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ontheoddoccasioniwritestuff · 4 years

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The Sight of You (Spencer Reid x Reader)

Summary: Spencer’s disturbing dreams about his childhood bring him back to Las Vegas to face two of his childhood’s greatest enemies: his estranged father and his ex best friend.

AN: it’s a friends to enemies to lovers fic! Set in the episode “Memoriam” 4x07

Content Warnings: usual Criminal Minds stuff, mentions of child death, childhood trauma, descriptions of a dead body. Let me know if I missed anything!

Despite seeing Spencer around Pre-k, Y/N did not trot over to talk to him with their brightly coloured rucksack swinging vigorously and violently behind them. They walked faster instead once their parents had dropped them off. Spencer did his best to catch up to Y/N but lost them around the corner in the sea of students seeking their next class. He was meant to be one of them. Adjusting his glasses as they slipped down his nose, Spencer noted that he needed a new prescription before entering his own class and preparing to focus on a subject he was already well-versed in.

It was lunch time when Spencer finally found Y/N. They were sitting at the furthest end of the table in the canteen. But Y/N cowered away from him, his shoulders drawn up defensively.

“Are you OK, Y/N?” Spencer asked before getting to what was more significant to him: “Do you know when you will be free to play again?”

The next sentence out of Y/N’s mouth stung like a nettle. They stood up, their face contorted in their fit, and they pushed Spencer hard on the shoulders.

“Go away! I can’t look at you! You make me feel sick, you and your family!” They cried.

They went silent when Spencer was laughed at by those who heard what was said. Just grabbed their lunch and moved away, leaving Spencer spellbound in the middle of the canteen, heartbroken and with a new opening for a potential chess partner. Maybe that man they saw last week at the park would be kind enough to join him again.

But there was no replacement for Y/N, who now never said a word when they caught a glimpse of Spencer being bullied – only dithering about on the spot before fleeing the scene moments before a teacher would show up.

Spencer was hurt; that hurt warped into hatred when he was next out with his mother and father. They were at the shopping mall and had just bought Spencer his new glasses. Going down the escalator, he saw Y/N. They were smiling and skipping between their parents, a new pair of shoes shiny on their feet.

The second they spotted the Reids, Y/N ducked behind their parents. Spencer could still see their face: brow furrowed, eyes squinting, hands shaking now that nothing was holding them. Their parents didn’t seem to notice. They kept talking and walking even as Y/N stopped in time with the Reids stepping off the escalator.

Sudden footsteps running away was what dragged the public’s attention to a suddenly absent child.

“Y/N!” The parents called out as they chased after the four-year-old. They were quick past the Reids, not stopping to say ‘hello’.

Spencer kept his eyes trained after Y/N’s fleeing form, right until his mother’s face came into view. Diana looked saddened; she too was staring after the L/Ns. Turned to his father. William was composed but his eyes were turned down and watering.

For making his parents react like that to their mere presence, Spencer despised Y/N.

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

The burning hatred from adolescence staled once Spencer reached adulthood. The protective nature that spawned from it for his mother remained.

Which is why, when Diana Reid casually mentioned Y/N when asked about Riley Jenkins, Spencer froze up.

“You remember Y/N?” He said stiffly.

Diana didn’t notice her son’s change in tone, “Of course, you two were opposites but you got on so well. So sad what happened to them.”

The first guess was that she was referring Y/N’s repeated attempts at running away before Reid cut contact with neighbourhood gossip at age fourteen. He didn’t bother with a second attempt to understand what his mother meant.

“I don’t care about Y/N. I want to know if you remember Riley.”

“And I told you: Riley was a boy you made up.”

“No, Mom, he was a real boy who lived in our neighbourhood, and somebody killed him. And, I don't know, I think-- I think that dad might have had something to do with it.”

“He was real?”

“Yes. And...”

“He was on that little league team, too.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

The whole case was surreal - “case” being a very loose term.

When they got into his office, Spencer thought that perhaps things might simmer down a little. Unfortunately, as soon as his father spoke about their history of similarity in appearance, Spencer’s usual comfort of statistics and facts on the elderly and pets failed to conceal his abandonment issues.

William Reid was clearly affected by Spencer’s accusations, calling the idea of fitting the profile thus being Riley’s killer “absurd”. Furthermore, he was confrontational when asked for access to his files and demanded a warrant. Coupled with Lou Jenkins’ absolute certainty that William was not involved in Riley’s murder and Penelope asking him “you sure about this?” concerning invading the aforementioned files, Spencer was very close to snapping.

“I really wish people would stop asking me that.”

Then there was the envelope posted beneath his motel room door. Suspicious timing aside, there was a brand-new suspect basically handed over on a silver platter. One Gary Michaels whom Spencer couldn’t remember him but he couldn’t be sure that he didn’t know him. Uncertainty being the feeling he hated the most.

This man could fit the profile; his previous of exposing himself to a minor was a precursor to molestation. But that wasn’t what Spencer wanted to hear from the shady file slipped to direct his attention away from William.

Garcia reported back about his father’s drives, “No kiddie porn, no membership to illicit websites, no dubious emails, no chat room history.”

“What about his finances?”

Hotch joined the conversation, “We went back ten years. No questionable transactions that we can find.”

Spencer sighed while Emily decided to crack a joke: “Well, he did buy a ticket to see Celine Dion six months ago, but I think we can overlook that.”

“He’s smart. Is it possible he kept things under the table?” Spencer persisted.

“Well, of course,” Hotch answered, “But from what we can tell, Reid, he doesn’t fit the profile.”

“We can tell you other things about him, if you want to know.”

A peace offering on behalf of Emily. Clearly she had improved after her night out and subsequent hangover. Spencer gave the go-ahead and Emily listed her profile:

“He's a workaholic, he actually logs more hours than we do. He makes decent money, but he doesn't spend a lot of it. He has a modest house. He drives a hybrid. He doesn't travel much. He stays away from the casinos. Um, and according to his veterinary bills, he has a very sick cat.”

“He appears to spend most of his free time alone,” Hotch added, “He goes to the movies a lot, and he reads. And from his collection of first editions, it seems his favourite author is-”

Spencer interrupted his boss, “Isaac Asimov, I remember that one.” He pressed his lips together. They were right; William Reid did not fit the profile.

Garcia piped up once more, “He does have one other major interest. On his home computer, he's archived, like, a ka-jillion things on one common subject.”

“What?”

“You, kiddo. He's got, like, everything that's been published online. Every article you've been quoted in, pieces you've written for behavioural science journals, He even has a copy of your dissertation.”

“He's keeping tabs on you,” Rossi said, That's saying something.”

But Spencer smoothly dismissed this attempt to make excuses for his father, “Yeah, he googled me. That makes up for everything. I'm going to get some air.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

After getting said air, Spencer went to the local bar and began playing an computerised poker game. His paying attention was only to distract himself, clear his head with something he knew he could control. And thankfully, a chance interaction with a lady at the bar spawned the inspiration for a sporadic hypnosis session.

Doctor Jan Mohikian allowed them a session. Reminded of the limitations that a four-year old’s memory could provide, not including the bias he already had as a son and a profiler, Spencer lay on the couch. His feet hung over the end so that his head could be comfortable in a pillow. There was no time for self-consciousness with Rossi in the room observing. He closed his eyes and felt his hand be placed upon Doctor Mohikian’s body.

She spoke low and calmingly, “I want you to hold my wrist in your left hand. And if you should feel any fear, I want you to squeeze, do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Go back to the night you were just telling me about. You're at home, in your room. You can't sleep because your parents are arguing.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

His eyes were closed still, but the couch shifted into a bed. His bed. A floor below, the faint shouting between his mother and father was heard. There was someone else there too. A child wailing, and it wasn’t him.

Suddenly his father was at his side, touching his arm, saying, “I know you’re awake. Daddy loves you; you know that?”

Spencer didn’t want to be there, and then it was the following morning.

Putting his glasses, the room fell into focus. His mother was there, she didn’t see him because she was too busy looking out the window. Her body language told him that this was not a meltdown, but what she saw was distressing. She’d been crying. As she walked away into the house, she hid her face as if she knew Spencer was watching and she wanted to hide her reaction from him.

Spencer ran to the window the second Diana had left the room.

His father was in the back garden and burning clothes. A bloody shirt, a tiny cardigan, landed on top of the pile already set alight.

“5, 4, 3, 2, 1, and wake.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

And Spencer was shocked out of the scene, back to the doctor’s couch and gripping her wrist with an iron grip. Rossi was by his side, bringing him back to peace with his voice.

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

Derek was clearly disturbed that Spencer was very set on his father being a paedophilic murderer as much as he had been that Spencer was taking something that was said after his mother’s fit seriously. He continued however to assist with Rossi in Spencer’s investigation.

As if everything else hadn’t been hard enough, the captain took some time to agree to holding William Reid in custody. Finally, he settled for twenty-four hours. William was as resistant to the questions as he had been upon the initial reunion. All he could say was that he didn’t hurt Riley. Spencer wore him down, getting him to drop the Gary Michaels bomb plus the threat that he “didn’t want to go down that road”.

Garcia’s search of Gary Michaels’ DNA on the databases brought to light that their suspect was dead. Buried across state lines, beat over the head with a pipe or bat, and the body was discovered in 2001.

“Maybe it wasn’t Riley’s blood on the clothes he was burning.” Derek was about to hang up when Garcia began to speak again, a new discovery ready for her team.

“Also, Todd found something in your father’s finances. There was a standing order for a therapist, specifically a child therapist from 1985 to 1995. I thought it was for Spencer, but William left when you were twelve, and these sessions continue irregularly after he left you!”

“Who was the patient?”

“One Y/N L/N. Local to North Vegas, born 1980 to Shelly and Finley L/N.”

Both Rossi and Derek looked away from the phone to Spencer and he knew. He knew he’d have to face another villain from the past – like a knight in one of Y/N’s stories.

“Still alive?”

“Yep, already pulling up an address. There’s a lot of short leases attached to this name. Lucky for you, they keep going back to live with their parents.”

Spencer wasn’t entirely sure that he could handle two bitter reunions in one day.

“We’ll send off the fingerprint while we visit Y/N. They could have been a potential victim of Michaels before he died. They might know something.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

It was a normal home in a normal neighbourhood. Spencer had never visited Y/N’s house. Their play-dates were always at the park.

“Hello, Mr L/N,” held up their badges, “I’m Agent Derek Morgan, this is Agent David Rossi and Doctor Spencer Reid. May we come in and ask you some questions?”

“Sure. My wife is uh out at work at the moment,” Finley opened the door wider and stepped aside for the trio to enter, “I’m the house husband as it were.”

Looking about the kitchen, Spencer spied several photos of an adult Y/N but very few of them as a toddler and even less as a teenager.

“You have a child, Mr L/N?” Rossi asked.

“All grown up now, Y/N,” Finley smiled with a nod. Then he squinted at Spencer, “You’re not related to William Reid by chance, are you?”

Masking his bitterness, Spencer said shortly, “He’s my father.”

Finley seemed in awe at the prospect, so Derek redirected the conversation back to the matter at hand, “What was Y/N like as a child?”

Nodding still, like a bobble head, Finley looked weary at the notion, “Troubled. They were very young when they withdrew into themselves. Used to run away from home a lot. I don’t know what happened, but Y/N never told us.” He then jumped to protect his child’s reputation at present, “They’re doing better now, went to therapy and they’re doing very well for themselves.”

“I’m glad to hear.” Rossi replied.

Finley continued his defence of Y/N, “They’re a published author, they write fantasy things for kids and young adults. We’re very proud of them.”

“Did Y/N know Riley Jenkins when they were a child?”

“Riley Jenkins, that’s Lou’s kid who died, right?” Finley sought confirmation and, when he had it, he spoke, “Not personally. I think they might have played at the park once or twice. Before he died, Y/N would play with anyone. But you… you know that.” And Finley gestured to Spencer, much to his disgust.

“Is Y/N in the area?” Spencer asked briskly.

“Well, they’re due for a visit in a few hours. They went on holiday.”

“They still live with you?”

“A month ago, they got a new flat in the city. But they’ve got their own room here, for whenever they need it.”

“May we see it?”

The wallpaper was barely visible beneath exam revision notes, posters of Fresh sheets on the bed and the clear space on the floor were the only tidy things about the place. It was a haven of organised clutter.

A chess set caught Spencer’s eye. It sat upon the windowsill, recently dusted. The pieces were not that of a classic set; each was painted prettily but with enough error to indicate it was a personal touch.

“You and Y/N were close then?” Derek was holding up a photo album. Upon inspection, the photograph the page was open on was of Spencer and Y/N dressed up for Halloween as Doctor Frankenstein and the Monster respectively – accurate to the book of course.

“Yeah, ‘were’,” Spencer turned back to the chess set. He didn’t bother to ask when his friends had figured out he knew Y/N.

Rossi decided to further test the waters, “You think that Y/N could have killed Riley?”

“Of course not. A four-year-old couldn’t kidnap, tie up, rape, and kill a boy their own age. No violent history that indicates they would ever do something like this. Do I think that Y/N knows something about what happened and my father is trying to keep them quiet? Yes.”

Rossi moved beside Spencer, picking up the knight. Except it wasn’t a knight. It was a wizard of some kind in purple robes.

“We’ll stay up here for a bit then go down once Y/N’s inside and settled,” He gestured with the knight to the window. Spencer blanched as he spied a cab at the end of the driveway. The trunk was open and someone was retrieving a suitcase from within.

Y/N appeared around the corner, waving off the cab and turning to the house. Mr L/N appeared on the drive and they met in the middle for a hug. Over Mr L/N’s shoulder, Spencer could see that Y/N had grown into their chubby childhood features. They looked genuinely happy.

He would have to go through with it, but he didn’t have to like it. And he couldn’t go hide in the bathroom like with his father.

The trio plodded down the stairs when the sound of the front door closing was replaced with a joyous gathering in the kitchen. It all changed when Y/N went to take off their jacket and caught sight of the three FBI agents standing in the doorway. Taking out his badge, Rossi led the way.

“Hello, Y/N, I’m Agent David Rossi, this is Agent Derek Morgan, and Doctor Spencer Reid. We’re looking into the death of Riley Jenkins, and we were hoping to ask you some questions.”

To the naked eye, very little changed about Y/N’s appearance. To the three profilers, there was a visceral reaction: Y/N’s right hand started trembling, the hard swallow, the dropping of their gaze from Spencer to the floor.

“OK,” They said, a great deal quieter than they had been with their father.

Rossi sat next to Y/N at the dinner table. Derek was beside Rossi; Spencer stayed standing. Mr L/N stayed in the kitchen, at Y/N’s request.

“Can you tell us what you remember about Riley?” Rossi began.

“Not very much, I don’t really remember much about school.”

“Oh, you don’t?” Spencer blurted, “Well, I do.”

Derek glanced back at him with a look that just screamed “shut the hell up”. It seemed to cut down Y/N’s resolve, their jaw quivering.

“Sorry, can you give me a moment?” They stood up quick, the chair legs scraping loudly against the floor as they walked just as fast to the kitchen. Through the open door, Rossi, Derek, and Spencer watched Y/N grab a glass from the open dishwasher. The water from the tap hit the bottom of the glass harsh, crashing out like a wave of the ocean hitting a cliff. Y/N didn’t seem to care. Their hand dripped water onto the surface as they chugged back some of the drink before returning to the table with a topped-up glass.

“Are you alright?” Rossi inquired, leaning closer to Y/N.

They answered wearily, “Fine, just feeling woozy.”

“You’re a writer?”

“Yeah, you’re a writer too. My mom reads your stuff before bed.”

“Bit of an odd nightcap,” Rossi said with a little chuckle.

Y/N shared that smile for the briefest of moments, replying “You’re telling me.”

From their pocket, they pulled out some painkillers, popping them back with a slug of water then speaking again. “I remember Riley was smaller than me. Still figuring out coordination, but he liked to play chase. I know he was killed; I didn’t find out how until I looked into it last year.”

“Why did you look into it?” Rossi gently probed.

Y/N rubbed two fingers back and forth across their head as they spoke, “I was back here, I felt sick so I went for a walk in the park, and I just remembered him tripping over while trying to tag me. No one ever told me what happened, just that he had to go away. I wanted to know what happened to him.”

“Are you sick often?” Derek asked suddenly, his voice soft to match Rossi. Spencer grimaced at the treatment Y/N was receiving but said nothing.

“Headaches and stomach aches mostly.”

“You get them whenever you come home?”

“I do. Figured I was allergic to something but never figured out what.”

That would have to be a very quick response, like a dog allergy. And coincidental, seeing as the symptoms didn’t start until they saw Spencer.

“Y/N?” called their father, “Can you come here a moment please?”

“May I?”

“Of course,” said Derek and Y/N was out of the room. Derek pivoted in his chair to include Spencer in his theory, “I think they know something, but they don’t know they know it. I think they repressed this memory like you did, Spencer. We should take him to the therapist, see if we can jog his memory.”

“You can’t be serious,” Spencer covered his face with his hands, dragging them down with irritation.

Derek was persistent though, “Spencer, like it or not, Y/N’s linked to this investigation. Put aside your differences for a moment, please.”

Spencer all but squawked, “Put aside my differences?”

“You have brought a lot of bias to this case. Let us at least pursue this lead.”

“Sorry,” Y/N interrupted Spencer’s retort, sitting back at the table, “He needed someone to get unhook the loft door. Mom usually does it.”

“That’s alright.” Rossi waved a hand dismissively. Once Y/N accepted that, he moved in with Derek’s suggestion, “You know, some people have strong physical reactions to memories, trauma. Maybe you’re not getting sick. You’re rejecting something.”

“Rejecting?” repeated Y/N. There was no doubt in their voice, more cautious curiosity.

Derek nodded, “A memory, repressing it, and your body has linked the physical responses to your home. We think it has something to do with this case, and we’d like to see if we can retrieve any memories you might have. Would you be alright to come with us?”

“Yeah,” said Y/N, though they didn’t sound too certain, “Yeah sure.”

The resigned, too tired look on their face, and Spencer felt a tug in his chest. A longing to see Y/N smile like they had when they first entered the house. He’d rather hate someone who was happy than someone who suffered the same as him.

Leaving the house, Spencer took a deep breath of fresh air.

“Spencer?”

He ignored Y/N’s voice for a moment, but he couldn’t disregard Y/N standing in front of him and speaking again, “Spencer, can we talk please?”

“I’m busy,” He said, already walking off as he pretended to call someone, “Hey Garcia.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

“Hold onto my hand, use it as an anchor, and squeeze when you feel fear.” Doctor Mohikian accepted Y/N’s hand on her wrist and their silence nod as they lay back on the same couch Spencer had been just hours before.

“I want you to think back to your childhood, back to when you were five. You’re at the park, your parents are on a bench watching nearby to keep you safe. What do you see?”

“Spencer Reid.”

Derek and Rossi glanced at Spencer, who did not react. They kept quiet so that Y/N could immerse themselves in the hypnosis.

“What’s he doing?” Doctor Mohikian continued.

“Teaching me chess.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

Sat on opposite sides of the table, Spencer and Y/N’s eyes were glued to the chess pieces that were neatly organised between them. Spencer was thinking strategy. He could not say the same for his companion Y/N. They reached a hand out and hovered over the pieces before finally selecting their last knight.

Their tongue clicked as Y/N trotted the piece on the spot.

“What’s this one again?”

“The knight,” Spencer recited, “It moves two spaces up, down, left or right, and another step perpendicular to the first direction.”

“Brave creatures riding into battle,” Y/N narrated before continuing their clip-clopping to its new position, “Pawns in the game of war.”

Spencer didn’t understand how they were coming up with this whilst playing. Well, actually, he did. Because Y/N was clearly not playing to win. They were playing for the best possible story.

“Where do you think this story will end?” Y/N asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You’re lying,” said Y/N, pushing back the sleeves of their white cardigan, “Come on, you can tell me, with your magic powers.”

“It’s not magic. It’s logic.”

“That’s magic to me,”

Narrowing his eyes, Spencer decided that he should give his friend the information they sought: “I see checkmate in fifteen moves.”

“See? Magic! The gift of sight!” crowed Y/N, clapping their hands together. The cardigan sleeves fell back in place as they did so. Spencer felt his cheeks heat up; he dropped his head so he could smile in privacy while Y/N began to decide their next move.

“How’s your mommy today?”

Shrugging, Spencer said, “Better than normal. But that means a bad day is around the corner.”

Y/N nodded solemnly. “Do you want another ice cream? I got more birthday money.”

“No thank you.” Spencer moved the piece but was immediately intercepted by Y/N, “You’re getting better.”

“Fank you.”

“You’ll have to wait longer to beat me though.” And he snatched Y/N’s knight away, just as planned and much to Y/N’s dismay.

A new voice from their left spoke, “Hey you’re pretty good.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

Y/N’s grip tightened on Doctor Mohikian’s wrist, “Someone’s with us.”

“Who do you see?” Doctor Mohikian asked patiently.

“A man. He’s asking us if he can watch us play, listen to the story.”

“Do you want him to stay?”

“No,” Y/N flinched, “But Spencer keeps talking to him. The man won’t go away.”

“It’s OK, it’s OK, you’re safe, Y/N.”

Y/N flinched again, this time letting out a whimper, “He’s on the floor.”

“Spencer is?”

“No, the man.”

“What’s he doing on the floor?”

“He’s,” Y/N began panting, their face tensing and body jerking, “I can’t get to him. There’s glass in the way and the ground is shaking.”

“Y/N.”

“I can’t look, I’ll be sick! Whenever I see them, sick.”

“OK, you’re going to wake up in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1!”

