#it's written and maintained by people who have been doing this shit for decades and have a lot of experience parsing the HTML CSS and JS

[fyeahnix]

as a web dev I actually get irrationally angry when people recommend w3schools as learning material

[grison-in-space]

I did a bit of de novo genome assembly way, way back in the day which I have never been able to use professionally because my PI refused to spend $2000 more on getting new read depth. He had ordered the reads before actually learning anything about the pipeline and only about half of the libraries he had ordered were usable in any given pipeline, see. (Some had been for older assembly methods and others had been for newer ones, basically.)

Rather than find the money to fucking get me the reads to do it right, he heard about an open source project called RACA that was some dude's dissertation arguing that you COULD use some of the worthless libraries to fill in the gaps of the assembly and get a functional genome out of it. I spent two years trying to move massive quantities of data through that fuckhead's pipeline on the campus supercomputer to get the assembled genome out, and then I got to the end and found there was no output as fastq files or ant other format recognizable to me.

(Give me a break, I was 23 and had also been frantically learning acoustic analysis, basic electrical engineering, and technical equipment maintenance in the two years since I had started learning to code. Plus I was figuring out what I wanted my dissertation to be. I'd never grappled with anything more complicated than our home-written library of matlab acoustic analysis before, and it simply hadn't occurred to me that anyone would publish a non-functional pipeline to achieve a goal quickly anyone verifying that anyone else had done anything yet.)

Anyway, eventually he collaborated with someone else who ponied up $2000 and a postdoc to get new reads. My name was not on the paper, so that's two years of my life developing a particular and fairly unique skill set that I will almost certainly never use.

In retrospect it's less surprising than you might think that the PhD took eight years and absolutely shattered my confidence.

And the best part is that it was just about impossible to predict at the time that shit would go quite this bad, except that some people handle power well when they're stressed and some people maintain a strong layer of cognitive dissonance over their knowledge of power such that it's never real enough to be responsible about but always real enough to win a dispute.

Anyway I think every student should have two advisors so that everyone in the department should have to immediately know about it when a PI is floundering and have a strong direct incentive to do something about it. A LOT of my problems could have been fixed with one look with a gimlet eye from a senior, more experienced researcher being not impressed at a student under their supervision running on an endless treadmill to nothing. Frankly a lot of my problems could have been solved if my mentor had formal training or literally any supervision that could deliver metrics faster than "how close am I to my previous mentees?"

I know a lot of dual advised students wind up in a tug of war between two advisors, but like: that's the point. If one of them turns out to be insane and malicious then a) the students all have clear lines to bail, b) the other ones all realize quickly that bailing out the chaos and career damage of someone who is fucking it up is way more work than resolving the problem, and c) the one with more tethers to reality has a way bigger likelihood of formally retaining the student when and if a third party has to examine the contract.

Just. It was such a fucking waste. And not because anyone necessarily wanted it to be wasteful, either, or any malice, but because I was... mm, I think the fifth PhD student in that lab and that's actually not that many to be learning on. Systems that set you up to play with decades of people's lives should have more fail-safes and places for people to learn before they get to be the sole director of someone else's career for five fucking years, not less. And yet!

[lazaruspiss]

i enjoy a lot of your metas and i'm curious, what is your opinion on writers who aren't familiar with or care about canon?

it depends on if you're asking about fan content or actual DC writers. with fan content i do think its fine for people to engage with content however they want to. i don't really like content that contradicts established canon, but i do defend its right to exist in the first place. OOC fanfic doesn't usually* effect already existing canon.

adding a read more bc i started to rant a bit. TLDR: fan content creators can do whatever they want. separately, i really wish DC held itself to a higher standard. both as a company and in terms of the actual comics that they publish.

(*i say usually, because a lot of newer canon content has felt... off. like DC took a short shallow look at how fandom simplifies characters and decided that must be what people actually want to see/what will sell more product. never forget that DC is a corporation, not an actual person who cares about the artistic integrity of what they're producing. and many of the actual creators of the comics they sell are mistreated and beholden to exec decisions based off of. y'know. marketing.)

in canon comics. it sucks. Talia is the most prevalent example of a character who was rewritten by someone who refused to read or engage with any of her preexisting canon. but it comes up a lot that sometimes a character is used by or given to a writer who doesn't care or might just straight up hate the character they're supposed to be writing. I have characters that I don't like and don't really care to learn about, but if i decide that i want to write something with them involved i consider it a matter of personal integrity to at least try to understand the characters already established personality and background.

it doesn't matter when it's independent fan content, or even a published AU series, but for mainline comics it is important to account for the fact that most of these characters have been around for decades and you shouldn't, nor do you need to, just make shit up about them.

also! an idea that i try and maintain for any kind of story is that every character is somebody's favorite. i think i got that from someone talking about how every pokemon is some kids favorite, but i think it can be a useful framing for a lot of fictional content. especially with something as widely known as DC, the chances are that much higher that every character you see is going to be someone's favorite. and i want to be kind to that. like, i don't care about Punchline in the slightest. i'm still putting off this fic with her involved because i want to learn her character a bit first to at the bare minimum acknowledge that there are people who might love her. i don't want to explicitly contradict some major trait of hers just bc i don't like her.

again, i don't really care if fans don't go through the trouble. but it's upsetting when DC itself doesn't seem to require any understanding of their characters in what they publish. in older comics, even when i think certain comics are poorly written, i can still see when the writer cares about the character they're writing. but so much of the newer stuff just feels hollow to me. i dunno, i stopped reading any n52 stuff bc of it so maybe it'll improve and i just won't notice.

[the-path-to-redemption]

Since you don't like the way White Fang were written in RWBY, I'm going assume you didn't like it either how Jet and Hama were written in contrast to Fire Nation people? Provided you watched Avatar: The Last Airbender.

Long Post Ahead

I was fine with how Jet and Hama started; people who goes into the extreme after that level of trauma can be found, and I do not blame either of them for having such hateful views of the Fire Nation. Jet and Hama were near-perfect foils to our protagonists, especially Katara who could very easily followed their steps.

I, however, have a big problem with how the narrative treats the aftershock of their stories. I wasn't a fan of how Jet's death was made into a joke, hell, I didn't like that he died and we haven't even have a single clue to what happened to Smellerbee and Longshot. The other surviving Freedom Fighters didn't even mentioned Jet in Book 3, despite him taking care of them for years.

Jet was someone who existed in the world of ATLA, someone who tragically died because forces greater than him took advantage of a rightfully angry teenager to maintain a cruel system where people like him will suffer just to have some kind of control. His death should've meant more, his legacy shouldn't just be "and then he died because of his rage", like holy shit what? And don't even get me started on how his whole dynamic with Zuko got fucked over sideway, I'd be here all day.

Same thing with Hama. I can see her going from a victim to a monster, especially when she's been isolated from her community for decades. You don't come back from that the same, and it's haunting to see so much of her reflected in Katara that The Puppet Master has become one of my favorite episode of the series. But like Jet, I hate how everything she brought onto the world of ATLA no longer carry the weight it did. Bloodbending changed everything, it was something borne from the grotesque nature of war and oppression, and its practitioners are forever carrying the fact that they can murder a person with ease once full-moon come. It's a permanent reminder of what war does to people, good people, who wanted to be free or in Katara's case, a connection to her culture in a way she didn't experience before.

But comes LoK, and Bloodbending became...lame. Trivial. I mean, sure, Amon's story with it and how he uses it to establish a level of terror in a world so dependent on bending was the point, but it muddles the theme of oppression and control that bloodbending first came to be. And no one, absolutely no one, brought up its progenitor. Hama, like Jet, became less than a person because all that's left of them was the violence the follows their tragic lives. That right there itself is a great narrative to explore, but it wasn't given any grace because Jet and Hama didn't matter to the writers when they're so integral to the narrative of ATLA. They're the protagonists who weren't given a chance to make it, they're lessons to be learned and told to others so that no one has to suffer like Jet and Hama had to. But that requires the writers to give a shit about Jet and Hama beyond their exits from the series.

[readingsquotes]

"I didn’t know much about Suzanne Nossel, the CEO of PEN, but in the last few weeks, I have learned a lot about her. Her Wikipedia says she “is a human rights advocate, former government official, author, and CEO of PEN America.” She is also the former Executive Director of Amnesty International USA and COO at Human Rights Watch. It also says in her Wikipedia, “She has frequently visited relatives in Israel, saying “It's a place where I feel very comfortable and at home.”

I mean you can’t make this shit up.

I guess this is why this work is so hard for so many; in essence, what it requires is unlearning entitlement and privilege - it’s unlearning whiteness.

It’s so blatant, how far-reaching Zionism is and how embedded it is in the liberal imagination of the Western world. I guess then, it makes sense how many people in power have been ingratiated in Zionist ideology without ever challenging it, and how they then espouse these beliefs whilst also maintaining that they care about human rights alongside believing that occupation is important, and thus Palestinians just have to either go or die… how they don’t see the incongruence in those two ideologies, I’ll never know. How does the Upper West Side white woman feel this sadness for herself, but can’t comprehend how a Palestinian person must feel, having no other home? The logical conclusion one comes to is this: they must not think Palestinians are people. And if this is true in 2024 - for an organization that declares otherwise, where does that leave us as societies that pretend to be civil, moral, and upright? How do we accept and negotiate this blind spot? Do we also just allow people like Nossel to live within such bypass? It should be noted, her book title is named, fittingly, “Dare to Speak.”

According to former employees, she would in private refer to the “Palestine thing,” always avoiding accountable conversations about Zionism and complicity w/r/t Israel. It’s always interesting when people who write about free speech only mean it for themselves… and, maybe, sometimes, also the perfect victim they deem worthy of rights. The perfect victim that doesn’t contradict their own geopolitical goals, I mean it’s so blatant it’s depressing.

What they won’t tell you is not everyone gets free speech. Not because we can’t give it to them, but because people with power don’t want that. They don’t want everyone to speak, but they do want to tell you that they care about free speech. And that free speech (for them) is very important. They don’t see this as domination or even one sided, they demand you accept their half truths as total truth.

“At the top of our list is our defense of Israel,” Nossel writes in an email written to the State Department in 2011. This is the Western world. It’s a creation made to uplift whiteness and white structures, only. How is a human rights council supposed to prop up Israel’s defense? Call me crazy, but that sounds like the opposite of human rights? Also, do we do that for anyone else? Does any other nation on Earth get this pledge of defense… What about regions where actual genocide has also taken place in the last few decades, like Rwanda, Bosnia, Congo, Sudan… Palestine? What about those places, do they also get our defense, as well? What about the Rohingyas who were mass exterminated from Myanmar a few years ago… resulting in one of the largest refugee crises in the world… do they get this same defense? The answer to all these questions is no. No one else get this. Just Israel. "And, according to Nossel, this is a US State Department issue."

[valkyrieandstrangeridingaragorn]

I'm not one who likes to engage in "whataboutism", but I will ALWAYS maintain that between Wanda and Clint, what Clint did in his grief was morally worse than what Wanda did in Westview.

I think it's a point in Wanda's favor that she had an accidental unleashing of her powers in a moment of anguish. And no one died in Westview.

(I'll even bite and argue that Clint's crimes as Ronin were morally worse than Wanda's kills in DSMOM because Wanda at least has the defense/excuse of being corrupted by the Darkhold, while Clint was completely himself when he committed his crimes.)

It's an interesting debate. A lot could be written about free will, self-awareness, temporary insanity and grief. I think Clint's experience is a little more complex than what those comments try to imply... but if I start talking about my beloved hawk guy I might end up with a crazy-ass long answer, so let me focus on Marvel instead.

I never took the Hawkeye series as an attempt to justify his crimes as Ronin, he was given a story that tackled his guilt and let him move on from that. And THAT is the main issue here imo.

Marvel is wildly inconsistent when it comes to judging and framing characters. You can't tell me Bucky has to make amends and take responsibility for the Winter Soldier, and then refuse to acknowledge Clint's crimes in EG + let him off the hook in the season finale of his series while other characters still have to pay for shit they did a decade ago.

How are we not going to complain? The Hawkeye series came after TFATWS where Bucky was retraumatized & victim blamed and after the Loki series where everything in his past is ignored and he's even blamed for things he didn't even do. So of course when we see a story where Clint is allowed to move on, a lot of people are mad. And rightfully so!

But the problem is not that Clint is being given narrative protection, the problem is that victims are being treated as executioners in other movies/series. At least Wanda was treated beautifully in her series, but she's the odd one out.

And I think that's why many fans see Clint's series as justification for Ronin. But it's not. At least not for me, I think both he and Wanda got series that focused on their pain, guilt and grief. Wanda got ep8 and Clint said this in ep4:

"Everybody dealt with the Blip in their own way. I continued doing what I was trained to do. […] Hurting people. Investigating first, but in the end, my job has always been to hurt people. […] I was a weapon. I was aimed by the right people at the right targets, so… […] (Those mistakes are) tied to me. Tied to my family. That’s why I’m here. And I can’t go home till I fix it."

I don't think that's narrative protection, that's giving a character the chance to move on from his mistakes, which is something we don't get often. He got an awful lot of narrative protection in EG but I didn't see that in his series. One of the main differences though is that his victims were never humanized nor given the time of day, whereas Wanda's get names and we know them pretty well.

Either way, if it comes to comparing his and Wanda's actions.. dunno. Like I said at the beginning, he was aware of what he was doing but man, that pain and grief must have been insane. He was retired while all the others were fighting Thanos. Imagine him finding out about that. I know it's "cool motive, still murder" but... I don't feel comfortable pitting them against one another, you know?

[ncssian]

A Favor: Part Seventeen

Nessian Modern AU

Masterlist

a/n: 70% of this fic is written on my phone lying on my side in bed while using swipe typing bc im too lazy to type out words and it shows

TW: discussion of SA

***

Nesta has an easier time adjusting to a third person in the cabin than she thought she would. Maybe it’s because Azriel indeed minds his business, and half the time Nesta isn’t aware he’s there at all.

Cassian seems to be more irritated by it than anyone else—not his brother, of course, but the fact that he and Nesta no longer exist in their own little bubble. Which is how he ends up at Nesta’s apartment with an overnight bag, sprawled out stomach-down on her mattress while she gets ready for bed.

“TV show or movie?” he asks, clicking through her laptop. Shows are Nesta’s thing and movies are Cassian’s; she feels generous enough tonight to say, “Movie.”

“Thank god,” he mutters, typing something on the laptop. “There’s a Turkish horror flick that I was saving for you.”

“Where do you even find these films?” Grabbing her hairbrush, she flops onto the bed beside him and starts brushing out her brassy locks. Before he can answer, Nesta’s phone buzzes from the stool she uses as a bedside table. Feyre’s name flashes on the screen.

Nesta frowns, but picks up without a second thought. “What is it?”

“Nothing serious,” her sister replies. “Just checking in.”

Before Cassian, Nesta didn’t very much understand the purpose of “checking in” without reason. Now she empathizes with Feyre a little. “I’m fine,” she says.

Deciding she can do better than that, she adds, “Cassian and I are about to start a movie.”

“Is it his choice? I’m so sorry for you.”

Nesta peeks over to where Cassian is still intently searching for his obscure movie and smiles a little. “I like Turkish horror,” she replies.

Cassian overhears and grins approvingly.

“Well, I’m looking at wedding dresses with Rhys so he can prepare for when he inevitably proposes,” Feyre says. “In case you wanted to know.”

Nesta did not particularly want to know, but she doesn’t say this. “Sounds fun. Is that it?”

“For what?”

“This conversation.”

Feyre sighs over the line. “Yes, I’ll let you go now. Thanks for picking up.”

The bar is in hell, Nesta thinks. Mostly because she put it there, but she still feels embarrassed to be congratulated over such small things. “Thanks for keeping it short.”

She’s about to hang up when she hears a male voice speak up in the background, and Feyre interrupts, “Wait—before you go, can you tell Cassian to call Rhys back? He wants Cass’s help picking a new team leader for the Italy project.”

Nesta has no idea what that is, but she says, “Sure, fine.” They say their goodbyes and hang up.

“What’d she want?” Cassian says without looking over at her.

“She said Rhys wants you to call him about the Italy project.”

Cassian turns toward her, half sitting up. “Really? What for?”

“Something about picking a team leader.” She returns to brushing her hair. “Why? What’s the Italy project?”

“Something I thought we put aside for good,” he grumbles. “It’s a year-long overseas project in Milan. Rhys thinks it’s gonna bring in a shit ton of money.”

“Sounds big. What do you have to do with it, though?” She’s never heard of Cassian being involved in Night Court’s international operations, even though he takes on more work than the usual employee.

Cassian shrugs, going back to movie searching. “He wanted me to be the one leading the team, and I guess he still feels petty about me turning him down. Honestly, choosing team leaders outside of my department isn’t even part of my jurisdiction.”

Nesta hesitates. “He offered you the job? When?” She didn’t know this.

“On New Year’s.”

“And you turned it down?”

“Yeah.” Cassian clicks on a link that looks like it’ll plant fifteen different viruses in Nesta’s laptop. “Found the movie,” he says.

“Why would you do that?” Nesta demands.

“The movie?”

“The job offer! Why would you turn down such a big opportunity without even telling me?”

Cassian laughs in confusion. “Are you angry right now?”

She’s astonished at his nonchalance. “Cassian,” she says. “It’s Italy.”

Italy with the art and history and seaside beauty—it’s on their top five places to see before they die.

“It’s Milan,” he says like there’s a difference, “and it’s an entire year away from you.” He shakes his head, sitting up to face her. “Are you out of your mind?”

She goes still. “Don’t tell me you said no because of me.”

“Of course I said no because of you.”

“It’s your dream job!” she bursts. “Traveling, exploring, being on your own—”

“Those are our dreams. I made those plans with you. The hell am I supposed to do all the way in Italy without you?”

“You sound codependent,” she retorts.

He narrows his brows. “Like you wouldn’t do the same thing in my position?”

