#* » open | call . : to dare the day to reinvent itself .

[dnsbarbie]

𝐰𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐟𝐮𝐥 𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐞𝐬┃𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧 𝐲𝐞𝐚𝐠𝐞𝐫

chapter two

warnings: season 4/manga spoilers, mentions and depictions of death, death, war, cursing, angst, eren being an asshole 

word count: 6,406

notes: PROCEED WITH CAUTION major season four/manga spoilers ahead !!! ALSO — I’ve read the last chapter and bestie lmao — i just wanted to pour the dread I felt by posting this chapter since it is also vv sad!!!!  ENJOY THOUGH !!!

PREVIOUS CHAPTER/S: moodboard/prologue, one 

𝐢'𝐯𝐞 𝐠𝐨𝐭 𝐬𝐨𝐦𝐞 𝐭𝐫𝐢𝐜𝐤𝐬 𝐮𝐩 𝐦𝐲 𝐬𝐥𝐞𝐞𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐜𝐨𝐰𝐛𝐨𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞

A malicious smirk curled upon the lips of a certain brunette, head peaking from the corner of a concrete housing. His bright, turquoise irises scanned the friend group of his intended target, arms linked one after the other, walking towards to door that led to the hallway of the dorms. 

“Eren, is this really necessary?” Armin whispered beside Eren, his voice shook in the slightest as he watched the bunch near the door. 

Eren scoffed, nodding his head firmly, never taking his eyes off of them. “It wouldn’t have to be if she didn’t pour salt on my oatmeal earlier . . .” The frown that decorated his face was fleeting, the scheming glint present again, as anticipation bubbled in his stomach.

Devon Janea stretched her hand out, placing in on the metal knob, she laughed along to what ever Sasha and Nifa were chatting about. Her palm twisted the knob, giving it a light push. A soft clank ticked above her head, followed by the liquid  icy flow that took her awhile to recognize as water. It cascaded from her head down to her boots. 

Both of her companion let out a gasp, pulling the wooden bucket that had fallen on their friend’s head. 

Eren’s smirk, shifted into a series of baffling hysterics, his gaze pointed at the now soaking wet Survey Corps uniform of Devon. Her golden brown locks dampened, turning them a shade darker. 

Despite the numbing sensation of Devon’s body, she managed to catch wind of someone laughing annoyingly loud. Her suspicions were confirmed as her vision landed on an elated piece of shit kneeling on the ground, clutching his stomach a few feet away from them. 

She made eye contact with a pair of ocean eyes as she looked up, which immediately swam in mercy. If she wasn’t freezing to death, she would’ve laughed at the fear on Armin’s face but she was able to comprehend was the desire to crush Eren Yeager’s skull into ash. 

“Oi, Yeager!” She bellowed, unclipping her soiled cape from her back. 

“You’re gonna get it now . . .” Nifa mumbled, earning an enthusiastic giggle from Sasha.

Eren stood from his place, chortling toned down to occasional chuckles, he crossed his arms to his chest, observing Devon’s shaking form as she approach him. 

The exasperated expression that had morphed itself on her face never wavering. Her drenched footwear squelched under the Earth’s pressure. “You have five seconds to tell me why — oh why you did that.” 

Apparently, the seething irritation Devon carried in her tone triggered Eren’s funny-bone because not a second later, stupid laughs poured away from his very much punchable mouth. 

It was short-lived, however — since Devon’s patience had ran thin and next thing everyone knew, her arm swung back, fist colliding painfully against Eren’s abdominal area, producing a clean booming crunch. 

A series of oof’s can be heard behind her which she could’ve guessed were a few people who had came to witness this brawl that occurred quite frequently much to their squad captains’ displeasure.

He had stumbled back a few inches, ass meeting the soil. The agonized groan that escaped his lips were a blessing to Devon’s ears, and her eyes feast at the same suffering that contorted his face. 

Armin instantly came to his side, eyes wide in panic. 

Wringing her moistened hair in both hands, she raised an eyebrow as she saw Armin’s pleading eyes. “Don’t give me that look — “ She scorned, a mocking smile dressed her features. “He’s the idiot that came at me.”

Eren shot her a murdering daggers. “You started it!” 

A child — an immature child —

“Excuse me?” Devon questioned, hands settling on her hips. 

“You ruined my breakfast!” His voice boomed inspite the pain shooting at his stomach.

Devon pondered his words, brows furrowing in thought. Just then, a memory flashed between her eyes, producing an inelegant snort from her mouth.

A hand came to cup her lips instantly, doing little to conceal the blooming grin that had appeared.

“Oh, that.” She affirmed, voice filled with mirth. “In my defense, you kept kicking my leg for no reason— so—”

A foot after the other, she strided towards the boy who had now gotten off the ground, fists clenched at either sides. Regardless of the noticeable difference in their height, Devon stood tall, as she looked up at Eren.

“—technically, you started it . . .” She narrowed her eyes, staring at Eren’s equally annoyed ones.

Almost half a minute passed, the open courtyard remained quiet as both Scouts stared in each other down as if waiting for one of them to disintegrate into nothing but ash.

However, A firm cutting tsk made everyone flinch. Devon and Eren seem to stumbled back onto reality, goosebumps rising on their arms.

Both snapped their heads to the terrifyingly familiar sound and behold— with a deep scowl resting on his usually neutral face, Captain Levi tapped his foot next to the sploch of wetness on the ground.

His sharp glare cutting through the babbling Scouts in the middle of the scene. From the fair amount of distance, they were sure the Captain noticed their shaking figures.

“It wasn—”

“She di—”

The Captain’s raised palm silenced both the excuses that came rushing out their mouths, clamping them shut in a split millisecond.

“Both of you—” He started, teeth gritting as he spoke. “No one gets a speck of lunch until you’ve cleaned this up.”

Resigned huffs and nods were their response, head hung low but burning glare for one another remained.

Her clammy hands clutched the fabric in a tighter vice, closed palms beginning to shake at the emotions that had invaded her mind.

Devon Janea was once again in a position she had promised herself to never indulge in— but as her eyes bore into the green cloth that held the symbol of freedom, her eyes began to sting, teeth in a compacted clench, causing a dull ache to reside in her mouth— an ache she couldn’t dare feel due to the greater torment, the object in her hands brought.

It was her old Scouts cape. She had kept it when they had announced the reinvention of the Survey Corps uniform. The cape meant a great deal to her yet every time she laid her eyes on it, nearly nothing joyful popped in her mind.

She despised the idea of hating this piece fabric— she hated it— but she somehow felt the need to.

All of the things that happened to her– good or bad, her cape hung on her shoulders and bore witness.

It was there— this old thing.

It was there when they went to battle mindless Titan’s outside of the walls. It was there when every stage of fear shot through her system every single time her squad-mates met their cruel demise.

In the times where she cried for her fallen comrades until the sun rose, she had hugged this piece of fabric to her chest, muffling her outmost despair.

It was there when she fell victim to Eren’s pranks and their childish fights. This was present in the time she had felt an outrageous amount of bliss regardless of the situation in the outside world– a time where all she thought about was surviving, with them.

But now— it was . . . gloomy.

A distant call from outside her window caught her attention and she immediately got to her feet, observing the armor that decorated her body. It was far from what they used to wear but nonetheless more efficient for their current predicament.

They were fighting humans now.

She had never thought this day would see the light but assumptions can always be shifted, can’t they?

It was baffling to her how they’d need more advanced and heavier equipment when it came to war against people in comparison to the weapons and wardrobe they utilized with Titans.

Big, scary, man-eating giants.

Her younger self would most probably shudder in fear if she saw her now. She’d ask her all these question in order to make sense of her actions and most likely pretend she understood when in fact, she’s been thinking of ways to turn her over onto a brighter leaf. 

As she tried to imitate a happy smile she used to carry, she could almost see her other self seething at the fabricated action. She gripped the straps of her black uniform, the material fitted like a second skin but very comfortable to move around in. 

With a last shake out of her doubtful thoughts, she grabbed the green cloak from the floor, hooking it across her chest while she ran down and into hell.

Time seemed to pass by quickly — that or Devon has been spacing out now and then as Commander Hange was explaining the plan of action. The parts Devon had caught irked her. 

“We’ll have to cover for Eren as much as we can . . .” Hange’s tired, but firm mutter echoed in the airship that has been prepared by Zeke Yeager and his most gracious disciples. 

“We have to assume that he’ll cause damages and openly declare war,” The commander nodded at them, her gaze flickered from one scout to another that surrounded the table in the middle of the room. “Jean, Connie, Sasha and Floch — watch out for enemies over at the west. Take half of Levi’s squad with you.” 

Devon watched the circle of her comrades as she rested her body on a nearby wall, eyes fleeting to Hange as she caught her gaze. 

“Devon,” The commanding tone in her voice caught Devon’s attention. “You and Mikasa are to find Eren — and once you do, keep close and make sure to have your eyes on him at all times.”

If it wasn’t for Devon’s self-proclamation to shut up and do as she’s told without complaints,, she would’ve jumped out this flying balloon hours ago. But, she matched Hange’s stoic glare, a nod confirming her cooperation was enough for the commander to continue her discussion.

In the corner of her eye, she could spot a figure walking towards her. She kept her gaze forward, clearing her throat once the said figure had stopped beside her.

“If you want to smack Eren, I won’t stop you,”

Be this a normal situation, Devon would no doubt laugh at Levi’s sudden statement. She twisted her neck to face him, she’s met with those steel, cool stare.

“I know.” She affirmed, folding her hands back, hiding the fidgeting of her fingers that had no plan on stopping until they’ve left this depressing island. “Maybe I will slap him later . . .”

She saw Captain Levi nodding along to her words, and despite not exactly saying anything else, Devon appreciated the random interaction that somehow calmed her nerves a little. 

The minutes of Hange talking was the only sound bouncing through the walls were indeed just minutes.

A deafening roar quaked the skies, Devon’s eyes shutting, hands coming up to cup her ears at the loud volume. 

Show time.

She stumbled at the front of the airship, hands finding support of its walls, her head peaked out the scene through the window. 

There he was. 

Or it.

The enormous Titan stood at an intimidating form of 15 meters, baring his muscled back to them. His roars continued to pierce their ear, making them flinch each time it rattled their hearing.

“There’s no time to waste!” Captain Levi’s command came riddling through all the commotion. “To your stations!” 

With that, the scouts saluted, each scrambling to get their equipment together as fast as they can. Devon instantly ran to her gear, hooking it around her waist. Her hands reached to take a hold of approximately ten thunderspears. The supposedly cool metal laid feverish on her palm but decided ignore it and resume to securing the heavy weapons on her shoulder.

Another angry roar and a series of frightened screams rattled her nerves yet she refused to waver at the thought of the situation outside.

“Mikasa,” Devon called, the attention of the raven haired girl turned to her, nodding. “C’mon, let’s finish this.”

Fire — blood — screams — explosions.

The list was dreadfully endless. With Mikasa to her right, they swung above the unfathomable condition of the town. Devon tried to avoid looking below but agonizing wails were impossible to ignore. 

She knew it would be a mistake to succumb to the temptation and just peak downwards. Beyond the apathetic eyes she had been giving nowadays, was that frightened little girl hidden behind Wall Rose. 

Looking down would mean remembering. 

It was unclear whether or not she opposed to it or not. Does she truly want to revisit that horrible time in her life in a crucial time like this?

“Don’t.”

Her thoughts lurched back at Mikasa’s sudden intrusion. Devon felt her eyes burn at the side of her face, urging her to return the gaze. Mikasa had a glint of tenderness in her eyes as she stared at Devon.

“Looking won’t help anyone.” As if she had read Devon’s mind, had her thinking if her conflicted thoughts showed on her face as well. 

“It won’t.” She agreed, exhaling a breath she wasn’t aware she was holding. “Stand on that pillar, try to catch Eren’s attention — I’ll do the same on the that building at the left. Be careful not to be noticed by anyone else.”

The order came flying out of her mouth as Eren’s Titan form became more prominent to their vision. Mikasa swung to the direction Devon had ordered, leaving the latter to advance to her position. 

Devon’s boots slid on the worn down roof of a house, fragile bricks now easy to pick apart, resembling a puzzle containing several missing pieces. She stalked towards the edge of the roof, squatting down to uselessly watch the treacherous scene unfold in front of her. 

Eren turned, his eyes skimming through the civilians aimlessly racing away from him. Devon noticed how the large titan spun his head towards the right.

She had to squint to confirm that he did, in fact acknowledge Mikasa’s presence. A sigh of relief escaped her as she was sure of the exchange. 

Past her relief was a gash of radiant light amongst the cauldron dark covered skies. Her eyes could hardly accommodate the brightness that invaded her sights but she could make out a form of a skeleton, slowly evolving with flesh. 

She stumbled back at the thunderous punch the creature caught on its face. The tissues that haven’t fully developed yet squashed against Eren’s gigantic fist. Devon’s resistance to look away increased, with the amount of blows Eren delivered to the primitive titan as it wriggled uselessly below him.

A shot of a rifle snapped her attention away from the ongoing uproar to the source of the sudden gunshot. The thick layers of fog beneath the houses made it difficult to spot anything from where she sat.

At that moment, she hoped that Sasha and the others were able to place signal lights to ensure the clearance of enemies. She swayed her head hoping to catch a glimpse at anything suspicious from that direction but she was met with darkness and smog. 

Devon gasped, hand abruptly clutching at the end of the roof as the ground trembled, followed by a loud groan which brought her attention back to Eren.

Her eyes widened at his state. His stomach now impaled in the center by a large pointy crystal lifting his limp body in the air. The titan seemed to have completed it’s transformation as it now stood, smoke seeping out of its shoulder, waiting for its arms to grow back. 

She had never seen anything quite like it, despite being able to witness numerous unbelievable things in her days. The titan seemed to possess to ability to create structures using hardening, allowing it to make to spike it used to pierce Eren. 

The strength this Titan possessed chilled her blood, instinctively look towards Mikasa. Luckily, she had her eyes on her too. And beyond the disaster, the distress that covered her features relaxed as Mikasa brought her palm up as a symbol to wait.

She turned her head back, fists balling tighter as the Titan grew a hammer on her hand, clutching the long handle. Devon repressed the urge to step in as it barreled the object towards an unmoving Eren, successfully smashing the crystal altogether. 

Devon’s panic simmered down as a slightly smaller version of Eren’s titan emerged amidst the smoke. 

Continuous flashes of light and booms of canons interrupted the fleeting solace Devon felt. Somehow, with all of those heavy weaponry, she was finally able to see the series of soldiers lined up nearly in front of Eren.

She saw his fingertips turn icy, incasing them in Titan hardening as he came up to cup his nape. He growled at his attackers, not noticing how to white fleshed titan swung back its hammer. He turned too late, only being able to provide his arms as a weak protectant. 

Devon’s patience wore thin as she merely continued to watch as Eren was rid of his hands. 

“The War Hammer Titan is a monster!” A joyful screech amongst the gloomy atmosphere pierced her ears.

War Hammer 

“That’s what it’s called . . .” She muttered to herself, scowling at the name. “How corny.”

“It’s really going to finish off!”

Whoever it was, Devon wanted nothing more than to shut them up. Anxiety welled up inside her as the War Hammer Titan raised its weapon again, slowing as a figure — Eren  — resurfaced from his Titan form.

She couldn’t help the feeling of a hefty weight being lifted out from her shoulders as she set eyes on his figure. 

“Usurper, Eren Yeager,” The War Hammer spoke. “Do you have any last words?”

Although she could only see his back, a long inhale propelled her lips. 

“Now or never, Mikasa.”

Loud and clear, Devon waited for it. As signaled, Mikasa’s form came rushing in the scene, almost too fast to be caught by the naked eye. She raised her arms, plowing a hefty sequence of thunderspears in the air and into the War Hammer’s neck, slotting it perfectly. 

The release of the clip prompted its ear-splitting eruptions, blowing off its nape. Mikasa spun her body, eyes spotting Devon’s, an understanding nod between the two was exchanged and that was all it took.

She went off flying towards Eren, her heart pounding louder into her ears as she grew closer to his form. Before she could muster anything to say, Eren spoke.

“You guys actually came. . .” 

Despite the lack of emotion on his face, Devon could hear the faint surprise in his tone. An unknown feeling of displeasure spanned on her chest as she examined the side of Eren’s face.

She noted the few but undeniably noticeable changes in his appearance compared  to the last time she has seen him, reminding her of the many days they have been apart. His hair had grown past his shoulders, little stubbles have made it’s on his upper lip and — she would love to be wrong . . . she hopes she was because if she wasn’t mistaken, the vibrant turquoise hue in his eyes had dimmed into a spiritless pair of orbs.

The frown on her face didn’t falter, choosing to finally respond to him, “They were worried about you.” The admission seemed half-hearted yet she felt the need to tell him that in the moment. 

“Eren,” In other circumstances, the hammering in her chest would absolutely delight her, but the one she was currently having flooded her with outmost dread, eyes piercing in to Eren’s own. “Do you have any idea what you’ve done?”

Devon found herself crouching beside him, as if he wouldn’t hear him if she stood. “You’ve murdered all these people —” She had to stop speaking, aiding the ache of her mouth as the words dawned to her. “No amount of reasoning could save you from this." 

The heavy sigh she released helped lightened the tightness on her chest, looking at her feet, the heat of Eren’s Titan flesh seeping through her body. 

“Eren,” The tense exchange was cut short as Mikasa landed beside Devon, calling his attention. “Please, let’s go home . . .”

“It’s not over yet.” At his claim, both girls’ features morphed into confusion.

“What —” Devon’s eyes widened, stopping the query on her tongue. “Motherfucker — “

The ground rumbled along with the rise of the War Hammer Titan.  Slowly, it started getting up, its palm pressing against its head, pushing it back onto the body effortlessly.

“That’s impossible!” The incredulous tone Mikasa expressed was no different from the look that Devon gave to astonishing incident playing before their eyes. “I blew off its nape!”

“And I crushed it with all my strength,” Eren added, his monotone voice unwavering as he studied the titan. 

“Mikasa!” Devon’s body acted before her mind, eyes laying on the sparks blossoming on thee Titan’s hand, a crossbow has come to life. 

As an instinct, she grabbed Eren, a hand coming up to his waist, the other pointing her ODM gear at the first concrete she looked at. She fired the equipment, grapple shooting out. When it hooked on the infrastructure, she wasted no time to tug Eren out of the titan flesh and onto the air with her, just in time before the arrow hit their previous place. 

It had been several minutes since the Scouts retreated back into the airship. Eren was able to devour the War Hammer, nearly getting to the Jaw Titan if it wasn’t for Reiner Braun’s unexpected appearance.

 The loud cheers resonated along the walls, bouncing back outside as they celebrated a mission success.

Devon would be lying if she said she doesn’t feel the uneasiness leaving her chest, as her head weaved through the crowd, eyeing everyone’s condition. 

Thankfully, no one was hurt, perhaps a bit of cuts and scratches but besides that, they were all well. 

A smile slithered it’s way to her lips, watching her comrades. Floch leads the bunch, raising his fist in the air. “It’s a huge victory! The New Eldians Empire ends in victory!” He declared, earning gleeful shouts of affirmation. 

His words, however, stabbed Devon back into a harsh reality, face twisting into a crestfallen frown. Determined to keep her thoughts at bay, glanced to the side, finding Jean, Connie and Sasha huddled close to the open door.

She sauntered to them, resting on her knees to be at their level. “I’m so glad you’re all safe . . .” She muttered, a grateful gleam in her eyes sparkled, throwing her arms around the three. 

Sasha, being at the middle, curled both her hands  around Devon’s waist, the other two doing the same in their respective side. 

Connie, of course, had to clap back at the intimate moment, mumbling against Devon’s shoulder. “You smell like shit, Janea . . .”

They laughed, shoulders shaking. Devon extended her arm to smack Connie behind his head, making the latter flinch but grin as he spotted the glare she sent him. 

“You’re one to talk,” She scoffed, rolling her eyes. “You look like shit.”

He stuck his tongue out, shaking his head at the brunette. Said brunette merely smirked before standing, landing a soft pat at each of their heads. “Good job, guys . . . I’ll just go check on Eren.” 

They nodded simultaneously, understanding the look on Devon’s face as she turned back towards the hallway but not before hearing Sasha’s enthusiastic yell.

“Let’s celebrate and eat a lot when we get home!”

Devon looked back over her shoulder, flashing her a bright grin and nodded. “I call pork stew!” She laughed, heart warming at Sasha’s beaming smile.

As she went on her way, wooden flooring creaked beneath the weight of her boots, approaching the men contained in the area. Her eyes wandered down, noting how Eren was sat on the floor, a scout pointing a gun at him while Captain Levi glared right through his soul.

“Captain,” She announced her presence, garnering closer to them, inclining her head as a sign of respect

Levi didn’t look away, “Cheer up,” He spat instead, “Everything happened like you wanted,”

Maybe it was her buzzing mind, or the overall exhaustion finally catching up to her. But until she followed their gaze, she didn’t notice Zeke Yeager perched on the wall at the end of the hall, steam leaching out from where his missing limbs were once attached. 

“Jenea,” At Levi’s voice, Devon snapped up to meet his eyes. “Bind him with this,”

Before she could react, Levi had thrust a wheeled rope on her hands, leaving her with no choice but to grip the braided strands. She didn’t get a chance to respond, seeing the Captain and his fellow squad member exit the room.

Suddenly, Devon recalls the short exchange she had with Levi before leaping into battle, The thought caused her to peer down at the same person that was their topic of interest was now at her hostage. 

Eren was already staring back at her, making her eyes narrow the longer she looked into his. The turmoil sprouting at her conscience wasn’t a pleasant indication. Yet, she shut her eyes for a moment hoping to calm her aggression.

When she felt it was enough, she opened them back up, swiveling her head to Eren’s direction. He had his wrists offered to her, beckoning her to get to it. 

Without a word spoken, Devon crouched down and began to swathe his hands together, placing a cloth between his palms to prevent him from slashing himself. 

“I’m not going to turn into a titan in an airship.”

Devon kept her concentration at the knot she was forming, grasped pulling against the binds, further restraining his movements.

“You’ll never know,” She whispered, retaining her hands on his wrist despite accomplishing her task.

The silence was unbearable, yet Devon resisted the impulsive sentences bunching up her mouth. She wanted him to say something— anything that could possibly tame the anger she had for him.

Flickering lights on the hallway continued, baring the stiff aura that pattered heavily upon the narrow space. Devon and Eren very much indulged in their staring contest.

It was akin to glasses at the edge of the table, waiting for one to finally fall and shatter into microscopic pieces.

As aggravating as the soundless room is, Devon’s pride was far too great to break it, eyes boring into the orbs she once adored. She began to think to herself of the things that might have happened for Eren to be brought back to her this lifeless.

The more time she invested looking at him, the wrenched ache in her chest became torturous. She wasn’t entirely aware what came over her, but her hand was already poised up in the air, her palm connecting against Eren’s cheek.

A graciously blaring slap, echoed against the room, probably heard around the whole airship. His head banging into the wall next to him, relishing the strength of the contact

Even being the one to strike, Devon’s hand burned at the impact, making hiss, the other hand shooting up to soothe her stinging palm.

Her eyes were blurry when she looked back to Eren, cheek had started to redden. All the reserved attitude she had been building up the whole day demolished simply by entertaining Eren Yeager’s presence.

She knew it wouldn’t be pleasant but she failed to recognize exactly how distressing it would be. Her chest was heaving, palm clawing at the skin, hoping for the ache to lighten.

“Devon,”

She was wrong. The initial thought of having him talk flew out her mind when she finally heard his voice. In the quite space they stood in, it seemed annoying loud. Despite merely whispering her name, it was like he had yelled in her ear, which made her cover them as she was currently doing.

“No—” Her voice shook, failing to maintain the authority in her tone. “Shut the fuck up, Yegear.”

She spun on her heel, turning her back on him, rolling her head up to gaze at the wooden ceiling. Her breath was still uneven as she exhaled, running a trembling hand along her locks.

“Wha–what did you hope to achieve?” She asked, pouring out frustration at every word. “I really want to understand— just please . . .”

I don’t want to hate you, she wanted to say but decided against it. Deeming the phrase inappropriate for the situation.

Without even having her eyes on him, Eren was well aware of her raging desperation. He knew why she was insistent and what exactly she wanted from him.

But all he had to say was, “It’s for everyone’s safety.”

If Devon was a volcano, she would’ve exploded right then and there. The bubbling vexation coursing through her veins made her head spin.

“Never in my life . . . and I mean never — have I despised a phrase as much!” She chuckled, no humor could be detected in the smile she flashed Eren when she turned around. “Is that it? Does that make all of this— justifiable?” 

The blaze looming up her throat whenever she became a tad mindful of his eyes were indescribable. It infuriated her as she took in the state of the pair. So much that she felt to need to shield them from her vision. 

“I don’t know what else you’re asking of me.” 

At his blunt statement, Devon had difficulties deciphering which of her swirling emotions she wanted to project due to the outrage and melancholy submerging her sane conscience. 

The little energy she had left prompted her to merely gape at his slouched figure, knotted wrists sat patiently at his lap. She lost the ability to make sense of his actions as his glare punctured her soul, sending an uncomfortable twinge in her heart.

“What happened to you?” Her hand slid to her neck, rubbing soothing circles to aid her shuddering tone. “I was angry the night before we came here . . . and even then, I still hoped for your safety— I hated that you left but I continued to believe that you had a good motive,” She willed herself to keep her eyes on him despite the impending urge to do otherwise. “But seeing you now — I’m beginning to doubt your stand in all of this . . .” 

