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❛ ᴛʜᴇ ᴘ. ᴘᴀʀᴋᴇʀ ᴇғғᴇᴄᴛ​​​​​​​​​​. ❜ ° . ༄
- ͙۪۪˚  ▎❛ 𝐅𝐈𝐅𝐓𝐄𝐄𝐍 ❜   ▎˚ ͙۪۪̥◌
»»————- ꒰ ᴛʜɪs ɪs ᴀʟᴡᴀʏs
ʜᴏᴡ ɪᴛ ʜᴀᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴇɴᴅ ꒱


❝ A GIFT NOT TO UNDO, BUT
MEND, TO SHIELD WHAT
FRAGILE LIGHT LINGERS
IN THE ASHES ❞

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"'Good evening, everyone. I'm Jessica Holmes.'"

"'And I'm Dan Tenenbaum.'"

"'We begin tonight with a larger-than-life story down on Kensington Wharf. Action 9's very own Bailey Stone is live with the story.'"

Reginald watched the proceedings at Kensington Wharf with cold, gray eyes. He personally made it a habit to avoid being in the same company as people with such low-life occupations, but he had to stand their presence for the time being. His gaze was apathetic as they made fools of themselves while they exclaimed over the 'big-ass squid.' (Their words— he would never use such distasteful language.) He straightened his tie, barely paying attention to the inane chatter.

"Dan, Jessica, I don't know what is happening right now. Something is moving inside the squid. I don't know if you guys are getting this in the studio, but there seems like there's a. . . I-I mean, this is incredible, but I think I see a. . . face," Bailey Stone broke off from her professional reporting as something. . . pulsed against the flesh of the squid.

One of the fishermen had a knife, which he used to cut away the skin of the creature. A young girl burst free in a gush of internal fluids, her clothes stained with black ink. The newswoman shrieked in surprise but soon recovered her polished demeanor. "As you can see, many questions remain. What is the Cleanse? Who is this little girl? Where did she come from, and where will she go from here?"

Reginald seized the moment. Without a word to anyone, he stepped forward, his presence immediately commanding attention. He spoke with an authority that came naturally to him, one that kept people from asking too many questions. "Our world is changing. Has changed. There are some among us gifted with abilities far beyond the ordinary. And with such gifts come. . . responsibilities. This girl is one such individual. I understand your concerns, but rest assured, I will take full responsibility for her welfare."

"Sir Hargreeves, it is an honor to have you here. This is truly an unexpected turn of events. Could you shed some light on what we just witnessed?" Bailey Stone asked as she extended her microphone in Reginald's direction.

"The public will be told what is necessary," he told her indifferently. He held out an arm towards the shaken girl under the guise of a parental gesture, but it was really to forcefully maneuver her towards the exit.

Bailey, sensing that he was shutting the operation down, pressed with one last question. "Are you concerned for the welfare of the child? Will she be okay?"

Reginald turned toward her, his gaze icy and inscrutable. "Of course. Just as I am for the fate of the world."

--

"Tell me, what do you remember, girl?"

Jennifer stared up at the imposing older man with a hint of fear in her eyes. After everything she'd just been through, she craved the comfort of a reassuring touch— even though she knew she would no longer experience familial affection. Reginald had seemed for all the world a concerned fatherly figure until they were out of the public eye and in his mansion. She hadn't gotten to see much of the grandeur of his house as she'd been hastily ushered to a lower basement that had laboratory-like sterileness. She now sat on a metal examination table with the thermal blanket still wrapped around her.

Reginald quickly grew impatient with her silence, his steely eyes sharpening further with displeasure. "I don't have time for your childish games, girl! You will tell me how you came to find us or—"

"Reggie!" A woman's voice cut off his threat. Jennifer couldn't help but relax slightly at the sight of her; her long, curly silvering hair, elegantly wrinkled face and plate of cookies she was carrying gave her the appearance of a caring grandmother. She scolded him sternly as she came closer: "don't pester the girl; she's just been through a traumatizing ordeal! Why don't you go get everything set up and let me take care of her?"

