Fallout

Ground Zero

»Just a short conversation«

Minerva "Minnie" Loren Whitefield

Just a short conversation. That was all that Minnie had to have with her dads. Nothing more, nothing less, a totally, absolutely do-able thing. She could totally do that. That was absolutely not the reason why she was lying in her bed, staring at the walls and pretending that she was still in the Palace, totally occupied with some foreign royalty paying a visit and not at home, having come to the realization that she probably—not probably—had to talk this through with someone.

And someone meant either her buddies, colleagues or dads.

First two were no choice, in no possible way. That meant that Minnie Whitefield had to come clear about things.

"Minnie?" her dad called from the living room. Jared Whitefield worked as head architect, and he either worked from home today, or it was weekend. To be honest, Minnie didn't know.

The last days, ever since the palace confidant left her on her 'I would prefer to take some time off and process things' story. The Hotel was one story. One nightmare of many. One panic attack that shook her to her core. A cold shiver went down her back. She clutched her blanket.

"Minnie? You okay?" Marcos Whitefield added on. "It's two o'clock. Lunch!"

"I'm in bed, dad!" she cried out, covering her head with the nearby pillow.

"Lunch!"

"I'm still in my pajamas! I'll eat later. Heat it up."

"Princess, you've been in your room for a whole week. Come out. Have you even eaten?"

Yes, at the bar I went to last night when you two thought I was already asleep. I also threw up everything when I got drunk later on. I guess, I got drunk. It doesn't really feel that way. That's probably not good. But it helps, so…

"Yes, dad!"

"Come on, sweetie, just this once. We want to talk to you."

"You can't ground me, I'm over eighteen."

"I won't ground you."

"Why do you sound like you are about to ground me, then?" Minnie groaned. She really didn't want to do this. Not go out there and pretend like everything was fine and that Hotel had just shaken her up. Thank god for whoever leaked it. At least she had an excuse now.

Now, she heard a groan from the outside. "Please, Minnie Mouse, we want to talk." They were standing right at the door, using Minnie Mouse. They hadn't done that since she was twelve and explicitly, with strong emphasis and a kind smile, asked them to.

Yikes.

"Give me time to change, at least."

"Of course!" He sounded happy. Awful, he never sounded happy. Minnie didn't approve. She liked her usual. She liked her normal life. The one where she had hangovers between business meetings with investors and clients, the one where she represented I-TEC, one of Illéa's largest businesses, like a shark.

Also not the one where she spent a week lying in bed, hiding from the world.

That, she really needed to deal with. Who knew how long work would give her time to 'readjust' to how life was.

"I can't hear you moving, Minerva!"

Cue another groan on her side. "Coming…"

She forced herself to get up (read, threw the blanket away, in the process fell out of the bed and laid on the floor for another five minutes), and disappear into her bathroom. Her parents forgot that Minerva Whitefield was a woman and wasn't going to leave that door with bed hair.

There, about thirty minutes without more than basic make up to cover the marks her nightly tears had left, Minnie stood in the door frame, ready for lunch (which her parents had eaten by then) and ready to discuss life with them, too.

Okay, maybe not.

"We need to talk."

"You sound like I am in trouble."

"You're not," Marcos replied, "but we are worried. You've been hiding in your room for the past week. What happened to you?"

"Did the prince break your heart, because if—"

Oh god, they're worried about that. "No, he did not," Minnie interrupted as fast as she could. "Really, that's not it."

"What is it then? You've never been like this before you went to Angeles. I knew it was a bad idea for you to go."

"It wasn't!" Minnie cried out. It totally had been a terrible idea, but that was besides the point. "I swear, dad. It's not that."

But he was already convinced. He took a seat in the colourful, eccentric kitchen designed by Jared Whitefield, an artist and architect through and through. Marcos Whitefield himself looked like the stern, serious criminal lawyer that he was, though, and Minnie felt like his witness. Anxious, frightened.

Not because he thought she had fallen in love. God forbid. Because she really had to tell them and that alone, speaking about her nightmares, was worse than anything else. She didn't want to remember them; there was a reason why she drunk them away!

"Sweetie, it's fine. You can tell us. We won't fly to Angeles or make a scene. We just want to help our girl."

Minnie frowned. "It doesn't feel that way."

"I promise." Jared Whitefield, the softer of the two, probably had noticed by now. Quiet yet perceptive, he had tried before to stop her from her endless nights of partying, but never succeeded. She needed it. She could only play the effective, functioning business woman for so long. "You haven't even gone out clubbing with your friends. Imagine how that feels to us; you used to do it so much that I worried, and now? You're not doing anything at all."

The fact that Marcos nodded made it worse. He had always said that Jared worried too much, giving Minnie an excuse to ignore the worry and criticism of the two, but if Marcos agreed…

"He's got a point. You're just in your room, barely coming out. If I didn't see the fridge, I'd say you've not even eaten anything," he stated.

"This feels like an interrogation," Minnie muttered.

"Something is wrong."

"Xander did not break my heart."

"Was it the attack on that Hotel?"

