#Class 195

[emilytakesphoto]

train stations (with trains in them)

[griffmeistergeneral]

Side-by-side

[national-rail]

See pinned for more info on the tournament, see below for more info on trains.

Class 195 "Civity"

Current Operation: Regional services in the north of England.

Class 375 "Electrostar"

Current Operation: Regional services south east of London.

Class 168

Current Operation: Chiltern Mainline services from London to Oxford and Birmingham.

Class 165

Current Operation: Chiltern Local services, branch lines between London and Reading and regional services in west England.

Former Operation: Commuter services from London Paddington

[archivalhaven]

all important names & mentions of them in TMA

NAMES (alphabetical order)

agnes montague: mag 8, mag 59, mag 67, mag 89, mag 139, mag 145, mag 161

antonio blake/oliver banks: mag 11, mag 32, mag 42, mag 121, mag 168

angela: mag 14, mag 199

arthur nolan: mag 32, mag 55, mag 67, mag 139, mag 145, mag 169, mag 171

anatomy class: mag 34, mag 107, mag 109

annabelle cane: mag 69, mag 123, mag 136, mag 146, mag 147, mag 148, mag 155, mag 158, mag 164, mag 166, mag 167, mag 172, mag 180, mag 181, mag 194, mag 195, mag 196, mag 197, mag 198, mag 199

adelard dekker: mag 77, mag 78, mag 113, mag 126, mag 130, mag 134, mag 137, mag 149, mag 154, mag 156, mag 157, mag 159, mag 167

breekon & hope: mag 2, mag 20, mag 35, mag 37, mag 44, mag 54, mag 61, mag 78, mag 83, mag 93, mag 96, mag 99, mag 101, mag 119, mag 128, mag 180

basira hussain: mag 43, mag 50, mag 72, mag 73, mag 88, mag 92… so on

callum brodie: mag 73, mag 143, mag 173

daniel rawlings: mag 1, mag 54, mag 119

diego molina: mag 12, mag 43, mag 67, mag 139, mag 145

daisy: mag 43, mag 60, mag 91… so on

denniken: mag 24, mag 44

edwin burroughs: mag 8, mag 19, mag 20

eric delano: mag 85, mag 111, mag 137, mag 154, mag 158, mag 167

emma harvey: mag 154, mag 167

gerard keay: mag 4, mag 12, mag 35, mag 48, mag 60, mag 101, mag 102, mag 104, mag 107, mag 109, mag 111, mag 137, mag 154

georgie barker: mag 28, mag 63, mag 94, mag 121, mag 145, mag 149, mag 157… so on

gregor orsinov: mag 24, mag 44, mag 97

helen richardson: mag 47, mag 101, mag 115, mag 131, mag 143, mag 146, mag 157, mag 158, mag 164, mag 165, mag 174, mag 177, mag 183, mag 187, mag 188, mag 195, mag 199

jurgen leitner: mag 4, mag 17, mag 35, mag 46, mag 70, mag 80, mag 92, mag 111, mag 115, mag 158, mag 161, mag 165, mag 167

jane prentiss: mag 6, mag 22, mag 31, mag 32, mag 37, mag 39, mag 40, mag 41, mag 55, mag 152, mag 181, mag 186

julia montauk: mag 9, mag 36, mag 107, mag 109, mag 111, mag 143, mag 153, mag 158, mag 176, mag 177

jared hopworth: mag 17, mag 49, mag 90, mag 131, mag 160, mag 171

john amherst: mag 35, mag 55, mag 68, mag 157, mag 184

jack barnabas my beloved: mag 67, mag 89, mag 139 

jude perry: mag 67, mag 87, mag 88, mag 89, mag 139, mag 160, mag 169, mag 171

joseph grimaldi: mag 104, mag 119

lukas family: mag 13, mag 17, mag 33, mag 57, mag 66, mag 92, mag 100, mag 101, mag 108, mag 111, mag 120, mag 122, mag 123, mag 126, mag 134, mag 138, mag 139, mag 142, mag 144, mag 151, mag 154, mag 155, mag 156, mag 157, mag 158, mag 159, mag 160, mag 165, mag 174, mag 175, mag 185, mag 192

mary keay: mag 4, mag 62, mag 111, mag 137, mag 154, mag 167

michael crew: mag 4, mag 17, mag 46, mag 75, mag 91, mag 160

maxwell rayner: mag 7, mag 9, mag 52, mag 72, mag 98, mag 135, mag 140, mag 143, mag 158, mag 159, mag 160

mikaele salesa: mag 14, mag 38, mag 45, mag 66, mag 115, mag 141, mag 159, mag 167, mag 180, mag 181, mag 195, mag 196

michael: mag 26, mag 41, mag 47, mag 48, mag 74, mag 78, mag 79, mag 99, mag 101, mag 146, mag 154, mag 167, mag 187, mag 188, mag 198

melanie king: mag 28, mag 63, mag 76, mag 84, mag 85, mag 86, mag 88, and many many times after that

manuela dominguez: mag 57, mag 105, mag 135, mag 143, mag 152

natalie ennis: mag 25, mag 73, mag 108, mag 143

nikola orsinov: mag 83, mag 87, mag 89, mag 97, mag 101, mag 118, mag 119, mag 128, mag 165

neil lagorio: mag 110, mag 136

raymond fielding: mag 8, mag 59, mag 139, mag 196

robert montauk: mag 9, mag 52, mag 107, mag 109, mag 143

robert smirke: mag 26, mag 35, mag 50, mag 63, mag 80, mag 104, mag 111, mag 137, mag 160, mag 183, mag 195

sarah baldwin: mag 1, mag 28, mag 96, mag 119 

simon fairchild: mag 21, mag 51, mag 57, mag 106, mag 111, mag 124, mag 151, mag 159, mag 174, mag 175, mag 200

sarah carpenter: mag 27, mag 167

sebastian skinner: mag 87

timothy hodge: mag 6, mag 26

trevor herbert: mag 10, mag 36, mag 56, mag 107, mag 109, mag 111, mag 153, mag 158, mag 176, mag 177

toby carlisle: mag 18, mag 130

tom haan: mag 30, mag 72, mag 130

[lady-lani-1707]

Hey again, gyns.

I saw a post about some black pill radfems saying that essentially "foids" who choose to be around men are completely to blame and should expect violence. That we shouldn't worry or have empathy for women who choose to be around men.

Let me just stop you there.

Let's not forget that the majority of the world does not have women's rights. That means the women who live there are completely under the thumb of their husbands and other men who own all the wealth and can legally abuse their wives or rape them. In some places, you can even kidnap yourself a wife.

Of course!

Of course, women have to become delusional.

They make excuses for men's awful behaviour. They blindly follow religion and believe there is something after death that's going to make this hell they face all better.

Of course, they repress their emotions and distract themselves into loops of childcare, only hanging out with other mothers who understand that sheer burden. They proceed to brush off as their "job" so they can feel less upset about it.

These women are DYING, rotting from the inside out from the sheer zoochosis of being a sentient intelligent animal forced into a life of dull monotonity and the hellscape that is the household.

All for being born female.

Literally and socially held at chains to their master-husbands who breathe down their necks at all times and never let them do anything without 20 different valid reasons.

Like security, these men hold their daughters, their sisters, their wives, and all the women in their lives are kept under strict watch and scolded like children for breaking social norms or doing anything deemed wrong.

You can be KILLED.

THINK about that ACTUALLY.

KILLED for having a boyfriend or not being a virgin in some muslim countries.

Honour killed, YOUR OWN FAMILY KILLS YOU FOR THE 'SHAME' OF NOT BEING 'PURE'!!

Imagine, the privilege of living in one of the few countries, of which there's only about 14 out of 195 countries. That means less than 1 percent of the world, 0.07% has full womens rights.

But how DARE you blame the women!

Yes, they don't want to change, but that's because they've seen time and time again what happens if you try to change.

How can conceptualise women's rights when you live in a place where women get ACID thrown in your face for divorce?

How can you want women's rights when you have NO CHOICE in marriage?

How can you understand women are people when you are raised on the so called fact that men are closer to God and more superior than you just for being born male?

You can't.

Blame the men who uphold these systems who abuse women and girls.

Who go unpunished, unbeaten, unconfronted.

Never blame the women, when they are coping in the best way they can.

Misogyny is holding women hostage.

Don't you understand that as a group, men fit the exact description of terrorists? They use intentional violence and fear to achieve political or ideological aims to keep women in their place to exploit us.

They bring nothing but danger and stress to most women globally and yet you blame the WOMEN for being sucessptable to brainwashing and having delusional coping methods to ignore the reality they are married and giving birth to future abusers?

We are human too, which means that of course of you raise a little girl telling her she is inferior to her male counterparts she will internalised that all her life.

Blame the men who perpetuate this cycle of female exploitation, not the women who did nothing wrong but be born female.

Don't loose your empathy for other women and girls, don't be like the men.

It's up to us to spread awareness, to help even if they don't want it right now. We have to be there when they need it, we have to have an option for them.

