Chapter Text
For Jake Dawson, the summer of '96 was about to suck so hard. Like... maximum suckage.
Jake was your average, white suburban middle-schooler, if "average" meant drowning in a tidal wave of acne, awkwardness, and unrequited crushes. Scrawny for his age at 5'1", he had a messy mop of dark brown curls and wore braces to correct his overbite. A typical kid in the late '90s, with a wardrobe full of oversized graphic tees, paired with baggy JNCO jeans and scuffed-up Airwalks. Jake's summer started with the kind of gut-punch only a thirteen-year-old could truly appreciate. His parents were taking a cruise ship to Cancun for their second honeymoon to "rekindle the spark" (*gag*).
Now, he was stranded at his Aunt Brenda's sterile-ass condo with its stupid modern art and fridge full of "kale" or whatever. Brenda Dawson, aka "The Ice Queen of the 9th Circuit," was the youngest district attorney in the city's history and his dad's younger sister. The woman was terrifying at 5'9" (5'11" in her courtroom heels) with an icy glare that could freeze hell. She was 34, single, and ran her life (and now his) like a goddamn courtroom docket. Chore charts taped to the fridge, a shower timer beeping like a bomb squad countdown, and God help you if you left a single crumb on her Italian marble countertop.
Worst of all? She did yoga in tight tank tops and leggings that clung to every curve, her sports bra barely containing her full DD-cup bust, and her wavy auburn hair was all wild and sexy whenever she let it down...
Jake couldn't help but stare before quietly mumbling to himself, "Nope. Bad thoughts, Jake. Incest is illegal... I think."
His only escape was his Sega Saturn and Lara Croft's lovely "polygons," until Aunt B confiscated those for leaving Cheeto dust on her pristine linen couch.
Life was bleak. His friends were off at summer camp, and Jake was stuck playing chess against himself while Brenda worked late, prosecuting gangsters and drug-dealers who probably had more freedom than him. The first week of summer was a Brenda-enforced hellscape of helping her out with grocery lists and organizing her spice racks (while fantasizing about her "other rack").
Today was a small miracle, Aunt B actually let him roam the thrift store at the strip mall while she hunted for "a new pair of pumps" (*sigh* chicks). The place smelled like mothballs and mold, but hey, freedom was freedom.
That's when he saw it... tucked between a busted-up George Foreman grill and a VHS copy of "Stop! Or My Mom Will Shoot", a faded tape with "Jurassic Park" scrawled in Sharpie. His favorite movie. Score! The sleeve was missing, but who cared? The greasy clerk with a comb-over and a gut spilling over his belt buckle barely glanced up from his Hustler magazine as Jake slapped down his allowance onto the counter.
"Keep the change, dude," Jake said, voice cracking mid-sentence. The guy just grunted, scratching his stomach through his stained Miller Lite tee. Classy.
The boutique smelled of leather and luxury, the kind of place where saleswomen sized you up by the cut of your blazer. Brenda stood before a gilded mirror, one stiletto-clad foot poised elegantly on the velvet stool, the other arched to showcase the sculpted curve of her calf. The pencil skirt hugged her hips just shy of indecent, riding up enough to reveal her toned thigh where the hem met sheer stockings. Her silk blouse, buttoned to the collarbone as always, stretched subtly over her ample chest when she adjusted the blazer's lapel.
She didn't turn when Jake shuffled in, just flicked her gaze to his reflection. "There you are," she said, her voice direct as a subpoena. She pivoted slowly, the new heels clicking on laminate flooring.
"Well? How do they look?" Her toes flexed, the arch of her foot tensing, unyielding as her closing arguments in court.
Without thinking, Jake blurted out, "Looks hot, Aunt B." His eyes widened the second the words left his mouth as Brenda's razor-sharp eyebrow arched higher than the Twin Towers. Her glare could've peeled paint off the walls. "Uh, I mean..." he stammered, voice cracking like a dropped Walkman, "...super professional. Like, really lawyer-y. Objection sustained... and all that, y'know?" He swallowed hard.
Brenda turned back to the mirror, tilting her ankle to admire the way the stiletto elongated her calf. "Mm. Professional."
Jake exhaled, then immediately groaned when she slipped them off. "You're not buying them, are you?"
"Not yet." She handed the heels to the hovering saleswoman without looking. "I want to see the Manolo Blahniks in the back."
Jake rolled his eyes so hard he saw his own brain. "What is it with chicks and shoes?" he thought, kicking at a stray price tag on the carpet. "Dudes just wear the same sneakers till they fall apart. It's efficient."