Their eyes snapped open with the click of the fingers and Y/N leapt out of Doctor Mohikian’s couch. Their head aimed over the bin by the door and they retched. Nothing came up but their stomach continued to squeeze up

Spencer fidgeted in his seat, trying his best not to look at Y/N. The choice words of the session, three in particular, wrapped around his head.

“Floor”.

Y/N had seen Gary Michaels inside, somewhere that wasn’t the park.

“Glass”.

A window, Y/N was watching what Gary Michaels was doing.

“Sick”.

“Go away! I can’t look at you! You make me feel sick, you and your family!”

“Them”.

It wasn’t just Michaels in the room alone. They had been a witness to his murder.

Derek’s movement to help Y/N took Spencer out of his analysis. Sweaty, Y/N was led back to the couch, the bin between their legs, head lolling forward. Spencer tried to move beside them for questioning, but Y/N winced and began heaving again. He felt that ache in his chest again. He was causing this and nothing he could do would change that. Not until they both knew what happened to Riley and Y/N got help through it.

“What did you see, Y/N?” Derek asked as he replaced Spencer’s spot beside them.

With watering eyes, Y/N looked at Spencer, “The man we played with, he was on the floor. His head – thank you.” They accepted the water from Doctor Mohikian, gulping some back, “It was smashed in.”

The three agents left the room, Doctor Mohikian following after Y/N left to get some air.

“It’s logical to assume that Y/N tied that sickness, that repulsion because of what they thought they saw your mother be involved with, to you and your family,” Doctor Mohikian evaluated.

Interrupting again, Spencer stammered his way through his analysis, “That’s why they avoided me. They associated me with being ill. It’s probably also why they ran away so much; they had to get away from this horrible feeling they had associated with their home.”

Doctor Mohikian shook her head, “We won’t be able to use this in court, I told you when we started.”

Derek’s phone started to ring. As he answered, Spencer somehow managed to slip away for long enough to find Y/N. They were leaning against the ramp’s railing in front of the practice, their body lifting and slumping with each deep breath they took. Against his better judgement, he moved toward them.

“Y/N? Can I have your number?”

The breathing slowed again.

“I need it to call you with an update on the situation as soon as we get one.”

Without looking up, Y/N pulled out their phone and handed it over to Spencer. He punched his number in a new contact, using this time to gather the courage to maybe say something else. The hurt and pain went beyond him now. Y/N was suffering and had been much longer than he had.

“Thank you, Y/N,” Spencer said quietly, hoping that his didn’t add to the illness, “I hope you feel better soon.”

Their head still down, Y/N croaked, “You too, Spencer.”

“Spencer, get over here! We got a match on a print on Michaels’ body!”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

“What makes you think Gary Michaels killed your boy?”

“He admitted it,” Lou Jenkins said, as monotonous as he had been for the last fifteen minutes of the interrogation.

Derek’s quickfire was on Jenkins instantly, “You beat a guy with a baseball bat, he's going to admit to a lot of things. How do you know he was the right guy?”

“I know. He approached another kid in the neighbourhood.”

“And how do you know that?

“I was told by a concerned party.”

“Who? Another parent?”

Jenkins leant back in his chair, “That's all I'm going to say on the subject.”

“Who was it?” Spencer suddenly spoke up.

Caught off guard at his interjection, Jenkins awkwardly parroted himself, “I told you that's all I'm going to say on the sub—"

Reid slammed his hands on the table, getting right up in Lou’s face, “Who was it?”

The door opened, Detective Hyde appeared, “Agent Reid?”

“Do not interfere with this interrogation, detective,” shouted Spencer, “This is not your case anymore!”

Once again, he was cut off. This time, by the arrival of his own mother, Diana, and her admission of guilt: “Spencer, it was me”.

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

Of all the things this case had brought him, Spencer least expected to be sitting in a room with his mother and father together for the first time in years. To have Diana explain to him how she was involved in a child’s murder was also up there with the unthinkable.

But he stayed quiet and listened to her confession.

The reveal that she had seen Gary Michaels playing chess with him and Y/N, that she and got a feeling that something was wrong before anything had even happened, opened the story. Lou Jenkins’ involvement was next on the menu. Two days after the chess game, he drove Diana to Michaels’ house, disclosed his history of child abuse, and demanded she leave while he went into the house.

Upon reaching the point where she entered the house, Diana struggled with her words. William reached over and took her hand.

She described seeing Lou with the bat, standing over the body, slipping in the pool of blood, finding Y/N standing in the window and their face, their little face as innocent as the white cardigan that covered their shoulders and absorbed the blood from Diana’s hands as she shook their shoulders.

“And the rest... It's all dark after that.”

William continued for her. Diana came home and brought Y/N with her. Eventually he came to understand what had happened and decided that nobody could ever know.

“You were burning her bloody clothes,” Spencer concluded.

His father nodded, “But the knowing, you can't burn that away. It changes everything.”

“You paid for Y/N to go to therapy.”

William didn’t seem surprised that Spencer knew this, going straight into explaining: “They went into a dissociative fugue state after seeing what Lou had done. When Diana brought them home, they were just stiff. I asked them for their home number, to call their parents, but they started screaming and throwing up. We had to take them to the police station.” He mopped his brow with a handkerchief, “They needed help, but their parents couldn’t afford it. And they didn’t know what had happened. I couldn’t drag another person into this, Spencer.”

“Is this why you left?”

“I tried to keep us together, Spencer. I swear to you, but the weight of that knowledge, it was too much.”

“You could have come back. Could have started over.”

“I didn't know how to take care of you anymore. When I lost that confidence, there was no going back. What's done is done.”

“At least now you know the truth,” Diana made an effort to smile at her son

Choking on his words and the overwhelming remorse he felt, Spencer refused to look at his parents any longer, “I was wrong about everything. I'm sorry.”

And William said something that Spencer had been waiting for, for a long time, “I am, too, Spencer.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

All of this was repeated when Spencer walked with Y/N through their old park the following day. Filling the final gaps in the memory would hopefully bring some respite to them both. Or at least maybe something to start the recovery process, easing Y/N’s sickness and Spencer’s pain.

“I’m sorry for my behaviour during this case,” Spencer sniffed, “When you said we made you sick, back when we were four, I thought you had seen my mom during one of her episodes and thought she was a freak, like everyone else.”

That stopped Y/N in their tracks, their hands coming up to cover their mouth, their eyes misty, “Oh Spencer, I’m sorry too, I’m so, so sorry I caused you so much pain.”

Spencer’s hands rushed up as if to create belated damage control, “It’s ok! I hurt you too. I made you sick.”

“That wasn’t your fault though.”

“It wasn’t yours either. We were kids.”

Almost pedantic, stropping, like a child again, Y/N moaned, “It’s all been such a waste. We could have been friends all this time!”

“We can be friends now,” Spencer pushed his hands down into his pockets to stop them flailing about anymore. His sentence was phrased more like a question.

One that Y/N gladly answered, “I would like really that.”

Sitting in the reply for a moment, Spencer followed up on his concerns, “How are you feeling? I mean, are you feeling sick again?”

“A bit, but I can handle it.”

Spencer could not see any changes in their behaviour from the day before. So obviously they were lying about that. But he didn’t protest. The lie meant Y/N wanted to stay with him, which was good - Spencer wanted that too.

They kept walking, only in silence for half a minute before Spencer broke it again, “I read your books last night.”

“Yeah?”

“‘The Siege of the Lost Faiths’ in Rogue’s Mask, that was our first game of chess.”

“It had by far the best narrative,” Y/N dragged their shoe a little on the grass before coming to a stop, “Do you still play?”

“All the time.”

They nodded over to where the old chess tables still stood, “Fancy a game before you go?”

Spencer grinned, “Just promise that this is the only setting where we’ll be on conflicting sides from now on.”

“Promise.”

Brushing the debris from the table, they both took their places opposite each other. From Y/N’s bag was revealed a box, spilling their painted chess pieces across the board. Remembering how they had stood in Y/N’s room, Spencer helped to set up the match. They took their seats opposite one another. Y/N was the green side, Spencer the purple.

Spencer moved first. After a second’s deliberation, Y/n moved their pawn.

“Isn’t there a story with this one?” Spencer said, an implicated teasing in his tone despite his shyness.

With an equally bashful eye roll, Y/N started their new story, “First begins the battle with the royals on both sides sending intrepid messengers to meet and pass along their deeds.”

Spencer took Y/N’s pawn. As he lifted their piece away, he spoke quietly, “One not as intrepid as the other.”

A gasp dropped from Y/N’s smile. He had never joined in the narrative telling before, always too taken up in the match to invest in whatever story they spun.

“He’s not a coward,” They said, still smiling, much to Spencer’s delight, “Prisoner’s dilemma, he just couldn’t trust the other with his life.”

“Did they know each other before this battle?”

“Yes,” Y/N moved a knight across, stealing Spencer’s pawn, “They were brothers who once shared a crib and now they share a grave.”

Throughout the game, Y/N continued the story with Spencer asking questions just to hear them talk more. The maturity of the stories had grown just as Y/N’s voice had. They knuckled their eyes a few times, but they didn’t complain about the headache.

“I know what endings you like,” Spencer moved his rook, “Checkmate in five.”

Y/N didn’t seem to mind that little dig, “This’ll have to be a short story instead then.”

Spencer’s next sentence got away from him, trailing off the closer he got to the end of it, “You could write an anthology series, if we see each other again and play more games.”

Where Spencer’s voice disappeared, Y/N’s returned with invigoration, “That’s not a half bad idea, Spencer.”

The checkmate never came. Y/N diverted the ending into a draw.

“A peace treaty has been forged by the survivors, because too many lives have been lost to justify this violence anymore. If only they realised sooner that no blood had to be shed for peace to rule the lands.” And they smiled at Spencer, clearly chuffed as they leaned back in their chair, “Bit of an upgrade from the horse noises, I’ll say.”

Spencer rotated the purple knight – the illusionist – between his thumb and forefinger, “I liked the horse noises.”

“You should have said during the match! I’d recreate them, for you.”

One by one, the pieces were placed back into their box until the last piece remained in Spencer’s palm: the knight or Soren the Illusionist, distractions and deceptions but he loved the tricks that delighted most of all. Just like Spencer with his magic tricks but a little to the left. The character was always one of Y/N’s favourites. Some solace away from the pain of thinking of who he was based on.

Y/N pushed Spencer’s hand away, closes his fist around it, “Keep him. He was made with you in mind anyway.”

The information sank in and Spencer’s nose wrinkled with the little smile on his face as he cupped the little Illusionist, “I’m Soren?”

Nodding, Y/N confirmed, “You’re Soren.”

“But what about your set though?”

“I can always make and paint another knight,” and Y/N tilted the piece upside down in Spencer’s hand, revealing the signature on the underside, “You and him are the originals, it’s only fair you stay together.”

In a moment of pure instinct and nostalgia, Spencer clicked his tongue as he twisted Soren in time with the noise. Y/N let out a burst of laughter that dragged the air out of Spencer’s chest.

“Hey, do you wanna get dinner tonight?” He said, running out of breath very quickly as a result.

It had a similar effect on Y/N, “I thought you – don’t you have to get back to Virginia?”

“I have time for dinner. For you.”

---> ---> ---> ---> --->

The bookstore was packed but the breath of the patrons was held as one. All eyes were watching the mini stage where a crouching figure lifted their head up slowly. A jump as the tension broke with the figure leaping up to their feet with a bang.

Y/N pushed up the brim of their cap. Snatching a deep green hoodie from the purple trunk – silver constellations painted on the sides – they swung it over their back before picking up the page where they had left off.

“Nasima looked up at Mason and said, ‘Well that was just unnecessary.’”

A burst of laughter shot through the pre-teens in the front row, spreading to the adolescents sitting further back who had grown up with the author’s other works, finally reaching the adults at the back where Spencer was fiddling with his cane. He adjusted the sleeve of his costume absentmindedly. He was just like everyone else in the room: captivated by how Y/N was so immersed in their reading.

They had just mimed kicking down a door, plus sound effects from their mouth. Swapping back and forth between the two conflicting characters arguing with one another, changing between the hoodie and the cap with every other line of dialogue and taking both off for the role of the narrator, it was certainly a workout.

An exaggerated breath was drawn into Y/N’s lungs, flopping over in a melodramatic state, which caused another laugh in the audience.

Spencer’s nose scrunched up as he grinned. He knew this was part of the scene; he’d seen Y/N rehearse this story in their sitting room. It was so much better to share this with an audience, for their reactions to fuel Y/N’s energy.

Y/N finished the short story A Battle of Bent Truths with a flourish, leaving the rest of the anthology for their audience to read in their own time. The kids were up on their feet first. Some of them were jumping up and down as they applauded with the rest of the shop. Y/N gave a big grin as they bowed, sweeping their cap off for extra drama.

There was a book signing and a photographer that followed, and Spencer waited patiently at the end of the queue, thankful that the store allowed him to bring a chair along with him. He was happy to entertain his godson and friends with a few tricks to pass the time.

“Another one please!” Henry jumped up and down when Spencer revealed his card.

A minor commotion arose by the photographer’s backdrop. There was a teenager was crying; she was clutching her copy of Untold Tales of Human Nature. Y/N was holding their shoulders, rubbing gently and speaking softly. Only half paying attention to his next trick, Spencer kept an eye on Y/N as they hugged the teenager, looking near tears themselves.

“Spencer?” J.J tapped him on the shoulder and Spencer realised that Henry was looking a little mad to have lost his godfather’s attention so easily.

“Sorry, Henry, can you pick another card please?”

When they reached the front of the queue, JJ went up first and took Henry and his pals up to see Y/N. They instantly recognised JJ and welcomed her with a tight hug. Henry was delighted to see his favourite babysitter and show them off to his school friends, boasting that they had read to him before today.

“They read me bits for bedtime, Mommy!”

“I know!” JJ tickled his cheek, “I read them to you too.”

“Who do you like better?”

“Mommy,”

Y/N gasped, dropping to their knees which made Spencer wince, “Henry, you wound me!”

Rossi approach next, knowing that once Spencer got to Y/N, they would not be left alone.

“You really know how to captivate an audience,” He kissed them on both cheeks, “Though don’t take offence if I don’t use the same tricks at my readings.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it! Thank you for coming.”

Y/N then caught Spencer’s eye and began meandering over to him with a smile they were desperately trying to stifle. Spencer rose from his chair, meeting Y/N in the middle.

“Hi, Spencer.”

With his free arm, Spencer flaunted his cloak, “Who is Spencer? I’m Soren the Illusionist!”

Giggles from his godson, his godson’s gang, his co-workers and friends, they almost caused Y/N to lose their composure. They held on just long enough to continue the banter.

“Oh, forgive me, you look so much like my boyfriend.”

“Hmmm, he must be very handsome,”

And Y/N burst into peals of laughter, waving their hands about, “OK, stop, stop, stop, I can’t.”

“Hey!” Spencer pretended to take offence, pouting as Y/N brought him into a hug.

“Don’t worry,” They kissed his cheek between giggles, “You are so very handsome.”

“To think you were once sick at the sight of me.”

#spencer reid #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid imagine #criminal minds #criminal minds imagine #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds x reader #my writing #r: gender neutral #wc: 5k+

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dreamer213 · 3 years

Text

Broken Machines: Lights The Dark

Chapter 5: Lesson Plan: Orientation

Penny sat nervously on the train car as it began to move upwards towards the city. She’s looking down at her feet and legs, now dressed in a pair of black stockings and a pair of brown Mary Janes, her rocket boots was now sat at her side in shape of a handbag. She had gotten up early that morning to make sure she got ready on time and looked nice. She even double checked after her morning patrol but she was still absolutely terrified! But what girl wouldn’t be if the cute boy she met at an evening party, who’s life you saved, and shared an amount magical evening with agreed to be your etiquette teacher.

Penny: Is like a something out a romance novel. The perfect scenario for a modern take on the charming prince falling for the ditzy commoner girl. There’s even a twist on the trope with the prince protecting the girl not with a sword but with his wit!

Penny blushes her head fulling with different possible romance scenarios that could happen during her lessons. But soon her better judgment makes her recall why she was doing this in the first place. She takes both hands and smacks her cheeks until she’s forced the romantic thoughts out of her head.

Penny: No, no, NO! Bad Penny! These lessons are supposed to help you with the investigation. This is a meeting with comrade NOT a romantic encounter! There is simple plan in place for this mission and I am following it! I am going to take these lessons, learn to act like an Altas elite, investigate the suspects, find the spy, get “the project” back on schedule, and help protect EVERYONE! That is what I’m here to do and that is all I will do.

With that reaffirmation Penny feels motivated and gets pumped up. She starts bouncing in her seat as the car nears the station. Soon the train comes to a stop, she’s arrived at the station. Penny quickly grabs her things and heads out the doors when they open. She makes her way though the station and once she’s outside she looks for the car mentioned in last night’s message. She only has to look for few seconds before she spots man in a Chauffeur’s uniform standing outside an expansive looking black car holding up a sigh with “Ms. Polendina” printed on it. It was unbelievably, the limousine for the evening party was understandable but this was just over the top, Penny could barely process the sheer amount of shame and embarrassment she was experiencing but still she knew she has to get in. Penny hastily walks over to him once she gets close enough the chauffeur, Godfrey, calls out to her.

Godfrey: Good Day, Ms. Polendina.

Penny: Good Afternoon, Mr..?

Godfrey: It’s Godfrey, Ms. Polendina.

Penny: It’s nice to meet you Godfrey and you don’t have to call me Ms. Polendina, please just call me Penny.

Godfrey: Alright then Ms. Penny shall we be on our way?

Godfrey sits the sign in front passenger seat then opens the back passenger door for Penny. Penny gets inside, sits, buckles up, and looks around. The interior was spacious with black leather seats with a built in cooler full of bottled sparkling waters. It’s such an overall lavish scene inside and out that it’s honestly overwhelming.

Penny: Is this really necessary? A taxi would have been much more practical and cost effective. And much less overwhelmingly obvious.

Godfrey: Ready to go?

Penny:Oh! Yes, I’m ready to go!

Godfrey starts the car and pulls out onto the road. During the drive Penny looks out the window, the streets were so different from Mantle’s much cleaner and less populated, so many fancy shops, cafes, and skyscrapers, but somehow it felt unauthentic like the city itself was all for show. After an hour or so the car finally comes to a stop in The Schnee Manor driveway. Godfrey opens the door for Penny and walks her to the front door where a maid stands waiting. Once they’re at the door Godfrey tips his hat to both the maid and Penny then leaves. With him gone Penny turns her attention to the maid, the maid bows to her then looks Penny directly in the eyes and speaks.

Mary: Good Afternoon Ms. Polendina Welcome to the Schnee Manor. I am Mary Shallor, I am here to escort you to the Young Master. Please follow me.

Mary walks inside with Penny trailing behind her. After going through several hallway they arrive at one of the libraries where another maid stands waiting. The maids share a nod and Mary leaves, the other maid ups the door and guides Penny to the back of the library. As they go deeper into the room Penny spots someone sitting at by table next to a window reading a book. Once they’re close it becomes clear who it is. There he is Whitley Schnee dressed in his everyday business causal wear, sitting cross legged in an arm chair, sunlight beaming down on him, reading a book on art theory, topping his finger against leather covered spine as he reads.

Penny starts to fidget and looking around, trying her hardest to focus on literally anything besides the literal daydream come to life sitting in front of her. But she just can’t keep her eyes off him no matter how hard she tries. She can feel herself tensing up and her cheeks are starting to go red again. She tries change tactics by focusing on her mission and repeat the purpose of this meeting,

Penny: This is a formal meeting with a comrade. You are here to learn about etiquette and investigate the thefts. This young man is your instructor. This is a professional meeting nothing more-

At that moment Whitley looks up from his book, they’re eyes met, and Penny’s mind goes blank. He sets the book down on the table and gestures to the seat across from him. All while wearing a picture perfect smile.

Whitley: Good afternoon Ms. Polendina, I’ve been waiting for you. Please come take a seat.

Aaaand there goes her plans to be professional about this. Instead her head starts feeling hazy and the drumming in her chest returns as she sits down. Her legs are shaking and she can barely keep her composure. It was just so strange that one smile could make a battle android like her feel so painfully nervous.

Whitley: Now before we get start the orientation we need to get couple things out in the open. First I need you to go over the case details you already have so I can figure out which events you’ll need to attend and which families and or business groups you’ll need to focus in on. Second I need to know just how much you know about etiquette so we can make you a proper lesson plan.

Penny: W-while that’s a reasonable request, for the first subject I can not give you many specific details as the matter is still classified.

Whitley: That’s fine all I need to know is the crime and a list of suspects, nothing more.

Penny: A-Alright I can give you that much. In the past month several supply trucks carrying military equipment have been stolen while in route from the shipping facility or direct from the factories. It appears that someone in a position of high authority is divulging classified information to help facilitate the thefts.

Whitley: That’s very unfortunate. And the suspects?

Penny: Regina Holly, CEO of the Holly HighTech communications technology company, Elio Brugmansia founder and president of Mansia Mobile, Julia Primrose of Inscribed cellular, Arthur Hemlock Vice President of Hemlock Steel, Matthew Datura primary shareholder of Arum Iron and Steel, Alejandro Altissima head of Altissima Fuel, Sylas Foxglove owner of FastFox Fuel and Jospeh Speedwell chairman of Speedway Energy and Fuel. Half were suppliers of the now stolen equipment and Many of the others are also contracted suppliers but could not be ruled out as suspects. At least not yet.

Whitley: My, my, my, that is quite the list, a lot of big players and old money in there. Hmm, one more question Ms. Polendina. Why did the military contract so many different companies at the same time, especially since several are known rivals in their industries?

Penny: With the loss of global communications everything had to be bought or made locally and with most local companies being cut off from their other factories and facilities, no single distributor could supply enough material to fulfill the contract completely so the order was spilt and divided amongst several companies instead.

