#New York City Signs & Awnings

[wedesignyouny]

Vehicle Wraps in New York City: Transforming the Image of Your Brand

Elevate Your Brand with Custom Vehicle Graphics by New York Printers: Explore Vehicle Wraps & Graphics NYC

Introduction:

In the bustling streets of New York City, standing out from the crowd is essential for businesses to make a lasting impression. One powerful yet often overlooked advertising medium is custom vehicle graphics and wraps. Transforming your vehicles into mobile billboards can significantly boost brand visibility and create a lasting impact on potential customers. In this blog post, we’ll delve into the benefits of investing in custom vehicle graphics by New York printers and introduce you to TruArt Sign Co., the experts in vehicle wraps & graphics NYC, ready to take your brand to new heights.

The Impact of Custom Vehicle Graphics:

1.1 Mobile Advertising: Reaching a Wider Audience

1.2 Brand Consistency: Reinforcing Your Identity

1.3 Attention-Grabbing Designs: Making Heads Turn

Introducing TruArt Sign Co. – Your Go-To Source for Vehicle Wraps & Graphics NYC:

2.1 Unparalleled Printing Expertise and Experience

2.2 State-of-the-Art Equipment: Delivering Excellence

2.3 A Creative Team with a Flair for Innovation

The Range of Vehicle Graphics and Wraps Offered:

3.1 Full Vehicle Wraps: Complete Brand Transformation

3.2 Partial Wraps: Strategic Impact with Cost-Effectiveness

3.3 Custom Graphics: Tailored Solutions for Every Business

Why Choose TruArt Sign Co. for Your Vehicle Graphics:

4.1 Consultation and Design Support: Capturing Your Vision

4.2 Premium Quality Materials and Installation

4.3 Durability and Resistance to Weather Elements

Maximizing Brand Exposure with Mobile Advertising:

5.1 The Advantages of Vehicle Graphics in NYC

5.2 Targeting Specific Demographics and Locations

5.3 Tracking Success: Measuring the Impact of Your Campaign

Showcasing Success Stories:

6.1 Real-Life Examples: Businesses Thriving with Vehicle Wraps

6.2 Testimonials from Satisfied Clients

Environmentally-Friendly Vehicle Graphics Solutions:

7.1 TruArt Sign Co.’s Commitment to Eco-Conscious Practices

7.2 Sustainable Materials and Printing Techniques

Conclusion:

In the fast-paced and competitive landscape of New York City, custom vehicle graphics can be the game-changer for your brand’s visibility. TruArt Sign Co., with its unmatched expertise in vehicle wraps & graphics, is dedicated to helping your business capture attention and leave a lasting impression on potential customers. From full vehicle wraps that transform your fleet into moving masterpieces to eye-catching custom graphics, TruArt Sign Co.’s creative team and state-of-the-art equipment ensure that your brand shines on the city’s streets. Embrace the power of mobile advertising and partner with TruArt Sign Co. to elevate your brand with top-tier custom vehicle graphics in NYC.

[fabvisuals-blog]

Unlock the Power of New York City Signs and Awnings: Enhance Your Business Visibility.

Unlock the power of New York City signs and awnings to transform the way people see your company among the city's busy bustle. Our custom solutions ensure that your business stands out among the famous skyline by fusing innovation with urban flare. We create experiences that capture the essence of New York City, from classic awnings that offer shade and flair to eye-catching banners that draw attention. No matter where they are displayed—in offices, restaurants, or retail stores—our designs enthrall and make an impression on onlookers. Boost your brand's visibility and capitalize on New York City's attractions with our skillfully designed signs and awnings that are customized to your distinct style and goals.

[simstorian-blog]

Residential Floorplan Suggestions

New York City: TWO

(CC List + Links)

World Map: San Myshuno

Area: Spice Market – Waterside Warble

Lot Size:  30 x 30

Capacity:

A Dive Bar

An Internet Café

A Pizzeria

A Tattoo Parlor

Bonus: 6 residential rental units floorplans completed – not assigned

Gallery ID: Simstorian-ish

Packs Needed

Expansion Packs

Cats & Dogs

City Living

Discover University

For Rent

Get Together

Get To Work

Growing Together

High School Years

Horse Ranch

Snowy Escape

Game Packs

Dine Out

Dream Home Decorator

Jungle Adventure

Outdoor Retreat

Parenthood

Spa Day

Star Wars: Journey to Batuu

Strangerville

Vampires

Stuff Packs

Crystal Creations

Home chef Hustle

Laundry Day

Moschino

Kits

Castle Estate

Courtyard Oasis

Cozy Bistro

Desert Luxe

Recommended Gameplay Mods

(Please read through what each mod has to offer before deciding if it fits your gameplay style or not.)

Carl’s Dine Out Reloaded

City Vibes Lot Traits

Functional Tattoo Parlor

Functional Venue Lot Traits

Lock/Unlock Doors for Any Lot

Spawn Refresh

Use Residential Rentals shared areas as Community Lots & Create Multi-Purpose Community Lots

Build Mode

CharlyPancakes

Chalk Pt.2 (Tiles)

Felixandre

Chateau Pt. 1 (Stone Foundation)

Chateau Pt. 2 (Doors, Metal Pieces, Tiles, Walls)

Colonial Pt. 3 (Fence 2, Plaster Foundation 2, Railing 2)

Florence Pt. 1 (Fresco Mural)

Grove Pt. 4 (Plaster Column, Plaster Floor)

London Interior (Dining Chair, Stool, Walls)

Paris (Cartouche Large, Corbel, Swag)

Schwerin (Terracotta Female)

SOHO Pt. 2

SOHO Pt. 3

SOHO Pt. 4

Harrie

Brownstone Pt. 2 (Traditional Door Frame – Med, Traditional Door – Med, Traditional Window 2 - Med)

Coastal Pt. 2 (Column)

Klean Pt. 3 (Concrete Floor, Painted Walls)

Kwatei Pt. 1 (3x1 BiFold, Double Arch, Single Interior Door)

Mutske

Stairs Add-on

Lijoue

Louer Collection (Iron Fence, Railing, Stone Stairs)

Peacemaker

Bistro Expanded (Awning 1x1)

Graffiti Mural 01

Pierisim

Winter Garden Pt. 2 (Double Door High, High Window w Bottom x2)

Sooky88

Checkered Marble Floor

English Country Wall Set (Subway Tiles, Subway Tiles w Wallpaper)

Scandinavian Wall Set (Plain w Tiles)

Syboubou

Neighborly 1 (Ceiling Outdoor Light, Mailbox)

Neighborly 2 (Interphone)

Buy Mode

AroundTheSims4

Laundromat (Seating x3 – Metal Base)

Tattoo Parlor (First Aid Kits, Gloves, Ink, Ink Display, Light, Saddle Stool, Tattoo Gun)

Cepzid

Functional Tattoo Chair

Felixandre

Berlin Pt. 1 (Curtain – Tall)

SOHO Pt. 1

Harlix

Baysic (Coffee Table, container, End Table, Kitchen Cabinet, Kitchen Counter, Kitchen Island, Kitchen Sink, Kitchen Trolley, Kitchen Accent Counter 1-3, Sofa)

Jardane (Leather Pouffe)

Kichen (Cabinet, Cups, Glasses, Plant, Shelf)

Kichen 2.0 Pt. 2 (Glasses 2 & 4)

Harrie

Shop The Look 1 (Armchair, Coffee Table)

Shop The Look 2 (Ceramic Side Table)

Shop The Look 3 (Circular Cushion)

Spoons Pt. 2 (2 Tile Glass Pedastal- Short & Tall, Counters, Espresso Bar, Island, Pastry Platter, Pizza Board, Shelving)

Kiwisims4

Blockhouse Dining (Booth Seating)

KKB

The Chilling Home (Module Bar Stool)

LittlleDica

Greasy Foods (Napkins, Salt Shaker, Stalls Door, Stalls Wall, Vents, Wet Floor Sign)

Modern Kitchen Stuff (Soft Breeze)

Rise & Grind (Décor Mural 2, Décor Syrup Bottle, Décor Wall Painting Menu, Dining Tables – All, Wastebun Counter)

Max20

Happily Ever After (Sign of Attention)

NANDO

Fashion Store (Ceiling Lamp)

Pierisim

Coldbrew Coffee Shop Pt. 3 (Menu, Paper Cup, Tea Box, Tips Jar)

MCM Pt. 1 (Simstudio Display)

MCM Pt. 4 (Kitchen Island)

Ravasheen

Shake and Shimmy Dance Floor

Shop Chef (Drink Dispenser)

Severinka

Industrial Light II

Simkoos

Clutter Dump Pt. 2  (Boba Notepad, Boba Stacked Cups V1, Cafeteria Straw Dispenser)

SimspirationBuilds

Toffee Pt. 1 (Art)

Syboubou

Catherine Sushi Restaurant (Wall Shelf 1 & 3)

Contemporary Haven (Armchair, Artworks, End Table, Sofa 3P Left)

Macaron (Counter Display)

TaurusDesign

Lilith Chilling Area Pt. 1 (Bartender Kit, All Drinks, SulSul Sign)

Tuds

Cave (Panel Light 2 x 4)

IND 01

IND 03

Turn Couch

Wondymoon

Fraxinus AIO Computer (DL on Patreon)

DO NOT REUPLOAD MY LOTS.

DO NOT CLAIM THEM AS YOUR OWN.

DO NOT PLACE BEHIND A PAYWALL.

Tray Files: DOWNLOAD

[jamessunderlandgf]

—OC QUESTIONNAIRE

tagged by jackie @gwynbleidd i love u so much truly 🫶🏻 i’m doing this interview style tag game for my rockstar girlies (gta, rdr 🤭) cs i do not talk abt them at all ever. if u even care (kidding)

tagging: @ravensgard 🌿 @simply-jason 🌿 @sikoi 🌿 @teamhawkeye 🌿 @jackiesarch 🌿 @corvosattano 🌿 @marazhaiaezyrraesh 🌿 @yrlietlanaevyss 🌿 @rosayoro 🌿 @rvchelking 🌿 and you!! 🩷

NAME: agent jennifer daniels of the federal intelligence bureau, los santos sector 😎.

NICKNAME: jen (do not call her jenny tho she hates that), agent daniels (sarcastically), eye in the sky, various derogatory terms exchanged between her and pretty much everyone she talks to.

GENDER: she’s One Of The Girlies. a girl’s girl in a world of egomaniacal men. “save me, women. save me!”

STAR SIGN: the most sagittarius woman to ever sagittarius.

HEIGHT: 5’10. without the boots.

ORIENTATION: i actually haven’t thought abt it but now that i am, she’s a bisexual queen, leaning towards women.

NATIONALITY/ETHNICITY: argentinian! born in argentina and has duel citizenship between there and the united states.

FAVORITE FRUIT: pineapple. she eats a metric fuck ton of it, truly. she brings a container of it to work, midnight snack, etc.

FAVORITE SEASON: she’s the most comfortable during a san andreas autumn cs the weather is forgiving towards her wardrobe. —sexy patterned fur coats. knee high boots. she likes the aesthetic and looking expensive and a lot of that is layers and unforgiving textures. summer is good for the other half of her wardrobe tho, being silk button ups. mesh. high heels. low cut blouses.

FAVORITE FLOWER: lupine. she tried to grow a little plot of it at her home in rockford hills but didn’t have the patience to maintain them, so she gets a bouquet delivered once in a while to display.

FAVORITE SCENT: she loves a heady wine scent, like a deep cherry or a gourmand-type. she likes to smell edible.

COFFEE, TEA, or HOT CHOCOLATE: coffee and a cigarette on the balcony every morning. and on her way to work. and when she’s briefing with her colleagues. and when she’s flying. and in her office. and when she’s bothering dave. and when she’s beefing with steve cs she’s bored. and on her way home. and with dinner. and before bed.

AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP: like, 10. she needs her beauty sleep or she will be absolutely miserable in the morning, and make it everyone’s problem.

DOGS or CATS: neither. if she’s gonna be around a dog it has to be her size and scary as hell, but not constantly barking— like a mastiff guard dog.

DREAM TRIP: either back to argentina, or somewhere in the southern hemisphere where she can lay in the sun for 18 hours and get absolutely piss drunk in public.

NUMBER OF BLANKETS: she has one silk sheet and a massive down duvet.

RANDOM FACT: she drives a really obnoxious lilac purple pegassi vacca. and it’s unreasonably souped up— neon light kit, spoiler, led headlights, sport tires, custom leather interior, all of it. everything. government money baby. 🤑

NAME: lieutenant eileen carlisle to you 🫵🏻.

NICKNAME: lindy, linds, miss carlisle, the desert hum.

GENDER: she/her, the milfiest milf i have.

STAR SIGN: she’s gotta be a virgo i just feel it in my bones.

HEIGHT: a touch above average for the time, 5’4. but she has the attitude of a woman who is 6 feet.

ORIENTATION: she says she’s straight but that will not stop her from being homoerotic towards women.

ETHNICITY/NATIONALITY: american. she was born in new york city and fled before she was even 18.

FAVORITE FRUIT: she loves a good crispy apple and every byproduct in between.

FAVORITE SEASON: spring, when everything is in full bloom and alive.

FAVORITE FLOWER: wildflowers. entire fields of them. she would sleep in a field of wildflowers— the ground to be her bed, the sky her awning.

FAVORITE SCENT: fresh coffee and leather.

COFFEE, TEA, or HOT CHOCOLATE: she hasn’t been able to get her hands on tea in a long time so she settles for coffee.

AVERAGE HOURS OF SLEEP: fucking zero genuinely. she can’t sleep on a bedroll, she’s a night owl, coffee keeps her up, she can’t sleep through the gang stirring at the break of dawn, she’s a light sleeper in general. no rest for the wicked, she would say.

DOGS OR CATS: dogs; she was always around them so she welcomes the company.

DREAM TRIP: somewhere cozy and quiet. she’s kinda been sold on the tahiti trip if she’s being honest.

NUMBER OF BLANKETS: none. even when she had a bed she would kick it off mid-sleep.

RANDOM FACT: wants to so badly own an orchard and make jams and shit. she wants to be an artisan and make good clean cash :( she thinks it’s too late for her, but she will never not yearn for the fruit.

[psalm22-6]

Filming of the barricades sequence for Les Misérables (1917) and the 71st New York Infantry Regiment

The Fox Studio's production of Les Miserables staring William Farnum premiered in December 1917. They must have filmed things very quickly in those days because in October 1917 they were still filming the barricades sequence! October 20th The Exhibitor's Herald (a trade magazine of the film industry) reported:

In order to secure men with military training to represent the French guard in the filming of the Willian Fox spectacle, "Les Miserables," at Fort Lee, NJ recently, a battalion of soldiers from the 71st regiment, encamped at Van Cortlandt Park, New York, was borrowed for the occasion. While most of the 71st regiment men were in French uniforms, others which did not necessitate their appearance before the camera were detailed to other work, and during a lull in picture taking these men in khaki conceived the happy idea of having their pictures taken in the "Paris" street, where they expected shortly to be seen in reality. Cameras were produced and snapshots taken of the soldiers sitting at Parisian cafe tables, under awnings and before signs in French.

Remember the bolded part for later. Here is an image of the insurgents defending the barricade:

And here's an image of the barricade overrun by National Guardsmen, published in January 1918 in Photoplay Magazine:

On the left is the Corinthe cafe. Lots of promotion for this movie focused on the accuracy of this set, especially the cobblestone streets. For example, the October 1917 edition of the Motion Picture News said this:

One frenzied guest [a reporter visiting the set] exclaimed, "So this is Paris!" as he stubbed a toe on a protruding cobblestone of the Rue de Something or Something Else, a street the pavement of which bore a close resemblance to the surfaces of Broadway and Seventh avenue in their present state of construction. [. . .] There were a number of cafes with tables out in front. Seated around them were all the gentry of the Paris, but they never drank the brownish stuff in their glasses. We asked one fellow why, and his reply was "ginger ale."

The December issue of The Moving Picture World, reported that "Nine city blocks were built at a cost of $50,000, and so perfectly was it all reproduced that French military officers visiting New York have insisted that it was not a reproduction at all but Paris itself" and that there were 1,000 extras in the role of the people of Paris, in addition to the soldiers.

Groups of uniformed soldiers rode here and there, stunning figures in their Guard uniforms of red and blue and white, and while to them it was mimic and in a measure miniature warfare, it also was in the nature of rehearsal for sterner tasks. 

And here are all the extras from the 71st regiment, with Willian Farnum in the middle:

After the Sammies had garbed themselves in the fashion of National Guardsmen of old France, it may have been "Les Miserables" they were playing in, but there was nothing miserable about the way they flung themselves about the fight on the barricade in the streets of this transplanted Paris.

The caption from Photoplay magazine also tells us that the 71st were heading to France via Fort Wadsworth South Carolina and that they took this job to make some tobacco money. Here's a photo of a member of the 71st leaving for Fort Wadsworth:

The October 1917 edition of the Motography (which stated that the film depicted the July Revolution) said that the regiment had gone to Fort Wadsworth and added this additional information about filming:

They worked from nine o'clock one morning until two p.m. the following day. Just a half hour before quitting time came the climax. Right over the top of a twelve-foot barricade they went as hard as and as fast as they could go. While, of course, the whole affair was mimic warfare and the soldiers were not for the moment clad in the khaki of their country, that battalion from the 71st went other the top as though the Boche were on the other side and they were determined to "get" him. After the cameras had ceased to grind, the men were drawn up and Captain Schroeder of Company A, of the 71st, made a speech. He thanked Mr. Lloyd [the movie's director] and Mr. Farnum in behalf of his men for the royal treatment they had received and especially for affording them the opportunity of going over the top.

"Over the top" is in reference to the trench warfare of WWI. But remember how in the first article it was mentioned that soldiers took photos on set? Well that led to this article in The Laurens Advertiser, 4 September 1918:

Government Officials have at last traced down the origin of the sensational reports that the famous Seventy-first Regiment of New York had been sent "Over There" last August, when as a matter of fact it was still in the United States. The rumor was a most persistent one and many newspapers and magazines actually printed pictures of members of this regiment taken in Paris. It all happened in this way: William Fox, the motion picture producer, was engaged in making a photodrama of Victor Hugo's greatest work, Les Miserables, with William Farnum playing the part of the immortal "Jean Valjean." A section of Victor Hugo's Paris was built "somewhere in New Jersey," and to show the troops fighting in the streets of Paris against the revolutionists, a battalion or two of the Seventy-first regiment was used. While the soldiers were waiting to make the scenes in which they appeared, someone produced kodaks and began making snap-shots of each other. The soldiers were "over there" in New Jersey several days and many pictures were taken with the streets of Paris as the background. The members of the Seventy-first quickly realized the foreign look and sent copies to friends and sweethearts. The sweethearts and friends sent these to magazines and newspapers as proof positive that the Seventy-first was actually in Paris and in this way the rumor started. A magnificent picturization of Les Miserables, produced by William Fox with William Farnum playing the part of the immortal Jean Valjean will be shown at the Opera House Thursday September 5th. Les Miserables comes direct from the eight weeks run at the Lyric Theatre, New York City.

So is it true? Or is that article just an advertisement for the showing for the film? Only semi-related but here is an advertisement for a Kodak camera printed in a movie magazine and featuring soldiers writing home:

I would love to find one of those photographs of the soldiers on set (since it says that they were sent to newspapers and magazines) or even to find an example of an erroneous report of the 71st being sent abroad. I haven't had much luck so far but maybe I will come back to it later or if I put this out there maybe someone else will find something.

[voxxgrimly]

The Impression That I Get (Ch. 1)

CHAPTER 1

One Headlight

Monday, November 21st, 2005 (10:30 AM)

“Come up for Christmas, Henry.”