Being honest was something she wanted to do, even if she was in no way prepared for Eren’s response. She had to let him know as much as she needed proper answers to the swarm of questions she had thrown at him. 

She touched her shoulder, wringing out the knot that was starting to form, as she ignored the noticeable tremble of her fingers. “You showed no mercy to anyone in this city — “

“No one deserved mercy — “

“Not even those children?” She was quick to surface the topic again, wide eyed as she awaited his reply. 

It was one that made her heart stop, breath hitched at her throat. 

“We were children too when something similar to this happened, weren’t we?” The way he delivered his question with no anger, but pure confusion halted Devon’s arguments, instead opting to study his expressions.

He spoke of nothing else but truth. They were children when Wall Maria was breached by the Armored Titan. In spite of not being a resident of that town, she was coincidently present when it occurred.

A dangerous chill cascaded along her spine at the memory of her younger sister. The image burned into her skull for eternity, how her little body got brutally smashed by a massive concrete that wiped out every thing in the perimeter she was standing on.

Devon lived with the regret of not being beside her, and letting her run further ahead without knowing it would be the sole cause of her demise. 

“And we weren’t at fault just like those children.” Her resolve quaked in the slightest but she stood her ground. “They didn’t have any idea what was happening — They were just as clueless as us . . .”

Exhaustion was taking over Devon’s sight, far too tired to have a sensible conversation with Eren except the stubborn part of her refused to waver. 

“Will you really no tell me?” Her persistence was starting to sound desperate, as she searched his eyes for the tiniest bit of sparkle she used to admire. Eyes drooped, her hands tugged at the rope on his wrists, pulling him closer as if she’d see what she was seeking in this proximity. 

She nearly smacked herself at how foolish her thoughts had become. Perhaps it came from the perplexing sentiments she had for the brunette, those sleepless nights her mind wandered to him, as she sat on her bed waiting for him to make his way back. 

Devon had buried emotions she deemed improper, and became more secluded when Eren left. She barely opened up to any of her close friends, fixing her face into a defaulted smile at times she felt the most unwell. 

To see Eren give her the look she had been dealing with every time she stared at her reflection shoved her into a state of panic, immediately ambushing him with questions she knew would go unanswered. 

With a deep sigh, she dropped her hand from its place, resting it on her side. “Alright . . . it would be a few hours until we reach Parad — “

A powerful bang startled them, Devon’s heart lurching on her chest as it had dawned to her that it was a gunshot. She stood rigid, unable to function despite the sudden commotion happening just behind the door at her right. 

Fear rippled through her system as the furious yells turned into desperate pleas. Her throat ran dry at the single name a mix of voices shouted.

“SASHA!”

That fear was physically resurfaced as her palms suddenly felt damp, blood turning sickeningly cold. She eventually willed herself to snap out of it, grabbing the doorknob, almost flinching at the freezing kiss on her fingertips.

Too occupied by her thoughts, she hadn’t realized, she had pushed the door open until Connie’s deafening yell broke her cloudy mind.

“DEVON—” Her eyes snapped towards the panicked voice, unable to ignore it. A wish for it all to go away was the first thing that came to her as she eyed the fimilliar head of reddish brown hair that laid unmoving on the floor.

She struggled to react, helplessly trudging towards Sasha. “Sasha—” A shake at the shoulder was her initial response, shock still fresh in her mind. “Hey— Sasha! Hold on, okay? Stay with me—” Devon’s palm snaked to grasp Sasha’s, pressing harder, hoping to transfer some of her warmth to her terrifyingly algid skin.

Devon’s lips came down to where their hands were connected, breathing tepid blows onto Sasha’s palm.

“Nico—”

Hope sparked in Devon’s chest at the sound of Sasha’s hoarse voice, deflating the moment she notcied the severity of her condition.

“Is dinner ready?” The sob Devon released pained her commarades as they watched on, tears falling from their eyes as well.

“Sasha— Sasha . . .” Devon’s pleas grew hopless, as she delivered an impervious squeeze on her palm. “Please— don’t leave me . . .”

Sasha’s name spilled from her lips repeatedly, noticing the delirious swarm in her eyes, knuckles bathed in unceasing downpour of hurt dripping from her green orbs.

An unbelievablely excruciating pang barreled on her chest, as she felt the weak grasp of Sasha’s hand turn limp on her own.

“N— NO! PLEASE . . .” Fright surged on her bones, shaking hands slamming onto Sasha’s shoulders. Devon shook her still form, movements lumbered due to the amount of tears clouding her vision. The headache she had earlier worsened terrible, as it was forced to process the horrific scene laid out in front of her.

The tips of her fingers felt numb, as she caressed Sasha’s freezing skin, index and middle digit crawling up the side of her neck, gently searching for her pulse.

Although hope was wearing thin, she still found the strength to press at the spot, pausing for a second before shaking her head.

Connie’s hand that was applying pressure to the gaping wound on her abdomen loosen, as he drew in a sharp breath.

Jean, still having his ears shielded by his palms, had found the courage to turn around to see a heartbreaking image that will surely be imprinted on his brain for all eternity.

A series of loud cries erupted around her, making her realize that she had stopped weeping. The weight on her chest still unbearable yet she felt far too numb to acknowledge it.

Her eyes drifted to the door she had been in before the tragic accident, disappointment bubbling up her throat, not at Eren but at herself because even then, she couldn’t bring herself to be angry at him.

A single question hung lax of the fragments of her wits.

Why?

Why did Eren choose to do what he did? Why did Sasha have to be a victim of this monstrosity?

No doubt, this war was to further worsen, Sasha won’t be the last one to suffer the end of this bargain.

The fire of unwavering adherence set ablaze in her remaining morals, determined to unseal Eren’s true motives for his repeated sentiment; for everyone’s safety.

Eren was not an enemy, but he does serve as a threath if he continues to feed them obscure reassurances that might put them in a danger like this. The enemy was the thoughts boiling in his head, caging him alone with those possibly sinister notions.

Devon had a great hunch that Eren gives vague answers because he was hinding something important, a plan he knew they wouldn’t agree on.

Perhaps it was her drained sanity thinking, but Devon have passed the stage of giving a damn as she let the thought worm into her brain.

If she can’t beat the enemy, she would have to join them.

[scapegrace74-blog]

Lucky

A/N  I’m enjoying going back and filling in some of the missing Metric Universe details.  This one is set during the time of Jamie’s injury, so just after The Beginning, and it introduces some important secondary characters.

Inspired by the Radiohead song “Lucky”, and particularly by Thom Yorke wailing “it’s going to be a glorious day” as though he is trying to will it to be true from the depths of his agonized soul.

The entire Metric Universe is available on my Ao3 page.

January 6, 2015, The Royal London Hospital

Sterile hallways.  The noxious funk of London smog blending with the antiseptic sting of the Intensive Care Unit.  The endless thrum of traffic, bleep of life-saving equipment, squeak of rubber soles on linoleum.  It was only when she left the Highlands that she realized how much she took their clean air and miles of quiet for granted.

A few feet away from where she kept vigil in a stiff avocado chair, her brother lay in a medically-induced coma.  An orchestra of machinery beat out the tempo to his survival.  The zigs and zags of his heartbeat against the ivory background of an electrocardiograph called forth memories of their youth, racing like wee fiends down the snow-laden slopes behind Lallybroch.

Younger by four years, Jamie had long been larger-than-life, even before he surpassed her own diminutive stature at age eleven.  Lying now under hospital sheets carefully draped to avoid his flayed back, she remembered the tiny babe in arms their mother had carefully lowered into her lap all those years ago.  Fragile, as though life clung to him with only a provisional grip.

“Dinna ye dare think of leaving me, Jamie Fraser,” she softly threatened for what must be the hundredth time since arriving at her brother’s bedside five days before.  “I ken ye miss them, but Mam and Da have each other now.  I only have you.”

January 11, 2015, The Royal London Hospital

“Fer the love of Christ and all the saints, jus’ drink the damn water ye clotheid!” an all-too-familiar female voice rang out.

“Leave me in peace, Janet.  I dinna want any water,” a masculine growl replied.

Ian Murray was still some distance from Room 418A, but he could hear the siblings bickering just fine.  Doubtless a good handful of staff and other patients were within earshot as well.  He rounded the corner and observed a scene that was equal parts poignant, comic and exasperating.

Immobile by necessity while the surface of his back slowly reinvented itself, his best friend lay facing the door.  Ian’s fiancée stood beside the bedrail, five feet of visible agitation.  She held a cup of ice water so tightly in her right hand, the straw quivered.

Jamie was no longer the pallid husk who awaited them at the end of a frantic race from Lallybroch to the Royal London that first morning of the new year.  Normally hale and over-flowing with vitality, it was distressing to witness him so motionless, eyes sunken and muscles slack.  Unfortunately for both Jamie and Ian, Jenny’s sharp tongue increased in direct proportion to how much emotional turmoil she was forced to cope with.

“Och, ye’re finally here,” the woman in question exclaimed.  “Will ye explain tae this bampot tha’ he willna improve if he doesna listen tae what his doctors tell him?”

“And what of no’ getting me riled up, hmm?  Ye dinna seem tae care what the doctors say when ye stick yer neb in my face every twa minutes.”

“Mebbe the doctors dinna realize that ye’re a muckle-sized bairn with the sense God gave an...”

“ALRIGHT, THE BOTH OF YE!” Ian yelled over the melee.  “I am tired of hearing ye bicker an’ so is the entire fourth floor.  Jenny, ye’re tired.  I’ll take o’er for the night while ye get some rest.  An’ Jamie, drink yer water before I pour it over yer bloody hot head.”

Both Frasers froze with their mouths open in retort, surprised by Ian’s uncharacteristic outburst.  A deafening minute of silence elapsed before Jenny silently gathered her coat, cap and purse, wished the two men a curt goodnight, then left in a swish of gabardine and discontent.

“Ye’re gonna pay for that later,” Jamie remarked, bending a rueful smirk around the extended straw.

“It’ll be worth it no’ tae hear ye two scold each other fer eight hours,” Ian retorted, taking Jenny’s place in the uncomfortable avocado armchair but sliding it back a foot so that it no longer blocked Jamie’s view of the hallway.  

“Jen could harry Auld Nick inta church, and ye ken it well, a charaid.”

“Grant her some mercy.  She’s scared witless, Jamie.  After yer Da...” Ian left the rest unsaid.

His childhood friend nodded against the bleach white pillow, weariness and something more insidious weighting his eyes closed.  Minutes passed, but Ian could tell from his irregular breath than Jamie was still awake.

“How is it today?”

A shoulder twitched in a minute shrug which still caused its owner’s brows to furrow with pain, though his eyes remained closed.

“Hurts like hell, if ye must know.  But I’m told I should feel lucky tae be alive by a team o’ London’s finest medical minds.”

“And do ye?” Ian persisted, trying to excavate the kernel of anguish that lay almost hidden beneath all the layers of physical pain.  It had been nagging at him since Jamie first woke three days earlier.  It wasn’t only the extensive physical damage to his body and daunting road to recovery that was afflicting his friend.  The blast had shifted something nearer his foundation, destabilizing the very structure of the man he’d known since childhood.

A long, hissing breath told him Jamie understood what Ian meant by his question, and was giving it due consideration.

“Mebbe feeling lucky is wha’ led me tae this hospital bed.”  He spoke quietly but urgently, with the tone of a penitent in the confessional booth awaiting divine judgement.

“Ye dinna mean ye think ye deserved tae be burnt near tae death?  Christ, Jamie, twas an industrial accident and ye’re a firefighter.  Awful luck, aye, but twasn’t something ye did or didna do that brought it upon ye.”

Another long pause, and this time Ian thought his friend may have fallen asleep.  Finally, almost drowned out by the whir and whisper of life-giving machinery,

“I dinna ken what I think anymore, a charaid.  I got lost, an’ this is where my mindless feet brought me.”

Long after Jamie drifted to sleep, Ian sat in the awkward chair, listening to his breathing and trying to make sense of what he’d just been told.

February 13, 2015, The Royal London Hospital

Beads of sweat furled down his neck and his back burned anew.   Aegrescit medendo, he thought wryly as he readjusted his grip on the wheeled walker and continued his unsteady progress.

“Very good, lad.  We’ll have you running again in no time!”  Dauntlessly cheerful and deceptively matronly, Jamie soon learned that Maureen Graham was an exacting physical therapist as well.  It was exactly what he wanted, when he wasn’t cursing her for it.

“Can we no’ take the elevator to another floor?  Mebbe down tae the A&E?”  Jamie tried to pass it off as an offhand request, but silver-grey eyes narrowed shrewdly.

“That’s the third time you’ve asked to go downstairs this week, Jamie Fraser.  I’m beginning to think you don’t like my ward.”

Thwarted, he carefully pivoted in a half circle and began the arduous trek back down the hallway to his room.  Six weeks spent nearly immobile while the surface of his back was slowly reborn had sapped all his strength.  Even if permission had been granted, he wasn’t certain he could navigate his weakened frame all the way to the emergency ward he’d last visited the night of his accident.  The last place he’d seen her.

“What’s her name?” Mrs. Graham asked as he shuffled the final few feet and sank gratefully against his bed.  He thought about deflecting her conjecture, but it posed an opportunity too good to pass up.

“I dinna ken”, he confessed.  “Twas the nurse who saw tae me when I was first admitted.  Curly brown hair.  Eyes the colour o’ ripened barley.  I think she served overseas fer a time.  Afghanistan, mebbe?”

He was doing his best to appear nonchalant, aided in part by the fact that his muscles twitched violently after every therapy session, but he still didn’t think he was fooling Mrs. Graham.

“Oh, I know just the one.  You were lucky to be in her hands.  No wonder you pulled through.”  She poured a large amount of fresh water into his re-useable bottle.  He drank it down in rapid gulps that leaked over his chin.  He realized his was beyond pride at this point.

“Her name?” he begged.

“Nurse Beecham.  Spelled the French way, but she’s as English as they come.”

Nurse Beauchamp.  She finally had a name.  He vowed he would recover his strength so that one day he could walk up to her and properly express his gratitude.

[karen-elaine]

Hey guys!

So I’m currently on vacation! My family and I are doing a cross country trip! For reference, I live on the east coast and had never ventured away from the east coast. This has now obviously changed and among our many stops was LA. While there my dad and I decided that it was crucial we stopped by the iconic Amoeba Music located on Hollywood Boulevard.

I did my fair share of shopping around, got some cool stuff, and overall had an epic experience. So, I figured I’d talk about it on here!

THE STORE

Here’s the store itself just chilling on the corner living it’s best life. It’s not super grand or anything from the outside, you get most of that wow factor when you walk inside. Still super cool though and they had some super chill employees hanging out right outside the door to welcome people in and chat with the customers.

When you first walk in to the store this is what you’re greeted by! It’s this awesome, colorful, record mural with those nice LED lights in it. I didn’t take anymore pictures once inside, but it was huge! There were rows and rows of records, cassettes, CDs, band tees, and equipment for listening. It was crazy and there was so much stuff to look through! If it wasn’t for the limited time we had due to the parking meter, I could’ve spent forever in there just looking through everything.

ARCTIC MONKEYS - FAVOURITE WORST NIGHTMARE

First of the many records I got today is Favourite Worst Nightmare by the Arctic Monkeys! I got one Arctic Monkeys album a couple of months ago (Whatever People Say I Am, That’s What I’m Not) and now I’m on a mission to get all of their albums. Needless to say, I was super excited to stumble across this one at Amoeba.

This record has a very epic song list! In total it contains 12 songs including:

Brianstorm

Teddy Picker

D Is For Dangerous

Balaclava

Fluorescent Adolescent

Only Ones Who Know

Do Me A Favour

If You Were There, Beware

The Bad Thing

Old Yellow Bricks

505

I believe this one just to be pressed on a black vinyl, but I won’t be opening it until I’m back home.

ARCTIC MONKEYS - A.M.

Yes I got myself another Arctic Monkeys album because why the heck not? In my defense though I never see these two at my local record shops, so that’s my excuse!

This album is a classic and I find a staple in many people’s collections. It features many of their big hits and is overall just an iconic record to own. With that being said, the song list is pretty awesome. A.M. features 12 tracks:

Do I Wanna Know?

R U Mine?

One for the Road

Arabella

I Want It All

No. 1 Party Anthem

Mad Sounds

Fireside

Why’d You Only Call Me When Your High?

Snap Out of It

Knee Socks

I Wanna Be Yours

Once again I do believe this to be on a plain black vinyl. Either way, my best friend is super excited that I got this one.

BIKINI KILL - REVOLUTION GIRL STYLE NOW!

Last time I came at all of you with a Bikini Kill record it was Pussy Whipped. This time around though I picked up Revolution Girl Style Now! which is pretty great! The ���B” section of my collection is really starting to bulk up and I’m not mad about it!

As always the songs on this album are most excellent. This one has:

Candy

Daddy’s L’il Girl

Feels Blind

Suck My Left One

Carnival

This Is Not a Test

Double Dare Ya

Liar

Ocean Song

Just Once

Playground

Sticking with the common theme here, I’m assuming the vinyl is just a standard black pressing.

BIKINI KILL - YEAH YEAH YEAH YEAH

Yes I got another Bikini Kill album! I swear this is the last one of multiple from one artist. It’s just Arctic Monkeys and Bikini Kill this time around.

Any who, this is another classic album of theirs with many great, well known songs from them. This includes:

White Boy

This is Not a Test

Don’t Need You

Jigsaw Youth

Resist Psychic Death

Rebel Girl

Outta Me

George Bush is a Pig

I Busted in Your Chevy Window

Get Out

Why

Fuck Twin Peaks

Girl Soldier

Not Right Now

Once again, I’m assuming that this is just a plain black vinyl. I don’t even think there is any colored pressings of Bikini Kill, but I could be wrong. Who knows?

FALL OUT BOY - TAKE THIS TO YOUR GRAVE

Here we have an artist I’ve been looking to add to my collection for a while now, Fall Out Boy! I can never seem to find their records in person, but today at Amoeba Music they had this one and Save Rock And Roll. That one was super expensive though with a lot of extra stuff. I was not looking to drop $40 on one album today, so I decided on this one instead!

The song list on this one is sweet. It features 12 songs all of which I’m pumped to listen to once I arrive home:

Tell That Mick He Just Made My List of Things to Do Today

Dead On Arrival

Grand Theft Autumn/Where Is Your Boy

Saturday

Homesick At Space Camp

Sending Postcards From a Plane Crash

Chicago Is So Two Years Ago

The Pros and Cons of Breathing

Grenade Jumper

Calm Before the Storm

Reinventing the Wheel to Run Myself Over

The Patron Saint of Liars and Fakes

Such a great album and it’s also such a great pressing! This copy of Take This To Your Grave is pressed on the limited edition silver vinyl which is super sweet.

MELANIE MARTINEZ - CRY BABY

I wasn’t even planning on this one but when I saw at the store I couldn’t say no! This album was my favorite in 6th grade and I was such a hardcore Melanie fan then. This album and Melanie herself is so iconic and I knew I had to get it.

All of Melanie Martinez’s packaging is always stunning too! I know this one has a whole picture book in it with a page for each song that connects the whole album in to one story. Super cool stuff!

This record contains 13 sweet songs including:

Cry Baby

Dollhouse

Sippy Cup

Carousel

Alphabet Boy

Soap

Training Wheels

Pity Party

Tag, You’re It

Milk and Cookies

Pacify Her

Mrs. Potato Head

Mad Hatter

This is the standard black pressing, but as I said before, the packaging for this is great so it’s all good! I’m super excited to give this guy a listen when I get home! My favorite through middle school was Mad Hatter so that’s going to be so fun to hear on vinyl.

MY CHEMICAL ROMANCE- DANGER DAYS: THE TRUE LIVES OF THE FABULOUS KILLJOYS

Final record purchase of the day is by none other than My Chemical Romance! I got their album Danger Days: The True Lives Of The Fabulous Killjoys and I’m super excited about it!

This record marks my second MCR vinyl in my collection, other than this one, I have The Black Parade which is another awesome album.

As always he have a very epic song list consisting of 15 tracks including:

Look Alive, Sunshine

Na Na Na

Bulletproof Heart

SING

Planetary (GO!)

The Only Hope for Me Is You

Jet‐Star and the Kobra Kid/Traffic Report

Party Poison

Save Yourself, I’ll Hold Them Back

S/C/A/R/E/C/R/O/W

Summertime

DESTROYA

The Kids from Yesterday

Goodnite, Dr. Death

Vampire Money

As shown in the image, this is not a standard black pressing! I got the fancy picture disc which was the only available option and I’m definitely not mad about it. Super cool, and my very first picture disc. Can’t wait to spin this one!

T-SHIRT

While I was there I also had to pick up some Amoeba merch to take back home with me!

They had a really epic graphic tee section. Some of which were for various musical artists while others were for the store itself. They had so many too!

I ended up going for this simple, black, logo tee with this super cute pink logo in the center. I think it’s adorable and I’m so looking forward to styling it back home.

PIN

As I was chilling in line I spotted the pins display and took a quick look at that too. I ended up grabbing a little rainbow pin with the Amoeba Music logo in the center. Once I’m home I plan to put this on my denim jacket that I’m currently trying to fill with cool pins and patches. It’s definitely going to be a really cool addition to my jacket. Unfortunately though, no pictures because I reached the max number of pictures. Very sad.

[xhxhxhx]

Rick Perlstein, Reaganland (Simon & Schuster, 2020):

AT THE SAME TIME, HOWEVER, a separate anti-liberal backlash was taking root. It was spurred by summer after summer of race riots, and its political base was not business but middle-class homeowners, who blamed civil rights and the War on Poverty for a civilization-threatening breakdown in law and order. Business was largely on the liberal side of this issue—like the author of a 1966 article in the Harvard Business Review predicting “riots and arson and spreading slums” if “the businessman does not accept his rightful role as leader in the push for the goals of the ‘Great Society’ (or whatever tag he wants to give it).”

No, business’s backlash, its emergence as a [class for itself], came a little bit later, in response to a new, and different, sort of liberalism—one whose buzzwords were “environmentalism” and “consumerism,” and which, unlike Lyndon Johnson’s War on Poverty, placed corporate power squarely in its sights.

Date its origin to the summer of 1967. Around the same time Congress was responding to middle-class constituent anger over black riots by voting down a modest bill funding rodent control in the slums, a remarkable hearing was held by the Senate Committee on Commerce, Science, and Transportation, chaired by Senator Warren Magnuson of Washington State. Magnuson had been approached by a Seattle physician who described a “chronic, unrelenting procession of burned and scarred children” in his work at Seattle Children’s Hospital, caused by the sort of flammable fabrics that had supposedly been outlawed by the Flammable Fabrics Act of 1953. That law, however, had been written by industry lobbyists. Back then, Commerce Committee members were classed by what industry they served: “textile senators,” “trucking senators,” “railroad senators,” “tobacco senators” (the leading tobacco senator was the former president of the Tobacco Institute). They sponsored protectionist laws written by their benefactors—like the Wool Products Labeling Act, which banned manufacturers from selling a product as wool if it contained a single strand of recycled or synthetic fiber; or bills fixing prices for legacy companies. The process was so corrupt that when Chairman Magnuson hired a young lawyer in 1964 named Michael Pertschuk to run the committee’s portfolio of consumer products legislation, the fellow he replaced congratulated him on all the price-fixed products, from audio equipment to toasters, that he soon would be getting for free.

This all would soon be a thing of the past.

Magnuson had been a fisheries senator and an aviation senator. After almost losing his seat in 1962, however, he reinvented himself aggressively as a new kind of liberal legislative entrepreneur: a consumerist senator. He put Pertschuk to work toughening up the limp Flammable Fabrics Act. A textile industry lobbyist replied “blood would run in the halls of Congress” before his industry let it pass. But the hearings Pertschuk staged in July of 1967 were a masterpiece of legislative melodrama. The Seattle doctor testified: “In all honesty, I must say I do not consider it a triumph when the life of a severely burned child is saved.… Death may be more merciful.” A beloved CBS News commentator told the story of his eleven-year-old daughter, burned nearly to death when a cotton blouse that met federal safety standards combusted when a match was dropped on it. A representative of the Cotton Textile Council boasted of the “admirable” results produced by its standards committee. The square-jawed and stentorian Magnuson replied:

“How often does your standards committee meet?”

“Regularly, Senator.”

How often, Magnuson followed up, before they’d received his recent letter warning them of impending congressional action?

“Ten years,” the lobbyist admitted.

The amendments passed the committee unanimously, then both houses, virtually unchanged. President Johnson signed the bill with Magnuson by his side. The following day he signed the first update to meat inspection law since the 1906 Pure Food and Drug Act, with Upton Sinclair, the novelist whose 1905 exposé The Jungle had inspired it, standing next to him. A landmark “truth in lending” bill went to conference six weeks later. The former senator Paul Douglas, a New Deal economist who had lost his seat in 1966 largely because white Chicago factory workers turned their back on him because of his advocacy for a failed bill outlawing housing discrimination, had been pressing for it since the 1950s, but was defeated in the Finance Committee session after session. Now, however, it passed the committee unanimously.

