Episode 1 ~ Boxes, Bleachers, and the Still-Undead Hope of Lana Nicole Yamashita
Lana’s hands blur over the keys as her avatar skids behind rocky cover, health bar a papercut from zero. Chat froths: EZ CLUTCH / don’t choke / queen mode. She leans in, auburn-orange hair shagging over freckled cheeks, hazel eyes hard with that boss-fight focus. Her oversized utility jacket bunches at the wrists; chunky boots thud against the chair base.
Mom critique > final boss. Guess who died on stream 🙃
Behind her, Erin sits—feet planted flat, hands neat on her thighs, gaze balanced on Lana’s skull like a hardcover textbook. Erin’s not just a posture cop; she once bragged she could drain a banker’s account with eight keystrokes and a discount VPN. “Retired” now—Newcrest-retired, anyway—meaning the mortgage gets paid but the fridge is a riddle half the time. Lana learned early to ask fewer questions and keep the Wi-Fi bill current. Wi-Fi felt like hers.
“Your posture is terrible,” Erin says. “And that thing looks like your father after a six-pack.” She tips her chin at the lurching zombie on screen.
Lana flinches, mis-hits. PERFECT HEADSHOT flashes—awesome. Too bad it isn’t hers. GAME OVER floods arterial red. She rips off her headset. “Are you serious right now?!”
Erin checks an invisible watch. “Your dad’s shit. Go deal with it.”
It lands like a shove. Since Erin started “cleaning the basement,” Lana’s been ferrying Kole’s relics in old boxes that smell like stale cologne and bad decisions to wherever she can manage to cross his path. Today, she’s on the hook again, heading to the farm, where he’s rumored to have made a rare appearance to grill for a Luna Farms cookout.
When every convo ends like THIS 👀 and you’re just trying to leave the house alive.
Keys in hand, Lana makes it two steps before heat spikes up her spine. “Streaming is a job, you know,” she instantly regrets saying.
“If you had a real one, I wouldn’t have to do what I do,” Erin snaps, following Lana down the hall. Their fights always start as a spark and roll into thunder.
“Right. Don’t mind me burning gas to deliver your ex’s junk,” Lana fires. “Or hauling potatoes from Aunt Ally’s because you never stock the fridge. You’re welcome.”
“It’s the least you can do, considering you’re still mooching.” Erin’s voice flattens—dangerous. “Maybe just stay there. Let Ally raise you, too.”
The words hit like a slap. Lana turns, keys clenched, auburn frizz haloing her furious face. For a second she sees the life Erin never says out loud: the ugly marriage; the Villainy degree still framed above a locked desk. Not a role model, exactly—more like a map of streets Lana refuses to die on.
The glass-paned door rattles when Lana yanks it open, choosing not to engage. Newcrest’s tidy row of townhouses glints in the noon sun like sterile, ferocious little teeth. In the rearview, their place shrinks—the home built back when everyone pretended not to question how the money flowed. The old Volvo hums toward Henford-on-Bagley; with each mile, Lana’s chest loosens, like distance can dilute the venom.
Aunt Ally’s farm: smells like wet hay + trauma but looks like a postcard. When it’s not raining, anyway.
Henford-on-Bagley greets her with a sky still damp from rain. Blue pop-up tents shiver over the Luna Farms stands that greet daily customers. Chickens gossip in puddles; the lake mirrors pewter clouds without kindness. The air carries cinnamon soap, turned earth, a thread of woodsmoke. Wind slides through reeds with a hush like pages turning.
Ally’s place is a memory palace: scraped knees, bandaged egos, casseroles that tasted like safety. It’s where secrets felt holdable. It’s where Ally collected strays—Gene, Kaylyn, Dax, Maggie—and only asked for clean hands at dinner and the truth, eventually, maybe.
What is bro doing. I’m not even here for you 💀
Gene fills the entryway—a storm in boots. Wavy dark hair falls wild; drizzle streaks his cool-toned skin. Narrow nose, eyes that once promised bright futures and now promise a fight.
Farm-strong arms still show under a washed-thin tee, but the promise has thinned: a shell of the man the world thought he’d be.
“Look who remembered we exist,” he says. “Delivery princess.”
