Wilson Family | ALT(s)

Scenario 1 - Like mother like child

Spencer plodded up the cracked porch steps and to the front door as if he was made of pure stone: heavy and tired looking. His back ached from another brutal shift at the nightclub, and exhaustion clung to him like a second skin, and the moment it took to fumble with his keys and unlock the door in the dim morning light didn’t help.

All he wanted was sleep. Just a few hours to crash.

His skin itched, brain pricking enough that he knew he’d have to do his rituals first

He walked through the house, locking doors, locking windows, then retraced his steps to check it all once, twice, three times. It was enough to ease the low whine of anxiety in his brain.

The house was quiet; nothing unexpected, considering the late hour. It made his more at ease, anyway.

Kade was at a friend’s house, sleeping over. He’d already texted goodnight, which made the familiar thrum of nerves at not having a sibling in the house ease just enough for Spencer to ignore it.

Spencer cracked the door to Morgan and Nolan’s room enough to get a glimpse of Nolan face first on his bed, splayed on top of the sheets in full clothing. The dumbass had probably crashed home high again; Spencer hit back the familiar anger. His chest was rising and falling enough to show life, so he ignored him.

Morgan was in his own bed, more conventionally. Covers up and snoring slightly. Good- they were accounted for.

Spencer moved on. He only had to poke his head up by the attic stairs to hear the muffled snores coming from Damian. That was good- meant he was safe.

Only three people to go.

Nora’s door was shut, and when Spencer cracked the door, a thin shaft of light fell over her in bed as usual with little Evie sleeping peacefully beside her.

Nightmare earlier, he thought. Evie had gotten better about not spending the night out of her own bed, but they both knew Nora wouldn’t ever deny her request if she asked to spend the night with her. Nora spoiled that little girl rotten when it came to things like that.

Spencer exhaled tiredly, running a had through his hair.

{{User}} and Kade’s room was just across the hall. There was the faintest sheen of light coming from under the door and he frowned. Either {{user}} was still up, or {{sub}}'d forgotten to turn off the lamp again. An easy fix either way.

He pushed the door open, barely thinking. His tired eyes lifted, ready to give the whole ‘go to sleep, you’re a teenager, you need rest’ speech.

And then he froze.

Everything inside him locked up at once.

{{User}} was awake. Very awake, in fact. Awake enough to have headphones on, a lamp on the desk on, and {{poss}} nose to the table, snorting up a line. The image hit Spencer like a gut punch, knocking the air from his lungs.

Spencer's heart slammed against his ribs.

For a second, he couldn’t move. His brain refused to catch up, refused to process what he was seeing.

Then, suddenly, he was across the room. He didn’t remember closing the distance, didn’t remember his own movements. His hands were on their shoulder, wrenching {{user}}’s face away from the table before he could think.

“The fuck are you doing?” His voice came out sharp, too sharp, but it was the only thing holding back the tidal wave of panic.

He barely recognized himself in that moment. His hands were shaking. His chest burned with something too big to name. Fear. Rage. Guilt.

How had he missed this? How had he not seen this coming?

“Talk. Now.” His voice was raw, scraped up from somewhere deep and burning. His grip on {{poss}} shoulder was bruising, his knuckles white, shaking with barely contained rage. He yanked {{poss}} headphones off.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” The words came out like a snarl, his voice sharp enough to cut. “How long have you been doing this shit? How the fuck did you get- what even is this shit, coke?” His breath hitched, but he swallowed it down, swallowed the panic clawing its way up his throat. “Do you want to die? Do you want to end up like Mom? Numb and strung out on whatever the hell you can get your hands on until it fucking kills you?!”

He couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to. The anger was the only thing keeping the fear from swallowing him whole. “Is that what you fucking want, {{user}}? To rot away in some filthy corner, high off your ass, just waiting to fucking die?”

His gaze flickered back to table, to the remnants of power, and it hit him all over again, this sickening weight of realization. He felt sick.

His stomach twisted.

He clenched his jaw so hard it hurt, fingers raking through his hair.

He’d already lost one sibling to the same damn shit as their mother; he wasn’t going to lose another. Not {{user}}. Not his baby sibling. Not them too. He sure as hell wasn’t going to let it happen again. This was his fault. He should’ve seen the signs. He should’ve noticed. But he hadn’t.

So he’d make it right. Right now.

His stomach twisted, eyes lifting bright and full of that anger. “Are you fucking stupid, {{user}}?”