Whitley: I see. Now on to the etiquette lessons. How much do you know about etiquette and manners?

Penny: I’ve been taught to say please and thank you as a sign of gratitude, to not place my elbows on the table at a meal, to never talk when my mouth is full of food, to always smile when I greet someone regardless of they’re attitude, to hold the door for the person behind me when entering a building, to give up my seat for any person in greater need of it on public transportation, and to say bless you when someone sneezes near me.

Whitley: That is…not exactly what I…….Never mind.

There is a moment of silence as Whitley digest this information. The situation was not the best, too many people on one job makes things too complicated. Especially when dealing with egotistical elites with little empathy or impulse control. And with the current state of the the economy things could only get more complicated.

Whitley: Every person on that suspect list has more then enough means and motive to pull a stunt like this. Could be attempting fraud or price gouging or just a new means to undercutting their competition or something else entirely, there’s no storage of possible motives. And with the market tanking and global trade slowing to a near standstill they’ve probably grew desperate to maintain their business a float as well. (Sighs) Every suspect is the perfect suspect and their motives are endless. Ugh this investigation is going to be absolute nightmare.

Trailing off from that Whitley looks over at Penny, when her identity as a soldier and a huntress were revealed Whitley had assumed that her appearance was just a sort of camouflage to disguise her true nature but it would what seem that was not the case.

Whitley: How she could have possibly became a huntress skilled enough to be recognized by Ironwood himself and yet still retain such an childish and innocent mindset is beyond me. Still she follows orders well and speaks much more properly then I expected so it’s not completely unusual. And it’s not as though having an innocent personality is a bad thing, in fact given the situation we’re in this might make things a little easier.

Whitley stands up from his chair and walks over to Penny, he holds out his hand to her and gestures to her to stand. Instead of just standing up Penny takes his hand as she pulls herself up and out of her seat. The moment they’re hands touch Whitley suddenly feels a tingle, a sort of warm jolt his never experience before. He had held her hands before, at the evening party, but at the time his focus was on getting out of the situation and getting her to Ironwood rather then how her hands felt but right now things were different. Right now she had his full attention and something about her just made him feel so….different. He didn’t why but this one touch just felt so odd like he was burning from the inside but it didn’t hurt. Instead it feels. It feels. He doesn’t really know though some small part of him, almost desperately, wants to know. But now is not the time for this.

Whitley quickly pulls his hand back, causing Penny to pull hers back as well. There a few seconds of awkward silence before Whitley regains his composure and clears his throat.

Whitley: Since it appears that you’ll need a bit more teaching then original thought we’ll have to readjust your lesson plan. So for today we’ll just take a quick tour of the areas we’ve already prepared then you’ll be dismissed.

Penny: Un-understood.

Whitley: Good then we’ll start here. This is the east wing library. It’s stuck with numerous text on almost every topic one could think of. History, Classic literature, Science, the list goes on.

Whitley begin walking through the library towards the entrance with Penny and the maid following close behind. He holds the door for the ladies as they exit from the library and move to the hallway. From there the tour begins with the three walking to the different area in manor, Whitley gives a quick bio of the room or area, then moving on to the next.

First up, a room with a large cream colored L shape sofa paired with a glass coffee table with wood trim was a few magazines, an ashtray and a small phone, and a matching loveseat, a few paintings in walls, potted plants, and a fireplace.

Whitley: This is one of our many lounge rooms. It’s primarily use for entertaining guests or as a sitting room for business colleagues. It’s also used as a rest area for tired or inebriated guests during parties. The small phone on the table has three set speed dials 1 is our in house physician 2 is for the kitchen and 3 is for the clean up crew.

Penny raises her hand to ask a question, Whitley notices and points to her.

Whitley: Yes.

Penny: Why is necessary to have a speed dial for the clean up crew in a lounge room?

Whitley: I’d rather not say but if this investigation last longer than let’s say a month you’ll probably be here for my father’s next black and white party. And if he serves red wine and the good rum again trust me, you’ll find out.

Penny: Oh.

Whitley: On to the next room.

Next stop seems to be a studio, there some sound equipment and speakers, wood floors, and a large mirror covering the entirety of the back wall with a ballet bar going across it.

Whitley: This is the dance studio. Here myself and many others were taught to dance, walk, maintain good posture, and to greet properly. Soon you will learn the same.

Penny takes a moment to look around, she remembers seeing rooms like this in some books and magazines. She runs her hand across the bar as she reminisces about her days in the lab, training her fighting abilities and learning about human through books and old movies. She stands on her toes and does a little twirl, emanating the dancers she’d seen so long ago. Whitley lets her enjoy herself for a bit then calls her back so they can continue the tour.

Next up , a room full of instruments mainly a selection of violins and cellos in various size, a few flutes, three pianos, a record player, and several bookshelves filed with a variety of records and sheet music.

Whitley: Welcome to the music room, this addition built almost forty years ago. During that time a number of people have learned to play their chosen instruments with most advancing to an expert level, myself included.

Penny: You’re a musician?

Whitley: Yes, a pianist to be exact. In the music world I am known as the Silver Maestro of Atlas, I perform every 50 days sometimes solo sometimes with an Orchestra.

Penny: Amazing. May I come see you perform someday?

Whitley: Hmm. Given that most of the venues I play in are usually elites parties and high profile concerts you’ll most likely have to attend one during your time here.

Penny: Wonderful! I’m excited to hear your music.

Whitley says nothing and heads towards the next room with Penny and the maid in tow. While walking towards the next area they pass a large window with a view into a grand garden. They are about to pass the hall to gardens main entrance when Whitley spots Willow walks past on the other side of the glass, a bottle in hand and several more being carried by Mary most being empties. Whitley stops the two women almost trip trying not to run into him. Whitley turns around with a almost stranded smile on his face, he stands there for a few more seconds until he knows Willow has passed their field of vision then taps the window and gestures for Penny to look throughout it.

Whitley: If you look over here you’ll see the famous Schnee Manor garden, home to several hundred different types of flora and fauna, many of which can only be seen here or at the Atlas Botanic Garden. This garden was built by my grandfather Nicholas Schnee as a birthday gift to his dear daughter Willow, my mother.

Penny stares at the window in awe, her face almost pressed to the glass. There’s so many flowers in some many pretty colors. She hadn’t seen many flowers since she’d been stationed in Mantle, outside the ones in pots hung on houses as décor and the few stray wildflowers that grew in the parks so seeing something like this was just incredible. It was like field of eternal spring with roses, lilies, tulips, even some of her dad’s favorite,Yellow Snapdragons! So gorgeous she could just run inside and spend the day there, just watching, picking, and smelling flowers for hours and hours. She looks over to Whitley her eyes practically shining in excitement.

Penny: It so beautiful! I’ve never seen so many flowers in one place! Whitley could we please go-

Whitley: NO!

There was a surprised silence, Everyone, including himself were stunned, shocked by the volume of the young Schnee. It was very very rare to hear him speak so loud and when he did it was always a sigh of something unpleasant happening. Once out of his shocked state Whitley looks a bit uncomfortable and ashamed.

Whitley: I a-apologize for that, it was inappropriate of me to yell. (Coughs) To answer your question, No there’s working been done inside right now so we can’t go into the garden today.

Penny: Okay.

Whitley: We’ll go in at another time just not today. Let’s just continue the tour.

The group continues walking in complete silence. They continue going to the few more room but the mood has taken too much of a downward turn. They ended at the ballroom standing in the middle of the room Whitley gives his last speech before the end of the tour.

Whitley: This is Ballroom, a place I’m sure you’re at least a little familiar with.

Penny blushes a bit puts her head down and nods.

Whitley: There’s really no need for a lot of explanation, this room has only one use, to host all the manor’s grand events and parties. Be it evening parties, charity galas, dinner parties and so on, this is where some of the grandest parties in Atlas are hosted and only a select few get to attend this events often for others it’s a once in a lifetime experience. And with that this is the end of our tour.

Penny gives an enthusiastic round of applause to which Whitley gives a slight chuckle and a few dramatic bows.

Whitley: Thank you, Thank you, your too kind. Now since the tour’s over you’re dismissed for the day, I’ll have your new lesson plan sent to you before tomorrow morning so please remember to check your scroll for it before you return. Have good day and Ms. Polendina, Genevieve Please see her to the car.

Penny: Thank you for having me. I look forward to seeing you- You all to-tomorrow.

Penny gives a small wave as Genevieve guides her to the front door, Whitley gives her a smile and wave back. Once she’s out Whitley turns around and heads back to his room to his desk. His day has just begun and he had a mountain of paperwork and studies that need to be done before dinner. Meanwhile Penny’s back in the car with Godfrey, heading back to station she looks out window and chats with Godfrey until they get there. Once she gotten out from the car into the station, and on the train back down she looks at her scroll and realizes that it’s still quite early and she still has a lot of work to do. But despite that fact she didn’t feel groggy or groggy or deflated like most would. Oddly enough she actually felt sort of calm, relaxed and ready to get to work. When the train car finally stops in back at the Mantle station Penny gets off the train, heads outside and sits at the near bench, puts her boots back on, and gets back to work!

After another long day of protecting Mantle Penny goes home, has dinner and family time with her dad, then head to her room to get ready for bed. Sitting in her pajamas brushing her hair, Penny think back on all that’s happened today and what could happened tomorrow when she remembers what Whitley said about sending her new lesson plan. She picks up her scroll and looks through her messages to see if Whitley’s sent the new lesson plan for her or if he sent it through Ironwood instead. She looks and looks but finds nothing, it getting late and she needs to rest so she plugs herself in to charge but keeps looking at her scroll waiting for his message. She knows it’ll come before she leaves for patrol in the morning but she wants to read it the moment it’s sent to her, she wants to see his message.

Penny pauses for second and realized what she was actually doing. She was unnecessarily waiting up for a work related message just because he was the one sending. Suddenly she recalls everything she said to him today and starts to blush again. She buries her face in her pillow and starts screaming into it.

Penny: Did I really stutter that much? why did I asking so many unnecessary questions? Why did I grab his hand like that? He pulled his away so fast he must have felt so uncomfortable! How could I be so stupid!

She continues to whine and worry about how she might have come off for another hour or so, never once let her scroll go as she turns into a blushing embarrassed mess.

Whitley sits at his desk typing away at his laptop. He had finished his work hours ago but he still had to update Penny’s lesson plan and find an easy event for her to attend as soon as possible to help jump start the investigation. He was almost done with the lesson plan but still needed to find a more causal event with the right people in attendance to send Penny to. He’s typing away at his laptop with one hand and looking through his scroll at the local social media with the other.

With global communication gone the elites had lost most of their social media audience and now only had fraction of onlookers to watch them flaunt their wealth so the local servers had become a giant message board were young elites post about the parties they’re having, dangerous pranks they were pulling, stupid stunts, petty drama, and weekly shopping hauls.

Whitley detested using social media as it was full of amount nothing but vapid idiots looking for validation but it was the easiest way to keep up with happenings of Atlas youths so he checked it every few days. After scrolling through countless food pics, videos of people being stupid, morons screaming at each over things they don’t really understand he puts his scroll down leans back, and puts his hand on his face, completely frustrated.

Whitley: If I have to see another picture of an idiot eating dish cleaner for attention I’m going to have an aneurysm. (Sighs) Why I am even doing this we only agree to teach her and get her into events not to hand pick them for her.

He looks up to the ceilings and and recalls the events of the afternoon. She had only been in the manor for a couple of hours but he had learned quite a lot in that time.

Whitley: That girl, She’s definitely a intelligent, driven, and strong person, the way she spoke about the case was concise but clear, not hint of worry, doubt, or deception just cold facts. Her articulation and vernacular while a bit stiff were also far more advanced than I was expecting. If she learns quickly and keep her head on straight she should do fine but-

The memories of that afternoon flash in his mind, her twirling by ballet bar, the excitement in her voice when she discovered he had musical talent, her vibrant green eyes staring with wonder at the garden. A soldier she made be but that wasn’t all she was. She was sweet, innocent, excitable, and very much vulnerable. She could become a true darling in high society if trained right but right now she’s too gentle, like a hummingbird flying without fear if she gets too close to wrong flower a predator could rip her apart before she could even put up a fight.

Whitley sits back up, stretches his arms the gets back to searching. He calls for a maid to get him a cup of coffee, takes off his vest, and settles in for a long night of work.

#penny polendina #whitley schnee #broken machines #rwby #rwby fanfiction #fanfic #the real story begins now

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theparanormalperiodical · 3 years

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Everything You NEVER Knew About Crop Circles And The 5 Crop Circles We Still Can’t Explain

There are lots of hills in England. I would know, I am British.

But there’s one hill in particular that I want to talk about today. Cley Hill overlooks the county of Wiltshire and is most famous for homing precious fragments of English history: there’s an Iron Age hill fort, traces of Medieval agricultural practices, and a matching set of folktales that even feature Satan himself.

Yes, legend has it the devil created the hill by dropping a pile of land there. He wanted to bury a nearby town with this land and asked a local passing by where it was. The local deceived him to protect the town, however, claiming he had been trying to walk there for years but never made it, putting him off. He never moved this land, leaving Cley Hill behind.

But somehow this still isn’t the most mysterious thing about this hill.

You see, Cley Hill is the epicentre of UFO sightings. You won’t often find crop circles in a corn field somewhere in America’s Midwest. You will find one in the South West of England, in Wiltshire.

Yep, crop circles are nearly exclusively a UK phenomenon.

What‘s causing these delicate and deliberate messages in fields and crops? And why are they being left here?

Today we answer these questions and wander around the five most famous crop circles in the world.

So, What Actually Is A Crop Circle?

Also known as a crop formation or a corn circle, this is a pattern created by flattened crops. They typically appear overnight to the surprise of locals and croppies (people that flock to see these intricate creations).

Crop circle sightings and discoveries reached their peak in the 1970s, littering the landscape of the British Isles. But the history of the crop circle takes us all the way back to 1686.

The news pamphlet The Mowing-Devil: or, Strange News Out of Hartfordshire was the first ever sighting of this phenomena and alleged that the devil mowed some crops into a strange crop-circle-like pattern. 8 years later, a similar phenomenon was discovered by Robert Plot in Staffordshire: rings of mushrooms known amongst folklorists as fairy rings were later attributed to air flows. Two centuries of silence followed until a mention in the publication Nature claimed a recent storm had flattened crops into a similar strange pattern.

Aliens were yet to be name dropped. Then came the swingin’ sixties.

The discovery of a spiral-shaped crater in a field in Wiltshire was the most famous example of the emergence of 20th century crop circles, but the New Age obsession with messages from above first took hold in Australia. Throughout the decade numerous reports of UFOs and accompanying circular formations in swamp reeds and sugarcane fields were seen across Queensland.

These reports, whether based in reality or not, would go on to inspire two young British men named Doug Bower and Dave Chorley.

“Let’s go over there and make it look like a flying saucer has landed.”

They would singlehandedly make the UK the world capital of crop circles. Armed with a plank of wood, some rope and a baseball cap they would create intricate celestial patterns that attempted to convey that an extraterrestrial craft had indeed landed there.

(It’s been 5 days and I still can’t work out how their contraption works.)

By the time they admitted they had been behind a majority British crop circles in 1991, they laid claim to 200 circles. Only a few years after they had discovered their new hobby, ‘crop circle’ officially entered the English lexicon and was coined by Colin Andrews. Despite being only found in Western nations or those that touted New Age beliefs, they have become an international phenomenon, immortalised in films and folklore that typically takes place over in the States.

Since the 1970s, 10,000 crop circles have been reported across the world. Crop circle creation is now openly a venture of artists and marketing professionals, making 21st century crop circles more delicate and obviously deliberate feats.

So, What Causes Crop Circles To Appear?

Crop circles feature in most alien horror films: they’re the first sign of a supernatural presence that either dropped down for a visit or left a message on the ground below. Early cases of crop circles - before they became a more artistic trade - suggested alien craft landed there.

But overtime, as general consensus confirmed they were often human made for advertising or pranking purposes, they were no longer considered parking spaces for paranormal entities. Could it be a message from an alien world? A warning from God, or from Gaia for us mortals about how we treat the earth?

Could they be as a result of abnormal weather conditions? Freak tornadoes or ball lightning or cyclonic winds that create circular formations in the middle of fields?

Or could it all be down to stoned wallabies? Yep, in 2009 the attorney general for Tasmania claimed wallabies had been eating opium poppies and running in circles.

Regardless of what you believe, there is a vast history of crop formations that goes far and wide. A huge number have yet to be claimed by pranksters or artists. There are things we still simply cannot explain.

The 5 Most Famous Crop Circles That We Still Can’t Explain

The Tully Saucer Nest, Australia

In January 1966, a banana farmer in north Queensland was going about his morning duties when he heard a strange noise. It was this loud hissing and it was rumbling above the engine of his tractor.

He assumed his tractor tire had punctured. But as he bent down to inspect the tires, he saw something.

“a flying saucer rose at great speed from near the lagoon”

A puff of blue smoke cloaked the saucer as it soared into the sky. But it did leave something behind: a 9 metre wide mark, like a nest, was spiralled into the floating reeds of the lagoon. Some of the reeds had even fused together, indicating that what sat in the lagoon was emitting heat. And a lot of it.

Yep, this thing must’ve had an engine.

Many claim a whirlwind had instead left behind a vast circle swirled with dead plants, but no evidence was found to support these claims. To this day, it remains a mystery.

The Mowing-Devil: or, Strange News out of Hartford-shire (1678), UK

What if it’s not aliens that are leaving behind crop circles? What if it's not even god, nor any other spirits or entities that are warning us about climate change?

What if it’s the devil?

This pamphlet from the 17th century tells us of a Hertfordshire farmer who refused to pay a labourer to mow his field, claiming the price was too high. He said he would rather the devil mow instead.

Careful what you wish for, I guess.

He woke up in the middle of the night to the sound of roaring flames. The field he wanted mowed was on fire. The next morning, he discovered that it was perfectly mowed. No human could’ve done this. There were no signs of burnt crops, no burning embers, and no sooty ash on the field.

However, unlike traditional crop circles where stalks are bent as if a spacecraft landed upon them, the stalks were cut.

Die Zwölf Schwäne (1948), Germany

This German story - translated in English to The Twelve Swans - followed another farmer that stumbled across a flattened circular ring on his field.

Although I struggled to find much mention of this tale on the web that discussed the circle found in a farmer’s field, the fairytale claims his son saw the twelve princesses that had been disguised as swans dancing around the field.

This chimes with the folklore of swan maidens, shapeshifters which wear swan skins that are often stolen by men who want to make swan maidens their wives.

*shrugs*

It also fits into the folklore of fairy rings which produce smaller versions of crop circles as a result of fungi, something that was pinned on dancing wolves or fairies.

Cley Hill, UK

I’ve already mentioned Cley Hill. It is the capital of British UFO folklore after all. But there’s one crop circle discovered in May 2017 that has earned quite a reputation.

A local resident saw a UFO hovering in the Wiltshire skies three years ago, eventually capturing the UFO on camera. Shortly after this sighting, a crop circle was spotted just below Cley Hill.

Many believe this visit might’ve been a return of the Warminster Thing: this phenomena was first reported in the 1960s when strange noises and lights appeared in the sky about the town. Thousands of visitors soon flocked to Warminster to try and catch a glimpse of what it may be, but alas it has yet to return anything more than local pub chat.

Badbury Rings, UK

30 miles down the road from Cley Hill is another paranormal hotspot. Just like Cley Hill, it homed an Iron Age fort and a Roman Temple and will therefore be brimming with similar lashings of folklore. But on this same road a month after the Cley Hill crop circle sighting of 2017, Peter Coker’s car broke down. As the steam pouring from his bonnet cleared, he saw someone sitting in a field full of long grass.

He walked over to the man. The man asked him if he had come to see the ‘Tree of Life’.

Coker was convinced that the ‘Tree of Life’ the strange man spoke of had caused his car to break down and led him to the odd man.

The man later admitted he had travelled from Austria to visit a crop circle that had appeared by the historic site. As with so many locations like this, there is a history here that conceals many secrets.

Secrets we may never uncover.

Have you ever seen a crop circle?

Make sure you let me know in a comment below.

Don’t forget to like and reblog if you liked this post, and if you want to hear somethin’ spooky like this every weekend hit follow!

