Do not let thy fear consume thee, friends... for thy goddess, Yukiko, hast arrived.

So I am now utter trash for Tuckington. Go figue. Who would have guessed it. And, naturally, that means the only viable option in this situation to remedy my insurmountable heartbreak is to write Tuckington obsessively and ceaselessly. Naturally.

But allow me to cease my ranting. Let's get this show on the road.

Prologue

A month after the Epsilon incident, Wash moved out of the dorms.

It wasn't the simplest task. As much as he hated to admit it, despite having had a full thirty-three days to get over himself, he still wasn't ready to go back in his room. For as many great memories as he'd made there, they could never outweigh the sheer terror that hit him at the mere thought of seeing the familiar carpet, probably discolored if not ruined entirely. Logically, he knew that there was no danger, and that avoiding stressors this religiously wasn't a good idea (or maybe that was just the Counselor rubbing off on him). But his body didn't seem to have gotten the memo, because as soon as he even stood on the threshold, every fiber of his being began to scream desperately at him to run, no, get out of here, get help, stop him, no—

Bottom line, he just wasn't ready to go back in there. Not even for long enough to pack his bags; not even for long enough to grab a shirt and some clean boxers, as he had learned the hard way a few days ago. Kneeling in the doorway and dry-heaving for nearly an hour wasn't exactly his dream afternoon.

Damn lucky, then, that he had a horde of overprotective friends who were just chomping at the bit to help him out.

So, in a strange sense, he didn't really "move out" so much as he "sat on his lazy ass while his friends did all the heavy lifting". Connie was kind enough to get a folding chair from her room across the hall, which she set up right beside the door so that Carolina could just shout "DVD player!" or "Yellow notebook!" or "Porn!" and Wash would be there to either claim the item or vehemently deny ever having even looked at something so vulgar, Carolina, how could you even think that?

Everyone pitched in to help—even South, which was a huge surprise: she and Wash were closer than you might think, but she wasn't really one to volunteer for manual labor unless there were no other options. Connie, who blamed her slight stature but probably just sensed Wash's shitty mood, dragged another chair over and plopped down next to him, wrapping an arm around his shoulders in a casual display of affection that grounded him more than he cared to admit. And, even better, she stayed completely silent rather than trying to force him to talk about his feelings or whatever else—another thing he appreciated about her company. He had enough mother hens fussing over him without his best friend being one of them.

"Hey, man." Speak of the devil. York leaned out of the room for the hundredth time, gripping the doorframe a bit too tightly to be considered casual and running his free hand through his slicked-back brown hair. "You doing okay?" Wash pressed his lips together and nodded tersely in response. York had the decency to look ashamed as he muttered "Okay, good to hear," and fled back into the dorm immediately.

"What a square," Connie said offhandedly as soon as he was out of earshot, carefully gauging Wash's face for a reaction. He remained stoic.

Sighing quietly, she looked away, schooling her expression. "So." After a long moment, she managed to collect her thoughts. "This new school of yours…?"

"Blood Gulch Remedial School," he provided, his voice a bit raspy.

"Yeah, that." She waved her hand dismissively. "You excited?"

That, at least, was enough to choke a single dry laugh out of him. She winced at the harsh noise. "Oh, sure. I get the privilege of going to a school that Carolina herself referred to as 'a cross between a dive bar and a juvie'. Truly, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity."

Regaining her mental footing, Connie rolled her dark eyes, flicking him in the back of the head. "Yeah, but it has to be better than hanging out in the med bay all day." Then, under her breath, she added, "Honestly, I'm surprised the Director let you stay there free of charge. After last month, I would've expected him to kick you onto the streets."

The distaste in her voice was crystal clear. Wash smiled wryly. "Guess he was in a hospitable mood."

A pause. Connie surveyed his face intently for a moment, then shifted warily in her seat. "You could probably go to court with this," she said quietly after a minute or two. "A good lawyer could get you back in."

