in gratitude, receiving the ice pack. He grimaces as it makes contact.

“The others left for the night, but you’re welcome to stay for as long as you need to. My dad can give you a ride whenever you're ready.” 

“Th’nks, ‘shlyn.” Comes Logan's pathetic and sodden response.

“—Logan!” He hears a new voice as a slightly heavier set of footsteps enter the small bathroom. “Logan, again, I'm so sorry about your nose. I should have swung my elbow less aggr—”

“—No worries, Mrs. B’nner.” Logan peeks open an eye and, despite the discomfort of causes, allows the slightest smirk to tug at his lips. “—Shoulda ducked.”

A grin splits across Mrs. Banner’s face; her eyes glisten with fondness and sympathy. Logan's heart swells in an odd way; in a way it hasn't in longer than he remembers. 

So does his nose. Hah.

Ashlyn's hand returns to his back as if she could sense the drifting of his thoughts to a land across the sea; to a woman unreachable to him, veiled by the curtain of mortality. His eyes start to water. He squeezes them shut and shifts the ice pack.

He says for dinner, and even a while after that. He stays and observes how the Banner's speak to, joke with, and care for each other. He stays for longer than he should, really.

A family. They are a family. He feels like a dirty man in a sacred temple; like a shepherd before a holy, burning fire. He knows he should feel more remorseful, more out of place and apologetic for being where he does not belong.

But he doesn't.

He feels like a thief, taking what isn't his; a drunkard, drowning himself in a temporary pleasure to forget the past. 

The Banner's are kind to him, they are welcoming and open. They listen to him with interest and regard him with respect. They make him feel like he can be someone new; like he can finally put the past behind him and step out.

Mr. Banner's car slows, rolling to a stop in front of the flower shop. 

(He doesn't tell him that his grandparents aren't there. He doesn't tell them where they really live

He doesn't tell them he will have to walk two miles beneath the dim glow of the streetlights in order to make it to his house.

Because old habits die hard.)

“You’re welcome over anytime, Logan!” Mr. Banner says cheerfully from the front seat. “Your energy level is honestly refreshing compared to…uh, some other people who like to stop by.” Mr. Banner awkwardly chuckles. Logan knows exactly who he is referring to. Ashlyn exhales in amusement.

“Thank you. Really. But I wouldn't ever want to impose.” Logan says, cracking the door open.

Ashlyn rolls her eyes. “Logan, Aiden invited himself to my dance practice.” She says, trying to sound annoyed but ultimately failing to mask nodes of fondness from creeping through. “You're fine. Seriously.”

He swallows and nods. “Thanks.” He says quietly before stepping out of the Jeep. He doesn't look back at the Banner's out of fear that he might burst out in tears. He gently closes the car door.

Too gently. It doesn't latch. 

Dang it.

“—Oh. Oops.” He pulls the door back open. “Uh, my bad.” He stammers before slamming the backdoor a little harder on the second go around.

Family. He has more than enough time on his walk home to think about it. Far too much time.

It's more than he can bear.

He didn't know he missed this. 

He didn't know he wanted this.

With Alex's key card clenched tightly in hands, Logan reels from the shift. They have all gotten better at handling the unpleasant sensation of having their bodies ripped from one dimension into the other, but it is nonetheless a jarring and dreadful experience.

Logan holds his breath as the cell door swooshes open, cautiously steps into the long, metallic halls of wherever he has been locked up for the past few days. The corridor is enveloped in a dim, crimson glow—he is weary to wander far from his cell into the eerie unknown around the corner, but what choice does he have?

He hates being alone in this place. It is the only catalyst strong enough to fill him with enough courage to explore the labyrinth. He has to find his friends. With each step, he fully expects a phantom to lunge out of the shadows, slicing into his flesh like a razor blade, shredding him to pieces. 

Suddenly, he feels a deep wave of homesickness, or something akin to it. He misses his place at the very back of the group. He misses the weight of the rifle in his hands and the deep responsibility of keeping his friends safe. There is no one ahead of him now; no one to protect, no one to follow, no one to depend on. He must chart his own path. 

He doesn't think, he just moves forward, one step at a time. 

He rounds the bend.

He spots a door—almost identical to the one he had emerged from. Logan can't help but sprint to the keypad.

Ben. He finds Ben first—honest, earnest Ben.

Logan admires Ben perhaps the most of his friends for the very same reason that he struggles to look the other boy in the eye. 