The floodgates opened: to laws fighting deceptive practices by door-to-door salesmen and moving companies, outlawing hazardous radiation from electronics equipment, closing gaps in poultry and fish inspection, demanding accuracy in product warranties, regulating cigarettes. “Consumer Interests: Legislative Derby Has Begun,” one Midwestern newspaper reported early in 1968. That headline appeared just as Congress voted to outlaw housing discrimination in a desperate response to the riots following the April 4, 1968, assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. The version that passed, however, weaker than one killed in 1966, added near-police-state provisions limiting militant blacks’ freedom to travel. Riots had burned down Lyndon Johnson’s War on Poverty. “Consumerism” sprung forth phoenix-like from the ashes.

Politicians discovered that scourging industry greed was the smart political play. It certainly was for Magnuson, who glided to reelection in 1970 with ads that bragged, “There’s a law that forced Detroit to make cars safer—Senator Magnuson’s law. There’s a law that keeps the gas pipelines under your house from blowing up—Senator Magnuson’s law. There’s a law that makes food labels tell the truth—Senator Magnuson’s law. Keep the big boys honest; let’s keep Maggie in the Senate.”

It heralded a remarkable shift in public opinion. In 1966, 55 percent of Americans had a “great deal of confidence in the leaders of major companies.” Five years later, the percentage was 27 percent. Between 1968 and 1970, the portion believing “business tries to strike a fair balance between profits and the interest of the public” fell from 70 percent to 33 percent. Wrote pollster Lou Harris, “People have come to be skeptical about American ‘know-how,’ worried that it might pollute, contaminate, poison, or even kill them.”

[...]

IDEALISTIC YOUNG LAWYERS FLOCKED TO the organizations [Ralph] Nader began forming [in the late 1960s]. The first product of these “Nader’s Raiders” was a 185-page report on the Federal Trade Commission, a notoriously toothless regulatory body that took, on average, four years to investigate every complaint, punishing the guilty with unenforceable orders to cease and desist. The monograph was couriered to 150 key journalists out of the back of a Raider’s Volkswagen. It called the FTC a “self-parody of bureaucracy, fat with cronyism, torpid through inbreeding unusual even for Washington, manipulated by the agents of commercial predators, impervious to government or citizen monitoring,” ridden with “alcoholism, spectacular lassitude, and office absenteeism.”

By then the president was Richard Nixon, who had to accede to the new anti-corporate mood just to maintain political credibility. He ordered up his own FTC investigation. It arrived at similar conclusions. So Nixon replaced the FTC director with the shrewdest bureaucrat in his administration, Caspar “Cap the Knife” Weinberger, who roared out of the starting gate with actions against dubious advertising claims of such blue-chip products as Hi-C, Listerine, Wonder Bread, and McDonald’s.

Nixon then signed a landmark mine safety law and the National Environmental Policy Act, establishing the first new independent federal regulatory agency since 1938, then added another with a law authorizing the Occupational Safety and Health Administration. That project was inherited from the Johnson administration, and at first, Nixon’s version was so mild that the U.S. Chamber of Commerce endorsed it. But the “creature that ultimately stomped out of Congress,” a historian recounted, was a “Frankenstein of Chamber members’ nightmares.” Federal agents had never had the authority to inspect individual businesses for health and safety violations. OSHA gave them the power to do it without warrants, then levy hefty fines with no avenue for appeal. Richard Nixon didn’t dare veto it.

Nor did he veto tough amendments to the Clean Air Act of 1963 that included something nearly unprecedented in previous environmental legislation: specific deadlines for compliance. It also enjoined the new EPA from considering costs in establishing ambient air standards—inspiring Robert Griffin, a Republican automotive senator from Michigan, to snarl that the 1975 deadline for limiting auto exhaust pollutants “holds a gun to the head of the American automobile industry in a very dangerous game of roulette.” The technology to implement the standards, he complained, did not exist. Democrat Edmund Muskie of Maine, the leader of senate environmentalists, responded, “This deadline is based not, I repeat, not, on economic and technological feasibility, but on considerations of public health.… Detroit has told the nation that Americans cannot live without the automobile. This legislation would tell Detroit that if this is the case, then they must make an automobile with which the American people can live.” The version that passed the Senate 73–2 was stronger than what had been debated in any hearing. A cowed GM lobbyist told the National Journal that “the atmosphere was such that offering amendments seemed pointless,” and that “I wouldn’t think of asking anybody to vote against the bill.”

The Senate Commerce Committee, that former redoubt of trucking senators, railroad senators, textile senators, and tobacco senators, became a regulator’s paradise. At confirmation hearings for a new FTC head, Frank Moss congratulated the agency for having “stretched its powers to provide a credible countervailing public force to the enormous economic and political power of huge corporate conglomerates which today dominate American enterprise. That is as it should be.” Then one of Moss’s conservative colleagues, Senator Ted Stevens, Republican of Alaska, asked the nominee to “become a real zealot in terms of consumer affairs,” tough enough that “these big businesspeople will complain.”

In 1971, Webster’s added the word consumerism to its Third New International Dictionary. A book called America, Inc.: Who Owns and Operates the United States? coauthored by the Washington Post’s consumer reporter and original Nader champion Morton Mintz rode the bestseller list for months. Children begged at bedtime to hear Dr. Seuss’s new book The Lorax, in which a pitiless capitalist “biggers” his business by harvesting every last Truffula tree, crying triumphantly, “Business is business and business must grow!” and leaving behind a barren hellscape. Gore Vidal published a cover article in Esquire touting Nader for president, and 78 percent of columnist Mike Royko’s readers who sent back a questionnaire he published said they wanted him as the Democrats’ presidential nominee. Another new independent regulatory agency, the National Highway Traffic Safety Administration, was born. Congress passed bills requiring childproof packaging for poisonous substances, killing federal subsidies for a supersonic transport plane, restricting lead in house paint, and establishing safety standards for recreational boats. Nixon signed them—not because he was a closet liberal, but because, as his aide Bryce Harlow, a former lobbyist for Procter & Gamble, delicately explained to the American Advertising Federation, though “President Nixon profoundly respects the critical contribution made by industry to the vitality and strength of the American economy, if this respect were to over-influence his actions, I am certain that the fall of 1972 would bring a new and hostile team to the White House.”

Nader had by then established a permanent presence in the capital, based in a decrepit mansion which had been slated for demolition in the down-market Dupont Circle neighborhood, where, amid a shambles of borrowed third-hand furniture and wooden fruit crates stuffed with books and files, staggeringly devoted young Ivy League–trained Nader’s Raiders institutionalized their hero’s agenda. The neighborhood was pocked with similar offices. Common Cause, Friends of the Earth, the Natural Resources Defense Council, Nader’s own Public Citizen, Environmental Action, the Center for Law and Social Policy, and the Consumer Federation of America were all established in 1969 or 1970. Nader started six new organizations in 1971 alone, including Public Citizen, a membership group that raised more than $1 million from sixty-two thousand donors in its first year.

That was another new pattern. Throughout the seventies, pundits cast their eye on declining election turnout and agonized over voter apathy. But apathy at the polls did not extend to joining consumer and environmental organizations, whose memberships exploded, thanks in part to the same computer-based direct mail technology that Richard Viguerie employed. Nearly one hundred thousand households contributed at least $70 to not one, not two, but three progressive membership groups. Major foundations pitched in, too. Thanks to the shower of cash—and because most new consumer and environmental laws awarded attorneys’ fees to plaintiffs who sued to enforce them—lawsuits against corporations increased exponentially.

George McGovern considered Nader as his running mate. (He replied, “I’m an advocate for justice and that doesn’t mix with the needs of politics.”) Nixon vetoed the 1972 Clean Water Act, for its “staggering, budget-wrecking” $24 billion cost—but his veto was overridden with considerable Republican votes. In October, he signed a law establishing the Consumer Product Safety Commission, the third new regulatory agency in three years.

Then, however, following his landslide reelection, he proposed a radical right-wing budget that Newsweek described as “one of the most significant American political documents since the dawning of the New Deal,” intended to “pull the government back from the proliferating social concerns of the years from Franklin Roosevelt to Lyndon Johnson.” Thanks to Watergate, he never got the chance. Senator Sam Ervin’s televised hearings had reverberated with accounts of briefcases full of corporate cash laundered through the Mexican subsidiaries of blue-chip firms like American Airlines, Goodyear, and 3M. In the midst of it came the first energy crisis, which a majority of Americans—and some senators—believed the big energy companies had cooked up to line their pockets. Pollster Daniel Yankelovich found that 70 percent of Americans believed big business controlled government through illegal bribes. And that was before spectacular revelations, following Nixon’s resignation, that the same slush funds companies maintained to bribe Nixon were also used to pay off foreign officials. The Securities and Exchange Commission’s chief of enforcement was gobsmacked. “Until two or three years ago,” he said, “I genuinely thought the conduct of business… was generally rising. But what can you say about the revelations of the last couple or three years?”

Under President Ford, government checks on corporate power expanded yet further. One of the first laws he signed was the Employment Retirement Income Security Act, or ERISA, which strictly enforced the pension promises companies made to their employees, placing thousands of company’s books under federal scrutiny for the first time. In 1975 he signed the Energy Policy and Conservation Act, a landmark law demanding that every American car manufacturer achieve a “Corporate Average Fuel Economy,” or CAFE, of eighteen miles per gallon by the 1978 model year. That meant every manufacturer had to redesign every car on the drawing boards. An automotive think tank estimated that it would cost manufacturers $60 billion to $80 billion, virtually their entire store of capital assets, and made the companies fear for their very survival. A group of automotive lobbyists approached the chief of staff of Edmund Muskie’s environmental subcommittee, Leon Billings, with a memo suggesting some ideas on the bill. Billings fashioned a paper airplane out of the document and sailed it straight over their heads.

This passage made me change my mind about Richard Nixon.

[losingmymindtonight]

The Reinvention of Tony Stark

AN: I scrolIed through about a 10,000 messages to find this (since this was originally just a stupid idea I decided to scream at @dazzlingtony because I was bored one afternoon), and then it took me literal MONTHS to clean up because I’m extra like that. I’m sorry in advance.

A little background before you read: this is set in a post-Endgame universe where Tony survives. It’s written as if it’s an interview article for a blog/magazine. I kinda wrote it in a style that I see used a lot in Rolling Stone and Vogue. I have no idea if it has any kind of formal name, but I love how this kind of article reads more like a story and internal monologue than a plain interview. It also happens to lend itself really well to what I wanted to convey. It really enjoy character studies through an outsider’s POV, and I also enjoy playing with different genres. I hope you enjoy my little experiment too!

Some people have done some wonderful art about this concept as well, all of which have really inspired me to get my ass back to writing this! Here are some links if you're interested in some jaw-dropped talent: @ceruleanmindpalace's art of Tony looking like a regal king as Time’s Person of the Year. @argieart​‘s portrait of Tony smiling on the cover of Time that literally makes me want to cry.

(Note: this one is VERY long. If you’d rather read it on the AO3, I’m linking it here.)

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“There are a lot of things you worry about when meeting Iron Man, and there are even more things you worry about when meeting Tony Stark.”

From playboy to the pinnacle of heroism: Tony Stark's life has been anything but quiet. In his first face-to-face interview since wielding the Infinity Stones, Iron Man lets the public in on a glimpse of his life as a retired superhero and stay-at-home dad. 

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There are a lot of things you worry about when meeting Iron Man, and there are even more things you worry about when meeting Tony Stark.

I worried about my clothes, my greeting, how he would perceive me. Despite my friends’ and coworkers’ near constant reassurances, I felt justified in my anxiety. Not only was this one of the richest men in the world, but he’d held the fate of the universe in the palm of his hand. What could he possibly think of me?

The morning of our interview, he texted me (yes, Tony Stark actually texted me, himself, on his own), and asked me to meet him at a park near his house. He said we could talk there, before meeting his family, because that was, of course, the whole point of the interview. I was going to be the first and, possibly, the only reporter allowed within ten feet of Stark’s personal life since the Decimation was reversed.

He was five minutes early. He drove an Audi prototype that I knew wasn’t on the market yet, and my nerves were instantly reignited, if I could claim that they had ever even remotely began to settle.

I had a lot of expectations for that first meeting. I’d built this man up in my head, and I wasn’t the only one. There were murals of him littering the streets of New York, statue after statue being erected in his honor across continents. The admiration of Tony Stark transcended differences in ways few things could. Political, racial, gender, religious, or any other number of societal divisions: Tony Stark built bridges between them all.

What could a man like that possibly be like? He had been ready to sacrifice himself for me, for us, for everyone. There must be something that set him apart, something in his demeanor that was just as awe-inspiring as the looming monuments built in his name.

Except the moment that he stepped out of the car wasn’t grand. I’d expected to be immediately overcome with a sense of his superiority, but he was shockingly unassuming. That isn’t to say that he didn’t carry with him a sense of easy confidence, which he did, but it was the kind of self-assurance that built my own up instantly.

He wasn’t dressed like I’d expected, either. I’d been looking for Armani suits or, at the very least, a set of street clothes that looked like they cost more than my entire wardrobe, but instead, he was wearing a worn leather jacket and dark wash jeans.

He shook my hand, and I ended up staring at his t-shirt for just a few seconds longer than I should’ve. It was light blue, which was, for some reason, not a color I’d expected the savoir of the universe to wear, with a cartoon Earth on the center, the words the rotation of the Earth really makes my day circling it.

I let out a little laugh before I could even consider the repercussions, and he smiled, eyes crinkling at the corners. In that instant, he didn’t look like a man who had built an empire on military funding and war profiteering. He didn’t look like the richest man on the planet. He didn’t even look like a superhero: the man who had cradled destiny in his palm and forced the scales back into balance.

Instead, he reminded me, strangely, and a little embarrassingly, of my grandfather.

“It was a gift,” he said, shrugging, gesturing almost lazily around the shirt’s graphic. “from one of my kids. A, uh, I’m glad you didn’t die saving the entire universe kind of thing. You know how it is.”

I definitely didn’t, but I nodded anyway.

He asked me if I’d like to take a walk around some of the hiking trails, and I quickly agreed. As we set out, he offered me his arm, and I took it. There were a few bizarre seconds when I forgot to interview him, too overwhelmed by the fact that this was probably going to be one of the most surreal experiences of my entire life.

Eventually, he was the one who reminded me.

“I suppose you have questions.”

I jolted, letting out a nervous laugh. “Right. I’m so sorry.”

He waved a hand around in the air, dismissing the apology right away. “Don’t sweat it. I’m used to it.”

I imagined that he must be. He’d been striking people dumb since childhood. On paper, it looked like Tony Stark had always been destined for greatness. Born into riches, raised in the cradle of a patriot’s legacy: there was nothing out of reach for Howard Stark’s heir. He’d graduated MIT at just 17 years old, long before most children had gotten their high school diplomas, and been thrust straight into the life of a celebrity. Even after his parents’ deaths, Stark Industries only grew under his leadership.

And then, of course, came Iron Man.

The kidnapping, Afghanistan. The press conference that ushered the world into the age of superheroes. Tony Stark was at the forefront of it all, pioneering in every field he dared touch. Of all the Avengers, he was the one we knew. The one we recognized. Despite the suit of armor, every single one of us knew that underneath the exoskeleton, Tony Stark was painfully human.

Just like us.

And yet somehow, it still managed to be a surprise that, at the climax of it all, he was the one to offer the final sacrifice.

Except… it hadn’t been a sacrifice.

Or, at least, it hadn’t been as large a one as he must’ve imagined it would be, when he wielded the universe on his fist.

And, for the second time in our very brief acquaintance, I found myself torn back to reality by Tony Stark’s gentle voice.

It wasn’t until the moment he spoke that I realized that I had been staring at the red and gold prosthetic that sat in place of the man’s right arm. Stark held it up with a wry smile, letting the sleeve of his jacket slip down to give me a better view.

“Yes, well,” he regarded the metal with a hint of amusement, “suppose we ought to get that out of the way, too. Yes, the rumors are true: it’s very much gone. A shame, really. I had a fun little scar on my thumb. It looked a bit like an upside-down squirrel.”

I laughed despite myself, then sobered. “I… I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine…”

He shrugged, as if the loss of his arm was a minor inconvenience instead of a life-altering change. “Small price to pay. The prosthetic is a lot more durable than the real thing, anyway. Built it out of the same stuff as the suit, stuck with the color scheme, too.” He grinned. “Branding, y’know?”

“Now you’ll always be Iron Man,” I said, not thinking.

I’d been mortified the moment the words had left my mouth, but Stark had just nodded, as if it was the most obvious comment in the world.

“Funny,” he murmured, “that’s almost exactly what Peter said.”

A part of me knew that I should be prying for more stories from that final battle, gathering the blood-stained details that would get readers’ hearts pumping, but I was suddenly far more interested in Tony Stark, the human, rather than Iron Man, the hero.

So instead, I asked him how retired life was suiting him, and he seemed pleased by the question. He gestured grandly around the path we were taking, at the lake and the trees and the sloping landscape: the violent reverse of the concrete jungles we had both been raised within.

“As you can see, I certainly can’t complain about the views.”

“Are you bored?”

He chuckled to himself, as if I’d just hit on an inside joke without meaning to. “Bored? Never. Even if I wanted to be, I can’t imagine how I’d find the time.”

“Some people call you Pepper Pott’s trophy husband,” I joked, and I was surprised by how easy it was to talk to him. “I’ve always found that amusing.”

This time, he laughed full-out, open and bright. “Oh, it’s very accurate. These days, I leave nearly all the business to her. I’m just a stay-at-home dad.”

“And that works for you?” At his questioning look, I scrambled to clarify. “It’s just… I can’t imagine going from the life you’ve had to the life you have now. It’d give me whiplash.”

“It is hard, every once in a while,” he admitted. “But, mostly, I enjoy the peace. Or, the peace that the kids let me have.”

That was the money topic, perhaps even more so than Thanos’ defeat, and it was something he’d brought up himself at least twice now: his children. When I had been preparing for the interview, I hadn’t known how to approach it, but it felt surprisingly natural in the moment.

“How is your family? I assume by kids, you mean Morgan, and, well…”

He paused at a picnic table, and gestured for me to sit. I did, and he settled down across from me, finishing my sentence.

“And Peter.”

“Right. And Peter.”

Peter Parker. The child that Tony Stark created a memorial fund for in the wake of the Decimation, and the child that, on the few occasions when he’d ventured into the city since using the Stones, he always seemed to have trotting along at his heels.

Before Thanos’ defeat and Stark’s resulting dance with death, all questions about Peter had been answered with the same harsh response: that the kid was his intern, and nothing more. Afterwards, however, there had been a sudden switch. In the few recent press releases that had mentioned Tony Stark and his family, Peter had been unanimously included.

I decided to inquire specifically about the health of his children at this point, careful to use the plural to watch for his reaction, and everything about Stark seemed to soften. A layer that I hadn’t even realized he’d had raised suddenly dropped away, revealing an adoration that was entirely uncensored. It was as if I’d just hit on his favorite topic in the world.

It was nothing like I’d imagined from him, but it also felt as if this was his most natural form. The superhero, the weapons dealer, the playboy: these were all just facades.

I wondered if I might be one of the first outsiders to truly catch a glimpse of who Tony Stark actually was.

“They’re both brilliant,” he breathed. “You’ll meet them later, when we head back to the cabin. Peter’s, uh, Peter’s 16, which I’m sure you already know. He’ll go back to high school in the fall, as a junior. We’re waiting for the College Board to get their shit back together so he can take the SAT. Morgan just turned 5. She’s in preschool, kicking ass. She’s already reading way above her level, because she’s just that smart, and we’re in a phase where I have to pretend to like something from her Easy-Bake oven nearly every day. They’re both a lot nicer than me.”

I knew that my next question was verging into dangerous territory, but I asked it anyway.

“Peter was one of the Vanished, wasn’t he?”

He regarded me with a sharp gaze, and I suddenly felt like a bug under a microscope. This was the look of a man who had run a multi-million dollar business for the entirety of his adult life. It was calculating, cold. The switch happened so suddenly that it made my head spin, and I felt the loss of his warmth keenly.

“That’s not a secret.”

I stuttered out an apology, but he pushed it aside. Instead, he shot a question back, which wasn’t uncommon but certainly wasn’t usual with these kinds of interviews.

“Were you?”

I nodded my affirmation, and he seemed completely unsurprised.

“Yeah, I thought so.”

“Did you look me up, before today?”

“No, I can see it in your eyes.”

I asked him what he meant by that.

“The people who didn’t Vanish are colder,” was all he said in return, but it was enough to send chills down my spine.

“You don’t seem colder.”

“You don’t know me.”

I dropped it. I just wanted to stick to the script, for a while. Tony Stark was proving to be even more complex than I’d imagined, and that was saying something. He seemed to bounce from guiding warmth to flinty steel in the slip of sentences, and the changes were as predictable as the summer thunder storms that used to tear through my grandparent’s Georgia lake house. One second the skies were sunny, humid heat beating down on your sunburnt shoulders, and the next the trees were quivering under the weight of wind-howls and lashing rain.

“Can I ask about the battle?”

A tiny smile pulled at his face. For such a sensitive topic, he seemed to relax. “Which one?”

Which one? It baffled me, for a moment, that the man sitting with me at a splinter-heavy picnic table, wearing a science pun t-shirt that looked like it had been ordered off of Amazon Prime, had been in enough life-or-death conflicts that he had to make me clarify which one.

“The… The final one.”

“You want to know about the gauntlet.”

And, yes, that was exactly what I wanted to know. It was exactly what my editor wanted me to know, too, what we knew our readers would gobble up. The Infinity Stones were fascinating, in the way the human species tended to covet and idolize the things that filled us up with horror.

“I do. Why did you put it on?”

“I knew that I had to,” he said, like that one decision hadn’t been the most monumental of our generation.

“Did you know you were going to survive?”

There was a profound sorrow in his eyes that told me my answer before he even opened his mouth.

“I thought I was a goner, actually. Thought I still was afterwards, too, although I barely remember it. My memories really start back in the hospital, about a week later.”

“Were you scared?”

It was such a childish question, but it seemed appropriate. He must’ve been, of course, but my mind couldn’t quite grasp the concept of someone like him experiencing the same reality that I did. I felt fear, but did he? He seemed so much more than human, now, so much more than me.

He smiled. “Terrified.” He shifted, fiddling absentmindedly with his watch. “The thing is, everyone thinks that I did it for the greater good. And… maybe I did, to some degree. But when I snapped, I was only thinking about my family. You can judge me for that however you want.”

“I don’t think that’s wrong. I think that’s… I think that’s just human.”

He watched me quietly for a few breaths, studying. “You know,” he finally said, “you really do remind me of Peter.”

It wasn’t long after this that I finally got to meet the teenager in question. Stark brought me back to his car and, as soon as I was settled in the passenger’s seat, handed me a security badge.

“Here, put that on. Don’t take it off.”

I did as I was told. “Does everyone who comes to visit you have to have one of these?”

He pulled out onto the road with a tiny smirk on his face, eyes obscured by a pair of sunglasses he’d slipped on once we’d gotten into the car. “Most of the people who visit me are already in my AI’s systems. But, yes.”

“Are you worried about your safety?”

He shrugged. “Not necessarily my safety. Despite retiring, my AI can operate the suits, and so could I, given enough reason, although I’m sure that this,” he held up his prosthetic again, “might make things a little more difficult.”

“So why all the security?”

“Reporters,” he said, glancing over at me, and I suddenly felt a strange sense of shame. “I want Morgan to grow up as normal as possible, and I don’t want Peter’s life ruined anymore than it already is. The least I can do for them is make sure that no paparazzi can get within range to take photos of them at the house. That’s a safe space, for all of us.”

And yet he was bringing me there: directly into their safe space. I couldn’t help but wonder why, so I asked, hoping that I wasn’t about to drop yet another dark veil over the atmosphere.

Thankfully, Stark took the question with ease, as if he’d been expecting it, eventually. “People are fascinated with forbidden things. If I make my house and my family entirely off-limits, the public’s interest only grows. But if I let a few people in, people we’ve carefully chosen, then it starts to lose its appeal.”

“That’s clever.”

“I’ve been playing this game for my whole life. I know how to gain the upper hand.”

I paused. “Do you want me to print that?”

He hit the brakes at a stop sign, and turned to look at me over the rim of his sunglasses. Maybe I was imagining it, but I swore that I saw a flicker of respect in his gaze. “You can print anything I say. I’m not afraid of public opinion. It’ll swing whichever way it wants, and it really doesn’t matter what I do about it.”

“It’s pretty in your favor right now.”

“The key words of that statement are right and now.”

“So you don’t think it’ll stay that way?”

“I know it won’t.”

I didn’t know if I agreed with him, but I stayed quiet. I imagined, though, that it would take a truly ungrateful world to tear down the man that had saved it. I wanted to think better of humanity than that, even if Tony Stark himself seemed to struggle with the optimism.

We drove through three security checkpoints before pulling into the cabin’s driveway. It was smaller than I’d expected, but that still made it larger than an average house. In fact, its size made Stark’s designation of it as a cabin seem almost comical. Dark brown siding melted into stone accents. A chimney rose up through the trees that clustered around the front porch’s carefully-maintained railing. In the distance, I could see the sunlight playing on the lake. There was a boat in the dock, bobbing peacefully in the morning waves.

It didn’t look like a museum, or the palace of a king. It looked like a home.

Morgan Stark herself was waiting on the porch. She looked smaller in person, but more lively as well. In the few paparazzi photos I’d seen of her, she’d always seemed frightened and unsure. Now, though, she came barreling down the porch steps like a rocket, overexcited shouts of Daddy! filling the air.

