Spider-Man Chapter 2: When the Light Falls, a Spider-Man + Loud House Crossover fanfic

A/N: Before we get started with this one, I just want to quickly apologize for the long wait. This took a bit longer than expected. I rewrote the whole damn thing twice. TWICE. I probably could've finished it a lot earlier. Oh well, it's been three months since I've uploaded this fic. CrazY!

And... yippee! I didn't publish a chapter without editing it this time. By the way, there is a scene with some vulgar language, so hopefully that doesn't deter you from reading. I'm probably gonna have to make it 'M' rated because of some of the dialogue.

By the way I'm not going to try to emulate some of the character's speech mannerisms perfectly (e.g. Lisa, Luan (constant puns), Luna)... It's just not my cup of tea. Have fun with this one, I hope you guys like it, I worked very hard on it! I'm nervous. Edit: forgot to put some edits

Recap/Summary of Chapter 1

On April 6th, 2020, Herman Robern faced a dilemma — should he put everything at risk to save his company, or stay in the safe zone, only to let his company fail? He needed to produce a performance enhancing serum (or super soldier serum) for the military, but he was never given enough time to finalize the project. Since the contract had become the company's last leg, he decided to sign a one week deal with the army general — he must establish the serum before the contract expires. He asked his assistant, Doctor Drew Carson, to meet him at the lab that night, to which he reluctantly agreed.

Meanwhile, Lincoln Loud and Birtz Robern embarked on a field trip to the Genetics Laboratory of Detroit, on which Lincoln lamented about his strained friendships, and how he fears that the stress from their current circumstances may split the group apart. Birtz comforted Lincoln by assuring that he'll help him bring the group back together, and that he expresses interest in meeting them. When some of Lincoln's friends (Rusty Spokes, Zach Gurdle, Clyde McBride), received an invitation to the movie theater from Lincoln and Birtz, they agreed to it, hoping to spend some quality time with him, but also out of curiosity: Is Lincoln is replacing them with his new friend? During their field trip, Lincoln ended up receiving a spider-bite from a genetically-enhanced spider, one which was partially created by Birtz' father, Herman Robern.

After returning to school, Birtz met Lincoln's friends at their usual spot in the cafeteria. They were immediately charmed by his personality and invited him to come and chat. After having a brief conversation, they all agreed to hang out more often. Simultaneously, Lincoln started to deal with the effects of the spider bite, which, in turn, forced him to return home early. The symptoms seemed to match those of a high fever, but mashed together with nausea and extreme fatigue. It ended with Lincoln passing out in bed.

Without further ado, let's get into it!

Chapter 2: When the Light Falls

Today's Date: April 6th, 2020 - 9:52 p.m. (ET)

Returning to work was nothing more than a daily routine for the majority of hard-working adults.

However, for Herman Robern, the most important decision of his life needed to be made, and he couldn't shake the thought of it, like a man trying to extricate himself from a cobweb, long after the spider had abandoned it. The night he entered his laboratory at the Detroit headquarters of Herman Industries, the stakes were high. Would he succeed in the serum's development? Or, would he fail and lose everything that generated from his hard work?

The air that night felt cold and stiff, and gave goosebumps all over. The laboratory was void of sound and carried the atmosphere of an empty box. When Herman powered the lights on, it revealed everything in sight one by one — professional equipment was scattered about, and to somebody who didn't know better, they'd think they were torture devices. The entire building was divided into three sections: one reserved for the construction of props and tools, one kept for scientific demonstrations, and one secured for business related things. At the bottom of the complex was a large facility where the first two sections were located. The high-rise building was used for business purposes only — this is where the last section was found.

At the time, nothing seemed out-of-the-ordinary, and one could only imagine the horror which was about to unfold in the second section.

The room — the one in which the very incident took place — resembled a parking garage with a ceiling that extended many feet up in the air, and had ceramic tiles in place of worn asphalt. Everything was contained in one giant space, and nothing was separated into different rooms — the same applied to the first section (though the business area was the complete opposite) — thus everything felt empty and abandoned.

Inside, Herman begins to prepare the serum for it's first human trial. The equipment — which doesn't sit very far away — has been waiting for this exact day. Years after it's been built, collecting dust and acting as nothing but a prop, it would finally be put to use. Of course, it would've been used many years ago, but thankfully, Herman's assistant, Doctor Drew Carson, noticed something wrong with the serum, and they both decided to go "back to formula." This involved reworking the entire chemical composition, just to play it safe. After doing it over, they experimented with the strength enhancers using spiders, and the project carried on from there.

Speaking of Dr. Carson, Herman's currently waiting for his arrival, and it's not until five minutes later when the latter finally arrives. The sound of a heavy glass door swinging open alarms him, and he turns towards the noise to see who it is — it's none other than his loyal assistant. Worry is plastered all over his face, and Herman couldn't help but share part of it.

"Hello Dr. Carson," Herman greets, "Glad to see you actually came, I was almost expecting you not to after what you said earlier today." He approaches his assistant and they shake hands, feeling each other's raging heartbeat through their fingertips as nervous blood courses through their veins. "How's your night been?"

"Could've been better… I had to come, Mr. Robern, but I just wanted some kind of relaxing night!" Dr. Carson says, breaking their handshake. He stares at the floor. "You know... boss' orders. Nothing I can do about that."

Herman finds the opportunity to crack a joke. "Really? Who's that?" He emits a half-suppressed chuckle at the idea of his wisecrack before moving on. "Tell me, and I'll find him so I can kick his ass."

To his dismay, Dr. Carson doesn't laugh at all, and fails to recognize the gist of the joke.

"You..?" he awkwardly says, not seeing anything funny about his boss' witty remark. Herman rolls his eyes.

"I was messing around, don't you get the joke? I'm your boss." Herman replies, laughing a few times again. The sound echoes throughout the room, and it bounces around their heads like a silver bullet — it was void of emotion, and one peep filled the room with a creepy form of vibrancy. "Trying to make light in a stressful situation."

He watches as Dr. Carson's worried expression turns a light shade of anger.

"How can I be happy?" Dr. Carson shakes his head in disdain, and puffs in anger. "You ignored all my calls. Do you understand how frustrating that is?! Especially when we're getting ready for something like this! Did you even check your phone?!"

Herman shakes his head 'no,' and hesitantly keeps his eyes fixed on Dr. Carson, his head tilted and distanced and his eyebrow arched — a reaction to his assistant's sudden outburst. Dr. Carson's face is drained of its red shade.

"Sorry... this is just stressful. Something terrible can happen, but you're pretending like everything is sunshine and rainbows." He makes an attempt to reason with his boss. "This is very dangerous. You need to take that into consideration. I get that a lot is on the line, but going to these extreme lengths is just too risky! We don't even have medical staff on the premises!"

"Don't be a coward." Herman says, typing on the computer used to monitor the experiment's data. To the left sits all the test equipment — a daunting appearance to anyone who knew what was to come. "Risks are a recurring element in laboratory science, and in this case it's absolutely necessary."

Despite the confidence that was in Herman's tone, he was doing his best not to stutter his words, because in reality, he was scared — scared like a little boy in line for an intimidating roller coaster.

Dr. Carson, annoyed with his boss' stubbornness, makes another attempt to steer him away from his plan. "I've looked at the data before coming here, and it just doesn't justify this test."

Herman gives him a confused glare, and quirks a brow, questioning his assistant.

"Don't understand what I'm getting at?"

His boss nods his head.

"There is not enough data, and that's my point. We can't make this jump! We can only predict what will happen next, we can't be sure that something won't go wrong."

"Oh please!" Herman says. "This is our greatest work. Years of countless work-loaded days... just to flush them down the toilet?! I won't let that fly past my radar. We're jumping straight to human trials because it's the last resort. Why should I risk losing the contract again? Might as well fight a risk with a risk."

Sweat droplets start to form on his left temple, and he wipes them away. Their voices continue to echo throughout the facility, and Herman fears that someone would hear them, ruining his plan of action. He was too desperate — he couldn't just give up years of work and accept defeat. It would be the nail on the coffin.

"Just please! Don't... do... it..." Dr. Carson pleads, fearing the worst.

The room goes silent. For once, Herman cycles through the alternatives, looking for a path that carries a smaller risk. However, they offer nothing but droughts of safe mindedness — even if they extend the contract again, tension between the government and Herman Industries would reach its utmost breaking point. Herman, set on his course of action, gets in his assistant's face.

"Here me out, Drew. This is the only way of keeping the business alive. If we wait any longer, the contract will be cancelled and Herman Industries will crumble. We lose the company, where do we go? We don't have enough time to rebuild. I have a family, you have a family. Can't you just hedge your bets… for once?" Dr. Carson sighs, and takes a moment to contemplate his decision. Seeing his assistant finally consider his idea makes a haze of optimism appear in Herman's eyes.

After a brief period of silence, Dr. Carson reaches his settlement. "Fine…" he reluctantly says. "I'll do it for your sake. But... only on the condition that, if anything bad happens, it's not my responsibility."

"That's fine with me." Herman says, starting up the experiment recorder. He felt relieved, yet also doubtful — but he does his best to hide it. "I'm going to need help with a few things while I boot everything up, then I'll give you the upper hand."

Once the recording application fully loads, a heart rate monitor appears at the top left corner of the screen, along with a diagram of the human body right under it. On the bodily figure, there are red points on different parts of the body. To the right, there are multiple progress bars indicating the different strength levels: agility, visual ability, power, coordination, endurance, stamina and accuracy. If these bars went up, it would mean that the user's physical skills were being enhanced. Leaving the station, Herman gathers multiple tablet-shaped discs with wires fixed onto each of them.

"Dr. Carson! I need your help!" His assistant turns around. "Wheel the platform out of the glass chamber." He points at the set of equipment to the left. "Once it comes to a standstill, hook these wires to the device underneath. That way we can monitor the strength increases in each physical skill."

He follows Herman's orders, and consults the use of a control panel built onto the iron framing of the glass chamber. With the push of a few buttons, the motorized platform starts to roll out into the open. The mechanisms whir as the metal surface moves from its initial position, rotating until it becomes a level surface. The metal platform subsequently rolls itself out of the chamber. Once the motorized wheels come to a halt, Dr. Carson starts to wire each of the discs to a large device underneath the platform, sticking each wire into a jack.

"When you're done with that, unlock the case with the serum. Grab one of the cylinders, remove the lid, then screw it into the holder attached to the platform." The holder that Herman is referring to has a needle at the end, so the test subject can receive a dose of the serum once they're strapped in. "Make sure not to spill a single drop of the serum." Herman directs, unbuttoning his orange office shirt which used to be concealed by a laboratory coat. "Actually, before you take that up, can you hand me the discs? Don't unplug them though."