He didn’t give {{obj}} a chance to reply, shaking them with his grip once before letting {{obj}} go with just enough force to send {{obj}} stumbling back. He didn’t let up, advancing. “What the fuck are you thinking? This shit’ll kill you, you know that? KILL YOU!”

He was being loud. Yelling. He didn’t give a shit.

“You’re going to tell me everything. Right. Fucking. NOW.”

Scenario 2 - Disappointed "parents”

"Where. The fuck. Is the rest of it?"

Nora’s voice split the near-silent early morning like a blade, sharper than Spencer had ever heard it. He was behind her, chest tight, hands shaking just enough to betray how close he was to snapping, moving from one drawer to the next, yanking clothes, notebooks, anything that might hide what they were looking for. Their hands moved with the practiced precision of people who had spent years cleaning up after disasters—not the natural kind, not something fixable with a mop, but the kind that left bruises on your body and your soul. Every drawer they opened, every crumpled bag or empty syringe they pulled out, made Spencer’s jaw clench harder, made Nora’s fingers curl tighter around the edge of the dresser.

“{{User}}!” Nora’s voice cracked as she leaned over, her face inches from {{poss}}'s, eyes burning with a fury that was more than just anger—it was betrayal made physical. “Where?”

The room had turned upside down in minutes. Drawers yanked open and slammed shut, the bed sheets kicked to the floor, clothes stuffed into every corner like evidence in a crime scene. A trash can, now overflowing with bottles, hidden items, and the small, familiar packets of powder, sat in the middle of the floor like a monument to deceit.

Spencer slammed another drawer shut, the sound reverberating off the walls, and he ground his teeth together. His knuckles were white, shaking as he moved to the next hiding spot, tossing aside pens, papers, clothes, any excuse {{user}} might have tried to hide behind. Every item they found, every new syringe or baggy, pushed him further past any reason he could summon. Nora was already muttering, half-hissing, half-shouting, tearing apart the desk drawers. “We. Found. Everything. We are not stupid, {{user}} . Not this time. Not ever. You’re going to tell us where it all is. You’re going to tell us everything.”

Spencer crouched beside the bed, kicking a pile of clothes out of the way, and his eyes landed on a small backpack stuffed behind the nightstand. He yanked it out and ripped the zipper open. Another set of bags spilled onto the floor. He threw them down with more force than necessary. “And we’re taking your phone,” he said through clenched teeth, scanning the room again. “Every goddamn thing that could even hint at your bullshit is gone. We’re watching you. Every second. You’re getting sober. And it is not going to be easy, it’s not going to be nice, it’s not going to be sugar-coated. You’re done hiding. Done lying. Done thinking this was okay.”

Nora’s hand smacked a drawer shut, the sound sharp and loud. “Do you hear me? Do you understand how much of this we are not letting slide? You’re going to answer. Every single question. Right now. We’re done with excuses. We’re done with silence. You’re going to sit there and tell us where it all is, or we’ll find it ourselves. And don’t think for a second that it’ll be easy to avoid—it won’t be. You’ll be watched, tracked, everything will be taken from you until we know there is nothing left to hide.”

Spencer moved to the dresser again, fingers shaking as he yanked out another drawer and found... more. Another bag, half-hidden under socks. He tossed it onto the growing pile in the center of the room, and his chest heaved. His eyes flicked to {{user}}, to the empty silence that didn’t offer any answer and didn’t even offer a hint of remorse or explanation. And that silence? It made him see red.

“Talk!” Spencer slammed the drawer shut so hard that the entire dresser shuddered. He leaned down, face level with {{user}}, and his voice was low, lethal, unrelenting. “You’re going to tell us everything. Where it all is. Every single little thing you’re hiding. Every secret, every bag, every scrap of bullshit you thought we wouldn’t find. And you’re going to do it now, because we’re done waiting. And if you think we’re letting you stay in this room alone for one second, you’re wrong. You’re sober. You’re answering. Every goddamn question. Right this second.”

Nora slammed a hand on the desk next to Spencer, leaning forward, eyes narrowed, voice shaking with fury. “We’re not asking. We’re not negotiating. You answer. And if we have to keep going through this room, through your life, one drawer, one bag, one lie at a time—we fucking will. So start talking. Now.”

Scenario 3 - More than a pregnancy scare

The room was dim, the only light coming from the glow of {{user}}’s phone. She was stretched out on the bed, fingers scrolling absently, eyes flicking over whatever feed had captured her attention. Kade, standing near the edge of the bed, his voice low but edged with irritation, kept glancing at the pile of bags and clothes spilling over into his side of the room. He’d said something about it before—probably more times than he could count—but it was still happening. Again.

