#Business casual Gerard means a lot to me.

[iero]

src. 

[bluejayblueskies]

How about an AU where Jon and Gerry have been dating since Uni and have managed to keep it secret from everyone (including Elias and Gerttrude) by complete accident?

send me an au and i'll give you 5+ headcanons about it! requests closed!

by accident you say? 👀

1. jon and gerry meet somewhere completely ridiculous (yet also completely mundane) where the chance of them running into one another was like.... one in a million. like, maybe jon's class got out early and so he decided to walk a little further from campus to try a new coffee shop that he's never tried before and never will again because he realizes he really hates the drinks and that it's not worth the walk, and gerry is in the area looking into something leitner-related and he looks down at his phone a bit too long and runs smack into jon when he's walking away from the coffee shop with a lukewarm travel cup of hot chocolate because they were out of tea (what kind of coffee shop is out of tea? jon thinks with a scowl).

the hot chocolate spills all over gerry and jon's like 'oh god sorry, do you- do you want me to do something?' and gerry's about to brush past him when he sees the person he was looking for and shit, they're looking this way so without thinking he just... grabs jon and pulls him into the nearest shop. which happens to be selling something weird, idk, little ceramic figurines. and gerry does Not know what to say because like, he can't tell this stranger that he's hiding from maybe-a-fear-avatar! so he's like 'uh. you can make it up to me by.... helping me pick out a figurine? for, er. my mother. yes.'

so they're just walking through this shop, gerry's shirt still wet with hot chocolate, jon Very confused and also Very late for class but somehow nervous to just leave, so they look at figurines together. gerry keeps looking back out the window and nope, maybe-an-avatar is still there, and now they're sitting on the bench and it doesn't look like they're planning on moving anytime soon and gerry really doesn't want to take the chance and gamble that the maybe-avatar won't recognize him or realize what he's looking for. so gerry keeps shooting down every recommendation jon gives him with some progressively-more bullshit reasons--'oh, my mum already has that one' 'that one's too expensive, i can't afford it' 'that's too small' 'i don't like the way that one's looking at me' 'my mom's allergic to dogs, actually'--until jon's finally like 'okay what is going on and can i leave now?'.

and the maybe-avatar is still out there and gerry's certain now that they're watching him and he's suddenly very aware that he's spent a long period of time with this guy whose name he actually didn't quite catch and that it definitely looks like they're working together and ah, fuck, if i let him leave and he gets targeted because of me i'd feel horrible. so gerry sighs and thinks fuck it and is like 'listen i'm gonna level with you. i'm here looking for a book and there is somebody watching me right now and i know how that sounds but it's really not as shady as you think and also really not my fault but it is my fault that you're here too so. yeah. sorry i don't know if it's safe for you to leave.'

and all jon can think to say is 'a book?'.

and gerry's like 'don't worry about that bit, you really wouldn't understand' and jon gets all bristly and says primly, 'well, i'm a lit major and i work at the university library maybe i could help' and gerry can't help but laugh and say, 'really hope there's not a leitner in your uni library, mate'. and then jon gets this wide-eyed expression on his face like he's just seen a ghost and says 'what did you just say?' and before gerry can deflect again jon says, more intensely, but also hesitantly, 'is... is it called a guest for mr. spider?'.

and gerry's like 'um. no, it's not' and jon deflates a bit but now gerry's curious and he's like 'why?' and jon tries to deflect like 'oh clearly i misunderstood' but gerry's not budging and he's like 'no, no--have you read a leitner? gold bookplate, super fucked-up consequences?' and jon just goes pale which is really all the confirmation gerry needs. gerry feels the need to clarify that he hates them too--that he burns them whenever he gets the chance.

weakly, jon says, 'there... there's more than one?'. and then, a bit stronger: 'you- you're looking for another one? here? and you're going to burn it?'

gerry: yes, that's the plan. why--?

jon, without hesitation: i want to help

and maybe gerry is hesitant at first but, well. it seems like jon is already fully in this, so he reluctantly agrees, and they hunt down the leitner together and gerry lets jon burn it and then they're friends (and it really doesn't take long at all for that to transition into partners).

2. gertrude and elias missing that they're dating is a comedy of errors, including a lot of rather dramatic near misses including, but not limited to:

- jon always leaves a room just before one of them enters

- gerry always talks ambiguously about the person helping him hunt down leitners; elias always assumes he means gertrude, gertrude always assumes he means his mother. this is exploited to a comedic level

- getrude thinks 'going on a date' is code for gerry having a new lead on jurgen leitner and leaving to go chase it down

- when jon joins the institute as a researcher and runs into gerry in the building for the first time, he greets him neutrally in a mutually-agreed display of professionalism while working. gertrude and elias both remark at the fact that 'it's so nice that jon/gerry has a friend'

- gertrude, opening the door to the break room and bustling around inside, looking over at gerry where he's standing in front of the counter, jon sat atop it with his legs bracketing gerry's hips (they have very clearly just been kissing): oh hello gerard. jonathan. talking about leitners again?

jon, a bit embarrassed, slipping into Ultra Professionalism to compensate: i was just discussing with mr. keay the details of case number 0031211 regarding ms. cortena's experience with the talking vase--

gertrude, not at all interested, already knows that it's fake: right, right, carry on then

*after she's gotten her tea and left*

gerry, holding in laughter: 'mr. keay'?

jon, blushing: shut up gerry

3. gerry, casually, not actually aware that getrude doesn't know that he and jon are dating: yeah so then i had to leave my date early to go chase down this leitner and jon was not pleased

gertrude, after a hum of acknowledgement: how unfortunate. i'm not sure how jonathan's opinion on the matter is relevant, however. was he disappointed that you didn't ask him to track down the leitner with you?

gerry, Confused™️: he was.... at the date?

gertrude: at the date? whatever for?

gerry, now staring openly: because i was on a date with him? because we're dating? wait, did you not know that?

gertrude, not willing to admit that she missed that for nearly three years: of course i knew that, gerard. don't be foolish.

gerry, now even more confused: but--

gertrude, without missing a beat: i trust the leitner hunt went well, then?

gerry, after a long pause: um. yes?

gertrude, nodding: good.

4. there's an institute party and everyone's allowed to bring a plus-one

elias, noticing that jon's alone at the party: ah hello, jonathan. no plus one for you today?

jon: no, gerry couldn't make it, unfortunately. family business.

elias, somehow Oblivious, and also very Old Fashioned and way too familiar with his employees: quite. though typically, plus ones are of the romantic capacity. it's nice that you would consider gerard an acceptable substitute though, i suppose

jon, Bi confusion and suddenly unsure if his boss is homophobic: um. it.... it would have been in a romantic capacity?

elias, still Not Getting It: ah, i see. perhaps for the best, then--office parties don't make for pleasant first dates, in my experience

jon, unsure of how much of his personal life he wants to share with elias but not really wanting to pretend like he's not been dating gerry for going on three years now: um. it- it wouldn't be our first date. or- or really a date at all, just an- an event, i really don't think gerry would call this a date

elias, Getting it a little bit: ah. unfortunate, then. congratulations, i suppose, are in order. was it a recent engagement?

jon, ??????, biting the bullet: we've been together for three years, elias

5. jon, handing gerry a wrapped package on their fourth anniversary after they started dating: this is, um. this is for you

gerry, opening it and holding up the little ceramic figure of a dog: jon. is this--?

jon, in a rush: it's from that shop. where we, uh. where we met.

gerry, overcome with such love he really can't stand it, throwing all of his proposal plans out the window and digging the little square velvet box out of his pocket: jon can i ask you a question--

(jon is so surprised he just starts crying. it's only the fifth time gerry's ever seen him cry and he's so worried he said something wrong at first but then jon manages to say yes around his tears and jon wraps his arms around gerry tightly and buries his face in gerry's shoulder and whispers i love you and gerry hugs him tightly in return and says i love you, too, jon. i love you too.)

[robinrunsfiction]

CAN I GET A FRANK X READER FIC WHERE THE BAND GOES OUT FOR LUNCH AND Y/N STAYS AT THE BUS AND SLEEPS IN FRANKS BUNK AND THEY GET BACK AND FRANK SEES HER AND JUST GETS INTO BED WITH HER AHD HOLDS HER AND ITS ALL FLUFFY

Hold You Here

Pairing: Frank Iero x Female Reader Rating: General Requested By: Anons Word Count: 2,000 Author’s Note: I’m combining this with another similar request, which resulted in a longer story! I hope everyone enjoys! TW for a brief mention of Gerard’s addiction struggles in 2004

To be in a band meant that your bandmates were your most intimate friends. Hours, days, weeks spent cramped together in small confined spaces meant that everyone saw each other at their best, worst, and everything in between. Platonic physical affection wasn’t an unusual occurrence and neither was sharing beds so that the fewest number of hotel rooms could be reserved to save money, curling up under a blanket together while watching a movie on the bus, not to mention all the on-stage antics, it was all taken in stride. 

It also helped that everyone looked out for each other, but it seemed as if Frank looked out for you more than the others. When things became hectic, or when you were suffering from one of your migraines, he’d always be the one checking up on you to make sure you were okay. Spending hours up late at night talking with him was one of your favorite ways to pass time on the bus. You’d developed quite the soft spot for the chaotic guitarist.

The band had been touring what felt like non-stop for ages, but especially now that Three Cheers was out. It had been a very long, hot summer full of meeting fans, rocking out, and if you were being honest with yourself, way too much partying on everyone’s part. You were feeling pretty burnt out, but the success of the band made it worth it.

Now it was the last week of Warped Tour 2004 and you could tell summer was ending by how quickly the nights were cooling down. As usual when the tour was stopped over for a couple nights, both a bonfire, and most of the bands, were lit. You were standing as close to the fire as you could without melting the rubber on your chucks trying to keep warm.

“Hey,” Frank said, walking over to stand next to you.

“Hey, how’s it goin?” You asked

“Good. Cold?”

“Yea,” you rolled your eyes. “I decided to dress cute, and now I’m freezing my ass off.”

“Who were you dressing up for?” Frank asked, unzipping his hoodie.

“No one really,” you replied, watching as he took off the sweatshirt. “What are you doing?”

“Keeping you warm,” he replied.

“You don’t have to,” you started as he put it over your shoulders.

“Too late,” he replied with a smirk that faded into a soft smile.

You looked up at him, in the dim light of the bonfire and you felt your heart skip, like a switch had been flipped. That soft spot you held in your heart for him suddenly felt overwhelmed, like the quiet feelings were now screaming in your ears.

“I bet it’s warmer on the bus,” you suggested, deciding to lean into the moment. You just hoped you were gauging the situation correctly.

His eyebrows went up in surprise, but he nodded. “I bet you’re right, wanna go back?”

“Yea.”

The walk across the parking lot was silent, as your hands brushed against each other’s, shoulders bumping occasionally. Climbing into the bus, you wandered to the back and confirmed no one else was around, and when you turned back to Frank he seemed a little nervous.

“Ya know you do look really cute. Like not just tonight, like all the time,” he said.

“Thanks,” you replied, tucking your hair behind your ear nervously. You were in your 20s, why were you suddenly feeling like a middle schooler talking to their crush?

“Wanna watch a movie or something?” He offered after an awkward silence hung between you.

“Sure. Nothing scary though, I’m tired of horror.”

“How can you be tired of horror?” Frank asked with feigned shock.

“Because that’s all we watch and we’ve watched almost every movie we have 100 times over.”

Frank started flipping through the stack of DVDs that the band had accumulated through countless tours. “What about ‘10 Things I Hate About You’?” he asked. 

“Yes,” you nodded eagerly, plopping down on the couch and pulling off your shoes.

Frank put the movie in the DVD player and turned off the lights, sitting next to you. You glanced over, trying to gauge what he was thinking. He glanced back and you snapped your eyes back to the tv. As the movie progressed, Frank casually put his arm over the back of the couch and you settled into his side. 

“I wanna go play paintball, like real paintball, some time,” you said, watching Kat and Patrick’s date on the screen.

“We should go then,” Frank replied.

“Just us? Or,” you trailed off.

“Yea, I mean unless you wanna invite other people.”

You looked up at him, and he was looking back down at you. "No, just us," you said softly.

"Cool," he said with a goofy smile.

You had to bite your lip to keep from giggling, but in that moment, the energy between you shifted. Frank started to lean in and you closed your eyes as his lips met yours. At first the kiss was soft and tender, almost tentative. But then his arms wrapped around you, pulling you closer and your hand ran through his hair as he deepened the kiss. 

When you finally came up for air, you couldn't help the smile on your face when you saw how happy Frank looked. "That was fun," you laughed.

"I've been wanting to do that forever," he said, running a hand through his hair, smoothing it down.

"Well we should do it again sometime," you replied.

Just then, loud, drunken voices could be heard outside the door to the bus and you both jumped apart.

"They're in here makin' out or something," Ray shouted over his shoulder with a giggle. You knew there was no way they could have seen you two just minutes before, but the joke still rattled you.

"No they weren't," Mikey said disbelievingly, as he and Gerard followed.

You glanced at Frank who was shaking his head at your bandmates before he changed the subject to something totally random. Things had literally just started with him, and it felt fragile. The last thing you wanted was to have it all fall apart like nothing happened, and be left wondering forever what could have been.

The next day, nothing about the prior night was discussed between you and Frank, but it had been a busy day of press, playing, and meeting fans. When you were climbing back into your bunk, completely exhausted, you spotted a folded up piece of paper on your pillow. You closed the curtain behind you and turned on the small light above your bed. When you unfolded the note, you immediately recognized Frank's scrawling handwriting. 

(YN), all I've been able to think about today is how your lips felt on mine and wondering when I can feel it again. I can't remember anything that was said to me because I was thinking about how I'd rather just be talking to you. I hope sometime before the end of this tour we can hang out alone together again.

XO, frnk

You bit your lip to keep from squealing with delight.

~

The last few days of Warped Tour were just as much of a blur, and when that tour was over, you were quickly shipped off to another one. Gerard was struggling and the whole band was impacted. Everyone dealt with it in their own way, and luckily you had Frank to brush away the worried tears when your brain wouldn't quiet enough to let you sleep at night. 

Soon after, Gerard got the help he needed and when he rejoined the band, you were immediately sent back out on the road. Everything felt a little brighter that fall.

You and Frank were as good as ever, but still keeping your relationship quiet. His hand would find yours when no one else was around. You'd each sneak into each other's bunks and spend the nights cuddled together. Then there was the series of excuses as to why you two should share hotel rooms, which included Mikey texting too much, Ray talking too much, and Gerard keeping the light on all night drawing, among others.

So when you were blindsided with a migraine one morning, you were not at all pleased. The pain throbbed through your head as nausea rolled through your stomach. You groaned as you slid out of your bunk and stumbled to the front of the bus, which was obnoxiously bright, to the cabinet holding the medicine. 

"There's sleeping beauty," you heard Ray laugh, but you just grunted in response. You grabbed the bottle of Excedrin and silently prayed they'd do their job quickly as you took a dose.

"You ok?" Frank asked as you slumped down on the couch.

"No, migraine."

Your bandmates groaned, knowing how much of a pain, literally and figuratively, they were for you.

"So you don't wanna go grab lunch?" Mikey asked.

"Please don't make me think about food or I might get sick."

"Do you want me to stay back with you?" Frank offered. It didn't even register how much concern he was showing toward you.

"No, I just wanna sleep and hope it goes away before we have to play tonight."

"Ok, we'll leave you alone. Come on guys," Gerard said, shooing the guys out. You glanced up and saw Frank giving you a sympathetic look before leaving the bus.

You dragged yourself back to the bunks, closing the door to the main room behind you and looked at your bunk. There was no way in hell you were climbing back up into it. Instead climbed into Frank's. 

You pulled his blanket over you as you curled up in a ball facing the wall. His pillow smelled faintly of his shampoo, but not enough to make you feel sick, or maybe the medication was finally kicking in.

It felt like no sooner you'd fallen asleep that you heard voices in the front of the bus. You wondered how long you’d been out, but didn’t care enough to check the time. Before you could drift off again you heard the door opening and closing softly. Shuffling steps stopped behind you and then you felt someone climb in the bunk behind you.

"Hey," Frank said softly, his arm wrapping around your side.

"Hi," you answered, a smile forming on your face for the first time all day, not that he could see it.

"Feeling better?"

"A bit. Not 100% yet, but better than earlier."

"Mind if I nap with you?"

"Please do," you replied.

Frank drew the curtain shut and settled in behind you. He brushed aside your hair and placed a soft kiss on the side of your neck before giving you another quick squeeze.

You drifted back to sleep for a while, and when you woke up again, your headache was mostly gone you were relieved that you'd be able to play that night without feeling awful. As you stretched your legs out, Frank shifted, pulling you tighter against him.

"Better yet?" He murmured sleepily.

"Yea," you said, not moving more, afraid of disturbing the comfortable cocoon you two were in.

“So at lunch the guys were talking,” Frank started.

“‘Bout what?” You asked, rolling over.

“Us.”

“Oh?” Your heart rate going up.

“We went to this café for lunch and I got you a cupcake, it’s in the fridge by the way. And they were just wondering if there’s something going on between us.”

“What’d you say?”

“I just brushed it off, they were just giving me shit.”

“Oh,” you said, suddenly feeling a little dejected.

“Do you still wanna keep us a secret?” He asked.

“I dunno," you mumbled. "Do you?”

Frank intertwined his fingers with yours. "It's been kinda fun this way. But I also kinda wanna tell everyone I know that I'm the luckiest dude in the world BECAUSE I'm with you."

“Let's decide later,” you replied. “For right this moment, let’s just enjoy this.”

"Good idea," he replied with a soft smile before leaning in and kissing you lovingly.

[beholdme]

All the Many Shades of Gerry - Chapter 15

Chapters: 15/19

Fandom: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Martin Blackwood/Gerard Keay, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay/Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist

Characters: Martin Blackwood, Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Gerard Keay, Tim Stoker (The Magnus Archives), Sasha James, Gertrude Robinson, Elias Bouchard

Additional Tags: Alternate Universe, Library AU, Librarian Jon, Artist Gerry, Trans Male Character, Trans Martin Blackwood, Canon Asexual Character, Asexual Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist, Ace Subtype - Sex Positive, Polyamory, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Romantic Fluff, Falling In Love, Boys in Skirts, Kissing, Demisexual Gerard Keay, Minor Character Death, Past Character Death, Canon-Typical Child Neglect, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Flirting, Minor Jonathan “Jon” Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker, Adventures in Hair Dying, Happy Ending, Banter, Gerry has a lot of sass, Gerard Keay is Morticia Adams, Jon is a very grumpy Librarian, Martin adores them anyway.

Summary: In which Gerry is a kaleidoscope and Jon and Martin can’t help falling in love with him.

He happens to love them back.

Find it on Ao3

[1] [2] [3] [4] [5] [6] [7] [8] [9] [10] [11] [12] [13] [14]

Almost a year into their relationship, Martin's lease comes up.

There's brief romantic talk of them all moving in together, but they're all attached to their own spaces, especially with Gerry needing to keep his art studio, and it trails off without any real resolution.

When Martin's landlord doesn't want to renew and he essentially has no choice but to find a new place to live, he panics.

Jon is with him when he opens the letter, and witnesses the heartbreak on his face, a look far more appropriate to the death of a loved one than to having to move house.

He understands though. This is Martin's first home. The first rent he paid, the first freedom he claimed. The first place he had whispered 'I love you' to Jon, and the first place Gerry had pressed his lips to Martin's.

Jon is settled in his own flat in a more practical way. It's close to the library, Gerry's bar and also to Martin's bookstore, but he still understands Martin's heartache, even if it is detached from his scope of personal attachment.

As Jon takes the time to think things through, he knows they're being silly. When was the last time he had commuted to work from his own flat? And if Martin had to move anyway, why shouldn't the three of them be living together? Gerry would happily spend every spare second with them and frequently tells them so.

At their knock, Gerry opens the door in a pair of leather pants and not much else, hair faded out from navy to a soft violet.

He physically reacts to see Martin tear-stained and Jon frowning intensely at his side.

"Why tears? Who do I need to murder?" Gerry mutters darkly as he draws Martin inside and into his arms.

"He has to move out of his flat," Jon tells him angrily, still standing in the doorway.

"Oh, love." He whispers, rocking Martin gently.

"It's so stupid to cry about it. It's just a shitty little flat." He hiccups into Gerry's chest.

"Fuck that. We all know better than that. That flat was important to you," Gerry retreats further into the studio, dragging his weepy partner with him and leaving Jon to shut the door. "And you're important to us, so here's the plan. Gertrude and I are gonna dig up some dirt, we're gonna have a little chat with your landlord, and he's gonna agree to sell you your flat. Problem solved."

Martin laughs wetly as he is deposited in the cushion pile and Gerry follows him down to sit in front of him and take his hands.

Jon strips his jacket and scarf off and tosses them on the couch (the biggest indication of his upset, really, as he normally always meticulously hangs things up), before flopping down on the floor with them. Martin and Gerry offer a hand each, and they sit in a triangle, connected.

"Gerry, you can't blackmail my landlord into selling me my flat." Martin starts, voice still choked with tears, "Not least of all because I can't afford to buy it anyway. I already have a business loan, not to mention all the debt from before my mother died."

Apparently able to sense any great excess of emotion, Luna and Saturn wander in and both attempt to curl up in Martin's lap. Jon takes Saturn, leaving Luna to her tearful human. Martin smiles gratefully and disentangles his hands to pet behind her ears.

There's silence for a moment as they consider Martin's words. Gerry opens his mouth, closes it, then decides to say what he wants to anyway. "I could lend you the money. Or give it to you. Whichever you prefer."

The look on his face could be accurately described as casually angelic, and he reaches out a hand to stroke Saturn benevolently.

Martin and Jon stare at him, stunned.

"What do you mean?" Jon eventually prods him, incredulously.

Gerry opens his mouth to respond, but Jon senses the sass coming and adds, "A real answer please," rather firmly.

"Fine then," Gerry mutters, rolling his pretty teal eyes. "I have some money in savings. And in investments and stuff, I'm not actually irresponsible, despite what my appearance might imply. And the years I spent galivanting about the county. And Europe." He shrugs, rambling on, "Okay, maybe I am irresponsible."

His partners stare at him for a moment, then exchange a look.

“Define some money?” Jon says, poking him in the ribs. Gerry tells them.

“What!?” At Jon’s exclamation, Gerry blushes from the roots of his hair, and all the way down his bare chest.

"Where did you get it?" Martin finally asks.

"From selling my paintings?" Gerry responds, but it comes out as a question, and he rubs his burning neck in embarrassment.

"And," Jon says, voice carefully neutral; having regained some sense of composure, "why do you keep your job at the bar if you have enough money to casually offer to buy Martin a flat?"