He seemed to want to argue with the woman and even opened his mouth to do so, but at her firm look, he closed it and turned sharply on his heel, heading toward the door on the far side of the room. Once he'd disappeared behind it, the older woman sat on the table next to her, jumping up as spritely as if she were twenty. "Would you like a cookie?" Jennifer took one hesitantly and nibbled at the edge. She continued, "don't mind him, dear. He can be a bit of an old stodge, but it won't be long until he's warmed up to you." She smiled at the girl's mistrustful look. "Yes, I know it seems impossible, but he is an old softy underneath all of. . . that. And don't worry about Reggie's questions, you don't have to talk about anything until you're ready, understand? You just sit here and stay comfortable while we sort things out."

Now that the heartless man was gone and replaced by this nice lady,— who'd introduced herself as Abigail— Jennifer found herself wanting to share what had happened to her. But she knew from past experience that telling the truth would only get her in trouble, so she wanted to make something exceptionally clear first: "I don't want to go back to them."

Abigail's eyes lit up as if she were genuinely happy that Jennifer had spoken. She patted the girl's hand reassuringly. "I'm assuming you mean your parents?" At her nod, she gave one of her own. "That's not a problem, dear. We'll take good care of you."

Feeling a little reassured— though she still didn't entirely trust the couple— Jennifer mumbled in a small voice, "it was supposed to be a vacation."

Since her gaze was now focused on her cookie, she didn't see the look in Abigail's eyes sharpen. "What was, my dear girl?"

"Our family trip," Jennifer explained, her voice even growing softer. She picked at a loose chocolate chip. "We had been fighting a lot so my mom thought we should go on vacation to work things out. But. . . once we were far enough from shore, they—" Her throat worked and she stopped talking.

The older woman gasped sympathetically, putting the pieces together. "That's horrible! Why would they do such a thing?"

Jennifer met her gaze, her own, dark eyes suddenly serious. "How did Sir Hargreeves know that I was special?"

"We created your powers, darling," Abigail explained. She saw no reason to lie when the girl would soon forget. "We are. . . scientists, of a sort— hence the lab— and we made the particles that give you your powers. We wanted to meet the special person they attached to, so we created a device to track them, which lead us to you. Would you be comfortable in telling me what you can do?"

"Don't you know?" the brunette asked, genuinely confused.

Abigail shook her head ruefully. "No; they adapt to the person they find— your powers are customized to your DNA so the person who gets them has exactly what they need. Do you understand?"

"I. . . think so," the girl said. Then, she offered: "I can see the future, kind of. I get. . . visions. My parents didn't like it when I talked about them, so I tried not to. But sometimes they were really scary and I had to tell someone. That's when the arguing started."

"I'm sorry they didn't appreciate your gifts," Abigail apologized gently, squeezing the girl's hand. "But I can assure you, my husband and I are quite used to being around super-powered people. We can help you interpret your visions and even control them."

Jennifer's expression lit up with hope. "Really? 'Cause when I tried to talk to my parents, they. . . they called me bad names." Her voice softened with sadness again. "That's. . . why they threw me into the ocean. I can't swim, so I sank pretty fast but. . . this thing came out of the darkness and saved me. And then the fishermen cut me out of it and Sir Hargreeves found me."

"Oh, honey," the older woman crooned sympathetically. She pulled the girl into a comforting hug. "You're safe with us now. If you want, we have a way for you to forget your painful memories. It might even make controlling your visions easier. Would you like that?"

Still fresh from her shock and grief, Jennifer didn't think very long before she nodded eagerly. Perhaps, if she'd had more time to think about it— or thought to ask more questions— she might have had a different answer.

☂︎ ☂︎ ☂︎

Rosie— no, Jennifer— woke in a strange room wearing unfamiliar pajamas. Her head still throbbed, though the pain was less stabbing and more just a dull ache. Her memories were all jumbled, ones from the past, present and the future all mixing together. She lay still in the bed, staring up at the wallpapered ceiling as she tried to make sense of things.