“Look who practiced a new insult,” Lana says, wedging a box into his arms. “Congrats on leveling up.”
“Fan club pay good for hauling Dad’s junk?”
“Better than camping out in a barn.”
The pettiness is a ping-pong ball; the dull ache beneath the table. Gene’s knuckles blanch around the taped seam of the box meant for Kole. Once, he stood facing Lana just like this with a split lip and whispered, I’ll fix it, okay? I’ll be back. He wasn’t. He didn’t.
He inhales like he’ll detonate. Lana’s gaze follows his to snag on movement outside the front window.
Ex + middle-aged farmhand is crazy work. Sorry Gene…kinda
Down-slope, the pasture opens into muted greens. Olive leaves rustle silver-green along the new saplings; dew beads on the wire. Kaylyn’s laugh floats up—soft, real. Her thick black ponytail sways when she pushes hair behind her ear; youthfully bushy brows lift with the story’s punch line. She’s makeup-free and bright as a new coin, camisole flowing and white sneakers as clean as ever.
Panya tightens a bolt, shoulders like a doorframe, the motion patient as rain. His hands—quiet, competent—move over the latch; a wren trills from a cedar post. He’s worked Ally’s fields longer than anyone but Ally, the one you call when something is almost—but not yet—broken.
“At least my ex isn’t flirting in broad daylight,” Lana mutters.
Gene’s jaw knots. “Shut the fuck up.”
“It could be nothing,” she says, gentler than she intends to.
He glares past her, eyes glued to Kaylyn like a bad habit you pretend is nostalgia. In the wind, the olive leaves whisper like silver-green gossip.
Lol. He really tried it. Skill issue
Whatever armor he put on falls off in clanks. He mutters—whatever, watch it, same difference—and slinks to the porch. The boards talk under his weight. Lana wants to say something human; the sentence doesn’t assemble. It never does when it matters.
Aunt Ally steps into frame, sleeves shoved to elbows, long gray braid loosening. Her deep cocoa skin is mapped with smile-creased wrinkles; coffee breath curls softly when she exhales. Kole trails behind in weekend athleisure that squeaks against Henford’s mud—Newcrest Tech’s once-golden boy clinging to a last shine.
Ally reaches for the box. “Let me—” A cough cuts the word in half—deep, wrenching, mean. She braces on the post, jaw tight.
“Ally?” Kole’s salesman polish drops straight through the porch.
“You okay?” Lana asks, already moving.
Ally swats the air. ‘Farmer lungs. Don’t look at me like that.’ She hates pity like bindweed—pull one strand, five more surface.
Kole recovers, eyes sliding back to Lana and the box Ally’d reached for. “Front room, kiddo. I’ve got—investors pinging me.” His wink belongs under club lights, not barn eaves. Ally’s eye roll is tired, practiced. Some families pass down china. They pass down scripts.
Just your weekly ~aesthetic~ farm chaos.
Lana lingers on the steps, unwilling to go home to silence with teeth. Ally’s back in the kitchen; Kole is already mid-pitch to no one in particular; Gene’s a fucking dick; Dax is probably in the hobby shed laughing at some vintage cartoon with his famous girlfriend or whatever; Adonis has a friend over and zero interest in hanging out with Auntie Lana now that he’s in high school.
She opens her camera, filming a lazy vlog: rain-beaded hens fussing; cherry trees bowed with too-much fruit; faded chalk hopscotch still ghosting the walkway from that summer of flickering power when the kids played until dark. The frame drifts past the “Hobby Shed.” In the corner—just a dull rectangle of light, a reflection, a nothing. She slaps on a caption about farm chaos and posts to her fast-growing feed, then shoulders toward the Volvo as gravel crunches like cereal.
Kaylyn showing up with tea for Aunt Ally like a literal saint. She can be bossy, but sometimes I miss having her around.
Inside, Kaylyn pads into Ally’s room with a steaming mug, scented like ginger and orange peel. Ponytail a little frayed now, silken camisole catching the window’s pearl light, she sets the cup down and launches into Tomarang tales—river dragons, moon ladders, aunties reading fortunes in wet leaves—setting paper lanterns in the dim. Ally laughs, coughs, laughs again.
