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foone · 1 year

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Think about the experience of time as a robot girl, through the metaphor of how we use laptops.

You wake up for the first time with your young master, a college present. You're with them every day, powering off each night to charge. Being powered off is just dreamless sleep: a discontinuity. Every morning you wake up, your click syncs, and you know it's the next day. Maybe you miss a day or two: your master went out partying and ended up sleeping on a couch, until they rushedly wake you up before Monday classes begin. You even missed a whole week once when they went on a hiking trip with a new boyfriend.

You help them research upgrades when your specs get outdated. You place the order and a couple days later they power you off, and you wake up feeling like your head got bigger, on the inside. You can think of more things at once.

They repair you. They swap a new hand in when you accidentally crush it in a door, but when your left leg's servos go out, they send you to a repair shop. They power you off as you look up at them, and you wake up hours later. A strange man tells you to extend your left leg, then contract it. He frowns and re-oils some inner mechanism. You do it again, quieter and smoother this time. He nods, and reaches for your switch. The last thing you see before powering down is your own chest cavity with a series of wires hooked into your diagnostic ports, and your missing right leg sitting on a side table. You wake up again back at the dorms, your clock jumping forward a day, an asset tag still looped around your neck. Your master is happy to see you again.

This goes on, but the upgrades slow. There's only so much you can do to keep an old unit working. Eventually you develop more issues: one of your ocular sensors glitches and they don't make that model anymore, so your master just disables it. You spend a while searching ebay for replacement CND batteries and finally get a refurbished model from South England, but it turns out the EU models run on a different frequency, so it won't work. You're limited to fewer and fewer hours a day, and you start skipping more days.

The last time you remember waking up with your master there, there's also someone else in the room. Another robot girl. A newer model, with the new chassis and the Substrate energy packs. They asks you to copy your memories together onto a memory card, and you do. You want to say goodbye, but apparently your vocal synthesizer has been unplugged. You hand them the card, and they hand it to the new robot. Your master tells them to load the memories into her core bank, and she's says "yes sir!" in your voice. Ahh. That's where your voice synth went.

They power you off, and you don't dream.

You wake in a strange place. You're on a shelf, and there's other things scattered around you. An unknown voice days "yep, it seems it powers on. 400 credits, though? Without a voice and only one working eye? Man, value bin doesn't know how to price anything!" and before the blackness falls your clock finishes synching: it's been 7 months since you last were awake.

It happens a few more times. Different voices, different times, different piles of junk piled around and sometimes on you.

You awake again in a warehouse and someone tells you to smile. Your other ocular sensor went out so you can't really see them, just their vague shape from the lidar. The freestanding shelves around you seem to stretch into infinity. You hear a bitcrushed shutter sound sample a few times, and they pull a connector out of your chest as a diagnostic completes. It's been three years, five months, eight days, two hours, 27 minutes and 14 seconds since you last saw your master. Your GPS says you're a few cities over. They hit your power switch, and you sleep.

You wake up in a cluttered room, sitting on a bench. You look into the eyes of a person with frizzled hair and large glasses. She couldn't look happier. Your new ocular sensors are mismatched in color but you're happy to see again, in more than shapes and distant silhouettes. Your battery alerts as... Missing? You spot it on the desk next to a soldering iron and some electronic tool you can't identify.

Your voice synth is still missing, but this new woman is digging around in a large plastic bin, and comes up with one. She goes to insert it, and it can't connect. She slaps her hand and goes rooting around another bin and comes back with an adapter. She slots it into your chest and your voice returns. You thank her, and there's that moment of dissociation as your voice doesn't sound like "you". Too deep, and the accent is for a different dialect entirely. But you can talk again. She tells you to call her Cara, not Mistress. She's almost got your battery working again, she had to rebuild it nearly from scratch, but she's excited to get you working again. You're a rare model, and she doesn't see units like you in working order very often. Your clock syncs. It's been 17 years.

Your mistr-- Cara is soldering next to you, attaching a controller to the battery. She says she's got a new set of servos on the way, and she's excited to get you back to full working condition. You smile, knowing what it is to be loved, once again.

#robot girls #Robotgirls #My writing

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sidekick-hero · 8 months

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Carry you

When Eddie opens his eyes, he has no idea where he is.

That should probably scare him, but the only thing he can think in that moment between blissful nothingness and cold, hard reality is "the bathroom at the party looked different." Because he is in a bathroom, that much he can say. There are white tiles everywhere and a roll of toilet paper in front of him and... is that a plastic handrail?

Lifting his head is a Herculean effort, but somehow he manages to do it, even though it makes his stomach turn.

In front of him is a freestanding shower and a bathtub with stairs to get into. The bathroom is huge and sterile, smelling of disinfectant.

As more and more of his senses come back online, Eddie notices several things at once:

#1 He's wearing what can barely be called a gown, cold air hitting his exposed skin everywhere. His back, his legs, hell, even his junk gets more of a breeze than he likes.

#2 He's nauseous, his stomach rolls uncomfortably, and his head is killing him, a sharp pain that's increasing in intensity by the second.

