|ᴛᴡᴏ| ᴍɪssɪɴɢ ᴛʀᴇᴀsᴜʀᴇs & ғʟʏɪɴɢ ᴘɪᴄᴋ ᴍɪssɪʟᴇs

Two weeks before the move...

I found myself back in Dr. Fillgoud's lair of forced introspection, the scent of stale coffee a hanging heavy in the air. Her voice, a monotone drone, cut through the silence. "So, Vesper, let's discuss these outbursts. Again."

I rolled my eyes, the motion a familiar rebellion against the inevitability of this conversation. My silver hair, my armor, slid down my back like a river of moonlight. "I don't do feelings," I spat, my voice laced with the sarcasm of a cynic twice my age. But Dr. Fillgoud, with her half-moon glasses and perpetual expression of mild disappointment, just nodded. Her pen scratched against her notepad, the only sound in a silence that felt like suffocation. Defensive, avoidant, lost cause – the labels swirled in my head, a toxic mix of self-doubt and defiance.

I wasn't built for touchy-feely, for the vulnerability that came with laying your soul bare on a cold, sterile table. I needed an outlet, a way to bleed out the chaos that threatened to consume me from the inside out. And so, with a crumpled dollar and a handful of change, I'd armed myself with a rainbow arsenal of gel pens and a battered composition book. My emotions, my turmoil, it all spilled onto those pages in a riot of color: the blues of melancholy, the reds of rage, the blacks of despair.

But as I sat there, trapped in Dr. Fillgoud's office with its cream-colored walls and the weight of unspoken expectations, I couldn't help but wonder – was this enough? Was this pathetic attempt at control, at finding order in the chaos, ever going to be enough to keep my head above water? Or was I just deluding myself, pretending that a little colored ink could keep the tidal wave of my emotions from crashing down around me?

I rolled my eyes, flicked my silver-colored hair at the time over my shoulder, and sighed. "I don't do feelings," I said, my voice dripping with enough sarcasm to corrode metal. But she just nodded, scribbling something in her notepad that probably read: 'defensive, avoidant, possibly a lost cause.' I wasn't good with the whole touchy-feely crap. I preferred to channel my inner turmoil into something less... verbal. So, with a total of fifty-five cents less in my pocket, I became the proud owner of a classic composition book; armed with my rainbow gel pen arsenal, I created a color-coded system for my emotional chaos: blue for the days I felt like I was drowning, red for when I wanted to burn the world down, and so on.

  Then there was my brother Toby. My big brother was like a wizard, a music genius with an uncanny ability to turn my scribbles into symphonies. I remember he stumbled upon a hoard of hormonal musings in my journal-a literal treasure trove for him. I'd jot down my turbulent thoughts, and he'd spin them into something almost beautiful. He had this way of capturing the melody of my madness. Our dad was less than thrilled about Toby's 'artistic tendencies,' but mom? She figured it was high time to let the boy embrace his inner Beethoven.

  One lazy afternoon, in his makeshift home studio reeked of teen spirit and stale pizza, Toby played a piece on the keyboard that made my heart skip. "What's that?" I asked, pretending not to care but secretly awed.

  "It's your song," he said, with that stupid, adorable grin that made you want to punch and hug him simultaneously. "I call it '8,' after your colorful journal entries."

  I had to admit, the tune was a banger. It captured the essence of my soul in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. I couldn't help but belt out the lyrics, my voice raw and gritty, filling the room with the sound of my pent-up fury and secret dreams. "8" wasn't just a song; it was a lifeline. It helped me navigate the mess of my parents' split and the complexity of being the girl with the crazy hair who didn't quite fit anywhere.

Speaking of not fitting in, let's rewind to the seventh grade-prime time for public humiliation and hormonal chaos. Cassidy Halcomb was the human equivalent of an unattainable dream, with her creamy skin, a constellation of freckles, and eyes bluer than the deepest part of the ocean. God, just remembering the day we first locked eyes makes my stomach do backflips. I still cringe at the memory of walking into that open locker while gawking at her. The metallic clang, the eruption of laughter, the heat in my cheeks—it was like a scene from a tragicomedy, minus the comedy part. Then there was the dodgeball incident, which almost left Cassidy disfigured (thanks a lot, universe), and the science fair, where I managed to torch off my eyebrow. Classic Vesper is always the center of attention for all the wrong reasons.

