Bubble Tea and Existential Dread: Just Another Tuesday?, Five Days 'Til Doomsday (Better Book That Haircut), and Sarah Drops a Mama-Sized Bombshell.
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Author Note: Well, that escalated quickly (again!). Sawyer's pre-apocalypse to-do list includes a trim and a whole lot of denial. Joe's in full-blown logistics panic, and Sarah's got a secret that could change everything. Looks like this trip to the Red Desert is going to be more than just a bad hair day.
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"So… you're actually going through with this?" Joe asked, his voice thick with disbelief, the words slow and deliberate like he was still trying to convince himself they were real. There was a faint tremor in his tone, not out of fear for himself, but something more primal — concern, perhaps even guilt. He hadn't expected Sawyer to show up this early, not after the weight of what they had discussed yesterday. It had been the kind of conversation that drained the soul and lingered in silence long after words had ended. Joe leaned back in his weathered leather chair, its frame creaking beneath his weight, mirroring the quiet tension in the room. He studied the boy standing before him — not a boy, really, but still too young to bear what was coming.
The task ahead of them was not something you could mentally prepare for in one sleepless night. It was the kind of mission that haunted your thoughts, unraveled your logic, and wrapped your nerves in ice. Closing the gate wasn't just a dangerous errand — it was a war cry into the abyss. The risks weren't abstract anymore; they had names, faces, and the potential to erase entire worlds. And now Sawyer, with his messy hair, unbrushed from sleep, and the hint of sleep lines still creasing his cheek, was here, standing tall despite the invisible weight already crushing his spine.
exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose with the heel of his palm, his fingers trembling slightly. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept properly. His mind had been racing in loops — each scenario worse than the last. He lowered his hand and looked directly at the boy again.
"Are you absolutely certain about this, kid?" he asked, his voice lower this time, the words carrying a rawness that bordered on desperation. The question lingered in the stale morning air like a challenge, like a final door Sawyer could walk away from before it slammed shut behind him forever. Joe wasn't just checking for bravery. He needed Sawyer to understand — truly understand — that this wasn't a mission from which one simply returned.
Sawyer didn't answer right away. Instead, he took a slow, deliberate sip from the plastic cup in his hand. The quiet slurp of the bubble tea's straw was almost absurdly out of place in the heavy atmosphere, like a child's laugh in a war zone. Joe's eyes flicked down and noticed the small tremble in Sawyer's fingers as he held the cup. It was subtle, but it was there — a betrayal of the fear he was trying so hard to keep buried.
But what struck Joe most wasn't the fear. It was the resolve that burned just beneath it, like a weak flame fighting against the wind but refusing to go out. There was something fragile but unyielding in the way Sawyer stood — like a stained-glass window in a storm. Beautiful. Breakable. But still standing.
Sawyer finally lowered the cup and met Joe's eyes. His gaze was steady, but it carried the kind of heaviness that didn't belong on young shoulders.
"I'm not doing this because I'm brave," he said, his voice soft but unwavering. "I'm doing it because no one else can."
Joe sat back, his shoulders sagging as if that one sentence had taken something from him. Relief, maybe. Or acceptance. Maybe both. A quiet, rueful smile tugged at the corner of his lips. He'd half-expected Sawyer to bolt — to call it all a mistake, to say he wasn't ready, to disappear before dawn fully broke. But here he was. Still trembling. Still standing.
"This… this is good," Joe murmured, more to himself than to Sawyer. It wasn't good. Not really. But it was all they had.
Sawyer pushed himself up from the battered armchair, the springs groaning as they released his weight. He ran a hand through his unruly hair, exhaling softly. The nervousness was still there — Joe could see it in the tightness of his jaw, the stiffness in his movements. But the kid was ready. Or as ready as anyone could be for a journey into the heart of nightmares.
"So… when are we leaving?" Sawyer asked, already stepping toward the door.
Joe stood as well, slower, older, worn. He watched the younger man move with the kind of quiet urgency that came from not wanting to think too hard about what came next.
"Soon," he said, his voice low, his eyes distant. "Very soon."
And just like that, the silence between them was replaced by something heavier — purpose.
A grim, uncertain purpose that would lead them straight into the Red Desert.