We can save the female class, but only if we never loose empathy and genuinely want the best for one another.

Some women are against us.

But if we win, we all win.

- Lani, your lady

[inthedayswhenlandswerefew]

A Curse [Chapter 2: Harbor Gateway]

A/N: Thank you for the warm welcome you have given this series!!! I am sick with bronchitis currently so this has been a big bright spot in an otherwise miserable week 😅 I can't wait to show you where this story is going, I hope you're ready for it 🥰💜

Series summary: You are an aspiring actress. Aegon is a washed-up and disenchanted agent...at least until he sees something special in you. But within paradisical seaside Los Angeles you find terrible dangers and temptations, secrets and lies. Maybe Aegon's right; maybe the City of Angels really is a curse.

Chapter warnings: Language, a tiny bit of sexual content (18+ readers only), age-gap relationship, entertainment industry misogyny, some body dissatisfaction/dysmorphia, ice cream, judgmental parents, aggressive Akitas, we're literally in Minnesota!!!

Word count: 6.1k

💜 All my writing can be found HERE! 💜

Tagging: @lauraneedstochill @mrs-starkgaryen @chattylurker @neithriddle @ecstaticactus, more in comments! 🥰

🏝️ Let me know if you’d like to be added to the taglist 🏝️

Afterwards, Mason pulls his clothes back on as you are absentmindedly drawing stars in the steam on the windows of his Chevy Silverado. On the other side of the glass is inky Minnesota night, a full moon dissolving away, glowing freckles of constellations. You’re staying with your parents and Mason has roommates, so the truck was the expedient choice. It was good, not that you finished; you didn’t say anything, he didn’t ask, but even if he had you would have told him not to worry about it. It can take forever, especially with an audience. You’d rather wait until you’re alone.

Mason glances down at the used condom on the floor of his Silverado, hastily discarded, viscerally slick in a way that becomes sickening in the letdown, as the endorphins and the adrenaline slip away and the blood pumps slow and unclouded. He smirks as he asks: “You sure you don’t want to get back on the pill?”

You sigh, drawing another star. You are still naked and sprawled across the back seat, glistening with sweat in the moonlight. “Well I tried three different prescriptions and had three miserable experiences, and I’m really not interested in playing side effect roulette again. And I can’t risk my skin going insane and random bleeding when I’m running around all over L.A. trying to get parts.”

“What about that little sperm assassin T-shaped thing?”

You look at him. “An IUD?”

“Yeah.”

You wince, engraving another star into the steam on the window. “I don’t think I like the idea of having a piece of metal shoved up inside me.”

He laughs. “But you’ll get silicone implants?”

You shrug; you can’t deny the irony. “I don’t need an IUD to be an actress.”

“Look, I’m not complaining about the tits thing,” Mason says, holding up his hands. “Obviously I’d enjoy them too. And you’d still have them when you move home, so it’s not a waste even if the acting thing doesn’t work out.”

You already know he feels this way, and yet still, it hurts. “When I move home?”

He smiles and crawls back on top of you, his Carleton College hoodie whispering against your belly and chest, soft royal blue cotton on damp skin. He had been a Political Science and International Relations major who took Theater Arts 195: Acting Shakespeare for an arts credit. He was beyond terrible and had no appreciation for the field whatsoever, but he was tall and strong and jolly, an earnest corn-fed Midwestern boy, and when one day after class he’d asked if he could take you to Culver’s for a burger and frozen custard, you’d said yes.

Here and now, in the back seat of his Chevy Silverado, Mason kisses your forehead. Then he ghosts his thumb over the ridge of your orbital socket and cheekbone, where your dark glittery eyeshadow has smudged like a spreading bruise: Galaxy by Anastasia Beverly Hills, Elysian by Natasha Denona. “I’m not saying you aren’t good. But how many people on this planet get to be movie stars? It’s just not realistic. And it’s about so much more than talent. It’s about who you know, and luck, and chemistry, and looks, and a bunch of other things that are mostly out of your control. You’re never going to be the type of girl who’s an influencer or winning Miss America, you’re just not. But that doesn’t mean you aren’t very, very pretty. And I loved you anyway.”

Loved, past tense. You and Mason stopped using that word a year ago; now the nostalgia is painting memories like the walls of an old house. His memories, anyway. You sit up and start yanking on your clothes: oversized yellow Santa Monica crewneck, black sweatpants with elastic cuffs at the ankles. “I think I’m going to get the gummy bear implants.”

Mason licks his lips. “Yum.”

“They’re a type of silicone, but they’re supposed to feel more natural and be less dangerous if they rupture.”

“Will you have scars?” he says as if the notion has just occurred to him, troubled, perhaps a little revolted.

“Well yeah, they have to end up under my skin somehow.”

Mason shudders, then he has another thought. “Who’s going to take care of you after surgery when you’re all sore and zonked out on opioids?”

“My roommate Baela said she would. She’s had friends who have gone through it already.”

“Okay, good. I wouldn’t want you to be alone out there.” Mason touches the back of your head, a quick fond gesture. He’s the only man you’ve ever been with, and even that took a while, months of trying to envision him undressing you before you were sure you could do it without flinching, without being afraid or shy or bewildered. But in the end it had been easy, always easy, which is why you keep coming back to him like a comet. Your elliptical orbit takes you far away and then close again, and such natural patterns are effortless to keep.

You say, the edges of your lips curling into a furtive smile: “I’m definitely not alone.”

Mason groans. “You’re going to hook up with that new agent guy, aren’t you?”

“What? No! No way, he has a fiancée.”

He rolls his eyes, but he’s more amused than annoyed. “Okay, whatever.”

“You know I don’t date anyone.” Which is why each time you’re home visiting, Mason gets a text: Want to get lunch at Culver’s? or Can you drive me to Target? or Pick me up around 9 p.m.?

Mason smirks and taunts: “I don’t know, with the way you talk about him you sound kind of obsessed.”

“I’m just grateful. Someone finally gave me a chance.” You look to the window; the steam and your hand-drawn stars have evaporated away. “And yeah, he’s interesting and he’s cute, and he’s kind of mean but then unexpectedly caring sometimes, and I think he’s one of those people who are really good at what they do but only when they’re inspired…but that doesn’t mean I’m into him romantically.” A pause. “And even if I was, there’s no harm in a super-secret, one-sided crush.”

“Okay. Have fun with all the adulterous sex.”

You chuckle. “Thanks, but that is not the plan.” You slip on your flip-flops, shimmy out of the back seat, and trot around the Silverado to the passenger’s door. Mason climbs into the driver’s seat and turns his key in the ignition. You ask: “What happened to that ballerina girl who was in your Instagram stories for a while?”

“Had to ghost her, she got super clingy and controlling. She was texting me at work all the time and got pissed off when I was putting a ton of hours into that election thing for CNN.” Mason is a political analyst. He turns to you. “You ever feel like people are the best versions of themselves before you really know them? Then you get too close and all the cracks start showing.”

“I think people are wonderful. You just have to find the ones you click with.”

“I should have figured you’d say something like that.” He steers his truck out of the otherwise empty parking lot in Lac Lavon Park. “I’m looking forward to you being home again.”

“I’m not.”

You both laugh, and then Mason drives you to your parents’ house.

At the dining room table, Mom and Clara are researching wedding venues, vast countryside estates and metropolitan historic hotels. Clara got engaged two weeks ago during a vacation to Turks and Caicos. In the living room, Dad and Tripp are watching commentary on the NBA Finals. Tripp’s name isn’t really Tripp; he is the third James in a row, named after your father and grandfather, and Tripp is short for triple. All over the house, there are Akitas lolling in plush dog beds and clicking around on Brazilian Cherry hardwood floors. They have faces like teddy bears, but their dark eyes track you mistrustfully, as if you are an intruder.

No one asks where you have been. They barely acknowledge that you are back. “Hello, dear,” your mother calls distractedly from the dining room, and that’s all. You jog upstairs to the bathroom you share with Clara before anyone can notice your smeared makeup and the unsavory post-car-sex sweat gleaming on your skin. You get into the shower, turn on water so hot it is nearly scalding, and close your eyes. With your back pressed to the jade green tiles, your hand wanders down over your belly and stops between your legs. Your mind cycles through fantasies, but nothing seems to be working.

It’s not real. It can’t hurt anybody.