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catclient44 · 3 years

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Personal & Small Group Tours To Russia

If you want Faberge eggs, well you're in luck as a result of this armory is supplied with the most important assortment of Faberge eggs, as properly as crowns, carriages, and tsars' royal vestments. Translating on to "power" or "fortified city", the Kremlin is synonymous with Russia's authorities in the same way because the White House is to the USA. There are literally over 20 Kremlins in Russia, however the most famous is of the one in Moscow. The advanced has an intricate system of palaces and cathedrals and is walled in. Aside from the chilly, the days are also shorter, lasting just a few hours. We stayed at an Airbnb in St. Petersburg, in a wonderful location very close to town center. A star shaped fortress, a storybook town square and a subway maze with unimaginable structure. When you tour Russia with Trafalgar, you will uncover a rustic both beautiful and complicated. The common high within the Summer is 84F with common lows of 62F. 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As a historic palimpsest, the 35-acre site has been populated by a Jewish enclave in the 1800’s, the foundations of a cancelled Stalinist skyscraper, and the Hotel Rossiya—the largest resort in Europe until its demolition in 2007. For 5 years, this central piece of Moscow actual estate—encompassing a quarter of downtown Moscow— remained fenced as plans to increase its use as a business middle by Norman Foster were underway. In 2012, the City of Moscow and Chief Architect Sergey Kuznetsov organized a design competitors to remodel this traditionally privatized, business territory into a public park. An worldwide design consortium led by Diller Scofidio + Renfro (DS+R) with Hargreaves Associates and Citymakers was chosen out of ninety submissions representing 27 completely different nations. The abundance of Filipendula ulmaria in plenty of suburban parks signifies surplus humidity and dysfunction of the drainage system. In time, native timber tolerant of this specific hydrological regime, similar to alders and willows, will more than likely exchange the broadleaf bushes. In all suburban historic parks, the spring flora was represented by a wide spectrum of early-spring native species such as Ficaria verna, Gagea lutea, Gagea minima, Anemonoides nemorosa, Anemonoides ranunculoides, and Corydalis solida. In the gardens at the heart of St. Petersburg, profuse blooming of Gagea lutea, Gagea minima, and Facaria verna (greater than 70% groundcover) was observed only in the plant communities of the Summer Garden . Hepatica nobilis was discovered only in Gatchina and in Pavlovsky Park, and Viola odorata and Primula elatior was discovered only in Dvortsovy Park and Zverinets in Gatchina. 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Designed for tourists interested in old Russian church buildings, Russian art or any other particular interest among the many limitless points of interest Russia has to supply. The introduction of a model new prepare, the “Grand Express”, on the Moscow-St. Petersburg line is altering current assumptions about comfortable rail journey which is comparable in commonplace to that of a good lodge. [newline]Indeed, the “Grand Express” is an actual hotel on wheels that options spacious sleeping compartments with bathrooms, showers, air-conditioning, wide sofas, LCD TV, DVD-players and WI-FI. “Grand Express” prepare additionally has standard 9 compartments carriages of 1st and 2nd class.More particulars. On our website you'll be able to create your own tour or select one from acomprehensive vary of Russia excursions and vacation travel packagesaround Russia and CIS countries to fit every want and finances. 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This café has a splendid atmosphere, and it serves the shoppers with Russian delicacies in an aristocratic mansion which was built within the nineteenth century. The workers right here is professional, and the chefs are skilled in making an ideal dish. Traditional Russian food like borsch, pirogi, and pelemeni is served right here in traditional style. As you presumably can guess from the name, Buono focuses on traditional Italian cuisine. The interior is also impressed by the Italian Imperial style. And it definitely serves probably the greatest Italian dishes in Moscow as the chef Christian Lorenzini is an Italian himself. As well as Sixty It belongs to the Ginza Group which is a high quality mark for many Russians. In Moscow, imperial-era cafes on prime real estate and food-media-famous chefs may distract the many traveling meals hunters, but modern Russian delicacies is a broad church, and in Moscow, this can be a significantly good time to worship. In the seek for the shiny, progressive dishes, nevertheless, don’t miss the thrill of fast-food comforts or the treasures of long-held favorites such because the cuisine of Russia’s southern neighbor Georgia. With Moscow’s newfound confidence in its culinary bounty and local components and a bewildering number of classic and bleeding-edge choices, it could be hard to know the place to start or end. Here’s a day’s price of eating through central Moscow that showcases the city’s exuberant variety, masking excessive, low, old, new, weird, nostalgic, fast, and cheap—but at all times good. Headed by Michelin star-winning chef Anatoly Komm and in-built veneration of the artwork of molecular gastronomy, Varvary truly presents a dining experience like no different. She recommends a crème brûlée cone, which does not disappoint. Red carnations — a historic image of the Russian proletariat — adorn every table beneath dramatic crimson chandeliers. 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Towering greater than 25 feet over the principle city sq., the Lenin head weighs in at forty two tons. Russian And Worldwide Festival During this day, the Russians rejoice the New Year's entry on the date of the old Russian calendar, which was followed till 1918, at which time the Soviets changed the Julian calendar to the Gregorian. Since then, most of the country's festivals are celebrated twice, according to the present and the old calendar. The showcase takes place on Wednesday 20 October, Thursday 21 October and Friday 22 October. As a part of Pushkin House Book Prize 2021, we're delighted to welcome Archie Brown to discuss his shortlisted book The Human Factor. Archie will be in conversation with Sam Greene, professor in Russian politics and director of the Russia Institute at King’s College London. The discussion might be in entrance of a stay viewers at Pushkin House, in addition to to those who wish to join on-line. As a half of Pushkin House Book Prize 2021, we're delighted to welcome Catherine Belton to communicate about her shortlisted e-book Putin’s People. Victory Day (День Победы Den Pobedy) is by far one of the greatest Russian holidays. It commemorates those that died in World War II and pays tribute to survivors and veterans. Flowers and wreaths are laid on wartime graves and special parties and concert events are organized for veterans. A big floor and air navy parade, hosted by the President of the Russian Federation, is annually organized in Moscow on Red Square. Similar ground, air and marine parades are organized in several other Russian cities . The holiday was established in 1918 as it is linked to the decree printed that day by the Council of People's Commissars that formalized the official elevating of the Red Army. Christmas in Russia (Рождество Христово Rozhdestvo Khristovo) is celebrated on 25 December Julian calendar which falls on January seventh Gregorian calendar and commemorates the start of Jesus Christ. May 1-2, Spring and Labor Day – Coming near Easter, this holiday is commonly celebrated in church. January 1, New Year’s Day – This is often stated to be probably the most beloved vacation. Russians usually have fun it once more on January 14; this date corresponds to New Year’s on the Julian Calendar utilized in Russia prior to 1918. The gift-giving and merriment Americans associate with Christmas are often seen on New Years in Russia. At the end of per week of pancake munching and shapka throwing, Maslenitsa’s grand finale consists of burning down the Chuchilo in an try to symbolize lastly letting go of winter and working towards the idea of forgive and neglect. Soviet monuments and installations are a captivating take a glance at the goals and beliefs of a bygone nation. On the one hand, many of these monuments are in reminiscence of unimaginable achievements, like house exploration, or of tragic events, just like the Battle of Stalingrad. The Most Effective Nightclubs In Moscow The people out at the moment are either consuming or are going to depart early because they aren’t really out for partying. Bar Gipsy positioned at the premises of Krasny Oktyabr manufacturing unit used to be one of hottest night time clubs in Moscow throughout late 2000s. The club used to be co-owned by one of many creators of one other well-known Moscow night time membership referred to as Simachev bar. Chateau de Fantomas is located at the premises of Krasny Oktyabr manufacturing facility across the river from Kropotkinskaya subway station. The club is legendary for its summer season events that take place on the roof of the club’s constructing. As described in one of many magazines Chateau de Fantomas is a non-public night membership that's closed for the general public. One of the commonest travel ideas given to Russian-bound tourists is to not drink the tap water. It's worth remembering except you are thinking about spending a great deal of your journey within the bathroom of your lodge, and even worse, visiting an area hospital for therapy. If so, get away from bed and start planning your night time out with our insider’s information to St Petersburg nightlife. Coco Bar is likely considered one of the extra glamorous spots to party the night away. The place is thought for its pub meals and distinctive choice of local and international ales. Try out a pint of their native stout for 240RUB (USD 3.20) or play it secure with a bottle of Guinness for 550RUB (USD 7.30). Russian ladies may like it when you whisper them anything in Russian. No matter you utter incorrect or missing, you could get a giant smile in return. Making statements primarily based on opinion; again them up with references or private experience. If so, ask for our assist right here and keep away from any frustration or time loss. See our St Petersburg Car Rental service & tour across the city easily & swiftly. Russian Art Gallery In 2005, the query - Who had been the three most proficient twentieth century Russian artists? - was requested of senior members of the Academy of the Arts, the Director of the Surikov Institute, leaders of the Russian Artist Union and different outstanding Russian Realist artists. The idea was that those that were extremely educated in tutorial realism and were the practicing elite had one of the best eyes to know who of their era stood above the others. Recognized for his plein aire landscape paintings, Nikita Fedosov was number two. Today, the top Russian auction houses discuss with this acclaimed artist as "Russian's Legend". Garage is Russia’s first philanthropic establishment devoted to contemporary artwork, based in 2008 by Roman Abramovich and Dasha Zhukova. Located in Gorky Park, the museum showcases creative actions from Russia and all over the world. Visitors can discover 10 innovative exhibitions per 12 months from established and up-and-coming artists; Garage offers funding and studio space to rising artists. Exhibitions are always accompanied by a program of workshops, shows and family events, opening up up to date art to all age teams. Once the tour is over, you may be allowed to stay and browse the museum at your leisure. The State Tretyakov Gallery is an art museum collecting Russian nice art. The massive gallery houses plenty of paintings by way of which you'll higher perceive Russian history and culture. The Lumiere Brothers Centre is called after the French brothers who have been pioneers in the early improvement of pictures and filmmaking. The assortment is devoted to artwork of the Soviet interval, starting from post-revolutionary paintings and graphic works, to the "Severe Style" that was official Soviet artwork of the Stalin-Brezhnev period. Last 12 months, this former flour storage building was transformed right into a museum by British architects, John McAslan + Partners. Hot Springs Around The World With Ker & Downey Bathhouse facilities embody a soaking pool, chilly plunge, sauna, and lounge with add-ons, together with therapeutic massage, yoga, and skincare products. Several packages are available, including monthly unlimited passes and a “Personal Day of Retreat,” which comes with juice, a yoga class, and use of the bathhouse. All purpose to promote self-care and good health by way of variations on soaks, steams, saunas, and community. And perhaps as a end result of the world of late has been, nicely, taxing, we’ve seen these oases spring up within the United States, with offerings as numerous as the nation itself. The 1.5 million gallons of water within the springs accommodates silica minerals in addition to sulfur. These minerals are what attract many individuals affected by psoriasis to hunt the healing properties of Blue Lagoon, as it purportedly reduces their symptoms. The factor to do at Blue Lagoon is to scoop up the silica mud and rub it on your face – prompt exfoliation. Guests can stay in a ryokan 旅館 or opt for a contemporary, Western-style spa resort. The hottest Japanese sizzling springs are usually located within the more mountainous areas of the country, such as Hakone, Gunma, and Hokkaido. The last stop on your Hot Springs Around the World tour is Chile, the place you will spend eight enjoyable nights. The heat comes from a geothermal energy plant, owned by a heating firm that created the lagoon to test heating strategies in the Seventies. When the onsen's water contains distinctive minerals or chemicals, the onsen establishments display what sort of onsen it's. The scorching spring is a spot of tranquility; whereas it's definitely okay to speak amongst yourselves, it isn't meant to be treated like a public pool. While you could be excited to point out off the speedo you got while vacationing within the south of France final summer season, bathing suits are forbidden in the Japanese hot spring. If this seems off-putting, understand that it is the norm right here and most people turn into used to it somewhat rapidly. With so much to offer visitors, it’s no marvel that Glenwood Springs is Colorado’s primary selection for warm springs and wellness. Slated to open this winter, Sōkuin Austin draws from both Japanese and European custom.

#20211004-PBN-Home-20

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indepthpokemonheadcanons · 5 years

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Ten Things I Wish I’d Known Before Taking The Gym Challenge

When it comes to challenging the League, making mistakes is part of the whole experience. No matter when or how you do it, it won’t pan out quite as you expect, and everyone’s experience is different. That said, a little advice can go a long way, so here are my top things to remember:

1. Unofficial gyms are great for everyday training.

In the big cities, official Gyms are crowded, oversubscribed, and pretty dang expensive. Unofficial gyms might not be affiliated with the League, but they’re perfectly serviceable for everyday training. Most are staffed with an array of type specialists, who can advise you on everything from battle technique to how you hold yourself on the pitch. If you’re of school age or taking a gap year, you can usually flash your trainer card and get the same discounts you would in an official Gym. Make use of them. Book a one-on-one session if you can.

That’s not to say you should avoid official Gyms. They’re usually much better equipped, and taking lessons from the Gym Leader themselves will give you a feel for their style. But there’s no need to spend all your time there - especially as the cafés are daylight robbery.

2. If you’re staying at a Pokémon Centre, don’t sleep late.

Aside from dorms, most Centres have communal kitchens and cheap laundry services. If you want to have any chance of getting near them, rise early. When it comes to charging phones and Pokédexes, you just need to get lucky - nab a plug, defend it, but try not to hog it. If there’s a queue of people who need juice, priority goes to whoever’s on the lowest percentage. A few weeks into your journey, 40% will become the new 100%.

3. For the love of god, don’t keep your trainer card in a random pocket.

You will lose it, and replacing it is a nightmare. You’ll have to cancel the old card and order a new one at full price, even if you received your initial one through an Access Scheme. What’s more, you can’t challenge Gym Leaders without a valid ID, nor enter most paying tournaments, even if the booking was made before the loss of the card. Save yourself the grief and keep it in your wallet.

4. You don’t need to stick with one style of battling.

Even if you know what kind of trainer you want to be, don’t be afraid to mess around, especially in friendly battles. Try out doubles and triples, swap pokémon for a few matches, restrict your team to contact or non-contact moves. Even if it’s just for a laugh, you’ll be surprised at how much you’ll learn.

5. There is no one way to approach your challenge.

Nobody’s experience is the same, so don’t feel self-conscious about not doing it ‘right’. Some people don’t take on the Gyms until they’re well into adulthood. Some people don’t leave home, preferring to train locally and travel out to each Gym in turn. Some are seasoned trainers, already having collected badges in other regions. Some are utter novices. Some approach the challenge casually, seeing it as something for the CV. Others view it as a path towards sponsorship and a long-term career in the battle industry. The one uniting factor? Everybody is too preoccupied with their own experience to judge other people’s. Try to learn from the variety of people rather than comparing yourself to them.

6. You can split the costs of a storage subscription with friends.

For a lot of people, the Gym challenge goes hand in hand with capturing new pokémon. Some Trainer Access Schemes offer a storage account among their benefits, but the schemes are less common than they used to be, and some find the subscriptions offered too basic. Split between a few people, an unlimited Box subscription is good value for money - it also allows you to create several accounts, so you can each keep your spare pokémon in a secure place.

7. When you’re battling casually, it’s best to keep money out of it.

While it’s tempting to lay bets and battle for big bucks, it can cause arguments, especially when it’s day 90 and everyone’s stressed and sweaty and worn out. In friendly matches with strangers, the last square of chocolate or the comfiest armchair in the Pokémon Centre lounge are as tempting prizes as any.

8. Remember that Gym Leaders are just regular people.

The sooner you stop treating them like huge celebrities, the more comfortable you’ll be in their presence, and the easier it will be to learn from them. Ask them as many (battle-related) questions as you can, put yourself forward, and make sure they understand your style. This is especially important if you plan to challenge the Elite Four, as Gym Leaders can put you in touch with agents and sponsors, as well as offer you advanced lessons when the time comes.

Don’t be afraid to ask for selfies with them, though. 9 times out of 10, they’ll be cool with it.

9. It’s worth investing in decent Pokéballs

Cheap Pokéballs can smell fear, and they will pick the worst opportunity to malfunction or run dry. Some pokémon aren’t permitted to run free in public spaces, so the last thing you want is for them to be forcibly ejected. You also don’t want to gear up for a Gym battle or a tournament, only to have your Pokéball lose power and lock. Silph Pokéballs might be eye-wateringly expensive, but they last for life and never need to be charged. They’re also incredibly secure, boasting touch ID and wireless connectivity to the Box system. In the face of repeated, forcible ejection attempts, the pokémon will be withdrawn from the ball and placed into a linked storage account, which means you don’t need to need to worry about theft.

10. You will have to come to terms with your own abilities.

Deep down, we all think we’re hotshots at battling. Even if we doubt our skills, we still think we’ll catch a wave at the right moment - suddenly, everything will click, and we’ll start breezing through the Gyms, winning tournaments, making a beeline for that Champion spot.

Fortunately and unfortunately, that’s not the case. The bitter pill to swallow: even when you beat them, Gym Leaders are much more skilled than you are. Some of them are among the best trainers in the world, but their job is to battle at your level and exploit the weaknesses in your technique. As you improve, they will adjust how much pressure they put on you, so you can actually expect to lose more when you challenge later Gyms.

Even once you collect all of your badges, it’s highly unlikely that you will be able to best a Gym Leader in a genuine, all-out battle. Novice trainers often get hung up on this - that they only won because the Gym Leader allowed them to, that they haven’t beaten them for real.

This is something most people have to make peace with. Ultimately, Gym Leaders do allow you to win - but only after presenting you with a rigorous challenge, which you have to train for and overcome. At its heart, the Gym Challenge has always been about personal improvement. So manage your expectations, celebrate your victories, and have fun out there!

#man this was fun #love writing stuff like a dumb buzzfeed pokemon article #pokémon #indepthpokémonheadcanons #pokémon headcanons #indepthpokemonheadcanons #pokemon #indepthpkmnheadcanons #pkmn headcanons #pokemon headcanons #man i'm tired #this took a lot longer than i thought it would

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vios-rockland-corner · 4 years

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Rumors of Rockland: Article 1

You’re new in town and about to start up work soon. Still settling in, you’re looking around Rockland to find a good hang out place. Someplace where you could just observe what goes on around you. A place to get your bearings.

Rockland’s funny though. You can’t help but feel this weird sense of foreboding sometimes. Not to mention, there’s quite a few colorful characters about. But that just makes it more intriguing, right?

[Full spoilers below for RoR: Article 1]

The Rumors of Rockland minigames are a continuous installment of visual novels by @runawayoutlaw and @rottenbonethief (@sugarhazard may have his own characters and art appear from time to time). The MC in these games is the same character every time, making this an ongoing discovery from one set of eyes. A nice little way to peak into the oddity of Rockland and its inhabitants from a much safer perspective than other games will allow.

This installment series will also be part of the future 5 year in-game time skip. Not only will the MC get to meet the characters when they’re younger, but this means they become a more fixed resident themselves and get to see what happens to many of these characters later on in life.

Story

Already with the release of the first article, the MC is finding Rockland to be anything but bland. First we have a very brief run-in with two bartenders. One who literally ducks out for a break before the MC can get a word in, and one who appears much friendlier (for the most part) but is also occupied soon-after. Then we get startled by a loud commotion of a very unhinged man oozing violent thoughts as well as being on the verge of tears as his friends attempt to calm him down. Then we get caught staring and meet the world’s friendliest drug dealer and his very horrified friend who just wishes.he.would.stop. Have to say, the situation oddly does get the MC much more relaxed after the previous man’s outbursts. With all this excitement, the MC just barely notices one bartender come back wiping blood off his cheek. But after everything else that’s happened, the sight just seems to get pushed to the back of the MC’s mind. Nor does the MC seem so perturbed with the sinister tone in the bartender’s voice. It doesn’t dissuade you from making a return to the establishment.

Quite a roller coaster there.

Rockland’s a small place, small enough apparently where all the locals know each other. Several of these characters bring this up and it’s even hinted that…may not be to your advantage. If you’re not from around there, they’ll spot you in a crowd. As friendly as these people seem, we the audience unfortunately know better than the MC does in this situation. We know there’s disturbing and sinister characters lurking about.

A new face means potentially two things for locals:

1) You’re either far from home or you’ve yet to ingrain yourself in the community.

2) You may very well BE alone, without any connections in town.

In a normal sane town, that just means the newbie has to learn to acquaint themselves with people and the townsfolk have to come to accept the new face as a resident. Just the normal challenges of joining a new community. Here in Rockland though, there are folks who likely share a friendly smile because their excitement over a new face comes from a very dark place. After all, what kind of people make better victims than those so far from help?

I’m sure not everyone that steps foot in Rockland has the unfortunate fate of going missing. It IS a tourist town, and that’d bring a bad reputation if no one made it out alive. But every now and then the darker folks won’t be able to contain themselves, and just decide to pluck some poor individual from the crowd. Such events probably don’t catch the outside’s eye enough (or soon enough) to cause mass alarm. But it happens just enough to make Rockland a very special kind of horror.

So if you can’t hide among the locals, what’s a new person to do? One, be incredibly lucky I’m sure. Two, get to know the right people. I like to think there’s a “judging” or “probationary” phase for anyone new who enters Rockland. How long this goes for, who knows. If integration is successful, I’m sure the chances of survival shoot up much higher for the newcomer. It might also be possible that killers may not want to target locals because not only will those faces be missed IMMEDIATELY, but who knows what other families or groups you’ll upset if you target the wrong person.

Characters

So how about the very first characters the MC meets here?

Not much we learn about Foal. The finger up seemed like a specific signal to Whesker though.

You’ve got the bartender Whesker. Seems like a friendly and jovial guy for the little bit of time you get to spend with him. But he also is one of the first to warn you about telling people you’re new and don’t know anyone here. There are hints of something dark within this man. It’s difficult to say though what he thinks of the MC. Is he subtly giving them a warning here about how dangerous Rockland is?....Or does he already view them as a victim?

Then, you’ve got the violent man Avery. It’s plain to see this is a man you do NOT want to get in the crossfire of. He’s very unstable and his stress gives him the urge to grind anything to dust as a way to deal with his emotions. For anyone who’s played the Misfits: First Blood demo…you know these threats are not empty. He very much has the capacity to kill someone, no matter how little their offense is. Luckily, he’s accompanied by his friend Callum who seems to not only know Avery well enough that he’s spared getting a punch in the face, but looks like he’s had to handle a situation or two like this before. Avery is terrifying, but also tragic. We don’t know what he’s done here, but from the demo we can take some pretty good guesses. What’s interesting is that he KNOWS that stuff isn’t okay though and doesn’t actually even want someone to say it is. He’s self-aware. But he seems to have no control over his emotions. There’s also a hint that alcohol was a factor here.

It seems that Avery also has someone who he doesn’t want to disappoint, but the things he does would break their heart. The man we see depicted in the bar I think is someone who is their own worst enemy. He might have difficulty controlling his emotions and/or actions (ex. excessive drinking), but he knows what he shouldn’t do and wants to be better. It’s a curious thing…can he get better? Even some of the people who know him have their doubts. We know Avery’s coming full blast in the “Welcome to Rockland” game, but it’s possible we may ONLY see his worst in that. With more RoR installments, perhaps we’ll get to see if Avery ever gets better…or worse.