That town— if it could even be called that— had been a farce. Her whole life was turning out to be just one big lie. Gary, the sheriff, had probably never cared about her. Stan, one of the regulars in the diner, had probably only come in so often so he could make sure she still didn't have her memories. Even wheelchair-bound Patricia, with her friendly smiles and interesting facts about her antiques, had probably been a fake! Had she even owned her diner at all? Or had it just been a front— something to keep her busy and out of the Hargreeves' hair?

And all those things Abigail had told her, about how they would take care of her, this was what they'd meant? She would just be shoved someplace out of sight, forgotten about like an old pair of shoes that no longer fit? She felt a fresh wave of anger wash through her at the thought of that couple. Then, the name Hargreeves made her think of Ben.

That asshole! Who did he think he was, coming in and tearing up her life like this? He could take his stupid, cocky smirk and damn connection and get swallowed by his own giant squid! She decided that she hated him.

But. . . she couldn't commit to the feeling, which only made her angrier. With her proper memories coming back, she realized why he'd felt so familiar: she'd had visions of him all her life. She'd seen his face in every dream and every nightmare. They weren't always the same; sometimes, they didn't have powers and nothing terrible happened to them. Other times, one of them died while saving the other. In the worst instances, both of them met their ends tragically. She couldn't hate him, not when their lives were so intertwined.

With a groan of frustration, she kicked her covers off and slowly got out of bed. Her skin burned. Not in the feverish sense, but as if it was literally on fire. She shoved the sleeves of her old-lady nightgown up to her elbows and stood to cross the room and open the windows. As she did, the door opened to reveal a woman, who was carrying a pitcher and a mug, and a man just behind her. "Knock, knock!"

"How about some fresh clothes hot from the dryer?" the man offered, said clothes folded neatly in one hand.

She stared at them, still trying to process their sudden existence. "Who. . .who are you?"

"I'm Dr. Jean, with a J," the woman introduced herself.

"And I'm Dr. Gene, with a G," her husband added.

"We'll let you decide which is the dominant Jean. . ."

"And which is recessive," he finished with a smile.

When Jennifer (she had to get used to thinking of herself with that name again) did nothing but stare at them, they became serious once more. "What the hell is going on? Am I a prisoner?"'

They were quick to reassure her, "no! No, of course not. You're our guest. We have been looking for you for a very long time. We have so many questions about the Cleanse."

Jean and Gene set their offerings down, looking at her with eager anticipation. Unfortunately, she had no answers for them except: "what are you talking about?"

"The Cle. . . Uh. . . Oh," Jean paused, her expression softening with sympathy. "I get it, I get it. It's okay. You have just been through a very traumatic experience."

Gene scoffed in agreement. "That gang of miscreants, they were trying to kidnap you."

Although they were the reason why her life had gotten so messed up in a matter of hours, Jennifer still felt the need to defend them. "No, no. They. . . They were. . . Uh. . ." It was hard to remember exactly what they had been doing with the sudden influx of memories she was still experiencing, the occasional flashes of another life or a possible outcome getting in the way of her words.

Jean frowned at her difficulty. "They were what, hon?" When she had nothing else to offer, the dark-haired woman put her hands on her hips. "Well, thank goodness we got you when we did. Who knows what might've happened to you."

As the older woman went over to the pitcher to pour something out of it, Gene gave her a concerned look. "Is there anyone we can call for you? Mom? Dad? Maybe a friend?"

Her breathing grew shakier at the reminder of what she had lost. "They're all gone. My whole life. It was all a lie. Am I just part of someone's sick joke?"

"It's okay, hon," Jean told her gently, "you're safe now."

Fear pushed away the anger that had been steadily growing inside of her. The last time someone had promised that she was safe, they'd wiped her memories and hid her away from the world. These people would turn out to be just like them. "No, uh, I gotta go."

But, as she made her way to the door, her head gave a particularly painful throb. Past, present, future. Future, present, past. Past, past— She buried her fingers in her hair, clutching at her head. Jean stepped in front of her, blocking her path to the exit under the guise of care. "Hush now, darling. You just let Jean and Gene take care of you, hmm?"