He’s right, of course. Nesta would do the exact same thing for him. But Nesta and Cassian are not the same, and they both know it. “You can’t make that comparison,” she sighs.

“Why not?” he demands.

“Because—” She struggles to put it into words. “I would give up a long distance job for you because it would be worth it. You’re worth it. It doesn’t work the other way around.”

“Again: why the fuck not?”

So he’s really going to make her spell it out. “Because you’re a good boyfriend. You’re affectionate and caring, you always go the extra mile for those you love, and you come with all these free perks. It’s a great deal. And I’m not anything terrible, but I’m the bare minimum compared to you. Why would you give up Italy for the bare minimum?”

Cassian looks at her in disbelief. “I don’t even know how you can say so many wrong things in a row.”

“He’s blinded by love,” Nesta mutters to herself.

“First of all,” he holds up a finger, “I don’t know where you learned to compare yourself to me, but I don’t like it. You make it sound like I need to be paid back for every half-decent thing I do, and that is not the case at all.”

“Of course you think that,” she says. “You wouldn’t be a good person if you didn’t.”

“Then let me be a blunt person.” He puts a hand on her knee and looks her in the eye. “You will never be like me. Very few people are; you can’t take it personally.”

“Oh my god.” Her eyes might roll out of her head.

“But you’re not the bare minimum. Not even close.” He states it like an undeniable fact.

“How so?” she challenges.

“Like how Elain told me about this boy who broke her heart in her high school, and how the next day he walked into class in a leg cast. And how she just knew you had something to do with it, and you two had a huge fight about it that lasted a week.”

Nesta does not enjoy that memory being brought up. Elain called her a psychopath for the incident, and to save her feelings, Nesta (rather unconvincingly) said it had been an accident.

“I didn’t push anybody into a creek,” she maintains the lie. “Sometimes people just fall down there.”

“To be fair, you’re a lot more stable now than you were then. Now when people hurt those you care about, you find sneakier ways to hurt them back. Don’t you?”

“I do not,” Nesta defends.

“Really? Because Eris texted me earlier saying you’ve been ignoring him since New Year’s, and he’s starting to get worried that you have something heinous planned for him. I asked him why he would ever think such a thing of you.” Cassian leans forward and rests his chin on her shoulder. “Why would he think such a thing of you, Nesta?”

Cassian looks pretty well off from here, doesn’t he? She remembers Eris’s smug face. Did you know Rhysand’s parents found him sleeping in the streets?

“Because he said a bad thing,” Nesta says, looking down at her fingernails. “And I have an unfortunate reputation at school for getting back at people who say bad things.” Like the time Brian O’Connell made jokes about a rape trial the class was studying, and then couldn’t find an internship at a single firm the following summer.

“And what did he say? Because I can’t imagine he would directly insult you. He actually likes you, ass that he is.” His face is warm so close to her neck.

She looks away. “I won’t repeat it.”

That seems to be all Cassian needs to get an idea of what Eris said. “And how long are you planning on holding it against him?”

“Forever.”

“That’s what I thought.”

Nesta meets the eyes that haven’t left her face this entire time and snorts. “What’s your point?” Seriously, she’s starting to redden at how close he is.

He buries his face in her neck, his stubble rasping against the sensitive skin there. “The point is that you also do a lot for the people you love. Just in a different way.” He pulls away to look her in the eye. “Don’t do anything to Eris, though,” he says. “Not that I care for him or his shit opinions, but whatever you have planned isn’t worth it.”

Nesta wants to scoff in disbelief at the sincerity on Cassian’s face. He’s always choosing kindness, even at the worst moments. “So that’s your argument?” she says. “You won’t go to Italy because your girlfriend has a bad temper and a taste for revenge?”

“That’s my final argument, Your Honor.” He takes her hand. “Forget Milan, will you? One day I’ll take you to Portofino.”

The longer Nesta knows Cassian, the more she finds it useless to hide from him. Which is why she lets him watch the thoughts flit across her face as she considers his words, deciding whether she believes him. Deciding whether he’s right to give her so much devotion.

“Fine,” she finally says. “You’re right.”

A slow smile spreads across his face as he realizes he won. Wrapping his arms around Nesta’s waist and legs, he hauls her into his lap and shifts around until they’re both comfortable. The movie is forgotten for now.

“Out of curiosity…” He noses at the nape of her neck. “What did Eris say about me to make you so angry?”

When Nesta doesn’t answer, he says, “I’ve already heard everything that could possibly be said. The shit that used to get me when I was eighteen doesn’t have the same hold on me a decade later.”

She lets herself relax into his hold. “It was about the time you spent as an orphan.” Technically, he’s still an orphan, but it was different back then. “I didn’t like the tone of his voice.”

Cassian’s answering hum is a low rumble against her shirt. “Did you know my biological father was from Italy?”

Nesta perks up at that. “No.” She assumed he was entirely Algerian, even though he and Azriel probably look ethnically ambiguous to most. “Isn’t that all the more reason to see Italy someday?”

“Not at all,” he says. “If I could pretend that half of me didn’t exist, I would.”

She can’t think of a response that doesn’t involve a question, so she doesn’t reply. She waits for Cassian to speak on his own terms.

“I went to Italy once,” he admits. “For less than a day while my brothers were partying in Monte Carlo. I was young and stupid, and thought I would never be complete if I didn’t know who my father was.”

“Who was he?” She doesn’t know why she’s whispering.

“No one worth remembering,” Cassian says, his arms unconsciously tightening around her. “I put some dots together and realized how he and my mother must have met, how he must’ve—forced himself on her, and I decided that I didn’t care about bloodlines at all. I never returned to Italy after that.”

Nesta’s hands want to reach out and touch him, soothe him. But her muscles are suddenly very cold, and she can only stiffen. “And what about now? Do you… not want to go back?”

“It’s just a place to me,” he says. “Nothing special, nothing terrible. But I like the way it sounds when you talk about it.” His eyes sparkle. “I’d like to pretend it’s my first time going with you.”

“Alright, then.” She nods. “One day, we’ll go together. It’ll be our first time.”

***

Cassian refuses to let Nesta leave bed the next morning, dragging his heavy mouth across her body whenever she tries to get up. She’s about to surrender to him altogether when her phone starts vibrating loudly, insistently.

Breaking away from Cassian’s attempt at cuddling, she answers without checking the caller ID. “Yes?” she croaks sleepily.

“Where the hell have you been?” Emerie demands.

Nesta shoves Cassian away despite his protests, untangling her legs from the sheets. “At home,” she says, getting out of bed and heading for the bathroom. “Am I supposed to be somewhere else?”

“We haven’t seen you in two weeks,” Emerie says. “Gwyn thought your boyfriend’s weird family killed you.”

“That’s not what happened,” Nesta assures, pulling her shorts down and sitting on the toilet. “I just needed some alone time.” People are all around her these days, it seems. Her body still can’t quite adjust to it.

“Well, have you had enough—are you peeing?”

“Yeah.” She wipes and flushes the toilet.

“Well, clear your day and kick your sorry boyfriend out of your place. I can’t remember the last time I went out.”

“Why does everybody always want to go out?” Nesta says as she washes her hands. “What’s wrong with staying in, being safe, never leaving the house?” She dries her hands on a towel and returns to the bedroom, where Cassian is now sitting up and checking his emails.

“You’re preaching to the choir, but this actually wasn’t my idea,” Emerie says.

Nesta and Cassian alert at the sound of a knock from the front door. Nesta never has uninvited guests.

“Hold on a second, Em,” she says, jogging up the short set of steps to the door. She opens it to the sight of an exasperated-looking Gwyn.

“Jeez, next time send a text that you’re alive, will you?” Gwyn says, shoving past Nesta to enter the apartment. “Do you know how worried I’ve been—” She halts midsentence, one foot hovering above a step as she realizes that Nesta isn’t alone. As she sees Cassian in her bed, bare-chested and highly amused.

“Hey.” He raises a hand in greeting.

Gwyn pales.

“Hello?” Emerie calls over the line.

“You girls both share the same brain,” Nesta sighs. “Let me call you back, Emerie.”

Gwyn whirls around just as Nesta hangs up. “That won’t be necessary,” she says quickly, looking embarrassed. “I’ll be outside. I’m sorry.”

She hurries out of the apartment even faster than she came in, ducking her head to hide her face.

Nesta tosses her arms up in the air. “Great,” she says to Cassian. “Your abs scared her away.”

“But I didn’t do anything—”

She shuts the door behind her as she follows Gwyn outside, barefoot and all. She barely notices the freezing cold air or the awful press of damp grass beneath her feet as she catches up to Gwyn and grabs her elbow. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

Gwyn jerks suddenly, yanking out of Nesta’s hold. Her breathing seems a little shallow, and she looks even more embarrassed for it. “It’s nothing. I just didn’t know you had someone over.”

“Cassian? He’s cool, you don’t need to be weird about him,” she tries to reassure Gwyn. “Though I did use to tell him that not everybody wants to see him shirtless all the time.”

“It’s not that,” Gwyn says, waving her off.

Nesta gestures to the apartment. “Do you want to come back inside, then? I’m sure he has clothes on by now.”

Gwyn clears her throat uncomfortably and looks down. “I’d rather not. I’m—I don’t like being around men.”

Nesta pauses, not sure if she heard right. “Like, in a ‘check the backseat of your car before getting in’ way, or…?”

“No, like I can’t be alone in a room with a man without feeling sick. It activates my fight or flight, it’s weird.” She’s carefully stiff, like she’s ready to be met with humiliation.

Nesta remembers that Gwyn has never told her about her therapy sessions before, but she knows they’re more intensive than her own weekly conversations with Lana.

“Not that I think your boyfriend is a bad person,” Gwyn adds when Nesta doesn’t respond. “He looks really nice. He sounds nice, too.”

But Nesta doesn’t care about any of that. Unsure of what to do next, she reaches out and awkwardly pats Gwyn on the arm. “Good thing you’ve never been to the cabin, then. Cassian’s brother is staying…” She trails off when she realizes none of this is relevant. “Why are you here so early?” she asks instead.

Gwyn eases up a little at the change in subject. “I missed you. We’ve barely talked since Christmas.”

Nesta didn’t realize people would take such notice to her absence. “Yeah.” She flushes. “I do that sometimes. I’ll send a message next time I go into hibernation, though.”

“You’re freezing,” Gwyn suddenly scolds, noticing how Nesta’s goosebumped arms are wrapped tightly around herself. She unzips her red hoodie and shrugs it off. “Go back inside and get dressed.” She flings the hoodie around Nesta’s shoulders before Nesta can protest. “Meet me at my car. We’re hanging out.”

Nesta knows that a last minute change of events is not the end of the world, even if it sometimes feels like it. For Gwyn and Emerie, she can bear the discomfort of unexpected plans, same as she does for Cassian. But she at least has to know: “How long will we be out?”

“You can come home after lunch.” At Nesta’s face, Gwyn adds, “Lunch will be at two and shouldn’t take more than an hour.”

Looking her friend up and down, someone who has such an easy time understanding her, Nesta nods in satisfaction. She turns around to go back inside.

***

They end up at the library where Gwyn works, in the stacks of the long-abandoned encyclopedia section.

Emerie takes a loud sip from the huge McDonald’s soda she snuck in. “So all this show was because Gwyn didn’t want to work her shift alone?”

“I just have some last minute cleanup to do,” she hisses for the third time, shoving an old book back where it belongs. “Go to the porn section if you’re so bored here.”

“Oh, I definitely will,” Emerie says. “But I’m glad that we’re congregating now, even if it’s in the most depressing part of the library. I have a present for you girls.” She hands Nesta her drink so she can dig around in her purse.

Nesta personally has no complaints. The library is quiet, it smells of paper and old ink, and it holds all her favorite books. It’s almost better than staying in.

Emerie successfully pulls out a handful of folded and wrinkled papers from her bag, smoothing them out as best she can. “One for each of us,” she says, passing the papers around.

Nesta takes her paper and stares at the header. Gwyn is the first to speak. “Pole dancing classes?”

“Why?” Nesta says.

“Well, I originally offered them to Justinian and Isaac but they said no—”

“It’s really not for me,” Gwyn interrupts, trying to pass the registration form back to Emerie. “Sorry.”

Nesta doesn’t give her form back.

“Look,” Emerie says. “I get the hesitation. We’re a handful of boring bitches who hate having fun. But don’t you think that has to change at some point?”

“I’ve known you guys a month,” Gwyn retorts. “We’ve only been boring bitches for a month. This is too much.” She turns to Nesta for help.

Nesta is still staring at the paper. Dancing—on a pole, yes, but it’s still dancing. “I’ll do it,” she says.

Gwyn looks betrayed and Emerie looks elated. “Really?” She hops up and down. “That’s two against one, Gwyn. You have to do it, too.”

Gwyn’s cheeks are turning red in frustration. “You can’t just force this on me—”

“Gwyneth,” a sharp voice interrupts their conversation. Nesta spins around to find a young woman with dark skin and bleached white curls heading in their direction, a stack of books in her arms.

She halts before Nesta and glares. “No food or drink in the library.” She looks pointedly at the 32-ounce in her hand.

“It’s not mine.” Nesta shoves the drink back to Emerie.

But the librarian has turned to Gwyn, who hides the dance class form behind her back. “And what are you doing here?” she demands.

“Just putting up a few books, Merrill,” Gwyn answers quickly.

“While socializing?” the woman named Merrill sneers.

“We were just asking for help finding the romance section. Is that a problem?” Emerie crosses her arms and steps forward, letting a little of her beautiful deadliness slip into her stance. It’s the deadliness of someone at the top of her law class, someone who will graduate in a few months with all the power she could want in the palm of her hand. Nesta gets a rush from playing the lawyer game, too, but she’s never had the kind of ambition that Emerie has. Emerie is a shark sitting around in a small pond.

Merrill is not impressed. She snatches the styrofoam cup dangling from Emerie’s hand and tosses it in the nearby trash can. She turns back to Gwyn. “Hand your badge over and clock out.”

“But I’m not done yet—”

“Now.”

“Okay,” she squeaks. She pulls her ID badge off her neck and hands it to Merrill.

Nesta gapes in disbelief. Before she can speak up, Merrill says, “No loitering in the library. If you don’t have anything you need to check out, leave.” With one final judgmental look, she turns down an aisle of dusty books and disappears.

Gwyn makes a face at her back.

“That woman is not old enough to be acting that misanthropic,” Emerie says after Merrill is gone.

“Whatever,” Gwyn mutters. The registration form is still in her hand. She crumples it into a ball and throws it into the trash. “Let’s get out of here.”

Nesta stares at the trash as Gwyn turns to leave. “Coward,” she says.

Gwyn’s head snaps toward Nesta, her auburn hair swinging. “Excuse me?”

She shrugs. “You heard me.” Emerie’s eyes bounce back and forth between the girls.

“I did,” Gwyn says. “I was just making sure this wasn’t coming from the woman who would sooner bite someone’s head off than do something she doesn’t want to.”

“Girls,” Emerie snaps before Nesta can bite back. “It’s just a stupid dance class. I thought it would be fun to do together, but it doesn’t matter anymore.” Taking Gwyn by one arm and Nesta by the other, she starts steering them out of the stacks like a stern mother. “Now let’s go eat. I’m fucking hungry.”

Gwyn’s mood from the library doesn’t recover, even as they sit down for lunch at the local diner. Nesta thinks Gwyn might actually be sick when the male waiter winks at her while taking her order, and it’s not until long after he’s gone that color returns to her face. When their food arrives, Gwyn only picks at her plate.

“What’s wrong?” Nesta finally has to ask bluntly. “You look pukey.” Did the coward comment affect Gwyn more than she let on, or was it Merrill’s attitude that threw her off?

At Nesta’s words, Gwyn becomes even more pallid. “I just don’t feel great today,” she murmurs, looking around like she’s seeking a way out of the diner. “Sorry guys, I didn’t mean to be such a buzzkill. Maybe I should go home early.”

“Absolutely not,” Emerie says. “If you’re going home, we’re going home with you.”

Gwyn bites her lip, trying to decide if she wants that or not. But something about her antsy demeanor is too familiar to Nesta, because she says, “If you really want to be alone, do you mind driving me home first? Emerie’s car is a mess.”

“You just need to move around a few papers,” Emerie protests.

But Gwyn nods distractedly, already gathering her things. “Sure, no problem.” They pay the bill and go their separate ways.

During the ride home, the sky that’s been gray all day finally breaks open, unleashing a spattering of rain over the town. Nesta watches it sprinkle while Gwyn drives in silence.

“Why are you scared of Merrill?” she eventually asks. “She doesn’t look much older than you.”

Gwyn snorts, but there isn’t much heart to it. “Merrill is my superior, but I can handle her on most days.”

“Just not today?”

Gwyn eyes Nesta warily from the corner of her eye. “No, not today. Or this week.”

Nesta chooses not to push. The dull metal of the cars surrounding them glints under the rain, and they arrive at a red light.

After a minute, she takes a breath and blurts, “I’m not always like that around guys, you know.”

Nesta watches her closely, remembering how ghostly she seemed around Cassian, then the waiter. “Keep going.”

Gwyn stares straight at the traffic ahead, her fingers turning bone white on the steering wheel. “I’m just going through a hard period. Everything upsets me and I don’t know how to think straight. It’s like my brain accidentally traveled to the past and now it’s stuck there.” She sounds shaky, breathless, and it makes Nesta wonder what exactly her mind is experiencing.

Nesta knows what it’s like to be unable to move on. Her own brain has only recently started looking toward the future. “Where are you stuck, specifically?” she asks hesitantly. Maybe she can help Gwyn navigate her way out.

Gwyn’s chin quivers. “In a dark room.” Her lips form a tight line. “Being held down. I’m outnumbered.”

Nesta’s stomach turns. “How far back is it?”

“Two years,” Gwyn whispers. “Lately I can’t even look at anything without—remembering it. Thinking about it. Every time I feel like I’m moving past it, I end up being wrong.”

The light turns green, and Nesta puts a hand on Gwyn’s knee in an attempt to ground her. “Drive,” she commands softly.