"I'll… I'll get back to you on the specifics of that," Joe muttered, his voice low, but not uncertain — more like someone trying to steady himself against the inevitable. His fingers briefly tapped the edge of his desk, a soft, unconscious rhythm of anxiety. His mind was already running through the necessary logistics: calling in favors, securing transport, making sure the right hands held the right weapons… and making damn sure the wrong ones didn't get in the way. The clock was ticking, faster than usual it seemed, and time, as always, was a cruel and unrelenting enemy.
"You'd better make it quick, Joe," Sawyer replied, the steel in his voice thinly veiled but unmistakable. "We don't exactly have an eternity here, remember? We only have until the next dark day."
Joe stiffened at the reminder. The words hit with a chilling finality, like a judge reading out a sentence. He looked up, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"The next dark day… that's a mere five days from now," he said, the words heavy as iron in his mouth. They didn't just hang in the air — they dropped like a hammer between them, a grim reminder of what they were up against. Five days. Five days to prepare for a mission that could kill them all, or worse, fail.
"All the more reason to hurry, then, wouldn't you say?" Sawyer replied quickly. His hand twitched as he reached up to adjust the collar of his black jacket — a nervous tic, small but telling. He didn't quite meet Joe's eyes, but his voice didn't waver. Beneath the jacket, he wore a long-sleeve shirt with bright red and blue stripes, the kind a teenage rebel might wear to annoy his mother. The colors were loud and almost obnoxiously cheerful, standing in defiance of the suffocating dread that had been pressing on their shoulders since yesterday.
His pants were black, cleanly tailored, almost too formal for his otherwise chaotic look. On his feet were panda-themed dunk sneakers — stylish, bold, absurdly out of place. Joe stared at them for a moment, the absurdity hitting him like a slap. That's what made it real. That's what made it all hurt just a little more. This kid — this impossibly young, jittery, untrained kid — was about to walk straight into a war they barely understood, wearing shoes that looked like they belonged at a skatepark.
Sawyer turned and started walking out of the cramped office, the echo of his steps bouncing softly along the corridor. Just as he reached the doorway, he paused and turned slightly, glancing back over his shoulder.
"Oh, and uh… I think I need a haircut," he added casually, his tone light, almost joking — but not quite. It was the kind of statement you'd make before a first date, not before stepping into another dimension filled with monsters.
Joe blinked, caught completely off guard. Before he could form any sort of reply — logical or otherwise — Sawyer was gone. Just a flash of his jacket disappearing around the corner, leaving Joe sitting there in a growing silence.
He leaned back in his chair slowly. The old springs groaned beneath him, a chorus of protest from metal long past its prime. He closed his eyes for a moment, letting out a deep, exhausted sigh — the kind that came from months of unspoken fear and invisible strain. But just as the weight threatened to pull him under, he heard the familiar skittering of claws on tile.
Sarah bounded into the room, tail wagging like a pendulum caught in a storm. The golden-furred retriever — or rather, retriever-turned-sentinel — was more than a companion. She was a partner, a protector, and in moments like this, a small piece of stability.
"What's up with the kid?" she asked, her voice tinged with concern. Her expressive brow furrowed, a rare break in her normally chipper demeanor. "I just passed him in the hall, and he didn't even smile at my 'why don't scientists trust atoms?' joke. He barely even looked at me. That kid usually can't resist a pun. What's going on?"
Joe sat up straighter, shaking his head slightly as if trying to snap himself back into command mode. The levity in Sarah's voice didn't reach him this time.
"Get your team ready, Sarah," he said, his voice stripped of its usual gruff charm. "We move out tonight."
Sarah stopped in her tracks, her tail freezing mid-swing. The shift in Joe's tone sent a chill through her that had nothing to do with the temperature in the room. Her ears perked, her eyes widening, and she tilted her head with that distinct canine confusion — as though she were trying to make sense of what she'd just heard.
"Wait… are you serious?" she asked after a moment, her voice quieter now.
Joe didn't answer.
She blinked.
"You are serious," she murmured, the realization settling in. For a second, silence hovered between them again.
Then her face lit up. The concern vanished like a cloud scattering in sunlight. A wide grin split across her features, and with an excited bark, she turned on her heel and took off down the hall again, her paws skimming over the floor, a streak of fur and energy.