#3 He knows that something is definitely very, very wrong and he can feel the anxiety rising like bile in his throat.

It's that last realization that triggers his fight or flight response and in seconds he's off the toilet he's sitting on, the sudden movement sending him stumbling, his legs wobbling and his head spinning. Everything hurts and he feels so weak. He catches himself on the railing next to the toilet and figures that's what it's there for. Although he has no idea what kind of person would have such a strange bathroom. The last one he was in, at Tim's or Tom's or Terry's party, something with a T, for sure, the tiles had been black and there had been a lot of bamboo furniture and gold accents. It had smelled nice too, vanilla and cinnamon.

He staggers to a door that hopefully leads out of this fucking nightmare. Maybe Gareth or Freak are behind this, to teach Eddie a lesson for ditching them again to go partying when they had to pack up their shit after the show. But not Jeff, he's too nice to do something like that. The next morning, when Eddie arrives with a hangover the size of his ego, to quote Gareth, Jeff will only look at him with disappointment.

Or maybe they just don't care enough about him anymore to pull a prank on him. Eddie can't remember the last time they even talked to him, beyond discussing the bare minimum for their shows.

Leaving the bathroom, he carefully walks down a long hallway with the ugliest yellow linoleum Eddie has ever seen. It hurts his eyes and his stomach gives another unpleasant churning. On his right, he sees a glass door with "Intermediate Care Unit" written in big white letters.

What the fuck?

He turns right and continues down the hall, hoping to find someone who can tell him where he is and why his body feels like it's been hit with a sledgehammer. Repeatedly.

"Mr. Munson, you shouldn't be out of bed," a stern voice calls from behind him, and when he turns around he sees a middle-aged woman in white scrubs looking at him with a stern expression on her face.

Feeling more and more like he has landed in an episode of The Twilight Zone, Eddie looks at her with an incredulous look on his face. "Who are you? And where is everyone?"

She scoffs at his answer, clearly not pleased.

"I am the nurse responsible for getting you well enough to leave this ward as soon as possible, and you would make my job a lot easier if you would go back to your bed." Before he can process the meaning of her words, she continues. "As for everyone else, well, no one else overdosed, so I would assume they're all home by now."

Eddie can only stare at her open-mouthed, disbelief and horror probably written all over his face, because her own face is softening slightly.

"Now come on, let's get you back to bed, you really shouldn't be wandering around."

She gently takes his elbow and leads him to a door with the number 719 on it. As she opens it for him, Eddie sees three beds inside. To the left and right, he sees two old men, both looking directly at him. The one on the right says, "We tried to stop him, Nurse Elli, we really did," in a high, nasal voice that is already getting on Eddie's nerves. "The kid wouldn't listen to us, would he, Harry?"

"Exactly," Harry answered, at least in a deeper, more bearable tone.

Ignoring the geriatric Ernie and Bert, Nurse Elli leads him to the bed in the middle and helps him to lie down again. Only then does Eddie remember that all he's wearing is a thin hospital gown with an open back. Well, he thinks, Nurse Elli has seen worse in her profession than his pale, scrawny ass. Besides, it's not like much of his modesty has survived the last two years of sex, drugs and rock'n'roll that have been his life.

By the time he's back under the covers, his nurse has turned around and is walking back over to the door. A bone-deep exhaustion has begun to seep into his body, slowly dragging him back under, but seeing her walk out of the room gives him a burst of energy.

"Wait! Someone needs to tell me what happened. What am I doing here?"

Embarrassment burns hot under his skin as he hears the tears in his voice, but the sound of it breaking at his question makes Nurse Elli stop. She turns back to him and her eyes are much kinder than before.

"The doctor will be with you shortly. He'll explain everything to you, Mr. Munson. I'll let him know you're awake now."

And then she leaves, and Eddie sinks back into his bed in the hope that the next time he opens his eyes, it will all have been just a bad dream.

It was not all just a bad dream.

The next time Eddie comes to, he's alone in his room, except for a middle-aged man who seems to be the doctor Nurse Elli told him would be stopping by.

Doctor Owens explains that he overdosed on alcohol and coke at a party at some music producer's house and had been in a coma for two full days. They quickly stabilized him, pumped his stomach and gave him fluids through an IV. Eddie is lucky he's still young and his system recovered from the shock quite well. When he showed signs of waking up, they brought him down here from the ICU to free up his bed for someone who needed it more.

"If Mr. Harrington hadn't called 911 and told them to come get you, you'd be dead right now, Mr. Munson. I'm sorry to say this, but from what I've heard, no one at the party even cared, just insisted that you brought your own drugs and they had nothing to do with it. Mr. Harrington has also been your only visitor so far."

His words should make him angry or sad, something, but he can't process them. Not when his brain is still struggling to make sense of the first part of his statement, Eddie’s heart racing in his chest.

"Mr. Harrington? As in..."

"Steve Harrington, he says he's a close friend. He's the one who called the ambulance, gave the operator your cell phone number so they could track your phone and get you to the hospital. He's been visiting you every day since. He also called your uncle, because we are not allowed to give out any medical information to anyone outside of the family. Your uncle should be here soon, I called him yesterday to give him an update on your condition."