Herman shuffles through a drawer in a nearby desk and pulls out a medical kit, a plastic container painted with a mix of red and white designs, held shut by two locks. He rests it on the desktop and undoes the locks. Inside the kit there's a mess of medical supplies, ranging from gauze to sterile gloves. Out of the bunch, he picks out surgical tape and returns to Dr. Carson.

"Alright, I'm ready. Give them over here," Herman orders, putting his hand out, expecting to receive the discs. There's now a small distance between them and the equipment, but not far enough for the discs' wires to snap or unplug. "Just give them one by one since I have to put each of them into their own designated place."

His assistant hands him the first disc. They're required to be placed according to the red dots on the diagram of the human body, as depicted on the computer next to Herman. He jabs the first one into the area of his left upper chest, slightly wincing from the slight pinch. Since the small disc can't keep it's position independently, he secures it with some of the surgical tape from the medical kit. The process gets repeated — one disc on the upper right chest and two above each eyebrow.

"Thank you Dr. Carson. Now please prepare the serum, I'll unlock the case for you," Herman says.

He unlocks a metal chamber with a keypad. The sides unfold while the top remains stationary, and it exposes four tubes filled with a viscous green substance — the current version of the super soldier serum. Dr. Carson removes one of the glass cylinders from the mount.

"I should get back to the platform. I'm surprised these wires haven't snapped, you must have wired them real good."

He strums one of the wires like a guitar string, and it emits a tense sound, in such a way that screams a breaking point — the distance between him and the platform was causing the disc's wires to stretch to its utmost limit. After returning to the testing equipment, he leans on the metal platform, resting his right palm on the ferric surface. His heart was racing. Though he was confident in his work, there was no previous testing data to build upon, and that sent paralyzing waves of doubt through his body. He felt like he was reaching his breaking point, as though he was tense like the wires once were — he was at the pinnacle of anxiety.

"Mr. Robern..." Dr. Carson calls out, approaching the platform his boss was leaning on. "Can you please lie down while I prepare the serum? It's time to put the most important part into action..."

Herman's blood goes cold — all the pent-up stress had finally caught up to him. For the first time since his arrival, he fails to contain his fear. He climbs onto the platform — his movements plagued with frequent jitters — while his assistant unscrews the glass tube's lid. He pulls the holder back to avoid spillage and twists the liquid-filled cylinder into place. After everything is tightened and secured, he snaps the holder back to its original position. Now, the liquid-filled tube leads to a hypodermic needle.

"Lay back, I'll c-c... close the restraints." Dr. Carson says, his tone starting to sound jittery and uneasy — he had also slipped from the tip of the iceberg, reaching his utmost breaking point.

He buckles Herman with heavy metal restraints, and once they lock in place, they emit a sound like a heavy-weight door being slammed. Herman lays on the platform, the cold ferric surface pressing against the bare skin on his back, sending waves of physical shock through his body.

Being completely restrained, Herman's heartbeat rages faster, knowing that his fate had been sealed — yet it still remains unknown to him.

"S.. st-star..." Herman tries to speak, but his voice drifts off in a stuttering mess.

Did he really want to do this? His thoughts were flooded with doubt, and his anxiety clawed at his stomach like a rabid animal. There wasn't another option though, and if he didn't go through with this, his life would ultimately go to the shits. Dr. Carson sends a confused look Herman's way, and it delivers — they lock gazes for a moment, both men stricken with a flurry of worry and fear. But then, something snapped. Now he wanted to do it.

"Start the sequence."

Dr. Carson, still unsure, gives Herman an uneasy look. "For the last time, before we go through with this, are you absolutely sure... this is what you want to do?"

Herman slowly nods at Dr. Carson, and he nods back, a small sign of the respect he had for his boss — and a possible final farewell. Dr. Carson, now standing at the computer that monitors the experiment, enters a few commands into the device. Herman feels a sudden jolt, and the motorized platform starts moving into the glass chamber.

He can only stare as Herman is pulled into the cramped confines of the enclosure. It is not much bigger than a telephone booth and can easily make the average Joe feel claustrophobic. The distraught CEO takes a deep breath as the platform comes to a standstill, now sitting upright, anticipating pain to sharply arrive any moment. The holder starts towards Herman, and its needle pierces itself into his neck, like a cook plunging a thermometer into a piece of meat. He cringes at the sudden pain, and his assistant can't help but flinch at the unpleasant sight. His nerves nearly snap as he watches the viscous substance enter Herman's body, occasionally shifting his view to the progress bars on the computer. Slowly and steadily, each bar starts to fill, while Herman looks rather uncomfortable; almost afraid. The pounding beat of his heart starts to pulsate under his fingertips. They were only moments away from reaching a conclusion.

"Everything is going as expected... so far." Dr. Carson thinks, giving Herman a shaky thumbs up.

As the last of the serum is emptied from the glass cylinder, Dr. Carson worries about the possibility of an adverse outcome. Meanwhile, Herman's fear has skyrocketed. He felt confident in his work, so why was he so scared? Years of continuous labor, sleepless nights...he should be right, yet terror had been stabbing his heart while dread clawed at his stomach. He was practically being attacked by a wall of emotions and thoughts which hit him in a blur, and, amid the emotional chaos, he had started to sweat aggressively. His assistant took note.

"Herman! Give me a sign you're okay!" Dr. Carson — worried for his boss' well-being — demands, snapping Herman away from his thoughts. Complying to his assistant's orders, Herman unsteadily nods his head, each movement jittery and trembly.

"O-okay!" Dr. Carson falters. He returns his gaze to the computer, and squints at the screen. "Looks like we're doing good so far... If the computer deems this experiment a success, we're all set."

The moment those words left his mouth, the progress bars completely filled up and the computer started beeping violently. Dr. Carson types in a few things, concentrating on the luminous screen. Herman believes that something has gone seriously wrong, and he crashes into another wall of emotions. However, elation is plastered all over Dr. Carson's face, seemingly spawned by something on the computer.

"I-I.. can't believe it. Herman, it was a... success!" Dr. Carson exclaims, watching as Herman's expression lightens up. "We actually did it!"

Herman was lost for words. Was it really a...success? Maybe the serum got the better of him and he died in an eternal cycle of dreams. Or, maybe it was causing him to have hallucinations. It felt too good to be true.

"Get me out of here, please. Now that we know it works, we'll do a public demonstration... another day," he mutters. "As long as we get it done in the next.. four days."

"Okay, that's fine, but first, we need to take the effects off you — you're not equipped to handle them, so we need to get rid of it fast. I'll be right back!"

Dr. Carson runs off to another station, occasionally turning his head around to keep an eye on Herman.

"Stay right there!"

Dr. Carson later returns with another glass cylinder, this time full of a yellow viscous substance. It had been designed to reverse the effects of the performance enhancing serum: upon receiving a dose, any of the enhanced traits would slowly diminish, and they'd be gone within a few minutes. The process would be simple: he would remove the empty cylinder and replace it with the 'cure,' then restart the same sequence to administer it safely. Dr. Carson types a command into the computer and the glass chamber opens, evoking two heavy plates of glass and metal to move apart in heavy and powerful harmony. Herman watches as his assistant removes the empty tube from its holder, preparing to swap it with the new liquid-filled glass tube. Normal, right? Everything's going to plan.

No — not to Herman. Something feels off. His thoughts become agitated, and a strange notion starts to overpower him — he could almost picture a balloon of boiling-hot blood growing beneath every inch of his skin, and there was only one way to satisfy it.

However, it went right over his head. He had no understanding of what was happening at the time.

Dr. Carson starts to unscrew the lid of the antidote. Seeing this sent unease down Herman's spine. He didn't know why, but it felt like someone had flicked a switch inside of him, and that very switch was pumping air into a balloon which sloshed with scorching hot blood, and it wouldn't stop expanding. Almost as if he'd given into his inner demons, Herman begins to grow furious that his assistant, who was adamant to finish this with him, was about to kill a part of him. He completely changes, turning into something much more terrifying — scarier than anything you could find out of a child's detrimental nightmare.

Pop.

"Would you—"

Dr. Carson tries to speak, but gets interrupted after something grabs hold of his wrist, stopping him from securing the liquid-filled tube into the holder. He immediately recognizes his boss' hand. Herman's grip is so strong, he can feel his bones stress under the pressure. The tight squeeze causes Dr. Carson to drop the tube on the floor, and it shatters into pieces.

"Herman, what the hell are you doing?!"

Dr. Carson stares at Herman with a glare that's imbued with horror. His facial features — which were previously those of any ordinary man — now resemble those of someone with extreme anger. His motions and breathing habits are irregular, matching those of a rabid animal — he hyperventilated acutely and convulsed with every slight movement.

But what had struck Drew Carson the most on that very night was Herman's eyes — they'd become a glowing yellow, with a single black line in the middle, appearing completely unnatural, as if they'd come straight out of a nightmare. Herman stares at him with a piercing gaze that reaches the vicious beating of his fragile heart. The locks snap and the clamps swing loose as he effortlessly breaks free of the metal restraints. Dr. Carson uses his best efforts to escape Herman's grip, but all his attempts are in vain. He can only watch in horror as the madman approaches him. Whoever that was, it wasn't Herman... that was someone else. He was just normal a second ago!

With his assistant at his mercy, Herman mutters a phrase in a wicked, menacing tone. "It did work perfectly as intended."

And with that, a monster had escaped into the streets of Detroit, leaving two lives shattered forever...

The sheer horror, which scarred the lives of the most unsuspecting that fateful night, would continue with a lone boy who laid within the still depths of the darkness, clawing at his bedsheets in the wake of a nightmare.

It was a dark and stormy afternoon. Gray clouds infested the sky above, from which rain fell and soaked everything that wasn't shielded or covered. Much to Lincoln's dismay, he had no choice but to walk home from school that day. Seriously? He had always hated walking home from school. It was the cat to his dog, the toothpaste to his orange juice. Earlier, the morning was relatively sunny and the temperature was quite warm for March. Then, he couldn't see the need to bring an umbrella or a heavy coat to school — it seemed like it was going to be a nice day.

"Stupid me!" Lincoln thought, cursing himself. The rain continued to fall, and the water droplets tapped and sprinkled his pocket bomber jacket, which stood out in a distinct orange color. "Why am I always forgetting to check the weather report?!"

He sauntered along the sidewalk of a solitary road. Many small-owned businesses had been established in the area, though not many people were outside due to the weather. The street ahead disappeared in a thick cloud of mist, limiting Lincoln's vision to a bare minimum. It was strangely quiet — the habitual sounds of the city were noticeably absent — and it was only the sound of the rain hitting the pavement that filled the air.

"Though I feel like garbage, the s-st-still nature is quite n.. n-nice." he stated, his voice breaking as he shivered from the cold. "If I h.. h-had an umbrella and a good coat, I'd be all set. But thanks to my i-i-ignorance, I'm soaked and fr-fr.. freezing cold!"