"Don't feel left out Jon, I'll buy your flat too." Gerry offers, smiling at him beatifically.

"Gerry…" Martin lets out his name in the significant tone of voice that lets him know this is a 'serious conversation'™ and to get his shit together.

"Okay, okay," Gerry flaps his hands uncomfortably. "At first it was just because I was convinced that the painting money was gonna dry up and I didn't want to be left in the lurch. I've always operated anonymously and that made it hard to make money as an artist, it was only when Gertrude joined the crusade that I found any success. She insisted that people would buy prints online, and she was right. The digital art and prints were really popular, and it led to people wanting the originals." Gerry pauses and shakes his head in disbelief. "And Gertrude always has to be extra about everything, so she sold them at fucking auction instead of pricing them, which made me seem edgy and exclusive."

"You are edgy and exclusive," Jon interrupts to insist, a slight petulant edge staining his voice.

"Thanks," Gerry mutters, still blushing. "Anyway, so then I had all this money, but I was convinced it wouldn't last and now it's been years and it's only gotten worse and I was panicking so Gertrude took half the money and helped me put it into investments, which have mostly been pretty successful too, so now I have all this fucking money that I don't know what to do with, so Martin, would you like a flat?" Gerry ends his monologue slightly hysterical and Martin laughs out loud at the slight desperation in his voice.

"Do you even own this flat? I've been wondering how you could possibly afford it." Martin asks him, gesturing around at the massive space in one of the most up-and-coming parts of London.

"Yes, it's one of the only significant things I've ever actually paid for with the art money. You know, to do art in."

"And were you ever planning to mention this?" Jon queries, sounding slightly put out. He frowns down at the cat, instead of his ridiculous boyfriend. Saturn decides at that moment that he's had enough belly-rubs, and without warning, sinks his claws in, bites Jon's hand and then scurries off. Jon glares at his fluffy black tail as it disappears up the stairs and Gerry tries very hard not to laugh at him.

"Jonathan!" Martin scolds him, pushing his shoulder gently to regain his attention. "Gerry doesn't have to tell us about his finances."

Jon pouts even harder.

"Jon's right, I should have said something. I just didn't want it to be a big deal." Gerry responds, voice quiet and unusually reserved. He looks a little adrift and helpless, and they can see just how uncomfortable the money talk has made him.

Jon sighs and dislodges the stick from up his ass. "It's not a big deal, love, I'm only surprised. I'm glad it's out the way now." He collects Gerry's hand and presses a kiss to his knuckles.

Gerry relaxes and tugs Jon closer to kiss him, before offering the same to Martin.

They all sit in comfortable silence for a few moments, digesting the day's many revelations.

“Not that I’m not incandescently happy to see you both, but why did you actually come over?” Gerry asks eventually.

“Oh,” Martin sits up straighter, remembering their original objective. He looks down at the cat in his lap, stroking its back in an effort to distract himself. “It’s a little awkward actually.”

Gerry raises his eyebrows, thinking of what could make Martin feel awkward after all the things they’ve done together, occasionally right where they are currently sitting.

"Do tell." Gerry urges him. Martin and Jon share a look. Gerry rolls his eyes at the pair of them. "Come on, guys, whatever it is, just tell me. It can't possibly be that bad. Unless you're breaking up with me? Because fuck that."

"No, Gerry," Jon says, sounding amused. "The opposite."

"The opposite?" Gerry asks, frowning.

"Yes, the opposite," Jon tells him more firmly. "We were thinking," Martin makes a small nose at this, "that is, I was thinking, that since Martin has to move anyway, the three of us should finally take the plunge."

"You know," Gerry mutters peevishly, "I love riddles as much as the next overdramatic goth with a young adult book obsession, but could you please spit it the fuck out."

"Jonthinksweshouldallmoveintogetherhere." Martin finally rushes out, breathlessly.

"Martin, baby, those are separate words."

He takes a deep breath and tries again. "Jon thinks we should all move in together, here, with you."

Gerry sits up taller abruptly, a wide grin spreading over his handsome face. "What, really? You actually want to."

"Well, yes," Jon says, although his voice still sounds nervous.

"Okay great. Luna and Saturn are gonna love this." Gerry jumps up excitedly. "So I know you guys like having your own personal space, and I always have my art shit everywhere, but I've been thinking and I think we can make you both comfortable here too."

Martin and Jon share a perplexed look at Gerry's sudden frenetic burst of energy.

"We'll be comfortable here no matter what," Martin rushes to reassure him.

"Hush," Gerry speaks over him. "We both know you're just saying that because you feel like an inconvenience. But you're not and we all have to make this our home. Come, come on, I want to show you."

Gerry grabs a hand from each of them and drags them behind him and around and under the wide stairs that lead up to the loft space.

He leads them to two doors under the stairs, leading them into one. It's a large storeroom, technically, and Gerry has filled it with extra paint, canvases of many different sizes, and a plethora of other painting supplies. There aren't any windows, and the industrial light makes the space look stark. The scent of oil paint and turpentine is pervasive, but homey since those are things they associate heavily with Gerry himself.

"They're both the same. I've been thinking that if you two ever did want to move in here, you could take one each. A creative space just for yourselves, or your own bedrooms if you need some space once in a while. If you want them." His typical self-confidence is slightly lacking, the nervous twist of his fingers belaying his nerves at the admission.

"Oh Gerry," Martin says with something akin to wonder in his voice.

"But aren't you using them?" Jon asks, never one to let romanticism come in the way of practicality.

Gerry shrugs, "I've been thinking of having cupboards installed in the studio space and moving all this in there anyway. It will be more convenient for me when I'm working and it will be worth it to have you here all the time."

Gerry pauses, brow furrowing. "I've also considered moving the art studio in here so you two don't have to trip over my art stuff all the time."

Martin and Jon both understand the significance of that offer, knowing that Gerry's favourite things about this place are the high ceilings, giant windows, and natural lighting at most times of the day and even at night.

"You would be willing to give up your art space for us?" Martin asks in some wonder.

"Well yeah, of course," Gerry says as if it's obvious. "We'll all have to share the bedroom then, but the living space will be bigger. Whatever you would prefer."

"Just like that?" Jon's blunt incredulity finally tips Gerry off to their shock.

"Oh come on. I obviously haven't been a very good boyfriend if you two don't already know that you're more important to me than painting." It was the most romantic thing Gerry could say to anyone, really.

Martin kisses him, tearing up again.

"What did I say? Don't cry, love." He reaches up to wipe the tears away, and Martin offers him a wobbly smile.

Jon goes over to kiss him too. "You love us more than art."

"We're going in circles here. Yes, I love you both more than literally anything." Gerry is starting to wonder if they're being obtuse on purpose.

"We love you too," Jon tells him emphatically.

"Of course you do. I'm delightful." They all dissolve into laughter at that, the weighty mood breaking with it.

"So do you think you'll both be happy here?" Gerry asks when the laughter has faded.

Even standing in the mildly dusty storeroom and breathing in paint fumes, Jon knows the answer already. "I think we might be able to make it work."

[wednesdaysxreaders]

please don’t be dead: part two

lowercase is a stylistic choice

apologies for any errors i tried my best to catch the ones that weren’t word being a nerd but its 6 am n im tired

summary: dallas has to tap into her personally forbidden knowledge to save the life of someone she cares about.

word count: 1360

warnings: car accidents, otherwise canon typical violence

dallas had to stop herself from sprinting through the woods like a madman.

       if she had any chance of finding brett, she had to think like a hunter—no matter how much she hated it.

       go slow, look for tracks, anything. . .

       she knew she couldn’t go too slow, though, if brett was poisoned with wolfsbane and had a hunter on him—even one as inexperienced as monroe—he was running out of time fast.

       “anything?” ellie whispered behind her.

       she nodded vaguely north. “there are tracks heading this way, but. . .”

       “but what?”

       “there are three sets of tracks,” she said.

       ellie stepped in front of her. “meaning?”

       “meaning monroe’s not alone and brett has less time than we thought.”

       “can’t you catch a scent or something?” ellie asked.

       she shook her head. “satomi’s pack can inhibit their scent.”

       “what about blood? he’s bleeding—can you follow that?”

       “i was kinda too busy to get a good whiff, el,” dallas said impatiently.

       ellie looked around, thinking. “your shoes! maybe there’s traces on your shoes!”

       dallas sighed, glad she chose the one pair of boots she had that zipped on the side as she propped her elbow on ellie’s shoulder and used her as an anchor so she could pull her shoe off. she lifted it to the moonlight, trying to see any color other than the black of the rubber or the brown of mud.

       “i think i’ve got something,” she said, hating the thought of it being his blood but sniffing anyways. “it’s definitely his—i smell wolfsbane.”

       “can you follow it?”

       she shoved her shoe back on. “i think so. this way. . .”

       she tried to keep up with the scent, as faint as it was, even with the wind blowing all kinds of smells in her face. her mind almost drifted into panic, but she knew she had to keep focused. if she got distracted, brett would die, and she wouldn’t be able to live with herself. she stopped and looked around, trying to clear her head and think calmly, trying to remember the lessons gerard had forced on her before her true nature was revealed to him.

       “he’s injured and alone. . .” she said aloud, more to herself than to ellie. “he’ll look for someplace to hide. . . underground. . . injured werewolves resort to basic instincts, and animals hide underground. . .”

       “is there a way underground in these woods?” ellie asked.

       she nodded. “yeah, there’s an entrance to the sewers up ahead. maybe half a mile.”

       “wait, dallas—” ellie said. “try his phone— if you can get a hold of him, maybe you can arrange a meeting spot—”

       “say the hunters hear his phone. say they find him before we do.”

       ellie grabbed her hand, squeezing it tight. “dal, we’ll find him.”

       “do you think you have it in you to use dark magic if it comes to it?” she asked as she pulled out her phone.

       “i think its necessary in this case.”

       dallas nodded, finding brett’s contact in her phone and hitting call. she put it on speaker, twisting her ring nervously as the dial tone moaned and moaned.

       then, off in the distance, she heard it.

       a ringing phone.

       “dal—”

       “go!”

       they took off running, following the ringing. it grew loudest in a small clearing not too far ahead, so they stopped.

       “here!” ellie cried, practically diving through the leaves to pick up the phone.

       dallas huffed uneasily. “brett’s phone, but no brett.”

       “he can’t have gone—”

       “i knew you’d come looking for him.”

       dallas pushed ellie behind her as monroe emerged from behind a tree.

       “what did you do to him?” she demanded.

       monroe smiled that same smile. “nothing nearly as bad as what i’m gonna do to you.”

       dallas regarded the slash marks across her throat.

       “did he do that to you?” she asked, chuckling humorlessly. “that’s a shame. if i were him, i would have ripped your fucking throat out.”

       it was then that ellie tackled her to the ground as an arrow flew over their heads, but a new figure—the third pair of tracks—pulled monroe out of the way. she didn’t have to look to know it was brett that threw the arrow—he was the only other one in the woods.

       “ah, dallas, we meet again,” gerard said casually, aiming his assault rifle.

       “ellie, run.”

       “what?” ellie hissed.

       “take him and fucking run!” dallas ordered, rolling to avoid bullets as gerard opened fire on them. she tried to draw his attention so ellie and brett could get away. it was two against one and even despite her opponents being human, she knew she barely stood a chance.

       she dragged herself forward, spinning her body around and kicking monroe’s legs right out from under her. she wrestled the knife from her hand and tried to bring it down on her shoulder, but gerard kicked her in the side of the head before she could. she hit the ground hard, moaning weakly at the pain. she thought for sure he would put her down right then and there, but instead, he pulled out a small device and pushed a button. it emitted a high-pitched squeal, making her cry out and clutch her ears. he put his foot on her chest, cracking her across the face with the butt of his gun.

       in the split second before everything went black, she thought, if only i took my serum more often. . . i wouldn’t have fucked up. . .

when she came to, she shot up with a sharp gasp.

       she was alone in the woods, shaking from the cold with blood running down her face. she wiped it away and stood up.

       underground. . . ellie wasn’t a hunter, so she would have taken him underground. . .

       she dug her phone out of the leaves and dialed the only number she knew could help.

       “hello?”

       “stiles, send me a map of the town and the sewer system now.”

       she didn’t give him time to respond—she knew he would oblige, because he knew she only called him when she it was urgent. she shoved her phone in her pocket as she started running.

       if she knew gerard like she thought she did, she knew exactly where he was trying to corner them. she just needed the maps to confirm it.

       she ran back to the school and to her car. she wasn’t sure how long she was out, so she knew she had to hurry double time. her phone vibrated in her pocket, and she opened the message from stiles as she peeled out of the parking lot.

       just as she suspected.

       she knew exactly where to go.

       as she floored the gas, she became aware of something else in her pocket. reaching in, she pulled out ellie’s knife. she must have slipped it in earlier. to give her a fighting chance, maybe.

       once she was where she needed to be, she hit the breaks and practically kicked the door open. she made it to the side of the street and she saw them.

       brett and lori.

       and a car coming right towards them.

       she ran forward, catching lori around her waist and grabbing bretts hood and throwing them to the side.

       then, there was the sound of shattering glass and she hit the ground harder than she did when gerard kicked her. she couldn’t move—she felt like she had been hit by a wrecking ball.

       what seemed like miles away, she heard a roar—of anger? or anguish? maybe both?

        it was liam, she knew it. she recognized the sound.

       “dallas?! dallas!”

       “grab her!”

       “get them in the car!”

       “move it!”

       when she came to again moments later, she was in the front seat of her car, leaning against someone else. she knew it was brett from the reek of poisoned blood and the weak heartbeat.

       “brett. . .” she whispered weakly, reaching for his hand and slipping her fingers through his. “you’re gonna be okay. . .”

       “hey! both of you keep your eyes open!” ellie yelled. “keep your fucking eyes open!”

       she didn’t remember anything else.

[haberdashing]

Eyes Wide Open

Gerard Keay finds out that there’s more to the afterlife than being painfully bound to a book for all eternity, featuring one Timothy Stoker.

(Props to @divorcedmilfaddict for betaing this and helping me reign in my inner comma gremlin!)

on AO3

Gerard Keay wasn’t sure what he was, or why he was, or how he was, or even for that matter where and when he was, exactly.

But then again, that Gerard was was enough of a surprise in and of itself.

He hadn’t entirely trusted that... Jon, was it? Sure, Jon had torn Gerard’s page out of the book when he’d asked, but Gerard knew better than to assume that was the end of the story. He didn’t put it past Jon to keep the page as a sick sort of prize or to shove it into the Institute’s Artefact Storage or to do something else that wasn’t getting rid of the bloody thing already.

But this... this felt different. It didn’t hurt to exist now, not like it did in the book where life and death mingled unnaturally, where he both was and was not dead and that contradiction ate at everything in his being. It wasn’t quite like being alive, though, either. It was... still. Still and calm and quiet.

All things considered, Gerard wouldn’t object to a bit of quiet.

Gerard didn’t see Jon or the Hunters that had kept him imprisoned for so long or anyone else he recognized for that matter, but he saw his surroundings just the same, though he couldn’t place the area around him at a glance. A handful of cars plodded along driving on the left, so he wasn’t in America at least. Hotels, businesses, and homes mingled together oddly--some sort of vacation destination? A resort town perhaps, or a tourist trap of another variety?

Gerard thought he could make out the smell of sea salt in the air, but he wasn’t even sure which ocean he was near.

Then he heard what sounded like a calliope playing in the distance, what sounded like a circus just beginning to open its doors, and Gerard still didn’t know where he was or how long it had been since he had spoken to Jon but he had a sick feeling he knew exactly what that music meant.

Gerard followed the music, hurried to find its source, and evidently the true meaning of that music wasn’t known to the general public yet because while he was hurtling towards instead of away from certain danger the handful of people he encountered on nearby sidewalks, walking unhurriedly towards destinations of their own, didn’t give him so much as a first glance, let alone a second one. They just went about their business as if he wasn’t even there, as if the end of the world wasn’t in progress a few blocks away, remaining blissfully ignorant to everything that didn’t fit nicely into the small circle of their own lives.

He wondered what it felt like to have a pedestrian life like theirs must be, to go about your business unaware that there were eldritch powers scheming at all times to bring about terrible new worlds of fear and horror. Living a life like that had never really been an option for him, after all. He’d been in the thick of it since the day he was born. Since his mother set her eyes on him for the first time.

Gerard had managed to pin down the source of the calliope music to a large, dilapidated building and approached said building just in time to see it collapse in front of him, a series of sizable explosions turning what had apparently once been some sort of museum into a pile of rubble and debris.

The music stopped when the building fell, which Gerard supposed was a good sign. While he hadn’t cared about it terribly much when he was bound to the book, stuck in a half-life of torment for the foreseeable future, now that he could explore the world more freely again he’d prefer it not end or get apocalyptically transformed to the point where it couldn’t truly be considered the same world anymore.

Still, it seemed oddly anticlimactic for something as grand and strange as the Unknowing to be stopped by a building collapsing around it. Gertrude’s plan would probably have been a bit subtler, but then, Gertrude wasn’t around to carry it out anymore, so explosions it was, apparently. Jon’s handiwork there, Gerard assumed. Apparently the little he knew about the Unknowing, and how Gertrude had been preparing to prevent it, had been enough in the end. Good to know their agreement hadn’t been entirely one-sided.

He looked for survivors, human or otherwise, a task that’d been ingrained in him for some time now. He was no Gertrude Robinson, wasn’t the type to stop grand rituals threatening all of humanity all by himself, but he did his part to save a few people at least, spare those that could still escape from the horrors that haunted this world.

Gerard’s eyes fell on a woman whose blue hijab had been tattered and torn in the explosion, a few stray bits of debris clinging to her back and legs as she lay on the ground near the periphery of the destruction, clearly breathing but also clearly not getting up in a hurry.

He edged closer to the woman, trying not to look too closely at the loose strands of hair that had escaped her hijab. “Hello? Can you hear me?”

No response, which wasn’t entirely unanticipated, but still wasn’t a good sign.

Gerard reached out to grab the woman’s arm and check her pulse--even if the Unknowing was over now, a building collapsing around you could easily lead to more mundane injuries that needed tending to sooner rather than later--but his own arm never made contact with hers, instead reaching through her flesh as easily as if he were moving through thin air, and now that he got a closer look at himself, Gerard could see that his body was ever so slightly translucent.

In hindsight it made sense, it was logical enough that one form of undeath where he couldn’t fully interact with the living world would give way only to another, but the realization still came as a rather unpleasant jolt.

Gerard could hear the sound of an ambulance siren ringing out somewhere in the distance as he backed away from the woman, who remained seemingly unconscious and definitely unaware of his attempt at contact.

Alright, so he’d been dead, and he was still dead, and being able to interact with the living only under certain circumstances wasn’t entirely new... now he just needed to figure out what the new set of circumstances for that were. And whether he was going to stay like this for the long term, or whether he was going to get shunted into some other form of undeath before he had the time to examine things properly. And whether this was just regular death now, the End in its final form, or whether there was something more going on here. And perhaps whether this all meant Jon had actually burned his page from the book like he’d promised.

Christ, he could use a cigarette... but he still wasn’t getting one any time soon, was he? Figured.

As Gerard stood by the remains of what had been the staging area for the Unknowing, he saw a lone figure making its way towards him from out of the rubble.

The man approaching Gerard was tall and fairly muscular, with a short-sleeve shirt that showed off dark tattoos on his arms and hair that was clearly a natural inky black, the kind that Gerard had tried and failed to emulate with brand after brand of cheap hair dye over the years. His eyes were wide, his skin tawny, his body tense, and honestly, he was pretty good-looking despite (or perhaps because of) his unassuming and casual clothing, though that was one opinion Gerard figured he would keep to himself for the time being.

Perhaps most importantly, though, the man’s body was the same sort of translucent as Gerard’s own, and he stepped through the debris around him as though it wasn’t even there.

As the man drew closer, Gerard could see a deep fire in his eyes.

“Who the hell are you?”

Gerard resisted the urge to flinch, to back away, instead standing his ground and looking coolly at the other man. “I could ask you the same thing.”

“Yeah, sure, but I asked first, and I was here first, and if it came down to it I’m pretty sure I could punch your lights out first, so...”

The other man probably wasn’t wrong, when it came to that. Gerard Keay was many things, but especially skilled at hand-to-hand combat was not one of them, and his would-be opponent had the advantage when it came to both build and stature.

Though he wasn’t sure if they even could get into a fistfight now, given the state they were both in... still, probably better not to find out the hard way.

Gerard raised his hands in the air, open palms facing the other man in a clear gesture of peace. “Alright, I’m-”

But before he could finish his sentence, the other man’s eyes widened further and he cut off Gerard’s speech. “Hang on, I think I’ve heard about you. Are you Gerard Keay?”

Gerard wasn’t sure what to make of this other man apparently being able to recognize him on sight (admittedly, his eye tattoos were fairly distinctive) while he couldn’t say the same the other way around, but it didn’t seem like a good sign.

Still, no use hiding from it. “Yeah, that’s me. You’ve heard of me, then?”

“Oh yeah. Christ, they weren’t kidding about the bad dye job, were they... but wait, aren’t you dead?”

“Sure. So are you.”

In the seconds that followed, Gerard realized that his words had probably been a fair bit more blunt than necessary, and he half-expected the man to start freaking out about being so straightforwardly informed that he was almost certainly no longer among the living, but instead the man just shook his head and shot Gerard a strange smile.

“Suppose you’ve got me there.” The man snorted in a way that was clearly meant to convey humor and just as clearly was entirely devoid of any before adding, “I had a lot of ideas about what death would be like... wasn’t banking on it being quite like this.”

“That makes two of us.”

“No insider scoop on the whole afterlife front, then? Haven’t you been dead for years already?”

Gerard considered his response for a long moment, trying to decide how much he was willing to share with this stranger before deciding that, hell, he was already dead (twice over, even), so what did he have left to lose? “Yeah, and I spent most of that being stuck in a bloody book. This?” Gerard made a broad, sweeping hand gesture that encompassed himself, the stranger, and the collapsed building next to them. “This is new.”

“Damn. No use having a ghost buddy without getting some handy intel out of the deal.”

Gerard shook his head and let out a soft sigh. “Look, I’m not your ghost buddy, I don’t even know your name!”

“Oh, of course, where are my manners? Lost them with everything else, I suppose... Tim Stoker here.”

Tim extended a hand, which Gerard eyed warily. If the name was supposed to mean something to him... well, it didn’t, but Tim also didn’t seem to be keen on explaining himself any further, giving up who he was beyond a meaningless name, elaborating about why he was hanging around dead at the scene of the attempted Unknowing with knowledge enough to recognize Gerard’s appearance at a glance.