  My luck soon turned around the second I had my kiss, which went down in the history of epic first kisses, and wouldn't you know it, Cassidy Halcomb—the siren of Marino Middle School's choir and everyone's sweetheart—was the one to tell. We were knee-deep in a game of Spin the Bottle, a ritual as ancient as the pyramids themselves, when fate, in the form of a dusty Coke bottle, chose me. Our gazes locked—not the casual hallway type, but a deep, soul-searching kind—and for the first time, I prayed my mind wasn't playing tricks on me. The stars aligned, and Cassidy edged closer, her lips shimmering with glitter gloss beneath the kaleidoscope of festoon lights like she'd kissed the Milky Way. Her baby blues, heavy with intent, wove a spell I surrendered to without a fight. Time hit the brakes as her lips met mine, her scent of citrus and vanilla tangling around me, and our classmates could only gawk in awe.

  Every caress of her lips sparked a riot of fireworks in my chest, a symphony of chaos and splendor. I was hooked on the high, desperate to bottle it up and bathe in it forever. But as the old saying goes, all good things must end, and sure enough, the universe had other plans. Joy can be a fleeting visitor, and I was about to learn that the hard way. My luck's always been a joke—a twisted karmic payback, I guess.

  Dr. Fillgoud, with her infinite wisdom, loved to remind me that 'anger' is just one 'd' short of 'danger.'  I could wax poetic about the day Cassidy shattered my heart in front of the entire school, but I'll spare you the theatrics. Does my anger get out of hand? Hell yes. At times, it's a soccer ball hurtling towards some innocent sixth grader, courtesy of my unchecked fury—an unfortunate incident that left a kid toothless and my conscience heavy.

  I'm not shy about my reputation. I've been called a crazy bitch, and honestly, I've done little to disprove it. Whether it's yanking the hair of a particular gossip-mongering pumpkin spice latte fan or delivering a swift knee to the groin of misogynistic trolls, I've never been one for holding back my brand of justice.

  Am I mean? Perhaps. But more than that, I'm a crusader against perpetuating defective DNA.   In the middle of my hurricane stood Toby, my brother, my anchor. He hated seeing anyone get under my skin. Toby was all about the heart, which is why he worked his butt off at Starbucks to get me that iPod Shuffle I'd been dying for—despite our folks' stern refusal. He braved the elements and camped outside the store, all to surprise me with the best combo birthday-Christmas gift ever. Who cares about a bit of pneumonia, right?

  When he handed me that metallic white and gold-striped wrapped gift, I had no clue it would be his last. That iPod became my treasure chest, a time capsule of shared memories. I'd helped him craft fifteen songs, while twenty-six were his solo masterpieces—the rest, a collection of our favorite tunes. That tiny gadget was a vault of random recordings of us just being us—his laughter, voice, and the melodies he conjured, all preserved in digital amber.

  Regret is a relentless bitch, squeezing my heart with its vise-like grip. How often had I held the iPod close, whispering my love to a brother no longer there? The what-ifs haunted me—had I said "I love you" enough? Would those words have been sufficient to tether him to this world and keep him from that fateful step into the path of an oncoming truck?

  As I sat across from Dr. Fillgoud, recounting these memories, her brow furrowed in that all-too-familiar mix of concern and frustration. "Vesper, you've got to let yourself feel these things without the anger," she'd say. But how could I when anger was the only thing keeping the pain at bay?

  And so, on the eve of my departure to Miami, six months to the day since Toby's death, I faced Dr. Fillgoud, the air between us thick with unspoken truths and unresolved grief. The session ended as always, with no breakthrough, no magical resolution—just the heavy silence of my unyielding rage.

  As I stood up to leave, Dr. Fillgoud's voice stopped me cold, her question hanging in the air, a cliffhanger that echoed the emptiness in my chest: "Vesper," she said, her voice soft yet carrying the weight of a final verdict, "do you think if Toby were here, he'd be proud of the person you're becoming?"

And just like that, the floor dropped from beneath me, the words echoing as I grappled with a truth I wasn't sure I wanted to face.

─── ∙ ~εïз~ ∙ ──

  My day starts with a bang—or, more accurately, a comical display of Newton's third law. My alarm clock's screeching met an untimely end as I, in a sleep-addled haze, sent it hurtling against the wall. The poor thing exploded in a shower of tears and broken dreams.

"Oopsie-daisy," I grumbled, still entombed in the warm embrace of my bed. My act of sleepy defiance, however, was as fleeting as a Snapchat story.

  Without warning, the door burst open, and in stormed my stepmother, Luna, with a frown so fierce it could sour a smoothie. She entered with the grace of a bull in a china shop, immediately face-planting into the fabric mountain range I called my floor wardrobe.