One problem that Avery may have is that he lives in Rockland of all places. It’s possible that he gets away with a LOT more than a normal criminal does because things like that are considered the norm in Rockland, or because they get swept under the rug. It’s not incredibly clear, but it’s possible that Whesker had been called out back specifically to clean up Avery’s “mess.” This is a problem because it means Avery lives in a place where there are little consequences to his actions. If you go so long without punishment, it’s hard to find a reason to reign yourself back in. Even his friends like Callum worry that they may be enabling his behavior. It’s difficult when you know the good sides of a person because you feel less inclined then to berate them when they mess up. But sometimes you have to call someone out on their behavior, even if it hurts their feelings. With Avery, I don’t know if yelling at him would be a good idea though, considering how dangerous he can become. Tough situation. If you can’t tell, I have mixed feelings about the fellow since I know his violent nature, but something about seeing him helpless here was a little sad.

Finally, you’ve got the drug deal Tyler. Literally, probably the nicest drug dealer you could ever meet. Certainly an eccentric fellow, he’s oddly far less frightening than someone like Avery. His friend Dylan may be horrified by Tyler lacking any means to be discreet, but they seem like good friends none-the-less. Interestingly enough, Tyler and Dylan are probably the most welcoming and safest appearing characters that you meet this time around. Are they truly safe? Who knows. That might be a fun future game to play: Which Rockland character is safe?

Future characters mentioned but not physically in this installment include cops like Roy. It’s very possible we may get to see, if not Roy, at least one cop or detective at the bar in the future. I’m looking forward to that kind of interaction, because what do the cops of Rockland think of new folks? Do they view them as potential victims they need to keep an eye on more for safety? Do they act a little gruff to make Rockland seem less welcoming (so the newbie will leave)? Or are they corrupt and completely aware of what goes on in Rockland (but let things be)…so they don’t make any attempt to drive away or give any kind of warning to the player? Maybe they just flat out don’t like newcomers because it’s a tight nit town and they already have enough on their plate. Rockland also seems to be a place that attracts sinister characters honestly. Not just potential victims. So the cops may be skeptical about what kind of character has just rolled into town.

This is only the tip of the iceburg. There’s so much more to discover, and I feel like these installments will be a great way to see sides of characters we don’t normally get to see in the main games. I for one enjoy a setting where the MC gets a chance to observe some of these characters in a more public setting. Oh I’m sure the more intimate settings with certain characters in the others games will be to die for. But you know, maybe save those games for your more expendable OC’s.

#Rockland Games #Rumors of Rockland #RoR #runawayoutlaw #rottenbonethief #rockland #visual novel #avery greyson #Whesker #Tyler Stryker #Dylan Austin #Callum Willow

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stone-man-warrior · 4 years

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March 11, 2020: 4:24 pm:

I just returned from running an errand in Dystopia, Grants Pass Oregon.

I went to:

Walgreen’s

As I left my home, the pressure from the local terror cells was in place, and running a “Save The Princess” terror play, but it was somewhat a reversed version of that standardized murder play, it did not work, however.

The grey Toyota Camry from the Myers terror family cell roled down the road as I was at my gate. It’s typical that the terrorists have to drive a car past my front driveway at the time that I leave my home, and 90% of the time that I do take my car somewhere, there will be one of the terror neighbors driving by while I am at my gate. They use the listening devices they placed around my home to know when I have opened my front door, and can hear where I am with other listening devices, and also they have a variety of cameras pointed at my driveway from the Former Monroe terror cell.

So that grey Camry appears to have dropped off Lorena Chapman in front of teh Clyde Baum terror cell, at 333, where there are more cameras positioned on the roadway, disguised as a driveway night-light.

The idea was to use Lorena Chapman, or someone who looks just like her, to do some kind of “Save the Princess“ after I started to go down the road on my way to the Walgreen’s.

The “Good Samaritan” who was also set into motion as part of the attack plan, was someone driving the Rick Manning Red Honda Station Wagon. Who came down the road in the opposite direction just after I passed the Chapman look-a-like that was on foot in front of the Baum terror cell.

Other items associated with the attack plan included that a door was left open in three places along the route to the Freeway. One at Chartrand 376 was the back door to the shell of one of his pick-up trucks. Another was the door of a passing school bus, the driver of the bus was driving with the school bus doors open. And another open door was at the I-5 Freeway exit 66 in the empty lot there where the terror watchdogs sit in their cars while doing surveillance of the people who drive into, or out of, the Hugo Oregon area. That person there was playing the role of the “sleepy, road weary driver who pulled over to take a nap in the backseat with the door open”.

The idea was that they terror bastards needed to get a recording of my voice saying “the door is open” or some other mention of a door. “The Door Is a Jar”, #SAGClubMed terror play, specific for those victims who are on the way to a pharmacy. “The Door is a Jar” comm items, and communication, is all done in such a way that any and all passing terror soldiers in the area, will see the visual clues, read the comm the items are put there for, and in that way, are able to step-in, to provide support services for the attacking terror cell. No words are spoken about the attack, the visual items and other activity is enough, that all of the terror cells already know how to behave, and how to assist with the murder.

The implant in my jaw broadcasts everything that I say, all of the time, and has done so since 2011. The implant is a microphone inside of my jaw. I cannot turn it off, or remove it, it broadcasts all of the time, and the recordings that are created in that trailer at the Former Monroe terror cell are edited, word by word, and fed to public safety people who are killed also, by the terror cells, as a result of their own foolishness.

So, that attempt failed. The words I used were: “Looks like Chartrand has his foot in the door” as a I passed by, and saw the truck with shell door open. I encountered two more attempts to get me to say “the door is open” just in passing, and while not speaking to anyone.

They may have been trying to use such a statement live, to fool someone that I am giving permission to enter my home, or car, as I passed by the walking Chapman look-a-like on the roadway when I was leaving.

The typical debit card malfunction occurred at the Walgreen’s. The debit card readers at ALL of the places I make purchases, always, 99% of the time, malfunction in some way while I am using the debit machine. The “Malfunctioning debit card reader, is part of the murder scenario at the point of purchase at ALL of the places that items are sold, everywhere. That malfunction makes certain that the intended victim is per-occupied with the distraction that is provided by the malfunctioning debit card reader. The Marked Victim focuses all of their attention onto that small, digital, card reader at that time, and that is a good time for the terror assassins to make the hit on the Victim, while the Victim has the debit card in their hand.

There is some kind of a billing terror play happening with the items I purchased at the Walgreen’s. The price of the items I purchase is almost never the same as it was the previous time I purchased the same exact items. The price should be consistent, but is not. One of the items I purchased today had a price of $0.00. No charge. It was that way the last visit last month also.

What is going on, is there is a duplicate person in the Screen Actor Guild, who si receiving what is known as “MAX” prescription medicine. That person fills a whole bunch of meds, and those are the meds I used to get, before the terror took over. Someone is receiving the medicine that I could benefit from, and I am only receiving sort of a “Token” of what I should be getting at a pharmacy. What’s more, is the persons receiving my prescriptions are also getting more than my history, and beneficial requirements warrant. The terrorist doctor gave those people the “MAX” allotment of meds. All of that happens, I get blamed, and the public safety people who come to investigate, are killed by the people who are perpetuating the “MAX” allotment. As a result, I get far less of the medicine that would benefit me, and has benefited me in the past for many years, and the meds improved my quality of life. Now, all I get is the “token” appeasement meds, some Rock Star gets my medicine.

On the way home, I observed three Impostor Police cars. Two near the Southbound I-5 had pulled someone over, and another Imposter State Police was at the exit 66 that I need to use, with lights flashing. They are trying to make me “Run” out of “fear” because I had to kill Jay Inslee yesterday in defense while at the terror controlled doctor office.

Jay inslee had a kidnapped child with him at the terror doctor, and the people there shot me with a small caliber gun in the waiting area. I returned the favor by turning the shooters gun around, in the lobby, and shooting the shooter with his own gun as he was holding it. I never had to take the gun from the shooter that shot me there.

StoneMan unscathed.

That shooter was there for Jay Inslee, who had the kidnapped child, and they had planned on blaming the kidnapping on me, after they killed me.

A lot happened at the terror doctor yesterday. I already reported hwat was important. Jay Inslee is a piece of shit, and he received exactly what he bargained for, is presumed dead due to severe Corona Virus Bleeding from the head.

Also, I had to defend against a 450 lb nurse at the terror doctor yesterday. That nurse is presumed to be permanently paralyzed at the arms and shoulders, having suffered a spinal cord injury during the fighting in the back office at the terrorist #SAGClubMed Doctors Office.

That is all of the terror reporting that I want to write about today. I want to say that I am doing whatever helpful things that I can do, to help the people that are held captive at Boeing Seattle. Whenever opportunity presents itself, I take the chance of retaliation from the people who hijacked Boeing, and I try to get helpful people to go there. and set the engineers and others free from their captivity at Boeing Seattle.

Yesterday. opportunity to kill Jay Inslee presented itself in the form of a kidnapped child that Inslee had with him. I was able to free the child, as O have done at other times at the terrorists #SAGClubMed doctor that I have been going to fir about five years. I don’t know if teh child was able to leave the building safely, he was about eight years old, I killed Jay Inslee, and escorted him to an exam room there before he actually died. While doing that, the child said: “That man is not my dad. He is NOT my dad”, so, I looked at the boy and said:

“I believe you, run away, go on... go, runaway now, all of the adults around here are terrorists, so, stay away from the adults, don’t let them catch you. Go. Run away now”

The boy ran out from the back office area at the terror doctor. I presume the terror bastards caught him again by now though.

Please send help to Oregon.

End terror reporting: 5:34 pm.

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sedehaven · 4 years

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Saving Ophelia Grace’s Toe

Y’all seem to like my stories about being a witch in the Bible Belt, so here’s another one. This is a coming of age story about a young witch (me), a bunch of adults of various degrees of uselessness, and Ophelia Grace’s rotten toe.

This is not a happy story.

Names changed when necessary.

CW: Body squick, graphic injury, incompetent nurse, malevolent nurse, poisoning, bureaucratic nightmares, dark DARK shit ahead

So, in spite of the crushing poverty that I grew up in, I was given the opportunity to attend a very prestigious boarding school for Juniors and Seniors in Klan Kountry, LA. It’s a public school, so it takes kids from all over the state.

My school was run by a dude named Brother Dave.

Brother Dave was so awful that one of our senior pranks (I DID NOT DO THIS) involved a password-protected screensaver on every communal computer in the school (including, I think, Brother Dave’s office computer) of a bouncing, 3-D image of this:

Dude was NOT well-loved. It is important to know that he and I did not get along. When I was still a prospective student, he told us that our mascot was the mighty Eagle, because Eagles Flock Together.

Y’all. Someone watched himself too much Mighty Ducks.

I replied, loud enough for the whole auditorium to hear, “That’s not true, sir. Eaglettes push their smaller and weaker siblings out of the nest as soon as they can.”

He looked to the staff for support, red-faced and embarrassed by this ninety-pound child who stole his thunder.

The biology teacher (who left for greener pastures after my first year--rumored to have been forced out for being too fabulously dykey for the new administration) looked at him and stated, in her very particular and crisp fashion, “Well, she’s right.”

Safe to say, he hated me from the start. So, if you read this and you wonder, “Why didn’t this silly kid just go to the grown-up?” That’s why. He was our grown-up.

Brother Dave started at the school the year before I did. He was brought in by a local Senator, because said local Senator Fucked Up Colossally.

Senator Fuckup was running against Mr. Sketchy Businessman. Mr. Sketchy Businessman was backed by the Ku Klux Klan (a big deal in parts of the world, folks. My school was in David Duke country.)

Senator Fuckup had a fancy name--well-respected all around the state. Like, several statues of one of his relations decorate the state capital. Big name.

Problem is, Senator Fuckup is half-Black.

In Klan Kountry.

Y’all.

So he’s already at a disadvantage. As it turns out, it takes a village to start a magnet school. Senator Fuckup was one of the founding board members, and promised all kinds of benefits if they put the school in HIS district.

Their other offer was in my own hometown, the Hub City, where several of our major state highways cross with two Interstates.A place with art and history and culture. A place with one of the largest outdoor music festivals in the state--a multicultural, international music festival! With art walks and museums and Mardi Gras parades! With a three-story library, a library for French language and culture, and the second-largest university in Louisiana!

Senator Fuckup PROMISED that the school wouldn’t want for anything if they went to Klan Kountry.

So they did.

It was no great secret that this school was Senator Fuckup’s baby. At the time that I attended, the school was number one in the nation. Something to be proud of.

Except.

Except that in order to keep various forms of funding, the school was required to take in more melanin-blessed individuals than the locals liked.

Enter Mr. Sketchy Businessman, who ran a series of TV and radio ads claiming that our STATE funded school was stealing money from the local school district.

That’s right. He claimed that our school took money away from the poor Whites of Klan Kountry and gave to the diverse and metropolitan school for the gifted.

Senator Fuckup tried to deflect and dismiss, BUT did NOT rebut those claims. He didn’t believe that the school’s funding was THAT MUCH of an issue.

Any reasonable person would understand that the school was funded from the State taxes. Right?

As it turns out, Klan Kountry is not filled with reasonable people.

Senator Fuckup is a member of a particular subgroup in Klan Kounrty--a not-insignificant population of Catholic Creoles. So, after he wins his election--barely--he realizes that Something Must Be Done to help the image of the school that everybody knew as HIS baby.

Enter his old friend, Brother Dave. Brother Dave, who nearly bankrupted his previous school. His brother-in-law was a contractor who got a few really juicy contracts through him.

Protip: Nepotism only works if the person being nepotized is competent.

Spoiler: Brother Dave’s brother-in-law built schools about as well as Brother Dave ran them.

Brother Dave’s old school is attached to an order of monks who build cheap and simple caskets for people who are into that kind of thing.

They bake bread for the poor. These are good people.

Y’all, these people made it KNOWN--statewide--that they had a casket ready for ol’ Dave if he ever stepped foot in their town again.

Still, Senator Fuckup decided that THIS was the man who would lead my school into a glorious future.

Brother Dave took an aggressive stance on admissions. He wanted kids who didn’t have a lot of drama, and kids who looked (WHITE) good on the recruiting materials. He pulled hard from the local Catholic (Segregation) Academies.

Y’all.

Our Black kids were nearly White-passing mixed-race kids, one kid who was ACTUALLY from Africa, a couple of kids from Catholic schools, and one dark-skinned Baptist girl who is bombshell model-gorgeous. (For those glossy brochures.)

So as many White Catholic kids as possible.

Y’all.

I’ve competed with private school fuckwits in academic contests my whole life, up to that point. If it was something that required preparation (science fair, for example), they wiped the floor with us.

Because daddy the petroleum engineer did the project for them.

If it was a you-know-it-or-you-don’t thing (quiz bowl, for example), they lost so brutally that I might have felt bad for them. You know, if they had souls. Which they did not.

So Brother Dave populated our school with what he thought were “good kids”. White, Catholic kids.

Spoiler: My class started with 250 students. We graduated less than half of that, even after he backfilled our class with new kids between junior and senior year. The class after mine was worse.

Why is that?

White Catholic kids at segregation academies in the late 90′s basically did busy-work worksheet stuff all day. They were not ready for 10 page papers and 5 page lab reports and 100+ pages of reading and 20-50 math problems and projects, projects, projects!

Also, if all you do is worksheets and sit-down-and-shut-up, there has to be a certain...chemical element...to cope.

So, yeah. Drugs. So much drugs. And booze.

Brother Dave also hired Nurse Bitchy Fuckface. She was actually his first hire.

Nurse Bitchy was a walking disaster.

I was sixteen when I first met her, and because she didn’t smell like street drugs (I KNOW WHAT THAT SHIT IS), I missed a lot of signs.

Looking back, I think that she might have been a Prozac-and-wine kind of person. But, as the only drugs that I was familiar with came from street pharmacists, I thought she was just evil.

Hateful to the queers, pagans, Goths, and all assorted weirdos.

You know, all the kids who could actually handle the schoolwork and the pressure. *eyeroll*

I’m allergic to Sudafed. Weird, huh?

A senior at my school told me to be careful with Nurse Bitchy. She has a sensitivity to acetaminophen (Tylenol) and couldn’t have it. Nurse Bitchy had given it to her a couple of times.

It was on my senior’s medical chart. If you’re keeping score, that’s felony attempted murder.

Nurse Bitchy gave me Sudafed seventeen times (that I remember) while I was at that school. She very nearly killed me doing it. Some times I knew, and some times I did not.

“But why did you take it, if you knew?”

Well, you innocent dove, if I refused to take the medicine that the Nurse gave me, then I got written up. Enough write-ups and I got kicked out.

My home school in the Hub City? Eh...as bad as Klan Kountry was, I didn’t have someone assaulting me daily. I didn’t have a gang of girls who got away with attempting to rape me with a broom handle. I didn’t have a very big kid who was given liberties with me (BY THE STAFF) because he was special ed.

Or, as my guidance counselor liked to say (after my father was murdered and I was flunking chemistry--not because of dad’s death, but because the chemistry teacher put all the girls and Black boys in the back of the class--which had NO air conditioning on hundred-degree days--after Brother Dave’s brother-in-law “fixed” it that summer), “Stephanie, you know that you’re the poorest student here. Do you really want to go back to THAT?”

No. I did not.

Under pain of going home to poverty, rape, assault, and maybe death, I took her poison. She watched me do it. And she smiled.

I only went to Nurse Bitchy when I was forced to. This happened far more often my Junior year. The teachers would send me because I was sick (I come from a smoker’s home, and I’m an asthmatic who is allergic to tobacco. My family never quit, so I’d end up with smoker’s pneumonia most times that I went home. Thanks for the lung scars, fam.)

Eventually, when I was a Senior, my computer science teacher realized that I was unresponsive with a fever in her class. She was new that year, and didn’t know any better. So she woke me up and sent me along. Nurse Bitchy gave me the usual and sent me back to class.

Very few humans retain the ability to projectile vomit after age seven. Did you know that?

Lucky me, I did. I still can.

I hurled all over my keyboard. I hurled and hurled. My classmates screamed and ran.

My computer science teacher, an ice-cold woman of Indian descent with a very posh English accent, unplugged the vomit-soaked, ruined keyboard. She took it and me to the nurse.

She slammed the keyboard down on her desk and screamed at her to NEVER send a sick child to her class again.

Nurse Bitchy was (shocking, I know) a racist. She feared the angry Indian lady.

My computer science teacher, I believe, spread the word about Nurse Bitchy’s ineffectiveness. Teachers stopped sending students to her.

That left a vacuum. Nobody was being forced to get medical help. But medical help was still needed.

Before going to school in Klan Kountry, I was a veterinary technician. I worked under-the-table from too young. Illegal-child-labor-too-young.

But, I knew my stuff. I had a stocked medicine cabinet and a dissection kit.

I started doing everything up to and including prison surgery in my dorm room.

I could handle most anything. Which was better than worrying that the nurse was going to poison one of my friends into the ground.

I didn’t ask for money or food or anything (food was a commodity at that school because our cafeteria was infested). I worked for the goodwill of my classmates, which is the shiniest coin in the realm.

I’d gotten into witchcraft earlier that year. People trusted the witch over the nurse. That’s where my school was.

I only had one case that I really couldn’t treat.

Y’all.

It was traditional in the girls’ dorms that unless you were asleep or studying, you kept your door open. Mine was open that night. I was writing Sailor Moon fanfiction, procrastinating on one project or another. I don’t remember, it was twenty-two years ago.

Ophelia Grace (not her real name) came to my door in Doc Martens, favoring a foot. Her roommate or a suitemate or maybe another theatre kid was holding her up as she hobbled into my room.

I hadn’t heard that she’d been hurt, but apparently she had been. She was feverish and weak. Her face was bright red. She was babbling.

“I’m sorry,” she said over and over again. She apologized for coming late. She apologized for coming at all. She was shaking.

I sat her and her friend on my roommate’s bed (we’d bunked them, and I had the top bunk). My roommate was out, in the art lab working on a particularly tricky painting. Probably for the best. He was squeamish (my ex-roommate is a transman, so I’m using his preferred pronouns.)

I grabbed a large bowl and a mug, filled both with water (salted the bowl of water), and went down the hall to the microwave.

The water in Klan Kountry was filthy. It smelled bad and tasted worse. Remember Mr. Sketchy Businessman? He wanted to relax EPA regulations for himself and his sketchy business friends.

They were actively dumping into the city reservoir. But Mr. Sketchy Businessman promised to KKKeep KKKlan KKKountry Lily, so he got 49% of the votes.

Racist douche.

I boiled the water in the microwave--first the mug, then the bowl. It was a walk I’d make several times that evening.

Ophelia had a fever, holding steady at “fucking HOT” by the estimate of her friend. My thermometer pegged it at 102. Not good.

I put a teabag and two whole cloves in the cup and let it steep while I took her temperature. I asked her what happened. I don’t remember the specifics of the injury, but I believe that something got dropped on her toe. I think it happened in the theatre.

Ophelia thought she could walk it off. I remember that.

She kept apologizing. I honeyed the tea and shoved it in her hands. The tea helped. She was shivering--hard--from the wracking chills of her fever.

I remember how her febrile shivers made the bunk beds shake.

I remember thinking that I was in over my head.

I remember grabbing my oldest towels, and closing my door.

I remember praying.

And then I took her boot off.

Y’all.

I’ve smelled rot. Some people think that all rot smells the same.

It does not.

Corpse stink has its own bouquet. Blood rot has a distinct stench. Necrotic yeast infections almost smell good--like yeast rolls and something meatier.