He seemed nice enough, though, and Gerard was curious as to whether his inability to contact others, as demonstrated when he’d tried to help the woman with the hijab, would still apply to somebody else stuck in the same state of being as himself.

After a bit of hesitation, Gerard reached out and reciprocated Tim’s gesture, engaging him in a brief but firm handshake. There was no warmth in Tim’s grip, no residual body heat seeping out at the point of contact, but there was strength in it, and Gerard could feel a slight roughness to the other man’s fingers.

“Now, this might sound awkward-”

“’m sure I’ve heard worse.” Tim muttered in a voice just low enough that Gerard wasn’t sure if it was meant for his ears.

“-but you seem awfully chipper for someone who just died.”

The thin smile on Tim’s face that Gerard had suspected wasn’t entirely genuine faded away entirely, replaced by a thoughtful frown. “Yeah, well... it was cancer that got you, right?”

Gerard nodded silently, unsure where Tim was going with this. It was surreal, to just quietly nod as a stranger casually and correctly references your cause of death, but then, this was a surreal conversation to begin with.

“But you must not have known for long, ‘cause you were traipsing all around the world before that... maybe... maybe it’s different when you see it coming. When you know it’ll happen, and you’re ready for it.”

As Gerard processed the implications there, he nodded again, trying to make the gesture more somber than before.

“Reminds me, how’d you even get here, anyway? Didn’t you die in America?”

Gerard shrugged. “Beats me. I don’t even know where ‘here’ is.”

“Great Yarmouth. That-” Tim pointed to the pile of rubble. “-used to be a creepy old wax museum. Current state’s an improvement, if you ask me.”

Gerard let out a short laugh, though he wasn’t entirely sure that the comment was solely meant as a joke. “Good to know.”

Tim shot Gerard a weak smile as he added, “Suppose I’m a bit biased, though, given that I’m the one who blew the place up.”

“You-?” Gerard looked back at what had apparently once been a wax museum and was now well and truly exploded. “I- I thought Jon did that?”

“Oh hell no. He and the others helped, sure, but I held the detonator, I made the call, I get the credit here.”

Tim was still smiling as he said this, smiling as he admitted to blowing a building up--and, given his current state, doing so almost certainly while he was still inside of it. Maybe he thought that joking about it would stop Gerard from examining his words too closely, from realizing what he was really confessing to, but Gerard caught it all.

Before Gerard could think of a proper response to that, though, Tim kept on speaking.

“How d’you even know Jon? Is there some spooky monster groupchat I should know about or something?”

Gerard sighed and pressed one hand to his temple. “First off, not a monster, thanks.”

Tim made a show of looking Gerard up and down before saying “Sure.” with what must have been all the sarcastic uncertainty he could muster at a moment’s notice.

“Look, whatever else has happened along the way, I think we’re on an even platform now, so unless you meant to call yourself a monster-”

Tim’s gaze went from focusing on Gerard to on Tim’s own hands, and a bit of that thin smile slipped away. “Shit. Okay. Let’s- let’s table that bit for now, then, yeah?”

“Sure.” Gerard tried to force his frustration and suspicion into his pronouncement of the word, but most of it didn’t manage to stick. “Second, he tore my page out of the book back in America; I told him what I knew about the Unknowing. Given... everything...” Gerard gestured vaguely to their surroundings once more. “I’m guessing he used my info to help stop it, and my page got destroyed in the process.”

“Right, yeah, that makes sense, because nobody tells me fucking anything around here-” Tim tried to kick a piece of rubble away, but couldn’t make contact, his leg instead arcing up into the air uninhibited before he began to pace. “Didn’t tell me about the circus, didn’t tell me about meeting Gerard Keay, what else is that bastard hiding from me?”

The question was probably meant to be rhetorical, but Gerard couldn’t help but respond just the same, if only because he wanted to see the reaction on Tim’s face if his guess was right. “Did he tell you about the Hunters?”

“...what hunters?”

“He was with two Hunters back in America, that’s how he got my page in the first place-”

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

Tim looked exactly as outraged as Gerard had imagined he would, and Gerard couldn’t help but burst into laughter at the sight of it.

“That funny to you, is it?”

Gerard calmed his laughter, but he couldn’t seem to wipe the smile off his face. “Kind of, yeah. I mean, I dunno how you even knew Jon, but the two of us got on well enough...”

“He was my asshole boss. Told him as much a few minutes ago, actually.” Tim paused for a moment before raising one finger in the air and amending, “Asshole ex-boss. Like hell I’m doing any work for him now.”

“Oh, so you were an archival assistant... Gertrude’s assistants didn’t last long either, from what I heard-”

“That’s not what this is.”

Gerard raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

“This isn’t some cycle, some magic bullshit, something that was bound to happen no matter what--I made a choice. And nobody forced my hand in it, either. Hell, Elias didn’t even want me there, but fuck him-”

“Or don’t.”

Tim clearly wasn’t expecting Gerard to interrupt him, because he stopped mid-rant, looking over at Gerard with a strange look on his face.

“Have you seen that man? That would not be a good time! And he’d probably have that smug little smirk on his face the entire time, too.”

Tim hesitated for a moment before bursting out into loud, raucous laughter and pressing a hand against his eyes (which probably didn’t actually impair his vision much, given that Gerard could see Tim’s eyes almost as clearly as before). “Oh, I like you.”

“Really? Could’ve fooled me.”

“Shut up.”

Gerard rolled his eyes theatrically, fighting the urge to respond with a “Make me” and see how far Tim would actually go in trying. Instead, Gerard settled on a response that changed the topic of conversation less confrontationally.

“Actually, you having been an archival assistant fits one of my theories for, well, how we can talk in the first place. Working in the Institute’s archives makes you Eye-touched, and as for me...” Gerard looked down, pointedly, at one of his knuckles, at one of the many eye tattoos scattered across his body. “I’m right there with you. It’s fitting, too, as an afterlife for those connected to the Eye--being here but unable to interact with the living world, only getting to watch...”

Tim’s eyes turned from fire to cold steel in an instant.

“No. No, that can’t be right. Those bastards already ruined my life, they can’t have taken the afterlife from me too, taken...” Tim’s speech trailed off abruptly, but as his form started shaking and the slightest hint of tears started welling up in his eyes, he forced out another bitter “No.”

“It’s just one idea, but it’d explain why it’s just us here--I’m sure we’re not the first ones to die in Great Yarmouth, after all. Unless... you know the old trope about ghosts having unfinished business on earth, I’ve got loads of my own that’d probably qualify...”

Tim shook his head emphatically. “No, no, that’s not it, either. That-”  He pointed at the pile of rubble that was only a few short minutes ago the site of an attempted world-changing ritual. “That was my unfinished business right there, and it’s sure as hell finished now, isn���t it?”

Gerard looked over at the rubble, though it wasn’t terribly changed from before; an ambulance had made it to the scene, and a first responder was helping that woman with the hijab that Gerard had seen earlier, but what remained of the building itself was more or less untouched. “Looks like, yeah.”

Tim snorted with mild amusement.

“Only other thing I can think of is it’s something to do with the Unknowing itself-”

The fire returned to Tim’s eyes, but what it burned with now was not laughter.

“A parting gift from the circus?”

“Maybe. Dunno. All I’ve got is a bunch of theories with no way to test them.”

“Actually, I’ve got an idea about that bit.”

“Oh?”

“There was a... a colleague of mine-” The way Tim said “colleague” left Gerard very certain that there was another, more fitting term he could be using in its place, that his connection to this “colleague” went deeper than a shared workplace, though he didn’t have a clue as to the details. “-we worked in the archives together, but she died in the Institute about a year ago.”

Gerard let out a low whistle. “Jon really is following in Gertrude’s footsteps there, huh?”

“Oh, fuck you.”

“Maybe if you take me on a couple dates first.”

Tim ran his hand across his eyes again and down his face, then elbowed Gerard in the ribs for that one; it ached a little, but he supposed he deserved it.

“So we can go try and find her, since she’d be--how’d you phrase it? ‘Eye-touched?’” Tim made air quotes around the word, and for some reason that brought a smile to Gerard’s face. “Same as us.”

“That... yeah, that’d probably work, actually.”

“You don’t have to sound so surprised.”

Gerard rolled his eyes again. “So we’re heading to London, then?”

Gerard’s memories of London were decidedly... mixed. He’d lived there with his mother, though they’d done more than their fair share of traveling along the way, and that was still what came to mind first when he thought of the city, though Gertrude and the Magnus Institute were different at least, if not necessarily much better. But he wasn’t going to object to the only thing they had that vaguely resembled a plan just because he didn’t much care for London as a city.

“Suppose so. Do you know the way there?”

Gerard blinked a few times in confusion. “I figured you would, I was just in America, and didn’t you just come from London?”

“Well, we stopped at a bed and breakfast for the night first. And I wasn’t the one driving.”

Gerard let out a long, somewhat exaggerated sigh. “So the plan is a road trip from here to London, but with no car and no directions. This sounds like a great plan.”

“Fuck you too.”

“Only if you ask nicely.”

The look on Tim’s face was priceless.

“Hey, Gerard-”

“Gerry.”

And that priceless look was gone in a moment’s time, replaced with one of blank befuddlement.

“What?”

Gerard scratched the back of his neck nervously. “Gerard was what my mum called me. I always-” He let out a soft laugh, one born more of embarrassment and awkwardness than actual amusement, as he remembered telling Jon this same thing--except that with Jon he’d said that he wanted his friends to call him Gerry, while his feelings for Tim were... well, he was going to phrase things slightly differently this time, at any rate. “I always wanted someone special to call me Gerry.”

“A-alright then. Gerry. As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted.” Tim’s words were harsh, but the tone was playful rather than biting, and Tim chewed on his lip absentmindedly for a moment before continuing. “If it’s just you and me here in whatever afterlife this is, at least until we find someone else... well, honestly, you wouldn’t be my first choice of people to be stuck with, not gonna lie. But you’re not on the bottom of the list, either.”

Gerard wasn’t sure who would be at the top of his list for such a thing, but he knew who would be at the very bottom of the list for him, and it definitely wasn’t one Tim Stoker. “Well, the feeling’s mutual.”

“So. To London?”

Gerry reached out with one hand, brushing against one of Tim’s, and if he had a heartbeat still it would have sped up when Tim’s hand took hold of his own, his grip loose but firm.

“To London. Provided you have at least some idea how to get there. Cardinal directions, maybe?”

Tim stared off into nothingness for a moment as he thought. “Southwest, I think?”

“Christ, we’re doomed.”

“Fuck off.”

They both burst out laughing, their grip on one another’s hands unyielding, as they prepared to make what was sure to be a long and winding journey together.

[clansayeed]

Things Worth Keeping, or the Annual Raines Corp. Fourth of July Charity Gala

PAIRING: Kamilah Sayeed x MC (Nadya Al Jamil)

⥼ Summary ⥽

Kamilah takes great care in preserving some of the more sentimental articles of clothing she's acquired over the years. Nadya realizes she might have a historical costume kink.

word count: 2,775 rating: teen+ content warnings: language, brief political discourse, implied sexual undertones, implied kink

⥼ MASTERLIST ⥽ 

So it turns out every time there’s an event that requires Kamilah’s attendance (specifically requires, since the Awakening Ball was both some weird vampire-political obligation and her wanting to see Marcel again) the mannequins come out.

Only for costume events though.

Or… she’s decided ‘every’ just because what are the chances she’s lucky enough to behold the sight of Kamilah Sayeed in period wear twice in one year? Apparently very good, very good indeed.

The vampire takes it upon herself to explain while fussing with a few collars and sleeves rumpled in transit. Nadya takes it upon herself to listen intently — takes everything in her willpower not to take notes. “Indeed one comes to terms rather early on that all objects are replaceable and their worth is only what the owner projects upon them,” which is quite a lot judging by the little smile Nadya sees peeking at the corner of Kamilah’s lips as she works, “and because I have had the misfortune of losing things I once coveted, I see no harm in preserving that which has stayed with me.”

Nadya adjusts her seat on the couch; makes sure the lid on her travel mug is secure otherwise she’ll never be allowed to drink in the front room again. “Is that a really fancy way of saying ‘I think it’s really pretty and I want to keep it that way?’”

Kamilah goes still. Not the tense kind of still that makes Nadya want to stuff her words back in her mouth but the kind of still she’s come to understand will reap very wise rewards. If she’s patient enough.

She’s learning to be patient enough.

“I suppose if you wish to bring the sentiment down to the simplest terms… yes.”

And oh man even that little agreement has Nadya buzzing excited.

“I’m so excited — this is gonna be so much fun!”

“What it will be, Nadya, is a gross exaggeration more akin to a serial drama than the real thing.”

“Wow, grumpy pants. Where’s your sense of patriotism?”

“In the same gutter as the ideals on which this nation was founded.”

Okay, fair point. But that brings up a very good series of questions all scrambling to make themselves heard. Which goes about as well as it always does and leaves Nadya tongue-tied and mute.

More than a few times Kamilah throws subtle looks in Nadya’s direction. Totally discreet and casual — done while circling a dress here, adjusting a cravat there. And each time she asks some variation of “Are you sure this is how you wish to spend your evening?” Nadya gives her the same answer.

“There’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be.”

The final time Kamilah is just close enough to turn crisp on her heel and bring them face to face. Her deep honey eyes roam Nadya’s face and spare no detail; like she’s one of those pretty dresses Kamilah’s kept after all these years.

It makes Nadya feel small and big, whole down to the tips of her toes but also just a sliver in Kamilah’s long long life. Which is a lot to feel for someone of her size. Maybe too much.

Cool, soft lips on her forehead force Nadya to open eyes she didn’t know she was squeezing shut. No longer scrutinizing, now the vampiress allows them both a rare glimpse behind the mask. To the concern she guards close and reserves for those she cares about.

Adrian, Gerard, Marcel… Nadya.

She cares about me that way. Holy cow.

“You truly mean that.” Kamilah says and it isn’t a question. Kamilah isn’t in the business of asking stupid questions to which she knows the answers — that’s Nadya’s ball game.

“Of course I do.”

“Forgive my surprise.”

“Always.”

It’s just a kiss. People kiss all the time, all over the world. But those people aren’t Nadya and they aren’t kissing Kamilah so they couldn’t possibly know how wonderful and important and loved each one makes her feel.

Along with all the other things that make her squeak when they part. It’s impossible to miss that look in Kamilah’s gaze.

“While I enjoy your company immensely Nadya… I may have to ask you to leave,” even though the trace of her finger over Nadya’s lips kind of contradicts that, “as I do have to attend a conference call before the night is through.”

Nadya doesn’t even care that her pout is a little childish. “I thought you took the day off for this.”

“I took a half day for this. You were the one who insisted on losing an entire night’s productivity to help me choose my attire.”

“I’ll be quiet?” There’s no harm in trying, right? Thankfully Kamilah still seems more amused than anything.

“You misunderstand.”

Does she, though, because there are only so many ways to take the sudden closeness. Kamilah’s hands braced atop the back of the couch pinning Nadya between the cushion and her permanence, the contradictory darkness in her bright eyes with their lowered lashes, and oh my god that smirk…

Then Kamilah’s leaning in to whisper in her ear and she’s just—just jello, absolute jello. “I had hoped to be finished by now, yet I keep finding myself distracted.”

Jello or not though Nadya will always be Nadya.

“I—I can leave, if… if that’s what you want.” I know work is important to you. I know schedules are important to you even though your organizational methods are outdated and frankly anxiety-inducing. I know you have a lot to get done and only so many hours of moonlight to do it…

Kamilah doesn’t answer. Instead just taps the underside of Nadya’s chin with her pointer finger and gives a smile in reward when the human lifts her head obediently.

“What do you want, Nadya?”

You know what I want, she would normally say, but if she did then all their… all their training would be for nothing. And don’t memories of that (as recent as, uhm, three in the afternoon today) make her zone out somewhere over Kamilah’s shoulder.

Seven mannequins; still headless, still creepy. Four beautiful ballgowns and a priceless Egyptian kalasiris†, a definitely custom-tailored zoot suit, and…

Holy broad stripes and bright stars.

“I asked you a question.”

Oh yeah, she’s definitely wearing that.

Kamilah doesn’t have to remind her twice. Nadya leans forward what little she can; basks shamelessly in the one thing in the entire world she knows she’s earned—

The way Kamilah looks at her with absolute pride.

“You. I want you.”

Its so fulfilling to see all her hard work come together in one place, on one night, and with the promise of fireworks to come. There’s just something about fireworks. She loves ‘em.

Jax lets out his fifth heavy and long-suffering sigh of the minute. A personal best, but Nadya’s having too much fun to ruin the night by telling him.

Unfortunately her hoop skirt makes it hard to sidle up for a hip-check. Cue sigh number six.

“You know I’m technically the hostess for this thing, right?”

“Are you saying you’re the person I complain to?”

She huffs. “No, I’m saying that your grumpy face is personally offending me.”

She can’t tell if he’s purposefully avoiding her eyes out of spite or shame — then a roaring yelp of laughter from the dance floor draws Nadya’s attention out to where Lily and Maricruz spin fast-paced and free; held together by just their hands and their shared looks of ‘I couldn’t care less where I am so long as it’s with you.’

At least that gets a little smile out of Mr. Grumpy-Pants.

A costumed server stops at the pair of them and offers his tray of goodies up like sin. Nadya spares two quick glances over either shoulder — thankfully Adrian has donors to schmooze and Kamilah hasn’t arrived yet — before she plucks a cheese cube carved in the shape of the Liberty Bell.

But it isn’t enough that Jax has to act so unhappy the entire gala — now he’s stealing her snack and eating it himself?! Where’s my purse, where’s my stake?!

What else can she do but gape? He doesn’t even have the decency to look ashamed, just chews and chews and swallows while trying to ease the itch in his legs caused by the borrowed hose.

“Lily warned me you might make bad choices.”

So what? I’m a grown woman, I can make bad choices if I want to. “Are all of you in on some big conspiracy to keep me from cheese?”

“If it’ll spare you future pain, yeah.” Which — she wasn’t expecting that. Nadya can’t help but feel her face soften. One look down her way though and he rolls his eyes. “Stop it.”

“You hate my party. You steal my cheese. What’s next, burning my crops and delivering a plague onto my house?”

Jax looks appalled — which is a real shame. That would have gone over so well with Lily. “I—what?!”

Nadya just waves it off though. “Forget it. Just…” oh hey look, time for her own sigh, “forget it.”

“It’s not you. It’s these tights.”

“They’re hose.”

“They itch.”

“Imagine wearing them all the time.”

Nadya is totally enjoying her frilly not-period-accurate-in-the-slightest ensemble but of course Adrian is the only one who looks really right in his whole get up. It’s a good thing he has to wear modern suits and styles or else he’d be pegged for a vampire right away.

Her boss pulls her in for a one-armed hug, expertly outmaneuvering the skirt but he probably has experience with that, huh? And his smile only widens as he takes in Jax in all his colonial glory.

“They were good in the winter, obviously. Though I’ll admit once I didn’t feel the weather anymore the discomfort really presented itself as a problem.”

Jax just rolls his eyes. “Why do I feel like you throw this thing just to say shit like that?” Which— she can tell he’s trying to be sarcastic but Adrian definitely goes tense beside her.

“I ‘throw this thing,’ as you say, because my own personal wealth can only go so far, and most of it is immaterial. But every donation is material, and that maximizes the good I can do with it.”

Nadya nods eagerly. “There’s like six different scholarships in STEM research alone, I think a dozen in the business sector, and when we get to our goal tonight —” she knows they will, Raines Corp. history states they always do and Raines Corp. never had her to push them above and beyond, “— the company’ll have enough to match the city’s bid for the abandoned tunnel reconstruction project.”

If he ever read the minutes she sent him after every Council meeting he’d know this, but when Jax said he didn’t do paperwork he meant he really didn’t do paperwork.

But it’s enough to get his attention. “And what happens then?”

Adrian shrugs. “I postpone it. The most I can do without getting politicians involved is five years but I figure… that should be long enough to either relocate the former Clanless and break even, or fortify the Shadow Den enough that any efforts won’t cause structural damage. Unfortunately Vega’s interim replacement hasn’t officially made her views on such things known, but I think with time —”

It’s—as Lily would put it—freakin’ cinematic. How Adrian’s voice fades away to a buzzing in her ears and Jax’s reply sounds like a mouthful of cotton. The music dims and the lights aren’t as bright except where they fall on her when she strides through the open double doors.

Now let it be known that Nadya firmly believes Kamilah looks amazing in anything. Her power suits, a crimson dress from centuries gone, the plum kimono she uses as a nightgown… Honestly she’d probably somehow make a banana costume look sinfully sexy.

No. What? No. Moving on.

And even though Nadya knew the moment she laid eyes on the uniform it was the non-negotiable choice — her brain put some weird filter on itself to keep her from imagining just what that looked like. Probably to try and keep her sane.

Because the real thing… there are literally no words.

Adrian’s laugh comes both from behind her and a million miles away. “Would you look at that. Now that is a sight that brings back memories.”

“Wow, color me surprised.” Jax deadpans.

Adrian is a close personal friend of the New York Historical Reenactment Society (surprisingly not a bunch of vampires… if there was ever a group suspect but no, she’s checked) and most of them are in attendance tonight. They make Nadya look like her dress—a gift from Adrian, rental only—was bought at a cheap pop-up Halloween store.

And Kamilah makes them look like a middle school theatre cast. There’s just something about the fabric, the way it fits her and the way she carries not just the uniform but her own body inside of it that makes her look authentic. No one would believe her; not with the freshly-oiled leather and polished brass buttons, but Nadya’s chaotic-dumb brain really wants to scream “take a look at the real deal, ya posers!”

Kamilah’s hand rests on the glossy hilt of her saber as she approaches. Eyes passing right over Adrian — probably used to the sight — and sparing Jax absolute no dignity in the soft “ha” she gives.

“I didn’t know we could wear uniforms.”

Kamilah raises an eyebrow and tucks a stray strand of hair back behind her ear. “You… have one?”

“No,” sigh number seven, “but I would’ve tried to find one. Anything to get out of these tights.”

“They were useful during winter.”

Adrian laughs and gestures to her eagerly. “That’s what I said!”

Kamilah wasn’t ignoring her, not on purpose. That’s made obvious the second she finally does take in every skirt and frill, every pearl in her necklace and lets her eyes linger where Nadya’s chest heaves against her corset.

“Nadya, you look as beautiful as ever.” Then Kamilah takes her hand and kisses the back of it with a soldier’s courteous bow. Where’d I leave that dumb lace fan…?

She’s about 99.9% sure Kamilah holding her hand is the only thing keeping her standing right now.

Adrian snickers. Nadya couldn’t care less. “Careful there, General Sayeed††. Your lady seems about to swoon.”