☂︎ ☂︎ ☂︎

Jennifer tried to go back to sleep after Gene and Jean left. It was the only solution she could think of to ease the pain in her head but there was a down side to it, too. Her dreams were all about Ben. She saw him walking along an empty road in the middle of a forest, his hands buried in his pockets to ward off the chill. He was alone now; she didn't know where his siblings where. Honestly, he looked pretty miserable— maybe his head felt like it were being split open just like hers was. She tried to call out to him, to guide him to where she was being held captive, but she had never learned how to properly use her powers. The most she was able to get him to do was turn around and ask, "Rosie?" in a voice laced with confusion.

But then the couple returned and roused her, drawing her from her attempts to contact Ben. "We wanna show you something."

They arrived at a large barn that was located close to the house. Jennifer glanced warily at the guard who stood by the door holding a gun. If she wasn't being held prisoner like they'd said (which she didn't believe for a second), why did they have armed forces on their property? Her attention soon shifted to the contents inside the room when the gunman posed no threat. She gazed around at the different artifacts and— wait, was that a statue of Ben? Annoyed with herself for the cycle her thoughts seemed to be having lately, she forced anything related to the Asian man out of her head and asked, "what is all this stuff?"

Jean seemed unusually giddy at their presentation. She beamed at the brunette and held her hands out wide, stating triumphantly: "proof."

"Proof of what?"

"Proof that the world we live in is one big, phony-baloney lie," Gene replied.

His wife picked up their explanation again, "at first, it was. . . it was like a dream. One of those dreams where you don't know whether you're dreaming or not. But then, along came the artefacts. Little tokens of proof, slipping through time and space. Proof of the many-worlds theory of quantum mechanics and such."

"Better believe they called us every name under the sun. Didn't they, Jean?"

She nodded, frowning as if she were recalling an unpleasant memory. "Frauds, tricksters, charlatans."

"They accused us of intellectual dishonesty," Gene grumbled.

The couple explained how their theory of multiple timelines destroyed their reputations. Jennifer could see why people would call them lunatics; they certainly had that feverish, impassioned light in their eyes. If they were any more violent, she might have felt unsafe around them.

"Okay," the brunette said slowly. "But, uh, what does all of this have to do with me?"

Gene glanced away from his wife to look at the other woman. Jean laughed with excitement as the pair approached her slowly. "Jennifer. You're the key. The way to destroy all the false timelines and restore the real one."

Jean grabbed her hands imploringly. "We're ready, sugar. What do we need to do, huh? How can we help you bring about the Cleanse?"

Jennifer stared at the couple, her eyes wide with unease and distrust. "You people are. . . You people are fucking crazy."

The older woman tsked with disapproval. "Language, darling."

She lunged for a nearby knife and waved it in their direction. But she had no prior fighting knowledge and thus didn't present a threat. They seemed to know that, too, and remained calm. Gene even brought out a small pistol that she knew he would use to keep her under control. Jennifer wished she could close her eyes and try contacting Ben again, but she didn't want to be that vulnerable around these people. While she didn't think she'd be remotely successful if she tried it with her eyes open, she still attempted to reach out to him.

Jean sighed in disappointment as she continued to be uncooperative. She turned away from Jennifer and walked towards a tall object on the far side of the barn, which was draped in a sheet. "I was really hoping to hear a prophecy, darling. Maybe seeing an old friend will help jog your memory. I believe you two are already acquainted."

Jennifer's heart raced as she stared at the decaying giant squid before her, its leathery, decomposing skin still gleaming faintly under the barn's dim lighting. The smell hit her first— an overwhelming stench of saltwater and rot, like the ocean itself had died. She felt more than remembered flashes of that time, being surrounded by endless darkness and oppressing aloneness. Searching for a source of comfort, she sought Ben out once more, only to come up with a mere whisper. He was out there, she knew, but whether he would find her. . .

"No, no, no," she gasped, stumbling over her feet in her haste to get away from the monster. For as much as it had saved her, there was a reason why she could never be in a dark room by herself.

Jean and Gene remained unaffected by her increased panic and walked past her toward the doors. "Think about it, kiddo."

She threw herself towards the entrance just as the doors clanged shut, her voice cracking in terror as she banged on the wood to get their attention. "Wait! Wait! Don't leave me in here with it!"

