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softbiker · 5 years

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Born to Run - Chapter 11

Warnings: cursing, being arrested

Word count: 2k

A/N: A week late (plus like an hour or so) and I finally have an update for y’all. So sorry about the delays lately! Work has been....a lot. So has life. Anyways, let me know what you think!

“Ma’am? Excuse me, ma’am?” He waved his hand in front of her face. “I need you to stay with me here, okay?”

Y/N’s eyes drifted back towards the officer. His dark eyebrows were drawn together in concern. Her fingers gripped the edges of the blanket that had been placed around her shoulders, and she gave him a little nod.

“So, tell me again, what was your connection to this man?”

“He was a patient, I have no connection with him.”

“No personal affiliation at all?”

“No. He was just a patient.”

“What about the other man, Barnes?”

“What about him?”

“What is the nature of your relationship with him?”

“We’re...friends, I guess.” She thought about his kiss, the intensity of his lips on hers, the tightness of his arms around her.

“Just friends?” The officer raised a doubtful brow.

“Yes.”

“You’ve been seen around town with him quite a bit,” he went on, rocking back on his heels as he considered her. “On a daily basis, in fact. Rides to and from work on his motorcycle, driving to the store, to restaurants.”

“So?”

“So, he’s not your personal driver. Or an Uber.” The officer slid his hands into his pockets. “And you own a perfectly drivable car. So, there’s no reason for a man who you claim is just a friend to be driving you everywhere, unless the two of you are in some kind of...special relationship.”

Her eyebrows lowered and she pulled a deep breath in through her nose. It had been over an hour of this, sitting in the parking lot of her clinic and watching them drag Bucky away, the sun slipping behind the horizon as they covered Rumlow’s body and peppered her with questions. An EMT had checked her over and confirmed that she had no serious injuries, and then the cops had swooped in. Her mouth went dry as she repeated her story backwards and forwards, rehashing little details and racking her brain for things she might have missed. The back of her throat ached. Her ass had gone numb from leaning against the cold metal of the squad car. She really wanted to lie down. And to see Bucky. If she had to hear one more false accusation against herself or Bucky, her head might explode.

“Look. I haven’t committed a crime. And as I’ve told you, neither did Mr. Barnes - he acted in self-defense -” The man opened his mouth but she held up a finger to cut him off. “So unless you plan to arrest me as well, I suggest you either take me home or let me speak to a lawyer. I know my rights.”

He rolled his eyes but took a step back, waving over one of his colleagues. The other officer - younger, greener, with dark curls creeping up in his regulation haircut - hustled towards them, licking his lip and cutting his eyes between Y/N and her interviewer.

“Yeah, Sergeant?”

“C’mere, Valdez,” the sergeant beckoned with his fingers. His eyes cut sideways at Y/N, gesturing at her with a flick of his head. “The doctor here is done answering questions without an attorney. Please escort her to her residence.”

Valdez nodded eagerly, taking a step forward. As he turned his face towards her, Y/N noticed the softness of his cheeks, a remnant of baby fat, cut by a small dimple in one cheek as he smiled at her. His Adam’s apple bobbed and he cleared his throat.

“If you’ll come with me, ma’am?” he gestured towards a different squad car, one sitting a few yards away with an easy route out of the parking lot. Between them and the car, a few more police going back over the scene, taking pictures and marking locations. She saw a dark stain on the ground and realized that Rumlow’s body had finally been moved.

With a sigh, she stood up, not sparing a glance at the sergeant, who stood by with his arms crossed. Valdez fell in beside her, matching strides as they crossed the lot, kicking rocks in front of their feet as they walked. He was thankfully silent, and kind; he skipped a half-step ahead of her to open the passenger side door, offering a polite smile as she climbed inside.

“So, where to?” he asked when he shuffled inside, buckling his seatbelt.

“Hm?” She hadn’t been paying attention.

“Where should I take you?”

...oh.

Good question. With her own home vandalized, she had more and more thought of the Avengers clubhouse as...well, a kind of home at least. She did want to go there, have a coffee or whiskey (or both) with Natasha, and settle down in her guest bed and be left alone. But...could she bring a cop to the clubhouse? Would that be alright? The location wasn’t a secret, but the Avengers had quite the reputation - enough to have Bucky arrested on sight. She bit her lip, curling and uncurling her fists in her lap, her gaze turned out the window.

“Where did they take Bucky?”

“Mr. Barnes?” She could hear the frown in his voice without looking. “I’m - I don’t think-”

“Listen,” she turned her gaze on him. “I want to see him. I’ll take care of myself from there. Just take me wherever they took him.”

“Well, I guess…”

“What’s your name?”

He cleared his throat again. “Aiden.”

“Okay. Aiden, he’s...he’s very important to me. He’s…” all I want “...the only real friend I have here. So I know it might not be protocol or whatever but, I need you to take me there. Take me to see him.”

He blew a harsh breath past his lips, shook his head. Put the car in gear.

“Okay, then. If you’re sure.”

**********

It wasn’t Bucky’s first time in cuffs.