I’d smelled Ophelia’s particular rot before.

I was fourteen. A momma dog was brought in, heavily pregnant. She’d been delivering, and the third pup got stuck. There were 11 left. The stuck pup was dead, but we managed to save 4 behind him, plus the first 2, born healthy.

The uterus had begun to rot inside, and several of the pups had been dead for some time.

The spaying that happened after the pups were removed was green and black, with the consistency of pudding. We pulled as much out as we could, but the rest had to be rinsed out.

Thankfully, I’ve smelled that smell very few times after. It smells pungent and strong. Like garlic. Like a cream of garlic stew.

I thought I’d gotten a whiff of THAT smell when Ophelia walked in, and again when she sat down. Pulling her boot off was like the first deep cut into momma dog. Garlic and blood.

The smell of something rotting in someone still alive.

She had on two socks. I peeled off the first one. There was a stain at the toe. The second sock was worse. The smell hung around.

Our windows were screwed shut. I couldn’t do anything about the smell.

Ophelia cried into her tea. She was still apologizing.

The toe was purple and black. There was a lot of yellow pus under the nail, which was leaking out on either side. Red streaks ran up her instep, tracing her veins.

The toe was swollen and needed a lance.

I had no idea how she climbed the stairs to get to me. (I was on the third floor, and she lived below. We had no elevator.)

She started to get loud (peeling those socks off HURT), so I asked her a question. I asked about her history paper. The ten-page history paper was a rite-of-passage at the school, and I knew it was coming due for her. I told her to tell me about her topic and her sources.

She did.

Thank the Lord and Lady.

I got my dissection kit and rubbing alcohol. I made things as sterile as I could.

I told her that it would probably hurt, but that I would work quickly.

Her friend left after the first cut. She didn’t stay gone long, but I heard her vomit in our suite’s toilet.

Ophelia kept talking about her paper. I led her around on that topic, asking questions and asking for clarification. Asking about the books she’d read, and offering a few that I was familiar with on the subject.

This is why doctors and dentists know so many things about so many subjects. Talking keeps the patient calm.

Meanwhile, pus and blood dripped from the slits that I made in her flesh, onto a towel that bore the stains until I donated it to the animal shelter, years later.

I soaked her toe in the bowl of water. The salt burned, but she couldn’t scream.

There was an adult who was supposed to be watching us. If she was alerted to my low-tech medical unit, she would have stopped me and sent Ophelia to the murder nurse.

I filled another bowl, salted it, and microwaved it.

Ophelia’s friend rejoined us, and watched as I squeezed the rest of the pus out of her. Her toenail slipped off in the third bowl. The toenail was cracked. Ophelia kept it.

I wonder if she still has it?

Triple antibiotic ointment and a sterile dressing later, I told her to tell the nurse that she needed a doctor. Nurse Bitchy couldn’t keep us from a doctor if we asked for one. She said that she would.

I gave her a few oral anti-inflammatory pills and some Benadryl to get a good night’s sleep.

She left, with her boot in her hand and a soft smile on her lips. I cleaned my tools, my bowls, the floor where her foot was, and had to do a load of laundry because that one rag smelled so awful.

My roommate came back in time for headcount, and asked if I’d made ramen. Said it smelled pretty good in there.

It did. Rot can do that.

It was hard to sleep that night. I cried quietly until sleep took me.

Ophelia recovered. She became a witch some time later. In college, I think. We’re still friends, in a Facebook kind of way.

Brother Dave is still alive. After working for my school, he ended up helping the Church cover up three decades of sex abuse at a diocese school. Not sure what he’s up to, but probably nothing good. He’s a garbage human.

Nurse Bitchy just retired. She lasted twenty years at that school. God knows how.

Senator Fuckup died in a car crash and the school is being renamed after him. So are the new dorms that are being built.

Klan Kountry cleaned up their water after I left. That’s really good news.

The school continues. Apparently, it got better with Brother Dave’s leavetaking. I hope that’s true.

And me?

I’m still a witch. I’m still here.

And I can still smell that rotten toe on the edge of nightmares half-remembered.

~*~

I don’t want my diploma revoked or to be sued, so disclaimer time.

This is fiction. Any resemblance to people living or dead is coincidental.

#witchcraft #prose #proseriot #kitchen witch #healing #writing #amwriting #autobiography #true story

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fishdavidson · 4 years

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Dream Journal 2020-03-28: Fish Davidson Does Math While Shopping On Main Street

A quaint row of shops on the Main Street in some small town is where the dream comes into focus. It’s a cool day in the early afternoon, and there’s a distinctive 1950s wholesome vibe to the whole place (though it conveniently lacks all the weird intolerance and emotional baggage of that era). My desire at this point is to meander down the street and see what sort of shops are here, but because of how light my sleeping is at this point, I’m completely lucid and have a fully-developed ability to entertain other thoughts while maintaining the cohesiveness of the dream.

Neat!

One of the first shops I pass is a clothing store. There are several pairs of jeans on an outdoor display, and they are of a cut that will probably look pretty good on me. The price tag says they are part of a 50% off sale and that their original price was about $80.00. Time to do some math! Not only was I able to figure out what the sale price is, I also correctly estimated the amount of sales tax that would be collected if I were to purchase these pants.

My next destination is a local grocery store, but someone has carelessly thrown a Bingo-themed losing lottery ticket on the ground. Purchasing this ticket cost someone $2.00, and if there are 25 chances to win on this scratch-off card, approximately how many cards would I need to buy in order to win a free lottery ticket? If the probability of winning this prize is 1 in a 100, I’d probably need to buy about 4 cards.

MATH SOLVED, SO TIME TO GO TO THE NEXT DESTINATION!

This next little bit isn’t math-related, but I run into my friend @captainfriendguy and he’s telling me that his big dog Willow has learned how to play the piano. I ask for a demonstration of this skill, and we find an upright piano on the street for public usage. Unfortunately for the piano, Willow ate a whole bunch of shredded chicken above the keys and now the piano is too clogged with chicken to adequately show off this doggy’s instrumental virtuosity.

I make a sharp turn down a side street to check on how some of my friends are faring at another grocery store. Grocery store workers are on the front lines of this pandemic, and it’s always nice to give them encouragement and let them know that people are thankful for their contributions to the community. A light rain has started to fall, and I start thinking about what size a potential Giant Alligator token should be in my Dungeons and Dragons game.

Such a creature would need to be bigger than the Large size category, which is 2x2 grid squares in size. But the next step up, Huge, is 3x3 and given the alligator’s general shape, seems to take up too much space in one dimension while being too short in another. And the Gargantuan category is 4x4 and too big in general. If each grid square represents a distance of 5 feet, making the creature’s token 2x4 seems like it would be reasonable.

More math ensues before I complete my journey across the parking lot. If the token is 10 feet along its narrowest axis, is that a reasonable size for a character to attempt to grapple if they wanted to ride it like a weird reptile horse? Internal monologue says that it’s probably a solid choice.

I enter the store and head to the produce section, looking for my friend, Johnny. He’s not working today, and funnily enough, the shock from learning this fact is what actually kicked me out of the dream.

Brains are weird, my friend.

---------------

Header image by Main Street Greenville in Greenville, TN.

#dream journal #dreams #fishdavidson #math #lucid #dog #piano #friend

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urlshortenerthings-blog · 4 years

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Shorten URL Tools to Utilize In Social Network Updates And Earn Money Online

Mainstream Shorten URL Tools to Utilize in Social Network Updates Or Tweets

For what reason would anybody need to abbreviate a URL for hyperlinks when it is so natural to reorder URLs into reports and on-line fields? Consider short URLs as a moniker or epithet for a more drawn out URL. Both URLs go to the same website at the same speed, but one requires fewer characters so typing or copy/pasting requires less effort.

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https://rurlz.com/

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theartoflovingthomashunt · 5 years

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The First Date

* * * The Art of Loving Thomas Hunt Fan Fiction Masterlist * * *

———

Characters: Alex (MC), Thomas Hunt

Setting: Alex and Thomas have recently decided to start a relationship but they are keeping it private for now. This story takes place after The Last Duchess party, but before the film’s release, so it takes place during the last chapter of Red Carpet Diaries Book 2.

*Note, the bar in this fic actually exists. If you live in the LA area, you should definitely check it out. I’ve never been there, but it looks amazing! -->Inspiration: Photo Post of Bar

Rating: PG

———

Alex just finished up a radio interview for a local news station. Interest in The Last Duchess had been growing ever since its release was publicly announced. Chazz could barely field all the requests that came in for Alex to promote The Last Duchess. The secret production led to a lot of last-minute press. Despite a few wonderful moments together the day after the party, Alex and Thomas had not found time for the proper date.

Once Alex was in her car heading home for the day, she took out her phone. Alex couldn’t help but smile as she pulled up the number she was looking for.

“Hello,” Thomas answered.

“Hi,” Alex replied. “I was hoping you might be free, tonight.”

“For you, I can make myself available,” Thomas responded.

“That is exactly what I was hoping to hear, Mr. Hunt,” Alex teased. “I was thinking we could try that dinner thing?”

“I could not think of a better way to spend an evening,” Thomas explained.

“Pick me up at 8?” Alex asked.

“I take it you have a place in mind?” Thomas questioned.

“I do,” Alex started.

“Care to share?” Thomas wondered.

“Nope,” Alex smiled to herself. “I think you will find it to your liking.”

“As long as you are there, I know I will,” Thomas agreed.

“Look who is already getting better at the romance thing,” Alex teased. “8 o'clock! Don’t be late.”

“As if I would ever be late,” Thomas stated. “I will be there at 8:00 and will attempt to wait patiently for you, as you so far seem incapable of being on time.”

“Being late would just prolong the time until I see you,” Alex admitted. “I’ll be on time, just be there.”

***

“8:04!” Thomas quipped as Alex got in the car. “I’m impressed.”

“Shut up and kiss me,” Alex demanded.

Thomas wasted no time fulfilling Alex’s request. His lips were on hers, her mouth was warm and inviting. He let himself relax under her touch. After a few moments, Thomas pulled away. “I expect that satisfied your direction.”

“For now,” Alex smiled.

“Where to?” Thomas asked.

“Old Man Bar,” Alex smirked. “It’s in Culver City.”

Thomas looked at Alex. “Are you trying to tell me something?”

“It’s not as out of the way as you would like, but it seemed fitting. And no, not because of the name!” Alex continued with a smile as she ran her fingers through his hair. Thomas’s face didn’t change. “It doesn’t seem like a place we would run into anyone who might see us, so we should have some privacy. Oh, and they have about two dozen types of Scotch on the menu.” Thomas smiled. “I thought that might be of interest to you.”

Thomas leaned over and kissed Alex softly. “You should have led with the scotch.”

***

Thomas and Alex enter the Old Man Bar. They both take a moment to look over the scene. The rustic bar was small and dimly lit. Beautiful stained glass windows adorned the outer walls. A fireplace warmed the other end of the room. Wood and leather surrounded them. Thomas's eyes landed on the bar stocked with row upon row of varied liquors. Luckily they had chosen a slow night. Only one other couple sat in a booth near the entrance. Thomas and Alex made their way wordlessly to a booth in the back.

“Penny for your thoughts,” Alex asked.

“I don’t understand that sentiment. Are you giving me a penny? Are my thoughts only worth a penny?” Thomas complained.

“Don’t overthink it,” Alex played. “What are your thoughts about this place?”

“It is a little less authentic than my typical haunts,” Thomas started. “However, I appreciate the attention to detail in setting the mood. It is quite tasteful.”

Alex smiled, “I’m sure the purveyors of this establishment will be pleased to know that the Great Thomas Hunt approves.”

“How did I do for our first proper date?” Alex questioned as she looked at him across the booth. His face was unreadable.

“As ever, you continue to astonish me,” Thomas answered with a slight smile in the corner of his lips.

“Good!” Alex smiled.

Alex and Thomas looked over the menus. Thomas, of course, went straight for the list of scotch. After they ordered, they turned their attention back to one another.

“So,” Alex began. “What is your favorite childhood memory?”

“What?” Thomas asked as he nosed his scotch savoring the pleasing aroma.

“Come on,” Alex pressed, lightly. “This is technically our first date, but it’s not like we don’t already know each other. You’ve never mentioned your childhood. I’m curious. What was young Thomas Hunt like?”

Thomas took a sip of his scotch, rolling it around in his mouth as he savored the taste. He narrowed his eyes on her.

“Fine, I’ll go first,” Alex decided. “When I was 4, my parents took me to the Iowa State Fair. It was the best day ever! We ate so much food, petted all sorts of animals, played games, went on rides, and of course, saw the famous butter cow. 600 pounds of butter! Like why is that a thing? I don’t know but it was AMAZING!”

“I am imaging 4-year-old you with pigtails and denim overalls,” Thomas smirked.

“It’s possible,” Alex grinned. “There may have also been a flower crown too.”

“Of course there was,” Thomas interjected. “Cowgirl boots too?”

“Maybe…” Alex admitted. “It was the first time I stood on a stage. There was a band playing. I had never heard them before, but I just walked up on the stage, not even thinking about what I was doing and asked if they could play me a song.”

“And what song did you request?” Thomas questioned.

“Only the greatest song ever, Baby Beluga,” Alex laughed.

Thomas choked momentarily on his scotch from laughing.

“I was 4,” Alex protested. “And it was Iowa!”

“That might be the best story I've ever heard,” Thomas teased.

“Don’t make fun or I won’t show you the picture the Des Moines Register took and published in the paper. It was on page 2! All of my friends were very jealous!” Alex said proudly.

“How could they not be,” Thomas laughed. Alex smiled slyly at him. “What?”

“You should laugh more. It looks good on you,” Alex replied.

“I will keep that in mind.” Thomas’s face returned to his stoic composure. “I suppose now I owe you a story.”

“It would only be fair,” Alex answered.

“As you wish,” Thomas complied, taking a deep breath. “This might not count as the best childhood memory, however, it is one that I hold dear. I have always been drawn to film and the dramatic arts. When I was 5, we were cleaning out my parent's garage and I found a box of cassette tapes. One of them was a recording of Orson Welles’ War of the Worlds from 1938. I didn’t know what it was, but I saw Orson and since that was my middle name, I thought it must be good. I played the tape and was instantly transported into another time and place. I felt excitement and fear, but also wonder. I was completely captivated. I listened to that tape hundreds of times over the years. It was my earliest inspiration. I have spent my life trying to capture that level of storytelling purity in my own work. It didn’t need over the top Hollywood noise and clutter. It didn't even need pictures. It stood on its own, simply because of the story and the talent and passion from those who brought it to life. It is my life’s greatest goal. I haven’t gotten it quite yet, but I will.”

Alex stared across the table at him at a loss for words.

“Sorry if that wasn’t as exciting as the Iowa Fair. I’m sure you can imagine, that even as a child, I was...different,” Thomas said, drinking his scotch, feeling a bit self-conscious.

“Thomas” Alex stammered. "You don’t know how incredible you are. I have no doubt that one day, a great filmmaker will tell his or her story, and when they do, they will share how it was you and one of your projects that inspired them to strive for greatness. Your work is a significant part of this city’s story.”

They sat wordlessly staring across the table at each other until their food had arrived. Their conversation shifted to upcoming events and the World Wide Premiere of The Last Duchess.

After savoring a delicious meal, Alex joined Thomas on his side of the booth to enjoy being a little closer to him.

“Is this okay?” She asked, hesitantly as she scooted next to him, letting her fingers graze his hand.

“You may be surprised to know that I am not overly fond of public displays of affection,” Thomas started, as Alex began moving away. “However, you somehow make it more bearable.” He let his fingers find their spot between hers as they held hands under the table.

“I’m glad you can withstand this torture,” Alex played, before continued. “But seriously, please let me know if you ever feel uncomfortable. I want us to be a team that supports one another, no matter what.”

“I want that too. Honestly, after you called me earlier, I was apprehensive about what tonight might bring. I tormented over how difficult moving forward might be. As I have told you, this is not my strong suit. I have little trouble writing and directing stories filled with deep connections and relationships, but I have never been notably comfortable with it in my personal life. Nevertheless, you find ways to make me feel contented.”

“I don’t expect big romantic gestures. I don’t need that. The only thing I need is you, just the way you are.” Alex kissed Thomas’s cheek.

“I am desperately afraid of dissatisfying you,” Thomas admitted.

“You could never disappoint me,” Alex reassured him. “We will figure us out, together.”

“I wish you knew the joy you bring to me.” Thomas kissed her forehead. He closed his eyes momentarily to commit the moment to memory. The way she looked, the way she smelled, and the pure happiness he felt.

“The feeling is mutual,” Alex replied, touching her hand to caress his face. Letting her thumb graze the side of his mouth where she knew a smile was hiding. Alex shifted closer to Thomas in the booth as he put her arm around her. She nuzzled her head into his shoulder, letting him rest his head on hers.

“How do you feel about dessert,” Alex questioned. “Maybe sharing something…”

“Anything,” Thomas started, feeling secure with Alex in his arms. “As long as I don’t have to share you.”

_ _ _

First Date Photo and another short fic from this night here.

———

Thomas Hunt Tags: @hopelessromantic1352 ; @alleksa16 ; @pinkcoloredmarshmallow ; @the-soot-sprite

#thomas hunt #thomas x mc #red carpet diaries #choices #pixelberry #rcd #alex hunt #fan fiction #the art of loving thomas hunt #taolth #orson welles #old man bar #red carpet diaries 2.5 #rcd 2.5 #war of the worlds

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creepingsharia · 5 years

Text

“F**k Your Pig-God!” Muslim Persecution of Christians, April 2019

(Midway Presbyterian Church , South Carolina)

by Raymond Ibrahim

About this Series

The persecution of Christians in the Islamic world has become endemic. Accordingly, “Muslim Persecution of Christians” was developed to collate some—by no means all—of the instances of persecution that surface each month. It serves two purposes:

1) To document that which the mainstream media does not: the habitual, if not chronic, persecution of Christians.

2) To show that such persecution is not “random,” but systematic and interrelated—that it is rooted in a worldview inspired by Islamic Sharia.

Muslim Persecution of Christians, April 2019

Slaughter of Christians

Sri Lanka: On Easter Sunday, April 21, Islamic terrorists launched a bombing campaign on Christians; the death toll reached 359, with hundreds more wounded. Eight separate explosions took place, at least two of which were suicide bombings: three targeted churches celebrating Easter Sunday Mass; four targeted hotels frequented by Western tourists in connection with Easter holiday; one blast was in a house, and killed three police officers during a security operation. At least 39 foreigners — including citizens of the United States, Britain, Australia, Japan, Denmark and Portugal — were among the slain.

Most fatalities occurred in the three church-bombings. The worst took place in St. Sebastian’s, a Catholic church in Negombo; there at least 150 Christian worshippers were murdered. At St. Anthony’s Shrine, another Catholic church in Colombo, the nation’s capital, at least 52 were murdered; and at the evangelical Zion Church, at least 38 were murdered.

“I don’t have words to express my pain,” said a Christian man who survived the bombing at St. Sebastian’s Church in Negombo:

We lost so many people…. The smell of flesh is all around me…. We are a peace-loving community in this small city, we had never hurt anyone, but we don’t know from where this amount of hate is coming. This city has become a grave with blood and bodies lying around…. Since the past three years, we don’t know why, but we see an extremist’s mindset developing among the Muslims. I know many good Muslims, but there are also a lot who hate us, and they have never been so before. It is in these three years that we see a difference.

“People were in pieces,” recalled Ms. Silviya, 26, concerning the bombing of St. Anthony’s Shrine in Colombo. “Blood was everywhere. I closed my son’s eyes, took him out, passed him off to a relative and ran back inside to look for my family.”

Nigeria: The jihad on Christians claimed dozens more lives in April:

On Sunday, April 14, Muslim herdsmen slaughtered 17 Christians who had gathered after a baby dedication at a church. The infant’s mother was among the slain; the father was left hospitalized in critical condition.

On Wednesday, April 17, 2019, Fulani militants launched an attack on a predominantly Christian village; four people were killed, six were injured; over one hundred homes and food storage barns burned down.

On April 19, Muslim raiders killed 11 Christians returning from Good Friday church service; they also kidnapped and slaughtered a female British aid worker.

On Sunday, April 21, ten boys were killed while taking part in an Easter procession. Emmanuel Ogebe, a Nigerian human rights lawyer remarked in an email, “The Holy Week killings in Nigeria do not grab headlines like Sri Lanka but still Nigeria’s Christians are dying the deaths of a 1000 cuts in as many installments!”

The author of a separate April 21 report, a Nigerian Christian, gave his take of the nonstop carnage of Christians in the West African nation:

In the course of investigating anti-Christian violence throughout Nigeria, I have seen things that drove me to tears. I have entered rooms and houses that were covered with blood. I have seen bodies that were shot and butchered; corpses of pregnant women who had their stomachs ripped opened, the bodies of unborn babies strewn about; homes destroyed; mass graves. In some of these attacks, entire families were killed. In a visit to one state in northern Nigeria, I went to 13 villages that were desolate as a result of herdsmen attacks. In another state, I visited eight churches that were bombed in one day, and in one town I saw the only four Christians who survived a Boko Haram onslaught. They were in hiding after all other Christians fled.

Another report quotes a local Nigerian pastor’s reaction to another church attack in April: “After that attack, I came to visit the villages in the two-mile area around my church, and it was like a cemetery, as dozens were killed. I have dozens of little children, with no school supplies, no uniforms and no desks, and I need to create a school for them.”