Gwyn presses down on the accelerator, but Nesta can feel her leg trembling beneath her hand. She squeezes her knee hard. Even with the dark parts of her own past, Nesta has never felt what Gwyn is feeling right now. So she tries to stick to what she knows.

“It’s like you said,” she says carefully. “You’re going through a period where your brain isn’t being friendly to you. It’s horrible, but you can live with the knowledge that it’ll be over eventually.”

Gwyn shakes her head, holding back tears. “It doesn’t work like that. Once it goes away, it’ll just come back again. And it’ll be like that for the rest of my life.”

“You’re right.” Nesta doesn’t have a solution for that, and she hates it. “You’ll never forget. You can be at the peak of your life and still remember all of it. But,” she says slowly, “whether you reach a point where it barely fazes you, or if you keep crippling under the weight of it decades later, you’ll still be normal. You’ll be a perfectly normal human.”

Gwyn lets out a tearful laugh at that. “What does that even mean?”

Shit. “It means…” Nesta tries to explain herself better. “In case you’re worried that there’s something very wrong with you, I’m here telling you that there’s not. There will never be anything wrong with you.”

Gwyn eyes her skeptically as they turn onto a residential road. “Even if I never get past one nightmare I lived years ago? Even if that nightmare defines me until the day I die?”

“That won’t happen.” Nesta’s tone is simple, factual. “But yes, even then.”

“Really? You’re not gonna tell me to live for the better days or whatever?”

“Does that sound like something that would help you? Because I can say it if it does.”

Gwyn snorts. “No.” But her limbs are steady and her eyes are clear on the road. She clears her throat. “Thank you for listening. I think I might feel a little better now.”

“Was it because of what I said?” Nesta tries not to be too hopeful.

“I wouldn’t give you that much credit,” Gwyn says, crushing her hope. “But I’m glad I told you. It makes things…a lot easier for me.” She exhales deeply.

“You know my plate is mostly empty these days.” Nesta pats her knee. “That means I’ll always have room to help carry your shit.”

They pull up to Nesta’s apartment, and Gwyn parks at the curb. “Give me your dance class thing,” she says suddenly.

Frowning, Nesta pulls the wrinkled paper out of her purse and hands it to Gwyn.

Gwyn smooths it out on the steering wheel and grabs a pen from a cupholder, clicking it. “If you’re going to help carry my shit, I guess I have time for pole dancing now.”

“But that’s mine,” Nesta protests as Gwyn starts filling out the form.

“It can be both of ours,” she says, writing Nesta’s name under hers.

“Really?” Nesta grins with an excitement that she doesn’t easily feel. “You’re going to do it with us?”

“Why would I let you do it without me? So I can become the third wheel in our girl group?” She gives Nesta a look that says No way in hell.

Nesta rolls her eyes. “That would never happen to you.”

“Sure,” Gwyn drawls. She finishes the form and folds it in half before pocketing it. “I’ll give this to Emerie as a gift.” She leans over to peck Nesta on the cheek. “Now get home. Love you.”

Nesta turns red at the words and coughs. “Thanks for the ride,” she responds, getting out of the car.

“Say it back!” Gwyn calls after her. But Nesta shuts the door in her face and waves, pretending she can’t hear her. Gwyn mock-scowls at her through the window, but lets her off easy and drives away.

That’s enough feelings for today, Nesta decides. Even if her chest is swelling with emotion for her friend. It’s a sweet hurt that lingers long after she returns to her empty apartment.

***

a/n: i’m back in my no plot, just vibes era

taglist: @hellasblessed @sjm-things @thewayshedreamed @drielecarla @valkyriewarriors @superspiritfestival @aliveahaahahafuck @cupcakey00 @sayosdreams @rainbowcheetah512 @claralady @thebluemartini @nessiantho @missing-merlin @duskandstarlight @lucy617 @sleeping-and-books @everything-that-i-love @cassianscool @swankii-art-teacher @awesomelena555 @julemmaes @wickedqueenoffantasy @poisonous-bloom @observationanxioustheorist @gisellefigue08 @courtofjurdan @theoverlyenthusiasticwriter @wolfiixxx @cass-nes @seashade @royaltykxx @illyrianundercover @queenestarcheron @monstrousloves-explodinggalaxies @humanexile @that-golden-lyre @agentsofsheilds @mercy-is-alive @cassiansbigwingspan @laylaameer01 @verypaleninja @maastrash @bow-dawn @perseusannabeth @dead-on-the-inside666 @jlinez @hungryreadingaddict @anidealiveson @planet-faerie @shallowhighwaters @ghostlyrose2 @chosenfamily-valkyriequeens @rarephloxes

[feelingbluepolitics]

Republicon "legislators at the state level are codifying into law a draft letter written by a former US Department of Justice official in the remaining weeks of [t]rump's one and only term. That draft letter, according to the Post's Philip Bump, was 'a road map to overthrowing the will of voters.' It explained in granular detail how state Republican officials could have pulled off a coup.

"This quiet coup attempt failed mere days before the loud coup attempt failed. The sacking and looting of the United States Capitol on January 6 was a last-ditch effort by an outgoing president desperate to hold on to power but exhausted of choices. Nullification of the democratic will would have been preferable, because it would not have drawn so much attention. When that failed, [trump] had to risk exposing his true intentions with his last remaining option, a violent revolt.

"The difference between loud and quiet is the proper context for recent remarks by Wyoming Congresswoman Liz Cheney. She said her father, Dick Cheney, was 'deeply troubled' about 'where our party is, deeply troubled about where the country is.' She said this after having voted to impeach [trump] and after losing her job as chair of the House GOP conference. With due respect, though, I doubt she and the former vice president are worried about what they should be worried about. They should be worried about state-level attempts to nullify democracy. I don't think they are. I think, instead, they're worried about potential right-wing violence, like what we saw on January 6. It might draw attention to what state Republican officials are doing.

"Dick Cheney's concern about appearances (assuming I'm correct) might sound quaint given the Republicans are less conservative than they are authoritarian. After all, plenty of Republicans and plenty of their media allies are more than happy to shit-can commitments to democracy and democratic values. Tucker Carlson, the Fox talking head, has been talking up Hungary as a model for the future, one that's transparently hostile to pluralism, political equity and democracy. Why not just come out and say the January 6 insurrection was deserved?

"That respectable [sic] Republicans like Dick and Liz Cheney have not said so suggests they understand the importance of political legitimacy. I think the rest of us should understand its importance, too, especially with respect to fears of an authoritarian future in the United States. Even if you're an all-out fascist, you must maintain the appearance among the people who count to you that fascism is totally legitimate. Right-wing political violence, at least for the time being, is almost never legitimate. Right-wing political violence exposes true intentions.

"This is why many of the Republicans lie about the insurrection. The insurgents were 'victims,' for instance. The demands of legitimacy mean they must convince themselves they're the good guys. That makes them susceptible to the fact that they're not. This is why propagandists like Steve Bannon constantly repeat the myth that the former president's supporters represent the 'true majority.' To be sure, the 'true majority' elected Joe Biden. But whether it's true or not isn't the point. The point is even authoritarians understand the importance of appearances. For now, right-wing violence makes them vulnerable, because right-wing violence exposes their true intentions.

"This seems to me the true fault line within the Republican Party. On one hand are the radicals who don't mind everyone knowing the GOP really does have an informal network of paramilitaries waiting to spring into action. On the other are the leaders and the old guard, who really don't want everyone knowing the GOP has an informal network of paramilitaries waiting to spring into action. They don't mind state election laws that nullify democracy, if that's what it takes to control the government, but they also don't want the radicals mucking up complicated efforts to make authoritarianism nice and legal. To be sure, the GOP has maintained this balance for decades. With [t]rump, however, came a genie who won't be put back in the lamp.

"Meanwhile, the Democrats seem to be moving to force that Republican fault line to its breaking point...The difference is the Democrats have all the evidence of the January 6 insurrection on their side. The Republicans can only say they're 'deeply troubled.' House Majority Whip Jim Clyburn was asked recently by Roll Call for his thoughts on new state 'rules about who gets to overrule election results, legislators and other elected officials.' With all of democracy and democratic values beside him, the South Carolina Congressman said: 'I want you to call it what it is. Use the word: nullification. It is voter nullification. … Georgia just passed a law, it's got nullification in it, saying that these, this committee, will have the authority to overturn elections if–they don't say it this way, but this is what they're saying–if we don't like the results' (italics mine)."

"It remains to be seen whether or not Clyburn's statement has any effect on the current debate in the Senate over election reform. My point for now is about normal partisan politics. While I have no doubt that the Republicans, seeing they came very close to overthrowing the republic once, will try again when the opportunity presents itself. But that's no cause for hopelessness. Authoritarianism is like any other political ideology in that it's vulnerable to normal partisan politics. Indeed, as I've argued, it saved us once. It can and may save us again."

The further point to be made is that there is no more room for centrists and moderates at this historical inflection point, because they put the country at risk from Republicons and authoritarianism. Whatever typical political and social issues may retain democratic debate or consensus as values -- and very few of those remain -- this is not one of them. We must have baseline protections for voting if we prefer a democracy for our future. We must keep pro-authoritarian factions out of power, and that includes the entire Right-wing.

Be partisan. Be very partisan. Be afraid not to be.

[luckyspacerabbit]

would you ever share the background you created for kai leng? i'd be so interested in hearing it!

Hehe, yes! Thank you for waiting anon. I wanted to really think this through and make sure I was working with all the possible details of his character.

Okay, so my goal with fleshing out Kai was not to excuse him as a villain or to necessarily redeem him, but to humanize him and hopefully incur sympathy because I find his depiction as a mysterious lackey boogeyman to be 🙄 one dimensional and playing on racist tropes like the yellow peril ✨ (also bioware making him predominantly chinese + a lil russian. extrapolate what u will lol)

So here is my background for Kai :) Lots of childhood headcanoning and then some general talk about his character/why I chose certain elements as I did (such as dumping that dumb phantom blade for butterfly swords AEORHIG)

Childhood: According to the wiki, Kai is Earthborn, and from his general heritage we can assume that he grew up in Northern China (omg that's where my ancestors are from). The most populous city there is Beijing, which, if there was a spaceport or alliance recruitment anywhere, it would be there.

I headcanon that he was born to a bit of an unsteady family, where it was likely there was estrangement and unsafe conditions between the mother and father that may have created a sense of helplessness and neglect from a young age.

In my canon, Dan Hyun's mom, Hannah Shepard was the head of an agricultural research facility on Trident, and was an old friend of Kai's mom (From University, possibly).

As conditions worsened throughout Kai's childhood, his mom decided to take a chance and flee with Kai (age 10 at the time) to Hannah Shepard's science facility on Trident (Sentinel Agricultural Research Facility), where she and Kai would stay for about two years as his mom worked to save enough money for their own place .

Since Dan Hyun was already being homeschooled, it was easy enough for Kai to join up alongside her.

Dan Hyun (12 at the time) was extremely happy to have a friend since life on the facility could be really lonely-- but with all these changes Kai was having a difficult time adjusting, especially when Dan Hyun felt put off by his competitive attitude. After so long feeling neglected and growing in a tumultuous home environment, he craved external validation: homeschool provided an avenue for that. They developed their own academic-based competitive rivalry that counted towards friendship, but grew distant when he moved out with his mom about two years later.

When Dan Hyun was 18 (Kai at 16), she managed to apply to an Alliance Research Training program and receive admission-- something that was considered highly prestigious, despite her parents' reluctance. Kai had already begun to build resentment towards her due to the way her parents treated her (very preciously, sheltered, and without exposing her to the difficult parts of life) in contrast with what he lacked in family and world kindness, creating a drive to supersede her and compete with her once again, if only to have tangible proof that just because he began in a lower place didn't mean he couldn't surpass the vision of success.

After this event, they would strike up a still somewhat friendly rivalry again that continued until Kai enlisted in the Alliance at the age of 18 (his attempts to join directly at 16 failed in my canon lol, but he sure tried )

Alliance Service:

Kai took the combat-driven route while Dan Hyun was receiving training for her eventual research establishment in Akuze, meaning that in their line of work, they never crossed paths-- Though they maintained occasional communication and met up here and there whenever Kai was back from his tours.

This is where I believe his decline truly began.

Some habits, like his desire for tangible proof of success and seeking external validation, manifested more heavily in this time. Collecting badges off of dead soldiers (To remember his skill first hand) is a notable one, but I speculate he relied heavily on the word of his commanding officers to counter his self-esteem. Titles were incredibly important because they were proof. When he began to feel a loss of control which led to emotional outbursts and breakdowns, he would fall back on these bits of evidence that he had done something, anything.

The weight and violence of service combined to break away his mental strength and conditioned him to that of a soldier.

Famously, he was discharged in 2186 after his N7 designation. In a bar fight on shore leave, he murdered a Krogan (OKAY. Listen. The wiki says "first-degree murder" but first degree requires premeditation and bar fight implies heat of the moment. So IDK I think the details around this one are a little fishy. He was on leave but he was a soldier, so ? he probably just had a weapon on him? Okay, I'm not excusing him but premeditation is a bit different from manslaughter so just something I've pondered. It separates intentional killers from accidental murders).

At this point, he is formally incarcerated and set to serve a twenty-year sentence.

Cerberus Contact:

The year is 2177, and Kai has lost everything he's ever worked for. His prestige is gone, he is at the worst place he has ever been, his mom won't talk to him, and he has no one. He had even stopped hearing from Dan Hyun, the only person he could have considered a friend once.

Through a small TV in the prison, he is able to hear about the attack on Akuze, and its one survivor: Alliance Scientist Dan Hyun Shepard. In the attack her biotic abilities (Which she had kept secret for many years) were revealed, prompting immediate recruitment into the N7 Program and a contract for ten years of service. This drove Kai into rock bottom-- while he had nothing, Dan Hyun was steadily on track to uprooting the only thing he had ever felt like he had accomplished.

This is when Cerberus intervened, promising him a home, freedom, belonging, and success.

So of course Kai agreed. Why wouldn't he? He had nothing left in his miserable life and there would never again be a place for him.

Cerberus Intervention:

It's my belief that Kai wasn't necessarily "alienphobic" in the beginning. Instead, I think The Illusive Man saw a very clear opportunity to recruit and nurture a broken man into a pawn of service. TIM is incredibly smart-- everyone who works for Cerberus is. He knew what Kai needed was validation, the promise of success held directly on the tip of his tongue to drive him into tenacity and action.

Organizations like Cerberus, even in real life, prey on people at weak points, fulfill their needs and drape their ideology on top like icing on a cake. That's not to say that Kai is completely innocent-- he ate the sweets and readily threw the world to the side in order to attain more-- but it does give some perspective.

Kai in Cerberus:

In ME2 we know there is some apprehension on Kai's part about the role Shepard will play. He is already starting to feel slighted from failures with Rasa and takes even the possibility of rejection from TIM extremely hard and with violent emotional outburst. This evidences how much TIM has whittled him away over the decade of service. Kai feels as though he owes everything to TIM, that TIM saw something in him-- failing him is disproving that and accepting what Kai has feared all along: that he truly is a worthless and incapable person.

Kai and Shepard:

Kai is best known for his direct antagonism towards Shepard in the events of ME3, directly killing their allies and potential love interests in a way that is extremely personal. Yes, it is part of the job, but at the same time, it's clear Shepard gets under his skin. It's because in the end, after all that setup, Shepard is the one person who can take it all away from him.

They can replace him as TIM's prodigy/ They can bring an end to the organization that gave him everything (From his cybernetic enhancements (uh indoctrination cough couch) ) to his purpose in life. Kai threw it all in with them because he didn't see another choice.

My Canon: The End

So how do things end for Kai in my canon?

As you're aware, you can unalive him, violently. But Dan Hyun is very emotional and due to their shared childhood, I like to believe that there was still a grand feeling of kinship between them, a recognition of the other due to shared insecurities. I don't think there was ever a time Dan Hyun looked at Kai and saw anything other than her slighted friend (which is very romanticized, but SHE is very romanticized), it was just about getting Kai to see that too.

She locked him down the best she could, yelled, cried, and beat the shit out of him, but ultimately, preserved his life. After the crucible had been fired and Thane (alive ofc) attended to, she sought to right things between her and Kai: whatever form that takes. Who knows if he'll ever be able to live comfortably in society again-- but at least here, he has the chance.

Random Tidbits:

Some notes! At his best, I like that Kai is portrayed as Loyal, Hard Working, Methodical, Clever, Tenacious, and Factual. I think sometimes he can be written off unfairly as wimpy or scared, but in truth, he's very sure of his abilities and able to calculate his chances extremely well. He's smarter than fandom gives him credit for.

He has an interesting conflict between arrogance based on title and humbleness. He knows he wants to be the best but he never airs it-- like when Rasa suggests that he wants to be the leader for Humanity but he grows quiet and says to just focus on where things are at right now.

His time as a soldier absolutely affected him in ways I think sharpened him to the killer he became. It instilled values that remained with him in Cerberus, such as when he berates Bates for abandoning his squad and calls him a traitor. Kai doesn't betray-- he's quite literally ride or die.

Also? The ninja sword is super dumb because Kai is Chinese and the swords and Phantom's themselves are designed to appear Japanese in aesthetic. Ninjas= Japanese, but China did have their own sect of Assassins which I believe gave birth to Wu Ching as a type of Martial Arts? Or was drawn from it hmm

To keep to accuracy, Kai would have trained more towards their martial art techniques which focuses on close combat and quick movements, as well as the use of dual blades called butterfly swords (You'd likely recognize them as a set of rogue daggers).

That's all for that meta! Phew. If anyone actually read to the end, hey wassup, hope you enjoyed, and take most of this with a grain of salt since it's my headcanons and background work :) Thank you again for reading!

[missinghan]

aria of an assassin ⤖ lee minho

❖ genre : assassin au; fluff; angst

❖ word count : 6,2k.