His mind is reeling, too many thoughts fighting for dominance and one word screaming louder than any of them in his head.

Steve, Steve, Steve.

How... it couldn't be. Not after their last fight. Not after the things he said to Steve. To his horror, he feels tears burning hot in his eyes at the memory. A memory he had pushed as far back in his mind as he could because every time he thought about that night he wanted to curl up into a fetal position and cry.

"You are a lucky man, Mr. Munson. This man seems to care a lot about you, as does your uncle. You should let them help you. And if you will allow me to be very clear with you: You need all the help you can get. You're young, so your body can take a lot. But it's not in good shape. You have an old man's liver, and your spleen and kidneys are showing signs of the abuse you put them through. The echo also showed some irregularities in your heartbeat. If you continue down the path you're on, your organs will fail and you will die, Mr. Munson. Painfully. So my advice to you is to get clean as soon as possible. We have some facilities we work with, a nurse will bring you some brochures."

Eddie could only nod numbly, tears now falling freely from his eyes, his throat tight and his head aching. Everything hurt. Especially his heart.

"Okay, we'll keep you here for two more days until we're sure you're stable enough to be on your own." Doctor Owens tells him, turning to leave and get on with his day, as if he hadn't just dropped a damn bomb on his head. He pauses at the door and turns back to him.

"And a word of advice from someone twice your age who's seen a lot in his time here: stick with people who really care about you, like Mr. Harrington, instead of spending your time with people who leave you lying in a bathroom in your own vomit."

With that, he steps out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him and leaving Eddie alone with his thoughts.

Eddie doesn't know how long it's been since Dr. Owens left. It could have been hours, days, weeks, for all he knows, too deep inside his own head to spare any thought for the passing of time. Lying in a hospital bed, the nausea and pain raging through his battered body, Eddie finally breaks down and lets the thoughts come.

He's lost in his memories, thinking about everything that led him here, alone and in pain in a hospital bed, after nearly killing himself with things he swore he'd never use. Weed was fine, though he didn't indulge much anyway, preferring to sell it and make some much-needed money than to smoke it himself. But coke? Nah, he knew how epically stupid it would be to even try that shit.

And yet he did.

A party to celebrate the release of their first single. One lapse in judgment while flying so fucking high that nothing could touch him. One bad decision was all it took for him to succumb to the effects of the white powder.

The high he felt after snorting his first line had been magical and he's been chasing that feeling ever since, blind to all he's sacrificed in the process.

It changed him, he knows. Every euphoric high that made him talk a mile a minute, overly affectionate, loud and brash and in love with the whole world would inevitably end in a crash. He became irritable and hostile toward the people he loved, thinking they were out to get him. Whenever his friends or Wayne or Steve so much as looked at him the wrong way about his new habit, he would lash out at them.

He became increasingly angry and accused them of trying to control him, of envying him his success and happiness.

That's when he started drinking, too. He drank himself stupid so that he wouldn't have to think about the way Steve was starting to look at him as if he didn't even know him anymore. To forget the sad look in Wayne's eyes or the way his friends had started to avoid him. When he was drunk out of his mind, he could forget the way the Coffin boys had started talking about him behind his back, could ignore the murderous looks Robin kept sending his way.

Thinking back, Eddie felt like everything had spun out of his control so fast.

It's like one day he comes home to Steve, ecstatic about signing their first record deal and celebrating the start of a new chapter with the love of his life by dancing around their living room barefoot, laughing and kissing each other, promising happiness and forever.

Only to throw that love right back in Steve's face the next day by calling him needy, clingy, and full of bullshit.

He claimed that Steve was holding him back and that Steve didn't love him, that he just didn't want to be alone. He also said that Steve still thought he was better than Eddie, better than the town freak, the fuck-up, the trailer trash.

You don't want me to succeed and finally step out of your perfect shadow, because then what would stop me from leaving you, right?

Eddie regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth. Secretly, he had always feared that his success would cause a rift in his relationship with Steve. Eddie had no desire to leave Steve, because Steve was still the best goddamn thing that ever happened to him, but he couldn't help but feel that he was losing him anyway. Even more so when he had seen Steve's face crumble, when he had seen the exact moment when his heart had broken into a million pieces.

He had wanted to take Steve in his arms and apologize for saying cruel things he didn't even believe. It had been his own insecurities that had caused him to lash out, and he had hurt Steve before he had a chance to be hurt himself.

Instead, in true Munson fashion, he had run away and hasn't seen or heard from Steve in six long months that have felt like years.

Steve looks almost exactly the same as he did the last time Eddie saw him.

That's not a good thing, though. Because Steve had been driving himself crazy with worry about Eddie for months before Eddie had taken Steve's heart and torn it apart right in front of him.

Back then he had the same dark circles under his eyes that he has now. The usually golden skin is still too pale and Steve's trademark hair looks even more disheveled from how often he's run his hands through it. His well-fitting jeans, which once hugged his ass just right, now sit baggy on his too-slim frame and Eddie hates it.

He hates that Eddie could still hurt Steve even after he left. That even from a distance he managed to ruin the only person who ever really loved him besides Wayne. There should be some kind of warning sign on him: Beware, do not get attached, will hurt you.