Ben had laid all his cards down on the table. He had opened the door of his closet and wrestled the skeletons out himself. The silent boy had chosen transparency and trust from nearly the very beginning—offering up the most sacred and painful parts of himself like a sacrificial lamb placed on the altar.

 Logan knows Ben, he knows of the boy's past, he knows the things that got under his skin and the demons that dance in his eyes. Logan trusts Ben.

—But only because Ben had let them in. Ben had set the standard for what trust and sacrificial honesty looked like. He had thrown open the curtains, allowing sunlight to flood the darkest corners of himself. 

But Logan hasn't. 

Logan lingers in the shadows, scared to be fully seen and known by those closest to him. He lets the filthy and wickedness inside of him fester and rot. Logan is a hypocrite and a thief—allowing himself to indulge in a feast he had done nothing to prepare; relish in a wealth he had not worked for; and bask in the warmth of the spring sun without enduring the harsh winter. He is profoundly unworthy of his friends and their immense loyalty and trust.

So Logan never looks Ben in the eye for more than a moment.

In the presence of a saint, it is never more obvious that Logan is a sinner.

The door slides open and Logan instantly knows he has found Ben—he feels the presence of the boy like a guilt in his chest, and a tenderness in his throat. 

“Ben!” Logan throws himself into the larger boy’s chest before the two of them have a chance to lock eyes; before Logan can remember that this friendship, this alliance is not one he deserves. Ben grips Logan with a steadfast intensity, rubbing comforting circles on Logan's back.

Ben pulls back. ‘The others?’ He signs, brow drawn in concern.

“You're the first I've found,” Logan says, he flashes Alex's key card between his fingers and brandishes a small smirk. Hope beams in Ben's eyes. The boy gives Logan a wide smile—perhaps the grandest he has ever been offered by Ben—and enthusiastic thumbs up.

The two take to the dark, ominous hallway, but he feels lighter—if Ben was so close to his cell, the others must be close too. He feels lighter—

—until he doesn't.

It isn't the phantoms that rush out for the shadows to assail him, but his own demons. The two of them have hardly stepped into the corridor whenogan reaches out to grab Ben's arm. “—Ben.” He says quietly, almost a whisper.

Ben looks back, wide eyed and curious. Logan wants to wilt under his gaze like a weed that has grown up somewhere it does not belong.

“I, uh, want to tell you something. Sometime, when we aren't…y'know…busy with all this.” Logan stutters. Ben's curiosity only grows—it does little to veil the boy's foundness, however. 

“—About my past.” Logan clarifies. “You deserve to know what I've done—like you…I think I owe you the same courtesy that you showed to us.”

“I’ve killed before.” Dances on the tip of Logan's tongue. “And I have a sinking feeling that I'll kill again, before all this is over.” But it is not the time of place. For the first time, Logan basks in the understanding in Ben's eyes—he lingers in the boy's gaze, and does not look away, even when his mind screams “Hypocrite! Liar! Sinner!”

Ben nods, patting Logan's shoulder with one hand, and signs with the other. ‘Soon.’

That's her. That woman from Savannah.

He is shocked by just how little mind he gives to the ethics of the situation. This woman has hurt them and will continue to do so. He doesn't think about pulling the trigger—it is natural. It is instinctual.

It is everything he has always feared.

Just a target on a cypress.

He watches the bullets nestle into their mark with hard eyes. He watches her fall to her knees, gritting her teeth. He watches her blood splatter and trickle—paint upon the canvas. He watches and feels very little.

‘I should put a bullet through her skull.’

The thought stops him. With startling suddenness, he finds time itself to be frozen in place. It's as if the earth finally came to a halt on its axis. The pistol in his hands feels hot and heavy. His eyes follow the smoke slowly rising from the barrel of his gun; it reaches for the heavens until it meets the metal plated ceiling.

It's been so long since he's seen beyond that ceiling. It's been so long since he's seen the stars.

(“My Sirius,” she whispers, “the brightest star in all the sky.”)

Maybe he has lost his way.

Maybe his way was worth losing.

He lowers the gun.

He loses his glasses in the jump. His friends are just distorted blips, spotted around here and there in the cramped confines of the metal box car.

Logan squeezes his eyes shut, pinching the bridge of his nose and gathering his knees to his chest. The train jerks and shakes—each jostle of the freight car sends small surges of pain through his bones. The clatter and squeal of the tracks rings in his ears. He wishes so desperately for stillness and silence.