Stark scooped her up as soon as she got to us, face melting into a smile. He looked calm, again, and perfectly in his element. It hit me rather suddenly that the savoir of the universe was, at the end of the day, just a father who loved his children enough to lay his life down for their futures.

I liked Tony Stark better as a man than as a god, I decided. And from the look on his daughter’s face, she agreed with me.

I was introduced to Morgan right there in the driveway, and it seemed to take her all of a minute to decide that I was a perfectly acceptable addition to the scenery. I’d been expecting more resistance, more of Stark’s wariness, but in the end all I got was a childlike acceptance.

I met Pepper Stark next. Her new last name still tripped me up, even four years after her wedding. No matter how much I tried to condition myself, I could still remember her as Pepper Potts: a lingering presence over New York, formidable CEO and, by all accounts, the only person on Earth who could control the great Tony Stark.

She was sitting in the living room, which happened to be the first space I saw when Stark ushered me through the front door and into the cabin’s cozy warmth. There was a fireplace against the wall, leather couches and armchairs tucked up against it’s glow. A simple staircase led upstairs, but we walked past that, further into the house.

Mrs. Potts was kind in a controlled, well-groomed sort of way. Her demeanor wasn’t fake, necessarily, but I recognized the carefully prepped exterior of a woman who had learned to fight battles in a man’s arena. Besides that, I could also see that she wasn’t certain of me. There was something in her eyes that told me that while she didn’t dislike me, she didn’t necessarily want me in her house, either.

I could understand the trepidation. She and her husband had fled the public eye five years ago, when the Decimation had turned all gazes to the Avengers for answers, for someone to blame. Then, six months ago, her husband had very nearly become a sacrificial lamb.

She had very nearly been forced to raise their child all alone. Staring that in the face must change a person. It had to.

After the introductions had faded into idle conversation, Morgan declared that she was going to go “get Petey,” and raced off up the stairs. A minute or two later, she returned, dragging a teenage boy along by his hand.

Peter Parker was, for lack of a better word, shy. When he met my eyes, usually by accident, he immediately darted them back down to the carpet. He was a little awkward, a little nerdy. His hair was curly, and way too long. A few strands stuck out from the rest, and he stuttered over himself when he spoke. In many ways, he didn’t seem to have any of the suave, easy-going charisma that Stark did.

But Stark loved him. That much was clear from the moment he stepped into the room. Tony Stark looked at his children as if it was a new experience every single time, and it only got more and more breathtaking as the years wore on.

Once we’d finally made it through all the necessary greetings, Morgan tugged on my sleeve and asked if I could give her an interview. I looked to Stark for permission. He went to sit on a couch a few feet away, guiding Peter along with him by pressing a hand against the small of his back, and made a lazy gesture for me to go ahead. He propped his feet up on a crayon-stained ottoman as he watched me, calculating.

I had never interviewed a child before, although I knew at least one of my colleagues who had. Still, she seemed like a smart kid, eyes blinking up at me with barely-contained excitement, so I proceeded just like I usually would.

“How old are you, Morgan?”

“Five!”

“Do you like school?”

“Yeah!”

“What’s your favorite thing to do, there?”

“I like art.”

That was surprising. The daughter of Tony Stark, an artist. It wasn’t what I’d expected at first, but the more I considered it, the more it made sense. What were the Iron Man suits, if not a work of art?

“Do you do a lot of art at home, too?”

“I do! I like to draw portraits of Mommy and Daddy and Peter.” Her face lit up, and she bounced to her feet. “I can draw you one now, if you want!”

“I’d love that.”

As she raced off towards her bedroom, presumably to gather up what were sure to be absurdly expensive art supplies for a five-year-old, I marveled at the fact that she seemed so… normal. Perhaps that was another way that my warped concept of Tony Stark had led me astray. I’d expected his children to be, well, more than normal children. Different, somehow, more serious or solemn or conscious of the power they wielded in the world, and yet even Peter seemed detached from it all. In the few moments when I managed to forget that I was sitting on Tony Stark’s couch in Tony Stark’s living room, the family life sprawling out around me had the same domestic taste as my own childhood memories.

Maybe that was a testament to the Starks’ parenting techniques, or maybe it was a testament to the power of hero worship. The human race could, it seemed, build any man into a legend.

The next few hours slipped by in a domino chain of normalcy. Morgan came back downstairs and covered the floor with crayons and pencils and three different sketchbooks. She drew me a portrait of her family. I’d been expecting stick figures from a child her age, but she drew a series of people that were so well-formed that I could point out which person was which without her telling me first.

Stark got up and made sandwiches for lunch, and everyone ate in the living room except for Peter, who disappeared for the meal but came back in just as it was finished. Nobody else seemed to think that his vanishing act was atypical, so I didn’t comment on it.

As the day crept forward, and my awe at the unexpected normalcy faded, I started seeing those kinds of gaps in greater frequency. Yes, this family wasn’t as abnormal as I’d originally anticipated, but they weren’t entirely normal, either. And the more I looked, the more I saw those blips. Even as Stark worked so hard to leave the superhero life behind him, it still bled through the cracks.

Morgan Stark didn’t seem to notice her father’s prosthetic arm, or the ugly scars that marred half of his face, but Peter Parker did. He danced around the man’s injured side, always brushing shoulders with the left but giving the right as wide a berth as possible. Every once in a while, when he thought I wasn’t paying attention, his gaze would linger just a little too long on the back of the prosthetic’s hand: the space where, according to rumors, Stark had born the Infinity Stones.

Pepper Potts gave less obvious signals, but they were still there. When she handed Stark a new mug of coffee, she went out of her way to place it in his flesh hand. Even more than that, she was always half watching her husband, as if a stray wind might tear him away from her.

The paranoia was in Stark, too, although that was far less of a surprise, considering his reputation. He was almost predatory about the way he guarded his children, and Peter in particular seemed to spark something fierce and mother bear-ish in him, which was a phrase I never would have expected to use in relation to one of the most powerful men in the universe.

I couldn’t help but wonder if Morgan or Peter understood that: the concept that their father, the man who fixed the broken wheels on Morgan’s doll carriages or shamelessly bragged about Peter’s intelligence to anyone who would listen, had the whole world, the whole universe, breathless in awe. His endorsement or censor could build or topple political campaigns. His name made people pause mid-step. The very concept of his existence was enough to influence the unfolding of strangers’ lives.

I doubted that Morgan knew, but I had an inkling that Peter might. But even more than that, I had a pretty solid suspicion that even if Peter did know, he just didn’t care.

Peter fascinated me, both as a human and as a reporter. He was sweet and shy, and yet I knew that there must be something else underneath it. The way Stark looked at him was unique, and unlike Morgan, he was old enough to perceive that.

I wanted to talk to him. So, I jumped on it.

“Do you mind if I talk to Peter, before I leave?”

I’d deduced that Stark was fiercely protective of Peter, and the man’s reaction to the question did little to contradict that conclusion. I supposed that it made sense, considering the Decimation. To lose a child and gain them back was a complicated thing, and he wasn’t the only parent struggling through life in the aftermath of that whiplash.

“If Peter wants to talk to you,” he finally said, jaw tight.

As it turned out, Peter did want to talk to me, much to Stark’s barely concealed displeasure. In fact, it seemed like he’d prefer an emergency root canal to letting me go just about anywhere with the teenager, but he didn’t stop us. From the surprised look on Peter’s face, that was probably some kind of progress.

We went onto the front porch, at his request, and sat on the wooden steps rather than the rocking chairs carefully placed to offer views of the lake.

“So,” he said as soon as we were seated, “how do we do this?”

“I ask you questions, and you answer them.”

I didn’t mean for the explanation to sound so sarcastic, but he grinned, eyes twinkling.

“Yeah, okay,” he laughed, a hint of nervousness in the sound, “I probably should’ve guess that bit. Well, ask away, then.”

“Do you live here now?”

He shrugged. “Kinda, but kinda not. When school starts I’ll have to spend a lot more time at my aunt’s place, but for now I try to split it fifty-fifty.”

“You’re not Stark’s secret biological kid, right?”

That question earned me a sly glance. He seemed to toy with his answer, mischief growing with every passing second.

“I think I’ll let people keep wondering about that, actually. Mister Stark thinks it’s fun to watch them stew.”

“And Stark said you were nicer than him.”

Peter snorted. Obviously, that piece of information wasn’t a surprise. “Yeah, he does that.”

“And you don’t agree?”

“You’ve met him, right? You know he’s wrong.”

“He’s… a lot nicer than I expected, that’s for sure.”

“Yeah. A lot of people say that, if they actually give him a chance.”

I could tell, just from that minuscule exchange, that Peter loved Tony Stark just as much as I’d seen Tony Stark love him, that the teenager saw something in the man beyond what I did. That knowledge wasn’t necessarily surprising, but it was refreshing. In some ways, it made the savoir of the universe that bit more human.

“Stark told me you’re going to be a junior in the fall.”

Peter’s face turned a little red, every bit the embarrassed teenager who just found out that their parent had been bragging about them behind their back. “Oh, no. What else did he say?”

“That you were brilliant.”

“Ew.”

I laughed. “I assume you like school?”

“Uh, I mean, yeah. I like learning.”

“You must be very smart, to have caught Stark’s attention in the first place.”

“I’m alright, yeah.”

I knew that he was being modest. All of the information I had on Peter Parker told me that he was a proper genius, rivaling even Tony Stark’s IQ.

“Do you remember coming back, after the Decimation?”

Peter’s shoulders tensed, and I wondered if I’d just crossed a line. There seemed to be a lot of those, in this house, in this family. An unspoken guidebook of limits and cautions that I hadn’t been made privy to.

“I do,” he finally said.

“I assume that you don’t want to talk about it?”

“No, not really. Sorry.”

“That’s fine.” It was, too. Talking about the Decimation didn’t bother me, but it did bother some of my friends. It was just different coping mechanisms, I supposed, and I understood not wanting to go into such a traumatic experience with a stranger. “When did you find out what happened to Tony?”

He seemed to choose his words carefully. I’d been interviewing people for long enough to know when an answer had been rehearsed, and Peter just wasn’t as good at lying as Stark.

“Pretty soon after.”

“And the first time you saw him was in the hospital?”

“Yes.”

Another lie, which was interesting. In any other interview, I probably would’ve tried to pry for the truth, but I had a weird feeling that Stark would know the second I so much as mildly upset Peter, and it wouldn’t end well for me if he did.

“It must’ve been hard, when you heard about what he did.”

Peter watched me carefully for a few seconds, and my previous evaluation of him gave way to something new. He was shy, yes, but he was smart. Even smarter than Stark, maybe, or maybe he just wasn’t as good at controlling it yet. Still, I could see the raw, borderline brutal intelligence in his eyes. He was running every inch of me through his brain like I was an equation to unwind.

“It wasn’t my favorite day of my life, no.”

“Is that why you spend so much time here, now?’

A pause. He was still sizing me up. I could tell.

“Sort of.”

“I never thought of Tony Stark as a father, you know,” I said easily, testing his reaction. “Even after we heard about Morgan being born, it was hard to imagine.”

“That’s because everyone thinks that they know him, but they don’t.”

I was caught off guard by how quickly he said it and, from the look on Peter’s face, so was he.

I asked him if there was one thing that he wished people did know about Tony Stark.

“He’s complicated, but that doesn’t make him bad,” is all Peter said.

Stark was lurking by the door when we come back in, and Peter didn’t even try to hide his eye roll. He made a joke about having survived the interview without spontaneously combusting, which didn’t seem to land all that well with Stark. For a second, it looked like he was about to scold the teenager, but then his eyes darted over to me and he silently glared instead.

My last hour at the Starks’ cabin was spent getting a tour of the house and surrounding acreage. The kids stayed back in the living room with Mrs. Potts, so I found myself alone with Tony Stark once again.

I’d seen photographs and videos from inside the Stark Tower penthouse, and the décor in his cabin was as far from that style as I could imagine. Where the Tower was sleek and steeped in modern, minimalist designs, the cabin was more rustic. It had a farmhouse vibe, and the furniture was worn and used. It was, without a doubt, a lived-in space.

I only saw a single room upstairs: Stark’s office. Otherwise, I was told that the floor held his and his children’s bedrooms.

“Peter would disown me if I let anyone into his room, and, besides,” Stark said, leading me back down the stairs and away from the hallway of locked doors, “some spaces ought to stay private.”

We spent the rest of the house tour chatting about superficial topics, like the Yankees’ most recent loss and how awful it is to drive in New York at rush hour. Once we stepped outside, however, the conversation got a little more interesting. One of our first stops was a half-downed tree, which Stark pointed to while looking unexpectedly somber.

“The roots gave out during a few days of pretty bad storms about two weeks ago,” he said. “It’s a shame, I guess. Morgan and Peter used to climb all over it. Gave me a good few heart attacks while they were at it, but at least they were having fun.”

He took me down to the dock, where he showed me the boat they kept tethered there. I asked him if he did any fishing, and he laughed.

“Not a chance. I’m rotten at it, Peter’s too nice to kill anything, and Morgan just doesn’t care.”

“And Mrs. Potts?”

His smirk was fond and knowing. “If she ever slows down long enough to even consider fishing, I’ll let you know.”

The cabin’s ground were nice. They weren’t immaculately well-kept, but they weren’t entirely wild, either. It felt very natural, and when I asked Stark who did the landscaping, he told me that he took care of most of it himself.

“Don’t look too carefully at some of the details,” he warned. “I’m an amateur at best, and it doesn’t help that I’ve usually got at least one kid quote-unquote helping while I work.”

“It seems to me like you’re good at just about everything you do.”

“That’s because I rarely do things that I’m not good at.”

I couldn’t help but ask if he was at all grateful for Thanos as we walked back to his car. I knew that it sounded a little perverse, a little brutal, especially considering the prosthetic arm that was a constant reminder of the physical losses he endured, but it was a curiosity that I couldn’t scratch. At the end of the day, it seemed like Stark had come out of that tragedy far more solid than he’d gone in. He had a family, a wife, a beautiful cabin on the lake. He was living in a paradise.

“Maybe,” he said. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to say I’m grateful for something that resulted in five years of grief for a universe, but I am grateful for the way it ended up. There are worse things to lose than an arm.”

He drove me back to the park, where we’d met so many hours before. My Chevy was the only vehicle left in the lot, that late in the evening. He got out once we parked, came around to open my door, and walked me the few steps it took to get to my car.

“Any last words?” Stark asked, and while he didn’t seem to get the irony of that question, I certainly did.

This was a man who once had chosen his final words. It felt ridiculous to compare that moment to this one: a dusk-stained parking lot, my 2008 Chevy Cobalt, and the biggest problem in my future being late-night New York traffic.

“Why did you choose me?” I asked, hand paused on my door’s handle. “You’ve denied every other reporter’s request for an interview, so what made you pick me?”

He smirked. The streetlight glinted off his metal arm.

“I didn’t,” he said. “Peter did.”

He patted the roof of my car, then stepped away.

“Drive safe.”

[ranger-report]

Review: Minecraft Dungeons (2020)

Picture this: an isometric action-RPG in which you play as one of multiple intrepid warriors, gathering loot and rare weapons in order to steadily progress through multiple worlds in order to stop a maniacal tyrant from ruling over a terrified land. What game am I talking about? If you picked any number of games, from Gauntlet to Baldur’s Gate: Dark Alliance to Diablo, you’d be right on the money, but this time we’re talking about Minecraft Dungeons, Mojang’s first foray into a non-creative Minecraft experience. Yes, there was Telltale’s Minecraft: Story Mode, but that was Telltale’s baby through and through. This dungeon crawling experience is all Mojang, with a little help from developer Double Eleven, and while the results are somewhat of an uneven experience, it’s a thoroughly enjoyable experience the further you get into it, ultimately to the point of obsession.

Let’s call it Baby’s First Dungeon Crawler. The game is as simple and straightforward as possible. You create your character by choosing their “skin” (read: skin tone and clothes all mixed into one), then dress them up with armor and weapons picked up on a daring quest to save Minecraft land from a vile king called the Arch-Illager. The Illagers are evil versions of the standard Villagers who populate the world, and they’re a little pissed at having been kicked out of good standing just for being themselves. Story means little in this game, a series of events strung together to create a sense of progression, and maybe there’s something here based on Minecraft lore, but to me it felt simply a means to an end: you need to know why you’re on this quest. Here you go. As villains go, the Arch-Illager surprisingly succeeds, a nasty little Napoleon of a ruler who somehow gained a magic wand from the Nether (Minecraft’s evil alter dimension) and so was able to rise up against the Villagers. He pops up at various points to conjure hordes in ambush, shouting “Nyah nyah!” annoyingly to the point where his juvenile taunts come to feel downright abrasive. You want to kick this guy’s teeth in, and it feels so good once you finally do...depending on the difficulty. But that’s getting ahead of things.

Opening up with a basic tutorial level explaining controls, Minecraft Dungeons then introduces Camp, where you and one of up to four heroes make your base between running through levels. Here you can practice your melee weapons and ranged weapons on straw dummies to see how they work before committing to a style. You can also purchase random weapons and gear (called artifacts) which you can equip. Weapons and artifacts can also be found during adventure, always at random Borderlands-style (right down to the Common, Rare, Magical, and Epic tiers), which is one of the most maddening aspects of the game. There’s no way to outright purchase gear that you actually want, meaning as you slog through level after level, gaining hundreds of emeralds to spend at camp, there’s a strong chance you’ll be abandoning a strong weapon in favor of something that’s simply at your actual level rather than what you want to be using. Minecraft Dungeons is an exercise in Letting Go Of Shit, in which you’ll be constantly switching up your play style because your gear, not your preferences, demand it. Adding to this is that weapons and armor can be enchanted, adding bonus stat effects. Higher level gear unlocks multiple enchantment effect slots, each slot allowing your to choose a stat to upgrade -- but again, each enchantment is randomized. Some gear have fantastic stats, which picking up higher level gear afterwards can result in terrible enchantments compared to what you’re currently using. Madness. Chaos. Dice rolls dictate what you pick up, how well they work, how they work, and whether or not it’s worth it to you to equip it.

But what makes this tolerable is that, as Minecraft Dungeons progresses, scalable difficulty can make or break your hardiness. From the opening, there’s three Play Modes: Default, Adventure, and Apocalypse. Each play mode has difficulty you can adjust at the beginning of each level, which will let you know what xp level it’s designed for. It will automatically ratchet up as you progress, but maybe you’ve got a hankering for a challenge, or for higher-level gear sooner than you’re getting to it. Minecraft Dungeons will happily and frequently kick you ass if you ask for it. That is not a sentence I ever expected to type, but it’s true. Beneath the simplistic design and free-for-all gameplay, this happy-go-lucky kids game is vicious and smart. Upping difficulty not only adjusts how potent enemy attacks are, but which enemies you run into, and how often. Just when you think, yes, I’ve got this, I can kick this game up a notch, it jumps you. There are moments when the game point-blank overwhelms you if you ask for it, and if you’re not prepared then you’re dead. Of course, the game is generous: you get three chances to make it all the way through the surprisingly huge, sprawling levels which are full of secrets (and can unlock secret levels), and this can make for sublimely tense moments of gameplay where you’re doing your damnedest to utilize every stat and weapon you’ve picked up just to stay alive long enough for your healing item to regenerate so you can safely pick away at the huge mob of skeletons, zombies, mages, golems, and so forth that are piling down on you. Herein lies the beauty of Minecraft Dungeons: play. Play and get good. Get good and go higher. Go higher and die. Try again. Deeper into the game and difficulty and you’ll be picking up even better tier weapons and armor, which really highlight the sweet shit you can do. Suddenly the huge mobs mean nothing in the face of your lightning rod or corrupted beacon, your crossbow that shoots five explosive arrows at once which all shoot out five more explosive arrows in all directions upon impact. Players can become ridiculously powerful as they progress. Beating the game on Default unlocks the aforementioned Adventure mode, which ups the ante by a large amount, and beating that unlocks Apocalypse, where there is no difficulty scaling -- there is only the game.

Some minor performance issues abound. Playing local co-op sometimes felt a chore trying to get other controllers in, with my PS4 not recognizing that someone was trying to play. Graphical glitches pop up here and there, the most notable being bright colors covering the whole screen whenever someone would exit their inventory. Hopping back into the inventory and hopping out would make the colors disappear, but how they got there in the first place is a mystery. And while the game itself plays well enough, the button to loot items/revive other players is the same as the attack button, and the game would have a hard time discriminating between what I wanted to do whenever I was just a little too close to an object. Am I trying to pick it up or swing my sword? Oftentimes, that which I wanted to do was not what I was actually doing. And in the chaos of multiplayer gameplay, it can become confusing as to what is on the screen, so when I suddenly couldn’t attack because there was a person I needed to revive that I didn’t see, I was flummoxed.

At the end of the day, Minecraft Dungeons does not reinvent the wheel. If anything, this is a game that many have played, and played better, in several other games. Getting into the game from the beginning can feel like a chore, a kid’s game, something that you can hit the snooze button on and wake up a little later in having missed nothing. But go deeper, find the good weapons and armor, scale up the difficulty, and suddenly this isn’t just for the kids anymore. Suddenly you’re on the edge of your seat wondering how the hell a goddamn kids game is pushing you back. You’re picking up epic gear with wild stats that give you a giggle as you jump back in, ready to face the mob. What would make the game more worthwhile would be if it introduced many of these elements sooner, rather than teasing them for a second or third playthrough. Many players above the standard Minecraft age group will be turned off at first, and will turn away. But for those who stick around -- and I do urge you to -- there is a hefty dungeon crawler beneath the hood that, for its flaws, succeeds at being a wild party game and a grit your teeth one-more-try experience. 

Final Score: 8/10

[pollylynn]

Blackwing 602: Chapter 3—A Season 2 Caskett . . . multi-chap of indeterminate length.

A/N: I guess this is Chapter 3. I posted Chapter 2 yesterday. Chapter 1 goes back to  2017, when I did NaFicWriMo (30 stories in 30 days), I wrote one called Blackwing 602. Second part is obviously on Tumblr. If you don’t want to read the first part, all you need to know is that in “A Chill Goes Through Her Veins” (1 x 05), Beckett pockets what turns out to be a very expensive pencil when she’s in Castle’s office. This part is set around the time of “When the Bough Breaks” (2 x 04)

Title: Blackwing 602, Chapter 3 WC: 1000

She means to make a gift of it, somehow. That’s a surprise to her, truly. It’s not theater like so much has been lately. It’s not even one of the little white lies that make her world go round when it comes to him—when it comes to why on earth she endures, tolerates, suffers his presence. It’s not even that. She means, truly and definitely, to make a gift of it.   

It’s not true from the first or anything. Not right from the moment that she “stumbles” across it.  She has it on hand, and that’s the little white lie. So is the fact that she intends—fully intends—to give it back to hm with a flourish. 

She’s been telling herself that one since the sudden urge vigorously organize her desk came on those few nights ago. She’s nodded to herself with satisfaction at the idea that she’s made a decision—she intends to present it with some cutting remark that’ll make him narrow his eyes and flash a smile that’s half admiring and half something more complicated. But opening after opening after opening passes her by when she might have given it back in just that way, and she realizes that she means it to be something more than that. 

She means it to be a gift, but that’s absurd. She stole the damned thing. She flat-out stole it right out of his office the first time she’d ever set foot in his home. And the fact that she’d had no idea how much it was worth—the fact that even then she’d never entertained the notion of a freaking pencil that could run someone the price of a massage at very tony spa indeed—is immaterial. It’s stolen property she has in her possession, and the idea of turning it into a gift is just nonsense. 

And still, that’s what she means to do, though it’s a while before she sees that.  

She carries it in her bag nearly every day. She transfers it to a side drawer in her desk, where she pins it against the very back with post-its or boxes of those stupid binder clips that are too small to be of any use to anyone. And then when it’s finally knocking off time, she looks around like the sneak thief she is, and slips it back to the bag again. 

It’s a ritual she’d invented on the spot the day she “stumbled” across it, and every day after that, it burns a hole in the bag, in the drawer, in the bag again, lather, rinse, repeat. And for a while, she really does think—every single day—that she’ll find a moment where simply handing it back to him will make sense. 

And not quite every single day, she lets the possible moment pass, until another evening rolls around and finds her still at her desk, straightening, organizing, waiting for it to be safe to retrieve her contraband. And for whatever reason, that night, she sighs. She rolls her eyes at herself, and accepts the fact that she means to make a gift of it. 

A gift for what, though? It’s an awkward question. For coming back? For staying? 

That’s not it at all. However shared their misery might have been, there’s still a healthy dose of How dare you? simmering in her veins about all that. She’s grateful he stayed. She’s glad in her heart of hearts, but it’s not the kind of thing she has any intention of admitting, even obliquely. 

So, then. A gift for what? 

The book, she realizes one dreary Sunday. The dedication, a little, but mostly it’s the book itself. She’s dragging around her apartment, unable or unwilling to settle down to any of the half dozen things she could, should, ought to be doing when she slips the book from the shelves. 

She collapses back on to the couch and tucks her toes up between the cushions. She slips off the dust jacket, and when she sets it aside, the sense of familiarity embedded in the act is so strong that it’s practically déjà vu. It’s so familiar that when the hardcover drops to her thighs, the well-cracked spine falls open to her favorite spot, and that’s unnerving as hell. 

And enlightening. 