❖ warning : mentions of blood & violence, explicit language 

❖ summary : minho hasn’t been fazed for decades throughout his bloodied career until the next target happens to be a black cat and he’s suddenly incapable of pulling the trigger.

❖ note : okay, so it’s been a year? this tiny, stupid blog is turning one year old today? yea I couldn’t believe it either. this is to all of my mutuals and readers out there, I don’t say it enough but I truly appreciate each and every one of you 🖤 I wish I could have written something longer but due to school, this random piece will have to do for now.

❖ the sequel : with felix is out!

one.

“Shit.”

Minho grits in a hushed tone although all that has been accompanying him is the pitiful moonlight and icy breeze dissolving into every fiber of his skin. Every minuscule movement suddenly becomes too irritating to his eardrums. The hustle and bustle life of the city at night. Terrible traffic. Even the sound of his own inhales and exhales. 

What is that thing?

He thinks to himself, proceeding to expand his eyesight with the pair of scopes; confusion soon flares into curiosity, then faint anger and dead silence. He swears his heartbeat just paused awkwardly like a broken record for a split second there. Such strange, or odd targets are no stranger to him; nor do they stir something inside the coldness of his rib cage. 

Not an easy kill, they say. And not easy it is. 

Because whatever he’s watching with his very eyes is a cat. A goddamn cat with a coat as sleek pitch as the dark canvas upon his head and piercing golden eyes. The peculiar animal walks with its head held high like it’s lording over everyone else—such self-reassurance, such radiance some humans cease to possess. 

It’s dangerous, they say. But it’s a fucking cat! Irritation bubbles up at the back of his throat, makes his skin crawl, and causes a bark of profanity to leave his lips once more. Has it not occurred to his client that he doesn’t kill children and animals? When it’s clearly been written on the contract? In bold, underlined, and everything?

They could have at least given him more details on what he’s getting himself to this time. 

An exhale. He packs up his things, pulls his black cap down a little, and leaves the top of the building without looking back. If he did, he would have seen those starry eyes boring holes onto his back. 

two.

The road Minho is walking through is more than familiar. For one, he takes the same path every day to grab a drink at his go-to place—a vending machine near an old, plain high school. 

It’s fair to say he knows every corner of the neighborhood like the back of his hand—from the dark alley where bullies beat up their classmates to the small stall of lemonade of a middle school girl who waves at him every morning. He never reciprocates though; it doesn’t feel right. The amount of apathy in his heart isn’t enough for him to act normally when taking lives is what he does for a living.  

For two, he used to have a part-time job at that particular high school for an old request. Due to his conscience, he did go out of his way to take the kill outside of the school—causing a catastrophe in such an environment makes him uncomfortable.

Just then, he stops. His brow raises. Isn’t that…

The black cat slinks through the crowd of nosy students in the direction of where he too is heading. It raises its nose and gives the air a rough sniff, making a face as though the general stagnant with exhaust fumes stench of the city disgusts the entirety of its existence. 

Watching it take a slight dip to avoid being hit with someone’s bag, Minho holds back every urge to come running at the creature and wrap his arms around its small figure. He wonders how long it’d take for the cat to reach its final destination because it’s definitely taking some sweet ass time to stride through the front of the main gate like a supermodel. Meanwhile, he’s stressed to the core as if the harmless high school filled with teenagers is nothing less than a battlefield. 

Is it testing him?

Something is oddly unsettling about an animal staring straight into his eyes. Paranoia fuels the forgotten irritation inside his chest, sets out to make him actually think those golden eyes are memorizing every inch of his feature. Then, they soften with what seems to be exhaustion, its tiny head turning and its tiny feet take it skipping gently away from the scene. 

Minho finally acknowledges the knot inside his stomach and the breath he’s been holding. With a harsh gulp, he no longer takes notice of the fact if his cap is hung low enough or if he’s walking too quickly. For the first time in long, a rush of adrenaline hits him hard enough to make him speed walk through the herd of chatty teenagers. 

Questions naturally pop up as his shoes kiss the ground, his shadow sprinting into a dark, though familiar alleyway. Was he hallucinating? But he’s been getting enough sleep and eating well. What makes him so certain that it was the same cat? Instincts or some sixth sense bullshit perhaps. If it was the cat that’s assigned to be killed off in a week, what’s so dangerous about it? And how long has he been running for? Seconds? Minutes? Hours? And to where? 

“You.”

Half-way through trying to keep his thoughts off of his face, Minho stops himself when a rather feminine voice echoes through the narrow space. Unsure of whether the voice was reaching out to him, his legs stop moving while his eyes are peering through the dark. Much to his heart’s dismay, shivers run up his spine when something comes in contact with the warm flesh of his neck. 

“What’s your name?” 

Slowly, with his hands on the back of his head, he turns on his heels. “Excuse you?”

You retract your gun-shaped fingers into the pocket of your jacket, phlegmatic eyes gazing at him through the thickness of the night. “I want to know your name,” you try to make your point clear, utterly unfazed. 

Minho stares you down for a good five seconds. Neatly dressed in the school uniform, an oversized jacket thrown over your body but no backpacks. There’s a name tag being embroidered onto the fabric in red “Shin Yuna - 1A”. Whoever you are, he’s certain that isn’t your name. That name doesn’t even suit you. That isn’t your uniform. 

“What’s the point?” he questions, hands dropped to the sides in slight relief. 

You tilt your head, expression neutral. “I have a habit of collecting names of people who tried or are trying to kill me. It’s quite relaxing to write it down on a list actually. You know, easier to keep track.”

He’s trying hard to not let any impulsive urges overthrow the rational side of his brain. Everything suddenly twitches in slow motion. His silence seems to bore you. Your eyes are more dead than angry, more done than irritated. Like you’ve been through this shit one too many times already to care. 

“At least say why you’re sent to kill me.”

That, Minho can answer within a blink of an eye. “They sent me because I don’t exist.”

Your gaze glistens with a glaze of boredom. “Everyone said so.”

“Yeah, no shit Sherlock. Where’s your house, kid? I’ll walk you back. It’d be a pain in the ass if your parents found out how you’re wandering alone after school,” he brushes it off like you’re a slight nuisance (which you are). His heartbeat spikes up once at the mention of family, one that you’ve acknowledged with ease. 

Your arms are folded over your chest now, to cover up the sudden stab of sympathy inside your chest. “There’s no need. I don’t have a place to go back to nor do I have parents who will nag me for staying out late.” 

His mind automatically blackouts along with his senses, blurred with such peculiar feelings swirling at the pit of his stomach. You make it sound like it’s not that big of a deal like you’ve utterly been numb for so long. It’s tragic but understandable. This isn’t the first time he has witnessed a story like yours—your parents, dead or alive, he does not know; by the sound of it, you’re an orphan. Another unfortunate being to graze this planet like himself. This means you can’t afford school, so that uniform really doesn’t belong to you. 

“You still haven’t told me your name.”

“It’s Lee Know. Call me Lee Know.”

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.” 

You didn’t mean to expose anything about your life to a total stranger, or specifically an assassin. However, nothing matters when you most likely won’t meet him again nor will he succeed in taking your life. Even the fact that he chose not to give you his real name amplifies how much shit he does not give about you. You don’t expect anything more honestly. 

“Alright, we’re done here,” you feign enthusiasm before clasping your hands together. “Go home. The sun is already going down.”

Strangely enough, Minho can only watch as your shadow shifts to the outline of a black cat before dipping into the depths of the starless night. 

three.

To Minho it’s always just another day in the office. Except his office is a windy rooftop overlooking the mark’s exact location. His tools—rather than a computer—is a state-of-the-art rifle with a telescopic lens. A silencer isn’t very important since traffic and people are more than enough to drown out any suspicious noises. Most will mistake it for a back-firing van. He takes aim with no more qualms than one would gossip about a colleague, then pulls the trigger while thinking about what to order other than Chinese for lunch. When the work is done, he carefully packs everything up into an inconspicuous rucksack. And leaves the scene, like a phantom. 

It’s always been the same boring, bloodied cycle. 

Yet something’s changed since Minho met you. 

He used to maintain a cool detachment to his targets. His conscience prefers not to think of them; whenever he does, it’s as if they’re already dead, mobile meat bags waiting to be laid on a cutting board. He doesn’t like to think merrily of his job, he doesn’t see it as helping them meet their destiny. None of that bullshit. To put it more nonchalantly, everyone will die one day. Minho considers it as a good way to go. Oblivious and in pain for one moment before completely gone the next. 

Simple. Convenient. Much less agonizing than this brutal world. 

Although that doesn’t mean he isn’t traumatized by the amount of blood that has stained his hands. On good days, he might get three to four hours of sleep. Bad days, few minutes to none at all. Terrifying nightmares gnaws at his soul every night, the ugly scar like a reminder of every single one of his sins. He can’t force himself to lose his sanity like any fools out there going down the same path. 

“Shit…” Minho mutters, running a rough hand through his hair. He didn’t sleep well last night—like every other night; hence the bad temper and bitter taste at the back of his throat. 

After a deep breath, he stares at his Hecate II with mischievous eyes—those of a hunter framed in the expressionless face of an executioner. His blunt hands are steady as they lift the shiny weapon over the concrete of a rooftop, drawing out a dry shot in his mind. 

Through his scope, he watches as you’re crossing the road in your human form before stopping abruptly in front of a random tree. You then proceed to squint your eyes and look up in the opposite direction. Minho unknowingly holds his breath, waits for you to release your iron gaze, and move on with your life. But his expectations don’t prevail. 

“What the fuck?” 

Without much patience, he curses before shifting his scope to the same direction only to find another shadow creeping around on the balcony of a nearby building. No time to think of a rational solution—killing them is an ideal one—Minho feels his palms growing sweaty when a small, peculiar object comes flying toward his way. His head quickly moves away before the bullet pierces through his scope, shattering the glass completely. 

“Son of a bitch,” he lets out a shaky breath. Crimson starts to drip down on the side of his cheekbone, but he can care less. 

Because that’s the least of his problem right now. 

Another subtle ‘bang’ can be heard in the distance, like a broken record scratching against his eardrums. Kid…! Minho’s heart collapses in realization. 

four. 

It’s not hard for Minho to do research on quite an amount of vital information about you. When he saw your body dropped to the ground lifelessly and an ambulance immediately drove by to pick up your body, he knew things weren’t going to end just like that. 

“Don’t bother trying, Lee Know. No one has ever made it. They never did.”

He isn’t a believer, has never been one. Yet when he managed to take out your kidnappers in that ambulance, your weak breaths startled his heart and shook his mind into awareness of how serious the situation is. After that, he tracked down the hitman who delivered the hard blow, put a bullet through his brain, and found an USB full of detailed information about your existence. Which just makes things a whole lot more complicated to understand. 

Apparently, you’ve been ‘killed’ one too many times before—there are photographs of your supposedly dead body in a bag, thrown into the deep, dark woods, other times into a nameless river. The thing about you is that you were once an experimental subject to your own biological parents who are sickeningly vile scientists. At the age of nine, you fell down the stairs and had a big gash on your head. They never knew because your wounds were quick to heal themselves. However, your whole life was flipped upside down when they saw you shapeshifting into a black cat while running around at the playground. 

From then, your life became a living hell behind cold metal bars with needles stuck in your arms and strange pills being forced down your throat almost every day. Their sudden change only nourished resentment through time until you managed to cut down the laboratory’s power supply and fled from your own home. 

You have no one to lean on. No place to go back to. No nothing. And you’re just a teenager. 

Minho feels awful. 

Usually, he isn’t the type to be empathetic nor does he have the energy to. It’s very out of character for him to let his emotions linger on a homeless kid with some supernatural abilities that will make his life that much more dangerous. Because to him, more often than not, people tend to give their condolences only to forget after brief moments of grieving. At the end of the day, it isn’t their own problem, it isn’t their own life. But now when it comes to you, Minho feels a strong sense of responsibility that if you end up dying, it’s on him. 

It’s stupidly conflicted, it really is. His job—blowing people’s brains out—is the sole reason why he makes a six-digit amount of money for every job. Therefore, he isn’t sure what picking a random kid up from a fake ambulance and bringing her back to his shabby apartment is going to do him any good. 

“Ah, you’re awake.” 

You hate the fact that you can recognize that voice. 

Just then, you wake as if it’s an emergency, as if sleeping has become a dangerous task. Your heart is pounding loudly inside your ears, the sound echoing listlessly to the pit of your rib cage. It’s always like this. It takes you some time to calm your nerves before gathering what exactly happened the moment you blacked out. 

Right, you think to yourself, groaning slightly while pushing yourself up. You were shot right in the chest, and your body was probably discarded somewhere. After that, you’d grab a hitchhiker so they’ll drive you back into town. Like always. The only difference, this time though, is Minho placing your limp body on his bed with a blanket to warm you up. 

His face appears within your eyesight when you’re done adjusting your vision to the bright room—you’re not used to this much light around. “You look calmer than I expected,” he mentions. 

Minho grabs your face and scans it over. “Let me see. Did your wounds close up properly?” 

The tender action, which has become weirdly natural to him although this is his first time, accidentally triggers something inside you. Your hand automatically slaps his away. It is an upfront refusal, but it doesn’t surprise him. He only offers you a comfortable moment of silence before placing a tray on the wooden nightstand. 

“Eat up. I’m not going to feed you,” he cocks his head toward the bowl of porridge with his arms crossed in front of his chest. 

“Why are you doing this?”

“Doing what?”

You glare at him in suspicion. “Bringing me home. Giving me a bed to sleep on. And even food to eat. What are you trying to get at?”

“Nothing. I didn’t kill you only because you’re too young for my moral code,” he pretends to roll his eyes, voicing monotonously. 

A frown adorns your tired features. “So you’re going to kill me when I get older then?” 

“Probably,” Minho smirks faintly with a cock of his eyebrow. “That depends if you still remember my name, Y/N.” 

One thing after another, this assassin only continues to baffle you. He was just going to shoot you the other day and now he’s giving you food? Preposterous! To put it simply, you’re unprepared for such kind actions, such gentleness from someone who takes lives for a living. You’re unprepared for dealing with people in general because they detest anyone who’s different from them—your kind, the kind with supernatural abilities and all. Hence, you’re left unwilling to befriend anyone and would rather be alone for the rest of your life. 

Until such twisted moira pushes you to—what was his name again? Not his real name, the made-up one that he uses in the underworld. 

You speak up softly after feeling safe enough to let your guards down, “Lee Know, was it?” 

“It’s Lee Minho.” 

“Pardon?”

He only smiles, “My real name. It’s Lee Minho.”

five. 

“Y/N! A little help over here?”

“Coming.”

“Y/N, go check the fog machine!”

“Got you.”

“Y/N, can you put these boxes over there?”

“Alright.”

That’s all you’ve been doing for the entirety of your boring day. Getting yelled out at, having people ask for help nonstop, and responding with a two-word answer at max. You’re not complaining—they pay you well enough, the job is more on the down-low side because you’re nothing but a mere stage crew for an above-average theatre studio. So you simply hoist the three final plastic boxes into your arms with a jerk of your knees and place it where they asked you to. Thanks to your parents, their experiments along with skeptical-looking substances have efficiently enhanced your general strength and agility. 

Another crew member perks up when you plop the heavy stack of cardboard boxes down with a loud thud. “Oh, can you carry those lights to stage left too?”

“Sure.” You could have pretended to pick up one box at a time and to drag your feet across the stage with difficulties to avoid being used. But you’re too lazy to repeat the same cycle two more times, so you really don’t have any other choice here. 

Nevertheless, you suppose it’s not entirely bad to do all of this heavy handiwork. Because it keeps your mind off of unwanted things, such as Lee Minho for example. Lee Minho, the assassin, not the actor—you’d gladly fangirl over that certain celebrity rather than admit that you actually enjoy the hitman’s abrupt presence in your life. 

The fact that you know he will find you even if it means traveling to the ends of the Earth and back doesn’t help to ease your insomnia. So for the past few days, you’ve been working extra hours along with picking up a job at a florist in hopes of not bumping into him. Stupid. You know it is. But how can you deal with a self-esteem crisis because the idea of being a burden just irks you so much? 

It’s like you’re hopelessly proving that you don’t need anyone when you, in fact, want that kind of unconditional love that every other human yearns for. 

After helping your colleagues out with the lighting, you simply sit behind those thick curtains until the show is over. Then, you head out, find a place to sleep, and head to an old lady’s place to pick up new clothes to change into for the next day. Since she’s been treating you with nothing but kindness, you’ve tried to pass by and helped her out at her son’s antique store too. 

Your routine is supposed to go that way and stay that way. You won’t die because you don’t like overworking yourself. You’re doing just great. 

“Hey, Y/N! Your brother is here to pick you up!”

Throwing your crewmate a blunt wave, you find your way out of the school’s theatre through a back door without shifting the expression on your face. You don’t have any siblings. And your colleagues don’t know anything about your family background either. So it, unfortunately, boils your guesses down to one. 

Despite knowing who it is and why they show up, you open your mouth to speak, “How did you find me again?”

Minho shows up with a more casual version of his working attire—instead of the fully black, monochromatic outfit, he’s changing it up with a leather jacket, white t-shirt and jeans. He leans on his shiny motorcycle smugly like he knows something that you don’t, in which you very much dislike. 

“Young lady, I’ll have you know that being an assassin helps me appear at places to do things I’m not supposed to do,” he ignores the fact that your question was purely rhetorical and chimes. 

You attempt to throw him a glare which isn’t intimidating enough. “Call me ‘young lady’ one more time and I’ll put my foot where it’s not supposed to be.” Who are you kidding? He’s a hitman when you’re just a kid. Pigs would be flying by the time you managed to physically shoo him away. 

“Am I supposed to guess where that is?”

“Enough. Go to work. Get out of here. Leave me alone.”

“I’m sorry, are you encouraging me to kill people?” Minho gasps, acting shocked and appalled. Clearly, he’s not good at it despite sharing a name with a well-known actor. 

You can only retort harshly, “Don’t put words in my mouth, you ass.”

“Come on, kid. Let’s go get something to eat.”

“Why?”