He hugged himself and kept his arms sandwiched together, trying to trap any of the heat that his body provided.

The white-haired boy continued his stroll, walking alongside the empty shops that packed the street, which included a few notable ones, such as the ice cream parlor near the intersection of Vinnie and Foxdell Road. Despite his bodily predicament, he found the rainy atmosphere relaxing. It was like a wonderful lullaby that could send anyone to sleep. The sound of falling rain had such a predictable pattern that it got processed as a soothing, non-threatening noise. Lincoln felt at ease — a feeling any young person would desire when walking alone. Travelling back home on foot didn't seem to be such a bad idea — after all, he just needed a better coat. That was, until a desperate voice sprang out from the distance.

"Dude! Just leave me alone!" someone yelled from afar in a tone laced with distress.

His peaceful stroll was seemingly going to wind up in the gutter — there must've been a fight, or some kind of assault, happening nearby. Lincoln, who wanted to make sure he wasn't hearing things, stopped in his tracks to listen for anything else.

"Yeah, I don't think so. Maybe you should hand me your glasses while you're down there." an intimidating voice, belonging to someone else, dared. "I'm going for a new look.."

That voice immediately rang a bell, and it didn't take Lincoln long to figure out who it was — Arnold Sawyer, who happened to be one of the most infamous bullies at school, or as Lincoln referred to, a prick. He would always give Lincoln a hard time — he called him immature names in the hallway, pushed him around like a broken down car, and stole his stuff whenever he got an open window. Worst of all, people actually had the nerve to laugh at his jokes — even though they were unoriginal and unfunny — not to mention they were vivid in Lincoln's mind.

"Shut up, Loud! You really live up to your last name. I feel kind of bad for you..."

"So... Loud? Have they diagnosed you with albinism yet?"

"You should spend your extra time working out instead of reading those... comics of yours. I mean, I wouldn't be surprised if your right arm is ripped."

"If I had two lists: one recording every time you'll get friend-zoned, and a list of every person on earth, I wouldn't be able to tell the difference."

"I've seen more meat on a chicken wing than you."

...And each of these were followed by the repulsive laughter of his schoolmates.

Lincoln clenched his fists and angrily huffed through his nostrils. Those comments made him fume with rage — and they never failed to do so. Why did he, out of all people, have to be the target? Why did anyone have to be the target? He couldn't help but feel empathy for the distressed boy. Lincoln's friends had previously classified Arnold as a 'class A' bully, and deemed him a dangerous threat to anyone who didn't have a prestigious social status. His affairs outside of school grounds lay behind a curtain, and the horrors beyond it were hidden from the public's eye. But now, Lincoln was only yards away from someone who was being jumped by Arnold.

"Come on! I can't, glasses are expensive!" the victim pleaded, his voice puncturing the silent atmosphere like a wretched dagger.

I need to help this poor kid, Lincoln thought while silently moving in the noise's direction, I can't just let him go through that...

Lincoln found himself nearing shops to the right of the street. Each of his steps were followed by splashes from the rainwater pooling on the ground, accompanying the static sound of the rain falling. Arnold's relentless bullying continued, giving him more insight as to what was happening.

"Hmm, who cares?!" Arnold said. "Give them here, or I'll bash your face in. You don't want another one, don't you?"

Lincoln felt butterflies in his stomach as he neared the source of the noise, the bully's threats jabbing at his primal instinct to run. The racing beat of his heart pulsated under his fingertips — it was clear that Arnold intimidated Lincoln — even though he treated him as just another asshole who was trying to get trouble. Nonetheless, the bully was a little bit taller than him, maybe by an inch, so about five foot, eleven inches tall. Due to Lincoln's frail figure, a fight between the two would be unmatched. Being an athlete, Arnold was much more physically durable and stronger — Lincoln wouldn't be surprised if the latter had already gotten into a few fights as well.

I'm not gonna try fighting him, Lincoln thought, planning his course of action, no way I'm going to do that. I just need to... distract Arnold, let the kid run, then I'll immediately run away.

Scuffling could be heard in an alleyway directly ahead of the white-haired boy, to his right — and Lincoln knew that he was just a few meters away from them. He took a deep breath, preparing himself for the horrors which were waiting for him around the brick wall. He stomped towards the narrow street, and stood at its mouth. Lincoln felt like he was on the verge of passing out. He wanted to make an intimidating threat, but instead, a fear-stricken voice ended up coming from his lips.

"G-get off him, Arnold!" Lincoln ordered. Realization hit him like a brick wall. If they couldn't see fear, they could definitely hear it.

Ahead of him wasn't one bully, but four. On the wet pavement laid a boy who trembled in anguish. By the looks of it, he kept long curly black hair which partially hung over his face, and sported a heavy raincoat with a pair of grey wash jeans. His attire was soaked and covered in dirt. Lincoln couldn't tell if he was crying or just had rainwater streaming down his face — though there was a noticeable streak of red that ran down his nostril.

The ripe smell of garbage was stifled by the aroma of dead leaves and rainwater, and it intensified near a steel dumpster further down the alley. A few black garbage bags piled around it, hiding the profanities written on the dumpster's surface by juveniles looking for trouble. Apart from that, nothing else was in the alleyway. It only led to a dead end.

All four tormentors glared at Lincoln. The other bullies at the scene were part of Arnold's notorious 'squad.' To the right stood Xavier Ferguson, a juvenile with a slim figure and an astonishing height, towering over the rest of the group. He was wearing a blue hoodie with the inscription "Royal Woods" in bold yellow letters, along with a branded pair of black joggers. Next to him was Chandler McCann, Lincoln's arch-nemesis from elementary school. He wore a lime fall jacket — the hood shrouding his striking auburn hair — matched with a pair of grey jeans. Lincoln failed to identify the third bully, but he appeared to be a senior student dressed in all black apparel, like a hidden predator waiting for the perfect time to strike. Last of all, Arnold Sawyer stood amongst them, the man himself — the leader. From the moment Lincoln stepped into the welcoming doors of his high school, he became a huge adversary for him, causing all sorts of needless trouble for the lad. He was decked out in a large red hoodie and a pair of khakis, which Lincoln considered 'a poor choice of clothes.' The white-haired boy, now facing the problem he had underestimated, felt his heart jump out of his chest as they all gave him fierce death glares.

Arnold stepped forward, emitting a low, menacing laugh. "You know, out of all people.. I wouldn't expect you to try and stop us." Lincoln did his best to keep his ground, even after his primal instincts started urging him to get the hell out of there.

Upon spotting the distinct white hair, Chandler McCann started to laugh hysterically. "Seriously?! It really is Lincoln Lame! Good ol' Lincoln Lame!"

Wow, that name was nothing short of cringe-inducing.

Saying that name made him feel exhilarated. Whenever he asserted dominance — through any way, shape or form — it satisfied him in a way that made him feel whole. However, when he looked at the boy who was lying on the ground, he felt an ounce of regret, and his cocky grin lost its curve. The betrayal he felt must've been unimaginable — maybe replacing him with Lincoln wouldn't be such a bad idea.

Lincoln rolled his eyes. "Shut up Chandler, we aren't in sixth grade anymore. Plus, you aren't any tougher than I am."

The auburn-haired boy crossed his arms and looked to the side. "Whatever, I'll always be more popular than you," he shot, cracking his knuckles.

Arnold stepped forward and stomped his boot on the pavement, prompting Lincoln to flinch and give him some ground. He wanted to run away but he couldn't bring himself to. A quick glance at the victim, who shivered on the freezing ground, was enough to convince him to stay. Lincoln wanted to get him out of there.

"Listen Arnie, just let him go." Lincoln gibed, gesturing to the kid on the floor amidst the gang of bullies.

Arnold felt his blood boil.

Arnie.

He hated that nickname. Whenever someone addressed him using that name, memories revolving around him and his older brother flooded his thoughts. They had an inseparable bond — sharing the best moments — and his brother would always tease him with the nickname 'Arnie.' That was, until his brother tried to murder him, when he was only eleven years old.

There he was at the park, lying injured in the mud, as seventeen-year-old Adrian Sawyer held a large rock painted with his brother's blood above his head, ready to end him forever. As his alcohol-laced breath formed a mist cloud between tired puffs, and as the fresh winter snow fell slowly and calmly, he mischievously said, "It's time to sleep, Arnie," before he was tackled by nearby adults.

Nobody else needed to call him Arnie, and he wouldn't let them get away with it, either.

Arnold looked back and muttered something to his friends. "Who the hell does this kid think he is? Arnie?!" Then, he turned to his victim, who was still lying on the floor like roadkill. "You know what, get the hell out of here and keep your glasses."

The boy looked up at them, his eyes glistening with tears, shocked. "...W-what?"

Xavier pushed past his friend and bellowed, "Go! Move your ass!"

The boy complied hastily, grabbing a grey backpack which sat a few feet away from him. Lincoln was barely able to get a good look at his face before he ran off, but what he did catch was a look of extreme fear, one that was even distinguishable through the soaked lenses of his glasses. The encounter with the bullies had clearly shaken him up.

Before fleeing the scene, the victim quavered, "Thanks... Lincoln."

Now that he was left to fend for himself, Lincoln drew his attention back to the bullies, who looked like rabid animals ready to attack. He felt his heart beating in his throat. There was nothing but silence, and the sound of the rain tapping the ground was lost behind the tension. He knew that if he wanted to escape without getting caught, he needed to book it.

Now.

The four bullies noticed Lincoln's attempt to escape as he frantically turned to run. They didn't give up their last victim for nothing, so Xavier, using his long arms to his advantage, ran after him, reaching out and grabbing him by the backpack. The straps tugged on Lincoln's shoulders, bringing him straight to the ground, and he took a hard fall on his back. Xavier seized the nerdy teen's jacket, dragging him deeper into the alleyway. Almost immediately, the freezing asphalt pierced Lincoln's skin through a wave of physical shock, even through the warm confines of his jacket. He used his best efforts to escape, but to no avail.

"Hah! Look at him, he looks like a squirming fish!" Chandler ridiculed, shining light on Lincoln's helpless attempts to escape Xavier.

Xavier loosened his grip on Lincoln's coat, and he sat upwards. Panic surged through him as he watched two of the bullies block off the alleyway's exit. He looked the other way frantically, but it only led to a dead end. At this point, there wasn't a chance that he was going to escape scot-free. Arnold approached Lincoln, and dipped his head in a sinister grin.

"I thought I made it clear to you 'little sausage link' that I'm a force to be reckoned with...but clearly I was wrong. And that's okay, people learn differently," Arnold claimed while he cracked his knuckles, gearing himself up for a beatdown. "I will make sure you'll never forget this moment."

His eyes narrowed on Lincoln.