Thankfully the woman takes heed and pulls Nadya close, possibly the most public affection they’ve ever had holy crap on a cracker, resting a hand on the curve of her hip. Yet she looks at Adrian with… what is that, mild annoyance?

“You know very well I was not named General until nearly a century later.”

Jax mouths his silent counting — blanches; “You were a General in the Civil War? You know what — of course you were.”

“A discussion for another day, perhaps.” Kamilah dismisses him just shy of pushing him out the door; lucky for Nadya both he and Adrian take the hint and fade into the cinematic background.

It’s just Nadya and Kamilah now.

“Hello.”

“H-Hi.”

Long fingers brush a strand of Nadya’s hair aside feather-light. “You do look… stunning, Nadya. You look stunning. Blue becomes you yet again.”

Blue? She’s wearing blue? Because her face is scarlet. “You — I mean — wow like…” words Nadya — words, “you really wore that and…” And fought in it?

Kamilah’s nod is curt. “In a sense. My skills were best suited to espionage, sabotage and the like.”

“Of course they were.”

“Though I’m gladdened to know the uniform still becomes me.”

As if it ever wouldn’t. “You look perfect in, like, everything.” But Kamilah’s not a fan of those kinds of blanket statements, so she tries again a little bit more from the heart. “You make a uniform look really good, that’s what I mean.”

The hand on her hip presses down then; important and as on purpose as everything else Kamilah does. Through the fabric right underneath her hand a familiar purpling not-at-all-bruise sings sweet on Nadya’s skin. Of course Kamilah knows where the love bite is. She was the one who gifted it.

“I may be the soldier…” Kamilah pulls her close; a hold of stone — she leans down to ghost a kiss at Nadya’s jaw (and knows it will drive her wilder than wild) and whisper in her ear.

“But you’ll be the one taking orders.”

Nadya’s last coherent thought?

She really needs to find more chances to get Kamilah in costume.

NOTE: While this fic technically exists in the Oblivion Bound universe it works standalone as well, I think. The only references are brief and to Maricruz Espinoza, a vampire original character and girlfriend of Lily, and a sort-of reference to the fact that Marcel survived in my fanfiction. Hopefully it still reads well!

[scarlettsabetlondongirl]

Poet Scarlett Sabet

In conversation with poet Gerard Malanga for London Magazine.

The London Magazine is England’s oldest literary periodical, with a history stretching back to 1732. Today – reinvigorated for a new century – the Magazine’s essence remains unchanged: it is a home for the best writing and an indispensable feature on the British literary landscape-London Magazine  

See here

“After meeting at a French New Wave Cinema book launch in London in November 2019, poets Gerard Malanga and Scarlett Sabet have since kept in regular correspondence via email.

In this unique interview, conducted over several weeks while thousands of miles apart, the two writers discuss shared influences, the recent passing of the Beat Generation poet Michael McClure, and the grounding influence of poetry throughout the international lockdown. 

This interview is based on the poets’ original email correspondence and has been edited for clarity.”-London Magazine   

GERARD MALANGA: You ask how my week has been? I’ve been in lockdown now for 3 weeks or so, though I might’ve lost count. I have plenty to keep me busy in the house here, plus I have responsibility towards my 3 cats. And then there’s dreamtime, between 4 & 6 in the morning.

But suddenly I felt days back this ennui coming on, like, did the poetry suddenly disappear? Sometimes I’m concerned—but just for a moment mind you—whether I can match or even better the last one? There’s no way I can predict when the muse will appear. If I had the answer, it would vanquish the mystique.

Since I’ve been in lockdown, there’s no going out for me for the morning coffee and The New York Times unfolding on the table. Many a first draft has begun that way, but now with a physical displacement of sorts I can’t claim to be an habitue of the cafe life. The kitchen table serves me well – or wherever I happen to be outdoors – so long as I have a small notebook in my pocket. I even prop myself up in bed with a clipboard pressed against my knees. I follow where I feel a poem coming on. When I start, then I know I’m in for it, but don’t give it the slightest thought. I’m in for the ride.

SCARLETT SABET: Yes, I find sometimes walking in the morning, having a destination, getting into my body and moving get’s the ball rolling with writing. I can understand the ritual of going to a cafe. I’ve written on trains a lot, the motion and rhythm helps, and because I’m in a vacuum in transit I can’t be reached.

I love the image of your 4am dream writing, I think that’s a great ritual. Sometimes I write three pages first thing in the morning, and it’s just anything on my mind. I’ve also found meditation helpful, deepening my state of consciousness and then writing straight afterwards to see what comes out, kind of like automatic writing in the spirit of Austin Osman Spare.

We were both raised Catholic, I wonder if that has had any bearing on your writing or practices? I find a great sense of divinity in art, those moments of inspiration.

GERARD MALANGA: Funny that you would mention that. No one’s ever asked me about my spirituality, that I recall. People have weird notions about me, like I’m some kind of guy about town. I may have a little bit of that too. But spirituality for me is to be able to laugh at yourself. Even when I talk to my cats, I’m laughing at myself. I don’t mean physically laughing as such but going about life without being self-conscious. It helps when I’m writing a poem.

Back in 1970 or so, I had a spiritual conversion. One of my closest friends, a guy named Jim Jacobs, turned me on to the first two Carlos Castaneda/Don Juan books; so we were basically comparing notes and one of the themes that came through for us was to follow your nature to be happy. Suddenly we found ourselves wearing white clothing and calling ourselves the white lights. When we went to London we ended up buying an all-white 1939 Bentley convertible with one windshield wiper not wiping, and it basically gave us the freedom to go visit friends in the English countryside. It sounds hysterically funny when I look back at this, but we were quite sincere in our endeavors. If this was going to be our path we had to be true to the discoveries we made along the way.

During our travels we decided to split off and agreed to re-connect a couple of years later in the Massachusetts Berkshires where he’s from and continue where we left off. Jim ended up being one of the top dealers in the secondary art market handling the likes of Judd and Cy Twombly, and now he’s curating shows. I continued to write poetry without a care in the world and became more attuned to the pictures I was taking. I truly feel I’ve become a better photographer because of the experiences I had. You have to be courageous to suddenly drop out and then drop back in.

Back in ’74, I had this idea for a book of my spiritual poetry that would have as its cover one of those kitschy paintings of Jesus. I called it ‘Poems for the Fat Lady’. You know, the Fat Lady was a phrase I’d picked up from reading Salinger’s Raise High the Roof Beam, Carpenters, where he’s actually equating Jesus with the Fat Lady, that they were one. That’s pretty neat, I thought. It didn’t go over too well with my publisher who rejected the idea outright. He thought I was joking. So I settled for a kind of even-balanced title, Incarnations,’ and changed the poems around.

Perhaps, the Fat Lady was the closest I ever got to God, though I don’t give it much thought these days. It’s the inspiration and the love that come from it which is the driving force and source for much of what I’m writing nowadays, and that’s the joy when I finally finish a poem. A state of happiness sets in for me.

SCARLETT SABET: And what you said makes sense, I can understand it. Did you have a period where you rebelled against spirituality or Catholicism and were, say, atheist? Although it’s bizarre for me to admit it, once I left school I did swing to atheism, I guess as a way of rebelling or a reaction. School can be dogmatic.

GERARD MALANGA: In hindsight, to embrace atheism, Scarlett, would deny the spirituality within me which accounts for a lot of my poetry as well. There was no real rebellion on my part. I always felt that my guardian angel was looking after me when I was fated to become a poet. Who would I be, otherwise? It’s a scary proposition, come to think of it.

SCARLETT SABET: True, looking back I realise I’ve always had a Guardian Angel too. I’m so sorry for the loss of [influential Beat poet] Michael McClure, and I was moved by the picture you took of him in San Francisco, 1972. What was that day like?

GERARD MALANGA: If I live long enough, God willing, I may end up not knowing anyone because at this juncture a lot of my friends have already passed. Many of them in the obituary series of my most recent book Cool, which you have. I don’t want to slip into a consciousness of perpetual mourning. Yet I hadn’t anticipated that I’d be writing a poem for Michael, but then I opened up to myself and his consciousness flowed right in. Perhaps I had a vacuum to fill at that moment from an external point of view, taking Michael’s place for the poem that would talk to him and he to me.

I remember little of that when I came to visit with him and made his portrait. It was a serene afternoon. Just him and me. I remember distinctly that we went off in his car, perhaps to a restaurant. We were driving somewhere, and that made sense. But for the life of me I remember nothing of what transpired over lunch. With all the history—and it ain’t an awful lot—there’s still a history there to be acknowledged. You know, I performed the part of Billy the Kid in Warhol’s movie which we adapted from Michael’s play, The Beard. Hardly anyone knows this; perhaps in part because I believe the movie has never been shown. So the friendships last and last and continue beyond the grave.

SCARLETT SABET: I’m always struck by the structure of your poems. I was wondering what your approach to this was, whether there was any major influence from particular poets of your youth, or even whether the way that you frame scenes and ideas within poems has any crossover influence from your work in the wider art world?

GERARD MALANGA: Yes, there’s probably a very strict structure to my poems, but it’s casually applied in what the work proposes as possibility, which I don’t even notice when I’m starting out. For instance, for a very long time, the opening to the work begins with an indented first line of let’s say 8 characters. It’s my way of engaging myself and the reader into a form of poetry that’s a radically different departure from what may be normally perceived. Yes, it’s a poem, but I like to think of them as prose poems as well.

I left ‘influences’ behind decades back. I’m pretty much on autopilot. I’m my own navigator. I travel the journey alone. My earliest influence when I literally started was Gerard Manley Hopkins. I was enchanted by his system of ‘sprung rhythm’ which he basically invented with no imitators following. That would’ve been 1959 during the start of the high school year in my senior class. In 1962, I believe, John Ashbery made a profound influence on my early work with his book The Tennis Court Oath. That became my Bible. I’d carry it around my duffle bag wherever I went. But it was Ted Berrigan with his Sonnets in ’64 that unlocked the door for me into what Ashbery was doing and that was a sheer liberating factor. From there the work continued to expand on its own.

The only ‘crossover influence’ that I imagine, as you put it, in the ‘wider art world’ would be my own life, and not the art world, per se. So what we have here is the tendency to open almost all the work in the form of what appears to be a letter on the surface, but is actually a message. I’m addressing the subjects of my poems directly; they’re not ‘about’ the subject. I’m talking directly to them, as if they’re right in the room, whether it’s a person or a cat.

SCARLETT SABET: You mention you don’t write about your subjects but address them directly in your poems. I think this is what makes them so arresting and intimate, particularly in the ‘Lives They Lived’ chapter in your beautiful collection Cool & Other Poems [published by Bottle of Smoke Press]. Each poem is a visceral portal, allowing the reader to be present with you, and witness Christopher Logue against a snowing sky before warming his hands around a mug of cognac, and Anita Pallenberg a vivacious, laughing woman sitting opposite you at Cafe Flore. Also in that chapter you include a poem entitled ‘Gerard Malanga dies’. The poem contains the line ‘I am my only guide now,’ which I found so powerful. Could you tell us how that poem came to be?

GERARD MALANGA: Putting together that section, ‘The Lives They Lived’, I figuratively had to step outside myself. That’s how close I was with many of those listed and to the memories I have of them held dear. It was not an easy section to compile. By the way, ‘The Lives They Lived’, is borrowed from the New York Times‘s annual round-up supplement. I called my contact at the paper to get permission to use it and he saw no problem involved.

Writing ‘Gerard Malanga dies’ was a tricky situation in the need to make it work. It was one of the final poems in the section and it presented me with an opportunity to address certain issues surrounding death and to those friends I’d already acknowledged over a period of nearly 40 years. I also lapse into a bit of my own personal history, as if I’m contemplating how others might see me after I’ve gone: ‘The rabbit hole is waiting for my plunge.’ Somehow, that image of the rabbit hole has emerged in a few of my poems and also echoes back to Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland, one of my favorite childhood books.

The rabbit hole is an image for both death and resurrection, as I see it. Here, I question myself, ‘Am I preparing for another life? A return to life?’ And so I treat this poem as slowly nearing its own end with a ‘journey’ back to life ‘…and on and on…’. I equate this with an actual journey I’d taken by train from ‘Glasgow down to Central London…’ back in 2014 where I’d been dreamily staring out the window at a passing landscape I might not ever explore at any other time.

‘Will I even find my way home to the Bronx’ alludes to a movie I’d seen years back I recall, called ‘The Swimmer’ adapted from a John Cheever short story. Starring Burt Lancaster, his character is swimming across a series of backyard swimming pools and encountering neighbors he knew poolside in attempting to reach home. And when he arrives in the pouring rain and runs up to the door, he discovers that the door’s locked and the house is empty. Such a potent ending and darkened cinematic metaphor, brilliantly done. And it’s these private memories in my life resurfacing that I feel nourishes my work.

SCARLETT SABET: We met at a book launch in London, and you were immediately swarmed, surrounded by people. I think that is a testament to the impact your writing has had globally and across generations. How has your home city of New York and its literary landscape changed and evolved for you over the years? Is it something you feel especially connected to?

GERARD MALANGA: Your question speaks volumes, but I’m going to try to be as brief and succinct as I can hope to be as the facts show. I’m seventy-seven now and there have been no accolades to show for it. Cool came out last year and Whisper Sweet Nothings two years prior and together they comprise the best of anything I’ve ever done, and yet they’ve been totally ignored by the New York literary press overall. In the five decades I’ve been publishing I’ve received not one grant or fellowship or any of the prizes totaling in the millions. Nada. Zilch. I can’t even get my memoirs published and I have thousands of fans waiting for this book. You would think that would count for something. I’m grateful for the European attitude towards my work. That’s what keeps the work alive for me. That’s where my audience is and they relate. I love what I do, and I know it shows through the work from the responses at the readings I give and that’s how my work thrives. I love my audience and that’s the truth of it.

SCARLETT SABET: A year ago today, I finished my waitressing shift, went home and listened to what Jimmy [Page] had produced from the recordings we had made of my poems. this became our spoken word album Catalyst. It was a joy to be able to give you our album as I am so moved by your work. It had a sense of synchronicity also, as years earlier, Jimmy had given me a signed edition of your beautiful poem ‘Devotion’.

You said that ‘Cut Up’ was your favourite track on Catalyst. I had christened that poem ‘Cut Up’ simply because it was the first time I had used the William Burroughs/Brion Gysin method. I always feel it’s a handing over, a leap of faith to a higher power, to introduce another energy to it, and it came out with it’s own dark, random rhythm. Burroughs said “when you cut into the present the future leaks out”, and in that sense it has a spell like quality or possibility.

Some poems I’ve written in one sitting, a sort of channeling, like ‘Fifth Circle of Hell’, which is also on Catalyst. But part of the reason I found the cut-up method so liberating that first time was that I was trying to write a poem to encapsulate that period. I felt cautious because the subject matter was focused on the events in Europe and the Middle East, and the horrors and blood shed of the Bataclan attacks in Paris. I think my own identity and ethnicity – my mother is French-Scottish and my father is Persian – gave this piece more weight personally. So really, the cut-up was a way of detaching through the process, which was effective. I suppose I wonder what your thoughts are on cut-ups?

GERARD MALANGA: Scarlett, cut-ups are a tricky business. They almost feel spontaneous, but with every move there’s no turning back. They’re the antithesis to parallel grammatical structures which is how we reform language to make things sound right. You see Bill [Burroughs] stuck with it all his life. Cut-ups were his language and he embraced the process. It’s okay to experiment with language so long as you come out at the other end with something that satisfies you and encourages you to want to do more, to go further. That’s a big commitment. The one thing you want to avoid is being self-conscious in the process, as you put it. There’s no room for self-consciousness in cut-ups. You have to operate on a more or less unconscious level like when you dream.

Of course, you realize this in dreams. I don’t need to tell you. In dreams, nothing really connects or relates. Dreaming is a series of visual and mental disconnects. One thing leads to the next but you don’t know why nor do you have time to stop to know why. It’s like you go with the flow. Excuse the corniness of this. Dreams are the cut-ups of the unconscious. You can’t go back to change anything to make it better. There’s nothing qualitative about it. When that happens to me, I try to maintain the balance of the good and the bad together. All of it. Yes, I’ve done a little tweaking here and there, but only because I’m now in the conscious state and I want to make the lines sound just right. So it’s okay to prune. Robert Lowell taught me how to prune. But you have to know what you’re doing. It’s trusting your instincts. That’s what I do. If I throw out a perfectly terrific line, it’s because I’m trusting my instincts. But, of course, only I know that. The reader doesn’t, nor does he need to.

One of my earliest poems was a form of the cut-up. My English teacher in high school, Daisy Aldan, who introduced me to the world of poetry, gave us an assignment in class to cut out words at random from the newspaper and fill a paper bag with them. The next step was to reach into the bag and pick out one word at a time and place them on a page, and then to transcribe those words into a text, including all the capital and lower-case letters. I did one better and glued them onto the page. This all had to do with chance. Remember, Stéphane Mallarmé, in his last poem ‘Un coup de dés’ said that a ‘a throw of the dice NEVER NEVER will abolish chance.’ Well, he was right about that. You take your chances, you trust your instincts.

SCARLETT SABET: I’ve started reading Gysin’s novel The Process. I bought it last year at Shakespeare&Co but started reading it now to feel closer to Morocco, a place that I really love, while still in lockdown. I wondered what places have meant the most to you?

GERARD MALANGA: I have Brion’s book on my shelf, but I’ve yet to read it. Perhaps I’m still not ready for it yet. Right now I’m immersed in Tolstoy’s Anna Karenina. What I like about it is that it reads like it’s not translated but written directly in English. That’s probably the best kind of translated work.

The first place that comes to mind that has meant the most to me, although there may have been others, is the Cafe Flore. It was my first introduction to cafe life when I arrived in Paris in the spring of 1965. And henceforth whenever I’ve visited Paris, I would arrive punctually every morning during my stays. There’s no other cafe that does it for me. Of course, there’s the cafe in the Luxembourg Gardens, but that’s more like a restaurant; a different ambiance entirely. The Flore has a certain something, a certain charm about it that allows me to immerse myself reading the morning papers or writing a poem even. The food’s good too. The croissants, the omelettes, the cafe creme. Some years back, I started referring to it as my ’office’ whenever I had an appointment to meet with friends. And I’d be certain to book a hotel room within walking distance. Anyway, the Flore is the start of my day.

SCARLETT SABET: Well, I hope one day, when the lockdown is over, we can meet you at Cafe Flore.

Photos: London Magazine

[eliasbouchardisarobloxthot]

part three of the power of friendship!

this is my au where jon, tim, and sasha (among others) save the world with the power of friendship! parts one and two are here. as always, the fic is under the cut!

“So we just… stand here?” Tim asked, leaning up against the flower shop window.

“That’s what it says in the book,” Jon said, examining the page.

“Seems like it kind of… sucks, you know? Like, imagine he doesn’t show up and we just have to sit here for the whole day.”

“Well, that’s not going to happen,” Gerard said from inside the book. “Look over there.”

Indeed, standing a few blocks away was a young man with long blond hair, tied back into an incredibly curly ponytail.

“That’s our thing,” Jon said quietly. “Should we approach, or follow him later?”

“Later,” Gerard said quickly. “Follow him. He goes into that cafe over there usually, Amy and I have watched him a few times.”

Jon nodded, closing the notebook carefully. “What’s he going to do?” he asked, keeping his voice low.

“Watch,” Gerard hissed from inside his book.

The man walked towards the florist’s, stood there for a few moments, and picked out a bunch of lilies before walking out. Jon slipped the notebook back into his bag, watching the man for a few moments before standing up to follow him. The man didn’t seem to notice, but he was cautious anyway, standing back for a while with as casual an expression as he could muster.

Inside the cafe, the man was sitting alone at a table that had space for many more. Upon seeing them, he waved them over with a smile on his face.

Jon was obviously startled by this.

“You going to go over to him?” Tim murmured to him, trying to be as subtle as possible.

“Yeah. You coming with me?”

There was a pause as Tim and Sasha contemplated this.

“Yeah, I am,” Tim said at last. Sasha just nodded and followed Jon over to the table, sitting down beside the strange man.

As soon as they sat down, the man gestured to an empty chair. “You should give your friend some room, too. The one in the book.”

Jon looked vaguely confused and concerned for a moment. “What do you—how do you know about that?”

The man sighed as if it was obvious. “He’s got a very strong presence, you know. Personality. I can appreciate that. Not many people do, especially not ghosts.” He waved for Jon to put the book down on the chair. “No one but us will be able to see him, you know. It won’t be an issue.”

Reluctantly, Jon placed the book down on the chair. He opened it up, and Gerard appeared, looking bitter.

“Well? What is it that you want from me?” the man said.

“We just want to talk,” Sasha replied, being careful with her words. “You’re written down as being one of those… um, what do you call yourself?”

“I call myself Michael, but more generally we are called Avatars. But you can call me a monster if you like, I don’t much mind.” His voice was strange, a lilting pitch. He laughed quietly, and when he laughed, it echoed strangely in the room. “But yes. I am an Avatar, and I am in that book.”

“What does it mean, being an Avatar?” Jon asked, reaching for his notebook.

Michael laughed again. “A regular candidate for an Archivist, I see. You look like you’ve already been marked—twice! Oh, how fascinating. And you, too—” he gestured to Tim— “and for the Stranger, too.” He made a face. “We can’t win them all, I suppose. Especially not the curious ones.”

“What are you talking about?” Sasha looked frightened. “What do you mean, marked?”

“All in due time, my dear, all in due time. And you haven’t even introduced yourselves yet, how very rude. I gave you my name, you give me yours.”

“I will not give you my name, but you may call me Sasha,” Sasha said, like she was reciting something practiced.

“My name is—” Tim began, but Sasha shushed him quickly.

“You know about the Fey, then, Sasha,” Michael said, twirling one finger in his long blond hair. “You don’t have to worry. I’m not going to steal your name, though others will. And besides, I’m quite the nice person to have one’s name stolen by…”

“Tell us everything,” Gerard said, glaring at him. “Whatever you think is relevant.”

“Well, if you think I’m going to tell everything to tall, dark, and handsome over here—” he looked at Gerard with a smile— “you’re right. But it’s only fair that some of you answer my questions, too. How unfair would it be for me to bare my very soul to you, and to get nothing at all in return? You’d be very poor sports for it.”

Gerard rolled his eyes. “Drama queen.”

“But you love it,” Michael said with a wink that would have been interpreted as flirtatious if he hadn’t been such a strange person.

“Just tell us what you know about those… Avatar things,” Tim said.

“Fine… you’re so boring. Ask your questions.” Just as Jon was about to speak, Michael held up a finger. They hadn’t noticed before, but he was wearing long, pink acrylic nails. “But for every question you ask of me, I get to ask you one of my own. Deal?”