"No." The answer was curt and completely unlike him, but she somehow wasn't surprised. "Not worth it. Can't afford a lawyer, and I'm willing to bet he's got at least a few on speed dial. I'd rather not get my ass dragged through the mud and my wallet run through a wringer, thanks." He hesitated before shrugging and adding nonchalantly, "Besides, I don't want to provoke him now. Not after he finally dropped the murder charges."

And that was that. They lapsed back into a comfortable silence, Connie twirling her sideswept hair absently between her fingers. She didn't take her arm off of his shoulder. "Jazz CDs!" Carolina shouted from somewhere in the dorm, and Wash shouted "Mine!" back at her. They all tried to ignore the distinct lack of York and North teasing him; never before had Connie yearned for their playful ribbing like this.

"Will you at least be able to visit?" she asked eventually, brow furrowing. "If he really claims he's doing this all for your own good, he can't just ban you from seeing your friends, right?"

Wash shrugged again. "Dunno," he said honestly. "I definitely don't think he'll want to see me back here often, although he's taken the liberty of signing me up for daily sessions with the Counselor." Connie winced sympathetically at his grimace. "Which I'm just ecstatic for. God, that guy's creepy. And that bullshit he spews about controlling your emotions is about as comforting as a certain someone asking the same question every two seconds."

As if summoned by name, York popped out of the doorway a hundred-and-first time, arriving just a second too late to hear Wash's pointed words. He deposited Wash's gray-and-yellow messenger bag by the feet of Connie's chair, then immediately turned to the blond with a twitching smile. "Hey, man. You still doing—"

Before he could finish his infuriating statement of misplaced worry, North swiftly stepped through the doorway and smacked him sharply upside the head. Ignoring the resulting "Hey!", he tossed a suitcase full of familiar clothes down beside the backpack. A few orange prescription bottles clinked together in the mesh side pocket. "Bear with him, Wash," North said; then, turning to York with a glare, he hissed, "Give him some space, man. You aren't helping things."

Connie shot Wash a look like she'd just seen a pig fly past the window. "This is insane. Isn't it usually North who's insufferably overbearing? Isn't York supposed to be the chill one?" she demanded, gesturing wildly towards the two teens in question. "When did mom and dad switch places?"

York snorted. "Hey, I resent that. Clearly North is team mom and Carolina is team dad." He then shot a not-so-subtle hopeful look at Wash…

...who was too busy studying his shoes somberly to even notice their attempts. All three exchanged disheartened glances. This had to be at least the seventh time today that Operation: Cheer Wash Up had been an utter failure. And they had even gotten Maine in on it earlier! They'd played their trump card several times, and still he remained solemn.

"Oh, would you losers cut the shit already?" South groaned melodramatically as Maine maneuvered through the doorway carrying a huge stack of boxes. It took Wash a moment to spot her—she was balanced precariously atop the boxes and seemed to have made them into an impromptu chair. She stretched, cracking her shoulders and rolling her neck, before sprawling back out like an incredibly rude princess; Maine struggled to balance his load, which swayed dangerously every time she shifted her weight. "Stop babying the new kid. Jesus."

That finally elicited a proper Wash-like response. "I'm not a new kid!" Wash squeaked, the pitch of his voice rising several octaves. Naturally, the added humiliation of sounding like a pissed-off chipmunk only made it rise even higher. "I've been here since halfway through freshman year!"

Before he could embarrass himself further, Maine grunted wordlessly, and, just like that, effortlessly had everyone's attention. He didn't talk much, but it was in your best interest to listen on the rare occasion that he did. "He's right," the skyscraper of a senior muttered. "Not new."

"Thank you!" Wash huffed.

South merely cackled, grinning widely in a way anyone could tell was bad news. "Hate to break it to you, but if you still need your boyfriend backing you up, then you're definitely the fucking new kid, Wash." The blond in question immediately protested, but she didn't care enough to glean whether he was protesting being considered new or the boyfriend comment. "I mean, not even York is that much of a sissy, and he's a pretty damn big sissy, so that's saying a lot."

"Hey!" was York's brilliant retort, showcasing his scathing wit. "That's bullshit!" He shot North a pleading look with his good eye. "Back me up here, bro!"

