Teenage Wasteland, Chap. 3 - Come On Kids

perfectionism is a liar and a hater. write your messy little heart out.

I loved the descriptions in this chapter. The way you described the red light and the connection between Lira and Jesse was so beautiful.

Chapter 2 - Lira cried.

Over the coming days, Jesse was lost for words, unable to speak without sobs threatening to erupt from her throat. Lira stayed by her side every step of the way though, and she knew it was everything she could do for her new friend.

The world wouldn’t pause. Not for Jesse. Not for the blood that was barely scrubbed from the tiles. The corpos barely registered a blip in their record—”Resistance to lawful eviction protocol,” the called it. Case closed. Body incinerated. Debts absorbed into the void.

Jesse didn’t leave her room for three days. Nobody asked why.

She didn’t sleep, either. Just sat on the floor of the tiny apartment she now shared with Lira, eyes fixed on the door, waiting—half-hoping the lock would click open and it would all be some mistake. An error. A bad dream with cheap lighting and synthetic blood.

But the dream never ended.

Lira came by the first night and never left.

She didn’t force conversation. Instead, she took over the smaller things—cooking tasteless noodles with rusted burners, boiling the apartment water twice, digging through Jesse’s things to find her old blanket with worn-out corners. When Jesse didn’t eat, Lira ate beside her, allowing the sound of chewing to fill the dead air. When Jesse couldn’t speak, Lira read manuals and junk news aloud like they were bedtime stories.

“If the world doesn’t pause for us,” she said one night, voice quiet in the dark, “Then we make our own time. Right here. Just us.”

Lira also handled the authorities—wrote the report that Jesse couldn’t, signed the form that let the apartment stay under Jesse’s name, hacked the local tenancy records to make Jesse’s age and status blur just enough to keep inspectors from prying too close.

She never asked for thanks. Never made a show of it.

But Jesse noticed.

She noticed the way Lira angled herself between Jesse and the door, like she could ward off the world just by being there. She noticed the way Lira didn’t flinch when Jesse finally broke down, days later, crying soundlessly into her shoulder with clenched fists and shuddering lungs.

“I’m not going anywhere,” Lira said simply. And Jesse believed her.

By the fourth day, Jesse got the notification.

It blinked cold and bright on the wall terminal, cutting through the half-dark of their apartment with bureaucratic precision.

A single click deep into the metadata, and she saw it—the name of the collector, buried in strings of serials. A security firm subsidized by one of the major corpos, protected under the Corporate Seld-Defense Act. It mean nothing would come of it. No investigation. No charges. No one would answer for the blood that stained her doorstep.

The system didn’t even acknowledge her as next of kin.

It treated her mother like a variable. A hiccup in a policy enforcement protocol.

And Jesse was supposed to forget.

A week later, someone from the Housing Department came by to “confirm unit compliance.” The man had silver implants where his eyes should have been and didn’t seem to notice the stack of half-eaten food or the two girls crammed over to one side of the room like survivors clinging to a lifeboat. He offered Jesse a new tenant registration card and a reeducation pamphlet on ”positive social integration after loss.”

Lira was the one who took it from him and shut the door in his face.

“They think you’re just some glitch,” she muttered, tearing the pamphlet in half. “That you’ll disappear. That we’ll forget.”

Jesse couldn’t speak. Her hands were clenched around her mother’s old mug, knuckles turning white with a flurry of emotions. That night, she stared at the terminal screen until the soft blue glow etched itself into her vision. She memorized every name listed on that damned security contract. Every ID. Every falsified timestamp.

She didn’t have a plan yet. But she would. Omnigen made sure of that.

Days turned into weeks, into months, of the same thoughts crossing her mind. The same names and IDs flashed behind her eyelids every time she attempted to close them.

Eventually, Lira had gotten sick of seeing someone who had grown to be her best friend and closest confidante hiding in the darkness of her room—only cming out for the occasional meal or because she wanted to accompany Lira on a trip to the store—and burst past the creaky door. “Jesse, I have something we’re doing.”