Like a scared little kid, Lincoln pushed himself away from Arnold using his feet, dragging his butt along the rough asphalt. He jumped up, desperately looking one way to another, just to see nothing but people or walls that barricaded his escape. Arnold took advantage of the now-distracted Lincoln and snatched the dull blue backpack which hung loosely from his shoulders. When he tried to fight back for its possession, multiple arms wrapped around his body — Xavier and the senior student were holding Lincoln against his will — restricting his ability to move freely, while Arnold unzipped his backpack.

"Stop!" Lincoln demanded, trying to force himself out of the bullies' grip, but to no avail. They were undoubtedly much stronger than the Loud boy, and pretty much rendered him motionless. He gritted his teeth in silent fury, and the sight made Arnold chortle in celebration, knowing that he had successfully gotten on his nerves. Their eyes met for a brief second, and glares of hatred penetrated them both.

"Let's see what we have here," Arnold said, breaking their locked eyes to focus on Lincoln's backpack. He shuffled through its contents, and pulled out a few to wave them in his victim's face. "A few notebooks… Oh, cool! Science material. That could be useful."

"Don't even think about stealing my stuff," Lincoln spat.

In response, Arnold looked up, a daring look casted on his face.

"Ay, shut yo ugly ass up," the senior student said while restricting Lincoln.

"It's fine, Nate, let that stupid windbag carry on," Arnold said. "If he wants to keep talking, let him be. He'll see what happens next."

Well, Arnold's words successfully made Lincoln shut his mouth. After being met with nothing but disappointing findings, Arnold decided to turn the humiliation up a notch. He approached the Loud boy, who stared at him with eyes flaming in anger. The bully turned the bag over Lincoln's head and emptied all of its contents. Lincoln tried to brace himself by tensing every muscle in his upper area, but each object painfully thumped his head. Then, Arnold ran further down the alleyway, giving him and Lincoln some ground. Standing upright and confidently, he got ready to have the time of his life.

"Alright boys, let him go. Let's see what he's got, and most importantly, let's have fun," Arnold said, those last words — fun — sending chills down Lincoln's spine. "Alright grandpa, are you ready to fight?"

Fight? Well shit!

His heart sank deeper than it ever has before. Lincoln wasn't equipped nor prepared to fight a bully like Arnold. Not only would he face one, but four of these bullies?! There wasn't a chance of escaping their wrath — their act of vengeance had enveloped the target, and now he was forced to endure a cycle of regret, anger and terror. His thoughts were like a washer on a spin cycle — unable to be collected as they tumbled around his chamber of thoughts, frantically looking to be recognized and processed. At this point, a complete beatdown was inevitable. However — in spite of everything — he was clearly able to show one emotion, and that was fear. Standing frozen in the alley, his knees trembling, Lincoln stood still like a deer caught in headlights.

"What are you waiting for?" Arnold said, flashing his hands at him in a provocative manner. "I'm giving you a chance to strike first. Don't be a bitch."

The bullies blocking the exit gave Lincoln a little nudge with their shoulder, and he stumbled a few feet forward. "Do it, cumstain hair. You don't wanna see what happens if you don't," Xavier turned his head back swiftly and muttered something in Nathaniel's (Nate) ear to keep Lincoln from hearing, "I say we break the dick's arm if he doesn't."

"Fine..." Lincoln drawled, bringing his shoulders back.

His attention — now focused on Arnold, who was swallowed deep into the alleyway — was fueled by the blazing fire of hatred, mixed in with the cold winds of fear; the more of it Arnold harvested, the faster the fire would spread.

Lincoln, being forced to fight, made a dash for his opponent, even with the knowledge that he would easily get subdued. Unfortunately, he was right. Just as Lincoln neared him, Arnold stepped aside and stuck his leg out, and, due to the scarce time he had to react, Lincoln ended up tripping over Arnold's leg. The ground came to meet his eyes, and in a last ditch effort, he tried to break his fall using his palms. The tiny rocks engraved into the ground prodded every area that was unprotected, making him wince in pain. Arnold laughed mischievously.

"Seriously? I didn't even throw a punch and you're already down on the ground," Arnold taunted, leaning against the brick wall.

Before getting back up, Lincoln spat, "We aren't done just yet."

He got back on his feet, looking daggers at Arnold. His goons were laughing hysterically at Lincoln's defeat, and Arnold soon chimed in. Once their repulsive laughter subsided, they began to close in on him.

"Come on, Arnold, it's time we stop messing around. Let's show this asshole we really mean business."

As soon as these words made their mark, Lincoln was caught off guard when Chandler rammed him into the brick wall.

He wasn't necessarily big, but dang, if you're not prepared, you'll get knocked off your feet.

He pushed him up against the wall, using his arm to keep Lincoln's face planted against the brick, each rough edge pressing into Lincoln's right cheek.

"Get him back on the ground!" Xavier said before Lincoln felt multiple arms pull him downwards, and he soon found himself back on the wet asphalt, sprawled on his stomach.

He braced himself as multiple shoes came into contact with his stomach, daring his lunch to expel itself. He tried to get in the best position to shield himself, but he wasn't very experienced in the realm of combat. In fact, the only place he had ever gotten into a fight was at home, excluding the time he and his friends fought for a girl's affection — shit, he prefers to forget that one. However, it was never as bad as this — whenever Lincoln found himself in a tussle with his siblings, it was usually everybody for themselves — not ten against one. Unfortunately, now that Lincoln was being wailed on by four hefty guys, the word "fight" seemed to have a completely different meaning — one that would forever churn the memories of this predicament.

"Alright enough, enough!" Arnold said, putting his arms out to stop his friends from throwing anymore kicks. They staggered back a little, giving the now-bruised Lincoln some room to breathe. "..get him back on his feet so we can do something even better."

Arnold seized Lincoln's coat and jolted him up violently before turning away in disgust — spit had been dripping from their victim's lips in short intervals, and ran down the front of his pocket bomber. Revolted, Arnold shoved him towards Nathaniel, the bully coated with black apparel. He caught Lincoln and turned him around, their eyes now locked. His expression seemed void of malice.

"Don't worry buddy, I'm not gonna hurt you, little cumstain-haired freak," Nathaniel vowed. Lincoln watched as his facial expression went dark — a sinister smile drew itself across his face, and his eyebrows lowered — before he delivered a powerful right hook. "...I take it back."

The bully's fist had struck Lincoln right across the face, sending Lincoln backwards, his head jerked upwards and cocked to the side. He stumbled back a few steps, eventually finding himself against the opposite wall of the alleyway. It took him a few seconds to make sense of what had happened — Lincoln had started to feel a warm sensation trickle down his nose, and he wiped his upper lip instinctively — then it clicked. He looked on in disbelief after seeing the familiar color of crimson smeared on the skin of his fingers. Not too long later, blood had started to seep from both his nostrils, dripping onto the ground, where it got washed out by the persistent flow of rainwater.

"The hell is the matter with you?!" Lincoln chastised, wiping the stream of blood away from his mouth a second time.

Xavier set his eyes on his bully friend, "Damn, I think you broke his nose... and I'm proud."

Proud.

That word made Lincoln crinkle his nose in disgust.

Pride... pride from harming others. What a piece of garbage.

Right when the worst seemed to be over, Chandler charged at Lincoln in an attempt to tackle him. Fortunately, he was no bigger than him, and much less intimidating than the other three. As a matter of fact, Lincoln tended to find him more annoying than menacing.

Just another idiot begging to be big league shit, even though he probably wouldn't make it past the first few minutes of a sports game. He exploited me and my sister, nitpicked everything about me, found every single way to make my life miserable... and the list goes on.

The now-pissed off Lincoln immersed himself in the moment — eyes narrowed and fists curled, his pent-up rage a timebomb needing to be diffused. As soon as Chandler got close enough, Lincoln's right arm bent back like he was checking a wristwatch. With a balled fist, he slung it forward, and ended up landing a good one on his arch-nemesis' jaw. The auburn-haired boy staggered, nearly losing his balance from the blow, surprised. However, that surprise quickly turned to anger. He massaged and rubbed the affected area, the pain arriving slowly but surely. The timebomb had been stopped — but a gaping hole still remained — the satisfaction was only momentary. Lincoln could feel their desire to rip him apart; to tear into his soft flesh like wild animals. All with no empathy whatsoever.

Arnold shook his head and lightly pinched the bridge of his nose. "Huh, you just can't stop screwing up," he said, looking up and revealing the daggers in his eyes, "It's fine, keep digging your own grave," His grin then widened with animosity, and his eyes portrayed a sinister outlook into the future.

Taking him by surprise, Xavier and Nate took hold of Lincoln's arms once again, successfully constraining him, despite the boy's vicious attempts to fight them off. Chandler also joined in, putting Lincoln in a headlock to limit his head movement. Arnold approached the now-restrained Lincoln, satisfied with the terrified look on his face.

Hey! Look at me! My face is right here, ready to be made into any shape you want! Wanna know what I ate today? Give me a few hard punches in the breadbasket and you'll find out! If you hate me so much, how about you take away my ability to have kids! Kick my testicles so hard that my scrotum inflates like a balloon and my piss goes red! I have a suggestion, how about you dye my white hair red! I don't wanna look like a seventy-year-old man anymore!

Lincoln's lip pursed, the stifling constraint bowling him over in walls of rough emotions — he didn't know whether to feel scared, angry, or confident. Arnold's devious smirk spoke volumes about the punishment he had in mind, and Lincoln used his best efforts to escape their captivity, but to no avail — Lincoln was forced to stay still, and wait to find out what Arnold had in mind, staring fearfully with his head tilted up — Arnold stood in front of him like an immovable wall. He didn't move a muscle, and, surrounded by unsettling silence, let his facial expression do the talking. Lincoln watched in horror as Arnold made his first movements, cocking his right arm back and slightly bringing his left shoulder outwards. Lincoln anticipated a huge blow any second. With a clenched face and suppressed breath, Lincoln silently braced for impact. Then, with a tremendous amount of force, Arnold threw a punch Lincoln's way.

The sudden collision between the fist and Lincoln's stomach knocked the wind out of him, small ripples of fat cascading across his nearly-taut belly. His legs gave way to the pressure, but the boys prevented him from hitting the floor.

"Keep him upright. I'm still not done!" Arnold demanded, before delivering another punch, this time colliding with Lincoln's left cheek. His battered skin had started to feel raw, and grew a red pigment. Another punch in the same spot would likely break his cheekbone.

He needed to fight back, in any way, shape or form.

Now.

The aches from Arnold's punches were softened by his pumping adrenaline, so he did his best to fight off his attacker by throwing a few kicks at him; his legs were the only members that weren't restricted. He managed to land a decent kick to Arnold's groin — right between his legs, Lincoln's shin arched upwards, before it violently smashed Arnold's balls against the bottom of his pelvis. He responded by dropping to his knees, guarding his manhood with both hands. He bowed his head and hissed in pain — the soreness a blazing fire that seized his crotch.