"Seriously, Vesper? It's like a dumpster exploded in here!" Luna barked, her tone suggesting she'd stumbled upon a scene from 'CSI: My Bedroom.'

  I swept my bird's nest hair from my face and squinted up at her. "Morning, Luna. Your scowl is especially radiant today."

  Shaking off a pair of my boyshorts like a salad spinner, she freed herself from my laundry labyrinth and shot me a glare that could liquefy a popsicle. "Get up, or you'll be late," she warned, her voice carrying the weight of a thousand eye-rolls.

  I peeled myself from the safety of my covers, rubbing the sleep from my eyes while delivering the world's most dramatic yawn. "I've mentioned on several occasions that I am allergic to mornings."

Luna crossed her arms, unimpressed. "Well, you'd better find a cure, or you'll be allergic to unemployment too."

  Though she had a point, I couldn't pass up the opportunity for a little verbal sparring. "You do know you're not my biological mom, right? No need to go all drill sergeant on me."

 Her eyes ignited with a flash of fury, but she took a deep, measured breath. "I'm not, but I give a damn, Vesper. Get yourself together, have some breakfast, and don't forget to say goodbye to your mom."

  Her words hit me harder than a door-to-the-face meme. With a sudden heaviness in my chest, I shuffled out of my disaster zone and toward the bathroom. My morning ritual was a familiar dance of shower, dressing, and scarfing down whatever Luna deemed breakfast. After a scalding shower that could awaken the dead and a battle royale with my hair, I faced the closet. What to wear to Sonic Boom—home of the bored? Another day, another graphic tee.

  Descending the stairs, the heavenly scent of pancakes and cinnamon greets me—a rare treat from Luna. My gratitude was as expansive as my ability to keep my room clean—nonexistent.

  The kitchen grew silent as I made my entrance. Another thrilling day at Sonic Boom beckoned, but first, the obligatory farewell to my mom, Karen. Luna shot me a look that screamed, "Don't forget," and I couldn't ignore it.

  I grabbed my keys, bag, and the pancake-sausage masterpiece Luna had concocted, stuffing the emergency lunch money into my pocket. Despite her disdain for my food court binges, the siren call of greasy goodness was irresistible—a chef's kiss to the culinary gods for Italian grilled cheese and herby fries.

  Mom sat there, silent as a statue, her gaze distant and sorrowful. The cloud of grief from Toby's passing had turned her into a shadow of her former self. It had been six months, and despite Luna's patient nudges, I was desperate for a sign of the old her.

  A lump formed in my throat as I kissed her forehead. "Catch you later, Mom," I whispered, knowing better than to expect a response. Still, I clung to the hope that she would someday return to us.

  I yelled a half-hearted "Bye, Luna!" as I made a beeline for the door, craving the freedom of my teal bike and the open road. But as the garage door creaked open, an odd sensation twisted in my stomach—a suspicion of a day gone awry.

  I slung my bag over my shoulder, a chaotic mix of school supplies, a begrudgingly surrendered Capri Sun from Austin, and a lonely candy wrapper. Yet, amidst the clutter, something critical was missing.

  "No way, this isn't happening," I muttered, my heart pounding frantically. I tore through my bag like a mad scientist, searching for a lost formula. And then, it hit me—the absence of Toby's iPod, my anchor to better days, felt like a punch to the gut.

"No, no, no!" I choked out, panic rising as I dumped the contents of my bag in a desperate search. Realizing that my last connection to Toby had vanished brought a torrent of hot, angry tears.

  I flung my bag and gave my bike a swift kick, unleashing a primal howl that echoed through the house. In my grief-fueled rampage, I reveled in the chaos—until Luna's comforting presence reminded me there was nothing left to break.

  "Vesper! What's going on, sweetheart?" Luna's voice was thick with concern, her face a portrait of worry.

  Through sobs, I managed to stammer, "Toby's iPod... it's gone."

─── ∙ ~εïз~ ∙ ──

  Chaos clung to the walls of Sonic Boom like a second coat of paint that morning. Ally, sweet but disastrously clumsy Ally, had somehow managed to orchestrate the downfall of Vesper's meticulously arranged violin display. The clatter of disassembled craftsmanship didn't even need a visual; the cacophony said it all. Ally, holding out a solitary, unscathed violin to a customer, painted the epitome of apology with her smile.