His hand automatically reaches for your forearm. “Don’t people eat for pleasure? What’s wrong with you?”

Your heart leaps in, anger perhaps, pupils shaking when he closes in on you. Upon your reaction, Minho retracts his arm immediately. He should have thought better of it; you’re probably too traumatized to be dealing with him right now. 

At that, your eyes round at the remorse on his face and you could have glared him off right then and there. But somehow, your basic human manners overcome your usual snappy self, letting you think that maybe he means no harm. Maybe he’s checking up on you one last time before going on about his life. You shouldn’t be too riled up about it just because he tried to kill you once.

Minho catches the familiar anxious gaze and sighs, “Okay, we don’t have to get something to eat. I’ll give you a ride back. Do you have somewhere to stay the night?”

It’s rotten work, whatever he’s trying to do. So you shake the harmless tingle inside your chest away before pushing past him. “No,” you answer dryly and leave. 

six.

You go to work sick the day after because you couldn’t find a place to sleep in and had to make do with napping in front of a tattoo place. Yes, napping; because when you finally shifted into your cat form and allowed your eyes to rest, the sky started pouring waterfalls. The rain had soaked into your shiny black coat, making it frizzy and luring the sickness up your spine the moment you tried finding a different haven.

No one notices. No one.

Not even the mask, the extra layer of sweatshirt nor your hushed coughs every now and then. Despite downing the cold pills early in the morning, you’re only burning up harder by the second. Oh, you know! Maybe they just don’t care, that’s it. Because calling in off for work due to a minor cold isn’t a valid reason. However, you’re still shivering on the inside and burning on the outside. Enhanced genes or any of that bullshit isn’t enough to prevent you from getting sick like any other student. Perhaps something wasn’t complete, or they’d messed up somewhere. Perhaps that’s why they’re trying to get you back.

How foolish of you to think somewhere deep down, they still want you back. With a reason as blunt as you being their child. 

Drowning in deep thoughts, you almost crash into a pile of boxes filled with equipment when your foot gets tangled to a random cable. Your eyes automatically screw shut as you wait for the impact but it never comes. Only a gentle pair of hands on your shoulders did. From that point on, you can’t hear or see properly. You don’t even have enough stamina to register who’s holding onto you so reassuringly. Whatever is happening gets hazier by the tick of a clock. It’s either you’re hallucinating or Minho is giving you that mirthful scowl of his. 

Yep, you’re definitely hallucinating.

“Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“That’s a stupid fucking question.”

A frown adorns his perplexed features as his glassy eyes skim your face. He has a really pretty smile, he should smile more, you think. His hand latches onto your burning forehead, slides down on the side of your cheek with such grace as though he’s caressing you. A grumble leaves his lips at your dreadful state. This is why he should have never let you go in the first place. 

“Come on, kid. Let me help you,” Minho says before giving your arm a light tug.

You don’t like what you just heard. “I don’t need your help.”

“You can barely walk.”

“Who said so-” As if on cue, he lets go of your arm bluntly. Caught off guard, your legs go weak without any remaining strength. You stumble and would have most likely fallen on your face if it weren’t for his grip on your arm. A gasp comes out inaudible when he hoists you upright, not planning to let go any time soon.

Minho scratches the tip of his nose with his ring finger, sniffing lightly. It seems like he’s arguing with a younger version of himself. He now knows how it felt like for those caretakers back then. 

“You did,” he says with the same smirk when you woke up in his apartment for the first time.

seven.

That’s the only time you’ve ever allowed someone to help you with something. But Minho had to constantly check on you every two seconds, not wanting you to fall asleep on his bike while it’s speeding down the highway like a gust of wind. For a moment there, he really thought you would slip away into the night as he tried to find his keys because that’s just how you are. 

Minho is no doctor, but he doesn’t go to one for a cold or a really bad fever. He can manage, he tries to convince himself. 

After testing your temperature and giving you something new to change into, he slaps a cool gel patch onto your forehead before heading off to the kitchen to cook up something. You need to be full to be able to take your medicine anyway.

In the act of resting on his bed, you decide you can’t take staying in the same spot anymore so your body perks up in a sluggish manner. The aroma of home-cooked food wakes your senses almost immediately, causing you to look over at his busy figure by the marble counter. You think it’s endearing how he hasn’t bothered to change into something more comfortable. But he instead threw an apron over his working attire and dived right into the cooking process. 

You have always felt like you were missing out on something whenever you looked at Minho. Perhaps it was how his striking eyes stared at you, whether mischievous or else. Perhaps it was how his lips were turning down most of the time with less than affectionate words. 

Or it’s plainly how he has been trying to hide that he actually cares. 

“Hungry?” He tilts his head to the side playfully once his sixth sense starts kicking in. 

You can only nod. “Yeah.” 

It takes Minho a lot of convincing yet you won’t let him feed you. Like hell, you would. Therefore, with helpless eyes, he watches you from across the table. He doesn’t laugh or get annoyed when your shaky hand drops the spoon and splatters the soup all over the table. His hand simply reaches for a piece of paper towel to clean up the mess, tossing it into the trash bin later. The same cycle repeats in comforting silence until you finish the entire bowl. The soup definitely wasn’t five-star worthy. But it’s enough to warm you up inside and out. Of course, Minho chooses to let the dishwasher do the job—his hatred for doing dishes is always at its finest. 

Then, like the other night, he has already passed out on the table with a blanket draped over his body when you step out of the shower. Instead of plopping the weight of your exhaustion onto his bed this time, your legs stay frozen like cement on the floor while your eyes take in his reclined figure under the thin fabric. Minho is sleeping with his head buried in his arms, his glasses and messy files abandoned to the side. He’s definitely not a heavy sleeper because he doesn’t snore; only feather-like breaths can be heard through this endless beat of silence. The faintly blinking light from his laptop makes you feel exposed so you push yourself toward the balcony. 

A hiss comes out hushed and quiet when your feet come into contact with the cold tile floor, bringing you across the studio apartment with small tiptoes. You peer over your shoulder, gazing at the only available source of light. Unconsciously, you ball your fists. 

With a soft sigh, you slide open the glass door and step out to bathe yourself in the comfort of the moonlight. Despite the chilling air of the night, something warm fills up your lungs like an overflowed cup of wine. It suffocates you a little until the knots in your muscles and mind loosen; a sense of relief washes over you—you haven’t felt that in years. 

Nothing makes sense. 

A hitman hired by your parents shouldn’t be putting a roof over your head, tucking you into bed nor feeding you. Minho barely knows you; and your knowledge about him as a genuine person isn’t enough to convince you that this is reality. Because after years of wandering the streets, being tossed around like trash with plenty of a series of unfortunate events, you’ve made it a habit to sink into yourself. 

So the longer you stay here, the more you’ll get attached to him. And the more you get attached, the more he takes away your default instincts to turn your back on everything.

Guilt wells up inside your chest as though it’s an old habit, a setting by default. If you ever try to go over the moderate line, you will break. 

Holding back a croaked sob, you know that once you let it go, tears will only start flooding. With a push of your muscles, you effortlessly hoist yourself up the metal railings in one go. The wind combs through your hair like an empathetic hand but you ignore it, Minho’s sweater closing in on your skin. 

You should leave, you try to urge yourself. You should jump off and dive into the depths of the night, let the allure cradle you in its emotionless arms. 

Because after all, despite all those eyes on you out there, you’re ultimately alone within. 

A foot dips out into thin air once the slump in your shoulders goes weightless. Immediately after, an incredible force pulls you by the ankle, and to the ground with a loud thud. Minho falls onto his back harshly, groaning slightly with you on top of him.

He knew what you were trying to do, he saw it the other night with his own eyes. Even under the knowledge of your capabilities, Minho still feels a rush of panic rising inside his chest. It’s only until his arms fully have a hold of you does his racing heartbeats slow down. Supernatural abilities or none, you’re still sick. And he’d be losing his mind if he woke up to an empty bed tomorrow morning. 

“Don’t ever do that again,” he speaks with trembling vocal cords, in a tone you’ve never heard before. Strict but mellow. As though there’s a race inside his mind but he’s desperately trying to keep his cool. It’s fear. The moment he’s introduced to the idea of losing you—it’s genuine fear. 

“Minho, I can’t die. Didn’t I tell you—“

His grip squeezes you in a breath tighter, cutting you off completely. “The fuck were you thinking? You can’t just jump off the balcony like that!”

“I already told you. I can’t die. Minho, I’ve done that plenty of times before,” you furrow your brows in a troubled manner, unsure of how to react. 

Minho widens his eyes at you in sheer disbelief. Shock riddles his senses and gets the best of him. So now he’s fussing with his hands, incoherent profanity leaving his lips non-stop within the next thirty seconds or so. He’s usually very calm, collected, calculating, and cold. This is very unlike him. It makes you wonder why he’s acting this way. He knows that you can’t die from jumping off a building. So what’s there to worry about? 

“You’re such an idiot! Try doing that again and I’ll kill you with my own-“

You truly don’t know how important you are to him. Frankly, he hasn’t even realized that yet. 

“I’m sorry,” you say, pulling him closer. Since you’re bad at resolving any kind of conflict, you opt for the most rational solution—going with his flow until he’s calmed down. “I won’t do that again, promise.” 

His lips fall agape at your words. He wasn’t expecting that. And even when you see how he’s reacting to your sudden change, you decide it’s no time to back down. This might be the only time you could show him that you’re at least grateful for everything he’s done. 

He’s quieted down now. And when he manages to speak again without tripping over his own words, his voice comes out as a whisper. “Hey kid,” he looks down at you, wanting to stroke your hair but drops his hand in sheer defeat. “You didn’t answer my question earlier. Why didn’t you call in sick for work?”

“Who would do my job when I’m gone? Isn’t that irresponsible?” You exhale deeply before fluttering your eyes close, finding odd peace within the rhythm of his heart. 

Minho says pointedly, “Well, you could have asked someone to help you with it.”

“No one would help me.”

“How’d you know? Have you tried asking them before?” 

Your eyes shoot open and flicker around your surroundings, you’re at a loss for words for a split second there. Heat rushes to the apples of your cheeks in shame, your head hung terribly low. “I’m not used to asking for help. I’d hate to be a burden,” you confess. 

Innocence glimmers in your eyes when you look up at him, waterlines threatening to break any second now. Your lashes are slightly damped and how lost you’re looking right now can physically draw crimson on his heart. At the end of the day, you’re just a kid. You had to grow up the hard way, with no one by your side telling you what’s right and what’s wrong, even simple things like how to react to non-verbal affection. 

Don’t let her go, Minho. Not now. Not ever.

“Then fix it now.”

“What?” You pause. 

“If you need help, ask for it. If things are hard, say it. I’ll be there to give you a hand.”

Tears well up in your eyes, croaked sobs shake your body, only prompting him to pull your closer. It’s warm. Damnit, why is it so warm? “I-I can’t sleep. Sing me something?”

“Anything?”

“Anything.”

Minho just knows that he would bleed with you even when the rain pours and the sky falls one day.

[kaizokuou-ni-naru]

The Voyage So Far: Alabasta (Part One)

east blue (1 | 2) || alabasta (1 | 2) || skypiea || water 7 || enies lobby || thriller bark || paramount war (1 | 2) || fishman island || punk hazard || dressrosa (1 | 2) || whole cake island || wano (1 | 2)

(this is a repost, i deleted the first version of it by accident cause im Idiot)

the entry into the grand line is such a great sequence. it feels like such an ending- a triumph after they’ve spent pretty much all of east blue struggling to make it here, and at the same time the beginning of a new adventure, the biggest yet, one that has yet to end a solid two decades later. they all look so happy to have made it here- it makes me smile.

whiskey peak is one of my very favorite short arcs, and i think of the whole first half of the baroque works saga its the one that hits and maintains a tone best (almost certainly because its so short, admittedly, but still). i love the repeated shots of the moon, the reveal that the cactuses are actually covered in graves, the way everything seems far too good to be true at the start and the sense of suspense that creates.

zoro’s extended fight scene in whiskey peak is so great- it’s so creative and so dynamic and the odds are stacked so high against him and yet he’s clearly having so much fun. i do miss this sort of scrappy, improvised fight, cause its largely absent from later one piece but its SO much fun to read- zoro cutting holes in rooftops for people to fall through or shoving ladders to the ground as bounty hunters try to climb them.

i’m a huge fan of fight scenes that use the environment to their fullest, and this is such a perfect example of it. it makes the fight feel a lot more real and exciting, in my opinion.

i’ve never liked zoro and luffy fighting at whiskey peak, its always struck me as frustrating and contrived and kind of out of character for both of them, but i will say that i do like how on the same page they are even when they’re trying to kill each other.

the entire first half of the baroque works saga basically serves to introduce and endear us to vivi so we’ll be invested in the alabasta conflict, and that starts here in whiskey peak, when we get our first glimpse of her actual personality rather than the act she was putting on as miss wednesday, when she bites her lip hard enough to bleed in order not to break down at igaram’s apparent death.

watching robin’s actions with the added context of later one piece is one of the great joys of rereading alabasta. she does a fantastic job of appearing to be crocodile’s most dedicated and capable and dangerous employee while quietly but consistently sabotaging his efforts; saving luffy, sparing pell, sparing igaram, not telling crocodile anything about the strawhats despite meeting them here at the very start of the saga.

little garden has some really cool and striking panels that really put the scale of things on the island, the dinosaurs and giants alike, into perspective, and i love it.

i’m a huge fan of the depth of in-universe lore one piece has. just having little details like this, quotes from books written in-universe, go so far towards making the world feel like a real and wondrous place with mysteries to be solved and details to be uncovered.

i still think sanji is firmly at his best when he’s being a sneaky bastard, and i will never cease to be delighted by how thoroughly he manages to fuck crocodile over with nothing but a phone and some quick thinking not once but twice.

i really like dorry and brogy! for minor characters who’ve only appeared in one relatively minor and inconsequential arc so far, they’re not only very fun and memorable but also leave a hell of an impact on the story, not only in usopp’s new dream of eventually visiting elbaf but also in how they and their crew just keep coming up, first in enies lobby and then even further down the line in dressrosa and whole cake island.

i’m really excited for when we eventually get to reach elbaf, because this plot thread has been so thoroughly and subtly built up over such a long time that i can’t wait to see how it ends.

this is one of my favorite little moments to really drive home how much the strawhats care about each other. they all fell asleep on the floor rather than leave nami alone.

the whole introductory scene to drum is a really good summary of who vivi is as a person and how she contrasts with luffy, and it’s something i’ve written extensively about in a past meta. here ill just settle for saying, vivi is chronically selfless, and always the sort of person to sacrifice herself for others, and these traits which save the strawhats here are the exact same ones that bring her and luffy to blows later on in alabasta.

a good thing to remember when writing characters is that traits aren’t really inherently good or bad, they’re just traits and can have positive or negative consequences depending on the situation, and i think oda is really good at this. vivi’s selflessness, usually a positive thing, becomes reckless self-sacrifice when she’s pushed to her breaking point.

‘kindness begets kindness’ is a pretty consistent theme throughout one piece, though luffy is most often on the other side of it. someone (rebecca, law, tama, etc.) does something for him without really expecting anything in return, and gets paid back a hundred times over. this is a case of the opposite- luffy helps someone offhandedly, and is later saved by their gratitude.

i think luffy wearing his fingers bloody as he climbs the drum rockies is the only time one piece has ever made me cringe back from the page. this sequence is absolutely brutal, and it’s so well-done.

the way luffy decides chopper should be his crewmate is precious, and also reminds me a little of his recruitment of sanji (ironically, given he’s talking to sanji about chopper here). in both cases he sees someone do something good without even really knowing the full extent of their abilities and makes a snap decision that they are awesome and are gonna be part of his crew, no matter what they have to say about it.

i really, really enjoy the way the drum island flashback is set up, with the cutaway right as luffy is about to punch wapol’s lights out. the cut back to that punch finally hitting when the flashback ends is by that point infinitely more satisfying, since you’ve just read chopper’s backstory and therefore have a deep and abiding desire to see wapol eat shit.

hiriluk’s final speech is definitely one of the best and most memorable quotes from one piece, and effectively the crux of one of its biggest themes. one piece is all about inherited will. all of our main cast and a solid percentage of the supporting cast bear the legacy of at least one forebear on their shoulders, from kuina to corazon to otohime. the entire setting of the story is defined by roger’s legacy.

all those people are dead, but they’re sure as hell not forgotten- how can they be, when their legacies are actively shaping the world as a direct result of their lives and influences?

i really, really like the use of flags in one piece. flags are how you declare loyalty or war in equal measure, and flying a pirate flag is a declaration that you’re choosing freedom, come what may, over the laws of the world government. it’s just a really excellent running motif, and a great symbol of what one piece’s definition of piracy means.

this scene is also one of the ones that gets even more extra weight behind it when you know luffy’s full backstory with sabo, which i love.

chopper’s recruitment scene sums up one of the reasons luffy is really great. he just doesn’t care about a lot of things other people would normally take notice of. occasionally that gets him in trouble, but other times it leads to him responding to a situation exactly right, like here. chopper is listing off all his insecurities and reasons he can’t go with the strawhats, and luffy just flat doesn’t care. he wants chopper on his crew and he knows chopper wants to be on his crew, so as far as he’s concerned, there’s no issue at all.

it really is wild that the will of D is named this far back in the story, and has consistently been referenced and built up ever since in very slight ways, through comments by characters like robin and corazon, and yet we still know basically nothing about it.

and a toast to a new crewmate!!

continued in the next post, which covers alabasta arc proper.

[ravnicaforgoblins]

Ravnica for Goblins

Alignment

Figuring out where on the spectrum of beliefs, morals, and neutrality your character falls can be a challenge. One individual’s Chaotic Good is another’s Lawful Evil. To help clarify things, most campaigns include alignment for significant NPCs, and one can often draw a line between that NPC and that alignment. This doesn’t apply to every NPC, but the more important someone is, the more they come to represent a specific section of the moral grid in a campaign.