Calloused fingers pinched the bridge of his nose— dislodging his rectangular glasses. Eyes closed, he leaned back; broad shoulders met the backrest of his leather office chair with a dull ‘poff’. “Were wishes fishes, Charles.” The baritone of Henry McCoy, Secretary of Mutant Affairs, rumbled over a shiny cellphone set to speaker. “With the encroachment of Registration perceptually looming in the senate…?” The large, blue mutant huffed a rueful breath and set his lips into a firm line before deigning to speaking again. “I would prefer the Bahamas. Perchance Cuba?”

That was just being cruel.

“I apologize, Charles.” Hank groaned, then leaned forward onto his cherry wood desk elbows first.

His old friend’s voice hummed over the speaker; cultivated and longanimous– patient. Sometimes Hank envied him his wisdom; his telepathic cosmos. And then he reminded himself that his anxiety would never stand for it.

“The students would be elated to see you, Hank. Your colleagues too. I would be.”

Damn the man for knowing every emotional string to towboat straight into his own favour. Hank tossed up a clawed hand. Charles couldn’t see it, he knew, but he assumed that his tone reflected his emotional state adequately regardless. “Fine! As you like it! Officious, antiquated–” Nearly at a loss for words, he audibly snapped his fangs shut. A growl bullied its way up from his barrel chest.

“Now, now. Don’t be like that, Henry.” He could hear the laughter in the professor’s voice; almost see the way his eyes sparkled. “When can we expect your arrival?”

“Don’t assume you’ve won just yet! It won’t be conceivable for me to exonerate myself from my obligations for at least a week. My secretary, Eleanor, would taxidermy me. She’s already threatening to convert my pelt into a rug.” Hank digressed swiftly; “Next Saturday at the earliest. Does this convenience you, Professor Xavier? Oh, dear friend of mine?”

“Very!” Now Charles’s giddiness was just presumptuous and, frankly, a little comical. Hank found the corners of his own mouth turned up with poorly disguised mirth.

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

Tuesday, November 29th, 2005 (12:30 PM)

New York was frigid. The streets were slick with snow and while the impending holiday yielded twinkling lights and all manner of decorations, Hank could confidently confirm that the sidewalks were desolate for a city that normally bustled— veritably bursting at the seams with pedestrians. No one wanted to be out in that weather and he couldn’t blame them. He would have been content to count himself among those bundled up inside save for one important and unavoidable fact: He had procrastinated on his Christmas shopping.

The task was nearly completed, and with his stomach ‘singing the song of its people’, Henry pulled his SUV over to the curb the moment his blue eyes alighted upon a whimsical cafe. It was nestled in the middle of a line of quaint shops. They were the kind that had brick facings and bowed display windows with canopy awnings; delicate in details, strong in turn-of-the-century design.

He turned off the vehicle and immediately nudged up the sleeve of his coat. One claw pressed a subtle button on the side of his wristwatch and in the rearview mirror, Hank watched his visage blip, then shimmer.

The image inducer remained a bizarre exercise in nostalgia no matter how many times he engaged it; a reminder of how much he had changed. Despite the lack of boyish charm and the tell-tale signs of crow’s feet and smile lines, the shift from cerulean to brown (these days with a few smattered streaks of grey), never ceased to tug his heart strings.

Hank smoothed a hand over his chin strap beard and resolutely refused to look at himself on any reflective surface. Only rumination and self-depreciation would be his rewards for that. He was used to the blue– he was! While the image inducer was a necessity to not be mobbed in public, a trip down memory lane was decidedly not.

A book and his tablet tucked securely under one brawny arm, Hank nudged open the door to the cafe and was rewarded with warm lighting and a wave of homey aromas that wafted to him from across the room. His lashes danced and a sharp inhale revealed the smooth flavour of coffee and a tantalizing sweetness: Desserts. Cookies, cakes… oh, he had chosen perfection.

‘Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are.’ A helpful literary recollection– Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin could describe the most mundane with a mouthwatering enthusiasm. Particularly apt considering his position.

He needed to pull himself together.

Fishing glasses from the inner pocket of his coat, Henry perched them on his strong nose, stepped into the line for the counter and brought his touchscreen up to review that shopping list.

Ororo was certainly done and Charles too he could cross off. Scott was nearly complete. Then there was Logan; an infuriating man but a friend nonetheless. Something cheap and alcoholic? He seemed like the type.

Hank winced. No, that would not do! Cigars, then. Surely that imbecile could appreciate a Perdomo, and hopefully enough to get them through the encroaching season without trying to gouge out each other’s trachea.

Ruminating the perils of two ferals encroaching on unwillingly shared territory, Hank felt his hackles rise beneath the illusion of his image inducer when a short, soft, nigh fragile form jostled into his back.

He hadn’t heard a thing until the thump of books, a gasp and: “I’m so sorry!”

Whirling in a sharp turn, Hank darted down onto one knee without thought and forgoing so much as a glance; hands offering assistance. “Water under the bridge, my dear.” Then eyes finally canted over his glasses and the mutant-in-disguise was struck by the fact that this woman was stunning.

And so he paused.

Henry was about to add two more hefty textbooks to the load already wrapped in the girl’s arms when he paused– pity making him suck in his lower lip. “Let… me take these to a table for you.”

The girl gathered dark curls behind one ear and her hazel eyes flitted around the cafe. “Oh, no. I couldn’t–!”

“Then it’s fortuitous that I’m insisting!” Both heavy eyebrows ascended. Hank smiled, rising to his feet with a grunt; his chin soon nudged in the direction of an empty table by the window. “Sufficient?” “More than.” The woman’s shoulders dropped in relief. “I can’t thank you enough– and I’m the one that ran into you!”

Waving a hand, the burly man implied that, again, it was hardly a misdemeanor. In fact his eyes seemed far more preoccupied with the subject of the books temporarily in his retinue. “Journalism major?”

Seating herself, the woman indicated the chair across from her. It was out of politeness, he knew, but Hank took it gladly– casting his wool coat over the back while she offered a response. “Trying. Final year.”

A hum of sympathy offered; “Specialization…? If you don’t object to my curiosity.”

“Editorial. I know, I know– I’m a glutton for punishment!” Both of her hands gestured, and she crashed back into her chair– slumped inelegantly.

Hank hid a smile behind fingers that rubbed over the lower half of his face. “I’ve surmised from colleagues in the field that the workflow demand only increases after completion of your B.J.” He was teasing, naturally– eyes crinkled and shoulders in the telltale, silent motion of mirth. “Which makes it obvious why you bowled me over– caffeine necessitated a complete lack of etiquette!.”

“Oh– so you’re a comedian! Right, yeah– funny!” The woman huffed, if not impolitely. She seemed to enjoy the banter. “I thought that was– what did you call it? Water under the bridge?” One finger twisted a curl of her impeccable hair

Hank, despite having just been challenged, found the motion far too distracting. She truly was exquisite. Thankfully his stomach growled– sudden, loud and insistent. It was enough to pop him out of his staring with a few blinks and the sharp rise of his shoulders; back drawn stiff at the reminder that he wasn’t there to flirt with a stranger (he wasn’t). “Perchance, could I interest you in a coffee?”

Her lips twisted into a smile across the table. “Isn’t that a little fast? You don’t even know my name.”

Red flushed his cheeks like a tidalwave. It overtook his ears and right down his neck. Stars and garters–! He hated it when he blushed. “I didn’t mean it like that!”

He did mean it like that.

So much for verbose eloquence.

The beautiful, sophisticated woman who had found herself proficient in rendering Doctor Henry McCoy’s IQ dejectedly close to his shoe size pressed exactly two fingers to her lips– hazel eyes shimmering. Blessings upon blessings; she took pity on his mortal soul. “Charlotte. My name is Charlotte.”

Reaching over, Henry offered her his hand and an audible breath of relief. “Hank.Terrific to make your acquaintance, Charlotte.”

“Call me Lola, Hank.”

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Read More: https://archiveofourown.org/works/48750490/chapters/122975914

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AUTHOR'S NOTE

This story is an AU of The Last Stand combined with SOME comic elements and a LITTLE bit of Alternate Movie Timeline shenanigans. I pull stuff as I see fit and have fun! Enjoy!

I'll be posting a chapter per day / every other day until I catch up with my AO3! I'll also be posting my other Hank McCoy story titled Coffee, Tea or Me.

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STORY SUMMARY

Secretary Hank McCoy has traditionally spent the holidays alone. This year he’d been invited by Charles to the mansion for a celebration he wasn’t morally able to turn down.

During a trip to New York for presents, Hank stumbles across a human woman he just can’t seem to walk away from. It’s serendipity at its finest during a time of year when romance seems magical.

Lola, a Journalism major with innocent dreams of making the world a better place, finds herself attracted to a muscular, charismatic middle-aged man she runs into (quite literally) in her favourite cafe. He likes wearing fine suits. She's just trying to make it to the end of her final year.

There’s more than meets the eye, however, to the gentleman that’s caught HER eye. He isn’t what he seems and he’s hiding a very BLUE secret from her.

[arobinwithoutbatman]

What can be said about Gotham City?

It's located off the coast of New Jersey. Like it's neighboring state of New York, it was originally settled by the Norse in the mid seventeenth century and then later the British before The Colonies joined together to gain independence from Britain in the eighteenth century. There are five founding families that are still active today; The Cobblepots, The Arkhams, The Kanes, The Elliots and the Waynes. They had an unofficial sister city, Bludhaven, across the Bay on the mainland US on New Jersey's coast. The reputation for crime was frankly ridiculous. Even with the Wayne family's attempts these last few generations to throw money at as many projects, charities and programs as possible. And that generosity was shared by Bruce Wayne's adopted and unofficially fostered sons. Like many cities in the US, Gotham had several costumed protectors; vigilantes rather than heroes as the police weren't fond of them despite the attempts to work with law enforcement and public opinion was constantly swaying back and forth.

A dreary rainy city, hardly ever any sunshine and with loud dangerous nights and equally unique residents. The rogues notwithstanding, the average civilian had a lot of perspective to give. The rich called Gotham "A jewel in the Bay" whilst anyone who had spent any time on the streets with not even a shop awning for shelter would talk about the shadows felt different at night. Safer. Like a mother's touch. Whoever you asked from whatever walk of life, all shared the sentiment that this city was theirs and despite the regular and ridiculous kinds of awful, they were staying. Everyone knew the signs, everyone knew how to survive; a city of stubborn survivors who bore the rot of their city with a weird sense of pride. Or perhaps it was more like that they didn't try to hide it or disguise it like most of the country.

Whatever the case, people were defensive of their city and in return, the city was protective of them. Unless, of course, you angered her. While shadows protected the homeless and defenceless, cobblestones would trip up traffikers and mobsters. And when day came, She was still around. Perhaps lurking in the shadows of alleyways or hiding in the sewers or underground. Not that the people knew that the old adage of cities having a heart or a soul was very true, at least in their dreary stubborn city's case.

[thatndginger]

❤️ Happy WorldBuilding Wednesday! ❤️

What are your cities or towns like? Feel free to talk about the layouts or the people or the architecture, etc. and to talk about more than one if you'd like!

Tori how did you know

I've literally been brainstorming Shapeshifter's city all day. I stared at topographical maps of various port cities this morning for way too long lmao. Sidenote: maybe I should actually name the city instead of just calling it 'the city'?

Anyway, at the moment I have two original cities/towns in Shapeshifter:

'the city' which Cryptid gets mad about every time I describe as "a combo of New York, Seattle, Portland, and Gotham"

Perrin Falls - a small mountain town in the mid/west of Wyoming situated uncomfortably close to a Fae gate. Fun fact: me and the husband had one of our rare argument about the naming and geographic placement of this town because he's from the county I chose for Perrin Falls (that was deliberate lol) and he has Opinions.

And since I'm working on the city, I may as well infodump here~

The city is technically on the Pacific Northwest coast, but I refuse to actually give any legitimate geographic location. It's got a population of roughly 700k-800k, though with the metro area that bumps it up to over 3mil. The city started as a fur trading depot way back in the 1790's, and has always had some section of the population dedicated to smuggling and similar illegal activities. It slowly built it's way up from a small trading fort to a city of considerable size in the late 1800's due to it's convenient location: straddling a freshwater river that ran into a deep and naturally-protected bay. The original city was built above a warren of smuggler tunnels that saw regular use until the mid/late 1800's when a large part of the city burned to the ground, and city planners opted to grade parts of the city in an attempt to flatten some of the more steep areas. This destroyed some of the smuggler tunnels, but also buried parts of the city that had already been rebuilt, leaving a new layer of underground passageways for ne'er-do-wells to utilize. Many modern citizens of the city aren't even aware of these passages - though urban legends abound. Some brave souls venture down occasionally, but for the most part the underground belongs to the outcasts.

Life in the city is dark and damp. It rains roughly 330 days of the year, thanks to the mountains to the east creating a natural barrier for moisture rolling off the Pacific. Rain is usually light and misty, but occasionally a storm will roll in that turns the streets to rivers and chases even the most stubborn denizen inside. Most locals take the rain in stride - opting for water-resistant or magically charmed outerwear. To combat the dreariness of constantly-overcast skies, most businesses - and even the more outgoing residences - opt for bright neon signs and displays, and large awnings.

The city is most well-known for its statistically-large supernatural population; one of the largest in the United States. Roughly 15% of the population is supernatural - the large majority of these being shapeshifters of varying type. There are also an unusually large number of witches in the city, which only adds to the image of the city as one of the 'most magically charge population centers' in the States. Due to the fact that a distinct percentage of the population prefers to - or can only - exist at night, there is a very active and diverse nightlife. It's not uncommon to find events that are only held at night - such as markets and festivals - as well as businesses that opt to have 'night hours' as well as 'day hours'. (Unfortunately, even though a 6th of the city is supernatural, there are very few police precincts that will hire a supernatural, so many laws are skewed towards the mundane citizens.)

Economically, the city thrives on it's active port and trade capabilities, as well as a booming tourist sector. It also houses a large life sciences and medical research sector, with many companies focused on merging technology and magic. But everyone knows that it's still the criminal element of the city that holds the most power, the most wealth. Some flaunt their power, daring the (often understaffed and under-equipped) justice system to do something about them. Some prefer to work behind the scenes, buying out politicians and CEOs and chiefs of police to ensure they can continue to exist unmolested.

My current goal with the city is to make an actual map of it. Mostly just the overall geography and major sectors of it, so that I can better describe the important parts lol. As you can see, I am... very obsessed with the worldbuilding.

[ashercate-marablanchett]

𝐏𝐚𝐩𝐞𝐫𝐰𝐞𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬

Warnings: talks abt ed disorder

Word Count: 2,106

85 calories in the toast. 116 calories in butter and 45 calories in orange juice. I shouldn't have had toast. I can't keep doing this. My hips feel heavy, as though all of that junk went straight through me settling down at the lower part of my body. I'm always heavy I felt heavy.

"I've seen better days! So unafraid in my youth. I can't breathe, much less believe the truth." My headphone rattled against my ears not being able to fit on my head perfectly. I rode the Londons Underground train every day to school. I've been going to this new school for what felt like a damn eternity, but it's only been a few weeks. I started a little late. My older sister took me in when I had to leave my mother. I had to uproot from New York to London. It's pretty I'll give it that. The rain was peaceful. Like today, it wasn't a downpour. It was a light patter against the cement. As I walked to the metro station this morning, I heard little tapping on the awnings of storefronts as I walked underneath. I was peaceful. I keep using that word don't I? Peaceful. Like I haven't grown too accustomed to what peaceful is. The peaceful feeling is strangely comforting in this foreign city.

I had my nose deep in one of my books still listening to music as I bolted out of my seat. Probably startling the older woman across from me. Someone was calling. No one knew my phone number, my sister Rooney had to get me a new one since the one in the States wouldn't be much use here.

"Roon? You scared the shit out of me. What do you want?" I spoke under my breath trying not to be loud.

"Asher? Can't I just call my favourite sister?" I could tell she was working. I could hear the endless string of unanswered calls she was not working on.

"Rooney, I'm your only sister. Did you forget that? Or do you have other 17-year-old sisters you didn't disclose?" I joked noticing my stop was coming up quickly. I jolted to my feet sensing the little light show was going to start. I blinked furiously seeing only stars. I got up too quickly again. Fuck! I leaned on the side to keep my balance.

"Haha! No! If I had more sisters like you I'd be bald! The real reason I called is that I wanted to make sure you took your vitamins today." She sounded serious, but with the room looking like a disco ball I didn't notice.

"Maybe, I can't remember right now. Can I call you later I have to focus on my stop?" The train came to halt as my destination came to me instantly.

"Asher, I'm serious. You need to take those. You're bruised like a fucking dalmation. If these vitamins don't work I'll have to take you to see someone. That's not normal." She trailed on as I left my phone at my side still hearing her voice yammering on.

"Kay, I'm sorry I'll take them when I get home after school. I promise Roon. I gotta go bye!" I hung up reluctantly stepping out onto the landing.

I had to walk another block just to reach this private school my sister so happily put me in. I don't know why she just didn't put me in public school. Why she would waste her good-earned lawyer cash on her little sister. I wanted to smoke so bad. I had to watch my every move around here. Anyone being seen in uniform with a cigarette can either get detention or expelled, the urge was too overcoming. I knew there was an alley somewhere before I reached the school perimeter. There had to be. In my view, I saw the St. Mary's school sign at the front of the gates and a small alley before it on my next left. I turned friskly to not to make any attention to myself.

Man, it's getting cold.

It was only a slight breeze and my white fingers have turned light beryl. Smoking made me feel warm, yes, it will probably kill me. Though, what won't? If this won't kill me then I'd just have to do it myself. Slowly, and quietly. I shuffled through my bag feeling my almond-shaped nails snag everything that wasn't tied down in my bag. Cords, books, notebooks until I found my carton of Marlboro Reds squished underneath my laptop. None of the cigarettes were damaged but the box has seen better days. The lighter weaves through my fingers like it's about the escape my gasp. It faintly draws to a halt once it catches the deep webbing between my fingers. The depth caught it. The only colour I have left in my hands is the chipped-away black nail polish showing my ghost-white nails. The earthquake is beginning, the powerful tremors my child-like hands possess while I raised my hand to my lips. My heels lifted off the ground instantly as I lit my first smoke of the day. It was a weird habit of mine. As I inhaled in the smell I addictively love so much the wind begins to strengthen. My long black hair flew against my back. I always had two metal snap clips on either side of my temples keeping the hair out of my eyes.

"Hey! You trying to get yourself in trouble?" A stunningly blonde appeared out behind a waste bin smoking herself. Her eyes were cat-like, darting every which way. She was tall, even taller with black heels. Wearing black leather pants and a dark turtle neck sweater underneath a green tweed trench coat.

"Not really that's why I'm hiding here isn't it?" I couldn't tell where her accent is from. Though, a lot of people in London are from other places. Most of these countries have different accents. Even in London, there are rural areas where the accent is profoundly different. About 40 to be exact.

"You do realize the headmaster comes to check in the first alley to see any students. Come quick!" Her hand clawed into my bicep. Basically picked me up and stuffed me behind the trash bin. "There. Finish your smoke and be on your way." She stepped back peering over to the end of the alley and seeing the headmaster cocking his head in her general direction.

"Thank you." I squeaked out flicking the long array of burnt ash at the end of your cigarette. You flicked it watching it float around the air like grey snowflakes. The blonde looked down at her heels clicking her toes together. "Don't mention it dear." She finished her cigarette brushing to the bottom of her heel. I only had half of it finished but just her staring at me made me put it out. "Thank you again." I back out of the corner I was placed in, feeling the rain becoming heavy.

"You're very welcome. Now go." She pivoted her heels to the left, walking off the other way. I went the other way trotting to the front of the school.

