y'all sorry if some stuff is inaccurate, i haven't seen the scream movies in a hot minute so after i do, i might change some things to make it more canon

If nepotism existed in real life horror movies and the legacy behind the Stab movies, Felicity Prescott was sure she was the biggest nepo-baby of the entire industry. Her mother, the infamous Sidney Prescott, only had a few other children much younger than Felicity with no social presence online.

The opposite can be said for Felicity.

Unlike her half-siblings, Felicity was involved in the incident of Richie's and Amber's murder spree. The name "Felicity Prescott" comes up with thousands of articles about the event in Woodsboro. The "final girl" title is practically attached to her name and face wherever she goes.

After moving out of Woodsboro and saying goodbye to her mother, her mother's husband, and her little half-siblings, Felicity tagged along with her other "final girl" friends, Tara and Sam, to New York.

It hurt, but it didn't hurt as much as walking through the same town she was almost murdered in.

Now, Blackmore University wasn't the worst. It certainly isn't an Ivy League school like Harvard or Columbia—ones Felicity used to shoot for before she was inches away from death—but it isn't too bad. The college parties are similar, though she has no others to compare to other than classic 2000's movies and the word of mouth.

But a major was still a major, right?

Life was turning back to normal. With the new theories and rumors about Sam, ones that took the attention away from Felicity for once in years, the Prescott girl could finally turn back to living out a regular, college student life. Maybe hook up with some people, get wasted at parties, go skinny dipping, or whatever. The possibilities were nearly endless.

But Felicity Prescott should know by her heritage that nothing would ever be okay.

—

A loose grey T-shirt with some irrelevant print on the front hung over Felicity's slumped posture. She could barely feel the twiddling of her own thumbs as she glanced anywhere but the therapist, a clean and pristine woman, in front of her. The girl didn't know whether she would not or simply could not.

Doctor Leta Thatcher was a dark skinned woman with thick curls on her head, pushed back by a simple headband and slicked down into a ponytail. Her white top contrasted heavily with her skin without a stain in sight. In her eyes, Felicity could see this woman had seen many patients before, many sob stories, many broken people.

No doubt did she fix all of them up like the pamphlet from her desk said.

"Felicity?" The older woman asked, adjusting the collar of her blouse. As their eyes connected for a split second, Felicity could see the hint of impatience. "Felicity," she said again, "I can't help you if you won't speak."

No shit, she thought in her head, glancing down at her hands for the umpteenth time of the session. "I know," Felicity held back the temptation to roll her eyes. "Um," she started, "did you know, uh, my name comes from the Latin word, 'felicitas,' which means lucky and fortunate?"

The therapist nodded and resorted to tapping her pen against her notepad to keep herself from boredom.

"Yeah." Felicity shrugged. "And... I was lucky to survive." She immediately regretted saying those words and wanted the ground to swallow her whole.

The therapist, obviously, thought it was a gateway to talk about what happened a year ago. "Now, Felicity-"

"Could you um..." she interrupted, swallowing thickly at the sick twist in her stomach of nerves. "Could you maybe, like, not say my name like that?"

"Like what?" The woman cocked her head.

Felicity shrugged again, scratching the itch on her wrist as she kept her eyes trained to the ground. "Like you know me." She bit her lip and looked up for another moment at the woman adjacent to her. Felicity could see the slight smudge of lipstick just under the corner of her mouth. "Like we're friends."

The therapist jumped right back in. "Well, I think this would be much easier if we were like friends, Felicity." She leaned forward in her comfortable chair and gave the younger girl a stern look. "I can help you. I have helped dozens of clients overcome their past trauma and put it behind them. I've seen the worst of the worst get married, start families-"

"I don't wanna get married or start a family," Felicity mumbled under her breath, though she was sure the therapist heard.

Doctor Thatcher ignored her comment and continued. "They became the best person anyone could possibly be. But first," she leaned back in her seat and propped up her notebook again, pen in hand, "I need you to open up to me and tell me why you are here."

Why was Felicity there? No, her near death experience with the most recent Ghostface wasn't a reason. Tara Carpenter, one of her closest friends, suffered the same thing and now walked New York like it never happened. Because Tara isn't a pussy, she thought. "I'm here 'cause..."

She had to pause for a moment, looking down at her hands again and fidgeting more than before as she thought of Richie and Amber. Felicity's lips parted to talk again.

"I know this isn't the reason I'm here, but it's kinda important." She bit the inside of her cheek and pulled her right hand away to dig through the pocket of her blue track pants. Felicity pulled out the lighter in her pocket and maneuvered it with her fingers before holding it out for the woman to take.

Doctor Thatcher narrowed her gaze in curiosity and gingerly examined it in her own hand. "And what is this?" She looked back up at her client.

"Um, it's a lighter," Felicity stated the obvious, "and I carry it with me wherever I go. College lectures, the school library, study groups, parties, even the bathroom." She chuckled a bit at her own words.

"Do you know why you do this?"

A simple question that Felicity herself couldn't exactly answer. The Prescott girl drifted off in her own mind as she gazed at the lighter, the memories made with it flashing through her head. Richie and Amber, a small fire, bubbling skin before her eyes, the smell of burned flesh filling her nose, everything was coming back so suddenly–

"Felicity?"