Brenda's fingers trailed along a display of Italian leather clutches, her manicured nails clicking against the glass. A flicker of movement caught her eye: Jake shifting impatiently, one hand jammed deep in his JNCOs' front pocket where he had shoved the tape.
"What's in your pocket?" The question was idle, distracted, as she plucked a pair of Blahniks from the saleswoman's tray.
"Just a movie tape from the thrift store. Got it for, like, two bucks. Total steal." Jake's grin was all adolescent bravado, his braces glinting under the store's recessed lights.
"Mm. That's nice." Her attention barely grazed him before snapping back to the shoes. She hooked a finger under the strap, testing the tension. "Do these run narrow in the arch, or is it just me?"
The saleswoman launched into a spiel about European sizing. Brenda hummed, half-listening, while Jake's sneakers scuffed the carpet in restless circles. "God, he's like a puppy," she thought, "all pent-up energy and zero focus."
They trudged back to the parking lot, where Brenda's Lexus waited. Of course, she drove a Lexus, all sleek and pretentious like her. She hadn't even bought the damn shoes. "Waste of time," she'd muttered, sliding into the driver's seat like she was presiding over a murder trial. Jake slumped into the passenger side, the tape burning a hole in his pocket. The car smelled like leather and Chanel No. 5, which was basically eau de I'm-better-than-you.
Twenty minutes later, they pulled into her upscale condo complex: The Windsor, because Brenda couldn't just live in an apartment like a normal person. The elevator ride was silent except for the Muzak version of some Sting song Jake's dad liked. Then... her door.
Brenda's condo was a minimalist nightmare of white walls and chrome fixtures. The furniture was so stiff it looked like it'd never been sat on. A single abstract painting hung above the sofa, just a black slash on white canvas, probably titled "I Have No Soul." The kitchen gleamed like a surgical theater, all stainless steel and marble, with a fridge full of vegan whatever-the-hell. Her office walls displayed her Columbia law degree, a photo of her shaking hands with Hillary Clinton, and a framed front page of the New York Times calling her "a steel magnolia in prosecutor's clothing."
Jake's guest room? A glorified closet with a twin bed and a "No Food Allowed" sign taped to the door. Home not sweet home.
The second Brenda disappeared into her bedroom for her nightly "power shower," Jake bolted for the living room. The VCR blinked its red light at him like a challenge. He jammed the tape in, no time to waste. The screen fizzed to life with static, and then...
It wasn't Jurassic Park, not even close. Instead, it was a washed-out title card: "Mr. Mesmer's Mental Mastery: Hypnotic Control for Beginners!" The font was neon pink on a black background, complete with a VHS tracking glitch that made the screen flicker. Jake groaned. "Dude. Total scam."
Then he appeared, some cheesy '80s infomercial host in a sequined suit that shimmered under studio lights. "Greetings, seekers of power!" His voice was smooth, like butter mixed with static. His face looked weirdly plastic... like a creepy Ken doll dipped in wax. His smile didn't move right... just stretched weirdly, stiff and fake, while his eyes flickered eerily. Jake shuddered. "This is so wack..."
The host on-screen wagged a finger coated in cheap stage makeup. "Hypnosis is not magic," he intoned. "It's science... the art of bypassing the critical mind to implant direct suggestions." Jake snorted. "Yeah, right."
Then, the creepiest fucking thing, Mr. Mesmer's plastic smile widened, and he seemed to be looking directly at Jake. "Ah, skepticism!" Jake stiffened. Wait. Did he just?
The screen glitched as Jake paused the tape. The host's head frozen in a tilt as he looked at him with that creepy-ass smile. "Dude. No way this tape is talking to me... right?" Impossible. It was a pre-recorded VHS tape. Jake's throat locked, and he swallowed hard before hitting play.
Static hissed. The audio crackled through the speaker, even as the video froze for three full seconds. "First, we find a suitable subject. Someone who you would like to open to new experiences..." Jake scoffed. "Yeah, like Aunt B..."
The host cut in smoothly. "Perhaps a family member?" Jake's blood went cold, his palms slicked against the carpet.
As if on cue, Brenda emerged from the bathroom, her damp auburn hair clinging to the satin robe that barely tied at her waist. The fabric gaped just enough to slightly reveal the swell of her cleavage, still flushed pink from the shower. "Jake," she said, voice sharp as a gavel strike, "it's 10:30. Bed. Now." She blow-dried her hair with one hand, the other planted on her hip. "And don't sit two inches from the screen. You'll ruin your eyes."
Jake's throat went dry, and his head whipped back to the screen. Mr. Mesmer's voice slithered through the speakers: "Have you found your ideal subject?"