Jon sighed. “Deal.”

“Right. Let’s hear what you want to know.”

“What exactly is an Avatar?” Jon asked, pen poised over his notebook.

“Hmm… how do I define it?” He tapped his chin with one long nail. “An Avatar… hm. An Avatar is to a Fear as an acolyte is to a god. Or as a subordinate is to their superior. Either. Both.”

“Then what’s a fear?” Jon asked quickly.

“Ah—” He held up his hand. “You haven’t let me ask my question yet.”

“Very well. Get on with it.”

Michael leaned in, a smirk on his face. “Why haven’t you told them yet?”

Jon paled. “Wh—I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do. Why haven’t you told them yet?”

“I—I suppose I’m just scared to,” he said quietly. “Nothing else.”

“That’s a lie, Jonathan,” Michael said. Jon was suddenly very aware that he hadn’t introduced himself. “Tell me the truth.”

“Because I don’t want them to hate me,” he said finally, after a long while of thinking hard about it.

“Very good. Now. A Fear is simply that—something that people are afraid of. People, animals—anything that can feel fear. It’s like a god, like I said before. Or a particularly preternatural CEO. It really doesn’t do much, just sort of… influences the Avatars that belong to it.”

Jon nodded. “And then it’s your turn.”

Michael smiled. “Good! You’re getting it,” he said, turning to look at Gerard. “You. How did you die?”

Sasha looked concerned. “That’s a bit—”

“Brain tumor,” Gerard said, looking pointedly away from Michael.

“Hmm. Tragic.” He sighed. “Next question, I suppose?”

“What fear are you attached to?” Tim asked.

“The throat of delusion, the unending door—the Spiral.” He tapped his nails against the table. “Now you. Why did you get that tattoo?” he asked Tim, looking at him in a way that made it clear that he already knew.

“It’s a memorial. For my brother,” Tim said uncomfortably, rubbing the axe tattoo visible on his left bicep. “He died four years ago and I wanted to remember him somehow. So I got a tattoo.”

“I—you didn’t tell us,” Sasha said, reaching out to take his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s no big deal,” Tim said, shrugging. “I—it’s not fresh anymore, I’ve tried to forget. And the tattoo… it’s just a way of remembering him. His legacy.”

They sat in silence for a moment.

“So was he just, like, really into carpentry?” Jon asked, then immediately sat bolt upright, covering his mouth with one hand. “I’m so sorry. I meant to ask why it was an axe, I didn’t mean for it to come out so rudely—”

“It’s fine,” Tim said, looking away. “No, he wasn’t, I just—I feel like it reminds me of him. I don’t know why I chose it, I just did.”

“Fascinating,” Michael said. “Now. Any more questions for me?”

“How do the fears choose people?”

Michael thought for a moment. “I think that’s enough questions for now. The throat of delusion is not one for telling the truth, especially not to people who are actively seeking it. So… if you need me, you’ll know where to find me, and I suppose I’ll see you whenever the Archivists send you as their errand boys again.”

He stood, picking up his bunch of flowers delicately, and left them behind in the cafe.

“So. That’s, uh, that was something.” Jon fidgeted with his notebook, putting it into his back pocket. “Should we just, uh, just go?”

“I mean… yeah, I guess,” Tim said, shoving his hands into his pockets like that would make him somehow more invisible.

Sasha stood to leave, picking up the book and closing it. Gerard was stone-silent as she did, expression unreadable as he vanished into the pages. She tucked it into Jon’s bag wordlessly and handed him the bag, fidgeting with one of her many bracelets once he took it from her.

“Are you alright?” Jon asked as soon as they were outside.

“What aren’t you telling us?” she asked, like she’d been holding it in a long while.

“What?” Jon looked confused, holding his bag close to his chest.

“Michael asked you a question. ‘Why haven’t you told them yet.’ What is it that you haven’t told us, and why?”

Jon’s face changed instantly. He looked—not upset, but on the edge of it. Almost angry, and if one looked close enough, almost afraid, too.

“I don’t see why that’s any of your business,” he said, quite obviously trying to make his voice even.

“It’s our business because you’re our damn coworker, and if we’re going to do this, we have to trust each other!” Sasha said, suddenly angry. She tried to compose herself. “Look. You both are obviously hurting a lot, and if you don’t want to go into your entire life story that’s fine, but you have to tell us some things. And if it’s important enough for Michael to ask about, then it’s important for us to know.” She looked over at Tim. “Right?”

Tim mostly seemed like he didn’t want to be thinking about this at the moment. He was preoccupied, gently rubbing his left bicep.

“Look. We don’t have to talk about this now—”

“Yes, we do!” Sasha was obviously incensed, and sighed sharply as she tried to regain control of her emotions. “We don’t need to talk right this second, but you are going to tell us. We’re a team, and we have to trust each other. Okay?”

Jon didn’t reply for a long moment, looking away from Sasha, but eventually managed a curt nod.

“Now. We should report back to Amy, let her know what we’ve found. As a team.”

[the-mf-bread-babies]

20/6/20

× REBUILD III ×

+ RUNAWAY RENEGADES +

[ COLLECTION I ]

“backstories”

∆ VOLUME TWO ∆

“Odd Beginnings”

· PART ONE ·

———————————————————

CHAPTER ONE

DINER DATE

It was a rainy night. The clock inside the diner probably hadn't been fixed in decades, which only made time pass more slower for Jason. Jason Aronowitz Watanabe, 16 years old, was waiting for his first date to arrive at the restaurant. His mother and father were sitting in front of him, eagerly awaiting for her too. Among all the excuses the two had speculated, the son had grown tired and realized that maybe he didn't want to do this in the first place.

Jason stared at the unmoving clock, the sound of rain pattering filling his ears. God, it would be such a good time to sleep right now. “Honey, she's probably stuck in traffic,” said Judy, his mother. She spent hours to do her hair, makeup, and outfit. This might have been her son's date, but her and her husband's was going to take place as soon as the girl had arrived, and it was ten times more grand than Jason's. They had a reservation at Chili's.

Hisashi Watanabe, Jason's father, kept his eyes focused on the road outside. Maybe this was her. No, then that one. Also no. Well, hopefully Jason's not getting pranked or whatever. Oh, that's a cool truck. Bye, cool truck. Damn, that reservation's probably busted by now. So long, paradise pie. Two hours to get here and both dates are probably cancelled by now. Jason looks sad. Actually, he always does, it's understandable, but this time's sadder than usual.

“Jason, look outside!” The father whispered excitedly, pointing out the window. “Whatever. I wanna go home.” Jason grumbled angrily, his voice slightly cracking either from crying or just puberty. “Sorry, just… a limo,” Hisashi uttered quietly. “We can order something if you want,” Judy suggested, awkwardly smiling, her big sunglasses shielding the intense mix of emotions she was feeling– anger, disappointment, sadness. Also, hunger.

“Mm,” Jason replied cryptically. “Waiter! Can I get a menu, please?” Judy yelled out, startling the two men. She ordered something, her voice being reduced to mumbles by Jason zoning out, eyes fixated on the table. “Sweetie, do you want a milkshake? They have cookies and cream,” His mother asked, gaining back his attention. “Um, okay, sure.” Jason answered, giving his mother and the waiter a polite smile. “Thank you.” He went back to zoning out.

His parents were having a conversation about something unimportant, and the restaurant was awfully ambient. There was a jukebox, but that, too, was broken. This seemed like an appropriate situation for the boy to get distracted from everything and daydream. Damn, it would be so cool if he could play the drums. Ah, to be a transformer. Imagine going to have a heart transplant surgery, and Gerard says, “Babe, it's okay,” and then when it's done you ask the nurse who gave you the heart and she replies, “Frank Iero,” and you and the other three remaining members go get pizza or whatever. Poor Frank. Was that a bell ringing. Oh, to be a lamb in a field, eating grass. Ew, imagine eating grass…

HELLO.

A shadowy figure towered over Jason threateningly, katakana surrounding her. Who the hell is this?

“Do you need money?” Judy asked quietly, counting some dollar bills, thinking this was some random person. “Yeah!” She shouted excitedly. “Gimme five hundred thousand dollars, stat!” Jason's face turned to the girl. Her shirt read “TACO,” with an image of a cartoon taco below it. Cloaking the ugly t-shirt was a blue jacket that seemed quite old and vintage. Well, at least her outfit is matching. “Um… are you…” he asked the girl.

“Your date for tonight, partner!” Oh, she has braces. Yeah, seemed like a braces person. “Awesome! Now you two don't do any funny business, okay?” Jason's dad stated, pointing. “Dad, what.” “Well, off to visit your mother!” He added, his arm around Judy, the two scooting out of the seat to make room for the girl. “Cool! Your dad knows TF2?” The girl said, her face sparking up in joy. “I was an animator for the shorts,” Hisashi revealed, much to the girl's excitement. “HOLY SHIT!!! CAN I GET AN AUTOGRAPH?!” She yelled out, turning the heads of some people in the diner. “Sure thing,” he answered, signing a napkin. “Okay, bye, you two,”

Jason's eyes met the girl's, realising he forgot what her name was. Um… well, her brother's a senior, right? Tony… Tony Blenderson… Bender… Flanders… Uh… “Hi! You're Jason, right? From History?” She asked, raising his fear more. How did he even agree to this in the first place? Oh, right, their moms are friends. “Um, yeah, and you're…” Oh God. Grave mistake. “Man, I don't know! Most people just call me by my last name. First names are boring, you get me?” She confessed, calming him down slightly. “Oh, uh… yeah! Uh, so I can call you…” “Anytime!” She added confidently. “Huh?” Jason said, confused. “Henderson, man! Hendersonville is actually an actual place, by the way! Could you BELIEVE IT?!” Jason awkwardly agreed, not knowing what to do. “Yeah… like Disneyland or something…”

The conversation went on, with the occasional text from Jason's parents. “So then I was all like, I know karate, you dumbass,” she started, Jason trying his best to understand what the hell she was talking about. “And this stupid little goat starts headbutting me, and I'm bleeding and stuff, obviously, keep in mind I had a hamburger, that's important, okay,” The boy nodded his head along. “So, yeah, that was how gender equality is. Yeah, zoos are dumb, they're bad,” “Yeah, like, it's not good for them and stuff,” Jason said, finally having some material for the conversation.

He paused for a bit, unsure if the other was going to add anything. “So, uh, what do you do? Like, um, in general, yeah,” he asked, sipping his milkshake. “Kill people.” She blurted. “Okay. I like collecting stamps.” He replied jokingly. “HAH! God, what a riot you are! Oh boy, STAMPS!!!” Henderson laughed exaggeratedly, thinking it sounded natural, and possibly cute. “Yeah…?” “Yeah, not real people, but like, I play video games a lot. You ever play Slime Rancher? I've got six thousand days on that guy.” She confessed seriously, crossing her arms. “Also, used to play Overwatch, but that was so last rebuild. Now, in this one, I prefer Garden Warfare. You know, the FPS Plants vs. Zombies game?” She casually added, Jason sending his usual confused nodding and raised eyebrows with a slightly opened mouth as a reply.

Jason thought for a bit. “I play Apex,” He said disappointedly. “Oh, didn't it end because of that big rapper guy? Marshmello? Yeah. Sorry, dude.” Henderson comforted. “Um. I guess?” Jason ate the Oreo on top of the milkshake. “Yeah, and I also listen to emo stuff. I was born in the wrong generation.” He said, stirring the drink. “Oh, like PSY? Yeah, my old neighbor listened to him.” .. huh. “Um… yeah, and like, MGR and stuff…” “Cool! What's that stand for, again? My cousin listens to Chaos! in the Gathering, Nuclear Lad, thirty three tailors, so I know emo.” Henderson bragged. “Oh, it stands for My Geological Rocks! It's because they're pretty rock, and one of them saw this book where the title was ‘Geological Rocks’ or whatever, so they named the band that.” He explained truthfully. “ Oh ! That's Dumb ! ” She blatantly said, her hand loosely swinging a spoon.

“Oh, shit, you don't have food. Um, do you want some?” Jason realized, offering Henderson the scraps of his milkshake. “Nope! Lactose intolerance, baby!” She confessed, a hint of sadness present in her face. “Oh. Sorry,” He said as he slurped up the remains quite loudly. “Should I ask them for a menu?” Jason asked, clearly not wanting to do so. “I ate a toasted toast sandwich earlier, so I'm not really hungry.” “A toasted toast sandwich is a piece of toast slotted between two other pieces of toasted bread. With butter spread on some of them.” Henderson explained in detail. “Is it good?” Jason asked fearfully. “Duh,” she said. “Oh, okay,”

The two sat in silence. The room was quiet, even the chattering of the other customers were gone. Henderson waited patiently for a waiter to come by, her face staring at the table. “That's a weird stain.” She uttered, poking hesitantly at it. “Probably tea.” Jason added, looking at the stain. “Yeah,” Henderson agreed, resting her head on the table. They stared at the stain for some time. “So, uh, you like Jar-Jar’s Odd Journey?” Henderson asked, looking up at the other. “No, I don't watch anime,” he replied, prying at the stain with his fingernail. “Oh, okay. But like, do you like Jar-Jar’s?” Jason paused, looking at her and squinting his eyes, thinking what she was meaning to hint, then slowly realising it. “Well, do you like Power Princesses? With the cat lady and the other lady?” He asked slyly, smiling from ear to ear. “Yeah… literally and…” Henderson inspected Jason's jeans. “metaphorically… you know…” Jason inspected hers too. They both cuffed them, even though Henderson's were already a good length, now a bit too short, resulting in a very prominent hint. “So yes, I do watch Jar-Jar, then,” he replied. They nodded, smiling in Mystery.

“So, why'd you even agree to this?” Jason asked, facing her. “I dunno. Felt rebellious to steal my sister's date, I guess.” Jason leaned back in his seat, blinking interestedly. “So, if it weren't for you meddling fool, I would've gone on a date with a CRSCO girl, huh?” “Sksksksks and I oop,” Jason questioned dramatically. “Yes. That's actually why I'm late; I drove here by myself.” Henderson confessed, smirking. “And I knew I wouldn't like this date if it was at some fancy restaurant, so I picked somewhere I could eat, hence why the location is so unsuitable.” “The distance, especially. That was so my family couldn't track me down.” “As if they'd care.” Henderson folded her hands together on the table and put her head down and stared at them, her hair swinging dramatically in front of her.

“Well that's bad. And bad… ass,” Jake stated, tilting his head awkwardly. “Like, your family, that's bad, like, your brother's a… he's not nice, necessarily, but you stealing a date from your sister and driving to some random-ass diner in the middle of nowhere, that's some Gone Girl shit.” he explained, eyes burning with awe.

“I mean, I've had some friends from band that met your sister, and from what I've heard, and I'm sorry for being nosy, but, I mean, it really justifies this whole… thing. So, uh, yeah. Sorry,” Jason continued as Henderson moved her Orbs to meet his.

“So, how'd it feel to set her room on fire? Were the firefighters and shit? Again, sorry for being nosy.” Jason asked casually, doing his first attempt at the three-paragraph thing. Henderson giggled uncontrollably, wiping tears off of her Orbs. “Wha– FIRE?! Who told you that? I only just threw some of her stuff out the window, but SETTING IT ON FIRE WAS NOT PART OF THE PLAN, JASON!!” Jason sat up, stammering in response. “B-But, um, like, uh, Tristan, from band, the school band, said that– you, uh, like, it was midnight, and he woke up because of all the sirens, and– yeah.” Jason explained, his voice nervously loud, and his hands gesturing wildly. “Oh!” she yelled out, remembering the experience.

“That was the time I tried modifying the hell outta french fries and I set the kitchen on fire! Like, I was pouring the fries in, then the fire just shot up, like, ten feet, and my hair almost caught on fire, the smoke alarm was ringing, it was hell, man, hell,” Henderson explained excitedly. “So, yeah, someone called the fire station, next thing I know, I'm getting yelled at severely, and I can't play video games or go on my phone for three weeks!” Jason nodded in awe. “How did you… mod… fries?” He asked in confusion, rubbing his chin. “Oh, I put olive oil, safflower oil, cooking oil, and corn oil, also I used a flat frying pan, put in two brands of fries, made sure it wasn't overcrowded, also put a thick layer of seasoning on the pan and I folded it like scrambled eggs.”

“So yeah, a literal recipe for disaster. Never doing that again.” Henderson stated, although she was most definitely going to make the same mistake in a few years with Rachel. “Ah. I see. Why the flat frying pan?” Jason asked. “Oh, the other pans were in the sink and I was lazy.” She replied, making a disappointed face. “also i'm pretty sure that it caused the oil to like. yknow. vooooshhhhh” Henderson added, sinking her face into her hands.

Jason thought of a more embarrassing moment. “Wanna know that time I went to the ER because I was too goth?” “Wait, two times! One, I ate black lipstick, the other, I got choked by a…” Jason sunk his head down. “homemade e-boy necklace…” Henderson cackled loudly, slapping the table. “How the hell do you get choked by that?!” Jason pursed his lips sadly. “I was wearing the necklace first and put it on backwards, big mistake, it had a really heavy padlock, then my binder, which was way too tight, so it was choking me, but I was wearing my turtleneck, and my arms were stuck, so I just smacked the dresser violently.” “And that's how I came out to my parents.” Jason said, smirking and crossing his arms together. “Thankfully, they let me buy a better one that didn't, like, kill me.” He added.

Henderson's jaw was hanging open in surprise. “You're trans too?!” Jason pogged in response, “TOO?!” The two shared a very intense and complicated series of high-fives and fistbumps, screaming in joy. “Man, so this is why you stole that dumbass’ date!” “Solidarity!” Jason stated, smiling. “Thanks for saving me, uh…” He paused, waiting for a confirmation. “Uh… I dunno. Girl?” Henderson replied, shrugging. “Girl! I am Dude!” Jason shouted, giving her a thumbs-up. “Cool! Hi Dude!” She yelled out, earning a very strong high-five from Jason. “Hell Yeah !!!!!!!!”

“Man, you want something to celebrate? This shit's nice as hell.” Jason asked, visibly in a better mood than before. “To hell with it! Cheesy Frickin’ Fries for the lady!” Henderson shouted in joy. “And for the man?” Jason thought for a bit. “Truck” he uttered, giving her an emotional gaze. Get it? Gaze? “Ah, okay. Truck it is, then,” Henderson confirmed before raising her head to get the waiter's attention.

“Waiter ain't here. Should I? Go to the counter?” She asked, pointing to the front of the diner. Jason nodded in response. Henderson approached the counter, her hands in her pockets, her eyes looking around. There was not a single person to be seen, the pies sitting on the rack softly, asking to be stolen and devoured. “Be… do…” she whispered softly, her hand reaching to the pies, only to be stopped by the other one. Disappointed, she went back to Jason, frowning.

“God hates us.” She uttered, her head pointing up. “No one at the counter, no one near the entrance, so no friggin’ cheese fries.” She grumbled, “Drove five friggin’ hours in the friggin’ rain just for this dumbass shit. Can't even have the friggin’ pies, that's illegal,” Jason looked at her sadly. “Hey, it's okay, I brought snacks,” He pulled out a packet of chips from his hoodie pocket. “Here's the fries…” Jason placed a slightly melted cheese slice onto the table. “And here's the cheese!” “Hipster, innit? All deconstructed an’ stuff,” He said happily, swinging his arm a la Grunkle Stan.

“What a gentleman. Thank you, Jarnathan Jarstar, my brother,” Henderson said gratefully, unwrapping the cheese slice packet. “Good job, uh, Catra,” Jason commented, opening the chips packet. As they dined happily, a tall, scary figure approached them slowly and murderously.

“Ya can't bring outside food in here.”

“It's against the rules, kiddos.”

“Might getcha banned fer life if yer not careful enough.”

“Aah!!” Jason screamed quietly. The figure revealed itself under the illumination of the ceiling lights— a man, presumably middle-aged, dressed in a cheap chicken costume, donning a knight helmet. “You wouldn't make the cut. Ya just wouldn't.” The man uttered cryptically, confusing the two. Was this weirdo the mascot or just some guy? “I have pepper spray, creep.” Henderson threatened, pointing the self-defence tool at the costumed man. “Like that'll do anythin’.” He pointed out, glaring at the girl.

In response, Jason pushed the man, Henderson following suit by vigorously kicking the life out of him. Blood oozed out of the now-stained costume as he begged for help, trying his best to explain the current situation. “Stop! Please stop!” He yelled out, only for the helmet to be removed by Henderson, who was ready to punch the hell outta him.

Some balding white guy sporting bad facial hair had been the culprit all along. Jason pulled the remains of his hair and threw him to the floor, yelling. Out of the blue, a group of people showed up, coming to the rescue and pulling them apart from each other. “Whose idea was to be threatening again?!” The man in the chicken costume yelled out, clearly angry at all of them. “Run!” Henderson shouted, grabbing the snacks and dragging Jason out of the diner, only to be chased down by the others.

“Who the hell was that guy?!” Jason yelled, running. “I may be weird, but I definitely don't know that guy, and definitely not enough for him to just show up like that!” Henderson shouted back, confused. “Guess it's some weird kidnapper, then? Or a really odd mascot.” Jason said, dashing around the street corner. “Probably!” Henderson ran past Jason. “Hey, wait up! I was kicked outta the track team for a reason, Henderson!” The boy yelled, running out of breath. The girl went back to him, feeling a bit guilty.

“I, uh, have asthma.” Jason said, pulling out his inhaler. “Oh, um, I'm, uh, really, really, sorry.” Henderson nervously apologized, her mind wondering what would happen if Jason died right then and there. Oh, she'd definitely have to go to court. Maybe it'll be like Legally Blonde. Jason stood back up, gesturing to Henderson to keep going. “Hey, I'm okay, go ahead.” “You can leave me here if you want. Death isn't a big concern for me; I'll meet all the MGR members, then when I go to hell I can punch Brendon Urie in the face…” Jason struggled out. “… because he's like, racist,” “Bob Bryar too, man,” Henderson nodded slowly, not knowing what the hell kinda emo thing he was referencing.

Jason looked behind Henderson, surprised. “Hhhh… they're not killing us…” he tried out, pointing to her back. “Oh, hey, yeah. Let's go hide somewhere.” Henderson suggested, looking around for a good shelter. “I'm gonna tell this to my parents first…” Jason said, moving down to sit on the ground. “Oh, man. There's no reception here.” He revealed, getting more and more scared with every second they stayed there, the possibility of them being caught and killed or whatever growing steadily.

“I mean, we are in Ohio, Jason. There's a bigger chance of us stumbling into a big-ass cornfield than us getting reception in some super rural town like this.” Henderson sighed. “This place is called Van Wert, Jay. How friggin’ hillbilly is that? Van Wurrrtt, yee-haw,” She commented angrily. Jason took a deep breath and stood back up, scanning the horizon.