Jesse, eyes filled with sadness and fear, didn’t respond at first, only standing once Lira pulled her to her feet.

Lira brought Jesse to a dark alleyway in the middle of some corpo complex, much like her own, when her voice seeped from her throat, cold and even.

“Jesse, we’re going to start something. Together. We’re going to be the spark to the fires of a revolution,” Lira spoke softly, just loud enough for Jesse to hear.

Jesse didn’t have the strength to respond with her voice—that was still lost in her depression—her brows raise and she tensed slightly.

“I know it’s scary, but I found a debt collector for the same corpo assholes who—well, you know…” Lira’s voice trailed off, knowing Jesse knew what she meant.

They round another corner in what felt like a maze of twists and turns with Lira pulling Jesse close behind her by the wrist to reveal a man in a suit, tied to a chair.

The moment Jesse saw his face, something clicked into place—something that had become dislodged by the trauma of seeing her mother’s blood pooling beneath her warm body. She knew him. She had never forgotten his name.

“Vance Halroyd,” she muttered, her voice cold and calculated. “The man responsible for my mother’s death.”

That old rhythm tapped out on her thigh, subtle and steady, as she stared him down—searching for words that refused to come.

Only one memory surfaced: Vance’s sleek figure snaking around a corner as she collapsed to her knees beside her mother’s body.

The same sadness welled up in her chest, twisted now into something darker.

A disheartening laugh slipped from her lips, sickly sweet and unhinged, echoing through the alley in a way that made Lira shiver and take a step back, releasing her friend’s wrist.

Jesse stepped forward, deliberate, each footfall heavier than the last, until she stood mere centimeters from his face.

“Vance,” she sneered. “I’ve been waiting to see you properly for months. And now that I have you here, all I can think about is how sick people like you make me—how badly I want to make your kind disappear into the void of depression and anxiety.”

She paused, her voice softening just enough to send a chill through Lira and Vance’s spines.

“But I wont. I’ll leave you marked, not dead. I won’t pass my pain onto your family—if you have one that loves you—by killing you. I’ll let karma take care of that.”

With that, she turned to Lira and motioned for her gloves. “Give me those. He’s had this and more coming for as long as he’s been a debt collector corpo scum.”

Her words were dark, laced with venom—something Lira had never heard from her before. She took off the studded fingerless gloves and tossed them to Jesse, who caught them, pulled them onto her hands, and let that same sick chuckle seep from her throat again.

The sound died in her throat as quickly as it had begun. Her eyes narrowed, fixing on the man with an unsettling stillness. She inhaled deeply, a small, sharp smile curling on her lips—just a flicker before she snapped into action. In one fluid motion, her fist collided with his jaw, the sickening crack of bone slicing through the air like a promise.

For a moment, everything was still—then, without hesitation, she planted her foot on his chest and kicked with all her might. The chair he was tied to splintered beneath the force, its remnants scattering across the cold damp ground like discarded refuse.

Jesse leaned down, her voice a low whisper that cut through the dead air like a knife, “This is the part where you run, Vance.”

The moment the words left Jesse’s mouth—the sickening sound of blood dripping from her gloves echoed in the silence—a cruel smirk flickered across her lips as she watched the man scramble to his feet—pathetic, desperate—and turn to flee. She didn’t move. She didn’t need to, she had sent the message.

Satisfied, Jesse turned to face Lira, her smile soft and warm, uncharacteristic given the coldness of the moment. It was genuine, a flicker of appreciation in the wake of the violence that had just transpired. Without a word, the two stepped out onto the bustling street, the world around them completely unaware of the brutality that had just unfolded a few yards away.

A few moments of walking passed before the blare of a police drone’s siren sliced through the air, causing Jesse to flinch, the sudden noise rattling her. Instinctively, she moved to run but stumbled, her legs unsteady. Lira was quick to catch her, pulling her up with a steady grip before leading her back through the maze of alleys they used to get there in order to lose the drone.

After what felt like hours, Lira pulled Jesse into the apartment, the air filled with tension up until the moment Jesse locked the door behind her.