He imagines that, if overstimulated could be perfectly represented by a situation or circumstance, this would be it.

The adrenaline is wearing off—Logan is getting his first taste of the aches and pains to come. His shoulders sink with exhaustion; his body throbs from the jump. 

Everything hurts; he can't see; and he is so, so tired. 

So he cries. His practically useless eyes sting, welling up with tears; they trickle silently down his face. He tilts his head back against the riveted metal wall of the box car.

Just how much more is he expected to take? Just how much can he take?

If Ashlyn's theory is correct, the end has already begun—they are becoming phantoms. Oddly enough, the thought doesn't do much to him. He has always felt this way, shameful and contaminated. For years he has been learning to live with a bloodshed and sin deep inside of himself that he cannot cleanse. The depravity of his father; the lives he had ended—maybe he's been a phantom all along.

Surprisingly, the thought that disturbs him more is that of his friends becoming phantoms. He deserves this; they do not. He has been on this destructive path even before the fateful field trip to Savannah; he has been tainted from the day he was conceived.

His fellow fugitives stowed away in the box car have been silent for quite some time—not to imply there is any lack of noise. The incessant and persistent screeching of the train against the tracks had effectively squelched any desire to converse with each other. 

Or maybe—as the adrenaline wears off, pulling back the curtain concealing the ugly truth behind it—the very real and irredeemable reality of their circumstances are finally sinking in.  

If their worst suspensions are true, then the group might not have much time left together. If they aren't recaptured by the government, then, at some point, they will inevitably succumb to the growing darkness inside of themselves. And, even if the government wasn't on their tail and they weren't mutating into otherworldly horrors, they would still be pressed to survive in the hellscape of the phantom dimension each and every night.

They are doomed. In every scenario, given every possibility and circumstance, they are irrefutably and astronomically doomed.

Taylor rustles beside him; at least, he thinks it is still Taylor—he hasn't bothered opening his eyes in quite some time. Not that it would do him a whole lot of good if he did. 

He blindly reaches out, slow and timid. His hand is met with stale air and the frigid metal floor. “Logan?” Taylor says with quiet concern and the faintest trace of amusement. She closes the gap, taking his hand in hers.

There's no light at the end of the tunnel. It feels disrespectful and childish to even try to encourage his friends or provide some false figment of hope. Any hope for the future has been put on hospice. Just make the end as comforting as possible.

If there's ever been a time to pray, it is now—but he doesn't even know where to start.

Logan squeezes Taylor's hand and takes a deep breath. 

“Whoever is out there,” Logan prays in his head. “...If you're out there…” The ever-present skeptic in his head that just can't be turned off decides to add. “...please just let us all stay together.” He begs. “Please, just spare us that mercy.”

As uncomfortable as he is, Logan savors the present moment—Ashlyn, Ben, and Aiden sit across from him, leaning against each other and the large shipment of plywood; Tyler and Taylor are to his right and left. They are battered and bruised; but they are together, they are safe. Logan dreads the passing of time; he dreads having to hop from the train once more and gain a brand new layer of bruises; he dreads nightfall, the milky eyes of the phantoms’ and their pearly white jaws; he dreads watching the light in his friend's eyes fade when they remember the bleak and hopeless situation they are in. 

“So…” Tyler's numb and emotionless voice says to his left, “—The mafia, huh?” 

Taylor's hand tenses in his own. Logan resists the urge to slam his own head back against the box car to knock himself unconscious. Barely.

Transparency had proven to be important to Tyler in the past. He was commendably loyal and protective, but it came at the price of full disclosure and honesty. Of all his friends, Logan probably worried about Tyler's reaction to his past the most. But Tyler must be as exhausted as he is, Logan thinks, because his voice isn't irritated or accusing—not even curious—just empty. 

As much as Logan doesn't want to have this conversation—especially now of all times—he might not have another chance. And he can't stomach the thought of dying without ever being truthful with the people he values most.

“Yes.” Logan says point blank. He doesn't have the energy or emotional bandwidth to be anything other than direct.

Tyler gives an humorless chuckle. “—Figures.” He shakes his head. “Anything else you forgot to tell us?”

‘Nothing I care to share,’ Logan bites down on his tongue. No, it was time to come clean. He doesn't want to carry this burden to his grave. 