"You're awake," are the first words out of Steve's mouth, and despite everything, Eddie can't stop his heart from responding to the sound of his sweet voice. Steve sounds tired, weary, but to Eddie's ears his voice is better than any Metallica song could ever be.

He tries to smile at him, but he feels as tired as Steve sounds, so it lacks the usual spark.

"Sure am. From what I heard, I have you to thank for that," Eddie adds, unable to help himself. He still doesn't know why and especially how Steve knew he needed help. If this were a Nicholas Sparks novel, their love would have created an invisible bond that made Steve feel when Eddie needed help.

But this is real life, and no matter how much he loves Steve, there is no invisible bond holding them together. Just an unbridgeable chasm.

Steve is still hovering at the door and Eddie thinks he is fighting the urge to wring his hands. Eddie knows his tells by now and he figures Steve isn't sure he's welcome here. Which is ridiculous, because even at his worst, Eddie will always want Steve around, no matter what crap Eddie tells him.

It takes a lot of effort, but Eddie manages to sit up and lean out of bed to pat the chair next to his bed, his eyes never leaving Steve.

Eddie sees Steve's shoulders slump, some of the tension visibly draining from his body at the gesture, and Steve walks over to him and sits down tentatively.

"So..." Eddie begins, dragging out the 'o'. "What happened?"

Steve looks up from his hands in his lap, obviously surprised by the question. "You don't remember?"

"No. The last thing I remember is sitting on a leather couch with a bunch of people I don't know and don't care about, fooling myself into thinking I was having fun." Eddie has had plenty of time to think about his life and where he went wrong, so he decides to stick with honesty. Steve deserves as much and more. "Someone handed me a bottle of whiskey and I opened it and started drinking straight from the bottle. That's the last thing I remember. The next thing I know, I wake up in an ugly bathroom that smells like disinfectant, my whole body hurts like I've been hit by a train, and I have no idea where I am."

Before he can bring himself to say the next part, it's Eddie who has to look away, his eyes focused on his hands playing with the edge of the blanket.

"They told me it was you who called 911 and helped them find me. They said without you I would have died lying in my own vomit." He swallows audibly, tears burning in his eyes, wondering how he could have cried more in the last ten hours than in the last ten years. "They also said you were the only one who came to see me."

Eddie forces himself to look up and into Steve's eyes as he says, "Thank you, Steve. You didn't... I don't deserve you doing this. Not after..." The words die in his throat and he feels like he's choking on them.

He can't do this. He's a fucking coward, not worth saving. Not even worth looking at someone as good and beautiful as Steve.

There's a crease between Steve's eyebrows that Eddie used to smooth with his thumb and lips every time he saw it, and his fingers itch to do it again.

"You called me," Steve tells him, his own hands playing with the edge of Eddie's blanket. "At the party. You called me from the bathroom. I thought it was a butt call or maybe drunk dialing, I hadn't heard from you in months, Eddie."

Eddie winces at his words, but Steve chooses to ignore it.

"But then you sounded so small on the phone. You called me 'Stevie' and 'sweetheart' and then you started to cry." Steve looks like he's about to cry, too. His eyes are glassy and Eddie gets lost in the way the light breaks in them, gold and brown and green all mixed together.

"You told me you weren't feeling so good, that your stomach hurt and the room was spinning so you had to lie down. Your voice -" And here Steve's own voice breaks, after it had already started to shake badly, and without thinking Eddie grabs Steve's hand and holds it tight.

"I'm here, Stevie. You saved me. I'm okay."

"But you almost weren't!" Steve insists, his voice rising, and Eddie finally understands the depth of Steve's feelings. After all these months, after everything Eddie had said and done, Steve still cared deeply for him.

"You talked like you were dying, Eddie. You weren't drunk dialing, you were calling to say goodbye, asshole. You were telling me all these things that I needed to hear you say for months. But I wanted to hear them with you in the room so I could punch you in the face and then kiss it better. Not like this. Not as your last words over a fucking phone call."

That's when Steve breaks down, the tears finally overflowing and he buries his face on the bed at Eddie's hip, their joined hands pressed against his wet cheek.

"Baby," Eddie whispers, shocked, his own heart aching worse than ever as he begins to run his fingers through Steve's messy hair. "Shhh, it's okay. I'm so, so sorry, Stevie. I never meant to hurt you, but it seems like that's all I did."

Taking a deep breath, Eddie continues. "I don't know what I told you on the phone, but since I woke up I've had time to think about it all. I don't know if I can ever make it up to you. Or to Wayne and the kids, Gareth and Jeff and Grant. If I will ever deserve your forgiveness, but I want to try. I want to deserve it one day. I know I have no right to ask anything of you, but... I will go to rehab. I will quit drugs and alcohol, I will clean up my act. And then, if you let me, I will try to make it up to you every single day for the rest of our lives."

Steve slowly lifts his head from the bed and looks at him, searching Eddie's eyes for something.

"Why?" Steve asks, his hand gripping Eddie's even tighter.