  "I'm so sorry," she murmured, her mind racing with plans to redirect the cleanup to the new hire—should she ever grace the store with her presence, that is. Amidst the dwindling echoes of disaster, Dez, the self-appointed minstrel of misfortune, seized his moment. A woeful trombone note sliced through the air, his announcement following: "I've been waiting all day for something terrible to happen so I could do that."

However, Vesper's entrance overshadowed his facetious musical quip, a storm personified. Her lilac hair was a static crown, and her blue eyes were scanning the store with a fervor that signaled trouble. Ally, ever the responsible one, steeled herself to confront the tardy teen, but Vesper was on a mission; her muttered curses were as fervent as prayers to a god of disorder. She pushed past Ally, her focus tunneling as she upended the counter in search of something elusive. Merchandise took flight in her wake, leaving Ally to watch, helplessly adrift in the tide of Vesper's frustration.

Austin, never one to miss a beat, strummed a chord and tossed a playful jab Dez's way. "Something went wrong when you put on that shirt," he teased, the music a backdrop to their camaraderie.

  Dez, unfazed and ever-ready, volleyed back with a grin, "Zinger-sting! Sweet!" Their handshake was a ritual, a shared language of friendship that rang out, "What up!"

  Ally watched the scene unfold, her concern for Vesper growing as the teen rifled through a jar of guitar picks, her agitation mounting. "What's up with Vesper?" Ally ventured aloud, the question hanging in the air unanswered.

  Austin and Dez exchanged a look, each remembering their dance with Vesper's ire. She had caught them treating the store like their personal playground, and the memory was enough to make them act. Guilt propelled their hands as they hastily returned the instruments to their rightful places, hoping to avoid Vesper's wrath.

  While Trish was known for her flare-ups, even she admitted that Vesper's temper was something to behold. And today, Vesper's temper was a spectacle all its own.

   Ally, driven by a blend of concern for the store and a dash of bravery, approached Vesper. "Hey, there, Vesper!" she called out, her voice a mix of trepidation and resolve. She watched Vesper plunge her hand into the jar of picks once more, her search fruitless and her patience threadbare. With a flick of her wrist, Vesper sent the jar soaring, its contents raining down like confetti at the most aggressive party ever thrown.

  "I can see you're busy," Ally offered, a nervous laugh betraying her unease. "But I can help you find... whatever it is you're looking for. I'm quite the detective." She shared a small anecdote about a sandwich and her father's burps of betrayal, hoping to lighten the mood.

  But Vesper was unmoved; the cascade of guitar picks was her only response. Ally's offer to help and her plea for a neat and orderly store fell on deaf ears. For a moment, Vesper's gaze locked on Ally, and in the space of a heartbeat, the store became a battlefield.

  Picks flew like arrows, and Ally reeled back, her cries of "OK, OK, Vesper, spare me!" lost in the pandemonium. Austin was quick to the draw, "Oh no, she's throwing things! Everyone, take cover!" He dove for safety, his actions more instinct than grace. Dez, ever the comedian, sought refuge behind a stack of music books.

  Vesper's impromptu hailstorm of guitar picks continued unabated, each one flung with the kind of abandon that only comes from deep-seated frustration. The Sonic Boom had been in business for two years, yet it had never witnessed a spectacle quite like this. Vesper's tempest was a marvel, eclipsing even the chaos of the recent kangaroo escapades. Just when the scene teetered on the brink of utter bedlam, the door burst open to reveal Trish, her every step radiating an infectious energy that was all her own.

  "Guess who got a job?" she began, her announcement cut short as a barrage of picks pelted her, clinging to her hair like confetti. Spluttering, she bristled with indignation. "Who threw these?" she demanded, her gaze darting around the room in search of the offender.

  It didn't take her long to zero in on Vesper, who met her with an air of indifference, a wiggle of her fingers silently challenging Trish to retaliate.

  Trish's temper flared until the certain lilac individual's unflinching stare snuffed it out. An awkward chuckle escaped her as she backpedaled. "Never mind, Vessie. My bad. I should've watched where I was standing."

  Under Vesper's steely gaze, Trish caved, "Don't kill me; I'm too young and pretty to die," she pleaded.

  Ally, rubbing at the spot where a pick had stung her, redirected Trish's attention. "Um, Trish," she interjected. "You were saying..." It was a nudge for Trish to circle back to her earlier proclamation.

  Clearing her throat with a flair for the dramatic, Trish was about to rekindle her earlier spark when Dez, emerging from his cover, took his place behind the drum kit. "Clown store!" he announced, punctuating the joke with a timely rimshot.