There was my math teacher standing in front of the gates. She was an uptight, old woman trapped in a 28-year-olds body. I knew I'd have an issue. I usually have the habit of not wearing school-regulated shoes. Sometimes I forget, or sometimes I do it out of spite. Today I was in a rush this morning. I grabbed the first thing that was at door. The heaviest thing I have on. My platform Docs.

I swear I'm psychic, there she is looking down at me even though we're almost the same age. Same height at the very moment. I think she saw me but I try to zoom by her before she can out in a word edge-wise.

"Miss Mara? Hello? Asher?" She tried to flag me down. I turned to flick a strand of hair. "Yes, Ms. Matherson?" She's a grade A suck up. She can't let anything go.

"I know for a fact those clunky Frankenstein shoes aren't school regulated now are they?" Her little pen pointed down, and my eyes locked down at my shiny shoes knowing they were nice.

"Oh yes, I realized once I came off the subway, terrible mistake on my part. Should've known not to dress myself in the dark! Haha! I think I have an extra pair in my locker." I played cool only trying to get into the building but, I'd love to be sent home. Though Rooney would kill me. "Well alright then, I'll let it slide this time. But if you show up tomorrow without the right regulated shoes I'll have to send you to the headmaster." Her accent made my ears ring, she was annoying. "Right, I understand. Thank you."

✯¸.'*¨'*✿ ✿*'¨*'.¸✯

"Oui! Goth chick yeah? Move before I make you mate yeah?" A group of girls slammed by me. I knew some stereotypes are not real, but chavs are real. I thought I'd be surrounded by girls who act and sound like Emma Watson. Sadly to my surprise, it was like chavs ran the entire prep school. The only way I got to see real intellectual 'British' people was to upgrade my year 13 English level. If I had to be surrounded by girls who looked black who were white I possibly think I'd go insane.

You can get lost in this ancient place very quickly. I swore the queen of fucking England went to school here. The outside looks marvellous, and in some classrooms, they're an American girl's whole academic aesthetic. The stairs were a killer on my legs. Every step I took made my kneecaps shake. I could've collapsed if I didn't hold onto the railing. Each step up the stairs to the landing made me subtract more calories I'll eat today. 600, 500, 400? No. 350. There.

Once I made it to my class the door was closed. I saw a slew of classmates sitting around the door. I stood in front of the door jiggling handle. It was locked. I continued to fidget with the handle, my foot pressed firmly against the bottom of the door. "It's locked you know, right?" A guy holding a soccer team bag sat hunched over next to the door. "No shit sherlock. Maybe I can unlock it with a pin. It's dark, it doesn't look like anyone's in." I pressed my clip on my temple. Putting the small part of the clip into the lock, I twisted around trying to catch the lock mechanism. I was so distracted bent on one knee that I didn't even realize the lights in the classroom flicked on. I felt the lock attach and the knob turns. "There, I think I got it, guys." I huffed trying to apply what pressure I have left.

"No, you don't." The door flung open seeing the same black heels at my knees. It was her. The tall blonde. "So you wanna stay on the ground and dirty your tights or do you want to stand?" I bolted up onto my feet. She still towered over me.

"No. I'll stand." I fixed my skirt thinking I was flashing everyone behind me. "I think that's the smartest thing you've done all day." Her hands slipped into the pockets of her jeans. "Come, come. I'm sorry I had you all waiting so patiently. I had to tend to a personal matter." She turned around letting us all in like a herd. I immediately took the first seat at the end. The blonde stood at her desk, everyone noticed she was staring at me. Her hand was raised in front of her. "No, no. Don't sit there. Shiny boots." Me? Was it me? I looked down at everyone's shoes. The men wore oxfords and the girls had to wear Mary Janes. I was the only one wearing Docs. "Yes, you. Come sit up front." I arose seeing everyone watching me trail along. I scooped myself into the seat, not to catch my hair.

"There. That's better. Well if you haven't realized by now, I'm your new A-level English teacher Cate Blanchett. You may call me Ms. Blanchett or Ms. C if you're bold. I don't give a shit." She removed her trench coat seeing her square figure. "I'd love to get to know, every, single one of you." She sat down in her chair lowering her glasses at me. I knew it was directly to me.

[shortstoriesbycarynnicole]

Zoan and the Vanguard

Caryn Nicole Wells (Colorado, 2021)

For the women who smash glass ceilings and the men who hold the ladders

Prologue

The Raingate opens every Thursday at noon. The Vanguard voted and settled that this time was not disruptive to the normal goings-on and happenstance. Karishma Wentworth, the Vanguardʼs Environmental Chair, lost seven ancestors to Katrina. Once elected to her Chair, she vowed that Grateful would never know flood devastation. The Raingate was installed at mountainʼs peak to catch the rain and repurpose the fallen water for commercial irrigation. To keep Grateful green, a release feature was installed. Once every week, on Thursdays at midday, the captured water was freed.

Zoan scampered through the streets on this late summerʼs eve, quite peeved at this sighting of rain. Beneath the moon, neon signs flashed, “RAINGATE MALFUNCTION” as the water fell on Friday night, unplanned. Itʼd taken two hours to straighten her hair. Another hour to fix her face. Zoan was naturally beautiful, and she would not have been annoyed if she had chosen a lesser favorite pair of heels. She opted for her whimsical, mismatched pair of pumps. The box came with one fuchsia heel and one lime.

The “Rogue Bis” shoe by SJP had earned vintage status twenty years prior. She had paid five times the original $395 for the find. Her hair would revert to curls. She could re- powder her nose. But Zoan was unwilling to subject her shoes to rain damage. She took them off and zipped from covered alleyway to awning, with three blocks left to reach Whirl.

In the daytime, Grateful gleamed with post-modern tenacity. Every building scraping the sky without remorse. The reconstruction had been overseen by Wendy Carpenter, the Vanguardʼs Infrastructure Chair. Sheʼd chosen New York City, circa 1927, as the architectural inspiration for the new Grateful. Numbered streets ran east-to- west and noun streets, north-to-south, making the city grid easier to navigate. And it was, fairly so, unless the Raingate opened at an inconvenient time, like a buzzing and expectant Friday night.

One block away from her destination, Zoan stopped at the corner of 3rd and Harriet. She ducked under a corner-store awning to view the statue in the square. Celine dʼ Arc, the Vanguardʼs Art Chair, commissioned seven statues to honor Gratefulʼs governing body; each statue with a different design and theme: Environment, Health, Infrastructure, Human Management, History, Economics, and Art. One statue for each woman-held Chair of the Vanguard.

In the center of the square, stood the statue to commemorate Gratefulʼs History. At the base of the 30-foot structure, copper flames licked the ankles of a 20-foot-woman, 5-feet- wide. The woman, who stood unphased by the fire underneath, held a book in her left hand, and a diamond star in her right. Zoan darted from the awning and up final the block, reaching the bright red, high rise called Whirl. The rain glistened beneath her feet as she splashed her way indoors, showing her Placement Card to the bouncer standing guard. He waved her onward as she slid into her shoes and down the hallway to the thumping disco sound. Two leather doors in a solid gold frame opened inward to invite Zoan to the scene.

Three hundred and fifty people met beneath crystal globes, lit with pink neon lights in the center. The walls, painted red, covered in glowing neon paint brought the bright lights of nighttime Grateful indoors. An ancient song was blasting. “I Want Love” by Jessie J, prevented any real conversation from taking place. Pink drinks in glass goblets were served to men and women alike as they flirted underneath the strobing lights. Zoan, in dark-wash jeans and a white, satin camisole, slid onto an open bar seat at the end.

The bartender who knew her well brought a whiskey-sour double and a coaster, placing both in front of Zoan. She smiled and she nodded as she opened her purse to pay. The bartender shook her head and pointed across the bar. A woman dressed in black, wearing circular rose-colored glasses, smiled and raised her drink as a toast to Zoan. Zoan nodded back at the stranger and took a sip to be polite. The woman left her seat, turning the corner in Zoanʼs direction. Zoanʼs phone buzzed in her pocket and she read the received text, “Iʼm out back”. She put her drink back down on the bar. The stranger reached out her hand, Zoan shook it and replied and rose from her seat, saying, “Iʼm meeting someone here. Thanks for the drink”, as the woman approached. She didnʼt wait to hear a response before squeezing her way through the dance floor, past the bathrooms in the hall, and out the backdoor.

The alleyway was black, save for the shimmer of the rain. Zoan used the light from her phone to aid her sight. A man in a hoodie approached without saying hello and removed a silver compact from his pocket. Zoan grabbed the shiny disk from the man she knew as “Dub” and opened it to check the quality of the product. Thirty blue pills, one for each day of the month, sealed between plastic and foil. She reached into her purse, removing $3000 cash. She handed it to the man and turned to leave. “If you need a reason to use those, give me a call”, the man smirked after her. Zoan said nothing, rolled her eyes, and went back the way she came. She hurried through the dancing crowd to reclaim her seat. She pushed the abandoned drink to the center of the bar. She ordered a cosmopolitan and opened a tab. The fast-working bartender brought Zoan the pink-ish drink and placed it on a coaster like before.

Zoan took her first sip and stared at the coaster sheʼd been given. A reflective, rainbow square featuring the face of Quinn Sandoval, the Vanguardʼs Health Chair, stared back at Zoan from the wooden bar. She gave the middle finger to the bitch whoʼd banned birth control and flipped the coaster over, hiding the image. Zoan took a few more sips and let the atmosphere transport her to a place where there were no diamond stars or regulations.

Chapter One

Zoan woke to the sun that snuck into the open window. Its rays exacerbated the painful pounding in her head. The room spun clockwise as she rolled out of the bed. Her feet found her camisole at the base of the footboard. Her eyes met her shoes strewn across the bedroom floor. She wriggled into the jeans she had worn the night before. With her satin camisole still damp from the rain. She decided to borrow a shirt. Zoan tiptoed to the closet and grabbed the nicest one she could find; a starched-white, collared, menʼs work shirt with steam pressed cuffs. She rolled the sleeves to her elbows and tucked the front-end into her jeans. She fluffed her hair and dashed out the door before Pete could realize she was gone. Or maybe his name was Shawn.

She knew had to leave quickly or heʼd ask her to stay for breakfast. Zoan hated morning dates and she hadnʼt come to talk. She wouldʼve felt bad about taking the shirt if he had been any good. Sheʼd bring it back, or sheʼd send it back. 

Definitely, send it back.

Zoan opened her purse: one phone, one wallet, one round and silver compact. She swallowed a blue pill and dove into the elevator. She took a slow, deep breath as the steel doors closed behind her. She scampered out the door and onto the sidewalk.

The sun was even brighter on the corner of 9th and Athena as she wandered up the block towards her home. The high rises stood at attention as she strutted cheerfully by, passing under the flashing lights of Hinterland. The actor-singer-dancers made their way to the stage door, carrying costumes and stage makeup in their hands. The last show sheʼd seen was ʻMother and Matriarch: The Birth of Grateful.ʼ Zoan had waited at the front of a five hour line to purchase opening night tickets. She'd bought out a box to sit alone.

She glided up the red-velvet stairs in a vintage, Oscar de la Renta gown. The sweeping, black skirt rose to sequins at her knees. Bursts of blue and whispers of red exploded onto a sparkling gold corset, featuring blinding dusts of sequins down the sleeves. Zoan ordered sparkling water with a hint of mint and lime. The usher offered his arm and escorted her to her seat. She sat to the east of three commanding, consuming chandeliers; each one handcrafted with fifty-thousand crystals that sent the light to dance. In the box across the way, Céline dʼArc and her staff sat laughing over bubbling drinks and cheese trays. Zoan longed to hear the joke that had caused such a stir.

The house lights dimmed. The Playbillʼs list of players were the best of Grateful talent, but Zoan hadnʼt gone to watch the show. Sheʼd come to see the conductor lift his baton from the pit and lead the instrumentalists through the opening orchestra suite. E- flat major served a sweetness with a sudden dash of strength. Violins brought relief that was interrupted by the regality of sustained French horn. The brass worked its way down chromatic scale, landing at the feet of the timpani. The rumble of the drum warned of the coming harmonic climax that brought a single tear to Zoanʼs eye. The emotional release was followed by a floating mist of flute and a finishing moan of cello at the end. The conductor lowered his baton half staff and the musicians followed suit. Zoan's night had come and gone with the musical introit. Sheʼd gotten what she came for and did not bother with the rest. She drifted down the theatre steps and onto the sidewalk, waltzing into the warm night that ended for her there.

The Hinterland was not nearly as grand in the blazing light of day. This, Zoan thought, they had in common. The concrete burned beneath the heat as Zoan rushed onward home. Her mission was disrupted by a shouting in the square. She followed the cries up the street past the History square, to find scores of people cheering at a stage. The crowd obstructed her view so she climbed and stood on a bench seat, using her hand to shade her eyes from the sun. A tall and slender brunette stood at a microphone, arms outstretched. Her eyes were a piercing blue that promised fear and disrespect. The people, mostly women, leaned further into her aura; inhaling her superiority. The woman at the microphone spoke in a high-pitched squeal that had become Barbie Stanfieldʼs key identifier. She wore a tight, pink latex dress, leaving nothing to the imagination. Her surgically enhanced breasts bounced with her bright, cartoonish consonants. Her perfect teeth sparkled as she spoke.

“People of Grateful...it is my distinct honor to announce that I am challenging Quinn Sandoval for her Health Chair post!” The crowd erupted with roaring cheers. Barbie stood in silence, basking in the praise. The campaign decor sheʼd chosen was inappropriate, but on-brand. The streetlights were wrapped in pink feather boas. The stage was dressed in glitter that speckled across the city concrete. The mic stand was covered in cheap imitation crystals that reminded Zoan of the dollhouse Barbie owned as a child.

The Stanfields were a well-respected pillar of the new Grateful. Her father, biologist Joseph Stanfield was the brain behind the Raingate. His dissertation, “Taming the Elements: A Study of Environmental Synergy” caught the selective attention of the Vanguard. Dr. Stanfield was commissioned to complete the project and did so in eight months. Zoan never met him personally, only seeing him in passing. But her sharpest childhood memory was of him; not necessarily of him, but what happened after he disappeared. Barbie cried uncontrollably for the next seven days. Her mother failed to console her child and herself. The dollhouse Joseph bought and had been the envy of the playground, now sat vacant and growing downward into the Stanfieldʼs front lawn.

Three houses down from Zoanʼs, witnesses gathered in the lawn. The Stanfield patriarch had last been seen in the driverʼs seat of his vintage Tesla. The report was inconclusive. Heʼd driven off into the night, and Joseph Stanfield was never seen or heard from again. 

ʻA great loss for Gratefulʼ flashed on every available screen. Three days later, the world kept spinning. Meredith Stanfield, beloved wife and attentive mother, assumed the top position at Stanfield Laboratories. Barbie was a rare sight after that. She spent her days at the Academy for Gifted Girls and her afternoons and weekends in private tutoring. Barbie graduated from the Academy as itʼs 45th Valedictorian. She followed a full scholarship to the Ember School of Science, studying organic chemistry: pre-med track. She accepted a surgical fellowship at Mother of Mercy Hospital, becoming the foremost fetal surgeon in Grateful. Sheʼd graced the cover ʻDoctorʼs Monthlyʼ an unprecedented thirteen times. But, Barbieʼs Vanguard ambitions, no one saw coming.

The crowd fell to silence when Barbie stepped back to the microphone. The feedback failed to shake the crowd as they leaned even further into her platform. She took the stage alone with the exception of one other. A tall and thin black woman, dressed more aptly than her politician wife, graced the far-right side of the stage. Stacey Stanfield, architect, and woman who never smiled, stood firmly with her hands clamped together. Her jeweled fingers rested on her wide-legged pants. Zoan had seen them in this yearʼs edition of the vintage Calvin Klein catalogue, selling for an easy $1500. Finishing the look were her envious 1-carat diamonds, twinkling singular and stately in each ear. She looked proudly on as Barbie continued her speech.

“Women of Grateful...I am proud to stand before you today and announce this new beginning. Grateful rose from the ashes of a world destroyed by war. And here we boldly stand as a beacon of what can be....of whatʼs to come.”

The crowd gave a civilized clap that tapered into silence. Stacey wheeled a covered cart onto the stage to Barbieʼs side. Barbie lifted the sheet to reveal 7 glass vials filled with shining blue liquid to the stopper.

“Welcome to the revolution!”, she screeched, arms held high with dramatic pause. The crowd didnʼt respond and Zoan laughed to herself at the silence. If the Evita stance was the revolution, she knew where this was headed. Clearly, Barbie was high.

“This blue baby is a single-dose injection called the HC-42 vaccine.” Zoanʼs eyebrows raised to her forehead. She was more surprised by her own intrigue than the mystery ink Barbie held. “This one shot will revolutionize womenʼs health and usher us into a bright future.” Stacey stood, palms together and smiling. Zoan waited for them to break out into song.

“The HC-42 vaccine is formulated to suppress motherly instinct, reduce emotional reaction, extend attention span, and reduce needed sleep to one hour per day. We, the founders and protectors of Grateful, must continue our quest for success! We must expand our borders! We must breach new frontiers! We must increase our knowledge! We must innovate! And thus, there is no time to procreate!”

The crowd erupted into boundless cheers and some in thankful tears. Zoan watched the jubilance wash over the crowd. She wondered if she was the only woman who felt a tinge of shock, or even fear. She scanned the crowd and met the eye of a woman in all black, peering up at her from the circular, rose-colored spectacles sheʼd seen last night. The woman removed her glasses, sending Zoanʼs blood straight to her brain. Quinn Sandoval smiled and nodded at Zoan who remained shocked and speechless. Quinn turned back to the stage. Zoan followed her gaze back to Barbie.

“We will vaccinate our daughters at birth and prepare them for the future! We are the future. We are Grateful!”

Barbie placed her right hand to her chest and then straight upward to the sun. “To the Mother!”, she yelled. The crowd echoed her gesture and sentiment with one unified voice. “To the Mother!” 

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Zoan arrived at her loft after a long walk home. She placed her thumb on the reader that turned the lock. She closed the door behind her, leaning onto it for support, sliding down and sitting on the marble floor. White and black tiles spread throughout her apartment, adding a glossed and checkered busyness to the nest. Two sharp, houndstooth chairs sat on either side of her couch; long and white, covered in velvet with no cushion. The idea was interrupted by pink throw pillows, which were gently offset by a sapphire coffee table. The jewel-topped centerpiece introduced the granite fireplace. Blue velvet ottomans sat at its feet.

The loftʼs ceiling itself was a deepened shade of gold, hand carved into cubic tiles of glimmer. Zoan stared into the opulence and inhaled sharply. Her eyes met a mounted oak frame. The stained, glassed wood held a thin, square receipt reading “402” in bolded ink. Itʼd been three years since the annual lottery that brought Zoan to Grateful Metro. Three years that felt like three, long days all rolled into one.

She'd stood in the queue with the rest of the “25ʼs” and took a numbered ticket "402". London Clark, the Human Management Chair, a round white woman with silver hair, stood in a grey pantsuit before the crowd. Of the 900 hopefuls, only three numbers were called.

78, 639, and 402.

Two black men and Zoan were moving from Lower Third to a shining new life in Grateful Metro. They were escorted from the crowd and bussed immediately to their new homes. The first gate closed behind them, then the second, and the third. When they arrived in Grateful Metro, they were issued keys to their homes, Metro Placement IDʼs, and new names.

Lower Third children dream of winning Migration placement from their first learning about it at age 10. Parents were prohibited from discussing it at all, and the penalty of such was a year behind bars. The Vanguard thought it best to limit exposure of such hopes, as to not distract the children from their duties.