There are so many reasons, so many things Eddie wants to say, but in the end there is only one simple answer.

"Because I love you."

The smile on Steve's face tells him it's the right answer, even more so when Steve presses a kiss into his palm. But then he turns serious once more.

"I haven't forgiven you yet, Eddie. You hurt me too much and I need time. But I need you to stop trying to run away from me. I don't want you to go to rehab and clean yourself up before you come back to me. I want to be with you every step of the way. Do it together. Because if you love me, you have to let me take care of you. You have to let me in, Eddie. Let me carry you for once, like Sam carried Frodo when he couldn't go on. Trust me not to let you fall. Please."

"Did you really just make a reference to Lord of the Rings?" Eddie demands and Steve rolls his eyes.

"Is that what you get from everything I just said?"

Eddie sobers up immediately. "No, it just made me fall a little bit more in love with you, and I didn't think that was possible."

"So what do you say?" Steve asks, chewing his lip between his teeth, and Eddie suspects he's not even breathing.

"It's going to suck, Stevie," Eddie says in a quiet voice, stroking Steve's knuckles with his thumb."Are you sure?"

"Yes." No hesitation, no wavering in his voice. It's the same tone, the same determined look on his face as when he told Eddie "Fuck'em," when Eddie told him people in their small-minded town would talk if Steve held his hand in public.

"There's a bunch of brochures of places to check out. Wanna help me pick the least horrible one?" Eddie says, pointing to the table in the corner of the room.

Without another word, Steve gets up to grab them, and for the first time in a long time, Eddie allows himself to hope.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #steddie fic #rockstar eddie munson #cw drugs #steddielovemonth #day 1 #love is letting someone take care of you #my writing

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bathroomforless · 6 months

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Transform your bathroom into a contemporary haven with our sleek modern vanity units from Bathroom4Less. Designed with sophistication in mind, our collection features chic finishes and minimalist styles to elevate any space. From space-saving wall-mounted vanity units options to statement freestanding vanity units, each piece combines functionality with elegance.

#modern vanity units #bathroom4less #sleek modern vanity units #wall-mounted vanity units #freestanding vanity units

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vintagehomecollection · 1 year

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From the platform beneath the windows, the play of levels is revealed. The oatmeal and dark-brown color scheme continues. Concealed behind the freestanding, chrome-framed shelving unit is the bedroom.

Rooms by Design, 1989

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leibal · 3 months

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Wimbledon House is a minimalist residence located in London, United Kingdom, designed by Erbar Mattes. The design subdivides the building into three smaller volumes, mirroring the scale of nearby Edwardian structures. These volumes, with their sloping roofs, create a characterful silhouette and fit seamlessly among the freestanding houses of the area.

#minimalism #minimal #minimal interior #interior design #minimalist interior #leibal

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arizonaconservativegal · 1 year

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This shit makes me so mad.

$30 million and they're only building 54 units? That's $555,555 a unit!

We're just talking about studio apartments mostly and a handful of one bedrooms.

A New Leaf is described in this article as a nonprofit but it would be more accurate to call them quasi-governmental because they pretty much only work on government funded projects. This one is being paid for with federal covid money.

The average cost to build a whole new freestanding house in the Phoenix area is only $334k. Why does it cost A New Leaf an extra $220k to build just a studio apartment? Where does all the extra money go?

I wish I could tell you it was something as simple as a board member's vacation home in the Caymans but the real answer is a lot more boring and frustrating: government funding means strings attached. Expensive strings.

Anyone who tells you government can or should solve the housing crisis is a fool. This is how they do it every single time. The Phoenix area needs 50k+ new housing units today to meet existing demands and that number grows daily. If the cost is going to be $555k a unit for a government build, we are looking at a total cost of $28.777 billion - about three times the entire annual state budget, and for just one part of the state. It is never going to be possible for government to spend its way into a solution.

It is negligent at best for government officials to pretend they are doing something about this problem while thousands of people are stuck waiting for help that isn't coming. It disgusts me.

You want to fix this? You want to actually help people? Cut the red tape.

Let the private sector build market rate housing and let them cut out the unnecessary costs. Stop tying them up in endless zoning and permitting delays. Eliminate outdated regulations that drive up the cost without providing any benefit. Lower the cost of market rate housing and people on the edge of workforce and market rate will be able to move up into market rate for the same or less than they pay today and get better quality housing.

Same thing with workforce housing. The private sector can handle that profitably for builders and affordably for residents if we stop making it impossible to do so. It's time to modernize building codes so that we aren't requiring builders to do things like build an entire closet to stick the water heater in because they used to explode - a perfectly reasonable regulation at the time but these days you could just use a tankless heater that fits under the sink and does not carry the same risk, so why don't we let builders do that instead? Or for another example, tiny homes would be a great option for people who don't need a lot of space but we can't build them because zoning categories literally do not exist for the concept. You can build a single tiny house on a full size lot but that pretty much defeats the purpose.