Ravnica does this as well, with most of the alignment chart represented by a Guildmaster. This isn’t completely uniform, however, so there’s wiggle room for an NPC to lean one way or the other as fits the story. There are some pretty safe bets, however, who can be counted on to check certain boxes at all times.

Isperia of the Azorius Senate: Lawful Neutral

Isperia represents the goal of the Azorius; objective devotion to upholding the laws as they are written. She was elected to her position because of her ability to look passed right & wrong, instead focusing solely on interpreting Ravnica’s 10d6 of Psychic damage legal system for all disputes.

Lazav of House Dimir: Neutral Evil

Lazav is the Dimir at their most annoying but least murderous. Blatant disregard for everyone’s privacy, but preference for stealing, secrets, and information over assassination. Lazav infiltrates every Guild, including his own, always determined to stay several steps ahead of any potential threat. This is not to say he won’t kill people if necessary, but his is a cold, “bloodstained calculus” methodology. It’s never personal.

Rakdos of the Cult of Rakdos: Chaotic Evil

On this plane, Rakdos is the living embodiment of Chaotic Evil, a title he takes very seriously. It’s just about the only thing he takes seriously, as he prefers to live without rules and have everyone else do the same. Unrestrained hedonism and mayhem are his bread & butter. You do what you want, whatever you want, whenever you want, however you want, regardless of what anyone or anything else says. No restrictions, no inhibitions, no hesitation. Encouraging this kind of destructive chaos in the streets is the only thing keeping Rakdos from embracing more orthodox Chaotic Evil behavior of slaughtering millions, enslaving thousands, and bowing to no one.

The Obzedat of the Orzhov Syndicate: Lawful Evil

Hard to believe there can be something worse than an actual Demon given permission to encourage every sin imaginable, but that is what the Ghost Council are. The Obzedat exist to stretch, bend, and twist every law designed to maintain order, neutrality, or justice so as to benefit themselves. What’s worse is how the Orzhov play innocent when they do it. Unlike the Dimir or the Rakdos who accept and even embrace society’s interpretation of their actions, the Orzhov refuse to be seen as anything but humble, spiritual, gracious public servants. The very antithesis of what they actually are; arrogant, miserly, manipulative bastards. They will point out exactly which laws they are not breaking, which laws there is insufficient evidence to prove they are breaking, and which laws prevent you from punching them in the face right now.

Trostani of the Selesnya Conclave: Neutral Good

If there’s one thing to be said for Selesnya, it’s that they are rarely the problem. The Conclave is perfectly content to keep to their fields & forests most of the time and focus solely on building up their own Guild. In a city where every Guild has a problem with every other Guild, Selesnya is the only one who at least tries to get along with everyone else. They don’t tend to get involved in matters that don’t concern them, but theirs is always a safe haven for those who seek it. Trostani is made up of three dryads representing Harmony, Life, and Order. You don’t get much more Neutral Good than that. The only problem is that Trostani basically never leave their Guildhall, so their influence only spreads so far. The reason they can live so peacefully is because so little of the chaotic city life overlaps into theirs.

Besides them, everyone has wiggle room and gray area to move around in. Both Niv-Mizzet and Borborygmos are canonically Chaotic Neutral, but with their most prominent personality traits being vanity & anger, respectively, the “Neutral” part of that can go out the window quick. Still, almost every Guild has at least a semblance of a position somewhere on the chart to start from. You can basically count on a member of each Guild to be at least:

Azorius Senate: Lawful

This is the Guild that writes the laws of Ravnica, after all. They literally draw their power from this ancient legal code, so it makes sense that, whether an Azorius leans more towards Good, Evil, or Neutrality, they do so lawfully.

Boros Legion: Good

If the Azorius follow the intellectual letter of the law, the Boros follow the passionate spirit for which said law was originally written. Justice, not legal-ese. Sometimes the law is good enough, but sometimes it fails its citizens. A Boros should be an inspiring force for Good, whether Lawful or Chaotic depends on the individual.

House Dimir: Neutral

The best a Dimir operative can hope to achieve, morally speaking, is neutrality. If you are working for this Guild, you are lying & stealing. Odds are you are infiltrating another Guild to find/steal information to report back to your superior(s). Not every Dimir agent does this willingly, however. Maybe a character only became a Dimir operative after finding out their mentor was. Maybe a character had nowhere else to turn and no one else to depend on. Maybe they just needed House Dimir’s connections to get them close enough to someone in another Guild who wronged them. Whatever the motivation, cling to that gray area of neutrality like your life depends on it. It’s all you’ve got.

Gruul Clans: Chaotic

Gruul are many things. “Lawful” is not one of them. If you’re a member of a Gruul Clan, you’ve definitely got a bit of a temper on you and a strong disregard for authority. Now, a Gruul can absolutely be a force for good, or, conversely, evil. Maybe you joined the Gruul after your ancestral home was bulldozed over for a smelly Izzet facility. Maybe you had a mental breakdown after decades of trying to uphold law in a city where the laws mean jack shit unless there’s a guy in blue sitting at his desk. Maybe you got tired of planting trees and getting stepped on. Maybe you don’t like the pretentiousness of so-called “artists”. Maybe you just like hitting things. Whatever your reason, the Gruul will welcome another anarchist.

Golgari Swarm: Chaotic/Evil/Neutral

The Golgari Swarm are the first Guild where you’re really going to find a lot of diversity in alignment. Some definitely fall into the chasm of Chaotic Evil Necromancers, others stand firmly in the fields of True Neutral Rot Farmer, and some idly wander between the two. Necromancy is pretty normal in Golgari society, and “Evil” can be considered a harsh word to describe it. It’s definitely more normalized in the Undercity than it is on the surface. A lot of typically Evil behavior is like that for the Golgari, lest we forget that this society of giant bugs, necromancers, zombies, medusa, etc also run the sewage system and food stamps program for the city. That said, there are definitely Golgari with sufficient ambition/motivation to become ready-made Big Bads. What is a Lich, after all, but a wizard who says, “No, I’m too important to die!”

Izzet League: Chaotic

If there’s one predictable aspect of the Izzet, it’s that they are unpredictable. For a Guild whose founding principle is “I wonder what would happen if....”, it’s best to accept that you’ll never be Lawful. Your job, as it is, is to look at laws (nature, physics, etc) and poke at them with electrodes to see what happens. Your focus will always be on things that haven’t been written down yet, as opposed to what already has. It’s almost literally impossible to be Lawful and Izzet for that reason alone. As far as Good, Evil, and Neutral go; that’s up to the individual. This experiment could replicate food so we never have to eat Golgari rations again! Or it could replicate essential personnel to prevent understaffing! Or, it could even replicate.... ME (cue maniacal laughter).

Orzhov Syndicate: Lawful

The Orzhov, like the Azorius, draw their power and influence from the laws of Ravnica. Evil is expected, though not mandatory, but Lawful is a requirement. An Orzhov who doesn’t know their way around Ravnica’s laws is a loose end, and the Orzhov don’t allow loose ends to jeopardize their schemes & ambitions. One can absolutely be a Lawful Neutral Orzhov, also known as an Accountant, but such individuals rarely find their way into a life of adventure. A Lawful Good Orzhov can exist, but your greatest adversary will be the large majority of your Guild who sees you as a potential threat to their illicit activities. In which case, you’ll want to know those laws even better than they do.

Cult of Rakdos: Chaotic

Chaos is mandatory, evil is encouraged. By “Evil”, we mean “things people tell you are Evil”. Anything you would do while drunk you should be able to do at all times! There’s really only three rules in the Cult of Rakdos:

Rule #1, Rakdos is #1

Rule #2, JUST DO IT

Rule #3, Don’t be boring

Being Neutral breaks Rule 3, being Good breaks Rule 2 and/or 3, and being Lawful breaks all 3 rules. Which reminds me of the fourth rule:

Rule #4, NEVER break Rule #1

Truthfully, being Chaotic Good or Chaotic Neutral is perfectly fine as long as you don’t impede on someone else’s hedonism without a reason, or lack thereof. As long as you’re being free & crazy, that’s what really matters.

Selesnya Conclave: Good

As stated with Trostani, Selesnya is a pretty consistent force of Good, if nothing else. They don’t really do hate, you know? Life in the Conclave is pretty uniformly Good, so why make trouble? Why can’t everyone just be Good? In short; ‘cause they don’t wanna, none of your business, go hug a tree, and/or because fire is FUN. Lawful fits some individuals but can just get in the way for others. Neutral is pretty solid but some things must call you to act. Chaotic is if you really want to embrace being a Nature Warrior in a planet-sized cityscape. Selesnya is the Guild for goodie two-shoes, as if that’s a bad thing.

Simic Combine: Any

The Simic Combine is the one Guild that can honestly fall anywhere on the alignment chart. The Guild started out as Doctors, Naturalists, and preservers of life. Now it also operates large-scale bioengineering. You can have a Lawful Good Simic Paladin committed to preserving life and health, a True Neutral Simic Forcemage (Druid) dedicated to living a simple life bolstering plant growth, or a Chaotic Evil Simic Wizard who has decided on everyone’s behalf that flippers and gills are now mandatory. Just like science can be used for great Good, great Evil, or mundane routine, the Simic Combine can turn its experiments to any purpose, depending on the individual. And whereas the Izzet are firmly Chaotic, the Simic have the foresight to think ahead before they try an experiment. You can be anything you want in the Simic Combine, just plan it out.

[stagandsteer]

Complete transcript of the Wonderland interview, by Catherine Santino, below the cut :)

In 1993, the year in which Freeform’s new thriller series Cruel Summer opens, actor Froy Gutierrez was yet to be born. Chat rooms and beepers, just two of the symbols of 90’s culture featured in the show, were absent in Gutierrez's own childhood. Instead, the 22 year old grew up among the endless, glowing feeds of social media — and the inevitable pressures that they create.

“There’s a kind of self-awareness that comes from growing up with the internet, which everyone in our cast did,” Gutierrez, who stars in the upcoming series, tells me over Zoom — his boyish charm tangible across the screen. “We’re all technically Gen Z or like, older Gen Z. And so you have to unburden yourself from curating a persona online.”

Due to the dizzying evolution of technology in the past two decades, Gutierrez and I had drastically different experiences with the internet growing up — even though he’s only seven years my junior. I fondly remember a time without the prevalence of social media, while Gutierrez was born into an era where internet presence was not only common, but expected.

Like most of Gutierrez’s peers, the actor was active on social media from a young age, but his presence has quietened over the years — even with 1.7 million instagram followers. “If there’s a general consensus on the internet of a certain readership or viewership, you know about it, because people tweet about it directly to you,'' he says. “There’s a kind of lumping in of the character you’re playing with who you are, that people do. I don’t know if it’s intentional. It’s probably just a human thing, but that happens. And it can be hard not to internalize what you read about yourself, you know? Words have power.”

In 2017, Gutierrez appeared on supernatural MTV drama Teen Wolf, a show with a massive internet fandom. Suddenly, fan theories and commentaries about his character, Nolan Holloway, came in droves, something that the young actor wasn’t necessarily prepared for. “I was still a teenager,” he says. “Around that time, you're an adult, but you’re still figuring things out. So I learned where to set my boundaries because I didn’t know where they were beforehand.”

When Cruel Summer came around, Gutierrez assumed he would be portraying the “desirable young male” he was used to auditioning for. “The first time I read the character, it definitely felt like an archetype. When I auditioned for it, I walked in and was very much myself, and Michelle Purple and Jessica Biel responded very well to it.” However, after he got the role and production ramped up, he was pleasantly surprised. “It didn’t really hit me that they were wanting to take him in such a unique direction until I showed up for wardrobe one day to do my first fitting for the pilot,” Gutierrez recalls. “I looked at the mood board for Jamie and it was like, young Heath Ledger, Keanu Reeves and Kurt Cobain. And I was like ‘Oh shit, I need to step my game up,’” he laughs. “I couldn’t get by doing the same thing that I’ve always done when it comes to characters like that.”

Cruel Summer takes place over the course of three years — ‘93, ‘94, and ‘95 — showing splices of each year in every episode. Produced by Jessica Biel, Tia Napolitano, and Michelle Purple, it centres around the kidnapping of a teenage girl and the fallout of the crime in her community in Skylin, Texas. Gutierrez plays Jamie Henson, the boyfriend of the missing girl, Kate. In her absence, a quiet nerd named Jeanette suddenly rises the social ranks and assumes Kate’s place — including dating Jamie. When Kate returns, Jeanette is suspected to be involved in her disappearance, throwing Jamie into some seriously challenging circumstances. His character could easily be a one-dimensional archetype — and truthfully, I expected him to be — but Cruel Summer took the opportunity to explore toxic masculinity and its widespread impact.

We see Jamie caught in the middle of conflict, unsure how to respond to a traumatic event that certainly no teenager expects to be faced with. He’s not a hero, but he’s not a villain either. It’s unclear whether we’re supposed to root for Jamie or not, which makes him that much more interesting to watch. “He talks a lot about his desire to protect the people around him, regardless of whether or not they asked him to protect them,” Gutierrez says of his character. “He kind of superimposes his own idea of what the people around him need. In order to maintain the peace of the people around him, he kind of robs the people around him of their agency. It’s just a really fascinating character to play in that way.”

Gutierrez has also been able to explore the ethics of true crime in a time when the genre is exploding in popularity. Though Cruel Summer is fictional, it questions the effect that public opinion can have on criminal cases — and perhaps more importantly — the well-being of the people involved. “When it comes to the investigation of a crime, you have to weigh the good it can bring into the world versus the bad it can bring. Or making one person seem suspect, or airing the dirty laundry of a private citizen for the viewership of loads of people.”

Despite his eloquent reflections on Jamie throughout our conversation, it’s clear that Gutierrez doesn’t take himself too seriously. He speaks into the camera like we’re old friends on FaceTime, and when my dog unexpectedly jumps into my frame, he gushes excitedly and asks what her name is. He’s able to laugh at himself one minute and share poignant truths the next. It’s refreshing, much like Cruel Summer.

Another likely contributor to the show’s authenticity? The fact that the cast was kept in the dark when it came to overarching plot points. Instead of knowing the show’s trajectory ahead of time, the actors would receive scripts for the next episode while they were filming — and they were subject to change. “We didn’t know where it was going,” Gutierrez says. “And we were told, “‘This might happen here, or this might happen there.’ And it would shift around.”

Without foresight into their character’s arc, the actors have no choice but to focus only on where they were in that moment — a difficult task when a single episode spans three very different years. Gutierrez faced an even greater challenge, as, unlike the two female leads, his character didn’t undergo any drastic physical transformations over the three years.

“I didn’t really compartmentalise the character,” he explains. “I kind of thought of the different years as different phases in my own life. The first year, ‘93, was a complete absence of any regret. You’re still very young, I was just thinking of like, a complete golden retriever,” he laughs. “A 16-year old boy who just wants the best and isn’t aware. ‘94 is me right before I made the decision to go to therapy, where I was making all these bad decisions and I didn’t know why. And then ‘95 was a whole desire to wrestle with those things and really look at yourself in the mirror and take accountability.”

Gutierrez didn’t only infuse personal experience into his behind-the-scenes work — some aspects made it onto the screen. The actor, whose father is Mexican, grew up spending time between Mexico and Texas and is a native Spanish speaker. Because Cruel Summer is set in Texas, Gutierrez suggested creating a similar background for Jamie.

“I was talking with Tia Napolitano, the show-runner, and I was like, ‘Hey, you know what would be really cool? What if the character is half-Mexican, too?’” Gutierrez says. “And she's like, ‘Oh, yeah, let’s write it in the script.’ And I got to write a couple lines in Spanish, which is really cool. [Jamie] could have been this mould of a cool, likeable jock. And then he ended up being this very nuanced human being, which is awesome.”

Though he is learning to appreciate all parts of his heritage, Gutierrez hasn’t always embraced his identity. “I remember feeling like I might have been not American enough for America, and not Mexican enough for Mexico,” he says. “And I remember having a bit of time in which I had an accent in both languages. Even my name — in Mexico I always went by ‘Froylan’, which is my full name. And then in the U.S., I went by Froy, because I thought it would be easier for other people to say.”

He continues: “I identify as Latino, but I”m also very wary of auditioning for Latino roles because I’m aware I don’t look like a typical Latino person. I don’t want to be someone that you can just sub in for that role, when I’m really white and blonde. And so whenever I do get a role like this, one where he’s not written to be any particular direction and we’re able to collaborate, I’m able to inject some of myself in there. So it’s been really cool to embrace all sides of my history.”

But of course, as is true for Gutierrez, Jamie’s cultural background is only a small part of who he is. Cruel Summer is committed to portraying him as a nuanced character that breaks the moulds of masculinity while tackling complex inner conflict. “Living in his shoes and walking in them, a big question that came up for me was, ‘What is the difference between guilt and shame? [Jamie]’s coping mechanism was terrible and unhealthy, and caused more pain for the people around him. But at the same time, the shame that he internalized made it worse for him. One thing I really learned, is that shame is about yourself and beating yourself up. And guilt is about taking accountability and apologising, moving forward without expecting the relationship to come back. It's just about trying to heal what happened and then moving on, on the terms that the other person sets. It’s not about you, and I think that’s what the character learns throughout the show.”

[the-silentium]

The Lost Future Pt.1

Masterlist   Part 2

Pairing: soulmate!Five Hargreeves x Reader

Summary: Soulmate AU where the soulmates share their wounds. || Along with your brother, you are transported into the 1960's with a bunch of kids you don't know. Turns out they are trying to stop the 2019 apocalypse and you are playing a key part of it.

Words: 4590 words

Warnings: Violence, blood, swears, racism. 

A/N: Hi readers! This fic' was too long to be posted in one part, so I divided it in three distinct part. The next part will come out pretty quickly, seeing as it it already written but not proof read yet. Please, let me some comebacks in the comments or send me a request!