Zoan stood and walked to the bathroom. “Shower on.” The water fell. Steam filled the room as Zoan disrobed and walked to the mirror. She placed her jewelry on the countertop and stared into her reflection. Her curls looked three feet tall as the rain had washed them in. The heat opened the pores of her toffee-colored skin. She looked into her deep brown eyes that took up most of her face. She parted her lips to sigh; their fullness caving to the gesture. She turned towards the shower and stepped in. The water drenched her hair as she reached for her shampoo. She lathered and thought about of the days before campaigns and vaccines.

After conditioner, two body washes, a sugar scrub and a body oil, Zoan left the shower and headed to her closet. She picked a grey, sleeved, flannel dress sheʼd never wear outside. She pulled it over her head and smoothed it straight. She poured a shot of bourbon from her vase-shaped decanter sitting on an engraved dresser made of glass. The dresser matched the nightstand by her California King; white pillows, white sheets, and a white comforter made of fur.

Above the bed was a window overlooking Grateful Metro. She peered through the glass and found the park where Barbie spoke. She took a sip of bourbon, and another after that. She took an unsure seat at the edge of her bed. The mirror above her dresser flashed a familiar ten-digit number. The neon blinking was followed by a faint ringing. She ignored the notification until the ring and flash subsided. “Play voicemail.”

The mirror beeped and a voice she knew began to speak.

“Hey, itʼs Eli”, the playback said. And before Zoan had a chance to feel, the mirror, lights, and HVAC powered down. Bright red lights flooded her home and her curtains zipped shut, blocking any outside light from streaming in. The television in the wall clicked on and Zoan rolled her eyes. An artificial, female voice flooded the speakers in her room.

“THIS IS AN AWARENESS FROM THE VANGUARD.”

London Clark appeared on the screen in her signature, grey suit, her eyes squinted severely, and her arms firmly folded.

She spoke, “Tenant 402, youʼve used 90 hours of your Weekly Out-of-Nest Allotment. You have 10 hours left before mandatory quarantine takes effect. Please be advised.”

Zoan sighed as the Lower Third hijacked her running thoughts. Theyʼd had no curfew and no campaign rallies. But theyʼd also had no food.

“No extra time is given. Unused hours do not roll over. And lastly, Out-of-Nest hours cannot be saved, sold, or shared.”

The lights returned to normal, and the curtains drew to light.

London Clark nodded, “To the Mother.”

Chapter Two

Zoan grabbed her keys and marched to her door. She smirked at the Fendi furniture filling her designer prison cell. She scampered down the stairs, into the buildingʼs parking garage and pressed the panic button on the fob to find her car. The BMW X4 Coupe responded to the call from the corner. She journeyed to the edge of the garage and slid into the driverʼs seat. She turned the key and backed into the lane. One floor down, and six more to go, Zoan reached for the GPS to set her course. She felt a tugging to her left and stopped mid-circle to the exit, pulling the tail of her grey dress out of the door. She fluffed her hair in the rear-view mirror and applied her favorite lip gloss. She found her aviator shades in the leather, center console. She picked a vintage song to match the mood. "Hello," the songstress cooed. "It's me..." 

She pressed the glasses into her nose and pushed her foot down on the gas. 

The skyscrapers that lined the main road formed a tunnel leading out. The shade from the steel masses darkened the way. Zoan set her lights to ʻautoʼ and the asphalt came to life, giving brightness to the slow-encroaching night. The silence of the engine pulled her into introspection. She critiqued her last three years until her thoughts began to attack.

“Call Eli” Zoan said to the digital assistant. The dial tone rang four times before he answered.

“This is Eli”, he said with a voice that calmed her soul. “Hey”, Zoan responded, hoping to counter his formalities.

“Who is this?” Eli asked with an accusatory tone. “Me....Zoan”, she said and prayed that he was joking.

Eli released a low-toned laugh that Zoan hadnʼt heard in a year. “Are you borrowing someoneʼs phone?” he asked, and Zoan felt like an idiot. Sheʼd just bought the car two weeks ago. He wouldnʼt have the number. “No. Iʼm calling from my car. Iʼm on the way to your house now.” Her response led to silence that lasted longer than she expected.

“Umm...okay. I guess thatʼs fine. You didnʼt have to come all the way out here. You couldʼve just called me back.”

His words made perfect sense and she knew heʼd seen right through her. The visit was not for him, but for herself.

“Itʼs Saturday”, Eli continued. “What are your Out-of-Nest hours looking like?” Zoan knew that if she told the truth, heʼd tell her to turn around. Eli was never one to break the rules or ruffle any feathers. He was calculated and planned, and she almost never was. Their differences were both their attraction and demise. 

“I have time," Zoan shook her head in disapproval of her own falsehood. "Iʼve had a boring week.” 

Zoan shook her head in disapproval of her own falsehood.

“Okay. Cool. Well, call me back when you get to the gate. And put the phone on speaker.”

Eliʼs concern made Zoan wish she hadnʼt lied before. “Iʼm pulling up now.” This part was true. Sheʼd arrived at the gate and felt a sunken feeling.

The gate was 20 feet tall with pointed spikes that trimmed its peak. Motion censored floodlights lined the gate from east to west. Armed guards sat in lofted towers, 10 feet above the gate. A ground guard waved her forward to the entrance.

The guard shined her flashlight through the windshield as she approached the driverʼs side. Zoan rolled her window down and placed her hands on the wheel.

“Placement Card”, she barked.

Zoan said, “Iʼm reaching for it now.” She made no sudden movements and retrieved the card from overhead.

The guard looked at Zoan, to the card, and back at Zoan. “And youʼve not been here this year, correct?” Zoan shook her head no and stared straight ahead, her hands still on the wheel. The guard squinted her eyes and gave Zoanʼs card to the gate attendant. “Run it,” she barked again with a voice that made Zoan jump.

The attendant did as she was told and the guard searched Zoanʼs car, opening the backdoors, then the trunk.

The attendant said, “Sheʼs good.”

The guardwoman returned the card to Zoan, saying “This is it for the year. Once you leave, donʼt come back.”

Zoan nodded in reply as the gate opened before her. She breathed a sigh of relief as she pulled into Lower Third.

“You okay?” Eli whispered. Zoan was too shaken to immediately respond. “Zoan?” He called again, this time louder and more concerned. “Zora!!!” He yelled. And Zoan snapped out of her haze. She hadnʼt heard that name in three years and hearing it now brought her comfort. “Iʼm okay,” she finally said. “I just really hate that gate.” “Yeah. We all do”, Eli said as Zoan turned her air conditioning all the way up.

The blast of cool air calmed her as she passed through neighborhoods. She hadnʼt seen an actual house in a year. Children played in the yards of the vinyl-paneled houses. Music poured from open windows and into the street. One rain drop splattered on the windshield, then another, and another until the downpour restricted Zoanʼs vision and her wipers were deployed. The rain fell without pattern or design and slowed Zoanʼs heart to its normal pace. She hadnʼt seen a natural rainfall in three years.

Zoan turned towards Eliʼs house and saw a floating, neon sign, reading “Stanfield Laboratories” on her right. The concrete building had no windows and only one door at the front, from which a line that wrapped around the mass was forming. Two buildings down, she saw the house where Barbie had been raised. And three doors down from there, she saw her old home. She drove quickly past to beat the memories flowing in. She took a left, then a right to Eliʼs street. She parked out front and he met her at the door.

He enwrapped her in a long and overdue hug. He stepped back to take her in and she stared into his face. She wondered what he was thinking, but it didnʼt really matter. His eyes were pools of sand and his skin several shades lighter than hers. His warmth caught the sun and shone it back into her eyes. He peered down from one foot taller and said, “Hello. Welcome home.”

He took her hand and led her to his dining room to sit. The wooden table felt like Christmas beneath her hands. He asked if she cared for a glass of water. She nodded and Eli vanished into the small and homely kitchen. Zoan looked at the oak wood cabinets and Eliʼs paintings on the wall. Heʼd always been a brilliant artist, capturing landscapes with his brush. He was kind and protective, but nobody would accuse him of being soft. He carried the seriousness of the world in his demeanor, but when he painted one could see his eye for gentleness and for beauty. He had a gift of stillness Zoan could never quite master.

He emerged with two glasses and placed the smaller one in her hand. He sat in the wooden chair beside her and flashed a smile.

“You look beautiful,” he said, as he reached for her right hand. “So do you,” Zoan returned with a shy and blushing smile. He chuckled and took a sip of water, placing the glass back on the table. They sat in awkward silence, neither knowing what to say. Curiosity broke the quiet and Zoan asked about what sheʼd seen.

“There were people standing in line outside of Stanfield Laboratories. Whatʼs going on?” Eliʼs brows furrowed and he took another sip.

“Stanfield Labs is running a clinical trial for some vaccine. Theyʼre paying one monthʼs rent and food rations to qualifying volunteers.”

Zoan raised her eyebrows sharply. 

“You know about that?” Eli asked. Zoan shrugged her shoulders, nodded, and took a sip of water.

“Yeah. Barbie made an announcement that sheʼs running for the Vanguard. She used a vaccine as her platform. Iʼm guessing thatʼs it.”

“Probably”, Eli replied. Rolling his eyes and shaking his head. His waves rolled like evening tide with the movement.

The room fell silent again and both parties stared into space. Finally, Eli spoke the words heʼd longed to say.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, no longer willing to patronize Zoan. “I wanted to see you”, she said, hoping that heʼd soften. “I miss you.” Eli snapped, “I couldnʼt tell.”

Zoan recoiled at his attitude and developed one herself. “Relationships work both ways.” 

Eli tilted his head to the side. “Weʼre not in a relationship.... remember?”

Zoan rolled her eyes and placed her glass back on the table. She folded her arms and reclined in her chair.

“Whose fault is that?” She wasnʼt going to back down and was annoyed at his avoidance of truth.

Eliʼs mother, Jackie, had been chosen for Migration. He was born in Grateful Metro, giving him full rights and privileges. He took a construction job, and the headquarters were in Lower Third. Heʼd forfeited his Birthright Placement and moved downstream.

“You left!” Eli fussed. “You shouldʼve turned down Migration.” “Has anyone ever done that?” Zoan snapped back. In truth, they didnʼt know. And as far as they could remember, everyone awarded Migration had moved. Eli sat back in his chair, resigned to the truth.

“Exactly”, Zoan spat, rolling her eyes, and reaching for her glass. “You should appeal for reinstatement and come back with me.” 

Eli looked at her and squinted, “Has anyone ever done that?”

Zoan shrugged, not knowing the answer. “Exactly”, Eli retorted and then laughed. That both sat up in their chairs, leaning into each other again.

“Besides....the pick is random”, Zoan said, feeling sheʼd won the fight. Eli leaned back into his chair. “You still think that pick is random?” he asked.

Zoan shrugged.

“So, itʼs one big coincidence that the year you were chosen, the other 25ʼs they picked lived up the street from Stanfield Labs....like you!”

Zoan had been so surprised to be called that the details didnʼt matter. She had a new life and so did the other recipients.

“I didnʼt come here to fight.” Zoan said as sweetly as possible. And sheʼd not driven from the city to discuss the Vanguard.

“I miss you,” she said. “And thatʼs the truth.” “I can only come once a year. I donʼt want us to spend this time at odds.”

Eli smiled at her and took her hand. “I donʼt want to fight with you, either.” He took her hand and led her to the couch. He wrapped his arms around her and they sat in silence. The couch cotton was rough. The paint on the walls was peeling. The carpet was frayed, and the room smelled like the rain. Zoan hadnʼt felt this comfortable since the last time she saw him. His love for her was clear, and she hoped hers was the same.

Thunder woke them both from sleep and Zoan looked up at the clock. She had one hour to be home before sheʼd be involuntarily quarantined. She scrambled from the couch and Eli stared at her with a confused look on his face. She sighed and said, “I lied. I had ten Out-of-Nest hours left.”

“Are you serious?” Eli snapped. “You have to go!”

They hurried to the door and to see that Zoanʼs car wasnʼt outside. There was no fire hydrant or yellow line indicating a no-parking zone.

Eli began to laugh. Zoan didnʼt find it funny. “It must have been stolen”, Eli said while trying to contain his amusement.

“I literally just bought that car.” Eli smiled at her and said, “Nobody told you to drive a luxury vehicle down here. You couldʼve taken the train.” Zoanʼs body shook with fury. “My Placement Card was in there!” she yelled “I canʼt go back through the gate.”

Zoan sat down on the floor with tears in her eyes. The last thing she needed was Vanguard trouble.

Eli paced the foyer, rubbing his head with his hand. A few moments later, he looked at her and said, “I think I can get you back in...”

EPISODE TWO

Prologue

A right at the split. A left at the sign.

Zoan chanted the directions to herself as she crept through the tunnels below Grateful. Armed only with Eliʼs directions and a small flashlight to guide her, she hurried hoping to avoid quarantine. The rainʼs residual runoff had now risen to her ankles. Sheʼd borrowed a pair of Air Force Ones from Eli on the way out. They hung from the back of her heels, being several sizes too big. The water flooded into the gap, drenching her socks with every step. With no light to warm the water and no barrier between them, she quickened her pace to beat the clock and an almost certain head-cold.

A right at the split. A left at the sign.

The tunnel was short and dimly lit with rusting, mounted lanterns. The beams reached three feet in the dark before fading into another half mile of black. Zoan splashed fifty feet ahead and the tunnel split into two. One concrete burrow heading east, another pointing west.

Or had it been a left at the split and a right at the sign?

She was sure sheʼd heard correctly but the chill had reached her brain. She stopped and looked in both directions, allowing her heartbeat to slow. The darkness mixed with the sound of the stream to create a meditation. And with her heart now still, she heard a thumping sound she recognized. A faint but true disco beat floated in from the left. Whirl usually had last call at 8am. Donna Summer always sang the swan song. She turned towards the right way home and froze before taking a step. Sheʼd heard two splashes then a series of labored and nearly-silent breaths. She pointed her flashlight in the direction of the sound. A woman, short with sunken eyes, stared at Zoan. She crept forward without saying a word. Her face carried no expression.

Zoan took two steps back away from the stranger who was wearing a flannel shirt and jeans. The woman looked well-kept enough, but her eyes revealed fatigue. This woman with green eyes and jet-black hair walked three more paces up to Zoan. She turned her head slightly to one side, staring into Zoanʼs eyes without blinking.

Zoan could see her thoughts but their contents were a mystery. Neither of them spoke as Zoan stood paralyzed with fear. The woman snapped her head left and fixed her gaze on the tunnel towards Whirl.

She looked back at Zoan, squinting, then took off running into the dark. Zoan didnʼt bother to catch her breath or process what had happened. She kicked the sneakers into the abyss and ran flatfooted in the opposite direction.

She saw the sign and took a sharp turn, not wanting to know what it said. She ran faster still in the direction of what she deeply hoped was home. The tunnel stopped cold at a concrete wall that held a ladder of iron bars. She climbed upward until she saw a sliver of city above. She pushed what felt like a manhole cover and moved it to the side. She emerged into the alleyway behind her apartment building. She replaced the manhole cover and took the red backdoor inside. She closed it behind her and took a moment at the door to be in the present or something like it; between the past and what was coming.

Chapter One

The elevator doors seemed to open slower than usual, like the beginning of a dream you know you wonʼt remember in the morning. Zoan meandered down the hallway in no rush to reach her door. The several seconds wouldnʼt make a difference one way or the other. She pulled her house-key from her pocket as she took the last two steps. She drew a breath and lifted her eyes to the flashing red box beside the peephole.

“-1” blinked on and off in electric, neon fashion. Sheʼd missed her curfew by one hour. Not one second more or less. She looked both right and left as the silence was alarming. Usually, theyʼd send a guard and put a notice on her door. Today, there was neither. Worst case scenario, sheʼd been evicted. But the key turned, and the door opened before her.

Zoan stepped onto the checkered floor and waited for a sound; an alarm, a beeping, a blood-curdling shriek...but nothing. She closed the door behind her and turned to study its reaction. It didnʼt lock behind her and the door frame didnʼt glow red. It was clear sheʼd missed the deadline via the sign outside the apartment, but there was no evidence of punishment in the form of house arrest. The Vanguard wasnʼt famous for grace, or Grateful for its whim. She didnʼt know what to make of the quiet, her visit to Lower Third, or the woman underground.

She hadnʼt eaten since the night before and headed to the kitchen. She opened her refrigerator and grabbed a bag of grapes. The kitchen, all-white with not a single speck of color, welcomed her as she looked for paper towels. She found them in a cabinet above the stove and pulled one from the ring. She was headed to the sink when an out-of-place item caught her eye.

Her decanter filled with whiskey sat on the counter without its stopper. She had two: one in the kitchen and the other in her room. The last drink she remembered, sheʼd had before London Clark invaded her home and had definitely been in her room. She felt her blood run cold as she turned her towards the living room.

“Hello?” she called. The apartment answered back. “Hello, Zoan.”

She grabbed a knife from her silverware drawer and charged into the den. Quinn Sandoval sat in a solid black dress; legs crossed with bourbon in hand.

“Grateful bourbon isnʼt bad. Iʼve had better overseas,” Quinn snarked as she sipped from the crystal glass and leaned back into the chair. Her long brown hair was ironed straight and fell below her waist. Her rose-gold spectacles sat atop her head, her deep brown eyes, exposed.

“Have a seat”, she said to Zoan in a strangely non-threatening tone. Zoan put the knife on the table and sat down in an armchair. “Where were you?” Quinn asked with a smile on her face, but Zoan was in no mood for games.

“You know where I was”, Zoan snapped and folded her arms across her chest. Quinnʼs smile turned into a smirk. “Yes, I do. Though I donʼt know why", Quinn said. “You know why”, Zoan spat, clearly annoyed at the patronizing questions.

“Yes. I do. Though I donʼt know why”, Quinn repeated. “Eli isnʼt...”

Zoan raised her eyebrows to suggest caution. She and Eli had their issues. She wasnʼt sure their love would survive the border. She knew that he was flawed, and she was far from perfect herself. But she wouldnʼt allow a living soul to speak ill of him... ever. And she wasnʼt a fan of this rich, white woman passing judgement on any black man for that matter. Everyone in Lower Third was off limits for discussion. Quinnʼs intrusion had gone far enough. Zoan was now the border.

Quinn Sandoval seemed to take the hint as she quickly changed the subject. “I need your help, Zoan”, she said, taking another sip.

At first, Zoan failed to see how she could be of any help to her guest, but then it became clear. With Barbie Stanfield running for her post, Zoan realized why Quinn had stopped by.

“Having someone from Lower Third supporting your campaign wonʼt help you win their votes,” Zoan quipped. “Theyʼre poor, but theyʼre not simple. And this kind of thinking will do you more harm than good.”

Quinn rolled her eyes and put the glass down on the sapphire table.

“Barbie is doing the exact same thing”, Quinn said, leaning in towards Zoan. “She was raised in Lower Third because the family business was there. But make no mistake, sheʼs just as Grateful as they come.” Zoan leaned back into her chair as Quinn continued to speak.

“This vaccine sheʼs cooked up is for everyone. It wonʼt just stay in Grateful. Whatʼs stopping her from upping the Lower Third dosage to deplete the population?”

Zoan wouldnʼt be surprised if she did. Only Barbie knew what was in those syringes.

“The way I see it, Iʼm the lesser of evils”, Quinn continued. “Sure, you have to get your birth control from a bum in a back alley. But have you been arrested?” 

Zoan saw her opening.

“The Vanguard sees everything. You know everything. You control everything. And now youʼre sitting on my couch, drinking my liquor, and asking me to help you keep your luxury?” Zoan fumed. “The Grateful Metro glamazons talk about Lower Third like weʼre beneath you. Some of the greatest inventions, innovations, and art is floating around in the minds of the Lower Third population. The world may never see them.”