And then, it was like she was perfectly normal again. Felicity looked back up at the woman's eyes and clenched her jaw. "Sorry," she mumbled. "I... I carry it with me because I feel like I need to." She shrugged her shoulders and slouched deeper. "It's like- I can't leave anywhere without it. It always has to be in my pocket. Like a lucky charm, but it has to be there."

"Why do you think this?" Doctor Thatcher asked, extending her arm for the girl to take it back. For the first time in the past few sessions every week, the woman looked interested. After all, she finally got her newest client to spill—even if it wasn't much.

When Felicity looked down at the lighter in her hand, a metal rectangular one with the flipping cap, she couldn't get the images out of her head. The lighter saved her life, somehow, yet she couldn't even explain the magnetic pull she had to it. "Fate. Destiny. Blood magic, I dunno. Something in my heart tells me... I need this." She muttered the last part and furrowed her brows.

"Hm," Doctor Thatcher hummed in agreement and scribbled down in her notebook.

"What are you writing?" Felicity asked at the sound of her pen scratching the paper rapidly. She craned her head up to see, but the woman's other forearm was covering her view. "Am I as mentally ill as presumed?" She humored.

"No," the woman muttered, signing off the last bit of her notes before she set down her pen and looked up. "I would like you to see me more often. Three times a week."

Felicity's lips parted in shock. "What?" She asked with disbelief written all over her face. "One, I don't have the funds for that at all! I go to college! And two, am I really that deranged?"

"Not deranged," Doctor Thatcher denied with a shake of her head and paused. "There is a lot to unpack and we need that time. In order to reach our goal of looking toward the future instead of the past, we should meet more often and discuss-"

"This feels a lot like a scheme for more money." A dark look took over Felicity's face as she sternly spoke her suspicions.

Doctor Thatcher narrowed her gaze in that intimidating way she naturally mastered. "Do you know of anyone else who is willing to help you like I am? You haven't seen most therapists, have you?"

"Never had many issues to talk about with someone other than my school counselor."

"Which is why," Doctor Thatcher offered a small smile, though it didn't feel too comforting, "I am telling you to meet with me more. I am one of the only people who is willing to listen to you and, possibly, the only person who actually can help."

Felicity paused and gave one last glance down at the lighter in her hand, which she had been fidgeting with since she pulled it out of her pocket. Just scratch the tip of the iceberg, she told herself and took a deep breath. "You know that bitch, Gale Weathers?"

Doctor Thatcher furrowed her brows. "The one who wrote the book about your story?"

"Yep," Felicity nodded, "that one. Did you know she did that without our permission? Didn't tell any of us she was gonna publish it. She just... aired our dirty laundry, our trauma, out to the public when she wasn't supposed to. Now, everyone who has access to the internet knows what happened. They know the worst part of my life like they were there, too."

"And this makes you upset?"

"Of course," Felicity rolled her eyes, "obviously this makes me upset. I've been declining every one of her calls since I first heard about it."

Doctor Thatcher pursed her lips and picked up her pen to scribble furiously in her notebook again. "What if you talk to her? Just one conversation to know why she wrote it?"

Felicity grimaced at the thought of speaking to Gale Weathers ever again. "That sounds stupid," she mumbled, looking back down at her lighter instead of the older woman.

Doctor Thatcher's gaze flickered to the clock on the wall behind the girl and sighed. She flipped her notebook closed and Felicity could catch the floral print on the cover. Anything to distract herself from Gale Weathers. "I'm sorry, Felicity, but our time is up for today."

The girl craned her neck around and found an hour had already passed. Her brows raised the slightest at the time. Maybe she spent too much time sulking in her seat during the beginning that she wasted the majority of her time.

"Felicity, I need you to promise me one thing." The sound of her name drew her attention back to her therapist. Doctor Thatcher stood straight and tall with her lips pursed once again. "Talk to Gale Weathers or pick up when she calls before we meet next week."

"Is that a homework assignment?" Felicity joked, feeling like herself for the first time in the past hour.

Doctor Thatcher cracked a tiny grin. "It can be anything you think it is."

Felicity stood up from the couch and slipped the lighter back into her pocket soundlessly. Just as she reached the door with her hand hovering over the handle, she stopped. "Doctor Thatcher?" She called out.

The woman looked up from her notes and met the girl's gaze. "Yes, Felicity?"

"You're..." she shifted awkwardly. "You're not just helping me because I'm Sidney Prescott's daughter, right?" Felicity felt so vulnerable, wondering if she had been tricked and deceived once more. Doctor Thatcher was one of the first people who treated her more than some celebrity since the Ghostface incident.

The woman furrowed her brows and set down her pen to rub her hands over her face. "Felicity, if you think I'm doing this because you're famous, I think we need to work on your trust issues, too." Doctor Thatcher gave her that mischievous older woman look and picked her pen up again.

Felicity bit the inside of her cheek out of habit, pausing before twisting the handle of the door and walking out. The presence of the lighter in her pocket burned more than ever, like it was constantly reminding her that it was there.

Felicity needed to destress.

What better than throwing on a stupid costume and going to a frat party to get wasted?

hi everybody, welcome to my new project

-rory