That had been at age 15 - when he was running with a rougher crowd and thought he was hard, tough, a badass. And yeah, it felt real badass, the way his gut swooped with fear and his legs clenched up in the backseat of that cop car, picked up for vandalism or petty theft - couldn’t quite remember. Sure felt like a man when his voice squeaked over the phone to his mother, informing her where he was and why, hearing her heart break over the line. Yes, sir. He was a real hard man.

Still, the cuffs never got more comfortable. And neither did the questioning rooms; he arched and curled his back alternately, trying to work out the ache from the press of the metal chair against his spine. It didn’t help, but he managed to crack his neck. His eyelids felt heavy, and he slumped back in the chair again.

The officers had questioned him for quite a while when they got here, though the interview was unproductive on their side. Bucky refused to speak. He gave nothing away, not of himself or the Avengers, gave no comment on the death of Brock Rumlow. No matter the question, his answer was a sullen stare in the cops’ direction. Every so often, he would repeat his only requests: a bathroom, a phone call, and a lawyer. All denied.

He twisted his wrists again where they were cuffed to the table, red and chafing from the metal. Really could take a piss right about now, but they weren’t gonna let him anytime soon. He thought of Steve, watching him sprint out of the clubhouse and drive away; of Y/N, wild-eyed and screaming, as Rumlow smashed his head against the concrete. Steve would take care of her, he told himself. They all would.

Two minutes passed while he counted the seconds and tapped his fingers against the metal table. His throat felt dry and he tried to work his tongue and swallow his own saliva, but he was too parched. He leveled a glare at the mirror and the door - no reason for the officers to leave him in here this long. But his reputation had preceded him here. These cops knew him - or thought they knew him. He hadn’t been arrested since moving out to this little town, but apparently that didn’t matter.

He was just starting to think he’d have to pee his pants out of spite when the door banged open, slamming against the side wall.

“Well, Barnes you just couldn’t keep it in your pants, could ya?” Tony Stark strolled in, whipping his sunglasses off his face and slipping them into the front of his shirt.

“Tony,” Bucky sighed, shoulders falling. “Can you tell ‘em to get me out of these things? I’ve really gotta pee-”

“Oh, you need a potty break? That’s great. That’s good!” Stark rolled his eyes. “At least I know those Hydra skulls didn’t castrate you.”

“Stark, please? Bathroom now, yell later.”

When he returned and was re-cuffed, Stark slid into the chair across from him with a huff.

“So. You wanna tell me how this didn’t blow your cover and ruin the op?”

“Sure. I’m sitting in jail aren’t I?”

“We’re getting you released, obviously,” Tony pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

“Yeah, well, forgive me for making you sweat for a minute so you can understand that this is serious.” Tony’s jaw clenched under the salt and pepper goatee. “How do we reposition you to finish the job when you killed your target, exposed yourself to the police, and you’ve gotten involved in a personal relationship? Please, please, enlighten me.”

Bucky blew a breath past his lips.

“I know it looks pretty fucked right now, but listen.” He held up a finger. “The skulls just saw me shoot Rumlow and get arrested - and since he attacked first and threatened Y/N, it was in self-defense. Releasing me won’t reveal anything. They still don’t know-”

“That you’re an FBI agent?” Tony’s eyebrows went up, his arms crossed, wrinkling the shoulders of his suit. “Which I will have to explain to your buddies here in lockup, considering they’re convinced you’re a real criminal and they should hold you in despite the circumstances of Rumlow’s death.”

“I guess that’s what they pay you for, huh?” Bucky challenged, tilting his head as he considered the other man.

Tony’s eyes narrowed.

“Watch it, Barnes,” he warned. “I was never in favor of bringing you and Rogers into this.”

“Except you made no progress on your case for years,” Bucky shrugged.

“Don’t make me call Fury on this,” Tony threatened. A dark vein on his forehead pulsed under the harsh fluorescent lights. “I will pull your ass out of here. Tread lightly.”

The two men stared each other down across the two feet of table, daring the other to make the first move. Bucky noted the greying hairs at Tony’s temples, the lines in the skin around his mouth. There were circles under his eyes, but that was nothing new. His jaw moved back and forth as he ground his teeth quietly. Bucky lifted his hands in surrender - as far as the cuffs would allow.

“I’ll keep it under control,” he placated. “I can stay in the field. Finish this.”

“You’d better.” Tony pulled his phone from his pocket, thumb swiping at the notifications on his home screen. “Or it’s your head.”

The room was silent, save for the sound of Tony’s fingers tapping on the keyboard, his email swishing into the internet. Bucky licked his dry lips with an equally dry tongue.

“Oh, goody!” Tony suddenly popped up from his chair, exasperation in every line of his face. “Your girlfriend is here.”

Despite his dehydration, Bucky’s palms started to sweat.

**********

“They’ve really cost me this time. Fucking Avengers.”

“I know, Boss.”

“Shut up.” The voice on one side of the phone was gravelly, harsh, like ground glass. “I’ve got to think about this…”

Grant Ward pursed his lips, scratched the stubble on his chin. The voice on the phone sighed.

“God...I need someone to take over Rumlow’s position as a liaison with our drug contacts.”