Quinn opened her mouth to respond when the entire apartment glowed red. A deafening buzzer sounded three times. Quinnʼs face flushed with confusion. “I cancelled your quarantine”, she said. “I donʼt know whatʼs happening here.”

The television mounted to the wall above the fireplace, flashed three times before a voice spilled through the speakers.

“THIS IS AN AWARENESS FROM THE VANGUARD.”

London Clark appeared on the screen, arms crossed, not smiling, and barely moving. “Thereʼs been a shooting at Whirl. Seven are dead. Three have been hospitalized with severe injuries. The suspect has been apprehended.”

Zoan and Quinn stared at the television as an image of the perp was revealed. A short, white woman with green eyes and jet-black hair was shown. Her name was printed below the picture. Lily Wright, 27 years old, had been born and raised in Grateful Metro and would be tried for several murders in the coming weeks.

Zoan fell back in her chair. She breathed heavily as sweat gathered on her brow. “I...I saw her.”

Quinn turned to Zoan and shook her head feverishly, “What?” “In the tunnel”, Zoan whispered. “I saw her.” “Are you okay?” Quinn asked as she grabbed her coat from the couch. “Yeah...Iʼm fine”, Zoan said as she stared off into space.

“Zoan...” Quinn started up again. “I need the Lower Third vote.” 

Zoan sat motionless as Quinn continued her monologue.

“I see your frustration and I know what youʼre saying is true. But Grateful has become a world with plenty of ambition and no heart. Thereʼs no warmth here, and Iʼm afraid of where weʼre headed. There should be balance. There should be options. Itʼs fine to want to rule the world. Itʼs also fine to not. Women should have that choice and not be vilified for either.” 

Zoan sat and listened, still staring off into space.

“Lily Wright happens because we are meant to be individuals. We are meant to be complex. We are meant to be different. Forcing one way of life on an entire population can cause internal confusion and chaos, even if the intent is well-meant.”

Zoan shifted her view to Quinn and shrugged. Quinn continued. “I hear you on the Lower Third. We have some major blind spots there.” Zoan let out a stream of air, meant more as a sarcastic chuckle. Blindspot was an understatement, especially when itʼs caused by a very intentional border.

“Thereʼs a Gala tonight”, Quinn said softly. “Please come and meet my team. Hear us out before you make a decision.”

Zoan nodded as Quinn headed for the door. She had no interest in the campaign or the frequent Grateful galas, but she knew the rest of the Vanguard would be present. She would go to gather intel.

“And for the love of god, please donʼt wear Oscar de la Renta”, Quinn snorted as she reached for the door.

“Why?” Zoan asked, pretending to care. Quinn smiled. “Because, Iʼm wearing him, dear."

Chapter Two

Zoan emerged from the bathroom after an hour-long fight with her denman brush. Sheʼd go to the gala and smile but wear the resistance on her head. She put a tube of red lipstick in a dazzling, envelope purse as she made her way to the double doors of her three room, walk-in closet. Zoan wasnʼt a fan of Grateful life, its governing body, or the neon. But the fashion...the fashion she loved. Her clothes were truly Grateful, but her beauty regimen was her own. Sheʼd grown up watching her mother mix honey with brown sugar to make face scrubs. Sheʼd combined her knowledge of natural resources and the branding power of Grateful to create a line of plant-based skincare that sold out with every restock.

As Gratefulʼs brush with Lower Third was rare, curiosity drove her sales. Women of Grateful were proud to carry her products; gaining what they thought was street credibility with each mention. She passed a box of moisturizers set for shipment as she hurried to pick her outfit. The motion activated lights came on as she entered the area of opulence. The first room housed her everyday clothes; her blazers, jeans, and camisoles. She walked past the hardly mundane to the second room that housed her shoes. Louboutin was the Grateful go-to. Zoan found the obsession a bit overblown. The fanfare seemed to be more about the label than design. Zoan had used the money she earned to stock her shoe racks with Jimmy Choo. Louboutin was for the lovers. Jimmy Choo was for the dreamers. The jewels, bows, and explosions of color brought a smile to her face as she passed through.

The final light came on when she reached the room that housed her gowns. Sheʼd worn Gucciʼs vintage collaboration with Dapper Dan for New Years. Gucci was out. Sheʼd worn Marchesa to a wedding, which was appropriate for the brand. She looked at the row of gowns designed by Oscar de la Renta. She fixed her eyes on a pink, floor-length option with black blossoms at the chest. The dramatic look was finished with a trailing, satin cape. She pulled the dress from the rack and changed her clothes where she stood. She checked herself in the mirror and fluffed her hair one final time. A merry sound of ringing filled her apartment. She pressed the button on the wall and sang a happy “Yes?”.

“Miss Zoan, your car is here.” She grabbed her purse and headed for the door.

Zoan stared at herself in the elevator reflection and smiled. For a moment, there was no Lower Third, no separation of people, no hierarchy. She looked like she belonged here and sheʼd carry herself as such. 

As she walked through the lobby to the buildingʼs front door her neighbors turned and stared; their mouths agape and twilight in their eyes. A girl who couldnʼt have been a day over 5- years-old, came running up to Zoan. Her blonde curls bounced with glee as she galloped.

“Where are you going?” the little girl asked, flashing a nearly toothless grin. Zoan kneeled to her level and smiled.

“Iʼm going to a party,” she said, as the curious child picked her nose. “I like parties,” said the tiny human. “Are you a princess?” Zoan was moved by the innocence. “No, Iʼm not”, she said. “Are you?”

“No”, the child said. “I want to be one when I grow up.” Zoan stood to her feet and looked down at the girl with feigned seriousness.

“Then a princess, you shall be”, she said. The girl smiled up at Zoan. “Whatʼs your name?” Zoan asked. “Charlotte”, the girl said, jumping once and putting both hands in the air. “It was very nice to meet you Princess Charlotte”, Zoan said.

Charlotte waved and ran back to her mother in full laughter. The girlʼs mother waved at Zoan, who waved back as she exited the building.

She felt the urge to leave one shoe behind as she walked down concrete staircase. She laughed at the thought and greeted the driver who bowed slightly as she entered the limousine. The driver climbed into the front seat and turned the key in the ignition.

“Any music preferences maʼam?” Zoan smiled, "Lizzo.”

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Zoan climbed out of the carʼs backseat and stepped onto the sidewalk. She thanked the driver for the ride, and he sped off into the night. The Apex towered over her standing 35 floors high. It held a portrait of the moon, its majesty reflected in the structure made of glass. Security guards lined the building by the dozens on each side. Zoan didnʼt know if this safety measure was standard, or a reaction to the deadly attack on Whirl. This kind of violence in Grateful was as infrequent as the Migration lottery.

Zoan could feel the frightened tension in the air. People in their evening best scurried up the carpeted staircase, holding tightly to their loved ones; their faces red with anxiety. But in true Grateful fashion, the eveningʼs events would go forth. The champagne tray would circle the room. The light hor dʼoeuvres would be served. Zoan balanced herself on the balls of her feet as she climbed the outdoor staircase. She reached the door and greeted the man collecting invitations from guests.

“Invitation, please”, he said, staring down at Zoan. “I donʼt have one”, she responded. “But my name may be on the list.” He chuckled, saying, “Okay. Sure.” He asked her for her name. “Itʼs..” “Zoan!”, Quinn shouted before she could finish her sentence, and came bustling down the stairs holding the train of her dress off the ground. The black braided bodice met a full, hoop skirt at her waist. Quinnʼs hair was pulled back in a well-secured bun and she smiled as she approached.

“Sheʼs with me”, she shot the bouncer a look that collapsed his overbearing posture. “My apologies, Miss”, he said to Zoan as he ushered them both inside. “Nice dress”, Quinn said as she rolled her eyes.

“You too”, Zoan responded, laughing to herself.

The glass doors opened to wonder and Zoan lost her breath. The walls were covered, floor-to-ceiling, with tens of thousands of roses. A ceiling made of shattered glass scattered the color through the hall. Hundreds of people Zoan didnʼt know stood talking around circular tables made of oak. Zoan had expected the grandeur but was impressed to see the caterer serving french fries in crystal cups. She was about to make a break for the food when Quinn Sandoval grabbed her hand.

“We have a private room in back”, she said. Zoan followed her through the crowd. They walked through the halls past the portraits of Vanguard members past and present. They arrived at a room with a solid black door at the foot of another grand staircase. Quinn stood in front of the wood and pushed her face up close to the peephole. A blue light shot from the circular mark and scanned her eye for security. The door unlocked and opened, revealing a small, but stately room. The red roses were swapped for magnolias and the fast-food for prime rib. Zoan stopped in her tracks as she surveyed the room. The entire Vanguard was here.

Céline dʼArc, Art Chair, in a solid, silver gown stood in the corner chatting with her husband. Karishma Wentworth wore an olive-green pantsuit, quite fitting for the Environment Chair. London Clark wore the same suit Zoan always saw her in. Drab and grey, with the skirt nipping her knees. She stood there with her arms folded, in a separate corner alone. It was clear that her sternness was no act.

“Would you like to have some food before you meet the rest of my team?” Quinn asked, smiling and pointing at the plates. Zoan shook her head 'no'. She had lost her appetite. Suddenly, the smell of food made her nauseous. Few civilians had ever seen the Vanguard chairs in one room. Quinn led her to a leather couch where four gowned women were seated.

“Everyone...meet Zoan”, Quinn said with pride beaming from her eyes. “Iʼm Miranda. Press”, the first woman spoke as her dress train floated above a cooling vent. “Ashleigh. Glam,” the next woman said, which was clear from the glitter on her eyelids. “I love your sleep mask. I use it every night”, she said, beaming up at Zoan with excitement. “Thanks”, Zoan said, returning her smile, still in an unwavering state of shock. “Trista. Wardrobe.” “Obviously”, the fourth woman spoke. “Your dress is taking up half the space in the room.”

“Iʼm Chelsea. Policy,” she said, smiling at Zoan while tapping the seat beside her. Zoan sat down slowly, tucking her satin cape beneath her. Quinn sat in an armchair off to the side.

“Quinn told me about your concerns”, Chelsea started, finishing off a bite of steak. “She also told me youʼre not one to mess with, so I wonʼt even bother to sugarcoat.” Zoan appreciated Chelseaʼs frankness and leaned in to hear her out.

“The Lower Third vote is crucial. We cannot win without it”, she said. “Youʼre close enough to the area to make a difference, and well-known enough here to make a Lower Third push palatable to the donors.”

Zoan knew this was why Quinn chose her. She didnʼt like it, but at least Chelsea was honest. She continued.

“Itʼs not pretty, but itʼs true and we need you”, Chelseaʼs voice shook with desperation. “We have money. We have resources. We have connections. Everything we have is at your disposal. If we can help you in any way, weʼre happy to do so.”

Zoan sat silently and stared around the room, still in awe. “Enough of that”, Quinn interjected. “Tonight, enjoy the party. Tomorrow, weʼll meet here at noon to discuss the details.” She pulled a laminated pass from her purse and handed it to Zoan. “Come here tomorrow and scan this at the door. Theyʼll let you in”, Quinn said as she walked towards the bar. “Whereʼs the restroom?” Zoan asked Chelsea, feeling dizzy as she stood. “Out the door and to the right”, she answered. “The last door on the left.” Zoan ventured down the hallway, past the scores of Vanguard paintings. She heard a giggle spill from an offset hallway on her right. She peered down the alley to see Céline dʼArc in the arms of Joseph Black, Gratefulʼs most eligible bachelor and foremost engineer. Zoan had made it her mission to keep to herself and avoid Gratefulʼs not- so-wholesome happenings.

Sheʼd been successful until now, having been invited to this event. She took off straight with her head still turned in the direction of the scandal. Her stiletto caught the corner of her cape, and she flew forward into an unmanned dinnerware table. The glasses fell to the ground. Zoan spun around to view the damage. She heard footsteps coming from the loversʼ hall and dove into the restroom. She leaned onto the door for support, trying to catch her breath. A toilet flushed; a stall door opened. Barbie Stanfield emerged from the shadows.

“Zoan, right?” she asked with a grin as she walked towards the sink. She wore a bright red, sateen dress with a neckline that plunged to her naval.

“I heard Quinnʼs trying to recruit you”, she said in her classic high-pitched voice. “I havenʼt decided yet,” Zoan responded, in a manner quite matter-of-factly. 

“Well, thereʼs always room on my campaign, if youʼre interested”, said Barbie as she took a strangely large amount of paper towels from their roost.

“Never would I ever join your science experiment”, Zoan said. “I know youʼre paying Lower Third to take the shots.”

Barbie pulled a tube of lip gloss from her purse. She stared straight into the mirror as she applied her makeup and sighed. “Lower Third isnʼt getting the HC-42 vaccine”, she said. “Thereʼs a completely different substance in those vials.”

“Then, what are you doing?” Zoan asked, anger rushing to her face. “Itʼs a serum to boost right side brain function”, Barbie said, still staring at herself in the restroom mirror. “The enemy of creativity is hopelessness. As the hopelessness increases, the will to create decreases. Itʼs important to keep dreams alive until we fix this border situation.”

“Do they know that?” Zoan asked. “Do they know what youʼre shooting them up with?” Zoan felt more nauseous than she had before. “I canʼt just go announcing that, can I?” Barbie turned to look at Zoan. “I have to monitor my platform until I get that Vanguard seat.” Zoanʼs anger turned to rage.

"It's still wrong”, Zoan said. Barbie sighed again.

“If youʼve got better ideas, Iʼd love to hear them”, Barbie retorted. “Hereʼs my card.”

She handed Zoan a bright pink card with her name in bold black ink. Her phone number was printed at the bottom in semi-cursive print. Zoan stood silently as Barbie headed for the door. Her curiosity took over.

“Do you always dress like that?” Zoan asked. Barbie turned to Zoan, expressionless. “Dress like what?” she asked and winked, turning on her heels to rejoin the party.

Zoan stashed the card in her envelope purse and took a paper towel. She drenched it in cold water and held the coolness to her neck. She gathered herself and left the bathroom, resigned to leave the party. She rushed down the hallway, through the guests, and out the front door. She stopped to breathe the cool night air and process what sheʼd heard.

“Check you out, looking the part,” a voice she recognized graced her ears. Zoan turned to see Eli standing on the steps in an all-black suit and tie. “What?” She barreled towards him. “How?” “Two guards showed up at my house today and gave me an invitation to this thing”, he smiled.

“Are you serious?” Zoan laughed. “Yeah...Quinn Sandoval sends her regards.” Zoanʼs joy turned sour. “How long are you here?” she asked. Eli grabbed her hand and they walked down the steps together. “The invitation to the gala came with an invitation back to Grateful”, he said, looking straight ahead as the limousine pulled up to the curb.

“Did you accept?” Zoan asked nervously. “Are you staying?” “Iʼm here, right?” Eli said smiling. Zoan leapt into his arms and locked her arms around his neck. He carried her the rest of the way to the curb and placed her in the car. She slid to the left and he sat beside her, closing the door behind him. “Where to?” The driver asked.

“Iʼm dying to see this palace of yours”, Eli said, smiling. She gave the driver a heading as he started up the car. “Any music preferences tonight?” He asked. “Do you know Burna Boy?” Eli questioned.

Zoan groaned, and Eli laughed as they drove towards her home.

“Iʼm not saying I donʼt like his music”, Zoan said as she unlocked her apartment door. “Iʼm just saying he has flashes of brilliance. Wizkidʼs albums are consistent from beginning to end.... like, conceptually.” “Something happened to your ears at conception”, Eli said as they entered her apartment and all its Grateful Metro glory.

“Well, this is it”, she said, spinning around in a circle, arms outstretched. Eli took a few steps in and surveyed his surroundings. He turned to Zoan and burst into laughter. She raised her shoulders. “What?” She asked, confused by his amusement.

“This is gaudy as hell”, his laughter filled the entire apartment and echoed. “You have this chess-board floor, a gold ceiling, and blue furniture,” he kept laughing.

Zoan walked towards him, unamused. “Youʼre about to ruin a perfect evening.”

“Almost perfect”, he grinned as he picked her up and carried to her room where the bedding was white and the glass was clear.

Chapter Three

Daniel Day, more famously known as Dapper Dan, had a keen eye for lines. His talent for tailoring was matched only by his abounding love for Harlem. The Apex sat at the corner of a road once known as Lennox Avenue. Zoan walked up the sidewalk in a black and fitted pantsuit; a purposeful departure from the gown sheʼd worn before. The pants were straight and danced an inch from the ground, at the thin of her heels. The jacket cinched her waist and straightened at her hip.

She wore a black bloused buttoned tightly at the top, and the matte black tie Eli had worn to the Gala. She'd thought of him while getting dressed and hadn't wanted to leave his side. As he slept, she paired the copied look the look with an oversized, black purse that she carried on her shoulder. Sheʼd revived her curls to crown her, parting them sharply on the side. She dressed her lips with the last remaining tube of Pat McGrathʼs ʻElson 2ʼ. The true blue red would speak for her while she sat and listened to the pitch. Sheʼd decided to keep her ears open and her bright red lips shut.

She scanned the security badge from Quinn at the gated, Apex door. She stepped inside and onto the buildingʼs marble floor. A woman wearing a grey work dress and hair pulled back from her face met Zoan in the lobby and waved her forward, saying, “This way”, as she smiled. Zoan followed the woman to a vast staircase lined with glass on both sides as it wound. They strolled down the hallway to an open conference room with a breathtaking view of Grateful Metro's skyline

“Zoan!” Quinn cheered as she stood from her seat stationed firmly at the head of the table. The cast of characters Zoan met at the gala sat strewn here and there, in front of piles of paperwork. Quinn motioned to a chair beside Chelsea, the policymaker. She smiled and Zoan smiled back as Quinn opened the meeting. “So, we all know why weʼre here”, she said, hovering over her team.

“The Lower Third vote, we cannot lose.” Her people nodded in agreement. “Zoan, we spoke on this before. And Iʼd like to know your opinion”, she said. “How do I get the vote without being seen as a blatant panderer?” Everyone turned to Zoan, their faces aglow with curiosity. “You canʼt”, Zoan said. “Thatʼs the honest truth.” The only sound in the room was the air blowing from the ceiling vent.

“The border and the inequalities it caused is all they care about. If you had the backing of the Vanguard and you vowed to change the system... maybe youʼd have a chance”, Zoan said. “But I donʼt really see that happening. Youʼre the only woman fighting for her seat.”

Quinn sat in her chair and folded her hands together on the table. 

Zoan continued.

“Barbie is a formidable candidate. The Lower Third wants change, and she represents that, good or bad...”

“When it comes to voting, they know it will have little-to-no effect on the status quo. Most people wonʼt even go to the ballot and thatʼs just the beginning of the issue.”

“Please, continue“, Quinn said, clearly intrigued. “The voting itself is a problem”, Zoan said. ".....even for the people who want to.” 

“If they show any of interest one way or another, especially if their leanings are contrarian to the local powers that be...they may not be granted the time off to vote. Or theyʼll lessen the number of precincts, making the lines ten hours long. Iʼd say find a way to win without Lower Third, to be honest.”

Quinn sat back in her chair and took a silent, pensive pause. “And how do I win without Lower Third?” she asked, her voice at a barely heard whisper.

“Barbie and the vaccine”, Chelsea said. “You must attack the vaccine. Cause chaos. Make people fear it.”

“At the very least theyʼll question its contents”, Miranda chimed. “Best case scenario, the people revolt.”

“Well, letʼs not go that far”, Quinn said. “Everybody, take five and weʼll meet back here.”