Joe watched her go with a sigh. Part of him was glad for the burst of optimism. The other part — the older, more tired part — knew how quickly excitement could die in the face of what was coming.
\
The countdown had begun.
Joe took a deep, steadying breath. The air felt unusually heavy, like he was trying to inhale through wet cloth. It burned faintly as it settled in his chest, thick with tension and anticipation. With slightly trembling fingers, he reached into his coat pocket and pulled out his phone—an older model, its edges worn from years of use. The screen was cracked at the corner, a quiet testimony to long days and sleepless nights. He stared at it for a moment, then dialed a number he knew by heart.
This wasn't just a call. It was a trigger, the first domino in a chain reaction that would either end in salvation—or catastrophe.
Meanwhile, not too far away, Sawyer made his way down the long corridor that led to the guest rooms. The familiar beige walls and flickering overhead lights should have brought him some comfort, but today, they felt sterile and suffocating. He gave half-hearted waves and brief, distracted nods to the few people he passed, not really seeing them. His mind was a storm of thoughts, emotions tumbling over each other with no clear order—fear grinding up against determination, logic warring with emotion, dread balancing precariously on a ledge of hope.
He clutched a plastic cup of bubble tea, its bright purple contents jarring against the greyish atmosphere around him. The cup was cold and slick with condensation, and it slipped slightly in his sweaty hand. He barely noticed. He reached his room, pushed open the door, and stepped inside, letting it close quietly behind him with a gentle click that sounded too final for his liking.
As the door sealed, Sawyer felt something inside him break loose.
He dropped to the floor without ceremony, collapsing onto the cold, tiled ground with a dull thud. His knees buckled and he landed hard on his butt, eyes blinking wide as if surprised by his own body's failure to hold him upright. He sat there for a moment, stunned, breathing in ragged, uneven gulps of air. The four walls around him offered a momentary illusion of safety, like a child hiding under a blanket from the monsters in the dark.
What the hell am I doing?
The thought screamed through his head. This was insane. Beyond reckless. A mission like this wasn't just risky—it was practically a death wish dressed up in the clothes of a noble cause. He wasn't trained for this. He wasn't some seasoned warrior, some battle-hardened hero from the stories. He was just a kid with a heavy heart and a mission that felt too big for his shoulders.
He pressed his palms to his face, trying to shield himself from the rising tide of panic. His hands were cold, damp, and shaky. He cupped them over his mouth, forming a small, warm space, and exhaled slowly into it—again and again—until the edge of his panic dulled just enough to think clearly. The warmth helped, slightly.
"I can do this. I have to do this," he whispered aloud, as if hearing the words would somehow make them truer.
But the doubt crept in all the same, slithering under the door, whispering insidiously in his ears. You could leave, it said. Nobody would blame you. You're not ready for this.
He clenched his fists. "I'm not alone," he said with more force. "I won't be doing this alone."
There would be others—trained fighters, soldiers, witches even. People who had seen more, survived more, knew more. He'd be part of a unit. That was how it worked, right? Everyone had a role. All he had to do was stick to his, survive long enough to shut the damn portal, and then—get out. That was it. In and out.
Quick. Clean. No complications.
The image of his mother swelled in his mind then—her kind eyes, the faint laugh lines at the corners, the smell of her cooking filling the kitchen on Sunday mornings. Her face was blurry, like an old photo soaked in rainwater, but the memory was strong enough to make his throat tighten.
I'll get her back. No matter what.
That thought steadied him more than any forced breathing exercise ever could. She was out there somewhere, and whatever they said, whatever anyone believed—he knew she was alive. Trapped, maybe. Changed, perhaps. But alive. If he could bring her back, maybe—just maybe—they could start again.
But even that hope wasn't without shadow.
What would people say when they saw her? After everything she'd been through… after what that other world had done to her?
Sawyer's stomach twisted. He didn't want to think about the looks, the questions, the fear. The judgment.
No, they couldn't stay here. Not after this. Not in this town. Not in this world of whispers and suspicious glances.
"We'll move," he muttered, almost to himself. "Pentos. Huge city. New faces. No one will know us there."