“I can do it-”

“Didn’t I just tell you to fucking shut up?” Another harsh sigh. “Jesus - Rumlow had maybe half a brain, you’re working with much less than that.”

Ward kept his mouth shut that time. The seconds dragged by as he picked at his fingernails.

“Okay. Listen, Ward,” the voice spoke up again. “And listen good - you’re gonna help me send a message to the Avengers, and their new medic.”

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky x reader fic #bucky x y/n #bucky x you #bucky barnes #bucky barnes fic #bucky barnes imagine #biker!bucky #biker!bucky fic #avengers #avengers fic #marvel #marvel fic

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exileseverafter · 7 years

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Chapter 2

A Bit About the Incident

“Magic beanstalk,” the boy said as if to explain it all. “Old man sold me the beans.” “Ah. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that.”

The human’s name had been Jack. If one was to ask any given resident of the Cloud Island of Mielle, one would hear a story about how that resident’s sister worked for a jeweler who was married to a peach farmer whose great grandmother had seen five humans in her time. There were the gold and black-clad merchants who traveled down to the human cities, their rocs carrying down baskets of blue Heavenly Apples and fabric woven from crystallized sunbeam and returning with furs, minerals and meat on slabs of ice. But the masked merchants were a society unto themselves, as secretive and closed off from the citizens of Mielle as the were to their wealthy human customers below. But for one of the Sky Folk outside of that profession to see a human in the flesh was rare indeed. There were laws on the books forbidding it, supposedly the result of conflicts and non-aggression treaties too old for anyone to remember, but they were seen as artifacts. It was like declaring it illegal for the moon to fall from the sky. The merchants searched their wares for stowaways with the same care they examined marbled meat. For reasons nobody quite understood, the rocs apparently wouldn’t listen to humans who tried to tame them the way Sky Folk pilots had. Unless humans learned how to fly, they couldn’t access the soft, gray terrain of the Cloud Islands which drifted lazily over the water and terrain of the Center of the Universe where the diminutive beings lived. So Ezra thought of humans the way most of his kind did-not much at all, except as a distant source of goods found only on the land. Certainly he had dreams of attaining the heights of fame to match elder Kettles of the past, masters at their craft who were said to have made wedding cakes for empresses and the nearly impossible 40 Blackbird Pie for human kings. (Humans had those sorts of ranks, he’d been told.) But he wouldn’t meet those empresses or kings. It just wasn’t done. Besides, he had enough to worry about on a daily basis. He could not be sure he heard whispers and saw heads shaking in pity in the corner of his vision when he walked around the circular market to pick up flour and sugar, but he’d grown so used to them that perceived them almost constantly. Once in a while he’d walk past a conversation between a tailor wearing her brightly-clad goods and a tinkerer, and over the bang of pots and swish of translucent satin he’d hear snatches of “…grandmother told me their works were quite impressive” and “really a shame, but it let it be a lesson to you, I say.” They would avoid eye contact as he passed by. That was to be expected, he would tell himself, and hold his head at a proper angle while being sure not to spill a single drop of milk or grain of flour. The Kettle name was no longer respectable, and the man to whom he was indentured was. So anything Ezra did would be attributed to the moral decline of past generations; Hamilton Tooth was merely ‘unpleasant, but one cannot ignore his talent,’ as many would say. Tooth was the one who sold the glazed fruit tarts and wedding cakes now, though for a less grand audience. Ezra was not making a wedding cake the fateful night he opened the door for the human. He was working late into the night, hair tied back and face splotched with flour, kneading wheat dough to be baked in the morning. His master had thrown out the last batch in a drunken rage, declaring it ‘sour’ without even looking at it. Hamilton Tooth’s snoring still sent the walls shaking, and Ezra did his best to ignore it. No matter how far gone Master Tooth might have been in dreamland listening to that damned harp, he’d always manage to wake up at the worst moment and blame his apprentice for it. So loud was the snoring that Ezra almost didn’t hear the faint, hoarse call right outside the door. All he could make out was ‘let me in!’ Letting the dough fall to the flour-covered table and wiping his hands off on his apron, Ezra stood up to listen. There it was again, plaintive and exhausted. Was that person in danger? And if they were, why would they go to a bakery? Hesitantly, Ezra opened the front door a crack. He winced at the groan of the wood, but Master Tooth remained asleep. “I’m afraid we’re closed at this hour,” he whispered. “But you can…hello?” There was nobody there. Not in front of him, at least; the town was as dead as one might expect it to be so close to midnight, the only light coming from the full moon and a few candle-lit windows. Ezra let out a breath and scowled. “I’m being pranked again,” he muttered. “Some brat’s probably going to steal a pie from the windowsill. Which means…” Something ran past Ezra, something that reached just past his thigh and about to his waist. At first Ezra thought it might have been a small child, but the thing moved far too quickly for a toddler’s wobbly gait and the shape was all wrong. It certainly wasn’t a large vulture, even if the tattered cloak it wore suggested it. Ezra shut the door behind him and grabbed a candle, holding it up to try to find the thing. “…Hello? Who are you? Whatever you are, you can’t be here!” A bundle of rags in the corner moved and slowly emerged. As the first layer of rags fell away, it became apparent that he was looking at a very small person with black hair and freckled skin, thin and underfed-looking. They barely moved, gawking up at Ezra. While Ezra couldn’t discern the being’s gender, their proportions suggested someone a few years younger than Ezra himself. “You’re a human, aren’t you.” It sounded ridiculous the moment he spoke the words, yet he knew immediately what he was seeing. Ezra very slowly knelt down onto one knee in order to better address the intruder face to face, realizing he probably loomed in comparison. “There, is this better?” The human slowly nodded and took a step closer. The voice that came out sounded male and young, hoarse and exhausted. “You’re all so big.” “I know what it’s like to be loomed over.” Ezra was on the short side; Master Tooth most definitely was not. “But you can’t be here. I mean, you really can’t! How did you even get up here? You didn’t steal away in a roc basket, did you? It’s just…this is unprecedented.” The boy shook his head, still reluctant to get any closer. “Climbed a beanstalk, sir.” “A…beanstalk?” There were beanstalks climbing through gardens throughout the Island. They were bigger than the kind that grew on the land, but not by that much. “Magic beanstalk,” the boy said as if to explain it all. “Old man sold me the beans.” “Ah. Of course. Why didn’t I think of that.” Ezra rubbed his temples, trying not to dwell on the implication that humans could apparently grow ladders to the heavens out of plants. “Well, you’re here either way. This is…really pretty incredible. A human…! I don’t suppose you have any recipes you wish to share from the Center of the Universe?” “The Center of