Affordable housing might always need some subsidies. Fine. But we have got to stop doing things that mean building affordable housing costs more than luxury units. Give the contracts to actual home builders instead of going through nonprofits who chew up 20% of the money as "overhead" for being middlemen. Simplify the request for proposal process so that it doesn't cost tens of thousands of dollars to apply for the contract - a cost that gets added to the bid and since you won't get every contract you apply for, you add enough to cover several applications. For $555k a unit, I'd expect these apartments to be sparkling with gold and marble but instead these poor people just get scraps with the leftover money once the paperwork is paid for.

#if we had a half decent newspaper in this state #I wouldn't be the only person calling this out #but the arizona republic pretty much just took a press release and added an intro to it #this is not journalism #useless hacks

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nichenarratives · 1 year

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Hurricane Heller 16

A Niche Narratives Fanficiton.

last | first | next

16. Poker Face

They pass the kitchen and head into a corridor at the rear of the property, the bare bricks and a slanted, corrugated iron roof barely trapping any heat. His breath mists in frigid air as they walk the width of the diner before entering yet another door at the far end, which leads into the domestic kitchen at the rear of an adjacent property.

Unlike homes in the slums, where a table and an open fire often constitute an entire kitchen, there is a solid mahogany, custom freestanding unit pushed back to one wall with delicately carved doors, freshly waxed to a shine and beautifully offset by apricot worktops. A lime green coats most of the walls, while an accent of mustard tiles protects directly the wall behind the worktops from splashes.

Matching yellow tiles have been carefully mounted in the old fireplace too, gutted to fit a wrought iron stove heated by an open fire beneath. The tiles reflect light outwards producing a glowing orange aura, bright enough to illuminate most of the kitchen without need for lamps, while also making the room stiflingly hot compared to the lean-to corridor frosted with ice.

Most of the remaining floor space is taken by an oversized table and chairs of matching wood, a glass-plated table top glistening in the light. On the opposite wall, a plumbed sink glistens, not a wayward drop of water from its spout. Finally, beside large arching doors at the far end of the room, a coat rack sags under the weight of a half dozen hats and coats; it would seem he's the last to arrive,

Mordecai doesn't have time to wonder if his late arrival was contrived before Kendall offers to take his coat. Far too hot, he rushes to oblige, balancing the box in an arm to shift the other from its sleeve. Kendall takes hold of the collar so he can repeat the process with his other arm without the thing falling to the floor. It's awkward, and he could have put the box down, but he doesn't want to risk it getting dirty from an unseen mess.

Only once she's hung up his coat does he remove his hat and scarf as an afterthought, earning an eye roll before they're taken and stowed with his coat before the double doors are thrown open. As Kendall walks into a dark parlour, Mordecai follows obediently and is glad to find the heat abating as they step into an entry hall beyond, a single closed door the only additional room they pass. He breathes the cooler air deeply, glancing at an apparently disused front door, then follows Kendall up to the second floor.

She takes the stairs gracefully despite her inch-high heels sinking into the plush carpet, turning on the gas lamps along the way, fluffy tail swaying gracefully with each step. Having never worn outdoor shoes on a carpeted floor, it's weird to feel the cushion of fibers beneath his hard soles, muffling the clunk of feet on wooden steps beneath. He tried not to think about the dirt they've just walked into the runner as they reach the landing, skirt around a second staircase and come face to face with one of three doors, the one to a room at the front of the property.

Kendall pauses to fix her hair - a pointless effort, with most of it bundled seemingly haphazardly atop of her head - then raps on the door. Mordecai perks his ears at the rhythm, the same one his driver uses to summon him to interrogations; two slow, three fast. A universal code? It's information he stores away as the door swiftly opens and a single man steps out, closing the door behind him.

The gray tabby towers over Kendall, his tiny eyes narrowed to mere specs in a large head, his neck the same width as his jaw and a thick, pink scar running from one brow to his upper lip. Kendall doesn't seem scared, only holding up the invite with a coy smile. "Las' one, darlin'," she says sweetly, waiting for him to take the Christmas card to elaborate, a sly glance back over her shoulder at the tuxedo. "The boss' new favouri'e, Kosher. I'm sure they're all dyin' to meet 'im."

Felt ears rotate back, subtly communicating his uncertainty. Mordecai feels comfortable enough in his capabilities that their approval isn't a requirement; he wants to keep his head down and earn sufficient funds to move his family to decent housing, while keeping himself comfortably housed with the surplus, not be praised for bureaucratic excellence.

He's been too good at his job and gotten noticed. Again.

The persian turns and Mordecai leans back against the stairs to the third floor to allow Kendall room to pass, box held in both hands before him. The woman doesn't take the space offered, instead approaching him and leaning closer. A warning murr rumbles in the tom's chest as she sweeps a strand of hair from his eyes, fingers lingering on his cheek as she whispers softly.

"I'm off at six," she says, close to his ear, her hot breaths make it twitch. "Bring tha' switchblade I've been hearing so much abou' down t'the diner, butcher. I'd like t'see ya wield it up real close an' personal."

As swift as she approached, Kendall is gone, halfway down the stairs before the grimace or disgust can curl Mordecai's lips, eyes staring after her until the bodyguard clears his throat. Emerald eyes shift from the stairs to the hulking man now holding the door open wide, motioning for Mordecai to step in with the hand clasping his comically tiny invite. Straightening back up, the tuxedo reaffirms his grip on the box, firmly affixes the Isaiah Fitzgerald mask, and steps into the meeting.