Zoan eyed the snack table through the structureʼs glass wall. She walked from the room, grabbed a plate, and filled it with celery smothered in ranch. Ashleigh, Quinnʼs one-woman glam squad, joined Zoan in fixing a plate. “So, youʼre launching your new moisturizer...”, she said in an excited squeal.

Zoan smiled, “Yes. It hits the shelves in a week.” “Oh my god. Thatʼs so exciting. You should go public”, Ashleigh said. “It is public”, Zoan said, confused. “No, like public as in the stock market. Open the brandʼs funding to outside investors.”

Zoan hadnʼt considered the option and she wasnʼt sure she wanted to. Outside investors meant outside opinions.

“Youʼd be the first black woman in Grateful to have a publicly traded company”, Ashleigh bounced. “The interest is clearly there. Itʼs one of the reasons Quinn wanted you here.”

“Your social stock is rising, whether you want it to or not. You should cash in.” As Ashleigh continued her speech about the market and its possibilities, Zoan wondered why she was present and what she really had to offer. Quinn had the money and resources to win the election without the Lower Third vote. She went through the trouble of canceling her quarantine and bringing Eli back to Grateful. Parading her around would have no effect on the outcome of the election. As Zoan chewed her last bite of vegetable soup, she wished sheʼd never left home. Sheʼd come all this way, worn her best suit, and left Eli...

“I have to run to the restroom”, Zoan said to Ashleigh as she rushed into the conference room to grab her purse.

“Okay! Itʼs down the hall to the left”, Ashleigh said, as she walked to the drink table.

Zoan panicked as she hurried through the hallway and down the stairs. Sheʼd felt queasy since the gala and her instincts were never wrong. For someone who needed nothing, Quinn needed her at this meeting. And for someone who hated Eli, she seemed quite willing to bring him to Grateful. The Vanguard wasnʼt known for its grace, nor Grateful for its whim. She rushed out of the Apex doors and hailed a cab headed for home.

Zoan burst through the barely open elevator doors, fumbling with her keys as she approached her loft. She opened the door and fell into the foyer.

“Eli!” she yelled. No answer. She dropped her purse on the floor and ran through the kitchen.

“ELI!” she yelled again, with all the power she had left. The apartment stood silent and unmoving.

She ran towards her purse to find her phone, though she didnʼt know who sheʼd call. She dropped to the floor when the sound of footsteps came up from behind her. Eli appeared with a confused look on his face. He pulled a visibly upset Zoan into his chest as she cried. “I thought something had happened.” “Thought what happened?” Eli asked, still confused.

“I donʼt know. I just had a feeling,” 

“Had a feeling about what?” he asked.

“The Vanguard, Quinn...you,” she cried. “I donʼt know. Just... something felt...off.”

They stood at the center of the loft intertwined when the lights shut off and the apartmentʼs normal lighting glowed red. Zoan let go of Eli in a panic and the lights returned to normal. Both stood in complete shock, not knowing what to do. The lights flashed red again with no beeping or flashing t.v., and returned to normal again three seconds later.

“What the hell is going on?” Eli asked Zoan as she ran across the room to her purse. She was looking for her phone when the lights flashed red again. Still searching, she saw a dim blue light at the bottom of her bag. The lights returned to normal and the blue disappeared.

“Eli!” Zoan yelled from across the room. Eli ran over and the lights shone red again. She reached for the blue light and pulled out Barbieʼs business card. The lights returned to normal and the blue lights disappeared. They waited there in silence for the violent, red fluorescence. The lights changed, revealing handwriting on the backside of the card.

“2900 Eliza Avenue, Suite. 246. 2 pm”, they read aloud together, and the red lights disappeared.

“I used to live there”, Eli said, as he stood up from the floor. “In Lower Third?” Zoan asked, confused. “No. Before I left. I grew up in 245, across the hall.” Zoan looked at her phone for the time. They had thirty minutes left. “We have to go. Get your stuff”, Zoan said to Eli who grabbed her arm as she rushed to the door. “Iʼm not going anywhere, Z", he said. “This doesnʼt feel right.” “What doesnʼt feel right is us staying here!” Zoan yelled. “We have to leave.” “Because you had a feeling?!” Eli yelled back.  Zoan took a deep breath, knowing the yelling would get them nowhere. “Look, youʼre usually right. Almost always”, Zoan pleaded. “But I need you to trust me on this. We need to go now.” Eli peered into Zoanʼs eyes and exhaled. 

“Okay. Weʼll take the tunnels."

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Eli and Zoan arrived at the back of the complex. They crept into the building through an unlocked door. They climbed the stairs to the second floor and found apartment 246. Zoan turned the handle, but the door refused to open.

“Dammit, Barbie!” she cried. “Hold on”, Eli whispered, as he felt along the doorframe for a key. The searched turned up empty and Zoan almost gave up hope when an electronic keypad at the side of the door turned blue. Zoan pushed her thumb into the screen and turned the handle again. The door didnʼt open.

“You try”, Zoan said, looking up at Eli. He shrugged and put his thumb to the light. Zoan turned the handle. The door opened.

EPISODE THREE

To those brave enough to change.

Prologue

“And they compelled a passerby, Simon of Cyrene, who was coming in from the country, the father of Alexander and Rufus, to carry his cross.”-Mark 15:21

The morning bell rang with a stormʼs urgency. Itʼs deafening revelry carried through the classrooms. Rows of perfectly aligned desks filled quickly at the sound. Each chair claimed a student. Each student claimed a chair. The walls, painted a glistening grey, glowed pink from the globe lights above. The pearled marble floors saved the remnant rays from waste. A tri-toned alarm sounded over the intercom. The students jumped to their feet in unison and turned towards a hanging portrait. Eli stared into the solemn faces of an unmoving Vanguard, placing one hand over his heart and the other at his side.

“I pledge allegiance to Grateful...,” the class spoke in unison. 

“...may she stand in restful peace.” Eli mumbled beneath his breath, indifferent to the promise.

“...at the crest of innovation, where the roots of knowledge meet.” 

His eyes wandered to the front of the room and met the gaze of his professor. She pointed to the portrait and nodded her head in the same direction. 

“May Grateful be a beacon to the world beyond our reach...”

Eli turned his attention back to the hanging frame.

“...and the Vanguard, their unwavering love, be light to all who seek.”

The students took their seats to receive their lesson for the day. Eli removed his laptop from the leather satchel his mother had given him. He opened the screen to the welcome page and laughed silently to himself. Heʼd been foolish to assume the daily pledge would stop after grade school. The childlike ceremony, he thought, was beneath his university age and wisdom. He quickly entered his password and looked up at the professor whoʼd begun her lecture.

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Eli gathered his belongings at the sound of the ending bell. He walked out of the classroom and into the busy hall. The remnants of the lesson lingered in his mind. He hadnʼt chosen engineering for himself, but had come to love the subject, drawing connections where he could to his art. His notebooks, filled with pencil sketches of Grateful architecture, weighed heavily in his bag. The arm strap dug into his shoulder as he walked. The pink fluorescence danced above him, luring him into a daze. He could see the invisible connections and feel the electrical currents on his skin; each beam of light darting from its source onto the crowd beneath.

His trance was interrupted by the sight of sudden movement. A thin, brunette figure darted towards him in a sprint. He shuffled to the left, hoping to avoid the womanʼs path. His efforts proved futile as he and the running student collided. The coffee cup she had in hand lost its top. The caffeine spilled to the floor, splattering over his right shoe where it fell. Eli stared at the damage to his vintage Timberland boots, and raised his sight to meet the bright blue eyes of the culprit on the floor. He knelt and offered his hand to his disheveled colleague, keeping one eye on the splatter across his shoe. “Whatʼs the rush, Barbie?” he asked, helping his lab partner to her feet. Barbie stepped over the coffee spill, pulling her hair from her face. “Iʼm meeting my mom for lunch”, she said, still catching her breath. “I got sidetracked, and now Iʼm late.”

“Sheʼs your mom. Sheʼll understand”, Eli offered without really caring.

“Will Quinn Sandoval understand?” Barbie snapped as she turned back towards her heading. Eli stared at Barbie, still unfazed. “Iʼm meeting my mom and Quinn Sandoval”, Barbie repeated in a tone that searched for ovation.

Eli might have been impressed if heʼd been interested in politics. Heʼd been born in Grateful Metro, the only son of a Migration recipient. While he kept up the Vanguardʼs policies, he wouldnʼt be bothered with the rest. The Vanguard chairs relied on the cooperation of Gratefulʼs affluent families. Barbieʼs brush with power was standard for her circumstances. She was smart and likable enough, but she was a Stanfield and quick to remind others of the fact in moments like these. “Weʼre still meeting at 7?” Eli asked of their standing lab session. Heʼd be on time, pull his weight, and stay out of the Vanguardʼs way. “Yeah”, Barbie said as she resumed her running pace. “See you then.”

Chapter One

“Know from the rivers in clefts and in crevices: those in small channels flow noisily, the great flow silent. Whateverʼs not full makes noise. Whatever is full is quiet.”-Buddha

Eli woke to an unrelenting buzzing. His alarm flashed '6:30' and back to black again. He placed two feet on the cold. teak floor, sitting silently and supporting his weight on extended arms; his two fists pressed firmly into his mattress. His eyes surveyed his room as he inhaled the solitude. A single, king-sized mattress was topped with eggshell-colored sheets and a beige, flannel comforter sat atop a mahogany frame; a hollow box with storage space built in and wooden drawers he never used.

The headboard was an off-white wall across from a massive window running from floor-to-ceiling, a wall in and of itself. Heʼd turned the foot of his bed towards the view to greet the sunrises. From where he sat, the open floor plan gave visibility into his living room and kitchen. He kept his decor simple, having only what he needed. One brown leather clutch, the same color as his bed frame, and a rectangular glass-topped coffee table in the center of the room.

Per Grateful standards of opulence, his fireplace carried the room; terra-cotta bricks, stacked and sealed the walls length wide, with black steel trimmings at the mouth. A steampunk light fixture hung from the ceiling; two tiers of rusted copper holding downturned Edison bulbs. It lit a charcoal canvas of the Grateful skyline on the opposite wall. (Heʼd colored it with his own hands.)

The kitchen was white with stainless steel appliances. His countertops and island, brown marble with platinum; swirling smoke, and golden flecks of dust peppered in.

He finally stood at 6:35 and made his way to the bathroom. “Lights” he spoke, and they appeared across the marble sink that matched the kitchen counters and over the waterfall showerʼs clear and glistening backsplash. He opened a compartment hidden in the wall and pulled a small, bristled brush from a shelf. He brushed his beard (heʼd shave when summer came) and did the same to his fade. He turned back towards his bedroom, stopped, and glanced at himself once more. He smiled at the physique heʼd worked hard to build and furrowed his brow at the sight of his torso. He counted five rows of prominent abs and rumors of a sixth, but no matter the effort or loss of sweat his midline refused to cooperate. He hustled back to his bedroom, to the walk-in closet door. He took a pair of baggy jeans from a hanger, pulling them up to three inches below the waistline of his boxers. He sifted through his clothes and found an oversized flannel shirt, sliding one arm in its sleeve and the next.

He wandered to the living room, to the bookshelf in the corner, and pulled it from the wall to reveal a secret, hidden room. He walked inside and exhaled a smile at 202 pairs of shoes. Heʼd spent the past three years collecting Nike sneakers and Timberland boots. Available only on Lower Thirdʼs black-market exchange, he was standing in a room worth way more than heʼd ever admit. He scanned the three walls of shelves and settled on the perfect matching shoe: the 2019 Travis Scott X Air Jordan 1 Retro High OG “Mocha”.

He sat on the bench in the middle of the closet and grabbed a pair of socks from the basket below. He slid both feet into the cotton and both into his shoes, tucking the front legs of his jeans behind the tongue. He hopped up from the bench and out of the closet. The automatic light turned off as he closed the door behind him.

Eli walked to his refrigerator and opened the stainless door to a carton of eggs, thin sliced turkey, and artisan Swiss cheese slices. He pushed past the deli selections to the back to of the cooler and grabbed a can of 'Othello'. from the corner. 'Othello', a drink heʼd discovered two weeks prior and ahead of finals, was a jet-black coffee made with five shots of espresso, ginseng, and cane sugar. It was made and packaged in Lower Third, making it contraband in Grateful. Like his shoes, the cajun heat potato chips, and his crispy peanut butter heʼd paid for the exchange in cash to a sketchy hooded figure in an alleyway. He rinsed a carryout cup from the last nightʼs takeout, filled it with ice, and poured the coffee over the chill.

Eli swung his leather satchel from the couch to his shoulder and down across his torso. He headed to the exit, taking his keys from the coffee table. He walked out the door and checked his “out-of-nest” hours. He had twenty-six left on a Friday night. The number flashed behind him as the door locked automatically. He walked past the elevator and took seven flights of stairs to a doorway into the courtyard. Eli walked through the botanical brilliance, magnolia trees surrounded by explosions of olfactory wonder, letting gravity ground his left side a few inches downward more than his right. His syncopated steps kept steady on the green. Not even the espresso could disrupt the way he traveled, his silk and jagged equilibrium.

He passed three other dorms and the campusʼ main building to the Science Center. The building stood a monument with stone columns that stretched to the sky. Three sets of hand carved, wooden double doors greeted him as he approached. He jogged up seventeen marble stairs and opened the doors at the center. Twelve chandeliers glowed golden from the ceiling and towered over Eli making him only a few centimeters tall. He passed through the foyer trimmed in gold, marble, and oak. He approached a sharp, steel arch at the end of the hall. He gave his campus badge to the security guard as she motioned towards the arch. She scanned the badge, the arch glowered red, and he stepped inside the fixture. A dance of red lasers fell from its top and locked onto Eli.

“Elijah Darius Cunningham. Engineering Major. Senior”, a computerized woman spoke. “Grateful native. Confirmed.”

The arch flashed green three times and Eli continued through the structure. He traveled down the ornate hall and down one flight of stairs, taking a right turn towards the labs at a portrait of the Vanguard. He entered a room through two glass doors on the right and took a seat at an empty at a black-topped table in the back. The room, empty and sterile, held eight such tables in two rows of four, facing north towards the white board. Eli removed his laptop from his bag, logged in, and checked the time. “6:59” the clocked read, as Barbie came rushing in. Sheʼd tossed her hair into a wet bun on top of her head. Eli figured sheʼd nearly overslept. The square glasses he hadnʼt seen before were one of many clues. She didnʼt wear makeup (heʼd not seen that either), her eyes wore fatigue in the form of dark circles of purple hue. She was pale and translucent were sheʼd usually be flushed and beaming. Somehow, she was more beautiful this way.

“They all are”, Eli thought to himself. And seeing her out of Grateful style in a blue t- shirt and black sweatpants, made her more human than sheʼd ever seemed; her name didnʼt help much, sharing one with the plastic beauty icon.

“Hey! Sorry”, Barbie said as she put her giant purse on the black surface, covering half of the table with snakeskin. “Sorry for what?” Eli smirked, “Centuries of progress and women still apologize for nothing.” He sniffed a lopsided grin. “Youʼre not late.”

Barbie glanced over at his laptop, seemingly to check the time. “Cool”, she nodded. She pulled her chemistry book from her bag and placed in on the table. She seemed present but not, like the look she sported; her superpower turned down to an unsuspecting spark. Eli thought to ask her about the lunch with Quinn Sandoval, but more for small talk than wanting to know. He decided against it. If itʼd been his business, he wouldʼve been invited. Eli pulled the lab instructions from an email Dr. Warner had sent. Her instructions were always vague, so he and Barbie slumped in their chairs preparing for a long haul. An hour of slides, slipcovers, and equations crept by and they werenʼt anywhere close to finishing the assignment. Eli reached for his forbidden substance and overshot the reach. The contents spilled on uncovered compounds and Eli dove for his laptop to save it from the liquid. Barbie sprung to her feet to assist.

“Iʼll get paper towels”, she said. “No. Iʼll get them”, Eli said, shaking the coffee from his sleeve. “Donʼt worry about it”, Barbie shook her head and smiled. “Iʼm exhausted. I need the walk.” Eli nodded upward and Barbie headed out of the glass doors towards the bathrooms. Eli put his laptop on the dry side of the table and turned back to see bubbles and sizzling steam erupting on one of the coffee-stained slides. He covered his hand with the tail of his shirt and grabbed the reactive plastic by its corner. The slide labeled “melanin” whirred like a tea kettle close to steam. He put it back on the table and grabbed a blank slide. He dipped it into the coffee and placed the slide beneath the lens. The components of the coffee were spinning in sync. The circular crystals turned counterclockwise; step-in-time to a click of a metronome only they could hear.

“What are you doing?ʼ Barbie asked and Eli jumped back from the lens. He hadnʼt heard her come back in. Eli thought of lying, but Barbie was far from stupid. He knew her well enough to know sheʼd clocked the confused look on his face, but not well enough to know what sheʼd do next.

“I donʼt know what this is”, he told the truth, and Barbie leaned in to look. She stared through the lens for sixty long seconds, leaned back, and leaned into the lens again. “Whereʼd you get this?” she murmured. Eli didnʼt respond; insulted that she thought heʼd answer without knowing her intentions. Barbie appeared to have read his thoughts herself and caught herself.

“It looks like HC-41”, she started. “Itʼs a synthetic hormone that alters a personʼs state of being.” Her voice trailed off as her irises began to swim; pools of sapphire stars covered in a fog of faint memory. Eli leaned toward he, suggesting she continue. Barbie sighed. “My father created it and was ordered to discontinue production before he...” Barbie sat back down in her chair, turning back to the microscope. “He meant well, I think. Trying to help Lower Third people cope.” Eli stiffened his posture, his jawline turned to stone. “Cope?” he asked, his arms folded across his chest. Barbie sighed again, her breath tinted with sorrow and remorse. “HC-41 was meant to increase domestic contentment in Lower Third people; to curb the depression and in-fighting that accompanies not getting Migration.”

Eli grimaced, not being able to say much in response. Heʼd been born and raised in Grateful. His mother told stories of Lower Third, but spoke only of the culture she sometimes missed. Barbie had grown up there, in a house next to the labs. She knew more than he did, but he wasnʼt convinced his blood had forgotten, or that it held no traces of the world to which he belonged. In moments like these, he felt inauthentic, having reduced his origins to style and food. He resented his mother for telling him anything at all, for not letting him just be Grateful. Lower Third was a call he always heard and couldnʼt answer. A question he silenced with bright orange boxes in back alleys.

“What happened that your dad...I mean, did something go wrong?” he asked humbly. Barbie grabbed the paper towel roll and headed towards the mess. “In small doses, it did exactly what heʼd meant. People seemed happier at home and work. But, long term exposure or high doses of the compound had a hallucinogenic effect. It made people forget their lives entirely, to the point of ignoring external threats.” Eli blinked as Barbie continued.

“I remember Quinn Sandoval coming to our house. I remember her yelling about something similar happening before, long ago”, Barbie said softly. “Another chemical that spread through other places like Lower Third.”

Eli leaned away from the coffee spill, listening as she cleaned.

“After she left, my parents were shouting at one another. Last I saw of him, he was heading to his car with a suitcase.”

Eli remembered her fatherʼs death being a national event and felt sorry for Barbie and the spectacle made of her grief. Still, he was curious, and finally asked the question heʼd avoided. “This meeting today?”

Barbie walked to the long side of the table and grabbed a glass capsule with a rubber cap. She coaxed some of the liquid into the tiny jar and sealed it, wiping the rest with another paper towel. “We talked about my future and the possibility of me running the labs. But I donʼt want to spend my life like this”, she motioned to the lifeless, silent room. “I want to do more.”