the…What?” “Nevermind. I just thought I’d ask. I’m a cook. Ezra Kettle.” Ezra extended a hand for a handshake, then remembered he had to crouch down again for it to be of any use to the boy. The human shook several of his fingers awkwardly. “You’re not going to cook me, are you…?” “…Cook you!?” Ezra remembered the fateful snoring of the Walking Mountain himself down the hall and covered his mouth, repeating himself in a more hushed tone. “Cook you, lad? What sort of creatures do you take us for? We don’t eat humans! You’re intelligent and you’ve got…a face. I mean cows do too, but it’s not the same. What’s your name?” The ragged boy shuffled his feet. “Jack. I’m Jack Nimble.” “Jack.” Ezra stood up again and started pacing, giving a worried glance down the hall. “Look. My boss, well, my Master is asleep right now after having drained half the wine stores as usual. If he wakes up and see you, I can’t guarantee he wouldn’t try to bake you in a pie or turn you into bread filling out of sheer sport. I’ve got to put up with him until my family’s debts are paid, but there’s no need for a human to…” He squinted at Jack, noticing the boy’s hollow cheeks. Sighing, he reached onto a rack and pulled out one of the golden egg custard tarts that hadn’t sold the day before. It was small enough to fit in the palm of Ezra’s chubby hand, its metallic sheen and sugary glaze glinting in the moonlight, but Jack took it eagerly with both hands. He stared up at Ezra in wonder. “I can eat it, sir? I mean…is this food?” Ezra rolled his eyes. “Yes, of course! Consider it a free sample.” He sat down at the table and sighed, glancing alternately between the lump of bread dough and Jack eating the tart as if it were a king’s feast. Had it been his own recipe, Ezra thought, Jack would be brought to joyful tears with one taste; then again, he reminded himself, the very hungry rarely had discerning palates. “Listen, Master Nimble. I’m serious when I say you can’t be found when my master wakes up. I’ll give you someplace to sleep nice and hidden, and in the morning I’ll tell him I need to pick something up from the market and bring you to the constables. They’ll send you home with one of the merchants and take care of that beanstalk thing.” “Won’t be necessary, sir. I can climb back down on my own.” Jack had already finished off half the tart, though he was starting to slow. “Never had something like this! Is there really gold in it? Do giants eat gold?” “Shh, keep your voice down! It’s…well, the goose lays eggs like that. I don’t think there’s really gold in it. The yolks just look gold and taste sweet on their own. Nobody bred Golden Egg Geese like the Kettle line.” Ezra held his nose up proudly for just a moment before a thundering snore reminded him of his situation. “Well, we did, anyway.” There was no need to explain the technicalities of family debts to a human boy who had bigger problems to deal with. “Did you lose your geese?” “We lost our fortune. It’s a long story and I won’t burden you with it. Everything in the Kettle name belongs to Hamilton Tooth now, including my foreseeable future ‘til I work off those debts. But never you mind that. I’m learning the craft and I’m more than well fed as you can see; would be petty of me to wish for more.” Ezra imagined the more he told himself that, the less resentful he’d feel. “And whatever kind of person Master Tooth is, he’s talented and productive. So the rest doesn’t really matter, or shouldn’t…” Jack licked the last of the tart off his fingers and leaned back against the cupboard, sighing and looking distant. “We lost our cow. We lost everything else too, but I really loved that cow…” Ezra felt shame burning his cheeks. “See? This is what I mean! You don’t need me burdening you with my problems. But-but think of it this way. You can go back down and brag that you were able to reach the Sky Islands on your own. Get some of the beans growing off that beanstalk and sell ‘em and make yourself rich. There’s plenty of glory to be found for you now! Just…not here in this miser’s house. I wouldn’t trust him not to do something awful and…” He shuddered, imagining Tooth looming like a hairy old mountain over poor Jack. “You need anything else to eat? I know you’re small, but it was just one egg tart…” Jack shook his head. “If I eat more I’ll be too sleepy. Don’t like staying still long.” “Well, you moved fast enough to sneak into Hamilton Tooth’s bakery. That’s something. He catches birds that sneak in with glue traps and has me bake ‘em in pies. He’d be spitting mad if he found out I let you in.” Ezra caught himself smiling despite himself (and the misfortune he’d face should just that event occur) and cleared his throat. “Fair enough. I’ll just let you rest in the supply closet. Sun and Moon know he never sets a foot in there if he can send me instead to…” He fell silent as the dulcet tones of a soft, androgynous voice echoed from Tooth’s room. The harp was awake again, singing its wordless, discordant song that fell somewhere between a voice and the pluck of strings. Ezra shuddered; he hated the way it sounded. “Just ignore that damned thing. Master Tooth doesn’t believe me when I say it turns on by itself, but you hear it. At least it’ll keep my master out better than the wine will…” But Jack wasn’t listening to Ezra. He was standing up alert, staring off in the direction of the song. “What is that, sir?” “It’s a harp. Just a harp. Apparently that’s one of his family’s heirlooms. It’s got some kind of mechanism that causes it to play and sing on its own. Damned if I know how it works but I’m no tinker. Ghastly awful thing with this grinning face, but that overgrown lout can’t get enough of the stupid toy. Claims it makes the wine taste sweeter and the money shine brighter or something.” Ezra spoke quickly, unnerved as always by that damned song. “As if having money isn’t enough! But this is a fine chance to get you into the closet; he won’t hear me shuffling around here over that Moon-damned noise. Jack, are you listening?” Jack had a glazed-over look in his eyes, and Ezra told himself it was just from eating too much sugar on an empty stomach. The human boy nodded up at Ezra, who led him into the supply closet and hid him behind bags of salt and flour. He was eerily complacent; perhaps, Ezra thought, the boy was just exhausted after his ordeal. “Just be sure to stay still and try not to snore,” Ezra told his guest. “We’ll see about that beanstalk mess in the morning. Goodnight, Jack.” “Goodnight, Mr. Kettle.” Jack had a peaceful smile on his face, and Ezra set himself at ease. There was nothing dangerous about a human, certainly not one so young. They were just smaller people, and this one had enough problems to deal with. And a harp, he reminded himself, was just a harp. He worked late into the night to make up for the time he’d lost, and didn’t get to sleep for another two hours. When he did he slept like the dead, not even dreaming. The next morning he woke to find the closet door open, with both Jack and Master Tooth nowhere to be seen. The back door was hanging off its hinges and the garden had been trampled, footsteps digging into the soft, grey cloud terrain and stomping rotten blue apples into mush. The hutch where the Golden Egg Goose lived was empty, and the harp was missing. There was already a crowd gathering behind the bakery, whispering and staring at Ezra. Within the hour the constable arrived to arrest him for aiding in the murder of Hamilton Tooth, who lay dead on the surface of the Center of the Universe near the root of an impossibly huge fallen beanstalk. (This chapter was first posted on Jukepop in January of 2015. You can learn more about the story on this tumblr’s main page. If you’re enjoying it, please RT and spread the word. And drop me a line!)