“You ask,” Logan swallows, forsaking the way his pulse quickens. “I-I’ll answer.”

“...Logan.” Taylor says, scooting a hair closer. “You don't have to. Not now. We're all tired, and sore, and—”

“—It’s okay.” He assures her quietly. “Really. I…should've said something a long time ago.” Logan can't see it, because he can't see much of anything, but he can practically feel the slightest, satisfied smirk on Tyler's lips. “Yes or no questions, please.” Logan clarifies.

“Are your parents dead?” 

“—Tyler.” Taylor scolds with disapproval, leaning forward to shoot him a look.

“—What?” Tyler says, leaning forward to meet her fiery gaze, “He said I could ask—”

“—Yes.” Logan confirms, hoping to quell the argument.

Both siblings quickly fall silent. 

“Because of…mafia related incidents?” Tyler voices, clearly attempting to be a bit more respectful.

“...Yes.”

Tyler hums, chewing on Logan's answer. Out of the silence, he speaks. “I'm sorry.” It is genuine. “No kid should have to go through that.”

“...Thanks.” Logan says quietly. He dares to hope that maybe the conversation has run its course, but something in the air tells him that isn't the case.

“Are your grandparents really retired from the mafia?”

“Yes.”

“Really?”

He agreed to this, but he still can't help but feel defensive. He speaks with finality. “As much as one can untangle themselves from the mafia. Yes.”

“Alright.” Tyler says, holding up his hands. “I believe you.” He assures. 

“—Oh, I have a question.” Taylor says to his right; Logan much welcomes the interruption. Taylor's voice—though clearly tired and coarse—still held its unmistakable and unwavering kindness. “Your family lived in Greece, right? When you were young?” 

Logan nods.

“Do you speak any Greek?”

“Ναί!” Logan smiles, “That's ‘yes’ in Greek.”

“No way!” Taylor says with excitement. “How much do you still remember?”

“Not as much as I would like.” Logan admits. “It's been hard to keep up with it—especially with all…this.” He gestures to nothing in particular, but he is sure she gets the picture. 

“I bet you're just being humble.” She jokes, gently nudging him with her elbow—gently being the keyword, because her elbow is bruised, and his elbow is bruised; and everything, everywhere is bruised.

Whatever lightness and pleasantry had been allowed to blossom in the conversation—like weeds growing up between the cracks in the pavement—is suddenly ripped from the roots.

“How much…” Tyler stops himself, considering how to reword his question. Turning from Taylor to face her twin, Logan braces himself, “Were you involved in the mafia stuff?” Tyler asks.

“No.” Logan says all too fast. His mind is immediately flooded with memories, instances that make him question his own answer. The whole reason he is humoring Tyler and playing interrogation is to finally be honest. “...yes.” Logan says, huffing with frustration. “I don't know, Tyler.” It isn't a yes or no. But the truthful answer to the question isn't accurately represented by a yes or no. 

The barrage continues; as Tyler fires question after question, Logan grits his teeth and trudges onwards. 

“—Is ‘Logan Fields’ your real name?”

“Not the one I was born with. It is now.”

“You ever done any hard drugs?” 

“No.” Logan says, “N-Not willfully, at least.” He sees Taylor cringe in the corner of his eye.

“Do you have any siblings?”

“No. At least not to my knowledge.”

Tyler pauses—it’s his last question, Logan is sure of it. And he knows just what it is.

“Have you ever killed anyone?” 

Something in Tyler's voice shifts, his tone is serious—more serious than before, and it begs Logan to take this question seriously too. It's the question Tyler has been waiting to ask for months; it's the question Logan has been dreading.

Logan casts a worried glance across the car. From what he can tell, Ben, Aiden, and Ashlyn are still fast asleep in a peaceful pile of tangled limbs. Even if they were awake, he questions if they could hear the conversation over the noise of the track.

“—Ty…” Taylor's voice wavers, she doesn't need to say more—ehe is asking Tyler to stop. 

(The trigger pulls so easily—too easily—easier than ever before. The kick from the gun is light. For a moment, he squeezes his eyes shut and feels no guilt, no shame.

Just a target on a cypress.)

Logan can't help as the memories rush back. Yes. Yes, he has killed before but he had no choice.

Right?

(“Put down the gun while you still have some innocence left, kid.” The man spits, lips twisting in a malicious grin. The man isn't laughing anymore, but Logan still hears it—that laughter.)