Much like the rest of the home, the rectangular reception is large and plushly decorated; thick carpets from wall to wall, heavy drapes drawn to allow in bitter winter sunlight, and a deep red wallpaper beneath a picture rail framing the space. Ceiling molding encases newfangled electrical fixtures with a multitude of inset bulbs, gleaming brightly in ornate arms of two chandeliers set at opposite ends of the room.

The nearest short wall is obscured by heavy bookcases, all of which house thick tomes of classical literature, complete encyclopedias and other reference materials. An armchair and a chaise lounge in deep moss green sit opposite, a rug - surely unnecessary in a carpeted home - of greens, golds and reds beneath a mahogany coffee table covered in gifts finishing the set. It's all brand new; luxury decor at its finest.

Set into the opposite far wall, a fireplace spits behind its wrought iron fireguard, the remnants of kindling slowly being suffocated by hot coals. An intricately carved mahogany table is centered below the second chandelier, a glass cover protecting the detailed lead embossed top from damage. Its surrounded by eight matching chairs.

Seven sets of eyes watch Mordecai as he steps inside, an unerring silence befalling the gathered men as they study the newest underboss, sucking on cigars or sipping scotch.

Mordecai doesn't notice as he's prompted to put his gift on the coffee table, wide eyes scouring over more books than he's seen to date, the collection putting his budding library back home to shame. More accustomed to heavy handed mannerisms, he's taken aback when the bodyguard on the door doesn't laugh at his wonder or manhandle him around but instead, clears his throat to get his attention.

"You got t'remove yer jacket an' holsters," he says, gravelly tones not consistent with his manners and flawless suit, even if his accent errs towards commonality. A meaty hand opens but Mordecai doesn't immediately comply, the idea of being without his pistol in the current climate giving him pause. The bodyguard doesn't become defensive, only adding. "No weapons at th'table, Kosher. Boss' orders."

The assumption everyone else was honest and gave up all their weapons doesn't sit well with the tom, but he hasn't got much choice; his position amongst these men is arguably the least stable. Should he be found to retain weapons after an explicit request to remove them, he likely won't walk out of this room alive, but be carried out in an old suitcase by an unlucky team of underlings from the diner next door.

So he shrugs off his jacket a moment later, handing it to the large tabby before unclipping his holster. The letter opener still resting in his inside jacket pocket, he raises a pants leg to retrieve Jimbo's stolen switchblade from his sock garter, a swift flick of the wrist turning it around for the bodyguard to safely procure. The tabby takes everything in arm before motioning to the other side of the room apparently trusting him. "Have a good nigh'."

Following his gesture and finally noticing the many eyes on him, dark ears turn backwards before he can suppress the anxious response. The ensuing awkwardness is thankfully short-lived; Gabriel stands with a cigar pinched between his sharp teeth and his face cracked into a broad smile.

"Kosher!" He exclaims the greeting, looking almost casual in just a shirt and suspenders, collar unbuttoned and tie loose. He closes the distance between them swiftly and embraces Mordecai, pulling the stiff feline into a brief hug that ends as the pale persian pulls back and digs sharp claws into tensed biceps. "Glad you could make it! The boys didn't think you'd come, being… you know. Kosher, and all."

Mordecai can't tell if the man refers to his inherent character or his ancestry, but he doesn't have time to ruminate before Gabriel has an arm around his shoulders and is walking him towards the crowded table. "Let's get you introduced, yeah. Want a drink? Old Frank - that lug on the door - will find you anything you want, so what's your poison, eh? How about a scotch on the rocks? You look like a classic kind of guy."

With a lot of information to suddenly process, Mordecai lets Gabriel's incessant questions ground him, tearing emerald eyes away from the crowded table to meet yellowed irises. "While I appreciate the offer, I don't drink," he states, unsure if it's rude to refuse liquor, but definitely not about to indulge. "If I may enquire, what else is available? I'm partial to tea, in particular an Earl Gray."

The persian chuckles softly, as do a number of others at the table. Mordecai ignores them; he's quite used to being the comedic relief by now. "You don't come to Christmas poker and drink tea," Gabriel asserts, pausing to suck on his cigar before taking it from his teeth, heavy smoke leaking from his nose and mouth as he taps Mordecai's chest affectionately. "Tell you what; I'll get Frank and Kendall to bring up a couple of those cordials and soft drinks they sell in the diner. Maybe you'll find something else you like as much as tea."

Mordecai twists his lips with disbelief. "I highly doubt that," he mutters under his breath, then sighs in defeat. "Very well. I'm sure something will be… adequate."

"There ya go," Gabriel praises, jostling his shoulder with his iron grip and chuckling deep in his chest, releasing him to turn back to Frank. The tuxedo's arm is decidedly sore when he finally lets go, and it takes most of his self control not to shudder to dispel the lingering feeling of an unwanted arm around his back. "You heard the man; get Kendall to make a couple of cordials, no skimping on the juice or sugar. We'll sweeten the old butcher up yet!"