Groans erupted from your throat, a clear indication that your peaceful slumber has been disrupted by some unknown pull. Your heavy eyelids fluttered open with difficulty, the need to sleep omnipresent in your system. A bright blue light forced you to squint while tears formed slowly thanks to its harsh brightness. Before your foggy brain could comprehend what was happening, the glow intensified in a blinding flash and the sudden feeling of free-falling gave you nausea. 

The fall was brutal, your whole body crashed on the ground like an inanimate puppet. Your hands flew to your face with a pained cry, covering the painful spot that was your nose in an attempt to soothe the suffering nerves. To say that you were confused was an understatement. One moment, you were peacefully asleep and the next you were… where? You removed your hands from your face, a pounding sensation still beating under your skin and shrieked as your eyes landed on a disgustingly big spider weaving its web between two oversized blades of grass. You jumped aside, eager to put distance between yourself and the arachnid, when your eyes met the magnificent blue sky, as clear as ever, with the sun nearing its peak. The warmth of its rays touched delicately your cheeks achieving to bring a smile to your lips. It has been a really long time since you last sunbathed and today would have been a perfect day to do it if it weren’t for the strange situation you just found yourself in. 

At the foot of a nearby tree laid a brown-haired boy cursing under his breath. He must have scratched his knee somewhere, looking as he was slouched over himself trying to alleviate the pain as you did moments ago. Your eyes traveled up, analyzing the familiar form. His outfit resembled yours, his tousled hair the same shade as yours… You jumped to your feet in a hurry when his green gaze met yours. 

"Roo!" You exclaimed, running toward your twin. The teenager only had a second to prepare himself before his body was tackled to the ground by an incredible force. His yelp made you laugh before he pushed you aside, adding another fall on the list of today's activities. Once he got a good look at you, Andrew’s eyes widen. Some tears formed in his eyes, but before they could escape and run freely down his cheeks, he threw himself at your neck, hugging you with all his might. 

"Y/N!" His strangled voice was muffled by your neck. Your arms wrapped around his body, mirroring his grip. "I missed you too, Roo," You whispered in his neck. Finally, you reunited with the only person in the whole world that understood you more than yourself. 

Pushing you at arm length, Andrew’s eyes scanned you like an awk. "How is that possible?" He mumbled, eyebrows furrowing. "You-" Your laugh made him jump and clearly, he was beginning to think that you came back missing some brain cells. Patting his shoulder, a smirk stretched your lips. 

"Don't sound so disappointed." You flicked his forehead, just like you used to do when you were kids and you were teasing him. "I might think that you don't like me." 

Andrew groaned and pushed you off. Getting up snickering, you brushed off the dirt on your clothes. You had missed it, this perpetual teasing. You both could bicker and argue all you wanted, but you would always recover in no time, never holding a grudge against the other without having to talk about it. 

"What the fuck!" Andrew's yell made you look up. He pulled his clothes forward, examining and patting his body like he never saw it before. "No, no, no… Why am I thirteen again?" His head shot up, his green gaze back on you showing his confusion. "What did you do?" 

Taking a step back, you put a hand on your chest. "What did I do?" You replied in a defensive tone. "I didn't do shit! Four minutes ago I was-" Your sentence died as your eyes caught on your surroundings. Old cars you’ve had only seen in movies rolled on the streets, ladies walked by wearing old fashioned dresses of various flashy colors and various patterns, different stores displayed proudly their retro signs for all to see. Were you in one of the small American towns that were stuck in time? 

"What the…" You heard your brother mutter in sync with yourself. The thought to pinch yourself passed your mind, after all, you did have some really weird dreams recently with all the stuff that happened in your life. Or maybe you watched too much Supernatural in the last months.  

Turning around to try and make sense of the scenery, you noticed high buildings beyond the line of trees. If they were anything to go by, you would say that you ended up in a urban park in some random city. The transportation method was still unknown, but that was something you could figure out later. 

Women in colorful dresses walked slowly talking to each other on a stone walkway. Some of them pushed baby carriers around while others looked in the twins direction, a hand flying to their mouth, eyes growing as wide as saucers. Looking down, you felt your heart accelerate. You were wearing a pair of black basketball shorts along with a light grey tank top that said: "If I was a bird, I know who I'd shit on". Clearly, you didn’t have the proper attire for this period of time. Andrew was in the same predicament as yourself, with his basketball shorts and his "I play hockey because punching people for no reason is frowned upon" shirt. 

Getting a hold of Andrew's wrist, you started to walk away from the outraged women who seemed to be harshly whispering between them, their manicured fingers pointed at them. Would it have been your own modern age town, you would have assumed entirely your choice of clothing, but here, where you didn’t know jack shit about how the people would react? You kept it in and walked away. 

"Hey! You two from the 21st century!" Shocked, you stopped in your tracks and turned to meet a brown-haired boy running in your direction. His school uniform was vaguely familiar, although you couldn’t put your finger on where you knew it from. "You guys got transported too!" The boy finally reached them. He was all smile and his bubbly presence made you relax immediately. You noticed six other kids wearing the same uniform walking after their comrade. It reassure you that the majority of the group seemed as lost as your brother and yourself. Maybe you could stick with them for a while. You noticed that they had an unconscious girl with them. You wondered if her state was caused by a fall or by another unknown reason. 

"Transported? What are you talking about?" Andrew stepped closer, positioning himself right beside you. He was three inches taller than you and surpassed the new boy by a good one inch. 

Bubbly guy turned around, pointing vaguely at one of his approaching friend. "Five time-traveled us here. In the past! So we could stop the a-," a hand on Bubbly's mouth prevented him from saying more. 

Before you had time to question the sanity of Five's parents for choosing such a name or ask how one could time-travel back in time, cold blue eyes glared holes in Bubbly's head while maintaining pressure on his mouth. "Shut it. We already have enough attention on us like that." True to his words, people were watching their little group intently, some of them stopping in their tracks to openly stare at them. 

The steady rhythm in your ribcage was quickly disturbed by the harsh blue gaze falling on you. A beat or two were skipped, your body too entranced to remember that this muscle was indeed vital to your survival. "We can't talk here." A smirk stretched his lips when his eyes trailed down to your tank top. For a completely unknown reason your body answered to his apparent approval by creating some butterflies in your belly. Swiftly, he removed his jacket and handed it to you. 

Eyebrows furrowed, you stared at him, then the jacket and back at him. "I'm not cold thank you." You said confused. Rolling his eyes, Smug Face kept handing you the piece of clothing. "If you walk around looking like that, you might get arrested. People in this decade aren't that open yet." He clarified in an impatient tone.

You didn’t know much about "this decade", but you can feel that he was definitely right. The people around seemed extremely judgemental and unappreciative of your appearance. Sighing, you uncrossed your arms and took the jacket, making sure to not touch the boy's finger in the process. The last thing you needed was your heart stopping indefinitely because it short-circuited at his contact. 

"Fine." The black jacket was surprisingly comfortable and light on your shoulders. The coffee scent that lingered on it was quite enjoyable and you found yourself gripping the slightly too long sleeves. Looking down, it seemed like you were wearing a weird looking black dress. If you kept your legs close to each other, that is. Smug Face looked satisfied of your appearance and nodded. His mouth opened to speak again, only to be cut by another. 

"Wait. How do we know we can trust you?" Oh, Andrew. Always there to protect you from any harm. Speaking of which, his right arm found its place on your shoulders while his query gaze was fixed to the unconscious girl in one of the boys’ arms. 

At that, Smug Face stared at him, seemingly getting colder. "Really?" He rolled his eyes once again and scoffed, turning around. He took off toward a street, muttering to the others to follow him. Some of his companions followed right behind him after sending them curious and apologetic glances. Bubbly and a girl stayed behind, waiting for the newcomers. 

The girl sighed and offered her hand to shake. "I'm Allison. Sorry about Five, he's a bit rude."  Bubbly scoffed at that, muttering something about a grouchy old man. "The girl is our sister, Vania. She fell unconscious before we time-traveled. Look, I know you don't have to, but you can trust us." Deep inside you, you knew that they were trustworthy. Anyway, if you were proven to be wrong, all you had to do was use your power and get the hell out of there with Andrew. Smiling, you shook Allison's hand before pointing to your brother. 

"That's Andrew, I'm Y/N. And don't worry," You pointed at the nosey people still watching their little group, "between the old-timers and you guys, I choose you guys." 

Allison chuckled while Bubbly, who presented himself as Klaus, cheered and led the way to catch up with their siblings. 

The walk to a small isolated house took a good 20 minutes. In this time, you talked with the rest of the group, getting to know them a bit. 

You learned that the familiarity you found in their uniform was caused by their worldwide superheroes reputation. You remember watching the news one day, 6 of them displaying in front of a crowd, proud faces daring someone or something to come at them and try and beat them. You remember feeling proud of being born on the same day as them. You were all special after all. 

However, they weren't as invincible as you once thought in your young innocence. Apparently, they failed in preventing an apocalypse in 2019 and ended up travelling through time to survive, which failed once again because you all were back in your early teen age. The idea of being stuck in the past for your whole life was weird to say the least and you hoped that you would find a way to get back home. 

Most importantly though, you learned that Klaus was your favorite out of the group. He was carefree, almost too much sometimes, and was not afraid to be himself. You laughed along with him during a big part of the walk, the both of you mocking the outraged faces of the 1963 grown-ups when they got a good look of Andrew's shirt or Allison's too short skirt for their time. 

Luther clearly didn't trust the two addition to their little group. He shot some glances your and Andrew's way from time to time, clearly trying to judge if you were a threat or not. At one point, he asked Allison to walk with him. It may have sound innocent but you knew he wanted to protect her from you. You didn't need a power to find out, his eyes were talkative enough. 

Diego was at least approachable. He didn't talk much, but didn't reject you either. He seemed funny on first glance and you hoped that you would have a chance to talk to him more. 

Finally, there was Five. For you, he was a total mystery.  He didn't turned around once, too concentrated to get to his destination and not once did he answer his siblings when they asked where he was leading them. He totally ignored the people watching him like he had two heads, sometimes glaring at those who were too close to him, but mainly kept his eyes right ahead. 

You reached a cute little yellow house with rows of beautiful purple flowers framing the door. Pansies you think they are named. You were sure that there would be a lovely old lady greeting you at the door with a nice smell of cookies floating in the air, but to your disappointment, a musty smell gripped you at the throat instead, along with dust entering your lungs. 

You coughed a bit just like everyone who entered before you minus Five. He seemed immune to his environment, still walking like he hadn't reached his destination yet. 

"Five, the hell are we doing here?" Diego's voice echoed through the silent rooms. You wandered into the little living room, barely dodging Klaus who just threw himself on the first couch he saw. A cloud of dust erupted of the old cushion, like an explosion suffocating the brunette who quickly got back on his feet. You laughed at his antics when a hand got a hold of your arm and pulled you toward a door. 

"Come on Panda. They went this way." Andrew released you when you followed after him. The door lead to a basement, where everyone was gathered around Five. 

"Thank you for finally joining us." The sarcasm caught your attention, your eyes travelling to the source only to find his gaze on you, reanimating the flutters in your belly. Damn butterflies, you'll need to find a fly swatter soon. "Now we can concentrate on stopping the apocalypse." You froze. The what now? 

"The hell?" "Did you just say a-" both yours and Andrew's voice died in your throat when Five lifted the corner of a carpet, throwing it at your feet and gripped two wood planks. If he hadn't lifted the two planks like he did, you would never have thought that they were movable. 

"Holy shit! You have your own batcave?" Klaus jumped before Five in the hole in the ground. Five followed suit, threatening Klaus of mutilation if he touched anything. Luther moved his unconscious sister in his arms and entered the hole. Your curiosity to see what was down there got the best of you, so you did one step toward the hole before you were stopped in your tracks. 

"Woa. We can't go down there. We don't know them." Roo's uneasiness was clear. He didn't trusted them and being stuck underground wasn't helping. "No offense," he watched Allison and Diego, who stayed behind waiting for them, "but you guys might be killers for all we know!" 

A blur passed in your field of vision, passing under your brother's chin and hitting the wall. 

"Don't you fucking dare call us killers. We save people." With each words, Diego got closer to Andrew, growing the tension in the room as he went. 

"And you think that they'll trust us when you throw knives at them?" Allison grabbed her sibling's arm and pulled him back, away from Andrew's face. 

"They have to if they want to come back from here." Five's voice coming from behind you made you jump. You hasn't seen him exit the hole nor did you hear his steps. "And we don't have time to waste. The clock is ticking." His tone let no place to negotiate. He was losing patience. And fast. 

"To stop the apocalypse?" The hope of returning home, to your family and friends was relieving. If you could do something to save them in 2019, you would definitely do everything to make sure that happened. 

"Yes and if we want to have a chance to do it, we must start to plan. Now." A sigh on your left made you relax. Andrew finally admitted defeat, allowing you to follow Five who disappeared under the ground again. 

You stopped in awe at the underground living room. A bunker. The perfect hideout to plan to stop an apocalypse. 

…………………………….

Your brain felt like it was going to explode at any second. After Five had thrown spare clothes to everyone, the Hargreeves had taken an hour or so to explain what happened in 2019 and you were now trying to elaborate a plan against an organisation named the Commission. Sadly, every ideas were quickly rejected by an impatient and highly irritated Five. 

Klaus' whines about his empty stomach was getting on the boy's nerves for the last half hour, but you couldn't stop yourself before finally agreeing and proposing to go get some take out. Thinking with an empty stomach was too much to ask for and by the looks of it, Five would never be satisfied by anyone's idea. 

Cheers resonated in the room making you chuckles while Five rolled his eyes. 

"I'm coming with!" Klaus cheerfully tapped your shoulder and lead the way out of the bunker. 

"Me too! You'll need someone to "pay" for the food." Allison chuckled along with you. You shot a questioning glance at your brother, only to be answered with a shake of his head. You knew he would probably use this time to snoop around the bunker and get to know who he was plotting with.  Just as you were about to exit the house with your 2 new friends, a blue flash on your right caught your attention. 

"I'm coming." Every damn time! The second you hear that damn melodious voice, your heartbeat accelerates! Were you ill? Was your body trying to tell you something? Warn you against him? 

"Believe me, old brother dear! We really don't want to know!" Hands moving in the air like a lunatic, Klaus turned on himself to face you, walking backwards. You barely had time to slap a hand on your mouth to stop yourself from laughing at the boy. "You just want coffee, say it." He added on a more serious tone. 

"I'm here to make sure that you newbies don't alter the timeline more than it already is." Allison ignored Five's irritated comment and nudged your arm. 

"Hey, sorry about Diego earlier. He really takes his vigilante work seriously." You shrugged it off, it wasn't a big deal to you. You were a bit carefree but not careless. You had good instincts and you knew that you could trust your guts telling you that they were good allies. 

"It's fine. Sorry for my brother, Roo really crossed a line, calling you killers like that." You paused, trying to find the right words to describe your situation. "He's just really confused. One minute we are relaxing at home and the next we are back in our teenage body in an old american city." You frown, looking at the ground. A delicate hand found your shoulder and squeezed softly. 

"I forgot to ask!" You jumped at Klaus' sudden exclamation. "Where are you guys from? I can't place your accent!" 

You scratched your neck, an embarrassed smile forming on your face. "Sorry for the accent." A nervous laugh escaped your lips. "My brother and I are French Canadian. We grew up learning French and English, but I'm way more fluent in French as it's my mother tongue." You were not embarrassed of your country in the slightest. You loved Canada, it was just that a certain piercing blue pair of eyes was glued to you ever since you left the house and they started making you nervous. 

Klaus gasped before reaching your side to throw an arm around your shoulder and pull your smaller form into his side. "Our polite neighbors! You don't have to worry, your English is impéccable so far!" You giggled, happy to know that your nationality won't be an issue. 

"So you were in Canada and you still time-travelled?" Five's sudden question surprised you. During the whole way to the nearest diner, he had remained silent, listening and analysing. His incredulous tone made you perplexed. Was it wrong? You opened the door to the others before answering the question. 

"Looks like i-" A fist hit the counter in front of you, making you jump. Your heartbeat accelerated for a second, the silence in the diner deafening to your ears and rising your nervosity. Every pair of eyes in the room was directed at you, more so at Allison. You perceived her anxiety and immediately, your hand found hers in a weak attempt to appease her. The way her fingers tightly interlaced with yours despite her keeping a strong exterior alerted you that she was shrinking inside. 

The looks on the patrons faces made you sick. You recognized those looks. Disgust. Anger. Superiority. For a moment, you had forgotten that a lot of people in these years hated the people of color and that they suffered great injustices. 

The clerk behind the counter with his haughty air, pointed a sign behind him. The sight made you gnash. Whites only. Oh how you wanted to show him how colourful he could get if you hit him hard enough. You opened your mouth at the same moment as Klaus, but the both of you were interrupted by none other than Five. 

"We're leaving." Your eyes went wide, quickly turning to him to yell at him instead, but were cut off by his hand pulling you out harshly along with Allison. The second you were outside, you pulled your hand back as hard as you could, nearly elbowing Klaus in the stomach when Five let you go. 

"Why are you letting them win?" You spat. Some patrons were still eyeing you through the front window, contentment dripping from their features. You nearly decided to get back inside and speak your mind. 

"There's nothing we can do about that. Drop it." Your blood was still boiling in your veins. You wanted justice. You wanted to punch the clerk's and patron's smug faces until their thick skull understood that people of color or not, everyone had the same rights. You were all humans. You were all sentient beings. 

"It's fine. Let's go." Allison's weak smile didn't even reached her eyes. As much as you hated to, you dropped it nevertheless. Pushing the matter wouldn't do anyone any good so you followed Five towards another diner, your morale at its lowest. He and Klaus went inside to get the food while you waited with Allison outside. You two settled on a bench near the diner so the boys would find you easily and started softly passing rocks at each other with your feet.  

"You must miss them." You frowned at the affirmation. 

"Who?" 

"Your soulmate and your family." Her sad eyes met yours. It was at this moment that you realised that she looked utterly tired. It pulled at your heart to see her in this state. 