Before Jesse could get a word out, Lira put her hand on Jesse’s shoulder and chuckled.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Lira exclaimed, her voice hushed but laced with pride.

“That was…certainly an experience,” Jesse managed with a chuckle, her voice still trembling from the adrenaline.

Jesse leaned against the door, running her fingers through her hair. She had inadvertently smeared some blood into the dark strands by doing so, but she didn’t care. She stopped when she hit the ground, her hand still tangled in the wavy mess, a long sigh escaping her lips.

Just then, Lira giggled, pulling a safety pin from her jacket and handing it to Jesse.

“Take this,” Lira murmured, her voice laced with genuine concern. “It’ll help you stand out even more in the visual noise of the crowded streets, if we ever get separated.”

Jesse nods, fidgeting with the pin before flashing a soft, genuine smile. “Thank you, Lira…for everything you’ve done for me.” She didn’t know it yet, but Lira had quickly become her emotional anchor over the past few months.

With a fluid motion, Jesse unclasped the safety pin and jabbed it through her earlobe, carefully fastening it again once the point re-emerged on the other side of her lobe, turning it into a makeshift necklace. It became a symbol of safety—so long as Jesse believed Lira would always have her back.

Lira wined as Jesse turned the pin into an earring, but said nothing. She knew better than to question this choice. Not now.

Jesse smiled through her tears and pulled Lira into a tight embrace, letting herself cry freely for the first time in what felt like ages—even though it had only been a few hours.

Without hesitation, Lira wrapped her arms around her best friend, holding her close and gently rubbing Jesse’s back, anchoring her in the moment.

“Hey, let it all out,” she murmured, her words slipping out like a promise. “I’m not going anywhere. Not that easily.”

Months passed in a blur of small rebellions—quiet adventures, muffled laughter, and fleeting moments of peace. Jesse and Lira had made a habit of tagging corporate buildings, their own way of biting back at the companies that tried to erase them. But tonight, the air was heavier. Tense. Like the entire city was holding its breath.

Jesse glanced up at the monolithic structure they were tagging, the hum of the electric lights buzzing louder than usual. Her grin spread slowly, sharp and deliberate, as her eyes caught the neon sign glowing above them.

Omnigen Solutions.

Jesse grabbed a red can and shook it, the mixing ball rattling like a warning shot in her palm.

She doesn’t even need to think. She knows what' she’s going to paint. With steady hands and fire in her chest, she starts scrawling her mother’s case number in bold, furious strokes—EV-0481972—each character a declaration.

Lira chuckled under her breath as she watched Jesse work, sensing that deep, unshakable focus. She snatched a few cans of her own, the air around her practically buzzing as she sizes up the sterile, corporate wall. Her art is more chaotic, instinctive—expression over message.

Jesse’s lines sliced like blades. Hers isn’t art; it’s a testimony. She finishes the number, switches to black, and begins spraying a jagged, blooming rose beneath the writing—a crude, beautiful wound.

Then—a sound. A footstep, soft but wrong. Too deliberate. Jesse freezes. Her hand taps against her thigh in that familiar, comforting rhyth,—tap..tap…tap-tap…tap…

“We’ve got company,” she mutters, her voice low and razor-sharp despite the tight knot that had formed in her chest.

Lira glances at her unfinished tag and sighs, reluctant but ready to run. She nods, already stuffing her cans away.

But before they can move, shadows stretch acorss the alley.

One.

Then two. Three. Four. Five.

An entire armed patrol steps into view, scanning the darkness. Too many. Too fast. They weren’t just patrolling—they were hunting.

Jesse moves quietly without hesitation, disappearing into the night like she was born in it. Her body moves with practiced fluidity, every muscle coiled for escape.

Lira hesitated. Just for a second. Long enough.

Her boot slipped on a slick patch of red over-spray, her balance faltering just enough to send her scrambling to recover. Her breath hitches. Her pulse spikes. Then she ran—toward the chain-link fence ringing the back of the compound, boots pounding the pavement behind her like war drums.