“Well, hard to find a place where we won't get shot immediately when entering, especially at this hour. I mean, gun store, bar, creepy pharmacy, another gun store, mom and pop, mom and pop's gun store, shooting range, farmer's market, café (with a rifle under the counter), barbershop, ranch–” Henderson smiled from ear to ear as she heard what Jason just said. “RANCH?! WITH HORSES?!”

tob e fucketh continue

a uhhh Notes by Rocco Wulfram North

oh that names so epic omg

[danschkade]

PAGE x PAGE ANALYSIS — ‘THE SHADOW STRIKES!’ #13 (1990)

PUBLISHED: DC Comics, October 1990

SCRIPT: Gerard Jones

PENCILS/INKS: Eduardo Barreto

LETTERS: John Workman 

COLORS: Anthony Tollin 

EDITORIAL: Brian Augustyn

THE SHADOW STRIKES! is high on my list of favorite ongoing series ever. As far as I’m concerned, of the many four-color iterations of The Shadow, this is the one that truly gets it right. The Shadow of STRIKES! is a lurking, manipulating hybrid of The Phantom of the Opera and John Wick, the action of the series playing out mainly through the perspectives of his agents and his criminal quarry. This book is tight, hard-edged, and restrained; it avoids a lot of hacky pulp comics pitfalls because it understands that the original Walter Gibson Shadow novels weren’t “trying to be pulpy” — they were trying to be lean, lurid action thrillers. This is almost entirely down to writer Gerard Jones, but it works better than anywhere else in the issues drawn by the artist that defined the look and feel of the series — Eduardo Barreto. STRIKES! sometimes suffers from being the type of lower budget 80’s/90’s DC book where the fill-in issues can be sloppy to unreadable and the truly great issues mainly succeed by virtue of being the product of creators who weren’t really being watched that closely, but that doesn’t mean I’m grading on some kind of a curve when I say the truly great issues are truly great. 

Today, we’re looking at one of those issues — the second installment of an amazing four-part storyline that sees The Shadow, along with his most trusted agent Margo Lane and the begrudgingly complicit Inspector Cardona, taking his private war on crime from their habitual New York haunts to the streets of Chicago. In this analysis, I’ll be looking at how tightly Barreto’s pencils and inks hew to Jones’ script, and how the diligence of colorist (and Shadow historian) Anthony Tollin actively facilitates the near-seamless transitions between the plot’s many storylines. This is a full comic that never feels crowded, a dense comic that keeps light, and a very comic booky comic book that never loses sight of the emotional reality of what it’s depicting. 

THE SHADOW STRIKES! #13 and all characters contained therein are property of DC Comics and/or Conde Nast Publications, reproduced here solely for educational purposes.

COVER

I love how conceptually simple this cover is. Graphic, understated buildings. A mostly obscured main character. Smoke and mist wafting around for a little atmosphere. There’s only one thing that’s clearly rendered — a tommy gun, unfired. The Shadow is usually depicted using handguns, so him holding this universal visual signifier for “MOB STORY” immediately lets you know what you’re in for. And that’s even without the blurb at the top. You wanna see The Shadow fight the Chicago Mob? I know I wanna see The Shadow fight the Chicago Mob.

PAGE ONE

Something THE SHADOW STRIKES! does particularly well is maintaining the balance between mainstream comic book sensibility and HBO subject matter without making either seem out of place. We open with a prime example — the hand acting in panels one through four clearly conveys uncomfortable reality of a woman having sex she doesn’t enjoy with a man she doesn’t like. This transitions to her reaching over to grab a cigarette and light up in panels five and six (along with the barb “what was even quicker than usual” for those in the back). This establishes her as our POV character for the scene, something every scene going forward will have in some form or another. The point of this opening scene is to establish bad guy mobster Anthony ‘Half-Step’ Sbarbarro as a detestable macho prick in his personal as well as professional life. By identifying with this woman, we share her lack of fulfillment and, soon, her ongoing victimization. We quickly learn to hate Half-Step by seeing him through her eyes. We also see a hint of a gun in a shoulder holster, in case you didn’t realize what kind of comic you’re about to read.

PAGE TWO

This page validates the bad feeling we got about Half-Step on the previous page. Not only so we establish the leg injury that gives him his nickname, we show how petty and violent he is. Note how loose his fingers are as he strikes her in panel four — it’s a casual, low-effort act in between tying his tie and pulling on his pants, and it absolutely demolishes her. Half-Step is a powerful man who callously uses that power to abuse those weaker than him. The scene ends on her, leaving us stewing in the emotional trauma Half-Step leaves behind him. Imagine a version of this scene that focuses on him instead of this nameless woman; his hands on the first page instead of hers, him walking out into the hall in this last panel instead of her crying into her pillow. One version of the scene encourages you to identify with Half-Step, or, jesus, maybe even thrill in his violent savoir faire. This other version shows him for the monster he is by humanizing the people around him.

PAGE THREE

Chick Heck — a dynamite name — catches us up on the events of the previous issue and shows us pictures of the main players so we’ll recognize them when we see them later. While Joe O’Hara is mainly just a quippy mannequin to help Chick with the recap, there’s some great staging between him and the showgirl in the first couple panels. She’s way too smart for him, and even though she’s constantly placed in positions of power in her panels (larger than him in panels one and three, walking past/in front of him in panel two) he just keeps checking out her legs with the unearned confidence of a white man with a little hair.

PAGE FOUR

More concise, well-written recapping, which Barreto livens up even further with a variety of camera angels and some cool lighting and drapery. We see Half-Step (who I keep accidentally and only quasi-understandably calling “Johnny Stomp” before correcting myself) near the end of the page, connecting this scene to the last and reminding us how much we would like for somebody to kill him. Chick does us a final narrative solid by setting us up for the next page with a great dramatic line.

PAGE FIVE

And now, after getting to know the distinct personalities and motivations of five characters across four pages, we get our title page. The Shadow stretches out onto the scene, speaking like goddamn Dracula and dressing the part. Between Barreto’s smoky effects* and Tollin’s icy, atmospheric coloring, The Shadow really feels like a different kind creature than anything else in the book. Also worth mentioning is John Workman’s great work on the issue’s title, with the rigid ‘B’ adding extra viciousness to the sketchy, violent ‘UTCHERS.’

*I was curious how exactly Barreto achieved this affect. I consulted with Jesse Hamm and Lukas Ketner, and the consensus is that Barreto probably drew these pages on coquille board, using graphite or lightly-applied colored pencil for the smaller areas of texture and watercolor sponge with white gouache, or possibly even just correction fluid, for the large smokey areas. If any collectors or collaborators of Mr. Barreto know otherwise, please let me know. I’m still curious. 

PAGE SIX

This page does a great job of immediately changing the focus of the scene from The Shadow to old man Romanowski. The Shadow is a non-character who will never learn anything new about himself or struggle with a decision, so the drama of the series usually centers around how ‘normal’ people react to him. In this case, it’s the equally resolute Romanowski, whose whole motivation is neatly laid out in the first three panels. “And I will owe NOTHING... to NOBODY...Not even YOU,” Mr. Devil-Man With A Gun. 

There’s a nice leftward motion as Romanowski tries to hustle this intruder out of his house, followed up by the overwhelming rightward motion of The Shadow as he silences the old man and makes his final pitch. This panel’s layout, its placement on the page, and even Tollin’s blue coloring all loosely mirror the Half-Step slap on page two; I think this is the first instance in the issue of the creative team setting up parallels between the two men. The Shadow also possesses a frightening degree of physical power, but he uses it carefully. He’s scary, but not dangerous. Or at least less dangerous. He’s not actively a woman-beater, how about that. The two panels in question, so you can draw your own conclusions:

Continuity note: the money on the floor in panel two carries over from the previous issue — Tad came to his father asking for money to pay out his gambling debts, and Romanowski, enraged at his son’s weakness, grabs glass jars containing his savings and smashes them to the floor, yelling “take it! Take it!” He uses jars because he doesn’t trust the banks — having his own money during the stock market crash was what allowed him to grow his business to what it is today. This goes further toward establishing that Romanowski sees himself as a man who doesn’t owe anything to anybody. This scene here doesn’t rely on that information, but it’s useful garnish, no?

PAGE SEVEN

Tad’s brief show of spine on the previous page immediately melts once The Shadow leaves — Barreto keeps him wobbling and weak while his father is still and resolute. The scene transitions from being about Romanowsky the senior to being about Tad, tears in his eyes as he speeds away. The last panel switches it again to the Shadow, watching silently from high above. Note how Barreto makes liberal use of the graphite shading, but leaves The Shadow’s hat and Tad’s car flat, highlighting them by omission. And man, how insane is this angle? We somehow see the train and the car at the same time without it feeling forced. The complexity of the El Tracks The Shadow’s hanging on might at first seem punishingly complicated, but I think it’s actually the parallel beams of that structure that makes the warped perspective visually legible in the first place. Using something difficult to depict something impossible. Eduardo Barreto. I tell ya.

PAGE EIGHT

This page gives us what I like to call ‘an artificial action beat.’ The Shadow catching a ride on this train is hardly a conventional action set piece, but it’s a splashy, physically extraordinary Thing That Is Happening and it breaks up a couple of dialogue-heavy scenes. It also gives us a private moment from The Shadow, helping us like him as our macroprotagonist by seeing him successfully doing something difficult. How do we know it’s difficult? The acting in his face in panel two, plus the fact that he loses his hat. On some level we know he can’t fly or teleport, but seeing him actually have to put effort into getting around helps us identify with him, without sacrificing too much of his mystery. 

At the bottom of page: the return of shaky Tad. Jones does a good job of keeping small NPC type characters around, like the singer in panel four, making their Chicago feel full. It’s easy for large-cast crime comics like this to start to feel like the only people in the world are the people involved in the case in question; bizarrely, this can actually serve to make the case seem less important. What’s so bad about bad guys if there’s no society at large to be threatened by them? 

PAGE NINE

Georgie Katomeris’ office (containing Georgie, Tad and Half-Step) and Frank Nitty’s drawing room (containing Nitti, Jake Guzik, and Half-Step again after some passage of time) are indistinguishable from each other as Barreto draws them, but are still kept distinct by three things. One is Jones’ dialogue — the ellipsis in that precedes Nitti’s panel three dialogue indicates a jump in time. Another is Nitti’s smoking jacket — he wouldn’t be going out in it, so we must have changed locations from the office to his private residence. The last and most effective is Tollin’s coloring — the grey of George’s office gives way to the green walls of Nitti’s drawing room. I admit this transition felt abrupt to me at first read, but these three clues let me easily find my footing again.

PAGE TEN

We spent the first two pages of the issue showing Half-Step to be detestable; now we show him to be truly dangerous. His patience and planning further draw him into parallel with The Shadow — having him tell a story that essentially ends with “I could have killed the President of the United States but didn’t want to because of my deeply held principles” does a great job of showing us his crazy ego and, more importantly, his ambition. The point of the end of this scene is clear: this is not someone who’ll willingly stay in a subordinate role forever. But he’s not just going to throw his weight around. He’s going to be smart about it. Note how he goes from very small in panel five, cut off by the top of the panel, to large in panel six, crowding Nitti into the corner. 

PAGE ELEVEN

Half-Step dominates his half of the page. The heavy shadowing on his face in panel three indicates there’s something dark going on in his mind. The other half of the page is all about The Shadow. We finally have the two of them in the same location here, with the Shadow placed in a position of power — the low angle of his glory shot in panel five, the fact that Half-Step doesn’t know he’s being watched. They’re even sort of almost facing each other down, with Half-Step facing left in panel three and the Shadow creeping in towards the right in panel five. But like Half-Step, The Shadow won’t just smash in guns ablaze— he’s playing a longer game. This page really sets them up as worthy enemies, with a lot of good, or at least better, people caught in the metaphorical crossfire between them.

PAGE TWELVE

Here we finally catch up with Inspector Cardona, Brenda Shield, and Margo Lane, who Chick Heck introduced us to by proxy in his earlier scene. This page has what for my money is the only real misstep this issue makes; although Margo and Cardona are both name-checked on this page, Brenda is not, and it’s been so long since the Heck scene that it’s asking a lot of the readers to remember her by sight — especially since there isn’t really much going on with her design to visually distinguish her, big polka dot bow or not. That said, this page does still somehow manage to give us that cool, spacious three-panel sequence of Cardona walking away from the ladies only to be waylaid by The Shadow while still leaving room for a nice big ‘Identify With This Character Please’ shot of Margo in the penultimate panel. Jones also manages to give us clear ideas of both Margo and Cardona’s characters, their dynamic with each other, AND their individual dynamics with the Shadow while he’s at it. Lastly, I like Tollin’s choice to give Margo a Green color scheme, making her instantly as visually distinct in the issue as the Shadow in his blacks and reds. For a page that makes the issue’s one arguable mistake, it sure does a hell of a lot right. 

PAGE THIRTEEN

Half-Step is back, haunting the plot just like the Shadow does. Seems to be a theme of men preying on women in this issue — let’s keep an eye on that going forward. Note how much real estate on the page is given up, letting the panels float around; this is used in the top half to separate Half-Step from the other guys in the car, painting his “Like I’m gonna break this city down” line as an unthinking quasi-crazy utterance, as well as to separate Margo and Brenda from the gossiping nightclub crowd in the bottom half.

PAGE FOURTEEN

Here we explain Brenda’s stakes in this scene. Even if you don’t empathize with her high-society worries, it’s worth noting that Jones has made clear through action and dialogue that every character in every scene has something they want, need, and/or fear, and Brenda is no exception. Tollin draws attention to the dreaded encroachment of gossip in the last panel with a change in background color from a neutral yellow to a threatening orange. 

Now, bear in mind, Margo might be genuinely supportive here, but all of what he’s saying about herself is a lie. There is no Dick. She's never met the Hartes. She’s working Brenda as per the Shadow’s orders — she and her fellow agents are basically Ocean’s Eleven if Danny Ocean decided to start dressing like Doctor Sax and fighting crime, and if that means pulling a hustle on a pie-eyed heiress, then I guess that’s just what's on the agenda for the evening. 

(Fun personal trivia: This comic came out the month my girlfriend was born. She also sort of has the face Barreto gives most women he draws. Coincidence? One wonders.)

PAGE FIFTEEN

Margo is the only person in this issue who gets an internal monologue, which she uses here to reveal the way her charade chafes, but also the freedom she feels from being anonymous, from being unconnected to her past mistakes. So, of course, enter: the man who knows all her secrets, here to spoil her reverie. This scene takes place in the ladies room — another example of a man trespassing against a woman, except that while our gangsters are doing it for personal gain, the Shadow (here unsexed and dehumanized to the point of being almost a silhouette) does it in service of his theoretically higher calling. He dominates panel four, almost encircling her. Margo’s body language tells it all — not afraid, but very uncomfortable. We keep the scene in her perspective by cutting from the Shadow in panel five to Brenda in panel six, both more or less in her literal point of view. Note again how Barreto employs negative space above and below the final panel to create a zoom-in effect on Brenda’s eyes. 

PAGE SIXTEEN

More Big Sister Margo; see how she controls Brenda’s body in panels one through three. Half-Step is inside now — I think we’re supposed to infer that he’s responsible for loosing the rumor that’s upsetting Brenda. A slightly abstract example of a man invading a female space? I might be reaching, there. 

Barreto does a great job of changing locations by making panel five a round panel with poor Joe Cardona on the right of the frame, contrasting with Half-Step’s leftward placement in the square panel opposite. Tollin helps with a cold color shift. The last panel might not seem like it does a lot, but it actually sets up two things for later in the issue: One is that it makes for the second time we see The Shadow and Cardona together, so when we see them together again at the end of the issue it benefits from a satisfying ‘rule of threes’ thing. The other is that it sets up one of The Shadow’s later appearances — I’ll touch on why this was necessary when it comes up.

PAGE SEVENTEEN

A great falling line of action as Tad stumbles and falls across the top four panels. Employing steadily lengthening panels like this is something Barreto does so well, and here it has the side benefit of giving Half-Step room to really loom over Tad in panel four. Meanwhile, I’m glad Half-Step’s poor, mistreated girlfriend had a good lay. She deserves it.

PAGE EIGHTEEN

Barreto is so good at clothing and drapery that you start to take it for granted — and then you remember it all over again when he draws a disheveled suit like the one Tad’s stuffed into. As soon as Nitti shuffles Tad out of the apartment, Half-Step’s attention turns to the woman. We get super close to him, the rendering becomes denser, meaner. Tollin even gives him an angry rage-flush. He’s huge in panel four, crowding her to the edge of the frame. His dialogue transverses panel five into panel six, implying he’s following her as she tries to get away from him. The final panel puts us back in her shoes, as Half-Step’s rage is directed straight at us.

PAGE NINETEEN

Panel one to panel two is the kind of cut we don’t see much in comics, despite it being incredible effective. We get the point of her abuse without — man, I guess the phrase I want to use is cheapen it by showing it explicitly on the page. Clearly implying something and then cutting away can be even more effective than showing it outright. If we were to see this scene play out, we’d still know in the backs of our heads that this is, essentially, a superhero comic, and that it’d be possible that when we turned the page, The Shadow might show up to save this woman. When the scene is over and the hero never appears, we might be left wondering, “Christ, then what was the point of seeing all that?” This method here conveys what happened with a haunting finality, but without any creepy exploitation.

On a characterization front, the thread that culminates in this scene is massive. Half-Step treats this woman like an appliance, but claims he’d kill any man who touched her. He actively entraps her into this weird “gotcha” self-cuckold and then punishes her for falling for it. This shows us so much about the depth of his bizarre self-loathing, his warped pride, the outright evil of him. And yet, again, staging these as events in her life keeps her from being just a prop to let us know how super duper bad this story’s bad guy is. She has an internal life outside of him. This all actually makes these displays of his violence more effecting because we’re seeing its effects on a “real person,” not just some Real Doll who doubles as a speedbag. 

Note also how well panel two and the butcher hanging up the cow in panel three frames the interaction between Romanowski and his debtor, Karl. Size continues to equal power as we get the huge foregrounded gangster (rendered into one monotone shape by Tollin’s colors) making the bright, full-figured Romanowsky look smaller and more vulnerable than he realizes.

PAGE TWENTY

The empty room in panel one gives us a moment to breathe as we head into a tense scene. At the same time, we know we’re getting close to the end of the issue, so an entire panel dedicated to an empty room makes us slightly nervous — we’re aware we’re running out of time. Which, by design or by happenstance, is the Shadow’s point at the end of the page. Tad is consistently rendered in a clear, clean comic book style, while The Shadow is rendered in planes of light and darkness, making him seem elemental, powerful, spectral.  

PAGE TWENTY ONE

This is the best page in this comic. I lost my mind when I saw this page. It’s AWESOME. Look at how well rendered Romanowski is in panel one. The oppressive dark architecture in panel two, drawing the eye to the small, bright Romanowski. That unnecessary but oh so cool-looking graphic black-out in panel three. The hatching on Romanowski in panel four. The callback to Half-Step’s leg injury, set up nearly twenty pages ago. The cascade of action across those last three panels. Tollin’s colors across the whole damn thing. I love this page. This page is why they have comic books.

PAGE TWENTY TWO

Look at Romanowski’s face in panel one, highlighted by the falling glasses. The FURY. The reveal of Half-Step is so pat, so understated. The little throw-away line to himself further cements him as a bona fide evil psycho criminal — one more reason we want to see him go down. The circular panel inside the square field of panel five, a technique I can’t ever remember seeing before, gives the impression that a notable amount of time has passed since the glasses fell — glasses that Barreto made sure to pointedly re-establish as a visual signifier for old man Romanowski in these last few pages. 

So, The Shadow shows up late. This is why it was important to set up The Shadow’s intent to see Romanowski in that panel at the end of page sixteen; to have The Shadow appear too late would come off as arbitrary, or even as an intentional delay on his part, if we hadn’t established The Shadow’s intentions beforehand. Or, put more simply: in order to show a character failing at something, you have show they were trying to accomplish that thing in the first place — especially when so much work has gone into conveying that character’s competence.

PAGE TWENTY THREE

The Shadow respects Romanowski’s principles. Of all the characters in this story, the two of them are the most alike in that regard. But while Romanowski was a stubborn old butcher and easy prey for Half-Step and his guys, The Shadow is an unkillable psychic murder man.

Panel two is full of space, both geographic and negative, giving us another much needed moment of breathing room. All the gangsters present have distinctive color cues, easily letting us get a feel for the size of the gathering as opposed to an amorphous clutch of same-colored “GANGSTERS (tm),” which often happens in comic book scenes depicting groups of men in suits. They can become like zebras if you don’t take the time to make him distinct, as they are here. Half-Step’s buggy zooms into panel four from beyond the page, a nice way to emphasize that the vehicle is coming at them from out of nowhere.

PAGE TWENTY FOUR

The tommy gun EXPLODES through panel one, dissolving the panel border itself. Those carefully color-coded mobsters from the previous page all catch bullets, which wouldn’t mean as much to the reader if they weren’t distinct from one another. “A bunch of gangsters got shot” becomes “several men were brutally murdered by machine gun fire.” Said gunfire chases Guzik from left to right in panel three — note the diagonal line that tracks his presence in panels two, three, and four, making his plunge to the ground in panel four seem like an extension of his movement in the other panels, even though the they happen on radically different parts of the page. Barreto keeps the same angle on Guzik in panels four and six, cementing him as the lone survivor of this drive-by and the default POV character for the scene. Or, to put in visually:

This is some seriously solid craft. 

PAGE TWENTY FIVE

The Shadow is HUGE on this page. This drawing of him the biggest thing in the entire comic — the same size as he is on the cover. He bookends this story, dominating it. Cardona’s fear and uncertainly help sell the terrifying finals words of his boss, seen here in full on What-If-Hannibal-Lecter-was-Batman mode. This drive-by was easily the biggest act of violence in the issue, and the heavy blacks of The Shadow on this last page emphasizes him as this dark presence bringing doom to the Chicago mob. This page cements what we can expect from the next issue: The Shadow’s done his ground work. He’s ready to start making some moves.

FINAL THOUGHTS

Despite having three more pages than your typical modern comic, the page for page action is always dense and well-paced. Every scene feels necessary and the story never lingers long on any one place or character, and yet it never feels overstuffed or rushed. It takes time for some impressive visuals to break up the action, but never to the point of self-indulgence. There’s always something happening, even in a scene that basically boils down to ‘Two women go a club and a third woman talks shit.’ I talk a lot about Barreto — and I would, he remains one of the best artists of all time — but I don’t think enough can be said for Jones’ masterful pacing and lean yet conversational dialogue. These are two creators at the top of their game, with a solid coloring/lettering/editorial team backing their play. Almost thirty years after its publication, there’s still a lot to learn and even more to admire in these pages. This is definitely the kind of read that makes me want to up my game. 