You imagine that Aegon is the one touching you, and in under a minute it’s over.

~~~~~~~~~~

“I want there to be horses,” Clara says, scrolling through her phone and ignoring the food on her plate: roast chicken, homemade mashed potatoes, green beans sauteed in garlic and olive oil, panzanella salad. Mom prepared it all herself, not because there was no help available—your parents have a housekeeper named Angela who comes by several days per week—but to prove she could. In the living room are shelves heavy with books by Martha Stewart, Ina Garten, Cat Cora, Julia Child, Nigella Lawson. You hear echoes of ambient clicking, Akitas meandering down hallways and staircases.

“Horses?!” Tripp replies with a mouthful of mashed potatoes, gesturing to the sliding glass door. “Don’t you get enough horses in your everyday life? Don’t you have like five right out there?” Your parents’ house sits on ten acres of land, including a barn and several paddocks for Clara’s rescued Thoroughbreds.

“I want beautiful horses,” Clara insists. “Unusual, photogenic, so they can be in the background of all the photos. Maybe Friesians or Haflingers?”

“I’m not sure we can sort the venues by types of horses available, dear,” Mom says. All that’s on her own plate is a heap of green beans and a few pieces of skinless white meat chicken.

Clara moans and drops her face into her hands. “It’s so overwhelming!”

“You’ll find a place you like, Clara Bear,” Dad says mildly, painstakingly slicing meat off a drumstick with his fork and knife.

“And Owen is no help at all. Every time I ask for his opinion he just tells me to do whatever I think is best, but I don’t know what’s best, that’s why I’m asking him!”

Your mother pats Clara’s shoulder reassuringly. “Guys don’t care about weddings,” Tripp says, twisting around in his chair to see the television in the living room. On a rerun of E! News, the hosts are discussing Chris Hemsworth’s rigorous fitness regime and Meghan Trainor’s “mommy makeover.” You peek under the tablecloth. One of the Akitas, Yuki, is glaring as she waits for you to drop something for her to eat.

“You could do something like that,” Mom says to you, and you realize you haven’t been listening to the conversation.

“Sorry, do what?”

“You could be a wedding planner or a real estate agent. Those are actual careers, but there’s more creativity involved, isn’t there? And didn’t you take a design class in college? That would certainly come in handy.”

“Hm,” your father says with a frown, still dissecting his chicken. He would rather you go to law school like Tripp. You would rather lie down in traffic.

“I took a set design class, Mom. Because I was studying how to be an actress. And that’s what I’m doing right now in Los Angeles, trying to be an actress.”

“You could become an architect!” Mom bursts out with sudden enthusiasm. “Wouldn’t that be fun?”

You titter evasively. “I can’t draw, Mom. Or use the modeling software, or do math.”

“You know, you don’t need any specific degree to get into law school,” Tripp says, and your father gives him a nod of approval. “You could have majored in dance or bagpiping or Egyptology, it doesn’t matter. All they want is a high undergrad GPA and a 168+ LSAT score, and I bet you could get that if you studied. You can even retake the test a few times if you need to.”

“Why do you do that?” Clara snaps at him. You eat your panzanella salad and pretend not to be listening. Beneath the tablecloth, Yuki growls. You toss her a few cubes of Italian bread so she won’t bite you.

Tripp shovels mashed potatoes into his mouth. “Do what?”

“Why are you always wasting your time trying to convince her to grow up and get a real job? If she wants to embarrass herself, let her. I have problems that I’m trying to solve, so how about applying yourself to those instead?”

“Are you serious? You think I should be calling around to wedding venues asking about their selection of exotic draft horses?”

Clara aggressively stabs at her green beans with her fork. “Fuck off, Tripp.”

“Hey, hey, kids, no swearing,” your mother says. “It’s Father’s Day. Be respectful.”

Dad turns to you. “You could be an entertainment lawyer, how about that? You could work in intellectual property or negotiating contracts.”

You smile warily. “I’ll think about it, Dad.”

Clara says to your parents: “Well I hope all the money you’re throwing out the window to support her in California isn’t coming out of my wedding fund.”

You close your eyes and think: I can’t spend my life in a cubical. I can’t spend every minute of every day trying to forget who I am.

“Shh, shh,” your mother pleads, rubbing the back of Clara’s clenched hand. “You will get exactly what we promised you, that amount is still set aside for your wedding. Nothing she does affects you.”

“And it’s only until the end of the year,” your father adds. “Then the vacation is over.” Then the meager allowance they are funneling to you will stop and you will be ordered to return home to pursue an honorable course of existence. You have six months to succeed in Hollywood, or the dream dies.

Your father is now asking Tripp about his summer associate position at Latham & Watkins in Chicago. Your mother is advising Clara to get a wedding dress with a corset back so it can be adjusted in the event she gains or loses weight at the last minute. Underneath the table, Yuki is growling again; she noses your knees threateningly.

“I got an agent,” you say, and everyone looks at you.

“Really?” Mom asks, sounding a little perplexed.

“Who is it?” Dad says.

“Aegon Targaryen. He has a small office in Elysian Park.”

“Oh, I think I recognize the last name.”

“His family is in the industry.” You are beaming; you can feel the heat rising in your face. “But Aegon kind of does his own thing and tries to stay out of the limelight. He was an actor when he was my age. And I guess he thinks I can get roles, so that’s really exciting.”

Your mother seems concerned as she nibbles at a shred of white meat. “Is he an older man?”

“Not that much older. He’s thirty-five.”

“Well, be careful, darling,” your father says gravely. “Who knows what his intentions are.”

Clara evidently agrees. “Men can be so creepy. I had this one professor in pharmacy school who cheated on his wife with one student, then cheated on her six months later with a different student. And then he retired to Boca Raton and was never heard from again.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Tripp says to your father. “We read about Clinton v. Jones in torts class, it was wild, I didn’t know he was such a freak even before the Monica Lewinsky thing…”

After dinner, while your father and Tripp are flipping through television channels in the living room and Clara is upstairs on the phone with Owen, you go to the kitchen where your mother is washing dishes in a bubble-filled sink. Again, she doesn’t have to do this; Angela will be here to clean the house tomorrow. But it’s part of being a perfect homemaker, and if she’s not good at this then she’s not good at anything.

She glances over when she hears you come in. “Did you get an appointment with one of the doctors your father recommended?”

“I did, yeah. I have a consultation on Friday.” You lean against the marble countertop and cross your arms so you don’t fidget nervously. From a dog bed on the floor, Mochi glowers at you. “Do you think I should get the surgery?”

She shrugs; you’re not certain if she is more indecisive or apathetic. “Your cousin Madison had a nose job the summer before college. Your old classmate Emma got a blepharoplasty and then met her husband three months later. Practically all of my friends have had breast augmentations, and I’ve certainly never regretted mine. I think if you’re going to get anything fixed, it makes sense to pick that.”

You try again to elicit a strong opinion, whether an endorsement or objection. “I don’t think I’d want to do it if I didn’t feel like it was necessary to be an actress.”

“Well, regardless of whatever you have going on in California, you’ll either have to get them done now or after you have children,” Mom says. “I love you and Clara and Tripp, but you destroyed my body. At least doctors can repair breasts. My bladder is still useless.”

You stare at Mochi distractedly. The dog huffs, unwelcoming. “What was the recovery like?”

“Oh, hell,” your mother says. “But once you heal up it’s worth it. I can wear square necklines and strapless dresses again.”

“Technically, you could have worn whatever you wanted.”

She gives you an impatient look, a you’re too old for that sort of frustration. “No one wants to see some sad flabby woman.” She is including your father in this statement. You remember being home for Thanksgiving Break during your freshman year at Carleton and inadvertently stumbling upon emails from one of the hospital interns when you used his laptop to buy movie tickets: indecent inuendoes, flirtatious photos, no smoking gun but certainly more than was appropriate between colleagues. You had tried to tell your mother, and she had deflected over and over again until you realized that she didn’t want to know; it was easier to be carried by the currents of momentum than to rock the boat until it sank. “This agent of yours…is he celebrating Father’s Day with his family?”

“No, Aegon lost his dad when he was in college.”

“That must have been difficult,” she says vaguely as she scrubs a pot with a green Scotch-Brite dish wand. Your parents are now at the age when their friends have begun to succumb to strokes and heart disease and cancers, and the lurking specter of mortality both horrifies and fascinates them. “What did he die of?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Mom?!” Clara shouts from upstairs. “Osaka is puking in the hallway!”

Your mother sighs and dries her hands on a dish towel, then leaves you alone in the kitchen. You linger there for a while, listening to the faint drone of CNN from the living room television, then leave the house through the sliding glass door in the dining room. Outside the sun is setting, and you gaze westward as the aging daylight turns the tall green grass and silhouettes of horses to gold like the mines that first brought settlers to California. You slide your phone out of the pocket of your denim shorts and take a photo, then post it to your Instagram story with the caption Home and a smiley face emoji.

A minute later, you receive a DM. Aegon has typed: This explains the big horse girl energy

You laugh and respond: They belong to my sister, I am personally very anti-horse

You hope he’ll continue the conversation. You don’t have to wait long. How’s Minnesota? Aegon asks.

You stop and consider how to answer, then decide not to overshare. Devoid of palm trees…but good!

There is a pause—perhaps thirty seconds—and then Aegon types: How’s the ex-boyfriend?

Is he curious or jealous? You smile. Still not standing in the way of anything :)

Aegon reacts with a heart emoji, then immediately switches it to a thumbs-up. You cannot ignore the wave of warmth and fondness and exhilaration that overwhelms you. Logically, you know he’s engaged to another woman. Emotionally, it doesn’t seem relevant.

You think: It’s just a crush. It can’t hurt anybody.

Then you remember what your mother asked, and as you stand outside in the fading dusk light you Google Aegon’s father Viserys Targaryen. He has his own Wikipedia page. You scroll to the bottom, where it reads in nondescript black letters: On October 27, 2009, Targaryen passed away at his Malibu residence after a long illness.