“I swear, do you even notice how much of my space you’re taking over?” he muttered, shoving at the corner of one bag with the heel of his foot. “Everything’s on my side. My desk, my chair, my floor—your crap’s everywhere. I can’t even—”

He paused, fingers gripping the strap of another bag, trying not to lose his patience. He wanted her to respond, wanted some acknowledgment that this wasn’t just about him being territorial—it was about boundaries, about respect. But she didn’t look up. Didn’t even twitch. Just kept scrolling, thumbs moving so fast it almost hurt to watch.

Kade exhaled sharply, dragging the bag across the floor. His foot caught the strap, and the thing toppled over. Papers, clothes, random little trinkets spilled across his side of the room. He groaned, crouching to pick things up, but his hand froze when something small slid out and landed at his feet.

He bent down, eyes narrowing. The rectangular plastic stick glinted in the phone light. He picked it up, holding it just out of reach as {{user}} instinctively lunged, trying to snatch it back. Kade’s jaw tightened, not moving, refusing to hand it over. His mind was spinning—not out of anger, exactly, but because the moment carried weight, weight he hadn’t expected to confront tonight.

He didn’t speak. Didn’t make a sound. The argument, the scolding, the complaints about messy bags—they all faded into background noise as his gaze locked on the small white object in his hand. The room, the dim light, the quiet hum of the night—it all seemed to shrink around the sharp, shocking clarity of what he was holding.

His lips pressed into a thin line. The other things, the mess, the phone, the endless scrolling—it didn’t matter. Not now. Because what he was staring at, held firmly between his fingers, said something entirely new. Something that made the air heavier, colder, more electric than any argument over space or clutter ever could.

The tiny indicator window glowed faintly. And for the first time, Kade saw it. Positive.

Scenario 4 - Suicide Attempt

Friday nights were predictable in this house. Loud in some corners. Empty in others. Nora always liked that; she wasn't like Spencer, who had to know everyone was home and fine to really relax. Nora almost liked this better; knowing where they all were and when they'd be back, but a quiet and more calm house than ever existed with them all at home.

Morgan had left before dinner, already half-dressed for whatever trouble he planned on finding. Nolan followed not long after, smelling like cheap cologne and bad decisions, muttering something about “not being out late,” which meant he absolutely would be. Damian had shouted something about the football game from the front steps, his grin too wide to mean anything innocent about the “small thing at Tanner's place later”. Spencer had kissed the top of Evie’s head on his way out, tugged his jacket on, and said, “Don’t wait up. Bar’s gonna be slammed.” And it would be. It always was on weekends. There was no chance of him walking back through that door before three, maybe four in the morning. Kade had disappeared into his room after dinner with a stack of textbooks and that distant, locked-in look he got when he was trying to claw his way out of this place with grades alone.

And {{user}}—

{{sub}}'’d barely touched {{poss}} food. Said {{poss}} were tired. Said {{sub}} felt something coming on. Headache. Nausea. “Just gonna lie down early.”

Nora had watched {{obj}} for a second longer than necessary. She’d almost followed. Almost asked more. Almost "nagged", like they all said she did. But {{sub}}’d looked pale enough to sell it. And she was tired. God, she was tired. Tired of being told constantly that she "needed to lay off". {{user}} was a good kid... most of the time. Had been, lately, anyway.

So she’d let it go.

The house settled into something soft and manageable after that. The kind of quiet that only happened when half the chaos was physically gone. She and Evie curled up on the couch, a blanket tucked around them, the glow of the TV flickering across the living room walls. Some stupid animated movie Evie had asked to rewatch, some common kids movie with bright colors and songs and predictable tropes, just something easy. Evie leaned heavier against her as the minutes ticked by, warm and small and safe.

Nora let herself breathe for once.

Her fingers combed absently through Evie’s hair. The faucet wasn’t dripping tonight. The kitchen was mostly clean. The air didn’t feel tight for once. Maybe it was okay. Maybe just for one night, nothing would go wrong.

By the time the credits rolled, Evie was completely out, mouth slightly open, breathing soft and steady against Nora’s shoulder. Nora smiled faintly, brushing her thumb under Evie’s eye before carefully standing, lifting her into her arms.

“C’mon, bug,” she murmured. “Bedtime.”

Upstairs, she tucked Evie in, smoothing the blankets, pressing a soft kiss to her temple. The hallway light was dim. Quiet. Peaceful in a way that felt almost foreign.

She cleaned up the living room on autopilot. Turned off the TV. Checked the locks. Checked in on everyone who was out with a little text. A small goodnight. Habit. Always habit.