With a snort, South quickly intervened. "Actually, I take it back. Wash, you're off the hook. Everyone can use a little help from the gentle giant here. York is officially a bigger sissy than you, effective immediately."

York made another vague noise of general irritation, but North just chuckled lightly, shaking his head. "No, she's right this time, York. This makes you the kid brother of the class."

This time, rather than grumbling, York shrieked in indignation, waving his arms in the air furiously. Drawn to the scent of conflict as always, Flowers immediately rushed to the rescue, practically skipping, with Wyoming's sleeve in hand. "Now, York, you have to stay positive," he admonished cheerfully; far too cheerfully for this time in the morning. "After all, we all know that 'kid brother' isn't quite accurate!"

"Yes; 'kid sister' is much closer to the mark," Wyoming pitched in.

"What is this, everybody-pick-on-York-day?!"

Before the argument could escalate any further, Carolina hastily cut in, brushing through the thickening crowd with ease. "Children, please!" she barked in her usual commanding tone that demanded respect. With a swipe of her hand, she batted away York's mumbles of dissent, fixing him with a sharp look. Her fiery red hair, fading to blonde at the roots, swirled about her head as she looked rapidly between each member of the crowd. "York, stop making those ungodly noises. South, North, stop double-teaming York. Also, South, get down from there. Wyoming, stop throwing York's masculinity into question. He can do that well enough on his own." York hissed like a cat, but Carolina didn't even twitch. "Connie, I have no idea what part you played, but I'm sure you played some. Stop that."

Connie shrugged with a mutter of "Fair enough," as Carolina bent over to place the large cardboard box in her arms onto the ground beside Wash's chair. Wash just rolled his eyes, although there was a bit of fond amusement mixed in with the exasperation. As hard as she stared, Connie couldn't see any trace of a smile on his face.

Onto plan B, then. She met Carolina's eyes and nodded gravely.

Carolina returned the nod, then turned sharply on her heel. "South," she said, hands on her hips in a clearly exaggerated nag, "I thought I told you to get down from there."

It took South a little too long to recognize the cue, so she was just as unprepared as Wash was when, with an uncharacteristically mischievous smirk, Maine plucked her from her perch, ignoring her indignant squawk, and dropped her unceremoniously onto York. The two crashed to the ground in a tangle of limbs and profanity. Before he could blink, North joined them, shoved harshly into the pile by Wyoming, who then met his fate as Connie joined the fray and pushed him right down after them. With a roll of his eyes, Maine grabbed Connie by the scruff of her neck and practically threw her down on top of Wyoming. Wisely, he left Carolina the hell alone, but, as an afterthought, he did nudge Flowers onto the pile, completing his work.

That did it. A huge smile stuttered across Wash's face seconds before he burst out laughing. Clutching his sides and doubled over, he quickly slid out of his seat and crashed onto the carpet, where he could be act as hysterically as he wanted. Immediately, the cussing and yelling from the dogpile of seniors ceased and was replaced by whooping. As they separated themselves, York and Connie exchanged victorious glances and a high-five while South, grinning, whispered "I told you it would work!" to North, who was grinning just as widely. Carolina chuckled as she helped York to his feet, and even Maine cracked a smile as he placed the four boxes in his hands on top of Carolina's box, frowning at a South-shaped dent on the top of the stack.

It may have taken them eight tries to get there, but Operation: Cheer Wash Up always succeeded in the end.

Once he'd finished getting carpet burn and leaving finger-shaped indentations on his sides, Wash straightened slightly, wiping a tear off of his cheek. "Thanks again for this," he called up to Carolina, and she caught the double-meaning. "Really. I appreciate it a lot." Honestly, though, his smile was sincere enough that she really felt like he should be thanking South for volunteering to start a dogpile.

Nodding to accept his gratitude, Carolina turned to Maine, who, as per the usual, was splitting his attention evenly between the rest of the group, who were busy chatting amongst themselves, and Wash. "We should get this stuff down to North's car," she said, and Maine simply nodded in response. Turning back to Wash, she stretched out a hand to help him up.