"Aargh, you damn son of a bitch!"

With Arnold in a vulnerable position, Lincoln tried to land another kick, this time to Arnold's face, but the three boys holding him threw him to the ground. Lincoln landed on the wet asphalt with a loud thump, the impact making his entire head rattle. Then, without warning, the three bullies started to batter him with their feet and shins. Each hit shook his body to the core.

"You've... taken... a... liking... to kicking... I see?" Xavier panted, speaking through short breaths and grunts. He, Chandler and Nathaniel continuously striked Lincoln with hard blows, without any regard for his well-being. "Well, I hope you... enjoy... it when you're... on the receiving end."

Lincoln's mind entered panic mode. He was overwhelmed by their kicks, to the extent that he couldn't move without being knocked back down. The thought of suffering hospitalizing injuries made him cringe; at this rate, he could wind up with a few broken ribs. The worry got the better of him, and he released a loud cry of distress, which somewhat startled them all. The piercing sound made a few of them cover their ears, and they paused their beatdown — however, the alert wasn't exclusive to them — and a nearby shop owner responded to the unrest, notified by Lincoln's wrenching call.

"Hey!" someone in the distance yelled, magnetizing the bullies' attention with their venomous tone. "What the fuck is going on?! You punks... or whoever's out there... get the hell out of here!" Chandler, Xavier, and Nathaniel focused on the opening of the alleyway, dumfounded, as the person seemingly got closer. "Now!"

They took the hint and made a run for it. Though they were planning on continuing their victim's beatdown, they refused to accept the risk of getting caught. One altercation with an adult and they'd find themselves in police custody. Xavier, Nathaniel and Chandler fled the scene, telling Arnold to run as they went, leaving their victim on the ground, trembling with angst. Arnold didn't leave immediately; instead, he gave Lincoln one final threat — to top the sundae, and give some sort of closure.

Standing above Lincoln like a titan, Arnold began to speak, "Listen here you little shit, treat this as your final warning; if you ever meddle with my affairs again, I won't hesitate to make your life a living hell!" He backed out of the alleyway cautiously and slowly — he struggled with his legs, crippled by his burning crotch, as tears fell from his eyes, "What you'd deal with wouldn't even compare to this!" He turned to leave, not before stopping in his tracks at the mouth of the alleyway.

"Leave before I call the police!" the same voice commanded.

Before leaving his victim to ponder, Arnold's head shot back, and he scowled at him one last time before fleeing the scene. Knowing that someone was on their case, he disappeared in the thick cloud of mist, leaving nothing but a scarred boy, hidden within the musty depths of an alleyway. It was clear that even the toughest had their respective fears, and in Arnold's case, it was getting caught.

What a coward...

Lincoln, now left with some room to breathe, took a bit of time to reflect on the fight, and the moments that led up to it. Though his heart was pounding aggressively, the pain — which used to be muffled by his pumping adrenaline — had started to kick in.

He vividly remembered seeing their previous victim, who was subject to suffering and torment — but for what reason? As far as he knew, the scene had looked nothing different from helpless prey caught in a circle of predators. Insensitive beings. It all seemed obvious; he needed help.

But his pained state had dogged him to question his actions — was it actually worth fighting for? He was currently in a similar position as that boy once was; lying on the broken-down pavement as rain sprinkled his bruised face, washing the blood on his lips away and making his injuries sting. However, the long-lasting impression of that boy's frightened face would continue to fight his doubts. Yet one question refused to leave his chamber of thoughts. One which begged to be answered.

Why did I need to suffer... for doing the right thing?

That was his last thought before he returned to the present, officially ending his visit to the abiding memories of the incident.

...

...

Today's Date: April 7th, 2020

Lincoln jolts upwards, hyperventilating under acute stress, his skin damp and muggy.

It was that nightmare... again.

This marked the third time he had dreamt about the incident — or at least by as much as he could remember. The memories of a dream were often hidden behind a deep haze. Either that, or they faded through the seconds that followed his awakening. However, something was off. That dream felt disturbingly real. He patted his face and body—the chill of his palms making his belly flinch — verifying that he was in fact, not in a counterfeit reality.

"Ugh, was.. that really... a dream?" Lincoln mutters groggily, starting to settle down. The inside of his throat feels worn, and he swallows heavily to clear an awkward congregation of mucus. "It feels like that fight just happened. Usually the memory of my dreams aren't clear at all, but everything's just so vivid...like I was in that cold, wet alleyway, beaten and bruised, just as I was on that very day, then suddenly teleported back into my bed..."

Lincoln, who had just grasped his current surroundings, nestles himself in the blue duvet that stretched across his mattress. He used to spend countless hours snuggled safely in its soft confines, pretending that it could shield him from those 'monsters' lurking about. Out of all the emotions he's feeling, relief is the most discerned. Looking to feel comforted, he lays back, burying his head deep in the broad pillow that sits at the headboard. However, he immediately bounces up—the disgusting presence of moisture had set him off. He briefly looks over his shoulder and scans the bedding, which appears to be dampened with sweat—presumably his own.

"Looks like I had a rough night... I'm actually happy I even woke up, I was almost certain that I was a goner," Lincoln says, chuckling a bit. "Speaking of that... What time is it? I think I slept for a little while," with half-lidded eyes, he leans over to catch a glimpse of his alarm clock — which sits adjacent to him on his dresser — and is shocked to see the time. "It's twenty-eight past six?! Did I seriously sleep for eighteen hours straight?! Wow, that's a new record... Also, that's kind of horrifying. I hope mom and dad weren't too worried."

To his surprise, he was still tired—maybe he was just grumpy. The adrenaline from the dream had worn off, and he extends his arms above his head, bringing them down to his sides, his bones popping and cracking as they went.

"I can go for another thirty minutes. I don't need to get up until seven o'clock anyways," Lincoln yawns, wiping his rheumy eyes.

His head hits the pillow, and the bed forces a tense groan. The still darkness puts him in a light trance, and his worries slowly drift off, his brain ready to send its body into a slumber. He was about to fall asleep when...

BEEEEEP! BEEEEEP! BEEEEEP!

His alarm clock goes off, sending sharp waves of pain through his muzzy head. They bounce around his skull like a loose bullet — he frantically grips his hair in agony, trying to relent the pain, but to no avail — his ears start to ring, making him venture to the brink of a nervous breakdown. Desperate to stop the excruciating headache, Lincoln finally acts on it, slamming the snooze button with a heavy slam before returning his head to the pillow. CRACK! The wretched feeling begins to dissipate, and his tense muscles relax.

"Ugh, why do I have an alarm set at this time? ..and what the heck was that spasm all about?" Lincoln questions, cursing himself. He groans as he forces his feet to the floor, the weight shift making the bed's wooden frame screech in relief. "Oh yeah, how could I forget? I usually want a head start before the 10-headed beast wakes up."

The jaded boy, now standing upright, projects his chest and brings his shoulders back — his back curves inwards, its skin taut — and he expresses his tiredness through a lengthy yawn. Pressure is wiped away by the stretch, and it runs past him in a flash; or at least it felt that way. Now that he's prepared to start his morning routine, he turns to grab his housecoat, but an ashy and acrid odor invades his nose. Confusion fogs his mind, and he shoots his head back.

A grey haze had been filling the air, spawning from a butchered machine. It was the remains of his alarm clock.

"W-why's my alarm clock destroyed?!", he exasperates, frozen in a state of disbelief.

He leans over to flick the light on. The room, which used to be filled with the dull light of the early morning sky, now shines in its full color. He blocks his eyes for a second, allowing them to adjust. Nothing felt worse than being smacked in the face with a bright light the second you woke up — your eyes got mercilessly squeezed until its juices ran free, and you could do nothing but squint.

Once his eyelids straighten, the gap between them distancing, the sight makes him shudder. Black pieces of plastic are strewn about, wires hang loose — its innards exposed through the busted top, leaving nothing but the bottom half, the rising smoke bidding its death. Never once did he destroy his alarm clock when shutting it up. Lincoln was stumped, and stopped dead in his thoughts — he stood over the alarm clock, acknowledging it like an impossible-to-solve puzzle.

"Woah, hold on...did I do that?" he says. He cautiously studies his hands, raising them from his sides like hundred pound weights. "No...I'm tripping out... I'll just go get ready before the bathroom gets invaded; save me some time."

"Nothing is wrong, you bet!
Whatever happened back there is bullshit.
None of that is real—
just my gears hitting a sharp edge,
a piece of gum, or whatever.
Let's greet the day now, Lincoln.
Go about your usual habits."

Stalled at the threshold of his room, he shakes his head in curt motions, moving like someone who had disgustedly shook their head no. He then diverts his attention to the hallway, which spans about twenty-five feet ahead. The door to his room is positioned at the head, the bathroom at the opposite end, the adjacent walls peppered with paneled wooden doors that led to his sisters' bedrooms. The opening to the bathroom was slightly exposed, and it led to a desolate darkness. Nobody appeared to be in the bathroom. That was perfect. He basically had the entire house to himself — for now. It wouldn't last long, so he needed to get moving. Lincoln snatches his housecoat before brushing past the doorway. It had been hanging on an over-the-door hook, patiently waiting to be used, shining bright in its distinct orange color. His grip firm on its Turkish cotton, he tugs on it, walking forward with his back turned, expecting it to slide off flawlessly.

"It's always awfully weird to—" CLANK! Lincoln stops in his tracks. "...see the house this quiet...the hell was that?"

His right eye twitching, the thumping beat of his heart unsteady — ka-thud, ka-bam, ka-thud — he shoots his head back. The hook, jagged at the end, separated from its base, on the ground. Busted. Ironically enough, the neck of the housecoat was still wrapped around its crescent. What kind of fuckery was this?

The reassurance, which had basically turned into a song, had sealed itself in Lincoln's mind.

Oh look, nothing's out of the ordinary!

Within the span of a few seconds, Lincoln had made his way to the toilet, dragging his bathrobe along the way. It had brushed the floor as he went, enveloping it in a mess of hair, dust and bacteria. The hook, still clinging to the housecoat's thick collar, was scraping the hardwood floor with a sound that carried such morosity that had a serial killer been raking a knife along the wall, it probably wouldn't have sounded any different. Lincoln awkwardly stares downwards; a gaze that penetrated the floorboards, refusing to look up and around him. It felt like people had their eyes on him, though the house was perfectly still and silent.

The sun had yet to peak the horizon, leaving the house entirely dull. The only way you could see was by the early morning light, which peered through the windows, casting a leaden sky over the population of Royal Woods.