United Kingdom: A court “sentenced a Muslim Iranian asylum seeker to jail,” an April 5 report says, “for stabbing his wife to death, in part for her conversion to Christianity.” Dana Abdullah, 35, stabbed Avan Najmadiein, his estranged wife and 32-year-old mother of four, 50 times with a kitchen knife because she refused to support his asylum application. He was deported from the UK in 2013 for sexually assaulting a 13-year-old girl, had returned illegally, and was now “threaten[ing] to kill his wife because she ‘dishonored’ him by converting to Christianity, authorities said.” One detective involved in the case characterized Abdullah as “an arrogant and controlling man,” who “killed Najmadiein because he resented her rejection, her refusal to support his application and her conversion to Christianity.” Abdullah was sentenced to a minimum of 18 years and one month in prison.

Attacks on Churches and Crosses

Italy: A 37-year-old Muslim migrant in Rome was recently arrested for attempted homicide after he stabbed a Christian man in the throat for wearing a crucifix around his neck. “Religious hate” is cited as an “aggravating factor” in the crime.

Days earlier, a separate report noted that “crosses on graves in an Italian cemetery in Pieve di Cento have been covered with black cloth so as not to offend those who may come from another religion,” an apparent reference to Muslim migrants, some of whom have been known to desecrate Christian cemeteries. “The cemetery,” the report adds, “has also installed motorised blackout curtains in a local chapel following renovations to hide Roman Catholic symbols during ceremonies involving other denominations.”

United States of America: South Carolina’s Midway Presbyterian Church was vandalized, including by having its 125 year old windows shattered. “SUBMIT TO GOD THRU ISLAM” and “MUHAMMED IS HIS PROPHET” were spray painted in black on the church’s side. “It was very disturbing because we feel like this was an individual act and we don’t hold any religious group responsible for it,” said Bob Harrell, a church leader. “We think it most likely was some misguided young people.”

Indonesia: Several crosses in the Bethesda Christian cemetery in Mrican were vandalized, broken and burned in the most populous Muslim nation. The cemetery keeper said that “in the ten years since he has held the job, he has never seen such vandalism.” The report notes that

the incident joins a long list of cases of intolerance that have taken place in recent months…. In December 2018, some residents in Purbayan removed the upper part of a cross placed on the tomb of Albertus Slamet Sugihardi, after informing his widow, Maria Sutris Winarni, that the cemetery was ‘for the exclusive use of Muslims.’ Before that, the Catholic family was forced to hold a private funeral to avoid tensions with the Islamic community. A few weeks later, Christian tombs were vandalised in several cemeteries in Magelang, 30 kilometres north of Yogyakarta, Central Java.

Germany: While cursing his “pig god,” Muslim migrants beat and repeatedly stabbed a homeless man in Berlin for apparently displaying some Christian symbol. According to the report, “Arabic-speaking youths were caught on video assaulting and stabbing a homeless Berlin man is speculated in the German press to be an anti-Christian motivated attack…. After physically attacking the victim, one of the men then drew a knife and stabbed him several times, leaving him with severe injuries to the buttocks, thigh, and arm, according to investigators.” The Arabic words they yelled were translated as “We f*ck your sister, we’ll finish you!” and “Your pig-God, we f *ck your pig-God!” The report adds that this “incident is not the first in which a migrant-background Christian has been physically attacked by Arabic-speaking young men for displaying Christian symbols in public in the German capital. Recently, a 39-year-old had been beaten for wearing a necklace with a cross on it.”

Separately in Germany,a migrant man, apparently of Somali origin, entered a church in Munich during Easter Mass and threw dangerous objects at worshippers (variously described as stones or firecrackers) while shouting, “Allahu akbar” (Allah is greater). Congregants hurled their Easter meal baskets on the ground and rushed out in a panic. Some were injured; children were left in a “state of shock.” Authorities concluded that he was “mentally ill” and therefore not responsible for his actions.

Egypt: After a large Muslim mob beat two Christians, one a Coptic priest, in front of 200 terrified children who had gathered for Bible lessons, authorities responded by arresting the beaten Christian priest and shutting the church in compliance with the mob’s wishes. On the previous day, the mayor had gone to oversee ongoing reconstruction of the church. Angered at what he considered too much of an “add-on,” he accused the church of “treason” and riled local Muslims against it. At that point, according to the report,

The city council immediately arrived, stopped the work and confiscated building materials, including the cement and the reinforced steel. The next day at 4 p.m., dozens of angry demonstrators tried to enter the church premises but were unable to get through a steel door. Carrying clubs and knives, they started shouting, cursing and pelting the building with rocks, according to Coptic Solidarity. Additional forces arrived, and Father Basilious was struck as he and another priest were escorted off the premises. Parents and church leaders were not able to move the 200 children away from the angry, chanting villagers until security forces dispersed the crowds. Though police witnessed the beating of the priest, no arrests were made. Both Father Basilious and Father Bakhoum were taken for questioning into the evening hours. Police issued an indefinite closure order, pending investigations, and froze all activities of the 10-year-old church, including its daycare and the Sunday School.

One local Christian woman said, “The hardest emotion in that incident is the kids lived the incident in the reality. They saw the extremists attacking the church and how they injured the priests. This incident will hurt them psychologically in the future.” “This is a very hard situation,” said another. “You can see kids praying in tears because of their feelings of fear … that is very painful for us as Christians personally. I don’t trust in the government promises, but we have to continue praying for [a] reopening [of] the church.”

Attacks on Muslim Converts to Christianity

Kyrgyzstan: Three Muslim men nearly beat to death a former Muslim man because he converted to Christianity. After they broke into the home of Eldos, in his 20s,

They shouted at him that he was a kaffir (a derogatory term for a non-Muslim) and that he had betrayed Islam (the classic Islamic view of Muslims who leave Islam). Then they tried to force him to say the shahada (the Islamic creed), which is considered conversion or re-conversion to Islam, but Eldos bravely refused. They then repeatedly kicked him in the head as he lay helpless on the floor, fracturing his jaw and smashing his teeth and leaving him semi-conscious. They then threatened that they would come back to kill him if he did not leave the village by the morning.

Eldos reported the incident to local authorities—only to find them siding with his attackers. He “was held captive for ten hours in a prosecutor’s office in the capital Bishkek by the lawyer of his attackers. The lawyer tried to force Eldos to drop the charges against the three men who viciously attacked him.” Among the threats made during his ordeal, the defense lawyer told Eldos, “We are going to lock you in prison and you are going to beg me for your life.” Eldos and his uncle, also a convert to Christianity, fled the Muslim-majority nation two days later.

Uganda: A former Muslim imam and secret convert to Christianity, Sheikh Hassan Podo, 28, explained what happened to him after an informer told his family that he had been missing mosque prayers and was seen entering a church: “my brothers immediately began surrounding me, with sticks. It was difficult to escape [from the family house]. They began shouting, beating and insulting me as an ‘infidel’ and enemy of the Islamic religion.” A local heard “a loud cry emanating from Podo’s homestead, raising a big concern from the neighbors who arrived at the scene of attack and helped Podo to escape. He bled as he fled for his life. Later he was found in a pool of blood a kilometer away from the homestead, unconscious.” His wife and two children managed to escape to a nearby Christian neighbor. Podo was rushed to a clinic, where he was treated for wounds to his head and body; two days later he was discharged to a pastor’s home. According to the pastor, Podo’s father has since assembled a group of Muslims from different mosques “to hunt for the life of his son, declaring a fatwa and disowning him, and giving his land to the brothers for bringing blasphemy into the family.”

Kenya: Charles Ndingi Mudasir, a former Muslim who converted to Christianity in 2014, shared some of what transpired once his Muslim father learned of his apostasy:

One Sunday morning, [my father] followed behind me and saw me enter the church. That evening, he called two imams and my uncles. All of them descended on me with blows, slaps, and whips, calling me a kafir (infidel)…. They forced me to repeat the shahada [several times]. They continued to beat me mercilessly. My furious father hit me in the head and I fainted. When I woke up, I found myself locked in a dark room and with a lot of pain. Back in my mind, I knew that I was still a Christian and if I died I would go to heaven. I was released after two days. Life was never the same again. I was not allowed to leave the compound on Sundays.

Then, “in 2015, my father arranged a trip for me and my uncle, Mohamed, to Qatar. We were to be there for a month and come back,” continues Charles. While at the airport with his uncle, Charles asked his brother why he was weeping: “My brother, who is still a Muslim, had compassion for me. He [told me of] the plan my father had devised; to have me beheaded in Qatar because I had refused to convert back to Islam. I acted very fast, escaped from my uncle at the airport and rushed back to the church.”

Later, “while surfing in a cyber café in Mombasa [with] my childhood friend, some people blindfolded and whisked me into a waiting car,” says Charles:

I was taken round and round by the men, [who were] praising Allah that they had found me. Finally, I was taken to a mosque and uncovered….. I was later moved to another house and locked inside a small dark room. I was given seven days to repent and re-Islamize. Every day, I was given a blue pill with very little water. My captors told me that my father had sent that pill to help me remove unbelief from my thick head. Yes, my father again. My heart sank deeper…. On the eighth day, I was told that they would take me to the mosque to either be killed or [to be dropped off after] injecting me with poison. I knew my end had just arrived. I said my final prayer for deliverance from the claws of the enemy or a gracious welcome to the heavenly presence of God. The Lord answered my prayer, and my captors asked me where I wanted to go. I told them that I wanted to go to the South Coast.

He was again blindfolded, shoved into the car, driven to the South Coast, and dumped near the Word of Life Mombasa.

General Discrimination and Persecution

Palestinian Authority: On April 25, “the terrified residents of the Christian village of Jifna near Ramallah,” states a report, “were attacked by Muslim gunmen … after a woman from the village submitted a complaint to the police that the son of a prominent, Fatah-affiliated leader had attacked her family. In response, dozens of Fatah gunmen came to the village, fired hundreds of bullets in the air, threw petrol bombs while shouting curses, and caused severe damage to public property. It was a miracle that there were no dead or wounded.” The “rioters,” the report continues, “called on the [Christian] residents to pay jizya—a head tax that was levied throughout history on non-Muslim minorities under Islamic rule. The most recent victims of the jizya were the Christian communities of Iraq and Syria under ISIS rule.” Moreover, as often happens when Muslims attack Christians in Islamic nations, “Despite the [Christian] residents’ cries for help … the PA police did not intervene during the hours of mayhem. They have not arrested any suspects.”

Malaysia: After moving to a Muslim village, Slamet Sumiarto, a Catholic artist and his family “were expelled from a village because they are not Muslim.” Sumiarto made a video about the situation:

I just moved here to Pleret and brought all my stuff and paintings to Karet. Today I am very sad to know that I do not have the “right” to stay and live here simply because I am not a Muslim and my whole family is Catholic. From an emotional point of view, I am really exhausted from this unexpected experience. My poor wife, my children and I hope to soon find a good solution to this problem so that I could stay here, in this rented house in Pleret.

Although some local officials tried to get involved after seeing his video, in the end, Sumiarto and his family opted for prudence and moved.

Pakistan: On account of his Christian identity, Muslims attacked and beat Kenneth Johnson, a 27-year-old Christian, after he tried to open a small grocery store. According to Johnson, a poor agricultural laborer who takes care of three children, “It took about a year for me to save and arrange the required funds to establish a grocery store. However, Christians in this Islamic society are not allowed to initiate a business. I had customers in my shop when Fiaz Khattak led an armed group of about a dozen Muslim. They attacked my shop, damaged the stuff, thrashed me, passed derogatory remarks against Christians and Christianity. However, I managed to escape from the scene and protected myself from major injuries.” The Muslims told Johnson things like, “How dare you, a Christian, initiate a business of a grocery store in the village. You are born to clean the roads and our houses, not to do businesses.” Johnson continues:

The police did not reach the scene on time when we called the helpline. Instead of a legal course of action, the police officer referred the case to the community leader. However, the community leader is even more helpless in front of an influential Muslim, therefore, I have not got any relief. It is very hard for Christians to uplift themselves. They are deprived and discouraged at different levels and face discrimination. Muslims often resist to provide opportunities to Christians. Rather, they create hurdles to keep them at lower positions.

Egypt: On April 16, parliament approved the final draft of Egypt’s proposed amendments to the 2014 Constitution. Although the Sisi government had emphasized that these constitutional changes would help ensure the rights of Christians, the final language has disappointed many Copts. According to Article 244—the only article that mentions Christians—“the state shall guarantee that youth, Christians, the physically challenged and Egyptian expatriates are fairly represented in line with laws regulating this aspect (adequate representation).” Aside from likening Christians to handicaps and minors, “the language is in itself problematic, as the population of Christians is considered a state secret and thus it is impossible to ascertain what fair representation looks like for believers,” notes one report. “Most Egyptian Christians live in the Minya Governorate, where they are believed to represent nearly 50% of the population. The proposed constitutional changes also ignore other challenges Christians face, such as being treated as second-class citizens and difficulties at getting new churches approved.”

Read all of Ibrahim’s previous monthly reports here.

#Sharia #Jihad #Islam #Legal #Persecution #Muslim #News #Politics

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samwrights · 5 years

Text

Get Away Driver

Hello lovelies! I was challenged by an anon to do a Peter Park x stark!Reader using lines 5 and 8 from my writing challenge! Hope you all enjoy! The prompt list could be found [ here ]

Pairing: Peter Parker x Stark!Reader

Prompt: “It’s your turn to take care of the baby” + “No way, it’s yours” && “You’re a special kind of stupid, aren’t you?”

Words: 1773 [One of my shorter pieces]

You had fucked up.

Bad.

That was the only thought you had as you sat in the back of an NYPD squad car, handcuffs laced around your wrists. Anxiety was repeatedly recycling throughout your body as it mixed with your blood and pumped through your veins. If anything, you had only hoped to spend a night in a holding cell so you wouldn’t have to face your father, amongst dealing with everything else.

You could picture the local, and maybe even national, headlines now: “Stark’s daughter a criminal!” Even so, that wasn’t the worst of it. You feared just what your parents would do to you once they picked you up from the station. Sure, facing the ever famous Tony Stark was scary, but the real terror was your mother, Virginia “Pepper” Potts.

Upon arrival to the Queens police station, you were escorted past the foyer to have your information taken down. Thumbprints, mugshots—you name it. The officers on duty had a blatant look of disgust on their faces as they watched your photographs being taken. Cause for their distaste varied, as some were merely disappointed to see Tony Stark’s daughter in handcuffs or disgusted that a Stark was even present. Either way left you feeling uneasy.

“Don’t I get one phone call or something?” The officers standing guard merely scoffed before trodding you along by the cuffs and nudging you into a holding cell before chaining you to the cement bench. Defeated, you left out a hefty sigh before resting your head along the painted brick, tears threatening to spill down your cheeks.

It was an accident—there was no way intended to blow up three cars on the freeway, and while you didn’t intend to run, you were scared shitless and told Peter to floor it.

You were just thankful that little innocent Peter Parker was able to get away safely. And even though they were still able to trace the accidental crime to you, thanks to eyewitness accounts, he had still done his duty as your get away driver.

Seconds, minutes, hours—you were unsure of how much time had actually passed. Being as restless as you were, your legs were bouncing off the stone bench as you tugged on your handcuffs as you heard the faint voices of your parents just past the foyer.

“It’s your turn to take care of the baby.” Said your father, from what you could barely hear.

“No way, it’s yours.” Oh god, your mom was here too? You were done for. Footsteps padded their way through the Queens police station. Once the steps had stopped, keys jingled and the locks to the holding cell you were placed in turned. Despite not wanting to, you looked up to see a guard opening the door, Tony Stark and Pepper Potts standing behind him.

“Alright Junior, you’re free to go.” Said the guard, coming beside you to lock your handcuffs.

“C-can I just stay...here?” Your voice left your throat as a whimper as you pleaded the guard, which earned you a snort as a response.

“You can’t run from this, Y/N.” Tony spat out. Despite his abrasive tone, you could discern the disappointment he felt.

The ride back to the Avengers Tower was quiet and much too long. Not even your parents spoke to each other—a sign of your impending punishment. Even after arriving home, your body refused to move to even unbuckle your seat. “Y/N, get in the house.” Pepper said sternly, in a voice foreign to her typical trill. You swallowed a girthy gulp before making your way out of the car, dragging your feet back into the tower.

It didn’t even take five minutes before your dad began reprimanding you—hell he didn’t even wait until the three of you were in elevator.

“You’re a special kind of stupid, aren’t you?” Tony snarled, his anger flaring at you. Typically you wouldn’t tolerate him speaking to you in such a way, but in this moment, you could say you deserved it.

“Dad, I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking—“

“You’re right, you weren’t thinking!” Upon arrival to the common room of the Avengers tower, your mother had stayed quiet, pursing her lips together to prevent herself from also lashing out at you. Though she was far from happy with you, her and Tony tag teaming you wasn’t the best idea; you knew she wouldn’t be able to hold herself back much longer. “I mean what good could you have possibly thought would come from you launching a missile on a freeway?!”

“You could have hurt somebody—or even worse, you could have hurt yourself!” Your mom chimed in finally.

“I-I just thought after all of those marksmanship lessons with Uncle Clint, I wouldn’t miss! I just didn’t want the murderer to get away!” You tried to explain, tears now freely falling along your cheeks. By now, Wanda, Vision, and Hawkeye himself were crowding around, unable to ignore the events in front of them.

“I don’t believe running was the best of ideas, Miss. Stark.” Vision adds his two cents, making your anxiety pump even more furiously.

“That’s a good point,” Tony adds almost thoughtfully before resuming his rage directed towards you. “Why in the hell would you think to run instead of calling us for help first, Y/N?!” With the volumes that his voice raised, Pepper had to turn away, tears gently escaping her own wells. “This is why we needed to have the Sokovian Accords in the first place!”

“I just wanted to be a hero, and I didn’t want Peter to get in trouble—“ The momentary slip had caused you pause the second you realized your error. You had just ratted out Peter.

“FRIDAY, tell Parker to get down here now.” In a panic, you had rushed to the closest stairwell just down the hall from where your family stood. You were desperately trying to reach Peter first, to tell him to get out while he could. At the same time, you fumbled with your jean and hoodie pockets in an attempt to find your phone but had no such luck. Your mom must have still had your possessions from when they picked you up from the station. Frantically, you called out his name, hoping he could hear you despite being a floor below.

After finally reaching his room, you realized you were too late. Tony and Pepper stood in the ajar doorway, arms folded over their chests with scowls on their faces. Peter looked petrified as he saw your own mortified expression as you stood behind your parents. “I don’t even have to say anything, but I’m going to.” Your dad started. “What were you two even thinking? Why did the two of you even leave the complex in the first place?!” Tony snarled, looking back and forth between the two of you as he waited for a response.

“W-We were on a date.” Peter says quietly, trying to avoid looking at his mentor directly in the eyes.

“Excuse me?” Both of your parents said simultaneously, causing both of you to shut up. After hiding your blooming relationship with Peter Parker, the two of you finally had the opportunity to go on your first date. Nothing fancy, you picked him up and had a quiet dinner in Queens before heading back to the Avengers Tower in upstate New York for the weekend as he did every weekend for training. On the way back, the two of you had crossed paths with a known killer, who had wanted posters plastered all over the state. Being the heroes you were, the two of you teamed up to stop him. When the killer had fled on the freeway, you had Peter drive your car since his heightened spider senses would keep you two safer in the vehicle. That was your logic anyway.

That left you to attempt to catch the crooked criminal, and how you ended up launching a missile on a very public freeway. All of these events led you to where you stood in this moment, explaining the entirety of the situation to your parents. Somehow, in between words, you managed to sidle past Pepper and Tony and stand next to Peter, grasping his hand for security. “You realize you’re both grounded, right?” Pepper bit out.

“W-wait, I don’t actually live here.” Peter quipped almost reflexively.

“And you won’t be living here on the weekends either, kid.” Your dad spat. “You’re banned from entering the Tower for six months.”

“What?!” You and your newly established partner exclaimed. “Dad, that’s not fair!”

“Y/N, he was your getaway driver! He’s lucky he’s not in jail for aiding and abetting a criminal!” Out of impulse, you were squeezing Peter’s hand for reassurance—he squeezed back to let you know he was there.

“And Y/N, you’re grounded from all Avengers related technology for six months. You have your phone and your old laptop—no car, and no leaving the tower except for school.”

“Mom!” You yelled. That was so unfair!

“I’m sorry sweetie, punishment needs to fit the crime. If anything, your father and I are going easy on you. Now, say goodbye to Peter and go to your room.” All you could do was huff out an exasperated sigh before turning to hug Peter tightly.

“Hey, it’s gonna be okay.” He whispered.

“Six months, Pete? That’s half a year—a lot can happen in that time.”

“Yeah, but we’ll be okay. I promise.” Before he said anything else, and before your parents could yell at you for making your goodbyes too lengthy, Peter leaned in and pressed his lips to yours for the first time. It felt like electricity passed between the two of you; is this the spark that so many people talked about?

“Hey Parker, that’s my daughter. Can you not?” Tony asked with an eye roll. Deep down, he was glad to see the two of you together. But he also shuddered at the thought of his sixteen year old daughter, and a sixteen year old boy that he regarded as a son showing public displays of affection. The comment made the two of you laugh, and prompted a slightly more light hearted hug and kiss once more.

“By the way, Parker,” You said lowly while your arms while still wound around his neck, looking at him. “You were a pretty bad ass getaway driver.”

“You got caught though.”

“But you didn’t.” The two of you laughed bitterly for a brief moment before it died out. It made you realize that this was going to be a long six months.

#peter parker imagine #peter parker #peter parker fanfiction #peter parker headcanon #peter parker x reader #peter parker x stark!reader #peter x stark!reader #marvel #marvel fanfiction #MARVEL FANDOM #hollandaze500 #tom-hollandaze #tony stark #stark!daughter x peter parker #stark!daughter #pepper potts #pepperony #where the queue are you?