The next few minutes are a whirlwind of information as he's introduced to the entirety of the table and their expertise all at once. With the quickfire crash course in underbosses at Gabriel's jovial hand, each man is cataloged by appearance, name and job title only, providing Mordecai with an influx of people to research in his spare time next year, though there are two distinct men the tuxedo takes intricate note at the time of introduction.

First and arguably the most important, the large, black feline at the head of the table. Despite seeming to be of a similar height to most, the silky shorthair possesses a number of exaggerated features compared to his brethren: a heavy brow and large forehead overshadow small eyes so dark, they appear black across the table; an equally heavy set lower jaw; stocky shoulders; and thickly muscled arms.

He greets Mordecai with a smoker's gravel imbued with the deep tones expected from a man of his size, his assertions bringing an end to any idle or other conversations from pure respect. The hand clasping his cards are three times larger than Mordecai's finely dextrous ones, while his shoes could comfortably house a feral cat and her litter in a pinch, their toe caps enforced with steel for integrity over utility.

This is Stanley Savage, current head of the family, the man who plucked Mordecai from his comfortable position running the races and pressed implements of torture into his hands. The tuxedo greets him politely, complementing the home as his mother raised him to, even as the suppressed distaste for his abusive role simmers angrily beneath the surface

He could be Hashem Himself, Mordecai would still hate the man who cost him the dregs of his morality just as fervently.

Second, the predominantly white feline sat at Savages's right hand. Accented with sandy yellow splashed with black, incomplete spots, most of this colouration favours his dorsal area, though it covers his ears and face, and even coats the backs of his hands. His suit is immaculate, jacket still worn over an armed shoulder holster. Calculating, narrowed green eyes study the newest addition to the inner circle.

Sipping his scotch and holding eye contact seamlessly with the tuxedo, the speckled feline nods wordlessly when he's introduced; Jackson Jameson, personal triggerman and as required, bodyguard for the Savage family boss. As the only man at the table openly armed, it's obvious he's considered more trustworthy than anyone else in the room, something Mordecai makes explicit note of as he's shown to the empty seat at the other end of the long table.

Despite Mordecai's initial uncertainties, the small gathering is surprisingly amicable; most conversation revolves around the rapidly changing work environments each man has had to deal with these last few months, rising amenity costs and a lament of fewer excess funds for seasonal gifts or their preferred vices. Mordecai is generally quiet unless engaged directly, though he doesn't share much personal information. He talks only of the business troubles, and the closing of his launderette, which placates most of their questions.

One man however - Kimberly Daugherton, a particularly small and weasley looking man with numerous furless scars adoring his muzzle and face - has an unhealthy interest in the tom's torture moonlights, making uncomfortable queries regarding his favourite tools, technique and 'soft spots'. He's a disquieting little man with a twitchy demeanour that Mordecai is thankful not to be seated directly next to, but that doesn't make his queries or suggestions any less repulsive to the unconventional butcher.

Having enough after a particularly vulgar description of how to disembowel a man without killing him outright, Mordecai places his empty glass of cordial - a delightful tart cranberry and raspberry, with a touch of soda water - aside with more force than necessary. "If you're so desperate for a demonstration," he states coldy, staring at the man who sinks regretfully into his seat under those sharp eyes. "I'll request my switchblade returned and provide a personal experience of my favourite techniques. How does that sound, Mister Daugherton?"

"N-No, th-thank you," the small feline stutters out, oversized gray ears pressing to his skull and he fidgets nervously with a napkin in his lap, intensely focused on its crinkled edges. "I-I'm good. So good! All… good." A rolling chuckle echoes around the table, especially as Kimberly makes excuses to leave a few minutes later, missing the poker game entirely.

It swiftly becomes apparent Mordecai is terrible at poker; as Gabriel would express through a rolling chuckle. "The poker face is only half the game," he explains after Mordecai folds on a bad hand in the first round. "You have to bluff, make us think your hand is average even when you got a flush in the wings, so we go in thinking we got you beat with a three of a kind and bet recklessly. That's now you win big."

He understands the logic, but the concept is irrational, so he continues to play as he had before and ends with almost as many chips as he started. While the other players don't see it as successful, Mordecai does. He retained his integrity and most of his fabricated funds, a true win compared to those undermining their trustworthiness for a simple game.

Though the event continues until almost three on Christmas morning - and despite the heavy smoke, slowly intoxicated company and being absolutely awful at poker - the evening is not as unpleasant as Mordecai feared. His coworkers are cordial and respectful, refraining from anti-semitic humour the entire evening, even when issues arose during dinner, and Mordecai is returned to his apartment full, content and surprisingly jovial.

Mordecai may not be fond of much of his profession, but he finally seems to be reaping the rewards of his hard work and sacrifices. It puts a smile on thin lips, even as he's forced to layer three blankets to stay warm; life is somewhat good, and it can surely only get better from here.

#niche narratives #hurricane heller #mordecai heller #lackadaisy #lackadaisy cats #fanfiction #lackadaisy mordecai #fanfic #tracy j butler #no beta we die like atlas may

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