Because it’s not page 105 it falls open to. That particular stretch still makes her roll her eyes, even if it makes her cheeks burn, too. But that’s not where her copy falls open anyway. It falls open to Powell. Casper he calls the art thief here on the page—one more ridiculous name, and she’s not even sure why he bothered. It’s Powell obviously enough that he must’ve gotten himself in trouble all over again, and she doesn’t hate that. But the trouble he must be in isn’t what she loves about the scene either. 

A fine woman who knew her business was killed this week. 

It’s a simple bit of dialogue to move the plot forward. It’s motivation for the reluctant, retired thief to weigh in with information on the secondary victim that will move Nikki’s investigation forward. But to her, it’s more than that. It’s a touchstone for the two of them. It’s him reaching all the way back to Joanne Delgado and the stark reality that sank in for him that day—the truth  that every murder claims an untold number of victims, whoever might be left still breathing. It’s him shading in what’s so much more than a detail to her with such unexpected delicacy. 

And that’s somehow why she wants to make a gift of it. Because he’s taken her life—her work—and he has . . . amplified it. He has made what’s good and important—the good and the important that extend beyond even the abstract goal of justice—sing out, even to her, and she wants to pay him back in kind, somehow. 

Somehow. 

So she means to make a gift of it.  A/N: Playing chicken here with myself. I know how it ends, but I have very little of that written. But I guess I have all the time in the world between now and tomorrow morning when the sun will (probably) be up, and I have to continue hammering away at completely reinvented classes. 

[fakeyellow]

Repost because it got deleted?!?! (Not a new chapter)

After dinner, a Feral, and a multitude of passport photos, Kamilah finally connects the dots behind Anya’s true identity.

Summary: Kamilah and co. win the war against Gaius but at great personal cost. Fifty years have passed since their pyrrhic victory when a stranger, looking exactly like the woman they lost, enters their lives.  Part 1. Part 2. Part 3.

“I’ll have the ribeye, rare,” Kamilah said smoothly as she handed him the menu she hadn’t bothered to open, “and bring us a bottle of the 1994 Châteauneuf du Pape.”

The waiter nodded and turned to Anya expectantly.

“I’ll have the same, thank you.”

When the waiter returned with the wine, Anya eagerly took a sip of it, glad to have something for her hands to do. A week had passed since she’d moved to New York and her days had been filled with the exhaustive task of cataloguing the CEO’s extensive collection of ancient artefacts; they were meticulously organised but mostly unlabeled.

But she hadn’t seen Kamilah since that very first day until she’d received an invitation for dinner via Gabriel earlier this day. Anya didn’t quite know what to do with herself.

“Enjoy the wine?” Kamilah asked with a hint of a smile and Anya blushed upon realising she’d drank the entire contents of her glass.

“I don’t really like wine but this is amazing,” Anya admitted, already feeling a bit flushed from the single glass of wine.

“I’m glad it’s to your taste,” Kamilah said as she poured more wine into her glass.

“So tell me about yourself,” There was something deliberately nonchalant and innocent about the question but this escaped Anya’s notice as she savoured the taste of the red wine, licking her lips in thought. 

“Mmm… I studied archaeology with a concentration in Egyptology at Cambridge but I didn’t feel quite ready to settle down or look for a job as a museum curator so I joined an archaeological dig in Egypt after I graduated. And now I’m here,” Anya finished plaintively, taking another generous sip from her glass. 

The steaks arrived at that moment and they fell into a pleasant silence as they began eating. Kamilah broke the silence after raising the glass to her own lips for what Anya realised was the first time.

“I was hoping to get to know you beyond what I’d read on your resume,” She said with a small smile before asking with an almost hesitant air of curiosity, “Was it hard moving to America?... Did you have to leave anyone behind?”

“No,” Anya admitted and she wasn’t quite sure if it was because of the strange familiarity she felt with Kamilah or the exorbitant amount of wine she’d drank, but she continued, “I don’t really date.”

“Oh?”

Anya quickly said, “Well, I mean I tried in college. My friends tried to set me up with someone once but… it just never felt right. She liked me more than I could like her.”

Kamilah stared at her with an intensity that made Anya flush deeply with an unknown emotion and Anya hurriedly broke their eye contact, “I do have a very close friend though. She was an immense help after my accident and I don’t know how I’d survive without her. Actually, I have to call her soon. I moved so suddenly that I wasn’t able to tell her and I’ve just been so busy lately.”

“Accident?” Kamilah asked, her eyes sharpening at the word.

“I was in a pretty bad car accident five years ago,” Anya answered with the patience of someone who had explained the story numerous times, “I don’t have any memories of the first 18 years of my life.”

She let out a small, bitter laugh and shook her head before repeating in a lighter tone, “I don’t know what I would have done without Sera…”

But Kamilah had stopped paying attention, her mind whirring furiously as she strove to make sense of this new information. Nothing seemed to fit. A 22-year-old with no memories of her past and the appearance of a woman who had died fifty years ago.

What was she missing? 

—-

Anya hadn’t meant to walk so far from the restaurant- she’d simply been waiting outside as Kamilah made a call before they walked back to the company building together.

But the streets of New York had called out to her, and she’d found her legs taking her on a path that she didn’t recognise and yet somehow felt familiar. The crisp air was a balm against her still flushed skin and Anya exhaled. It still didn’t feel real that she was in New York, living in her dream apartment and working her dream job. Not to mention the mystery and alluringness of her new boss.

There was a guttural growl and Anya snapped around just as a gaunt figure melted out of the shadows. It was a grotesque monster of a being with its mottled, pallid grey skin that barely seemed to cover its bony figure. Anya took a slow step back as it came even closer to her, and in their proximity, Anya saw the bright red of its eyes and its salivating, fang-filled mouth.

Panic consumed her throat and she felt the need to scream or run or do something before she was killed when suddenly a freezing calm washed over her.  

“You dare? Your blood is mine, your soul is mine,” she hissed and she reached out her hand. 

The being froze in its tracks, and as her hand closed into a fist, she watched mercilessly as it fell to its knees. It let out a horrible, keening wail as its body began to contort around itself until finally, it crumbled away into ash. 

—-

“Anya?” Kamilah said warily and Anya jerked out of her stupor at the feeling of the hand on her shoulder.

“Huh?” Anya asked, momentarily confused before she began to reassure the woman that she was fine, simply taking a break in the cool New York City air. 

But Kamilah’s frown didn’t go away.

Because for a split second, Anya’s eyes had been red.

—-

(3 days later)

Kamilah stared at the three blown up ID photos Gabriel had spread on her desk.

They were all of Laia although her hair was different in each one: from long black tresses to deep crimson waves to straight platinum blonde locks. After allowing her a brief moment of silence, Gabriel continued.

“These are the passport photos of Eden Auclair, Celia Favre, and Amanda Klein. Eden Auclair was a French citizen from 2019-2034, Celia Favre was a Swiss citizen from 2034-2049, and Amanda Klein was a German citizen from 2049-2064. Each woman lived for approximately fifteen years before dying in their early 30’s… It seems that Anya Altomare is the newest reiteration.”

And Kamilah could deny it no longer. There was no doubt that these pictures were all of Laia. Which meant that Kamilah had seen correctly: she’d seen Anya’s eyes turn red that night at the restaurant. 

Which meant that Anya had been a vampire for the past 50 years.

Which meant that Anya was Laia.

But why did she show no recognition of Kamilah? Why did she continuously reinvent herself every fifteen years? What had happened to make Laia forget or at least pretend to forget all of her past memories? 

And then Kamilah froze.    

She’d dismissed the rest of Anya’s words as soon as she’d heard about her 18 years’ worth of missing memories. She’d thought Anya had been talking about a mere mortal friend.

But she’d been wrong. She’d focused on the wrong information.

Because Anya hadn’t been talking of a Sarah. She’d been talking of Sera.

Serafine. 

—-

A/N: So I have no idea what happened but for some reason, my original post is gone... Which is fucking annoying because I have a bad habit of doing all my final edits on Tumblr instead of on the doc itself. 

I tried to fix what I could remember but I’m not sure if I got everything so I’m sorry for any mistakes. SIGH.

Again, there should be one more long chapter unless I decide to split it up into two.

Thanks for the support

[myhelrav]

The Winds of Change

Musings on the 50-something years

While I’m rapidly reaching the end of my 50s, a friend has just entered them. When she reached out to “old timers” asking for tips to navigate her birthday, it got me thinking. Too many thoughts to squeeze onto her Facebook page! This is not the post with which I’d planned to get back into blogging, but after a winter hiatus I’m very grateful to find myself writing again. With special thanks for the impetus she unwittingly gave me to do so, I’d like to dedicate this piece to that newly-minted 50-year old. 

I’ve been sitting on it for a few days, playing “shall I, shan’t I?”, feeling diffident about dishing out advice so publicly. In the meantime, I've been interacting once again with the online Aging Abundantly Community, the women whose support I’ve found invaluable over the past 2 years. It reminded me of how willingly they share their own challenges and what they learn along the way. They give me confidence to go ahead and share my musings.

The 50s seem to me to be a decade when the winds of change blow stronger, stirring up our lives big time, bringing a whirl of surprise and grief, challenges and opportunities. We often find ourselves being pulled in different directions. I think this is especially so if you are a woman.

I can’t speak for men of course, but I can safely say it’s almost impossible to come to terms with midlife changes in female bodies without having to form a new picture of ourselves as a woman. Sometimes the changes can be quick and straightforward, but it’s probably far more common for the process to be complicated, often long-drawn out, seldom linear. It brings both grief and relief in its wake. 

Equally non-linear, and definitely complicated, is the change that all of us who are parents dreamt of – the increasing independence of our children. As they spread their wings and start flapping out of the nest, our inner lives shift just as much as our outer ones do. That independence can come sooner than we’re comfortable with, or conversely, much more slowly. Any which way, you can be sure that there is just as much opinion out there, waiting to judge how we handle it and what we do next, as there has been at any other stage of the parenting game. Some of those voices are, sadly, in our own heads…

For all of us, lurking in the future if not actively charging towards us at full speed, are significant changes in our parents’ generation and our relationships with them. And then there are our relationships with significant others, the world of work, and even our oldest, most comfortable friendships, none of them immune to buffeting by those winds of change.

An unexpected bonus of Project Tauranga has been the impetus and the opportunity it’s provided to reflect on the challenges thrown up by so much change in my own life. These past few days, I’ve been musing about what advice I might give on how to take on the 50’s. Depending on the day, I come up with different variations on “Lean into them”. Today my advice is simply “Trust’”.

Trust your feelings – even when they are all over the show. You know, none of us have done this before, not as an individual.  It’s no surprise it can feel hard! To quote Dorothy Sander* (who writes ever so eloquently about mid-life transformations and whose writing has been an enormous help to me):

“There is no way to prepare for our reaction to experiences we’ve never had before.  It helps to think about this time as a period of transition, not just an ending. And like all transitions, we are in a state of flux and we are going to feel uncomfortable. The discomfort is an invaluable shove to process the experience in order to move forward.

When we welcome the discomfort rather than resist it, we allow the feelings and thoughts we have to move through us. Resistance and avoidance keep the feelings locked inside of us, prolonging our discomfort.  It takes time to process life’s difficult experiences, but we can get through them and we will. Life will feel “normal” again.” 

Even when it’s a new normal...

Trust that these years bring opportunities of their own. I think one of the big fears most of us have about growing older is that doors will start closing on things we treasure in our life. Maybe a bit of that is inevitable. However there is something magical about discovering other doors opening, maybe in places we never thought to look before.

Trust that there is a world of kindness waiting out there for us, sometimes from people we’ve only just met.

Trust in kindness itself. The winds of change are particularly hard on relationships and they can react unpredictably. We’ve probably all seen memes proclaiming that “true” friends are those who are always there for you. I’ve come to reword them for myself as “your true friends are there for you to the extent that whatever’s going on in their life allows.” Sometimes we find ourselves letting people down in ways we would never have expected; other times we find friendships slipping away after a shift in the things that brought us together. Looking at such nasty surprises through the eyes of kindness can really, really help.

Trust that “Me” time is coming. When you’re really, really busy this can be unimaginable (and the journey there can be pretty blimmin’ painful) but, oh my goodness, can it be wonderful! 

When the busyness changes and a void starts appearing (to quote Dorothy again), “rather than filling the void with fear and guilt, we have been given a perfect opportunity to learn and grow and discover.  Dare to just “be” in this time, this in-between time. Tune into your inner voice and listen to the callings of your heart. Follow where it leads.”

If you feel your defining routines and roles slipping away and you find yourself wondering “Who am I now?”, trust that behind the scenes space is being created in your life and your head to reinvent yourself, reinvigorate yourself. If you feel it’s not happening, trust in yourself to start doing the work when the time is right for you. It doesn’t have to be right now.

Trust that “We” time is probably coming too. This one also takes work. Before I even started looking outward from my absorption with my boys when they were little, I was blessed to have the shining example of a friend who consciously set out to work on her friendship with her husband while their children were in their early teens. I’ve thought of her often as Rod and I find ourselves reworking our own friendship, having stripped away so many of the props of our family life in Wellington. 

At the same time, I’m meeting women whose closest relationships haven’t survived these years of change. They are my newest shining examples as I watch how they trust that new relationships will come their way. I’m in awe of their bravery and am loving witnessing that bravery gradually bearing fruit. 

Trust in authenticity. We also see memes about giving less of a **** as we grow older. Not all totally true of course, but it does seem to get easier to care less about being judged, to be more relaxed about being the person we are truly comfortable being.

Our life in Wellington was spent largely with people younger than us. Here in my new home and in my online life, I hang out mainly with women in their 50s, 60s, 70s and even 80s (the oldest person in our yoga class is 80 - now there’s a shining example to look up to!) The joy I’m finding in these connections often stems directly from moments of authenticity. People being themselves, sharing their vulnerabilities, trusting me to meet them where they are. It’s liberating and it’s beautiful.

While my friend wasn’t asking me about the years beyond the 50s, that is the future I’m pondering. Here’s a gorgeous analogy** that I’ve discovered recently (particularly apt for life in the beautiful Bay of Plenty.) May this be the way I take on my 60s!

* the quote from Dorothy Sander comes from Beyond the Empty Nest:  https://www.agingabundantly.com/2013/01/22/beyond-the-empty-nest/?fbclid=IwAR0oRT8hkSFWH-2fxavpij954ZVWKoHQO1O0bKH4K3UW6SVQ23_N-_fBt-Y

**This just an excerpt from Bernadette Noll’s full piece which can be read here: https://www.huffpost.com/entry/i-want-to-age-like-sea-glass_b_5317199

[glenngaylord]

SUPERGOOD - My Review of BOOKSMART (4 Stars)

[Excerpted from https://thequeerreview.com/ ]

So many great films have come from the “Teens Hanging Out All Night” genre. From AMERICAN GRAFFITI to DAZED AND CONFUSED to SUPERBAD, they’ve careened from one crazy real time scenario to another and left us taking that ethereal walk of shame in the morning. Now, just in time to queer up this tradition, comes BOOKSMART, the feature directorial debut of actor Olivia Wilde, and written by a committee of women (Katie Silberman, Susanna Fogel, Emily Halpern, and Sarah Haskins), and it’s a hilarious, charming, slyly subversive addition to the canon.  

BFFs, Amy (Kaitlyn Dever) and Molly (Beanie Feldstein), start their last day of high school at the top of their class after a lifetime of hard studying.  While their peers seemingly partied their futures away, these two social outcasts seem to have laid the groundwork for what lies ahead.  Of course, the rude awakening occurs in the first act, when Molly learns her classmates have all either gotten into prestigious colleges or scored great jobs while simultaneously enjoying all their hormones and boundless energy have to offer.  Now, with one night left before graduation,   Amy and Molly decide to have one wild night together.  The basic plot may seem…well…basic…but the chemistry between our leads and a stellar supporting cast make it sing.  

From the opening scene, in which Amy and Molly literally dance into our lives, this film shines with a verve and spirit often missing from teen comedies.  Amy, an out lesbian who has yet to have sex, and Molly, the assured, balls out Class President, make a truly wonderful comedic team.  While Amy can’t get up the nerve to ask out her crush Ryan (Victoria Ruesga), an always happy skateboarder, Molly has been blind to all of the students she’s looked down on, and only together can they really find their happy places in life.  The journey may seem trite as we literally watch them hope from party to party in search of the ultimate one, but the emotions ring true while never turning to mush.  

Feldstein, in her young career, has already stood out in NEIGHBORS 2 and LADY BIRD, but with her first starring role, she seizes the moment and attacks every second with a similar sense of danger to that of her brother Jonah Hill and, dare I say, that of the late, great John Belushi.  She also delivers emotionally in several key scenes which brought this silly comedy to a higher level.  By the end, she wasn’t the only person with tears in her eyes.  With such stiff competition, Dever goes toe-to-toe with Feldstein and makes Amy an equally wild, fully fleshed-out character.  Whether it’s watching them pull crazy faces in a speeding car or feeling the discomfort of a very public fight, you want to follow them anywhere.  With such archetypes as these two, you would expect Feldstein to carry the gross-out comedic aspects, but Dever steps up here and winningly sells scenes such as the unforgettable moment she lets her fingers do the walking.  Trust me, you’ll know it when you see it.  

BOOKSMART populates itself with a ton of fantastic supporting characters, from Lisa Kudrow and Will Forte as Amy’s doting parents, Skyler Gisondo (THE SANTA CLARITA DIET) as a rich kid who carts around a hot mess called Gigi (a hilarious Billie Lourd) and awkwardly crushes on Molly, to Molly Gordon (ANIMAL KINGDOM) as a student with a bad reputation but with more layers than you’d expect.  Diana Silvers has a sly way with her lines as another potential love interest for Amy and I loved what Jessica Williams did with a small amount of screen time as a teacher who clearly refuses to morph into an adult.  I also loved Noah Galvin (THE REAL O’NEALS)  and Austin Crute as a hilarious pair of gay theater queens who have never met a RuPaul catchphrase they didn’t sell to the back rows.  

Olivia Wilde, who, along with her cinematographer, Jason McCormick, don’t reinvent the wheel, but display a propulsive, sometimes beautiful cinematic sensibility.  One gorgeously shot underwater sequence really stood out as did the overall pacing, which starts off at 11 and never slows down.  She could have dialed back on the endless music cues and some of the whiplash energy which prevented some of the jokes from landing.  This would have allowed the film to breathe more, but I chalk that up to first-time director excitement she must have felt when she cut the film together and saw that she had something special.  The film reminded me of last year’s BLOCKERS but without as much of a parental presence and with a much more cinematic eye.  Both featured strong young female characters who took a big bite out of life, but BOOKSMART has its own unique charms.  It’s not perfect, but it’s a blast. As a whole, BOOKSMART earns its place in the pantheon of its predecessors all the way up to the way it undercuts its big emotional moment for one final, funny exchange as it smash cuts to black.  

[my-mystic-messenger]

Can I request a high school AU (the RFA and everyone is in high school) with MC x Zen? Like them meeting in theatre class together and she's really shy and quiet around them but they both love acting and she's secretly really good at improv and comedy? Like how they get together and how the other members react and stuff. At this point Zen would have been on his own for a while now and he's probably in a gang. Sorry if this is too specific haha I just love your writing

So haha the last two days I spent re-watching Ouran High School Host Club so basically this is a mash-up of my experience in theatre club + Ouran High School Host Club + Mystic Messenger. What could possibly go wrong, am I right?! 」(￣▽￣」) Also, this blew way out of proportion, so I put it under a read more. I hope you enjoy that clusterfuck of fic as much as I enjoyed dreaming it up

Mentioned MC’s Masterlist

|| REQUEST ARE (ALWAYS) OPEN!! ||

Fandom: Mystic MessengerRating: GeneralWarnings: NoneCategories: F/MRelationships: MC x ZenWord count: 6060

Ouran Elite PrivateAcademy

a prestigious privateschool located in Seoul, Korea. The school is attended primarily bychildren of the rich and famous. Ouran Academy houses five differentdivisions: Kindergarten, Elementary School, Middle School, HighSchool and University. All four divisions are all located on the samecampus and students are free to move about.

Meet the students:

Jumin Han (19) - Freshmenin College (child of a business magnate)

Jihyun Kim (19) -Freshmen in College (child of a celebrity)

Madeleine Campbell (18) -12th grader in High School  (child business magnate)

Mélodie Carpentier (18) -12th grader in High School (child of a celebrity)

Jaehee Kang (18) - 12thgrader in High School (honour student)

Hyun Ryu (17) - 11thgrader in High School (child of prominent family)

Macy Cain (16) - 10thgrader in High School (child of prominent family)

Saeyoung&Saeran Choi(15) 10th graders in High School (children of a politician)

Yoosung Kim (14) 8thgrader in Middle School (child of a politician)

Hyun Ryu had beenattending Ouran Academy since Kindergarten. Despite his family beingneither rich nor famous both his older brother and him had beenaccepted due to their parents’ scholar status and the fact that theywere Ouran Alumni. Hyun and his brother were labeled as children of a‘prominent family’, yet basically being nothing more than honourstudents. At first Hyun had enjoyed it. The school was prestigiousand fancy, the people were generally nice and with smaller classesstudying wasn’t half as bad as it would have been in any publicschool. Plus, he looked really good in the uniforms. However, asyears passed he began feeling less and less comfortable and happy.Especially once he’d realized that he most certainly did not aspireto be some business mogul or even a scholar like his parents. 

He’donly dared to admit as much once he’d finally entered High School andwhile his parents didn’t transfer him away from Ouran – mainlybecause they still hoped the school would shape him and talk somesense into their son – he’d no longer been welcome at their home.Hyun had been forced to run away and somehow find his own way throughlife from that moment on. Despite having made good friends during hisyears at Ouran, Hyun refused all their help. He was annoyed at theprivilege he’d received so far as it was, set on making his way tothe top all by himself. Hyun gave up his former life and completelyreinvented himself as Zen. Zen who was charming and confident. Zenwho started the Ouran Theatre Club, open to all and everyone. Hewanted to perform, become the best at his profession and bewitchnations with his talent.

Sadly, ambition alone didnot pay rent and Zen learned that bitter lesson rather soon. Hungerstarted to drain him, constantly jumping between sleeping somewherein school or at friends’ places became inconvenient and borderlinemortifying. He needed money and he needed it soon. Sadly he was notquite at a place where he could earn enough money with his acting andZen had very little other talents that could have been of help. Thatwas until a man asked him about his bike, how well he rode and howconfident he was in his abilities. Zen had been confused at first –the man did look kind of sketchy – but when he mentioned big sumsof money he could win with nothing more than racing on his bike Zenhad been sold. Desperation overruled logic and before he knew Zen hadjoined a motorgang, riding for their lives, in the most literal ofsenses.

The days were spent inschool, his afternoons in the barely there theatre club he’d startedand by night he raced other people for money or got into fights withother clans. It wasn’t the perfect situation, but he got by and thatwas all that mattered. His body soon started to condition itself,healing at a rate that was almost inhumanly fast to make up for allthe damage he took during races or fights gone wrong. Barely a weekwent by without Zen doing some kind of damage to his body. It soonled to a bad-boy reputation to be build on his part, something hehadn’t quite played on but works with. The girls enjoy him in leatherjackets and tight jeans, riding to school on his bike and smokingbehind the building, so he accents such behaviour instead of hidingit in his desperate need for attention and affection. It is only atthe beginning of his 11th school year that things begin tochange.

♬

When the door to thetheatre club opened Zen froze, instantly jumping up from the tablehe’d been sitting on to look who it was. Despite his desperateattempts to put even a single play on stage he’d failed miserably sofar. No one at Ouran seemed to be interested in joining the theatreclub, too busy following their parents’ footsteps into commercialsuccess. Zen desperately wanted to judge them, but opposite to himthey seemed content with their fate. He’d almost given up hope on theclub, ready to dissolve it entirely, when suddenly a young girlentered, looking around the big room. “Hello”, she called, eyesscanning the entire room before landing on Zen. They widened withsurprise – something he’d gotten used to by now, with his strangelooks – before a bright smile and kindness replaced the initialsurprise, leaving Zen breathless.“Are you Hyun then”, sheasked, heavy American accent in her Korean. Still, at least she’dbothered to learn the language, something that Zen was more thanimpressed with. He stepped towards her, holding out his hand for herto shake. “I am. You’re a foreigner. Could it be that you are thetransfer student everyone has been talking about?” The girl nodded.“Yes, my name is Macy Cain. I came here to study dance in a DanceAcademy, but I still have to go to school, so here I am.” Shechuckled and Zen hadn’t heard such genuine sounds in a long time. “Isee. Sadly our school doesn’t have a dance club, I’m afraid”, hesaid and Macy nodded. “I know, I already asked around. That’salright though. They told me about the theatre club and Ifigured…well if we perform something like a musical, a danceperformance is a must and I could definitely help withthat.”Musical? Zen hadn’t even considered musicals. He wasquite the good singer and he did play the guitar, but without anyactors for even an ordinary play, how on earth was he supposed tothink about musicals. He rubbed the back of his head nervously,cheeks reddened. “I’m sorry to say, but the theatre club is ratherdead. I tried getting people to join, but some are afraid of me, someare not allowed to be associated with me and some are too busystaring and admiring me to even consider proper acting and disciplineand I detest half-heartedness, so the club never really came to be”,he explained, sighing when the thought really sunk in anddisappointment overwhelmed him. Macy hummed. “How unfortunate.Well, we’ll just have to gather some people then. See you tomorrowfor practice”, she announced, cheerful as ever, before leaving theroom and a baffled Zen behind.