Just as she reached the fence, Lira heard a sharp whistle to her right—Jesse’s signal. There’s a path. But she was moving too fast, too unsure, and the hesitation costed her. She slammed into the chain-link fence with a metallic thud, the impact knocking the breath from her lungs as she crumpled to the ground.

Move. She screamed inside her head, panic crackling through her chest like live wire. MOVE. She scrambled to her feet, gravel biting into her palms, and catches a flicker of light—Jesse’s safety pin glinting in the darkness, a beacon in the chaos.

There. A gap in the fence. Just big enough.

Without thinking, she dove through the opening, the edges of the wire catching her jacket as a gunshot cracks through the air.

Shit. Her legs burn as she runs, lungs aching, but it’s the sound behind her that freezes her blood.

A scream. Jesse’s scream.

Jesse had guided Lira through the fence but lingered a second too long and wound up taking a bullet meant for Lira. A sharp searing pain exploded in her shoulder blade before she even hears the shot. She stumbled, gritting her teeth and willing herself to keep moving.

Minutes stretched into eternity as they tore through alleyways and backstreets, the city around them warped into a blur of motion and panic. By the time they reached the apartment, time itself felt broken—twisted by fear, by pain. They stumbled inside and slammed the door behind them, collapsing to the ground in a tangled heap the moment the lock clicked into place.

Jesse’s breath came in sharp, ragged gasps. As the adrenaline drained from her system, the pain hit her in full. She lifted a trembling hand to her shoulder, fingers brushing over the torn fabric and seared skin. The wound was shallow and at most six inches long, but it felt like fire tearing through her body.

Before she could spiral, her eyes found Lira.

“Did…Did you get hit?” Jesse asked, voice strained, jaw clenched against the rising wave of pain.

Lira looked down at herself, hands trailing quickly over her limbs, checking. Nothing.

“No,” she whispered, almost like she didn’t believe it herself. Then her voice cracked. “But you did. God, Jesse, I’m so sorry…I shouldn’t have taken you there.”

Her gaze dropped to Jesse’s shoulder, where blood mixed with the black of burned flesh and gunpowder. The smell hit her like a punch. Tears spilled freely now, and Lira turned away with a dry gag, the bile of guilt thick in her throat.

They sat in silence for a while, the only sounds filling the room being Jesse’s ragged breathing and the occasional groan when the pain surged in waves.

Lira takes a shaky breath and gently lifts Jesse into a seated position against the door—a posture that’s become far too familiar over the months.

For a moment, she froze, her mind racing. Where’s the kit? What does she need first? Her hands trembled as she wiped the tears from her face, trying to push through the rising panic.

“I—I’ll get the med kit,” Lira says finally, her voice barely holding together. “You just…stay right there.”

Lira’s steps are unsteady, but her determination keeps her moving. She stumbled into the apartment’s cramped kitchen, flinging open cabinet doors, one after another.

“Where the fuck is it…”she muttered under her breath, each drawer and shelf only serving to deepen her frustration.

The room is suddenly bathed in a soft, pulsing red as a neon sign outside flickered to life through the window. Jesse lets out a breathy, half-laugh behind her—tired, pained, but still somehow amused.

Lira doesn’t laugh back.

At last, her hand closed around a dented tin box tucked behind some expired rations. Inside: half-used bandages, a rusted pair of scissors, and a tube of unopened burn cream. Not much—but hopefully enough. They’ve patched up scrapes and knife wounds before, but never a bullet.

This was new. This was real.

Lira walked back toward Jesse with renewed determination, her steps were heavier, more grounded. The flickering red light from the neon outside painted the room in a surreal glow as she knelt beside her best friend.

Jesse offered her a faint, weary smile before shifting, teeth clenched, to let the jacket fall from her shoulders with Lira’s help. The pain was sharp—etched across her face in grimaces—but she didn’t protest. Not once.

The scent hit Lira again—burnt leather, scorched flesh, and faint traces of gunpowder. She has to steel herself before meeting Jesse’s gaze.

Jesse nodded, their hands already entwined. The pressure of Jesse’s fingers around her said everything Lira needed to hear: I trust you.