Eli shrugged at the hypocrisy that wasnʼt wholly hers. “You, and everybody else”, he said. She looked at him in acknowledgment. “Yeah...I get it”, she corrected herself. “I mean...I donʼt...,” her eyes pleading for mercy. “But I get what you mean.” He extended his hand. She stared at it first, then took it. “Iʼm sorry for your loss,” he said, processing what sheʼd said while seeing her pain. “Thanks", she smiled, and took a step closer. He pulled her into a hug and she returned it with two arms around his neck. They pulled back and stared into one anotherʼs eyes. Eli scanned her face, still holding her waist and tilted his head to the side. She really was beautiful. “Eli...,” she whispered. He raised his eyebrows in response. “I like girls”, she said, smiling, and they both dropped the hold. Eli jumped back, “Yeah...nah...I know that”, he said, embarrassed.

“As far as men go, though...if I was...youʼd be....”

He interrupted, ending the awkward exchange. “Yeah”, he laughed. “Cool....ummm...thank you?”

They laughed and moved to opposite ends of the table. They sat in silence for some time. He looked at the clock reading 9:30. “Ummm...maybe we call it? Same time tomorrow?” He closed his laptop, not waiting for an answer.

“Sounds good”, she said, also packing her things. She hustled to the door and turned to Eli who wasnʼt far behind. “Whatever it was you bought, Iʼd get rid of it.”

“Also, I was eight when this happened, so check your expiration dates,” she said. “Not just for the possibility of cross contamination, but do your digestive tract a favor, dude,” Barbie laughed.

Eli grinned and nodded. “Where are you taking that vial?” he questioned as they journeyed towards to foyer.

“I have a kit in my room, and I want to run some tests”, Barbie said. “It was my fatherʼs work,” she shrugged. “Iʼll discard it when Iʼm done.”

Eli left in the same direction after quick and friendly goodbyes. He tried to process what heʼd learned, but only remembered Barbieʼs oceanic eyes, how it felt to hold a woman, and that he hadnʼt in some time. Chanel dumped him the previous summer when she graduated and he didnʼt propose. Heʼd taken her to dinner and ordered dessert and champagne to celebrate. They toasted to her accomplishment, and she exploded when he reached for the tab, making a soliloquy of the evening in front of the entire restaurant. He hadnʼt known thatʼs what she wanted, and even if he had, he would ask her when he was ready to do so; not because itʼs on her to-do list. 

Her vitriolic outburst surprised him. He wasnʼt expecting that from a Grateful girl, primmed for portfolios and Ph.Ds from birth. She was a migration baby on her fatherʼs side. Her mother had been born in Grateful. Chanel had been more “Metro” than Grateful for his taste, but he enjoyed her company well enough. She was smart, chipper, and beautiful; smelling of lilac and walked to the rhythm of sun rays.

He scanned his security badge at his dormitory door, the barrier opened to the staircase and he took seven flights upwards. Somewhere between the fourth and fifth floors, he wondered if heʼd made the right call. He was a year behind her, and not ready, but he couldʼve been if heʼd tried. Their children wouldʼve been smart and well looked after. Chanelʼs occasional theatrics may have evened out with age. He pulled his phone from his pocket as he approached his dorm room door. “Wyd?” he sent her a text as he closed the day behind him. He kicked his shoes off at the door and stared into the phone waiting for a response.

Chapter Two

Eli woke to the sunrise peeking through the trees. He met it face to face, lying horizontally on his stomach with his arms above his head. He could feel his phone vibrating under his pillow. He wiped his eyes, reached for the buzzing, and squinted again at the fifteen unread texts and seven missed calls from Chanel. Sheʼd sent paragraphs; commas, emojis, and exclamation points. He scrolled through the messages to see the last one heʼd sent:

9:48pm

“Maybe you were right. Maybe we shouldʼve. Can you talk now? Come through. Gate code-6138.

Eli raised his hairline and forehead towards the ceiling fan. He sat up in his bed, throwing the covers of his legs, and kept scrolling through the messages from Chanel. Apparently, sheʼd knocked on the door. Apparently, he hadnʼt answered. Heʼd fallen asleep and she was furious. Eli tossed his phone to his comforter and buried his face in his hands. “Man....”, he said aloud. “I was out of it...”, he laughed. The image of Chanel making a fool of herself in the hallway shouldnʼt have been funny, but it was.

“Funny how that happens”, a female voice chimed from the living room, with long, drawn out vowels and cracking, chewed consonants. He jumped to find Karishma Wentworth, Environment Chair, staring at him from the couch. She sat, thin and motionless, with her right knee over her left; her hands resting gently on the cap. She wore an olive green, buttoned pantsuit and a matching, silk camisole. Her jewelry was gold and simple; a single chain around her neck, a tennis bracelet, and a pair of stud earrings. The top half of her whimsical curls had been slicked back into a ponytail at the crown of her head. The rest spiraled down her back and landed at her hip.

Eli hopped up from the bed and dove into a shirt and sweatpants. Her eyes were green and piercing as he approached, his right hand extended. She smiled and stood, returning the formality, and motioned towards the couch. She slid backward making room for Eli to sit, and he did, at the edge of the seat. Heʼd never seen Karishma Wentworth in person. She wasnʼt a public presence like Quinn Sandoval, nor did she hijack televisions like London Clark. Celine dʼArc would speak on campus, even lecturing from time to time. But Karishma Wentworth was mysterious like the wind; a whisper one could hear, feel, and breathe, but not see.

Her beauty was unsettling, to her almost being not. She was white, but not. Black, but not. And something else he couldnʼt quite tell. The blend was not directly hers, but generations back; still speaking in her face.

“It would seem your phone has betrayed you”, she smiled. “Or have you gone a betrayed yourself?”

Eli searched her eyes for motive, finding nothing but the words she spoke; kindly embers meant to ease the tension with no clues to her next thought. He played along, “I betrayed myself, for sure.”

She leaned back into the couch and placed her elbow on its ledge, propping her face on her fist for support. “Can you fix what youʼve done?” she asked, unblinking.

“Yeah...I think so,” he said as if to a friend, disarmed by her casual mannerisms. He corrected himself, “Yes maʼam. I can,” leaning away from the strangeness of the encounter.

“Then youʼve not betrayed yourself,” she said, no longer smiling, but no less friendly.

Eli nodded, still unsure of how to feel. She sighed and reached for her bag, and Eliʼs posture turned to cement. She pulled a picture from a manila envelope and placed it on the couch between them. Eli stared at himself and Barbie walking away from the science center. He looked at the photo and back at the Vanguard chair who seemed to be searching his facial expressions for hints of truth. “Miss Stanfield was apprehended when her dorm room caught fire. Half of the dorm populace has been relocated,” she said. “Thankfully, the only casualty was the building.”

She stopped and looked at Eli who tried his best to remain blank. “Her room was searched, and authorities found traces of a most curious substance, indeed.” She leaned her face back into her fist and tugged at the bottom of her blazer to straighten a fold. “A science student with a substance is not ever a cause for alarm,” she continued, checking her manicure, then looking back to Eli. “...unless that science studentʼs last name is Stanfield, and half a building goes up in flame.”

Eli always thought Barbie to be above reproach; her last name superseding the rule of law, with her family being an extension of the ruling class. Karishma Wentworth raised one eyebrow and cracked as surreptitious smiles, as if sheʼd heard his thoughts aloud. “She was questioned by Grateful detectives and the substance was tested for its contents.” Her emphasis on the “eh” in tested, and the long “ah” sound in contents transported Eli to a land heʼd only heard about. A land below an invisible borderline when Grateful was America; much larger and divided into 50 separate states. Eli nodded and waited for Karishma Wentworth to continue. “Miss Stanfield says she swiped it from her familyʼs lab, and maintains it was the last remaining sample.” Eli sat frozen, knowing she knew everything. Lying wouldnʼt help and telling the truth could lead to worse. He opted for a question instead, “Where is she now?”

Karishma Wentworth cleared her throat, sat up straight, and checked her manicure again. “Her mother came for her”, she said slowly, her eyes branding Eliʼs face with the reality of the situation, and a hint of disappointment as if heʼd let her down personally. “Sheʼs staying at their loft by the Apex, I believe,” she sighed.

“No matter”, she said, turning her head to the side. “Thatʼs not what Iʼm here to discuss.”

Eli leaned in towards the magnetizing demagogue.

“There is...a job I think youʼd be perfect for”, she said, nodding once. “A new construction company is opening below the border, and theyʼve stacked the C-suite with older men; finance people with ideas that jingle and fold”, she said, sighing again. “The board could use a young face; someone with your immense potential,” she paused looking at Eli with the same disappointed eyes as before.

“....as Chief Officer of Operations.”

Eli took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, now sharing her disappointment in himself. If Grateful Metro didnʼt have daily caffeine allotments, he wouldnʼt have purchased the Lower Third find. Cause. Effect.

Karishma Wentworth stood, balancing on six-inch heels, palm-over-fist with her hands at her belt line.

“The company is in Lower Third”, she said, her eyes still piercing his. “...of course, youʼd have to move.” She grabbed her bark colored, leather bag from the floor. “I spoke with the CEO this morning and theyʼre elated to receive you”, she said, with no emotion in her voice; her facial expression now reflecting the same.

“So much so”, she spoke, “that theyʼve requested you start this afternoon.”

Eli felt tears forming behind his eyes as he sat in silent shock. Karishma Wentworth turned back to face him. “Theyʼve provided a company car”, she said, pulling a set of keys from her bag and setting them on the table in front of Eli. “...and a house near the forest, as best as Lower Third houses go.”

Eli grabbed the keys from the table and stared at them in his hands. Karishma Wentworth extended her right hand to Eli, lips pursed, eyes sarcastic; a chiding he seen on his motherʼs face.

“Congratulations”, she said as he stood and took her hand. His body warmed and ears burned as his tears made their way to the front without release.

“Thank you for thinking of me...”, he said. “....for the position.”

Karishma Wentworth nodded, turned, and headed out of the door. Eli closed the door behind her and rushed back to his phone. He wondered if heʼd missed the dorm fire news in the torrent of Chanelʼs notifications. He saw no alerts and opened his web browser app. He typed “dorm + fire” in the search bar and this morningʼs headline appeared at the top of the screen.

“Stanfield Labs donates 1.7 million dollars to GU dormitory renovation project.”

He scrolled down to read that the students had been given an option to either return home to their families or be housed in “dʼArc Tower”, a newly finished apartment building that would be available to lease in the coming weeks. A new notification appeared on his phone. He tapped it to reveal an email from Karishma Wentworthʼs office with his new employee I.D number, home address, and directions to company headquarters. He put his phone and wallet in the side pocket of his sweatpants and grabbed his new keys from the coffee table. “G-27”, a tag clipped onto the key ring read as he hurried out of the door and into the direction of the parking garage.

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

The garage was dark and smelled of smoke; the cement had heard the gossip of the blaze from across the way. Eli walked the structure alone and read the space markings aloud, “G-25, G-26, G-....”. Eli stopped where he stood and stared at the 2122 GMC, four door Hummer EV. He pressed the unlock button on the fob to be sure his sight was true. The pickupʼs headlights flashed twice before him. He crept slowly to the truck. He walked to the tailgate and removed the cover, revealing stacks of orange shoe boxes. He recovered the shoes and walked to the left, back window. More orange boxes had been stuffed between the cabins and placed, one on top of the other, on the cloth covered seats. His clothes had been vacuum shrunk and flattened to fit into two large plastic containers. Eli looked back towards the dorm and saw no reason to return. He climbed into the front seat and tuned the GPS to the border.

Chapter Three

Eli drove through Lower Third in silence, parallel and keeping time with the train rolling by, carrying homesick Migration recipients on their annual pilgrimage. They had nothing in common but a heading, a truth Eli internalized with every creeping mile. The train was going back to Grateful Metro. His GMC pickup was not. The outstretched road lured him into meditation; a thoughtless series of breaths that filled each moment of silence and the next. The past had come and gone; Barbie, the fire, and Karishma Wentworth. The future hadnʼt happened, making it a figment of his imagination. The house near the woods and high-paying job would only be if he accepted them. With ash behind him and vapors ahead, all that was real was his truck, his shoes, the road beneath them, and his breath. Eli settled into the now and let it carry him into next.

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

Eli stared at the piles of paperwork on his desk and rubbed his brow in stress. The company was building an apartment complex and the project was mired in controversy. Heʼd received complaints from the zoning board and residents of neighboring houses. He tried his best to respond to them all with kind but directed indifference. The project would continue, and effected parties knew it. They were writing in frustration, knowing their protests wouldnʼt change anything. He leaned back in his chair, placing his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes to steal of moment of calm. A commotion in the hall broke through the silence. “Stop her!” a male voice bellowed, followed by a series of thuds and shouts. Eliʼs office door flew open, and a woman appeared in the doorway, wearing cowboy boots, ripped jeans, and a neat, white t-shirt. Her skin was toffee and heath, and her coils reached to the ceiling, falling back down at her shoulders in buoyant spirals.

Her almond shaped eyes danced brown and bright. Her lips were full and seething with anger. Two men came flying from the hall and grabber each of her arms. She protested and fought against their might and Eli stood from his desk. “Hold on fellas”, he said. “Can I help you maʼam?”

She glared at Eli and spoke. “I emailed you weeks ago about that smell,” her tone raising towards the end of the sentence. He nodded to the two men who released her arms as Eli walked forward. “My apologies maʼam, if Iʼve not yet responded”, he said. “I have a few moments if youʼd like, to hear your complaint.”

She rolled her eyes and stepped forward. “Iʼll take it from here”, Eli said to the henchmen. He closed the door behind her and motioned to the chair in front of his desks. “Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Water? Coffee? Tea?” She shook her head and Eli reclaimed his seat. He clasped his hands together and placed them on top of the wooden desk. He leaned forward in his chair, “What can I do for you?”

“Thereʼs a smell...”, she said. “...since construction started. I live down the street, and thereʼs a smell.” Four years of projects and this was a first. Usually, people griped about the noise or bustling populace.

“What kind of smell?” he asked. “Can you describe it?” The woman slid back in her chair and placed her forearms on the rests.

“I sent you an email”, she said, as a matter of fact; less forceful than before. He nodded and stared into the womanʼs eyes, taken by their depth. She blushed at the exploration, and quickly gathered herself in response. “Itʼs all in the email”, she said, adjusting her curls; her movements swift and fluid. Eli tore himself from her face and its draw.

“Okay. Letʼs find it”, he said. “Name?”

“Zora”, she said. “Zora White.” He typed her name into his database with no results. “I donʼt have an email from a Zora White,” he said, still staring at the screen. “I sent it weeks ago”, she fussed, pulling her phone from a black satchel sheʼd placed on the floor. She scrolled through what Eli figured were sent messages, squinted her eyes, and the color left her face. “I...,” she began with remorse in her eyes. “I never sent it...itʼs still in my drafts.” Her eyes turned to pools of softened guilt that pierced Eliʼs soul.

“No worries”, he said. “You can tell me now. Iʼm all ears.” Zora dropped her phone her purse and threw the strap over her shoulders. “Iʼm so sorry. Iʼve embarrassed myself,” she stood and turned towards the door, apologizing again. Eli stood. “Ms. White...,” he said, enamored at her figure as her posture slumped beneath her curls. She turned back to face him. “...I take lunch around this time”, he said. “Iʼd like to hear about the smell if youʼd be so kind.” “Please join me.” She blushed again, “Zora, please...and I donʼt want to impose.” “The imposition is mine, Ms. White, “he said smiling. She returned his grin and nodded.

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

Eli parked his truck at the entrance to the park. He checked his teeth in the rear-view mirror and adjusted the cuffs on his sleeves. He stepped out of the car in his perfect, white sneakers, straight jeans, and a white buttoned-down top. He walked down a graveled land parted by maple trees that let out at varied freesia. A perfect circle of blossoming color and earth, and there she was.

Zora stood amongst the flowers in a dress that swept the ground; two thin, grey straps flowing into a cinched waistline, and curving down with her own. If heʼd known his love of a lifetime lived here, below the chandeliers and science labs, heʼd have packed up a long time ago, changed his name, and made a break for the border. He laughed to himself, his new understanding of everything heʼd heard about love. Heʼd seen beauty before, and she was smart, a familiar combination. If that was love, an attraction to traits, he could have fallen for Barbie (her own preferences notwithstanding), Karishma Wentworth for all it mattered, or any other woman in Grateful Metro.

But Zora had something he couldnʼt describe, like the foam the sails the waves. Her mystique not being the force itself, but the enchantment its power creates. She turned to him and flashed a smile that made him stop where he stood. She walked the rest of the way, and they stood in silence and stared. “We look stupid,” Zora finally said, and broke the quiet with laughter. Eli smiled and looked over his shoulders, “Nobodyʼs here, so we donʼt look like anything, he said.

“But beautiful”, he said. “You look beautiful.”

She smiled and took a seat in the grass, and Eli, right beside her. They stared at the clouds and planned their future under the sky. The sunset crept over the hills beyond. The time had come. Eli reached into his pocket and retrieved a small, velvet box. Zora squealed at the sight and jumped to her feet. Eli assumed the proper position with one knee pressed into the ground.

Zora jumped twice with her hands covering their face. “Is that a, yes?” Eli asked and Zora burst into tears. “Yes!” she shouted, waking the trees as Eli grabbed her left hand. He slid the diamond ring onto her finger, and she threw herself into his arms. They shared in glee for a moment and walked through the grass, back towards to lot. Zora took two steps back in a panic to find the exit disappeared.

“Eli!” she yelled breathlessly, and he extended his hand. “Do you trust me?” he said, eyes yearning.

She nodded and took his hand, and he led her towards the trees. He pushed the shrubbery to clear the path, and a blinding, white light flooded in.

The door opened and Eli stepped into the room, stark white from wall to wall. He climbed seven steel stairs to the viewing loft, joining Barbie, Karishma, and Quinn.

“She said yes”, Barbie snickered. “They always say yes.”

Karishma Wentworth shook her head. The three of them stared down at Zora strapped to a chair with an I.V. of blue liquid flowing into her veins.

“Subject 402”, Karishma Wentworth said. “Not fit for Migration.” Quinn Sandoval nodded, “Wipe her memory. Send her back.” “Such a shame. I really thought sheʼd be different. The gala should have been enough to fix her.” She walked down the stairs and out the door. Eli nodded at Barbie who pressed a button that stopped the fluid. They stared down at Zora one last time before theyʼd return her to Lower Third.

“Simulation terminated”, Barbie said, as she and Karishma headed for the exit. Eli stared at Zora from his lofted perch. “She really is beautiful,” he thought to himself. “Exquisite.”

Zoan opened her eyes and winked at Eli. He winked back and headed down the steps to the exit.

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Removal of DOB Violations in NYC: An All-Inclusive Guide to Guaranteeing Adherence

DOB Violation Removals in NYC: A Comprehensive Guide to Ensuring Compliance

Introduction:

Navigating the world of Department of Buildings (DOB) violations in New York City can be a daunting task for property owners and businesses. Whether you’ve recently received a violation notice or want to proactively ensure compliance, this blog post will provide you with valuable insights and steps to facilitate DOB violation removals. In this article, we’ll shed light on the importance of addressing violations promptly, the common types of DOB violations, and how you can partner with experts like TruArt Sign Co. to rectify the situation efficiently. Let’s delve into the world of DOB violation removals in NYC.