♬

The next day Zen foundhimself surprisingly hopeful as he sat in the auditorium all byhimself. Every time he heard steps from the hall his heart skipped abeat, excitement flooding his body, only to be disappointed when thedoors didn’t open. About half an hour into ‘practice’ Zen was readyto throw the towel and leave when suddenly the doors opened and Macystepped in. Zen instantly jumped up, practically running towards her,happy to at least have her return. That is when he spotted threeother people walking and froze. “Trust Fund Kid?! What the fuck areyou doing here?!” Zen glared at the guy, hands balling into fists.Jumin merely gave him an uninterested glance. “I am here to jointhe theatre club, obviously.” Beside him another young manappeared, blue haired and much friendlier looking as well as ared-haired young woman.

“Did Macy talk you intothis? I don’t people like you to join my club”, he hissed back,reading to throw a fit. Jumin huffed. “No, she did not. Madeleinedid”, he replied, hand resting on the young woman’s lower back. Shelooked gentle, smiling up at the boy beside him which lead Zen tobelieve that she must have been his girlfriend. That possibly shockedhim more than Jumin’s willingness to join the club. Who on earth withever subject themselves to Jumin Han on a regular basis? “Not tomention that calling it 'your club’ is rather absurd considering thatup to this point it had no members and the only reason it has any nowis thanks to Madeleine and Macy.” Oh Zen definitely wanted to smashhis fucking face in. Then again, Jumin was right. Not only did theclub have any members now, it had enough to be considered legitimateto school standards. They could finally perform!

“How didyou do it”, Zen asked, this time talking to Macy, awe written allover his face. She chuckled. “Madeleine and I got to know eachother at orientation day. When I asked her about it she was delightedto join. She asked Jumin, who was a little reluctant at first, butonce Jihyun agreed to join if he did we roped both of them into it”,Macy explained, high-fiving the other girl. Ah, so Jumin Han wasn’tquite as independent and controlling as he liked to portray himselfto be, if his girlfriend could rope him into things like that. “Ididn’t know you could act”, Zen said, glaring at Jumin again butthis time with less heat. “I can’t. What ridiculous assumptions.I’ll manage the club, Jihyun will record the performances, Macy willdance, Madeleine is a mighty fine actress and you…I guess you’lllook pretty on the posters.” This time Zen had to be physicallyheld back from punching the asshole.

♬

“And who are you two”,he asked, looking down at the twins with confusion. “Saeyoung andSaeran. Macy is in our class”, they replied in union, alreadyirritating Zen. He closed his eyes o hide the fact that he wasrolling them so hard, any more and he wound have seen his own brain.He looked to Macy then, pleadingly. Was she serious? Macy grinned andshrugged. “They are really clever. Both of the skipped a grade,which is why they are so young”, she explained as if it helped thesituation. He already had Jumin Han to annoy him. Zen didn’t need toknow it alls on top of it. “We can memorise any script afterreading it once”, one of the brothers said, the one with theglasses. “Plus, we can act. So well some people can’t even tell weare acting”, the other one added, a somewhat mischievous glint tohis eyes. Zen shivered. “W-well…welcome to the theatre club, Iguess…”♬

“I could help V with thescenery”, Mélodie suggested on the clubs third meeting. Despitenot having chosen a play, everyone in the club was getting excitedand dividing up the work. They were only eight people at this point,but things were staring to look up. Frankly, one could do a lot morewith eight people than Zen had first assumed. “Okay so V andMélodie are taking care of the stage design, Zen and Macy will beworking on the music, Madeleine and I will work on the costumes andthe twins will take care of special effects and technology ingeneral. Now the real question is…should we write an originalscript and if so…who wants to do that?” That was when a quietvoice chirped up from the back of the auditorium, startling all themembers gathered on stage. “I could do that.” Madeleine andMélodie recognized the girl as their classmate Jaehee and so eightmembers became nine.

♬

“Isn’t he a littleyoung? Especially compared to the oldest members”, Zen whispered atMacy as they watched the new addition to their club – Yoosung Kim –be teased by the twins. “I mean…I guess, but he seems reallyeager? Frankly he seems to get along better with the older guys thanwith the twins who are closest to his age. Plus, he might be aninteresting addition”, she whispered back, shrugging. “Uh-huh?How so”, Zen asked, disbelieve audible in his voice. “I don’tknow, Zen, he’s cute. He could be our mascot or something like that.”Zen hummed, looking at the little blonde dude with huge doe eyes. Hedid have that whole shota-boy thing going for him and they didn’thave someone like that in their rounds yet. “I bet he can trickpeople into coming to our shows if we let him hand out the fliers andstuff”, she added and so the deal was sealed.

♬

“Okay everyone, we’llstart todays practice with an improv session. Maybe it will help uscome up with a possible plot for our play and yes, Jumin, you have toparticipate as well”, Zen announced into the round. Jumin huffedbut instantly relaxed when Madeleine pressed a kiss to his cheek.Whipped! They stood in a circle for a quick warm up before Zen askedinto the round who would like to begin. Suddenly the room wasoverwhelmed by a radio silence. How come the theatre club was full ofpeople who didn’t want to act?! “Macy, come join me, please. Youtoo, Yoosung. We’ll start with a simple family scene and see how itgoes from there.” While Yoosung actually seemed eager upon havingbeen picked, instantly climbing on stage to prove himself and hisworth, Macy was hesitant. Usually she was very confident andoutgoing, which is why he’d picked her to begin with.

“Zen, I’m not anactress. I came here to dance, mainly”, she said, not meeting hiseyes. Zen frowned, taking in her demeanour as he’d never seen herlike that. Macy never shied away from a challenge and Zen wouldn’tallow as much to to happen now. Holding out his hand for her to takehe smiled. “Don’t be scared. We’re all friends here so no one willjudge.” After quickly glancing around the room, met with a row offriendly smiles, Macy took Zen’s hand and climbed on stage to joinhim and Yoosung. Zen could tell that she was still nervous, but atleast she was trying and he appreciated that. Acting was completelydifferent from dancing and on top of that improv was especially hard.Without a script or more than a general idea to go by a lot of peoplestruggled with it, even professionals. Still, Zen believed in Macyand as it turned out he was right in doing so.

Whatever you threw at her,Macy had quick, witty comeback. During their short improv that day –mere five minutes at most – she managed to make even Jumin laugh.Not only that, but she turned out to be a great actress too. Hercomedic act could have easily turned out to be ridiculous andunprofessional, but Macy took her role serious, which probably madethe whole thing all the more hilarious to watch. Meanwhile Yoosungsuffered through the improv as it got increasingly hard for him notto crack up at Macy’s jokes as well, thereby breaking character. WhenZen called cut on the scene the rest of the group cheered andclapped, leaving Macy to blush and bow to them shyly. Zen could do nomore than stare at her, heart racing. It was only when the twinsdemanded to play a scene as well that he snapped out of it, shakinghis head to focus on practice.

♬

“I think we should meetafter school to take care of the music now that we finally have anactual script”, Macy suggested, two weeks after their first improvsession. Jaehee had done a great job at writing it. After watchingthe entire group do their improvs for a couple of days, Jaehee hadcatalogued all their strengths and weaknesses, incorporating theminto the characters and story she wrote. After sitting everyone downthey’d turned the story into a proper script a new motivation takingover the small club. Every day they met to practice their lines andblocking on stage and after practice most of them stayed behind totake care of their individual tasks as well. Zen was so happy to seeeveryone excited about their play as well as having such a devotedand loyal group of friends. Even Jumin took his role as manager ofthe club increasingly serious, silently pulling the strings oneverything.

“Sure, we can staybehind in the auditorium after practice to work on the music”, Zensuggested, grinning down at the blonde. Since the beginning of theirlittle club about a month ago he’d grown rather attached to her.Despite not being in the same class they spent a lot of timetogether, both at theatre club as well as the breaks in betweenclasses. She always sought him out during lunch time, sitting next tohim where others had kept their distance, while Zen always walked herhome after school. Well, he never walked her the entire distance,scared that someone from another gang would see and possibly attackthem. He did, however, watch her leave once they’d reached the cornerthey usually parted ways at, heart beating just a little fasterwhenever she turned around one last time to wave him goodbye.

“No, that won’t do. Therest of the club is always day making some kind of ruckus and wecan’t practice, let alone compose, under such conditions. Plus, I gethungry if we stay too long and then I get cranky and when I’m crankyI can’t work. I would suggest going to my place, but I live by myselfand my apartment is extremely tiny. Could we maybe meet at yours?”Zen knew that Macy had asked without mean intent, actually makingsome valid points, but the question hit home. He froze almostimmediately, expression falling from happy to something dark andempty instead. Macy stopped in her tracks when she noticed the suddenchange in mood, turning to look at her friend. It was obvious thatshe was worried, reaching out to him but hesitating. Her hand reachedout for his face but hung in the air until Zen moved into the touch,hand resting against his cheek as he closed his eyes.

It feltso warm against his cold skin, so much so that he had the need torest his hand above hers to keep it in place, burying himself in thegentle touch. “I don’t really have a home”, he admitted in awhisper like it was some kind of dirty secret, something to beashamed off. “What”, came a quiet gasp in reply. “Why?” Zenfinally opened his eyes, meeting Macy’s. He could see the tearsthreatening to roll down her cheeks gathering and hated himself formaking her worry like that. Still, he could not lie, not with her.Macy was probably the only person he could be fully himself with andmaybe Zen needed that from time to time. No acting. No falseconfidence. No playing cool or tough. Just…Zen. “My parents bothwent to Ouran Academy as honour students. They are scholars, elitesif you want. My brother followed their footsteps but when I announcedI wouldn’t -”

“They kicked you out?”Zen nodded. “At first I tried living with friends, but its rude tostay longer than a couple of days at a time and eventually, after acouple of months, I got tired of jumping between families. I was atan all time low, walking down the streets with my tiny suitcasedragging behind me when this dude came to me, asking about my bike.They offered me a place to stay and food, so I accepted to come withhim”, he explained, shrugging. He never had to explicitly mentionit, but Macy soon realized what her friend was trying to tell her.“You joined a biker gang?! Oh Zen, don’t tell me you’re racing!”Zen blushed, taking a step back and instantly missing the featherytouch against his cheek. “It’s not like I had a choice. It’s eitherride or die and I’d rather die trying than die curled up in someditch.”

Zen had expected a lot of reactions, but mostcertainly not the slap to the face he received. “Risking your lifefor something like that? I thought you were smarter than that, youidiot”, Macy snapped, tears now freely running down her cheeks,slender body shaking almost violently. “It’s not like I had achoice, Macy! I had no money and nowhere to go.” Had he not caughther hand, she probably would have slapped him another time. “Youcould have asked us”, she screamed. “Every day you meet with ninepeople who care for you and love you and yet you are too proud to askany of us for help!? Shame on you, Ryu.. Risking your valuable lifeon illegal races that could kill you faster than any starvationbecause you 'had no other choice’ is the dumbest excuse I’ve everheard. I’ll wake the rest of the way myself. Someone who can’t takecare of themselves should not be worrying about taking care of me.”

♬

Upon entering theauditorium the next morning Zen was met with his nine friends, alltalking in hushed voices that instantly stopped when they noticedhim. For a while they all silently stared at him and Zen had beenabout ready to turn around and leave when out of all people Juminstepped forward. Without a word he held out an envelop and Zen didn’thave to be a genius to know it was money. He could feel the angerrise inside of him and before he knew he was slapping the others handaway. “I don’t need your money, jerk! I’m not your little charitycase”, he snapped angrily. As per usual Jumin’s expression remainedcalm and stoic. It was Madeleine who seemed hurt and angry as shestepped forward to look at her boyfriends hand before picking up theenvelop that had fallen to the floor. “It’s not Jumin’s money, Zen,so please man up and just accept our help already.”

Zen instantly calmed uponfaced with such defeat in everyones eyes. He sighed, taking theenvelop and actually looking inside. He felt a little dizzy when herealized just how much money that was. “You don’t seriously want meto believe that this isn’t his. Who else has so much money on theirhands”, he asked, waving the thick bundle around. “OuranAcademy’s student body. We knew you wouldn’t accept our money, oranyones really, so we asked for tiny, tiny donations from everyone.Only so much that it wouldn’t be a bother to them. We didn’t tellthem what the donations were for, so they wouldn’t feel obliged tohelp. Ouran Academy is filled with rich people so some of thedonations might seem like a lot to you, but to them it’s not even asplit of their lunch money. They happily gave it up so please acceptthe money and rent a place”, Jaehee explained calmly with everyonenodding along.

Zen looked at the money, on the verge of tearsas he considered through how much trouble his friends must have gonethrough to ask all the students for money like that. He sighed. “I’mreally thankful for your guys’ hard work, but even if I accept this,I can’t rent a place. This might be enough to the first deposit andmaybe first months rent, but what should I do afterwards? I don’thave any other way to earn money but participating in those races.”That is when Jumin decided to speak up once more. “This is whereyou are wrong. You can earn money by acting. We decided to scrap theplay with had in favour of writing a new, much shorter one. That waywe can perform once a week instead of once a month or year. We caninvite people to our performances and do so in exchange for money.It’s neither charity nor are we forcing anyone and you will earnmoney without risking your life.”

Zen couldn’t believe hisears. They’d not only gathered enough for him to rent an apartment,but they were also coming up with a solution for him to pay rent andprovide for himself without having to race. That is when everyone gotout the scripts they’d been hiding behind their backs, presentingthem to Zen. Every member had written their own sketch. They wereshort and not all of the members were needed, which gave the othermembers more time to prepared for their own, creating a perpetuummobile performing and writing. “You’ll have to live a very modestlife and we won’t be able to do this for longer than a couple ofyears tops, but none of us have a shred of doubt in your abilities toprovide for yourself. You just needed some help to get up, but soonyou’ll be running on your own”, V added after some silence,everyone nodding along to his words.

Zen looked at everyone,trying his best to remain calm and keep his face when in reality hewanted to sing and cry with joy. Never in his life had he experiencedsuch unconditional love and he’d never imagined to find it in a placelike this, nor from the people he got it from. Considering thecircumstances he was all the more grateful. “Thank you”, he said,looking down at the money, holding it tight to his chest as he bowedto everyone, one by one. “Thank you so much for your help. If it’salright…I’d like to accept it.” Everyone clapped and cheered,pulling Zen into a group hug. Everyone but Macy, that is. She wasstill standing at the side, watching with an unreadable expression,arms crossed over her chest. It was when Zen swallowed nervously thateveryone took the hint, wished him good luck and scrambled out of theroom.

Faced alone with Macy Zen felt more nervous than he’dever felt before. It was usually him that seduced the women, madethem feel weak in the knees. Now he felt like a little child writingtheir first love letter to a secret crush. It was nerve wracking. Hewas about go gather up the courage to say something, anything at all,when Macy uncrossed her arms and held out a stack of papers. Zen wasconfused, to say the least. He’d prepared a million apologies thenight before after she’d quite literally slapped sense into him, butnow he was taken off guard. Was that script really that important?When Macy merely continued to hold it out for him, saying nothing,Zen figured it probably was and took the script hesitantly. Macyreached behind herself once more, picking up an identical stack andopening the first page, clearing her throat. “Read”, shecommanded and Zen did as he was told.Macy: This book…Weused to read these to each other. Why did you even buy it?

Zen: You know.

Macy: No, I don’t.

Zen: Yes, you do.

- Zen attempts to makea pass at Macy, but gets pushed away -

Macy: No, I don’t!

Zen: You know, I hate yoursquishy guts.

- woman grabs ontoman, holding him in a tight embrace -

Macy: I hate yoursquishy guts.

Zen: You know you love me.

- woman pulls back andstarts lightly hitting man with her fists -

Macy: I did love you. Iloved your squishy guts. You fucked it all up.

Zen: You fucked itall up.

Macy: Oh God! Why do Ilove you? It’s those eyes! Why do you have such pretty eyes? You’resuch a jerk! Why do you have to have those eyes? Why did you make mefall in love with you? I was supposed to be over it – falling inlove. And then there you were, with those eyes.

- Macy wants to getaway but Zen stops her -

Zen: We never evenfinished them all.

Macy: Ha! You know a lotabout not finishing something.

Zen: That again? It’snot like I’m not trying. Do you have any idea what it’s been likefor me? Trying to write something, something really good, when itjust isn’t coming?

Macy: Yea, well, you’renot the only one who’s not ‘coming.’

- Zen gets the pun,then stops for a moment. He changes his demeanour to that of aseducer -

Zen: Oh. Is that yourproblem? You need a little something? I think I can take care ofthat.

- Zen pulls Macy intoa passionate kiss - Once Zen had finished reading throughthe script he understood, smiling at the last line before looking up.He was met with a pair of  half lidded blue eyes looking at him,paired with small smirk. He’d gotten the message loud and clear andnot just the good part of it. Zen put away the script, walkingtowards Macy to embrace her, holding her tight to his chest. Itwasn’t quite as seductive as the play made it out to be, but it waspassionate and sincere nevertheless. “You came up with all of it,didn’t you?” It was formulated like a question, but Zen knew theanswer without her having to tell him. Even if the others cared forhim, no one cared quite as much as her. “You saved me, you know?”Macy looked up at him then, smiling gently. “I know. I think youshould repay your hero”, she replied teasingly and once more Zenobeyed, pulling her in for the kiss they’d both waited for.

♬

“Excuse me, Hyun Ryu?”Zen turned around, surprised to be greeted by an unfamiliar, adultface. Usually only the student body came to their performances,rarely the teachers. The man in front of him was neither. “Please,call me Zen. It is the name I chose for myself”, he replied. Zentook the hand that was held out to him and shook it politely, smilingat the man. “How may I help you?” The man laughed, reaching intohis pocket and getting out a small card. “I think I might actuallybe able to help you. We’re still looking for a young lead for ourupcoming play and you are perfect for it. With your amazing looks youstick out and your talents hits the nail on the head. If you’reinterested that call that number. We can discuss the details in amore private setting.”

♬

“It’s about time toinvited us to your place, Zen”, Saeyoung said, looking around thesmall apartment curiously, twin always by his side. “Yeah, we’rethe reason you have it in the first place.” Zen huffed, shaking hishead but smiling nevertheless. All his friends were gathered at theplace he was allowed to call his own home. A couple of months hadpassed since he’d moved in and if Zen was completely honest withhimself, he could have lived with never inviting the bunch of themover at all. Seeing so many filthy rich people gathered in such amodest place, probably silently judging, made him nervous. “He wasprobably enjoying his little den of love with Macy”, Mélodiereplied with a chuckle, making herself comfortable in V’s lap. Zenhad no idea when that particular relationship had happened, but aslong as they were happy, he supposed he was happy too.“Please,don’t make such crude remarks, Mélodie. It is bad enough to thinkthat they are probably true, let alone be reminded of the fact thatZen and Macy are living a immoral life style”, Jumin repliedsternly, holding onto Madeleine like someone was about to snatch heraway. “Oh please, like you’re the one to talk. You’re drooling overyour girlfriend”, Zen replied, rolling his eyes. “Fiancée.Madeleine is my fiancée soon to be wife and if you must know, we arewaiting until after marriage for such intimate acts to be shared,thank you very much.” Zen huffed, shaking his head. “Stop callingher your fiancée. It’s creepy. You’re just nineteen years old”, hesaid. “Huh, I didn’t know love had some sort of age stamp on it”,Jumin replied easily. Madeleine snickered at his stupid come-back andJumin lovingly pressed a kiss to her temple, effectively making Zenwant to throw up.

“Hearing you talk aboutlove…it gives me the chills. Are you really sure about marryinghim, Maddy? You could still find someone better”, Zen said instead,looking at his friend with concern and pity in his eyes. The redheadmerely chuckled, shaking her head at the two boys. “As sure as youare about Macy.” Well, that certainly put things into perspective.Zen looked across the room to where Macy was talking and laughingwith the twins and Yoosung, cheerful and happy as ever. He couldn’thelp but smile just looking at her. “I’m really happy for the twoof you, by the way. We all are”, Madeleine said as she noticed theothers glance. Zen turned his head to look at her, beaming from earto ear as he thanked her for her kind words. Had it not been for thenever ending support of his friend, Zen would have never dared topursue Macy. Thankfully, he’d been nudged in the rightdirection.

“Anyway, why are we gathered here today? Don’ttell me you’re proposing to Macy”, Mélodie said, instantly causingboth Zen and Macy to blush and choke on air. “What? No! I won’tpropose to anyone until I’m finally an established man, ready toprovide for myself and my future wife. Until then, I’m afraid, Macywill have to wait.” The blush in Macy’s cheeks only deepened andshe quickly looked away to hide it. Zen couldn’t have found her moreadorable if he tried. “We’re gathered here today, because I have avery happy and not marriage related announcement to make. After ourlast performance I was approached by a producer. He was amazed withmy talent and offered me a role in his upcoming play. It’s only asmall production, but I will be playing the lead and hopefully itwill open some more doors for me.”

Everyone cheered,gathering for a big group hug. In the short time all of them hadworked together on the theatre club they’d grown together as afamily, really. There wasn’t a day they didn’t see each other or atleast chat in their little chat room the twins had provided.Naturally those were the people that Zen wanted to tell about hissuccess first. “Without all of you none of this would have beenpossible. I have a job, I have a steady home, a girlfriend I love andfriends who are by my side. Even Jumin is here”, Zen said, earninga couple of laughs while Jumin looked unimpressed. Zen grinned. Therewould not be a day that he’d miss a chance to jab at the other. “Butmost of all, I have to thank you, Macy. Without you…I would haveended up dead sooner or later. Thank you for believing in me. Pleasewait a little longer for me so I can make a name for myself, becomethe man you deserve. Will you wait for me?” Macy nodded, stealing aquick kiss that left Zen flushed and everyone else in loud cheers.“Forever.”