He had to. He was helpless to do anything else. What else was there to do?

Suddenly, Logan despises the own conditions he placed on this losing game. He needs so many more words than just yes and no. He is more than just a deranged killer—he was just a boy trying to protect what was left of his family. 

Right?

“Have you ever killed anyone?” The question hangs in the air like a noose. It's a simple question, demanding a simple answer. He is a killer, or he isn't one—maybe that's all there has ever been to it.

He shivers.

Yes or no.

(He never wanted any of this. He wants to curl up on the sofa and read on a rainy afternoon; he wants to  lay out on the balcony at night and look at the stars, bathing in the light of the moon. He wants to hold his mother's hand as they walk through the market, cut up vegetables for his grandmother as she cooks dinner, and play cards with his grandfather. 

It's a horrific trade: innocence for control. The devil holds out his hand.

The laughter gets louder and louder. His heart races, pounding like a war drum—

—louder and louder till it booms like thunder. 

Till it is silenced. 

“Drop the gun! Drop it no—”

Bang!)

“Yes.” He says.

Logan's face is blank. There is no strike of lightning sent to smite him down; there is relief or tremendous weight that lifts off his shoulders; there isn't even a wave of tears to rush down his cheeks. There is nothing. He feels nothing.

He rests his forehead on his knees. “Yeah.” He whispers again, just in case they didn't hear him the first time. 

“...Do you regret it?”  At first, Logan isn't sure if Tyler has spoken or if it is just his intrusive thoughts. The boy looks to his left and is met with Tyler’s patient, yet expectant eyes. There is a surprising lack of judgment or disgust—more than anything there is curiosity.

(And if Logan had his glasses, which he doesn't, he might find the slightest bit of compassion.)

“...Do you regret it?” Oddly enough, Logan has to think about the question. He has never considered it before. Of course he would have much preferred to have never been placed in a situation where bloodshed was part of the most favorable resolution. But that wasn't a decision given to him; he did his best with the unforgiving hand he had been dealt. And if he was put in that same situation again? 

He would still pull that trigger.

He had been nothing but honest so far; it is too late to turn back now. “No.” He says, unabashedly. “No. I don't.” He says again, still a whisper, but more firm; more sure of himself. “M-My grandparents were being held at gunpoint. I blew my cover. It was shoot him or…I don't know what else…” 

Logan closes his eyes. The train car continues to chug along, rattling and shaking. Suddenly, he finds a new appreciation for the clatter and noise—it’s better than sitting in the silence of his confession. It's an unapologetic reminder that they have to keep moving, no matter how ugly things get, no matter how many hard decisions must be made.

The thought makes his toes curl.

Taylor is moving. Probably to get as far away from him as possible before he shoots her too.

“Hey.” She whispers. Logan lifts his head; she kneels down in front of him.

“I don't know…” Taylor pauses, her eyes are damp and full of a compassion he does not deserve. “—I don't know all the horrible situations you’ve been in, and I don't know all the awful things you’ve seen, and maybe even done…” Tyler moves too—Logan feels a strong, lanky arm wrap arm his shoulders. He wants to look away from Taylor, to slink away in shame, but as she gently grabs his wrists and Tyler tightens his hold around his shoulders, Logan finds he has nowhere to go. 

“...but I know you.” Taylor says. Her face does not betray her words—he doesn't find the betrayal and disappointment he had braced himself for. There is only care, loyalty, and devotion. She oh so softly brings her forehead to rest against his own; Tyler shifts, facing the two of them and protectively tugging them close. Logan caves into the Hernandez siblings.

“Thank you for being honest.” Tyler says against Logan's hair. “I believe you.” Logan feels Tyler breath in deeply. “I trust you.” 

There are no tears left to cry—but if he had them, they would be pouring.

To the great apprehension of his grandmother, Logan isn't sure if he believes in God yet. Furthermore, if God is real, Logan has collected a few reasons to doubt that He is a kind and loving Father. But the gift of his friends—the Hernandez siblings, Ashlyn, Ben, and even Aiden—make him wonder if maybe God is real; if maybe God is good.

“Please just let us all stay together.” He prays one last time. “Please, just spare us that mercy.”

He is spared what he deserves.

His knees hit the pavement; the sedative makes quick work of the two of them. He clings to Taylor with what little strength he has left. She crumples into him. 

He is spared what he deserves.

 A little.

Not much.