That silent permission, that connection, sends a jolt of something like courage through Lira. She tightens her grip back before opening the burn gel, squeezing a trembling line of the thick, cool substance onto her fingers.

“This is gonna sting,” she whispers—not as a warning, but as an apology.

As the gel touches the wound, Jesse jerks involuntarily, a strangled gasp escaping her throat—but she didn’t pull away.

She never pulled away.

Lira’s hands trembled as she struggled to steady the bandages, her breathing shallow and uneven. Stop shaking. Stop trembling. She could feel the fabric slipping in her fingers and winced, praying it didn’t hurt Jesse too much. She’d patched her up before—bruises, cuts, scrapes—never something like this. Never a bullet wound. Never something meant for her.

Breathe. Just breathe, Jesse told herself, teeth clenched as another wave of pain rolled through her shoulder. The sting of the burn cream still lingered, sharp and hot, but nothing compared to the look on Lira’s face. She didn’t even need to look, she could feel it. She’s blaming herself. That thought alone hurt worse than the wound ever could.

Lira’s fingers were careful, trying not to shake as she looped the bandage around Jesse’s shoulder again. Her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a tight line of focus. Jesse watched her silently. Lira always tried to be the strong one. The one who held everything together when things fell apart. She doesn’t know I see how much this is hurting her. But Jesse saw. Every time. Gods, I don’t deserve her in my life.

Lira pressed her palm gently to Jesse’s skin, feeling the heat rising from it. Too warm. Please don’t be infected… She pushed the thought away, forcing her focus back on the next wrap. Just one more, that’s all. I can’t lose her. The words struck hard and fast. Not to this city. Not to a bullet meant for me.

Jesse’s chest tightened. She wanted to speak—Thank you. I love you. I’m sorry.—but the words caught in her throat. They felt too fragile, like if she let them out they might shatter into a million pieces. So instead, she reached out and gently squeezed Lira’s hand.

Lira froze for a heartbeat, than glanced down. Jesse’s hand, still warm and shaking, held her with a quiet kind of strength. It said more than words could. She squeezed my hand. Just like before, Lira thought, and for a moment, that was enough.

With a soft exhale, Lira pressed the final edge of the bandage down, smoothing it carefully. “There,” she whispered. “All patched up.”

It wasn’t true. Not really.

But in that moment, it was beautiful.

If you're a writer you're supposed to write a lot of bullshit. It's part of the gig. You have to write a lot of absolute garbage in order to get to the good bits. Every once in a while you'll be like "Oh, I wish I hadn't wasted all that time writing bullshit," but that's dumb. That's exactly the same as an Olympic runner being like "Oh, I wish I hadn't wasted all that time running all those practice laps"

hello !! take this as a free token to ramble about your wips. what are you LOVING writing rn? who are your favourite characters? favourite pairings?

My current project is kind of difficult to describe. It was inspired by dating games often not having options that my friends and I like. It's set in the dream world where there's entities made out of the world's hopes and dreams, but also entities made out of the world's nightmares and fears. It's basically gonna be an OC x reader type blog with heroes and villains for readers to swoon over. I do plan to write a story that connects with it though, which lets readers see the complex relationships between some of the heroes and villains up close and personal. My favorite is Nurse Sanguine and Mrs Robust. Think the crazed doctor trope meets the overly fake/polite business person trope. It's fun because writing hero culture and their world lets me connect to my favorite parts of fantasy stories. Writing villain culture and their world lets me connect to my favorite parts of horror stories.

The other project I am trying to get back into is Sleep Laughing. I want to develop the main character more, who is considered a villain within his sci-fi universe, and has a sort of forbidden romance with one of the hero's friends. I really need to get their dynamic down, because I think it could be super interesting and complex if I focused the vibes I have for them.

Thank you so much for asking! I love talking about my writing. /gen

I hope you don't mind me reblogging, but I love this addition.

As a college writing major, I am imploring some of you to understand seeing a work in a different way than the author intended is not "media illiteracy". This is not a church and the writer is not the pope.