When possible, I’ll be placing links at the end of these so you can buy better copies of the comics I’m analyzing with out my words getting in the way. 

Retroactively, here’s Comixology links for the comics I covered in my first two reviews:

BATMAN: GOTHAM ADVENTURES #17

PETER PARKER: SPIDER-MAN #13

As far as I can tell, THE SHADOW STRIKES! has never been collected in print, nor does Comixology doesn’t carry it, so I’ll link to another great Shadow story by someone else who really understands the material: Matt Wagner’s GRENDEL vs THE SHADOW, with Brennan Wagner on colors. I’ll also throw in a link to another Eduardo Barreto DC comic I’ve always dug, written by this issue’s editor, Brian Augustyn: BATMAN: MASTER OF THE FUTURE.

As always, feel free to check me on any mistakes I might have made, add your own commentary, or share similar examples of good comics done well. I’ll be back next week with a different comic to peruse. 

[ssv-raven]

Do you want to feel? Part IV

More of my iffy quality writing

Part I  Part II  Part III

-

It had been several weeks since Widowmaker had decided to begin teaching Emily Talon specific self defense. Since that night she had been kept busy with Talon deploying her around the globe. Despite being sent on numerous assignments she was becoming bored. Most of what Talon had her do was provide covering fire to ground troops. No assassinations. No combat against seasoned Overwatch agents. Nothing that would cause her to feel anything.

At least you still want to feel.

"Now she decides to speak." Widowmaker scoffed. It had been almost a week since Amelie's voice had last spoken, despite Widowmaker needing her assistance on several occasions. "What do you want?"

Just to see what you thought of Emily.

Widowmaker's eyes narrowed. Over time Amelie's presence had grown stronger being an almost constant companion. It had been surprising to discover that Amelie was rather shrewd and easily amused. She had up to this point not inquired about the training with Emily.

"Curious aren't you?"

So it was a waste of your time?

No it had not been a waste of time. Widowmaker had actually been impressed with the red haired girl. She had been able to grasp the basic concepts of what had been taught to her quickly. Her practical execution still needed significant work but Widowmaker was confident that Emily understood and could visualize everything that had been demonstrated. It had actually given her a sense of pride and relieved some of her fears to see the girl's understanding.

"Non. It was not a waste of time. Emily seems... surprisingly competent. I will admit to being impressed at how her mind grasped the concepts I provided. Though there is still much more she must learn if she is to have relative safety from Talon."

You are going to continue to help her?

Memories of the Talon tortures and conditioning done to create Widowmaker began to surface. She shuddered. "Of course I am going to continue to help her. The alternative..." Amelie's presence seemed to shrink as they both thought about what Talon was capable of. Neither of them wanted themselves or anyone else to go through that hell.

Thank you Widowmaker.

The sniper arched an eyebrow "For what?"

For not forgetting about what happened. For not forgetting about me.

Widowmaker didn't immediately respond. She remembered in her early days how frustrating Amelie's small presence had been. She had tried to bury Amelie and considered telling Talon to have them perform additional 'maintenance' to get rid of Amelie's presence. But during that time Talon had not yet been satisfied with their creation and had brought her in for additional work. The additional work Talon had done nearly killed Widowmaker. As her body continually shut down only to be started again she had been confused, angry and alone. Amelie had emerged at that time and helped to handle the emotional storm. Without her Widowmaker likely would have been unable to handle the new rush of emotions and been disposed of. She owed her existence to Amelie.

"You have saved me countless times. It is because of you that Talon has not yet disposed of me for occasionally feeling emotions. I may find you frustrating but I remember your assistance and am grateful every day for it." Widowmaker sighed. It felt wrong that Amelie would be thanking her for anything. "If either of us needs to be thankful of the other it is me. You could have left me alone and had Talon dispose of me. It would have allowed you to finally rest. Instead you chose to endure and help me. The very least I can do is remember you and make sure what they did to you does not happen again."

Amelie didn't answer but Widowmaker could feel her gratitude.

Before either could say anything again an explosion drew their attention.

Widowmaker had forgotten that she was meant to be providing assistance to the Talon ground forces. Peering through her scope she saw that several Talon foot soldiers had been killed and lay strewn about the ground. She clicked her tongue, amused "What a pity." The sight of dead Talon agents had slowly become something she enjoyed.

Looking away from the Talon corpses, Widowmaker searched for the cause of the explosion.

Hoping to see anyone in particular?

Widowmaker rolled her eyes. "I'm sure I don't know what you mean." While still frustrated that Tracer had apparently forgotten what had happened to Amelie, Widowmaker was also starving for a feeling. She hoped that the bubbly Brit would show up, their fights always helped to sate her emotional hunger.

She would be disappointed as the explosion was caused not by Overwatch agents but by a local militia that opposed Talon.

I'm sorry she wasn't here today. I know you've been struggling, not having any significant emotions or feelings these past weeks.

Widowmaker just nodded as she silently cursed Talon and how they had muted her emotions.

Since she had not been called to return to one of Talon's main bases or given another pointless assignment she settled into one of their many safehouses. There she cleaned herself and Widow's Kiss. The process was quick and efficient and left Widowmaker with nothing to do or focus on when it was done.

Frustrated at having nothing to do she began to pace. This is officially a bad habit, she thought darkly. Eyeing her equipment she considered venturing out to look for a bank or jewelry store. There would be nothing for her in either establishment but breaking in undetected might be able to give her some small amount of satisfaction.

She was just reaching for Widow's Kiss when she saw a light blinking on her visor. It should not have been blinking. It also should not have been a ridiculous shade of pink. Sombra. Well at least whatever the hacker wanted would probably be interesting.

Reaching for the visor she put it on and found a message waiting for her. Not a standard function but technology had a way of bending to Sombra's will.

"Hey amiga. Wanted to let you know that your dance partner and her friends are out playing with Gabe. Also just so happens that Talon doesn't have anything scheduled for you for the next day or two. Spend your time wisely and make good decisions."

Pulling off the visor Widowmaker smiled. Merci Sombra. Gathering her equipment she prepared to leave for London to give hopefully another fulfilling lesson in self defense.  

--

Stretching out on the couch Emily let out a long sigh. It had been a long day, made no easier by the unexpected call from her mother. It hadn't been a bad conversation but the last thing she needed was her mother spending more time with Lena. The last time the two had gotten together Emily had almost had an heart attack trying to prevent her mother from sharing several stories Lena definitely did not need to hear. Lena had of course mercilessly teased her the rest of the weekend trying to learn what Emily had done in those stories. It had been a long time before Lena got tired of watching Emily become flustered when she was asked what had happened.

Reaching for the remote she turned on the television looking to catch some of the evening news. Local politics, the possibility of another Omnic Crisis, Talon and Overwatch. Nothing she didn't already know about. Turning the TV off she stood up thinking about making herself some tea.

On her way to the kitchen she heard a knock at her door. She frowned. She was not expecting anyone tonight. Opening the door Emily froze upon seeing the purple figure standing before her.

"Bonjour."

Emily groaned and her muscles ached despite having recovered from Widowmaker's previous visit.

One of Widowmaker's eyebrows rose. "A much calmer reaction than last time. Though you should still be more cautious."

"Look Widowmaker I spo-" Emily couldn't finish as she found herself falling backwards. After landing hard on her back she found Widowmaker's face an inch away from hers. Emily had the presence of mind to think that in another situation having a beautiful Frenchwoman pin her down would be very enjoyable.

"Please, understand this." There was something in her voice Emily couldn't quite recognize. Fear? "I never want anything like Amelie and Gerard Lacroix to happen again... but there may come a time when I no longer have those thoughts. I may even actively work against those thoughts."

Emily frowned. Lena had explained that Talon had tortured and reconditioned Amelie but did they still do that now?

"Do not trust me, Emily. You will live longer and be safer that way." She stood up and offered Emily a hand.

Emily stared uncertainly at the offered hand. Was Widowmaker the type of person to test someone just to prove a point? Deciding to play it safe, she stood up on her own.

Widowmaker inclined her head in approval. "Good. I hope that you have practiced since we last met. Your execution needed refinement."

Remembering their first meeting Emily's muscles gave another painful throb. She had been able to practice with Lena who had been an enthusiastic partner and even shared some standard Overwatch techniques with her. Emily had enjoyed their small practice sessions. Her favorite moment being when she successfully took down and pinned Lena to the ground. While she was happy with having done the move properly her position atop of her girlfriend quickly led to a breakdown of the practice session.

"I have been practicing. Lena has helped a lot." Emily paused. She was thinking of what Lena had shared about Widowmaker. Learning about what Talon had done to Amelie had caused Emily to feel so sorry for her. She wanted to talk to the sniper. She wanted to just ask if Widowmaker was all right, despite knowing how foolish a question it was. How could she possibly be anywhere close to all right?

Emily looked up to find Widowmaker staring at her with a raised eyebrow. "So you spoke with Tracer about me." She casually gazed around the room. "I am surprised I was not greeted by an Overwatch strike team."

"I never said I told her about you." Emily replied, frowning.

Wiowmaker rolled her eyes. "You expect me to believe that she had nothing to say when you asked for her help? Or that you managed to keep silent about our meeting? I'm actually surprised she has left you alone."

"She did panic when I told her about you." Emily said, sheepishly.

"Good."

"Why's that?"

"It means that she has not forgotten what happened to her friend."

Widowmaker sighed and Emily noticed just how thin, even sickly, the sniper looked.  Her purple skin also helped to hide just how tired Widowmaker seemed to be. Had she looked that bad the last time she was here?

"Stop thinking so hard."

Emily looked up, embarrassed.

"Just ask whatever questions you have. I need your head clear if you are to take in what I have to teach."

"Uh sorry I was just... are you ok?" Emily winced at her own question. "I mean you uh... you look tired."

She looked away from Widowmaker. Great going Emily. Ask the woman who was kidnapped and tortured if she's ok.

"How much did that annoyance tell you?"

Emily looked back up. The sniper didn't seem annoyed and instead seemed to be gathering her thoughts.

"Well Lena told me about Amelie and Gerard. About how she was really close with you and-"

"I am not her." Widowmaker interrupted.

Emily remembered that Lena had said Widowmaker used to be an entirely different person. But she had thought Lena was just talking about the obvious differences between a civilian and a world class assassin.

"Amelie Lacroix effectively died during Talon's tortures and I was the result. I do not pretend to understand it. Perhaps I was the result of a dissociative disorder, a split. Though I do not know if Amelie had any childhood traumas that would have resulted in my development. Perhaps Talon actually created my entire personality during their reconditioning and shoved me into Amelie's head and body. I do not know. I simply know that I am."

"Do... do you remember Amelie at all?" Emily asked.

Widowmaker thought for a moment. Should she share Amelie's continued presence? "I know of her. And there are some memories of hers that I can recall." She felt a flicker of happiness and remembered a gorgeous spring day. She was in a long white gown and Gerard was there waiting for her. He reached out and she felt his hands on her body. The memory shifted. Amelie was struggling, trying to scream, as hands dragged her away into darkness. She closed her eyes, willing the memories to go away. "However, they are not mine. And they often do little besides frustrate me."

Emily was lost in thought. She wasn't sure if Lena had known just how accurate the explanation of Amelie being a different person was. She wondered how Lena would react to the news that her friend really was gone. Lena had cared for Amelie but she had admitted that it was easier to think of Widowmaker as a different person from Amelie when they fought. Perhaps the news would not be very difficult to accept.

She looked back to Widowmaker, who appeared to be trying to ignore a headache.

"Why do you stay with Talon? You said that you disapprove of what they did to Amelie and Gerard. And I doubt they would be happy with you coming here."

Widowmaker smiled but it was hollow and sad. "Earlier you said that I looked tired." She began to pace. I need to break this habit. "That is the result of two things. The first being that when Talon was creating their weapon they muted my emotions." She sighed. "Nearly every emotion no matter how small that you feel and experience are almost constantly out of my reach."

Emily was staring at her. She immediately thought about the love she felt for Lena and no longer being able to experience that. Then she considered her day to day life. She would smile at friends and co-workers, enjoy a meal, get angry if her boss was being unreasonable. Almost everything in her life involved emotion. It gave her memories and experiences value. She shuddered and felt a fresh wave of sympathy for the woman in front of her. It must be such an empty mechanical way to live.

"You really can't feel emotions?"

The sniper's shoulders seemed to droop. "If something is... intense enough, I think that is an accurate word, then I can feel. But it is always fleeting. Otherwise I can tell that there is something constantly just out of reach that I cannot reach. I have not had a significant emotion in some time." She paused and sighed. "It causes my body to tire quickly as if it is fighting itself trying to feel but at the same time trying to crush any emotion."

Emily silently began to fume. She knew that Talon was horrible based on the news reports of their exploits and Lena's commentary on them. But this was just sick. "And what is the second thing?" she asked while trying to stay calm.

"The second reason for my appearance is that I am dying."

Emily had frozen in shock. There was no emotion in Widowmaker's voice. It was just a statement of fact.

"Every few months my body begins to rapidly deteriorate. A result of the various chemical compounds and mechanical implants that were added to my body. If I do not return to Talon to have the implants replaced and the chemicals replenished my body will quickly fall apart and I will die." A dark shadow seemed to cover her face before she spoke again. "They have withheld such replacements before in order to prove a point. It was an unpleasant experience."

Although she had remained silent, Emily was furious. Lena had been right about there being much more to Widowmaker than most people we aware of. Talon's treatment of her was disgusting and inhumane.

Emily's was momentarily distracted when she saw Widowmaker examine her reflection in a window.

"I had not realized I had already started to deteriorate. I usually have more time."

"Couldn't... I mean isn't there a way you could get the implants and chemicals somewhere else?" There had to be something to stop Widowmaker from being held captive by Talon.

Widowmaker shook her head. "Non. I have tried to recreate some of their chemical treatments but I was unsuccessful. And bringing any samples to a professional laboratory would have attracted Talon. Even if I could recreate those treatments there is still the issue of my implants." She cocked her head in thought. "I suspect that Talon actually designs them to fail. It would make it easier to ensure I continue to obey them. But even if I was able to find short or long term replacements I would need to find someone able to replace them. And Talon will have any doctors capable of such things monitored."

Emily wanted to kick herself. Had she really expected that Widowmaker would not have looked for a way to leave Talon? "I'm sorry."

Stepping away from the window, Widowmaker fixed Emily with a blank expression. "Do not be sorry for me. Just learn what I have to teach so that this does not happen to you and Lena."

Emily nodded. "I just have to ask. Why tell me this? Lena would probably never share information like this to someone outside of Overwatch."

Widowmaker just shrugged. "I do not care who knows these things. It is not as if someone could blackmail me with what I have told you. Additionally you were distracted and would not have been able to focus if we had not had this conversation."

"I guess you're right. I did want to talk with you." While she still felt terrible for Widowmaker and angry at Talon, Emily had become oddly calm and focused. Her initial annoyance at Widowmaker's reappearance was gone and replaced with a desire to help. For now she would learn whatever Widowmaker wanted to teach her. But she had begun thinking about asking Lena how Angela felt about the sniper. She was hoping that Angela might be willing to offer assistance and maybe give Widowmaker a way out from under Talon's boot.

[seven-oomen]

Hi, Ben!  Hope you had a good day, or at least a calm one!  I think your tree is adorable, and I love your tree topper!  It’s so pretty!  Also, my congrats if Mo leaves it alone.  Most of the kitty parents I know are full of horror stories about their cats climbing the tree/trying to eat the tree/trying to eat things off the tree/etc.  XD  One friend’s cat earned herself the nickname Monkey because the very first thing she did the night they brought her home was go right up the tree.  I’m pretty sure that was at least a decade ago, and the only person who ever calls her by her actual name at this point is probably my friend’s dad.  Another friend complains every year that she can’t use tinsel on her tree anymore because her cats will try to eat it.

And omg, that Disney/TW thing was terrible.  Most of them seemed to only be using the most shallow, surface level reading of the characters, as usual they seemed to forget that Disney made animated films before the early 90s, and also as usual, Noah and Melissa got left out, despite having been there the full run of the show.  I think I usually headcanon Peter more CN than anything else, but I can see the logic behind some NE being mixed in there, too.  Some of that could be because I tend to see his apparent desire for power as more of a trauma-based need for control than just purely for its own sake.  (It might have helped if they’d been a bit more consistent with his character…)

It’s probably because I was out of the fandom for a while, but most stuff I’ve seen that addresses it typically has the Hales being of British Isles descent.  I think that’s mainly because the name itself is English (I think?), and it helps to explain the abundance of Celtic mythology/imagery if it’s something they brought with them when settling the town.  I’m not particularly bothered either way, though, and always enjoy a chance to learn about other culture’s customs.  :D  And I love how everyone just agrees that Peter is the type to just casually speak like a dozen languages, just because he can.  XD  Also, I’m now picturing a springerle rolling pin that’s nothing but wolf images, a quite literally hand-carved hand-me-down (that I’m going to pretend was stored in the vault.)

And yeah, I figured the other kids would adapt pretty well, but I definitely foresee an issue with Jax.  I feel like it’s going to come down to one of his siblings having to step in, probably either Malia (because he actually likes her) being like “Hey, could you maybe try not being such an obnoxious douche-nozzle to my dad before I punch you in the throat?  Do I treat your dad that way?”, or Ben just being like “Why are you so mean to Poppa?” and then Jackson will have to face the full effect of the sad puppy face that got sprung on Stiles.  XD

 I feel like it would make sense for it to take a few full moons for a turned wolf to achieve a full shift, especially if there’s no genetic component.  Almost all the wolves we see turned in the show have a rough enough time adapting at first without throwing in something like that.  I definitely think it makes more sense for born wolves to have an easier/quicker time of it, especially at first.

I love both of the recent previews.  I seriously have been ferally screaming over the pinned one all day.  XD  The swagger.  The mountain ash.  The “goddammit Peter, he’s not afraid of you, he’s afraid for you” of it all.  And the section when he’s first shifting is good, too (no matter when it was written.)  That’s going to be freaky as hell, even if you’re expecting it.  And the whole thing with the way his bones are cracking and such just feels like it emphasizes how warped and wrong it all is, at least to me, because as best I remember, the few times we see a full shift in the show, it just sort of seems to flow from one to the other.  Also, it just occurred to me that his alpha form was almost like a perfect balance of the American Werewolf in London and Underworld versions of full shift.  I’m curious to see if he maintains that version or if the presence of his mates/pack help him heal to a more normal version.  Part of me wants to see him get better because I don’t like seeing them hurt, part of me really wants to see his beast form tackle hug Noah and Chris and try to cuddle in their laps.  XD

And oh, man, those window seats just made me want them to have one in the rebuilt Hale house, maybe in like a loft or an upper floor, that’s big enough for the three of them to cram into, or the kids, or assorted combos thereof, in whatever forms they choose.  Especially for like during storms and stuff.  Just, all the cuddles, and reading stories to the littles, and taking random naps in the sunshine, and everything.

Also, now I’m picturing Noah and Chris singing shit like “You Make It Feel Like Christmas” and “Cuddle Up, Cozy Down Christmas”, or like that “Peace On Earth/Little Drummer Boy” thing Bing Crosby and David Bowie did, while trying to make Peter a surprise breakfast, and it’s adorable.  And I’ve been listening to way too much Straight No Chaser holiday music to deal with the idea of them all singing together in anything approaching a rational manner.  And is he not supposed to look at them like they’re part of the menu?  I’m pretty sure if Peter was given the option of what he’d like to eat first…well.  XD

Those poor teachers.  They probably thought they’d lucked out with this one after Stiles and Malia, and then the holidays came around…  (Just wait until they get the next round of Haleargentski children…)  XD

And I’m going to hold you to that promise of romance XD (not really, if it doesn’t work out that way, don’t worry.)  I would say “my body is ready”, but that feels like it might come across somewhat awkward.  XD  Although it did occur to me that given how he is about the whole “your all’s shirts are way too tight to share” thing, when it gets to that point, Noah’s probably also going to have one of those “it’s been a hot minute, so some things aren’t quite what they used to be” type moments like Chris had with Peter at the motel, though I think he’d be more likely to try and joke it off, and Peter’s just going to be like “Gods, you two really are as bad as each other sometimes”, while happily reassuring both of them, because he can, and he enjoys it.

And wow, I’ve rambled on so much longer than I meant to given that I have an early shift tomorrow (or today, really…  ’>.> )  So, I hope you got some decent rest, and your meds are helping like they should, and that you are happy with what you got done on the chapter.  I hope that today goes well, too, and that you find some good candy at post-holiday discount prices, if that is a thing they do there (or will that not happen until after Christmas?)  Anyway, I hope you have a good day, whatever else happens.  Take care!  *Hugs!*

Hey hey, I honestly had a pretty good day yesterday, a little busy because of last minute store runs and an uncooperating phone. (oh joy, had to reset the bastard twice) but other than that, pretty good. 

Treated myself to a new game for Sinterklaas. It’s the Spiderman Game of the Year edition, I didn’t have that game yet and it was on sale for like 28 bucks and people left really good reviews. Maybe if I get some money for Christmas I might also get me the Miles Morales one, the new one. But I’m also getting Cyberpunk cause I pre-ordered it back in April, so we’ll see. I might just wait until Miles Morales goes on sale too in a couple of months. Still have to finish Valhalla first though XD.

And you’re not gonna believe it, but Mo left my Christmas tree completely alone. He does not care about the Christmas tree. He does not care about plants. He does not care about BOXES. I honestly think my cat is broken, but then again, I am typing this while he is sleeping in my lap and purring, so who cares.

And Omg XD I am eternally grateful Mo didn’t do that but I love Monkey and can see why they got that nickname XD What a rascal!

I mostly included NE for Peter because apparently that’s what Ian Bohen considers Peter’s Alignement to be. I personally think he’s more CN too (though I am probably basing that on his trauma.) 

I actually made a personal alignment chart for the characters in Once Upon A Time here. (Though I forgot to include three characters namely the Nurse, John,  and Danny. I think Danny would fall under either NG or LN and he would probably tell someone if someone’s shoe laces were untied, and the nurse more under LE I guess, considering her background, though I feel like she’s not evil for evil’s sake she more or less was driven to it and as such has a strong need for revenge regardless of whom she hurts, though she tries to redeem herself later. (and that’s all I will say due to spoilers). And she would probably tie the person’s shoe laces for them, old habits die hard.) John I feel like would be CG or LN and he’d be the person to untie his own shoes in solidarity. (kinda like his grandchildren Stiles and Malia, where do you think they got that one from?)