The little script part is not mine. You can find it here

[megantodd2415-blog]

Project 4: Research

https://www.aiga.org/medalist-ruth-ansel-2016

-Co-Art Director of Harpers Bazaar in the 60s

-Art director of the NYT Magazine beginning in 1974

-Vanity Fair reinvention in the 1984; Living record of the HOllywood obsessed go-go 80s

-1983: revamped house & garden

-Rock n Roll Flair

-“Showed us how magazines, at their best, are a vital visual record, a time stamp for an entire age”

-“Magazines give you an idea of what it was like to be alive at a certain time”-Ansel

-Work with the best people+white space+ let it happen

-Grew up in the bronx

-Loved movies

-Graduated from Alfred University in Western NY with a BFA in ceramic design

-Began at Columbia records under Bob Cato

-Married to Bob Gill; Who introduced her to “NY Design Mafia”: George Lois, Robert Brownjohn, Saul Bass, and Ivan Chermayeff

-Travelled Europe after marriage to Bob Gill

-1961: moved to NY to work with Henry Wolf at Harpers Bazaar; Got hired by Marvin Israel even though she had NO experience; No cliches to unlearn; Taught herself to develop a critical eye, “to be curious seven days a week”

-“Magazines were the closest thing I could find to films”

-“Child of the moment”

-Must be brilliant and be able to execute the brilliant

-Became co-art director with bea feitler after Israel was fired; She was in her 20s; Helped to forge a revolutionary new direction for harper bazarr; Conceptual photography + pop art + street fashion + rock music + film

-In motion, dark, intelligent, introverted, beautiful

-1990s: formed her own studio and designed monographs and began a highly productive collaboration with Tim Walker

-Design wall graphics in 2012 for a London exhibition organied around the publication of Storyteller

-Simple design; Effortless

-Four rules: Provoke something new, Inform yourself and be sensitive to the culture around you, bring it into your work (Constantly be changing and evolving), Entertain your audience (Juxtaposition), Inspire others and get out of the way

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ruth_Ansel

-1960s: Harper's bazaar co-art director (1963); 1965 Iconic cover of Jean Shrimpton

-1970s: NYT (1974), House & Garden (1983), Vanity Fair (1984 as Art Director), & Vogue art director

-1957: began working under Bob Cato at Columbia Records

-1992 opened her own design studio where she still creates today: Dark Odyssey by Phillip Jones Griffiths, The Sixties by Richard Avedon, Women & the white oak dance project by annie leibovitz, Ad campaigns for versace, club monaco, and karl lagerfeld, Jerry schatzberg photography book, Elsa peretti the life and and work

-In 2009 she presented her work at moderna museet in stockholm sweden

-Hall of Femmes: Ruth Ansel

-2011 received art directors club hall of fame award

-Art directors club: gold medal for design in 1970

-AIGA Medalist in 2016

-Design award for continuing excellence in publication design by the society of publication

https://books.google.com/books?id=dILVaYXKT30C&pg=PT7&dq=ruth+ansel&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwj79dOD0MfSAhVjqVQKHT55CA84ChDoAQgjMAI#v=onepage&q=ruth%20ansel&f=false

-Art director, designer, and lecturer

-Created the film titles for the cult film: My dinner with andre

-Designed alice and wonderland, the end of the game by peter beard, dark odyssey by philip jones griffiths, the sixties by richard avedon, women and the white oak dance project by annie leibovitz, monograph for taschen by peter beard, ad campaigns for versace, club monaco, and karl lagerfeld, monograph of the work by Denis Piel for Rizzoli

https://www.revolvy.com/page/Ruth-Ansel

-One of the first females to hold art director positions

http://halloffemmes.com/category/ruth-ansel/

-Grand

-Private (purposely publishes fake emails so people can’t reach her)

-Lives in Manhattan's upper west side; Black clothes, mary janes, a big orange watch, and a turquoise ring

-Pop art, street fashion, rock & roll music & film

-Born in the bronx in the 30s, her father was in the china import business and her mom ran a small lingerie shop

-Always interested in movies and art; BFFs with Nina castelli, daughter of leo castelli and ileana sonnabend; Spent summer in East Hamptons where she got to see William de kooning paint his woman series, meet jackson pollock and larry rivers at dinners, saw her first ballet, robert rauschenberg and Picasso exhibitions

-Earned a bachelor of fine arts in ceramic design from alfred university

-Briefly married and moved to France to look for adventure, but after 8 months she ran out of money; Never felt that she was taken seriously

https://vimeo.com/32518855

-Movies as an escape; Narrative, visual, invention, entering other peoples lives and words

-“Responding to what’s going on out there”

-Magazine: entertainment + information + inspiration; Lucky to begin at a great magazine; Harpers bazarr best accident to happen in her life; Drawn to the cultural magazine

-Must be curious and have curiosity

-Learn by watching

-Influenced mostly by picasso and Matisse; Imitations - but never near there talent; Genius; Brilliance

-Great work of art: moving

-April 1965 Avedon up and pop issue - avedon guest edited - influential issue of its time, exploration of the moon; Understood what was happening socially in the world; First woman astronaut

-Do your work and you move on, you do what’s important to you; There are always great women artists and designers, that fall through the cracks the higher up they go

-NYT: wanted to respond to what was going on in the world, better care about things other than art; Also admired the NYT; Women treated shabbily - women subjects; Sexual harassment - continued with her work

https://www.printmag.com/interviews/ruth-ansel-2016-aiga-medalist/

-Telling stories through pictures

-Fired from harpers bazar

-“Not taking a risk would lead me to a safe place that would hold fewer creative challenges. And pretty soon you’re repeating yourself, and you’re no good at all”

-Culture

-“Find out who you ar. Hold on to your passions and dig deep while trusting your instincts. Step outside of what is expected. Embrace accidents and know that eventually you will discover the perfect solution to a creative dilemma and be very joyous while doing it. Understanding the changing dynamics of what’s happening the world today allows you to dare”

-“Who dares wins!” - Zaha Hadid

-BOLD

-Gives back

https://www.phillips.com/article/6005714/an-influential-vision-the-collection-of-ruth-ansel

-“On a short list of the strong, incomparable art directors” with whom Avedon worked with

https://vimeo.com/119453929

-Your perceptions grow and change throughout time; So does culture

-“There are bridges between art and design”

-Continuity, love of craft and invention, privilege of collaborating

-“What a graphic designer does, is not so great historically”; “What I do becomes an instant part of the popular culture and my working language can influence if not direct, for better or worse the contemporary visual landscape”; “You see the moment more clearly, and change is what you reflect, but if the design team is strong, then the image can become the content itself, it tells the story”

-Believes in the image desperately

-Continuously develop a style and modify an image; Which is likely never how you pictured it

-Design Philosophy?; None; I just indicate a sense of direction and believe in my team and trust them, I just guide

-Eclectic: fascinated with everything

-Magpie Aesthetic

-Critical Eye is important

-Must demand the highest level of artistry

-Simple design that appears effortless

-Incredibly influenced by the movies

-Never did a magazine twice

-Magazines: tell stories; Great magazines appeal to your imagination and transport you; Reinvent yourself; To be like the people on the pages or be apart of the beautiful world

-“Magazines are the mirrors of social history”

-“Without the basis of loving what you’re doing, you aren’t going to get too far”

-Provoke, Inform, entertain, inspire; Above all else; Foundation

-“What can we do that reflects what’s happening in the time we’re in”

-Illusion: there is no reality, it is our projection of reality

-Shock

-Thinking outside the box

-Lasting design

-Breaking rules

-Women focused, but not looking down on them, for smart women

-“A photograph is mutable, it’s changeable… we live, we die, it is about remembering, it’s about being here, it’s about marking our existence”

-“Bring those moments into view for readers”

-Big advocate of how things were done in the past, layouts done by hand, reshoots

-Advocate of women

-Tried to make the covers of NYT Magazine as posters

-COLLABORATION

https://www.harpersbazaar.com/uk/culture/bazaar-art/news/a38138/bazaar-flashback-ruth-ansel/

-A key figure in shaping magazine design as we know it

-“Photography is a metaphor for all our experiences, and in the hands of passionate individuals, it can heighten them. The photograph is history”

https://www.harpersbazaar.com/fashion/photography/g4597/ruth-ansel-daring-moments/

Most memorable pages at Harper Bazaar

-Space Girl

-Out of this world

-Mercury rising

-King of cool  

-Having A Ball

-Fashion Flasher

-Team Spirit

-Vroooom

-Power Stripes

-Going Dotty

https://static1.squarespace.com/static/561eaed4e4b09058780f2ad8/t/5629664ce4b0b0d8bdbd5518/1445553740889/Ruth+Ansel.pdf

-Married, divorced, went to europe, failed to create film titles and ran out of money, then moved home and worked for magazines, because why not

-Landed at bazaar by calling them and asking for a job - cold called

-New editor=fired

-“I hate deadlines and I am lazy”

-“I had to be tuned in to what was going on. I was hardly ever turned down”

-“Books, fashion campaigns, identities, branding”

-“A magazine is supposed to reflect, like a mirror, the time we live in, and if it’s a good magazine, it reflects it provocatively. That’s what we did.”

-“I’ve always been more interested in attracting attention to the page than bringing attention to myself”

http://www.indexmagazine.com/interviews/ruth_ansel.shtml

-Began at harpers bazaar in 1961

-Inspired by coworkers marvin israel, dick avedon, diana vreeland

-“Touched by brilliance”

-Girls given the chance because it was a girls magazine

-Speaking about the NYT: “Personalizing the story was the key, for me… You want to create impact with an image. My goal was always to exist subliminally, so that the reader would think, “this is a great photograph””

-“The important ingredients are the right editor, the right idea, and the right team at the right time”

-“It’s all fiction in one form or another”

https://cultureofdesign.wordpress.com/2016/05/02/ruth-ansel-sandra-alvarez/

-One of the most important female voices in the graphic and product design industry

-Clean and modern work

-Modern and elegant, approachable to youth

-Empowerment women at the decade

-Being the first women and creating the stories she did

-“Used art, photojournalism, and graphic design as tools to open doors and to break with the standards that were established”

-“Jean shrimpton that came to the planet’s rescue, in a metaphor to empower women as a reckoned force in the sixties

-Woman: “in motion, a dark, intelligent, introverted, beautiful woman”

-Attention to detail and hand on approach

-Wit

-Fun

-Special energy

-Inspired

-Collaborator

-“Designing a magazine is a little like designing a face. No two faces are alike but each has the same essential structure- two eyes, a nose, and a mouth. Each magazine, even each advertising campaign, pretty much has the same ingredients. Whether it’s fashion, beauty and accessories, or home, architecture and lifestyle, what you must do is constantly rearrange and reinvent the relationships, pay attention to the content and context, pay attention to the time you live in, pay attention to what is newly creative and who is creating it. If you do that it will work and live on as good design”

https://www.annenbergspaceforphotography.org/video/ruth-ansel-conversation/

-You want to do things that haven’t been done before, that are out there, that might not be accepted

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wgf-aUKwo5k

-Figured she would find a man and get married

-Wanted to work at the most sophisticated fashion magazine at the time

-Paris > NY was a major shift (avant garde > NY)

-Image was king (Harpers) > Word was King (NYT)

-Wasn’t treated as an equal, no woman was

-Right photographer is the key

-Must be of your time to capture what’s going on

-Looking for an education

-“Went where my instincts led me”

[robinsoncenter]

[Qsc_asuw] SPRING! Newsletter Week 3

Welcome        to Week 3! <3 

QTBIPOC Artist Spotlight        of the Week:

Sonia Lazo

Illustrator and graphic design        student Illustrator from small and tropical El Salvador. Sonia        Lazo is creating attention-getting art. Her lively, intriguing work        addresses not only the world we live in but also unseen worlds—the land        of the past and the realms of myth and fantasy.

The QSC Director is moving on to        other opportunities. Now, it's your turn to take a swing at        change-making and advocacy! Apply today to be the new QSC Director!

Applications close        April 21st, 2019 at 11:55 pm.        In addition, every position at ASUW is hiring! If you're interested in        serving in different capacities, check out all available        positions here!

The mission of        the Queer Student Commission (QSC) is to first support, educate, and to        provide an open-minded environment for queer UW students. In addition,        it aims to provide non-heteronormative, anti-racist, non-ableist and        non-sexist programming, services, and atmospheres. The commission aims        to create an anti-oppressive community by funding, sponsoring and        endorsing events, ideas and information that share these        anti-oppressive principles, promoting community, and working to        increase acceptance of queer students.        The QSC also values the development of leadership skills among its        members by encouraging them to be involved with commission activities        and operations. Furthermore, the QSC commits to itself to inclusivity        and intersectional activism by maintaining strong relationships with        other ASUW Commissions, student groups, community groups, and UW        faculty and the Student Activities Office (SAO) staff.

The Queer        & Trans People of Color Alliance (QTPOCA) will        be meeting this Friday, location TBD!

Machismo and Toxic        Masculinity        (Monday, April 15,        2019) 6 PM - 8 PM @ ECC Unity Room        ASUW SARVA and ASUW La Raza Present:      

A             roundtable dissection of machismo and toxic masculinity in the             Latinx community with La Raza Student Commission.

Celebration of        National Poetry Month!        (Tuesday, April 16,        2019) 7 PM - 9 PM @ Warby Parker (305 East Pine Street, Seattle)        305 East Pine Street, Seattle, Washington 98102

SAL is delighted to partner with        Warby Parker to present a free poetry reading at Warby Parker Capitol        Hill. This celebration features 2016/17 Youth Poet Laureate, Maven        Gardner; members of the 2018/19 Seattle Youth Poet Laureate Cohort,        Maia Ruth Pody, Alex Newsom, and Kiyoshi Sakauye; Washington State Poet        Laureate Claudia Castro Luna; and Seattle Civic Poet Anastacia-Reneé.

Seattle Reads        presents Thi Bui        (Tuesday, April        16) 6:30 - 8 PM @ Asian Counseling and Referral Service (ACRS)        

3639 Martin Luther King Jr Way S, Seattle,          Washington 98144

       Thi Bui will discuss "The Best We Could Do." The evening will        also feature a staged reading from the book, adapted by Susan Lieu and        directed by Kathy Hsieh, in partnership with Book-It Repertory Theatre.              

"The             Best We Could Do" is a haunting memoir about the search for a             better future and a longing for a simpler past. Thi Bui documents             her family’s daring escape after the fall of South Vietnam in the             1970s and the difficulties they faced building new lives for             themselves in America. As the child of a country and a war she             can’t remember, Bui’s dreamlike artwork brings to life her journey             to understanding her own identity in a way that only comics can.   

Thi Bui was born in Vietnam three        months before the end of the Vietnam War, and came to the United States        in 1978 as part of the “boat people” wave of refugees from Southeast        Asia. Her debut graphic memoir, The Best We Could Do (Abrams ComicArts,        2017), has been selected as UCLA’s Common Book for 2017, a National        Book Critics Circle finalist in autobiography, an Eisner Award finalist        in Reality Based Comics, and made several Best of 2017 book lists,        including Bill Gates’s top five picks. Bui is also the Caldecott        Honor-winning illustrator of A Different Pond, a picture book by the        poet Bao Phi (Capstone, 2017). Her short comics can be found online at        the Nib, PEN America, and BOOM California.                Seattle Reads is a “one book, one city” program, where people are        encouraged to read and discuss the same book. It’s designed to deepen        engagement in literature through reading and discussion.        - Everyone is invited to participate in Seattle Reads by reading the        featured book, joining in a book discussion, and/or attending programs        with the featured writer.

Baile Folklórico        comes to the University of Washington        (Wednesday,        April 17) 7-9 PM @ wǝɫǝbʔaltxʷ - Intellectual        House   

Come             join us at the Intellectual House to learn how to dance the             traditional Mexican dance known as Baile Folklórico. The             instructors will be from the group "Ballet Folklorico Angeles             de México". We ask for you to bring small heels or flats (non-marking             shoes) and water is encouraged! The event is free, for UW students             only. Any questions please email herres@uw.edu.

       (Tuesday, April        16) 7-9PM @ Elliott Bay Book Company        1521 10th Ave, Seattle, Washington 98122

Hanif        Abdurraqib at Elliott Bay Book Company

Elliott Bay Book Company presents Hanif Abdurraqib for        his New York Times Bestselling book GO AHEAD IN THE RAIN.     

How             does one pay homage to A Tribe Called Quest? The seminal rap group             brought jazz into the genre, resurrecting timeless rhythms to             create masterpieces such as The Low End Theory and Midnight             Marauders. Seventeen years after their last album, they resurrected             themselves with an intense, socially conscious record, We Got It             from Here . . . Thank You 4 Your Service, which arrived when fans             needed it most, in the aftermath of the 2016 election. Poet and             essayist Hanif Abdurraqib digs into the group’s history and draws             from his own experience to reflect on how its distinctive sound             resonated among fans like himself. The result is as ambitious and             genre-bending as the rap group itself.       

Abdurraqib traces the Tribe’s creative career, from        their early days as part of the Afrocentric rap collective known as the        Native Tongues, through their first three classic albums, to their        eventual breakup and long hiatus. Their work is placed in the context        of the broader rap landscape of the 1990s, one upended by sampling laws        that forced a reinvention in production methods, the East Coast-West        Coast rivalry that threatened to destroy the genre, and some record        labels’ shift from focusing on groups to individual MCs. Throughout the        narrative Abdurraqib connects the music and cultural history to their        street-level impact. Whether he’s remembering The Source magazine cover        announcing the Tribe’s 1998 breakup or writing personal letters to the        group after bandmate Phife Dawg’s death, Abdurraqib seeks the deeper        truths of A Tribe Called Quest; truths that—like the low end, the        bass—are not simply heard in the head, but felt in the chest.                This event is Free and Open to the Public.

DISABILITY MONTH        APRIL 2019         

Sara Acevedo: Building Collectively Toward Institutional Access

(Wednesday, April 17)  5-6 PM @ HUB 340

F*** Stairs Kick Off

(Friday, April 19) 4-5 PM @ HUB 340 

Disability Studies Program Brown Bag Sharan Brown

(Tuesday, April 30) 12-1 PM @ MGH 024

Sexual Assault Open Mic 

(Tuesday, April 30) 5-7 PM@ HUB 340

ASUW SDC Presents:        ASL Workshop        (Thursday,        April 18) 5-7 PM @ HUB 332       

Learn             the basics of American Sign Language from the UW ASL Club,             featuring presentations from TEDxUCLA speaker Austin Vaday and UW             Professor Lance Forshay.       

ACCESSIBILITY        INFORMATION       

CART             captioning and ASL/voice interpretation will be provided.     

This             event is a scent-free space! Please refrain from using scented             products if you will be in attendance.      

F*** Stairs Kick Off        (Friday, April 19) 4-5 PM @ HUB 340        

Come             learn about the purpose of the pledge, hear from Disability Rights             advocates, and celebrate the beginning of our 2019 F*** Stairs             campaign!

        There             will be donuts, veggies, coffee/tea, and lemonade! (Vegan/gluten             free options available)      

ACCESSIBILITY        INFORMATION:       

CART             Captioning will be provided.     

This             is a scent free event! Please refrain from using scented products             if you plan on attending.

2019 Youth Speaks        Seattle Grand Slam        (Friday, April        19) 6-10 PM @ Kings Hall MS LLC        2929 27th Ave S, Seattle, Washington 98144  

After             months of preliminary slams, join Youth Speaks Seattle in our             finale and the biggest youth poetry event of the year: GRAND SLAM.       

10             of the highest-scoring poets of the season grace the stage for one             transformative night of competition, storytelling, and community             celebration. By the end of the night, the top 5 poets will be             chosen to represent Team Seattle at renowned international youth             poetry festival, Brave New Voices, this year in Las Vegas. You             don't want to miss this!       

TICKETS:        $10 for youth        $20 for adults                Tickets available at the door and Brown Paper Tickets. Email        slam@artscorps for discounts on groups of 5+ youth ($7)!                HOSTED BY: Youth Speaks Seattle teaching artists, award-winning poets        Ebo Barton, and Youth Poet Laureate of Seattle, Azura Tyabji.                FEATURING: Incredible singer and organizer, JustMoni                ACCESSIBILITY        INFORMATION:    

King's             Hall is below and behind the Mt. Baker Light Rail Station Stop

Bus             Routes nearby are 8, 48, 14, 7, 9, 106, 987 (many of which are             available at the Mt. Baker Transfer Station)      

Parking:             There is a parking lot available at Kings Hall and overflow             parking available next door at the University of Washington             Consolidated Laundry parking lot.  

No             stairs or ramps necessary to enter King's Hall.     

Two             wheelchair accessible, gender free restrooms on the main floor.    

Four             spaces in the parking lot are designated for folks with disabled             parking placards.

CART             services will be available at this event.      

This             is not a scent free event/space but to request a scent free zone,             email slam@artscorps.org             by March 29th (acknowledging that King's Hall is not a scent free             space overall).

For             anyone needing seating anywhere in the seating area, we are happy             to accommodate by moving any chairs.     

There             will be a row of seating reserved for folks that need access to             the front for visibility.

Have             access needs that are not listed here? Please email slam@artscorps.org             with any questions, comments or concerns    

YOUTH RIGHT NOW ARE THE TRUTH        RIGHT NOW!

Emergent        Strategy: An Evening with Adrienne Maree Brown

       (Thursday, April 18,        2019) 6:30 PM - 8:30 PM @ 

The Seattle Public Library

       Central Library, 1000 4th Ave, Seattle, Washington 98104           

Join             activist and author Adrienne Maree Brown for a reading centered on             her book "Emergent Strategy" and a celebration of             community-led organizing in Seattle.    

This event is made possible with        support from The Seattle Public Library        Foundation and the Seattle Office of Civil Rights.                ACCESSIBILITY        INFORMATION:

This             program will be ASL interpreted.

Pasifik Voices Spring        2019        (Wednesday, April 24,        2019) 6:30 PM - 8:30 PM @ ECT       

We             are back for the last Pasifik Voices of the school year! You know             the drill: come out and join us for a night of showcasing and             celebrating the unique talents and performances of individuals who             make up the greater Pacific Islander community on the UW campus!       

As             always, you can look forward to... music, dance, art,             spoken-word, community and more!    

Admission             is FREE, bring all your homies!     

Interested in performing?        Sign up NOW at: tinyurl.com/pvspring2019                 Interested in MCing?        Apply here: https://forms.gle/GFHgbk6di1ZrCVhx7

SARVA, WAC,        D-Center and SDC Present: Open Mic Night        (Tuesday,        April 30, 2019) 5-87PM @ HUB 340       

Join             this safe space and hear stories from disabled survivors of             assault and domestic violence.       

Light refreshments will be provided! (Vegan/gluten free        options available!)                ACCESSIBILITY        INFORMATION:       

CART             Captioning will be provided. 

This             is a scent free space! Please refrain from using scented products             if you plan on attending.

Transgender &        Gender Diverse Support & Social Group        (Wednesday,        April 10, 2019) 6-8 PM @ U.T.O.P.I.A Seattle         205 E. Meeker St. Kent, Washington 98032  

[trans]             ACTION is             a support/social group for sex workers that is held every first             Wednesday of every month. It is an opportunity that provides sex             workers a safe space to engage in topical discussions relating to             their life and/or work. This gathering is open to transgender and             gender diverse sex workers with current or past experience in the             sex trade.    

Discussions include topics such        as:  

*Safety             and self- care

*Decriminalization             and Destigmatization of sex work   

*Know             your rights training    

*Legal             assistance   

*Employment             & housing      

[trans]             ACTION promotes and values confidentiality regarding interactions             within the group.   

The        undisclosed location has ample parking, all-gender and ADA-accessible        restroom. Come and build community with us! For more information please        email Ara-lei at ara@utopiaseattle.org                 Upcoming Dates :    

Wed             May 8 (6-8pm)     

Wed             June 12 (6-8pm)

       Let’s Talk is a free        program that connects UW students with support from experienced        counselors from the Counseling Center and Hall Health Center without an        appointment. Counselors hold drop-in hours        at four sites on campus:               

Mondays, 2-4 PM, Odegaard Library Room 222

        Tuesdays, 2-4 PM, Ethnic Cultural Center Room 306

        Wednesdays, 2-4 PM, Q Center (HUB 315)

        Thursdays, 2-4 PM, Mary Gates Hall Room 134E       

Let’s Talk offers        informal consultation – it is not a substitute for regular therapy,        counseling, or psychiatric care.        To learn        more, visit letstalk.washington.edu.                The HUB’s front entrance is wheelchair accessible and the common area        is to the right of the main desk.        An all-genders restroom can be found at the 3rd floor, down the hallway        from the Q Center. Gender binary bathrooms with multiple stalls can be        found on each floor of the HUB.        The HUB IS not kept scent-free but we ask that you do not wear        scented/fragranced products (e.g. perfume, hair products) or essential        oils to/in the Q Center in order to make the space accessible to those        with chemical injury or multiple chemical sensitivity. 

Thank you for being a part of our community <3         We are so glad that you are here, and we are so glad to get to know        you!         Have questions about the QSC? Just want to get involved? Find our        office hours online at hours.asuw.org.        To hear more from the QSC be sure to like us on facebook, and follow us on twitter & instagram to stay up to date with        all queer and trans related happenings on campus and in Seattle!                 With love,         Mehria Ibrahimi, Outreach & Engagement Intern. 

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Full text write on https://easy-travel.pw/48-hours-in-bristol-the-perfect-itinerary/england/

48 Hours in Bristol: The Perfect Itinerary

01 of 06

How to Spend 48 Hours in Bristol

joe daniel price/Getty Images

The small English city of Bristol, between Somerset and Gloucestershire, has reinvented itself again and again. Its harbor, dating from the 13th century, was an important port of trade and center of shipbuilding and airplane manufacture until destroyed in WWII. From the 17th century until abolition, it was a key port in the Triangular Trade that linked England, Africa and America in the buying and selling of slaves, manufactured goods, sugar and rum. 

Today this gateway to England's West Country has the UK's fastest growing economy outside of London. It's a trendy, liberal university city with an arty vibe; a lively music, art and theater scene; a colorful waterfront on the River Avon; some excellent, fun museums, a growing reputation as a foodie center and one of the top European capitals of street art and graffitti. In August, its annual International Balloon Fiesta sees some of the biggest mass launches of hot air balloons in Europe. And the shopping is pretty great too. 

Bristol is just a little over 100 miles from London and less than two hours by train. Train travel is recommended as parking is difficult, and Bristol's public transportation is easy to use.

The easiest way to get around Bristol is by the excellent local buses operated by First Group UK Bristol, Bath and West. Tickets for getting around inner Bristol start at about £1 for a one-way, 3-stop trip in the Inner Bristol Zone. (As a visitor, you are unlikely to need any other zones.) There is no financial benefit to buying tickets online or using mTickets on your mobile phone and, unlike London where drivers do not take cash, you can still pay for your Bristol bus tickets with cash.

  Continue to 2 of 6 below.

02 of 06

Morning, Day 1: Explore the Spiritual Home of Street Art

Matt Cardy / Getty Images

9 a.m. : Bristol Temple Meads Station is the most central rail station in Bristol and most people arrive there from other parts of the UK. Before you leave the station, head around the back to Harts Bakery under the arches for a coffee and croissant or a hunk of their popular sourdough bread. On your way around, have a good look at the station — it's a historic landmark in its own right. It was designed and built in 1840 by Britain's famous pioneering architect and designer Isambard Kingdom Brunel.

10 a.m.:  Catch a bus to your hotel from the front of the station. We recommend the Ibis Bristol Centre for minimalist style and central location on a modest budget. For a bit more of a splurge, try the Hotel du Vin Bristol. It was a sugar warehouse and a tobacco warehouse before the Hotel du Vin group turned this Grade II Listed building into luxury boutique hotel. It's loaded with oak beams and period features but also has huge, fabulous beds and truly amazing bathrooms.

Drop off your bags and head for College Green in time for a great walking tour.

11 a.m.: Take a Bristol Street Art Tour with WhereTheWall to see why this is one of the world's great capitals of street art and graffitti. Bristol is Banksy's home town after all. And most years, UPFEST (Urban Paint Festival: Europe's largest street art festival) adds new work to different parts of the city — some of which remains for a whole year.

How Bristol's rise to street art paradise happened is a story in itself. After the Blitz destroyed about 85,000 buildings during WWII, Bristol rebuilt in the 1950s and 1960s with quick, cheap concrete. Suddenly, whole neighborhoods presented blank walls just crying out for decoration, and graffiti artists rose to the challenge. Instead of fighting them, the city fathers joined in, inviting artists to express themselves in parts of Bristol that were destined for eventual redevelopment anyway. Now you can find most of the top street artists in the world having a go. The tours from College Green run for two hours weekdays and weekends all year round. They are very popular, so it's important to book in advance.