"No." Yes. Partwise. It woke memories, but not the worst ones. Really, thinking about it, the Hotel was far from the 'bad' she was used to. Another cold shiver ran down Minnie's back. She grabbed her cup of coffee—a Minnie Mouse one—tighter.

"You're tense. It was," Marcos deduced.

"What are you, a detective?" Minnie huffed.

"You're about to crash that cup. What did it do to you?"

She let go, but it wasn't a 'relax and everything is good now' letting go. Her red nail pushed into the fragile skin of her left index finger. "Nothing," she muttered. To mask it, she took a sip, but by no means, Marcos would notice that either way.

"What's up," he demanded. Not asked, he demanded because that was his way. Sometimes, she really wished Marcos would stop that lawyer game.

"You should change your career to mafia enforcer."

Marcos groaned. "Not. The. Point. Minerva."

"Yes, dad, I know. I'm fine. Just, stuff. Let me deal with it."

"Let me deal with it?" Marcos quoted, "And when are you going to do that? You've been doing nothing in your room for days. That's not the girl I raised."

"I can go out getting drunk too, if that's what you prefer?"

"No. I want you to tell me what's going on, Minerva. Now."

"It was the war," Jared realized. It came out of nowhere—Minnie had almost forgotten that he was around. She shrieked, because these images came back. Damn it, she could understand Victoria Illéa.

"I told you, you shouldn't have gone," Marcos blames.

Jared kindly puts a hand on his husband's shoulder. "Enough," he whispers, directive but kind. "I'll take over from here."

He takes a seat too, pushing the re-heated lunch in front of Minnie. She gets the gesture; just eat, talk later, this isn't a thing we need to deal with now. Minnie, glad, accepts that, and begins eating, in silence. It's not like Marcos is still watching her every inch. It's his way of caring, she guesses, but it's not a good one.

They let her eat. They let her drink. Jared gave Marcos enough death glares for him to fall silent whenever he dared to open his mouth. The message was clear; this isn't your place to speak up. Let me do it. These two were oddballs that Minnie wouldn't exchange for anything else in the world.

"So, what's up?" he asked, as if he was talking about the weather.

It did change as fast as the weather. It did change what this all was about. It was about the dreams and images, but also about the lack of sleep and the desire for the light-heartedness of having a drink and being out with friends, when she didn't remember. It was about lying in bed, being pressed into nothing by the weight of this all, and the lack of any feelings at the same time.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I do but—I don't know how to phrase it."

"That's alright."

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

"Do you know why you just stayed in your room?" he asked.

No, she didn't. Usually, Minnie was that razor-sharp, ambitious but playful and casual businesswoman she prided herself to be. That woman would have gone back to work, and demanded a promotion with the gentle reminder that her presence working at I-TEC meant they'd get more attention, and that anyone else would take her whole heartedly. The girl lying in her bed, avoiding getting up even when she wanted to (somewhat) wasn't Minnie Whitefield.

"Something is wrong," she admitted.

"When did this 'something' start?"

Marcos interjected, "Was it the Selection?"

"No," she immediately said, "it's been a thing longer."

Jared turned to Marcos, as if telling him 'I knew it', but nodded towards the door. With an annoyed groan (because Marcos Whitefield always knew what was going on), he accepted his fate and moved out of the kitchen, leaving Minnie alone with the more emotionally supportive of her parents. She loved Marcos, but she needed him more for work than this.

"Since when? The war?"

Minnie nodded in silence. Pretty much, that was it. She didn't need to deny it (and yet she did), and Jared understood it.

"Thank you for telling me," he added on, after a pause of thoughtful expression. "Minnie Mouse, we need to do something. Do you understand that?"

Minnie didn't know why, but that idea sent another shiver down her bare back. That wasn't an idea she was fond of, to be honest. To be exact, it frightened her, very much even. It meant that something would change—would need to change—and right now, dealing with the status quo was difficult enough.

"Yes, but…"

"It's okay, sweetie," her dad assured her. Pulling her into a gentle hug, he assured her, "I'm always by your side. Marcos is too, even if he's a stubborn dummy."

Minnie chuckled. "The stubborn dummy you married," she teased.

"Let's not question my life choices."

She nodded, pulled away, but couldn't look into his eyes. Too odd, too much of a 'now you need to do something because now he knows'.

"I am here for you, even if I'm probably not the person you really want to talk to. But we can find you that. Someone to talk to. Someone who understands and who can help you. There are lots of them around," he encouraged and cheered as much as he could. Minnie could only give a half-hearted smile as response. "It'll be fine, yes?"

She nodded, more to make him stop talking than because she could believe that. Believing that meant giving in to the idea and that was almost as scary as the dreams and nightmares themselves.

Just a short conversation. Absolutely. Just a short conversation.

Author's Note

I'm sorry. I totally forgot updating was a thing. I've been sick on and off again, and had a stressful week behind me, hence my lack of remembering the date, so props to Abizeau for reminding me that I'm meant to be updating. Here's to hoping I'll remember next time.