I am gently encouraging y'all, if you think this, to look into literary theories, because then you will realize there are multiple valid ways to study and interpret a work. And guess what? Some of these theories do not explore the author's original intent at all, but rather let the work speak for itself. That is a valid way of reading a work just as much as researching the writer's intent or background. I am especially concerned about this attitude I am seeing in the younger generation that there is only one way to interpret a piece of art. That is not the beauty of art.

I am especially tired of seeing posts like this about the classics, usually by individuals who make jokes about how people who don't view a work the way the author intended "need to go back to high school". I do not blame them for this ignorance, but I am begging them to learn about media analysis outside of the high school classroom, because high school only teaches you one way to approach stories.

Also, nothing makes me roll my eyes more than when people yell "media illiteracy" towards someone interpreting a work differently due to their unique experiences. The amount of singlets who yell "media illiteracy" when I, a plural person, try to explain my discomfort towards most possession stories, is so annoying. Like, it isn't an attack, it's sharing a different view point based on my unique perspectives as a plural person. This is a great opportunity to learn about experiences other than your own, not to trounce people.

That ending has me so intrigued. I also love Atlas and Rosalyn's dynamic.

On one particularly memorable night, Rosalyn commissioned me to dive into their jewellery box in search of a twin for the singular of a stunning, silver sapphire earring they had found discarded within a desk drawer. The jewels were moulded into a shape of a lily flower- By hand, if Atlas was to be believed. They were a gift, that which he had donated upon Rosalyn's thirtieth birthday.

Since such an event, Rosalyn had worn them to one gala and then, subsequently, allowed the existence of the pair to slip their mind. Why this pair demanded attention on this particular night, I do not know, nor do I particularly think it is of consequence.

Atlas lay upon the bed. To me, he advised, "Make them do it themself. Teach them a little responsibility for their actions."

Rosalyn, stood before an ornamental mirror in the room's centre, scoffed, "My love, nothing could teach me that. Not now. Who learns new things at thirty-seven? What a waste."

Grinning, I produced the earring from the very depths of the heavy, wooden box. Before I could inform either of the pair, Atlas sighed, "Oh, don't know it." He crept up to stand at their side. Elevated upon a footstool, Rosalyn towered over him. Atlas looked up with nothing less than pure adoration in his gaze, "Do you really want those earrings?" He asked, "Because you don't need them by any stretch of the imagination."

Rosalyn's lips parted. For the briefest instant, I feared they intended to submit to rage. My concerns were, thankfully, utterly unfounded. Their voice was light as they replied, "No," They allowed him to lay his hands upon their waist and lift them to the floor, "No, I think I'm alright without them."

Finally, they addressed me, "God, I've got you doing that for nothing, haven't I?" Without pause, they spoke their solution, "Tell you what, there's cash in my office. Use it and buy yourself a takeaway. Anything at all. Menus in the kitchen cupboard."

Closing my fist around the recovered earring, I forced a smile.

"Sounds good."

Intro post ₍^. .^₎⟆

♡: My name's Laila.

♡: I'm 18 years old, and I've been a writer for 3 years.

♡: I made this blog to meet writer/artist friends, advertise my works, and make helpful posts!

♡: I love angst and making my characters suffer.

♡: I enjoy making Spotify playlists and Pinterest boards for my stories and ocs, which I will totally be sharing on my blog once I'm happy with them!

♡ My current WIPs are ♡:

-Silver / I [Remastered]

-Emerald / II

-Leonardo

-Chess is a Game for Six

-Warfarin

-Psychology 101

-A+ [Remastered]

♡ My published works are ♡:

-Silver / I

-A+

(but i dont like either of them so I'm rewriting (ᵕ—ᴗ—))

Find me on wattpad and discord with the same username!

(enlightened-feline and enlightened.feline)

Navigate through my blog using the following tags:

-🌸wips

-🌸rbs

-🌸polls

-🌸writing tips

-🌸daily reminders

-🌸sillies

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That's all! Bye now sillies ≽^• ˕ • ྀི≼

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Reblog to make him lose another 200 billion, like to make him lose 1 billion

why would you ever outsource fun to chatgpt? are you stupid? you can make mediocre shit by yourself too.