Understanding DOB Violations:

1.1 What are DOB Violations?

1.2 Importance of Addressing DOB Violations Promptly

1.3 Common Types of DOB Violations in NYC

The DOB Violation Removal Process:

2.1 Initial Assessment and Documentation

2.2 Filing Necessary Permits and Correcting Violations

2.3 The Role of Licensed Professionals

2.4 Working with TruArt Sign Co. for DOB Violation Removals

Benefits of Hiring a Professional DOB Violation Removal Service:

3.1 Expertise and Experience in Dealing with DOB Violations

3.2 Ensuring Compliance with Building Codes and Regulations

3.3 Streamlining the Removal Process and Minimizing Delays

3.4 Mitigating Potential Penalties and Fines

Partnering with TruArt Sign Co. for DOB Violation Removals:

4.1 TruArt Sign Co.: An Overview

4.2 How TruArt Sign Co. Can Help with Violation Removals

4.3 Success Stories: Testimonials from Satisfied Clients

4.4 The TruArt Sign Co. Advantage: What Sets Them Apart

Tips for Preventing Future DOB Violations:

5.1 Regular Maintenance and Inspections

5.2 Staying Informed about Building Codes and Regulations

5.3 Leveraging Technology for Compliance Monitoring

Conclusion:

When it comes to DOB violation removals in NYC, addressing the issue promptly and efficiently is crucial to avoid further complications and potential penalties. Understanding the types of violations, the removal process, and the benefits of hiring professionals like TruArt Sign Co. can significantly expedite the resolution of violations and ensure compliance with building codes. By partnering with experts in the field, you can rest assured that your property or business will be in safe hands, and you’ll receive expert guidance throughout the entire process.

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Sign Company NYC: Discover the Difference with Innovative Awnings and Signs.

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Warming Up

Ray Stantz X Reader (NSFW, MINORS DNI)

It was probably one of the rainiest nights New York City had seen all year. Rain poured down heavily, the sound of it so loud, it was hard to hear anything else. The reflections of shop signs and taxi lights bounced off of the puddles that gathered against curbs and along the sidewalks. If only you had remembered to grab a damn umbrella.

The rain had come all at once. When you and Ray had left your apartment, there was no hint of rain, the sky bright and streets dry. But as you sat in a nice little Italian restaurant with him, chatting away as the sun fell, it had suddenly started pouring just outside the window. It picked up quickly, and soon a few people were gathering under awnings and in doorways outside as they waited for taxis. You and Ray exchanged glances before looking back outside.

“Hope it dies down before we leave,” he sighed. “I wouldn’t want to walk around out there.”

It did not, in fact, die down.

Luckily, Ray was able to wave down a taxi after the dinner, so the two of you only had to go from the doorway to the inside of the taxi in just a few moments. But in just that time, quite a bit of water had soaked into your clothes. Not too much, just on the shoulders and in your hair. The problem came when you got OUT of the taxi. You had left your keys behind as Ray said he was bringing his, but couldn’t find his copy on his keyring in the darkness of the evening and the old, too-dim street lamps. It took a few moments of fiddling with it to find the right key, and a few more to get it into the keyhole. In that short amount of time, the two of you were practically coated in cold water.

“I’m so sorry, Dear,” he said as he swung the door open and stepped aside.

“Don’t worry about it, come on!” you exclaimed as you hurried in, pulling him in by the hand. Before he had even shut the door, you were already shaking off your soaked jacket. You shuddered as you dumped it on the couch. “God, it’s cold!”

He frowned at the sight of you shivering, stepping closer and reaching up to rub your arms. “You must be freezing,” he said.

“So are you,” you answer, noticing the slight shiver that rolled across his shoulders. “How about we peel all this off and just get into bed?”

“Great idea,” he answered, locking the door and following along behind you.

You padded into your bedroom with him at your heels. You turned to look at him and grinned. “You know…” you started. “We don’t need pajamas.”

He grinned back. “You’re right, we don’t.” At that, you both hurried to peel the rest of your clothes off, tossing it onto the floor without any care.

The moment you had everything off, you started climbing under the covers of your bed, giggling softly. “Ahhh,” you sighed as you buried yourself under the thick, fluffy blankets.

“Comfy, huh?” he responded as he worked his slacks and boxers down his legs.

“Mhm,” you purred back, watching intently as he kicked the bunched up clothes aside and climbed in beside you.

Before he was even settled in, you wiggled closer to him, huddling up to his side. He couldn’t help but smile at the sight of you cuddling into him, and he turned onto his side to squeeze you to his chest and let you soak up his body heat.

“Mmm, you’re so warm!” you exclaimed happily, nuzzling in under his chin.

“You’re still cold,” he sighed, rubbing his hands up and down your back. Your skin was still far from warm and your body still shivering. And as his hand brushed over your arm, he felt the texture of goosebumps on your skin. But you were already feeling much better with the wet clothes off and his warm body pressed to yours. “I’ll be okay,” you answered happily.

For a while, you laid with him like this, cuddled into his chest, soaking up his touch and his warmth. But eventually, his hand began to wander from where it was settled on your back. You didn’t think much as it trailed down your spine, thinking it was only affection. But as his hand smoothed up your side to gently grip at your hip, you weren’t too sure.

“Ray, what are you up to?” You said sleepily.

“Let’s make love,” he said simply, nuzzling his face into your cheek. You couldn’t help but giggle.

“I thought you’d never ask,” you responded happily. At that, he smiled against your skin and buried his face in your shoulder with a little sigh through his nose. He gripped your hip a little harder to pull it closer until your abdomen was pressed against his, then slid his hand up to settle on your waist. As you threw a leg over his hip, he moved his head to press his lips to yours. His kiss was deep and intense, but slow.

As you parted, you panted, “You’re so sweet, Ray.” He chuckled breathlessly, rubbing his thumb over the skin of your side.

“Can I roll you on your back?” he asked, leaning back to meet your eyes. You bit your lip and nodded at him, and he smiled back. So, with a little grunt, he lifted himself onto his hands and knees, repositioning himself over you. He sat back on his knees to free his hands, and helped you settle on your back- and soon, you were happily settled into the mattress, your head leaned back onto your pillow. He couldn’t help but smile down at you. You looked amazing, laid out in front of him.

“This good?” he asked softly, reaching down to smooth his hands up and down your sides.

“Mhm,” you answered, smiling up at him.

“Good, he said, smiling back warmly.

He finally started to settle on top of you. He lowered himself onto his elbows and knees, pressing his chest to yours. You sighed happily at the warmth of his body around you, and the feeling of his face settling in the crook of your neck again. You threw your arms around his neck happily.

But just as you were getting comfy, you were surprised by the feeling of his fingers pressed against your entrance. “R-Ray-“ you gasped softly at the sensation.

“Oh, sorry. I should have asked first,” he started. “Just wanna prep you, is that okay?” Again you nodded, this time against his shoulder.

After a moment, he pressed one finger in slowly, taking his time to let you adjust. You took a shaky breath at the sensation, squeezing his neck a little with your arms.

“You alright? It doesn’t hurt?”

“Feels good.”

“Great.”

He spent a little time working his finger in and out, testing to make sure you were ready for him. He’d never admit it, but he loved the feeling of you soaked around him. It was amazing, knowing he could easily get you wet enough that your body took his fingers or member without any resistance-

He sighed softly, trying to push the idea out of his head. Don’t get ahead of yourself, he thought. His finger pumped slowly until he was sure you were ready, his finger coated.

Once he was sure you were prepped, he leaned back to look down at you again. “Look at you,” he breathed, reaching down to work the slick on his hand over his member. You smiled as your eyes trailed down, realizing he really didn’t need to work himself- he was already hard, a few beads of precum dripping down the head.

“C’mon, Ray,” you whined, squeezing his hips with your thighs. “You’re just doing this to tease me.”

“O-oh, I didn’t mean to,” he stuttered, immediately letting go of his dick to lean forward and settle on top of you again.

“It’s okay,” you giggled, reaching up to gently pull his face down and kiss him deeply.

He whined softly into it as he settled. His incredibly warm body was once again pressed to yours. He reached down to line himself up, pressing the head against your folds. He parted from the kiss to ask breathlessly, “Ready?”

“Yes please!” you whined back.

At that, he slowly, carefully pushed his length into you. You squeaked softly at the sensation- he was incredibly warm. His thick member eased in slowly, allowing you time to adjust. He couldn’t help but moan into your neck at the sensation of you tightly wrapped around him, slicked and hot.

“O-oh,” he choked out at the feeling. No matter how many times he found himself buried in you, he could never get over how amazing you felt. He often wondered if he and you were made for each other.

“You’re so warm, Ray,” you sighed to him, reaching one hand up to run your fingers through his thick, messy hair. He could only sigh a whimper back. In an attempt to stifle himself, he buried his face in your neck before starting the slow roll of his hips.

You instantly gasped at that first thrust, feeling him pull back and slowly push himself back in. Your hand gently gripped at his hair, and he whimpered into the skin of your shoulder in response. He rolled his hips once again, and a tiny moan finally broke from your lips.

Soon, he found a rhythm, keeping his speed slow, but making each thrust deep and satisfying. He turned his head to press an open-mouthed kiss to your cheek, before turning a little more to press his lips to yours. You eagerly moaned into it, to his surprise. 

When you parted, you pushed your head back a little to meet his eyes. His were blown out, but locked on you. You couldn’t help but giggle at his hair, a frizzy mess on top of his head. “You feel amazing,” you moaned, reaching up to fix his hair.

“You too,” he sighed breathlessly. Eventually, he dropped his face back into your neck with a moan, and picked up the pace of his thrusts.

The feeling of it all was amazing. The tight feeling of him buried in you, the sounds of the faint whines that left his lips, his body pressed to yours- he was so warm, you were actually starting to sweat a little. It was an ecstatic feeling, and you figured you wouldn’t last long like this. And soon, you realized you were right.

“R-ray, please, I’m close…” you whined, clinging to him desperately.

“Me too,” he breathed. “Please, I wanna feel you.”

That alone pushed you over the edge; With a broken moan, you let the ecstasy of your climax wash over your body, squirming under him. Just as you were beginning to come down from the high, he followed suit. He began bucking into you desperately, making you yelp in surprise, before he moaned loudly as his own finish overtook him. His body shivered in ecstasy against yours, and you squeezed his hips with your thighs at the sensation of his dick twitching inside you as he came. In the moments after he reached his climax, he went almost completely limp in your arms, putting the weight of his body onto you.

“Oh…” you sighed happily, cuddling his head to your shoulder. Your fingers found their way into his hair, gently scratching his scalp. He sighed happily, lifting a hand to rest on your forearm, holding it limply. Both of you took a few moments to enjoy the moment and come down from the afterglow in each other’s arms.

Eventually, he lifted his head to look at you. “Warmed you up, huh?”

“Oh yeah,” you answered with a smile. “I feel amazing. And warm.”

“That’s great,” he responded, a bit strained as he rolled off of you onto his side. You again cuddled yourself into his chest happily, soaking up the heat in his skin. He brushed his hand over your hip and back, and was pleased to find that your skin was now warm and the goosebumps gone.

“Thank you, Ray. It’s nice having you around to be my personal heater,” you joked, nuzzling in under his chin.

“Anything for the love of my life,” he answered, pulling the blankets closer to you. You giggled in response, burying your face into his neck to muffle your laugh. “Now be quiet and go to sleep.”

You only responded with a sleepy hum- he was so comfortable to cuddle up to, you were already falling asleep anyway. That session seemed to have sapped up the last of your energy for the day. Half-asleep, you barely noticed the kiss that was placed on your forehead and the arm that wrapped around you. The only sounds that remained were that of his soft breaths near your ear, and the rain pattering softly against the window. You were out in no time.

[studioahead]

Artist Spotlight: Jeffrey Sincich

One thing that happened when listening to Jeffrey Sincich talk about his art is that Ace of Base’s 1993 hit "The Sign" kept playing in my head. This is because Sincich talks a lot about signs, particularly the ones you see walking around a city, which he replicates in quilted and mixed-medium works. Removed from their context, these signs make promises they can’t keep (FRUITS FOR 1$), intrigue and tantalize us (1 HOUR THE BEST), and provide space for gratitude (THANK YOU, THANK YOU, THANK YOU). Sincich shared his thoughts on quilting (not just for grandmothers!), what cities have what kind of signs (New York: "ghost signs high up on buildings that have been there for generations"), and how to be more cognizant of what’s around us, which leads to deeper appreciation for the hidden meanings behind all that we see. As the Swedish adage goes: “I saw the sign and it opened up my eyes."

Studio AHEAD: Your work is inspired by the built environment. Have you always lived in cities?

Jeffrey Sincich: San Francisco is the first big city that I have lived in. It is also the first one I ever visited. I grew up in suburban Florida near the Gulf of Mexico and moved to Portland, OR a little after college. Almost as soon as I moved to Portland, I became obsessed with moving to San Francisco. My first trip here was in middle school when I came to visit my uncle, who was living here at the time. Even as a kid I knew this city was special. San Francisco is so dense, and forces you to be around so many different types of people, which I love. Sharing walls and hallways with people instead of side yards makes me feel like I am part of something larger. I enjoy being one piece of the puzzle, rather than feeling like I am on my own.

Living in a city that is built to function for 800,000+ people has created so many interesting architectural details. Awnings that are connected to signs that are connected to lights that are connected to window grates that are connected to fences. I am constantly looking around and noticing how people have cobbled together materials to make things work. There is so much texture and variety in materials on every block. The inspiration is never ending. Being able to see all of this from the sidewalk versus looking at it across a front yard or from a car speeding by is priceless.

SA: You do a lot of quilting yet you are not an old woman. Please explain.

JS: Sexism in the art and craft world is nothing new. Is sewing only for women? Is welding just for men? They are both means of joining two materials together, yet they are often associated with gender. My dad taught me how to sew in high school when I wanted to make bicycle bags. I really enjoyed learning a new skill that allowed me to make an idea I had in my head a reality. I learned how to weld in college and loved it. Unfortunately, metalwork requires a lot more tools, resources and space than sewing.

I have always been interested in craft and majored in ceramics in college. I found antique quilts so beautiful and often referenced their patchwork designs in my work. It seemed like a natural step to try and make a quilt. It was years after a failed attempt at making a quilt in college that I turned on my sewing machine again. After working full time as a sign painter for about five years, I wanted to start making art again. I decided to try making a quilt, this time inspired by the architecture I loved so much and got to paint signs on. A couple years and quilts later, COVID hit and I decided to turn my love of hand painted signs and lettering into quilts. It has been my focus ever since.

SA: A quilt is domestic. One thinks of fireplaces, interiors. I am particularly intrigued by your quilted works that represent outdoor spaces: street signs, façades, ads. Could you speak about this contrast?

JS: Signs can be personal. They are used to guide, inform, warn and sometimes manipulate you. Quilts are made to warm and comfort you. They often become hand-me-downs and keepsakes. They get worn down and are mended, holding family history. The same things can be true of signs. They fade and are touched up, sometimes professionally and sometimes not. Businesses can pass through different owners but still keep the same signs that have been up for generations. I like to reference the signs that have been cared for, or at least been maintained enough, to get a message across. Quilting objects from signs around the city like Clorox bleach and Marlboro cigarettes is my way of archiving the everyday items we often take for granted. I think that seeing these items as quilts makes them approachable in a more personal way.

SA: Are the window grates in front of your pieces like “All Makes & Models” or “Milk Beer” a comment on urban malaise?

JS: Yes and no. Window grates serve multiple functions. On one hand they are meant to keep people out. On the other they attract people with their beauty. I find this dichotomy of push and pull fascinating. The twists and curves that are used in the designs are gorgeous. Oftentimes they have hearts and sometimes the owner’s surname in them. They blend in with the architecture, filling asymmetrical voids and entryways. They cast beautiful shadows at night. The care and attention to detail put into the creation of these is amazing. That being said, they also serve to protect and evoke a sense of danger. They say look at me, but don’t you dare try to cross me.

I look forward to seeing these window grates every single day, on every block and on nearly every house. Their patterns are unique to San Francisco. I love adding a new design into my mental data bank. When I’m in other cities, I enjoy seeing what type of designs they use and how they are unique to that city's vernacular.

SA: What are some of your city-sign associations when in other cities? As a culture we tend to associate Las Vegas with neon, Paris with Guimard’s “Metropolitain,” New York with the colored circles of its subway…

JS: Cities can have unique sign styles, but more so individual neighborhoods. San Francisco’s Chinatown has many beautiful gold leaf window signs, often for family associations. The Mission has tons of beautifully stylized illustrations of the products sold in the storefronts. North Beach has giant, glowing neon signs outside the old strip clubs, begging you to come in. Los Angeles has endless hand painted signs, often in yellow, white, black, red and blue. They are faded by the relentless sun, showing off every brushstroke used to paint them. New York has ghost signs high up on buildings that have been there for generations, right next to freshly painted five story advertisements. These painted billboards still thrive in New York. The south has painted plywood highway signs that are barely holding on, advertising fresh oranges or alligator farms. It is really special to be able to walk around cities and see what old signs are still there, discovering which parts of their culture have stayed intact or have been left by the wayside.

SA: When you do step out of the city, where do you go?

JS: I go to West Marin. I don’t think there is a more beautiful natural place. It can bring me so much peace; the coastline, the rolling hills, the eucalyptus forests. Swimming in Tomales Bay is as close to swimming in Florida as it gets around here. It is beautiful in all types of weather: sunny, foggy and rainy. My favorite place is the Steep Ravine Cabins in Mount Tamalpais State Park. They have been around since 1938, and Dorothea Lange used to spend summers there with her family. They are these perfectly designed redwood structures that sit on the bottom of a cliff overlooking the ocean. I feel like I am in another world when I stay there, even though it’s just an hour away from my home. I have never been to an area that gives me this type of feeling, I love it.

SA: Is nature a type of sign?

JS: It can be. Sometimes it tells me to slow down and reminds me not to take things for granted. It is a reminder to try to stay out of the rat race more often. It can put me in a state of awe at how beautiful this world can be. But the one thing it always does is remind me that I can’t wait to get back to the city.

SA: Lastly, OPEN or CLOSED?

JS: Open, 24 Hours.

Photos by Ekaterina Izmestieva

[davidpwilson2564]

Bloglet

Wednesday, September 13, 2023

Another longtime colleague has passed. When I read that Tom Olcott had died I thought (though I knew this wasn't possible) I was reading about Tom's father. Tom and I go back decades. Trombonist, lawyer (he once acted as my attorney), Union rep. We shared a love of books. The last time I saw Tom (it was a Union event) we taked about things literary. This is a gut-punch. I have to let this sink in.

Thursday, September 14, 2023

Make a couple of calls. My calendar is now cleared for jury duty. Really not at all looking forward to this. Not knowing how things will go I cancel my cardiologist appointment. My hope is that they'll let me go after a couple of days. (Incidentally, it pays forty dollars a day. To date I have been on three juries. I have written about them elsewhere.)

More medical stuff: The young lady who works for Dr. C phoned to say my tests came out okay. How nice of her to call. Odd that even with my reluctance to exercise my numbers are so good.

A dream in which I am a band director at an underfunded school. Cacophony. Instruments all in need of repair.

Note: I was a band director for one brief and unhappy year at a school in suburban Knoxville. I have written about this elesewhere.

Friday, September 15, 2023

At long last it is cooler. Doing my usual stuff. Returning home, walking under an awning...pooped on by a pigeon, one of those nasty inner-city pigeon. Damn. And I just got this shirt back from the cleaners.

Later I am told this is good luck. Well...also told that rain on one's wedding day is also a sign of good luck. These luck stories new to me.

Having to close a few windows because of the coolish weather. Jean and the kids are upstate. I'm sure it's even cooler up there.

Note: The mood struck me to reread some Graham Greene. I took up "Travels With My Aunt" to look at those opening pages. (I couldn't watch the movie. Gawd no. Too campy.) Quirky and fun...but don't know how far I'll get. Terrible problem with cocentration. An urge to reread more of Graham Greene.

To attempt to focus I do some of the New York Times crossword. Notice how it becomes more difficult as the week wears on.

I report for jury duty on Mondy morning. Not looking forward to this.

Just want to get it over with.

to be continued