#The Exiles Ever After #Chapter Posting #serial fiction #fairy tales #giants

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chevd-blog · 7 years

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My Top 100 Favorite Albums of All Time (Part 7: 5 - 1)

Here they are, finally: my five absolute favorite albums ever!

5. De-Loused in the Comatorium – The Mars Volta (2003)

I received De-Loused in the Comatorium as a present for my 20th birthday, shortly after getting my copy of Frances the Mute. From the day I received it, I listened to it on nearly a daily basis for the next two years. Understand, I never do that with one specific album. It was just so uncommonly good that I couldn’t stop myself from going back for more. And even though I no longer listen to it as frequently, it is still just as good as I remember it. This is the album that I most heavily associate with my time at Ringling College, and with working on projects for my computer animation classes. And believe me, I spent a lot of time on those projects—somewhere in the vicinity of 10 to 15 hours a day, 7 days a week. So to say I quickly became intimately familiar with this album is a bit of an understatement.

De-Loused is a conceptual ode to the band's fallen friend, artist Julio Venegas, who is rendered in the album's narrative as the protagonist, Cerpin Taxt. In short: Cerpin ingests rat poison and falls into a coma, during which he goes on an epic journey of self-discovery in his own mind, with the denizens of his mental landscape being all his own artistic creations. In the end, Cerpin wakes up in his hospital bed in the real world, but his desire to return to his own mental kingdom ultimately drives him to jump from a freeway overpass. Of course, all of this is tricky to discern from the actual lyrics: the Mars Volta's lyrics are notorious for being oblique and abstract, which listeners could easily mistake for being nonsensical if they aren't paying attention and reading between the lines. (Fortunately, sometime after receiving the album, I was able to procure a .pdf of the album's concept in short story format, released by Gold Standard Laboratories; while the writing style was similar, it went a long way toward making the album's lyrics more coherent. And explaining who or what "Moatilliatta" was.)