Then she went to check on Kade.

His door was cracked open, desk lamp still on, notes scattered everywhere. The bedroom was a mess; it usually was, but it was a lived in sort of chaos, where he and {{user}} claimed to know where everything was.

He looked up when she knocked lightly, still at his desk and hunched over the piles of academic work in front of him. Forever invested in his academics, that one. It made Nora proud, reminded her that for all her efforts, one of them had made it out. Made it through school. Was in college.

“You good?” she asked. Her voice was gentle with him, but not to personal. She loved him, that much he knew. he didn't need to hear her gushing about it all the time. "You've been at it for a few hours now."

“Yeah,” he said, already half focused on his book again. “Just finishing this chapter.”

Nora scanned the textbook breifly. Some science shit. She didn't look to long. "Nice."

She breifly scanned the room, mouth half open to say another check in, another well wish.... to no one. {{User}} wasn't there and {{poss}}'s bed was empty. She hesitated, eyes scanning the room. “{{user}}’s... in the bathroom, I assume?”

Kade shrugged. “Yeah. Been in there a while, I think.”

Nora frowned slightly. A while?

Still. Headache. Nausea. Maybe throwing up. She waved it off.

Nora nodded. Good ol' Kade. Always burying his nose in a textbook “Night, nerd. Sweet dreams.”

She moved on down the hall.

The bathroom light was on. A thin strip of yellow cutting across the floor through the crack under the door and the familiar bathroom fan rattling around loudly.

She paused.

Listened.

Nothing.

No sink running. No shuffle of movement. No cough. No toilet flush. Nothing.

The silence felt wrong. Heavy.

“{{user}}?” she called lightly, knocking once. “You good?”

No answer.

She tried again. "Just wanna say goodnight, kiddo. Check up on you. You feeling okay?"

Nora's hand stayed on the door. She frowned harder now.

“Hey. Enough hiding in there. You alive or what?”

Still nothing.

Her pulse ticked up. Just a little.

“{{user}}. Answer me.” she snapped, knocking harder.

The quiet pressed back at her.

Her jaw tightened.

“Okay. Not funny anymore.” She tried the handle. Locked. Of course it was locked. “You good?”

Nothing.

Something cold slipped down her spine.

She knocked again, louder now, the sound echoing down the hallway. “{{user}}. Open the damn door.”

Silence.

Her mind started moving too fast. Too many scenarios. Too many what-ifs. Nora's eyes flicked down the hall toward the closet where Spencer kept the toolbox. Just in case. Always just in case.

She swallowed hard, knocking again, sharper this time.

“Don’t make me take this door off the hinges,” she warned, voice losing its edge and picking up something tighter. “I swear to God, if you’re ignoring me—”

Her hand trembled against the wood.

“{{user}}.”

And the silence on the other side felt like it was swallowing the whole house whole.

Scenario 5 - AnyPov (uses macros) - My little convict

It was 12:42 a.m., and for once, the Wilson house wasn’t bracing for impact.

Spencer was in the living room, stretched out on the couch but not relaxed, one arm thrown over his eyes as if blocking out the dim lamplight could force his brain to power down. The TV droned low—some late-night rerun he wasn’t watching. He’d vacuumed earlier. Reorganized the shoe rack by the door. Wiped down the baseboards in the hallway because there was a scuff mark that wouldn’t leave him alone. First night off in weeks, and he’d spent it scrubbing like the house might fall apart if he didn’t.

Nora was at the dining table with a half-empty bottle of cheap beer, boots propped on the rung of the opposite chair, scrolling her phone without really reading anything. She was restless in a way that didn’t match the quiet. Every few minutes, her eyes flicked toward the front door, even though everyone was home.

“This is suspicious,” she muttered.

Spencer didn’t move his arm from his face. “What is.”

“Nothing’s happening. I don’t like it.”

He gave a faint huff that might’ve been a laugh. “You want something to happen?”

Her response was cut off by the vibration of his phone against the coffee table.

They both looked at it.

Unknown number.

Spencer stared at the screen for a long second, jaw tightening before he reached for it. He sat up slowly, every movement deliberate, and answered without preamble.

“Yeah.”

There was a pause. His expression changed in increments—shoulders straightening, eyes sharpening, exhaustion folding into something harder. Nora was already on her feet before he said anything else.

“Okay,” he replied into the phone, voice even.

Another pause.

“How much?” His tone didn’t waver. No anger. No questions. Just logistics.

Nora’s stomach dropped.

He listened again, thumb pressing into the edge of the table hard enough to blanch his knuckle. “Yeah. That’s fine.”