☂︎ ☂︎ ☂︎

Ben couldn't say how he was able to find the place where Rosie was being held captive. There had been a tug on his mind— stronger than instinct but not something so wishy-washy as just knowing— that guided him in the right direction. There were a few times where he'd swear he could hear her voice, stronger than just an echo in his head, and he'd turned around, half-expecting her to be behind him. She never was and the road remained as empty as it always had.

Eventually, though, he came to a barn and farmhouse in the middle of nowhere. It smelled distinctly of wet goat thanks to the furry creatures that were penned up outside. Guards milled about the area, clueing him in on the fact he'd found the right location. He'd been planning on going in subtly; even with his powers, he didn't think he could take on so many guards by himself, certainly not without risking Rosie's safety.

But it seemed as if the Eldritch tentacles that now resided in his back had taken on a mind of their own. They sprang out from underneath his shirt without his permission and wouldn't go back in, just like when they'd first reappeared. They'd always had a symbiotic relationship— as long as he respected them, they wouldn't tear him apart from inside out— but now they ignored his wishes entirely. They propelled him forward, two of them acting like feet while the others lashed out at the armed men.

He seemed untouchable in those moments, the bullets sailing past him with laughable inaccuracy. Later, he would have better described it as an outer-body experience; he was there, present, but he had no control over anything. He hardly even registered the screams of the soldiers as his tentacles ripped them apart or the flames that raged as one of the buildings caught on fire. The only thought on his mind was getting to her.

It was an easy task to wrench the barn doors open, the extra strength from his tentacles peeling them apart without difficulty. Then, she was standing there, her face appearing only slightly unsettled— no doubt she had heard the screams outside. Ben didn't think his tentacles were helping the situation so he tried to put them away, but just like before they refused to listen. Instead, it seemed as if they wanted to be closer to her.

Rosie— Jennifer— stood frozen, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and fear as the tentacles inched toward her. They moved with a slow, deliberate grace, reaching out as if drawn to her. Ben could feel her hesitation, the uncertainty radiating from her, and he understood why. These tentacles, an extension of him, had always had a violent edge, but now they seemed gentler, more purposeful, almost curious in the way they reached for her.

"Hey," Ben said his voice so uncharacteristically soft that it surprised even him. "They won't hurt you. I promise. They're just. . . drawn to you," he added, though he didn't entirely understand why. "Like I am."

She flinched at first as one of the tentacles brushed against her arm, but Ben's voice— steady and calm— seemed to ground her. Their touch was light, almost hesitant, a startling juxtaposition to the violence they'd just induced. It was strange— they were unsettling, alien, yet there was a familiarity in the way they moved, as if they'd done this before, somewhere, in a time beyond her memory.

Her breathing grew shallow as the tendrils wrapped gently around her waist, drawing her closer to Ben, the warmth of his body contrasting with their cold, slick touch. Their eyes locked, and as they stood so near to each other, something deep within Jennifer stirred, awakening a power she'd only ever felt in fragments— visions, whispers, echoes of things that had not yet come to pass. The world around them seemed to shift and a sharp pulse of energy surged through them both.

Jennifer's eyes glazed over and her body stilled. Before Ben could register what was happening, he felt his own mind being pulled in tandem, as if it were tethered to hers. It was as though they were no longer in the barn, no longer in the present at all. Then, their voices— hers soft, his rough— spoke in unison, though neither knew how the words formed:

"Two souls entwined by fate; one to wield the Cleanse, the other to guide it. Yet both bound to the past they cannot escape. The Cleanse will purge the false timelines, bringing an end to all that was never meant to be.  A reckoning comes, born of broken paths, yet not of destruction alone. There is another— one who will temper the storm and cradle what remains. They are the balm against the fray, the heart against the blade. A gift not to undo but to mend, to shield what fragile light lingers in the ashes. They will draw back the darkness. Through the flames and the fury, the healing touch shall ensure that not all is lost. It will temper the power of the Cleanse, binding it not to destroy but to endure. The Protector will stitch the wounds of this world, allowing it to breathe anew."