But of course, while the enigmatic lyrics did hold their own sort of fascination with me, the thing that really hooked me was the musicality. The Mars Volta offered up an eclectic blend of punk, progressive and Latin rock, and De-Loused was the album that got the formula juuuust right—a smoothie of influences ranging from Santana to the Smiths to Syd Barrett-era Pink Floyd. The intro, "Son et Lumiere", serves as a metaphorical ambulance siren as Cerpin's story begins in situ, then segues into "Inertiatic ESP", with its frenetic waltzing pace, its vintage 70s electric piano riff, and Cedric Bixler-Zavala's repeated wails of "Now I'm lost". As the story progresses to "Drunkship of Lanterns", guitarist Omar Rodriguez-Lopez layers cavernous surf rock licks atop a chugging Latin rhythm, resulting in a track that simultaneously feels haunted and vivified. One of my personal favorites, "Eriatarka", is damn near tantamount to sonic nitrous oxide, with a lilting dreamy melody that never fails to put me into a state of bliss. The album's longest song, "Cicatriz ESP", comes next, starting with a steady rhythm that falls into a serene subterranean pool before exploding into a full-on Latin jazz jam; it was this song that first showed me the true magic behind a well-executed jam session. "This Apparatus Must Be Unearthed" is where the band's post-hardcore roots show through the clearest—a chaotic, fast-paced song that could just as easily have been one of At the Drive-In's more hard-edged offerings, save for its narrative connections to this album. (Also, quick aside: something about the way Cedric's voice sounds while singing "Anonymous, avenge my name" always gives me goosebumps.) And I could go on and on. Ultimately, despite me having some memories and associations tied to it, the main reason De-Loused ended up in my top 5 is simply because of its sheer musicality, which is really impressive. Subsequent Mars Volta albums always made me feel excited, but none of them ever topped this one.

Prime cuts: "Inertiatic ESP", "Drunkship of Lanterns", "Eriatarka", "Cicatriz ESP"

4. Fear of a Blank Planet – Porcupine Tree (2007)

I have cited several albums on this list as being here chiefly because of associations between them and my move to Canada. If that has gotten redundant or boring, well—I apologize, but it was unavoidable. People have big, important, special moments in their lives, and for me, that was one of the biggest, most important, and special-est in mine. It should probably be pretty predictable, then, that my top five contains a few of these, and that they would be the most prominent examples for me. Fear of a Blank Planet falls into this category. This was the second Porcupine Tree album I obtained, after In Absentia. At the time, it was their most recent album, having come out less than nine months earlier. During my first semester at ECUAD, when I had not yet moved my car up from Florida, I have distinct memories of listening to this album in the mornings while walking by the waterfront along False Creek to my classes on Granville Island, with the beautiful downtown Vancouver skyline on the other side of the water. "Anesthetize", being around 17 minutes long, used to go quite a way toward getting me to my destination.

Later, as I came into my own as a fine artist, Fear of a Blank Planet became (along with Riverside's Anno Domini High Definition, as mentioned earlier) a major point of inspiration for my work. One of the most polished works to come out of my time at Emily Carr, and the one that may have been most predictive of my later trajectory as an artist, was a large two-panel painting which I called "Blank Planet", as an homage. The album was a perfect summation of my thematic focus on the prevalence of technology in the 21st Century. If the title seems familiar, it's because it was itself a bit of an appropriation from Public Enemy's 1990 recording Fear of a Black Planet; as Steven Wilson has explained, the album's main drive is addressing the major current issues of technology and alienation, in the same way that Public Enemy had addressed the issue of race relations. In Porcupine Tree's case, the songs specifically describe the experience of younger Millennials, who have come of age never knowing a world without the internet, Ritalin, and constant media bombardment.

The truly astounding thing here is just how palpable the apathy is throughout the entire album, while at the same time being very emotionally affecting. It all begins with the fantastic 9-minute title track, told through the eyes of a detached bipolar adolescent whose claims include "XBox is a god to me", and "my mother is a bitch, my father gave up ever trying to talk to me". The next track, "My Ashes", is a slower, softer song that draws lyrically on the Bret Easton Ellis novel Lunar Park. But of course, it's the aforementioned "Anesthetize", which contains a stellar guest solo from none other than Rush guitarist Alex Lifeson, which truly dominates the album, and demonstrates Porcupine Tree's continued foray into heavy metal. The guest appearances continue with "Way Out of Here", as King Crimson's Robert Fripp contributes ambient soundscapes while the album's tone grows noticeably darker. Finally, the album ends with the electronic droning of "Sleep Together", which I can only describe as resembling what it might sound like if Radiohead and Nine Inch Nails collaborated on a cover of Led Zeppelin's "Kashmir". All in all, while In Absentia receives the lion's share of the recognition from Porcupine Tree's discography, it is Fear of a Blank Planet which is my pick for my absolute favorite of their albums.