~~~~~~~~~~

You have just finished ringing up a Like It-sized Apple Pie A La Cold Stone when Josh says: “Hey, there’s an old guy asking for you.”

“What?” You look towards the ice cream freezer and there he is, dark jeans, green Nike Killshots, a yellow Hawaiian shirt that’s too big for him. “It’s my agent!” you shout as you rush over to meet him, loud enough that everyone in the shop turns to stare.

“Shh,” Aegon says, but he’s laughing.

“What are you doing here?” you ask from behind the counter.

“I got some good news, and I wanted to tell you in person.”

“Cool! Should I make you ice cream first?”

“Um, sure.” Aegon surveys the menu of Signature Creations. He seems overwhelmed; he actually looks a little panicked.

“Are you usually a chocolate or vanilla person? Or peanut butter, or coffee? Or mint?”

“Strawberry,” Aegon says.

“Strawberry,” you echo, surprised. “Okay, I think you’ll like Our Strawberry Blonde.”

“Neat.”

“Because, you know, it has strawberries and you’re blonde.”

“Sounds literally perfect for me,” Aegon says, smiling.

“What size?”

“Uh…” He reads the labels on the cups in the display case. “The big one.”

“No, you have to say the real name.”

He chuckles. His cheeks are pink, his turbulent blue eyes sparkling. “I’m not saying that.”

“Then I’m not making you ice cream!”

He groans. “I want an Our Strawberry Blonde in the size Gotta Have It.”

“Cup, cone, or waffle cone bowl?”

“Stop asking me questions or you’re fired.”

“Waffle cone bowl,” you decide. Aegon studies you as you work, his head tilted thoughtfully to the side: scraping a mound of strawberry ice cream out of the freezer with your metal spatulas, taking it to the cold countertop, and smashing in graham cracker pie crust, caramel, fluffy whipped topping, and fresh strawberries. You use one of the spatulas to expertly scoop the mixture into a waffle cone bowl, not spilling a drop. Then you hand Aegon his ice cream and ring him up at the cash register. He pays in cash.

You ask Josh, the manager on duty, if you can take your fifteen-minute break now. He frowns. “I thought you were going to refill the yellow cake and Oreo cookie mix-ins first.”

“Hey,” Aegon says. He waves a ten-dollar bill in the air to show it to Josh and then dunks it in the tip jar. “Do it yourself.”

“Fine,” Josh mutters to you. “But you don’t get a second over fifteen minutes.”

There’s no time to waste. You hurry to a small table by the window. It’s 8:30 p.m., and outside the world is indigo-dark and threaded with inorganic sparks of headlights, streetlights, kaleidoscopic neon signs. Your eyeshadow is vibrant and pink, because no one cares about that when you work at an ice cream shop: Push by Natasha Denona, Coax by Urban Decay.

Aegon takes his first taste of his ice cream as he sits down in the chair across from you. “You were right, this is delicious. A bop, not a flop.” Then he notices the bruise on your right wrist. “What the hell happened to your hand?”

“Oh. One of the Akitas bit me. Don’t worry, I can cover it up with concealer.”

Aegon is irritated. “Why is your mother letting her Akitas bite you?”

“It was my fault. I forgot that Oni doesn’t like when people pet his feet.”

Aegon sighs, stirring his Our Strawberry Blonde. “You want some of this?”

“I can’t,” you say reluctantly.

He raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean you can’t?”

“I already had a little cup when I got here this afternoon so I have regrettably hit my ice cream quota for the day.” And then, when Aegon clearly does not approve: “I try not to restrict too much but obviously staying the same size takes effort. That’s not a disorder, it’s just reality.”

Aegon seems to debate arguing, then instead scoops up a heaping spoonful of ice cream and holds it out across the table. “Come on. It doesn’t count if it’s on my spoon.”

You smile sheepishly and open your mouth for him. Your lips close around the plastic spoon: coldness, sweetness, the grit of pulverized graham cracker pie crust, the infinitesimal black seeds of strawberries that catch between your teeth. When Aegon begins to pull it away, you grab his hand and don’t let go until you’ve licked the spoon clean. He laughs hysterically as he watches you. “I haven’t had strawberry ice cream in forever,” you say.

“Don’t tell me you’re a vanilla girl.”

“I am,” you confess. “I know the joke. But I really do always get the vanilla-adjacent flavors. Cookie dough, French vanilla, sweet cream, cheesecake…”

Aegon smirks playfully. “Pathetic.”

“So you’re an enlightened being because you eat strawberry ice cream.”

“Boring people like vanilla. Kids like chocolate. Interesting adults like strawberry.”

“Do you actually have good news for me or did you just come here to be a ghoul?”

“I got you a part.”

“What?!” you squeal, and people are gawking again. This time, Aegon doesn’t tell you to be quiet. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” he replies, grinning like he can’t help it.

“A part in what?”

“It’s small,” Aegon warns. “It’s an episode of Grey’s Anatomy.”

You scream; Josh scowls at you from behind the counter. “Oh my God, no way, no way!”

“You’re going to be the wife of a guy the doctors kill with negligence. Three scenes, two are pretty short and unremarkable but then you get to yell at the surgeon in the last one. Gives you the opportunity to show some range and make an impression.”

You can’t believe this is happening. “They aren’t going to make me audition first?”

“Well…it’s very last-minute,” Aegon says. “The actress who was supposed to do it has a drug problem or something, I guess, so she ghosted and they were scrambling for a replacement. And I completely fabricated your credentials.”

“What? Really?”

“Yeah, I typed up a resume and sent it over and they loved it. So try not to talk about your actual experience because none of it will match.”

You shake your head, stunned, amazed. “What if they try to contact one of my alleged former employers?”

“Then they’ll be talking to Aemond, and he will lie and say you were an absolute pleasure to work with.”

Aemond Targaryen: Aegon’s younger brother, a screenwriter, a philanthropist, a well-respected entity in Hollywood, and you know this from the Googling that preceded your first meeting with Aegon last week. “And Aemond doesn’t mind helping you commit fraud?”

“It’s not a favor I call in very often.” Aegon finishes his ice cream, then begins breaking apart the waffle cone bowl and shoving shard-like pieces into his mouth.

“When’s the shoot?”

“Very very early on Thursday, that’s the bad news.” Thursday is two days from now. “So I’ll have to pick you up at your apartment at like 5 a.m.”

“That’s fine. I’ll be ready.”

He smiles, gnawing on a chunk of his waffle cone bowl. “I figured.”

“You’re going too?” The hope is unmistakable in your voice.

“Of course I’m going.”

“I didn’t think agents usually went to film shoots.”

“Well, fortunately for you, your agent is imminently fleeing Los Angeles and has already parted ways with most of his clients and really has nothing else going on besides hiding in his office and playing a Nintendo 64, so I figured I could make it. And also if I’m going to be enthusiastically recommending you to people, I should probably see you work at some point.”

You wiggle your eyebrows flirtatiously. “Do I get to make out with my fake husband?”

Aegon is amused. “From what I understand, you get to chastely kiss him once. They’re sending the script over to my office first thing in the morning, so you’ll only have a day to learn your lines.”

“That’s enough time. I’ll make it work.”

“Always so agreeable,” Aegon muses. So desperate is more like it.

Thursday. “Is the shoot just one day?”

“Yeah, they should be able to get everything they need from you on Thursday morning. Why?”

“I have a doctor’s appointment on Friday and I was just wondering if I’d have to reschedule it.”

Aegon is immediately vigilant. “What kind of appointment?”

“Uh…” You smirk guiltily. “It’s just a consultation. No slicing yet.”

“And you’re going to cancel that,” Aegon says flatly.

“Seriously?”

“Do you want implants because you want them or because you think other people want you to have them?”

You hesitate. “Both.” That’s probably a lie.

Aegon leans back in his chair and studies you. “Yeah, you’re cancelling that appointment.”

“Why?”

“Because when I agreed to sign you, you told me that you’d do anything I say. And I’m telling you to cancel it.”

“But why don’t you want me to get implants? Everyone gets implants.”

“Because once you begin to treat scalpels and needles as prescriptions for everything you don’t like about yourself—or everything that other people don’t like about you—it’s very difficult to stop. First it’s your tits, then it’s your eyes and your nose, then it’s your chin and your cheeks and your neck and your ass, and it’s just this revolving door of painful, dangerous, unnecessary procedures that are condemning you for being mortal, that are carving away your humanity one incision at a time. I’ve seen it happen to more people than I could count, and I don’t want it to happen to you. Because you seem very, very human, and I’d like you to stay that way. Which means you don’t cut yourself up because some agent or producer or casting director told you to.” Then he adds, perhaps as an afterthought: “And anyway, you don’t need implants.”

You smile, then reply quietly: “You’ve never seen me.”

Aegon grins. “I don’t care if you have twelve nipples under there like a fucking beagle, you don’t need plastic surgery.”