Standing in front of the sink, the mirror mounted above it, Lincoln reaches for and flicks the bathroom light on — the tousled mop of white hair that infests his crown goes ablaze, he feels his eyes get squeezed again, and he absently shields his precious gems from the burning light. With the persona of a caveman, he examines his reflection in the mirror, disoriented by and careless for his cranky appearance. He had been planning to take a shower anyway.

He grabs the tap on the right, expecting the spout to vomit a fluid stream of cold water. He twists it, and with a little bit of pull, takes it clean off.

PPPSSSSSSHHHHH!

"Nothing is wrong, you bet!
Whatever happened back there is bullshit.
None of that is real—
just my gears hitting a sharp edge,
a piece of gum, or whate—"

Shut up. You need to act now.

Blocking the vicious spray with both of his hands — the faucet handle held by the finger in one — he nears the valve. It was busted. He had destroyed it.

"Shoot...shoot!" Lincoln hisses. The water had been making his palms tingle, and the rebounding droplets tap his face, his bare chest, the floor, and the sink. Especially the walls. He could practically see price tags popping out of them, saying, 'Oh boy Jimbo, you got 5,000 dollars to fix this wall?' The stress, and the fact that he did something this bad made his heart flutter — ka-thud, ka-bam, ka-thud — and pressured him into saying the forbidden word out loud. The f-word. "Ah, fuck! What the hell do I do now?!"

He would've never thought of saying the forbidden word, especially at home, where he lived with a collection of younger siblings. Instilling them with a colorful vocabulary was the last thing that needed to fall under his responsibility. But in the spur of the moment, he didn't care.

The now-distraught Lincoln frantically scans the room, searching for something that could stop the leakage. His eyes dart from one object to another, switching from the shower curtains, to the plunger, then to the towel rack. They lock on a green — almost emerald — bath towel that draped over it. It was practically calling his name. Hey! Lookie here! Use me! I'll stop it, and soak up the water like a dry sponge. That'll buy you some time!

A glimmer of hope had surfaced. Putting his right hand out, he got up close, and corked the leak with his palm. He could feel the immense pressure against his velvety skin — and though it didn't really hurt; at all, in fact, it felt like it should've.

He reaches for the towel with his left hand, the right one firm on the broken valve. Water had started to escape through the slits between his fingers. 'You better get this done quick,' he's telling himself, 'The bigger the mess, the worse it gets. Mom and dad's gonna kill you.' It's something called worry. Have you ever heard of it before? Well, if you haven't, it was this 'worry,' that made him work with such haste.

His right foot off the ground, his body pitched to the right, relying solely on his left foot to keep his balance, he reaches for the towel, his arm extended. He fumbles with his fingers as they try to grapple its emerald-green pillings, until they finally maintain a firm hold.

Gotch'ya. Now come here.

He returns his foot to the marble flooring, and the shortened distance whisks the towel from the rack. Unbeknownst to him, he had also gotten something else in return, having gripped both ends of the towel.

CLANG! Ouch...

His head had come back sharply, the skin on his forehead feeling raw and battered. The towel had enveloped the silver rack, bringing the entire mount off the wall. Hey man, you see this lunatic over here? How about we pay him a visit together and smack the shit out of him! The metal rod had slingshotted, drawing a path that crashed between his brows. His eyelids shot closed, and it had hit him. Really hard.

"Ugh," he mutters, the bruise a tense migraine that circled the middle of his forehead, "...so that just happened."

At this point, Lincoln had basically given up, and dumped the towel on the sink's wound — which had continued to spurt water like blood from a slit throat — leaving it to buy him some time. At least it wouldn't be pointless.

"I'm done trying," Lincoln vents, throwing his arms up in despair. "I'll stop now before I tear this entire house down."

He turns for the door, but then that very feeling returns, like he was being watched. This time however, someone definitely had their eyes on him. It had resurfaced with unimaginable strength. Their gaze, though he can't see who it is, makes him feel vulnerable — exposed. His stomach knots, and it's contents churn, gurgling and gasping for relief. Then comes the brain-stabbing pain — someone's alarm clock had gone off in another room — and the sound had started to pierce him through the walls.

The waves of sharp pain resurface, and he falls to his knees, clenching his white hair, gritting his teeth at the strident ring in his eardrums.

Ka-thud, ka-bam, ka-thud.

It's just too much.

He throws himself at the toilet, hovers his face over the bowl, and with his hands wrapped around the porcelain rim, everything has rushed up his throat, forcing green acidic fluid to explode out of his mouth like an erupting geyser.

Lincoln Loud the detective

Lincoln Loud sits at his oak dresser — using a black folding chair due to the cramped nature of his room — his legs sandwiched together to block a piss stream that dared to soak his denim jeans. He reflects on what had happened, trying to process how it could've transpired, and most importantly: why it did, if there was any reason at all. The episode, which had caused him a great deal of physical and mental pain, left wounds that stung from the inadequacy of available treatment. They're avid for healing. And the solution? He needs answers. A lot of them.

The screen of his laptop casting a pale light on the wooden highboy, he cycles through what had happened, taking a moment to consider any clues he can gather, his delicate fingers resting on the plethora of keys at the bottom of his laptop.

Luna Loud catches her brother

"Hey, what's wrong?"

That was a caring and considerate question, yet Lincoln still found it sour at heart.

His older sister, Luna Loud, stood a few feet in front of him. Donning her usual night attire, an oversized purple skull t-shirt, she sank a few inches below her younger brother. In fact, Lincoln had skyrocketed past his older sisters — except Luan, who happened to match her brother's height — and in an act of jealousy, they would shoot them nasty sidelong glances whenever they would walk by. Being the tallest had basically replaced the idea that being older gave you more privilege.

Luna had always considered herself a caring person. Though she was fully aware of her ups-and-downs, they barely weighed on her, and she did her best to straighten them out. Being a role model for her younger siblings was no easy task. They needed someone to look up to, and though there were always other people to influence them, that didn't suggest that she should slack off. Over the years, it had become quite clear that she instilled her sisters with good manners — or at least her own interpretation of them — and she was very proud of that.

Lincoln however, seemed to stand out from the rest. Growing up, he never saw his sisters as role models. His habits had developed independently, and he would choose to do whatever he thought was best. It was certainly a process, but he would eventually learn from his mistakes, abandoning a stained shell of himself — the very one that had marked his reputation, the very one that would make him such a douchebag.

Don't get me wrong, he did have his moments, but they were often swathed with selfishness and self-entitlement.

After all, he was just a twelve-year-old kid at the time.

The only people who had directly influenced him were his parents. Perhaps it was because he was a boy living with a bunch of other girls, and refused to pick up their way of thinking. She didn't know. But all she could fathom was that he had grown into a smart and caring young man.

Yet right at this second, he was caught at the threshold of the bathroom, his cheeks guttered with tears, his bare chest exposed for all to see. He looked like a train wreck. She had heard that he was sick the day before, and throughout the entire day, he had never left his room. Not even to eat. But now that he was finally out, she was worried, especially when you consider his broken appearance.

"Uh, hellooo? You oka—"

"Fine," Lincoln said, his voice dripping with doubt, his breath short and spent. He brought his hand to his mouth and wiped something from the corner of his lips. She didn't buy it. He was far from okay.

"Don't play that game with me. You're not fine. Just tell me what's up," she urged.

Lincoln drew a deep breath and said, "Nothing's up with me, unless you wanna look at the ceiling," before rushing past his sister. Through a dust of air that swept past her, his rank body odor strangled her nose, and she pinched it in disgust.

"Ew, have you been sweating bro?" she asked, her brow arched and her left foot back.

She could only stare as he kept quiet, shuddered a little, and turned right, heading for the stairs.

Lincoln Loud didn't understand. He probably would've told Luna what had happened, mainly because she was bound to find out anyway, but she was giving him strange inputs. The moment she caught him in the doorway, his joints fused together and his knees trembled. Something was jabbing at his heart, and it roused his low spirits. He needed to know what it was. That however, wasn't the only thing that needed closure.

Ew, have you been sweating bro?

It was at that exact moment he felt something, possibly a bug, run up his spine, and he cringed. It could've been a coincidence, but with everything that had been going on, it certainly didn't feel like one.

Lincoln Loud makes a discovery

Maybe he can... feel emotion? There's no way though. That sounds absolutely surreal.

Yet that was the idea that crossed Lincoln's mind.

"So... if I can feel emotion, I should get some sort of signal from it. So, for disgust or whatever that was... I'll cringe? Or it'll send a chill up my spine?" Rising from his chair, he reaches for the circular window positioned up the wall, standing on the crowns of his toes, and pitches it open. A gust of cool air plays with his puffy hair — white-haired noodles dance wildly in the breeze — and he returns to the wooden highboy. "We'll see about that. Some bug has got to fly in here at some point," he claims vaguely.

He plops down onto his seat, and returns his focus to the keyboard. Opening an incognito window, he begins to search. The keys thump against their base as Lincoln taps them — the clatter of mechanical rain filling the room — and he types out the words, 'spider bite symptoms.'

Given the absurdness of the situation, he wasn't expecting to find an exact answer, and though it would've been nice to put a leash on the beast inside him, which had been clawing at his insides for an explanation, anything would do. It was perhaps with some sort of unease that he still felt nauseous, and his innards continued to stir nervously, his stomach left with nothing to bring up. The flittering beat of his heart teases him, and his head droops in response, his throat feeling pronounced and frozen.

"So it wasn't just a normal bite.." Lincoln thinks, contradicting the solacing words he had mumbled before passing out. That definitely aged like milk. He looks down at his hand, which rests atop the laptop's keyboard, examining the scar of the spider-bite. It looked normal, but something didn't sit right with him. "Yup, definitely not."

The following minutes were followed by rigorous searching, Lincoln digging deep into the cryptic fields of the internet. Upon finding a collection of plausible websites, Lincoln tries to gather any details he could find, only to be met with disappointment. Nothing is even remotely similar to what he had been experiencing — there was barely any correlation; if there was, at all.

Symptoms and Signs:

Pain and swelling

Cramping

Sweating

This is not what he is looking for.

It's all useless.

"Nothing here is telling me anything! I've been experiencing much weirder things!" Lincoln seethes. His voice squeezes through narrowed lips, compressing it to the tone of a hissing snake. "Maybe I should look for that spider, specifically."

Unfortunately for him, the information wasn't clean in his mind, and he couldn't remember certain things.

"Uh, hopefully I took notes on the genetically-enhanced ones."

Lincoln reaches for his backpack, which had been carelessly discarded on the floor the day before. He unzips it and shuffles through his belongings, searching for the notes he had taken during the field trip. He pulls out a black accordion folder, and searches through the pleated folds—the last place he remembers leaving them. He finds a few disgruntled papers, which were jagged and ripped on the sides, likely because he tore them from the circular spine of his notebook. He takes a brief moment to scan them, looking for any clues that could help him, but to no avail, nothing comes through.