He took the offered hand and she pulled him to his feet. "Thanks, Boss," he said, the nickname falling easily from his lips, which quickly formed another smile. That smile vanished just as quickly as it had appeared when he reached out and his hand only brushed against the wall. A cursory glance proved his worst fears to be true, and he groaned when he saw the simple black cane laying dejectedly on the floor. For a moment, he entertained the thought of bending over to get it himself, but a helpful jolt from his leg convinced him otherwise. "Uh," he murmured, getting Carolina's attention, "can you…?" Blushing profusely and gesturing in a vague direction, Wash stared pensively at his shoes, determined not to meet his friend's eyes.

To Carolina's credit, she didn't make it any more awkward than it had to be. Without saying anything, without giving him a pitying look, and without even patting his shoulder condescendingly, she bent down, picked the cane up, and pressed its handle into his palm. "Thanks," he muttered, gripping it tightly and leaning more weight on it than he probably had to as if that would alleviate the ache throbbing in his leg.

Carolina turned away and Wash let his eyes stray from his ratty tennis shoes to his leg. The wrappings were bulky and obvious under his jeans, which were comfortable around his legs but stretched tight over the bandages. He still had a while to go before he could switch to a less blatant wrap.

Thirty-three days.

That was how long it had been since his injury, according to the nurses. Really, it was a miracle he didn't need crutches or a wheelchair. Most people weren't in such good shape after such severe leg damage and such delayed treatment. Nonetheless, the reminder that he was now legally considered a cripple was less-than-welcome. He wondered, vaguely, how York could stand to wear that blatant eyepatch so proudly and not care about the people who stared at it and the scars spiderwebbing around it.

Thirty-three days; not that he could've told you. After the Epsilon incident, before the murder charges were dropped, the Director had promptly thrown him into the nearest psych ward, where the passage of time had been unbearably vague. The ward had been all blank walls and bright lights; sterile needles and crisp white sheets. Arms fastened by a straightjacket during his allotted exercise period, which occurred on seemingly random intervals and didn't last for any set amount of time; wrists and ankles held fast to the bed with soft restraints for the rest of the time. Two weeks, people told him afterwards. You were there for two weeks. Sixteen days, to be precise. But it had been an eternity of unceasing white fluorescence. There was no "night mode" or "day mode"; just blinding emptiness.

Now efficiently sidetracked, he wandered aimlessly, eyes staring blankly at nothing in particular. The hallway was just how he remembered it: carpet an indescribable color that no one really wanted to bother describing, wall dotted with a few doors, each with a number and two names. The walls were a non-descript gray, as were the doors, and the labelling was boring black-on-white. Simple. To-the-point. Not quite as barren as the looney bin, but lacking the sparse pastel paintings of the med bay.

Sixteen days of screaming himself hoarse and thrashing to no avail; of crying out for Epsilon until they came in and shut him up—they used drugs; held him down and forced a syringe into the crook of his elbow—unless they worried about him overdosing; then they'd just gag him, and that couldn't be legal, it just couldn't, but it wasn't like anyone believed him—

He focused on his door ('It's not yours anymore,' he reminded himself). Half-closed; marked just with the number 6 and two nameplates. David Washington, the first read, and he had to admit that he wasn't really surprised no one had bothered taking his name down yet. Epsilon Church, the second read, and it almost made him hurl that they hadn't even bothered taking down that one, either.

"Wash?" York's voice. He ignored it. Probably not talking to him.

Through the half-closed door, he could just make out a fraction of the room inside, even with the lights off. The Mother of Invention was a very high-budget boarding school, so the dorm rooms were large and extravagant, and he could just catch glimpses of the relatively elegant furniture from here. That was definitely their coffee table, with the same slight dent in the side from a rather spectacular shin jam against it. And there was the TV they'd been given, the upper side of the screen smeared with half-visible paint they'd never quite washed off entirely.