You both laugh, and the tension evaporates, and even if you don’t cancel the appointment—Aegon is one person, the entertainment industry is omnipotent and eternal—you are glad he seems to like you the way you are. Behind the counter, Josh is waving manically to get your attention and summon you to return to work. You pretend not to see him.

Aegon asks: “Why don’t you like horses?”

“They freak me out. They’re all teeth and legs and they’re huge, I’m always scared they’ll step on me.”

“Your dad’s a doctor, right? I thought all rich girls had horses.”

“Where I’m from, a lot of women ride horses to distract themselves from the fact that their husbands are riding their receptionists or interns. I’d rather have no horse and no awful cheating husband.” And Aegon stares at you and turns serious, because perhaps you’ve inadvertently addressed the elephant in the room: he has a fiancée, and neither of you are acting like she exists. You swiftly pivot. “I’ll make an exception for you, though.”

He appears startled. “What?”

“The Chinese zodiac. You’re a horse. So you’re the only horse I like.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.” Aegon chuckles uneasily and gets up to throw his trash away, then stands under the florescent lights with his hands in his pockets, his blonde hair falling out of its gel and hanging over his forehead. He gazes down at you pensively; you are still seated at the table. “When does your shift end?”

“I’m closing tonight, so I’ll be done around 10:30 or 11.”

“Okay. Can I come back to pick you up and drive you home?”

You are puzzled. “Why?”

He gestures to the inky dark window, incredulous. “Because obviously you shouldn’t be walking alone in Harbor Gateway at midnight? You know there was a shooting a block from here last week. I looked it up.”

“I walk home all the time.”

“You really need to stop doing that.”

“You are being very dramatic for a non-actor.”

“Listen, I can’t go to my house and try to fall asleep while I’m wondering if you’re getting mugged or murdered.”

You look at Aegon. He does seem genuinely worried. “You can drive me home.”

“Great. See you in two hours.” He strides away and shoves open the glass door; the little metal bells hanging there jingle.

“Aegon?”

He halts mid-step and turns around. “Yeah?”

“Does Becca know where you are right now?”

His face is some amalgamation of emotions you can’t read, and this is unusual.“Why do you think I paid in cash?”