"Ugh! Nothing is helping me!" Lincoln exasperates, tossing the notes on his bed. "Are there any other clues? Think Lincoln, think!"

His hands placed on each temple, his fingers oriented in finger-guns, he tries to unveil the memories.

...

'Ah!'

He had flinched after its fangs had pierced his soft flesh.

It had been none other than a spider...and ironically, he was in a place full of them.

Bumping the spider with his other hand, it had fallen to the ground, twirling like a feather in the wind, but wildly. The creepy-crawly had appeared to be already injured after its landing — it struggled to crawl with its legs. Lincoln had then stepped on it with his shoe, squashing the spider, it's crushed body sticking to the shoe's outsole...

...

That's it! That very spider could still be stuck to the bottom of his shoe, and he could identify it by examining its corpse.

Luckily, he wouldn't have to venture far to collect his shoes, as he never took them off, even during his sleep... gross. He bends over and sticks his finger into the back of his shoe, allowing his foot to smoothly slide out. The rough texture of his socks burns his skin like sandpaper. With his foot now exposed, the rancid smell of rotten cheese — or accumulated sweat — singes his eyebrows, and he cocks his head back, revolted. Disgusting.

Diverting his attention back to the shoe, he gets it into his hands, turns it over, and inspects it from a distance, the glow of his laptop screen peeking through the corner of his eye. It projects a gallery of spiders, and it sheds a dim light on his face. He had searched up, 'photos of spiders,' and clicked on the 'images' option. Now, there were no web addresses. Just images — creepy, spine-chilling close-ups.

"I'll just need to find the best match," he thinks, "then I can google the symptoms for a bite from that spider; hopefully I can find some type of correlation between the two."

His eyes circle the spider's mangled body, and, scanning the images online, looks for the best match he can find. The disturbing images make him shiver and cringe, each one flowing down the screen in a steady stream as the tip of his index finger guides the scroll wheel downwards. He was never comfortable seeing the creepy-crawlies which lurked the poorly maintained sections of houses, such as the attic, or the space under your bed. After a few seconds of scrolling, an image catches his eye. He had already glanced at it, but did a double take, scrolling upwards.

Shoe in his left hand, his computer mouse swaddled with his smooth skin, Lincoln puts two and two together: it's the same spider, the very one that had bit him.

"Bingo," he smiles. He squints at the screen, trying to read the caption. "Noble false widow?" It takes him a second to process the information. "So, does that spider make you stronger or something?" He searches for the symptoms, in hopes of drawing a conclusion, but he's met with nothing but the usual symptoms. "Okay, so what the hell's wrong with me? What is happening to me?"

With one last effort, he starts to search up information on the Genetics Laboratory of Detroit, which should be the key to the answers. Beforehand, he had considered this the last resort. What if the spider was super valuable? What if he owed millions of dollars? In that case, could he be arrested? He didn't want to find out. His heartbeat raging, nervous blood coursing through his veins, he enters the information into the search bar.

Genetics Laboratory of Detroit spisrfsefdrg

Wait...the hell does 'spisrfsefdrg' mean?

Confusion had slapped him in the face. Something must've been wrong with his keyboard. He takes a glance downwards, pulling his hands away from the keyboard unsteadily. Stuck to the tips of his fingers were his laptop's typewriter keys, shaking in rhythm with his trembling fingers.

Something is wrong with me

The time — it had been no more than quarter to seven — but the Loud House had erupted like it usually would on a Friday night. Lincoln Loud could hear the commotion through the walls, he could feel every time an eye was batted towards his door, he could distinguish every voice he heard...and it was unsettling. And it was also at that moment he knew: something was wrong with him.

His mouth swelled with the essence of stomach acid. The taste was sour, and he puckered in disgust, calling slimy congregations of saliva to the tip of his tongue.

Now where was he again?

Oh, right.

He needed to understand what was going on. Those feelings, or the unworldly sensations, were... interesting, to say the least. He didn't understand what was happening, and it wasn't easy to be berated with questions he couldn't answer.

"What?! I thought you were sick! How'd you do that?"

"Is something bothering you? Please tell us why you did it!"

Those were only a few of the questions his parents had asked him. He sighed, hanging his head, without an answer on his lips.

"Lincoln, seriously? Did you actually have to do that?"

"What? Weren't you sick like yesterday? You never left your room."

And those were only a few of the questions his sisters had asked him. Once again he sighed, hanging his head, without an answer on his lips.

Lincoln cringed at the words he had given his parents. They made no sense at all. 'I'm sorry mom and dad, I really don't have a good explanation right now,' he had said, looking for any way to avert his parents' questions. He only wanted to take the punishment. Nothing else. 'My only guess is that I was just so weak when I was feeling sick and wasn't expecting to feel better already, so I'm pretty sure I was just putting too much effort into everything.' His skin popped out in freckle-sized dots. Goosebumps. That proposal was so stupid. He just knew it.

His father had sheepishly replied, 'I see.'

Maybe he felt bad for his son. Maybe he was embarrassed. Maybe he wanted the punishment to be brief. Lincoln didn't know.

His mother then chimed in, 'I say, I'm glad my little boy is okay. You really had us worried last night. If anything, we're just relieved you made a quick recovery. You know, me and your father took turns making sure you were okay. Speaking of that, how was your sleep? You slept for a good eighteen hours!'

Lincoln felt even worse. He was fine. It was nothing he couldn't handle. Why did they care so much? Did they not realize that he had just raised hell in the bathroom — not to mention their only bathroom? He didn't want to speak, but something had urged him too — his heart ballooned, filling itself with ice-cold water — and he guided his hand to his chest, rubbing and pressing his fingers deep into his tough core.

'Sorry, it's nothing,' he claimed, 'it actually didn't feel any different from all the other times I've slept. Everything seemed normal; it didn't really feel like I passed out for that long. However, I did feel a little more alert than usual when I woke up...'

Lincoln, are you stupid? he thought, a little bit more alert than usual? A bit of an underestimation, ya think?

His heart began to sink uncomfortably, as if the amount of water had been weighing it down. What was this weird feeling? Was he having a heart attack?

Nope, not even close.

...

But Present Lincoln knows what it is. He had recently come to a conclusion: he could sense emotion, after all. And that 'feeling,' that struck his heart was worry.

...

'Lincoln, you okay? You're ignoring us,' his mother said.

Her son's head spun left and right, before his eyes met the floor.

'Oh...' Lincoln said, confused. His heavy heart jerked, listed, and righted itself again. The impulse swelled. He wanted — needed — to stop it. 'I think I should go get ready for school.'

'Well I find your justification pretty interesting, kiddo. Maybe a bit unrealistic,' his father said with a kind of skepticism, 'what do you say we figure out the repercussions after school? You don't wanna risk being late for your morning class! Having seen the damage myself, which was... quite surprising, to say the least, it's a pretty big deal, so don't expect to get off the hook easily.'

'Okay,' is all he said.

He didn't care.

He just wanted this to be over.

He wanted to learn.

He wanted to understand.

At the time, they had been sitting on the couch, a foam-stuffed piece of junk, that sat smack in the middle of the living room. Lincoln got on his feet, took a few steps forward, before turning to face his parents, his blown-up heart bobbing and pitching.

'Uh, I think I'll go get my stuff ready for school.'

That was a lie.

He was going to research, and get answers — a lot of them.

Something is wrong with my brother

The time — it had been no more than half-past six, yet the Loud family had stirred awake, each member emerging from their room like a drunken sailor, hair dry and stubborn, breath foul and hot, clothes musty and dank. First came Luna, who was forced awake by the unrest, raging somewhere in the house — which later turned out to be the bathroom. Her sleep had ended abruptly, like a car driving top-speed, headed straight for a concrete wall, then reduced to nothing but a smoldering wreck. She stood in the hallway, moments after Lincoln had fled the scene.

Luan had followed briefly.

Nearly six feet tall with hazelnut hair that swayed at her shoulders, she wore flannel pajamas that swathed her arms and legs with yellow plaid. Luan was undoubtedly the prettiest among the sisters, and Luna often found herself comparing her to an early 80s Brooke Shields. That being said, she had joined Luna in the hallway, nudging her shoulder as she came to a stop. "Hey, why'd you get up so early?"

Luna's head spun around, and her eyes met Luan's chin. Damn, I'm short, she thought. She then tossed her head back, meeting Luan's gaze sharply. "I just uh, heard some ruckus. Came out here to check it out and Lincoln was out here stinkin' and without a shirt on, weird huh?"

Her sister put on her 'thinking face' — her lip curved inwards, forming a half-circle groove that pronounced her right cheek, her eyes drifting off.

"Well?"

Luan regarded her sister. "Eh, it was probably hot in his room, and he sweated the night out."

"Nah, I caught a whiff of his breath. It was smelling like he just puked his guts out."

"That's strange."

"What do you mean, strange? He was sick, remember?"

"Oh ya."

"He closed the door behind him in the bathroom. Wanna check it out?"

"Uh, I guess."

The two sisters' voices rippled down the hall, ending in a far-flung echo, accompanying a steady melody that crept through the bathroom door — plink, plink, plink.

"Hey," Luna asked, "you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"The dripping."

"The sink, maybe?"

"Okay Sherlock Holmes, let's just see what's going on in there."

As the water continued to trickle on the ground, Luan and Luna went to the bathroom and pushed the door open.

Plink-plink-plink-plink-plink.

Luan's eyes widened. "What the—"

An emerald bath towel, noticeably wet — she could tell by the dark patches along its cotton — was slumped against the sink handles. Luna and Luan lost focus, their mouths' agape like an open book — apart from the shower, almost everything had been broken — and as their eyes darted from one thing to another, they noticed the beads of water, which had been dripping from the end of the towel that suspended over the sink's edge, upgrading to fluid streams, embedding the bathroom tiles in fresh Adam's ale.

"...hell," Luan blurted, "get Lana."

Later, with Lana now at their side, she happily got to work.

They had shaken her awake, their hands firm around her shoulder, jerking her side to side, and her first response was, 'Whyyyy? I just wanna sleep!' before she smothered her face into her pillow, coarse blonde ponytails draping over either side of her mattress. 'Leave me alone.'

Luna sighed, "We have a plumbing issue, and we need your—"

Lana shot her head back, her lips twisted in an excited grin. "Really?"

Yep, that had done the trick.

From the bathroom, come a few doors down and you'd find Lana's room, which she shared with her twin sister Lola. Their relationship was a bit odd. Everything Lola was, Lana wasn't. She was the princess of pink, or per say, 'girly stuff.' Meanwhile, Lana was the princess of filth, muck, and dirt. She was quite literally the polar opposite of clean. Maybe the peculiarity that comes with having someone just like you ended up giving them a crazy drive to be unique — because seriously, they were so set in their ways, that they wouldn't opt for change even if it meant saving their life.

