2. Where the Monsters Are Real – But Questionable (Who's Who?)

Note: Emilee was in a battle, and this is VERY AU from the original... AU. Merp.

"They're not coming back for you, you know."

"I know. It's okay. We both knew this day would come eventually, right? This place is impenetrable. They couldn't come in if they tried."

"Are you really okay with it? You might never see them again. Won't even hear them."

I glance at my best friend, who's dressed down in a black Mayday Parade shirt, a khaki cargo jacket, boot cut jeans over black Doc Martens, and feel a sad smile tugging at my lips before I shake my head and resume putting gears together.

"I told you. It's fine," I chuckle softly. "After all, I have you, right?"

She purses her lips and averts her eyes slightly, so that her gaze falls on a tarp-covered pile that's been pushed aside. "What's that?" she asks. I almost frown; she's never liked dealing with problems. Always liked avoiding them any way she could.

She steps carefully over boxes of gears and bends down, one hand on her knee, and lifts the tarp. I close my eyes and await the expected gasp of surprise.

"Emilee, are these yours?" she asks, turning to me. I sigh and set down my project, fiddling with the hem of my stained wife beater. Stained with blood, tears. Maybe some graphite from my pencil drawings when I can't find my tablet.

"Yes, they're mine."

"But..." My friend goes back to what's under the tarp: my forgotten past. A fragment of what I used to do before I went to battle and lost my accuracy through a scarred left eye. "You were never into - "

"I know," I say, tone even and flat. "But it was a long time ago - "

"You mean before the - "

"Yeah."

My friend is silent for a while. Then she flicks the tarp off and sets it aside on the ground. "Maybe if you started painting again - "

"Isn't it obvious I can't even focus on something like that long enough without having an attack to - "

" - if you just tried, Emilee, just tried – this world" - she gestures around the room: a fairly empty studio, converted into an art workshop for myself and my friend - "we could be normal again."

I let out a bark of dry laughter. "Oh, right! I just pick up a paint brush and – poof!" I make a mushroom cloud explosion with my hands. "Everything's will become perfect and sparkly! Daddy will actually spend time with me out of the lab, Pops will understand, Peter will come home more, and my brain will be completely clear! Not to mention, my left eye will no longer be damaged to the point of blindness. Oh, yes, that'll work out perfectly!"

My friend bristles, teeth bared in annoyance. "You know, you're a lot more stubborn than I remember."

I curl my lip in a similar sneer. "And you used to be less of a needy brat."

Her expression softens immediately in what looks like pity. "Well, then, I'm sorry I left and have to do it again."

And then she's gone and I'm left feeling cold. I sigh and scrub a hand over my face.

"Maybe I'm right."

Thirteen and a half paint cans, four scrapped canvases, and almost a whole forty-eight hours later, I've settled down with my first painting in six years.

And I'm all alone, like I started.

… Did anyone else understand this? It was supposed to be vague. See if you can guess what it's about.