The gags were the most terrifying part about the whole thing, because they were really more like muzzles than anything, pressing his tongue down and holding his jaw closed, and it reduced his pleading and screaming to a jumble of inaudible murmurs, and he couldn't get help; he had to get someone; had to help him; had to help him before he—

Looking in there wasn't helping; it really wasn't. He couldn't look away. He could see where there used to be a chair; the wreckage had been cleaned up, but, sure enough, the carpet had just been removed entirely; they hadn't been able to clean up his roommate well enough, he supposed—

A blur of movement in his peripheral vision was all the warning he got before York strode purposefully out from behind him, swerving around his nigh-catatonic form and making a beeline for the room. Before he could panic and cry out no, don't go in there, don't do it, there are people who would miss you, York grabbed the knob and slammed the door shut.

The movement was so sudden and loud that Wash jumped, his grip on his cane loosening dangerously. As soon as he was sure the door wouldn't be opening again any time soon, York spun on his heel and looked Wash straight in the eye, no longer attempting to hide his worry but finally through with walking on eggshells. This time, when he fixed Wash with a concerned gaze, the sentiment wasn't 'I'm afraid you can't take care of yourself', it was 'I'm your friend and I want to help you', and Wash swallowed thickly as an unidentifiable emotion shot through his chest.

Neither one said a word, but York's one steel-gray eye said everything.

This time, when a hand alighted on his shoulder in worry, he recognized the familiar warmth of North's huge palm and barely flinched. "You ready to go, Wash?" he asked in his usual soothing baritone, clearly back to being team mom.

Wash took a moment to collect himself. It's over. It's over. You're not there anymore. You're safe. They're all safe. He took a deep breath, then broke York's gaze and turned around to inspect his belongings. A stack of five boxes was teetering just outside the door; someone had labelled them with a sharpie (one said "Books", one said "Disks", and the last three all said "Art Stuff"). Next to those was his old messenger bag, stuffed full of all his school supplies. Last was a single suitcase that held all of his clothes and newly-prescribed meds.

How strange it seemed that he could fit the past three years of his life into five boxes, a backpack, and a suitcase.

He glanced up. York and North were standing on either side of him, smiling quietly, North's hand on his shoulder and York's on top of his head. Maine was hovering wordlessly just beyond the boxes, a beacon of silent support. Carolina was leaning against the wall next to him, looking nonchalant but no doubt beating herself up again—either for not spotting the warning signs earlier or for taking two weeks to get him out of the looney bin. Connie was smiling at him knowingly in that way she did when her weird psychic powers had activated once again, and South was making a big show of not caring but watching intently through her peripherals. Florida had never stopped smiling, but it looked a bit more sincere now. Wyoming was utterly earnest and gave Wash a slow nod when their eyes met.

Thirty-three days since the incident. Thirty-three days since he'd come home to find Epsilon shaking and crying, curled up underneath the kitchen table, his hands shoved into the pockets of his pale blue hoodie. Thirty-three days since he'd tried to calm the older boy; since he had been rewarded with a blow to the leg that made him topple and a long, loud rant about them and us and torture and experiments and remember; since the bullet tearing through his thigh. Since he had watched with wide eyes as Epsilon turned the gun on himself, since he'd gasped in terror; tried to scream, but not had the energy—since begging and pleading and don't do it, please, I would miss you, it won't solve anything, please—

Thirty-three days since he had been screaming and sobbing on the itchy carpet, his face smeared with blood and gray matter that he wished was his own, staring at the corpse of his roommate of three years.

Thirty-three days wasn't enough for him to forget Epsilon's words.

They tortured us… just using us for their own benefit… experiments that no one remembers but me… I remember it all… no one believes me… don't you understand?... I was there when it happened… don't you remember, David?...

Don't you remember?

Casually, he brushed York's hand off of his head, hoisting his messenger bag over his shoulder. "Let's go," he said simply.

David Washington didn't remember.

But that didn't mean he was about to just let it go.

Have I yet proven that I am, indeed, Tuckington trash? ...no, but mostly due to the fact that Tucker isn't in the prologue. Fear not; this mishap shall be remedied quite soon.

With non-creepy author/reader love,

-Ayakaze Yukiko