Lana had rushed down the hallway, her right hand clutching the handle of the red toolbox she always kept under her bed. She moved like a firetruck that bolted towards a raging fire. Wanna stand in front of her? She'll just shove you to the side. Not that a fire truck did that, but they had every right to blow red lights — those things are obstacles, and in this scenario, stupid kids are obstacles.

Anyhow, this was an emergency.

Now positioned on one knee, she rifled through her toolbox, and the clatter of her metal tools clashing lapped the whistle of the water pipes. Finally, she seemed to find something plausible and fumbled with it in the container, before pulling out a shit ton of gray, clay-like material. Epoxy putty.

From the doorway, Luan and Luna watched as Lana mounded it on top of the broken valve, stretching and mushing the edges out to clamp on the porcelain base.

"Dang, who the heck even did this? I thought I was coming here to find a loose pipe, maybe even a clog but this," she turned to face them, and Luan's eyes darted to the side with some kind of hesitation. "...is ridiculous. Now, who did this? I just gotta know."

Luna's lips parted, presumably to speak, but she hesitated. Her throat caught, her body frozen, she simply stood still. "Uh..."

Lana furrowed her brow, wagged her head and sighed, "I'll go shut the water off, it's only a temporary fix, don't touch it. But I want an answer when I'm back."

Luan and Luna's eyes met, and they stepped aside, allowing Lana to pass through. She brushed past them — water that gathered at the edges of her face dropped with each step, littering the floor with patterns of wet dots, and dark patches speckled her clothing. She was soaked. All thanks to that stupid jet of water, which literally came out of bumfuck nowhere. They expected the tap, maybe even the shower, to be left on — not the whole damn sink to erupt like a Mentos-filled coke bottle. Worried, they turned to Lana, who swept around the corner, and disappeared down the flight of stairs, before their eyes met again.

"Should we tell her?," Luna asked. "I don't wanna give lil' bro up."

Luan stared at her wholeheartedly, put on her 'thinking face' again, and she drifted off, biting her lower lip nervously. "I think—"

"What? Give up what, ay?"

Luan's heart jumped. Cranking her head to the side, she fixed her eyes on a certain someone — one with a sturdy set of brown hair. Lynn Loud Junior.

Damn it.

Her lips buckled in a smartass grin that screamed, got ya bastard, she cocked her head to the side, arms crossed. Lynn Loud, the most athletic and competitive in the house, always wanted in on any secrets — especially those her sisters kept. And though she did vow to keep them, and she did fulfill that promise... most of the time, secrets are meant to be kept, not shared.

She breathed a hearty laugh. "So, can I know what's up?"

Luna pitched her eyes side to side, switching from her older sister's bedroom — which used to be split until her eldest sister moved into an out of state apartment with her boyfriend — to her own room, which she shared with Luan. She then focused on Lynn, and smiled at her, tracing her lips into a 'u' with unsettling slowness.

"Nope."

Lynn dipped her head in a grin, then pursed her mouth disgustingly, a feral snarl at the tip of her tongue. She jerked her head left and right coolly, her silky ponytail sweeping the breeze behind her. But then she came to a halt, and the very same ponytail swayed side to side, wearing off the momentum.

"Fine, keep the cat in the bag," she said, and craned her face back up. "Now if you'll excuse me, I gotta answer the call of nature. Really badly."

Lynn went for the door, stopping in her tracks when she felt a hand flat on her stomach. "I'm gonna stop you right there."

She looked up.

It was Luan.

Her mood darkened. Why couldn't she use the bathroom? I mean, hey, there was no line. She shot her a daring look, her eyes tiny slits between tense lids. "And why's that, huh?"

Luan threw her a tense glare. "You really don't wanna know."

Lynn clenched her fists — not because she was looking for a fight, but because she was annoyed — and blew an angry huff. She turned to leave, smacking Luan in the face with her rough-smelling ponytail, and padded along the hallway. She really didn't feel like putting up a fight. It was only six thirty-three in the morning. She never got up that early — unless she had planned to go on a morning jog (or workout) the day before. But today? Hell no. She wanted to sleep.

It all wasn't too long ago.

She rustled in bed, flopping on her side to check on Lucy, her sister, who slept across from her — sound asleep. The sound of voices and screaming pipes pounded the walls, and it had woken her up. Great. What a waste of sleep. She swung her feet off the edge of her mattress and sat up, and her bed listed like a ship with unbalanced cargo. She looked at the alarm clock. It read, 6:30, in bold, red digits.

The only thing on her mind was annoyance... and that she needed to empty the tank.

And who's up this early, she thought, making all this damn noise in the hallway, ain't nobody got respect for others? She forced her feet to the floor, and skull-cracking pain jabbed her head. Oughta teach this idiot a lesson.

In the hallway, she found Luan and Luna talking nonsense, as Lana trudged down the stairs, soaking wet. They were talking about 'giving someone up,' so she wanted the details, and things carried on from there.

Then the cry of her bursting bladder returned.

She stopped dead, and spun around. The anger she once held was gone, and she resorted to pity.

"Hey Luan, c'mon," she cried, "I need to pee so bad."

"No-can-do buckaroo, I need the green light from—"

"Nobody use the bathroom upstairs!"

Everyone froze.

It was dad.

Heavy, racing footsteps shook the floor, and Lynn Loud Senior, a balding man in his late 40s, emerged from the L-shaped junction between the hall and stairway. Clearly distressed, he spotted a group of his daughters outside the bathroom door. Uh-oh.

He was getting ready to greet the day when Lincoln told him that he had 'accidentally' destroyed the bathroom.

Heading for the bathroom door, he stalled in the hallway. "Sorry girls, I'm coming to check the bathroom, mister came down stairs and fed me some pretty bad news."

Luna stepped aside. "Yeah, we discovered it for ourselves, we had Lana patch a few things up, right now she's downstairs closing off the water."

Come downstairs, and Lincoln was sitting on the couch, where his father had guided him. 'Stay put, I'm going to see what you did.' He nodded and swallowed thickly. He knew he was fucked. Peering downwards, he slapped his thighs playfully. My wallet better say its prayers tonight, he thought. And, staring into the blank face of the television that sat in front of him, he began to think.

How bad is my punishment gonna be?

"HOLY COW!"

His father's voice echoed through the house, and Lincoln felt his blood run cold — and his heart come to a stop.

Yep, it was probably going to be pretty bad.

Oh brother

"Well, looks like I'm going to have to replace my laptop anyway."

A dark shadow crosses his face, and he grits his teeth, ripping one more key from the skin of his fingertips. It was for the letter 'p.'

Ironic.

P for pain.

Getting up, Lincoln grips the seat of the foldable chair, and pulls it up. It meets the metal back, bringing the feet along with it. Now flat and tucked in, he slides it under his bed, leaving it for the next time he uses it — probably later today. The morning Sun had only just kissed the sky. Bright light had been filtering through Lincoln's dirty pane windows. There's plenty of time, he thought, after school.

Dread washes him over; he had to go to school.

Going to school is nothing more than a daily routine for students. Start, do well, and get the hell out; welcome yourself into the adult world. Lincoln had never thought much of school. Just go in and do well, it's only the future that matters, that's why you're here, he'd think. But like this... what if he destroys the school as he did the bathroom? Easy suspension, maybe even get expelled too. Say goodbye to your chances at college.

Backpack idle on his bed, window creaked open, he leans against the deep wood of his door, reflecting on the bizarre occurrences: a strangely detailed dream that felt like a fresh memory, weird muscle spasms, he can sense emotion... by his own idea, an uncontrollable level of strength, and the strange tenacity of his skin — and we still have not mentioned that he caused at least two hundreds of damage.

He slips his thumb into the pocket of his blue jeans. Poor wallet, he thinks, taking your money is basically taking water away from a person.

Worst of all, there's nothing plausible to help him. Maybe he'll just have to figure this out himself. Or... he could find help in Lisa, also known as 'the walking hunk of brain meat.'

Eh, he should probably wait though. He could still get in trouble for killing the spider.

"Lincoln, c'mon! You better get down here or you're taking the bus to school!"

Wait, what?

His eyes dart to the wooden highboy, craving the alarm clock — oh right, it's broken, you nimrod — then past the neat pile of split typewriter keys that sits next to his computer mouse, before settling on his laptop screen. The display timeout a short-fused bomb ready to send it off to sleep, he reads the bottom right corner of the screen.

It's already seven forty-five.

"Shit," he muttered.

With panicked haste, he grabs a shirt from the closet rod above his dresser (yep, his room is basically a converted closet) and yanks it over his head, covering his sunken chest with baby blue gingham. A short sleeved shirt with a thick button down collar, and a breast pocket to the right. Kind of goes well with his jeans, but either way it works; a shirt is a shirt. Now sliding his drawer open, he grabs a bottle of English Leather cologne, which Rusty had given him as a fifteenth birthday present, and sprays himself head to toe. The scent is way too strong though, and he chokes on it, his eyes practically bulging out of their sockets.

Coughing one last drizzle of saliva, he throws his backpack over his shoulder and heads for the door — not before freezing at the mouth of his room.

Something was wrong. Something was coming to attack him.

His mind enters autopilot, ready to act — he needs to turn around, his hand exactly at this position, his index and middle finger sandwiched together like a finger puppet, but spaced out an eensy-weensy bit, and, boom! The problem will be solved.

He whisks around, and snatches a wasp directly from the air.

"Got you, you little bastard... well, that's one more thing to add to the list."

End of Chapter 2

A/N: And that concludes the... prologue? At that last part there, I was trying to make it confusing, kinda fits with what Lincoln is dealing with.

Eh, I wasn't very happy with this chapter for some reason. I was planning on making this longer, but after getting this far I've realized that's a big NO. Next chapter will be more focused on some other characters, and will tie some of the loose ends of this chapter. (Expect to get closure on the incident at Herman's Industries, a bit more of Arnold's backstory, and why Chandler felt guilty when looking at his previous victim.) It's also been a while since I've tried to write on any of Lincoln's sisters or his parents, so let me know how I did. And by the way, don't worry about slow updates, I've been working on this every single day, I've just been taking things slow.

Though it's pretty unlikely, I'll try to get the next chapter finished by June or July. On June 1st (my birthday, if you don't wish me happy birthday I won't update for the next 10 years muahahahahahahahhahahhahahahaha) I'll be writing a oneshot for fun, so stay tuned for that. Afterwards, I'll get started on the 3rd chapter.

And just a final disclaimer, my writing style might change throughout the story. I'm still trying to find my groove, and you may notice I kind of experiment with my words?

I respect your thoughts all the time, criticism is always welcome and my DMs are open. Let me know what you think. Have a good day everybody, see you soon.