“Panya tried to outstare Ruben today,” Kaylyn says.
“Ruben always wins,” Ally rasps, pride for her favorite rooster bright in her eyes.
Kaylyn’s smile gentles. Life bucked her off the track she’d planned, but gratitude planted itself deep. Her visits have stretched longer, quieter. Helping isn’t a performance; it’s muscle memory, put to the test in recent months.
That one notification that makes your whole day go sideways. In the best possible way.
On the long drive, Lana’s phone buzzes.
“hey stranger. moved back to oasis springs. my sis has this lame cheer thing tonight. come suffer and i’ll buy boba after?”
The name stings sweet. Cheyenne Takeuchi: dusky brown skin, piecey cocoa bangs, blue-green eyes that catch light like fishing line. The little gap in her front teeth Lana’s been unreasonably obsessed with since twelfth grade. On grad night they’d talked beneath arcade neon like the world could be soft. Then Britechester. Then static.
Lana stares until the screen dims. Thinks of Erin’s jab; Ally’s cough; Gene’s jaw; Kaylyn’s laugh blowing across wet grass. Thinks of how light Cheyenne made everything feel.
Sure, she types. but boba’s on me. She almost deletes it; her thumb twitches in betrayal, hitting “send” instead. Her reflection on the screen looks like a first-time high diver—toes curled, air vs. sea doing math in her chest.
Oh hey old buddy old pal 👀✨
Copperdale’s banner flaps against the rafters; the gym smells like floor wax and old victories. Cheyenne is already there—cardigan sleeves tugged to her palms, tattoos peeking under cuffs, wide worn jeans low on hips. She smiles; the blue-green catches. They step into each other and the hug lands—too tight to be casual, too long to be polite.
They break, doing the quick scan: same / different. Yes, and yes. They were only “acquaintances” if you were asleep in high school.
“Come on,” Cheyenne says. “Let’s go watch my sister commit to a full cartwheel she definitely cannot do.”
When she pretends to be invested in your farm shots >>>
They grab a table far from the mat—Cheyenne only came because Veronica weaponized “ride?” Lana scrolls: hens, vines, sun flaring off goat fur, the lake pretending to be a painting. Cheyenne’s head tilts closer; bangs whisper against Lana’s cheek. Fireworks pop under Lana’s skin; she overanalyzes a pumpkin like it’s museum art.
“Your life is obnoxiously aesthetic,” Cheyenne says. “I hate you.”
“Trade you for your brain. Britechester.”
Cheyenne huffs. “Yeah, about that. I…paused.” She lets the word sit. “Dad calls it a gap year; Mom calls it an omen. I’m just trying to breathe.”
Lana lets the words soak. “You’re allowed to change your story,” she carefully says, surprised by her own certainty. “And change it again. As much as you want.”
Cheyenne’s eyes flick to her; some warmth lands and stays.
Little sis third-wheeling AGGRESSIVELY. I missed these two.
The meet dissolves into squeaks and pep echoes. People drift toward minivans; the gym air thins. Veronica lingers at the exit, all sparkle and composure—fire-red hair lit by fluorescents, hazel eyes sharp over warm olive skin. She folds her arms like a velvet rope.
“Let’s goooooo,” she drawls. “Home. Now.”
“One sec!” Cheyenne sings, unmoving.
Veronica clocks Lana—assessing, amused, a tiny smirk that reads I know exactly what this is. She flicks her hair and resumes being the main character.
“Boba?” Cheyenne asks, eyes crinkling.
“Obviously,” Lana says, pretending her heart didn’t just pull a muscle. Veronica groans. Consent assumed.
POV: she’s walking toward you with bubble tea and a smirk. 😏
The shop hums neon and espresso; the door chimes like a toy. Flyers curl on a corkboard, fonts yelling. Outside, the patio glows under a pastel sign, light puddling onto concrete. Cheyenne crosses with two sweating cups, tattoos flashing, smirk tugging.
“You ordered wrong,” she says, setting taro in front of Lana. “Fortunately, I’m benevolent.”
“Oh my godddd,” Lana says, taking the straw like a truce, “It’s not that deep.”