Bristol is also the home of Aardman Animations, the creators of Wallace & Gromit. Over the years, they've raised more than £6 million for Bristol Children's Hospital with art trails featuring their familiar characters. Gromit Unleashed, with 80 giant Gromits decorated by famous artists scattered around the city, was wildly successful in 2013. The group is planning to launch a new art trail in the summer of 2018.

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03 of 06

Afternoon and Evening Day 1: St. Nicholas Market and Somerset Cider

Matt Cardy / Getty Images

1:30 p.m.: Browse the tiny food stalls and cafés in the Glass Arcade at St. Nicholas Market, before plunging in to the depths of the market itself. There are all sorts of traditionally British and not-so-traditional bites on offer — sausages, raised pies at Pieminster, koftas, Moroccan food, cakes and cookies. Try a falafel at Eat a Pitta, or just watch the hyperactive crew stuff the sandwiches at the speed of light. 

2:30 p.m.: An hour and a half may seem like a long time to spend in a covered market, but St Nicholas Market is enormous and an experience to be savored. Browse, talk to the merchants, try on hats, finger the goods, time will fly. The covered market is a series of “streets” and arcades, between Corn and St Nicholas Streets. Clothes, jewelry, bric-a-brac, crafts, fresh produce, baked goods, sweets, are on offer Monday to Saturday, 9:30 a.m. to 5 p.m. And there are several specialist markets:

The Nails Market features local independent traders selling gifts, original artwork, handmade jewelry and vintage clothing, Friday and Saturday 9 a.m. to 5 p.m. 

Bristol Farmers Market is a weekly opportunity to buy local produce direct from the producers. It's an outdoor market, held Wednesdays from 9:30 a.m. to 2:30 p.m. on Corn Street and Wine Street.

The Friday Food Market, from 10 a.m. to 4 p.m., outdoors on Wine Street features street food and goodies made by local producers.

4:30 p.m.: After all that hectic commerce, you could probably use a quiet break.  From the market, cross Bristol Bridge and continue straight ahead on Victoria Street for just under half a mile, then turn left on Church Lane where you will find Temple Church and Temple Gardens. The Temple Church is the remains of a 14th century church — today visitors can view its walls and its leaning tower (the tower leans 5 feet on the vertical even though its medieval builders tried to correct it halfway up). When the already derelict church was bombed during Bristol's WWII blitz, it enabled archaeologists to excavate and find the remains of the original round church of the Knights Templar. You can't go inside, but you can see the footprint of the original church through the wrought iron gates on either side of the nave. The site is surrounded by lovely gardens and is free to visit at “any reasonable hour”.

Next, retrace your steps back across Bristol Bridge and turn left on Baldwin Street. Then its a short left onto Clare Street, a short left onto Broad Quay and a left onto Anchor Road. Continue on Anchor Road, beside the short city center channel known as Harbourside, to The Stable.

6:30 p.m. : Sample cider at The Stable. If you think cider comes in only two varieties — hard and soft — or if you thought that the beery, dry, mass produced cider you can find in most English pubs is what British cider is all about, the West Country has a few lessons for you. Somerset, the county most associated with cider and apples, is right beside Bristol, and the local artisan-produced ciders and perries (similar to cider but made from pears) will open your eyes — and your palate.

The Stable, housed in a stripped bare warehouse, is the Bristol branch of a small West Country group. They offer 50 different ciders and perries, tasting boards of small portions of five different ciders, and guidance for newbies from cider master experts. It's a bit noisy inside, but the outside tables are perfect for people watching. Later, if you're hungry, they serve pizza and a variety of casual dishes to soak up all the cider. They also have a vegan menu.

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04 of 06

Morning and Afternoon Day 2: A Big Ship and a Daring Adventure

Patrick Horton/Getty Images

9 a.m.: If you're an early riser, start your day by exploring the Old City Heritage Trail. There's not much of the trail left, but if you like finding hidden secrets in the middle of a modern city, it's worth spending a little time within Bristol's old city walls. The walls themselves are gone, but their shadow shapes the streets that once ran around them — St Nicholas Street, Leonard Lane,  Bell Lane and John Street and Tower Street.

On Bell Lane, St. John the Baptist Church, sometimes called St. John on the Wall, is the last of five churches that were built into Bristol's city walls. Its tower and steeple stand over St John's Gate, once the main entrance through the city walls. There are several narrow passages, including St. John's Steep, which was the location of another gate into the city. Near the end of this pedestrian passage, a small wall surrounds a stand of trees. It's St. John's Burial Ground, where plague victims where buried in 1665.

10 a.m.: Head for the Waterfront to catch a ferry up the floating harbor. The ferries start running from here at 10:20, so first stop for a coffee at Just Ground Coffee. It's a kiosk on St. Augustine's Parade, just above the Waterfront, where they make some of the best coffee in this very coffee conscious city. Your nose will let you know if you've found the Waterfront — an odd name for the canal-like-spit of the floating harbor. The Floating Harbor, by the way, is a channel between two locks on the tidal River Avon, created in the 18th century to keep the water level in the harbor stable.

10:20 a.m.: Board a Bristol Ferry Boat toward Hotwells, and get off at the SS Great Britain. It's a ten minute trip and costs £1.70 each way or £2.90 round trip. The ferries leave every few minutes throughout the day.

10:30 a.m. : Visit the SS Great Britain. Isambard Kingdom Brunel's gigantic ocean going ship was a wonder of its day — the world's first iron-hulled, screw-propelled steam passenger ship under sail. For a time, in the mid-19th-century, she was the longest and heaviest passenger ship in the world; at 322 feet, she was 30 feet longer and 1,000 tonnes heavier than any ship afloat. Built for the Bristol to New York passenger route, and equipped with secondary sail power from six giant masts, she broke records, crossing the Atlantic in an at-the-time unheard of 14 days. 

Leave at least two hours for a fascinating visit that includes stories of romance; adventures and misadventures on board; and a guided tour of well furnished passenger, crew and officers quarters, cargo holds and engine rooms. And unlike the cramped below decks of other historic ships you may have visited, the interiors of the SS Great Britain are big enough for most visitors to stand up straight.

12:30 p.m.; Take a break. Have a bite to eat and something non-alcoholic to drink because you will need energy and your wits about you for the next part of your day. There's a handy, inexpensive Dockyard Café beside the ship for a light meal. Hang on to your ticket because you'll be going back aboard.

2 p.m.: Are you brave enough to step into the shoes of a Victorian sailor and climb the main mast of the SS Great Britain? Exercise your inner daredevil — climb the rigging of the main mast, to a height of 25 meters (about 82 feet) above the ground. Then, if you're really brave, you can walk out on the yard arm. Don't worry — you'll be harnessed and hard-hatted.

Not a Daredevil? Here are two less death defying afternoon ideas:

The Georgian House Museum: An upstairs/downstairs look at life in a sugar plantation slave owner's home, circa 1790. There are 11 rooms on four floors, from the kitchens in the basement to the elegant entertaining rooms upstairs. Visiting is a bit like walking around in someone's private home. Admission is free.

@Bristol: Bristol's interactive science center is more of an experience than a museum. There are hundreds of different things to see, do, touch and play with, and it's as much fun for grownups as it is for children. There's also a planetarium attached and after hours experiences for adults. Admission is £15.30 for adults.

4 p.m.: Head back to your hotel to decompress before going out for the evening.

Continue to 5 of 6 below.

05 of 06

Evening Day 2: See a Show at an Iconic Theater

Matt Cardy / Getty Images

6 p.m.: Have dinner early so you can make the curtain (usually 7:30 p.m. or 8 p.m.) for one of Bristol's great theaters tonight.

The Bristol Old Vic celebrated its 250th anniversary in 2016 as the oldest, continually operating theater in Britain. They marked the celebration with a major, multi-million dollar renovation project. Behind the historic facade lies a comfortable, state of the art 21st century theater. Since it's publicly funded by the Arts Council England and the Bristol City Council, the theater is able to be arts-led, rather than commercially-led, in its choices and productions. That doesn't mean it's all dead serious. In a typical year there will be classics, touring productions, comedy, children's theater, music and Shakespeare. Shows are performed in repertory — in other words, they alternate productions rather than having long runs of one play at a time. This is one of England's real treasures so, book tickets well before you arrive.

The Bristol Hippodrome is the city's main commercial theater. This where you'd go to see touring productions of the main hits from London's West End, as well as shows in their pre-London try-outs. It's also a venue for comedians and cabaret acts on tour, opera, ballet, musicals and dance. And if you're visiting during the holiday season, this is where you can see a Christmas Panto.

Restaurant Suggestions

If you are going to the theater you'll want something quick, relaxed and not too far from the theater. These are within a 10 minute walk or less of both theaters.

Raj: A middle-of-the-road, old fashioned Indian restaurant, in white washed rooms below ground level. Popular with artists rehearsing at the theater and their guests. Just a few doors up the road from the Bristol Old Vic on King Street.

Graze Bristol: A big, airy pub that aims to emulate the old fashioned chop houses of London and New York. The menu is very meaty but there are a few vegetarian choices and plenty of interesting sides for veggies to choose as well. On Queen's Square, about two minutes from the Old Vic, ten minutes from the Hippodrome.

Bordeaux Quay Brasserie: A sophisticated yet casual brasserie near Pero's Bridge on the waterfront. The focus is on British and European influenced sustainable foods. It's about a ten minute walk from either theater.

Continue to 6 of 6 below.

06 of 06

Morning Day 3: A Clifton Walkabout

Graham Bell / Getty Images

No visit would be complete without a visit to Clifton for close-up view of  Bristol's world famous symbol, the Clifton Suspension Bridge and a stroll around the lovely Georgian neighborhood of Clifton Village.

8:30 a.m.: Catch the No. 8 bus from College Green in the city center for the ten-minute ride to Clifton Village. Stop off at the Mall Deli Café for a coffee from a local roaster. They only serve breakfast on weekends, but during the rest of the week, their fantasy cupcakes, brownies and cakes are hard to resist. Before you leave, pick up a picnic of cheeses and savory little pies to enjoy later under the trees on Clifton Down.

9:15 a.m.:  It's a half-mile walk, about 15 minutes at a leisurely pace, to the Clifton Suspension Bridge. Walk north to the end of the road known as The Mall and turn left on Gloucester Row (not to be confused with Gloucester Street, which you will see first). Then just stay on this road to the bridge.

There are several different ways to see and enjoy this landmark and it's worth doing all of them.

Cross the Bridge: The views of the winding River Avon, 245 feet below, and the dramatic Avon Gorge are spectacular. At the far side (the bridge is only about 700 feet long), there's a very good visitor center. There you can learn about the history and engineering innovations of the bridge, conceived by and credited to Isambard Kingdom Brunel, but completed by others after his death. You can also find out about Sarah Ann Henley, the woman who, in 1885, jumped from the bridge and survived — supported by the “parachute” of her Victorian skirts.

Climb to the Observatory on Clifton Down: Walk back toward Clifton Village, the way you came. Turn left on Observatory Road and, about 200 yards along, look for a path on the left into Clifton Down. It's a easily manageable uphill climb to the Observatory. From there you can enjoy a dramatic view of the bridge as well as the colorful Georgian terraces that climb Sion Hill, opposite. Originally a snuff mill, a 19th century owner converted the building to an observation tower and installed a camera obscura with an image projected on a white washed wall. If you are not claustrophobic, descend the tunnel (120 steep steps inside the cliff face) to the Giant's cave, a viewing platform about 250 from the ground and another great view. Tickets for the camera obscura cost £2.50 and for the Giant's cave £2.50 or a combined ticket for £4. The Observatory opens at 10 a.m. but the views of the gorge from the top of the Down are free whenever you get there.

Climb Sion Hill: Return the way you came and about 100 feet past the start of the bridge, take the footpath on your right, straight across the park then turn right on Sion Hill. About 150 feet along, you will come to a viewing area with an orientation table on your right. Stop here to take your best pictures of the Clifton Suspension Bridge.

On your way back to Clifton Village, where you'll find some great cafés, shopping and the bus stop, enjoy this district's superb Georgian houses. There's a fork in the road about 20 feet past the viewing area. Take the left branch and the next left turn is Caledonia Place, a pristine terrace of listed Georgian homes with a garden running down the center. Take this street downhill to the commercial area of the village and retrace your steps to Clifton Down Road to catch the No. 8 bus back to the center of Bristol or all the way to Temple Meads Station.

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[plastic-mold]

How to Present Your Product Idea to a Design Firm

What is the next step if you have an idea for the new product? Aspiring entrepreneur, engineer... You run your brain in a thousand circles trying to envision how many different ways you can enhance your environment. You have developed a new idea for a product that many people will find valuable. It might be worthwhile to develop the product and launch it on the market, but where do you even begin? If you want to turn your idea into a physical product, I recommend this article. It will provide extensive instruction on presenting your product idea to a design agency — an activity that serves as a springboard for the design phase of your project. This article will go over everything you need to know to make sure your ideas are presented to a design firm. It would be fine to use a PowerPoint presentation or any other document that includes relevant content like a report sample. You may access the sample presentation some businesses are providing online. Your presentation must include the following four components: - the problem, - the solution, - the aesthetics & price point, and - the competitor overview. In the next section, you’ll find advice on some of the most common questions asked by many clients. This article serves as a guide to help you to prepare a presentation and begin the product design process. Through this presentation, you will have the opportunity to not only communicate your idea but also - determine the parameters for developing your product within the current technological limits, your budget, and your timeline. - receive an estimate on your product's design that is reasonably accurate; - reduce the number of design revisions to achieve a more cost-effective and efficient result; - get a higher-quality design. If you are considering approaching a design company with your idea, then continue reading. Design company or injection molding company perspective into product development is based on the experience they have from working with companies, engineers, and entrepreneurs for over many years, so this insight is for anyone stepping into the world of product development. 

The Four Components of Effective Presentations

1. Insights into the market and the problem being addressed When presenting your product idea, it would be wise to identify a problem within a specific market you are hoping to solve. Many design companies or injection molding companies serve a wide range of clients in a variety of industries. Some of the entrepreneurs are first-time business owners who have never previously created or sold a product. In contrast, others are multinational firms that have created and sold many different products. The sole purpose for many clients to develop their products is to assist people in improving their lives — it is their way of offering a solution for a problem these people encountered in their lives. Solution-finding can be achieved by brainstorming new ways of solving a problem or studying existing products and finding ways to enhance them. In such a situation, you may examine the characteristics of a product you use at home or work, such as its ease of use, its loudness, its weight, its ergonomics, and so on. However, to establish that there is a market challenge, innovators must first have gained some insight into the market itself. You can get first-hand experience by talking to people in the field or industry, or you can read product descriptions and reviews for that product. It is now time to present the insight gained by studying the market. Please enumerate the main problems in your document and the market insight that lead you to understand these problems. You should include one primary problem and at least one secondary problem. You might want to prepare a list similar to the following. For example, imagine you’re a tech-savvy parent who works eight hours a day, five days a week. Every day at 2:40 p.m., your son comes from school and goes home. He does have a key to gain access to the house, but he lost it one day while you were at work, so he called you to tell you he could not get inside. To let him in, you left work, drove 20 minutes, then opened the door for him, and went back to work. You thought about installing a keyless door lock, so you wouldn't have to worry about losing your keys or not giving someone access remotely. You searched online for an efficient, easy-to-use smart door lock that was not too expensive. As a result, you began to consider developing an affordable IoT door lock. You might not have come up with the idea of creating a smart, low-cost latch if you were never left at work to open the door for your son. This insight will help you dig a little deeper into understanding how your product idea is likely to perform in the market.   If you are planning on selling your product in the future, we highly recommend preparing a business model canvas or business plan before approaching a design company with the idea. These documents can contribute to achieving a better overall product since they involve research that will assist you in determining the problem you would like to solve. Perhaps most significantly, they will assist you in coming up with a better product solution and understand the features you should include and the retail price point you should aim for—all information that will be explored further in the report. Features and benefits of the solution After establishing the problem, describe your solution and the features it should incorporate. Some of our clients present us with sketches of their intended product. They already have a general idea of what they would like — aesthetics, functionality, and features — they need someone to develop a suitable solution. However, your presentation doesn't necessarily have to include a solution. Occasionally, when clients struggle to solve a particular problem but are unsure how they might turn to a company like Topworks for assistance. When describing your solution to a problem, always bear the following in mind: Include sufficient imagery and/or a detailed description of your product. Pictures help to explain products better than words. For example, it would be good to have a picture of a snap-on feature attached to your product — you could mention specifics on what you are looking for here. Describe the final appearance, feel, and functionality of the product. If you do not have a specific solution in mind, provide an outline of the features you are looking for by bringing similar examples to your competitors. We recommend that you prioritize your features based on importance to simplify the development process. If you’re working on this project for the first time, you may not have yet identified the most important features that end users might be looking for, so having too many features right off the bat could be costly in the long run. Therefore, you ought to select only a few topics to focus on. If the main selling point of your product is hands-free operation, then that would be your priority feature — the rest would be secondary. Be sure to mention both the functionality and the appearance of the product. It will be easier for industrial designers to develop visually relevant concepts for your product if they are familiar with the style you are trying to achieve. If you envision a vintage design for your product, we will not manufacture it in a futuristic manner. By creating one, you will determine which features matter most to your users to allocate resources only to the features that are relevant to them. Aesthetics, pricing, and a brief description This section of the document is where you can describe how your product will feature an aesthetic and how much it will retail for after it has been manufactured. Also, include a brief product summary with a list of bullet points that summarizes the features you are looking for and any pricing brackets or tiers you might be offering if you have multiple products available. The purpose of the summary is to provide the design firm with an overview that can be readily referred to in the summary form. The price point is crucial because it helps us decide what features to include and in what order. Tip: Design costs, manufacturing costs, and retail prices are all separate items. Don’t mix up what will be charged for design and prototyping with the wholesale price for the product. Design for manufacturing is common practice for us. Topworks design and manufacture all the time, so it’s common for us to design with a specific manufacturing price point in mind. The target retail price point allows design businesses to use more daring or conservative features depending on the market. For instance, a plastic product that contains very sharp corners will cost more to manufacture than one with rounded edges. This is primarily since the tooling used will now need to go through a special procedure called EDM, or electrical discharge manufacturing, which can be almost twice as expensive as regular tooling. To determine whether or not sharp corners are needed during the design phase, we can investigate the demands and price points of the product. Competitive environment Information about our competitors is necessary to know what products we should be improving on so that we do not have to reinvent the wheel. By using reverse engineering, we can take advantage of competitive products to reduce costs and time associated with R&D. We can also go to their website and look at product reviews to see if there is anything that customers are not satisfied with and that we might be able to address. We would like to see product details on three to five competitors. A simple table consisting of rows and columns displaying this information is helpful.

Do's and don'ts

Here are a couple of tips and suggestions based on our clients' most frequently asked questions. Do’s When creating your presentation, select a publishing software that you are comfortable using. Various formats have been used to present their ideas. A good presentation has the following sections but not necessarily in the same order. Overall, the choice of the communication medium does not matter as long as you give the information that your design company needs to know to be effective. We find Slides to be an excellent alternative to Powerpoint, but you can use any presentation software. Include as much visual material as you can. The more visuals you have, the more effective your campaign will be — but not exclusively. Visual support for your idea is useful, so please include pictures of competitive products and the main parts or features you intend to improve. Include photos of competing products if available. Don't include too much text. If necessary, you can include details and explanations in the endnotes section of the presentation, but do not overdo it with text. To elaborate further on your presentation, you should be able to speak to the company. Discuss your proposal and your presentation in a meeting. When discussing your product and its presentation, do not be afraid to meet in person, have a phone conversation, or use a video-conferencing application. You should not use email or any other messaging system to discuss your presentation only. In most cases, if someone is local, you could have a meeting with a sample product they have developed or a competitor’s product. However, if design businesses are located outside of your area, in which case you will take the meeting via video chat or telephone. However, the design company must have prior information at hand in the form of a presentation similar to what has been described in this article. That way, they are aware of what the client is referring to. Additionally, it’s beneficial to the project managers to have something to review before writing an SOW or statement of work, in which they determine the project’s direction. Don’ts We have witnessed excellent presentations of product ideas that resulted in efficient and effective designs. Design businesses have also encountered clients who came up with what they thought was a cool idea but did not consider the details before discussing it. Those who fall into the latter category have an increased likelihood of becoming frustrated and leaving without receiving a quote — simply because they did not have enough information from which to work. So, let's make the most of the time together and the experience by avoiding the following: - Ask for a quote only after you have provided enough details. - Design company or injection molding company cannot provide a cost estimate without getting a basic understanding of what you want to be designed. - Unless you have any supplementary visuals with you, do not present your idea over the phone. People have tried to explain their idea over the phone without providing any tangible information or visual support. This is not a good idea. To begin to work on your project, a design company or injection molding company will require some information. Please send some visuals so that it may set up a meeting. Don't pick a design or aesthetic direction that is too broad for the product idea or company. It does not give enough guidelines for creating an effective design that can resolve a problem if design companies or injection molding companies are told to “just present some designs.” If they present you with so many ideas and you do not choose one, it would be a waste of time and money. The idea you are going to present must follow some constraints. Code to import my old blog: 2565802729 Read the full article

[newstfionline]

Trudeau in Europe? Leftist governments find footing in Spain and Portugal

By Sara Miller Llana, CS Monitor, June 15, 2018

Spain has seen its fair share of headlines recently, but they have almost always fed the narrative of “fragile southern Europe.”

Even with economic recovery, the financial crisis left a generation under-employed and toppled Spain’s two-party system; the separatist movement rages in Catalonia; corruption brought down the former right-wing government this month.

But the improbable rise of Pedro Sánchez, whose Social Democrats (PSOE) suffered historic losses in the last election cycles, has in the past week sent a clear message about a new leftist and progressive path for Spain. His first move was to form a government that is majority women, and more than any other in Europe. Days later, when Italy refused to allow a ship of migrants, the MS Aquarius, to dock at its ports, Mr. Sánchez welcomed its passengers to Valencia. An opinion piece called him the Justin Trudeau of Europe, after Canada’s liberal leader.

His moves come as Portugal next door has seen another government, led by the center-left with hard-left parties in coalition, defy expectations that it would flail. Together the two could help bolster a mainstream left in Europe that has been challenged by protest parties and struggled to communicate a vision of a country that can grow while protecting citizens, human rights, and a rules-based international system.

“When he decides to accept refugees from the Aquarius ship, when he forms a female cabinet, he is sending a message in terms of the symbolic fight, trying to underline the commitment of the government to a more open society,” says Pablo Simon, a professor of political science at Madrid’s Carlos III University. “The Iberian Peninsula could be a good lab to see if these approaches can work or not.”

Europe’s fractures have been on full display this week over a boat holding 629 people who left the coast of Libya and that Italians refused entry. Malta did too. France blasted Italy for “cynicism and irresponsibility;” Italy summoned its French ambassador in response, calling France’s position hypocritical.

Sánchez was able to rise above the fray, offering the boat passage to the Spanish coast and signaling support for human rights and international law. His gesture also highlighted a relatively open attitude in Spain toward migration, standing in stark contrast to Italy, which is much more burdened by it. Italy’s new government, a coalition between two populist parties, won on a promise to clamp down on immigration.

Unlike many countries in Europe, Spain has no viable anti-migration or far-right party, for several reasons including its own emigration and its experience under right-wing dictatorship.

And this move to “open” Spain is highly unlikely to generate backlash in the same way that German Chancellor Angela Merkel’s decision in 2015 did, given the orders of magnitude in difference--600-odd migrants versus hundreds of thousands who entered Germany. But that could change depending on what happens next, says Xavier Casals, a Spanish historian of the far right. “Now we are talking about one boat. What if many come? What part will Spain play?” he says. Spain could make a U-turn and block subsequent arrivals. Or, he says, “this case could put immigration on the agenda where it previously hasn’t been.”

So far it’s been broadly accepted, and the PSOE has seen a bounce in opinion polls.

Writing in the Vanguardia, columnist Enric Juliana made a parallel with the fight in the Mediterranean and the contentious Group of Seven summit, comparing Sánchez to Mr. Trudeau, and Italian far-right Interior Minister Matteo Salvini to President Trump.

“After having clashed at the summit of the G7 in Quebec on the subject of the organization of world trade, Trump and Trudeau styles meet again in the Mediterranean. Two brands, two patents, two ways of conceiving politics,” he writes. “The new Spanish [leader] has chosen the Trudeau concept: a diffuse liberal-progressiveness, based on feminism, empathy, and good intentions.”

It is still early days, and the situation is volatile. But the government next door in Portugal suggests that such daring propositions can have staying power--Portuguese Prime Minister Antonio Costa formed his ruling coalition after his Socialist party came in second in 2015 elections. And they have managed to remain popular by combining fiscal discipline with growth policies.

Antonio Costa Pinto, a political expert at University of Lisbon’s Institute of Social Sciences, says Portuguese socialists have an easier time than their Spanish counterparts. They hadn’t fared so poorly in the election cycle in the first place, and Portugal’s mainstream parties have been less challenged by protest parties. They also don’t contend with the heady regionalism of Spain--perhaps riskiest for Sánchez is how to end the standoff over independence in Catalonia.

Paloma Román Marugán, a political scientist at Complutense University in Madrid, sees a brighter scenario for social democracy than at any time in the last decade. “The European left had not been able to reinvent itself in these times, especially with the economic crisis,” says Ms. Román Marugán. “Now Portugal has stood as a shining example that proves that leftist politics is possible. If Spain joins with them, it can be a hope for the left in Europe.”