And before you can reply, he’s gone.

~~~~~~~~~~

On Thursday, June 19th, Aegon picks you up in his white Chrysler Sebring convertible while the city is still asleep. The sky is dark, the streetlights passing by overhead, infinite pinpoint supernovas. There are hardly any other cars on the road. Aegon’s hair is a mess and his eyes are bleary; he’s sipping a Starbucks coffee with one hand and holding the steering wheel with the other. He is wearing a suit, but he still manages to look unpolished, his white shirt half-untucked and his black tie too skinny. He sets his coffee down in one of the cup holders and passes you something venti-sized and iced.

“I got you a vanilla latte, vanilla girl.”

“Aw, thanks! Skim milk?”

“Nope,” he says, smiling. You smile back and take a gulp of it, cold and sweet and bracing. “What’s your hype song?”

“I can’t tell you,” you say, embarrassed.

“Why not?”

“You’re going to terrorize me.”

“Don’t Stop Believing? Don’t Stop Me Now? I Gotta Feeling?”

“Lose Yourself.”

Aegon throws back his head and cackles, his hair flying in the wind. “That’s definitely a fireable offense. I’m ditching you the second we finish this shoot.” But he taps around on his phone and plugs in the aux, and then Eminem is thudding through the speakers as the Sebring sails north and the red-gold dawn rises on the horizon, a celestial message from the East Coast, an omen from the future.

Aegon drives you to Prospect Studios in Los Feliz, just east of Hollywood. Filming will be indoors on a soundstage. You spend what feels like forever in hair and makeup, and the costume designer—who had prepared for a different actress—dresses and redresses you over and over again, frowning at your chest and waist and thighs, and you have a sudden pang of nauseating panic and dread: I don’t belong here. What the fuck was I thinking?

Then you are in the scenes under intensely radiant artificial light, and just like it did in your roles back in Minnesota, the real world vanishes and all that exists are these characters, these moments, and your body and mind become theirs, and perhaps even your soul too. Your husband is handsome and kind, and here in this liminal fictional space you love him, and when the surgeons wheel him off to the operating room you are full of blind naïve surety. Then the doctors update you on his condition and you are still hopeful, but it becomes a fragile thing, like something that shatters when it’s dropped from a height. And then he is dead, he has been taken away from you, he has been stolen, and you are eclipsed by a blood-red wrath that is animalistic and unforgiving. After each take when you are ripped back through the veil and into reality, you can’t remember exactly what you did or said, and the director doesn’t have many critiques so you aren’t sure how it’s going.

But when it’s over, while you are still standing on the soundstage with the other actors, Aegon puts on his sunglasses and smiles at you from across the room; and you remember what he said outside his office on the day you first met—you are so bright, sunshine—and you know you’ve done a good job.

[miharuki]

𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐏 195 - EP.07

𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐏 195-masterlist

@WinnieB3d0:Hello everyone, Bedo here! If you don't know me, I'm one of the co-creators of Loop alongside Haruki. I post my stories on Wattpad, Ao3 and Quotev while Haruki posts here on Tumblr. I came to let you know that unfortunately the chapters may take a long time, just like this one because I unfortunately broke my leg. The story came out a bit confusing, but I hope you like it.

@Miharuki:I'll leave all her social networks here in case you want to see

Wattpad Ao3 Quotev

It was training day with your mentor on the Mount of Justice. Leaning against the wall, your hand moved up and down, playing with the yo-yo—sometimes using both hands to perform tricks. Compared to missions and previous days, you could say today was a "calm" day. Not the whole day, but the day itself. With your eyes closed, you listened to your team playing a game nearby, Wally winning the match. But before anyone could say anything, the transporter activated, its voice announcing:

"Recognized: Superboy, C04."

You groaned internally. Because, of course, the day's main problem would revolve around him—just like in the thousands of previous timelines. Honestly, you couldn’t remember a single moment in any past timeline where he had been kind or even decent to you. No, he never had. Out of all the timelines, there had never been a genuine friendship between you.

"Hi, Superboy. How was Metropolis?" Megan said in a sweet, affectionate tone. She had a crush on the boy—just like in every other timeline. In the past, you’d wondered, "What does he see in her?" It was strange. You couldn’t deny that there had been timelines where, unfortunately, you’d liked him too. And even when you’d "stolen" Megan’s chances with Superboy sometimes, he had never chosen you. In fact, no one had ever chosen you. Always second. Always forgotten.

"Ready for training, guys?" Black Canary said, coughing as she entered alongside Martian Manhunter. You stopped playing with the yo-yo, storing it before slowly walking closer to the group—but still keeping your distance.

"Black Canary! Uncle J’onn!" Megan’s sickly sweet voice rang out as she ran toward the older man. Her behavior was irritating—you couldn’t deny that. You glanced at your mentor, who simply smiled and approached, placing a hand on your shoulder. She was one of the few people you allowed to touch you. Not even the other older heroes had that privilege. It would be a lie to say that, out of everyone in that room, Black Canary—Dinah Lance—wasn’t important to you.

"M’gann, I was nearby... so I thought I’d check how you’re all adjusting," the elder said, smiling at the Martian girl.

"A few bumps, but I’m learning."

You felt Canary’s hand leave your shoulder. Turning to see where she was looking, you spotted Superboy, already walking away.

"Stay. Class is in session," Canary said before stepping in front of the group, holding her jacket and surveying the young heroes as the floor lit up in white, filling the circular space.

"I consider it an honor to be your teacher. I have a lot to teach you..." The woman removed her jacket, grunting in pain as she moved her arm. "...everything I learned from my own mentors—unh—and from my own injuries." She tossed the jacket aside, letting it fall a few meters away.

You noticed the injury on your mentor’s arm and, without thinking, asked:

"What happened?"

Your tone wasn’t cold, harsh, or rude—unlike how you usually spoke to your team. That earned you a few looks. Wally, who was nearby eating a banana, and Robin, who raised an eyebrow at your tone, both turned their attention back to the woman. Black Canary smiled gently, as if she’d glimpsed something hidden.

"The job," she said before her expression turned serious again.

"Now, combat is about controlling the conflict—setting the battle on your terms. You must always act, never react. I’ll need a training partner."

Canary looked at you, as if expecting you to raise your hand. Hesitant, your hand was about to lift when Wally shouted:

"Right here, yeah!" He walked toward the older woman while still devouring the banana in his hand.

"After this..." Wally finished the banana, tossing the peel like a basketball. "...touché. I’ll show you my moves."

Kid Flash smirked confidently, making the teacher raise an eyebrow. In a flash, she threw a punch—which the boy blocked—but then swept his legs, sending him crashing onto his back. The floor beneath him displayed his hero name, followed by a red "FAILED."

"Oww. That hurt," the redhead groaned as he got up.

"Good block. But did anyone see what he did wrong?" Canary gestured to the group, pointing at Wally.

"Oh, I know—he hit on the teacher and got owned?" Robin joked, smirking.

Wally gave him a disbelieving look. "Dude."

You raised your hand—not high, just to chest level. Canary nodded for you to answer.

"He left openings in his attacks, letting you dictate the rules—"

"Oh, please!" Superboy cut you off from behind Canary, crossing his arms.

You lowered your hand with a "Tsk," glaring at him with pure disdain. Your fist clenched, knuckles cracking.

"Oh, please. With my powers, the battle is always on my terms. I’m a living weapon—this is a waste of time."

Canary raised an eyebrow before challenging him. "Prove it."

Superboy stepped forward, raising his fist to strike—but Canary caught his arm and threw him to the ground hard, making him grunt in frustration. She looked down at him before shifting her stance, transferring her weight.

Robin laughed but quickly covered his mouth after receiving an elbow from Kaldur.

"You’re angry. Good. But don’t react—channel that anger into..."

Superboy tried again, but the woman jumped behind him, sweeping his legs once more. She offered a hand, which he refused.

"That’s it. I’m done." He stood up angrily.

"Training is mandatory," Canary frowned.

But before the boy could storm off, the screen behind them lit up—Batman’s face appearing.

"Batman to the Cave."

Everyone gathered around as a smaller screen popped up beside Batman, showing a villain speaking:

"Five hours ago... a new threat attacked Green Arrow and Black Canary. The attacker was capable... of studying and then duplicating the powers and abilities... of his opponents."

The image changed, showing the villain fighting the heroes—grabbing Superman and using him to slam into Red Tornado and the Flash.

"Green Arrow called for backup, which almost proved disastrous... as our enemy gained more and more power with each new combatant."

The footage paused on the villain firing eye lasers, destroying what looked like Batarangs.

"Whoa. A guy with the powers of the entire League?" Wally commented, shocked.

Batman continued:

"In the end, eight League members took four hours... to defeat and dismantle the android."

Robin stepped forward, confused. "An android? Who made it? F.U. Turo?"

"Good guess, Robin... but Red Tornado doesn’t think so."

"The technology bears the signature of Professor Ivo," Martian Manhunter said.

Kaldur spoke in a worried tone. "Ivo? But Ivo is dead."

Canary glanced at him. "That’s what we all thought. Or hoped."

"To ensure this threat is permanently neutralized... we’re sending two trucks carrying the android’s parts... to separate STAR Labs facilities in Boston and New York... for immediate analysis."

Batman’s voice was calm and explanatory as a map displayed the trucks’ routes.

"We’ll have four additional decoy trucks to create confusion... in case Ivo—or anyone else—tries to recover the remains. You’ll split into covert teams to guard the two real trucks."

"Yay! Road trip!" Wally cheered, nudging you playfully.

You shot him a glare and stepped away. He raised his hands in surrender, muttering an apology.

"So now we take out your trash?" Superboy scoffed.

You clenched the yo-yo, veins pulsing with anger as you resisted the urge to tell him to shut the hell up.

"Got something better to do?" Batman raised an eyebrow.

The boy just looked down in silence.

"That’s what I thought."

"Coordinates received. On our way," Kaldur said, already running to gear up.

Canary and Superboy were left behind as the boy slowly walked toward the team. You ran a finger over your choker—a private screen appearing, visible only to you.

Options flashed:

"Call Renjiichiro"

"Weapon Info"

"Suit Info"

"Death Style" (a list of ways the choker could kill you)

Above the screen, numbers displayed the date, time, and how many times you’d looped back in the timeline. This was your 195th timeline.

You barely glanced at the info, thinking only:

"Bike suit."

In the locker room, your hero suit shifted into a biker outfit—different details, but the mask remained. You cracked your neck before mounting your bike alongside the others.

LITCHFIELD COUNTY AUGUST 3, 20:08

You eyed the helmet that came with your bike before putting it on, sighing as you prepared to move out.

"Boston is on the way," one driver said, starting the truck.

"Manhattan is on the way," another replied.

Batman’s signal flashed—all six trucks began moving.

You and the team revved your bikes, taking off. Unfortunately, you were stuck with Robin and Superboy.

"I’d rather have died today," you thought, gripping the handlebars tightly as Limp Bizkit’s "Take A Look Around" blasted inside your helmet.

Robin glanced at Superboy, who seemed deep in thought.

"If dislike is the opposite of like, is disaster the opposite of aster? Like, instead of things going wrong, they go right."

Superboy didn’t respond.

"Uh, clearly, you’re not feeling the aster. What’s wrong?"

"Canary. What does she know about teaching combat skills... to a guy with super strength?"

Robin shrugged. "Taking down stronger guys is part of the job."

You gritted your teeth, pulling up beside them.

"You should be grateful she wants to teach you. Canary is the best fighter there is—she outmatches Batman in that department."