But yeah I’m still not sure how to feel about the Disney one. I can kinda see with some of them where they were coming from but none of it feels ‘flawless’ or particularly right to me? Idk. I honestly feel like Kuzco and maybe Pocahontas were the two biggest Nopes for me. I mean Scar kinda fits, Elsa, I can see that, but none of it I truly identify these characters with. Idk.

And I feel like Peter or John probably had the foresight to store some of their most prized family heirlooms in that vault. Such as a copy of the family photo, Peter’s triskelion necklace piece, a springerle with wolf inscriptions,  some video tapes of the family, personal artifacts of each family member, and Talia and John’s claws, family recipes, some gifts John made for his grandchildren, and John’s journal about the family history, werewolf lore, and lots of dirt on both Elias Stilinski and Gerard Argent.

I feel like Peter speaking lots of languages also just makes sense. He seems to be the type to have connections everywhere and to have little birds everywhere listening in for him. He would also be the type of person to either have connections to or keep an eye on the Russian and Italian Maffia, he learned French and Polish for Chris and Noah, Spanish is just a useful language to learn because it's vast. And German and Dutch were taught to him from a young age, probably some Latin too. So I can see why many people would headcanon Peter as mutli-lingual, it just makes sense for his character.

Malia and Ben ganging up on Jackson is my new favorite image. Can you imagine what the combined power of those two will be? Also just any of the teenagers realizing they can deploy the younger sibling to be absolutely adorable and people will do anything for that face, no matter what the teenagers are asking. 

As for Peter’s wolf, why not both? There’s no reason why he can’t act like an overgrown puppy as a beast and still heal and slowly revert back to his original form over the course of a couple of full moons as his mind heals from the trauma.

They’re definitely getting a windowseat big enough to seat three adults, four teenagers and a couple of little ones. Surrounded by books, a few curtains and lots of pillows. it needs to happen.

And you guessed it, there’s gonna be a shy moment where both Chris and Noah get self conscious about their bodies. Noah because, well, he gained some weight, got a bit older, has some stretch marks although he’s still goddamn fit considering what he does and he tries to play it off as a joke, Peter will show him just how sexy he is, really. And Chris has another moment because he had another baby, so more pudge, more stretch marks and due to his humanity, more scars. I think I’ll let Noah handle that one first and then Peter helps. Chris of course also worships Noah’s body, because holy shit, none of them is exactly in bad shape, but Noah’s definitely been hiding way more. Also Noah’s tall now, so Chris just sort of melts when the taller man sweeps him off his feet. We also need some Omega/Omega love in this story.

And wow, now I’ve been rambling XD. I’m gonna make me some late breakfast (it’s 1 pm) and grab some coffee and then start writing.

[skelenyxx]

III - Friends and the contrary ~ Forbidden

"A wretched soul, bruised with adversity, We bid be quiet when we hear it cry; But were we burdened with like weight of pain, As much or more we should ourselves complain."  ~ The Comedy of Errors

~*~

The old mansion was located deep in the wilderness outside the city, the kind of place you could only find if you already knew where it was.  The exterior looked like that of a haunted dwelling you'd see in a horror movie, faded and chipped paint, rotting beams, and a rickety old metal fence.

But the inside told a different story.  Lavish velvet carpets and a grand staircase greeted you when you entered.  A candle light crystal chandelier hung gracefully above the large wood doors, and not a speck of dust was to be seen.  The property used to be resided in by the Royal family, centuries back, but in their absence, it had become the location of the Antiqum Ordinem meetings and choice dwelling place of some of the coven leaders.

Gerard arrived almost late, and was silently cursing himself for dragging his feet.  He knew what this meeting was going to be about and drawing unnecessary attention to himself was not high on the list of Gerard's Genius Ideas.  He traveled down one of the quiet halls and turned into the Ballroom, eyes being met with a scene of hundreds of figures crowded in the massive room.  The Ordinem ruled over the whole population in the state, but Gerard knew that this was strictly city business.  And this was probably no where close to the actual vampire population in the city.

Gerard edged his way around the walls of the room, making his way to the front where a half circle of about 25 chairs sat on a raised platform.  That was where the coven leaders sat.  That was where he sat.  The other leaders were already seated, with the exception of Pete, who was no where in sight.  Gerard internally sighed of relief, knowing he wasn't the last one to arrive and wouldn't be put on blast by Pete. He hurriedly sat down, brushing his dark hair from his face.

"Gerard," a voice called. The room went silent. Gerard sat ridged, knowing what was coming. "How nice of you to show up."

Pete stepped through the the crowd at the front, stepping through the crowd and onto the platform. He wore a black tee shirt and blue jeans, but the casual attire didn't fool anyone. He was in charge.

"What took you so long?" Pete asked, red eyes glinting. "Weren't with a girl were you? Oh wait." The room chuckled. Gerard was often the butt of the joke, the odd one out. He was an impossibility and everyone knew it

"Phone was on silent," Gerard lied, jaw clenched to keep from saying something he'd regret.

Pete nodded, smirking at Gerard before turning to the room of vampires.

"I have called this meeting to discuss an important and dangerous matter in our city." The room was deadly quiet, hundreds of red eyes staring at Pete. Pete wasn't actually the leader of the Ordinem, there wasn't supposed to be a leader, but most everyone followed his lead and the majority of the coven leaders either agreed with him or knew the consequences if they didn't. Gerard was one of the latter.

"Last night, while hunting the streets of our city, I came across something I thought to be impossible. Something I thought couldn't exist. A woman, but no ordinary woman. No. A woman with the blood of a Slayer." Gasps were audible throughout the room. Gerard could just see the disbelief and uneasiness that spread through the masses like a wave.

"That's impossible," one of the leaders spoke up, a man with dark hair whose name Gerard knew to be Ryan. "Female Slayers do not exist."

"Are you calling me a liar, Mr. Ross?" Pete spoke venomously. Ryan shrunk back in his seat, looking down at his hands. "I know what I saw. I know what I smelled. She was a Slayer.

"But, she did not attack. She ran," Pete finished.

And for reasons Gerard could not figure, he interjected. "Perhaps she was afraid. Maybe she just wants to be left alone."

Pete whipped around to face Gerard, who made an effort to not cower in his gaze. "She is a Slayer, Gerard. Slayers do not run unless there is another motive. Perhaps you've forgotten how ruthless they actually are?" Gerard shook his head. Of course he hadn't forgotten. Pete turned back around to the rest of the mass. "I believe she has an ulterior motive, perhaps to spy on us and pass information out of the state or to catch us off guard. Whatever the case, she got away last night and I tracked her to what appears to have been her dwelling, but she has not returned."

"You mean you lost her?" Another leader named Brendon asked. Brendon chuckled at the thought. He had always been a hyperactive and joyous guy. How he was still alive when he considered most things to be a game was beyond Gerard.

"Yes," Pete hissed. "By means I have not yet figured out, she escaped."

Brendon laughed again but this time made an attempt to conceal it.

"So we need to find her," another coven leader said, this time one that Gerard didn't know. "We need to kill her."

No, thought Gerard. Not yet.

"Exactly," Pete replied. "We will be organizing search parties. The party that finds her gets to have the honor of her execution."

The room erupted after that. As soon as Gerard heard the words, he knew everyone would be jumping on board with this. Not many vampires had the chance to say they'd killed a Slayer, and such a feat was huge bragging rights. And vampires being vampires, they were boastful, vengeful creatures. Killing a Slayer was the ultimate prize.

As the room remained in excited chaos, Gerard knew the meeting was over. He stood up quickly and began to make his way out of the room, head down and eyes averted. He wanted no more to do with people who called him a freak. He knew he was. He didn't need reminding.

Gerard was barely making in out of the mansion when he heard a group of voices he knew all too well call after him.

"Gerard!"

He reluctantly turned around to face his coven as they cornered him against the door.

"Where the fuck have you been the past month?!" Gerard's dark haired brother, Mikey, asked furiously.

"At home," Gerard mumbled.

"For fucks sake Gee," Frank spoke up, features livid. "You disappear off the face of earth, you don't come by the house, you won't answer your phone, and then you show up here and avoid us?"

"You're the leader of this coven, Gerard," Ray added. "You need to be here, at least try to come out more. It's not good for you. Stop shutting us out."

"You can take care of yourselves," Gerard said, crossing his arms over his chest.

"Dammit Gerard! We're worried about you. Why are you cutting us out?!" Frank said.

"You know why!" Gerard snapped, shouting in their faces. "You know goddamn well why. You don't get it and you won't! You will never understand!"

And after that he pushed past them and left. He didn't need to hear it. They always did this. They always tried to help. But they couldn't help. They didn't understand what it was like and they never would.

Admittedly, he had been a lot worse than in recent decades. For a while, he'd almost believed he was getting better, that he was almost living (or as living as a vampire could get). And then, like a sledgehammer driving a stake into the ground, depression hit him again, worse than ever before. And no one could help him this time. He'd had enough.

After all, that's why he had Nyxia.

Nyxia. He needed to get back to check on her. She was still pretty freaked out when he left and he needed to make sure she hadn't tried to leave. He locked her in the house but she seemed like a pretty smart girl and she could probably devise a way out if she wanted.

He made it back a few minutes later and was relieved to open the door to a scene of her sitting on the couch drawing. She looked up when he entered the room, her black hair framing her pale face like a dark halo of innocence.

"Uh h-hi," she stuttered nervously before glancing at the sketch book in her hand and eyes widening. "You-you had so many of them, I figured you wouldn't miss one..."

He smiled slightly. "It's okay. You need something to do anyway.

"Where did you go?" She asked quietly.

"Nowhere."

She sighed, snapping the sketch book closed before looking back up at him. "How long am I going to have to stay here?"

He shrugged. "No more than a few weeks. The search will die off eventually. You just have to stay hidden until then."

He sat down on the couch beside her. It was there again, that feeling, that magnetic pull. She has this effect that just drew him in. It'd been that way since they first met, since they'd ran into each other on the street that early morning some month or two ago. And he just hadn't been able to forget her. Fate had been pulling him toward her for a while and even still, when he had her in his grasp, when he was so close to what he wanted, Fate was still calling him.

"Am I in danger?"

"Not here. Not with me. I'll protect you." And he meant that. If Pete were to burst through the door at that second to kill Nyxia, he would defend her to the ends of the earth.

Maybe he'd get lucky and Pete would kill him.

You don't mean that, a part of him said. You'd defend her because you want to keep her safe. You're not that cold hearted.

No. She was a Slayer. He didn't care what happened to her as long as he got what he wanted.

Stop kidding yourself.

"You okay?" Nyxia broke through the barrier in his mind, bringing him back to the real world. "You sort of spaced out."

He nodded slowly. "Yeah. Just thinking. That's all."

He could see it in her eyes that she didn't quite believe him. "Well," she said after a moment. "I'm going to go to bed." She stood up before pausing again. "Where do you want me to sleep?" She asked nervously.

"In the bed," Gerard chuckled. "Where else?"

"But isn't that your bed?"

"I'm a vampire, sugar. I don't sleep."

She accepted the answer, walking toward the bedroom doorway before stopping again. She turned back to look at the man with the Raven hair.

"Gerard?"

He turned to look at her. "Yeah?"

"I just want to say thank you. You know, for saving me."

He allowed a ghost of a smile to grace his lips. "You're welcome."

If only she knew the truth.

~*~

Nyxia couldn't sleep that night. She lie in the foreign bed restlessly, turning over and over, her mind reeling with confusion and possibilities. A vampire had saved her. Not just any vampire, Gerard, a man she'd ran into repeatedly over the past months. He claims coincidence, and part of her believed him.

And part of her didn't.

It was strange to her because she always seemed to have great intuition. She knew who she could trust and who she couldn't immediately. But Gerard was a conundrum of another sort. Sometimes she felt like he could be trusted undeniably and other times warnings her going off in her head like red alarms. She didn't know what to think. The fact that he hadn't killed her yet was supportive of the case he could be trusted, but he was being secretive about something as well, which wasn't so much.

Well duh. He barely knows you. He's not gonna just spill his life secrets.

But there was something more there. Something in his eyes. That moment - god am I really calling it a moment? - they had when she nearly fell, when he held her and they just couldn't seem to pull away, she felt like her heart had stopped. It was like looking into a mirror. It were as though she could see herself, all her pain, all her fear, all her confusion and anger, in his eyes, hidden behind a shield of falsity. He hid it well, but Nyxia knew better. She did the same thing. She'd been doing it for years, a careful wall she'd built brick by brick, hiding her feelings and keeping everyone out. It's always been better that way. And to a certain degree, she'd thought she was the only one. But here he was. And she couldn't help but want to break down that wall, find out what was truly destroying him inside. For gods sake, he was a vampire. He had eternal life and strength, people like him in the city. What was so bad about his life - or death?

And she couldn't help but remember the distinct tingling sensation that spread through her when he touched her, like little shocks of static electricity, kind of like that feeling you get when your foot falls asleep. And God, she had to admit he was cute. His hazel eyes, pale skin, dark hair, it sent her heart fluttering.

Oh for fucks sake get over yourself.

She'd seen the drawings on the wall. The one of the beautiful girl with blue eyes. He had someone - somewhere - and he was a vampire and she was a human. There was no way that'd ever work out.

And who would ever love her?

Certainly not Gerard.

She heard him leave the apartment a few times in the night, and she tried hard not to think about what he might be doing. After all, she knew he had to eat. Or drink. Whatever he might call it. She didn't know. She didn't ask.

She realized that truthfully, besides the very few obvious facts about vampires, she didn't know much else about him and the way he was. She'd seen him out in daylight twice, so the whole burning in the sunlight myth was obviously not true. And there were others like him, but how many? And how was he able to make his eyes change color. Could be change his whole appearance?

And how many people had he killed? If he had eternal life, she didn't even know how old he was.  He was a mystery.

But, then again, he didn't know much about her either. She hadn't told him much, and unless he's been stalking her, he didn't know much more than her name.

And she decided that is how it would probably stay. This would blow over in a couple of weeks and then they'd go back to not knowing each other. That's what always happened. People never stayed. Gerard would be no different.

No matter how much she wanted him to be.

[aidadial3953-blog]

Carrot Juice Is Technically Orange Extract.

Never Underestimate The Effect From gel.

Chris Wiensczyk has aided feed students in Halton and Harrison People College for 14 years. Dr Frederik Paulsen is actually a well established business person, academic, benefactor and also explorer. Along with the early hrs that a number of our programs function, your personnel can serve breakfast to a group of famished trainees and reach the office on time for their regular work day. Listed here at WashU, campus is actually silent while pupils and faculty require time to operate, take a trip, and rest up over the summertime getaway. If you have any questions concerning in which and how to use they said, you can call us at the web site. I don't forget the 1st company I funded as a VC that stopped working as well as straining to identify how to shut that down after everyone else left from the scene. The papers feature Eisele's correspondence, lectures, details, pep talks, posts, receipts of her magazines, galley proofs, duplicates of Peirce compositions, book evaluations, paper cuttings, duplicates from give treatments, conference courses, as well as other various items she gathered throughout her life-time. Determine just what remains in retail store for the future, and also help commemorate this very first anniversary in fashion at this casual door dialogue in between the comics' producers, editor, as well as Youthful Pet's manager Gerard Means. As grownups, this assurance gap may halt lots of ambitious girls business owners in their paths before they've also obtained their idea off the ground, which is why property capabilities and self-confidence is actually a crucial hair hiddening each of my Foundation's work.

Seven Most up-to-date Advancements In gel.

Third year students from the amazing new Depiction degree at Leeds University of Fine art exhibit a collection from prints helped make in response to their love for comics & pop culture. Professor David Kaye Philosophers have actually discussed fair treatment for centuries, and also our experts can consider it in procedural and substantive terms. Dallas Urban area from Discovering is a public-private citywide collaboration in between the Urban area of Dallas and also Dallas ISD, taken care of through Major Notion, to make sure all trainees have access to summer discovering chances that control summer learning reduction. Prof Mutambara is actually a previous Replacement Prime Minister from Zimbabwe, and also present president of the African News organisation (ANA) in Johannesburg. Thus below is your opportunity to gain a travel to the Big Apple: High school students from Dallas County could showcase their songwriting talents and complete for the option to become some of three finalists journeying to New york city Metropolitan area in a new songwriting course that launched February 17, 2016.

Individuals will claim to me, I want my Mum to become able to use this ..." or I want youngsters to have pcs in Africa ..." or even I intend to enhance individual lifestyle ..." these individuals were actually optimists and had an altruistic curved to enhance our lifestyles. Understand which students have actually taken, completed, or haven't started training course programs.

5 Common Errors Everybody Helps make In gel.

This is actually something that's been actually happening for several hundreds of years. Her sight also borrowed off the language from her political mentor, Thabo Mbeki, in operation terms like 'African Renaissance' and 'African Century'. I'm not mentioning you take tranquility coming from another person's suffering, however I am actually stating that you need to recognize that you're not alone, which traits will certainly transform and also improve. Sat 23 September, Brodrick Venue, Leeds Area Museum, 12:30 -13:30, All Ages, Free. If governments were the key for progression in the 19th century, entrepreneurs are the keystone from the 21st century economic climate. They operate gas systems in San Francisco & Silicon Lowland 4x per year highlighting online marketing and consumer acquisition, user and design experience, and slim startup practices and metrics. There are no reflections on the effects of South Africa removing its own 800 peacemakers from Sudan's Darfur location in 2015 or even decreasing to participate in a famous peacemaking function in Burundi. The Dallas Independent University Area will definitely discuss a four-year grant with Large Idea an instructional nonprofit that teams up out-of-school-time artistic learning courses for Dallas trainees. The 2nd concern hinges on designing and applying successful prevention courses. Join our company for a lively discussion with these magnificent as well as proficient developers while our experts delve into the relevance from representation on the webpage as well as within the sector, the art and business of comics, as well as the complications from LGBTQIA identity. The establishment's been responsible for curating as well as operating the Dublin International Witty Expo (D.I.C.E) as well as frequently runs innovative events, shops and finalizings all the time. Mbeki's opinion that the failing of the police to handle criminal offense entailing African evacuees pressures communities to take the law in to their personal hands is actually hardly a reason for such wanton brutality.

[scarlett9415-blog]

I Wonder Why Russians Are So Excellent Along with Modern technology.

10 Ways To Know gel Effectively.

Halton Something to chew on is satisfied to introduce an entire new label for the 2015-16 academic year. Champions of the competition will definitely be actually announced at the Notion Bubble comic convention on Sunlight 16 Nov, as well as will possess their work included in 2015's Thought and feelings Blister Compilation! Sat 14 & Sunlight 15 Nov, Dr Simpo's table in Royal Armouries Hall, 10:00 -17:00, all ages, FREE for under 12s however a following ticket-holding grownup has to exist. Probably, that is actually additionally significant to draw the attention of contemporary psycho therapists to the forgotten, unidentified or unacknowledged job of philosophers on their own in steering psychology from the theory teams. Business owners need to have real estate investors because this's investors which bet on all of them, that makes their aspirations possible. As a Nigerian who has actually resided in South Africa for over THIRTEEN years, that is very upsetting must create short articles after regular stints from xenophobic strikes versus African consumers. In the event you adored this post along with you wish to obtain more details with regards to related web site i implore you to visit our own website. Education and also mentoring are vital to business feeling as well as effectiveness -- hardly ever carry out business owners be successful in a suction! Learn exactly what's in establishment for the future, and also help commemorate this initial anniversary in style at this casual panel dialogue in between the witties' makers, publisher, as well as Youthful Animal's curator Gerard Method. As grownups, this confidence void could stop numerous ambitious females business owners in their monitors prior to they've also gotten their tip off the ground, which is actually why property capabilities and self-assurance is actually a necessary fiber rooting every one of my Groundwork's job.

7 Things Your Employer Should Learn about gel.

Only when Classical American governments reside in huge economic difficulty perform they have purposeful measures to sustain business people. Thurs 27 Oct, Stairs Gallery, Leeds Town Hall, The Headrow, Leeds LS1 3AD, 1700 - 2000, All Ages, FREE. Huge Idea focuses on dealing with the necessities of Dallas little ones, specifically in tightening the chance gap for under-resourced youth, lowering summer months learning reduction, and also advertising social-emotional understanding. Ricardo B. Salinas is just one of Latin United States's leading entrepreneurs. The review of the literature suggests that there is still a lot to discover sex stereotypes that could accompany grownups' understandings from PSB. Institutionalization of annual psychological health event co-hosted through GPA, Departments of Psychological science and Psychiatry of the College from Ghana Medical and also Dental Institution; the 2015 conference was actually co-hosted with PAPU and Association of Psychiatrists as well as Allied Professionals.

People would claim to me, I prefer my Mum to become capable to utilize this ..." or I desire youngsters to possess computer systems in Africa ..." or I want to strengthen human life ..." these people were idealists as well as possessed an altruistic curved to enhance our lives. Understand which students have taken, completed, or even haven't begun training course programs.

You Will Never Feel These Bizarre Reality Responsible for gel.

This is actually something that's been occurring for numerous centuries. Her vision additionally obtained from the foreign language from her political mentor, Thabo Mbeki, in using phrases like 'African Renaissance' and also 'African Century'. I am actually not stating you take peace from another person's suffering, but I am saying that you must recognize that you're not alone, and that factors are going to alter and also feel better. Commonly business people could generate a great item and also a brand but must introduce management to assist increase and generate a genuinely terrific company. Chamber pot Yang Entrepreneurship particularly in modern technology is actually accordinged to development to produce new market opportunities, as well as disturbance to disintermediate existing markets. There already are actually programs to aid work and also medical care that are going to surely be actually a drag out incomes. Chairman Chu got there in Dallas along with an enthusiasm for listening to assorted viewpoints coming from the area, as well as seeing quality programs at work. The barriers experiencing aspiring women business people in position like the UK are simply enhanced for those operating in creating and also developing economies. Ghana lies along the western coast from Africa as well as lined by Ivory Shoreline, Togo, Burkina Faso, and Bay from Guinea (Atlantic Sea) to the west, east, north as well as southern specifically. Titan Comic books Collection Reviews// Reside Activity// Moments Vary. Victors from the competition will definitely be declared at the Thought and feelings Bubble comic meeting on Sunshine 6 Nov, and also will have their job showcased in 2017's Thought Blister Compendium, yet you can preview all the tales our experts have actually acquired before the judges offer their final decision! Entrepreneurship means a steady willingness to always keep discovering. For all of the wonderful business people that I recognize, riches is actually an enabler to continue to carry out more excellent factors. Thriving Minds Summertimes Camp shows was actually used to 8,500 trainees at 60 companion sites in 2014 and 2015. Both are entrepreneurship, but of various kinds, causing various results.