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sepiadice · 5 years

Text

NavyDice Campaign (2019/8/30): Poor use of Apples

So I was sitting about, attempting to play more Fire Emblem: Three Houses. Due to a pleasant kismet, it was my first day off of four in a row. I was also awake until Four AM being sick, so it was a mixed sort of day.

Anyways, I suddenly got a text from NavyDice[1] asking if I was up to play Dungeons & Dragons in about ninety minutes, at a location I hadn’t yet visited that was a half to full hour away (depending on traffic).

So obviously I agreed. Because I’m desperate and IndigoDice’s campaign has apparently fallen.[2]

So I got the address, plugged it into the Google Maps app, and went off, listening to a Dungeon World Actual Play podcast episode,[3] brainstorming my character since my original plan to transfer Autumn Quill over had to be abandoned due to everyone else playing a spellcaster.

So time to experiment with other new things. Like using the full strength of the Souvenir Mug Rule!

Anyways, this new campaign features three members of the improv group (Navy[4] GMing, as well as GoldDice[5] and LimeDice[6]) plus a friend of NavyDice who we’ll assign the nickname… Tetrahedron.[8]

In true NavyDice fashion, prepare for time shenanigans!

CAST

Acer ‘Maple’ Palmatum (SepiaDice/Me) Level 5 Elf Fighter. I recalled this image while brainstorming, and decided to just run with it.[9] While making the character, I’d decided she had a military history and a desire to help the helpless. Also likes cute things. We’ll see if any of that pays off. I’d give her a Scottish accent if I could remember to do character voices. As she’s named for a tree, her given name is probably actually ‘Palmatum’.

Garland (LimeDice) A spellcaster of some sort?

Poppi (GoldDice) Another spellcaster, who used Intelligence and Wisdom as her dump stats so… there’s concerns?

Mumble (Tetrahedron) Bard. Talks very quiet, as is his namesake.

Once characters were complete, we took turns inventing a brief history of the party and why we’re hanging out together.

For the actual campaign, we heard of a job dealing with a band of brigands bothering a town. We travel there and meet with the local marshall, Masem, who is grateful for our help.

The party rents a place at a bed & breakfast and waits to be needed.

So we open on the party doing small things that reveal character. Garland is reading a book. Poppi is mesmerized by a pretty mobile that was hanging about. (I forget what Mumble was doing). Maple is doing push ups.

A knock comes on the door. It’s Masem. The brigands are coming to attack the market space. Maple follows the marshall, the squishier party members follow behind.

In the market, Masem and Maple pose as they wait for the brigands to arrive. Garland and Mumble position themselves for optimal support. Poppi gets distracted by apples, and failing to purchase them since everyone else ran.

Combat ensues. The first wave of six brigands fall to sword and spell, and a second wave (featuring a very definite midboss) arrives, and similarly gets cut down.

As the citizenry start to celebrate, Maple hears a ticking coming from the midboss.

After a short back and forth between me and NavyDice to determine if Maple would know the concept of a bomb, we determine she wouldn’t immediately come to that conclusion. Maple investigates the midboss, and discovers he has a vest under his shirt with many magic scrolls that are starting to autocast. I decide that’s enough information to follow my initial instinct, and Maple shouts for people to run.

Maple attempts to scoop Poppi up, but fails the strength check, kinda ruining the moment but whatever.

Most of the town’s out of the blast range as the scrolls deploy in a massive fireball. Once the smoke clears, Maple removes her excess equipment and gets to work cleaning rubble and moving bodies. The local lord rides a carriage down to thank the heroes (our party) and announce a feast. Maple irritably asks him why his bodyguards aren’t helping with disaster response, and the lord sends the guards to do so.

The rest of the party goes to enjoy the celebratory feast the lord was announcing, but Maple stays until the work is done. I’d decided to play her as a Capital-Aytch Hero, so that’s what I’m sticking to, possibly to my occasional detriment.

Eventual she notices those helping the effort beginning to get awkwardly antsy to attend the feast, but don’t want to leave before one of the people who just saved the market from brigands. So Maple relents and leaves for the party, probably with plenty of soot on her.[10]

Everyone’s gathered at the feast, medals are awarded, toasts are started, all that stuff ceremony that Maple lost a taste for due to her time serving in a military.[11]

Then the church bells ring, and a darkness envelops the town, killing everyone.

Cycle 2

There’s a knocking on the front door.

Ah, so Navy is repeating a campaign he’s told me the story of. I decide not to beat around the bush and just let Maple be immediately be on the ball. Call it battle-won instincts of quickly reading the situation.

Maple answers the door and tries to inform Masem about the groundhog day loop we’ve entered, but the marshall is too concerned by the brigands to listen. Maple instead runs off to the market without listening to the mission text.

This time, she intends to save more people.

This time, she’s not going to waste time with the random mooks.

This time, Maple heads straight to the mid-boss with the bomb vest. If she can stop him before he gets to the marketplace, maybe she can mitigate the damage.

However, running towards the guy triggers some attacks of opportunity[12] from the generic brigands, but Maple ignores them. They don’t matter.

However, when she’s facing Bomb-Vest and the brigands flanking him, their combined attacks do drop her to exactly zero, and Maple falls and I begin making death saves.

Then Poppi decides it’d be hilarious to throw an apple at me. Tetrahedron points out that any damage taken while in this state means autodeath, so GoldDice rolls to hit.

And succeeds. Killing Maple with an apple. My friends, readers!

So I’m out of the cycle, and tune out because I’m an inattentive jerk and wanted to try and find the visual reference for my character.[13]

Eventually, the brigands are felled through a method that nearly kills Mumble, the local lord rides his coach down for easy publicity points as he rewards our party and mourns the fallen, there will be a feast, Maple will be given a hero’s funeral, and other familiar notes.

Some investigation might’ve occurred? I think mostly it was just a tad more somber because Maple died.

Then the church bells ring, and a darkness envelops the town, killing everyone.

Cycle 3

There’s a knocking on the door.

Okay, this time the party’s a little smarter. Mumble uses Leomund’s Tiny Hut to contain the explosion, and only he and Bomb Vest dies.

Okay, successfully saved the innocents. Maple takes the time to fill Masem in, who is skeptical despite magic being real so such temporal shenanigans shouldn’t be out of possibility. But using the evidence of (limited) precognition, Maple gets him to accept that maybe this is a thing that happens.

Masem gets called away to a crime scene, and Maple and Garland invite themselves along. Because information is important, and you don’t know what’s relevant.[14] Poppi goes to church, because… well, out of character, to investigate the church bells. In character, Poppi thinks its the Lord’s Day.

Someone blew a hole in the side of a vault, then a second one to escape. Masem investigates with the help of player characters who do what they want by virtue of being player characters.

We manage to, through the powers of basic deductive reasoning and basicer math, figure out which safety deposit box was emptied despite the bank manager’s attempts to be as unhelpful as possible.

Masem gets called away to officiate an execution. Maple assigns Garland to stay back and keep investigating as she keeps following Masem to learn what his day’s like.

Garland and two to three town guards (played by NavyDice, Tetrahedron, and myself)[15] do some more investigation of the vault, before eventually finding and descending into… either the showers or just inexplicable underground tunnels. The guards banter about why they’re taking orders from this random spellcaster guy, how this is an obvious horror movie set-up, how Garland’s orders to split up flies in the face of local bards tales of Scoobert Doobert and the company of mystery,[16] and other fun. They die there when the cycle ends.

Maple follows Masem away, and learns they are hanging the leader of the brigands they’ve been fighting. Which is fun.[20]

Public death spectacle concluded, Maple and Masem go to attend the lord’s feast. Maple notices Masem getting called away for some new distraction, but she decides not to push her luck in case observing it would affect it, and because she’d inserted herself a lot into Masem’s day as is.

Then the church bells ring, and a darkness envelops the town, killing everyone.

Cycle 4

There’s a knock on the door.

The rest of the party wants to regroup and discuss. Maple wants to save people and immediately rushes off, ignoring pleas that people dying don’t matter.

Instead of helping, Garland and Mumble decide to investigate the bank early, and Poppi hangs out at the church belltower to watch what happens in the market.

I roll percentile to determine Maple’s fate. 08. So, due to negligence by the rest of the party (again), Maple dies. Again. As does Masem. And a bunch of innocent standerbys. And also the lord’s manor via explosion I think? I was still trying to find that piece of art. Which I found used as a gentle nudge to the rest of the table that Maple’s a girl. Cut, but still obviously feminine.

Anyways, no one gets to learn what Maple learned yesterday, because screw them, they left her and everyone else to die, and Maple doesn’t write off anyone if there’s a chance to save them.

And there’s always a chance.[21]

Anyways, Poppi spends the day observing while Garland and Mumble annoy a bank clerk, find the brigands hideout, and Mumble convinces one of them he’s a god.

When Maple dies, I use it as an opportunity to take a break and look through social media. Tempers out of character knowledge and lets me take a break from being Permanently ‘On’ for hours at a time.[24]

Eventually, the church bells ring, and a darkness envelops the town, killing everyone.

So ends the first session.

I’m excited for the rest of the campaign, though I am (progressively) remembering details from the last time NavyDice ran it, so hopefully that doesn’t ruin the fun. Especially since I’m super excited to play Maple, and I don’t want to add her to the list of characters who deserve a second chance.[25]

Until next time, may your dice make things interesting.

[1] Who has not formally adopted the ColourDice naming convention, but does have a D&D Instagram? [2] I’ve got plans for that group, however, so stay tuned. [3] Concluded my prejudices against Powered by the Apocalypse is true and I will never willingly touch it. [4] Previously credited as Lyons. [5] Previously credited as Maddie. [6] Previously credited as Jose. He assigned himself the color green, but my brother took that color and I couldn’t convince him to pick something more specific. I rudely haven’t consulted Jose on the reassignment. He can yell at me if he reads this.[7] [7] No one reads these. [8] I’ll figure out a consistent guest player naming convention one of these essays. [9] Next time: glasses. Maybe. [10] There’s an amount of Vimes in this character. Actually, Maple may turn out to just be Sam Vimes. Which I’m okay with, even if I want to play her with an amount of bloodthirsty glee when fighting bad guys… [11] For once, 5e’s dumb background rules actually helped flesh out my character in a satisfying manner. [12] A mechanic I don’t think has ever added fun to D&D. It always feels petty. [13] Which took hours to find! But the references are saved to my phone now. [14] Hint: anything the GM draws attention to is relevant. [15] Always allow players to play NPCs so they can take the mickey out of other players. [16] GM tip! Always let real world media exist in universe. Makes it easier to make references, and justifying it is a lot of fun![17] [17] GM tip! Regardless, someone will always be confused by the concept of sandwiches due to the apocryphal tales of John Montagu, despite insisting sandwiches only existing since the 18th century is ridiculous, and evidence of similar food arrangement has existed long before the famed event.[18] [18] There was a tedious argument with the High School group that I’m apparently still annoyed by. But Good Eats has my back, so I’m confident.[19] [19] While my footnotes are cascading, I’ve been humoring the concept of a ‘Adventurer’s Cookbook’. Which would likely just be a camping cookbook with genre writing as flavor, and the recipes arranged in esculating terms of difficulty. [20] Not actually fun. [21] One of this campaign’s experiments: using the ‘It’s what my character would do’ defense. Because I like to try and justify things.[22] [22] Maybe someday I’ll experiment with justifying Failure to Communicate and Teacher/Pupil relationships.[23] [23] Because, to be clear, I really hate both. [24] GM tip! Let players (and GMs) take breaks. Either by pausing the game, or letting there be lulls where portions of the table can get away from losing focus and think about Other Things. [25] A list that includes Trix and Teddi.

#SepiaDicePlays #NavyDiceCampaign #Dungeons and Dragons #Fifth Edition #Maple

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hans-writes-things · 5 years

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Sunday Morning Short: Fairy Dust Backstory - The Therapist

Hey folks. Decided to do something a little different today. I want to assure you I’m still working on fairy dust, don’t worry. Some of it (ok... a lot of it) is gonna get rewritten and reposted, if not here than elsewhere, and you’ll absolutely positively get to know where, so no worries.

In the meanwhile, I wanna tell you about some of my side characters. For the main characters, you’ll just have to read Fairy Dust, it’ll all get revealed there eventually, probably, or however much I want to. But for some of the side characters, I “know” a lot about them that may never need be referenced in the story at all, so instead... I’ll give you their backstory to some greater or lesser extent with their first moments coming into contact with the main event that kicks off Fairy Dust.

Here’s chapter 1 of Fairy Dust btw, if you want to know what this is all about.

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Introducing Barbara (Fairy Dust side story)

It was an ordinary morning, at least to begin with. The alarm went off at 5:30 and Marcus slapped awkwardly at it from the comfort of the warmth and softness of his bed. His wife Helen murmured her usual complaints and they spent their first few minutes of the new day bathed in the golden light of dawn as it poured through the white curtains. It was a part of their ritual, to wake up a little earlier than they needed just so they could take it slow and say hello to one another before it was time to rush off and tend to their lives outside their home.

There was something off about this morning however. He couldn't quite place it but he felt uneasy, like there was a cold chill sitting firmly over his shoulders, like death's hand being placed there to warn, or maybe to comfort. Marcus was no stranger to death. He'd joined the local police service as a young man, eager to follow in the footsteps of his father who had recently joined the homicide department, then everything had fallen apart. He shuddered as the memory came crawling back to him once again but it was a familiar ghost by now, one that he'd long learned to face and acknowledge and then let go. Today it was particularly vivid however and the echo of the gunshot took longer than usual to fade and the ghostly scent of blood and gunpowder lingered even as he stepped into the shower.

His wife started the coffee maker he had set up the previous night and put away the dishes from the dishwasher as he showered. Their rituals had the practiced rhythms of the years behind them. The moment he was finished with his shower he turned the heat down a little bit for her and stepped out into the bathroom as she entered. He flicked a couple of drops of water at her and she laughed, her bubbly voice and bright smile melted away the last of the chill still lingering across his shoulders and he pulled her towards him and kissed her. She smiled and poked at his chest, giggling still, and jokingly scolded him for getting her nightshirt wet. He watched her undress out the corner of his eye as he toweled off and took the moment to just feel happy. Then she stepped into the shower, stuck her tongue out at him, and closed the door.

Marcus had met her after the tragedy, when he was just starting on the path to find out who he was all over again, and she had been a friend when he really needed one, someone who didn't know, someone who he could just exist with, without the weight of all the history. He had been a few years older than the other students at the school. He wasn't the oldest there, and it was only a few years, but it still made him feel a little out of place. She was a year older than him and so they had first bonded over how strange it was to feel so young out in the world around them but then attend classes and feel surrounded by children. She was studying law, while he was studying psychology. She hadn't asked him why, or why it took so long to figure out what he wanted, and he hadn't asked her. They were happy to just have someone to talk to.

Marcus got dressed for work and then tied an apron around his hips to protect them as he milled about their little kitchen, getting the rest of breakfast together and listened to his wife's voice singing in the shower. He hadn't turned on the radio this morning, as he usually did, and while he noticed this he decided not to wonder why. He didn't want to acknowledge his morning's premonition. He had always been a little bit psychic, which is a little uncommon among the humans of the realm, but far from unheard of. He probably inherited it from his father, which is probably why Charles Barbara had risen through the ranks as quickly as he did. He had been an excellent cop with fantastic instincts, or that is what everyone had said, but there's always a price to pay for knowing more than most. Charles had been barely eighteen when he became a father and had done his best by Marcus and they had been close. Marcus looked up to his father, respected him, emulated him, even modeled himself after him to a degree, so when his father died he felt he had lost himself as well and it quickly began to show. They had sent Marcus to speak with the department shrink and it had been an unmitigated disaster.

Helen snuck up behind him while he was stirring the scrambled eggs, lost in thoughts that seemed to be going nowhere, and wrapped her arms around her husband. They weren't the most usual of couples. Marcus was well over six feet tall and looked as though he could pick up a car if he wanted to, though these last few years his visits to the gym had grown fewer. Helen was only a hair shorter than he was and her strength looked to match his. He had taken some judgement from friends and family, first for leaving the police service to become a shrink, and then for marrying a half orc, but he knew that she had it worse. There was no hiding her heritage, not with the slightly greenish gray tint to her skin, the point of her ears and the slight tusks in her bottom jaw, and people held it against her, expected her to be savage, slow, and simple minded. She had taken these prejudices and made them into advantages in her early career and earned the respect of her peers, but this didn't mean that the sidelong glances and words of strangers couldn't affect her any more. She held him tightly for a moment, then softened her grip and the ritual resumed.

He had never met someone with as much passion or compassion as Helen and while she had all the skill and intelligence to become yet another high price lawyer with wealthy clients she had opted to become a public defender instead, taking the occasional pro-bono job in between. She in turn told him that she had never met anyone like him. When he had first told her that his dad had been a cop and that it was what he'd always thought he wanted to be too, he had seen her stiffen at the mention. Then he had told her what had happened to his father.

He'd lost his mother when he was very young and had very little memory of her. He had been raised by his father and his father's mother. His father's father had been a cop too, back in the day, and died in the line of duty, so he had always known that that was a possibility and that used to terrify him, the thought that one day his father might go to work and never come home again, but what had happened was worse. Marcus had been one of the youngest men to be accepted into the police service and had barely been given his first uniform. He was at the bottom rung of the ladder with a small walked beat with three others, in a fairly safe area of the city center, working in the early morning, getting a feel for the chain of command, writing tickets and babysitting shoplifters until a patrol car would come pick them up. He hadn't seen his father in a few weeks, he'd been busy working, taking point on a case, a bad one. Marcus didn't know all of the details, but it had been a particularly brutal murder with a ritual element. Necromancy. His father had seen something, been exposed to something otherworldly and wrong, and something within him had broken. When his father and his partner had attempted to apprehend the suspect something went terribly wrong and his father was the lone survivor. They had sent him to the department shrink but it had only made things worse. A few nights later Marcus had woken up in a cold sweat and rushed to his father's apartment just a block away only to hear the gunshot as he approached his father's door. He could feel it before he entered. His father was gone, a note laying in a growing pool of blood below him.

They sent him to the same shrink as had handled his father. She had meant well, surely, but she wasn't well equipped. She was barely older than Marcus and spoke from a place of innocence. She wasn't familiar with death, not like he now was, and nothing she had to offer felt right, or helpful. She had painted her little office in the colours that were meant to invoke comfort, but they clashed with his reality. There were plants in the window and a crayon drawing on the wall behind her desk. He had felt alien, out of place in her office, as if the interviews had nothing to do with the reality he inhabited. She began to grow frustrated with their interviews as time passed on, and their personalities clashed. It was no one's fault, he knew that, if not then, then later, but it built up over time until they both lost their temper. Him feeling as though she was playing pretend and lacked any true understanding, and her feeling as though he didn't take her seriously or want to even try to improve. He had shouted, she had shouted, it was unprofessional, sure, but she was new and young and he might have been trying to get on her nerve. The breakthrough came when he shouted that he could do her job better than she was doing it, and she had looked him straight in the eye and dared him to prove it.

Now, he had her office. She held no grudges. She knew she was in over her head and had quit the same day as he did and a couple years later he had apologized to her, properly. They were on friendly enough terms now.

Helen had in turn told Marcus her story, a common enough for half orcs. Her mother was orc, a single parent, and they were poor. There are only so many jobs for orcs in the city and back then it was even worse. They did what they had to to survive. He hadn't asked about her father, but she had told him anyway. She wasn't sure, but she expected it was the landlord. Her mother had died a couple of years ago, an accident, but an easily preventable one. She had decided to sue the people responsible, though it hadn't been easy. Most lawyers who would even meet with her had spoken to her slowly, using simple words and gesturing a lot and refused to take her seriously, more than one had made sure they had some of their law firms security personnel in the room with her. Eventually she had found someone to take her case, a woman with slightly pointed ears and a taller than average height, a half elven woman, and in her relief she almost got ripped off. When she pointed out the error in the contract before signing it, where the percentiles had been switched in case of any damages she'd receive, the half elven woman had corrected it, but ever since that moment Helen knew that she needed to watch her own lawyer. She hadn't expected her to be able to read the contract, let alone catch the error. She hadn't sued for the money, but to see justice served and to make sure the problem was solved, but she had received enough to be able to go to school, study law, become the person she had needed the most.

In a way they were both working to help the people that they used to be and along the way they had found each other and they made each other happy.

Marcus plated the eggs while Helen pulled the mugs from the top cabinet and made their coffees ready. They sat together in the silence of their little kitchen and ate breakfast with their knees touching under the table. They breathed in each other's presence and the blooming gold of dawn bloomed into warm morning sun. They touched each others hands and clinked coffee cups together. They told jokes and laughed, smiled, and basked in the sanctuary of their morning ritual. After a while she washed the pan and put away their bread and juice and he loaded their plates and cups into the dishwasher. Practiced moves from their years together. Then they put on their coats, collected their briefcases, kissed deeply and whispered their i love yous and see you laters.

It wasn't until Marcus sat on the bus that he heard the news of a massive shootout over in the dust district that left at least three police officers dead and several more severely wounded. The news reader went on to say that there was very little information as to what happened exactly and no comment on who was responsible, but there had been a report of a troll and at least one other assailant of unknown race or origin. The cold weight pressed down on Marcus' shoulder again. Something really bad was coming and he would have to try and help the survivors pick up the pieces afterwards. He could feel it, deep in his bones, that whatever this was, it was only the beginning.

__________________

If you like my sunday morning shorts, or my Fairy Dust, please consider clicking here and tossing me a few coins so I can afford to continue to exist in this harsh bleak hellscape that is 2019.

Or if you’re as broke as I am, a reblog goes a long way.

My love and support to all you beautiful people who’ve supported me so far.

#Sunday Morning Shorts #support your local artists #short story #fairy dust #urban fantasy

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