Robin blinked. "I don’t think Batman—"

You accelerated, cutting him off as you pulled alongside the truck. Cranked-up music drowned out everything else as you focused.

Then—monkeys latched onto the truck.

You hit a button, switching your bike to autopilot, then whipped out your yo-yo—hooking one monkey and yanking it off. The blade-tipped yo-yo pierced its metal shell. You shook it violently, using it like a flail against the others.

One monkey went flying, rolling across the road.

"Hey, watch it!" Robin yelled.

Ignoring him, you stood on the bike as it sped ahead, pulling alongside the truck. With a flick, your yo-yo hooked onto the truck’s roof. A sharp tug—and you launched yourself upward, landing roughly.

Your magnetized boots kept you anchored as you kicked off more monkeys.

The music roared in your ears as you ripped off your helmet, swinging it like a mace with the yo-yo’s cord.

"(Hero), you good up there?" Robin’s voice crackled in your earpiece.

"Oh, just peachy—fighting off monkeys ALONE!" you snarled.

"Sorry—"

"I DON’T WANT SORRY, GET BACK HERE!"

You yanked the yo-yo, but the monkeys swarmed, cutting the cord. The case slipped away—your yo-yo still attached.

"Dammit!" You slammed a fist against the truck wall.

Tapping your comm, you growled: "(Hero) here. They took it."

You glanced at the others before swiping your wrist—your bike swerving back toward you.

A finger brushed your choker.

"Call Renjiichiro."

The screen vanished.

You leaped from the truck, landing on your moving bike.

"That damn Superboy and Robin—messed things up AGAIN!"

You snarled, shoving the helmet back on and gripping the handlebars, turning sharply to chase the monkeys.

"Mine, yours, theirs, mine—kukuku! Reijiichiro here! How’s it going, (Full Name)?"

The cutesy, playful voice echoed in your head as a small creature materialized on your bike’s handlebars, curling into your lap.

"The damn mission—lost my yo-yo, all because of those—argh! Need help tracking it and a new weapon."

The creature giggled. "Kukukuku~ Every new timeline, you impress me more, (Name)."

You tightened your grip. "Are you helping or not?"

Reijiichiro licked his paw casually. "Of course, angel. That’s what I’m here for."

With a retching motion, he coughed up a glowing sludge that hardened into a new weapon—a small, cutesy yo-yo with ribbons and charms, matching his aesthetic.

You stared at the frilly thing. "Seriously?"

He wiped his mouth. "What? I delivered. Now, you know the rules—"

You rolled your eyes, grabbing the yo-yo with one hand. "Yeah, yeah. If I lose this one, I have to find the original myself. Blah, blah. Once I get the original, this one returns to you. Got it."

The creature laughed, tail swaying. "Kukuku~ See you later, (Nickname)."

He hopped off, vanishing into a portal.

You sighed, opening the decorated yo-yo. A tracking screen displayed your original yo-yo’s location—still attached to the case.

"That’s where we’re headed."

[all-all-might]

Chapter 195 | Clash! Class A vs. Class B!

[everypanelofshota]

Chapter 195 - Clash! Class A vs. Class B!

[emilytakesphoto]

train stations (with trains in them)

[sliebman10]

DADA Class

“Look at him, Moony…all grown up,” Sirius said as Harry rolled his eyes at him. Remus ignored him and continued reading the Prophet.  Sirius pretended to fuss over Harry’s robes and Harry swatted him away.

“You’re ridiculous. Save it, will you?” Harry said impatiently, looking at the clock. “My first DADA class is in an hour, and I have to set everything set up.”

At this, Remus put down the paper and went over to Harry. “You ready?” he asked, handing Harry his briefcase.

“I…I think so.” Harry said. 

“You’ll be great,” Remus said, pulling him into a hug. 

Sirius joined the hug. “Go on now, Professor. Don’t be late,” he said. Harry nodded. He squared his shoulders and stepped through the fireplace calling “Hogwarts” as he did.

Both Sirius and Remus watched after him. “I’m glad you recommended him for the job, Moony. It suits him,” Sirius said, dropping his joking demeanor. They were both relieved when Harry left the Auror force to take the job at Hogwarts, now that Remus retired.

“I agree. And it’s not cursed anymore. So he can do it as long as he likes,” Remus said with a wink.

Word Count: 195

@wolfstarmicrofic

[whencyclopedia]

Callimachus of Cyrene

Callimachus of Cyrene (l. c. 310-c. 240 BCE) was a poet and scholar associated with the Library of Alexandria and best known for his Pinakes ("Tablets"), a bibliographic catalog of Greek literature, his poetry, and his literary aesthetic which rejected the epic in favor of shorter works and influenced the later development of Roman literature.

He is considered one of the greatest poets of antiquity, and, through his influence on Roman writers, set the course for Western literary development, especially through his emphasis on brevity and simplicity of form. Among his best-known quotes is "A big book is a big bore," by which he seems to have meant that "less is more" and one should strive to tell one's story as directly and succinctly as possible. Although much has been made of his rejection of Homer, it seems this has been sensationalized. He rejected the standard of literature Homer had come to define but not necessarily the work itself. A similar case could be made for his relationship with the works of Plato, but both authors clearly influenced his own works.

He was never the head of the Library at Alexandria, though this is often claimed, but he may have been the teacher of Apollonius of Rhodes (l. 3rd century BCE), the head librarian after Zenodotus (l. 3rd century BCE) the first librarian at Alexandria. The alleged feud between Callimachus and Apollonius seems to have also been sensationalized and is based on interpretations of fragments of their works as almost nothing is known of the lives of either of them. Apollonius was succeeded as librarian by Eratosthenes (l. c. 276-195 BCE), who may have also been a student of Callimachus.

Although few of his works have survived, he is referenced extensively by later writers who praise his economy of prose and emphasis on an emotional response to personal experience in his poetry. His influence on later writers was enormous, including such notables as Horace, Propertius, Ovid, and Virgil. The details and essential character of his literary aesthetic are still debated today, but not its influence on Western literature.

Family & Early Life

Almost nothing is known of Callimachus' life and most biographical information comes from the Suda (10th century CE), not from his works or those of his contemporaries. He was born to an upper-class family of Cyrene in North Africa and refers to himself as a "son of Battus", meaning Battus I (r. c. 631 to c. 599 BCE), founder of the city of Cyrene and the Battiad Dynasty that developed the surrounding region of Cyrenaica. Callimachus most likely means this reference simply to establish that he is from Cyrene, it does not necessarily mean, as some have claimed, that he was related to the royal house. Scholars Benjamin Acosta-Hughes and Susan A. Stephens give a brief glimpse of his family:

His grandfather, also named Callimachus, was probably the Cyrenean general. Callimachus' sister, Megatima, seems to have married into a high-ranking Cypriot family. A great-grandfather has been identified as Anniceris, a Cyrenean, who, according to an anecdote preserved in Lucian and Aelian, tried to impress Plato by driving his chariot (bound for the Olympic Games) around the periphery of the Academy. Anniceris must have been a man of considerable wealth because he was also said to have ransomed Plato from Dionysius of Syracuse. (4)

Little else is known of Callimachus' early life except that his mother was also named Megatima, he seems to have been educated in Cyrene, and he was living and writing in Alexandria under the reign of Ptolemy II Philadelphus (282-246 BCE). Acosta-Hughes and Stephens write:

Callimachus lived the majority of his adulthood during the reign of the second Ptolemy, the period when the Ptolemaic empire was at its height. The Suda tells us that he was an elementary schoolmaster in Eleusis, but if he is already writing for the court in the late 280's BC, his academic career must have been quite brief. In contrast, Tzetzes records that he was a "youth of the court", an official status that is incompatible with elementary school teaching but would fit with a poetic career that seems to have begun in his early twenties. The easiest explanation for the Suda's information is that it was extrapolated from poems in which Callimachus speaks of the schoolroom or schoolmasters. (3)

As a "youth of the court" and later court poet, Callimachus wrote works for Ptolemy I Soter (r. 323-282 BCE), Ptolemy II, and Ptolemy III Euergetes (r. 246-222 BCE). He most likely arrived in Alexandria from Cyrene toward the end of the reign of Ptolemy I. Although it seems he was associated with the Library of Alexandria under Ptolemy II, his position is unclear. He was never the head librarian, and there is no evidence he was involved in acquisitions.

Continue reading...

[niki-phoria]

light yagami reaction - love languages

includes: reader is in college and drinks coffee, reader cries about being burnt out lol, maybe ooc l?? set during the few months when light gives up the death note NOT KIRA LIGHT

a/n: i'm in love with pre kira light

male reader (he/him pronouns)

⋆｡°✩ physical touch

(word count 183)

“hey,” you say, setting your backpack down on the ground as you pull out the chair beside light. “mind if i sit here?”

“of course not,” he smiles, subtly pushing his notes to the side to make room for your own. you ignore l’s glance as you pull out one of your textbooks and its corresponding notebook.

silence falls over the task force headquarters once again aside from the occasional noise of a mouse clicking or your pencil scraping against the page.

light occasionally glances down at your work, silently double checking your answers. he waits for you to finish answering the hardest questions before he shifts slightly closer to you. he moves now using his left hand to continue researching the yotsuba group. you smile softly when he reaches over, subtly resting his hand beside yours. you silently reach over to take his hand into yours, intertwining your fingers together before you turn your attention back to your notes.

you pretend not to hear matsuda’s cheering or light’s father scolding him in favour of absentmindedly rubbing small shapes against light’s skin.

⋆｡°✩ quality time

(word count 195)

light softly smiles to himself as he quietly enters your shared bedroom before closing the door behind himself. your body lays sprawled out on the bed - one of your arms haphazardly thrown across one of his pillows, keeping it closely pressed against your bare chest. 

a small sliver of moonlight just barely illuminates the room as light tugs his own shirt off. he tosses his clothes into a laundry basket hidden away in your closet. he slips into an old pair of your sweatpants before carefully slipping underneath the covers to lay beside you. 

you stir awake at the feeling, lifting your head up just enough to squint at him in the darkness. “light?” you whisper. 

“go back to sleep, y/n,” he murmurs. you shuffle even closer to him, tangling your legs together underneath the blankets. your arm lays draped over his side as you lean in to nuzzle yourself against his body. he stifles a chuckle, pulling you even closer. goosebumps raise along your waist when his hand ghosts against your skin. he leans down to press a kiss against your forehead. “i love you,” you whisper. 

“i love you too,” light murmurs.

⋆｡°✩ gift giving

(word count 184)

you stifle a small yawn as you tiredly walk back to the makeshift workstation you had set up at one of the free tables in the middle of the task force headquarters. the fluorescent lights beam down on you from above as you walk through the sea of empty desks until you find your computer. 

set delicately in the corner away from your computer is a small bouquet of flowers and a fresh cup of coffee with a small note taped to the mug. you smile softly at the sight as you approach, setting your bag down on the ground before you sit down in the chair. you push your computer aside, reaching over to grab the still-warm cup and opening the note. 

my y/n,

l asked me and the other task force members to assist him on a mission. we’ll be back soon. 

i love you, 

light

you smile as you pocket the note before you pull your phone out of your pocket to quickly send him a text before finally sitting down to start doing your work. 

i love you too

⋆｡°✩ acts of service

(word count 188)

“i don’t understand why this is necessary,” l says, reaching out to eat another chocolate-covered strawberry. the chain of their handcuffs clink as light reaches over to grab a frying pan to continue making breakfast. “you’re not even going to eat the food.”

“it’s for y/n,” light says. his attention remains focused on the stove despite the complaints of the man chained to him. “he has a few classes this morning so i’m making his lunch.”