“Hey, when you taste it, you’ll know.”
The first sip: Too sweet. Too cold. Perfect.
When she’s talking with her hands and you’re just trying not to combust.
Conversation pours fast: Veronica’s odds of getting away with crimes (high); Lana’s fan Discord (‘small but feral’); Newcrest pretending to be a suburb when it’s really a soap. Cheyenne’s hands carve arcs; her straw a tiny baton. Lana laughs too loud and owns it.
Cheyenne’s mouth tilts; the patio light warms their little square of night. A bus exhales at the corner; wind strokes the eucalyptus leaves into silver.
Veronica collecting free drinks like Pokémon cards. What else is new? Poor guy.
At the counter, Veronica leans in, lashes deployed, hazel eyes going soft-focus. The barista is half terrified, half thrilled. A free brown sugar milk tea materializes.
“Shameless,” Cheyenne groans, fondly.
“Effective,” Lana counters.
They watch Veronica saunter back, glow cranked to eleven. Lana and Cheyenne fold into silent laughter; shoulders press, and the touch zings. Lana imagines this—boba, dumb jokes, nobody grading—stretching for weeks. A dizzy, top-of-coaster high is sliced when Cheyenne blinks, “Uh. It’s one a.m.” They both laugh like they forgot time was real.
Posting a vlog on five hours of sleep and on cloud 9…what could possibly go wrong 😑
Back in Newcrest after a floaty, probably-too-fast drive, Lana toes her door shut. The townhouse is that thick kind of quiet—held breath, thin walls. The farm vlog sits in drafts like a polite guest. Chickens. Trees. Mud. A window that meant nothing when she walked past it. Post.
She opens Cheyenne’s thread. Types did you get home okay? deletes. i had fun deletes. Settles on a heart she does not send. Growth, but make it microscopic.
Progress bar crawls; the screen’s blue light skims her freckles. She drops the phone to the nightstand.
When you grin at your phone like she’s actually inside it
Boots off, lights out. Lana slides under the comforter and lets her muscles unspool. The night returns in scenes: sleeves tugged to palms, Veronica’s weaponized lashes, Ally turning a cough into a joke, Kaylyn’s laugh lifting over wet grass, olive leaves whispering along the iconic white Luna Farms fence. She rubs her neck, smiling into the dark like someone might catch her.
For the first time in a while, the playlist in her head isn’t static. It’s bubblegum with too much synth promising things can still be good. She lets it loop until it carries her.
Mom sneaking to the mailbox in her ratty ass house shoes is bad news for everyone
Outside, the porch light draws a mean circle. Erin slips out in house shoes and an old tee, lithely slipping a thick envelope out of the mailbox. Kole’s looping script glitters in the moonlight, a return address that could be a PO box or a punchline. Thumb on the flap, she seems to feel numbers through paper.
She scans the empty street. The envelope disappears into her cardigan like a coin into a magician’s palm. The door clicks, and the house swallows her whole.
With that, Henford sleeps the sleep you earn with mud and sweat and filth and loyalty. At the property’s edge, the hobby shed keeps one square of light. Inside, on the couch Ally banished years ago: Dax—lighter brown skin, soft “dad-bod,” shoulder-length black hair tucked under a faded baseball cap he swears was his father’s—laughs at a vintage cartoon. And Daphne Corcoran, famous, “pure” profile blurred by smoke, head tipped to his shoulder like the night belongs to her, watches the joint’s ember pulse like a heartbeat, smoke threading the rafters.
Wait…is that who I THINK it is??!
To the world, Daphne is tissue-white teeth, puff-piece interviews, and eight glasses of water a day. To Dax, she’s an old high school friend who calls when fame feels like a costume. He doesn’t ask for selfies, wants everything but a show. He also doesn’t plan farther than next weekend.
They don’t realize a lens drifted past earlier that night, an unknowing caption carrying the dynamite threatening their budding romance. Outside, wind stirs olive and cedar like a secret badly kept.
Across town, Lana’s phone paints light across her ceiling as she sleeps, once, and then in a storm of unseen light throughout the night. A first, urgent comment rises to the top of her notifications:
yo wtf…is that Daphne Corcoran???