  Trish shot him a sly grin, correcting him, "No, Dez, at the makeup kiosk. They pay us in free makeup samples," she said, face awash with the evidence of her new employment.

Vesper couldn't help but eye-roll at the sight. "If that's the standard, they might as well shut it down," she quipped, half-convinced that Trish's 'makeover' was the aftermath of a prank gone wrong. The relief that Trish hadn't been victimized by a permanent marker prank was short-lived as Vesper couldn't imagine being caught dead in that much makeup.

  Quick on the draw as ever, Trish fired back at Dez. "You're one to talk about clowns, dressed like that?"

  Dez, his shirt the focal point of his ensemble, deflated slightly. "Hey, stop making fun of my—"

"It's the shoes, Dez," Trish cut in, just as Dez noticed his shoeless state. He paraded his newly revealed clown shoes up to the counter with a look of dawning realization.

  Trish couldn't resist a dig at Vesper. "It's not Halloween yet, Vesper. Try dressing normal like the rest of us."

  Unfazed, Vesper shot back, "Mirrors don't talk, Trish. Lucky for you, they don't laugh either. With that much makeup, you're practically a walking art project."

  While the others bantered and laughed, removing Vesper from the conversation, she withdrew, continuing her search elsewhere. It was then that Trish finally got to share her big news with Austin, who couldn't help but heighten the anticipation. Taking the drumsticks from Dez, he drummed up a suspenseful roll.

  But Trish was having none of it. She snatched the drumsticks from Austin and hurled them out the door, narrowly missing some unsuspecting mall-goers. Vesper ducked, the sticks sailing perilously close to her head.

  Grinning broadly, Trish turned back to Austin. "I booked you a gig on TV!"

  Celebratory shouts filled the air as they started to plan for the breakthrough performance. Meanwhile, Vesper's concerns about her missing item dwindled in the wake of their excitement. The urgency of crafting a new song for tomorrow's show had just begun to dawn on them, and they were oblivious to the fact that it was the least of their worries.

  Trish, both Austin's manager and best friend, was a bundle of nerves over the TV appearance. But Ally, the reliable songwriter, was quick to offer comfort. "Don't worry, Trish. We can write a new song. I've got some fresh ideas in my songbook. We've got this."

  In the background, Vesper pondered the dynamics at play. Why was it so important that Ally was his songwriter? The memory of a conversation suggesting Austin had stolen one of Ally's songs lingered in her mind. Why hadn't they considered legal action for copyright infringement?

  Before she could delve further into these thoughts, Ally's alarmed voice shattered the stillness. "Oh no! My book is gone!"

  The search for the missing songbook became a mission. It was more than just a repository for Ally's songs; it contained her most private thoughts and feelings. Austin tried to reassure her, "OK, Ally, calm down. It's just a songbook."

  As he retreated, he almost collided with Vesper by the piano. She shoved him away with such ferocity he stumbled, prompting her to bolt for the stairs with him calling after her. She was determined to cover more ground.

  Ally's distress was palpable. "If anyone reads it, I'll die," she confided to Austin.

   The group's joy gave way to urgency, the hunt for Ally's precious songbook commencing with fervor. Austin tried to soothe her, but Vesper, caught in her world, shoved past him, determined to conquer the upper floor.

 As the search swept through the store, Dez's fingers danced across the piano keys, a melody of hope and desperation intertwined. The clock was ticking, and with it, the fate of Austin's career and Ally's peace of mind.

  Vesper Rowan, the enigma wrapped in violet strands, moved with purpose. To her, the songbook and the gig were inconsequential compared to her secret search. She kept her plight close to the vest, her resolve as solid as the guitar picks she'd wielded. Vesper was a storm unto herself, unpredictable and fierce—a force to be reckoned with, whether they understood her or not. And perhaps, in their obliviousness, they were spared from the tempest that was Vesper Rowan.

─── ∙ ~εïз~ ∙ ──

Word Count: 3965

  A/N: Here you go!!! The second chapter, let's get it!!!!! Boy, I can't believe I wrote this in two days and posted it like that, but damn, here we are. I'm that bitch who wrote a chapter in two days, so yassssssssssss!!! OK, but I promise the next chapter will be a little crazy. Anyway, dedicate this chapter to orange juice. I loved their Kendall Knight fanfic, you all, Name Game. Sofia Carson is a faceclaim rarely used for fanfics like Big Time Rush. Thank you!!! Go check it out if you want. I love you all bunches. xoxoxo

- bbdqqce1