His voice grew stronger with each word, each new layer of imagined normalcy. "And I'll go to school. I'll become a doctor—finally. Just like I planned before all this madness started."
He paused, staring blankly at the far wall, but now his eyes held a glint of something new.
Hope.
It was thin. Fragile. But it was real.
And sometimes, a fragile hope was the most dangerous thing of all.
"Are you okay in there, Sawyer?"
The voice, though familiar, pierced the stillness like a stone thrown into a fragile glass lake. It was Sarah. She always had a brightness to her tone, a kind of careless cheer that made you forget how dark things really were. But now, there was something different—an edge, a tremor underneath the words. Concern.
Sawyer sat motionless on the cold floor, his back pressed against the wall, the chill of the tile seeping through his pants. He stared at the door, suddenly feeling like it stood between two different worlds—one where he was safe in his own panic, and another where he might have to face something raw, something real.
"I'm fine, Sarah," he called back.
His voice sounded too tight, too brittle, like something that could crack apart at any second. Even he didn't believe the lie.
There was a pause. Then the soft sound of fabric brushing against wood as Sarah lowered herself down against the door from the other side. The dull thud of her body meeting the floor reached his ears. He could almost see her, legs pulled up to her chest, arms wrapped around her knees, trying to be close without forcing herself in. She always respected his walls. But she never hesitated to sit just on the other side of them.
"You sound like absolute shit," she said bluntly.
He almost smiled at that. Almost. That was Sarah—never one to sugarcoat, never one to dress up the truth in fake niceties. But this time, even her sarcasm felt soft. Measured.
He exhaled slowly and let his head fall back against the wall.
"I know you're scared, Sawyer," she said after a moment, her voice lower now, stripped of its usual joking lilt. "It's perfectly normal to feel this way."
He gave a dry, bitter laugh. "Thanks for the profound therapy wisdom, Doctor Sarah," he muttered, sarcasm barely masking the way his throat tightened.
But she didn't flinch. Didn't snap back.
"I mean it," she said, her voice level. "I'm not just saying that to cheer you up. I honestly believe… you're the kind of person who does something brave even when he's terrified. And I trust that. I trust you. Whatever this is you're going into, I'll be right there. I'll have your back every step of the way."
Her words settled around him like a blanket—not warm, not comforting exactly, but heavy with sincerity. The kind of weight that grounded you when you felt like floating away.
Sawyer was quiet. Too many thoughts ran wild inside his head to form a coherent response. Her voice stirred things in him he'd been trying hard to ignore—fear, doubt, guilt, longing. And under all of it… something else.
A flicker of belief.
The silence stretched between them like a fragile bridge.
Then, softly, she said something that shattered the quiet entirely.
"I… I knew your mother, Sawyer."
The words hit him like a punch to the chest. His breath caught.
For a few seconds, he didn't move. Couldn't. The space around him seemed to grow smaller, the air tighter.
His mother?
She was the reason for everything. The anchor to his chaos. The mission. The madness. The thing that kept him from running.
"I knew your mother," she repeated, her voice gentler now, edged with sadness and something like reverence. "Before everything. Before all this."
Sawyer blinked, his vision blurring slightly with something he didn't want to name.
The chair legs scraped against the linoleum as he stood on unsteady legs. His limbs felt disconnected, heavy. He reached out slowly, fingers brushing against the cold metal of the door handle.
He hesitated, then turned it.
The latch clicked.
He pulled the door open.
Sarah sat there, just as he'd imagined—knees tucked in, her face calm, eyes steady and filled with something he hadn't expected to find in the middle of all this chaos.
Understanding.
Sawyer stared down at her, his throat dry. His gaze searched her face for any sign of a lie, any flicker of falsehood. But all he saw was quiet truth. The kind that hurt and healed at the same time.
He stepped aside.
"Get in here," he said, voice low and raw, somewhere between a command and a plea.
Because he needed answers. Because he needed something solid.
Because if she really knew his mother…
Then maybe, just maybe, he wasn't alone in this after all.
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Note:The Association of Anxious Heroes would like to remind all members that while emotional breakdowns in tiled rooms are perfectly normal, it's generally advisable to avoid discussing your mother with golden retriever-adjacent sentinels until after the immediate world-saving crisis has been averted. Just a friendly tip.