"I never met my soulmate. But I do miss my family a lot." You recalled your mom who stroked your hair when your weren't feeling good, your dad who would always figure out a way to cheer you up and your dog who would always be a sunshine and sleep over your covers to keep you warm whenever you felt cold. Lowering your head because of the tears forming in your eyes, you blinked several times to subtly kept them at bay. Years of hiding your tears caused you to improve your own technique and become an expert. 

"You'll meet him, one day." You slowly nod your head, keeping your gaze low. "You say "never" like it was definitive, but when we get back in 2019, there's still a chance that you'll find him." She pat your shoulder, smiling softly. You returned her smile. You were about to ask about her own soulmate when something shiny caught your eyes. The sun reflected off a metallic surface, which you quickly attributed to a knife. 

Before you could register what happened, your brain forced your hand to move and grab the knife in a strong grip. The pain was excruciating. The feeling of a thousand paper cuts all happening at once, cutting through your flesh and leaving a burning feeling in your palms and fingers made you grunt. As much as you wanted to drop the knife, you couldn't. Because if you were to release your grip on the weapon, the moron who tried to stab your friend would get what he wanted. 

Only when he pulled back on the knife, cutting deeper into your flesh, did you screamed and fell on your knees. You heard your name but you were too focussed trying to keep the pain at bay, squeezing your wrist in vain. The burning intensified, along with your heartbeat resonating into your hand. A soft touch on your back brought you back to reality. The moron had apparently took out, leaving you with Allison, Klaus and a disheveled Five. 

"Wait, you're cut too?" 

You couldn't concentrate. Your head along with your hand were pounding, blood pooling between your fingers and tainting your newly acquired old pants. For a moment, all you could see was the deep red of your blood, slowly oozing from the deep gashes in your palm and phalanges. It was mesmerizing and terrifying. You haven't been hurt to the point of bleeding in… years? It wasn't something you missed in the slightest. 

Then your world became blue. The most beautiful and calming shade of blue you've ever seen. It happened in a flash and suddenly you were back in the bunker under the yellow house. No more calming blue, no more street, no more cars. No more bubble. 

"What the hell happened!?" Andrew's body filled your vision while his beaming voice filled your ears. 

"Stop screaming. That's unnecessary." You were certain that if Five hadn't knelt on your side and showed you his hand, Andrew would have definitely jumped at his throat and strangled him. Your eyes widened when you noticed the blood on his hand. Both your cuts were 100% identical. "That explain why you got teleported from Canada." The tiniest of smile graced his features. "Hey soulmate." 

You didn't know how you two being soulmates allowed you to time-travel, but you knew two things: you were screwed and the butterflies will keep dancing in your stomach for the rest of your life.

Part 2

[bigskydreaming]

A few people have asked me about whether its okay to reblog the post I wrote yesterday about the utter pointlessness and grossness of pitting male and female survivors against each other and why. 

Yes, go ahead, absolutely. I’m always okay with people reblogging any post I make except for anything I specifically tag as do not reblog, which is extremely rare. To be perfectly honest, the only reason I started posting about my experiences with rape and abuse at all was because when I was younger and really could have used having male survivors that I could look to even just to maintain the awareness that they were out there and others had gone through what I did....like, I couldn’t find anything like that. Not online at least, so I’d rather at least be a resource to people in the ways I wished there was someone talking about this stuff when I was younger.

Its not fun to talk about. I don’t know what people think I get out of these kinds of posts, but they’re the least reblogged and engaged with posts out of any that I make, by a LARGE margin. They don’t get me street cred or whatever, I get tons of anon hate I never post about my so-called agenda and shit, when like....literally my only stance in all the years I’ve been posting about this stuff is it really really bugs that in so many fandoms you can see a clear focus on stories about rape and abuse that get passed around and boosted like crazy, but survivors ask for signal boosts so that the people writing these stories can at the very least have more viewpoints on these matters to inform them and consider, even if they’re survivors themselves....and its crickets. Like the post I wrote yesterday? Not the first post I’ve written about that specific topic and point. Not by a long shot. But I’ve never gotten any of those posts past like, twenty notes, lol.

Like, I really can’t stress enough that I don’t make these posts for my own personal benefit. None of them say anything I don’t already know, contain information I don’t already have. Its not fun to dig up, especially when you think barely anyone is even listening, even though everyone around you is talking about the same stuff but its fine and safe to boost when its just entertainment, but god forbid people treat this stuff as REAL. And the fact of the matter is people who want to assume the worst of my intentions with these posts are going to think what they want to think, and nothing I say will ever change their minds if they think I’m just looking for sympathy or pity or milking my personal traumas or whatthefuckever. I can’t be any more sincere than like, just being sincere, lol, so if someone isn’t convinced of that there’s really fuck all I can do about it. *Shrugs*

So at the end of the day its like.....the only thing that really matters with these conversations is like....you think they matter, or you don’t. I think they matter. So I’ll keep having them even if its not particularly fun, because the simple reality is they’re going to keep being everpresent in my awareness as the subject matter of so much media and entertainment around me, and the literal only part of any of this I can control is what I do in response to that, and my choice is to just put out there what I can. But like....any ‘impact’ I have, however small, is still limited entirely to how many people engage with these conversations, even if only to signal boost them to reach more peoples’ awareness so they can at least consider angles of possibility they might not have before. So like, if you think anything I say on these subjects is of value at all, if there’s anything worthwhile in them to consider, please consider reblogging instead of just liking, because I can ONLY ever....post this stuff. Beyond that, its entirely out of my control and so how much these conversations ever get engaged with to any degree is entirely dependent on someone other than me passing it on past whatever number of people I put it in front of initially.

*Shrugs* Anyway, that’s that on that.

Just a general FYI though, I do have a ko-fi page and paypal linked if you ever consider the posts I make about this stuff worth shooting me a donation of any kind. Literally 100% of anything ever donated my way goes directly to either rent, food, or insurance or medication for my mental health and the disability caused by my gaybashing over a decade ago and that I’ve been trying to get surgery for, for about four years at this point, with constant setbacks due to a general lack of money and income dependent entirely on freelancing because my chronic pain and vertigo issues from my disability make any non work from home job basically impossible. My meds alone cost about $300 a month even using GoodRx, and like, I haven’t even begun saving for this month’s meds because everything’s gone to rent, and I’ve been out of said meds for about a week, lmao. So as much as I hate doing these kinds of posts, just a general FYI.....donations are always helpful and appreciated, but so is engagement or even just signal boosting of these topics when they come up.

Anyway, thanks for reading and hearing me out!

https://ko-fi.com/kalenp

https://paypal.me/bigskydreaming?locale.x=en_US

[bondsmagii]

This is definitely one of the… wilder stories here, but as always, I suppose people will believe what they will. 

This will unfortunately require some backstory, but I guess you could say the long and the short of it is that I played at being God, and it. Well. Kind of sucked, actually.

So, the backstory. I’ll try to keep it brief. I grew up in a small country village about forty-five minutes away from Belfast, Ireland. There wasn’t much going on there, as you could imagine – just a standard rural Irish town, where the most exciting thing that might happen in a week was old Farmer Joe getting a new tractor or something. Anyway, I’m not sure how many of you know about Ireland’s rather troubled past, but for the most part I missed all that. I was born around the time things were finally settling down, and while my earlier memories are filled with bomb scares and low-flying helicopters and gunshots in the night, the distant sound of shouting and the acrid smell of smoke burning a little too close for comfort, by the time I hit my teenage years most of it had wrapped up. Of course, there was the occasional scare here and there, and I’m not saying my friends and I didn’t go out looking for trouble once we were old enough, but it wasn’t the same. I’m not saying that out of a sense of, I don’t know, regret or annoyance or anything. Now I’m older, I’m not so enamoured by the idea of that much violence. I’m just saying it wasn’t really a patch on the kind of violence that used to happened there – the kind of violence that fascinated my friends and I so much. It sounds bad, but really we were just kids being kids. Little boys everywhere play at war games. It just so happened that the war we were playing had happened in our own country. It’s difficult not to be obsessed, when you see the reflection of history on the faces of every generation around you. Even slightly older siblings would know all about it – it wasn’t something you asked your grandfather, distant war stories over some vague European country that you’ve only seen on a map in your Geography classroom. This was our street corners, our high streets, the road outside the house. Here the grass verge at the side of the road where the bodies were dumped; there the lay-by where over a dozen people were blown to pieces. It was awful, but we were children. We were enamoured.

Anyway. The only violence we got really involved in was the summer rioting that happened yearly, like clockwork. It sounds like a joke, but that’s how it goes. You don’t need to know the details, but suffice to say in mid-July every year, the city would light up like we were back in the 1970s. Localised, of course, and still nowhere near as drastic as it used to be, but enough to get a taste. Petrol bombs. Police lines. Armoured cars. Water cannons. Unrestrained summer fun, you could say. But that’s for a bit later.

I’m a writer. I have been since I was four years old. Generally speaking I’m a horror writer, but I’ve branched into historical fiction a fair bit over the years. Living in Ireland, growing up how I did, it was inevitable that I would develop a fascination for Irish history. I was always a very curious child, my head in books, chasing up stories that would keep me awake at night. I never knew any boundaries. I would go after answers with military precision, asking questions, going places I shouldn’t. Dangerous for anyone, of course, but in a country like mine, where crossing the road could quite literally lead to your murder? It was reckless. I was reckless. But that’s the thing about being that age. You think you’re invincible. You think you can do anything.

I was about fourteen or fifteen, at the height of this obsession. I believe I was fifteen when I wrote this particular story, but it’s difficult to say. It was part of a series, and I was going back and forth on it and other projects for many years. Here we finally get to the point of the whole story: I had developed an obsession with Irish history, as I said, and specifically the more “modern” history – from 1916 onwards, the Easter Rising, the War of Independence, all that. I was fascinated by the Irish struggle for freedom, and while age and hindsight has lessened my… enthusiasm for the violence, I do maintain a strong opinion towards the whole thing, which is not the point here so I won’t get into it. What I’m trying to say is that my stories reflected this enthusiasm, and were undoubtedly glorifying in nature, and also at that age I was more concerned with living the fantasy than doing the research, so it was all very self-indulgent. I’m sure anyone who wrote at that age knows what I mean.

My main character… well. I’m sure you know what to expect. He was—well. Me, really. In the way of all main characters at that age, and perhaps a little even as we get older, there’s a piece of us inside all our main characters. Sometimes a little piece, other times just a cooler and more badass version of yourself. Michael was that for me. I suppose that must is obvious; I wasn’t even trying to be subtle. My name is of course Miceál, which for those of you keeping track is the Irish form of Michael. I’m just grateful that I didn’t go as far as to give him my last name, too, but everything else was there. He looked like me, he held the same views and beliefs as me, he acted like me – or at least, he acted in the ways I liked to think I’d act, or how I imagined acting later that night in the shower, reliving the scenario again. He was the best kind of self-insert character, indulgent and fun and a good friend to me. I poured a lot of myself into him. I poured everything into him. He was a constant companion, something that became ever more important to me as my real life—well, went to shit. To put it mildly. I would sit in my room writing my stories, and Michael would go out there and fight the good fight, killing and bombing for good old Ireland, and then I’d shut my computer down and go to sleep feeling just a little better than otherwise.

I’m not afraid to say that I can be obsessive. I like to get into the heads of my characters; I like to know them as well as I know everything. Yes, Michael was me, but he was also a version of me who had done things I have never done. Sometimes I would try to imagine myself as him; wonder what it was like to see through his eyes. Wonder what a me who had done that would look like. Wonder what he would do in a situation. I asked myself that a few times; a lot of times. What would Michael do? I could have put that shit on a wristband. I didn’t think anything of it at the time. I’ve always been a bit of a method writer like that. It was normal, until it wasn’t.

I first saw Michael on a hot July day, in Belfast. What we call the rioting season had come around; my friends and I were there to take advantage. Just at the sidelines, mind you – nobody wants to get a face full of water cannon, even on the hottest of days. Michael was in the thick of it though. Of course he was. I’d written him to be that way.

I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. At first I thought I must be seeing things, but the more I looked the more I realised he looked exactly like me. Only he was a little taller, a little fitter, and his hair looked different. His clothing was different, too; perhaps a couple of decades out of date, but looking at him I saw his clothing didn’t remain consistent. The changes were subtle – material, tone – but I noticed. Looking back, I assume it’s because I never did give a specific date for his story to occur in. Well, wherever he was from he was there now, throwing rocks with the best of them, skipping from stone to stone and hurling them at police lines with an easy swing that could only come from years of practise. When we had all finally cleaned out the area – soldiers coming, a helicopter, the kind of trouble you don’t want to toy with – I managed to catch up with him. He was talking to my friends. They noticed we were both there, but didn’t seem to realise we were two different people. The whole time we were all talking, I couldn’t take my eyes off of Michael. I tried, because I knew how obvious I was being, but I just couldn’t. I couldn’t work him out. I couldn’t even trust that’s what I was seeing. And the whole time, Michael watched me back. I knew the look in his eyes. It was his smug little, I know something you don’t know look. Of course I knew it. I had made him like that. I had given him that look.

I didn’t see him for some time after that. Believe it or not, I put it out of my head. I mean, come on. It was probably some other guy that my friends knew. We were in Belfast enough, and Michael isn’t exactly an uncommon name. I put it out of my mind, but I was sure that sometimes, I saw him. I was sure I’d see him in Belfast, ducking down side streets or leaning in close conversation with someone I couldn’t make out. He was always watching me. Sometimes I’d feel eyes on me and know it was him, but when I looked around I wouldn’t spot him. On some occasions – and these were always the worst – I would feel his eyes behind my own. Like he was on the inside looking out, moving independently in there, a set of eyes swivelling around over my own. It happened most often when I was trying to write his story. As you can imagine, I was nervous to do so. The more I thought I saw him, the less I wanted to write, but I didn’t think that was a good idea either. I didn’t know what to do.

It was a sunny weekend just before school started back after summer that I finally resolved to do something about it. I didn’t even feel stupid as I booted up my old Windows 95 desktop and opened Word. Michael’s story was there, in 12-point font as I always wrote then, plenty of enthusiasm but a lot less technical skill. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment, and then I typed.

Hello?

Nothing, of course. I deleted the word, wondering what I had expected. Feeling a little stupid now, I tried to think about where to go with the story. It was difficult to write now I had some kind of real person to assign to it all – what were the ethics here? How could I—

I won’t get into that. It would be a philosophical essay all of its own. I sat for a while wondering what to write, and then it hit me that the story had changed. The words Michael had spoken, in the paragraph that I had left off – they were no longer the words I had written. I forget what the original words were now, but they were something relatively simple; some response to another character, and I remember that another name was mentioned in it – the name of Michael’s in-universe best friend, Eamon. Now that name was gone, and the rest of the text had changed, too. Now the writing read something different entirely.

I thought you wanted to know?

I lied earlier. I said that age and experience and perhaps some more emotional maturity had led me to turn away from the kind of violence that fascinated me so much then, and I have no doubt that under normal circumstances it would have done. I had somewhat of a speed run, however; I turned my back on it because

I’m getting ahead of myself.

I had often wondered what it would be like to do what Michael did, of course. To kill and risk death for a cause, to face down prison, torture, exile. I had wondered what it would be like to commit those acts; how easy or difficult it would be to pull a trigger or push a detonator. I liked to think, in my foolish, idealistic teenage mind, that if it came down to it I could. Of course, I was in the very privileged position to not have to actually answer that question.

Michael, on the other hand, knew. And Michael was, if not me, than a product of me. Could it be possible that he could show me?

I ignored the message for several days. I didn’t know what to think. Truth be told I thought I was going mad. School started again and I got so busy that I almost, almost forgot about it – and then I opened the document by mistake one day, got into reading it over, laughing at my brilliant comebacks, you know how it is. And there it was again.

I thought you wanted to know?

Yes, I remember thinking. It stunned me – I remember that. I didn’t want to mess with this kind of stuff – I’ve always been a huge believer in the paranormal, always been cautious when it comes to fucking with that kind of stuff. I believe that magic like this, it requires intent. It needs you to be sure. It knows how you feel, true in your heart. So even when I ignored it again, even when I deleted the words and re-wrote whatever the original had been, even as I didn’t reply… I knew in my heart that my question had been heard by something. I could feel Michael’s eyes on me again, though now I wondered if it was Michael’s eyes, or something else entirely. It felt like a weight. Have you ever been in an old, old place, where you can practically feel the people who lived and died there; reach out and touch them? It felt like that. Like the weight of history was pressing down on me. I didn’t fall asleep easily that night, but when I did sleep was dark and endless.

I don’t know how long I spent in that state. In reality it was only seven hours; I woke up with my alarm. In that time period, wherever I was – because I was not living – I seemed to witness a hundred different lives. Over the course of Michael’s story I had him do all kinds of things; live all kinds of situations. I deleted things, changed others, added things in. I wrote what would now be called alternate universes. In that night I experienced them all. I know how it feels now. I know how it feels to pull a trigger; to watch the spray of someone’s life splatter a wall or a windscreen or the screaming backseat passengers of a car. I know how it feels to push the button, the one that sends a charge surging down a wire or flickering out over my head in an invisible wave of death, notifying the bomb, detonating the explosives. I know how it feels to sit in a hotel bar across a border, listening to the news, sipping a drink and feeling my heart beat in my chest as I add more numbers to the tally, more blood to my hands. I know how it feels to be shot, to be beaten, to watch a friend die, to kill someone who used to be – who still is, despite everything – a friend. I know how it feels to cough blood into my hands, onto the ground; to grip a wound that won’t stop bleeding; the blinding flash of an explosive detonating too soon and how the whole world seems to roar and how there’s a difference between the thud and slap of wet mud hitting the ground and the warmer, denser rain of something that used to be human. For days, weeks, years – I walked in Michael’s shoes, I lived his life, I committed every act.

I felt his pain. His fear. This hellish world that he lived in, created to kill and die and lose and fear, over and over. To meet his God and to finally, finally ask – why?

And what could I say? Because I wanted to know?

Well. Now I do.