l remains silent, instead choosing to observe light. he occasionally tugs them around the grand kitchen as he expertly moves to cook your favourite meal. the chain drags against the marble countertops with each movement, though their complaints are left unsaid.

the handcuffs clink once again as light leans over the counter, quickly writing a love note on a piece of scrap paper. “i still don’t understand,” l comments.

light simply shrugs as he slips the note and container of food into your lunchbox before returning it to your backpack. l watches over his shoulder as he sets the bag down beside the couch. “i do it because i love him.”

⋆｡°✩ words of affirmation

(word count 197)

“y/n?” light calls as he enters your shared bedroom. you flinch slightly at the sudden noise, finally pulling your attention away from your unfinished notes to look back at him. he furrows his eyebrows slightly when he steps closer, noticing your puffy eyes as he walks over to sit beside you. “is everything okay?”

“i’m fine,” you mumble, turning to look back down at your notes. “just… a little stressed.”

“you know you can tell me anything,” light frowns slightly as he reaches over to carefully grab your hand. “what’s wrong?”

you let out a small sigh as he begins to rub miscellaneous shapes against your hand. “i’m exhausted.” your voice shakes as each word leaves your mouth. “i have so much work - it all feels neverending. i don’t know what to do.”

“y/n,” light whispers. he reaches over to cup your face in his hands. “you’re incredibly smart, and handsome, and kind,” he brushes away a stray tear as it rolls down your cheek. “you don’t have to go through this alone. i’m here for you. i love you. let me take care of you.”

you nod, leaning further into light’s touch. “thank you.”

[mysterious-detective]

Ive already posted about her in that one tf2 oc group but im finally gonna on the main now (yipee)

had this tf2 oc for months now and theyve kinda just rotted in c.ai personas for a while buuuut thought why not actually go on a yap sesh about them and make them a semi functional tf2 class. Anyway

Soo theyre just a support class (originally defence but hey) . Theyve got 125 / 185 health and would probs be one of the faster classes, like uhh around %107 speed normally . functioning kinnnnda similarly to demoman + engineer me thinks ,, at least with their primary. 

Speaking of their primary !! their stock primary is a supply crate, it's a lil complicated but lemmie explain , essentially they can be thrown and will open when a player goes near it . If an enemy goes near it first then it will open w explosives annnd if a teammate goes near it then it will contain ammo refills orr medkits. Kinda depending on whatever is needed more. Other than the fact they can just be thrown at players for additional damage, they have like a 5 second cooldown . nerd stats be upon ye : Dh - Base : 150 , Dh - Crit : 300 , Oi - Base: 22–64 , Oi - Crit: 190

Nooow their secondary is also a lil funny, stock being box tape (don't ask why they have box tape but use crates. Ive already asked myself that) while they don’t do any damage on their own, they just decrease the enemies speed by %10 in long range and %30 in short range. Good for spychecking probs but yeh that's kinda all it does… it can be used on 5 n less enemies at once though !!

I dont think i really need to explain their melee weapon , stock crowbar n more nerd stats be upon ye : Base : 65 , Crit : 195

Yyyyyeh thats all . lore? We dont sell that here.  Lmk if i need to nerf or buff anythin since i was a lil drunk when writing down the stats for these things 

aAAALLSO if you like them then boy do i have a mountain of content that has yet to be made for em (like an actual model , a meet the trailer u just general art of em) sooo if you would like to see that then also lmk

[trainsinanime]

When it rains, it pours, or something like that. Model trains are usually produced in small series, so if you want a particular locomotive, you best pre-order it months, sometimes years in advance, and that can mean sometimes two locomotives arrive on the same day. Like yesterday.

First, from my local dealer, I got the DB class 152 from Piko.

The class 152, or Siemens ES64F as it's called by its manufacturer (no number after the F, the ES64F4 is a related but different locomotive) is a heavy freight locomotive that was built in the late 1990s and very early 2000s. 6.4 MW power (that's about 8600 horsepower) are quite an impressive figure. That said, its role in the German locomotive history is not particularly remarkable. It was part of the transition from locomotives designed by individual builders (instead of by the railway, and then jointly built by all the different manufacturers together), and it was part of the transition from one integrated railroads to various sectors, which is why it's a heavy freight locomotive, as opposed to a heavy universal locomotive, in the first place. A universal freight and high-speed passenger derivative of this design exists in huge numbers in Austria, as the Taurus family.

In the end the 152 was overtaken by newer developments. DB originally planned to order 195 with options for a further 100. But first the final 25 were transferred into Austrian style Taurus locomotives, because the 152 wasn't approved for Austria (DB cheaped out and ordered bogies that, it turned out, produce more annoying forces than legal in Austria). And the final 100 were turned into the class 189 (that's the Siemens ES64F4), a multi-system version that can run in many different European countries.

A similar story exists with private companies: Technically the 152 was at the forefront, because Siemens produced two more and put them into Dispolok, at the time their in-house leasing company (since sold several times over). But most of Dispolok's fleet ended up being the Taurus and ES64F4 and since then the Vectron, successor to both of them, and the 152 remained a side note. They are nowadays sold to ITL, part of Captrain.

However, the 152 has a very important part in my personal history. Back in January of 2008, I took a couple of picture of one in Aachen West, the station near my university.

And then some time later, I don't recall when (the earliest files I can find seem to have been created mid-2012, which feels right), I used this as the basis for a user icon that I've since used, in various forms… everywhere. If you see it somewhere, that's me, unless the person using it is saying nonsense, in which case it's an impersonator.

So, yeah, no choice, I just had to buy it.

The model is from Piko and I've equipped it with an ESU LokPilot 5 micro DCC decoder (with Next18 interface). It all looks and works fine, my main tip would be to actually read the instructions. That way you'll learn that the body is screwed instead of clipped on, with screws hidden underneath the trucks, and also that you need to enable SUSI on the decoder, because the light functions are controlled not by the decoder but a chip in the locomotive.

(To put it simply, there's a tiny computer network inside the tiny locomotive.)

As you can see, there's normal front light, rear light (separately controlled), interior cab light and high-beam headlights. The 152, like most modern locomotives, has the outer lights for normal headlights and tail lights, with the inner lights specifically used as additional high-beams, which is implemented perfectly here. Oh, and it also runs without issue.

But it doesn't end there, because while I was getting ready to go to the model train store (where I'd actually just been earlier, to get something else; I saw the email that the locomotive was ready about ten minutes after I left), I also got an email that I got a package with a different pre-ordered locomotive.

This is a class 332, also known as Köf III (as in 3). The Köf III family also includes a number of other class numbers, but the locomotive is functionally and visually the same.

It's a small west-german shunter, built in the 1960s. The "Köf" designator means it was classified as a "Kleinlok", "Small locomotive", which meant a small shunter for use within station limits only that crucially did not need a fully trained engineer. The öf stands for oil burning and fluid drive, i.e. diesel motor with a hydraulic torque converter, and the III means power category three, in practice 240 horsepower. Despite the designation, some of them have also been equipped for very local road service on lines where its 45 km/h (30 mph) top speed is enough. Others have been relegated to be used as shop machines, being officially downgraded from "locomotive" to "tool" or "device", which, again, means you need an even less fully trained engineer. Some also came back from "device" status to "locomotive" status. These have since been sold all over both as shunters and for construction trains, with some ending up in various countries in Africa or even Thailand, supposedly.

The model is by Liliput, nowadays the German and Austrian division of Bachmann, and besides being small and adorable, it has a particular party trick: Remote controlled coupling and uncoupling.

Using the built-in DCC decoder, you can uncouple anywhere on the layout. It even does a little dance, first pushing closer to the car, then opening the coupler, then automatically driving away. It can also open the coupler so it can couple more easily to stationary cars, instead of pushing them away, which happens frequently with the normal N scale coupler. This last feature requires some tight timing, though, I don't yet fully get it right all the time.

The locomotive doesn't run perfectly, it doesn't seem to have any buffer capacitors and is very picky about the cleanliness of the rails. I think some running in should help here, though.

These locomotives have been a long time coming. They were originally announced for 2020, but severely delayed. I pre-ordered mine in October of 2022, already long after they were supposed to be out, but it still took until now for them to finally ship.

Thankfully, pre-ordering meant I only had to pay 2022 pre-order prices instead of the ones I'd have to pay now. I saved about 30€ that way. What to spend them on, though? Ah, I know! A second one of them!

Yeah, on my way to picking up the package, I passed through the local fake Lego store that we have for some reason, and they had that very locomotive. How could I not buy it?

(Okay, both the actual Lego Company and Bluebrixx, the company that runs the store and made this kit, will probably be angry with me for calling this "fake Lego" instead of, like, "compatible plastic building bricks" or "Klemmbausteine" or whatever. And in a legal sense, yes, this is absolutely not Lego, it's just compatible with it, and it's 100% Lego and not claiming to be Lego, so it's legally clearly not fake either… but let's be real. Neither company is paying me. This is fake Lego.)

The quality of that kit is typical Bluebrixx, which is to say, you don't pay a lot, and you get what you pay for. A few pieces don't quite have the same shade of grey as the ones around them, and the design is in parts cool, in parts needlessly complicated, frustrating and unstable. The instructions, which don't come in the box, you have to download them, aren't always fully clear either. It's objectively worse than real Lego, but not so much that you should dismiss it out of hand, I guess. Besides, real Lego make exactly one train every five years, so buying from them is sadly literally not an option.

Anyway, between that and the ASF, that's been quite a lot. I love these locomotives, but, you know, I still need to pay money for food and stuff eventually.

[eighthdoctor]

Book Review 3/48

How to Speak Whale by Tom Mustill

I really wanted this to be good. I really, really wanted to have a good time with this, and there were a handful of fun facts (or "fun" facts), but mostly it was just....fluff.

I spent most of it going "where's the infodumping???" Mustill is clearly passionate about whales, but so much of the book is just...anecdotes and context. It needed to be about 200 pages longer, and at least 5 of those pages needed to be dedicated to what AI is and how he thinks it works. In 2023, he posted an afterword/update and I'm still not convinced he has any idea how neural networks work.

The other 195 should probably be about why the first two hundred pages contain so very little on the actual field of animal communication. Like yes, cetaceans are uniquely challenging, but we can and do study communication analytically--typing this out I just realized how firmly Mustill believes that cetaceans do have human-type language, it permeates the whole book, and this is probably why he doesn't spend any time at all talking about the actual current field of animal communication and how it's analyzed.

Like, my animal communication class was back in 2015 and there were still things in there that did not come up in this book, which is so fucking weird. Did all his cool infodumps get cut in editing or is he a weird ARA? Who knows.

2/5