Prime cuts: "Fear of a Blank Planet", "Anesthetize", "Way Out of Here", "Sleep Together"

3. Silent Alarm – Bloc Party (2005)

So what memory of mine can top moving to Canada? Well, the answer is simple: those first few trips to British Columbia, where I got to meet my friend Laurie in person after over two years of communicating exclusively online. She was one of the biggest reasons I was able to survive my time at Ringling without breaking under the pressure. Through all of the project deadlines and disappointments and the otherwise lacking social life, I always had her, encouraging me to keep going. While the two of us ultimately settled into a very happy and very close platonic relationship, at the time, I have to admit, I was quite infatuated with her. Why wouldn't I be? There was an incident once, during a moment of weakness, where I was considering suicide, and she stopped me by calling my house in Florida at 4 AM. Nobody, save for my parents, had ever cared about me in such a way. And so, in December of 2006, when I finally got the opportunity to visit her and spend time with her, of course I was excited. We chatted in my hotel room, and she showed me her neighborhood, and drove me around Vancouver in her old Pontiac Sunfire. And I remember vividly what was playing on her stereo: her copy of Silent Alarm Remixed. That was my first exposure to Bloc Party.

When I returned to Florida after that first trip, I bought the original version of the album, and it ended up in heavy rotation in my own car stereo for that final semester at Ringling. Admittedly, as I've already mentioned, my first trip to BC did not go quite as smoothly as I had hoped—partially because of the culture shock, and partially because she didn't quite feel the same about me as I did about her. But we remained close friends, and I was willing to try again. When I returned for two weeks the following summer, after my time at Ringling had come to an end, the experience was incredible. No, beyond incredible—they were two of the most important and special weeks in my entire life. That was the trip that finally convinced me to actually commit to moving there. And I suppose Silent Alarm came to symbolize the whole thing for me; it was a new experience for me, one that had been completely unknown, and which represented a new sensibility that didn't really seem to fit my old life in Florida. I was 21, and as "Banquet" put it, I was "becoming adult".

What makes Silent Alarm all the more impressive, beyond just its great significance to me as the background music of the most seismic shift in my life, is its sheer vitality. For a debut album, it really was as tight as it could possibly be. The chemistry of Kele Okereke's thickly-accented Londoner vocals, Russell Lissack's guitar, Gordon Moakes's bass, and Matt Tong's frenetic drumming resulted in an album that felt unusually charged with electricity. Songs like "Banquet", "Helicopter", and "Like Eating Glass" took a page from the punk playbook without getting mired in the usual trappings of punk. I still can recall that Laurie's favorite was the final track, "Compliments", a sparse, gently humming song that ended the album on a very laidback vibe. When I made the remark about diminishing returns with Bloc Party (waaay back when I was talking about #90 on my list, the band's album Four), this is the point from which they were always subsequently diminishing. This is the high-water mark. And in all fairness to the band—it's kind of difficult not to fall into that pattern when your starting point is already so exceptional and vibrant.

Prime cuts: "Banquet", "Helicopter", "Like Eating Glass", "The Price of Gas"

2. Lateralus – Tool (2001)

Lateralus was not my first Tool album. That distinction belongs to their first full-length album, Undertow. But Lateralus was the first one to really speak to me from an elevated plane, even before Ænima. Undertow brought the heaviness— I think of it almost as a lead weight in sonic form— but it honestly didn't sound a whole lot like the progressive mainstay that Tool eventually became, and which I came to love dearly. Early on, as I've already said, no band was quite as fundamental in my musical tastes becoming what they are as Tool was. And this is the album where they really came into their own. If Undertow was a lead weight, Lateralus was a clarifying light.

On the strength of the single "Schism" and its delightfully perplexing music video featuring contortionists in blue-grey body paint, I bought Lateralus the day it was released: May 15, 2001. I was 15 years old. For some time, I nicknamed it the "rain album", because (I kid you not) for the first several months, whenever I would listen to it, by some strange coincidence, it always seemed to bring a storm shortly afterward. I loved everything about it. From the amazing Alex Grey anatomical transparencies in the liner notes, to the strange time signatures and the mystifying lyrics— it grabbed hold of my soul in a way that no other recording has, before or since. From the opening of "The Grudge" to the very last notes of "Triad", and even the bizarre Art Bell radio-show-prank-phone-call-from-Area-51 which constitutes "Faaip De Oiad", Lateralus is an intensely spiritual experience for me. This is my Bible, my Bhagavad Gita. And it has served me well over the years, through the creation of artwork, and studying for exams, and unpleasant dental procedures. (No, seriously, I highly recommend trying this album while pumped full of nitrous oxide. There's nothing like it.)