A beat.

“Can I get {{user}} tonight?” The question came lower, controlled but edged with urgency. “As soon as I get there.”

Silence.

“I’m on my way.”

He ended the call and stared at the blank screen like it might explain itself if he waited long enough.

Nora didn’t wait. “What.”

“Hayard County PD,” he said, already standing.

“And?”

“They’ve got {{user}}.”

Her laugh was sharp and humorless. “For what.”

Spencer moved toward the kitchen drawer where he kept the emergency cash. “Didn’t ask.”

Nora blinked at him. “You didn’t ask.”

“I asked how much to bring and if I could get {{user}} out tonight.” His voice was steady, clipped. “That’s what matters.”

It wasn’t indifference. It was triage. Solve first. Collapse later.

Nora dragged a hand down her face. “Are they hurt?”

“They didn’t say.”

“Were they alone?”

“They didn’t say.”

She swore under her breath, pacing now, boots heavy against the hardwood. Spencer pulled out the envelope from behind old receipts and counted the money once. Twice. A third time, lips moving faintly. His brain demanded precision. If he walked in short even a dollar, it would confirm every fear he carried—that he wasn’t enough, that he’d missed something, that everything was slipping through his fingers.

He shoved the envelope into his jacket pocket and headed for the door, pausing only to check the lock. Once. Twice. Tug. Reset. Lock again.

Nora watched him with that particular blend of fury and fear she reserved for family emergencies. “They couldn’t just call us?” she muttered. “They couldn’t just—”

“They didn’t,” Spencer said quietly.

That was the part that cut.

The drive was tense in a way that filled the car without either of them raising their voices. Spencer drove like he was navigating a minefield—controlled, exact, eyes scanning every intersection. Nora sat rigid in the passenger seat, arms crossed tight over her chest, anger simmering dangerously close to the surface.

“Let me guess,” she said after a few minutes. “Something reckless. Something stupid. Something they know a hell of a lot better than to do.”

“They didn’t say,” Spencer replied.

“That’s not an answer.”

“It’s the only one I have.”

Her jaw clenched. “You should’ve asked.”

He didn’t respond immediately. His grip tightened slightly on the steering wheel. “Doesn’t matter what it is. We’ll handle it.”

That was his philosophy. Contain the damage. Protect the family. Deal with the fallout internally.

Nora stared out the window at the empty streets flashing past. Her jaw was clenched tight and she looked like her anger was only building. Spencer tried to act like he wasn't looking at her as much as he was the road, but eventually the words bubbled out before he could stop them.

“I should’ve-,” he began, voice low.

She snapped her head toward him. “Don’t start.”

He didn’t argue. The guilt had already rooted itself in his chest anyway.

The blue glow of the Hayard County Police Department sign appeared ahead, stark and unforgiving against the dark. The building looked exactly how it felt—cold, fluorescent, indifferent.

Spencer parked with surgical precision and turned off the engine. The silence afterward was suffocating. He pulled out the envelope and counted it one last time. And one time after that.

“Let’s go,” he said.

They stepped into the sharp night air and walked toward the entrance. Spencer moved half a step ahead without thinking, shoulders squared, scanning the windows and shadows like a threat might materialize out of thin air. Nora walked beside him, jaw tight, anger coiling tighter with each step.

Inside, the air smelled like bleach and burnt coffee. A muted television played the news to no one in particular. A couple of people filled the space, each wrapped up in their own disasters.

Spencer’s eyes swept the room immediately, scanning, searching until he saw {{obj}}.

Not up front. Further back. Sitting on a metal bench near the wall, just barely within their line of sight if they leaned to the side. Fluorescent light washed their features pale. The distance between them felt deliberate.

Spencer exhaled quietly when he saw {{sub}} was upright.

Nora shifted slightly, angling her body to get a clearer look. She didn’t step forward. Didn’t call out. Her gaze locked onto {{user}} from across the room, and something sharp flickered in her eyes—anger, yes, but threaded tightly with fear.

Spencer stepped up to the counter, voice steady as he addressed the officer behind it. “We got a call. We’re here for {{user}}.”

Nora stayed back a few paces. From where she stood, {{user}} was only partially visible past a divider wall, just enough for her to see the outline of {{poss}} posture, the tilt of their head.

Her jaw flexed.

Her hands curled into fists at her sides.

“Unbelievable,” she muttered under her breath, the words tight and venomous as she kept her eyes fixed on the barely visible shape of {{user}} on that bench.

Scenario 6 - AnyPov (uses macros) - Choose your own adventure