"Schism" might be what brings you to the show here, but the two-track suite "Parabol/Parabola" is what keeps you listening, with its poignant message about living in the present and not taking the precious gift of life for granted. The album's closing trilogy of "Disposition/Reflection/Triad" offer another high point, with the second song being the main focus. "Reflection" is not only the longest track on the album, but one of its most divinely beautiful as well, with its Hindustani-influenced drumming and sarangi accented by an electronic drone. But of course, the main centerpiece of the album is the title track, "Lateralus", often cited as one of the greatest metal songs of the 21st Century so far. At nearly nine and a half minutes long, the song's true brilliance lies in its vocal delivery and time signature both being structured around the Fibonacci sequence; the lyrics about "spiraling out" are somehow all the more meaningful when woven into a tapestry whose very fabric is literally the arithmetic behind spirals. For someone like me, who absolutely cannot exist without thoughtful, cerebral music, this is the album that I hold as the gold standard for everything else.

Prime cuts: "Schism", "Parabol/Parabola", "Lateralus", "Reflection"

1. Grace for Drowning – Steven Wilson (2011)

And then there was one. Of course the list ends right back where it began back at #100, with a Steven Wilson solo album. His second solo effort is probably not the most popular choice out of his body of work, but I don't care. In my view, it's criminally underrated. It's absolutely, hands down, my favorite album of all time. No additional thought required.

So what's so damn special about Grace for Drowning, that I rank it above even Lateralus? Well, the simple quantity of music is a good place to start. Grace for Drowning is a two-disk set; the first disk contains the majority of the album's tracks, while the second disk is dominated by the monstrous 23-minute behemoth titled "Raider II", as well as a few smaller compositions like "Index" and "Track One". Around the time of the release of Grace for Drowning, Wilson had caused a bit of a stir by mentioning his boredom with continuing to pursue Porcupine Tree's previous heavy metal style, and his unabashed admission that he was listening to much more freeform jazz than hard rock. For some listeners of Porcupine Tree, this was discouraging, particularly because it seemed to telegraph that Steven Wilson really might be serious about being done with his old band. However, in listening to Grace for Drowning, I simply cannot mourn for Porcupine Tree, because Wilson's solo music is every bit as masterfully composed, with quite a bit more freedom to really experiment with new styles without the pressure of preconceived expectations. The end result was not something that pandered to fans, but instead a tremendously courageous and seductive blend of jazz jams and prog rock, with flute and sax sections provided by longtime PT collaborator Theo Travis. It was a true piece of artwork, made all the more miraculous by its emergence amidst a 2010s pop music landscape that is incredibly hostile to such heady endeavors. (*cough* Dubstep. *cough*)

But then, beneath the veneer of long jam sessions and rock guitars, at his heart, Wilson is a master craftsman of pop as well. "Deform to Form a Star" demonstrates this well, as do "No Part of Me" and "Postcard", a sentimental melody that reeks so much of self-deprecating despondency that it might as well be my personal anthem. Meanwhile, Wilson's penchant for creating eerie and subtly unsettling music shines through on "Remainder the Black Dog" and the instrumental "Sectarian", where dramatic choral arrangements and Travis's diabolical saxophone produce some of the album's most stunning moments of tension. "Index" keeps the tension intact on the second disk, with its lyrical content detailing a fastidious collector whose obsession with adding to his collection ventures dangerously close to creepy and stalker-ish.

And then, "Raider II" comes on, and all of the unspoken menace that has been slowly building and bubbling under the surface erupts into full effect. How could it not, in an epic song inspired by Dennis Rader, the notorious Kansan serial killer more commonly known as the BTK Strangler? The intro begins with a simple piano passage on the low end, with a clarinet joining in to add some treble; in between, there are long pauses for several seconds at a time, where it could be said that Wilson is playing the anxious silence itself like an instrument. The vocals begin quietly at around a minute and a half into the song, with the intro going quiet one last time before exploding with full fury just before the three-minute mark. The next four minutes cycle through the verses, a few unexpected death growls, and a beautiful flute solo from Travis. Then there's another short lyrical passage, before the unhinged guitar solo, which segues into a smooth saxophone solo. At eleven minutes in, the guitars return with a vengeance, and then recede again into the reverb, leaving a disquieting stillness in their wake. Out of the silence the song catches its second wind and emerges again with a jangly guitar melody, over which Wilson evokes disturbing metaphors for the serial killer's mentality: "A cat among the crows, I'm raider / The butcher and his prose". Finally, the song winds down with a chaotic ensemble, its ever-increasing tempo finally culminating in a single sustained blast of disorder, with two minutes of slow bass and guitar to pad the ending. And after such a harrowing rollercoaster ride, the album ends gently on the palate cleanser, "Like Dust I Have Cleared from My Eye".

In summary, Grace for Drowning is my favorite album, probably because of the wide emotional range it exemplifies. There are parts of the album that are peaceful and delicate, parts that are achingly sad and wistful, parts that are laidback and mellow, and of course, parts that are incredibly dark and sinister. There is ample expressive complexity and splendor here, for those who can appreciate it. And there is heaviness here, too, in a way that doesn't rely on the metal clichés of Wilson's past. Overall, a phenomenal album, and one that likely won't soon see a challenger for its title as my favorite of all time.

Prime cuts: "No Part of Me", "Postcard", "Remainder the Black Dog", "Raider II"… fuck it, the entire album.

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